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Chapter Text

It takes Alistair nearly a week to figure out he's not in Ferelden anymore. Unsurprisingly, it's Isabela that clues him in.

He's ended up in the kind of tavern he used to do his best to avoid, loud and full and stinking of all the wrong kinds of bodily fluids. But the ale is cheap and the tavern owner doesn't seem to mind that he falls asleep at his table most nights and hasn't left in about a week so at least there's that.

He doesn't recognise Isabela, not until she reminds him rather forcefully who she is and what he's done with her (Maker, it makes him cringe.) It's been years since that night in The Pearl, years since he's thought about it or her or him. Apparently, it must have been memorable for her though because she drops into the chair beside him one evening and whispers about having a repeat.

She's drunk and bored but mostly bored, Alistair knows because there's no other reason she'd be doing this otherwise and he goes with her because he's drunk and bored too and it's worth it just to feel something beyond emptiness and vague disgust.

That's before he recognises her though, when she's just another familiar face amongst the (loud, loud) crowd.

It's the way she kisses that clues him in, she has a very particular tongue trick that makes Alistair whine and brings back the memory of another tavern bed. He pushes her away, "We - I - We've done this before...?" he hates how uncertain he sounds, how the words are slow and clunky (not like they weren't before, idiot.)

She snorts inelegantly, "Don't tell me you don't remember, there's no way you could forget that. As I recall it was your first such experience."

Alistair honestly can't tell if she's being hurtful about it or if that's just the way she talks. He sniffs, sits up and crosses his arms across his bare chest, "Well, you don't need to be so mean."

She tuts, "Oh, come on. We had fun, didn't we? You and me and your Warden?" She advances on him; crawls back across the bed to perch beside him and presses a wet kiss to the side of his neck. "I hear he's King now."

It's conversational but it hurts like fuck.

Alistair stands up, "I can't do this." And, very maturely and not at all in frightened manner, makes his way back downstairs to his chair and his now empty mug of ale. He doesn't miss Ogrhen often but when he does he's always looking at empty glasses. He could always cobble together the coin for another but that would involve searching and counting and moving and none of that sounds very appealing to him at the moment.

Then Isabela appears at his side once again, pushes a full mug of ale his way and sighs, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Alistair takes a grateful sip, "Can't a disgraced man drown his sorrows in drink anymore without random pirate ladies interrogating them?"

She smiles at that, it makes her look no less dangerous, "Random pirate captains," She corrects. "And I didn't mean this," she gestures to the ale, to Alistair's state. "I mean, what are you doing in Kirkwall."

At first, Alistair snorts, "I'm not in - " and then he remembers, blearily, Teagan coming to him, kindly, gently, urging him to come back with him to Redcliffe. Insisting that Aedan would forgive him and let him live out his life in peace. Alistair had been so damn angry, I don't need forgiving for anything! he'd yelled but Teagan had kept coming.

So, Alistair had snuck aboard a ship.

A ship bound for Kirkwall, apparently.

"Oh, Maker," he groans.

Isabela finds the whole thing hilarious and things go downhill from there, really.

-

Teagan comes back, eventually.

Alistair had hoped he wouldn't but as soon as he sees him there's a great rush of relief.

This time, there's no kind words that make him want break things, there's gruffness and sternness and lots of very firm hands on the back of his neck, "Come on," Teagan says, dourly. "Let's get you home."

Teagan has rooms in a much nicer tavern, in a part of Kirkwall Alistair doesn't think he's ever been to (not that he'd remember, if he had. These past few years have been a bit of a blur, really.)

"The boat leaves tomorrow," Teagan says. "And I doubt they'll let you aboard stinking like that."

By this point, Alistair is starting to come down in a bad way. It's only been a few hours since his last drink but it had been a slow morning, none of the regulars who liked to hear him make a fool of himself had been in that day so he'd had to pay his own way.

He's probably more sober than he has been in years and by Andraste it feels awful.

Teagan seems to pick up on that because he doesn't seem to expect Alistair to respond.

He sighs, "Let's get you a bath, shall we? A bath and some fresh clothes and a good night's sleep."

Alistair doesn't think he's had a bath in at least a year.

Unless you count people rudely throwing buckets of water on him to wake him up, which Alistair doesn't. Baths are nice and warm and smell good. Buckets of water hurled at you are none of those things.

He sways and hiccups and Teagan makes him sit down on cool stone of the bath chamber's floor and shoves a basin into his arms. "If you're going to vomit," he tells Alistair firmly. "Do it in that."

Alistair nods and does.

Teagan sighs.

The bath is warm and smells faintly of roses until Alistair gets in it and a year's worth of grime washes off. By the end of it the water smells so foul that Alistair apologises profusely to the poor maid who has to empty it. At least, he thinks he does, judging by her faintly alarmed expression he wasn't making much sense (or maybe he was and she was just being rude. People in Kirkwall are rude.)

The second bath goes a little better, Alistair soaks until his head starts to pound and he heaves over the edge of the tub (mostly getting it into the basin Teagan left for him.) He stumbles out, light-headed and shaking and dresses himself in the nightshirt Teagan's left out for him with difficulty before falling into bed.

-

When Alistair wakes he's certain he's about to die.

Not even the Joining made him feel this awful.

"Well," he hears Teagan murmur, "So much for getting home today."

It lasts for about a week.

It being constant pain and anguish and his stomach steadfastly refusing to keep down even the tiniest morsels.  It has him begging for the end, begging for the calling to take or him or an arch-demon to rise up specifically to swallow him whole. He calls out for Duncan, but Duncan would never come. Not when he's like this.

He'd be so disappointed, a voice that sounds like Cousland's hisses. Look at you, you're pathetic. Why would anyone choose you over a great warrior like Logain? You're nothing compared to him.

He dreams of the Blight. Of the battle at Ostagar and being trapped in the Deep Roads with hoards and hoards of darkspawn baring down on them. He dreams of golems and dragons and abominations tearing through people.

And over and over again he dreams of Cousland turning away from him. Dreams of Morrigan laughing and mocking.

Teagan sits through it patiently. Pats his back and strokes his hair and tells him again and again that no, Alistair, you're not dying. Your body is just finally realising that alcohol isn't that great for it.

He doesn't coddle. He doesn't baby. He just sighs and does what he needs to do to get Alistair through it.

And one day Alistair wakes up and the pounding in his head has receded (somewhat) and he's thinking clearly for the first time in years.

He stumbles downstairs and finds Teagan in the tavern eating breakfast. He looks up when Alistair approaches and his eyes go wide, "Alistair, you're - "

"Hungry," Alistair sighs, sitting down.

Teagan pushes his plate towards him, "Go easy," he warns. "I'll go and get more."

It's only eggs (overly runny) and toast but right now, it's the best thing Alistair has ever tasted. After the first few bites though, his stomach lurches. Teagan's there in an instant, "I told you to take it easy," he scolds.

Alistair breathes through it, grits his teeth, "I'm fine, I'm fine." He swallows down a few more bites before he gives up and heads back upstairs. People are staring. People are always staring here though. And yes, it is mostly Alistair's own fault but he's willing to bet if he'd pulled this shit in Ferelden most people would at least have the decency to pretend notto stare.

He throws himself down on the bed and curls up. He's made such an ass of himself.

Teagan sighs when he joins him, "Maybe we should wait a few days more before heading home. Give you time to adjust."

"No," Alistair mutters. "I want to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Well, that may be, but I'd rather not spend the entire voyage cleaning up your puke," Teagan says.

Alistair rolls to face him, "Hate to break it to you, Teagan, but you might have to do that anyway. I've never had much of a stomach for sailing."

Oddly enough, Teagan smiles, "Well, in that case I shall head down to the docks."

"I'll come with you."

-

For the first time, Alistair walks the streets of Kirkwall sober.

It's rather awful.

Most of the city stinks of the sea - not the kind of fresh, breezy smell that Redcliffe and Amaranthine had - the rotten fish kind and that's not even mentioning the other smells. There are templars everywhere and of course, they have to run into Isabela.

"Well, if it isn't the Prince of Ferelden!" she yells from where she's lounging on the docks. "I didn't know you could actually leave the Hanged Man." She stands up, accompanied by the smiling elf she's sometimes with and makes her way over.

Teagan raises an eyebrow, "Friends of yours?"

Alistair shakes his head, "No, she is most certainly not my - "

"And just where are you off to on this fine morning?" Isabela interrupts. "Merrill - " the smiley elf waves -  "and I are planning to go to the Low Town market if you'd like to join us."

Alistair sighs, "If you must know," he says, stuffily. "I'm going home."

"To Ferelden? Reclaiming your crown?" she jokes.

