#mireena

Well shit I didn’t actually think to write down any of them lmfao. A warning: I’m tipsy, so this might be difficult to keep up with.

I headcanon that Alistair talks in his sleep, beyond just Taint nightmares. It’s not uncommon for everyone to be gathered around the fire before they just hear, “But Leliana, the dog already ate my soup” or “Andraste’s sweet assets that’s a lot of butterflies.” Most of it is ridiculous or unintelligible, and it’s not unusual for everyone to laugh at what he says. 

But it’s not all ridiculous. Mireena (my Tabris/Cousland (Queen elf, haven’t worked it out yet)) has heard some of the darker ones since she’s developed insomnia due to the Taint. “Please, Isolde, I just want to warm myself by the fire, it’s so cold.” “But Mother Valana, it’s just too quiet. I miss the dogs.” And then the most heart wrenching was one night, several years after they became rulers of Fereldan. The bad dreams had been on the outs by then, but she was painting by the light of the dying fire when she heard him tossing and turning. 

The hour is easily the wee morning, still several hours from dawn yet. The paint glides easily across the canvas, still far from perfect but showing much improvement since she had taken up the art form three years ago. The embers of the fire are warm by her side, just bright enough yet to give her light to see. The castle is silent still, save the occasional grunt and snore from her husband across the room. She casts him a loving glance before returning to her work. It is raining outside, now, working up to a storm. She can feel the electricity tickling the back of her neck before the first strike of lightning passes, and a broad grin settles into her face. Painting abandoned, she crosses the room to their balcony and stands just barely still protected from the falling water. There is another crack of lightning and for a brief moment, she can see the rooftops of her city, see the hint of mountains in the distance of her kingdom. Her hands wrap around herself as she watches the rain patter against the stone railing, and she sways as if to music. 

“Please, no.” 

Her movements still, and she turns towards the sound, her long ears twitching in that direction. “Al?” she calls softly. He shifts, his movement agitated and twitching. Her skirts lift easily in her hands as she rushes to his side. “Alistair?” 

There is pain across his face, his eyes screwed tightly shut. His breath comes hitched and shuddering as his hands clench and unclench. “No,” he repeats. 

Mireena sighs softly and moves to sit in bed beside him. “I’m here, my love,” she whispers. It has been some time since nightmares plagued his sleep, months now it seems. 

He turns into her warmth, presses his face into her hip, grasps her skirt tightly in a strong hand. “Mireena,” he whispers. 

A hand settles on his head, brushes his hair with gentility and love. “Yes, I’m here.” 

Her touches seem to have little effect because he continues to twitch, his unoccupied hand still clenching into a fist. He growls, a deep and guttural sound that sings only of agony, and he turns from her violently, his breath heavy. “NO!” he shouts. 

Her chestnut eyes widen. “Hey, hey,” she coos trying to stroke his arm. “It’s o--” 

“I will not let you take her! Not again!” he screams. 

Ice fills her veins as memories of the archdemon come flooding back, flashing before her eyes as if she were watching a mage manipulate fire into moving pictures. The way it stared her down, its screech as loud in her ear as if it were in the room with her, the way her blade had felt as it drove into its head, the pain that flooded her body as the Taint fought to be ripped from her blood. She’d said goodbye, made her peace with the idea that Morrigan’s ritual had not worked, had been ready to die. They’d thought she was dead, at first. She opened her eyes to find Alistair sobbing over her, clutching her to his chest as screams of agony tore from his throat, sounding more like a wounded dog than a man. 

“Alistair, I am fine, I am here, beside you--” she reaches out to touch him, but he flinches so sharply from her touch that he disappears over the side of the bed. She follows quickly on her hands and knees, looking down to find him breathless, eyes open and flickering back and forth across the room, trying to establish his surroundings. “M-Mireena?” he calls, voice cracked so sharply it brings tears to her eyes. 

He sits up when he sees her brown curls poking over the bed, and she slips quickly and smoothly down to the floor into his awaiting arms. The way he holds her is different than a nightmare. The way his hands clutch her tightly, his muscles tensed around her, his face in her neck as he cries openly and unabashed. 

