Elissa's eyes flew open as she heard the shriek but did not realise that it was her own. She blinked but could make no sense of what she saw.

She could remember nothing save vague glimpses of nightmares. Twisted and dark, there had been no coherence to them and yet she remained aware that they had played out across her subconscious. Amid the shadows and threats, a pair of glowing eyes had remained throughout as they stared deep into her soul.

An instinct told her to reach out, her hand seeking comfort from she knew not what. She found a responding hand which found hers and squeezed tight. But her heart told her it was not the hand she wanted and the real nightmare began to take hold.

Chantry. Denerim. Injured.

The noises filtered through the haze which enveloped her mind. Noises spoken by a voice she had not expected to be the first she heard.

Darksapwn. Horde. Archdemon.

Yet more words which held little meaning. This place was strange and there was nothing here which she sought. Perhaps it was better to return to the nightmares. Alone and frightened, at least she would find...

Alistair.

Her hand tensed involuntarily as she found she recognised the name but was still to find a memory which belonged to it. The hand which held hers mirrored the reaction.

There were more words now although the sounds did not filter any further into her comprehension. As she drifted on the edges of consciousness, she heard the symphony contained within the voices which now spoke around her. The low timbre of one; the trickling musicality of the other and both punctuated by the precision of the one nearest to her. As she listened, she discovered she was searching beyond the trio for a fourth. There was no reason to do so save that its absence triggered a sense of dread deep within.

Sister.

Low and urgent, the word was spoken as if a gift. It was accompanied by another squeeze of her hand.

Must wake.

She heard as the tone changed and the grip tightened. She sensed that there was something to be fearful of. But no, that was not true. The fear was intended for her. The voice was fearful for her.

For his sake.

Glimpses of nightmares changed to flashes of memories and fragments crowded into her mind, mingling and merging into one. She stiffened as the unknown faces blended into abhorrent combinations and the images were accompanied by disembodied whispers that she could not make sense of. There was a growing sense of dismay as she felt her mind near some end point she was yet to remember. Buckling under the torment, she was torn between allowing the memories to push her further into consciousness and allowing the darkness to overwhelm her once more.

But as the memories began to surface more fluidly, the darkness and its respite faded further away. She began to recognise the sights as places. A castle on a hill. Redcliffe. A Tower in a lake. The Circle of Magi. Tunnels. Caverns. Never ending and all with the stench of death. Orzammar.

She heard the sound of whimpering and it dawned on her that she was making the noise.

Within seconds, a cool hand pressed against her foreheard.

Dear one.

A different voice now but she recognised a familiarity to it that she had been unable to make out before. All three were familiar. She knew them; remembered feeling at ease with them. Yet there was others she found herself longing to hear and still one in particular. She felt herself quieten as she strained to catch its tone amid the growing terror that there was a rejection implicit in its absence.

Safe.

She understood the meaning of the word but knew it was a lie. She did not feel safe and she knew that she had not felt safe in a long time. And by their association with her, she knew that they were not safe. She brought danger to all those around her. Brief moments of memories exploded in her head. Battles and fights. She saw herself as protector. Protector to those who now spoke to her.

She felt herself flinch as her mind resisted being probed further. Even as it caused her pain, she continued to probe the memories in an effort to grasp greater clarity. The missing voice. She had failed to protect the missing voice. The one who meant most to her and the one who had been betrayed the most. Betrayed by others and then finally her. That was why it was missing. The voice was angry at her. He. He was angry at her.

Loved.

She knew that word and understood the feeling it referred to. She had been loved. Hurt clawed at her heart. She searched for the reciprocating feeling that she too loved. It was there but encased in shame and guilt. Disturbing it again caused it to billow up and she felt it settle over her like a fine and inescapable dust. Guilt that she was weak. Guilt that she was a coward. Guilt that she had consented to a price that was not hers to agree.

The sudden intake of breath was as startling to her as the sound of her own scream.

Elissa blinked again and the faces of the voices snapped into focus. Morrigan. Leliana. She turned her head to glance at who she now knew the third voice belonged to. Zevran. Her gaze flickered around the room, searching him out in the hope that she had been mistaken. But no, he was not there. Alistair was not there.

