Character(s): Alistair and Elissa Cousland.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. Dragon Age belongs solely to BioWare and EA.
Warning(s): Character death.
I found this angst-y piece on my hardrive and decided that it was pretty good, or at least, good enough to publish. It focuses on Alistair yet again, I'm afraid, though I've taken this piece in a totally different direction than 'The White Silence'. I'd like to say that this piece focuses on a hardened and more mature Alistair instead.
Enjoy. :-)
Slowly, The Light Comes
oOoOo
He didn't know how many darkspawn were felled that day.
He didn't know how many fell beneath his shimmering blade as it disappeared in and out of sight, gleaming with sticky, black blood. He didn't know how many wounds marred his toned and broken body, heart, and soul.
He couldn't even feel the pain anymore; his mind-numbing rage was too intense. All he could think of was her. Her sparkling eyes when she laughed, her soft hair between his fingers, her melodious voice telling him that she loved him. Possibly more than life itself. That they would be together forever, no matter what.
All he knew was that, this time, there were no restraints. No reason to stop, to heal, to eat, to even exist. There was only one reason why he had traveled here, into the deepest bowels of the earth, and that was to die. There was only the small matter of taking as many darkspawn down with him as he possibly could, before finally succumbing to his wounds.
Since the hour he first stepped into the Dead Trenches, the foulest and deepest part of the Deep Roads, he had felt that familiar tightening in his stomach, felt his caramel eyes burn intensely. Lit with blue flame, his eyes actually lent him enough ethereal light with which to see by and so he threw aside his torch, which spluttered and died in his dusty wake.
In war, victory.
It all felt so unreal when he swept into the darkspawn horde, slashing and bashing, killing and raging. Almost like he was already dead.
The carnage itself was awful. More than once, he'd slip and lose his footing on the ground that was slick with blood. Whether his or not, it hardly mattered. There was also the matter of stepping over the rank corpses so he would have more room to maneuver.
In time, one darkspawn, who was bolder than the rest, charged him and our knight leapt away, but not before the darkspawn drew back its arm and bashed him full-force with its jagged shield, pieced together with whatever scraps it could find in the abandoned Deep. The blow itself crippled his shield-arm by shattering his wrist, and he released a small grunt. Despite the pain that shot through his arm, our knight saw red and bashed the darkspawn even harder with his own shield. This, of course, knocked it to the ground, where, with a quick thrust, he slit the blasted creature's throat. He did not care for the death-gurgle that followed, but turned to the rest of the horde, who had circled him and were watching, shrieking and jeering him as he breathed deeply and adjusted his shield-arm.
But he had no more use of that arm, and so he grabbed his shield with his other hand and threw it away. It clattered against the cavern's wall and its man-made metal seemed to glitter in the dim light, its emblazoned griffon fading into darkness.
He replaced his broken hand on his sword's grip, following the other, and it was enough to put more power behind his swings but little else.
In this way, several more darkspawn were killed, but, in time, as he grew more and more exhausted with each thrust, another darkspawn succeeded where others had not and tore open his side. Following this, our knight doubled over in sheer pain, immediately feeling faint from so much blood loss. He almost wished for Wynne now, the kindly spirit-healer who had instilled so much confidence in him. He wanted the sensation of warm water trickling over his head as she healed him with her magic, his wounds piecing themselves together before his very eyes. But this was something he was supposed to be unaccustomed to, having been ingrained with the templars' teachings. To templars, magic was evil. Occult. A capital offence, worthy enough for either death or a life of imprisonment. Morrigan fit this ideal perfectly, but Wynne had been nothing but kind. She did not deserve the responsibilities that had been put upon her.
Meanwhile, yet another darkspawn bashed his helmeted head with the pommel of its ax. It cackled with glee as his helmet rolled away and he groaned. The third darkspawn grinned even more savagely as it kicked him over with its heavily-armored boot, and he went down, moaning.
Our knight landed painfully on the hard ground, harder than any he's ever known, and he grimaced as the triumphant cackles of the surrounding monsters finally reached his ears.
They knew he was finished. Even he knew that he was finished. But in one last attempt to preserve his dignity, to save face in his inevitable defeat, to smile even in the face of Death, he rose to his knees and faced what appeared to be their leader, who was the ugliest, largest, and most malicious-looking darkspawn he had ever seen. The creature stood over him, grinning in its evil way, as it held its vicious sword aloof, prepared to strike the finishing blow.
Yet our knight sneered at it, though he could taste the blood in his mouth. His own blood, surely. He spat it out at the darkspawn's feet.
Do it, he thought fiercely, desperately awaiting the blow that would end everything. End every second of his agony when he was painfully aware of the fact that he was alive and she was not. Nor would she ever be. Do it already! Kill me! KILL ME NOW!
The darkspawn chortled menacingly with its triumph, before bringing its great sword down upon him in a magnificent arc, severing all ties to life, to feeling, to anything.
And it is in this moment when our knight finally knows peace.
In peace, vigilance.
When our knight finally regains consciousness, he becomes aware of a dazzling light, brighter than anything he was previously accustomed to, especially since the last days of his life were spent in the wretched Deep Roads, where no sunlight had ever been and light was strictly forbidden. It was dazzling, but the light did not hurt. It miraculously did not stun.
In fact, he could no longer feel the sharp stab of exhaustion, could no longer feel the dull aches. Instead, he felt warm.
"Hello again, Alistair," says a familiar voice, warm and welcoming.
Instinctively, his lips curl into a smile. He knows that voice. He feels like he has not heard that voice in ages, when in reality it has only been a few weeks. As long as it takes to reach the entrance of Orzammar from Denerim, Ferelden's capital that now lies in ruins. He has not heard this voice since the moment when she looked at him sorrowfully, apologetically, and said the words, "I'm sorry," which was right before plunging her sword into the Archdemon's skull, ending its cursed life once and for all. Ending her own life in the process.
"I've been waiting for you, my love."
And only then does he know what it truly means to be happy.
In death, sacrifice.
Please, read and review to let me know what you think. I mean, come on, I love random messages. :-)