"It is either you or me the men will follow. So let us fight for it. Prepare yourself."
Loghain's words were unnecessary. She had been preparing herself for this battle since the moment she had learned of his treachery so many fortnights ago, recalling the hot tears that splattered on the bed sheets when no one was looking.
They unsheathed their swords, the light of the chamber room glinting on their sharpened blades. His cold intelligent eyes burned into her vengeful glare, sharp enough to cut metal. Gasps pervaded the room, but Elissa paid them no heed as she continued to circle like a hawk, gauging the rhythm of his steps, the sharpness of his reflexes.
Her mind and body served one purpose, and that was to kill Loghain Mac Tir.
A mighty roar escaped his lips, but she was already one step ahead. On instinct, her body evaded to the right and she seized her opportunity when momentum carried his stroke too far. Memory taught her what should come next: a moment of resistance as his armor fought her thrust, followed by the sudden rush of the blade biting into the soft flesh beneath. His face would twist as the pain registers and he realizes his defeat.
But he was faster than the Grey Warden expected, grunting with effort as he parried her blistering attack. They traded blows, the sweet sound of metal clanging resonating from the stone walls of the throne room. This man had committed the highest form of treason possible. The blood of Cailan, Duncan, and the Grey Wardens still stain the fields of Ostagar to this day, their last moments corrupted by despair and fury, their sacrifice in vain, their allegiance renounced.
Other faces flashed by, their laughter lost in the bleeding land. A stick-thin elven child clung to the rags of a decomposing corpse. Due to this man's depravity, a miserable life of slavery was nearly the only thing the boy would know.
Arl Eamon lay in bed, the only sign of life a gentle heaving of his chest, his wrinkles pronounced and hair gray with age. Connor clasped his father's hand, his eyes dark with maturity far beyond his years, perhaps a remnant of the demon's possession. Isolde squeezed her son's shoulder, which seemed to be no more than the lightest touch, but Elissa could see her knuckles white with strain. There was so much pain caused by this man before her, a man so depraved to send a blood mage to assassinate one of the country's most beloved leaders, whom Loghain himself had acknowledged as a comrade in arms.
Wynne's face twisted in agony at the circle's destruction. Fear and pain paralyzed each one of the mages' contorted faces as their will slowly gave way to abomination. The demon's seductive lips… the young templar's mental prison. Here was a man flirting with the boundaries of complete evil and annihilation. The entirety of their lives would be forfeit, entire generations of establishment uprooted, ones that kept the balance between the living and dead, the innocent and the corrupted.
Elissa remembered the last time she saw her parents in intense clarity: her sweat mixing with her mother's tears and her father's blood. There were so many things left unsaid, so many hopes turned to ash, so many regrets left to fester. Howe then became Loghain's right-handed man, adorned with jewels from her family's treasury.
Her blows thundered down on him too quickly for eyes to follow. He faced the goddess of vengeance and justice, cold and uncompromising, a divine punisher sent by the Maker himself. She never imagined such hatred and anger could be confined in a mortal body, fighting for the lives he's taken, the suffering he's aggravated, the abominations he's unleashed. In her rage-crazed eyes, there was only bleak insanity, revealing only a monstrosity formed, nurtured, and harnessed for retribution only.
Her blade was slick with his blood, but it was not enough—nothing would ever be enough to satisfy her bloodlust, to atone for the lives on this man's conscience, not even if she hacked him to pieces a thousand times.
An overeager swing to end this prolonged fight left an opening in her painstaking defense, if only for a split second. The next moment she was sprawled on the ground, pain ripping through her abdomen, staring up at the stone ceiling through misting eyes.
Through the clenched teeth and blur of hot tears, a wave of déjà vu slammed into her. Her father stood before her, shifting his weight as his lips curled in a challenging smirk. Sprawled on the ground, her sweat glistened under the noonday sun, her slender arms shaking as she picked up her dropped weapon. From aside her older brother let out a mocking laughter, quelled by a prompt slap of their mother's palm. The young warrior soaked in her mother's cool encouragement, staggering as she rose to wipe her bloody cheek. Her blurred vision concentrated only on her father's two fingers that motioned for her to come, and she lunged forward, fighting only upon the principles of her existence.
Looking into the depths of Loghain's dark eyes, she saw herself reflected in them, saw how fear and pain and loss had driven her so far from the young, rash, but proud woman her parents had raised her to be. If they saw her now, she doubted they would even recognize their daughter in the bitter, hate-filled atrocity she had become.
There was no justice in revenge, and to believe that there was to be no better than the man she now faced.
