Chapter 7: The Fall

More days passed.

To be exact: two weeks, six days, three hours and twelve minutes had passed since Solona struck down the Archdemon. Alistair knew this, because he had counted every second.

He had become used to the certain degree of tedium that had settled into Solona's chambers. Wynne and a handful of her apprentices would bustle in and out a few times each day. In the afternoon, Leliana would appear to sing and fix Solona's hair. To be honest, Alistair saw no real point in either task, but it broke up the hopelessness that seemed to cloud the air.

The most constant presences were, of course, Alistair and Daro. Both had come to terms with the other's company, but neither was very happy about it. Indeed, both were quite certain that Solona would be happier if the other left. Daro did occasionally leave to perform his rounds, and Alistair was frequently locked-out by Wynne, but neither wavered in his belief that he was the most important figure in Solona's life, and that she needed him there.

There was another whose presence Alistair was always aware of, but never actually witnessed. Zevran had made himself scarce since Wynne had begun to allow Solona visitors. Although he had not seen the assassin in days, whenever Alistair left Solona's side, a red rose would appear at her bedside. A red Antivan rose.

The elf drove Alistair mad. During the Blight the little imp had gone so far as to proposition Solona not 10 feet from where Alistair stood. His lovely mage had laughed off the joke that was most certainly not a joke and that should have been the end of that. But Zevran was persistent, and charming, and exotic and ... had never betrayed her as Alistair had.

Thus the assassin gave Alistair yet another reason to protest leaving Solona's side, especially when Eamon demanded 'a walk' with him. Like right now. Alistair frowned as he followed the Arl through the castle. It sucked.

A small crowd of lunching guards had gathered in the dusty courtyard. Together they cheered and jeered a pair of sparring soldiers. Alistair let Eamon draw him towards the mass. In his few excursions away from Solona, he had seen all the palace guards hard at work. They toiled day and night to help rebuild the city, fend off thieves and keep watch for straggling Darkspawn. In the wake of the Blight, their job had been a grim one, and had he not been so distracted, Alistair would have been pleased to see them receive a moment of respite.

Alistair and Eamon arrived at the cluster just as the larger combatant tumbled backwards onto the ground and lost his sword. The smaller fighter, a slight woman in leathers and helm, leapt forward with double daggers flashing. She landed gracefully to straddled the fallen man, the tips of her silver blades a mere hair from his throat.

"I yield!" the large soldier exclaimed.

The crowd erupted in cheers, and friendly hands reached out to help both victor and vanquished to their feet. A few final congratulations were offered and then, without much ceremony at all, the guards went back to work, leaving the champion alone with Alistair and Eamon.

"Eamon!" the girl cried and jaunted towards the men. Her oiled armour was a rich mahogany tone, intricately patterned and masterfully made. With a causal grace, she pulled off her helmet to reveal a thick mane of cascading red. Her eyes sparkled a brilliant green as she smiled at Eamon.

"Ah," the Arl beamed. "Lady Elissa Cousland, allow me to introduce you to Alistair Theirin, our soon-to-be King." Eamon all but shoved the pair together.

The girl's eyes widened for a moment before she hastily crossed her arms before her to bow. "Your Majesty, it is a great honour to meet you."

"Ahh, I'm not a monarch yet. Easy on the 'Majesty' stuff," Alistair stammered. "So, it's just 'Alistair' for now, please."

Elissa flashed him a dazzling smile. "Of course, Alistair."

An awkward silence fell as the girl continued to beam. "That was some, um, nice fighting there," Alistair tried.

"Oh, that was nothing - just a little sparring." Her mood suddenly fell. "My father used to teach me. He was a true master before ... "

Alistair shuffled his feet in the dirt as he rubbed at the back of his neck. "Ah, right, Howe ...I'm sorry ... for bringing it up ... and such," he stumbled, suddenly feeling very guilty about the whole thing.

The girl shook her head, sending her long, fiery tresses into delicate ripples. With an elegant sniff, she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "No, Alistair, it is truly fine." Elissa straightened to the posture of a noble. "I am grateful to you and the Warden for avenging my family. My parents' souls may rest peacefully in the Maker's embrace now." She paused for a moment. "In fact, I would like to extend my gratitude to the Warden herself."

