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“I

warned

you this might happen” Morrigan hissed as she pulled Feyra Cousland through camp. The nighttime chill had begun to set in, and Morrigan’s nails were as sharp as the wind on her skin. Morrigan’s steps were quick- purposeful, and Feyra tripped over her own feet trying to keep pace. When the two were out of earshot of the others, Morrigan turned, taking both Feyra’s hands in her own and squeezing them tight. She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “How long have you known?”

Feyra’s eyes, immediately downcast, revealed that she had known for awhile. She hesitatied. “Not more than a week,” she admitted quietly. “I suspected for a bit longer, but it has been far from my mind.” She closed her eyes, and shuddered against the memories flooding her. “Ever since camp was attacked, I haven’t thought of much aside from Darkspawn. And the constant nightmares, Morrigan… I never ever thought-”

Morrigan cut her off, pulling Feyra into her arms as gently as she could. Feyra felt the tears start to well in her eyes.

“Oh you sweet, sweet fool,” Morrigan whispered into Feyra’s hair. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and held tight, swaying gently from side to side. The rocking motion, she hoped, would calm her friend, as it did Morrigan when she was young and scared and Flemeth felt the need to be maternal with her likely stolen girl. Feyra was shaking. “It’s still early,” Morrigan said.  “We can still do something about it. It won’t be too late for awhile yet.”

Feyra stiffened. “Do… Do what?” She pushed against Morrigan’s embrace, and Morrigan released her slowly.

Morrigan frowned, but her eyes were sympathetic. “Sweet girl,” she reached up and brushed Feyra’s dark hair from her eyes. “Carrying a child through a blight is

not

advisable. You will be at risk, and you will

be

a risk to

us.

There are far too many in this camp that care for you far too much to see you come to harm. You do no one any good with a target deep within.”

The Warden hung her head. She knew this. Maker, she

knew

this. She

was

a target, now moreso than ever. With her, everyone she loved took on a burden they had never agreed to. How could she ask them to stand with her now? How could she ask them to fight beside her, to act as though nothing had changed when, in a single moment, everything had? She could feel the tears coming, and suddenly her body was racked with sobs. Her hands were trembling, her voice lost. She nearly fell to her knees, but Morrigan, ever watchful, caught her in her arms. “Shhhh, love,” she whispered, caressing Feyra’s head. “Have you told

him

yet?”

Feyra managed to choke back the sobs. “Maker, no,” she said quietly, wiping her tearing eyes and running nose with her sleeve. “I would hardly know what to say, or how even to say it.”

Morrigan took her hands and gently placed them on the girl’s shoulders.

Sweet girl

, she thought. And Feyra was hardly more than that: Battle hardened, unnaturally aged at, what, no more than twenty, twenty two? She had seen her family slaughtered, seen her comrades fall in the joining, watched dozens- hundreds- of people breathe in a last gasp on blood soaked battlefields. She had taken countless lives in the hope of ending the blight. Her eyes were tired, red, and weeping. She was haunted by the warden’s dreams, the warden’s worries, the warden’s endless battles to fight, find favor and help. She was deeply lonely, and at the very least, her troubles were deeper than Lake Calenhad. Morrigan examined her closely, and saw her lips begin to tremble again.

No. No, no…. Morrigan knew then that there would be no undoing this. This, it seemed, was fated to run its natural course, to see through to the end- whatever end that may be. Morrigan sighed heavily.

“Start with the truth, my friend.” She shook her head, judging the entire situation to be hopeless. “Something tells me that

idiot

will be overjoyed. Alistair… a father… what a mockery this is…” Morrigan trailed off. Feyra managed a laugh and wiped her eyes again.

“Morrigan, I appreciate you.” She cleared her throat of the sadness from moments before.  “Thank you… Thank you for being my friend,” Feyra whispered. “It means more to me than you know.”

Before Morrigan could respond, Feyra swept in and kissed her gently on the cheek- fast enough that in the same movement, she spun around and started the trek back to the fire. The dark camp was as home to her as anything, she thought. This ground as good a foundation as any house. This group as good as any village. As she approached the warmth and flames, she stopped and took a long, drawn breath. Her hands found their way to her belly, the first of many times, she was sure. In the firelight, she studied her companions in their blissful states: Leliana, Alistair, and Wynne were engrossed in a very animated and loud game of Wicked Grace. Wynne was laughing, gray head thrown back, staff lying haphazardly on the ground; Alistair’s laughter permeating the camp, howling that Leliana had cheated; Leliana protesting that of course she would never cheat, a note of real offense taken in her Orlesian accent.  Oghren was passed out, gently stirring and loudly snoring half in the dirt and half against a tree stump feet from the fire, his hand still clutched around a bottle. Sten stood away from the rest and watched the road vigilantly, as he always did, silent and staring, while her constant companion Barkspawn, with

something

in his mouth, nudged an extremely irritated Zevran, goading the elf into a continuous game of chase and fetch.

“

Get back here, you painted bastard!”

Feyra was here, and the world moved on. The chill in the air swept in from the west and made her shiver. The sky was black and littered with diamonds, stars so bright they could blind someone for staring, but her gaze was intensely uplifted, and her distraction complete enough that she hardly noticed Alistair’s approach until his fingers intertwined with hers.

“My love?”

She turned silently to him and was met by his eyes, beaming at her and the breeze whispering through his hair.

Maker, he is perfect

, she thought, and immediately felt tears come to her eyes once again. Rather than let Alistair see her cry,

again

, she thought,

so stupid!

she allowed herself to fall into his arms. He caught her, held her, and chuckled.

“What’s all this?” He kissed her hair gently.

“It’s just…” she breathed into his chest, not sure she could form the world to express the way she was feeling. Alone. Responsible.

Nervous as a mage in the Harrowing

, she thought, recalling the countless stories Wynne had told around the fire. Instead, she managed, “You’re just breathtaking, Alistair. I love you.”

He nuzzled her head. “Say that again. Maker knows I like hearing it.”

“I love you.”

“And I you, darling.”

She held him close, willing herself to stay in his arms a bit longer, words left unsaid for just awhile. In his arms, her fears were assuaged. Her hesitation evaporated. In all that she had lost, and all she had left to lose, Alistair was precious to her. He was her whole heart, and now her whole family.

Well. Almost.

She steeled herself for the conversation to come and opened her mouth to speak.

“Care for a game before bed, my dear?” Alistair stepped back from her slightly. His smile was irresistible, and Feyra closed her mouth. She nodded.

Another day, perhaps. Tomorrow she would tell him.

Tomorrow.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Humans in the Fade are like a beacon, she knew. There was never any guarantee that your dreams would reveal anything; any morsel of truth, any half measure of pleasantness… And Wardens in the fade were something else entirely. The dreams that haunted Wardens through the years were, all at once, premonition, warning, and fear incarnate. This was no different. Feyra doubted it would ever be different, since the sickness that tainted her body and mind was bound to consume her eventually. The nightmares came more frequently now. Nightly, even. More vivid and terrifying as the days progressed. Some evenings she feared to sleep, and was comforted only by presence of Alistair near her and the knowledge that he, too, dreamt of hell. Tonight, however, she was alone. The night began in waves of nausea, with Feyra hiding behind trees, heaving until there was nothing left, and avoiding her campmates as best she could. Sorry, Ali. Something I ate.  He had kissed her forehead and bade her good night, and now she was alone in the Fade, dreaming, or seeing, she supposed, and listening to the taunts of darkspawn somewhere in the blackness. The hordes were unfathomably large. Each one its own sea, writhing, breathing, living some horrid mimicry of life. Jeering, chanting, some semblance of song ringing forth to call to the Archdemon, to appease it. It shook Feyra to the core. These were tiny parts to a whole being, and served a single, unwavering purpose. The hordes crashed before her in mock battle, their caterwauling wretched and echoing around her. Haunting screams pierced through her, striking another blow to her already aching heart. The sound of it almost hurt. Her head rang with the wailing as it wormed its way into her, binding around her and holding tight until the absence of the music was itself a roar, and its presence emptiness.  Music , she thought. It’s getting to me.  The suddenness of silence caused her to stumble slightly in the darkness. The hordes were gone, and she was again alone. This was to be expected: The Fade changed readily, revealing, or perhaps mirroring the chaos in one’s mind. Feyra’s eyes begged for some semblance of light. Instead, a shriek. Panicked footsteps. Then nothing. Feyra stood absolutely still, willing herself to move and finding herself unable to take so much as a single step. From the corner of her eyes, she saw it: Slowly coming into focus, and spitting dread and darkness. Eyes. Wicked, lifeless eyes, burning into her from an impossible distance, yet somehow she knew they were laid upon her. She stared into them as they bored into her skull, searing her, igniting within her heart in their intensity. The waves of nausea returned, bile rising in her throat. It threatened to make itself known. And then the pain, oh, Maker! Why does it hurt? Her body was flame, darkness, and a deep guilt and emptiness she had never felt before. Piercing, deep in her chest, snatching the breath right from her. Overwhelmed, Feyra fell to her knees, and kept falling. An eternity of nothing left her screams echoing through the Fade. She reeled when she finally hit the ground, the wind knocked out of her, and her hands pulling up fistfulls of red dirt. Red, red dust coming in clouds around her, red, red staining her hands and arms. Red, pouring from her mouth in thick, wet streams. She coughed, choking on the warmth, the salt, the heaviness of it all. She was drowning. When the whispers began, she reminded herself this was a dream; a Warden’s dream, a permanent side effect of the blight sickness and a reminder of the oath she had taken- but it didn’t stop the murmuring. 
In death, sacrifice.
 
In death, sacrifice.
 
In death, sacrifice.

In death.

Feyra woke gasping for breath and blood under her fingernails. “Feyra!” She felt Alistair’s hands on her as he knelt down at her side. He gently wiped away- what? Tears, she realized. She had the sinking feeling she had been sobbing in her sleep. “Alistair, I-” He cut her off. “Shhhh, Fey. You’re safe. You’re safe, love,” he whispered. Alistair pulled her close. Feyra closed her eyes against him, taking deep, measured breaths, trying desperately to regain control of her body and mind. She had lost herself in the Fade before. These nightmares always threatened to claim her. Slow. Slow. Calm. Calm.  Several minutes passed, and Alistair finally let her go. Feyra opened her eyes and, in one horrifying moment, realized where the blood had come from. Alistair’s face and chest were covered in scratches, some deep, all angry, red, and swollen. His blood had started to clot in a few places, but was still running in others. She felt a drop of it fall. Warm. My love.  “Sweet Maker,” she said, her voice cracking. “Alistair, I am so sorry. What have I done to you?” His eyes were soft and kind. He brought a finger to her lips to quiet her crying. “Fey,” he said quietly. “Don’t. The nightmares are not your fault.” He paused, taking a moment to gently hold her head in his hands. “I’m worried about you.” Feyra sat up, her breath heavy and slow. “What happened?” Alistair considered her carefully. He could see the exhaustion in her eyes. They were damn lucky to get half a night’s sleep, but tonight… He kissed her forehead gently. “You were screaming. Barkspawn nearly tore my tent apart to wake me, and when I heard you, I ran over. Your… eyes were open. You looked like you were trying to kill something, and, well. I guess I got in the way, what with trying to wake you and all.” He was silent for a moment. Feyra couldn’t- or wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You know the closer we get to the Archdemon, the worse the nightmares will get.” Feyra nodded. “Alistair. I can hear it every time I close my eyes. It talks to me.” “Me too.” For a moment, Feyra didn’t feel so alone. “What does it say to you?” “I’m not sure,” replied Alistair. “It’s mostly murmuring. Some of the older Wardens can understand it, but the demon’s voice just sounds like nonsense to me. I much prefer it that way anyway.” Her heart sank with a pang of jealousy. “Oh.” “I do know one thing, however.” Alistair smiled widely and stoked her cheek. “I will not be letting you sleep alone again, Sten’s bad stew or no. Why did we let him cook tonight, anyway? Though, truth be told, you seem to be the only one suffering any ill effects.” He shook his head and Feyra exhaled in an imitation of a more-than-usually-nervous-laugh. “Come to think of it, Oghren had… Thirds? Poor bastard.” “Thank you, Ali,” Feyra said quickly.  “Can we… go get cleaned up?” Alistair’s eyes lit up and he broke into a sly grin. “I’d like nothing more. Be gentle, though, please? For some reason my face stings. Some beautiful creature attacked me in the night…” It was all Feyra could do to smile.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The stares were always odd in the Brecillian Forest. If the Dalish weren’t eyeing them with arrows trained on their hides, then it was the overgrown Sylvan trees. If not the trees, the oversized bears and giant wolves, and if not them, the way-too-muscular werewolves. Regardless of who or what was doing it, Alistair

hated

the stares. Hostile attention was not something he was comfortable entertaining, especially not with Feyra around. He couldn’t understand how she hardly seemed to notice when the Keeper kept an eye on her, making sure the rogue Grey Warden kept her hands out of the elves’ things, never paid mind when the scouts and hunters refused to turn their backs to her, but Alistair couldn’t shake the feeling that, here, in this camp,

someone

was plotting their demise. Well, more people than usual, he guessed. At least one. Maybe four. There always seemed to be someone charging them with a sword, a bow, or a greasy cheese knife.
 
Feyra, Alistair, and the mages had set out into the wild woods

hours

ago, it seemed. Wynne, in her grandmotherly way, was worried that with the impending battle with Swiftrunner and the rest of the pack, they would be low on poultices, especially since Feyra was so prone to handing them out. Any man, woman, or child that seemed to be in less than perfect health was gifted one by their fearless leader. Alistair had to admit, sometimes she was generous to a fault. But that was just one of the things he

loved

about her. Her generosity. Her unshakable ferocity as a leader, yet her tenderness when they were alone. Her soft spoken voice, her gentleness with him and their companions. Her mad, mad love of that flea-bitten beast Barkspawn. Her trust. Her long, wavy hair, almost always wrapped around a few leathers and swept into a bun. The color of her Warden clothes; Maker, she looked good in blue. And

Maker,

Alistair couldn’t forget her… Nevermind.
 
