#daynine

The air in this room had always been too heavy. The fire never stopped burning, the elves tasked with keeping it stoked day and night; it burnt now, rumbling to itself like a lurking creature, some hostile pet, or so it had always felt to Alistair as a child. It had a presence, a life of its own, belching brewing anger and oppressive heat. It made the air feel thick, the room’s weighty fabrics of proud carmines and over-zealous scarlets only amplifying the inebriation. Red layered upon red upon red, an exhibition of patriotic vanity nailing its tactless message against the terracotta of the Arldom’s famous stone. There was a fleshiness to this space - it seemed to gape and yawn and breathe, the ribs and chamber of Redcliffe in which, in his silken, overtly garnet pajamas, Arl Eamon was the failing heart.

Alistair studied the face of the waning man before him. The vibrancy of his bedsheets only exaggerated how pale he had become. For all that his uncle had never been particularly warm to him, or kind, or even fair, really, he had still been there. He had placed a roof over Alistair's head (until the woman now watching them like an Orlesian falcon had demanded he lose it), had given him education and a start in life (cushioned and cautioned always by reminders never to excel, never to apply himself or aspire). He had, at the very least, given a homeless boy food and clothing, and Alistair wasn't so self-centred as to be blind to his privilege when compared to many of his - Eamon's, Cailan's - own people.

Decency, proximity and habit demanded that he love the man; some battered survival instinct, curling and snarling around the recently healing remains of his dignity, wanted to refuse.

Yet, once again, in Eamon lay Alistair’s salvation. He was the late Queen's brother, meaning he had as much a claim to the throne as Loghain. High born, son of the Rebel Queen's and Maric's famous General; the late King Cailan's real, legitimate uncle. He was more a relative of the King than whatever the two of them had been to each other all this time.

Alistair’s eyes dropped to the man's hands. He felt unnaturally drained, relying on him this way. He needed his uncle more than ever, and almost predictably, Eamon was achieving new levels of unresponsiveness: were he not being watched so closely, Alistair would crack a dark smirk at the humour in that. We’ve finally done it . This is ‘Peak us’. “I’m proud of us, really,” he muttered to himself, dryly amused. Unbidden, his thoughts summoned the never-distant image of Duncan. More surprising, they also conjured Maric. A boy’s version of Maric; the face from coins, the portrait on walls, the sometimes-imagined returning father, ready to tell him that the beating he was smarting from had been an injustice and a mistake, both comical and yet unforgivable. Instead, there had been Duncan, the stranger who did show up; did whisk Alistair away; did give him a purpose, a family and trust. Seizing in a sudden spasm, Alistair’s hand gripped and locked around the frail one beneath it. His jaw clenched, head bowing abruptly, face quavering as he fought a losing battle against tears. A single, strangled bleat escaped him. The potential widow scoffed. “Pitiful. Are you still a child demanding his mother? Whoever she was."

Alistair said nothing. His shoulders were hunched, his hand holding desperately on to the last shred of something paternal in his life. For once, unlike with the others, he had time to say goodbye. He was well-used to Isolde’s barrage chasing him from rooms, but he would not be chased from this. To have had this time with Duncan, even with Maric -

