After a young mage, Solona Amell, makes the ultimate sacrifice to stop the Blight, only two Grey Wardens remain alive in Ferelden. Unfortunately, they are not on speaking terms. As Alistair decides to walk away from the crown, will Loghain Mac Tir achieve the impossible: persuade Maric's bastard to fulfill his duties and marry Loghain's daughter? He'll certainly try his best, but will it be the right thing to do?

Based on Dragon Age Origins and Awakening, as well as David Gaider's books "The Stolen Throne" and "The Calling". Alistair/Loghain.

TWO ROADS

"In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice."

Grey Warden Motto

CHAPTER 1: The Spirit Charm

"Alistair?" Of course, it would be Wynne who found him after Solona's funeral. There was no use in hiding from Wynne: like a Revered Mother she was, always awake, always watching.

This time she held a flat iron disk in her outstretched hand. The disc tumbled from her palm, but its fall was arrested by the string tangled in her fingers; it hung in midair, turning slowly on its hempen cord.

"Huh. What's this?" he muttered, peering at it. Mage trinkets... Just as he finished speaking, the disc rotated far enough that he could see the flame of Andraste on its other side.

"Solona's spirit charm," Wynne told him quietly.

Solona's. As he heard that name spoken, without intending it, Alistair's hands clenched into fists. Just like they had when he'd seen that bastard Loghain at the funeral, wearing a cloak with a Grey Warden griffin, of all things, over that pretentious Chevalier plate. At that memory, Alistair's fists tightened until they shook: even if he tried now, he wouldn't be able to take the amulet.

Wynne lifted her free hand and laid it on Alistair's shoulder. Her touch was soft. Comforting. Alistair had so often imagined that a mother's touch, or a grandmother's, would be just as kind. He still craved that, the comfort of a real family; not a bitter, contemptuous stranger like Goldanna, and not someone who shoved you aside until you were useful, like Eamon. Alistair wanted a family like Solona, and he would've had it too, if he hadn't run away like a hotheaded fool. He still wanted that, despite it all: a family like the Grey Wardens would have been, if any were left.

Loghain didn't count. Not as a Warden and definitely not as family. Not even as an in-law.

"I think Solona would have wanted you to have this," Wynne continued, low and soothing. "Something to remember her by." She continued to hold the amulet out, patiently.

Alistair huffed. He wasn't a child, so he shouldn't need to be crooned at and comforted like a baby at his mother's bosom. "She doesn't need me to remember her! Half of Thedas and their aunt Mildred remembers."

"Mm," Wynne echoed, ever-so-calm. "And today you've made sure that it stays that way."

"I suppose." Alistair inhaled and it stung. "But it wasn't just me, you know. Leliana's composed ballads about her." His voice hitched into something like a sigh, or a sob. "I can't write songs, so I had to do the only thing I could do, and that was talk. So I spoke at her funeral, so what? In a week's time, who'll remember what I said? I can only hope that in the long run, people will have better things to remember her by, beautiful things like Leliana's ballads, and statues and legends. It's what Solona deserves."

"Of course she does." Wynne pursed her lips, and nodded silently, and then she slid the charm into Alistair's hand, and gazed down at him, sombre, solemn. "And now, you can keep something she treasured." she said softly. "Don't you think that's what you deserve?"

Alistair nodded. His fingers closed against the warm metal and he released a held breath. It hurt to exhale. Why did it hurt so much? "I asked for a whole new Tower for you, for all the mages. How'd I do?"

"Good, Alistair." Wynne's smile was warm, fond. It always was. Gentle and kind.

He kept talking past her words; he had to, before his throat closed over completely. "... and they'll build her a whole new statue in front of the whole new Mage Tower. Or is it the tower in front of the mage statue? Whatever gets built first, but they both will be built! I'll make sure of it." Suddenly Alistair's vision was blurry and his throat was tight, and he blinked and his eyes were stinging and he had to go on babbling to cover it up. "That beats any old - well, new - tomb at Weisshaupt, doesn't it? And anyway, two landmarks are better than one. Fitting for a hero like her, right?"

