Title: The Liar and the Honest
Author: Traxits (also known as whitecarnations)
Rating: T (teen).
Word Count: 593 words.
PC: None.
Pairing: None.
Spoilers: Alistair's history.
Summary: This is actually in response to a challenge posted on Lunaescence. "Write either one shots or drabbles with the following themes (as taken from the song 'This is War,' by 30 Seconds to Mars): the good, the evil; the soldier, the civilian; the martyr, the victim; the prophet, the messiah; the liar, the honest; the leader, the pariah." In this work, I've paired each of them up, designed to kind of play off of one another.
Notes: The fifth in a series of six.

[[ ... The Liar ... Alistair ... ]]

How could he live like this? How was he supposed to keep going, day in and day out, knowing that with Cailan's death, he was next in line for the throne? He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The waves of nausea just kept coming, piling up in his stomach until it finally rebelled, unable to stand it any longer. He was glad that it mostly happened while he was on watch.

It was when he sat, alone in the dark, looking out for any sort of movement, that he really had time to think. It was then that he couldn't shake the feeling, that he knew he couldn't escape himself, his very blood. The only way out of it was to never speak of it, never let on that anything was wrong.

That was easier in the daylight. In the daylight, on the road, Morrigan nagging him and Leliana's stories in his ears, it was easier to pretend, to believe his own lies that he was a nobody, just some fool lucky enough to survive Ostagar. He lied through his teeth until his head ached, laughing and joking and deflecting, unable to take it, unable to shoulder the burden weighing so heavily on him.

It wasn't until he stepped foot in Redcliffe, could see the castle from their vantage point, could smell the lake air that he knew he couldn't do it any longer. They had to know. They had to understand before someone else told them. He swallowed, felt the bitter taste in the back of his throat. Surely, telling the truth would be easier than another lie.

[[ ... The Honest ... Zevran ... ]]

There was nothing left, he realized, spitting out the dirt clinging to his tongue. He shot a glance to the armored figure standing so close to him, and for a moment, he considered his options. He could reach out, grab the ankle and pull the guard down, possibly making a run for it. But no, he'd seen the magic bolts and the arrows flying over the battle field earlier, and he knew that the best he'd get would be one of those in the back. Instead, as he felt himself being pulled to his feet, he decided on the one thing that had served him best his entire career.

The truth, contrary to popular belief, did not always make you feel better. It couldn't, when you were freely admitting to attempted murder, to murder for money, which made him lower than a dog in this country. Ferelden had no appreciation for the finer things, he supposed with a little sigh. He was completely frank with them; no reason to hide it now. He was a dead man.

And so, when they turned and exchanged glances, he'd whispered one last prayer to the Maker, bracing himself for the feel of steel ripping through soft flesh. But it never came. He frowned for just a moment, and suddenly realizing what was going on, he threw himself on the mercy of the Warden. He didn't want to die, not really. Not like this, face down in mud made from his own blood.

Somehow, the deal was struck, and he was with the Wardens, for better or for worse. He got the strangest feeling that it wouldn't be the first time that they turned his life upside down, and he didn't like how it seemed to hang over him. But what was done was done, and he had a promise to uphold. He sighed, reaching up to fix his hair. Wouldn't do to meet one's death looking this awful.