Denerim was burning.
Moira's throat tightened as the gates to the capital city rose into view in the distance, backlit by an ominous glow and plumes of thick, billowing smoke. A cavalcade of emotions assaulted her: sorrow, anger, worry, shame, resolve, anxiety – and, underlying it all, a soul-deep dread at what awaited her at the end of the road, a dread she forced to the back of her mind and refused to dwell on. All of those poor people in the city, fighting for their lives, fleeing and hiding from the ravaging horde, now depended on her to do her duty. The sight of the burning city reminded her of the terrible fate that awaited her entire country should she fail now. She would not – could not – fail.
No matter the cost.
As she always did whenever her thoughts drifted unwillingly to the Grey Wardens' ultimate fate, she unconsciously sought out Loghain's presence beside her and reached for him. She still sensed a reticence in him every time she expressed her affection for him in front of others, but he never shied away, and she loved him all the more for it. She had never been one for public displays of affection (not that she'd ever had anyone for whom to display affection until she'd fallen in love with Loghain), but she'd been seized by a frantic urgency; every moment, every gesture, would have to last her for the rest of her short life, and she refused to let the wayward glances or obvious whispers of her companions or the traveling army deter her. Perhaps he knew how important it was for her to seek him out; perhaps he felt the same way. As her hand snaked out and seized his, he responded with a small squeeze, and knowing he was at her side heartened her more than she could ever say.
As they crested the final rise in the Imperial Highway, Moira spotted a contingent of soldiers mustered and waiting at a bivouac about a mile from the city gates. The royal standard fluttered above a tent set back from the road. Anora and her palace guard had ridden out to meet them. Moira gritted her teeth nervously as she rode on, releasing Loghain's hand unconsciously as they rode into sight of the royal encampment. That the queen's guards had declared it safer for her outside the protective gates of the city did not bode well for the situation inside, but perhaps Anora had just wanted to boost the morale of the marching army and rally the troops. Moira refused to consider that any of her anxiety might have something to do with whether or not the queen had heard rumors of the brazenly intimate relationship between the Grey Warden Cousland and the former Teyrn of Gwaren.
"Hail, Grey Wardens!" A stout, mustached sergeant-at-arms raised his arm to them in greeting, and she returned the salute as she and Loghain approached the edge of the bivouac.
"How fares the city?"
The soldier's face was grim. "Not well, milady. The darkspawn breached the gates two days ago, and the garrison has fallen back to reinforce the inner city. The market district, docks, and alienage have all been overrun. It is only a matter of time before the city must be abandoned altogether, I am afraid." The guard ran a gauntleted hand across his haggard, lined face. Moira did not know the man, but she gathered that he looked far older now than he had only a few short weeks ago. "Given the situation in the city, the palace guard made the decision to evacuate the royal household. If Denerim falls – " the soldier suppressed a shudder – "then at least the crown will not." The sergeant straightened to full height. "The queen has requested your presence at once. If you will follow me, Wardens."
"I see. Thank you for your report, soldier." Moira's stomach sank as she and Loghain followed the sergeant-at-arms through the maze of milling soldiers. The churning of her stomach only intensified as the sergeant led them to a large, well-apportioned tent, above which fluttered a large banner bearing the royal heraldry. Unconsciously, she shifted her posture away from Loghain and clasped her hands in front of her like a prim Chantry initiate. She heard a soft, barely-audible snort of mirth from her companion, and resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Let him be the one to deal with any awkward questions Anora might ask, then.
"Moira, it is good to see you again." Queen Anora emerged from her tent, clad in an exquisitely-made but functional suit of light armor and looking as tired and worried as Moira had ever seen her, yet still projecting an aura of calm, collected command. Moira was immediately ashamed at the depth of her relief that it was Anora's, and not Alistair's, head that bore the crown in these troubled times. Anora inclined her head respectfully, and Moira swept into a deferential bow. She briefly mused that such courtly graces seemed absurd and grossly out of place with Denerim in flames, but old habits died hard.
