Chapter Text
Saying goodbye for the night had been a bittersweet struggle, but they had managed nonetheless. Gwen had spent half the night tossing and turning, unable to shake off the memory of his heated skin beneath her hand, the sounds he'd made as she caressed him, his hips moving in perfect sync with her touch, and how badly she wished she could have let his hands explore her body.
When she did manage to fall asleep, her dreams, well, it was a relief that they were not nightmares, but when she woke up in the morning she was only feeling more hot and irritated, moisture growing between her legs.
A wave of uncertainty and longing washed over her as she considered telling him she had changed her mind. She yearned for his touch, to feel his hands running over her skin with a tenderness reserved for delicate creatures. But even just the thought of it becoming real had her drying up almost instantly. What if he realized that her scars were too much for him, a barrier between them in moments of passion? They weren't smooth and silky like untouched skin, but rough and jagged, an intricate map of pain and survival. No matter how he tried to navigate around them, his fingers would inevitably brush against their raised edges. And even if he managed to avoid touching them altogether, he couldn't escape the sight of them.
Pushing aside the indecent thoughts, she distracted herself with getting ready, and focusing on where they were headed; Ostagar. This was sure to be difficult for both Alistair and Darcy. It had been Darcy’s first battle as a Grey Warden, and it had gone disastrously, betrayed by Teryn Loghain. Not only had the Teryn been responsible for the defeat at Ostagar, but he’d ordered Darcy’s family and community to be isolated in Denerim, blocking him from ensuring their well-being. As for Alistair… He’d lost his mentor, every other Ferelden Grey Warden - save for Darcy - and his brother in one fell swoop. While he may not have known the late King and they had yet to talk about his feelings about his royal brother - having skirted past most talks surrounding his royal heritage - it would have still been a painful blow. Losing Duncan - his mentor - was the worst of it all, Gwen could see the sorrow in his eyes every time the elder Grey Warden was mentioned.
Gwen emerged from her tent, the flap rustling behind her as she stepped out into the morning air. The sounds of her companions already awake and bustling about greeted her, filling the campsite with a lively buzz. She could hear Darcy's voice raised in conversation, lively and animated, as he made his way towards where Leliana stood with a cup of steaming tea in hand. Alistair and Zevran were also present, their voices mingling with the others as they discussed plans for the day ahead.
She caught a glimpse of Alistair's broad back as he stood with his arms crossed, facing away from her. She could sense the nervous energy radiating from him as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fiddled with the hem of his tunic. Despite his typically confident demeanor, his shoulders were slightly hunched and his usually straight posture seemed curved inward.
Gwen's gaze swept over the group, taking in the mischievous glint in Darcy's eyes, the knowing smirk on Zevran's lips, and the poorly concealed amusem*nt on Leliana's face. Ah, of course. They’re teasing him.
It would be the kind thing to do, rescuing him from this uncomfortable situation. Despite her heart fluttering with apprehension at the thought of facing those knowing looks turned on her, she couldn't bear to let him suffer through their good-natured but invasive teasing alone.
With a graceful stride, Gwen made her way over to the group, her lips curved into a small smile as she nodded in greeting. She couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious; surely they had all noticed her leaving with Alistair last night. Leliana was even there to witness it. But she refused to back down or feel any shame. The look of relief on Alistair's face when he saw her approach was worth it all.
As she joined the group, the scent of fresh morning dew mingled with the warm aroma of campfire smoke filled her nostrils. She was eager to get this over with.
"Good morning," she greeted them with a small smile. "What are we all discussing so early in the morning?"
Alistair's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and he stammered, "N-nothing! Everything is fine. Perfectly normal early-morning chatter. Nothing important or out of the ordinary."
Darcy, unable to resist the temptation to tease, chimed in with an overly innocent tone, "Oh, absolutely! We weren’t discussing anything inappropriate or offering any unsolicited advice. Nope, not us!"
Zevran nodded in agreement, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Indeed, we were the very picture of propriety and restraint."
Leliana bit her lip to suppress a giggle, her voice laced with barely contained laughter as she added, "We would never dream of meddling in your private affairs, Gwen. You know us better than that."
