(To find the link to the complete story, go to my profile page. I've only posted the prologue here as the full story is illustrated with pictures made with the Dragon Age Toolset, two per chapter, and I'd like those to be seen. All 26 chapters of Part One are up there. Edit: I've decided that I will also post an unillustrated version here-one chapter per week.)

Prologue

Starkhaven, Three Months After The Landsmeet:

The rain hadn't stopped for days and the crowded tavern smelled like mold, wet wool and sweat. Also smoke, which rose from the pathetic excuse for a fireplace on the back wall, only about half of which was finding its way up the chimney.

Alistair didn't care. He didn't care about anything but the cup of cheap Antivan brandy in his hands. It tasted horrible, but it worked, and he knew from experience that the longer he drank, the less awful it would taste.

Drinking made him feel just a bit number than he otherwise would, and that was just how he wanted to feel. Numb. Uncaring and unfeeling. He wanted oblivion and it was right here in this cup.

Didn't make anything go away, though. Didn't change anything. None of it ever went away. Not asleep. Not awake. Not drunk. Not sober. 'Course, he didn't try sober very often. Hooray for brandy. It's not like there was anything else to cheer for.

How could she have done it? How could she have spared Loghain—a traitor—and sided with Anora?

Never mind that she'd debased every Warden when she'd made Loghain one of them, including him, including herself—how could she have done that after everything they'd been through together, what they'd meant to each other…? How could she have done that to him?

Had any of it meant anything to her? If it had…. Maker's blood! She ordered his death!

Why? Why?

Alistair took a gulp of his drink, felt it burn all the way to his stomach, and hunched lower over the bar.

She ordered his death—he was completely unable to get his head around that. He would have done anything for her—died for her.

Yes. He would have done that, he would have died, but not spared the man who'd killed his brother Wardens, who'd killed Duncan. Not see her honor Loghain and act like it was a punishment.

Had she ever loved him?

Couldn't have. Just…not possible, not in any way he could understand. Must have been a lie. A long, cruel lie.

So much for dreams. They were lies, too. Stupid, stupid lies…that's what dreams were.

Alistair's elbow slipped off the bar, and his face almost hit its polished wooden surface. He pushed himself upright and grabbed for his drink, squinting to focus.

Taking another swallow, his thoughts went back to Kallian, and his eyes stung.

His beautiful, beautiful Kallian…. He'd been lying to himself all along. He'd always known he didn't deserve to be so happy.

"Hey, Fereldan! You're in my spot."

Alistair glanced over his shoulder and saw a large man, balding and wearing armor adorned with a ridiculous amount of fur. He had three equally large friends standing behind him. Fur. On armor. Silly. "Guess you'll have to find another spot, friend."

He turned back to the bar, raising his cup to his lips again.

Something hit him in the back of the head, knocking the pewter cup against his teeth, and spilling brandy down the front of his splintmail. Ow, blast it!

Alistair put his cup down carefully, then turned to look at the men again, his eyes narrowing. One possessive idiot in fur wearing a two handed sword, a rogue with daggers, a duel-wielding warrior—mace and war axe, and a fighter whose shield was hastily painted over. Dodgy, that.

The rogue shifted his feet and looked at the man who 'owned' the stool on which Alistair was sitting. "Ah…maybe we should leave this one alone, Gerd."

"No bloody Fereldan is going to sit while I stand. And he's a drunken sot. You scared of a drunk, Abbo? You a coward?"

Abbo scowled at the man in fur. "Piss on you, Gerd. Just not sure it's worth our time, that's all. Like you say—he's drunk."

"He's a drunken Fereldan, Abbo. And he took my stool. You can't swing a cat without hitting a Fereldan refugee." Gerd crossed his arms, widening his stance, and staring at Alistair. "My friend has a soft heart, so I'll give you a chance to leave quietly. Get out of here now."

Alistair stood, raising an eyebrow, and crossing his arms to match Gerd's pose. "No."

The effect was slightly spoiled by swaying he couldn't seem to control, but he thought he got his point across. The friends of the fur-wearing ass were all looking a bit unsure now.

Like all good barkeeps, this one sensed trouble brewing and rushed over, waving his arms. "Take it outside, the lot of you! Kill each other in the street, if you must, but I'll have none of it here.

Giving Gerd a hard stare, Alistair swept an arm toward the door to the street, the grand gesture putting him off balance and making him stagger to the side.

Sod it—he was drunker than he'd thought. No matter. The day he couldn't take on four bully-boys like these was the day he deserved to die in a gutter. Holy Maker, he'd fought dragons!

Half the people in the tavern followed them from the bar, eager to see a fight. Alistair could hear bets being placed, and noticed that the odds were much against him. He wondered if that was based purely on numbers, or something else.

Oh, wait. It was probably because he was drunk.