Her berserker frenzy waned, shaped into inhuman concentration. There was no fear, no anger, no respite. Only a superhuman cognizance of the shifting of her weight, the creeping fatigue into his hurried sidesteps, her careful concealment of a cracked rib on her right side. She was able to feel clearly now, sensing the weakness to his left flank near his injured hip. Disconcerted by her sudden calm, Loghain made a powerful thrust, trying to break through her guard a second time, but she anticipated his movement, turning with him, seeking the opening he had left in his own defenses.
Elissa felt the breath rush from him as she pinned him to the ground, saw blood smear across the cold stones. Even with a sharp blade at his neck, his eyes were closed and his expression was tranquil, as if he had made peace for this life. She wondered what such a godforsaken man thought of before his death. His dead wife, perhaps, who he expected to rejoin soon enough, or his daughter, his regrets among the living.
"I underestimated you, Warden. There is a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died." There was sincerity in his voice, but also a resigned bitterness, like the last words of a man finally succumbing to an end he had fought for his entire life, a fate with no glory, no heroics. "I yield."
The Warden staggered to her feet as she released him tentatively, but did not sheathe her sword. She analyzed him partially for the first time, a haggard man worn by adversity, but still as proud and obstinate as any good king would see through it to the end. Yes, there was darkness in him, a terrifying practicality that cost the livelihoods of thousands. But his gaze also held a deep understanding, a surprising compassion that touched her to the core, and it frightened her.
Then she became all too aware of every eager set of eyes of the shameless nobility perching on her slightest move, Alistair's triumphant smirk and the defeated commander's weary but somber gaze. A stranger would have missed the hint of sorrow in the teyrn's eyes, but she'd seen it on too many faces in this last year to mistake it now.
She closed her eyes and saw her father's warm smile when his spirit had come to her in the Temple of Andraste, felt his strong embrace, heard the pride and love in his voice. You know that I am gone, and all your dreams and wishes will not bring me back. She felt her grip on the hilt loosen, and with it went her rage, her revenge, her bitterness, her hatred. She felt wetness on her cheeks, knew it wasn't sweat or blood, and was glad that she had a helmet to hide it.
The fatigue came upon her all at once, and she felt inexorably drained, as if even an eon of sleep could not alleviate the gravity pulling on her bones.
"I accept your surrender." Her voice was not that of a victor who had finally won a battle after months of slaying dragons, surviving assassinations, and getting splattered with gore night after night. Instead, she sounded weary, resigned, like a parent finally succumbing to a toddler's shouting.
She waited for the gears in Alistair's head to click. Three, two, one…
"I didn't just hear that. You're going to let him live after everything he's done? Kill him already!" She could feel the seething rage pouring out from him, and she understood his feelings so well it ached.
"Wait! There is another option," Riordan interceded, his voice desperate to find audience. "The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."
Ser Cauthrien's words echoed in her head. Without Loghain, there would be no Ferelden to defend.
Her lips curled at the bitter irony. There was something fitting about the decision, a redeeming ending for a commoner-born who rose as a great hero of the people before becoming the greatest traitor of Ferelden.
"Absolutely not! Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and sisters and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?" Alistair's voice rose to an angry pitch, his gaze locked on hers, furious that the woman he had gone through the entire journey would betray him so publicly. He simply couldn't understand.
Yet she saw in him a young boy who had lost everything, now his heart hardened and uncompromising. She pulled the helmet off and threw it aside, her dark hair damp with sweat.
"Don't you think that there has been enough bloodshed already?" The words emerged as a hoarse whisper, her voice cracking with emotion.
"There will be even more suffering if this traitor does not receive justice." His gaze didn't waver, but softened afterwards. "I don't want to be king. I still don't, but if that's what it takes to bring Loghain justice, then I'll do it. I'll take the crown."
A calm resolution clouded her eyes. "Grey Wardens are not judges of character. Do not confuse justice with your personal reve—"
"I will not stand next to him as a brother. I won't! Being a Grey Warden is an honor, not a punishment." She closed her eyes and saw Alistair drifting away in a phantasm of painful memory. She loved him so much it hurt, but that did not make her oblivious to his faults. Or she was in error? The world became so distant and out of focus, and she felt so desperately tired.
"Alistair, I hate him every bit as much as you do. I wanted him dead, and part of me still does. But you were the one who taught me that there is always another way. You were the one who showed me the power of compassion and forgiveness. Does your hatred for this man run deeper than your honor for your country?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "Does it outweigh your love for me?"
"Well then, I'm sorry to disappoint." The frustration of injustice burned through his breast in incomprehension. He didn't understand why she was so insistent on saving this treacherous snake at the risk of losing everything they had worked for. "This bastard supported the man who murdered your family in cold blood. He sold the alienage elves into slavery. He is responsible for the annihilation of the Circle of Magi. He sent a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon. By all right, we should be dead a dozen times over because of him." He stared about in sheer disbelief. "Am I the only one who remembers any of this? Or has he bewitched you too in his web of depravity?"