Gwen resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she listened to their blatantly false denials. Instead, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed heavily. “Stop tormenting the poor man, he can’t help that he’s a blushing Chantry virgin.” It took every bit of her willpower to suppress a smirk.
Alistair groaned, much more of a dismayed noise than he had made last night. “Not you too, Gwen.”
Darcy held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. "Alright, alright! We'll behave. But you have to admit, it was pretty funny seeing him squirm."
As the group dissolved into good-natured laughter, Gwen reached for Alistair's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. While exasperation was written across his red-hued face, a small smile crept over his lips, a hint of adoration filling his gaze that nearly took Gwen’s breath away.
“We’ll leave you two to it before we head out,” Darcy said with a wink before looping his arm through Zevran and Leliana’s and dragging them away, still giggling to themselves. This time, Gwen let her eyes roll, ensuring that Darcy saw it, though as expected, it did nothing to phase him.
Gwen turned to Alistair once the other three were out of earshot, her hand still clasped in his. “What were they saying exactly? You’re as red as a tomato.”
Releasing her hand, Alistair covered his face with another groan, his eyes peeking out from between his fingers. “Must you make me repeat it? Blushing Chantry virgin over here, it’s not something I even know how to talk about without feeling like I’m about to jump out of my own skin.”
Gwen reached up to pull his hands away from his face, enjoying the adorable pout she revealed. “I‘m sorry, I figured the only way to get them to lay off was to give in a little. The more I fought it the more they would double down.”
“It was still rude,” he said, only half meaning it.
Gwen smiled slyly. “I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you later,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Alistair’s cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red at Gwen’s suggestive remark. He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to compose himself. “Um, yes well...that would be nice.”
Gwen chuckled at his reaction, finding it endearing how easily flustered he could become. She leaned in closer to him, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “But I hope you’re not expecting anything too scandalous, my dear Warden.”
Alistair’s eyes widened in alarm. “Scandalous? No, no, I wasn’t...I mean...I wouldn’t…” He stumbled over his words, looking more and more embarrassed by the second.
Gwen couldn’t hold back her laughter any longer and burst into giggles at Alistair’s reaction. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Will you ever forgive me?”
Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a mock stern scowl. “I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you, but only if you promise never to tease me like that again.”
Gwen smiled warmly at him, still chuckling under her breath. “Deal. And I was serious about making it up to you later.” She winked, making him sigh exasperatedly.
“What were they saying exactly?” Gwen asked, curious as to the depths of the topics being discussed.
“They... they gave me some advice, which I didn’t ask for, mind you. About, you know, us. And what we might... do together, uh, romantically."
Gwen shook her head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And it was incredibly explicit, I take it?”
Alistair nodded, his ears turning pink. "Yes, and it was... well, let's just say I wasn't prepared for that kind of talk."
“From my limited understanding of how friends work, they were probably just trying to tease you.”
Alistair huffed, still looking mortified. “Teasing or not, I don’t need tips on how to romance you. I can figure that out on my own, or… with you.”
Gwen laughed, amused by his bashfulness but also touched by his sincerity. “I do not doubt that.”
* * *
Gwen's gaze flickered up from beneath the shadow of her hair, observing Alistair with keen interest. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the hilt of his sword, a telltale sign of his unease. Despite the long march to Ostagar, it was clear that Alistair's restlessness stemmed from something deeper than mere physical fatigue. It weighed heavily on his shoulders and manifested in his every movement. The lull of the surrounding woods only seemed to amplify his tension, adding an eerie undertone to the otherwise serene atmosphere.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice barely rising above the whisper of leaves in the wind. A simple question, yet it hung heavy between them, charged with an unspoken understanding.
"Me? Oh, I'm just dandy," Alistair quipped, flashing her a grin that failed to reach his eyes. It was his usual tactic, humour as a shield against discomfort, but Gwen saw through it as easily as looking through a pane of glass.
She gave him a look that spoke volumes, one that gently prodded at the armour of levity he wore so faithfully. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of Ferelden itself, Alistair's shoulders slumped, and his gaze found the cold, dirt ground.
