Like most things in Alistair's life, none of this was going according to plan.
"Can I get a little help, please?"
His question came out as a labored groan, and ended with a splatter of guts on his boots. He yanked his sword from the belly of the darkspawn he'd just skewered, and then groaned again as it vomited something impossibly black and unspeakably vile all over his heavily-armored chest.
Alistair once said that darkspawn evoked the putrid aroma of an overburdened latrine left baking in the hot summer sun. The contents of their stomachs, he now learned, somehow managed to smell even worse.
He gave a pathetic little whine, gagging in horror at the rancid scent wafting up from just below his nose; for maybe the first time in his life he found himself wishing he hadn't eaten so much for breakfast.
Especially that questionable ham — that had definitely been a mistake.
But then Varya's lilting voice rang out from somewhere behind him, and the offensive ooze was instantly forgotten.
He forcibly shield-bashed an advancing genlock, then chanced a glance over his shoulder. The small elven warden was just to his right, electricity crackling around her staff as she leapt from a ledge to land nimbly on the ground beside him.
She caught his eye and gave him a lop-sided grin, raising an eyebrow as she took in his vomit-covered chest.
"Did I miss all the fun?"
He could have said something witty back, he was sure of it, had all coherent thought not completely abandoned him at the sight of her smile.
This was not a rare occurrence — it happened far more often than he cared to admit — but as Alistair stood there, staring at her like a slack-jawed idiot all covered in throw up, he was overcome with an urgent and overwhelming need to tell her how thoroughly breath-taking he found her, with her silvery hair all speckled with gore, round blue eyes sparkling like stars, or the moon, or anything else that brings light in the darkest of nights —
It was downright cruel, really, how stunning she was; all of it was cruelly unfair, and he frankly had no choice in the matter whatsoever; it just had to be said — and now.
As his impetuous mouth began to form the fumbling words, however, the back of his skull suddenly drummed a demanding alarm.
Alistair tore his eyes from her magnificent face to find another line of darkspawn heading straight for them, their cat-like eyes glinting like angry little lanterns in the dim of the cavern.
This was probably — no, definitely — for the best; stepping between Varya and the approaching horde, he squared his stance and pressed his shield high as the first of the darkspawn fell upon him with an ear-splitting shriek.
"Some - help — would — be — nice," was what he finally did say, grunting with effort; each word was a hack of his sword, each hack another darkspawn felled.
Varya was not in his line of sight, but Alistair could hear her staff crackling behind him as he cut down genlock after genlock, feeling like a farmer in a field with his scythe. He was just starting to worry he might fill the entire cavern with corpses when the tingle of magic threaded the air; there was a brilliant flash of white, followed by a loud ZAP! as a powerful arc of chain lightning began to cascade chaotically around the cavern.
Alistair could not spare a glance — he was sword to sword with a hurlock, and it was snarling, pressing closer, and closer — he couldn't hold it off for much longer, it was much too strong —
With a shout, he dropped his offhand from his sword and punched forward with his shield. The heavy metal bashed their deadlocked weapons apart, and the hurlock stumbled forward, off-balance.
He was about to stab towards its exposed neck when the hairs on his arms began to stand on end, and the air around them hissed.
He dove backwards, just in time.
There was a great POP!, and the earth shook; a sudden flash of light blinded him, but he could still hear the harrowing screech of the hurlock as the lightning struck.
Alistair pressed himself up, blinking hard, shield barred high — but there was no need.
The hurlock was shrieking at an unholy decibel, electricity coursing through its hideous, convulsing body. Alistair watched the horrific scene as though in a trance, breathing hard, until the hurlock's cries cut off abruptly, and it collapsed into a sizzling heap on the floor.
No new darkspawn filled its place, and Alistair finally tore his eyes from the smoking corpse to shout a much delayed thanks at Varya.
"Nice one!" he said, turning to find she had left his side to retreat further back in the cave.
He watched as she leapt gracefully onto one of the platforms along the far wall, her offhand darting into the folds of her leather jacket to pull out a vial of lyrium. He hoped she had more vials tucked away in that mysterious inner belt of hers; she was likely mana-drained after her spell, and if the rumbling of the walls was any indicator, they were going to be at this for awhile.
But for now the tide of darkspawn had fallen back, beady eyes blinking warily from the gaps in the walls as they waited for Varya's spell to run its course.
