Work Text:
Music, tankards, boots on stone, people laughing too hard because they were alive. The great hall of Denerim Palace was too loud. Someone had started a song about the Wardens already—badly. The words “Archdemon”, “Blight”, “darkspawn” all floated through the noise like a half-remembered nightmare.
Vohra stood near one of the long tables, a mug in her hand that she hadn’t drunk from in several minutes. She was watching the room the way she always watched rooms: shoulders squared, eyes moving from door to window to staircase, like a bodyguard ready to take care of any trouble that might occur.
Habit. Battlefield instincts didn’t disappear just because the war was over. Across the hall, a noblewoman curtsied too deeply when she noticed her looking. Someone else raised a cup in silent thanks.
Hero of Ferelden.
The title sat strangely on her shoulders. Too light. Too heavy. She took a sip at last. The ale was thin but warm. Nothing compared to ales she had before back at Orzammar, that was sure.
“Careful,” a familiar voice said behind her. “If you keep glaring at the guests like that they’ll start thinking the Blight isn’t actually over.”
She didn’t turn immediately, she didn't need to. She could recognize that voice anywhere. “You assume I’m glaring,” Vohra replied.
“I think I know a glare when I see one.”
She finally glanced over her shoulder, as Alistair leaned against the pillar beside her, arms folded, expression somewhere between amused and exhausted. His armor was gone— someone had insisted on proper clothes—but he still stood like a man who expected trouble. For a moment she just looked at him. Alive. Still here.The tension in her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” he added.
“So are you.” Vohra said, without hesitation.
“I am,” he said defensively. “Internally.”
“That sounds… tragic.”
“It’s… dignified?”
She snorted softly. The sound surprised even her. For weeks—months—it had been marching, fighting, watching the horizon for darkspawn. Even victory had been another battle: speeches, nobles, questions, too much time standing around like a living statue.
But now the hall was full of music and warmth and living people. And suddenly, absurdly, she realized something. They weren’t going to die tomorrow. At least, not by the same threat that had been over their head all those months. She shifted her weight against the wall, leaning back in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to do since Ostagar.
Alistair noticed immediately.
His brow lifted. “Are you… relaxing?”
“Don’t spread rumors.” She replied without missing a beat, like she was indeed doing something scandalous.
“Maker’s breath,” he murmured. “I should get witnesses.”
Vohra took another drink, slower this time. The noise of the hall blurred a little. Laughter rolled across the room. Someone knocked over a chair.
It felt strangely familiar.
For a heartbeat she was somewhere else. Not here among Ferelden banners and human nobles, but beneath carved stone ceilings, music echoing through the halls of Orzammar. Gold and red, long tables, warriors shouting over one another.
Aeducan celebrations.
She had stood beside Trian and Bhelen once, watching the crowd like this. A daughter of a king. She almost expected to see her father sitting on the throne if she looked around. She didn’t dare to. That thought passed like a shadow over water.
But the feeling of a celebration—the looseness in the air, the smell of ale and smoke—that part lingered. She tilted her head toward Alistair.
“You’re not drinking.” She mumbled, forcing herself to step away from the thoughts and memories of a life that didn’t belong to her anymore.
He eyed her mug suspiciously. “You’re drinking.”
“Yes. I am celebrating.”
“That seems like a dangerous development. You’re celebrating like a general surveying a battlefield.”
“Someone must.”
He shook his head.
“You saved the world,” he said. “You’re allowed to stop guarding the door for five minutes.”
“I stopped for two.” She said, like she was counting.
“Rebel.”
She let the corner of her mouth curl slightly. The ale warmed her chest. The music picked up somewhere behind them. After a moment she said casually, “You should be careful.”
Alistair raised an eyebrow, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “About what?” he asked, followed by a half-chuckle, like he wasn’t sure if there was actually a threat nearby. It was hard to decipher Vohra’s tone sometimes.
“Standing so close to me.” Vohra said, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.
“Oh?”
“Yes. People might think you’re important.” Her voice grew slightly playful. "I thought that was something that you wanted to avoid."
“I am important!” he said, feigning offense. “In case you haven't noticed, this party is happening because of us. It's different.”
She gave him a sideways look. “You’re a Grey Warden. Should we really be enjoying this sort of thing?"
He hesitated, glancing around at the laughing nobles and clinking tankards, then back at her. “I… I just mean that maybe it’s okay to enjoy it. Just for a moment. Is that such a crime?”
“Mm.”
He squinted at her. “You’re teasing me.”
