Chapter Text
My dearest Syrenna,
Before you worry, no, this is not a letter announcing my untimely demise, my heroic disappearance, or my accidental adoption of another mabari that I absolutely did not plan for. Though, to be fair, the dog is currently looking at me like I owe him land and titles, so I may yet lose this argument.
I hope that’s a comforting thought.
It’s strange, writing to you like this. When I start, I always imagine I’ll be terribly serious, very kingly, very composed, full of thoughtful reflections and noble restraint. And then I remember I am, unfortunately, me. So that plan collapses immediately. Still, I’ve been told kings should practice restraint. Or at least pretend they know what it looks like.
Things here are… manageable. The kind of “manageable” that means nothing has exploded in the last hour, which I’m choosing to count as a victory. There was a small incident involving a training dummy, a chicken, and someone insisting it was “strategic warfare.” I would explain further, but honestly, I’m still recovering.
I keep thinking you would have found it funny. Or possibly taken the chicken’s side. I’m not entirely sure which is more likely.
And there—I’ve done it again. I started writing to tell you something important and somehow ended up discussing poultry-related politics. This is your fault, I hope you know. You make me forget I’m supposed to be… I don’t know. Serious. Dignified. All those things’ people insist I am now.
But when I sit down to write to you, it never quite works out that way. Because eventually I stop trying to be careful with words.
I start wondering what you’re doing right now. Whether you’re resting properly, whether you’re eating properly—yes, I know you hate when I ask that, but I will continue regardless—and whether you’ve been looking at the sky the way you do when you’re thinking too much.
I wonder if you miss me--
The ink slipped before Alistair realized he had pressed to hard, a dark blot spread across the parchment like blood spreading on clothes. He stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to before he grumbled under his breath about the mess, he sets the pen down carefully as though it might betray him furthermore.
How long had it been since she left? How many letters has it been? Two? Six? Maker’s breath, he does not know, all he can think of was Syrenna Amell. He could not decide if it had been a month or a lifetime that only felt like a month because he still wakes up, half expecting to be on the camp, in his tent, with Syrenna sleeping like a log on top of his chest. He swallowed. It didn’t help. It happened like a blur, after the fifth blight, she had gone on her own way without even saying goodbye, gone like a wind before he can get the chance to talk to her again about the future of Ferelden.
What a wishful thinking that was after he ended between the two of them in the room full of their companions. A soft wince had crossed his face, his brows pinched in frustration, as he remembered the look of disbelief sent by Morrigan herself (out of all people) when she passed him by the halls of Redcliffe Castle, not that he needed a reminder from her, thank you very much.
He was… It was…-- He had been overwhelmed by the idea of being king that he had not taken the account of the audience that time, yet it was still not an excuse.
All he can remember was his beloved’s face falling to confusion then to heart wrenching hurt when she understood what he was going to say. Those warm brown eyes of hers welling up with tears, her voice sounded hollow as she tried to reason with him, and he never saw her that helpless before. He remembered how his heart began to crack bits by bits when she forced a smile even when her tears began to fall asking there could be another way, when she reached for his hand to find comfort and he was stupid—so stupid to pull away because it was easier for both. It was for the good of the kingdom, he told her, he needed a wife who can bear his children and that will never be Syrenna who’s tainted like him, it could never be possible. He was too afraid, afraid what they’ll say to her if he let his heart swayed and make her his queen. But no matter what he says, one thing remains the same. He is a fool.
A fool who had let her go for duty. A fool who told her he was afraid being abandoned but it was him who abandoned her when she needed him the most. A fool who would lie awake on the four-post bed that felt too large for one king, and his mind would play tricks on him. He could see clear as day in another life he had married her, her stomach swelling with their babe and the other guiding their first born in the large garden she wanted. Syrenna wanted three children and a quiet home where no one would find them, he had promised her that late at night in the camp that he would build her a house with a garden where she’d grow vegetables and fruits because she knows a spell for that, a large kitchen where they can cook blueberry pie she always loved as a child, and a big room for them with the view of a river because it reminded her of her home in the Circle.
Alistair can hear her laugh that tinkled like silver bells because of how ridiculous for her to imagine Alistair holding a mallet and all he wants was to hear that laughter again until the end of their time, maybe it'll be the last thing he'll hear if the time of the Calling takes him, and he'd be grateful still if Andraste granted that for a foolish man like him. He caught himself laughing bitterly at the idea. he never felt this desperate for death before because his heart is just wanting but he knew he could never have. But here he was, hopelessly praying the Maker would be so kind to see Syrenna's eyes in the last moments of his life.
The words in the parchment were blurring to incoherent words before he decided to slip the parchment into the drawer, where it joined the others he would never send—and all the words he would never be brave enough to say aloud. And closed the drawer quietly, as if sound alone might make him feel the weight of all the letters he had already lost her in.