#bethistair

Four years have changed Anders dramatically. He was always tall and thin, but now there's a gauntness to his face that is more than the toll paid to the deep roads. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark as bruises, and the easy humor has been all but wiped away, replaced by something grim and… resigned.

“What’s going on?” Alistair asks.

“Foolishness,” Stroud answers curtly.

The bearded man makes a sound that’s akin to a growl, and though he doesn’t move, everything in his demeanor looks even more menacing.

Anders glances at him warily. “Hawke and I have come seeking help, and have found the Wardens... less forthcoming than I remembered.”

Stroud waves away the observation. "We've no way to help, Anders, and you know it. What were you even thinking coming here? If you can find us then you’re still enough of a Warden to sense that you’ve been dragging half-a-legion of darkspawn naught but a days march behind you. What do you think will happen when they catch up? I cannot see how a corpse can be worth such a risk.”

“Corpse?” Alistair blinks, startled, noticing for the first time the figure laid out on the floor, wrapped in a heavily stained blanket nearly head to toe. A pair of ugly, worn boots poke out of the bottom, but that’s all.

Hawke — Alistair assumes — makes a loud, angry noise, but he keeps his eyes on Stroud. "She's alive. Or what the fuck do you think we're doing here?”

Alistair kneels, and carefully pulls a hood-like fold of the blanket away from the figure’s face.

A woman.

And she's—

Alistair has been stunned utterly speechless three times in his life.

The first time was vertigo. A stunning sense of falling through the floor the first time he’d seen his father from afar. Seen his own features mirrored and muted; wrapped in spun gold and topped with a crown.

The second time was shock. Morrigan, mouth twisted in a line like she’d bitten a sour lemon, offering something absolutely ridiculous. What do witches know of Warden matters anyway?

The third time was horror. He’d seen an archdemon before of course, in his dreams. But it was different in the flesh. Ten thousand pounds of malice and terror, with wings broad enough to blot out the sun. Death lingering on the horizon.

But this… This time it is something else entirely. Something indescribable stirring deep in his belly.

She's—

He blinks.

Maker, she’s lovely.

And clearly dying.

She’s pale and cold as marble, with black spidery veins of the taint winding up her limbs. She's conscious, but barely, breathing ragged, and shallow, and strained. She’s young. Perhaps even a few years younger than himself, and finely featured. Dark hair falls in tangled curls around her face. Her eyes flicker open, a surprisingly bright, coppery sort of brown, but they’re unfocused, drifting over him in listless patterns.

“Hullo,” Alistair says quietly, fingers drifting towards the curls on her brow.

She doesn’t respond.

"You’d let her take the Joining like this?" Stroud's voice rises for the first time, cold and brittle. "Are you mad? A knife would be a quicker death, and a kinder one."

Hawke takes a slow step forward until he's nearly nose to nose with Stroud. "I wasn’t asking.” He isn’t shouting any more. His voice is low and mild. Almost pleasant. Conversational. “You’ll do it. Or I'll kill you.” His hand raises with that same, slow deliberateness, and fits itself around the collar of Stroud’s shirt. " You. Specifically. And I promise it won't be quick, or kind."

“Threatening a Warden with death is not particularly effective,” Stroud says with a raised brow. “And you are outnumbered. Badly.”

Hawke chuckles darkly through his teeth. "Am. I?”

Stroud’s eyes narrow, and Alistair can feel his heart rate pick up in response to that look from his Warden-Commander. Every time he’s seen it, death has swiftly followed.

Oh fuck.

Hawke must pick up on the subtle shift of the atmosphere. The chuckle drops nearly an octave, into something more like a growl, all rumble and danger and every hair stands up on the back of Alistair’s neck.

Double fuck.

He shifts his body so the bulk of him is directly above the girl. If it comes to a fight he’ll keep her safe. Stroud will be careful enough, but Hawke seems the type of man whose violence gets messy. This way at least, he can have his shield over them both in a heartbeat.

The silence drags, a solid wall of tension stretched between one man and the other. A strange sort of stalemate. Hawke doesn’t give an inch, and neither does Stroud.

But Anders is the bridge between both worlds. “She’s a mage, Stroud,” he offers to the silence. “You know what that would mean to the Order.”

Mages are rare. Warden mages, rarer still.

Stroud takes a half-step back, head inclining slightly. Even Hawke turns away, though in his case it is to shift his glare to Anders.

Alistair holds his breath, waiting, heart still hammering away.

He has served under three Warden Commanders. Duncan was all instinct. Emmory was blind courage. But Stroud is tradition; well-rooted in discipline and pragmatism. He might be… He should be…

But—

“No,” Stroud shakes his head. “If I was that interested in a mage, Anders, I’d just insist that you stay where you belong.”

