Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only.

Words From the Author: Forgive me for the bit of exposition here, but its always a good bet that a story needs it when going into another book or part (as the case is here, though these scribbles of mine 'are' long enough to be books, aren't they? ;p ) Either as reminders to long time readers, or a quick update for new readers. That said, I don't personally care for exposition, so I tried to make it as brief and seamless as possible.

I also made it quick so we could get back to Fergus, Gwyneth and Alistair, in short order. I don't know about you, but I missed them, and though it was a little difficult stepping back into their minds, I'm glad to be back in the saddle.

You know what'd be awesome though? If I could do a 'Supernatural' style 'The Road So Far' exposition slide show with some ACDC music or something. Ah well, we'll have to settle for classic rock quotes down the road. ;)

Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons.


Chapter One:

Still Standing


So maybe I've been walking a little wounded.
A little banged up, but I'm still standing

- Terri Clark


June 25'th, 9:31, Dragon Age

Two days had passed since Fergus Cousland had learned exactly what his sister and brother by marriage had done to secure their own survival.

On a rooftop in Denerim, months ago, they'd confronted an archdemon, a creature of myth made real and filled with the spirit of an old god. That too was thought to be a myth, but it wasn't, for that same old god, freed from the prison of the archdemon's skin, had been visiting Gwyneth Cousland in her sleep . . . until recently.

The new Teyrn of Highever could scarcely believe any of it was real, and shock kept him silent almost as much as his unwavering love for his baby sister. That either of the newly appointed royals would enter into such a dangerous agreement . . .

'A deal with a maleficar? How did either Alistair or Gwyneth think that was a good idea?'

Yet, there they were. A blood red moon heralding the 'rebirth' of one Morgreth Urthemiel, god of beauty and death. That had been something all on its own, and add to that the strange circumstances under which the three of them had found out.

Morrigan, the mage in question who was also apparently a close friend of Gwyneth's during the Blight, had appeared to the queen through a mirror, warning of her of what was to come . . . and heralding her own death, after which Urthemiel would be free. Though still without the full complement of his power, but it was a frightening thought all the same.

'How does one defeat a god?'

That was a question to which Teyrn Cousland didn't have the answer. What he did know, was that theirs was a secret that couldn't be shared, and Gwyneth's heartbreak and terror over all of it left her in a vulnerable position.

Which is how Fergus found himself wandering his own city, looking for his sister.

Two days ago she'd seemed almost calm, upset, but still put-together. She'd taken the ring Morrigan had sent her for protection from Urthemiel's 'dream walking', and put it on a chain to wear as a necklace. Afterward, she'd told her brother everything, despite the king's objections.

Then she'd flickered out, like a lamp that had burned all its oil. She barely touched her meals, eyes wandering off to dark corners that neither her brother or her husband could see. Gwyneth had eaten less, but taken to drinking more wine, which Fergus was almost certain was laced with black lotus. The smiles she produced afterward could only exist, when all concerns were blurred by the lotus' promise to dull the world around her.

"What are you doing about this?" King Alistair had asked him the day before, voice sharp and scolding.

"About the same thing you are. I note you haven't spoken to her yet either." Fergus' gaze had wandered down into a nice mug of ale during that conversation.

"She's your sister! I can't talk to her, you know that. She hates me, now." The king had looked dejected, but it was clear he honestly believed that to be the case. "When she looks at me, I know Gwyneth blames me for all of this. I can feel it."

In fact, Fergus had seen Gwyneth staring at her husband with something akin to disgust, but unlike the sovereign, the teyrn wasn't entirely sure that disgust wasn't aimed inwardly. He could almost see it in her eyes. Though he wouldn't tell Alistair as much, he knew first hand that when you felt hatred for yourself, there was sometimes nothing that could be done, until you'd worked through it on your own. If he were to approach his sister in such a state, he might just make things worse.

Still, when she hadn't shown up for dinner at all that evening, both men had begun to worry. Alistair had his few knights out looking for her, so certain that she despised him enough that she wouldn't let him near her. Fergus had sent out his own guards, but when hours had gone by with no result, the teyrn grabbed a borrowed cloak, forgoing his noble ornamentation for the sake of subtlety, and headed out onto Highever's streets.

His personal guards had wanted to attend him, but Fergus was determined to go alone. When he found his sister, and he was desperate to convince himself he would, it had to be without anyone else.