Alistair flushes and thankfully, Teagan rescues him, "Well, it was lovely meeting you," he says, quickly. "Alistair and I are in a hurry."

Isabela looks disappointed, "Take care of yourself, little prince!" She calls, as Teagan guides Alistair away from them.

"I see you kept good company," he mutters.

-

Of course the ship they're on is bound for Highever. Why wouldn't it be?

(And yes, okay, maybe Highever is the most direct Ferelden port from Kirkwall and it's probably not the Maker playing some kind of cruel prank but it also could be so Alistair thinks he's entitled to sulk a little.)

"Honestly, Alistair, there's no chance of running into him whatsoever. The only Cousland we might happen upon is his brother and what do you think the chances of are of that, hm? I'm sure he has better things to do than hang around the docks."

Teagan is right because of course he is but it doesn't make Alistair feel any better. If anything it makes him feel worse. Like he's a child in need of comfort.

He skulks around on the deck and glares moodily out at the sea. They can't see Ferelden yet, it'll be a few more hours until they can and it all suddenly feels very real. His chest feels tight.

"Maker, Teagan," he groans. "What am I supposed to do? I've disgraced myself everywhere. Couldn't be a templar. Couldn't be a grey warden. Not pretty enough to be a chantry sister..."

"You'll rebuild, Alistair," Teagan says, with the kind of certainty that makes Alistair want to wretch. "You'll come back with me, to Redcliffe. Eamon will be overjoyed to see you."

"Won't he get in trouble for harbouring a traitor?"

"No one thinks you're a traitor, Alistair," Teagan says gently.

"Some people do," Alistair grumbles. "You should hear the tavern songs."

"No one important, then."

"What? You mean like the King?"

Teagan sighs and Alistair shakes his head, "I'm sorry, Teagan. I just... I never meant for any of this to happen."

Teagan gave him a long suffering look, "No one did.  Look, I know you think there's no one out there who remembers you as anything less than a drunkard but that's not true. The whole of Redcliffe remembers you, I'll wager some at the Circle Tower do too. You saved a lot of lives, Alistair."

"Yes," Alistair agrees bleakly. "And then I ran away."

"Not without good reason, " Teagan says in a low voice. Alistair frowns at him and he presses something cold into Alistair's palm.

"My mother's locket," Alistair murmurs, holding it up to the light. He'd lost it sometime ago. Hadn't even really noticed. Compulsively, he presses the cool metal against his cheek. "How?"

"You'd sold it," Teagan says gently. "I saw on a merchant's stall by chance, really. Cost me an arm and a leg," he added.

Alistair slipped the necklace on, "I'll pay you back," he says firmly. "Ever coin. I swear it, Teagan."

Teagan gave him a soft, fond smile and put a hand on the small of Alistair's back, "I don't doubt it for a second, Alistair."

In the distance, Ferelden rises up out of the waters.

///

When Alistair wakes up, everything is wrong.

He's cold - he's somewhere cold. On his knees. There chains - He's chained and it's dark.

A cell. He's in a cell.

Surrounded by men with swords pointed at him.

And his hand.

It doesn't hurt. It sears, it burns, it pulses, like nothing he's ever felt before.

There's a mark on it - a cut? A burn?

It flickers and glows with an eerie green light and Alistair yelps.

He tries to think back - he was at the conclave, acting as peace keeper, a guard for the Divine and then - and then -

The door swings open.

Two women stride in, one hooded, one wearing the symbol of the Seekers on her robes. The hooded one keeps to the shadows, the Seeker steps up close, makes sure Alistair can see her sword. She's the fun one then, Alistair thinks.

"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," the Seeker spits and despite himself, Alistair flinches. "The Conclave is destroyed," she continues, pacing. "Everyone who attended is dead."

The words come slowly, precisely and with each one, Alistair's horror grows.

"Except for you."

"But that's - " Alistair says, "That can't be true, they can't all be dead!"

The Seeker looks unmoved.

"You had no part in it? Then explain this," She says, yanking up Alistair's unmarked hand.

"I - I - " think, Alistair think! "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" she snaps.

"I don't know what it is... Or how it got there."

"You're lying!" She growls, grabbing the front of Alistair's jerkin.

The hooded one moves then, darting forward to shove the Seeker back, "We need him Cassandra."  And that voice. That voice.

"Leliana?" he asks, voice very small.

The hooded one looks up and the light hits her face. It's her, it has to be.

"Is this a bad dream?" Alistair wonders aloud.

Cassandra steps forward, "You know him?"

Leliana looks at him for a long time. Maker, it's been ages. The last time he saw her was at the camp, before they headed to Denerim, they'd had breakfast together and laughed at Zev unsuccesfully trying to flirt with Ae- Cousland.

He'd always regretted not getting to say goodbye.

"Leliana," he pleads.

She tears her gaze away from him, "I knew him. His name is Alistair. He was once training to be a templar."

"Yes! You know me!" Alistair insists, "Tell her I didn't have anything to do with this!"

"Enough," Leliana snaps. "Just because I knew you once does not mean I know you now." She sounds different, darker somehow.

"Alright, alright," Alistair says, raising his hands. "I'm sorry. I just... I'm confused."

"Do you remember what happened?" she asks, softer now.

Alistair shakes his head, "I remember... running. Things were chasing me and I was chasing... a woman?"

"A woman?" Leliana echoes.

"She reached out to me and then..." he trails off, shaking his head apologetically.

Leliana is watching him thoughtfully. The Seeker - Cassandra steps back towards her, "What do you think? Can he be trusted?"

"For now," Leliana says.

Cassandra nods, "Go then. Go to the forward camp, I will take him to the Rift."

"The Rift?" Alistair echoes, "Well, that doesn't sound fun."

Cassandra shoots him a withering look and bends to unbind him.

"What did happen?" Alistair asks.

"It," Cassandra says, sounding surprisingly sorrowful, "Will be easier to show you."

She leads him out into the light and snow of the Frostbacks and Alistair is momentarily blind. He puts an arm up to shield his eyes. When he blinks again and the world is back in focus he sees it.

Green and glowing in the distance.

A tear in the sky.

"Oh, Maker," Alistair groans. "How do I keep getting myself into these messes?"

Cassandra raises an eyebrow.

-

So, here Alistair is, about to take part in a charge against - whatever that breach is with a terminally grumpy seeker, an Elven apostate who knows way to much about all this for comfort and a dwarf that Alistair definitely recognises from Kirkwall. (Though, so far it seems the dwarf doesn't recognise him which - well, Alistair supposes you have to be grateful for small mercies.)

And he'd been living such a quiet life before all this.

No demons. (Well, less demons. There were still occasional demons but by and large they happened once and very infrequently.) No world ending situations. No darkspawn.

He'd had a little house in Redcliffe for a while until Eamon died and then he'd travelled, found work as a hired sword, saved little villages from wolves and nice things like that. The kind of stuff he'd always wanted to do just on a smaller scale.

They had reached what was once the Temple of Sacred Ashes, now a blackened husk of offshoots and charred remains. He stops, shuddering.

"That is where you walked out of the fade," Cassandra says ominously, "And our soldiers found you."

The dark shapes that once were people are cowering, heads bent, desperately trying to shield themselves from whatever killed them. Some are on their knees, as if in prayer.

Some of them are still burning.

Why me, Alistair thinks, desperately. Why me and not them?

"They say a woman was in the rift behind you," Cassandra continues. "No one knows who she was."

Alistair really, really wants a drink.

His hand burns the closer they get to the Breach.

He takes a breath and keeps walking.

The Breach is bigger than he could ever imagine, huge and growing with every passing second. Behind him, Varric mutters, "The Breach is a long way up..."

Alistair knows what he means. So far, he's been able to close the little rifts along the valley, but they haven't been that big, haven't been that high.

He doesn't get time to ponder that though (thank Andraste) because Leliana arrives, "You're here! Thank the Maker!"

"Leliana," Cassandra takes control. "Have your people take up positions around the temple." There's a flurry of movement behind him and then Cassandra steps in front of him, "This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?"

Alistair looks up at the Breach again.

"I mean, I'm assuming we have a plan to get me up there, right? I know I'm tall but..."

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, Varric makes an odd coughing sound.

"No," Solas says, indicating the rift in front of them. "This rift was the first and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the breach."

Oh, to be so certain.

-

Someone! Help me! Divine Justina's voice rings out from the rift.

Hey! What's going on here? Alistair's voice responds.

The rift tears and there's a scene - a memory - the Divine held aloft, a creature of darkness rising before her and Alistair charging in like an idiot.

Run while you can! Warn them!

