Note: Starts with a flashback! And then Bron is confused (and a little disappointed).
Ten years earlier – Denerim
Alistair shoves a tunic into the bottom of his pack, thumping it tightly between a pair of breeches and a woolen jerkin. Then he grabs a leather belt and it follows the tunic into his pack, ending up unceremoniously wedged between an old pair of gloves and the small pouch that holds his sword oil.
He's aware that he's not doing a particularly good job at packing as he haphazardly stuffs items into his bag – but he's finding it hard to care about order or precision right now. All that matters is speed. All that matters is getting his things and getting out.
His hands delve back into the chest that sits at the end of his bed and pull out another bundle of clothes which spill messily onto the floor of Arl Eamon's guest room. He's somewhat amazed to discover just how much stuff he has managed to acquire; he'd never thought of himself as much of a hoarder. But then they had been travelling for some time, picking up items as they crossed back and forth across Ferelden, and the luxury of Bodahn's cart meant that he'd never had to be particularly discerning with what he decided to keep.
Well now he doesn't have that luxury – no more Bodahn, no more travelling companions, no one to share his burdens. Now he can only keep what he can carry and he needs to decide what's important and what's disposable.
He throws aside a heavily worn undershirt and then another – they're in a miserable state, not really worth saving, and he can always pick up more when he reaches Ostwick. Or Kirkwall. Or wherever the hell he ends up. As long as he's not in Ferelden (or Orlais, if he's honest – just because he's been exiled doesn't mean he's lost his standards).
A tunic with a bad rip along the left shoulder joins the undershirts in a sorry pile on the floor. It could probably be repaired easily enough but right now it just seems like another unnecessary burden. He can only take the essentials – nothing that will weigh him down, nothing that will slow his escape from Ferelden.
Then his hands fall upon a small stone figurine hidden within the folds of a crusty old scarf and they still in their frantic movements. It's a man, a warrior more precisely, with a round shield in one hand and a longsword in the other. On the warrior's back is what was probably a pike of some sort – it's been worn down over the years and is now only a small stub. The stone warrior looks up at him with a stoic solemnity and Alistair frowns at him in response – you think you're having a tough time? Alistair thinks, try being betrayed by the only woman you have ever loved and exiled from your home. The stone warrior remains silent.
Alistair spends a few moments moving the figurine back and forth between his hands, enjoying the sturdy weightiness of the warrior and twisting him round to appreciate the impressive craftsmanship. Eventually he stands the figurine on the parquet floor and reaches back toward the scarf to find the stone warrior's companions. There's a small stone dragon, and a particularly impressive Pride Demon carved from onyx. He picks each one up in turn, looking them over carefully, before placing them in a neat row next to his clothes and assorted pieces of armour.
The final figurine is a small woman cast from brass, and he cups this one carefully in his hands as he looks upon her tiny, expertly-crafted face. She's wearing a long robe of sorts – a mage perhaps? But then she's lacking a staff so Alistair supposes she's probably a Chantry sister. She's the favourite of his little collection. Not as impressive as the Pride Demon, nor as fun to play with as the stone warrior – but this one is special.
This one was first.
He can still remember it so vividly. They'd just made camp a little north of Lothering and Alistair had been sitting propped up against a log around the fire, feeling utterly exhausted after just saving Bodahn and his son from a Darkspawn attack. He'd immediately sat up when he'd seen Elissa approach, not wanting to appear slothful or tired (and it's funny how, right from the beginning, he'd so desperately wanted her to think well of him).
They'd talked for a little – mostly about Lothering, about the impending arrival of the Darkspawn, about the tragedy that would inevitably befall anyone who failed to flee. And then she'd fallen silent and Alistair had assumed she was trying to think of some polite way of excusing herself from his company. Instead she'd delved her hand into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the small brass woman. She'd handed it to him with a stuttering comment (and it was such an endearing moment of vulnerability – the great Elissa never stuttered) and he'd accepted it with a pathetic attempt at a joke to hide how incredibly touched he was by the gesture (a gift? When was the last time he'd been given a gift?).
Soon the brass woman was joined with her other tiny companions but this one – this first gift – this one was special and Alistair had treasured it unlike anything else in his possession. He wouldd get it out at night – when the dreams of the Archdemon kept him from finding restful sleep – and look at the woman's serenely smiling face and feel… at peace somehow, less alone.
Now her serenity seems cloying – how dare she look so calm when his world is crumbling around him? He doesn't place her with the others but lets her drop unceremoniously from his hands, not even watching long enough to see her roll across the wooden slats and disappear out of sight under a wardrobe.