Hawke reacts instantly, folding his hand into a fist and punching Stroud square in the gut. The Warden Commander doubles over with a strangled rush of air. A handful of Wardens rush forward armed and angry, but Stroud manages to wave them back, glaring.

"Last chance,” Hawke warns quietly.

“The joining is not a cure, Anders,” Stroud says. He ignores Hawke, though his voice is noticeably strained. One hand casually spans his middle. “I would have expected you of all people to know that.”

“It’s a chance,” Anders insists, stubborn as ever.

"Not for her,” the Warden Commander says.

There’s a sudden flurry of motion as Hawke launches himself at Stroud, the flash of a blade in his hand. Magic flares, and a barrier springs up between them, before settling around them both. Hawke spits out a series of curses — first at Anders, then at Stroud, and then at Anders again. He jams his dagger back into its sheath, rogue-quick, and grabs Stroud’s shirtfront, shaking vigorously. Stroud grabs him back and the stand-off quickly devolves into a shoving match.

Hawke makes a determined and largely ineffectual attempt to knee Stroud in the balls.

The shouting starts again after that — mostly from Hawke, describing in detail his plans for Stroud’s entrails — and Alistair winces. Not at Hawke’s descriptions which seem anatomically improbable, but at the damn noise. Noise draws the attention of darkspawn, as does the scent of blood. And there’s quite a lot of noise right now, and quite a lot of blood.

Despite all that, Alistair’s attention slips back to the girl. Her breathing is still shallow and uneven, but the bright copper of her eyes seems duller now , irises slowly going grey and gummy. Something swoops in the pit of Alistair's stomach. A sick sort of emptiness, all hard-edged, and desperate. Someone has to do something.

Something beyond posturing and bluster.

Maker, someone has to do something. He has to—

"We'll do it," Alistair says all at once, the words so hurried the syllables are all pressed together into a single sound. "We’ll do it,” he says again. “Anders is right. We can help her. We have to.”

Hawke and Stroud both freeze, varying levels of surprise on their faces.

Then Stroud's expression sharpens. “Alistair.”

“We have to,” Alistair insists, gesturing helplessly. “Please. She’s—“

“You had your chance to lead,” Stroud interrupts tersely. “Now you must follow.”

Alistair’s brows shoot up. It’s the truth, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t wanted command. He hadn’t sought leadership. Had refused Weisshaupt on the matter, repeatedly. And when Stroud had been named Warden Commander in his stead, he had sworn both publicly and privately, to follow his lead, without question. And he had never broken that oath.

Never wavered.

Never once.

And yet he can feel his jaw shift stubbornly. (His father’s jaw, square-set like all the old Kings of Ferelden. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard sometimes to bend.) “Perhaps,” he squares his shoulders and takes a breath. “But Warden Commander or no, you’ve not seen half of what I have as a Warden.”

Stroud's expression remains steely.

He raises a single black brow.

“We can help her,” Alistair insists. “We have to at least try.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, feeling panicky. “You don’t understand. We wouldn’t have ended the fifth blight so swiftly without the mages. You don’t— you’ve no idea what it was like to fight the— Well. At Denerim. Or Amaranthine. And we haven’t yet regained even a third of what the Order lost at Ostagar. We need every Warden we can get. Every last one,” he glares up at Stroud. “Especially her,”   he says as firmly as he can. “We need her. So we are going to help her.”

There is a stunned sort of silence.

Anders shifts back and forth, expression unreadable.

Stroud pulls himself from Hawke’s grip and steps back, flicking his hands down his chest, smoothing out his crumpled shirtfront; one of the buttons has been torn free and he picks at a loose thread. “Mage or no, I am not in the habit of making people suffer needlessly.” Stroud looks at Alistair pointedly.

“Me neither,” Alistair glances down at the girl. “But we’re the only one's who can save her.”

Stroud looks at Alistair for a moment as though he has never seen him before. He makes an amused sound, and shakes his head, but the gesture is all exasperation. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing," he asks mildly.

Alistair grins reflexively, all nerves no humor. “Not the least little bit.”

Stroud is silent a moment more, then he scrubs a hand across his face as if exhausted. “She’ll not survive it.”

It is no different than what he’s said before, but now there is a gentleness in Stroud’s voice that makes Alistair’s throat close up. He tries to speak, but instead gives a hitching, one shouldered shrug.

Stroud takes a deep, slow breath, air dragging noisily through his lungs. “Fine. I conscript her. It’s done.”

And with that, the girl belongs to the Wardens.

“Thank you,” Anders says after a quiet moment, and sets a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, forearm across his chest as if to offer a protective embrace.

