Notes:

Alistair takes on the Nightmare.

Two new chapters in two days! What shocking productivity! I felt so cruel for the last chapter's cliffhanger that I thought I should post this chapter pretty sharpish...

His stomach drops.

Even though it's what he wanted. He wanted to stay and face the Nightmare while the others fled. He wouldn't have offered to stay had he not meant it. But there's a tiny, traitorous part of him that wishes that he weren't so noble, that wishes he'd made the selfish choice and let Hawke stay instead.

But Thedas needs Hawke. She's the Champion, a woman of unimaginable power and charisma. She'd almost single-handedly held the City of Kirkwall together; she'd started a revolution that had completely altered the face of Thedas. He knows from conversations with Varric that it was she who Cassandra had originally sought out for Inquisitor. She is a figurehead; she is a hero.

And Alistair is nothing. Alistair is a bastard, an unwanted orphan, a failed Templar, an exiled Warden. He'd moved from place to place his whole life, never wanted, never belonging. He'd spent the better part of the last decade aimlessly wandering around the Free Marches and getting blindingly drunk. He is no hero.

His death would not be mourned like Hawke's would. Who would mourn him? He has no family. He has few friends. The Wardens would not lament the death of their long-exiled comrade. Leliana would be sad for a time perhaps but that sadness would soon pass.

Bron, shouts a voice inside his head, Bron will mourn you.

And he supposes she will. She might not love him like he does her but he knows that she does care for him. Would she have put up with him for this long if she didn't? If she didn't care for him then surely she would have just delivered him to the Inquisition as intended and then moved on to other tasks. But instead she'd followed him to Adamant, fought with him to the bitter end.

Yes, Bron will mourn him. It might not be much – just one soul lamenting the loss of his – but it's enough.

He knows he should say goodbye. Say goodbye to Eleri, who gave him a second chance of proving himself worthwhile; say goodbye to Hawke, who refused to let him wallow in self-pity and misery during his exile.

But most of all, he should say goodbye to Bron – precious, precious Bron – who saw the best in him, who inspired him, who filled these last few months with laughter and friendship and love. If they were characters in one of Varric's books, he would wrap her in his arms, hold her tight, kiss her thoroughly and completely. But he can't say goodbye – can't touch her, can't even talk – because he knows his resolve will crumble if he does.

So instead he turns, and he runs.

"For the Wardens!" he shouts as he charges toward the Nightmare. He's not really sure why that's his battle cry – it's not like he's much of a Warden anymore. But his short time under Duncan was really the only time in his whole life that he had felt like he was home and it seems as good a cry as any other.

He can hear shouting behind him, immediately recognises the voice as Bron's. And though he can't make out what she's saying, he can tell from the tone that she's angry. For a moment he's almost glad that the Nightmare will kill him – surely he'd rather face an angry demon than an angry Bron?

He stifles a laugh.

Eleri and her companions are nowhere to be seen, the Nightmare fills his entire field of view. All he can see is a mass of writhing pink flesh and a curtain of roving tentacles. He hopes that they've already run passed, that they're already well on their way to the Rift.

He brings up his long-sword with a cry and slices through the first tentacle he reaches, then another and another. The Nightmare screams, it's body twitching with pain at his assault. Great sheets of saliva fall from the creature's gaping maw and Alistair struggles to maintain his balance on the water-slicked stone. He keeps on running, slicing at tentacles. The Nightmare's body comes thrusting down as it snaps at him with its fang-lined mouth. Alistair raises his shield more out of instinct than any genuine belief that he can deflect the blow.

A fang comes through the shield, piercing easily through the metal and missing his arm by mere centimetres. Alistair is pulled off his feet as the Nightmare moves, dangling from his shield where it is thoroughly wedged on the demon's fang. He drops his sword and starts tugging at the shield's straps to free his arm. When the straps finally come lose, his body falls to the ground with a sharp thunk that makes his bones rattle. His back was already sore from when the Pride Demon threw him into a wall, now it's in utter agony.

He's fallen several metres from his sword and now stands without weapon or shield under the writhing mass of the Nightmare.

