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naomifj97 · 2 years

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Vigil's Keep

“—Oriana…

—It’s Commander now, Your Majesty.”

Or: After the attack on Vigil’s Keep, Alistair and Oriana reunite for the first time since the slaying of the Archdemon.

Hi again! So, this keeps the storyline stablished in previous fics, Newbie, A lamppost in winter and Wild. In this I STRONGLY start headcanoning because...well, you'll see 😉.

Anyway, one shot under cut, around 1k-2k words, not very long, featuring Alistair x the Warden, yearning and angst. Also, Oriana does not like templars and it shows.

Enjoy!

Oriana Tabris is exhausted.

She knows she’s out of shape; she hasn’t fought in months, and the armor is significantly tighter than it was before. The metal plats nail her flesh in an uncomfortably way around the abdomen that has yet to return to its former shape, around the breasts that now are fuller; the boots feel heavy and the gauntlets are making her hands sweaty. She has not had a proper night of sleep in weeks. The cramps in her lower back are getting worse. Every time she turns around, she’s sure she’s hearing him cry for her. Part of her wonders why she has not sent Loghain to do this; the world knows the bastard has earnt the privilege of doing all the tasks she is not up to for the rest of their lives. He would have deserved it.

But yet, there she is.

When she extracts the sword from that talking darkspawn, (The Withered, had he called himself?), Seneschal Varel lets out a high-pitched sigh of relief.

—I owe you my life, Commander. Thank the Maker, you have arrived.

Oriana almost rolls her eyes. “Me. Not the Maker. Me” she wants to say. But she’s tired, and uncomfortable, and she misses Kieran like one would miss a severed limb, so, instead, she asks about the attack. He does not answer; before he can, the far-away sound of horses and the tingling of armors makes itself audible in the middle of the pouring rain.

—It seems we have more company. Hopefully, they’re most hospitable than our previous guests —he says, gaze stuck in the gates of the Keep, those she has ran over like a raging, declining demon just half an hour ago.

Oriana takes a look in his eyes’ direction and the punch in the gut is so hard she almost gets out of air.

Even in the distance, those colors are unmistakable.

The colors that had been Cailan’s.

The colors that now are his.

At her side, Oghren lets out a snort.

—Spank me, this is gonna be interesting…

She just ignores him.

“Please be Anora, please be Anora, please be Anora” she begs to a Maker she’s sure doesn’t listen, as they wait for the Royal party to reach the gates.

But no. Of course not.

He walks in, fast pacing, shining golden armor in his body and gesture of worry in his frown, flanked by a female Templar and followed by dozens of soldiers armed to the teeth. Drops of rain hit his rebel dark blond hair, his tan skin, his long bright eyelashes; his eyes wander over the whole place with a focused look she knows so well it hurts.

They haven’t seen each other since the slaying of the Archdemon, since she left Denerim with no intentions of becoming his secret to keep. The last time they spoke, she swore she wouldn’t make of him an oath to worship.

—King Alistair!

Beside her, Mhairi kneels. Oriana doesn’t; she’s sure she won’t get up if she does. She might just lie there in the mud, letting it swallow her while the tiredness lures her to sleep. That sounds so much better than face King Alistair.

King Alistair and his bloody warm smile, his damned relief when he sees they’re all unharmed. When he sees her.

Alistair knows her body. As good as she herself does. So Oriana prays he doesn’t notice her hips are wider, her breasts fuller, her stance a bit different from an exhaustion so unlike any other she has suffered in her life. Two weeks ago, she was birthing his son. If she has her way, however, he’ll never get to know that.

—It looks I arrived a bit late. Too bad. I was looking forward to the whole darkspawn-killing thing —he jokes, and it’s like the taint is burning in her veins again. Then, he looks at her. His eyes soften, the laugh in his mouth disappears. The longing is undeniable when her name escapes from his lips, like a prayer, like an oath—: Oriana…

She forgot how to pray a long time ago.

—It’s Commander now, Your Majesty.

Her words are as sharp as her sword, as cold as the steel she used to slay that Archdemon and seal their destiny. Alistair thinks he probably deserves it, her coldness and disdain, but still hurts like she had run her very same sword over his chest. The pain in his eyes is evident to everyone, and he doesn’t even bother concealing it.

He doesn’t notice the changes in her body; the armor does a great job hiding those. He does notice that she seems tired. No, not tired: drained. The most exhausted he has ever seen her, and, because he has seen her in some of the darkest moments of her life, the worry floods over him as the first tide of the disaster. Yet, Alistair can’t help but notice she is as beautiful as the day he lost her.

He wants to ask. He wants to know where she’s been those past six months, how she’s doing, what has happened. He wants to ask her so many things he’d be talking until sunrise. Instead, he just chooses one:

—Are you hurt?

She wants to tell him to stop. She wants to tell him he can’t be that same caring idiot she fell so hard in love with because that’s not what they are anymore. They can’t be. Because she can’t endure being reminded of how much she still loves him.

—We’re fine.

—I wanted to come, give the Wardens a formal welcome. Then news about this arrived at court and… I was not expecting… I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner —he fidgets with his fingers, like he always does when he’s nervous, and the familiarity gives Oriana a sudden urge to cry. Bloody hormones, she thinks, when she finds herself wondering if Kieran will inherit that from him. He expects her to interrupt him, to bark at him a grumpy “We’ve got this under control” or something like that, but she says nothing. So, instead, he clears his throat and asks—: So…what’s the situation?