The anger in Hawke’s expression dissolves nearly instantly, and he sags into Anders’ touch. It’s clear now that the rage was all but holding him together. Without it, he looks almost lost; empty, and strangely vulnerable. The hands at his side open and close in slow motion, as if grasping for something no longer there.

“You'll leave immediately,” Stroud says crisply, focusing back on Hawke and his companions.

“I can take them,” Alistair offers. He goes to stand, but his knees sort of lock up. He doesn’t want Stroud and Hawke to have the opportunity to knife each other, but he doesn't want to leave her, more.

“I’ll take them,” Stroud says firmly. “I’ll not leave Hawke alone with any of my people. Besides, the girl is your responsibility now.” He gives Alistair a meaningful look. “Mera,” he calls to another Warden over his shoulder, not looking. “You have command.”

Ever the antagonist, Hawke moves to block Stroud’s path.

“I am not leaving her.”

“We said she’d take the joining, and so she will,” Stroud says, voice cold. “This is Warden business now. And you have no place here.”

Hawke's eyes are hard, and so haunted they are nearly black. For a moment Alistair thinks it may come to violence after all. Instead Hawke nods with a fair bit of bad grace. Anders' head drops briefly, relieved, and the barriers he cast fizzle out of existence.

It is over.

Hawke kneels, and with a fierce and startling tenderness, leans in and kisses the girl’s forehead. He murmurs something against her skin, too faint for Alistair to hear, but his meaning is clear enough.

He is saying goodbye.

Alistair turns his head to give them what privacy he can, but when he turns back Hawke is staring at him with a manic sort of intensity, brown eyes dark with grief.

“Keep. Bethany. safe.” Every word is a command, bitten in half with anguish and lined with despair.

No matter if the Warden’s succeed — or not — Hawke is unlikely to ever see her again. And Alistair is struck anew with the quiet tragedy of it all.

Bethany.

He folds her name in his palm, like a secret, and nods, trying to keep his voice steady and certain. “I will. I promise.”

***

The black draught is a foul concoction. Dark as tar and nearly as thick, the potion smokes faintly and smells like a Darkspawn’s hindquarters. If memory serves, it tastes just as bad, too.

Alistair has overseen dozens of joinings, but it’s only his second time crafting the black draught himself. The first had been for a woodcutter from Jader. The man had been all sunburn and freckles and ginger curls; the least likely person to face the Deep Roads. Maybe that was why the Maker had marked him to die in the joining, choking and gasping with black foam all across his lips.  

And Alistair standing above him, helpless and horrified.

Certain it was all his fault.

Certain he should have known better.

And yet here he is again.

Somehow.

Alistair holds his breath, heart hamming halfway through his chest. His hands are slick in his gloves.

Stroud's not wrong. Dying of the joining is no easy death. But neither is dying of the taint. Even now he can see the pain carving itself into Bethany, pronounced even above the exhaustion and the spray of dried blood that stains one cheek. And yet even through the blood and the dust and the sickly cast of her pallor, something clean and bright shines through. A tiny spark. No bigger than a firefly. And for one dizzy moment, Alistair thinks he would do anything to see the girl open her eyes — look at him — and smile.

He raises the chalice, careful not to spill, and takes a breath. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant,” he begins. “Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworned. And should you… should you perish,” Alistair clears his throat to mask the tremor in his voice, “know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And know that one day... we shall join you.”

The last words are little more than a whisper. Alistair kneels, gathers her up in his arms, and gently tips the rim of the cup against her lips. “Drink?” He asks quietly, watching the column of her throat carefully.

Black leaks from the corner of her mouth, running towards her ear. He wipes at it with his thumb. Thick and almost tarry, it smears.

“Please, drink.”

Maker if she is beyond even this…

“You have to drink. Please.”

Her eyes crack open a little. They’re nearly colorless now, pupils fixed and staring.

“Please, Bethany…”

She swallows.

Once.

Twice.

“Very good.” Tears prickle at his eyes, and he wipes at her mouth with the hem of his tunic. He tries to smile, but can’t manage it. His eyes dart to the pulse point beneath her jaw. “That’s very well done.”

He lays her back down as gently as he can, hand against black curl of her hair for the barest of moments.

And then he prays to the Maker.

He has not prayed to the Maker since — well, long enough that the words are stilted and slow, rusty as an old hinge.

Alistair has no illusions as to the danger of the joining. He’s seen grown men healthy and hale, die mere moments after taking the black draught, choking on foulness and dark magic alike. And suddenly it all feels like hubris, to tear her away from people who knew her — loved her — and to let her die, alone in the dark amongst strangers.

And he did that. He did that to her.

The breath rattles noisily in her chest, black spilling from the corners of her mouth, and Alistair nearly chokes on his own fear.

He presses a trembling fist to his lips and prays harder.

***

It is a terrible night.

Death is a part of a Warden’s life. It is not a thing to be feared or avoided. It is what they do. The Maker grants the Wardens a singular sort of immortality — they survive the taint so they may kill darkspawn.

(In war, victory.)

That is all the Order is, at its core. Death. Death. And more death. And one day it will come for all of them, with a sweet song of madness in their ear. And the Maker will grant them peace.

(In peace, vigilance.)

Death is nothing to a Warden if not a familiar.

Alistair himself has survived a blight, an archdemon, and the needless slaughter of half of all living Wardens.

(In death, sacrifice.)

Witnessing this tiny battle waged in the bleakness of the Deep Roads, should be a small thing. Insignificant at scale. No armies are at stake. No kingdoms hang in the balance. Her death will be of no true consequence. And yet…

It doesn’t feel small at all.

It feels… heavy. There is no other word for it. A weight pressing down on his chest so every breath he takes is short, and sharp, and strained. A twisting in his gut, an uneasiness that sits awaiting the strike of a blade. And a terrible helplessness that hangs across his senses like a veil.

After the joining, once it was clear she wouldn’t instantly expire from the draught, the remaining Wardens had moved as swiftly as they could, hoping time and distance would mask Bethany’s scent from the darkspawn.

Alistair had carried her. Slung across his back like a rucksack. Still, and feverish, and unsettlingly light. Sometimes he couldn’t hear her breathing over the sound of his own heartbeat. So he’d run his thumb over the pulse points of her wrists, searching. Searching. Able to breathe again when he found her heartbeat — light and erratic, but there.

It’s still there.

The Wardens make camp for the night. Cold food and no fire. They can’t risk it until they’ve put more distance between themselves and the horde. The darkspawn are nearly out of range now, but not quite. He can still feel them lurking faintly at the edges of his consciousness. He would have preferred if they’d pressed on for a few more miles, but Mera had ordered him to rest — foolish to wear himself out entirely.

And he knows she’s right. If it came to it now, he’d be slow and sloppy in a fight. Maybe get Bethany killed. Maybe get them all killed.

Maker, he hadn’t even thought about the risk to the others.

He crouches beside Bethany, trembling with nerves, guilt, and exhaustion, until Mera lays a gentle hand on the his head, fingers digging into his scalp, urging him to rest.

They’ve no spare bedding — no spare anything, really — so Alistair rolls Bethany up in his own blankets, with his surcoat pillowed beneath her head, and lies on the bare rock beside her. It isn’t the first time he’s slept on naked stone and it won’t be the last, though this time he gets little in the way of sleep. He can’t. He’s too wound up.

Bethany… She is—

Not dying. Not dying.

—fragile as spun silk.

Her pulse is as faint as a butterfly's wings, and seems to stutter to a halt with a terrifying regularity. Alistair barely removes his hand from her wrist now. Counting the seconds between each heartbeat and the next. There’s so much time between them. So much empty space for him to fall face-first into cold terror. And then he finds the little bump of her pulse again, irregular and light, and his head blooms with an irrational sense of relief.

Twice he thinks she slips away, and quiet agony coils around his heart until she takes a noisy sort of breath that sounds like she may be drowning, and the faint bump bump of her pulse starts again.

He pulls the blankets down to her waist, afraid that their meager pressure will be too much strain for her to overcome. Then he frets that she’s too cold, and pulls them up again. But mostly he just tries to will her heartbeat into alignment with his, and struggles to stay afloat of his own growing despair.

***

In the morning there is no dawn to greet them. No gentle sunrise to reward her fight. The camp simply begins to stir, coming alive with the soft, familiar sounds of Warden’s waking.

Alistair is a wreck. He’d sweated straight through his tunic from anxiety, and can probably count on one hand the minutes he'd actually managed to fall asleep. His back aches and he’s got pins and needles all down his arse and the backs of his legs. And the muscles of his jaw are stiff and sore from grinding his teeth all night. Still. He cracks the biggest smile at every Warden who comes to check on them.

Because she is still alive.

***

“She’s not dying,” Alistair says firmly, but can’t help but wring his hands as he says it.

“Aye,” Warden Runsk sighs heavily and pats Alistair’s back mechanically. “You’ve said it a hundred times. Not sure you have anymore say in the matter now, as before. She’s had two days like this. She’ll not last a third.”

