Chapter Text
Alistair had seen beautiful things before.
On his eighth birthday, Eamon, his eyes unmistakably warm with what he liked to think of as affection, had pulled a carefully wrapped package out from behind his back and presented it to him. Alistair had virtually snatched the parcel from the Arl’s hands and had proceeded to tear the paper to shreds in a mad hurry to lay his hands on the hilt and draw the blade. As he had held his first blade parallel to his eyes, he had marvelled at the craftsmanship of the dragon carved into the hilt, noting the way its eyes glittered. It was the best thing he’d ever seen.
He’d been present in the Grand Cathedral at Denerim for early morning prayers and, while he would never be one of the fervent believer types, he had to concede that the first light of dawn shining through the stained glass windows, creating patterns of colour and light on the Chantry floor, overlaid with the sonorous slow intonation of some of the better verses of the Chant of Light was, in a way, reverently beautiful.
They’d been scouting in the hinterlands, investigating reports of darkspawn sightings and their commander had insisted they climb what was technically a hill, but what felt much more like a mountain, to get a better view of the surrounding area. As he had reached the top, he had noted the valley below; all green fields and small thatched cottages. The river wound its way across the valley floor, impossibly blue and sparkling in the sunlight, and as his gaze had reached even further to the mountains, partially indistinct due to the distance, he had to admit that Ferelden might be cold and wet and muddy but it was also absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.
Yes, Alistair had seen beautiful things before.
But, as she had risen to her feet on shaking, unsteady legs; her hair a matted tangled mess blowing in the breeze behind her; her armour and swords covered in the same grisly combination of dirt, blood and gore as his was; her eyes aflame with the knowledge of their looming victory - he’d had to concede that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Quite possibly the most beautiful thing he would ever see.
She’d charged, her shaking legs becoming increasingly stronger and surer as she ran, scooping up a nearby greatsword and plunging it without hesitation into the Archdemon’s neck.
He’d tried to stand on legs shattered by the beast’s tail; he’d tried to call out, to reach for her because what if it hadn’t worked? He didn’t think he could bear it if all her light, her beauty, were to be gone from the world. He’d wanted to take the blow himself, just in case, just to be sure. But he hadn’t been able to and she had and…
She’d survived.
But everything had changed.
It’s odd when he thinks about it. In his forty-eight years of life, his happiest time had been fighting the blight. He’d been young and strong and brave and free in a way he hadn’t been free since… And loved. Loved above all else. Back then he had loved and been loved.
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. This was hard, and reminiscing about the past was not helping. He pushes himself out of the ornate mahogany desk chair situated behind the ornate mahogany desk. Despite the years, he’d never really managed to acclimatise himself to luxury and much preferred the simpler plainer affair situated in his chambers, but nobody ever expected him to be in the office and it was thus more private, more secure.
Stalking over to the window, he looks out over the royal gardens. Madeline is there, sat in the centre of her ladies, fiddling with something he can’t quite see. As always, her movements are delicate and precise, her expression poised but warm. Her tiara, the feminine mirror of his own crown, is perfectly nestled among her raven locks.
Every inch the queen, he thinks, a small smile creeping across his face. He has always wondered how much she knows, or guesses, about his true feelings.
He hasn’t loved her for a single day of the past twenty-five years. Not really, not the way she should have been loved. How could he? His heart had been given away long before he met her. But he has loved her as best as he can.
Madeline has never really understood his sense of humour, but she laughs along anyway, and he likes her for that. She’s supported him all these years and managed to teach him how to look and act the part without making him feel unworthy, and he thanks her for that. Most importantly, some would say, she gave him a son - a son whom he loves dearly - and he cares for her for that.
She has been his friend, his companion, his queen and he has liked her, thanked her and, in time, learned to care for her a great deal.
But he has never loved her.
He wonders if she really knows, or if his sense of duty and family are so ingrained and so perfect that they have managed to convince her that he loves her.
He wouldn’t mind too much if they had.
Void take him, whether he loves her or not, whether she knows or not, she doesn’t deserve what he is going to have do to her. Not to mention what he has already done to her. He sighs and stalks back to the desk, throwing himself into the chair, only to be confronted by the blank piece of paper that yet refuses to co-operate.
It occurs to him that the truth might be the best way to go. After all, what would the Wardens do? Reprimand his corpse for spilling their secrets? She would keep the secret anyway; he was sure she would.
Yes, the truth, that would work.
Not the whole truth though.
‘Maddy,’ he writes, mind finally made up.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this in person. By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone and… I won’t be coming back.
I told you once that Grey Wardens pay a terrible price to become what we are. The exact nature of the price is considered a Grey Warden secret; thus, I could not tell you before.
But I suppose that doesn’t matter now.
