Epic Tales With Different Details

Let the Wandering Witch lead you on grand adventures through alternate universes of worlds made famous by Bioware.AO3|FFN|Inkitt|8tracks Playlists

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Updated Anders from my Dragon Age fanfiction series, "Kings and Queens of Promise".

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Solona and Alistair from my current Dragon Age fanfiction series, "Kings and Queens of Promise".

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Grey Warden Commander Solona Amell

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Captain Garrett Hawke of Yavana's Call

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Alistair and Garrett's first kiss from my Dragon Age fanfiction series, "Kings and Queens of Promise".

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The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 22: The Qunari and the Nightingale

As they crossed the drawbridge into Lothering, Alistair stopped close to the end, leaned on the rail and studied the landscape. Beyond the wooden ramp ahead and to the right, tents of varying sizes and colors as well as makeshift lean-tos were set up all along the river’s edge. It appeared to be a refugee camp for those from the smaller southern villages attempting to escape the horde. Ferelden’s people, his people, were suffering.

Stop thinking like that, jackass. You aren’t a king. Just a Grey Warden.

He sighed before turning his attention to the two women who were standing over the body of a templar, debating over whether they should check the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Just as he returned his attention to the landscape, he felt something nudge his right arm. He turned and smiled at the hound trying to garner his attention then began scratching it behind the ears.

Harley still looked like he was only a few steps from death with large gashes riddling his body, but at least his fur was no longer matted and he seemed in better spirits. Between the honey flower boiled into his water and the poultice of elfroot, feverfew, and lemongrass Alistair applied to his skin, Harley was well on the road to a full recovery.

“Hey, boy,” he greeted.

The dog leaned his head into his master’s hand and panted. It had been a very long time since Alistair had taken care of a mabari. Although he never had one of his own, Master Dennet sometimes allowed him to care for his hound, Jodee. In a way, that dog was the only true friend the stable boy ever had. Unfortunately, when the old stablemaster, Kenton, contracted the taint from his horse and died, Jodee wasn’t too far behind. Alistair loved that hound, and, after mourning its passing for a good long while, he swore he would never allow himself to feel as close to an animal again.

Harley flipped over onto his back and kicked his hind legs to let his master know he wanted his belly scratched. The warrior crouched down and complied with the mabari’s request. Even after the vow he made when he was ten, he had to admit that the hound was beginning to grow on him. In a lot of ways, Harley reminded him of Jodee.

Alistair always wondered if Master Dennet didn’t allow the boy to care for Jodee to make up for some of the abuses the child suffered under the hands of Kenton. Where Kenton was cruel and unreasonable, Dennet was gruff but kind and even taught Alistair to ride a horse when he was seven. It may have been callous of the boy not to grieve the death of the man who practically raised him his entire life, but he was much happier when Dennet took over as stablemaster upon Kenton’s demise.

While petting Harley brought back some bittersweet memories, it did give Alistair an idea. He wasn’t sure if Eamon would even agree to it, but the arl hadn’t yet sent any of his troops to Ostagar before that final, tragic battle. Perhaps he would be willing to lend Redcliffe’s army to aid the Wardens in their fight against the darkspawn. If he did, it would certainly afford them a better chance of success.

“If you are quite finished playing with that disgusting mutt, we still have work to do,” Morrigan chided from Alistair’s left side.

Harley rolled over and growled at the witch as the warrior stood at his full height. Alistair was fed up with Morrigan’s constant snide comments and the ways she was forever berating him. There were a lot of similarities between the witch and Solona, but there was another side to Solona. She was frequently funny and possessed her own brand of kindness and caring. Though she often attempted to disguise them with apathy and arrogance, those admirable traits still existed. Morrigan, on the other hand, was just a bitch through and through, and he had no inclination to be nice to her, whatsoever.

“I’m sorry,” he retorted in a snarky tone. “I was just passing the time while you were playing with the dead body.”

“I can see the appeal for you, Alistair,” she quipped. “Considering you and the dog are so alike in both level of intelligence and smell.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, Morrigan, mabari are highly intelligent animals, but you would know that if you crawled out of your cave every now and again.”

“Yes,” she responded with a haughty tone. “I suppose I owe the hound an apology equating it to your low level of intellect.”

“Enough,” Solona interjected as she rubbed her temples with the tips of her middle fingers. “The two of you have been at it all day. Can we please stop arguing long enough to actually formulate a plan? Or is it your intention for us to stand here fighting like children until the darkspawn overtake us?"

“I have some thoughts on that, actually,” Alistair said, which earned an amused chuckle from Morrigan. He shot a glare at the witch before continuing. “Arl Eamon’s troops were delayed and were never sent to Ostagar. Maybe we should go to him for aid first. Redcliffe is certainly closer than any of the groups named in those treaties. If we had the arl’s soldiers, it might make for a more compelling argument if we meet with resistance from the dwarves, mages, or elves.”

Solona’s brow creased. “It’s odd that you mention Redcliffe,” she observed. “We found a note on that templar. His name was Ser Henric and he was stationed in Redcliffe. It seems he was supposed to meet someone named Ser Donall here in Lothering and give him a report on the scholar Genetivi’s whereabouts.”

“I know Donall,” Alistair told her. “He was a squire for Ser Wynton when I was a boy. He used to come to the stables often to retrieve his master’s horse.”

“'Tis little wonder your stench is so powerful,” Morrigan scoffed. “Being raised among horses and dogs.”

“Then perhaps you can speak to him,” Solona suggested, ignoring the witch’s jape. “The note said Henric was looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. It made no mention as to why, but it seemed imperative it be found.”

“Then the first thing we should do is find Donall,” Alistair agreed. “But with the amount of refugees on the outskirts of the village, where do we start looking among so many people? The Chantry, perhaps?”

“If you feel it necessary,” Morrigan huffed. “But you shall not find me darkening the doorstep of any such place.”

“Afraid you’ll catch on fire before you get a foot in the door?” Alistair quipped.

“I think,” Solona interrupted. “The best place to start would be the local tavern. Even if this Donall isn’t there, drunken men often have loose tongues and are willing to part with information more easily, especially when asked by an attractive woman.”

Alistair cocked a brow at her statement. The mage certainly didn’t lack in confidence in the looks department. Of course, she had no reason to, either. She was also shrewd enough to use her beauty as a means to an end. It was definitely an advantage.

“Agreed,” the witch concurred with a terse nod.

“If you think it’s for the best,” the warrior consented. “I’m following you, remember?”

“Of course,” Morrigan said with a roll of her eyes. “The spineless and brainless often follow the lead of others, even when they are more experienced.”

"You're like what? Thirty?" Alistair asked with a bemused expression. "If I'm spineless and brainless, what in the bloody fuck does that make you?"

............................................

Sick of listening to Alistair and Morrigan’s bickering, Solona headed toward the ramp leading off the bridge without them. As she walked past the refugee camp, she found herself in awe of the amount of people crammed into that tiny little village. The streets were full of transients trying to trade their meager possessions for coin enough to aid them in their procession north to escape Ferelden and the Blight’s path. Despair and fear hung in the air like a heavy cloud over the small hamlet.

As the Wardens and the witch made their way to the tavern on the other side of Lothering, something caught Solona’s eye. Just on the other side of the archway leading out of the village was a prison cage. Cramped inside was a very large man with stark white hair fashioned in small braids and pulled together in a thick ponytail at the back of his head. While Morrigan and Alistair continued toward the door to the inn, Solona wandered past the tavern to garner a closer look at the prisoner.

When she reached the cage, she looked up into the piercing violet eyes of the largest man she had ever seen. He was at least six inches taller than Sithig had been with shimmering skin of rich bronze and wearing nothing but a pair of dirty smallclothes. As he glowered down at her, she recognized his race from history books she had read while in the Circle.

“You are Qunari, then?” she asked with arms folded across her chest.

“I suppose your next question will have something to do with my lack of horns,” he scoffed. “Be gone, human. I will not dance for you today.”

Alistair and Morrigan took their places at the mage’s side. Her fellow Warden gave a low whistle on observing the prisoner which prompted Solona to plant a sharp elbow to his ribs. He grimaced and rubbed his hand across his side, but kept his wits enough to remain silent.

“As amusing as that might be,” she retorted. “I do not wish for you to entertain me. I am simply curious as to why one such as yourself is being held prisoner here. You are a long way from Par Vollen, after all.”

“You know of my people,” he said, his countenance softening a bit. “The armor you wear tells me you are no priest or refugee. The blue and grey are known, even among my people. You are a Grey Warden, then. Or did you take the uniform of dead men in the south?”

“I am a Warden,” she replied, then indicated to Alistair with a tilt of her head. “As is my friend. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you in that cage, Qunari?”

He leaned back against the bars behind him and turned his head to look out over the countryside. “Though I respect the uniform you wear and what it represents, I am not inclined to answer your questions any more than I was when your priestess asked me hers.”

“And what if I secured your release?” the mage inquired. “Would you be willing to cooperate then?”

He returned his attention to her. “And what do you require of me in exchange?”

“We need help,” she confessed. “So far, it is only the three of us and the dog standing against the Blight. Someone such as yourself could make a powerful ally.”

“And how do you know you can trust me, human?” he asked. “Most of your people fear my race, though they know very little about us.”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “And I doubt you trust me. I also doubt you want to be trapped in that cage when the darkspawn come. I will secure your release. However, if you attempt to betray me or my companions, you will die.”

“Vashedan,” he cursed. “You are overconfident, Bas.”

Solona cocked a brow. “No, I’m not. I have little doubt you might kill one of us if you were so inclined, but you will not be able to take all of us so easily. I know your people are susceptible to magic, and with two mages among us, we will not be easy targets.”

“You are Bas Saarebas?” he questioned with a disdainful scowl.

“I am,” she replied. “But I am also your best chance of getting out of this alive. Dying in a cage before you finish whatever mission you were sent here on will bring you no honor. Joining us will give you the chance to regain your dignity and return home to your people without shame.”

“And you will allow me to leave when the Blight is ended?” he queried. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she answered.

The Qunari gripped the bars of his cage, contemplating the mage’s words. After a few minutes, he finally peered at her through narrowed lids. “Very well, Bas,” he conceded. “Secure my release, and I will follow you.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, tell me, Qunari, who holds the key to your cage?”

“The Chantry priestess,” he replied. “But she will not easily part with it.”

“Let me worry about that,” Solona told him. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Then I shall await your return,” he said as he took a step back toward the rear of his prison, once again leaning on the bars.

Once they were out of the Qunari’s earshot, Alistair turned to the mage with a questioning frown. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

“He is a warrior,” she replied. “Likely a member of the beresaad, which means he will be advantageous in battle, and as you pointed out, we need all the help we can get.”

Against Morrigan’s wishes, Solona made the decision to go to the Chantry to speak the revered mother first. She wasn’t in any real hurry to get the Qunari out of the cage, but she determined it was better to just get the task out of the way. Besides, the large man looked as if he could use a decent meal as well. She only hoped the revered mother hadn’t already disposed of his equipment. It would certainly be a daunting task to locate new clothes for someone of his stature, let alone armor.

The Wardens had just reached the small footbridge that would lead them to the south side of the village where the Chantry lay, when they were approached by a woman in initiate’s robes. The woman appeared to be in her mid to late twenties with layered, chin-length hair of flaming red and large eyes the color of Crystal Grace petals. Laid across her arms was a bundle of what looked to be long cloaks of varying colors. She stepped in front of Solona, impeding the mage’s progress, and presented her with an overly friendly smile.

“Hello,” she greeted in an inordinately raised voice which carried a thick Orlesian accent. “I apologize for not greeting you when you arrived in the village, but with so many people here, I’m sure you understand.”

There was something very odd about the woman that put Solona on edge from the moment she spotted her out of the corner of her eye. She stood out among the rest of the rabble roaming the dirt pathways that wound through the small burrow, and not just because of the rich red color of her hair. There was too much purpose in the way the woman walked, like someone who was readying to rush into a perilous mission. Her blue eyes shone with cleverness and bespoke of someone who was much more dangerous than she endeavored to appear. She was battle hardened, experienced in the knowledge of being on both sides of a blade. Solona had seen that look too many times over the subsequent weeks to be taken in by such a ruse. The redhead’s innocent appearance was a disguise the woman wore well, but it was too transparent to fool someone who had just endured the things Solona had experienced.

“So you greet everyone who enters the village?” the mage asked.

The woman’s smile broadened, but it did not reach her eyes. “I try,” she replied. “Isn’t it the duty of the Chantry to give aid and comfort to the poor and downtrodden? I’m sure you have noticed there is quite a lot of that here in Lothering, no?”

“This village does seem to have its fair share of misery,” Solona agreed in a disinterested tone.

“I notice that you and your companions are without proper attire to brave the harsh Ferelden winter,” the redhead observed. “I would like to offer you some cloaks to help protect you from the elements.”

“My armor serves as protection enough,” the mage proclaimed. “I’m sure there are others who need them more.”

Against Solona’s protests, the woman pushed the coverings into the mage’s abdomen and then grabbed her wrist and pulled it beneath the cloaks. As she passed the clothes over onto Solona’s forearm, she shoved what felt like a crumpled piece of parchment into Solona’s hand. The redhead regarded the mage with an expression of warning for a quick moment before pasting on another smile.

“Please,” she contended. “I insist. Everyone deserves comfort and shelter in these dark times.”

“Well, if you insist, Sister,” Solona relented with a small nod of comprehension.

The redhead leaned in close to plant a kiss on the Warden’s cheek. “There is a small walkway behind the house to my left,” she whispered before moving her lips to the other side. “Go into the door along the back wall and read the note there.” She took a step back. “Maker watch over you and your companions,” she offered with a bow of her head and a smile.

With that, the redhead strode away to speak to a couple standing nearby. Once she was gone, Solona’s gaze turned to the building the woman spoke of. Next to it, she espied a small gap between the corner of the house and a fence, barely large enough for Harley to slip through.

The mage needed an excuse to approach the small hovel without garnering suspicion from anyone who may have been watching. She looked over at Alistair who was mindlessly scratching the hound behind the ears. Then it came to her.

“Alistair?” she questioned. “When’s the last time that dog did its business?”

The warrior raised his brow with a questioning grimace. “A few hours ago…I guess. I haven’t really paid that much attention. Why?”

“Don’t you think it’s probably time to take him somewhere so he can relieve himself?” she asked. “We can’t very well allow him to just shit in the street, now can we?”

He glanced around him where there were already several piles made by horses and other animals in the road and surrounding grass. “Um…Solona,” he hesitated. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it matters to me,” she insisted before pointing to the grassy area next to the fence. “Perhaps over there would be a good place.”

Alistair shrugged with an expression of complete confusion. “Alright,” he conceded. “If that’s what you want.”

He patted the side of his thigh to indicate to Harley that the dog should follow him then ambled over to the fence and through the gap between the rails and the house next to it. Solona and Morrigan followed close behind. Once they were out of site of the road, and had ensured no one was in the immediate vicinity to see them, Solona checked the handle of the door and found it unlocked. As she stepped inside, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing?” Alistair asked. “You can’t just walk into somebody’s house like that?”

“Just follow me,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “And keep your voice down.”

“What about Harley?” he queried in a whisper.

“Bring him inside,” she ordered. “Quickly.”

Once they were within the confines of the house, Solona bolted the door then took in her surroundings. The internal side of the hovel was just as weather worn as the outside, with thin spots in the thatching over their heads. There was no furniture other than one broken chair in the corner, no decorations on the warped wooden slat walls. The place had obviously been abandoned for some time, but it felt alive with memories. Not ominous or eerie recollections, but remembrances of happier times that turned to sorrow and longing upon its desertion.

The mage tossed the cloaks that were over her arm to Alistair and opened the note in her hand. After smoothing out the worst of the creases, she read the hurried scrawl marred by smudges from the author’s haste to fold the parchment before the ink had time to dry.

You are in danger. Don the cloaks and go to the tavern. Leave the mabari in the house along with your staffs and large blades. There is food for the dog beneath the broken chair. Speak to no one along the way. I will be waiting at the table in the farthest corner. All will be explained there.

Solona studied the words for a long moment. She knew nothing about the woman who wrote them, other than she wasn’t what she appeared to be and she was dangerous. A lifetime in the Circle had taught her to look past outer appearances and counterfeit smiles. It was a lesson she learned well at an early age. If she heeded the cryptic message, Solona could very well be leading them all into a trap. If it was a true warning that she chose to ignore, they could be in even more trouble.

“What is it?” Alistair inquired with concern in his hazel eyes. “What’s going on?”

“It seems the sister is trying to warn us,” she told him as she passed the parchment over.

He scanned the page then turned his gaze to her. “It could be a trap,” he warned.

Morrigan snatched the paper out of the warrior’s fingers and skimmed through the words. “I can scarcely believe I am saying this,” she said. “But for once, I agree with Alistair.”

The warrior’s eyes widened as he placed his hand over his chest. “I think my heart may have just stopped. Did you just say you agreed with me?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “You cannot possibly be any more shocked than I that something resembling intelligence actually came from that gaping maw of yours.”

Solona glared at both of them in turn. “I swear to the fucking Maker, if the two of you don’t stop, I’m going to put you in separate corners of this room where you will stand like naughty children until the darkspawn come.” She blew at her bangs with an exasperated sigh. “Now, if you are quite ready to behave like the adults you claim to be…”

“To be fair,” Alistair interrupted with an impish smirk. “I never claimed to be an adult.”

“And well you shouldn’t,” Morrigan put in.

“Enough,” Solona seethed with a threatening stare. “We will go to the inn and meet with this woman.”

“But…” Alistair started to contest.

The mage held her index finger in the air to serve as a warning for him to be quiet. “No, since the two of you can’t stop arguing long enough to give me sound advice, I will do what I think is best. Now put on the Maker fucking cloaks before I put them on for you.”

Solona removed the sword from the scabbard at her back then snatched the brown cloak from the pile laying across Alistair’s arm. She quickly threw it around her shoulders as she walked to the door. Mercifully, her two companions remained silent as they followed her lead. After pulling her hood up over her head, she turned to Alistair.

“Grab the food for Harley and put it out so he can eat,” she ordered. “Then tell him to stay. When you are finished, meet us in the tavern. Be careful, and talk to no one.” As she reached for the door, something else occurred to her. She and Morrigan didn’t need weapons, but Alistair still did, and it wasn’t as if his would be seen under his cloak. “And for the Maker’s sake,” she added. “Put your sword back on your hip. I don’t trust anyone that much.”

With that, she jerked the door open and marched outside, not caring if the witch was following in her wake. She was sick of Morrigan and Alistair’s fighting, sick of being constantly angry with her fellow Warden. Before the battle at Ostagar, she considered him her best friend, but everything seemed to have changed, and she didn’t know why exactly. She honestly wasn’t sure how much more she could stand.

As she strode to the tavern, Solona gathered her thoughts to concentrate on the task ahead. She had to prepare for a fight just in case her frail trust in the redheaded woman had been misplaced. She had to get her mind off Alistair. Although he was right there with her every day, she missed him terribly. She missed his inane attempts to get her to smile. She missed his kindness and his laugh. Her hand absentmindedly reached for the amulet beneath her cloak, and she began to thumb the tiny sword and flames.

Get it together, Solona. Focus.

When the mage and the witch entered the inn, there was hardly any space to breathe, let alone move. Solona peered around the room until she spotted a table mostly hidden in shadow in the far corner. Sitting in the chair with its back facing the door was the woman with flaming red hair dressed in Chantry initiate robes.

Solona tapped Morrigan’s arm and pointed to the table before making her way over to it. As they passed by the redhead’s chair, she smiled up at them then rose to her feet.

“Oh! What a wonderful surprise!” she greeted with feigned excitement as she placed a kiss on each of the mage’s cheeks. “I haven’t seen either of you in so long.”

The woman repeated the process with Morrigan, earning her a disgusted scowl from the witch. She indicated to the chairs that sat in shadow next to the wall.

“Please,” she entreated. “Join me for a meal, my treat.”

“Of course, dear,” Solona replied in a cheery and sonorous voice as she made her way to the corner.

Such machinations were so commonplace in the Circle, she hardly gave it a second thought. Those types of ruses were typically followed by either a plot between apprentices to stab a so-called friend in the back or to plan an unauthorized gathering between mages. Morrigan, on the other hand, seemed absolutely appalled by the subterfuge.

“Where is that darling husband of yours?” the woman asked. “Will he be joining you or did you leave him behind to tend the children?”

“He’ll be along shortly, I expect,” the mage answered as she took her seat. “We left the children behind so we could have a day to ourselves. We ran into his sister along the way.”

“It is good to see you again, as well, my dear,” the redhead said to the witch.

Morrigan just harrumphed in response as she sat down. Solona regarded the ebony haired woman with a dark look, warning her to play along, but by the roll of the witch’s eyes she knew it was a hopeless cause. The mage sighed before formulating a plausible explanation for her companion’s behavior.

“Marian and Adrian got into an argument about their mother again,” she explained. “You know how siblings can be.”

“Of course,” the redhead laughed. “I have a brother of my own, remember?”

Just as the woman finished her thought, Alistair appeared at her side. Solona couldn’t chance him ruining their artifice, so she did the only thing she could think of and hoped he would get the hint. She stood, took him by the hand, and greeted him with a soft, but brief kiss.

When she reluctantly pulled away, he ran his tongue across his lips and searched her eyes as the space between his brows disappeared. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to close the gap between them so she could taste the peppermint that lingered on his breath once again. His lips were so soft, so luscious and her heart was racing far too fast. She could scarcely breathe under the weight of his gaze.

Solona cleared her throat and bestowed a grin. “I was wondering if you were going to be haggling with that merchant all day, husband,” she said. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that dagger. It hardly seemed worth the price the man was asking.”

Alistair’s face screwed up with a befuddled expression. “N…no,” he stammered.

The redhead stood and greeted him the same way she had the two women. “It is so good to see you again, Adrian,” she said. “Please, sit. As soon as the barmaid comes we’ll order lunch.”

Solona pulled Alistair over to sit in the chair next to hers. The poor man looked more confused than the mage had ever seen him. The woman in initiate’s robes took a quick glance around the room and leaned forward.

“My name is Leliana,” she whispered. “Some of Arl Bryland’s men were sent here to gather anyone who even looks as if they survived the battle to the south. Any soldiers who fought at Ostagar have been taken in for questioning, but so far, none have returned.”

“Are you certain?” Alistair questioned.

“Yes,” she replied. “And there’s something else. Something much more important to you. An order has been posted on the Chanter’s board. Any Grey Wardens found are to be arrested.”

“For what?” the warrior asked, his indignation apparent to everyone at the table.

“For treason,” Leliana told him. “Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir is blaming the Wardens for the death of the king.”

............................................

More than once, Solona complained that she felt more like a babysitter than a leader when it came to Alistair and Morrigan’s constant rivalry and insults. She used to say they reminded her more of siblings than anything else with the way they were constantly at each other’s throats. It was a comparison I found even more humorous in later years. I never understood their hatred of each other, but I do have to agree things were a lot more peaceful when the two were kept separated.

