"Wash Away"
Dragon Age I Fan Fiction, Alistair X Female Warden, Angst/Drama 

It is petty, I know. One can even say that all of this drama is childish, despite how it seems to strangle me in a web of hurt, of regret and jealousy. One could say that I am not supposed to sit here in the dark, wallowing in despair and self-pity when in fact, I was the one who push everything to happen. I was the one who made that decision. I am always the one who make the last decision.

And yet here I am.

I locked the door, in case he thinks he wants to come in here after that. And maker, I knew that it would hurt him more than everything I have ever done. Kissing with Isabella? He said, albeit a little forced, that it was sexy. Putting him on the throne? He forgave me. But not this. He would never forgive me for this.

I was the one who push him to sleep with Morrigan, after all.

And for what? To stay alive?

I am so selfish.

I can’t face him. Not after this. Not after I knew he could never be mine, not after I knew that he and Morrigan, despite her not wanting anything to do with him, are going to have a child together. They are going to have a tie together while I am stuck here. Alone, jealous and hurt.

More importantly, I hurt him. I hurt him, I hurt Alistair who gave me a rose from Lothering, I hurt Alistair who smiles so widely just by seeing cheese on his food plate, and I hurt Alistair whom I said I loved – love.

I chained him down on the throne, threw away his freedom and chance of finding peace he longed for, and I asked – no, forced him to sleep with the witch.

For the country, I said. They can’t lose their king this soon, I reasoned.

For me, I begged.

I am such – such a bitch. Heartless, bad, bad bitch.

A sob forces its way through my throat and I laugh, bitterly.

Alive or not, I can’t be beside him anymore.

I would rather die than hurt him anymore than I did. And, at least, that’s true.


Alistair feels dirty.

He doesn’t bother falling asleep after the act despite how it drained his energy so much that he could barely have his eyes opened - he suspected it is because of the blood magic. He throws his smallclothes, his pants and his shirt on as fast as he could and escaped the hell away from there. He never looked back to see the expression, or anything, on Morrigan’s face.

On pure impulse, he heads straight to her room.

And finds it locked.

The hurt hit him so strongly that it almost makes him straggler. He draws in shaky breath through his mouth and, with so much resereved emotions, he calls out to her.

No one answers.

But she has to be inside.

He calls again.

Still, no sound comes out from the room.

Alistair doesn’t know what to do. He wants to see her, to cradle her face with both of his palms and assure himself that what he did was right. He wants to see her safe and sound, to hug her so close until their body mold together, perfectly, like every time it did before, and to smell her scent he is so familiar with, even if he knows that he no longer has any right to do so.

He was the one who left her, after all.

No, that is not all.

More than everything, he wants to have her comfort.

He wants her arms and her soft, understanding eyes. He wants her confidence. He wants to know that everything is going okay because she always knows what to do, or what to think. He could always rely on her to do what’s right.

She always knew what to say to make him feel better.

But she doesn’t open the door.

With slow, dreadful realization, he realizes that she would never open the door for him ever again.

And he can’t fault her, really.

‘You and I, we can’t be together anymore. I am a king now, and I need to think more of the country than my own personal pleasure.’

Ironically, right now he can’t just find it in himself to worry about the country, let alone the fate of the Blight tomorrow. Not when he just realized that he has probably lost her, for good.

His vision blurs, and Alistair realizes his eyes have tears.