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Author's Note: Wasn't looking forward to Here Lies The Abyss. I thought I worked out a good way around it. Then after, I realised that this ship was fucked either way with this and I just, my fingers thought it was a good idea to write this, apparently. Hopefully I'll put out more Dragon Age fics. Enjoy!
SILENT LAMENT
The worst thing, he was told, was never telling someone you loved them.
Morrigan had said that to Alistair shortly before she left on the eve of the Battle of Denerim, to vanish into the darkness and not resurface for ten years. And shortly after she left, he, the Warden, Leliana and Wynne fought the Archdemon; and the Warden gave up his life to protect a country that had wronged him, but still loved anyway.
He didn't understand it then – too young, probably. He asked the Warden's mabari, now in his care, what he thought of Morrigan's statement, as they wandered Ferelden destroying any remaining darkspawn. But Beastie had just tilted his head and whined, still missing his master. Alistair knew that pain would fade in time.
But not this time.
He first saw her during the second Qunari invasion of Kirkwall.
She was a snappy little thing, short but all fire and smirks. Her brother, one of the newer warden recruits, didn't look too excited to see her. He wanted to ask Carver why that was always the case, but he continuously forgot to. Her companions – an elf mage, a disenchanted-looking blond, and a dwarf with an impressive crossbow – seemed to adore her and would do anything to protect her.
It had been a brief meeting – Grey Warden protocol dictated that they were not to interfere with the events of Kirkwall – but for some reason, Hawke stuck out in his mind. Maybe because of her tenacity, maybe because of her bravery, or possibly a combination of factors. It reminded him of the Warden, that feeling that this was someone special. This was someone he had to remember. This was someone who could change the world.
When he heard news of the rebellion, when Kirkwall had been torn apart by mages and templars with the little people caught in between, he wondered about her. And when he passed through Hunter Fell a year afterward, alone, he'd been surprised to find her there, gripping at her short, black hair in an unnatural show of nervousness.
"You know, when I left Kirkwall, I didn't expect to see you again," he said wryly.
Hawke seemed grateful for the company and left with him.
They talked a lot, because talking passed the time and because what else was there to do in between walking and fighting bad people? She asked about Carver. He said he was stationed at Gwaren for the time being, as he recalled. He asked about her friends. She spoke of them all except the one that broke her heart. She asked about the Hero of Ferelden. He said he missed him. He asked for her opinion of the Circles, and she shrugged and said that there needed to be change regardless.
They split at Cumberland, he being called back to the order, and Hawke needing to be alone again. But they promised to write, and whenever he did receive one of her letters on the way back to Weisshaupt, he always made sure to read it carefully and reply as quickly as he could, no matter how drained he felt.
It had been such small things he never noticed. The way he always felt lighter after a letter. The way he always felt stronger after being with her. He should have seen it, for he saw it in Morrigan and the Warden. Somehow, being nearly ten years older made him no less blind to his own life.
Not even two months since they split at Cumberland, they met up again near Kal-Sharok. Hawke brought some cheeses for him for their next journey, and laughed when he said they tasted strange. Alistair kept enough of the Grey Wardens secrets, but when she asked if things were alright, he replied, "I don't know."
"I missed you," she said, shoving him so hard that he almost toppled onto his side.
He should've seen it then.
They travelled a lot after that, usually in month by month sets. One month with her, one month without her; and he was always counting the days until Hawke waltzed into their designated inn, all proud and beautiful. Except the one time she was sad and shuddering and, "He's dead."
Alistair never asked about Anders. He knew enough – that he had started this rebellion that spread across Thedas, and that Hawke, who loved him, chose to let him go. But she told him anyway about the way he used to smile, and his descent from a melodic joy into a compulsive drive to achieve. She told him that Starkhaven was responsible, and that she thought about going there to avenge him.
"You're better than that," Alistair had said. "And you deserve more than what he offered. I think he'd only want you to be happy again."
Hawke only nodded, and they set off once more, recruiting, helping those who needed it most, and trying their best to distance themselves from the war that was brewing, for they'd both seen enough of conflict. But the grief lifted, as he was sure it had for Morrigan in some manner. Why hold onto the weight of the dead when they would've wanted them to be alive again?
"I should have told him," Morrigan had said then at the gate, and if he were a crueller man, he would've taunted her. But the look on her face was something else.
When Alistair wakes one night near Ghislain, there was a song that scratched at the inside of his mind and forced a cold chill down his spine. And after he inhaled deeply, there was a sudden need to tear off his own skin because of the unfamiliar sensations.
