Dragon 9:34

Today marks 3 years since the end of the blight. I still miss my family. I miss Alistair and the life I almost had. I imagined myself more than capable of being a queen and regret missing out on becoming that. No desire for it now, I suppose. Not after losing Alistair. It's strange, having almost had the life of a queen. Not many get to be a queen. Or get to be deeply in love. Still miss him with every breath. A constant ache in my neck and shoulders. I can't seem let him go. I don't know that I even want to.

Just a brief respite would be… I can't entertain the idea without almost feeling it. This… detachment. Living in the dark. I'm comfortable this way yet I know he wouldn't want this for me.

It doesn't matter what he would want. I'm the one who has to carry on without the comfort of knowing I will meet my heart by the Maker's side. The Grey Warden's soul is destroyed, they said. How do they know? Why should a soul be destroyed? Their 'evidence' is anecdotal. They know nothing. And I resent them for it.

I woke today hearing him calling out to me and it drove me to madness. I ended up breaking a few things. I felt disoriented and humiliated. Still do, if I think about it too hard. Admittedly, it is a relief to actually feel something, even if it is rage and humiliation. I'm apparently still human.

My mind keeps lingering on this. Why should a soul be destroyed? I need help with this. A mage. I could really use Anders, cheeky boy. I can't think of a single thing he wasn't available for. I miss him. All of my favorite people die violently.

Wynne, though. As much as she gets on my last nerve, would be a good asset.

The Hero picked up her parchment from the table and tossed it into the fire. As she laid in the dark willing herself to sleep, hours went by, forming a rough plan to find Wynne. Two years prior in Amaranthine, Wynne said she would go to the College of Magi. Said she was living on borrowed time with her spirit friend; could she still be alive? Writing to her was an option, but The Hero was not good at waiting.

And besides, if anyone felt compelled to deny the Hero of Ferelden, she would want to hear why, first hand.

*** Val Chevin: An Inn off the Imperial highway.***

"Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

Lost in staring at his lips again as he spoke, she nearly missed the incredibly funny thing he just said. Her efforts to stifle her laughter resulted in multiple undignified snorts, which would have embarrassed her if she hadn't been so accustomed to it.

"I think I'd like to see that." Maker's breath, what a beautiful man, dress or no.

"For you, maybe. But it has to be a pretty dress."

Duncan sighed his annoyance and she felt closer to Alistair. Playful, as a pair of unruly children bonding through their ability to torment a parent figure.

"Alistair." Duncan began, his eyes serious and grave, 'uh oh!' She cringed at imagining the oncoming scold. "You know the pretty dresses are reserved for senior Grey Wardens, not for new recruits to impress the ladies."

She woke with a loud snort and chuckle, her hand reaching out, seeking the warmth of his broad chest. "Alistair-"

Her hands found only a wide expanse of cool, downy mattress, and her lip quivered. Of course he wasn't there. He hasn't been here for three fucking years, Cousland, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Emotions played through her. Anger, disappointment, loneliness, grief, and then finally devastating sadness. As she curled into a tight ball and hugged her knees, her eyes prickled with a strong need to cry. She closed her throat so not to scream, squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her jaw, breathed deeply and let herself tremble until it passed through her. The numbness had become easier to access; a necessity, given the fear of what was true might break her.

Dragging herself from the warmth of bed, she began her morning routine. A quick comb through her hair, armor on, pack ready, maps handy. Maker willing, weather permitting, she would arrive at The College of Magi late that day. Maker willing, Wynne would still be there, alive and well.

It had been three years since the passing (or total obliteration) of Alistair, the man who sacrificed everything to save the world. This was not a very fair trade, if you asked the Hero of Ferelden.

Then again, in her internal world, it was always up for debate. She acknowledged, in all fairness, there wouldn't be a world without a sacrifice. Unless she had insisted a little harder that Alistair should take part in in what she called, "Morrigan's Fantastic Ritual of Wonderment and Sanity." Maybe, just maybe it would have worked; not knowing kicks her ass every day. She never thought she would be the one to say 'Why, oh why, didn't we say yes to the blood magic?'

