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“Can you believe it?” asked Alistair breathlessly as he entered the room, his freckled face split into that beautiful grin. His armor was still covered in the gore and grime of battle, the smell of darkspawn and rotted flesh overwhelming the scent of crush lavender spread out across the floor. But he was still beautiful. He was still Alistair.
Vidya smiled wanly at him. “We did it!” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
She wanted to be happy. Truly, she did. They had done the impossible. Together, they had brought down an archdemon, ended the Blight, and both of them had survived—as much as a Grey Warden can survive, considering the taint was still eating away at both of them like a cancer. But it wasn’t the taint or the many fresh wounds from the recent battle that caused her pain. This was deeper. More cutting. More final.
Alistair could sense it. Of course he could. Vidya turned away from him to look out a nearby window, knowing how pointless it was to try to disguise her pain. For just a moment, she wished she could disappear behind a happy face as easily as an Orlesian noble putting on one of their fancy, golden masks. But she was a Dalish elf, and they did not hide their pain; if anything, the Dalish had perfected the art of showcasing their grief to the world.
“I don’t mean to sound patronizing…but we did just end the Blight,” Alistair said. Vidya did not respond, her lips pressed tightly together to keep herself from screaming. Or crying. Maybe both. “Are you alright?” he asked, his tone suddenly fraught with concern.
“I am quite well, Your Majesty,” she replied quietly, working hard to keep her expression as neutral as possible.
“Ah,” said Alistair, the hurt evident in his voice. “So it’s about that.”
Vidya bowed her head, her eyes scanning the stone windowsill for answers, but there were none. Only tears clouding up her vision and throwing everything into a burning haze.
“Vidya…” he started. His voice was so gentle; as if her name was precious, holy water to be cupped in pious, reverent hands. How many times had she heard him say it over the past year? In battle, in jest, in the night when they shared her tent…and how many times were left before it disappeared from his lips forever? Forgotten, maybe, or (more likely) forbidden by his shem advisors, lest he offend the ears of nobility with talk of some knife-eared, Dalish, whore, piece of—!
The pain of her thoughts pushed unbidden through her lips as a ragged sob and she squeezed her eyes shut, even as a few, burning tears escaped down her long lashes and left salty streams down her filthy, blood spattered cheeks. In less than a moment, she felt him there, holding her face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over the blue vallaslin etched into her cheekbones.
“Please, Vidya,” he said. His voice was choked and hoarse. Vidya blinked open her eyes, but his face was still distorted behind her angry tears. Even still, his expression was pained. Worried. Resigned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his grasp and moving to the other side of the room, resting her hands on the back of a chair to steady herself.
“Vidya…you knew from the moment the Landsmeet ended that this…that we—”
“I know!” she snapped. Creators, why did it hurt so much?
Alistair was quiet for a moment, or maybe he wasn’t. Vidya could hardly hear anything over the sound of her breaking heart and shuddering breaths. Alistair inhaled sharply. “I know this is…not what we wanted. It’s certainly not what I wanted. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I’m still in love with you, Vidya.”
“I’m sure your new queen will be happy to hear that,” she spat at him acidly.
“Vidya, please, I’m trying—”
“Stop, Alistair,” she said, finally turning around to face him. “Stop trying! Just stop! What’s the point? We saved Ferelden, and look! Nothing has changed! I’m still…I’ll never be….” Vidya brought her hands up over her ears and shakily traced the outline of their long, point before pulling on them sharply, as if to rip them from her skull.
Alistair crossed over to her and grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands away and then pressing his forehead into hers. His lips brushed across her own; warm and familiar. But she couldn’t kiss them back. Her mouth was too numbed, too bitter.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Vidya. I never wanted to be king,” he said in a ragged whisper.
“But you are,” she reminded him, the words falling from her lips like stones.
“Please, Vidya,” he said, kissing her again. “I don’t want this.”
Vidya broke from his grasp again, and the absence of his touch chilled her worse than any frost spell.
“Neither do I,” she said helplessly. And then she left the room without looking back.