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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Solona was exhausted by the time they set up camp for the night. She had pushed all day to reach Lothering before nightfall, but skirmishes with small bands of darkspawn along the way impeded their progress. When dusk had settled across the horizon and the sunlight had waned to nothing, she was finally forced to settle in for the evening. Even as Grey Wardens, traveling after dark was too dangerous to risk, and making good time certainly wasn’t worth dying for.

As Solona went to sit down on the fallen log Alistair had placed next to the fire, she spied Morrigan adding kindling to her own flame near the tree line. Every night was the same since leaving Flemeth’s hut. Alistair would gather wood while Solona pitched her tent. When he returned, she would get the fire started while he set up his shelter. Morrigan, on the other hand, kept completely to herself. She would find a spot a good distance away from the others to set up her own little campsite with its own fire.

The first night they made camp, Solona tried to insist that the witch move closer to the Wardens for her own safety. That conversation did not go well. In the end, Solona finally determined it wasn’t worth arguing about and left the woman be. Besides, the mage was to the point where she couldn’t stand the bickering between Morrigan and Alistair that inevitably began within an hour of returning to the road and lasted until they were ready to call it a day. Solona did, however, make it a point to have at least a short debriefing with the witch every evening.

“Alistair,” the mage called over to where her fellow Warden was putting the final touches on his shelter. "When you’re finished, will you please start supper?”

He scowled at her. “Why is it that I’m always the one stuck with that job?”

Solona folded her arms over her chest. “Because I have never cooked a thing in my entire life,” she told him. “Believe me, if there were any other options, I would be more than happy to take them.”

His sour expression deepened. “You know, if it’s that bad, you could always go foraging for berries, instead.”

She arched a brow, “You may have something there. Being mauled by a wild animal in the dark might actually be preferable to your cooking.”

“You know what Solona?” he asked with a sardonic glare as he raised his middle finger. “Kiss my ass.”

“Not until after you’ve had a bath,” she retorted.

Since leaving Flemeth’s hut four days ago, things had grown steadily worse between Solona and Alistair. The occurrences of Ostagar and Morrigan’s constant barrage of insults had put the warrior in such a foul mood that he spent most of his time sulking. The kind man she had grown to care for had become a completely different person.

Solona clutched the amulet at her chest and thumbed the tiny sword and flames before spinning on her heel and making her way to Morrigan’s tent. In that short distance, she came to a very important decision. Alistair was going to talk to her that evening, whether he liked it or not. She had given him his distance in order to allow him time to calm down, but it was past time to confront him.

The mage stopped short before reaching Morrigan’s personal campsite to regain her composure. After inhaling a calming breath, she released the charm and strode over to where the witch was warming her hands. The ebony haired woman regarded her with indifferent golden eyes as she waited for Solona to speak.

“Morrigan,” the mage began. “How are you this evening?”

“I fare well,” the witch replied. “As do you, I expect.”

Solona hated the exchange of simple pleasantries. The same questions always asked, the unvarying responses given. It was a complete waste of time, of course, but a necessary undertaking to keep the peace. She imagined Morrigan felt much the same way.

“How much longer do you think it will be before we reach Lothering?” asked the mage.

“We should arrive in the village around midday tomorrow,” the other woman replied. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

Solona gave a nod of acknowledgement. “And is there anything you need for tonight?”

Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest. “I believe I have everything I require.”

“Very well,” the mage said. “Let me know if that changes.”

“Of course,” the witch replied.

Solona turned to go back to her side of the camp, but was halted by the sound of Morrigan clearing her throat. She returned her attention to the witch. “Is there something on your mind?”

Morrigan’s brow furrowed. “I have a wonder, Warden, if you will indulge me,” she began. “You were a mage of the Circle, were you not?”

“Yes,” Solona acknowledged.

Morrigan seemed to be attempting to formulate the exact question she wanted to ask. “I have heard that gifted such as yourself are often limited in their instruction, that they are weak in magic…But after observing you for the past few days, I have come to realize, you are not, and I wonder…Why is that?”

Solona shrugged. “I suppose that is true of many mages. Most are taught just enough to learn to control their gift, and many are content with that. I, however, was not. I studied everything I was allowed in my chosen school, and a few things beyond. Unlike many, I was encouraged by older mages and enchanters to learn as much as I could.”