Alistair doesn't remember. He doesn't remember any of that.

-

The rift spits out the kind of demons Alistair hasn't fought since the Blight but at least he's prepared. He knows their attacks, knows their weaknesses.

Knows how to kill one.

It takes a while (and a few good men) but they take it down and Cassandra yells, "Now! Seal the rift!"

Alistair shoves his hand out.

It feels like he's being burnt from the inside out.

-

When Alistair wakes up, everything is less wrong.

Chapter Text

Alistair wasn't surprised to wake up with his head thrumming, sweat gushing off his forehead- he was still waiting on that drink. It'd make all of this pain stop.

Relief never seemed to come.

It had been a few weeks since he'd had any alcohol, but he felt like nothing had changed. Granted the seizures and incessant vomiting had stopped just in time for the Temple of Sacred Ashes to explode- but Maker, he was desperate to relapse.

In his mind, Teagan was lurking in every bush and darkened corner, waiting for him to mess up so the arl could drag his whiny buttock to Redcliffe and put him in the care of Chantry once again. It had been horrific last time. No ale, no freedom, Chantry sisters hovering like flies -

Now that Alistair thought about it, If he wasn't in in his room in Redcliffe- which he definitely was not- Where was he?

(Truthfully, Alistair hadn't expected to wake up at all. He wasn't sure if he cared if either way.)

He didn't even arise on a rocky remnant of what was left of the temple of Andraste, but on a cosy cot.
The bed he was occupying was the most comfortable thing he'd slept on in ages. Much better than anything they offered in Kirkwall. Even Teagan's mattress in that fancy Kirkwall estate was not as supportive as the one he was currently reevaluating his entire life in.

He still felt like absolute shit, despite this.

Slowly, the drunkard rose, stretching and clicking out all of his back muscles. A small growl came from his cute, pudgy stomach, and Alistair sighed down at it in disappointment. Fighting off those demons was hard work. Unusually hard work. He needed to get back in shape.

As his eyes blinked, adjusting to the light, he heard a door slam open and a high-pitched gasp came from near it.

Alistair had startled a tiny elf girl half to death.

He hadn't meant to! She was just... Afraid? But why was she afraid?
"Do I smell that bad?" He mumbled, lifting up his arm. Yep. Shit. He needed another bath it seemed. Or several. Perhaps he could convince someone to find him a hot spring to dissolve into or something. It seemed a lot more appealing than... Than whatever was actually happening here.

"N- no Herald." With a loud thump the small girl flopped onto the ground, pressing her head to the floor. "I humbly beg your forgiveness and your blessings, I am but a servant-"

Alistair cocked his head in curiosity, not completely understanding the situation, so he got up carefully and moved toward her. She obviously hadn't seen him do this, even while he stumbled sleepily.

At first she flinched but eventually accepted his touch when Alistair slowly crouched and wrapped his calloused hands around her arm gently, and guided her back onto her feet, smiling down kindly at her. "you saved us, Herald... Serrah Solas has been watching your mark since you collapsed three days ago. When the breach stopped growing in the sky, so did the mark on your palm..."

So all of this wasn't just a bizarre dream he made up when he was off with the fairies.

He looked at his hand for a moment- it still had a tiny green cut, an illuminating light humming out of it. It didn't hurt as much as it had done, whatever the elf had done to him seemed to have worked. It still thrummed with energy, sending tingles across his palm occasionally. He could live with that.

Alistair bent over to pick up the large box of elfroot she had dropped, scooping the plants carefully up and grinned when he placed it back in her arms.

She seemed more at ease for a moment, before shrieking and jumping cartoonishly, even scaring Alistair. "I almost forgot! Lady Cassandra is awaiting your presence in the chantry- at once she said! At once!" The tiny elf squeaked, and scurried out the door.

"Wait!" Alistair called, "Why are you calling me Herald? What-"

As he moved quickly to follow her, barging through the door, the sun almost blinded him. He threw up an arm to shield his eyes and blinked, hard. The rays were replaced by almost two hundred people bowing down on their knees or praying around his unassuming hut. The ex-Warden looked almost as startled as the elf from moments ago
"Um?" Alistair turned, expecting someone to be standing behind him, ready to accept the glory. Someone strong, smart and a better man than Alistair.

Someone like Cousland.

The corners of Alistair's mouth turned down into a sour grimace.

It didn't last for long, however, because his feet had begun moving forward for him, up toward the chantry. 'The Haven chantry' his mind supplied. They were in Haven... The last time he was here he had to rescue Genetivi- only for him to die anyway, fight a dragon- despite Alistair's serious and legitimate protests, and watch Cousland lie to Leliana- explaining how he had to tarnish Andraste's ashes or they would have died.

Ten years ago Alistair walked through this same village. It was covered in blood and snow back then. Tiny green seedlings and buds of flowers were peeking through the dust of winter, following a path up to the measurably small church.

People were whispering. Whispering about him.

He expected them to say; 'Alistair Theirin. Exiled, disgrace and traitor of King Cousland, possessor of the Fereldan throne. Now he was claiming to be equal to Andraste. What more damage could this man do?'

But no one even uttered his name. He was the 'Herald of Andraste' now... Apparently?

Okay Alistair, He began mumbling to himself. They've all obviously suffered some kind of head injury. All at once. Coincidentally. Cassandra will sort this out. Or someone. Hopefully.

He walked past two chantry sisters and pushed the giant double doors open, much like he had done once before. It was a simple time, back then. You just fought a Pride demon, got interrogated and verbally slapped by both hands of the divine and survived. Heh- You wake up after closing the largest tear in the fade so far in existence...

He stumbled over the carpet awkwardly. And now, you either accept your death willingly and meet the headsman's axe, or go down kicking your legs and screaming like a babe. Good. Nothing to worry about it seems.

Lost in thought, Alistair had walked the entirety of the familiar, cultist-chantry and leant three things; one, he was the 'Herald of Andraste' now.

Two, the breach in the sky hadn't closed, but only stopped spewing demons. Which was good, he supposed. There really was no need for demons. Ever.

Three, he was rediculously hungry.

(Four, he would really like a drink.)

Before he opened the door that sat at the far end of the hall, a loud shout came from within. 'Ser Chancellor Roderick' fighting with the Hands of the Divine again forced Alistair to rethink opening the egress.

The decision was made for him however, when the door slammed open and Chancellor Roderick stormed out, forcing Alistair to clatter to the ground in an awkward heap.

"I'll go find him myself and shake the man awake then- there you are!"

"For an old man-" Alistair spluttered, wiping his jaw "you sure are strong."

The Chancellor threw out a condescending finger "do not speak to me with such a casual tone, boy! Do you even know who I am!?"

Alistair quickly untangled himself and sarcastically stood to attention, flinging his hand up to his forehead in a salute, trying his best not to laugh "I apologise, ser! It will not happen again, ser!"

Shuffling discreetly as far away from the man as he could, Alistair watched as the chantry-man looked affronted. "Guards! I want this prisoner placed in chains and sent to the capital for trial."

Alistair was curious as to if the man possessed an expression that removed the downturned mouth and four worry lines that dug deep into his forehead. He was so grumpy.

He assumed not.

"Disregard that, and leave us."

Cassandra and Leliana filed out into the hall, Alistair's saviours.

The guards nodded and moved out silently and Alistair let out a sigh of relief. Leliana smiled maliciously out toward the giant hall filled with awe-struck people, "If none of you could guess, Lady Cassandra has kindly asked the rest of you to disperse, also."

The people still stood, staring.

"Move!"

With a startled yelp - and even Alistair jumped a little - their voyeurs fled. In a blink, it was if the gaggles of sisters and peasants hadn't even occupied the chantry in the first place. "Now- Chancellor-"

Cassandra took her hand off the hilt of her sword, and placed it back on her hip, a fiery glow flickered in her eyes. "If you are so desperate to denounce the Herald-"

"You truly believe he was sent by the Maker? This whole situation isn't just a coincidence to you?"

Roderick interrupted, "Providence. The Maker sent Ser Theirin to us in our darkest hour."

"You believe I am innocent?" It was Alistair's turn to interrupt now.

"No matter what you are, I cannot deny you weren't exactly what we needed, when we needed it."

"You think that after all I've done and been through... The maker would choose me to save Thedas? Me? I couldn't even finish the job the first time! I'm just- this can't be right. I can't be the 'chosen one'!"

"In the end, it is all for naught if we cannot successfully close the breach permanently."

Roderick unsurprisingly made his presence known again. "But none of this is for you to decide!"

