"You know, considering that whole story you told me about smashing your mother's pendant when you were a boy, you clearly haven't learned much about doing stupid things when you're angry."

The voice reaches him through the hazy fog of alcohol as he leans against the tavern's bar, forehead against the top of his arm and a puddle of vomit beneath his feet. He blinks, shaking his head – bad idea, that, it just makes things worse – and looks blearily over at the fellow who is glowering at him. His face is as familiar as his voice.

"Balls," Alistair articulately states.

His friend – no, ex-friend, the bastard – snorts, giving him a once-over which takes in the tattered state of his clothes, and the vomit, and no doubt a great many other unflattering things. Looking for a little liquid courage, Alistair casts a glance towards his tankard. But it's empty, and the barkeep has conveniently busied himself way over on the other end of the room.

"You look worse than Oghren after a bad night. Come on, then," the famous Grey Warden of Ferelden intones, reaching over to grab his shoulder. Alistair tries to shrug him off, but only succeeds in nearly falling over and getting caught instead.

"M'not going anywhere with you," he slurs, even as he holds onto his shoulders in order to keep from face-planting onto the filthy tavern floor. "You… you… Loghain… person."

The response earns him a long sigh and, of all things, a rather patronizing pat on the back. "How quaint. You actually think you have some kind of say in this," that stupid voice replies, and before Alistair can punch him – and he would so utterly punch him, too, if he could just remember how to get his arms to move properly – he's being led, stumbling, out of the tavern and into the street. Some early morning light illuminates the shabby seaside town, with its waterlogged houses and riff-raff strewn streets.

"Where're you taking me?" he demands, trying to free himself again and stumbling to his knees into the dirt. His stomach lurches, but he only heaves for a moment before a pair of strong hands pull him up again.

"Quit flailing about," the Warden admonishes. "You're filthy enough as it is without rolling around in the street, too."

"Oh, shut up," he groans. He wishes he could vomit some more – then he'd vomit right all over the smart-mouthed bastard who's dragging him down the street. But he's too disoriented to manage, and it probably wouldn't get him to let go, anyway. So instead he lets himself get bullied down the road, until he's lost track of the buildings they've passed, and the only thing which keeps him stumbling along is the iron-hard grip around his waist.

He blinks when he realizes that they've reached another inn. A much nicer one than the place he'd been staying at, further from the docks, and with an actual front door and everything. He blinks, losing a few minutes between noting the inn and realizing that he's been hauled to one of its rooms, with sure hands shucking him out of his filthy shirt and a basin of warm water nearby.

"What are you doing?" he asks, or means to ask, but between the way his jaw can't seem to obey orders and the fabric of his shirt, it all comes out a jumble.

"As I said, you're filthy," the Warden replies anyway. "Filthy, drunk, wretched, pathetic, and probably quite ill. What on earth were you thinking?"

"Damn you," he replies, deciding to make a go of that whole 'punching' idea anyway, and missing by a wide margin. It probably would have been wiser to wait until his shirt was no longer around his elbows, in hindsight. Then he's free – if lying rather lopsidedly on the ground – and his boots and trousers go the way of his shirt.

The Warden wrinkles his nose disdainfully. "Ugh. Did you piss yourself?" he demands. Then he shakes his head. "Nevermind. I'll call for a bath. Try not to knock anything over while you make your escape attempt," he advises, before moving towards the door.

Alistair almost tips the water basin, just on principal. But suddenly that seems like far too much effort, and instead he settles for curling up on himself and groaning in discomfort. Why does it feel like the bloody archdemon decided to set up camp in his stomach? He blinks his eyes shut, hearing a dull thumping sound that he eventually realizes are footsteps – first moving away, and then coming back.

After a moment there's a sigh, and then a hand prodding him into rolling over a little bit, and a damp, warm cloth mopping up his face. It feels good, and he hates that he's almost grateful for it.

"Go away," he mutters.