“So, that is why you were chosen for the Grey Wardens?” the witch asked, her inquiry seeming more an assumption than a question.

“Actually,” Solona replied. “I think it had more to do with the fact that I risked my life in the aid of a friend who was trying to escape.”

Morrigan seemed surprised by the mage’s admission. “So, you were unhappy in the confines of the Circle? I assumed you were indoctrinated to believe as your Chantry does about the evils of magic.”

The mage emitted a bitter chuckle. “It is not my Chantry. To be honest, I don’t really believe in the Maker, especially not the bloody Chantry’s version of Him. As far as being happy…How would you feel if you were locked away when you were five years old and told you would most likely never see the outside world again? Unless, of course, you were willing to be a shining example of the Chantry and the Circle’s bullshit.”

The witch straightened her shoulders. “I see,” she said. “My curiosity has been sated for now. Thank you, Grey Warden.”

“It’s Solona,” the mage corrected with a haughty tone. “I am more than my title.”

“Of course,” Morrigan concurred with a slight tilt of the head. “Good evening, then, Solona.”

Well, at least it’s a start.

Solona realized becoming acquainted with Morrigan wouldn’t be an easy task. The woman was more guarded and aloof than she was, but given their unique circumstances, she felt it a necessary undertaking. She only hoped that chipping away at Morrigan’s shell little by little would eventually work.

When she returned to the main camp, Alistair was just hanging the small cast iron kettle over the fire. As he began to toss the last of the meager vegetables into the pot, his face was set in the same angry scowl he had worn since the day they Flemeth’s home. He had hardly spoken a word to her in days, and when he did, he was typically surly and abrupt. Whatever was going on, she planned to have it out with him before they went to bed that evening.

“How’s it coming?” she asked as she took a seat on the log.

“Fine,” he snapped before wiping his hands on his trousers and standing. He folded his arms over his chest and glared into the fire.

“Did I do something to you that I’m not aware of?” she asked in a cross tone. “If I did, you need to just go ahead and spit it out because I have completely had it with your poor attitude.”

He inhaled a deep breath, his broad chest rising with the effort then slowly released it. He stood there for a long moment, continuing to concentrate on the flames. When he finally turned to face her, his hazel eyes shimmered against the firelight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve been a complete ass to you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m just so…”

Solona patted the wood to her right. “Come on,” she ordered. “Sit.” He sighed as he took a seat next to her. “Now,” she continued. “You can either tell me what crawled up your ass and took up residence, or we can talk about something else to get your mind off it. It’s entirely up to you.”

He nodded with a slight chuckle. “Alright,” he said before running his tongue across his lips. “The last time we really had a chance to talk, you told me about when you were taken to the Circle. Beyond that and the fact that you have a killer sword arm, I don’t really know much about you.”

She cocked a brow. “I could say the same thing about you, you know?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about me tonight,” he requested.

Solona eyed him with a pensive frown. He was certainly an enigma. Sometimes it felt as if he were two different people walking around in one deliciously handsome package. At times, he was childish with his strange sense of self-deprecating humor, and he was kinder than anyone she ever met without any regard to himself. Then, there was his other side. Hard and rugged, even commanding at times, and possessing a terrible temper. He wore his heart on his sleeve, yet he continued to evade questions about his true identity. All that, added to the fact that he seemed to know King Cailan personally, painted the portrait of a man who was much more than what he wanted others to see.

“Alright, let’s compromise,” she offered. “We shall play a little game I learned many years ago as a girl. It is called Confessions.”

The warrior’s brow creased with reluctance. “Alright,” he said, dragging out the word. “And how do you play this…game?”

“It’s simple really,” Solona explained. “I ask a question, and you answer with the truth.”

“And what if I don’t want to answer the question?” he asked with a scowl.

“Then you must reveal something that you find embarrassing,” she told him. “Then, when you are finished, you are allowed to ask a question of me.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I get to ask the first question.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very well,” she conceded with a resolute huff. “Ask your question.”

Please don’t ask about Anders.

