Notes: Bron has an unexpected visitor in the Fade.

One foot goes in front of the other.

That's what Bron keeps telling herself.

One foot goes in front of the other. She just needs to put one foot forward, and then put the other one in front. Then again. And again.

That's it.

It's easy.

Except she's been putting one foot in front of the other for several days now. At least she thinks it's days. It could be weeks. It could be more.

They've slept a little. Or at least tried to. When their feet are too sore to carry on, when the steady rhythm of one foot and then the other falters, they find a little space to stop, and curl up for sleep. A cave perhaps, or a narrow gully between great towers of rock that seem to stretch endlessly toward nothing. It's safer that way right? Safer to huddle in small spaces, out of sight, where the denizens of the Fade cannot find them.

It's silly though – when Bron really thinks about it – to think that they can hide from the demons. It's the Fade, for Maker's sake! The rules of reality don't apply here – maybe the demons don't need sight to hunt their prey, maybe they can smell them, or simply sense their thoughts.

But Alistair likes to take the time to find somewhere 'safe' for them to rest and Bron likes to let him. Whether or not Alistair shares in Bron's pessimism, it seems to make him feel better, this little pantomime of security, this search for a safe space amongst the horrors of the Fade. And Bron will not take away something that makes Alistair feel better, no matter how sure she is that his efforts are pointless.

Whether their safety is real or merely an illusion, Alistair still somehow manages to sleep soundly. And Bron is bitterly resentful of this fact.

Bron has always been an excellent sleeper. It is an odd skill to brag about but over the years she had come to realise that it is truly an invaluable talent. While others complain of fitful sleep leading to unproductive days, Bron can smugly declare that she has never had a bad night's sleep, and therefore always operated at peak efficiency. And she can find restful sleep anywhere: propped upright in a rickety wagon, curled up in her favourite chair in the Val Royeaux library, even wedged between icy moraine that time she and Leliana had first travelled through the Frostbacks to Haven and got just a little bit lost.

And so it causes Bron a great deal of distress that she cannot find deep, restful sleep in the Fade. She dozes, of course, her eyes so leaden with fatigue that nothing could keep them from closing. But it is not the kind of real, replenishing sleep that she so desperately desires. And so she curls deeper into Alistair's side, buries her nose into his shirt, and tries to let the soft lull of his breathing provide some modicum of relief, some tiny semblance of succor that sleep refuses to grant her.

It isn't much, but it'll have to do.

One foot. That's the key. Just one foot in front of the other.

Try not to think about how tired you are, Bron, try not to think. Just one foot in front of the other.

Try not to think of how tired you are Bron… or how your stomach growls.

And, oh, how it growls.

They've barely eaten in days. The meager rations they'd taken with them to the battle at Adamant had not lasted long, and neither of them trusts the food that they occasionally encounter while wondering the Fade.

It's odd - well, odd and supremely creepy – these little tableaus scattered across the Fade. There was that bowl of fruit on a desk so laden with books that it looked mere moments away from total collapse. There was that loaf of bread sitting on the ground next to an abandoned sword and shield. And there was that feast – the most magnificent spread Bron had seen since leaving Orlais – crowding a dinner table clearly set up for a party. There were great bouquets of flowers, and exotic animals folded out of napkins, and silverware that shone like stars amongst the inky gloom of the Fade's perpetual mists. There were meats and cheeses, great goblets of wine and platters of delicately styled cakes – everything required for a great party, only eerily devoid of revellers.

They'd steered clear of that. Had turned and walked away as soon as they'd seen it – hadn't even got close enough to smell it. It had looked too much like a trap, too much like temptation.

And so their bellies are left to rally and roil, a constant protest at their continued neglect. Although… it's not quite right, this hunger. It's like the memory of hunger, like her body remembers that it needs to eat and is telling her that it's hungry but she can't quite feel it, can't feel the heaviness in her limbs nor the dizziness that she's experienced when desperately hungry in the past. Does one even need to eat in the Fade? Or is it all just an allusion? A mere phantom of what she should be feeling rather than an actual feeling.

Don't think about it, Bron. Don't think about the gnawing in your stomach. Don't think about whether it's real. Don't think about whether anything is real.

