Lucy paced her room in agitation, her steps were jerky, the frown clouding her face was menacing and she was praying to the Maker that she did not believe in to save her mind from its growing insanity. With thoughts of the coming war, of victorious strategies during past battles, of the very real moment when she would take the Arch demon's life, passing fleetingly through her mind, she could not shake the imagined images of what was occurring just down the hall.

Morrigan was delectable; her bountiful curves and dangerous disposition were a sinful temptation for any man. The thought of Alistair's hands on said curves, of Morrigan's sharp tongue doing something other than terrorizing him, of them together in the heat of this already hot night...

"Maker damnit!" She growled, halting her pacing and twisting her hands together.

Realizing she was doing what most would describe as "wringing her hands", an altogether pathetic activity, she shook them out, holding them out before her. They were shaking.

"Stop!" She pleaded pathetically at them and Rough raised his head with an inquiring whine.

"Nothing. Sorry." The Mabari lowered his chin to his paws once more but kept one eye on her.

This choice, as with every other choice since the day Duncan came into her life, had been hers. For the first time she felt the crushing weight of the responsibility she had had thrust onto her shoulders and the sting of resentment for all of those that had placed her in positions she did not wish to be in. Why had they all relied on her so heavily? And in situations where she was obviously not qualified or worthy to make defining choices; the Templars or the Magi? Werewolves or Dalish? Harrowmont or Bhelen?

Death or the loss of Alistair?

Her fists clenched violently. Alistair had been lost to her before this night, his noble mind already conforming to the rights and responsibilities lain on a king. Talk of the need for a legitimate heir had been his main point, but knowing him as she did, she had caught the caustic truth. Ferelden would never accept an elven consort let alone an elven queen. Lucy had known, deep down, that her race would eventually become an unsolvable issue, yet she had denied it until that moment. His pleading eyes had done nothing to soothe her beaten heart. She had given him her understanding and then left him alone in the courtyard of Eamon's estate.

Catching her reflection in the mirror above the mantle, she turned her head to reveal her small, pointed ears. Tentatively raising her hands, she covered her ears and examined her face; she could almost believe she was human. If she were human, such a fundamental divide would not exist, would not be an issue. With a disgusted snort, she turned from the mirror, trying to forget the feeling of regretting who she was.

Without skipping a beat, for fear that her mind would return to unwanted thoughts, she thought about her life after the dragon was slain, what lay in store for her on the slim chance that she would survive. Alistair would not, under any circumstance, deliver the killing blow; she had already devised a plan to ensure the Arch demon would die by her hand. She had not risked Ferelden as a whole to have their rightful king die before he could show them his ability to rule.

Of Alistair's abilities, she had no doubt. He was kind, compassionate, and beneath his silly outward persona he was intensely intelligent. Above all else had a simple love for the land he had been born into that she had yet to witness in any other. It was that which would catapult him into the highest realms of great kings. It would take some time, but he would learn and fulfill his duties and rebuild Ferelden.

In her mind, Alistair would be taken care of; his need for her was no more. Which still left the question of her purpose once the Blight was destroyed, once the Arch demon lay at her feet. They were calling her the Hero of Ferelden, as if she was some god like, mythical being. Lucy shook her head. If she was the Hero of Ferelden now, what would she be after tomorrow?

Sure, they would venerate her in the coming months, possibly name a building or two for her, but after such a catastrophic tragedy, most people would only want to forget and move on with their lives. In the same vein, she would be forgotten, being such a potent reminder of the darkest days, with nothing to do but idly twiddle her thumbs. Apparently she had not thought through her most recent choice well enough. It would, perhaps, be better if she died a legend, at the peak of her short life.

"Lucy?"

Wynne's sweetly aged voice jolted her from her morbid thoughts and she turned to find the older mage hovering at her door.

Summoning a smile, she beckoned Wynne forward, "Please, come in."

