"You want to kill the archdemon. Andraste's ass, Alistair, are you mad?" Naia snarled.
"It's my first and last act as King, the best thing I can do for my people," the other Warden argued. "And I never would have passed up Morrigan's offer if I knew …" He swallowed hard. "If I knew you'd be the one to die. You deserve better than that, Naia."
Well, she couldn't argue with that. "Of course I do," she agreed matter-of-factly. "But so do you, and only one of us can put Ferelden back together when this is done."
Naia reached out and put her hand on Alistair's arm. When he met her gaze, she smiled encouragingly. "You're going to be a great king. See that the elves get some fair treatment for once, or I'll come back to haunt you."
Alistair closed his eyes, nodding in acquiescence, and Naia saw a tear trickle down the ex-Templar's cheek.
She blinked back answering tears in her own eyes. Damn it, she didn't want to die, but there was no way out of this. Her friend was too important to Ferelden's future. It had to be her.
As she turned towards the archdemon, she caught a glimpse of Zevran's face. The assassin's expression was dark, unreadable, and she wondered how much he'd heard, whether he understood what was about to happen. Her stomach twisted with something remarkably like guilt. Should I say goodbye?
Bah. No sense getting emotional now.
Nonetheless, a force compelled her to turn back to her fellow Warden. "Alistair?"
The King nodded, reaching for his sword. Naia shook her head. "Not that. Just … tell Zev I'm sorry, all right?"
"Sorry? Sorry for what?"
Naia didn't answer. She wished she knew.
She took a deep breath and then she was running, as hard and as fast as she could, as hard and as fast as she'd run as a child when her mother challenged her to a race. She reached out a hand for a broadsword stuck in the neck of a nearby Darkspawn—Fang wasn't going to do the job, not this time—grasped it in her fingers, and pulled it out. When she reached the Archdemon she swung the heavy blade with all the strength she could summon and brought it down just behind the dragon's skull.
A searing yellow light consumed Naia's vision. She could feel the archdemon moving its head, fighting her, and she twisted the blade until she felt its neck snap.
The yellow light exploded. An invisible force flung her backwards, as easily as if she'd been a rag doll. Then she saw darkness. Then, nothing.
Flickers of consciousness pulled at the edges of Naia's mind. She felt as if she were falling, falling through empty space, falling towards nothing at all. Am I in the Fade? she wondered. Her thoughts seemed to come more slowly than usual. Better not be any Sloth demons. I killed a bloody Archdemon, I'm above Sloth demons …
The falling seemed to slow. Her body, which had been perfectly numb, started to regain feeling. Her head hurt, and her arms, and her back, and … well, more or less everywhere hurt.
A face appeared in front of her. Wynne's. Naia tried to reach out her hand for her friend's but her arm was heavier than she remembered.
"Wynne … are you dead too?" she whispered.
The healer raised her eyebrows. "No, I am not. And neither are you. I am disturbed that you have so little faith in my skill. I've fixed much worse these past months." Despite Wynne's sharp words, Naia could see relief in the mage's eyes.
"Where am I?"
"Atop Fort Drakon. The Darkspawn are retreating below. You did it, Naia," Wynne said proudly.
Naia sat up, then quickly pressed a hand to her forehead. Large black spots danced in her vision and she heard a strange ringing noise in her ears. "Ooof. Are … are you sure we're not dead? I'm supposed to be dead."
Wynne frowned at her. "You're not dead. I should know, I'm something of an expert. See, here's Zevran, and Alistair is taking care of the last of the Darkspawn up here."
The elven assassin was hovering behind Wynne's shoulder, watching Naia with an odd look on his face. Relief? Anger? When Naia's eyes met his, Zevran's expression shifted to his usual arrogant smile. "I should have known a mere archdemon would not accomplish what I could not," he said cheerfully. "Come now, can you walk? The dead dragon is a rather unpleasant sight. To say nothing of the smell."
Naia's answer was interrupted by the sound of someone running towards them in heavy armor. Before she could react, Alistair was crushing her in a very steely and uncomfortable hug. "Maker's breath, Naia! You're … you're all right!"
"For goodness' sake, Alistair, it's just a bump on her head," Wynne scolded him.
Alistair pulled away. "You're all right," he repeated, a slightly foolish grin on his face. "Naia, you're extraordinary. The greatest Grey Warden Ferelden has ever seen!"
Naia smiled back—a hero from Denerim's alienage? Imagine that! Mother would love it—but a sudden thought made her stomach drop in dismay.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. You're not getting me that easily!" she snapped. "Show yourselves, demons. I'm no fool. This isn't real. It can't be."
Alistair turned to Wynne. "Just a bump on the head, eh?"
"This isn't the Fade, child," Wynne said reassuringly. "Alistair, carry her, would you?"
The King lifted her in his arms easily. "Come on, hero. Let's get off this roof."
Naia made no protest—Fade or not, it felt rather nice to know she wouldn't have to climb back down—but her eyes sought Zevran. The assassin stood perfectly still, watching, and made no attempt to follow as the new King carried his comrade off the roof. Naia closed her eyes. Maker's breath, Zev, she thought as she drifted back into unconsciousness. Just tell me what I did.