The Last Warden

Chapter Thirteen

"Alistair."

He blinked, wondering at the sting of cold against his cheeks. Right. The mountain. The Urn. But there was warmth here, thin and fading beneath his hands. Wynne. Still she lay across his lap, eyes distant and glazed as he rocked her against his chest.

"Alistair." Leliana crouched, tilting her head as he gazed down at the old woman. After a moment she reached out a hand, brushing gentle fingers across her eyes. "We have to go."

He shook his head.

Her hand was warm against his cheek, cupping insistent, raising his face to hers. Long she held him there, gaze searching, pleading. "It is time."

"Come, my friend." Zevran was beside him now, gently lifting Wynne from his arms as Leliana pulled him to his feet. The elf paused a moment before settling her, smoothing her robes, brushing a fallen strand of grey from her forehead as he straightened.

"We can't... we can't leave her here."

"Nor can we take her into the temple, not if what the Brother said is true."

"The temple." He looked to it now, the high columns, the doors waiting cross the mountaintop. "The ashes!" Leliana winced as his grip tightened on her arm. "We'll get the ashes! We can heal her!"

"Alistair..." Her brow knitted as she blinked up at him. "The ashes... they cannot heal the dead. She's... dead, Alistair."

"And it's my fault."

"No—"

He held up a forestalling hand. "I brought her here. I made her fight. I summoned the dragon."

Something twitched behind her lips. "I doubt you made her do anything. She came of her own will. She left the Tower when she could have stayed, came here when she could have remained behind with Morrigan. And whatever she did... at the end... that was her choice. So that you could find the Urn."

Still Alistair stood gazing down at her, her face stiff and cold but somehow stern even now. "We'll come back. I'll carry her down myself if I have to."

Leliana nodded, twining her fingers through his. Together, they made their way across the mountaintop.

The doors were larger than they had seemed from a distance, looming even against the overhanging stone. Alistair found himself turning round as they approached, taking in the columns, the carvings, the strange and growing silence.

"It is... beautiful." Leliana followed his gaze.

"I was going to go with 'imposing,' but I suppose you could put it that way."

She smiled up at him, but there was too much relief in those eyes. He glanced away, turning instead to the waiting doors.

The room beyond might have been resplendent once, but the walls were crumbled, discarded bits of stone and pottery crunching underfoot. Zevran stood just behind him, silent still.

"What? No witty remark? Something about treasure?"

He sighed. "I suppose it does remind me of the grand cleric's bedchamber. Where no man has gone before." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Right."

But they were not alone. He stood at the far end of the chamber, stiff and watching. The armor was strange, but fine and gleaming, his nod slow and deep.

"Um. Hi."

"And where is the fourth?" The man's whisper was thick, rumbling. "Where is the one that would lead you?"

"Wynne? She's... she's dead. The dragon. But she didn't lead us. That... that's me, I guess."

"Hmm." He tilted his head. "I see many things. It has been a long while since I was... surprised."

"Yeah, it surprised me too." Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "But who are you, exactly?"

"Once I fought for Her against the Tevinter Imperium. I will see Her guarded until they are destroyed."

"The Tevinter...? So, been here long then?"

"Yes."

"We... uh... we need the ashes to cure a sick man."

The Guardian nodded. "They have that power. You may approach the Urn, taking only a pinch for your purpose. But first you must be proven worthy."

"So I have to... fight you or something?"

"No. The Gauntlet was set long ago." His sigh was heavy. "It is given to me to see many things. I would only ask a question before you begin."

"...Alright."

"Alistair of the Grey Wardens, you are often uncertain of your actions. You feel it more keenly than others. And yet there is one decision that plagues you still, even though it was not wholly yours to make. The Grey Warden Duncan was as a father to you. Do you regret not being at his side when the final blow fell?"

"Wow, you really...?" After a moment, he shook his head. "Yes. Yes... if only I could have been there, maybe I could have... I don't know, done something."

The Guardian nodded. "And you, Leliana... It is know that the Maker spoke to Andraste, that he has never spoken so to another. Yet you believe your visions to be his guided by his hand. Do believe yourself her equal?"

She gaped. "Her... equal?"

"Your life as a bard was exciting, but in the Chantry you were no one. The visions allowed you to be special once more."

"You-you think I did it... for attention?"

"Do you?"

"No, no I do not." She folded her arms, rocking back on her heels.

"And the Antivan elf."

"Oh, is it my turn now?" Zevran rolled his eyes, but there was a stiffness to his shoulders. "Hurrah, I'm so excited."

"Many have died at your hands, but there is perhaps none that you regret more than a woman by the name of—?"

He snorted, cutting him off.

"Do you regret—?"

"—Yes." His eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do. Can we move on?"

"Yes." The Guardian turned aside, ushering them into the hall beyond.