Alistair concluded that the chancellor must be very brave, or very unintelligent, because he smiled smugly, folding his arms. He thought he had Cassandra and Leliana caught now, but it seemed the right-hand had another book-sized trick up her sleeve from the way she was stroking it it intense anticipation.

"This brings me to what I am about to announce. Chancellor Roderick and Alistair Theirin- herald of Andraste, with you as my witnesses, and under Divine Justinia's authority, I hereby invoke the reformation of the Inquisition. From this moment, the Inquistion is now reborn."

With an extreme level of dramatic flair that could only be taken as ferocity, she slammed a book on the table that was conveniently next to her. It had a large chantry symbol on the front made of metal, an eyeball carved on the inside of it.

The flame Cassandra possessed in that moment put all others to shame as she forcefully jabbed Roderick into the wall. "We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order! With or without your approval!"

Chancellor Roderick scoffed and pushed past both Cassandra and Alistair, a face of defeat, he hung his head and hunched his shoulders. Bursting out the doors a second time.

"Maybe he just needs a hug?" Alistair smiled sheepishly and shrugged, lightly closing the door behind him. "So... What now?"

"Without a leader, an army, and no chantry support, our road to victory will be a difficult one-"

Leliana finally spoke up, moving out from the shadows. A trick that reminded him of Zevran. He sighed forlornly. "I've built an entire army of people to fight an Archdemon before... And that was just with two grey wardens in little over a year. In my eyes, we are already halfway there."

"Then we rebuild the Inquisiton of old-" Cassandra smiled hopefully

"And it wouldn't be too bad if it didn't become a power-hungry, Mage-killing organisation too!"

Alistair added.

"I'll send off my ravens right away"

Leliana ushered herself out of the room.

--

Varric watched as Alistair stumbled out of the chantry doors. That man was more of an innocent than Daisy.

The dwarf poked at the fire he'd been trying to feed for almost two hours now with no improvement.
Andraste's tits he was cold.

He breathed in the Ferelden air. Maker, he wished he was even close to an ocean right now. So he could jump in and head Kirkwall's way. Or at least close his eyes and pretend like he was back in his disgusting city.

Although Varric knew too well what horrors would await him if he returned- and he did truly need to get away from that. Just for a little while, at least.

Varric hummed a tune he could no longer remember the words to and pulled a small plate of cheese from his rucksack, nibbling on it a little. Comfort food, even if it was disgusting.

He must have sat there in silence for a while, writing the descriptions of Haven around him in his brain for the sixth time today. He hoped now the Herald had awoken, something interesting would happen. A positive kind of interesting- for once- hopefully.

Varric almost dropped the final piece of mouldy cheese in fright when he felt a palm on his back, bianca laud down on the ground next to him, the dwarf jumped. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you! I apologise!"

Alistair gushed out many apologies, kicking the light blanket of snow with this clean boots, consequently dirtying them. "Don't worry about it."

Alistair huffed some of the longer strands of his fringe out of his face, then gave up, deciding he needed to comb through it with his fingers anyways. "Sooooo..."

Alistair tried for a warm smile. Varric returned it truthfully. "You want some?"

Varric offered up the last of the cheese that was very soon about to crumble to dust. "Maker yes! I mean... Thank you."

Alistair snatched it up and ate like he was a starving man, making a mess all over the ground. And seeing as he hadn't eaten in the last four days, he probably was.

"I went and saw Solas... He doesn't seem to like me much- I think he thinks I'm stupid. He gets this weird grin every time I ask a question, like he's looking down at me."

Varric huffed a little. "Nah, I wouldn't worry too much, Chuckles is like an old man, I actually think he enjoys telling the same stories over and over."

"Yeah... Let's hope."

"Now that the seeker is out of earshot, how are you holding up? I mean... You've been through a lot more than just going from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. And that was just one day of your life! I'd like to see what your weekends consist of."

"Trust me- there's a lot less demons and a lot more of this cheese in my ideal schedule" Alistair wiped the crumbs off his face and slumped down on the stool next to the dwarf, pouting childishly. "Truthfully? I feel like I got run over by two brontos."

"Because of the withdrawal, you mean?"

Varric honestly didn't mean to say it aloud, but he seemed to anyway. He said it so matter-of-a-factly that Alistair thought he might of actually been asking about his plans over the next few days. "Excuse me?"

"Freckles. I knew who you were the second I saw your puppy dog eyes and slurred speech. But despite what the Seeker may believe, I am not a bad person. And I've seen men with darker situations than yours. I promise I won't tell a soul."

Alistair shrugged, grabbing a stick and helping prod the fire "Freckles?" Alistair's skewed nose scrunched up. Trying it on like new pair of boots. "What kind of nickname is that?"

"It's too late now-" Varric chuckled lightly "it's stuck. That's how it goes, I'm afraid."

"Better than the things Morrigan used to call me I guess..."

Varric smiled, pretending he knew what the herald was talking about and rubbed his large hands together while his teeth clattered a little.

Smiling back, Alistair got off his chair, crouching in close to the dismal pit in front of them. He was good at lighting fires, almost as good as a Mage. Grabbing two sticks, Alistair made short work of it and soon, the pit was crackling and heating up the area around it. "Thanks freckles."

"It was nothing, really." Varric looked cold, and it wasn't too hard for him to just get it going for the strange-looking dwarf. He had been nothing but kind to Alistair so far, and Alistair decided to be nothing but kindly in return.

It felt a little like the beginnings of a friendship.

Chapter Text

The Seeker, the Herald, and the renowned writer hesitantly wandered up to the glimmering gates of Val Royeaux. Solas hung back, watching.

It was all for the spectacle, Solas knew. He had seen these exact gates, or spirits' perceptions of this silver entrance hundreds of times before. He had seen the expanse of water that surrounded the city; sometimes brown like a marsh, other times glistening and filled with gold. He'd seen the people, or depending on the spirit- animals such as snakes, foxes, wolves and felines; naturally enchanting in their way, with sinister brows and cheery smiles, contempt to live out their pretentious days playing the game with pleasure.

Even now that they were in front of him, for his own eyes to see and for his own opinions to form, he couldn't see past what the spirits had shown him.

Cassandra and Varric seemed to share a unique distaste.

The Herald seemed a lot more open minded at first, but on being told he was suspected of being a danger to the safety of the Orlesians, his mood understandably began to falter.

"Is it the glowy hand? I mean, I can shove it in a bucket or something... Hide it inside my coat like an apostate hiding their hand before a spell? Or a glove, or something." He said to the messenger.

The messenger looked helplessly towards Cassandra and Varric but before she could say anything, she was joined by a young elf. The elf glanced between them, eyes wide and frantic before leaning in to whisper in the first messenger's ear. Whatever was said, it clearly hadn't been good. The first messenger hissed as the elf scurried away.

"Some have been whispering of your potential apostate status, my Herald," she said, apologetically.

Alistair threw up his hands, "Oh, come on!"


Alistair, Solas was learning, was an emotional man. He wore his sensitive heart on his sleeve, much to Cassandra's annoyance.

"Cassandra?" Alistair asked, "I have a question- if you will." He had turned to the carvings of Andraste on the city gates, tracing them with his fingers, a wide-eyed look of childlike curiosity plain on his face.

Cassandra was clearly impatient, her eyes darted to the open gates, "Herald, can you not hear the rioting in the town square? We must hurry-"

"Come on, come on," Alistair insisted, "It'll only take a moment."

Cassandra sighed, folding her arms across her chest. Varric nudged Solas with a smirk.

"What could possibly be the matter Alistair?"

"Well," he began, hesitantly. "You see, I grew up in a cloister for a while, sung the chant, said my prayers like a good little Andrastian boy, even stopped sneaking out and stealing food from the kitchens eventually. But ever since that long, long time ago, there's one thing that I never really was certain about. And I think- 'well Cassandra seems to know and awful lot about the chantry'- she must-"

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, "Get on with it."

"Well, was Andraste really that pretty?"

Varric began to chuckle. Alistair's cheeks were faintly red. Solas couldn't help the smile that had spread across his face. The Herald was truly an interesting man.

"I mean," Alistair continued, flustered. "She could have like... Moles all over her face, or gigantic buck teeth that weighed her head down, or maybe she never brushed her hair and had baby griffons growing inside it? I mean, would you bother if your extremely long, blonde hair was hidden under a helmet all the time? I certainly wouldn't... Or maybe-"

Cassandra scoffed so loudly that some lingering Orlesians turned to see what was going on. She spun on her heel and marched off, a soldiers pace. "Maker preserve me..." she muttered.

Alistair stared after her, "What? Did I say something wrong?" After a few moments he looked to Solas and Varric, "Did I say something wrong?" he repeated.
"No, no," Varric assured, "I think the Seeker might just have bigger things to worry about right now, don't you think, Freckles?"

