Reunited

Chapter Three: Alistair Theirin

With too many years between them and little to distract himself from thinking about it, Alistair had come to the conclusion that the first time she had thought about leaving him had been when Arl Eamon suggested he be made King. When he first told her that he was Maric's bastard, he had made it clear he had no illusion about one day becoming King, and she had even seemed relieved to hear it. They were two Grey Wardens against the world, just as they had been since the traitor Loghain let Ostagar fall. He had assumed that would continue after the archdemon was gone, had even deluded himself into thinking they could rebuild the Wardens together.

He should have known, he later thought. Life was never that easy, especially not for him.

The night after they left Redcliffe to finally head to Orzammar, Alistair made the first of his mistakes. She had looked at him with something akin to fear in her eyes and softly asked what he thought their future might hold.

"If we care about each other, that's all that matters."

He should have seen the way her hands shook, noticed the quiver to her voice.

"Is it? What about duty? What about honor? Those things are important too, aren't they? I hope they don't come between us, but I… I can't say they won't. I'm sorry.

He also didn't see the way fractures began to set into her eyes, the ones that reached all the way down to her heart. So caught up in the Blight, and the mess that was Orzammar and worrying about what Arl Eamon wanted for and from him, and the inevitable Landsmeet, Alistair hadn't noticed the changes that began to set in. They still shared a tent when they camped, ignored the snickering and rolled eyes from their companions each morning as they were the last to rise. He sparred with her and continued to teach her how to use the sword she insisted on sometimes in favor of a staff, and he fought by her side to keep her safe during battle. She still laughed at his jokes and listened without complaint to his late-night rants about Morrigan or his miserable time in the Chantry and anything else in the world.

It hadn't necessarily been that she had acted different, because she hadn't. But this was the girl that had been taken from her family as but a child, had grown up an elf surrounded by humans, a mage walled by the Circle. She had had a lifetime of learning to be subtle in her pain, of learning how to bury the things that hurt her and Alisair had often found himself wondering at how many things were lying behind her afternoon sky eyes. Neria had learned, after Jowan's betrayal, how to give nothing away, and their journey had made her only more wary of the world. The hopeful, fresh mage that he had met in Ostagar was lost, buried beneath a mountain of responsibility that she had never wanted. She hid herself away from everyone, slowly, and he wasn't sure she had been aware she'd done it until it was too late.

Alistair had thought that he was an exception, that she felt no need to hide any of herself from him.

No, the only thing that had changed was the way she looked at him, he realized later. There was a sadness in her smile and a crack in her eyes that he had overlooked. She was tired, plagued by nightmares the further they traveled, that was all. She worried if all their efforts would be enough. Neria had never wanted to lead much of anything, let alone the sole resistance against the Blight and Loghain and everything else wrong with Ferelden. He had thought that was all.

And then, after Orzammar and with the Blight creeping closer with every day, hours before they left Redcliffe to head to Denerim, she quietly asked to speak to him privately. She had been avoiding him all day. Looks were fleeting, words were sparse and often deflected, even as she and Eamon discussed how to go about placing him on the throne, long after the Queen had retired. Anora was not to be killed, but to be sent away from Denerim and to formally denounce any further claims. Nothing Alistair seemed to say reached either of them, and he soon gave up. Pouted in his room and waited for her to comfort him. Instead, she came bearing news he never wanted to hear.

To have her end things just days before they reached the Landsmeet was a slap in the face that Alistair had not been prepared for, could never have been prepared for.

"You're to be King soon. Even with Anora expected to be gone, to be found having a relationship with an elf… Not just an elf, but a mage! The rumors alone will kill you before you've even accepted the crown."

He had only stared as the words sunk in, as their meaning began to register. After all they had been through, after how many times he had told her how little he wanted to be made King, and she chose to end it over something like that? By the time he had recovered enough to speak, she had already turned away.

"Neria, wait," he said, throat dry and voice hardly louder than a whisper. He watched her head tilt, just slightly, and for one hopeful second, he thought that she might actually turn back, but instead, she kept walking, and all he could do was watch as she left him behind. He caught sight of both Morrigan and Leliana waiting for her outside as the door opened and then closed, but then they were gone too and Alistair was left truly alone for the first time since she approached him at Ostagar. He sank down on the bed, staring at the door she left from as if he might be able to will her back into the room.

Zevran and Wynne both visited, separately. Zevran asked if he would spend the night drinking with him and Oghren, claiming that nothing quite cured a broken heart the way alcohol did. Wynne came to check on him, see if there was something she could do. Alistair turned them both down with a calmness in his voice he wasn't sure was his own. It felt like he was in shock, and it wasn't until well into the night that the pain finally hit him; and when it did, it hit him hard.