The cloth ignores him. Instead it clears away the grime around his mouth and down his neck, and then some time later, he's being pulled back up again and he finds himself guided into a large, deep (but not terribly wide) tub of hot water. The hands which clean him off move with business-like efficiency, and he can't remember the last time someone else bathed him. He thinks the closest might have been when he got himself covered in mud, and Lady Isolde had the kitchen staff wash him off with cold bucketfuls in the back courtyard.

His mind goes fuzzy, falling into the dim place near sleep as the grime moves from his body and into the water, soap and brush scraping it away. He can barely move by the time he's being coaxed back out again, hands wrapping him up in warm linen and then guiding him to a small, firm bed, the world tilting on its axis as he rests his head against the pillow and goes out like a light.

By the time he wakes up again, it's dark. There's a small lamp by the window, flickering in its dim glow, but everything else is still and quiet. His head is pounding mercilessly and his stomach has decided to revolt, and by the time he's managed to topple out of the bed, there's the sound of footsteps again and a pale being pressed into his grasp.

He obligingly heaves into it.

The unpleasant bile he produces does not look entirely healthy, and so he is a little less skeptical than he ought to be when the pale is replaced by a bottled substance which smells like feet.

"Drink that," the Warden's voice tells him.

He glowers at him, noting the way the light catches his outline and makes him look like some kind of mysterious figure of… of mystery. Or some such. The utter, utter bastard.

"Wynne made it," the utter bastard adds, and grudgingly, Alistair braces himself and chokes it down. It tastes like it smells, which is pretty bad, but not nearly as bad as some of the beverages he's had over the past year. He feels his stomach roll for a moment, and is certain that he'll vomit it all back up – but to his surprise, the sensation passes, and then settles.

He lets himself be led back into bed, mumbling only vague protests before he falls asleep again.

The second time he wakes, he feels much closer to something resembling coherency. His head is still pounding – and the sunlight streaming in through the window doesn't do much to help – but his stomach is behaving itself, and he no longer feels like his body is some strange slug monster which he's been telepathically attached to. Gingerly, he sits up, and takes better stock of himself and the rest of the room. The gash he'd gotten in a bar fight a few days ago has been treated and bandaged, and he is clean and naked, if a little sweaty. His bladder is demanding attention, and it is about the time he realizes this that he notices the room's other occupant.

He's propped up with his back against the door, wrapped in a travel cloak and lying with his chin resting against his chest. Sleeping, Alistair dimly wagers. There are dark circles under his eyes, and by the light of day and with better clarity, he notes them, as well as they fact that he seems somehow… thinner. Narrower. More diminished, as if, while Alistair has been drowning his sorrows and regrets in every sinkhole between here and Ferelden, he has been slowly shrinking from the inside out.

Well. He's the man who spared Loghain and made a hero out of him again – so it isn't like that would be any worse than he deserved. His hackles suitably raised again, Alistair moves to his feet.

The Warden's head snaps up, as if he has stepped upon a tripwire tied to his brain, and a piercing set of eyes fix upon him.

There's a moment of silence. Alistair feels distinctly at a disadvantage, what with being naked and all, and hesitates.

"So. You're awake," the Warden says.

He glares. "Well, I see your keen observational skills are sharp as ever," he quips back, trying for sarcastic but sounding more petulant than anything else. The eyes narrow, and then his ex-friend/kidnapper stands up, brushing himself off a little.

"I'll go and get us something to eat," the Warden says, apparently unperturbed. "Feel free to climb out of the window, if you like. I burned your clothes, though, so you'll have to make your way through the streets without them. It's a little breezy today," he warns, and then before Alistair can think of a suitable response, disappears through the door behind him and closes it sharply in his wake.

There is the sound of a lock closing.

Scowling, Alistair defiantly searches the room, but there is indeed not a stitch of clothing to be found. He strips off the top layer of the bed linens, wrapping them around himself before moving over to the window. It would be a tight squeeze, and the weather outside does indeed seem fairly windy and not a little bit damp and muddy besides.

