Chapter Text
There’s a promise of thunder in the air. It’s in the way clouds have drawn overhead, thick and black, obscuring any signs of the full moon’s glow. It’s in the way the air grows close and heavy and humid, smothering the scent of honeysuckle and evening primrose. It’s in the way the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as a shiver of electricity runs through the air, moments before a blinding white bolt crashes against the distant mountaintops.
He pauses to watch the light fade from the sky, purple tinged in the lightning’s wake, the sky’s deep rumble following. He pauses, counting;
‘…five…six…seven…’
Another flash, brighter this time, and despite its danger, he smiles, always fond of thunderstorms and their stark, terrible beauty. They remind him of younger days, of curling up against Mabari in their kennels, nestling into the soft fur of large wardogs as storms lashed against the cliffs of Redcliffe castle. The dogs had never spooked at the noise, merely cast an annoyed glance at the flashes of lightning before allowing him to snuggle against their fur, sleeping the night away.
But there’s no dogs to keep him warm and safe tonight, just an anxiously snorting horse beneath him as the storm rumbles closer and he realises, as the whispered rush of the approaching rain greets him, that he’s going to have to find shelter, and soon. There’s none back the way he’s just come, only empty fields of recently harvested crops, and he reasons that there must be a farmhouse somewhere nearby. Or perhaps even just a barn.
His horse, Cadfael, snorts once more, and he takes the hint, pressing his heels into the stallion’s sides and guiding him up the dirt track that lays before them.
He hasn’t seen anyone for days, splitting off from the small band of wardens he had been leading, in order to track down a rogue party of darkspawn, whilst his men had gone underground to root out the larger host. Just in case the damned creatures got any ideas.
In hindsight, he thought, it had been stupid to split up. But the risk of just a handful of darkspawn making their way to anywhere near civilisation was too great, and so he had decided to chase them on his own, lest they do some damage. Except he hadn’t seen, nor felt, any sign of darkspawn for days now and he wondered if he’d read the signs wrong, maybe taken a wrong turning?
It doesn’t matter now. It’s late and it’s dark and he’s about to be thoroughly soaked through, if he doesn’t get a move on. Grimacing, he nudges Cadfael into a trot. The problem with warden armour was that it chafed something terrible when it was wet, not to mention that getting the rust out of scaling was an utter nightmare.
Relief floods him as he rounds a large drystone wall, the sight of a cluster of small squat buildings, most likely farm outbuildings and the main residence, cheering him. They’re dark, but he pays it no mind. If his estimates are correct, and they have been known to be on occasion, it’s well past midnight and anyone with any sense was tucked up in bed hours ago. It might be summer, but in the shadow of the Frostback mountains, it was rarely warm and the nights were all but guaranteed to be frosty. When it wasn’t thundering, that was.
He can hear the patter of rain now, and a glance up to the sky confirms it, the droplets falling in a heavy sheet that’s racing along the dirt track, towards him.
‘Marvellous.’
It’s the only word he can manage to get out before the rain is upon him, breathtakingly cold, lashing at him, drenching him so thoroughly that the shirt beneath his armour is plastered to his skin in mere moments. Beneath him, Cadfael balks at the deluge, threatening to rear and unseat him, and he grips the reins, flattens himself against the animal’s back and nudges him onwards once more. The sheer force of the rain makes it difficult for him to even raise his head, water running into his eyes, dripping of the tip of his now thoroughly red nose and he trusts the horse’s instincts to find shelter enough to let him decide the way.
Cadfael makes his decision, stopping a few minutes later under the creaky remains of what looks like a barn, huddling in against the wall. There’s not much of it left, most of the building’s walls lying as rubble around them, the wooden floor above little more than a few planks now. But it’s enough for the horse, for now at least, and he slides from the animal’s back, landing with a squelch, he grimaces, his boots already swimming in rainwater.
Pulling the saddle from Cadfael’s back, he dumps it heavily to the side, knowing that it is bad for the leather, knowing he’d be shouted at by both Dennet and the tackmaster when he returned to Skyhold and being entirely unable to care about either right now. So long as his mount had shelter and could dry off a little, he didn’t see any issue. Leather could be replaced easily. Good horses couldn’t.
With the animal dried off with a rag which was tucked in the deepest reached of one of the saddlebags, he nods to himself, satisfied that it will stave off the cold from his companion, before he turns back to survey his surroundings.
He had thought that the dilapidated barn was old, perhaps passed from hand to hand by generations of farmers until it was nothing but a worn out husk. The black streaks of soot on the cobblestone walls tell a different story, one that he’s not the least bit pleased by as he makes his way through the remains of the building, towards where he guessed the main farmhouse would be.
It’s one of the few times he wishes he wasn’t right.
