devaigh

[devaigh]

City Elf Appreciation Week 2025

Day 4- Youth

The childhoods of City Elves are often difficult ones, though happy memories are bound to peek through.

Written for @cityelfweek

Summary: Around the campfire after a difficult choice, Alara reflects on the lessons her mother taught her as a child in Denerim's alienage - lessons about when to fight, when to show mercy, and the true meaning of strength.

The Sharpest Blade

The firelight danced across steel as Alara drew the oiled cloth along Fang's edge, each stroke deliberate and reverent. The dagger gleamed like captured starlight, its ancient elven script seeming to pulse in the flickering flames. Around the camp, her companions had settled into their evening routines, Morrigan deep in study of her mother's grimoire, Alistair polishing his shield with unusual intensity, Wynne organizing her herb pouches, Sten maintaining his blade in stoic silence.

"You are troubled, my Dear Warden" Zevran observed, settling beside her with fluid grace. His golden eyes studied her face in the firelight. "The Circle weighs on your mind, no?"

Alara's hand stilled on the blade. "The templars wanted them all dead. Every last mage. Because some of them turned to blood magic." She resumed her careful cleaning. "I kept thinking... what if someone judged all of us by our worst examples?"

"Ah, but you chose mercy instead of expedience." His fingers traced the air near Fang's blade, not quite touching. "Most would have taken the simpler path. Kill them all, let the Maker sort them out. But you..." He tilted his head, studying her. "You fought with words where others would have used steel. Where did you learn such wisdom?"

Leliana looked up from where she sat fletching arrows, her blue eyes catching the firelight. She said nothing, but Alara caught the subtle shift in her attention.

"My mother taught me that knowing when not to fight is just as important as knowing when to draw steel." Alara's thumb traced the worn grip of her mother's dagger. "I learned that lesson when I was seven years old..."

Red curls stuck to Alara's sweaty forehead, and her split knuckles left bloody smears on her torn sleeve. She sat hunched by the well, green eyes blazing even as she nursed a fat lip.

"Let me guess," Adaia said, settling beside her daughter. "Korren."

"He said Shianni was too scared to climb the old oak." Alara's chin jutted out defiantly. "Said girls can't climb as high as boys anyway."

"So you climbed it?"

"So I broke his nose."

Adaia's fingers found the purple bloom spreading across Alara's freckled cheek. Her daughter's hands were already curling back into fists.

"Shianni was crying when Alarith dragged us apart," Alara muttered. "But not because of Korren anymore."

"Come," Adaia said, standing and offering her hand. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then I think it's time for another lesson."

---

Their small home felt cramped as Adaia carefully cleaned the blood from Alara's knuckles, but she worked in comfortable silence until her daughter's wounds were tended. Only then did she move to the loose floorboard in the corner.

The leather wrapping fell away like shed skin, revealing steel that seemed to drink in the candlelight. Alara had glimpsed the daggers before in quick moments, when her mother thought she wasn't looking, when visitors came asking too many questions. But never like this, never with ceremony.

"This is Fang," Adaia said, lifting the longer blade with both hands. "Known as the Fang of Fen'Harel. It was first drawn in the battles to save the Dales, passed down through our family. From my mother to me..." She met Alara's wide green eyes. "And someday, from me to you."

Alara's breath caught. The blade was beautiful and terrible, inscribed with flowing elven script that seemed to move in the flickering light.

"Your grandmother taught me how to use these." Adaia balanced Fang across her palm. "Not for anger. For choices."

"I had to—"

"Did you?" The question was gentle but firm. "Korren has a broken nose now. His father's angry. What if the humans had heard?"

Alara's scowl faltered.

"When you fight without thinking, you might win that moment," Adaia continued, beginning to demonstrate basic stances. "But you lose the chance to actually change anything. Fear isn't the same as respect, little fox. And it's not the same as understanding."

She guided small hands into position, adjusted the grip on a practice blade. They moved through forms, simple at first, then building complexity. Alara's red curls bounced with each careful strike, her green eyes tracking every movement, already calculating, already learning. There was something fierce and bright in her daughter that reminded Adaia of herself at that age, before the world had taught her to bank that fire.

