I

The fog lifted slowly over Denerim and King Alistair lifted sleepy eyes over the horizon. All of Fereldan was waking to the first day of peace. The Darkspawn were licking their wounds now, though they had yet to be completely purged of the land. That would come with time. A Blight was not so easily ended, as Duncan would have said. Less than a week had passed since the Archdemon's corpse was divided among the conquerors to be carried away as trophies and already things seemed to be settling.

The Dwarves had taken the beast's teeth and talons back to Orzamar, intending to set them in a stone likeness of the beast somewhere in the Deep Roads. At least, that's what he'd been told. Alistair didn't imagine such a trophy would sit well with the Darkspawn. If they held any intelligence at all, they'd likely be brought to wrath by it. Of course, after working with Oghren, he was certain they could take care of themselves. The Dwarves had been beating back Darkspawn since long before even Duncan had taken up the banner.

The eyes went to the Circle of Magi, probably to be used in some kind of ritual or to make a powerful potion. His history as a Templar made him distrustful of their ways and so he thought no good could come of it. As he watched the golden red hues of the morning sun scatter the fallen clouds, he longed for those simpler times. In those days, he would have given anything to be away from the Chantry and to live a life of freedom. The gilded cage of the Maker was stifling. He expected no different from his current confines as king. Eventually, he would have to deal with the Circle and he wasn't looking forward to being diplomatic about it.

The Dalish…For their part, they were granted whatever bones of the dragon they wished. From them, they forged a crown and scepter to rule over the land they hoped Alistair would give them for their assistance. It was too soon now to tell if he would have the favor of the court on this matter. The crown was barely on his head. Still, he felt the Dalish deserved a land to call their own.

Most importantly, the Archdemon's heart had come back to Denerim in the hands of his betrothed to be preserved and displayed for all to see. It was a small thing, considering how much she had given up. Even Loghain's death did not seem to bring satisfaction. But then, killing never succeeded in bringing about anything but more killing. It would be thus with Loghain. He was sure of it.

Alistair turned back, pressing the palms of his hands against the cool railing of the palace balcony to watch his beloved sleep. Sleep was still calling to him, as her thrashing about kept him awake almost all night. He'd wondered at it. With the Archdemon dead and the Darkspawn on the retreat, the nightmares should have abated. Of course, there was no telling what affect the joining might have had on her and she'd been through so much lately. It's all the death and destruction, he thought. No one was supposed to see that much in a lifetime, let alone over the course of a few months.

He marched slowly back into his chambers, still in awe of the shift in his surroundings. Arl Eamon's estate could barely hold a candle to the splendor of the palace in Ferelden.

Everything was made of marble, glass, silk or something else easily damaged. Even as king, Alistair felt like a bull in a china shop everywhere he went. What wasn't breakable was antique or some sort of heirloom, passed down by King Such-and-such. Growing up away from the life he might have had as a legitimate heir to the throne was a disadvantage in such situations, to say the least.

He slipped his hand against the warmth of her cheek, brushing away stubborn strands of auburn hair as he did. Her eyes fluttered open and focused slowly on his. "There you are. I thought you might sleep all day."

"I could," she answered and threw her arms around his neck. "As long as you were next to me." She pulled him down into a kiss but he brushed her offer away gently.

"You know as well as I do that's not an option today. I think Eamon would have my hide if I didn't show up in time to speak with another one of his well wishers." He untwisted her arms and leaned away. "Besides, today there is the matter of Anora. The people won't wait any longer to hear the verdict." His gaze shifted beyond her as he remembered. "Traitor to the crown… How can I execute her when she's been so beloved by the people? Yet giving her back her life is asking for civil war. With an heir uncertain it may be wise to keep her alive."

"Only if you want a knife in your back, love."

He took up a tangled strand of her short, red hair. The waves from her braids were still there. The makeup around her eyes was a little smeared but he thought it was cute. They'd gone to bed so hastily the night before she hadn't even had time to clean it off properly. To see this warrior woman, slayer of over a thousand Darkspawn with smeared makeup and messy hair was more than amusing. At times, he'd regarded his Tarah as an unattainable goal, perfect in every way. Seeing every morning that she wasn't was strangely heartwarming.

Yet as he looked at her this morning all he could feel was regret. The Grey Wardens, the Blight and Loghain had taken everything from her and yet he was powerless even now to stop it. In three decades she would die childless and alone, if they could be so lucky.

"You think I should execute her, then, Tarah?" He sighed and turned his back to her. "I suppose there is little choice, considering. I know it's necessary but…"

Her hand on his forearm interrupted his thoughts. "One death or many. It is your choice. You know where I stand on Anora. We've been over this a thousand times."