It is the same as when he thought her dead. 

Just a short angsty drabble. Alistair x my elf warden. Put right after their return to Ostagarth for the key. 

AO3

The chill of the frosty air managed to seep into Alistair’s bones, even despite the thick tent pushed against the wall, despite the four layers of blankets he was under, despite the warmth of the small fire and the friends who were huddled in with him. He awoke with his teeth chattering, body shivering, and frowned to realize he was alone in his bedroll, the Warden no longer beside him.

Looking about, he noted that both Zevran and Wynne were still in the tent, seemingly asleep. “Mireena?” he whispered. When he couldn’t see her, an uneasiness settled in his gut. It was foolish to set up camp here, but the incoming storm had forced them to remain among the bodies of their fallen comrades from so long ago. What if she had gone to relieve herself and come across a band of darkspawn? Part of him knew it was foolish to be afraid—she was, after all, the single strongest woman he had ever met, but still he understood that it was a very real possibility.

He stood and, as quietly and quickly as he could, gathered his sword, shield, and a blanket and slipped out of the tent. The storm was mostly done now, no longer a raging blizzard but rather a soft snowfall, but the cold was significantly worse now that the sun was gone. There were large snow drifts in places, but otherwise nothing had changed much. Setting his teeth to keep from shivering, he set out in search of her.

It didn’t take him long to find the brightly glowing light from down below, and a part of him clenched in fear. There was a large fire, one that they hadn’t set, down on the battlefield. He rushed to the side of the bridge and ducked down low, peering over the ledge to observe. Could it be the Darkspawn, back for more? “Maker be damned we never should have stayed to camp,” he cursed quietly.

A figure down below moved, large and awkwardly shambling. Alistair clicked the pommel of Duncan’s sword slightly out of the sheath in an automatic response but made no other move. As he watched, however, the figure walked a short ways past the fire before splitting into two, half of it falling to the ground, and the blood in his veins froze in fear.

A body.

Before he could even register he was moving, Alistair had taken off running, blanket forgotten, racing down through the emptied Darkspawn tunnels, down into the battlefield where his king and his best friend had been so brutally betrayed. He raced out onto the icy plain, prepared to fight whatever monstrosity he would face, but faltered at the last moment when he realized what he was seeing. The bodies of his friends, his allies, his comrades were laid about in the fresh snow, their arms folded across their chests, coins laid on their closed eyes, any blood upon their faces washed away.

She turned to him, her curly brown hair usually kept in a tight bun loose about her shoulders. She wore no overcoat, only in a spare set of robes belonging to Wynne. Her cheeks and nose were tinted a vicious pink beneath her brown vallaslin, and her chestnut eyes burned in the fire. Alistair walked over to her, frowning. “Mireena, darling, what are you doing?”

She let him pull her into him and sighed softly, breath visible against the falling snow. “I couldn’t sleep, knowing they were still out here. We gave Cailan a proper farewell, it’s only right we do the same for his men.”

He looked towards the rows of frozen bodies. There were at least a hundred of them settled out here. This must have taken her all night, especially considering that she is not a warrior, nor is she particularly physically strong. He looked down at her and could see the evidence of the night about her. She had bags under her eyes, a few blood stains against her cheeks and along her small body. Unable to resist the urge, he pulled her to him again and held her tightly for a long moment before kissing her head. “I agree,” he whispered. She smiled up at him and nodded before slipping out of his arms to resume.

With the two of them, things moved faster but still took them nearly into midday. Wynne and Zevran either were still asleep or allowing them privacy to finish their task. In the end, two pyres were lit, one in the battlefield below, and one in the heart of the ruins. Alistair and Mireena stood side by side, watching the flames rise into the warming sky, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. He couldn’t prevent the handful of tears that slid down his face as he said silent goodbyes to his fallen brothers, and she didn’t bring it up, only holding him tighter.

They gathered their supplies and left Ostagarth, but Alistair paused with the ruins just barely visible over the last rise. Mireena walked over to him. “Alistair?”