He doesn't imagine he would get very far with nothing but a sheet and his skin.

So instead makes use of the chamber pot. Then he sits down, and tries to work the pounding out of his skull as he definitely doesn't sulk about being trapped or anything.

When the door opens again he glares at the Warden, and the shy-mannered elf servant who places down a tray of bread and fish and then hurries out again as quick as a wink. The other half of the table is then promptly covered by a fresh change of clothes, as his kidnapper drops them with little care, and takes a seat.

"Dress, eat, do as you like," he advises, plucking up a small roll himself and tearing into it.

"I'd like to leave," Alistair points out through gritted teeth. He eyes the door.

The Warden shrugs. "I'll have to disappoint you, then," he says, before gesturing presumptuously towards the chair beside him.

He bristles. "I won't eat at the same table as the man who allied himself with Loghain Mac Tir," he snarls.

There is a moment of tense silence. Then a loud bang as the Warden slams a fist against the tabletop, clenching his breakfast in his other hand and rising from his seat in an abrupt whirl. He stalks towards the door. "Fine," he says curtly, throwing it open and then walking back out into the hall again.

This time, when it closes behind him, it's slammed hard enough to shake the frame.

For a long time Alistair simply stays where he is. The cold from the floor seeps into his feet, and his skull still pounds – the slamming and banging didn't help much – but for all of that, it's the sinking feeling in his gut which is the worst. Like someone has tied the bottom of it into a knot and is trying to drag it out of him.

He doesn't want to be sober enough to feel it. But there's only water in the pitcher on the table, and after a minute he decides that if he's going to be miserable, he can at least manage it with a full belly and some clothes on his back. So he dresses, and once the first morsel touches his tongue, realizes how hungry he actually is.

By the time he's wolfed down the tray's contents he's feeling a little queasy again, and his kidnapper hasn't returned. But his headache feels a little better. Swallowing down his last bite with a swig of water, he makes his way over to the door.

It opens at a touch, much to his surprise. He blinks. Could he have actually made him angry enough to forget to lock it? But then he realizes not, as the Warden is standing at the other end of the hall, shoulders hunched and arms folded as he apparently waits for him.

"Let's take a walk," he says.

"I'd rather not," Alistair replies, setting his stance. "I don't know what you think you're doing-"

"Funny. I was about to say the same thing."

"-and I don't care. What makes you think I want anything to do with you?"

The Warden snorts. "Right. Because you were doing so fantastically well on your own, why would anyone want to intervene? How presumptuous of me to interrupt your self-neglect and alcohol poisoning."

"Ha ha," Alistair snaps. "Why don't you just go back to betraying everything the Grey Wardens stand for, then?" he demands, seeing red. "I'm sure you could spit on Duncan's grave a few more times."

A moment later he's seeing stars, instead, as suddenly he's stumbling back into the room behind himself, a sharp pain lancing up his jaw and the Warden's fist in the space which his head used to be occupying. For a moment he feels a surge of unexpected fear. He's made some money doing a few mercenary jobs here and there, but he's nowhere near as strong as he used to be, and even if he was he's fairly certain he'd lose this fight. Particularly unarmed and in plain clothes.

But then his temper catches up with him, and he lashes back. The Warden doesn't retaliate. He just moves out of the way of the clumsy punch, grabbing his arm and then pinning it behind him. "Hate me if you want to," he hisses, much to Alistair's surprise. "But at the very least abandon these delusions you have entertained for far too long. The Grey Wardens 'stand' for killing the darkspawn – nothing more, and nothing less."

With a muttered curse Alistair attempts to shrug him off, and actually succeeds in getting a kick to his instep and yanking himself free.

"It used to be something better than that!" he can't help but shout. "It used to mean something!"

The fact that the only response he gets is bitter laughter does nothing to abate his temper. With a cry of rage he charges forward, only to be sent tumbling into the corner of the room as he is successfully repelled.

