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He could not remember the first time he saw her in a crowd.
If he was honest with himself, he’d been seeing her in the periphery for his whole life, as far back as when he was a small boy or his time as a Templar-to-be—or maybe it just felt that way, with how right it was to have her in the corner of his eye. Perhaps it had been the knowing that he could simply turn his head and she would be there, constant and true, that painted his memories with the invariable presence of Carys Mahariel.
For a time, she was an omen. For a beautiful time, she was real. Now, she was a ghost. Not literally, of course. But he knew for certain that she was not there, and yet he saw her everywhere that she never was, present when he knew she was anything but. He had gotten used to seeing her face among strangers, not to mention how very real and seemingly true she was in his dreams. He no longer sought a second glimpse; realizing the crowd lacked her made for a bitter day, and he could only afford to have so many of those. She’d scold him, (if) when she came back, for being such a morose romantic about her un-presence.
The issue was—well, Skyhold hosted many crowds, all manner of crowds bustling with strange faces from across Thedas, and it was nigh impossible to ignore all of them, as it was. The sheer scale of the Inquisition rivaled what he had seen at Weisshaupt, and Alistair had often shied from those crowds without her by his side. Sure, yes, he was the one who usually did the talking when it came down to socializing and general conversation… but she was his shield against the crueler edges of the world. His voice felt stronger with the current of her presence buoying it, even when she said nothing at all. Moving through Skyhold alone made him all too aware of how much of the world he filtered through the experience of always having her beside him. How difficult maintaining his confidence had become, oft fumbled behind cavalier bravado, when he couldn’t glance to her and read approval or loving exasperation. It became easier to pretend at observation, standing afar and looking out, while his heart hammered in his throat and his palms sweat in leather gloves. She’d given them to him; halla-skin and crafted in a style only the Dalish could achieve. Curling his fingers in them was a poor imitation of holding her hands in his, but some days, it was all he had.
Morrigan (because of course she was present at the end of all things, yet again) had taken one look at him and diagnosed his misery as too weighty for her to trouble herself with. He was, instead, told to manage his emotions with patience and a stiff upper lip until Marelas joined them, and he would be joining them, at some point in time. She tempered her dismissal with a short introduction to the boy, who was more than a squishy-faced infant, as Alistair had been wont to imagine him. Woe but to face time itself in realizing the aforementioned not-infant could not only walk and tie his own boots but was keen to have a philosophical conversation on the nature of the gods in the wake of Corypheus’s revelations. Alistair, electing to not yet embarrass himself, had told Morrigan he could hear the Calling and needed to have a bit of a lie-down about it. He had not returned to the garden since.
So there he stood. A fixture among fixtures in a figurehead of a castle, nestled into the heart of a mountain, uncountable miles away from the one person who kept him from feeling helplessly unmoored. He breathed deep the chilled air, letting it sear his lungs to remind him that they still worked despite the taint pulsing through him, and to remind him he had managed another morning waking up alone. One more, just one more, as it had been for… well, years now. Recalling the duration of his loneliness stirred up his ire and frustration, which made themselves at home more often than not beside his broken heart. It was not that he was mad at her; he didn’t know if he could be mad at her. But the damnable circumstances— the fact that, despite all they’d bled for the world, they still had more to give and neither of them were the sort to refuse an opportunity for self-sacrifice. He pursued his duty, through and through, her voice guiding him as best as he could recall it after so long apart. He hoped, truly, that she would be proud.
Muffled voices filtered up from the grounds below, ricocheting off of ancient stone to disrupt his melancholy. He could almost convince himself that he heard her laughter, but that was entirely impossible. She rarely shared that laughter, let alone in a space where just anyone could hear it. No, below, he saw only strangers who carried the faintest similarities with her: a Dalish elf bearing similar but not the same vallaslin; a warrior carrying a sword larger than most; someone washing their hair that burnished the same shades in the sun. He had nearly come to the point of making a game of it, now. Could he construct the ghost of her through the reflection of others, find just enough pieces that reminded him of her, that he could make her presence real again? Alistair adjusted his lean against the stone rampart, eyes tracking those below as he searched for someone who walked like her.
“Warden Alistair?” shattered his reverie, startling him upright as he swung around to see who had come to the pace informally deemed as his by the Inquisition. Neither an advisor nor formally within the inner circle, he imagined himself to be more of a beacon that spoke to authenticity—or a warning. As it was, he normally would not be surprised, given the vantage point he held here, but seeing Inquisitor Lavellan standing at the bottom of the stairs that descended to his post reassured him. Dalish elves, he had long learned, had a particular aptitude for being light on their feet.
“Inquisitor,” he greeted with a smile that appeared with a natural ease, regardless of how much he actually felt like smiling. She insisted that he call her Dhavi, her proper name, but the informality didn't yet sit right with him. He turned to her, inviting her closer for conversation, but she gestured for him to come to her instead. Her hair, a peculiar shade of white despite her youth, shone in the sun; that, perhaps, was another feature he could use in his construction. Carys, in her own way, had ever been luminous. Or maybe he was just a foolish romantic.
“I was hoping you would join us in the War Room? My advisors and I agreed that some movements in planning could benefit from a senior warden’s input,” Dhavi said, her eyes alight. The color of them was like lyrium itself, someone had once told him, and although that shade of the past was, at best, besotted with the Inquisitor, Alistair found himself inclined to agree. He couldn’t call the expression impish, as he would not dare imagine that her temperament allowed for such behavior, but…
“I haven’t been in a War Room in quite some time, Inquisitor.” He briefly considered countering with the suggestion that she speak with her official warden, Blackwall, but his feet decided upon betrayal as he crossed the stone to her. “But… if you wish, I would be glad to offer what insights I do have. Please, lead the way.”
