The Eve of Battle

Part 1 – Fool Me Once, Shame On You…

We met a few clusters of darkspawn on the way to Redcliffe and destroyed them before they could join the main horde. With luck, we would reach the village ahead of the enemy and defend from Redcliffe Castle.

My first glimpse of the village filled me with dread. Evidence of darkspawn was everywhere. Slaughtered livestock, burning buildings, crumbling bridges, and bodies of slain civilians littered the hills leading down to the town. The gates barring the way to the castle were torn off and smashed to splinters. The windmill stood undamaged but there were small fires near enough to spread to it if the wind changed direction.

My blood vessels stung with the familiar taint, signaling the close proximity of darkspawn. From our vantage point at the top of the hill we could see a swarm of the monsters in the village square. We put them down quickly and looked around. There wasn't a sign of life in the houses, shops, or the chantry. The village was deserted. I hoped the residents made it to safety.

"This isn't much of an horde," Alistair commented. I was thinking the same thing. The ones we killed must have arrived ahead of the main body of the horde. He took a last look around, and when he was satisfied that there were no darkspawn lurking, he said, "Let's get to the castle."

We encountered many more of the monsters in the castle courtyard. They came in waves, and as we killed one wave, another would follow. As suddenly as the attacks began, they stopped.

A castle guard approached and led us to the hall where Eamon, Teagan, Eamon's knights, and officers of the human, elven, and dwarven armies were gathered. The Guerrins were relieved to see us alive and unharmed. Eamon had barely made it to the castle before the attacks began.

While we spoke, Riordan came in from the upper floor where he had been resting. "I am happy to see you made it here safely," he began. "I have news of the horde, and I fear your journey here was for naught."

"What?" Alistair demanded. "We trudged four days across Ferelden 'for naught'? What do you mean?"

"The archdemon has shown itself," Riordan announced. "He sent only a small portion of his army here as a distraction. The horde is marching on Denerim."

"Maker," I groaned. I was dead-weary from the long march, and now we had to return for the real battle. Who would have the strength left to fight when we reached Denerim?

"Assemble the armies," Alistair commanded. "Eamon, how soon can your men be ready to march?"

"We can leave at dawn," Eamon replied.

Alistair said, "Right. At dawn we begin a forced march on Denerim. That bastard isn't going to take my city." He ordered messengers to be sent to the dwarven, Dalish, and templar armies, instructing them to go directly to Denerim. We would meet them there.

"We should all try to get some rest before we set out," Eamon suggested. "The servants will show you to your quarters."

Riordan asked Alistair and me to meet him in his room for a briefing before we slept. "I have some warden business we must discuss before we retire."

I was ready to get the talk over with so I could sleep. I'd napped on the ground each time we made camp between Denerim and Redcliffe, but the growing threat brought stronger nightmares, each more real and frightening than the one before. I hoped my fatigue would keep the worst of the dreams at bay.

Just one night of rest, please. That's all I need. Just tonight, and I'll be ready to face the enemy with all my strength.

A castle servant showed Alistair and me where our rooms were. His was in a hallway adjacent to the one where my room and Riordan's were located. We entered Riordan's room and he got right to the point. Only a Grey Warden could kill an archdemon, he said. When the archdemon died, the warden died as well. As the senior warden, and knowing he had little time before he perished from the taint, Riordan claimed the right to make the kill. If he failed, he said, the responsibility fell to me. Alistair would normally have been next in line, but because he was now king, Ferelden needed him more than it needed me. Over Alistair's protests, I agreed with the plan.

"But it won't come to that," I assured him. I was not reassured myself, but he didn't need any more to worry about.

"It's settled then," Riordan declared. "Let us get some rest."

Alistair was disturbed by the news Riordan had given them. It was true, as he'd said; Duncan had never told him that only a Grey Warden could slay an archdemon, and what happened to the warden in the process.

Riordan was senior warden, as powerful and experienced as Duncan had been, but the torture he'd endured had left him weakened. Scant days had passed since they'd rescued him from Howe's estate. His injuries hadn't had time to heal. He needed weeks of rest, and various healing spells and potions, to regain his full strength. Even then, the taint had taken its toll on him and would soon claim his life.