"So when do I fight?"

"When you've tried everything else. When someone innocent will be hurt if you don't. When it's the last choice left." Adaia caught her daughter's wrist, stilling the practice blade. "But remember, fists and blades have power, yes. But sometimes words cut deeper than any steel. Knowing when to strike, when to stay silent, when to fight back with your tongue instead of your hands... that's real strength."

"What about the humans?"

"Winning the fight isn't winning what comes after." Adaia's voice grew quieter, thinking of the stories she'd heard, the women who'd disappeared, the children who'd learned too young what it meant to be elven in a human world. "We have to be smarter, faster, more careful. Especially us, especially women like us."

Alara frowned, not quite understanding but sensing the weight behind her mother's words.

They practiced until shadows swallowed the candlelight. Strike fast, fade back. Speed over strength. But underneath the techniques, something else, patience, timing, the weight of choosing when to draw steel and when to sheathe it. Alara stumbled through some of the more complex forms, her small hands still learning the balance, but her determination never wavered. Even when she missed a parry or overextended a thrust, she set her jaw and tried again.

"Good," Adaia murmured, watching her daughter work through a difficult sequence. "But remember—the blade is only as wise as the hand that holds it. Anger makes you clumsy. Fear makes you hesitate. But choosing your moment, choosing your battles... that makes you dangerous."

When Adaia wrapped the daggers away, Alara curled against her shoulder, still thinking through everything she'd learned.

"So what if Korren is mean again, Mama?"

"Remember what I said, little one. What do you think?"

Alara touched her bruised cheek, considering. "Talk first. Try to make him understand. Get Alarith if talking doesn't work."

"And if he still doesn't listen?"

"Then I fight." Alara's voice was small but certain. "But I choose when and why."

Adaia kissed copper curls that smelled of sweat and determination. "Good. You're learning that strength isn't about how many fights you win, little fox. It's about knowing which ones are worth fighting in the first place."

---

The fire had burned lower while Alara spoke, casting longer shadows across their camp. She looked up to find both her companions watching her with different expressions, Zevran with something like admiration, Leliana with recognition.

"Your mother was a remarkable woman," Leliana said quietly, setting aside her arrows. "I knew her, briefly. She had a way of seeing past what people expected her to see."

Alara's hands stilled on Fang's blade. "You knew my mother?"

"She helped me once, when I was... in a difficult situation. And I was able to return the favor." Leliana's smile was sad and warm. "She spoke of you often. Said she was raising a daughter who would change the world, if the world was smart enough to listen."

Zevran reached over, his fingers brushing against Alara's knuckles where they gripped the dagger. "She taught you well. At the Circle, when the templars demanded blood for blood... you chose the harder path. You fought with mercy instead of steel."

"Sometimes mercy is the sharpest blade of all," Alara murmured, echoing her mother's words. She looked between her companions, the assassin who'd chosen love over duty, the sister who'd found her faith again in service to others. "My mother used to say that some of them are just people, like us. I think... I think she would have liked you both."

"I know she would," Leliana said softly. "She had a gift for seeing the good in people, even when the world tried to convince her otherwise."

Alara slid Fang back into its sheath, but kept it in her hands. Tomorrow would bring new choices, new battles to fight or avoid. But tonight, surrounded by firelight and the memory of her mother's wisdom, she felt ready for whatever came next. The lessons learned at seven in a cramped alienage home had carried her this far.

They would carry her the rest of the way home.

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

XXX

[devaigh]

XXVIII

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

Hawke that dies in the fade is heartbreaking for Varric, but a Hawke that is alive for Veilguard is DEVASTATING for Hawke. Varric without Hawke is one thing but Hawke without Varric is insane. That’s an outcome neither one of them expected. Do you understand what I am saying

[devaigh]

Under what banner?

Non!

[devaigh]

Dragon Age Kiss Week 2025

Day 7 -Celebration

On the morning of their wedding day, nervous pre-ceremony jitters threaten to overwhelm both the Hero of Ferelden and her king. But with gentle reassurances and tender moments, Alistair and Arya remind each other that whatever challenges await them as rulers, they'll face them together - just as they always have.

