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[maxernst]

1. THE ROAD TO MONTFORT: DEPARTURE
 
Alistair rode north, away from love, away from the only real home and family he had ever had. He was almost grateful for the storm, for it meant that he could weep without shame, knowing that those who saw him would mistake the tears for raindrops on his cheeks.
 
Nothing he had done in his life, not even in the year of the Blight, had been as difficult as climbing on his horse and riding away. He had resisted the impulse for a last embrace, and even avoided looking back, for fear he would weaken. His lover knew him too well and his personality was too strong. Alistair had never been able to resist him. In this, Aedan was not so different from his daughter.
 
For a long time—years—he had not tried to resist. He had reveled in the security of Aedan’s arms, felt himself enveloped by his love. Why not? He had never trusted in his own judgment. It had seemed far better to let himself be guided by his brother Warden, who had always been so wise and decisive, and who loved him deeply. For more than five years he had awoken each morning and been amazed to find himself in bed with the man they called the Hero of Ferelden, Commander of the Grey.
 
But in the space of a fortnight, everything had changed. He felt like he no longer knew Aedan, and could not trust him. When he had learned of what had been done to save them on the roof of Fort Drakon, he had been afraid. He supposed that he had always known that Aedan had done something with Morrigan, but he had not thought that he would release an old god into the world. More—even if the girl was not inherently evil—he had released her into Morrigan’s care. Even then, he had believed—forced himself to believe that Aedan was wiser than him, that this must have been for the best, though it went against everything he had been taught, against what his own heart told him.
 
He had watched in dismay as Aedan seemed more concerned with concealing what he had done from Yves than with making sure no ill would come from the child. Little things that had been concealed from him during the Blight came to light, and he worried more and more about Aedan’s motivations. After what he had done to Leliana—and hidden from him—Alistair felt he had no choice but to leave.
 
He had told Aedan, I have to trust your heart. If I can’t trust that, I have nothing. And it was so. With his loss of faith in Aedan, he felt he had lost his way, wondered whether anything he had done for six years had been right.
 
No, I do not have nothing. I am a Warden. Just as after Ostagar, when he had strapped himself to a young recruit, willing himself to believe that he could lead them to victory over the Darkspawn, that was one thing he still had. It was fitting that he go to Weisshaupt, a place he had always wondered about. Perhaps there he could find his path again. 
 
Lost in his thoughts and focused only on getting away from Val Royeaux, it was some time before he noticed that it had grown dark. He realized that he was pushing his unfamiliar horse far too hard for the first day of a long journey, and that he must stop and set up camp for the night. In this weather, he would have been prudent to stop at a tavern along the way, but he was fortunate: the rain stopped and a campfire was feasible.
 
The following morning broke sunny and pleasantly cool, after the heat that had broiled Val Royeaux for the past few days. He examined the stallion, which he had decided to name Somerled, before embarking on the journey. Despite how hard he had ridden the previous day, the horse seemed only a little stiff, with no sign of injury. He chose his horses for strength, knowing that, especially when fully armored, he was a heavy burden to carry, and it seemed he had chosen rightly. Still, he promised himself that he would be more cautious with Somerled in the days to come. 
 
It was not as though he had any real reason to hurry. It seemed that the news he brought Weisshaupt could have no immediate use and he did not think Aedan would pursue him this time. And I don’t want him to. I don’t, he told himself fiercely.
 
He kept Somerled in a slow trot as they traveled north along the old Imperial road. On either side of him lay fertile, rolling plains, dotted with many small peasant villages. A ridge of hills rose in the east along the horizon.
 
As the days passed, he stopped in these villages often for meals and sometimes for lodging for the night. Though he tolerated sleeping on the ground more readily than Aedan—one advantage of his humble upbringing—sometimes it was pleasant to have somewhere dry and soft to sleep. And while he carried food with him, the salted and dried provisions would keep, and were best saved for the wilder country he must traverse later on his journey.
 
Though he could tell people were curious about the big, fair-haired man on the white stallion, he was rarely approached, except by the serving wenches in the taverns. Timidly, and with elaborate courtesy, they would take his orders, never daring to ask him who he was or where he was going. Am I so frightening? he wondered. More likely, it was just that he was assumed to be a chevalier, and they were terrified of giving offense. And though he was not a taciturn man by nature, his mood did not inspire him to seek out company.
 
One afternoon, he was riding through a small village, surrounded by golden fields of ripening wheat and vineyards. Despite the obvious bounty of the land, the peasants he saw were ill-clad and lived in rude hovels. When he paused at the stream that ran through the village to water his horse, he heard a woman cry out in alarm from the field nearby. He dismounted from his horse, to look around and saw a blonde man pushing a young woman—she could not have been much older than Ellaire--to the ground. A dark-haired man laughed and held down her arms. The blonde was forcing the girl’s legs apart and lifting his chain hauberk, fumbling with the laces of his breeches underneath, smiling in anticipation.
 
They’re going to rape her right here! And yet, there are other villagers around. No one is doing anything!
 
Alistair pulled the shield from his back and advanced, his hand on the hilt of the keening blade. “Let go of the girl!” he called out.
 
The blonde spun toward him, while the other man continued to hold the girl. “Who do you think you are, speaking to me—Warden,” he broke off, suddenly, seeing the . “What’s your interest in this?” His eyes narrowed, and a thin smile appeared. “You like her? Maybe you want a piece of her too?”
 
Several peasants in the surrounding fields were now staring toward them, but none of them made a move to help. He advanced on the two men, “Let go of her, you beasts, and maybe I’ll let you live.” The girl was staring up at him now, her face still filled with fear. 
 
The dark-haired man rose and drew their blades, red steel in the blonde man’s hand, steel in the dark. “You think to fight both of us?”
 
Alistair snorted and drew his own sword. “I’ve faced greater numbers than two. Try me.” The two men looked at the violet sparks that danced along the Keening Blade and his dark dragonbone mail and thought better of their challenge. “Very well, Warden. She’s yours.” He pushed the girl toward him with a mailed boot as she wept.
 
He knelt down and tried to console her. “It’s alright, no one’s going to hurt you now.”
But the girl continued to weep. “What will my family do?” she asked, then cried some more. “It’s all my fault!” Alistair did not understand the question, or how she could possibly blame herself.
 
An older man—one of the onlookers who had done nothing when the girl was attacked--spoke to him. “I know you meant well, stranger. But the girl has the right of it. The Baron will punish her family, maybe drive them away, for not submitting.”
 
His eyes flicked toward the two men who were stalking off in the direction of a small keep on a nearby hill. “That was the lord of the manor? That monster? Is there nothing—“ he turned back to the sobbing girl, “How much would your family need to make a fresh start in another village?”
 
She looked up at him, her eyes red. “You would…give me money, mon sieur?”
 
He nodded. “I meant only to help and it seems I have not…”
 
“I—maybe three sovereigns would be enough.” She looked to the older man for advice.
 
He gave her five, and she thanked him, kneeling at his feet. He had brought enough coin that he judged he could spare it. The thought crossed his mind that they might be taking advantage of him…but no, disgusting as it was, it was not inconsistent with what he had heard growing up of the behavior of the chevaliers. It reminded him of a story he had heard from an Orlesian merchant in Denerim once.
 
That evening, he related the story to an innkeeper just outside of the walls of of Montfort. Montfort was a large city, at a major crossroads in Orlais. They were more used to wealthy travelers here than in some of the simple village taverns he had stopped at along the way. “But how can they just accept it like that? Surely…the law would punish even a lord for such a thing?”
 
“The baron would be the law on his manor, and the only law the peasants would know.” the innkeeper replied. “I suppose one could try appealing to the royal magistrate, but if it comes down to the word of serf against a baron…”
 
“But there were witnesses!” pointed out Alistair.
 
“And would they dare to testify against their lord?” He shook his head as he refilled Alistair’s glass of wine. “Is it really so different in Ferelden?”
 
“Yes!” But then, he paused to consider. A bann was usually the legal authority for a local area. The nobles he knew best—Arl Eamon and Aedan—certainly would not tolerate men ravishing helpless girls. But he knew not all were so scrupulous. He had heard unsavory rumors about the conduct of Arl Vaughn of Denerim. “Well…sometimes it is. It depends somewhat on the local ruler.” He admitted unhappily.
 
The girl really had reminded him of Ellaire. Not that that was likely to happen to her: a petty baron who tangled with a mage would doubtless get what he deserved. Still, he wondered if they had done the right thing, leaving her with the Mage Collective. Like everything else, he had left it up to Aedan. He took a swallow of wine and frowned.

Modifié par maxernst, 31 mai 2011 - 02:01 .

[maxernst]

2. MONTFORT:   A NEAR-DESERTED INN
 
Alistair had left Val Royeaux in such a hurry that he had not plotted out his route to Weisshaupt. From the maps he had seen, he knew that beyond Montfort, there was more than one possible course. He had heard there was a Warden post near the city; he would seek advice there. Surely someone in the city would know where it might be found.
 
Montfort was built on the eastern end of a steep ridge overlooking a river and a major crossroads in Orlais. At first, the city streets were quiet and he saw few people. He began to wonder if a plague had struck, though surely the city guards would not have allowed him to enter in that case. But then, he started hearing music and the laughter and shouting of crowds in the distance. It seemed that most of Montfort had gathered on the hillside below the castle gates. Alistair had completely forgotten about the Midsummer Festival. Leliana had told him that while the one in Val Royeaux was the largest by far, similar celebrations were held in many centers in Orlais. Only now did he recall that today was the final day. 
 
The hillside had been shaped into an amphitheatre—probably dating back to the time of the Tevinter Imperium—and a great crowd had gathered to watch the entertainments. Jugglers and musicians were performing now, but no doubt there would be feats of martial prowess later. Merchants had set up tents nearby and were hawking their wears to passersby.
 
It all reminded him of another day, when the Midsummer festival had begun in Val Royeaux. A picnic in the shade of the great oaks, a play in the afternoon, music and jugglers…and he and Aedan had been like the laughing couples he saw here, holding hands. Two days later, everything had changed.
 
When he first arrived, he had thought that he might browse the merchant’s stalls and watch the martial competitions, but the memory of that other day had risen like bile in his throat and he felt a need to get away. He quickly made inquiries with the guards at the gatehouse, and learned that the Warden’s post was on the main road, about a days ride north of town.
 