If Riordan wasn't strong enough to kill the archdemon—and Alistair wasn't convinced he was—that meant either Winter or he would have to kill it, and whoever did would die. This is what Alistair found most troubling. He didn't fear dying. Killing the archdemon and ending the blight would be the best thing he could do for Ferelden—his first and last act as king—but he couldn't bear the thought of losing Winter. She would want to make the killing blow and spare him, as he would do for her.

She had the spirit of a lioness and a strong will; she would be able to go on without him. It broke his heart to think of her mourning him, but she would recover. The Winter he'd known for the past year, and grown to love with all his being, was a survivor. She had been through terrible things, before she came to Ferelden and since she'd joined the wardens. Each difficult experience seemed to make her more determined, more capable.

He didn't possess her kind of inner strength. He needed her. The mere thought of life without her was more than he could bear. They'd come so close to having the future he'd dreamed of, but what stood between them wasn't just a war with a possibility that one of them wouldn't survive. It was a death sentence for one of them.

A noise at his door broke his concentration. "What do you need?"

"I have a proposal you will want to consider carefully," Morrigan answered.

Alistair walked out ahead of me without pausing to bid me goodnight. He was preoccupied, and understandably so. The upcoming war filled my thoughts too. I left Riordan's suite and went to my own. It was a little smaller than Riordan's, but cozier. A fire blazed in the fireplace. Someone had laid out a soft white cotton gown or a dress on the foot of my bed. It looked incongruous beside my armor and weapons, but it was appreciated. For tonight, I could put aside swords and warfare, and feel like a woman again instead of just another warden.

Even better, the room had a stone bath and ewers of water, warm and cold. Scented soap sat in a fancy silver footed holder. An ornate comb and brush set were laid beside the soap dish. Whoever had prepared my room did it with great care.

Isolde's leftovers, most likely.

I didn't care who they belonged to before. I hadn't put my hands on finery like this since I left Starkhaven. This was a most thoughtful gesture on the part of my gracious host, and I wasn't going to let it go to waste. I stripped off my dusty, bloodstained armor and undertunic, stepped into the bath, and poured the entire ewer of warm water over my head.

Part 2 - …Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me

After my bath, I slipped the gown on. It was loose, fragrant, and comfortable. There were lacings at the sides to adjust the fit, but for sleeping it was just fine. I was ready for what might be the last good night's sleep in a long while… or my last ever. But I couldn't dwell on that sort of thing. Deep down—I don't know how or why I felt this—I was confident that we would win the battle and end the blight.

I decided to check on Alistair before I turned in and see if he was still awake. I was concerned for him. He had a lot on his mind, not the least of which was the revelation Riordan had given us. I wanted to make sure he wasn't losing precious sleep by worrying needlessly.

Slipping quietly past the closed doors in my bare feet, I took care not to wake my sleeping companions. When I neared Alistair's room, I saw that his door was open and a candle was still burning.

Good, he isn't sleeping yet. Maybe we'll have a minute to talk.

As I got closer, I heard hushed voices. Alistair's voice.

"Then you swear you'll leave and we'll never see each other again? Neither you nor… the child?"

"That is right. After the battle, I will be gone." It was Morrigan. What was she doing in his room at this hour?

"Winter will never know of this?"

"Not from me. If you wish to tell her—"

"No!" His voice rose, but not so loudly that it would disturb anyone else. "No, she is not to learn of it." He sighed heavily and there was a short silence. Then he said, "Very well. I'll lie with you, but as soon as we're done I want you gone."

"Then let us waste no more time talking," she purred. I was almost at his room, and I watched the backstabbing whore saunter to the door and push it closed. Before it shut completely, she looked me in the eye. I thought I saw the corners of her mouth curve up slightly in a triumphant smile. Then the scene was cut off from my view and I heard the bolt slide home.

I stood in the hallway, frozen like a statue, too numb to move. Alistair, the man who had said he wanted me to be his only lover, had elected to sleep with Morrigan—with Morrigan of all people, the woman he claimed he hated. Why? I had refused to sleep with him at camp, but he said he understood and agreed. There had to be more reason than that.

