Notes: this is it, guys! The final chapter!
I wanted this chapter to be a sort of mirror to the first chapter - so some phrases and imagery have been borrowed to link them together narratively. I thought that by comparing the first and last chapters so directly, it would really highlight just how much has changed in the time since Bron and Alistair first met.
This is grotesquely fluffy - which is exactly how I like to end my fics.
A few heads turn when she enters the Great Hall, casting curious glances her way before returning their attentions to their meals or their books or their companions. The Hall is busier than she would have expected for such a late hour, the sound of boisterous laughter rolling through the air like a wave, ebbing and flowing with the tide of conversation. From the looks of things, it appears that a unit of the Commander's soldiers has just returned from a mission, the long tables of the Hall flanked with people sporting the distinctive green uniforms of the Inquisition army, and they all seem keen to indulge in some lively conversation and a hearty meal (and Bron of all people can appreciate the wonders of a good meal after months and months on the road with only dried meats and stale bread for sustenance).
She stomps her boots against the flagstones to kick off the dust and dirt from the soles of her boots then throws Varric a small, friendly wave before stepping briskly across the Hall with long, confident strides. Normally she'd stop for a chat, always eager to catch up on what she'd missed while away on a mission (and Varric is usually the best source of information for Inquisition-wide gossip – him or Josephine), but Varric seems busy today, his head bowed over an ink-stained page of parchment and his brows knit in concentration, and Bron is loath to disturb him when he's writing. And besides, Bron is tired and she's hungry, her homeward journey having taken far longer than she'd expected, and right now she's more interested in a meal and a bed than she is in the goings-on of Skyhold.
At the far end of the Great Hall is the doorway into the Skyhold kitchens and when she ducks inside, she is immediately hit with the delicious smell of something warm and spicy. She takes a deep, greedy sniff – lets the rich, slightly sweet smell fill her nostrils.
No one notices Bron at first, unsurprising given the frisson of frantic activity typical to the Skyhold kitchens, and Bron stands and watches a while as the cooks, maids and porters head about their business. One of the cooks stirs something in a massive copper pot perched on the hearth (which Bron suspects is the source of the incredible smell) while a pair of kitchen maids roll out sheets of pastry across the wooden-topped table at the centre of the room. At the far end of the room, someone appears to be preparing vegetables to be pickled and next to him is a young girl scrubbing viciously at potatoes with a wiry brush. It's quite pleasant, Bron thinks, this thrum of domestic activity after so much time spent alone on the road, and she's so entranced by the bevy of activity around her that she doesn't notice at first when one of the kitchen maids looks up from her sheet of pastry to talk to her.
"Miss, miss… miss!" the maid repeats, her voice growing in volume.
Bron starts when she realises that she's being spoken to, a faint surge of pink colouring her cheeks, and she smiles at the young woman apologetically for having been too distracted to hear her.
"Sorry," Bron stammers, "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just hoping to grab something."
The maid nods and smiles, wiping her floury hands on her apron as she steps back from the table and walks toward Bron.
"If you take a seat in the Hall, we can bring you some stew… maybe some pie or some broth with bread?"
Bron shakes her head. "Nothing so elaborate – I'm heading to bed soon. I just wanted something light."
The maid nods in understanding, although she looks a little disappointed (perhaps upset that Bron did not want to try one of her culinary creations), and it takes only a few moments for her to grab a small wooden plate and pile it up with a generous amount of bread, cheese and fruit.
She offers the plate to Bron with a beaming smile, and Bron reciprocates with her own, far more cautious smile in return as she takes the proffered plate. It's been a long time since she left Skyhold, nearly a month on a mission on her own, and she's a little out of practice with the smiling.
Bron's been putting in a concerted effort recently to be friendly, to smile and chat and listen with interest to people's idle prattle. It had been Alistair's idea; he thought it would help her make more friends at Skyhold (not that Bron thought she needed more friends – but Harding and Leliana had both agreed with Alistair and Bron had found herself outnumbered).