Good riddance.
None of the figurines make it into his pack. They're just dead weight now. Their only value had been sentimental and he doesn't want to be reminded of sentiment now. He doesn't want to be reminded of Elissa's shy smiles as she'd handed over each gift or how her eyes had sparkled each time he'd gladly accepted them. He doesn't want anything that reminds him of her.
He grabs a handful of socks instead – excellent, socks! Socks are important; that had been drilled into him again and again during his Templar training. A pair of clean, dry socks is all that stands between a man and a myriad of debilitating, grossly unpleasant foot disorders. He'd been taught to change his socks as regularly as possible – to keep them clean and dry and replace them whenever the opportunity presented itself. He'd kept that habit throughout his whole career as a Templar, and then a Warden, and he will keep it up throughout his exile as well.
Yes – exile can't be that bad as long as he's wearing a good pair of socks!
A laugh manages to escape through his clenched jaw – strangled and sad, it startles him how unhinged it sounds to his ears.
"I'm not sure what's funny," comes a voice from behind him and Alistair freezes, his hands still clutching at socks.
He knew that she would come – of course she would come – but part of him had hoped that he might be able to get away before she'd been able to find him (not that their shared room in Arl Eamon's Denerim estate was a particularly cunning hiding place). Perhaps the nobles would have kept her attention, or Anora, or one of their companions. She's the great Elissa Cousland after all, the last of the Wardens, the hero who'd rallied an army of allies to face the Archdemon, who'd united the nobles and defeated Teyrn Loghain at the Landsmeet. Surely she has things to do, people to see. Surely she's too busy to see little ol' Alistair.
He should have known he would not be that lucky.
Well – he might as well get this over and done with. Just face it head-on – that's the best way. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths before turning away from his haphazard packing and standing to greet his unwelcome guest.
"It's nothing," he says flatly, then pauses, expecting her to say something. Because surely she wouldn't be here if she didn't have something to say; surely she has some words to say in her defence.
Instead a silence falls over the room – close and stifling and grossly uncomfortable – and Alistair feels himself growing impatient. He doesn't have the time to wait. He doesn't have the time for Elissa to find her words. He needs to get packing; he needs to get out.
"What do you want?" he finally snaps, and he's perversely pleased when he sees her startle at his sharp tone. She'd been leaning casually against the doorjamb at first but now she straightens, hands clasped awkwardly in front of her. She'd been wearing her Warden armour at the Landsmeet but she's since changed into a simple tunic and leather breaches; she looks so normal now, so inoffensive. It's hard to believe that such an innocent-looking creature could have so thoroughly fucked him.
"I wanted to…" she hesitates, uncertain how to answer, "to see you."
He huffs, shaking his head and turning back as if to resume his packing. "Well – you've seen me. You can go now."
"Alistair!" she shouts, like a school-mistress scolding a recalcitrant student, and Alistair immediately stops. He hates that she has this affect on him, that even after everything that's happened, he still can't help but obey her.
With a wearied sigh, he turns back to face her. He'd been determined before, standing with a straight back and a severe expression. But he's already feeling tired, as if the mere sight of her has drained him of his fortitude, and he can feel his posture slacken, his expression falling into something akin to gentleness.
"What do you want, Elissa?" he repeats, his voice now softer than before, and she clearly takes this as some sort of invitation, stepping into the room and closing the space between them (though not entirely, he notes; she still keeps a few strides distance).
"I wanted to talk, Alistair, about…" she gestures around her vaguely, "about everything that just happened." She's looking at him oddly, and he finds it unusual that he can't read her expression (he'd become so good at that during their time travelling together). Her eyes droop, looking lost and almost sad, but there's a twist to her lips which suggests disdain.
"It seemed rather self-explanatory to me," he says, furrowing his brows sullenly. "You spared Loghain's life, utterly betrayed me, and then had me exiled. What part has left you confused?"
"That's not what happened," she replies gruffly.
"That's exactly what happened!" he snaps back, all cordiality gone from his voice, replaced with only hardness.
"Loghain will take the Joining – he may not survive," she explains, "I have not spared him – merely left his fate in the Maker's hands."
Alistair can't help but scoff at that. He's been travelling with Elissa for over a year now and he knows that she's not particularly devout. Elissa does not leave things in the Maker's hands; she takes action by her own. It is a poor excuse, a desperate attempt to justify the indefensible.
"Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment!" he roars. "By naming him a Warden – you cheapen us all!"