"Father. I am glad to see that you are well." The queen's greeting to Loghain was perfunctory but kind, and Moira tactfully averted her eyes as Loghain reached out his hand to clasp his daughter's, feeling like an interloper in the midst of the family reunion. If Anora had any inkling that the relationship between her father and her Warden champion was anything other than professional, she gave no indication.
"I trust your household guards got you out of the city safely?" Loghain's voice was gruff, but suffused with an undercurrent of warmth and concern – a subtle intonation, but one Moira had learned to detect in her taciturn lover's voice. No doubt Anora just as easily saw through the stern facade her father projected to the rest of the world.
"Or course," the queen replied primly, before fixing her father with a look that Moira knew well, having been adept at deploying it against her own father more times than she could remember. "But I am not a helpless child, Father. Your anxiety is touching but unnecessary."
Loghain relaxed, and his dour countenance fell away, replaced by a soft, wistful smile. "Oh, Anora," he said tenderly. "You may not be a child, but you will always be my daughter. And daughters remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever. Someday you will understand." Moira turned away abruptly, her throat tight and her eyes hot with unbidden tears, unwilling to interrupt such an intimate moment. In all her fretting and fussing over Anora's reaction to their relationship, she felt deeply ashamed now that she had not paused to give much thought to the worry Loghain must be feeling for his only child – even if that child was perhaps the most well-defended person in all of Ferelden. Loghain still had his daughter, and Anora her father – and Anora could protest all she liked, but Moira knew all too well that daughters never outgrew the need for their father's love. What had been so violently taken from her yet remained for the man she loved and for his only child. The final piece of Moira's resolve settled into place.
"You two should catch up," Moira said, summoning every ounce of her willpower to keep her voice from breaking. "I'm sure you have much to discuss. I should check on my fellows before we begin the final push into Denerim. Loghain, if you would join me when you are ready?" Willing her tears to remain unspilled, she nodded formally towards Anora, and caught Loghain's concerned eyes with her own, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring look before she turned on her heel and marched back through the camp, hoping that she looked more in command of her emotions than she felt.
When she reached the perimeter of the royal camp, she paused, taking the opportunity to survey her companions before she came into view. Zevran leaned casually against the supply wagon, sharpening one of his daggers on a whetstone. Oghren sat splayed on the ground, chugging from his flask and finishing it off with a resounding belch. Wynne sat cross-legged (on the opposite side of the party's camp from Oghren, Moira noted), her hands folded in her lap and eyes closed in what appeared to be prayerful contemplation. Leliana wandered alone along the perimeter of the camp, seeking peace in solitude. Dane sat curled up near the wagon, his tail wagging and muzzle twitching as he chased down his prey in his dreams.
Her friends: cantankerous, opinionated, and prickly, and yet loyal to a fault. They had followed her when no one else had; had believed in her when she hadn't believed in herself. She held a special place in her heart for Leliana, who had always known just the right thing to say when Moira's faith hung precariously by a tattered thread; and Wynne, who despite her obstinate and scolding nature had been something of a surrogate mother to Moira in her darkest hours. And, of course, for Dane, who she knew would follow her into the jaws of hell and back without hesitation. They had all held her together when she had been in danger of falling apart, and it was a debt she would never be able to repay.
No. That wasn't true. There was one thing yet she could do for them; for them, for Loghain, for Anora, and for her country. One way she could repay them all. She realized, with a start, that Loghain had been right all along. One life was such a small price to pay for the safety of everything she loved. Insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things.
Her resolve hardened, tempering into steel. Her companions milled about, oblivious of her presence. The man she loved said his farewells to his daughter; but they would not be his final farewells, at least. She could do that for him. He still had a family. She had none left. He would not be alone. And she would rather die than lose the last person she loved in all the world.
A hand on her shoulder brought her abruptly out of her trance, and she turned around with a start, expecting to see Loghain; instead, Riordan stood there, his face grim and lined with concern.
"Moira. You are well, I hope? You look as though you have seen a ghost," the senior Warden murmured to her sotto voce.
I have not seen a ghost. I am a ghost. Moira did not give voice to her thoughts. "I was just…thinking," she said, at last. Her eyes surveyed the scene before her: the bustling camp, the milling soldiers, the burning city. "This is it, isn't it? This is the end, for better or for worse."