"It's Duncan," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I keep thinking about how he died... here - not far from here, anyhow. And I'm supposed to... what? Find some sort of peace with it?" He kicked at a rock by his foot, scowling as it tumbled into the brush at the side of the path.
Gwen stepped closer, her gaze filled with empathy. She knew all too well the gnawing hunger of unresolved grief - the kind that claws at your insides, leaving you feeling hollow.
Gwen sighed deeply, her breath curling into mist in the cold afternoon air. "I know it's not the same," she began slowly, choosing her words with care. "But finding Lucy's resting place brought me no peace either."
She paused, blinking back the tears that welled up at the memory. “I’d been avoiding that place for years, shoved it to the back of my memory so I didn’t have to think about how I left her behind, how I got her killed.” Gwen shook her head, her long hair swaying gently. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to keep from falling apart. “It just ripped open the wound again, made me relive those horrible moments all over again."
"I'll never stop being angry about what happened to her. Never stop wishing I could go back and change things." Gwen lifted her gaze to meet Alistair's. "But in some ways, even though it broke my heart, it was nice to be near her again. Even if it was just her bones."
She reached out and squeezed Alistair's hand gently. "What I'm trying to say is, finding Duncan like this, whether you find his body or just some remnants of him...I know it hurts. But maybe in time, there's comfort in being close to him again too. Even if just in spirit."
Alistair blinked rapidly at the ground, overcome with too many emotions to process fully in that moment.
Gwen continued, “You're not alone in this. I'm here, Alistair. And I'll stay, every step of the way."
He looked up at her then, and within his eyes was a rawness she had never seen in him before. It was as if he had peeled back all his layers, baring his soul for her to see. She felt a lump form in her throat at the sight of his vulnerability. For a moment, they shared a silence that was as comforting as it was poignant, a silent pact of mutual support amidst a world fraught with pain.
"Thank you, Gwen," he whispered, the gratitude in his voice mingling with a note of wonder.
She nodded, no words would be sufficient, and there was nothing left for her to say.
And as they decimated hordes of Darkspawn that swarmed them upon their arrival, Gwen knew she would keep that promise with every fibre of her being, to keep at least one spark of innocence left within him.
The ruins of Ostagar that had once loomed on the horizon like the jagged teeth of a slain dragon, each stone saturated with memories of valour and despair now forced a chill to creep down Gwen’s spine as she watched Alistair stoop over a fallen Darkspawn, its grotesque form still oozing malice even in death. His fingers traced the edges of a pair of greaves, unmistakably ornate, marked with the sigil of the royal house of Theirin. The discovery seemed to drain the colour from his face, casting shadows across his features.
"Go ahead," Alistair murmured without looking up, his voice hoarse with unspoken rage. "Scout the area. I need a moment."
Gwen nodded, the bandana across her lower face shifting with the motion. She turned on her heel, stepping lightly over the debris that littered the broken battlements. As she moved away, her gaze lingered on Alistair, watching him slump down beside Wynne. The elder mage rested a hand on his shoulder, her lips moving in gentle counsel. Gwen's ears could not catch their words, but the gravity in Alistair's posture told her enough.
It was a relief, oddly, to focus on the path ahead rather than the strife behind. Now that they were well within the ruins, it felt safe enough to remove her bandana as she scanned the dark corners and hidden alcoves of the once-mighty fortress. Every shadow could conceal a lurking horror, yet something peculiar tugged at her awareness.
The Calling, that insidious whisper that beckoned her towards doom, that sought to control her body, was curiously faint here. Surrounded by the remnants of Darkspawn forces, she had braced herself for the cacophony of sounds that usually clawed at the edges of her mind. Instead, there was a strange sense of stillness within her, as if the chilling chorus had receded into a distant murmur.
Her thoughts raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was she somehow less susceptible here in the heart of where the Blight first ravaged Ferelden? Did the absence of an Archdemon's direct influence - halfway to Denerim by now- or the lack of Broodmother lairs, temper the vile song that so often threatened to overwhelm her?
Lost in contemplation, Gwen's grey eyes scanned the horizon, searching for answers in the bleak expanse of Ostagar.
"Focus, Gwen," she chided herself, her voice a low hum beneath the ragged edges of her breath. And with one final glance, she returned to where her companions awaited.
