The Last Warden

Chapter Sixteen

"Alistair. A word." Morrigan fell into step beside him.

"You know, just once I'd like to have a quiet journey. A nice stroll, maybe enjoy the fresh air." They were moving noticeably deeper into the Wilds now, the trail overhung with long and sagging leaves, brambles scratching at their heels. The trees pressed close on either side, beasts or darkspawn or barbarians ready to swoop down upon them from the shadows. He gestured round. "I mean really appreciate the snakevines and cannibals and all that. Without anyone bothering you."

"Tsk. And miss the opportunity for such witty banter?" Zevran slipped past with a grin, jogging ahead up the path.

So intent was Morrigan on scowling at the elf's back that she stumbled. Alistair caught her arm instinctively, dropping it as she glowered.

"Thought you knew the Wilds."

"'Tis yet a long way to Flemeth's hut. And I have deliberately chosen a little-used path."

"So you're sneaking, sneaking up on your mother." Alistair smirked.

"A most sensible approach where Flemeth is concerned."

"Right."

"But it is your approach that concerns me." She watched him now through narrowed eyes. "You seem to grow increasingly... uneager."

"Me? Eager to help you? Why yes, let's stop everything we're doing – you know the Blight and all that – and help Morrigan. Could we? Could we really?"

"It must be done." She sighed. "And there is one other small matter to which you must attend."

"Oh? Must I?"

"Flemeth's grimoire—"

"—Let me guess, you found something extra creepy in it?"

Morrigan sneered, pulling the tiny, black book from her pack. "'Tis not a true book of magic. Flemeth's real grimoire will be with her still. I want you to retrieve it for me."

"Wait. You want me to kill your mother? For a book?"

"No, but I do not intend to die and Flemeth's death is the only means to assuring such an end. The book, however, is of great importance."

"Sentimental, are we?" Alistair gave an exaggerated sniffle.

Morrigan sneered, quickening her pace to move ahead of him. "You would do well to harden your resolve. Believe me when I say that Flemeth will not take such betrayal lightly. And yet her survival..." She shook her head. "We will make camp soon. I will wait there for you. And do not forget the book. It may yet prove all the difference."

"The difference in what?"

She glared over her shoulder. "Your survival."

"Great. Right. I hate you." Alistair watched her go, muttering beneath his breath. "You... you..."

"She is quite charming, no?" Leliana had appeared at his side, shaking her head with a knowing smirk. "I can see how men would find her maddening."

Morrigan had fallen into step beside Zevran, scowl deepening as the elf laughed.

"Maddening? Infuriating, more like. She-she's like this... evil, sneaky witch-thief!"

"Thief?"

"She wants me to steal a book. From her mother."

Leliana quirked a brow. "I cannot imagine that she would kill her mother for a book. Or for any reason. She is her mother!"

"Now that I think about it, they're quite similar. Not that surprising then, really. But it's... complicated."

"You are still not going to tell me?"

"No." Alistair sighed. "Much as that would irritate her – and entertaining as that always is – it's... not my reason to give."

She regarded him a long moment. Leaning close, she lay a kiss on his cheek. "You are a good man, Alistair."

He blinked at that, turning to look down at her. "You think so?"

"I know so."

They walked in silence for a time. Alistair sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You are worried?"

"Creepy old ladies? No problem." He shook his head, nodding up the path.

Zevran had slipped an arm round Morrigan's waist, grinning as he bent to whisper in her ear. She stiffened but did not pull away, turning instead to glare over her shoulder at Alistair.

"Now that... that worries me."

* * *

He had let Morrigan call the halt that night, hadn't had much choice really. She had walked the perimeter of the camp for some time, seeming to measure the distance, get some sense of their location. If it had been anyone else he might have said she looked nervous. But she had slipped away some time ago, disappearing into the trees.

The golem stood now beyond the tents, tilting its head to watch the swaying leaves above. It would take the watch, it had said; it had nothing better to do. Sten had moved to its side, though what they could possibly have to talk about, Alistair couldn't guess. Nor could he tell which stood more stiffly, the Qunari or the stone.

