"Wait, this is crazy!"
"Sanest thing I've ever done."
I try to place the voices as they ricochet around my skull, try to figure out why hearing them echo like this feels like having Zevran's dagger rammed through my heart over and over again. I can't. They sound familiar, but I don't know why, so I give up and relax in the liquid darkness surrounding me.
"Will she be alright?"
"She should be," Wynne assured the red-haired bard. Leliana visibly relaxed. She had been forced to spend the last day pacing a nearby room as she waited to find out if the Grey Warden would survive, frantic prayers spilling out to the Maker. "You know, dear, I could use some help, if you're able."
The rogue's eyes brightened. "Of course. What can I do?"
"Could you go see if you can find more bandages? She keeps thrashing around and reopening the wounds." Leliana nodded and went in search of what was one of the rarest commodities at the moment. There were so many wounded after the last battle against the archdemon. Wynne watched her leave before turning back to her patient. "I don't know how happy you'll be about living," she murmured.
Every last centimeter of my body is on fire. I want nothing more than to call for Alistair, playfully demand a massage, just to watch his eyes light up. But since my head aches so atrociously that even whispering would be too painful, I settle for a groan and hope he's close enough to hear me. We must have been in one nasty battle for me to hurt so badly.
"Zerahna?" That voice...that's not Alistair. Even if it wasn't feminine rather then his deep, beautiful, masculine tone, he never calls me by my whole name. To him--and almost everyone else--I'm Rahna. Have been since planting Soris' face in the mud when we were children for using the whole name. The only person who insists on calling me Zerahna is...Wynne. Now I'm confused. Where's Alistair? What's Wynne doing in my tent? What in Andraste's name is going on??
I finally manage to fight back the pain long enough to pry my eyes open. Or at least the right one. "Wynne?" The voice doesn't sound like mine, not even vaguely.
"Shh. " She rests one hand on my shoulder, gently forestalling my attempt to prop myself up some. "You'll tear open your wounds again."
"What... happened?" I raise one hand--which is far more exhausting than it should be--to feel the left side of my face. It's covered by rough-edged bandages.
"You don't remember?" Wynne frowns.
"Re...remember what?" Now I'm really getting nervous. Leliana, who I hadn't noticed standing behind Wynne, slips out with a quiet murmur about finding the dog and making sure he hadn't gotten in the kitchen. That's when I notice that we're not in tents, we're in a building. But I don't really care at the moment. There's only one thing on my mind. "Where's Alistair?" I want to know why the man who loves me isn't hovering over me, like I know he would do.
Wynne answers my question with a question. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"The archdemon attacked Denerim. We had to turn from...Redcliffe to go fight it. Did we get attacked on the way or something?" I hate the big, looming empty place in my memory.
"No. We made it to Denerim, fought the archdemon, defeated it."
"So what happened to me? And where's Alistair?" If she doesn't tell me this time, I will shake the answer from her if it kills me.
"Alistair...killed the archdemon." She's trying to break it to me gently, but there is no gentle way to tell someone something like this. "He sacrificed himself."
Disbelief socks me in the gut hard enough that, were I standing, I would double up with agony. "Why didn't I stop him?" Why did I let him do it? Why, why, why?
"He wouldn't let you. Besides, you were already weak from your wounds, you couldn't have stopped him, no matter how badly you wanted to."
I don't believe this. I can't. Alistair's...dead? He can't be! That's the whole reason I let Anora keep her throne; so Alistair and I could be together and rebuild the Grey Wardens. He can't be dead! The memory of Morrigan's offer dances through my mind, and suddenly I realize--far, far too late--that one night wouldn't have been so horrible. Just one night. But I said no. I told her I couldn't do that, no matter good of a friend she was. And now Alistair is dead because I was so selfish. I'll never have another night with him again.
It almost serves me right. But he didn't deserve to die. He could have done so much, for the Grey Wardens, for Ferelden. What's one elf in the scheme of things? That's all I am.
Suddenly the words that echoed in my skull earlier return. How could he think this was the sanest thing he's ever done? What sane person would make someone they love endure this? I want to rage, scream, throw something. But it would hurt too much. I turn to Wynne. "Could...could I be alone?"
"Of course." She leaves, pulling the door closed behind her. Then the tears come. I've never cried so hard. Not when my mother died, not when Vaughan's guards killed Nola and Nelaros, not even after Ostagar. "Just one night," I whisper to the ceiling. "One night." Funny how loaded those two common little words are. Had I let Morrigan have him for one night when she asked I wouldn't be staring down the bitter reality of spending every night without him. But even beyond that, one night's battle took him from me. I should have left him behind. I should have taken Sten, or Oghren...or even the dog. But then I would be dead.