Alistair was apprehensive about enlisting Sten’s help, considering the way Qunari felt about women in combat roles and especially given their fear of mages. In the beginning, it was uneasy alliance at best. In the end, however, Solona managed to gain both Sten’s trust and respect.

Leliana was, up to that point, the most intelligent and dangerous woman I had ever met. She never bought into the lies spread about what happened in Ostagar and proved to be of great aid in getting my family out of Lothering safely. I have to admit that when I read Varric’s account of how this meeting happened, it made me chuckle a bit. It also made me wonder if he had ever knew Leliana at all.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 21: The War Hound

Solona was exhausted by the time they set up camp for the night. She had pushed all day to reach Lothering before nightfall, but skirmishes with small bands of darkspawn along the way impeded their progress. When dusk had settled across the horizon and the sunlight had waned to nothing, she was finally forced to settle in for the evening. Even as Grey Wardens, traveling after dark was too dangerous to risk, and making good time certainly wasn’t worth dying for.

As Solona went to sit down on the fallen log Alistair had placed next to the fire, she spied Morrigan adding kindling to her own flame near the tree line. Every night was the same since leaving Flemeth’s hut. Alistair would gather wood while Solona pitched her tent. When he returned, she would get the fire started while he set up his shelter. Morrigan, on the other hand, kept completely to herself. She would find a spot a good distance away from the others to set up her own little campsite with its own fire.

The first night they made camp, Solona tried to insist that the witch move closer to the Wardens for her own safety. That conversation did not go well. In the end, Solona finally determined it wasn’t worth arguing about and left the woman be. Besides, the mage was to the point where she couldn’t stand the bickering between Morrigan and Alistair that inevitably began within an hour of returning to the road and lasted until they were ready to call it a day. Solona did, however, make it a point to have at least a short debriefing with the witch every evening.

“Alistair,” the mage called over to where her fellow Warden was putting the final touches on his shelter. "When you’re finished, will you please start supper?”

He scowled at her. “Why is it that I’m always the one stuck with that job?”

Solona folded her arms over her chest. “Because I have never cooked a thing in my entire life,” she told him. “Believe me, if there were any other options, I would be more than happy to take them.”

His sour expression deepened. “You know, if it’s that bad, you could always go foraging for berries, instead.”

She arched a brow, “You may have something there. Being mauled by a wild animal in the dark might actually be preferable to your cooking.”

“You know what Solona?” he asked with a sardonic glare as he raised his middle finger. “Kiss my ass.”

“Not until after you’ve had a bath,” she retorted.

Since leaving Flemeth’s hut four days ago, things had grown steadily worse between Solona and Alistair. The occurrences of Ostagar and Morrigan’s constant barrage of insults had put the warrior in such a foul mood that he spent most of his time sulking. The kind man she had grown to care for had become a completely different person.

Solona clutched the amulet at her chest and thumbed the tiny sword and flames before spinning on her heel and making her way to Morrigan’s tent. In that short distance, she came to a very important decision. Alistair was going to talk to her that evening, whether he liked it or not. She had given him his distance in order to allow him time to calm down, but it was past time to confront him.

The mage stopped short before reaching Morrigan’s personal campsite to regain her composure. After inhaling a calming breath, she released the charm and strode over to where the witch was warming her hands. The ebony haired woman regarded her with indifferent golden eyes as she waited for Solona to speak.

“Morrigan,” the mage began. “How are you this evening?”

“I fare well,” the witch replied. “As do you, I expect.”

Solona hated the exchange of simple pleasantries. The same questions always asked, the unvarying responses given. It was a complete waste of time, of course, but a necessary undertaking to keep the peace. She imagined Morrigan felt much the same way.

“How much longer do you think it will be before we reach Lothering?” asked the mage.

“We should arrive in the village around midday tomorrow,” the other woman replied. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

Solona gave a nod of acknowledgement. “And is there anything you need for tonight?”

Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest. “I believe I have everything I require.”

“Very well,” the mage said. “Let me know if that changes.”

“Of course,” the witch replied.

Solona turned to go back to her side of the camp, but was halted by the sound of Morrigan clearing her throat. She returned her attention to the witch. “Is there something on your mind?”

Morrigan’s brow furrowed. “I have a wonder, Warden, if you will indulge me,” she began. “You were a mage of the Circle, were you not?”

“Yes,” Solona acknowledged.

Morrigan seemed to be attempting to formulate the exact question she wanted to ask. “I have heard that gifted such as yourself are often limited in their instruction, that they are weak in magic…But after observing you for the past few days, I have come to realize, you are not, and I wonder…Why is that?”

Solona shrugged. “I suppose that is true of many mages. Most are taught just enough to learn to control their gift, and many are content with that. I, however, was not. I studied everything I was allowed in my chosen school, and a few things beyond. Unlike many, I was encouraged by older mages and enchanters to learn as much as I could.”

“So, that is why you were chosen for the Grey Wardens?” the witch asked, her inquiry seeming more an assumption than a question.

“Actually,” Solona replied. “I think it had more to do with the fact that I risked my life in the aid of a friend who was trying to escape.”

Morrigan seemed surprised by the mage’s admission. “So, you were unhappy in the confines of the Circle? I assumed you were indoctrinated to believe as your Chantry does about the evils of magic.”

The mage emitted a bitter chuckle. “It is not my Chantry. To be honest, I don’t really believe in the Maker, especially not the bloody Chantry’s version of Him. As far as being happy…How would you feel if you were locked away when you were five years old and told you would most likely never see the outside world again? Unless, of course, you were willing to be a shining example of the Chantry and the Circle’s bullshit.”

The witch straightened her shoulders. “I see,” she said. “My curiosity has been sated for now. Thank you, Grey Warden.”

“It’s Solona,” the mage corrected with a haughty tone. “I am more than my title.”

“Of course,” Morrigan concurred with a slight tilt of the head. “Good evening, then, Solona.”

Well, at least it’s a start.

Solona realized becoming acquainted with Morrigan wouldn’t be an easy task. The woman was more guarded and aloof than she was, but given their unique circumstances, she felt it a necessary undertaking. She only hoped that chipping away at Morrigan’s shell little by little would eventually work.

When she returned to the main camp, Alistair was just hanging the small cast iron kettle over the fire. As he began to toss the last of the meager vegetables into the pot, his face was set in the same angry scowl he had worn since the day they Flemeth’s home. He had hardly spoken a word to her in days, and when he did, he was typically surly and abrupt. Whatever was going on, she planned to have it out with him before they went to bed that evening.

“How’s it coming?” she asked as she took a seat on the log.

“Fine,” he snapped before wiping his hands on his trousers and standing. He folded his arms over his chest and glared into the fire.

“Did I do something to you that I’m not aware of?” she asked in a cross tone. “If I did, you need to just go ahead and spit it out because I have completely had it with your poor attitude.”

He inhaled a deep breath, his broad chest rising with the effort then slowly released it. He stood there for a long moment, continuing to concentrate on the flames. When he finally turned to face her, his hazel eyes shimmered against the firelight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve been a complete ass to you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m just so…”

Solona patted the wood to her right. “Come on,” she ordered. “Sit.” He sighed as he took a seat next to her. “Now,” she continued. “You can either tell me what crawled up your ass and took up residence, or we can talk about something else to get your mind off it. It’s entirely up to you.”

He nodded with a slight chuckle. “Alright,” he said before running his tongue across his lips. “The last time we really had a chance to talk, you told me about when you were taken to the Circle. Beyond that and the fact that you have a killer sword arm, I don’t really know much about you.”

She cocked a brow. “I could say the same thing about you, you know?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about me tonight,” he requested.

Solona eyed him with a pensive frown. He was certainly an enigma. Sometimes it felt as if he were two different people walking around in one deliciously handsome package. At times, he was childish with his strange sense of self-deprecating humor, and he was kinder than anyone she ever met without any regard to himself. Then, there was his other side. Hard and rugged, even commanding at times, and possessing a terrible temper. He wore his heart on his sleeve, yet he continued to evade questions about his true identity. All that, added to the fact that he seemed to know King Cailan personally, painted the portrait of a man who was much more than what he wanted others to see.

“Alright, let’s compromise,” she offered. “We shall play a little game I learned many years ago as a girl. It is called Confessions.”

The warrior’s brow creased with reluctance. “Alright,” he said, dragging out the word. “And how do you play this…game?”

“It’s simple really,” Solona explained. “I ask a question, and you answer with the truth.”

“And what if I don’t want to answer the question?” he asked with a scowl.

“Then you must reveal something that you find embarrassing,” she told him. “Then, when you are finished, you are allowed to ask a question of me.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I get to ask the first question.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very well,” she conceded with a resolute huff. “Ask your question.”

Please don’t ask about Anders.

He regarded her with narrowed lids then wet his lips. “When Duncan went to Kinloch, he was going there to recruit mages to fight at Ostagar. Yet, he returned with only you, which means you had to have been conscripted. So, my question is, what did you do to warrant the Right that was so bad Duncan feared asking for more mages to join you?”

Solona’s eyes fluttered with astonishment. She suspected Alistair was more intelligent than he let on, but the way he formed his question left no doubt in her mind. He was both shrewd and clever. In fact, it seemed more like something Anders would ask.

The mage’s fingers gripped the amulet that hung from her neck as she stared into his expectant hazel eyes. She caught sight of his ample lips and recalled the kiss he failed to grant her at Ostagar. Sweet Maker, how she wanted to taste those lips. When he scraped his thick tongue across them, a small gasp escaped her throat. The mental image of his mouth slowly making its way down her neck to her breasts incited a flush to her cheeks and a flood to her nethers.

His right brow lifted. “Are you alright?” he asked, before adding, “And no, that doesn’t’ qualify as my question.”

Solona cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine,” she finally told him before beginning her story.

She told him about Jowan and how they met, about their friendship over the fourteen years they were at the tower together. While she talked, Alistair served the soup he cooked. It was terrible as usual, but Solona managed to keep that fact to herself as she continued her tale between bites. She related the story of how her best friend and his new girlfriend asked for her help and their trek through the basement to the repository. She spoke of the trap that had been set for them when they emerged from the lower levels and outlined the details of Jowan’s escape and the aftermath. She told him everything. Everything but the parts about Anders, anyway.

The entire time she was speaking, Alistair didn’t say a word. He only presented her with a nod on occasion and a small chuckle when the situation warranted it. He was attentive and interested, not unlike a student listening to an important lecture in preparation for an exam.

When her story was complete, she swallowed past a large lump in her throat, awaiting the backlash of his anger. Even if he had been conscripted before taking his vows, at the end of the day, Alistair was still a templar. She had abetted a maleficar, there was no way he would look past that. When he finally spoke, Solona nearly fainted from shock.

“I can’t believe you told Greagoir that you wished Jowan would have killed him,” he smirked. “I would have loved to have seen the look on that old bastard’s face.”

The mage waggled her head. “You aren’t upset then?” she asked with bewilderment.

He shrugged. “You didn’t know he was a blood mage when you agreed to help him, right?”

“No,” she replied, surprised at his cavalier attitude about the situation.

He glowered at her, but it was an expression of jest not ire. “You’re not a blood mage, are you?”

“No,” she answered.

“Then why would I be upset?” he questioned.

“I assumed that since you were a templar…” she began.

“I wasn’t a templar,” he sighed with frustration. “I was an initiate. Believe me, it wasn’t anything I ever wanted.” When her brows disappeared in confusion, he scowled at her. “Alright, but just so you know, this counts as the answer to your question.” When Solona acknowledged his words with a nod, he continued. “I was born in Redcliffe. At least that’s what I was told. I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. Arl Eamon took me in, but it was hardly a home. I slept in the stables since before I could remember, working as a servant.

“Eamon was kind enough to me, I suppose, when he actually acknowledged my presence, but it was nowhere near a real childhood. His wife, Isolde, despised me because…well, let’s just say she had her reasons. She became pregnant when I was ten and convinced Eamon to send me away. So, he signed me over to the monastery in Bournshire, and I absolutely hated it there. My future was decided for me. I was never given the option to be anything but a templar or a brother."

So he lived his life as a stable boy, but why would the Arl of Redcliffe take him in, especially at such a young age? And why would the arlessa hate him and want him shipped off when she became pregnant? And then there was King Cailan. It just didn’t add up, but at the same time, Solona couldn’t detect even the hint of a lie in his eyes.

“What about…?” she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

Shh, he prompted. “I thought I heard something.”

Solona held her breath as she attempted to discern any sound over the crackling and popping of the fire. She sensed no darkspawn about, but it was possible there were wild animals in the woods. After a few seconds, she detected a rustling sound in the trees to her left. Almost simultaneously, she and Alistair stood and drew swords from their sheaths.

The warrior directed Solona by pointing to the left of where the sound had originated before slowly creeping around to the right. Without argument, the mage did as she was ordered. Deferring to Alistair’s judgement, she sidled to the tree line and edged over to the area of the disturbance. Just as they had the source of the noise well flanked, the scant brush at the base of the trees parted to reveal a very large hound.

The mabari’s fur appeared to be dark chocolate brown, but it was difficult to tell beneath all the blood matting its hair. Deep cuts riddled its muscular body, and there were patches where fur was actually missing entirely. Strings of white foam dripped from the corners of its mouth as it bared its teeth at the strangers before it. It emitted a low, rumbling growl before taking a step toward Alistair.

“Oh shit!” the warrior exclaimed as the mabari advanced on him.

“A bloody dog?” Solona questioned with disappointment. “What in the void are we supposed to do with a fucking dog?”

The sound of the mage’s voice prompted the animal to turn toward her. She returned her sword to its sheath in the hopes it would convey to the hound that she meant it no harm, and trusting Alistair to protect her if it attacked. Lifting her hands in the air, she took a step back. The dog followed then regarded her with a menacing bark and a snap of its jaws.

“Do something, you idiot,” she hissed at her fellow Warden.

Alistair hurried over and put himself between the hound and Solona. With one hand raised, he knelt and placed his sword on the ground in front of him. Almost immediately, the mabari sat back on its rear haunches and tilted its head as it watched the man with an inquisitive expression. Alistair slowly moved his fingers toward the animal, preparing for it to bite. Instead, it lowered its head, giving the warrior its permission to be touched. With the hound’s consent, Alistair closed the gap and gave it a light scratch behind the ears.

“Great,” he said with a painted on smile and an overly friendly tone. “What in the bloody fuck am I supposed to do with a dog?”

“Can’t you just shoo it away or something?” Solona questioned, still prepared to run if the situation warranted it.

The mage knew nothing about dogs. She had never even seen one before Ostagar. There were always cats scurrying about the tower chasing mice away. Oftentimes the apprentices and some of the mages would treat them as pets, but dogs never held enough interest for Solona to even read about them.

Alistair shook his head in dismay. “I don’t think so,” he claimed. “I’m pretty sure the thing has imprinted on me. It must have been separated from its owner at Ostagar.”

It was then that Solona spied a small, metal plate hanging from the animal’s collar. “Does that thing around its neck tell you anything about it?” she asked.

Alistair put his fingers behind the tag and squinted his eyes to make out the words etched into the plate. “I could use some light,” he told her.

As Solona moved around to Alistair’s side, the mabari growled at her. She retreated a step before calling a glowing orb into her hand and lowering it to the level of Alistair’s cheek. The dog scrutinized every move she made with suspicion.

“The tag says his name is Harley,” Alistair read before turning it over in his hand. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he perused the other side. “He...he belonged to Fergus.”

“Fergus?” Solona inquired.

After a long moment, he nodded and she swore she detected a tear shimmering in the corner of his eye. “Fergus Cousland.”

“As in the Teyrnir of Highever Couslands?” she queried.

“Fergus was the Teyrn and Teyrna’s only son,” Alistair acknowledged. “If his mabari is here, that could only mean…”

Solona placed her free hand on her fellow Warden’s shoulder. Fergus Cousland was someone Alistair obviously knew. That cemented his ties to the king in her mind.

“Come on,” he prompted as he rose to his feet. “I have to attend to the dog’s injuries. I’m only glad I picked a few of those honey flowers when we were at Ostagar. It might just save his life.”

............................................

Alistair’s cooking was never something that you wanted to face on an empty stomach. I often contended that he should have used it as a weapon against the darkspawn. Confessions was a game that we all played a great deal over the years. As well as I knew my family, I seemed to learn something new about them every time we played, but I guess that was the point.

As for Harley, Varric assumed that he was Solona’s dog, but he couldn’t have been further from the truth. That happened to poor Varric a lot. In reality Solona hated that dog. Alistair, on the other hand, cared for the mabari a great deal and used his impressive knowledge of herbs and flora to nurse their new companion back to health. I must admit that when I met them later I shed a few tears of my own when I saw Harley with them. Up until that point I held onto my hope that Fergus had somehow survived.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 20: Failure

Drive the cloud away, We will fall from last to none. The dark before the dawn, The world will carry on. Look for the light that leads me home.

~Breaking Benjamin

............................................

Alistair ran his tongue over his lips as he paced back and forth in front of the small pond outside of Flemeth’s hut. He didn’t trust the old crone, and he certainly didn’t trust her daughter, especially not where Solona was concerned. To make matters worse, the oppressive ambience of dark magic surrounding him was disorienting. It felt hungry, alive, as if it desired to swallow him whole.

“Relax, lad,” Flemeth told him as she gathered wild herbs from the ground and placed them into the shabby, reed basket in her hand. “Your fellow Warden will join us soon.”

He paused to regard the ancient woman. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the words of a witch,” he contended with a sneer.

“My,” she chortled. “But that is quite the temper you possess.”

“Fuck off,” Alistair mumbled under his breath as he resumed traipsing back and forth along a short, unseen path.

He half expected the old hag to blast him with a spell, but he was beyond caring at that point. He was hungry, sore, and most of all worried for Solona. He shouldn’t have left her. He should have stayed by her side no matter what Flemeth did to him.

On top of all that, he was still feeling the loss of Sithig, Duncan, and even his brother. There was also the nagging in the back of his mind that he would be expected to take the throne, and there was a good chance he would have to get past Loghain and Anora to do so. Then, of course, there was the Blight and the fact that there were only two Grey Wardens left in all of Ferelden to stop it. It would take months for word to reach Weisshaupt that more Wardens were needed.

Everything, all of it, was just too much for Alistair to bear. How was one man supposed to deal with so much insanity heaped upon his shoulders? Ferelden was headed for complete disaster, and, in the end, it would be all his fault. His failure.

The Blight was just beginning. Ostagar was only a taste of what was to come. The horde would eventually move north from the Wilds and the true destruction of Ferelden would commence. They would decimate everything in their path. With no outside aid, the country would die along with all her people.

At that moment, the rest of Ferelden was unaware of anything more than rumors and speculation, standing in the calm eye of the storm. Whether the Fereldan people were prepared or not, war was coming and nothing would be left at the end. How in the Maker’s name were a single warrior and a mage expected to face such insurmountable odds alone?

Alistair halted his pacing and ambled toward the stagnant pond. He looked out over the marsh, past the tall reeds and heaved a long sigh. He was tired of it all already. Tired of feeling so lost, so hopeless. He was sick of starting over with nothing left to show for his life.

He peered up at the darkened sky, its grey clouds reflecting his mood. The Wardens had fallen. The king had fallen, and soon everything would be destroyed. Tears filled his hazel eyes then spilled down his cheeks. Maybe he should just take Solona and get out of Ferelden. The war would carry on without them, after all.

Solona

How would she feel if he told her that he planned to give up? Would she agree and go with him? Or would his cowardice and despair drive her away forever?

Alistair pictured her face, the determination in those lapis eyes, and a ray of hope entered his crestfallen heart. In such a bleak, dark future, she would be the light that would guide him. He would continue to fight, to rail against impossible odds for her. After a life of forever feeling out of place, he had finally found his home and he would withstand any enemy to preserve it.

No matter what his bloodline dictated, he was no king, no leader of men, but he would follow Solona into any battle and submit to her command. He would act as her general, offering his insight when asked, but the reins would be hers.

............................................

The sound of a door slamming shut woke Solona from a dreamless sleep. Across her forehead lay a hand with thin, calloused fingers. The mage opened her lids to the image of an ebony haired woman with golden eyes and shoulders draped in a silk, crimson scarf. She was familiar, as if a vision from some far away dream, but it was difficult to recall through the thick fog in her mind and memory.

Being proficient in the school of Entropy, Solona recognized the effects of a sleeping spell right away, but there was something else there. Something darker. By the gnawing hunger in her belly, the mage estimated she had been under the odd enchantment for at least a day, probably closer to two.

Solona squeezed her lids tight and focused on trying to remember how she got there, wherever there was. The last thing she recalled was being surrounded by horrendous, tainted creatures and her ability to manipulate the Fade waning. She reached further back in her memory and recalled a forest with bones hanging from the trees with a dark haired woman leading them through.

“Morrigan?” she asked.

The hint of a smirk emerged on the witch’s face as she retrieved a small bowl from the bedside table. “Yes, ‘tis I,” she confirmed. “You have been asleep for some time. Mother thought you may be hungry.”

A low rumbling sound emanated from Solona’s stomach, confirming the mage’s need for sustenance. She was famished, but she didn’t fully trust Morrigan, especially considering she had just woken from the effect of a witch’s spell. She regarded the dark haired woman and the bowl in her hands with suspicion.

“I cannot fault you for being skeptical, Grey Warden,” said the witch. “You may test the soup if you like.” She cocked a brow. “You do possess such a simple ability, do you not?”

“Of course I do,” Solona confirmed with an indignant scowl. “I am no apprentice just out of my first year.”

Morrigan mirrored the Warden’s expression as she passed the bowl to her. “There is no need for such petulance,” she chided in a supercilious tone. “I am only trying to help.”

Holding the bowl in one hand, Solona hovered the other above it and concentrated on discerning its ingredients. When she was satisfied that the dish contained no more than a meager lot of vegetables and innocuous spices, she presented the other woman with a tilt of her head.

“It seems harmless enough,” the Warden confirmed. “May I have a spoon, or do you expect me to just sip it straight out of the bowl?”

The witch chuckled as she presented Solona with the appropriate eating utensil. “Mother is waiting outside whenever you are finished. She requests that you speak with her before you depart.”

The Warden lifted the soup laden spoon to her mouth but stopped short. “Any clue why?”

Morrigan shrugged. “Mother rarely tells me of her plans. I am simply relaying a message.”

Solona took a bite of the soup and nearly gagged from the taste of it. Not only was it lukewarm, it may have been one of the most Maker awful things she had ever tasted. The vegetables were obviously not fresh and the horrible blend of spices used did nothing to cover up that fact. She grimaced and quickly dropped the spoon inside the concoction before placing the bowl back on the small table next to the bed. When Morrigan scowled at her, the younger woman regained her usual haughty countenance and smacked her lips.

“I suppose I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” she lied.

The witch harrumphed then spun on her heel to exit the hut. As she stomped away, a thought occurred to Solona. She was alone with Morrigan. She took a quick glance around the room and saw no sign of Alistair or even that he had been there with her. The hunger pangs in her guts gave way to panic. He was gone. Had he perished or simply left her?