He sighed, moving toward the fire. Leliana sat curled beside it, the familiar and worn copy of the Chant open in her lap.

At his approach she smiled, nodding toward the hulking figures. "They are sweet, no?"

"Sweet? Yeeeah... not exactly the word I would use." He crouched, poking a stick into the flames.

"What do you know about golems?"

"Hmm, let's see. So far that they're big and mean and..."

Leliana shook her head. "I do not know many dwarven legends, but there is a... sense about it, is there not? As if it is more than just a machine."

"If you say so." He shrugged, settling back against the log beside her. "Still mean, though."

She giggled. "Well, it certainly has a... personality. I look forward to speaking with it more."

"And if this little bonding exercise gets you flattened, I'm not cleaning up the mess. Just so you know."

They were sitting close now, closer than he had realized. Smiling up at him, she ran a finger cross his chin. "When was the last time you shaved?"

He honestly hadn't expected anyone to notice. The hair above his lip was thin at best and he had kept his cheeks clean, but the thickening patch on his chin had just looked... right somehow. Maybe it was the way it offset the circles beneath his eyes, hid some of the gauntness of his cheeks. Scratching at it absently, he shook his head. "Not since... not since Haven."

"Ah." Her smile faltered, turning sad. Leaning close, she brushed her lips there, chuckling for the feel of it. "I like it."

"Yeah?"

But Leliana pulled away, sitting back with a sigh. "I wanted to tell you... I cannot go with you tomorrow. I cannot help you in this."

He blinked. "What?"

"I cannot help you kill Morrigan's mother."

"What? Why? She's... well, she's evil. Just like Morrigan, trust me. And she's an apostate. Even the Chantry would—"

"—Then let them send the templars." She shook her head. "It just does not seem... right to me. But I will not stop you."

"But why? I mean..." He spotted it then, pressed between the pages of her book. Hesitantly he turned them, running gentle fingers cross the withered petals of the rose. But they were brittle, too brittle, cracking beneath his touch. "You kept it?"

She nodded. "It... died quickly. But it somehow seemed a shame to leave it behind."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"—Hush." Something of her smile returned. "It was very beautiful. Perhaps what is important is that we remember it that way."

Sagging back against the log, he sighed. But his eyes caught on the treeline, the figure slipping silent round the edges of camp. She moved quickly, harried, but still Morrigan found the time to pause and glare in his direction. Worse than usual. What had he done now?

It was a moment before he saw the other figure, appearing at nearly the same spot, leaning smirking against a tree to watch her go. Alistair pinched shut his eyes. "Oh, Maker. I did not just see that. I did not just see that."

Zevran was moving cross the clearing now, grin broadening as he crouched beside the flames.

"Really? Really?"

He only shrugged. "Who can say?"

"But it-it's Morrigan! She... she..."

She had paused beside her tent to watch them, cheeks seeming to flare even in the dim. With a final huff, she ducked beneath the flap.

Leliana snapped shut the book with a disapproving sigh. "Zevran..."

"What?" His smirk was wicked. "I will have you know the lady came to me. It would have been rude to refuse."

"Have you no shame?"

"None. It is part of my charm, or so I am told."

Leliana shook her head, tucking the book beneath her arm as she came to her feet. "I am going to bed."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but she was already striding away. He turned to the elf instead. "Great. Thanks for that."

"You are welcome, my friend." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I fear I must speak with you, and seriously." Zevran leaned close, waving a hand between them. "This... this is not working."

"Tell me about it."

With a chuckle he pinched the hairs of Alistair's goatee, giving them a sharp tug.

"Ow!"

"Truly, my friend? Have you not looked in a mirror?"

"I like the way it looks, thank you. So does Leliana. Wait... this is what you wanted to talk to me about?"

He tsked. "The situation grows increasingly dire."

"I thought I asked you to stop making fun of my hair."

"And yet you grow more of it! How am I to resist?" He rose quick to his feet, glancing back with a whispered chuckle as he disappeared amongst the tents.

Sinking back against the log, Alistair jabbed the stick into the flames, watching as it blazed and splintered.