Redcliffe Castle loomed in the distance, standing as a solitary sentinel against the unsettling aura of doom that shrouded the land like a fog. Signs of the darkspawn's presence were everywhere: the swaths of dead, trampled grass that marred the otherwise-green hills like a scar; the oily, blackened leaves that hung listlessly from tainted trees; the oppressive weight of the air, hanging heavy and funereal and utterly still, an unnatural silence interrupted only by the buzzing of insects that fed on the desecrated dead.
Moira's sleep had gotten progressively less restful with every night they neared Redcliffe, until at last she had spent the entire previous night tossing over and over again in agitation, never once fully slipping into unconsciousness. She recalled the undead horrors from her last visit to Redcliffe, their bodies shambling unerringly forward, thinking and feeling nothing, and wondered if this was how it felt to be an animated corpse, not quite living and not quite dead. She moved forward without a thought, her body remembering to put one foot in front of the other, running on reserves of stamina and adrenaline that her mind could not even consciously summon. She wondered how long she could keep going like this, how long her body could function independently while her mind floated somewhere above her, curiously detached from its physical presence, as if it remained stubbornly in the Fade while her body moved through the waking world alone.
The intervening days and lack of sleep had only further complicated her already-thorny relationship with Loghain. He had continued to be friendly and solicitous to her, even kind: he often greeted her with a smile, albeit a reserved half-smile that only just reached his eyes, and he made a point of tacitly supporting her when he sensed her strength was faltering; a word of reassurance here, a show of solidarity there. She found herself leaning on him, at least figuratively, more and more as they drew closer to Redcliffe and her restiveness grew, and before long she had taken to confiding in him entirely at meals and before bedding down for the night, their brief but insightful conversations offering her a spot of solace amidst the crushing weight of her burdens. Her feelings for him continued to complicate and bedevil her; just when she was certain that a moment was upon them, a moment like the ones they'd shared at Ostagar and before the campfire the night after, he would pull away, almost imperceptibly, and it would vanish into the ether. She had caught glimpses of the others, doing their best to pretend not to notice her and Loghain deep in conversation night after night, but she knew better; she knew they gossiped, and wondered, and mused over the exact nature of the relationship between the two Grey Wardens. She would have had no answers for them, had they asked directly; she was as perplexed and intrigued as they were.
The morning before, she had made her way to a small stream near their campground, keen to wash the grime of her restless night from her before they got under way. She had stripped to her linen shirt and a soft, loose pair of trousers and had padded towards the banks of the stream, eager for her bath, when she spotted him: crouched over the water, his shirtless back to her, slowly scraping a vicious-looking razor neatly across his jaw. Her breath caught in her throat and she froze, standing there, watching his slow movements in a mesmerized trance; the gentle play of his muscles across his back as his arm moved, his wrist flicking delicately to bring the savage blade smoothly across the contours of his rugged face, the razor held firm in his large, steady hand. It was entirely different from the first time she had seen him in such a state of dishabille, the evening of his Joining; then, his lack of clothing had merely been embarrassing and uncomfortable, and though she had objectively noted that he was an attractive man, she had spared no further thought for his appearance, as angry and unsettled as she was after the debacle of the Landsmeet. But the sight of him kneeling before the river, his strong, firm muscles interplaying in a symphony of silent strength, sent a rush of hot blood coursing through her veins, her nerves tingling with electricity. Time slipped away as she stood there, silently watching him, until he set his razor aside and leaned over, gathering a handful of water from the stream and splashing it across his face. He stood, and his bemused voice echoed through the glade and shattered her trance.
"If you were waiting for me to finish before you perform your morning ablutions, I appreciate the courtesy. Next time, however, you might wish to announce your presence sooner. I dislike being silently watched in the woods. An old habit from the days of the occupation, I imagine." He turned towards her, affording her a view of his bare torso, the taut muscles rippling beneath a modest furring of coarse black hair, as he made his way past her and back towards the camp, smirking wryly as he tugged his shirt over his head. It was several moments after he'd disappeared through the trees before she could move again, her heart hammering in her breast and her pulse thrumming. She'd been thankful for the stark, icy cold of the stream.