Just put one foot in front of the other. One more step, just one more.

And then another.

And another.

The exhaustion doesn't bother her. Just one foot in front of the other.

The hunger doesn't bother her either. Just one foot in front of the other.

But her mother...

Her feet falter, one foot kicking into the heel of the other, and she hops ungainly for a few steps until she can regain her balance and resume her original pace.

Over her shoulder, her mother tuts disapprovingly. Bron knows the approbation to come; she'd had it drilled in her since childhood. Clumsiness is next to laziness. Only the indolent are so casual with their movements. Elegance is the hallmark of the hard-working.

"You used to move with such grace," her mother comments, and her voice is pitched almost as if it's a compliment, "but now you're growing clumsy."

Bron ignores her mother's voice and continues to stare at her feet. One foot forward, and then the other.

"Remember when I taught you to dance?" her mother continues, "You had such a natural talent for movement. Just like me. You learnt the moves so quickly. But do you know why I taught you?"

Bron stays silent; she knows her mother will answer for her.

"Well… I taught you for two reasons. The first – because every woman should know how to dance among polite society. It's only proper. And second – and more importantly – because it teaches you how to move. How to listen to your body. How to control the space around you. And that is what you need to do, Bronwyn, you need to take control."

Bron's not sure how to 'take control' in the Fade. So far all she's been trying to do is survive and that seems as good a goal as any when lost in this realm where no person is ever meant to tread.

"And stand up straight," her mothers barks, "your posture is terrible."

"Shut up," Bron hisses through clenched teeth, "you're dead."

From just ahead, Alistair turns to look at her from other his shoulder.

"Did you say something?" he asks.

"No," she replies, curt and sharp.

She can tell that he wants to ask something else, can tell from the knot in his brow that he's concerned by her brusqueness, but he doesn't say anything further, only turns back and continues his never-ending trudge forward.

He's probably trying to be respectful of her space; he knows that she doesn't like people interfering when she's trying to think. Or maybe he's just too tired to carry on talking to her. She's been short with him for days now – dismissive, almost mean – and she doesn't blame him for having given up on trying to be civil with her.

And she feels bad for being so short with him – or at least she would feel bad if she weren't too tired and hungry to really feel anything – but she doesn't want him to know about her new spectral companion. If she told him, he'd probably think she was crazy. And perhaps she is. But she'd rather not admit that right now, not to herself and certainly not to him.

"He's concerned about you," her mother says. Bron finds herself nodding in spite of herself.

"You don't need his concern," her mother adds with a sneer, "you don't need anyone. I raised you to be self-sufficient, to be strong. You are a fortress, my dear, and no man can weaken your walls."

Bron nods again. Not because she agrees, or is even really listening, but because it's what she'd always done when her mother had spoken to her.

Her mother moves forward so that she can walk beside her, her steps in tandem with Bron's. Bron can just see her hovering at the edge of her vision; her movements smart and clipped, her back straight and proud. Her gait is so achingly familiar that Bron feels a twinge of… something. Longing, perhaps, for a woman she'd lost so long ago. Guilt, maybe, for being so ungrateful at her sudden return.

But this isn't your mother, Bron's brain urges emphatically.

Her mother is dead. Bron knows this. Of course she knows this. The memory is still painfully fresh, even after all these years, even through the haze and the confusion of the Fade. Her mother had become ill. It had been brief, and severe, and then she'd died. Just like that – a towering vision of a woman snuffed out like a lamp in a storm.

And Bron had been so utterly bewildered that such a thing could have even been possible. Her mother had been so strong, an imposing edifice of efficiency, dedication and hard work. She had been unrelenting, an unstoppable force, an unmatchable frisson of activity and purpose. The whole town had relied on her strength. There was no quarrel that she was not called upon to adjudicate (for who could be more impartial than the stalwart Margreth?) and no major task that was undertaken without having first sought her opinion (and, occasionally, permission – not that her permission was required – but she had the kind of stately baring that made people want to seek it out nonetheless).