Through the crumbling walls of the barn, the scene of devastation paints all too clear a picture, and he picks his way through broken beams of wood, trying to ignore the state of the animals that had been housed here. It proves difficult when the stench of blood becomes so strong that even the downpour can’t wash it away, even more so when he accidentally stumbles onto something soft and fleshy. A glance down tells him that the sheep, torn in two, couldn’t have been dead for more than a few hours, its insides still pink and glistening.
Extracting a now grotesquely sticky boot, he staggers out into the farmyard, a nearby flash of thunder illuminating the squat building enough for him to find the entrance.
The doors is open wide, and hanging from its hinges, most of the wood splintered from the force of something crashing into it. He doesn’t need to go inside to know that the darkspawn he’s been tracking have been here, leaving their mark in a trail of blood and destruction.
He presses inside anyway, hoping that there might be someone left alive, someone he can help, but even as he steps in, he knows it’s a false hope.
The room is so dark that it’s impossible to see anything and he reaches back to the door, pulling a strip of wood free, binding its top with rags and dousing it with limited quantity of oil he carries with him. A strike of stone on stone, and the rag ignites, filling the room with flickering orange light.
Grief floods his chest at the sight, guilt following close behind as he looks about the farmhouse’s kitchen. Its inhabitants are barely recognisable as people anymore, a bloodied tangle of flesh, bone and cloth, positioned close enough together that he tries to block out the image of them huddled together in fear as the darkspawn came crashing through the door. There’s a hurtfully small lump at what he can only guess was a married couple’s feet, and it’s all he can do to bite his lip and steel himself against the thought of a child dying at the hands of such monsters.
A tremor racks his shoulders and chest, a dry breath tearing at his throat as he fights to control himself, turning away from the grisly scene. There’s nothing he can do for them now, save hope he can hunt down the horde come morning and make them pay for what they’d done to the young family. His hand falls to his sword, twitching in anticipation, and it takes effort to still himself, to pull his hand away and turn his gaze elsewhere.
He wonders idly, as he makes to leave, if he should stay in the farmhouse, if it counts as disrespectful to the people he’s failed to protect, and decides that it is, and even if it wasn’t, he can’t bring himself to stay in a house where there are bodies that are barely cold.
With a shaky breath, he makes for the door, intent on seeking out somewhere less traumatic to rest, when the faintest detail catches his attention.
There’s a door to his left, half broken down, but still standing, still closed. Something in his gut makes him turn towards it, his gloved hand reaching out to push at the wood, testing. It’s damaged, but it holds, and he notices the lock, somehow still intact despite being bent inwards, the key on the floor nearby.
Someone had locked it from in here, had taken great pains to ensure that whatever was in the other room was safe, despite the darkspawn breaking through.
The key is sticky with fluids as he picks it from the floor, fitting it into the warped lock which gives way with a twist and a clunk. The door swings inwards to reveal the family’s single bedroom. It’s bizarrely pristine in comparison to the chaos of the kitchen, a neatly made if rustic double bed dominating the room, a smaller one a few feet away. And there, in the corner, a small cot.
He steps into the room cautiously, almost afraid that tracking bloody, muddy bootprints into the room will shatter the peace in here, even as he crosses the threshold. No such thing happens but he winces still as floorboards squeak underfoot, feeling his heart rise into his throat as he looks at the crib, stopping when he’s mere feet away, afraid to peek inside in case...
In case of what? He asks himself, shaking his head. Either there would be a babe…or there wouldn’t.
A carefully placed foot has him creeping forwards, his breath shaky with nerves once again, until he finds himself peeking over the top of lightly coloured wooden railings and pastel coloured bedding. There’s a bundle inside, and he retreats quickly before creeping forwards again, closer this time, until he gets a clear view.
There’s still a bundle inside, a tangle of soft cotton and woollen wraps, more material than baby…but it’s there. It’s there and it’s small and pink and sleeping and most importantly, breathing. Utterly undisturbed by the chaos that had occurred on the other side of the thin wooden wall, unaware of the devastation that had been wrought on its parents and sibling.
His heart and breathing falter again, wonder and joy colliding in his chest at the miracle before him that somehow the sleeping infant had managed to avoid detection by the darkspawn, and he slips closer now, wincing at every noise his boots make, every slosh of water and creak of wood, terrified of waking up the tiny person.
Indecision seizes him again as he gazes at the tiny figure. He can’t leave a baby here, in the wake of destruction and terror, he knows that he or she will die within hours if not cared for but…but he’s never looked after a child before. Maker, and it’s not even a child, it’s an infant, tiny and fragile and precious. It needs levels of care that he’s never considered before, feeding and changing and…milk. Maker’s breath, the babe will need milk and where is he going to get that from out here?
He doesn’t even know how old it is, can’t even begin to guess as he looks down at the bundle. But…but he has no choice, does he? He can’t leave it here because his care, inadequate as he’s sure it will be, is better than no care at all.