She knows that she'll never be like Alistair or Varric or Hawke, people whose natural charisma and warmth just seemed to draw people to them. But the events of the last few months – the total devastation she'd felt when she'd thought the Inquisition lost at Haven, the isolation and fear she'd felt when trapped in the Fade – have made her realise just how much she relies on the support and kindness of other people. Without Alistair – without Hawke and Eleri and Harding – she never would have survived.
She supposes a few extra friends couldn't hurt.
The maid gives her a polite nod before returning to her previous position at the table and Bron turns to make a quick exit, not wanting to be any further imposition on the kitchen staff.
With the precious plate of food in hand, Bron weaves quickly through the labyrinthine corridors and hallways of Skyhold, eager to reach the sanctuary of a comfy chair and a warm fireplace. The journey home had been difficult – flooding around Gherlen's Pass had forced her to turn west toward Orzammar, and she'd had to travel the more difficult, mountainous routes to finally reach Skyhold. Now her limbs are stiff from riding, her skin red and raw from the biting winds of the Frostbacks, and she's tired beyond belief from successive nights of camping.
She knows she should probably be seeking out Leliana rather than bed. Her mission, though successful, had been eventful and Leliana will want a full debrief. The Venatori spies hiding in the royal palace at Denerim had been found, four Tevinter cultists posing as kitchen staff, and their plot to assassinate the Queen thwarted. Bron had hoped to bring them to justice peaceably – after all, they may have had invaluable information about the Venatori's plans that could have proven useful to the Inquisition – but instead a pitched battle had broken out between Bron and the mages and she'd been forced to end their lives.
The Queen had been inordinately grateful of course, heaping Bron with praise and presenting her with the Fereldan Medallion of Service for having saved her life. The irony is not lost on Bron – that she'd saved the life of the woman who had tried to end the life of the man Bron loves. But then Bron has always been the pragmatic sort and she knows how useful it is to have an incredibly powerful woman indebted to her.
Alistair is under the protection of the Inquisition now, and as long as Queen Anora is in the Inquisition's debt, he's safe.
Still – Bron's news can wait until morning. It's late, and Leliana may already be in bed (although Bron knows that's unlikely; Leliana has always been a night-owl). Bron may be a dedicated Inquisition agent but she just hasn't got the energy to talk about insane blood-mage cultists right now. She's too bloody exhausted.
All she wants is sleep. Sleep and… well, some company might be nice as well.
Alistair is tired.
He's been training with the Wardens all day and his whole body now heaves with the consequences. It was supposed to be easy – just work through a few simple exercises, practice a few moves – but then Rodney had said something snarky with that smart-mouth of his and then Alistair had got cocky and, well, their sparring had got a little out of hand. At least he'd won, finally knocking his opponent into the sandy ground of the training yard with an indecorous whoop that was probably somewhat beneath him.
His muscles may be aching but at least his pride is satisfied.
"Next time," Rodney insists, sitting at the barstool next to Alistair's, "next time I'll win."
Alistair snorts good-naturedly. "Sure you will."
"It was just that last move," he says, "that thing you did with your shield."
There's a ripple of laughter from the other wardens crowding around the bar. "It wasn't the last move, Rodney," says the warden sitting at Alistair's other side, her face crinkled with amusement. "You were doomed the second you stepped into the training yard. You're too frantic, you use too much energy – all Alistair had to do was fend you off until you tired yourself out. It's all about stamina!"
"Stamina?!" shouts another warden from over the woman's shoulder. "Fuck stamina. It's all about strength! Alistair is stronger than Rodney – so Rodney lost."
Some of the wardens nod their heads emphatically while others sneer with disagreement.
Alistair just laughs. "While I appreciate the compliments about my extraordinary strength and general manly prowess – I'm going to have to disagree. It's not always about strength. Trust me – I have seen people with far less physical strength than I do some fucking extraordinary things. Some people use… finesse, rather than strength."
"Is that how you beat me then?" asks Rodney sceptically, "through finesse?"
"No!" Alistair cries with a hearty chuckle, "I beat you because you're an idiot and you left your left flank open. It was just for a moment but it was enough."