“Am I?” She questioned, feigning innocence.
“You are.”
She took another drink, expression carefully neutral, savoring the silence for a moment. Anything would be better than getting dragged off by another group of nobles to re-tell the same story again.
“Maker help me. The dwarf has discovered alcohol.” Alistair muttered, like he wasn't used to being quiet for more than a few minutes.
“I’ve had alcohol before.” she replied evenly.
“I’m sure you have. I have interacted with Oghren before, and you two are from the same place, after all—which is a little terrifying.” He shuddered. “But this is different.”
“How so?” She said, almost curtly, ignoring most of what he said.
“You’re smiling.”
She blinked slowly. “Am I?”
“Yes.” He smiled back, so easily that Alistair looked almost foreign when he wasn’t.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “it has been suggested I’m popular with the masses. I have to be ready to attend them all tonight.”
“The masses?”
She gestured vaguely toward the hall where a group of soldiers were arguing over whose turn it was to buy drinks. “I imagine I have many admirers.”
Alistair choked on nothing. “You absolutely do not.” He didn’t sound very convincing.
“I am protecting the public.” She studied him over the rim of her mug. “In Orzammar,” she said mildly, “I was quite sought after. Popular enough to be considered for the throne.”
Alistair's tone changed suddenly, like he'd heard some sort of activation code that triggered under suspicion. “Oh really.”
“Yes.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“There was Gorim.” A low blow, she knew. Still, he’d compared her drinking habits to Oghren, so she felt a little justified. Alistair straightened immediately.
Alistair straightened immediately. “Gorim.” He repeated, like it was an unfamiliar word.
“My second.” She added, as if he needed reminding.
“Your second.” he said slowly.
She nodded solemnly. “Very devoted.”
Alistair stared at her for a long moment. “You’re making that up.”
“I would never. You heard how he talked to me when we met in Denerim again.” She snorted. “And the big… discounts.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I killed an Archdemon for this. Well, we did.”
Vohra laughed. Not a short breath of amusement like usual. A real laugh and it startled them both. For a moment neither spoke. Then Alistair leaned against the wall beside her, shoulders brushing hers. The contact was light. Familiar and comfortable.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re different tonight.”
“Am I.”
“Yes.”
“How tragic.” She sighed, almost dramatically.
“Less terrifying. Not a bad thing, I guess.”
She watched the crowd again. The music, the dancing, the loud, ridiculous joy of people who had survived. It was the first time since the Deep Roads that her mind wasn’t calculating exits. Her shoulders weren’t tight and her hand wasn’t hovering near a weapon. She exhaled slowly.
“When was the last time,” she murmured, almost to herself, “we sat still without expecting something to try to kill us?”
Alistair considered that, staying in silence for a few seconds, deep in thought.
“Ostagar?”
She snorted softly.
“Fair.”
Silence settled between them. Then he said, softer, “We did it.”
She looked at him. He wasn’t joking now. Just tired. Relieved. Alive. The hall roared somewhere else behind them with another round of cheers.
Alistair bumped her shoulder lightly. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“If we stay here much longer someone will make you give a speech.”
She grimaced. “Unacceptable. I don't do those anymore.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded toward the door. “Fresh air?”
She drained the rest of her mug and set it on the table. Then she followed him toward the exit, slipping through the crowd like a shadow among banners and laughter. For the first time since the Blight began, the night outside felt quiet. And for once, neither of them was waiting for the next battle.
The noise of the hall faded the moment the doors closed behind them.
Outside, the courtyard of Denerim Palace was washed in torchlight and the pale glow of the moon. The celebration inside spilled faintly through the stone walls—music muffled now, laughter distant.
Cool air brushed Vohra’s face. She stopped halfway down the steps and, for a moment, she simply stood there, feeling the cold breeze hit her face. Even after months on the surface, she still noticed it every time. It slipped between the plates of her armor and tugged lightly at the ponytail at the back of her neck. Above them the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars. Alistair leaned against the railing beside her, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Maker,” Alistair sighed. “That’s better.”
“You dislike crowds?”
“I dislike Ferelden nobles,” he corrected. “Half of them want to thank me and the other half want to ask questions about my father. Or rumours or… whatever.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Your father.”
“Yes, thank you for emphasizing that part of my suffering.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“Years of practice, I am a man of many talents.” He fell quiet after that, looking out across the sleeping city. Denerim looked different now. The streets weren’t burning anymore. No darkspawn moved through the alleys. The city breathed again. Alistair exhaled slowly. “Hard to believe it’s actually over.”
