A/N: Written quite a while ago, based on my first playthrough of DA:O - I was heartbroken with the outcome I ended up with honestly. But it didn't keep me from playing more. A short bit, written from the viewpoint of the Dalish hunter Mahariel, who had the folly to fall in love with Alistair and name him king for the better of Ferelden.
In the moment he broke her heart, Mahariel knew that her death was set in stone. She had thought she could not endure when she woke and Tamlen had disappeared. She had held her tears when she accepted that her life depended on abandoning the only one she had ever known. She had thought her soul had hollowed out when her dagger sunk up between his ribs to grant him a swift death and save him from the Taint.
But when Alistair spoke the words that crushed the blossoming flower of their love, when he turned his back on her to become the king, when Riordan told them of their duty as Grey Wardens, Mahariel could feel the arch demon's blood on her hands. It was an acid, its ichor a comfort compared to the numbness that rooted in her limbs and heart.
Staring too long at the fire, her eyes constricted at the brightness, the flames coming into perfect hue and depth, leaving all else beyond the hearth a fathom of blackness. Without thought, Mahariel's hand honed the stone over the curve of her dagger. She had fletched a fine set of arrows, often preferring to set her own feathers on shafts already fashioned with particular arrowheads. She would mend and reinforce her armour in the ways of her people, with the motions rehearsed since she first had set on the path to be a Hunter. And Mahariel would yet recite the prayers of the Vir Tanadahl, chanting the mantra of the Dalish to rouse her strength before her last living sleep.
Blinking to acclimate, Mahariel's eyes watered from the strain of staring at the light, and she turned at a sound.
"Do not be alarmed. It is only I."
The darkness at the edge of her vision bled away, showing her mage companion strolling into Mahariel's bedroom.
"Don't you have your own bedroom?"
Coming to the elf's side, they both looked back at the flames before Morrigan spoke again.
"I decided that it was time we spoke. I have a plan, you see. A way out."
The flames danced before Mahariel's eyes with enticing coyness, and Morrigan's voice dissolved into the crackle and pop of the flames. She did not hear the mage speak. She did not need to listen to puppet her strings.
"Fine. Speak quickly. But I promise nothing."
Morrigan turned towards the bed, and as she laid out her plan to seduce the new king, Mahariel's eyes followed. That the mage believed she would acquiesce to save herself. That she even imagined she wanted to be saved. That there was some desire for spite, perhaps, to clutch at glory.
"And why aren't you speaking to Alistair about this?"
"Alistair despises me, you know this. He rarely listens to reason, but he would listen to you. You of all people could influence him."
Mahariel bit her tongue in her mouth. The Dalish elf had no influence with the shemlen king. She had been a fool to ever think so. He had proven that he could fly on his own. She had no wish to be the hunter sky-seeking with her bow.
The elf closed her eyes, turning away from the fire. The heat of its blaze dissipated from her body, the bedchamber chilled by comparison. The balm of the warmth faded as the numbness returned. Morrigan continued to speak of the ritual, and of her demands.
"No. I won't agree to this." Mahariel's voice was a spring frost.
"Do not let your foolish pride condemn you." The mage snapped further, but the forest breeze muted Mahariel's ears. Cottonwood seed and sphagnum.
Morrigan sat expectantly on the bed, and Mahariel's chin dropped a little.
"If I die, it will be with honour. You have my answer."
A child denied her demand, Morrigan stood and hissed, "Then you are a fool." She strode to the elf's side by the fire, the distortion of anger mixing with something else.
Water dulled senses, tempered with the chill of spring thaw. Swimming where it was too deep, the words didn't reach, spoken from the streambed. Mahariel had still to prepare before her rest. Even if it was to her death she strove, she would be fortified and ready, and only Falon'Din would know her soul.
"Please, don't do this."
In a rare, private moment, Morrigan's façade drooped away to show the sorrow of Mahariel's choice. "Would that I could have helped you. That is your doing however, and not mine."
Bidding her farewells, Morrigan turned and strode to the door, pausing to look back at the elf that stood before the fire.
There was laughter in spring. But now was another time. The geese had fled and the trees wept their children to the skies, leaves curled and blown to the easterlies. The sun is low and the sky is hazy, too bright, filled with crystal and light. Sleep for another day. The last day to strive before the snows fell.