sixthiterationlogs | One | Fate Emptied of Hope

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One | Fate Emptied of Hope

WHO: Alistair Theirin
WHERE: Fountain Square/Inn
WHEN: Dec 27, Evening
OPEN TO: One at the fountain (Claimed by Zev), OTA at the Inn, per usual.
WARNINGS: None - will edit if any occur.

'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams:

"Very funny," came the voice from near the fountain. Dripping wet and cold, Alistair looked challengingly up at the sky, arms held out to either side. "But I don't know how you thought I'd fall for this! This isn't Redcliffe," he called. "And it's definitely not Denerim or Kirkwall or Wycome. It's not any of those tiny towns in Orlais. I've never seen this place before, so it's not my memory, cheater!"

Bending down, he picked up the first thing he saw - oh, a rock, that'll help - and threw it upward, not really noticing where it went. He heard it fall on the ground somewhere, but that was neither here nor there. It was proof he'd thrown it the wrong way, if anything.

"I don't trust you, Nightmare!" More agitated, he started to look for another rock. Another anything. "Or is this some Despair Demon's work? Encroaching on your territory now that you lost the Inquisitor? Well tough luck to you both - I'm not afraid anymore, and there's nothing left for me to Despair over. I might be the Maker's own idiot, but I'm not going to trust this illusion!"

Where had his sword gone. His shield, his armour. Which direction was the damned Nightmare?! He couldn't fight the damned thing if he couldn't see it, and he couldn't see it. Anywhere. Whatever Demon it was fueling this illusion, it was better than any he'd fought through yet, and he didn't want to think about what that meant.

In ignorance stumbling:

There was a good fire burning, and that was nice. Really, the place was nicer than roughly every other inn he'd ever seen, including the Hanged Man -- Well, honestly, it far surpassed the Hanged Man, the Pearl, definitely the Spoiled Princess. Places with names he couldn't remember because all he'd been concerned about was finding the bottom of his mug and then having another.

No such luck here, not that he minded. He'd had years to leave that particular vice behind, not that it had been a kind one while he'd had it. But at least now he was warm, dry, and, though confused, knew a few things for certain: There was food, there was shelter, and there was a chance - at least something of a chance - that this wasn't the Fade.

As he stood by the fire, pleasantly toasting himself, he realised he had a lot to think about. And that thought made his head hurt. Nose wrinkled, Alistair rubbed at his temples, muttering a quiet, "Ow."

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It was a fair enough winter's day (as fair as Zevran found any winter anything, winter was dour and cold and unwelcoming at best) as Zevran made his way to the inn from his latest round of breaking into an unused home and entering to spend the night. Now and then he slept in the same place as others but it felt safest to do so alone. Hauling his collected items wasn't terribly difficult. Cumbersome, yes, but not difficult. Though the cold had him muttering as much as ever about the chill, about the lack of action or familiarity or anything resembling proper Antivan-

Wine. Company. Clothing. Food. The list was long and continuously updated step by step, and for this reason he didn't notice at first the voice that joined his. Up until the familiar refrain of 'cheater' He had heard that often enough when playing cards around the campfire, there was only one man that made petulance sound so delightfully charming. Zevran's head swung about, seeking the source and grinning at the familiar shade of copper just on the other side of the fountain.

"Alist-" Something went up, something came down, knocking Zevran in the eye with force enough to set him off balance- with all the baggage he was carrying? He tumbled backward to the ground with a great, hissed call of "Brasca!"

This, this was repayment for attempted kindness. He would swear never again but Alistair sounded truly distressed. Enough for him to wave to catch his attention. "Alistair. My friend. Perhaps stop hurling rocks about and help me stand?"

"...Hell, Zevran, it got you, too?"

Out of everyone he'd expected to see, Zevran was nowhere on the list which was why, halfway there, he stopped in his tracks with eyes narrowed and said, "Waaaaaaiiit... The Demon conjured you up, didn't it. Giving me a friend to worry about."

Similar tactics to Kinloch. Familiar faces. People you might just care about. All to lull you into complacency.

"You're not really here."

But then, after looking around - up, to each side, even behind him, his brows began to draw together and his frown became more concerned. Why wasn't Zevran poofing into a demon and attacking him for seeing through the ruse?

".......Unless you are."

