The prompt - I decided I should probably not use the original prompts, outside of the kmeme. Apologies if anyone was made uncomfortable in the time they were up.

oOo

He was never really meant to be King, he'd known even then. He'd spared Anora for a reason, even if he didn't know what that reason was, beyond a vague sense of doom, the heavy feeling that he wasn't really meant to survive, wasn't meant to be so happy. The survival of Ferelden was worth more than his pride, so he locked her in a tower, betrayal or no, to be held in reserve for the day he fell.

Except now he is the King, even if he is badly neglecting his duty to crown and country, following a barely warm trail through a cold, dark mountain range, while she reigns in his name. His guide is rumor, and nightmare flashes of intuition, tugging at his mind and hand, sourced from the ring he had taken from Elissa's broken, bloody finger.

He still sees her soft grey eyes, flooded with pain and sorrow as she told him to remain at the gates. His heart had broken in that moment, knowing what it meant. A searing flicker of hope, that it could be Riordan, as she whispered I'll be back before you know it. But her eyes told him the truth her lips wouldn't. He will never stopped hating himself for obeying.

Sidelong flashes of blood spattered silverite catch in the corner of his eye as he crouches, damp and miserable, trying to warm his hands over a feeble fire. Glimpses of Elissa's chestnut hair, intermingled with visions of her, his quarry, raven haired and golden eyed, pale as the ice she calls her heart. If he closes his eyes and doesn't concentrate, he can see them both, sharing a smile over the roaring camp fire, careless touches laden with affection, until the Witch turns her cold gaze on him, threat clear. He used to shiver when she did that. Now he only wishes he had understood what she was telling him the last time she looked at him, hot and cold, violence crackling on her skin, grief dripping from every line of her body.

And then she left, and Elissa never wanted to talk about it. It was never the right time. There was always something that needed immediate tending, troops to cajole, gear to polish and pack, strategy to discuss. Always something to distract him from his future Queen's distant eyes and furtive ring twisting, whenever he asked about the girl from the Wilds. Sometimes she would bite her lip playfully, glancing coyly at him from beneath her lashes, and he would forget the world existed, just for a little while.

Elissa used to sit beside the fire, much like he was now, only warmer, a bigger fire, for more people. More than one. She would stare into the flames, he would watch the shadows dance on her cheeks, as she twisted the damned ring round and round, as if it was the puzzle key to their upcoming dilemma. As if she thought about it, but they couldn't talk about it. He hadn't wanted her to think about it, hadn't wanted her to consider options. As far as he was concerned, there were no options. It was his to do, if Riordan fell. Senior Warden, King, and lover of an amazing woman that Ferelden needed. They didn't need him. What was there to talk about?

There weren't many words exchanged between them, really, between Redcliffe and Denerim, with all the things they wouldn't talk about. But that was OK, they didn't need words, when hands and lips and bodies spoke so eloquently.

He wraps his cloak tightly around himself, shivering, and crawls into his bedroll. The heat of his dreams will see him through the night, as it has so many nights before. And if not, he doesn't really care. To die in dreams of her, he, a failed Warden, a useless King, will die as happy as he can be, left with nothing but memories.

oOo

When he wakes, it is into a cocoon of warmth he has not felt in weeks, his tiny fire a blaze, well stoked, his blanket having sprouted fur. And breath. And teeth. The lolling tongue of the wolf bedded down beside him seems to laugh at him, as he regards those teeth with apprehension.

"Why are you here?" Even knowing what she really is, he scratches between the wolf's ears, pets the soft pelt of the creature sharing his bed. She stretches under stroking hands, shimmers, shades of wolf becoming woman. When he feels fur give way to skin, he jerks his hands away, rolling onto his back with a half-amused huff.

"'Twas quite foolish to sleep so exposed to the elements, Alistair." Propped up on her elbows, she looks at him, solemn golden eyes, cold as ever. "You would have died."

"As if you care. Go back to being a dog. I like you better that way."

"I am loathe to allow yet another thing Elissa loved to pass from this world."

The sound of her name, spoken once more in the Witch's sultry voice, causes him to flinch back, gritting his teeth against the wave of anguish sweeping through him. Her own harsh grief does nothing to soften her eyes.

"It should have been me." A wretched murmur, as he turns his face from her.

"Indeed. Why was it not?"

His shame splashes across his features, flushing in his cheeks and down his neck. Morrigan nods her understanding, her fingers press against his heated skin. "She bade you remain, did she? Bade you stay behind, remain safe. Be King?" A cold fingertip trails a shiny smooth scar cutting across his jaw. He nods under her touch. "I thought she might. We spoke, she and I, of what you might do, faced with the Archdemon."

"You discussed me? Really?" He looks askance at her, the woman he put such effort into hating, until he could no longer hate someone Elissa loved so much.

She laughs, a deep, throaty sound that reverberates through his body. He tries to squirm away from her, only manages to writhe more fully against her bare skin.

"Where were you, then, when it came to the battle?" Discomfort turns to glare, as he remembers why he is so angry with the Witch. "Did you discuss that too?"

From the corner of her eyes, she returns his glare, unwilling to face him. "Of course we did. She refused, or you did, and I could not stay and watch her die. Not when there was a way out, and she too stupidly stubborn to take it!"

"What?" He grabs her jaw, turning her head until golden eyes meet his, realization dawning.

