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imdoingaokay · 2 years

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Warden-Inquisitor Pt 3

Hi guys, this is my little self-indulgent angst/fluff piece I just had to write because I was feeling some kind of way.

Also, I have a bunch of stuff in the works right now~! Promise~!

Alistair's part is a little confusing because I wanted to keep it ambiguous if he was a king or a warden, but I think it's lowkey implied he's a king.

TW: Mentions of death, descriptions of death, mentions of sexual activities, angst (but with fluff at the end)

Gentle Spoiler Warning~!

Alistair: It wasn’t fair. None of this was.

He had sprinted up the stairs of Fort Drakon, praying that a miracle would happen, hoping that they would still be alive.

But as he threw open the door to the roof, all he saw was the lifeless body of the archdemon and the woman he loved.

The Warden’s companions had placed a piece of cloth over their faces as a shroud. But Alistair knew, of course, he knew.

He could feel his legs turn to lead as he stumbled towards his lover, pained as he gingerly dragged the cloth away to gaze at his lover’s face.

He felt his hands travel to their cheek, thumb rubbing the now-cold skin that used to be so warm. So very warm.

Their eyes were closed, thank the Maker. Alistair didn’t think he could handle seeing their eyes still open.

Some soldiers offered to take the body of the Warden down on a stretcher, but Alistair angrily refused, opting to carry his love down himself. And that was exactly what he did.

The fort was silent, save for a few people murmuring and those tending to the wounded. But those who saw the Warden- no, the Hero’s body, stopped. Many knelt, many bowed their heads, and some even wept. But it was Alistair who grieved the most. He lost the most that day.

As the funeral drew closer, he found himself toying with the Warden’s belongings, finding the rose he had given them tucked underneath a pillow or within a knapsack. And for a moment, as he held that rose, he felt a little bit better, only to lose that feeling when he saw a petal fall. After that, he asked Wynne to perform a spell to freeze the rose. And he kept it with him, placing it on a nightstand or desk, wherever he could see. But only where he could see.

Years passed, and more news from Ferelden and Kirkwall surfaced. The Arishok losing his mind, a chantry blowing up, even the Divine Conclave happening and… failing, of course. Alistair had a feeling it wouldn’t work out, but he couldn’t bother to focus on that at the moment, the large hole in the sky was taking up more of a priority.

He was writing a letter at his desk when he overheard someone speaking rather hurriedly to their friend.

“-said they just dropped out of the fade.” One person spoke.

“Really? But are the rumors true? That it’s…?” Their friend asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

“The Hero of Ferelden? I’ve got a cousin in Haven right now who saw them, they said it’s got to be them.” The original speaker continues, and Alistair looks up from his letter, gazing at the frozen rose. He places his pen down and leans back in his chair, his breath shallow and quick.

“But? Is it really possible? That they’ve just risen from the dead?”

“Crazier things have happened, right? My cousin says they’re just like the stories about them, they know all about the Grey Wardens too. The Left Hand of the Divine seems pretty eager to call them the Hero anyways.”

Alistair freezes, grab a new piece of paper and quickly scribbles down a hasty letter before sending it off. His breath quickens, and he can’t tear his gaze away from the rose. If he could, he’d travel to Haven on his own. But he knows he can’t.

It takes time, but a few days later he sees a bird on his window, and with a letter written for him.

His hands shake as he opens it up, and nearly sobs when he reads the words that he can’t tear his gaze from.

Dear Alistair,

It’s her.

Yours truly,

A decade after he last saw her last, Alistair breaks out into a grin. Leaning back in his chair, he looks at his rose once more.

It looks far brighter than it did yesterday.

Leliana: She was there, by their side. She watched them as they plunged the sword deep within the Archdemon’s neck, watched an ethereal light break free from the wound, and saw the last glimpse of her lover, alive.

Even in their last moments, they were beautiful.

The same could be said for them when they were gone.

