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At first she was angry.
“How could you?” she rested her forehead on his chest, pounded him with her fists weakly. “You bastard. You bastard!”
Then the tears came; crooning, enveloping. The only thing left in her world was herself and her grief.
When she felt hands on her shoulders she clung to his unmoving form, content to stay there, tears falling; she didn't want to live, why did people insist on trying to pull her along with the living?
Fighting off kind hands pulling at her, she stared at his beautiful face. It hit her over, and over... dead... he's dead... His lips reminiscent of so many nights, his unseeing eyes reminded her of longing gazes, understanding glances, silent communication only they themselves understood.
Fade take me, I'm not living like this. She drew a blade and pressed it against her abdomen. Strong arms wrenched the blade from her, held her down, yelled at her, asked her what she was doing.
“Fuck off, Zev! Get off me!” she sobbed. “Don't touch me, Wynne! Don't you dare!” and then all went dark.
_______________
She hasn't felt much since that day, she just woke up feeling dead.
She used to have preferences. Desires. Standards. Once upon a time she had someone she trusted to help her through times such as these... but that someone was gone.
She couldn't care anymore. She did what she had to do, and nothing more.
She killed darkspawn. Saved the Keep. Amaranthine. Killed more darkspawn. Duty. Her life was duty.
Her friends gradually, finally, left her alone after a year of the cold shoulder; she couldn't remember how to be with them, and they didn't know how to remind her. She didn't mean to push them all away, she just couldn't figure out how not to.
She remembers them sometimes and doesn't miss them; grateful for the quiet, no one needing anything from her other than her blade. I'm no good to anyone now, it is better this way.
Even still, she couldn't shed thoughts that he was supposed to be there with her; in her tent, her bed, walking next to her. It was as if her system simply could not digest that he was gone; it doesn't.
When she woke up in the cold morning, alone, no one whines Nooo... staaay... It's too cold! and playfully coerces her into lovemaking with strong arms, nibbles and nasally moans.
It was irritating, it made them late, she missed it horribly and she ached with longing for his touch.
When she goes to an inn... that's when it's the worst. He's not there to waggle his eyebrows suggestively with a smirk at the soft bed before her.
She steps into the tub, the water has gone cool and she doesn't cringe or complain, she only remembers a time when she would have.
As she gets out of her cold bath she doesn't tightly wrap the towel around herself for warmth.
She doesn't meticulously dry her body to save the floor from moisture.
She doesn't wait until she's fully dry because she hates the feeling of damp feet in dry socks- even if it DOES stop after thirty seconds, Alistair, it feels icky for thirty whole seconds!
She doesn't feel like dealing with her hair anymore so she cut it to the bottom of her chin with one quick swipe of her blade. She liked it that way; easily maintained, something to hide behind, it kept the sun out of her eyes. Alistair would have hated it, doesn't matter though because he's fucking dead.
Combing through her hair, she found she preferred short easy strokes. She didn't miss when it reached the small of her back; she couldn't imagine combing all that hair by herself after the meditative relaxing hands of her lover combing it for her. He loved to, asked her if he could, learned a myriad of different braiding styles so he could see them on her. I just want you to feel as beautiful as you are, my love. He said the very same thing when he bought her that lip coloring and goat's milk skin moisturizer she wanted.
Her new comb snapped in her hands and she realized she had done it again. Her eyes burn with unshed tears and suddenly she feels dead again. Why after so long is this still happening? Am I weak? Why can't I feel myself anymore? She repeats that line of questioning every time she's snapped a comb, stared at a campfire for hours when she should have gone to sleep, stood in one place for an undetermined about of time staring at a piece of cheese.
And cheese. Cheese stopped being this thing she hoards in her pack; saving her rations cut into little cubes wrapped in a cloth so she could playfully pop them into Alistair's mouth when he was feeling down, because it made him laugh. The laughter relaxed him, the relaxation made him cry, the crying made him cling to her and he let her love him through the tears I should be over this, I'm sorry. Loving him, peppering his innocent face with kisses she would tell him as many times as he needed to hear it, don't be sorry. I love you.
She glared at her morning meal. It's sustenance. Affordable sustenance that make sense with this bread and water.
The Grey Warden. They said she used to smile.
Alistair knew every one of them, and he took them when he left her behind.