Rodney gives a disappointed oh which is drowned out by the hearty laughter of his warden brethren. He looks disappointed, embarrassed even that he'd been bested after making such a rookie mistake. Alistair feels a twinge of guilt. Rodney's only young, and he's remarkably skilled for his age, not to mention impressively dedicated to an Order that has done little to warrant such devotion (being tricked by Venatori and siding with an ancient abomination is hardly a ringing endorsement for the Wardens); Alistair hopes that this little disappointment won't dampen the man's enthusiasm.
"Come now," Alistair says, knocking Rodney's shoulder with his own, "just drink and be merry. You can start plotting my demise tomorrow."
Rodney smiles, then takes a long swig of his beer, his smile broadening when he triumphantly thunks the empty tankard on the pocked surface of the bar. Alistair follows in kind, knocking back the rest of his drink before smacking it against the bar with a theatrical flourish.
"Another?" asks the Warden sitting next to him.
It's a tempting offer; the Herald's Rest has an impressive selection of beers at its disposal and Alistair can't see the harm in pushing the buzz at the back of his head from 'tingly' to 'pleasantly swirly'. But then he feels the angry smarting in his shoulders, and the unpleasant stiffness in his knees, and he finds himself reluctantly shaking his head instead. "Not tonight," he sighs with a wearied shrug.
There's a resounding chorus of boos.
"Alright – yes – I'm weak and feeble, blah blah blah." He jumps up from his stool with a sound that is partially a sigh but mostly a groan. Rodney really did do a number on him. "But I'm going to need my beauty sleep if I'm going to beat you all into submission tomorrow."
There are more snickers and more boos but Alistair is too tired to care. As much as he loves this – loves the laughter, the banter, the gentle teasing – right now he loves the prospect of a warm bed and good night's sleep more.
And besides, it's not like they won't all be back at the Herald's Rest tomorrow; it has become almost a nightly ritual. The Wardens' presence in Skyhold isn't some fleeting, momentary thing; the Wardens are the Inquisition's newest recruits and they have pledged to serve the Inquisition as long as the Inquisitor will have them. They are dedicated to the cause, keen to support the Inquisition right to the bitter end, desperate to retrieve some of the honour they lost when they sided with Corypheus (even if unwittingly). They will stay with the Inquisition as long as Eleri permits it; and they'll drink at the Herald's Rest as long as they serve the Inquisition.
It's a pretty remarkable feeling, Alistair thinks, to know that he has a home, somewhere permanent he can stay (well, unless the Inquisition is disbanded – but he hasn't really thought that far ahead). Throughout his exile, Alistair had never stayed anywhere for long, always travelling in search of new work or trying to run away from his past and anyone who might seek him out. But now – now things are different – now he has the sturdy, towering fortress of Skyhold to call home. He has friends; in time he may even begin to consider the Wardens his family again.
He'd been surprised when Eleri had asked him to lead the Wardens, to train them and command them in service of the Inquisition, but then he is the only Warden now with the Inquisition who hadn't sided with the Venatori – which makes him uniquely trustworthy in the eyes of the Inquisitor and her advisors. It wasn't a position he'd ever thought he'd achieve, not something he'd ever particularly wanted, and he's surprised at how much he's enjoying it. It's nice working with the Wardens again, training alongside them, carrying out missions when required, feeling like he's once again part of something bigger than himself, part of something worthwhile. And he's good at what he does; people like him, they listen to him.
There's a smile on his face as he steps out of the Herald's Rest into the crisp, evenin air. And he takes the time to pause and greet everyone he passes as he makes his way across the courtyard and into Skyhold's main Keep, exchanging pleasantries with the guards unfortunate enough to be posted on the night-shift or those same few Mages who never seem to sleep. He knows he must look like some gormless fool, grinning to himself as he ambles through Skyhold with a spritely spring in his step, but he's too content to really care. Today has been a good day; and not even the angry protestations in his limbs can put a dampener on that.
There's only one thing that could make this day better.
Bron.
