I just started playing Dragon Age: Origins, and I suppose it's a minor spoiler, but Alistair dumps you if you're an elf. I wrote this to give my little city-elf a little closure, poor thing.

Alistair's windowsill of the room where he slept in Arl Eamon's estate was a familiar perch, though not at all comfortable tonight. The meager moonlight filtering through the window lanced across Alistair's bed, and she peered in at his sleeping form—the form of a newly-crowned king. Of course he would have fallen asleep by now. She had been sneaking into his window every night since they got here so that they could make love and hold whispered conversations before they drifted off to wander the Fade together; but usually, they would have been finished by now. Tonight Alistair had been crowned king, a position he was loath to accept, and he had told her that their relationship had to end.

She glanced down at the dagger in her hand. Being a rogue had its advantages; the guards always watched away from the castle walls, and exiting her window and traveling spiderlike across the stone wall to Alistair's room was a cakewalk compared to some of the things she had been forced to endure lately. Tonight, however, it had been even easier, as the guards were much more sleepy than she was used to—she had left her room much later than usual. She had lain in her bed for hours, letting her rage and aguish wash over her. How could he have done this to her? They were in love, he had said it himself; he had told her he loved her even as they laid together in the tent that first time, as he stroked her hair and planted a kiss on her forehead. She loved him, too. She loved him fiercely, as she did most things, with a passion that was almost rebellious. And now…well, she could kill him, couldn't she? She could slip easily into his room, creep to his sleeping form, and cleanly slit his throat with her dagger. He was a heavy sleeper—this much she knew. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her dagger. She could kill him, right now.

No she couldn't. Of course she couldn't. She loved him, and she understood why he had done this—that was the worst part of it. She couldn't be justifiably angry, because he had made perfect sense. He had a duty to his country to not only rule it justly, but to produce a son that could do the same. And even if he had placed a child within her on one of their nights together and she birthed him within nine months, they were both Grey Wardens—how long would that child live before they both died? To age twenty, thirty at the most, before both of his parents went to meet the Maker? She imagined a child with Alistair-like features gazing adoringly up at her, totally clueless that she would abandon him just as he left childhood, and her heart wrenched as she imagined him with pointed ears. He hadn't mentioned it, but that would have been a factor, too—she was an elf. Would the people accept a half-elf heir to the throne? How much time would it take to overcome prejudice just enough so that elves were no longer forced to live in alienages, let alone rule the country? It certainly wouldn't happen in her lifetime, and she was doubtful it would happen in the next generation. And they both had darkspawn taint—what sort of child would they end up having together? Who was to say that the child would even survive past the first year? She didn't think she could take mothering Alistair's child only to have it die in her arms.

Marriage, children…when had she begun considering all this, in any case? She had overtly refused marriage back in the alienage, and now here she was upset with Alistair because he wouldn't marry her. She hadn't even known that she was capable of such a love. And yet…hadn't she been caught daydreaming more than once? And hadn't those daydreams been about a life with Alistair? She could picture it clearly, even now—a little house in Orlais, away from Ferelden's prejudice, with at least one little Alistair playing around her feet as she cooked dinner. No more darkspawn, no talk of being king, just her, Alistair, and their child, living a normal, happy life together.

A terrible pain in her heart made her tear her thoughts away from such things, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She smiled ruefully. Tears. Of course she would cry now. When she and Alistair had been talking, as she had attempted to change his mind, she had continually thought, Perhaps if I cry. Maybe if he sees tears, he'll understand…perhaps if I cry. And yet those tears had never come.

She drew in a deep breath and sheathed her dagger. She needed him. She could feel that deep in her soul, in her heart, in the place his love had touched and lived and pulsed.

But Ferelden needed him more.

She placed a hand against the glass and carefully, quietly, swung the pane just enough so that she could slip into his dark room. He laid there, totally asleep, and for a moment rage built up in her again—how could he be asleep when she had lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of her room and noticing for the first time just how unfamiliar it was compared to Alistair's?—but she fought it down. He had a right to sleep. He needed rest…he was king, after all.

She pulled the drakeskin glove off her right hand and kissed her fingertips. Gently as she could, she placed those fingertips against Alistair's lips—one last kiss. He owed her that, didn't he?

To her surprise, his lips puckered against her fingers, kissing them in his sleep. She pulled her hand back and closed her eyes as she touched her lips back to her fingers.

Alistair began to stir, and with a jolt, she remembered—sometimes, Alistair was asleep when she ghosted into his room, and she would wake him…with a kiss.

She quickly pulled her glove back on and took quick, silent strides back to the window, where she slipped out and sat on the sill—"Hello?"

She froze and glanced back into the room. Alistair was sitting up in bed, his bare chest almost gleaming in the moonlight, his hair tousled, his face marked by lines where it had rested on the pillow. "Is someone there?" he asked into the darkness. He glanced around. "Is…is it you?" he asked quietly.

He didn't need to say her name for her to understand who he meant.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, he sighed and laid back down. "Of course it isn't her," he said, almost angrily. "Would you come back, Alistair? No, Alistair, I wouldn't, especially if you broke my heart. Well, there's your answer, Alistair."

She smiled in spite of herself. He was adorable. But now he was saying something else, something in a whisper, so quiet she had to lean in a bit to hear.

"I'm so sorry," he was saying, and then he began to cry.

She blinked as tears automatically jumped to her own eyes in response. She had only heard him cry once, after they had gone back to camp from Goldanna's house, and she had suspected that he had been lamenting more than just the injustice of some woman selfishly asking for his gold. It was quiet then, just as it was now—she had to strain to hear. She glanced into the window and saw that he was lying on his side, cradling his face in his hands.

"It's all right," she whispered, and more tears came flowing down her face. She leaned her head against the glass and cried freely but quietly, watching as his sobs gently receded and he drifted off to sleep once more, his hands dropping from his face, his breathing becoming deeper and more regulated. She wondered if this was how he had fallen asleep the first time. Quietly, she pulled the pane shut and wiped her eyes.

"Pining doesn't suit you," said a low voice, and she unsheathed her dagger and glanced around to find Zevran, perching on a sort of flat platform that looked as though it should have held a gargoyle.

"I'm not in the mood, Zevran," she growled.

"My apologies," he told her. "But the group had a small meeting to discuss recent…events…and it was decided that you might do something rash. Since I have the most experience quietly stalking women, I was elected to follow you."

"I don't need babysitting."

"No, I suppose you do not. But had you tried to assassinate the new king, I would have stepped in. Though what I could have done, I know not—you have bested me in combat before, and I do not doubt you could do it again."

"I guess I appreciate the sentiment."

"That is all I could ask for, then." He offered up a small smile, and she returned it. "Shall we go? You need your rest, and I doubt His Majesty's dreams will be peaceful with his pining lover nearby."

"I suppose." She sighed and glanced back into the window, where she could see Alistair slumbering quietly. "Zevran?" she asked.

"Yes?" He had been about to lead the way back to her room, and he glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Do you think…he'll miss me?"

"I am certain of it."

"All right." She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself, closing her eyes. "I'm ready to go."

The two left, Zevran leading the way as they slipped from window to window, platform to platform. "You know," he said after a while, "if you were looking to make him jealous, I know of a few things we could—"

"No."

"Ah, well. You cannot blame a man for trying, hm?"

She allowed herself a tiny smile.