"It never did!" the Warden shouts back. "The bedtime stories about griffons and battlefields, do you know what they were for, Alistair? They were to convince people that being a Grey Warden was a grand thing, so that when the time came, there would always be willing recruits to fight the darkspawn. People who would think it a more glorious life than the one they had – people like you."

"Just because you don't understand the concept of integrity-"

Another bitter laugh brings him up short, and actually gives him pause in a strange way, too, as he finally notices how strained it sounds. Not that he cares.

"So I would have more integrity were I to kill an adversary who had yielded to me?" he demands. "What a peculiar definition of such things you have, my friend."

"I am no friend of yours."

The words come reflexively, cold and stony as he sits upon the floor, trying to stop his head from spinning. They seem to bring ice into the room with them, spreading out into the air and swathing the tension in something even more unyielding.

The Warden stares at him, expression closed and guarded. "I suppose not," he agrees. "But you are still a Grey Warden, and for a full year now you have utterly defected from your duties."

Alistair snorts. "Defected from my duties of not standing for anything, you mean?" he asks sarcastically. "Right. Well. Next time I'm in the area, I'll be sure and kill a darkspawn or two, shall I? Since that's all it means to be a Grey Warden."

"If you're so set on destroying yourself, I'd actually recommend making your trip to the Deep Roads a few decades early," the Warden replies, in a tone utterly devoid of emotion. "You're not in the best shape, of course, but if you can manage to work up something of a berserker rage you might actually take down a good number of them before they tear you apart."

Silence greets this assertion. In spite of himself he finds his jaw drop, shock washing over him.

He can't believe he just heard that.

Indeed, the Warden himself seems a little surprised to have said it, eyes widening marginally after the fact.

Well, Alistair supposes, that really cinches things. As if they needed further cinching to begin with. He picks himself up, wincing and gingerly rubbing his jaw as it pounds in tune with his skull. It's not a bad idea, he supposes. At least it's got a little dignity to it, in a roundabout way, even though the idea of being torn apart by darkspawn isn't something he relishes. He doesn't suppose he would have thought about doing it on his own.

Maybe it's a sign.

"Not a bad idea," he mutters.

With a curse that somehow devolves into a sigh, the Warden closes the door again, before leaning heavily against it to block the room's only exit. "I didn't track you down so I could convince you to go out in a blaze of glory," he says.

Alistair glares. "Then why did you track me down?" he asks before he can stop himself.

"Because I am your friend, you tremendous idiot," the Warden replies.

"We're not friends anymore!"

The shouted rebuttal just earns him a dour look. "No. You are not my friend – and I sincerely wonder if you ever really were in the first place. But I am as I have always been, and ill-advised as it might seem, I remain as much your friend now as before."

Alistair comes up a little short, as it takes his mind a minute to process what has been said, and then several more in struggling with just what he is supposed to do with that. It seems a bizarre sort of statement to make. His mind latches onto the easiest parts to decipher, however, and once it does he chases away the others. "I was your friend, once," he says, the confusion taking some of the bite out of his tone. "You were the one who betrayed my trust, not the other way around. Remember? That whole business with making Loghain a Grey Warden? Dishonouring Duncan's memory and the name of the Wardens, letting a murdering, traitorous coward into our ranks..."

"…Slaying the archdemon and ending the blight," the Warden continues softly. "Yes, I remember. I remember very well how a man I had thought to be my friend left me on the eve of battle because I would not abandon reason for the sake of vengeance. A vengeance, I might add, which Duncan would not have wanted."

That gets him. "Don't you dare talk about Duncan like you have any idea what he would have wanted!" he snarls. "You barely knew him!"

The comment doesn't even ruffle the Warden. "Yet I listened to him just the same," he replies. "He never told me anything about the untarnished virtue of every single Grey Warden. In fact, he said quite the opposite to me – that personal vendettas, past crimes, desires, and agendas must all be placed behind the need to defeat the darkspawn." Releasing his iron hold on the door a little, he takes a step towards Alistair. "We traveled with a mass-murderer, an assassin, and an apostate, to name a few, and even if you didn't like them, you understood why their help was needed. Had you bothered to pay me the slightest mind, you would know exactly what I would do when faced with Riordan's suggestion."