A light rain made the cobbled streets slick, pattering down on market stalls that had already shuttered up for the night. At such a late hour, only a few places would be open, such as the brothel Fergus passed. The lively music and chatter from inside made him shake his head.

No one had any idea of what could be lurking out there in the world, ready to devour their souls. That frightening red moon had been just that, an oddity that put people on edge for a short while, until they'd made up their own reasons for it. Portents of this and that, and none of them true. It wasn't as if they expected the teyrn to issue an official statement about it. They couldn't know what he knew, but it felt surreal all the same.

The air smelled like fish and salt water, and outside the brothel doors, a bit of smoke and spirits. Fergus took a deep breath anyway, before he entered the clouds that permeated the whorehouse. It wasn't a place he was unfamiliar with, though as he'd gotten older, he preferred the entertainment and the feminine company to be had at the public house instead.

Still, some of the patrons and courtesans sent him sly looks of unspoken recognition, and he did naught but briefly incline his head, wringing out his damp cloak in the doorway before handing it to a woman just inside the lobby. He flashed his signet ring, a silent agreement to adhere to the privacy Fergus and his fellow nobles had long had in such places, and was allowed in without signing the books.

Clear jars filled with red dye were set before lamps, to cast a dim red glow to the room, looking a ruddy pink where it reflected against cigar smoke. Amidst the haze he could see the men gathered in the common room. Those of less coin, nursing tepid ales and wines, searching out which girl they'd prefer to spend the rest of their money on, while those with more than a few silvers, already had a wench warming their lap.

Fergus barely noticed them, intent on the back of the brothel; an archway covered by a thick dark curtain. A guard at either side eyed him warily, and again he held his hand out to show his signet ring. "Where we embrace the dark." The teyrn murmured the well known password, barely heard above the din, but the guards nodded and let him past.

In that place, titles were only sweet nothings to be whispered. They didn't matter much beyond that, and the coin that such names promised. Though promises were nothing without the funds to see them through. Yet, those who knew Fergus for what he was, gave him a wide berth, and those braver souls sidled up to him.

One buxom blonde purposely teetered close. "Oh pardon, milord, I was distracted by you. My, but your shoulders are so wide, I bet you'd keep me upright all night." She smiled, a nice one considering she still had all of her teeth.

There was a nice fragrance about her too, and had Fergus not had another focus, he might've been tempted towards the distraction she offered, but there were other matters to attend to. "Not tonight, love, but here, go buy yourself and the girls a round, won't you?" He smiled, tossing her a gold piece, and went on ahead.

Highever had a few lotus dens, and Gwyneth's favorite was far nicer than that hole in the wall, but Fergus had a feeling she wanted to forget who she was. There wasn't anywhere better than the Gilded Lady to do that in, where no one cared, as long as you paid well.

As he came around a corner, past a couple engaged heavily with each other against the wall, a wide room opened up. There wasn't much in the way of furniture, just a few tables, and a variety of large overstuffed pillows on the floor.

Reclined on them, in a cozy little corner, was his sister. Drunk off her ass and leaning heavily into a dark haired elf, who handed her a grape from an embellished platter, dropping it into her waiting mouth.

Before now, Gwyneth could be counted on to imbibe just enough to have fun, without impairing herself to the point of putting her reputation on the line. However, after what she was going through, Fergus wasn't so certain.

She was wearing a gown that fell off her shoulders enough to bare the pale line of her cleavage, her skirts nearly up to her knees beneath the elf's wandering hands. Her auburn curls were brushed back from her face as her companion kissed her neck, and she giggled, raising her wine goblet as a young woman came forward with a decanter to fill it.

Through the haze of lotus and smoke, somehow, she saw her brother, and smiled drunkenly at him. "Fergus!" Her voice sounded saccharine, and turned into an appreciative moan as her friend nipped at her earlobe. A sound that made his footsteps quicker, though she clearly didn't consider her honor at stake.

"Alright, little pup, I think you've had enough." He shot the elf a glare that was readily interpreted and he backed off, but not without a sulky glower.

"Didn't know the bird already had a cock in her hen house." He groused, but went to another patron easily enough.