They looked asleep, peaceful. No pain, no agony, no tears… no tears coming from the Warden, that was.

She fell to her knees by her lover’s side. Grasping at their shoulders, weakly pulling them up so that she could hold them close to her.

“My love, please.” She whispered, whimpering and begging the lifeless body of her lover to return.

But by then, it was far too late. Her Warden was gone.

Leliana did what she could to cope, she sang a gorgeous ballad for her lover, and she traveled a little. Eventually, she found herself the title of Sister Nightengvale, the “Left Hand of The Divine.”

She became colder as time went on, she sang less and barely laughed unless she was with those she truly trusted.

Her days were filled with work, constant work… but it was better that way, she thought. When she was busy, she didn’t think about the Hero of Ferelden, she never thought of what could’ve been. But sometimes, when all was quiet, she got a chance to think of them again, and she could almost hear their laughter and see them in the corner of her eye. But those moments were few and far between.

In fact, the last time she felt that way was when she was in The Temple of Sacred Ashes. Divine Justinia had asked Leliana to return to Haven before the actual meeting began to ensure the people were settled and no fights broke out before they arrived, and Leliana obeyed. She had passed by a servant who was decorating the hall with Andraste’s grace. Leliana stopped, turning to the flower pot the servant just set down, and she took a moment to smell the flowers.

The moment was interrupted when she reminded herself of Divine Justinia’s orders, but there was a short second where she could’ve sworn she saw someone other than the servants walking down the hallway, someone… familiar. But Leliana knew it was some trick of her mind, so she continued on her way.

Of course, as soon as she got to Haven, that was when she felt the blast.

She returned to her normal coping mechanism, focusing on everything else aside from her own grief. Or at least, she did until she saw the sole survivor of the conclave.

She refused to believe it was them at first, her Warden, her lover. It was just someone who looked eerily like them.

That’s what she told herself until they woke up and saw her.

“Leliana?” They choked out, and Leliana’s heart skipped a beat.

Perhaps it was a trick, but… maybe… maybe it really was them.

“Yes.” She responded, whispering ‘my love’ under her breath.

Morrigan: Morrigan was angry. Of course, she was angry. The love of her life just had to decide to sacrifice their own life… for what? Honor? Glory? She knew the only real answer was because they were a fool. A blundering, idiotic fool.

That’s what she told herself.

She disappeared like a thief in the night, not even bothering to turn back as she escaped from Redcliffe. She told herself she wouldn’t mourn the death of her foolish lover, she wouldn’t mourn that idiot. She was better than that. She didn’t need them. So she ran, ran away from her lover, her problems, and the fear of losing the one person she let herself be vulnerable with.

Morrigan found herself in a small village within the Frostbacks when she heard the news. She had bumped into a kindly alchemist who had offered her a place to stay for the night, as when she arrived, a terrible blizzard was about to begin. Before she met the Warden, she would’ve angrily refused, but… now with some better social skills, she accepted after some deliberation.

Morrigan merely huffed as she heard the news from the alchemist, holding a cup of tea they had so kindly made for her.

“‘Tis a tragic thing indeed.” She said simply. But that night, she sat in her bed, gazing out of a window that was dusted in snow. She looked down at her lap and tried not to blame herself.

“You… blundering idiot.” She whispered, holding her hands close to her chest. She knew that it was her lover’s choice that he died, but… maybe… she could’ve seen them one last time? Maybe she could’ve been there during the last fight.

She thought of their face, the pained expression they held when they begged her not to go. And Morrigan, for the first time in ages, wept quietly to herself.

A few weeks had passed before the roads were travel-ready again, but by then, the alchemist had advised Morrigan to be extra careful.

“Why would you say that?” She scoffed.

“Because you’re not traveling alone anymore.” They spoke, gesturing to Morrigan’s stomach.

Morrigan gave the Alchemist a quick thanks before leaving to travel on her own, now unsure of what she was to do.