In this unexpected lull Alistair took the opportunity to wipe the back of a gloved hand across his sweaty brow, and inhaled a deep breath.
He regretted it almost instantly; the air was thick with the acrid taste of singed flesh and caustic metal, and once again he was swallowing back bile.
Maker, he really shouldn't have eaten that ham.
The sudden wave of nausea brought him back to breakfast, just hours before, when the day had still been fresh and bright and filled with promise; to before they'd come across the cave entrance at a fork in the road, where their skulls hummed with darkspawn, and they'd had no choice but to investigate.
In his defense, when he'd made the decision to imbibe in the off-colored meat there was no way he could've known they were mere hours away from practically bathing in darkspawn guts. They generally waited until after lunch to do that.
"Alistair, watch out!"
Varya's shout came from somewhere behind him, and if it wasn't for the fear in it he might not have moved so fast.
He dove to the left, rotating midair to cover his back with his shield, just in time to watch a fist the size of Barkspawn come crashing down on the spot where he'd just stood.
The stone floor cracked on impact, cavern walls quaking ominously as the owner of the mace let out a skull-rattling roar.
Alistair should have known it would get worse. It always got worse.
He was quite sure the ogre was bigger than any they'd ever faced (though Varya's voice in his head reminded him he always said that), and it was definitely pissed.
Aliistair was on his feet in a flash, dodging behind a stalactite to get out of the monster's line of sight. As he watched the massive creature lumber around the cavern, smashing rocks, and barrels, and even other darkspawn, he promised Andraste he'd never take the easy days for granted again. Nest of giant spiders? Fine, just fine. Pack of wolves in the night? No problem. Hoards of undead monsters? Bring it on.
But this? Trapped deep underground, surrounded by a maze of tunnels, cornered by an ogre with only the two of them here to face it?
The entire thing was a nightmare, really, and Alistair had had enough of those to know that this one was bad.
Desperately hoping he hadn't sent them to their deaths when he stepped in the bloody trap that landed them here, he took a deep breath and stepped back out into the fray, scanning the room for Varya.
He found her an instant later: she was perched up on one of far corners of the cavern, balanced on a narrow outcropping of stone and shrouded in shadow. Her staff was crackling with electricity, eyes trained on the giant monster.
Her safety confirmed, he also turned to face the ogre, mind racing.
Their normal strategy wasn't going to work here, that much was clear. They couldn't confuse it with too many bodies — the last thing he wanted was Varya joining him on the ground, light-armored as she was — and the ceiling was too low to strike it from above, like the one they faced back at the Tower of Ishale.
They didn't have Sten to take the brunt of its beatings, and they didn't have Zev, to dart past it's fists and deliver a killing blow to its head, or throat. They didn't have Leliana, to pierce it with arrows from a distance, and they didn't have Wynne to heal them when things went wrong.
Maker, he'd even take Morrigan's help at this point.
Alistair dodged a boulder thrown by the ogre, then glanced back over at Varya, who had just sent a bolt of lightning to take down one of the remaining darkspawn on his left.
He desperately hoped she had a plan, because he sure as hell didn't have one.
Her shout came not two seconds later, light and melodious over the sounds of darkspawn death —
"Alistair, I have a plan!"
Maker, she really was the perfect woman.
Alistair cut off a stray genlock's head and glanced over at Varya, waiting for more — but nothing came.
"I'm gonna need a bit more to go on than that!" he shouted, pressing his back against a large stalactite as he watched the ogre squash an unlucky darkspawn into a pancake on the stone floor.
Gross.
The ogre lifted it's blood-covered fist with a guttural growl, shaking off bits of guts and gore. The scene served to clear the room of any remaining darkspawn, all of them shrieking and snarling as they made for the exits.
Varya was on a platform just off to his left now, her staff glowing blue, hair pulled loose from her braid and standing on end. Alistair stepped out from behind the massive stone just as the ogre was turning in her direction, seemingly drawn by the sound of her spell-casting.
He felt a thrill of panic rise in this chest — Maker, please don't let this ogre kill her right in front of him — but even though she was focused on preparing some spell he'd never seen before, she shouted:
"Alistair, distract it for me!"
His brain immediately supplied the less-than-helpful suggestion to dance the Remigold, but something told him that wasn't quite what she was going for — so he did the next best thing he could think of.
Alistair bashed the hilt of his sword and shield together as hard as he possibly could, each clanging strike leaving his skull rattling.
