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It was time.
Alastair started running before Grayson did, and panic swelled inside the younger Warden. But his armour was lighter than the heavy Warden armour Alistair was wearing, and so, running full-pelt, he could catch up to the other man. Paces, just paces away from the felled Archdemon, Grayson got shoulder-to-shoulder with Alistair and saw him turn his head towards him.
“Don’t-” Was all Grayson heard before he slammed his shoulder into the would-be King and used all his weight plus the momentum to send him sprawling. “Grayson!” Alistair bellowed, raw fear and desperation in his voice, but the youngest Cousland had already reached the dragon.
Sliding on one knee, he skated under the thing’s scaly neck with one of his swords raised, plunging it deep into the leathery flesh and feeling the blood splatter onto him from the torn arteries. The blood was hot and felt almost tacky, and some of it got around his helmet and into his panting mouth, and it reminded him of his Joining, back when he was just the Cousland boy, and Alistair and Morrigan were strangers, before he’d met any of his companions. It seemed like a different lifetime, really.
The dragon emitted an ear-piercing screech, and Grayson didn’t even pause to wince as he leapt upon its neck and raised his last sword, the other- King Maric’s, he hoped Alistair would retrieve it later- still jammed in the Archdemon’s throat. Panting, he took a moment, and time seemed to stop as he raised his eyes to the battlefield. He felt blood trickle down his face, felt the sweat clinging to his fingers inside his gauntlets, felt the weight of his armour bearing down on his body. The corpses of too many Darkspawn littered the arena they had battled in; all dead, their tainted blood covering the rough stone.
He felt his chest rise and fall as his eyes drifted across the faces staring at him. There was Wynne, moving as fast as she could towards him, mouth pressed in a thin line as she held her staff at the ready. Only the hems of her robes were bloodstained, though she did have her left sleeve torn off, several nasty scratches running the length of her bare arm.
Sten was off a ways behind her, Asala clutched in his hands, covered in blood, just staring at him. He was too far off for Grayson to see his face, but he guessed it would be blank. Sten’s face was always blank, no matter what emotion he was feeling. The only time Grayson had seen something even remotely close to a smile was when he had returned Asala, but that was been one of the best memories Grayson had, because the emotion had been so real.
Alistair was the closest, and Grayson could see the heartbreak in his eyes, the tears already rolling down his dirty face, his helmet dangling from his hands where he had torn it off. He had sweat covering every inch of exposed skin and he was panting, chest heaving so hard that Grayson could see it moving his heavy armour from even atop the Archdemon.
He hoped Alistair would be a good King.
He brought Starfang down right between the dragon’s eyes, and time sped up again as he buried his blade to the hilt in the dragon’s skull. An ear-splitting shriek cut through the air, and Grayson would have clapped his hands over his ears if they weren’t still firmly grasped around Starfang’s hilt. The dragon slumped forward, dark blood oozing from the wound in its head, eyes open sightlessly, air hissing from the last recesses of its lungs as it died.
The world was quiet. And… nothing happened.
Grayson felt relief burst from his chest as he looked up and grinned at his friends. He saw Wynne smile back, saw Sten begin to walk over at a faster pace than usual, saw Alistair laugh and scrub a hand over his face. Grayson felt tears prick his eyes, and one escaped and fell down his cheek, and he even chuckled a little himself. The tension oozed out of his shoulders, a sob almost escaping him. Riordan’s information had been wrong. Nothing had happened, they hadn’t died. It was over.
And then the world exploded, and Grayson screamed as a force blew him off the dragon, but the cry was cut off as he smacked into a hard surface- presumably a wall- before falling to the ground and felt rubble cover him. All that had stood between him and a concaved skull was his Griffon Helmet. He choked as bile rose in his throat, and stunned tears ran down his cheeks. If all that wasn't enough, he felt something twist in his chest, like something was wriggling inside of him, crawling underneath his skin, trying to tear free. He tried to get a breath in but he was salivating too much, blood, bile and spit running down his chin. And then there was an unearthly howl that filled the air, and suddenly his throat was clear and he was sucking down lungfuls of oxygen as the shrieking grew louder. He wanted to cover his ears but he couldn't get his arms out from where they were pinned under the rubble of whatever he had hit.
And then the noise stopped abruptly, and he lay there, feeling the debris and rocks around him, gasping in the silence. And then something punched through him, right through his chest, grappling with the wriggling sensation that had been trying to free itself. It felt like his chest was on fire, like something had stuck its hands inside him and was pulling him apart. And then it tore free- both feelings, the intrusion and the crawling sensation- leaving him empty, boneless, an inch from death.
