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You swallow down your surprise and shock as the door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly quiet chamber. The hum of whispers start here and there, and you can feel several pairs of eyes on you, awaiting your reaction. For a moment you think to run after him, reason with him, drag him back the chamber and then reason with the queen.
Yet you remain motionless, face stony and unreadable. There is too much else at stake right now. Wynne hinted that you might have to choose between your heart and your head, and now that the moment is here, you find it surprisingly easy. Your duty is first and foremost to the people of Ferelden.
But the slam of the door resonates in your mind long after the Landsmeet has ended and you are back in Arl Eamon’s estate. Your companions say nothing, though you can sense they want to. Zevran almost speaks up once or twice, but his words lose their courage on the way to his mouth. Wynne only looks at you occasionally, trying and failing to mask the «I did warn you» she has written all over her face. Morrigan, who always seems to have an opinion, often just for the sake of having one, is strangely quiet.
You ignore what little advances are made, making the excuse to yourself that your thoughts are on the battle at hand. That matters of the heart will have to wait. In the end you retire, unable to sit in the uncomfortable silence any longer. Though you expect to dream of darkspawn and demons, its brown eyes that plague you, with an anger in them you never thought possible. Your sleep is restless, and you wake early.
The next morning gives you no more time to dwell. The armies march to Redcliffe, only to double straight back to Denerim when the hoard takes an unexpected turn. You return to find the city in fiery ruins, the formidable dragon form of the archdemon circling above the burning towers and broken walls. When Riordan’s attempt to slay the beast fails it is suddenly all up to you, a concept you have come to find yourself very familiar with.
All other thoughts are pushed from your mind as you rush through the city, fighting your way through hoard upon hoard of darkspawn, until you stand atop the tower of Fort Drakon.
The dragon proves just as formidable a challenge as you had feared, drawing on your every acquired skill and all your cunning. When you finally sink the sword into its’ head, there is a brief moment where you’re sure he is there after all. That he has come at the last minute, changed his mind and returned to help you in battle.
But he has not. You are surrounded by friends and allies, yet the one face your always expected to see among them, the one you thought would always be there, is not.
There is a strange emptiness in you in the aftermath of the battle. Morrigan’s dark scheme must have worked, because you are still live and well. She, as expected, is nowhere to be found.
Celebration, honour and praise follows, but it all rings hollow in your ears. You remember Wynne’ words, her telling you that the wardens do what they do for the greater good, not for the honour and glory, and you suddenly long to be gone from festive halls and lavish celebrations.
Now that the Blight is over, you have more pressing matters.
But the people of Ferelden do not let you slip away so easily. It is weeks before you can move freely again, without being stopped at every corner by someone who wants to shake your hand and offer their thanks. You do not want for eager company when you step into a tavern, but they all want to hear of your triumph, not answer your questions.
Slowly, you begin to regain some of your former anonymity. You cut your hair, change your appearance, hide your warden-pendant under layers of clothing, and finally you can move freely through Ferelden once more.
Finally, you can start to seek out news.
You go to every place you think it likely that he may have visited; Redcliffe, The Circle-tower, the Chantry where he received his training. You even brave the Deep Roads, heart heavy as you enter with expectations of the worst, and no less so when you return none the wiser.
It is s short while after this excursion that you find yourself back in Denerim, droning your sorrow’s in a back-alley tavern near the docks. Well on your way to a drunken stupor, you overhear the loud bragging of a captain at the table behind you. He promises drinks for everyone, thanks to the handsome reward he got for ferrying some warrior-type across the ocean, and somehow you just know that this is what you’ve been looking for.
The captain is eager to talk, and it does not take much prodding and persuasion before you’re sure that you are finally on the right track. The man he speaks of matches your description, both in demeanour and appearance, and the next day you find yourself standing on the deck of the ship, Denerim disappearing behind you as the seemingly endless Amaranthine Ocean stretches out before you.
The journey is an unpleasant one. You are unaccustomed to sea-travel, and while the captain assures you that this is the best weather he has ever sailed in, you still find yourself confined to your quarters for most of the journey.
When word reaches you that land is near, the sea-sickness is replaced by something else, and a no less unnerving something.
You are happy to set foot on solid land again, but the feeling soon subsides as the vast city before you makes your heart sink. It has been many months since he left, and you have no guarantee that this is even where he came.
Even so, you begin your task, visiting shops, taverns, chantries and the like, giving his description, and receiving no uplifting news in return.
After three long days you sit, weary, at a tavern near the city borders. Whatever optimism you started out with has been waning for so long, and you find yourself overcome with a sudden feeling of hopelessness. The barkeep seems to sense your despair, probably attuned to patrons looking to drown their sorrows. When he asks what troubles you, you find yourself telling him everything.
You tell him of your adventures together, of the Landsmeet, of your months spent retracing steps in the hope that he has too, and the barkeep listens. When you describe the man you are looking for, more out of habit than anything else at this point, his brow knits. He asks for a few clarifications, and you give them to him, watching him mull it over. His deep-set, brown eyes scans the dimly lit room, and when they come to a halt he nudges you, nodding towards a table in the back.
You turn, blood running cold as you spot the man sat at the table. You would not have recognised him like this, slumped figure and wild hair and beard, but the moment you lay eyes on him you know it’s him.
You thank the barkeep with a substantial tip, and rise on shaky legs. For a moment you just watch, unsure how or if you should proceed. Then a memory jolts in the back of your mind, and you open the side-pocket of your pack, one that has not been opened for months for fear that its content would be destroyed. It’s still a little worse for wear when you pluck it out gently, and you cradle it in your shaking hands as you cross the room.
He doesn’t look up when your form casts a shade over his table, doesn’t even ask you what you want or tell you to go away. With a steadying breath, you place the wilted rose on the table top, sliding it towards him.
There’s an almost imperceivable change in him as he spots the flower, and a second later he looks up slowly, confusions and disbelief clouding his face. Then realisation takes over, and his mouth falls open ever so slightly. You offer him a small, wary smile.
- Hello, Alistair.
- Maker’s breath!