A Crown of Love

Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the royal chambers, casting everything in warm gold. Arya stood before the ornate mirror while activity swirled around her, court ladies arranging flowers, servants pressing ribbons, and somewhere in the organized chaos, final adjustments being made to the wedding dress that hung like a promise against the wardrobe doors. Her long blonde hair had been carefully styled into soft curls that framed her face, with only the final touches remaining.

But Arya barely saw any of it. Her reflection stared back with wide, uncertain eyes, not the confident gaze of the Hero of Ferelden, but something far more vulnerable.

"Your Grace," one of the ladies was saying, "we really must finish with your hair if we're to have you ready—"

"She has a moment," Leliana said quietly from her position near the window, keen eyes catching the subtle tension in Arya's shoulders. "The ceremony won't begin without the bride."

A soft knock interrupted the discussion. Arya's heart jumped as she heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

"Is she... that is, might I have a word with Lady Cousland? Before..."

Alistair. Even through the thick door, she could hear the nervous energy that meant he was likely running a hand through his hair.

The court ladies exchanged scandalized looks. "Your Majesty, it's hardly proper—"

"Ladies," Leliana said with gentle authority, moving toward the door. "I think the Hero of Ferelden deserves a moment with His Majesty, don't you?"

Something in her tone brooked no argument. The ladies might outrank a former lay sister by birth, but none had fought beside the future queen against an Archdemon.

"Come now," Leliana continued, already ushering them toward the door. "I'll stand watch."

The door opened hesitantly, and Alistair stepped inside. He wore the formal attire of House Theirin, crimson velvet with gold trim and white accents, though his nervous fingers had already begun disturbing his carefully styled hair. The circlet marking him as king sat slightly askew.

He stopped short when he saw her, his eyes widening slightly. She was still in her silk dressing gown, her golden curls catching the morning light, but there was something different, softer, more radiant than he'd ever seen her. For a moment, he seemed to forget how to speak.

"I..." he started, then cleared his throat. "You look... I mean, you're..." He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. "Maker's breath, Arya. You're beautiful."

A blush colored her cheeks at his words, but she could see the concern creeping into his expression as he took in her posture, the tension in her shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, crossing to her. Without hesitation, she stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his waist as she pressed her face against his chest. His arms came around her immediately, one hand settling at the small of her back while the other smoothed over her carefully styled curls.

"I faced down an Archdemon without feeling this nervous," she murmured against his chest. "But this... today..."

"The Archdemon was trying to kill us," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Today, we're just promising to love each other forever in front of everyone we've ever met. Completely different."

Despite everything, she smiled against his chest. But then she pulled back slightly to look up at him. "Alistair, I'm the reason you're king. I stood up at the Landsmeet and the people loved Anora. What if—"

"Hey." His voice was soft but firm, his hands framing her face gently. "We made that choice together. You gave me the courage to accept what I was too afraid to claim."

"But what if I'm not good at this? Being queen is rather different from swinging a sword at darkspawn."

"Then we'll figure it out together. Just like we stopped a Blight, united the kingdom, faced an Archdemon." He drew her back into his arms, holding her close. "We're better together, Arya. We always have been."

She relaxed against him, drawing comfort from his warmth and steady heartbeat. "My parents should be here. And Oriana and Oren."

"I know." His thumb traced her knuckles. "And Morrigan should be here too, making cutting comments about excessive pageantry while secretly being pleased."

Tears pricked Arya's eyes. "She saved us both. Without her ritual..." She swallowed hard. "We wouldn't be here."

"No, we wouldn't." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "She gave us this chance. And someday, we'll find her and make sure she knows how grateful we are."

They held each other in comfortable silence until Alistair pulled back slightly, straightening his circlet with nervous fingers.

"Well," he said, returning to his familiar self-deprecating tone, "I suppose we should go through with this. They've already prepared all that food."

"Such romantic words, Your Majesty."

