The Muse is inspired by odd things. This entire story came about from reading the codex entry on the Aeonar and the titles of Chris Isaak's greatest hits cd. The outline was written in five minutes on a napkin while I was supposed to be working and most of the story was written on the back of receipt tape. That being said, I hope it's not a pathetic attempt at a decently-written story and that you enjoy!

Title: King Without a Castle

Author: Syntyche

Rating: T for violence and adult-type things.

Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to people that are not me, but I'm super-glad they let me play with their toys.

Summary: Accused by Anora of conspiring with an apostate, Alistair is convicted and banished to the Aeonar; but it seems that said apostate isn't quite ready to let the ex-Templar face the Mage's Prison alone … Alistair, Morrigan, Flemeth, Party

Reviews: Yes. Please. With Alistair on top. (Or bottom, if you prefer. lol.)

Author's Note: I've played with some of the dialogue because I like the way certain lines sound, even if it isn't necessarily how the conversation options fall in the game. I wasn't being lazy (I have no aversion to listening to Alistair repeat his lines over and over), it's just how I chose to utilize the dialogue in this story.

Author's Note 2: I named my warden Ishmael for the simple reason that choosing the 'Call me Ishmael' dialogue amuses me. A little literary humor, if you will.

Author's Note 3: Alistair angst abounds, so if an angsty and regret-filled ex-Templar bothers you, proceed at your own risk.

Long blocks of italics are flashbacks.

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King without a Castle

By: Syntyche

OoOoOoOo

One: Somebody's Crying

He walked aimlessly, gravel crunching under his boots, the night breeze stirring his short hair. As he walked, he remembered, and as he remembered he shuddered harshly, not from the cold air flitting across his body, but from a chill that had birthed darkly in his soul barely a week past.

oooooooooo

She entered his room and he smiled, more than ready to give in to the simple pleasure of her company before the hell of morning arrived with its Blight and Archdemon and darkspawn horde.

"I see you can't sleep either … "

But an uneasy thought surfaced and he added, "I also saw Morrigan outside your room earlier, and the look she gave me … that was icy even for her. Is something up?"

Immediate concern rumpled her already weary brow. "You can't sleep? Are you all right?"

"Not really." He was honest with her as he always had been, even if it took a little getting around to at times - but really, it wasn't like he'd wanted to brag about or even mention being, well, a royal bastard, wouldn't have brought it up at all if they hadn't gone looking for Arl Eamon. As a matter of fact, he spent most of his time trying to forget his tarnished lineage, not proclaim it to anyone within earshot.

"But you're changing the subject," he persisted stubbornly, tenaciously, dragging himself back to the unpleasant topic at hand. He was edgy about anything having to do with the witch, especially now as the end of their quest neared; he wasn't foolish enough to believe that Flemeth had sent her daughter with them out of charity or even necessarily for their protection.

"This isn't about me, this is about Morrigan," Alistair sighed. "I'm tired, but I'm not stupid," he added wearily, knowing too well that the opposite was what most people believed about him. Thank the Maker that both wardens had jointly agreed to support Anora keeping the throne; a 'clown king,' as Shale had suggested he'd be, was the last thing the battered peoples of Ferelden needed while they struggled to move forward in a Blight-ravaged land.

And now he was distracting himself, too many thoughts swirling 'round in his mind. He really needed, really wanted, just to sleep, if only for a few hours before marching to Denerim. "What did she want?" he asked doggedly.

Ishmael looked just as unhappy as he. "Alistair, we need to talk."

"Oh. I guess whatever Morrigan had to say, it's big."

He folded his arms over his chest, stiffly formal in the Warden armor retrieved from Sophia Dryden's corpse at Soldier's Peak and offered to him by Levi, but he hadn't gotten around to undoing it yet. He'd just been standing numbly by the bed since returning to his room after speaking with Riordan, letting the elder Warden's words sink in, twisting his gut sickly as he dully contemplated the barefaced and unavoidable fact that at least one of the three Wardens would die tomorrow.

Alistair couldn't help but feel betrayed, just as he had when Duncan had first revealed to him a few short months ago his newly shortened lifespan and that his hopes for a large family - or even simply one child of his own - had also vastly shrunken.