He regarded her with narrowed lids then wet his lips. “When Duncan went to Kinloch, he was going there to recruit mages to fight at Ostagar. Yet, he returned with only you, which means you had to have been conscripted. So, my question is, what did you do to warrant the Right that was so bad Duncan feared asking for more mages to join you?”

Solona’s eyes fluttered with astonishment. She suspected Alistair was more intelligent than he let on, but the way he formed his question left no doubt in her mind. He was both shrewd and clever. In fact, it seemed more like something Anders would ask.

The mage’s fingers gripped the amulet that hung from her neck as she stared into his expectant hazel eyes. She caught sight of his ample lips and recalled the kiss he failed to grant her at Ostagar. Sweet Maker, how she wanted to taste those lips. When he scraped his thick tongue across them, a small gasp escaped her throat. The mental image of his mouth slowly making its way down her neck to her breasts incited a flush to her cheeks and a flood to her nethers.

His right brow lifted. “Are you alright?” he asked, before adding, “And no, that doesn’t’ qualify as my question.”

Solona cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine,” she finally told him before beginning her story.

She told him about Jowan and how they met, about their friendship over the fourteen years they were at the tower together. While she talked, Alistair served the soup he cooked. It was terrible as usual, but Solona managed to keep that fact to herself as she continued her tale between bites. She related the story of how her best friend and his new girlfriend asked for her help and their trek through the basement to the repository. She spoke of the trap that had been set for them when they emerged from the lower levels and outlined the details of Jowan’s escape and the aftermath. She told him everything. Everything but the parts about Anders, anyway.

The entire time she was speaking, Alistair didn’t say a word. He only presented her with a nod on occasion and a small chuckle when the situation warranted it. He was attentive and interested, not unlike a student listening to an important lecture in preparation for an exam.

When her story was complete, she swallowed past a large lump in her throat, awaiting the backlash of his anger. Even if he had been conscripted before taking his vows, at the end of the day, Alistair was still a templar. She had abetted a maleficar, there was no way he would look past that. When he finally spoke, Solona nearly fainted from shock.

“I can’t believe you told Greagoir that you wished Jowan would have killed him,” he smirked. “I would have loved to have seen the look on that old bastard’s face.”

The mage waggled her head. “You aren’t upset then?” she asked with bewilderment.

He shrugged. “You didn’t know he was a blood mage when you agreed to help him, right?”

“No,” she replied, surprised at his cavalier attitude about the situation.

He glowered at her, but it was an expression of jest not ire. “You’re not a blood mage, are you?”

“No,” she answered.

“Then why would I be upset?” he questioned.

“I assumed that since you were a templar…” she began.

“I wasn’t a templar,” he sighed with frustration. “I was an initiate. Believe me, it wasn’t anything I ever wanted.” When her brows disappeared in confusion, he scowled at her. “Alright, but just so you know, this counts as the answer to your question.” When Solona acknowledged his words with a nod, he continued. “I was born in Redcliffe. At least that’s what I was told. I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. Arl Eamon took me in, but it was hardly a home. I slept in the stables since before I could remember, working as a servant.

“Eamon was kind enough to me, I suppose, when he actually acknowledged my presence, but it was nowhere near a real childhood. His wife, Isolde, despised me because…well, let’s just say she had her reasons. She became pregnant when I was ten and convinced Eamon to send me away. So, he signed me over to the monastery in Bournshire, and I absolutely hated it there. My future was decided for me. I was never given the option to be anything but a templar or a brother."

So he lived his life as a stable boy, but why would the Arl of Redcliffe take him in, especially at such a young age? And why would the arlessa hate him and want him shipped off when she became pregnant? And then there was King Cailan. It just didn’t add up, but at the same time, Solona couldn’t detect even the hint of a lie in his eyes.

“What about…?” she began, but he held up a hand to stop her.

Shh, he prompted. “I thought I heard something.”

Solona held her breath as she attempted to discern any sound over the crackling and popping of the fire. She sensed no darkspawn about, but it was possible there were wild animals in the woods. After a few seconds, she detected a rustling sound in the trees to her left. Almost simultaneously, she and Alistair stood and drew swords from their sheaths.