She can’t take any real food –– the risk of choking is too high –– but they stop every hour, like now, and Alistair drips a water-thin gruel into her mouth, a tiny bit at a time, stroking her throat to encourage her to swallow. She’s visibly lost weight, the bones of her wrist are sharp and sparrow-light. But the blackness of the taint has slowed it’s advance through her veins, and the pulse beneath his thumb is stronger, he thinks, but still irregular.

He takes comfort from that when he can.

“I’ve heard of someone lasting five,” Alistair mutters stubbornly.

Runsk shakes his head, unconvinced. “The Order is nothing if not half make-believe.”

“But it’s working. She’s not dying.”

“Aye, I know.” Runsk pats him on the back again.

***

In the blink of an eye, your whole life can change.

Alistair has learned that lesson so many times over, you’d think he’d never forget.

Once, he’d thought all life had to offer him was a drafty stable and the smell of Mabari all around. Caring for the hounds as well as the horses, with dirt on his breeches and bits of straw in his hair. It had been hard work — lonely work — but that was life, wasn’t it? And at least the animals were never cruel to him. And he’d always slept with the runts and hand-fed them so they’d never be culled. He’d been… resigned. Happy enough, he’d supposed.

But then he’d gone to the Templars, and it was all different. No dirt, or straw, or horse manure. Just metal, and magic, and that awful silence of the Circle’s Chantry.

Then came the Wardens. And Ostagar. And the Landsmeet — he’d been so terrified then. So aware of everything that would shift should things go poorly.

He should be ready for such things, always. But somehow he never is.

Bethany makes a sound.

Not the horrifying death-rattle as she struggled to breathe, or the tiny, pain-filled moans she would occasionally utter. This is something soft and sleepy and wonderful.

A sound of wakening.

A sound of his whole world shifting.

Alistair scrambles over to her, heart pounding. “Hello?”

Brown eyes blink open, then promptly close again.

And Alistair feels the little bubble of relief fade abruptly. “You’re not dead,” he says in a rush of breath, jaw tightening in reflex.

That’s true at least. Whatever she is, she isn’t dead.

Her eyes flutter open again, focused, though very bloodshot, and Alistair feels his face split in an enormous grin. He tries to school his features into something reassuring and dignified, but he doesn’t quite manage.

Her eyes alight on him briefly before she turns her head, searching. “Garrett—?” Her hand stretches out, distressed. Flailing in the empty air. Searching.

“Oh,” Alistair blinks, surprised by the jealousy that twinges through him absurdly. It’s faint as an echo behind the relief, but there. So stupid. He swallows it back. “Was that the shouty one with the terrifying… and, ah…  rather… ” He stumbles, searching for a word to describe Hawke that isn’t violent or bloodthirsty. Instead he gestures to his own chin. “Um… beard?”

The girl makes a pained noise that lances through him, and a credible attempt to sit up.

“Hey now, none of that,” Alistair presses her back down before she can hurt herself. “You’ve been out for three days. Stroud— that is, the Warden-Commander wasn’t… was sure you wouldn’t— Well. You’re not dead.” He says again firmly, squinting at her as though she might change her mind about it at any moment, though he knows that’s not how the joining works.

“Where is my brother?” The words come out like a shaky rasp, all jagged-edged with dread. She’s so weak she has to breathe after each one.

Oh.

Of course.

“He was your brother then?” Alistair hopes he doesn’t sound as relieved as he feels. He’s not sure if it’s easier to lose a brother than a lover — never having had much in the way of either — but he can’t say he isn’t glad that’s the way of it.

Not that he has any right to be glad that —

“Was?”  The word is all heartbreak. All despair and grief. She wrenches herself upright, panic lending her a sudden burst of strength. She gets her legs under her, nearly tries to stand. And Alistair — the world's most monumentally thoughtless arse — only just gets his arms under her as she collapses, trembling, and all broken out in a cold sweat.

Shit.

He backtracks as fast as he possibly can. “No no no, hey. He’s not dead. Stroud took some men to escort them back to the surface.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and sees her eyes follow the gesture, jittery with adrenaline. “Never should have been this deep. Surprised any of them made it out in one—” She flinches and Alistair wants to bite off his tongue.

Damn.

Maker, he’s doing none of this right.

He wipes sweating palms on the backside of his breeches.

“Well, hmm.” He takes a breath and forces his voice lower. Softer. Steadier. “You were lucky you brought a healer. Luckier still that the healer was a Warden— is a Warden,” he corrects with a frown. “You never really get to leave the Order, after all.”

“Lucky?” She repeats, voice small and lost. For a moment her eyes drift restlessly back and forth as if trying to understand.

The world changes so easily, after all.

Alistair understands. She didn’t choose this. She didn’t join the Wardens, she was taken by them. By him. And now everything she knew in life, everything, even her own being, is fundamentally, permanently altered.