She's been gone for so long – too bloody long – carrying out some important mission in Denerim that he's not allowed to know about. He doesn't really understand the secrecy. It's not like he has anyone to tell; everyone he knows is in the Inquisition. And the not knowing just means that his imagination can run away from him – concocting a variety of troubling scenarios each more dangerous and deadly than the last.
He really hopes she's all right.
He really hopes she comes home soon.
The floorboards creak in protest as he walks down the corridor toward his room and he finds himself sympathizing with their plight. Every joint in his body is creaking, his skin a painful patchwork of bruises from every one of Rodney's blows he'd failed to block (and there are more of those than Alistair cares to admit). At least he'll fall asleep quickly, too exhausted to lie awake and worry about Bron.
Blackness greets him when he enters the room and Alistair's not sure whether it's worth trying to light a candle and change from his leathers into a night-shirt or whether he should just collapse into the comforting embrace of his bed and call it a night. Deciding that he'll probably get a better night's sleep without the pulling and pinching of his leathers, he's just about to start groping his way to the dresser when he abruptly stills, struck with a sudden yet unmistakable feeling of wrongness.
Alistair is not alone.
He moves his hand to the small dagger hanging from his belt, his well-honed instincts immediately putting him on his guard – though the more logical part of his mind finds it hard to believe that he really is in danger. This is Skyhold, a well-fortified stronghold, patrolled by Commander Cullen's well-trained and dedicated soldiers – surely no intruder could have reached this far into the fortress.
But then he hears the soft whispering sound of ruffling fabric and then an amused chuckle from the direction of his bed. "Really? You're going to greet me with a dagger? After I've been gone all this time!"
There's a wave of relief as the tension drains from his limbs, followed by a sudden surging of happiness – it's Bron! She's fucking home!
He immediately hurries forward, clambering onto the bed, pawing blindly as his eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness.
"What are you doing?" Bron squeals. "You're still wearing your boots!"
It's an odd thing to object to, Alistair thinks as he sprawls across the bed, hands skimming across the sheets in search of Bron's warmth. He can't really see her, can only just make out a dull blur with the measly sliver of grey light that filters through his window, and it's frustrating having to rely on his other senses to find his quarry. But then his hand curls around a slender shoulder and he feels a thrum of victory at the feel of warm, soft skin – it's her! She really is here!
"Who cares about boots?" he asks as he pulls her closer, trapped in a tangle of limbs and sheets.
There's a sudden cry of pain and Alistair immediately stills. "Ow, ow, my hair!" Bron cries, and Alistair can't see what's happening but he's pretty sure he's managed to tangle his hand in her dark locks while attempting to pull her closer. He'd wanted a passionate embrace; he'd wanted to crush her against his chest and kiss her senseless. And he hadn't wanted to wait, too excited to hear Bron's purring voice to care about anything else. Perhaps he'd got a little carried away; it would probably be better if he could kiss her without causing bodily harm.
"I should probably… light a candle?" he finally concedes.
She hums in agreement as she disentangles herself then wriggles away from him in what is probably an attempt to avoid further injury. Alistair reluctantly climbs out of bed, groping vainly at the furniture in search of a candle. He finds one on top of his dresser and after a few moments of fumbling there's a pop of light and the candle bathes the room in a meek, orange glow.
When he turns, he can finally see Bron, her skin shining richly in the meager light of the candle, her face framed by the black curtain of hair hanging loose around her shoulders and down her back. She's half obscured by his blanket but he can see that she's wearing one of his shirts. It's far too big for her of course and the gaping neckline falls over one shoulder, revealing an impressive swathe of skin across her chest. She's smiling, no smirking, her smile crooked and more than a little smug. She can see the way his gaze wanders, the way his jaw falls slack and his eyes wide as he looks at her.
"Maker's breath," he breathes, "you're beautiful."
The smug smile falters then, shrinking into something shy and uncertain, a gentle blush rushing to her cheeks. She's always that way when Alistair says something sentimental, unused to being the recipient of such honest, bold emotions.
But then she gives her head a shake and fixes him with a smoldering glare, eyes narrowed and lips curled. "Are you just going to stare all night or are you going to join me?"
