There was a driving rain outside-a hard, cold gale undercut with tremours and distant, rolling rumbles from the Frostbacks, so deep and resonant that it seemed the enormous statues of Orzammar had come to life and were set to work bringing the mountains down. The castle's drafty halls largely failed to deliver upon the promise of relief, despite the rushes covering the floors or the tapestries bedecking the walls with scenes of Fereldan history, from the days before Calenhad to the gritty glory of Maric's rebellion. She could not help but notice that none of them featured Loghain Mac Tir, and were unlikely ever to do so again.

Maya could not wait to shirk the Grey Warden armour that she'd been so proud to don in Denerim once the ugliness of the Landsmeet was finally settled. She hesitated for but a single step by the door to the chamber Alistair had claimed, her stomach lurching as though she'd stumbled on a stair; she knew it would be easy, all too easy, to open that door and fall into his arms, fall into his bed. To spend one more night with the man who'd shown her that she might hope for more than hurried trysts in shadowed corners in the Circle Tower-with the man who'd shown her that her heart could be solid enough to shatter. Given what they'd learnt from Riordan earlier in the day, it was likelier than she cared to admit that she would not have that chance for much longer.

She kept walking, redoubling her waterlogged steps until she found her room, and only then did she dare to breathe the sob that had gathered at the base of her throat. She rested back against the closed door, her eyes drawn tight, willing her mind to be still.

"Do not be alarmed, 'tis only I." As one, the voice and the aetherial presence of Morrigan brushed against her senses, and Maya's eyes shot open. Thoughts of stripping from her sodden armour receded as the human mage emerged from a deep shadow in the corner, pausing to regard the flickering fire impassively, her furs as dry as Maya's armour was soaked. "I think I may have a way out," she murmured, only then bringing her kholed gaze to regard Maya evenly. "A loop for your hole."

Maya's chestnut hair fell thickly over her face as she dipped her head, so that she spied the Witch of the Wilds through the rain-soaked locks. "You know." It was not a question.

"I have always known. 'Twas why Mother bade me guide you from the Wilds, to keep your counsel and aid you in what ways my upbringing equipped me."

"But your mother is dead, at your own request." The old woman-or, at least, the carcass of the dragon the old woman had turned into-lay rotting in the bogs, unless the darkspawn had taken what flesh they could from her bones. Any plan the old witch had hatched with the younger one would be perforce nefarious, dangerous, suspect. Especially one hewed to despite the gruesome death of one of the conspirators at the behest of the other. "You need not do her bidding any longer."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed, glowing with a fire of their own, her face overshadowed by the flickering hearth behind her. "I act not for Flemeth's sake, but for my own, and for yours. I know that one among your number must die, short of my intervention. Such has been the way of the Grey Wardens since the first archdemon was driven from the skies; a life for a life, both corrupted. Both lost."

Maya dragged the thick spindles of her hair behind her pointed ears and moved to loosen the straps of her silver-and-blue armour, lifting the leather-backed ringmail from her shoulders and stepping further into the room. She gathered her mana subtly as she hung the garment onto the rack beside the fire, and she flared her arcane energy to help drive the worst of the moisture from the leather that remained upon her frame. "Speak your offer," she said at last, standing in front of the fire, within arm's reach of the other woman.

"There is a ritual."

The moment drew out between them like a blade. Neither of them held their staves, but their different magical energies nevertheless intertwined in the tight quarters, and they did not do so quite seamlessly.

"Of course there's a sodding ritual," Maya snarked at last, her mood sharpening as her flesh dried, and she gathered her mana about herself as subtly as she was able. "We are the both of us witches, met here on this stormy night, under the cover of dark. There couldn't not be a ritual. But a ritual isn't an offer. Speak it."

Morrigan tilted her head, regarding the Warden with something approaching wariness. "I can guarantee that no Grey Warden need fall in tandem with the archdemon, when we confront it. Conversely, should each of you predecease the beast, whomever fells it will not doom Thedas to centuries of Blight, like the unfortunate warriors of old who defeated the dragon of the First Blight without at once destroying its soul. Given the forces arrayed against us, it would be foolish not to pursue this course of action."

Put in those terms, it was difficult not to agree straightaway. Yet Maya had not spent the better part of her life in the Circle Tower to simply take an offer given by a powerful magician, despite how tempting it might be. "What is the nature of this ritual, Morrigan? What are its implications?"

"You are most highly versed in the spirit school, but you've taken lessons in creation magic." When Maya nodded, Morrigan offered a small, secret smile. "Life begets life, and death begets death. This magical law is at the core of the Grey Wardens' conundrum, the reason that the archdemon can only truly be destroyed by the commensurate sacrifice of one of your kind. Your order has embraced death as the solution, and so must offer death in recompense. But there is another way...to remove the Old God from the influence of the taint, to cleanse it, and to restore it to life."