"Hey, you! Ogre! Yeah, you, over here!" he yelled, running towards the monster. "That's right, you big dummy! Over here!"
The ogre caught sight of him then, beady eyes narrowing as it let out a rumbling growl. Alistair froze under its gaze, sword mid-swing; he hadn't really thought this far ahead.
But the creature was readying itself to charge, and he knew there was no time to plan. Sending a silent prayer that the Maker please forgive him for his copious, largely cheese-related sins, Alistair began to run.
The cave was littered with large stalactite, and he weaved and wove through them, serpentining like he'd never serpentined before. The ground rumbled just behind him, the sound of shattering wood and stone far too close for comfort; he was about to turn to look over his shoulder when Varya shouted:
"On your left!"
He dove to his right, narrowly avoiding the ogre's gigantic figure as it barreled by.
Alistair didn't pause to watch the end of its charge; he pushed to his feet and began to run in the other direction, panting with effort and wishing for what he hoped wasn't the last time that his armor were lighter.
As he rounded an outcropping of rock and sped back towards the center of the cave, his eyes fell on Varya and he almost stopped dead in his tracks.
There was no other way to describe it: she was enchanting, in every sense of the word. The elven warden's petite body was framed by the blue shimmer of electricity, her wide eyes focused and fierce beneath a crown of luminescent hair. She was weaving her staff through the air in a style he didn't recognize - not quite like any Dalish magic he'd seen, but it wasn't Circle magic either - until she paused in her twirling to lift her staff up high, and then slammed it back to the ground with a shout.
Thunder clapped, the air buzzed, and all at once lightning erupted out of every large metal object in the room.
Alistair fell to the floor, his teeth rattling, body tingling; the lightning converged into one central strike, shooting over head towards the ogre. He rolled over to find the bolts of electricity had formed like a leash around the massive creature's neck, pinning it in place as it roared in outrage.
"It won't hold long!" Varya shouted, voice straining with effort, barely audible over the ogre's angry cries. "Alistair, go!"
She didn't need to ask twice.
Alistair began to sprint, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword as he clambered gracelessly up the monster's armored back.
The ogre was vibrating with electricity, still desperately trying to break free from its lightning leash; Alistair pressed off its massive pauldrons into a downright reckless leap, winding back his sword before falling forward with all his might to strike the beast right between its two massive horns.
The blade pierced through flesh and bone and brains, splattering black blood all over Alistair's chest and face. He sputtered, hands slipping from his sword as he reached blindly forward; he was met with only air, there was nothing to grab hold of and he couldn't see — his stomach dropped as he fell backwards, feet sliding off the monster's shoulders as it howled a deathly cry.
Alistair was aware of the brief sensation of weightlessness, during which he desperately hoped that had all looked as impressive as it felt — and then there was an explosion of pain, and everything went black.
When Alistair came to, it felt as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his chest.
He blinked into consciousness, and found he wasn't entirely wrong: there was definitely something large and heavy on top of him, making it hard to breathe, or move. Not that he had much of a desire to move, really; every part of his body felt as though he'd been punched by someone who didn't like him very much,
At that thought the ringing in his ears suddenly lowered in pitch, and he realized somebody was saying something.
"Alistair! Alistair!"
He blinked, vision still fuzzy. There was a big silver blob moving towards him, and when it drew closer he recognized the radiant glint of Varya's hair in the lamplight.
There were sounds of effort, her angelic face hovering not too far from his, and then the weight on his chest was gone. He breathed in a deep, gasping breath, then proceeded to cough quite painfully.
"Alistair, are you all right? Alistair, say something!"
He winced at the pitch of her voice; it made him feel as though a stray bolt of lightning was clanging around somewhere between his brain and his skull. He tried to communicate as much, but all that came out was: "Eughhhh."
In what he considered to be a strikingly insensitive response, Varya leaned away from him and giggled.
"Heeeey," he complained, indignation rousing him enough to form cotton-mouthed words. "I was almost squashed by an ogre, you can't make fun of me right now!"
"Oh, it was just an arm — you're fine!" she said, waving her own arm in a dismissive gesture. His mouth opened to form a retort, but she put a pacifying hand on his elbow. "I'm just happy to hear your sad little whiny sounds again, that's all."
Alistair did his best to ignore the fact that she was touching him, and focused on being outraged.
