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andrastesflamingknickers · 1 year ago

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Jealousy Is A Bitter Flavor Pt. 1

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The blighted woman stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” Morrigan purred with obvious delight. “You're jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

Orzammar was a peculiar place. Impressive, certainly. Alistair was baffled just trying to figure out how people so small could make ceilings so grand, but the dwarves of old had always been unmatched in their architectural skills, or so the legends went, and the dwarves of now were just as impressive with their crafts work, so really, he shouldn’t try to question it too much.

They had been travelling for a good number of months, and after all their hard work, the only one left to call upon for their obligations to the Wardens were the dwarves. Personally, Alistair was looking forward to their help the most; they were more familiar with fighting the darkspawn than any of their allies. That, and dwarves were hardy fighters. He was liking their chances of ending this Blight more and more.

Outsiders were rare enough in the city that they were collecting stares and whispers as they trudged onward. Many recognized them as Wardens, but that knowledge did nothing to curb the suspicion and curiosity.

“Perhaps we should have dressed in the likeness of merchants or of the such,” Morrigan muttered as they walked. “We are gaining a following of onlookers.”

“Really? I can’t picture you in a merchant’s bland tunic,” Elio Tabris said with a short laugh that had a wheeze to it, yet sounded like bells to Alistair. He felt something in his stomach twist as the man sidled up to Morrigan to bump affectionately against her. “I’m sure they’ve just never seen someone quite as lovely as you. Perhaps if you hunched a little and added years to your face, their ogling will cease.”

Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste, “I’d rather not find out if I’ll grow to resemble my mother, thank you very much.”

Elio laughed again, and by all accounts his laugh wasn’t some harmonious, musical thing. Sten had even said one night that the young man’s laughter sounded more like a dying horse than anything else, and yet Alistair couldn’t help but enjoy it all the same. It always brought a smile to his face when he heard the long wheeze followed by several beating chuckles.

But that smile was quick to go away as he watched Elio push himself onto the tips of his toes for some extra height, all so he could give Morrigan a swift peck on the cheek. He was gone with several quick, long strides just as fast, joining Wynne a few paces ahead as the elder woman examined a rune carving of some kind on a wall, too far ahead now for him to hear what the elf was saying.

That twist in his stomach worsened, a bitter poison on his tongue as he watched Morrigan bring a hand to her cheek and smile softly as she watched Elio.

They had been like this for a while, now. Alistair hadn’t thought much of it at first, not when the flirting began. Elio was just like that; he flirted with pretty much everyone in their group, to a point that Alistair was sure that the man wasn’t even aware he came off as flirty. He was just trying to be nice and playful, and was just too charming for his own good.

So, when Elio and Morrigan began their playful back and forth banter, Alistair ignored it as his friend just being friendly, wanting to be on good terms with the maleficar. When Elio began spending more time at camp with her, lingering with Morrigan for talks that went on longer and longer, Alistair shrugged it off. Elio always made time to talk to everyone when they set up camp, Morrigan was hardly anything special in that regard. Their elf was just a considerate fellow.

Andraste’s blood! He even went out of his way to find gifts for everyone, he actually paid attention to their interests, to what they said, and would always find something to gift them. To try and make them all a little happier in these dismal times, he had put it.

He’d even found and returned to Alistair his mother’s amulet. Alistair had honestly never expected his friend to have even paid attention when he rambled on about his pathetic life and how he broke it during a childish fit of anger at Eamon. Yet Elio found it while exploring the castle for clues on what had happened to the boy, and for other way to save him and Eamon, and he had returned it to Alistair for no other reason than that it had been important to the older Warden.

Perhaps that was when Alistair started looking at Elio and seeing something more than a fellow Warden or a friend.

But then he started noticing the way Elio would blush, the way his ears would burn red at Morrigan’s teasing, and the almost loopy smile he’d have when returning to the campfire each night after talking with her. There was an obvious shift to the banter between them, what he had shrugged off as meaningless, idle flirtation becoming something real. Alistair felt the bitter taste return when he remembered the first morning he’d seen Elio returning to the rest of the camp from the tent Morrigan always kept away from the others, the way his hair was tousled more than it normally was in the morning, the way he glowed, and of the hint of love bites that covered his neck that his armor almost completely hid.

