Prologue:
Marcus Cousland is a great many things.
He is friend, brother, warrior, noble, Grey Warden and most recently, a hero.
But not simply a hero.
Nay, when he struck his blade into the head of Archdemon and slew the tainted dragon, the ancient Tevinter's God of Beauty, he became the fifth warden in history to end a Blight. Coupled with the fact that this Blight was ended before it truly had a chance to begin and with only two living Wardens in all of Ferelden, this bordered on the miraculous.
Never in history had a Blight been subdued with the loss of so little.
So yes, the second born of Highever was more than simply a hero. He was second only to the legend that was the Silver Knight, the ancient Theirin king who united the warring lords and gave rise to a nation.
Of course Marcus would have scoffed at this and would have simply noted that slaying the Archdemon had nothing to do with being a hero or bravery or even glory. From the moment Duncan dragged him from his doomed parents and their death, from the moment he took into himself the taint and won, and from the moment Loghain betrayed them all at Ostagar, Marcus Cousland knew this path was set.
He was Grey Warden, and this was what they did. Nothing else mattered anymore, not his noble name, not his country, and not even the fact that his bother and heir to Highever, Fergus, might still be alive in the Wilds somewhere. Wardens concerned themselves with but two things: killing darkspawn and slaying Archdemons.
Grey Wardens end Blights.
And thus Marcus simply took hold of the threads of fate, and fulfilled his destiny.
Or so he thought.
The Future King:
Marcus remembered the morning they finally reached the outskirts of Denerim, the capital of Ferelden. It was a large, imposing and solid city, nothing like the beautiful cities of Orlais or Antiva. Some note that even the former slave city of Kirkwall, far in the free marches, held more pure beauty despite the blood and horror of its past. Yes, "solidly imposing" was probably the best praise one could bestow upon Denerim. Not even the imposing Fort Dakon nor the Royal Palace could add a sense of aesthetic grandness to the city of Denerim.
But many people would come to learn that Fereldens couldn't give a damn.
Denerim had character, strong and proud, stubborn as a Mabari and just as good to have on your side. For the religious it was the birthplace of their prophet, for the patriots it was the seat of their king, but for most Fereldens it was much, much more.
Denerim was the heart and soul of their nation.
They knew that horde would reach Denerim before them, knew that their city would be under assault. Marcus could but hope that the city guard had managed to defend the gate, hoping that the city would stand defiant in the face of the unrelenting horde.
It was far worse than anyone expected.
When the burning, broken city finally came into sight that morning a huge groan rose amongst the native Fereldens making up the bulk of the armies of Men, Elves and Dwarves. Even Marcus, hardened Grey Warden he had become, felt fear and anger grip his heart. His city, THEIR city, had been violated and broken.
Turning to his friend and brother, soon to be Ferelden's king, Marcus noted the sorrow that fell upon Alistair's face. For a moment Marcus wondered of his decision to force his sensitive and good hearted friend unto the throne.
Then of course there was convincing him to wed Queen Anora Mac Tir, his brother's widow. Levirate marriages were not uncommon amongst the nobility, but most would admit these were special circumstances.
Marcus had understood Alistair's initial, and still prevalent, distaste of being betrothed to the daughter of the man who killed his brothers. But Anora had always been an enigma; a contradiction wrapped a ball of even more contradictions.
For the last five years, Cailan had been the king but any noble with a shred of intellect knew it was Anora who ran their nation. She was smart and efficient while at the same time finely balancing the need of both force and benevolence in her rule.
And with the Landsmeet locked and the beginning of a civil war precariously hanging in the balance, Marcus could not put faith in the idea that most nobles were staunch traditionalist and royalist like Arl Eamon. By this marriage, the Theirin bloodline would remain upon the throne whilst at the same time ensuring the stable and efficient rule of the last five years was not lost.
And most importantly Marcus knew that Alistair would need her.
Even the best of kings would at times need to be hard and cruel. And the truth was even the kindest of men would begin to lose themselves to the decisions they believed their duty to make. Anora would help him in this, easing Alistair into the more subtle points of being a reigning monarch.
But now, looking at sadness that obscured the usually self-deprecating smile upon Alistair's face, Marcus feared he had doomed his friend to a life he had neither wanted nor seemed equipped to deal with.
But then dear, sweet, dependable Alistair stepped in front of his army to speak, and Marcus was glad.
