Chapter Text
He was in a meeting with an advisor when he heard the calling for the first time. It surprised him. A flash flood crashing through the mental barricades he had constructed over the years to keep out the incessant stream of darkspawn consciousness. He had known it was coming, he could feel the gentle hymn beating at the doors in the dark recesses of his mind, had awoken night after night for the past three months from vividly real dreams of darkspawn and archdemons, yet it still caught him off guard. No one had told him it would be so beautiful. This must have been how the Maker felt when he heard Andraste sing for the first time.
“Your majesty? Alistair?! Maker’s breath, have you heard a single word I just said?” The demands of his exasperated advisor, Jörgen, pulled him back into reality. The older man starred over at him with a deep disapproving crease running down the middle of his wrinkled forehead.
“What? Uh, yes, sorry, sorry the world’s worst headache has just come over me. Perhaps you could leave the report on my desk to review, and we can finish this briefing tomorrow. After all we still have a few days before the Antivan ambassador arrives and the negotiations begin.” Alistair faked a grimace, rubbing his temple.
Jörgen was not fooled by Alistair’s terrible acting, “Your majesty, we have barely begun prepping for the ambassador’s arrival, and they could be here as early as two days from now. Need I remind you that Freleden’s economy and our coffers need these negotiations to go well. Not to mention we’ve yet to even touch on the increased bandit activity currently plaguing the imperial highway in the Frostback Mountains.”
Jörgen had been Alistair’s advisor since he had first taken the thrown fifteen years ago, and Alistair was positive he was at least partially responsible for most of the fine lines and grey hair Jörgen had accumulated in the years since. If it had not been for his and Anora’s guidance in the early days of his reign Ferelden would have surely dissolved into total chaos following the fifth blight. Templar training had not prepared him to lead a nation, much less one ravaged by illness and war. After all these years Alistair had come to consider Jörgen one of his dearest friends, but there was no way he could explain that the reason he had no patience for the figures on how many pelts and furs they were willy to trade for Antivan wine and gold was because his mind was currently filled with the throbbing voices of darkspawn.
“Look have a scout send word to the commanding officer to double the patrols and question any bandits they manage to capture to see if these attacks are related. It will take at least two weeks to gather the men necessary to rid such a rugged region of even a small bandit group. I know these negotiations are important, but the Antivan ambassador will not be knocking on our door tomorrow. I give you my solemn oath as king that I will have these documents reviewed by the time you speak to me tomorrow. Please, Jörgen I need an evening to rest, things have just been so busy lately.”
Suddenly, the creases on Jörgen face began to soften, and Alistair saw concern in his eyes.
“Your Majesty, are you okay? Should I send for a healer? We can’t have you falling ill right before the Antivan ambassador arrives.”
“No, no, there’s no need, this is nothing that a goodnights rest won’t fix,” he lied.
“The Queen did say you haven’t been sleeping well,” he mumbled, “Very well… I shall take my leave then.” He walked over and placed his report on Alistair’s desk before leaving the room.
Alistair walked over to the wall to ceiling bookshelves behind his desk and traced his fingers along the hard spines of the books. Most of the books were just records of past laws, taxes, and old treaties but others contained detailed histories of Ferelden. At one point he had meant to read at least two dozen of them, but that wasn’t going to happen now. There were a lot of things he had meant to do that were not going to happen now.
Pulling out the dark leather chair from under his desk he sat down and took a deep breath. Maybe it was a blessing to know he was dying, to have some time to prepare. In a different life this might have been a cause for celebration. He would have spent the night drinking with friends before heading off to Orzammar to join the Legion of the Dead in the Deep Roads to face his death with honor. In this life it felt like an added burden on his already heavy shoulders. Ferelden had been through so much, first blight and then a giant rift that had threatened to tear the sky in half. Now he would be leaving his struggling country without a King or an heir.
To distract himself he picked up the report Jörgen had left on his desk, but his mind was racing so fast it might as well have been written in orlesian.
“Maker, and Duncan was trying to stop a Blight with this going on in his head,” he laughed to himself, throwing the papers back into a pile on his desk.
He remembered words from what felt like a lifetime ago at the Landsmeet that had made him king, “We all find ourselves in the Deep Roads or on Blighted lands.” Perhaps he should head for Orzammar to die as a Grey Warden before he found himself there unwillingly.
There were still days where he did not feel prepared for the enormous task of governing of Ferelden, and now? With the darkspawn’s song whispering in his ear. He was not sure how much longer he would be in a state of mind to govern competently, and between two years of bad harvests, the rising power of the Inquisition, and rogue bandits plaguing the Imperial Highway Ferelden needed a strong leader. Anora could govern in his absence, even on a good day he was no match for her political genius. Ferelden would be in good hands under her leadership.
“Alistair!” Anora as if she’d heard his thoughts, busted into the room leaving the heavy oak door swinging on its hinges behind her. “Why did Jörgen, just tell me that you ended your meeting early? He said you complained of a headache but refused to allow him to call a healer."
“About that, Anora I need to discuss something with you.” Alistair looked up to see the anger radiating off his wife.