Riordan bowed his head, his nod slow and firm in its finality. "For us, yes. We will either destroy the Archdemon here, or… the task will be left for other Wardens to finish what we could not. But they will not come in time to save Ferelden."
His words sank slowly into Moira's brain, inexorable in their malevolence and inevitability. "Then it is up to us." The words came easier than she'd imagined. "But there are only tw – three of us." Not that their numbers mattered – Moira knew, as sure she she'd ever known anything, that she was the only Warden who truly mattered, now. She did not dismiss Loghain or Riordan's abilities – not at all. But somehow, she knew that the final blow would not fall to Riordan. Perhaps because it should not. He was the senior Warden, true; but he was not Fereldan. He did not love this land. He did not love its people. The sacrifice should not be his. There was only one person she knew who loved Ferelden more than she – and he was the one person she'd determined would not die today.
"We must reach the Archdemon without delay," she said briskly. Her doubts, worries, and emotions fell away. The thought of a battle energized her; the reality of her doom hardened her. She was a general now, and a general knew only her objective. Victory was everything, and worth any sacrifice she had to offer.
I understand now, Loghain.
Riordan nodded. "I spoke to the soldiers who had most recently defended the city. The darkspawn have overrun the outer districts of the city, forming a protective barrier between our army and the Archdemon." He grimaced. "It appears the Archdemon has installed itself atop Fort Drakon, unreachable by any of the city's inner defenses. From there, it directs the assault, impervious to our forces." Riordan pulled a tattered, grimy map of Denerim from a pouch at his belt, and gestured to a nearby tent, outside of which sat a makeshift requisitions desk. He spread the map across the table, his finger stabbing at the market district and the elven alienage.
"Scouts in the city have reported that the Archdemon appears to have two generals who control the bulk of the darkspawn in the city," he said. "These generals were last seen in the market and the alienage, respectively. They have thus far resisted all efforts to rout them out, and they will pose a considerable threat to any attempt to reach the Archdemon at Fort Drakon." Riordan sighed and rubbed tiredly at his beard. "But that is not all, unfortunately. Darkspawn reinforcements from the horde arrive by the hour, and the city walls alone will not hold them off for long. If more darkspawn flood into the city, then it will be overrun entirely, and our small window of opportunity to reach the Archdemon will be lost. We must strike now."
"Then we should split our forces in two," she said at once. Riordan frowned at her, but she lifted a hand to halt his words. "Hear me out. If the gates fall, then, as you said, the darkspawn will overrun the city and all hope will be lost. But," she traced her finger across the alienage and through the gate to the market district, "if a small force can infiltrate the alienage, deal with the darkspawn general there, and then break through into the market and dispatch the other general, that will leave a clear path for that same force to assault the fortress." She looked up at her fellow Warden, her confidence bolstered by her resolve. "A small force will stand a much higher chance of passing through unnoticed until it is too late for the darkspawn to call for reinforcements. And that will leave the bulk of the army to defend the gates and buy us time." She shook her head, again interrupting Riordan before he had a chance to speak. "It is the only way."
"And what is to keep this small force from being slaughtered?" Riordan countered. "It is not a bad plan, I warrant you. But the darkspawn forces in the city are already numerous beyond count. A task force might be able to move quickly, but the darkspawn generals will be heavily defended. There is only so much a small unit can do against such numbers, no matter how valiant or able."
"We will call for reinforcements as needed," Moira countered. "I have secured the allegiance of forces from all across Ferelden. They will come to fight. If the enemy threatens to overwhelm us, I will call on their aid."
"You will call on their aid?" Riordan said. "You have already decided you will lead this small band? I admire your courage, Moira, but I am the senior Warden –"
"And as such, you know more about the darkspawn than anyone," she rejoined. "Which is why you should direct the defense of the gates. Ferelden's soldiers are brave, but they are out of their element against a darkspawn army. They need you to help them manage the defense. Once the threat to the gates has passed, then you should attempt to join us – but we need Warden experience on every front if we are to maximize our chances for success." Moira thought her logic was sound, but of course she did not tell Riordan the true reason she wanted him to remain behind while she forged into the city to strike at the Archdemon. She hoped he would not see through her stratagem.