"Cheapen the Wardens?" she asks skeptically, and he hates that she sounds so… amused. "The Wardens happily welcome all manner of criminals into their ranks – I'm not sure how Loghain's recruitment is any different."
"Loghain isn't just a petty thief! He abandoned the Wardens at Ostagar then blamed us when the battle was lost! He's hunted us down like animals! He's tortured people, murdered – how can you forget that?!"
"I haven't forgotten any of that!" she shouts back, "but now he will atone for what he has done. There's a poetic justice here – he helped destroy the Ferelden Wardens and now he will become one of them."
"Fuck poetry! He's a monster and I want him dead!"
Her expression turns sharp then, scorn and judgement radiating from narrowed eyes. He's seen her give that look countless times before – usually before killing someone – but he never would have thought that such a look could be directed at him. Before the Landsmeet he would have withered under such a glare from Elissa, been utterly ashamed to have been its recipient, but now her expression merely makes him stand taller. He doesn't care that she's judging him; fuck her judgement.
"You're talking about petty vengeance – not justice," she sneers patronisingly.
"You killed Arl Howe," he points out with a cruel smirk, "what was that if not petty vengeance?"
His words have their intended affect; he can see a flash of shame in her slanting eyes, her bottom lip quiver like a child caught in a lie. He knows that he's right – that no matter how much Arl Howe deserved to die (and Alistair does believe that he deserved to die), Elissa can't deny that it was her lust for vengeance that led her to plunge her sword into his chest, to twist her blade as he choked for his last breaths. She could have brought him to justice another way, could have presented him and his myriad of crimes before the Court. Instead she'd murdered him.
She was allowed her vengeance – why has she denied him his?
"You're right," she admits with a shrug. "It was petty vengeance. I wanted him to pay for what he did for my family – and I made sure that he did pay."
Alistair had not expected her to agree with him. Although he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Elissa had always shown willingness to admit when she's wrong. He's suddenly reminded of how sensible Elissa can be – honest, willing to compromise. He's the stubborn one.
"I'm sorry that you didn't get to take Loghain's life," she says, another unexpected admission, "but I'm not sorry for the decision I made. It's the right decision. Ferelden is in dire need of more Wardens, Alistair, and while Loghain may be a monster, he is also a skilled warrior and experienced general. If he survives the Joining, he will make an excellent addition to our ranks."
Alistair can feel his skin bristle as she talks – 'our ranks' – as if Loghain could ever be one of them. Part of him wants to object but her severe expression has forced him into silence. It's the same expression that had made him follow her in the first place – the expression that made it clear that she was a leader, that she was not to be swayed.
But even though her face is stern, there's a sweetness in her eyes that Alistair has always found impossible to resist. He'd always loved those eyes – radiant and honest. When she looks at him – even now, even after the deep betrayal – he still wants to believe her words.
She takes a step forward, raising her hand as if to reach for him then thinking better of it and letting it fall to her side.
"And I'm sorry about the exile – so, so sorry." There's genuine pain in her voice and Alistair thinks he can see tears welling in her eyes. Now that is unexpected – it's not like Elissa to cry; and it seems strange for her to cry for him after she was the one to orchestrate his demise.
"I couldn't stay here anyway," he says, tone wearied with acceptance, "not after this."
"I didn't want-"
"I don't care what you want!" he suddenly interrupts, and Elissa squeaks from surprise at the forcefulness of his voice. He's surprised too; he hadn't expected the words to come out quite so loud. But he can feel something stirring inside, a growing resentment that has been building and burning while Elissa has been talking. He's just… he's done. He's done listening to her talk; he's done listening to her vain attempts at defending her actions. Why does it matter what she wants? Why does she get what she wants while he gets nothing?
"I used to care – I used to care so fucking much about what you wanted, about what would make you happy," he says, and though he's not shouting any more there's a fierce intensity to his words that leaves Elissa wide-eyed. "That's what I lived for, you know, when we were fighting through the horrors of Kinloch Hold, or the Dark Roads – I lived for you, I lived for the chance to make you smile. All I wanted was to make… was to make you happy."
He's crying too now, his vision turning blurry as the tears well in his eyes before streaking down his cheeks.
"I love you, Elissa," he confesses, his voice now barely above a whisper, "I love you more than anything or anyone in all of Thedas. And I thought that you loved me too – I thought that you… but now…"
"I do love you, Alistair!" she cries, taking another step forward, reaching her hands out to him as if to touch him.
Alistair takes a step back.
"If you loved me – you wouldn't have done this to me!" he shouts, though not with as much force as he'd been shouting before; his words sound more tired than angry.
"You're not being fair…" she pleads.