The incident had unnerved her all that day, but she could no longer determine which reactions were a result of her deepening fatigue and which were genuinely felt. She knew that Loghain stirred something in her that none of her other companions did – indeed, that no other man ever had – but she also knew that she was at a real risk of wildly misinterpreting otherwise mundane, innocuous interactions. The chances that he might have engaged in any of his behavior with anything other than platonic camaraderie in mind were extremely slim; he was old enough to be her father, for Maker's sake, and indeed he had a daughter a few years older than she. They had come to a peace; perhaps he regarded her as a friend. Everything else could only be the fever dream of a weary mind, pushed beyond its limits.
She shook her head hard, clearing away the cobwebs that gathered in the crawlspaces of her mind. They were on the outskirts of Redcliffe Village even now; the sign of darkspawn presence was all around them, but the fiends were either dead or had been driven away by the armies that had recently bivouacked here. They must all now be gathered up within the castle walls, waiting only for her and Loghain to arrive, to lead the charge into the darkspawn ranks and draw the Archdemon into battle. An end, at last, after all these months. She didn't know whether to feel terrified or relieved.
"Are you all right? You have seemed out of sorts for a few days now." Loghain's words were quietly spoken, so that none of the others could hear and mistake his concern for doubt in her abilities. She glanced over at him, his brows furrowed in worry, and smiled; never could she have imagined Loghain Mac Tir capable of such sensitivity.
"I'll be fine. I'm just tired, that's all." He bowed his head in a silent acknowledgement of her answer, though she could see in his eyes that her words had not quite convinced him.
"It has been a long and grueling road," he agreed. "But when we get to Redcliffe, you need to rest. The coming battle will demand every ounce of strength and cunning you can muster, and then it will demand even more. You cannot hope to prevail if you are too exhausted to think or act clearly." He kept his voice low, but his tone brooked no argument.
"I know. You're right. But… I can't help but think that I won't truly be able to rest – I mean, really, truly rest – until it is all over," she said. "Everything that has happened in my life since that night at Highever has been in preparation for this moment. Everything I've done, all the allies I've gained and all the people I've killed… it's all been for this." She looked up at Redcliffe Castle, a lone bulwark against the dangers of the frontier in remote western Ferelden, the place from which they would mount their last stand against the darkspawn. "And what if it's all been for nothing? If we fail here, the Blight will consume Ferelden. Everything we know and love will be burnt to ashes and dust."
"Moira." His voice was firmer this time as he reached over to grasp her arm, squeezing her through their armor. Despite her soul-crushing exhaustion, a thrill raced through her blood at the contact. "You must not give into despair! It is a more dangerous enemy than all the darkspawn lurking in the Deep Roads could ever be! I have seen mighty armies laid low, not by the strength of their enemies' blades or the sheer number of their foes, but by their own lack of resolve."
His words were compelling, but they did not succeed in fully banishing the doubt that gnawed at the back of her mind. "And what of Ostagar? Was the battle lost because you lacked resolve? Or because the darkspawn were simply too numerous? However many darkspawn were at Ostagar, there will be even more now – along with the possibility of the Archdemon."
He pursed his lips together in frustration. "Ostagar was a disaster in the making from the moment Cailan decided to throw caution to the wind and make his bid for eternal glory. He wasn't even willing to wait for all of Ferelden's soldiers to arrive – and thank the Maker for that, at least, or we doubtless would have lost even more than we did." A strange expression crossed his face, briefly, but then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. "But Ostagar's follies will not be repeated. This time you have secured other allies – the mighty dwarven armies, a band of Dalish hunters, the entire Circle of Magi rather than the paltry few Irving and his templar handler saw fit to send to Cailan." He regarded her seriously, with a look of deep respect. "And, most importantly, you are not Cailan. You are not a glory hound or a fool. You are a brave warrior and a cunning strategist, and with you at the head of our army, we actually have a chance."