The Warden brushed his sadness aside sharply and forced a causal tone, striving for a light moment - after all, that was what he was good for. Possibly all he was good for, even though his beloved Ishmael made him feel otherwise. His uncle certainly hadn't been quiet in his judgment of his nephew's consent to concede the throne of his father - it almost made Shale's opinion of Alistair look sterling.

But Ishmael was waiting for him to continue, her features tight and worried.

"So what is it, then?" he asked with a small smile, shelving his dark thoughts for a later time. "Rats running amok? Cheese supplies run low? I can take it."

"I love you. You know that, right?"

The uneasy feeling tightened into a tense, writhing knot in his stomach. She was clearly unhappy with what she'd come to do, and suddenly he wondered if she too had finally given up on him, couldn't take his pathetic nature anymore, was here to end it and just be free of him …

"Could you make it sound more ominous?" he forced past his dry mouth. "Tell me, already."

She didn't cut any corners. "I need you to do something you won't like."

"I don't care for the sound of that," was what he said as he fought to quell the shaking in his hands. He laced and unlaced his fingers apprehensively. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

"I need you to take part in a magic ritual."

"Oh?" Some small relief flooded his weary senses; apparently she hadn't realized his worthlessness yet. He was a lucky man. "Something Morrigan cooked up, no doubt. What do you need me to do?"

oooooooooo

Alistair blinked at the memories echoing in his mind, the memories of that night. So ready, so agreeable. He remembered he'd been pathetically eager to please.

What a fool he'd been.

oooooooooo

"You need to sleep with her."

It was pronounced so matter-of-factly that he actually laughed, leaning against the bedpost casually.

"Cute. This is payback, right? For all the jokes?" All of the bad, really wrong jokes they'd shared in his tent late at night, giggling like small children under the blankets at the horrible things Morrigan would do to Alistair if they let her - being turned into a frog the least of them. It had been a silly way to relieve stress while they traveled, chuckling quietly as they drifted off to sleep carefully entwined with each other. It was an inane thing to joke about now, but he supposed if he could look for amusement tonight, so could she …

Only … she wasn't teasing him.

"But you're not joking, are you?" he realized aloud, his dread suddenly tripling as horror and loathing joined the unhappy party. "Wow, be killed by the Archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?"

Implications started to sink in, his brain working overtime, tearing away from thoughts of the two of them wrapped around each other in the night, disbelief slowly taking over as the primary emotion in the whirling maelstrom of feelings he was already trapped in.

"You're not actually asking me this, are you? What kind of ritual is this, anyway?"

"It's some kind of ancient magic. Flemeth's, probably."

"Well, that's reassuring. Wait, no it isn't." He couldn't stand still, had to pace, but then all of the sudden he couldn't find the energy to stand any longer and he sat, his head falling into his hands before he looked up quickly, his thoughts tumbling over each other in their haste to trip out his mouth. "Look, even if I was willing to entertain this idea … and I'm not saying that I am … is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure … ?"

"You need to trust me."

oooooooooo

He had. How could he not?

oooooooooo

"I do trust you. I'll … I'll do it," he agreed reluctantly, wondering if choosing the Archdemon over Morrigan wouldn't work out better for everyone in the end. But one look at the odd combination of relief and sadness mingling on his Warden's face and he hurried on, "Where is she? Let's go and get this over with before I change my mind."

She took his hand, leading him carefully back to her room, and then there were a few babbled words he'd choked out, and Ishmael left, regret in her eyes but also determination, and he knew exactly how she felt - he hadn't wanted to die, wouldn't have let her sacrifice herself, but this was so wrong. Maybe Zevran did this sort of thing all the time with whomever would agree to it, but Maker, that wasn't how he'd been raised …

oooooooooo

And if I have my way, you'll be the last.

He'd said that to her on their first night together. The words echoed in his head now, mocking him, digging at the dark patches he was sure had grown on his soul since that night. Not only had he broken his quiet vow to his Warden, he'd done so with Morrigan. There was just no coming back unscathed from that.

oooooooooo

The witch was pulling on his hand, leading him to her room, already reaching to unclasp his armor even though they were barely in the door; he shrugged her off harshly and set to removing it himself with a barely restrained snarl. The smell of incense was sickeningly cloying and he glared at her hatefully as he stripped down to his smallclothes, not quite ready to be completely exposed to her just yet.

Morrigan fixed on him calmly, ignoring - or perhaps feeding on - his unhappiness.