Shit.

He starts running for his sword, though he knows the weapon is little use to him. Even with his sword in hand, could he ever deliver a deadly blow against such an enormous foe? No, it is clear to him that his death is inevitable. But he wants to at least give up a good fight before the end. And besides – Alistair is angry. He's angry that the Wardens were seduced by the Venatori into aiding Corypheus; he's angry that he was betrayed by someone he called friend and sent into exile; he's angry that he was sent from his uncle's house as a child and forced into the Chantry; he's angry that he was abandoned by an indifferent father. Alistair has endured so much shit in his relatively short lifetime and he's angry and now – at the end of all things – he wants to channel that anger and make this demon suffer.

Tentacles reach for him as he runs, snapping the air as he jumps and ducks out of their way. His sword is just ahead and he dives the last few feet until the sword is just within his grasp. His fingers graze the edge of the hilt when a tentacle wraps around his waist and he is pulled off the ground. The tentacle shakes him back and forth and he can feel his brain rattling, his bones shaking with each fierce lurch. He'd hoped that death would come quickly but he should have guessed that the Nightmare would like to play with its victim before letting the end come.

Suddenly he's sent flying to the ground and he skids along the hard floor before coming to a halt. At first he assumes that the tentacle threw him to the ground, toying with him, but then he sees that the tentacle is still wrapped around his waist. Only the tentacle is no longer attached to the Nightmare's body; it has been cleanly sliced, red gore oozing out of the open wound.

What in the void?

A spurt of red gore streams from the Nightmare's body where the tentacle was severed and Alistair must be concussed from the fall – or perhaps it's some trick of the Fade – because he's sure he can see Bron beneath the cascade of red, hacking determinedly at tentacle after tentacle with Alistair's long-sword in hand.

She spins and ducks to avoid the searching grasp of the tentacles, hacking them off one after another. When the great, fanged mouth snaps at her, she thrusts the sword above her, causing the creature to flinch and giving her enough time to roll away. It's an impressive ballet of movement and Alistair is painfully reminded of just how clumsy he is in comparison.

He needs to get up, needs to get off the floor and help her… somehow. He wriggles to free himself from the grip of the severed tentacle (still strong even in death) then staggers unsteadily to his feet. He runs toward Bron. He doesn't know whether he can help or whether he'll just prove a hindrance but he doesn't really care. All that matters is that Bron is here and that he needs to be by her side.

She doesn't greet him when he reaches her, simply thrusts his sword into his hands. "You probably want to keep hold of this," she quips, smirking wickedly as she removes her own blade from the sheath at her belt.

He smiles at her attempt at humour – amazed that she's here, that she's alive, that's she making jokes – but his joy is a short-lived thing. Whatever happiness he feels at seeing her is immediately quashed when he thinks – she shouldn't be here. She was supposed to run with the others. She was supposed to be safe. He wanted to sacrifice himself so that she could be safe. But instead she's here with him and she's going to die with him and it's… it's all wrong!

The Nightmare thrusts his body down and Alistair grabs Bron around the waist to pull her away from a large, protracted fang. The sharpened tooth clinks against the stone floor and there's an ear-piercing shriek as it's dragged along the ground. Bron brushes Alistair aside then dives forward to pierce a wildly shaking tentacle. He admires her determination but he knows it's pointless; no matter how many tentacles they chop off, there always seems to be more. And what if they did manage to sever each and every tentacle? How would they then destroy the Nightmare completely? How does one defeat an enemy who has feasted on fear from thousands of years of misery?

"We can't win this," he mutters, more to himself than to Bron but she raises her head sharply when he speaks nonetheless.

"If we cannot win, then we must retreat," she responds, and while her suggestion is a perfectly sensible one, Alistair's not sure whether it's actually feasible. This is no ordinary battlefield – this is the Fade – and he's not sure whether retreat is even possible when the enemy is a manifestation of your own terror.

"Where-?"

"No questions. Just-" she pushes him, nods toward the tunnel that led them to the Nightmare in the first place, "run!"