A heavy breath has him stilling again, the noise that’s slipped past his lips loud enough to disturb the child and it writhes in its swaddling as it’s face contorts and he knows within moments what’s going to happen and he’s still utter unprepared when it does. Blue eyes, impossibly large and impossibly round flutter open, land on him a moment later, a look that has his breath falling completely silent again.
And then the cry comes, a high, full bodied wail that makes him flinch away, despite the way it tugs at his chest.
It’s pitiful and heartwrenching, and although he knows that the cry is for the babe’s upset sleep or empty belly or, Maker forbid, a full nappy, a part of him grieves again for the loss of the infant’s mother, lying cold in the next room.
Instinct is what drives him to act, no knowledge on his part because he’s never even held a babe before. He’s not sure if he’s even been in the same room as one recently, his life filled with busy adults rushing about with important tasks with no time to consider family life. He reaches out anyway, pausing despite the cries when he realises the leather of his gloves is stained with blood. Tugging them off until his cold hands are exposed, he sets his torch to nearby oil lamps so he can see and have both hands free.
And then the moment comes, procrastination and discomfort set aside to do what needs to be done as he slides an arm under the tiny body, the other supporting a sparsely haired head, lifting the almost weightless package into his arms, cradling it against his chest when he’s clear of the cot.
It cries still and he frowns down at the wriggling infant, panic rising as he tries to soothe the babe.
‘Shhh, shh…it’s alright, little boy…or little girl…I suppose you could be…it’s alright…’
The bundle isn’t even as long as his forearm, its head easily contained in the palm of his hand and he shifts, curling his free arm underneath, the way he’s seen mothers do from time to time, cradling the body more securely. Cries abate a little, quieter, softer, somewhat appeased, as the child is brought closer to his warmth, and in a flash of inspiration he sets the swaddled babe down again, flinching when cries return in full force.
He shrugs his breastplate off as quickly as he can manage, pulling the thick leather and steel of his armour away from his torso before scooping the babe up again, bringing it back to rest against his chest. His shirt is damp and cold and he knows it’s not the best for little babies, but there’s little else he can do right now. But even as he thinks it, his instincts prove right, the infant quieting at the presence of warm solidness, secure in his arms.
It doesn’t go back to sleep, much to his surprise, instead staring up at him with unnervingly blue eyes.
‘Well…there we go little one,’ he hums quietly, his thumb gently stroking over wispy, dark hairs. ‘It’s not so bad is it? I’m not so scary, am I? No, I’m just a big dumb man who made all this horrible noise and woke you up. That was mean of me, wasn’t it?’
There’s no response from the infant, save for uncomprehending blinking, but he continues anyway, easing his own nerves as much as the child’s.
‘I’ll let you go back to sleep, how does that sound? I’ll put you back in your cosy bed and in the morning, I’ll…I’ll take you away from this horrible place and find some nice people to look after you, how does that sound?’
The little forehead creases for a second, displeasure present for a moment before the baby looks back up at him again, a faint coo following its stare.
‘Me? No, no, no, I can’t look after you. Not for long anyway, I can only just look after myself and I’m a grown man. Not a very well grown man, but a grown man still. Now if Cullen was here…there’s someone who would know what to do. Or the Inquisitor…or…anyone other than me, really. I’m not very good at these sorts of things…’ He shifts the miniscule weight in his broad arms. ‘I’m not good at a lot really but…I can always find someone who can help. I’m good at that.’
He sighs into the silence, pursing his lips as he looks down at the helpless babe.
‘I haven’t even figured out if you’re a boy or a girl yet. But I bet you’re a girl…you look like a pretty girl…I better hope that you are a girl now, hadn’t I? Because if you’re not, you’d have every right to be mad at me. I…’ he fidgets slightly, ‘I guess there’s only one way to know, isn’t there, but…not yet. And I’ll probably mess up all these nicely wrapped blankets if I did. Best not…not unless I really need to.’
There’s another soft coo, likely the only response he’ll get tonight and he smiles lightly.
‘You know, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to for a while who’s let me just ramble on like this. Most people tell me I talk too much and then tell me to be quiet. Maybe I should spend more time with little people like you? Oh…but you see, I’ve been rambling on and on like this, and I haven’t even introduced myself have I? That’s rude of me.’
He stands up again, carefully cradling the infant to his chest, walking back to the cot, trying to disturb his new charge as little as possible.
‘Well then, little one, you should know that my name is Alistair, and I’m very pleased to meet you. I know I haven’t found out your name yet, but here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to put you back into your bed here and then while you’re sleeping, I’m going to have a look around and try and find out who you are. Does that sound good?’
There’s no real response, just as he expects, only the blinking of eyes, and he lays the child back into the cot. A moment of indecision grips him and he holds his breath, wondering if he’ll have to comfort the babe again, but then those huge blue eyes blink, eyelids drooping heavily and within a few moments, he feels completely alone in the silent house.
Straightening and sighing quietly, Alistair looks around the room again, wondering where’s best to start if he’s to care for this little life as best as he can.