The massive King's tent looked just as they had left it: bed covers a mess, supply trunks standing open, discarded weapons and armor lined along the ground, half-eaten breakfast still on the table. The servants had been left at Redcliffe to tend to much more important tasks, like barricading and protecting the women and children and tending to the wounded. Tidying the campsite had not been anyone's concern when they had readied to march on Denerim that previous dawn.

Voices floated at the edge of his awareness as the weary soldiers trudged back into camp: whispers of disbelief, shouts of joy, cries of sorrow for those who had been lost. The Archdemon had been defeated and the remaining Darkspawn driven from Denerim. The city was safe, and without a demon at the forefront, Fereldan could eventually drive the rest of the Horde back underground where they belonged.

The Blight had ended only a year after it had begun.

Because of her.

Alistair stood in the tent's doorway, still feeling as if he were walking in a dream. Only his battered body, the exhaustion, and the unbearable weight of his armor reminded him that this bittersweet victory was indeed real.

Had it only been this morning they had stormed the city? Only this morning he had given that rousing speech to the armies with her at his side, so very much alive? Only last night he had held her in his arms, warm beneath the blankets, and let her breathing lull him to sleep?

He sagged against the nearest tent post and it creaked under his weight, but held. He felt... so tired. So... numb. Something inside had died along with her atop that tower, and now he walked like an empty shell; a soulless vessel moving without conscious thought. He'd let Wynn and Lelianna take charge once the survivors of the fight against the Archdemon had roused enough to wonder what to do next.

Or rather, Wynn and Lelianna had stepped in once they'd realized his state of mind.

He still didn't remember coming down from the tower, or fighting the straggling Darkspawn, or walking back to camp.

Not until he'd reached the tent did he remember where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing: undressing, bathing, eating, resting.

The others were tending to her body. The funeral discussions would come later. After...

Alistair shook his head, finally moving into the tent and collapsing heavily into the nearest sturdy wooden chair. He dropped his head into his hands.

After what? After he'd changed? Eaten? Slept? After he felt better about the fact she'd been the one to die instead of him?

A sob hitched in his throat but he choked it back, clenching his fists. It would be a long, long time before he could face himself in a looking glass again. I don't deserve to be King... I never did. Don't know why I let her talk me into such a ludicrous idea... she's the reason I got this far, why I thought I could even take a chance at it. Without her...

Another sob strangled past his best efforts to contain it. Instinctively he shut off his mind, refusing anymore thoughts of her in a desperate attempt to save himself from drowning in a sea of misery. He began to mechanically undo the buckles of his armor, pulling it off one section at a time. Until finally he wore only his undershirt and trousers, the cloth stuck to his skin with swiftly-cooling sweat.

But he did not move for the wash basin, or the half-eaten and cold food, nor the comfort of the plushly blanketed bed. He simply sat, and stared at the designs in the wood grain of the table. Thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

Until finally, there was a rustle at the doorway of his tent.

"Pardon me, Alistair... er, your Majesty?"

He cringed at the title, immediately recognizing Lelianna's soft tones. "Please, don't call me that." His voice didn't sound his own.

"Um, yes, well... may I come in? I have... food. Warm, fresh food."

"I'm not hungry."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then soft tread across the dirt. A bowl of stew appeared in front of him, but his attention caught on the clean hands that served it. He looked up to see Lelianna had already washed, and wore a clean suit of light armor - he had never seen her in anything short of some type of armor. Then he realized how dim his tent had become, and how dark it was outside. He watched, dumbfounded, as Lelianna silently lit the lamps and candles, filling the tent with a soft, golden glow.

How long had he been sitting?

"I will have fresh water brought for you as well," she said quietly, her sideways glance making him suddenly conscious of how he must look, and smell...

She lifted the wash basin, then paused, frowning. "Oh, um..." She plucked something from the bedside table and turned toward him, a small, folded piece of parchment in her fingers. "This was tucked near the basin... it's for you. I will... leave you now, come back later." She dropped the paper next to the bowl of stew and scurried from the tent.

Alistair frowned at her strange behavior. He looked down to the paper, and then he understood. His name was written there, in Kallian's rough, barely legible handwriting. His heart immediately shoved into his throat and a wave of nausea made him push the stew away with a grimace. He picked up the paper and took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair.

For a second, he considered not reading it. Considered burning it, forgetting it ever existed. Why torture himself with any more reminders of what he'd lost?

But in the end, he had to know. He unfolded it, and read:

My dear Alistair,

If you found this note, it means Riordan failed to kill the Archdemon, and I suceeded. Please don't blame yourself. I know you will think it is somehow your fault, but it is not. Trust me when I say I wanted it this way. I love you, Alistair. More than I ever wanted to admit to myself. Our night together in Redcliffe, and the few nights we had together after, will remain in my heart forever. I am so glad for our time together, however short it was.

I wish I could have stayed with you. But the Blight had to be stopped. Now, I can only hope that you and all of Fereldan are safe. You are King now, Alistair, please remember that. And don't you dare doubt yourself. You will be a great King. I know this as surely as I know how much I love you. And don't you try to put Anora on the throne now, either. I may have gone on to meet the Maker, but I'm still watching you!

Oh Alistair, it is so hard to write this when you are sleeping so close to me... so hard to think this might actually happen, that these might be my last words to you. Thank you, Alistair, for loving me, for being with me, for wanting me to stay with you, always. You have been a bright spot in the darkness of the last several months, my reason for continuing to hope and fight, my reason to find courage when it seemed I had none... the one who could make me laugh no matter what horrible creature we had yet to face. I can rest in peace now, knowing you are safe. Please take care of Fereldan for me, and remember I will always love you.

Yours Forever,
Kallian

He stared at the words for a long time, hardly noticing where his tears had smeared the ink. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

She was right. Always right.

He would officially be the King of Fereldan soon. She had fought hard and risked much to put him on the throne; shown him what he was really capable of and made him begin to believe in himself. And now she had made the ultimate sacrafice for him - for everyone.

He would not let her death be in vain. He would see the rest of the Darkspawn driven from Fereldan; he would take the throne. He would be sure he was remembered as something more than just Maric's bastard son.

He would do it for her.

THE END.

A/N: Many thanks must go to my beta Sinvraal for her outstanding input and suggestions for this little fic! She did a great job of forcing me to not be lazy with this thing, and I much appreciate her efforts!