I never considered myself a writer. Thus I was very surprise when this forced its way onto my screen: my first fanfic ever!
Please note that English is not my native language. So you are likely to come across several mistakes. When you do, please point them out to me. This gives me the chance to learn and to improve.
Addendum: A big thank you to my reviewers Natmonkey, mille libri and jenncgf for taking me up on my request! I've edited the text accordingly.
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The dreams woke him. They did almost every night so Alistair knew, try as he might, he would not be able to fall asleep again. When he got up his wife didn't even stir, by now she was used to his insomnia.
In the first years of their marriage she had roused herself and had asked if he was alright, if he needed anything, if he wanted to talk. She had heard that Grey Wardens suffered from terrible nightmares. So she assumed that it were indeed darkspawn infested dreams that plagued him. And he let her assume.
Quietly he dressed himself and left their chambers. The guards outside the door were used to the king's late night strolls and only acknowledged him with a respectful nod.
Alistair rounded corners and climbed stairs till he finally arrived on top of one of the palace's towers. It was his favourite spot. He had stumbled upon it by chance when he had been looking for a place to hide from Eamon and Wynne and the loads of squabbling arls and banns they made him listen to.
For some weeks he had been able to keep this place to himself, his own private hide-out. A calm haven to flee to when everything got too much: The pressure of being in charge, the political scheming and manoeuvring, the all-consuming grief that ate at his heart and soul.
But eventually Wynne had managed to track him down, using some kind of vile king-tracing magic he was sure. He really should have made the use of magic illegal. Or maybe adopt the Qunari tradition of cutting out a mage's tongue.
Instead of looking for a new hidey-hole – what would have been the point, really, with a bloodhound like Wynne around – he started to transform the plain roof-top into a small garden.
She would have loved this place. A secluded spot, high up, with lush plants and bushes, fragrant flowers in summer and a spectacular view of rebuilt Denerim and the sea beyond.
This was where he came on the nights that sleep eluded him.
When dreams brought back memories of a time when he had learnt what happiness was. Memories of a different Alistair, an Alistair of roses and shy kisses, all hands, who still had faith in a happily ever after. That Alistair was long dead and buried alongside her body in a magnificent - she would say preposterous - tomb at Weisshaupt.
In the months following her death he had felt like a walking corpse fuelled only by pain, rage and guilt.
Pain, searing pain, because she was now truly, irrevocably lost to him. She had been his constant, his touchstone, his first in so many ways and in the end she had left him with only a never again.
Rage because she had chosen to die, to sacrifice herself, to leave him behind. She, who was so much stronger, so much more capable, so much more adept at leading than he would ever be, had taken the easy way out. He should have been the one to deliver the killing blow, he was the king, he was the senior warden. But no! She had left him at the gates, protecting him, keeping him out of the fighting, coddling him, like Duncan had. How could she!
And guilt because he couldn't help but wonder whether she would have made the same choice if he hadn't ended it between them after the Landsmeet. She hadn't yelled or screamed at him instead she had calmly accepted his decision even expressing her confidence in his ability to rule. But he had seen the forlorn, hopeless look that replaced her mask of grim determination whenever she thought no one was looking. Had this break-up pushed her towards the edge, made her care less about her life?
Of course he knew this point was moot. After Riordan had fallen there had been no choice, it was either his life or hers. Yet still … What had Morrigan wanted the night before the final battle? What had she offered? He had heard them arguing. Heard Morrigan shouting about wasted opportunities and foolish pride. He had never trusted the witch but still he had been surprised when she just disappeared. On various occasions she had shown concern even affection for his fellow warden. Why did she leave just when things were drawing to a close?
These thoughts had tormented him day after day, week after week. But with time the raw pain had dimmed to a dull ache. He had buried himself in his duties and when Eamon had introduced him to the daughter of some arl who in Eamon's view would make an excellent queen he had accepted without looking at her twice.
In those days Zevran was still in Denerim. He and the assassin had become close friends after the end of the Blight. While they were travelling he had thought the elf shifty, unpredictable. Had been wary of the man and even more so of his feelings towards their leader.
However it were those very feelings that brought the two men closer. Zevran was the only one who mourned her loss in a similar way.
He had told his friend of Eamon's wedding plans and introduced him to his bride-to-be. Afterwards the assassin remarked that he was sure the girl would make an excellent broodmother. It was a crude joke, if he'd ever heard one, yet he had to admit there was also some truth in it. He didn't marry the girl because he was in love or because he was seeking companionship. He married her because he needed to produce heirs.
It turned out Eamon had chosen wisely for him. She was a good wife, a loving mother, a kind and just queen. She knew everything about court etiquette, how to sweet-talk nobles, which fork went with which course. Things Alistair sorely lacked in the early years of his kingship. Soon he came to respect his wife and made it a habit to ask her opinion on important matters. Also, she was easy to talk to and easy to laugh with. Over time he grew quite fond of her.
But he never could make the final step. Never opened his heart to her.
When the dreams he cherished were replaced by nightmares of dark and dangerous places, twisted creatures and a song at the same time beautiful and terrifying, he knew his Calling had come.
So he started to get his things in order. A few more days then he would be ready. It wouldn't be easy leaving his children behind, but they were all grown up and his first-born well prepared to rule.
He found that he was actually looking forward to this last journey. Not the part that included dying by the hand of some nameless darkspawn. But the part where he would stop being King Alistair of the Therin bloodline and instead become plain Alistair again. A simple warden on his way to Orzammar, free to remember the time when he travelled this road with his true love and a ragtag band of companions.
As night slowly turned to dawn he looked up at the fading stars. "Won't be long now, love." he whispered. He knew she would be with him when he entered the Deep Roads. He would feel her close, her spirit guiding him into the dark. He would make his last stand and then she would be there helping him across.
And he would have been true to the last words he had spoken to her: "I love you. Always."