Vohra didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifted upward and she saw how the sky was clear tonight. No stone ceiling or carved pillars. Just black distance and stars that seemed impossibly far away. Once, that vastness had made her dizzy. Now it only felt… quiet.
“I thought,” she said slowly, “I would feel something different.”
Alistair tilted his head.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.” She rested her forearms on the stone railing. “Triumphant. Victorious.”
“And?”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“I feel… tired.”
He laughed softly. “Yes. That sounds about right.” A pause stretched between them. Then he nudged her lightly with his elbow.
“You were flirting with me in there.” She didn’t look at him.
“I was drinking.”
“That’s not a denial.” Alistair replied, rolling his eyes with amusement.
“It’s an explanation.”
"I see. But still..." He crossed his arms. “Should I be worried about these admirers of yours?”
She turned her head slightly, studying him now. “You seemed worried.”
“I was not.”
“You were very concerned about Gorim.”
“That was professional curiosity.”
She smirked. “Jealousy.”
“I killed an Archdemon today,” he said indignantly. “I am far too heroic to be jealous.”
“You looked jealous.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He opened his mouth to argue again—then stopped. For a second he just watched her. The tension she carried everywhere had eased. Her shoulders weren’t rigid anymore. Her stance wasn’t balanced for a fight. The corner of her mouth was still curved slightly from the ale.
He’d seen her laugh before, of course. But not like tonight.
“You’re different,” he said again, more quietly. Her eyes flicked back to him.
“I believe you mentioned that already.”
“No, I mean…” He gestured vaguely. “You’re actually letting yourself breathe.”
She considered that. Maybe he was right. For months it had been constant: planning, marching, killing, surviving.
Ostagar.
Lothering.
Redcliffe.
The Deep Roads again.
Each step forward had felt like the edge of a blade. And now suddenly— Nothing. No army chasing them, no Archdemon overhead, no next battle waiting, just a quiet courtyard and the sound of distant music. She exhaled slowly.
“In Orzammar,” she said, almost absently, “celebrations lasted for days.”
Alistair leaned closer to hear her better.
“They would fill the Diamond Quarter,” she continued. “Feasts. Music. Drinking contests.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It was.”
“Did you participate in these contests?”
“I usually won.”
He laughed. “I believe that.”
Her gaze drifted across the courtyard. For a heartbeat she could almost see it; lantern light reflecting off carved stone, banners of House Aeducan hanging high above the crowd. A daughter of a king standing among nobles and warriors. That girl felt very far away now.
“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that life would always be like that.”
Alistair didn’t interrupt. He knew better.
“I knew where I belonged.” she finished. The wind moved through the courtyard again. For a moment neither spoke.Then Alistair pushed himself upright from the railing.
“Well,” he said gently, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad things changed.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You enjoyed the Blight?”
“No!” he said quickly. “That’s not what I— Maker, you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Twisting my words so I sound ridiculous.”
“You accomplish that very well on your own.”
He pointed at her accusingly. “There. See? That.”
She chuckled softly. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. Then his expression softened. “I just mean,” he said more quietly, “if things hadn’t changed… we probably never would have met.”
That made her pause. It was true. If Bhelen hadn’t betrayed her, if Duncan hadn’t found her in the Deep Roads, if Ostagar hadn’t fallen, their lives would have passed in entirely separate worlds. A princess beneath the Stone and a forgotten royal bastard in a Chantry. She studied him in the moonlight. Strange, she thought, how the worst thing that had ever happened to her had also led here.
“To you,” she said, softly.
He blinked.
“Sorry?”
“You’re the result,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Of the Blight?”
“No.” She tilted her head slightly. “Of everything that went wrong before it.”
He stared at her for a second. Then a slow grin spread across his face.
“That might be the strangest compliment I’ve ever received. I hope it is a compliment .”
“You’re welcome.”
He laughed again, softer this time. The sound echoed faintly across the quiet courtyard. Inside the palace the celebration roared on, unaware of the two Wardens standing beneath the open sky. After a moment, Alistair nudged her shoulder again.
“So,” he said carefully, “about these admirers…”
She rolled her eyes. “Still thinking about that?”
“I’m a Grey Warden,” he said solemnly. “Constant vigilance.”
“For imaginary rivals?”
“For very real dwarven seconds named Gorim.”
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If it reassures you,” she said, “you’re currently my favorite.”
He blinked. “Currently?”
“Yes.”