But in the end it didn't matter how much the denizens of Highever respected her, or how much her family relied on her, or how keenly her only daughter adored her. Death came swift and ugly and unrelenting.

And Bron had mourned.

Bron had mourned bitterly. Or at least – she'd mourned as much as her mother would have wanted, which is not very much at all. Grief is unseemly after all. And so Bron had wept for exactly one day, one wrenching day of misery, and then she'd rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and got on with her life as if nothing had happened.

Bron wishes now that she'd mourned her mother properly, that she'd wept and screamed and railed at the injustice of the whole thing. If she'd let out all her emotions then, rather than bottling them up for over a decade, perhaps she wouldn't feel so shaken now. Perhaps she wouldn't so desperately want to scream.

Oh, how she wishes she could scream! But then Alistair really would think she was crazy.

"He's made you weak," her mother says, a hissing whisper between pursed lips.

Bron pointedly ignores her, staring intently at her feet as if they are some fascinating new discovery.

"He's an exile, a reject, a wondering drunk. How can a man like that be anything to a woman like you?"

Bron feels a sharpness ripple down her spine. She doesn't like to hear someone speak so ill of Alistair, especially her mother, the one person whose good opinion had always meant more than anyone else's.

During their months of travel together, Bron had often wondered what her mother would make of Alistair, whether she would disapprove of his exile from the Wardens or admire him for making a stand against what he thought of as an injustice, even against his closest of friends. She likes to think the latter; that her mother would have seen Alistair as Bron does – a deeply flawed, frequently lost individual, but someone who perseveres in spite of those flaws and seeks to better the lives of all he meets.

Yes – Bron likes to think that her mother would have liked Alistair a great deal; the spectre's sneering to the contrary upsets her more than she cares to admit.

"He's a good man," Bron states plainly, though she stresses each word to labour her conviction. And she knows she shouldn't respond – she knows that she should just ignore the apparition – but she can't stop herself from defending him.

"You deserve better than good, my dear, you deserve greatness," replies her mother, shaking her head disapprovingly, perhaps even pityingly. "That's why you left Highever, isn't it? That's why you left your father and brothers? Because you thought you were destined for something greater. You wanted more than just dull domesticity."

"I know it's not what you wanted," Bron admits with a sigh, shaking her head as if shaking away the guilt that's coiled at the back of her mind, the guilt that she usually manages to ignore but which is now alert and writhing in response to her mother's sudden reappearance. "You wanted me to keep the family together, like you did. You wanted me to start my own family, to support them and guide them and build them up like you did. But I couldn't do it and I-"

"No – hush," her mother interrupts before Bron can apologise further. "You did your part; you kept the family together just like I taught you. But when you had the chance to start your own life, you took it – and I'm proud of you."

Bron stops suddenly; stops and stares with astonishment at this vision that wears her mother's face.

"You're…. proud of me?" she asks with a trembling, almost child-like, voice.

"Of course I'm proud of you!" her mother responds with unusual fervour, raising a hand to rest it against Bron's cheek. It feels surprisingly warm. Not at all like the ghostly impermanence she'd been expecting but something solid and comforting and real. "You've achieved so much! Serving the Divine, helping the Inquisition! You were blessed with so many gifts – and you've used those gifts in the service of others. How could I not be proud of you?"

Bron feels, well… bewildered most of all. Bewildered but also pleased and just… supremely touched. There's a prickling of tears in her eyes and she blinks rapidly to suppress them, determined not to do something as shameful as crying in front of her mother. She'd never heard her mother speak so fondly of her – never heard such glowing praise – and she's determined not to ruin the moment with an embarrassing display of emotion.

Her mother is proud of her.

Margreth had never been the kind of woman to dole out compliments or encouragement – they were indulgences and, as such, completely unnecessary to a successful and productive life – and Bron had been left to wonder her whole childhood whether or not her mother approved of her, whether she truly cared for her. And while she'd assumed (hoped most desperately) as a child that her mother was proud of her, it was nice to finally have some confirmation.

"Oh, mother," Bron whimpers as the first fat tears streak across her cheeks.

"Oh, stop that," her mother gently chides, swiping away at the damp stripes with the pads of her stout, calloused fingers, "who has the time to waste on tears?"

