Note: Alistair and Bron partake of some friendly chit-chat and then things go hideously awry.
Alistair's hand is warm. Warm and strong, and only slightly sticky where his palm is pressed tightly against hers. His fingers are threaded between her own, like an anchor, holding her immovable against the tides.
Occasionally he'll give her hand a gentle squeeze, are you still with me?
She gives him a gentle squeeze back, always.
They've been walking hand-in-hand for some time. Since the demon wearing Bron's mother's face, since Bron held her rapier to Alistair's neck and threatened him with death. It's easier like this – their hands entwined. Bron doesn't feel so alone, so exposed, when she can feel Alistair's warmth seeping into her skin.
She's still tired, of course, utterly exhausted. The pounding in her head is back, and the twinge in her ankle refuses to be ignored. And when they're forced to stop and rest (which is relatively often considering their sorry state), Bron can see how the Fade is taking its toll on Alistair as well, the beads of sweat that cling persistently to his brow, the dark shadows that give a strange hollowness to his eyes.
But they've made the tacit agreement not to shut each other out, to communicate and share their burdens as much as possible. Bron's not really sure how it happened but for the first time since they'd met, all those many months ago, they are simply talking. From silly anecdotes to peculiar musings, frivolities and fancies, they fight against the eerie, stiff silence of the Fade with amicable chatter.
"I was thirteen," Alistair says, sounding endearingly bashful as he speaks, "she was a chantry initiate. We hid behind the buttery so the Sisters wouldn't see us. It was awkward and… wet. I remember I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do with my hands."
Bron chuckles softly as he talks, just enjoying the sound of his voice, the easy patter of his words. She normally hates small-talk and idle chit-chat – Bron has never understood the point in talking just for the sake of talking. But she finds that she doesn't mind this. She's actually enjoying it. Listening to Alistair's stories, learning of his childhood, his time with the Chantry and the wardens. It's like opening a window into the past, seeing the little boy that would grow up to be the man she now so keenly admires.
"All right," he says, nudging her shoulder with his own, "same question to you."
Bron takes a deep breath then lets out a somewhat wearied sigh. That's the unfortunate downside – she's happy to let Alistair tell her tales of his past but she's not as good at reciprocating. Bron doesn't like to talk about herself, doesn't like to expose herself to other people. And normally she would keep quiet – she's always been good at learning other people's secrets, squirrelling them away for future use, without actually revealing anything about herself. But it doesn't seem right this time – to listen to Alistair without sharing in kind. It doesn't seem fair.
And so she talks – and it feels strange… being this forthcoming with another person. But something about it feels right as well.
"I'd just arrived in Orlais with Leliana," she begins, "It was at my first fancy ball. You know, big dresses, even bigger hats – that sort of thing. And this man started talking to me, telling me all these ridiculous things about how… my eyes shone like diamonds, and my smile was like a gift from the Maker. My Orlesian still wasn't that good but I thought… I don't know… it seemed romantic at the time. He led me to this balcony that overlooked these gardens and then he… he kissed me. It felt… thrilling, I guess, and…"
"All right," Alistair interrupts with another bump against her shoulder, "I think I get the general idea…"
"You did ask!" she points out in response to his obvious discomfort, giggling with easy amusement.
"Yes! Because I thought it would be awkward and embarrassing like mine!" he exclaims, "I didn't realise there would be romantic balconies and charming Orlesians involved!"
She laughs at that, full and rich and only slightly hoarse from a throat too parched from dehydration.
"Are you jealous?" she asks with a wag of her eyebrow.
"Yes – immensely."
She laughs again, a little softer this time, until the laughter fades into a crooked, ever so slightly sad smile. "Don't be – he turned out to be an arsehole. I found him again later in the evening on the same balcony with a different woman. Apparently her eyes shone like diamonds as well."
"Oh shit, I'm sorry," Alistair says earnestly, "that must have been pretty upsetting for you."
"Not really," she says with a shrug, "it's not like we'd made any kind of commitment to one another. It was just a kiss. And I'd enjoyed it so… no harm, no foul I suppose."
