Loghain Mac Tir was not a man who accepted defeat easily. His steadfast resolve – which some insisted was actually 'cussed stubbornness' or 'bullheaded obstinacy,' and only then if they regarded him with anything resembling fondness – had served him well in the past, regardless of whether it had won him any admirers. He cared little to nothing for the obsequious preening of the court vipers, at any rate – let them despise him, if they wished. He got things done, which was more than the wretched lot of them could say. When circumstances grew dire, and other men quailed with fear, he had always been able to rely on his tenacity to see things through, no matter the cost.

Until now. Now, when he'd most needed to draw on it, more than he'd ever needed it in his life, his strength had failed him. That alone did not concern him – if he had been the one to pay the price for his weakness, he could have abided that. He had always believed that men should suffer the consequences of their failures, and he was prepared to accept his with stoic resignation; just as he had been at the Landsmeet. But no, it was not he who now lay motionless on the parapets of Fort Drakon – and knowing what his failure had cost was nearly enough to do what the Orlesians, the vicious backbiting nobles, and the darkspawn had never been able to.

His body burned and throbbed with interminable agony. Once again he again cursed his weakness as he stumbled forward, his legs trembling with frailty like a feeble old man's, unable to bear his weight and sending him stumbling forward as he fell heavily to his knees, head swooning and breathing labored. He heard the mage rush to his side, and he swiped her away with an agitated hand. He had to get to Moira. He had to see her – had to see for himself what his failure had wrought.

"Loghain, you're hurt –" A hand tugged at his shoulder, trying to still his progress, and he shook it away, the effort producing a spell of faintness that nearly sent him to the stones again.

"Damn it, woman, let me be!" The old biddy had never cared for him before; why did she have to start now? None of them understood. He pushed himself forward, half-crawling, half-stumbling, his vision dimmed with sweat and fatigue, his nose filled with the stench of blood and smoke and death. He pulled and dragged himself onward towards the great vile monster that lay broken against the bloody stones, its menace ended forever. It should have been a triumphant moment, suffused with the heady exhilaration of victory; but Loghain felt only hollow despair, a still, disbelieving emptiness.

His last sight of her had been both magnificent and terrible. He'd watched with mounting horror as she had scaled the crippled dragon, her sword raised high into the air, the very avatar of an avenging shield-maiden. He'd opened his mouth to cry out to her, to beg her to stop – Maker damn her, it was his sacrifice to make, not hers! But then she'd brought down the sword, and his eyes were blinded by a radiant beam of pure white light, seeming to come from the heart of the beast itself. When his sight returned, he saw nothing but the dragon's lifeless corpse, its skull impaled by a well-wrought greatsword. Of Moira, he saw nothing.

"Moira!"

Her name came out as a dull croak, his throat cracked and dry from thirst and exhaustion. He stumbled forward, heedless of his own staggering disorientation, until he reached the massive dragon. Its head lay against the stones, its neck bent at an unnatural angle and its terrifying maw twisted in a ghoulish rictus of death, Moira's sword protruding triumphantly from the back of its skull. Dimly in the distance Loghain heard a low, rumbling roar arise from the city below, but he dismissed it as irrelevant – whatever the noise was, it was not the harsh, guttural cries of attacking darkspawn and therefore merited no concern. He had only one concern now. As he pushed past the hideously grinning skull, his heart caught in his chest as he saw a figure, laying sprawled and motionless several yards away, the once-gleaming armor scored and bloodied. A fetid breeze blew across the parapets, bearing on it the stench of the dead, and in its wake fluttered a soft tendril of dark, red-brown hair, lifted from the head of the still form below.

"Moira!" Loghain pushed forward, ignoring the pain that lanced through his side with every step, bringing the sheer force of his will to bear against his flagging strength and forcing his body to stave off its grievous injuries as he made his way to her still form. He collapsed heavily to his knees, his weary muscles giving in at last now that their task was done, and reached out for her, heedless of the remaining soldiers who no doubt watched him with prying eyes. Let them watch, damn them all. This was his duty and none would take it from him.

"Moira." He exhaled her name softly as he lifted her slowly from the cold, blood-stained stones. Her armor was battered and broken, but her face was peaceful in repose, content and serene as though she were merely enjoying an afternoon slumber. She was so painfully innocent, even in death – perhaps especially in death – and his iron resolve threatened to fail him for the first time in his life.

"Damn you, woman," he swore softly at her as he cradled her in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against the stinging smoke – at least, that was what he told himself caused the burning and blurring in his field of vision. The rumbling din from the city below reached his ears again, and he dimly recognized it as the roaring cheers of a triumphant army, celebrating their victory. No – celebrating her victory. Her sacrifice. A hot knife of anger sliced through his gut, and he pulled her closer to his chest. What right had they to cheer and carry on when she was laying in his arms dead and broken?

The anger galvanized him, as it always had. He would not leave her here to be left, forgotten, while lesser warriors feasted and toasted to a victory they did not win. Drawing a ragged breath, he clutched her tight and prepared to rise to his feet, ignoring the lancing pain in his side and the blackness at the edges of his vision that threatened to close in on him.