"Hm, well... that is," Alistair stumbled. Although a great many had requested to see Solona, only her companions and Wynne's students had been granted access. They still had not worked out a story to explain Solona's unending sleep without revealing that she should, in fact, be dead by the Taint's hand. And, of course, there was that other matter to consider; even Eamon had not been told of the Warden's pregnancy.

The Orlesian Wardens' arrival had only made matters worse. They had marched into the tattered city a few days ago, and had immediately demanded to know why his lover was still alive. It was a strange affair: they seemed almost angry that Solona was still breathing. For once, Alistair was glad he was ignorant; lying to his brothers was not something he would relish. When their inquires proved fruitless, the Orlesians had then demanded that their healer examine Solona, despite Wynne's outright refusal. Some rather tense moments had passed when Leliana drew her bow outside Solona's door, and in Alistair's best attempt to understand Orlesian, had told the foreign Wardens where to go, and how to get there.

And so, the Orlesian Wardens were forced to settle with the same story that had been passed to the public. Yes, Solona was alive. Yes, she was the greatest hero in all the land. No, she was not taking visitors at this time.

Alistair gave Lady Cousland a sheepish shrug. "Solona's still pretty banged-up from the battle. She's still not up to seeing guests yet ..."

Elissa gave a sweet gasp, "Oh, I'm so sorry. There are so many rumours about the Warden, I've no idea what to believe. Please send my best wishes for her recovery."

"Yes. Of course, thank you," Alistair stammered; the girl's heavy gaze was beginning to unnerve him.

Eamon took the lull as opportunity to steer the conversation away from Solona. "You know, Lady Cousland almost became a Warden herself."

The girl blushed and gave a slight laugh. "It seems so very long ago. The Warden Duncan came to my family's estate last spring. He wanted to recruit me, but my father refused, and that was the end of that." Elissa turned wistful for a moment. "And then, when Howe ..." she trailed off. "I tried to follow Duncan to Ostagar, but I was too late."

Alistair and Eamon gave a solemn nod of understanding.

With a sigh and an absent twirl of her silver blades, Elissa continued. "I spent months looking for any sign of my brother Fergus, but with no home and no allies, I ended up hiding away in a small village in Highever."

Eamon scoffed. "You hardly hid, my dear," he smiled. Turning to Alistair, he said, "Lady Cousland freed the village from bandits and then single-handily kept the North Roads safe for refugees."

Again, all Alistair could do was nod. "That was, umm, very brave of you," he stumbled.

The girl gave a songbird's laugh. "It was nothing compared to your adventures with the Warden, I'm sure," she smiled. "I just tossed about some bandits. And then, when I heard the Blight was over and Howe destroyed, I came to Denerim to reclaim my family's title."

"But now, Lady Cousland intends to stay in Denerim indefinitely, isn't that right, my dear?" Eamon asked.

"Yes, it is. With Fergus alive, well and returning to Highever, I've no real plans now," Elissa gave a slight shrug.

Alistair shuffled his feet once more, letting the others' words wash past him. After so many days of darkspawn and archdemons and comas and lovechildren, idle chit chat seemed so strange now. Why was Eamon drawing this out? Their talks together usually consisted solely of lectures of duty and politics. There were hundreds of soldiers about, why bother with this one girl?

"... don't you think so, your Majesty - I mean, Alistair?" Lady Cousland asked.

"Oh? What? Sorry, I didn't catch that..." Alistair apologized, snapping back to the conversation.

Eamon gave Alistair a sharp glare. "Lady Cousland was just pointing out what a beautiful day it is."

Alistair looked up into the sky to hide his bemusement. Really? The weather? He sighed, yes indeed, only a few fluffy white clouds dotted the horizon, leaving the sun to shine bright and strong, high above them. With a deepening frown, Alistair realized it was now past noon; he should have been back to Solona nearly an hour ago.

"Um, yes," he nodded. "Very nice. Very sun...ish. Not much cloud...ish...ness, either," Alistair fumbled.