"Oh, Alistair," Wynne said again, and her hands lifted to cover his gauntlets. "Look at me. You did well. Very well. You should be proud."

That was when Alistair's breath caught for good, and his eyes were already wet enough. He leaned forward, armor and all, and buried his face in the welcoming shoulder of a frail, skinny old mage, at least half a century older than he'd ever live to be. What was it about the Tower mages? A proper Templar was supposed to watch over them, and yet they always snuck up and ended up watching over you. Like Solona, like Wynne.

"I miss her." He inhaled frantically and felt wet warmth sliding down his cheeks, and it probably wasn't appropriate for Ferelden's supposed future ruler to be seen like that. He didn't care. It was the first friendly contact he'd had in what felt like months.

Wynne's arms went around him, and her robes smelled of herbs and campfire, and just for a while Alistair could forget he was in the middle of Denerim. He could imagine he was out in the quiet wilderness, and that Solona was still with him, and the two of them, lightning flashing and sword slashing, were all the Wardens Ferelden needed to defeat the Blight.

"There, there." The warmth of Wynne's Invigorate spell washed over him. "Breathe."

Lost, Alistair had been so lost in this double labyrinth of the Estate and the surrounding city streets, ever since he'd stayed behind in Denerim, while Solona marched away to muster her armies, with that traitor by her side. Ever since Alistair had resigned himself to fulfilling his destiny as the Royal Bastard, and marrying the Ice Princess of Ferelden, he'd felt alone and out of place. He should have been with Solona. Maker's breath, it should have been him, stopping the Archdemon the proper way, for Duncan. It should have been him taking that final stand; not a girl half his size in a permanent state of Lyrium delirium, with her hair ruffled by stray lightning, not even a helmet over her head. Who knew what she'd sacrificed herself for, in the end. Maker! If it wasn't for Loghain... if it wasn't for the Landsmeet...

If it wasn't for that scheming traitor's conscription forcing Alistair to leave the Grey Wardens, Solona would have been still alive, and Alistair would have been the Warden he'd sworn on Duncan's death that he would be.

Funny how life made a mockery of the most heartfelt vows, of wishes and hopes and dreams. All Alistair had ever wanted was family, but when it came right down to it, he'd stood back and watched, as the only family that truly mattered walked out and left him behind.

Nothing could fix that now.

Through the salty haze of tears, Alistair wondered what the Snow Queen was up to now. Probably with her father, discussing whether to plant a blade in Alistair's back or slip a convenient poison into his goblet of wedding wine. Surely, all alone, Alistair wouldn't rate an Antivan assassin in their eyes, not when Loghain could use his own daughter to finish the dirty job. Keep it in the family.

'Family', ha! Some family.

Thinking about having to join that family, even thinking about the fact that the bastard was still around - not only alive but the only other Warden left in all of Ferelden - made Alistair's stomach churn, made him taste bile all over again, made him wonder if there was any justice left at all after the Blight.

Wynne and Shale were getting ready to leave, and Alistair thought of asking them to delay. But that'd be childish, really, so childish and stupid. He'd faced a Broodmother; surely he could overcome one tiny fear of marrying the traitor's daughter - marrying anyone - and not having someone friendly to talk to about how awkward and lonely and terrifying it all was. But even Wynne had better things to do, more important things, than talk Alistair through his wedding jitters. Awkward didn't even begin to describe it. At least Zevran had already disappeared somewhere, into whatever holes assassins slithered into at night. Good riddance. The last thing Alistair needed was Zevran, slinking in and purring in that Antivan accent of his, every single disturbing idea he'd ever had about how Alistair should spend his wedding night.

Andraste's flaming knickers! The wedding night! Ugh! No! Definitely not worth even thinking about that now. Not until I absolutely have to, hopefully never! Yeah, never's a good time for that.

Wynne said she was heading for the mountains, and then she went on about rituals and spells and artifacts... transmogrification, transmagification... something. Alistair wished he could go with her, but she was so busy, absorbed with her research plans. She wouldn't want him underfoot. It wasn't as if he was a mage, or a scholar. He wasn't much of anything these days.

