xiii.

Dawn

GWYN

The morning air was chill, but the cooling sweat on my body was not the reason I shivered when the rooster cried aloud. Reflexively, I squeezed Alistair's hand, so tightly I knew it must pain him. "Did we finish in time?" he asked, as breathless as I.

I sat up and looked out the window. The sun had not yet risen, but there was a creeping grayness on the horizon that proclaimed it would not be long. Morrigan had stressed it was vital we complete her ritual in the dark of night. "I don't know," I whispered. I shut my eyes. They burned—from tears or lack of sleep.

I felt Alistair move behind me. His warm, strong arms came around me, and I leaned back into his body. "Hey, hey. It's fine. Everything will be all right."

His words echoed with all the uncertainty I felt, and I turned to meet his gaze. If we had not succeeded, because we had run out of night, because Morrigan had been forced to rush the preparations, or because the taint in the two of us was just too strong for all her potions, elixirs, and incantations to combat, the difference would mean a man's life. It might mean our lives as well. Had I been right to make the gamble? Last night I had feigned a certainty before Morrigan I did not feel, because her alternative was unthinkable—but I could not do so now. I searched Alistair's face. "Was I wrong? Because it was me, and not Morrigan—if it didn't work—"

Alistair pulled me to his chest, cutting off my questions. I let my head rest against his shoulder. He kissed my hair, and I could hear his heart pounding, feel the blood still coursing through his veins. Would it still flow in three days? I felt a sob rise in my throat. "I'm glad she came to you," Alistair murmured. "I don't know if I could have been as strong. If it meant there wouldn't be a chance I could lose you . . . one way or another . . . but I can't imagine! Sleeping with that harpy, everything it might mean!"

Outside the window, that void-cursed rooster was still crowing. Other birds had started chirping from the eaves. Whether we were ready or not, whether we had succeeded or not, the dawn was breaking. I wished to the Maker we could shut it out. "Harpy or not, she did much for us last night," I told Alistair. "Sacrificed a sure thing, for our friendship."

I felt him grimace. "Yours, maybe. Morrigan couldn't care less whether I live or die, or how happily I do it."

I sat up. "She's waiting in the courtyard. She'll be able to tell if—"

Alistair nodded. "Do you want me to go with you?"

I swallowed. No matter how much I loved him, I knew that this morning, Alistair was my king, and I was the commander of his armies. In my mind's eye, I saw my own retelling of the old legend—a woman throwing herself beneath what would have been a mortal blow to her king, kneeling at the feet of her enemy to preserve the peace. Both times, Shayna had acted as she had done to preserve Ferelden. I imagined that both times, had she given him the opportunity, King Calenhad would have stopped her.

"If we didn't—I don't want you there." I didn't think I could look Alistair in the face and order him to hold back—not from danger—but from a position where he could court certain death. I didn't think I could tell him I would seek it for myself. "You should see if you can help get the troops ready to march. It will help the men to see their king on the field."

Alistair's brow knit. "Will I—" his mouth set as he decided. "I should say something to them, before we go. Some sort of motivational speech. Kings and commanders do that sort of thing, right?"

He glanced at me, but this time, it wasn't really a question—merely an expression of his nervousness. As I had predicted, in the last week as we rode ahead of the army we had mustered, Alistair had begun to come into his own. The man who had led me and two other terrified recruits through the Wilds was now leading the nation. The man who had come up with our entire defense strategy, as much as he had tried to pass it off onto me and others, was finally beginning to own it. He was afraid. He was inexperienced. He had not been born or raised to lead, but the capability had been in him all along, and I knew he would do his duty, and do it well. Even if—

I kissed him. "You'll do great. I'll meet you in the camp before we march."

I slid out of his arms and off of the bed, but as I reached for my underthings, folded on a chair, Alistair grabbed my arm. I looked at him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Gwyn. If it didn't work—"

I closed my eyes again, and gripped his arm in return, and heard him sigh. "You still did the right thing," he murmured finally, and the words were like a blessing. I opened my eyes. "Maker smile upon us, my Lady Shayna." His mouth twisted. He was clever, Alistair, and here, at the end, he would not hide it. He knew what I would do if we had failed. He knew that if we failed, when we came to Denerim, we might never see each other again.

From that perspective my decision had certainly been the right one. If this had been the last moments we could ever be alone, I was grateful we had spent them together instead of apart, consumed with fear and regret.