His voice goes hard on the last note, until he is standing directly across from him, looking formidable in his temper and in a sentiment he has obviously spent some time considering. "My choice came as such a surprise precisely because you had no idea who I was. So long as I took the weight of responsibility off of your shoulders, you never cared, either. It was only when I denied you something you wanted that you finally took notice of me."

The accusation strikes a chord in him, and he resists the urge to make another ill-advised attack as he feels like slamming his fist against the bitter, hardened face before him.

Maybe he's right, though, because Alistair doesn't remember him being this much of an ass before the Landsmeet.

"Oh, well, forgive me if you feel that I didn't pay enough attention to you!" he replies, fists clenched. "But contrary to your self-centered view of the world, killing Loghain wasn't about what I wanted. It was about what was right."

The Warden scoffs at him, which does nothing to improve his mood. "That's why you're out here drinking yourself to death, then? Because you were right and I was wrong, and so obviously the most reasonable response is to run off like a selfish idiot without another word said?"

"Yes, how stupid of me to miss out on the opportunity to get chummy around the campfire with the man who slaughtered my entire order! Clearly a mistake on my part."

"Who knows? Perhaps you could have learned something about how to obsess over the wrong issues and turn into a drunken coward. Not that you haven't excelled at it all on your own."

With a sharp cry Alistair lunges forward, actually managing to catch his opponent by surprise long enough to tackle him to the floor. They fall with a clattering crash, and all he can think about is how dare he compare him to Loghain in any way at all? How dare he?

One of his fists manages to crack along his former friend's skull, even as he is kicked away with bruising force. The ensuing fight is quick and dirty, waged with fists and anger and pure, physical instinct as he lunges back again, and they exchange blows. Alistair knows he has the disadvantage, but he doesn't particularly care, either. For a full year all of the blackness which has eaten him up inside has stemmed from one decision made by this man, and he will take out every ounce of it with his fists if at all possible.

It is only when the buckets of water are being emptied onto their heads that he realizes they've been making quite a racket for the past few minutes, and that the proprietor of the inn has finally taken issue. Given that they have just crashed through the doorway and into the hall, that's probably understandable. He stares blearily up at the woman. She is scowling at him like no tomorrow. "Look," she says. "Either move it outside or stop it altogether. I don't care which."

The Warden takes advantage of the distraction to push him away, brushing the water off of himself and giving her an apologetic nod. Alistair blinks, rubbing some of it out of his eyes, and before he can properly react there's a hand closing around his arm, and he's being dragged back into that Maker-damned room again.

"Oh no you don't," he manages to say, right as the door is closed behind them, and he only just sees the proprietor rolling her eyes and muttering something unflattering about his gender.

"Fine. We'll do it this way," the Warden says, pushing him into a chair and holding him down by his shoulders. He makes a cursory struggle, but truth be told, he's already exhausted. "Contrary to what has gone on thus far, Alistair, I did not come here to antagonize you, fight with you, or even to give you a bath. In fact I'd say I would rather have avoided doing all of those things."

He scowls.

"I came here," the Warden continues. "Because, as I said, for a full year you have been neglecting your duties to your vocation, and that cannot stand. It sets a bad precedent for deserters."

"So you came here to kill me?" Alistair theorizes.

It earns him a sound of utter incredulity. "Yes. Yes, Alistair, that is precisely it. You have guessed correctly. I spared Loghain, even though I utterly despised the man, but you – you have fallen into my bizarre and convoluted death trap. It certainly would not have been easy to kill you while you were half-unconscious on a barstool in the foulest tavern this miserable little town has."

He glares. Some more. "Well that's what happens to deserters, isn't it?" he demands. "They all end up like Ser Jory!"

