The arch-demon fell to her sword, twisting and groaning, and a satisfaction as dark as its blood ran over her. Her rage, the faithful mistress of her heart, rose again as she struck a savage death blow.
It exploded underneath her.
She flew through the air and landed on stone with a sickening crunch, where she waited and smiled. Its soul would look for a new host, find her, and she would end both it and herself. Elissa, scion of house Cousland and most junior Grey Warden, would be no more.
It took her a long minute to realize nothing was happening. She scrambled to her feet, and her stomach dropped when she remembered there was another vessel on the roof, another Warden. Alistair couldn't die. He was needed to rule. She hadn't been able to stop him from coming with her, forced to agree that they needed another option in case she died on the journey, but she'd insisted he leave her to the task if she survived. Alistair was essential to the future. The former Queen, Anora, was ambitious and hard, not the healer Ferelden would look for in the next era.
Elissa wiped blood out of her eyes and looked around desperately. Alistair lay several yards away from her, unmoving and she limped to his side as quickly as she could. The relief she felt when he opened his eyes, eyes that were muddy but his, tightened her heart.
He blinked and focused on her. "You're alive," he whispered. "It worked."
His head lolled back as he slid into unconsciousness once more, and Elissa stared down at his blood-spattered face. What had worked? Was the arch-demon out there, already finding a new darkspawn host to raise him? She looked around, half-expecting another dragon to come rising over the battlements. Instead she saw Leliana sitting up and looking her way. Happiness and pity warred in the bard's expression.
"What worked?" asked Elissa, and Leliana wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead she looked to the west and made a subtle scout sign. The one they'd used to signal friendly mages in their travels.
Morrigan.
The witch had left them before Elissa woke that morning. That she'd abandoned them on the morning of battle stung but wasn't surprising. Elissa had assumed it was in anger. Anger at her for refusing the ritual Morrigan wanted done, for refusing to even mention it to Alistair. Conceiving a child to hold the soul of an old god was bad enough. Making it Alistair's child was much worse. It would be heir to the Fereldan throne, made eligible by the same noble bastard blood that ran through him.
Morrigan had protested, but the fact that she'd insisted on Alistair instead of Riordan had betrayed her intentions. She'd proven ally throughout their travels, but she had too much of her mother in her to be trusted. So Elissa had turned her down and prepared herself to meet whatever came.
Besides, she'd been ready to die. She'd secretly rejoiced when Riordan fell, not for his loss, but because it brought her finally to the hard line she craved. There would be nothing left for her to do in the world once the arch-demon was defeated. She'd brought Howe to dark justice, deposed the traitor Loghain and his daughter, and ensured Ferelden's future royal strength in Alistair. Her family was dead, to Howe's blades or darkspawn forces, and other Wardens would come from Orlais to clean up the remaining Blight and rebuild. The constant churning of anger inside had given way to a hollow silence in the days since the Landsmeet, and she wanted to slip away into peace.
She was their leader, by their choice. She'd never expected them to subvert her will. Blind, arrogant fool she'd been.
Alistair stirred again, and she examined his face, innocent and guileless. Obviously capable of more deception than she'd realized. She should have guessed when he'd given in so easily to her demand to strike the killing blow that there was something deeper to it. He always fought her on the difficult, necessary choices. But no, he'd spun his lies below her notice and let her walk into her own trap. The cold realization that his ability, his reign, might be even more complete than she'd thought was little comfort.
In hindsight, Morrigan's duplicity seemed obvious, even inevitable. It was this betrayal that burned. He'd given his virginity to the witch, to save a life that had no value, and created a future challenger to his rule who was lost in the wind.
The hollow space inside of her filled with sweet fury, and she stood. She barely knew what she intended - to throw herself off the tower, perhaps - but it hardly mattered because Zevran was already there, holding her in place. He pried the sword from her hand and threw it behind them both. His other hand gripped her with deceptive strength even while she fought and swore.
He laughed. "I'm glad you survived. The world would lack much color without you, in both word and beauty."
She twisted to look at him. "I'm not."
"I know," he said, eyes sobering. "But our immense joy will have to make up for your own lack."
Elissa stopped struggling, defeated. Leliana stepped towards them, reaching underneath Alistair to lift him across her shoulder.
"Let's get His Majesty to his subjects," said Zevran. "I only hope he wakes sufficiently for a pretty speech. I think your own would be decidedly sour."
Alistair woke slowly, sure that he wasn't supposed to feel the inner contours of his brain with such clarity. Pain pounded in lines up and down his skull, and he felt the cooling sensation of a healer's spell washing over him. Wynne's power. He opened his mouth to crack a joke about her superior mothering capabilities, but all that came out was a weak croak.
The swat on his shoulder was anything but motherly. "Hush," said a voice. A cup of water hit his lips, and he drank slowly.
He swallowed and tried again. "You're not supposed to hit kings. I'm sure I saw that written down somewhere."
"Is it? My tomes only say that you should never criticize your healer."
He opened his eyes. It was less painful than he'd feared. Wynne hovered above him, looking down with the blend of maternal devotion and irritation that he liked the best. He gave her his most winning smile, the one that never failed to soften her, and the irritation vanished.
A memory flooded back. "Oh Maker, did I really make a speech on the steps of the palace?"
"Yes," she said. "Very inspiring. I'm amazed you stayed upright. Fortunately only those very close to your side saw Leliana feeding you the lines. The city was quite impressed."
Alistair sank back into the pillow. "Oh. Good. Glad to be of service." Another thought rose. "And Elissa? Is she well? I saw her face after, well, after, but I don't know if it was real."