Alistair watched him for a long moment, finding nothing behind that expressionless and eternal gaze. "So... any hints? Y'know, about the tests?"

Slowly, he shook his head.

"Right. Okay then."

The room beyond was immense, the path stretching long and lined to either side with carved and crumbling arches. Beneath each stood a figure, luminous and pale, eyes turning as one to watch them. Alistair stopped.

Leliana, though, strode forward, tilting her head as she paused before the first woman. "Oh, you poor dear."

He caught her up, laying a hand on her arm. "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to the spooky ghost things?"

But the woman seemed to shiver, turning blank and expressionless eyes to him. "Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light."

"Echoes from a what?"

"It's a riddle!" Leliana turned to him with a wide eyed grin. "Dreams, she speaks of dreams."

The woman nodded, seeming to solidify before disappearing altogether.

"Oh, how fun! Answer the riddles correctly and the doors will open."

"Fun. Yeah, fun..." He quirked a brow, but she was already moving to the next spirit. Watching her go, he shook his head.

Zevran was still standing near the entrance, arms folded as he scowled. Alistair leaned against the wall beside him.

"So... what the Guardian said...?"

"Hmm?"

"About regret. You actually have emotions, then?"

The chuckle was little more than a whispered hiss.

"And the woman...?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "Just curious, really."

"Such touching concern. Shall I tell you of my tearful tale? Rest my head against your shoulder as I confess that I regret it all?"

"Right. Maybe not."

They lapsed into silence, watching the spirits nod and drift away. Soon enough Leliana reached the far end of the room, turning to wave them on.

Zevran sighed. "Perhaps another time, my friend."

Beyond the doors, the corridor forked almost immediately, mirrored turns branching to the left and right. But again the way was blocked, the figure at the crossroads standing with his back to them. Alistair might have thought him the Guardian unarmored, the same broad shoulders, the same proud stance of a soldier tempered long ago. But his hair was long and graying, tied in a familiar knot, the deep-lined smile breaking as he turned round.

"Alistair."

"Duncan?"

"So it is to be specters of our past, now?" Zevran's hand had strayed to his blades, but he seemed to sag, eyes darting expectant.

"Alistair." The old Warden nodded. "It is good to see you again."

"But I... at Ostagar... you..."

"Died?" He chuckled. "It is as it was meant to be."

"But why did you send me away? I could have—"

"There is much that could have been different, but sending you to the tower was the right choice. One of the few that was left to us, I think. But you are here now and that is proof enough."

"Right. One Grey Warden against the Blight."

There was a sad smile there as he shook his head. "It is unfortunate. But perhaps you are not so alone as you think." He wavered as the others had, seeming to shimmer and grow solid before fading altogether.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Leliana slipped an arm through his as they made their way round the corner. "I think he meant us."

"Yeah? Like how I killed Wynne? Drove Sten off? Now all I've got is you and an assassin who would stab me in the back as soon as—"

He leapt from the shadows of the next room, blade passing only inches from Alistair's nose. Again the specter spun, seeming to trail light and shadow, lunging with a familiar smirk.

"No, my friend. It seems I would stab you in the front." Zevran was behind him still, moving round to meet the other elf, chuckling as he saw his grin mirrored there.

Great. Two Zevrans. That was just what he needed. But the other was stepping back, shifting, only half real. Across the room, he heard the familiar twang of the bow, looking up just in time to see a scowling Leliana loose in his direction. The real one had already drawn her blades, dashing cross the stones to meet the doppelganger. That only left...

Alistair got his shield up just in time, turning the blade as his own reflection lunged. Right. Face your past, face yourself. But there had to be a trick to it. What would he do? How would he—?

"Switch!"

Zevran ducked low, sparing him a distracted nod, Leliana moving to draw her own opponent closer.

"Switch now!"

Leliana whirled, turning her blades on the shadowded Zevran as the elf skirted wide to flank the other Alistair. Right. The new Leliana smiled as she lunged for him, daggers spinning quick. But she was a bowman, he knew, always tried too hard for speed when working with her blades. He deflected them easily, once, twice, a third time. At the last blow her arm was thrown wide, giving him the room he needed.

He let the sword droop with her, phantom hands scrambling at her phantom belly. But still she looked up at him, hurt, confused, shuddering as she disappeared.

"I'm sorry."

"Alistair?"

She was there still, sheathing her blades, watching him. He was staring at empty stones, he realized.

"Are they—?"

"Dead, my friend." Zevran grinned. "Or at least more dead than they were before."

"Try not to look so happy about it."

"I am actually quite surprised that you bested me in our first encounter, now that you mention it."

"Right."

Leliana slipped an arm through his, eyes narrowing worriedly despite her smile.

"I-I killed you."

"No, you didn't."

"But maybe I will." He pulled his arm away, starting across the room. "Maybe that's just how it works."