If he did, he gave no indication – whether because he did not know she planned a suicide mission, or because he had already formulated his own plan to reach the Archdemon first. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But you should take Loghain with you, at least. You know how vital it is that a Warden be the one to confront the Archdemon. Should you fall – "
"I understand." Her response was curt, verging on brusque – she had no intentions of falling and allowing Loghain to take the final blow, but of course, she could not come out and say so to Riordan, who no doubt harbored the same intentions himself. As much as she would like to order Loghain to remain at the gates in relative safety, she knew he would never obey such an order. And, selfishly, she relished the opportunity to spend the last few hours of her life in his company.
"Very well, then," Riordan said. "It is a bold, dangerous, perhaps even stupid plan – but it is better than all the others, which isn't saying much, but there we are." He sighed. "I will rally the army to the defense of the gates. You and Loghain – and any of your companions you wish to take with you – will infiltrate the alienage and dispatch the darkspawn generals. When you have done so, signal me. I will join you at Fort Drakon and we will end this Blight once and for all."
She nodded briskly. "I will gather my companions. And, Riordan," she said, grasping at the senior Warden's arm as he turned to go, "best of luck."
He stared at her for a long beat, then nodded, grasping her arm in comradely solidarity. "And to you, Warden Moira." Then he was gone, disappearing into the morass of soldiers, no doubt locating the captain of the guard to secure his plan for the city's defense.
Moira stood there for a long time, watching him go; a soft, cowardly voice whispered in her ear that it was not too late to fetch him, to ensure that she and Loghain found a place at the rear of the battle while Riordan charged into the maw of the beast and committed the final sacrifice. But even as the voice whispered, she silenced it firmly. The plan was made; soon to be set in motion. It was fitting and right that, after everything she had given up, everything that had been taken from her by force, she do this one last thing by choice, of her own free will. It was, she reflected, an act of love. The last, best thing she could do for everything she cared for, everyone she held dear. As a child, she'd always wondered, during the lessons with Mother Mallol, why Andraste had gone so passively to her own execution; why she hadn't fought back, resisted, struck down her tormentors with the power the Maker had given her. At last, perhaps she finally understood.
"A copper for your thoughts?" A soft, intimately familiar voice murmured just behind her ear, and she turned to behold Loghain, who regarded her with kind concern. She was nearly overcome with love for him; her chest tightened and her blood burned and her throat closed shut, permitting no words to leave, and so all she could do was lean into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He obliged her, lowering his head to rest his forehead against hers as he returned her gentle embrace.
"We have a plan to enter the city," she said, trusting herself to say nothing about her emotions. "I'm going to lead a small force to fight off the darkspawn in the city, while Riordan holds the gates. If we break through their ranks in the market, we'll have a clear path to the Archdemon."
"A sound plan," he agreed, his hands tracing a soft pattern against her armored back. He paused only slightly before continuing. "I am coming with you." His tone made clear that it was not a request.
"Of course," she said. "You are always welcome at my side."
He harrumphed softly, and a smile broke through her melancholy in spite of herself. "I should hope so," he said. She sighed and leaned into him. She'd utterly forgotten to be concerned about any watching eyes, even those of Queen Anora.
"You had a nice talk with your daughter?" she asked him, feeling a residual echo of her shameful realization that she had spared little consideration for his paternal concerns.
"Yes," he responded simply. He did not elaborate, and she did not pry. Loghain remained an exceedingly private man, and she knew him well enough now to respect that he did not believe anyone privy to his intimate thoughts besides those with whom he chose to share them – not even her.
"Good," she said. She withdrew from him reluctantly, her eyes meeting his. "Are you ready?"
He was as steadfast as she'd ever seen him, his eyes meeting hers with unwavering conviction. "I have always been ready," he said. "Let us end this."
"Yes," she agreed, holding his resolute gaze with her own. "Let us end this at last."
Fort Drakon loomed menacingly in the smoke-blackened sky, as stark and forbidding as the gates of the Black City.