The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the iron tang of old blood as the party - following Gwen’s lead - sifted through the remnants scattered across the desecrated camp. Her fingers, gloved against the grime, brushed over the top of a buried chest. Getting on her knees to dig, she was soon joined by Alistair, his silence noticeable, but his companionship in her task most welcome. Together they unearthed an opulent chest made of sturdy, ornately carved wood with gold accents. It was heavily embellished with intricate patterns and designs, showcasing both lavishness and power. As the light from the setting sun hit its surface, it gleamed with a rich, regal sheen. The lock was made of shining silver and adorned with precious gems, giving an air of exclusivity and importance. It was a chest fit only for a King.
“Darcy.” Alistair quietly called to their leader. “Do you still have that key you found? It looks like it would fit a chest like this.”
Darcy, who had been searching through a pile of rubble nearby, was quick to jog over, pulling the key from the pouch at his hip. He handed it wordlessly over to Alistair, his gaze distant, devoid of his usual aloof humour. It pained her to see them both like this, but they had deemed it necessary and she would follow them wherever they wished.
The sword glimmered in the fading light, its hilt adorned with intricate carvings and jewels that caught the eye. The blade itself was long and sharp, reflecting the light in a dazzling display. The metal was a deep, rich silver, almost like liquid mercury. It seemed to pulsate with power and energy, ready to be wielded by a skilled hand. As it lay inside the chest, it emanated a sense of strength and authority, waiting for its rightful owner to claim it.
Alistair picked it up, scanning it with wide eyes. “This is King Maric’s blade. I’m surprised King Cailan went into battle without it.”
“He must have had one of his own.” Darcy shrugged, never one to care much about the royal family that had annexed his community. Leliana called to him from up a platform, and with a nod from Alistair, the elf departed to where he was needed.
Beneath the sword lay multiple documents, furled up and stamped with the royal seal. Gwen reached in and pulled them out. Unfurling the topmost sheet. Unable to read the elegant script, she passed it over to Alistair.
He was quick to read them over, horror dawning across his face. His voice was steady, but she could sense the undercurrent of tension as he read. "Empress Celene... she would've sided with Ferelden if King Cailan had lived to answer her." Anger twisted his mouth, and his eyes darkened with a storm of uncertainty.
Before Gwen could process the meaning of this, Wynne had made her way over, and Alistair handed her the papers. She had been at the battle of Ostagar too, one of the few mages able to escape. Her calm presence seemed to put Alistair at ease and Gwen watched them exchange words about the letters, marvelling at how Alistair went from heated outrage to reluctant acceptance as Wynne’s wise words of wisdom settled him.
The mage patted his shoulder, her eyes filled with sympathy, before she left him to process it all. With little more than a nod, Gwen stood, leaving the empty chest to join their party along with Alistair.
His jaw clenched and unclenched, his fists tightening around the letters as she walked with him, following the rest of their party as they continued on. She waited for his lead; should he wish to be left alone, or to have someone to talk to, that is what she would do, whatever he needed, she was there for him.
"It's unfair, all of it," he said after a minute of terse silence.
“It is," Gwen replied plainly, there was little else to say that hadn’t already been said by Wynne.
Alistair exhaled sharply, the parchment crumpling in his grasp. "It changes nothing, yet everything. Had I known..."
“You would have been able to change nothing, nor would Duncan.” Alistair flinched subtly at the mention of his mentor. Gwen felt guilty for bringing him up, but she felt it important that he knew that even if Duncan had lived, he would not be doing better than Alistair currently was.
“Perhaps,” he acquiesced, but any other words he would have said died in his throat as he looked up, Darcy calling his name in both warning and concern.
There, suspended in a macabre display, was the body of King Cailan. Spears jutted out from his lifeless form, impaling him like grotesque puppet strings and holding him aloft as a grim trophy. Beside her, Alistair stood frozen, his face drained of colour and his features eerily mirroring those of the deceased king. The uncanny resemblance between them struck Gwen with a pang in her heart - with just a different haircut, Alistair could have been mistaken for his fallen brother.
No. She shut her eyes tightly, willing the image away. This was not Alistair. Alistair was here, alive, standing right next to her. She opened her eyes again and forced herself to look at him instead of the gruesome sight above.