As the months progressed, their relationship, whatever it may be, had also progressed—and the bitter seed inside of Alistair, that burned worse than the darkspawn blood during the Joining, continued to grow.

Elio was his friend, and even though he was far from fond of Morrigan, he should be happy and supportive that Elio was able to find joy and love in whatever his relationship with the witch was, be it physical intimacy or something deeper. He should be happy for his friend. But he wasn’t, and Alistair wasn’t sure what bothered him more. That he had chosen Morrigan, out of everyone in their group, to be with.

Or that he chose Morrigan over Alistair.

Biting his tongue, the older warden tried to shake those thoughts of jealousy and bitterness from his mind. Tried to shrug off how much it hurt to see Elio getting so close and chummy and intimate with someone as cruel and vile as Morrigan. Surely the ache in his chest wouldn’t hurt half as much if his friend was wooing Leliana or Zevran. Maker knows the two rogues were both making cow eyes at the man when they thought no one was looking. Alistair was probably no better in that regard.

He watched as Elio began chatting with a young and rather excitable looking dwarven woman for a minute, before he gestured for Wynne to come over. Alistair only heard bits of the conversation, a word here and there, that made it clear the subject was of magic.

Leaving the two to their conversation, Alistair tried to busy himself with their surroundings. Tried to distract himself by marveling at the wonders that was the architecture of the thaig, of the light and warmth they had despite being so deep underground, and just how much more structurally sound everything down here felt in comparison to topside. He tried to keep his attention on everything but the pain in his chest and the source of the ache.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Eventually his gaze landed on Morrigan who was admiring the statue of one of the dwarven Paragons. Or, perhaps admiring wasn’t the right word. Knowing Morrigan, she was likely judging and mocking it, Alistair wasn’t even sure she had the capability to genuinely admire and praise something.

In spite of common sense, Alistair approached the witch. “So,” he started, keeping his voice quiet enough that it wouldn’t catch Elio’ attention, though he was sure he could be yelling, and his friend wouldn’t noticed. Too engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with Wynne and the dwarf. “Dare I ask? What’s the deal with you and him?”

Alistair knew better than to ask, knew that this topic was in dangerous waters. Leliana had tried to broach the subject not too long ago, while they were making the long hike up the Frostback Mountains just to get to Orzammar in the first place. She had asked Morrigan about her relationship with Elio, and while Alistair knew it was a private conversation, he had eavesdropped anyways. Morrigan had denied there being any love, claimed it was purely passion—and that that made it superior to one of love.

He didn’t agree with the sentiment.

He didn’t like the implications, either.

Elio was clearly head over heels for her, for reasons he would never understand. He had seen the looks he gave the witch, the soft expressions, the silly smiles, the look of pure adoration whenever she wasn’t paying attention. If Morrigan didn’t love him back, then she didn’t deserve to be with him. Disregarding Alistairs own feelings on the relationship, his friend didn’t deserve someone who didn’t love him back, someone only wanted him for the physicality of a relationship.

Morrigan looked at him with a look of disdain he was all too familiar with from her, a mutual animosity between them. “Him? Him, who?” she asked, her brow quirking and her tone taking on exasperated confusion. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him by purposely pretending not to know, or truly didn’t get who he was referring to. “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Alistair gestured to where Elio was, attention too engrossed with his own business to notice their own conversation. “You and Mister Let’s-Make-Kissy-Faces over there,” he said, and tried to ignore the following twist to his chest as he said it.

The blighted witch stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” she purred with obvious delight. “You are jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

He hated her so, so much. “I’m not jealous!” Alistair argued back, louder than he meant to, feeling his face flush at her teasing. What did Elio see in this wretched woman? “I’m horrified!” Horrified that his friend would ever find her likable to such a degree. She had a pretty face, sure, but a pretty face didn’t change the fact that she was a horrible woman who took pleasure from tormenting others.

“Those blushing cheeks of yours tell a different tale,” Morrigan smirked as she reached out, pointing at his face, a glimmer in her eyes that always told him there was trouble afoot.

Alistair took a step away from her, his blush worsened, and he hated that it was because she was right. “These blushing cheeks are terrified that you’ll suck all the blood out of them once you’re done with him,” he lied.