He found himself staring, not for the first time that

day

even, at her as the women picked Elfroot. Alistair was no good at medicinal plants. They required too delicate a touch to preserve. He was much better at wrecking things, picking flowers, and making stupid jokes.
 
Alistair stretched his arms into the air and cleared his throat. When Fey’s eyes stayed low on the shrubbery, he announced; “Hey Feyra. Are you a thief? Because you’ve

stolen my heart.”

He smiled widely at her, and leaned onto his sword, batting his long, blonde lashes at her, practically begging for a response. When Feyra smiled and stood up, he knew he’d gotten one. She dropped the bunch of Elfroot she’d picked into Wynne’s basket and sauntered over to him. Ah, Maker, he loved the way she walked. Just looking at her made his senses sharp; that quick lightning feeling spread through his belly as she reached for his face and gently caressed his cheek.

At the same time, she kicked the sword out from under him. Immediately Alistair lost his balance and nearly crashed to the ground.
 
“Rude!” He called. He did

love

taunting her, and more often than not it worked out in his favor. She was one to kiss him and pull him into her tent,but this time, Feyra blew him a kiss and returned to her collecting. Morrigan was laughing hysterically and nearly fell over herself. Wynne hardly even glanced up at them. Still worth it.
 
Alistair turned tail, only

slightly

embarrassed, and scouted the path forward. The werewolves were about and they had been accosted more times than he would like to count, some encounters turning bloody, others ending in… What? Mercy? Pain? He stopped walking and cringed slightly at the thought of the former Dalish elf, turned wolf, begging for death at their hands. Not days ago, Feyra had struck a blade into her heart and prayed to the Maker over her lifeless, finally peaceful frame. It was one of the kindest gestures he’d ever witnessed.
 
“Alistair? May I have a word?” Morrigan had followed him up the path, it seemed. He rolled his eyes. What asinine comment did she have for him this time?
 
“I suppose. What do you need?”
 
“‘Tis time we spoke of your intentions with our leader,” she said judging him. She judgingly crossing her arms and looked at him judgingly with her big, judgy eyes.
 
“They are only good, I assure you, Morrigan.”
 
“I wonder. Is it permissible in… your order… for two Grey Wardens to… Oh, what is the word I search for?”
 
“Caboodle?”
 
It was Morrigan’s turn to roll her eyes. “Fraternize. As you do.” She pursed her lips, her weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other.
 
Alistair stepped back, looking offended. “What’s wrong with fraternizing?”
 
Morrigan sighed. She looked down slightly, and for the first time in their time together, Alistair thought she looked a little… sad, perhaps. “It seems most undisciplined, for an organization that claims it will do whatever is necessary to end the darkspawn threat.”
 
Alistair looked at her and rubbed a bit of dirt from his forehead. “One thing has nothing to do with the other,” he replied. “I’m not sure why you’d think it would.”
 
With more quickness than he thought she could muster, Morrigan stepped close to him. Eerily close, and looked him dead in the eyes. The feline yellow-gold of hers was sharp and almost burned him. He could feel her breath, strangely cool, like winter wind. “Oh no?” Her voice was deadly quiet. “And what if a Grey Warden was forced to choose between the Warden he loved and ending the Blight? What should his choice be?” Her eyes, unblinking, dared him to give the wrong reply.
 
“That is a… ridiculous question,” he instead responded, pulling away, a distinct note of fear in his voice and upon his face.
 
Morrigan knit her brows together. She

almost

reached up to him, but her hand fell back down to her side. “And I have my answer. Most kind of you.” She closed her eyes, and turned to go back down the path toward Wynne and Feyra. After a few careful steps, she paused. “Alistair.”
 
“What do you

want

, Morrigan?”
 
“She is going to need you when this is over. Tis something you should remember and take to heart.”
 
“How could I not? I plan to be there.”
 
Morrigan nodded, and returned down the path.  
 
…..
 
It wasn’t always like this. This was… ethereal, like he’d found her in the fade, glowing, haunting his waking hours, fingertips on skin like, hot, hot flames. Ah,

Maker

, he couldn’t shake her from his head. Feyra made him dizzy every time they were together, but this.... The softness of her lips, the quick whispers. She seemed to spark from within.
 
She sat in front of him, blue evening robes pooled around her, tied shut across her chest. She leaned back on her heels, fingers entwined in his hair and nails

digging

into his scalp. It hurt, but made him shiver and want desperately to press himself against her. She held him close. She

always

held him close, as if she was afraid letting go would mean losing him. That was out of the question, however, as Alistair knew he would following her

anywhere,

to the deep roads, to the lair of wolves, to the Archdemon itself.

Her lips tasted of clove, held over from long sips of Oghren’s ale, and he breathed her in deeply. Spice. Sweetness from honey. Elfroot. Sweat. He tugged her hair down, felt it cascade in a matted, messy fall down her back, felt her lashes against his.
 
Feyra pulled away from him and traced lines on his neck with slow, steady kisses and teeth, gentle on his skin.
 
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” she whispered. It made Alistair groan. He wrapped his arms around her and quickly lifted her from on the bedroll and into his lap.

Never miss an opportunity to show off your warrior’s strength.

Only a slightly awkward time to hear Duncan’s voice in his head.
 
There was a single candle burning in the tent. Feyra had kept it neat, the bedroll clean, far different from his own. In his own tent, his haste and wanting made him throw his armor about like rags, but Feyra took her time. Unlacing leather boots took ages, and she always insisted on undressing

him

first. Fingers undoing straps, metal neatly placed in front of the door, usually to discourage Barkspawn from inviting himself in and making himself comfortable. Lately, though, Barkspawn had made his irritation at being left to sleep in the cold well known. Tonight, he’d even lunged at Alistair as he kissed Feyra against a tree in camp. One moment they stood, the next, his hands snaking around her waist and the Mabari had lept up, teeth bared.
 
Feyra had a

look

in her eyes when it happened. Alistair couldn’t place it, but she actually shouted at the dog, something he had never seen her do before. Barkspawn immediately backed down, looking strangely like a kicked puppy. Zevran had run over to collect him, and Feyra had tugged Alistair toward her tent. And here they were. Alistair undressed down to his trousers, and Fey dressed for bed, pressing against his chest and stealing the breath from his lungs.

Maker’s breath.

Feeling her pressed against him nearly drove him to frenzy. He had yet to learn the self control Feyra really needed and appreciated in

this

aspect of life. It was new to them still, their bodies knowing one another for only a few short months, but Feyra was sensitive, soft, and here, she was sweeter than sin.
 
He would do

anything

for her.
 
He reached for her robe and gently undid the ties. Alistair watched the fabric flutter down around her shoulders, and felt the sweeping heat of desire find its way deep within him as he reached for the roundness of her hips, the sparkle of wetness on her skin, the gentle swell of her belly…
 
He… hadn’t remembered that before. It was a graceful curve, hardly there at all, but unmistakable under his hands.
 
Feyra seemed to notice his hands linger in one place. She guided his hands away with her own, to her back where Alistair felt the urge to dig in. The give of her skin under his fingers was absolutely

exquisite…

Feyra pulled back and cleared her throat slightly.
 
“Alistair…” she breathed.
 
“Mmmmyeeeees?” He said, pulling her lips back to his.
 
“We need to talk.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The sheer

thrill

of blood on blade, the sudden, rough give of severed tendons, flesh splitting, ripping apart to accommodate metal never ceased to make Feyra shake. The heat of it all, the wetness, the thick, slippery streams that came from cut after cut. She couldn’t tell if it was pleasant or awful, or perhaps some combination of both, but she knew her knives like an extension of herself, and the Hurlock in front of her was no more than tainted meat for butchering. She spun quickly, catching it off guard, and twisted her blade deep in the creature’s chest. The sound it made was unlike one any living creature would utter: A sickening snap, scream, squelch, gurgle, stumble backward, hiss,

hiss,

fall. All at once, and yet time seemed to slow each time she ended a life,

especially

the life of a darkspawn.
 
Feyra was faster than her companions expected. She had been since the beginning, but seeing her twirl her way around a battlefield, bouncing from enemy to enemy, leaving screams and geysers of blood in her wake was terrifying. If she did not want to be seen, she was invisible, with flanking strikes that severed an uncovered spine in the back of a neck, or with blades cutting through tough, dark leathers like butter.  If she stayed low to the ground, she could disable an army, leaving it vulnerable to Alistair’s bright templar sword, Barkspawn’s savage teeth, or Morrigan’s crushing prison.

This was the way of battle led by the rogue Warden. Whispered orders, slight nods. Quick, low movement. A thousand cuts and casualties before the enemy could hit the ground running, and her companions dealing with aftermath.

“You don’t need to treat me any differently.” Her voice was cold. Unlike her.

He reached out. “Of course I do. Now more than ever.” Even her skin had a chill about it. Something was wrong.

“I don’t need protecting.”

“How can you say that? I won’t let anything hurt you, Fey. Not now. Especially not now.”

She’d turned away from him. Her eyes were dark. How long had it been since she’d slept? Days, perhaps. Weeks. The nightmares were relentless, after all, and they were so close to the Archdemon. It was enough to drive a man mad.

“This is why I was afraid to tell you.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

He looked away, ashamed. “I’m sorry that I have ever done anything that might make you fear me.”

Sweet Andraste, would she ever stop crying? Silence. Just tears and silence.

But that wasn’t it, was it? Not him, it was never him. Just the finality of it all. The weight of it all. The knowing. The unbearable lightness of his love unending. The uncertainty of the blight… and what would come after.

“I didn’t think this was possible, Alistair.”

“Nor did I.” His voice almost cracked.

She buried her head in her hands. She sobbed.

“What have we done?”

In death.

In death.

It echoed like a dream she’d once had.

Feyra spun from the fight as the Hurlock fell, half drown on blood, half dead from severed nerves. She sidestepped fallen blight wolves, their hides ripped open, hair singed, chests torn to shreds from teeth and claws. Across the field, Alistair had engaged some sort of arcane horror and was struggling to keep pace. His armor was heavy, his sword exhausting, his shield a refuge from the constant barrage of flame and ice. His templar training forced him to angle his shield downward, deflecting spell after spell to the ground, but the dry scrubgrass at his feet ignited and he stumbled backward to avoid the rapid spread of flame and heat. Feyra sprinted toward him, dodging a mad rush from Barkspawn at an approaching darkspawn armed with a bow,  and pressed her back firmly against his.

“Use your shield!” she shouted. Alistair nodded and the two spun, back to back, Feyra leaping up to slash into the creature’s withered, fade-bound flesh while Alistair would sweep in, covering them both with his shield, sparks and snow beating against the metal and ricocheting off into the burning brush around them.

The horror paused for a moment to do Maker knows what, but it was too late. Alistair, recovered from the rest Feyra and his shield had afforded him, stepped in front and felled the horror with his sword.

The cracking of flames was, for a moment, the only sound any of them could hear. The smoke was thick, black, and threatened to choke them all, but still Feyra could see her companions had won the day. Barkspawn, panting heavily, was coated in filth and blood. The dark pools near his paws and blackness dripping from his jowls revealed that he had done

more

than his fair share of life taking this day. Morrigan was behind them, her staff still lit up, but the magic was fading as the need to expend her energy was no more. Alistair sheathed his sword and knelt to rest.

The overwhelming smell of tainted blood and burning flesh made Feyra vomit.

Wynne knew. Of course she’d known. She’d known longer than Feyra had, she supposed. She’d done this before, after all.

“Warden? A word,” she said quietly. There it was: lightning in her gut. Feyra was terrified. Wynne would be disappointed in her, she was sure of it. The shaking wracked her body once again.

“Wynne,” she breathed. “Anything for you.”

Camp was settling into the news. Critical looks, rolled eyes. Zevran had looked absolutely thrilled. Morrigan hadn’t said a word.

“I suppose I should have had the talk with Alistair sooner.”

Feyra smiled. “I doubt it would have helped.”

“You seem sure.”

“I’m glad, Wynne. Happier than I’ve been in years.” She swallowed hard, feeling bile rise in her throat. Of all the difficulties of being pregnant, and, she guessed, being pregnant on the battlefield, the constant threat of vomit was one of the most difficult to accept.

“You’re lying to me.”

“I would never.” She was quiet. Wynne had the wisdom of all of Thedas, and in fear Feyra was putting up a wall.

“I can help you. This child is truly a wonder. You

must

keep it safe. If not for you, for him,” she glanced toward Alistair, dozing fireside. “It would absolutely break him to lose either of you. You are the most precious thing he has.”

“Of course I will keep it safe! Who do you think I am?” Wynne’s words stung.

“I think you are young. You enjoy taking risks in battle. I have seen how you fight and been alongside you. Caution would behoove you now, my dear. At least until this is finished.”

Silence.

“I… have something for you.” A blanket. Small. Bright, sunny yellow and a white brighter than Andraste’s Grace.

The tears came again.

Her tent was her refuge. Feyra had scrubbed the day from her skin, leaving her flesh raw, red, and tender. The water in the spring was never warm enough, but it was clean. Feyra was shaking with cold when she returned to her tent. Barkspawn was

still

an eyesore of filth, though that was a problem she could deal with tomorrow.
 
Morrigan was waiting for her at her tent.
 
The two broke into smiles at the approach of the other. “My dear friend,” she said, looking down and placing her hands on Feyra’s swelling middle. “Tomorrow we head for Denerim. You… need more forgiving armor.”

Feyra stifled a giggle. Of

course

she would. It was getting difficult to suit up in her leathers, light though they may be. It was getting awkward to ask Alistair to help with the straps when there was hardly enough leather to make each piece come together.

