Because, for me, what-could-have-been is just as fascinating as what actually happened. This project started out as a simple question: how would my Mahariel respond to the massacre path of Merrill's Act III quest in Dragon Age 2? The answer was an immediate: a lot of blood. From there, I found six other situations I'd toyed with previously and decided to actually write some of it down. Each chapter is essentially a one-shot, and there is obviously at least once instance of character death in each.

First up: in which she never really gets a chance.

Young Dalish know of a grove deep within the Brecillian Forest where adults do not tread and all kinds of fledgling wanderings are allowed. Huge, ancient trees with trunks nearly as wide as aravels circle the grove, protecting its inhabitants since centuries past. Children run and play at ease, exploring make-believe Arlathan amongst gnarled roots, stout rocks, and a clear, glistening stream. Dalish on the cusp of adulthood take on a different sort of exploration far from the watchful gaze of the clan elders. Eventually Dalish children grow into Dalish adults and the grove is left to memory to make way for the next generation.

Long after the elves leave, the trees remain: watching, listening, protecting. Laughter, hushed whispers, and dramatic boasts alike come to the trees as shifts in the air come to elves and humans, more akin to a feeling than anything else. What the trees hear now is unrest.

"Aran!" a black haired elven woman cried out in warning below, holding her ground in the centre of the grove.

Aran, brown hair hung loose, swiveled on his heels and was quick enough to grab his staff and block the arrow heading straight for his chest with a telekinetic barrier. The arrow, now devoid of any momentum, fell to the ground with an inaudible thud.

With a frown on his face, Aran held his staff at the ready. "Nara?" he asked without averting his eyes from the cluster of trees ahead of him.

"Bandits," Narahel confirmed with a short nod, unconsciously hugging her swollen stomach. For an agonizingly long moment she had been afraid her more impulsive clan mates had decided to make good on their word to make Aran pay. But, no, no proper Dalish hunter would lay claim to such a sloppy shot. It could only be a shem or flat ear. Not that her clanmates wouldn't do something so fool-hardy. Right from the beginning, relations between the Sabrae and Ridiyna had been tense with Ridiyna viewing Aran as an impulsive, fledgling elf not old enough to be a proper Keeper who also had the indignity to spit on some of their most ancient prejudices and Sabrae being unable to swallow such a direct insult to their Keeper. Instead of uniting the clans, as Aran had naively hoped for in the beginning, Narahel and Aran's union drove a bigger wedge between the two.

Her birth clan was one of the oldest and hardest hit by the shemlen. Nearly every family suffered through a murder or a rape, oftentimes both. Her clanmates couldn't see the strength in Aran or potential in his ideals, and they certainly couldn't see how well Narahel and Aran worked together. Aran needed someone to ground him and keep his ego from inflating too far. She was acting for the benefit of herself and clan, even if few could see it.

Her Elders, especially, hadn't handled news of her pregnancy well and that disapproval had quickly spread to the rest of her clan. The past couple of months had been tense but she had persevered and Keeper Gideron had finally withdrawn his objection to their bonding. Amidst the whispers and glares from her family, the few hours she could spend with Aran were worth it. And now that she had formally requested to transfer clans she, Aran, and the baby could be a family. Truthfully, it felt like a dream. It only figured that her dream would become a nightmare before she could truly enjoy it.

Aran shot a warning blast of ice into the trees, hoping that if he proved he and Nara were no ordinary travellers, the bandits might reconsider attacking. However, he wasn't too hopeful. The tattoos on their foreheads should have been enough proof. Most Dalish elves save for those selected to venture into human villages had no need for coin and as such didn't carry any.

Instead of slinking back into the lofty embrace of the forest, a lone figure stepped out from behind a weathered oak tree. He wore the patchwork leathers of a typical bandit and wielded a crude long sword in his right hand. With a wicked grin, he stepped forward.

"Hand over yer sovereigns, an' we won't spit ya," the bandit spoke roughly, running a calloused finger down the flat blade of his sword as if to prove his point.

Narahel glared back, her fury only inflated at the tone of the dirty shem. "We don't have any. Leave. Now." She made a move for her bow.

Undeterred, the bandit chuckled. "We got a lively one, boys," he called out with a quick nod behind him. He eyed her stomach. "Looks like someone's already gotten to 'er, but nothin' says we can't have a little fun."

Aran's only response was to send a spike of ice through the bandit's unguarded chest.

The rest of mob immediately retaliated. Those with blades leapt into the fray and charged at Aran and Nara. Nara, although pregnant, was by far the best shot in her clan and a slight bulge in her stomach did nothing to hinder her aim. Aran, as the Keeper of his clan, had honed his abilities to near perfection and was nearly as proficient with stone as he was with ice, but the pair was quickly forced into the defensive as bandit bowmen circled the small clearing and more and more swordsmen charged.

Momentarily distracted by an arrow whizzing past his ear, Aran missed the advance of a dual-wielding rogue. At the last moment Aran attempted to dodge the attack but moved too slow to avoid the hit altogether. With a sickening slick as metal sliced through skin, Aran took a swipe across his navel and stumbled. Nara let an arrow fly but it was too late—the damage was done.

"Aran!" Narahel cried, choking on her words as the mage collapsed back into her arms. Mindless of the blood, she gingerly turned him over and began fumbling for a bandage.

"Nara," Aran gurgled, closing his shaky hands over hers. "My clan isn't far. Go to them."

Pulling her arms free, Nara quickly grabbed her longbow, notched an arrow, and felled an advancing thug. The bald flat ear joined the bodies of his previous companions with a startled cry. Although the clearing was now bandit-free, the two elves were by no means safe. Rather, it was the calm before the storm.

Heedless of the danger waiting on the fringes of her vision, Nara dropped her bow. Aran shifted his hands to rest on her stomach. He flashed Narahel a small, pained grin. "Make sure she's safe," he mumbled in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Nara didn't question the 'she'. Aran just seemed to know things sometimes, as if the fates themselves whispered knowledge into his pointed ears. Perhaps it was because he was a Keeper. Perhaps it was luck. Perhaps it was just one of the facets of his personality she had yet to fully understand.

After a shaky breath, he continued. "Ashalle will help you." There was a pause and he gave a feebly, bloody cough. Nara's nimble fingers, still attempting to close the wound, paused and she moved her hands to encase his. For a short moment, parents and child were connected. For a short moment, Nara got her wish. For a moment, they were a family.

"I love you, Nara."

The light in his eyes faded and he died with a ghost of a smile on his lips. Narahel moved to stand but hesitated for a moment to relish in Aran's touch one last time.

Her hesitation was her downfall. A nearby bowman chose that moment to shoot and Nara took the arrow through her heart. She didn't make a sound—only blinked once and collapsed. Her heart stopped and her unborn child, deprived of its lifeline, silently faded away.