He sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but loose cotton trousers, his head in his shaking hands, wondering where in the Void he'd gone wrong. His chest ached, and he felt vaguely nauseated. He couldn't decide whether to scream, or cry – or perhaps grab the infuriating woman in front of him and shake her until she talked to him.
The door swung closed behind her – Sierra, his wife, who was practically sprinting down the hallway to get away from him. The words he'd been saying – pleading with her to stay, to talk, not to misunderstand or run away again – died on his lips. He'd have bet his last copper that she hadn't even noticed he was talking, never mind heard what he'd said. She'd interrupted him mid-sentence to make an unrelated comment about Faren, and didn't even seem to have realised.
He wasn't sure why he was surprised. Every time they disagreed on anything, her first instinct was to run. He wondered why he'd thought this would be any different.
Not that he was even disagreeing with her; that was probably the most frustrating part. The throbbing from his groin was enough evidence that he'd wanted her just as much as she had wanted him. He felt like a first-class jerk for stopping her. Her teasing had been physically painful, and it seemed cruel to both of them to let it continue. He'd never dreamed she would jump out of the bed like he had cooties and bolt from the room. It wasn't his fault that they weren't allowed...
The mage had been very clear on that.
"She's just had a trauma. She's in shock, and she needs time to recover, do you hear me?" Anders had waved his finger in Alistair's face judgementally. "And you know her – she'd force herself if she thought you wanted her to. She'd harm herself trying to keep you happy. Women here are raised to think they must put up with pain for the benefit of their lovers. It sounds like that's even worse on Earth. So don't even think about it, you hear me? Don't be that guy."
And the healer was right; he'd seen Sierra walking practically bow-legged after sex, sitting gingerly and wincing when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd seen her ignore bruises and scrapes, sneaking healing potions when she could get away with it. He got so caught up when they were together – the feel of her, the sounds, the taste...the intoxicating emotions, love and comfort and lust – that he'd hurt her by accident. And not just one time, either. She dismissed it, claimed she actually enjoyed it...but he'd seen the stiff gait and the finger marks. It was bad enough on a normal day; so many times worse if he'd hurt her when her body was still recovering from a miscarriage that he'd caused.
The healer had been right – he would have to be careful. He couldn't risk her feeling obligated in some way, forcing herself to perform before she was ready for his benefit; he couldn't risk hurting her. They would wait, he'd assured himself. He'd get clearance from the healer first.
Anders. He wondered if Anders had any insight that would help him understand...probably not. The mage had a whole host of his own problems to deal with. And Alistair may have forgiven the healer for his feigned interest in Sierra back during the Blight, but that didn't mean Alistair had to like the guy. No, Anders wasn't going to be able to help. And he sure wasn't going to bring it up with Aedan!
He honestly couldn't understand what was going through her head. Surely Anders had given her the same lecture? Did she really expect him to ignore the warning? Just for once, he wished he were a mage – and that mind-reading was a thing. Because he truly had no idea where to even start.
He struggled with Sierra's urge to run. He understood it – she'd raised herself, essentially, and been punished for showing emotion, had everyone she cared about ripped away by a callous, impersonal system that had damaged her more deeply than she even knew. They weren't so dissimilar, but his response to it had been different. She'd been taught to hide her emotions, not to show any vulnerability, never to cry in front of someone...she was deeply ashamed every time she'd broken down around any of their group, always feeling like she should be stronger. Like feeling sadness or fear made her weak, unworthy. But how was walking out in the middle of a conversation ever supposed to solve anything?
He'd asked her to stay and talk.
Begged
her. He'd told her he loved her, that he was sorry...and he'd watched her dress and run from him as though a terror demon had taken his place.
He scrubbed his hand over his face roughly and stood, trying to shake himself out of his thoughts. He didn't want to think about demons; he'd had enough of them. Between Sierra's nightmares about Justice – he didn't even think she remembered most of them, but the spirit clearly left her extremely anxious, and her sleep had been poor long before the Architect had been captured – and the gut-wrenching dismay that came when he thought about the terror demon in that basement...
He'd shaken it off pretty quickly, but that hadn't stopped it from planting the seeds of fear deep in Alistair's psyche. He was educated enough to understand that the terror demon was playing him, using normal every day worries and amplifying them out of proportion, but that didn't mean it wasn't still effective.
"She's still in shock and hasn't connected all the dots. But she'll never forgive you, once she puts it all together," the creature had whispered. "None of them will. You think any of them don't want to push you as far away from her as they can? You left her. You failed to do what was necessary to keep her safe. You drove her back to Earth, let her be captured again and again, tortured, traumatised, forced to attempt murder in cold blood, because you didn't stay with her. You could have prevented it – but you didn't. She nearly died because of you. And in the middle of all that, you thoughtlessly got her pregnant against her will – and then let her overexert herself until she miscarried. It's your fault – her trauma, her nightmares, her loss and pain. The unstable life she will lead, the fear that will be her constant companion...all your fault. She'd be better off without you, and you know it."
With the words as he remembered them, there came images: Sierra, delirious with sleep deprivation, crying out when she thought he wasn't real; Sierra, tears streaking down her face as blood poured out of her, ending the hope she'd had for their unborn child; Sierra, face crumpled as he'd called her a monster and walked away. And then Aedan, face red and twitching with rage; Zevran painstakingly, threateningly polishing his knives, one at a time; Leliana telling stories about the grizzly revenge of spurned lovers as though they were meant as entertainment.
And he'd deserved it – all of it. He knew in his heart that somehow – he had no idea how – Sierra didn't blame him. She'd understood why he left her, and had never blamed him for any of the rest of it. She'd never held him accountable for any of it, not really.
Or maybe she did? Maybe there was more to the running than he'd originally assumed? No. He refused to let the terror demon create doubts. The one thing he knew was that his wife loved him.
His erection now a non-issue – even a few brief seconds thinking about everything the demon had planted in his mind was enough to solve that problem – he quickly dressed, struggling into his armor alone. He could do it, but it was easier with help. Once dressed, he headed down for breakfast, wondering what he could say to her to calm her down and bring her back to him.
She'd always come back before, right?
He needn't have worried; she didn't show for breakfast. He scrambled to make some lame excuse when Aedan asked where she was, not even sure himself. He couldn't help but be irked – why, oh why, did she have to be so avoidant after a fight? Or any sort of conflict, really...hadn't they talked about that? About forgiveness and the benefit of the doubt? Hadn't they been through enough together to get past one, entirely confusing disagreement?
He planned to spend the morning beating the tar out of a sparring dummy. He didn't want to risk sparring with one of the soldiers or Wardens in his current mood; the last thing he needed was to hurt someone else in his frustration. He had just finished warming up and taking a few initial swings when he heard the sound of a throat clearing behind him.
