Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragon Age franchise and I make no profit from this work of fanfiction.

Author's Note: The artwork for this story was made by hija-ck, who's tumblr info you can find a link to on my profile here. Thank you again for this wonderful cover, hija! XOXO!

Cailan is a dead man. He is a tit and an ass and also a very, very, very dead man.

And you are the fool who follows after him. The voice in Alistair's head endeavoring to temper his ire towards Cailan sounds a dreadful lot like Wynne. Well, if Wynne ever called him a fool.

So maybe it's more comparable to Anora then…

Beneath him, Drust, whinnies and his ears twitch back. Agreement with that little voice, surely.

"Oh, hush, you," he orders even as he reaches forward to scratch the now normally positioned ears. He's often heard high praise for Mabari being so smart, Alistair reckons that his horse is as clever as any war hound. Probably smarter even, since Drust usually avoids trouble.

Unless his silly human has to chase that silly brother of his.

Another whinny.

"Stop that," he tells the horse. Drust doesn't make another sound but Alistair has the distinct impression that those big brown eyes are rolling at him.

Very recently, Cailan had gotten the itch to be a true hunter. "As Dane once was," Cailan's actual quote on the matter, when he had announced his intentions to scout the Brecilian outskirts for wolves during the last court session. Never mind that there were absolutely no reports of wolves coming from the Brecilian. Which, one of the courtiers had kindly pointed out while trying not to laugh. Cailan's response was insisting that it was his responsibility to ensure things remained that way, and Father's response had been to put his forehead in his hand while Lady Gyllianne distracted the rest of court with talks about the upcoming Grand Progress.

Alistair had known his brother wouldn't take the aspersion to his current flight of fantasy well, as he never did. When Alistair was eight and Cailan thirteen, he had gotten it into his head that it would be a worthy task of the crown prince to clear brigands from the streets of Denerim. Father had confirmed it was not, at least when the crown prince hadn't even begun his squiredom. Cailan, being well, Cailan, had decided to show just what an un-squired Ferelden prince was made of. Which, turned out to be a bloody nose, a concussion, and broken arm, all of which he'd gotten falling out of his window. The only reason that he didn't bleed out on the flagstones was because Alistair being, well, Alistair had known Cailan would try something stupid and had snuck into his brother's rooms to tattle if things went awry.

The pattern has repeated many times over the years. Cailan does something stupid and Alistair tags along/secretly follows to make sure that the aforementioned something stupid doesn't result in Cailan's death. Partially for love of his brother and partially because there is no way in Andraste's name that Alistair is going to be stuck with the crown.

Maker, he will find a blood mage to resurrect Cailan if he does something as selfish as dying.

The chances if Cailan dying are quite slim however. Especially since in the two days that Alistair has spent galloping his way over back roads to intercept Cailan's little hunting party, he has discovered that said hunting party didn't venture as far as feared. In fact, they had never even left the city. The crown prince and his guard had made a detour from their trail into the red lantern district where, according to Lady Gyllianne, they were still carousing at the Pearl when she wrote her missive.

The poor messenger falcon had very nearly flown off at all of the very loud, very obscene words that had escaped Alistair when he read the note. It certainly seemed eager enough to leave him when he had jotted the reply down.

And now here Alistair is, in Brecilian outskirts, weighing out his options. Does he return to Denerim to drag his brother by the hair out of the brothel? Or live the life of a hermit in the woods? He will miss Father, Wynne, Zevran, and the rest of his small circle of friends from court. But he's not sure that they're worth having to live with the ridicule that will come with this little mishap.

Ugh. He can hear Landry now.

Jumped the bow, eh, Princeling? Ha-ha! Mayhap you'll get a real trail before riding off next time.

And maybe one of those louts could go ahead and leave a note so he wouldn't have to worry and jump the bloody bow. Honestly, how hard would it be?

Prince Alistair,

Your twat of brother has gone off to disprove everyone's opinions about him being rash by being rash. As expected. And as always, he'll put his own plan tits up. This time for actual tits. We'll be at the Pearl. No need to ride out to try and make sure he's safe, what with his history of getting smacked in the face with these things.

