The morning came, and he was awake just as soon as the sun was rising. Neither Morrigan nor Velanna had stirred as he made his way down to the dining hall, where he would make a quick breakfast of bread and cheese.
He was already drawing his equipment from the chests, setting it aside for his use, when Morrigan entered, wearing a loose traveling robe and carrying with her proper mage attire. She regarded him with a nod, letting him know that she was now a professional, now the sorceress that had fought beside him.
She helped him put on his armor, strap himself in. It had been a long time since either of them had seen him wear this armor. The armor itself was unique. One-of-a-kind. Dragonbone armor was rare enough, though there was plenty to be found if one knew where to look. Armor made from a dragon's skin, however, was unheard of as far as either of them knew.
This was something special. This was something only they knew.
"I love you," she whispered, and gently touched his neck with her lips as she tightened the breastplate. He looked at her, reached around himself to hold her hand.
"I love you," he said. And it suddenly felt okay. He suddenly didn't feel so bad. Instead, he felt like this was what he had been meant to do. It was unfortunate that it had come at the very end of their lives, but maybe that made it all the more special.
And he was calm now. He was steel.
He drew Starfang, examined the Silverite runes that glowed along its length. He held it in his hand, felt the balance. It had been a long time since he'd unsheathed it, since he'd been comfortable enough with it to hold it. For a while, it had felt like a broken part of him.
Now it was the extension of his arm, it was light as a feather, sharper than sharp.
"Morrigan," he said. "We both know what happens when that Archdemon is slain."
"Yes, Commander."
"I could go into this long speech about how I care about you and how I want you to stay behind. I could do the same with Velanna. I won't."
He turned to face her, held her hands. He smiled sadly, and she returned it. Her eyes studied him, tried to look past his own, to see something deep inside him.
"This is our doing," he said. "Our mistake. Whatever happens, no matter what, we have to be the ones to kill it. It's our duty."
She nodded to him. "Yes, my love. No matter what."
Morrigan lay her robe down on the table, took his belt knife. And she began cutting into it, hacking away the sleeves, the hem. And she looked at him with a bright smile, somehow feminine and childlike all at once.
He was filling a pair of bandoliers with flasks; firebombs and shockbombs and other explosives. A clutch of elemental grenades from Vigil's Keep and that crazy Dwarf.
He had knives, and poultices. He was going to war. And she was going with him. And that was all there was to it.
She cut down her robes to size, adding feathers captured from the woods outside the estate the day before. She fixed it up to look Chasind – like an apostate. So that it looked more like the robe he'd met her in. The robe she wore when he declared his love for her.
The robe she wore when she fell in love with him.
Velanna was suddenly there, across the table from them. She looked at Lance, her gaze strong and sure. She looked like she had when he had met her in the forest, in the Wending Wood. And he looked like that same strong soldier that had clapped her across the jaw for trying to kill him, that had winced when he saw the red gash his gauntlet had made. Yet he looked different. Maybe this is what he looked like in love.
And she let herself smirk; sure and cheerful. She was going to die. But it was okay. Because they were going to die together.
And that was okay.
She too set to preparing herself. Set to gathering her magical trinkets, set to her prayers to the Creators. Morrigan didn't say anything. She only helped. She tidied Velanna's hair – made messy from the prior evening – and whispered something in her ear, something that made her smile.
The others wandered to the dining hall, each beginning their preparations in their own ways.
Oghren drank, heavily. He hefted his axe, checked the balance, before donning his Legion of the Dead armor. A fine statement.
Sigrun said whatever prayers or rituals the Legion said before battle, steadied herself, calmed. She wasn't as cheery, yet not at all morose. She was ready.
Nathaniel fingered his bow string, checked the edges of his daggers. He gathered up just the right amount of arrows, the right balance of magical to non-magical arrows. He looked at the Commander with a nod, his eyes afire with the intensity that Lance had always known him to have.
Anders was playing with his damn kitten, telling it that this would be their last day together, to play. He had a number of magical rings laid out, and was trying to choose one to carry with him.
Neria was trying to straighten her robe, trying not to shake nervously. She held her staff, and it shook in her hands. She was trying to straighten her hair, tie it back in a knot that would stay out of her eyes.
Cauthrien was polishing her sword, her armor. She wasn't upset. She looked almost happy. This was what she wanted. This was how she was going to make up for Loghain, for her shortsightedness.
Leliana was praying to the Maker, for forgiveness, for absolution. She was checking short swords, the balance of her bow. She was readying leather armor, holding a Chantry symbol close to her chest.
Rand and Saul were writing letters, to loved ones. They were glancing back and forth, searching for the words they didn't know how to express in writing.
They were Wardens, all of them. They were his Wardens. His responsibility. He suddenly felt like it was a crushing weight, a burden. He felt like he had some weeks earlier, sitting in a dark room in Vigil's Keep, wishing that he could just die already.
But it went away, was replaced by a fondness. He was proud to command these men and women. He was proud of himself for once.
He felt like he should say something. So he leaned on the table heavily, breathing slowly.
"Everyone," he said. He cleared his throat loudly to make sure he had their attention. "I'm going to say this because I think it needs to be said. I don't want anyone to feel obligated or to think they need to come because of sentiment. We're probably going to die. We're probably going to fail. We are a dozen against a million. This is something I've decided for myself."
Morrigan's hand took his, and Velanna held the other. It was comforting.
"We've decided this for ourselves. If you don't want to come I won't think less of you."
There was a long silence; they looked up at him, at Velanna and Morrigan. This was his fault, and none of them deserved to go where he was going.
"I'm sorry you got dragged into this," he said finally. And there was a noise a lot like a scoff.
And Oghren spoke up.
"Commander, I think I speak for all of us when I say stop it with the dramatics and let's go kick some Darkspawn ass."
The Wardens stood as one, looking like a powerful army. And they were. And once more Lance was at the head, going into a hopeless battle, to slay a corrupted god, to bring home victory or die.
And he couldn't be happier.
The Darkspawn were too thick and the way to the Archdemon too vague to go through any of the Deep Road openings in Orlais. It would take too long to go to Orzammar and navigate the Deep Roads back to the Dead Trenches. The Darkspawn were likely too thick to wade through and make it out in fighting shape.
It was easier to think of it as one-way.
So they were going through the Korcari Wilds, where the Darkspawn had risen up for the Fifth time. Where an obscure opening to the Deep Roads was. Where Flemeth – trapped with Urthemiel in the corruption of the Archdemon – would be waiting.