"Grayson?" He heard Alistair's voice dimly, like he was calling from very far away. He tried to turn his head, but he was too weak. He couldn't fight any more. Something vital had been taken from him when those sensations had left him, and he couldn't get back what he had lost. So, instead, he let go- of his breath, of his will, of his struggle. His body slumped back against the rubble, and he heard Alastair's cries grow more frantic, joined by- was that Wynne? He was losing himself, he couldn’t remember what they sounded like. And he couldn't get back to them. And… Maybe this was just in death but… He didn’t want to.
He wanted to rest. Maker, did he want to rest.
The pillar of light was seen by all in Denerim, and as soon as it faded, the Darkspawn began to retreat. People rejoiced, crying with happiness, hugging loved ones and strangers alike in the streets. Many people hadn’t made it, and bodies littered the cobbled roads, Darkspawn and ally alike, but there would be time for that later. Now, there was time to celebrate. It was time to begin again.
But up on the tower, it was a different story.
It was because of the Armour of Diligence that Alistair found Grayson. The last rays of the setting sun had glinted off the fraction of shoulder plate uncovered by rubble, and Alistair had run over, torn at the stones, gripped the shoulders too broad to possibly belong to a rogue, and dragged Grayson out of the ruin. Once on flat ground, he tore Grayson’s helmet off, wincing with the roughness his haste caused. The Armour had protected most of Grayson’s body, and Alistair couldn’t see any mortal wounds. Not even any broken bones.
His friend’s eyes were open, glassy, and his normally golden-brown eyelashes were white with stone dust from the collapsed wall. A small slur of blood was drying beneath his nose, and his chin was stained with the drying dark red fluid. His mouth was slightly open, teeth tinged pink with blood from somewhere, his skin still sticky with sweat but covered with powdered stone.
He was so young.
But there were no mortal wounds. None. Alistair had seen people sleep with their eyes open before. He wouldn’t be able to see the rise and fall of Grayson’s chest because of the heavy breastplate. If he disregarded what Riordan had told them, there was a very real possibility that Grayson was still alive. He had to be still alive. Alistair couldn’t have lost him, too.
His voice cracked when he tried to use it, and he had to clear his throat before he tried again. And, even then, it was thick with tears. “Grayson?” He tore the younger Warden’s helmet off, watched as his friend’s head flopped lifelessly on the stone. “Grayson?” He asked again, and the tears that had never really stopped streaming down his face peppering his friend’s skin.
Alistair sensed a presence behind him, and he felt Wynne’s gentle hand land on his shoulder. “We… He could still… We have…” He bowed his head, and he felt more that saw her fidget behind him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her old bones must be aching, the world weighing on her. Alistair remembered sitting around the campfire not so long ago, sometime in the past few weeks, listening to Grayson and Wynne banter about Griffins and her age and Leliana’s cooking. Somewhere along their journey, Grayson had gotten into the habit of calling Wynne “Grandma”, and though she had tried to frighten him out of it (like she had Alistair), he had persisted and towards the end she had responded to it with a smile. And, now, Alistair was wondering what it was like for her to lose the closest thing she’d had to a grandson.
“Maybe…” Her voice was cracked, and he turned to look up at her. Sten was close, he could hear the Qunari’s heavy footfalls, but he barely registered them as he gazed at Wynne with hope. Tears were flowing down the old woman’s cheeks, and she had the back of one hand pressed to her lips, her staff hooked on the crook of her elbow. Her eyes were locked onto the young corpse, and Alistair felt despair well up in him all over again. He buried his face in his hands to try and stop the sobbing but it only muffled it by a small margin.
At last, Alistair felt Sten arrive by Grayson. But the footsteps didn’t stop beside him, and he felt a large but gentle hand push him to the side. He lifted his head as he went with the motion to see Sten crouch, face passive and expressionless as he scooped Grayson into his arms.
“Hey!” Alistair called, the noise burbling out of his mouth, the words burred by tears and phlegm. “Y-You can’t just-” The words were sticky in his throat, not coming out properly, making him sound breathy and nasal and desperate.
“Sten, there may be a chance-” Wynne spoke over Alistair’s burbles, her voice heavy but clear. Her hand had moved from her mouth back to the shaft of her staff, as if to start the healing now, to convince the Qunari that Grayson could be saved. Alistair felt his heart lurch, butterflies erupting in his stomach, hope beating at him like bird’s wings.
“He is gone.” Sten cut her off, and in doing so, cut off her hope, both of their wishes. His voice was steady, emotionless, just as it had always been, but there was an edge to it- like nothing Alistair had ever heard from him before. The Qunari stood, and turned to leave the battlements, face not even quirking with emotion, even when he held his fallen brother in his arms.