Bron laughs at that – it's such a familiar sentiment, spoken with such a sorely familiar tone. Life is short, her mother would say, time is precious – we must make the most of every single moment, not waste it on emotional outbursts. Bron feels like a child again; she feels like she's home.

"Now, now – you shouldn't be here," her mother says, fixing her with one of those stares that always meant listen to me, I'm about to say something important. "You shouldn't be in the Fade. No one is meant to be here. Let me help you out of here. You want to go home, right? To the Inquisition? To your friends?"

Bron nods her head then sniffs loudly before replying. "We're looking for a way out right now. Alistair and I-"

"Oh pfft!" her mother interrupts with a dismissive shake of her head, "you think he's helping you escape? He's the one who's keeping you here…" Her words vanish into a whisper, a conspiratorial hush that gives them surprising menace. She looks quickly from side-to-side, face scrunched in concern as if afraid that they're being watched.

Surprised by her mother's sudden wariness, Bron does likewise, scanning her surroundings but seeing nothing and no one except Alistair who, having not realised Bron's sudden pause, is quickly marching ahead.

Surely her mother is wrong – surely Alistair cannot purposefully be keeping them trapped in the Fade…

"He's a Warden, after all," her mother continues in the same secretive whisper as before, "and the Wardens have sided with the demons, with Corypheus. He tricked you into coming here – and now he's going to keep you here."

"Why would he do that?" Bron asks, and there's a desperate tremor to her voice that catches her off guard. Why is she suddenly so scared? It can't be because she believes what her mother is saying about Alistair.

"Because the demons want you, Bronwyn!" her mother says, "You're so strong, my dear, so smart. The demons want you and the Warden has made a deal to give you to them. He wants power, you see. He's weak – a failure, an exile – and he's made a deal with the demons to exchange you for power. He's using you."

"He – he wouldn't do that," Bron insists, though she can hear her own doubt colouring her words. She'd opened herself to Alistair, let herself be vulnerable even against her better judgement – the possibility that he is betraying her is enough to make her throat tighten with fear.

"It's his fault you're here, isn't it?" her mother asks with a pointed arch of one brow. "If he hadn't charged the Nightmare. If he hadn't brought you to Adamant – all of this was just a trick to bring you here!"

Bron is about to object, to defend Alistair against her mother's accusations, but the words are lost as soon as she opens her mouth. Because it is Alistair's fault that she's here. She had stayed in the Fade to protect Alistair from the Nightmare. She wouldn't have even been at Adamant had she not followed Alistair out of some misguided loyalty, some now baffling urge to keep him safe.

Maker – all these months, he'd probably been befriending her just to trick her into coming here. His supposed feelings for her were just a ruse! He must have known what the Wardens were up to all along, he must have known about the rituals and the blood magic and the giant rift to the Fade in Adamant's Keep!

Everything suddenly seems to focus into startling clarity. For the first time since she'd arrived in the Fade, the swirling mists and the haze of scattered light seem to lift and Bron is finally seeing things properly for the first time.

Alistair tricked her.

Alistair had always been tricking her.

He'd tricked her with kindness, chipping away at her sturdy exterior to leave her shallow and vulnerable. He'd claimed that he cared for her – he'd kissed her dammit! – all to lead her into the awaiting claws of the demons.

And it all makes sense now! Because of course he doesn't care for her! How could he possibly care for her? She who has always felt separate from other people; a silent observer rather than an active player in the stories of others. She is not meant for love, only duty.

She feels so foolish, so utterly, utterly foolish. Her mother had taught her to be self-sufficient, to be independent and intelligent and wary. Romance is a myth; idealism and adventure are just fantasies for the incompetent and the idiotic. She should have known better; she never should have let some blonde-haired temptation trick her with his crooked smiles and his easy laughs.

Thank the Maker that her mother had intervened before she'd met her demise. Thank the Maker for sending her mother back to her, the only person on whom Bron had ever been able to truly depend.