And why would she? Because she'd lost her lover, did she think to borrow mine? Was she so backward in her swamp witch upbringing that she thought this was acceptable between friends? That civilized women used each other's men with the same casualness that they borrowed each other's clothing?

I couldn't breathe. Fury and jealousy would smother me if I didn't get out of the castle and as far from Redcliffe as I could go. I hurried down the stairs and was frustrated to see the castle doors bolted and guarded. They were to remain secured until Arl Eamon gave leave.

I smothered the urge to plead to be let out, knowing it would avail nothing, and I gathered my wits. The guards were eyeing me quizzically. "Is there a passage to the garden where I can go to work out battle plans? King Alistair has asked me to provide him with a strategy. With all the snoring upstairs near my suite, I can't think." I put on a sheepish expression for their benefit to complement my story.

The guards looked taken aback at the words "King Alistair," since he had not been officially crowned and few knew he was Ferelden's new monarch. "The arl has ordered that no one go out until the army is ready to march, Warden," one of them answered, "but on the upper floor is a terrace overlooking the lake. No one would disturb you at this time of night. Would that suffice?" I replied that it sounded perfect for my needs. He showed me a shortcut to the top floor and gave directions to a door at the far end of the hall that opened to the terrace.

I found the door to the terrace and practically fell through it in my haste to get outdoors. The night air was cool and there was a breeze coming off the lake. I gulped in great, heaving, sobbing breaths, giving myself the hiccups.

The night sky was reddish, giving a bloody tint to the full moon. How fitting. A low wall of stone surrounded the terrace. I rested my hands on it and looked over the edge. It wasn't such a long fall to the ground, I convinced myself. I could pull myself over the wall and drop to the garden. Then what? I had no armor, no weapons, no shoes, and even if I survived the fall, I'd probably be killed by the guards before they realized who I was. Don't get me wrong—I wasn't suicidal. I simply didn't care what happened. Not to me, not to those two rutting beasts on the floor below, not to the darkspawn or the archdemon or to anyone. And if this was what the Maker had in mind for me, I didn't care about Him either.

I regretted that last thought right away. This wasn't the Maker's doing. But I didn't have the will to repent. I was too angry, too emotionally used up. So I stood there, confused and once again betrayed, vacillating between numbness and searing heartache. I closed my eyes and let the night breeze wash over me, chilling me and tossing my still-damp hair about. Maybe, if I stood there long enough, it would push away every thought but one—driving my sword through the archdemon's head, then leaving this cursed world for the silent halls of oblivion. To the void with Alistair, Morrigan, the archdemon, and Ferelden.

A tear forced its way out and trickled down my face. Followed by another. And a third.

Don't waste tears on him. He's not worth it. Is he suffering? Hardly.

That line of reasoning wasn't helping. I had to clear my mind, force Morrigan's yellow reptilian eyes from my memory, forget the sound of Alistair's voice speaking words of guile, and focus all my energy on the upcoming battle. Between now and the time we reached Denerim, I would avoid Alistair entirely. My orders had been given; I had no need to consult with anyone but the troops, and even then, not until we were nearing the battle site. The forced march meant no long stops, no rest, and no time to waste in conversation.

My inner struggle was so intense that I didn't hear anyone approach, and thought I was alone until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I startled so violently that the visitor began to sputter apologies. The voice was familiar. Friendly. Male. It was Bann Teagan.

"Forgive me, I beg of you, my lady," he pleaded. "I should have announced my presence. How stupid of me."

I shook my head, still battling for control of my emotions. It was difficult to speak, but I managed, "No, please. You did nothing wrong. I'm just…I wasn't…" That was as far as I got before a strong trembling gripped me. I averted my eyes, turned my face from his, and tried not to let my angst show in my movements. It was a futile attempt. Such deep misery could not be hidden from one as compassionate as Bann Teagan.

He took both my hands and guided me to a table and chairs I'd not noticed when I stepped onto the terrace. We sat, and he kept hold of my trembling hands. His gentle blue eyes searched my face. At last he spoke. His tone was soothing, sympathetic and concerned.

