He is a paragon of Fereldan virtues, she thinks: loyal, brave, cheerfully staunch in the most dire of situations, embarrassingly polite and a purveyor of the worst food she, or possibly anyone, has ever tasted. Handsome, an excellent fighter, fond of dogs, not quite as fond of injustice; a strong man and a truly good one, but not complicated. He'll make a fine king - for whether he likes it or not, he will be king.
And she will not be queen.
Cordelia has always been ravenous for stories. She knows how they all go. The chevalier loves a lady in secret, but she betrays him at the masquerade; entire armies fall to a handful of smallfolk fighting for their freedom; powerful mages are victims of their own pride, the clever tailor tricks the giant, the princess dons her brother's armor and goes off to war.
And the king's son is lost but found again, and his rule ushers in a golden age.
He proposed to her the other day. She'd thought he was joking when he started going on about her being the last woman he ever wanted in his bed. "Well, I will be if you get yourself killed," she'd joked back, "so why don't you go get some practice in with Sten?" Actually, no. She'd known he was serious and she'd deflected the issue, even though she wanted nothing more than to spend her entire life in bed with this man, perhaps getting up to eat now and again.
He'd come in that night late, sweaty, exhausted and pouting. "Don't say anything," he'd said, and pinned her to the bedroll with a fierce kiss; they made desperate, silent love in the dark, and afterwards she'd said "But-"
"Don't say it," he said. "I don't care what it is, I don't want to hear it. Unless it's 'yes.'"
"Yes," she'd whispered, finally. "Yes, of course yes. It's all I want. You do know, though, that mages –"
"Don't!"
"- don't marry," she finished.
"They say that," he said. "They also say that there are no female Grey Wardens and playing with yourself makes you go blind. But here you are, and here I am." He'd pulled her in for another kiss and brooked no further argument.
She lay awake all night wondering if he knew she hadn't finished her statement. Mages don't marry kings.
She knew how this story goes.
Her favorite heroic tale was Bronwen's Lay, a legend from the time of Dane. Bronwen was a farmer's daughter who had followed her brother into battle against the invincible King of the Wolves and fallen in love with the army's handsome young commander. Their stations being so different, and Fereldan heroic poetry being what it was, their romance did not end well.
He would not have her; heart heavy,
She called out for the great hound Harwin.
Fierce and fell, her true friend
Came to her call like the western wind.
"We ride," she said, "tonight we ride;
The deed will be done, I will not wait.
I shall make of my sorrow the sharpest sword.
I shall strike at the heart of the beast and end it."
"Have you ever thought about your last words?" she'd said suddenly one night, her head pillowed on his bare chest.
"What? No," he said, surprised. "Not at all, actually. Though I suppose they'll be something like 'Come on if you think you're hard enough!'" He played with her hair. "Why, have you? Is this something mages think about often?"
"Well... yes. Some of the more senior ones, anyway. Sometimes they know when they're going to die, and they want to make sure they'll be remembered well, so they write speeches. Some people have clothes made. I heard one senior enchanter actually had a going-away party. That was before my time."
"Was there cake?"
"Wynne says there was. With strawberries."
"Mmmm. Delicious death cake. What flavor should our death cake be, do you think? Vanilla with little darkspawn-shaped sprinkles? Grey Warden death cake. We've got thirty years to decide..."
"I'm going to say something amazing," she said. "Something the poets will remember. Wynne says it's not how you die, it's how you live, but how you die has to be important too, doesn't it?"
"My love, you are a morbid woman. Let me interrupt that train of thought for you." And he did.
After, when she thought he was asleep, she rolled over and found him regarding her, his face unreadable. "You said," he said quietly, "sometimes mages know..."
"Sometimes," she whispered.
He said nothing, pulled her closer.
Stories pull at you, she knows. They shape your mind. They guide you to your destiny, and in fulfilling it, you tell the story again.
"Leliana," she said, "do you know Bronwen's Lay?"
"What, all of it?" the bard said. "Of course I do, but I doubt we have time for the whole three-day epic. I definitely don't have the stamina."
"No, just the last bit. The final battle, where Bronwen fights the wolf king. It was always my favorite."
"I always loved it too. Such bravery and triumph at the end, although it's too bad everybody dies." She regarded her friend. "But so very sad. Are you sure you want to hear it tonight?"
"Please, Lel," Cordelia said. "Please."
So at dusk they lit the fire and gathered around to hear their friend sing, even Morrigan, and Alistair leaned in close to Cordelia and proudly put his arm around her for all the party and the world to see. The air was resonant with the sound of the harp and the smell of roast rabbit.
Leliana's voice rose.
The soldiers struck their shields and sang.
Each one boasted he would be bravest.
Her lover, preparing his men for battle,
Knew not that she would be dead by dawn.