The Last Warden

Chapter Twenty-Six

"Are you sure you're alright?" Pausing before the doors to the Assembly chamber, Alistair looked to the dwarf at his side.

"Fine. I'm fine." Oghren unclasped the flask from his belt, tilting back his head for a long pull. "Let's give 'em what they want and be done with it."

The walk through the Deep Roads had been long, the exhaustion threatening to take them all. But it had been largely silent, the darkspawn they encountered dispatched without difficulty. Caridin's crown rested now beneath Alistair's arm, a magnificent monstrosity of dwarven craftsmanship. If the crown that Eamon planned to make him wear was anything like this... Alistair shook himself.

He had tried to draw Oghren out of himself, out of his drink. The dwarf had been worryingly quick to walk away, to leave Branka behind with Caridin and the Anvil. "It was where she would've wanted to be," he had said. He had even returned to teasing Morrigan and – if Alistair wasn't imagining it – she seemed to be indulging him.

"Perhaps you should have bathed before being presented to your betters."

Tucking the flask away, he chuckled. "That an offer to help me, then?"

Alistair spared her a grateful glance behind Oghren's back, but she quickly turned her eyes away. It had been like that ever since the night he had spoken of Duncan, worse since the night he had asked if she needed to talk about her mother.

Perhaps it had only been the similarity of the room in which they made their camp that night or the lingering, nagging guilt at having shared such things with her. She had looked surprised for the briefest of moments before that sneer returned. He couldn't even remember what she had said as she stalked away, but she had had little to say to him since.

Shale, too, had been strangely silent. But he couldn't worry about... her, couldn't worry about Morrigan, couldn't even worry about Oghren. Not now. There was a rising sense of... anticipation as the guards threw back the doors, as the familiar voices floated shouting from the chamber.

The throne of Orzammar. Alistair stopped, unable to pull his eyes away.

He was not the only one. To one side of it stood Harrowmont, on the other Bhelen. The Assembly had gathered and all of them were looking to him. Maker, was this what it was like to be king?

Yes, something in him said. Again, his gaze strayed to the great seat at the room's end but he knew then that the reverence, the sadness was not his own.

"It is well known that the Grey Warden is Harrowmont's hireling." Bhelen was sneering down at him, eyes flickering to the crown tucked beneath Alistair's arm.

Something in the surety of that glare sent a tension spreading through Alistair's shoulders. When he spoke the words were booming, certain. "I have found the Paragon Caridin. He's... alive. And he has forged this crown for his king."

"And who did Caridin choose?" Still it was Bhelen who addressed him, eyes narrowing as Morrigan leaned close to Alistair's shoulder.

"Do not tell them that he left it up to you."

"I'm not stupid." Again, he raised his voice to the crowd. "The Paragon Caridin has chosen Lord Harrowmont."

"You've learned our ways well, surfacer."

Alistair started to see the familiar dwarf stride to his side, the vision wavering as he grinned up at him. He hoped the others didn't notice.

"They don't doubt you at all."

But the Steward was taking the crown from his hands now, holding it high as Harrowmont knelt. "...the King of Orzammar, the first chosen in generations by the Ancestors."

"You mean by some meddling Grey Warden!" Bhelen thundered down from the throne. "How do we know we can even trust him? Do you know what they're saying about the Wardens on the surface?"

"Ooh." Beside Alistair, the spirit quirked a brow. "Something tells me you're going to enjoy this just as much as I."

"Trust me, I never enjoy it."

Bhelen's men had drawn arms, hidden beneath their cloaks and armor. The guards surged to meet them, even the Deshyrs swinging their staffs as they fled. But Bhelen was moving straight toward Alistair, face twisting in an expression of unrepentant rage. Alistair found himself sneering in disgust as he stepped aside, a growl growing in his throat as his shield took the stumbling dwarf in the back of the head. Bhelen spun, his sword arcing in a final, desperate swing as Alistair plunged his own blade deep into his chest.

The prince staggered, falling to his knees, but there was no triumph here, the satisfaction tinged with unnamed regret.

It was slowly that Harrowmont ascended to the throne, looking long across the spilt blood, the fallen Deshyrs and guards. He sat with a heavy sigh, nodding down at them. "When the time comes, you will have your army."

As they moved for the doors, Alistair turned round once more. There beside the king stood the fading image of a young dwarf, his head hung in silent resignation.