“Morrigan,” she blurted, her tone more desperate than she intended it to be. “Where is Alistair?”

The witch frowned. “You mean the smaller of the dimwitted ones that were with you before?”

“Yes,” Solona confirmed, doing her best to disguise her distress from both her face and her voice.

Morrigan’s demeanor was indifferent. “He is outside with Mother.”

A sense of pure relief washed over Solona with those words. She was unsure what she would have done if the witch’s answer had been different. Alistair had become such an integral part of her life, of her. The thought of losing him, it was more than she could bear. She pulled back the coverlet and rose from the bed.

“Tell your mother I will meet with her as soon as I am dressed,” Solona informed the other woman.

“Very well,” the witch said. As she turned to leave, she halted before circling back. Her brow furrowed as she folded her arms over her chest. “I am curious,” she admitted. “Most would want to know how they arrived here, especially considering where you were when Mother rescued you.”

Although Solona was interested in learning the answer to that question, it wasn’t first and foremost on her mind at the moment. She already had her suspicions about what had occurred at Ostagar. Loghain’s behavior denoted a man who was paranoid and angry, desperate and scheming. It was clear to Solona the general had been resolved to do whatever was necessary to achieve his desired result. It was a bearing the mage had seen too many times in the Circle from entirely too many people.

The only thing that really concerned her at that time was Alistair. Morrigan had said he was outside with Flemeth, but she failed to note his condition. Given the fact that the two Wardens were among witches, didn’t necessarily mean he was alive and well. Solona had to find out for herself whether or not her companion was truly safe.

The Warden shrugged. “I’m alive,” she stated matter-of-factly. “For now, that’s all I really need to know. The details of the how’s and why’s can be filled in later, can they not?”

The other woman smiled. “Yes,” she responded. “I suppose they can.”

............................................

Alistair was disappointed when the door to the cottage opened and Morrigan exited into the yard and disappeared around the side of the house. Flemeth had said that Solona would join him soon, but he was sick of waiting. He needed to know that she was alright, and until he saw her with his own eyes, his worry and anger would continue to grow. He heard the old woman suck her teeth and turned in time to see her shake her head.

“Such a shame,” she muttered. “So lovely, yet so disappointing.”

The witch’s odd statement prompted Alistair to forget his troubles long enough to beg the question, “What’s disappointing?”

“Why, my Morrigan, of course,” she told him as if the answer should be obvious. “The girl possesses talent, but she lacks certain necessary qualities.”

“Qualities?” the warrior asked.

“Simply an observation,” the witch informed him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Nothing of concern to you, lad. The only thing you need to know is that she will prove herself useful in your fight against the darkspawn.”

Alistair’s brow lifted, “And what is that supposed to mean?” he questioned.

“Exactly how it sounds,” she replied in a flat tone. “Morrigan will be leaving with you and your fellow Warden.”

“Absolutely not,” he argued. “We don’t need her.”

The old woman scoffed. “I daresay you need all the help you can get, lad. Or do you intend to take on the entire horde on your own, just you and your companion? It hardly seems like a sound plan.”

The warrior shook his head. “Does Morrigan even want to come along? She doesn’t really seem like the social type to me.”

“My daughter understands the threat of this Blight, just as I do,” she answered. “She will do what is required of her.”

Alistair turned his attention back to the pond and crossed his arms over his chest. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Flemeth was right. They needed help. He just wasn’t sure how much help Morrigan would prove to be. They had to find a way to defeat the darkspawn, to at least have a force strong enough to stand against the horde.

Then he recalled the treaties. Solona had mentioned that she forgot to give them to Duncan while they were spanning the Tower of Ishal. He wasn’t sure how it worked exactly, but he knew the documents enlisted the aid of the dwarves of Orzammar, the Circle of Magi, and the Dalish elves. Perhaps if all those groups banded together they might have a chance. A very slim one, but it was better than nothing.

As he contemplated the best way to approach each of the groups, the door to the hovel opened once again. Alistair’s heart began beating so quickly with anticipation he thought it might explode. He inhaled a deep breath and held it before turning around, praying it was Solona exiting the house.

A small smile curved Solona’s lips as her eyes locked with his causing him to exhale with a resonant sigh. The relief he felt couldn’t be measured. Although she appeared to be slightly worse for the wear, she seemed fine. The slight flush of her cheeks had returned and her lips no longer held a hue of blue.

Alistair hurried toward her, doing his best to keep from sprinting in his excitement. When he met her halfway, he took her in his arms and hugged her close to his chest. Tears of relief spilled from his eyes to dampen her sable hair. He had never felt so grateful for anything.

“You’re alive,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled by his armored tunic. “But I won’t be for long if you continue to crush me like this.”

Reluctantly, he backed away from her. She straightened her uniform before peering up at him with a playful scowl. “Afraid you were going to be left alone to fight the darkspawn by yourself?”

He gave a small chuckle. “Of course,” he teased, his eyes still glistening. “You’re supposed to protect me, remember?”

............................................

It is not difficult for me to understand why Alistair would consider running away from it all. My husband was a brave man, but his greatest fear was that his lack of leadership skills would be the ruin of everything he cared about. Throughout his life, he was always worried that he was not good enough or smart enough to lead. The loss of Daveth only strengthened that belief. It was at this very moment in his life when he realized that his greatest fear could very easily come to pass. The world truly was in danger of being destroyed and whether anyone knew it or not did not change the fact that all of Thedas depended upon him.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Warden-Chapter 19: Anthem of the Angels

Days go on forever But I have not left your side We can chase the dark together If you go then so will I

~Breaking Benjamin

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The fire in the center of the hut glowed bright, warming the modest wooden home against the harsh Frostback winter. Sithig pulled the coverlet from around his bare shoulders and chest and rested his arms atop the soft fur. The woman lying at his side rolled over and snuggled her cheek against his broad chest, a smile of satisfaction gracing her beautiful face. The warrior grazed gentle fingers up her unclad arm, reveling in the feel of her soft skin. It seemed forever since he last touched her.

The part of the bed where his feet rested shifted slightly, and Sithig closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Small, slow impressions in the feather mattress alerted him to the advance of an impending attack. The Avvar smiled and braced himself for the onslaught. There was a soft bounce to the bed, prompting him to lift his hand in the air to stop the progression of a tiny body falling toward him. Sithig opened his eyes to see the disappointed frown of a small, blonde boy flailing against his palm.

“Da!” the child cried. “No fair!”

Sithig chuckled as he lowered his son down to his chest and squeezed his shoulders in an affectionate hug then ruffled his hair. “I guess that means you will just have to try again tomorrow,” he told the boy.

The auburn-haired woman next to him grinned, her emerald eyes sparkling against the fire’s lambency. She gave a quick peck to her husband’s lips then kissed the child’s chubby cheek. Sithig gazed at her, his Kattrin, drinking in her beauty. He took hold of a lock of her wavy hair and lightly straightened it with the tips of his fingers then inhaled deeply as he marveled at its softness. She kissed him again, but allowed her lips to linger on his longer than the last time.

“How about some breakfast for my two strong warriors?” she asked before screwing up her face in mock concentration. “I am thinking…hearthcakes.”

Her words prompted the child to drop his knees to the bed and clap his small hands together with excitement. “With berries?” he giggled.

She cupped his chin and narrowed her lids with a grin. “Of course with berries. No good hearthcake can be made without berries.”

With those words, she threw back the fur blanket on her side of the bed and went to rise, but Sithig held her shoulder to prevent her leaving. He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t want to let her go. Maybe it was the dream he had awaken from. The vision of being surrounded by night-gangers and blood within high walls of crumbling stone, and before that…Kattrin’s death. The image of his boy’s lifeless eyes staring blankly up at him. His shame. His failure.

Kattrin’s brow furrowed in confusion as she gazed back at him. “Not hungry this morning?” she questioned.

Tears welled up in Sithig’s eyes as he drew her back into him. He swallowed past a tremendous knot then kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled delicious, a blend of spring water, fresh milk, and honey. With his other arm, he pulled Amund tight to his chest. He wanted to keep them there with him like that forever, embracing the only things that mattered in his life.

Kattrin turned her face up to gaze into his eyes. A sad smile curled the corners of her mouth as her calloused fingers caressed his cheek. She seemed so distraught, so crestfallen. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath.

“You must awaken now, my brave warrior,” she whispered. “The Lady says it is not yet time for your rest.”

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The sound of heavy rain tapping the window above the bed forced Alistair to open his eyes. The rhythmic tick, ticking against the pane was like the beat of a drum pounding in his head. Every muscle in his body ached, leaving him to feel as if he had been mauled by an ogre. He scanned his surroundings as best he could without moving, and licked his lips, for all the good it did him. His mouth was so dry, he could have sworn someone poured a bucket full of sand into it.

Where the bloody fuck am I?

He didn’t recognize anything. He appeared to be in a wooden hovel of some sort with heavy moss thatch above his head. The smell of thick smoke and rot coupled with copper and pungent herbs hung in the air, prompting Alistair to gag despite the pain he knew it would cause to his tender throat.

The hut was stifling. With a good deal of effort, he slid his hands from under the blanket that covered him and realized he was completely nude. Somebody had taken his clothes. He shifted his left elbow intending to lean on it so he could sit upright, and it grazed against something cold and clammy.

He dropped his head to the side only to be greeted by the sight of Solona lying next to him. The injured warrior emitted a sharp gasp. Her skin was completely pale, as white as winter, and her lips held an undertone of light blue. Forgetting his own pain, Alistair rolled over and placed his ear against her chest in an effort to discern a heartbeat.

Please…Maker, please let her be alive.

He gave a heavy sigh when he finally made out a slow, faint palpitation beneath her ribs. She still lived, but just barely. He pulled himself up to prop his weight on his forearm and stared down at her face. With the fingers of his right hand, he brushed the fringe of sable hair from her brow as the tears he was attempting to hold back broke through in gut wrenching sobs. She was so cold, so lifeless.

Gathering her in his arms, he drew her limp body into his chest and held her close. What was he supposed to do without her? She was dying and there wasn’t a Maker damned thing he could do to stop it.

As he rocked her gently in his embrace, he placed his cheek to her temple. When she was still in the throes of the taint following her Joining, his voice seemed to calm her and kept her from falling into the abyss. Maybe he could reach her the same way this time.

“Solona,” he whispered hoarsely through his tears. “You’ve got this. You are the strongest person I know. You’re not going to let this beat you, are you? Come on. Fight!”

Alistair entangled his hands in her dark hair at the back of her head and squeezed her tighter. His sobs grew more intense. How would he ever make it without her? If she perished, the only light in his world would be extinguished. .

“Please,” he wept. “You have to come back…Come back to me, sweetheart. Don’t leave me…Please don’t leave me…I love you.”

He finally spoke the words which had lingered in his heart, but they brought no joy, no sense of relief. She didn’t hear them. She would never hear them. She was alive, yet dead, hovering somewhere between the real world and the veil, but not for long. He recalled the kiss his fear prompted him to misplace, and the missed opportunity to share with her his true feelings, feelings she would never know.

Maker, please…If you choose to take her, show mercy. Take me with her.

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Sithig was barely conscious and having a difficult time opening his eyes. The aromatic blend of cedarwood, mesquite, rosemary, and sagebrush wafted in the air around him. It was a familiar fragrance, prompting memories of home and long lost kin. Astrid, his clan’s shaman, would often employ the burning of such herbs when attempting to heal wounds that refused to mend on their own.

It is a dream, you fool. No more real than the one of Kattrin and Amund.

The last thing the warrior remembered before his body completely collapsed from exhaustion was finding his way to the forest north of Ostagar. It was slow-going, making his way across the battlefield, as he crawled over fallen bodies. To make matters worse, night-gangers still lurked about, prompting the Avvar to proceed by inches. He was forced to play dead so often in the presence of the creatures, he began to wonder if such an endeavor was fruitless. Then he remembered the words of his wife.

The Lady says it is not yet time for your rest.

Kattrin’s voice in the back of his mind bolstered his resolve and inspired him to keep going. To keep moving at all cost. By the time he reached the inside of the grove, however, his nerves were raw and his strength had left him.

Sithig urged his lids to open, incited his aching muscles to at least shift, but his efforts were in vain. He was alive. He was aware of that much. But if he wasn’t dead, where was he? He was so very tired. Too tired to move. Too tired to think. He inhaled a ragged breath and the world went black once more.

Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the nightmares of battles lost and the deaths of clan and kin, a woman’s voice, unfamiliar and serene, whispered to Sithig.

Brave warrior, do not be downhearted. When your strength is regained, travel toward the village of Redcliffe. Along that road, you will find the path you seek.

With those words, a pair of golden eyes pierced the gloom. They were both familiar and foreign. A moment later, the keeper of that raptor-like gaze was revealed. The image of a pale woman with ebony hair wearing a long, black dress floated before him, and the Avvar knew her at once. She was the omen of warning. The Wandering Witch.

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Alistair’s eyes burned from all the crying he had done, and they were so swollen he could scarcely open them. How long had he been lying there with Solona wrapped in his arms? He had awoken and succumbed to sleep so many times, he lost track. He remembered the hovel being pitch black a few times during his conscious moments, so he knew it had been at least a day. Beyond that, he had no idea.

He slid his fingers up from where his hand rested on the mage’s shoulder to the side of her neck. His fingertips found the spot that would help him determine if she still lived. Her skin still felt like ice against his, but he distinguished a faint pulse. Breathing a sigh of relief, he embraced her fully once more.

“And how do you think your fellow Warden will react when she wakes up and finds you squeezing the life out of her like that? Hmm?”

Alistair nearly jumped from his skin at the sound of the creaking voice behind him. He whirled around to be greeted by the amused, golden gaze of the old crone they had spoken to before the battle. She cackled at his bewildered expression and the guilt-laden flush of his cheeks as she rocked her battered wooden chair back and forth. Suddenly it all made sense. The moss roof, the horrible smell. They were in Flemeth’s hut. A cold chill ran up his spine.

The warrior glanced behind the witch and spotted his clothes and weapons piled neatly atop a rickety wooden chair next to the small fireplace in the corner. She watched him with a curious gleam in her eyes, anticipating his intentions. He felt Solona’s frigid arm against his back. He had to protect her.

In a flash, he lunged toward the old woman, hoping to topple both her and her chair, buying him enough time to reach his sword. Alistair’s upper body barely had time to clear the mattress before an unseen hand slammed into his chest and shoved him flat onto his back atop the bed. When he attempted to rise, he found he was unable to move, as if some outside force had taken control of his entire body.

Panic and bile rose up into the back of his throat as he struggled against his invisible bonds. It was no use, he was completely paralyzed. They were going to die, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The thought of Solona lying helpless next to him served as a reminder. Perhaps he could do something, after all. Alistair cleared his mind of everything to focus on a mental image of a candle’s flame flickering in the darkness. He concentrated on the way it moved and the tiny tendrils of smoke billowing up from the bottom. The grey wisps began floating toward him, bringing with them the power to negate the spell. Before it could reach him, however, the light was snuffed out, leaving him feeling empty and cold.

The old hag laughed. It was a low, hoarse sound which turned the former initiate’s insides to mush.

“My, but that is quite the talent, lad,” she told him. “I wonder, how did you come to possess such a gift?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. And even if it was, Alistair was hardly in the position to answer. The thump of her chair’s back rocker banging into the floor echoed throughout the small room. The front rocker hadn’t even had time to tap the hardwood before the witch was leaning over the warrior with a wide, toothy grin. There was no mirth in her yellow eyes, only danger and warning.

“Now,” she drawled. “If you have relinquished your vain attempts to vanquish an old woman in her own home, young man, I think it is high time you and I had a conversation.”

Alistair tried to speak, but his jaw was locked tight. He couldn’t even manage a proper glare at the old woman. She arched a brow before flashing a wicked smirk then, with a flick of her wrist, waved her hand. The warrior found that, although he was still unable to move the rest of his body, he had at least regained his powers of speech.

“And what is it you’d like to discuss?” he questioned in a snarky tone. “Perhaps you’d like to trade recipes? I must apologize, though. I don’t know one hundred ways to cook a Grey Warden.”

She chuckled with a knowing smile. “So much about you is uncertain. A lost child, wandering alone in the darkness. Much like your father when last I saw him.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. Like his father? Did she really know who he was? Who his father was? How was that even possible?

“You have his look, you know?” she continued. “Except for the ears, of course. Too much of a point at the tops.”

Alistair relaxed his face, trying to regain his composure. “Lots of people have points to the tops of their ears.”

“Yes,” she chortled. “Elves especially.”

He scowled. Why was she bringing up elves? His mother may have been a servant, but from what he knew of her, she had been human.

“Just so you know,” he retorted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My,” the witch said. “Such unbecoming manners…for a prince. But, what can one expect from a boy reared among horses?” Her smile broadened when she recognized the truth of her words in the warrior’s hazel eyes. “I met him once, your father.” She indicated to the seat that held Alistair’s gear. “Thirty years ago, he sat in that very chair.”

Was there any legitimacy to her words? Did Maric really pay a visit to Flemeth all those years ago? His lids narrowed as he attempted to gauge the truth of her words. The witch may have been dangerous, even mad, but she didn’t lie. In that fact, at least. Alistair’s gaze dropped to his left to regard the mage lying at his side.

“Let her go,” he offered. “And you can do anything you like with me. But I have to warn you, there’s no one in Thedas who would give you a copper for my hide, let alone the rest of me.”

“You are worth more than you can possibly imagine, lad.” She glanced down at Solona before returning her attention to him. “As is she. I did not rescue you from that tower to kill you or hold you for ransom. A more important destiny awaits you both.”

“You…rescued us?” he asked with incredulity. “But how? Why?”

“I have my methods and my own reasons. For now, we shall say it is because only two Grey Wardens remain to stand against the darkspawn, and both lie here in my bed.”

Alistair swore he felt his heart stop. His stomach churned and he thought he might vomit. The sting of hot tears burned his already red and swollen eyes.

“Sithig,” he breathed.

“Your large friend has fallen, just as the rest of the Grey Wardens who fought in that hopeless battle…Just as your brother has fallen.”

When Alistair’s heart finally began to beat again, he thought it might pound out of his chest. His breaths came in short, quick gasps, leaving him dizzy. Sithig was gone. Duncan. Cailan.

The warrior choked on the bile that touched the back of his tongue. He was never supposed to be the one to wear that damned crown. He was always told he would never be king. Why was this happening? What did he ever do in his miserable life to deserve such a fate?

Cailan tried to tell him. To warn him. He knew in that instant exactly what had taken place. One word escaped his lips.

“Loghain.”

“Yes,” the witch confirmed. “Your father failed to listen to a warning given to him all those years ago. A warning of betrayal at the hands of his most trusted companion.”

“He’ll die for this,” Alistair spat. “I swear to the fucking Maker I will run Loghain through myself.”

“That is entirely up to you, lad,” she said.

The witch straightened her back before hobbling to the other side of the bed toward the exit. Her fingers grazed the toes of Solona’s feet, but the young mage didn’t stir at the contact.

“And what about her?” Alistair questioned. “Is she going to be alright?”

The Warden felt the spell on his body release, leaving him free to move. His hands balled into fists as he eyed his sword lying nearby, but he knew it wasn’t worth the effort. Flemeth would simply paralyze him again if he tried.

“You are going to need that,” she informed him as she opened the door. “Join me outside. I will send Morrigan in to tend to your fellow Warden.”

“No,” he refused. “I will not leave her.”

Alistair had no intention of abandoning Solona. Not even for a moment. He would remain at her side, no matter what.

“I would think you would have learned by now,” she began as she waggled her fingers in the air. As soon as she began the motion, Alistair’s legs started twitching uncontrollably. The muscles of his calves spasmed with excruciating pain. “I have my own methods for obtaining results.” She grinned as the spasms moved up to his thighs. “Shall I continue?”

He gritted his teeth against the assault. If the witch advanced any further up, the torment would become more than any man could bear. He waggled his head.

“Fine!” he seethed. “I’ll do anything you want. Just make it stop for fuck’s sake.”

She twitched her fingers faster, and Alistair was on the verge of blacking out. The progression of her attack continued upward at a rapid pace.

“Manners, my young prince,” she crowed.

“Alright!” he screamed with tears spilling down his cheeks. “Please…please make it stop.”

The spasms stopped as quickly as they began, but his muscles still burned from overuse. Alistair panted, fearing he would never catch his breath again. The witch glared at him as her fingers began to move once more.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

“You have five minutes, lad,” she told him. “I suggest you hurry.”

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I always found it a little ironic that Sithig thought of the Wandering Witch as a death omen, when it was she who saved the Avvar’s life. When Flemeth spoke to Alistair that day and conveyed the news of Sithig’s death, she honestly believed it to be true. Although Flemeth possessed the gift of true divination, she was never able to discern the actions and influences of the Woman in Black.

It was rather humorous to me that the first time Alistair told Solona he loved her was when she was unconscious. But my husband was always a brave man when it came to dealing with her.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 18: The Battle of Ostagar

“Meet me by the fire,” Duncan told the two remaining Wardens. “I will give you further instructions there.”

“Of course, Commander,” Alistair agreed with a fist to his heart with Solona performing a mirror of the movement at his side.

The mage waited for the older Warden to put enough distance between himself and his charges before turning to her companion. His hazel eyes glistened in the light of the torches surrounding the war table. He wet his lips before the bottom one disappeared beneath his upper teeth.

“Hey?” she queried. “Are you going to be alright?”

Alistair’s gaze met hers. There was confusion swirling within the sea of green, as if she had said something untoward. He searched her eyes for several moments, contemplating words he had no intention of uttering. She had seen that look too many times before, always just before Anders planned to leave the tower but would not let her in on his schemes. She grimaced.

Don’t you dare leave me.

A wistful, uneven smile curved the corners of his lips. “Careful,” he warned. “Or your face will get stuck like that.”

She chuckled for a moment before her expression grew serious again. “Not that it would be an unusual occurrence for you, but tell me you’re not planning anything completely stupid.”

His brow furrowed in mock surprise as his grin widened. “Me? Do something stupid? Perish the thought, dear lady. I was thinking of donning a dress and shimmying down the darkspawn line.” When Solona’s left brow raised in questioning bewilderment, he continued. “I thought it might be a good distraction. We could kill them while they roll around laughing. Maybe the Remigold, hmm? But it would have to be a pretty dress, of course, with lots of ruffles and bows. I refuse to be seen in rags.”

Solona couldn’t help herself. Just the idea of Alistair in a pink dress covered in ruffles and bows was too funny not to laugh. He began chuckling right along with her until they both had tears in their eyes. How did he do that to her? No matter how upset she was with her life, with the world…no matter the situation, he could always bring a smile to her face.

After a few minutes, she waggled her head. “You know there’s something seriously wrong with you, don’t you?”

The space between his brows disappeared as he gazed into her eyes once more. Her breath hitched in her throat as she thought she glimpsed the hint of something more than the usual friendship and kindness she normally found within. He ran his tongue over his lips and exhaled a ragged sighed. He offered her an appreciative grin and cupped her chin between his index finger and thumb.

