Leliana

Time itself seemed to stand still. The sweet strains of stringed instruments and the rich melody of flutes filled the air. Murmurs filled the great hall of Fort Drakon, where the Landsmeet had been held, but even so, this day still did not feel real. The end of the Blight. The coronation of a king. The fact that those of us who had traveled together, fought together, gone throug hell and battle and nightmares together...were soon to be disbanded, to return to the lives we had known before this time.

Wynne squeezed my hand and we waited to see history unfold before us. The Revered Mother of the Denerim Chantry took her place on the dais, standing before the throne, waiting for the man soon to be king. Were Salem not with him, I feared that Alistair might have fled this day, the future it held for him, and the terrifying responsibility. But I knew that she would, once again, help him stand where he needed to be.

I cannot believe this day is happening, I thought, savoring the fine, textured silk of the dress that Wynne had given me. That I am here again, in a royal court, clothed in finery...only now I am a hero in this land. I do not wait to plunge a knife into an unsuspecting back. I do not sing with the intent to seduce. I am here, surrounded by those I have come to love, watching a country re-united.

The Revered Mother extended her arms, placed her palms flat, and lifted her hands, a signal to us all. The music changed to a triumphant march and all the nobles and assembled people knelt down, bowing their heads, preparing for the future king to pass by.

I lifted my eyes, watching as Salem and Alistair entered the room. They walked down the long hallway, their backs straight, shoulders squared, looking every inch a royal couple. I felt the prick of tears as I remembered how easily this might have been two ceremonies...a coronation and a wedding both.

But Salem had chosen me...she had chosen me above a crown, above the opportunity to bring widespread peace to a land too long torn asunder. I knew that choice, made by a woman such as her, had not been easy, and could only have been made out of love. A love that I did not even know how to give thanks for, because words failed me. A single tear fell, and I did not bother to wipe it away.

I watched the eyes of multiple young women gleam; saw their hearts flutter and melt at the sight of Alistair. Their gazes were riveted to the muscles that strained against the confines of his tunic, the mellow amber flames burning in his eyes. My lips quirked upward in a grin as I thought about the shy, self-effacing warden being forced to dodge all of the court flirtations and women with designs on him.

However, while Alistair struck an imposing figure, he could not hold a candle to my warden. I had never seen Salem look like this. Her hair had been cut and lay in loose waves that tumbled to her shoulders. Her kind blue eyes shone out with hope and determination. Here, in this light, the scar on her face looked nothing like a disfigurement, but a sign of the sacrifices she had made to bring this day into existence. And yet, for love of Alistair and Ferelden, she concealed the aura of strength and comfort and peace that always emanated from her. She reined in the ferocity with which she fought, choosing to let another step into the light.

She had chosen to wear the warden colors of gold and black, though she had the right to wear Cousland's deep blue and silver, and Alistair would have clothed her in matching crimson and gold had he been given the right to choose. He would have placed her at his side as an honorary Theirin. He would have given her his name, as he had always longed to do. I feared he would continue in that longing. One did not simply fall out of love with Salem Cousland. I knew that all too well.

The golden griffon of the Grey Warden order had been embroidered on the breast of Salem's tunic. It suited her, as it was an extinct creature, and she a noble who clung to anachronistic principles. The majesty, the symbolism, painful as it was, characterized her to perfection. The time of her and those like her was quickly coming to a close. Such thoughts saddened me...people like her strove to be a force of true good in this world. They foreswore avarice and greed in favor of the greater good. The world needed them, but it insisted on killing them.

Pushing those sorrowful thoughts aside, I watched, unable to keep my eyes off of her as she ascended the stairs. The clothing she wore was beautiul, even though it obscured the definition ofher body...a body that had been abused, pushed past limits, that had even died for a land that would never know the gifts she had given it; the pain she had endured for the thousands who could not fight back. Her rippling tunic fluttered behind her, obscuring the limp that had yet to fade.

My smile dampened and my thoughts drifted as I recalled the reason...

I wince, watching as Wynne unwraps the bandaging and removes the splints holding Salem's leg in place. My warden is still unconscious, and I am grateful for it as the senior enchanter begins to gouge her fingers into the wound, feeling the bone, testing it.

"It's as I feared." she murmurs, looking at me, her gaze so very serious that I begin to worry.

"What is wrong?" I ask, dreading to know the answer, dreading the thought of my warden being forced to endure yet more hardship.

"Even healing magic has its limits, Leliana." Wynne begins. "The damage done to the bone was...grave. Magic will not be able to completely repair it. She will still be able to walk, probably even to fight and run, but..."