"Woooow, I see how it is," he said, lifting his head to catch her eye. "Not gonna lie, your bedside manner is pretty bleak, Varya — if this is the welcome I'm waking up to, I think I'd rather go back to being unconscious. I was very well received there."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't move her hand.
"Oh, hush," she said, giving him a stern look. "I'm not falling for your tricks again — remember that time at the Temple of Sacred Ashes when you spent an entire day milking a sprained ankle, just to guilt Wynne into giving you an extra serving of dinner? Or that time on the shores of Lake Calenhad when you — "
"Alright, alright, point taken," Alistair chuckled, the sound of it dulled by the ringing in his ears. His smile instantly turned into a wince, however, when he tried to press up to a seated position; everything hurt.
Varya's jovial expression was gone in a flash.
"Alright, seriously — are you okay, Alistair?"
He went to answer glibly, but as soon he opened his mouth she caught his gaze, and he felt his deflection crumble in the deep blue depths of her eyes.
"I… don't think anything's broken?" he ventured.
She tutted at that, and immediately began a more thorough examination, prompting him to move different parts of his body while she checked for any obvious wounds. Alistair obliged, wincing all the while, but it was as he said — nothing appeared to be broken. They both agreed he'd likely knocked his head a bit too hard, though.
He was about to make some self-deprecating remark about the denseness of his skull when Varya's eyes narrowed, fixing on something behind him. He turned to see what was distracting her and felt his stomach drop through the floor.
The contents of his belt pouch were scattered across the uneven stone ground: he could make out some empty vials of health draught, his worry stone, a small carved statue Varya had given him, and —
The rose.
The rose he'd been carrying for weeks now.
The rose he meant to give to her, at some unspecified point in the vague and likely distant future.
It was the rose he lay awake twiddling with, every night alone in his tent. He'd run his fingers down the its thorny stem, imagining all the ways he was going to woo his fellow warden with charming words and sweet romantic gestures; he'd imagine telling her how he picked the flower all the way back in Lothering, and that it reminded him of her, like a beautiful beacon of life in the midst of so much darkness; he'd tell her how the rose never seemed to wilt, despite all the time that had passed, and how it must be a sign from the Maker himself that —
"What is that?" Varya's curious voice brought him back to the present, where she was staring between him and the rose with great interest.
Alistair gulped. Maker, why do you do this to me?
"Oh, that old thing?" he said, desperately trying to be casual. "That's just, well, you know, uhm… my new weapon of choice?"
His voice came out high-pitched and rushed, the panic starting to set in; he'd always imagined giving her the rose over a fine bottle of wine, perhaps while looking out at a scenic sunset; he'd certainly not planned for it to be like this, while he lay on the floor of a dark, dank cavern, all covered in darkspawn guts and barely able to form coherent thoughts.
In fact, he could not recall a single one of devastatingly romantic proclamations he'd spent weeks preparing; the words abandoned him in his moment of need, just like everything else in his life —
But now her lips were parting to form what looked like another question, and in a haze of near hysteria he found himself practically shouting:
"Take it!"
Varya went very still, blinking at him in alarm. He didn't blame her one bit — he sounded insane.
"Uhm… take it?" she repeated, quirking her head to one side, eyebrows raised.
Alistair couldn't help himself.
"Yeah, well, I'd originally planned on giving it to the ogre, but we all know how that turned out, so…"
Varya graced him with a little snigger, but she didn't say anything — she just continued to stare at him with a bemused expression, as though waiting for him to speak. As though she wasn't annoyed that he'd said something sarcastic instead of something sweet, and would patiently wait for him to say what he actually meant.
Alistair sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and tried again.
"What I meant to say was that I thought I might… give it to you, actually," he said, hoping she didn't notice the way his voice cracked at the words. "Because, well… because I think you're incredible, Varya."
It wasn't even close to encompassing everything he'd planned to say, but it was true; he knew this because his cheeks were burning red, and he felt a desperate desire to crawl into a hole and never emerge again.
Even so, he willed himself to watch her response.
Varya was blinking owl-like back at him, and that was when he noticed she had a blob of darkspawn blood dripping off her cheek; even through the fog of anxiety he knew it was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.
"Wow, Alistair! It's beautiful," she was saying, picking up the flower with an appreciative sigh — and though the sound of it warmed the hole in his chest that had never seemed to fill before he met her, he could tell she didn't understand.
And he knew then with a sudden, urgent certainty that he had to make sure she did.
