Epilogue

Ten months later…

Dear Daughter,

I am appalled that I must send this missive through your brother! Such disregard for my well-being scarcely surprises me. Ever were you your father's daughter and even in his death he maintains his hold upon your heart. Never fear, I am returning to my own family, who will treasure me as you were never able.

Your brother refuses to tell me where Cherise and the children are, unnatural son! Those are my grandchildren and no matter how distant I feel from my children, I remain devoted to those two. I shall continue to search for them, depend upon it.

Not that you have shown the slightest interest in events here in Orlais but it is rumored that Nevarra stands on the border, ready to invade! Ever were they a nation to take advantage of a slight contretemps among the members of our royal family. No matter, we shall beat them back quite easily, I have no doubt.

These are very troubling times, yet such glory awaits for those willing to rise to the occasion. I find myself championing de Chalons as he seeks to restore the order of the classes. Imagine being able to use a title again! Celene was much too liberal in her views and so I remarked on more than one occasion.

I will not write again until such time as you have apologized for your heartless feelings towards your own mother. I would wish you happy had I any reason to believe you wished me the same.

Mother

Without a qualm, Anya tore the letter in half and then in half again, continuing until there was nothing left of the letter except tiny pieces of creamy vellum. She tossed those into the air where they caught a fresh burst of wind and sailed into the sky. Like snowflakes, the vellum drifted slowly to the ground below.

Standing on the parapet in a shaft of golden sun, Anya stared out at the vast mountains in the distance, dismissing the letter and the emotions associated with it. With a sigh, she realized yet again how much she missed the view of the sea, missed seeing the enchanting blue water topped by maidenly white caps. She missed the scent of brine and fish and sun-warmed water on a freshening wind.

She also missed the fatherly guidance of Varel and the sassy camaraderie of Sigrun and the reassuring warmth of her Wardens. She missed having a clear mission and the command to carry out that mission.

But she could not be sorry that she'd left it all behind, at least for now. She closed her eyes, letting the soft wind tease her, seeking a peace within her to match the pastoral splendor of the summer day.

Another curl of wind pushed gently at her, as if seeking entrance, and she was reminded of that last fateful moment with Anders on the ledge above the sea, when something of unspeakable grace and beauty passed through her and left an indelible rush of love behind. She closed her eyes, savoring that emotion.

Inevitably, as happened each time that memory rose in her mind's eye, she wondered who had spoken to her and whose spirit had passed through her? Had it been Anders? Justice? Something entirely beyond her comprehension?

She would like to believe it was Anders, that he had found peace in that final moment before death. The desire to give Anders credit for such deep feeling was foolish, she knew. It attributed to him a greater love for mankind than he had shown, yet there had been that charming, loveable young mage residing in the same body as that dark and monstrous madman.

No, it was probably Justice who had bestowed such a gift. He had always been the gentler, nobler of the two. He had been the one who had stayed Anders's hand and saved her life. Was he in the Fade now? Restored to his former place and time? A whisper of a prayer drifted from her lips in the hope that he would know she was grateful.

And how much of Anders's insanity had been directed by that triumvirate he had claimed existed? Had they controlled him? Created Vengeance as a way to distort his reality? Or had Flemeth merely taken advantage of a broken soul?

In the silence, with her eyes closed and the warmth of the sun upon her, it was impossible to know. She suspected that Morrigan, still assisting Raoul in Orlais, would know the answers to such questions. The mage, however, was not forthcoming and Anya found herself reluctant to ask. Some things were better left to the imagination where hope could color the answers.

Slowly opening her eyes, she focused on a blur of motion on the narrow band of road that wound through the flower draped hills. A rider was approaching and she knew from the way the sun kissed golden hair that it was Zevran. A warm smile touched her lips and even though he was too far away to see the gesture, she raised her arm and waved at the king's emissary.

Fergus had been relentless in building up the defenses of Ferelden for whatever was coming, be it an Orlesian invasion fleet or the madness of the holy war now sweeping across Thedas. He was King Fergus now and newly married to a daughter of one of the nobles, a baby already on the way. Zevran claimed he was delighted to be surrogate uncle to whatever children the king's purely political marriage produced. Fergus was a good leader, much stronger and much less bitter than the former king.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, remembering how swiftly Alistair had forsaken the throne. He had turned his face to Weisshaupt and his real love … being a full-time Warden once again. She had heard - through various old friends - that he was determined to bring some pride back to the Wardens and she wished him luck.

She had told him that they had thrown their lot in with those searching for the green lyrium and he was determined to change that. Perhaps, given his new maturity, he would succeed. She fervently hoped so. The Wardens had no business in politics or creatures like Flemeth.

More especially, they had no place in wars, she reflected, her smile turning down at the corners until it had disappeared completely. Just as Morrigan had predicted, Kirkwall had been the impetus for a mage uprising. Despite the fact that hundreds of mages, templars and citizens had been saved that fateful day, those mages that had been senselessly murdered had sparked a revolution.

Damn Elthina to the Void, she had played her role in the events so perfectly that nobody had suspected her of being anything other than the sainted woman of infinite patience. The cost of that day reverberated even now, echoing across a land that had been lost to reason. That Flemeth and her cohorts had won that day and the recent battles, Anya still wasn't quite sure what they hoped to gain. Or avenge, if Morrigan was to be believed.

The situation grew worse as the months went by. Varric had sent a coded message that only Nathaniel had been able to decipher, warning that the Seekers were out and about, seeking. Seeking what, Anya wondered again, rubbing briefly at the small scar on her forehead.