“Discuss something with me?! You should be discussing plans for the trade negotiations with Jörgen. I thought I had put a stop to you feigning illness anytime you wanted to avoid your responsibilities years ago.”
“Anora, please listen to me.”
“No Alistair you listen to me. We need these trade negotiations to go well. We need this Antivan gold. Harvests this year were abysmal, and without the extra sovereigns to import more grains Ferelden could be facing a famine this winter.”
“Anora I know that…”
“You know that? Then you must also know that another trade caravan was ransacked by bandits on its way to Orzammar. That’s the third one this month! At this rate King Bhelen may cut off all trade with Denerim. Honestly, Alistair what has gotten into you?”
“Anora! I am dying,” he finally blurted out.
“What?” she paused for a second, moving from the other side of the table to stand beside him placing her palm on his forehead. “Alistair, what are you talking about, you look just fine.”
“Anora this is not an illness you can see or feel. I’m not even sure I would call it an illness.”
“Well then what is it? If you’re sick why wouldn’t you let Jörgen call for a healer?”
“There is no cure for this alignment.”
“Did a healer tell you that? We can get a second opinion. I’ll contact the Circle or maybe even the College of Enchanters would be willing to send a mage to care for you.” Anora paced back and forth next to him trying to devise a plan.
“Unless the mage can go back in time and stop me from becoming a Grey Warden, then I’m afraid there is nothing that they can do.”
“What do you mean? Alistair you haven’t been a Grey Warden in years.”
“Anora, even if you leave the order but no one ever really stops being a Grey Warden, at least not physically.” Looking up at her Alistair took her hands and pulled her into his lap, “Look I’m not sure how much I can tell you, or if I should even be telling you this at all. You know Grey Wardens love they’re blasted secrets. But the thing, the power that makes someone a Grey Warden, gives them the ability to sense darkspawn, to kill archdemons, to end blights, well that power is also what kills them. Essentially, it eventually consumes us. At best someone has thirty years to live after becoming a Grey Warden, it’s even less for those of us that became Grey Wardens during a blight. Traditionally, when a Grey Warden feels… the power over taking them they had to Orzammar to die in battle in the Deep Roads.”
“I know you told me years ago that Wardens tended to live short lives, but I just assumed it was due to occupational hazard.”
“Ah sadly no, you don’t get become the dashing, brave hero without a little bit of pain and suffering, I’m afraid.” He smiled at her tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear.
They sat in silence for a few minutes holding each other before she finally spoke again, “How long do you have?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. The older Grey Wardens never talked about. Maybe six months, maybe a year. All I really know is that once it’s started there is nothing you can do to reverse it.”
“Well then good that gives us time to start preparing.”
“Anora, I want to go to Orzammar.”
“What? Alistair how could you be so selfish to leave Ferelden without a king in a time like this?”
“Look I’ve known this day was coming for a while now, and I know it won’t get better. If anything, it is just going to keep getting worse. I’m not sure how much longer I will have the capacity to make decision for all of Ferelden. It might be better for me to leave now while we can control the narrative before you have to explain to the entire court why I took off one night in nothing but my underwear for the Blightlands.”
“Alistair we can prepare for this, we’ll find a trustworthy bodyguard that can keep you from running off, I’ll start double checking all your reports…”
“Please Anora this is my dying wish, I don’t want to spend my last days reading trade agreements, or military reports, or writing new tax laws. I have things I want to do before I die. Things I didn’t get to do because I was busy being the king of Ferelden for the past fifteen years,” Alistair stared up at the ceiling trying to fight back tears as he spoke.
“Oh Alistair,” and then Anora was crying too.
Neither of them had been in love when they got married. In fact, they were both nursing broken hearts on their wedding day. However, they had learned to love each other in the past fifteen years. Alistair loved Anora’s tenacity and devotion to Ferelden, and Alistair reminded her that there was more to life than political games. They had been a team all this time and the idea of parting now was painful.
Finally, after they had both wiped away their tears, she looked up at him and said, “You should go, I’m more than qualified to rule in your absence, surely the two of us can come up for a reason for your absence.”
“Thank you Anora,” He said kissing her forehead.
“Well then better start preparing our story.”
They decided that she would tell everyone that he had received an urgent message requesting his presence in the Frostback Mountains. When Alistair reached Orzammar he would send her a note, and she would make the announcement that he had died in a surprise attack, overtaken by bandits on the road, his body unrecovered.
The candle wax was almost completely melted by the time Anora headed to bed. Alistair walked her to the door of his study and kissed her for the last time.
“I love you,” He said.
“I love you too, be safe out there.”
With Anora gone, Alistair set down to write a letter to Eamon. In the letter he explained, in what detail he could, that he was leaving and asked for him to watch out for Anora in his absence. He gave the letter to a messenger to deliver it to Eamon’s Denerim estate before he packed his belongings for the road. He took only a spare change of clothes, a few days rations, a modest sum to pay for Inns along the way, and a small, cracked silver amulet that depicted Andraste’s Flame.
By the time the sun was rising over Denerim Alistair had already put miles between himself and the city walls.