"No, Varya," he said, surprising himself when he reached out to grasp her arm, pulling her gaze to his.
His head was roaring, but not with darkspawn; he didn't hear anything at all, really, and all he could see was her giant blue eyes blinking up at him, still amused, and maybe a little bit concerned.
This probably wasn't the time for this.
This definitely wasn't the time for this.
But he didn't care, because she was magnificent, and he was completely smitten, and he couldn't pretend for one minute longer that there was anything in the world more important than her knowing it.
His hand tightened around her arm again, without meaning to, and he felt a flash of encouragement when she leaned forward in response.
They were very close together now, and he could feel the whisper of her breath on his cheeks, and see the little specks of purple around the irises of her eyes —
She was waiting — holding her breath, he noticed, just as he was — and he realized should probably say… something.
"Varya, I — I think you're incredible," he said, again.
Like an idiot.
Yet even though the words were not forming how he wanted them to, this time it was different, and he saw her realize it, too.
Varya's mouth parted into a slight "oh" of surprise, her eyes wide and round, and he readied himself for the rush of disappointment — but it didn't come.
Instead she smiled, looking up at him as though he'd said something very wonderful indeed, and he found himself completely entranced by her lips.
They were parting, and she was still smiling, so tenderly; he felt a thrill rise in his stomach as she leaned ever so slightly forward, and he did too —
Until he froze in place, eyes going wide as he realized it was more than a thrill rising in his stomach…
Maker, no. Please, no, not right now, no —
But the Maker was a cruel god, of this he was sure, for his stomach chose this precise moment to let out an unreasonably loud, distressingly prolonged gurgle.
It went on far longer than it had any right to, and ended with a meandering little groan that left him wishing he'd never been born.
Varya blinked in surprise at the sound, falling back onto her heels with a little "oof!"; Alistair, on the other hand, was burying his head in his hands with shame.
If only the Maker had let him die, squashed like a pancake beneath that stupid ogre's stupid fist before this moment ever came to pass. Surely such a fate would have been better than this.
And yet… as he watched from behind his fingers, he realized Varya was not acting in any way like she wanted him to go away. In fact, she was giving him a genuinely sympathetic look, and he was just beginning to hope the moment might be salvageable after all when her eyes suddenly narrowed, nose tilting up in the air like a wolf sniffing out a scent on the wind.
He realized what was happening a split second later, and clapped two hands over his mouth — but it was too late.
"Alistair," Varya said, biting her lip as though to keep from laughing, "is that… ham, that I'm smelling on your breath?"
Alistair often anticipated ruining moments — it was something of a specialty of his. But this… this was something else entirely.
This was death.
He hadn't said anything, but apparently the guilt was plastered all over his face; Varya took one look at him and her mouth dropped open, round eyes growing somehow wider.
"Creators, Alistair, Barkspawn refused to eat that ham!"
That wasn't entirely true; the dog had initially refused the off-colored meat, but he'd definitely enjoyed the leftover bones once Alistair was done…
He wasn't sure whether this helped his case or not, though, so decided to keep that little detail to himself.
"It wasn't that bad," he muttered instead, hanging his head rather glumly.
"Alistair, it was that bad."
Something in her voice gave him pause, however; he chanced a look up to meet her eyes, and was shocked by what he found there.
He'd been expecting repulsion. He'd been expecting to find her glaring at him like he was the worst thing since Broodmothers, like he was a pathetic excuse for a man, barely worthy of the air he now breathed.
But that was not what he saw staring back, not at all.
Varya's lips were spreading into a gigantic smile — her teeth bared in that way she did when she was really amused — and she said:
"Honestly, Alistair, I'm just impressed."
Alistair narrowed his eyes. Surely she couldn't be serious?
"Impressed?" he repeated, letting his hands fall from his face to rest on the floor at his sides.
Varya nodded eagerly, still grinning.
"Yes, impressed — it's genuinely impressive you were able to get that ham down. It was very gross."
Alistair snorted despite himself.
"It… was kinda gross, yeah," he said, allowing himself a tentative smile.
Varya laughed. "I bet it was! In all honesty I can't blame you, though — sometimes I get so hungry I actually convince myself I enjoy your 'Fereldan stews', so, you know… not all that different, right?"
Alistair let out a surprised bark of laughter, which he cut off abruptly to stare at her, barely able to believe she was real; honestly he had no idea what he should be feeling right now, or doing, and apparently Varya didn't know, either.