“Morrigan, why couldn’t I have taken up a bow?” Feyra whispered. The camp was nearly silent in sleep. Waking her friends after such a hard fought battle was a punishment even Sten did not deserve.

“Because you are difficult,” said Morrigan flatly.

“

Life

is difficult.”

“Tis true. Your life more than many.”

“Oh please,” Feyra replied. “I’m not the first pregnant woman in the world, certainly not the first to fight, and… probably not the first Warden.”

Morrigan was silent, but her eyes were bright. She almost laughed.

“I’m going to go lay with Alistair now, Morrigan.” She leaned forward and kissed her friend on the cheek. Morrigan made a sickening noise, her idea of a response to the thought of Feyra and Alistair sharing a bed.

“He may be an idiot, Morrigan, but he’s

my

idiot.”

“I am well aware. Farewell.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“

In the long hours of the night

When hope has abandoned me,

I see the stars and know Your light remains.”

Alistair listened in silence to the familiar verses. Of late, they were favorites of Feyra’s, spoken and sometimes sung into the darkness and candle light. Prayers for her own strength. Rekindling of faith in desperate times.
 
Faith. He wondered how long it had been since he’d spoken a single word of the Chant. He couldn’t remember the last time he had offered a prayer to the Maker. Months, at least. Years maybe. Was it before he met Duncan? The thought unnerved him.

After his actions, what prayer would the Maker accept from him? There would be no absolution. Not now, at least.

“I have heard the sound,

A song in the stillness,

The echo of Your voice

Calling creation to wake from its slumber.”

Her words were like honey in their sincerity. He found it odd that a woman of her rank stuck so fastidiously to the teachings of the Chantry, and, despite her belief, befriended mages and apostates alike. Alistair shook his head. Feyra’s only concern with her companions was in how they composed themselves. Their actions, not their affiliations. His heart swelled at this recognition. Somehow, in all of his flaws and stupidity, she had found

him

fit to love. To... carry his child.

He shivered in the whipping wind. Snowfall was coming more frequently now, and as dazzling as the glittering white crystals were, it made for difficult nights and more difficult travel.

“How can we know You?

In the turning of the seasons,

In life and death,

In the empty space where our hearts hunger

For a forgotten face?”

If he listened carefully, Alistair could hear the words falter in Feyra’s mouth. The Chant often gave away her thoughts, the ones she kept secret from him in the dead of night. The ones he was desperate to hear her speak. Was she excited to be a mother? Afraid? Does she wish she could share the news with her family? Her brother, still living, presumably? How did she feel about…

“You have walked beside me

Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh.

You have stood with me when

All others have forsaken me.”

Alistair hoped

he

hadn’t. He knew he’d made things worse for her. He was terribly angry when Feyra told him she was with child, and he’d shouted in embarrassment that half the camp knew before he did. He was ashamed he hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t asked. He felt… betrayed. She had trusted Morrigan before she’d trusted him, and that stung worse than any blow he’d felt in battle.

“Were you just… never going to say? Was I to see you appear from a tent, carrying a babe, and think- what, what exactly was I supposed to think? You told that bitch apostate before you told the father of this damned child!”

She hadn’t met his eyes, simply pulled her robe around herself, kissed his hands, and laid down, facing away.
 
He’d been shaking then, too. He’d wanted to shake her. The world was spinning, and he… He didn’t know what to do but shout.
 
He didn’t stay that night. It was the last time he’d slept anywhere but Feyra’s tent. He’d regretted it almost immediately, since his tent was close enough that he could hear her sobs long into the night, but his stupid,

stupid

pride wouldn’t let him return. He was thinking about himself that night, in every selfish way. Thinking about how

he

was hurt. How

he

was the one kept in the dark.
 
All the while, Feyra was drowning in darkness.
 
He’d spent weeks trying to make it up to her, even apologizing the next morning, but he still felt distance between them. Alistair’s fault, he knew. His tenderness had been belated, and when it counted, it was too late. She was cold.

“I have faced armies

With You as my shield,

And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing

Can break me except….”

Alistair’s ears perked at Feyra’s silence. She had broken off before the end of a verse. Unlike her.

“Alistair….”

He heard her whisper. The way her voice cracked when she spoke his name almost broke him. He

urged

himself to pray for her, in that moment, that he could do

something

to undo the damage done. That he could do

something

to ease her burden, but the words wouldn’t come.
 
He would do anything for her.
 
Anything.

When she was silent for awhile, Alistair knew he would not interrupt her prayer. He was trembling in the cold, standing outside for half an hour after washing. Snow was starting to settle in his hair, and he’d only put on a tunic and long trousers after he’d washed at the spring. Freezing as he was, he would

not

interrupt Feyra’s devotionals. He inhaled sharply, the wind clawing at his lungs, and ducked inside the tent. Feyra was sitting back on her bedroll, wrapped in her bedclothes and a Great Bear hide, a

lovely

present she’d received from Zevran. “

We have to keep you and the babe warm, my dear,”

he’d said. Feyra squealed with delight and threw her arms around the elf, and he spun her around. Zevran’s smile hadn’t faded for

days

after. Somehow Alistair wasn’t surprised at his excitement. Zevran had a warmth to him that lended itself to Barkspawn’s good graces. Why shouldn’t he like children, too?
 
Feyra sat up, still wrapped in the silvery fur, as Alistair knelt down beside her. “Ali, you’ll catch cold! You’re

freezing.”

Alistair smiled. “I’ll be alright. Though I wouldn’t say no to that bear hide there. It looks positively

roasting.

You might need to hand it over before you burn up.”
 
Feyra chuckled and draped the fur over Alistair, pulling him close to her. She was silent, but pressed her forehead to his and took his hands in hers.
 
“Alistair. It occurs to me that I never apologized to you.”
 
Alistair’s eyes softened. He removed one hand from hers and lifted her face slightly. “Apologize? You? You… have nothing to apologize for. I was the one who acted a fool, not you.”
 
Feyra stared up at him, eyes wide, her lips parted. “I was going to tell you the day Morrigan and I spoke. I hadn’t told anyone. I was coming over to you but… You were so happy. Everyone was so happy. Drinking, playing cards, laughing, shouting… Things have been so difficult since we were attacked. I… didn’t want to spoil it. I didn’t want to worry you.”
 
Alistair closed his eyes. “Worry me. Feyra…. I worry about you

always.

Maker, Fey. I’m a lucky man… I’m so, so sorry I don’t realize it often enough.”
 
At those words, Feyra’s lips found his. She pressed into him and murmured her love into his mouth. Alistair took the bear hide and wrapped it around them both, snaking his arms around her in both an attempt to keep her close and warm himself with the heat of her.
 
“Please, Alistair. Don’t… Don’t leave me again. If I was made to spend another night away from you, I swear I would die. I swear it.”
 
His mouth caught hers as she spoke. He pulled her deeper into the kiss, one hand behind her head, another around her back, pulling her swollen belly into him.

“I’ve been back every night since, haven’t I?”
 
“Yes,” she breathed, “But

I miss you.

I miss…

you.”

Feyra trailed off, pulling away just slightly. She fingered the hem of Alistair’s tunic gently. Wynne had done repairs recently, it seemed, since the cotton was softer (and cleaner) than usual, and the ends less ragged. She told herself she

needed

to ask Wynne to teach her to sew. With a baby on the way, she needed...
 
“Oh?” Alistair growled into her ear, immediately pushing all thoughts of domesticity from Feyra’s mind. “What do you mean? What…

exactly…

did you miss?”
 
Feyra pursed her lips, putting one hand squarely on Alistair’s chest and shoving him backward. “You know

exactly

what I mean.”
 
Alistair grinned widely. He removed her hand and gently nuzzled her face. “I’m sure I don’t, my Lady Cousland. Please enlighten me.”
 
He slowly moved one hand into the folds of her bedclothes, reaching up until the soft swell he felt beneath it was no longer her belly, but her breasts.

Feyra hissed between clenched teeth. “Our… long nights together. I could use a long night with you.”
 
“What can I say? Your wish is my command,” he replied.
 
He was quick to abandon the furs that warmed them. Soon enough, he knew, another kind of heat would keep them, Feyra sat back on the bedroll and pulled up on Alistair’s tunic. Alistair was relieved there were no leathers or armor to remove tonight. He didn’t think he could handle the

slowness

of it all. And Feyra was

wanting.

The thought of her desperate for a night with him lit a fire in his belly. He felt this

other

warmth spread through him, up and down, making him bite his lip as Feyra moved to straddle him.
 
It was his turn to undress her, though it wasn’t quite fair that her bedclothes were a single piece, a blue dressing down of silk and gold thread that simply stunned him each time he saw it, and he still wore trousers and smalls, albeit with a

beautiful

woman sitting on top of him.

“It’s cold, Ali,” She whispered. Alistair was sitting back, leaned against a small wooden table across the bedroll. Feyra, in his lap, was starting to shiver.
 
“I guess I’ll have to warm you, then.” He licked his bottom lip gently and moved to speak, but hesitated. “I’d like to… Try something. If you’re willing, that is.”
 
Fey smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Try… something. What? Spindleweed soup?”
 
“

Maker,

no! Not again. Never again,” he groaned. “It’s a surprise. I want you to be surprised.”
 
“I hope it’s not as big as this,” Feyra muttered, touching her belly with one hand.
 
Alistair couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, hopefully the effect will be… different than that, yes. I’m going to shut up now. Please… lie back.”
 
Feyra eyed him suspiciously, but backed gently from his lap.
 
“Lie down.”
 
She did.
 
“Close your eyes.”
 
“Close my eyes? There’s a single candle in here, I couldn’t-”
 
Her words were cut off by Alistair’s hand covering her mouth. “Feyra. Close your eyes.

Please.

And don’t talk unless you have to. I’m not planning to answer.”
 
Her heart began to race. She had a feeling she knew what this surprise was, and she had certainly never done

that,

not with anyone, she had never

dreamed-

Alright, that was a lie, she had certainly dreamed of it, she dreamed of it often,and many nights it had kept her occupied, and some days, when she was in the woods alone, or in the spring, and trying to keep Alistair’s name from escaping her lips and she imagined-
 
She felt his hands between her thighs, parting them gently. She rarely wore smalls to bed, and tonight was no different. For a moment, she was afraid he would think less of her for being so

bare

, but the suddenness of his teeth on the flesh of her made her gasp. He worked his way across the insides of her thighs, gently biting her until the heat she’d been longing for crept through her insides. The closer he got to her

center

, the more the fire threatened to overtake her.
 
Alistair took his time. The soft bites turned to long, lingering kisses. Lightning flew through her belly each time he moved.
 
“Alistair…” she whispered. The kisses did not stop.
 
“

Maker, touch me. Please.”

The first sensation was... wetter than it was when Feyra was alone. She

knew

it was his tongue, she

knew

he had finally found her, and she

knew

that the heat from her arousal was enough to destroy her. He had both arms wrapped around her, one gently resting on her belly, the small of her back, his fingers pressing into her flesh and threatening to draw blood.
 
She whimpered, against her will. All her mewling did was urge Alistair onward.
 
His tongue very gently found a rhythm. Slow and sweet, long, drawn out strokes, drinking in her wetness as if it were the deepest need of his soul. Feyra felt him growl against her, and she had a feeling she wasn’t the only one feeling the intense effects of this… surprise.
 
But

sweet Andraste

did she love it. His tongue found her most sensitive spot and circled slowly, pulling whispers that bordered on blaspheme from Feyra’s mouth. She found herself rocking against him, burying her hands in his hair, pressing him closer to her, begging for him to move more quickly.
 
Alistair did not move more quickly. He took his time with her, kissing, licking, circling, pressing her sex until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Her breath was getting ragged but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She was

desperate

for more.
 
“Ali, please,” she breathed. “Ali. I need you now. Now.

Now.”

She trailed off, her voice quivering in her begging. Alistair smiled against her and rose. She could see the wetness on his face shine in the candlelight. She felt her face flush red.
 
“I-”
 
Before she could speak, Alistair’s mouth found hers, and she burned with the shame and thrill of tasting herself on his lips. His tongue was slick as it crept past her lips, and she

relished

the fact that he had known her so intimately. It was absolutely divine, but what she needed now was more primal. More urgent.
 
Alistair was quite done being slow. He hadn’t even removed his trousers, hadn’t even removed Feyra’s blue silk dressing gown, but it didn’t matter. The burning in his belly was

just

as pervasive as Feyra’s begging. Now. Now.

Now.

In a moment, she was pressed back into the bedroll, Alistair’s hands pinning hers to the ground, her legs wrapped around him, him moving between her legs. Alistair pulled his trousers and smalls down just enough, and Feyra sighed audibly as he slipped inside her, filling her entirely, groaning as he leaned into her, leaned over her, forcing her to stay on the ground.
 
How she

wished

she could kiss him. She would shower him with her lips, burn her love onto his flesh, leave marks enough so that no one would ever doubt to whom they both belonged- But the thoughts vanished as Alistair’s hips moved, slowly at first, but building quickly to sharp thrusts that forced whimpers and shouts from both of them.
 
They both knew it wouldn’t last long. Their desire was too much, their movements too frenzied, but as Feyra came undone around Alistair, arching her back and crying sharply into the freezing night air, Alistair, too, forcefully moved forward and came deep within her, raking his nails down the length of her arms, leaving long, red marks that he knew would last for more than a few hours.
 
The two were silent for several moments, basking in the glow and heat they’d created. Alistair removed himself and laid next to Feyra, arms wrapped around her, head placed gently next to hers.
 
“Surprise.”
 
“You said you were hoping this surprise would have a different effect. I think Wynne’s talk on where babies come from was apparently lost on you.”
 
“You’re already pregnant! That can’t happen

again!

….Right?”
 
Feyra laughed more loudly than she had in ages. She kissed Alistair on the forehead, but he was nearly drifted off already.
 
