Chapter Text
The Inquisitor reminded Alistair of her, if only a little. Sometimes more than others in the short while they had spent together. The same fire-red hair and the same passion to do good, the willingness to shoulder a fight that didn’t truly belong to her. But with those similarities came their weaknesses. He could see it in her eyes, bitter and sure as she looked between him and Hawke in this halfway place between the living and the dead, the waking and the sleeping. Where they shouldn’t have rightfully been in the first place (but when were they ever in the right place at the right time?). She was friends with Hawke, he knew that. Even better friends with Varric. And he knew that women like Eliza Trevelyan and Alana Amell didn’t let go of their friends, not even if the cost was another man’s life.
Not even for their own lives.
So he knew what Eliza was going to say before she said it. And it was a relief, almost. An excuse to lay down his banner, to go out with a fight. He was so tired. Ten years was a long time.
He doesn’t remember what he said to her as he turned away to the creature behind him, unbidden images of the Archdemon flashing through his head, Alana laying on the ground, her hazel eyes empty and unseeing. He looked up to see Eliza’s face twist in pain as she stared back at him, but Hawke tugged her through the Rift, yelling something he couldn’t quite hear with the rushing of blood in his ears. The Inquisitor straightened her back and nodded at him once before turning on her heel. He saw the differences then, between Eliza and Alana, and it wasn’t just the stark contrast between their appearances. Eliza with her tan freckles and sharp features, tall and hard and angry in the most sardonic way, was so different from Alana that it hurt his chest. Where Eliza was twisted smiles and biting remarks, Alana was soft and gentle and sweet. But they were the same in all the important ways.
Heroes were not made of swords or muscle or sinew, he had learned throughout the years. They are thrown into the flames before they are ready and emerge with the power to make decisions no one else was willing to (but oh how they questioned their choices, how it tore them up inside. He also knew too well of tears and worry and regret.). Heroes, he had learned, were forged from magic and laughter and sacrifice. He was almost sure that Eliza would have died in his place had they given her the option. But, no, the Inquisitor had to live. And he had given the Grey Wardens all he could.
He pulled in a deep breath as he turned to face the beast. It towered over him, terrifying in every aspect, but he barely saw it, rushing forward with his sword. Instead he focused his mind on Alana’s round face and pale skin and the small secret smile she had only given to him. He missed her with an ache in his chest and a hard lump in his throat that had never truly gone away, even after all this time. Everyone had told him that time could heal all wounds. They were wrong. Time did not heal wounds; it only lessened the pain until it became a dull throb in the back of his head, constantly nudging him forward the past ten years, whispering go, go, go, you daft boy, don’t let her have died in vain. He hated the voice, hated the need to keep moving. How was death anything but vain?
He wasn’t sure how long he fought the creature, only that he knew that the Inquisitor and Hawke were no longer behind him. There was no reason to keep fighting. His steps faltered and he slowed, not willing to give up completely, but the strength was fading from him. He limped and took note of all his injuries - broken ribs, bloodied hands, tender heart. The creature reared, sending him stumbling.
Finally, oh Maker, finally, he dropped to his knees and he knew this was the end. Knew it so intimately that he could call it by name without flinching. Death. His Death. It was coming in the way the night inevitably rises from the dusk, skimming over the land until all is coated in the cool blue of the moon. His eyes clouded over, tendrils of darkness creeping over his mind. Soft caresses moved over his body, whispers in the void. He was surprised. He had long since stopped believing in gods and dreams. Demons and darkspawn were the only myths of legend that had shown him any attention. But surely that voice, surely those feather-light touches, could not be those of a demon?
He found he worried less as his eyesight became darker. The surprise left and turned into a slow acceptance as he realized the whispering voice was gone and so were the touches. They had simply been the last wishful hopes of a dying man who had lived far past when he had wanted to. There was only the Fade and the darkness to welcome him to death. There was no more running, no more fighting. There was no Maker. He let out a final sigh, imagining Alana’s hands in his hair and on his face, and he finally felt a hint of peace.
And then he was gone, his mortal body splayed across the ground, the creature above him uninterested and leaving now that his corpse was still. A twisted smile was on his cold lips and his arms were spread wide, welcoming the death that he had so desperately craved for so long. He had been grateful for death, grateful for the cold to wash over him and finally take him away.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a Maker watching over him.