Like meeting Marric and Cailan and realizing that his own father didn't want him, or waking up in Flemeth's hut and learning about what had happened at Ostagar – to Duncan - only it was so, so much worse. Hot tears pooled around his ears no matter how hard he pressed his fists against his eyes, every part of him feeling as if it were screaming nonstop in his ears. It was a pain far worse than most anything else that Alistair had ever felt, and he didn't know how he would handle the ride to back to Denerim. How was he supposed to stand next to her and pretend like his heart hadn't just shattered into pieces? What would she be like? Nervous, tense? Or could it even be possible that her whole spiel was just a front, an unwillingness to tell him that she no longer loved him?

The thought was too much to bear.

When he finally managed to sleep, it was light and restless, his dreams of her face, and by the time morning came, he felt no better than he had before. As much as he wanted to stay hidden away, all too soon there was a knock on the door and a quiet reminder that the Arl wanted to leave just before first light.

The ride was, in one way, considerably better than most of their other travels thus far, for Eamon had been generous enough to provide them with horses, a luxury they had been missing. Of course, that small comfort paled dramatically in comparison to the awkwardness that hung between everyone. It seemed that their little party had all heard the news, and everyone except for Sten and Oghren was acting just a bit different. Morrigan, who often trailed behind everyone else or shapeshifted into a bird and flew ahead to scout, had planted her own steed next to Neria's. Leliana had done the same. Wynne rode next to Alistair, quietly telling him about all sorts of plants or other miscellaneous facts about the arcane that, any other day, he would have found fascinating. Barkspawn was dutifully behind Neria, and barked at anyone else that got too close. Zevran stayed in the middle, casually making small talk with them all in an obvious attempt to pretend that nothing had happened. Eamon rode in front of everyone, and while he was by no means oblivious to the shift in atmosphere among them, he had given Alistair a firm nod and a soft, "perhaps this is for the best," before carrying on.

The longer it went on, the more Alistair wished that the Fade would rip apart above them and drop an entire army of demons upon them - if only so that he might be spared from this torture.

It only grew worse the closer they got to Denerim. He felt like a child again, reluctantly riding alongside Eamon as the Arl brought him to the Chantry. He realized with a bitter taste that the situation wasn't too different; only, this time, it was the love of his life that was leading him away from Redcliffe, and it was to a throne he didn't want.

Life was cruel, sometimes.

Alistair tried a few times to speak with her whenever they made camp, but Morrigan would have none of it. Every time he got close, the Witch swooped down out of nowhere and 'politely' told him to sod off. Neria wouldn't let herself be alone, hadn't even so much as looked his way since they left Redcliffe. It hurt in a new way Alistair hadn't even dreamed of, and hurt quickly turned to anger. He started to push himself next to her anyways, sat as close as he could to her around the campfire and made sure his arm brushed against hers during any strategy discussions. He had wanted a reaction out of her. Even something as small as a quick snap to make him stop, but instead, all he was met with were tensed shoulders and a stumble in her words that quickly corrected itself.

It was infuriating. He was not present when she went to rescue Anora, for suddenly he was too important to risk losing like that. He stayed behind with Eamon and sulked in a quiet corner of his quarters until they returned. And then Anora returned. Alone.

Anger melted away into a frigid worry. She had been captured, the Queen told them all. Taken, alone, to Fort Drakon. If it had been up to him, Alistair would have stormed the keep and cut down any man foolish enough to stand between them, but Anora quickly explained that Leliana and Morrigan were already on their way. "I – I didn't ask what their plan was," she admitted, eyes rimmed red. "They simply told Oghren to ensure I returned safely and left."

So he waited. And waited, and waited. And while he waited, he made his mind up about two things.

The first, he was not going to be king. Damn all the nonsense Eamon had spewed into Neria's ears, and damn the fact that she had listened. Was he not capable of speaking for himself? And second, as soon as the Landsmeet was over and the throne was rightfully returned to Anora, he was going to sweep up Neria and never again let her walk away from him.

By the time they could finally confront Loghain directly at the Landsmeet, Neria returned as safely as she could be, his rage had transformed itself into something else entirely. He was on a mission, now, and nothing would stop him, not even the traitor. When the nobles had spoken and Loghain continued to challenge them, he was quick to volunteer as the champion.

Neria looked to him for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her eyes considerate. Alistair swallowed past the lump that grew in his throat at the sight of her looking at him. "He left Cailan to die," he said softly. "He's the reason Duncan is – is gone. Please, Neria."

After a second of silence, she finally nodded. "I will have Alistair fight as my champion," she announced to the nobles. Many of them cheered, and Loghain only sneered.

They wasted no time preparing the duel, and for that, Alistair was grateful. If he been allowed time to consider that he was about to face one of Ferelden's strongest hero's, he might have been sick. But his anger at Loghain's betrayal was powerful and his hurt was still strong, and he had the advantage of youth and Grey Warden senses, and the former war hero was brought down in seconds.

