The History of Coming Home
She never was the type to stay in bed. Even on those rare free days when they didn't have to go out hunting some bandits or apostates or anyone else who needed to die. She'd get up early, pack some food and wine and books, and then she'd come and wake up him, as well. Going to get some sun and air. Care to join me?
But not this time. The sunlight was bubbling behind the heavy curtains, trying to get into the room, to reach the bed, to play with her hair, to warm her cheeks, and the light breeze seemed to whisper her name, surprised to see her in bed. He could almost hear it. Marion. Marion. Wake up. Where is your laughter, Marion? We miss you. Come out.
She didn't hear, she didn't respond, instead she just lied in the bed, motionless, cold, pale. Like dead, he thought, and sharp claws squeezed his heart so strong that for a moment he could not breathe. Shut up. She won't die. The healer said she'll be fine. She is sleeping, she just needs some rest.
Perhaps he shouldn't have insisted on killing Anders – he would probably be able to heal her much faster. Useless to think about that now.
Looking at the beloved face, so calm and composed at this moment, it struck him how much time had passed. Six years. Six years since they first met in the Alienage, she, standing in the middle of burnt corpses, and he, with blood still dripping from his right hand. The first time they met; the first time she saved him. She went with him to Danarius's supposed manor, fought at his side, promised any help, should he need it. And all he could come up with were hurtful words, clichéd accusations at for her being a mage. Anyone else would not bother with him after that.
But she's better than most.
Why was I such a fool? All the time I could have spent with her, and I wasted it.
Back then, he thought his actions were justified, his reasons valid, reasonable. But right now, in this dark room, the only sound her shallow breathing; right now, he could see clearly that they were all pathetic excuses, lies he fed to himself, because he was just a blasted coward – and too weak to accept the truth.
I failed her.
Again.
That first meeting established the pattern, which was followed the whole six years after: she saved him, he hurt her, she forgave him. Countless times. You don't understand me, he'd say then, his only apology, as if he was the only person who ever knew suffering. She never said anything to that.
She never talked… talks, you idiot. She never talks much. Not about important things. She always chose to merely observe and to keep her thoughts to herself. It wasn't easy for her to open up, to become close friends with anyone. But once she did, she would do anything for her friends, no matter what they did, no matter how many times they failed her or hurt her. Like him.
Like Anders.
She would have forgiven Anders, she would have let him live. Even after what he did, even after he murdered so many innocent people. He didn't let her. He told her if she didn't kill the abomination, he would. And that would be much more painful.
So she did it, and he regretted it almost immediately. Not that the abomination was dead, but that he forced her to do it.
After it was done, she didn't say anything, she didn't even look at him. He desperately wanted to say something, but he was never good with words and it didn't seem appropriate to tell her he was sorry. Although it was true.
And now she was here, almost dead. For long hours, when it hadn't been certain if she would survive, he was thinking about it, thinking about what could have been his last words to her, harsh and hateful. How would he live with it, had she died? But that was a pointless question – if she died, he would followed her the next moment. He could not live without her. What for?
Leaning over her, he gently kissed her lips, her brow, the small wrinkles around her eyes, breathing in the smell of her skin.
She never used any perfumes; she never put any colours around her eyes, or hair; she never tried to hide any imperfections, the bags under her eyes when she was tired, her first wrinkles, or her first grey hair.
But she was still the most amazing and beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had never cared about any other.
Even though there were many that desired him, ogled and stalked him wherever he went, much to Isabela and Varric's amusement. Giggling cows, with their haircuts that looked as if an angry beast had attacked their heads, and colours plastered on their faces, so sure of their superiority over that plain and provincial peasant.
Still… there was something about her that made her look younger and much more alive than those dolled-up ladies. Perhaps it was the spark in her eyes, or the spring in her step, or the way she smiled, how she held her head up, or her silent confidence. It all said 'I am what I am, and I like it' –and the other ladies got that message only too well. Perhaps that was why they hated her, because it reminded them of who they were–dummies without real lives, frustrated and trapped in their golden cages.
So they did the only thing they could–badmouthed her. She will never get married, they used to say. Nobody will ever want her, and once she is old, she will regret she didn't have more sense.
What would they say if they knew she had been proposed to by a real prince? And that she rejected him? Sebastian had told him only yesterday, in this very room, standing by her bed. Asked him if he realized what a lucky bastard he was.
I do. Took me long enough to understand, though. Six years. Six years, and she never gave up on waiting for me. While I was blind to everything but my self-pity. Even though… even after that night.
Their first night together. When she once again fought next to him against slavers, and he once again ran away. He thought he wanted to be alone, to run away, it was time to get out of Kirkwall, to make Danarius lose his trail again, at least for a while; instead, he found himself on the stone bench outside her house, waiting for her absolution, paralyzed by fear that he went to far, that it was one too many times. He wanted to tell her… what, exactly, he wasn't sure; to explain how he felt and that he was sorry and that he would not hurt her again.
