#alistairoftheirin

1. It is the first time they’ve spent any length of time apart since she met him, really, which means that it is long overdue. With all that they’ve been through together, from Ostagar to the Blight to a politically arranged marriage, Edelyn rather thought that they would both be grateful and eager for the chance to spend a few weeks apart. She is, too – she is going to Highever, and though her feelings on returning to her childhood home after all that has happened are complicated, she is overwhelmingly pleased for the opportunity to spend time with Fergus.

There are few things she wouldn’t suffer to get to see him again, and whatever emotion this trip back home brings to the surface, she will weather it for a chance to spend time with her brother.

It isn’t exactly that she is worried about how Alistair will conduct himself while she is gone, though that is a (very) slight apprehension of hers. She doesn’t expect that he will do something offensive or outrageous, really, but she knows his big heart and his good intentions can lead him to rash decisions, and she is depending on Eamon to be the steady voice of reason while she’s gone.

So she is not – worried – but she is, unexpectedly, torn.

Alistair is seeing her off, his hand light on Seawolf’s neck as she checks her packs and fusses with their buckles, and she realizes what she is doing: stalling. She could almost laugh at herself if the very idea of it didn’t throw her so completely off balance, and so she turns to him before she can dwell on it, a small smile on her face.

“I will see you in a few weeks’ time,” she says, hesitating only a moment before rising up on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. It is quick and a little awkward, because she finds herself on unsteady ground, here, and is not reassured by the surprise on his face as she falls flat footed. “Try to meet Eamon halfway while I am gone.”

Without waiting to see how his expression will change, she turns and swings up into the saddle, a peculiar heat that she recognizes as embarrassment burning in her cheeks.

2. When all is said and done, she spends just over a month at Highever. There is much to catch up on between herself and Fergus, and even though it pains her to admit it, they must get to know one another again; the Blight changed them both, their grief even moreso, and they are not the same people who grew up alongside one another.

Love remains, thank the Maker, but that has taken on a new, desperate shape in the wake of all they’ve lost. She has to remind herself not to give in to the terror of the idea of losing him again, has to remember not to drive him away by trying to hold him too close.

There is also the matter of Highever itself, the reconstruction that is coming along little by little. It soothes her to put her back into this, too, to join the people who will make her childhood home bright and happy once more, and help the rebuild. She writes to Alistair weekly, brisk and business-like letters that tell him of Highever’s recovery, of the alienage’s status, of how Fergus has vowed to do better there and lead the rest of the nobility with his example alongside theirs.

Fergus catches her at her letters, and for a moment, they are children again: he teases her for the smile curling her mouth, and she sasses him for being so concerned with the triviality of her letters, and it is good. (Even if she is not quite ready to confront what he saw in her face that reminded him of that young girl, or what it might mean that it is Alistair who brought it about.)

It is with a heavy heart that she prepares to return to Denerim, but she is glad to be going back to the castle, even still. Highever is no longer her home, and Denerim is not quite her home yet, either, but it is where she needs to be, and that will have to be good enough. She bids Fergus goodbye and extracts a promise from him to write more, and the ride back to Denerim is a long, thoughtful one.

She makes good time despite being a little saddle-sore for her efforts, and knows the moment Alistair will realize she is in proximity, because her skin prickles to life with the awareness she can only associate with another Warden or darkspawn. The closer she gets to the castle, the more pronounced the sensation is, and by the time she has dismounted and passed Seawolf on to the stable hand, he has come to meet her.

It has only been a month, give a few days, but he is a welcome sight, and a reminder that while so much of her life has changed, this steady friendship has not. She strides over to him, her smile half the size of his, and takes his hands as she greets, “’tis good to see you, Alistair.”

He surprises her by leaning down, pressing a brief kiss to her forehead, and returns, “Welcome back, Edie. Eamon missed you terribly, you know. He told me so, several times, in fact.”

She’s surprised enough to laugh, and the flicker of pleasure over his face when she does stays with her even when she’s distracted by Tybalt barrelling into her legs and nearly knocking them both over.

3. A kingdom will always need an army, and the nice thing about having two people on the throne who were instrumental in ending a Blight is that they are more than decent at combat. Edelyn leaves training the soldiers to Alistair – she’s a rogue, not a warrior, and employs her skills differently these days – and she thinks it’s good for him to spend time thrashing their soldiers.

If anything, it means they maintain a healthy respect for their king, and that is something she will always encourage.

An idle afternoon sees her out of the castle’s walls for some fresh air, and the sound of metal clashing draws her to the training circle where Alistair appears to be having the time of his life squaring off against the young men and women who have recently pledged themselves to Ferelden’s army. There is a small audience gathered, some soldiers and some servants of the castle, and she slips in among them without drawing too much notice at first.

With a few quick, clever moves, Alistair divests the young man of his sword and sends him stumbling away with a smart smack from the flat of his blade, and she joins the cluster of young women in clapping. He turns, dropping into an exaggerated bow, and catches her eye on his way down.