Moira pulled her blade from the neck of a dead hurlock and wiped it carelessly against the darkspawn's ragged leather cuirass. The darkspawn generals were finally dead, after a long, arduous battle that had required the assistance of the dwarven legions and Dalish archers, and more than a few Circle healers. She was filthy, covered in sweat and blood and darkspawn ichor, and yet she hardly cared. She was oddly detached from everything around her, as though she were floating above herself, directing the battle as a player might move pieces on a chessboard. She felt neither elation nor despair; only a weary, aloof resignation. Leliana and Wynne had maintained a respectful distance during the lulls in the battle; they seemed aware of her need to be alone with her thoughts. Only the occasional glimpse of Loghain stirred any emotional response; he was as covered in blood and filth as she, and yet he was as strikingly handsome as any man she'd ever seen, and her heart quailed for a brief moment in her chest before the cool impassivity settled down on her like a shroud once more.
Riordan was dead. She had seen him die as she'd led her companions across the rickety bridge between the alienage and the market square, his final moments in life both extraordinarily brave and utterly foolish. As she'd suspected, he had formulated his own plan to take down the Archdemon, and as she had kept a wary eye on the Archdemon stalking the skies above the city, she'd seen a small, lonely figure leap from a nearby structure onto the dragon's back, attempting to take it by surprise and drive his blade through its skull. The Archdemon could not be bested so easily, in the end; it had thrown Riordan from its back, and he had fallen to his death on the streets of Denerim below. His sacrifice had not been fruitless, however – he'd rent the Archdemon's wing with his blade as he plummeted to his doom, and the crippled dragon, roaring in agony, had spiraled out of control to crash onto the parapets of Fort Drakon, where it raged in impotent fury, unable to take wing again. There it waited for Moira to come and meet her doom once and for all.
"It is nearly done," Loghain's voice was a welcome intrusion into her morbid thoughts. "All we need do is make our way to the top of the fortress and slay this dragon at last."
Despite herself, she managed a wry smile as she regarded the grimy face of her lover. "Is that all? Sounds like a stroll in the park."
Loghain snorted. "Has anything you've done in the past year been a stroll in the park? This is just business as usual."
"I suppose it is, at that." She forced a light tone, but the dark humor masked the brutal truth that their time together was rapidly coming to an end, one way or another. As if sharing her thoughts, Loghain sobered, a grim expression settling across his features.
"Moira." Despite his dour countenance, his voice was gentle and soft. "Riordan is gone. That means –"
"I know what it means." She had not intended her words to come out so harshly, and she placed a mollifying hand on his arm. "Loghain, I –"
"Moira." His voice was still gentle, but edged now with steel. "It is up to one of us to end it. As we have already discussed, the duty must fall to me. I am –"
"'As we have already discussed?' I recall making no such agreement!" Moira struggled to maintain her calm as she stared into Loghain's features, etched with grim resignation. "I am the senior Warden –"
"That hardly matters," he scoffed, not unkindly. "Your blood is no more tainted than mine. We are equally suited for this task – and logic dictates that it should fall to me. I am older than you, for one. I will succumb to the corruption far sooner than you. And I…" His voice trailed off, and his stern facade fell away, revealing an expression of tender vulnerability that nearly broke Moira's heart. "I have so much to atone for," he managed at last. "I have done so much wrong. So many have suffered because of things I have done. Let me do one thing right, at least. Please."
His plea shattered what remained of her heart, and unbidden tears burned hot in her eyes. It took all of her remaining resolve to will them away, and she took his hands in hers and gave them a fervent squeeze.
"Loghain, I can't lose you," she said, forcing the words past the lump that had formed in her throat. "Don't you see that? Don't you see that I can't lose you too?"
"Moira, do not be foolish!" The exasperation in his tone was belied only by the imploring look in his eyes. "You are young – you have so much to live for –"
"Do I?" What do I have to live for? Another twenty years of serving an order I never joined willingly, alone in the world, everyone I have ever loved lying dead, waiting and watching as the taint eats away at my soul until I swallow poison to escape the fate that befalls a woman with the Blight sickness? This is the glorious future you'd sacrifice yourself to earn for me? Desperation and despair threatened to close in on her again, and Moira knew that if she let it take root, she would not be able to do what needed to be done. And so, without a backwards glance, she forced herself to stride ahead, leaving Loghain behind as she approached the gates of Fort Drakon.
