The fight up through the fort seemed to take forever. By now they were all tired, injured and sore, their resources depleted. More than once they had to stop and rest, recovering enough energy to push on down the next stretch of hallway, clear the next few rooms. Loghain felt numb from exhaustion.
Only a few moments of that long journey stood out to him; the great hall, dimly lit by fading sunlight steaming in the clerestory windows high overhead, where they were ambushed by a genlock mage commanding a small army of shades. Coming across a young dwarf apparently well known to Right and the others, standing bright-eyed and blank-minded in a room full of slain darkspawn, not a mark on him. Stopping to rest and eat in a chill, empty kitchen high in the tower, tearing into the recently baked bread, still soft and delicious, that would never be eaten by the soldiers it had been baked for. Slaying hordes of genlock archers, progressing carefully down hallways as Right and Zevran tiredly disarmed rows of traps – traps that might have been set by the soldiers as they were driven higher in the tower by the invading darkspawn, or worse yet set by some of the disturbingly intelligent darkspawn they'd encountered as they drew closer to the archdemon. Fighting past a pair of ogres and yet another caster, to reach at long last the final staircase, the final pair of doors.
"The roof is beyond that," Loghain said dryly, as they walked toward them. "And the archdemon. Are we all ready?"
"Ready as we'll ever be," Right said. He stopped a couple steps shy of the door, drew a flash from his belt and dripped poison along his blade, concentrating on the task as if it was the only important thing in the world, breathing slowly and evenly, snatching a last few seconds of rest before the final fight. Handed off the flask to Zevran, who solemnly did the same.
Loghain stood nearly motionless, just his hands moving, fingers curling and uncurling, staring in the direction of the doors with his eyes focused somewhere well beyond them. Oghren was going through a series of loosening-up motions, swinging his arms around, twisting his head from side to side, then produced a flask from somewhere – he always seemed to have a flask somewhere – and pulled the stopple, taking a deep drink, then reached out and knocked the flask against Loghain's breastplate.
Loghain looked down, surprised, then nodded and accepted it, took a deep swallow. Blinked, as the foul taste of dwarven ale, black and bitter and almost syrupy in its turgid sweetness, brought back a rush of memories. Maric, and that vile brew he'd insisted on always drinking the night before a battle. It was a tradition that his mother Queen Moira had supposedly started, apparently after being gifted with an entire keg of the terrible stuff by a dwarven merchant. Maker, he missed the man, and wished it was at his side he stood now, preparing for battle. His eyes prickled for a moment, forcing him to blink repeatedly until the feeling of pressure passed. He swallowed heavily and passed on the flask.
They all drank, the flask going around and around until it was empty, the thick liquid inside bringing a temporary rush of desperately-needed energy.
"Well," said Loghain tiredly. "Let's get this done."
Right nodded, and opened the doors.
They emerged on the roof in time to see the archdemon killing the last of a group of soldiers that had somehow made it to the roof. It turned ponderously, one damaged wing trailing, and bellowed angrily at them.
Loghain bellowed a challenge in return and charged toward it, his black locks blown back by the wind of its flapping wings. Oghren roared a challenge as well, every muscle and vein standing forth in sharp relief as he went into a berserker rage, and charged right behind him.
There were ballistae mounted here and there about the roof, meant to be a protection again ground-based attacks – from the top of the tower it was possible to fire on almost any position within the upper city – and Right sent Zevran scurrying to turn one on the archdemon, knowing the engine would do much greater damage versus the creature than their puny weapons could, if Zevran could manage to target and hit it. He was kept busy running from ballista to ballista, laboriously turning the heavy engines to target the archdemon, sometimes only able to get in two or three shots before it changed positions again.
The archdemon evaded them again and again; its torn wing prevented it from simply flying away, but at intervals it leapt into the air, moving well out of range of their weapons, spitting crackling floods of dark energy at them – not fire, not like the high dragon they'd killed before, but some dark tainted magic instead. As it roared and shrieked, lashed out at them, escaped from their reach again and again, hordes of darkspawn came to its defence. They flooded up every stairway, emerged from drains, some seeming to have scaled the very stones of the tower itself so unexpectedly did they appear. At times the group had to abandon the fight on the archdemon to deal with the hordes of darkspawn, or risk being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them.
