Actions

Work Header

Warden Tabris

Chapter 26

Summary:

Aeoin Tabris sleeps for five days.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He wasn’t ever expecting to wake up, and so finding himself on a bed, with a weary and dust-covered Wynn leaning over him is… something of a shock.

“What?” he gasps.

“Hush,” she answers, and then he sleeps again, drawn down into the soothing dark by her magic.

He dreams of dragonfire, and the soul of an Old God tearing through him and leaving a ruin in its wake.

 

Aeoin Tabris sleeps for five days.

 

When next he wakes, he doesn’t know where he is, but there is a warm weight beside him on the bed and another resting over his legs. He can hear the quiet rattle of Alistair’s snore, familiar after months at camp, from a broken nose a few years back, he claims. Morrigan has listed it near the top of the many-- many -- reasons she chooses to pitch her tent so far away.

Coherent thought is far slower to return, and for a while he can do nothing more than blink up at the stone ceiling in a daze. The mattress is soft and the sheets are warm. His throat is dry but he can’t gather the will to do anything about it. He can’t even move. The entire world and all of existence has been narrowed to the few square feet of ceiling he can see directly above him, and the comforting, familiar rattle of Alistair’s snore.

Someone is gently humming a lullaby, barely loud enough to hear. Leliana?

Is this the Fade? Has he passed beyond the Veil-- is this the rest and reward the Chantry mothers have promised in the Golden City? Doesn’t look golden. Just looks like stone. And if Alistair is here as well-- that causes some distress. Not fair. Alistair wasn’t supposed to die, too, what was the point? He could have stayed with Zevran-- Zevran, where is Zevran?

He manages to twitch, what little movement he can muster hampered by the weight across his legs, and makes some small noise that lights a fire in his dry throat, like sand getting rubbed in a raw wound.

The humming stops. “Maker’s mercy,” Leliana whispers, her voice gone breathy with shock.

The weight next to him on the bed shifts and starts to whine, and he recognizes Mange’s short, broad snout as the dog noses cautiously at his neck, his wet nose and snuffling breaths tickling against his skin.

“No, no, my friend, please, don’t try to move.” Leliana’s small, strong hands press against his shoulders, and then her face appears, staring down at him. Her hair is clean and brushed and braided, her pale skin flushed with shock.

He croaks at her, a pathetic attempt at asking for water. This cannot be the Fade; he aches too much.

Blessedly she seems to understand him, vanishes from his sight and returns in seconds with… ice? The cold of it is a shock that chases more fog from his thoughts, and the cold water that melts and drips down his throat is… bliss.

When the first block melts Leliana gives him another, her cool slim fingers gently stroking his hair and reminding him, bizarrely, of when he was sick as a small child, his mother’s gentle, loving touch.

Mange licks his cheek and lays his big blocky head down, his breath hot against Aeoin’s ear.

“Where?” Aeoin croaks after his third chunk of ice.

“The palace,” Leliana answers quietly. “What is left of the palace, anyway. Queen Anora has made us all her guests. I am surprised the work crews did not wake you earlier-- clearing away the rubble has been no easy task.”

“...The battle?”

Her smile is beatific and serene. “Won. You vanquished the archdemon, as I knew you would, and the darkspawn fled soon after. They are calling you the Hero of Ferelden. Truly, you saved us all.”

That… is far too much for him to contemplate. He swallows roughly, his throat still feeling like he tried to drink glass. “Zev?” Was he alright? He thinks he remembers seeing him, there at the end, and he doesn’t think he could bare it to find something had happened to him now.

Leliana seems to be laughing at him. “Here, of course.” She helps him lift his head just slightly, and he realizes that the weight across his legs is him, his assassin, his Crow, his love. Zevran, looking pale but unhurt, the disarray of his hair calling out to Aeoin to touch, and his fingers twitch but he still can’t find the strength to move.

“It has been five days,” Leliana says. “These three have not left your side in all that time. Zevran especially has not so much as slept until now.” Now that she mentions, there is a lank, exhausted tinge to Zevran’s skin, the dark circles under his eyes, the tangles in his hair that he would normally never allow.

He is sitting in a chair by the bed and seems to have slumped over mid-vigil, his upper body settling heavily face-down across Aeoin’s hips and thighs, like the Maker himself was pressing him down. His face is turned to the side, and Aeoin can see his lips part slightly as he breathes the deep, steady breaths of utterly exhausted sleep.

Aeoin stares at him. It isn’t fair that he’s so far away when all he wants is to touch his hair and his skin and reassure himself that he is whole and unharmed and breathing.

But wait--three?

Alistair abruptly snorts awake, and Aeoin looks over to find him struggling to sit up from where he was slouched in the corner, rubbing at his neck from where it was bent at an uncomfortable angle, and scrubbing at the unflattering line of drool that dripped from the corner of his mouth.

“What--” he mumbles, then sees Aeoin and bolts upright with a mild crack of his spine. “You’re awake! How-- how do you feel?”

“Alistair,” Leliana chides gently, but Aeoin can only shake his head dumbly.

“What happened?” he croaks.

“You… you killed it,” Alistair says. His eyes dart briefly to Leliana, but he can’t seem to look away from Aeoin, like he can’t believe he’s really there. “The archdemon, you… you mad, daft fool. How--?” He breaks off with another glance at Leliana and shakes his head, then laughs a little. “You utter mad man. What in the Maker’s name were you thinking-- you could have-- you should have--”

Aeoin is saved from having to address what Alistair can’t say infront of non-Wardens (unsurprisingly he finds he hasn’t planned for this in the least and has no idea what he should say about Morrigan and her little ritual) by Zevran, groaning softly and stirring against his legs, drawing all of his attention down to where the assassin is beginning to reluctantly wake.

Zevran opens his eyes and sees Aeoin watching him, and for a moment they can only stare at each other. Then Zevran’s eyes begin to fill with tears, and Aeoin makes a broken noise of distress as he struggles against his exhausted, broken body to move and take him in his arms.

Zevran makes it to his pillow while Aeoin is still trying to lift his hands from the blankets, strokes his face and his hair while tears stream down his chin.

“Don’t cry,” Aeoin begs, his voice reduced to a whisper. “Don’t cry, I’m alright.”

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” Zevran answers, then collapses onto the bed and buries his face in Aeoin’s neck.

“I’ll go tell Wynn you are awake,” Leliana offers gently, and Aeoin hears Alistair shuffle to his feet.

“And I’ll go… get you some food,” he says. “C’mon, Mange.”

Mange whines and curls his big body a little closer to Aeoin.

“Come on , you big brute,” Alistair insists. “Give them some time alone, there’s a good dog.”

With great reluctance, and whining complainingly the whole way, the big mabari slinks off the bed and follows Alistair out the door. Aeoin makes a note to find him the best bone in the kingdom, and then all he can think of is Zevran.

They end up curled around each other. Aeoin wishes he could do more than just hold him, but the truth is he can barely manage that much and his strength is already failing him again. So Zevran holds him instead, his arms strong and sure around him and their faces tilted toward each other.

“I thought I was dead,” Aeoin confesses. “I thought Morrigan’s ritual had failed.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Zevran answers. “And then you wouldn’t wake up, and I wondered if the witch had tricked us with a demon’s bargain. Sure you lived, just as she promised, but what if you never woke again? What if that was the hidden cost?”

“Where is she?”

“Gone. I cannot promise I did not entertain thoughts of hunting her down, if only I knew where to start.”

Aeoin bites his lip, struggling against what he wants to say for a moment. Then he presses his lips to Zevran’s skin and says, “I can’t believe it’s over.” It isn’t a lie.

 

Later, after a short rest and more ice (supplied, it turned out, by Sandal and a very clever frost rune), Aeoin lets Wynn poke at him while he holds onto Zevran with one hand and eats with the other. Her magic is a familiar tingle over his skin; it draws goose pimples up and down his arms, but it is easy enough to ignore, and he is far more interested in the sausages Alistair brought him from the kitchen.

“Now the cook knows you’re up, the whole castle will and then the whole city,” Alistair says. “Queen’ll be by any minute--remind me to make myself scarce. Everyone’s been waiting to see if you’ll pull through; they’d all much rather have a parade than a funeral.”

“I agree, though I do look quite fetching in black,” Zevran says, a faint echo of his usual irreverence, belied by the grip be maintains on Aeoin’s hand. Aeoin gives his fingers a comforting squeeze.

“Well, it’s a miracle,” Wynn eventually declares, letting the glow of magic fade from her palms. “I don’t know how you survived having a dragon fall on you, and I don’t know how you managed to wake up finally. I strongly suspect it was your stomach demanding its dinner.”

Judging by the way Alistair is watching him, he would like to know how Aeoin survived as well.

Aeoin shoves more sausage in his mouth, then gives Wynn his smarmiest grin. “Who needs miracles when I have the best healer in Ferelden?”

She flaps a hand at him, but then squeezes his shoulder fondly.

“Are you just going to let her fondle you like that?” Zevran demands. “After everything we’ve just been though?”

“Zevran, you should eat as well,” Wynn says sternly. “I know you haven’t been.”

Aeoin frowns at him, then magnanimously offers him some food from his own plate. Given Grey Warden appetites, that has never happened before, and Zevran looks suitably touched. “Come on,” he tempts. “You love my sausage.”

Zevran laughs, then tilts his head coquettishly and plays at being shy. “Darling, the dog is watching.”

Mange is, in fact, watching from the foot of the bed, his chin resting on Aeoin’s ankle and his attention evenly split between making sure his master doesn’t slip into another coma and keeping a weather eye on the sausages.

“Oh yes, please, spare the poor dog,” Alistair drawls. “He’s only a puppy, he shouldn’t be exposed to such filth.”

“Actually Bann Teagan has apparently been making plans to repopulate the kennels,” Wynn says. “I hope you’re up for it, Mange.”

Mange barks once and looks both pleased and eager.

“Now, now,” Wynn scolds as she gets to her feet. “Fatherhood is a big responsibility, I don’t want you entering into it lightly.” Collecting her staff, the mage levels a stern glare at the two elves on the bed. “You two: food, more rest.”

“I’ve been resting for five days,” Aeoin points out.

“And when you can walk to your own chamberpot without needing a breather you can do as you like.” Before she leaves, Wynn surprisingly stoops and presses a matronly kiss to Aeoin’s brow. “I am glad to see you awake, my friend. We all feared the worst.”

“Where’s my kiss?” Zevran demands while Aeoin is still sorting through what to do with that.

Wynn rolls her eyes at him. “Eat something.”

“I can think of something I’d like to eat.”

Ignoring him, Wynn deputizes Alistair with a nod and then sweeps from the room.

As predicted, Queen Anora arrives shortly after, her back as stiff as ever. Her eyes still burn with emotion when she looks at Alistair, and he grimly meets her gaze without flinching. Evidently in the five days Aeoin has been unconscious, the two of them have come to some sort of agreement that allows them to be in the same room no matter how Alistair jokes, but things are no less tense. Anora is not quick to forgive the man who killed her father, and Alistair will not apologize for avenging his mentor, leaving them at an uncomfortable crossroads.

Anora wants to throw that parade Alistair was talking about, and she doesn’t want to waste time about it.

“He can barely sit upright,” Alistair points out.

“And the streets are still choked with rubble, in any case,” Zevran adds, squeezing Aeoin’s hand.

It doesn’t seem to have escaped Anora’s notice that the foreign assassin has elected to stay on the bed with his lover rather than springing to his feet in the presence of royalty, and while she isn’t nearly crass enough to mention it, it annoys her, so she ignores him as she ignores Alistair.

“The people need to see you,” she says bluntly. “The Blight has nearly broken the country, and the hardships are not over for Ferelden. For the past year, crops have rotted in the field for lack of harvesters or been lost to the taint. Food shortages are only the beginning-- rebuilding the country will take many years, and there are many who fear we are now vulnerable to a return of Orlesian hostilities.”

“You are like your father,” Aeoin can’t help but point out. “We won , my lady, can’t we have a moment to celebrate before we get back to the doom and gloom of living?”

Anora merely gives him a flat, unruffled look. “Pretending that Ferelden and Orlais have not had a long, combative history, or that defeating the archdemon is the end of our troubles, would be simple foolishness. But a celebration is exactly what I am talking about, for the sake of the people of Ferelden--of Denerim. They need their hero. They need to know that they can survive what is to come, just as you survived the archdemon.”

Aeoin looks away and eats another sausage. There’s that word again-- Hero-- it makes something in his stomach curl uncomfortably. “For morale?” he says.

“For the good of the country,” Anora answers. “When you are feeling up to it, of course.” And not a moment later, most likely. She manages to make the polite request sound like a royal decree, and Aeoin strongly suspects there will be no getting out of it.

“Ferelden is in your debt, Grey Warden,” she continues, a precursor, no doubt, to the grand speech she will give in his honor. Aeoin already wants to disappear. “Please allow us to do what little we can to show our gratitude.” And with that she steps regally from the room.

“The Queen of Ferelden,” Alistair says in grand tones after she leaves, though not loudly enough for her to hear, since he isn’t completely stupid.

“I’m having second thoughts about making you do it, again,” Aeoin says, and Alistair snorts.

“Don’t let her hear you say that or she’ll have both our heads, I’m not kidding. Besides, you heard her-- running this country is going to be a headache for years . No, thank you.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t make me march in a parade.”

“Are you kidding? I’d make you wear a big hat and have beautiful young women follow you around scattering rose petals in your wake for a month.”

Aeoin throws a sausage at him.

Alistair eats it.

After Anora there is a short stream of well-wishers, including, shockingly, his father, who bravely struggles against tears and smooths his blankets and makes him tea. It was Alistair who went to get him, and boldly had him given one of the nicest rooms in the guest wing as the Father of the Hero of Ferelden. Cyrion has barely known what to do with himself, between worrying about Aeoin and being a guest in the royal palace .

“The room they’ve given me is bigger than the house , son,” he says with an air of bewilderment. “And the Queen herself came to speak with me-- me! Your old man! Your cousins are going to be sorry as hell they missed out.”

Shianni had apparently elected to remain in the alienage to continue the rebuilding efforts, but she expected him around as soon as he can walk.

“There’s a nice lad in the kitchens who offered to carry a message to her as soon as you got better-- the Gunders’ youngest, you remember Finn Gunders?”

It’s not just Shianni, of course. Apparently the entire alienage has been waiting desperately for news as to whether or not he would pull through. Aeoin tries not to dwell too much on how recently they were all so eager to blame him for their troubles.

Bodahn and Sandal come in, and Bodahn fusses at him and chats with his father (they’d apparently become quite chummy, Bodahn and Cyrion) while Sandal drools contentedly in the corner.

“Were you at the fortress, Sandal?” Aeoin can’t help but ask, frowning a bit at an uncertain memory.

“Enchantment,” Sandal answers cheerfully.

Then it’s Oghren, who looks Aeoin over carefully and then smirks with little humor and offers him a swig from his flask. “Congratulations, Warden, you survived.” There is an odd, flat, nearly sarcastic quality to his voice that Aeoin can’t quite place, so he merely nods and accepts the flask.

Oghren pounds his back when the gritty dwarven ale makes him cough, and it’s a bit rougher than he can really withstand at the moment (and Zevran glares daggers at the dwarf in his defence) but he’s… grateful. He’s been awake long enough to come to the conclusion that he doesn’t care for being bedridden at all. He’d much rather people be rough with him than the gentle, uncertain care.

Oghren laughs again, that same strange flat note to it-- and perhaps it’s always been there, between the belching and the slurred speech-- then leaves. “I’ll be around, Warden,” he promises with a sigh. “Come have a drink with me when you’re up and about.”

Sten comes as well, apparently pressured into it by Wynn, and remarks briefly that it is favorable that Aeoin seems to have survived, then leaves again. Apparently visiting injured companions is pointless under the Qun. Or Sten still doesn’t view him as a valuable companion-- it’s difficult to tell with him.

Alistair waits until the stream of visitors has trickled to a halt and Cyrion slipped off to his own rest and Zevran seems to have nodded off against Aeoin’s shoulder before finally asking, “How… did you survive?” He speaks slowly and carefully, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Zevran, nothing but curiosity in his tone, but he has been thinking this question over for five days and it shows. “Riordan was so certain….”

Aeoin is strongly tempted to feign exhaustion, and he is , much to his annoyance. He hasn’t slept so much in the year since his Joining as he has in the week since killing the archdemon, yet already he is weary, as if the effort of a few conversations and eating a plate of sausages was too much for him.

But a convincing lie depends on commitment and a lack of hesitation, and timing is everything, and so he looks his brother-Warden square in the eye and says, “How should I know? I guess he was just… wrong?”

Alistair says nothing for a moment, his mouth twitching just a little. “...Perhaps,” he allows slowly. “It’s been centuries since the last Blight, right? Maybe… maybe there was more too it. What’s the difference between you and the rest of the Wardens though?”

Time for some misdirection. “The archdemon-- it did die, didn’t it? You don’t think it’ll rise again?” He doesn’t have to fake the anxiety. It’s a real concern, and the truth is he doesn’t know what the full consequences of his decisions will be. He doubts Morrigan really knew, and now there’s no way to ask.

But Alistair only frowns and shakes his head, a far away look in his eyes as he feels it out. “No,” he says eventually. “No, I felt it. You’ll feel it, too, once you get your strength back and really think about it-- it’s different than it was. Like the air is clearing. The Blight is over.”

Aeoin says nothing. Lets himself sink back a little into his pillow, his hand still tight around Zevran’s. He doesn’t feel that, and it frightens him that he doesn’t. But what can he say?

“Well, that’s the important thing, right?” Alistair says after a moment. “That it’s over? And I am glad that neither of us had to die after all, don’t get me wrong. I suppose we can always ask the other Wardens when they get here.”

That gets Aeoin’s attention, nearly startles him, truth be told. “Other Wardens?”