The warrior directed Solona by pointing to the left of where the sound had originated before slowly creeping around to the right. Without argument, the mage did as she was ordered. Deferring to Alistair’s judgement, she sidled to the tree line and edged over to the area of the disturbance. Just as they had the source of the noise well flanked, the scant brush at the base of the trees parted to reveal a very large hound.

The mabari’s fur appeared to be dark chocolate brown, but it was difficult to tell beneath all the blood matting its hair. Deep cuts riddled its muscular body, and there were patches where fur was actually missing entirely. Strings of white foam dripped from the corners of its mouth as it bared its teeth at the strangers before it. It emitted a low, rumbling growl before taking a step toward Alistair.

“Oh shit!” the warrior exclaimed as the mabari advanced on him.

“A bloody dog?” Solona questioned with disappointment. “What in the void are we supposed to do with a fucking dog?”

The sound of the mage’s voice prompted the animal to turn toward her. She returned her sword to its sheath in the hopes it would convey to the hound that she meant it no harm, and trusting Alistair to protect her if it attacked. Lifting her hands in the air, she took a step back. The dog followed then regarded her with a menacing bark and a snap of its jaws.

“Do something, you idiot,” she hissed at her fellow Warden.

Alistair hurried over and put himself between the hound and Solona. With one hand raised, he knelt and placed his sword on the ground in front of him. Almost immediately, the mabari sat back on its rear haunches and tilted its head as it watched the man with an inquisitive expression. Alistair slowly moved his fingers toward the animal, preparing for it to bite. Instead, it lowered its head, giving the warrior its permission to be touched. With the hound’s consent, Alistair closed the gap and gave it a light scratch behind the ears.

“Great,” he said with a painted on smile and an overly friendly tone. “What in the bloody fuck am I supposed to do with a dog?”

“Can’t you just shoo it away or something?” Solona questioned, still prepared to run if the situation warranted it.

The mage knew nothing about dogs. She had never even seen one before Ostagar. There were always cats scurrying about the tower chasing mice away. Oftentimes the apprentices and some of the mages would treat them as pets, but dogs never held enough interest for Solona to even read about them.

Alistair shook his head in dismay. “I don’t think so,” he claimed. “I’m pretty sure the thing has imprinted on me. It must have been separated from its owner at Ostagar.”

It was then that Solona spied a small, metal plate hanging from the animal’s collar. “Does that thing around its neck tell you anything about it?” she asked.

Alistair put his fingers behind the tag and squinted his eyes to make out the words etched into the plate. “I could use some light,” he told her.

As Solona moved around to Alistair’s side, the mabari growled at her. She retreated a step before calling a glowing orb into her hand and lowering it to the level of Alistair’s cheek. The dog scrutinized every move she made with suspicion.

“The tag says his name is Harley,” Alistair read before turning it over in his hand. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he perused the other side. “He...he belonged to Fergus.”

“Fergus?” Solona inquired.

After a long moment, he nodded and she swore she detected a tear shimmering in the corner of his eye. “Fergus Cousland.”

“As in the Teyrnir of Highever Couslands?” she queried.

“Fergus was the Teyrn and Teyrna’s only son,” Alistair acknowledged. “If his mabari is here, that could only mean…”

Solona placed her free hand on her fellow Warden’s shoulder. Fergus Cousland was someone Alistair obviously knew. That cemented his ties to the king in her mind.

“Come on,” he prompted as he rose to his feet. “I have to attend to the dog’s injuries. I’m only glad I picked a few of those honey flowers when we were at Ostagar. It might just save his life.”

Alistair’s cooking was never something that you wanted to face on an empty stomach. I often contended that he should have used it as a weapon against the darkspawn. Confessions was a game that we all played a great deal over the years. As well as I knew my family, I seemed to learn something new about them every time we played, but I guess that was the point.

As for Harley, Varric assumed that he was Solona’s dog, but he couldn’t have been further from the truth. That happened to poor Varric a lot. In reality Solona hated that dog. Alistair, on the other hand, cared for the mabari a great deal and used his impressive knowledge of herbs and flora to nurse their new companion back to health. I must admit that when I met them later I shed a few tears of my own when I saw Harley with them. Up until that point I held onto my hope that Fergus had somehow survived.

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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight