Written to meet the 'In Which the Warden Dies' challenge on the Cheeky Monkey Forum, this expands upon the battle against the Archdemon itself from my 'From Isolation' Jowan/Tabris story.

Into Isolation

Acidic rain and brimstone rained down upon the battlefield, now littered with the bodies of blackened darkspawn and soldiers - human, elven and dwarven - alike. Death had a way of equalizing things.

With a sigh, the elven warrior turned back to the human men who now stared at her as though she had grown a second head. Twisting her neck slightly, she checked. Nope, no second head there.

Neither were particularly happy with her, and she understood why.

"You cannot leave me behind, Sorcha," Alistair's voice was hard, strong, without any hint of pleading.

"Oh, yes I can, Your Majesty," her voice was even harder, firmer, and far stronger than anything Alistair could produce. "Need I remind you that you are King? You need to survive this. If, for some reason, Riordan and I can't defeat the Archdemon, than you are more than welcome to give it a go. In the meantime…" she stepped forward, her dragon scale plate gleaming in the sunshine. "I order you to hold the gates."

"You can't order me," Alistair insisted, straightening before her and she smirked at his show of authority, "I'm the king."

"And I am the Commander of your armies, and the Warden Commander," Sorcha reminded her friend. She smiled softly to take some of the bite out of her words. "And as a warden, you are bound to obey me. Understood?'

Alistair offered her a glare, a scowl upon his fine face. Finally, he nodded, once. "Fine. Just…come back, okay?" This last part came out far weaker, more whinier than he intended. Taking a breath, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her cheek before turning away.

Sorcha watched him for many moments, shaking her head, her auburn hair plastered to her skull with sweat and blood. With a sigh, her head dropped slightly, and then raised at the sound behind her.

The elf then turned to the mage, who stood staring at her, dumbfounded. "You can't do this alone," he managed to get out as he stepped closer. "You need more wardens with you than Riordan." He continued, putting his hands on her arms, moving closer so that mere inches were between the two of them. "Riordan said…"

"Jowan," she placed a gauntleted hand to his cheek, smiling at the man she loved, running her gauntleted fingers through his chestnut brown hair. Her heart almost burst at the love she saw emanating from his eyes. "As I told our illustrious king," she smirked, "if we fail, then it's up to you and Alistair. If we are all together, that just gives the Archdemon an easier target." It was a lie. She knew Jowan knew it as well. But, it was a lie that was difficult to argue against.

But Jowan was going to give it a try.

"Riordan is going in one direction," he said, pointing in the direction the warden from Orlais had gone. "You in another. That you leave two wardens together by the gates makes no sense. Take one of us - me - with you."

"I have given my orders," Sorcha said, trying to harden her voice against him.

"You're trying to protect me," the insightful mage countered, taking another step closer, so close he could feel her breath - warm, fresh - against his face.

She smiled brighter then, leaning in to kiss him gently upon the lips. "And you are trying to protect me." she whispered. "Do as I order, Jowan. The Archdemon dies today."

With another kiss, she turned, motioning for Zevran, Sten and Wynne to follow her. Shartan barked, bounding after his mistress, leaving Jowan behind to bemoan how he, too, wanted to follow after her.

DA:O

She had no idea how heavy her shield could be, but now she knew. Damned heavy. Her team of five had felled hundreds - could she say thousands? - of the tainted creatures, hurlock and genlock being the fodder tossed at them, the ogres bursting into their groups with fury and muscle, while the emissaries remained ever in the background, hurling spells and hexes upon them whenever possible.

Sorcha could not help but smirk each time she smote those darkspawn spellcasters, again thanking Alistair for defying Chantry secrecy to teach her his templar tricks.

Groups of Denerim soldiers, dwarven warriors and Circle mages assisted whenever possible, and Sorcha and her group cut their way into the Market Place, her eyes casting about toward the gate that led into the Alienage. Fear rose in her breast as she took note of the gate having been torn free of its rusted hinges, and she, pushed along by near panic, led the slaughter through the darkspawn, felling a general, in her mad desire to get beyond the gate and find out what happened within her former home.

Her family…everyone she had cared about before the madness of the Blight had begun…were there.

The relief when she spied her cousin's red head bent to another elf's was overwhelming. Taking no heed of her companions, the elven warrior rushed ahead, grasping her cousin and slinging her around in a tight hug. Sputtering, Shianni grinned up into her taller cousin's face.

"You came!" the elven woman exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Sorcha's armored form. "I wasn't sure you could!"

Snorting, Sorcha pulled the other woman out at arm's length. "Of course I did!" She turned to acknowledge her companions as they met up with them. "Why are you still here?"

Now it was Shianni who snorted, and Zevran grinned, taking note of the extreme similarities between the two Tabris women. "What? Where would we go? You think the shems would let us leave?" Her blue eyes narrowed, and Sorcha frowned, her green eyes scanning their surroundings. A tilt of her head and her sharp elven ears picked up the sounds of battle from the western gates.

"Sounds like they're trying to bash in at the North Gate," the Warden remarked, frowning. Zevran nodded his agreement, and he and Sten began gathering elves to prepare for their defenses.

"You want us to help fight the darkspawn?" Shianni asked, trepidation in her voice as she fingered the poor quality bow she held in her hands.

Sorcha nodded, tightening her hold upon her cousin's shoulders. "Look," she pointed to the rooftops, still untouched by flame or weapon. "Position yourself and any other archers up on the rooftops. Anyone who can wield a blade should wait further in," she smirked into her cousin's astonished face. "Just in case any of the blighters get by us."

Shianni looked up at the rooftops, a frown upon her pretty face. Then, with a nod, she began barking orders to those around carrying bows, and Sorcha gathered those with knives, positioning them in the center of the Alienage.

With a look to the elderly mage who remained behind with her, Sorcha marched to the North Gate, to prepare the defense of the Alienage.

Oh, and kill a few darkspawn in the process.

DA:O

The general snarled in Sorcha's face, spraying spittle at her as it pulled away, hands raised before it as it prepared its spell. The elf gasped, fighting against the magical prison she was slowly being crushed within.

Behind her, she could hear Sten as he gave out his battle cry, smashing Asala against the thick skinned chest of the ogre. Pain shot through her body again as the darkspawn general tightened its grasp.

And, then, suddenly, she was free. Falling to her knees, gasping in pained breaths, the elven warden raised her head, watching as hurlock general turned its attention from her to the elven rogue that battered at its back and sides, dancing gracefully away before it could catch him up in one of its spells.

She struggled to her feet, the sounds of battle raging about her, the screams of the elves from the Alienage resounding in piercing quality behind her. Grimacing, she stood, wobbling on her feet, and then bent to gather up her shield and Starfang from the ground.

Zevran continued to dance and weave around the darkspawn mage, his blades jabbing out to deliver a painful jab here, a cut and thrust there. Blood leaked from various wounds, although none of them were mortal, nor bled overly much.

Well, time to change that, the elven warden growled to herself as she set her shield to her arm and raised Starfang.

The star metal blade of her long sword flashed brilliant blue as it swept through the air, slicing across the shoulder blades of the armored darkspawn emissary. Growling out its pain and fury, the general turned, its staff taking on an eerie, evil black glow. As the blue metal of Starfang met the glowing black staff of the mage, a hollow sounding crash echoed through the air. Zevran continued his distracting tactics as Sorcha continued to bash and thrust at the darkspawn, each elf preventing it from casting any spell.

A booming sound reverberated from behind, and the elven warden knew that her giant friend had felled his ogre. Grimacing against the pain, sputtering curses at the powerful emissary before her, the elf continued to bash her shield into its face, jabbing Starfang at its chest, trying to get beyond its defenses. She was too close to be able to use any of the templar skills taught her by Alistair, so all she could do was continue to try to get her blade through.

As she silently cursed her Qunari friend for being so slow to get to her side, she heard the distinctive sound of a great blade slicing through the air. She blinked in astonishment as blood suddenly erupted over her and she gaped as the now headless form of the darkspawn general flopped noisily to the ground. Stunned, she stood there, staring in amazement at the dismembered form as Sten paced to her side. She glanced up, blinking owlishly, dark blood dripping down her face, into the impassive features of the Qunari warrior.

"You could have warned me," she groused at him, accepting the rag he handed to her quietly.

"Would you have preferred a warning or that the darkspawn be dead?" came the logical reply.

Well, of course, when you put it that way…She turned, noticing that every darkspawn that had threatened the Alienage - her home - lay upon the ground, arrows protruding from stilled chests, body parts laying feet beyond the main body.

"Thanks," she grinned, breathless, as she led the elf and Qunari into the Alienage, to make certain that her cousin still lived.

Giving a curt nod, the giant followed, the elven assassin mere footsteps behind.

DA:O

Damn, damn. Damn! The words beat a rhythm in her mind. Damn. Riordan. Stupid. Riordan.

She and her companions had watched at the senior warden, Riordan, had tried valiantly to bring the archdemon from the sky in one gloriously dramatic attempt. But, really? She shook her head as she cut her way through the wall of darkspawn that blocked their path. Jumping from a building onto its back? Without an anchoring line? Or any other obvious plan?