Alistair laughs. “Late to the party, right? Orlesians-- I’d like to know what the hold up was, but yes, they’re finally coming. Should be here any day now. Maybe one of them will know something.”

Aeoin swallows thickly. “...Honestly I’m just grateful to be alive, and that it’s over,” he says. “Forgive me if I don’t really give a shit as to why or how.”

“Good point,” Alistair allows with a fond smile, then gets to his feet. “It’s late, I’ll let you sleep. We can talk in the morning, brother.” He clasps Aeoin’s shoulder briefly, then slips out of the room.

Beside him, Zevran makes a sleepy sound and curls closer. “Maybe you should just tell him,” he says quietly.

“...No. He’s better off not knowing.”

Zevran hums a little, noncommittally, and presses a kiss to Aeoin’s neck.

Despite his exhaustion, Aeoin feels like he stays awake for a long time.

 


 

It feels like it has been no time at all since Aeoin put on his blue and silver uniform to crash the Landsmeet, and yet at the same time it seems so long ago that it happened in another lifetime, to another person.

He tugs awkwardly at the tabard, then adjusts his gloves for the millionth time, peering critically at himself in the glass. He has a new scar from the battle, a jagged gash across his cheek that he honestly has absolutely no memory of getting, and his father has been running a losing campaign for the past few days to let him cut his hair. It’s grown from the stubby little tail he left home with, long enough now to pull over his shoulder.

Sighing heavily, he smooths his hands down the scalemail stripes, then closes his eyes and curses under his breath.

Grit and stubborn determination (and a lot of elfroot) had gotten him back onto his feet a mere two days after he finally awoke. Wynn called him foolhardy and an idiot, and Zevran bonded with his father over fretting over him, but he’d been highly motivated, mostly by the need to escape the Orlesian Grey Wardens when they finally arrived.

It’s odd having them around. He is so used to having only Alistair that every time one of them enters the room he has to stop himself from reaching for a weapon, convinced that they are darkspawn sneaking up on them.

They have sense enough to be discreet, at least. They keep to themselves, didn’t try to insist on staying at the palace (Aeoin actually has no idea where they are staying), and don’t impose their uncomfortable Orlesian-ness on the prickly, defensive natives (many of whom, as Anora predicted, are eager to turn a highly suspicious eye on anything smacking of Orlais).

It had been a lot of disapproving looks and lectures about how “Grey Wardens must not involve themselves in politics” once they heard everything that went down in the Landsmeet. Aeoin and Alistair came to an immediate unspoken accord to not mention Orzammar at all.

“His fault,” Aeoin claimed, pointing at Alistair. “He’s the secret prince, they dragged us into it.”

“We got as uninvolved as we could as quickly as we could,” Alistair added. “And anyway, none of you lot were there.”

“We’re not saying you haven’t done quite well for a pair of raw recruits,” a rather tall man named Caron said. “We’re all damned impressed, no doubt. But there are a few… questions.” He’d stared right at Aeoin as he said it, and Aeoin stared steadily back.

From there it was an endless retelling of the battle in minute, horrible detail until Aeoin wanted to throw himself out the window. Caron was convinced that he was lying, but not about the right thing, so it was fine.

“The people here want to throw you a fucking party, that’s one thing,” he growled. “But you do a good Warden a grave disservice by claiming credit for his sacrifice. Riordan deserves better.”

Aeoin just glared at him and said nothing. Easier to let him believe what he wanted. He would love to shift the credit for the killing blow to Riordan, but too many people saw him fall long before the final stand on top of Fort Drakon. The fact that Caron refuses to believe it speaks more to the man’s stubbornness than anything else.

Needless to say, he and Caron aren’t destined to be friends.

There are others who aren’t so easily put off the trail, a slim, dark skinned elven woman named Andras, a quiet, canny dwarf named Kader with a face full of tattoos. They ask him how he survived and he says “I don’t know” over and over until he finally snaps.

“I don’t know ! I don’t know anything-- I was a Grey Warden for all of ten hours before fucking Ostagar wiped out all but us, so I don’t know shit about shit , alright! Fucking Alistair had to tell me about the damned Calling for fuck’s sake!”

Andras just watches him, her head tilted to one side like a curious fox. He wonders about her, if she got pulled in from the Dalish of if she was once like him, a nothing elf from a filthy alienage, scraping to survive, but it is evidently rude to ask. Maybe she’s just like him, conscripted out of prison or off of the executioner’s block. He’ll never know.

“We will be in contact with Weishaupt,” is all she says. Maybe a promise. Maybe a threat. “They’ll want to know more about this apparent miracle,” she continues, and he kind of wants to hit her.

