Work Text:
Alistair hated coming back to Ostagar. He had the same fights every year: no he couldn't send a representative, because he's the king, that's why, didn't he want to honor the lives lost, yes the speech was the proper way to honor them, no Oghren wasn't "just as good" even if he was a Warden now.
What finally dragged him out there, year after year, was Nadene. No matter where she was in the world, she always managed to make it back to the fortress in time for the battle's anniversary. The first few years had her beside him during his speech, shaking hands and accepting condolences from people Alistair spent the rest of the year trying not to punch in the face. Now she watched from the back of the crowd, hood low over her eyes, disappearing before he was finished and only making herself known once everyone had dispersed. Almost ten years on, and she'd never missed one.
Well, there was a first time for everything.
Alistair stumbled through his speech, feeling Eamon's agitation growing with every "um" and "well", but his attention was on scanning the crowd, looking for the one thing he counted on being there. Even hidden by her cloak he knew her shape, and it simply wasn't there. Not among the nobility - the seat marked with her name had stayed empty for years - nor among the rabble in the back.
She's dead. The thought froze him for a solid ten seconds before Eamon literally kicked him back into speech. He stumbled and stammered his way through, and when it was over he disappeared into his tent, the line of dignitaries waiting on him be damned. He heard Eamon telling them something about "hard memories", but he could frankly care less what they thought was wrong with him.
Absurdly, the only thought keeping full despair at bay was that surely he'd have known. Nothing to do with being a Grey Warden - if he felt every time a Warden died he'd have gone insane the first time he was here - but just because it was her. If she'd passed, he'd feel it, and vice versa.
Eamon stormed in after a while, ranting about responsibilities and decorum, trailing off when he saw Alistair sitting on the edge of his camp bed, chin resting on his interlocked fingers. "What is it, then?" he asked, exasperated.
"She's not here," Alistair said simply. It was the first time he'd spoken since the disaster of a speech, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "She wasn't - I couldn't find her."
Eamon relented, if only slightly. "She's been traveling further and further out," he reminded Alistair. "Chances are she just couldn't make it back in time."
She always has before, Alistair thought but didn't say.
"She'll turn up." Eamon clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "And then you'll go on a speaking tour of the country, to convince people you're not completely addled and are still fit to be king." It was clearly meant as an affectionate dig, but it had the ring of truth to it, and Alistair gave an obliging snort of laughter even as he groaned inwardly. He'd hear about it from Anora, too, he was sure. Especially if she learned the real reason for his distraction.
Eamon left and Alistair flopped over on his bed, both hands over his eyes.
"I thought he'd never leave."
Alistair shot back upright, reaching for his sword out of reflex. But his hand stilled on the pommel as he looked up at Nadene, who dropped her hood to smile at him. "Sorry I missed your speech."
"My sp - I thought you died," he accused.
"Because I missed the speech?"
"Yes!" It was absurd to think of it now, looking at her. Vibrant and bright and alive in a way nothing else in the world was, even with exhaustion etched into every line of her face. This was not a creature death could touch, and Maker knew it had tried.
"Not dead," she said, dropping into a nearby chair with a sigh. "The winds were just against us, was all."
"You could have written." He stood, grabbing a bottle and two glasses from a chest before sitting opposite her at the small table. "Y'know, ever."
She didn't respond, just gave him a tired, thin-lipped smile before looking away. There was a scar across her cheek that hadn't been there before. He reached out, tracing it gently with his fingers, and she froze under his touch.
It had been a mistake. She looked back at him and the lamplight caught in her eyes, emphasizing the flecks of green and gold that had always hidden in the brown of her iris. She looked so tired, so worn, far more than even their time together should have accounted for. But her skin was warm under his fingers, echoing a million other touches, a million other nights.
"You should stay."
"You know I can't."
"I could order you to."
"Would you?"
"Would you listen?"
Another small, sad smile was her only response.
"What are you doing out there, Nadene?"
"Trying to save the world." She said it so softly and so sadly that it took everything in him not to go to her, to wrap her in his arms and protect her from whatever it was she had seen.
"I thought we did that already." He distracted himself with finally pouring drinks, but when he set Nadene's in front of her she captured his hand with hers.
"Not enough of it," she murmured, running her thumb over the scars on the back of his hand. She looked up at him, and an eternity stretched between them before she released him to pick up her glass.
"To Duncan?" she offered, raising it towards him, and he clinked his glass against hers.
"To Duncan."