"Oh, you know me. Smooth as... well, you know I'm not." He drew her close again, expression turning tender. "Arya, I love you. More than I ever thought possible. Whatever comes next, whatever challenges we face as rulers, we'll face them together. And at the end of each day, when we close our chamber door and set aside the crowns, we'll still just be us."

"Just us," she repeated, the words like balm to her worried heart.

He stepped back reluctantly, straightening his shoulders. "Right then. Time to get married." He moved toward the door, then paused with that slightly awkward smile she'd fallen in love with. "Try not to trip on your dress when you walk down that aisle, I've got enough nerves for both of us about tripping over my own ceremonial sword."

Her smile was radiant now, all earlier fears melted away. "I'll be there."

Alistair grinned and crossed back to her, leaning down to capture her lips in a soft, sweet kiss full of promise and reassurance. When they broke apart, he touched his forehead to hers briefly, his eyes warm with love and anticipation.

"Save room for the next one," he said with a wink, and then he was gone, leaving her heart light and ready to become his queen.

---

An hour later, Arya stood before the great doors in her wedding gown, her hand resting on Fergus's arm. The dress was a masterpiece of Ferelden craftsmanship—ivory silk with intricate gold embroidery that caught the light. Her mother's sapphires glittered at her throat, the only jewelry she wore. Beside her, Fergus wore the formal blue and white of House Cousland.

"Ready, little sister?" Fergus asked softly.

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. "I'm so proud of you. Mother and Father would be—"

"I know," she interrupted gently, squeezing his arm. She couldn't bear the words spoken aloud, not when joy and grief sat so closely together.

The great doors swung open. The assembled nobility rose as one, the throne room packed with standing guests, far too many nobles, dignitaries, and citizens who wanted to witness the Grey Wardens who saved the world pledge their lives to each other. But Arya barely saw the transformed throne room with its flowers and banners. Her eyes found Alistair immediately, standing at the far end in his crimson, gold, and white, and everything else faded away.

It was just them, as it had always been. Him looking nervous and proud and utterly devoted, her walking toward their future with steady steps. Their friends watched from the crowd—Wynne dabbing her eyes, Zevran's encouraging smile, Sten positioned near the back corner with Barkspawn sitting alertly beside him, his presence alone a testament to his loyalty, Leliana watching with quiet joy, and even Oghren trying to hide the fact that his eyes had grown suspiciously bright.

The ceremony passed in a dream of ancient words and sacred vows. When the moment came, Alistair's voice was clear and strong, and hers never wavered as she promised to stand beside him.

"I pronounce you husband and wife," the Grand Cleric declared. "You may kiss your bride, Your Majesty."

"I pronounce you husband and wife," the Grand Cleric declared. "You may kiss your bride, Your Majesty."

Alistair's hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as he smiled down at her with such pure joy it made her heart soar. He leaned down and she rose to meet him, their lips coming together in a kiss triumphant and joyful, sealing not just their marriage but their partnership as rulers. The crowd erupted around them, but all Arya could hear was Alistair's whispered "I love you" against her lips before they parted, both grinning like fools.

--

Hours later, as celebration reached its peak, Alistair rose from the high table. The great hall gradually quieted as nobles and companions turned their attention to their king.

"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice carrying easily. "Friends who have stood with us through the darkest times." His eyes found each companion, Wynne beaming with maternal pride, Zevran raising his cup in mock salute, Sten watching silently from his corner, his steady gaze conveying approval that needed no words, Oghren wiping suspiciously at his eyes with the back of his hand, Leliana watching with gentle support.

"Tonight we celebrate not just a wedding, but the dawn of a new era for Ferelden. An era built on sacrifice, friendship, and the hope that even in darkness, love endures." He turned to Arya, extending his hand. "But most importantly, we celebrate the woman who saved our kingdom, who stood against impossible odds and emerged victorious."

Arya rose, taking his offered hand, her heart full at the love and admiration in his eyes.

"May I present," Alistair continued, lifting her hand to his lips, "my bride, my partner, my queen—Her Majesty, Queen Arya of Ferelden."