She might have dismissed the words as meaningless puffery from anyone else, but Loghain was not a man inclined to inflate his opinions of others, either out of a need to flatter or a desire to ingratiate. Coming from him, she was almost inclined to believe them.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and placed a hand over his gauntlet that still rested on her arm. "I mean it. Thank you for supporting me. You did not have to…" She trailed into silence, unable to put into words how much their changing relationship, from foe to companion to friend, had meant to her.
He grunted, and she sensed an undercurrent of abashment as he withdrew his hand from her arm, though not without a final, almost imperceptible squeeze.
"It's nothing," he said, and she smiled to herself, because it was not nothing, not at all.
It was plain, as they made their way past Redcliffe Village and through the narrow hills towards the castle, that a battle had been fought not long ago: the bodies of darkspawn, as hideous and deformed in death as they were in life, littered the grass, although the bodies of the fallen men were nowhere to be found – they had already been treated to proper funerals, then. At last, as they reached the massive gates to the keep, she spotted a small company of guards, wearing Eamon's livery. The gate guard, a brawny man with a large, droopy mustache, put his arm over his chest and bowed his head in a martial salute.
"Greetings, Wardens. I was told to keep a watch for you," he said. "The arl requests your presence right away. He must inform you of the latest developments." As the guard hustled them inside the castle's courtyard and motioned for two of his comrades to close the massive gates behind them, Moira allowed a wave of irritation to wash over her at Eamon's imperious summons. She supposed she was being unfair; the arling of Redcliffe was his domain, after all, and it was only proper that he should oversee any affairs that affected it, especially something as momentous as a darkspawn incursion. But she could not entirely banish the sour taste in her mouth whenever she thought of the way Eamon had insinuated himself so thoroughly into the machinations of the past few months and positioned himself as her advisor, when all along he'd merely seen a chance to place a more malleable king on the throne of Ferelden, one whom he could bend to his will. She recalled, with a bitter distaste, that he hadn't even bothered to mention Alistair in passing after her friend had stormed away at the Landsmeet. Apparently, once Alistair could no longer fulfill his prophesized role, Eamon had had no more use for him. He had been cool to her generally since the conclusion of the Landsmeet – whether he blamed her more for Alistair's disappearance, or for sparing Loghain's life and preserving Anora's rule, she could not say for certain.
But engaging in a petty quibble with an ally would not do, not on the eve of battle. And so Moira steeled herself as the guard opened the great doors to the castle, and escorted her, Loghain, and the rest of their party into the grand hall, where she spotted Eamon, Teagan, and a bevy of other advisors, soldiers, and representatives. A sudden hush fell over the chattering emissaries as Moira led the Grey Warden party into the lavishly decorated hall, and she greeted Eamon with a cordial nod.
"Ah, Warden Cousland. It is good that you are here." Eamon's greeting was, if not warm, then at least polite; but there was a definite coolness to his gaze that gave evidence to the chill between them. He turned to her fellow Warden, and there he made little attempt to hide his distaste.
"Loghain." The word was spoken more as an acknowledgement compelled by social protocol than a true greeting, and Moira could sense, in the tensing of his body next to hers, that Loghain shared the sentiment.
"Eamon," he returned levelly. If he wanted to bait the other man further, he at least had the good grace and sense not to do so now, for which Moira was grateful.
"Your guard informed me of your summons," she said without prelude. "I admit, Arl Eamon, I expected to face more resistance reaching Redcliffe. Has the horde not yet emerged? I should have thought to fight more on the road from the south."
"Ah, yes, about that." Moira stiffened; Eamon spoke in the tones of a man who knew that his next words would not be well received. "It seems that we were… mistaken. The horde is not here after all."
Moira stared at Eamon, her incomprehension mounting. "Not here? But we marched from Denerim on reports that the horde had been sighted west of Redcliffe! In truth, I feared we might arrive late, and find the town under siege." How could the darkspawn not be here at all? And, more importantly… if they were not here, where were they?
"I'm afraid the darkspawn besieging Redcliffe must have merely been a small group, broken off from the main horde." Eamon, to his credit, had the grace to sound contrite.
