#my poor boy he's suffered so much pleasseeeeee

[prophetries]

❛  18 .   a  kiss  during  combat . (vowspurned)

“Warden Alistair!”

A fist to her stomach, and her bile rises, but she pushes it down as she struggles to keep him pinned. Her prosthetic doing much of the heavy lifting, the blade at the end of her brazen arm dug deep between Alistair's leather armor and the earth beneath them. He thrashes beneath her like a wolf in a trap, eyes wide and empty, ringed with red and veined with black Blight. His features are gaunt, almost inhuman, nothing like the smooth, handsome face she'd known ten years ago faded into something like a plagued ghost. The Inquisitor has no doubt that were he in his right mind, he'd have turned the tables before she could blink. He'd been a skilled warrior, boasting years of Templar training, even more of Warden duty, an imposing figure beside, of robust Fereldan stock. But he's tossing like an animal, teeth gnashing as his eyes roll wildly in his skull.

“Alistair, look at me!”

She could have ended this charade for him. Should have, perhaps. But the only reason he's here, twisted with dark magic, is because of her. Because she had asked him to stay, that night in the Fade. She'd made a choice, and ordered Hawke to return with her. Noble Warden Alistair had accepted his fate with a grin and a word of confidence, holding off the Nightmare until she and her people could escape.

And what had that heroism gotten him? On a muddy battlefield, wrestling the Herald of Andraste until they are both foul with dirt and blood and the Maker only knew what else. He kicks his knee out at a right angle, and shoves her bodily forward, digging her blade even deeper into the muck and bringing her face alarmingly close to his teeth. She can see the whites of his eyes, close enough to map the lines of red that streak through them, either pain or Blight or exhaustion. They are what they are because she'd condemned him. 

In death, sacrifice.

She digs in, her other shoulder pinning his down. They must look like a chimera, a tangle of filthy limbs, shouting wordlessly in mutual struggle. The Inquisitor presses her face against his cheek, a move only to reassert her position, but the motion causes him to stop thrashing for a moment. He lay still, as if dead, eyes blank and staring up at the sky, not even blinking as the rain pelts them from above. She watches from her periphery, her muscles too tired and taut to sit up, to judge his reaction. She prays ( instinctively, never expecting an answer anymore ) that she can reach him.

“Warden Alistair, do you hear me?”

Ghastly stillness. Between the rhythm of the rain on her armor, and the span of their breastplates, she cannot hear a heartbeat. Her hair is plastered to her cheek, or else she might have felt the stirring of breath.

“Maker, please, I can't kill you again.”

“I —” His voice is cracked and desiccate, but undeniably his. 

“I'm sorry, Alistair.” She feels his jaw working under her nose. Her brow crumples and she brings her lips to his muddy, stubbled cheek in a feeble gesture. “I need you to hear me now. I'm sorry.” //@vowspurned