Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will no one mourn him?

Does no one care that he lies in a pool of his own blood, the light gone from his eyes?

The men and women he helped. Fought beside. Protected. Healed.

All of that set aside without even one tear coming to a single eye?

All the refugees, elves and other downtrodden that he healed with no quest for wealth…what was it all for?

What did it matter that he was funny and charming?

How was it important that he spent years and years creating alchemical wonders and honing his healing skills to become incomparable in his chosen profession?

Why did the entirety of the life he’d lived until this moment, not matter enough for even one of them to whisper farewell as he slumped forward, cheek meeting the ground that was to be the last thing he touched in this world?

How ignoble the moment a knife’s blade entered his back in a cowardly act of cold-blooded murder, for which his self-righteous judge and executioner could not even look him in the eye.

How irrational for any of them to believe they had the right to decide this man’s fate when not a one knew him nearly as well as he knew them each in turn.

He cared.

He cared too much.

But not a one of them cared back. Not enough. Something I can well relate to where they are all concerned, for I am well aware that none of them spoke my name after I left, as though I meant nothing, my life meant nothing, not to a single one. Which is why I find myself hiding in shadows, on the outside looking in. Standing here now alone. With him.

I remove the assassin’s blade from his spine and carefully sling his body over my shoulders as if Time has rewound and twisted round itself, and I’m helping him carry victims of the Carta along the Wounded Coast to save their lives.

As the others race to their final battle, a battle which will decide so many futures for so very much of this land in which we live, I steal away from a city under siege not by rebel mages and rogue templars, but by hate. By injustice. By proclaimed champions and companions whose greed and lust for power outweigh even their most basic kindnesses. Quash their compassions. Make them think they are superior to people like me. To people like the man I hand off to my First Mate the moment I am clear of the place where he lost his life.

We steal away to the docks, where he is taken from Tannen’s arms as we scrabble onto the dinghy and quietly row out into the harbor to board my ship.

I look up as we approach the Siren’s Call II and see the two men who begged me for this rescue appear on deck, just where my crew are starting to lower the caged litter, ready to receive our newest passenger.

I slowly climb the rope ladder next to the litter, ensuring this precious cargo remains safe as my men hoist from above. Eventually we both make it aboard.

“Is he..?”

I lay my hand on the mage’s forearm. Our eyes meet. “He’s a Grey Warden,” I remind him. “Just like you are. Go. Work your magic, your taint, your whatever you must. I’ll have you back in Ferelden before you know it.”

“Take him below to the room I showed you,” he says to my men. They look to me. I nod for them to follow the order. He then looks at me again. “It took me so long to track him down,” he tells me, voice full of the kind of emotion I’ve spent a lifetime trying to keep myself from feeling.

“Well, you’re the healer, so…get to healing,” I say, my usual attempt to brush things aside quite frankly far too apparent for my liking.

“Thank you, Isabela,” he whispers, arms wrapping around me in the type of hug I haven’t had in a long, long time – a platonic one.

I find myself hugging him back as I reply, “It was the least I could do for a man I will always consider my friend. Anders deserves honor, for much, and so I thank you for allowing me this small way to see it done.”

He backs away. Nods deferentially, his blue and silver armor gleaming in the flickering torchlight on the Siren’s deck. “Isabela.”

I curtsy. “My Lord Cousland.” And then he goes below.

“Isa?” I turn to find my other paying passenger approaching me. “Is he..?”

I swallow. “Perhaps your partner in crime is better suited to know whether Anders’ fate can be reversed.” I shrug. “I did my part. Now it’s up to him. And Anders. And whether or not Justice was able to see him through.”

“Yes, well…” He runs a hand through his hair, looks everywhere else for a moment, then levels his gaze at me once more. “As a fellow Grey Warden, I could not overlook the tragedy brewing as bespoken by Carver’s missive.”

“I suppose it’s fortunate we never lost touch, him and me or me and you. It’s been a long time, but Carver’s heart was always big enough. He just couldn’t stand his overbearing, power hungry older brother.”

He nods. “However this turns out, know that I am forever in your debt. Anything you need, if it is within my power, speak and it will be so.”

I bow low. “Thank you,” I tell him sincerely, and then add, “I doubt there’s much that the King of Ferelden cannot do when he puts his mind to it.”

He barks out a short laugh, then shakes his head sadly, mirth gone as quickly as it had come. “Except bring the dead back to life, perhaps.”

“Go,” I chastise him with a swat at his arm. “If he awakens, I daresay it’s your face he’ll look for first.”

I see him swallow hard.

I see his eyes glisten.

I don’t call him on it.

Once upon a time, I met a noble-born mage, an elven assassin of my acquaintance, a former bard and a man who would eventually become King, at a little tavern in Denerim.

Once upon a time I made a promise to keep in touch with them after teaching them the ways of a duelist and sharing more than a few rounds.

Once upon a time, after an archdemon was slain and a former Grey Warden took Ferelden’s throne, I kept in close contact with the noble mage who would save Thedas yet again, in Amaranthine.

Where he traveled with yet another motley crew, much as I once had with Hawke here in Kirkwall.

Where one of those was a mage named Anders.

A mage once called upon when the king had become gravely ill.

A mage who had healed the king, restoring him to perfect health, but all in secret because of who and what he was.

A mage I later came to know and call my friend.

Not realizing that the king had fallen in love.

Not realizing that he’d confided this to his best friend Lord Cousland, Arl of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, sometime later.

Not realizing that one day, I would play a role in—

A loud, whooping cry of joy interrupts my thoughts. My First Mate runs up the stairs from below decks, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

“’e lives, Captain!” Tannen breathes in disbelief. “The Grey Warden lives!” With that, he disappears below again.

I turn, leaning against the hull, my head hanging down. When I raise my eyes to watch Kirkwall disappear in the mist, I send my well-wishes to those I had once known and loved. Those I had once called friends, truly believing they were so. Those who I knew were now battling for their lives and in some cases, possibly losing them.

But I am under very direct and very secret orders to do precisely what I’m doing right now. And so even as I wonder how those I’d once spent so much time with are getting on, I cannot help but feel relief that I am where I am and when I am, helping to save a man’s life at the behest of two others who truly love him as I do. Who refused to give up on him enough that their love even brought him back to life.

I may not be from Ferelden, but this was the request made of a king, after all.

After all that he’d done side-by-side with the Hero of Ferelden to save Thedas during the Fifth Blight.

After all he had done in his very short time thus far upon the throne.

Well, he deserves to find some happiness. And if that happiness comes in the form and shape of an apostate healer that the people who were supposed to love him threw out like so much trash, then so be it.

King Alistair deserves at least that much.

So does Thedas.

But most of all, so does Anders.