"It's all right, my dear," her mother coos, gently stroking her hair in a comforting gesture. It feels wrong, this oddly intimate act – seems wholly out of character for a woman who had never given physical contact easily. But Bron had wanted this so much as a child, had craved desperately for any fleeting indication of affection, and while the rational part of her mind tells her that something is wrong, she's too enthralled to care. "I'm here now, Bronwyn, and I'm going to help you escape. I'm going to lead you away from this terrible place."

"What do I have to do?" Bron murmurs, lost and small.

Her mother smiles – a little too wide, a little too curled – and for a split second the woman no longer looks like her mother, no longer even looks human. She looks like a beast, feral and thrilled, about to claim its prey. But then the moment is gone, lost with the blink of an eye, and her mother is wearing that same gentle, refined smile that Bron recognises from her childhood.

"Kill him," her mother says, and there's an odd warmth in her voice, a sweetness that contradicts sharply with the cruelty of her command.

Bron startles, her eyes going wide and her mouth crinkling in confusion. Kill Alistair?

"I can't," she replies with a fervent shake of her head, stepping back to create some space between her and her mother, some space to think. Because it's Alistair – Alistair – and she won't hurt him, not him.

"Kill him before he kills you!" her mother insists, stepping forward to place a gently urging hand on Bron's shoulder.

Bron shakes her head again. She can't, she can't… can she?

How else will she escape from the Fade? How else will she escape the demons?

After all, it was Alistair who brought her here. Alistair tricked her! Alistair made her believe that he cared for her. He made a fool of her! He doesn't even have the courage to kill her directly! Leading her to the demons instead. Well - Bron has never lacked in courage! She will do it! She will end this – cleanly and honourably.

"Kill him," her mother repeats, tongue rolling over the words as if revelling in every letter, "then submit yourself to me. I'll help you escape. I'll give you everything you want."

Bron nods. Her mother is right. Her mother had always been right. Everything Bron knows – everything Bron is – is from her mother. She trusts this woman more than anyone else in all of Thedas. If she says that Bron needs to kill Alistair – well then, Alistair must die.

Her hand falls to the rapier hanging at her hip as she looks across the mottled earth toward Alistair's shrinking form. She'd been talking with her mother for some time and Alistair had managed to walk a fair distance away from her. It's no matter, she'd always been fast, nimble on her feet, and she'll soon catch him. There's no way he'll escape.

She takes off at a swift run, her feet dancing over the pocked surface of the ground with a speed and agility she hasn't felt for some time. The fatigue that has plagued her since Adamant seems forgotten, the throbbing pain of her various battle injuries seems dull. There's no feeling, no thought even. All she knows is that she must kill Alistair.

Her feet accelerate as she nears him, somehow managing a final burst of speed as she pulls her rapier free from its scabbard. She unleashes a growl, angry, feral and wholly unlike her, before leaping, throwing her shoulder into Alistair's back and sending him tumbling to the ground.

She hadn't expected him to fall so easily; after all, Alistair is a big, sturdy man. But then the Fade has probably taken its toll on Alistair as much as it has on her, and he never could have expected her attack. He makes little protest as he falls, only letting out the faintest of surprised ohs.

He lands with a thud and thrashes inelegantly for a moment before trying to right himself. But he's too slow, and there's only a moment before Bron is on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him to the ground. Lightening fast, she raises her rapier and pushes the metal blade against his throat.

He wriggles for a moment, perhaps attempting to dislodge her and free himself, but she doesn't budge, her thighs only tightening around his waist. She reacts to his vain attempt at resistance by pressing her rapier further into his neck, earning her a pained hiss in response. A rapier is designed for piercing, not slicing, but she's pushing the blade with enough force against Alistair's neck that the skin begins to redden and pucker, and a small rivulet of blood starts to trickle down.

"Don't move," she warns.

Alistair hisses as the metal bites against his skin, a firm pressure followed by a burst of sharpness as the blade cuts into flesh. He can feel the warmth of his blood as it seeps outward, charting a meandering course down his already dirt-smeared and blood-spattered neck. Oddly, it tickles, and his fingers twitch at the sudden urge to scratch.