“Maker’s breath.” He looked up at the sky, shaking his head. “I risk my life saving the world and this is the thanks I get.”
She smirked. “You survived.”
“And?”
“And you get to keep me...Around.”
He glanced back at her. For a moment the teasing faded. The truth beneath it lingered. After everything—Ostagar, the Blight, the Archdemon—they were both still standing here. He reached out and lightly bumped her shoulder again.
“Fair trade,” he said softly.
For a while they simply stood there, listening to the distant celebration. The night air had cooled further, and somewhere in the city a bell rang the late hour. The music inside the palace swelled again; Someone had started another song, louder and far less coordinated than the first. Vohra rested her forearms on the railing again, looking out over the dark rooftops of Denerim. There was still a faint smell of smoke and fire in the air. Alistair glanced toward the palace doors, then back to her.
“They’re going to notice we disappeared eventually,” he said.
“They’re drunk.”
“That has never stopped a Ferelden noble from noticing something they shouldn’t.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “Then we should remain suspiciously close to the door.”
“That is an excellent strategy,” he agreed. Neither of them moved.
After a moment he shifted a little closer beside her, until their shoulders touched again. It was subtle. Anyone looking from the palace windows would only see two Wardens talking quietly in the courtyard. Vohra tilted her head slightly toward him.
“You’re very concerned about appearances tonight.”
“Someone has to be,” he said. “You’re the one openly discussing your long list of admirers.”
“You’re the one who brought that up again.”
“Because it was alarming.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “Are you still jealous?”
“I was never jealous.” He quickly interjected, frowning.
“Of course.”
He sighed dramatically. “I save the world and this is the thanks I get. Endless mockery.”
“You enjoy it.”
“Maybe a little.”
The wind shifted again, brushing past them. Without really thinking about it, Vohra reached up and adjusted his tunic where it had folded awkwardly.
Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary. Alistair went very still. When she realized what she was doing, she withdrew her hand—but not before he caught her wrist lightly.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“About what?”
“If anyone sees that they might suspect something.”
She raised an eyebrow. “They might suspect we’re capable of basic politeness?”
“They might suspect we’re… more than polite.” The faintest smirk appeared again.
“And that would be a problem?”
He glanced toward the doors again before leaning a little closer. “Possibly.”
Her voice dropped slightly. “You’re the one worried about Ferelden nobles.”
“I am,” he said quietly.
“Then perhaps we should be discreet.”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“Good.” There was a brief pause. Then she leaned in just enough that their foreheads nearly touched. From a distance it would still look like quiet conversation. Up close, it was something else entirely.
“Is this discreet?” She whispered.
“Very.” His hand slid from her wrist to her fingers, closing around them briefly. Not a grand gesture. Just a quick, warm squeeze. The kind that passed unnoticed if someone happened to glance their way. She returned it. For a heartbeat they stayed like that, close enough to feel each other breathe. After everything, this small, quiet moment felt strangely unreal.
Alistair exhaled softly. “Next time,” he said under his breath, “maybe we celebrate somewhere less… public.”
“You dislike the attention?”
“I dislike sharing so much.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Possessive.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Good to know.” The palace doors creaked faintly as someone passed through them inside, voices drifting out into the courtyard. Both of them instinctively straightened. The moment folded away as quickly as it had appeared. Vohra released his hand first.
“We should return before someone decides to send someone, a bard, even.” she said.
“That sounds horrifying.” Alistair grimaced.
“Then walk.” She ordered, as they started back toward the doors together, their steps slow and unhurried. Just before reaching the entrance, he nudged her lightly with his elbow again.
“You know,” he said, “if the public ever does figure this out…”
She glanced at him. “Yes?”
“I’m blaming you.”
“Of course.” She said, her tone of voice flat.
“You’re the one flirting.” He reminded her again.
“And you weren't stopping me.” She insisted.
“Rejecting a beautiful woman like you in the middle of a celebration would look bad, of course.”
She let out a soft “Mm.” as she pushed the door open. Warmth and music rushed to meet them; the celebration inside hadn’t slowed at all: soldiers singing badly, nobles raising cups and the hall alive with chaotic, triumphant joy.
Vohra paused at the threshold for a moment before she stepped inside. Alistair followed close beside her.
The noise swallowed them immediately, but this time neither of them seemed bothered by it. The Blight was over. The world had survived. And, somewhere in the middle of the confusion, between songs, laughter, and raised tankards, two Grey Wardens slipped back into the crowd, standing just close enough to each other that neither had to face the future alone.