“Couldn’t the Wardens just been wrong?” he asks peevishly.

She shrugs. “The Grey Wardens know more about the Blight than any other organization under the Maker. This is new information. Weishaupt will need to know.”

Mostly he tries to avoid them, difficult since their Warden senses mean they can always find him, but balanced out by the fact that he can feel them coming as well. Ultimately that just made it all the easier for Anora to swoop in and corner him, leading to here, him fussing over his uniform while downstairs the parade she wanted gears up to get underway.

Not really a parade. They only just got all the fires out. More of an appearance. Wave at the crowds, maybe a speech. Fuck he hopes they don’t expect him to give a speech.

The mirror stares back at him. There are new lines on his face to go with the scars, for all that a vain corner of his mind insists that he is far too young for wrinkles. Around his eyes especially. Father has always said he has his mother’s eyes, dark and clear while Cyrion’s are light and watery. Now, staring at himself, he can’t help but feel like they are the eyes of a stranger, like there is something else staring out back at him.

He looks away and curses again, low under his breath. He’s supposed to be getting ready. Everyone is waiting.

The door opens and he can’t stop his hand from twitching toward his dagger, wonders if he’ll ever be able to let go of that instinct, but it is only Oghren.

“We never got that drink,” the dwarf says. He’s looking at Aeoin a little strangely, but Aeoin finds he doesn’t have the patience for it and turns away, tugging again at the stupid straps of the brigandine.

“Been busy,” he grunts. “Need something?”

Oghren says nothing, his arms crossed over his broad, barrel chest as he studies him, small eyes nearly lost beneath his bushy red brows.

Finally, just as Aeoin is about ready to lose his temper completely, the dwarf speaks. “All this fancy to-do, everyone wanting to kiss your ass-- pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

Aeoin huffs a ghost of a laugh. “What clued you in?”

“Everyone wants to fucking celebrate, ‘cause it’s over,” Oghren continues. “But it doesn’t feel over, does it?”

Slowly, Aeoin turns around to stare at him, saying nothing.

“And you’re wondering why you can’t just fucking relax,” Oghren says relentlessly, “wondering what the fuck is wrong with you that winning only tastes like more blood. You can still smell it, can’t you? Bodies burning, sometimes while they’re still moving--it’s not a stench you ever forget.”

“...The pyres,” Aeoin says belatedly. “Chantry’s been cleaning up the dead all week, that smell’s all over the city.”

Oghren just gives him a wry look. “You still hear it roaring,” he says, half accusation, half commiseration, and Aeoin draws in a sharp breath.

Because it’s true, of course it is. He hears the archdemon echoing in his skull, and not just when he’s asleep, though the dreams are their own struggle. He sleeps little, worried about disturbing Zevran. Every moment he half expects the dragon to come bursting up from the floor, because it can’t just be over . He has forgotten how to live without the Blight occupying his every thought, every waking moment of every day devoted to fighting it.

And more than that, of course, the eyes of the other Wardens are damning--he should be dead, and he cannot justify why he isn’t. He made his choices, desperate to live, but the question lingers: what, exactly, has he done ? He felt it, he knows he did, the archdemon tearing through him….

“When does it stop?” he asks Oghren, eyes on the floor.

Oghren shrugs and steps closer, fishing at his belt for his flask. “It doesn’t. Have a drink.”

Oghren was Warrior Caste, Aeoin abruptly recalls, the product of Orzammar’s attempts to make an entire class of people suited for nothing but battle and war-- and then punished and cast out for being exactly what they made him. Killing’s what swords are for , he’d said.

Aeoin takes the flask and drinks deep, then passes it back.

Oghren takes it and tosses back a drink of his own.

“How do you live with it?” Aeoin asks quietly.

Oghren gives him a wry look. “You see any other options, Warden? You just keep going until you don’t anymore, that’s all.”

“Drinking? That helps?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Have some more.”

They pass the flask back and forth for a while, saying nothing, until Oghren heaves a deep throaty sigh. “Just how it is for some of us. Peace is for other people. You just keep this in mind, Warden,” he says, as grave as Aeoin has ever heard him. “You’re still alive, and your enemies aren’t. All the rest is piss.”

“I should be dead, though.” It’s out before Aeoin quite knows he’s going to say it, and he feels no less lost for giving the thought voice. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense-- that’s what Grey Wardens do , that’s how it was supposed to happen, and now--”

“Hey! Fuck that noise, Warden.” Oghren has rarely sounded so fierce or focused, and it’s enough to shut Aeoin up. “How would that improve anything? Huh? How would any fucking thing be better if you’d died with that thing, you tell me that. That lover boy of yours probably would’ve followed you off into the abyss, given how he was carrying on during your little lie-in-- is that something you want? Your old man’s a decent guy-- you wanna make him have to mourn ya twice?”