From the time a Grey Warden undertakes the Joining, they have only thirty years to live. After that time, the very thing that makes us wardens slowly kills us, as it is now slowly killing me.
I do not wish for either you or our son to bear witness to what I will become if I allow the taint to kill me. You have helped make me a king, but I think you have always known that in my heart I have remained a Warden.
If I must die, I wish to do so in the manner of my brothers, and, while I do not wish to leave you and the boy, I know I must.
I want you to know that it hurts to leave you both…’
He pauses there, considering. He wants to say more, wants to give her the three oh-so-important words that she so deserves, but he has only ever given those words to one woman, and he doesn’t want the last message to his queen to be a lie.
‘But this is something I have to do.
If I have one wish for you, Maddy, it is for you to be happy. Hold the throne as only you can for our son and guide him as you have guided me, but most of all, Maddy, please, please be happy.
You deserve that much.
May the Maker watch over you both.
Your Husband,
Alistair.‘
It’s not perfect, but it’s the best he can do without lying to either her or himself. He folds the letter over, sealing it with wax and impressing it with the royal seal. Tucking the letter into his breast pocket, he glances at the sky.
Four hours, he calculates.
In four hours’ time, he will no longer be king.
He doesn’t know how to feel about that. A part of him rejoices, that he will finally lay aside the burden he had never wanted to carry. He will once again be free to express his own thoughts, his own desires without having to consider the political implications beforehand. To remove the ceremonial armour and ornate jewellery and replace both with more serviceable splintmail will be marvellous.
But still…
Over the years this has become his kingdom, his responsibility; its people are his people. He has accepted the Theirin inside him. Embraced it, nurtured it. It is a part of him now, a part he’ll be leaving behind.
He scrubs his hand over his face and once again hauls himself out of the chair.
Later, he manages to bid his wife and child goodnight without any undue emotion. He tells them that he’ll see them in the morning and that he hopes they’ll sleep well. They don’t seem to realise that only the second part is true.
He sits alone in the royal family’s sitting room, the fire beside him dying down with each passing hour.
And he waits.
The chantry bell eventually tolls the witching hour. The sound finally stirring him, he sets his empty glass aside and stands, taking down the blade that sits over the hearth.
He creeps into his son’s bedchamber and sets Maric’s blade down at the foot of the bed. Upon the hilt he places the signet ring that he has worn since the day of his coronation. These are his son’s things now. He indulges himself in one last lingering look at his child and for a moment is aggrieved that the boy will now need to carry his father’s burden.
The father’s freedom coming at price of the son’s.
He takes the time to ruffle the boy’s hair the way he used to when he was younger and just learning the sword.
“I love you,” he murmurs, bending over the sleeping figure, then, after a moment. “I’m sorry.”
He can’t stay. He knows this, staying goes against every warrior’s instinct he possesses. So, he turns and steals into the adjoining chamber.
The moonlight slips through the curtains just enough to highlight the figure on the bed. Her tousled hair spills across the pillows, her countenance peaceful as she sleeps the untroubled sleep of those who have never had to see the things that he has seen.
He feels the now familiar warmth in his chest as he gazes at her. It’s not love, but it’s something close.
He takes the letter out of his breast pocket and places it on the empty pillow beside her. Then he brushes a few stray strands of hair out of her face and bends to place a final farewell kiss on her forehead.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
As he closes her chamber door, he feels... something. The hard part is over and the feeling is both aching loss and the sense of something long forgotten sliding back into place. Comfortable and familiar yet new and unsettling. He shrugs it off for now, he has preparations to make.
Entering his own chamber, he wastes no time in pushing the nearest dresser up against the door. He then proceeds to the other side of the room and, muscles straining, manages to move the heavy oak wardrobe aside. Below the wardrobe, a missing floorboard reveals a ten by twenty-inch hole. It is into this that Alistair reaches. He pulls out five packages, each one carefully wrapped in protective paper; precious items he hasn’t looked at for nearly ten years. Laying them down, he quickly strips out of his finery, revealing the plain shirt and linen breeches he wears underneath.
The first package reveals itself to be a simple set of splintmail. It’s clean and cared for and has obviously been packed away with great care attention, but it’s old, and here and there are a few dents and nicks. He knows each one of those nicks intimately, remembers the corresponding bruises on his skin. In some cases, he still carries the scars. The last time he had donned this armour they had been about to venture into the deep roads. After that, they had travelled back to Ostagar, where the armour he’d worn every day since had been acquired. But it seemed... appropriate to wear this set of armour again now.