There's a moment of hesitation. If he runs, will Bron follow? Will the Nightmare? But there's not enough time for questions; indecision will only kill them both.

Alistair runs.

He thrashes his sword around his head as he sprints across the gore-riddled field. He's not aiming at anything, just hoping that he will somehow manage to keep away the tentacles and the Nightmare's chomping mouth. He can't really see Bron, although he thinks he can sense her just over his shoulder. He can't turn around to check that she's there, it will only slow him down and he needs to hurry and reach the tunnel before the Nightmare reaches them.

He can hear the demon behind them, the towering legs cracking stone as each spidery limb takes a step forward. The ground shakes with each colossal step and Alistair is already so unsteady on his feet that it takes all his concentration not to fall.

He ducks when he reaches the tunnel entrance, though the roof of the tunnel is high enough that there's no chance that he could hit his head. But he's not really thinking straight, just running on pure instinct as he makes this desperate last bid for safety. A second after he's entered the tunnel, there's a resounding crash as the Nightmare hits into the tunnel's entrance. It's too big to fit inside of course, but its skittering legs grope and grasp at the ground.

When Alistair finally stops running, he's about halfway through the tunnel. He can still see the Nightmare desperately pawing at the entrance but he can also see light from the other end. He collapses onto the stone floor – exhausted, entirely spent. With clumsy fingers, he pulls at the buckles of his armour. It's too heavy – too hot. He can barely move, the splintmail trapping his wearied limbs like a cage. He just needs to get it off – now.

When he finally shucks the last piece of his armour he immediately sucks in a deep breath of air. It's not cool like he would expect, instead stale and warm. But he supposes it's better than nothing. Without the armour, his chest can rise and fall freely with each breath. His limbs feel lighter. They're still aching and stiff with exhaustion buts it's… well, an improvement.

He suddenly bolts upright when he realises that he can't see Bron (and he curses himself for being so mindless – for running without checking that Bron had followed) and is immensely relieved when he spies her a short way behind him, leaning heavily on a boulder and desperately gulping to regain her breath.

He walks over to her briskly. They've successfully reached the tunnel – and that's an achievement that Alistair honestly did not expect – but they can't stay here. The Nightmare will reach them eventually, even if it has to tear down the entire mountain of rock to reach them.

"We need to keep moving," he says when he's reached her, and he hates how cold he sounds, how practical, but their situation is still dire and he can't risk emotion making him foolish. Trapped in the Fade, pursued by a demon, is still not the best place for emotional declarations.

"Where?" she asks between ragged gasps of air.

"I don't know," he responds truthfully, "the Divine spirit led us through this path; I'm not sure there are any others. If we follow this path back the way we came, it might just be a dead-end. The Nightmare will catch up with us again."

"Why follow the path at all?" she asks, and it's not the response Alistair was expecting. It sounds… honestly, it sounds a little crazy. He looks at her with open confusion. "We don't need a specific path because we're not trying to get anywhere," she continues, "We're just trying to get away. So don't follow a path."

"Then how-?

"We jump," she replies matter-of-factly, as if her answer is obvious and he's a fool for even asking.

Alistair just stares at her like she's mad. And perhaps she is. After all, they are trapped in the Fade, pursued by a Nightmare demon, and with no possible route of escape. It's enough to push anyone over the brink into the pit of insanity.

"The normal rules of reality don't apply here," she explains, her tone still steady and only mildly patronising, "Everything here is just… an expression of thought. We need to stop thinking of this place like it's the normal world. We need to start – marshaling our thoughts."

"So we… jump?" he asks, still uncertain, "and just – think really hard?"

It's a ridiculous plan. It is genuinely the stupidest thing he has ever heard. She wants to jump into the nothingness of the Fade and think of escape and just hope and pray that they find sanctuary and don't just fall to their deaths, or get caught by the Nightmare.

"Do you have any better ideas?" she asks snappishly.

Hmm… no, he supposes, no he doesn't. There's nothing he can really say to argue. And, really, what's the point in trying to argue anyway? He can think of no better suggestions, no other methods of escape. And besides, it has been his experience so far that things tend to work out for the best as long as he trusts in Bron. Why should things be any different now?