Alistair nodded thoughtfully and rose from the bed. "I'll speak to her first, I think. Maybe some time in solitary has made her more loyal." She threw off the covers and stretched as the king turned back and pointed scoldingly at her. "You rest. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine." It was a lie. Her nightmares were eating away at the restful sleep she needed so badly. "I should be at your side. People need to get used to seeing me about."

"Then have yourself a bath." He tossed one of the pillows at her with a sheepish grin. "You smell."

"No worse than you," she answered tossing the pillow back. "Maybe better."

"All right, all right. Last one to the throne room is a Mabari's hindquarters."

#

Anora stood with her head bowed, refusing to look Alistair in the face. The week had been hard on one so used to wielding power. She did not take on the submissive role lightly and Alistair assumed the guards had persuaded her to be silent and obedient. Though he'd ordered her unharmed, she bore the bruises of one who insisted too heavily on her release. There were some markings on her hands and neck, too that suggested self infliction. "Anora Mac Tir," Alistair said shifting in his throne. Even the velvet pillow beneath him was uncomfortable now. "Is your confinement so undesirable that you would make attempts at your own life? Or is it pride and shame that drives you?"

She raised her eyes to him finally, hatred burning in them. "For five years I sat where you now are, the most beloved monarch of our time. Even in Orlais, I was respected and heralded as a rose among thorns. Now, a bastard and a Grey Warden somehow finds the gall to shame me? Death is better than this."

Alistair rose from the throne and cast a sidelong glance at his betrothed. To keep her alive against her will was cruelty. Despite the regret slowly gnawing away at him, it had to be done. "Then I hereby amend your sentence. You will be executed forthwith for your crimes against the crown." He waved to one of his guards as two others forced the disgraced queen to her feet.

As he turned his back to travel back up to the safety of the throne a lone, loud voice called out, "Wait!"

Alistair spun back to see a man in silver armor bearing the crest of the Griffin proudly across it. Two more such men were at his back. He lifted a finger to stay the execution, if only until this matter was settled. "Grey Wardens…From Orlais?"

"Forgive me, majesty." The leader bowed with a fist to his chest, passing by Anora only by a few steps. "I am Gothard, come from Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderthels. I must speak with the Grey Warden, Duncan immediately."

An uncomfortable silence fell across the room, King Alistair's deep breath the only sound echoing. "Duncan was…He fell at Ostagar almost a year ago."

Gothard's face became ashen with worry. "Then the next ranking Grey Warden here in Ferelden. I must speak to him."

"There's just the two of us now." The king motioned back to Tarah. "Tarah and I."

Gothard's response was as expected. Grey Wardens could come from every walk of life, king or slave, elf or man. The Blight did not care who fought it. Yet to see one on the throne of a kingdom come out of such turmoil was certainly a concern. Even as they traveled, they must have heard about the Blight there. A Grey Warden king and a Gray Warden queen-for that is how Tarah already appeared- could mean corruption.

Alistair was already prepared with an explanation, practiced many times by this point. "I am King Maric's bastard son, sent away and raised by a pack of dogs, I might add. Poor Duncan had to trick them with a bone to get me away." Eyes rolled. Anora shook her head in disgust. Gothard didn't seem amused either. "Well, I suppose that is a bit far from the truth. But if you want the whole story it'll be an all day thing giving it."

"Majesty, there is no time for games. The Blight is not ended."

"Impossible." Tarah uncrossed her arms and stepped away from the throne. "I put my sword through the Archdemon personally and cut out its heart. The body has been divided and sent out among all of Ferelden as a trophy. The Blight must be over."

"No," Gothard said shaking his head. Curly, black tufts fell down around darkened skin as he did. Gray was gathering there, though clever styling had hidden it at first glance. "What you have slain, dear lady, pales in comparison the true threat."

Alistair's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean?"

"Your highness," Gothard glanced knowingly at the small crowd in the throne room. "This is a sensitive subject. Perhaps we should discuss it in private?"

Alistair scanned the faces around him. The distrust between Ferelden and Orlais was still heavy on their minds. People were already uneasy about having a Grey Warden on the throne. Already, there had been so much secrecy that he feared the people did not trust him. It had to stop. He had to draw the line somewhere. "Whatever you have to say, Gothard, can be said before all of Ferelden. Our nation cannot be expected to heal if it is patched with secrecy and half truths."

"Very well, your majesty," Gothard said with a dip of his head. "Then let me begin by explaining why the Grey Wardens of Orlais did not answer Duncan's call to aid your effort against the Blight here in Ferelden. They did not come because they had already been called elsewhere to a more pressing battle."

