Morrigan woke with a start, grasping at the air before her, crying out. She was in a dark room with only a flickering candle for light, lying on a narrow bed. She looked around, desperate to see where she was, desperate to be away from the giant dragon that attacked her in dreams.

"The nightmares are pretty bad at first," said Lance. She snapped around, startled. He was sitting at a small table, holding a mirror. She realized slowly that it was her mirror, the mirror he had given her. He was using it shave. He looked over at her, saw the look in her eyes even through the dark.

"Sorry," he said. "I needed a mirror and it was in your things."

She cleared her throat, feeling stiff and tense. There was a bad taste lingering in her mouth. She supposed that was what happens when you drink Archdemon blood. And she felt the slow shock of realization wash over her, the fear and knotted tension in her stomach. She was a Grey Warden now. She was a Grey Warden. It didn't sound right, did it?

Worse yet, she was going to have to call him "Commander" now. He would just love that to bits.

"So 'tis official," she said. And he nodded, running a hand over his bare jaw. He had Anders trim his hair down earlier, and he looked a lot more like the son of a noble. A noble in his own right.

"Here," he said, and carried a bowl to her. "I made you something to eat. You'll be hungry."

She clucked her tongue, about to tell him that she was not going to be treated like an invalid. But she was ravenously hungry.

She accepted the bowl and gulped it down in huge mouthfuls.

"Good," she said, swallowing it down. He laughed.

"Not really. I made it," he said. "Just some beef and a bit of hare we caught. The larder is empty."

"Still," she said. "'Tis welcome. I have actually come to miss thick Ferelden stews. I suppose I am now a spoiled Orlesian."

"You spoiled? Perish the thought."

She gave him a lopsided grin. He was shirtless, having only one shirt and not wanting to get beard hairs all over it. It occurred to her then that he spent an inordinate amount of time shirtless around young women. Perhaps he thought it made him seem dark and mysterious.

Right now it made him seem injured; he was covered in bandages. Some were stained dirty red, lacking proper medical care. Her healing magic would have served him well, had he let her use it.

Beneath the bandages she could see scarred flesh, a lifetime's worth. He was young, though, barely out of his early twenties. And he had a time limit on his life, being a Grey Warden. It was unfair. He should have been sitting cozy in Highever; slowly taking over the duties his father was tired of performing.

He should be considering Delilah Howe for marriage and thinking about producing himself an heir.

Instead he stood there before her in an empty, drafty castle, covered in wounds and bruises, scratched and battered, shaving by candlelight with a dull knife, and preparing for what might be his last night on Thedas.

And she realized that much of it applied to her, too. She likely would have been sitting in the woods somewhere, keeping away from the Templars. No. Actually, Flemeth would have taken her body upon her return to the Wilds, and she would be… what? Dead?

Regardless, she was as close to dead right now as she desired to be. She, too, was dying slowly, and in thirty years they would both be wandering down to the Deep Roads to face down however many hundreds of Darkspawn they could slay before being overwhelmed.

At least she needn't worry about getting wrinkly.

"Stop," she said as he reached to pull his shirt over his head. He looked at her strangely, and smiled to himself.

She stood, set the empty bowl aside, still starving, and approached him. She looked at his back, scarred by countless little wars in the deep, dark places of the world. He had seen endless dark, had battled the horrors that stalked children's dreams. He had slain an Archdemon already.

"I am a Grey Warden," she said. And he nodded.

"Does that mean I am destined for some higher purpose? Some call to nobility?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

She nodded, traced one the scars that bisected his shoulder blades.

"Ogre," he said. And she cocked an eyebrow. "Big bastard. Had me in his hand."

And she touched a small one, closer to his kidney.

"Bandit. In Amaranthine."

Her hand wandered, stroked other parts of his back, touched other scars.

"Sylvan. Hurlock. A pair of emissaries. A dragon."

She stepped around him; saw the mosaic of white slashes on his chest. Bandages crisscrossed, covered flesh damaged and broken. She touched him, gently.

"That's from the Mother," he said. She gave him a curious rise in her brow, and he smiled as a matter of course. "Long story."

"I would hear it."

"I would tell it. Had we the time."

"Later then."

"You still believe there will be a later?"

"I know it," she said. And with a smirk, she added, "Your skill would allow nothing else."

"I'm flattered."

She pressed lightly against a mauled part of his flesh, just under his ribs. He laughed a little.

"Tickles," he said. "That's from Velanna."

And she looked at him curiously, prompting him to look away from her, feign interest in something else.

"She attacked you?" Morrigan asked, a small trace of humor in her voice.

"Yep. It was a sort of 'meet cute' thing."

She scoffed at that. "I can see how you might find a woman trying to kill you attractive."

"Hey, I went after you, didn't I?"

She scoffed again. "I never tried to kill you."

"Oh, yeah…" he said. And thought he should perhaps make mention of her leaving him, but it suddenly seemed too soon to be making light of such a thing, and as it was it made him just a bit angry. It wouldn't be right to take it out on her, though. So he didn't.

"What do you see in her?" Morrigan asked. And Lance couldn't stop the big grin that followed.

"Are you kidding me?"

She looked away from him, crossing her arms in irritation.

"She is nothing like me."

"She's exactly like you."

"So she was just a substitute?"

He sighed. He didn't want to have this conversation. But it was plain to see that he wouldn't be having another romantic moment – with either of them – if he didn't. And perhaps it was time he stopped trying to get the best of both worlds.

