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The camp hums with casual inactivity as midnight closes in, your companions huddling by the fire as the evening cold starts to slip into the crevices of your fingers. Yet, you continue on stubbornly to clean your trusty bow, unsure of why you bother when darkspawn blood is sure to stain it again come morning.
“Well, as eventful as this has been, I shall retire for the night,” Your companion announces, her feathered sleeve brushing against your bare arm as she stands. You pause, a shiver running down your spine as you tell yourself that it is from the evening breeze.
Something is wrong with you. The thought appears after exchanging one quick glance with those deep, thoughtful eyes, the woman in question looking away nonchalantly as she makes her way back to her own corner of solitude. The revelation knocks the wind out of you, filling you with a familiar sense of dread as the bantering between your fellow companions seem to fade away while your ears ring painfully.
It was easy to tell your companions that you were tired, and you retreated back into the safety of your tent, legs curled up to your chest as you lay motionlessly on the stiff bedding.
Hushed conversations carry on in your absence, and you wish you could focus on them and make out the words – anything to distract yourself from thinking about the raven-haired witch at the other side of camp.
A sultry tone, velvety lips, the specks of freckles under her eyes, the fragrance she carries as she walks by–
–
Something is wrong with you.
You first noticed a day before that fateful ceremony. Sure, there might have been signs before, but they were easy enough to ignore, like the reminisce of a hazy dream after waking up to the morning sun. Sure, there were things that worried you, but life presented more imminent challenges that demanded your attention.
Grown women have greater priorities to remember, than closing their eyes when they kiss. Nelaros was nothing other than a gentleman, always so understanding when you appeared clumsy in your courtship. It wasn’t that you were confused– it had been easy to seek out the man every time an opportunity arose, and you felt delighted by the way he looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky. In fact, it almost felt too easy, when he confessed his affections one summer night, and you pressed your dry nervous lips to his.
He had teased the way your eyes were wide open as you shared your first kiss, but you laughed it off as another of your clumsy quirks. Afterall, grown women have greater priorities to remember, than closing their eyes when they kiss.
However, all your problems seemed to surface one evening, drowning you in a sheet of cold sweat as you curled up on the childhood bed. There was a veil hanging by your bedside, and your mother's dress was sitting by the window sill. Father had been so proud, telling you that you have grown up to be a beautiful, reliable woman. That he could not wait to see you walking down the aisle.
Though, you knew he must be wrong. Surely, you think, surely, that you are just a girl, and not yet a woman. A woman shoots a bow with no tremble in their hands, and a woman remembers her steps to the courting dance. Most importantly, a woman would be delighted to marry a perfect man.
–
Nelaros was dressed in a suit too big for his frame, and he smiled at you as you approached. His unruly hair had been groomed into a gentleman’s cut, and you thought that he must look handsome. You willed your hands to stop shaking, and reminded yourself that every woman felt nervous on their wedding day.
When the shemlen crashed your wedding, you felt sickened by their attitude, and alarmed by the way they first dragged Shianni away. Most of all, you felt ashamed by the brief second of relief as they came for you next, the wedding venue escaping your field of vision.
What occurred next had been permanently barred from your more vivid memories, and all you knew was you’d rather die first than let the men have their way. Wielding nothing but a wooden bow, you had never been so relieved to see Nelaros and Shianni’s groom barging in.
“Did you kill them?” Your cousin asked you with wide, glassy eyes after an ordeal you’d rather not recall. Your fingers felt numb as you forced yourself to meet her gaze, refusing to acknowledge what they have done to her, what they could have done to you.
Nonetheless, the sickly sweet and iron-like smell of blood penetrates the air, intruding your senses until bile rises up your stomach. “Like dogs, Shianni,” You told her instead, and picked her up with all of your strength, ignoring the way all your muscles and wounds burned under the weight. Good, you thought. At least the pain would distract you enough.
–
You remember chatting with Alistair weeks after the battle at Ostagar. He had told some dry jokes along tales of his life before being recruited into the grey wardens, and you found yourself laughing at them. He gave you a hearty pat on the shoulder, just like how father used to. Warmth spreads through your chest, and you grinned genuinely, for once.
I can come to love him. Surely. You remember thinking, staring into his eyes and feeling how safe you felt in his presence. Just like Nelaros, Alistair is a good man, one that would be understanding of your troubles and let you set the pace however you like. It would be the love story of the century– two remaining grey wardens finding love at the end of the world, a powerful man with a matching equal, just like how it should be.
Though, as you looked into his eyes and told yourself to smile just a bit more suggestively, to lean in closer until your hands touch, you felt your throat dry and your body static. You froze for a moment, and Alistair looked away naturally to gaze up at the constellations. You felt the tension bleeding out of your bones, and you were unsure if it was disappointment or relief.
–
After traveling to the frostback mountains, Leliana had opened up to you about her past, the years spent as a traveling bard, and how she was betrayed by one of the closest people in her life– Marjolaine, her former companion, mentor, and lover.
Your heart sank, not unlike the time you were told to forgo your life for the grey warden’s mission. It felt as if something had wrangled its way out of your grasp, as you clutched on uselessly at the void.
Surely, it had ended poorly. It could not have been a good idea. You knew the two of them would have never married, even if the woman had never betrayed the faithful, devoted Leliana. That must not be the way things ought to be, you told yourself.
Your friend was still staring at you, her expression akin to contemplation. You shook your head, told her that you were proud of her, and vowed to take down Marjolaine next time the group would travel to Denerim.
Yet, something ugly akin to envy bubbled up the next time you saw Leliana, and you shut it down quickly as you added another piece of firewood to the campfire.
In war, there is no time for women to contemplate such a thing.
–
Something is wrong with you.
You think as your hands pry open the bundle that holds your personal camp supplies, fishing out a small parchment of paper. Morrigan’s elegant handwriting decorates the page, courtesy of the time you were tasked to purchase poultice ingredients from the nearby town. She had scoffed at your inability to remember the complicated terms, though with no real heat behind the complaint, and had scribbled down what she needed on a fresh parchment, which you hold right now.
You hate that the page still smells faintly of the fragrance she wears, or how you can still remember exactly how her amber eyes looked while writing, how her brows furrowed while deep in concentration.
Your hands are shaky as you let the sheet hover closer towards your face. At this distance, you can see every line of penmanship up close, the edges blurry with scattered spots of ink, not unlike petals of a flower.
When you close your eyes and hold the paper close, you can almost taste the soft, slightly chapped lips against your own. She would taste warm, sweet, electrical…you’re sure of it. There is an overwhelming feeling of want, longing, mixed in with the shame and anger of all that you had done– and you bite your lips so hard you draw blood.
–
Crumping the parchment up into a small ball, you toss it across the tent just to curl in on yourself tighter. By your pillowside, some of the emblems– for Morrigan– have begun to wilt by the petals.
You are suddenly overcome by the urge to crumple them, to tremble them into the ground until there is nothing left to see. Alas, you close your eyes once again, and hope that the dreams are merciful to you tonight.
If you’re lucky, it might be a sweet dream where trampled flowers could bloom.