"More pressing? What could be more important to Grey Wardens than quelling a Blight?"

"Armageddo." He was silent for a moment, as if to let the name sink in. When neither Alistair nor anyone else made a reaction, Gothard continued cautiously. "The Chantry says that the Darkspawn were first created after the Magisters of the Tiventer Imperium stepped into the Maker's domain in the Fade. He cast them out and they dug franticly to free the Old Gods, whom the Maker had cast into the depths and darkness of Thedas. In the darkness, they rise them and taint them with their evil, eventually coming to the surface with renewed attack. This is how the Chantry chooses to explain their bane. Grey Warden lore, however, suggests a different origin. Evidence that we have uncovered from Tiventer ruins suggests that the Darkspawn were intentionally created by the Tiventer Imperium Magisters, the most powerful of these calling himself Armageddo."

A wave of whispers erupted in the throne room before one of the revered mothers stepped forward, a scowl plastered upon her face. "This is blasphemy! The Chantry will not stand behind a king with such heathen beliefs!"

Alistair jumped to his feet. "Just because I'm a Warden doesn't mean I share those beliefs! I was raised in the Chantry and as stifling as that was I wouldn't go so far as to publicly renounce that instruction. Honestly, the origin of those monsters doesn't concern me. Tell me why you're here, Gothard, and make it quick."

Gothard, seeming unshaken by the thick hostility in the air, continued. "The Blight that has crippled Ferelden is small in comparison to the one that threatens to the west. While you destroyed one Archdemon here, we have slain two more. Still, the hoard does not retreat. We captured a beast for study and found that he was capable of speech. He spoke of Armageddo and called him his lord. Soon, the creature said, he would rise and strike at the heart of his tormentors. Three days later, the earth opened up and swallowed Weisshaupt Fortress whole. A monster as you have never imagined clawed its way out of the depths of Thedas. Thousands died." Gothard cleared his voice in the silence. "Those of us who survived fled to Orlais to regroup and decide what to do. When I heard rumors that the Blight was overtaking Ferelden, I came to see if they were true. Now that I see they are false, I must insist on bringing help back to Orlais."

Alistair shrank slowly back into his now even more uncomfortable throne. "You must understand that relations between Ferelden and Orlais are…bad, at best."

"I realize that this could be a delicate situation politically. I suggest you leave the party politics for later, however. If we don't find a way to stop this massive, Thedas-wide Blight then Ferelden will be next. With your army in shambles, your people barely beginning to hope and your capital half destroyed, you will fall. Either we defeat them at Orlais or we lay down and die. There is no choice and no time to think. I must have my reply and I must have it now. For every moment I waste here, our brothers die in Orlais."

"Ferelden is in a state of transition," Alistair agreed. "I can't rightfully abandon the throne but I want to help you." Then his eyes shifted back to Anora. "But I could appoint a regent."

"Alistair, no." Tarah was behind him, bidding him not to consider what he already was.

There was no guarantee that Anorah would give the throne back or that she wouldn't send assassins to insure her power here in Ferelden. In fact, Alistair thought, that's exactly what I would do if I were her. But then again, the throne wasn't something he particularly wanted or felt that he could handle. He hadn't been raised as nobility, as Anorah and Tarah had. He was noble in blood only. He'd been raised a warrior, trained a killer and conditioned a leader on the field of battle. All of this was out of place to him. The cleanliness of it…the polite words and backstabbing politicking…He would be eaten alive here in Dennerim. Everyone was already talking about how Tarah would pull his strings. Alistair was no king. With all of his being, he was a Gray Warden.

"Anorah Mac Tir…" She lifted her head as the king spoke her name. "I know of no one else the people will follow and love like they did you. But I fear Loghain's treachery hangs over you. I spared you before out of fear there would be more fighting over the throne. Now, with this new threat facing us, I don't feel like there is any other option but to do the same. I hereby appoint you as my regent, to rule Ferelden in my absence so long as you swear under penalty of death that you will abdicate on my return."

A dark shadow drifted across Anora's face. "If you return."

"Do you accept my offer or shall I signal the executioner?"

Before she spoke, Anora cast a challenging glance back at Tarah. "I accept."

"Then it is settled. Unshackle her and make it so." Alistair turned back to Tarah who came down to join him and then back to Gothard.

The older Warden nodded his affirmation. "Then we must make haste to Val Royeaux where the rest of the order is gathering. Gather only what you need but be quick. It is a long, treacherous journey across land that could be crawling with Darkspawn."