She found the bear hide, thrown haphazardly onto the floor, and wrapped it around them. As she lay next to him, listening to his even breathing, it seemed that they had both finally found forgiveness in each other.
 
She only hoped their dreams, so often haunted by demons and darkspawn, would be as forgiving.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The exhausting trek from the ruins to Eamon Guerrin’s castle took every last drop of decency and understanding Feyra had. It had taken all her will to

avoid

telling Brother Genitivi to shove it and get out of her way, for she had wanted desperately to strike a blade into his heart. His unwaivering faith saved him, however, as did Alistair’s kind hand. The ashes of Andraste should be shared with the world. Who was Feyra to decide their fate?
 
The violence in her unsettled her. She didn’t know herself these days. It had taken over a week of treacherous travel, and whenever

anyone

spoke to her, she snapped, was silent, or asked them to

please, for the love of the Maker, shut up!

They’d slept in caves, on cold, stone ground, and lit smoking fires with damp wood. Zevran’s bow had brought them meat, and though Morrigan’s magic constantly had kept wood aflame, she

did

refuse to cook anything for the group. Thankfully for Feyra, Zevran had a knack for roasting meat as well as cleaning a carcass, since, apparently, that skill set had failed Morrigan and Alistair, and Feyra’s stomach was weak at the sight of entrails, much to the amusement of the group.
 
Of two thing, Feyra was sure: First, rest on the rocks was no rest at all. Second, if Zevran hadn’t been there to keep her fed, she would have killed all of them out of sheer frustration. The thought of it terrified her, but she reminded herself that pregnant women, especially

hungry, tired

pregnant women were a force to be reckoned with. With mere hours of sleep in the span of several days, and only one meal, albeit large, in the evening she was inclined to embrace her more murderous tendencies and beg forgiveness from the Maker at a later date. A few slow roasted nugs brought peace to her otherwise chaotic soul.
 
They reached Redcliff, but the tenseness between them all was compounded as Arl Eamon’s condition was finally improved. The sacred ashes had

worked

, though many had been in doubt of their power, but learning of the death of the Arl’s son, at the hands of a Warden, no less was another matter entirely.
 
“There is yet another matter to which we must attend,” he said, his voice flat. Sharper than Feyra had expected. A hint of steel that she’d noticed, and from the look on Alistair’s face, this was not the Arl’s typical demeanor. “The issue of Ferelden’s leadership must be resolved. You have gathered all the allies you can, so if you are ready, it is time to call the Landsmeet. I’d prefer not to give Loghain time to consider.” He paused, looking from Feyra to Alistair, and around at the guards behind them. “I do not wish to go to Denerim unless you are with me.”
 
“Fey?” Alistair addressed her, reaching for her hand. “Are we ready for this?”
 
She nodded, taking his hand and grasping it tightly.
 
“Excellent,” the Arl replied. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He cleared his throat, and was silent for a moment, regaining his composure. “Be aware that by calling this Landsmeet, I have struck the first blow against Loghain. If we defeat him in Denerim, the rest of Ferelden will follow. He

will

strike back at us. Be prepared.”
    
…………………………………………………………………………………
    
The arrival in Denerim of a group with this infamous reputation would normally have been cause for celebration, but all that met them was an entourage of armed guards and whispers in the shadows. People watched them walk the streets, Alistair and Feyra hand in hand, Morrigan and Zevran behind them with heads held high. Zevran’s eyes darted from face to face, seeking any hint of a threat, his hand ready to strike down any who might attempt an attack on Alistair or Feyra’s lives. His own, he knew, was expendable. His role here was to protect.

The Arl’s estate in Denerim was more welcoming than the eye of the public had been, and Feyra was all too ready to fall into bed and sleep the rest of the season. Instead, she and Alistair were shuffled for hours from person to person, time wasted on introductions she couldn’t focus on with people whose faces were forgotten the moment she turned her head. This, of course, was not from a lack of trying. She desperately wished for the energy to concentrate, to converse naturally, to greet and express her support and offer condolences to those suffering. Each person she met brought a story of death, of pain, of personal tragedy, and Feyra’s emotional exhaustion threatened to upend the entire evening. Finally, with a half hearted kiss, she’d left Alistair in the feast hall and bade her companions farewell for the night, and still in her leathers, save her boots, fell into the down-stuffed mattress the Arl had shown her to. She vaguely realized that, after dreamless moments of sleep for such a long time, she was bound tonight to find herself in a nightmare.
    
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The Archdemon’s murmuring was a welcome refrain in the darkness of the fade. It’s voice, it’s memory, it’s

song

was her constant companion now, and Feyra feared that if it were close enough to touch, she would reach out to stoke the face of the ancient being. There was a tenderness in her heart for it. Gentleness. Sympathy. She knew the pain of forgotten ages, of dead gods, of broken promises and a life meant to rise to greatness. The pain of

this

was hers to share.
 
Bile rose in her throat.

No,

she thought, shaking her head violently, stepping back into the pitch black around her. Her hands shook as the realization of her thoughts struck her.

The Archdemon exists to be destroyed. The Blight must be ended.

She spoke it like a prayer. The blight must be ended,
 
The Blight must be ended.
 
The thick veil of darkness opened far ahead of her, and a brightness called Feyra forward. It begged for her, urged her onward. She raced toward it, her steps moving so slow she might have been moving through water. The demon’s voice was no longer intelligible. Instead, it was around her like a shroud, murmurs pressed into her ears and mind, taunting her with words she couldn’t quite catch, songs with meaning she couldn’t quite grasp. It was

maddening.

“Maker preserve me,” she whispered. The open lightness was just out of reach, and after what felt like hours of running she realized it was not to be. The current of the void held her back, and she knew she’d never reach it. Was that it, then? The point of all this? Hope and lightness out of the question at last?
 “You don’t frighten me!” she cried into the darkness, spitting rage at the fade around her. “I will end you before you rise!” She grew tired of the games the Archdemon meant to play. Why speak to her, she thought? Why pull at the deep parts of her mind? It must know by now what she intended to do. 
She

felt

the creature smile. The light ahead of her snuffed out like a candle burning the last of its fuel, and the blackness pressed itself against her, threatening to squeeze the breath from her lungs, trapping her with an overwhelming sense of doom and foreboding. Her breath was shallow, her eyes pleading for light, her body encumbered by the weight of darkness against her. She sank to her knees before she saw its eyes, its rotted teeth. The glint of cancerous scales, rotted and caked in blood, disfigured by centuries of filth and decay. Misshapen claws, misshapen form. Unnatural. Ancient. Deviant.
 
She shuddered. This creature was a fiend.

You will die for me, Warden. When I ask for your death, you will gladly give yourself to me.

The creature’s voice rang in her head, clear as a Chantry bell.
 
“Never,” she whispered. She felt the creature close in, all burning coal and metal and death. It snaked around her, dwarfing her as the Archdemon’s massive form circled.
 
Silence, for a moment, nothing but the sound of her own pounding heart.

If not you, Warden… Then he shall die, instead. It is your choice to make.

“Feyra?”
 
Alistair’s hand on her chest pulled her from the fade. She jerked up, trembling, her skin cold as the night air.

This

darkness was different. She could see by the moonlight pouring in from the windows, silvery and silent, illuminating the curves of Alistair’s face, the posts of the bed, the solid, stone floor.
 
“Ali.”
 
“You shouted my name.”
 
“Oh.”
   
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
    
“You could at least

try

to hit me, darling,” yelled Alistair across the courtyard. He stepped back, letting his shield hand fall to his side. Feyra struggled to her feet and tied her now-loosened hair back again with a strip of dark leather. She rushed at him, dulled silverite blades in hand, gleaming in the afternoon sun. She struck Alistair’s shield full force: He’d whipped it in front of him, ready for the weight of her when she slammed into the wood and Warden heraldry. She fell backward, but maintained footing and spun quickly to avoid the strike of his training sword.
 
Her speed matched Alistair’s stamina, though this game of training was lazy in the warm light. Alistair brought his shield forward as she ran at him and his shield struck her. She was able to duck down and nail him in the side with the edge of her dagger, avoiding the full force of Alistair’s bash. He grinned widely at her.
 
“There you go! Don’t hold back, I can take you.”
 
“Are you

sure

about that?” Feyra asked slyly, a bend in her knees, bringing her closer to the ground.
 
“Positive. Besides,” he cooed gently, taunting her. “I have more experience than you.”
 
Feyra’s eyes sharpened. “Do you now.” Her voice was flat as her mind raced with all the... compromising positions she could get him in with a flash of her

real

knives. He wasn’t armored. She could pin him to the ground, or against the stone walls of the Arl’s estate. With a knife to the throat, who knew what they would do? His clothes would easily fall…
 
“Mmmmmhmn,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “Do you disagree?”
 
Feyra’s mind snapped back to the task at hand. Well, he had her there. She’d not had nearly the training Alistair did, was a Warden for far less time, and, she admitted, she didn’t want to

hurt

him. She

knew

she was faster than him. She

knew

she could outlast him. But she was getting heavy with child, her breath deep and quick, and she felt the need to end this sooner rather than later.
 
“You’ve seen me fight, Alistair. You know what I’m capable of.”
 
“Ah, true,” he said. “But you’re out of practice. Not since the werewolves’ lair have I seen you

really

use your blades. You usually use,” he bit his lower lip. “That silver tongue of yours to talk your way out of it.” And she was

damn

convincing at that.
 
She

had

spent more time negotiating. More time in prayer. More time with her hands pressed to her belly, feeling the gentle kicks and motion from within. The less bloodshed at her hands the better she felt, and the less trembling she experienced knowing she put herself and her child in danger.
 
“It’s not that I don’t

want

to, it’s just-”
 
“Just what? Admit it: I’m better in battle.” Alistair winked, hopeful his teasing would bring forth the fury he was so rarely able to see.

That does it,

she thought. “Fine. If I disarm you, you owe me.”
 
Alistair bowed low, his sword extended. “Anything my Lady Cousland wants. Your wish,” he stood up and flashed a truly

sinful

smile, “Is my command.”
 
“Do you swear?”
 
“Yes, but now I feel like I’m going to regret it.”
 
“Doubtful.”
 
Feyra sheathed her daggers just long enough to crack her knuckles. She did each one individually, staring down Alistair and she did. She was hoping he would be a

little

intimidated, but all he did was shift his weight onto his heels and watch her, stance loose and waiting.
 
Feyra found her moment. To a rogue, his shift was a weakness. He was no longer in control, no longer in command of his own body. His center of gravity was off: He was unbalanced, and she never wavered in that regard. She immediately saw him stumble as she flung herself forward, low enough to run her shoulder into his stomach uncovered by the shield. She had successfully taken him by surprise.
 
His shout was heart-wrenching in its drama, but Feyra lept back and spun around quickly, ignoring his feigned pain and slashing at the ill-prepared warrior. Alistair rebounded faster than she’d expected, raising a shield to meet her blades, knocking her arms to the side like nothing. He raised his sword and brought it down again, narrowly missing her as she ducked. She sidestepped again, forcing him back, farther and farther, the sound of blade on wood and sword hitting dirt and rock ringing around around them. She changed direction like the wind and Alistair’s heavy weapon and shield made it difficult to keep up.
 
Before he knew what was

really

happening, Feyra had him against a cold, stone wall, blade at his throat, sword wrenched from his hand and lying in the dust.

Feyra leaned into him and pressed her knee into his chest.
 
“Concede.” She pressed the dagger’s edge against his throat.
 
Alistair swallowed hard.

Maker,

she really could kill him if she had the mind to.
 
“I love you,” he breathed, dropping his shield. He brought his hands around her, but Feyra didn’t waiver. She smiled.
 
“I didn’t ask. Concede, ser Warden.”
 
Alistair inhaled sharply. “Fine,” he whined. “You’ve bested me. I, Alistair Theirin, concede that the absolutely beautiful and apparently deadly Feyra Cousland has beaten me in combat.” He threw his hands up in defeat.
 
She kissed him, blade staying still where it lay.
 
“Good,” said Feyra softly. She sheathed her remaining blade and stepped back from him. She took the leather from her hair, shook out her long, brown waves, and tied the leather around her wrist. With her hands on her hips and steady, deep breaths, she finally felt the weight of her belly, the soreness of her muscles, and the inevitable bruising that would follow the sparring session. “I need to rest.”
 
“Do you… need company?”
 
“Always.” Feyra reached toward him, and Alistair kissed her hand.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Morrigan’s frown deepened the lines around her mouth. She pressed her lips together, silent for a moment, inhaling steam from the tea she’d brought to her face. Sweet honey. Clove. Embrium. Warmth for another cold night in Denerim.
 
The sudden chill she felt in her shoulders had less to do with the stone and wind and more to do with Feyra.
 
“It’s ridiculous, right? For me to choose. There can’t be a choice.” Her voice was pleading. Praying, perhaps, that Morrigan had an answer. At least a confirmation.
 
The slight scrape of clay on wood intruded into Morrigan’s thoughts. No, it was not ridiculous. In this world, there was always a choice. Death was more often a choice than not, Morrigan knew, and the Warden seemed particularly adept at making them. Quickly, kindly, and usually in the best interest of Ferelden.
 
Usually.
 
“I would agree with you, friend,” Morrigan said, “were it not that Fade dreams often reveal what is to come.” The two were silent. Feyra stared into her drink, the steam rising in curling plumes, fragrant and beautiful. She blew over the cup. “If it comes to it… Who will you choose?”
 
Feyra smiled downward and shook her head. “Neither of us need to die for this, Morrigan.” She looked up and saw Morrigan’s gaze did not break. The smile faded from her lips.  “Look at who we have gathered. The support of the Circle

and

the Templars. The werewolves, and the support of the Lady of the Forest. The people of Redcliffe. The dwarves of Orzammar. There is,” she said, “

nothing

we cannot meet with a force like this, set to destroy it.” She brought one hand squarely into the center of the table, striking it, her fingers curling into a fist upon impact.
 
