The Last Warden

Chapter Two

"The Blight. How will you end it?"

"Excuse me?"

Sten hunched beneath his cloak, moving round the fire to where Alistair stirred the last of the dried lamb into a small pot. The big man seemed unbothered by the rain, unending as it had been these past few days. Alistair's own cloak was pulled well over his head, doing what little it could to warm him and protect the meager flames.

"The Blight. What is your plan?"

"Oh, you know. I thought we'd tap the archdemon on the shoulder and ask it to leave. Perhaps we could invite it to tea, give it a few cakes, explain the situation and send it on its way."

"If you hope to slay the archdemon with wit, you may want to arm yourself first." The big man sighed. "We go west. These treaties of yours will oblige the mages to aid us. Unfortunate, but I understand the need. Yet the tower lies almost directly to the north of us now and we make no move to change our course."

Alistair stood. "That's because we're not going to the tower. We're going to Redcliff."

"To seek the aid of a sick, old man whose loyalties may yet be suspect."

Word had reached them as they drew near. The Arl had fallen ill, sent his knights out seeking a cure. But the news was weeks old, with none coming since. Their progress toward the town had been slow, but the strange unease had steadily increased.

"The Arl will help us; I'm sure of it."

"And you would choose one man over entire races sworn to your banner. There is no time for petty personal attachments. "

"We'll go to the others next, get them too."

"We do not have the time. Gather the promised strength. End this quickly."

Still the rain beat heavy against his hood as he peered up at the big man. "I'm the Grey Warden, you know. The only one who can stop the Blight."

"So you say. But the reason for this is unclear. Perhaps if I need only carry your head when I face the archdemon..."

"Hey!" Alistair's boot sank into a puddle as he stepped backward.

The big man stepped closer. "Draw your weapon."

"What?"

"Draw your weapon. If I am to fight at your side, I would see what you can do." He shrugged off his cloak, letting it fall into the mud.

"You have fought at my side."

"And what I have seen does not comfort me." His hand moved to the battered greatsword at his back.

"No... This is stupid."

The qunari's eyes narrowed.

"Okay – hey! – not what I meant. But we're supposed to be fighting darkspawn, remember? Not each other."

Drawing the blade, he advanced, still apparently unbothered by the rain. As he moved round the fire, Alistair's cloak caught beneath his feet, sending him toppling backward.

Sten scowled down at him, lowering the blade with a snort.

"So what? You want to lead? You think you could do better?"

"Yes."

"Well... well you can't!" Alistair struggled to his feet, feebly attempting to wipe the mud from his legs.

Sten growled.

"And how do you know where we are anyway? I haven't seen you with a map."

The hesitation was brief, but there. "I am... familiar with these roads. My men and I... traveled near here."

"Was that before or after you slaughtered an innocent family?"

"Before."

"Great. Don't suppose you want to explain that yet?"

"There is nothing to explain. I awoke to find them all slaughtered, the karashok, my sword gone from my hand. The farmers tended me, but could not tell me its location."

"They hadn't seen your sword? So they deserved to die?"

He shook his head with a heavy sigh.

"And this was... around here."

"On the shores of your Lake Calenhad."

Alistair blinked at that, smirk coming crooked. "Wait. You don't want to go to the mages... You want to go look for your damn sword."

"You do not understand—"

"—Oh, I think I do. What was that about putting the Blight first? About their being no time for... petty personal attachments?"

Sten's scowl deepened.

"Look." Alistair stepped closer, meeting the larger man's eyes. "You promise not to – I don't know – chop me in two when I'm not looking or something, and I promise we'll find your sword. We can even take the coast road round from Redcliff."

The qunari's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he nodded, lips twitching. "I will wait until you are looking then."

"Riiight. Close enough."

"For now." With that the he turned and disappeared amongst the trees.

Still the fire sputtered, but Leliana had slipped from her tent, bending low to blow across the dying embers. She, too, was deeply hooded, the rain falling in rivulets as she raised her eyes to his. As Alistair crouched beside her, she quirked a brow at his mud-soaked gear.

"What was that about?"

He shook his head, running fingers through his wet and ruffled hair. "Just talking."

She watched him for a long moment, sighing as he shifted uncomfortably. "You are doing a good job, you know."

"Yeah. Right."

"Really. It must be... difficult for you. It would be difficult for anyone." She turned her gaze back to the flames. "Before the Chantry... when I was a bard, I loved to tell stories. Beautiful stories, stories of love, stories of heroism. But it is only recently that I realized that, even in the most beautiful tales – especially in the most beautiful tales – there is no solace for the hero. There is always a price."

The eyes that met his were narrow, cold, but it was the fingers curling unexpected against his arm that caused him to blink. Clammy, trembling, but there was warmth there too.

"Uh... here." He slipped away, retrieving the pot from the flames. "I made... was making stew." But he had left it there, let it fill with rain water.

Leliana leaned over his shoulder.

"Sorry."

"I cannot be worse than last night's – what did you say it was? - 'lamb'?" She smirked.

"You know, you only smile when you're killing things... or making fun of me."

She chuckled, dipping the ladle into the pot and taking an exaggeratedly timid sip. They sat for a time, huddled against the rain, passing the spoon between them.