"Oh, fuck off Elissa," he says, "none of this is fair."
She looks surprised – her body physically recoiling at his words. Was it the expletive that has shocked her so? Or maybe it's just the weary resignation, the tired voice of a broken man far removed from the idealistic young man she'd met in the ruins of Ostagar.
"I think you should go now," he says, strangely composed. Tears are still falling from his eyes but his voice is now calm, his face impassive. The fight is gone, all energy drained from his body until only a leaden stiffness remains.
She nods, turns, pauses. She looks thoughtful for a moment, gazing across the room as if searching for something she's lost. He thinks she might say something but then – nothing. She walks towards the door in soft, slow steps. From the stiffness in her gait, she seems just as wearied as he does.
She stops as she nears the door, lets her eyes fall upon his Warden armour propped up in a nearby wing-backed chair. She raises a hand, lets it fall upon the Griffon which stands proudly in relief on the pauldron.
"You're not taking this with you?" she asks, voice uncharacteristically small.
"No," he says blankly, "I'm not a Warden anymore."
"What about this?" she says, pointing at something he cannot see.
He takes a step forward and cranes his neck to follow her gesturing. His mother's amulet sits on the small table next to the chair, the chain arranged in a tight spiral around a silver disk.
Immediately he thinks that he will leave it. It was, after all, another gift from Elissa, like the figurines. She's the one who found it in Arl Eamon's study, she's the one who secreted it away and gave it to him.
But then – the amulet is so much more than just a gift from Elissa. It's proof of Arl Eamon's feelings for him, proof that he'd been cherished as a child, not just a burden. Most importantly, it's the only thing he has linking him to his mother. His petulance had led him to throw it away once before – a decision he'd regretted every day thereafter – he won't make the same mistake again.
He nods as he steps forward, reaching out a hand to pick up the necklace from the surface of the table. Elissa beats him to it, snatching out to pluck the necklace from the table and cradling it gently in her hand. He frowns at her, bemused as to why she would keep his mother's amulet from him, but she just smiles at him sadly in return.
Perhaps the amulet holds some significance for Elissa as well? Alistair can't think of any other reason why she would seem so reluctant to part with it now. Perhaps the giving of the gift had meant as much to Elissa as the receiving of the gift had meant to Alistair. After all, the amulet had marked a turning point in their relationship, the moment that they'd both realised they no longer saw the other as mere friend.
She lifts the necklace by its chain, holds it up in front of him and watches intently as the silver disk sways and turns. There's an inlay of enamel inside the silver circle, blues and purples swirling together. It's cracked – scars from a sulky outburst as a child – but lovingly reassembled. The amulet catches the candlelight as it twists, shining with a mesmerising luster.
After a pregnant pause, Elissa lowers the amulet into Alistair's awaiting hand, letting the pendant drop into his palm before gently dropping the chain on top. She curls his fingers around the necklace then cups his hand within her own. Safe and sound.
They stand like that for some time, Alistair's closed fist enclosed by Elissa's far smaller, more delicate hands. He waits for her to say something but she's silent, her face drawn and distant.
"This wasn't my idea," he says to finally break the silence. "I had these dreams," he pauses, momentarily wistful, thinking back to those times in his tent when he imagined the life he might one day have with Elissa, the family they might build together, "they don't matter now."
He steps back, tugging his hand until she reluctantly releases him. He turns and walks away, sinking to his knees beside his bag to resume his packing. He doesn't look back, doesn't look to see how long she lingers, doesn't look to see her finally leave.
He doesn't care – not anymore – not about Elissa, not about Anora, not about Ferelden or the Wardens. He'll go into exile. He's not sure what he'll do or where he'll go but it doesn't matter; he'll figure that out in time. All that matters now is that he's done with this life. He's done with the Wardens – he hopes to never see another Warden as long as he lives. He's done with Ferelden – he hopes to never step foot in this wretched country again. But most of all he's done with love. He suspects he will never again feel what he felt for Elissa, that he will never again feel such profound devotion to another living being.
Ah well – it's probably for the best. What has love brought him except misery and betrayal?
9:42 Dragon Age
Something smells of lilacs – sweet but not cloying, fresh and fruity but without the sharp tang of citrus. It's a light smell, a clean smell, and-
Oh wait, Bron thinks, it's me!
She can feel it as much as she can smell it. Her skin is no longer crunchy and stiff, no longer trapped within a shell of dirt. She wants to open her eyes, to look upon freckled skin finally freed from a crusty layer of sweat, blood and dirt, but they don't seem willing to cooperate. Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy, a little sticky even, as if trapped beneath a spider's web.
