Dragon Age:

Nemesis

I've had this thing in my head for a while now, so out with it!

Contains some gore, bitterness and a truckload of beloved characters' death. You have been warned.

Solitude. It is a strange thing. When I took to the roads to save a kingdom I did not care about, I had never considered myself lonely. I was content with my power, with the knowledge that sooner or later, I would outgrow my masters and slip from the net.

They taught me otherwise. Sharing the hardships of the road, sharing the fear and the pain, taught me otherwise, and for a while, I found myself wanting to believe. Not in Holy Andraste, I never was that dumb. No, I wanted to believe that their friendship made me stronger.

How delightfully naive of me.

She was so beautiful, yet so cold.

The thought was not strictly Andrastian, Leliana reflected as she lit another candle on the altar before the coldly glinting statue. Lothering's rebuilt chapel was silent, the other nuns long gone to their small, white stone cells to enjoy the peaceful sleep that came with a clean conscience. Leliana envied them. She did not sleep much, and when she did, it was in short, fitful spells.

The years had taken their toll on the former bard, years spent on her knees, chasing the elusive ghost of a faith that had died in the ravaged plains before Denerim. Too many empty prayers, too much cheap, greasy food, and the surrender of a body that reluctantly survived her heart. The most recognizable feature in Leliana's bloated, increasingly listless features were the sad, blue eyes.

She felt the presence rise behind her, though the door was closed and the high windows too narrow to allow passage to anything bigger than a pigeon. She didn't need to see his face to recognize him; her dreams had warned her already. She had longed for this moment, for this chance to say the words, to assuage her guilt at last.

"I am sorry," Leliana whispered, "I am so sorry…"

"I forgive you," the voice said, and it was surprisingly gentle, just like when he thanked her for telling a tale, so many years ago. She felt his hand cradle the back of her head, and it was the same soft, soothing touch too…

"Go to sleep, sweet Leliana," the sad voice came, and the electricity crackled through her skull, and for the first time since her betrayal, Leliana went to sleep without the fear of nightmares waking her up.

Jowan's betrayal should have taught me something about humans and their wily ways. Yet, when the betrayal came I was so blind, so oblivious to it. As I raged against my shackles and fought for existence, I never even thought of laying the blame on them.

Instead, I blamed her.

"Dear Maker…"

First Enchanter Wynne fell back into her sturdy chair, a hollow, sickening feeling rising in her stomach as she finished reading the short message from Lothering.

Poor forlorn child. Leliana had been so fragile, the guilt and suffering born from her past life always nagging at her. Wynne had done her best to offer advice and guidance, as had the Warden in his own, albeit slightly less Andrastian way. All for nothing, and Wynne had seen the bard break apart before her eyes after that fateful night before Denerim.

The words of the message danced in the old enchanter's head. Someone had fried the poor child's brains before Holy Andraste's altar…

What kind of monster would do such a thing?

She was so spiteful, so full of herself and her mother's spells, so impossibly arrogant. We were at each other's throats from the first time we met. In her eyes I was the enemy, the Chantry's neutered lapdog; I scoffed at her ignorance and near illiteracy. It was… refreshing, and during the weeks that followed our escape from the Wilds, our arguments turned to long, absorbing discussions about the nature of magic.

Of course, it didn't hurt that the mere thought of her breasts under those loose robes gave me raging erections.

Ashag Hakur was proud of his station in life.

Being the Fourth Sten of the Beresaad's Hakur was a great honor, although it entailed a few minor chores that some unenlightened warriors might find below them: sweeping the floors of his Sten's quarters was one of those. But the Hakur was the only one allowed to touch Asala, the Sten's revered sword. Ashag polished, sharpened and oiled the blade that was the infidels' bane, and some of his commander's prestige rubbed off on him.