“No, of course not….”

“You got folks that care about you. I ain’t saying it makes any of the rest of it any easier to deal with, but you just keep ‘em in mind when you start thinking dying might be easier.”

“You saying it isn’t?”

Oghren rolls his eyes. “I’m saying, no one’s better off if you don’t stick around. You’re gonna figure out real quick that there’s always another fight. So like I said, you just keep going, until you don’t.”

Drinking to that, he drains the flask. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Figured… maybe you could use an old drunk like me, someone who knows. I’ll leave you to finish primping up. Queen Hoity-Toity’s opening up the good kegs and I wanna get at the front of the line.”

“Hey, Oghren,” Aeoin calls as he steps out of the room. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, don’t get all misty-eyed on me, ya scrawny little shirt-lifter. Save it for Zevran.”

“I meant for the drink, asshole.”

Smirking, Oghren closes the door behind him.

Aeoin faces the mirror again, and manages to avoid looking at his eyes as he ties back his hair.

 

The Great Hall is everything he thought it would be and worse. The nobles have lined up to shake his hand and kiss his ass, and he realizes quickly that half of them are trying to rope him into promises to come give direct aid to their particular little corner of the country. He can’t fault their dedication to helping their people, but he resents the efforts to tie him down.

The only bright spot is seeing his father, wearing finer clothes than he has ever worn in his life, and standing with Alistair, alternating between bursting with pride over Aeoin and casting about the room in shocked awe like he can’t quite believe where he is.

By the time he makes it before Anora he’s twitchy and irate, barely remembers to give her a proper bow and doesn’t pay as much attention to their conversation as he should. If Cyrion is close enough to overhear he’ll twist his ears later for how he’s talking to the Queen, but luckily he seems thoroughly distracted.

“Travel,” he says shortly when she asks what his plans are now, and he glances out over the room to where Zevran is standing with Leliana, and misses the Queen’s unhappy, calculating look.

“What boon would you ask, Warden?” she says primly, and that gets Aeoin’s attention a bit, except that he can’t think of anything he wants that even the Queen of Ferelden can give him.

“Better treatment for my people in the alienage,” he lands on eventually, because all of Denerim, practically,  needs to be rebuilt, and it would be just typical for the elves to come last once again.

Anora does him one better and offers him a bannorn, a political voice for the elves for the first time in the history of the city. He shifts it to Shianni instead, and can’t wait to see her face when he tells her. She’s to be a fancy lady, after all. He’ll work on getting her those hundred dresses.

He has to duck out before stepping out to make his appearance to the gathered masses. He’s confident that none of the nobles will be able to find him-- the dark, quiet side hall he slips into is unused by anyone except the servants, he doubts any of the gilded asses in the hall even realize it’s there.

It’s just… it’s too much. Too stifling. The Great Hall looks almost exactly as it did during the Landsmeet (and he’s noticed Anora’s eyes straying to a certain spot on the floor, though Loghain’s blood has been thoroughly scrubbed out of the stone) and it’s like… it’s like none of it even happened.

He knows that as soon as he steps through the doors the illusion will shatter, the rest of the city naturally taking much longer to repair than just one section of the palace, but soon enough the rebuilding will be over, and the battle will move into history.

The rest of the country will likely bear the scars of the Blight for longer. Lothering is just one town of many that have been wiped from the map. But eventually the edges will soften. The Fifth Blight didn’t go on long enough to make a wasteland like the Anderfels, only far to the south and in the depths of the Kokari Wilds would hold the physical memory for very long.

The Blight will become history, the battle against the archdemon over Denerim part of the legend, and the world will move on.

Aeoin can still see the archdemon’s hungry, glowing eyes, it’s endless, gnashing teeth, it’s oozing, serrated, corrupted flesh. He can hear it, a sound that isn’t a sound, echoing in his skull like it’s speaking to him, he can feel it--

He curses savagely and punches the wall. His dark leather gloves, designed to protect his hands from slashing blades, are no match for thick stone, but he finds the sharp pain grounding. Soothing, even, keeping him firmly in the present, so he does it again, harder. The pounding in his head becomes his own singular heartbeat once more, and he draws in deep, careful breaths.

“...Amor?”

Aeoin’s head shoots up and he turns in shock. “Zev-- love,” he stammers. “What are you--?”

Zevran looks shocked as well, eyes wide as he stares at him. Damn. He had never intended for him to know….