Gwyneth pouted, but reached for her brother. "You're so tall. Come down here and have a drink with me." Her hands were clumsy as she reached for the hem of his tunic, trying to pull him down to pillows. In the end, he sat beside her willingly, letting her fall into him. "Better." She crooned, her breath soured from wine and black lotus, words slurred on her tongue. "Here . . " Gwyneth pressed the rim of her goblet against her brother's lips but he pushed her hand away.

"No, I think you've already had my share, and then some. Come, we need to get you out of here." He put an arm around her waist, trying to hoist her up, and though she stood, it was clear she wasn't going to be walking out of the brothel on her own feet. "Alright, up we go then." She weighed a lot more than she had as a girl, but Fergus managed to pick her up in his arms, the wine goblet carelessly spilling onto the pillows.

"Ooops!" Gwyneth giggled, licking the spilt wine from her hands where some of it had fallen. She smiled at her brother, resting her head against his shoulder, breath whispering against his ear. "To my rescue, again, my handsome brother. Am I your favorite? Am I your best girl?"

Fergus felt his heart twinge with melancholy and love all at once. "Always." He kissed her forehead, moving forward with some effort, her skirts falling over his arm and feeling weighted there.

They passed the guards at the wide curtain without trouble, but once in the common room, Fergus was given a few leers from the patrons, those who didn't know it was his sister he was carrying. Feeling very uncomfortable and saturated with the debauchery of that place, the teyrn was only too glad when they got outside. So much that he'd forgotten his cloak, but once he realized it, Fergus had no desire to go back in after it.

Gwyneth had gotten quite heavy, in just that small distance, and as soon as Fergus saw a carved street bench, he set her down on it gently, making sure she didn't tip over.

She was investigating the neckline of her gown, if it could be called such with that low of a cut. "I've spilt wine on myself!" It might have been irritation, but instead she laughed, nearly falling onto the cobbles when she leaned too far over.

"Alright, why don't you just sit there while I catch my breath?" Fergus cautioned, setting her back upright as he took a seat beside her. He thought he might try to convince his sister of the folly of her nightly travels. In her state though, he wasn't likely to make much sense to her addled mind.

"Don't make go back to him, Fergus, don't make me!" The change in her tone was quick, but no less slurred than the rest of her words had been. She clutched at the lapels of his tunic. "I can't look at him!" She wailed, and to her brother's dismay, began to sob.

"Gwyn, sweet, I'm the last person to defend your husband, but he isn't that horrible, and this mess isn't entirely on his shoulders." Fergus knew his words were useless, the lotus having blurred his sister's thoughts so much that anything resembling sense wasn't going to make a swath through the fog of her brain. That didn't keep him from trying.

"No, not him . . . him!" Her silver eyes had gone as wide as tea saucers, intense with their beggary. The words weren't that clear, but her terror was, and Fergus felt his gut seizing in pity when he realized who she was so determined to stay away from.

The teyrn looked about him, but the drizzle had sent most decent folk inside to drier comforts, and they were almost certainly alone for the moment. At least far more than they would be once he got his sister back to the manor home they were staying at. "Gwyn, your friend, the mage, she sent you that ring to keep you safe, and for the past two nights you've been fine when you wore it."

That did nothing to allay her fears, and she reached two fingers beneath her neckline, to Fergus' distaste, and pulled out a small sachet she'd apparently been hiding there. Before she could open it, and take the dried black petals out, Fergus snatched it away, even as his sister reached for the sachet again.

"Ah, ah, no. You've had too much already. You're lucky nothing happened to you, and it was stupid to come out here alone. Where's your damn cloak, for Maker's sake?" He hated how much his voice sounded like a masculine version of their mother, but Fergus couldn't restrain the reproach ready on his tongue.

"Cloak? Did I have one?" She burbled, eyes gone cloudy as her head swerved like a marionette.

Fergus shifted so her weight would fall into him, holding her close enough that he could feel her warmth through her clothes. She was burning up from lotus and wine, and probably wouldn't last much longer. "Andraste preserve us, if I can't even get you in the door . . ."

She slumped against him, breathing noisily but otherwise not making a sound. When her brother raised her face, her eyes were closed.

"Well, that's bloody marvelous, that is. Oh Gwyn, why did you have to do this to yourself?" Fergus knew the answer even as he asked it.