"Oh – Moira, no." The voice, Loghain recognized with dim irritation, belonged to the old mage harridan. Couldn't she even let him alone to do this one last thing? He heard the whimpering of the Orlesian bard and gritted his teeth, channeling his simmering resentment into strength as he struggled to his feet.

"Get out of the way!" he grated. He refused to allow them to see his grief – refused it even to himself. He needed to get her out of here, get her off the castle roof and away from the prying, vulgar eyes of all these circling vultures.

"Sweet Maker!" Wynne's gasp of surprise cut through his single-minded effort. "She's alive!"

Loghain, entirely focused on lifting Moira up from her resting place atop the stones, took a moment to process the mage's words. Hazily they penetrated his fading consciousness, where they lodged stubbornly in his uncomprehending mind. What game was the old woman playing? He knew what happened when a Warden slew an Archdemon. He knew. Wynne, for all her blustering adulation of the Grey Wardens, hadn't the faintest of clues.

"Don't be a fool!" he rasped, willing himself not to swoon as the blackness closed in around him, his waning awareness weighing heavily against his incredulity. "She is not alive. She cannot be alive. It is time for you to accept the inevitable!" He refused to look at Moira's face, refused to allow himself even the faintest half-glimmer of hope that Wynne offered. He knew, from bitter experience, that false hope was far crueler than despair.

"Damn you, Loghain, listen to me! Moira is alive." Something in the mage's voice caught him, pierced through the cloud of exhaustion and desolation that shrouded him. His mind hovered on the outside edges of consciousness and, daring greatly, knowing what it would cost him if he were wrong, he leaned back on his heels and took a long, considered look into Moira's face.

Her serene expression had not changed, and a sickening sense of betrayal lanced through him. Why had he believed the silly old woman and purchased her false hope? A choking sob ripped involuntarily from his throat, and he clamped down on a primal scream. He would not lose control, not now, not yet…

And then he felt it, under the skin of her neck, warm against his palm where he cradled her close. Faint, barely perceptible, but undeniably there. A soft, rhythmic throbbing, keeping pace with the beat of his own heart. Somehow, despite what Riordan had told them, despite what they had believed, despite the despair that had threatened to overwhelm him as he'd cradled her motionless body – somehow, her heart beat on. The mage was right. She was alive.

"Moira?" he whispered, hardly daring to hope. His head swooned and he sank to his knees, lowering her reverently to the ground, unwilling to risk dropping her. "How can it be?"

Darkness closed around the edges of his vision, but he refused to move, refused to avert his eyes from her peaceful visage. It was fitting that, after a lifetime of refusing to lower his guard and put his trust in anyone, that he had finally chosen to trust in her – and somehow, against all the odds, hope was not lost. It was the last conscious thought he had before the void claimed him.

A murmuring susurration surrounded him, a soft white hum of vague and formless noise. It lapped up against his emerging consciousness like waves against the shore, but his eyes were leaden and would not open. Slowly, the sounds coalesced and took shape, and his muddled brain began to grasp at snatches of words, floating airily above him like wisps of clouds.

" – need to awaken him soon, Your Majesty. He can tell us exactly what went on up there, and perhaps shed some light on her condition –"

" – absolutely will not! We have already spoken with the Circle mage and the Chantry sister, and they have related the entirety of the events that transpired on the parapets. He is injured and needs his rest –"

" – respect your concern for your father, but – "

" – the mage confirmed that she is alive, and I cannot fathom what he could tell us about her condition that a Circle healer could not –"

" – perhaps some Grey Warden magic, who knows? That is why we need him, Your Majesty, with all due respect –"

He struggled to open his eyes, and succeeded only in fluttering them open for a brief moment before they clamped shut again, unwilling to acquiesce to consciousness just yet. As his body slowly adjusted to awakening, he became aware of an acute, lancing pain in his side, stabbing him every time he drew a breath. He opened his mouth to groan, but all that came out was a hoarse rasp.

"It seems he is awakening anyway, Your Majesty. We shall soon see what he has to say."

"He is badly wounded, Eamon! What he needs is time to heal, not to be subjected to an interrogation a mere day after surviving a brutal and grueling battle!"

"I respect your concern for your father, Your Majesty –"

"Do you? That is the third time you've said as much, and yet you still insist on hovering over him like a carrion bird."

"I meant no disrespect –"

At last, Loghain forced his eyes open, and, after slowly blinking the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, found himself looking upon his daughter, who looked as drawn and exhausted as he felt, and Arl Eamon, who regarded Anora with an expression which to Loghain looked suspiciously like patronizing condescension disguised as concern.

"If you do not mean to disrespect your queen, Eamon, then perhaps you should do as she says," he croaked. Both Eamon and Anora snapped their gazes to him in surprise – Anora's in delight, and Eamon's looking rather more like a boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I – I meant no – it is good to see that you are awake at last, Loghain," Eamon stammered in response. It was good that Loghain was too weak to laugh at the arl's blatant lie – he knew good and well that Eamon had wanted him dead at the Landsmeet, and his continued survival must chafe at the scheming old bastard. But now was not the time to engage in pettiness, if only for Anora's – and Moira's – sakes.

