She left them her room. She couldn't sleep anyway.
She tried Alistair's bed, but his scent lingered on the sheets, and the sight of his boots neatly aligned on the side of the bed, so templar-like, almost made her cry. She rolled over and muffled a scream of pure rage with a pillow, then got up and paced furiously from one wall to another. She tried pacing the halls when the room got too small to contain her anguish, but her restless walk brought her in front of her room door. She put one hand on the wooden panel, and though she didn't admit to herself what she was doing, she listened.
She thought she heard sounds through the thick door. Sounds of muffled moans and soft sighs, of kissing and gripping and gasping. She put her hand on the knob, removed it, put it back. She wanted to scream, burst the door open, pry them apart from each other. She kept hearing the last thing Morrigan had said, before she left them alone: "You will not hate this quite so much as you believe," she had whispered to him.
She raised her fists, put them silently on the door, then buried her face between them. She hated Morrigan for what she was doing, hated Alistair for agreeing to do it, hated the archdemon that made it all necessary, hated Riordan for being the one to break the news to them. But of all, more than all those hatred combined, she hated herself. For making that decision and for convincing Alistair to go along with it. Because she was not strong enough. Not strong enough to sacrifice herself, and certainly not strong enough to let Alistair do it. Biting hard on the tears she felt coming, she rolled until her back was on the wall next to the door and slowly let herself slide down to sit on the floor.
She had been so strong, all of this time. She had done so good. Rallying everyone, defeating Loghain in the landsmeet, helping helpless people that couldn't help themselves. She had lead them, listened to their stories and dreams, helped them all, gave them security and comfort, the feeling of family. Her father would have been so proud of her, his little pup, the great Grey Warden. And it was all to get them here. And now that they were all here, and ready, and as confident as can be in the circumstances, at this last, ultimate moment, she had failed. Because she had let herself believe that, after all this, she deserved a bit of happiness for herself.
They were almost there. They had found a way to stay together forever, to save the land and do the right, honourable thing. One little pesky archdemon to defeat, and after that, peace, quiet, and love. And ruling, together, never apart.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Memories washed over her like tidal waves.
"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." That was the first thing he had said to her. It was a joke, of course, but… it had, in the end, hadn't it? It had brought them together.
"Eh…What?" she answered brightly.
"Say, you don't happen to be another mage?"
She looked down at herself at that. She was clad in full chainmail armour and helmet, two-handed sword at her back.
"Eh… no, don't worry."
A low, almost silent chuckle passed her lips, as memories of Ostagar brought back another one to the surface.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked her, one night, at camp.
She eyed him suspiciously. He had the strangest questions sometimes…
"Is that a trick question?"
He was holding a rose in his hands. A rose he wanted to give to her. Because he thought she was beautiful and wanted her to know he was happy and thankful she was there. She had given him gifts before, but nothing like that. She had looked at him differently, after…
A small smile curved her lips then. He loved her. He was doing this for her. He was certainly hating every minute of it. It was Morrigan, for Andraste's sake! He hated her so much!
That was when she heard it, clear as day. It could not have been her imagination, this time. A long, deep, moaning sound of pure, intense pleasure. In a male's voice.
She was on her feet before she knew she was moving. She stood there, helpless, shaking, gaze fixed on the closed door. She heard a woman's soft giggle, and then she was running. She didn't know where she was going, but when her feet took her there, she understood. Her body knew what her heart needed, and was taking control to give it to her. She stopped in front of the closed door, and this one she busted open in one powerful kick.
Zevran awoke in a startled jump, blades already in hands. She stood there in his doorway, trembling uncontrollably, terribly vulnerable in the long stained shirt and tight pants she wore under her armour. The elf lowered his weapons slowly, then raised his eyebrows in a silent question. She took three steps, closed the door behind her, leaned back on it.
"I… I could sure use a massage right now," she blurted, her voice so shaky it was almost incomprehensible.
He didn't smile, bless him. He got out of bed, draped a sheet around his waist and came to her. He raised his hands and cupped her face tenderly between his palms.
"Come, amora," he whispered softly, running his thumbs against her cheeks. "I'll give you everything you need."
Something inside her broke, then. She collapsed on the floor and he went down with her, wrapping her in his arms. She sobbed and screamed and cried, and he held her against his chest, rocking slowly, as if he was trying to put a very reluctant baby to sleep. He murmured sweet antivan nothings into her ear, in between "shhhh" and "don't cry, bellissima." When she got all cried out, when she had nothing left in her to scream, he gathered her in his arms and carried her to his bed.