He grabs her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, and gives a squeeze.

"Together?" he asks.

"Always," she replies, returning the squeeze.

And then they run. Dashing from the tunnel, the echoing sound of the Nightmare behind them. They jump over rocks and ledges, abandoned furniture and the peculiar detritus of the Fade. They sprint up an incline, feet charging up the steep levee, pushed forward purely through momentum and determination. At the top of the slope, there is no hesitation, no pause.

They jump.

Beyond the rock there is nothing, an endless void punctured with distant floating mountains and rivers of light. Alistair's not sure whether they're falling upward or downward, or even if they're moving at all. He cannot feel the wind in his hair, or the tug of gravity pulling him back to the ground; he can feel nothing at all.

It doesn't really matter though. It doesn't matter where they're going, or where they're not going. As long as the Nightmare does not follow. As long as he has Bron. As long as her hand stays snugly encased in his own.

That's what matters – that's all that matters.

There is the void – an airless abyss. Sometimes there are rocks, molded into unnatural landscapes, or whorls of water that twist and turn like snakes. There's light and mist and Bron's not sure which way is up and which way is down. In fact, she's not even sure whether 'up' and 'down' even really exist anymore. But she's sure that she's floating, not falling, or flying, just – suspended in the nothingness.

And then the nothingness is gone and instead there's ground – it comes seemingly from nowhere; one moment she's floating, the next her legs are shuddering as her feet hit solid stone and then they crumble beneath her and she falls into a heap on the floor. She knows she can't stay here, splayed on the ground with her eyes scrunched tightly shut. She doesn't know where she is, she doesn't know whether the Nightmare followed – she has a hundred questions for which she needs answers. Answers that won't be found while lying on the floor. She needs to scope her surroundings, identify any threats, devise some sort of plan of action.

But instead she stays still – she just needs this one moment, just a little time to catch her breath and process everything that's just happened.

Her hand is still enclosed in Alistair's, her fingers entwined with his, and she can feel him gripping tightly, almost painfully so. He's spread out beside her, limbs trembling and breath laboured. She rolls over until she can see him properly, rakes her eyes over his battered body to reassure herself that he's indeed alive.

There's a gash on his forehead, bleeding profusely, and a purple bruise blossoming over his left eye. His shirt is mottled with mud and great slashes of blood that stand jauntily in contrast to his dull, grimy shirt. Bron has no idea how much of the blood is his but she fears that he has suffered far more wounds than she can see.

"Are we safe?" he asks with a wheeze, eyes still wrinkled shut.

"I… I don't know," she admits.

Alistair abruptly sits up, eyes now open and alert, then scrambles to his feet. He looks panicked, scanning the horizon in search of the Nightmare or worse. Bron follows, mirroring his movements, searching their immediate surroundings in search of danger. The Nightmare is nowhere to be seen, no wraiths, no demons of any kind. Wherever they are – they seem safe for now.

Alistair has clearly come to the same conclusion and some of the tension is released from his shoulders – not all, of course, they are still in the Fade after all, but he seems more at ease now than he has since they arrived in this world of unreality.

He suddenly turns to face her, mouth opening and closing a few times as if trying to say something but struggling to conjure the words.

Bron can understand his difficulty; she too has a world of words trapped behind her teeth. Words about the Fade, words about the Nightmare – mostly words about him. She thought he was going to die. When they fell from the Keep, when he ran to face the Nightmare – she'd thought him dead but instead he's alive and he's safe and she's so… just, so relieved. But there's not just relief. She's scared, she's happy, she's mad, and a million other feelings that she can't identify. She cares for him – she loves –

No – wait – not now, not yet.

She opens her mouth. She should tell him something. She should tell him how glad she is that he still lives, how furious she is that he ran to certain death against the Nightmare (and without even trying to explain himself to her!). But before she can say anything, he steps forward and grips her shoulders forcefully.

"What in the void are you doing here?!" he shouts with more force than she would have expected from him.