As he dons the splintmail he’s surprised to discover two things. Firstly, that it still fits, although on second thought, that shouldn’t be so surprising. He has never once allowed a day to pass without spending at least two hours of it in the practice ring. Secondly, that his fingers remember exactly how to fasten the pieces; right down to the left greave which had always been a little out of shape. It’s comforting after so many years of royal squires undertaking the task for him.
The second package contains the sword he truly thinks of as his. He has carried Maric’s blade for the past thirty years but it has never felt warm or right in his hand. This one does. He pulls the blade from the scabbard, wrenching it slightly as in its old age the blade seems loathe to come loose from its sheathe…
*
She wrenches the blade loose. Somehow her usually fast reactions fail her, and she doesn’t quite manage to turn her head before the sputter of blood hits her fully in the face. Her look of almost childlike indignance and surprise is so at odds with the blood that paints her armour, and her fierce warrior stance, that he cannot help but laugh.
Hearing him, her head snaps to the side to glare at him with narrowed eyes. He tosses her a smile and a roguish wink in response. She laughs at him delightedly and leaps off the Ogre landing before him, her movements as sleek and agile as all her actions are wont to be. She holds out the blade hilt first towards him.
“You should have this,” she says without preamble and he reaches out accepting the blade, but it is some time before he is able to tear his eyes away from her sparkling green ones to truly see it. When he does, he recognises it immediately.
“Is this...”
“Yeah.”
“… Duncan’s?”
“Yeah,” she repeats. “Yours now.”
He doesn’t know what to say. It means so much to him to have something of Duncan’s. That she would bother to wrest it out for him means just as much.
He wants to tell her that she is beautiful, brilliant, brave and kind and so mind-bogglingly wonderful that loving her more than life itself is easier than he ever thought it could be.
What comes out is simply, “thanks.”
She regards him fondly for a moment and he gets the strangest sensation that she somehow knows all the things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.
Actions speak louder than words anyway, and her lips are so tantalisingly close.
“Don’t kiss me.” She presses one hand against his armoured chest and forces him to take a step back, gesturing to her blood-spattered face as a way of explanation. For half a moment he’s tempted to kiss her anyway, but he really has no desire to ingest more darkspawn blood than is strictly necessary.
Instead he cocks his head to the side, considering her; it strikes him odd that he can still find her so breathtakingly beautiful even in such a state, in such a place.
“Have I told you that I love you today?” he asks her instead.
She snorts. “You may have gasped out something to that effect in the throes of passion this morning,” she tells him, smiling up at him, her eyes filled with adoration that he probably doesn’t deserve. “But I’ll hear it again if I must.” She sighs over-dramatically, rolling her eyes in false exasperation.
“I love you,” he says, without hesitation.
She lays her hand against his cheek. “I love you too.”
She moves behind him to look to their companions and he takes a moment to look at the blade, remembering the man who had previously carried it before shaking the memories loose and -
*
Sheathing the blade once more, he slots the scabbard onto his back. It’s not as heavy as Maric’s blade nor as wide, and the sensation of wearing it is at once both loss and gain.
Package three contains a shield. Like every other artefact in this treasure trove it is both well-loved and well-used. The paint has faded with time but the griffon is still just visible in the centre amidst the dents and scrapes that litter the previously smooth surface. The leather binding surrounding the grip is both soft with use and blackened by sweat. As he hefts it on his arm its weight is exactly as he remembers it. Sliding it into the holster on his back he reaches for the next parcel.
Packages four and five tumble out of the paper, a seemingly meaningless bundle of cloth. He digs through the muddle looking for the large rucksack that once held all his worldly possessions. Opening the flap, he checks inside and finds a jumble of healing potions, bandages and the odd book or two. He reaches out to the table beside him, grabbing the parcel of foodstuffs he’d ‘stolen’ from the kitchen earlier and adding it to the jumbled contents. Then, from the pocket of his discarded doublet, he fishes out the small pouch weighted with gold coins and adds that as well.
The old tent is strapped securely to the base of the sack and he takes a few moments to check the straps are secure before grabbing the nearby travelling cloak and draping it over his shoulders.
Satisfied he heaves the wardrobe back into place, effectively covering the hidey hole. He dumps the rucksack onto the bed for the time being, and crosses to the full-length mirror.
The man who stares back at him is a man of two halves. His body, swathed in his old armour without the trappings of any finery, save only for his mother’s amulet that sits above his breast, is that of the young warden he had once been. His face, lined by worry and slightly weathered by age, with long hair falling into his eyes, is that of the king.
He takes hold of the shears on the table beside the mirror. With a few deft movements, the longer locks are no more and he’s back to the more practical, shorter cut he’d sported during the blight.
Now he looks like the man he might have been if he had remained a warden for the past thirty years. The king slips further and further away from him, with each unearthed treasure and every movement of the shears, and he finds that, despite his expectations, he misses it just a little bit.