Mentally humming a verse of the Qun, Ashag Hakur opened the door to the Sten's quarters. At this time of the day, he knew that his commander would be standing in the small, orchid-strewn patio, reflecting on the inner meanings of the sacred book. Ashag Shakur took two steps under the wooden eaves and froze, struggling to make sense of the scene before him, taking in the blood, the deathly pale face, the dead fingers clenched on the huge sword's blade.

Slowly, mournfully, Ashag Hakur shook his massive horned head. The Qun forbid the taking of one's life. As the dead man's Hakur, Ashag's station in life had just plummeted to the bottom of Qunari society. He felt a pang of sadness, not for himself, but for the noble blade that had been so defiled.

No longer would Asala sing its song of death.

The others often wondered if the Witch of the Wilds had secretly woven a spell on me, ensnaring me with dark magic and the delights of the flesh. The truth is far simpler. In her, I found a mirror of my own nature, untamed and uncompromising.

When Leliana joked that we were in love, we both scoffed, but perhaps the Orlesian wasn't so far from the truth.

So when Morrigan told me of the ritual, I accepted eagerly. I did not care about the consequences, about the divine being my seed would bring into this world. You see, I had never met a being I could not kill or bend to my will. Except Morrigan, of course; but then I knew better than to try.

I remember that night, the glory of her white skin glowing in the dark chambers, and the tears that came to the golden eyes as I held her and whispered unreasonable words.

"I will find you."

She smirked, and said I was a fool. But I always hold my promises.

"You call this shit wine?"

The innkeeper stared at the fuming patron's face before taking the mug from his hand. Raising the liquid to his nose, he took a sniff and decided that he would stop the experimenting here. The wine stank; sometimes rats found their way into the best-sealed barrels…

"I am very sorry, Ser. How about I replace your drink and throw in an extra pitcher? We have a new cask straight from Gwaren."

Moving away from the still-grumbling customer, the innkeeper motioned to Irene, one of the serving girls, to go and check the cellar. Minutes later, the girl was back, her face a ghostly shade of white as she whispered to his ear.

Running down to the cellar, forcing the heavy lid open with a crowbar. The innkeeper's stomach lurched when he saw the tuft of red hair, the satisfied grin on the drowned dwarf's face. After the guards came and discreetly removed the pickled corpse, the innkeeper was left wondering how the hell the notorious drunkard had managed to stuff himself into a wine barrel and close the lid over his head.

All things equal, not a bad death.

Her betrayal hit me like an ogre's fist.

When the sun rose on the army's camp before Denerim, she was gone. I searched, and I screamed her name, and I tried to use that ring of hers, all in vain.

They all tried to soothe my pain, and said that she couldn't be trusted, and I saw the truth in their words. I assumed that I must have looked terrible, so I didn't wonder why Leliana seemed so broken, or why Alistair hung his head like a beaten hound. I thanked Wynne for her words of wisdom, for showing me how the ways of the apostates would only, ever, lead to ruin.

And so I turned my rage and my hatred onto Denerim, onto the festering husk of a god that led the tainted horde. But in my heart I hadn't forgotten my promise.

In the stone halls of his forebears, King Alistair the Morose held his joyless court.

Or rather, Queen Anora held court, while her royal husband brooded and made no effort to hide his lack of interest in his surroundings. The courtiers were used to this situation, and sometimes the lonely king wondered if they saw him at all, if he was still alive after all. Maybe he had it all wrong, maybe he had taken the final blow, all these years ago... He fancied himself the bored ghost of a Grey Warden, playing imagination games in the Fade.

But there was always a dimwitted servant to ask if he needed more wine, reminding him of the reality of his situation. Although, the wine helped a little…

The evening went on and on and on, until King Alistair could take no more wine or insipid courtier babbling, and he rose and bid the noble assistance good night, enduring Anora's vaguely contemptuous gaze on his back as he walked away, limping slightly.