"Eamon told me who your father was, finally," she continued, needling bitterly. "I do not see it. There is nothing of Maric in you.” “Have you tried leaving?” Alistair snapped over his shoulder, head turning part-way to her, not leaving his vigil. “Perhaps to check on your son? Make sure he’s not playing with any more maleficarum?” “Have you tried leaving and completing this task?”, the Orlesian retorted, her composure maintained but her words loaded with a trained impersonation of dignified hysteria. It was a well-practiced skill. “Or will you only sit and weep as you watch him die?!” “What task is that? The impossible fairytale you sent half our army chasing? Leaving our entire Arldom exposed to your son and your, frankly, truly TERRIBLE tutor-screening process?” Losing the battle, Alistair rose and whipped around, turning his back on his uncle. His voice spat as hot as the burning vomit occasionally coughed up from the fire. “What woman banishes one son to the Chantry to gargle lyrium and serve the Circle for the rest of his miserable life, but hides the other son even when he starts POSSESSING people?! ‘Oh, not the Circle - that’s a fate worse than death. We can’t send him there - he’s not Alistair. ’” He wanted a fight. Her son - something that would hurt her. Templars and mages - something unresolvable and, even better, completely unrelated to this. True to history, she did not give him what he needed. Resolute, she stood impervious to prods that would otherwise topple her, were Eamon or Taegan here to run to the tune of her weeping. “It is his Arldom,” she uttered, icily. “Not yours. You have a right to nothing.” Even this room’s heat could plummet. Alistair took the bait, stepping smartly forwards, his tone as frosted over as hers. “How could I forget? I've missed you being here to remind me.” Without any change in her expression, no performance wasted when there was no audience here of note, Isolde struck. One swift, smart motion of the hand. The sound resounded off the Redcliffe stone.

“ How dare you .” Her tongue’s sharpness, Alistair felt suddenly sure, may have been the only reason she had never bothered with a whip. “You make your uncle’s bedside a poison. How will he survive it?” Alistair smirked, voice a barbed coo. “He’s survived you being here, hasn’t he?”

As one, the pair sensed movement in the doorway. Teagan stood, hovering, backlit as he passed over from the world of light into the darkened realm of histories of clashing psyches within. A weight added to the scales, in Isolde’s favour. Alistair glared at her, knowing not to allow her to perform now that she had a crowd to sway. Yet, he had never quite mastered the quick exit. “- You’re right, aunt. This fool’s errand won’t complete itself. It got all of our knights killed, but SURE, let’s send Alistair, the kid we always told couldn’t put his feet in front of his arse. He’ll save us.” Smirking savagely, his voice dropped to another coo, as defensive as the last. “Why, auntie, it almost feels as though you’re starting to believe in me.” Her expression was unmoved. “We are out of options. And your friend is capable.” “Charming.” The Grey Warden turned to leave, looking to the air beside him as though to gather his companions. “Come on -...no-one. Let’s go.” Wearing that final indignity with defiance, he stormed towards the door. “You can tell Eamon, if he ever wakes, that he’d better step up and save Ferelden from the bumbling moron that rescued Redcliffe. And saved his child. Oh, no, wait - that was all ‘my friend’ too, wasn't it?"

“Very weird,” she whispered suspiciously and sat on the edge of the bed.

The sun was still down, the sky was dark with a little orange reflection near the horizon. The night was crisp and wet.

Kya rubbed her sleepy face and headed towards the kitchen, where the light was coming from.

“Lin?” she said more consciously. Her hoarse voice was a bit worried.

“I just wanted a cup of tea, go back to sleep, I will join you in a while,” she smiled a little.

Kya sighed. She knew Lin better than anyone. She immediately recognised the lie.

“I also wanted a cup of tea.”

Lin blinked with confusion.

“It’s the middle of the night…”

“So why aren’t you in bed then?” Kya folded her arms with tryumf.

The earthbender gave a sigh.

“Because I wanted some tea?” she raised her eyebrows. She was aware that she wouldn’t convince Kya to let her alone.

“No, Lin, you hadn’t wanted it,” she looked deep in her eyes. Lin swallowed. “You still have those nightmares, am I right?”

She nodded nearly noticeably. Kya came closer and gave her a secure hug. Lin tilted her head to the right and rested it on Kya’s arm. She didn’t notice when tears started to run down her face.

“You need to face it, Lin,” she touched her chin and forced her to look at her. “I will be waiting for you in the bed.”

Kya turned around and was about to go but Lin caught her hand.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

She said emotionlessly.

“Those nightmares… They aren’t about Amon anymore,” she took a deep breath. “They are about you. I’m scared that someday you will leave me like everybody always did. I don’t want to be alone again, Kya. I don’t want to lose you.”

Kya squinted.

“How could you even think that I would leave you,” she took her other hand and clasped their hands together.

“Let’s get back to sleep, you look like you’re going to collapse.”

Lin nodded.