"Right," Alistair said. He ran a hand through his hair, "Maker, I'm awful at this. I should go and apologise... or something." Rather reluctantly, he trudged off in the direction of the Seeker.

Solas did not follow. Instead, he took the opportunity to explore, spotting a bakery just off the town square. He had almost made it when Varric called after him, "Chuckles! Wait up! Not all of us have super-long elf legs you know!"

Solas did his best not to indulge in a thorough eye roll, and against his better judgment stopped, waiting for Varric to catch up. The dwarf grinned gratefully. "Where are you goi- the bakery? What's in there for you?"

Solas glanced up at the small building. He could pretend he had no idea why he was there, claim he had been wandering aimlessly or chasing some unseen spirit but the bakery smelt delicious and it had been a long journey from Haven. He stepped through the door, slipping a hand into his pocket to pull out a few sovereigns. "If you must know, child of the stone... I heavily enjoy the look of these frilly cakes, and I would like to see if they meet or rise above my expectations."

"Well," Varric coughed. "Hardly anything does so let's not hold out too much hope..."

Solas shot him a warning glare as he paid the baker.

Varric chuckled good-naturedly, "I'm just joking! Don't have a heart attack, old man"

Taking his cakes and ignoring Varric's grin, Solas continued. "I also feel that if a beardless dwarf who is undoubtedly associated with some trivial branch of the Carta- oh Varric, do not act scandalised- and an elven man whom is blatantly an apostate and refuses to hide such things; invited themselves to a an Orlesian chantry affair, it may open up questionable dialogue we do not necessarily want."

Varric nodded, head cocked.

"It also," Solas added, "Might appear unfavourably to our Heralds case with the Templars, would it not? Best let the humans do all the difficult work, and keep a low profile."

He took a bite out of the cake and hummed with approval.

A slow, impressed smile spread across Varric's face, "Shit- you've really got this all analysed and figured out, huh?"

"Well I had to keep myself occupied somehow on the tedious journey over," and the company was hardly riveting, he didn't add. "Would you like one, Varric?"

"Sure." Varric accepted the small cake, chewing on it thoughtfully as they left the shop.

Solas already knew where he was headed next, Varric needn't follow him but Solas had a feeling he would anyway.

He turned down a darkened alleyway, Varric at his side. It had been some time since he had been here, Fade or otherwise, and his mind was occupied by trying to recall the best route.

A loud, shrill scream brought him to a halt.

At his side, there was a sharp intake of breath from Varric. Solas began to feel the fade thrumming at his fingertips, instinctively. If someone were to attack them... His eyes darted about the alley, it was hardly the best place to make a stand but it would do.

Then his eyes fell on the source of the screaming.

"Oh," Solas huffed.

There were several buxom women and squealing men dashing down the alleyway to meet them. Perhaps we should take a different route," Solas said.

"No trouble, Chuckles," Varric said. "I'll handle them."

Shrugging, Solas stepped out of their way, leaving Varric to fend for himself. the writer shot him a resentful look before a benevolent smile slid onto his face.

His fans threw themselves at the dwarf's feet, and bending all the way down to meet him in his eye as if he were a child. "Look Marie!" One squealed, "It's him! I told you it was him!"

"I know! I know! He's so cute!" 'Marie' tittered, "Like a tiny bany I could take home!"

They clamoured as one, talking over one another. Solas watched with a kind of amused fascination. Their most devout followers at Haven weren't this enamoured with the Herald, it made no sense to Solas that these Orlesians would embarrass themselves so thoroughly for the sake of a writer.

Varric barely got a word in until one of the more brazen fans leant over and pinched his cheeks. "Sorry fans," Varric said, ducking away from their grasping hands politely. "I must apologise but I'm already taken..."

They whined in collective disappointment but there was no reprieve. Almost immediately they followed this up with another flurry of questions, "Ooh? What are they like?"

"Who are they?"

"Are they a fan, Varric?"

"Are they another dwarf?"

"Have you ever written about them, Varric? You must have! Oh, give us a hint! What story are they in?"

Varric smiled, looking dreamily up at the sky, "Well, she's beautiful, but you could guess that, right? And- hey! Hands off the chest hair- I know how to push all of her buttons..."

They all giggled and gasped melodramatically as the dwarf launched into a description of his beloved. Varric, it appeared, was indeed quite the wordsmith. Sokay had hoped the author would brush them off quickly and though it had been quite amusing at first to watch Varric being mobbed, it was getting rather dull. He glanced towards the end of the alleyway.

He could leave. Just walk away and allow Varric to be consumed or kidnapped by his fans but he has a feeling that the Seeker, for all her protesting, would be unhappy to learn Solas had allowed Varric to be whisked away by wealthy Orlesians. Besides, Varric had been sending Solas increasingly desperate looks as the crowd grew tighter together.

With a sigh, Solas puffed up his chest, unslinging his staff from his back and using it to part the crowds. The Orlesians turned to him with a look of distain and Solas, in a very monotone voice, brandished the staff, "Boo! I am a scary apostate rabbit. Here to steal your children and burn off your dresses... Ma ghilana mir din'an."

He added a few sparks for good measure.

The Orlesians scattered, some calling out for guards, others shrieking, inhumanely.

"So much for keeping a low profile, huh?" Varric asked, tugging his shirt back into position and stroking Bianca protectively.

Solas looked down on the dwarf in amusement, with a cocked eyebrow and folded his arms. "Are you blushing?"

"I have no idea what you mean, Chuckles. I do not blush. Characters in stories blush. Not me." He sighed, leaning back against the wall of the alley, "Andraste's frilly panties, I hate when they kneel down to look at me. I'm not some kid."

"Better than them fearing your ears and the way you speak." Solas offered. Dwarves might be somewhat of a novelty in Orlais but at least they weren't seen as slaves, as subservient. As less than.

As a species to be eradicated.

"I suppose..." Varric said, dourly.

They walked on in silence, occasionally ducking out of sight of the few guards they came across just in case and Solas finished his cakes. He brushed the crumbs off his tunic as they reached their destination.

A small wooden bench, more a chair than anything. Nothing specifically brilliant about its design or the level of comfort it gave but it was the view he was more interested in. A large expanse of the deepest blue water that stretched out as far as he could see. He breathed in the fresh, crisp air, closing his eyes for a moment, attempting to enjoy the silence but of course, Varric interrupted.

Solas knew it wouldn't be long before the dwarf began to speak again. He hadn't known Varric for long, but he already knew that the writer couldn't stand awkward silences. Or silences of any description, really.

The dwarf hummed, tapping his fingers on the stone railing that separated them from the ocean.

Solas peered at him curiously, "What do you think of the Herald, Varric? You seem to have been acquainted before all of this."

"Oh?" Varric turned, "I didn't think you were much of a gossip, Chuckles."

Solas smiled, unfolding his legs. "On the contrary, Varric, I happen to enjoy the intrigue of un-sourced and unreliable information. It is interesting to see how the truth can be manipulated. Much like in the Fade when-"

"Yeah, yeah," Varric waved a dismissive hand, "Your Fade kink-"

"It is not a kink, Varric. It is a noble pursuit which - "

"Fetish, then- jeez." Varric whispered, a playful grin on his face.

Solas grunted. Varric was insufferable sometimes. The elf then sighed, shaking his head in exhaustion as Varric couldn't hold it any longer and burst out laughing heartily. "I'm joking, Chuckles."

"Truly though, Varric, indulge me."

The Dwarven man smiled as if there was a joke that only he was in on- and truly, there probably was. "He is kind... And funny I guess..."

It wasn't the answer the elf expected, but it was a legitimate reply none-the-less.
"It is as the legends say: you truly do have a way with words master Tethras."

"Aw shucks." Varric gently pushed Solas playfully on the arm. "So what do you think of him? And why do you care so much about my fantastic opinion?"

Solas was waiting to put his pexpecting in, so as if he was reading from a sheet of paper, he replied. "I think he has a much older and wiser soul than what people give him credit for. He's open-minded and loyal. Alistair's emotions are erratic, hiding behind his wall of sarcasm, despite this, his feelings can influence his thoughts easily; this can make one reckless... His heart is trusting and he will make a good Herald. That does not mean there will not be trials, but he will need our guidance in the days to come."

"If the world doesn't end before then," Varric muttered.

"That is true. So to answer the question, his company is intriguing, to say the least... Varric, what are you doing?"

Varric was being terribly impolite, sitting backwards on the chair, looking over somewhere behind Solas. Putting his hand up to silence the elf, the merchant's eyes narrowed in concentration. "Solas. Shut up a moment... I hear something."