Another night spent alone, and King Alistair wasn't certain if he mourned the absence of his wife, what would've been her spot on the bed cold and empty, or if he was grateful. Gwyneth had said little after she explained their 'situation' to her brother, and what few words that did pass her mouth were absent of any emotion, but her eyes spoke volumes.

He'd almost thought they had made it back to the fragile but true camaraderie they'd had before their marriage, but those past few days, all that had fallen into ruin. Silver eyes narrowed on him across the table, whenever Gwyneth deigned to look at him at all, and when she had lain beside him the night before last, he could feel her withering gaze.

There was no way to know what she was thinking; there never was. He could only guess at what lay between what was spoken aloud and what remained silent. Alistair had never been very good at guessing games. Yet, he was left to them all the same, for there was no answer from Gwyneth's mouth and now she had taken to being absent more than just vocally.

She was back at the lotus again, and he wished he had the strength to keep her from it, and yet, the coward in him thought it was better that it dulled her anger at him. In spite of that, he wanted so badly to go look for her, but had to hope that Fergus would take the initiative instead. After all, Gwyneth didn't despise her brother, she never would.

It would always be Gwyneth and Fergus, last of the Couslands. Alistair knew there were aunts and uncles, and yet more cousins abroad that were related on the siblings' paternal side, but they considered themselves alone in Ferelden. It was probably true, when one looked at how they secreted their affection away for each other alone.

He felt that coil of jealousy biting at him again, and could recall a few nasty rumors he'd picked up, though he couldn't remember where. A little too much brotherly love from Lord Fergus, even after he'd been wed to Lady Oriana, in fact, he still saved his lances to receive his sister's favor in tournaments. Cousland blood runs strong, and maybe their only way of loving someone, was to keep it 'in house'.

It disgusted Alistair to even hear things like that, and he'd blocked them out, but there in a room he should've shared with his wife, the king's mind wandered. Dark twisted thoughts that he hadn't considered before, found purchase in the vulnerability caused by loneliness and paranoia of what was to come.

Feeling irritable and useless, he went to where his wife kept her perfumes and tinctures, looking for black lotus to toss out a window. She'd be furious, but he didn't care, if it made her talk to him. He dumped one bag upside down, its contents spilling out onto the bedcovers as his hands moved over the items, sorting them apart to see what he'd uncovered.

No lotus. Just some hair combs, etched jars and the like, and a bundle of parchments bound together, a stick of cinnamon under the twine, probably to keep them smelling nice. Alistair paused, the parchments heavy in his hands, and debated. He could put everything back, and return to his place on the bed, mind scrambled and frustrated, or he could read them. They were probably nothing, just some official letters that Gwyneth hadn't gotten around to sharing with him, except they looked older than that. Some of them were showing signs of yellowing, the corners marked with small rips.

She'd be furious if she found out, but Alistair had a fit of pique and didn't give a damn. He eased one out from the top of the pile and unfolded it, careful not to tear it further. The words were carefully written, but not as flowery as Gwyneth's own writing. Alistair felt like he'd seen it somewhere before, though he couldn't quite remember.

Red Maple,

Would that I could forego these absurd names, but I cannot, as I know it evades you as well. All the world is secrets, or so it seems, doesn't it?

I have not heard from you in some time, longer than I care to really count in this letter, and less so in my heart. You are my dearest friend, a soul kindred to mine, and without you, I am like the winter, cold and lifeless. Yet I look to the sky, and it warms me, for you are my sun.

If you fear to write, I would not bring you to some harm by falling to beggary for your unwritten words. I shall imagine them in my head, your voice as smooth as wine and as glorious as high summer. If, however, you can risk it, than it would bring me the greatest joy again.

My uncle speaks of impending war, and I cannot contain some excitement, yet still I worry that this country is not ready. Say the words that you always know, that I don't fathom how, and make me believe again. You have some great power over me, and I make it more so by telling you, but I cannot deny it.

No one knows me as you do, and no one shall, for we are like the branches, entwined and inseparable, no matter where our roots lay.

You are the light in the darkest sky and I miss you more than meager words can say.

With Greatest Affection,

Silver Birch

A love letter, as it was intended, despite the use of the word 'friend'. Alistair knew enough of love to recognize it, even in written form. Though the letter before him was poetic enough to make him want to laugh at the prose, but the writer must've cared, to try and think of such comparisons for their beloved.