Morrigan laughed again, bringing a curled finger to hover over her smirk. “If I feel the need to suck on anything of yours, Alistair, you will be the first to know,” she said, and the flush in his face began to pale at the innuendo, at the thought of him and her together. “Though I am sure it is not me you would prefer to do the sucking. Perhaps you would rather join in the next time he and I share a bed, so that he might touch you the way he touches me?”

Just as fast the flush was back with an even greater intensity as Alistair stuttered and spluttered, his mind fraying at the seams, trying to find the words to respond to what she had said, trying to even comprehend what she had said. “I—no, that’s not—you know that’s not—” he started and stopped, verbally flailing pathetically like a drowning man.

It only served to amuse the witch even more as she turned her attention to Elio, who it had seemed had finished up whatever business he had with the dwarf and Wynne. “Or better yet, we should go and tell him together of your touching concerns,” she said, taking a step towards them as she said it, and looked back at him with a predatory smile. “Perhaps he will pay more attention to you if you ask him nicely.”

Alistair turned his back to her, “Uh-huh, I think we’re done here,” he said, and it was the only thing he could think of to end this wreck of a conversation before it got worst. The more she had spoken, the more he wanted to bury himself deeper into the ground. He knew he shouldn’t have talked to her, why, oh, why did he go ahead and do it anyway?

“Done before you started, in fact,” Morrigan added, just to rub salt into his wounds.

When he turned to look back, she had left and had joined Elio at his side, the two of them and Wynne discussing something between just them. The only comfort Alistair got from the sight was the look of annoyance that flashed across Morrigan’s face, telling him that she, at the very least, didn’t like the conversation.

For a moment, Elio looked up and their eyes met, and Alistair felt warmth blossom in his chest at the smile his fellow Warden gave him. But that warmth was gone just as quick when Elio turned his gaze to Morrigan—busy arguing with Wynne over something Circle-magic-mage related to even notice him—and his smile grew softer, lovelorn. Alistair wanted to throw up.

“Right,” Alistair said, pushing those feelings down deep inside of himself as he approached the rest of the group. “What now? By the sounds of everything, we’re not going to find much support from the dwarves until their whole kind debacle is solved. So, what’s our plan?” he asked, and tried not to think of how Orzammar’s civil war of succession hit a little too close to home with Ferelden’s civil war of succession.

Elio hummed, a hand to his chin as he thought about it. “I really hate being in this position,” he said after a long pause, moving his hand from his chin to his head, running it through his chestnut brown strands of hair. “We need the dwarves help in battling the darkspawn, but it’s as they told us over and over; the treaty only says the king is obligated to help us, not their Assembly or whatever. Until a new king is chosen, it’s unlikely we’ll be getting their help at all.”

“The dwarves are in a never-ending war with the darkspawn, is it little wonder that our Blight might seem inconsequential to their foolhardy Assembly?” Morrigan asked with a slight scoff. “I dare say they might be rather happy that the darkspawn have migrated to the surface. It makes for emptier tunnels, and an easier time for their own futile attempts to reclaim their ancient thaigs.”

“I’m sure they’re not celebrating Ferelden’s turmoil,” Elio said with a soft smile before shaking his head, “But, back on the topic at hand, she’s right. The Assembly isn’t obligated to help us, and right now the Blight is the least of their concerns.”

Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really hate to say it, but since they’re in a deadlock on finding a new king, we might have to step in and put someone on the throne just so we can get the treaties fulfilled.” He hated saying it. The Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to be involved in politics; they weren’t supposed to get involved in matters of civil dispute. But… he supposed they were both rather piss poor wardens in that regard.

Elio just had a knack for getting involved in every little problem. It was like he was a bloodhound when it came to people in need, and Alistair had yet to see him actually turn down helping someone, no matter how out of his way it was. On one hand, Alistair admired that part of his friend—it showed that he truly did have a heart of gold. He wanted to make the world better, not just in protecting them from darkspawn, but in the little things, too. On the other hand, it got frustrating being dragged into every little problem that were really none of their concern.

Helping Orzammar get a new king was a massive overstep, one that Alistair knew Duncan would never have approved of. But it was necessary. Right now, it was the only way he could think of to get the dwarves aid in the Blight.

