A/N: I'm sorry this took me so long to get posted – I got hit by a kidney infection this week and was not exactly coherent. As promised, this is the alternate ending to my story Oaths. Although I tried throughout this tale to adhere to the guidelines set by the game, I took more liberties with this ending. I don't like manipulating Alistair towards the end, though I understand that the writers were walking a fine line between leaving the course of the game in the player's hands and not making Alistair appear too eager to take part in the ritual. However, I have more freedom. I wrote this ending to fit into my story, so I didn't repeat scenes I already covered. Enjoy.

Alistair couldn't say what awoke him that night, except the sudden feeling that he was alone. The position of the stars told him it was near midnight, but Rhiann's side of the bed was empty and cold, like she had been gone for some time. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering who had called her away this time. With a sigh he got up and dressed, determined to track her down and force her to get some sleep before the march in the morning. Between the meeting with Riordan and whatever had happened with Morrigan she had been through enough for one evening, had looked pale and sickly before he managed to coerce her to coming to bed. What more did these people want from her? Were they now incapable of loading up carts and finding matching socks without her assistance?

A guard was stationed just outside the door, a precaution he had been unaware of. It must have been Eamon's doing.

"Something amiss, Your Majesty?" the man asked, and Alistair bit back a caustic reply. Best start getting used to it now, he supposed.

"Yes," he answered, only a little more sharply then he meant to. "The Grey Warden who came here with me. Have you seen her?"

"Thought I saw her talking to that elf," the man said with a sour twist to his mouth. Alistair's eyes narrowed, but he didn't bother to correct him. There would be time for dealing with prejudices amongst his soldiers later. And after all, maybe the man had simply met Zevran. He couldn't fault him the disgusted tone, if that were the case.

"Where did they go?"

"To the balcony, I believe, Your Majesty."

With a nod of dismissal he headed in the direction indicated, and when he spotted them together just outside the doors he had to fight back a rising tide of irritation. Why was it whenever they got even a moment of peace that smarmy bastard always managed to share it? Though he had overcome his jealousy towards the elf, he still couldn't understand why Rhiann put so much faith in his supposed friendship. As far as he was concerned, Zevran couldn't be counted as trustworthy until he was gone.

Rhiann and the assassin seemed engrossed in a serious conversation, and as he debated whether or not interrupting them would be terribly possessive of him, his attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. A dog ran past him in the hallway. It would normally would not draw his notice, even though it was not one of the mabari so often seen with armies, except as it passed a cold shiver ran up his spine, a warning from his Templar training that magic was near. Momentarily distracted, he allowed his gaze to follow the animal and just before it turned the corner, it glanced back at him with large, golden eyes.

Oh, no you don't, he thought angrily, and hurried to catch up to it.

Morrigan had shifted back into her human form when he rounded the corner, glancing furtively down the hall as she tried to enter the chamber set aside for Rhiann. She looked up, startled to see him stalking towards her.

"Alistair! What -"

Without a word he grabbed her arm and hauled her into the empty chamber, ignoring her indignant squawk of protest.

"Unhand me, fool, or I will-"

"You'll what?" he taunted, shoving her into the room before him and closing the door. With a snap of her fingers Morrigan lit the candles scattered about the chamber, her breath coming in angry gasps as she glared at him.

"I hate you," she hissed, infuriated by the idea that he had the power to manhandle her.

"I'm crushed. Really I am," he drawled, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here, Morrigan?"

"'Twas you who dragged me in here, was it not?" she bit out, her yellow gaze smoldering as if she'd like nothing better than to torch him where he stood.

"Rhiann told me you left," he said, ignoring the sarcasm. "I'm curious as to why the part where you're gone hasn't occurred yet."

"She told you?" Brought up short, she blinked in surprise. Understanding dawned on her fierce expression and she smiled, a bitter twist to her mouth. "Did she tell you why, I wonder?"

"What why? I always knew you'd run for the hills as soon as you got whatever it was you wanted from us. Forgive me if I'm impatient to see it happen."

"I see. Apparently our dear Warden would keep you in the dark as well. Pity. I would think you a little old to hide behind her skirts."

"Rhiann doesn't wear skirts." So not the point. "And what are you talking about? What did you say to her, anyway?"

She shook her head. "Far be it for me to intrude on premarital bliss. I'm sure she had her own reasons for not coercing you into saving your own skin."

He growled beneath his breath and battled the urge to forcibly shake the information from her. Which is just what mood she was aiming for, he was sure. She was drawing far to much enjoyment from his apparent frustration. "I'm going to ask you just once more, and then I may forcibly toss you out of this castle myself and go back to bed. What did you say to Rhiann?"

She gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders, poorly mimicking indifference. "I offered her an alternative."

"An alternative?"

"Yes. You are familiar with the word, I think?" She smirked at exasperated glower. "Very well, if you truly feel you can live with the knowledge. I am aware of your dilemma, you see. I know why a Grey Warden must be the one to slay the archdemon, and what sacrifice is required for such an act."

"What? How did you-" he shook his head, unsure which question to ask first. "Never mind. What alternative could you possibly offer?"

"There is a ritual," she said calmly, sauntering over to sit on the edge of the bed before crossing her legs. "It will save the Grey Warden who takes the final blow from the killing power of the archdemon."

Alistair eyed her suspiciously. If such magic existed, why didn't the Wardens know about it? Even more importantly, why would Rhiann keep it from him? "What exactly does this ritual involve?"

He didn't like the predatory smile she gave him at all. "It would involve you laying with me. Here. Tonight. Under the influence of the full moon."

"What?!" He felt like she had hit him, was quite certain he couldn't have heard that correctly. "You mean – you want – we would have to-"

"For someone who spends a great deal of time participating in the act, 'tis rather amusing to see you still have difficulty saying it."

"Not with you, though!" he sputtered.

"And truly, it is your talent for stating the obvious that makes me thankful for that. However, there is no other way."

Maker's breath, she was serious. She merely looked at him, as cool and collected as if she were offering him a glass of water. How did one even begin to respond to such a proposition? He took a deep breath and forced himself to think rationally. There was something here that she was hiding, of that he was sure. It would be foolish to take so much as an apple from Morrigan, even if you already knew it was poisoned, without checking it for worms as well. "Say I was even considering this, and I most vehemently am not - why would you even suggest such a thing? What are you getting out of it?"

She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "I would – do what I can to assist you. I do not relish the thought of Rhiann dying when I have the power to prevent it."

That silenced him, calmed his raging incredulity somewhat. It was true that the only concern he had ever seen Morrigan display – if it could even be called that – was for Rhiann. He didn't doubt her sincerity, but there remained a nagging bit of logic in the back of his mind that didn't quite add up. "I'm no mage."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"I know something of magic, even your 'old ways'. Sex is used in rituals to harness shared power, and I have none. For all intents and purposes, I should be useless to you. So what aren't you telling me?"

She blinked at him owlishly in sheer surprise. Honestly. She must have believed he knew nothing about the powers he was trained to fight. She set her mouth mulishly, apparently debating whether or not she was going to answer. He simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the door, reminding her that he stood between her and the only exit. He was fairly positive he could wait her out, if it came down to it.

"Very well," she snapped unwillingly. "Though it should not concern you. The ritual will produce a child."

"A... that shouldn't concern me?" he practically shouted.

"No."

"Care to explain how exactly you think that's going to work?"

"You allow me to walk away, and you do not follow. Ever. The babe is mine to raise as I wish. You will never see either of us again."

"Until whatever beast you spawn comes crashing into Ferelden with an army and blood ties to the throne."

She snorted at that. "I care nothing for your Ferelden politics. I need you because of the taint in your blood, not whatever seal of royalty these fools have pressed upon you. The essence of the archdemon will be drawn to the child like a beacon. At this early stage the demon will be destroyed, but the child will live, and it's soul will be that of the old god, untainted and whole."

Alistair leaned heavily against the door, reeling. No wonder Rhiann hadn't told him. The very notion of carrying out this plot was too heinous to be considered. Yet the churning in his gut told him otherwise. Rather than laughing in her face and walking away, he was actually considering her alternative, weighing the consequences in his mind. He tried to will himself to move, to leave, to get out of this situation before it got the better of him, but he couldn't budge. Rhiann had been able to refuse her. She saw death as the preferable option...

He felt suddenly sicker than he had before. The image of her speaking to Zevran on the balcony flashed through his mind. That was what she had intended. She planned to keep the ritual a secret from him, and deliver the final blow herself. It was insane to trust Riordan would definitely live throughout the battle, to believe that there was no chance of it coming down to Rhiann or himself. She was already setting up safeguards against such an occurrence, taken the steps necessary to ensure that it would never be him.

Alistair didn't much like the notion of pitting his wits against hers in order to keep her alive. She was a wily thing, willing to stoop to any ruse or trick to get what she wanted. If Riordan fell before he could save them, she would die. That was the way she wanted it.

