Insomnia

One of the first things they taught him in templar training was this: sleep anywhere, anytime, no matter how uncomfortable. Sleep in armor. Sleep in the dirt. Sleep standing up if you had to. The Chantry didn’t care if your bedroll was damp or your back ached or you were convinced you’d never rest again. Hurry up and wait. Go to sleep. Now get up.

It wasn’t easy. But Alistair learned. Everyone did, or they washed out.

After he became a Grey Warden, after he learned to block out the dreams—or at least shove them into a corner of his mind where they couldn’t scream quite so loud—he almost slept enough. Almost. Not the deep, restful kind of sleep he vaguely remembered from childhood, but something functional. The kind that kept you upright and mostly coherent.

It was never the same, of course. The taint made sure of that. But it was manageable.

And then there was Emma.

Emma, who appeared to sleep almost none.

Not “very little.” Not “poorly.” None. Or so close to none that the difference was academic.

He’d been watching. Not in a creepy way—just in the way you notice when someone is operating on what should be physically impossible margins. In the Wilds, he’d assumed she was just wired from the Joining. Adrenaline. Fear. Survival mode.

But then they’d made camp. And she’d sat by the fire, staring into it with that thousand-yard stare mages got when they were doing… whatever mages did in their heads. And when he got up for his watch, she was still there. Same position. Same expression.

“Did you sleep?” he’d asked.

“Some,” she’d said.

A lie. A complete and obvious lie. He knew what “some” looked like. Emma’s shoulders hadn’t dropped in days.

He’d learned to sleep in armor. She’d apparently learned not to sleep at all.

“Bad dreams, huh?”

Emma woke sitting upright, staff already in hand. Not the tower. Not Ishal. Just a camp. Just the road.

The fire had burned down to embers. Across from her, Alistair was sitting on a log, armor off, tunic rumpled, very much awake. He looked like he’d been awake for a while.

Emma set the staff down carefully. Her hands were steady. Her heart was not.

“I don’t usually dream.”

“Well,” Alistair said, “that’s about to change.”

She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. The air was cold. The ground was wet. Everything smelled like ash and old smoke.

“Must have been something I ate,” she said.

“Drank, more like.” He gestured toward her, then himself. “As in the tainted blood, remember? You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what your dream was. Hearing them.”

Emma stared at him. “You’re saying the nightmares are… reconnaissance?”

“Not intentional. Just inevitable.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The archdemon talks to the horde. We feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

She let that settle. It explained nothing and everything at once.

“So Duncan just… knew?”

“He said he felt the archdemon’s presence. Everyone assumed he was guessing.”

“And you didn’t correct them.”

Alistair shrugged. “Would you have believed us? Before the Joining?”

No. She wouldn’t have. She’d think it was mysticism.

“It takes a bit,” he continued, “but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can’t.”

Emma nodded slowly. Blocking them out. That implied they didn’t stop. Just became background noise. Like the hum of lyrium. Present. Ignorable. Corrosive.

“When I heard you thrashing around,” Alistair added, quieter now, “I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too.”

Thrashing. She’d been thrashing.

“How long does it take?” she asked. “To block them out?”

He hesitated. “Depends on the person. For me, a few weeks. But I Joined outside of a Blight. The others…the books…they all said it’s worse, if you Join during a blight…”

Emma looked at the fire. The embers pulsed faintly.

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Other than dying young and the whole defeat-the-Blight-alone thing?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No, I’m all tapped out for surprises.”

“You’re not sleeping either,” she observed.

“No.” He looked at the trees, the road, anywhere but her. “I don’t much, these days.”

“Is that normal? For Wardens?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I don’t know what’s normal anymore.” He stood, brushing dirt off his trousers. “Anyhow, you’re up now, right? Let’s pull up camp and get a move on.”

Emma didn’t move immediately. She watched him walk toward the packs, already sorting through supplies, scavenging a breakfast, already moving forward.

She wanted fruit. Stupid, frivolous off-season fruit from the Circle kitchens. Something that tasted like choice instead of necessity.

Instead, she stood. Rolled up her bedroll. Strapped her pack.

Morrigan materialized from the treeline, ready, already watching. She said nothing.

Leliana was praying quietly by the remains of the fire. Sten was already waiting on the road, sword strapped to his back, expression of stone.

Muffin stretched, yawned, and trotted over to Emma’s side. She scratched behind his ears. He leaned into it, tail wagging.

At least someone was getting rest.

“Ready?” Alistair called from the road.

Emma shouldered her staff. “Ready.”

They walked north. The sun rose somewhere behind the clouds, pale and distant. The dreams would never end, so long as she lived.

They walked in silence for a while. The road stretched ahead, empty and grey. Emma’s boots found their rhythm on the packed earth. Alistair’s armor clinked softly with each step.

Then he said, carefully: “You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen you sleep. Before now, that is.”

Emma glanced at him. “You’ve seen me sleep.”

“Have I? Because I’m trying to remember, and I’m coming up empty.”

She kept walking. “You were impatient while I slept in Flemeth’s hut.”

“You were unconscious in Flemeth’s hut. That’s different. That doesn’t count.”

“It counts.”

“Does it, though?” He was watching her now, head tilted slightly. “Because before that, in the Wilds—nothing. After the tower—nothing. On the road—maybe an hour here and there.”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep.”

“Apparently.” He made a thoughtful noise. Not disapproving. Just… processing.

“How?” he asked finally. “I mean, genuinely. How do you keep going like that? Doesn’t it drive you insane?”

“I’m used to it.”

“That’s worse. You know that, right? That being ‘used to it’ is actually much, much worse?”

“Probably.”

“And now you’re a Warden. Which means the nightmares are also going to make it worse.”

“I’m aware.”

“But also—Emma, you can’t sustain this. You know you can’t. I mean, you can now, obviously, because you’re… you. But at some point, your body’s going to make the decision for you. And when it does, it’s not going to be gentle about it.”

“I know how it works. I’ve been doing this for years,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

“Years.” He repeated the word like he was testing its weight. “Years of what? Two hours a night? Three? Less?”

“Depends. I don’t know. It just varies. I’m just like this.”

They walked in silence again. His concern was uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to do with it.

“Look,” he said, softer now. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I’m just… worried. You’re running yourself into the ground, and I don’t know how to help.”

She sighed. “Nobody knows. It is what it is. You don’t need to help.”

“You know,” Alistair said, “if you do manage to sleep tonight, and the nightmares come back—I was going to say you could wake me. If you wanted. I’m usually up anyway.”

“That’s no good. You don’t need to double down on my insomnia, Alistair.”

He chuckled. “I told you. I don’t sleep much either these days.”

“So we’re both disasters.”

“We’re Wardens,” he corrected.

“Fine. If I sleep. If the nightmares come. I’ll…at least see if you’re already up.”

“Good.”