As they made their way into the street and the rain that still drizzled down, Gerd said, "I'm surprised you haven't run. Fereldans are cowards, just useless wastes of space unless you want a cheap woman—and even then, you run the risk of fleas. Everyone knows that a Fereldan woman would happily rut with a dog for a few coppers." He laughed, looking at his friends, and more than a few in the crowd laughed, too.

Alistair flushed and took a deep breath. He put his shield on his arm.

The duel wielder called out, "Dumb luck is the only thing Ferelden has going for it. Your Wardens fought like dog piss—couldn't even win the first battle. They probably died while running away, screaming like little girls. 'Ooo, ooo, Save us!' Your gutless king, too. Not like when we fought the Blights! You'd run, too, if you were smart." He elbowed the man with the painted shield. "Right, Derk?"

Derk let out a snicker. "The Fereldan Wardens should have recruited mabari. Less stupid, and when they run from a fight, they have real tails to put between their legs."

Suddenly, Alistair wasn't in Starkhaven, in front of a seedy tavern—he was at Ostagar, his heart pounding with excitement and dread, seeing the archers firing on the horde. He was racing toward the tower of Ishal, seeing soldiers fall as they valiantly battled the darkspawn pouring out. He was fighting toward the beacon, Kallian beside him, in a desperate attempt to summon Loghain's troops. The acrid smoke from torches and darkspawn fires was chokingly thick, making his eyes water, and filling his lungs.

The next moment the smoke was gone, and the same air that had been so pungent was bitingly cold as he looked up at Cailan's body, strung up to rot, all that was left of a brave man betrayed by Loghain and left to die. His king and…his brother.

Without warning, he was falling backwards, a shield slamming into him, the butt of a sword smashing into his head, an armored boot kicking him in the face. Not at Ostagar, not in Ferelden, but in a wet, dirty street in Starkhaven, hearing the laughter of his attackers and the watching crowd.

Rolling to one side, he scrambled to his feet. Alistair shook his head to clear water from his eyes that dripped down from rain-sodden hair. Rage, a vestige of willpower, and the energy that came with battle sharpened his senses.

He spat out the blood that filled his mouth. "You know nothing of Ostagar! Nothing of the Grey Wardens. We were betrayed. Cailan was betrayed. My brother was a good and brave man who deserved better! And Ferelden still managed to keep the Blight from reaching these shores. It's not me who should run. It's you."

Running toward the duel wielder, the one who'd called Cailan gutless, Alistair swung his sword with such force that he heard bone snap as the man tried to block the blow. He spun around to face the rest of them, moving too fast, and not carefully enough for his current state. His legs slipped out from under him and he fell on his side.

Laughter rose around him as Alistair picked himself up.

Derk, the warrior with the painted shield—who had talked of tails between legs, was still laughing when Alistair drove his sword through an un-mended gap in his armor and into his side.

His lips twisting into a smile, Alistair pulled his sword from the man and turned back to the duel wielder, whose broken arm hung limply at his side. The other still held a mace. He lunged at the warrior, delivering a flurry of blows, all aimed at the broken arm.

The duel wielder blocked one with his mace, but the other two hit home, and he let out a shriek of pain, backing away. "Sod this! I yield!"

Alistair whirled toward Gerd, lifting his shield to block a crushing blow, as Abbo tried to maneuver to the rear, daggers poised to strike him from behind.

Knowing that Abbo was more of a danger to him than the slower Gerd, Alistair turned away from the warrior. He struck out with his shield twice, turning Abbo's face into a bloody mess, and then a third time, sending him reeling backward onto the ground.

He was still facing Abbo when Gerd's greatsword struck his armor, breeching the slats of metal at his shoulder, cutting flesh, and driving him to his knees.

Maker's blood, the man was strong…. Alistair got to his feet and stumbled out of the way of a second blow that he didn't have to see to know it was coming. Moving in close to Gerd, leaving the two-handed fighter no room to swing, he struck him in the temple with the pommel of his sword—all he could do at such tight quarters.

When Gerd staggered, Alistair lifted his shield, and put all his force into a hit that knocked the blowhard to the ground. He raised his sword to bring it down on the man's neck, just above the useless fur on his armor.

"Warden!" A commanding voice spoke from the crowd.

Alistair didn't move his sword, but glanced away to see a gray-haired soldier step forward, the scars on his face showing a lifetime of battle.

"You've won, Warden. Honor is served. There's no need to kill the fool."

Alistair looked back to the man on the ground, staring at him—wanting him to know just how close he came to death, then drew back his blade slowly.

Gerd avoided his gaze as he picked himself up without a word. He and his friends limped away, disappearing into the night as quickly as bruised and damaged limbs would allow.

The crowd grew loud, money changed hands as bets were paid off, and they made their way back inside to escape the rain that was coming down harder now, some talking bitterly of wasting their money on Gerd, some gleeful at their windfall.

Turning to the soldier who still watched him, Alistair said, "You called me 'Warden.'"

"You are, aren't you? Whatever these fools think."

"I was." Alistair sheathed his sword and started walking up the street, water from deepening puddles seeping into his boots. "Now I'm not anything at all."