Leaving Mormont behind, he rode north until dusk, but was still a short distance from Mont Vieuxmur, where the Wardens had their post. After a warm sunny day, the night had turned stormy, but as luck would have it, he was near a small roadside inn. The windows looked dark, however, so he was not certain it was in operation.
 
As he dismounted from his horse and approached, he could see a torch lighting up. A big bearded man, taller and heavier than himself, opened the door. Seeing him, the man turned and called out to someone inside the inn, “Hey, looks like we might have a customer tonight, after all.”
 
“Come in, come in out of the rain,” called a woman’s voice. “Good thing I told you to slaughter that hare. Bertelot’d have your hide if we’d had no meat or fish for a customer on Midsummer’s Eve.”
 
“And he’d have had my hide if I’d killed the hare and we’d had no customers, too,” the man replied gloomily.
 
 “Bertelot is the innkeeper?” Alistair began. “I’d like a room for the night.”
 
He entered the inn and hung his rain-drenched cloak on a hook by the door. He could see the woman now, illuminated by the glow from a fire that was heating a large pot. She turned her head toward him and the man’s torches caught red highlights in her brown hair. She laughed. “You think we have room to spare? We’re so busy tonight!” She held out her hands, encompassing the empty common room.
 
“Why is it so quiet?”
 
“Everybody’s in Montfort for the end of the festival, even Bertelot. Marcel and I got stuck here, in case anyone showed up. Maker knows, Bertelot couldn’t bear the thought of missing a few coins if there were customers to be had. Sorry, I’ve forgot my manners in the excitement of not being stuck alone here all night. Welcome to Le Renard Rouge. I’m Genevieve. Marcel, why don’t you show our guest to the best room…I have to watch the stew and chop up some more turnips.”
 
Marcel led him up the stairs and let him into a room with a large bed. It was not luxurious by the standards of the Palais de Montfleurie, but better than average accommodations for a simple inn. He put down his pack and changed out of his armor, though he still wore a light chain shirt under his surcoat, before heading back down to the common room. Aedan had laughed at him for his reluctance to go unarmored, but he felt almost naked without it, ever since the year of the Blight.
 
Genevieve and Marcel were sitting together at a large table when he returned. “Pull up a chair, Warden.” she said, “Stew’s almost ready, and the baker brought up some loaves of fresh bread up from the village this morning on his way into Montfort. So are you a new recruit?”
 
She must have noticed the insignia on his shield when he came in. “No, I’ve been a Warden for a few years. Do I seem so…inexperienced?”
 
She chuckled. “No, it’s just that I know all the guys at Mont Vieuxmur--” Marcel muttered something and she rolled her hazel eyes. “--and the Wardens recruit veterans sometimes…not that you’re so old.” He guessed that he was a little older than her, but not much. 
 
He shook his head. “I’m not with that post, though I plan to visit it tomorrow. I’m from Ferelden.”
 
“Ah,” she nodded as she served him a bowl of stewed hare and Marcel filled his cup with wine. “I knew you weren’t Orlesian from your accent. We don’t get many Ferelden’s up here.”
 
As they ate, he told them he was on his way to Weisshaupt, and they made no attempt to inquire as to his business; it seemed they expected a Warden to be closemouthed. Apparently, the men from Mont Vieuxmur came here fairly often because it was the nearest inn.
 
When they were finished eating, Genevieve refilled his cup of wine and began gathering the dishes. “Marcel, could you please draw some water from the well for the washing before you run off to Clarice.”
 
He turned to look at her. “Bertelot told me you needed me here in case there was any trouble. What makes you think I’m going there tonight?”
 
She tapped her foot and sighed. “You did tell her you would be there, tonight.”
 
Sheepish, he admitted, “Well, yes, but I thought I’d wait until you’d closed up and gone to bed, not leave you with a customer.” He glanced over at Alistair.
 
“I won’t tell if you don’t. Go ahead, just don’t forget to draw the water. I doubt there will be anyone else tonight and Monsieur Alis-terre seems harmless enough.”
 
“Harmless? He’s a Grey Warden!”
 
“All the better. If I do get some troublesome customers tonight, he can deal with them. Go on, now.”
 
Marcel returned briefly with two pails full of water then retreated after one last, narrow-eyed look at Alistair.
 
Alistair finished his wine and started to rise from his chair. “Perhaps I should retire and leave you to close up.”
 
“Not a chance…don’t go anywhere. I’ll just be a moment and I’d like some company.” Her eyes looked met his. “I think you could use some company, too. You seem a bit…subdued.” She poured him another cup of wine as he sat back down.
 
When she had completed her task, she sat down beside him again. “Marcel…seemed reluctant to leave you here with me. Does he not like the Wardens? Or…”
 
She considered, “Well, maybe he doesn’t like the Wardens so much. Some of them can be a handful. Godefroi—he’s one of the men from Mont Vieuxmur--did thrash him badly once.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Marcel was just trying to do his job. Godefroi’s not so bad when he’s sober, but he’s a mean drunk. Expect he got a thrashing himself, though, from Lorens back at the post when he found out. Lorens--he’s the Senior Warden there—now that’s the one I’d be scared of.”
 
“You don’t mind the wardens, though?”
 
“They’re good customers. And they tend to be well put together men,” she commented, looking up him up and down. He could feel his cheeks burning.
 
“Are there any women at Mont Vieuxmur?”
 
“Only one, Yolant. I don’t know her as well as the guys, though.”
 
“Why not?”
 
She shrugged. “I guess we just don’t have much in common to talk about.”
 
He gave her a curious look. “You have more in common with the men?”
 
A slight smile. “With men…it’s not so important to have things in common, I think. You seem…different than the other Wardens, though.”
 
“Not so well put together, perhaps?”
 
She chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that. But a lot of the Wardens I’ve met are…pretty hard men, rough sorts. You seem…”
 
“Soft and harmless? Well, Wardens come from a lot of different backgrounds. We recruit talent where we find it. Maybe it’s because I was sent to the chantry to become a Templar when I was a child.”
 
“Maybe. Even being willing to say what you were before you joined the Wardens makes you different from any others I’ve met. But Id guess you’re not as gentle as you appear. I bet you’ve seen your share of battle. How did you get this scar?” She reached out and traced it from his temple to where it disappeared beneath his beard. He nearly jumped out of his seat at the physical contact. No one had touched him since he had left Val Royeaux. 
 
“I was fighting a Hurlock Alpha in the Battle of Denerim.”
 
“A Hurlock Alpha? What’s that?”
 
He had been silly to imagine that those words would mean anything to her. “We call the man-sized Darkspawn Hurlocks,” he explained. “The Alphas are their strongest leaders.”
 
“A Darkspawn? In Denerim?” Understanding dawned. “You were fighting the Blight, then. I guess I should have guessed when you said you were from Ferelden, but you must have been so young then. And it must have been…terrible…”
 
“No!” His own response and its vehemence surprised him and his first inclination was to turn it into a joke. “Camping in the middle of nowhere, running for our lives, endless battles with darkspawn, constant brushes with death—what could be more fun than that?” Then he stopped. “But you know, it’s strange. I almost miss those days. We were fighting for something, something bigger than just us. There was purpose. And I was…in love.”
 
Purpose. He had not given it much thought when he had been with Aedan, but now that he was alone, he felt his lack of direction keenly. Though he had tried to forget it, even deny it, he was the last of a great line of kings. He wondered if he had lost his destiny, if he had been meant to end the Blight with his death or rule Ferelden, rather than be one Grey Warden among many. Aedan would have argued with that, said that a man’s birth did not dictate his path, that there was no great plan. Even the Chantry said that the Maker had turned away from us. But still, he wasn’t sure…
 
She patted his hand, distracting him from his thoughts. “Did you lose her, in the Blight?”
 
“No.” He shook his head and was silent for a moment. “I—let’s talk about something else. Tell me something about you.”
 
“Me? There is little to tell. My mother served in this very inn. I grew up here.”
 
“What about your father?”
 
“Mother never told me who he was.” She shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know, although—“
 
“So you’re a bastard, like me. Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“
 
“It’s okay. Actually, I’ve always suspected Bertelot was my father, though he’s never admitted it, not even after his wife died. But he kept my mother fed and housed when she was heavy with me, and so I’ve wondered…”
 
“You don’t think he was just being kind? Surely no one would throw a pregnant woman out?”
 
“You don’t know him. And you’d be surprised…” 
 
They sat and continued to talk and drink, though they spoke of little of importance. She had never traveled farther than Montfort, and all she knew of the world outside it came from talking to travelers like himself. He told her about Ferelden, that there was more to it than warhounds. He had not realized how much he missed ordinary conversation. He had been alone on his way to Orlais as well, but it had felt different, then.
 
By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet to go to his room for the night, the rain had stopped and the crescent moon had risen high above the horizon. “Let me light your way,” Genevieve said, holding a candle and taking his hand as they went upstairs.
 
She placed the candle in the holder outside the door and said, “You know that it is bad luck to lie alone on the final night of Midsummer? They say that it’s a sign that you will die alone.” He could smell the scent of honeysuckle blossoms as she leaned in close to him. “I would spare you that fate.”
 
“No, I didn’t. I—You hardly know me.” He stammered. 
 
She shrugged. “Does it matter? You are a kind and handsome man, and I would like to please you.” She drew her arms around him, “You’re so nervous. Why? Has there been no one since the love you spoke of?”
 
“There has never been anyone else. I thought there never would be.”
 
“You must free yourself,” she whispered into his ear. “Let me…” 
 
Free himself. If only it were so easy. Yet he let Geneevieve and his body take control and followed her into the room.

[maxernst]

3. MONT VIEUXMUR: A BURNED VILLAGE

 Aedan had asked him once if he wondered what it would be like to make love to a woman.  He had
lied and said no, sensing that the truth would have hurt his lover, though he did not know if he had been believed. 
Aedan had been with women and found that they were not for him, but Alistair had never been certain about himself. Maybe simple curiosity was why he had allowed Genevieve to seduce him,  he thought, as he mounted Sommerled.

Or maybe it had been those words:  You know that it is bad luck to lie alone on the final night of Midsummer?  They say that it’s a sign that you will die alone. He wondered if people really said that or if she had made it up.  It was possible that she knew how Wardens usually died, and guessed that that would strike close to the bone.  In retrospect, it seemed obvious that she had been intimate some of the Wardens from Mont Vieuxmur.  She may even have known that a Warden was unlikely to sire an unwanted child.  It was not impossible, but it was improbable, and grew more so as the taint grew in a Warden.