How long has she been asleep?!
She doesn't remember going to sleep – doesn't really remember anything except… there was the Fade and then the demons. She'd been fighting, losing, and then there was a sharp pain, an explosion of feeling that rippled through her body, and then nothingness.
No wait – she's forgetting something – something important. Before the nothingness, before the blackness of unconsciousness claimed her, there'd been something, someone – Alistair! He'd held her and he'd begged her not to leave him and then… then she doesn't know. Had she tried to comfort him? Had she told him how much he meant to her? She hopes that she'd spent her last few moments expressing her feelings while she still had the chance; she fears that she didn't.
Poor Alistair – he deserves better.
She needs to find him – needs to find him and tell him that she's still alive. That is… if… if she's still alive. Could she be dead? Maybe this is the afterlife – just her disembodied consciousness floating around in the blackness (and if she is dead then the Chantry has a lot to answer for – shouldn't she be at the Maker's side? If he's there then he's being awfully quiet).
No – wait – of course she's not dead. There's the smell of lilacs! And she can feel warm furs pressed against soft, clean skin. And she hurts. She's pretty certain that if she really was just a disembodied consciousness she wouldn't be able to feel pain. And she most certainly can feel pain – not the sharp, persistent pain that had dogged her since Adamant – but there's definitely still a dull throbbing in her ankle and at the back of her skull; a faint echo to remind her of just how badly she'd been injured.
There's a light pattering sound overhead, the soft drumming of raindrops against a taut fabric – a tent! She's in a tent! And beyond the rain she can hear further noises, heavy items being loaded onto a wooden cart, the occasional grumpy muttering followed by a sharp rejoinder and then a peel of laughter.
There are people! Real people!
Unless… could this all be just a trick of the Fade? Oh shit – the thought makes her stomach clench, her heart lurch in fear. She remembers her mother, or at least the demon wearing her mother's skin, and it had all seemed so real – the look, the smell, the touch. Every mannerism, every vocal tic was just as she'd remembered from her childhood. How can she know that this is not all just some elaborate illusion?
She really needs to open her eyes! She really needs to see where she is, figure out what's happening. She hates feeling this powerless, this vulnerable and ignorant. If only she could see her surroundings! Then she could determine whether she was trapped in an illusion or not and then determine what she needed to do next.
Come on, Bron, she yells in her mind, open your eyes!
Her mind is screaming, railing at her muscles, willing them into action. She just needs to lift her eyelids – how hard can that be?!
Slowly, painfully slowly, her eyes begin to open. They're stiff – reluctant – gradually creasing open if only to quell the yelling inside her mind. At first she can't see anything, just a blinding whiteness as her eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden onslaught of daylight. But then the haze of white seems to clear and she can begin to focus on the things around her.
There's a red canvas stretched a few feet above her head – she was right! She is in a tent! And there's a blanket pulled up to her armpits, thick and coarse but oddly comforting. It reminds her of the woolen blankets she'd had at home in Highever (before she'd moved to Orlais and become accustomed to finer materials), the ones handed down through successive generations of the family, the ones that always smelled faintly of damp. It's the kind of blanket that makes you feel safe. She's lying on a soft bedroll, extra padding provided by a layer of furs, and she's the comfiest she has been in a long, long time.
Her arms are arranged neatly across her chest and when she looks down she can see – thank the Maker and all that is holy in the world, Bron is clean! Her skin is clean; she's wearing a crisp, new shirt; and even her hair has been recently washed and then smartly braided just as she prefers.
It has to be Alistair, she thinks. Who else would take such good care of her? And she's suddenly hit with the most desperate longing to see him, and the most immense disappointment that he's not there… except – wait – there's something warm at her feet. It's hard to see what though; she can only just make out an indistinct blur at the edge of her peripheral vision. She wishes she could get a better view but she's not quite sure whether she can tilt her head (moving her eyelids had been enough of a challenge).
Come on, Bron, her mind yells again, move your head!
She's astonished at just how bossy she can be.
With another monumental bout of effort, Bron slowly tilts her head to look down at her feet.
There, curled at the end of the bedroll like an obedient dog, lies Alistair. He's clean too, his boyish features peaceful in sleep, and his blonde hair tousled and pleasantly gore-free. His clothes are new, like hers, but profoundly creased; he's clearly been lying in vigil for some time and Bron can't help but feel a jitter of excitement at the sweetness of such a gesture.
She wants to reach out and touch him, card her fingers through his hair, but it's taken so much effort just to open her eyes and tilt her head, she's not sure she can muster the strength to lift her arm. Her weakness is infuriating – he's right here and she can't even touch him!