“It put a smile on your face, didn’t it?” he asked. “Made you forget about what we’re about to face?” He shook his head. “That makes it worth you thinking me mad. That makes it worth anything.”

Solona gasped as he began to lower his face toward her. She closed her eyes, awaiting the touch of those thick lips on hers. She hadn’t realized until that moment how very much she wanted him to kiss her. Her breaths were short and labored. Time seemed to crawl to a near stop.

The sensation of his lips on the tip of her nose made Solona’s heart drop into her stomach. She opened her eyes to find his just inches away. It felt as if a rock had gotten stuck in her throat, and she was forced to swallow past it. Tears stung her eyes as she realized she misread every signal he ever gave her.

He wasn’t falling in love with her. How could he? Even if he was interested in women, he would never find favor in her. She was too jaded. Too bitter and cold. Anders could never find a place for her in his heart, why should Alistair?

Then Solona recalled his tears upon being forced to say goodbye to Sithig, and it suddenly all made sense. Alistair’s love, that specific kind of love, was reserved for the Avvar. She was merely a close friend, a confidant. That was why her teasing and her subtle attempts at seduction hadn’t worked. Still, it was a disappointment she found difficult to bear.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We can do this.” She averted her eyes to the side in an attempt to hide her disenchantment, but he turned her face until her gaze was on him once more. “Hey, you’ve got this."

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He just couldn’t do it. No matter how much he wanted to, Alistair couldn’t complete that kiss. Solona seemed willing. Her lids were closed, her rose stained lips set in a slight, delicate pout, but he was unable to find the courage to close that gap. What if he was wrong? Not only that, but the setting wasn’t exactly romantic. He had only shared a kiss once, with one other person, and that ended in complete disaster. He couldn’t go through that again. Not with her. So, instead, he placed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

When she opened her eyes, she seemed disappointed, and it damned near broke his heart. He supposed he could try again, do it right, but it just felt like the wrong place, the wrong time.

Not now, my love. Later. Somewhere else.

Alistair tried to say with his gaze what he felt down to the very depths of his soul. They hadn’t known each other long, but given everything they had been through together, it was long enough. It was true she barely knew a thing about him, but it didn’t matter. He knew how he felt. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

When he spoke the words to her, the words that always seemed to bring her courage, she smiled through tear-filled eyes. At least that was something. There would be time for confessions later.

And what if this is your only chance? What if one or both of you die tonight, and you’ll never know the taste of those lips.

A small sigh escaped Alistair’s lips. If he were to perish, at least he could wrap himself in the memory of her kiss as he faded into the abyss. He inched closer, then stopped. Perhaps he was wrong, seeing only what he wished to be true. Maybe his signals were completely crossed. It happened before. She was beautiful, intelligent, experienced…everything he was not.

Forget it, jackass. It’s not love for you in her eyes. It’s fear of the unknown. Of the battle. Quit being an idiot and move on.

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Duncan gave them their orders quickly. When he dismissed them, it was without fanfare or any tearful goodbyes, merely a reiteration of the importance of their duty and a warning to use caution. He was their commander, after all, not their friend. He was an amicable enough man, but he maintained the distance appropriate of one of his station. The only one of them he really ever conversed with on any sort of regular basis was Sithig, but Solona could never hazard a guess as to why.

As the two Wardens made their way to the bridge leading to the Tower of Ishal, Solona couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Although Duncan said there shouldn’t be any resistance at the tower, Solona knew nothing was ever that easy. There was trouble on the other side of that gorge. She felt it in her bones.

The oppression in the air was as thick as the mist and acrid smoke that had settled all around them. The steady beating of heavy drums in the distance pounded out a rhythm of impending doom. It was more than a warning, it was a portent.

Solona refused to display her misgivings, however. They had a job to do. She needed to remain strong for both of them. If she showed any fear, it would just feed Alistair’s worry for her, and that might result in mistakes that would threaten both their lives.

Alistair fell in place behind Solona as she stepped out onto the bridge. The moment her foot touched down on the stone, the drums stopped and the thundering roar of darkspawn heading toward the ruined city split the night sky. Great stones which had been covered in sulfur and oil and set ablaze began raining down from the heavens. The pungent stench of rotten eggs burning all around stung Solona’s eyes and made her gag as she and Alistair were forced to dodge the falling debris.

As they made their way across, one of the flaming boulders collided into a wider portion of the bridge where several soldiers were manning a trebuchet, sending both the men and the greater portion of the overpass hurtling into the depths of the chasm below. Solona stopped long enough to gain her bearings and try to discern if there was any way to get to the tower on the other side. Fortunately, she found just enough of the span left for one person to traverse it at a time, provided she and Alistair were careful.

The mage rushed toward the precarious easement, slowing down only when the toe of her boot touched the skeletal remains of the bridge. She held her arms out to her sides to aid in her balance, but found it more difficult than what she first anticipated. Although the armor she wore was less bulky than Alistair’s, she was still unaccustomed to its mass.

Then, while crossing the narrowest part of the stone, Solona’s foot slipped. She gasped as she began to tumble over the side, but felt Alistair’s arm catch her around the waist at the last second. He pulled her tight to his body, lifting her feet from the stone, before continuing on. She was impressed at the way he was able to maintain his footing as he hauled her the remainder of the way. The warrior didn’t let go until he was able to set her down again on the other side of the gap. Once Solona’s feet were back on some semblance of solid ground, she managed only a few steps when the stone behind them began to crumble and give way.

“Run!” Alistair cried over the din of crashing rocks.

Solona took off as fast as her feet and burning legs could carry her, but they were still a bit wobbly from the fear of nearly falling to her death. She felt Alistair’s arms encircle her waist once more and in a single motion, he tossed her up and over his opposite shoulder. He had to jump the last few feet, but succeeded in clearing the end of the bridge, landing squarely and securely on the ground. After putting Solona down, he placed his hands on his hips and bent at the waist, attempting to catch his breath.

“Didn’t think I’d let you get out of this that easy, did you?” he wheezed.

“You were just afraid you’d have to do this all on your own,” she quipped.

“Damned straight,” Alistair agreed. “I’m counting on you to protect me.”

Still panting from exertion, he peered over at her with a boyish grin and a playful wink. Even with the battle raging all around them, Solona found comfort in the gesture and his odd sense of humor. Then, something dawned on her. Somewhere along the way, amid all the death and destruction, Alistair had become her best friend and the most important person in her world. More than Cullen. More than Jowan. Even more than Anders. A grateful smile curled her lips as she continued to stare into his hazel eyes.

The cry of a soldier finally broke their gaze when Alistair turned to acknowledge the approaching man. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, with dark red freckles peppering the blush of his cheeks and nose. His deep brown eyes were wide and his voice full of panic when he finally spoke.

“Grey Wardens,” he chuffed. “Thank the Maker.”

“What’s going on?” Alistair questioned with a worried frown.

“The darkspawn…” the soldier croaked. “The tower’s been overrun.”

“We have to move,” Alistair told Solona as he pulled his sword from its scabbard.

The mage presented him with a terse nod before readying her own weapon. She happened a glance at her companion, and the words he spoke to her time and again bolstered her resolve. Although she was frightened, she was primed for the battle that lay ahead of her. She was prepared to fight, for him, to protect him. Solona didn’t care about glory or honor, nor darkspawn or duty. The only thing that mattered to her was Alistair and keeping him safe at her side.

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They were overrun. Too many night-gangers on the field and too few soldiers left to fight them. When Cailan asked Sithig to stand at his side during the battle, the Avvar assumed it was so he could act as a shield for the king. Cailan, however, surprised him by remaining in the thick of things, fighting just as hard as any of his men. Sithig’s first impression of the king had been wrong. He was definitely a man of courage and honor.

The Avvar swung his axe upward straight into the gut of a hurlock. He kicked its body away with his oversized foot then pivoted, using his momentum to bury his weapon into a genlock’s skull. He used his elbow on another that attacked his left flank then planted his boot into the chest of yet another on his right. There seemed to be no end to the creatures. He chanced a look at Cailan and saw that the king’s position was about to be overtaken by three of the spawn in addition to the two that were already engaging him.

The Avvar spread out his arms, knocking away the creatures that surrounded him and, with a mighty battle cry, charged toward the king’s attackers. The sharp sting of a blade slicing across his bicep induced a grunt from the warrior as he crashed into the night-gangers closing in on Cailan. As the king continued to cut down the beasts around him, Sithig remained at his back to prevent him from being overrun again.

“Keep them back!” Cailan cried over the din. “I need time to give the signal.”

The Avvar threw his body between the king and his enemies, then used the weight of his massive frame to swing his axe in a wide arc around them. Cailan turned and brandished his sword in a circle over his head to inform the red-headed elven boy cowering atop the wall to sound the horn. A few moments later, three blasts from a war horn echoed above the bedlam, prompting Sithig to pray to Hakkon that Loghain and his men would arrive soon.

............................................

The young soldier hadn’t exaggerated when he claimed the tower had been overrun. Solona and Alistair fought their way through dozens of darkspawn before they even entered the spire, and at least a hundred more before they finally reached the top. The young man, who insisted on accompanying the Wardens even though he was terrified, perished along the way. It was a shame, really, that it appeared he had given his life for what was looking more and more to be a hopeless cause.

When the Wardens at last cleared the door to the uppermost chamber, they found an ogre crouching near the opposite wall with its back turned to them. It was tearing apart a body, eating from the dead soldier’s gaping abdomen. Alistair skidded to a stop, causing Solona to crash into his back. He steadied himself before looking over his shoulder at his fellow Warden.

“Maker’s balls, I fucking hate ogres” he whispered.

“Should I shoo him away?” she asked with an arch of her brow.

As they fought the creatures on the way up, Alistair and Solona had maintained a steady flow of quips and japes between them. They even kept a tally of their kills, comparing who was in the lead for the highest body count. Somehow, the banter helped quell the fear and trepidation they both felt.

“Could you?” he retorted. “That would be great.”

“Fine,” she smirked. “But this one counts as at least two.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll still be ahead by three.”

Their banter finally garnered the ogre’s attention enough to prompt it to turn its head. It lumbered to its feet before opening its copious maw and emitting a prolonged, resounding roar. Great globules of saliva and the blood from the beast’s meal spattered all around.

“That’s disgusting,” Alistair observed with a grimace.

“Maybe we should teach it some manners?” Solona suggested as she brandished her sword at his side.

“Impress me,” her fellow Warden challenged with an uneven grin.

The mage called forth her magic and cast a vulnerability hex on the creature, weakening its defenses. While she attempted to cast her next spell, the ogre charged, but before it overtook her, Alistair pushed Solona aside, taking the full brunt of the attack. As it reached down its massive hand to snatch him around the waist, the mage leapt to her feet, leaving her sword on the ground, and used both hands to send twin bolts of lightning hurtling toward the side of the beast’s head. It reeled for only a moment then swiped at its nose before turning its attention back to the mage.

She cast a death hex, and it roared in response, covering her with its stinking spittle before barging at her once again. The creature grabbed for her, but she rolled out of the way. As it pivoted and bent to retrieve Solona from the floor, Alistair clambered onto the beast’s back and lunged his sword into the nape of its neck. It howled in pain for only a few seconds before crashing to the ground below.

“That’s seven,” he claimed with a smirk. “I believe it’s clear who won this round.”

Solona retrieved her sword from the floor and harrumphed. “I could have taken that beast if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Alistair teased before glancing over at the huge stone hearth near the tower’s window. “We should probably go ahead and light the beacon. I’m sure we’ve missed Cailan’s signal by now.”

Solona’s brow furrowed. He referred to the king by his given name. Not the king or King Cailan. Just Cailan. A commoner would never invoke the name of his liege so informally. There was history between the two. Between that and his moodiness every time Alistair spoke to King Cailan, there was no doubt left in her mind. But they still had a job to do. There would be time later for her to grill Alistair about his relationship with the king.

She hurdled over the ogre’s legs past her fellow Warden to ensure he wouldn’t be caught in the blast of her magic and called forth her mana. A moment later, a small flame shot from the palms of her outstretched hand and into the oil-soaked tinder causing a great fire to roar to life. When she turned, she found Alistair at her side, sword at the ready.

“We’re fucked,” he declared in a low voice as a few dozen darkspawn began to descend upon them.

Solona brandished her sword, but found she could barely keep her grip. Mana drain had taken nearly all her strength. With her empty hand, she reached down into the pouch at her waist to retrieve a lyrium potion, but found them missing. She had used them all on the way up. Still, she had to do something.

She sheathed her sword then lifted her hands to cast, careening from the effort of calling her magic. Using every last ounce of mana she could spare without it killing her, Solona threw a chain lightning spell at the nearest darkspawn. The flash of electric bolts as they began moving from one creature to the next was the last thing the mage saw before she collapsed onto the floor. Somewhere in the distance, past the darkness she was tumbling through, Alistair screamed out her name.

“Maker fuck!” she heard him curse, as the Fade pulled her under.

............................................

An arrow pierced Sithig’s right shoulder as he spun on the ball of his left foot and bashed the haft of his axe into a hurlock’s skull. His body was beginning to resemble a pincushion with all the projectiles protruding from his skin. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. Not while breath still remained in his lungs.

The signal fire had gone up, but there was no sign of the general or his troops, just the blare of a lone horn in the distance. It was a sound Sithig knew all too well. It was the sound of retreat. No aid would be coming for the king or his men that night. They were betrayed, doomed. Still, the Avvar fought on. He would protect Cailan to the last. Maybe then he would finally regain the honor he lost so long ago.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sithig spotted an ogre bounding toward the king. He mustered his strength, and putting his shoulder to the effort, rushed toward the beast to stop it in its tracks. When his shoulder made contact with the oversized spawn, Sithig screamed in agony and rage as the impact drove the arrows there further into his muscles. His attack didn’t knock the creature over, but it halted its charge.

With a cry of anger, the Avvar hefted his axe in a circle, bringing it high into the air before burying it in the ogre’s skull right between its long horns. As the night-ganger went down, Sithig turned in time to see a second ogre squeeze its hand around the king’s waist and emit a resounding roar. Time slowed. The entire world seemed to spin in slow motion as the warrior willed his weary arms to wrest his axe from his last victim and hurry to Cailan’s rescue.

Sithig hadn’t made it more than a few strides before the hand encircling Cailan’s torso tightened, snapping his spine. The king’s body went limp and his head fell back with a jerk. The Avvar continued his assault. He may not have been able to save Cailan, but that ogre would feel the end of his axe just the same. Sithig would avenge the king, even if it was with his dying breath.

The Avvar leapt into the air with his weapon held high over his head and to the right. When he finally began his descent, the muscles of his arms flexed with the effort of his swing as he brought the blade down on the side of the ogre’s neck and severed its head from its body.

His feet had just touched down, when Sithig felt a blade pierce his side. He immediately reacted by landing a hard right fist to his assailant’s face, but the damage had been done. Streams of thick crimson seeped from the wound onto the already pink and sanguine stained snow, and the Avvar fell to his knees. Breathing became more of an effort by the second as his throat constricted against the blood rising up from his injuries.

He looked down into a pair of familiar dark eyes. Duncan’s dead stare beckoned him to embrace the abyss. Sithig tried to fight it, but between his wounds, the fatigue, and the pain, he just couldn’t do it. As he collapsed onto his commander’s chest, for the first time in a long time, he finally felt at peace. He prayed to the Lady of the Skies that in his sacrifice he regained his honor. That he would once again be a true Avvar. If he found the Lady’s favor, he would see Kattrin again. He would hold Amund in his arms and never let either his wife or his son stray from his embrace again.

............................................

When Alistair relayed the story of that “kiss”, I’ll admit I called him an idiot. Solona wasn’t much better, however, given her completely wrong assessment of the situation. As naïve as he was about women, she was just as clueless when it came to people and relationships in general.

I made my husband a promise many years ago, when I was toying with the idea of writing this book, that I would include mention the bravery of both Sithig and Cailan in that battle. I only hope I did both of their memories justice.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 17: The Timeless Woman

Morrigan strode with purpose as she led the Wardens across a tree-lined path. It seemed odd to Alistair that the timber was so thick there, considering how sparse it had been everywhere else in the marsh surrounding Ostagar. To make matters worse the coppice grew denser the further down the narrow road they ventured. The wood itself was unsettling enough, but the grey mist that began curling around their legs when they entered the copse gave the entire place a sense of foreboding that they were all advancing to their doom.

A chill winter wind blew through the leaves of the surrounding forest, causing them to quake and quiver. It was odd to see green within the trees at that time of year. As troublesome as that fact was, even more disquieting was the sound of eerie clacking of heavy, hollow sticks being tapped together echoing on the breeze. The young warrior chanced a glimpse into the tops of the tall trees and gasped when he spied skulls of humans and varied animals dangling from long, frayed ropes among the branches. A conglomerate of short, broken twigs and feathers of differing birds decorated the bones, held in place by clumps of mud.

Alistair turned his eyes to the path ahead in an attempt to ignore the macabre embellishments and the rising sense of terror creeping up his chest. At the end of the lane, through the ever thickening fog, he could make out the outline of a small hut, battered by time and the harsh southern Ferelden climate. As they drew nearer, he began to see the heavy brown moss and old branches used for the roof, and the abundant vines of deep green ivy overtaking the outer walls.

The sensation of gooseflesh prickling the Warden’s arms caused the hair to stand on end as the crackling of magic, ancient and unfamiliar, encompassed the very air around them. Alistair shivered against a chill born more of revulsion and fear than the cold.

The clattering grew louder the further they ventured toward the hovel, citing both larger and a greater number of bones hanging from the trees in ever deepening shadows. Against his better judgement, the warrior chanced a glimpse above and his stomach tied in knots at the sight of entire skeletons swinging throughout the branches.

“What the fuck?” Solona muttered, expressing the exact words Alistair was thinking.

Morrigan ignored the young mage as she continued forward. Ahead of her, in the clearing, the fog seemed to settle more to the ground. Standing before a fire pit was the dark figure of an old woman who appeared to be warming her hands. Her hair was the color of cotton with unruly strands projecting out in every direction.  The robes she wore were fashioned from dark leather and furs, which were covered by an elegant, skillfully-stitched heavy cloak embellished with brown and rust colored fur at its edges.

When they finally stepped into the glade, the ancient woman looked up from the flame. She regarded the intruders with beady, yellow eyes, which sank deep into her skull. The bridge of her narrow nose and hollow cheeks were mottled with patches of dark red, as if she spent years in the sun resulting in a burn that would never fade. Her thin lips were set in a pursing frown with deep lines etched all around them.

The atmosphere surrounding her pulsed with magic, as if the very air were alive with it. A sharp pain shot through Alistair’s head, forcing him to close his eyes against the anguish it caused him. Once again, the image of dark buildings set on a faraway, sundered mountain accosted his brain. His entire body vibrated with the ebb and flow of the tide of power washing over him. The world around him began to spin and tumble out of control as wisps of shadow began to circulate and envelop him.

No! he screamed into the darkness, but no sound escaped his lips.

The warrior pried his eyes open against the unseen force holding them shut, only to be greeted by the old woman’s raptor-like gaze. Her lids narrowed as she scrutinized the young man, burning a hole into the very core of his being. After a moment, the hint of a wicked smirk curved the rugose corners of her mouth.

“Mother,” Morrigan addressed the crone. “I bring before you three Grey Wardens who…”

“I can see who they are girl,” the old sorceress interrupted, her voice creaking like a rusty hinge. “I have eyes.”

As she shambled around the pit, knocking over a neatly arranged pile of small, moldy bones, Sithig took a step forward, placing his large frame between his fellow Wardens and the old woman. He held his large battleaxe at the ready and glared at her.

“Stand away, witch,” he commanded in a deep, threatening tone.

Alistair was in shock. It was the first time the Avvar had ever raised his voice to anyone in his presence. He didn’t even know the large man was capable of such a thing. He was always so polite, so soft spoken.

Solona reached out and grabbed the Avvar’s oversized forearm and gave it a tug. “Let me handle this,” she told him, her timbre both cool and disapproving.

The behemoth scowled down at the young mage. “Solona, this witch, she is dangerous. The most dangerous of all sorceresses. We call her the Timeless Woman, and in her wake she brings only death and destruction.”

“I said, stand down, Sithig,” she demanded. “I will not repeat myself.”

The Avvar huffed with frustration before taking a reluctant step back. Solona folded her arms over her chest and raised her left brow.

“You are Flemeth, then?” she surmised. “The legendary Witch of the Wilds?”

“My,” the old witch said. “But you are the intelligent one.” She studied Solona’s face for a long moment before continuing. “You hide behind a mask, a carefully woven and crafted disguise designed to conceal your fear and doubt, your longings and pain. There is a man. A man languishing in the darkness, behind cold bars of iron. Your thoughts betray you, smart lass.”

Solona’s face twitched upon hearing the ancient woman’s words. From the angle where Alistair stood, he discerned the same look in her eyes as the one she possessed by the fire the first night they met. Was the witch talking about Anders?

The young mage’s chest rose and fell with a heavy breath before regaining her usual countenance. “I did not come here to discuss my personal life. Morrigan told us that you possess some documents. I would have you return them.”

Ignoring Solona’s request, the witch took a step to the side to stand before Sithig. “And you, large lad. An exiled chief attempting to regain his honor. Such a shame.”

The Avvar glared down at her. “Be gone, witch,” he hissed. “I will not be taken in by your tricks.”

She chuckled, a low, vile, rumbling sound which turned Alistair’s stomach. “No tricks here, giant. Simply truth. The truth is far more entertaining.”

“And what would a witch know about the truth?” Alistair questioned and immediately regretted the words as soon as they left him.

He intended to keep his mouth shut. To keep in the background, praying not to be noticed any further by the ancient woman, but his impulsive nature wouldn’t let it be. She turned her attention to him and locked her golden eyes to his. He gulped, nearly choking on the hard lump that had formed in his throat then held his breath awaiting her analyzation. Solona would know his secret. The entire ugly mess of his heritage and his life.

“Men’s hearts hold truths they do not wish revealed. Secrets in the dark they keep locked away in the hopes no one will see. See them for who they truly are. But remember this, lad. Like a flame, truth can light your way in the darkness as well as set your world afire.”

She then turned and began hobbling back toward the pit, waving her hand in dismissal. “But…what do I know. I am simply an old woman trying to stay out of the darkspawn’s path.”

The crone stopped, stooped over one of the piles of old bones, and began to sort through it. After a few moments, she stood, bearing three scrolls of heavy, yellowed vellum in her hands. She tottered back to Solona then presented the documents to her. As the younger woman went to take the scrolls, the witch tightened her grip on them.

“I have protected these for many years, awaiting this moment,” she said. “Awaiting you, Grey Warden.”

“Awaiting me?” the young mage retorted with a scowl.

“Yes, and you are rather late, you know,” the old hag informed her with a knowing smile. “Interfering with one’s supper shows a complete lack of manners and says a lot about your upbringing. But what can one expect from a mage of the Circle? A frail old woman such as myself can scarcely afford to miss a meal.”

The witch released her hold on the documents, prompting Solona to mumble a quiet, “Thank you.”