"Good… Seems there's some of Marric in you after all."

Alistair laughed, he couldn't help it. "Forget Marric," he spat, stepping forward. "This one's for Duncan."

The nobles gasped as the Hero of River Dane was felled, blood splattered all over his weeping daughter. Anora collapsed to the ground next to him, mouth open without a sound. There was only the smallest pricks of regret as she threw herself over his armored body, cried for the father that she had lost. He let his eyes flicker back to Neria, tried to read her expression.

There was a satisfaction there, just a glint of it, and when she finally looked up to meet his gaze, there was also a sadness so profound that it almost had him staggering back. He remembered with a jolt that she had inevitably spared Jowan, had looked into the eyes of all that had tried to kill her and still found a way to end things peacefully. He felt his jaw clench, worried that he had disappointed her somehow in his ruthless beheading of Loghain, but then she nodded, just slightly. Some people didn't deserve another chance.

Things were cleaned up quickly, servants called to remove the body and prepare it for burial, and more were called to clean up the mess of his blood before it stained. Anora was whisked away, and Alistair advised to clean his armor and sword off before they continued. When at last they finally convened, Alistair stepped forward. All eyes turned to him, and he took a deep breath. His eyes found Neria's, watched as she stared back, eyebrows furrowed together a little. The question was there, and he intended to answer it.

"I don't want to be king," he said plainly as he turned away. He wondered, briefly, if the nobles around him saw him as Alistair the Grey Warden, Alistair the bastard, or the one that had slain the Hero of River Dane. Hopefully all three. "I never have, not even once."

"Alistair," Eamon interrupted, stepping forward. "You are what this country needs! Ferelden needs a Theirin to carry on the bloodline!"

Neria remained quiet, regarding him thoughtfully. If she knew what he was doing, she made no effort to stop him. Anora stood opposite them, eyes puffy and head held high. When she looked at him, Alistair had no illusions that all she saw was the man that had just killed her father. "I'm definitely not what this country needs," he finally said, drawing attention back to him. "I wasn't raised to be king, I was raised in the Chantry!" A sort of murmur of agreement went around the crowd, and he continued. "So I'd like to take myself out of the race, and pass on my full support to Queen Anora." Eamon was yelling at him before the words had fully left his mouth, demanding to know if he had stopped to consider what he was saying.

His eyes found their way back to Neria, who still stood silent. She was frowning, just a little, but otherwise did not seem angry at the turn of events. "Yes, I have," he finally said, only tearing his eyes away from her when he saw the slight pink to her cheeks. "I'm not fit to be king. Far as I'm concerned, Anora'd make a much better ruler than I ever could."

One of the other nobles called for silence from Eamon, and then turned to Neria. "You speak for the Wardens, what say you?"

She looked between them all for a second before finally stepping forward. Alistair could see the stiffness of her legs, the slightest shake of her steps, and he wanted to go to her, to take her hands in his and soothe the claustrophobia that was building up. "I believe that Alistair is capable of speaking for himself," she finally said. "If he does not wish to be king, then perhaps it would be best to honor that."

"Will you, then, be willing to formally renounce any and all claims to the throne, Alistair?" Anora said quickly, voice just a little hoarse. "For yourself and any kin?"

Alistair laughed, he couldn't help it. "Yes, of course," he told them. "I, uh, formally renounce my claim to the throne."

Eamon was outraged, but even he couldn't go against the entire Landsmeet. Alistair felt guilty, in a way. All that time, all that careful planning and maneuvering around the other nobility to ensure his spot on the throne, wasted. This was for the best, however, and Eamon would see that soon enough.

When the final preparations were made and it was decided that they could deal with the official business after the Blight had been handled, Neria disappeared. No one seemed to know where she went – a trait that Alistair was certain Leliana or Zevran was teaching her – and so Alistair retired to his room. He had only just finished pulling off the last of his armor when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," he called out, stretching his arms over his head.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

He turned too fast, nearly knocked himself over. Neria stood in the doorway, holding what looked like a shield awkwardly behind her back and unable to hold his gaze for longer than a second. But she was there! She came to see him, came to talk to him! Alistair cleared his throat, gestured that she come in fully. "I, uh," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I – yes, of course," Neria said, cheeks as pink as his. Carefully, she pulled the shield that she had been hiding – poorly so – from behind her back and held it out for him. "I think you should have this."

Alistair looked down at the shield, frowning for a second before he recognized what he was staring at. "This… this shield. It's Duncan's, isn't it? That's his crest…" he stared at it, eyes tracing over the familiar pattern. He felt the lump form in his chest but managed to swallow past it to look up. Her eyes were on him, warmer than he had seen in days. "Thank you," he breathed. "Truly. I had no idea his shield wasn't with him. This is…perfect. I don't know how else to express my gratitude. This means a great deal to me. I can't believe you remembered at all."