Months passed and Morrigan found herself unable to deny the nature of her own body. She was pregnant, and of course, she knew who the father was.

It was in Orlais that she gave birth, alone, of course, she’d rather die than bring some snobby midwife near her or her baby.

Yet as she held her newborn son, she began to tear up, they looked… normal… not like a demon or a beast. She knew he wouldn’t, but it didn’t change the fact that he was still… perfect.

Morrigan cared for her child, even getting a position in Empress Celene’s court while she raised her son on her own. Finding him inheriting a few traits of her lover.

Morrigan never had time for another man, as she was far too busy taking care of a growing one. And even if she wasn’t, there was a part of her, an immature, hopeless romantic part of her, that still grieved her love. And that part of her wasn’t leaving anytime soon, even ten years after their death.

So one could only imagine her surprise when she was in a salon, listening to a few nobles gossiping about the newly founded Inquisition.

“You must’ve heard, Madame.” One noble grinned, giggling with her friend. Morrigan plastered on a fake smile and responded.

“Whatever are you talking about? The disaster of the Divine Conclave?” Morrigan spoke, in the corner of her eyes, watching Kieran play in the garden.

“Oh, non! Not that! It is the person they have named the Herald!” Another noble chimed in.

“Oh yes! I’ve heard many rumors that Andraste blessed the soul of The Hero of Ferelden! They say he walked out of The Fade!” The noble spoke.

Morrigan’s smile fell, and she felt her hands begin to shake, “Really?” She asked.

“Oh yes! Even the Left Hand of The Divine has claimed it is them! I am so surprised you haven’t heard!”

“But is that even possible?”

“Perhaps it is…” The nobles continued to chatter, and Morrigan found herself shakily standing up, claiming she needed to excuse herself for a moment.

Morrigan walked out to the garden, unable to breathe. She looked around, wondering what sort of god would play such an evil trick on her.

“Mother?” She heard, turning to look down at her son, who tugged gently on her dress, “Are you alright?” He asked.

“Me?” She said breathily, before bending down and wrapping her son in a hug, “Oh, yes… yes, I am… my precious boy.” She cooed, petting his head.

She refused to believe they returned, it was impossible. And even if it was, she had far too much to focus on, her son is far too important for such idiotic daydreams of her lover. This… Herald… was nothing more than a man who looked just like her lover. That was all.

So Morrigan would ignore any letters sent by Leliana, and ignore the colorful gossip that fluttered from the loose lips of nobles.

Of course, she stuck to that idealogy… until The Winter Palace.

She had her entrance all planned out, she would say something clever, something wise. Maybe even throw in an insult toward the Inquisitor over their appearance. And it would all end in her giving the Inquisitor the key she got from the Tevninter agent.

At least, until she locked eyes with him.

It was almost from a dream, how he maneuvered to the base of the stairs she had been making her grand entrance down. He stretched out his hand, and Morrigan found herself taking it, watching him bring his lips to her knuckles.

“I have heard much of you, Madame.” He spoke lowly, “But to finally be in your presence after ten long years… it is more than I could ever hope for.”

Morrigan was about to refute, be angry, and claim this Inquisitor was nothing more than an imposter, and impersonator.

“I sent so many letters, but I knew you wouldn’t read them. I knew you were far too angry with me.” He said, and Morrigan made her way down the rest of the stairs, “Please,” He nearly begged, “Dance with me.”

Morrigan knew that the pair dancing would lead to rumors, to talking. Perhaps the court would think even less of The Inquisitor.

But Morrigan no longer cared, the look The Inquisitor gave her, the feel of his hands, and his voice.

He was no fade demon, no imposter, he was the man she loved all those years ago. And the man she loved still.

Zevran: When Zevran awoke from the blast that threw everyone back several meters, his first instinct was to sprint toward his lover. Before he even knelt by their side, he knew they were gone. That didn’t stop him from crying out his lover’s name, as if it would rouse them from the endless sleep of death.