The girl grinned. "Yes, it's very sunnish, indeed."

With a silent sigh, Alistair gave Elissa a slight bow, and tried very hard to be polite. "Lady Cousland, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I have to go... do kingly stuff."

"Yes, of course. Please excuse me for keeping you," Elissa bowed once more. "I do hope we will meet again."

With that, Alistair about-faced back towards Solona's chambers, with Eamon chasing at his heels. As Alistair rounded a bend into the Royal apartments, Eamon reached out to grasp his shoulder.

"Slow down there, my boy."

"I really need to get back to Solona."

Eamon gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "Just take a moment with me first, Alistair. I think the lady can wait a minute or two longer."

Alistair nodded, embarrassed. "Yes. You're right, of course."

There was a quiet moment while the Arl gathered his words. "So," he began at last. "What did you think of Lady Cousland?"

Alistair crossed his brows. That was not the sort of question he had been expecting. "I ... she's a fine young lady," Alistair admitted.

"Yes, she is," Eamon nodded. "And the daughter of Teryn Bryce Cousland - a very respected and well loved, Teryn." He paused for a moment, gauging his nephew's reaction. "And she's very talented in her own rights - an accomplished duelist; an avid historian; fluent in Orlesian, Anders and Antivan; a local hero ... I think she plays the harp too..."

Alistair laughed. "Settle down, Eamon. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to sell me something."

Eamon's gaze fell, as a glimmer of guilt flickered across his eyes.

With a choke, Alistair's jaw fell open. "Maker's breath, Eamon, you are trying to sell me something."

The Arl sighed. "You must consider the stability of the throne, Alistair. You will need an heir very shortly."

Alistair sputtered as he rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Maker's Breath, Eamon. She's a child."

"Elissa is older than she looks," Eamon countered. "She will be seventeen before summer's end."

Alistair sighed. "That's still much too young, Eamon."

The two men held each other in long stares. They had ended up in a small courtyard within the Royal chambers. Thick blades of green grass curled up to their ankles, somehow untouched by the recent invasions.

Alistair scanned the skies above, grateful for this privacy. "You know," he gave a cold laugh. "I was actually worried that you would try to start that whole Celene thing with me."

Again, Eamon's eyes held guilt. "I did not believe that now would be the best time to include additional outside influences." He paused for a moment, evaluating his nephew's response. "But, if you would be open to considering - "

"No." Alistair interrupted. "Absolutely not. We're done with this." He turned back towards the inner chambers.

"It can't be Solona," Eamon shouted after him. "You know this."

Alistair dug in his heels, grinding himself to a halt. That was it. He was tired of this. Tired of all this nonsense, when there was really only one answer to it all.

Alistair spun about and marched back to Eamon. When he reached him, Alistair bent down to look the older man in the eyes. Perhaps for a moment, he recognized the equal fatigue within him, but Alistair did not let that stop him.

"It has to be Solona," he hissed. "She's pregnant. She holds the heir you want so badly." With that, he strode on to Solona's chambers, determined that nothing would stop him now.

Eamon blinked for only the barest moment before regaining his composure. "You're certain?" he called, chasing after him. "You're certain it's yours?"

Alistair forced his hands to his sides, for fear of strangling his uncle. "I'm going to pretend that you did not just ask that."

"But the elf was clearly interested -"

"No."

"And the Blood Mage at Redcliffe was an old friend -"

"NO."

"And there is rumour about another Templar at the Circle -"

"NO!" Alistair grabbed the Arl by the shoulders and shook him. "Stop this," he hissed. "Before I do something we both regret."

"I..." Eamon stammered. "Yes, I see." He nodded. "I will arrange for Solona to be transported to Redcliffe. Quietly. I will see to her and the child's comfort myself." He paused. "Away from Denerim."

Alistair trembled, not believing his own ears. "And then what?" he seethed. "Raise him like your own until Isolde gets jealous? And then ship him off to rot in the Chantry?" He gave his uncle one last shove before stalking away.

Solona ran, stumbled, fell, and then ran once more. A legion of demons bit at her heels, offering her paradise.