"Then what is your cause for concern?" I ask, not understanding. "If she will still be able to live as she is..."

"That is just it." Wynne says, spreading a salve over the horrific wound, where the bone was forced through the skin. "She will not. She will probably never walk without a limp again. If she over-exerts herself, the leg will fail to hold her. And the likelihood is that, when the spring storms come, she will be in unimaginable pain...as though experiencing the break all over again."

"Maker's blood." I whisper, wanting to rail against all the gods and their madnesses. "This is not fair, Wynne. It is not right that she gives so much and...and receives punishment in return? This is..." my voice cuts off in frustration, but Wynne nods and I know that she understands.

"I am sorry, Leliana." the elder mage speaks. "I loathe that I must always be the bearer of bad news for the two of you. Salem...Salem deserves better, but this life is so unkind."

"I will be kind to her in its stead." I swear, unable to think of my lover, who adores the storms, the torrents of rain, the pounding drum of thunder, and the spit-spark crackle of lightning, being forced to relive the pain of that injury each time.

"As will I." Wynne promises, and I help her replace the splints and the bandaging.

I know the ache of old wounds all too well, I thought, feeling my lips tremble as old grief reawakened. Were the scars not enough? Must she also be reminded of that final, devastating battle where so much was lost? It would seem the old tales are all too true. There is little mercy for a warrior.

Alistair and Salem reached the Revered Mother and Salem placed her hand on her warden brother's shoulder, squeezing it, imparting support. She withdrew to the left side of the dais, across from Ser Cauthrien, who had done heroic deeds of her own in the siege of Denerim, re-earning the honor that had been lost in her service to Loghain.

The knight's neck tightened as she looked at Salem, a reminder of what she would forever consider her failures. I could not help but chafe that the knight stood in a place of honor. I knew Alistair intended to make the woman his First Knight of the realm, for she had been the first to swear fealty, and she had killed Loghain. I knew that Salem had forgiven the woman for what she had done.

But I was not Salem. I could not forgive Cauthrien for the horrors she had made my warden endure. She had stood silent, approving as Salem was beaten within an inch of her life. She had torn my lover's back apart with a knife, pierced her hand through with a blade. She had not protested when my warden's back was shredded apart by a whip. She had spared Salem the horrors of rape...but that was all that she had done.

I clenched my hands into fists, trying to claw my way out from beneath the burdens of the past. This was a day of futures. Of rejoicing. Of peace. I could not retreate into old grievances and furies. I would not damage this moment in any way.

Salem stood next to Shianni, whose presence had caused quite a stir amongst the nobles of Ferelden. It was the first sign of the changes that were coming to Ferelden. Kallian had come to Salem after my warden had recovered enough to have visitors, and had spoken to Salem of the hardships faced by the elves in the Denerim alienage. Kallian had begged for a change, and said that she herself was not brave enough to approach Alistair, or to speak in public for her people. But her cousin was.

When the elven maiden had left, I had sat down beside my lover and told her of Kallian and Shianni's kindnesses to me. I told her of how they had cared for a shemlen after the battle. The two of them had convinced the elves of the alienage not to seek reprisal on the humans who had abandoned them to the darkspawn and the archdemon, but instead had tried to help in whatever way possible.

Salem had spoken to Alistiar, and, as usual, they had agreed. Now, an elf stood in a place of honor in the palace of men. I could see the anger in several human eyes, but they would learn, soon enough, that one did not argue with Alistair Theirin. Shianni had been named the ambassador of the alienage, and had been made an advisor to the king. Salem and Alistair had agreed: the elves required representation at court as equal citizens of Ferelden. They agreed that Ferelden would become a free nation.

Free for all races, not just humans.

At Cauthrien's right hand stood a dwarven emissary from King Bhelen of Orzammar, who brought with him gifts for the new king of Ferelden as a sign of the dwarves' good will. Bhelen had taken to Alistair, for a reason that none of us knew, or could fathom. However, even though she had secured his crown, Bhelen treated Salem with contempt. I knew the ilk of the dwarven king. He would not make easy friends with those who could not be cowed.

I smiled. Though some remained as yet undiscovered, Alistair had steel in his spine. Bhelen would find a different man as king than the warden he met beneath the earth. A man who had learned to bow his head to ono one. A man who had learned his wisdom from a woman who clung to the standard of days past. Days when justice was blind and adequately tempered with mercy. When faith and love were causes worth fighting for, not emotions to be extorted.

The Revered Mother began reciting the words of the Chant that exhorted kings and laid their missions and duties before them. I watched as Salem smiled; as we witnessed dreams, bought in blood and trial and terror, made reality.