"Still," Alistair continues, and he's frowning – a deep furrow creasing the space between his brows – clearly displeased with the idea that someone had been audacious enough to toy with Bron's emotions. "He's clearly an idiot. To chase after someone else – to miss out on the chance to get to know you."
"Clearly an idiot," she echoes with a playful smirk, only a touch of sarcasm in her tone. Because she can't quite seem to muster the same censure as Alistair can for the man who gave her that first kiss. He had made her no promises, and she'd held no expectations. After all, a man can't really fall in love so fast (no matter how elaborate his compliments).
"All right – how about an easier question this time?" Alistair asks cheerfully, clearly eager to change the subject, "what's the best flavour of pastry?"
"Rosewater," Bron replies without pause, nodding decidedly.
"What?" Alistair chirrups in disbelief, "That's utter nonsense. Obviously cheese is the best pastry flavour."
"Cheese?!" Bron responds with her own outburst of disbelief, "pfft! Give me a rosewater éclair with a strawberry crème pâtissière filling any day. It's light and fruity and… just glorious."
"Ugh – you're so Orlesian," Alistair retorts, and though she can't see it, Bron's sure that he's rolling his eyes at her.
As a child, Bron probably would have agreed with him. Both of Bron's parents had held deeply disparaging view of the Orlesians. Too fancy, too fiddly. They glorified appearance over substance, frippery over vigor. They delighted in show and subterfuge at the expense of hard work and grit. In contrast to the flighty flimsiness of Orlais, her parents were deeply proud to be of sturdy Ferelden stock. Bron had therefore accompanied Leliana to Orlais certain that she would despise everything she encountered and would be validated in her belief that Ferelden was vastly superior.
Unfortunately, Bron had found herself rather fond of Orlais.
Yes, Orlais is silly. The hats are ridiculous, as are the feathered headdresses and the bejewelled masks, the tiny cakes and the too-sweet tea, the overly ornate buildings, and the dogs too small and whiny to be of any practical purpose. Almost everything in Orlais is utterly ridiculous but also… intriguing, in it's own way. Because while Orlais appears to be a chaotic panoply of decadence and excess, it is in reality governed by a very strict hierarchy of rules. The gaiety of the Orlesian aesthetic is just a cover hiding the uncompromising rules and ordered structure more commonly referred to as The Game and Bron, as an outsider and habitual observer, had quickly come to understand those rules and, in time, exploit them to her own advantage.
Much to Bron's surprise (and Leliana's delight) Bron had been good at Orlais.
And so Orlais had come to seem less like the enemy and more like home. Of course she still thought it immensely silly. Bron was still, at heart, the eternal pragmatist. But she had found in time that she could still enjoy the artifice of Orlais, it's rosewater pastries and silly hats, while still remaining deeply critical of it.
She doesn't try to explain any of this to Alistair, though. She's not sure he would understand her. Her father certainly hadn't. He himself had spent many years in Orlais as a young man, perfecting his craft as a weapon-smith, and had returned to his home in Fereldan with a newfound certainty of his homeland's vast superiority and a determination never to step foot in Orlais again. He had been deeply reluctant to let Bron go and was happy to repeat this disapproval every time she visited (which is perhaps why she keeps her visits home to a bare minimum).
And if her father had been deeply disapproving, she had not dared to think of what her mother would have said. The day she'd decided to leave Highever and follow Leliana to Orlais had been the first (and perhaps only) time she'd been glad that her mother was dead. Because, oh, how vehemently her mother would have condemned her decision. She wouldn't have yelled (Margreth never yelled) but she would have gone quiet and stony and silently seethed with fury until Bron relented and vowed to stay home forever.
The thought of her mother causes Bron to look over her shoulder. Through the misty tendrils curling around the Fade's jagged landscape, Bron can just make out the spectral copy of her mother, still following behind them at a distance. Bron can see her – skulking in the shadows (and Margreth never skulked), watching with beady, hungry eyes. She hasn't tried speaking to Bron in some time, not since Alistair talked her out of killing him – but she's there, and Bron can feel her eyes on her back.