The names were strange, but as the letter intoned, clearly used to keep identities secret. Alistair knew the writing, and tried again to recall where he'd seen it, though with different meaning behind the scribbles.

He picked up another, and another, all signed the same way, and none of them saying enough to give him an idea of who was writing them. Though 'Red Maple' had written back at some point, as was evidenced in the oldest and newest letter. Then he came to the last one. There were no dates on any of them, but there was a mention of the lady's birthday in late summer.

The words caught him and he read them several times over.

I'm only sorry that lilacs don't grow in the late summer, perhaps the lady will consent to some perfume with their fragrance, for her birthday? White lilacs make for fine scented powders, or so I was told when I last sent my man to market.

That letter wasn't quite as careful as the others, though still guarded.

Lilacs had long been Gwyneth's favorite, as she had admired the white flowering bushes that lined the walkways of the palace's gardens. Some of those same lilacs had been put into pots and set beside the carpeted aisle made for their wedding.

Silver Birch . . . Calenhad the Silver Knight. It hit him as clearly as knowing that Red Maple was in honor of Gwyneth's dark red hair, her birthday in late August as well. Alistair knew who it was, and he should've guessed it earlier, having read some old military orders and political correspondences penned by the same hand.

Cailan.

Suddenly he felt like he was violating some code, reading the words of his late half-brother, words intended for the woman Alistair was now married to. He hurriedly put them back, fingers fumbling with the twine, and dropping the cinnamon sticks on the floor twice before he tucked them safely back where they belonged.

Just as he'd put the bag back, a loud knock at the door nearly made him jump. The king cleared his throat and straightened his tunic, though it hadn't been mussed overly so. "Ah, yes, yes. Just a moment." His voice sounded guilty to his own ears, and he pushed Gwyneth's ruck sack back behind the dressing screen with his foot, before going to the door.

Fergus Cousland was standing there, face tired and serious. With the manor itself guarded, there was no need for any guards just outside the chamber door, and with apparent privacy, the teyrn got straight to the point. "I've brought her back, and not in the best state. I won't say where I found her, but you have to take my word that she needs some rest. There are more spare chambers, and she's spending the night in one."

Before Alistair could say anything, he was interrupted.

"No, I've not come here to bicker with you. Only to say that Gwyneth isn't a villain here, nor is she a victim. She is what she's always been, but isn't without her own suffering and when you speak to her tomorrow, you need to remember that." Fergus looked more stern than ever he had before.

"Speak with her? I told you . . " Alistair protested, uselessly it seemed.

"You told me that you believe she hates you. That doesn't mean I believe the same thing, and if you care one ounce for my sister, you'll ask her before making any further assumptions." There was no arguing with that sharp silver glare.

"I . . . alright." The king conceded, calling out when Fergus nodded at him and began to turn away. "Wait! Why did you come to tell me? You could've waited until the morning, or let me find out on my own." He was perplexed, as they weren't overly fond of each other.

"Yes, I could've."

A faint smirk was at the corner of Fergus' thin mouth, and he nodded his head as a farewell, walking down the hall as Alistair remained behind, mind just as heavy as before and far more confused.


The day had dawned overcast, the brightness of the sun hazy through the white cloud cover, but warm. With the light rains of the evening prior, the whole of Highever was covered in a humid blanket of air.

Inside the walls of Brynmor Estate, the occupants were grateful for the old stone and mortar, that kept it a relatively comfortable temperature indoors. Alistair wished he could appreciate that comfort, and certainly Lord and Lady Brynmor were kind hosts, but the circumstances of his life didn't allow for many moments of relaxation.

Fergus hadn't spoken to him much that morning, not adding anything to his abrupt appearance the evening before. He said even less to anyone else, until Gwyneth failed to put in appearance at breakfast. "Her Majesty is feeling unwell and shall only take tea and biscuits in her chamber." Had been the teyrn's brief reply to their hosts, and when he caught Alistair's gaze across the table, he only inclined his head in response to the silent question.

It was understandable, one supposed, to keep the peace by remaining silent, and thereby avoiding an incident when the real reason for Gwyneth's absence was made clear. However, it seemed it was the truth, as confirmed by the maids that wandered out of a chamber where Gwyneth had spent the remainder of the evening.

