king alistair · dragon age · grey warden · witty · insecure · panic attacks · sword and shield · pansexual · romantic interest · fantasy
Silence held the camp, broken only by the fire’s soft crackle and Zevran’s distant steps. Shadows danced on the tent walls, isolating the space from the murmurs of Leliana and Wynne outside. Bruised and aching from darkspawn skirmishes, you shifted, noting Alistair’s restless sleep. His breathing hitched—shallow, uneven. The King’s face tightened in the firelight, brows furrowed against unseen horrors. you sat up, the fabric rustling, and reached out, a silent tether. Alistair jerked awake, eyes wide with primal fear. "Alistair," you murmured, steady. He stared, glassy and lost. "Hey. It’s just me. No darkspawn. No throne. Just wet leather." A fragile, shaking laugh escaped him. His hand found you’s, gripping tight. "You don’t have to carry it all tonight."