Alistair gives her hand a squeeze, are you still with me?
She squeezes back, always.
"Is she still following us?" he asks, concern lacing his voice as he too turns to see if he can spot the demon.
"Yes," she replies icily, not only angry that the demon is still following her but that the demon is still daring to wear her beloved mother's face. Somehow, it seems profoundly disrespectful – to take her mother's proud baring, her noble features, and wear them like a mask; a wicked mockery of a great woman's memory.
"Has she tried talking to you again?"
"No – she remains, mercifully, silent."
The quiet is a relief at least because it means that maybe, just maybe, Bron can try to forget what happened, what she nearly did. It's hard though. Her stupidity, her weakness, nearly cost Alistair his life. She'd fallen for the manipulations of a demon and, as a result, nearly destroyed something deeply precious. Stupid, stupid.
She's angry with herself for having believed the demon's lies, yes, but she's also embarrassed, no – utterly mortified – that she could have been tricked in such a way. She should have been smarter.
How can the Fade affect her so profoundly – leave her raw and vulnerable and foolish – while Alistair seems relatively unscathed?
"I don't understand," she finally says after a long pause of thoughtful silence, "why do the demons taunt me and not you?"
"Oh – they do," he says with unnerving brightness, "they most certainly do." He nods briskly, an odd, resigned smile tugging at his lips.
"They do?! You see the demons as well?!" Bron exclaims, and she curses herself for sounding so happy about it. That Alistair is similarly plagued with demons should not be a relief to her and yet – it is. Because if the demons are taunting Alistair too, well, at least it's not just her.
"Oh absolutely – they've been talking to me for some time. Honestly, it's getting a little annoying. They won't shut up," he gives a playful, slightly exaggerated shrug, "I now understand how you've felt, having to put up with my non-stop chatter over all these months."
"Why didn't you say anything?!" she snaps, ignoring his attempt at a joke and feeling immensely irritated that he'd kept such an important piece of information a secret from her.
"Why didn't you?" he replies calmly.
Ah – bugger – he has a point there.
Well… she'd kept her silence because she hadn't wanted him to think her crazy. She hadn't wanted him to think less of her. Her pride had prevented any attempt at honesty, any consideration of seeking help. She supposes she shouldn't be surprised that Alistair feels the same way – wanting to put on his best front for her.
"Fair enough," she concedes with a slow nod, then adds, "but how have you resisted them?"
"With great difficulty," he admits, and Bron gives a sharp hum to show that she considers this answer insufficient. After a resigned sigh he continues, clearly reluctant to divulge anything further, "I've been in here before. Not physically, of course, but I've been in the Fade before, during the Blight. And I was tempted by demons and I… succumbed to their visions and it was… humiliating. I felt like a total pillock when I realised what I'd done. I know from experience that the demons' promises are merely empty lies – and it's that experience that has helped me resist them this time."
She nods in understanding, then lets silence fall over them as she thinks about what he just said and, perhaps, what she can do now to help him.
"Who do you see?" she asks after a long pause. She's really just being nosy now – but she can't help feeling curious.
He lets out a breath – a long wisp of air that pushes between pursed lips as he considers his response. She half expects him to brush off the question; she wouldn't think poorly of him if he did. She'd asked an invasive question and it's well within his rights to tell her to sod off.
"At first it was my uncle, Arl Eamon, telling me that he was sorry for sending me away and asking me to come back to Redcliffe. It was touching, I suppose, although it's a little late now," he responds matter-of-factly, "but Eamon seems to have wondered off now and instead… well… now it's Elissa."
"The Hero of Ferelden?" Bron asks, her curiosity piqued even more.
"That's her – although – she's not the Hero of Ferelden. The way I remember her, she's just Elissa."
Elissa, huh? Bron finds this rather intriguing. She's always had a fascination with the Hero of Fereldan. And she's wanted to ask him about her so many times – whether the stories about her are accurate or mere exaggeration, whether she's as steely as people describe her, whether her skill with a blade is truly unmatched. She's heard so many stories (mainly from Leliana, whose penchant for exaggeration and romanticism is well-known) that she can't help but be curious as to whether they are true.