So he'd been pacing before Gwyneth's door for the past hour, debating whether he'd knock and what he would say if he did. Polished boots passed over the same patch of carpet, until Alistair looked down to see that his repetitive movements had faded it lightly and he stopped, feeling sheepish.

The door creaked open, as the king looked up, startled at the interruption into his thoughts. A petite maid smiled at him briefly, dropping a curtsey along with his honorific, before moving past with an empty tray. Brown eyes followed the woman, until she disappeared around a corner, and Alistair was once again alone in the hall. Distant sounds and the creaking of old flooring was the the only noise to be had, and when he cleared his throat, it sounded so loud that he winced.

Knuckles curled up, only to unfurl twice more, before they rapped at the door. The action had to be repeated before it opened, and Alistair's words of greeting failed when it wasn't another maid that answered, but his wife.

She looked wan, normally bright silver eyes dimmed to a grey as full of haze as the skies outside. Her hair was pinned up away from her face, and she seemed dressed already, from what he could see. Gwyneth watched him for what felt like the longest seconds of his life, before nodding at him. "Come in."

When she moved aside, Alistair could hardly see the room for how dim it was, all the curtains drawn to let in only slivers of light. A few candles were burning at the small vanity in the room, and the king's guts roiled at the sight of a large sheet covering the bulky shape of what had to be the mirror.

Her eyes wandered again to the broken glass. "She spoke through the mirror, told me . . . told me what he wanted and that he was going to be here soon and we were out of time."

The horror in her eyes would never leave his mind and seeing what it had done to her didn't make it any easier. Gwyneth was as prone to fear as anyone, but she got past it . . . and now, Alistair wasn't so certain.

She was walking away from him to take a seat at a small table, a steaming mug before it. Even from his distance, Alistair could smell it.

"What on Thedas is that?" He wrinkled his nose.

"Some horrid tea that Fergus is making me drink . . . it is meant to cleanse the body and mind, or some other rot. It stinks doesn't it? Foul black and pekoe leaves from Antiva. I half wonder if their assassins use it in poisons." Gwyneth made a face as she took another sip, nipping a bite of biscuit before her eyes wandered back to her husband. "What do you want?" It was without the usual malice that had backed that question in the past, and possessed only a mild curiosity.

It was awful to see her so drained of personality, the words more like a practiced speech than natural conversation. What was worse, was that Alistair found himself wishing she was still on the lotus, because then she'd at least be happy. Though, that was a false happiness and did nothing to heal the problems of the mind long term. He'd discovered that during his only experience with the potent drug.

"How are you feeling? We missed you at breakfast. Your brother said you were unwell." It was a poor lure for discussion, but it was all Alistair could think of.

Gwyneth scoffed. "Did he, indeed?" Another sip of a tea, and then she set it aside, staring blankly ahead of her. It went on so long that Alistair almost spoke to break the silence, but she beat him to it. "I can't talk to people right now. I can't look at them, knowing what's coming, and this time, I have no idea how to stop it." She stood up, thumbs rubbing at closed eyelids, and when she opened them, there was some life there. "And I couldn't look at you without seeing Morrigan. I imagine how it must have been for you, spending that night with her, and I can't fathom how you just let her go, with that thing in her belly."

The rage had been building slowly, fuelled by frustration. When her words fell over him, it broke open and all else that he might have been feeling was eclipsed by that red cloud. He grabbed her shoulders in his heated anger. "How dare you accuse me! You convinced me to do it! You stood there and told me it was the only thing that would save us! Now we're in this damn mess and it's all my fault? Its too late to change anything, so you decided to hate me instead, for something all three of us were complicit in!"

As he shook her, Gwyneth's face fell, but at that last shout, she looked up, face blank, but for the threat of tears in her eyes. "Hate you? Is that what you think? No . . . not ever. How many times must I say it? You're my king." A watery smile smoothed her lips, a hand raised to press a palm against one of his cheeks.

"Then why would you rather get lost in your damn lotus than speak to me?" He felt sick over how desperate he sounded, but Alistair couldn't help it. He wanted to understand her, he wanted to help her, so she would help him, and they'd have the smallest chance of combating Ferelden's new threat.

"Because, I want to take it all back. So much that I can't bear where we are now, what our actions wrought. How could you just agree with me? Why do you always let me talk you into things?" Gwyneth's eyes were wide on him, imploring and almost just as confused.