I let him hold me until he let me go. We dressed in silence, and parted—he to the captains of dwarves and elves and men waiting in the castle. I to Morrigan and the answer that would determine my fate, and Alistair's, and the fate of Ferelden itself.

Once Alistair had been a bastard, his father unknown. Once I had been the second-born of two living parents with a strong older brother and a nephew to carry on my family line, without responsibility to any other man. Once we had been unimportant. I wished we still were. Grey Wardens were never meant to hold titles and lands. No one could ever serve two masters. But for us, there had been no choice. Grave and terrible—our duty to the land opposed to our duty to its people like this. We risked them both along with our lives opposing the Archdemon.

How would I protect us all, depending on what Morrigan told me? If we had failed to complete her ritual, as Warden-Commander, I could not allow Alistair within a mile of the Archdemon. If Riordan could not kill the Archdemon, Alistair would act to protect me. He knew better, but in the moment, he would be unable to help himself. I had seen it, he had all but said so, after Orzammar. I would place him at the head of our army, in charge of pushing back the bulk of the horde and retaking Denerim. It would still be a dangerous position, a position of honor, but he would have a chance to survive and avoid certain death by killing the Archdemon. I would go with Riordan and a small party to challenge the Archdemon alone. With Sten, Morrigan, and . . . Leliana. For all their friendship, those three could stand and let me do my duty if Riordan fell. They would help me end the Blight, no matter what.

If we had succeeded, though, the entire battle would change. Without risk of any Warden's death slaying the Archdemon, all three of us could take our chance. I would leave Eamon in charge of the army, and Sten to aid him. Morale would suffer, especially among the Fereldens, but it would be that much more likely we could end the Blight once and for all.

However, in the advance party, my own safety would become a priority. Morrigan's ritual protected me from the death of the Archdemon. There would be no shield whatsoever from death on a hurlock's sword. If I now carried Alistair's child, the heir to the throne . . . Wynne and Zevran, I decided. Wynne's skill as a healer had preserved us many times and would do so again.

I could never take Zevran if I knew I might need to sacrifice my life, but if my protection became the priority, he would be invaluable. He had not lied to me when we met about his loyalty—his first instinct was always to defend companions in peril, despite his training as an assassin. I had used him for that more than once. I sometimes felt guilty for all the risks he took, on my behalf especially. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had never taken anything more than he had offered me of his own free will—and he had never asked me for anything, whatever his feelings. Zevran needed a trustworthy, lasting friend far more than he needed a lover anyway. And that much I would gladly give him, now and in the future. In fact, if we all survived, I rather thought he might enjoy a position as royal spymaster or something in that line.

My thoughts had carried me all through Castle Redcliffe and out into the courtyard. A trumpet in the distance echoed off the stones. I heard a voice shouting from the camps above the village, calling the troops to prepare for the march to Denerim. The horn sounded elven, maybe.

Across the courtyard, a few knights of Redcliffe were already readying their horses by the stables. I wondered if they were eager, or if they were so ready because they, too, had not slept. I saw Bann Teagan Guerrin among them. He had fought with the people of Redcliffe through their darkest hour, even when his knights had urged him to flee. He would be among the first to ride with them now. The bann was a good man—but there were many good men and women marching today. Many would not return. There were many good men and women in Denerim now we would be too late to save.

Outside the gate, I could see the camps stirring across the cliffs. Tents were collapsing. Smoke rose from a hundred campfires, and I could smell sausage and toasting bread as the men cooked their breakfasts before the march. Some of the dwarves were already forming ranks. They were as uncomfortable aboveground as the Dalish elves were fighting beside humans, but all of them had united to fight the darkspawn and end the Blight.

Maker defend us, I prayed, for all of us, Andrastians and heathens alike, everyone who lived on or under the green earth and had assembled to annihilate the abominations perverting it. Preserve us all. Forgive us all. Grant us Your favor when we ride today in Your cause. Alistair and I as well. If we have done wrong this night, forgive us. Grant us the courage and wisdom to lead these people, today and after, and if it should pass that I should die—save the King. Save Alistair, and give him Your strength to carry on.