It is worse than being carted off to the Templars; to join their ranks or become their charge.

Worse than being nearly made King.

He hopes it is less worse than dying.

“What do you remember?” Alistair asks as gently as he can.

She shakes her head in mute confusion. Tears spill down her cheeks. His fingers twitch, wanting to wipe them away, but he doesn’t move.

Always start with the easier questions.

“What’s your name,” he asks instead.

She blinks at him through the tears, sticking her hand out automatically, as Alistair tries not to be thoroughly charmed. “Bethany Hawke.”

Bethany.

It sounds prettier the way she says it, like the chime of a tiny bell, bright and clean, and he cannot help but grin.

Clattering by his bed and Alistair groaned. Why hadn’t he written a decree stating that not a single soul could be in his castle excluding his son and the healer?

“I brought you some breakfast. The servants claim you haven’t been eating.”

Great. Somebody had called in the calvary. He clung even tighter to his blanket.

“Alistair. You can’t just lie in bed all day.”

He heard Anora sigh. A bit dramatic in his opinion.

He mentally prepared for her to yell at him or give him a stern talking to. She never came to the castle otherwise.

“Trust me. If I could have just lain in bed all day after Cailan passed, I would have. I understand how you must feel. But you’re not doing anyone any good by not eating. You want to waste away? Leave Bryce without either of his parents?”

The Maker knew his brain was useless for getting him out of bed so he’d thought it’d be comical to send Anora instead. He should count himself lucky.

Light blinded him as the blanket was ripped away. He should’ve clutched it tighter. Blankets these days were as precious as pearls.

“Get up. We’re going to the lake.”

He balked, shrinking away, scrambling for a cozy shadow. “But I don’t want to,” Alistair whined.

“But you’re going to. So sit up. Eat. Get your big boy pants on and meet me at the front gate in an hour. Or so help me I will drag you out of this bed myself and spoon feed you.”

He dared to glance at Anora. She was serious, of course. She shoved a glass of orange juice at him. He eyed it suspiciously as she rolled her eyes and forced it into his hands.

“Now drink,” she commanded.

He hesitated more out of defiance than anything. “I could have you thrown from court for how you’re speaking to me. Could even put your head on a pike.” Emphasis on the last word had to have sounded threatening.

Her eyes nearly rolled out of her head that time. “For Andraste’s sake Alistair, don’t be so morbid.” She shook her head and muttered something about an insufferable little brother. She handed him a piece of buttered toast next.

“Where am I supposed to put that?”

“In your mouth.”

He glared. Drank his juice and traded the empty glass for the toast. He took the world's smallest bite out of it and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. After he swallowed, Anora patted him on the cheek.

“There, wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Why are you here?” Alistair asked.

She cleaned the dirt from her nails with a brush she seemingly pulled out of nowhere. “Fergus has been concerned so he sent for me. He knows you listen to my council.”

Alistair scoffed. “More like I let you boss me around.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

After all this time, Alistair still wanted to stick his tongue out at some point in every interaction with her. He shoved his toast in his mouth instead. He didn’t miss that coy smirk on her face either.

She rose and strutted towards the door. “I’ll be seeing you in a short while. Oh, and do wear something comfortable.”

She exited like she was leading an army. Alistair glanced down at his nightshirt. A miserable army of one. He managed to finish half his breakfast and throw on some clothes before the time allotted to him. Though, his main motivator at that point was getting to check on Bryce before he went on an excursion with Anora.

He spotted Bethany and he froze. She should be at breakfast like every other morning when he visited Bryce. And he had been avoiding her for nearly a month, successfully, ever since what he referred to as the incident. He had half a mind to turn around and walk right back out that door.

“Oh good morning,” she said. She was even smiling. Then she motioned him over. Did she not remember him losing his shit over roses? “He’s been having longer periods of wakefulness. Though, he still often calls me his mum.”

All thought of embarrassing incidents, anxieties and what have you dispersed when he heard that. “He calls you mum? Does he not realize…” Alistair didn’t want to say it.

She shook her head and adjusted Bryce’s pillow, smoothed out his blanket. “You may or may not have to remind him. I wouldn’t worry about it now. It’s still too soon to tell whether his memory is affected long term. Of the patients I’ve seen sharing his condition, many have suffered from short term memory loss. I have rarely seen otherwise.”

Rarely. The word wasn’t lost on him. Alistair didn’t think he could explain her death to Bryce again. Maker, wasn’t once enough? He shuddered at the thought and Bethany’s hand was over his.

“Really, you shouldn’t worry.” She squeezed his hand then let it go.

Shouldn’t worry.

