At some point Alistair realizes—or decides, anyway, without narrative truth implied—that Leliana may never speak to him again, of her own accord. In the scheme of things it hasn't been very long since they spoke, compared to the preceding decade of near silence, but the intentionality makes it feel longer. And the fact that she's right there, tower in view from the camp at all hours of the day. And the fact that even Morrigan is tolerating him. Obviously something is wrong with the world, given the rifts and demons and glimpses through the Veil, but this is a wrong he can do something about. Or a wrong he can repeatedly and futilely attempt to do something about until he dies. One or the other.

Anyway: he goes to the rookery. He's fevered but not fainting, nothing he hasn't walked across countries with before, save the spirity bits. The walk to the fortress soaked through his clothes, but he's been here for hours now, including several by a fire with a book, and he's reasonably presentable when he crests the stairs and finds

birds.

Birds and an altar, a few hovering scouts, and no Leliana. But perhaps the sag of his shoulders (all that courage, built up for nothing) is pitiful, or perhaps the scouts know who he is well enough to know it's a very personal sag, not the sag of a stranger with a question for the spymaster, because one of them says, "Garden," helpfully, and Alistair ducks out through a door and weaves around walkways in the rain until he spots her from upstairs. He sees the spirits first, bright light and colors hovering near her darker form, but they dissipate when they have his attention. It's creepy, but it's becoming tolerable. He leans over the low wall to watch for a moment.

"Leliana," he calls, after that moment, "if you don't talk to me I'm going to go back inside and drip on something important."

Like medium-important. He wouldn't drip on anything vital to the war effort.