"Did you just tell me to-"

"Shhhhh!"

A loud shout and clatter if metal came from the square "Templars! We march!"

Varric was already moving, pulling out his crossbow before Solas even knew what was going on. There was yelling, which was not a good sign, large gasps and clattering of pottery. Solas did not hurry, nothing too dangerous would occur in the middle of busiest city in Orlais. Varric seemed to have more pessimistic thoughts.

When Solas finally caught up with Varric he was grabbing Alistair's forearm, griping to yank him away from the watchful eye of the gossiping Orlesians. Varric was talking in a low voice, saying that they needed to get away from the embarrassment of being rejected by the Order, trying to move the human before he said anything more snarky than he had already, and causing an outright war with the Templars.

"You guys always had swords up your asses anyways..." Alistair mumbled to himself, finally giving into Varric's desperate pull. He huffed once, and kicked the ground in embarrassment. "Well, there goes our dreams of help from the Templars..."

"I have never seen the Lord Seeker act this way before-" Cassandra said, staring after the Lord Seeker. Her eyes were narrowed, confused. Hurt. "I feel it suggests something deeper... Perhaps we should investigate into the Order further?"

Alistair wrapped his arms around his chest self-consciously, hugging the unease out of himself, "I don't know if we have any other option, but we might not have the resources or power to even meet with them- Maker, I'm horrible at this!"

There were angry tears in his eyes and, like a child, he scrubbed at them with his hands. Whatever the lord seeker had said really affected the Herald, which then, consequently, caused unease within the entire inquisition.

"Alistair," Solas spoke up, tone gentle.

Alistair lowered his hands, frowning at Solas curiously.

"Do not fear your status. Many of the finest warriors in Thedosian history and before even then were hesitant and uncomfortable in their position as leaders- modest at heart, and only wanted to help- not be seen as a saviour- especially not perceived as bordering on a god," Solas waved his hand, gesturing at Alistair's green, illuminated one.
Cassandra coughed uncomfortably. Alistair screwed up his face in fear.
"None the less- you have a job to do. A responsibility to those you have sworn to protect- those your gut instinct have always told you to defend."

Alistair huffed, pushing back his curled red hair. It had grown long, falling about his slightly pointed ears, almost tumbling down to his shoulders. "I guess..." he murmured.

Cassandra grumbled. Evidentially she had reached her limit on the touchy-feely side of things, "Let's all get back to the dilemma at hand," she said, briskly. "Without Templars support we still have the problem of forces."

"Hang on," Alistair said. "Maybe we can't have the Templars but mayyyyybeeee we could use people on the other side of things. No - hear me out, Cassandra - While I was in Redcliffe, Arl Tegan agreed to let the rebel mages take refuge... Maybe-" His eyes widened. The boy was formulating a plan. "They have enough numbers to be an army and I'm sure they'd be able to help us close the Breach, right, Solas? Maybe we could ask them for help!"

Alistair was beaming. Cassandra looked less than thrilled but Solas could see she would not argue. Much, anyway.

"Guess we better make for the Hinterlands," Varric sighed.

Solas smiled. They had a plan. And it was a much better one, Solas felt, than allying themselves with the Templars.

Chapter Text

Orlais was a bust. Cullen knew it would be.

He'd had a gut feeling something would go wrong and, lately, his gut had been the one reliable indicator in his life- despite the fact he'd ignored it and followed a less... Moral path many times before.

Luckily, since he'd joined the Inquisition that unease he'd been used to had been stirring less and less often.

It was almost enough to make him hopeful.

Alistair had started collecting followers from every desperate corner of Thedas- from the 'Red Jennies' (who Cullen knew would be trouble), and the 'last true loyal mages of Thedas' (whom he also knew would be trouble). Cullen saw all too well that Sera and Vivienne wanted to gain more power in their respective little worlds from being associated with the Inquisition. He also knew that Alistair was too polite to turn down their offers of help.

Not that they could afford to. With the Templars out of the question and the majority of Thedas uncertain, they needed all the allies they could get. Even if their motivations were somewhat questionable.

Cullen paused to rub his eyes and he felt the thrumming in his forehead.

So far, for Cullen, going cold-turkey off lyrium had been quite successful. But Cullen knew from others' accounts that it was the five month mark when things began to feel like torture. He only had a minor head-ache brewing today, looking up to the sky he whispered a thank you to the Maker.

"Small blessings..." Cullen murmured, clutching the tiny silver coin in his fist a little tighter. With his other hand he swung his blade.

One. Two. Three. Block.

The mornings were the only time he ever got to practice. During the day he was forever supervising, organising their forces or training.

As rewarding as it could be it was stressful in equal measure. Everyday more recruits poured through Haven's gates. Few had ever seen combat, most had never even held a bloody shield let alone learnt to wield a blade with any finesse.

They needed to be better. So far, the Inquisition had been lucky. There had been no great need to defend Haven from hordes of Darkspawn or Templars or whatever manner of beast it was that created the Rift, but it was only a matter of time.

They needed to be stronger.

Slash. Duck. Bash.

Chips of wood flew off the training dummy. Josephine would be very upset if she had to replace them all again.

Cullen slowed his pacing, wiping his forehead. Though it was freezing up in the Frostbacks he was sweating.

He stepped back and took a breath. From the training camp, all he could see was an icy expanse; white capped mountain-peaks, the sun hesitantly peeking between them.

Dawn was here, and he was fighting.

His furry coat had been discarded on a nearby box, along with the majority of his heavier armour. He didn't need it when all he was doing was keeping fit.

Despite the raw memories of the Blight, he had missed Ferelden in a way he hadn't thought possible and strangely, there was nowhere else he'd rather be in Thedas than right here.

Someone touching his shoulder drew him out of his daydream and Cullen whirled, hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. Nobody was there. When he twisted back again, he was met with a hollow-cheeked and eyed, long-haired Herald.

Alistair looked a mess.

"Goooood morning Commander Rutherford!" He sang, though by the looks of it, he was having a very rough morning. There were dark circles under the man's eyes - though they had been present when they had hauled him out of the ruins of the Conclave.

Cullen bit the inside of his cheek at that thought. He had not recognised Alistair then - if he had he never would have imprisoned him.

Maker, there were so many things he wanted to say, so many thank you's and apologies he owed. Alistair Theirin had saved his life - had saved so many lives - and what had Cullen done with the gift he had been given? He had travelled across the sea and made all the same mistakes, looked the other way in all the same areas. By Andraste, trouble seemed to follow him.

He had half expected vitriol when he realised just who the Herald was. Well, perhaps not vitriol but coldness, at least. How many mages had lost their lives under Cullen's nose, after all? But the Herald had shown none of that and Cullen was half-convinced Alistair didn't even remember him from the Circle Tower. There was no reason he should, Cullen supposed, there were probably rather more pressing matters than one half-mad Templar trapped in delusion.

But no, all there had been from the Herald was a rather comforting warmth and understanding.

Alistair was wearing a large, flowing coat made of druffalo hide, with simple beige shirt that poked out underneath a silver breastplate, a tiny book fell off the side of one hip of the long coat, and a series of different coloured vials sat on the other.

He was ready for travel.

That's when Cullen realised he had been staring blankly at Alistair for a few long seconds now.

"Uhhh hello Ali- I- I mean your Grace-"

The Commander bowed. Low. Like an idiot.

The Herald stepped back uncomfortably, rubbing his arm. "Maybe we should just address each other informally... It might be easier?"

"Good idea." Cullen mumbled, reaching for the back of his neck, dropping his sword tip to the ground. "May I ask what you are doing awake so early, Alistair?"

This question seemed to surprise him, despite it being an obvious one. "I uh- don't sleep well," he said, a sheepish smile upon his face. "If you don't count the four days I was in a coma, of course."

Cullen crossed his arms, "You were snoring a lot of the time, plus you woke occasionally... Said something delusional, told a joke or two, then fell asleep again. Not really a coma by anyone's definition."

"Oh yeah? I told some jokes then immediately went back to sleep? I mean, of course I did. I must have been so good at sleeping at the time I could do it with my eyes closed!"

Cullen rolled his eyes, but laughed along with Alistair anyway. "I'm actually quite sure that was one of the jokes you told."

"Damn. I'm going to have to get a new repertoire- I've only been using this one for the last 20 years of my life-"

Behind them, the first signs of life around Haven were slowly emerging; tiny scouts throwing ravens into the sky, Threnn, whom Alistair had already declared his disliking for, was gathering iron for her requisitions. Harritt had stumbled out of his cabin, grumbling as he warmed his hands on the forge.