"Of course I remembered," Neria said quickly, cheeks burning. He felt his heart stutter, felt nothing but happiness at how immediate she had been, how she had remembered his words from months before. Nervously, she cleared her throat. "I, uh, I should get going."

"Wait."

He reached out and caught her by the elbow, stopping her in his tracks. Alistair could feel the heat from her skin radiating off, could feel his heart pounding all the way through his body. If she left, if he let her walk away again, he might not get the chance. "Neria, I…we need to talk. Please."

She turned back to him slowly, walls already forming behind her eyes. She didn't yank her arm free or move away, however, and he took that as a good sign. "You said that we – we couldn't be together because I was going to be king," he started, licking his lips to try and ease the dryness. "That people would talk and it would ruin me. Well, I'm not going to be king anymore."

"I know." The words were careful, deliberate. Neria met his gaze, held it for the first time in weeks.

When she didn't say anything else, Alistair leaned in closer. "My feelings haven't changed," he told her softly. While she didn't respond, he could feel the way her body reacted to his words, the almost exhalation of relief that breathed off her. "I still want us to be together."

For a second, it looked like she might lean in as well, claim his lips like he could see that she wanted to. But then something snapped, and she instead leaned back slightly. "Is now really the best time for this?" she finally said, coughing into her hand a little. "I mean, we're leaving for Redcliffe in the morning to confront of the archdemon."

Alistair grinned. "When has our timing ever been perfect?" he pointed out, relieved that she smiled as well. "And, besides, isn't that the best reason? We could die in a few days! Wouldn't it be better to spend it with the person you love?"

Neria looked up at him for a long while, and though she did not back down the walls that were guarding her emotions, he could the love swirling just beneath the surface, too powerful to hide completely. "Can we...discuss this again after the archdemon is dead?" she finally said. "I don't want to make a promise now that could very well be broken in a manner of days."

It was not the answer he wanted, nor the answer he had been expecting, but one he would take all the same. "I – yes, of course," he finally told her. He flashed her another grin and gently released her elbow. "All the more reason to make sure we both survive, right?"

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Good night, Alistair," she told him. He waved, watching her go with a smile playing at his lips.

It wasn't much. But it was better than it had been.

After that, things continued to get better between them. She no longer avoided him, was speaking regularly to him again. They rode beside one another on their march to Redcliffe, just like old times. They talked and laughed and ignored the way their companions were regarding them. Morrigan, and Sten were silent; Leliana and Zevran were ecstatic; Oghren made a single joke and then downed what looked like a full flash of alcohol; and Wynne watched with pursed lips without saying a word. Alistair knew that he was potentially deluding himself, that they could all very well perish in the upcoming battle.

But to have her next to him again, even without being able to kiss her whenever the urge struck, was a happiness he had been hurting for.

The days that followed, however, served nothing except to remind them all how desperate their situation had become. The archdemon was heading to Denerim, and they were days away. Neria directed them all with steely grace that Alistair had spent months watching form, ensured the lives of her companions as they fought to save Redcliffe from the small horde of darkspawn. When the castle had once more been won, she listened to Eamon's plan without a complaint. When Riordan told them that one of them must sacrifice themselves in order to slay the archdemon, she stood next to a surprised Alistair like a pillar of Dwarven stone.

She wouldn't speak to him afterwards, just turned on her heel and marched back to her bedroom and slammed the door shut. Alistair watched her go, rubbing the back of his neck and hesitating before finally retiring to his own room.

One of them was going to die. Riordan had expressed a desire to do so himself, and Alistair was inclined to agree with him. He was certainly in no hurry to kill himself, but he'd do it without hesitation if it meant Neria would be spared. He paced around his room, still fully dressed in armor that was stained with darkspawn blood, trying to wrap his mind about everything that had happened, everything they had learned. His eyes fell on Duncan's – his – shield, and he made a noise of frustration. If Duncan were here, he kept telling himself, then they would be better. He would have told them, would have given them time to prepare for something like this. But he was gone and soon, Neria might be too.

The thought hit him hard, and he reached up, grabbed at his chest above his armor and closed his eyes like it was physically hurting him. He had lost so much already – they all had – and to think that the one person he was certain he wouldn't live without might not be there in the days to come was too much.

He would not spend what could be their last night pacing around in his armor.

Alistair turned and left, intending to bang on her door until the noise eventually forced her to open up if that was what it took.

"Morrigan, please. Please don't make me do this."

All the determination fled him at the sound of her voice, pleading. He stopped slowly, eyes narrowed as he watched the two mage's argue about something from within her room. They stopped when they heard him, and the look that Morrigan gave him was cold, even from her. Neria looked tired, more so than she had in days, and the urge to go and stroke her hair was almost too strong to resist. Finally, Morrigan whispered something to her and then turned on her heel and marched back out the room. Alistair watched her go, made a face as she brushed past him, and immediately turned to speak to Neria.