She almost spat. Idiot!

Fear threatened to overtake her as thoughts of what she faced atop the tower loomed in her mind. She had truly thought that Riordan - a senior Grey Warden, a man who had gone through the Joining with Duncan, who had been a Warden for more than twenty years, could have come up with something a bit less flashy but with more substance.

Shows what she knew!

And now…She viciously shook her head, slicing Starfang into the chest of an emissary, never slowing nor stopping as she led the charge to the entrance of Fort Drakon.

Her decision to leave Alistair and Jowan behind was the right one. Of them all, she felt she was the most expendable. After all, Alistair was King. Ferelden needed him. And, despite what the idiot thought, he would be a great king.

Starfang flashed out, and she raised her shield, bashing it into the face of a leering hurlock, dropping it onto its back as she drove her star metal bladed sword deeply into its chest, slicing into its heart.

And, Jowan…how could she willingly have let the man she loved face this foe? If she was too afraid to do so herself?

There, she admitted it. Damn it! She wasn't just afraid, she was terrified! With those thoughts, she brought Starfang around in a great arch, slicing through the tough flesh and hard bone of the hurlock before her, neatly decapitating it.

Hmmm…nervous energy works just as well at killing, apparently.

Suddenly, she was standing before the entrance of the courtyard leading into the fort. She frowned at the doors, recalling her desperate escape from them just mere weeks prior. She knew that, as when she had departed the place earlier, after a visit as Loghain's guest, the place would be covered in blood. This time, however, she would make certain that most of the blood would be that of darkspawn…

DA:O

Hours had passed, and they had secured the gates. No more darkspawn, save the occasional straggler, emerged passed their defenses. Over the course of the day, they had received reports from various runners that the Warden and her group had been sighted, battling darkspawn first in the market district, and then again in the Alienage, and that they were heading to Fort Drakon. Jowan and Alistair exchanged looks of concern, but neither spoke to the other. The only thing - other than the taint that flowed in their veins - they had in common was their concern for Sorcha.

Jowan turned his gaze toward Fort Drakon, recalling how Sorcha had, briefly, been imprisoned therein. He hated the place for that reason alone. Now, the woman he loved with all he was would be facing the Archdemon without him, and that thought nearly drove him crazy. He glanced around him, making certain no one was watching. Alistair, it seemed had other things to occupy his time, and for once was not watching the blood mage like a hawk. Taking the opportunity, he slipped away from the group, and carefully made his way toward the Fort.

DA:O

Fighting through the darkspawn kept her thoughts focused, kept them from dwelling on what will happen up on the roof, when she finally faced the Archdemon. Hundreds of darkspawn bodies lay behind her, and now she faced that final door, the one that would open up to the passage leading to the roof.

Now the fear she had been fighting - had been ignoring - bloomed anew in her breast, and she found her breath difficult to catch. She cast a look to Zevran, the elven man standing next to her, concern on his face as he watched her struggle with herself. He did not know exactly why she had given him the orders she had just the night previous, but he would do as she had asked.

No matter how crazy it had seemed to him. And he had been quite vocal in just how crazy he thought her.

But he said it with a grin.

He had been a good friend. It had been wonderful having another elf - albeit one with a completely different perspective on life - in the group. Despite their many differences, they had one simple common element in their lives: as elves, no matter what they had done, they would always be considered second class to any human.

Well, that had changed. She was the Commander, no the General of Ferelden's forces. Zevran was one of her lieutenants. She cast a grin to her friend, who, his tawny eyes fixed upon her face, returned it tenfold.

She took a step forward, and suddenly felt rejuvenated. Casting a look back, she smiled into the concerned, motherly features of Wynne. Wynne. There were times Sorcha had wanted to tell the old mage exactly what she thought of her 'motherly advice'. When she and Alistair had started to become 'too close', Wynne felt it her place to try and dissuade the budding relationship. At the time, Sorcha had been angry with the older woman. But, now, in hindsight, she realized that Wynne had said those words, not as a nosy old biddy, but as a caring woman who did not want those she loved to come to harm.

Her smile softened, and Wynne returned it with one of her own. Albeit it a tired one, it helped to bolster Sorcha's fraying nerves.

Sten…the giant stood silently and stoic behind her. A man of few words, she knew that he incessant chatter tested his nerves at times. But, he now called her Kadan; she simply called him friend.

She turned once more to face the ominous doors. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped forward.

My, my, my…she thought as she pushed the doors open, amazing the tides of change.

