Prompt: Man of Honor

"Alistair," said Eamon, "I have your cheese."

"Give it back," begged the ten-year-old, tears running down his dirty face.

"Not until you apologize to Isolde," Eamon replied.

Eamon's face melted into that of a dragon who screamed fire at him...

...Alistair awoke with a start. The nightmare was based an old dream based on a very real memory. It always ended the same, and it always ended with him in a cold sweat.

Shuddering, he kicked off the blankets and scrubbed a calloused hand over his face trying to control his breathing. He lay there a moment, controlling his breathing as he stared at the top of the tent. A piece of the canvas-material was torn and fluttered in the wind revealing the starry sky at haphazard intervals.

"I can't do this, Duncan," he whispered, his throat dry and dusty, tears prickling the edges of his vision. "Not without you."

They'd been on the road for a few days heading away from Lothering and the Darkspawn Horde. The Warden seemed to think if they were fast enough, they could save Lothering. Morrigan thought otherwise in her vocal and bitchy way of hers. Sister Stabbity was more optimistic. The qunari had said nothing. The dwarves hadn't been in on the meeting. And the mabari had only farted.

Alistair swallowed and sat up, the night air cooling the clinging sweat on his chest. They had to do this. The fate of Fereldan, the world was in their hands.