She was already walking towards him, and he thought for a second that she meant to embrace him, but then she stopped by the doors, shaking her head. "Not now, Alistair," she told him. "Please."

"Neria, wait," he said, reaching for her. She was already pushing the door closed, loose hair falling around her eyes just as he swore that he caught what looked like tears on her cheeks. "Just talk to me, Neria, let me help!" he tried, standing helplessly as the wooden doors were drawn close. She paused, looked up at him through the shrinking crack in the door, tears dotting her cheeks.

"I'm sorry."

And then the doors were shut and he was still left standing in the hallway, heart racing and panic spreading through him. He considered banging on the door anyways, forcing her to speak with him, but something about the way she had whispered her apology gave him pause. Morrigan. Morrigan had done something. Anger flashed, and he looked down the hall. The rest of their rooms wouldn't be far. He took a deep breath, drew himself up a little taller and went marching down the hallway.

Morrigan was surprisingly easy to find considering she could take the shape of just about any animal. She almost looked as if she had been waiting for him, sitting on her bed and playing with something between her fingers. "Hello, Alistair," she drawled when he drew close. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"What did you do to Neria?"

The Witch looked up, one eyebrow rose. Alistair didn't flinch. "What did I do? I did nothing. 'Twas you and your other Grey Wardens that have caused her troubles, no?"

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked, swallowing hard. He should have guessed she wouldn't give anything away; she never did. "That isn't what I asked, Morrigan. What did you say to her? She was crying when you left."

Morrigan rose, paced around the room towards the fire. "Allow me to return to that later," she said, stopping directly in front of the small fire. "I am aware of what happens when an archemon is slain. More importantly, Neria has been aware of this for some time now." Her words sunk in slowly, and Alistair opened his mouth to say something and then shut it. If he interrupted her, she'd only get angry and then he'd really never know what in the Void she was saying. "She fully intends to sacrifice herself, as I'm sure you've perhaps guessed. 'Tis why she won't speak with you."

"Where is this going?"

She turned to him, a glint in her golden eyes that made his stomach drop. "I know of an alternative, a way for a Grey Warden to slay the archdemon without losing their life," she said, voice dropping. "I offered this to Neria, but she would have none of it. Perhaps, then, knowing that it is your beloved on the line, you might be more willing to consider?"

Alistair did not like the sound of this. She was never this friendly for this long. Neria had rejected whatever offer she had, and he suspected that he should do the same.

But if it could save her.

He sighed, resigned. "Go on."

And so she did, detailing her way to save both Neria and himself. His shock was immediate and absolute, and if it had only been a manner of keeping himself alive, he'd have stormed off the moment she suggested they lay together. But Neria's life was equally at stake, her chance of dying as great. He rubbed at the stubble growing around his mouth, turned away from her to consider.

Sleep with Morrigan and produce some Old God soul-ed child, or lose Neria.

In the end, he wasn't sure that he had made the right decision. All he was certain of was that he loved her too much to take the risk that she might not survive. After they had finished, he slunk back to his room and collapsed onto the bed, pressing his fists against his eyes and trying to ignore the smell of their laying that still clouded around him. Maker, he hoped she would understand.

It was pushed to the back of his mind during the battle. Anything that was not survival was pushed away, and he fought the darkspawn relentlessly alongside her. They were bruised, bloody, and Neria was sporting a particularly nasty burn that spanned her left shoulder. The armies had come, rained arrows down upon the Old God and kept the smaller darkspawn at bay while Neria and Morrigan attacked the archdemon from afar. By the time the dragon was falling, Alistair could hardly move, but Neria still had energy. She had been preparing for this, had spent who-knew-how long readying herself for this moment. She was not the mage he had met at Ostagar. She was a Grey Warden, more of one that he might ever become.

She took the opportunity before he had the chance. Grabbed the nearest sword out of the closest corpse and ran forward. "Neria!" he screamed, heart pounding in his chest as the blade sliced through its' throat. The dragon screamed, a sound that shook Alistair to his very core, but he didn't dare look away. Leliana was next to him, watching with wide eyes as their friend, the newest Grey Warden and the youngest among them, jumped onto it's back. Her eyes found his from across the roof as she lifted the sword high over her head, and for the first time since he had known her, she bared her soul to him in full. It made his heart stutter, made his breathing clip and as the sword was thrust deep into its neck, a light emitted from the beast strong enough to send him staggering back, covering his eyes. "Neria!" he screamed again, but the sound of the archdemon's soul was too loud, the light too great.

And then it was over. Just like that.