His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face rigid with a mix of grief and anger at the desecration of his half-brother's body. But he stood there, a pillar of strength, alive and breathing. His sturdy frame radiated warmth beside her, so close she could almost feel it through her armour. As she looked up at the speared and suspended king, her mind tortured her with images of what could have been for him. But she pushed those thoughts away and focused on the reality of the situation: she was here, with him, and that was all that mattered at that moment.
Gwen stepped closer to Alistair, keeping her eyes on him, using his presence to anchor herself. As long as she focused on the living man before her, she could shut out the twisted visions swirling in her head. Cailan was gone, but Alistair remained. And she would do everything in her power to keep him that way.
"Maker's breath," Darcy whispered, he may have only met the man a handful of times, but to see anyone treated in such a way… it turned the stomach.
Gwen went to reach out to Alistair, to offer some words of comfort as he stared up at his half-brother's mangled corpse with sorrow and anger etched on his face. But she found no words would come, nothing that could soften the awful sight above them.
Alistair's gaze hardened as he turned away, jaw clenched. "Forgive us, my King. There are too many Darkspawn to stop and give you the rest you deserve," he said roughly, glancing towards her before averting his gaze once more.
Darcy nodded, his expression grim. "We'll come back for him, once we've dealt with the Darkspawn horde. To put his body properly to rest.”
Alistair nodded curtly, his eyes shadowed. He started forward, hand tight on the hilt of his sword. And it was a good thing he was ready, as a group of Darkspawn lay in wait, ready to ambush them as soon as they began to move. With swift and deadly efficiency, they dispatched the creatures, their weapons slicing through the air with a satisfying swish and thud. The scent of fresh blood mingled with the wet stone of the bridge, and Gwen was sure that would not be the last of the enemies they would slay that day.
She was no stranger to loss and death, but the thought of Alistair meeting such a gruesome fate made her soul shudder in horror. So she kept close to him, guarding his back, wishing she could take this bitter cup of grief from his lips. Yet knowing that all she could do was stand with him as he endured this agony.
Gwen's fingers twitched, the thick bands of scarring on her wrists pulling tight as she balled her hands into fists to fight the impulse to reach out to Alistair. She longed to wrap him in an embrace, to be the bastion against the tide of despair threatening to engulf him. But words eluded her, and in their absence, silence bloomed.
As they continued deeper into the ruins, Gwen's gaze flitted to Zevran, who returned her look with an empathetic tilt of his head towards the two Grey Wardens at the front of the party, his dark eyes softening for a moment before resuming their watchful vigilance. They understood each other, both acquainted with the harshness of surviving in a world designed to break you, and wanting to save those they loved from the same fate.
"Give him time, my dear," Wynne murmured, materializing beside Gwen like a guardian spirit. Her wise eyes, framed by laugh lines and the burden of years, held a comfort that Gwen felt in her bones. "Alistair's heart is heavy but he must find his own path through this sorrow."
Gwen nodded, absorbing Wynne's words as one would a healing salve, letting them seep into the cracks of her soul.
"I know, but it’s helpful to hear it from someone else, to know that giving him space is right,” Gwen replied, her voice a whisper carried away by the wind.
Together, they moved forward, and Gwen's heart, though frayed at the edges, beat on with renewed purpose.
Gwen's sharp gaze darted among the shadows, "Stay alert," she said to no one in particular, her voice barely audible over the crunch of their boots on the frost-hardened ground. They’d exited a series of tunnels below Ostagar and were piling out onto the snow-laden ground, the bodies of previously defeated Darkspawn scattered about. Alistair marched beside her, his broad shoulders tense as he scanned their surroundings, his sword drawn and ready.
Without warning, a scurrying shuffle shattered the silence, armour pieces clanking together as a small Genlock hobbled away from them. Before any of them could react, it turned to face the party, its face twisted in a disgusting smile as it raised its hands, blue light exploding from them and hitting the body of an Ogre that lay in the centre of the area. With a deafening roar, it rose — its massive form re-animated by some foul sorcery, a multitude of weapons protruding from its corpse like the spines of a porcupine. Its skin, a sickly shade of grey, stretched tightly over its bones, patches of fur and hair matted and discoloured. The Ogre's eyes flickered open, white with an otherworldly light. The sound of metal scraping against bone could be heard as the Ogre stood up on shaky legs, towering over the group with its grotesque appearance.