The crone cupped her ear with her hand and leaned closer to the Warden. “What was that?” she asked. “I swore I heard you say something. These old ears do not hear as well as they used to.”

Solona straightened her shoulders. “I said, thank you,” she repeated in a clearer voice.

“Ah, manners,” the ancient woman croaked as she presented the mage with an astute grin. “Always in the last place you look. Like stockings.” Her shoulders shook with a hearty laugh at her own joke. “But do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

She turned her back to the intruders and shuffled toward the side of her hut. “Lead them back,” she ordered her daughter, but as Morrigan approached them, her mother stopped and peered at Solona over her shoulder. “Know this, Grey Warden. The threat of this Blight is greater than you realize. Greater than anyone realizes. But, as I said, what do I know?”

............................................

By the time the Wardens returned to the expanse of the stone bridge leading into the fortress, dusk had fallen across the marshland. Absent were the many hues of orange, violet and dusky blue typical of a sunset. Instead, they were replaced by varying shades of grey and ebony shifting from the shadows of light smoke to inky black. The battle was coming, and it was coming soon.

The three Wardens had remained silent as they made their way through the swamp, each of them lost in their own dark thoughts. The only sounds escaping their lips were the grunts and cries emitted during altercations with the blighted creatures that had come to claim that part of Ferelden. Alistair seemed especially distraught over the words the witch spoke to him, leaving Solona to wonder exactly what secrets he was attempting to conceal.

She had troubles enough of her own as she clutched the amulet hanging from the chain around her neck. While Flemeth’s mention of Anders and his predicament were distressing, she was most rattled by the witch telling her she had been awaiting her arrival. It wasn’t so much the words the crone used, but more the way she stared into Solona’s eyes, down to her very soul, that was so unnerving. The power the old hag wielded was unmatched, unlike anything Solona ever felt. The young Warden barely managed to maintain her composure in Flemeth’s presence. She only hoped her companions failed to notice.

Once again, the three Wardens found Duncan standing at the central fire, right where he assured them he would be. The first thing he did upon their arrival was direct Solona and Sithig to hurry and don the blue and grey uniforms he retrieved from Senren. Solona gathered hers in her arms and departed for one of the mage’s tents nearby. It took a bit of finagling and time to make sense of the differing pieces of armor and suit up. The leather trousers were a bit tighter around the hips and buttocks than the ones the mage had grown accustomed to, but they didn’t seem to impede her movement at all.

When she was finished and withdrew from the tent, she ran straight into Alistair. He took a step back and scrutinized her for a long moment. He rubbed his thumb and index finger over the scruff on his chin before nodding and presenting her with a smile of approval.

“I like it,” he told her. “It suits you.”

She turned her back to him and lifted the long tails of her tabard then flashed a mischievous grin over her shoulder. “So it doesn’t make my ass look too big?” she asked.

Alistair’s face flushed crimson as his eyes lingered on her behind. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and tugged at the front of his scale and leather tunic. Solona knew exactly what that meant. He was attempting to cover the evidence of what her teasing was doing to him.

Maybe he enjoys the company of women, after all. If his interests lay strictly in other men, he certainly wouldn’t be trying to cover up an erection. Would he?

The warrior’s throat constricted with the motion of an arduous gulp before he cleared it. “Maybe a little,” he quipped with an impish smirk. “But the tabard should do a good enough job covering it up.”

Solona pursed her lips, donning a sour expression and dropped the tails of her overdress with a perturbed huff. She supposed it was possible she had been wrong. Perhaps he just liked asses. It made sense if he were same-gendered oriented. Karl had made remarks about her buttocks the few times he caught them bare while she was lying atop Anders’ bed, and he had absolutely no interest in women.

Maybe next time I’ll show him my tits. That should clear everything up.

She nearly jumped from her boots when Duncan cleared his throat behind her. “If the two of you are finished playing, we have important business of to attend.”

Alistair clapped a fist to his heart, prompting Solona to do the same. “Of course, Commander,” the young warrior acknowledged.

“As soon as Sithig returns, I want the three of you to join me at the war table. The king has called a meeting and requests your presence.”

Why in the Maker’s ass would the king want us to be there? He knows we’re new recruits.

She regarded Alistair who stood next to her. His nostrils were flared and his eyes were dark brown once again. Could such an invitation have something to do with him? Something Flemeth said to the warrior resonated with her.

Men’s hearts hold truths they do not wish revealed. Secrets in the dark they keep locked away in the hopes no one will see. See them for who they truly are. 

What had the witch meant by that? What secret was he hiding that he didn’t want her to know? Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with King Cailan. Solona frowned as it finally dawned on her that she knew absolutely nothing about Alistair aside from his kind nature and his temper when his hackles were raised. Her curiosity was definitely piqued more than ever, but the sullen expression on her companion’s face told her it was best to leave him alone.

The moment Duncan was out of earshot, her fellow Warden turned to her. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he informed her in a flat tone, already surmising the questions that were swirling around in her head.

She shrugged in a nonchalant fashion. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it,” he grumbled.

“Alistair,” she retorted, “You have trouble enough reading the thoughts in your own tiny brain. You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep attempting to peruse mine.”

He grimaced. “Ha Ha. Very funny, Solona.”

Her brow furrowed. He was really upset. He didn’t even make an effort at a comeback or even deign to look in her direction. With arms folded across his chest and tenebrous eyes directed straight, he just stood there, still as a stone. The muscles of his jaw were clenched so tight, Solona half expected his teeth to crack under the pressure. His broad chest rose and fell sharply with every labored breath. He looked as if he were about to explode.

A few minutes later Sithig appeared carrying his large battleaxe across his shoulder. Alistair didn’t even afford the man a glance before stomping away toward the stairway Duncan had ascended earlier. The Avvar peered down at Solona with a questioning frown, and she couldn’t help but think of how out of place he seemed without his usual fur and leather accoutrements. As a Grey Warden, he was intimidating as the void, but to her, at least, it just wasn’t Sithig standing before her.

“Come on,” she told him. “We’re supposed to meet Duncan at the war table.”

“Is that what has Alistair so upset?” asked the large man as the two of them trotted to catch up to their fellow Warden.

“I’m not sure,” replied the mage. “But if I had to hazard a guess…then yes, I believe it is.”

............................................

Alistair’s feet moved with purpose as he tramped up the stairway that would lead to the war table. He hadn’t intended to snap at Solona the way he did, but he refused to answer any questions she might think to ask. It may have been wrong, given his feelings for the mage, but he wanted to hold off from telling her about Cailan and his father for as long as possible.

In his entire life, Alistair had only revealed his secret to one person, and he immediately regretted it. His best friend in the monastery called him a liar and refused to talk to him after that beyond their lessons. To make matters worse, he told others. They didn’t believe Alistair any more than his former friend did, but it did make life in the monastery more difficult for the remainder of his time there. Everyone shunned the young initiate, treating him as if he were some sort of leper. He swore then and there, he would never tell anyone again.

The young Warden stopped halfway between the steps and the war table. Standing around the long wooden slab covered in maps and missives was Cailan, Duncan, Loghain, a bald man in mage’s robes, and a Chantry mother. The king and his general were engaged in what looked to be a heated argument while the others stood silently to the side.

Might as well get this over and done with.

As he neared, Alistair began to make out the words being exchanged between the two men.

“I’m sick of this, Loghain. I realize you and my father fought in the war against Orlais, but there is a new ruler there, and we need her help. Don’t you think I’ve asked other countries? Celene is the only one willing to send aid.”

As Loghain shook his head, the bangs of his ebony hair, fashioned into two thin braids, swung like small pendulums against the sides of his battle-scarred face. The abundant lines at the corners of his dark-circled, blue eyes deepened as his lids constricted. He glowered at the king, his indignation in regards to the younger man’s plans apparent.

“It’s fortunate your father isn’t here to see you so readily hand over Ferelden to the nation that enslaved us for nearly an age,” he proclaimed.

 Cailan sighed as he crossed his arms over his gold plated chest. “I’m sick of this argument, and it doesn’t really matter for tonight, anyway. So far, Celene hasn’t sent anyone, so we’re on our own.”

Loghain began pacing back and forth like an angry wildcat as Alistair took his place next to Duncan. The young warrior actually found himself feeling sorry for Calian as his brother awaited the old soldier’s next tirade. A moment later, Solona and Sithig lined up at Alistair’s side, and he noticed the mage’s eyes immediately lock on the bald man standing at the corner of the table.

The Hero of River Dane stopped mid stride then turned to face the king. “Don’t you understand? She already has Cailan, and her agents stand in our midst.”

The king pounded his fists on the table. “I’ve had it with your ridiculous conspiracy theories, Loghain,” he bellowed. “Three of the four Wardens standing in front of you are from Ferelden. One’s an Avvar, for the Maker’s sake!”

“That just furthers my point,” the older man argued. “You know as well as I do how the Avvar feel about the rest of us living in Ferelden.”

Cailan straightened his back and his shoulders before lifting his chin proudly in the air. There was an aura of nobility about the man Alistair had not recognized before. He could never command such a presence.

“Avvar or not, this man is Fereldan,” the king said in a calm, yet authoritative voice. “More importantly he is a Grey Warden. And you would do well to remember who among us wears the crown.”

Loghain waggled his head and hunched over the war table. “So what is this grand scheme of yours?” he questioned with an aggravated huff. “Are you still planning for me to flank the enemy?”

“Yes,” the king affirmed as he pointed to a spot on the map. “You will wait here for the signal. As soon as the beacon is lit…” He traced his finger along an imaginary line. “You will bring your men through here and charge the creatures from cover.”

“I will send a few of my men to the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon,” the general said.

“No,” Cailan argued. “We will send our best.” He pointed to Alistair and then Solona. “These two Wardens will light the beacon.” He gave his brother a pensive stare. “I am certain they will see the job done.”

The bald mage stepped in at that point. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and creaking, reminding Alistair of that of a villain from a puppet show performed for the keep’s children he watched as a child.  “Your Majesty, if I may. We mages can perform this task without even entering that tower.”

“Did anyone ask you, mage?” the Chantry priestess questioned with an acerbic expression. “The King of Ferelden would never risk the lives of his men through the use of your curse. He knows magic is evil. I don’t know whose fool idea it was to bring you and your ilk here, but your job lies on the battlefield.”

Alistair felt Solona shift her weight from one foot to the other as she crossed her arms over her chest. She glared at the old woman. The young mage was furious. Alistair could see it in her eyes as the brilliant blue faded from lapis to grey.  

“As I’m sure you hope his body does at the end of this battle,” she seethed.

“I don’t believe anyone asked for your opinion, mage,” the priestess retorted with a sneer.

“Enough,” Loghain interjected before anymore words could be exchanged. “We will stick with your plan Cailan. The two Wardens will send up the signal fire.”

“And what of me?” Sithig asked in his usual polite tone.

The king smiled. It was the first genuine smile Alistair had seen from his brother since his arrival. “You will be with Duncan and I,” he told the larger man. “I would be honored if you would fight at my side, my Avvarian friend.”

Sithig presented Cailan with a low bow of his head. “The honor is mine, son of Maric.”

The king gave an approving nod. “Come then, friend. The battle awaits.”

As the Avvar turned to follow Cailan, Alistair placed his hand on the larger man’s bicep. He couldn’t allow Sithig to leave without saying goodbye. He prayed he was wrong, but he had a feeling the upcoming battle would go exactly as his brother feared.

“Sithig…” he hesitated as those light blue eyes locked on his. “Be careful out there.”

“And you as well, my friend,” the Avvar said with a sad smile.

He felt tears well up in his eyes. Though he hadn’t known the Avvar long, he knew well enough that Sithig was a good man who didn’t deserve the fate that was about to befall him. Being sent to light the beacon could very well save Alistair and Solona’s lives, but Sithig…He would not be so fortunate that evening.

“May the Maker watch over you,” the smaller man told him, nearly choking on the words.

“And may you find Hakkon’s favor in battle,” the other offered with a fist to his heart before pivoting on the balls of his feet and walking away.

............................................

It wasn't until Alistair met Flemeth that day that he really began to question certain things about himself. In his previous experiences with the visions, he had thought them to be just that, visions. But with such power coupled with the black tendrils of smoke, he started to realize there may have been something more, beyond just odd imaginings and dreams. Though it still took him a while to admit the truth to anyone, including himself.

He told me that he often questioned how he could negate magic and perform many of his templar duties without the use of lyrium, but chalked it up to being very effective at meditation. I have to laugh at that notion a bit. My husband was brilliant, but his attentions often wandered, especially if given to a task he found tedious. I suppose we all have a tendency to make excuses and give ridiculous explanations for things we don't understand or don't want to see. Alistair Theirin was no exception to that rule.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 16: The Witch’s Daughter

Just as the toe of Solona's boot landed on a large patch of dirt at the bottom of the stairway, she heard a familiar voice call her name. It was not a welcome sound. Since arriving at Ostagar, she had made it a point to avoid the mages stationed there. She really didn't want to be forced to explain why the First Enchanter's prized student was now a Grey Warden. As far as she was concerned, she didn't owe any explanation to anyone, especially not her former teachers. And most especially not that one.

She turned her head to behold the form of an older woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun at her crown. She wore red and gold robes, designating her as a senior enchanter and instructor in the Circle. She approached the Warden with her usual purposeful gait. A low groan escaped the young mage's lips at the sight

"Solona, my dear," the older woman greeted with a cordial grin. "I didn't expect to see you here. I take it your Harrowing went well, then?"

"Good afternoon, Senior Enchanter," the young mage replied wearing her usual detached expression. "And yes, I passed my Harrowing nearly two weeks ago."

"I'm surprised Irving allowed you to leave the tower so soon," she confessed with a sense of mild disbelief.

"He didn't exactly allow it, Senior Enchanter," Solona explained. "I have been conscripted by the Wardens."

The older woman scowled as she folded her arms over her chest. "Is that so?" she questioned. "I must confess, I would have thought the Grey Wardens would choose someone older and more experienced if they were to use the Right of Conscription."

Please don't bring him up. Please don't.

"When it comes to mages, they typically reserve the Right for the exceptionally gifted." She flashed a feigned apologetic smile. "I'm not saying you aren't exceptional, dear, but considering you just passed your Harrowing. With the Blight looming over us, and given the amount of injuries the Wardens sustain during such a time, I naturally assumed they would rather conscript a healer."

For the Maker's sake, you old crone. Just spit it out. I know exactly what you're implying.

Solona reached for the amulet at her chest and began thumbing the sword and flames etched on its surface. Anders was always Wynne's favorite student. Through careful study and a passion for not only healing magic but medicine in general, his skills eventually surpassed that of his teacher's. Like most of the instructors at Kinloch, Wynne was prone to take credit for Anders' accomplishments, citing her own carefully crafted lessons as the reason for his exceptional talent.

Most saw the enchanter as a benevolent, grandmotherly type, a façade Wynne liked to maintain. Solona, however, knew better. The older woman exhibited a sense of false humility, pretending to pish-tosh away any accolades she received from her fellows regarding her students' achievements. In truth, she reveled in it.

To make matters worse, Wynne had a tendency to take male apprentices under her tutelage into her bed. Anders was probably the only exception to that rule, but it was not for lack of trying on the enchanter's part. Though the younger healer would bed nearly every female mage in the tower between the ages of seventeen and thirty, he simply never cared for the company of older women. Since Solona had become Anders' favored lover over the preceding six years, it created a definitive rift between the two women.

Solona exhaled a perturbed sigh. "Anders is still in the dungeons, Senior Enchanter," she reminded the elder mage. "I doubt the Grey Warden commander even knew he was there."

Wynne's brow creased. "Yes, I suppose you're right. That would certainly be the only reason you would have been chosen over him." She paused to gauge the younger woman's expression, which had evolved into an icy glare. A self-satisfied smirk played at the corners of the older mage's lips. "As I said, you are very talented, dear, but you are far too young and inexperienced in the use of practical magic."

"I've managed so far," Solona informed her.

"Yes, I'm sure you have," Wynne retorted. She shifted her weight onto her left hip. "So you are a Grey Warden now? Pledged to fight alongside the king. Quite the feat for someone just out of her apprenticeship. I only hope you remember to maintain the ideals and propriety of a mage of the Circle."

Yes. Backstabbing. Dishonesty. Disloyalty. Promiscuity. We are a pious and enviable lot.

The young woman presented the elder mage with a tilt of her head and a painted on smile. "Of course, Senior Enchanter. I could never forget the lessons a lifetime in the Circle has taught me."

"We could probably do without the formalities, however," the other woman offered. "Now that you are no longer my student, you may call me Wynne."

"That's very kind of you, Wynne," Solona said with another bow of her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The enchanter's eyes fell upon the amulet the younger woman was still clutching in her hand. She took a step forward and ran her fingers down the chain. "May I?" she requested.

"Of course," Solona replied as she let go of the trinket and dropped it into the other woman's palm.

Wynne's eyes narrowed as she studied the tiny shield bearing the templar insignia. Her thumb grazed across the small sword and flames. The younger woman thought she denoted a glimmer of sadness reflecting in the elder enchanter's blue-grey eyes. The older mage drew a long, uneven breath.

"I had one of these myself, once," she confessed. "A very long time ago." She released the amulet and took a step back. The expression she wore was no longer condescending, but one of general concern. "I urge you to use caution, Solona." She pointed to the tiny shield and her tired eyes began to glisten. "That carries a heartbreak with it unlike any you have ever known. Some affairs are never meant to be."

Solona's brow creased. She was aware of the rumors about Wynne carrying on with a templar in her youth. It was even said a child was produced from the liaison. There was also speculation about who the Chantry knight had been, but Solona scarcely believed that story. Knight Commander Greagoir hated everything about mages. There was no chance he was the one involved with the enchanter.

"Anyway," Wynne said with a small sniffle as she straightened her posture. "I am sure you have your Grey Warden duties you must attend to, and I have my own tasks to mind." She offered a terse nod. "If you will excuse me."

With that, the enchanter spun on her heel and strode away. Solona tucked Cullen's amulet into her shirt and blinked back the tears trying to form in her eyes. As stalwart as the young mage felt while descending the great stone staircase, she was left vulnerable and forlorn after speaking with Wynne.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I've certainly made a mess of everything else in my life.

She turned to resume her progression to the central fire where Duncan was waiting, only to see Alistair coming from the area of the royal encampment. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her stomach was filled with the sensation of a hundred butterflies flittering around inside. A small smile curled her lips. Then she heard his voice in her head. Four words. Four simple words were all it took to shut out every doubt and every fear.

Hey, you've got this.

............................................

Alistair wasn't sure if he was more angry, tired, or distraught when he exited Cailan's tent. The news of Jenna's death hit him harder than he let on. In his entire life, up until Duncan conscripted him anyway, there were only two people he considered friends. Jenna Cousland happened to be one of them. Although he hadn't seen her in years, her memory remained one of the bright spots in his dismal existence. Now she was gone.

If that weren't bad enough, speaking to Cailan forced him to consider a possible future he wanted absolutely no part of. Alistair was content with a life of service to the Grey Wardens. He had finally found a place where he felt he belonged. He was raised a stable boy, little better than a slave. How could anyone expect him to go from that to being a king?

Alistair had no knowledge of governance or politics outside the fact that every nobleman he ever met was a complete and utter prat. For the Maker's sake, he didn't even learn to read until he was eleven. Not only that, but he didn't have the ability to lead a small squad, let alone an entire country. The two times Duncan put him in charge of anything, he mucked it up completely and even got a man killed in the process. Surely there was a way out of the mess he would find himself in if Cailan's fears became reality.

He supposed he could run. Slip away while no one was looking. No, he couldn't. Even if he could get past all the darkspawn surrounding the old fortress, Alistair would never forsake Duncan's faith in him in that manner. Maybe he could just keep his existence a secret, at least that one little detail about it. Only a handful of people knew about his lineage-Duncan, Cailan, Eamon, the arl's younger brother Teagan. He wasn't even sure Loghain was aware Maric had a second son.

Of course he knows, jackass. Maric was his best friend.

But if those who knew couldn't find him...He could disappear into the Grey Warden ranks and be just another soldier. Duncan would never tell anyone. Would he? The nobles could just name someone else as king. That was probably a better option, anyhow.

We must ensure Calenhad's line doesn't end with me. With us.

Cailan's words echoed in Alistair's head. How could he turn his back on a responsibility handed down to him from over four hundred years ago? Then again, how could someone like him be expected to rule Ferelden?

Alistair's head was throbbing from all the thoughts swirling around in his mind. He felt completely drained from the tremendous weight that was sinking onto his shoulders. The reality of his potential future was too much for the young Warden to bear. His chest felt heavier with every labored breath as he drown in despair and involuntary obligation.

As he walked toward the central fire, he turned his glistening eyes toward the steps leading to the Grey Warden encampment, and the hope he considered lost shined from the darkness once more. He found his faith, his strength in the lapis blue eyes staring back into his. Though his heart still pounded, the sensation was no longer one of pain, but joy upon seeing the one person who could brighten his whole world with a smile and turn his bones to jelly with a glare. The embodiment of beauty and conviction. The one who had captivated his senses and captured his soul.

Damn! I guess I really am in love with her after all.

............................................

Solona bore an expression of utter disgust as she peered down at her wet boots. The muck from the marsh water surrounding her feet was overly warm and slimy. As much as she had despised the notion of breaking in another pair, she was grateful a dry new set would be waiting for her when they returned to the main fortress. If they ever returned.

It had been at least two hours since Duncan sent her, Alistair, and Sithig out into the Wilds to retrieve some documents from a chest in an abandoned tower. They fought their way through several bands of darkspawn until they came to several tall, crumbling columns arranged in a circle with a set of stone steps leading to nowhere near the back. It hardly resembled a tower at all, but Alistair swore it was the right place.

When they stepped through a large gap between the columns that appeared to be the remnants of an arched doorway, they found the chest the commander spoke of. There was only one problem. The chest looked like a band of ogres used it as a ball in a spirited game of wallop. It was utterly dilapidated and completely empty.

"Dammit!" Alistair bellowed as he landed the sole of his boot to the side of the metal box, toppling it over. "Doesn't anything ever go right when that man puts me in charge?"

"Alistair," Sithig interjected in a low, even voice. "Calm yourself, my friend. The night-gangers are still lurking."

The younger warrior licked his lips, ran his hand over his sandy blonde hair, and then proceeded to stomp on the chest three more times. It was obvious there was something a lot more than missing documents vexing him. Solona surmised it had something to do with King Cailan, but she couldn't hazard a guess to what it might be. When he turned to face her, his hazel eyes were dark and glistening.

"Do you feel better now?" the mage asked in her typical haughty tone.

He limped forward a step. "Not really," he confessed. "My whole leg hurts like a bitch."

"'Tis what happens when a fool chooses to batter a large metal object with his foot," echoed a voice from above.