'You have some great power over me...' Cailan had said in his letter, and Alistair understood that more than he wanted to.

"I don't know Gwyn. You make the most impossible things sound possible. Your words can make men feel like insects or giants, and I don't know how you do it. Sometimes, you scare the hell out of me, but other times I'm so grateful that you have the kind of mind that you do." He sighed, running his fingers through lengthening dark blonde hair.

Alistair thought back to that night, how Gwyneth had asked Leliana to leave his side to speak to him alone. The insanity couldn't be denied; to purposely impregnate Morrigan so the babe would absorb the archdemon's soul, denying the monstrosity entrance into the soul of the Grey Warden that would slay. Such a thing was said to kill the Grey Warden that struck that final blow and Morrigan's ritual was going to save them.

It had saved them, but at a terrible cost.

"I guess . . . I guess I didn't want to die, and I didn't want you to die." He stared down his wife, locking gazes with her so she might not look away, and she didn't. "Gwyneth, you have to believe that I never thought anything like this would happen. I mean . . . I . . . I knew of course that there was a chance things could turn out . . . badly." Alistair winced, every word sounding like the worst kind of understatement. "But this? An old god, an actual old god, here in Thedas, and intent on taking you for his bride, to get back some kind of ancient power through the child you could give him? That's crazy! I don't know how fast he'll grow, if he has all of his powers, or what they even are. Those things in Greenfell and who knows what else . . . does he control them or are they just sort of 'there'? I have no idea what to do."

Gwyneth swallowed, her fingers traveling to the neckline of her gown, pulling the carved demon-head ring out, dangling from its chain. "I still don't know why you listen to me, but I'm glad you do, because I need you to hear me now."

One finger rubbed over the onyx surface. It was an ugly thing, but she could feel Morrigan's enchantments on it. "That thing, it ripped Morrigan apart to get out, I know that as much as you do. It has terrorized me for so many nights, when I told myself they were just nightmares. Those creatures that called it their 'husband', they murdered my Noble!" Tears ran down her face at the thought of her mabari, now buried with her ancestors, and of all that remained of Morrigan. Her dear friend was now just an enchantment on a ring.

"Gwyn . . ." Alistair tried to console her, but she wasn't done.

"I'm terrified of him. I tried to drown him, but no amount of wine or lotus banished him from my mind. He's powerful, we can be sure it's no weakling that ripped their way back onto the mortal coil. He's ancient, and his motives are almost impossible to know. He's a threat without borders . . . but he's also arrogant."

Alistair gaped at her when she unclasped the protective ring from her neck and tossed it onto the vanity. "Whatever you're thinking, don't! I can't pretend to understand how Morrigan made that thing, but its worked hasn't it? If Fergus knew . . ."

"He doesn't know, and you can't tell him. He loves me too much to let me take this risk." Gwyneth closed her eyes, gathering her courage.

"And what? I don't give a shit about you?" Alistair growled, angry and worried in equal measure.

"No, but you love Ferelden too much to stop me." She smiled at him. "I've had to take a sleeping unguent to get any rest, and if I take a bit more, it should send me to the Fade of Dreams. If I'm prepared, I can be ready for him, I can use his arrogance against him. He thinks I'm stupid, that we're all pathetic mortals."

"Gwyneth . . . no . . . no! This is insane!"

"Only two days and I'm nearly mad with fear, and don't tell me he doesn't make you feel the same way, and he's not even a physical threat yet. I'm tired of being afraid, I'm tired of not knowing where the battle lines can be drawn, aren't you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So, we get some more information, that he'll provide, because he's too proud of himself not to gloat."

She walked to the mirror, tearing the sheet cover from it, glaring into the glass as she opened the jar with her sleeping herbs. "Last night I almost lost myself completely, trying to hide, to run from what it is we face. Couslands don't run, we don't give up, we never concede the high ground."

Alistair knew she was gearing up for something big, and no matter how crazy, she'd manage to convince him. Gwyneth always did, in the end.

There was a smirk that was so often on Gwyneth's face, that many called it a Cousland trademark. That same smirk that'd been missing since Greenfell, and the banshees they'd encountered, curled her mouth. When the young queen turned back to Alistair, it was like a torch had been lit behind her eyes.

"I say, let him show me his cards, and I will cut him with the edge of mine. I say, come and get me, Urthemiel, you son of a bitch!"