He probably needs his sleep though. After everything they've been through at Adamant and then the Fade – he certainly deserves some rest. The sensible thing would be to leave him be. No matter how desperately she wants to touch him, to speak to him, to hear him laugh and tell bad jokes, she knows she shouldn't be so selfish as to wake him (but, oh, how desperate she is to be selfish).
For a long time she just watches him sleep, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest and listening to the endearing little snorts he makes when he shifts. It looks profoundly uncomfortable, curled up at her feet like that – but she supposes there's nothing much she can do about that. He looks content anyway, the worry and the tension finally drained from his features. He's held that stress for far too long – even when asleep in the Fade, his face had remained taut and tight. Maybe it really is impossible to find peace in the Fade.
Suddenly the sound of a distant crash invades the privacy of the tent, followed by a string of colourful expletives. It's too quiet for Bron to discern what's being spoken but clearly loud enough to invade Alistair's sleep because his head suddenly jerks up, his eyes blinking rapidly as they try to adjust to wakening.
His head swings wildly back and forth as he tries to find the source of the disturbance, perhaps expecting some sort of trouble, but it soon becomes clear that there is no danger present and the alarm drains from his body as quickly as it had arrived. Whatever incident has happened within the camp, no one disturbs the refuge of the tent and calm returns as soon as Alistair lets himself relax once more.
He wriggles a little where he lies, perhaps trying to get comfortable, and it looks like he's about to fall asleep again, his head drooping slightly to the side, when he casts his eyes toward her face and suddenly stops. He looks a little startled – his eyes widening and his bottom lip dropping to a gape.
"You look better after a rest," she somehow manages to croak out, words pushed passed chapped lips through stubbornness alone.
He's staring at her with open astonishment, clearly not expecting to see her awake, but then the surprise in his eyes is slowly replaced with growing tenderness and his mouth switches into a small, tentative smile. There's an odd pause as he stares at her, lips apart but no sounds coming out – perhaps he's lost for words.
"That's what I'm supposed to say," he finally says, hurriedly attempting to uncurl himself, stretching out his limbs one by one and grimacing when his elbow lets out an angry pop. Shit – he really has been down there too bloody long.
"How long have you been awake?" he asks as he crawls up the side of her bedroll, placing his hands and knees with excessive care so as to not touch her.
"Not long, I don't think," she croaks, "I was just…" for a moment she considers admitting the truth – that she was watching him sleep – but that seems far too sentimental, far more apt for a trashy romance novel, and she decides on a half-truth instead. "I was listening to the rain."
He nods as he stretches his body alongside hers, lying on his side so that he can look at her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him but not so close that they're touching. One arm comes up and she expects him to wrap it around her, to pull her close and hold her tightly against his chest. She's a little disappointed when instead he just takes one of her hands, holding it gently where it rests on her chest. She can't quite place it but his behaviour seems off – slightly odd – like he's holding something back, keeping his movements controlled and his words soft.
"It's nice, isn't it?" he murmurs quietly. "It's a soothing sound."
They lapse into silence. And while normally Bron likes silence – she can't help but feel that there's been maybe a bit too much silence recently. The silence of sleep; the strange, stifling silence of the airless Fade. And Alistair is not silent; Alistair is babbling chatter and infectious laughter. And as much as she values the quiet; she values him more.
What's wrong with him? Maybe he took a hit to the head in the Fade. Maybe she is still in the Fade – and this is all just a demon's elaborate illusion (and the demon has done a very poor job at imitating Alistair).
"What's wrong?" she finally asks, preferring, as always, a straightforward question.
He looks a little surprised at her question, his head quirking to the side as he looks at her. "Nothing's wrong – not now… not now that you've-"
"Why are you being so quiet then?" she interrupts with another question, her frustration growing. "Why are you keeping your distance?"
A flush spreads across his cheeks and he looks at her a little sheepishly. She still doesn't understand – have his feelings waned since they escaped the Fade?
"Steve said that you need rest," he admits. "He said that when you woke up, I needed to be careful not to disturb you. You need peace and quiet to recover."
"Who the fuck is Steve?" she snaps with irritation, "and why should I care what he says?"
"He's the Mage who healed you, Bron, and me – and he gave me very strict instructions to-"
"Just shut up and kiss me," she interrupts again, squeezing his hand where it lies entwined with her own on her chest.
He smiles crookedly, a pleased little lilt to his lips, but his eyebrows are furrowed with concern.