"We have to reach the Archdemon before we can kill it," she said. "And we can't do that until we clear the rest of the fort. Come on." She did not look back, but she knew that Loghain followed close behind, silent and steadfast as always.
"Concentrate fire! We have it pinned down!"
The Archdemon bellowed in rage as it swept its viciously spiked tail across the parapets, sending a half dozen valiant Fereldan knights to their doom. The battle had been so costly already; after clearing the darkspawn-infested fortress, Moira had stood atop Fort Drakon, surveying the ruined city beneath her, and blown her war horn, summoning all of her remaining allies to the fight. There was no reason now to hold back, to spare any reserves. The battle would end here, now, or Ferelden would fall. The Archdemon knew this, too, for it summoned endless waves of reinforcements to the battle, intending to wear down the army of the Grey Wardens by attrition. Its voice echoed through Moira's skull, the sickly seductive sound of its call slithering through her mind and burning in her tainted blood. She shuddered against its assault, as insidious as any physical force the darkspawn threw against her.
Her army was valiant, bold, and well-trained; all fought with valor and skill. Still, a deep fear gripped her, as she paced the perimeter of the parapets, directing ballista fire against the maimed dragon, that their efforts would not be enough. No matter how many darkspawn they slew, still more came; pouring up the stairs of the keep, scaling the walls, an endless stream of vile monsters swarmed across the parapets, threatening to overrun their hard-won position. She knew they would not stop; they would never stop, not as long as the Archdemon lived. So far, it had not afforded her an opening to make the killing blow; clearly, it too understood the stakes in a battle with Grey Wardens.
Her Dalish archers stood as far back from the battle as they were able, peppering the rampaging darkspawn with arrows. The Legion of the Dead had joined the fray as well, relishing the chance to strike at the heart of their foe and flinging themselves against the Archdemon's haunches with suicidal abandon. Circle mages stood well-protected behind the ranks of warriors, flinging deadly gouts of arcane energy at the masses of darkspawn, managing their numbers to give the warriors a chance to whittle down the dragon's strength.
A ballista sprung into action, flinging a missile which penetrated the Archdemon's foreleg, eliciting a satisfying roar of pain. Springing down from the ballista platform, Moira launched herself into a cluster of darkspawn that had moved to intercept her. She swung her blade automatically, her sword and shield moving together of their own accord, as if she were a puppet playing out a part in a scripted pantomime. She could no longer feel her arms or legs, and she knew that it was only the blood-heat of battle that kept her upright and moving. She was as mechanical as the ballista that flung its projectiles relentlessly at her foe, and she could only hope, as her sword cleaved through another darkspawn, that she could sustain this unnatural endurance for as long as it took.
The Archdemon roared in fury as a Legionnaire, a burly, musclebound dwarven man wearing a chain shirt and plated greaves, drove his axe deep into the dragon's haunch. With a vicious kick of its hind claws, it sent the Legionnaire hurtling off the parapets to his doom, but Moira saw the victory the brave warrior had scored in his sacrifice; blood streamed from the Archdemon's injured thigh, and she knew that even for such a fierce and majestic dragon, such a relentlessly bleeding wound would quickly sap its strength. It might be the window of opportunity she was looking for.
"All units! Man the ballistae! Concentrate all fire on the dragon! Bring it down!" At her command, fire rained down on the dragon; arrows, magical blasts of ice and flame, and swords and axes chipped away at its toughened scales. The Archdemon roared in impotent fury, swiping away numbers of warriors with its claws and whipping its tail to and fro, but it was weakening rapidly, the wound in its hind leg bleeding freely. The remaining knights kept the swarming darkspawn at bay, and Moira saw it now – her chance. It was time.