"But – " Moira shot a confused glance between Eamon and Teagan, who had wisely decided to remain silent and let his brother deliver the bad news – "the horde is huge. There are only so many places it could be, and we have just traversed the length of Ferelden, and we encountered no more than a few isolated pockets. If they are not in Redcliffe, where are they?"
"Your Warden companion Riordan has gone out scouting, to determine the answer to that very question," Eamon said. "He left early yesterday morning. With any luck, he should return to us later this evening and report his findings. Meanwhile, I do have good tidings for you: your ancient treaties have been honored, and your allies have all arrived, none the worse for wear. The dwarven armies number several dozen companies, and they have taken over the barracks, much to the chagrin of my guardsmen." He chuckled at his own joke. "The Dalish elves, meanwhile, have preferred to camp outside the grounds, in the woods. Odd folk, but they seem capable enough. And the Circle mages have been granted quarters in the castle itself. The rest of Ferelden's forces have established a military camp a few miles north of the village. Once Riordan returns with news of the horde, we can send out the call."
The horde was not here. After the long, brutal slog from Denerim – and somewhere along the way they'd missed the horde? Moira balanced on a knife's edge of tension as her eyes drifted across the great hall. The last time she'd seen this chamber, Connor, Eamon's magic-sensitive boy, had been in thrall to a desire demon, and had been forcing his mother and his uncle to caper about the room like court jesters for his own amusement. Now, any sign that anything untoward had ever occurred in the castle had been scrubbed away, and bright banners hung cheerfully about the walls, as though such evil could merely be papered over, hidden beneath a façade of glory.
She suddenly realized that Eamon was gazing at her in equal parts expectation and confusion, clearly awaiting an answer to a question she had not heard.
"Of course we would like something to eat, but more importantly, we need to rest," Loghain responded for her, and she thanked him for rescuing her from her own waning attention. "Not all of us were able to ride from Denerim in the comfort of stately coaches." Clearly, the limits of Loghain's civility towards Eamon had been reached, and he fixed the arl with a surly glare. "Our way has been long and difficult, and I would appreciate if we were shown to our rooms. I am certain your hospitality will be generous to a fault."
Eamon opened his mouth to retort, but Teagan smoothly interjected, his voice calm and conciliatory. "Of course. You must be thoroughly exhausted. And little of substance can be accomplished before Riordan returns to us, anyway. Follow me. I will show you to your rooms – my brother was kind enough to reserve the entire east wing of the second floor for your party." As Moira followed Teagan towards the east wing of the castle, she felt a burgeoning sense of gratitude towards Loghain, who knew how tired she was, and also how unwilling she was to admit it to herself, let alone to Eamon. She was also grateful for Teagan's calm presence as he'd skillfully soothed the tensions that had been rising between Loghain and Eamon.
Teagan opened a door to a modestly appointed yet cozily comfortable looking room, and gestured inside. "This will be your room, Moira." He gave her a kind smile, which she returned earnestly. "It is good to see you again, truly."
"And you as well, Teagan." He was noticeably cooler towards Loghain, but nevertheless entirely civil, as he indicated the room directly across the hall. She assumed the rest of her companions were likewise pleased with their accommodations, but she could not spare the energy to find out; she had no sooner stripped herself of her armor and shaken out her hair than she had collapsed, utterly spent, into the bed. She was asleep before she hit the pillow.
She was vaguely aware, through a muddled haze, of her shoulder moving, being pulled. The Fade glimmered around her, wondrous and strange, and yet she could no longer move forward as the force tugged at her shoulder again. A familiar voice, muffled and muted as though she heard it from the bottom of a well, called to her. It was asking her something, and her shoulder tugged again. Again the voice, telling her –
"Moira, wake up." Her eyes snapped open, her mind tumbling over itself in disorientation as it tried to reorder the pieces of the world that fell into place as the Fade diminished into a forgotten wisp of memory. Red walls, lush furs carpeting the floor, a rich green comforter. A shaded canopy, a well-built nightstand. She blinked. Redcliffe. The castle – her room at Eamon's castle. She had arrived in Redcliffe, Teagan had shown her to her room, and then –
Turning over, blinking the remnants of sleep out of her eyes, she came face to face with Loghain, whose ice blue eyes regarded her with a strange mix of concern and amusement.
