Author's Notes: Darlings, thank you for your patience! I'm sorry I've been tied up with work, driving lessons and finishing Witcher 3.
For any Dragon Age/Fantasy/RPG lover, heed my words: buy yourself a copy of Witcher 3. I don't think I've been so enthralled with characters and story lines in such a long, long time. Utterly amazing game. *_* I plan to start some fanfic on the series once this one is over.
Anyway, away we go!
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR DRAGON AGE
Far below the precipice of the castle, in an unguarded alley stained with stale piss and discarded food, two cats began to warble and yowl.
The hush that had befallen the room crumbled, defaced by the angry hisses and cries of feral felines. Cullen for one was glad, and unpacked his lungs with an audible sigh. The silence had been too long, too heavy. Wedged between two expressionless, mute titans had been excessive for the commander, who had sunk into a paralytic state watching them; the flitting movement of his eyes and subtle breaths the only indication of life.
After what felt like an age, Alistair took a step forward, the leather sole of his boot rasping against the floor. The sound jolted Eleni into movement, and the mage seemed to ready herself for flight—body extended towards the terrace door, to the burgundy curtains fluttering at the far side of the room.
"Please." Alistair's voice was gentle, but loaded with enough emotion and longing that it stopped Eleni in her tracks and demanded Cullen's gaze. The former refused to look at him, however, and set her sight on the violet clouds scudding across the sky.
Cullen sensed Eleni fighting the urge to flee, noticed the tendons in her neck bulge and soften; her arms flex and shudder. Her gaunt, pallid face was taught, and though she did well in maintaining a stone-like expression, her eyebrows gave unruly twitches. Her eyes were moist, enlivened by budding tears.
"Just stay there," the king continued, his hand raised and lowered uselessly like a page in a book fanned by the wind. His eyes, heavy-lidded and sincere, never left her face. "Maker, so many years of planning what I'd say when this moment came. I can't help but remember the litany of half-finished words and feelings collecting dust in the library of the castle. So many things I wanted to tell you, but this," he said, giving another feeble gesture with his hand, "is enough. Seeing you is enough."
The Hero of Ferelden gave another twitch, her rigid body nudged by flecks of emotion straining to break free. A long pause followed, one Cullen feared heralded another spell of silence and inertia. To his delight, Eleni moved, shuffling her gaze from the scenery to Alistair.
"You look… beautiful," she said, voice and lip quivering in turn.
Alistair's tender laughter filled the room. -
"That's my line." He took a hesitant step forward, gauged her reaction, and shuffled back.
Eleni scowled, and again looked to the stars for consolation.
"No I don't. I look awful."
Alistair said nothing and smiled warmly, his amber eyes streaked with silent concern as they drifted over her face and form; the tattered robes which dangled from her emaciated body like rags wrapped around a pylon.
It was hard to imagine Eleni was an imperial court sorceress—even more bizarre to picture Alistair and her as a balanced couple. Though the king's hair was speckled with grey, his brow and cheeks more lined, there was little differentiating the king with the Templar Cullen knew ten years ago. Eleni on the other-hand, resembled a vagabond at best—a deranged pauper with mad eyes and jutting bones. It did not go unnoticed by the mage. The more she stared, the greater the distance between them grew; the less possible their union felt. Eleni wrapped her arms around herself and trembled.
"I need to go, Alistair."
"Over my dead body," he replied simply, his lips pulled into a frown. "Seven years I've waited for you. I'm not ready to let you continue traipsing through the wilderness alone while I sit my golden arse on Ferelden's throne." Eleni's face crumbled. She stifled a sniffle with the back of her hand. Alistair gave a deep sigh and rested his hands on his hips, which Cullen took to be his debating stance. "I hope you haven't forgotten that I never wanted this. It was your idea to put me on the throne, to marry Anora, to rule. I agreed to it all because you promised that this would be our adventure; a burden we'd share together—"
Cullen cleared his throat and raised an arm, hoping to attract their attention before his presence was completely forgotten.
"Excuse me, your Majesty, I should probably—"
Alistair and Eleni both turned to look at him. The king gestured for him to stay.
"I'm sorry for the awkward situation we've put you in, but I need someone with more recent Templar knowledge to hang around in case my beloved decides to swoop out the window."
