Jerique

Rook smirked, and gave a flippant little salute. “General. Come to check out the fine medical care offered to our veterans? Or do you just find jaunts through a hospital ward soothing?”

The General ignored Rook’s words entirely. “Why do I hear you’re refusing magical healers?

“Well, at a guess, you heard about it because you asked why I’m still in the hospital and Livinia snitched.”

The older man seemed even less impressed now than he had the moment before, brow furrowing and disapproval radiating off the deepening lines on his brow and around his frowning mouth. “Try again. Properly.”

Rook sat up a bit, clearly aiming for something more powerful than the somewhat wobbly figure he presented as he leaned forward, wires swaying as he moved. His voice was calm as he answered, but there was a spine of steel to it as he asked, “Is that an order? Sir?”

It felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees, entirely without Neve’s help, as Rook and the General stared at one another.

It was Rook that cracked first. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend like it’s okay for the iniquity here to continue. A veteran is a veteran is a veteran, sir, and I’m not going to wave it off as not a big deal just because in this case this shit system benefits me personally.”

At that Neve raised an eyebrow and took a mental note. Livinia’s frustration earlier was much easier to parse now. Rook could have gotten a mage healer; he could be out of this place by now and out of any danger. His rejection of magical healing wasn’t due to economic circumstance, as it was for most Soporati, it was a choice. One he was making over and over at personal cost.

HOWEVER, I think they would be repressing so much stress during veilguard that stepping on a snail in that moment would become kind of the last straw. not talking from personal experience at all

yayy oc rambling

There's only one name that comes to mind, when the new Blight becomes impossible to deny. Only one person he wants at his side despite their complicated history.

Etta Brosca.

Alistair's hands do not shake, thank you very much when he puts dark ink to pale parchment for a royal summons. It's important, writing the missive himself. He knows she'll come; the life of a warden suits her so well you'd think she was born for it. (Perhaps it was because she had very little to go home to in Orzammar, and once, Alistair thought that was something they had in common. But now there's a crown resting on his brow, because there had been something waiting for him elsewhere.)

She doesn't send him a reply; rather, shows up in Denerim personally with a contingent of other wardens and Zevran (who's beauty age has done nothing to dull, Alistair remarks more easily than he would've twenty years ago) behind her. She looks older, too, and maybe that's why the sight of her doesn't have the same sting as when he lets his mind wander to the memories of their travels together. There's silver starting to thread its' way through her red curls, and she has crow's feet now, which Alistair definitely does not think is funny, not at all, thank you very much.

Her handshake is firm when he and Anora step out to greet her, and while her smile is more tired than he remembers it, there's still the same warmth that's always reminded him of a campfire in winter.

They don't talk about Loghain. The palace received the news about him leaving for his calling ages ago, and Alistair had bitten his tongue when Anora rode out in a flurry of grief in the hopes of saying goodbye to her father. He couldn't deny his wife that, not even about Loghain. By then, his rage had become an old, half-buried hatchet anyway.

But if Alistair is honest, right here and right now, the man being long dead helps. Makes it easier to slip back into something he'd almost forgotten with Etta, makes it easier to let go of a grudge he'd never wanted to hold in the first place.

She fits at his side, not exactly like she used to but close enough that he feels bolstered by her presence. Sometimes, if he closes his eyes, the years melt away and he can pretend they're young again. Just the last two wardens left fighting off a Blight, instead of King and Warden-Commander fighting off a double Blight. The Maker truly has it in for them, doesn't He?

Anora might be right, when she says his concept of comfort is a bit skewed.

Things go from bad to worse faster than you can blink. The noose tightens around their throats as more and more parts of the country fall to the seemingly endless hordes of darkspawn, and less and less of their men come back alive. Alistair itches, feels the need to go out on the field himself like an insect burrowed underneath his skin. He can tell Etta feels the same, because she fidgets with her knives just like she used to. But they can't, both of them too crucial to the machine's functioning.

In the end, they do get their fight; it comes to them.

The horde descends on Denerim just like it did all those years ago, but three times the size it was back then. They've known it was coming for weeks, the men are as prepared as they can be. Etta is a steady presence at his side, giving them orders with him. Zevran is a reassuring shadow, ever lurking and never noticed unless you know where to look.

On the last day, Alistair watches Etta buckle Zevran's armor for him. Watches Zevran braid her hair carefully away from her eyes, nimble fingers making it look easy. Watches the two of them exchange playful jabs that are entirely too light for what lies ahead. By Andraste's grace, I've missed them terribly, he thinks.

The three of them make to march into battle together, but Alistair reaches for Etta almost unconsciously, fingers winding around her armored wrist the way they used to all those years ago.

She looks up at him, curiosity in the lines of her pretty face. "Yes?"

He trips over his tongue, feeling all of twenty again. "I— Come here."

And then he's pulling her to him, graceless and too quick, the sound of metal clanging when their chests meet. He has to lean down to hug her properly, and when he does he realizes that little pit of emptiness inside him is finally full.

"I'm sorry." Alistair mumbles into the crown of her head. "I wish I'd called on you sooner."

Even in the face of what's looking like certain death, he feels lighter now that he's said it.

Etta wraps her arms around his middle, firm and full of affection. "And I could've come knocking sooner. But at least we're together, now."

The hug lingers, both of them reluctant to let go, and Alistair gives in to the urge to press a dry kiss onto her forehead. She laughs, soft and low in her throat.

Eventually, Zevran makes himself known. "I hate to interrupt this lovely moment, but we have a great and fearsome battle to win, my friends." There's no hint of even a tremor in his smile, and Alistair envies his confidence.

Etta laughs again, louder, against Alistair's breastplate. "You sound so damn sure." She doesn't let go of Alistair, instead motioning Zevran over to them.

The elf saunters over, slinging an arm around Alistair's shoulders, warm and solid. "Why wouldn't I? We've done this before, have we not?"

Zevran leans in close to press a kiss of his own against Alistair's temple, mumbles an old prayer into his skin. He smells of oiled leather and dried flowers, a scent so familiar it hurts. For a moment, it feels like home, the old home Alistair thought was lost forever. They stay like that, tangled in each other, until a scout comes calling urgently.