"Are you alright?" Hawke had asked, still awake, still on watch, munching on an orange.
"Yes, its fine, I'm fine. Just remembering things that I shouldn't remember. Like Oghren's breath, for example," he jested.
Hawke assumed the Blight. But he instead remembered when Duncan woke in exactly the same state on their way to Ostagar, and the solemn look on his face when he said that he would leave for the Deep Roads after Ostagar. Because the song was burning him. And now it will burned the last of the Theirin line.
She accepted her answer easily enough, but pulled out another orange from her pack and tossed it to him. "Eat. You'll feel better."
Alistair never did tell Hawke that it made him feel like throwing up, but he ate it anyway because he wanted to see her smile. It was worth it, of course, because of how her smile glowed.
So many things he never told her, like how the Grey Wardens were becoming stranger, like how he found her fascinating, like how he heard the Calling and that he actually, truly hated oranges. Like he loved to see her smile. And he never did apologise for leaving her that night with nothing but a note saying he needed to return to Weisshaupt.
A few weeks later, she still replied to his urgent letter and told him to go to Crestwood when the order turned on him; and that she would do what it took to help him.
"I should have told him," Morrigan had said then at the gate, and if he had only been paying attention, he would've noticed the way her usually strong and stubborn demeanour crumbled with every word.
He thinks on that, now leaving the Fade with the Inquisitor and her companions.
He thinks he should've told Hawke.
There's a part of him that's thankful to be alive, that the Nightmare is behind them. But not at the cost of Hawke.
His side aches, there's a foul taste in his mouth and he can't find it in himself to be angry at the Inquisitor, because she did try first to get them all out; and it was Hawke's stubbornness, Hawke's need to let them get out that had brought them back to Adamant at all.
Why is it always the brilliant ones who have to die?
When Alistair tries to remember the sound of Hawke's laugh, it comes to him easily; but then it's drowned out by the sound of horrible singing that he desperately wants to stop. He listens to the Inquisitor, he feels the eyes of the other Wardens when they look to him for some kind of leadership – like that's going to end well – and the Inquisitor demands that they help the Inquisition.
He returns to Skyhold, but only to be patched up. He sees Varric, Hawke's friend, best friend really; and offers his apologies.
"Shit," Varric sighs, rubbing his eyes. "You don't need to apologise. I know you didn't throw her at the damn spiders."
"I should've tried harder, I-I should've..."
When Varric looks at him, all raised eyebrows, that's the moment it sinks in. That's the moment Alistair realises that he loved her.
It's not the way his chest constricts or the desperation in his voice when he swears he should've tried harder to bring her out, or that he should've run ahead instead, or that they should never have gone to Crestwood in the first place and helped the Inquisition by other means. No, it was the way that a surface dwarf looked at him with surprised and yet knowing eyes.
"Maybe you should go outside and get some fresh air," Varric suggests gently, looking up at him. "You've got a long journey to Weisshaupt soon. Someone's gotta tell those leaders of yours that some serious shit went down. Maybe this time they'll listen."
Alistair takes the nearest door and finds himself in a garden. And at the other side he sees Morrigan with a small boy, all curiosity and a mop of brown hair, sitting cross-legged on the ground and going over some books together.
He crosses the distance, and he speaks before he even stops before her feet, "Tell me how you got past it. Tell me."
Morrigan looks back down on the boy – her son, he realises – and says softly, "Does it look like I got past it?"
Alistair drags his fingernails down his face and finds that all his imaginings of Morrigan, happy again, away from Flemeth and long past the grief of losing her Warden shatter as the boy smiles up at her, takes her hand and asks who he is. He finds that his memories of Morrigan, all sharp around the edges and with a poisonous voice, do not match the mother in front of him, who puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "This is a friend, Kieran. A good man."
When he watches them interact and answers the few questions asked of him, he realises that maybe some people can't get past these things. Maybe Anora couldn't get past losing Cailan, or maybe Carver couldn't get past losing his Father, or maybe Hawke –
He pinches the bridge of his nose, excuses himself and wanders Skyhold for a while, alone and trying to commit her face to memory before it has the chance to leave.
He chokes when he realises he can't remember the way her nose would scrunch up when she smirked.
The next morning, he heads for Weisshaupt, dragging his feet through the snow and holding his arms close to his body, the occasional tear on his face drying cold, and his memories of good times with Hawke doing little to warm him in the aftermath of the loss.
And as he chases the memories, Alistair finds himself disagreeing with Morrigan's statement at the height of the Fifth Blight. Yes, never telling someone you loved them is terrible.
Never knowing you loved them until they were gone is worse.