'Lived long enough to become the villain.' ((i'm sorry i keep sending you all the things. i need to stop))
“Did you know,” Alistair mused amicably, sprawled on his back in the tall grass to watch the stars, “the noise my patience makes when it snaps is remarkably similar to the sound of a longsword breaking.”
His sword was discarded a few yards off, the blade snapped into jagged, bloody halves.
“They would’ve listened to you,” he sighed, maybe a touch mournful but mostly exasperated. “If you’d started shouting ‘Clarel is crazy!’ they would have listened to what you had to say. But me? No. I’m just Alistair. I’m not the Hero of Ferelden.” One fist thumped quietly against the ground. “So, I think I’m done trying to help them. All I’ve gotten for it is a headache and a few cracked ribs.”
His gaze darted to her, pupils still blown wide with adrenaline, and he smiled crookedly. “If you’d like to help them, be my guest. But I think I’m done. If they’ve all forgotten what it means to be a Warden, I’m not going to make it my job to remind them. I tried, and it didn’t exactly go swimmingly.”
He lifted one hand to gesture loosely to the north. “If you’d like to start by helping the bastards who broke my sword, you might find them on the other side of the ridge, but the high dragon wasn’t particularly happy to see any of us.”
