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It's not supposed to end like this. Staring into those soulless eyes, stomach twisting to knots at the smell of the ogre's hot, rank breath, snared in its massive grip high above the ground. Man and mabari and darkspawn swarm around them like a foul black river, slicing, slashing, biting, breaking bones and spilling blood. The air reeks of ozone left behind by the mages' spells.
He claws frantically at that massive hand, presses against its forefinger hoping it will give. It has to—his sword is lost among the fray, his shield digging a pointed spike into the small of his back, and his kicking legs barely graze the brute's arm. He has to do something, he has to help his soldiers and hold the horde long enough for the signal to be lighted and Loghain and his troop to come charging down the valley right into the heat of the battle.
The ogre draws him in close, nostrils snuffling and flaring. It bares its teeth and a low, guttural growl rumbles in the chasm of its throat. His heart stops cold and leaps into his mouth.
I'd hoped for a war like this in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god!
An ear-shattering roar splits the night and drowns all sound. It rattles his bones and fills his hollow body with dread. Saliva flies from the ogre's maw and splashes his face.
I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!
He shakes his head. It can't end like this. He's supposed to be the hero, the king who ends the Blight in its infancy before it begins. He still has to sire an heir to carry on the Theirin name and pass down stories of honor and triumph to inspire. He can't die yet.
But…my legend!
Any other thoughts are quashed, literally, as the ogre squeezes hard and fast. Blood explodes from his pores and bones snap like dry kindling, and darkness falls on King Cailan with the finality of a stage curtain indicating the end of a play.