Morrigan gently laid her hand on top of Feyra’s. “My friend. I will ask again.” Her voice was low, her eyes inlaid with sincerity. “If the choice is yours to make, what will you do?”
 
Feyra hung her head. Her free hand found her belly, and as if on cue, the child within met her hand with dance. “I know I cannot live without him,” she said. “I can’t do this on my own. I…” she swallowed hard. “I would rather die than go on without Alistair. Is that… foolish?”
 
Morrigan shook her head. “No, no, dear heart. Perish the thought.” She took both Feyra’s hands in her own. “As you told me before. He may be an idiot, but… He is your idiot.” She sighed heavily. “As much as I might like, for completely selfish reasons, for you two to part ways, I cannot imagine a scenario where that occurs.”
 
“Nor can I.”
 
“Then we had better find a way.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………

“You

sinful

minx, Fey. You planned this all along.” She closes the door behind him, slides closer.

A gleaming smile. “Why would you think that?”  Hands under his tunic, fingers trailing down his chest. A single drop of sweat across her hands. Muscles and pale hair. Tense.

“The Arl and I were talking. I’m serious.”

“I’m talking now.” Tugging at the ties of her- of

his

tunic. It clings to her belly. When did she get ahold of that? Maker, she is beautiful. Especially in his clothes. Heat and fullness. Lavish. Dark hair down, dancing around her face and neck. Freckles dot her face. She is shining.

“Yes, but I’m talking about… after. When this is over.” She kisses him, pressing close. He is silent against her.

“He wants you for king.”

“I know. I know he does.”

“You don’t.” Her arms find his shoulders. He shudders. Shakes his head.

“No. I never did.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know.” Shoving hands aside. They slink around his belly. A comfort, a sweet thing. Pulling back to bed.

“I don’t know if I

can

do it. I’m much better at causing small disasters. Occasionally killing Darkspawn. I feel like Ferelden would burn with me in charge.”

“Ferelden would burn under Loghain.”

Silence. His shoulders stiffen. Back rigid, hands pull into fists.

“I can’t do it alone. That much I know.”

Questioning looks, dark eyes meet lighter ones. “Why would you be alone?” Hands in his hair, pulling his head to her.

“...Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you have me.” His fingers press to her belly. He can feel movement.  “You have us.”

He kisses her. She smiles, cups her hands around his face.

“The Arl says I’d have to marry.” The words feel like a wall.

She is unshaken, smiles.  “So... marry me.”

Silence. Eyes bright, staring. Alistair stands in disbelief.

“You’d do that.”

“Is that a question?”

“Would you say yes?” She strips him of his shirt. Hers is cleaner. Sweat. Dirt. Blood from sparring with Zevran and Sten. Deep scars. She can remember some of them. From Ostagar on his shoulder. The star shaped mark on his chest, from a Silent Sister in the Proving. A deep scar from his neck to his belly, wide and smooth now. An Alpha Genlock. Or an Ogre. She can’t remember anymore. She touches them. Loses count.

“I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You didn’t answer me.” He holds her close, eyes unblinking. Pleading in his way.

“Yes, Alistair. I would say yes. I am saying yes.” Her fingers brush his lips. His eyes close. Eyelashes flutter.

“If I agree to this, you’d marry me.”

“I’d marry you regardless.”

“Maker’s breath. I never thought…”

“You know you are the right choice for Ferelden.” Feyra touches his lips again. “You’re the right choice for me.” Silence again.

“So that’s it then. You’ll... marry me.”

“Ask me.”

“You’ll marry me.”

“Ask me!”

“Would you marry me, Fey?”

“Yes, Alistair. A thousand times, yes.” A kiss. Deeper this time, Hands on her back, pressing her into him. He picks her up. Presses her against the wall. He is gentle, teary. Surreal moments are hard to come by. He wants this one to last.

“It’s my turn.”

“Is this payback?” The stone behind her bites. Cold, colder than the Frostback mountainside. Rougher than Bronto hide.

“You said I owed you. I think I owe you this.”

Hands are quick. Strong, He is pawing at her, wants to free her from her clothes. Hunger in his eyes. A sly smile. Teeth on flesh. She gasps. Feels him close.

He groans as he presses against her. Quick motions, tunic is tugged over her head.

“This is mine, you know.”

“Are you sure, your highness?” Her voice is breathless, light. She seems elsewhere, caught between a dream and Alistair’s hands.

He whines. A deep sound, pained and high. “Feyra, please.”

“Please what?”

“Don’t do that. Not just yet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He pauses. “You’re glowing.”

“Glowing?”

“Vibrant. You look… Maker preserve me. You look incredible.”

Naked now, back against a wall, his hands supporting her ass. Belly pressed against his. He stares at her. Gentle curves, skin pulled tight. Lightning marks on her hips and thighs. Breasts heavier than he remembered. She is softer than before. Wider in many ways, stretched and full and breathtaking. Her skin star bright. She flushes red.

“You did this to me, Alistair.” Her breath is a whisper.

“I know. Maker, I know. I want to do it again.”

“Please. I want you to.”

“I just… I never thought it could be like this. This much happiness in this much darkness. This much uncertainty. This much… peace.”

Laughter like bells. “Only for a few more months. Then the screaming begins.”

“How much longer?”

She pauses.

“Twelve weeks.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“We’d best use the time we have, my love.”

“Anything for you, Ali.”

“Anything?” There’s a glint in his eyes. A smile that lights him from within.

“Absolutely.”

“Then.” He clamps a hand over her mouth, hikes her up, higher against the wall, with one hand. His motions are quick and knowing, her body known to him, familiar to him like the Chant is to her. “Be quiet, if you can. Your... king... demands it.”

She murmurs into his hand. Closes her eyes.

“I said.” He whispers. Close to her neck, breath hot. “Quiet.”

She nods quickly. His hand frees her mouth.

Unlaced breeches.Tightness in them already, tired of waiting. He pulls them down. Presses against her. Mouth on her neck, soft, warm. Teeth. Marks left, marking her. She is his.

Her hands move. One on him, on on herself. Desperate need, it overcomes them both. The room smells like rainwater and Alistair. Sweat and leather and sweetness. She could drown in him. As he presses hands against her ass, her thighs, she thinks she might.

She feels the sticky wetness of him and the slick wetness of her. Burning in her belly, ravenous, wants to shout his name, but she can’t. His fingers dig into the flesh of her buttocks, pushing back harder, he leans against her, her hands wrapped around his length. Please, please. Don’t leave me wanting. It’s better when you do this.

Legs around him, she pulls him to her. Now, now.

He finds her, groans as he slips inside. She swallows her own growl, squeezing her eyes shut as he finds a rhythm. Maker, yes. Maker, please.

His mouth on hers, biting lips, tongues entwined. Alistair whispers. “I want all of you. You are mine. You are mine.”

She closes her eyes. Breath quick from the heat of him and the chill of stone.

“Anyone could find us here.”

She stifles a cry.

“See us like this. See you like this.” Alistair bites his lip and drags his teeth across her shoulder.

“I wonder if they know the noises I can pull from you.”

She whimpers.

“The noises you want to make.”

She nods.

“Shall we show them, my love?”

He nips her neck again.

“Tell all of Ferelden my intentions with you?”

She dares a whisper. “What are your intentions, Ser Theirin?”

“Right now?” He chuckles. Murmurs into her, rocks against her just so, it makes her writhe. “To make you come undone.”

One hand leaves from behind her and finds her center. Circles, rolling between thumb and forefinger. So slick, so much heat. It is almost too much.

“Feyra, my love.” Alistair is panting. Sweat beading across his forehead. Pressed against hers, fingers moving faster. Pressing harder. Hips moving quick, quick, pushing into her. His sounds are soft against her, hers less so. The circles are like flame and lightning, surging through, she cries his name. Feels the tell tale tightness in her belly. Hears him sigh, spilling into her. The stones catch her voice, his name again and again, Alistair and the Maker, called one after another, again and again as his fingers slow. She kisses him until she feels her pulse again.

The light of the noonday sun fell upon her face, waking her from a sleep too deep for dreams. She was drowsy and drunk on memories of the night before. She was warm, hair tousled, eyes still half shut, the brightness from the window above the bed blinding.
 
She reached out for him, but Alistair was not there to be found.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The comforts of the Cousland estate meant that Feyra had never even

seen

the inside of an Alienage, let alone walked among the elves within. Her home had been a comfort, a privilege to all inside. Family, servants, even the livestock were treated with the respect afforded by the Teryn Bryce Cousland. The rot and chaotic disarray in the Alienage was enough to make her panic, but the smell was what really moved her stomach. She hadn’t felt this nauseous in months.
 
There were buildings, obviously built by unknowing hands, falling from unstable stonework. Wood beams rotting from poor care and disrepair. Gardens, or what may once have been a garden, choked with weeds and dust. Paving stoned upturned, covered in filth, unedged and chipped from decades of use.
 
Elves were servants in her home. Well cared for, well compensated, well housed.  But here…
 
Here, Elves walked barefoot, the ground soft, wet, and

cold

beneath them. This was

not

like the forest. This was

not

green and full of life. This was no place to flourish.
 
The Alienage was sickly. The grass was dead, the dirt was more filth than earth beneath them. Children with unkempt hair, torn clothes, itching, open sores on their skin that seemed just a permanent fixture of life here. Crying, playing with garbage. Running around them asking for coin.
 
Anora had sent them. It was strange, talking to the Queen, and she was sure Anora felt just as awkward. Facing the man who may well take the throne and the Warden carrying his child. Anora, she knew, had not produced an heir for Cailan. Her eyes hardly left the swell of Feyra’s belly, and her heart was screaming at her to hide.
 
Instead, they were here. The Queen was seeking aid against her father, and support for her own residency on the throne. Feyra had been tight lipped, but when the Arl suggested that any evidence against Loghain would only strengthen Alistair’s claim, the two agreed to attend to the needs of the city elves.
 
Shame burned her ears as they walked. She’d not known citizens of Ferelden could live in such poverty. The paths through the Alienage were wet with sewage. Rainwater cisterns were open, leaned against houses, with insects buzzing around them. The droning sound was unavoidable, as was the intermittent sounds of gagging, coughing hard enough to draw blood. A dead, half skinned Mabari, butchered and left in the sun, rats littering the ground, feasting on their own. And the flies.

Maker,

the flies.
 
Zevran gestured to the elves with eyes on them. They were being watched. Assessed. Children and adults alike begging in the streets, people pale and coughing, whispers of plague. Feyra would press handfuls of silver into waiting hands, only to be beseeched again and again. The least she could do. The absolute least.

………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Of course,” Loghain sneered. “How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every Lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?”

The Blight, of course, was the reason they were there. Loghain was not what she’d expected. He was taller than she’d imagined. More imposing and less a whisper of… What? A harbinger of death? A commander? He was unlike any commander she had ever seen. His eyes were sunken and sleepless, his words biting. Unforgiving. Alistair was shaking, though she suspected from anger, not the deep seated fear that plagued Feyra’s mind.

“With Cailain dead, Ferelden

must

have a king to lead it against the darkspawn.” Eamon was steadfast, thankfully, while the rest of them remained silent. Feyra could feel the terror in herself. It radiated outward, while Alistair curled and uncurled his fists.

“Ferelden

has

a strong leader. It’s Queen! And I command her armies.”

Loghain’s voice made her shiver. He was like a nightmare, staring them down, daring them to move. How many times had her life been a knife’s edge from ending at his hand? Zevran had once been a killer for hire, in his employ. He had steered the hand that poisoned the Arl. There were more, she was sure. Despite herself, Feyra stepped forward, putting herself in front of the Arl. “The throne,” she said softly, “belongs to Maric’s only living son.”

“Ah.” Loghain’s reply. “ You are the Grey Warden recruit?I thought we might meet again.” There was a steel in his voice. “You have my… sympathies on what happened to your order.” He paused, eyeing her up and down, pausing, like they all did, at the swell of her belly.

He spoke again. “It is unfortunate that they chose to turn against Ferelden.”

Feyra crossed her arms, her voice uneasy. “I don’t accept sympathies from deserters planning regicides.”

“Curb your tongue, girl,” he hissed, stepping toward her. “This is

my

city, and no safe place to speak treason. For anyone, especially not the bastard’s apparent whore.”

Her face had burned at that, eyes downcast, hands fidgeting in restless anxiety. How telling, she thought, that no one seemed to have a response.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Shianni mentioned a plague, but this doesn’t look like any plague I’ve ever seen.” Zevran stood up, the festering water at his feet too hot and stinking and a alive for comfort, especially with the chill in the air. “Missing elves are almost always missing on purpose.” He paused. “In my experience, it is not usually by our own choice.”
 
Wynne nodded. “There are some here coughing and weak, yes, but… Zevran is right. Something in this Alienage is… wrong. Malnutrition is more likely to cause weakness and illness. A plague spreads and kills quickly. It would be difficult to quarantine in the best of circumstances. In an Alienage, it would be condemned.”
 
“It is odd that the Elder is one of the missing.”
 
Convenient, really, Feyra thought. “But if it is a Blight sickness…”
 
“I don’t think it is.” Alistair this time. “Blight sickness kills in days. And it isn’t exactly contagious. It is passed through the blood.”
 
“So,” Feyra replied. “We’re finding a way into the hospice.”
 
Alistair looked pained. “

Maker,

I hope this isn’t an actual illness. I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay back, given your condition.”
 
“Not a chance, love.”
 
“Great.”

……………………………………………………………………………………..

“That was… bracing,” the Arl said. “I didn’t expect him to show himself quite so soon.”

“The way you speak of him, Arl. It sounds like you admire him.” Her voice was cold.

Eamon nodded slowly. “I would never have expected him to do

anything

but what was best for Ferelden. We have he and Maric to thank for our freedom.You have no idea what it is like to grow up as a vassal in your own lands. But now…” Sadness clouded his eyes. The Arl wore his age like a shield, and his wisdom a cowl around him. What he knew of Ferelden’s past would always inform him, but Feyra felt that at the moment, his knowledge failed. “We need eyes and ears in the city. Loghain has been here for months, so the roots of his schemes must be here.”

So it was true, then. The rumors she had heard in the Cousland Terynir. Loghain had done more good for Ferelden than most could imagine. It was no small wonder, then, that the Grey Wardens were seen with such suspicion while Loghain was exalted among the nobles. Their work was certainly cut out for them.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………...

“Six Sovereigns.” The guard was alone, but from the state of his armor, dented, dirty, too large, said he could use the money. Feyra scoffed.
 
“Six? You can’t be serious.”
 
“I am, woman. You pay or you can go through me.”
 
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Just pay him, Fey. We don’t need to draw more attention to ourselves here.”
 
He was right, of course. Six gold coins found their way into the man’s waiting hand. He counted them, nodded, and walked off, careful to check each corner to be sure he wasn’t seen.
 
The door opened easily to a lightless hallway. Pressed against the wooden walls, she cast her gaze around the corner, and what she found inside the central room brought shock to her face.
 
Rather, it was what was

not

inside that was disturbing. Feyra felt her heart sink. Several guards sitting, but not a single patient. Not a single elf, for that matter, anywhere within. She turned back to her companions, a finger pressed to her lips, urging them to be silent.
 
“Guards,” she whispered. “Four. No one else.” She gestured to Zevran, who nodded curtly and understood. She held a hand out to Alistair and to Wynne, who shrugged, her eyebrows high.
 
The two rogues, one pulling knives from their sheathes, the other arming his bow, moved silently, shadows on the walls cast by golden candlelight. The first guard was taken by surprise, and fell silently to Feyra’s knife at his throat. The only sound either made was the fall of blood to the floor, seeping between cracks. She laid him down gently and danced across to her next victim.
 
The work was quick, bloody but otherwise unnoticeable. The Tevinter mages out front were none the wiser, knew nothing of the bloodbath inside the hospice.
 
The room was silent. Alistair and Wynne came from the narrow hall, the tell tale smell of copper and iron around them.
 
“There’s… No one. Where are the patients?” Feyra felt naive. There was

something else

, but she couldn’t fathom what else could be happening.
 
It was Zevran who found the key, folded into a piece of vellum:

Bring eight males and six females for the next shipment.

Slavers.
 
…………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Alistair.” The Queen bowed her head, clasping hands holding her cloak tightly around her. The courtyard did not shield from the bitter wind, though Alistair’s nervousness kept him warmer than he would otherwise have been.

“Anora.” He tried to keep the disdain from his voice. He crossed his arms in front of him while the Queen stood, her eyes bright, her smile full.

“It has been awhile.”

“It has.”

The two were silent.

“What exactly do you want, Anora?

Anora closed her eyes briefly and smiled again. She stepped toward Alistair, looking up into his face. The wind picked up, and the Queen held the cloak close to her, fennec fur trimmed hem swirling around her feet.

“I want to know why you are here.” Her voice was calm. Rehearsed. “And I hope that I can count on your support at the Landsmeet.”

Alistair stepped back. “We are here because of the Blight. And you know,” he stared her down, “that you will not have anyone’s support.”

“Alistair, Alistair. You sweet fool. Where does this end in your mind? With

you

as King of Ferelden?”

“What if it does?”

“You poor boy.” She took one hand and laid it delicately on his face, cupping his chin, examining him closely. Alistair flushed. “It takes more to lead than an absent father to make a king, I am afraid. It takes experience. Political graces, which you so obviously lack.”

Alistair shoved her hand away and turned. “Obviously? Really. And I suppose it takes a murder plot to ensure your whims are taken seriously, then.”

“Alistair, I loved my husband.” Anora’s voice was quiet. “But you are

wrong

for Ferelden. If you

were

to become King, where does that leave the seat of Queen?”

“Feyra and I will marry.”

Anora’s laugh was harsh and punctuated the rush of wind around them. “Oh my dear, dear boy. You can’t possibly mean the pregnant girl? The one who is yet

another

Grey Warden?”

Alistair ignored her taunts and refused to meet her eyes.

“Let me put this in terms you can understand. A bid by you to the throne, especially paired with… another Warden, will seem nothing more than posturing. A takeover by the Order,” she said. “Add to that a pregnancy, and well…” The corners of her mouth turned up. “To anyone that matters, any child born out of wedlock will

always

be a bastard.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“A

fine

performance, Eamon.” The sharp voice of the Teryn penetrated the hall of the Landsmeet, echoing from the stone walls in a torturous melody. “But no one here is taken in by it.” His eyes were narrow, trained on the Arl. Accusing. Dark. Lines on his face, prominent, old, and deeply angry.  “You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it.”
 
“The south has fallen, Loghain. Would you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?” Eamon was unshakable and sure in his words, and Feyra could only pray she would sound as confidant. Her entire being seemed to betray her. But this, she knew,  was the eternal question for Anora’ father. Orlais was the enemy. Orlais the oppressor, and somehow, in his mind, Orlais was connected to Feyra. She was tired of being made the enemy. Tired of being accused. Tired of listening to this

fiend

carry on.
 
“Loghain,” she stepped forward and was met with the burning sensation of dozens of eyes upon her. Her face flushed brightly. “You… sold Ferelden citizens into slavery. You sold elves. People. Men, women, children. You sold them to fund this,” her voice faltered and nearly faded from her lungs. “This

war.”

Finally, an uproar. Murmurs in the crowd, gasps. Shouting. A man pleading for an explanation. Demands that should have been made months ago, in the days after Cailan’s death, echoed around her. The noise was tireless and she could hardly hear the words they spoke. The anger, though. The anger was palpable.
 
Loghain was unphased. He crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes, deign to address the Warden that stood before him. “There is no saving the Alienage. Damage from the riots has yet to be repaired… There is no holding it if the blight comes here.”
 
“Lies!” Feyra hissed. She skipped forward, but Alistair grabbed her arm and yanked her back from the gathering crowd.
 
“Despite what you may think, Warden, I have done my duty.”
 
Feyra shook Alistair from her and snapped forward. “You

allowed

Howe to torture Ferelden’s citizens. You

allowed

him to

slaughter

entire families. You hired an

apostate

to poison Arl Eamon, and that is

not

the extent of your crimes!”
 
“Crimes.” Loghain broke a smile. “Then let us speak of

your

crimes, Warden. What have you done with my daughter?”
 
Feyra blinked. “What?”
 
“The Queen Anora. You took her against her will, killing her guards in the process. Does she even still live?”
 
This couldn’t possibly be real, she thought. Loghain had imprisoned her, not Feyra. Loghain was plotting against the throne.
 
As if on cue, there was a voice, strange and songlike from the back of the hall. “I believe I can speak for myself.” Gasps, as Anora approached from an open door. “You would slander the name of Ferelden’s greatest hero and put an impostor on the throne. Tsk, Warden. I expected better of you.” The crowd roared their disbelief.
 
“You are the true threat to this nation. I gave you the chance to ally with me, for the good of Ferelden. You declined. I cannot allow you to destroy the throne Cailan and I have held.”
 
The arguments were drowned in the clamor of the crowd. Nobles bickering amongst themselves, Loghain hurling lies at them, Anora presiding over the fray, and Feyra stunned, panicked, silent. Alistair stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, the pressure a welcome distraction from the tears welling up in her eyes. The noise surrounding her was just that; noise. She could no longer make out individual voices, individual commentary, the barrage of questions and half answered retorts. It wasn’t until Alistair spoke that she understood where the Landsmeet stood.
 
“The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Step down.”
 
It was Feyra’s turn to pull him back. “He won’t. It ends here.”
 
Alistair nodded. Blood was to be shed this day, and he would relish the fall.
 
………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Do we

have

to do this, Eamon?” Alistair dropped Feyra’s hand and turned toward the Arl, throwing his own hands into the air, waving them wildly. “Dancing doesn’t

have

to be a part of the coronation.”
 
“To the contrary, your highness. It most certainly does.” Eamon had one arm slung across his body, the other curved into a fist supporting his head. This was hopeless. He scratched at his beard, pondering the ways he could force the to-be King to succumb to some sort of musical rhythm. His feet were heavy and awkward, and he was less than willing to put forth much effort in this regard.
 
Feyra sighed. Alistair was not

new

to dance, per say, but he had never been expected to perform before. In a few short weeks, they would be crowned, and Alistair was nowhere near ready.

“I hate this. Feyra, you do it. I’ll go back to wandering the countryside killing darkspawn.”
 
Fey rolled her eyes. “First of all, you only hate it because you are…” she paused. “Not… gifted… in this department. At any rate, I assure you there are still plenty of darkspawn left to kill. You aren’t getting out of this that easy.”
 
Alistair groaned and dramatically sank downward onto his heels. “But

Fey

, I don’t know how to do this! My feet won’t cooperate. They were made for stomping about in plate. I didn’t have the,” he paused and looked briefly at the Arl, “

luxury

of being raised a Noble.”
 
Feyra snorted. “You could let me lead. I could dance you around the castle in my sleep. No one would even know you weren’t directing

me.

”
 
“See? That’s why I’m marrying you. You make my life much, much easier.”
 
She dipped into a curtsey. “I live to serve he crown.”
 
“Ugh. Please don’t say that.”
 
Feyra pulled him back into the center of the floor and stood adjacent to him, her arm outstretched toward his shoulder. “Bring your arm out, palm toward me. What I do, you must do the same. Do you think you can do that?”
 
“I’m not

that

stupid, you know. They don’t make stupid templars.”
 
“You didn’t answer my question.”
 
“...Yes. Yes, I can do what you do.”
 
Feyra smiled. “Good.”
 
Eamon began the count, and Feyra pushed forward, her fingers resting at Alistair’s wrist. Her head was bowed, but she watched him as his eyes searched for direction in her movements. She halted, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and she stepped back, turning away from him in one fluid movement, while Alistair tried to follow. He managed it, but his head bounced from one direction to the other, waiting for Feyra’s subtle signs. She extended her second arm this time, fanned around her like wings, dipping down almost to the floor, and, in the blink of an eye, she faced him again, hands open. Alistair simply stared at her. She gently took his hands in hers, placed one upon her waist and took the other in hers. She pulled him forward into her side step and he followed, avoiding her feet as best he could.
 
They parted ways in an inelegant gesture, Alistair and Feyra facing opposite directions now, dipping low to the ground. Where Alistair was guessing at his positioning, there was precision in Feyra’s movement, a sort of rehearsed proficiency that Alistair lacked. There was more duty than enjoyment, and the years of Cousland house discipline was evident in her fingertips: The slow, gentle dips of her knees, the sway of her hips that rippled across the velvet of her skirts.
 
This, Alistair noticed, was the life of her. It was the same as the death she brought to enemies, all spinning and quickness, rehearsed movements that could fell an army in the flick of a wrist, in a flashing circle of silver and blue.
 
The two moved in opposition to one another, both in fluidity and direction. He followed her briskly, sharp and hurried as he kept up. Feyra’s fingertips found his wrist again as she pushed forward, facing one another yet again.
 
It was done.
 
“Excellent,” Eamon remarked. “It will have to do. Before you two run off,I have been told the Warden Riordan would like to speak with you when you have a moment. But please, get all the rest you can.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The sound of plate on stone echoed around Alistair as he stepped into the long,  empty hallway. He was silent. For once, his mind was quiet, too. Thoughtless and desolate, the weight of

knowing

crushing every sound, every motion into oblivion.
 
It was time, then. He would probably die tomorrow. Maker knows he wouldn’t let Feyra take the life of the Archdemon, and Riordan would do his best, but…

It would probably be him. It would definitely be him.
 
He kept waiting for the world to end. Or, ideally, for Riordan and Feyra to jump out of the shadows, scream ”IT WAS ALL A JOKE!!!” and laugh and laugh and laugh at the relief painted upon his face. He would be angry at first, but the three of them would make their way down to the mess hall, Riordan and Alistair drinking together, trading Warden’s tales, and Feyra would kiss him deep and bid the men good night.
 
Instead, he found himself sinking into a wall as his knees buckled below him. His hands were shaking, and despite the reinforced leather he worse, he wasn’t sure he could make them stop.
 
“Alistair.” Morrigan’s voice was sudden, an intrusion, and made him nearly jump.
 
“

Maker,

don’t you knock?!”
 
Morrigan stared at him with narrow eyes, judging his weakened state, he was sure. “It’s a hallway.” Her voice was flat.
 
“S… So it is. You should rest. We march on Denerim tomorrow.”
 
Morrigan was pointedly looking away, but that was probably for the best. The fewer times he had to see her horrible yellow eyes, the better.
 
“If you witches sleep, that is… Or maybe you could turn into a cat and chase mice! That could be fun, you know.”
 
She didn’t respond. The smirk faded from Alistair’s face, and Morrigan’s gaze was still far off. She seemed… dazed. It was unlike her. No witty comeback. No taunt about his lack of intelligence. No backhanded compliment about Barkspawn being more useful than he. It was unnerving.
 
Alistair pushed passed, content to be ignored, he supposed. If Morrigan wanted to keep her stupid apostate thoughts to herself, so be it. It was better he didn’t need to speak with her, anyway.
 
“Do you love her?” Morrigan’s voice was soft, and the question stopped Alistair in his tracks. He paused, then whipped around to face her. Morrigan still would not meet his eyes.
 
“What?” He blinked. “What kind of question is

that?

You can’t be serious.”
 
“It is a simple one, Alistair.”
 
“You wouldn’t understand, witch. You don’t care about anyone.”
 