I cautiously sit up in bed, hissing as the pain latches on to me again, and lean forward to rest my head in my hands. Something catches my eye and stops me, a gleam of silver on the table by the bed. I reach for it, the deep wound in my arm making me clumsy, and pull it close so I can see it with my one good eye. It's an amulet, decorated with Andraste's holy symbol. And a dozen hairline-thin cracks. My breath hitches in my throat as I realize what this is.
This isn't just an amulet. It's his amulet. The one that was his mother's, the one I found in the arl's desk. "Alistair..." I whisper hoarsely, my heart seizing with grief just saying his name. It's hard to tell which hurts worse; my heart or the eight-inch gash I just realized I have along my ribcage. I curl my fingers around the amulet and lay back down, losing myself in sleep, letting that stop the physical pain and hoping it stops the emotional, too.
Wynne cracked the door open slowly to keep it from creaking. Zerahna was asleep again, and the mage wanted it to stay that way. The poor girl needed rest. She was wounded, had lost a lot of blood, and the man she loved on top of that. Wynne had been afraid something like this would happen. She had watched the two Grey Wardens fall in love with growing trepidation, had even spoken to Zerahna about it. She had warned the young elf of what could happen, cautioned her that Alistair would love her with his whole heart and she shouldn't hurt him, reminded her that for Grey Wardens, duty came first.
She had wondered if she was mistaken when she saw the way Alistair looked at their leader. The absolute adoration in his eyes surprised her. And when Zerahna looked at him the same way, Wynne knew her advice would fall by the wayside. And it was alright. The happiness, the contented expression on Alistair's face--and Zerahna's--convinced her she had been wrong; it was good for them to grab whatever happiness they could while they could.
And then came the last battle. The one day that had turned life upside down for the elf curled up in the bed. When both love and duty demanded the same thing from Alistair: kill the archdemon. Duty demanded he do it to end the Blight. Love demanded he do it to save Zerahna. Wynne had watched his face as he kissed the elf one last time before plunging toward his death with unwavering determination. She would never forget the look in his eyes. The sorrow, mingled with relief his Rahna wouldn't have to die... "If only you could remember those last moments," the mage whispered to the huddled figure on the bed, smoothing the tangled sheets and taking in the agony that twisted her face even in sleep.
"Wait. Let me. There's no need for you to die. This is my duty. I should be the one to kill it." The shock of hearing him say that fills my ears with a roaring that blocks out some of the conversation, I know I'm protesting, he's insisting, but my mind is so busy trying to find a way to kill this monster that doesn't involve one of us dying I miss the exact words. If one of us sacrifices ourself it should be me. He could do so much, he's so much more important than a single city elf. And I'm already so badly injured.
"That's not the only reason and you know it." I'm calling his bluff about something, I just can't remember what. The desperation building in my chest has my heart pounding, causing my wounds to bleed even more heavily. I wince and fight off a dizzy spell. Not now!
I have never seen anyone, human, elf, or dwarf look so incredibly broken as he does as he concedes, "You're right. I know how I feel about you. I won't let you die, not when I can do something about it."
He's really going to do this. He's really going to leave me. He's really going to die. My fingers reach out to clutch his armor, the wave of pain a mere footnote to my desperate desire to not lose him. "Wait, this is crazy!"
He smiles the saddest smile I've ever seen. "Sanest thing I've ever done," he says softly, pulling me close for one last kiss, regardless of the blood coating half of my face from a wound inflicted by one of the archdemon's claws. It's the sweetest, longest, shortest six seconds of my life. Suddenly I wish I had agreed to Morrigan's repulsive offer. As I savor the kiss, he pulls away far, far too soon. With on last look that bores straight down to my soul, he turns and charges across the tower roof, snatching a greatsword from the carcass of a dead darkspawn as hurtles past. The archdemon rears its head, roaring at him as he pounds toward it. He buries the sword's blade in its flesh, dragging it the length of the archdemon's neck. It spasms, flinging blood, spattering his face and armor as it collapses to the roof. Breathing heavily, face set in flint-hard determination to go through with this, Alistair raises the sword above his head and plunges it into the archdemon's head.
His wordless, raging cry echoes in my ears as Wynne and I watch him writhe, hands locked in a literal death grip on the hilt. I can almost hear his rage at the hand the Maker's dealt us, his sorrow at doing this to me, his fierce desire to protect me, pay me back for all the times I saved his skin in that death cry. This isn't fair, it isn't right! But I can't stop him. I can barely stand, and he knew it. So I watch him convulse as the soul of the archdemon drags him into death with it. Finally, the struggle is too much, and an explosion racks the roof, flinging Wynne and me off our feet. My head smacks the stone and the world spins into pure darkness.