And then, she remembered.

The darkspawn corpses littered one of the many inner courtyards of Fort Drakon as Alistair continued on his assault of the Fort. Sten and the elves had already engaged the first defences by the time Alistair and the dwarves had reached the rendezvous point. The Qunari had pushed on ahead through the Fort while Alistair remained behind to wait for the mages and Redcliffe men.

He was now only following the trail of destruction left by the troops ahead of him. More importantly, under Sten's experienced hand their own casualties were being kept to a minimum. Alistair had long since stopped picking up his feet for the darkspawn corpses but he made a point of showing respect to those of his own who had fallen.

As he made to dodge around the decapitated body of an elven archer, he felt a hand close around his ankle. Yanking it free, he shrank back with weapon raised before he recognised the broken form of the man lying on the ground and half obscured beneath a darkspawn corpse.

With a practiced movement Alistair sheathed both sword and shield and, trusting to the men at his back to defend against any surge in darkspawn, he grabbed at the neck of the foul creature and hauled it off of the man. Alistair knelt down at his side, a reassuring hand gently pushing him back against the ground so that he lay easier.

"Riordan."

The Senior Warden flinched at the unexpected touch of another human and the sound of whistling could be heard as he struggled to draw a deep breath.

"Easy," Alistair murmured, glancing back over his shoulder. He flagged one of the Redcliffe men to him. "Find any of the Circle mages with healing abilities."

The man gave a short nod and broke into a run back in the direction they had come from. Alistair tuned back to the Warden.

"No!" the man began coughing at the exertion of the exclaimation. The gurgling sound as he struggled to breathe through the fluid in his lungs was difficult to bear. "Too...late."

"There's no harm in letting them try!"

Riordan shook his head as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "C...Calling."

"It doesn't matter!" Alistair heard the desperation in his own voice. "There's still work to be done. In case you hadn't noticed, there's a bloody Archdemon up there!"

Riordan panted a little and the younger Warden realised the man was chuckling.

"Well, I suppose you know that already..." Alistair kept his tone light even as he gave a frantic glance over his shoulder but there was no sign of any of the mages. Perhaps speaking as though the Senior Warden had only a scratch would distract them both from the severity of his injuries.

But when he turned back, Riordan simply held out his arm to him. Tugging off his gauntlet and throwing it to the ground, Alistair gripped it at the elbow as the brothers in arms they were.

He watched as the man made a conscious effort to draw in as much air as possible. With a steadfast gaze and firm voice, he tightened his grasp. "In war, victory."

"In peace, vigilance."

There was a wry smile on Riordan's face as he spoke the final line, clapping his other hand over Alistair's shoulder. "In death, sacrifice."

The sight of the man in front of him looking his fate in the eye without hesitation caused an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Alistair's stomach. Selfish as it was, he could not help but wonder if when his time came he would be able to be so resolute. It seemed he had already bartered his integrity and now here he was, offering comfort to his superior safe in the knowledge that his own sacrifice was no longer called for. He did not regret doing what had to be done to protect Elissa and nor did he regret that he would have a son, dark magic or otherwise. But holding Riordan's arm and watching as the rise of the man's chest grew more laboured, he regretted not having the strength to face his own death. The same strength Riordan was showing now. The strength Duncan had always had.

Alistair continued to kneel beside the Senior Warden. Even as the grip of the other man began to slacken, Alistair held firm and took the strain so that the connection between them was not broken. The breaths became more ragged and the sound of a man slowly suffocating filled his ears. He remained stock still, intent that the Senior Warden would not spend his last few moment alone but in the company of one who considered him a friend. Maker knew, he would not allow Riordan to die in the same manner as Duncan.

He felt a long overdue tap on his shoulder and turned his head to find one of the healing mages behind him. He hesitated before jerking his head in dismissal. There was little point in condemning a man to the fate of the Calling when he had already earned the title of hero.

The group of men and mages were agitated, keen to keep moving but Alistair ignored them all. Even when he knew Riordan had fully lost consciousness, he remained where he was. It was only when the man's chest failed to rise and the tension ebbed from his body that Alistair finally released his hold.