She had gone silent, and they both stared at one another as though waiting for something to happen. The moment stretched on, and on, and on, until quite suddenly she began to giggle. She giggled, and then snorted a little, and then she was laughing, very hard, and after he recovered from the shock of it Alistair began to laugh, too.
They laughed at the absurdity of the current situation, and everything surrounding it; they laughed at how insane their lives were, and they laughed because they had absolutely no idea what to do next.
They were still rolling around on the floor, laughing rather maniacally at one another, when a haughty voice rang out from somewhere behind them.
"Well well well, what do we have here?"
Alistair felt all the joy whoosh out of him like a punch in the gut; that was his very least favorite voice to hear, ever.
They turned to find the Swamp Bitch herself standing in the archway of a tunnel, one eyebrow raised over pursed lips. Before either of them could respond Zevran appeared at her side, amber eyes glinting wickedly.
"Sounds like they've been having quite a nice time down here, wouldn't you say? Much more fun than we are having…" he said, so suggestively that Alistair felt his cheeks begin to burn.
Even Morrigan rolled her eyes at the assassin, just as Leliana stepped out of the tunnel on her other side. The red-headed bard peered around the cavern, taking in the considerable destruction left in their wake — and the massive dead ogre.
"You are… alright, then?" she said a breath later, looking between the pair of them with obvious amusement.
They were still sitting quite close together, Alistair with his legs outstretched, Varya kneeling inches from the arm he was propped up on. Doing his best to act as though the entire situation was totally, completely normal, he said:
"We're fine!", just as Varya loudly proclaimed, "We are!"
Leliana raised her brow at their enthusiasm, and Alistair was just about to say something to distract them all — but then he noticed that Varya was still holding the rose in her lap.
Maker, no.
But it was too late: Leliana followed his horrified gaze, and he saw her see the rose, and he saw her understand what it meant, and he very much wished she would un-see it.
"What do you have there, Varya?" the rogue immediately asked, ignoring his sputtering attempt to stop her.
Varya froze, body going rigid as a flush color crept up her cheeks. Alistair felt a sudden and desperate urge to position himself between her and the rest of the party, like a human shield; he resisted the impulse because it would be very weird, and also because his body would probably fall apart if he tried to move that quickly.
"Oh, uhm, it's just a, uh, you know — a flower," she was saying, hands shaking at the buttons of her belt pouch as she went to tuck the rose out of sight. Alistair opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what he would say but desperate to draw their attention away from her — but he was once again cut off.
"Wherever did you come across such a thing, I wonder?" Morrigan crooned, yellow eyes flashing as she stepped further into the cavern. "Surely roses do not sprout in a place such as this?"
Leliana clapped a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle, and Varya shot an apologetic look his way, her cheeks still burning red.
Alistair barely noticed, too busy looking skyward and wishing he were anywhere but here.
Maker, why do you insist on torturing me so? What have I done to deserve this?
Desperately trying to keep things moving along, he tried to press up to a standing position, only to begin swaying as soon as he got to his feet; turns out he was still a bit woozy. Before he could even think to ask, Varya's small hands appeared out of nowhere to press against his side. He leaned into her with a grateful sigh, the world growing steady again.
Leliana watched this with a very satisfied smirk, and Alistair did not like that one bit.
"Took you lot long enough, didn't it?" he snapped, a bit more venomously than he'd intended.
"Something tells me you didn't mind how long we took at all, my delightfully opportunistic friend…" Zev purred from the corner, and Alistair felt a hot rage bubble up in his belly.
Varya ignored the assassin, however, and before Alistair could form a worthy retort she looked to Leliana and said:
"Where's Wynne? Alistair took a bit of a beating, and could really use some attention."
"She stayed behind to watch over our supplies, with Sten. Oh, are you alright, Alistair?" Leliana sounded genuinely concerned, which mollified his indignation — a bit.
"Oh you know, just spent the morning chopping up darkspawn, and almost got squashed by an ogre — all in a day's work though, am I right?"
Varya nudged him with her elbow, and he tried to ignore the fact that she was still positioned under the crook of his arm, her body very close to his.
"I think it's probably a mild concussion," Varya mused, then looked up at him. "Can you walk, Alistair? Do you think you can make it to Wynne?"
"I for one do not wish to tarry here," Morrigan cut in, voice cold. "We are not likely to be alone for long."