"Yes, I'm here," she said, realizing as she said it that it was a rather silly and obvious thing to say. He gave her one of those wry half-smiles of his that she so enjoyed.
"Indeed. Though for a while there, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to pull you out of the Fade. You were dug in like a deer tick."
She yawned, the stale feeling in her mouth evidence of her long slumber. "That's a charming analogy," she said.
"Yes, well, there's a reason I became a soldier, not a poet." He picked up her steel coat of mail, as if weighing it in his hands. Rubbing a tired hand across her eyes, she stretched slowly and curled over to the edge of the bed.
"I assume you didn't wake me up just so you could fondle my chain mail," she said, realizing at once the extremely awkward phrasing her still-half-asleep mind had conjured. She flushed hot and, in an attempt to distract him from thinking too deeply about fondling her chain mail, rose quickly from the bed, pretending to rifle through her pack.
"I can assure you, Moira, that should I wish to fondle your chain mail, I will arrange a far less contrived excuse to do so." When she flushed an even deeper red, he rewarded her with a wry, knowing smile. "However, you are indeed correct. I did not come here to examine your armor. I came to let you know that Riordan has returned, and that he has requested to meet with us at once."
Riordan – he'd returned from his scouting mission, then, and presumably had news on the whereabouts of the horde. As the last cobwebs of her restful sleep blew away, her mind focused on the details of the looming battle with a piercing clarity. Loghain had been right – she had needed that sleep badly. She already felt sharper, quicker, more refreshed. Some of her confidence that had been leached away over the long, hot, tireless days and the restive, haunted, sleepless nights began to return.
"Of course," she said briskly. She nodded to Loghain, who met her gaze briefly, but meaningfully; he could see just as well as she how necessary her long rest had been. "Just let me tidy myself up."
Loghain nodded. "Then I will wait outside Riordan's room. His is just at the end of the hall." He left as silently as he'd entered, and Moira, feeling rejuvenated for the first time in weeks, quickly stripped, pulling on a set of clean, fresh clothes from her pack. She would have preferred to take a bath, but if Riordan was waiting on them now, she did not have the time; she would have to take one later tonight. She smiled to herself, as she found a sprig of peppermint in her victuals pack and popped it into her mouth to rid herself of the foul taste of sleep – few people would see the point in bathing right before undertaking a hard, hot march, culminating in a bloody battle. But she was feeling good, and a bath would make her feel better. Who knew – maybe a hot bath would make the difference in morale between defeating the Archdemon and losing everything. Amused by her own dark joke, and in a good mood for the first time in days, she left her room and rejoined Loghain at the end of the hall.
"You look chipper," he noted wryly.
"I feel chipper. Oh, the difference a good night's sleep can make! Or, well, day's, in this case."
He snorted in amusement. "Indeed. Now let's see what this Riordan has to say."
They entered Riordan's room, and the lean Orlesian Grey Warden greeted them with a wan smile. "Ah. You made it. It is good to see you both again."
"And you as well, Riordan," she said, though she imagined Loghain did not share that sentiment overmuch. "Eamon told us that you'd gone scouting to determine the movements of the horde. I take it you found them."
"Indeed." His face was grim-set. "I am afraid the news does not bode well. It appears that the horde has made its push north after all – and it is headed straight for Denerim."
"Denerim?" Moira's jaw dropped in astonishment, the news slamming into her gut like a battering ram. Loghain's expression, to an untrained observer, appeared unchanged; but Moira knew him well enough by now to notice the tightening of his jaw, the unconscious twitch at the corner of his eye, and she knew the ill tidings affected him deeply as well.
"I'm afraid so."
"But – " Moira struggled to regain control of her spiraling disbelief and apprehension as her previous good mood melted utterly away. "We were just in Denerim! How could the reports be so wrong? How could we have missed them on the way?"