Loghain battled on, refusing to acknowledge the bone-deep exhaustion that was trying to slow his movements, weaken his blows, the near misses that left the skin of one side of his face tight, the braid on that side fraying apart, its tip burnt away from how close the raging not-fire of the demon's breath had come to him. Refusing to favour the one leg that was threatening to give away under him, the knee wrenched from a bad tumble when a glancing strike of the leading edge of its wing had sent him tumbling. Refusing to lower his shield, drop his sword, as tired muscles begged to do.
He hated this creature with a pure passion he had felt very few times in his life. When the Orlesians had held him and his father and made them watch while they raped his mother to death, he'd felt this hatred. When his father had died beneath Orlesian blades, Loghain unable to go to his aid without forswearing his promise to protect this prince, he had felt this same helpless rage. When he'd realized that the elf woman, Katriel, had betrayed them and that West Hill was a lethal trap, Maric's life at risk, he's felt this same need to kill. When his king had died, leaving him behind... this despair, yes, that too, this despair that even now, with the beast in front of them, that they might still fail...
No. He would not, could not fail again. Not now. He pushed aside the hatred, the rage, the despair, kept only the need to kill, the passion to avenge, to slay this damned creature before him, in any way possible. It was necessary that this demon die. He stumbled forward in another loud-voiced charge, drawing the archdemon's attention to him yet again.
And then Oghren was clambering up its lengthy neck, laughing and cursing as he reached its head, clinging to the long scale-spines as it thrashed madly, trying to dislodge him. It tossed him free, into the air, made as if to catch him in its gaping mouth as he fell, but he switched ends in mid-air, giving a triumphant screech as he plunged down, his sword sinking deep into its neck, half-severing the spine.
It tumbled to the ground, body spasming, the dwarf rolling free to the side, still laughing.
They closed in on it then, warily. It was still alive, trapped in a body that no longer responded to its commands. Its hatred for them all was like a raging fire, a burning force the wardens could feel, like too-hot sunlight on already-sunburnt skin.
Oghren and Zevran dropped back as Loghain and Right continued a few steps further forward, Oghren finally falling silent as the tension of the two Grey Wardens became evident.
"This is my job," Loghain said softly. "I have done... so much wrong. Allow me to do one last thing right." He glanced down at Right, a faint smiled quirking one corner of his lips for just the briefest of moments. "Besides, I doubt your elven friend would allow me to live much beyond you, if I allowed you to take the final blow."
Right inhaled deeply, nodded. Accepted that this final blow was Loghain's due. "I salute you, Loghain, for what it's worth," he said, voice hoarse, suiting actions to words.
Loghain nodded, then turned and faced the archdemon, looking at it. He cast his mind back over the years, to better times, to the loved ones he still yearned to see. "Rowan," he whispered. "Maric."
Then he began to run, long legs eating up the distance between him and the dragon. His arm swept out, scooped up a sword in passing – a great two-handed sword, not his usual one-hander. The dragon struggled to lift its head, roaring its fury as the man flew toward it.
There was one name left to remember. One loved one still to claim. One more person to yearn for, to mourn forever the passing of. "Cailan!" he screamed, voice torn and raw with the force of his shout.
And then he was dropping low, sliding on his knees across the pavement, sword upraised, slashing open the beast's throat from jaw nearly to breastbone. Its head reared back, a gruesome bubbling sound emerging from the slashed ruin of its throat, then fell heavily to the stone. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, raised the sword in both hands, and plunged it into its skull.
Power surged into him, dark and malevolent, a force of seething darkness and bitter acid, jealousy and greed, and a lust for power and a yearning for the death of all things so powerful it shook him to his very bones. It filled him, overfilled him, more than could be contained in the fragile shell of a human body. He felt as if something tore inside him, a vast ripping that seemed to go on forever. The darkness poured through the rip, going... elsewhere. Into oblivion, if the feeling of endless screaming denial as it streamed away was any guide.
And then there was light. Light that roared like thunder, a beam of it exploding upwards, a silver spear that lit up the clouds and the embattled city below like daylight, casting harsh shadows. He stood at its core, body arched backward in exquisite agony, light streaming over the body of the dragon, streaming from it, from him as well, emerging from every seam of armour, from every pore of skin. Light, exploding outwards in a shockwave, as Grey Warden and what was left of a god merged.
Joy, as it too streamed away, joy and a yearning for wholeness, and a vast relief as its waning power left the mortal plane for whatever place it truly belonged. Then it too was gone at last, leaving him empty and shattered.
And then came quiet darkness, and welcoming hands as he finally put down his long burden.