He still could not say for certain if he preferred men. The experience had lacked the passionate intensity he had shared with Aedan, but that not have been because she was a woman, but because she was a stranger. He
had felt as shy and awkward as he had that first night with Aedan, and had been too embarrassed to admit he had never been with a woman before.  It had been strange to be touched by a stranger so intimately, and the startling soft mounds of flesh of her breast and buttocks had been foreign territory for him.  With Aedan, he had always been able to use how his own body responded to his touch to inform how to give pleasure, but with her, he had had to rely on observing her reactions.  She had seemed pleased enough with his performance, but he had heard that women sometimes feigned pleasure to please their partners.  A man’s arousal and satisfaction were not so easily counterfeited.

It bothered him to have used another person to satisfy his curiosity.  Not that she had minded being used.  In fact, it was clear she had planned to seduce him from the start. No doubt that was why she had sent Marcel away after dinner.

Such thoughts occupied him as Sommerled trotted north along the road, but his senses came to full alert when he caught a faint whiff of smoke on the breeze.  Searching the horizon, he sptted a column of dark smoke rising and drifting toward him from the plain in the shadow of a small keep.  A forest fire?  But there was so much rain last night!

Should he investigate?  He hesitated, recalling the near-fatal disaster he had fallen into on the way to Val Royeaux.  Still, he was more aware of his surroundings than Aedan had generally given him credit for,
if not possessed of Leliana’s supernatural sharpness of sight and hearing.  Sybille had commented to him once that she thought Aedan sometimes treated him more like his son than his lover.  He knew what she had meant, but it had rarely bothered him.  Perhaps it should have.  He decided to take a side trip through the fallow field on the right to see if he could learn the source of the smoke.

He had not traveled far when he came upon a sad procession of dozens of peasants, mostly women and children making their way across the landscape.  They were heavily laden with packs as if carrying all their posessions. 
They paused when they saw him, preparing to yield way for the chevalier, he supposed.  He hailed them and asked what had happened.

A woman in the torn and soiled gown of a chantry sister stepped forward.  “Mon sieur, our village was set upon by bandits last night who murdered the Templars at the chantry and any others of the village who dared oppose them.  They had—no real chance against armed men but the—tried to defend their families and what was theirs. Then they burned the village just for…sport, I think.”

“That’s horrible! If I can help in any way…” Despite having encountered people who had lost everything many times in his life by now, he was always at a loss for words.  “What about the lord of that keep?  Did he not
defend his people?”  He looked toward the castle, only now recognizing that it appeared in poor repair.

“No one has lived there for a century and the bandits have made it their camp now.  The property of the barony was inherited by a Comte who was a distant relative by marriage a few generations ago.  This small holding is far from the rest of his demesne…”

“But where will you go? And what of the crops?”

She shook her head.   “We are going to the Cathedral in Mormont where I hope that we can find shelter until the bandits are killed or driven away.  If we send word to the Comte, surely he will send men to protect his property…”  The people around her looked doubtful.

“The steward never comes around except to collect taxes in the fall,” one woman grumbled.

“How many bandits are there?” he asked.

“A score, maybe a bit more.”

Too many for him to think of taking on by himself.  But not so very many, and if they were only common bandits…”What of the Wardens at Mont Vieuxmur?” he asked.

“The Wardens?  Why would they take an interest?”

“I am on my way there and I will tell them of your plight.”

“Thank you, kind sieur…I would not have thought to seek aid from them, but perhaps…”  She did not look particularly optimistic. She smiled and thanked him again when he gave her what coin he could spare.  It would mean little spread among so many, but they could at least buy a few meals in Mormont. He sat upon
his horse and watched them as they went back down the road toward Mormont, wishing that he could have done more to help. But once he had persuaded the Wardens to drive the bandits off, he could send word to them in Mormont, and they could begin to try and rebuild their lives.

It was not long before he could see the towers of Mont Vieuxmur rising from the small keep, much smaller than the fortress at Coteaux du Roches.  It appeared to have been built on a larger fortification that might well date back to the old Tevinter Imperium, judging by the colonnade on one of the ruined outbuildings.  He guided Sommerled up the steep trail that led to the keep’s gate.  As he approached, he called out, “I am Alistair, a Senior Warden of Amaranthine.  I seek entry to Mont Vieuxmur and an audience with the first of the keep.”

The gate was lowered and a dark-eyed man about his own age welcomed him into the keep.  “Welcome,
brother.  I am Julien, a junior warden here.  You say you came from Amaranthne?  Isn’t that in Ferelden?”  He nodded. “You’ve come so far…I’m sure that Lorens will interrupt what he’s doing to speak with you.  I think it’s just a training exercise.”  As they walked together down the hall, Julien glanced over at him, “I…hope I do not offend, but you look very young to be a senior warden.”

He chuckled.  “I guess I was judged to have earned my seniority in battle when I had been a Warden barely a year.  It was an eventful year.”

Julien’s brown eyes widened, “You…you fought the Blight in Ferelden?  But I thought there were only
two..,”

“Yes.  Me and Aedan against the Archdemon.  And a few non-warden friends”  Even though he had lived it, it still sounded improbable. Aedan’s recounting of it was still fresh in his mind, yet it almost seemed like a tall tale from a bard, not a memory. 

“It is an honor to meet you, Alistair.  I am certain that Lorens will wish to see
you immediately.” 

The junior Warden ushered him out a door from the great hall that led into an interior courtyard where several Wardens were sparring. 

Alistair sat down on the steps.  “I will wait until he is finished what he is doing.”

He watched Lorens, a big broad-shouldered man with thinning grey hair instructing a younger Warden in some of the basic shield moves. He was a powerful man with fine technique, but not as quick as Alistair.  Although he knew he would never cross swords in anger with this man, it was an instinctive reaction to size up those he saw
fight as opponents.

When he was done with his instruction, Julien approached him.  “We have a visitor…” he started to say.

“Yes, yes, I can see that. And I know he’s a Warden.”  Not waiting for an introduction, he strode toward Alistair.  “Welcome to Mont Vieuxmur, brother.  I am Lorens, the Senior Warden here.”

“I am Alistair, a senior warden of Amaranthine.”

His eyes widened slightly. “It is an honor to meet you.  Let us go to a more comfortable room.  You must have great need to venture so far from Ferelden to our small post.”

They climbed the stairs in the main hall together and then passed through a door to a small room where Lorens sat behind a desk and gestured for Alistair to take the chair opposite him.  “So what brings you from so far away?”

“Two things. Firstly, I am on my way to Weisshaupt and seeking advice on the road.”

He opened a drawer in the desk and unrolled a map of western Thedas.  “You can take the road from here to Ghislain, then up to Nessum in Nevarra and then cross the Silent Plains to the Imperium, picking up the Imperial Highway here.”  He traced the path with his finger across the map.  “Then you follow the road to Val Dorma and there’s a small sideroad up to Wiesshaupt from there.”

Alistair frowened. “That seems a very long way.  Is there no quicker route?  Yves spoke of high passes that needed to be reached before the snows.”

Lorens raised a bushy eyebrow.  “There is another way. You can continue along the road to the west from Ghislain to Anderal’s Reach.  From there, there’s an old track—very few other than Wardens use it—that passes through the Blasted Hills near Kal Sharok and then across the high plateau to Weisshaupt.  But I must say that it’s not a road I would recommend to one traveling alone, however skilled.  There are several entrances to the Deep Roads near it—in fact, it’s used by Wardens often when gathering blood for the Joining.”

It was odd that Yves had not mentioned this, and simply assumed that they would be choosing that path. Then again, Yves had thought he would be traveling with Aedan, and Alistair knew that they were far more formidable together than either by themselves.  They had fought together so often that there was a synergy in their movements that made them more than the sum of their parts.  “Even so, I will risk it.  I do not wish to delay any longer than necessary.”  He wondered if he were being foolish. 

“It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but…it is a dangerous path.  It’s a wild track and you may encounter a variety of dangerous monsters and wild animals, and possibly Darkspawn.  And water may be scarce.  But if you insist, I will ask Godefroi to give you the best description of the track—I believe he is the only one here who has followed it.  But you spoke of two things…what is your other purpose?”

“On my way here, I came across a large number of farmers who were fleeing bandits that had burned their village.”

Lorens’ brow furrowed. “Do you think they pose a threat to us? Would they really have the audacity to attack a Warden outpost, even a small one?”

Alistair shook his head. “No.  Quite the contrary, I was hoping that you would drive them off.  The land is held by a Comte whose lands are far away and his people were defenseless…”

His eyes narrowed and he nodded.  “I believe I can guess  which village it is, then.  The Comte is a child; his father died in the Nevarran wars.  But it is no business of ours.  I will not risk my men.”

Alistair persisted, “But surely, common bandits would be overmatched by Wardens.  I would guess that with even four or five of your men, I could…”

“I will not assign command of any of my men to some foreign Warden, no matter how accomplished!” he retorted, a vein pulsing in his brow.

Alistair lowered his eyes.  “I did not mean to offend.  I only sought aid for those poor people.”

“Besides,” the other warden continued, “it would be viewed as an aggressive move by other landowners in the vicinity.  It could be used as a pretext for a land grab by the Wardens.    The Comte holds the fief on behalf of his liege and it’s his responsibly of the Comte to protect his serfs. I don’t know how things are in Ferelden, but surely Commander Cousland does not go chasing common criminals in the lands of neighboring uh..banns.”  The last word had a slightly questioning note; he was not sure of the titles in Ferelden, though he had it right.

He would if he saw the need, and worry about any consequences later.  That was one of the things Alistair had loved about him…but could that willingness to ignore law and custom not also a failing? Aedan also had a tendency to disregard the distinction between the Wardens and the regular forces of the Arling, occasionally employing them to assist in law enforcement and maintaining order. Alistair knew that this annoyed Wardens
who had been trained outside Ferelden, but it had always seemed sensible to him.  When there were no Darkspawn to fight, did it really make sense to have a powerful fighting force sitting idle?

Alistair rubbed his forehead.  “But what will happen to the villagers?”