Alistair slowly rising off the ground, looking around. The darkspawn were trying to flee, but the armies were taking care of them, and his attention returned to Neria.

She was on the ground, slowly picking herself up. His heart jumped – she was alive. Morrigan's ritual had worked. Her face was contorted in pain and confusion, as if she didn't quite understand how she was still alive. Alistair watched her blink a few times, watched the way she struggled to push herself onto her knees and then onto her feet. When finally she looked up, found him watching her, realization hit her.

Her eyes widened, and Alistair watched as unbidden pain clouded her eyes as she finally understood what had to have happened. Guilt seized him, and he made to move towards her, but she shook her head. The army around them cheered, threw their swords above their heads and hailed Neria Surana as the Hero of the Ferelden.

She turned, ready to leave and probably leave him behind for good, but Alistair followed. "I – I can explain," he tried, stumbling behind her. He expected Leliana to follow him, but she remained behind.

"You don't need to," Neria spat, not turning around. "I understand exactly what happened."

When Alistair finally caught up to her, he grabbed her armored elbow and forced her to face him. Her eyes were blazing, filled with a fire he had hoped might never be directed to him. It was almost enough for him to drop her, but he tightened his hold. "It isn't what you think," he tried.

"Oh, it isn't?" she said, and her voice was so mocking that she almost sounded like Morrigan. "So you mean you didn't fuck one of my best friends and impregnate her?"

He flinched. "I did it to save you, Neria," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. One of them had to remain calm, one of them had to keep their composure of this would end badly. "I did it for us."

"For us?" she repeated, glowering up at him. She was so much shorter than him, and while she could be intimidating when she wanted to be, he still stood a head and a half taller. He glowered back, reminding her that he was also not a force to be reckoned with. "And did you even consider that perhaps there might not be an 'us' after that, Alistair?" He sputtered, words not coherent, but she didn't let him try again. "Get off of me and let me go."

"I couldn't lose you!" he finally managed, pulling her closer. She stumbled forward, never losing her composure or the anger in her eyes. "Of course I thought about that, it was all I could think about! But when I thought about how you might not make it… I… I just couldn't handle it!"

She regarded him coldly, eyes a steel wall that he could not get through. She was silent for a long while, and then, "I didn't ask for this, Alistair. I didn't ask to become a Warden or to lead you and everyone else. And I certainly didn't ask you to save me."

Anger finally spilled over, too much to contain. "I didn't ask you to make me king, either!" he growled. "But that didn't stop you from trying anyways. Didn't stop you from leaving me when it was convenient for you!"

Neria stared at him for a second, a flash of hurt and something else crossing her face before they were quickly shoved aside. Alistair desperately searched her for some sign of the love that he knew was there somewhere, looked over the eyes that had once so longingly stared into his. He could deal with her anger, could take any frustration that she would give out, but this was different.

There was no anger, there was no hurt. There was simply…nothing.

Her expression had gone blank, eyes dull and almost bored looking. He recognized the look. Knew that it was the one she made when she had nothing left to say, nothing left to do. "Let go of me," she said again, and her voice cut through him like the archdemon's claws had tried. Alistair felt his eyes widen, felt his hand slip off her elbow as she turned away. Surprise turned to hurt, hurt to anger. Too hot, too fiery, and the words that came next spilled out of him like the acid Zevran made.

"I should have let you die."

Neria stumbled once, but Alistair didn't stay to hear whatever else she might have added. He turned away from her, went to rejoin the armies as they stormed down the keep to officially spread the good news, away from Neria, away from the pieces of his heart that lay scattered around the floor.

It took Alistair approximately seven months to realize the full severity of his mistakes. He sat in his own camp, staring at the fire and missing the time he had spent with the others, with Neria. After the celebration, she had simply disappeared. No one could find her, or if they could, they certainly wouldn't tell him. He had tried Amaranthine first, as Anora had gifted the Wardens the city and she had inevitably been made Commander of the Grey. She was not there, though he suspected that perhaps she had instructed her guards to simply keep him away. He helped in the darkspawn cleanup efforts, based himself in Vigil's Keep in an attempt to try and see her again.

It didn't take long to figure out that she must have spies posted to tell her of his arrival, for she never seemed to be there when he returned, no matter how sporadic he was.

Alistair gave up after a while, chose to leave Amaranthine behind and work with the others in recruitment and lingering darkspawn cleanup. She wouldn't see him, and to be so close to her and know that she was making an effort to ensure it stayed that way hurt more than he could bear. On the first night after he left, he sat down to write his first letter. It was short, for he wasn't exactly known for his penmanship, but heartfelt all the same.

Neria, I miss you more than I thought possible. Please keep yourself safe, if not for me, then for the recruits that have stars in their eyes were they speak of you.

I'm sorry, Neria.