Headed for the exit of the inn feeling, she felt the attention of many on her. A silence as she strode through with with head held high. Even in Orlais people knew her by sight, it wasn't surprising anymore. Her hair stood on end as she thought she heard a familiar voice speak her name.

Oh... Shit.

Looking over her shoulder she met the eyes of Zevran Arainai, former companion within the Hero of Ferelden's company. He smiled at her, a smile that touched the corners of his eyes and lit up his face. As he moved to stand, her heart leaped and she gasped, feeling adrenaline rush through her.

Turning her back to him she proceeded with wider strides. Pushing the heavy door with both hands, it hurled open in front of her and she headed toward the stables. She made quick work of getting rid of the horsemaster with a dismissive wave of her hand. She needed to saddle her own mount. She needed to look busy. She needed to be busy.

He approached her, as she had anticipated he would. Her internal world became a flurry of panic and frustrated curses. Shit shit shit SHOO fucking Zevran, SHOO! She didn't want another painful reminder. Didn't want to talk about what she had been up to. Didn't want to rekindle old friendships, catch up or check in.

"It's been a long time, my Warden. You disappeared." His voice was soft, inviting, and she could feel him watching her every move.

"I have nothing for you, Zevran." She tried to speak firmly, but her voice quivered despite herself.

She wanted more than anything for him to never have approached her. Meeting him again… it was bizarre. It should not have happened. What was he doing there? In fucking Orlais?

"Have I offended?" he offered gently, one hand ran through his hair and his other splayed out in front of him. He seemed nervous, as if trying to persuade her of something; she did not trust him.

"No." Not yet, you haven't. She turned to face him, standing still in her considerations, brow furrowed, finding naught but a strong desire for him to fuck off . As she met those soft eyes, she softened. For just a few moments, she considered trying to muster some form of politeness. Perhaps a little decorum, or whatever bullshit people tried to pull off when they run into an old friend they wish they hadn't.

Deep-brown eyes glared at him. Head down, hiding behind her curtain of silky black hair, she felt frozen. He looked stricken.

"We have... nothing to say then, to each other?" He spoke very slowly, calculated, her awkward rejection leaving him concerned and deeply confused. The Warden had been his first friend, and in the end, his only friend. This was not the same woman he knew and cared deeply for only three years ago.

Yes, we have nothing to say? No, we have nothing to say? She felt confused answering these kinds of questions. Conversations often went more flat and awkward than they had to. Please leave. Remember me as I was, not what I have become.

"Warden-" Zevran began and she backed away, clenching her jaw.

Here it comes, empty words of comfort, unsolicited advice.

He told himself to be gentle with her, but he hadn't seen her in so long. For her to meet him with this blatant distrust after all they had been through together... he desperately wanted for her to snap out of this. She had to.

"The death of Alistair was tragic, but don't you think it's time to rejoin the-" A quick palm to his chest cut him off short, making him stumble backward. Cocky, he knew, but this should not have been such a surprise to her. She often thrived beneath a little pressure, so his memory told him. How fragile had she become?

Do not speak his name to me she wanted to shout but the words caught in her throat, trapped behind clenched teeth. Their eyes met and she was rife with regret. The betrayal on his face, brought on by someone he profoundly respected, cared about... it hurt to see. His hand rested where she had struck him. And to think, he had taught her that one.

Maker, an apology lingered on her tongue as she stood there with her mouth open; shock and shame left her with the impulse to run. Turning away, she mounted and fled. Cousland, you bitch, he was your friend.

Golden eyes looked so pained… The Warden's face scrunched as she fought the lingering threat of tears. Get over it, Cousland. If you could change the past you would have done it ten times over.

She relaxed her jaw, breathed deeply and slowly, placed her attention on her hands on the reins, the bend of her hips, the brush of hair against her cheek, the dirt on the road, the green of the trees, wind making her eyelashes flutter.

This served well in distracting her from the otherwise constant nagging ache of her grief and the confusion over why it wouldn't leave her; not to mention the humiliation she felt at lashing out at everyone she cared for as if out of control. Maker, Cousland, what is wrong with you?

