Character(s): Alistair Theirin (with hints of Elissa Cousland).
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. Dragon Age belongs solely to BioWare and EA.
Warning(s): Character Death.
This fic is named 'The White Silence' in honor of Jack London, who is my favorite author and whose survival novels are simply fantastic. I highly recommend them.
Note: I'm not a big fan of the Dragon Age DLC, so I'm afraid I've never bought them and there is no Shale in this story.
Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. Please, no flames. Please, don't forget to review!
The White Silence
oOoOo
Silence. Pure, unadulterated silence. Somehow, he was used to it and yet . . . not.
It wasn't right, he decided. Where were the sounds of camp, of mindless chatter and bickering amongst companions? In the evenings, where was the soft singing of Leliana, oft used to put the minds of her companions at ease? Where were Sten's daily rites at sunrise and sunset, when he would kneel before the sun and recite the Qun? Where was Zevran's melodious voice, shamelessly flirting with their female companions and the, somehow reassuring, knowledge that no amount of rejection would discourage his stalwart heart?
Where was Wynne, the kind and elderly mage, who used to hum to herself whilst gathering her materials for the day, for her herbs and crafting resources and the potions she brewed in the evenings while everyone was settled in camp? Where was Oghren, belching loudly with a fearful consistency and the profanity he spouted while in his numerous drunken stupors? Where was the incessant barking of Fang, their loyal mabari companion who had come all the way from Castle Highever?
It even made him wonder where Morrigan was, the silence unnerving him more than her constant criticism and pointed barbs ever could. Even so, the temptress was often seen charging into the main camp in search of food, materials, and the like. Sometimes, she even exchanged a word or two with the other companions, though this was rare and far between.
But most of all, where were the quiet voices of the night, when they wished no one else to hear? The gentle laughter and the meaningless I-love-you's? All of them freely exchanged.
Where there had once been someone to keep his bedroll warm throughout the night, now he was hopelessly alone and his bed was cold.
Quietly, and without any real reason to do so, he cracks open an eye and takes in the sight of his dimly-lit room in the Hanged Man. For a moment, he's confused, expecting to see tents and Fereldan wilderness, of tired, but smiling, faces. Well, maybe all except Sten and Morrigan, the two most unhappiest people in the world.
But then, he blinks, and it all comes rushing back.
The Archdemon dead, destroyed utterly. And Elissa . . . his beautiful, darling Elissa. . . .
The silence is only oppressive after spending nearly an entire year in the company of others. Of friends and lovers.
Almost immediately, Alistair feels like he has been stabbed through the heart with a hurlock's pike.
He wishes he couldn't feel. He wishes he couldn't feel anything. The pain is too intense, too overwhelming, and all he can do is stay there and try not to cry. Quickly, he stumbles towards his satchel, which is hanging on a nearby chair, and pulls out a dark bottle of whiskey, the likes of which he hopes will take away everything and drown him in his misery.
Still, even as he feels the familiar light-headedness begin to take effect in his throbbing skull, warming his empty core, all he is left with is the unbearable silence.