"No," he said. And he turned away from her, stepping towards the door. "No, she was something else. So were you."

And he left, the door slamming loudly behind him.

He returned to his own room, feeling as ambivalent as ever. He just didn't know anymore. So much had happened to him that he wasn't sure anything else mattered. It was too easy to see the Darkspawn, the Orlesian army, whatever, and just think "oh, great, yet another challenge".

It was all getting so… mundane.

He'd fought monsters – legions of monsters. He was an Arl. He was a hero.

If there was something else that needed to be taken care of, something that needed killing or a hero's skill, then it wasn't something too particularly amazing.

It was irony of a sort. He could remember a time when he'd been a sheltered noble, living in a castle fighting only the dragons he could imagine. He had longed for adventure, for excitement. He desired the same heroic quests and journeys of self-discovery that he'd read about in the old books of his grandfather's collection.

Now that he had it, he wanted so much to just go back to being a bored noble. This hero stuff was for the birds.

He stumbled into his room, sliding his hand along the wall to guide himself. His door was cracked, allowing a soft glow of candlelight to shine out into the hallway. He entered, and was quite unsurprised to see Velanna waiting for him.

"What?" he asked of her, leaning against the wall. She was sitting at the edge of a large vanity that had spent a significant time gathering dust in the castle. She had wiped the dust away from the mirror and had been admiring her reflection. It astounded her that a person would want something like this in their bedroom.

"I wanted to speak with you," she said. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, managing to show off quite a bit of one of her lovely thighs from under the animal skin robe. The Dalish apparently lacked a certain amount of sensibility when it came to their Keeper's robes.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"You and I."

He cleared his throat loudly, feeling as though things were about to get very awkward.

"That's quite a subject," he told her. "I think we should talk about it."

"It was unfair of me to put you in this position," she said. "I know that you and Morrigan care for each other. But I am not sorry for it."

He shifted his weight from foot, nervous. He didn't quite remember women making him so nervous.

Then again, he couldn't quite remember having two women so willing to take him. Sure Leliana had a crush on him once upon a time, but this was something else entirely. Perhaps he was just a sucker for good looks. Perhaps he was just a moron.

"I love you, Lance," she said. And Lance found that it was very strange to hear. Good, but strange. "I want you to know it. But you love someone else, so I will not trouble you anymore."

She stood up, walked to the door. She was leaving, he realized, in more ways than one. She was stepping aside for him and Morrigan. She wanted him to fall in love with Morrigan. But he was suddenly unsure that he wanted to fall in love with Morrigan again.

When it was good it was wonderful. And he did care about her, but he and Morrigan had been in love once a long time ago. He was hurting. And Velanna was more than willing to help him heal. She cared about him just as much as he cared about Morrigan.

So he grabbed her arm.

"Wait," he said. And he hesitated. He probably should have thought this one out, should have come up with something to say before he tried to say it. But he could only say what he was feeling. That wall that was appropriate right now.

She looked up at him, expectant.

"I choose neither."

And her expectant look changed to one of surprise. And then anger.

"What?"

"I choose neither. I'm not choosing either of you."

"What?" she demanded.

He took a step away from her, taking to heart a bit of advice Oghren had once given him concerning scorned women; he put one hand in front of his groin.

"We're going to die tomorrow," he said. "We're going to confront an Archdemon with a million Darkspawn between us. I don't want to play these stupid love games. I don't want to talk about love and hearts and all that. I just want to do my duty. And die if I have to."

"So you're giving up?"

"What?"

"You are giving up. You are giving in. You think you're going to die and that you can slink away."

And her expression turned to one of humor. She smiled, looking quite beautiful in the low candlelight. Looking quite angelic.

"I will not let you get away that easily," she said. And then her smile faded, and she looked around the dark room. She sighed. "We really are going to die, aren't we?"

"Yes," he said. There was no point in clouding the issue, no point in hiding it. They were dead. As Grey Wardens they were already dead. It was just a question of when.

"It seems… almost unreal," she said. He nodded to her. "I suppose it will take us some time."

"Yeah," he said. And she stood there for a long moment. She looked around, quite nervous, aware of where they were.

And she spoke.

"If this is it – if this is all there is for us… I don't want to die without having known you one last time," she said. And she stepped cautiously towards him, reached for him. And when she touched him gently he did not recoil, he did not flinch. He liked it. And he didn't want to be alone.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

And he kissed her, his hand suddenly rising to her neck, holding her. He thought of Morrigan, though the betrayal wasn't as sharp.

And he heard her at the door, clearing her throat loud enough to be heard.

He looked up, stepped away from Velanna fearfully.

Morrigan stood there, wearing a look of amusement. She shook her head, and Lance was surprised to see that her first reaction wasn't anger.

Lance opened his mouth, an attempt to apologize or defend himself dying in his throat. And he could only stand there lamely.

He decided that he should leave. They would be getting mobile in the morning and would not be able to rest until they were in the Deep Roads, chasing after the Archdemon.

He tried to leave, was stopped by Morrigan's gentle hand. And she looked at him with that same deviousness that had characterized her since he'd known her. She glanced back at Velanna, lips twitching nervously.

"We are going to die," Morrigan said. "This is our last chance."

And she pushed him gently, urged him into the room. And she followed after him, shutting the door behind her.

They agreed not to talk about that night ever again.