"I know fear when I see it, but you aren't afraid, are you? And I also know pain, heartache, and suffering. These, my dear lady, are what I see in your face. Will you tell me what is troubling you?" I shook my head in the negative, and he went on. "I will not pry into your affairs. My only wish is to comfort you, to help you if I can, in any way I can." I nodded my thanks, as I didn't dare speak for fear of bursting into tears.

He released one of my hands but held the other tightly. His free hand reached up to stroke my cheek. "Winter," he said softly. "Let me help you. Please."

I raised my eyes to meet his gaze. His tender look dissolved into one that mirrored my pain. "Oh Maker! What is it, dear one? Who has hurt you so badly you cannot even speak?"

My control slipped away and I dropped my head. Hot tears rained down, drenching his hand and mine. My body was wracked with sobs. Teagan rose from his chair and pulled me from mine. He held me to his chest and I wept a torrent of despair and rage. Rage at Morrigan for deceiving me all along, pretending to be a hard-won friend to disguise her duplicity. Rage at Alistair for playing the part of the gentleman, the humble and reluctant prince, and the devoted lover—each role acted so convincingly that I never thought he would betray me. And most of all, rage at the scene that played out so vividly in my head: Morrigan and Alistair lying together.

Morrigan was a beautiful woman. Inherently evil, yes. Hateful to those she disliked, to be sure. Manipulative and cunning and cruel. But visually striking, and she dressed so provocatively that she drew admiring or lustful looks from everyone who saw her. Even the stoic Sten hadn't been unaffected by her sensuality. It seemed nearly every man desired her except Alistair, who claimed to despise her on sight. Yet there he was, in her arms, in his chambers, in his bed.

Was this her way of getting back at Aiden for leaving her? If so, why did she choose Alistair? Why did she want him now if she despised him as she claimed? Was it because he was to be king? As a Grey Warden, he had nothing to offer her. But as the king of Ferelden, he'd have wealth, power, and a country at his command. She'd always said he was weak, and for many months, he was weak. She, as the witch-queen, could easily rule over him with her spells.

"Stop!" The soundless plea came from the depths of my being. It felt like my heart was physically being torn in two. I had grieved hard when Sebastian ordered my execution, but even his lies, fanaticism, and betrayal caused me less anguish than this. I didn't know if I could even look at Alistair again after tonight.

When my tears were spent, extreme weariness took hold. Teagan still held me, and his embrace was the only thing keeping me on my feet. If he released me my knees would buckle and I would crumple to the floor. He sensed this, and before I could protest, he swept me up in his arms and carried me indoors. The nearest suite was his, and he brought me inside, kicked the door closed behind him, and sat me on his bed.

"Let me fetch you some spiced wine. Stay here until you feel ready to return to your room. Or if you prefer, you can take this room and I'll find another."

"I can't." My voice was a weak croak of sound.

As nice as my room was, it was nowhere near as large and elegant as this room. I'd been in Eamon's suite before, when I delivered the sacred ashes. Teagan's suite was much like Eamon's. Spacious and luxurious, furnished in fine wood and rich velvet.

"You can, you must, and you will," he urged. He added with a smile, "Unless my suite is too squalid for my lady's high-born tastes."

His attempt to cheer me was endearing. I liked Teagan from the day I met him, when we first happened upon Redcliffe and found the village under attack. He had slipped up at least twice and voiced his attraction to me, which had amused me at the time. His character was impeccable, his manners knightly, and he was handsome besides. It was impossible not to like him.

"Thank you, Teagan, for everything," I said sincerely. "But I should return to my room now."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," he scolded. "This is your room. I've taken a fancy to your old suite and I mean to have it. If you're unhappy with my choice, you can report me to Eamon or Alistair in the morning." His voice was stern but his eyes sparkled with good humor.

"Have it your way," I relented. "You mentioned something about wine, did you not?"

"Indeed I did." He produced a bottle of wine and two cups from a cupboard.