Maya's mana guttered entirely unsubtly as she worked through Morrigan's meaning, and the possibilities narrowed with all the certainty that a river would tumble into the sea. "You want to...beget life? With him?" Her throat threatened to close against the sob that tried to rise again, a possessiveness she did not even desire gripping her shattered heart.

"I must lay with him," Morrigan affirmed, her smirk falling, the swiftness of the Warden's deduction evidently stealing her wit. "It must be him, and it must be tonight."

Maya took three breaths, closing her eyes against the savoury smoke of the fire. "If you had asked me before the Landmeet, I would have hesitated." A spasm twitched across her features, but her newly-dry cheeks were not redampened when she opened her eyes to regard her companion.

A moment passed, Morrigan searching her features with perhaps a bit more heat than Maya was used to. "I had a fancy that his foolishness would have made the decision easier—"

"Your fancy was wrong," Maya said, casting her eyes down toward the flames. "It is not my decision. He's proven more than capable of deciding for himself whom he takes to bed, and whom he does not."

"Such pettiness does not become you, Warden." Morrigan's tone sharpened. "You know as well as I that you are the only one among us who can convince him to lay with me; I daresay even he is not fool enough to ignore the likely consequence, but with your own vouching word, he might well be able to pretend that it is simply a different magic we weave. Can you not see that this is the only sensible course?"

Maya's gloved hand clenched into a fist until a few droplets of water welled between her knuckles and dropping to the floor. The drip drip drip of their impact wove beneath the hiss of the fire, and she focused on the sound as she tore her gaze from the fire to look her companion in the face once more. "You don't know him, not as I do; even if I could be convinced that your intentions were aligned to our mission, he could not be. And, given the choice between sacrificing his life as his forebears have all done and becoming a pawn to a witch whom he does not trust, he will gladly die."

"But will he watch you be thrown from the sky? Will he watch Riordan, friend of his beloved Duncan, be skewered by the dragon? Will he witness your newest recruit be dragged to the ground by an ogre and crushed under heel? Would he truly swallow all that he's come to love out of reverence for tradition and suspicion of my aims?"

"As I said, you are free to try," Maya reminded her, before she moved to the bed her bones yearned to fall into. Morrigan's words rang like prophecy in her ears-she saw herself falling from a great height; she saw Riordan torn asunder beneath the archdemon's claws; she saw Ser Cauthrien, who'd solemnly taken the Joining after the Landsmeet in Loghain's place, dragged down beneath a tide of ravenous fiends. And she saw Alistair above them all, squaring off against the dragon, driving his blade deep, dying in a great gout of light that would spell the world's salvation. "So long as you make no promises on my behalf, I will not stop you."

Silence was her only answer, and somehow Maya wasn't surprised when she looked over her shoulder to find that she was alone in her room. Her elven eyes had long since adjusted to the dim light, and she could neither see nor hear nor magically sense the witch's presence. "Maker's mercy," she sighed, the hollowness that had pulled at her ribs since the Landsmeet tugging all the more keenly from within her chest. "Andraste's grace."

oOoOo

"...And then I actually kissed the frog. Just like it was a prince under a spell. Can you imagine?"

Alistair hid his sigh behind a deep draught of wine; he could imagine, all too much and all too well. He could imagine himself saying yes. He could imagine himself standing beside her as the grand cleric pronounced them joined into one heart, and as the Landsmeet acclaimed her his queen. Maker, he could even imagine himself falling in love with her, someday.

But that day was not this day, and Arlessa Ariana must have sensed it, judging by her wry smile. "You've not heard a word I've said, have you, Your Majesty?"

The King of Ferelden ran a hand over the stubble that never quite coalesced into a beard, and this time he couldn't deflect the sigh that slipped from his lips. "I apologise, my lady," he allowed, not bothering to hide his chagrin. "I suppose I should ask what happened to the frog, then."

Ariana's laugh was authentic, more so than he'd heard all through their supper. "Perhaps you'd care to discover first-hand?"

There was an offer, there, under the joke, and one that had nothing to do with politics or Chantries or dynasties. "That depends," he drawled, after another sip of wine had loosened his tongue, "on exactly what kind of test you're proposing, and whether or not I get to choose where the test is to be given."

He could tell by the colour tinging her cheeks that the arlessa had correctly guessed his implication, and some genuine curiosity bled through the mask of feigned interest she'd worn all evening. "Oh," she sighed, "I think it might require a thorough examination, Your Majesty."