Maker, how he wished he'd never left the Templars…

There was someone in the royal bedroom, a tall, thin silhouette in a black robe and hood. Alistair was almost relieved that he couldn't make out the face in the shadows of the hood. The intruder spoke, in a strangely muffled, androgynous voice that he couldn't recognize.

"It has been a long time, Alistair."

Alistair simply nodded; hand on his sword handle, waiting for the shadowy figure to make a move. He was still in good shape, and his personal guard could intervene at the blink of an eye. Reading his thoughts, the intruder pointed at the small shape asleep on the woolen rug before the bed, and Alistair felt his stomach knot. He could make out Alim's blond locks in the dark; sleek, black forms slithered on the sleeping Theirin child's body.

"The snakes won't hurt him, Alistair. Not unless you try something stupid."

Alistair was the King; he didn't have to justify his actions, or his past choices… But he tried anyway.

"I wanted to take the blow," he said in a strangled voice, feeling the relief that came with the confession, and then the dam broke and it all came out, the words hurried and garbled by emotion.

"I wanted to take the blow, but then that damned hurlock shattered my knee and I had to watch… I had to watch him die instead of me. I never wanted for any of this to happen. Wynne only told me after it was done, she told me that there had been an accident. I knew that she was lying, but I said nothing. I was afraid he would turn on them, and we needed them to storm Fort drakon. I swear, I didn't know they planned to… to…"

"To kill my child. Say it, Alistair."

Alistair nodded, swallowing back tears at the sight of an adder coiling itself around his son's neck. His son, but not Anora's. His son, and only reason to live.

"… Please don't hurt him, Morrigan. Please…"

"Morrigan? You think I am Morrigan?" The intruder laughed softly, a joyless sound that reminded Alistair of dry bones rattling in a coffin. Slowly, the cloaked figure raised its hands and pulled back the hood, revealing its face.

"You?" Alistair blurted, eyes wide with shock.

When I struck the final blow, reducing the Archdemon's song to the vague moan of blood squirting through torn brain matter, I was driven only by rage and my lust for vengeance. So intense was my hatred, I hardly felt any pain when my soul was shattered and torn from my body.

They put my body in a sculpted sarcophagus, and said that I was a hero, that I had sacrificed my life to end the Blight. Sanctimonious fools. Truth be told, I never had any intention of surrendering my life, not for Ferelden, not for any cause. My thirst for vengeance only reinforced my determination to beat death.

There are ways. Flemeth's black grimoire helped, and so did the ancient scrolls I found scattered in elven ruins, and above all, my little private encounter with that demon in Redcliffe. When I scrambled the Archdemon's brains, I wasn't unprepared.

Alistair kneeled by the immobile child. The dark visitor and his snakes were gone, swallowed by shadows that had drifted off through the window like a bad dream. The king reached for his son's brow, brushing a stray curl from the child's peaceful brow. Alim made a little whimpering sound, tiny bubbles forming at the corner of his lips. The encounter now felt like a bad dream…

Something stirred in response to the thought. Alistair lowered his gaze to look at the tattoo on his wrist, the tiny scales and slotted eyes so incredibly lifelike, and the snake's tiny tongue flickered once, mocking his wishful thinking. And yet all that Alistair could feel was relief.

"An eye for an eye," the shadow had said. "Your silence makes you their accomplice, old friend. Yet…"

Cold brown eyes had met Alistair's gaze, and there had been a flicker of emotion in there.

"I won't deny you what was denied me," the shadow had concluded sadly, "you have thirteen years."

Picking up the sleeping child, Alistair smiled. He intended to make the best of the reprieve.

It is a long journey from the abodes of the dead, and it took me a long time to adjust to my new form. My first incursions were short and insignificant, mere flickers of consciousness in another's mind. Yet, as my former power slowly returned, the duration of my stays among the living increased, and I started to mold my host to suit my needs.

In between these incursions, I roamed the Fade, preying on lesser demons to sustain my essence, and avoiding the webs of more significant entities. I became a rather efficient hunter, and so it came to be that I finally picked her scent. I had expected to confront her in the realm of light, but I grew impatient, and so it was in the Fade that we met.