Bron is curled above him, her face held so close to his that he can see every bead of sweat upon her brow, every throb of her pulse at her temples. He's seen this face every day for almost seven months and yet it is suddenly foreign to him; her cheeks are grey and sunken, her mouth curled into a snarl, and her eyes no longer hold her usual good-humour, instead staring at him with a blank coldness that brings to mind the ghostly expressions of the undead he encountered so many years ago at Redcliffe.

He could easily shift her, he thinks. Bron is remarkably strong, her muscles thick and corded from years of sword training and rock climbing, but Alistair is undoubtedly stronger. All he needs to do is throw her off, throw her off and then raise his own sword to defend himself. But her blade is still pressing urgently against his neck, and he's not sure he can dislodge her without causing injury to one or both of them. It's a risk, and one that he's not willing to take.

And besides – it's Bron.

She's his companion, his friend, maybe even something more. Surely Bron won't hurt him; surely Bron won't kill him. Not his Bron.

But then she pushes her rapier more forcefully against his throat and he can feel the first hints of doubt begin to creep into his mind. Because – shit – it really does seem like she wants to kill him.

Fight back, his instincts scream, fight back and protect yourself. But he won't hurt her; he can't hurt her.

He should have known something was wrong. He should have known when she fell silent several days ago, not the normal, comfortable silence that often lay between them but something prickling and sharp and unnatural. He'd tried to talk to her, tried to figure out what was troubling her, but she'd dismissed his attempts at comfort and he'd been too tired – too fucking tired – to press any further. He wishes now that he'd tried harder, wishes more than anything that he'd just talked to her while he still had the chance.

Now – with her weapon to his throat and her face contorted with such rage that he barely recognises her – he supposes it's too late to talk.

Although – it can't hurt to try, right?

"Bron," he starts, the vibration of his voice causing his skin to chafe along the edge of her blade as he speaks. "Bron, it's me, it's Alistair."

She responds with a wild snarl, clearly unmoved by his words. He'd hoped that the sound of his voice would be enough to snap her out of whatever force held influence over her. Instead she just leans in further, sneering and spitting savagely. It's not a promising start.

But then – he is still alive. It would be so easy for her to finish him off, to drag her blade along his throat and coat the ground beneath them with his blood. That she hasn't done so must be a sign, an indication that some part of the true Bron remains below this feral exterior.

He knows that the woman he loves is still somewhere inside; he knows that he can reach the true Bron. Or… well… he hopes she's still inside, and he hopes he can reach her – if only he can find the words.

"It's me, Bron," he starts again, "and I know you don't want to hurt me, Bron,"

"You're trying to kill me!" she growls, "you're weak and I'm strong. I'm a fortress. And you're trying to feed me to the demons. You're on the side of the demons. You want to barter me for power. Well – I won't let you. I'm going to kill you before you kill me!"

They're not her words, too aimless, too gibbering, though they're spoken with her voice. And it's weird to hear such insanity spoken in Bron's rich, warm tone, her time in Orlais giving her accent a strange, almost melodic lilt.

"I'm not trying to kill you, Bron, I care for you, more than anything," he insists. "Please come back to me – please."

Her brows furl at his plea, maybe in disdain, maybe just confusion. But it's the first indication he's had that she's actually listening, that maybe his words are having some effect.

"You don't care – you can't care," she says, and he wonders whether it's just his imagination or whether her voice really is a little softer than before, a little more like Bron. "I'm meant to be alone. I'm a fortress."

"You're not meant to be alone, Bron," he says. "You have friends, family; you have me. And I will always stay by your side, just as you promised to stay by mine."

He can feel her grip falter, the pressure against his neck lessoning by a small, almost imperceptible amount. Her whole body is shaking, tiny waves of movement like the tremors of a branch just before it snaps. Whatever internal battle she's waging, it looks like she's only just managing to keep herself together.

"You can't care. No one – no one…" she mutters. A solitary tear slips down her cheek and he wants so desperately to reach out and brush it aside. But he still daren't move.

"I do care, you have to believe me. I-I-" he lets his words trail off, careful not to admit something before he's ready. But then he sees Bron's pained face hovering above his own, feels the light patter of water drops as her tears fall onto his upturned cheeks, and he so urgently wants her back.