"It seems that they pushed east past Redcliffe, but then swung north – that is why you did not encounter them, if you came from the southern roads. We have wasted much time with this unnecessary diversion to the west, and I fear many lives will be lost," Riordan said bitterly. "But when Eamon presented me with the reports of the increasing attacks on Redcliffe – the first such concentrated attacks outside the Korcari Wilds – I believed that they were indicative of a greater push. I was wrong."
"Eamon – that glory seeking son of a bitch." Loghain glowered, his brows knit together in a baleful expression of distaste. "He wanted to ensure that history duly recorded his part in the battle, no doubt. And now how many will pay the price for his arrogance?" Moira shot a glance over at Loghain, as if to reprimand him, to tell him that now was not the time for petty political grievances… but she could not find the words to do so. This had been a disastrous mistake, and it had cost them precious days of preparation and marching. And if the horde attacked an unprotected Denerim –
"If they are already on the march, there is no way we can catch them in time – not even if we drive our armies to the limit!" A sick feeling settled into the pit of Moira's stomach. All of those people, and with only the city guard between them and a sea of darkspawn…
"No," Riordan agreed grimly. "We will not reach Denerim before the horde does, that is a near certainty. And I am afraid the news just gets worse." Moira gritted her teeth, willing herself to remain steady – she wasn't sure how much worse this news could possible get.
She was about to find out. "I saw the Archdemon," Riordan said without further pretense. "It has finally shown itself, at the head of the horde. With it directing their purpose, the darkspawn will be much more aggressive – and much more dangerous."
"They are already dangerous enough." Loghain was as grim-faced as she'd ever seen him. "But I suppose at least that this means the battle will be decisive, either way. We will defeat the Archdemon, or die trying."
"Yes." Something about the way Riordan said that simple word set Moira on edge. He glanced from her to Loghain keenly, his expression curious and incisive, and a disquieting apprehension stole through her – she got the sense that there was something else, something he hadn't told them, and that whatever it was, it was very, very bad.
"Tell me," he said slowly. "Were you ever told the reason why the Grey Wardens are required to end a Blight?"
Moira's sense of apprehension deepened into dread. Loghain merely frowned in impatient puzzlement.
"I would assume it has something to do with that tainted blood you forced down my throat," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"It does," Riordan affirmed. "But… that is not the entirety of it. I had… hoped Duncan would have shared this with you, at least, Moira."
"Duncan shared nothing with me." Even she was surprised at the amount of vitriol in her voice. "I didn't even know the taint was fatal until a few months ago when Alistair let it slip over a bowl of stew. So no, you can be certain that if there is a secret Grey Warden method for ending a Blight, I know nothing of it."
"I see." Riordan sounded genuinely apologetic. "While the taint undoubtedly gives us an edge in fighting darkspawn, that is… not the primary reason we take its corruption into ourselves." A creeping cold settled over Moira, beginning in the pit of her stomach and flowing outward, like a river of ice through her veins. "The Archdemon, as you know, is the corrupted soul of an Old God – vengeful, and immortal. If the Archdemon is killed by a blow from any but a Grey Warden, its soul will simply flee its body and seek out an empty vessel. The darkspawn are soulless by nature – the Archdemon's soul, drawn to the taint, will seek out and possess the nearest darkspawn. Since the darkspawn are innumerable, this process renders the Archdemon functionally immortal. The Blight would never end."
The Archdemon's soul will seek out an empty vessel… drawn to the taint…
"You said if the Archdemon is killed by anyone but a Grey Warden." Moira's voice came out as barely more than a hoarse whisper, the dread filling her, rising within her, choking her. She already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, but she needed to hear Riordan say the words. "What happens when the Archdemon is killed by a Grey Warden?"
The look of deep regret in Riordan's eyes told her that he knew she had already figured out the answer. "The Archdemon's soul senses the taint in the Grey Warden's blood. It believes the Warden to be another darkspawn, and moves to take control of the body. But a Warden, of course, is not an empty vessel, not like a true darkspawn. When the Archdemon tries to take possession of the Warden, its soul comes into contact with the Warden's soul."