He held them in his arms, mourning and lamenting the death of his love. He screamed until his throat was raw, clinging onto them with all the strength he had. It was the other companions of the Warden to convince him to leave his lover’s side, and even then, he still cried. He was there for their funeral, but only for a while. He could only subject himself to such cruel torture for only so long.

The next months passed by in a blur, he worked for the throne before The Crows found him once more. After that, he traveled. Not willingly, of course, but he traveled.

He traveled to Antiva, Nevarra, Kirkwall, and eventually, back to Antiva. He was dutiful in escaping Crow after Crow, and while he was at it, he bedded plenty of willing men and women.

Yet, on some nights, when he was alone, he was sure no Crows were nearby. He would gaze up into the sky and would think of his lover. His thoughts would drift from simple things like their laugh or the little facial expressions they made to other things… like their first meeting… and the last time they kissed. He often wonders what he would be doing if they were still alive. Those moments are the ones he cherishes the most, as they distract him from the eventual sorrow that comes soon after when he thinks of how much he truly misses his warden.

This cycle of pain, killing, sleeping around and repeating went along for almost a decade. But no matter how many times he distanced himself from that agonizing feeling of loss and loneliness, whether by a blade or by a bosom, Zevran still mourned his lover.

He had just finished a job when he heard about the conclave and the mysterious person that dropped from the fade.

Zevran was so busy flirting with some busty woman that he nearly ignored the words from the barmaid.

“Oh, I’ve heard it’s the Hero of Ferelden.” She said, passing down a pint of ale for a group of men.

Zevran, completely forgetting about the woman he was trying to bang, quickly pulled aside the barmaid, his curiosity peaked.

“Oh, yeah.” She shrugged, “Said it was like they came back to life… kind of impossible, though… right?”

“Impossible… yes.” Zevran nodded, before quickly leaving the bar.

Zevran knew the chances were slim, he knew that it was impossible, but he couldn’t help himself from hoping.

Sending letters to Leliana would be too time-consuming, he figured. So he decided to just travel to Haven himself.

However, by the time he got to Ferelden, the Inquisition was already located in Skyhold.

That, of course, didn’t deter him, as he began to march alongside the many pilgrims that traveled to Skyhold themselves.

He was far chipper than he had ever been in the last ten years, happily chatting with just about anyone. And eventually, he made it to Skyhold. He was still there under the guise of being another pilgrim, but it didn’t take long for an agent to report the suspicious man to Leliana.

Zevran, after a long talk, was told of The Inquisitor’s current whereabouts, and even got confirmation that The Inquisitor was, in fact, his warden.

Zevran decided he couldn’t wait any longer and traveled to the Hitherlands, where he finally caught them. In the middle of a battle, no less.

They had a new group of friends, but as Zevran watched from afar, he drank in the familiar sight of his lover.

The shape of their face, their eyes, and the way they held their weapon. Zevran had already gotten his confirmation, but this was what sealed the deal.

He almost forgot that his lover was in the middle of a fight before he joined in, the group quickly ending the life of whatever creature had attempted to kill The Warden-Inquisitor.

“I must thank you.” They said to Zevran, and Zevran felt a chill run up his spine. Maker, how he missed their voice.

“I don’t know if I caught your name, stranger.” The continued, stepping closer to Zevran before he took off his hood.

“I hoped you wouldn’t, but ten years is a long time to be without you. I understand.” He smiled, feeling a heavy feeling of dread weighing on his shoulders.

Had they forgotten him?

Did they no longer love him?

Wait, were they getting closer to him?

Zevran’s thoughts were interrupted by the lips of his lover on his own. He felt a little sorry for their companions, who were probably confused out of their minds, but Zevran decided to pay them no attention.

As the pair broke away, Zevran’s gaze softened and he held the face of his lover gently.

“I have traveled so far just to see you… I… You don’t understand how much I’ve missed you.” He spoke, pressing his forehead against his lover’s.

Ten years was a long time, especially without them.

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