I traveled to Amaranthine not long ago and met a few Wardens that had worked with you to defeat the Architect. The mage, Anders I think, gave me the dirtiest look. So did the Howe boy, but I think his face just always looks like that. You'd think it would be harder to believe that they named you Commander of the Grey, but if anyone could lead the restoration effort, it would be you. Be safe, Neria.

I'm leaving Ferelden for a while. I don't know if the orders come from you or the man you put in charge so you could continue hiding, but they've sent me up to Kirkwall. It's been three years since anyone's seen you, I think the seneschal is losing his mind. I do wonder if perhaps he's sending us outside of Ferelden in the hopes that we might bump into you in some tavern or market. If you wanted to be found, you'd have been found already, though. Wherever you are, I hope you've kept safe. I still pray for a chance to see you again, but I suspect that day may never come. I understand.

Can you believe a Ferelden refugee took down the Arishok? Her brother, Carver, is one of the Wardens under my command right now. He speaks about her with an equal amount of jealousy and admiration. Bit of a tit, but what can you do? You'd be proud of the progress the Grey Wardens have been making. I'll be heading back to Ferelden soon, I suppose. We were on our way out when the invasion started, and the seneschal doesn't want us lingering around and getting involved. If only Eamon had had the same mindset.

I've met the Inquisitor. She's young, like you had been during the Blight. Not the least overwhelmed, however. Her Inquisition worships the ground she walks on, you could see it in their eyes. We'll be working with her for a while longer as we try to solve this false Calling. I hope you've traveled far enough that you are outside of it's reaches. It's maddening! All I can ever hear is the archdemon singing my final words to you, over and over again. It's a wonder I haven't stuck a dagger through my skull just to make it stop. I had hoped ten years would be enough time that I might be able to forgive myself, but with the words ringing so clearly in my head once more, I fear that is not the case. Perhaps it never will be. Maker, I miss you. Please keep yourself safe from Corypheus, from the false Calling, all of it. I might be able to accept the day we meet again will never come, but to hear news that you were found dead in the woods somewhere, alone, is worse than any false Calling.

"Do you think the Hero of Ferelden is involved in all this?"

Alistair had suspected the question would come eventually, but the soft ache that followed her still hit. He cleared his throat, put on a smile. "You know, she never was much one for fancy titles. She probably cringes every time someone refers to her as the Hero of Ferelden instead of her name," he said lightly. When Evelyn looked ready to panic, he quickly added, "Which is Neria, by the way. But, ah, no. I doubt it. Last I heard, she was traveling somewhere far to the west, looking for something."

Her next question came softly, hesitantly. "The way you talk about her, I'm surprised you two aren't still together," she started. Alistair met her gaze as evenly as he could. "All the stories, I mean, they talk of the Hero – of Neria and Alistair, always a pair. If you don't mind me asking… what happened to change that?"

She was better versed in her Blight history than he had suspected. "We got caught up in too many politics," he finally decided. "Too many complicated situations. It wears you down, after a point."

"Oh." There was something about the way Evelyn shifted uncomfortably that had Alistair's eyebrows raising. It dawned on him as her cheeks turned pink, that she had asked for her own sake more so than curiosity.

He chuckled once. "I see," he said. "Might I ask who the lucky person is?" Evelyn stammered out something incoherent, and Alistair allowed himself a full laugh. "It's alright, I know how it goes. You're worried that perhaps your own situation will try and tear you apart, and you aren't wrong to worry. What happened between Neria and I was a bit more… complex than anything you might be facing." She seemed to visibly relax with his words, and he cleared his throat. "Might I offer some advice? Whatever your situation, keep your love close. Neria and I were always doomed to fall apart, I'm afraid. But it doesn't have to be that way for you."

Alistair guessed that he had written her some three hundred letters over the years. He didn't write every day, and some letters were nothing more than an, "I still love you," scrawled against a piece of scrap paper, but he hoped that Evelyn and Leliana would find a way to deliver them to her eventually. He had always meant to, but the thought that she might still be keeping watch to avoid him as Vigil's Keep was enough of a deterrent to stop him from trying.

The Nightmare demon sung songs in his head as he fought, valiantly tried to break him down further, but Alistair was strong. Nothing the demon could say to him was worse than everything else he had been saying to himself over the last decade. Regret and remorse had defined him, built their way into every part of his mind. He knew that he was going to die. The Nightmare demon's songs meant nothing to him, not when he was already so acutely certain of his fate.

With the Taint in his blood and Morrigan's child by her side in Skyhold, he had managed to cheat death twice. No one, he thought, was lucky enough to do so a third time.

As he lay there, sword shattered and shield too far to grab, Alistair closed his eyes. The demon would be upon him soon enough. He had no idea how long it had been since the others escaped, had no idea how much time was passing around them, but he was certain that his time would be ending soon enough. He let his eyes flutter close, let his mind wander to better days, days spent traveling and nights spent around the campfire.