"Father," Anora exclaimed, and leaned across the bed in which he rested to give him a gentle hug. The spontaneous genuineness of her reaction was in stark contrast to Eamon's studied deception, and his heart filled with affection as he gingerly returned her embrace. Moving his arm resulted in a sharp stab of agony through his injured side, and he withdrew from her with a hiss of pain. Anora's face creased in concern.

"Be careful, Father. The Circle mage healed you as much as she could, but she was weary and could not fully repair the damage. I'm afraid you're still in no shape to be moving around much."

He grimaced, lowering a hand to his tender side, where he felt a thick wrapping of pressure bandages encircling his torso. "What's the damage?" he grunted.

"Five broken ribs, and a collapsed lung. Wynne was able to repair your lung, but she only had enough energy to partially heal your broken bones. She ordered bed rest for you for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks? Nonsense." He attempted to shift himself up further in bed, wincing at the pain that pierced his side with every movement. "I'll be on my feet in a few days. I've endured worse than this." A sudden memory flashed through his mind – Moira, still and quiet in his arms, Wynne's frantic words, and his sudden, waning consciousness, fading into blackness –

"Moira," he said suddenly, ignoring the pain in his wounded ribs as he sat upright. "Where is she? I don't remember anything after the roof." He looked frantically at Anora, desperate for answers. "She is alive?"

"Yes," Eamon interrupted, and Loghain's brows creased together in consternation at the arl's unsolicited interruption. "She lives, though it is not clear if she will awaken, or precisely what her condition is at the moment. We were hoping you could shed more light on that. If there is some strange Warden magic at work, I believe we all need to know what it might be."

"Eamon, please!" Anora shot a warning glare at the arl as Loghain's brows creased deeper into a forbidding scowl.

"Thank the Maker that she is alive," he said tightly. "Though her survival does not seem to concern you overmuch, Arl Eamon. Such little care you show for your erstwhile allies once they are no longer of use to your schemes. A lesson my daughter has wisely heeded, I hope."

"Your tone is uncalled for, Loghain," Eamon replied, his conciliatory facade marred by a tension in his voice that Loghain duly noted. "I am merely concerned about the potential ramifications of the destruction of the Archdemon, and whether there is any cause for concern. I care about my country – your problem has always been that you believe no one cares for Ferelden as much as you do."

"Then you are a fool," Loghain said, his voice taking a dangerous edge. "I know full well that there are many who care for Ferelden as much as I do. My daughter, for one. Moira Cousland, for another, whose fate only concerns you insofar as you can use her to play your political games. This is not Orlais, Eamon, much as you might wish it otherwise."

"Your insinuations are entirely out of bounds –"

"Enough!" Anora's voice, hard enough to cut glass, instantly silenced both men. "The Archdemon has been slain, and Ferelden can finally begin to put itself back together. I will not see it torn apart again so soon." Her gaze turned to Eamon, whom she regarded with a dispassionate air. "My father is recovering from terrible wounds that he sustained in the battle to save our country. Now is not the time or place for any petty bickering. Perhaps it would be best if you left us for now."

Chastened, Eamon dipped his head in an approximation of a courtly bow. "Of course, Your Majesty. I meant no disrespect." It took all of Loghain's willpower not to bark in laughter as the arl retreated, as gracefully as he could manage, from the room. When the door closed behind him, he at last unleashed a snort of disdain.

"Who invited that viper into my sickroom? Surely he hasn't insinuated himself into your good graces. I raised you to have more sense than that."

Anora gave Loghain a daughterly look of supreme exasperation. "Oh, for the Maker's sake, Father, you needn't worry that I'm going to allow myself to be outmaneuvered by Eamon. But it never hurts to keep up appearances. Right now, with the nobility in shambles after the Blight and the civil war, I am hardly in a position to be making enemies. Eamon has been acting as an unofficial advisor to the crown since the Landsmeet, and while I do not entirely trust his motives, I cannot deny that I have appreciated his aid."

Loghain grunted, still chafed by the arrogant presumption of the pompous arl. Did he think that because he'd styled himself as Moira's ally that he was entitled to thrust his nose into every aspect of her business? His gut clenched with sudden emotion as he thought of Moira, and the avalanche of sentiment that had been subsumed by his failing physical strength now threatened to overwhelm him. He turned to regard Anora with a determined glint in his eyes, stubbornly ignoring the pain that twinged through his body at his movement.

"Moira is definitely alive, then?" He knew he had not successfully kept the eagerness from his voice, but at the moment, he cared little.

"She is alive, but she is unresponsive. None of the mages can figure out what is happening to her. Her physical wounds have been healed, but she remains perfectly at rest, and unable to wake up. The healers have no idea what ails her, nor if she will recover."

Alive, but unresponsive. The prognosis Anora had delivered was both confusing and dire, but his mind seized on that one word – alive – and held it in his heart like a treasured jewel. "I must see her," he said, gripped by a sudden need to get moving, to go to her at once. "Help me – take me to where she is resting. I have to see her." He struggled to raise himself out of bed, but an excruciating spasm of agony ripped through his body, and he collapsed against the pillows with a pained grunt.