Wynne hugged him again, warmly, with a parting spell as she let go of his shoulders at last. Shale just stood there, nodded as much as a stone golem could nod, and then cautioned Alistair to "Keep its eye on the pigeon crap when it puts its crown on its head."

Alistair nodded and thought that the sentiment was very sweet. Although that the fact that they didn't even want to stay with him until the ceremony spoke volumes. He wouldn't want to stay for his own coronation or wedding to Anora either.

Alistair stayed in his rooms. His rooms weren't scary, unlike Royal Weddings; they were warm and only slightly messy and blessedly free of Loghain's evil self or evil spawn. Solona's charm was always around his neck now, and he'd developed a new habit with his hands, too. He'd roll two runestones in his hand, one black, one white. The silver rune rubbed against the gold as he tumbled them in his palm, keeping them constantly moving, like rocks in a riverbed. Solona had found them, and given them both to him. She'd picked up the first one in Aeducan Thaig. She was still a near-stranger then, and she'd looked to him like such a typical mage, with her robes and staff and talk of spells and things Alistair would never really understand. And even though Alistair was older and bigger by far, he'd felt so awkward around her. What was he supposed to do? Ask her how the weather was up in the Fade? Try being less of a big bad mage hunter? Or maybe he should've just painted a warning sign on his armor: 'Templar. Drains magic, do not hex!'

He was just being sarcastic when he'd told her that there was nothing like a Blight to bring people together, but in their case, it had worked. After that shaky start, they'd been through so much together, watched each other's back, saved each other's life a hundred times. So by the time Solona must've found the other runestone - in their Tower, when Wynne joined them - she was just a fellow Warden to Alistair, and he felt as though he'd known her for years.

Apparently she'd never felt awkward around him like he'd felt around her, not even back in the beginning. He still remembered the casual flick of her wrist as she tossed the runestones his way. "Look, shiny. Want 'em?"

"Mmm, I suppose I could use a spare..." Alistair changed his voice to a comical squeakiness, "...pair of stones."

Solona laughed and laughed. "Couldn't we all!" She had a good laugh. Honest. Open. Alistair couldn't even tell she was a mage then, the creepy explosive sort that got high on lyrium and then summoned a lightning storm at your hind quarters with the snap of the fingers. Zap!

Morrigan was definitely the 'zap!' sort, that wicked, wanton witch, but not Solona. No. Solona sounded just like one of the giggling Initiates at the Temple, all normal and human and a Grey Warden as well, like Alistair. Yes, she was definitely all right.

Alistair thought of what awaited him, what he was staying for, and even his promise to Solona wasn't strong enough to keep him in the city. Not with the Snow Queen of Ferelden around, just waiting to get him in her clutches, and compare him to Cailan, and find him wanting. No. Just... Maker's breath, no!

He wasn't cut out to be a noble, spending the rest of his life in the snake pit of politics. It just wasn't who he was.

But soon he'd be forced to become someone he never wanted to be: not even a King, merely a consort, ruler in name only, a figurehead on a ship of State steered by a power-hungry ice-sculpture of a woman. And always, always under the watchful eye of Loghain Mac Tir. It definitely wasn't what Alistair had ever planned.

He'd grown up in a stable! He couldn't be less ready for any of this!

"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like? The Court?" Solona asked him one night at camp, as they shared a skin of ale between them. To the right, Oghren snored, already passed out drunk. To the left, Leliana hummed something soft and mournful and Orlesian. Morrigan set up her own tent, on the opposite side of the hill, far away from the campfire. Sten and the Dog had the first watch. Alistair made sure to sit facing Morrigan's tent: no sense in turning your back on any sneaky witches, not unless you wanted to be a frog for the rest of your short, squishy life. So, it didn't hurt having Solona next to him either. Safety in numbers and all. Besides, if worst came to worst, Solona's staff could zap back as well as that wicked, warped branch of Morrigan's.