The wine was excellent, and it relaxed me enough so that I could try to rest. It would have taken bottles of it to silence my thoughts, but a cup was enough to muffle them.

"You are too kind to me," I remarked. "I'm truly honored to have you as a friend."

"The honor is all mine, my dear lady. There is little in this life more priceless than your friendship."

"I've said it before, Bann Teagan. You're a flatterer."

"And you, my dear, are too formal. I am merely Teagan, your servant. No titles are needed between us, unless that is your wish."

"Nonsense," I huffed. "You are my friend, not my servant. And no, I don't want formality between us."

"Friends, you say again? If that is all you want us to be, I hope you will count me as your most trusted friend."

What was he implying? If that was all I wanted to be…? Did he want us to be more than friends? Lovers? For just one night? For an evening of comfort before battle?

"What do you wish us to be, Teagan?"

He sat on the side of the bed. "If you will indulge a foolish man, I will speak plainly, Winter. I don't believe I will survive the war, and I don't want to die with these words unspoken. I've admired you since I first got to know you. Your beauty caught my eye, and your compassion, courage, and character captured my heart. Before you and your party left Redcliffe, I was falling for you. You are always in my thoughts. I don't fear for my life, but I do fear for yours. I love you, Winter. If it were within my power, we would be much more than friends. I would have you as my wife."

Need I say how surprised I was by his declaration? Alistair offered a one-night romp in my tent. Teagan offered his heart. It took me a few moments to find my voice. "Teagan, I don't know what to say. I'm flattered, but…" I trailed off. I truly didn't know how to respond to such devotion.

"You needn't say anything," he answered, and his sadness tore at my heart. "I understand."

"No, you misunderstood," I corrected him, "and you didn't let me finish."

"Please finish," he prompted.

"I have one fear in this life, and that is a fear of love," I admitted. "I can face foes, battle, wounds, a darkspawn horde, an archdemon, and even death without a qualm, but to give my heart, only to have it crushed again, is more than I can do."

"I swear by all that is holy, I am incapable of hurting you," he said, and I believed him. "I love you with my entire being."

Don't I deserve a few hours of happiness? Am I not allowed to be selfish, and to take comfort when it's freely offered? I haven't felt a man's touch in over two years. Why should I continue to cling to meaningless values when death is only a few days away?

"I don't know what will happen in this battle any more than you do," I said. "We could both die, and if what Riordan says is accurate, it's likely that we will. Even if we survive, I can't promise that I will remain in Ferelden." One last check of my conscience found it unperturbed, and I finished, "But if you are willing, I can promise you tonight."

The expression on his face wasn't one of lust or conquest. There was a purity of emotion I'd not seen in any man. "If I should spend my last night loving you, I can die knowing I'd realized my fondest dream," he responded. He pulled me to my feet, embraced me, and we shared a long, deep kiss. There was no turning back now. Not even if I wanted to.

Part 3 – Season of the Witch

Alistair threw off his armor and lay in his small clothes, eager to be done with the deed so he could wipe this night and this wretched woman from his memory. He averted his eyes when Morrigan approached him with slow, tantalizing steps, fixing her sultry gaze on him, eyeing his body like a ravenous bereskarn. He flinched when she crawled onto the bed. Just the thought of her touch made his skin creep.

"Stop resisting, Alistair," she purred. "I assure you, you will not hate it."

"I already hate it," he answered through clenched teeth. "Get it over with and leave me, witch." He reminded himself why he was doing this. It was for Winter's sake, to save her life. He loved her deeply, but right now he resented Winter being in his life. If not for her, he wouldn't have to lie with the woman he detested more than he hated Loghain.

The resentment quickly passed, replaced by guilt. But no momentary qualm over a mere thought would compare to the shame he would feel for lying with a witch-whore like Morrigan.

He tried to reason his way out of it. If Riordan failed, he would deal the killing blow himself. Death was preferable to living without his beloved; he'd already determined that much. But he knew Winter—her determination, her valor, and her stubbornness. She would insist on saving him instead. He could try to dissuade her, try to overpower her if necessary, but she was quicker and more agile than he. It was almost a certainty that she would find a way to dart past him and kill the archdemon herself.

