He’s not sure what he’s expecting. A rebuke, perhaps, for his obvious emotion and his evident fear; a reminder that he needs to be strong, that he must harden himself against his sorrow until their duty has been done. ( He hates, he hates these moments – the sense of weakness he feels when he DARES to feel, and the shame that he should feel weak at all. Doesn’t he have a heart beating beneath the armor? Doesn’t he deserve to let it break when it must? ) But Leta does none of those things; instead, she steps forward, and she tugs him into her grasp and she holds him as if she means to keep him afloat. He is a man adrift, drowning in loss, and she wastes no time in reaching for him.
And so Alistair – Grey Warden, warrior, son of a king – cries. He winds his arms around her as well, turns his face toward her and closes his eyes, nose tucked against her hair, and he shakes with silent tears. He had wept and raged before, screamed and torn at his hair and skin and clothes, while Morrigan and her mother mocked him amongst themselves as though he could not hear ( and Morrigan, more brazenly, with the surety that he could ), but it hadn’t been like this. He is vulnerable, and small, and for a moment, Leta keeps him standing, keeps him breathing when every inch of him is screaming with the desire to fall silent and still and let himself be engulfed in his own grief.
He releases her after a minute, perhaps two, and steps back, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. Is he alright? No, absolutely not. “I’m not injured,” he assures her. “Morrigan’s mother healed me. What about you? You were asleep for so long, I thought for sure – ” But he cannot allow himself to dwell on that any further, not if they’re going to do anything at all. “I’m glad you’re here. I can’t – Loghain, he betrayed us, he left us all to rot. He killed Duncan, he killed – ” my brother “ – the king, half the army and all the rest of the Grey Wardens, they’re all dead.”
“Not all,” Morrigan supplies, as if she’s being helpful. She is not. “There are some who survive, though not for long; you are welcome to try and rescue them, but that would be a fool’s errand. And you are no fool,” she adds, and the words are sincere; she’s directing those at Leta.
The thought of any survivors being devoured by darkspawn is worse. He shudders, sniffs again, wipes at his eyes once more. “I don’t know,” he says finally, voice low, “what we’re supposed to do now.”
NO COMMENT IS MADE ON HER PART , EVEN WHEN LETA feels the familiar hitch of breath from the body flush against her own that tells her Alistair has given in to the same itch that has plagued her like an incurable ailment since she’d left Highever ; but her lips part all the same , tenderness threading through her clenched heart && encouraging her to hold on to her companion tighter , tighter : because there’s something tragically familiar to this .
She had rather helplessly begun to think of herself beyond repair and indeed , pieces of her would always remain lost , slivers of her would always be left gaping but he was the same , wasn’t he ?? She had been foolish to believe that any life could remain untouched by bitterness , by grief , and now it spreads like a disease as each event blooms into an added stain upon the waterlogged diary of her heart . Perhaps , however , there is a chance that the filthy pages could be torn away to leave room for a new chapter to be written ; perhaps , she dares to think , two shattered people could work together to make a semblance of something whole . Perhaps they could carry on .
Careful fingers work to smooth down the hair at the nape of his neck until he is prepared to let go ( until she is prepared to let him , too , because this is for her own sake as well as Alistair’s , even if it is a terribly selfish notion ) , and Leta is glad for the fact that he does not choose to go very far when he does . ❝ I’m alright , ❞ she offers in return : and it’s the truth , as far as she can give . Any residual aches && pains from the wounds she had suffered will likely be alleviated after another night of rest . ❝ It was nothing that couldn’t be fixed . ❞ They are but minor issues , after all , and what little grievances Leta had previously suffered from them dissipate entirely as she digests the input Morrigan has offered ( if anything , she feels sick to her stomach at the thought of the aftermath brewing in Ostagar ) .
Brown eyes soften with understanding , rather than sympathy , as Alistair’s final sentiment gives cause for her to meet his gaze once more , but Morrigan’s mother is ready to speak before Leta has been given the chance to consider their next movements . ❝ Perhaps you should consider doing what you are meant to do , ❞ she says , looking between the two Wardens with a discerning lift of her brow . ❝ It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight . Or did that change when I wasn’t looking ?? ❞
And perhaps she wants it to change ; perhaps she wants to turn heel && run away with her tail between her legs to the first place that has not yet closed its doors to Fereldan refugees , perhaps she never wants to look back but the woman is right . The choice to drink from the Joining Chalice had been Leta’s , and each duty specific to the Wardens had thus become her own just as much as it had been the duty of every Warden on the battlefield . ❝ Of course it has not changed , ❞ she affirms , voice unwavering even if she does not feel as brave as she looks , even when the unsaid portion of her sentiment rings true amidst the group : but we’re alone .