"Yes, she lives. There were casualties in the city, but all of those on the tower survived. They're calling her the Hero of Ferelden," said Wynne. She paused. "A service will be held for the fallen, including Riordan."
He nodded absently, his mind working on different lines.
"How angry is she?" he asked finally.
Wynne's face was carefully neutral. "She's been barred from this room since you returned."
That sounded about right. He struggled to push himself up to a sitting position. "Send her in. Maybe my weak condition will stir her sympathy and pity."
Wynne raised her eyebrow.
"Look, she has them in there somewhere. It's my only hope. Maker knows I can't actually fight her and win. Even when I'm not injured she beats me every time."
Wynne shrugged and moved to the door. Before she opened it, she turned back. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you made your choice. We all are."
She left, and Alistair rubbed his hand across his brow and waited. It had seemed so sensible at the time. A way to save everyone. They'd had enough losses. When Morrigan had come to him with her proposal, he hadn't hesitated. Well, not more than a little. An intimate act with a witch of the Wilds had never been on his list of dreams, and this particular witch made his skin crawl. But the sacrifice had been so small for a reward so great, and he'd known it was needed.
When he'd gone to her bed, his few Templar skills had fought the use of so much magic around him, and the internal battle had taken much of his mind away from the act. If anyone asked, he'd tell them that he got through it by thinking of a beautiful, loving partner, but in truth with the corralling of his power, Morrigan's skill, and his own sensitivity, it hadn't been necessary. He didn't guess she'd gotten a lot out of the experience, but he'd finished quickly. Ten minutes of time to save a life. A bargain.
Elissa would never accept it.
As though his thoughts had summoned her, the door opened and she stepped into the room. Her face was a cold mask, as it was most of the time these days. When they'd first met, he'd thought she was beautiful. She still was, but now she was beautiful like a statue, all hardness and smooth lines. There was no place for humanity to gain a foothold.
He'd wondered if this was something that all nobles did, so he'd taken her early remoteness as a challenge at Ostagar, teasing her, trying to uncover the spark that must be inside. He'd been rewarded with a few flashes, lights in her eyes that had warmed him and spurred him on. But after the Tower, after the betrayal, he'd had no inclination to try, and she'd become their leader - competent, inspiring, and removed. Sten had approved.
"So," she said, "you lied to me."
"Very successfully. Impressed?"
"A little," she admitted. "You had no right. I'd made the choice."
"I unmade it. I do happen to be the king in these parts."
Her eyes glittered. "Not yet, Alistair. And maybe not for long, if Morrigan has her say."
He was sure he looked even more confused than usual, which bit at him, but she continued as if she'd known he wouldn't understand. "Well, you have created an heir. With the power of a god. How long do you think it will take her to use it?"
His mouth dropped open, and she laughed. "Never thought of it, did you? That's the trouble, you never think. You want everyone to be happy. You're so noble. Honorable. Impossible."
"Why don't you take the crown, if you think I'll be so hopeless? You chose me for this, you know," he said.
She didn't answer.
"If you thought I would sit back and let you die when I could stop it," he said, "no matter the consequence, you're extremely silly. This land would wither without its Hero."
She glared, and he smiled in spite of himself. "I heard."
"This land has no need of me anymore," she said. "I was a weapon, forged by Duncan, and I was a good one. I cut through everything in our path. But when the war is over, what use is a sword? It was my right to choose my end."
"I can't do this without you," he said. He sat forward, deadly earnest. "You know how this all works. I don't. I'll want to do good, but I won't know how."
"You'll have to learn," she answered. "I'm leaving after the coronation, try to find myself a purpose. Whatever that might be."
His heart stuttered. "You can't." When she raised her head in challenge, he put command behind his voice, the sort he'd always heard from her. "You can't. As your king, your ruler, I forbid it."
She stepped towards him with fists clenched. Her eyes were no longer cold but held promises of violence. He tried not to be afraid.
"You're my subject," he said, possibly suicidally. "Or you will be after the ceremony. You have to obey me. Stay here."
"To do what, sit around the court like some decoration? Like a pet?" she snarled. "If I have to continue this worthless life, I'll at least be of use."
"You'll serve on my advisory council."
"What advisory council?"
"The one I just made up. But I'll need one, you know that's true."
Her hands tightened further, but she didn't argue. Her face was so pained that he couldn't stop himself from speaking. "Your life isn't worthless, you know. It's worth more than mine will ever be."
It was the wrong thing to say. She spun on her heel without another word and yanked the door open. Zevran and Leliana stood on the other side, one grinning, the other impassive. Elissa shoved past them, muttering.
Zevran's eyes followed her path down the hall. "Ah, Alistair, you have kinging down to an art. You'll never woo a woman this way, but your court will be exquisitely staffed." He sketched a lazy salute and sauntered away.
Leliana only crossed her arms, and Alistair smiled at her ruefully. "So much for trying to make her pity me in my ill health."
"Oh I don't know. She never actually struck you," said the bard. She shook her head. "You two always did fight like cats and dogs."
He nodded to himself as she shut the door. Wynne had always compared their bickering to two young siblings. He didn't know what that would be like - his own sister was less bickering than outright aggressive - but he couldn't deny that the other brothers he knew seemed to be harassed by their sisters frequently. He wasn't sure any of them would have survived Elissa as a sibling and wondered how her brother had tolerated the fights. Alistair certainly wasn't any good at keeping the peace.
He settled back to rest and flushed at another memory, of lying with Morrigan, nearing the end of the ritual. He'd found his release unexpectedly and mercifully briefly, but as he'd cried out a different face had slid into his mind. One holding Elissa's dark, demanding eyes, her auburn hair curled loosely around her shoulders, expression no longer cold but passionate and alive.
So maybe not quite a sister then.