"Hm?" Alistair shrugged and reached for the drink. "The scenery's nice, I suppose, but the company mostly isn't. Oh, I suppose some are all right..." They were miles away from the city and here in the wilderness Denerim was just a tiny cross and a few squigglies on the map, safe to speculate on. Still, he turned around to check that no one else was listening, before continuing: "But others: only two words for them, royal bastards. Not royal bastards like me, but - well - worse. Ten times worse! Yeah, I know I'm no prize. But all they do, day and night, is fill up Denerim's taverns, strut around all arrogant in their finery, and argue about who's more important, over much better drinks than ours."

He passed the ale back and Solona tipped it up and choked, spitting ale out in a single bout of laughter.

"They need those drinks," Alistair grinned, "'cause no one'd put up with them sober. Not even themselves."

"Good to know," Solona snorted. "I suppose it's the wrong time to say that I wanted to be a princess once."

"A what?" Alistair blinked. "Solona!" He blinked again and let out a laugh. Honestly, it was quite a manly laugh, as far as laughter went. And if it sounded anything like a giggle, well it was only all the ale bubbling up. He'd drunk enough. Even the camp began to spin. "Really?"

Solona smacked him with her free hand. "Oh, hush. I was seven! Of course I wanted to be a princess!" She sat up straighter on her log, her chin raised, and her elbows out, as if it truly was a throne. "A pretty, spoiled princess, like the name of the inn across that lake we couldn't ever cross." She stared at the fire. "I think it was forbidden even to look across it. I don't know, I never got caught. What else did I have to do in the Tower? Just look out at the world when I could, and read, and dream about being someone else. Anyone's better off than a mage..." It was then she deflated and her shoulders sagged, her arms circled her knees and she sat there, all small and frizzy-haired: a skinny girl in a long, bulky robe. "And the nobles all have parents..."

Ouch. "Well," Alistair mumbled. "That they do, lucky slobs."

"Oh." Solona blinked, and she must've caught an echo of whatever made her hug her knees in Alistair's too-cheerful tone because she added quietly, "You too, huh. I'm sorry."

"S'fine! Really. It's all right." Alistair put on a smile that had the same slightly-overdone cheeriness as his voice. It was easier to do, once the ale warmed its way down his throat. She was what, sixteen? Less? How long was she locked up in that Tower? Probably at least a decade... Did she even remember what it was like in the world outside? But Alistair knew, all too well, that barely remembering something didn't stop you from wanting it. It was natural to want a normal family. When Alistair was a boy he would've given anything to have a good Mum and a good Dad, and many, many brothers and sisters, younger and older and loud and annoying and perfect. He'd still give anything for that. But surely that wasn't the kind of thing you just declared to someone else out of the blue. "Nothing to worry about!" he mumbled instead. "And anyway, life as a noble isn't all the bards or the books tell you it is." He stood up, stumbled, and tried to deliver a mock-bow to cover up just how clumsy he was today. "Your Royal Highness."

Solona snorted and pulled the ale back as he reached out for more. "Now that title's far too dull for me. Suits you much better."

Now that almost did send Alistair tumbling backwards. "Me? A... a-" he waved his hands about, trying to get the word out, "- princess - Prince!" He would have been a prince, of course, and she was absolutely, clearly, undeniably... "Are you mad?"

"Maybe." Solona shrugged, not too terribly upset. "As mad as any mage. But even I can see that someone has to become King, Alistair. And if it's you, think of all the good you'll do."

"No!" Alistair frowned and shook his head. "No, you're wrong and m'good. 'Mean, m'already doin' good. Not 'cause I've got some noble's blood in me. S'cause I drank blood. 'Cause we drank blood. We chose to drink it. I chose to drink it 'stead o'drinkin' Lyrium like a good little Templar. You chose t'drink - you're still drinking that. Lyrium... an' ale, but we're drinkin' th' ale together. An' we're Wardens together! Not Templars, not m-Mages, Wardens! Grey and good and we do good! Every. Single. Day." Alistair's words slurred, sharp and loud over the crackling of the campfire. "We do good. Not the nobles. Th' nobles don't ever do good. They let you down... they do. They drag you up and they - they throw you out and then they kick you when you're down. Every single time..."