Maker Bless,

The Idiots Who Serve Your Favorite Idiot

The bitterness those thoughts is more concentrated than Alistair realizes until Drust comes to an abrupt stop.

"Hey!" he exclaims as he pitches a bit in the saddle. Drust snorts and paws at the ground. As his horse pulls the reigns, Alistair notes the rigid grip he has on them. His posture is even worse; Drust probably feels like he's carrying a man-shaped hunk of wood.

He pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, in attempt to soothe the headache he's just noticed as well. Time for a break.

Now that voice sounds like Wynne.

"Sorry, boy," Alistair sighs as he slips from the saddle.

He pats his mount as he stretches; his thighs, lower back, and rump alternate between burning and tingling numbness. Really, he needed to do this anyway. All of the shortcuts he'd taken definitely helped to curtail the normally lengthy journey between the capital and the forest, but it's still over a day's worth of hard riding that he's been doing. It was long before sun-up when Alistair first began today's leg of the journey and it is now well after midday. If nothing else, he needs to conserve his strength so he can yell at Cailan.

"I know, I know," he says as Drust butts his forehead to Alistair's shoulder, lipping the sleeve of his leather jerkin. From a belt pouch, he pulls a handful of dried apples and pears. Drust accepts the offering, munching happily while Alistair has a look about.

They never made it completely into the forest proper, even with all of his shortcuts. Generally speaking, the Brecilian Forest is a good three/three-and-a-half days' ride from the capital. The air in the outskirts however, is still thick with the scent of warm earth, thimbleweed, celandine, and the other pungent smells typical of Ferelden's deeper woods.

9:30 Dragon has been so far, unseasonably warm, warm enough that Alistair's cloak is neatly bundled in a saddlebag. Spring burst in before Guardian was even finished, now Cloudreach has barely begun, and everything is abloom. There was some worry of flooding with the initial onset of this fair weather, but in so far no dire news has reached Denerim. In fact, it's been quite the opposite; fields have been set and they are thick in the Bannorn and Hinterlands.

Altogether, Alistair reasons that it isn't a terrible time to be out and about.

"Even if it is on a goose-hunt for an inconsiderate twat, right?" he muses aloud while scratching Drust's nose. His horse wickers and noses his forehead, as if in agreement. Alistair laughs. "I knew you'd be on my side."

The trickle of a stream catches his attention as he feeds another handful of dried fruits to his mount. It sounds very near, an assumption proven true when he follows the sound through the underbrush on his left to spy water running between thatches of bloodroot and ferns. With a gentle tug, Alistair guides Drust through the brush.

The ring on the little finger of his left hand remains silver as when he kneels and cups a handful at the stream's edge. Safe to drink. He gulps down that handful and several more while Drust follows suit. The water is almost sweet on his tongue and a relief to splash on his face. Until he was hunching down here, Alistair really hadn't realized just how long and very warm this trek has been.

"Boil him in oil?" he asks Drust, reaching over to yet again scratch the horse's ears.

Said ears flick forward and he takes a moment to nuzzle Alistair's palm before returning attention to the stream.

"Right, right, too obvious." Alistair sighs and allows himself fall back onto the bank. It's a little gravelly, but stretching out is far too appealing. "Shall we enlist Jenna to sew a few fish in his featherbed?"

Drust whickers and Alistair feels his tail swish.

"Yes, that's more subtle," he agrees, pillowing both arms beneath his head.

Through the brilliant green-gold canopy above, Alistair can make out an even more brilliant sky. This would be the perfect time and place to ride just for the joy of it. He and Cailan used to do it often enough, when they were younger.

Alistair does not feel a pang for those days when Cailan's recklessness was selfless and he always included him in the mayhem. No, he does not.

Another whicker from Drust. Liar, liar. That noise says. Trousers on fire.

"Shush, you," he orders, sticking out his tongue.

Alistair closes his eyes, refusing to allow any thoughts to linger on what in the Maker's name made Cailan start behaving like such a prat. He is going to rest, make his leisurely way back home, and get a sixteen-year-old-girl to help him employ a five-year-old's prank when he does. Because Cailan started this.