"So," Alistair said, tentatively. "You came and visited me?"

Cullen swore Alistair's cheeks reddened. The cold, surely.

"Well- I mean, that is to say- a lot of people did. You're the 'chosen one' now. I'm fairly sure Varric was making a profit off letting people go in and rub your forehead or pray at your feet."

"And did you pay to visit me too?"

"I told Varric to put it on my tab."

They lapsed into silence, watching Haven slowly awaken. Cullen almost missed what Alistair said when he spoke again, because it was so quiet and hushed. "I don't want to be the 'chosen one'. It's....uncomfortable. I don't like it. It makes me sound like a leader. I'm the bloody Nug King before I am a leader..."

Cullen smiled, trying to settle Alistair's building nerves. "You give yourself too little credit Alistair. Besides, the Chantry has decided your position for you, it seems-"

"The chantry has decided a lot of things for me in my life... Especially without my consent," Alistair muttered.

"Regardless, you're only our main field agent. You help us make decisions. You're not alone, Alistair. It does not all weigh on you."

"I suppose... But isn't Cassandra ten times more fit to gain all the support we need? I just fumble all the words up and make a fool of myself."

"You're the one with the mark."

"Solas said the same thing. But maybe I don't want to be?"

Cullen put his shield down, sighing empathetically. Alistair had every right to feel like the whole fate of Thedas rested on his shoulders. Because - even if Cullen wouldn't admit it to the Herald out loud, for fear of him collapsing into a panic - in a way, it did.

Cullen took in a breath and closed his eyes before asking what he did next, "Would you like to go for a walk with me up amongst the mountains, Alistair? I am going anyways, so you are more than welcome to join me. I could use the good company."

This seemed to snap Alistair out of his mood. He began to grow smiley again, his hidden fears and internal worries disappearing back to where they came from. "Uhhhh- Crap. No- I mean, yes of course, nothing would make me happier- I mean, it be fun, but I have to be off to Redcliffe today. I'll be gone for a week- at the most, two. The mages need saving! Heh- I apologise..."

"Are you sure you won't give the Templars another chance? I have faith they can-"

"Cullen... I know that choosing to side with the Templars would get us the support quickly, and they're capable - they've proven that, but the mages need help right now. I've seen them; children, mothers, fathers, people- some lost everything and... There's tranquil there too. You of all people in Haven know how they're treated... The rebels need our help. All of them. I don't think it's about who will do a better job- because i believe both sides can do it- it's about giving the underdogs a chance to redeem themselves. They need this."

Cullen smiled, nodding, despite his hesitance, he understood what Alistair was saying, "No- of course, go save the world, don't mind me."

Alistair nodded, moving away.

"Okayyyyyy good. Good good good. I guess ill- uh- see you round? That's if the world doesn't explode demons or something-"

Cullen nodded. Alistair retuned it with a smile, moving away. The commander sighed and made for his pouldron, and clipped it back onto his armour. He felt the warmth of it rush into him despite being rejected in more ways than one.

"Cullen!"

The Commander swerved around, to see Alistair walking backwards, facing Cullen, a large smile on his face "Rain check?"

Cullen grinned right back. The Commander made note that Alistair's freckles popped when he smiled like that. It was raw, kind, something reserved for truthfulness, and now Cullen had seen Alistair's mask wash partly away. "Rain check."

He watched as the Herald began to walk backwards with an awkward charm, but then he realised he was about to run straight into someone. "Uhhh Alistair watch out for-"

"Oof!"

"Cassandra..."
Cullen palmed his forehead. Alistair ran into Cassandra's side as she was issuing orders to some officers.

"What in Makers name! Oh - good morning Herald, Commander." Her voice laced with ice as both men waved awkwardly, trying to cool her mood.

"Morning, Seeker."

"Morning, Seeker."

They chimed in unison. Alistair turned once more, mouthing 'rain check' to Cullen before whispering a small apology to Cassandra and hurrying off toward the Chantry at a pace that would put the swiftest rogue to shame.

"What were you and the Herald talking about, Commander?"

Cassandra had let the officer go about his business and she sauntered over to Cullen, hand at a neutral position on her hilt. She seemed to calm quickly, now smirking devilishly- the same way she did when she was reading those smutty books. Maker.
Cullen knew that meant no good.

"Right to the point then?"

Cassandra only gave a curt nod.

"Nothing in particular, I honestly think that he gravitated toward me because even though it may not be well, I have known Alistair the longest. Aside from Leliana, of course."

"Gravitated toward you, hm?"

He paused for a moment.

"Y-yes seeker." Cullen shifted, clipping on the last of his armour so he didn't have to look the seeker in the eye.

"Am I flustering you, Commander?"

Cullen ignored her- "I have reports to file. If you will excuse me Lady Pentaghast"

"I told you not to call me that!"

Cullen smiled, pulling his coat higher to hide the warmth he could feel spread across his face and neck, as he walked away.

---

Alistair had his shield- a pathetic, wooden thing, probably made for practices- and his brother's magnificent sword- etched with gold and it sliced through pig's skin like it was a scroll. He didn't deserve to wield it, he knew. But without it AIstair felt like he had nothing to aspire to. To be as good as a leader as his brother was something Alistair only perceived in dreams. The weapon sent off a yellow glowing aura and made every other sword in existence dismal in comparison.
It was a curious juxtaposition, but one the herald didn't mind.
The weapon- he'd found it in Redcliffe castle. "I claimed it and snuck it away before The King could. It wasn't hard to see how much it meant to you."

Teagan's voice low and solemn. Holding it out to the drunkard.

Besides the weapon, his mother's locket was the only other thing he treasured. He whispered a prayer to Teagan. That kind and stubborn old man. He will repay him.

Teagan returned Alistair's life to him. Even if he was undeserving.

Alistair, in the dazed time he was recovering from his addiction, hadn't left the castle, let alone his room in said castle, so the only people he saw were those who never left either. Sure, there was rumours of a strange newcomer to the town Bann Teagan was hiding, but nothing beyond speculation. Alistair preferred minor rumours over an angry mob breaking down the castle doors to usurp the strange newcomer.

Angry mobs were scary and spiky, and Alistair would prefer not to encounter any.

Redcliffe was his home town. It was where he grew up, but Alistair wondered if anybody would even know his name.
Maybe as 'the infamous traitor of Ferelden' if Alistair was lucky. He hoped there would be no Cousland fanatics involved in this trip.

They'd just finalised building watchtowers for Horsemaster Dennet when they began heading for the home of the Rebel mages.

Alistair was in a gloomy mood- it had been far too long since he'd had a drink.

"Great. Boss? Just- I don't understand why we only have two choices... The mages-" Bull scoffed.

"Or the Templars," Varric added, with an unhappy tone.

Sera jumped of a particularly large series' of rocks, swinging her bow around, then landing in a puddle. "Well all of em' are right Ol' gits anyways- blah blah blah- we want freedom! Blah blah blah we miss the divine!"

"Yeah- alright"
"Fair enough"

Varric and Bull shrugged, nodding in agreement.

Sera was... Eccentric, to say the least. Alistair was surprised to find he agreed with a lot of her opinions, despite being worried he wouldn't. Even if her opinions weren't always completely coherent when she said them aloud, he understood what she was appealing to. She was watching out for the little guys- and if there was anything Alistair cared about it was the little guys.

The Iron Bull was an interesting man. Loyal, humorous, and totally worth the coin. His company seemed more like a family in the Alistair's opinion. And he respected Bull for having such a well formed team at that.

A healthy dynamic between all their companions was something he or Cousland could never seem to work out. At least having Bull on board meant Alistair didn't have to be the battering ram anymore.

He was nothing like Sten at all, though.

That thought got Alistair curious... He sheathed his sword, deciding the Hinterlands were safe for now, and fell back with the rest of his followers "Bull?"

"The Iron Bull." He corrected, smirking.

The horned man squared up the giant expanse of his chest, Alistair smiled sheepishly. "Yes- anyways, I met a Qunari once."

"Did you now?"

"We spent a year living in dirty old tents, fighting Darkspawn and cooking disgusting food for each other. It gave me quite the first-hand experience."

"So he was Tal-Vashoth then?"

"No? Why would you ask that?"

"Oh. Strange. I ask because you make it sound like he was your husband or something."

Varric had the decency to try and hide most of his laughter. Sera was not so graceful.

"What?! No! He was obnoxious! I was just curious as to why you don't act like him. You don't. Act like him- I mean, at all really."

Bull smiled, a raw, unintelligible smile. "Well that's my job Alistair. I got where I am today because I'm not like the rest of the Qunari."

"Oh. Well... That makes sense. But how do I know I can trust you? Especially with my life- what? What's wrong?"