"I shouldn't…" he objects weakly, but he's already leaning in closer, his face so close to hers that she can feel his breath whisper against her skin.
Whatever instructions he'd been given are forgotten as soon as his lips meet hers. It's not the most intense kiss she's ever received – it's soft and chaste, overly restrained – but it's warm and it's sweet and it's Alistair. He rolls over ever so slightly until his body is pressed flush with her own, the cautious space he placed between them temporarily forgotten, and Bron can't help but let out a pleased moan.
He pulls back far too soon and Bron is left scowling as he retreats.
That won't do.
She marshals her meagre strength until she manages to reach out with her free hand, grabbing the lapel of his collar. Her grip is weak, her arm trembling with the effort, but the gesture is enough to stop him. He looks down at her hand where it curls insistently into the fabric of his shirt.
"Don't move," she pleads.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says, and there's so much pain in his voice that Bron thinks she might finally understand what's going on. She'd been so disappointed when she'd first woken, so frustrated with Alistair's unusual behaviour. She'd wanted to see his smiling face. She'd wanted to hear his babbling words, his boundless enthusiasm. She'd wanted to be peppered with kisses, crushed against his chest until her body had melted into his embrace. Instead she'd found him quiet and reserved.
At first she'd assumed something was wrong with him but suddenly she thinks she understands – he'd held her as the blood had seeped from her wounds! He'd cried over her body as the strength had left her limbs! And then he'd carried her to safety, watched over her as she healed, never knowing whether she would live or die.
How terrified he must have felt – to hold the life of someone else in his hands, to fear that one wrong move would lead to their death.
He's not cold and distant – he's afraid.
"You won't hurt me," she tries to reassure him. "You could never hurt me, Alistair. You saved me." She gives his hand a squeeze to reaffirm her words. "You saved me."
He smiles, small and gentle but definitely there, and Bron hopes that's a sign he's found comfort in her words. She lets go of his shirt, her arm landing heavily on the blanket as her strength fails her, and she's pleased when he makes no attempt to move, keeping his body pressed flush against her side. Bron's heart leaps happily in her chest, pleased by this small victory – she feels like she's slowly getting her Alistair back.
"What happened?" she asks after a comfortable moment of silence, a question that she's been pondering for a while but too distracted by Alistair's odd behaviour to ask.
"You were stabbed," he replies, sounding suddenly pained, his eyes dropping to her stomach as if he can see her wound through the blanket.
"Yes – I was there for that bit," she quips back, trying to alleviate some of the tension, trying to stop Alistair from retreating from her again. "I meant after that."
He breaths out a soft chuckle, shaking his head with incredulity. He clearly hadn't expected her to attempt a joke. Bron can't help but feel pleased with herself – his laughter is another small victory.
"I carried you through the Rift and we ended up back in Ferelden, in the Frostbacks Basin to be precise," he explains, sounding noticeably less troubled, perhaps finally believing that Bron really is all right. "I carried you around for a little bit – I thought you'd… well… I wasn't certain if you'd…" He stumbles a little with his words. Bron doesn't really need him to speak – he thought she'd die.
"I had no idea where we were or where I should go. Luckily the Inquisition found us – Scout Harding to be precise."
"Harding is here?!" she exclaims, unable to control her excitement at the prospect that such a dear friend could be close at hand.
"Yep," he says, chuckling again at her excitement, "and thank goodness she found us when she did. I think she's pretty desperate to see you. She's been keeping her distance, though. I think she's trying to give me my space. She's very thoughtful."
Bron simply nods – that's exactly the Harding she knows: kind, endlessly considerate. Harding was the first friend Bron made upon joining the Inquisition, for a long time she'd been the only friend Bron had in the Inquisition (other than Leliana of course). Harding didn't seem to mind that Bron was quiet, didn't want mindless chit-chat or forced camaraderie – she seemed content to just let Bron be.
"She had a Mage with her, Steve – he healed you. He healed me too. He's a good kid – very chatty, though. You'll hate him."
Bron lets out a puff of laughter. It's nice just listening to Alistair talk. And it's not just the sound of his voice, she can feel his words through the rise and fall of his chest. It's a strangely comforting sensation. For someone who values her personal space as keenly as Bron, it's a revelation to find nearness so pleasant.
"How long have I been asleep?" she asks, a question she's been considering herself for a while. Her limbs are stiff, her eyes heavy – she fears it must be some time and she's almost afraid to know the answer.
He looks uncomfortable, dipping his eyes and letting his gaze wonder around the tent. It's clear the answer upsets him; the burden of waiting has taken its toll and Bron aches to see him so uneasy.