“You’re right,” Elio agreed, which soothed some of the guilt Alistair felt. “The downside is, we don’t actually know enough about either candidate or of Orzammar in general to be able to choose who would be best for us and the people.”

“In that case, just take a copper and flip it,” Morrigan said as she placed a hand on her hip, her other raised, drawing loops in the air with her finger. “It should make little difference to us whether tis the blood son or the advisor who sits on the throne, they will both be obligated by your precious treaties to aide you.”

Wynne had a disapproving frown at the notion. “Something like this is far too important and delicate of a matter to leave up to something as simplistic as a toss of a coin,” she scolded, though it was clear Morrigan wasn’t even listening to her. “I suggest we ask around, try to learn more about this Bhelen and Harrowmont before we make a decision one way or the other.”

And that was part of why Alistair liked Wynne. She was so sensible, far more than many of their companions were. Always a soothing voice of reason. “I agree with her,” he said, raising his hand up slightly. “I’d like to make sure that whoever we lend our support to isn’t anti-Grey Warden, that we can trust will actually follow through with their promise of aide.”

Another moment of silence filled the air around them, broken only by the sounds and chatters of Orzammar itself, before Elio broke it with another hum. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ll split up, ask around, and meet up at the tavern after a while to put together everything we’ve learned. Then we can make a decision. That sound okay with everyone?”

With no one having any arguments, they all split off to investigate different parts for the next handful of hours, careful to avoid Dust Town on their own.

Alistair was a generally friendly person, but the dwarves weren’t necessarily as open to his friendship as most were, and he was hardly a pro at bargaining. But there were enough locals who seemed fascinated by him enough, whether by being human or by being a Warden, that he was able to get bits and pieces, much of it contradicting due to the nature of the ones telling him being biased to either Harrowmont or Bhelen. Nevertheless, he took what information he could find and stitched it together like a poorly made patchwork quilt until he could get some semblance of a picture of what was going on.

The old king was dead, that was a set-in stone fact.

What was heavily debated was the cause of his and his older two sons deaths. The oldest one was killed by fratricide, the middle son given the blame and without so much as a proper investigation or trial, was sent to the Deep Roads in exile to die. Harrowmont’s following believed Bhelen to have been involved, that he was the one who actually killed the eldest, and they claimed that even the old king had suspected his son’s involvement, and that was why he chose Harrowmont as his successor instead.

On the other hand, Bhelen’s supporters accused Harrowmont of weakening Orzammar. That he took advantage of the king’s failing health to plant the seeds of lies and doubt in his mind, and that he was never actually named successor—he was the only one in the room when the king died, no one could prove or disprove what Endrin said to him in his final moments. What Alistair found most concerning were the whispers that he’d further worsen the divide between nobles and casteless, and that he would rather cut the city off from the surface entirely, even at the cost of their own wellbeing.

Bhelen was called a reformist, which was good, that he wanted to strengthen their ties with the surface where Harrowmont wanted to weaken them. But he was possibly a murderer, possibly behind his brothers and fathers deaths. Harrowmont, for all that he could find, seemed like a man of strong morals, and seemed more politically savvy, but he seemed to cling dangerously tight to traditions.

Personally, the more he learned and listened, the more he wasn’t sure about either side. They were reasons to support and oppose in equal measures. Freaking politics, second only to the Darkspawn in his list of things he hated.

After a few hours, Alistair made his way back to the inn that Elio had chosen for them to stay at for the night. There was little else in terms of information he had been able to find, to the point he felt like he was just wandering around like an aimless idiot. He did, however, come across a merchant during his search, and even managed to buy something at a discount. Or the merchant told him it was a discount, for all Alistair knew, it could have been double the price. Which was fine, he was willing to pay triple the price for it.

It wasn’t anything especially fancy, but it was a necklace with a stone carved to look like a dog in the center. Elio liked dogs. He’d talked at lengths during the first few days after the mabari joined them about how he had always wanted one as a kid. But you don’t get dogs in the alienage unless they’re with the guards and dragging people out of their homes by the jaws. Other than that, there was always the occasional starving stray that never stuck around for long. He’d been so happy when the mabari, named Garahel; after the hero of the last Blight, had chosen him as its new master.