The path to said War Room wound its way through Skyhold. Alistair could not even suggest that Dhavi was creating a longer route, as she seemed quite eager to get them to their destination. No, Skyhold had simply suffered such damage in its long history that certain locations were accessible only through very specific corridors. Dhavi proved to be good company, however, talking to him about the renovation of the tower that overlooked the garden and how it was being refitted for the Inquisition's mage allies to give them a secure location to conduct magic—under watchful gazes, she reassured him. She, too, was a mage and, during her time immersed in non-Dalish culture, she had learned too-well the innate mistrust that most held about mages.
Alistair smiled as kindly as he might muster, trying to allay any concern she may have about his opinions, but let her keep talking as she turned the conversation toward the renovated guest quarters that also overlooked the garden. She told him of how each room was being refitted for long-term stay, for specific guests, and asked him his thoughts on decor. He had none, but he shared his appreciation for a fur rug at the bedside. Nothing dampened the mood like stepping on cold stone when rising in the morning.
They wound through part of the garden, and Alistair doggedly refused to look in the direction of Morrigan, even going so far as to hold his breath until they passed through the doorway to the office that served as a political sanctuary to Lady Montilyet. She spared them a brief smile as they walked by, before returning to penning letters. Near the hearth in her office, Araliya Adaar gave him an idle salute before returning to applying whetstone to her assuredly well-honed dagger blades. It was only as they left the office behind, entering the drafty hall to the War Room, that the smallest inkling of confusion occurred to Alistair. After all, Lady Montilyet was one of Dhavi’s core advisors, offering political advisement and guidance for any significant decisions within the Inquisition… He glanced back over his shoulder, half-expecting her to be following them, but the hall remained empty.
Dhavi pushed open one of the grand doors to the War Room enough for Alistair to step inside, inviting him to enter first. The room, he noted, did not look appropriately occupied for decision-making, lacking both a Seeker and a Commander. But when he glanced back to inquire with Dhavi, he did so in time to catch her smile, warm and reassuring. And then she closed the door behind him.
It was only then, in the sun-filtered light of the seemingly-empty room, that Alistair felt the familiar press of shared blood against his heart. He had tuned out the recognition of those who carried the taint, which had been relatively easy given the weight and burden of the False Calling that sang in his mind. But now, now, it crashed upon him like a wave— not a warning, no, but rather more like the embrace of the tide returning. Turning away from the door, he took in the sun cascading from towering yet damaged windows, light dappling the wooden table that bore the burden of the Inquisition's movements on a sprawling map littered with flags and swords.
But these things did not matter.
No, his gaze found and fixed on the slight form standing near the windows, peering out through a clear diamond of glass. Small, so much smaller than anyone might expect, but strong, her shoulders tipped back in exquisite posture, her auburn hair still curled in an inelegant chop around her jawline that utterly failed to hide the delicate points of her ears. Alistair’s heart had already begun a slow and gasping crawl across the floor to her as he drank in the impossibility of her presence. What had he wrought to make such a moment real? Who had answered and what would they demand of him for this? He followed the ache, stepping away from the closed door to find a path around the table that separated them—but oh the temptation to simply crawl over it like a mabari returning to its master’s hand by any means possible…
She looked at him, and his lungs cast aside all air, driving a sound out of him that could only be described as strangled and never as articulate. Undeniable were her eyes; he only knew one other with eyes like hers, gifted to both of them by a bloodline too resilient to disappear to history. Violet, dark and brilliant all at once, tracked his clumsy journey around the edge of the table. He had to put a hand on it to keep himself steady, not sure he would survive the embarrassment of falling in front of her, not now; but he found his way to her, again (and again and again).
“Carys?” he breathed, her name tasting like the first sip of water after battle, reminding him of his own survival.
“Alistair,” she confirmed, not quite smiling as anyone else might envision it, but smiling in the way he knew was hers alone.
His knees had always been weakened when she looked at him like that, but he let them carry him to the floor this time. Kneeling like a boy, a supplicant, a devotee, he looked up at her with his throat bared and his hands palm up in his lap. There had been a thousand things he wanted to say when he saw her again and, in the moment, not a one seemed sufficient. What could he possibly say that would not chase her to dust or dream? How could he find the perfect words to convince her to stay?
But he did not need to. Calloused, cool fingers slid into his hair, and he could feel her touch linger where he knew he had more gray than she had seen before. He closed his eyes to savor this, brushing the dust from memories of being touched by her a hundred, a thousand, times before. She stroked his temples, touched his forehead, followed the slightly crooked path of his nose, and each touch felt like a slow revival. How could he not recall how to live now that she was here? The thunderbeat of his heart found itself again, a horse freed from the cart to buck and kick and run, and his breath did not burn so much as swell, filling his lungs fully for the first time in years.
The sound of leathers moving told him she was coming closer, but he would have known it even deaf and blind. After all—it was because he knew her presence so keenly that he had lived so hollowed an existence, spurred by the loss of her nearness. Without opening his eyes, he let his hands find her hips to hold for a moment, re-familiarizing himself with the solidity of her before he pulled her closer still. Scarcely satisfied, he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against the strong planes of her belly, and breathed the scent of her again.
She sighed, not at all unhappily but with the same profound contentment that Alistair felt, and her hands carded through his hair to comfort them both. He inhaled, the breath shuddering in his chest, and whispered, “You’re here.”
“I am, vhenan,” Carys answered, her voice rumbling through him like a storm, and Alistair felt helpless joy bubbling up in his soul, unsure if it would result in tears or laughter. “I’m here.”