"It's not just about Loghain, Alistair. It's about you." She clung to his arm, her voice breaking. "Do you really want to be remembered in history for beginning your reign bathed in blood? For having your own need for vengeance betray your duty as a king and Grey Warden?"
For her sake, he tried—he tried to see past his flaming hatred for this cold-blooded murderer, but all he could remember was Duncan's farewell embrace, the loss of his surrogate father more acute than ever, the gaping hole where his heart should be. He shook her fierce grip from his arm and backed away. He couldn't believe this was happening.
"If you walk out now, you'll go back upon every oath you've ever made—to your country, to the Grey Wardens… to me." Her voice was breaking now, and there were tears pouring down her cheeks, and he doubted she even realized.
Duncan's last words seeped into his memory, a calm whisper over turbulent waters. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title. He had given Alistair so much, unconditional love, a renewed purpose in life, a home where he felt he truly belonged for the first time in his life. If he left now, he would relinquish everything he ever did, his love, his pride, his soul. There would be nothing left of him but an empty shell.
Yet Alistair had repaid his compassion by failing to fight by his side in his final moments when he needed him most. He knew that Elissa was a better judge of character, although he couldn't be sure at this moment. He had never seen her like this ever before, so beautiful and proud, but entirely vulnerable. He could make her or break her. If he left her now when everything they had done led up to this point, he would be no better than Loghain during his betrayal at Ostagar. If Elissa faced the archdemon by herself and something happened to her, he couldn't stand the thought. If he turned tail and betrayed her when she needed him most... he would never forgive herself. He imagined her body, her mouth gaping in an endless scream, her limp body hacked to pieces by darkspawn.
He would sooner die.
He recomposed himself, suppressing the sour taste in his mouth. "Fine. Loghain Mac Tir shall from this day forth be stripped of his titles and wealth. He will fight against the Blight, and then stand a public trial for his crimes. Does that suffice?" Elissa nodded silently. A weight seemed to lift from her shoulders, a storming inner conflict finally quelled.
For what seemed like so long ago, he had said that the Blight brings people together in their darkest hour. With the woman he loved by his side, they would chronicle a new beginning, a foundation that fought to nurture the best of human potential rather than the worst of it.
The tension in the room visibly dissipated as Alistair turned to face his people for the first time, as king worthy of the title.
-.-
Elissa fretted over a loose thread in her only good dress, badly worn from their travels. It had been a gift from Leliana to show what actual fashion looked and felt like, not bland Ferelden wear, or so she said. Elissa was rather fond of the golden silk and the soft collar, but it had seen better days; the embroidery on the right sleeve was fraying, and the bodice needed taking in at the seams.
"I could get that repaired for you if you like. When it comes back, it'll be fit for a queen." Anora's voice was regal but sincere, and Elissa understood why the men of Ferelden had wept when she married Cailan.
"I have no plans of being queen, Teyrna."
"Well, maybe not yet, but Alistair could use all the help he could get."
The female Warden raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Like you, for example?"
"Do not worry. I have no intentions of usurping Alistair. I came here for different reasons."
"I thought as much."
Anora's chin lifted proudly. "Thank you... for allowing Father to live. I didn't expect such forgiveness from a Warden so hardened by battle, not with everything he has done. Had our places been reversed, I would never have risked the allegiance of the man I loved for the life of a traitor. May I ask you why you saved him?"
Elissa scrutinized Anora closely, as if she could see right through the former queen with an eerie and unsettling acuteness.
"Because I know the heartbreak of losing a father, and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone, not even my worst enemy."
It is in moments like these that fate seems bitterly sardonic and capricious, but through the eons of human trial, something is shifted irrevocably, and the catalyst lay in this remarkable woman, someone chained to the human limitations that plague us all, yet capable of transcending the shortsightedness of human failure.
It is said that love creates the greatest tragedy, that there is no such thing as forgiveness without retribution, that these small judgments in history make us stare at our reflection and second-guess our roles as lifegiver or blooddrinker. It is in these small transactions—the caress between parent and child, laughter between lovers, clemency between enemies—that give purpose to life, that give us power to shape the microcosms of intertwined existence.
I wrote this because I was very frustrated that I can't get Loghain without losing Alistair, Alistair who is so compassionate and so eager to make an exception for Loghain. So I made up my own alternate ending, where I don't have to marry him to Anora to get Loghain to live.
And a huge thank-you to Katathean for beta reading this. The fic is on an entirely new level after her inspirational suggestions.