The solution Morrigan offered was the only way he could be sure Winter would live. It was also the most distasteful thing imaginable. He'd kept himself pure all his life, with great discomfort, and for what? To have a wanton apostate as his first sexual partner? He wanted his first, his only lover, to be Winter. He gladly agreed to wait until they were married to please her and to assure her that he was hers alone. And now this.

This "ritual" would result in the witch conceiving a child—his child. He didn't want to think about the kind of beast she and her mother would raise. This was blood magic; he knew it for what it was. He felt the stain of it. As for the child, he knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering when his bastard son would come to him and challenge him for the throne.

But it always came back to Winter. Morrigan had told him that Riordan would fail to kill the archdemon. She had foreseen his death and related it in convincing detail. Then she swore to him that no warden would die from killing the archdemon if her ritual were carried out on this night. Winter would live. Her absolute assurance decided him. Clinging to irrational hope, he surrendered himself.

The room went blacker than the deepest pit of the Deep Roads. He couldn't see his hand if he'd held it an inch from his eyes. He was dimly aware of Morrigan, but no longer fully conscious of her presence. There was something else in the room.

What room? His suite was gone and he found himself laid out on a stone altar, bare and cold, like an offering to a malignant god, in an unfamiliar cavern. Torches flickered around the cave, too far away to illuminate the altar well, but enough for him to discern shadows and shapes. There seemed to be hundreds of demonic beings lining the walls. Their images appeared, vanished, and reappeared with the dancing torchlight.

A dream. I'm having a nightmare. Thank the Maker. I thought it was real.

Black tendrils snaked from the walls of the cavern toward the altar, climbing up its sides, slithering over his arms, legs, neck, and torso, as if exploring him. He expected their touch to be cold and wet, but instead they were warm and silky. Pleasant. Relaxing.

His blood began to burn in his veins. The taint was awakened, reaching toward its master. The archdemon was near. Soon the whispering would start…the evil lord speaking to his children.

"Grey Warden, you human refuse, you fool," the voice greeted him. It wasn't like the dreams he'd had before. This time, it felt as if the archdemon was right beside him, speaking into his ear. He tried to turn his head but couldn't move.

The voice continued, "Your ritual is in vain, Grey Warden. I know of the witch's plan, and it will fail. I will devour her and her offspring before nightfall tomorrow, and then, when your armies are vanquished and your countrymen lay dead in the wasteland you call your kingdom, I will come for you. I will devour you slowly, and you will experience pain beyond comprehension before I end your life."

The pain was beginning even now. It went from his veins to his internal organs, to his lungs and his heart and to every part of him, burning like liquid fire, like molten lava, cooking him alive slowly…slowly. The stone altar warmed from the heat of his body, becoming too hot to bear, blistering his skin, and still he was unable to move. The soft tendrils were tentacles, barbed with poisoned thorns, digging into his flesh and holding him fast.

Winter, my love, forgive me. I don't think I can last much longer. Ferelden is lost, but you can live. Flee the battle, go to the Free Marches, or to Antiva ,or to the Anderfels. Anywhere but here.

"Ah yes, Winter MacEwan, human garbage," the archdemon mocked. "You believe she loves you but she cannot say the words. Have you not wondered why that is so? It's a most interesting tale. And now, while you lie suffering, she receives pleasure from another man. Shall I put the vision of them in your mind so you can watch them as I am watching? Did you think she would grieve for you? She has forgotten you. You are desolate, you wretched little worm of a king."

This is a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Something filling my head with lies. Blood magic. Abomination. The archdemon never speaks like this. He speaks to his horde, not to me. Just a foul dream… a nightmare.

Alistair's strength was waning. He had been straining against the tendrils but he couldn't escape their ironlike grip. Suddenly, his pain rose to its zenith when his seed was ripped from his body by wicked claws, gushing from him in a fount of blood and gore and bits of ragged flesh. He opened his mouth to scream in excruciating agony, but he was incapable of forming sound. As the fount slowed, trickled, then stopped, he lost consciousness.