"Father, please be still. You are in no condition to be flouncing about," Anora chided. She regarded him sternly for a moment, then – upon meeting his unrelenting gaze as he struggled, more slowly this time, to rise from the bed – she sighed.

"Oh, very well, I will take you there, but only because I can tell that you'll just end up hurting yourself worse if I leave you be," she said, her frustration belied by an undercurrent of amusement. Holding out her hand, she helped him rise gingerly from the bed. Loghain's head swooned as he finally regained his feet, and he stood still for a long moment, regaining his equilibrium. Just when Anora seemed ready to order him back to bed, he shook his head determinedly at her, and began, slowly and uncertainly, to move towards the door.

"I don't think so. You're getting an escort this time, ser," Anora said, and Loghain turned to her with a smile at the playfulness in her tone. He took a moment to look at her – his beautiful, strong daughter. A lump caught in his throat as he thought of how she had overcome so much in her life already – the pain of being caught between two worlds, never entirely accepted as either a noble or a commoner, the heartbreak of Cailan's failings as a husband, the constant scheming of the nobility – and he was filled with a loving and paternal pride. His pride turned quickly to shame as he recalled the insanity of the days after Ostagar, and the long, painful months before the Landsmeet, when he had put her in such danger with his reckless actions. His recollection of that time was shrouded in shadow, as though he looked at the memories through a glass darkly. It all seemed so mad now, the things he'd done and said – what had started out with good intentions had so quickly spiraled out of hand, until it seemed that every decision he made was the wrong one, both tactically and morally. What had happened – how had he let it come to all of that?

"Papa?" He looked at her with startled amazement – how long had it been since she'd last called him that? "You're gathering wool. I asked you a question."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I was…" He trailed off, unsure of whether he should express his thoughts to her. Theirs had never been a relationship marked by loquaciousness – he loved her, and he knew she… well, that she looked up to him, and cared for him, at any rate, but neither of them had been particularly prone to spontaneous demonstrations of affection. Perhaps, he reflected, that should change.

"Anora, I'm so sorry," he murmured, gathering her into his arms and resting his chin on her head. "Everything I did – I put you in danger, threatened your reign, nearly got you killed at the hands of that madman Howe. I never should have given him an inch –"

"Father," she said, returning his embrace for a moment before pushing back to look him in the eyes. He was surprised to see unguarded emotion glistening in her eyes, though she stoically held back any tears. "I am the one who should apologize to you. I denounced you in front of the entire Landsmeet. I could have… if Moira hadn't done what she did… I could have gotten you killed. Alistair – I didn't realize how much he wanted you dead. I never should have gambled with your life. I'm sorry, Papa." She pulled herself closer to him again, burying her face in his chest, unwilling to let him see any moisture that gathered in her eyes.

He held her close, resting his cheek against the top of her hair, his hand stroking her back soothingly. "Hush, my girl," he whispered, and faintly, he heard the sound of soft sniffles against his chest as she hid her tears from him. "You have nothing to apologize for. I was… I don't understand now exactly when it all went wrong, but it's as though I went mad, somewhere along the way. You were right to stop me. Even if Moira had killed me, it would have been the best thing for Ferelden. I was… not myself. I can only hope now to begin to atone for the wrong I have done."

She sniffled loudly, then pulled back to regard him. Loghain was both surprised and somewhat amused to note that there was little evidence she'd been crying. He supposed she'd had long practice at concealing her emotions. "You've already done so much," she said. "No one will ever forget your part in ending the Blight. I'll make certain of it."

The mention of the Blight brought memories of Moira crashing to the fore of his mind, and the lump in his throat reasserted itself as he thought of her, living but apparently still unconscious, wounded by who knew what foul darkspawn magic.

"Moira is the one everyone should remember," he said. "She is the one who destroyed the Archdemon. She is the one who saved us all." Who saved me from myself, he thought.

Anora seemed to sense his thoughts, and gathered her arm around his waist as she helped him stagger towards the door. "She is not dead, Father. I will make certain that she receives her due glory whenever she recovers." As they approached the door, she paused, forcing him to pause as well, and he turned to regard her curiously.

"Father…" He could tell, from her hesitant tone, what she was about to ask, and his stomach clenched in nervous warning. Before the battle in Denerim, when he'd spoken to her in the royal tent, the subject of Moira – of his relationship with her – had not come up. He'd been so certain he would die, and she had been so worried that she would lose him, that any gossip about his personal life had seemed impossibly irrelevant. But now that he – and Moira – had apparently both survived, and the immediate threat was over, he realized with dread that his reprieve had likely ended.

"Before we go any further, there is something I must know," Anora began carefully, and Loghain gritted his teeth against his anxiety. Maker's breath, why was he anxious? He was a grown man, and she was his daughter! He had no need to explain himself like he was an errant lad who'd been caught with the milkmaid!

"You and Moira… is there something there? Something more than… friendship?"