The kiss he pressed to her hand was formal, courtly, but when he looked up, his eyes held everything they couldn't say aloud, their shared fears and hopes, the love that had carried them through the Blight, all their private promises about facing whatever came next together.

She looked back with the same depth of feeling. For a heartbeat, they weren't king and queen surrounded by politics and responsibility. They were just Alistair and Arya, two people who had found love in darkness and chosen to build something beautiful together.

Then his hands were sliding into her hair, mindful of the careful styling, and she was rising on her toes to meet him. Their lips came together in a kiss both tender and fierce, private and public, an ending and beginning all at once.

The crowd erupted around them, but they barely heard it. Surrounded by their friends' joy and the promise of their shared future, they were exactly where they belonged—together, always together, ready to face whatever tomorrow might bring.

|And Dragon Age Kiss Week is COMPLETE! Huzzah!!! |

[devaigh]

the DA fandom is eating good this week :D

We ate SO GOOD!

I'm going to keep an eye on the tag for probably another week or so to catch any stragglers, so we might continue to feast, lolol. But, seriously, this week has been a true delight, and I am floored by how much passion, creativity, and what a strong sense of community I've witnessed.

I couldn't be happier with our little corner of the DA Fandom right now :D.

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

›   FIRST   TOUCH   PROMPTS    →    receiver   to   sender.