She saw the subtle gleam of a tripwire from the corner of her eye.

"Horse. Tripwire. Horse!" She shouted, pulling back on the reins with too much force. And she knew better. And she even had a moment to feel stupid, having taken the time to inform the horse of a tripwire instead of utilizing those precious few moments. She could have pulled the reins a little sooner. Maybe a little gentler. You've fucked up now, Cousland was the only message she had for herself as Horse reared back on her hind legs. She would have been thrown and it wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the stirrup holding onto her foot. Such was the Warden's Luck.

Instead of landing on her ass and feeling like one, she flailed wildly for purchase. Cleverly, she flailed her wrist into a wrap on the reins, crying out at the snap of bone before it let her go. Foot still caught, she grabbed the very edge of her saddle, and she gasped at stomping hooves in her periphery. In trying to pull herself up, she flipped with a shriek and landed hard, face first in the dirt.

The convenient placement of the large stone her face smacked into would have made her laugh, were she awake.

Zevran observed her antics from a distance, comical at first, until he saw her tangle with the reins and flail about helplessly in an attempt to right herself. He urged his own mount to a run, cringing as he approached to hear the unpleasant sound of her forehead hitting the ground.

"Easy! Easy. Woah." Zevran dismounted, commanding her horse to be calm with his stern tone. While it seemed he had the horse's attention, it still stomped around, agitated, unwittingly threatening to crush her.

"Easy." Zevran reached out a hand and approached slowly, imagining the beast could hear the undertones of urgency in his voice. Trying his best to calm it while fighting down his own frantic emotions, he spoke again, "Easy."

Stroking its muzzle he grabbed onto the reins, patted the horse on the shoulder and moved slowly to release her foot from the stirrup.

He felt vaguely responsible for this mess, her discomfort had been obvious, but still he had pressed her. If he hadn't, maybe she wouldn't have run away so quickly or rejected him so harshly. She could reject him again if she wished, but only when she was well.

"What have you done, my Warden?" he whispered, turning her to see if she had even survived the fall. Pressing his fingers to her neck, he held his breath until he felt the beating of her heart. With a deep sigh of relief he busied himself in gathering her pack and the few contents that had been thrown.

He he felt remorse for saying what caused her to lash out at him. Given the soreness of his breastbone, he had hit a sore spot. His poor Warden must have been wasting away with grief all this time!

Gathering her in his arms, he felt sad for her. How long had she been alone? How long had she been… like this? He understood very well how all-consuming grief could be. He hadn't recalled her being so slight. Time, and life it seemed, had not been kind to her. Her dark locks had been unevenly shorn to the bottom of her chin. Dark eyes once smiling and bright were sullen on a backdrop of gaunt skin. Her propensity for speaking without pause for intake of air appeared to be a thing of the past. He couldn't help folding his arms around her for just a few moments. Poor, soft Warden.

She accepted him into her circle instead of killing him. He certainly would not have chosen the same, were their situations reversed. Throughout the Blight she took care of everyone around her, unabashedly and with deep respect. He wanted to care for her, to protect her, comfort and be a friend to her, just as she had done with him. He wished it had been her choice, and not an injury that had caused this desire to come to reality.

"Wait! Don't! Please!" She shouted after him. He ignored her pleading. Ignored her! She reached out and shouted his name, warm tears streaming through dirt and blood on her cheeks.

Look away, Nyla… look away...

Time slowed to a crawl. She watched in awe and horror as he impaled the archdemon through its skull. Alistair's face, a snarl wracked with pain, his mouth opened wide with a cry she could only barely hear. He writhed, and it seemed like he was trying desperately to let go.

It's hurting him! Wynne, it's hurting him… It's hurting-

She startled awake, his name a soft cry on her lips. Head throbbing, back aching, sharp pains in her hip, something was wrong with her left wrist. She scrambled to get a grasp on where she was, what happened, who is touching me? She panicked, arching her back to fight against the warm weight upon her chest.