How much time had passed since he fell asleep? He couldn't tell. His mind was sluggish. Thoughts were difficult to put together. Memories…

Winter. Morrigan. The ritual. The nightmare. The pain. Maker's breath, the pain!

He threw back the quilt. He was naked. His groin ached worse than a rotted tooth, but to his unspeakable relief, his parts were intact. How much of it was a dream and how much was real? One thing was real. Morrigan, the spiteful bitch. The ritual, if that's what it was. Knowing that devious whore, it was her last prank on him—pretending there was a valid, pressing need for him to lie with her. He felt defiled, violated by an abomination masquerading in human flesh.

He swung his legs off the side of the bed, wincing at the soreness that reached from his neck to his ankles. His ankles…

"Shackles," he muttered, observing the red rings just above his feet. The memory of the black tendrils flitted through his mind. His wrists bore the same marks as his ankles. With no mirror in the room, he couldn't see the red welt around his neck.

He shut his eyes and tried to remember the details of the dream, but they receded into the chasm of forgetfulness. He tried harder, focusing on the things he could recall, but with no results. Whatever happened, it was probably best he didn't remember it.

He needed to talk to Winter. To confess what he'd done and beg forgiveness for his one act of faithlessness. To explain to her why it had to happen.

No, that wasn't entirely true. It didn't have to happen. He chose to do it; he wasn't forced against his will. Wouldn't it have been better for them both to die? But it was his decision to accept or refuse. His acquiescence was further evidence that he would make a horrible king. Probably a sorry husband as well.

Assuming she will even listen to a proposal now, much less agree to marry me.

If the situation were reversed, he would be emotionally crushed regardless of the reason for the act. But he trusted in her ability to accept and forgive. They would help each other, as they'd always done, and together they would be able to put last night behind them as if it really were just a bad dream. He need only choke down his revulsion long enough to get through today. And then tomorrow. And the next day.

He stepped out into the hall. The castle was quiet. Everyone was still sleeping. He went to the right, through the door into the next hallway, and stopped outside Winter's suite. His breeches were chafing his male parts, and he tugged at the fabric to loosen it.

Great. Not only did I lie with a witch, I got swamp witch crotch rot in the bargain. I'll be lucky if the damned thing doesn't fall off. Maybe luckier if it did.

Winter's door was closed and her room was silent. Beneath the door, feeble rays of light from her fireplace reached for him. He instinctively took a step back, then snorted at his jumpiness.

It was a nightmare, you idiot, he thought. He raised his hand to knock on her door, but something stopped him. Not a force, not a persistent dream-tendril, but a staggering wave of guilt, shame, and nausea. How could he face her? He could still detect Morrigan's scent on his skin. Did he think he could approach Winter in such a state? Was there enough water in all of Lake Calenhad to cleanse him of the witch's vile touch?

Defeated and broken-hearted, he turned from her door and walked to the end of the hall, to the window beside Riordan's door. He could see the moon and stars, and from their position, he gauged the time at about 3 a.m. The best thing for everyone was for him to go back to his suite and try to sleep. If he spent the rest of this night miserably, he deserved no less.

Part 4 – Kiss from a Rose

Teagan's love for me was genuine; of that I had no doubt. In many ways, he was a better match for me than Alistair. He was older, experienced, and responsible. He deferred to me only in my position as a warden, but in the things that didn't involve darkspawn and demons, he was in fully in charge, determined and self-reliant. I found his uncompromised masculinity mesmerizing.

He was decidedly knowledgeable in the art of love, and I hoped I would not be a disappointment to him. My past experience was limited to one man—to four stolen, hasty encounters. The attention that Teagan lavished on me was an entirely different experience from anything I'd known or could have imagined. His skillful caresses and fiery passion swept away every hurtful, negative thought. I was immersed in his love, not drowning but thriving in it. It was the kind of intimacy a new groom shared with his bride on their wedding night. It was… beyond description.

Afterwards I lay with my head on his chest, comforted by the strong, steady beat of his heart. I waited for the guilt of promiscuity to assail me, but all I felt was sweet gratification. Drowsiness overtook me and I slept in his arms until he woke me with touches, kisses, and whispered words of love.