"Maybe it's... you know... the words that are important. The ending might not be happy, but you said the story's still beautiful. Maybe that's what matters..." Alistair shrugged.

Again she watched him with that long, cool stare. "Maybe."

"Would you tell me a story if I asked? Maybe play us a song?"

Whatever had been playing behind her lips disappeared, expression hardening. "What would you like?"

"Something... I don't know... hopeful? I mean, since Ostagar..."

"You lost a lot there, didn't you?"

"More than I realized, I think."

Slowly, she shook her head. "There is a song, meant to bring comfort to the grieving, the promise of light in times of darkness..."

"Yeah?"

She held his gaze as she rose, pulling her hood low against the rain. There she paused, blinking down at him. "Forgive me if I don't much feel like singing it right now." She turned quick, disappearing back into her tent.

* * *

The rain had mercifully slackened during the afternoon but the sun had come hazy, already slipping well below its peak by the time they reached the first of the sloping hills. Away across the lake the castle rose, the path winding slow down into the valley and the town below. As they passed the first of the outlying farms, a man came running up the path.

He paused breathless, resting hands on his knees as he bent to collect the words. "Thank the Maker you've come!"

Alistair blinked, glancing back at his companions. Only Leliana shrugged. "You were... expecting us?"

The man straightened at that, face falling. There were deep lines there despite his relative youth, his eyes deep and dark and ringed. He looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. "You haven't come to help?"

"I'm looking for Arl Eamon. I need to speak with him."

He laughed, the sound rising ragged, almost maddened. "In the castle, but there's been no one... no word in days."

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. "Problems of their own, I see?"

He could feel Sten shift. "I am hardly surprised."

"You'll... you'll be wanting Bann Teagan. He's in the Chantry."

"Teagan? Bann Teagan is here?"

The man nodded. "Just... come. Come and see."

There was no argument as Alistair followed the man cross the bridge and down the winding path. Morrigan made her disapproval known with scowls and sighs as she glared round at the simple, hillside buildings. Sten said nothing. Leliana fell in beside him with a quietly encouraging nod.

It had been years, his boyhood memories faded, but he certainly did not remember barricades in the Chantry square, archers practicing on the steps. Some of the fortifications seemed to have collapsed, men scurrying there to make repairs and sharpen new stakes. A few looked up as they passed, hope and distrust flickering in equal measure.

But, save these few, the town was silent. No women. No children.

"Oh, such a charming little village."

With a glare for the witch, Alistair pushed through the Chantry doors. The light was dim here, the candles unlit, what little light there was slipping between the boards nailed cross the windows. It seemed as though the entire town had gathered inside, huddling against the walls, children clutched and crying, pallets strewn across the floor to hold the wounded.

"What happened here?"

The scout was already ahead of them. "Bann Teagan. Visitors."

He stood before the altar, tall, lean, his armor recently patched but finer than that of the men outside. Turning at the voice, he blinked, stopping Alistair short.

Teagan was older than he remembered of course, the first hints of grey showing in his beard, in the small braid tucked behind his ear. But the growing smile was familiar, the light in that eye wondering.

"Alistair? Is that you?"

"Teagan?"

The left side of his face was marred by a long scar, fresh and pink and angry beneath the stitches there. They pulled tight as he smirked, noting Alistair's surprise, hand straying to trace a finger along the patch above his eye. "It is good to see you. If only you had arrived a few days sooner..."

"What-what happened?"

The woman pushed past him with a huff. Old and bent as she was, she grabbed the Bann's arm easily, tilting back his head to examine the wound. "I told you not to touch it!"

He sighed, taking her hands in his with a sheepish smile. "Apologies, Mother. It is healing well enough. Have you met our guests?"

The old woman glanced over her shoulder with a sniff before stalking away.

Teagan ran a hand through his hair. "The Revered Mother does what she can, but they are not healers. We sent word to the Circle Tower, but..." He shook his head. "But you are here now. And in such lovely company."

He grinned as he took Leliana's hand, the scar puckering twisted. There almost something of a bemused smirk on the bard's face but Morrigan only folded her arms. His gaze roamed at last to Sten, faltering as the man growled.

"Bann Teagan, we... we didn't know. But I need to speak to Arl Eamon."

The man snorted. "My brother is ill. At least last we heard. There has been no word from the castle in over a week."

"Nothing? Nothing at all."

There was a laugh there, bitter as it was. "I would not say nothing."

As he explained, Alistair found himself trying to fix the memory of the castle in his mind, those vague images tinged now with a strange and hazy green, echoing with the screams of the dead. Each night they came; each night the townspeople fought only to swell their ranks. And at the center of it all, somehow, was Eamon. The only man who could offer help.

"They took Murdock, the mayor, last night. A good dozen more. Even that bastard Dwyn and his men. They were holed up by the lake, well armed, well stocked. We found the door bashed in this morning, not a soul left."

Again it stirred, that unsettling feeling of... wrongness. Yes, the dead walked, the living falling to join them. Still, as he looked at the face of this man that he had once known, forcing his eyes to hold there... Alistair shuddered.

Teagan sighed. "I would ask for your help, but I'm afraid the sun will be down within the hour. If you would not help us, I suggest you prepare to help yourselves."