Lorens shrugged.  “If the Comte will not or cannot deal with it himself, I suppose the Duc de Mormont will step in and claim the land forfeit. I’m sure it will all be sorted out in due time.  We cannot expect to right every ill that
befalls the peasants.  No doubt you had to leave many worse situations during the Blight.”

Alistair thought back to their departure from Lothering, even as the first waves of Darkspawn began to attack the town.  But we couldn’t have stopped the horde there.  We tried to help people when we could…But he saw that the man’s mind was made up and it would be pointless to debate further.  Resigned to his failure to aid the villagers, he sought out Godefroy’s advice on the coming journey.



 

Modifié par maxernst, 15 juillet 2011 - 03:41 .

[maxernst]

Modifié par maxernst, 15 juillet 2011 - 03:41 .

[Maria13]

I'm still reading. You write Alistair so well.

[maxernst]

Thanks so much. I was worrying about that, because it's so long since I've played Origins now that I don't hear his voice in my head anymore.

[maxernst]

4. GHISLAIN:  ANTIVAN MASSAGE


 As he rode north, the landscape gradually changed.  The rolling hills subsided into flat plains and the dense stands of forests that had been common further south in Orlais vanished.  There were trees still, but they seemed mostly restricted to the banks of streams and little woodlots of olive trees and small, shrub-like oaks near the villages.

He had thought Val Royeaux hot, but the sun here was even higher in the sky and had a searing intensity that he had never experienced before.  He understood now why Zevran had found Ferelden so cold and damp, for Antiva lay even further north and was doubtless warmer still.

Despite the fierce sun, these lands were still fertile.  The flat open country was carpeted with tall stands of golden grain.  The blazing sun shone from a vast blue sky…except sometimes late in the day, when dark masses of cloud rolled in, shot through with lightning.   The rains were brief but intense, and the winds blew across the open plains without obstruction.

He reached Ghislain in the first days of Solis.  It was the last major city he would see before Weisshaupt, so he spent some time in the markets ensuring that he had sufficient healing herbs and supplies for a long journey.  On his way, he passed a huge colonnaded structure with a sort of crumbling grandeur that must have been built when the Imperium still held sway over these lands. 

A sign beside the imposing archway that led inside read “Ghislain Baths”.  A real Tevinter bath house still in operation?  The Imperium had built massive aqueducts to bring water to the cities and furnaces to heat the water for these baths…all with slave labor, no doubt.  There had been one in Denerim as well, but it had been destroyed long ago, and Alistair knew of them only from books.

When he had been younger, bathing had not been a priority in his life.  He had thought himself clean if he had rinsed his face and hands in a bucket of water.  And of course during the Blight there had rarely been much opportunity for it, aside from a quick dip in a cold stream.  But Aedan had grown up with servants to draw water from the wells and heat it for his bath, and Alistair had learned the pleasure and luxury of regular bathing at Amaranthine. You’ve grown soft, he chided himself.  Still, the idea of relaxing in a hot caldarium after weeks
of hard riding had an immediate appeal. He decided that he would stop into the baths as soon as he had found a
room at an inn and a stable for Somerled.

He entered the bath house in the early evening and an attendant collected his clothes as he disrobed.  “Will you be using only the baths, or would you like a massage, as well?”

A massage sounded delightful.  He was unused to spending so much time on horseback and he was beginning to wonder if he would be walking bowlegged for the rest of his life after this trip.  “A regular massage or Antivan?”

 “Uh..Antivan, I guess.”   He didn’t have a clear idea what the difference would be, but he had vague recollections of Zevran mentioning a ritual involving rubbing of oils into the skin prior to giving tattoos—not that Alistair had really been serious about wanting a tattoo.  Presumably, the Antivan massage was better—it was certainly pricier—so he went with that.

“Very good, mon sieur.  Would you prefer a girl or a boy.”

He felt he would need someone with strong hands to deal with his sore muscles, so he requested the strongest boy available.  He paid his fee, was given a towel, and was told to soak in the hot steam of the caldarium before proceeding to his massage room.

 The baths were not busy at this time of day, but that was fine with him as he was unused to being nearly naked in the presence of strangers.  As it happened, he could scarcely see who else was in the caldarium through the thick steam.  He lay back and relaxed as the sweat beaded on his skin.  After letting the moist heat penetrate his aching muscles, he got to his feet and moved on to the massage room.

The “boy” proved to be only a little younger than Aedan had been when they had met, and with a similar lean and wiry build, though taller.  His name was Josson.  Alistair lay flat on the table as the boy worked olive oil with a faint floral scent into his skin, scraped off the oil, then wiped him with a wet cloth before beginning the massage.

“So many scars,” the young man commented. “You’re a warrior?”

“Actually, I’m a chef. I’m just very clumsy when I’m peeling vegetables.”

His masseur giggled.  “Go on now, really?”

“I’m a Grey Warden.”  

“Oh.”  There was a slight pause.  “You’ve come from…far away?  Your accent is strange.”

“I’m from Ferelden.”

“Very far.  I’ve never been more than a few days walk from Ghislain.”  He could hear a certain yearning in the young man’s voice.  His hands worked deeper into Alistair’s shoulder blades and pushed and pulled at his neck.  They moved further down into the small of his back. 

 “We’ll need to get the towel off now.”

“Uh…is that really necessary?”

 Josson laughed. “Come, you must be saddle sore from so long a ride.  I promise you’ll feel so much better.”

 With some discomfort, he allowed Josson to remove his towel and begin the same treatment to his buttocks and thighs.  The sensation of a man’s hands moving in places where no one but Aedan ever touched him was disturbing—and arousing.  He struggled to keep his mind from drifting to other nights, but the physical memory was too intense.

“Now your other side,” commanded Josson and began to lift to turn him over.

 “I—don’t think that’s a good idea,” stammered Alistair in sudden alarm.  He was acutely aware that he was flushing…and it wasn’t only to his face that his blood was rushing.

 The young man laughed again, “I don’t see anything for you to be ashamed of.  Quite the contrary!  Let me help you with that…”

 Afterward, Alistair sat and ate alone in his room at the inn, disgusted with himself.  He should have guessed that Antivan massage meant more than just a backrub, knowing what Antivans were like.  Why had he not resisted?   What was happening to him?  He had been taught  that intimacy meant something, that it was not just about a moment’s physical release.  Although he was no devout follower of the chantry in many ways, he still believed that.

When he had been younger, it had not been so difficult.  What he had told Aedan when they met—that there had been no opportunities for him—had not been strictly true.  He could have played around with some of the other Templars, or with tavern wenches or ****s, as many of the others did.  He had been disciplined, then. But after six years with Aedan, he had become used to being satisfied regularly.  And now…he was more on edge than ever before.  He had been avoiding even pleasuring himself because he found he could not do it without his thoughts drifting to his former lover…the way the stubble on Aedan’s chin had felt against his inner thighs…

It was simply a matter of discipline, he told himself.  He would not continue this way.  If he never found another person who was special to him the way Aedan had been, well, he would exercise self-control, as he had in his youth.  In any event, he would soon be entering the wild country of the Blasted Hills, where there would
be no temptations.

Modifié par maxernst, 07 août 2011 - 04:01 .

[maxernst]

5.  THE BLASTED HILLS:  A DRY SPRING

The approach to the blasted hills was like a vast staircase—broad plateaus broken up by steep escarpments.  Towns and villages became more scarce as Alistair approached the northwestern frontier of Orlais.  Only near streams was there sufficient water to grow crops; elsewhere the landscape was dominated by a small shrub that gave off a distinctive, spicy odour.  He asked about it in Andoral’s Reach and was told it was called sagebrush.

The heat was still intense during the day, but the nights were cooler here.  Godefroi had warned him that while there were darkspawn and other dangers on this road, the greatest threat might be thirst.  In Andoral’s Reach, he bought many leather sacks for holding water and was careful to fill them whenever he came across streams. 
He had made good time on his journey, arriving before the end of Solis, long before snow would become an issue, but the heat of summer made water even more precious.  And as dry as it was here, Godefroi had said it would be worse on the Anderfels side of the hills.

The hills themselves formed a weird and unfamiliar landscape. Hills in Ferelden were smooth, rounded features, covered in grass or trees.  These “hills” were more like enormous rocks, flat topped and steep sided. Some were made of a sandstone that was stained in many colors: maroon, cinnabar and ochre.  Others were made of chalk so white it looked like bleached bone in the sunlight, as if the hills were the exhumed remains of some vast  corpse.

Between the ranges of hills stretched barren, stony plains.  There was little forage for Somerled; Alistair hoped that the scattered clumps of sagebrush would be sufficient to sustain his poor horse. Sometimes there were lakes, but he had been warned that the white white flats that surrounded these lakes were salt, and their waters were not potable.

Fortunately—or perhaps by design—the track crossed several streams running down from the snowcapped peaks of the Hunterhorn mountains to the northwest.   Alistair and Somerled made their way to the bottoms of the canyons to drink deeply of their waters when they encountered them, and he gathered as much as he could carry, while Somerled devoured the rushes that grew along the stream banks.

Following Godefroi’s advice, Alistair had begun huddling in the shade of his tent during the hottest part of the day, to try and conserve water.  He shed his armor, wearing only his underpadding and his helmet, to protect his head from the sun, to try and stay cool.  He traveled only in the early morning and at dusk.  He would have traveled at night, but the trail was too hard to follow in the dark.  He met no people on the road and saw no sign of any other recent camps.

Despite all his care, he was running low on water by the time he neared the borders of the Anderfels. According to the map, there was a spring that emerged from a rocky slope not far from the road, so he kept his eyes open, watching for a copse of green trees in this thirsty land.  In anticipation of refilling his sacks of water at the spring, he had been giving much of the water to Somerled.  He had no experience to judge how much water horses needed and feared pushing him too hard.

The sun was setting when he spotted the splash of green amid the deep purple shadows beneath a sandstone cliff.  He breathed a sigh of relief and approached it, hacking his way through the dense brush that surrounded the pool fed by the spring.  He made his way into the heart of the little woodland…and found nothing but a bare patch of cracked mud.  The spring had run dry.  He made a brief futile attempt to dig into the mud, in the hopes of finding water beneath the surface, but struck a hard pan only a hand beneath the surface.

Cursing silently, he counted the remaining sacks of water he had with him, worried that they were not sufficient.  Godefroi had said that there were some plants that had thick juicy leaves that could be eaten for their water, but he had seen only a few of \\these. 