The next set of doors opened onto a great pit. There was an arch waiting on the opposite side, the hall beyond glowing with a strange and flickering light. Some of the floor remained, carved tile slabs ringing the hole, but there seemed to be no way across.

Alistair crouched, resting his head in his hands. "Great."

Zevran, though, moved close, peering over the edge. He slipped along the curve of it, footsteps echoing on the tile. There was a whoosh, a click; Alistair raised his eyes.

"Ahh, a puzzle."

A new tile had appeared, overhanging the hole. It was faded as the spirits had been, testing, tempting, half real. As Zevran stepped aside, it disappeared.

"Do it again."

He nodded, moving forward. It reappeared.

"Good... stay there."

Alistair hesitated a moment at the edge, blinking down at it. He lowered his foot slowly, stumbling as it found only air. But Leliana was there then, pulling him back. "Let us try something else."

She moved round the other side of the pit, mirroring Zevran. As she stepped onto the first tile, there was another click, the first piece of the bridge seeming to solidify.

"So it's a puzzle?"

"And a stirring metaphor for teamwork, yes? I feel inspired already." With a shrug Zevran moved onto the next. The first tile wavered a moment and disappeared.

"Great. Well done."

"It is merely not so simple as it seems." He glanced round, eyes lighting on something against the wall. Scooping to pick up a crumbled stone, he moved back toward the hole, depositing it on the tile where he had been standing. The first piece of the bridge reappeared.

"That's cheating."

Shrugging, he flashed Leliana a grin. "You know what they say. All is fair in love and treasure hunting."

With some effort they were able to break enough pieces, laying one on each tile to make a solid bridge. Testing this time, Alistair stepped across.

The hall was short, opening onto the largest room that they had yet seen. He could barely make out the ceiling above, but found his eyes draw to the stairs rising at the room's center. A familiar statue loomed there – though it was far more grand than any of the copies he had seen – one hand outstretched to hold a dancing and eternal flame. And there, at her feet...

"By the Maker..."

Beside him, he could feel Leliana tremble. "It... it..."

Even Zevran had fallen silent, eyes growing wide.

But he hadn't seen it before, had noticed that the way was blocked. The entire room seemed to be ringed with flame. Only a low altar stood before them, cool and untouched. There were words carved there.

"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight." He shook his head. "What does that me— What are you doing?!"

He had turned to find Zevran slipping his tunic over his head, hands already working at the laces of his breeches. "Is it not obvious?"

"What?" Alistair turned back to the altar. "We... it can't... it can't mean... literally!"

Leliana peered over his shoulder. "He is right, I think." She shrugged, grinning up at him as she slipped the bow from her back.

"So then what? We walk through fire? Naked?"

"So it would seem."

Alistair had glanced toward Zevran, turning away with a cough. "Whoa. Okay."

"It said all the trappings, did it not?"

"Maker's breath..." Wincing, he set his sword and shield beside the altar, reaching gingerly for his breastplate.

Leliana watched him, loosing her belt as she slipped the last of her leathers to the floor, giggling as he tried desperately to hold her eyes. "Alistair! You are blushing!"

"Yeah, well... I've never... I..." Boot tangling in his leggings, he stumbled.

Laughing still, she bent to help him, Zevran's chuckle echoing at his other side. He waved them both off.

"It's... it's okay. I've got it."

They stood opposite each other now, Zevran smirking as he quirked a brow. "Dear, dear Leliana... Why is it we have not made love as of yet?"

She met him stare for stare, her own eyes openly appraising. "Should every man in Ferelden suddenly die, you may yet have your chance."

"Aha! Progress!"

Alistair pushed between them, eyes fixed ahead, making quick as he could for the flames.

"Alistair." Zevran held up a warning finger. "Unless those are Chantry-blessed underpants..."

Flush deepening, he scowled. "Fine. Fine. Whatever."

"Ahh, now there is evidence of the Maker's hand at work."

Covering himself, Alistair pinched shut his eyes. Right. Just a little fire.

He stepped forward, wincing, waiting. But there was only cool air, the slightest hint of incense.

Leliana pushed past him as he blinked, moving to stand trembling at the base of the stairs. "I... I cannot believe I am here... It is more than I could have imagined..."

"Yeah, it's—"

She was on him then, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his lips to hers. Up she pressed, warm and eager against him, hands roaming now to his shoulders, his back, lips parting, nibbling, needing. His own hands found her waist, arms encircling easily, crushing her against his chest. It was some time before she pulled away, flushing as she grinned up at him.

"I... uh..."

"...Yeah."

Behind them, Zevran coughed. "Do not mind me. But we have some remains to liberate, do we not?"

"Right. The ashes." Still, Alistair found himself grinning, unable to look away. Longer still before he remembered that he was naked, that she was naked, that they were standing before perhaps the most holy relic in all the known world. Flush redoubling, he made for the stairs. "Maker's breath..."