He sighed. Perhaps she was just being polite, but perhaps she truly didn't know. He thought, for a moment, about deflecting, but another thought of Moira – of her innocent, trusting love for him – filled him with shame at the consideration. Heaving a defeated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and faced her.

"Yes," he said simply. He debated elaborating, but every time he attempted to conceive of the words, he thought of Moira's sweetness and passion, and he found he couldn't articulate the feelings she aroused in him – and so he didn't.

Whether Anora was surprised or not, she gave no indication either way. "I see," she replied simply. She put her arm around him again and guided him towards the door. "I hope then, for both your sakes, that she recovers."

"So do I," he said quietly, as she led him out of the door and into the corridor.

The royal palace in Denerim was modestly opulent, as oxymoronic that might sound, but Loghain had found it a true enough descriptor nonetheless. He quickly identified their location in the personal wing of the palace, where the monarch's family lived privately away from the prying eyes of courtiers and guests, and he found himself filled with an oddly overwhelming gratitude that Anora had opened up her own personal quarters to Moira for her recovery. He had not really expected less, but nevertheless, it heartened him to know that she was being taken care of. They made their way down the corridor until Anora paused before a doorway.

"She is in here," she said. Pulling away from Loghain, she regarded him with gentle concern. "I think you should have the chance to see her alone. I have duties to attend to, in any case." She leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Be well, Father. I will see you tomorrow."

"Of course," he replied. "Anora – thank you."

She gave him a soft smile before retreating down the corridor, leaving him alone, standing before Moira's door. Gathering himself with a determined sigh, he pushed the door open and entered.

Her room was dimly lit, a lamp burning low in the corner near her bed and the window curtains pulled tightly closed. He made his way to the windows and threw open the curtains, releasing a bright stream of sunlight into the room. He made his way back to the bed where Moira lay in perfect repose, her dark auburn hair pillowed out beneath her and her eyes closed peacefully. Dragging a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed, he sat down, and reached out a hand to trace across the contours of her face, feeling the unbidden moisture dampen his eyes as he regarded her unmoving form. She was alive, that was certain; her body was warm, but not fevered, and she took even, measured breaths, as though she were merely in a deep sleep. If she'd had any wounds, they had since been healed – perhaps the mage had fully healed Moira, to the extent of her abilities. He would have to take the time to thank her later. Whatever his disagreements with the old woman, he was grateful for the kindness she'd shown Moira.

"Moira," he whispered, shaking her shoulder softly. "I know you're there. Time to wake up. It's over. You've done it, and Maker help me, but you're still alive." His hand rested on her cheek, and he rubbed his thumb across her jaw softly. "I'm still quite angry at you, you understand. I told you I'd be the one to make the sacrifice. You should have let me. I had so much to atone for – it should be me laying here in this bed, not you." He sighed, and his hand dropped down to take her hand in his. It was soft and warm, and he could not shake the notion that she was merely sleeping. Well, what had Anora said – it had only been a day? She was probably still just recovering from her wounds. She would wake up in the next day or two, and then he would let her have it for her foolish self-sacrifice. After he took her in his arms, of course.

She would be fine, he told himself. Only a few days, and she would awaken. She would be fine. She had to be. She could not survive the unsurvivable only to languish forever in a cruel un-death. She would be fine because she had to be. He would not have it otherwise.

Reassuring himself with the sureness of his thoughts, he fell into a pained, fatigued rest, his hand still loosely gripping hers.

A bright light, painful in its intensity, assaulted her eyes, and she quickly pressed them closed again. She was consumed by the oddest sensation – it was as though she were floating, suspended gently in mid-air, and yet she felt no panic or alarm. Daring to crack her eyes open a slit, she cringed as the radiance blinded her again, but stubbornly refused to close them again, forcing herself to acclimate to the light. She felt no pain, no aches or wounds; chancing a glance down, she noted that she was dressed in a simple outfit, a tunic and trousers, and she was perfectly clean, as though she'd just emerged from the bath.

Am I dead? Is this… am I with the Maker? Opening her eyes further, she looked around. She realized she was not, in fact, levitating in mid-air: she was laying on a comfortably pillowed bed, surrounded by soft, fluffy blankets. She was in a luxuriously outfitted room, clearly in a castle somewhere. Blinking her eyes, she looked about in confusion. Was the Maker's throne a palace? That seemed… odd, and somewhat inappropriate. She'd rather expected heaven to be a bit more spectacular than a palace.

"You're awake! Thank the Maker!"

The sound of his voice broke her out of her reverie, and she looked, in disbelief and wonder, to her side, where Loghain sat calmly, smiling at her. An overwhelming sense of joy filled her breast – he was alive! – and she flung herself into his arms.

He laughed, truly laughed, and the deep baritone rumble was as pure as any music to her ears. He embraced her close, and placed a soft kiss against her forehead.

"I thought we'd lost you," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Maker, I love you."

"Loghain," she choked, pressing her face into his neck and clinging to him. "I thought… I thought I'd be dead," she confessed. "I couldn't bear to lose you, and I had to take the blow myself. Please forgive me. I didn't think… I didn't think I'd still be here."