They were also trying to find the mage and templar leaders and quell the rebellion, hoping by doing so they could mend the schism, but it was too late. A large contingent of templars had, indeed, taken up arms in protection of the mages. The ranks of those fighting against the Chantry and its army continued to swell as the magnitude of the events spread throughout Thedas.

She'd heard from her brother that mages from all over were gathering at Andoral's Reach. Hardly surprising, she thought, considering its proximity to the Blasted Hills and all that alleged green lyrium. A part of her resented the role she'd unwittingly played, knowing that she had not been able to thwart any of Flemeth's plans. She had been used, a pawn in something so large she still could not comprehend the reasons nor the repercussions.

The rebellion was aided by the civil war in Orlais, which had erupted when the empress left the palace and went into hiding, just as Raoul had foretold. He remained loyally at the side of Celene even now and Anya worried constantly for his safety. The death toll was staggering as the poor rose up against the nobility and as chevalier fought brother chevalier. The Orlais she had grown up in was gone and she wasn't entirely sure that was a bad thing.

"There you are. I should have known. You've always preferred the ramparts to the great hall."

Without turning, she stretched out her hand, knowing it would be grasped and held tenderly. She tried to stem the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes to little purpose. If the tears fell she would blame the Orlesian blood that flowed in her veins. Even corrupted by the taint, it was no less than the truth. She was as much governed by her passions as her rationality.

"Carver's heard from Margaret. She says now that things have calmed down, she and Fenris will be here within the month. Viscount Bran isn't happy about their departure but he understands the necessity of her fighting from behind the scenes for now. Varric's decided to stay in Kirkwall. He promises to visit from time to time and he'll keep us up to date on things."

She nodded, unwilling to turn and share just how close to tears she was. Still grieving for so many lost that day, including Aveline, she struggled against the tide of grief that swelled in her. Poor Aveline and poor Donnic. He'd been devastated by her death. Margaret had written that he'd been promoted to guard captain and still wore a black armband in memory of his wife.

It was only luck that had saved Bran. The Viscount's Honor, an ornate and intricately carved badge of office, worn on a thick silverite chain around his neck, had blunted the killing blow, merely rendering him unconscious. Kirkwall was slowly rebuilding under his leadership.

Again the tears threatened and then, against her will, they began to spill silently down her cheeks. A warm flurry of wind, thick with the scent of newly mown hay and wildflowers, caught a lock of her hair and sent it playfully caressing her cheek, brushing gently at her tears. She pushed it behind her ear, finally turning to him, offering a tepid excuse for her emotions.

"I hope Raoul continues to stay safe. It is not a good time to be a Caron," she whispered, voice husky with emotion.

"Anya, your father did what he felt he had to for the sake of Orlais. He knew the risks when he switched his allegiance to de Chalons. And you can't be grieving for Rousel. His death should have happened much sooner than it did. Come, my love."

How could she explain that her tears were for him? How could she explain to Nathaniel the guilt she bore over his lost eye and the deep scars he now bore because she had thought she could stop Fate itself? So much of both of them had been left across the sea, sacrificed on the soil of Kirkwall. And for what?

Nathaniel unclasped her hand and settled his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Stop it," he said quietly, his voice gruff with emotion. Without being told he knew the truth of her tears. "You are no more to blame for what happened to me than I am for what happened to you."

Her tears continued and a sob caught at her throat. "I should never have sent you to the Gallows," she said thickly.

The wind whipped up, sending more strands of her hair to dance with it. Caught by the beaming sunshine, the strands looked like liquid fire and she blinked, reminded of the horrible flames that had consumed the mages and templars that day at the Gallows.

She felt guilty for that, as well. She should have known; she should have been prepared. No matter how often the others told her differently, she clung to that belief that had she acted faster, realized sooner, Nathaniel might not have nightmares now of being trapped alone in the dark, unable to breathe.

Children's laughter drifted on the wind and she closed her eyes, imagining their play. To be young again. To be carefree and playing under a bright sun with no restraint and no guilt. She shivered, despite the warmth, and finally looked up at her husband.

His nose was now slightly crooked, though hardly noticeable when one's attention was drawn immediately to the black silk patch he wore to hide his empty, scarred eye socket. Only she and Flynne were allowed to see him without the patch and it had taken some negotiating before he'd given her permission. She could not fault him his vanity as she remembered how difficult it had been for her to bare her scars to him.

Tenderly, she raised her fingers and traced the ridge of a scar that flowed from beneath his eye patch to pool at an almost circular scar just below his ear, along his jaw. He let out a low murmur of approval.

"If you plan on exploring every flaw, madam wife, I suggest we move this to a more secluded spot," he whispered raggedly and a smile curved her lips.

"Tsk, tsk, Naughty Nate. I'm not sure my sister-in-law can tolerate such scandalous behavior."

"More incentive, surely?"

Laughter bubbled up and spilled out, a joyful sound that fluttered in the breeze like butterfly wings. Her guilt and sorrow eased, withdrawing from the field for the moment, and she linked hands with him.

Sooner or later they would have to join the conflict. Their small castle and its attendant village in the rolling green foothills of the Frostbacks would not hide them forever. Especially as more and more friends and family joined them. People were sure to remark on it.

But for now, for these treasured moments of time, she would live and love and rejoice in the man who stood beside her.

~~FIN~~

A/N: At long last the saga ends. I couldn't have managed this story without help from my first beta, Lisakodysam, who helped shaped the early chapters, and most especially my current beta, Oleander's One, who courageously stepped in midway through the story to take over. Thank you so much, my dearest friend. Your wit and wisdom are unfailingly bright spots in my day.
Thank you, thank you to all of you who have lurked, who have reviewed, who have sent me PMs. Your encouragement and support are such wonderful gifts and inspiration.