“Look lively, men, the queen is here to witness our next bout. Shall we give her a show?”

Propping her elbows up against the pen’s railing, she tilts her head and asks, “Is it to be serious now, then?”

“Devastatingly so,” Alistair returns, bright and pleased with himself in a way that she seldom sees. “Ah, Ser Reagan! Good. I may break a sweat this time.”

Reagan merely smiles, and Edelyn presses a kiss to her fingertips briefly, then turns it outward toward Alistair.

“Good luck,” she says, eyes merry, as Reagan readies sword and shield. “I fear you may need it this time.”

“You wound me,” he shouts back, and she settles in to watch her husband spar with the most experienced soldier in the royal guard, content in a quiet, simple way.

4. She can block nightmares of the darkspawn now, and without the Archdemon slithering into her thoughts and corrupting her dreams, it holds that she should be able to sleep peacefully. Sometimes she does, curled around Tybalt in the overlarge bed that she still does not share with Alistair; he has not asked, and she has not offered, though she would not turn him away if he did. She can’t blame him for taking his rest on the stiff-backed couch, because sometimes the bed is too soft for her, too luxurious in the wake of so many months sleeping on a thin bedroll on cold ground.

(Sleeping beside her, too, must be a foreign and strange idea to him, and she will not press that matter, either.)

When her sleep is fitful, she is generally at least quiet enough to keep it to herself – or he is sensitive enough to her feelings to allow her to think so – but there are nights when she sees her family in her dreams, when she is walking down old familiar halls and they run slick with blood, and she cannot control her horror.

She sees her father, his belly split open and contempt in his face as he crawls after her, slipping in the mess from his gaping wounds. She hears him, too, familiar voice mangled by his death rattle, and his words are accusing, damning, vicious: you left me here to die. you could have done more. you ran, you ran, you ran, and no daughter of mine would have.

These are the dreams she cannot wake from, the dreams where she slips in her father’s blood and has to look up into her mother’s face, an arrow nocked and ready to be let loose. She knows it is a nightmare and still she pleads: Mother, no, I am sorry, I did not want this. I did not want to leave you, I wanted to die beside you, I swear it, I’m sorry –

She always wakes just as the arrow’s tip splits her forehead, only tonight, she wakes with a scream, torn from deep in her chest. She wakes with her night clothes clinging to her, damp with sweat, wakes with tears on her face and with great, gulping breaths. It takes her a moment to realize that Alistair is beside her, longer still not to fight him as he takes her into his arms and simply holds her, firm enough to keep her from thrashing.

Shame floods her throat, mortification quick on its heels as his hand passes up and down her back, and she becomes dimly aware of Tybalt whining and pressing his nose against her ankle. As much as she does not want him to see her like this, as much as she does not want to talk about this, she feels that she owes him an explanation.

“I did not mean to wake you,” she begins, voice tremulous as he settles his cheek atop her head, the circle of his arms loosening until she could pull away if she wanted to.

She suddenly, strongly does not want to.

“That’s a relief,” he says without missing a beat, his voice rough and scratchy from sleep. “As far as wake up calls go, that would take a year off my life, easily, every time.”

She works one hand between them, thinking to press back and give them both some much-needed distance, but finds herself simply curling her hand in the fabric of his nightshirt instead. Alistair is – steady. He is the only true constant of her life right now, he is kind, he is comfort, whether she ever wanted him to be or not, and she closes her eyes, turning her face into his neck and breathing deeply.

“Do you need to talk about it?” He asks, and her heart turns over, too big for her ribs. “It might help. It’s not… it’s not the darkspawn, is it?”

She draws in a shuddering breath, mouth parted against his throat, and her shoulders bow inward on the exhale. “No.”

He stiffens, a more honest reaction than the deliberate way he relaxes again a second later, and she clarifies, “No, it was not the darkspawn, I – I sometimes have nightmares. Of the night my parents died,” she admits on a whisper, as though lowering her voice will make the admission somehow less damning.

Do not look back. Do not falter.

Maker help her, it is the one thing her father asked of her that she cannot do.

“I miss them,” she admits, plaintive and soft. “More than anything.”

“Edie,” he says, a wealth of pain in the way he says her name, and it cracks something open inside of her.

& 5. There is no going back to sleep after a nightmare like that, not for Edie and not for Alistair. They talk for a while, and though some wounds are still too raw for her to completely expose to the light, she skirts around them, and she thinks he understands.

Alistair understands much more than she has ever given him credit for, actually, and when dawn’s beams begin to crawl in through the windows, she is almost hoarse from talking to him, but she feels… better.

They will both be exhausted facing the day to come, but they have been through worse. When she stands up to dress, leaving a mess of bedding and Alistair both behind, she hesitates at the side of the bed.

“Thank you,” she says, a little bit hesitant, a little bit awkward.

He smiles at her, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening, and it makes her realize something very important: she loves this man.