Alistair knows better than to keep a beautiful woman waiting and he quickly strips down to his smallclothes before clambering into bed and slipping under the blanket. Bron watches him the whole time, hungry eyes admiring him openly, and he throws her a boyish grin when he sees her staring. At least he's not the only one who's been caught ogling this evening.
He shimmies under the sheets until their knees knock then lifts one hand to cup her cheek while the other presses whispering caresses against her waist. His eyes fall closed as he leans forward, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss – he doesn't want any distractions, doesn't want anything to pull his full attention away from the feel of her, the taste of her on his lips.
It's a softer kiss than he'd expected, gentle and lazy. He'd thought the kiss would be all tongue and teeth, a desperate clash of passion after so many weeks of missing her. But it's not the right moment for that kind of desperate, feverish kiss. This moment is small and tender, slow and teasing, and he doesn't want to ruin it by rushing anything.
Bron hums in contentment when he breaks the kiss, and he can feel the sound's vibration as she presses her forehead against his.
"How was Denerim?" he asks into the small space between them. Because as much as he wants to shower her with kisses, or explore each dip and curve of her body with hands that have long missed her absence, he also just wants to talk. He's missed her voice, her laugh. He's missed her biting sarcasm and her sharp wit. He's missed just… hearing about her day.
"Oh, wonderful," she drawls, "Denerim is delightful this time of year."
"Really?"
"No – it pissed it down with rain the whole time."
They laugh – hearty chuckles that fill the air, banishing the night's coolness with warm amusement, the bed creaking as their bodies tremble with mirth.
"So what were you doing?" he asks, voice lilting with obvious curiosity. "Or would you have to kill me if you told me?"
She lets out an amused puff of air. He feels it brush against his nose. "I was looking for Venatori spies in the Royal Palace"
One brow curls sharply, his interest piqued. "Really? Did you find them?"
"Of course I did!" she cried indignantly, swatting his shoulder playfully with the back of her hand. "I saved the Queen's life as well."
"Did you now? That was awfully nice of you."
"She was very grateful – she gave me a shiny medal and everything."
"A medal? Now that is impressive."
"Hmm… is that jealousy in your tone?" she teases, eyebrows waggling in jest.
He scoffs. "I'm not sure I'd want a medal from the woman who wanted to kill me."
"Wanted to… but didn't," she says, and she furrows her brows as she feels the tenor of the conversation shift. They'd started out playful, their conversation snarky and irreverent, but Alistair's tone has turned dark, his features turning stony as he thinks of Anora.
"She could still change her mind," he says quietly, cautiously, as if worrying that the admission could somehow summon her appearance. "She could come charging in here with her soldiers and drag me away to Fort Drakon."
"I'd like to see her try," Bron snaps. "If she lays one hand on you I'll flay her alive and wear her skin as an evening gown."
He laughs – always enjoying Bron's penchant for peculiarly creative threats. But while it's clear from the crooked tilt of her smile that she's joking, there's also an icy fierceness to her eyes, an almost sinister sharpness that suggests it's not entirely a joke.
And her severity is oddly comforting. Because he knows there's a kernel of truth in her words, despite her amusingly hyperbolic language; Bron really would defend Alistair to the bitter end, even stand against the Queen of all Fereldan to keep him safe, even at the cost of her own life. It's a humbling thought – but also a deeply touching one (if also a little morbid).
"Anyway, she owes us one now," Bron continues. "She can't touch you when you're with the Inquisition."
"So I get to stay then?"
"Did you want to leave?" she asks, and though her voice is casual, he can see a flash of panic in her eyes even in the meager glint of the room's solitary candle.
"No, no – not at all!" he cries, only now realising how his question could have been misconstrued. "I just… don't quite believe it. I keep thinking things are too good to be true. That something will happen and I'll have to leave… carry on drifting from place to place again." He pauses, lets a grin spread across his face. "But this is it, right? I really am home."
"We're home," she corrects, wriggling forward to bring her body flush against his, her hands rising to hook behind his neck and pull his head down toward her.