A moment later, an ebony haired woman appeared at the top of the stairway. As she made her descent, the strips of her skirt, fashioned from varying lengths of black leather belts, swished around a pair of high boots covered with silver buckles. On top, she wore what appeared to be nothing more than a silk, crimson scarf draped low across her abdomen exposing a great deal of her ample breasts. Those were barely covered by triangular pieces of cloth held together with a series of long strings. A black leather sleeve on her left arm extending from her wrist to her shoulder ended in a pauldron of long raven feathers. Her right bicep sported a wide leather band, and a fingerless glove graced her hand up to the lower half of her forearm.

Fringes of pin straight dark hair curtained her face, while the remainder of her locks were kept bound in a bun at the back of her head with several wild strands escaping its coil. Her eyes were heavily shadowed with rust colored powder, and thick kohl lined her eyes. The odd woman's full lips curled into a cat like smirk as she looked down on the strangers in her midst.

"Well, well," she said, a hint of arrogant amusement in her voice. "What have we here?"

Solona folded her arms over her chest and rested her weight on her right hip as she donned a bored expression. "Quite an entrance. Very dramatic. Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Use caution, my friend," Sithig warned. "Witches are trouble, and we have that enough in dealing with the night-gangers."

Solona had read stories of the witches of the Wilds. Legends of dark women stealing children for their suppers abounded among the Chasind peoples. It was hogwash, of course, at least as far as the young mage was concerned.

"She's probably just a Chasind," Alistair said with a shrug. "Nothing to worry about."

The peculiar woman took a step toward him. "Chasind, hmm? And are you not afraid a horde of barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

When she said the word, "swoop," she raised her arms high in the air and lurched the top half of her body toward Alistair, like a bird preparing to attack its prey. He flinched at the gesture then wiped his hand across his face before arching a sardonic brow.

"Yes," he said. "Swooping is bad, but would you mind not spitting on me next time? It kind of takes away from the whole crazy, weird talking witch thing you're going for. Quite disgusting, to be honest."

The woman harrumphed and turned her attention to Solona. "Your pets are boring, but you…I have watched your progress for some time. 'Tis not often I see a woman leading men about. A most welcome sight."

"What can I say?" Solona retorted in an acerbic tone. "I live to impress."

The witch donned a smirk. "I like you. Shall I guess your purpose, then? You sought something in that chest? Something that is here no longer?"

"Let me guess," Alistair interjected. "You stole the contents and now you plan to hold them for ransom. I hate to break it to you, but we're all tapped out."

"Tell me," she queried. "How does one steal from dead men? This place is no better than a desiccated corpse, long since picked clean."

Alistair heaved a sigh and shook his head. "She's just toying with us. We should go."

Sithig clapped a large hand over the smaller warrior's shoulder before Alistair could take a step then addressed the witch. "I cannot say what else was in that chest. But there were papers important to the Grey Wardens. You would do us a great service in returning them."

She glowered at the large man. "I will not. For 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish. I am not swayed."

Solona's eyes narrowed as she weighed the other woman's words. "But you know who did."

The witch's smile returned. "My, but you are the intelligent one. 'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Then take us to her," Alistair demanded. His tone was flat and even, but the threat in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I do not take orders from you," she scoffed then spun on her heel to leave.

"Please," Sithig beseeched. "We need those papers before we can return to the fortress. Your aid would be most welcome."

The witch peered up at him over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation for a long moment before she presented the Avvar with a smile.

"Now there is a sensible request," she said before addressing Alistair. "You would do well to learn from your friend." She took a few strides forward. "Follow me, then, if it pleases you."

As they fell in step behind her, the witch addressed them once more, her attentions never straying from the road ahead. "I am Morrigan, if you were inclined to ask, and I advise you to employ prudence when dealing with my mother. She is not nearly as patient as I."

............................................

That first meeting between Morrigan and Alistair began a rivalry that would last a lifetime. I personally never thought she was that bad, but Alistair loathed her. Even in later years, when they both had a chance to grow up a bit, it didn't change his complete dislike for her. It was something difficult for the rest of us to understand, considering how alike Morrigan and Solona were. For some reason, Alistair just never saw it. Either that, or he simply chose to ignore it.

Ostagar was the first time Solona got a glimpse into how bad Alistair's temper really was. He was kind to a fault, but when his hackles were raised, Alistair Theirin was definitely a force to be reckoned with. In all the years I knew him, there were only three times when we had it out, but those three times were more than enough.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 15: A Secret Meeting

Alistair was extremely irritated when he left Solona, not with her, but with the entire situation in general. It wasn’t his intention to be cross with the mage, but he definitely didn’t want to answer her question about Cailan. How would he even begin to tell her about his family and the secret he kept hidden from nearly everyone he knew? What would she say if she ever found out the truth?

The young Warden climbed a set of stairs leading to a more secluded part of the ruin and found a relatively quiet spot to sit where he could be away from prying eyes. He pressed his shoulders to the stone at his back and closed his lids with a heavy sigh. The glacial blast of a Ferelden winter wind fluttered through his sandy blonde hair, carrying with it flurries of fat snowflakes which stuck to his lashes and eyebrows. He ran his tongue over his lips and inhaled a deep breath which burned in his lungs so badly, he thought they might burst. As excruciating as it was, at least it took some of the pain from his head.

After only a few brief moments, his peace was disrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Alistair opened one eye just enough to be greeted by the sight of a skittish elf dressed in rags sporting flaming red hair. The young man fidgeted with his tunic as he endeavored a hesitant smile.

“E…excuse me, s…ser Warden?” he stammered. “I…I don’t mean to b…bother you, ser, but I have a message for you.”

The warrior’s brow creased in confusion. “For me? Who in the void is looking for me?”

Alistair knew Duncan wanted to meet with him and his other two companions, but Solona and Sithig both needed to be fitted for their uniforms first. He thought he would be able to at least have a few moments to himself. Maybe Solona was finished with her meeting with the garment maker and was looking for him.

The elf held out a rolled up piece of parchment for the Warden to take. “I was just told to find you and give you this.”

“Are you sure you have the right person?” Alistair asked.

“Y…you are Alistair…aren’t you?” he inquired. His hand trembled so badly, the Warden thought the elf was going to lose his grip on the missive to be carried off on the breeze.

“I am,” the warrior answered. He forced the most cordial smile he could muster in attempt to put the young man at ease. “And you are?”

“P…Pick, ser,” he stuttered.

“Well, Pick,” Alistair said as he took the vellum from the elf’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He peered down at the parchment before addressing the other man again. “And who was it that gave you this message to deliver to me?”

“Why…the king, ser Warden.”

What the fuck? He probably wants to bitch at me away from the prying ears of his men.

Alistair grimaced as he broke the unadorned seal on the parchment. His tongue raked across his lips as he unfurled the scroll. Scratched into the vellum in haphazard scrawl were only three short sentences.

Meet me in my tent. It’s important. Come alone and don’t let anyone see you enter.

The warrior was infuriated. How dare Cailan order him about like that? He wasn’t some mindless soldier there to follow his brother’s every whim and command. He was a Grey Warden, dammit.

Alistair crumpled the paper in his fist and drew back his arm to hurl it past the columns to his right, but Pick leapt in front of him. “If you please, ser. I’ll take that for you.”

Trying to hide the evidence, eh brother?

“Fine,” the Warden snapped as he threw the wadded up scroll to the ground at his feet and stomped away.

Normally, Alistair would have felt guilty about treating an elf that way. About treating anybody that way, but he was too angry for contrition at that moment. If it was Cailan’s intention to berate him, Alistair was going to give it back to his brother tenfold. He held his temper when the king insulted both of his companions, but he was going to have it out with the man now that he decided to press the issue.

When he reached Cailan’s tent, he found the two guards stationed outside had their backs to the entrance. After taking a quick look around to ensure no one was watching, Alistair threw back the flap and barged inside. He was surprised by the king’s contrite smile as he took a tentative step forward.

“I’m glad you’re here, brother” Cailan said in a sincere tone. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t come after I made such an ass of myself earlier.”

Alistair’s brow arched in bewilderment. “What do you want?” he asked, his words sounding far less harsh than he meant them to be.

“How have you been?” he asked.

The younger man licked his lips and exhaled a long, slow breath. “You can skip the pleasantries, Cailan. We may have the same father, but we’ve never spoken once in our entire lives. The only other time we even laid eyes on each other, you ignored me to go play with Eamon’s sword collection. So why don’t we cut the bullshit and just tell me why I’m here?”

The king nodded. “I understand why you’re angry. I don’t blame you. The way father just dumped you in Redcliffe…”

Alistair felt a sharp pain erupt in his guts. The memories of his childhood were things better left forgotten. He only wished it were that simple. From the time he could remember until the age of ten, he slept on the hayloft floor of the stables at Castle Redcliffe.

Arl Eamon was charged with the care of the young prince when he was still a baby. That care came in the form of apathy and neglect. Sure, the arl arranged for him to be fed and clothed, but the food more often than not came in the form of gruel, stale biscuits, and substandard pieces of meat, and the clothes little more than tattered rags. Baths were reserved for only two or three times a year in the late spring and summer months when the stench of horseshit on his clothes and skin would get so bad that the stablemaster started to complain. He was forever plagued by lice and fleas, and he felt the sting of his overseer’s riding crop on a daily basis for the most minor of offenses. So many nights as a young boy, he cried himself to sleep knowing that no one loved or even cared about him. He was always unwanted and alone.

The closest thing he ever had to a friend was Jenna Cousland, who delighted in beating him every chance she got until he begged for mercy. Jenna was a few years older than Alistair, and each time her family would visit Castle Redcliffe, she made it a point to seek the young stable boy out and thrash him mercilessly. It wasn’t until a few days before he was shipped off to Bournshire monastery that she finally treated him like a person instead of a punching bag. Even then she ended up breaking his nose when he attempted to kiss her, which accounted for the permanent crook to the right along the bridge to the tip.

Alistair glared at his older brother. How dare he say he understood what the younger man went through? Cailan couldn’t even fathom the anguish and abuses he suffered. The Warden folded his arms over his chest and ran his tongue across his lips before biting down on the lower one. He blinked against the sting of tears forming in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the king apologized. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m fine,” Alistair managed in a hoarse whisper.

Cailan sighed. “The reason I called you here was to warn you. As you are probably aware, Loghain was father’s best friend and my father by marriage, but I am afraid I have raised his ire. My marriage to Anora was always political, nothing more. She knows it, I know it, and Loghain certainly knows it, so the man holds no love toward me in that capacity.”

The king began to pace as he continued. “This Blight…I’m afraid we have no hope of winning against these creatures without outside help. Oh, I’m very good at putting on a show for my troops, telling them that we’re beating back the spawn in droves. The reality is, the numbers don’t lie. We are losing men by the dozens with every single battle, and twice that have been wounded. I’ve called for aid from every southern nation in Thedas, but so far, the only one who has given any response is Orlais.”

Alistair’s anger was forgotten upon hearing his brother’s words. Their father and Loghain were instrumental in driving the Orlesians out of the country at the beginning of the age. Was Cailan really willing to risk an alliance with them?

“But couldn’t that lead to another occupation?” he questioned.

“That’s what Loghain believes,” the king replied. “And he’s fit to be tied about it, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want another occupation any more than anyone else…which is why I have been in negotiations with Celene…to arrange a marriage between the two of us.”

The space between the Warden’s brows disappeared. “But you’re already married.”

Cailan nodded. “Yes, but as I said, it’s a marriage born of politics. Anora and I have been married for seven years and we have as yet to produce an heir. According to Ferelden law, if a queen has not bore a child by the fifth year of marriage, the king may divorce her in favor of a more suitable and fertile spouse.”

Lovely way to speak of your wife. Like she’s some kind of brood sow. Prat.

“Don’t you understand, brother?” the king asked, his steel blue eyes pleading. “I have to do something, or Ferelden will be lost. If that means I must marry Celene to cement an alliance so that I might gain the Orlesian forces, then that’s what I must do.”

Alistair shrugged. “Fine, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I believe your life is in danger, just as much as mine, maybe more so,” he explained. “Because of my negotiations with Orlais, I believe Loghain is staging a coup.” Cailan’s expression became pensive and sad. “I just received word by raven this morning that Arl Howe of Amaranthine took his men to Highever and slaughtered the entire Cousland family, save Fergus who is here at Ostagar.”

The Warden’s breath caught in his throat at that tidbit of news. He could see by the look on his brother’s face that he knew the truth of a lie perpetrated by good men who put the political health of the country above the happiness of their family. Years before, when Alistair was thirteen, Jenna came to visit him at the monastery and revealed to him a secret he swore he would never tell. At sixteen, she was pregnant with Cailan’s child, and her father was forcing her to go with her brother and his wife to live with relatives in Antiva until after the baby was born. When Jenna, Fergus, and Oriana returned, Jenna had no child, but Oriana announced she had given birth to a baby boy with steel blue eyes.

“Does Fergus know?” questioned the Warden.

The lines in Cailan’s face deepened, making him appear much older than his twenty-five years. “Loghain sent Fergus and some of his men out into the Wilds around dusk yesterday evening to scout out the position of the darkspawn. They never came back. I fear Fergus is lost.”

“So everyone who might have known about Jenna’s child is missing or dead?”

“Yes,” the king affirmed.

It was horrible news. All of it. Although Jenna was cruel to him for most of his childhood, on her last visit to Redcliffe, they spent nearly a week being friendly to each other for once. She brought him meals to the stable every day at lunch then they would spend the remainder of the afternoon talking. It wasn’t until the final day of their stay that she broke his nose. Alistair often wondered if her kindness was brought about by the knowledge that he was going to be sent to the monastery the day after his father and the nobles left the castle.

The memory of Jenna and the compassion she showed to him finally forced a tear down Alistair’s cheek. He sniffled before running his tongue over his lips. Before he could speak again, he was impelled to clear the lump from his throat with a cough.

“You still haven’t told me where I come into all this,” he managed.

“It is my belief that Loghain is trying to destroy the Theirin bloodline. If I die, without another Theirin to take the throne, the crown will automatically go to Anora. Our father and grandmother fought too hard to allow that to happen. We must ensure Calenhad’s line doesn’t end with me. With us.”

Alistair waggled his head. “I don’t want to be bloody king.” He donned a sardonic expression. “Oh wait. That’s right. I was told it was never going to happen. Perhaps I should remind you of that little tidbit of information. It’s. Never. Going. To. Happen.”

“You may not have a choice, brother,” Cailan said.

The younger man could feel his anger beginning to boil again. “How about this instead. You don’t die and I get to spend the rest of my shortened life as a Grey Warden?”

The king exhaled a long breath, obviously fed up with his brother’s poor attitude. “I have no intention of dying this night or any other. Not until I’m an old man lying in my own comfortable bed. I just wanted to warn you. I don’t trust Loghain and neither should you. I don’t know if he has yet realized who you are, but just in case, I urge you to be cautious.”

“Noted,” Alistair retorted. “Now, if there’s nothing else, brother, I have duties to return to.”

Cailan’s face altered to a mask of indifference, reminding the Warden of Solona. As much as Alistair hated the guise on her, it was certainly more preferable to the king’s. The younger man spun on the ball of his left foot to head for the exit, but a hand on his shoulder stopped his progression.

“Wait,” Cailan said as he pulled a silver chain from around his neck. At the end dangled a large, key of the same metal. “I want you to take this…just in case.”

Alistair examined the object for a moment before giving his brother a questioning grimace. “What’s it for?”

The king pointed to a trunk sitting against the back wall of the tent. “It’s a key to the royal arms chest. I have already placed father’s sword inside. If something should happen to me, I don’t want Loghain or his men to get their hands on it. It belongs in the family. If the worst occurs, it will be yours.”

Alistair wanted to tell Cailan that he would rather get his foot chewed off by a rabid mabari than touch that sword. He wanted to tell his brother to fuck off and go to the void. But he didn’t. He simply bobbed his head and pulled the chain over his neck then tucked the key inside his tunic.

“Thank you,” the king said. “Now, I will exit first. Wait a few minutes, check through the flaps to make sure no one is watching, then leave.”

Cailan didn’t wait for a response, but blew past the Warden to the canvas doorway. Once he was gone, Alistair removed the key from his shirt and stared at it for a long moment.

What in the Maker’s name have you gotten yourself into now, jackass?

............................................

It was true that little Oren was Jenna and Cailan’s son, but Fergus always loved him as his own. When he was finally found some months later, the news of the death of his son hurt him more than anything else. Of course he mourned the loss of the rest of his family, but Oren’s death hit him hardest. I hated seeing him like that. Fergus was my best childhood friend, a brother.

Alistair was probably unfair to Cailan, but when he was overly angry it was difficult for him to calm down enough to see reason. It wasn’t Cailan’s fault that Alistair endured such a troubled childhood, but to Alistair, the king represented everything he hated about royalty and nobility and the way they valued politics over family.

Looking back, Alistair realized Cailan was preparing for his own death. Otherwise, he would never have given his younger brother that key. When he returned to Ostagar after the battle, Alistair retrieved his father's blade, but it was one he only wielded once. Instead, it was put on display in the throne room right next to Calenhad's.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 14: Sons of Maric

Solona and Alistair weren't afforded any time for conversation the following day. Most of their time was spent fighting off ever increasing bands of darkspawn. To make matters worse, Alistair was reduced to using his spare blade so that Solona could wield his favored weapon. At first, he was reluctant to allow the mage to utilize his sword during battle, but she was insistent and after the comradery they shared the previous evening, he was afraid to muck things up by telling her no.

During their first encounter of the day with the creatures, the warrior ensured he was never more than a foot or two away from Solona’s back, just in case she needed him. She impressed him with her ability to swing the blade effectively with one hand and cast spells with the other. She had obviously taken his lessons to heart and even began adopting her own fighting style. He still never strayed too far from her in the subsequent battles, but he was no longer as distracted by his worry over her safety.

By the time they found a cave for shelter at the edge of the cliffs, it was well past dark and everyone was too exhausted for conversation during supper. Because they were without another large bolder to use to seal the entrance to the cavern, Alistair was put on first watch for the evening. When he returned to his bedroll after Sithig relieved him, Solona was already fast asleep.

The next day was even more difficult than the last. The closer they got to Ostagar, the larger in number the darkspawn grew. It wasn’t until the ruin finally came into view that they were able to relax a bit. The king’s men and the Wardens who were already present had set up a perimeter around the old fortress leaving only a few small groups of stragglers here and there.

When they stepped through the broken archway, the four Grey Wardens were greeted by a face Alistair knew all too well. King Cailan was the picture of royal ostentation in massive, gold plated armor with black and red trim. The chestplate was adorned with the head of a dragon molded into its front, and the pauldrons were enormous, gaudy things which looked a bit like gigantic wings protruding out to the level of his ears. The bangs of his honey blonde hair were pulled back tight, held together by two small, perfectly woven braids on either side of his head. The remainder of his smooth tresses hung loosely down his shoulders and back. The haughty expression he wore when he stepped forward to greet them could have put Solona to shame. Overall, Alistair thought he looked like a first-class prig.

The king plastered on his best fake smile. “Greetings, Duncan,” he exclaimed as he took the commander’s wrist. “How fare you, my friend?”

Alistair had serious doubts that the pompous ass would be friends with anyone like Duncan. It was obvious he considered himself to be better than everyone around him. It was certain the king regarded himself as a better man than Alistair .

Still the same prat you were at twelve, aren’t you brother?

“I am doing well, your Majesty,” the older Warden replied. “How goes the battle?”

Cailan flashed a toothy grin. “Very well,” he answered “Very well, indeed. We’ve beaten the creatures back successfully every night, and I expect this evening’s battle to be even more promising.” He paused a moment to scan the faces of his soldiers. “We have the finest army in all of Thedas here, and with the mighty Duncan returned to lead the Grey Wardens at my side, we will be unstoppable.”

Not just an ass, but an idiot to boot. Great.

The commander’s face grew serious. “Your Majesty,” he began, but Cailan was already breezing past him.

“And these are your new recruits?” the king questioned as he stopped before Sithig. His eyes slowly moved up the larger man’s chest plate until they met the Avvar’s. He was forced to crane his neck in the effort. “You’re certainly a big one.” He grinned back at his men. “Perhaps I should let him lead the charge and give those ogres a run for their coin.” He returned his attention back to Sithig only to be greeted by a deep scowl. Cailan’s smile widened as he clapped the Avvar on the bicep. “I jest, my friend. You are Avvar, correct?”

“Aye,” Sithig replied, the grimace never leaving his face. “Leastwise I was born Avvar.”

“The backbone of all of Ferelden,” Cailan continued as if the larger man had said nothing. “The Avvar are a proud and noble race. I realize our peoples have our past differences, but I think we can put those aside to fight this menace together. Don’t you…what was your name again?”

“Sithig,” the behemoth grunted.

“Yes,” the king grinned. “That was it.”

He didn’t even tell you before now. Maker fucking jackass.

Alistair couldn’t keep the smirk from his face at that thought. Being around Solona was definitely beginning to rub off on him. He ran his tongue across his lips then clenched them between his teeth.

When Cailan stepped in front of Solona, the smile he wore transformed into a salacious leer. “Aren’t you lovely?” he asked as he took her hand and placed a light kiss on her knuckles.

Not taken in by the king’s attempt at charm, Solona’s face contorted into a look of confusion. When the man’s eyes slowly trailed up her body before meeting hers again, Alistair was ready to break his nose.

Quit ogling her you stupid fuck.

“It just occurs to me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman in the Grey Warden ranks before. I’ve seen pictures, of course, but none of those women were as ravishing as you,” Cailan observed with a slight wink.

For the Maker’s sake, can’t somebody shut him the fuck up?

Solona cocked a contemptuous brow. Alistair knew that expression all too well. She was most decidedly unimpressed.

“Is that so?” she questioned in an acerbic tone. Alistair shifted his weight to the balls of his feet in his excitement to witness the mage put the king in his place. “Your Majesty,” she addressed him with an icy glare. “I am here as a Grey Warden. Nothing more, nothing less. I have fought through dozens upon dozens of darkspawn to get here. I am as hearty and as fit as any man on this field. No disrespect to you or your crown intended, but just because I happen to have breasts does not mean I am some giggling girl to be taken in by your flirtatious words, smiles, winks, or kisses on the hand. So…Why don’t you do us both a tremendous favor, and stop thinking of me as a woman and pretend I’m just another soldier ready to fight and die for my king? Hmm?”

Alistair had to stifle a laugh as he bit down harder on his lips. Duncan appeared to be absolutely appalled. He advanced to Cailan’s side in two wide steps.

“I apologize, your Majesty,” he said with a low bow.

Cailan just chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. “No need, Duncan. If the young lady…soldier fights as well as she hurtles insults, the darkspawn won’t survive the night.” His lids narrowed as he scrutinized the mage. “I don’t believe I caught your name, however.”

“It’s Solona, your Majesty,” she replied. “Solona Amell.”

“From the noble House of Amell in the Free Marches?” he queried.

“Yes,” she answered.

The king shook his head with a loud tsk. “Shame about the Amells, really. They were quite prosperous back in their day.” Solona’s face languished into somber confusion. Alistair discerned that whatever happened to the mage’s family was unknown to her. Cailan clapped a fist to her bicep with a smug smile. “But don’t worry, soldier. I’m quite sure you can bring honor back to the Amell name.”