"By the Maker!" Alistair swore, positioning himself between Gwen and the abomination, but Gwen refused to stay out of this battle.
She sprang forward with a fierce determination, her daggers glinting in the dim light as she engaged the lumbering Ogre. She weaved and ducked between its massive tree-trunk legs, her sharp blades slicing at tendons and vulnerable spots on its body. Alistair charged in next, his shield raised high as he bashed the Darkspawn brute with all his might. Leliana's arrows flew by in a blur, each one finding its mark in weak points of the Ogre's meaty anatomy. Zevran darted about like a shadow, his twin blades expertly carving through hamstrings and calves. Morrigan transformed into a bear, her powerful paws mauling and distracting the beast. Sten let out a mighty roar, channelling the ferocity of a Qunari warrior as he swung his colossal greatsword with precision, cleaving chunks of flesh from the fiend. Meanwhile, Wynne, Darcy, and Barkspawn worked together to take down the Genlock mage, their spells, swords, and powerful bites combining to interrupt its foul magic.
The Ogre reeled and stumbled, its massive frame dripping with black blood that mirrored Gwen's own. Its grotesque face contorted in pain as it bellowed, the stench of decaying flesh wafting from its gaping wounds. As it toppled to the ground, it swung out one final time, its massive fist adorned with a jagged blade slicing through the air towards Gwen and —
She blinked, but she couldn’t see the Ogre anymore, only a blurry mix of grey and blue that swirled above her in a formless motion. Gwen couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there, couldn’t see anything that made any sense to her, her mind foggy.
"Gwen!" Alistair's anguished cry rang out, primal, born of fear and something deeper, something he had yet to name. He sounded so far away, he’d been close only seconds ago, how had he managed to move so quickly?
Hands clutched at the back of her head, the shape of Alistair’s face swimming into view, blurry, but recognizable by the upwards comb of his hair. She tried to speak, to warn him about the Ogre - surely it had to be right behind him - but all that came out was the wet gurgle of blood spurting past her lips.
Ah, that would explain the pain that radiated through her body like it had been crushed beneath a mountain. Her bones felt like they’d been shattered, her breath ragged and painfully sharp. Breathing wasn’t supposed to hurt like that, but then she was also certain her chest was not supposed to be covered in a thick layer of her dark, oozing blood as it fell down her sides and seeped into the snow.
Panic so deep it threatened to overwhelm her ripped from Alistair’s throat as he called to their healer. "Wynne! Help!"
"Stay with me," Alistair pleaded, his voice cracking as he brushed a lock of hair from her pallid face. She wanted to tell him that she would never leave him, but once more all she was able to do was cough up more blood.
The blurry outline of Wynne knelt beside them, her hands already suffused with a gentle glow. "Hold on, dear," she whispered, her touch bringing warmth and the promise of healing.
Gwen's breaths came easier, her wounds knitting together under Wynne's efforts. Alistair held her closer, his relief palpable, but it was the tremor in his embrace that betrayed his deepest fears - a reality where the Darkspawn could steal away the flickering light he had only just begun to cherish.
Gwen offered him a weak smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling in what she hoped was reassurance.
She felt more than saw her friends rush over, Wynne waving them off with a distracted hand and a quick reassurance that she would be alright if they would just let her focus on healing. Though she was thankful that Alistair remained, his soft touch distracting her from her bones snapping back together as they were set, the discomfort of having her lungs cleared of blood, and what was sure to be a new scar added to her extensive collection.
Finally, Wynne sat back, exhausted but triumphant. "I’ve done all I can, you will heal, but be careful not to over-exert yourself.”
Now that Gwen’s vision had returned, she could see the lines of worry etched into Wynne’s face and her heart jolted. She hadn’t been sure Gwen would survive.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy as it worked past the blood still coating her throat. Wynne squeezed her hand, giving them both one last tired look before joining the rest of the party as they gave the couple space under the guise of exploring the area.