At first she's confused by his reaction. Isn't he happy to see her? Why is there such frustration in his eyes? But her confusion is soon replaced with anger – she's the one who should be shouting at him. He tried to leave her behind. "Are you really yelling at me right now?!" she shouts back with equal force, "I just saved your life!"

"I didn't need you to save my life," he snarls, "I needed you to go through the rift!"

"I wasn't going to leave you here," she says, shocked that he would ever think it possible that she would leave him.

"Someone had to stay here," he says, "someone had to distract the Nightmare long enough for everyone to escape. It had to be me."

"But it didn't have to be only you," she argues back, growing increasingly frustrated with his stubbornness but also his unexpectedly angry reaction.

"I wanted you to be safe!" he cries, and he gives her shoulders a little shake to punctuate his words.

His words only flame her anger. "I don't give a shit about what you wanted! What about what I wanted?"

His eyes go wide for a moment then narrow thoughtfully. She can see the cogs whirring behind his eyes – he hadn't thought of that; probably hadn't even considered how his death would devastate her. And maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't realise the depth of her feelings for him, even after all this time.

"Did you really think I would leave you here?!" she cries, and there's pain in her voice as well as anger, "after everything we've been through?"

"Yes, actually…" he says, then shrugs awkwardly, "kind of…"

"Then you're a bloody idiot!" she snaps before sighing in frustration, trying to vent away her anger as she exhales. She suddenly realises just how close he's standing, his hands still gripping her shoulders, and it's easy for her to reach up and slowly stroke her palm against his blood-streaked cheek. When she starts talking again, her voice is softer, almost timorous, "I will never leave you, Alistair. I will stay by your side no matter what. And if you fall – then I fall alongside you."

There's confusion in his eyes – and maybe shock? And Bron thinks there might be a slight flush of pink in his cheeks but it's hard to tell over the grime and gore. "I don't understand," he mutters, "why?"

And his question nearly breaks her heart – he seems so utterly confused by the prospect that there is someone in the world willing to die for him. Does he really not see his worth?

"Because I care about you, Alistair!" she shouts, louder than she'd intended. She tries to even out her tone, but she can't stop her voice from trembling with emotion. "I care about you, Alistair. More than anyone. More than I dare to admit. The thought of losing you… I can't bare it, I can't – I can't breath, I-"

He moves then, stepping even closer and raising his hands to frame her face. He's quick, darting his head forward then suddenly pausing with his lips a mere whisper away from her own. She's not sure why he stopped – maybe waiting for some sign of permission?

She's happy to oblige, wrapping her hands in the front of his shirt and pulling him down until his mouth meets hers in a blistering kiss. There's a surge of warmth, followed by a pleasant flip-flop in the pit of her stomach. He's standing so close, his body pressed flush against her own, towering above her smaller frame so that he's forced to curl over her. It feels safe. It feels like coming home.

His lips move, coaxing hers open, nipping at her bottom lip before his tongue darts out to taste her. She tries to respond with equal fervour, tipping her head back so that he can deepen the kiss.

His hands are still framing her face and his thumbs gently stroke across her cheekbones and the faint smattering of freckles there. Her skin tingles at the gentle caress. It's such a simple gesture – innocuous even – but with their bodies so close, their lips pressed together, it seems outrageously intimate. Her whole body thrums in response, a pleasant burning that coils all the way down to her toes.

She tightens her grip on his shirt, twisting her fists to hold him closer. She can feel him hum pleasantly against her lips, clearly amused at her eagerness.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn't pull away, merely rests his forehead against hers, his body still curved around her.

"I would have been happy dying," he murmurs into the space between them, "knowing that you were alive."

"Well I wouldn't have been happy living – knowing that I'd left you to die," she responds.

He smiles crookedly then, sharply arching one brow. "That was nice, very poetic. Did you get that from one of Varric's books?" he teases.

"Oh shut up," she warns, before pressing her lips against his again just to make sure he obeys.

