It's funny the things you remember when your life flashes before your eyes. Alistair steadies his breathing as he lies on the ground, his right leg twisted at an awkward angle, and he struggles for his sword, lying useless just centimetres from his fingers. His body hurts and he is suddenly acutely aware that he's broken many bones and that he wouldn't be able to make it out alive. There's a rapidly growing pool of crimson red beneath him and he's mortified to discover it's his own blood. Through blurry vision he thinks he can see the Inquisitor and Hawke at the top of a rocky outcrop, running away from the demon while he serves as bait and distraction; a sacrifice. He stops his quest for his sword and stares at the sky above. Green mist envelops his surroundings, and incongruous floating rocks dot the desolate and surreal landscape.
The Fade. So this is his fate. The final destiny and resting place of Alistair Theirin, bastard prince of Ferelden and now, Grey Warden. In death, sacrifice. A sardonic smile crosses his face. To die, broken and alone in a place he never thought he could step foot in physically. Of all places, here. Part of him selfishly wishes that his body can at least be buried next to his beloved, but it's selfish and he knows it, so he shoves those thoughts away and clears his mind.
His heartbeat thuds loudly in his ear, and he trembles slightly. He's dying and he knows it, but at least now he is at peace. At least now he can finally join his warden, after almost eleven aching years without her. A soft smile crosses his face as he relaxes, and he realises with a start that this is the release he has been yearning for all these years.
Time seems to crawl to a standstill as visions and memories past fills his mind's eye. He struggles to stay calm, for every sharp intake of breath hurts now, his ribs aching. He closes his eyes briefly. The Nightmare has lost track of him, after having flung him onto some rocks, but still he's not sure if he wants to see the demon again. He doesn't, so he squeezes his eyes shut and lets his mind's eye take him back to the past. Flashing is probably the wrong word to use as his life is anything but flying past his eyes; instead, seconds become minutes which become hours, which become days which stretch into endless weeks, and time seems to still.
Suddenly he's back at camp, whisked back in time by more than a decade, and Neria is seated opposite the fire from him. He stands and makes his way to her, his words slow and fumbling in his mouth as he propositions spending the night together. He's tongue-tied, he's blushing, and when she says yes, his face turns an even deeper shade of red as they hug and kiss. The kiss is long and deep and passionate and Alistair guides her back to his tent, their bodies already eager and waiting. He remembers looking at her, his brown eyes on hers, and his trembling fingers as he disrobes her, tie by tie, buckle by buckle, until she is stark naked below him and he is utterly lost. He remembers to close his gaping mouth and breathe as he looks as her; he doesn't know where to begin, and it is only when Neria finally tugs on the waistband of his tight trousers does he realise that she's waiting for him to do something. Anything.
The guy talk among the older men back at the Chantry eludes him, and for the briefest of moments he wishes that he had at least asked Zevran for advice. But then Neria kisses him and presses herself against him and by the Maker does it feel so damned good that a smile crosses his face and he knows what to do. They make mad and clumsy love several times that night, two inexperienced lovers exploring each others' bodies for the first time, and he cannot help but wonder what he's done to deserve her.
That memory fades, and Alistair smiles, and then he vaguely realises that the pool of blood has stopped growing, simply because he is running out of blood to empty on the ground already. He can feel his heartbeat slowing as his eyelids get heavy. One more memory, he thinks. One more and I'll be ready to join my Neria on the other side of this world.
Another memory comes to his mind's eye and he sends a silent prayer to the Maker. He's back at Redcliffe Castle, checking his armour for the long march to Denerim the next day, and there's a timid knock on his door. Neria enters and she mumbles and fumbles and finally Alistair has had enough, smiles, and asks her what's wrong, and then promptly wish he hasn't. His face falls as she explains Morrigan's plan, her eyes pleading. He shakes his head, and she tries to convince him again, before she hesitates and decides against it. That night, they sleep together and Neria doesn't mention it anymore. In hindsight he should have agreed. His heart aches at the mere thought of what he had done, but then a jolting pain shoots up his spine and fragments his vision into a million pieces as he is flung back to reality.
He cries out in pain but it's nothing compared to the ache in his heart as he remembers that he's indirectly responsible for her death. He wishes he could have been there, with her. He would take that blow anytime for her. His lips curl up in anguish as he remembers once more that that is precisely why she had not taken him up to Fort Drakon with her. Tears roll down his cheeks and he realises he's ready to go, ready to see his Neria, ready to say he's sorry for that stupid decision, sorry that he had not accepted Morrigan's ritual, sorry that he had not forced her to take him with her when she confronted the archdemon. And sorry that he wasn't there to take the final blow for her.
"Neria." Her name escapes his lips as his vision grows blurry, the tears stinging his eyes and carving trails amidst the dirt and dust on his cheeks. He can feel his pulse slowing, his breathing growing shallower as his eyelids grow heavy and threaten to plunge him into eternal darkness.
He blinks as he sees a figure approaching him. It's vague and unclear and misty, but yet it looks oddly familiar.
"Neria?" His voice is barely a whisper as she squats next to him and smiles, looking as young and radiant as she did ten long years ago, her blond hair falling around her face like an otherworldly crown. Wordlessly she brushes a cold and soft hand along his forehead, now feverish, and he thanks the Maker for sweet mercies.
"I'm so sorry." He mumbles as his vision grows increasingly blurry and he struggles to control his tears, struggles to wipe them away because he just wants to be able to see her clearly. His breath hitches, catches in his throat and he lets out a loud sob.
She says nothing, her smile kind and gentle, and she hugs him, her arms around him and her body pressed close to his, and he feels a strange sense of calm wash over him.
"I should have...taken the blow for you." He croaks, as she leans close and he can feel her breath and smell her scent on him. She says nothing, instead caressing his cheek softly with a cold and gentle hand, the smile on her face heartbreaking in his eyes.
"I love you. Always and forever." He shivers and he can feel his heart slowing. She's quiet, and then she presses her lips against his in a gentle kiss, as if in affirmation. His body is failing, the life almost gone out of him, but he summons all his strength anyway.
"I'm coming...to you. Now." He whispers, barely audible. She holds him in her arms as he trembles against her, his eyelids growing heavy. And then he closes his eyes for the last time in this side of the world, and a soft smile spreads across his face.