"Already forgiven," he said softly, pulling away from her just far enough to look into her eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for, my love. You're here, and nothing else matters."

"I don't understand," she said. "I thought… was Riordan wrong, then? Don't misunderstand me, I'm happy he was wrong! But it seems like that's an awfully major thing to be wrong about." She knew she should just be happy she was alive, and here with Loghain, her love. Yet something niggled at the back of her mind. The pieces weren't adding up.

"Does it matter? So he was wrong! Maker, Moira, the last Blight was hundreds of years ago. Do you think the Wardens really remember what happened? It's all legend now, anyway. A Warden sacrificed himself to end that Blight and somehow it became enshrined in the tale that sacrifice was the only way to end a Blight. Stuff and nonsense, clearly." He took her hands in both of his, and placed a soft kiss against her knuckle.

"But… the Archdemon is truly dead, isn't it? I didn't just… think I killed it?"

He laughed and shook his head, and her growing sense of disbelief niggled again. "Of course it's dead! Dead as dead can be. And we are alive. Really, Moira, what else matters? Come, there's nothing between us now. We can live the life we've been waiting for."

Moira furrowed her brows, and the intensity of her elation began to falter. "What do you mean, nothing else matters? Whether or not the Archdemon is dead certainly matters. I'm glad you're so happy to see me, but… you've never been one to let your feelings get in the way of your duty. How is Denerim? What happened after I took the blow?"

He laughed again, and Moira's suspicions pricked into alert. Something was seriously wrong.

"Oh, it's all fine, I'm sure. Everything is fine. There's nothing for you to worry about – nothing for us to worry about. Come, Moira. Be with me. We're finally free to live our own life, away from the Wardens, away from the squabbling nobles, away from it all! Aren't you happy?"

She drew away from him, her heart racing as she regarded his sweetly smiling features with a growing fear. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you? Because you are not Loghain Mac Tir."

He remained smiling, and the hackles on the back of Moira's neck prickled in alarm. "I know you're exhausted. I understand. Perhaps it's making you imagine things –"

"I'm not 'imagining' anything," she grated coldly. "Loghain Mac Tir would never shirk his duty. He would never laugh and carry on about how 'nothing else matters' while his country lies in ruins. He would never ignore or dismiss my concerns about the battle. And frankly, I'm sure he's quite irritated with me for taking 'his' sacrifice. You – whoever you are – haven't even batted a cross eyelash at me. So I'll say it again: who, or what, are you? Because you are not Loghain."

The smile fell away from his face as abruptly and suddenly as it had come, and a cold fear gripped Moira as Loghain regarded her with a sudden, piercing glare, as if she were being turned inside out and measured, only to be found wanting. She scooted back in the bed, glancing around frantically for a weapon and finding nothing. What was happening – where was she?

"Clever girl," the thing wearing Loghain's face said, and this time, its smile was entirely without warmth. "I was hoping I could keep you going a bit longer. I wanted to know more about you, and I judged that you would be willing to confide in me if I assumed this form." It gestured, with Loghain's hands, towards Loghain's face, and a feeling of revulsion filled her.

"Stop it," she said, willing herself not to panic. "What are you? Where am I? What have you done with Loghain?"

"Done with him? Nothing, of course. He isn't here." The entity leaned back in the chair, its spell of malice seemingly passed, and now it affected a bored demeanor, as if weary of Moira's tedious questions. "However, this form was the one most prominent in your memories, and so it's the one I used. A mistake, in retrospect. I should have realized that you'd be more likely to spot any discrepancies in behavior from a familiar face." The thing stretched lazily, like a housecat in the sun, and Moira felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest. Was she in the Fade? Was this a demon? Was this what happened to a Warden's soul after she killed the Archdemon?

"What are you?" she repeated more firmly. "Where am I? Tell me, damn you!"

"So feisty!" The thing clucked at her, and she found herself hating it for stealing Loghain's face and voice to torment her, for violating her precious memories of him to construct this grotesque caricature. "But I suppose it doesn't do any good to taunt you further. It's losing its novelty. You're fairly boring." The thing leaned back in its chair, and regarded her with a disinterested shrug. "So, the answers to your questions: I am – well, I was – Urthemiel, or at least, I am part of him. I am… diminished, it seems. Your doing, I suppose?" He sighed, and Moira stared in horror at the thing – the enemy – that still bore Loghain's face.

"As to where we are: I am not entirely sure, to be honest with you. The Fade, perhaps? Your mind? Your mind inside the Fade? I don't know. I know I was on a castle, in your little city, when you destroyed me. After that, I woke up here. Or at least, this part of me did."

No. No no no no no. Moira was filled with a cold, soul-deep dread as she stared at the thing – Urthemiel. The Archdemon. "No," she repeated out loud. "No. No. I killed you. I put that blade in your skull. You're dead. You're dead. This isn't real."

He sighed, and for the first time, she noted a trace of dismay in his features. "I don't know what happened any more than you do," he said. "I know that I was a tainted dragon, and now I'm here. I don't have a body – not anymore. That's why I borrowed your friend's face here. I hope you don't mind." He smiled wolfishly, and Moira was consumed by revulsion.