He throws the hair into the fire; no use allowing the kingsguard to know he’d changed his appearance. He’s sure they will come after him as they often did in his youth, when he was unaccustomed to the crown and sometimes needed to be out on his own with the illusion of freedom. Eamon had always sent them after him and they had always brought him back.
Not this time though.
He turns back to the bed, scooping up the pack and launching himself out of the window, without a second glance. He climbs down the ivy, sneaking into his own royal gardens, ears and eyes alert despite having memorised the guards’ patrolling pattern.
But as he creeps through the rose garden, he pauses. Somehow, throughout all these years she has always remained, in his heart, the beauty amidst the darkness.
*
The darkness here is deep and foul. Even the lights cast by Morrigan and Wynne seem only to make the surrounding shadows that much gloomier. The churning, burning, roiling in his blood is probably making it worse. The knowledge that he will likely one day die down here isn’t helping any either.
A glance to his side tells him she looks as bad as he feels. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead, her eyes frantically scanning the shadows despite the fact that she can’t possibly see anything. Her blades are unsheathed and ready regardless of the fact that any attack was bound to be heralded by a spike in the burning, roiling, churning sensation that had underlain everything since they had arrived in Orzammar.
She steps closer to him.
“We haven’t been attacked in a while,” she murmurs.
“And everyone is pretty tired,” he agrees, predicting her thought patterns easily.
“You think it’s safe?” she asks, turning her gaze towards him instead of the shadows.
He quirks a half smile at her. “What is it about dark tunnels filled with thousands of darkspawn all intent on killing us fails to scream safety to you?”
She snorts, but probably would have graced him with her delightful laughter had they been anywhere else. “You’re right,” she replies, eyes twinkling. “It feels so safe down here we could set up home. We’ll stay here and you can be king over the nice, safe, darkspawn-y subjects.”
“Har har,” he replies with all the sarcasm he can muster, which is to say, lots.
She merely smiles at him and squeezes his hand before turning and ordering the others to stop.
They decide to risk lighting a fire and it doesn’t take long for them to set up a ‘camp’ of sorts. It is Wynne who raises the issue of guard duty and Elissa hesitates for only a minute, meeting his eyes briefly, before announcing the decision they had both just agreed upon in a glance.
“We’ll guard,” she tells the mage. “We won’t sleep anyway, not with the taint.”
Wynne glances at him and he nods in what he hopes in a reassuring manner before turning and seating himself at the edge of ‘camp’.
She takes the time to help settle their little party, whispering comforting words and passing out rations. It is only when the others are asleep that she flops down next to him.
“I hate this place,” she remarks. Her tone is light hearted, conversational, but he can feel the bitter hatred beneath the statement.
“I know.”
He lifts his arm to place it around her shoulders. She shuffles closer to him, curling into his armoured chest and he desperately wishes that they could risk removing said armour so that he could feel the warmth and weight of her against him.
She is quiet for a moment and he’s not sure how he knows, but he knows that she has something to say and is either trying not to say it or trying to find the words. He tightens his arm around her, drawing her impossibly closer.
“What is it?” he murmurs into her hair, indulging himself and bestowing a kiss upon her forehead.
She doesn’t respond for a moment then sits up so she can look him in the eye. His heart cries out at the loss of her form against his own but finds the alternative of gazing into her eyes a fair substitute.
“Promise me something?” she says, eventually.
“Anything,” is his ready reply, and he means it. There is nothing he would not do for this woman.
“No matter what happens, with the future or the throne or the...” she trails off, gazing into some avenue of the future that he had probably not even thought of but that she had probably planned out in its entirety. “Whatever,” she continues waving whichever future it was away. “When the time comes to... return to this place... will you come with me? Can you promise that no matter what happens we’ll face the end together?”
Her question is earnest and his heart aches for her because he has never intended anything to the contrary. From the moment he had first informed her of her fate, her wide-eyed horrified expression had struck him so completely that he had sworn right then and there that she would not have to go through it alone.
It occurs to him that perhaps he should’ve told her that.
“I can’t bear the thought of you dying down here alone,” she confesses quietly and his heart soars to hear that her reasons are the same as his own.
He slides his fingers into her auburn hair, an armoured glove cupping her cheek.
“I promise,” he rasps, drawing her to him, his lips meeting hers and before he really realises what he’s doing he’s-
*
- reaching up to pluck a single rose from nearest bush. He gazes at it for just a moment before wrapping it in a piece of linen bandage and storing it carefully in his pack.
He moves swiftly on, making for the servants’ entrance, knowing that he needs to be well on the way before sunrise, knowing also that nothing can be permitted to halt his progress.
For it is time.
And he has a promise to keep.