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They take the coastal route to Amaranthine, and it feels like a dream, her hair curled with salt and humidity, dark and loose and wild in the breeze. They walk barefoot and armourless in the sand and no one is there to witness it, just them and an ecstatic mabari and the ocean spilling into the Waking Sea.
They are now far enough from Denerim that Alistair can no longer taste the smoke, but whenever he closes his eyes he still sees the city burning, ravaged by darkspawn, drowning in blood, the archdemon circling it triumphantly, threatening everyone, threatening Elissa, and it always takes a few moments for him to remember that she's still alive, that he's still alive, that he can reach out and hold on to her and she'll welcome his touch.
There is no damage along this part of the coast, other than the usual debris of wreckages past, but it somehow feels too silent and too still, in stark contrast to how it used to be when they were surrounded by companions, when Alistair had needed to talk as much as he could to cover up how much he'd felt like an impostor, like he wasn't meant to be there, like he was pretending to be a hero when he was only a forgotten discarded bastard son, so terrified of failing everyone, of failing her. He'd made himself loud and cocky and present, and he feels like he should do the same now to make up for the absences, but he has nothing to impress her with, no words that are good enough, and when she looks at him he feels that she doesn't need his words, that she knows him too well for that, and she does, she knows his mediocre bravado and his insufficiencies, and she sees straight through him, to his exposed, unworthy heart, and she chose him, she still chose him, she's still choosing him. Sometimes she looks around like she expects the others to be there, Wynne with her knowing looks, and Morrigan with her jealous glares, Leliana singing by the fire, Zevran making his terrible jokes, but instead of being with them, she is here, with Alistair, who could offer her nothing, not even a throne, only himself. She's the only one who's ever found him worthy beyond his bloodline, and he's not familiar with this feeling, but he knows that she is his home, that she is his forever, and he doesn't know why she is settling for this, but he'll never let go until she does, and he'll build a new routine with her, hand in hand with her.
In the evenings, they build a fire on the beach and set their tent up and bathe in the sea, the light of the moon catching in her eyes and tangling in her hair and making her look even more like a goddess than usual, and watching her feels like blasphemy but sinning feels like the right price to pay for being allowed to touch her, and he'll do it until the Maker chooses to smite him for it, he'll wrap himself in her arms and taste the salt on her skin and the sweetness of her smile and he'll never feel worthy but he'll always beg for any scrap of attention she chooses to bestow upon him.
They leave the embrace of the sea when their lips start turning blue, and they wrap each other in blankets and he braids her hair like he's learned from watching Leliana while Elissa reads to him from the books Wynne has left her, dry books of history that somehow sound captivating in her voice. He usually nuzzles into her shoulder while listening to her and ends up resting his head on her lap while she brushes his hair with her fingers, the mabari keeping a sleepy watch over the beach before succumbing to sniffling dreams. In the firelight, her skin is golden, and he thinks about how unworthy he is of her while his heart races at the thought of letting his fingers draw along her wrist, along every line on her palm, until she'd shiver and let her fingers tangle with his, and he can't imagine anyone more deserving of adoration. He'd thought it would have been over by now, this phase of blushes and stutters, of shaking with the need to just hold her hand, to let his knee press against hers when they’re sitting side by side, to brush kisses along the crook of her neck and breathe her in, and fall into sleep lulled by her voice. Whenever she looks at him, he falls and soars and lives more than he ever has before, more than he ever could have imagined, more than he ever thought he'd deserve. His awareness of his own inferiority next to her is not enough to distract his greed for her, from the way he can't get enough of being hers, the way he can't understand how he ever drew breath without her to live for. It's here that he knows her best, at night, when neither of them are in their assigned roles, when they are only themselves, and there are flames reflecting in her eyes, and he loves her in a way that defies language in this place that is only theirs.
In the mornings, he wakes up to the sun rising and Elissa wrapped around him like a cloak, holding on to him, eyelids fluttering restlessly as she dreams, morning dew shimmering like fallen stars in her hair. There are circles under her eyes that match his, a mark left by the past year, their desperate and stubborn fight for survival from one corner of the kingdom to another, the fear, and the danger, and the loss. Somehow, they've survived, and she's still the one protecting him, his leader and his shield, and everything in him screams about his lack of worth, so he softly kisses the dew from her eyelashes and hides in her embrace, breathing her in, the sun chasing away the chill of the night, and when she wakes she looks at him and smiles like he's everything she's ever wanted, and he stops breathing for the thousandth time and falls even further, ever further.
They take their time making their way to Vigil's Keep, clinging to this newfound freedom. Alistair can see that the sea feels like home to Elissa as she tells him about watching it from her perch atop the tall walls of Highever, and she sounds years younger, as if for a moment she is once more unburdened, once more in the home she's lost, where her loved ones were never slaughtered, where she never had to run away in the middle of the night, chased away by flames and death and betrayal. Something in her eyes dims when the memory of loss hits her once more, her stories of home trailing off, and Alistair would fight off many more Blights to make sure she never suffers again. He imagines her how she used to be, in her castle and her finery, but she's even more resplendent here, with him, victorious and powerful, a survivor, a commander, and this is probably what Duncan saw in her, this indomitable strength, the ease of leadership, the way she can inspire anyone, from the depths of Orzammar to the halls of Denerim. Alistair is far from the only one who'd follow her into the abyss time and time again, but he is the only one here now, the only one who sees her like this, when she's not a leader, when she's just Elissa, with her doubts and her fears and her memories and her joy.
They are not far from their destination when they decide to camp on the beach for the last time, and though storm clouds are gathering over the sea they're both too comfortable curled around each other in front of the fire to seek refuge in their tent, and Alistair falls asleep with his lips on her shoulder, but wakes up in the dark to rain on his face and the sound of her screaming, and the fire's gone out, the moon veiled in clouds, and he can't find her, can't find a weapon, can't find anything. All he can do is say her name, over and over, ever more hysterical, stumbling in the dark like a fool, a fool who can't protect anyone, let alone her, but then she stops screaming and chokes out his name instead, and reaches out to him in the dark, and she was never far from him but he falls next to her almost crying with relief, and she's shaking so he covers her with his own body, still not knowing where the enemy is but needing to shield her from anything, from everything.
The mabari also finds them in the dark, whining but not acting like there's any danger around them, and Alistair holds on to Elissa, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and seeing nothing, hearing nothing, just the rain and the waves and the wind over the sand.
'It was a dream,' she says, her voice broken, 'it was just a dream.'
They're both used to nightmares by now, used to the whispers of darkspawn and the darkness of the Deep Roads, but she's crying and they never make her cry, and he's at a loss for what to do, as always, so he just holds her and whispers silly words of comfort and brushes her hair and kisses her temple, kisses her cheek, kisses the tears away.
The dog curls up at Alistair's feet, still restless, still keeping watch, and Elissa's still unable to catch her breath, but she's holding onto Alistair too, a fierce amount of strength in her hands, like she's trying to make herself sure of his presence, and yet she won't look at him, and he doesn't know how to make it better, doesn't know how to protect her from this.
'He looked so much like you,' she says, and Alistair doesn't know whom she means, until she closes her eyes like she's trying to ward off some terrible sight, and she whispers his brother's name, and in that moment he's transported back to Ostagar, right beside her, in front of Cailan's corpse. It never struck him, the resemblance, because he'd never thought of Cailan as his brother, only as his king, but when she opens her eyes again he sees what she must have seen, the horror and sadness and fear involved in not only looking upon a king's degraded remains, but of looking upon death that wears familiar features.
He says her name again, says it loud and clear, trying to remind her that they're not there anymore, that they're here, on this beach together, that it's over, but she's still crying, and she hides her face in his shoulder like she never has before, and her hair is wet because he can't even protect her from the rain, and she says 'what if I'd have lost you?' and it's muffled and broken and Alistair will never be able to carry her burden, the knowledge that at every point failure and death were tugging at their heels, that a whole world put itself in her hands and demanded to be saved, so he holds on, holds on as the wind wraps itself around them, and he whispers stories of everyone she's saved, of how she's saved him, until she stops shaking, until she looks up at him again and holds his face between her hands, and kisses him, and he hopes that he gives her even an inkling of the strength she gives him, that his presence, his mediocre presence, can make her life easier, even for just a moment. They both know their path doesn't get much smoother, but Alistair will shoulder everything for her, right at her side, right here where he's always been meant to be, and he tells her this, gives her every vow, gives her everything, even as the rain stops and dawn breaks, and he doesn't let go, and she doesn't let go, and Alistair can see it, their future, the way they'll always hold on to each other, no matter what comes, all lingering absences and future wars rendered inconsequential in the face of what they are, because Elissa Cousland has chosen him, one of the few choices she's had the freedom to make, and he is hers, and it will be enough. It will be everything.