"I do mind, actually," she said hotly. "Do – whatever you did to take on his form. Change into something else – someone else. I don't care what, but stop using my memories of him! You have no right! You have no –"

"Oh, fine, my goodness, no need to get into a tiff about it." At once, the thing's face shifted, and changed – and Moira's stomach plunged further as her mother regarded her with a placid expression.

"No! Not her either! Someone else – not my family!"

"Oh, well, you just keep changing the rules, don't you?" The face shifted again, and now Alistair regarded her with a huffy look of irritation on his face. It was sick and twisted, but she supposed that, if she had to endure speaking to the Archdemon, of all cursed hells, that Alistair's face would be as good as any.

"I suppose this face will have to do," it said, regarding her with a curious gleam. "I just want you to be comfortable. It seems that we're stuck here together, after all."

"Stuck here? Why are you here at all? You should be dead!" The last word came out as a bellow, and Moira's patience finally snapped, as she picked up a vase on the bedside table and hurled it at 'Alistair.' The demon dodged effortlessly, and turned to glower at her in irritation.

"I told you, I don't know what happened," it snapped. "But I do indeed appear to be stuck here – in your head, with you." He steepled his fingers, and gave her a predatory grin. "I mean, really, you're getting your just desserts, in a way. You did try to kill me, after all. That wasn't very nice."

Moira wanted to scream, to rage, to weep and cry and tear the room apart in despair, but instead she sat there, motionless, cold, and numb, staring in horror at the thing she'd sacrificed everything to kill, and yet somehow had failed. She had failed, and now she was trapped here in this hell with it for company, and no escape. What had gone wrong – how had Riordan been so wrong? She had killed it – she'd known she had. She remembered plunging her sword into the dragon's skull, and then all had gone white. It had died. She'd felt it die. But instead of blinking out of existence, her soul destroyed and hurtling into the void, she was somehow trapped here, wherever this was, with only the demon itself for company.

Oblivion would have been preferable.

The city was aflame, and the battle raged on. Darkspawn swarmed, innumerable, through the streets, while the harried defenders struggled to stem the tide, erecting hastily built ramparts to hold the horde at bay. It was not going well; if the Grey Wardens did not succeed in their mission, the city would be overrun in two days' time.

Above the fray, the raven watched, and waited.

It had not been an easy decision to make, but, if she were honest, she'd been considering the possibility for a long time. That had made things easier when the necessity inevitably arose. She had not been surprised when the fool Warden had rejected the ritual. The Warden was a noble-born brat, and she was full of all the stupidities and prejudices that privilege afforded – what reasons had she ever had to consider that there was more to life than what she'd been told by her wealthy lordly parents and her coddling Chantry nursemaids? She'd hoped the Warden's feelings for the traitor general might be enough to make her see reason, but even then, she'd refused. Stubborn and stupid. They were all so stubborn and stupid, and now they'd pay the price.

They'd never gotten on, she and the Warden. The Warden was one of those insufferable altruists, the kind who stopped to rescue kittens from trees and save old ladies from burning buildings. No one had ever stopped to save her, or look out for her. She'd learned early and often that no one looked out for you, and you'd best learn to look after yourself. And that was how it should be – it was the way of the world. You learned how to take care of yourself, or you died. The weak perished and the strong survived. The Warden rewarded people's weakness, indulged their helpless frailty. What good did that do? The weak would continue to be weak, and the next time they faced peril, there would be no valiant Grey Warden there to save them from themselves. What would they do then? She had tried to convince the Warden, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. The girl's head was filled with a nauseating combination of noblesse oblige and Chantry fables. So naturally she'd balked at the offer.

She had foreseen it – and that was why she had devised a backup plan, so to speak. She had been willing to lie, to say whatever it took, to get the Warden to agree to the ritual, but in one matter she had not lied at all – she'd told the Warden that an ancient and powerful being did not deserve to be extinguished from the world, and in that, she had spoken true. The soul of an Old God, an ancient being of unimaginable knowledge and power – slain, erased, destroyed. It was unthinkable. Its survival should not depend on the whims of an ignorant noble whelp who knew little of magic and less of the ancient legends. And so when the Warden had rejected her, she had put her plan into motion.

The plan required tainted blood, that much remained true. But the Grey Wardens, as secretive and suspicious as they might be, were not such stalwart keepers of their secrets as they might think. From Flemeth she had learned of the ritual; and from Flemeth she'd learned, as a component of the ritual, the secrets of the Warden's Joining. All it required was darkspawn blood and magic. She had both.

It had been the point of no return; even Flemeth, with all her centuries of accumulated wisdom, knew of no way to reverse the Joining, to untaint the blood. She had nearly quailed then and abandoned her plan; for she had no desire to subject herself to the taint if there was a chance her ritual would fail. But then she thought of Flemeth, her monstrous mother, the keeper of greater secrets than most mundanes could even imagine. She had always been a pawn in Flemeth's game, her womb a bargaining chip for the Old God's soul, her very body a shell into which Flemeth planned to slip someday, once her own skin was too old to be of further use. Why should Flemeth hold all the secrets, and all the power? She knew that Flemeth feared her. How much more would Flemeth fear her if she, too, possessed the immortal secrets of the gods?