Demons lie! Demons always lie! She screamed to herself, clenching the tiny bundle close to her chest. Run. Fly.

If only she had wings.

Alistair threw open the doors of Solona's chamber with enough force to rattle one off its hinges. With a grimace, he shook off Wynne's scolding for the intrusion and marched to the one woman he believed could hold off his mounting tide of dilemmas.

"Leliana."

Her song interrupted, Leliana summoned her Chantry grace to stop from scowling. "Yes, Alistair? What can I do for you?"

"Leliana, I..." Alistair swallowed hard. "You know that the Revered Mother in Lothering was killed during the Blight, yes?"

Leliana nodded slowly. "Yes. Revered Mother Irina." She stood, settling her lute gently upon her chair. "She stayed to care for the refugees. It was a great tragedy - she was such a kind and gentle soul..."

Alistair bit back a reminder of how ... kind... the Revered Mother had been when Solona had demanded Sten's freedom. "Yes, well," he stammered, wondering if he was half mad. "I need you to lie for me - for Solona."

The bard glared at him. "What?" she demanded.

"IneedyoutosweartheReveredMothermarriedus," Alistair spewed in a single breath. He inhaled deeply and tried to ignore the looks of shock he received. "In Lothering. In secret. With you as the only witness." His chin dropped against his chest like a shamed child.

Leliana stepped cautiously towards Alistair, her jaw dropped low and her brows cinched in consternation. "You want me to lie about the last days of a Holy Mother? You want me to lie about sacred vows taken before the Maker himself?"

"I...well...yes," Alistair stammered. "For Solona," he added.

She turned to Wynne. "He's gone mad."

Wynne shook her head. "Alistair, I've warned you about running yourself ragged," she sighed. "You need to get some rest away from here. Watching Solona sleep all day won't do anyone any good."

"No Wynne, it's..." Alistair paused to kneel down next to Solona, and take her pale hand into his. She was so small, so fragile, and he was losing her. "Eamon wants to send her away," he said. "He wants hide her and our child away in Redcliffe and marry me off to some nobleman's daughter."

"You're king," Leliana spat. "Stop him."

"It's more than that," he answered, voice small. "I can't have a bastard."

"So now you worry about propriety?"

"What? No," Alistair swore. He ran his thumb against the palm of Solona's hand. It was cold and lifeless. Had it really been so long since she held his back?

"If anything happens to me, I want her and the child to be taken care of," he sighed. "I want them to have rights and respect. I want them to know that I loved them." He stood up, brushed the dust from this clothing and then turned back towards the women. "I won't let my son suffer a bastard's life of shame and desertion."

It was only a small stitch in the tapestry of Alistair's hopes and fears, but one little pull upon it would unravel them all.

"And I can't lose her again..."

Leliana marched to stand a hair's width away from Alistair. Fury and fire sprouted from her as she shouted to him. "Now? Now you want her? After everything you've been through and everything you've said and done and hurt ... now you want her?"

"Yes." It was not simple and it was not pretty. "Yes."

A long silence filled the chamber. Leliana turned to storm from the room, but stopped just short of the old oak door. She raked her fingers across her brow and let loose a string of Orlesian curses that no Chantry sister should know.

"Fine," she said at last. Whirling about on the hard stone floor, she pointed a harsh finger at Alistair. "But if you do this, you do it in truth. Before the Maker's sight and in Andraste's eternal glory. You will not abandon ma soeur again."

"A moritisk vindalle..." Wynne whispered, forgotten by the pair.

Alistair shook his head. "I'm sorry. A what now?"

Leliana scoffed. "You are most certainly the worst Templar in the Chantry."

"Ah...I was only an Apprentice... and Templar's don't really do weddings, just ... you know ...stabbity and whatnot." Alistair clarified. "But, ah, yes, go on."