brushing   hair   behind   their   ear

hands   grazing   while   reaching   for   the   same   object

catching   them   by   the   waist

helping   them   up   and   not   letting   go

fixing   their   collar   or   necklace

knees   bumping   under   the   table

tucking   something   off   their   face

draping   a   coat   over   their   shoulders

pinkies   brushing

falling   asleep   on   their   shoulder

touching   their   wrist

hand   falling   over   theirs   mid-laugh

fixing   their   tie   or   jewelry

whispering   with   a   hand   on   their   knee

lingering   touch   while   passing   an   object

playful   hand   to   the   chest

hands   meeting   in   the   dark

wiping   away   a   tear

stopping   them   by   the   wrist

buttoning   their   shirt   or   jacket

dancing   for   the   first   time

hands   meeting   over   a   shared   item

tending   to   a   wound

shoulder   bump   turning   into   leaning

touching   their   heart

cleaning   a   cut

brushing   hands   at   an   event

tripping   into   their   arms

untying   them   from   restraints

fastening   a   necklace

shoulders   brushing   in   a   crowd

helping   with   a   coat

adjusting   their   posture

guiding   with   a   hand   on   the   back

brushing   something   off   their   shoulder

carrying   them

hiding   in   a   tight   space

dabbing   a   cut   on   the   lip

steadying   them   over   a   step

holding   their   hand   while   dazed

falling   into   each   other

cupping   their   face

pulling   them   into   a   protective   hold

holding   hands   after   a   nightmare

sharing   a   coat   pocket

removing   something   from   their   face

helping   unzip   a   dress

brushing   hair   off   their   forehead

touching   their   cheek   while   laughing

tracing   a   faint   scar   or   mark

pressing   a   palm   to   their   back

resting   their   chin   on   their   shoulder

reaching   out   to   stop   them   mid-step

straightening   their   glasses   or   hat

helping   them   into   a   seat

lifting   them   over   a   puddle   or   obstacle

touching   their   jaw   while   talking

fixing   a   loose   button   or   strap

cleaning   something   off   their   lip

giving   their   hand   a   reassuring   squeeze

resting   their   hand   on   the   small   of   their   back

brushing   snow   or   dust   from   their   hair

holding   their   hand   during   a   scary   moment

steadying   them   as   they   climb   or   balance

touching   their   arm   to   get   their   attention

pulling   them   close   for   a   photo

grabbing   their   hand   to   run   together

placing   their   hand   over   theirs

pinning   a   flower   or   corsage   on   their   outfit

sliding   fingers   into   theirs   during   silence

wiping   a   smudge   off   their   face

catching   them   as   they   faint

brushing   dirt   from   their   cheek

pulling   them   into   shelter   from   rain

slipping   their   hand   into   a   pocket   for   warmth

leaning   against   their   shoulder   while   laughing

reaching   for   them   in   the   dark

resting   a   head   on   their   lap

catching   their   face   before   a   fall

holding   them   upright   while   tipsy

brushing   fingers   along   their   sleeve

guiding   their   hand   while   drawing   or   writing

removing   an   eyelash   from   their   cheek

helping   them   zip   up   a   coat

pulling   a   twig   from   their   hair

offering   their   hand   to   dance

cradling   their   hand   during   a   tense   moment

brushing   past   them   in   a   narrow   hallway

clasping   their   arm   to   steady   them

pressing   their   forehead   to   theirs

leaning   in   to   whisper   against   their   ear

holding   onto   their   sleeve

resting   a   hand   on   their   thigh

smoothing   their   hair   gently

tracing   a   line   across   their   palm

gently   lifting   their   chin

bumping   into   them   and   staying   close

catching   their   hand   mid-gesture

brushing   crumbs   off   their   lips

squeezing   their   arm   for   comfort

[devaigh]

[devaigh]

woah there, cool guy

[devaigh]

City Elf Appreciation Week 2025

Day 3 - All Soul's Day

The annum that takes place at the beginning of August, or Matrinalis. It is a day of remembrance.

Written for @cityelfweek

The first All Soul's Day after the Blight brings all of Ferelden together to mourn their losses. Two survivors reflect on the cost of victory and the people they couldn't save.

Those We Carry

The morning air in Denerim carried the weight of approaching winter and something heavier still, the collective grief of a nation still counting its dead. Alara stood before the memorial in the city's heart, watching as people filed past the simple stone monument that bore no names but somehow contained them all. King Cailan. Duncan. The mages of the Circle. The soldiers of Ostagar. The entire village of Lothering, erased from the map as if it had never been.

Too many to name. Too many to forget.

"Strange to think this time last year, we were preparing for Ostagar," Alistair said quietly, approaching from her left. He wore his crown today, but his posture was that of the young Templar she'd met in the Korcari Wilds, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar gesture of uncertainty.

Alara started to incline her head in a bow of respect, but Alistair's hand shot out to stop her.

"Don't," he said firmly. "You don't need to do that. Not you."

"You're the king, Alistair. It's protocol—"

"It's weird," he interrupted, a slight smile softening his words. "You're my sister-in-arms, Alara. My friend. I'm not fond of the bowing in general, but especially not from you."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "We're both here for the same reason today."

Duncan. The name hung unspoken between them, heavy as the grey stone of the memorial itself. Alara's hand moved unconsciously to her side, a gesture born of years of checking weapons that weren't there. Duncan had seen her mother's dagger that first day, had understood what it meant to carry the dead with you.

"He would have liked seeing this," she said, nodding toward the crowd that had gathered. Humans, Dwarves and elves standing together, nobles and commoners sharing the same space, the same grief. "All of Ferelden mourning together. Duncan respected everyone, regardless of race or station."

"He would have been proud of you," Alistair replied. "Both of us, but especially you. Look what you've built here, Alara. The Wardens are growing again. People have hope."

She watched a group of children lay wildflowers at the base of the memorial, their small faces solemn in the way children became when they sensed the gravity of adult emotions they couldn't quite understand. Some of them had probably lost parents, siblings, entire families to the darkspawn. Others were too young to remember the terror, but they felt the shadow of it in their parents' careful silences.

"Sometimes I think about what he saw in us," Alara said. "Two recruits who barely knew which end of a sword to hold, and he looked at us like we could save the world."

"You did save the world," Alistair said quietly. "You dealt the killing blow, you ended the Blight. I just... I survived it."

Alara turned to face him fully, her expression serious. "Alistair."

"I know what people call you. The Hero of Ferelden. And they're right." His voice was firm despite the emotion in it. "But standing here, looking at all these people who lost everything... I keep thinking about how close we came to losing. If you hadn't been there, if you hadn't made that final strike..."

"I did what was necessary. It was my duty."

"Because someone had to," Alistair said simply. "Someone had to carry on what Duncan started. Someone had to rebuild the Wardens, to make sure this never happens again. He chose well, Alara. He chose someone who would never stop fighting for the people who couldn't fight for themselves."