Good advice but his heart couldn’t take it. Alistair leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead. “I love you,” he murmured. Then pulled back.

“I will return again after dinner. I’d like to read him some things.”

Bethany nodded. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” She smiled gently at him and the thought crossed him that she had a very pretty smile. Not that he should notice such a thing. Maker, what was he thinking? Hadn’t he just dreamed of his wife this morning? Now he was admiring another woman’s smile?

Forgive me.

He rushed away from Bethany before he thought something else he shouldn’t possibly think.

—

He really didn’t want to be at the lake. Too many bad memories. Too much guilt. Too few enjoyments. And it was cold. Not quite Ferelden winter cold but the wind had a bite and nipped at the tips of his ears. He ticked the reasons off one by one, keeping his worries at bay with complaints until Anora interrupted his thoughts, shoving a fishing rod into his hands. He’d rather try aiming for fish with a bow and arrow. Fishing with a rod was a slow, agonizing way to catch fish, one in which he was left to marinate in his morose musings.

“Already has a worm. Do you prefer to fish off shore or…”

Neither. He didn’t like fishing at all. It was by far one of the most boring and wretched past times he’d ever encountered.

“Shore it is,” she decided for him.

“I don’t like fishing,” he said. But plodded after her anyway.

“Oh, I know. But I do. I find it quite relaxing.”

“Then why not go by yourself? Bringing me along with you seems the opposite of relaxing.”

“I should confess then, I did not bring you along for my benefit.” She cast her line.

“I already mentioned I don’t like fishing. Did you have a lapse in hearing?”

“My hearing is excellent. The benefit is you getting out of bed, getting some sun and fresh air while putting your duties for the day off for a few more hours. Perhaps it would be a good time for you to take your mind off things.”

Her motives were good, he could admit but they were absolute bollocks. The sky was overcast and looked like it would burst into tears at any moment. How was he supposed to get any sun? And if the fresh air was going to smell like fish, especially dead fish, he didn’t want it.

Alistair sighed and attempted to cast his own line. He got it tangled up in the reeds along the shore. Then he cursed and threw the rod on the ground. “Blast! I think I’d do better wrangling fish out of the water with my bare hands.”

Anora sniggered. “What a sight that would be.”

“I’m going to take a walk.”

“No, no!” She grabbed his cloak sleeve. “Stay. If it helps you can talk and I’ll try my very best to listen.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I—no. I’m good. No need for a talk.”

Not that he didn’t want to talk. Talking would probably do him good. But he couldn’t think of anyone to talk to. Fergus maybe. Though Alistair didn’t feel like he could be honest without diminishing his grief. Ferguson had been through far worse and he didn’t seem to struggle to get himself together. It intimidated him.

“Fine. Have it your way.” She picked up his rod then and fixed his line, casting it for him. She placed it back in his hands. “I’m really sorry for your loss Alistair. However, being so sullen doesn’t suit you or your kingdom. I’m not saying you can’t grieve, just maybe try keeping it contained, hm?”

Alistair closed his eyes. “And how do you propose I just contain my sullenness?”

“Try fishing for starters.”

He wanted to mock her in a tiny man child voice but he refrained. Thankfully he had Morrigan as a traveling companion long enough to train him in the art of biting his tongue. As well as shoving his foot straight into his mouth but that was another story for another day.

He fished silently alongside her wishing desperately to be back with Bryce. The fresh air didn’t feel any different than the drafty castle. The sun was nice at least, when it decided to make an appearance. But the sky was looking more sullen by the minute and the wind was picking up.

“Isn’t this a terrible time to fish?” he asked.

“Any time is a good time to fish,” Anora said.

“I don’t think that’s true. I remember there were certain times fish were more likely to bite.”

“We’re not here for dinner,” Anora snapped.

“So we’re just dipping worms in water for what? Fun? Sounds like torture.” He reeled his line in and studied the sad soggy worm on the hook. “Aw see? Now the poor little worm is a goner. I’ll have to make it a little worm grave.” He removed the worm and set his pole in the crook of some driftwood.

“Stop being ridiculous.”

“I won’t stop until you let me go back to my bed.”

“You know, I was quite fond of Lady Cousland. She was much better at fishing than you.”

“She was much better than me at a lot of things.”

“She was at that.” Anora got a bite on her line. She tugged her rod and reeled it in. No trouble at all.

Alistair sat on the driftwood with his chin in his hands. “I don’t mean to be so morose. I just miss her. I miss her terribly.”

Anora unhooked the fish–a cute little perch–and tossed it back into the water. She set her own pole aside and sat next to Alistair.

“I miss her terribly too,” Anora said.

“You do?”