"Demon? What demon. It is a bit early in the day to be crying demon, is it not?" Zevran hisses, one palm pressed to his eye that he could already feel starting to throb. What a marvelous way to star his morning, accused of being an illusion and in pain. "Tell me this, Alistair-"

He pulled his hand from his face, wincing at the blood from a small cut by his brow. "Do illusions bleed? I do not remember them bleeding when I gutted them the last time we were in the fade."

It was not half so literal as what Alistair seeme to be suggesting, but.

The blood had his eyes go wide, and then he was there at Zevran's side, pulling up the hem of his shirt to dab at Zev's eye with care. "Damn, Zev, I'm sorry. I didn't know anybody was over here. I thought it was Nightmare."

The shirt was wet, and while it didn't exactly soak up the blood, at least it washed it away. "I don't think it'll need a stitch, at least. It'll just be annoying until it scabs over. Andraste's left tit, I am so sorry."

"A what?" Again, he remembered things going differently in the fade, named demons were not a thing but- perhaps things had changed? Why Alistair was so convinced that this was the fade-

Well it wasn't so strange a thought to have. He thought much the same but he had been here long enough to prove to himself this place was true. "Would you- Alistair I am fine. I have had worse-"

"I know you have, and even from me, but y--...Damn." He stopped mid-swipe, drawing back to look at Zev, his face, his hair, his eyes, and he... stared. "You haven't aged a day. Maker's breath, it's like Denerim all over again."

Disbelieving, Alistair sat back on his heel, staring like he'd never seen the like before because-- Because, well, he hadn't.

"Aged a- Alistair Denerim was A month ago for me! I had been asleep in a bed with lovely, grateful women assured that you yourself were enjoying much the same down the hall or- whatever it was you were doing after I left you at the celebration when I woke up here in this very fountain." He pushed Alistair's hand aside, staring up into-

A familiar face, certainly, but one that was broader. Older. Weary lines around his eyes, flecks of what might be lighter copper in his hair. A weariness, a haggared tang to him that only set in when they were in the deepest caches of the Deep Roads. "...how long has it been for you? Since our victory. How much further along are you?"

He reached up without a thought to whether or not he might be allowed (of course he would be, boundaries were for other people) to cradle Alistair's jaw.

It was the first gentleness he'd felt in...

Damn, bad thing to think about. No, no, none of that. He took a breath, closed his eyes - but he couldn't bring himself to pull back because even if it was the work of a Demon, it was kindness, and it had been years.

Alistair swallowed before he could look at Zevran again and answered quietly, "Thirteen years."

"...Thirteen years?" Maker's breath. Zevran shifted out of his pack's straps without a thought, rising up enough on his knees to press their foreheads together. Alistair was, is, and always would remain safe. He never wanted him to be anything but slightly less assassiny, and for that he could not truly begrudge him. Alistair was a kinder, more noble sort than many gave him credit for.

He played the idiot far too well.

"You-" He pulled back, patting Alistair's cheek. "You look like shit my friend."

"Well, I just came out of the Fade, fighting a giant fear Demon," he said, "so I'd be surprised if I didn't. I feel like shit, too, honestly."

But with Zev where he was, he took a chance - Demon or not - and he reached out to hug him. Damn, he even mostly smelled right. "I'm glad to see you in one piece."

"Alone?" Brow furrowed he combed his fingers back, smoothing through Alistair's hair. Nevermind that one did not pet people like they did hounds, Zevran never thought anything of it and Alistair needed affection like flowers needed rain. Zevran never thought anything of providing it. "Where was I? Where was Oghren or Leliana or Shale or Jonas?"

How could they let him face such a thing alone? How could they ever-

He returned the hug easily, tucking himself close despite the fact he was sopping wet from the fountain. "How else would I be? You know as well as I that I am not someone so easily felled."

"Leliana was in Skyhold. The rest, I... I have no idea," he said. And then, with more confusion in his voice than before, he asked, "And who's Jonas? --Wait."

He drew back a little, looking to Zevran's eyes. A few things were filtering through: our victory, a thirteen year gap-- now mentions of names he didn't know...

"I was exiled Zevran. You remember that, don't you?"

"Nnnnnnnnnno?" He blinked. "Did you hit your head again? We faced the archdemon together. Logahin was Executed, Jonas married Anora, you began rebuilding the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Or. That is what you said your plan was, and then the wine started flowing and all you wished for was an appropriately frilly dress for the remigold."