Alistair’s fingers tightened into fists, and his chest began to rise and fall with short, labored pants. His jaw clenched in anger as his tongue slid across his lips.

You son of a bitch!

The young Warden glared at the king when he stopped in front of him. He began to estimate how much time he would spend in the cage for knocking the prat on his ass. Even if he rotted in the damned thing, it might be worth it just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his brother’s face.

Cailan studied the younger man for a long moment. Alistair could see in those steel blue eyes that the king was attempting to discern where he knew the Warden from. It wasn’t as if the two men grew up together. Alistair had only met Cailan once, and that was nearly thirteen years before that day.

No one would have ever suspected Alistair was a prince of Ferelden, the youngest child of the late King Maric Theirin. Although he was a prince, he was never treated as one. From an early age, it was always made very clear to Alistair that he was nothing. Cailan was the rightful heir to the throne of Ferelden, and Alistair was just a bastard born of an indiscriminate affair their father had with a servant while visiting Redcliffe Castle. Even if the king did eventually recognize Alistair, he was sure Cailan would rather pretend his half-brother never existed at all.

“Ho, friend,” the king said with an uneasy smile. “You seem very familiar to me. Is it possible we have met before?”

Alistair smirked, but there was no mirth in his hazel-green eyes. “Yes, your Majesty,” he replied in an acrid tone. “In Redcliffe. Many years ago.”

Cailan’s lids constricted further. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”

“Alistair,” the young Warden answered.

The king’s smile dropped and his blue eyes widened with awareness. He held the stare for only a few seconds before his expression changed to stone, then reverted back to a tight-lipped smile.

That’s right, you smug bastard. Surprise.

Cailan shrugged in an attempt to play it cool and forced a slight chuckle. “Well, who knows? Anyhow, I am glad you are here. Every Warden is needed now, and I’m sure they will benefit greatly having you among their ranks.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to have your approval,” Alistair said with a caustic inflection as he flourished a garish bow. “Your Majesty.”

As incensed as Solona was after her encounter with the King of Ferelden, it didn’t compare to Alistair’s foul mood. He was beyond agitated. He was downright angry. Something had happened just inside that archway the mage couldn’t quite put her finger on. She considered that her companion’s foul mood might have been a result of the king’s treatment of her, but he seemed irritated before Cailan even spoke to Sithig.

The mage had every intention of getting the truth from her fellow Warden. Later. She knew well the expression he bore. It was one she had worn herself many times over the years. Usually, she didn’t care how he would react to her questioning, but she wasn’t stupid. She understood when to leave well enough alone, and as red-faced and huffy as Alistair was at that moment, she knew he needed both time and some space. He was a kind man, but he apparently had a tremendous temper.

By the time they reached the other side of the long bridge to the main part of the fortress, Alistair seemed to have cooled off a bit. Instead of stomping along, he was walking at a much more normal pace. His usual color had returned and his eyes had reverted to their typical shade of hazel-green from dark brown. When he turned to speak to her, however, he was still sulking.

“So, what did you think of that little meeting?” he asked with an embittered tone.

Solona raised her left brow. “I think the man is a pig.”

Alistair chuckled then displayed a sardonic expression. “He is royalty, you know,” he reminded her.

“Then he’s a royal pig,” the mage stated, her expression unchanging.

Her fellow Warden snorted. “That may be the best description I’ve heard of him yet.”

Against her better judgement, Solona decided to go ahead and inquire about Alistair’s distaste for the king. “So may I ask what got you so wound up back there?”

His face became dark once again. “No,” he replied before speeding his pace and walking away from her.

She considered following after him, but decided it really was best if she left him alone. Instead, she made her way to the quartermaster’s tent on the other side of the camp, right where Duncan said it would be. The commander had given her half a sovereign that morning before they packed up to leave so she might buy her own sword. After using Alistair’s, she knew just what to look for in a blade and exactly what she wanted.

After haggling with the man for more than fifteen minutes, she finally talked him down to a reasonable price and walked away with a brand new sword, a back scabbard, a handful of lyrium potions and a few coppers left in her pocket. On her way to find her companions, she was greeted by a man she didn’t know dressed in the blue and grey.

“You’re Solona, right?” he asked with a thick, rich Rivaini accent and a friendly smile.

The Warden wasn’t an altogether unattractive man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with a dark tan and black hair that curled into large ringlets an inch or so below his ears. The corners of his mouth and grey eyes were marked with deep lines from a mixture of hearty laughter and spending too much time in the sun. A long scar from an old gash ran across the left side of his scruff-covered square jaw. He wore the same plate and scale Alistair sported, denoting him as a warrior. Solona mused that he must have been a raider or mercenary in his former life. He just had that look about him.

“I am,” she answered in her typical haughty tone.

“The commander asked me to fetch you,” he explained. “We have to get you fitted for your uniform before the battle tonight.”

Without waiting for any response from the mage, he pivoted on his right heel and walked toward a set of stone steps on her right. Solona fell in behind him, noting a slight limp in the man’s gait as he made his way to the stairs, something most likely earned in one of the nightly battles against the darkspawn. As they ascended the steps, he addressed her from over his shoulder.

“I’m Tovi, by the way,” he informed her. “We don’t get a whole lot of gifted in the Wardens, so we have quite a few mage’s uniforms in the stockpile. With your height, you should be fairly easy to fit with a few minor alterations here and there to allow for your curves.”

For the first time since reaching adolescence, Solona was actually grateful for her statuesque build. At five feet nine, she stood several inches taller than most women in Thedas, a condition which she abhorred. In the tower, other women were forever asking her to reach for books on high shelves while she was perusing the library. Senior Enchanter Rachel was the worst offender. The old crone always opted for Solona’s aid in obtaining the vials from the uppermost cupboards in her classroom in lieu of seeking the assistance of one of her male counterparts. But her biggest difficulty in regards to her stature came from Anders. It was well known in the tower that he preferred women far shorter than his six and a half foot frame. Solona couldn’t count the amount of times she saw him give his most rapt attentions to females much smaller than herself. Subconsciously, she reached up and folded her fingers around the templar amulet nestled between her breasts upon the ideation of her former lover.

“That other one, though,” Tovi continued. “He’s going to be a lot more difficult. The tailor and the smith are going to have to work the rest of the afternoon to finish his on time. I just hope we have enough materials.”

“So you’re not a garment maker, then?” she asked.

He chuckled. It was not a caustic or sullen laugh inherent to most battle-hardened warriors, but clear and blithe like it came from someone who was genuinely content with his lot in life. Growing up in the Circle, it was a sound rarely heard by the mage from anyone over the age of eleven or twelve.

“Hardly,” he replied. “I got wounded a few days ago, so I’ve been assigned light duty until my leg has a chance to recover. The healer they brought from Kinloch offered to help, but there are men far worse off than me that could use her attention. No need wasting good mana on such trifles.”

Solona sped her pace so she could walk at his side. “You seem to know a great deal about mages,” she observed. “Most mundanes don’t have a clue what mana is.”

The older Warden shrugged. “My gram was a healer. Saw her wiped out more than once from mana drain after a hard case. Nearly kill herself at times. She was a good one, my gram.”

“So your grandmother was an apostate?” Solona asked with surprise.

“I suppose your Chantry would call her that,” he replied with another shrug. “Things worked a bit differently back in Rivain. We never took much stock in the Maker or any such nonsense.” He stopped and waggled his head before heaving a resolved sigh. “Sorry about that. I know mainlanders are usually devout folk. I didn’t mean any offense by it.”

Solona smirked. “Trust me, I am not offended. Personally, I think most of its rubbish myself.”

Tovi nodded then continued his procession forward. “I should have known a mage from the Circle might see things a bit differently than the rest of these people.”

Beyond the holding cages lay the Grey Warden encampment. Small tents akin to the one rolled up on top of Solona’s pack were arranged in several neat rows with linear paths running between them. A wider walkway extended down the center, leading to a series of larger tents and awnings with canvas of blue and grey.

Tovi led Solona to one of the open coverings on the left where a bare-chested, burly man was engaged in flattening sheets of steel with a heavy smithing hammer out front. A blonde elf wearing a blue tunic bearing the image of a grey griffon on its front appeared from inside. In his hand, he carried a long, knotted, measuring rope and a clipboard with an inkwell attached to its top right corner. When he approached Solona, he grinned up at her, affording her a view of the prominent gap between his oversized front teeth.

“Spectacular!” he exclaimed in a high pitched voice before peering over at Tovi. “She’ll be a lot easier to fit than the last one. Might as well ask me to sew a cover for a mountain.

“I’m not sure they didn’t,” the other man jested.

The elf chortled as he returned his attention to the mage. “Name’s Senren,” he told her as he began running the rope down the length of her right side. “This’ll only take a minute.”

Senren worked quickly and quietly, checking each measurement twice and writing the figures down on the parchment attached to the clipboard. When he finished measuring the mage’s frame, he bent down and yanked her foot from her boot.

“Hey!” Solona shrieked as she caught her balance.

“Sorry,” the elf apologized while stretching the rope across the side of her foot. “But you’ll need new boots, too. These are just ghastly.”

“Ugh,” the mage groaned. “So I have to break in another pair of boots?”

Senren gave a dismissive shrug as he penned several numbers. “Afraid so. It’s all part of the uniform.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “When will the infernal thing be ready?”

“Yours should be relatively easy,” he replied, “but the guy ahead of you is going to take a while.” He pursed his lips as he concentrated a moment. “I’d say...late afternoon. Before dusk, of course, we can’t have you fighting off all those darkspawn in…” He grimaced as he waved his hand up and down to indicate his distaste for her attire. “Whatever that is.” He waggled his head with a tsk. “Where in Andraste’s name? Darling, you should sue…seriously.”

“She just had to fight her way through all those spawn to get here, Senren,” Tovi informed him with a creased brow. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care how she looks right now.”

The elf rolled his eyes. “Of course she cares, Tovi. Didn’t you notice the makeup?” He huffed an animated sigh. “You don’t know the first thing about women, do you?

The Rivaini man flashed a toothy grin before smacking the elf on the buttocks. “Don’t need to. My thoughts are too occupied with your ass.”

Senren gave a playful slap to Tovi’s bicep. “Don’t tease, love. I have too much work to do.”

The other man gave his lover a saucy wink. “Just giving you some ideas for later.” He then turned to Solona. “Duncan wants you to meet him by the fire at the center of the main camp. Would you like for me to show you where it is?”

“No,” she answered, attempting to stifle a chuckle. It’s not that Solona thought there was anything particularly humorous about the exchange. The behavior of the two men didn’t even surprise her. Maker knows Anders had his share of male lovers. It was just a bit odd to find such an enamored couple in the midst of such a terrible and gloomy place. In truth, she found it both refreshing and endearing.

She took a minute to regain her usual countenance. “I think I can find my way on my own.”

“Fare thee well, then,” Tovi said with a fist clapped to his heart. “Perhaps we shall meet again on the field of battle. Until that time, may the good spirits guide you.”

The mage answered his salute with one of her own. The gesture felt entirely odd and foreign to her. It was an action she had witnessed the templars perform hundreds of times over the years, but she never imagined there would come a day she would imitate such a thing herself.

As she made her way back to the central part of the camp, it finally hit Solona like a ton of bricks. She was a soldier about to fight in a war against vile and horrendous creatures with no ambition beyond the destruction of everything in their path. A gnawing, twisting pain churned in her gut. This was real, and there was no turning back.

Alistair had quite the chip on his shoulder in regards to his family. I can’t really say that I blame him, though. The most important lesson he learned from the meeting with Cailan that day was how to temper confidence in the abilities of his troops with just a bit of humility. The one thing he never wanted to be was Cailan, and he spent a good deal of his reign trying to prove he wasn’t his brother.

Solona always said that was the day the Blight, and what it meant, became a reality for her. She made the decision that she would put all she had into the duty given to her. Being a Grey Warden was extremely important to Solona, at least for a time. It was the moment she chose to take responsibility for something much bigger than herself. Even after her time with the Wardens was over, the call to be more is one she still gladly answers.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 13: The Lesson

The Wardens' progress was impeded by four different bands of darkspawn on their march through the cliffs toward Ostagar that day, and the reality of what they would face when they arrived was finally beginning to sink in. There was at least another full day's march through the ridge before they reached the marshland surrounding the fortress, and another half day's trek to the crumbling ruin itself. It seemed the further south they traveled, the more aggressive and numerous their enemy grew.

Just after nightfall, Duncan found a small cave in the cliffside where they would bed down for the evening. The shelter wasn't cozy or warm by any means, but at least it was defensible and kept out the frigid wind blowing through the canyon. To prevent attracting unwanted attention, the Wardens' usual campfire was foregone in favor of several glowstones to light the inside of the grotto while they dined on their usual travel rations.

Sithig seemed to be taking it all in stride. He was a man who was obviously familiar with such primitive accommodations. Solona, on the other hand, appeared to be completely agitated. While the others ate their meager suppers, she paced near the entrance, throwing sidelong glares at Alistair every few steps.

The young warrior took his time in finishing his meal. He was certainly in no hurry to be reprimanded by the mage, especially when he wasn't sure what he did to raise her ire in the first place. Of course, the longer he stalled the impending scolding, the more cross she became. By the time Alistair finally approached Solona, she was fit to be tied.

"What in the Maker fuck took you so long?" she seethed.

Might as well get this over and done with.

"Did I do something wrong?" he questioned with a furrow of his brow. "Besides taking too long to eat, that is."

She heaved a perturbed sigh. "You promised to teach me to use a sword, remember? We're less than two days from Ostagar and you haven't done one thing to help me learn."

So that was it. She had remained practically glued to his side during every battle they had with the creatures that day, throwing lightening and an array of entropy spells at any hurlocks they encountered. The genlocks, which outnumbered their larger counterparts two to one, she left alone for Alistair to deal with. He thought the two of them made an effective team. She, on the other hand, apparently saw it differently.

"So, are you going to keep your word?" she continued after waiting for him to answer and not receiving a response right away. "Or am I going to be forced to brand you a liar?"

Alistair felt helpless to respond. He had every intention of teaching her, but he wasn't sure it was possible before they reached Ostagar. It wasn't exactly as if they had a lot of room to maneuver, and even if that weren't the case, the noise of clanging blades would surely garner any nearby enemies' attention. While he understood her concern, there was no way he could take that kind of chance with all of their lives.

"I wasn't lying to you, Solona," he explained. "I'll teach you if that's what you want, but this isn't exactly the best place to do it. Any sound we make will echo through this canyon. If the darkspawn hear it, they'll be on us like flies on shit. We might as well put out a big sign…assuming darkspawn can read, that is."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Alistair. I know how sound works. But I am a fairly talented mage, and I have ways of getting around that."

The warrior was genuinely curious. How in the Maker's name did one negate sound? He folded his arms across his broad chest.

"I'm listening."

"Why don't I just show you instead," she offered.

The mage closed her eyes and lifted her hands to the level of her chest. Her palms rotated outward as her fingers began to wiggle gently. Within moments, a large boulder near the entrance began to produce a low rumbling noise as it rose from the ground. It hovered a few inches in the air then slowly began moving toward the hole leading outside. A minute later, it settled back into the dirt in front of the doorway, covering the passage almost entirely, leaving only a few minuscule cracks for dim moonlight to seep through.

"Well, that should certainly help," he admitted. He still wasn't convinced the barricade would keep them from being heard.

"I'm not finished," she told him as she walked toward the rock.

With her finger, she traced a circle on the cavern wall around the outer edges of the boulder. As she worked, a series of complicated runes began glowing a faint green everywhere she touched. Alistair recognized it as a glyph of some sort, but he didn't know enough about the intricacies of magic to determine what it was used for. The only thing he recognized was the color, which denoted a spell of Creation.

When Solona was finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork, but Alistair saw nothing but vague tracks in the dust. The mage shut her eyes again, and the former templar initiate felt the pull of the Fade surround her before directing the magic into the rock ahead. The cave was brightened by an eerie green radiance as the circle of runes she had drawn lit up, revealing the glyph in its entirety. After a few seconds, the incandescent symbol faded, leaving them in near darkness once more. He couldn't explain it, but the entire process fascinated Alistair.

"What was that?" he questioned.

She produced a smug grin. "A Glyph of Sealing," she replied. "It will prevent any sound from escaping the cave or entering it. It also seals the entrance from intruders. The only way anyone is getting through there is if they break that boulder. If that happens, we're in more trouble than the five of us can probably manage."

"But won't that make it a bit hard to breathe in here?" Alistair asked while tugging at the collar of his shirt. He was already struggling with being in such a confined space. The realization that the way out was obstructed and that their only air supply had been closed off was beginning to make him feel faint.

"Air can still be transported through the seal," she explained. "As well as light. Just not sound or any type of physical properties." Her grin widened. "Don't worry, I have no intention of killing you. Not yet, anyway."

He scowled. "That's certainly a comfort."

Ignoring his cynical retort, Solona strolled over to where the other two men were engaged in conversation and grabbed the spare sword Alistair normally stored in his rolled tent while they traveled. It was far more unwieldly than his normal blade and not nearly as sharp, but he kept it just in case his favored sword broke in combat. The mage then retrieved a handful of glowstones from her pack and placed them along the wall of the entrance for light. When her task was complete, she turned to the warrior with a curt nod and brandished the blade before him.

"There," she said. "All set. Now you have no more excuses. What's first?"

Alistair couldn't help but chuckle at seeing her standing there trying to maintain what she perceived to be a fighting stance, gripping the handle of a sword she could barely hold. Waggling his head, he removed his own blade from its sheath then walked around to her right side.

"First of all," he told her as he removed the clunky weapon from her hand and replaced it with the more suitable one. "You'll never be able to learn anything with that piece of shit. The balance is all wrong, and you'll just end up with it planted in the ground if you're lucky, your toe if you're not."

He tossed the spare blade to the side then shifted her grip on the one in her hand so that sides of her index finger and thumb were against the guard. "Always hold it like this, close to the guard. It'll give you better control over your swings."

"That is a bit easier," she admitted as she made a slash to the air, but the movement made her wince. "Maker fuck!" she cursed. "It doesn't feel as if I'm going to drop it anymore while I'm just holding it, but this thing at the end hurts like a bloody bitch when it slams into your wrist."

"It's called a pommel," he explained while stifling a laugh. He recalled making the same mistake the first time a sword was put in his hand. The difference was, he dropped the blade when it happened to him. Knight Commander Glavin had been less than pleased with that response. The old templar made him repeat the movement so many times the boy thought his arm would fall off before Glavin finally taught him the proper way to grip the hilt.

Alistair intended to be a bit more understanding when instructing Solona. After placing his right hand over hers, he moved around behind her and pulled the weapon closer to her body. His breathing became labored as he drew her into him. He closed his eyes in an effort to calm his respirations as he wrapped his left arm around her lower bicep and grasped the half of the sword's guard which pointed toward the ground. He could feel the heavy rise and fall of her chest above his arms, prompting him to wonder if it was caused by pain or perhaps…No. He couldn't allow himself to consider such things, especially not while trying to teach her something so important.

Forget it, jackass. She's way out of your league. You know it. She knows it. So move on.

"If you tighten your entire hand around it," Alistair continued with his cheek pressed against hers. "The pommel will continue to dig into your wrist and your whole arm will go numb with pain after a while." He applied pressure to her second and third fingers. "But, if you keep the core of your grip with your two middle fingers and use the other two for balance…" He tugged on the guard enough to demonstrate the movement which allowed the pommel to move past the side of her wrist and slide across its center. "You'll find it easier to maneuver and you'll keep your arm from turning a lovely shade of black and blue."

Solona turned her face until their lips nearly touched. It would have only taken the tiniest advance to press his mouth to hers. Alistair's breath quickened as he mustered every ounce of fortitude he possessed not to close the gap and kiss her. He licked his lips, barely missing hers with his tongue.

"So," she whispered. "A bit like holding onto a cock while polishing the lamppost?"

The warrior's lids fluttered in genuine shock while her expression remained calm as if she hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. He felt a familiar stirring in his smalls when the image of his manhood parting her full lips invaded his brain. He jerked his head back and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Polished a lot of lampposts, have you?" he questioned with the arch of a brow.

"More than my fair share, I expect," she replied with a sly grin.

Alistair considered the meaning behind her words. He had expected her to answer with something like, "one or two" or "possibly ", not, "More than my fair share." Outside of prostitutes, most women would never admit to such a thing. He didn't think any less of her for it, of course. He always thought the double-standard when it came to the sexuality of men versus women was ridiculous. It did denote something very important, however. She was obviously experienced and had been with several experienced men. He was a virgin. Even if he somehow managed to convince her to begin a romantic relationship with him, she would never tolerate his sexual ignorance.

"That's…" he hesitated as he tried to think of an appropriate response while maintaining an unaffected expression. He ran his tongue across his lips. "Interesting."

Once again, he realized he said the completely wrong thing. Her smile faded as soon as the word left his mouth. She took a deep breath as she donned the façade of indifference she wore so well when attempting to hide her emotions. Her eyes, however, betrayed the truth she tried to disguise.

Way to go, jackass.

The warrior cleared his throat and pulled his pelvis back a few inches, praying she didn't feel the effect of her words.

Thank the Maker for armored tunics.

"Anyway," he resumed as he repositioned his hands. "The thing you want to remember is to keep your grip supple. It will make the blade come alive in your hand. You may even want to think of the pommel as a sort of fulcrum which the sword pivots around during the cut."

When she nodded to indicate she understood his explanation, he moved on. "A sword doesn't deliver its damage as it hits the target, but as it passes through." He moved the weapon around to demonstrate his impending statement. "It's all in the line that slants across and through the target and guiding the blade as freely and as quickly as possible along that imagined line.

"You'll cut best when you don't think too much about the target, but more about how the sword arcs through the space around you. Pick your target, picture a straight line through it, then guide the blade along that line as quickly and accurately as you can. As long as your grip remains agile, your attack should be effortless."

Solona stepped away from him and began slicing the air. "Like this?"

Alistair was actually impressed. While her swings weren't perfect, she seemed to have a good grasp on the subject at hand. With a little practice, she had the potential to be quite good. She was certainly doing better than he had with his first lesson.

For the next few hours, he showed her how to fade and lunge, advance and retreat, shed and thrust, pivot and step across, and most importantly, to him anyway, every guard position in his repertoire. When Solona told him she was too sore and tired to go on, they made their way to their respective bedrolls. Without even a moment's hesitation, the mage stripped off her boots and trousers. She didn't even turn around, which gave him a good view of the fact that she didn't wear smallclothes. His face flushed with embarrassment as he circled to remove his armor. By the time he placed his uniform on the ground, Solona was already tucked into her sleep sack, leaving Alistair to thank the Maker for small favors.

The other two Wardens were fast asleep before he and the mage decided to call it quits for the evening. Alistair wondered how the men could have possibly slept through all the clanging and clattering he and Solona were making until he noticed how loud Sithig's snores were as they reverberated off the cavern walls. After several minutes, Solona finally rolled over to face Alistair.

"How in the bloody void are we supposed to sleep with that infernal racket?"