She held her sword in her hand, looking at it as though through a looking glass. It had always been a strong, hearty blade, and it kept its edge now, though it was coated in blood and gore. It was not a greatsword, though; would it be enough to penetrate into the heart of the Archdemon, to kill it once at for all? She spied a silverite greatsword, laying on the ground next to its former wielder, a fallen knight wearing the livery of Gwaren. One of Loghain's men. It would be fitting that she should use one of his blades to end the Archdemon's life. If only a Cousland blade had been to hand – but there were no more Couslands, and no more Cousland blades. She was the last, and her line would end – but what a glorious end it would be! At least her family name would never be forgotten.
She had moved to pick up the sword when a hand restrained her arm; she turned, impatiently, and her heart skipped when she saw Loghain's face, covered in sweat and grime, looking tenderly at her.
"It is time, Moira," he said softly. She heard the Archdemon roaring in agony behind her, and knew it was only a matter of time before the reinforcements it had no doubt summoned arrived. She had to act now.
"Loghain," she whispered, tugging off her gauntlet and throwing it to the ground. She wanted to touch him, truly touch him, one last time. He too knew that it was the last time; and he leaned into her hand, his face resting in her palm, and as he closed his eyes, a pained expression etched itself into his face.
"I wish that things could have been different," she whispered desperately, her thumb stroking his cheek with trembling care. "I wish we could have had more time together."
He too tugged off a gauntlet, and reached up his bare hand to rest atop hers, his fingers dancing across her callused knuckles. He opened his eyes, and this time she could not hold back her tears as he looked at her with unabashed passion.
"I wasted so much of my life in bitterness and anger," he said, his voice subdued with a quiet serenity. "You had every reason to hate me, every reason to put me to death. It is what I would have done if I had beaten you that day. And yet, despite everything I have done to you, you still found something in me worthy. I will never forget what you have done for me, Moira. I will carry it in my heart forever."
His image dimmed, became cloudy; Moira blinked the hot, blurry tears from her eyes, and they spilled down her cheeks in a burning river. He had finally accepted that she would be the one to deliver the blow, then. It was unexpected, but her heart lightened; at least she did not have to try to convince him again.
"I love you, Loghain Mac Tir," she said simply. There was nothing else to say. "Thank you for showing me what love feels like." She leaned in, and their lips met; it was tender and slow, lingering softly for an interminable moment, neither unwilling to accept the devastating finality that parting would bring.
At last, he drew back, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Goodbye, Moira." And then, with a final, firm kiss to her forehead, he released her, drew his blade, and began to move, with gathering determination, towards the maimed Archdemon.
"NO!" Moira bellowed. No no no no no! A wave of panic and terror seized her and set her body to trembling, and she reached down, scooped up the greatsword that lay at her feet, and sprinted towards Loghain and the Archdemon.
Loghain hefted his blade as he approached the dragon, a steely look of determination on his face as he picked up speed. He bellowed a great war cry, and she imagined him from years ago, a young rebel, leading Ferelden to victory and liberation at the River Dane all those years ago. No.
Loghain raised his blade high in the air, and he moved with the strength and speed of a young man as he vaulted towards the Archdemon –
– and went flying as the Archdemon, far from out of the fight, raised its spiked tail and lashed out, connecting hard with Loghain's chest and sending him sprawling back, tumbling head over heel like a flung rag doll.
Moira screamed, watching in horror as Loghain's body slumped motionlessly against the stones. Without conscious thought, she ran to him, falling hard to her knees as she approached his unmoving form. She dropped the greatsword, feeling for the quiver of pulse against his throat. A deep, satisfying sigh of relief escaped her as she felt a weak but steady throb beneath her fingers.
"Is he alive?" Moira turned to see Wynne behind her. The mage was as grimy and battle-worn as the rest of them, and Moira was surprised to hear a trace of concern in the old mage's voice for her onetime nemesis.
"He lives," Moira said, her voice weak and weary. Loghain groaned in pain, and Wynne kneeled at his side, her hands glowing faintly as she assessed his injuries with her magic.
"He has several broken ribs, and he'll be black and blue for quite a while, but there is no permanent damage," she said. "I can bolster him with a healing spell and get him back on his feet." Loghain's eyes fluttered open, and a look of alarm passed over his features as he realized where he was.