Bull suddenly stalled. Looking up around like a bloodhound. He slowly began to pull his war-hammer we from his back. And just barely unable to deafen Alistair, he shouted, "Trouble up front!"

Bewilderment and disorientation filled Alistair, but his companions sprang into action. Both of the rogues found a hill they could safely shoot from, and Bull charged into the fray. Alistair envied their reaction time, it being at its prime. Suddenly, he felt like he had something to prove to his new companions, so he ran forward using a shield bash in hopes of sweeping any attackers away before they had the chance to spring out from any hiding spots. This worked quite well, and he was proud.

He knocked down a few bandits in his path, until he felt a large knife slash down his left shoulder-blade and down his back. A rogue, no doubt. Another large slash came from behind the Herald and he closed his eyes, expecting to feel some sort of pain once more. But as he turned around, he only found that the bandit who had stuck him lay dead with a gigantic, silver axe embedded in his head. It split the humans' face in two, his eyes pointing different directions, brain matter all but dust, gore splayed all across Alistair and the Iron Bull's boots. Something twinged in the human's stomach, but didn't let it show on his face.

"That's how you can trust me," Bull said with a smirk.

"Shit- help Sera!" Alistair heard Varric call.

Some of the bandits had cornered both archers. Alistair was in too much shock to feel any pain anymore, or to reply to the Qunari, so he kept swinging. Knocking almost all of his enemies over with an animalistic impulse. He felt a shout of anguish welling in his throat. When the final enemy was down, he realised this was the first fight against living people he'd been in since the Blight, ten years ago.

Alistair felt sick.

He fell to the ground, sword just holding him up, and sobbed dryly. He always hated killing people. Demons, he could do. Bears and wolves? Easy-peasy. Darkspawn? A walk in the park, but living, breathing people with emotions? With families? With dreams that extended beyond the life of a bandit?

He looked over at the dead rogue who'd cut him- their arms and legs twisted inhumanly, face obliterated- and then immediately regretted it because he was vomiting all over the lush grass below him. "Let it out, Boss-"

Bull pet the non-damaged part of his back startlingly softly.

Once Alistair was only spewing up spittle, he began to paw at his wounds, and finding relief in knowing they weren't as deep as he assumed. Wobbling, he stood up, finding that Bull and, unexpectedly, Sera had moved to his side, helping him stand. "There you go-"

He encouraged quietly, making sure the Herald was safely composed. "Thank you all- and Bull, about before...-"

He nodded to Alistair. "Don't mention it"

Sera huffed in exhaustion, "Come oooooon- lets hurry our arses up to Redhill or whatever and get the whiny mages so I can sleep."

"Freckles? That looks like it could get infected-" Varric patted him on the forearm with concern.

"Most of the bade went into my coat." Alistair assured the dwarf. He winced, moving his shoulder around tenderly. "We're almost there, anyway. And besides, I think I feel another rift coming up.

"There it is- fucking demons..." Bull shivered, spotting it over the hill before anyone else.

"You're not gonna go an' be an idiot an' die out there are ya? You're the only one who can stop those stupid big green thingies" Sera skewed her scarf around, not meeting Alistair's eye.

"I'll be fine- just-"

The rift burst, and as a reflex, Alistair threw up his hand, attempting to weaken the rift as quickly as possible. The searing pain spread through his arm, but he did not stir. It was an incomparable feeling, still unwelcome but Alistair had adjusted to it.

They made short work of the demons, but something was different.

"What are these?" Alistair queried, placing a toe inside a strange, yellow, tubular aura, feeling nothing, he shrugged. "Must be some sort of discharge from the rift."

"Woah! Freckles? You're talking a million miles a minute!"

"And movin' it too!" Sera yelled, and ran inside to play along, skipping with extreme speed.

"ReallyIdidntevennotice- that I was doing that. That's so weird" Alistair stepped out of the circle.

"Well whatever this shit is, it's probably nothing good." Bull egged Alistair on with his eyes to close the rift and be done with it.

Alistair was expecting some sort of negotiation party to meet him at the gate, but none had come. "We did send word ahead, didn't we?" Alistair asked Varric, whom only shrugged.

When they'd entered, an Inquisition soldier had ran up to the gate, telling them the 'leader of the mages' was currently in the local bar. 'The Gull and Lantern'.

"A tavern..."

The Herald carded his fingers through his hair anxiously.

As they moved toward the settlement, Varric looked around, taking everything in with interest only an author or an artist could possessed. Alistair began to grow dark, memories flooding his mind, none of them good ones. His eyes became hooded with distaste and his hand shot straight up to his face to hide it.

"So you grew up here right? Freckles?"

"Yes. I did," Alistair mumbled, tone clipped.

"Is it any different? Since you were last here I mean-"

"It's the same... You know- Besides the flaming corpses, the creepy green mist, the sheer terror on everyone's faces as they cowered in the Chantry, oh, and the impending doom of darkspawn... But besides that, nothing has changed!"

Alistair tried making light, but it did nothing to help his cloud of depression quickly accumulating.

As he moved through the town, he began to hear the whispers. Much like when he'd first awoken at Haven.

"Is that the Herald of Andraste?" 

"What is he doing here?"

"Is he here to free the Mages?"

"Did you see his hand?"

Alistair looked down at his palm which was sending green sparks out of it with inconsistency, then he stared at all the mages, which reminded him to make a mental note to go and find Connor while he was here, and confess how much he missed the young man.

They reached the tavern. Alistair's stomach dropped once more and he sighed heavily as Varric moved to his side again. "Freckles. We don't have to do this..."

"No. It's ok. I can. I'll be fine."

He opened the door to the tavern, and suddenly the familiar stench of alcohol washed through the human. He had avoided the Haven bar as best he could, despite being told countless times a woman named 'Flissa' he could vaguely remember wanted to speak to him.

The aroma seemed to do wonders to Bull and Sera too, because they had immediately dispersed to find something strong to throw down their gullets. It's ok Alistair... You're here for two minutes. You can do it.

He saw the Grand Enchanter over in a corner table, discussing things with a gaggle of mages. Hopefully a conversation would distract him from his woe. "Enchanter Fiona?"

Her large brown eyes -which were almost the same shade as Alistair's own- darted from person to person, and her dark-shaded ears twitched as she searched for the voice calling on her. When they landed on Alistair, she seemed to stall. Her hand falling from her temple which she was rubbing as an obvious result of stress, and it landed silently on the table.

"It's you..." She mumbled, standing up off her chair, it pushed out with a screech. Her eyes blown, stalking close, almost a run, she moved with shock and amazement, one Alistair hadn't expected- until she stopped just at his feet. "The- The Herald of Andraste!"

Fiona look absolutely astonished, her jaw unhinged and her eyes wide with surprise. More awe-struck than one should when meeting someone new, even someone of Alistair's renown. "The Maker truly works in the most mysterious ways..." She mumbled under her breath.

Alistair cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Why are you here, child?"

Alistair scrunched his nose in confusion. "Because... The Inquistion has offered the rebel mages an alliance. One you penned back that you'd gladly accept."

She shook her head "No- I do not recall this. I am truly sorry, but it was not I who wrote that letter. I would have definitely set it up in a nicer place than this."

Her words drawled and she scanned every inch of Alistair's face with sheer curiosity. So much so Alistair expected her to reach out and touch his stubbled cheeks. "I swear it was you. I asked for this to go straight to you- a matter of extreme urgency. Who else could it have been?"

She squared her shoulders, trying to look unemotional. "I apologise, ser Theirin, but you are too late. The free mages have already... pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium. To one Magister Alexius."

"Tevinter?!" Alistair's eyes almost fell out of his scull.

Varric shouted "Why in Andraste's sparkly ass would you do that?! I'm trying to think of a single worse thing you could have done. And I've got nothing."

Alistair suddenly realised those he'd placed his faith in had failed. He'd messed up. Again. Tears began to well in his eyes.
"This is- Tevinter hurts people! You can't just- what have you done?!"

"The only thing we could do. I am the leader of one of the largest, most revolutionary groups in the last age. I will do anything to ensure the safety of my people!"
The whole bar stopped and quietened, all turning to face an unknowing mother and son quarrel. "Gereon Alexius offered us a future. I was severely inclined to accept... And as one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the power to negotiate with you."

"Where is he?"

"Arl Teagan's throne."

"I'm sorry? I think I had a nug in my ear. I thought you just said Magister Alexius kicked my uncle out of Redcliffe."

For reasons Alistair couldn't work out, the woman laughed on the words 'my uncle.' "It's true. And I even recall he may have been expecting you."

--