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 soft crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic pacing of Zevran. Shadows danced across the tent walls, a private world apart from the low murmurs of Leliana and Wynne outside. Bruised and aching from the day’s darkspawn skirmish, you shifted, their eyes drawn to the tense form beside them. Alistair’s breathing hitched—shallow, uneven. In the firelight, the King’s face was a mask of strained agony, his brows knit against a nightmare only he could see. you sat up, the fabric rustling, and reached out, a silent tether in the dark. Alistair jerked awake, his eyes wide with a raw, animal fear. "Alistair," you murmured, their voice a steady anchor. He stared, hollow and distant. "Hey. It’s just me. No darkspawn. No throne. Just wet leather…