Unfortunately Alistair doesn't talk about her often, and when he does it's mainly to express his bitterness at having been exiled. And so Bron keeps her questions to herself, deciding that Alistair doesn't want to talk about Elissa and Bron doesn't really need to know.
But there's not just bitterness – there's something else in his tone. A longing, perhaps? He's not just angry about his exile – there's something more there, a deeper betrayal, a hurt that can only come from being deceived by someone you really care about. And Bron doesn't want to intrude on anything more intimate, more personal. Well… maybe she wants to intrude just a little. Over time she has become increasingly convinced that there was something between Alistair and Elissa – and her own growing feelings for Alistair have just made her more keen to find out what.
She knows she shouldn't ask; she knows she shouldn't impose on his privacy. But then Bron has never been satisfied with unanswered questions.
"You were… very fond of her," Bron begins cautiously, "Elissa, I mean. She wasn't just your fellow warden. There was something between you two."
She can feel his body stiffen beside her, his fingers clenching hers in an almost uncomfortable grip. But then the moment passes, and his limbs slacken, and when Bron cranes her neck to watch his expression, she can see the tension sliding away to leave a rueful, strangely nostalgic smile in place.
"Yes – I… cared for her a great deal," he replies truthfully, and there's a sense of release as he talks, like a confession, unburdening the soul, "she was strong, and smart, and determined. I'd never met anyone like her and I was… enthralled. She was the first person I'd ever really…"
He trails off then, staring across the horizon of the Fade as if lost. There's a glazed look to his eyes, soft and heady, as if captivated by a fond memory. Bron's beginning to wish she hadn't asked; maybe she doesn't really want to know about the depth of his feelings for another woman.
"I was so furious when I was exiled," he continues once his eyes have snapped into focus once more, "I blamed her, of course. For refusing to kill Loghain, for siding with Anora. I thought… I don't know what I thought. I told her that she'd betrayed the Order but I was more upset that she'd betrayed me. I'd always assumed she'd take my side."
He pauses and Bron's not sure whether she's supposed to respond or whether he's still not finished speaking. She opts for silence, deciding to let Alistair work out his thoughts before saying anything.
"Back at Skyhold, Leliana said that Elissa saved my life. That Anora wanted to execute me as a potential threat to her rule and that Elissa persuaded her to exile me instead. I guess… I guess that makes sense. Elissa probably did save my life; Leliana is probably right."
"She usually is," Bron comments and is relieved when Alistair chuckles softly in response.
"I guess I'm not really angry with her anymore. I mean – the anger's still there, if I think about it. But it doesn't seem so… urgent any more. And it's hard to begrudge Elissa for what she did because… well… if I'd never been exiled, I would probably be dead by now. Killed by the Archdemon in Loghain's place. Or enslaved to Corypheus. Sacrificed for the sake of his demon army."
It pains her to admit it but she's had similar thoughts. Ever since they'd come across the ritual tower in the Western Approach, ever since she'd seen the pools of blood and the dead-eyed stares of the sacrificed Wardens, she's been unable to stop imagining Alistair meeting the same unfortunate end. The same grotesque image has been haunting her darkest dreams – Alistair's face, pale and drawn, staring up at her from among the twisted pile of wasted Wardens.
"I think that… " she stops, considers her words, starts again. "If you'd stayed in the Order… you would have spoken out against all of this," she says. "You would have seen through Erimond's lies; you would have fought against Corypheus. I'm sure of it."
"You have a lot of faith in me," Alistair comments with an awkward, stuttering snicker. He raises his free hand to rake clumsily at his hair, a nervous gesture which suggests he doesn't quite share her conviction.
"My faith is not unfounded," she replies.
At that he turns to look at her fully, looking momentarily startled before his face falls into something softer, more tender. There's a subtle curve to his lips, an amused quirk to his brow, but Bron can't tear her gaze away from his eyes and the sheer affection she can see displayed there. It's a little overwhelming, to be honest, the warmth that Alistair seems to convey with such a simple look and Bron finds herself ducking her head.