"Yes, woman, do it now," he grated, reaching for his sword, his eyes widening in fear as he saw Moira standing before him. Wynne gave him a cross look, and raised her hands to begin the spell – but Moira reached out and placed a staying hand on Wynne's arm.
"Moira?"
"Not now," she said. She looked at Loghain, who struggled in vain to rise to his feet. "I'm sorry, my love. I have to do this."
"No, damn it!" He rasped, his eyes frantically flickering from Moira to Wynne. "Damn you, mage, heal me! Do it now!"
"Moira?" Wynne's voice was laced with worry, but Moira only had eyes for Loghain.
"Goodbye, my love." She reached down, picked up the greatsword, and spared one last glance for Loghain, whose eyes were wide with alarm as he rolled over to his side, endeavoring to rise to his feet.
"Moira, no, don't be a fool, damn it! No!"
But she was already moving towards the dragon. It wailed and frothed in agony, bleeding from a hundred wounds, and seemed to have used up a great deal of its remaining energy defending itself from Loghain's strike. It was time.
She lifted the greatsword high above her head, bolstered by a power far beyond her mortal strength, and stalked towards the injured Archdemon, at first slowly, and then with gathering resolve. All of the death, all of the destruction, all of the pain and sorrow – all the fault of this vile, evil beast. It ended now.
The dragon flailed in its torment, roaring and spitting and howling out its powerless rage at the world, and Moira stabbed the greatsword into the dragon's mighty maw, provoking a wrathful, pain-filled bellow, and it flung its head in agonized distress. Moira jerked the sword free and grabbed hold of the dragon's rocky scales, slinging the sword across her back as she mounted the wounded beast. She clung to its spines as it twitched and convulsed, trying in vain to shake her from its hide as it had done with Riordan – but its strength was greatly sapped, and it did not have the energy, now, to avoid its fate. Standing on the demon's great, wicked head, Moira felt a pervasive, soul-deep peace fill her, flowing through her like a gentle river. She thought of her mother and her father, of their love, their kind smiling faces. She thought of her brother, always with a mischievous grin on his face, and of his sweet-natured wife and curious, bright-eyed son. She thought of all the people from Highever, all of the people who had raised her, trained her, loved her. She thought of Dane, her loyal dog, who had not understood why his mistress had not allowed him to follow her into the gates of hell, and who she had sternly instructed her companions to find a good home for, though he would no doubt spend the rest of his life wondering where his mistress had gone. She thought of all her friends, of Leliana and Wynne, of Zevran and Oghren, and even of Alistair and Morrigan, who had abandoned her for their own reasons ere the end. But most of all, she thought of Loghain. She hoped he would forgive her someday.
With a shuddering cry, she brought the sword down with all of her might. It pierced the Archdemon's skull, cleaving through flesh and bone and brain, and the Archdemon howled out in its death throes, an otherworldly wail of doom, as its soul was ripped from its body. A bright flash of light cracked through the sky, and Moira saw only blinding, endless white. She wondered briefly if this was what the Golden City was like – and then she saw nothing at all.
A/N: Oh my goodness, I truly, sincerely apologize for the long wait between chapters! My life has been insane the past couple of months, with travel, two huge moves, and a new job. I'd hoped to have this chapter out before all of that really started rolling, but alas, my muse did not cooperate, and I only just now found the time to finish it up. Once again, my apologies! The good news is that now I am reasonably settled into a routine again, and future chapters should most certainly be making a more timely appearance. (And I'm not NEARLY evil enough to make you wait for two months at the end of THIS cliffhanger, don't worry!)
Once again a huge thank you to my beta, EasternViolet, for all her help. And I'd like to throw out an extra special shout out to my pal bushviper, who provides no shortage of cheerleading and moral support, and pokes me incessantly if I've taken too long to update :D (And if you like Loghain, and find him sexy, do check out her fic "Orlaid." You won't regret it.) Finally, a most sincere thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorited, followed, or are simply enjoying this story. Don't feel shy to leave a review or send me a PM - I love hearing all your feedback!