#aurlyn

“Preparing breakfast already?” he asked, nodding towards the pumpkin.

“Oh! This? Uhm... no,” Alistair answered, and to Zevran’s surprise, he looked slightly uncomfortable. “It’s, uhm, a ward.”

“The pumpkin?” Zevran chuckled.

“Yes. They’re supposed to ward demons and evil ghosts off.” Alistair sounded definitely defensive, his eyes flickering to the edge of the camp. Zevran followed his eyes, his eyebrows going up as he saw several pumpkins and turnips placed around the camp. They had obviously been hollowed out, too, and he could see that approximations of faces and grimaces had been carved into them. They flickered ominously from the candles placed within them.

“Did you do all that?” Zevran called out in surprise, and Alistair shrugged.

“Couldn’t sleep either, so I took Leliana’s watch and kept busy. Seemed as good as anything,” he muttered, continuing to hollow out the pumpkin.

“What are they supposed to do?”

“Scare them off, I think,” Alistair answered with another shrug. “I never quite thought about how they are supposed to work. They did that in the village around the abbey where they sent me to... you know. Keep me out of the way.”

Zevran found himself intrigued despite himself. “They did that even though it was near a Chantry? I’ve never heard of such a tradition.”

Alistair nodded. “Even the brothers and sisters in the abbey contributed. It’s a local custom. And the kids love the lights, so...” He trailed off and started to etch an approximation of a face into the pumpkin.

The Antivan watched him for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “This is not about the lights, though, is it? You really want to keep evil spirits away?” he asked curiously. Alistair didn’t answer, just shrugged again.

Zevran was amused. “I know you said you are not especially religious, Alistair, but surely you believe that souls go to the Maker, too.”

Alistair was quiet, red dots burning on his cheeks as he glared at Zevran.

“Don’t mock me,” he said gruffly, his voice betraying his insecurity.

Zevran tilted his head, holding Alistair’s eyes as he grew serious. “I’m not, dear Warden. I really do want to know.” There was a rare sincerity in his voice as he spoke, and Alistair’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh. Sorry then.” He rubbed a hand over his neck and cleared his throat. For a moment, silence fell between them, then Alistair continued to carve the pumpkin. Zevran smiled slightly and just waited. It didn’t take long until Alistair started to speak again. “Well, if you really want to know — yes, I do believe that. In theory. But I’ve also seen... I know...” He huffed, searching for words. “Well, it’s not that simple, is it? With the Blight, and the Taint and all. You’ve seen what happened. With the darkspawn. With Tamlen.”

“Ah,” Zevran made softly. “Yes. I understand.”

They had all seen Mahariel’s shock and grief when she had recognized her old friend during the attack. The one believed dead. How he had been caught in a state between life and death, changed nearly beyond recognition. They had helped her bury him afterwards, and planted a tree on his grave.

“It made me wonder,” Alistair continued quietly, his eyes fixed on his work, “how many others used to be... someone. A friend. A father. A daughter.” For a moment, he worked quietly, then he paused, looking into the flames. The warm shine danced over his features as he said, “I’ve never thought about what happens to the darkspawn after we kill them, you know. Do they have souls? They can’t go to the Maker, can they?” There was a faraway, pained look in his eyes as he spoke, and Zevran felt that this was about more than Alistair let on. “And what about those like Tamlen? Are they free of the Taint again when they die? Or are they... lost? Angry?”

The flames crackled and flared, sending red sparks towards the sky as one of the logs broke.

For a long moment, Zevran watched Alistair, and something in his heart softened. It was so easy to dismiss him as naive, easy to miss the kindness and warmth Alistair had managed to preserve despite his childhood and the way he had been pushed away by all around him. Sometimes, often even, Zevran found him ridiculous, but then, another part of him envied him for his ability to keep his heart open the way he did. He took a deep breath, then reached for one of the pumpkins laying next to Alistair.

The Warden furrowed his brow as Zevran took out a knife. “What are you doing?” he asked, suspicion in his voice.

“Why, carve a pumpkin, of course,” the Antivan answered lightly and gave him a wink. “If only for the lights. And keeping busy.”

The way Alistair’s face lit up made Zevran smile.

“Oh! Alright then,” Alistair said. “Uhm... don’t tell Morrigan the actual reason for them. She’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Zevran laughed. He knew exactly what Alistair meant. “Don’t worry, my friend. This will be our little secret, yes?”