"Whose death I approved of so very much, if you'll recall," the Warden replies in his hard voice, unimpressed and sounding eerily like a certain Witch of the Wilds. Then he sighs. "The vital flaw in your reasoning, of course, is that I have always and consistently done what I could to avoid killing people, which ties into that whole point I was making about how you have no idea who I am. Regardless, I would actually prefer it if you don't follow my suggestion and throw yourself into the Deep Roads. Staying here would be a bad idea, too."

He blinks, the glare turning into something more of a confused frown. "What's so dangerous about staying here?" he asks, wondering if he's going to get another lecture on alcohol poisoning. Which is an utter exaggeration, really, it's not like he'd actually drink himself to death. Much.

"Think," the Warden instructs him coldly. "You said yourself that deserters from the Grey Wardens fair no better than deserters from any other army." He lets out another breath, and after a second releases Alistair's shoulders long enough to fall into the chair beside him. Apparently deciding for some reason that he won't attempt to run away. There is a magnificent bruise blooming on the side of his face, and it is deeply satisfying to see it. "Anora granted my request to spare your life, but she is a conniving bitch and would obviously prefer to see you dead anyway. The Wardens in Ferelden are recovering. Someone managed to let mention of you slip to several of the senior members from Orlais, and now every Warden from here to Seheron is out for your blood."

He freezes, not entirely certain what to make of this revelation. For a moment he considers that it might not be true. Maybe it's a trick. He's never heard of the Wardens hunting down one of their own order before, but then again, he's never heard of anyone trying to leave after the Joining, either.

Not that he wonders why. The first few weeks after he left he was almost killed on a number of occasions by darkspawn who sensed him, and took advantage of his lack of companions. Mostly he'd gone as far abroad as he had just to get away from the large hoards, and even now, he can feel the taint calling him back. Though less urgently, given his current company.

"And they have no objections?" he asks. "To your – your choices with Loghain?"

The look he gets is a strange one. It's almost pitying now, which is arguably worse than the angry alternative. "One of the senior Wardens from Orlais used to be a serial killer before the Joining transferred his preferences from young girls to darkspawn," he says. "There are many with histories almost as black. Why should they object to my poisoning Loghain and sacrificing him to the archdemon?" he asks.

Well, yes, when he says it like that it doesn't actually sound so bad.

Alistair shakes his head. Of course, the man has always been good with a turn of phrase. "Maybe they'd object to your conscripting someone who single-handedly wiped out the Ferelden Grey Wardens and almost let the darkspawn overrun the kingdom?" he suggests instead.

The Warden shrugs. "Some of them think it's funny," he replies.

Alistair gives him an incredulous look. "Funny?" he demands.

"Yes. You know, like hunting down the man who killed all of your friends and poisoning him before you make him fight a gigantic, tainted god-dragon. Funny."

There is a long silence. After a few minutes, Alistair decides that his head still hurts too much for any of this, and that it doesn't matter anyway. "Fine," he says. "You know what? I don't care. Let them kill me." It would have been better if he'd died at Ostagar anyway.

"No," the Warden replies, before reaching over to rather idly stack up the empty breakfast plates.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"It's a fairly simple concept, Alistair." Finishing his spontaneous task, he leans back in his chair. "The only way the other Wardens will fail to kill you on sight is if I bring you back to Ferelden with me. You can go back to fighting darkspawn, perhaps bond with some of the new recruits. Spend a little time with Wynne and the dog. It'll be nice for you."

Alistair gives him a hard look. "I'd sooner have sex with Morrigan."

The Warden smirks at him, and he gets the vague impression that he's missing a joke somewhere. "You say that like I'm giving you a choice."

He doesn't move fast enough to stop the blow – probably because all of the drinking has shot his reflexes to hell, and the Warden's quick enough besides – and the last thing he thinks before he goes out is that he's probably going to spend a lot of this trip unconscious.

Also, that maybe he should feel a little more outraged and a little less… well…

Relieved.