“Everyone is waiting on you,” Zevran says. “I saw you slip off and naturally assumed-- well, a dark corner, a celebration, you see the conclusions I came to, surely; I assumed you intended for me to follow you. But I see I was wrong, more’s the pity. Darling-- what are you doing? Your hand--”

“It’s nothing--”

Zevran silences him with a quelling look, finally stepping close and taking the offending hand in his own to examine the damage as best he can through the glove. “You are not going to start lying to me now, after everything we have survived already,” he says simply.

Aeoin hisses a little-- it’s possible that some of the more delicate bones in his fingers have broken, no way to be sure without removing the glove which promises to an extremely painful activity, and Zevran purses his lips unhappily.

“Talk to me,” he says. “What’s wrong-- and do not say it is nothing. Nothing doesn’t make you pick fights with castle walls.”

How can he tell him? How can he possibly understand?

“Please, amor,” Zevran presses.

“...I felt the archdemon,” Aeoin hears himself say, as if at a distance. “When I killed it, I felt it… enter me. And then I was sure I had died, and now, ever since I woke up… how can I be sure it left, or that it didn’t leave some piece of itself behind, or… or take something with it? Zevran, I-- I should have just died --”

No .” Zevran’s denial is swift and fierce.

“--If I had done what I was supposed to and taken it down with me--”

“No, there is no world in which your death is better.”

“--then it would really be over--”

“It is over! The archdemon is dead . I may not be a Grey Warden, but I know what I saw, and Alistair has confirmed it as well. If it had not been slain, it would have risen again, correct? That is how it works-- it would have jumped into the body of another darkspawn and begun anew? But it didn’t! The battle is over , amor, we won , that is all that matters to me.”

“But I can still feel it,” Aeoin whispers, pressing his uninjured hand to his chest.

Frowning, Zevran steps closer and covers his hand with his own, his eyes never straying from Aeoin’s, and Aeoin has a sudden sense memory, something he’d thought he’d dreamed, Zevran’s hand over his heart during those long days he lay unconscious after the battle.

“I feel your heart beating,” Zevran says. “I have never felt anything sweeter. Because if your heart still beats, then we can continue. So, even if you are right-- and I am not saying that you are-- but even if it is not over, as long as your heart still beats, we can still fight, and we can still win.”

Aeoin bows his head and curls slightly around Zevran’s hand. Zevran steps closer still, until they are close enough to be dancers on an Orlesian ballroom floor and Aeoin can lay his head down on Zevran’s shoulder.

“Stay with me,” he begs, mumbled into the fine cloth of his beautiful shirt. “Don’t ever leave me.” It’s quiet when Zevran is there.

“Never,” Zevran promises. “We face the future together, amor, hand in hand. First we should fix yours, though. I’m going to go find you some elfroot; Wynn usually has some in her pockets, and you know how I love an excuse to get a good grope in.”

Zevran fixes him back up with patient, sure hands, and Aeoin lets himself be soothed by his presence, his quiet chatter and gentle touch. When they slip back into the hall, it doesn’t seem as if they were missed too terribly. Alistair pointedly rolls his eyes at them, but no one notices anything amiss.

“There you are,” one of the guards at the door say, but not unkindly or impatiently. “Big crowd out there. You ready?”

Aeoin glances back at Zevran, who smiles encouragingly and nods. “...I guess so.”

“Nothing to worry about, Warden,” the guard says, mistaking his hesitance for nerves. “Just give ‘em a wave and they’ll be happy.” With a friendly grin, he pushes the door open.

The sun is shining, and Aeoin blinks through the bright glare as he steps forward into the light.

Notes:

Warden Tabris will return....

 

 

Thank you so much for reading; it has meant the world to me to get to share this and that people seem to like Aeoin. I hope the ending does not disappoint, but I wanted to be true to where he is emotionally and psychologically, and killing an archdemon in the face of near certain death is not the kind of thing one just walks away from unscathed. That being said, how much of his anxiety over the archdemon and the ritual is fact and how much is PTSD, I will leave to your interpretation.

(Oh, and the other Wardens ARE named for the Orlesian Warden Commander default surname options if you choose to make a new character for Awakening. Just 'cause.)

This is not the end for Aeoin or his adventures (if Bioware won't give us the extended adventures of the Warden, by god I'll do it myself). I do not know when the next part of the series will come out, but it'll happen eventually. I like Aeoin too much to stop writing him for good.

If you leave a comment I'll love you forever (but kudos are great, too!)

(ps, you can find me on tumbler at http://ibibibi.tumblr.com/)