They sat side by side on the couch before the fire and Wynne caught and held her gaze, stating bluntly, "Nothing stays secret among us for long. Leiliana walked in on Morrigan and Alistair in the throes of a very awkward carnal entanglement – her words. Now, I realize that Morrigan is a very beautiful young lady, but I also know without a doubt that our young bastard would not, under normal circumstances, touch her with a ten foot pole. What is going on?"

Lucy wearily rubbed her face, shaking her head as she did so, "A ritual. So Morrigan called it. There is a chance that if they can conceive a child this night, both Alistair and I will be spared when the Arch demon is slain, that it will retreat through the child instead of one of us."

"Oh dear. You cannot really think that-" "I would do, and think, anything that may keep Alistair alive. Do not question my motives on this."

Wynne had the sense to look away from Lucy's severe glare and apologize, "I am sorry, Warden. I only fear the toll this will take on your relationship with Alistair."

Lucy looked into the fire and replied evenly, "Alistair and I have parted, in that sense. With what is to come in the next months, it is not feasible for us to remain together."

There was a long silence after her words, until she felt a staff callused hand curve about her chin and Wynne turned her face towards her, "My sweet child, talk to me. There is more to this than you let on."

The kindness, the unconditional understanding in the woman's eyes brought a lump to Lucy's throat but she violently swallowed it; she did not cry, it was more pathetic than the wringing of hands.

"I've made a mistake. In hindsight and contemplation of the future, I should be the one to cleanse the Arch demon's essence. This is my battle, I should perish, and happily so, along with my adversary. After I fulfill my duty, what will be left for me? What is my purpose after the Blight is put to rest?"

"You will have much purpose, Warden. You are the most heralded citizen in all Ferelden, Alistair will surely require your-"

"I will not be able to hold his hand forever, Wynne! How can he learn to lead if he still continually looks to me? No, there is no place for me in royal politics or the running of Ferelden. I am strictly crisis management."

This elicited a small snort of humour from Wynne and Lucy gave a short bark of sardonic laughter, "I don't want to fade into obscurity, Wynne. And I don't believe that assisting in rebuilding the Circle, or running a patrol around Ferelden dealing with petty crimes, or anything other than this will be enough for me. This is what I am, who I am. Once the Blight is finished, as should I."

Wynne's face had grown grave through her speech and she asked softly, "What are you suggesting?"

Lucy released a huff of amusement, "Is it so terrible to want to die?"

She was shocked to see glistening moisture fill the senior mage's eyes and she opened her mouth to apologize, halted only by Wynne rising abruptly.

Without looking at her again, Wynne crossed to the door saying, "I wish you luck in tomorrow's final stand, Warden."

A moment later Lucy was alone once again with the door clicking softly shut. Great, complete alienation of one of the few people she held in the highest esteem. With nothing left to do, the late hours slowly waning into the early, Lucy stripped down, left the fire and one candle burning to guard against the shadows, and crawled between silk sheets.

She was startled from her doze uncounted minutes later when a large body lifted the covers and slipped beneath, dragging her into its familiar arms. The candle had gone out and the fire died down, but Lucy only had to sniff once to know it was he. Beneath the potent stench of lye soap – he must have scrubbed himself before coming to her – was his scent, the musk of a constantly active male combined with something sweeter, something potently alluring to her senses.

Lucy turned into Alistair's chest, burying her face in the solid muscle, the hairless flesh for he was as naked as she. Their legs tangled and he pressed his cheek to her forehead, holding her tight. He didn't need words to convey his wordless plea and she could not find it within herself to deny him. Rolling to her back, guiding him after her, their mouths fused and her thighs spread wide in ancient welcome.

The dawn began to break as Lucy released a muted sob, commingling with Alistair's drawn out groan. They held each other, cherished each other for precious moments before duty adamantly displaced love. Calling a servant to fetch his armour, they strapped each other into the dragonbone fortresses that would hopefully keep them alive long enough to see their quest to the end. Once weapons were sharpened, straps checked and rechecked, and mental fortitude established by long, shared looks, they opened the bedroom door and stepped out together to face the war.