Where in any of that would he manage to get himself exiled?

"Did you crash the coronation? Listen to Oghren about wedding presents? Insult Anora- no she wouldn't exile you for that, she makes it too easy."

But Alistair shook his head. "Loghain was recruited. By Sereda. I don't know who Jonas is. But I was given the choice of being executed or exiled. So I took exile." His frown grew. "What the hell is happening here."

It was a question he didn't really expect an answer to. Just an observation, a statement of complete and utter confusion.

"...what?"

What.

"That is not-" He squinted at Alistair for a long moment. "Jonas Cousland. Your fellow warden. You looked to him as you would a brother. I do not know Sereda, who is she?"

Aside from some manner of heartless bitch.

"Sereda Aeducan. My fellow Warden. The woman who claimed to love me." Claimed. He certainly didn't believe she did now.

"...That is- not who I spent the past year following across Ferelden. The Aeducans had a third sibling, true, but they perished in the deep roads before we ever arrived. Some family business gone sideways." But, honestly? "How did I not think to warn you against such things? One does not woo royalty, Alistair, it ends poorly. Always."

"I never intended to. She... wooed me, if that can be said. I..." He took a breath. "It was thirteen years ago, Zevran."

History. Permanently.

"This is the failing of my other self, apparently-" He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Otherwise perhaps we were not friends? I meant to keep in touch, having friends is not something I am well accustomed to but that is a part of things, yes?"

Keeping touch. Minding them, writing them, offering gifts. He slowly nudges Alistair until he can stand, hauling his bags over his shoulders. "We should...find you somewhere clean and dry to change your clothing."

"While I was throwing things, I thought I saw an inn." But saying as much reminded him of Zev's face, and he reached out again to turn it just so, to look at him more closely. "...You're going to have a shiner. And I'm probably going to be apologising for a month."

But he finally started gathering up Zevran's things from where they'd fallen, filling his arms with them with a sort of curiosity. What was all this? "I did get a letter or two from you, but I don't think you ever knew where to write, and I wasn't exactly a stationary target. I was all over the Free Marches, and then I was on the run from the Wardens..."

"I have had worse." He allowed the touch, letting Alistair look his fill. "Yes, yes, but I wish to set my things somewhere there are fewer people. There is a home, unused, not far from here. We shall claim it as our own and then I shall take you to the Inn for food."

He must be ravenous.

"Why in Andraste's name were you on the run from the Wardens?" Zevran dusted himself off, looping one hand about Alistair's wrist to lead him much as he might a child. It was not at all for the sense of comfort that having something, at last, familiar nearby. Not at all.

His wrist was taken. He blinked. And then he was following along, because apparently that was what was happening now. "I, um. I found out about a talking Darkspawn magister thing. Called Corypheus. Kept in a prison for a few hundred years? And I had to wonder why he was imprisoned instead of killed, and then I kind of figured that he must have some kind of Archdemon power. And it turns out that... well. He got loose.

"And he blew up the Divine.

"And Haven.

"And the Wardens helped him."

"...you have got to be shitting me. We just saved Thedas from a Blight. In thirteen years an archdemon magister decides to blow up the world? Did we not endure enough?" Did they not bleed to protect the people? Did it not matter that they put their lives on the line to prevent exactly this?

And the Wardens helped such a thing come to pass?

"Wine. We need wine. I refuse to hear this tale sober." Luckily enough one of his bags had a few bottles yet.

"The whole time I was in the Fade, I got to hear exactly what Thedas thinks of the Wardens," he said then, quieter. "Archaic. Unneeded. Unwanted. They wanted us -- them. They wanted them disbanded, done away with. And I..."

He took a breath. "If it weren't for the fact that there are at least two other Archdemons waiting to rise, I'd agree. Because I think the First Warden is in on something he doesn't need to be."

"It is a thankless, ugly task. It is a duty that cannot be foresworn." He remembered well enough the talks, the tales. The rules and secrets granted, given freely as there were so few left yet to know them. "People grow comfortable in times of peace. Soft and fat, and they forget those that died to see them made safe."

Blood shed was forgotten, suffering shuffled off. It did not make for good theater, what did they care? "The Wardens are needed. They will always be needed."

Cross the Veil

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