Wynne came to stand before Alistair. With a mother's touch, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. "It is an ancient and tragic ritual," she lamented. "When a young lover falls into her deathbed, she and beloved may make a moritisk vindalle - a Deathbed vow. It is, in essence, an appeal to Andraste's mercy; by showing their devotion to one another, they pray that Our Lady Redeemer will bless their union and cure the ill. If not, well, the girl and her beloved are bound together in the eyes of the Maker, so that when they both have passed on, they may be together forever at the Maker's side." Wynne paused at Alistair's confusion. "If the girl is too weak to respond, her guardian may make the vows for her. To the Chantry, the vow is as strong as any other marriage."

Alistair stepped back. "So you're saying that fathers can marry off their dying daughters to whomever they like? And that's it? They're stuck together for all eternity?"

"Oui," Leliana spat. "And if you want me to lie for you, you'll do it, and you'll - "

"Okay. I'll do it," Alistair interrupted, raising his hands in surrender. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need. For Solona. I'll do it."

This was it. This was the end of Solona Amell. She had died in the Thedas and now she would die once more in the Fade.

Solona had run from the demons for what might have been hour or eons. Over grey hill and grey dale, she had run for all her worth, but her little piece of the Fade was no different from those she had visited in the past: it was an island with nothing but cold mist at all sides. At some point she had become rash and foolish and backed herself onto a cliff. With the army of demons upon her and trapped upon a narrow plank, she had nowhere else to run.

Give us the child, a demon spoke without sound. Give it to us. You can go free. Back beyond the Veil.

"There's no going back," Solona spat.

We will show you the way.

Oh Maker, could they actually do it - send her back to the Thedas? Back to Alistair? Who knew how long she had actually been dead in the mortal world? If it had only been a little while, then her body might still be...

No. Demons lie. Demons always lie. Anyways, it did not matter. She would not - could not - give a babe over to the demons.

"No!" Solona shouted back to them. "Leave us alone or I'll destroy you all!"

You cannot. Foolish mortal. You are one. We are the Fade. You cannot win. Give us the child.

With an echoing cry, Solona summoned forth another sheet of white lightening. It was enough to scatter the first row into ash, but not enough to stop the demons' advance. They slithered on towards her with a mad determination. She called down rains of fire and ice, but they too were insignificant against the dark throng of demons. And so Solona fought until she reached exhaustion and then she continued far beyond it. She could not carry on much longer. She would lose and the demons would tear her apart and take the child anyways.

Behind Solona the edge of the cliff loomed. Cold wind gusted up her spine, inviting her down into the foggy depths. She swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if she just jumped ...

A raven's cry turned her gaze upwards. High above the demons, a bird speared through the mists of the Fade towards Solona. She risked another glance up - even from such a distance, the bird seems oddly ... familiar. The raven dove into the ground between Solona and the demons, and then vanished into a oily black cloud of smoke. Both mage and demons paused to stare as the smoke writhed into the shape of a certain witch.

Morrigan took but a moment to regain her senses before letting loose a piecing shriek at the oncoming horde. With a sharp cut of her hands, a thick wall of ice rose up to shield the pair. For now.

"Why have you not risen yet?" she demanded, grabbing Solona by the forearm and shaking her. "Why are you not searching for Flemeth?"

"Morrigan?" Solona gasped in disbelief. Realization quickly followed. "Maker, you died too..."

The witch's brows drew together in a moment of confusion. "Bloody hell!" she spat. "Fool! You've no idea ..." Morrigan rubbed at her temple for a moment.

A muffled screech and the cracking of ice startled them both.

"You must wake up, Solona!" she shouted.

Solona frowned. Poor Morrigan, she had no idea she was dead. "Morrigan, there's no waking up." She shook her head. "We died."

Another crack skittered across the ice wall. The dark figures behind it scratched and scrabbled at it until finally a demon punctured a small hole and grasped blindly through it.

The mages jumped back to the very tip of the cliff. With a cry of frustration, Morrigan slapped Solona hard across the creek and then seized her by the shoulders.

"I need you. Wake up," she hissed, and pushed Solona over the edge.

A/N: 90% of this chapter was written over a year ago. I have this awesome habit of not finishing things...

Fact: I am not a fan of the Cousland Origin, or at least how I feel that it's supposed to play out. All the other Origins can be ... grungy if they have to. Or, more likely, I'm just jealous that only Cousland can legitimately have Alistair in the end...