His voice was strong and piercing, assured and mighty, and it spread amongst the gathered army standing before the ruins of Denerim. The groans were silenced into slight murmurs, but as their king spoke their voices and bravery began to grow, until they grew into an all-consuming roar. And when the king drew his blade and commanded them to charge, the combined armies of all Ferelden obeyed without a question, with bravery in their heart and glory in their souls.
As Marcus watched the army begin their assault, he felt his conviction strengthened and renewed.
His Alistair, his friend and brother, would not be the Silver Knight of legend or King Maric, his late father. But he will be grand; he would be mighty and with Queen Anora's practical hand to guide him through the politics, he would be legend.
Smiling for the first since that last night at Redcliffe, Marcus drew his mighty Starfang and rushed into the all-consuming horde of Darkspawn, finding himself thinking that to insure this future he would have to die this day.
He could find no cause more worthy.
Farewells:
The gate was won.
Driving the darkspawn from the city gate was an important tactical move, as it gave them a chance to control - or at least impede - any reinforcement attempting to break through their defences. Of course the fact that the city itself was overrun with darkspawn did seem the more prevalent point, considering that they stood between the Grey Wardens and the Archdemon.
Heeding Riordan's advice Marcus decided to take a small team into the city to move around the bulk of the horde while their allies provided diversions. The Archdemon was the focus; it was important and nothing else mattered. Slay the demon and the horde would break, descending back into maddened chaos that darkspawn commonly exhibit when there was no voice to command and direct them.
Alistair had protested vehemently when he was denied the chance to engage the ancient creature, arguing that Ferelden had no use for kings who stood behind and did nothing. And while Marcus agreed with the statement, both of them knew the real reason for his protest.
"Only a Grey Warden can kill the Archdemon."
Grabbing Alistair by his shoulders, Marcus sighed before looking his future king in the eye, finally speaking after a moment of agonising silence.
"Alistair…my friend, my brother, My King. It cannot be you."
Silence prevailed again, dragging on for what seemed eternity, when Alistair suddenly grabbed Marcus in a hug that was both tender and rough, their metal plates screeching against each other. When Alistair finally spoke, it was with a voice tempered by both respect and love.
"Go then, last of the Couslands. Know that your king will never forget that Marcus Cousland embraced death as a Grey Warden in service to his duty, to his country and to his king. Know that your death will be membered, and honoured, as long as my heirs sits upon the throne of Denerim. Know that the Couslands will never be forgotten, so long as I draw breath."
Pulling away from the hug, Alistair bowed slightly with unshed tears in his eyes.
"Know that your brother will miss and mourn you, till the end of all things."
And thus the King of Ferelden turned and walked away to the gates, readying to help his troops defend it.
Marcus knew that he would never see his friend again.
Thus it was repeated with all his companions as each one of them attempted to say goodbye or wish luck in their own way. As they spoke Marcus felt, for just a moment, his calm façade failing him. These people were more than simply friends. They had become his family, a calming balm upon his broken heart. They had healed him, allowing him to love and feel again.
A miracle considering how shattered his psyche had been after the death of his entire family.
Marcus was never sure if he would ever truly believe in the Maker, but as he knew that he marched to his death this day, he offered a silent prayer that the lord of all things would accept his sacrifice…and let them live.
Please, let them live. Let them live.
The Witch:
And then there was his witch.
He didn't know when he had begun to think of her as such, nor had he ever expressed it with such certainty. For Marcus knew he had no claim unto her, nor would anyone ever. She was more than simply a woman - she was an act of nature. Cool and destructive as a summer storm, Morrigan was never someone whose heart he would never truly win.
But he loved her all the same.
He knew it was stupid, knew that it was it was futile. Marcus knew from the moment she took him into her bed that she had him, body and soul, and that the only way this would end was badly.
Hell, she had even warned him that it would happen.
But he had persevered, ignoring the obvious distress his growing feelings were causing her. Ignoring all her attempts to keep their relationship simply physical. Every concession he gained from her Marcus considered a victory.
Her first smile.
Her first genuine laugh.
The first time she blushed when he stroked her hair.
Or even a simple thing as allowing him to stay with her till the morning light
Tiny victories, hollow victories, for she always retreated back into her shell regardless.