It was stupid, Alistair knew this, and yet as soon as he’d seen the stone dog necklace, he had to buy it. Elio was always giving them gifts, and yet he wasn’t sure if any of them had ever gotten him something in return. There was a swell of guilt that rushed through him at the thought.

When he finally reached the tavern, after only getting lost once, he was unsurprised to find that Elio was already there. He was, however, surprised to find him in an argument with a drunken dwarf at one of the tables.

Or perhaps argument wasn’t the right word. The man was flushed in the face and yelling, and Elio was just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, staring the dwarf down as he was being yelled at. There was a tightness to his expression, and he kept gripping his own bicep between clenched fingers, all signs Alistair knew and recognized as his friend trying his hardest to stay calm, to not start yelling back at the dwarf—or worse.

For as much as he came off as cheerful, as easy to get along with, and was shown to be exceptionally kind; Alistair had met few who possessed the same level of rage that his fellow Warden harbored. Part of Alistair couldn’t blame him for the anger, he’d be angry too if he had gone through everything the other had. Regardless, Alistair had learned rather quickly that just because Elio was better at hiding his anger and better at controlling it than most, it didn’t mean the wrath was not there. When that anger came out; blood was spilled.

An angry Elio was a more terrifying foe to fight than the darkspawn.

Which was why he was immediately worried that a fight was about to break out, that Elio was about to do something that would, at the very best, get them exiled from Orzammar.

He quickly made his way to them.

“We need someone like Harrowmont leading us! Bhelen is nothing more than fatricidal scum! Tyrant in the mah-making!” the dwarf screamed, broken by a hiccup as he pointed at Elio with a glower. “If you’re gunna side with Bhelen, then you’d be better off dying. I don’t care Warden or not, you go against Harrowmont an’ I’ll kill ya myself! Right here!”

Elio said nothing, but his lip curled back with a wordless snarl.

Alistair shouldered his way between them with a wary laugh, “Hey, friends! What’s going on over here?” he asked, nervous energy biting at his words. “Getting rather worked up over here, I hope my friend here isn’t causing you any problems.”

“Causing problems?” The dwarf repeated with another hiccup. “Asking about Bhelen, and—and whether he’d be better—your friend’s askin’ for a knife is what he’s doing!”

He must have said something wrong when asking around, with such high tensions it was little wonder some might be a bit testy about the topic. Through in the excessive amount of alcohol the dwarf smelled of? More volatile than a puddle of oil. Still, this situation was still salvageable.

“I’m sure he meant nothing bad by it,” Alistair said, glancing to Elio who remained silent, wisely biting his tongue so he wouldn’t say something to make matters worse, though the fire in his eyes was burning intensely. Just as fast, Alistair turned his attention back to the dwarf before he could get trapped by his gaze. “We’re new to the city, as you can tell, we’re just trying to get a grasp of the situation, that’s all.”

The dwarf had the audacity to actually spit onto the floor, a big wet glob that just about hit Alistair’s boot. Absolutely disgusting. But he forced his expression not to show those thoughts. “Being new an’ dumb ain’t an excuse for being dumb,” the drunkard said, as if that made any sense. He looked them over once more before nodding to the bar counter. “Give me a few silvers for a few more rounds an’ we can call this dispute resolved. How’s that sound?”

Sounded like a scam as far as Alistair was concerned, but if it would keep the peace, then he was willing to give up a few silvers. Knowing their luck of being attacked, and of Morrigan and Elio’ questionable habit of ransacking the corpses, they’d make back whatever he gave up quickly enough in resold equipment and valuables.

So, he passed him twenty silvers, more than enough to keep him nice and drunk, and hopefully unconscious.

The man took it happily enough, stuffing the coins into his own coin purse, and made his way to the counter. Not before, of course, giving Elio one last nasty look. “Next time watch your fucking mouth. Keep saying that shit about Harrowmont, and next time I won’t be so nice. I’ll clip your damn tongue,” he threatened before staggering off.

Elio growled lowly once he was gone, but then let his shoulders slump as tension rolled off him. “Usually, I’m being threatened about my ears being cut. Tongue is a first,” he muttered before shaking his head. Just as fast that anger was stuffed deep into whatever internal locked box he had and a smile was on his face. “Thanks for the help, Alistair. Maker’s breath, your timing was miraculous.”