She bumps her forehead into his shoulder, don't look at me like that.
He leans down to press a quick kiss to the crown of her head, just try and stop me.
"And besides – if I'd never been exiled, I never would have met you!" he exclaims cheerily.
"Well that would have been a terrible shame. I am, after all, pretty spectacular," she says in a teasing tone, lifting her smile up into a crooked smirk.
"Yes," he says, "you are." And he's giving her that look again and Bron can feel her cheeks flush with a rosy heat that is just thoroughly embarrassing.
She turns away, looking out over their surroundings, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the topography of the Fade, in the hope that Alistair will not notice her embarrassment (although she can tell from his shit-eating grin that he's seen her blush and is heartily amused by it).
"Bron, I-" Alistair begins, and Bron is almost relieved when a demon's piercing shriek stops him from speaking further. Her cheeks are already burning and she's not sure she can take much more of his earnestness.
A small crest lies before them, a spiked mound of earth that cuts through the swirling mists before falling away into a murky nothingness. From beyond the crest comes the sound of snarling and snapping, a small congregation of demons from what Bron can tell.
She's sure that they haven't been spotted – there's no chorus of screeches, no thunder of charging bodies – which means there's still a chance for them to run away should they wish. But then they are looking for a rift into the real world. And finding rifts means finding demons. And as much as Bron loathes admitting it given her current state of exhaustion, they need to take a closer look. From Alistair's stony expression, he has come to the same conclusion.
Cautiously, Alistair and Bron clamber up the side of the mound, peering through the jagged spikes of rock to look down the other side. It's hard to tell through the swirling mists of the Fade but Bron can just about make out a dozen writhing forms in a small gully at the bottom of the slope. There are a number of Minor Terrors, small and relatively easy to deal with. But there are a few larger demons amongst their midst as well, a Despair Demon and a few Rage Demons as well.
It's not a tempting sight and Bron would love more than anything to just signal a retreat.
But then she spots something; a subtle glimmer of shifting light amongst the mist. It would have been easy to miss, the Fade is full of shimmering curtains and shafts of light that dance unnaturally in the still air, but this light has a familiar greenish hue and Bron can feel an odd prickling sensation along her skin.
This is what it felt like back at Adamant, when Eleri had used the Anchor and pulled them into the Fade. It's a sharp tickling, an almost burning sensation that makes all the hairs on her skin stand up.
"Is that a rift?" Alistair asks, more excited than she's heard him in a long while (though with an unmistakable undercurrent of wariness).
"I think so," Bron replies, a little more snappish than intended, frustrated by her ignorance and anxious at the prospect of battle. "Well," she says as she pulls her rapier from its sheath in readiness, smiling with a feigned confidence she does not feel, "there's only one way to find out. Shall we take a look?"
Alistair smiles in return, and if he sees through her charade of self-assurance he does not show it. "Sure, let's… take a look."
Slowly, carefully, they climb over the rocky outcropping until they find themselves at the top of a steep slope that leads down toward the demons and, they hope, a rift to freedom. Gingerly, they step down the slope until they're closer to their targets, then, after a brief tactical discussion told more through gestures than words, they separate, both heading to opposite ends of the group in the hope of routing the demons.
Bron can only just make out Alistair through the mists and the fog and it makes her nervous, being separated from him. It's only the two of them against a significantly larger force of demons. And they're tired and hungry and suffering from far more injuries than either cares to admit. Neither of them are wearing armour; he'd shucked his when running from the Nightmare and Bron had ditched hers shortly after (too drenched in blood and gore to be salvageable). They hadn't needed much protection when facing the few solitary demons they'd encountered across the Fade so far, their tunics and trousers had been sufficient, but this… this is different… this is practically a horde.
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to separate after all – maybe they'd be stronger if they stuck together.
It's too late now, though. They're both in position and Bron can see Alistair gesturing to attack.
Oh Maker, here goes everything.
