Chapter Text
It had been years since the Blights ended. Not by the hand of Ilya Surana, no. As much as he believed it should’ve been.
Despite his resentment for being trapped away from the true fight, the taint still covered much of the land and it was because of his hands that it began to heal. It was because of his unwavering determination that others carried the knowledge to cure the blight within people and the land.
Alistair had died for it. Given him a body when the First Warden declared that his work would do nothing but hurt the Wardens, hurt Thedas. It took all other volunteers away.
It was unfair. Wrong. This man who abandoned his beliefs for him, who loo ked at him with the same love when they both thought he was a woman, who trusted him so deeply that he believed Ilya would cure the blight in him on the very first try—he died thinking Ilya would save the world a thousand times over because of his sacrifice.
Their daughter was too young to remember his face. Their daughter that only existed because of the way Ilya changed the blight within himself. Their daughter that knew Morrigan and a once secret half-brother more than her fathers.
The world was changing. Healing in a way he would’ve never thought possible. Everything felt sturdier. The taint no longer burned when mishandled, it merely simmered. Even that lessened with time.
His daughter grew before he knew it. A mage like Ilya, a smile like Alistair’s, and brown hair like neither of them.
Ilya l ooked the same. An intended consequence to the constant experiments he performed on himself to do the kind of magic that would heal the blight. It was far from comforting knowing that it was a fate he had to bestow on others in order to make real progress.
His hair stayed short. Sometimes he’d make it stand straight in the air like Alistair’s had when they met. Surely he’d laugh if he could see it. He never missed the hours that resulted in cramped hands for a braid that would only last a day.
Morrigan’s hair began to gray before he was ready. His duty was far from over. The prospect of losing her hurt just as much as losing Alistair.
It was inevitable, but didn’t come at the time one would expect for a human.
In fact she was completely grayed and ancient. The spirit that she kept intact for so long passed to his daughter who had a streak of gray of her own. It gave them both just a little more time.
Then there were grandchildren. Great grandchildren. They all knew Ilya and loved him on every sparse visit.
Ilya watched them all come and go. The world changed endlessly around him—the blight shrinking with each passing year. There would be a day that it was gone entirely. Maybe returned to the sleeping titans for good, maybe locked permanently away, maybe even still so harmless that its existence was irrelevant.
Everything changed, but he couldn’t. He kept his hair cropped short, and it would stay that way until he was finally, gratefully, done.