For the first time, it occurred to him that he might die here: a pointless, stupid death.  It was unlikely anyone would even find out what had befallen him.  He recalled Zevran once telling him that when he had taken the job to assassinate the Wardens, he had been fed up with the Crows, fed up with himself, and had not much cared if he’d lived or died. 

Alistair wondered if he had chosen this reckless path out of self-disgust.  He had made no conscious decision to throw his life away, but his only reason for taking the more direct, but more dangerous route, had been haste.  And what had he been in such a hurry for?  He gave a heavy sigh.  There was no point in contemplating it now.  He let Somerled forage on the dense foliage that surrounded the dried out pond, while he tried to work out a plan.

It was diffcult for him to judge how much water he needed to survive for himself, and even less for a horse.  In Ferelden, thirst was rarely a problem.  Perhaps the situation was less dire than he thought, perhaps not; he could not really say. He recalled a tale he had once heard where in extreme need, the men had slaughtered their animals and drank their blood to survive, but could not imagine doing such a thing to Somerled. He knew that killing him outright might be kinder than letting him die a slow death, but if he had led the stallion to his death, he thought grimly, he would share the same fate himself. There was no choice but to continue, drinking as little water as he dared and sharing what little he had with his horse.

Five days later, his head was throbbing and he began to feel dizzy.  He had urinated only once in the past day, a small trickle of brown fluid. He knew that water, even a little, would make him feel better, but was determined to hold out a little longer, to stretch out his meager water supply as long as he could.  He was probably in the Anderfels already, he hoped to find a village and water soon.

He had bedded down for the afteroon, avoiding the heat of the day, when something stirred at the edge of his awareness.  Darkspawn. It should not have been a surprise, for an entrance to the Deep Roads was near here according to his map, but in his confused state, he had forgotten.  He waited to see if they would sense him and come after him.  He was only one lone Warden after all, perhaps they wouldn’t notice?  He felt a coward, but he wasn’t sure if he was fit to fight, and the pain in his head made it too hard to estimate how many there were.  But fortune was not with him; the feeling of their taint intensified.  They were coming closer. Well, he was a Grey Warden. Fighting Darkspawn was his calling. He put his armor back on, and left his tent to face them.

The wind had picked up, blowing dust across the stony plain.  Shielding his eyes against the sun and dust, he could make out four figures approaching.  Two armored hurlocks with swords and two genlocks with crossbows.  He judged them to be of the ordinary variety by the quality of their equipment.  This was manageable.  He advanced toward them, swinging his shield to deflect crossbow bolts.  Andraste’s blood, but he felt dizzy.  Concentrate. Discipline alone can  save me.

He decided to go after one of the crossbowmen first.  Summoning his strength and ignoring the pounding in his head, he charged forward. As expected, one of the hurlocks blocked his path, but he crushed him across the chest with his shield, knocking him flat.  One quick thrust of the keening blade and the lightly armored genlock archer was impaled.  As Alistair pulled his sword out, the creature fell forward and died.  He felt a bolt hit him in the back, but it did not penetrate Evon’s mail.  He would be bruised, no more.

But now the other Hurlock swordsman was upon him.  He whirled about parrying a blow that had been aimed at the junction of helmet and mail as he did so, and fending off another bolt with his shield.  Then he felt a scorching heat and reflexively swung his shield up to protect his head.

An emissary!  By the Maker, how did I miss him?  As they often did, however, the emissary had caught two of the Hurlocks in his flames as well as Alistair.  Not for the first time, he wondered why they were so careless with their spells.  True, there had been a few occasions when Wynne had inadvertently frozen him solid, but it seemed to happen with absurd frequency with the emissaries.  Did they panic when they were rushed?  Could they even panic?

He recovered from the blast of heat before the hurlocks and ran toward the emissary, nearly tripping over a large rock.  There was never any choice but to go after an emissary immediately, even at the cost of exposing his backside to attack.  He kept the remaining genlock on his left, so he could block the crossbow bolts with his shield as he advanced.

The emissary was tracing a rune of some kind in the ground before him, but Alistair knew how to neutralize such things.  He focused his awareness in the way he had been trained as a child and the glowing rune faded.  Pummeling the monster with his shield, he knocked it senseless and finished it off with his sword.  As
dangerous as spellcasters were from a distance, they were easily slain at close quarters.

He swayed on his feet, but ordered his mind to focus, spinning around to face the two hurlocks he knew would be at his back.  Though it had been a while since his last fight with Darkspawn, he still found their attacks followed predictable patterns.  This made it easier to defend against two than it would have been with men, parrying the one with the keening blade, the other with his shield, waiting for his chance for a deadly riposte.  As luck would have it, the hurlock’s advance meant that the genlock no longer had a clear shot at him and would have to
reposition.

He sidestepped the hurlock on his left as it attempted a thrust, leaving it offbalance and he bashed a heavy body blow with his shield knocking it down.  He then ducked as the other hurlock’s sword whistled over his head 
and slashed upward with his blade. He felt the blade slice through its armor, bringing up a ribbon of tainted
black blood across its chest.  But its blade was coming toward him again and his position was awkward…but then it stopped, frozen in mid-motion.  Praise the Maker…and praise Sandal for the runes on his blade.

He quickly skewered the hurlock on his left, as it was still lying stunned from his shield blow then returned to the other before it could start to move again…and nearly dropped his shield as a crossbow bolt whizzed into the joint in his mail at his shoulder. The pain almost overwhelmed him, but he had done this many times before and did not allow it to distract him from decapitating the last hurlock.

Ignoring the numbness of his left arm, he advanced on the last of the darkspawn, his head down and his shield protecting his body from the bolts.  The genlock tried to retreat but soon found itself trapped between Alistair and a boulder and was soon overcome.  Alistair collapsed onto the genlock’s body as it fell.

He pulled himself to his feet then nearly fell over again.  He took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember where his tent and horse were.  He applied an elfroot poultice to his arm while trying to collect his thoughts. And then he felt that old familiar feeling once more.  More Darkspawn.  And he was already exhausted.

Despite lying with Genevieve on the final night of midsummer, it seemed he would die alone after all.  Maybe that was fitting. He had been alone must of his life, until Aedan.  But there was no time for self-pity.  He brushed aside the thought, the weariness in his legs, and the searing pain in his skull, and readied himself for one final battle.

Modifié par maxernst, 13 août 2011 - 04:33 .

[Maria13]

Dammit, how did I miss that Antivan massage chapter. Well done on the sensuality...

And the next one. I've always loved your ability to describe landscape, I'm awful at it myself. Then the battle... Poor parched Ali, poor Somerled...

Ave Maxernst!

[maxernst]

Thanks. Maybe it's because I'm a geologist, but I find landscape the easiest thing to describe--it's people and especially body language where I struggle.

[Maria13]

I think I'm the other way around.

But that Alistair scene in the baths... Well done. You seem to be able to get much closer to Alistair than to Aedan but perhaps that's because when it comes down to it Alistair is more of an open personality than Aedan. I think I have the same problem... Wardens! Full of turgid contradictory motivations! Him and her.

[DreGregoire]

As usual I enjoy reading your writing, but there is this huge part of me that keeps wondering where Aedan is and will he ever show up again. *sniffle* I feel so bad for Alistair getting sick all alone. There must be some kind soul around to aid him.

[maxernst]

DreGregoire wrote...

As usual I enjoy reading your writing, but there is this huge part of me that keeps wondering where Aedan is and will he ever show up again. *sniffle* I feel so bad for Alistair getting sick all alone. There must be some kind soul around to aid him.

What, you think there's more to the story?  If I were George R. R. Martin, this would be the end of Alistair, but since I don't plan to use everyone in Thedas as a point-of-view character, I suppose I can't be quite so careless with my character's lives.  As to Aedan, well...I'm glad you're still thinking about him.  We'll see.

@Maria13, it's interesting that you think I'm closer to Alistair.  It might be partly because Alistair's a more emotional character whereas Aedan is more calculating and much of his narrative was spoken aloud to other people, so his self-editing comes into play.  Also, this story is much more about Alistair than the previous ones were about Aedan.  But don't you think it might also be that Alistair's already a familiar character, so a lot of the work of building the character has already been done for me?

[Maria13]

Yes, if Alistair is defined by anything it's by being upfront. Not so the warden many of whom are quite compromised (ie in that they have only embarked upon blight fighting as a way to save their lives). And yes, there is also the fact that Alistair is very complete, very rounded already within the game (and that is a great achievement in itself).

Both of us have taken this character and are pushing him in different directions but his reactions are somewhat predictable given the large amount that we already know about him.

But that does not detract from skill and I still admire your treatment of Alistair in this last fic. It also makes me happier as a reader because you have allowed yourselfl to make a more emotional and more sesual portrayal. Hopefully Aedan will make a re-appearance soon and will recognise that he needs to be more above board, and I as a reader, will enjoy that.

[maxernst]

6. THE ANDERFELS: FRIENDS IN ODD PLACES
 
Alistair saw two figures approaching across the plain, their light grey robes flapping in the dry wind. One of them shouted something in an unfamiliar, guttural language. It occurred to him that Darkspawn did not usually shout or dress in robes. As they approached, their bows still strapped to their backs, they switched to Orlesian. “Brother Warden! We saw you from the pass, but were too far away to help.”
 
He exhaled in relief. Wardens. In his addled state, he had mistaken their taint for Darkspawn, but as they came nearer, he could sense the difference and hailed them. The older man who had spoken before continued after glancing at the carnage surrounding Alistair, “It seems our assistance was not necessary. You are a formidable warrior, brother. I am Geizbart, and this is Schade. Might I have your name?”
 
“I am Alistair, from Ferelden. But I may need your assistance yet. I seem to have lost track of my tent and horse during the fight…”
 
The men looked puzzled. Geizbart held up a hand to quiet his companion. “Are you alright, Alistair? Could you have taken a blow to the head?” The tone expressed concern, not mockery. “Is that not your camp over there?”
 
Turning around, Alistair saw that he was no more than two hundred strides from Somerled. How could he have not seen him? Feeling foolish, he replied, “Never been better! Well…I haven’t had much water the past few days…”
 
Geizbart’s eyes widened and he pulled a leather sack from his belt, offering it to him. Alistair took off his helmet and drank as the other man touched his forehead. “Maker’s breath, you’re feverish…and you’re not sweating!” He shook his head. “How could you possibly have fought all these Darkspawn in this state? Schade, help me get him out of his armor. We can lay him down in the shade of that rock there.”
 