And so she'd drank deeply, her body contorting and twisting in agony as the taint surged through her blood, the song of the Archdemon, the tortured Old God, ringing in her ears. When she'd recovered, the army had a day's head start on her, and she knew she had to reach Denerim before the Wardens. A small matter for one who can travel as the crow flies.

The ritual itself was modified to suit her new purpose. With no empty vessel, the gambit was riskier – almost too risky. Despite the taint in her blood, she'd nearly quailed again – if she was wrong, and the transfer didn't work, she risked destroying herself, just as the noble, stupid Warden intended to do. She had debated finding a man and attempting, at the last, to conceive another child, a child that would share her taint – but she rejected that plan almost at once. She knew it would be no difficult work to bed a man, but now that she bore the taint, she did not know if the god's soul would be drawn to her before the child's regardless, and it seemed pointless to bother.

That was when she'd been forced to admit that, dangerous though her new plan was, she found it more desirable than the original. Flemeth would do anything to keep her from gaining power – she had no doubt that Flemeth had planned to kill her once the child was born and take it, and its knowledge, for herself. But now, she would be a force to be reckoned with, and when Flemeth returned, as she knew was inevitable, she would be ready. Flemeth would not find her such easy prey now.

She'd performed the ritual, with painstaking care, the old magic surging through her tainted blood like fire. Her part in the play was done, at least for now. Now all she could do was watch, and wait. The battle raged on, and the city burned below. The great dragon was wounded, and the Wardens had assaulted the fortress where it had made its final redoubt. The end was coming, and with it, her ultimate triumph, or her ultimate failure.

It had been the fool girl Warden, in the end, who had done it. It had been amusing to watch them squabbling over who should make the soul-destroying sacrifice, but in the end, thanks to a fortuitous injury to the teyrn, the girl had seized her chance and plunged her blade into the dragon's skull. The pure white light radiated from the dying beast, and she completed the final aspect of her ritual, opening herself up to the soul –

A shockwave slammed into her with massive force, and she was flung to the ground like a ragdoll. Her blood burned and her mind screamed and she felt something – someone – tickling at the edges of her mind, forcing its way into her essence. She was not a docile Circle mage, and as a result of their all-consuming paranoia about 'abominations,' she knew things about spirits that they never would – and she knew that the key was to not allow the spirit to overwhelm you, to subsume you beneath its presence and displace your own soul. It was possible for a mortal and a spirit to share the same vessel – that tedious old Circle hag was living evidence of that. But this was no ordinary spirit, and the battle would be all the more difficult. But Flemeth had taught her well. The Old God invaded her, filled her with its essence, but she – Morrigan – held on. She concentrated all of her energy, all of her power and her magic, into holding onto her soul as it was buffeted and tossed about by the unceasing assault of the god looking for purchase. But still she held on, refusing to be bowed, refusing to bend or to yield. At last, the pressure eased, the wind slacked, and, just as the seas calm after a fearsome storm, so too did her soul relax, intact and whole, still in the center of her being.

But no longer alone.

She perceived two things at once: the overwhelming Presence of something else, someone else, within her, like a constant companion, privy now to her every thought and memory. She had been prepared for the eventuality, for the feeling of violation, of loss of self, but still it cut her deeply, and she hoped, for a desperate, agonizing moment, that she had not made a terrible mistake. But there was something else: a sense of desolation, of brokenness, of incompletion. The Presence she felt was mournful; wounded. Something had happened to it. Something irreparable. The ritual had worked; mostly. But it was not Complete. A piece was missing, lost in the ether between life and afterlife. It was regrettable, tragic, even. But it was, on the whole, a far better outcome than could have been expected.

Soothing the distressed and broken soul that curled up next to her self like a wounded animal, she rose unsteadily to now-human feet, and looked around her. She was on the ground, in the market district in Denerim. The corpses of darkspawn littered the market square around her, and dazed survivors had begun emerging from their homes, unwilling to believe that the nightmare was truly over. She supposed she blended in – shocked, dazed, unsteady on her feet. No one would question her presence, but if anyone associated with the Warden saw her – well, it was best to leave quickly.

Taking care that no one was watching, she assumed the form of the raven again and took wing, flying south, towards the city walls and, eventually, the safety of the Wilds. She wondered, idly, if she would be able to take on the dragon's form now that she shared her Self with an Old God. Perhaps that was where Flemeth had learned her trick. Perhaps that was why Flemeth had not wanted her to seek out such knowledge for herself. She could not wait to see the look on Flemeth's face when the old Witch realized what she'd done. It would be worth all of the risk, the danger, the worry, just for that one moment.

Prepare yourself, Flemeth. I am coming, and now even you will not be able to stop me.

A/N: Well, I did my best not to leave you hanging on the cliffhanger of last chapter too long! As always, tremendous thanks to my beta EasternViolet, and to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, followed, and read this story. Your feedback means so much to me - thank you! Stay tuned: the Blight might be over, but our heroes still have many adventures ahead in their future...