She closed her eyes. “I do care.” Silence, stretched on. “We… We are not waiting for the Orlesian Wardens, are we? ‘Twill be just the three of you, in Denerim.”
 
“Riordan thinks we have a chance.” He turned again and resumed his brisk pace. He wanted nothing more than darkness and silence, and perhaps a final few moments with Feyra and his child.
 
Morrigan’s voice echoed down the hall. “Alistair!” She called. There was something odd about the way she spoke his name. Something desperate. Something… panicked. He turned to her once again.
 
This time, she met his eyes. There were lines in her brow, deep and long, and dark, shadowed circles beneath her eyes. She looked older. Haunted. She looked… terrified. “If… If asking a friend to do something terrible might help… Would you do it?”
 
“You want advice… from me?”
 
“It has come to that, yes.” Her voice seemed to falter. But Morrigan being unsure… That was impossible.
 
“So you actually have

friends

, then?”
 
Morrigan looked away. “One,” she breathed softly. “I have one friend.”
 
He sighed and ran a gloved hand through his hair. “If I thought it would help, absolutely. At this point… We can use all the help we can get.”
 
He tried to ignore the sound of breath catching in Morrigan’s throat, the subtle shaking of her shoulders, the way she hugged herself and willed herself to be still. He tried, but it proved difficult. He had never seen Morrigan like

that

. The image stayed with him as he excused himself from the hall and sped up the stairway.
 
…………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,

I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.

I shall endure.

What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

Her voice faltered in the chant, a sensation and sound she had felt and heard more in the last month than ever before. Her heart was broken. She was empty. Forehead pressed to the quilt on the bed, lovingly made, she was told, by Isolde’s mother, she spoke quietly, pausing only to feel the sobs catch her being, shake her down, and release.

“Who knows me as You do?

You have been there since my first breath.

You have seen me when no other would recognize my face.

You composed the cadence of my heart.”

What had she said to him? The images swarmed her mind. Touches. Soft voices. Disbelief. She’d swallowed hard first, she remembered. ‘Don’t hate me for what I ask of you, my love.’

‘Hate you?’ He’d said. ‘I could never hate you.’ He reached for her, and she’d pushed passed. Don’t touch me. Please, hold me. Stay away. I need you here.

‘You might after this.’ She sank onto the bed. He had come to her then, wrapped his arms around her. His embrace felt like all of Thedas was behind her. All would be right with the world. He’d touched her face. A whisper of a smile. But it was a lie. All of it.

‘I cannot bear to live without you.’ Her voice was so small. So quiet. She hardly recognized it now, but the realization was upon them. Riordan had told them the truth. They both knew it, and without this, one of them would die tomorrow.

‘You know I won’t let you take the final blow.’

‘I know. But what if… What if there was a way? A way we could both survive this?’

He chuckled, pressed his forehead to hers. ‘A miracle, that would be,’ he said. ‘A miracle.’ He touched her hands, gathered them up in his own. They were small, delicate in the roughness of his own, hardened by swordplay, rough handles of shields, rubbed raw from leather and plate. Hers were heavenly.

Feyra had hardly moved. Her eyes were fixed on the stone floor. She was silent for a time, and her words, she knew, would determine their fate. She needed him to live. She needed him so she could keep her own heart beating. She needed him if she were to face the future, the child within her, a life in Thedas after the Blight.

‘I need you to trust me.’

‘Alright…’ His face was twisted. Concerned. Wondering.

‘Sleep with Morrigan tonight.’

‘….What?’ He blinked. A smile. When Feyra didn’t move, his smile dissipated.

‘Oh. You… You’re serious.’

The hardest words she’d ever had to say.

“Through blinding mist, I climb

A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base

Endlessly far beneath my feet.

The Maker is the rock to which I cling.”

They were together now, she knew. When Morrigan came to them, her face had been red and swollen. Her tear stained cheeks swept to Feyra, and she’d cradled her face in her hands, kissed her on the forehead, whispered her unending devotion. So quiet, almost silent, none but Feyra could hear the shaking in her voice.  ‘I love you, Feyra. Thank you for letting me save you both. I am so sorry that it has come to this. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’

I am so sorry.

I am so sorry.

I am so sorry.

Alistair’s face was blank, but through the mist in her own eyes, she doubted she’d be able to read any emotion at all. It was just as well. It would be over soon. Morrigan and Feyra both would be with Alistair’s child, and through it, she might survive. Alistair might survive.

It was worth the price they’d pay, she thought. It was worth the price.

Feyra was alone now, in the dark of night, sobbing into the bedding she’d shared with Alistair for the last several weeks. She could smell him on them, and she was overcome with longing. She hated it. Hated that she was somehow jealous, hated that she had agreed to this in the first place. Hated that she was forcing Alistair’s hand. But he would do anything for her, and she knew it. This is where she had led him.

Into bed with an apostate mage. A woman he despised.

Perhaps it would be better to end this.

………………………………………………………………………………………………
 
She was unlike Feyra in every conceivable way. Sharp around the edges, rail thin, all protruding bone and paleness. Unmarked. Touching her was like branding himself a liar. A cheat. Some unfaithful ass, the same kind he had despised his whole life. The disgust rising in his throat burned, as did the words spilling from Morrigan’s painted lips. He couldn’t focus on them. Couldn’t make them out, could barely make out the shape of her in the dim candle light.
 
He wasn’t

positive

this was blood magic, but he had his suspicions. Feyra hadn’t said, and frankly, she probably hadn’t asked. What he did know what that Morrigan’s eyes were gold and shining, eerie in the flickering light, and her hands were painted- or stained, perhaps- a dark, warm red.
 
She didn’t stop chanting. She was there with him, but... she wasn’t. She was far off, in some ethereal place. The Fade, he decided, convincing some demon to possess her- or him, rather- some dark ritual that would spirit them both away from this place. The words spilled as she came to him, touched him, urged his body to respond. The bile did not subside, and he squeezed his eyes shut, turned away from her.
 
It was wrong. She moved quickly, her hands upon him, soft and somehow skeletal. She felt cold, and yet he could

feel

her, a very real, very certain heat that sickened him.
 
He knew his body would respond. He knew, no matter if he shut his eyes or not, she would have her way. There was no fight left in him after the took his hand and pricked his finger, pressed hard until the blood beaded up to the skin, and brushed it across her lips. When she did the same with her own hand, her own blood, Alistair noticed the taste- metallic. Biting, like lightning.
 
It was blood magic after all.
 
He wasn’t sure he could forgive either of them for this.
 
It was wrong.
 
It was wrong.
 
It was...

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Stay back, Feyra.” Alistair had her by the shoulders. “Please. Let Riordan and I go. You don’t need to be there.” “Funny, Ali.” Morrigan pulled the laces of Feyra’s bracers tight.The leather was hard and dug into her flesh, but it was a welcome distraction from the sheer terror that otherwise overwhelmed her. “My father always said, ’If you want something done right, do it yourself.’ Besides,” she winced as Morrigan yanked the cord on her backplate. “Do you really think I’d miss the excitement?” The sternness on Alistair’s face did not waiver. “I am begging you, Fey. Morrigan will make sure I don’t wreck things too badly. Please.” The leathers, now tight, allowed Feyra to breathe a sigh of relief. They brought much needed support to her heavy belly, since Morrigan and Wynne had worked the leather both magically and not, to insure it accommodated Feyra’s form as well as that of her child. For a moment, at least, the weight of her pregnancy had been lifted, if only slightly, and quite literally. She turned to face the warrior Warden, whose brow was still furrowed into a knot. “Alistair, it will be alright. You, Wynne, Morrigan, and I will face the bulk of the horde in Denerim and fight our way to the Archdemon. Sten will lead in the market district and anywhere else our companions are needed. Zevran and Barkspawn will hold the gate, and Leliana will cover them both. Sten knows how to use the forces we’ve gathered and I promise you we are all well trained. We will not fail.” Alistair shook his head. “Maker preserve us all.” …………………………… He’d been right to be worried. The bloodshed was more than he’s been prepared for, more than he’d trained for. They had all suffered in sleep and sup, though he knew they could manage, he couldn’t quite shake the dancing lights in his periphery, nor the way the darkspawn swarming them seemed to seek Feyra out. They swarmed her. He tried to taunt them again and again, as did Riordan, but without fail, their eyes found her, and they would turn. She was moving so slowly. He should take her back. He should stand beside her, be her shield and sword, let her rest, but she’d never allow it. Feyra had never been one to accept his protection that way. Nevertheless, he stayed close when he could, and thankfully Morrigan and Wynne had the wherewithal to insure her armor and weapons were enchanted, that she was healed, that she was watched . Despite the apparent beacon she was displaying, she slaughtered dozens around them all. Her footing was sure, and though she was lacking her usual speed, tendons were severed and Hurlocks crashed to the ground. Alistair smiled when he heard her yell, plunging her dagger into the heart of a particularly feisty Genlock that had pelted her with crossbow bolts. She managed to dodge all but one, and the bold that did strike her reeled off her leather backplate. 
Thank the Maker.
 He saw the Ogre from the corner of his eye. He turned on his heels and screamed to Wynne and Morrigan. In a mere second, Morrigan had unleashed a blizzard at the creature, stopping it its tracks, just as it was swinging its arm around, close enough to knock Feyra aside like nothing. He had almost been too late. He took the opportunity to leap up while the beast was frozen. He used his shield to bank off the Ogre’s muscled shoulders and, with the momentum he’d gathered, struck the beast across the throat with his sword. He could feel the beast writhe under it, muscles contracting from the silverite and lyrium in his weapon. A sweet death, to be sure. A death he was proud to cause. He could hear Barkspawn in the distance. He sounded happy, though Alistair was hard pressed to think of a time when the dog wasn’t bursting at the seams with joy. Savagery intermixed with delight permeated the dog’s deep bellows. One warrior always knew another, and Alistair felt a familiar rush of adrenaline, of valor, run through him. He stood there, basking in the sound, for a moment longer than he should have. He heard bowstrings snap, but he wasn’t worried. This was nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing they couldn’t overcome. He hardly glanced backward when he heard the Warden scream, but when he did, he saw Wynne with a blood-soaked arrowhead in her one hand, the other lit up blue, pressed to Feyra’s shoulder. He stood there basking until he saw the Hurlock. Too late. Too close. Wynne was thrown backward, and the blackened blade of the creature ripped through Feyra’s gut. The next sound he heard was his own screaming. …………………………… The world fell silent. All at once, there was everything and nothing, moving and stasis. A dull pain, piercing, overwhelming. Then sharp. Burn, burn, burning and the choking smoke of fire. Flesh and blood. Feyra stumbled in the darkness. She blinked, once, twice. Shallow breath turned to gasping. Cold, shiver. Crash to her knees. This is what it feels like to die, she thought. Or to be free. The end of all things pressed down on her. She heard her name. Alistair? Piercing through the veil. Then nothing. …………………………… Sleeping on the rocks never afforded rest until now. She woke to the snap of burning wood, crackling flame and tree sap pulling her through the darkness. The glint of light was dim on the green-tinged rocks, but the warmth stretched forward to her until she felt it in her bones. She was so tired. What she wouldn’t give to lie back down, fall deep into nothingness. The thought pulled at her, her eyes weary and heavy lidded. The stone was shining, cool, and welcoming. To lie here was bliss. To stay here was comfort. As she closed her eyes, she felt shaking. Rumbling and, she thought she saw lights in the distance. She felt the ground move beneath her fingertips, heard the sound echoing from some far-off place, casting unease deep within her. Her name. Had she heard her name? Why was she alone? She tried to brush aside the dull ache in her belly, but with each moment, it intensified. Her hands flew to it, searching beneath a cotton tunic to find layer after layer of bandages. She felt sutures, open wounds. She searched her arms, her face, and found dozens more. She remembered wearing armor. Where was it? She remembered… something. She’d been injured, perhaps. Why couldn’t she think? Why was her head in such a fog? Somewhere, there was elfroot. Burning sage. Crystal grace. Beneath that, she could smell salt water and dust in the air. She vaguely recognized this place, the void folded in upon itself. There was comfort and fear. Waiting. An interlude. This was not camp. This was… outside. Outside of everything , she thought. 
What happened?
 The Denerim castle. Wave after wave of darkspawn. Meeting… Sandal? Why had she seen Sandal? Felling genlock after genlock. An arrow pierced her shoulder. Screaming. Wynne’d ripped it out. The Archdemon. Where was the Archdemon? She’d seen it circle above, rocks crashing down around her. In the distance, a call pierced the silence. It had shaken her to the core. Thinking was tiresome. Memories exhausted her, lying just beyond her grasp. Why did she have to remember at all? She should just lay back down. The fire was so lovely and warm. The air was so quiet. The fire blazed to life, reaching toward her in an offer of reprise. It was an allure she could hardly resist. 
I need to get out.
She felt like she had seen this before. There was a change in the air around her. A wetness, a soft embrace, and with it, gentle rain. The drops fell from the nothingness above and onto her outstretched hands. Plumes of steam feathered their way into the darkness, one after one, as the light from the fire died. Feyra could see on her hands that the rain was red tinged. Some hint of salt and iron. Blood? As the realization struck her, the water turned dark. Thick. Warm. In a moment, it ceased entirely. The fire smoldered among the rocks and branches, but the light it shed was no more. 
I need to move.
 It was directionless here. No place more right than another, no path opened at her feet. Just ash, darkness, and the occasional distant rumbling. She struck out and walked, careful in her steps.It was unending. Her steps punctuated the nothingness. She tried to follow… flashes of light? Something bright, but she couldn’t quite see where they originated. They were hard to grasp, and in her weariness, she found it difficult to focus. The sounds of this place were unlike any she could recall. Not just the rumbling, but the whispers voices heard as if she were under water. Were they words? Names? She couldn’t tell. She could only move forward. 
Think. This must be the fade. I must be dreaming.
 With recognition came a measure of clarity. The fog seemed gentler, lifted. She saw, then, what lights were ahead: Torches, lit but dropped, sending sparks dancing across the darkness. She counted three, wide apart, but she could reach them, she was sure. The void in front of her seemed treacherous now. Shining rock caught the light from the sparks, and she could see where there were gaps large enough to fall through. She measured her steps more carefully, and noticed, as she crept forward, gravel would skitter to the edge of the ground beneath her and fall. The closer she came to the first torch, the more of them she counted. Snaking up the darkness, she could almost see the stone and a path carved into it, the torches barely lighting the way but lighting it nonetheless. The first torch was nearly upturned, and when she reached for it, the dull, red-orange flame transformed into a blinding green and white, roaring with heat and cold at the same time. Her hand flew away from it until she had regained her sense and picked it up. The torch’s flame shot high, and with a shrill whine, Feyra’s surroundings twisted themselves into the Cousland estate. ………………………… 
“Eleanor!” Bryce’s voice was sharp. “With me! Now!”
 
