The Last Warden

Chapter Nine

"Denerim."

"Denerim." Alistair squared his shoulders, meeting the big man glare for glare.

"No."

The others had been almost easy to convince. Leliana and Wynne hadn't questioned the decision; Zevran had been carefully apathetic; even Morrigan had barely sneered as she stalked off toward her tiny fire on the edge of camp. But there was a reason he had delayed, a reason he had waited until the road split, snaking north round the lake to Orzammar or west cross the Bannorn to Denerim.

"Sten... That is where Brother Genitivi will be. He's our best chance of finding the Urn."

"The dust of a dead woman. You would forsake the Blight for this?"

"It's our best chance of healing Arl Eamon."

His sigh rumbled deep. "One man."

"Who can help us, I promise. And there are... other reasons to go to Denerim. Supplies, information..."

"And the... kithshok that seeks your death."

Folding his arms, Alistair scowled. "Loghain will be dealt with. You have my word."

The Qunari regarded him a long moment, lips twitching into something of a smirk. Funny how he was starting to recognize those.

"Very well." With that, he stalked off toward the trees.

"So? How did it go?"

He whirled to find Leliana at his elbow, watching the big man go. Alistair let himself sag, surprised to find the knot slipping from between his shoulders. "Okay... well, maybe."

"You know you could just order him to come. He would listen, I think."

"Right. I-I'm just not really the giving orders type. Kind of a follower, actually. And... and I'm okay with that."

"I don't think that's true." She smiled up at him, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Or if it was, it isn't anymore. And it is not as if you have a choice... as if any of us do."

Alistair snorted, shaking his head. "There is that."

"Come." Laying a hand on his arm, she steered him toward the fire. "Supper is ready."

"You cooked?"

"I would rather not see another lamb so treated. Even in death, their memory deserves better than that." She smirked. "And you cannot be expected to do everything."

"Hey!" Crouching beside her on the log, he hunched his shoulders. "...Do I really complain that much?"

"A bit, yes." But there was a smile there as she stirred, humming beneath her breath. "Now this is what we call—"

"—Oh Maker, I forgot!" Alistair came quick to his feet, the offered spoon knocked aside. He paused, blinking down at her as he ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "I... I'll be right back. Just... wait there."

Moving quick to his tent, he bent to his packs, slipping free the forgotten book. Right. This was probably a bad idea... horrible, really. But he had said he would... Straightening, he steeled himself, watching the low flames flicker on the edge of camp. Okay.

Leliana was watching him, eyes narrowing as he made his way across the clearing. Morrigan, though, did not even glance up as he approached.

"Hey... I..."

She pursed her lips, chuckling beneath her breath as she continued to busy herself with her pouches.

"Here. Just... here."

He could see the insult forming on her lips but the sneer slipped as she raised her head, eyes going wide. Unfolding quick, she came to her feet. "Mother's grimoire! But how did you—"

"—It was in the Tower, like you said. It looks a little... I mean, the leather's... and those burns... It was like that when I found it."

Morrigan traced thoughtful fingers over the cracked spine. "'Tis how it has always been, at least in my memory." She met his stare with a wicked smirk. "And 'tis not leather..."

"Riiight. Very creepy."

"And yet you retrieved it for me nonetheless."

Alistair felt his neck stiffen beneath that gaze. "Yeah... Well, I was there anyway – y'know – and it was... just..."

"Indeed. You have my thanks."

He must have goggled, for she laughed.

Morrigan stepped closer, stalking, swaying, predatory. "I can be civilized... when I must." Laying a hand against his chest, her fingers curled, nails biting through the thin cloth of his tunic. "Or less so... if that is what is required."

"What-what are you doing?"

Again she chuckled, tilting her chin upward as she leaned close. So close now. "You have done me a favor. Surely there is something you require in return."

"Whoa! Okay, no!" He stepped back, one foot slipping on an upturned stone.

Her smile only grew wider, teeth glinting as her lips twisted.

Regaining his balance, Alistair held up a warding hand. "It's not that I... well, it is that I hate you, actually. Quite a lot. But... just... it was a gift, okay?"

"A gift."

"A really... sort of terrifying... gift. But I-I don't want anything. Especially not..."

Now, now she scowled. He was almost relieved.

"Just don't – y'know – do anything too evil with it. Don't blow anything up or turn me into a toad or—"

"—Oh? A toad, is it? I should think that would be an improvement."

"Right. Go die or something. Good night."

He could still feel those eyes on him as he made his way back into camp, watching, weighing, wondering. As he came to the fire, though, he found Zevran sitting alone, the stew pot tucked between his knees.

"Where's Leliana?"

"Mmm? Our dear Sister suddenly found herself quite exhausted, it seems." He nodded toward the shadows flickering round Morrigan's tent. "I did not expect you back so soon myself."

"Great." Leliana's own tent lay quiet, darkened, cold. "That's just great."

"Tale è vita, my friend." He grinned, offering the pot as Alistair curled his legs beneath him and slumped against the log.

"Yeah. Whatever." Dipping the spoon, he watched the stew fall in thick chunks. "Why are you still awake, anyway? Planning to kill us all in our sleep?"

The elf chuckled, slipping free a dagger to work the dirt from beneath his nails.

"That's not exactly a denial."

"Must I still provide one? Shall I beg each day for your trust? Appeal anew to your Grey Warden mercy?"

"Right... Point taken."

Slowly, Zevran raised his eyes to his. "Perhaps you should care more for the trust your companions place in you, yes? Sten will not be the last."

"And you?"

"You have my oath."

"So you keep saying." Settling back against the log, he set the pot aside. The flames had burned low, the silence hanging heavy. Sten didn't trust him, he couldn't be sure about Wynne, Leliana was apparently upset with him and Morrigan, well... He sighed. "Humor me."

"Mmm?"

"Why are you still up?"

"Because I do not wish to sleep." Twisting, Zevran stretched the length of the log, propping his chin on an elbow.

"Grey Wardens have dreams too, you know. Part of the whole... taint-thing."

"Oh?" He quirked a brow. "And what is it that Grey Wardens dream of?"

"We... we sense it. The darkspawn, the Blight. More now than before. That-that's how we know. How I know."

"Ahh."

Wrapping arms round his knees, he shook his head. "I-I've never told anyone that. Anyone that wasn't a Grey Warden anyway. Who didn't already—"

"—But now you are the last."

Alistair turned, the assassin's eyes glinting only inches from his own. But there was no malice, no mockery there. "I've thought that... that that's maybe why they're so..." He sighed. "They've been worse since Ostagar. Like my head's not big enough to hold them all. And I see it now... Every night. Every time. I-I see the archdemon."

Zevran straightened, laying a hand on Alistair's shoulder as he came slowly to his feet. "As do we all... in our way."

"Right."