Those two words stuck like a knife in Alistair's chest, a reminder that he was above all a king, beholden to more than his own desires. And so, though Ariana was stunningly beautiful and strong, though he was certain she was no more interested in becoming the Queen of Ferelden than she was in becoming Empress of Orlais, and though he'd gone more than two years without even kissing another person, the King of Ferelden settled heavily back in his seat. "It has been a marvelous supper, Arlessa Ariana," he assured her, with a smile not quite as bland as the stews he used to make on the road. "Please give the Arling of Edgehall my warmest regards, when you elect to return."

While not a formal dismissal, the arlessa must have sensed that their dance had ended before it had even properly begun. "I shall, Your Majesty," she replied. She only tried one or two more threads of awkward conversation before deciding to retire to the guests' chambers.

More of him than he wanted to admit urged him to follow her, but when Alistair rose, he retreated back to his study, to face his sort-of-uncles' disappointment yet again. Teagan stood leaning against a bookshelf, while Eamon sat at the desk as though he were in his own castle in Redcliffe. The greys in his thick beard had only multiplied since his ordeal with Loghain's poison and the aftermath of the demon's intervention, but even so, he looked haggard as he surveyed the younger man. "And what was wrong with this one, my boy?"

Alistair swallowed, shrugging, suddenly feeling too warm in his fancy doublet with his full belly; even now, he woke up some mornings expecting rough underpadding and cold leftover stew and the scent of wild honeysuckle. "Nothing," he admitted. "Ariana is...perfect, and I think she would make a good queen."

The arl pinched the bridge of his nose. "And yet you will not wed her, nor even bed her on the off chance that she would produce even an illegitimate heir to secure your line," he observed. "For Andraste's sake, lad, as well as your own...tell me why."

"Because," Alistair ventured, "I...do not love her."

Arl Eamon scoffed. "Love has nothing to do with it, my boy," he said, not for the first time that week. "You must be pragmatic if you wish to retain the throne you won during the Blight."

Alistair grimaced. He'd vowed once to marry out of pragmatism, only to watch that pragmatism drain away like Loghain's blood from the end of his sword. In the end Anora had gone to Gwaren as its teyrna, ruling the land competently and well, and only returned to Denerim to make her voice heard during the Landsmeet. She'd married a bann with Alistair's blessing and had given birth to a pair of twins since quitting the capitol, a fact which Eamon sometimes brought up during these little post-supper chats of theirs. That he had initially downplayed the broken betrothal as a positive because of Anora's supposed infertility gave the old man no pause that Alistair had ever sensed.

Teagan stepped into the long gap left by the king's private musings. "Was it pragmatism which brought Isolde over the Frostbacks and cost you nearly half your freeholders, dear brother?"

Eamon's cheeks faintly reddened beneath his whiskers, Alistair thought, but it might have been a trick of the candlelight. "And I need not remind you that my obstinacy did not exactly result in the best outcome for my people," he pointed out, and then he rose slowly to his feet. "Had I listened to my wise counsellors, I might well have saved Redcliffe a great deal of grief during the Blight."

"You cannot know that, Eamon," Teagan insisted, the familiarity of fraternity giving him leeway to chastise the arl without fear. "And it is all well and good trying to tell the boy to avoid your mistakes, but that hasn't precisely worked out in the outcome you desire, has it?"

The elder brother turned to face the younger, leaving Alistair quite out of the centre of attention, which he was very comfortable with. "What you propose is madness, Teagan," Eamon said, and the king got the sense that the arl was again repeating himself. "The Landsmeet will never stand for it."

Alistair blinked, his head still a bit cloudy from the supper wine. "What are you two talking about? Do you want to be king, Teagan?" The question was only half in jest, for if the older man had truly shown any desire for the role, Alistair wasn't certain he wouldn't surrender his crown before the fortnight was through.

But, alas, the bann's laugh dispelled any fantasies of retiring that Alistair might have wished to entertain. "Nonsense, Your Majesty. In any case, you know I've not yet wed, and have no heirs apparent. Given my age, it'd be a hard sell to the other nobles, even if I had a drop of Calenhad's blood in my veins."

Alistair swallowed hard against the twin objections that rose in the back of his throat. On the one hand, Fereldan noble bloodlines were just as intertwined as any kingdom's, and he was certain that some connection between the Guerrins and the Theirins could be found or fabricated; on the other, it was almost certain that Teagan could produce an heir more reliably than Alistair would...though neither Teagan nor Eamon knew that. He might not be a very good one, but he was still a Grey Warden, and he could still keep a few of their secrets. Clearing his throat, Alistair shook his head. "Then what are you on about?" He broached. "What else won't the Landsmeet stand for?"