Gwen's fingers grazed the newly sealed skin on her stomach, a reminder of how close she had come to death. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice a ghost of its usual stoic cadence. "For the scare, I mean."
Alistair shook his head, the familiar jests absent from his lips. His gaze, dark and earnest, locked onto hers. "Just... promise me you'll be more careful," he pleaded, the words laden with a weight that seemed too heavy for his shoulders alone to carry. His hand stroked soft lines down her face, brushing away debris stuck to her skin.
“I didn’t mean for it to hit me.” She tried for a joke, but it fell flat.
Alistair let out a shaky breath, his thumb continuing its tender path along her cheek. "I know. But when I saw that ogre hit you, saw you go flying..." His voice caught, thick with emotion. "I recognized Duncan's dagger in its chest and I...I couldn't lose someone else I care about to that monster."
Gwen's eyes widened at the fear in Alistair's voice. "Alistair..." she started, but he cut her off.
"Please, just let me speak," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "When I saw that thing slice you open and throw you away like you were nothing more than a ragdoll, I...I felt my world collapse around me. Nothing else mattered in that single, terrifying moment - not the battle raging around us, not the Blight looming over the land. All I could see was you, broken and bleeding."
Alistair paused, swallowing hard. His hand still cradled her cheek with a feather-light touch. "Losing Duncan was one of the worst pains I've ever felt. But the thought of losing you... It's unbearable. Please, don’t scare me like that again."
Gwen's breath caught in her throat. She had always known Alistair cared for her, but she'd had no idea how deeply his feelings ran. That she could mean so much to someone was overwhelming.
"I..." she started, but words failed her. All the fear, all the trauma, all the weight of their quest momentarily slipped away. There was only the two of them, together, hearts laid bare.
Slowly, gently, she reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. He leaned into her touch, eyes slipping closed, the ghost of a smile on his lips despite the anguish that radiated from him.
“I promise I will be more careful.” She was surprised to find that she meant it, for him she would do anything. It should worry her, that she had become this attached to him, but she was too far gone to care.
He pressed a fervent kiss to her palm, his stubble tickling her skin. Gwen let her hand slip from his face to rest weakly in her lap. The simple gesture had sapped what little strength she had left. Wynne's healing magic had closed her wounds, but her body still ached with bone-deep exhaustion.
Gwen lay there quietly for a moment, simply relishing Alistair's gentle touch and the comfort of his lap beneath her head. Despite her lingering weakness, she found herself wishing she could see his face more clearly, to look into those warm brown eyes that so often gazed at her with such tenderness.
"Help me sit up a bit," she said softly.
Alistair nodded, carefully sliding his arms beneath her to lift her up. He held her close against him in a half-reclining position, her head resting on his shoulder. Gwen let out a small sigh, the new position easing some of the tension in her weary body. She tilted her head back slightly to look up at him through strands of dishevelled white hair. The pain and fear that had clouded Alistair's features just moments before seemed to clear slightly now that she was safely in his arms.
Gwen reached up a hand to gently trace the line of his jaw. "Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she whispered, she whispered with a small smile.
Alistair shook his head, his gaze never leaving her face. "I'm just glad you're alright."
Heart swelling, Gwen leaned up and pressed her lips softly to his. The kiss was slow and tender, conveying all the words she could not find. Alistair's arms encircled her more tightly, as if he could somehow hold her close enough to shield her from all future harm.
When they finally drew apart, Gwen let her head come to rest against his chest. She could hear his heart's strong, steady beat beneath her ear, reassuring her as nothing else could. They stayed that way in silence for a long moment, simply holding each other close amidst the lingering aftermath of fear and sorrow. For now, it was enough.
"Come on," Alistair finally said, helping Gwen to her feet, his arms warm around her as he allowed her to lean on him.
Together, they made their way back to the others, the weary band of warriors who bore witness to the horrors of Ostagar. Darcy met them with a nod, his expression grim yet determined, while Zevran offered a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ready to move on?" Wynne asked, her voice steady despite the fatigue etched into the lines of her face.
Alistair squared his shoulders. "Yes," he replied, his tone resolute. "We've got a job to finish."
