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"And so is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought sin to Heaven,
And doom upon all the world."
-Canticle of Threnodies 8:13
Chapter 1: The End
A rooftop was no place to fight a war. The losses had been devastating.
Her mages were crushed; the bodies of her dwarven Legionnaires were scattered across the roof of Fort Drakon. She couldn't begin to count the archers thrown from the tower by the Archdemon's powerful wings and tail. Charred figures lay everywhere — the bloody coin of eight months of Warden politicking, spent to buy them this single chance.
It all came down to five figures on a rooftop.
Loghain, battered and sweaty in his iconic gray armor. The wrong shield at her side, her body had screamed as they carved their path through the tower, but he fought like a force of nature: unstoppable, relentless in his strength and precision. Loghain, whose grim resolve had thrown back wave after wave of darkspawn today, and whose blessed pragmatism last night had bought them all the chance to live through this.
Morrigan, on whose word her life was hanging. The witch stood in a circle of frost, alone and completely unbloodied, her eyes on the Archdemon. Waiting.
Leliana, the only ally whose faith in her hadn't been broken by the Landsmeet, who now lay in a crumpled heap by the tower stairs. Her bow was blackened by the same dragonfire that had caught her right side as she loosed the arrow that had pinned the beast at last.
The Archdemon, all too close now.
And herself. Gore-spattered, exhausted, hands scraped bloody from the pull of Fort Drakon's ballistas and daggers scattered Maker-knows-where, Elissa Cousland turned to the great dragon writhing on the stones of the rooftop.
Waiting on the other side of the killing blow was the End. The end of the Blight that had driven her steps for the better part of a year. An end of the nation's civil war — the end that Loghain had spoken of so fervently and followed her to find. Highever was waiting. Spring would come, and silence. Distance from Denerim, from the politics scraping her raw, from Alistair — whose memory by the Maker she would not allow to intrude here when he couldn't see past his own wounded pride to fight beside them.
Just thrust her blade through the Archdemon's neck, and it would all be over.
She knew that thought for the lie it was, but with a cry that was half sob and half laugh, she charged the dragon. It was the work of a moment to jerk the nearest greatsword from the body of a twitching darkspawn. Gathering her strength, she leapt onto the Archdemon —
— striking just behind the skull, where head and body met —
— and cut off its cursed, blighted, bloody head.
The world vanished in a flash of light.
Her vision went white, and she heard a rushing in her ears just before the archdemon's essence crashed down on her. It hit her like a tidal wave, a massive, crushing weight. She staggered under the force of it, clinging to the feeling of the greatsword in her hands to keep herself from being swept away.
The pressure inside her was incredible. She felt herself stretched, pulled, spread thin as she resisted. She clung tight to the sword's hilt as the archdemon's soul strained against her — strained through her, pushing toward Morrigan. She fought it with everything she had left, terrified of letting go and being dragged with the archdemon into death (or was it rebirth?).
Maker, Morrigan hadn't told her it would hurt so much.
The release, when it came, was sudden and sharp. Something immense slid past her, pure and strong — she almost collapsed as the pressure eased —
— There was a snap back, a spark —
— joyously bright, rebounding —
And then the taint that the Archdemon had left behind flooded in to drown her.
It swirled in around her, thick and heavy and clinging. It was everywhere — sliding under her eyelids, creeping up her nose, filling her ears. She gagged on the oily slickness in her mouth; the stench of decay sat at the back of her throat.
It brought her to her knees, finally. The jarring pain of her legs striking stone was a sharp reminder of the outside world, and she opened her eyes. Her hands were there before her, spread out against the stones of the rooftop, and they were too pale — surely they should've been blighted black —
Silence rang in her ears, broken by the fluttering of bird wings as Morrigan kept her promise and fled.
Head spinning, blinking against dark spots, she fought to glance around. Where was . . . ?
Ah — not far. She and Loghain were alone at the top of the world, with the sky on fire and darkness creeping along the edges of her vision. And then she was gasping, coughing, heaving —
His hand thumped her back, encouraging her to vomit if she needed to, and she did need to, but it was caught in her, this pervasive invisible taint. It was thick and viscous, coating her insides like spoiled honey, and she couldn't get it out. Her arms gave out, and Loghain caught her and eased her to the ground.
She felt wrung out, discarded, like a used cheesecloth. She was sinking . . .
His hands were unexpectedly gentle as he arranged her limbs, slid a hand under her knees to lift her. Her ally. She could see his face as darkness rushed in from the edges of her vision: determined, hard-eyed, practical, scowling as always. As she and consciousness parted ways, she could only hope she'd put her trust in the right place.
The darkness took her.
Next: Loghain is left to clean up the mess.