The Last Warden

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Alistair? Oh, thank the Maker!"

He woke to find Leliana smiling down at him, her hair falling cross her eyes as she lay a kiss on his forehead. As she pulled away he brushed those strands aside, finding her cheek whole and unmarked beneath.

"How—?"

"—Hush. It's over now."

They had been in Arl Howe's estate, ambushed. How had they escaped? Why couldn't he remember? She leaned low, pressing her lips to his.

It reached him then, that vague sense of loss, a strangeness he had not recognized until it was gone. He couldn't feel them. He was alone. And there was something on the air, a thick and choking smoke, trembling with the echo of distant screams.

"No!" He pushed himself up on his elbows, head twisting from side to side. They were in a high place, all of Denerim spread out beneath them, the bed resting on a broken expanse of stone and ash. But there were people moving below, picking themselves up, the last of the darkspawn fleeing before them.

Leliana sat back on her knees, smiling still. "You did it. It's over."

Again he looked to her, saw the scars return, deepening, opening, bleeding. He gasped, cupping her cheek. The smile was sad now.

"What-what did I do?"

"We helped. We made it." Her skin was the color of the ash below, her eyes growing glazed. "But you did it. Alone. You killed the archdemon."

It blazed behind his skin, searing, burning. The surface of it slithered, the taint awakened as he threw back his head to scream. His vision blurred as he watched Leliana sink sideways and fall still, as his back arched against the pillows. Maker, the pain.

"It does not have to be this way."

The words were cool, soothing, cutting through the fog.

"Who—?"

It rested on his shoulder, blinking up at him with its hundred tiny eyes. "It does not have to be this way."

He was dying, dying and seeing talking spiders. He hated spiders.

The pain faded quick as it had come, his lungs filling in aching gasps. Alistair sank back, gulping deep. Something shifted as his feet. Leliana. Sitting up, he hissed.

It was Morrigan that leaned over him now, head tilting curiously.

"What are you—?"

"Always such a fool. You do not have to die."

When her lips found his all memory of pain vanished. The sounds below had faded, the breeze coming clean and whole and welcome. He felt stronger now, certain. Maker, what was he doing?

His hands roamed, pulling her to him, tracing the smooth lines of her back. He should have been surprised at her nakedness, should have flushed as he turned and pressed her roughly beneath him. Morrigan blinked up at him, smirking triumphant as her grip tightened on his—

"—Maker's breath!"

Alistair sat quick, chest heaving. His head swam, the ache deep and familiar and – thank the Maker – real. It was only a dream. He put a hand to his head. Only a dream.

Raising his eyes, he saw that he was in a cell of some kind, the ground beneath him hard and cold. They had taken his sword, his shield, his clothing. Looking down, he gulped. Oh. Right. Alistair pinched shut his eyes, willing his blood to cool. It was only a dream, a horrible, horrible dream.

"They must have hit you pretty hard."

He started, moving quick to cover himself. "F-Fergus?"

The man managed a weak smile. He lay on the other side of the cell, curled on a bed of stinking straw. When he made no move to rise, Alistair slipped closer, saw that his hand were pressing an armful of the straw against his belly.

"Are you—?"

Fergus moved his hands a fraction, letting him see the deep and sucking wound beneath. Alistair turned away with a hiss.

"It's alright." He chuckled. "It's not as though I have much to live for."

"What about—?"

"—But I find myself in your debt and unable to pay the promised price."

"You don't have to—"

He shook his head. "—I wish that I could speak for you at the Landsmeet. They must be told. About Howe, about Loghain. But that is up to you now, I'm afraid."

Alistair looked to the door, to the guards pacing beyond.

"They put our gear in that chest there. Two guards, four hour shifts. We are deep in Fort Drakon if I had to guess. The exit will be to the southwest."

"You think we can just... walk out of here?"

"Oh no." He grinned. "I'm sure it will be much more fun than that. Now. Call them over here. Tell them I am dead."

"What? You're not... we'll get you out of here."

His smile turned sad as he closed his eyes. "Just tell them."

Alistair rose slowly, covering himself as he made his way toward the bars. "Um... excuse me." He glanced back at Fergus. "This... this man is dead."

The guards shared a look, moving closer. "Yeah? And why should we care?"

He swallowed. "He died on your watch. You do know who he is, right? This is Lord Cousland. Doesn't look good, does it? I mean, if there was anything you could have done..."

One of the guards scowled, nodding to the other as he slipped the key into the lock. "You, watch him." He glared at Alistair. "In the corner. Don't move."

Alistair raised his hands, stepping back as the second guard drew his blade and moved into the cell. The first bent to Fergus.

"Oh, bloody... that's disgusting."

"Is he—?"

"—I don't know." The man bent lower, hand reaching for Fergus' eyes.

They flew open, his teeth closing hand round the man's fingers. As he screamed, Fergus pushed himself up, grabbing the man by the hair. He let himself fall, pulling the man with him to smash his face against the floor.

The other had turned, allowing Alistair to ram an elbow into the back of his head, grabbing the sword as he crumpled.

"Wow! I don't believe that actually—" He stopped. The guard that he had hit drew a ragged breath, stirring but falling still. His companion lay in a spreading pool of blood and broken teeth. Nothing else in the cell moved.

No. Oh, no.

Cousland lay where he had fallen, slumped beside the guard, his eyes glazed and unseeing. The wound had torn wide, oozing fresh bowel and bile to stain the straw beneath. Alistair knelt, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

At the gasp, he screamed and toppled backward.

"...Ouch." Fergus gulped deep, chuckling as he drew a shuddering breath.

"You-you..." Alistair righted himself. "That's not funny."

"You sound like my brother."

"Just stay... stay there. We're getting out of here."

Grabbing the keys from the guardsman's belt, Alistair hurried to the chest, returning with an armload of their gear. But Fergus' expression had darkened, the lines of his face seeming to deepen beneath the shadow of his eyes.

"Here, easy now." Alistair moved as if to slip an arm beneath him, but the other man only shook his head.

"It's too late."

"Not really. As far as I can tell we still have some time before they—"

"—Warden." His arm fell limp beside him, fingers stretching toward his sword.

"Right. Here you go. It's..."

But again the light had left those eyes, staring up at him cold and dark and unseeing. Alistair sank back on his heels.

"You'd better take it. He can be quite stubborn." The boy crouched in the corner, elbows resting on his knees. It was the same smile reflected, small and crooked, as if heavy with the weight of an unspoken secret. His gaze did not stray from the man between them.

"I..."

He raised his eyes. "And you had better hurry. You're already late."

"What? How can you—?"

"Go. Now. Or they will find you here."

Quickly he turned away, tugging on his breeches, chestplate, boots. When he had finished the boy was gone. Only Fergus and the fallen sword remained.

His own had been scavenged in the Deep Roads, a hasty replacement for many broken along the way. Hesitating only a moment, he bent to the blade, turning it, testing its weight. It wasn't right, not really. But when had it ever been? Sheathing it behind his shoulder, he made his way out of the cell.