Alistair surprised everyone present by agreeing with her.
"She's right — we should get a move on," he said, putting on a brave face. "I'll be fine, it's not so bad."
Varya narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't say anything. He reluctantly stepped away from her, lifting his hands for emphasis.
"See? Walking, all on my own now. I'm fine."
His head was pounding like an overeager war drummer had taken up residence in his skull, and the entire left side of his body screamed in protest at every movement — but he was fine.
"Then let us make haste to the surface, now that we have rescued our dear warden friends," Zevran declared, gesturing towards the doorway they'd entered from.
Morrigan nodded curtly, and without another word turned on her heel to climb up into the tunnel. Zev and Leliana filed after her, both shooting sly glances back their way before disappearing under the archway.
Varya did not move to follow, however; she was still standing in the middle of the cavern, motionless, looking very much like she had something to say.
Here it comes, he thought, chest seizing with dread; I've made her uncomfortable, and she never wants to talk to me again; she think I'm a giant gross human who smells like dead pig, and —
"Thank you, Alistair," was what she did end up saying, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
"For what?" he immediately asked, bewildered.
For almost getting them killed? For sounding like a deranged lunatic, and trying to kiss her while he smelled like bad ham? For —
His train of thought cut off abruptly when Varya laughed, a sound like sunshine and summer, and then she leaned forward, much closer than she'd ever been before.
"Thank you for the rose — and for everything, really," she said, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. "Thank you for always being there for me, even after I tell you to go away. Thank you for making me laugh, no matter how tired, or sad, or mad I am. Thank you for being so brave, and kind, and silly, and… well, I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you for being you, Alistair. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."
And then, before his body or brain had any time to process what was happening, she was pressing up to her tip-toes, one hand on the front of his cuirass for balance as she kissed him ever so tenderly on the cheek.
His mind went completely blank, stunned into a roaring stupor. Varya dropped back to her heels, a little breathlessly, and smiled up at him again.
"In case it wasn't clear — I think you're pretty incredible, too," she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
Alistair was still incapable of speech, quite confident he must have died while fighting that ogre; all of this must be some sort of elaborate death dream, a final gift from the Maker before the end —
But the feeling didn't pass, and she was just standing there, blinking up at him through her pale lashes, until he finally, finally accepted that this was real.
She felt the same way.
She felt the same way, and she had kissed him!
With a start he realized his hand was at his cheek, touching the spot where she'd pressed her lips. He let it fall dumbly to his side, just as it occurred to him that he should probably say something.
"R-right," he said, voice shaking, betraying the shudder of emotion humming in his chest. "G-good, I'm, uh, glad to hear it!"
Maker, what is wrong with him…
She giggled again, and in spite of himself he began to smile, too. In fact he smiled so hard it felt as though his entire face might split in two, and he was pretty sure he looked a little bit deranged.
Varya didn't seem to care, though, so he didn't either.
They stood like that, grinning at each other like idiots, until the echo of Zevran's laughter in the tunnel ahead broke the spell.
"C'mon, we should… probably get a move on. Don't want to lose the others again," she said, biting her lip in an exceedingly fascinating way.
Displaying an impressive amount of self-restraint, Alistair did not announce that he'd gladly lose the others if it meant more time alone with her. Instead he lifted his chin and gestured gallantly into the air before them, and said:
"But of course — lead the way, milady!"
She rolled her eyes at that — she hated being called a lady — but his heart flipped at the way her lips curled up at the corners all the same.
With one final smile Varya turned, and began to hike up the tunnel. Alistair, however, lingered in the archway, not quite ready to move just yet.
He watched her retreating figure for a moment — definitely not staring at the sway of her hips as she walked, nope, not at all — and then sighed.
Nothing about today had gone according to plan. Not this Maker-forsaken cave, or it's devious traps; not the hoards of darkspawn, or fight with the ogre; not the way he'd given her the rose, or what had come after —
But as he stood there watching her walk up towards the surface, towards whatever their future might hold, Alistair lifted his gloved hand to the cheek she had kissed and let the bubble of something warm, and happy, and incredibly hopeful fill the carefully guarded hollow in his chest.
None of it had gone according to plan, not even close, but in this particular case he wouldn't change a single thing.
He paused at the thought, re-considering; but a moment later he nodded, feeling quite sure.
Yep, he thought, smiling to himself as he began to walk — he'd even keep the ham.
Fin