As they undressed him, despite his protests that he would be fine after he had had some water, Schade asked. “Did you say your name was Alistair? Are you the Alistair that fought the blight in Ferelden?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Really?” asked Geizbart. “It is an honor, Alistair. That explains your prowess in battle, then. I had thought perhaps it was a common name in Ferelden. I thought you would be…older.”
 
“I had only been a Warden for six months before Ostagar.”
 
“But how do you come to be in the wasteland alone, without any water?”
 
“I was on my way to Weisshaupt. I do have some water, but…there was a spring on my map that had dried out…so I was trying to drink as little as possible and share with my horse…until I found more.” 
 
Schade nodded. “It’s been a very dry summer. Kaltemwasser sometimes dries up.”
 
Alistair twisted his head to look over at Somerled. The sun had moved since he had set up camp, and the horse was no longer in the shadow of the red sandstone boulder. “Can you check on my horse? He needs water, too…if you can spare it. How far are we from water here.”
 
“There is a village on the other side of that ridge we will return to for more water tomorrow . Schade, go and bring the horse over here. We’ll see what we can do, but I’m not going to go back to Weisshaupt and tell the First that we lost Alistair of Ferelden but saved his horse!”
 
Alistair gave a dry chuckle. “I’m not so easily killed as that. But what of your assignment? You must have been on some sort of mission out here.”
 
Geizbart shrugged. “There were reports of darkspawn activity in the area. Just routine scouting. And it seems you dealt with them,” he gestured to the corpses littering the ground.
 
“What if there are more?”
 
He shrugged again. “Then we go out again, or other Wardens do. I have to assume that whatever brought you all the way here from Ferelden is more important than a few stray darkspawn in the wastes.”
 
Schade returned, leading his horse. “The horse should be able to last until we go to Tiefbrunnen tomorrow.”
 
A few days later, Alistair was staring up at the fortress of Weisshaupt, a place he had thought of often. The headquarters of the Wardens was not an especially welcoming sight. It was perched atop one of the steep-sided hills that were common in this land, its silhouette dominating the surrounding steppes and the town that huddled at its feet. The surrounding cliffs were deeply furrowed, as if some enormous beast had carved away the surrounding landscape with its claws. It was built of the same dark grey stone as the cliffs below it and the gryphon banner flew from every tower. It was a hard place, for hard men, built to be unassailable. But this was, in a way, his spiritual home. He hoped that here he would be able to find purpose again. He left Somerled at a stable attached to an inn in the town, then followed Schade and Geizbart up the long flight of the steps to Warden’s Gate.

[DreGregoire]

Ah souls of the grey warden kind, lucky day! Heh, and Weisshaupt at long last! I look forward to your next post.

[Maria13]

Yeah, me too, about time Alistair got some GW respect...

[maxernst]

Modifié par maxernst, 27 août 2011 - 01:23 .

[maxernst]

7. WEISSHAUPT: THE HALL OF HEROES
 
Geizbart and Schade took leave of him after introducing him at the gatehouse. “While you would certainly be welcome to stay in the general barracks, I expect the First will make special arrangements for you. It was an honor to meet you, brother.”
 
Alistair had waited only a few minutes when perhaps the only person in Weisshaupt he would recognize appeared: Girard la Breite. He was a dark, stocky, barrel-chested man perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Alistair, and served as a liaison between Weisshaupt and the northern reaches of Thedas. He visited Amaranthine once every year or two. Aedan disliked him, viewing him as Yves’ stooge, but Aedan had either disliked or distrusted nearly every senior Warden from outside Ferelden. Alistair, however, had got on well enough with Girard in the past, and thought him a straight-forward and honorable man, if a little standoffish. 
 
“Welcome to Weisshaupt, Alistair. It is good to see that you made it here at last. The First thought you might like to see a familiar face, so he sent me to greet you and show you to your lodgings here.”
 
He had visualized Weisshaupt as an enormous castle, but upon passing through the gates it was obvious that it was more like a walled town. There was a large open courtyard where Wardens were training, a market area where food and clothing could be purchased, a bloomery for smelting metals for weapons and armor, houses, and even a few taverns. Still, the imposing dark bulk of the main keep dominated the fortress with its tall square towers. To his surprise, however, that was not where Girard was taking him. Instead, they walked past the keep to a four-story building that backed onto the outer wall. “We have hired a room in this guest house for your use on the third floor,” he said, handing Alistair a key.”
 
“We?”
 
“The High Council, which has been called to hear your account.” Forestalling Alistair’s inquiry, he added, “that is the First, and me, and a few others whom you will meet tomorrow.” Before Alistair could ask more questions about this high council, Girard was already taking his leave, “I will leave you for a short time to give you some chance to recover from your journey, but must ask you to make yourself ready soon. The First wishes to speak with you privately before the council begins. I will be back shortly to take you to him.”
 
Alistair climbed the stairs and opened the door to find a simple room with a single window looking out toward the market. It contained a bed, a desk, a small wardrobe, a bucket of water, a chamber pot. a fireplace that he imagined he would have no use for, but little else. Though he would have preferred to bathe before meeting the First, he made do by using the bucket to wash up and changed into his light chainmail shirt, over which he wore his silk clothes from Val Royeaux. He would have preferred something less gaudy, but he felt it was better than wearing the clothes he had been traveling in for weeks.
 
Girard had not been jesting when he said he would be back shortly, for he barely had time to unpack, wash and change before he returned. As they were leaving, Alistair noticed a group of men hauling barrels onto the wall from, presumably from the base of the cliffs far below, using a large pulley system and asked about it.
 
“Those are barrels of water. Weisshaupt is built on solid rock, so we have no well inside the walls. Water from wells dug into the plains below is hauled up here to serve all our needs.”
 
“But is that not a great weakness in a siege?” Alistair asked.
 
“It is. However, we also have a system of drains running from the roof of every building in Weisshaupt to collect rainwater and carry it into great cisterns that have been carved out of rock below the keep. But rain is infrequent and unreliable here, so we do not dare touch that water, except at great need. Large stocks of food are also kept in deep cellars below the keep, where it is cool throughout the year. Make no mistake, Weisshaupt is prepared for a very long siege, should it be necessary.”
 
Girard led him to a large building, second only in size to the main keep, and strikingly different from every other in Weisshaupt. It was not built out of the same dark grey rock as the rest of the fortress, but out of red sandstone, and its bright color stood out against its surroundings. And where every other building he had seen had been plain, rough-hewn stone—Alistair had never seen a less ornamented place—the façade of this one was covered with bas-reliefs of battle scenes. Its grand proportions reminded him of a cathedral, but he could see no chantry symbols upon it. The tall brass double doors at its entrance were engraved with the images of gryphons.
 
“The First will meet you inside.” Thinking he was finished, Alistair began to climb the steps toward the doors, but Girard stopped him. “Alistair—I promised the rest of the Council that despite your…feelings for Commander Cousland, that you were a loyal Warden, and a man of honor who could be trusted to tell the truth, the whole story of the Fifth Blight. It was largely on my advice that you were summoned here. I hope you will not disappoint me.”
 
“I am not a liar, Girard,” he replied. But he wondered how ready he had been to tell the truth when he had left Amaranthine. He had not even known the truth, but would he have been willing to divulge what he had known, that Aedan had done something with Morrigan, and who she was? His lover had been close-mouthed when the Wardens had first asked for his story, after the blight was over. He recalled that he had told them nothing of Flemeth, only that they had been saved and later assisted by an apostate mage. He had not really had a clear idea what he would tell the First when he first set out, but he had thought to protect Aedan, to take any blame and punishment onto himself. Now, well, even Aedan had said the time for secrecy was over. He would tell the truth, as much as he knew of it. But after the revelations of his last days with Aedan, he was beginning to wonder if he knew all of it yet…
 
He opened the heavy brass door and stepped into a small chamber that opened onto a much larger chamber beyond. Even the relative opulence of the exterior of the building had not prepared him for the dazzling interior. The hemispherical vault above was supported by alternating columns of red, green, black and white marble, and the walls covered with mosaics made of tiny colored glass tesserae. They glittered in the sunlight that filtered in through the alabaster sheets in the windows above him.
 
Although he knew he should not keep the First waiting, he could not help but pause and take in his surroundings. On one side were images of battle, of Wardens fighting darkspawn while the other had a seemingly innocent image of three young men and a young woman sharing a silver cup. Alistair knew better, of course; the cup they shared was a Joining chalice. They chose not to show any new recruits lying dead on the floor. He wondered how many non-wardens would understand the significance of what was happening in the scene.
 
But he had to move on into the larger chamber ahead, which nearly took his breath away. As he moved into it, he realized that the half-domed vault above the chamber behind him was one of eight that surrounded and supported a much larger central dome. It must have been nearly as high above the floor as the one on the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, though its span was not as great. Straight ahead of him, coiled in the center of the room was a huge, almost life-sized sculpture of a dying Archdemon, its breast pierced by a two-handed sword. The sunlight that poured in from the dome, three hundred hands above it, drew the eye to its massive bulk. Standing in front of it was a grey-haired man of average height. He wore a plain grey silk tunic and no ornaments but a signet ring.
 
The man bowed to him. “Welcome, Alistair. You have made a long journey at our request.”
 
Uncertain of protocol, Alistair decided to kneel. “Thank you…uh…my lord? First? I am sorry, I do not know how to properly address you.”
 
The older man chuckled. “Rise. You may call me Anshelm. We are brothers and I will not demand formality from one who has fought an Archdemon.” Then his blue eyes focused on him for a moment and Alistair was reminded—uncomfortably—of Teyrn Loghain. “I can see you wish to look around. Please do. I chose to meet you here for a reason.”
 
The younger warden surveyed the hall around him. The three chambers on his left and the one straight ahead were similar to the one through which he had entered, their walls covered in frescoes. From what he could see, most depicted battle scenes. But the dominant feature of each of them was a statue on a polished stone pedestal, inscribed with a gryphon. There were names and dates on the statues inscribed on the pedestal too, but Alistair could not read them from where he stood.
 