"Why do you look at me so?" she questioned languidly, innocently. "I am doing this to help you, Alistair, you and the one unfortunate enough to love you." She let her golden eyes trail deliberately over his tightly muscled, mostly naked body with a small smile. "Or perhaps she is not as unfortunate as I had suspected."

"I'm so glad you approve," he muttered irritably, quite unsure of where to place his hands that wouldn't look like he was hiding himself from her, even though that was exactly what he wanted to do. Wandering around Fort Drakon in his underwear was nothing compared with a moment of the witch's smirking scrutiny.

"It certainly does make this much more pleasant," Morrigan agreed, almost wistfully lost in a fond memory from her past. "It has been … awhile."

"Really?" Alistair sneered contemptuously. "What, when you had all of us rakish men to choose from during our travels? Zevran, at least, should have been indiscriminate enough to satisfy your needs. And Oghren, too, possibly, if he was drunk enough - but when is that ever not the case?"

Her expression hardened at his scornful derision. "You are more foolish than even I thought if you will mock the one who is saving the life of your precious Warden."

The witch's biting words stole away his resistance within the space of a heartbeat. His head dropped repentantly to his chest as he swallowed back further sharp words and instead forced himself to growl out an apology that he didn't mean but humbled him enough that she would accept it.

"That is not bad at all, little Templar," the witch taunted. "You grow more appealing by the moment when you allow your truly groveling and pathetic nature to show though; it reminds me how truly powerless you are and I prefer malleability in a man.

"Lie down," she commanded, and she watched to make sure he complied before stripping out of her own clothes slowly, peeling off layers with the flawless grace of one well practiced in the arts of seduction, her slim fingers lightly grazing her body as she undid ties and buckles, arresting his attention and though he wanted desperately to pull his eyes away he couldn't...

oooooooooo

The thought of her tempting him now made his mouth dry, his breath quicken. He felt ashamed, he felt filthy, but he couldn't stop remembering …

oooooooooo

He settled himself hesitantly on the bed, feeling hopelessly, blushingly awkward … with his Warden it had been so natural, so easy, but now Morrigan was moving toward him, her hips swaying hypnotically in the candlelight, and the bed dipped under her weight as she sank down by his upraised knees.

He didn't know if he could do this …

oooooooooo

He froze, realizing that even the memory of those moments in the night still had an effect on him as his body tightened expectantly, already forging ahead to what had come next…

oooooooooo

He backed up slowly across the bed, feeling the softness of the sheets sliding across his bare skin as he retreated but she followed: predatory, hunting, close to the kill, the smell of incense about her so strong that his already nauseous stomach rebelled and he thought he would have vomited but the witch surged forward against him, forcing her lips over his, her tongue flicking against his clenched teeth impatiently.

"Must you make this difficult?" she breathed against him, rocking impatiently. "You will not hate this quite so much as you imagine."

"Just do what you have to do," he ground out, hissing into her mouth, "and be done with it."

He felt her smile. "I like a challenge," she murmured back coldly as she dropped her naked body hard against his hips, forcing a rough gasp from him that granted her access deep into his mouth, which she exploited greedily, taking, plundering, without thought or consideration.

Alistair felt his anger rising along with a twisted stirring in his body - he didn't want this, he didn't want her, but he couldn't stop the building arousal that was growing steadily within him. The witch was all around him, scorching him like fire and he wanted nothing more than for it to end, just end - it felt so wrong, he felt so used - and he couldn't even find his ever-present sense of humor, couldn't make a joke, could only give in to the resentment and desire and hopelessness, letting his anger take over at what he was doing, what he'd been asked to do, to literally choose between life or death but not just for himself …

"You like a challenge, do you?" he growled, rising up suddenly, flipping the witch over, pinning her to the bed roughly. Her eyes widened and her feral smile grew; she had never seemed so evil to him as she did in that moment as she opened her venomous mouth and crowed in delight.

"So, the little Templar is ready to play, is he?"

oooooooooo

Alistair's eyes snapped open suddenly - he hadn't realized they'd been closed - and he saw that he was still standing in the courtyard outside the palace in Denerim. He'd meant to go out for a walk around the marketplace, mostly quiet in the night but for a few guards patrolling the square and the occasional drunken reveler, but apparently he hadn't even made it beyond the courtyard walls.