He is already half-dozing into what should be a very nice catnap (another thing that makes Drust as good as a Mabari, he's one hell of a lookout) when the first far-off notes reach his ears. Said impending catnap almost has them ignored; a good song doesn't usually encumber sleep. Especially when the pitch is softened by distance. But Drust's inquisitive whinny and pawing rouse him.

"The Lion's ships were Denerim Bound

Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!

Let the True King's call for aid resound

Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!

Leading thirty souls in Maric's name.

Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!"

Sitting up, Alistair motions for Drust to be quiet and cranes his head, seeking the direction of the song. Northeast, he decides after a moment, upstream. More intriguingly, female.

"Turn him loose and let him go

Down to the rocks and waves below

The depths can have that scurvy knave

Just Drop him, Lady, drop him!"

He probably shouldn't be so curious. Wary, maybe; the main roads and surrounding areas are quite safe in Ferelden, even for night travelers, but Alistair hasn't exactly been staying on the main roads that are so diligently patrolled by Kingsmen. Still, wariness doesn't even begin to creep up his spine, it's just inquisitiveness. Though inquisitiveness isn't what forces him to investigate. That would be Drust.

"Hey!" Alistair exclaims as his horse trots off ahead. Rolling to his feet, he scrambles to catch up. "Drust! By the Maker, get back here!"

But his (usually) faithful steed isn't paying him one bit of attention. Upstream Drust goes, weaving just barely ahead through thick boughs and vines, leaving Alistair trip on roots and wet stone.

"Dammit all!" He just barely catches himself on a vine. It takes all of Alistair's self-control not to scoop a handful of pebbles up and lob them at Drust's backside right before it disappears through a thick copse of silver cedar and larches. "What in Andraste's name has gotten into you?!"

It worries him. Really and truly. Drust isn't exactly obedient but he is loyal. Biting a fully armored knight who raised his voice at Alistair loyal, he's never just run off on him before. Well, not in the wilderness anyway.

Irritation conveniently allows him to miss the fact that the singing has stopped. His guard has fallen to the wayside. Though, to be fair, that would have happened even if he wasn't vexed with his horse. Naked women tend to do that.

He sees them and Drust (bloody traitor) as he shoves his way through the very thick wall of leaves and into a clearing on the other side. The clearing is wide and home to a pond, in which one of the women is mostly submerged. Vaguely, at the very corners of Alistair's mind, he realizes that she is snarling. But that doesn't fully register because her companion is not in the water and she is staring right back at him.

Something in Alistair seizes up and it's not simply because this is the first fully unclothed woman he has ever seen. That is a big part of it, yes. Huge part actually, because wow. Just, wow. All of the time that he's spent trying not to be a skirt-chasing fool like Cailan and he almost regrets it. How in the Maker's name has he gone twenty years without knowing firsthand that non-marble breasts can be that nice?

Still, even for the, err, lovely shape of her chest, Alistair is even more caught up in the gaze that falls level with his. It's blue. But not just blue. It is deep and bright and he has never seen a color so brilliant before in his entire bloody life.

Time stops in the vibrant peaks of those eyes, as if he's trapped there, encased in an eternity of azure. Alistair can feel every drop of blood in his body, how it's torn between rushing to his face or to the space between his legs while his heart pumps furiously. He's never had any real magic worked on him, other than the healing sort, but if he were to guess what being enthralled might compare to, this would be very close. It isn't, Alistair decides, something that he is wholly against.

The spell (yes, he is going to call it that) is broken when she turns her head to the left. It leaves him disoriented, as if he hasn't been breathing. Which might be accurate, between chasing Drust and stumbling into the grove that dreams are made of. He doesn't get to think about it since his attention is taken up by the reason that those pretty eyes turned from him.

All the warning he gets in that split second between the turning of her head and a stony fist to his ribcage is the sharp cry of, "Morrigan, don't!"

Morrigan—the woman in the water apparently—does though, and Alistair is slammed backwards into the trees. The wind is driven from his lungs, crushed out between wood and stone, and the last thought that scurries through his head before it snaps back, cracking against bark is at least his last living sight was something very nice. If albeit related to the instrument of his demise.

Maker, being beaten to death by naked women was how everyone expected his brother to go…

Oh, he is going to haunt the ever-loving shit out of Cailan.