Cautiously, he whispers, "I love you."

It's not exactly how he'd intended to make such a confession. Not that he'd really had a particular plan in mind. But don't these sorts of declarations usually require violin music or flowers or something? Shouldn't he be in a moonlit garden right now, rather than the gloomy wasteland of the Fade? He's pretty sure declarations of love aren't accompanied by the insistent press of a blade to the throat.

He can't tell whether she'd heard his words; there's no flicker of recognition in her eyes, no sign of any feeling at all, just that eerily blank, dull stare. But her hands are trembling, the blade no longer held tight to his throat but rattling uselessly in her white-knuckled grip.

Suddenly the weapon is cast aside with a tinkling clang and Bron throws herself back, her feet scrambling to get purchase as she crawls away from him across the ground. Her hands come to her face, clawing at her face for one feverish moment before she suddenly folds in on herself, head bowed and body shaking.

He has to fight the urge to rush to her side and envelope her in his arms. He just wants to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure himself that she's real and she's here and she's finally back to normal. But she looks so fragile, so broken, and he doesn't want to startle her. It had taken so many months of companionship for her to finally open up to him; he doesn't want to ruin that all now by crowding her after such a clearly traumatic experience.

Instead he picks himself up from the ground, walks slowly to where she sits huddled and wretched, then carefully drops to his knees in front of her. Once settled, he raises his hands to gently pry hers away from her face then squeezes them tightly in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. He's encouraged when she doesn't immediately snatch them back.

"Bron?" he asks gingerly, not daring to say anything else though his mind is thrumming with questions.

"What have I done?" she whispers, barely audible. "What have I done?"

"Nothing," he insists, squeezing her hands even harder. It's may be a little too hard, though he's wary not to hurt her, but he just wants to make sure that she can feel him. "You've done nothing wrong."

Her head snaps up at his words, glaring at him pointedly. "Nothing? I-I… I hurt you," she cries, then opens her mouth as if to speak again only for her body to be wracked with a sob of grief so strong that her whole frame shakes.

"It's only a scratch," he says, his voice pitched light and teasing in an attempt at humour. It doesn't work as intended, just wrenching forth another shuddering sob.

Right, he thinks, maybe don't try to be funny.

Humour has always been his fallback position, though, his instinctual response when faced with difficult or upsetting situations. It's a bad habit; one he needs to put aside for now if he's going to be of any genuine comfort to Bron.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asks, leaning forward encouragingly.

"No," she responds curtly, like a petulant child being reprimanded, and Alistair almost finds himself smiling.

He bends closer to press a gentle kiss to her forehead then stays, hovering so near that he can feel the air vibrate around her with each wracking sob. He's still holding her hands, only now he's drawing small circles around her knuckles with the pads of his fingers.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" he prods again.

He wouldn't normally push her like. Normally he would let Bron keep her silence until she's ready to talk (and she did always talk to him, eventually). But normal was lost a long time ago – the moment they stepped into the Fade, the moment they faced the Nightmare, the moment Bron launched at him with a snarling attack - and he needs her to open up to him if he's going to help her. He prays that she understands, that she doesn't simply retreat further in response to his insistence.

"It was my mother," she says, and Alistair is pleasantly surprised that she answered, though deeply troubled by her words. Her mother is dead, he's certain of it, and the implications of Bron's confession are, well… unsettling.

"Your… mother?" Alistair queries, just to make sure he heard her right.

"Yes – she was here," Bron explains, "she… she has been for some time. She's been following me, talking to me. For days now."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't know what you would think –," she pauses, looking sheepish. "I didn't want you to think I was crazy. And I suppose… I suppose I was too proud. I didn't want to admit that the Fade was affecting me."

He nods in understanding. The Fade has a nasty habit of making one appear foolish, of pulling out one's fears and desires and insecurities and putting them on embarrassing display. He'd experienced it once, during the Blight, when the demons had shown him a glimpse of a family he'd long dreamed for, then shown him what a fool he was for believing the lie. He'd felt so utterly ashamed when Elissa had finally wrenched him free of his illusion, exposed and naive and thoroughly mortified.