"Not all mages swoop," Eleni muttered under her breath as Cullen took several steps back towards the balcony, offering the pair more intimacy while remaining in ear-shot—eager (despite all his lofty honour) to hear how this would all unfold.
"We agreed," Eleni began cautiously, fiddling with the hem of her blouse, "that I would be the one to look for a cure, to follow the leads Fiona left us. You knew it'd come to this eventually."
Alistair moaned, rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in contemplation.
"We agreed," he reiterated slowly, "some point in the future you would scale the world with a band of soldiers and mages at your disposal, sending updates and letters when possible while circling back to Denerim to be with me and act as my advisor every so often. That doesn't translate into what you did; stealing away into the night during the growing unease before the Kirkwall, sending paltry yearly messages so I knew you were still alive and on the trail."
"You always sent people after me. As soon as you received my letter, there were Templars and king's guard at my back, trailing me through the forests."
"You're damn right I did," Alistair growled, his expression darkening. "Not that anything came of it. You were always two steps ahead."
Unable to mask her fatigue any longer, Eleni waded to the bed to resume the conversation sitting down. She angled her back towards Alistair, however, he could clearly make out the profile of her face as she spoke.
"I thought… perhaps," she stammered, plucking her slender fingers while searching for answers, "after some time you'd forget about us."
The king was silent, his rhythmic breathing and the delicate swish of his clothes as he moved the only sound in the room for a few painfully long minutes. With an uncharacteristic grunt he shrugged his shoulders and scratched the two-day beard on his cheek. His previous disgust and annoyance seemed forgotten.
"You think so poorly of me—that my love and vows count for nothing?"
"Seven years is a long time—"
"Yes," Alistair interrupted sourly, "it is a long time, particularly when we haven't much time given to us to begin with. But all my choices since we met, all my decisions leading up to the fight with the Archdemon have been moulded around a life spent with you. That was the plan, and I shall not deviate from it."
Eleni gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white with strain. She hunched her shoulders, head falling between them.
"Anora—"
"A trollop. She hasn't stayed in the castle in Denerim for half a decade. Makes planning her regicide easier I assume."
Eleni tsked and shuddered.
"The assassination attempts—"
"Are still happening." Alistair scoffed and folded his arms, one eyebrow cocked as he observed her. "Those aren't going to stop any time soon either, believe me."
Skyhold was quiet, and somewhere during their conversation, the cats had stop bickering. Cullen fancied he could hear ice forming on the windowsill, and hear Eleni's heart throbbing in her chest from across the room. He watched her secretively beneath his long lashes, stricken by her fragile figure and demoralised countenance. She was lost in thought, silent; her back a concave mess of rags and bones which protruded from her skin like the craggy tips of the Frostback Mountains.
With hushed steps, Cullen crept towards the bed and picked up the discarded copy of Templars and Temptresses behind Eleni. He thumbed the spine of the leather-bound book and gave a derisive smile.
"Any other reasons for abandoning me?" he asked, noting the stillness that had befallen Eleni. "Managed to prevent a recurrence of plague by hiding in the Kokari Wilds for a month? Rid me of my infertility—"
"That's not funny," she grumbled indignantly. Eleni avoided Alistair's gaze as he came to stand beside, and then in front of her. Instead, she watched his feline-leather boots, tracing the patches of mud and grime that lined them. He waved the book languidly in front of her face until she snatched it from his grasp. Eleni cradle it to her chest and glowered at Alistair, whose lips were contorted in a sly grin.
"Smile all you want—I did it to protect you."
"From what? The ignoble deeds of a mythical king in a writer's erotic novel?"
She gritted her teeth.
"From the truths behind the novel, Alistair." The book shook in her grasp. "Mages are no longer welcome—not in Orlais, or Ferelden. And a king must appear neutral in the face of civil war, not parade his sorceress advisor in front of his people. Books like these are the reason I stay away. While Ferelden mends and reacquaints itself with mages and magic, I don't wish to burden you with my presence."
The Hero trembled. Alistair wordlessly sat next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Eleni flopped onto his shoulder, tugged to his side like a ragdoll, limp and lifeless; much of her face hidden by dense, tangled locks.
Cullen no longer heard what they said, managing only to decipher the dull timbre of their whispers, their muted and unhurried words spoken into each other's chests.
The Commander stole away into the night, utterly unnoticed.