Try as he might, Alistair never could recall the camp grounds spinning 'round and 'round as wildly as it did that evening. And the ale he drank turned out to be meaner than Morrigan. Bad, wicked, wanton ale.

Come to think of it, he hadn't have a single sip of ale since that very night.

Alistair snapped out of his reverie, going with a jolt from one extreme to the other: out of a daydream and into a frantic flurry of action. He threw the runestones in his bag and put on his old splint mail. Around his neck hung the two amulets, both with the same flame of Andraste engraved on them: the silver of his mother's amulet cool on his skin, the iron of Solona's charm thudding against his chest, heavy as his heartbeat.

I'm sorry, Solona. I was never really a prince, and I can't be king. There's only one thing I was ever good at, and that's being a Grey Warden. The world would've been so much better off if I was dead, instead of you.

He closed his hand over the double charms, and they responded with a dull clink. So many things in life went by twos: twin mementos of the dead, twin regrets, twin disappointments. All paired up nice and neat like that, like new socks: all except Alistair himself.

Alistair himself was... very much alone. His socks weren't particularly new either. But at least the Estate's servants were better at mending his old socks than he was. That was pretty much the only good thing about Denerim.

It was only when Alistair was well outside of Denerim - where the outskirts became an open road, snaking amid farms and ruined fields far past the city walls - when the full realization hit him of what he'd just done. Panic set in, and he hurried off the road in case someone had followed him, but no one was around.

Maybe I should've left a note. Just in case Anora doesn't know yet, and gets all her hopes up for the wedding ceremony. But she's clever, and she'll have plenty of time to figure it out. Besides, she isn't the type to be really hurt at being left at the altar. She doesn't seem like the type to be hurt by anything. I mean, it's not as though she loves me, or even likes me. And it's not as if it's her first time. At the altar, that is, not being left there. No, this is the best thing to do, for everyone.

I can't marry her. Marrying means being a family. But this marriage for the crown would be nothing but a charade. What kind of kingdom can be built on a lie like that? It wouldn't be right, or fair.

And if Anora wants the crown so much, she can have it. Without my head to prop it up for display!

He strode off the road and into a ravine filled with blackberry shrubs and elfroot. He kicked a pebble and kicked it again for good measure and his chest was surprisingly lighter than it was before.

I bet Anora won't even notice I'm gone, he thought, and huffed his amusement at the wind.

He didn't stop until he was far past the main road with all of its Blight-ruined farmsteads. He set camp amid the willows by a creek and tried not to think of the night approaching: of sleeping alone, with no one to watch over him and keep him safe. Of not having anyone to talk to, other than himself.

It was his worst nightmare back then, after the slaughter at Ostagar - not the Darkspawn-induced nightmare, but a real, true fear - that even Solona would leave him, and he'd be all alone, the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

Now he was nearly the only one left, and how he wished that he was the only one. Couldn't Loghain have had the decency to drop dead during his Joining ceremony? He gave a bitter laugh. Course not. What does Loghain know about decency?

Alistair didn't want to think about Loghain any more than he absolutely had to, so he reached into his bag and took out the carved statuettes that he carried with him always: the warrior and the girl, the dragon and the demon. He unwrapped the soft cotton cloth around them and set them out on his empty bedroll.

There, company.

To some they were trinkets, a childish infatuation - toys, even. But even as a boy Alistair never had many toys, so he'd cherished the few he did have. And these - these weren't toys, they were mementoes, and they were important. They were his. All his. He tried to line them up on the bedroll's rough wool. The demon didn't quite balance right and toppled over, knocking down the warrior with him as he fell. Alistair patiently set them upright. His fingers brushed the cool marble of the warrior statuette, the warm ivory of the girl, the intricate carving of the dragon's scales, the smooth onyx skin of the demon.

He stared at the slim, bright girl, facing the dragon. So tiny she was. So unarmed. Not even a helmet on her. Suddenly he blinked and couldn't face her any longer. So he set the girl and the dragon aside, re-wrapping each one carefully.