"It was probably a demon," he says, trying to forget about his unfortunate past and focus instead on alleviating Bron's current distress. "It probably used your memories, took on your mother's form to manipulate you."

"A demon…" she says dully, "probably."

There's a pause. He can see Bron thinking, the knot in her brows, the slight purse to her lips, and he waits patiently for whatever she has to say next.

She was-" Bron stops, searching for the right words, "kinder than I remember, but also crueler. She said things… things that I had long wished for her to say but knew she never would. Now that I think back – I can't believe I really thought it was my mother."

"Demons are smart."

"I should have been smarter," she quickly retorts, a flash of fury in her eyes but more sorrow than anger in her voice. "I should have seen through the trick. I should have been stronger. I should have-" her words are swallowed by another fit of sobs, more tears searing a course down her already blotched face.

This time Alistair does wrap his arms around her, pulling her toward him until she's pressed tight against his chest, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. It's not the most comfortable of embraces, sitting on the hard, rocky ground, their legs bent awkwardly beneath them, but he has Bron (his Bron) back again and his discomfort seems only a distant concern as long as she is with him.

"She told me that you were tricking me," she murmurs against his chest, so faint he only just hears her. He hmms in acknowledgement, uncertain what to say, but it's enough to spur her to continue. "I thought… I thought that you didn't care for me. That you were lying to me so I would follow you to the Fade, to the demons. I thought it was all just some elaborate hoax."

Alistair tenses as she speaks, and while he knows he shouldn't judge her for things she thought while under the influence of a demon, he can't help but feel a little hurt. Did she truly doubt the veracity of his feelings for her?

"You don't… you don't really think that, right?" he asks, and feels rude for doing so. "You don't really doubt my feelings for you."

She shakes her head. He can't see the gesture with her head nestled below his, but he can feel the motion against his chest.

"I don't doubt them… although…" she lets her words trail off, suddenly turning uncharacteristically shy, "I am surprised by them,"

Alistair's face contorts in confusion; he's not really sure what she could mean by that. "Why surprised?" he asks, leaning back so that he can read her expression when she responds.

She shrugs awkwardly, struggling to move in Alistair's crushing embrace. "Because… because you're warm and kind and I'm… not."

He snorts derisively, utterly baffled that she could say something so preposterous. "You are warm and kind," he says, "you just express it differently from other people! There's nothing wrong with being quiet; there's nothing wrong with liking your distance! You're thoughtful and you're… you're selfless. You put the comfort of others before your own and you… you've made me a better person. Truly, you have."

For the first time in far too long, Bron smiles.

And it is the most beautiful thing Alistair has even seen.

It's only small, a little lopsided, but it's most definitely there, a gentle curve just curled enough to form creases at the corner of her lips. He's missed that smile, so fucking much, and it's a great relief to finally see it once more. He hopes that it will never again disappear for such an alarming length of time.

"You say nice things," she says, a little dopily, like a child left dozy after too much sugar. "Thank you."

She finally seems at ease, the last vestiges of the demon's effects slowly evaporating from her body and mind. Nodding lazily, she curls in closer in his embrace. Her breathing has settled, the sobs replaced with an almost contented sigh.

For a long time he just holds her, enjoying the sound of her steady breathing, the feel of her breath gently tickling against the red rawness of his neck.

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you," she murmurs against his chest, finally breaking the quiet.

He chuckles softly. "Just… don't do it again," he says teasingly.

A puff of air ruffles his shirt as she lets out her own quiet chuckle. "I can't make any promises – you can be awfully trying sometimes. You talk too much."

His chuckles turn to full-throated laughter then, more from relief than genuine amusement at her rather sedate attempt at wit. But there's a great wash of release, a wave of satisfaction that comes from the realisation that he has his Bron back. His Bron – with her dry humour and her wry smiles, with her sharp words and her thoughtful quiet.

With Bron tightly ensconced in his arms, Alistair isn't thinking about demons masquerading as mothers, or the memory of Bron's rapier against his throat, or the drudgery of the Fade, or the improbability of their escape; all he's thinking about is that she's safe. Bron is safe, and he's going to do everything in his power to ensure that she stays as such.