Even when she pulled away as she grew truly fearful of the possibility of mirroring his emotions, Marcus believed it to be a victory. An acknowledgement that she indeed did care, only that was she was scared and unequipped to deal with the depth of her emotions. Marcus was content to give her space and time, assured that she would eventually see the futility in denying her emotions for him.
It was stupidity and hubris and that last night at Redcliffe she cruelly stripped him of both.
Marcus didn't remember the words she spoke, only the rush of rage and disgust he felt when the true reasons for her seduction and companionship became clear. He remembered the despair as his feelings for her crumbled under the weight of her cruel offer and betrayal.
The witch had offered him salvation, a chance live, unlike any warden who had ever slain an Archdemon. The only cost was allowing an abomination to be birthed into the world.
He could not remember how long it took him to decide, how long it took him to accept death, but he remembered the strength of his conviction when he finally told her no. For a single moment, Marcus was sure he saw grief flash through the witch's eyes. But those golden eyes, eyes he found himself loving to death, hardened so quickly it was as if it had never happened.
She raged, she begged, she threatened, but Marcus refused to be deterred. In the end, she threw up her hands in disgust and said she was leaving, refusing to be party to his "noble" suicide. For a moment Marcus faltered, almost moving forward to grip her wrist, to beg her to stay.
To beg her to love him.
But in the end he remembered his honour, his noble blood, and duty as both a Fereldan and Gray Warden, so thus Marcus hardened his heart and let her go. It hurt beyond belief, but then again he was already a dead man walking. What were a few more day of pain before the blessed silence of eternal oblivion?
Thus he was as surprised as anyone in his position could be when Morrigan stayed instead, a hovering presence during the forced march to Denerim. No words were spoken between them until they reached the city, and even then the words were small and meaningless. She had hurt and betrayed him whilst he had defied her.
There was no longer any reason for her to pretend to care, so when she ghosted her pale hand across his face, Marcus was taken by surprise. Looking down at her, he finally saw the truth in her grief stricken eyes, that she indeed loved him after all.
His witch loved him.
And thus Marcus Cousland was finally at peace.
A God Dies:
Marcus hears it in his head.
Screaming and crying, his very blood raging with the suffering of the dying god before him. The taint speaks to him, calls to him, every howl of the fell beast reverberating through his skull. It is a wonder he can still stand.
He knows that his companions are around him but Marcus can no longer see or hear them. Only the tainted god in front of him, howling and raging across the roof of Fort Dakon. The rage and anguish within its every call nearly staggers Marcus, and for one horrifying moment he actually feels the tainted blood within his veins responding.
And he feels its pain.
The fallen god wishes to die rather than live as a crazed demon.
Gathering what little strength he has left in his tired limbs, Marcus raises mighty Starfang as he advances upon the writhing dragon. Every step renews his strength and conviction, every step advances his destiny. Marcus was never sure where he stood in regards to the Maker, but as he finally breaks into a run, blade raised high, he recites of the Canticle of Andraste.
Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts.
Let mine be the last sacrifice.
The Grey Warden embraces his fate and swings his blade.
A god dies.
A flash of light, and then finally blessed oblivion.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
He doesn't know where his is, for darkness and shadows permeate this place.
He floats in the swirling mist of dark for…minutes? Hours? Days? He doesn't know, for time is strange in this place. A seemingly vast emptiness of nothing stands before him, with seemingly no end or beginning.
Is this what it feels like to have your soul destroyed?
Then suddenly he feels it, calling to his blood, like an endless beacon that he cannot shake. Turning around in the shadows, he finally sees it. It is man or demon? He cannot make out its shape, but he is immediately drawn to its most striking feature.
A pair of golden eyes.
Finally it speaks to him, with a voice both ancient and young, tinged with a deep sense of respect and gratitude.
"Thank you, father."
Marcus Cousland screams.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Marcus still screams as he wakes within one of the healing tents, heaving up with such force that most of his wounds reopen. Wynne immediately rushes to his side, but in his confusion and horror he does not see her. He remembers only the only the presence, its voice and words.
Marcus remembers the golden eyes, and he knows.
As the elder mage tries in vain to get Marcus to lie back down and tend to his wound, helped by his other companions who had rushed into the tent upon hearing his scream, his thoughts were only on his witch.
His traitorous, lying witch who loved him after all.
"Damn it all Morrigan, what have you done?"