He had found a family with their band of misfits, had found a home in the tents they carried and patched. He had found love in an elven Circle mage that had stared down the best friend that had betrayed her and wept her forgiveness. And soon he would find death in the Fade. His last letter, he hadn't said goodbye, he realized. He had never prepared for the eventuality that he would perish, had always held onto the hope that maybe they might run into each other, might be able to at least part on better terms.

I should have let you die.

Ten years later, and he was still glad that he hadn't, no matter what he had said.

The hole that tore through the sky in Adamant was brief, but terrifying. The soldiers that lingered behind screamed, shouted orders to contact the Inquisitor - now - when one of them noticed that a single body had fallen out. The rift closed as quickly as it had opened, leaving them with nothing more than green light dancing behind their eyes and what appeared to be a man dressed in Grey Warden armor.

Healers were called and summoned, and they wasted no time confirming that it was Alistair, the Warden that had sacrificed himself so that the others might escape. He was alive, they said. But he was not well.

They worked for two nights straight healing his injuries. He did not wake during that time, hardly even moved. On the fourth day, he awoke with a start, gasping for air and groping around the sheets for something that wasn't there. He listened only long enough to hear a confirmation that he had left the Fade, had somehow been returned home, and then he was gone. He grabbed a set of Warden Armor from the storage, found a sword and lamented something about a shield, and then left. In his wake, they found a single piece of paper.

Tell her I'm coming for her.

When at least he arrived in Skyhold, it was the middle of the night. He was tired, body weak from the Fade and desperate for a hot meal. His horse was miserable, irritated that he had pushed it so hard to arrive back in the mountains, but he didn't care. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

He slid off the beast when he drew near, and to his surprise, the guards didn't spare him a second glance as he stumbled his way past them. One of them asked if he needed a healer, and when he didn't answer, he just shrugged. If Alistair had to guess, he would say that the Inquisitor had given the Wardens a place here, and with his armor, he simply looked like one of them.

"Alistair?"

He looked up, chills going down his back. He had done a damn good job of avoiding Morrigan the last time had been here, but there she was. A child stood next to her, dark hair and dark eyes and looking at him curiously.

Maker's breath, his child.

"I had heard that you…" she paused, shaking her head. "What are you doing here?"

"I have to speak to Leliana," he rasped. Morrigan frowned, and he wondered how he must look. Weak, frail, covered in dirt and mud no doubt. He probably looked like he had been risen from the grave like the ghouls they fought in Redcliffe. "Where is she?"

The Witch seemed to consider something for a moment, and then turned to her son and quietly instructed he head to their chambers. Alistair watched him go, wondered how much of himself would be found in the boy. "Come," Morrigan instructed. "I will take you to her."

Before, he might have questioned her motive, but there was something softer about her voice now, something gentler in the way she held herself. Ten years had done her well, left her with a grace she had lacked. They made no attempt to talk as they walked, and Morrigan quietly led him to the Herald's Rest. He frowned. Leliana had made no visits to the bar in his time here, but something about the urgency that the Witch walked with made him believe she was truly here.

He pushed the door open and was surprised to find the place already packed. In the back, sitting at the bar itself, was Leliana and the Inquisitor, with an elf sitting between them. He nodded his gratitude to Morrigan and began to move in, eyes sliding back over to the elf.

She had long blonde hair that was pulled into a braid that trailed down her back, and when she turned her head to say something to the spymaster, he caught sight of freckles dotting her tanned neck. Her left ear was squared rather than pointed, as it someone had taken a chunk off of it. Alistair stopped short, eyes going wide. He regarded the elf carefully, hardly believing that it could even be possible. But then he heard Leliana confirm it, heard his beloved's name slip off her tongue as easily as it had ten years ago.

It was her. Neria was here, sitting just twenty feet away from him.

"Neria?"

Her name fell from his lips like a breath of fresh air, and a few people turned to stare at the beaten down man standing a few feet from the entrance. Leliana turned first, her hearing as good as ever, and the small gasp that followed was what eventually drew Neria's attention. She looked up at her friend, and then followed her gaze to where Alistair was standing.

Noon sky eyes met his and any doubt that he might have had upon who he was staring at were gone. It was her, really her. He let his eyes hungrily take her in, noticing the stiff way she was sitting – she hated bars – and the way her eyes had deep bags beneath them – she never did sleep very well – and the way her body seemed to sag under the weight of the world – she never was good at letting people help. Realization dawned on her slowly, and Alistair watched as her expression shifted from polite curiosity to surprise to hope.

His heart hammered against his chest, and his mouth was parted like he was going to speak but nothing could come, because she was here and he had missed her so much more than any letter could have described.

Neria turned towards him slowly, as if she was not fully in control of her own movements yet.

"Alistair?"