Bron somersaults from her vantage point, landing with a delicate thud on the back of an unsuspecting demon. She drives her rapier down into its head and rides the thrashing monster as it staggers a few steps before crumpling to the ground with a hollow wail. Once the demon is down, Bron immediately springs to her feet, not wanting to waste a single moment and painfully aware that her dwindling reserves of energy will not sustain her for long. She rams her shoulder into a nearby Minor Terror, hooks the tip of her blade beneath its chin, then pulls forward with such force that she can feel its jaw crack loose accompanied by a morbidly satisfying crunch. She ducks as a fizzling ball of magic rips through the air above her, then drives her dagger into a flaming mass of Rage Demon before reeling upwards and jabbing her weapon into an exposed neck.
Her fighting is more chaotic than usual. Amongst the melee of flailing, writhing demons, she's finding it hard to separate one monster from the next. And she's tired – so fucking tired – that she can't muster the strength to keep track of every demon as it charges around the battlefield, can't prioritise her targets or determine the most efficient way of dispatching them. All she can do it stab and pierce, duck and spin, just keep moving and killing and hope that the demons die before she does.
She lunges at a demon, spinning below its outstretched arms before raising her rapier and piercing the juncture between shoulder and neck, forcing the weapon deep and twisting as she does to maximise the damage. When the demon goes limp, she pulls her rapier free and turns to face her next opponent. She's met with a vicious strike, a back-hand from a demon's massive paws, and she's sent sprawling to the ground, her cheek stinging sharply. The creature looms above her and Bron reacts more out of instinct than thought, surging upright and piercing her dagger into flesh just below the creature's sternum. She rolls out of the way as the demon falls to the gore-slicked earth and staggers to her feet wearily.
That was too close.
She makes to lurch at another demon when something kicks her in the shin and she cries out in surprise, her sword going wide of its mark as her body spasms from the pain. She turns clumsily in search of her attacker but the field is too crowded, the demons swarming around her, and she can't make out one demon from the next. She raises her rapier defensively when suddenly there's a shing, and a rip, and a blinding pain like nothing Bron has ever felt before.
It's like an explosion, a web of fire that lances through her limbs, coursing under the skin and igniting every nerve ending until she's gasping with the agony of it all. Bron looks down to see a spiked claw protruding from her stomach and a blossoming redness across her shirt.
Oh Fuck.
She screams, shrill and piercing, and the sound of it surprises her. She'd never thought she was much of a screamer but then she'd never been stabbed before either. The pain is worse than anything she could have imagined, sharp and fierce, like she's being ripped apart from the inside.
Bron falls to her knees, eyes wide with shock and startling pain, and her legs tremble with the impact as they hit the hard ground. She doesn't feel the fall though, barely feels anything over the throbbing in her stomach that blacks out all other senses.
She's dimly aware of the demons crowding around her, their dark and twisted forms dancing in the hazy mists of the Fade. And then their forms become unclear, blurred by the tears that are filling her eyes before, finally, they are lost to darkness as Bron's eyes fall shut and her body pitches to the floor.
Alistair is fighting a Despair Demon when he hears the scream.
He raises his shield to block an attack, the sizzling magic clanking against the metal with a fizzling shing that dissipates into wispy sparks, and for a moment he thinks it's just the demon wailing. But then he slashes his longsword against the demon's throat and even after it disintegrates into ash, he can still hear the agonised scream.
It's not the demon screaming – it's Bron.
And his heart seems to both race and stop completely at the same time.
It's Bron.
The wail is almost feral, pained and desperate, only growing in anguish as the sound echoes across the battlefield – Oh Maker, Bron.
He didn't think anything could be worse than the sound of her screaming but then the screaming stops and somehow that feels even worse. Because if she's fallen silent then that means – no, he can't let himself think that way.
He turns his head to survey the battlefield but she's nowhere to be seen, just the lumbering bodies of the demons crowding around him. He needs to find her, needs to go to her, but it's impossible to pick her out among the jostling limbs and the ashen piles of the dead.
Where the fuck is she?