His vision swam and for a moment he couldn't breathe. He was aware of Morrigan watching him with calculated interest and he didn't care. This was resting solely on him – for once he couldn't run to Rhiann and let her talk him down in that calm, reasonable way she had. There was no one here but the witch, no one would have to know of his fall. He trusted Morrigan to keep her silence, if nothing else.

There was only one option, as far as he could see.

He wouldn't let her die.

"Were you waiting for a heart warming farewell, or may I go now?" Morrigan demanded, twisting the knife that much deeper.

Alistair shook his head and grit out, "You're not going anywhere."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "No?" she purred dangerously, as if daring him to try and stop her. She could only be bullied so far with the threat of Templar abilities.

"No," he repeated, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. He stood up and took sadistic satisfaction in the disbelieving look on her face when he pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside to fall somewhere in the darkness of the room. It was a sign of surrender and a gauntlet thrown in one. He would do this, but he'd be damned if he let her see how terrified he was. "Let's get this over with."

A satisfied smile curved her mouth, and the witch's eyes gleamed in triumph.

~*~

The power that Morrigan summoned for the ritual was intoxicating, a wild force of magic in its purest form that went straight to his head like mead. He had thought this would be nearly impossible, but no – in the midst of raw energy his traitorous body responded readily enough with no more encouragement then a warm, willing female beneath him. He felt distanced from his surroundings, a being of want and need driven purely by desire. The magic billowed in humming waves and claimed him, and as he reached his completion he felt it rushing past him, drawn back into the witch that had summoned it. Without it the room was left feeling cold and barren, abruptly devoid of the life she had filled it with.

And he was left only with the horror of what he had done.

As the fog lifted from his brain, he disentangled himself from her and scrambled back, yanking up the breeches he hadn't even bothered to remove, fumbling a little as his hands began to shake. He collapsed on the edge of the bed and cradled his head, feeling dizzy and a more than a little sick. From the corner of his eye he saw Morrigan lift a hand as if to reach for him, perhaps to get his attention. His hand shot out, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Don't … don't touch me," he breathed. There was no bite behind the words, and he hastily loosened his grasp, dimly aware he was probably hurting her.

"As you wish, then," she answered, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying very hard not to associate the voice as the same one that had been crying out in unholy passion only moments before. Morrigan sighed, and he felt the shift in the mattress as she stretched languidly behind him. "I must admit, that wasn't nearly as unpleasant as I feared it would be."

She was only making it worse. He needed to get out of here. Right now, before he lost what last bit of control he had and ran from the room screaming at the top of his lungs. Hastily he got to his feet and stumbled over to his discarded shirt, pulling it over his head as he tried to beat a hasty retreat.

"Alistair." Her voice stopped him, sending unpleasant chills in icy waves down his back. She leaned forward, wrapped in the sheets to spare him the sight of her body. "There will come a time when you do not hate yourself for this nearly as much as you do now."

Was she trying to comfort him? He might have said so, had it not been Morrigan. It didn't help, regardless. He paused with his hand on the latch of the door. "I don't ever want to see you again," he said, low and quiet. He had never been so serious about anything in his life.

She simply nodded, of a like mind. "I trust you will remember that, in the years to come."

He practically ran from the room, desiring nothing more than to scrub the scent of her off of him. Without coherent thought he started for the courtyard, trying to ignore the questioning looks he earned as he passed.

Unclean.

It seemed his sin was written across his face, that the taint of blood magic was seared into his skin. What a self righteous fool he was, that he could hold Morrigan in contempt for her practices, only to succumb to them in the end to save his own life.

Not my life, his mind screamed in denial, not my own life. Yet the excuse rang hollow and empty, because regardless, his actions were selfishly motivated. He didn't want to have to live without her. Every man has his price, Morrigan had told him once. It was a crushing, gut-wrenching realization to discover what that price was.

It seemed like an eternity before he made it to the main entrance of the castle and shoved the doors open, stepping out into the night. The cold air hit him like a blast, eradicating the lingering vestiges of magic and confusion that stubbornly clung to him, clearing his head. He prayed Rhiann was already sleeping. He could picture her in his mind as he drew a bucket of water from the well and dumped it over his head, heedless of the icy temperature. She always slept the same way, lying on her side with her arms tucked beneath her and her knees drawn up. Curling herself into a ball, he teasingly called it. Another freezing splash of water and he braced his hands against the stone, trembling. She could be waiting for him, even now, wondering where he was.

The courtyard was completely empty, sparing the castle's inhabitants the sight of the king of Ferelden on his hands and knees in the tall grasses, heaving up his guts.

It'll get happier, I promise!