He felt his cheeks flush at the praise. “Well, I guess we were lucky I showed up when I did, aren’t we?” he puffed up his chest in pride.

It didn’t take long after that for Wynne and Morrigan to wander in, and once they had joined them, the four had taken a seat at the corner, furthest from any prying ears, to discuss what they had found.

For the most part, their information all seemed to be the same, if not worded differently here or there. Half of the public was in favor of Bhelen for his progressive stances and disproved of Harrowmont for his isolationist policies. The other half preferred Harrowmont for the stability he’d bring, while despising Bhelen for whispered involvement in his brothers’ deaths. Alistair wasn’t quite sure yet who was the better option.

In the end, however, after weighing everything they knew, Elio chose Bhelen. It was decided that they’d seek him out in the morning, figure out what they had to do to help put him on the throne so they could get the alliance sorted out and go back to dealing with the Blight. With any luck, they could get everything sorted out in a day or two, though Alistair knew better than to hope for something like that.

There was little else to do for the night. Their task for the day completed, their rooms paid for, and the rest of their party camped outside the gates informed of what was happening. The group had the rest of the night to do as they pleased.

Alistair allowed himself a single drink. For the confidence only alcohol could bring, before seeking Elio out. The necklace bounced about in his pocket with each step, and he felt giddy for the chance to give it to him, to see that same look of surprised joy that Alistair always felt receiving a gift from him mirrored on his friends face. Perhaps it was the buzz of ales coursing through him, but Alistair even felt bold enough to try and… well, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe flirt? Maybe ask for a kiss in return? He’d figure it out, he just knew he felt confident enough to try.

It took a little looking to even find where Elio had gone. He hadn’t been in the tavern, nor in the rented room. Alistair had thought for a moment perhaps he went to the surface to visit with the others. But, no, he found the man in question just outside the tavern.

Outside with Morrigan.

His stomach dropped.

Hiding around the corner, Alistair unashamedly spied on the two as they interacted. He watched as Elio pulled from his own bag a small, golden hand mirror. A lovely piece of craftsmanship that must have cost a pretty silver. Maybe even some gold. Even from where he hid, he could tell the mirror was clear and smooth, that it’s silver surface was as flawless as it could be.

He couldn’t hear what Morrigan had whispered, but he had seen the look of awe and amazement as she took the gift from Elio’s hands.

“A pretty mirror for a pretty woman,” Elio said with that all too familiar lovelorn look on his face. “I’d remembered you telling me about the mirror you had found—and I’m sure it’s not the same, but I thought of you when I saw it.”

Morrigan’s thin fingers traced the edges, her expression softer than anything Alistair had ever seen. A softness he suspected she only ever showed Elio. “Such a romantic,” she teased, her voice gentle, far from the haughty, sarcastic bite she generally had.

“You know me, a sappy romantic at heart, always looking for ways to woo you,” Elio joked back, and yet Alistair knew it wasn’t a joke.

Their voices dropped back to whispers, too quiet for him to hear. But he could read their body language and expression well enough that he didn’t need to heard the words they said. The touches and smiles spoke volumes. His chest burned worse than any wound he received as he watched the two draw closer and closer to each other, foreheads connecting before they went in for a kiss.

Alistair hated what he was seeing. He hated how happy Elio looked, how he melted and swooned to the woman’s every touch and word, and how gentle and soft Morrigan was to him when she was nothing but a viper to everyone else. He hated how happy they seemed to be with just the two of them.

Most of all, he hated the vile, wretched feeling of jealousy that ate away at him from the inside.

With the necklace heavy like lead in his pocket, Alistair turned on his heel and marched back into the tavern before he could see anything else. He ignored Wynne’s concerned look as he made straight for the bar, giving up silver and coppers for tankards of ale, hoping that the alcohol would make him forget, would make him numb to the ache in his chest.

Hoping that when Elio came back inside with Morrigan in tow, the sight of the two of them wouldn’t feel like a sword driven through his chest.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Origins #alistair x warden #alistair theirin #Male Tabris #Morrigan #City Elf Origin #fanfic #Told you I was writing that onesided Alistair/Warden fic #A two parter of alistair just being in love and longing and it's #unrequited

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