The chambers to his left provided a stark contrast, as they were almost bereft of ornamentation. They had the same polished stone floor and marble columns as the others, but their walls were plain plaster and they contained no statues. The one in the far corner differed from the others in that a pedestal with an engraved gryphon had been made, but it stood empty and had no inscription.
 
“Do you understand what you see?”
 
“I…think so. These four chambers represent the blights. I assume that these statues are of the Wardens who died slaying the Archdemon?”
 
“Just so. This is the Hall of Heroes. The story of each Blight, and the warden who ended it can be read in the mosaics, if one has the time and the eye. As soon as we felt the Archdemon’s presence vanish, we commissioned the pedestal for the fifth chamber. But now…I have been asked more than once, why we have not placed a statue of Commander Cousland there. Not by senior Wardens, but the younger ones and the common people of Weisshaupt, who do not understand. Thus far, I have blamed insufficient funds, a need for skilled mosaicists from Tevinter…but the truth is, I do not know if Commander Cousland deserves to stand among those who gave their lives, or even whether the fifth blight is truly over.”
 
Alistair paused, struck by the thought that instead of standing on the floor looking up at an empty pedestal, he could have, should have been a statue standing upon it. Not that he had wanted to die, of course…but, we all must die eventually. What better death could a man have than to save the lives of millions and be commemorated here, to be remembered for generations? At the age of eighty, surrounded by those he loves, he could here Aedan’s voice replying in his head. But that was something a Warden could not have.
 
“There were wardens who died fighting the Fifth Blight. Could you not erect a statue of Riordan…or Duncan…” After all these years, it still pained him that he had not been at Duncan’s side when he fell, though he knew it was foolishness, that he would have died for nothing. “Aedan wouldn’t care.”
 
The First snorted. “Do you imagine that matters to me? But everyone knows Cousland killed the Archdemon, and the others did not. It will only draw more questions if we erect it to some other Warden. And it still leaves the question of the Archedemon’s fate. We need to decided what we must do to ensure that the Fifth Blight has truly ended. That is why you are here:  to answer for Urthemiel. ”
 
Alistair didn’t like the sound of those final comments. Yet he had known he could be censured or somehow punished from the start, and been willing to accept it. But still… “First…Anshelm…will Aedan be punished for what he has done?”
 
The older man sighed. “This an inquiry, not a trial. Whatever we may think of Commander’s Cousland choices—or of yours—it is not the Grey Warden’s way to discard useful tools. And how should we enforce our will on him, even should we wish to?  I’ve no doubt his men are loyal to him and would not follow a Commander from outside and I’m not about to commit an act of war on Ferelden to try and apprehend the most popular Warden in Thedas. But if there is still something that needs to be done, or can be done, to ensure that Urthemiel cannot blight Thedas again, then that task may fall to you, if it can. And perhaps to Commander Cousland, if he can be so persuaded.”
 
Alistair swallowed and nodded.
 
“But that must wait until we have heard the whole story. That is our immediate task. You will come to the Council Hall when Girard comes for you tomorrow and give an accounting of the Fifth Blight. And then we will deliberate until we can choose a course of action. Until then, I urge you to study the mosaics in this hall and think on those who have fallen in the service of Thedas, brother.” 
 
He turned, as if about to go, then changed his mind. “One other thing—a letter arrived for you, before you came.” He handed Alistair a roll of parchment with a wax gryphon seal. A letter from Aedan. 

[DreGregoire]

I can't wait for the next the release. I love how you wrote this one, especially the grand hall, but I'm on the edge of my seat waiting for more.

[maxernst]

Thanks! It may have been all that discussion of architecture in the fanfiction sucks thread! After I planned out my thoughts on how it would look, I realized I had completely ignored the glimpse of Weisshaupt we had in the fade, where it looks very Gothic, and based my description on San Vitale in Ravenna. But I decided that the sloth demon would have created its "Weisshaupt" from Aedan's mind and there's no reason to think Aedan would have any idea what it really looked like.

[Maria13]

Yeah, me liked too. Especially the rather sinister hints...

And then Aedan's letter. I bet it's, "Hold on, I'm coming!" In the non-sexual sense of course because otherwise Alistair's going to take the rap and that would be so unfair!

[maxernst]

WEISSHAUPT: THE FIRST LETTER 
Alistair stared at the parchment the First had given him, then decided that he would go to the tavern for a meal and a few pints of ale before reading it. The Grau Greifen, as the tavern was called, served him a hearty but plain meal of mutton stew and coarse rye bread. In Orlais, even taverns had used more herbs and spices than he was accustomed to, but it seemed the food of Anderfels was more akin to that of Ferelden. The service was polite, but incurious. The bartender and serving girl appeared to view the business of foreign wardens to be their own. For his part, Alistair drank his ale quietly, and thought about how the First had spoken to him, wondering if it had been a mistake to come. This is not a friendly inquiry, if we go to Weishaupt we will be facing an interrogation, Aedan had said, a lifetime ago. Still, surely he had to tell the First what had transpired. 
 
Returning to his room later that evening, he lit a candle, took a deep breath and read:
 
Alistair,
 
My dearest love.
 
I hope that your journey to Weisshaupt went well. I cannot tell you how much I wish I was there with you, and I pray that you are treated with the courtesy and respect you deserve. I have sent a letter that should explain everything to the First, and absolve you of any blame. 
 
I have been thinking about what you said. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I have no honor. Maybe I’m selfish and unscrupulous and undeserving of your love. It may be that the way that I fight is emblematic of my approach to everything in life. I can’t even say that my betrayal of Leliana was the first time I had broken a promise to someone who helped me. Ask Anora about that. Or Morrigan, for I did not slay her mother as she wished. I misread the stakes and made a horrible mistake. 
 
Maybe you really didn’t know me. I was always afraid that if you saw me as less than heroic that you wouldn’t love me. That was why I concealed what I had done with Morrigan for so long, why I didn’t tell you how I had gained Celene’s assistance. I guess I abused your trust, just as I abused Leliana’s.   Every time I’ve deceived you or hid things from you it was out of fear of your disapproval. Was that the only way? Did I win your love falsely?
 
Perhaps it’s true that the man you fell in love with was an illusion. But the man who loves you is real, and would do anything, try to be anything, to win you back, if you’ll only give me another chance.
 
I will return to Amaranthine, though the prospect of commanding the Wardens without you by my side is a bitter one. But I know that you would want me to do that, and so, I will, though I truly don’t know how I will be able to do it without you. I don’t know if you ever really understood how much I depend on your faith in me. I have always relied on you to give me strength and purpose. But I will go back there and wait and hope for your safe return. The hope that you might change your mind will have to be reason enough to keep me going.
 
I love you. I need you. Please come home.
 
With all my love, always,
 
Aedan
 
Oh Aedan! He thought to himself. Had he really believed Alistair had loved the Hero of Ferelden, not the man he was? Or at least who I thought he was. Of course, he had admired him, but…no one had ever cared for him and understood him like Aedan. He had thought that the pain of being alone again would recede, but it seemed he only missed him more. He had hoped that the Warden’s stronghold would feel like home to him, but instead he felt more alone in Weisshaupt than he had in the wilderness. Reading Aedan’s letter, he could hear Aedan’s voice pleading for forgiveness in his head. It was almost too much to bear.
 
But he couldn’t go back. Even though he had known Aedan told lies, he had always assured himself that his motives for dishonesty were always pure. He had not believed that Aedan would deceive him. Now, doubt nibbled at every word in the letter. Oh, he didn’t doubt that Aedan loved him. But could he truly change? Would Alistair even be able to tell if he had? Aedan was clever with words and could feign sincerity better than anyone he knew. Even in this letter…Aedan would know how hard the line asking him to come home would hit. Since he had been cast out of Redcliffe as a child, living in Amaranthine with Aedan had been the only time he had ever felt at home.
 
He was puzzled by the opening, which indicated that the First should already have had Aedan’s account of what had happened. Yet Anshelm had spoken as though he still did not know, as if there were still action that might be taken. But if there is still something that needs to be done, or can be done, to ensure that Urthemiel cannot blight Thedas again, then that task may fall to you, if it can. And perhaps to Commander Cousland, if he can be so persuaded, he had said. If he knew that Aife had passed into another world, why would he say that?
 
Setting the letter aside, Alistair leaned out the window of his room, surveying the dark street below. Maybe he does not believe Aedan’s account. But knowing that I was coming, he surely would have told the truth, and I don’t know anything more than what I experienced, and what he told me. If they don’t believe me, what measures will they take to learn the “truth”? He shivered in the cool night air.
 
He settled into his sleeping pallet and tried to fall asleep. It seemed he had no choice but to speak the truth and hope that he was believed. He drew a wool blanket close about himself, and tried to avoid thinking of the warmth and comfort of Aedan’s body.

[maxernst]

@Maria, sorry that the letter was only the one sent from Val Royeaux before Aedan left, and this was not a very substantive update. But I don't think Aedan will come to Weisshaupt unless Alistair asks him to or he believes Alistair to be in danger.

[maxernst]

9. WEISSHAUPT: OSTAGAR REVISITED
 
Alistair woke the next morning, put on fresh small clothes and polished his armor, then awaited Ricard.   He had considered wearing the fancy silk clothes Sybille had made for him but decided he wanted to present himself as a warrior.   Although he knew he knew that Evon’s mail would not protect him from the type of danger he faced, somehow wearing his full armor made him feel more secure. Upon arrival, the older Warden led him to the keep where they entered a large room dominated by seven stone seats arranged along the far wall. The largest chair was in the center, and was occupied by the First, and Ricard took his place in the only empty stone seat, the one farthest to the left. He gestured for Alistair to take a smaller chair in the center of the chamber, facing the others that lined
 
“We thank our brother, Alistair, for undertaking a long journey to bring us his account of the Fifth Blight,” said Anshelm. “You are all familiar with the remarkable story of how two young Wardens in Ferelden vanquished the Archdemon. However, a number of questions were left unanswered by Commander Cousland’s account, and recent events have sharpened our interest in their answers. Before we begin, I would like to introduce the members of the High Council to the senior Warden from Ferelden. You have already met myself and Ricard. Also to my left are Scarlata of Antiva and Aristomachus of Minrathous, who serve us in a similar fashion to Ricard in the eastern and western lands of Thedas, respectively.”
 