Eamon veritably rolled his eyes, while Teagan drew in a steadying breath. "As of tonight, you have met and dined with every Fereldan noblewoman of note, from all corners of the country, and even three foreign princesses that would have proved acceptable matches. Sometimes with excuses and sometimes without, you've politely declined to offer your hand to any of them-"

"-Much to the consternation of the nobles of the Landsmeet," Eamon cut in, provoking a wince from the young king.

Teagan threw his brother a glance, waiting until it was clear he wouldn't be interrupted again before continuing. "I know why you've found everyone wanting," he admitted, his eyes going to the middle distance and his lips grimacing beneath his goatee. "There is someone who's already taken your heart, to whom everyone else simply fails to measure up. Don't bother denying it," the bann insisted, when Alistair's fumbling tongue tried to marshal an objection. "Even if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, it's obvious to Eamon and me that you were madly in love with the Commander of the Grey during the Blight. Despite your protests to the contrary, it's equally obvious that you still are, as well."

Arl Eamon scoffed, and it wasn't clear whether he was more disgusted with his brother or his not-quite-nephew. "Even if that is true," he insisted, "it is irrelevant. Marriage is not and should not be the business of love, but of alliance. Teagan's proposal gains us nothing, and stands to lose us everything."

The portrait wasn't exactly clear, but Alistair was getting a better idea what Bann Teagan was driving at. "Wait...you mean…"

"I mean that if you will not marry someone you do not love, then we should consider extending an invitation to someone you do." Eamon made another noise to interrupt again, but Teagan plowed on. "The situation is quite simple; if you do not soon marry and shortly thereafter produce an heir, the Landsmeet will select someone for the throne who can."

"And then all we've worked for," Eamon broke in, with a glare to his brother, "all Maric and Rowan fought for and built will have been for nothing. But if you think the banns, arls, and teyrns of Ferelden will accept an elven apostate as their queen-"

"An elven apostate who happens to be the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Redcliffe," Teagan pointed out, "and the only reason Ferelden isn't a burning crater being squabbled over by Orlesian dukes at this very moment. Not to mention her great care in saving both your lady wife and son, when it would've been far less personally dangerous to simply slaughter them to end the ordeal they perpetuated. If there is any Fereldan more worthy of sharing the throne with Alistair, we would be hard pressed to name her."

Alistair's throat dried up like a desert, saving him from stammering incoherently. Teagan and Eamon were his closest advisors, as close to father figures as he'd ever had in his life, and this line of reasoning by the Bann of Rainesfere was entirely unexpected. The king had spent much of the last two years trying to convince them that he was over Maya; he hadn't seen the woman since she'd taken possession of Vigil's Keep, and that one meeting on the road before the fortress was enough to convince him that she wasn't going to forgive him for the mess he'd made of things. "Excuse me," he said, but his words were lost in the brothers' continued bickering; the arl's reminder of his personal debt to Maya didn't seem to make him less argumentative. "Hey!" The king called, more loudly, getting the older men's attention. "You might have seen me covered in mud as a child, but you made me your king, and I will get a word in edgeways. Do you understand?"

Eamon gathered himself first, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, Your Majesty?" His obsequeity seemed only slightly feigned. "What have you to say about my brother's mad idea?"

Teagan's voice rose in protest, but Alistair overrode him. "I think you're forgetting," he observed, "that the one woman I love is likely the only woman in the country who would reject anything I suggested, whether it was what to eat for breakfast or to spend the rest of her life with me." And it's all my fault, he reflected, smirking wryly at himself. If I hadn't been so stupid…

"Be that as it may," Teagan insisted, "we cannot continue as we've done thus far without fear of renewed civil war. We must ask ourselves if that risk is worth the asking...of the Landsmeet, to accept the Warden, and of the Warden to accept the Landsmeet." The bann's gaze rested heavily upon the king. "What say you, Alistair? Would you sacrifice your crown for the one you love, or sacrifice your love to keep your crown?"

When put in those terms, the King of Ferelden saw that there was no real choice. He couldn't continue as he had been, spending his days sitting in judgment of petty squabbles amongst his banns and his evenings fending off advances from eligible noblewomen, most of whom desired and deserved the throne more than he himself did. No, if there was anything the last two years had taught him, it was that he would rather chase his heart into oblivion than cut his palms to the bone grasping desperately at the circlet of iron that Eamon and Teagan had won him. "Alright," he said, a hollow in his chest tugging at the inside of his ribs. "But only on one condition: I'll deliver the message myself, and bring back her reply."

Eamon's whiskers twitched. "My boy…"

"No," Alistair corrected him. "Your king, at least for the nonce. And if Maya will have me, she'll be your queen." If she'd have him, and that was a big if. But by the Maker, he was willing to try.