"And I take it the Warden does not survive this encounter." Loghain, too, was somber, though if the revelation of the truth of a Warden's role was affecting him as it was affecting her, he hid it well.
Riordan shook his head, and the motion carried a great, damning finality. "No. The souls cannot survive contact. To destroy the Archdemon's soul, the Grey Warden's soul too must be destroyed."
In the end, it wasn't even death. She could have handled the inevitability of death. But this –this was worse than death; it was oblivion. The colors bled away from her vision, leaving the room in muted shades of grey. She must have looked as stricken as she felt, because Riordan attempted to muster himself to full height and adopt an air of confidence.
"Traditionally, the senior Warden present decides whose responsibility it is to make the killing blow," he explained. "I am by far the senior Warden here, and my Calling approaches soon. I will volunteer to take the final blow." He paused, as if knowing he needed to temper his optimism. "But… if I am unable to do so, if I have fallen in battle, then one of you must do so instead. I am sorry. But it is the only way."
The only way. To save Ferelden – to save the world – one of them, in this room, would have to perform the most ultimate sacrifice that could ever be made. She felt her knees weaken, her head swoon; it was only by sheer strength of will that she remained standing. Riordan now carefully avoided her gaze; perhaps what he had seen there had been too painful.
"If it is the only way, then it shall be done. I am prepared to do what is necessary to save my home." The words, so direct in their finality, came in Loghain's rough tenor, from the voice that had engaged in heated discussion with her as they marched the length of Ferelden; that had teased her, in that wry and laconic way of his, over many a campfire; that had tenderly comforted her as she'd wept for her dead family. The thought of that voice, of the man it belonged to, being extinguished from creation –
"Thank you, Riordan, for telling us." She summoned every ounce of her resolve to prevent her voice from cracking. She would not cry. Not here, not now, not in front of Riordan. Not in front of him.
"In peace, vigilance; in war, victory; in death, sacrifice. Now you understand the true meaning of the Grey Warden motto. Our sacrifice ensures the continued survival of the very world we love. It is not a pleasant duty, but a necessary one." Riordan sighed. "But it is one thing to know, and another to accept. Go. You should both get some rest, before we leave for Denerim."
She stood there, gazing mutely at the grey walls, bled of all color, until a gentle hand at her shoulder broke her reverie. His familiar hand, rough and big and warm, guiding her, shepherding her out of the room, until the door closed behind them, and she looked down the endless abyss of the corridor, its lushly carpeted expanse somehow ridiculous and surreal, that such luxury and beauty could exist in a world that she might soon no longer know: and then she turned, and found herself pressed up against him, his body warm and firm, his linen shirt soft and clean, and she chanced a glance up at his face and saw his blue eyes, so intently regarding her, and her shield fell away, utterly forgotten, as she buried her face in his chest and wept.
A/N: And here we are... the last chapter I'll be able to finish before Inquisition is released! And it's not like it ended on a dramatic note or anything ;) While I (and most of you, I imagine) will be spending a good deal of time in the next couple of weeks digging deep into DA:I, rest assured that this story will not go on a multi-week long hiatus. I'd like to work on it a bit next week, and hopefully get it out before the end of the month, but I make no promises. Next chapter will be a doozy, so I'll want to take the time to get it just right, too.
On (sort of) that note... I mentioned a few chapters back that I had intended to raise the rating of this fic from T to M. I kept forgetting to change the rating in the settings, because my content wasn't calling for it, but... as I believe we are encroaching ever-closer to, er, "M rated content," I will indeed be changing the rating when the next chapter is released, so if you are following this story, be sure to either 'favorite' or 'follow' it, bookmark the page in your browser, or adjust your search filters to include M rated fics - otherwise, future updates will not appear in the Dragon Age archive for you, since the default filter is set only for K-T rated fics.
Thank you once again to all of you who have reviewed, PM'd, favorited, followed, or read this story. Your support means more than you know! As ever, thanks to my awesome beta EasternViolet, who always offers great advice and feedback and keeps me from indulging too much in my penchant for adverbs ;)