She stood at the edge of a great bog that stretched to the horizon. The cold mud squelched under her boots as she turned, scanning the hulks of trees that pressed in close around her. It was the Korcari Wilds, and she could see the walls of the fortress Ostagar in the distance, obscured by mist. She slogged through the water and weedy hillocks toward the stone ramparts, until a figure hailed her from out of the fog.

"Hello, Warden."

She froze, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. The voice was slippery, grating, and worst of all, familiar. Turning slowly, she watched the long-dead Daveth slump out of the mist, followed in a moment by Jory. They shambled toward her, empty eyes rolling. Daveth was laughing, a horrible, choked sound.

"No," she whimpered. "No, you're dead." For the first time in a long time, she was very afraid.

"Oh yes," Jory rasped, "very dead, no thanks to you."

She backed away from them on legs that shook, backed away with her fist clenched over her mouth until she bumped into something. Wheeling around, she saw that it was Duncan. He turned his blood covered face toward her.

"We're all dead, Charlotte," he intoned, raising a mangled hand in her direction. "Soon you will be, too."

Behind him from the mist came other forms: her mother and father, Ser Gilmore from Highever, her childhood friend who had drowned in a storm, even Arl Howe, whom she had slashed to ribbons in her rage. All of them shuffled forward with their arms outstretched, grasping.

Her will broke then, and she ran through the mist, not caring if she was heading toward Ostagar or not, just as long as it was away from the hideous dead things in the swamp that wanted to hurt her. She ran blindly until her breath came in gasps and then she stopped, panting, and leaned against a tree. There was no sign of the corpses from the bog, and all was quiet.

A breath of wind parted the cold mist in front of her and she squinted, seeing another outline just ahead.

"Thank the Maker," she muttered, starting forward again. "Alistair, what's going on?"

He stood with his back to her, his hands hanging limply at his sides. His armor, normally so clean and bright, was dull with rust and dirt. She stopped before she touched his shoulder, and as he turned slowly, a scream tore itself from her throat. He was also bloodied, his eyes empty, his face blank and bleached with death.

"Come and be dead with us, my love," he groaned, shuffling forward.

Hands grasped her shoulders from behind and held her, despite her desperate fighting to free herself.

"Submit yourself, for the greater good," the dead Duncan reminded her.

She screamed again as Alistair gripped her arm and drove a glittering dagger deep into her belly. The wrenching pain followed her down into unconsciousness as she slumped into the shallow cold water of the swamp, and she closed her eyes for the last time.

It was the pain that woke her. The dream, the same dream for a month now, was frightening, disturbing even, but it had occurred often enough that she could discount it upon waking. Her pregnancy had been an easy one, despite the size of her bulky new body, except for this dream that had been troubling her sleep lately.

The sharp pain in her middle came again, and she opened her eyes. That had been no dream. It was not late in the night—the fire in the hearth had not yet burned down to the embers. By the flickering glow she ran her hands over her huge belly that rose up under the coverlet like an island. There was another feeling there, a stirring.

"Alistair," she whispered, turning her head.

He was sleeping on his side, snoring slightly, the quilt rumpled and pulled up over his shoulder until only the top of his tousled head was visible at the top. He didn't stir, and she reached over and shook him slightly.

"Hmmm," he grumbled. "Whazzit?" He raised his head up off the pillow without opening his eyes.

"Alistair, the baby." Charlotte couldn't seem to get her voice any louder than a rough whisper as another pain rippled through her.

"What?" This time he was fully awake. He sat up suddenly and rubbed his eyes. "It's time?" Seeing her pinched face and worried nod, he swept back the blankets and began dressing.

"I'll get Wynne," he said, pulling on clothes haphazardly. "Just sit tight, and I'll be right back." He started to leave, but then turned back. "Do you need anything?"

She shook her head. "No, but hurry back." He leaned over and kissed her lightly.

Wynne walked slowly out of the bedroom, wiping her hands on a soft piece of linen, and smiled. As soon as the outer door clicked open, Alistair jumped to his feet. Despite Zevran and Leliana's attempts to distract him, he had not moved from the corridor outside the rooms during Charlotte's long labor. Zevran had given up first, throwing up his hands and declaring that he could be found in the Gnawed Noble tavern if anyone would seek him. Leliana had left him a little later, after still more failed games of Wicked Grace, and told him softly that she would return to check on him later.

In answer to the frantic look on his face, Wynne laughed. "It's all right," she said calmly, smoothing her white hair back from her forehead. "You can go in to see them now."

"The baby? Is it...?" He gestured with his hands when words failed him. There were dark circles under his eyes. He had attempted to get news from the maids that periodically entered and left the room with basins and linens, but none spoke to him. There had been no noise. Was that a good sign, or a bad one? he had wondered.

"Go and see them," she repeated, patting him on the arm. "They are waiting for you, Papa."

Alistair stopped only long enough to hug the mage quickly and give her the biggest smile she had ever seen on his face before he entered the room.

Charlotte was curled on the rumpled bed, lying on her side. Someone had combed and braided her long hair, and washed her face. She looked tired and a little pale, he thought, but she beamed at him when she saw him come in. In the curve of her body above her bent knees, something moved.

"Look, here comes your father," she crooned into the blankets, rearranging the folds as he sank slowly down on the bed across from her. "Don't look so nervous, Alistair," she chided gently.

The words he planned to say to her died on his lips as he saw not one, but two babies curled against her on the blankets.

"Two?"

"I thought we'd call the boy Duncan," she said, brushing the shock of brown hair on the baby's head. "And the girl Eleanor. I think she shall be fair like her father." The little girl had wisps of strawberry blonde hair.

"We have twins." Alistair was still stunned, even as Charlotte picked up Eleanor and put her in his arms. He cradled her and looked down into her small face. The infant waved her fists and cooed.

"Maker," he said softly, and leaned over to kiss Charlotte.

Perhaps Alistair the Warden King and Queen Charlotte the Brave went on to have more adventures ruling Ferelden. Perhaps the kingdom was quiet and they raised their children in peace. Not much is known at this time about their lives until they went to their Calling in the Deep Roads, together, as always, until the end.