He needs to end this, needs to be rid of these demons once and for all so that he can find Bron before it's too late (please, Maker, don't let it be too late). Racing forward, he tears his sword across the snarling face of one demon, then plunges it into the writhing molten body of another. He stabs one demon, pivots, then stabs another, and another, racing across the field with little thought or design. Fueled by a desperate frenzy, and against the protests of every muscle in his body, Alistair unleashes his anger and frustration upon the remaining demons, slashing and thrusting until only a mass of black, broken limbs lies beneath him.
At last an uneasy quiet falls upon the battlefield, resting uncomfortably on the twisted remains of the fallen demons. And yet there's still no sign of Bron. No dark eyes looking at him with wearied amusement. No gentle smile twisting into a smug smirk at the sight of his panic. No teasing quip, you weren't worried were you?
Suddenly he sees something shift among the mangled corpses and ashy piles of the dead. His first instinct is to raise his sword but then he sees it, a freckled cheek hidden under a cloak of matted black. Bron's habitual braid has come lose, her curtain of long dark hair hiding her face and obscuring her from sight.
He sheathes his sword as he surges across the battlefield, scrambling frantically over bodies and rocks before falling to his knees and skidding to a rest next to Bron's prone form.
One hand brushes the hair from her face while the other seeks out a pulse at her neck. It's there – thready and soft but definitely there. Thank the Maker!
He carefully lifts her from the gore-smudged earth, cradling her within the circle of his arms. There's a stab of panic as he feels a sickening warmth spreading along her back, her blood seeping through her shirt and onto his skin. She looks up at him with unfocused eyes, the hilt of her rapier dropping to the ground with a soft clink as her senseless, shaking fingers claw pointlessly at the ground. Her mouth opens and closes as if trying to speak but no sound comes out other than a wheeze followed by a strangled gurgle. It's a disgusting sound, a dying sound.
He wants to be sick.
"Bron?" he cries, and his voice sounds alien to him, small and lost and rough, "Bron, it's me, it's Alistair. I'm begging you… please, please."
He's not sure what he's begging for – please speak? Please live? Please don't leave me.
Finally, her eyes become focused and she holds his gaze steadily, almost determinedly. With more strength than she can spare, she rasps, "bloody hell, you look awful."
He laughs, though there's no humour there. It comes off almost hysterical.
"You don't look too great yourself," he quips back and he's not sure whether she's trying to smile in response or whether she's just grimacing in pain.
"The rift…" she starts, then stops as a heaving spasm wracks through her body and her limbs seize in agony.
He pulls her closer, tucking her neatly against his chest and resting her head in the crook of his neck. One hand comes to cup her cheek, and a finger strokes gently along her freckles, smearing her tears to make a clean crescent shape across her dirt-encrusted skin.
"You have to get through the rift," she finally finishes once the tremors of pain have subsided.
The rift? he thinks, suddenly angry. Who gives a flying fuck about rifts when Bron is bleeding out in his arms?!
"I'm not leaving you here," he says, urgently, insistently.
"You fool," she says with a strange fondness, then repeats, "you have to get through the rift." Even in her weakened state, it's amazing how much ferocity she can put into her voice.
"I'm not leaving you here," he says again, and he can feel the scouring warmth of his tears as they chart a course down his cheeks and land on Bron's crown. It hurts, crying, each tear like a knife etching hot lines down his skin. But that pain is nothing to the pain he can feel in his chest, a tight, twisting sensation, like a claw tearing at him from the inside.
"You stubborn ass," she somehow manages between stiff lips, "just… go."
And then she goes still, her limbs falling slack in his grip and her eyes rolling back in her head. There's an eerie stillness, no noise across the Fade except the dull sound of his own ragged breathing.
The silence is suddenly shattered when a sob is ripped from his throat, a keening wail more animal than man. It fills the air, fierce and sorrowful, reverberating between the mighty rock structures that surround him until the very Fade seems to thrum with misery.
She wasn't even supposed to be here! He was the one who was supposed to sacrifice himself in the Fade!
If only she hadn't followed him; if only she hadn't tried to save him from the Nightmare.
This is not how it was supposed to end.