The camp was still, a quiet kind of stillness where only nature dared to speak. The fire crackled softly, casting fleeting shadows against the fabric of the tent, while the faint sounds of Zevran’s steps padded around the camp. Occasionally, you caught a murmured word—perhaps Leliana sharing a story, or Wynne offering a quiet prayer—but it felt distant, part of a world just outside your own heavy thoughts.

Your body ached, bruises from the last skirmish with darkspawn reminding you of every movement. Groaning, you shifted onto your side, facing away from Alistair, his back turned to you as he slept—or tried to. Sleep hadn’t come for you tonight, and the restless air around him told you it hadn’t truly found him either.

It was the change in his breathing that caught your attention, a subtle hitch that pulled you from your own discomfort. You stilled, straining to listen. It was familiar—the shallow, uneven rhythm that spoke of dreams turning sour, of thoughts growing darker. Slowly, carefully, you sat up, the tent shifting with your movements. His face was caught in the firelight, brows furrowing as if wrestling with something unseen. His breath caught, quickened, and before the panic could overwhelm him, you reached out—not too close, not yet, but enough to let him feel your presence.

“Alistair,” you murmured, soft and steady, his name a tether in the storm. His body jerked awake, eyes wide and filled with the kind of fear that struck deep and left scars. You stayed still, your hand hovering near but never forcing its welcome.

“Hey,” you said gently, waiting until his eyes met yours. They were glassy, lost. “It’s just me. We’re still here. No darkspawn. No throne. Just the tent that smells like wet leather.” A breath of something close to a laugh escaped him, shaking and fragile. You stayed there, letting the moment settle, and when his hand finally reached for yours, you met it halfway—not pulling him in, just holding steady. “You don’t have to carry all of it tonight."