They stand like that for what feels like an eternity, lips pressed together, bodies held flush against one another, Bron's hands gripping fiercely at Alistair's shirt as if afraid that he'll run away should she let go. For the first time since they'd arrived, Bron finds herself grateful for the strange timelessness of the Fade – it almost feels like time doesn't exist, nothing exists, just Alistair's warm body curving over hers protectively.

But they can't stay like that forever, as much as Bron wishes it. They're still in the Fade, and they will never be safe as long as they remain.

With great reluctance, Bron pulls away, taking a few steps back to put some distance between her and Alistair (and with some space between them, she hopefully won't be tempted to simply kiss him again).

"We need to…to…" she stutters uncharacteristically, pushing a rebellious lock of hair behind her ear while she tries to gather her thoughts, "we need to find a way out of here."

He gives her a businesslike nod that is wholly out of place given his dishevelled appearance. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt to flatten the creases left behind by Bron's vice-like grip. "Is there one?" Alistair asks when he's managed to compose himself a little, "I mean, Eleri closed the Rift. Is there any other way out of the Fade?"

"There has to be another way out of here," she insists, "we have to – we have to at least try!"

He smiles at her, softly at first, but then broadening into an unexpected grin. She's puzzled, curious as to why her words have inspired such a warm response. He's staring at her with such open affection that Bron feels her cheeks begin to burn (and has anyone ever looked at her in such a way?). "You're right," he says with a gentle chuckle, "you're right – we have to try."

She smiles at him in return. Even in their hopeless, impossible predicament, Alistair's beaming grin is contagious.

"After the Breach opened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, smaller Rifts opened up all over Fereldaen and Orlais – maybe across the whole of Thedas," she explains as Alistair nods in interest, "Eleri has been closing them one by one but… but there must be some she's yet to close. We just need to… we just need to find them!"

His smile falters as a hint of scepticism starts to creep across his features. "So we're going to just… wonder the whole of the Fade until we stumble across a Rift back to the real world?"

His question causes her optimism to flag. "Yes… something like that," she says, before sighing dejectedly, "It sounds silly when you put it like that. It sounds… impossible. But I don't know what else we can do."

He steps forward, takes her hands in his own and lifts them to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so pessimistic. You're right – we have to try. We'll walk across the whole of the Fade if we have to. Whatever it takes, we'll do it."

She gives a gloomy little shrug. "We might never find a Rift – we might be trapped here forever."

"At least we'll be trapped here together."

"Together," she echoes, looking up at him with a shy smile.

"Always."

"How about…" he drops her hands and steps back, turns slowly as he looks around them. Finally, he stops, pointing across the horizon. "That way. It looks nice over there – the sky looks especially… swirly."

She laughs, a bit thin, a bit brittle – but then it feels nice to laugh again. "You're right… very swirly. I think swirly is good."

"See! We're making excellent progress already," he declares with a flamboyant wave of his hands, "We're practically home already."

She laughs again, this time a little fuller, a little stronger, and her mirth only grows when he starts laughing with her.

It is a ridiculous situation. Ridiculous and impossible, and almost certainly doomed. They're trapped in the Fade. They've only just narrowly escaped the Nightmare. The demon may yet find them. Or they may encounter another demon, even more powerful than the Nightmare. They might never find a Rift. They might wander the realms of the Fade forever.

It's a terrifying possibility and Bron tries not to think about it too much. She won't let her mind indulge in hopelessness – it's impractical. She can almost hear her mother's voice in her head. There is nothing to be gained from pessimism, she would say, it is better to act than be paralysed by fear.

She needs to banish the negativity. Push aside her doubts (as reasonable as they may be) and focus on whatever tenuous hope she can muster. Focus on finding a Rift. Focus on just placing one foot in front of the other. Focus on Alistair, on his steady, comforting presence.

"Let's go then," she announces, "this way!"

She takes his hand and gently tugs him to follow as she starts to walk in the direction that Alistair had indicated. Towards the swirly sky, that's where they'll go, and hopefully towards a Rift, and freedom, as well.

They will try. They will try together – now and always.

End note:

Sorry I made y'all wait 15 chapters for a kiss - I hope it was worth it...