But she didn't require any explanation or apology when he finally returned. Sympathy. Sympathy, and a knowing understanding, that was all that was in her eyes when she looked at him, and it was more than he could bear, because he knew he didn't deserve it. So he tried to do what he always did when it came to showing his feelings–he tried to run away. She tried to stop him and the feel of her hand on his shoulder was the last straw.
In one swift move he had grabbed her and pinned her to the wall, looking for any sign of fear, of disgust, or anger, because he was sure she could not tolerate this. Instead, he saw desire, raw and hot now that it was finally freed, after years of hiding. And he realized he felt the same.
They kissed as if their lives depended on it, as if the world was to end the next moment. He scooped her in his arms and took her to her bedroom, kissing her all the way. In the bedroom he put her on the bed and soon they were exploring their bodies, kissing, licking, nipping and striking anywhere they could reach, literally devouring each other. The whole world narrowed only to that room, that bed; hearing her moans and groans and sobs, feeling her body, hot and sweaty, writhing under him in pleasure, hear hot breath, her fingers digging into his back–was all that mattered.
And for a brief moment, something–a feeling, understanding, knowledge–flashed somewhere in his soul, that if there really was something like the Maker, then this, this was where he belonged, the reason why he existed, why the whole world was created. But his brain was not working right then, and it was gone before he could really grasp it and understand what it meant.
Perhaps if he did, he wouldn't have run away.
It took him three years to return.
She waited for him, all the time. Never mentioned it, never asked, never demanded an explanation.
He was afraid it meant she didn't care. That it was only one-sided.
Maker, what a selfish idiot I was.
And then, looking at the dead body, disfigured and burned that used to be his almost all-powerful master, finally free, he realized it didn't bring the relief he hoped for, it didn't bring satisfaction, or absolution, only a strange emptiness, stretching over his whole being. They were all with him–Sebastian, always kind and respectful, even to a slave, and Varric, Isabela, Aveline, Donnic. She was there. They were beaten and tired from the battle with Danarius, the battle they fought for him. And he refused to see it, to acknowledge it, to accept it. I am alone, he had said, bitterly.
You are not alone, she whispered. You are never alone.
So he ran away once again.
She came to him, to his house, later that evening. By then he had some time to think about it, to realize just how much he must have hurt her again. So he tried to explain, to apologize, determinedly looking anywhere but in her eyes. Smiling, she listened for some time, then came and pressed her finger on his lips.
You're forgiven, she laughed.
It never ceased to amaze him–that she, the most amazing and extraordinary being he had ever met, that she loved him, really loved, even though he was such an ungrateful bastard, and a coward, running away from life. Privately, he made an oath, that he would never hurt her again.
And he kept breaking it.
He loved her, but he couldn't agree with helping the mages, not even for her sake, and that, if she was more reasonable, she would have to see how dangerous magic was. Sure, she was strong, but she was just the exception that proved the rule. Mages should not be encouraged to use more magic; the only real help to mages would be to teach them how to block their powers and stop using them.
Like Qunari do, she asked, is that how you would like to see me, collared, bound, with my lips sewn together?
No. But you're strong.
She laughed at that. And what is more dangerous when driven into a corner – a poodle or a wolf? You think I wouldn't use blood magic if I had no other solution? Perhaps not, if it was only my life that was on the line. But if someone threatened you, and there wasn't another option, then know that I wouldn't hesitate for one second. Not even if it meant you'd hate me for it and run away from me, again.
They had many rows like that. Or rather, he had. She always remained calm. It made him feel like a scolded child. There were moments when he wasn't sure if it was still love he felt, or if it was already hate.
Each row ended in the exactly same way–him banging on the door and running away to his mansion. Sometimes he was lucky and he'd meet some thugs that still hadn't heard about him, or foolishly trying to make their name by attacking him. If not, he had to limit himself to demolishing anything in the house that could still be demolished. Not that there were many such things left.
But he always crawled back to her, and she always gave him a sad smile and accepted him.
It couldn't continue forever, this tension, not between them, not in the city… and then Anders finally lit the fuse. Literally. She decided to help the mages. He still thought that helping the mages was one very big mistake. But to fight against her? To watch her die?
It was then he finally understood what she meant. If someone threatened you, I wouldn't hesitate one second. And he realized what a hypocrite he was. He was saying that about Anders, but he was worse. After all, Anders was not in a relationship with the templar, who would be always caring, accepting, and forgiving.
He felt guilt and shame flow through his body, through his whole being.
And he made his choice.
He rearranged the blanket around her and brushed away a lock of hair from her face. He knew now. This was where he belonged. This was what he was created for. To be with her, at her side, in good and bad, now and forever.
No more running away.
He was finally home.