"A few days," he finally answers, a troubled shadow darkening his expression.
Shit – a few days – that's a long time to be asleep. Her injury must have been severe indeed. Bron feels a shiver along her spine, as icy coldness in the pit of her stomach – she only now realises just how close to death she must have been. It's a pretty discomforting feeling.
"We're not far from Skyhold," he continues when she doesn't say anything further, his voice sounding lighter, more hopeful. "We'll travel back as soon as you're well enough to move. It will only take us a few days, a week at most. So don't worry – we'll be home soon."
She leans into Alistair, squeezing his hand tightly as she nuzzles her head into the nook between his neck and shoulder. "I'm already home," she breaths against his collarbone.
She can't see his expression at her words but she can hear the contented sigh that escapes him.
They lie in silence for a time – and this time the quiet doesn't bother her. It's a comfortable silence, no longer haunted by unspoken words. It's a relief to know what happened, to know how she was saved, to know that Alistair was with her at every moment, to know that they're so close to Skyhold. And Alistair seems more content now as well – knowing that Bron is safe, is healthy and happy. It's the kind of silence that has come to typify their relationship – the kind of silence that proves they don't need words to feel close to one another.
"You know… I've been thinking…" he says after a long, indulgent pause, "about something important."
"Oh?" she asks with curiosity – and perhaps a little bit of trepidation. Is there something he's been hiding from her? Maybe a wound that couldn't be healed? Maybe some ill news about the Inquisition that he learned from Harding? She carefully leans her head back, eager to see his expression and read what could be wrong.
"The Grand Oak," he says simply, breaking into a crooked, gawky smile. His tone is casual, conversational, as if his statement is perfectly self-explanatory.
"The what?" she asks, clearly surprised by his peculiar statement.
"You asked me once about my favourite tree-related story. And I've given it a lot of thought and… The Grand Oak – it's my favourite tree-related story."
She laughs, high and bright. "I wasn't expecting an answer, I was just… distracting you from the Calling. Or at least trying to."
"Well I took it as a serious question and I've been giving it the serious thought it deserved."
She laughs again, amused by the sheer absurdity of their conversation. "I'm going to regret asking you that, aren't I?"
"I don't know – it depends how much you like puns."
"I hate puns."
"That is a blatant lie," he chastises gently, knocking his forehead against hers, "you love puns. You just don't want to admit it because you want to maintain this façade of suave aloofness."
She arches one brow sharply. "I have a façade of suave aloofness?"
"Yes – well, to other people you do. But of course I know you better than that."
She snorts with amusement. "Oh, do you now?"
"Yeah – I know everything about you," he declares, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and delighting in the way she rolls her eyes in response. "You like old ruins, and really good maps. You love the sea but prefer the mountains. You like heights – you like being able to see all around you." He's squeezing her hand as he speaks, smirking smugly as he proves that Bron is not the only keen observer. "You prefer the cake in Orlais but the tea in Ferelden. You, quite rightly, prefer dogs to cats. And you sing to yourself when you think no one can hear you."
She blushes when he mentions the singing, and she's surprised at just how fiercely she can feel the burning in her cheeks. She hadn't realised he'd heard her. It's a silly, childish habit – the kind of comfort one picks up when one spends a lot of time alone.
It's embarrassing listening to Alistair list all her foibles but also… pleasing? Because it feels terribly peculiar to have someone know her as well as Alistair does – but also terribly nice.
Bron has always been a quiet person – distant, detached. Even with her closest friends and family, it takes a long time for anyone to really get to know her, to understand her. Some never really understand her, despite many years of acquaintance. For someone to know her so intimately – it comes as a revelation. A marvellous, heart-warming, revelation.
"So are you going to let me tell you about The Grand Oak or not?" he asks with feigned peevishness.
"Yes – tell me all about the tree," she says with pointed exaggeration. "There is nothing I want more in the world than to hear you talk about trees."
He laughs, and she laughs too, and though she is mocking him with her words – they're also true. There really is nothing she wants more right now than to listen to Alistair talk about trees. And not just trees – she wants to listen to him talk, to let his idle prattle and silly jokes wash over her, a comforting blanket of sound to reassure her that he's near.
This is what she wants – he is what she wants.
End note: When I first wrote out my rough plan for this fic - Elissa did not make an appearance. But then the more I wrote about other characters talking about her, the more I wanted to hear from her directly. So that's how this flashback came to be. It was a lot of fun to write - I literally just sat down and the words just came and I bashed out 3,000 words in like an hour (which is a remarkable level of productivity for me!)