Scarlata was a tall, slender, sharp-featured woman with black hair, streaked with grey. She nodded to Alistair, looked him over with her dark eyes and gave a slight smile. Aristomachus was a heavy set, balding man with a long grey beard. He also nodded when introduced, but gave no hint of a smile. The lines in his face suggested a man who did not smile often.
 
“On my right,” the First continued, “are three senior Wardens of Weishaupt: nearest me is Marschalc, my second here. To his right are Halfdan and Menashe.”
 
Alistair bowed deeply to each warden in turn. It occurred to him that he was the youngest man in the room by at least ten years. Marschalc was a small, slightly built blonde man with a wispy moustache. Halfdan was a dark-haired dwarf who tapped his thick thighs with blunt fingers during the introduction, as if impatient to begin. Menashe was a green eyed elf, tall for his kind, and with the facial tattoos that marked him as Dalish in origin. Although Zevran had those tattoos as well…
 
There was one more person in the room, who had not been introduced. She was seated at a desk in a corner behind Alistair and to his right. Her long brown hair was tied back and her amber-colored eyes met his gaze. 
 
Noting his curiosity, the First explained. “Ah, that Adelheid, our archivist. She is not a member of this Council, but I have asked her here to transcribe your account. In view of the…omissions from the report filed by Commander Cousland five years ago, we have decided that the report you give will be our official chronicle.”
 
So they have decided that they don’t trust Aedan. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. “I was under the impression that you only wanted me to discuss the fate of Urthemiel.”
 
The first shook his head. “We wish to hear the entire story through your eyes, Alistair. Please begin when you met Aedan Cousland.”
 
This was going to take a while. It was fortunate that Aedan had recounted the story for Leliana and Sybille so recently, as it had refreshed his memory with many details he had forgotten. And he soon realized he was going to need details, for his audience interrupted him frequently with questions.
 
Marschalc was the first to stop him. “Wait, did you just say that you met the apostate mage Morrigan in the wilds, prior to Cousland’s Joining? Aedan’s report didn’t mention that.”
 
So Aedan had concealed Flemeth from the Wardens. He had not noticed that, but then he had paid scant attention to the report when his lover had written it five years ago. “Yes, we met her when we went to the ruins in search of the old treaties.”
 
They had many questions about Morrigan, which he answered as best, and as objectively, as he could. They could hardly miss the fact that he disliked and distrusted her from the start, however. The councilors became more animated when the story turned to Flemeth.
 
Ricard asked, “You say the name Flemeth as though it has some significance. Should we know who she is? It sounds vaguely familiar…”
 
“It’s the name of a…legendary witch of the wilds from centuries ago.”
 
Halfdan snorted. “Do you really expect us to believe you met a five hundred year old woman in the Wilds? You said she has a daughter little older than yourself. A remarkable feat for a woman so ancient!”
 
Alistair sighed.  “I don’t know if she’s really the original Flemeth or even if Morrigan is her daughter. All I can tell you is that’s the name she gave us.”
 
Aristomachus broke in, stroking his beard. “You said that she knew you were a Warden, and that she was able to take the scrolls that had been protected by Warden seals. Could she have been a Warden?”
 
“No, I would have known. She’s not a Grey Warden. I don’t know what she is.”
 
“Did you tell Duncan about Flemeth when you returned to Ostagar?” asked Menashe.
 
“Yes, but he seemed distracted and didn’t really ask about her. I think he was preoccupied by the coming battle.”
 
Aristomachus’ heavy brow furrowed. “Or maybe he already knew about Flemeth. Could he have sent you and Cousland into the wilderness knowing that you would find her?”
 
“What? No, why would Duncan…that doesn’t make any sense.”
 
“I’m just trying to cover all possibilities. If she were working with Duncan, it would account for how she got the treaties and knew to find you. There’s no chance that Cousland could have met Morrigan or Flemeth before, either?”
 
Alistair shook his head. “Impossible. Aedan had lived in Highever his whole life. It’s a long way from the wilds.”
 
Scarlata put in, “I think he’s told us all he can. Please let the handsome young man continue with his story.” 
 
Anshelm leaned forward in his chair and pointed at the archivist. “Adelheid, can you see if we have anything on this Flemeth legend in the library and bring it to me tomorrow? Even if she was lying, the choice of name might have some significance.” She looked up from her desk where she had been scribbling furiously to take down Alistair’s words, and nodded. 
 
Duncan’s actions at Ostagar did not escape the Council’s scrutiny, either. The First wanted to know why Duncan had put all the Wardens into the one battle, rather than leaving some in reserve.
 
“I suppose he was counting on the additional Wardens from Orlais coming so that even if the Ferelden Wardens all fell at Ostagar…”
 
“A risky choice,” observed Menashe, brushing his hair back from his pointed ears. “And it was the King that asked for Wardens to light the beacon? So the only reason you survived the battle was King Cailan’s whim…”
 
“Or was it a whim? Did he mean you to be his heir, should he fall in battle?” broke in Ricard.
 
“No—I mean—I don’t think so. He certainly didn’t declare me as his successor and hardly anybody knew about me so…no. Anyway, why is this relevant? I thought this was an inquiry into our actions?”
 
Anshelm sighed. “We’re trying to understand the chain of events that placed responsibility for the fate of an entire country into the hands of two young, inexperienced Wardens. One of the reasons why we value the official chronicles of the Blight so highly is that they provide instruction. What has worked in the past, what hasn’t worked in the past, what mistakes to avoid…”
 
So now we were a mistake. Controlling his irritation, Alistair added, “In any event, he could not have known we would survive when the battle was lost. If Flemeth hadn’t rescued us…”
 
“What? Aedan’s account credited Morrigan with that,” pointed out the elf.
 
“I…it seems Aedan did not want to tell you about Flemeth.”
 
“So what really happened, then?” the Antivan woman asked.
 
Alistair summarized the events of the tower and how they had been overwhelmed by Darkspawn after lighting the beacon. “And then we awoke in Flemeth’s hut. Morrigan told us that Flemeth had ‘turned into a giant bird and plucked us from the top of the tower’, and then tended our wounds.”
 
“And is that what you believe?” inquired the First.
 
“What else should I believe? Morrigan is a shapechanger, as well, though I never saw her change into anything so large.”
 
“A giant bird?” the Tevinter asked, lifting a finger.
 
The First turned to him. “Does that suggest something to you?”
 
“I—perhaps, but no, it’s impossible. Forget I said anything.” The other elf—probably the two mages in the room, Alistair thought—glanced over at him, but said nothing.
 
Anshelm spoke again. “Did this Flemeth say why she saved you from the tower?”
 
“Aedan asked her but she just claimed that she wanted the Blight to be defeated. But…in retrospect, I think it must have been her plan to send Morrigan with us, to…capture the old god’s soul. Aedan told you about that in the letter, right?”
 
They nodded, then the dwarf spoke. “But I don’t understand how they even knew how slaying an Archdemon worked. Why would you tell them the central secret of our Order?”
 
“Tell them? Neither of us knew ourselves. We had no idea until Riordan told us the next year.”
 
The First frowned. “So, again, this Flemeth seems privy to knowledge and abilities of the Wardens…yet she is not a Warden, you are sure.” 
 
Alistair continued his story, concluding with their decision to try and gather the armies themselves.
 
“And that seemed a reasonable idea to you?” asked the Second of Weisshaupt.
 
“I didn’t see that we had any other choice. Orlais was weeks away…”
 
“Blights do not move that quickly,” observed Ricard. “You had time.”
 
“But how were we supposed to know that? I had been a Warden for six months. I knew hardly anything about the past blights. Besides, what good would it have done? You all knew we were facing a Blight, you must have known! You had time.”
 
Anshelm closed his eyes and turned away. “Loghain would not let us into the country. What would you have had us do? Take the side of his opponents in the civil war?”
 
“You could have helped us. There was no need to come in as an army, merchants went back and forth the whole time.”
 
“We tried to find out what was going on in Ferelden…”
 
“You sent one man! And I think Riordan only came because he was from Ferelden. With a team of Wardens, Aedan and I could have concentrated on getting the nobles to side against Loghain while the others gathered the armies.” This was a familiar debate, yet for some reason Alistair found himself arguing the side Aedan had always taken. It was unsettling to hear the excuses he himself had always made for the Wardens from the mouths of others.
 
“We didn’t know about the treaties. We didn’t know about you.”
 
“Loghain was tearing up Ferelden trying to find two Wardens that survived Ostagar. I can’t believe nobody in Orlais ever heard about it. You left Ferelden to be destroyed!”
 
“How dare you talk to the First like that? Show some respect, brother!” said Marschalc, his fist clenched.
 
Ricard turned to the first. “Allow me to respond, Anshelm. Alistair, you must understand. We had heard rumors that two Wardens had survived Anshelm, but we did not know that you had the old treaties in your possession, and we—Yves and I mostly—assumed that you would simply go into hiding, or flee to Orlais, or be caught. We underestimated you.” He sighed. “We thought Ferelden doomed, unless Loghain could be overthrown. We had not the numbers for an invasion and the Empress would not go to war with Ferelden to save it. So we waited with the chevaliers for the horde to come through the passes into the Frostback Mountains.”
 
“I don’t think there’s much point in discussing it further. Ricard, you acted on the information you had. And while our young friend’s plan might sound absurd, it did, after all, largely work, so…” Scarlata shrugged, “let him get on with the story.”
 
Alistair took a deep breath and allowed the unexpected surge of anger to dissipate, then explained how they had left Flemeth’s hut, taking Morrigan with them. “No, I already told you, I didn’t trust her, but Aedan felt we needed all the help we can get. I remember him saying once that she was useful; he didn’t have to like her. And—I must admit—I’m not sure we could have survived some of the battles we faced without her magic.”
 
“But why was it his decision? You had seniority,” Halfdan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.
 
Alistair swallowed. “I—thought that he would do better than me. He was a son of a great house, so he had been trained in…leadership, which I had not.” That was almost a lie. Fergus had been trained for leadership, Aedan not so much.
 
Scarlata chuckled. “It couldn’t have anything to do with his handsome face and charming manners?”
 
Alistair blushed. “No! He’s not…well, he is, but that’s not it. I just thought he might do better than me. I didn’t feel adequate to the task.” He lowered his eyes.
 
“Who would?” Menashe asked softly.
 
The First clasped his hands together. “I think that’s enough for today. You have given us much to consider. We will expect you back here in two days time to continue the story.”