DA:O

Bodies lined the streets and along the stairway to the Fort. He stumbled his way through the massive doorway and raced up the stairs, somewhat amazed at the lack of interference as he made his way through the decimated prison. He was mildly astonished when he ran into Sandal, Bodahn Feddic's rather eccentric son. With barely a nod, the mage scampered passed the young dwarf, making his way further up the stairs, and to the roof of the massive, ancient fortress.

DA:O

The great beast was down. Apparently, Riordan had injured it in his insane leap from the rooftop, and the thing could not get airborne. Now, surrounded by dwarven warriors, Fereldan soldiers, mages and Dalish archers, the Archdemon could only summon its troops as it cast about it with its own fell magics.

Sorcha was greatly disturbed that none of her templar abilities would work against the Archdemon's magic. That fear she had been battling rose anew. She had counted on those tricks to prevent it from using its magic. Her breath caught in her throat as the beat of her heart hammered in her head. She knew what she had to do, but she was suddenly frozen, unable to move. Her death awaited her in the form of her own blade - forged specifically for her hand from the strange metal of the stars - and self-preservation kicked in, as it had done so many times over the course of her life.

That fight or flight reaction she had tenderly nurtured over the years now threatened to send her spiraling away, her emotions almost out of control.

When she would be a the lone elven child in the alleyways, accosted by human rowdies, that instinct would kick in and she would flee.

Death claimed her mother, silent as the night, in their humble home, and again, the young elf fled the confines of the place, putting as much distance between her and Death as she could. Of course, she had then picked up her daggers and found her way to her hidden alcove, stabbing at the wooden dummy, putting Death's skeletal face to the featureless mannequin, in an attempt to stave off her growing fear.

But, when Lord Vaughn felt it his right to take the brides and the wedding party to his estate, to do with as he wished, her instinct told her to fight!

When Duncan offered up the chance to join the Grey Wardens, holding off the death sentence that awaited her should she have stayed in Denerim, her instinct to flee had her nod her head in agreement.

And, during the course of over a year, as she and her companions gathered their allies, with each battle, her instinct of fight kicked in so often it was truly instinctive. The flight instinct of her youth had been subsumed by the instinct to fight for so long that now that it made its presence known once again it threatened to overtake her. She momentarily did not know what to do and almost gave in to that instinct.

No. She shook her head. She did know. She raised her head, gripping Starfang tightly in her hand. She was the only Grey Warden here. The only one. She had not been the frightened child for a very, very long time. She was a warrior. A grimace crossed her face. Weren't warriors supposed to be fearless?

Those thoughts changed as she continued to stare down the Archdemon, it's serpentine head turned to her, malevolent eyes glaring red hatred down at her.

That fear slipped away, as her thoughts turned to the two men who had become the most important companions she had ever had.

Alistair would live to be the king she knew he would be.

And Jowan…he would live to taste some semblance of freedom. That freedom his own flight instinct had him reaching for. Had him resort to forbidden magic for.

She would fight for his freedom, so that he would not need to flee any longer.

Tossing her shield aside, the elven warrior swallowed down her fear, and raced toward the beast that lay upon the roof top, floundering beneath the battering of the warriors and mages, archers and rogues.

DA:O

The sheer destruction and death that waited at the top of the tower nearly floored the young man as he burst from the door onto the roof. Darkspawn bodies lay scattered upon the flat surface, intermingling with the bodies of human, mage and warrior, dwarven legions and elven archers. An emissary was standing, surrounded by several darkspawn, preparing to throw a spell. Growling out his own words, Jowan completed his spell first, sending an electrical tempest into the midst of the darkspawn. He did not watch the final effects of his spell, but turned to seek out the one figure - the one person - he desperately needed to ensure lived.

He raced, turning around one platform, stumbling to a halt as his eyes settled upon…her, them…it! Before him lay the majestic might of the Archdemon. Its near skeletal dragon form spread out, head raised as a shriek of agony erupted from its great maw. He watched in horror as Sorcha raced toward the great beast, her armor impossibly bent and torn and bloody. She had lost or abandoned her shield. Her hair was loose and danced wildly about her shoulders as she raised Starfang over her head. A great war cry issued from her lips, and she danced passed the sweeping tail of the gigantic monster. With a leap, she landed upon the ancient creature's neck, clamping on with her legs and thighs, raising her sword high over her head. Then, without a look up, she drove the blade downward with all of her strength, driving it deep into the thick skull of the dragon.

The beast reared its ugly head, swinging it to and fro, trying desperately to dislodge its unwanted rider. Sorcha held on with the tenacity he knew so well, and Jowan screamed out her name, racing forward, oblivious to the danger that still lurked around him. His only thought was to get to her before the beast died, to take that killing blow so that she would live. If he died, who would mourn? Only Sorcha would feel his passing. If she were to die…no. He could not allow it. He could not live without her.