"Is it dawn already?" I burrowed closer to him, as if being near him could stop time.

"Not for another hour," he answered.

Whatever will we do with a whole hour to spare?

"Ugh," I groaned. "My armor is downstairs in my room."

"Not any more," he smiled. He pointed to it, neatly arranged on a chair, with my weapons and dragonskin gloves on the table beside it. Laid across my gloves was a perfect red rose.

"A hopeless romantic, are you?" I teased.

"Guilty on both counts. I'm hopelessly in love, and all my thoughts of you are romantic ones."

"All of them?"

"Almost all."

Teagan understood that Winter wasn't ready to accept his feelings for her, but she accepted him as a man. For now, that was more than he could have hoped for. He knew it was unwise and improper, but he didn't give a damn about propriety. He kicked off his boots and slipped into bed beside her.

Her silken skin was lightly scented. It was the fragrance of Andraste's grace, the rarest and most beautiful flower in Thedas. Teagan thought the contrast of the white gown, her dark hair, and her ivory skin made Winter seem ethereal. She was like a faerie, seductive and lithe and lovely.

But she was no mythical creature. She was real, and for these few hours, she was his. With her consent and enthusiastic participation, he loved her as fully as he was capable, pouring his emotions into every caress and kiss and stroke, giving and receiving unspeakable pleasure, until the morning's first sunrays bathed the horizon in a faint glow.

Morning came too quickly, as it always does when its presence is unwanted. Teagan was up and dressed before he roused me from a relaxed, dreamless slumber. He helped me with my armor—or more accurately, he hindered my progress, using the opportunity to reach beneath it and caress me through my undertunic.

"If you keep this up we'll never make it out of the castle," I remarked, handing him my spellward necklace, turning my back to him, and holding my hair up so he could fasten the clasp. After he'd secured it, he turned me to face him, touched my cheek tenderly, and uttered his goodbye.

"If I don't see you again," he said, "know that I loved you to my dying breath, and beyond death."

"Don't talk like that," I whispered. His words almost brought me to tears, they were so earnest. "Live, and find me after the battle. I want to see your face and know that you're alive. Promise me."

"My love, I cannot make such a promise…"

"Promise me, and I'll promise you the same." I was adamant. "You're not leaving this room until you give me your oath."

He regarded me with anguished eyes, but his desire to please me was stronger than the uncertainty we faced. "I… promise… to do my best to stay alive, and find you after the battle."

"That will have to do," I admitted. I was asking a lot of him, and he wasn't a man to give his word lightly. I issued a flurry of last-minute instructions. "Don't take risks, don't fight alone, don't let the enemy separate you from your allies, don't get cornered, avoid the ogres no matter what you have to do to avoid them…"

"Anything else, Warden?" He was smiling at my commanding tone.

"Just this," I said, and pulled him close for one last kiss.

"Well, when you put it that way…"

A sharp rap on the door startled us. "Bann Teagan? The arl is asking for you, m'lord."

"Tell him I'll be right down."

Our bodies were like magnets, and it was with effort that we released each other. He walked to the door, brave and magnificent, turned to give me an encouraging smile, then he was gone.

Our intimacy awakened emotions with which I wasn't entirely familiar. Was this real love? Deep friendship mingled with physical attraction? I didn't know. But thoughts of love were not meant for this day. They would keep. If I lived, I would untangle them later.

I turned my focus to the battle ahead, and to things I understood well.

A few minutes had passed since Teagan left. It was time for me to go downstairs and join the others for the march to Denerim. I sheathed my weapons and checked my armor one last time, then walked to the door. Before I opened it I paused and looked back at the suite. My stomach fluttered with the memory of my hours with Teagan. Rapid flashes went through my mind in a second. His handsome face, his strong body, his braid coming loose again and again as he poised above me, to his annoyance and my amusement. As long as I lived—if I lived past this war—I would recall our night together fondly, without a shred of regret.

I wouldn't learn until later that Morrigan conceived Alistair's child that night.

Hers wasn't the only child conceived on the eve of battle.