I descended on Morrigan like the very god of vengeance, spells a-blazing in a Fade tempest that must have roused every Templar in Thedas. She didn't even raise her guard, and my fury died when I looked at her. Morrigan, my Witch of the Wilds, was broken beyond recognition, a pale, beaten shadow of her old self.

I will not give a full account of the slow, painful process through which I nursed my witch's spirit back to life. All I will say is that I expended more patience and power than I thought I possessed, but in the end Morrigan recognized me, and we talked, and I learned the truth. Morrigan told me of the pain when she awoke two days later in the ruins of a farm, childless and forever barren. She told me how she looked for me, wandering through Denerim in a haze, and watched them all shed a tear as they entombed Alim Surana, the Hero of Ferelden.

Wynne looked up from her book, The pirate princess of Antiva, and listened to the sounds of the sleeping Tower. She had surprisingly good hearing for her age; in fact, contrary to what could be expected, she hardly felt old at all. She listened intently, but all was quiet.

Wynne sighed softly. Leliana's awful end had shaken her a little. Leliana and Alistair had always been the most innocent among the companions, and she knew that by manipulating the bard into drugging Alim and Morrigan's food, she had grievously wounded her. Leliana had never recovered from Alim's death.

Wynne pinched her lips, steeling herself against the memory. She had done what she must, she reminded herself. In acting preemptively, she had avoided the birth of an abomination the likes of which Thedas had not seen in ages. What was the death of a single child, weighed against the deaths of thousands? What was Morrigan's suffering, compared to the suffering of millions?

Was it even a child, anyway? Wynne doubted it. The thing had been conceived after a pagan ritual, a pathetic life form born from the darkspawn taint and blood magic. Killing it had probably been an act of mercy.

Yes, Wynne had been right to rip the unholy thing from the witch's womb. She had no regret, no, no, no regret. She had done the right thing, the right thing…

The door opened silently, and Wynne stared at the visitor in mild surprise.

I feel a little sorry for the boy. When I entered the Fade and battered his demon into submission, I established a connection of sorts with him. At first I justified it as a contingency access of sorts; after all, I didn't entirely trust my new pet demon to leave the boy alone, in spite of her promise.

Of course, when I found myself running sword in hand towards the Archdemon, I changed my mind about that. Well, at least the kid has enjoyed a few years of reprieve.

I watch Connor's face harden in the mirror as I quickly wipe out all remains of his personality from my body. There is a little hair on my chest; I had never noticed it before. How quaint. Of course, I am human now.

I quickly put on Connor's ceremonial black robes and make my way to the First Enchanter's quarters, carrying a few books under my arm as an obvious alibi for my being up so late. The Templars smile and return my polite greetings.

Wynne is behind her desk, reading one of those vapid romance things. She raises an eyebrow at my unexpected entry, and asks a question. I smile, close the door and walk to the desk, handing her the book without a word.

I have scratched the title off the red leather cover and painted a new one in big, golden letters.

Nemesis.

Wynne reads, and when I see understanding dawn in her steely eyes, I seize her wrists and drag her along into the Fade, draining off her mana as we go. She look like she is about to say something, but already a delicate, grayish hand coils around her jaw, muffling her protests.

I watch my pet drag Wynne away, and I almost feel sorry for the demon.

The moon is rising on Lake Calenhad. On the gravel shore, a tall, thin silhouette watches serenely as the shadows rise and coalesce to form the shape of a young man. His form is quite different from her memories, and not quite as eye-pleasing; but the mischievous glint in his eyes is the same, and she catches herself longing for his embrace.

"You came," Morrigan says simply, her voice still hoarse from all those years spent in the shape of a wolf.

"I promised," he answers.

A kiss, a flutter of wings; the shore is empty, the lovers are gone, and only kind darkness knows where they now dwell.