The dragon was slain and Solona was dead. What was left then, besides Alistair, fighting his own demon? He stared at the polished onyx figure, studying the demon's toothy smirk. Its skin wasn't onyx-black now, but paler, reflecting the warrior's grey marble because the two figures were standing so close.

Loghain, he thought with a pang of frustration, sending the demon back to its cloth prison. Loghain was evil and didn't deserve to be part of the tale. Alistair would rather remember the good instead: Solona, Wynne, Duncan.

He traced the warrior's armor. The statuette's tiny fist curved around the hilt of a stone sword, the other raised a shield of marble. Alistair's own shield was painted with a grey griffin. It had belonged to Duncan once...

Ever since Ostagar, Alistair had missed Duncan. Now he missed Duncan more than ever.

Despite his thoughtless words at the Landsmeet, Alistair knew that you really couldn't stop being a Warden. Even with the Archdemon gone, Alistair still felt the taint in his blood. Beating hot and suffocating, it called him south, back to the place where it all began.

To Duncan's final resting place. To Ostagar.

Alistair knew now what he had to do. He'd made a promise to himself once, and he was going to honor it. Unlike becoming king in name only, this was a task true and worthwhile. He had to complete it, if it was the last thing he'd do.

This one-man mission, this pilgrimage was Alistair's duty. He'd go to Ostagar, and this time the torch he'd carry wouldn't light any useless beacons for Loghain's army. It would light the funeral pyre for one Warden's sacrifice.

For Duncan.

"'Walked out'?" Anora quoted acidly; her lips were in a thin, disapproving line as she stared at the captain of the guard. "Are you telling me that my future prince-consort just took a morning stroll out of the castle, right past your hand-picked guards, and they didn't bother to report it until now?" Her high-pitched tone rose until it stung the ears like a well-placed whiplash.

"Yes, m'Lady! Um. NO! Of course not!" The poor sod shuffled, uncomfortable and clearly unacquainted with the Queen's quarters. Anora's face was pale, her stare livid. Loghain could tell she was on the verge of threatening the fool guard with the punishment due to treason, and it would almost amount to treason if their monarch-to-be had walked out on their watch. But the last thing Ferelden needed was the wrangling among the nobles that would surely result if it became public knowledge that their precious Theirin heir had fled rather than rule them.

Anora knew the problems of their situation as well as her father did, so instead of threatening the guard, she merely snapped, "Well? Report! What direction did he go? Was he alone? What did he have with him? Did he say anything? You do know that much, don't you?"

Loghain stood to one side, watching with silent approval as his daughter dealt with the latest unfortunate turn of events. He didn't bother to follow her words too closely; it was too easy to let himself stew in the fury that seethed in his blood like the Taint. First, that coward ran out on Ferelden, now he's run out on my daughter! Loghain's fist closed on the hilt of his sword. He will pay.

Once the commander of the guards had fled, leaving the two of them alone, Anora turned to him. She was wringing her hands, in a rare display of nerves. "Father?"

Loghain stepped forward and reached out to her, letting his hands rest gently on her shoulders. The gauntlets made his hands look even more massive against her fine-boned, delicate frame. He tightened silverite-clad fingers slightly, in a careful, silent gesture of support, before he let her go.

"Maker, what a disaster of a day." Anora sighed. "I'll have to stall as long as possible, before admitting to the public that my 'dear' fiance has fled." Anora's posture sagged with weariness, in a moment of openness she wouldn't allow herself with anyone else. The moment didn't last. With a visible effort, she raised her head and squared her shoulders. "It's a pity people are fond of Theirin kings," she growled, "because I'd rather babysit a bronto than have to marry and manage another one!" At those words, Loghain's throat grew tight with pride: that particular blend of threat and black humour was her direct inheritance from him.

"Better you than me," he fired back, giving her a gallows-humour smirk. "Never fear, I'll keep the stalling down to a minimum." The smirk slid away from his face, leaving an icily determined glare in its place, "I'll find Maric's bastard if it's the last thing I do."