The young Warden shook his head. "I don't know. It sounds like a wounded bronto with a head cold."

She laughed. "I don't think that entire band of darkspawn we fought just before nightfall made as much noise."

"At least that sound was more pleasant," he countered. "I'm seriously considering taking my chances outside."

The mage shivered. "It's a bit too cold out there for my tastes." She scowled as she peered around the chamber. "Actually, it's a bit too cold in here for my tastes, too."

Before Alistair realized what was happening, Solona stood up, grabbed her bedroll, and placed it next to his on the ground. When she lay down next to him and curled up to his body with her back against his chest, he thought he might have a heart attack. She then took hold of his hand and encircled her waist with his arm. He could feel her bare breast beneath the thin linen shirt with his forerm, and his manhood began to enlarge again.

"Do you mind?" she asked. "I'm freezing and this way we can generate some body heat."

He recalled the last time he slept next to her like that and the reaction she had, prompting him to shift his body where she wouldn't feel his erection pressing against her. It was uncomfortable as the void, but it was better than incurring Solona's wrath. She smiled at him over her shoulder.

"In the winter months, it would get so cold in the tower that Jowan and I would do this all the time."

"Jowan?" he questioned.

Probably another boyfriend.

"My best friend," she explained. "From the time I was five." She grimaced. "And no, it wasn't like that. We were just really close friends."

As he bobbed his head in understanding, Alistair couldn't help but wonder if Jowan ever found himself in the predicament he was in. Between Sithig's snoring and his raging erection, he was fairly certain he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night. After a while, when the mage's breathing evened out and Alistair was sure she was asleep, he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek.

"Goodnight, Solona," he whispered.

Her lips curled into a faint smile before softly murmuring, "Goodnight, Alistair."

............................................

Alistair was obviously a good teacher. By the time I met Solona only a few weeks later, she was wielding a sword as if she had been doing so all her life. Not surprising, really. Alistair was the best swordsman I have ever met. I wonder sometimes what would have happened if those two would have just kissed that night. Of course, if that happened, things between all of us may have turned out a lot differently.

-G

[serenas-tales]

The True Tale of the Fifth Blight Origins: The Wardens-Chapter 12: A Glimpse Into the Past

It was late by the time the Wardens returned to camp following Jory and Daveth’s pyre. Alistair was given the task of taking first watch while the others got some much needed sleep. It had been a long day, and they had at least three more ahead of them before they arrived at Ostagar.

While the rest of the Wardens bedded down for the evening, Alistair took a seat on the fallen log next to the fire pit and began pushing the coals around with the end of a long, whittled-down branch. It was quiet, too quiet actually. The darkspawn attack the night before had driven away any wildlife that normally inhabited the grove of trees surrounding them. There were no whippoorwills calling out to each other, no croaks of bullfrogs, or even the chirping of crickets. Just the crackling and popping of the fire and an uneasy reticence in the air.

After watching the dancing flames for a while, the young warrior pulled a small whetstone from his pack and his sword from its sheath and began polishing the blade. It had become a habit since he and Duncan left Denerim. The sound of the stone scraping against the metal echoed throughout the clearing and into the coppice surrounding him. Somehow the noise made him feel more at ease.

Alistair stopped when he detected rustling nearby. He shut his eyes, trying to discern if there were darkspawn in their midst, but he felt nothing. A few minutes later, Solona emerged from her tent wearing nothing but one of the oversized linen shirts Duncan had purchased for her in Wenborne and a heavy wool blanket across her shoulders.

She crept over to the fire, taking great care not to cut her feet on any sharp rocks or twigs, and sat down right beside him. After bringing the knees of her long, bare legs to her chest, she wrapped her entire body in the coverlet, but not before Alistair got a good view of her bare breasts beneath the thin top. His face grew hot and he knew he was blushing. He only hoped Solona hadn’t detected the change in color.

“You’re going to catch your death out here like that, you know,” he told her as he continued to work on his sword.

“That’s what the blanket is for,” explained the mage

He shrugged. “It’s your choice, but I’m not carrying you tomorrow if you get sick.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers and smiled. “Yes you will.”

The warrior cocked a brow. “You seem awfully sure of that. What makes you think I would risk throwing my back out to carry you?”

Her grin widened. “Given your past behavior, I’d say the odds are with me.”

Alistair had to chuckle at her statement. She was probably right. No, she was definitely right. He’d do it, whether it was caused by her own inane behavior or not. The biggest trouble was, she knew it.

His hands continued to maneuver the stone across his blade as he observed the mage from the corner of his eye. She didn’t seem to notice as she stared into the fire. Although she was sitting next to him, her thoughts were miles away. Her doleful expression told him those musings were less than pleasant.

He ran his tongue over his lips and cleared his throat to garner her attention. “It suddenly occurs to me that I know absolutely nothing about you, other than the fact that you’re a mage and you were taken to the tower when you were five years old, that is.”

She turned her face to him and tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed in slight confusion. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“What? That you’re a mage or that you were taken to the tower when you were five?” he teased.

She rolled her lapis eyes. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

He screwed up his face, his eyes upward and askance, in mock concentration for a moment before wagging his head. “No…” he said, then gave a snap of his fingers. “Wait…there was that one time. But that didn’t work out so well for me, so I decided to give it up.”

Solona’s shoulders shook with an easy laugh. “You are absolutely, barking mad. You know that, right?”

“Not quite,” he joked. “I haven’t reached the barking part yet. Growling occasionally, yes, but I never bark.”

After a bit more chuckling, the mage leaned against Alistair and placed her head on his right shoulder. His brow creased with confusion as his lips curved into an appreciative smile. He could hardly believe it. She was actually beginning to warm up to him. He considered putting an arm around her shoulders, but decided he shouldn’t press his luck.

“So, what is it that you think you want to know?” she queried.

Everything.

That was the answer he wished to give her. He wanted to tell her to start from the beginning. To fill in the gap between her earliest memory to the evening they met. He realized she would never agree to that request, but that was what he desired. Instead he chose to start with the most basic of questions and hoped she would elaborate further

He placed the side of his head against the top of hers. “Alright…Where are you from? Besides the tower, I mean.”

“I was born in Kirkwall to the noble House of Amell. I barely remember any of it, though. When I was four, my mother disappeared. She just left one morning and didn’t return. My father searched for her, but never found her. Right after my fifth birthday, he woke us in the middle of the night and took us from the city.”

“Us?” Alistair interrupted.

“My two brothers, my sister, and I,” she clarified.

“Was it because the templars were after you?” he questioned.

“Not after me,” explained the mage “My oldest brother, Decimus. He was ten. I didn’t even know I had magic at the time. Anyway, my father took us to Cumberland. The evening we arrived, we stopped at an inn, but father didn’t have enough coin to pay for a room. Instead, the innkeeper took every last coin my father had to let us stay in the loft of the stables out back. While we were getting ready for bed, Decimus got upset about something. I really don’t remember what, but in his anger, he accidently set fire to a pile of straw. Father put it out, of course, but the innkeeper was furious.

“The next thing I knew, I was awakened by a large man in armor who picked me up and carried me outside. There were seven more templars waiting in the street. They each examined all four of us in turn then went to talk to my father. A few minutes later, he was yelling and crying and the templar who woke me picked me up. One bound Decimus’s hands together with manacles, and another did the same to my brother, Maddox. They took us to the Chantry and put us in separate cells.”

“What about your sister?” the warrior asked.

“They left her with my father,” she replied. “Apparently, she didn’t have the gift.”

It was no wonder she was so bitter. First her mother abandoned her. Then she had to leave the only home she ever knew just to be torn away from the rest of her family and taken to a cell like some common thief when she was barely five years old.

The only time the former initiate had ever been involved in taking a child away from its parents was dramatic enough. The boy’s name was Ryan. He was eleven, and it was his own mother who called for the templars at Bournshire. When Alistair and Knight-Commander Glavin arrived to collect Ryan, the boy cried for his mother, but she just collected her coin and turned her back on her son to return inside their home.

Alistair tried to console the child, but Glavin chastised him for it.

Don’t be such a soft touch, initiate. You can’t be kind to mages. If the older ones detect weakness, they’ll use that to their advantage.

Alistair didn’t believe it then, and his opinion certainly hadn’t changed over the following two years. That was when he began doubting the Chantry’s methods. Those doubts were cemented during Eva’s Harrowing.

“Then what happened?” he requested of his fellow Warden.

“The next morning, my brothers were taken away. I was there until nightfall when two completely different templars took me aboard a ship. At first, the captain refused us passage, but he changed his mind in the end.”

“Wanted more coin, did he?”

“No…” she hesitated. “I demanded that he take us. I told him the templars were part of the Chantry and he had to follow Chantry law.”

Alistair gave her a questioning stare. “And that worked?”

“Not exactly,” she told him. “He said, Darlin’ I don’t believe in the Chantry and I don’t give one wit about its laws. What else do you have to offer an old pirate? That’s when I told him that he could be arrested if he didn’t listen.” She gauged Alistair’s expression for a long moment. “I was a very precocious child.”

“Not much has changed then?” the warrior quipped with a smirk.

“I suppose not,” she admitted with a shrug. “Anyway, he said, Better men than these two have tried, but by the time they send for the backup they’ll need, I’ll have shoved off and be halfway to Rivain.”

“So how in the Maker’s name did the templars get him to agree to take you?” Alistair inquired.

“I’m not sure what changed his mind, actually. He looked my escorts over for a few minutes and told the boy who was with him to ready the cabin next to the captain’s quarters for me and the one next to the galley for the templars.”

“That’s odd,” the former initiate mused. “Maybe he didn’t like the looks of your guards.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we sailed right to the docks of Lake Calenhad and the captain traveled with us by ferry, right to the door of the tower.”

Alistair would never say it to Solona, but he had the feeling that ship’s captain saw something very untoward in those men’s eyes. It wasn’t unheard of for some templars who transported young mages to Circles to take advantage of the children. It was even rumored that some of those men acquired the job just for that purpose. It was a sad truth, but there were very demented people in the world, even among those who claimed to be agents of the Maker.

“Do you remember the captain’s name?” the warrior questioned.

The mage shook her head. “No, I never asked.”

Whomever the man was, Alistair felt he should be commended for saving a little girl from such an unspeakable fate. Stories like that always had a tendency to restore his faith in humanity. It told him that, no matter how bad things became, there were always good people willing to stand up for what was right.

Solona nuzzled her cheek against Alistair’s shoulder, which brought a smile back to his face. They sat in silence for a time, but for once, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t an awkward lull, but more a comfortable peace. In the matter of an hour or so, Solona went from an uneasy acquaintance to a friend. At least he hoped they were friends.

Alistair could see by the position of the moon that it was nearly time for Duncan to take the next watch. He still had a million questions, but one weighed on his mind more than the others. He only hoped it was one that wouldn’t damage the progression of their budding friendship.

“Who’s Anders?” he queried.

She jolted upright and glowered at him. “How do you know that name?”

Way to go, jackass.

“I…I heard you say it,” he stuttered to explain. “You mentioned him back in Wenborne. I…I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Solona’s indignant expression deflated into one of utter despair, and her eyes began to glisten in the firelight. Her hand reached up to clutch a small amulet that hung between her breasts. Whomever this Anders was, he had obviously hurt her very badly. Alistair had never seen anyone look so sorrowful, so devoid of hope as she ran the flat of her thumb over the small piece of jewelry. His own heart was breaking for her.

She gulped, clearly in an effort to hold back her tears. “Anders is…was…my lover. We were together for a very long time.”

“It must have been difficult to leave him behind.”

She waggled her head. “He left me behind. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair apologized. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

The lines in her forehead deepened. “I don’t want to talk about it. About him. Ever.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “Forget I said anything.”

She nodded before turning her face away from him and swiping at her eyes with her fingertips. Alistair wanted to hug her, to hold her until she felt better and her tears stopped flowing. Instead, he continued to sit there like a statue.

“I think I’m going to go back to my tent now,” she said as she stood. “Goodnight, Alistair.”

“Goodnight, Solona,” he told her, but she was gone before he finished saying her name.

............................................

The Wardens set out before dawn the following morning. Duncan was in such a hurry for them to be on their way that he ordered them back on the road as soon as their tents were broken down and packed. He didn't even allow them time for breakfast. Instead, he required them to eat their meal as they traveled.

It wasn't as if the morning fare was any different than their suppers. Solona was so fed up with hard tack and dried pork that she didn't care if she ever had either again. She was never especially fond of eating meat in the first place, but with such a dire lack of options, she was forced to choke down the jerky when the pangs in her gut became too much to bear.

The mage grimaced while chewing on the tough, stringy meat. She wasn't sure how much more of it her stomach could handle as it rumbled in protest. What she wouldn't have given for a fresh apple or pear at that moment.

"If you're not careful, your face is going to get stuck like that," Alistair teased as he fell in step at her side.

Solona gave a small chuckle. It was the same thing she always said to Jowan when he was being particularly mopey. He presented her with an uneven grin when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Her heart skipped a beat, and the queasiness in her belly gave way to the sensation of butterflies. She blanched.

What in the void?

Although she found Alistair attractive, she had never experienced anything like that around him before. In fact, there was only one man who ever created such feelings within her. How was that even possible? She concentrated on the path ahead in an effort to push the thought from her mind.

"If I keep eating this shit," she retorted. "That could become a distinct possibility."

"I know what you mean," he agreed. "If it's true what they say about becoming what you eat, I'm liable to start oinking any minute."

"Don't you do that already?" quipped the mage.

"Only in my tent," the warrior replied. "Tends to put people off otherwise."

Solona snorted a laugh. It was a ridiculous sentiment, but between his delivery of the comeback and the fluttering in her stomach, she couldn't stop the sound from escaping. Her face began to grow overly warm as she felt her cheeks flush from embarrassment.

"Dear Maker, it's happened to you already," he exclaimed before snatching the piece of meat from her hand and flinging it into the dried grass next to the road. "There. We don't want you growing a snout. I don't think you could pull off that look. And the tail…that might get a bit painful when you go to sit down."

"Hey!" the mage protested with the arc of a brow. As disgusting as the pork was, she still needed nourishment. "Now what am I supposed to eat?"

The warrior flashed an impish grin as he reached into his pocket. A moment later, he produced a small pear with skin of pale green and dappled with light brown spots. After days of nothing but dried pork and hardtack, Solona was unable to recall anything that looked more delicious.

"Here," he offered as he handed the piece of fruit over to her. "I've been saving it for an emergency. I think this qualifies as one."

She accepted his gift with an appreciative smile and a quiet, "Thank you."

Alistair's gesture was one of the most considerate things anyone had ever done for her. Solona knew he had to be as fed up with travel rations as she was, yet he chose to give to her the only relief he had from the monotonous fare. For the first time in her life, someone showed her true kindness without any ulterior motive. Even Jowan was no exception to that.

Solona always felt that the affection he gave her was born from a lack of options more than anything. He had always been too timid to make any other friends. He wouldn't even talk to anyone else unless he was forced into it. Alistair, on the other hand, wasn't shy. He could have spent his time with Sithig or even Duncan, for that matter, but he opted to remain in her company.

"You are most welcome," he replied with a slight tilt of the head.

The mage pulled the dagger Duncan purchased for her from its sheath then carefully sliced the pear down the center. She wiped the blade across her sleeve before returning it to its holder then licked off the small bit of juice which had trickled onto her palm, earning her a chortle from Alistair. When she offered one of the halves to her companion, he declined with a wave of his hand.

"No thanks," he refused. "I don't really like pears. To be honest, I don't care for fruit much at all…Except for apples, of course. If that had been an apple, you'd be shit out of luck. I would have eaten it by now."

Solona's brow furrowed in bewilderment. "Then why in void did you have it in the first place if you weren't planning to eat the Maker fucking thing?"

His expression echoed hers. "You say that a lot, don't you? Maker fuck, maker fucking. Where in the void did you come up with that anyway?"

The mage's shoulders drooped with a heavy sigh. Anders. It was his favorite curse. For all his intelligence and arrogance, the older mage certainly maintained decidedly colorful and crass language at times, especially when he was irritated or angry. Over the years, Solona had adopted using such common idioms herself. It was a dreadful practice she really needed to stop.

"Bad habit I picked up in the Circle," she admitted. "I mean no offense."

She had no intention of going into further detail about it. She had already managed to skirt around the subject of Anders once with Alistair. Sooner or later, she was sure he would bring the subject of her former lover up again, but she didn't want to speak of him right then. She didn't really want to ever talk about him, especially not to her fellow Warden. She bit into one of the pear halves and began to chew.

"I'm not really offended," he told her. "Don't get me wrong. I've been known to throw fuck around like a bad tempered horse throws shoes, and I take the Maker's name in vain just about every time I open my mouth, but I've never heard the two used together like that before."

When she took another bite in lieu of answering his unasked question, he continued. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but most of the time you seem a little too articulate to use that kind of language."

Solona swallowed the mouthful she had been working on and arched a condescending brow. "That was a really big word for you," she gibed. "I hope you didn't hurt yourself."

He screwed up his face as she took another bite. "Come to think of it, that did smart a bit. I hope there's no permanent damage." His right shoulder lifted then promptly fell. "Oh, well. I suppose that's what I get for spending so much time with such an intelligent and beautiful woman."

The mage nearly choked on the fruit she was attempting to swallow. Was he actually flirting with her? Up until that moment, she had honestly grown to believe Alistair preferred the company of other men. She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, causing him to halt his own progression. He stared down at her as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. As usual, she detected no hint of lust or even affection in his hazel eyes, just a slight twinkle of mischief to match his impish grin.

Damn, you're sexy.

Those were the first words that came to mind, but she wasn't about to tell him that. Instead, she chose to dawn one of her haughty, questioning looks.

"Did you just call me beautiful?" she asked.

"And intelligent," he repeated. "Don't forget that part."

Her lids narrowed. "But you called me beautiful."

He shrugged, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Yes, I suppose I did," he said then began marching forward again. After a few steps, he peered at her over his shoulder. "You coming or are you just going to keep standing there with your mouth open like that?"

............................................

Alistair's grin widened as he continued along the highway. He didn't see any harm in a bit of flirtatious banter, and Solona's addled expression was worth any backlash he might receive from the deed. It wasn't as if he didn't care for her. Quite the contrary, actually. After the hour or so they spent talking the previous evening, his affection for her had grown immensely.

When the mage hurried to catch up to him, he internally recoiled from the coming repercussion of his earlier transgression. He was genuinely surprised when she remained silent, opting to take another bite of her pear instead. When he looked down at her, he could have sworn he detected the hint of a smile. Could her newfound disposition really have been a result of his flirting? Was it possible she shared his fondness?

It didn't really matter either way. For the first time since he met Solona, she appeared to be in a good mood. Before that, even when she smiled or laughed, there was always something sad and dark beneath the surface. There wasn't even a hint of any of that sort of emotion right then, and he had never seen her look more beautiful.

"You never did answer my question," she observed upon finishing the bite of fruit.

"Oh?" he asked. "Which question was that?"

"Why did you have a pear when you don't even like them?" she inquired.

He found a way to avoid her query before, but she obviously had no intention of letting it go. The truth was, he got it for her. He noticed her eyeing the fruit when they were back at the inn in Wenborne. After he had his bath that evening, he went downstairs and got the proprietor to agree to his request to take one. Alistair meant to give it to Solona before, but they hadn't really spoken until the night of her Joining. With the situation being what it was, he had forgotten all about the damned thing until he found it while packing up that morning.

"I told you," he said. "In case of an emergency."

"What kind of emergency could possibly warrant a pear?" she pressed.

"I had to have something to throw at the bandits if I ran out of hardtack. Even if it didn't knock them out, it could have served as a distraction." She raised a questioning brow. "I mean how would you react if some guy in Grey Warden armor threw a pear at your head? It would probably make you doubt his sanity, right? You'd think, I'm holding a knife and that bastard just hit me with a piece of fruit. He's crazy. I'm not fucking with his ass. At very least, you'd just stand there a minute and say, What the fuck? Which would buy me enough time to run away."

Before he finished his explanation, Solona was laughing so hard she had tears running down her cheeks. He couldn't help but chuckle along with her. When their laughter finally died down, the mage wiped away the tears with her fingertips. When she gazed up at him, he was taken in by her lustrous blue eyes. For the first time he noticed tiny flecks of gold peppered within the field of lapis, adding to the brilliance of the effect. Never in his life had Alistair wanted to kiss anyone so badly.

Her smile took on a sardonic quality. "So," she said. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, what's the real reason?"

Damn, woman. Let it go.

No matter how much he wished her to, she just wasn't going to let up without a plausible explanation, and an honest confession would be simpler than trying to come up with anything else. The warrior scratched the crown of his head and ran his tongue across his lips. He exhaled a relinquishing breath and shrugged.

"Truth is," he told her as he turned his eyes back to the road ahead. "I got it for you."

"Any particular reason why?" she asked.

Alistair wasn't about to tell her the truth on that point. At the time he obtained the fruit, he was suffering from a mild case of infatuation with a woman who had no interest in him. To make matters worse, his fondness for her had increased tenfold since that night.

"Mainly so you'd stop making that scowly face when you eat." He mimicked the expression she wore while gnawing on the dried pork. "Although, it might come in handy to scare away the darkspawn."

Solona's face wilted into disappointment for only a second before she donned her usual mask of indifference. He hurt her feelings. He hadn't intended to, but he did.

"I thought that's what we had you for," she retorted in a snarky tone. "Your ugly mug could frighten an archdemon."

. "That's my plan, you know" he japed. "When we finally face it, I'm just going to play a game of peek-a-boo with it, and it will die of shock."

She presented him with a half-hearted smile. He had to salvage the situation somehow. He sidled up to her until he was close enough to bump her shoulder with his.

"Oh, come on, you know your beautiful," he admitted. "You're beautiful, ravishing, stunning, gorgeous…You know all those things women hit men for if they don't say."

The corners of her mouth curled into a smirk as she returned his shoulder bump. "It's nice to see you finally noticed," she said. "I guess you're not quite as stupid as I thought, after all."

............................................

I never said things were all bad or always bad between Alistair and Solona. No matter how much they fought over the years, there was never any doubt in my mind that they loved each other. As for Solona’s family, neither Decimus nor Maddox were as fortunate as their sisters. Both of their lives ended in tragedy in the years that followed.

As far as the ship’s captain that transported Solona to the Circle was concerned, he was a man I knew very well. A good and honorable man, at least for an old pirate. When Solona met him again later in life and thanked him, he gave her a response that was typical of the man. "Twern't nothin', darlin'. Always did have a soft spot for pretty girls."

The story about the pear has always been one of Solona's favorites. First, because it was funny, but mainly due to the fact that it was the day she truly began to see Alistair in a different light. Yes, she thought he was same gender oriented and that day didn't help to alter that view, but she began to fall for him anyway.

As for her use of the colorful phrases she learned from Doc, Solona eventually stopped using the terms when she matured a bit. The only time I really heard her say those words was when she had reached her limit of anger. Doc, however never did mature that much. No matter how hard he tried to present himself as someone of noble birth, the peasant boy had a tendency to rear his head quite often in conversation.

-G