The kisses are a little sloppier now – still slow and teasing only now there's a new intensity, a frisson of excitement at the realisation that they are both finally home; safe and happy and together. He can feel Bron's smile against his lips, feel the tremor of soft sighs and gentle moans as he nips with his teeth and soothes with his tongue.
His hand ghosts along her spine, brushing his fingers up and down her back in gentle caresses. Then he sweeps his hand around her waist and up her stomach, enjoying the feel of soft skin stretched over taut muscle.
But then something feels weird, rough and alien, and his hand suddenly stills.
"What's this?" he asks as his fingertips skim over a strange patch of oddly pebbled skin.
Hmmm? she hums quietly in confusion.
"Your skin…" he says by way of an explanation, too distracted by the peculiar feeling of furrowed skin to come up with a proper question.
"Oh – it's just a burn," she says with a slight crinkle to her nose, as if the whole thing is just a dreadful inconvenience. "A Venatori fireball got a bit too close."
His whole body stiffens, the image of roiling flames and the remembered smell of singing skin suddenly overwhelming his senses. And he knows it's not a big deal – Bron goes on dangerous missions all the time (it's the inevitable consequence of being so thoroughly skilled at what she does). But at the same time – it feels like a fucking big deal. He doesn't like the idea of Venatori blood mages throwing fireballs at his Bron.
He opens his mouth to vocalise that disapproval but stops when he realises that there's not really much point. He knows there's nothing he can say. If he told her to stay where it's safe, if he begged her not to go on risky missions, she would just dismiss him as an overprotective fool (and he would never say such a thing anyway; Alistair knows how dedicated Bron is to her work).
So instead he shuts his mouth and pulls her closer, spreading his palm across the burn like a Mage summoning healing powers to his fingertips.
"It's all right, Alistair," she says, voice cooing softly. "I'm safe."
"I know," he says.
He holds her closer anyway.
He knows he should focus on the here and now, focus on Bron's body curled against his, focus on the soft rise and fall of her chest with every gentle breath she takes. But instead he can't help but think about how desperately he doesn't want to lose her.
And he could have so easily lost her!
If she'd died in Denerim, how long would it have taken for him to find out? For how many days would he have lived out his mundane life, training the Wardens or laughing with his friends, without knowing that Bron was already dead? They are questions for which he never wants to know the answer. He suddenly feels his stomach tighten.
His arms are wrapped around her, holding her with such ferocity that he's sure it can't be comfortable. But Bron makes no complaint, merely nuzzles her forehead against the crook of his neck, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.
"I love you," he murmurs against her crown,
"I know," she says, somehow managing to push herself even closer against his chest; their bodies so closely entwined, he can scarcely tell which limb is hers and which is his.
There's a brief pause, a momentary silence, and Alistair is so focused on the sound of Bron's breathing, on the comforting thump of her heartbeat thrumming against this chest, that he almost doesn't hear it when she speaks again, her words muffled against his chest as she murmurs, "I love you too."
And – oh.
It's such a simple moment. There's no fanfare, no clash of fireworks or round of cheers. Just Bron nestled in his arms and those simple words that he's been waiting to hear for so many months now. And he knows it's stupid – because he knows, in his heart, that of course Bron loves him – but it's nice to hear her say it anyway.
The panic and the concern that had knotted in the pit of his stomach starts to slowly unravel, his fears soothed by the comforting warmth of Bron's body in his arms and the sound of her timid declaration still ringing in his ears.
She loves him.
He is home, safe and sound in his bed, with the woman he loves in his arms – a woman who loves him in return – and though his limbs are heavy and sore, it's the kind of pleasant heaviness that comes from a day of useful activity, a day of training and sparring with his Wardens, his friends. And, in this moment, he doesn't think there is anything in his life that he would want to change.
Yes – today has been a good day.
End Note: that's it! I hope you all enjoyed it!
Thank you so, so much for all the comments you've left! I read and treasure every single one of them - saving them so I can re-read them whenever I'm feeling low.
I can't imagine this is the last thing I'll write for Bron and Alistair but it might take a while to get back to them. My head is already buzzing with ideas for other characters and fandoms.