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Zevran standing at the edge of the square, his golden hair catching the pale sunlight. He had positioned himself where he could see her but remain unobtrusive, understanding without being told that this moment belonged to her grief, her responsibilities. But knowing he was there, that he had come back to Denerim with her for this, steadied something in her chest.

A woman approached the memorial now, elderly and bent with age, carrying a single white rose. Alara recognized her—Mirana from the alienage, whose son had died fighting darkspawn in the city's final defense. The old woman's weathered hands trembled as she placed the flower with the others.

"My mother used to bring flowers to the Chantry on All Soul's Day," Alara found herself saying. "White roses, if she could afford them. She'd light a candle for her parents, for the friends she'd lost over the years. I never understood why she looked so sad on a day that was supposed to be about remembering good things."

"And now?"

"Now I think maybe grief and love aren't so different. Maybe remembering the good things hurts because it reminds you of what's gone."

Alistair was quiet for a long moment, watching the steady stream of mourners approach the memorial. "Duncan used to say that the dead don't really leave us. That we carry them forward in the choices we make, the lives we choose to live."

"Do you believe that?"

"I have to," he said. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"

The formal dedication would begin soon. Alistair would speak to the crowd about sacrifice and remembrance, about Ferelden's strength in the face of darkness. Alara would stand beside him, the Hero of Ferelden honoring the fallen, playing the role that history had carved out for her. But for now, in this quiet moment before duty called, she allowed herself to simply be Alara Tabris, daughter of the alienage, missing her mother and her mentor and all the people who should have lived to see this day.

"Your Majesty?" A voice called from behind them—one of Alistair's advisors, approaching with the careful deference required by public ceremony. "It's time."

Alistair straightened, the crown on his head catching the light as he transformed from grieving young man back into the King of Ferelden. "Ready, Warden Commander?"

Alara glanced once more toward Zevran, drawing strength from his steady presence, then nodded. "Ready."

They walked together toward the raised platform where the formal ceremony would take place, two survivors carrying the weight of the dead forward into whatever future they could build from the ashes of the past. Behind them, the memorial stood silent and enduring, a promise that Ferelden would not forget the price of its salvation.

---

Later, when the crowds had dispersed and the formal words had been spoken, Alara found herself at the smaller memorial in the alienage. The stone here was simpler, but the sentiment was the same, a recognition that elven lives mattered, that their losses counted in the grand tally of Ferelden's grief.

Zevran appeared at her side as if summoned by her need for him, his presence warm and familiar in the cooling evening air.

"Ah, there you are, mi amor," he said with gentle teasing in his voice. "I was beginning to wonder if you had run off without me. Such a shame that would be, leaving me to wander Denerim alone and bereft."

A small smile tugged at her lips despite the weight of the day. "Bereft, really? You'd probably charm half of Denerim before sunset."

She leaned into him, grateful for the solid warmth of his body, the way he smelled of leather and steel and something indefinably him.

Her expression grew more serious. "Thank you for being here. For coming with me."

"Where else would I be?" His arm came around her, holding her close. "You carry so much, Alara. Let me carry some of it with you."

She thought about Duncan, about the mentor who had seen something in a frightened city elf and given her purpose. About her mother, who had taught her to fight and to survive but hadn't lived to see what her daughter would become. About all the people sleeping beneath Ferelden's soil who would never see another All Soul's Day.

"I love you," she whispered against Zevran's shoulder, the words carrying all the weight of survival and loss and the fierce determination to keep living despite it all.

"Yes, yes I know." He murmured back, that familiar hint of mischief in his voice. "It's because I'm charming."

Alara rolled her eyes with a smile, pulling back to look at him. "Insufferable is more like it."

The memorial stood silent in the growing dusk, keeping watch over the living and the dead alike, while somewhere in the distance, the bells of the Chantry began to toll, not in celebration, but in remembrance, marking the end of Ferelden's first All Soul's Day since the world had nearly ended.

And somehow, despite everything, that felt like hope.