Just a short and rather spontaneous one-shot about our dear ex-templar on the night before the Final Battle. For those of you who are waiting for the next chapter of the Morrigan/Leliana-fic (if there are any...): do not worry, I did not drop that one. It just takes a lot of time and thus is on hold for the moment.

Thanks go to Magdelope, who kind of inspired the way this one came into being.

DISCLAIMER: You know the drill. Most of the cool stuff in this story – persons, places, events – is under the copyright of Bioware (so I just borrowed it for this).

So, basically: every entity of significance is courtesy of Bioware, which is why I declare that this is just some imaginary story, with which I do not make any profit whatsoever and which is set in a universe created by the DA-developers (who are total geniuses, who enriched my gamer's life with that wonderful world they build).

The last Laugh

„You do understand what I offer you?"

The eyes of the witch fixate him. Emotionless. Cold. Reptilian-like. She doesn't give him the luxury of a blink, demanding the answer now. And Alistair just stares.

Yes, he understands. But also he doesn't. Is this real? A dream? Or yet another sad joke?

Alistair likes jokes. They are a good shelter to hide behind when you feel hurt, insulted or simply…inadequate. He's been playing the jester all his life, ridiculing serious situations with a witty one-liner whenever they get too serious.

After all, that's what you do when your whole life is a jest. And not one of the good ones, more like bitter irony of fate. When not even his very conception was meant seriously. When they had decided to put him (of all people) into the Order of the Templars. Or when they considered putting him (of all people) on the throne after the good king was long gone and his able son dead and only the jester remained of the bloodline.

And now this.

Morrigan. After all his failures with women, the Witch of the Wild offers herself to him in this way. After not getting the chance to lay with any woman before, it's a mysterious beauty, who could be his first. And he doesn't even want that.

Neither does she. That's the irony.

It should have been her. Elissa. The Cousland girl. From the very first moment he had known that she was special, that there was something between them. And as they had grown closer, become friends, shared a burden no-one else could grasp, he had been so sure that she was the one he had been waiting for. Even in dark times like these he could laugh with her, talk with her, trust her.

Alistair sighs. She was the right one for him, no doubt. But unfortunately things like this don't always go both ways. When he finally dared asking her, she made that abundantly clear. In a friendly manner. And he replied with a jest, to take the tension out of it. To wipe it away as if it was nothing. Once again, he had been rejected and once again he accepted it. Like he did when he finally saw her together with the elf. After all: what else was there to do than accept it? Zevran might not be the better person then himself, but he surely was the better man.

And girls like that, don't they?

Maybe. Maybe not. She did anyway. He surely couldn't blame her for choosing that charming, self-confident elf over him. And so, again, he played along without anybody noticing.

Anybody but her: Leliana. She was there to find some comforting words for him in those lonely nights on watch-duty. And sometimes when he looked into that most beautiful of all faces, he had wondered if he hadn't been wrong all along and if it was meant to be her and not Elissa…

But then he reminded himself of how he hadn't seen Leliana for that as long as his hopes for the Warden had been kept alive. And that was that. The bard certainly deserved better than being the second choice – if she had been interested at all, anyway. He had made his choice long before. Bad timing.

"Alistair?"

The witch's voice cuts through his thoughts and brings him back to the Here and Now. Her expression hasn't changed the least in the meantime.

She demands an answer.

And he gives her the only one that he can think of. Still her mimic stays the same.

"You do understand the consequences of your choice? What I offered you – it may very well be the only chance for both of you to survive."

He feels sick in his stomach as he thinks of what this choice entails, but he doesn't show it. Instead he does, what he does best…and plays the jester.

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that. Maybe another witch will come along tonight and offer the same? I'd prefer blondes anyway."

She doesn't smile. Naturally.

Is there any emotion in her face? Any at all? Maybe relief? Contempt? Respect even?

Her words come out, cold as ever: "It would have been wiser to let Loghain live. For all his flaws, his decision might have been less…irrational."

Ah. Contempt! Should have seen that…

He leans back in his chair. "Yeah, I can see what a charming couple you two would have been."

She seems to consider a reply for a moment, but turns around instead and walks to the door. Good choice.

Still, she can't leave the room without having the last word. "I wonder who will have to suffer for that once it comes to the final blow: you – or her?"

The door closes and he's left alone with these words.

It won't be her. He knows that. If everything goes according to plan, it will be Riordan's sacrifice and the older Warden will die a hero's death.

He can't suppress a chuckle at that. But when has been the last time that anything was going 'according to plan'?

So as he takes out his sword (again) to sharpen it for the things to come (it won't get any sharper, but that doesn't matter), he knows what to do. Sacrificing yourself so that the love of your life can have a future with the love of her life – now, wouldn't that be a fitting last joke?

Only that nobody is there to laugh.