I was raised in an alienage; I know that life isn't fair. But I had hoped the lie would last a little longer, this time.

Let me go back. Not all the way to the beginning-explaining growing up as an elf would take more time and paper (and probably patience) than I have tonight.

I'd rather not even begin with my wedding day. The less said about that the better, for all that I've carried poor Nelaros' ring with me on all the long miles since then. But I have to mention it, if only because that was the day I learned that I would do terrible things for the sake of the people I love. I wonder what Duncan saw when he conscripted me; I barely saw his face then, only Shianni's.

Ostagar was a blur-every hour was one borrowed from the gallows and I didn't know whether to trust Duncan or how seriously to take the duty he'd given me as the price for my life. And I didn't care about the politics of the argument between the King and Loghain, but I understood that there were monsters coming, and whatever had wakened in me at the Arl of Denerim's estate was happy about that. I'm not proud of this, but the Wardens didn't matter to me then. I just wanted to hurt something.

The battle cured me of that, at least. In all the chaos it was hard to understand what was happening until it was all over, but I remember clearly enough that I knew we were going to die at the top of the tower. I won't say I was happy about it, but I won't say I cared much either. And then, incredibly, we lived. When I stumbled out of Flemeth's hut, you and Morrigan were there already arguing. I realized that I was happy to be alive, and that I would never know now why Duncan had saved me.

Every day that the world kept crumbling around us, you were like a map back to civilization. We'd joke about you being raised by dogs, and you didn't care about the sharp edge on my ears. You'd bicker with Morrigan, and laughing at you made me forget the reek of blood that clung to my armor. We both knew that things were bad, and sometimes we spoke of it-like when you told me how much Duncan had meant to you-but it was like we had a secret pact to never let each other go completely over the edge.

When you handed me that rose, it was the most stupidly romantic gesture I'd ever seen. I should have said thanks, but let's not make this too serious. I should have walked away. But even though I knew better, it burned me to the ground.

You know the long road we traveled after that-the dwarves with their succession chaos, the Dalish with their arrogance and their love of old wounds, and everywhere the Warden treaties worth less than the paper they'd been written on. Somehow, we made it all work. We even went back to the alienage, where my guilt had stayed behind in my place, and ending that filthy slavery ring was such poor payment for all the wrongs my kin had suffered.

I remember the incredulity on your face, there, when you learned that I'd almost been married. You realized that even after all we'd seen, and the parts of your own childhood you'd shared, you knew so little of my life before the Wardens. I wonder if part of me already knew it then, if I'd stayed silent about my history because somewhere in my bones I understood that we wouldn't last long enough for it to matter.

I'm being bitter, and I really didn't mean to do that. I'll skip to the Landsmeet and get it over with, then. You'd said all along that you didn't want to be king, but when faced with Anora's arrogance-the high regard of that bitch who'd betrayed us-you broke down and admitted that you'd take the crown rather than give it to her. I wonder if you realized what you were saying at the time, if you knew that the glow in your eyes was reflected from a future that didn't include me. I don't think so; you never had that kind of deception in you, it's one of the reasons I fell in love.

And I do love you, even now. There is a light that shines through you that comes from some better world, and I know it will warm Ferelden when this Blight is past. When you came to me that night and said that we were over, I couldn't help myself protesting, though I knew it wouldn't do any good. I can even tell myself it's for the best, in the end. If we have to have kings in this world, and I suppose we do, then they should be good men. I can think of none better than you.

I'm running out of time; you'll be done with Morrigan soon. (Well, more accurately, I suppose she'll be done with you.) If it helps, that betrayed look on your face when I talked you into her plan will stay with me until I die. I almost explained then, but instead I told myself that I stopped owing you explanations the minute you informed me that kings couldn't have elf commoners beside them.

So here it is, unowed but freely given, the reason you're lying with Morrigan while I finish this wine and this letter: after all we've done, after all we lost to win you a crown and unite Ferelden against the Blight, you will live. I'll demand nothing else of you, for I've lost that right if I ever had it. But you will not die for the Archdemon, and if I have cause to regret Morrigan's child in the years to come, I will shed those tears as gladly as I shed blood back in Denerim on my wedding day. Because I am capable of doing terrible things for those I love.

In a minute, I'll burn this letter. It's just a little bowl for holding words, to collect them in one place so I can send them flying up the chimney instead of out of my mouth. Tomorrow, I'll be back to normal, Kallian the Grey Warden and larger than life (good thing, otherwise I'd never get much done with my height).

Tomorrow, we'll go off to fight the Archdemon with a grin for death like we always have. Tonight, I mourn us, and I hope you never understand just how very much you meant to me.