I saw a shadow to my left, and looked up, above the gate. Morrigan was sitting there, high on a boulder by the pillars of Eamon's gate. The dawn had not yet reached the place where she sat, cross-legged, keeping vigil like the grim statues the arls and banns of Ferelden sometimes had sculpted to guard the roofs of their fortresses, or the sculptures of the Paragons in the Hall of Heroes in Orzammar. When I waved, she slid off the rock like a snake, landing neatly on her feet in the pale morning light.

There were half-moon shadows beneath her eyes, dark as bruises, the mirror of my own sleepless night. Morrigan's lips were tight, and at her sides, her fists were clenched. I searched her face, and realized I had misjudged her.

She wanted the power I could offer her, the mystic child I could be carrying—but right now I could see that all of that was the furthest thing from her mind. She did not even look angry about the opportunity we might have missed. She only looked worried—worried for me. All night she had worked tirelessly to do to me in hours what she had done to herself over weeks, combating the Blight as well. I had thought Morrigan knew nothing of love and loyalty, that Flemeth had destroyed her ability to understand anything but survival and power. Looking at her pale, drawn face, I knew I had been wrong. "Good morning, Morrigan."

"Is it done?" Morrigan demanded.

"It is."

"When?"

"Before the rooster crowed. Before first light . . . but I am not certain if it was done before dawn had begun," I admitted. Morrigan's eyes flashed, and her tight, bloodless mouth tightened still further. My stomach turned. I had been correct then—mere moments could determine whether we had failed or succeeded. But Morrigan didn't say scold, didn't make some acid comment on Alistair's performance as I might have expected from her. She only breathed sharply in through her nose.

"No matter. We shall soon know whether or not we succeeded in this scheme." Her golden eyes rolled back into her head. She moved her wrists in a quick, mystic gesture, and spoke a few words under her breath. Then she seized my left hand in her right, her thumb upon the pulse point.

The sun came at last over the ridge of Redcliffe, illuminating a clear, beautiful morning. It nearly blinded me for a moment. I waited, and the whole world seemed to hold his breath to hear Morrigan speak words of life . . . or death.

Afterword

Yes, yes. I know. I'm terrible. But, in this fic at least, I don't want to say whether Gwyn's plan to undergo the ritual in Morrigan's place worked or not. I just offer the possibility that perhaps it did. Perhaps Morrigan was a good enough witch to make the preparations for Gwyn in one night that she had made for herself over long weeks, combat the taint in Gwyn, and enable Gwyn and Alistair to conceive the child by magic they could never conceive alone, a child that will permit the Grey Warden that slays the Archdemon to survive the blow.

Maybe Gwyn Cousland now carries Alistair's heir, and the kingdom is not only stabilized, but secure because of this. Maybe they will raise that child to be a wise and just ruler after they are gone. Maybe, with Morrigan's help, as Gwyn's promises mean the witch will not be leaving Ferelden for Orlais, Gwyn and Alistair can have more children, though I won't rule out complications as they grow older and the taint within them progresses. Maybe, as we know Fergus Cousland survives, because of those children, both Ferelden at large and Highever in particular will prosper in the future. I don't believe in happily-ever-afters, but maybe, after this, King Alistair Theirin and Queen Gwyn will get something closer to one than they might get otherwise.

But maybe not. Maybe Morrigan and all her magic couldn't guarantee a child from two Grey Wardens after only one night of preparation, or perhaps Gwyn and Alistair finished too late, and even if they did conceive, their child will be incapable of absorbing the soul of the Archdemon. In that case, proceed to Canon Ending B—the Ultimate Sacrifice Gwyn Cousland has said many times she is willing to make for Alistair and for Ferelden. I like that ending. It's clean and good in a way performing the dark ritual with Morrigan never can be.

So you decide whether the "destiny" spoken of in my description was that Gwyn would die for Alistair and save Ferelden, or whether it was that Shayna should live, fight, rule, and eventually die beside her Calenhad this time around in a way never permitted to the original lady (as much as Calenhad might have wished it, if only he hadn't had to marry Mairyn instead—even the unembellished legend indicates Calenhad loved Shayna, for all he was never unfaithful of his own accord). You decide how the story ends. I just wanted to leave the door open for it to end differently than Bioware allowed us to end it, with the Warden and Morrigan still friends, for all Morrigan's offer has been refused, Cousland and Alistair's honor and relationship still intact, and a chance—however small—still extant that both survive the death of the Archdemon.

It's been a pleasure, friends. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review if you have something to say,

LMSharp