Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens

Vision of a Death

There was a lump in Alistair's throat. It hurt. It actually felt like an entire apple had been rammed down his throat, something he probably would have made a quip on under normal circumstances. These, however... These were not normal circumstances.

The Grey Warden bit his lip to stop any sound from emerging. His eyes had, eventually, accepted what they say as true, but his mind still could not seem to quite fathom what had happened. For before him, layed out upon a stone table, was one of the best friends and greatest Wardens he had ever known; Lyna, an elf of the wandering Dalish tribes, which she would never see again.

They had left her in the armour on which she had died, returned the Dalish knives she had always worn to the sheaths upon her back. There had been no time between then and now to change her, no hands spare to do so. Even if there had been... She it was how she would have liked to be. That was what he thought.

The woman looked starkly beautiful, pale skin in stark contrast to her dark lips, which even now curved up in an almost invisible half smile. The Chantry had done that right, at least. Or had she died with that smile still in place? It wouldn't have surprised him a bit. White hair was pulled back into the familiar ponytail at the back of her head, revealing swirling leaf-and-vine markings that curled around vibrant green eyes that would never open again. Somehow, that was what Alistair found the saddest; Lyna, so curious and so awed of the things she saw outside the forests that were all she knew, would never get to see all the things he had told her of, Orlais, Weisshaupt, the places he himself had read about in Redcliffe's libraries as a child. She had dreamt of adventure; all she had gotten was death.

The Templar's eyes were stuck to the body as though they had been nailed there. He felt people moving around him, heard people speaking to him, but could not bring himself to break the intense concentration he found himself in. He recognised Wynne, patting him upon the arm, offering him comforts. When he did not respond, she told him gently of something to do with Circle Tower, and was gone soon after. Oghren tried to give him a strong drink, 'to numb the loss', but it elicited the same empty silence, and before long he too was gone. Zevran... no, Zevran was not here, was he? Zevran had fallen from Fork Drakon in that last, fateful encounter with the Archdemon, though he had probably already been dead when he hit the ground, every bone in his body crushed to powder by a single swipe of that mighty tail. It was a horrible thing, to see someone you had fought alongside ended so brutally, as though they mattered as much as a moth, even someone like the Antivan assassin.

The mabari hound, too, was not present. Still Alastair could not recall the complicated Dalish name Lyna had given him, but the dog had been fearsome and loyal, and intelligent as most people he had ever known. The mabari hadn't been at Fort Drakon, but later that night the Warden had heard him howling somewhere off in the hills outside the battle torn Denerim, a distressingly mournful sound, as though he knew the fate that had met with his mistress atop that tower.

And yet, there was someone else not present, someone who he had almost expected to be... Oh, of course. Morrigan.

Her and Lyna had been close, perhaps due to being the only young women in the group- though the witch could hardly be counted as a normal woman. Alistair had seen them both in camp, by the small fire Morrigan had kept to in the corner, discussing all manner of things for hours on end. Many a time he had tempted to go and join in the conversation, but no doubt he would have been rebuked in an instant. Besides, he had never liked the Shapeshifter, and got the distinct notion that the feeling was mutual. Even so, he had expected Morrigan to be one of the first people to try and convince the elven Warden not to strike the killing blow, and leave Alistair himself to do so, but instead she had vanished from Redcliffe Castle the very night before they marched on Denerim, no doubt to save her own skin. She could have saved countless lives in the battle, but she had turned tail and fled like a coward. It was... pitiful.

Even as thoughts like continued to spin around and around in the Warden's stricken brain, he felt a hand touch his arm, and a voice speak close by him. For some reason, this one seemed to have more of an effect than the others, and he managed to tear his gaze gradually away from where he felt he could have left it until he died of sheer sadness. Perhaps it was the tone it took, or perhaps the deeply ingrained instinct that he must answer to his Queen. Whatever the reason, slowly, he turned.

"Alistair."

Queen Anora's voice was gentler now that she knew she had his attention. She was looking up at him, and yet it still felt as though above him. Behind her stood a full regiment of guards, their armour freshly shined so that they glinted in the sunlight, their spears like a forest of particular straight, sharp trees. Alistair wondered absently whether she was going to have him arrested and executed for executing her father, but couldn't really find it in him to truly care.

"Alistair. I know you are sad. And I'm sorry. But... You are expected. And your Warden needs an escort."

That brought the young Templar to attention. She was right, of course, and... Well, he knew she was doing him a favour. The Blight was over, the Archdemon slain; the Wardens were not needed in Ferelden just now. When the task was done, then he could return. But now...

"Yes, your Highness. Thank you."

Alistair needed to travel to Weisshaupt.