Alistair felt a surge of rage. “Don’t you care?” He snarled, the effect thoroughly lessened as he choked on the sobs still wracking his body. “He’s dead, Sten, Grayson is dead. And you can’t even- You don’t-” He pressed his lips together as the anger drained out of him. Sten was watching him over his shoulder, eyes as impassive as they always were. Alistair didn’t want to look at him any longer. He returned his face to his hands and felt a whimper escape him. He wondered if he would ever stop crying.
He felt Wynne sink to the ground beside him, her arm slide along his shoulders until she was hugging him, forehead on the crook of his neck as she wept. He heard the massive footfalls which meant Sten was leaving, taking Grayson with him. And then Alistair accepted what was, the choices he had made. His friend had sacrificed himself so Alistair could rule- and rule he would. He would be the best King Ferelden had ever seen. All because of one man’s sacrifice.
But not yet. Right then, all Alistair could do was sob.
Sten shouldered his way through the doors to the battlements, angrily pacing the empty hallway, the juggernaut armour he donned thumping and clinking with every step.
“I found you some armour!” The smile that had graced his Kadan’s face was huge. “It’s the best out there, I promise you.” Sten accepted the guard without hesitation, nodding to acknowledge his approval to Grayson. And his Kadan beamed, the freckled skin glowing. It was almost hard to believe that this boy slaughtered Darkspawn for a living. That this boy was going to save the world.
The memory that had resurfaced with the jangling of his armour slowed Sten down to a stop, and he finally appraised the body that was slumped in his arms while he was alone.
Grayson’s head was dangling over the edge of Sten’s arms, dried blood staining the side of his mouth, his chin, and below his nose. There were several cuts and scratches marring his skin, his full lips dried and cracked, dust from the wall rubble covering the tan expanse. His blue eyes were open and glassy, blood and sweat and dirt matting his dark hair. But there was no fatal wounds that Sten could see, nothing to say Grayson had died- how Grayson had died.
Sten stopped walking. There may be a chance… Wynne had said. He watched the body, waiting for it to move, but refusing to acknowledge the rise of hope fluttering in his chest. He swallowed, breathing heavily. He shook the body slightly, watching it without blinking as it bounced in his thick arms, watching it so closely as to not miss a thing.
“Kadan?” He asked the silence. He shook the body again, a little rougher. He refused to recognise the hope lilting his words. “Kadan?” He told himself that his voice did not break, that his actions were not desperate.
One last time. Quieter. Softer. “Kadan?”
Nothing answered him.
Sten squashed his disappointment, pretended it never existed, and kept on walking.
The celebrations were thick in the streets as the light faded from the sky. People sidestepped bodies, tip-toed around pools of blood, leapt into the arms of friends, family, and strangers alike, joyously reveling in the sanctity and blessing of life.
Somewhere down on the streets, the mabari stopped moving, freezing in place, not even its stumpy tail moving. It was so sudden that Zevran almost tripped over it, only Leliana’s quick reflexes keeping him upright. Oghren snorted a laugh at him and continued on the way they were headed to regroup at the tower, only to stop again after another few paces to stare, like the others were doing, at the war hound.
The dog unfroze to raise its head to the sky and sniff, it’s ears flattening against its skull. Leliana hefted her bow and cast a sharp eye around, but the only Darkspawn to be seen were corpses, and in their secluded alleyway, only the occasional celebrating civilian could be seen dashing past the mouth. “What is it, dog?” Oghren grunted, annoyed at the delay. They had to get to the tower and reunite with the others.
“Come on, boy,” Leliana lowered her bow and gestured with her head in the direction they had been wandering. Zevran watched as the dog sniffed the air once more and then its tail drooped between its legs as it growled. He cast a sharp eye around but, once again, there was nothing.
A feeling of dread rose in him as he watched the dog- the Warden’s dog- suddenly drop to the ground and paw at its nose, as if it was smelling something particularly disgusting. Zevran’s heart thudded as he shared a look with Leliana, and with one glance, he saw that even Oghren knew something was wrong.
“We’re alive!” A child ran past the alleyway, the cheerful cry echoing down the rough stone, and Zevran flexed his fingers, raising his eyes to the tower that was not far away. We’re alive. They were alive. They had to be-
“Come on, boy,” Zevran repeated, tearing his eyes from the tower to gesture at the hound. And a drop of relief washed over him as the dog thudded to it’s feet, and he shared the look with Leliana. But it was short lived as the dog’s ears remained flat, its tail between its legs, and his heart sank.
His hope was dashed and replaced by absolute grief as the dog raised it’s head to the sky and began to howl.