“Yes. Is that really so surprising? I’d miss you too, even though you’re quite the lummox.”

“Aww,” Alistair placed a hand over his heart, “such warm fuzzy feelings, right here.”

“Must you always act like this?”

“Only with you. One day you’ll come to appreciate it. I–I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye and I’m glad you and Elissa became close after–well after everything. You could have found a clever way to toss us from the throne but you didn’t.”

“Not yet anyway. I could still.”

Alistair allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Treason!”

Anora clamped her hand over his. “You are such a child!”

A sort of chuckle snort escaped from Alistair as Anora placed her hands back in her lap. He noticed she could smile too. “I’d still like to take a walk. You could come with me, if you wanted. I promise I won’t run away or do anything stupid.”

She nodded. “I’d like to keep fishing. But do be back in time for dinner. I can’t keep you out forever.”

Alistair nodded and stood. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Anora was taken aback. “An honest thank you? With no snide remark? I–well you’re welcome then I suppose. Now shoo, enjoy the fresh air.”

Alistair went without further ado. Surprisingly, it did him some good. But when he entered the castle later that day to attend to his duties, his heart seemed heavy again.

–

Bethany wasn’t exactly sure if she should be in the room when Alistair came back. He had been dodging her since the garden. But she was tired and the fire was cozy. She also enjoyed seeing this side of the King and had missed him–no missed him interacting with Bryce. He was a kind and tentative father. Much like how her own had been. She pretended to read a book she had no interest in to provide an illusion of privacy.

“…and the young boy bravely reached out to touch the dragon’s snout. His friends gasped, waiting and watching for him to be scorched by fire. But the dragon closed its eyes and huffed, melting under the touch of the boy.” Alistair let out a big yawn. “I think that’s all I can manage tonight. We’ll have to pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

Bethany stole a glance in their direction. Alistair was returning the book to the nightstand. Bryce was fast asleep.

He stretched and she admired his form. Strong arms, wide shoulders, and a slightly rounded belly that she briefly dreamed of laying on. Then her eyes flicked lower and saw he also had quite a lovely bottom, not that she was focusing too much on it. Just appreciative. She told herself to look away and stop thinking such things. He turned and definitely caught her staring. She tore her eyes away and buried her nose in the book. Cheeks flushed.

She pretended not to hear his footsteps coming towards her. The book was really really interesting then. She nearly bore a hole through the book with her immense interest.

He sat across from her.

“I haven’t properly thanked you for all you have been doing to help my son. So, I uh—“ He ran a tired hand through his shoulder length hair, wisps of reddish brown bangs with hints of gray, flopping to each side of his face. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Though I must say, it’s a pretty easy thing to do.”

“I don’t think most people would share your opinion.”

She laughed a little. “It’s a good thing I’m not most people then, isn’t it?”

He gave a half hearted chuckle coupled with a nod.

Then they both stared into the fire. Bethany wanted to say something more. Have an actual conversation but she wasn’t even sure where to start. Her brain kept wanting to think about the way her fingers would feel running through his hair. Through his beard and–

“Can I ask you something?”

Praise the maker. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you ever dream of him?”

She tilted her head, searching her mind for the him he was referring to. She blinked as everything came up blank.

“Your brother, I mean. Of Garret.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up and then that sad sort of feeling pooled in her stomach. She sighed. “Of course I do. They are always happy. And he is always safe. When I wake up, I remember that it’s all a lie and it hurts.”

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Hm.” He tugged at his beard.

“Have you been dreaming of your wife?”

“Yes,” he said. His hands came to rest in his lap and he fiddled with the hem of his nightshirt.

“Would you tell me about her?”

Alistair glanced up then. Eyes wide like she was asking him to jump off a cliff.

“I–I don’t really know where to start.”

“How about your dream? Do you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’d love to hear about it if you’re willing to tell me.”

And he did. He told her all about how they had grown old together. How it made him feel. How it had affected his entire day. How it tore him up inside.

“I just–when the person you share everything with, including your deepest secrets and darkest hurts–when they die, who do you turn to? Normally, they’d be your person. But she isn’t here and it’s so incredibly unfair. Which is ridiculous to think, I know. Life isn’t fair and all that.”

Bethany reached out without thinking, covering his large hand with her smaller one and squeezed. “It’s really not. It’s understandable you feel that way. I’m so sorry Alistair. You’re right. It is incredibly unfair. It’s unfair that the world took what you loved most and still moved on, leaving you to pick up pieces of yourself in the throes of responsibility. It must be difficult.”

“It–it is.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, retracting his hand. Then he bolted upright out of his chair. “I’ve taken up too much of your evening, Bethany. Have a good night,” he spit the words out in a hurry as he fled.