"She never spoke to you…"

"Not about a way out. That night, the night you left…" 'I love you so much, Alistair. Always remember that.' Elissa's fingertips slid gently over the ragged cut on his jaw, left there from the Landsmeet. He refused to have it healed, a reminder of the necessary caution of Kingship. 'We'll find a way to give you an heir, find a way to heal Ferelden. When this is over.'

"She didn't say anything about a way out." He closes his eyes, and the chin in his hand is Elissa's, the eyes staring so intently at him are grey, not gold, and he pulls her tightly against him, groaning.

"I offered a way out, for you both, that no Gray Warden need die. She went, and came back, and she was crying, but she. Said. No." Each word a gasp, as though she is choking back tears. "I hated you so much. I could think of no reason she would refuse, but that you had done so, and I despised you, for letting such a petty dislike cost me my only friend."

His face is open, if his eyes are closed, and she can see the memories dripping onto his skin. "I thought that you refused the ritual for your dislike of me, for your fear of me, not that she never told you of my offer." With a fingertip, she catches his sorrow, tastes the bitterness of his tears. With a sigh, she pulls herself from his arms, carefully wrapping the blanket around herself. Sitting up, she looks at the fire, cheerfully devouring the wood she had spelled dry.

His voice is hoarse, clotted with emotion, anger, grief, "Why didn't you ask me? I would have died for her, what is participating in some ritual compared to that?"

"Would you have lay with me so willingly, who loved her so wholeheartedly?" A glance at him as he lay, eyes open now, showing her his torment. "'Twas what the ritual entailed, Alistair. To lay with me, to create a child to absorb the Archdemon's soul."

The crack of his hand across her cheek is painful, the sudden fury of his movement as he coils up, no longer on his back but on his knees before her. Did she close her eyes and miss his moving, or did she simply welcome his hate? The familiarity of his animosity is comforting, better by far than his tears.

"How could you think that something so…simple, would make me willing to lose her?" A growl, deep in his chest, and another strike, flushing red on her pale skin. "A choice, to fuck you, or let her die? Not even a choice."

She had failed Elissa, and run. Even Alistair's shame could not match her own, and the punishment he doles out in the flat of his hand is welcome, so too the hard grip on her arms as he grabs her, the ragged pain as her back hits the ground. His breath comes harshly as he rips away the cover of the blanket, his hand at her throat, holding her down, stifling her breathing. When his other hand fumbles for the ties of his breeches, she understands his intention. Eyes wide, knowing it will hurt, she welcomes him, hips raising to meet him.

He spreads her knees with his body, parts her thighs with his hips, but pauses, pressed against her. Bitterness refracts between them, the sudden knowing that this, just this, could have saved Elissa, but they were too late. "I would have fucked you that night, had I known." The waiting is excruciating, she is nowhere near ready for him, and he knows it. Still he pushes, slowly stretching her, the ache unbearable. "I would have fucked you every night between Redcliffe and Denerim, if that was what it took, to make sure you were pregnant." He clenches his teeth, fighting to move slowly. "I would have done anything to save her. Paid any price."

She loved him, so Morrigan clings to him, knowing it for a fool's dream, to touch her once more through him. The feel of his hard flesh moving over her, inside her, leads the Witch through memory, she smells Elissa, when she carried his scent in the mornings, echoes of the Warden's voice in her own cries, as Alistair drives deeply, fully into her sheath.

He finds her mouth with his, and the kiss is tender, a counterpoint to the bruising clench of his hands, the hard thrust of his body, the crushing sweep of emotion that rages through them both. She cries out, despair and desire, meeting each plunge of his hips with an uprising of hers, until the mingled pain and pleasure of their joining overwhelms, and she stiffens, quivering, held on the edge.

His final drive, hard and deep, bruising, and he roars out Elissa's name, not hers, and she groans, clenching hard around him, the name on her lips, so quiet she can scarcely hear it, is Elissa's as well.

He sobs, deep and broken, crying out a hurt too big to be borne. She cannot find the tears as he has, though her pain is just as great, so she gathers him into her arms, enfolding him in her limbs and gentle healing spells as she rocks him, urges him to pour out his grief, to please, for love of the Gods, pour out hers as well. Once, they had shared the love of a wonderful, confident, amazing woman, and now he is all that is left to her.

oOo

Alistair sits rigidly on the throne, tapping his fingers impatiently as the noble before him lays out his request. The man's voice is a drone in the background, the King's thoughts consumed entirely by the upcoming celebrations, the third anniversary of the end of the Blight, and the fall of the Archdemon. The death of the Hero of Ferelden. A flurry of movement in the back of the room, as the door to the audience chamber swiftly opens, just as swiftly closes, as voices swell and hush. A familiar hooded form approaches, and the man stutters to silence.

She pushes back the hood, to gaze up at him with defiant golden eyes, the raven haired Witch, and speaks, husky and pained. "I would speak to you in private, your Majesty."

Alistair watches her, the heat of sorrow undiminished, and nods, gesturing Anora to take his place on the throne. His wife smiles gently, chastely kissing his cheek.

In the hall, Morrigan turns to him, but he takes her hand, leading her further, to his sleeping chambers. Closing the door, he folds her into his arms.

"Why does it still hurt so, Alistair? When will it end?"

"I don't know. I don't think it will."

"I need you to cry for me."

"Anything."