It was a horrible thing to say... but Alisa Cousland was starting to get used to loss, to the feeling it inspired. Her home, her parents, her brother’s family, everything and everyone she’d known and loved. Then she arrived at Ostagar and learned that Fergus himself had not come back from what should have been a routine scouting mission. She tried to be upbeat, bantered cheerfully with Alistair, Jory, and Daveth. Now, at last, she knew what the Wardens’ mysterious Joining Ritual was: death. Whether swift - by the blood or by the sword, as Daveth and Jory - or slow, by the Wardens’ enhanced taint, she would die.

There was an almost tangible weight on her shoulders now. She was a Grey Warden. She’d survived, and in so doing, had become responsible for keeping their secrets. Our secrets, she amended. On the bright side, if she had to find a family again, she could think of worse than Duncan and Alistair.

“What do you think, Oswin?” she asked, resting a hand on her mabari’s head. The big dog snuffed once, no doubt thinking she’d lost her mind, starting in on the middle of a conversation like that.

“You’re right,” she sighed. “I’m losing my head. Carrying on conversations with myself, and my dog. Can’t be good for anyone’s sanity, can it?”

With an almost reproachful groan, Oswin lifted her head and stared at her master. Alisa raised her hands defensively. “You’re still the best canine conversation partner I’ve ever had.”

     everybody here is watching you –

                                                                     because you feel like home.

@alistairoftheirin

His eyes narrow as he listens, fists clenching on the table. “It’s false,” he says softly, as though the words are in a foreign tongue. “It isn’t real.” All of the nightmares, the howling and screaching song of the darkspawn that’s kept him awake until his body simply can’t do without rest, all false. His conversations with Anora about what would happen when he died, when there was no Theirin heir, all of his planning to ensure that Anora would still be cared for when he was gone and the crown passed to the Couslands… all needless.

For now, until she finds the cure.

“This is… a very serious problem. I’ll send a bird to Weisshaupt immediately, and I expect you’ll have representatives from the Wardens arriving at Skyhold before long.” And I’ll have to call her out of hiding. I’m sorry, old friend, but our cure will have to wait. “The Wardens can’t be lost. My own personal biases aside, the Wardens span nations. Everything else has to be set aside. Corypheus is leading darkspawn. We need Grey Wardens.”

The way he tensed upon hearing that the Calling was false... It was easy to forget sometimes that the King of Ferelden was also once a Grey Warden. 

He was hearing it too. Lasair’s expression softens, wishing there was something she could do for him.

It had been another dead end. Huddled in a corner in defeat, Alisa massaged her forehead. The Calling was bad enough out here in the middle of nowhere, but she still remembered how intense it had been when she left Vigil’s Keep. She was certain now, that the Wardens had been targeted; the ease of pressure in her mind as far away as she’d been was enough to confirm that, but she was still no closer to a solution.

Her eyes snapped open as a muffled voice spoke the word, Inquisition. While she’d been away, she’d heard something of this, had received a request for assistance from the Inquisitor, in fact. What the hell is going on in this world? she wondered to herself. Wary, she inched a little closer to the speaker. In the middle of nowhere, she had been entirely certain the request for help had been an attempt to trap her. How better to ensnare all Wardens than to show them their Warden-Commander? But now...

“... might join them once we’re off this wretched boat,” the man was saying. “Seems like they’re the only ones doing a bit of good these days, what with that great big Breach an’ all. Sealed it, nice an’ proper, you know?”

His companion grunted agreement, and Alisa’s eyes narrowed. It could still be a trap... but if it was, her unknown adversary had people shadowing her every move, and she could not believe that possible. She’d taken great care to avoid being seen, barely looked like herself these days. With a sigh, she settled back into the corner. There was one way she could be sure.

People stared. Of course they did. How long had it been since the Warden-Commander had turned up in Denerim? Four years? Five? Maker, how had she let that happen? The armor had been a little dusty, and it felt a little strange to put it on again after so long. At least her sword and dagger felt right, her constant companions, even in her distant travels.

She was admitted to the Royal Palace without hesitation, though an aide to the King had just about fallen in a dead faint when she asked if Alistair might be available to see an old friend. As the aide scampered off to find out, Alisa caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored set of armor, and blinked.

   Had there been any other reasonable option, she would have taken it. Taking the crown for herself and assuming the burden of Fereldan’s throne is much to take on, and not something she does lightly; she would have preferred someone whose loyalties would not be split between ruling and the Order, but she finds that she cannot trust in Anora to do what is right for Ferelden with the blood of her father so recently spilled. 

   Add that it had been Alistair’s blade to end his life, and Edelyn’s word that swayed the Landsmeet to allow it, and putting Anora on the throne would be little more than a promise for disaster. Alistair alone had been equally out of the question -- he might possess royal blood, but he is laughably unprepared to be King. Through no fault of his own, to be sure, but it would be irresponsible and reckless to crown him simply to spite Anora, especially given his lack of desire to rule at all.

   There had been only one decision she could make in good conscience, and so she had. Hopefully he will forgive her for it, or at the very least, see the necessity of it.

   She takes a deep breath outside of the door to his chambers, squares her shoulders, and knocks.