He was so close, and suddenly he was lying upon the ground, strong arms wrapped around his waist, a weight holding him down. Warm breath caressed his ear, and he recognized the voice that was telling him to remain down, to let what had to happen be. Angry, the blood mage screamed at the Antivan elf, demanding he let him up. Where he found the strength to shake the agile elf from him he would never know. But he was suddenly scrambling back to his feet, pushing the elf back. He looked up to see that Sorcha's green eyes were fixed upon his face. She shook her head, driving that damnable blade deeper, further into the Archdemon's skull. Zevran was now upon his feet, and had wrapped his arms around the mage's arms and waist. Jowan saw Sorcha - his Sorcha - give the other elf a grateful smile. She turned to him, mouthing the words 'I love you', a sad, wistful smile upon those beautiful lips of hers.

And then everything exploded in a great wall of white light. The elf and mage were thrown back. Sorcha's auburn head jerked up, her eyes and mouth wide open. From the ground Jowan watched it all, and then suddenly everything went black.

DA:O

She bravely gave her life so that Ferelden may live.

Those words…they were so simple. Jowan stared down at the plaque that rested within the simple garden of roses and daisies. Soon, a great statue would be raised in her honor. Sorcha's remains would no longer be here. The Grey Wardens in Orlais advised that Weisshaupt would be sending a contingent of Wardens to collect her earthly remains - now ash - to entomb with the other Heroes who had given their lives to stop the Blights of the past.

Jowan gingerly touched the small pouch he wore about his neck, tied there by a simple leather cord. Well, they would get most of her ashes.

His eyes remained fixed upon the words etched into the marble plaque. What had been Sorcha's thoughts as she battled through Denerim to the fort? How had she felt as she brought that damned sword down, driving it into the creature's skull to end its existence?

To end her own?

He remembered how he had held her, just the night prior to the final battle. She had wept, clinging to him, offering up apologies to him for bringing him into that life. He told her he loved her, and would not have traded any of their time together for anything.

He had meant it.

That night had been their last together. Once the tears were spent, they had made love until the dawn. He snorted slightly, again touching the pouch. They probably should have slept, but knowing that it may well have been the last time they could touch each other, hold one another tightly…kiss the other's lips…neither could sleep. So, they warded off their fears in one another's arms.

Nothing had ever felt so right, and yet so wrong, to the young mage as that moment when, spent, they wrapped one another tightly, lost in their own thoughts, their own fears…casting aside any hopes for a future.

They both knew one would perish. Jowan, however, had determined it would be him.

His Sorcha had other plans.

So, now he was alone. Without the woman he had fallen so desperately for. Blinking back stubborn tears, grief gave way to guilt as he continued to stare down at that plaque.

Footsteps echoed behind him, and he reluctantly raised his dark head, eyes narrowing as Alistair strode over, the king's own golden eyes narrowing at the sight of the blood mage. Jowan could feel the anger and hatred flow from the other man, and he had to fight to suppress his own as guilt gave way to hatred.

Hatred. The mage shuddered at the thought. Never, in his entire life, had the mage ever hated another.

Not even the templars who watched each and every move he made. Their threatening presence allowing for nothing of humanity to exist or grow, their own appearance - cold, metallic, inhuman, enforcing that perception. They were only mages, who were neither human nor elven, merely the Maker's curse upon mankind.

Not Gregoir, with his holier than thou attitude and hatred of mages, awaiting any opportunity to use the Right of Annulment, thus terminating every mage life within the stone walls of the Circle.

Not Irving, with his ever plotting to elevate himself over the others, to keep the every open and persistent eyes of the Templars away from him, ever upon another.

Not even Uldred, who had promised him so much, yet delivered so very little. The only good thing arising from the training the elder blood mage offered was Jowan's finding Sorcha (or rather, Sorcha's finding of him). So, perhaps he could offer the old man some semblance of forgiveness for that.

He turned his eyes briefly to the plaque before once again turning his attention back to the man who stood feet from him.

Sorcha was not the one who should have died. And Jowan's glare told the other man just who he thought should have.

Alistair's answering glare shot the same accusation right back at him.

The two stood, many feet apart, staring down at the flowers and simple plaque. Each of them wearing a similar pouch hung about their necks with a similar simple piece of leather.

Before, the only things these two had in common were the taint within their blood and their love of the same woman.

Now, they also shared a mutual hatred of the other.

As well as a similar sense of guilt.