He fumbled in his mind for the words he should have known from his days in the Chantry. In the end he was forced to settle for his own variant and prayed the Maker would overlook his lapse in favour of the soul of the man it was intended to honour.

"May Andraste guide your spirit to the side of the Maker."

Alistair got to his feet and pulling his gauntlet back onto his hand, flexed his fingers to ensure it was fitted correctly. With a single shout, he ordered his soldiers onwards and they headed towards yet another staircase.

He did not look back.

She remembered.

Turning her stare back to the two women standing over her, the Bard and Witch saw the recognition appear on her face and she saw the hope rekindle on theirs.

Its presence was a knife to her heart.

Her gaze dropped. The body of Wynne lay crumpled on the floor. She studied it without comment but seeing her so fixated, they were quick to remove it from the room. Their hushed tones and secretive looks were enough for her to realise that she had been the cause of the mage's death.

More blood to add to her hands.

She knew the thought should upset her. The loss of a friend should be marked by a tear, a sigh... something. But she could find no response forthcoming. Instead, there was only the realisation that there was no escape.

She could not escape.

From what, she was no longer sure. Perhaps there was too much. But she was certain that what she had become was not what she should have been. Perhaps that was the answer; herself. A Cousland who had abandoned her duty towards her country. A Grey Warden who had refused to honour the price those much greater than her had so willingly paid. And a lover who valued her own life more than anything else.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. Perhaps this was her punishment. It was a fitting one if it was. Faced to confront her own failings, she now had to bear the humiliation that those she held most dear were also aware of those weaknesses. What was worse was the misplaced faith which still existed on their faces as they looked to her. Their forgiveness, unasked for and not sought, was a cruel agony.

She had done them a disservice. Her arrogance borne of breeding had blinded her to her limitations. Her overconfident self-assurance and untested self-belief had led her to believe that she was a natural born leader. There had been no evidence to doubt otherwise. And in her conceitedness, she had mistaken their growing dependency on her as proof of her sound leadership. It was not until too late when she realised that reliance on a sole person was a flawed concept. But by then the damage had been done and she was forced to continue even knowing the strain that each new request brought on her.

They deserved better than her.

She was not strong enough. She knew that now. But she could see as they continued to fuss around her that they were yet to realise the fact. Their hope, faith and forgiveness were all proof that they could not see her for what she was. An illusion manifested through the reputation carried in her blood. It was they who had the strength; not her.

As the full extent of her disgrace washed over her, she wished for an end. She wanted it all to end. And yet her own actions had deprived her of even that relief. While her eyes remained dry, she took comfort from the hurt caused by her heart breaking as she allowed her thoughts to finally acknowledge him.

He deserved better than her.

Her head rolled on the pillow and she found herself staring up at the Witch. Morrigan caught the look and found the eyes which were raised to her as empty. It was as though the Witch was staring into an abyss.

She leant down to whisper in the Warden's ear. "I never intended to cause you such pain. For that, I am truly sorry."

The pain was still there and the words were of no comfort. The pain mingled with her disgrace and she wished again that it could just all end. That she could send Morrigan away and face the creature alone. She would take the killing blow and it would be finished. But there was no guarantee that it would be her to take the blow. And she would not risk endangering Alistair. His deliverance was conceived of her betrayal and she would not take it from him, no matter the doubts which still swarmed her mind. There had to be another way.

As thoughts tumbled through her head, she felt the beginnings of a plan form. She could feel that she did not have the strength to offer much assistance in defending Ferelden but perhaps she could begin to right the wrong she had committed. It was surely better to seek out death than wishing for death to come. And if she should survive it all and the task was completed then no one would notice a simple lapse of judgement. Disorientation from the enormity of what had been achieved. A loss of footing. And then she would find peace.

She glanced up at the Witch, still hovering above her head, and gave her a smile. Sitting up, she reached out for Leliana. The Bard pulled her close and she outstretched an arm to draw Zevran into the embrace. They were dear friends who had offered her more than she could ever return. Her fool's understanding of her role had meant she had never revealed the depth of her heart to any of them. But in that moment she was grateful that they could not realise it. She had no wish to cause further pain; she only wished to end her own. Her time was near and she could take comfort from the fact that none would stop her.

"One last battle," Elissa murmured. "And then we can all rest."