This was nothing new. He took a lot of walks now, his mind continually drifting back to a place he rather wished it wouldn't. It had been such a small thing in the end though, hadn't it?

oooooooooo

One night - barely an hour of his life spent before bruised, battered, panting, they'd called it quits, having apparently accomplished the necessary. Morrigan had healed her own injuries, surprisingly offering to do the same for him, but he had shrugged her off forcefully, throwing on his clothes and buckling himself into his armor without looking at her again. He pushed from the room roughly, closing the door on her deliberately lounging nakedness; wanting nothing more than to find a scouring pad and scrub his skin raw. He would go to battle tomorrow and maybe the darkspawn would just find the sight of him so hilarious they'd simply laugh themselves into surrender rather than attempt to fight an appallingly pink Warden so clearly their inferior.

Ishmael hadn't been waiting for him; perhaps she felt as guilty and dirty as he did. He pointed his abused body in the direction of the kitchen, shambling as clumsily as the resurrected corpses they'd encountered with alarming frequency in their travels.

"Alistair?"

He blinked past a cut across his eyebrow that was dripping sticky blood into his eyes. "Wynne?"

The elderly mage was peering at him in concern, the lit candles along the wall casting flickering shadows onto her lined face. "Are you all right? And don't say 'no,' I can clearly see that you're not."

He was so exhausted, in body and in soul, but he summoned an amused smile for his favouritist sneaky mage. "Then why in Andraste's name would you even ask?"

She put her hands on her hips, clucking at him like a mother hen and shaking her head sternly. "You think you can sass me because our journey has nearly ended, do you, young man?"

"Of course not, Wynne," he replied, surprising her by not playing along with their longstanding banter; he merely gave the mage a short incline of his head as he moved to brush past her, tired beyond his means but needing to be clean. "Please excuse me."

Her gentle hand on his arm burned, even through his armor - to be touched so affectionately by someone so kind, so good, after having his body smothered in darkness, almost unhinged him.

"I have to go," he said hastily, almost desperately, ridiculous and utterly unwelcome tears crowding into his eyes as despair warred with the fiery mortification raging through him.

"Alistair."

He froze even though he was ablaze with shame, burning where he stood.

"What's happened?"

He said the first thing that popped into his mind, praying desperately to a Maker that had already ignored his pleas once tonight that she would believe him: "Oh. I, uhhm, fell down the stairs."

"I see," she nodded, unquestioning, already assuming the role of leader as she directed briskly, "Well, come with me."

Alistair almost felt bad about the easy way she had accepted his answer - Maker, everyone really did think he was a clumsy oaf…

Wynne led him to the kitchens, smiling kindly at the late night servant bustling around as she commanded the Warden to sit on a bench she toed out from under the table. There was no arguing with her - he'd tried before, and she always ended up pulling out the "weak old woman" trick. He gave in every time. He sat, uncomfortably awkward as his armor stifled him, wishing he'd just gone to bed.

Or maybe not. Dark hair splayed across his chest was still too close to the surface for him to think about sleeping.

Alistair closed his eyes as the mage dabbed a cool cloth against his burning forehead, feeling filthier than he had in months and months of traveling across muddy Ferelden plains, through crazy-tree forests and traversing underground caverns filled with darkspawn and giant, disgusting spiders.

Wynne gently healed his wounds - those she could see, anyway - and then directed him firmly to bed, telling him cheekily that, "Wardens who think they're going to fight the Archdemon tomorrow need their rest, too."

And then she'd retired to her room and left him sitting there numbly. As soon as she'd disappeared, he roused himself enough to ask the servant about water for a bath, murmuring that he needed only to be pointed in the right direction and he could fill the bathing pool himself.

And he did, monotonously filling the bucket from the well in the courtyard, bringing it in, down seven steps to the common bathing room, empty the bucket, up seven steps, back to the courtyard, drop the bucket into the darkness, bring it back up, down seven steps, empty the bucket, up seven steps …

He didn't care that he was wearing himself out. He didn't care that the bath had an unpleasant chill to it when he finally stripped off his armor and underclothes and slipped under the water, letting it rush over his head and echo loudly in his ears. He didn't care that he should have been sleeping.

He just didn't care.

oooooooooo

And he still didn't. He leaned against a nearby wall, his knees weak and his shoulders trembling.

And if I have my way, you'll be the last …

Alistair slid down the cold stone wall of the palace and rolled to his side, shoved his balled-up fist into his mouth, and wept.

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