Oriana peeks a glance to Seneschal Varel, who immediately explains what has happened. He says the Orlesian wardens are either dead or missing, and, out of habit, Oriana and Alistair exchange a look. She hates that there’s still an evident complicity between them; he is so relieved that he could sing.

They have been taken by the darkspawn, and they both know what that means. Without a Blight, however, it’s strange that the darkspawn are acting like that, and once again Oriana fears for what that means.

He says it’s a relief that the Hero of Ferelden is there and alive, and Oriana wants to punch him because she hates that bloody title, because she never wanted to be a leader much less a hero and she shouldn’t be alive to begin with. But she refrains those thoughts because now she can’t afford them. Now, Kieran needs her. And the sooner she is done with all that shit, the sooner Alistair is back in court, the sooner she can return to her son. So she answers with a blunt “The Hero of Ferelden will handle this” that chills Alistair’s spine, because no one better than him knows how far the Hero of Ferelden can go to carry on with her duty.

—I…can help. I can stay and help.

Her faces clenches with anger; a soft glimmer of betrayal reignites in her eyes. If he had wanted to stay, he could have sent Eamon to hell when he had the chance.

—Ferelden needs its King working to rebuild it, not running around fighting darkspawn!

He tries not to be hurt by her rejection.

—You don’t have to do this alone.

—Hey! And what am I? Chopped nug livers?

Oriana has never loved Oghren’s big, lousy, ill-timed mouth as much as she does in that moment. The banter that follows between the dwarf and the mage, Anders, convinces her that those two must be her new recruits. And that idea only grows stronger when the Templar at Alistair’s side steps in to arrest the mage. Oriana then remembers why she hates Templars so much: they treat mages as well as the nobility treat her people in the Alienage.

—Apostate or not, this man has done nothing but saving a lot of lives here, this night, my lady —she interrupts, with that dangerous glimmer in her eyes that makes Alistair warm inside.

—He’s a murderer! —the Templar protests, and then Anders protests, and Oriana is too tired for all this shit.

—Last time I checked, this place was under Wardens’ protection and responsibility, and so is this man!

Alistair had almost forgotten how much he enjoys Oriana angering Templars. The woman is fuming.

—The Chantry’s authority-!

—The Chantry’s authority means nothing to me. I have a right and I’m going to use it —Oriana replies, and, suddenly, she is no longer Oriana, but the Commander of the Grey the Blight has turned her into.

The woman Alistair forced her to become, he reminds himself with a bitter thought.

When she pronounces the words that placed the last nail in their coffin months ago, she does not hesitate:

—I hereby conscript this man for the Grey Wardens.

He replies immediately:

—I will allow it.

His eyes do not leave hers as he speaks and Oriana wants to yell at him, hit him, scream at him, because he doesn’t have a right to look at her like that anymore. He knows too, but, Maker, he can’t help it. He tries to remember he has a wife, that he’s supposed to love another woman, that he’s made vows. But every inch of him is yearning for Oriana, yelling at him that he made a terrible mistake that night after the Landsmeet, that day he took Anora’s hand and swore to honor her as his wife while his heart still belonged to another and his mind was covered in thoughts of her. He had hoped the need would eventually diminish, but those six months have only made it more urgent, more consuming, more powerful.

He clears his throat.

—I see you have everything under control, Commander. But I still would like to stay, see if I can be of help. At least this night.

“I want to stay. I need to talk to you”, he’s saying.

She doesn’t care. She’s tired, she misses her baby, and she misses him. She still loves him as much as the day they conceived Kieran.

But she really doesn’t care.

She has an order to rebuild.

—Do as you please. The Seneschal can fill you in anything you precise. I have some matters that require my attention.

And, with that, she walks away once again.

Alistair wants to follow, wants to tell her to wait, wants to run after her and beg for her forgiveness. But, once again, he does nothing.

A/N: So, one day I saw a comment in a video of Alistair breaking up with a non-human noble Warden after becoming King that said "Wouldn't be funny if the warden was actually pregnant at the moment" and I took it as a challenge. I know the chances of two Grey Wardens conceiving are slim, but, you know, there's always magic (headcanons, I mean headcanons). Diverting from the possibilities the game offers and making up impossible ones is part of the fun after all!

So, yes, in this Alistair became King because Eamon manipulated him to do it. And married Anora because Eamon said it was the only way to avoid civil war, since he supported Alistair and Oriana supported Anora. I hate Eamon and it shows. Meanwhile, and unknown to any of them, even herself, Oriana became pregnant before the Landsmeet. So yes, in this headcanon of mine, Kieran is the Warden's child (Flemeth was five steps ahead any of them and performed the ritual on Oriana just in case), she survived the Archdemon thanks to him. Kieran is an Old God Baby and Morrigan is "cool auntie Morrigan" in this headcanon. Alistair and Oriana do end up together eventually, I swear. They just need to reach Inquisition for that.

Fun fact: this was the first Alistair x Oriana I wrote.

Fun fact 2: Yesterday was my first day on invisible orthodontic treatment and the pain is killing me. Send strength 😭.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

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