"Be still, my Warden." A sturdy palm pressed on her breastbone. His voice was soothing, and the seriousness in his tone had her attention, but this pain… she could not be still. "You were thrown from your horse."

"Zev! Threw my what?" She blurted, with a grimace at the din of her own voice. Sweating, writhing in pain beneath his hand. There was only one thing she was sure of in this moment and it seemed profoundly relevant. "It hurts!"

"Elfroot, your favorite flavor." The good humor in his voice seemed forced, like his smile, as he rested a palm under her head. "Drink."

She could never get used to the shit taste of elfroot. In an attempt to get it over with quickly, she clumsily swallowed a little too much. The tickle on her lungs made her cough and spray it back into his face, most of it landing in a small splash down the front of his shirt.

"It's alright. I have more," he spoke patiently, pressing another bottle to her lips.

She could already feel the throbbing in her head ebb away. She tried to sit up again and wailed, sharp pain shot up her arm like electricity. This is too much. I want to be on my horse. I want to get to Cumberland.

"Relax. It is broken. Did I wrap too tightly?" He pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe away remnants of elfroot potion from his face and threw it aside. When she didn't respond, he gently felt her fingers and observed the color of them. The wrap seemed fine.

"I'm sorry I spat on you." She rolled onto her side to face him, taking pressure off of the hip that pained her. Sitting up occurred as futile and she couldn't think clearly enough to be stubborn. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"I believe you," Zevran spoke softly, watching her blink bleary eyes at the firelight. The light stung, making her head throb, and despite her struggles, she did not miss the way his eyes closed, the subtle sagging of his shoulders, and the way his hand drew up momentarily to touch the sore spot on his chest.

Feeling her remorse, she spent several moments reacquainting herself with his appearance. His hair was styled the same, a fair bit longer. He looked older, his face more defined, lean, less boyish. He wore it well. His eyes gleamed catlike in the light of the fire.

"You spoke his name when you woke. You were dreaming?" He prodded her to speak in his attempts to have her feel some semblance of safety.

"Nooo." She groaned pitifully and hid behind her hands, pressing her fingers firmly on her eyelids. Why did he have to remind me?

"Do you wish to rest?" With a soft cloth, he dabbed the sweat from her brow.

"No. I must get to the College of Magi. Wynne will help." A gentle hand swept away the stray strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Please don't touch me this way. This tender contact, something she hadn't felt in years, made her heart clench painfully in her chest as she drifted into a deep sleep on the cusp of tears.

Zevran felt somber looking down upon her as her sad eyes closed, and breathing steadied. He removed the rest of her Grey Warden armor, piece by piece until she wore only her simple shirt and breeches. He took a minute to stuff one of his clean shirts under the crook of her neck and laid a light blanket over her. His fingertips softly swept along her forehead to feel the swelling. It was worse than before and left him more than a little concerned.

Laying out his bedroll a respectful distance from hers, he cooked and ate, fed their mounts, cleaned various equipment, his own, then hers. He kept himself busy as he played memories of the many conversations they had together, the laughter.

They had been close friends, there was little this woman didn't know about him; she pried, she was... disarming. When they spoke, he could feel her focused attention hanging on his every word. She cared, and this was a unique experience to a former Crow. Eyes wide and attentive, she seemed enamored, and her eyes often followed the movement of his lips. The Warden had a rich appreciation for all things beautiful, and she loved fiercely; a brave woman. One wasn't just given the impression that she was trustworthy, she actually was. And charming. Misers implored her to take their coin. Not to mention, the business end of the Warden was worthy of song. She played hard, but she Grey Wardened harder; he smiled and chuckled through his nose in remembering her words.

Her appearance had startled him; she still had a loveliness about her, he supposed, but she used to be… ample. He remembered her being quite built, strong, full of life and color. She had large bosoms pleasing to look at- that hadn't changed much, her bosoms were doing quite well, but the rest of her… she was not... healthy.

It seemed, to Zevran, she had adapted to a world that wasn't final or true.

Life is not grief. It's the calm after the storm. It's going into the darkness to emerge again, more whole and full than before. It was she who helped him learn this, and he could not leave her stuck in the darkness.