The Lady Cousland ran to her husband. “Is there nothing we can do?” Her voice was desperate. Pleading. Tears streaming down her face, her brows furrowed. She was older than she’d remembered. Softer somehow. Frail.
 
Bryce was silent. The Arl was soon to be upon them, and their death was sure. Either at the hands of those who had betrayed them, or the burning estate… One way or another, their story ended here.

Eleanor was shaking. Someone pounded at the door, and the sound of Mabari snarling, barking, was on the other side.
 
“Not like this, Bryce. Please not like this.”
 
“Feyra is safe. That’s all that matters. We hold them as long as we can.”
 
“Maker,” Eleanor prayed.  “Watch over her…”
 
The door splintered and was suddenly split in two.
 ……………………….. Feyra jumped back in surprise, letting the torch slip through her fingers and crash into the darkness at her feet. The moment it fell from her hand, the veilfire died, and the torch spun uselessly in circles until its momentum faded. Feyra was not exactly sure what she had just seen. A… dream within a dream, perhaps. Some sort of memory? Not her own, to be sure. Seeing the light leave her father’s eyes was haunting, and her mother… She stood for a moment until she heard the shrill whine of another shower of sparks. “Maker’s breath…” She bolted forward down the scantily lit path, the next torch sparking brightly, and picked it up. ……………………….. 
The campfire stretched higher than it should have. Of course it would, since sleep had claimed most of them hours ago, and the flames were now in Oghren’s care. He sat close, boots shining in the light, drink sloshing about in the tin cup he clutched at his side. Zevran was on watch, though the night was quiet. Locusts rustled in the grass, and on occasion, the hoot of an owl reached them, but for the most part, there was silence.
 
The elf bit into the leather strip he wrapped around the head of an arrow, severing it from the rest of the length. He turned the strip back and carefully wrapped it again, tucking the end piece into the first few laces. He thumbed the head, flicking it quickly, and found it stable. He set it down and picked up another.
 
“I see the way you look at her, elf.”
 
Zevran was silent.
 
“She spend a lot of time occupying your thoughts?”
 
Zevran smiled. “Yes… Wynne does have quite a sensuous figure for her age.”
 
Oghren laughed; a rough, barking sound. Gleeful in his misery. “That she does. But I mean the Warden, you sodding elf.”
 
“I know who you mean.”
 
“Have you two eve-”
 
The reply was sharp. Eyes narrow. “No.”
 
Oghren scoffed. “You like her.”
 
“I do.”
  “You tell her?
Zevran sighed. Three arrows now, secured and ready, set down next to him. “No, my friend. No.”
 
“Why not?”
 
The elf sighed deeply and closed his eyes. A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. “Because Alistair is a good man. Because she is in a family way. Because the opportunity has long since passed. It is the way of things, my friend. No harm done to her, or to I.”
 
The two were quiet. Oghren held out his ale and shook it gently in the elf’s direction.
 
“Here.”
 
Zevran took it and drank. It was bitter. Nothing like the drink he usually found comfort it. He preferred a brew with dandelion and cherry, something sweeter and aromatic. This was grain and salt.
 
“It’s kinda sad, elf. I bet you could show her things she’d never imagine.” Oghren chuckled at the thought.
 
“I’ll just be happy if she makes it through this alive.”
 
Time passed slowly, and when Zevran could hear the sound of Oghren’s chest rising and falling, he whispered the only prayer he’d said since his days as a Crow.
 
“Maker watch over her.”
 ………………………………………….. She could have thrown the torch out of frustration, but the fire went out without her intervention. Her heart was racing. No, she thought. These must be dreams. Zevran would never keep something like that from me. There was, even so, a nagging suspicion in the back of her mind, and the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her head. Far ahead, she saw the sparks of another torch lying on its side, and she raced to it, nearly slipping down the rock face that held it. She was almost afraid to touch it this time. There was something haunting about the things she was seeing. She wasn’t sure she wanted them. Wasn’t sure they were even meant for her. ……………………………………….. 
Wynne couldn’t count the number of times she’d thumbed the latch of this box. Dark stained sylvanwood, carved when she was much, much younger, by a friend who had spent months consoling her during dark nights at the Calenhad tower. She could never part with it, though she often thought someday, she might. She didn’t need it, after all. A relic of an era in her life, and age best left forgotten.
 
Dreams had kept her awake this night. Concern for Feyra.

The Warden was getting restless. Just starting to show. Her nausea was beginning to subside, and Wynne breathed a sigh of relief. The first few months are the hardest. The first few months so often end with loss. The worst of it was behind her.
 
Feyra was so strong willed for such a fragile little thing. Soft in voice and hard in feeling. She was afraid to disappoint those who kept her company. Wynne knew she was one of them.
 
It was, after all, the reason Wynne was the only one who hadn’t been officially told.
 
“Maker… Watch over her.”
 
Wynne twisted the small, copper clasp from the box. The hinges slid with a creak. There within was the iron ring her mother had given her, the day she’d left for the Circle. Small, dainty even, in the shape of two feathers twirling around one another. Darning needles she’s never used, rusted slightly and worn down by their previous owner. A small, hand carved Ferelden Forder, fit for a child’s hand. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in layers of decades-old vellum, was the thing she sought. She peeled the layers back and winced slightly as the calfskin tore under her fingers. Inside, nearly forgotten, lay a blanket: Sunny yellow and white as Andraste’s Grace. Tears came to her eyes as she held it to her chest.
 
“Oh Rhys. I’m so, so sorry.”
 
In time, she stood, pulling the tent closed behind her.
 
“Warden. A word?”
 
……………………………………………………………………………..
 The soft thud of each torch hitting the void below was more startling than if it had been the sharp sound she was expecting. Feyra’s face was twisted slightly, tears threatening to spill, her lips trembling. How… How could this be a dream? The blanket she saw was the same that Wynne had given her. It felt heavy. It felt… real. A chill crept across the back of her neck, and the shrill-sounding sparks of green flame ahead of her summoned her heart like a beacon. ……………………………………………………………. 
Morrigan watched him like this more often than she’d like to admit. Alistair needed to be… guided, on occasion, to make decisions, to act according to his oath, or to keep himself in Feyra’s good graces. She was not about to let Feyra suffer at the hands of this fool.
 
He had walked the water’s edge several times, staring intently at the flowers growing on the bank. He had a liking for roses, but in this place, he was more likely to find weeds.
 
Feyra had a soft spot for the otherwise undesirable. Mud-caked dogs. Half-bloomed Arrowhead and Blood Lotus. Idiot Templars with poorly kept hair. Morrigan shook her head.
 
“That one.” She pointed to the dark red flower, sprung up from the water and reeds.
 
“I didn’t notice you there.”
 
“Your perceptive powers have always been lacking. I am not surprised.”
 
Alistair rolled his eyes. “I never took Feyra to like blood lotus.”
 
Morrigan shrugged. “It has its uses. And it can be quite beautiful.”
 
“I suppose.” He stared out at the water before plucking the flower from beneath the pond. He twirled it gently between his fingers and returned his gaze outward.
 
“Are you frightened, Alistair?”
 
He laughed. “Frightened? Me? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
 
Morrigan shifted uncomfortably. She crossed her arms. “The man unexpectedly thrust upon the path of fatherhood in the midst of a Blight?”
 
“Oh. That.”
 
“Yes,” she said. “That.”
 
“I guess- yes. I mean, I’m thrilled honestly. But… terrified. I didn’t exactly grow up with parents. I don’t have an example to follow. And sometimes I still can’t believe…” he trailed off.
 
“Believe what?”
 
“Sometimes… I can’t believe she wants to be with me. She wants to have a family with me.” He smiled, wide, lips parted. “It’s like… Everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It doesn’t seem real.”
 
“Oh,” Morrigan said softly, cocking her head gently to the side. “It’s real all right. He is most certainly real.”
 
Alistair froze, and turned his head. “...He?”
 
It was Morrigan’s turn to smile. “You will have a son, Alistair. Best start thinking of names for him.”
 
“Maker’s breath.”
 
……………………………………
The final torch went out with a hiss. Feyra dropped it and sank as her knees buckled beneath her. He. He is most certainly real.  She was to have a son. Her hands flew to her belly again, and she pressed them into herself. She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on her hands, desperate to feel the movement of her child within, but felt nothing.After several minutes, all she felt was bandage. Sutures.  Don’t panic, she told herself. This is the Fade. Nothing here is as it seems.  The darkness around her was endless, especially now, with the last of the torches dead on some unseen path behind her. Rumbling again, and this time, a sound of rock cracking. Shaking earth, but there was no earth here. Merely void and emptiness. She closed her eyes and whispered. “ My maker, know my heart;
Take from me a life of sorrow.

Life me from a world of pain.

Judge me worthy of your endless pride.”
 Louder, now. She felt the trembling beneath her, and from closed eyes, could see the light. Blinding this time, hot, white upon her. 
“For you are the fire at the heart of the world

And comfort is only yours to give.”
 As the last word escaped her lips, the rumbling ceased. There was stillness and brightness. She knelt in front of… something. A massive thing, carved from wood impossibly old, knotted, and dark. Great, black vines crowned in thorns snaked up the frame, binding it in place. Recognition slowly fell over her. This thing was a mirror. She gathered strength again to stand. Feyra approached, her hands outstretched. The glass was the source of the blinding light. She stepped forward, and as she reached the glass the light became something else entirely. ……………………………………….. 
“She’s still breathing, Alistair. Calm yourself.” Sten was right, of course. He usually was, in his strange, sedate way. Sten didn’t see the need to stumble over words, dousing them in half-truths. He spoke what was, and nothing more.
 
“I can’t---” Alistair’s breath came quickly, harshly. Wheezing in his chest. “We have to, we have to do something-”
 
Wynne placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him sternly to sit. “I promise you we have done all we can. Magic stemmed the blood loss, and Morrigan is versed in more traditional methods of healing.”
 
Morrigan nodded, but Alistair’s breath did not slow. “If she wakes, Alistair, she will live.” Her gaze was far off. She sat back, arms restless on her knees.Tapping. Digging into her skin. She was rocking back and forth.
 
“Why won’t she wake, then? It’s been days. Days!” His voice broke into sobs again. Sten and Zevran looked away. Seeing Alistair like this was uncomfortable. Intolerable. He was beyond help, but this was the cadence they had all found together. Comfort. Sorrow. Regret. Rehashing the same things, again and again.
 
“Leaving the Fade is a choice. She must choose to come. Otherwise…” Morrigan did not finish the thought.
 
“After all we did,” his voice was thin. Reedy and cracking. “After all we did, the Archdemon still brought us death.”
 
“But Feyra might still live.”
  “But we,” he whispered. “We still lost him . If she doesn’t come back… If she knows what we’ve lost… And you. You still managed to- to- ” He turned to Morrigan, spitting venom, tears falling from his reddened face. “You still manage to be perfectly fine. You tricked us both, witch! You must have! How else do you explain this?”  
“Believe me. I would do anything…” her voice became soft. “Anything were it me instead.” Morrigan sank back to the ground, her eyes harrowed. She replayed the conversation she’d shared with Feyra once, months back, over tea. They had first arrived in Denerim, and the Archdemon had spoke.
  One of them would die. If not Feyra, than the Archdemon would take his life.  
And so it had.
 
And so it had…..
 
“The love of my life lies here in silence. My son will never take his first breath. And somehow… You promised you would carry us through. Your ‘help” but nothing more than a lie.”
 
They were all silent, then, the only sound deep, sorrowful wails from Alistair. His mourning was endless.
 
Wynne sat near him as he kneeled, and gathered his hands in her own. “Have you thought of a name, Alistair? If we have a proper burial… Perhaps….”
 
Alistair swallowed hard. He knew this moment would come. He hoped he’d steeled himself for it.. “I have. I only hope she will forgive me for it.”
 
“Speak it.”
 
“...Duncan. His name is Duncan.”
 
“I think Feyra will like that.”
 
…………………………….
 So this was how it had ended. Feyra was cold. Shoulders shaking. This was how it ended. Her heart was broken in two, split between the sound of Alistair’s cries and the mourning of her own that she still hadn’t felt. Feyra wasn’t sure she could catch the breath in her lungs, hear the words Alistair spoke over the sound of her own sobbing. Her tears came like a flood. She would never be able to hold him. To watch him grow. She would never spend her days chasing his tiny form, running through fields. She was never to watch Alistair teach him to use a blade, to properly shield himself from attack. She would never watch him play with Barkspawn. Sing with his father. This was how their journey ends. Feyra stood, summoning the courage she had left. She felt another flutter at the back of her mind, urging her to turn around, to stay here in the Fade. There was warmth here. Little pain. She could relive those happy moments again and again, watch them unfold. 
“Draw your last breath, my friends

Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.

Rest at the Maker’s right hand

And be forgiven.”
With that, she stepped into the mirror, passing through the blinding light as the glass shattered behind her.