R&R and I shall do the same for any of your Dragon Age fics!

Warning: moderate to heavy blood and gore, will likely need to bump up the rating in later chapters.

Likely to become fairly dark in the future.

Akana

"No, the journey does not end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take.
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass."
-Gandalf, Lord of the Rings

The archdemon was slowing. Bodies lay strewn in a circular pattern around its taloned feet: fur and flesh and armor were shredded in the soupy mix of blood and gore. The mages had damaged its wings at least, preventing the beast from lifting off again. It didn't mean they weren't still dangerous -- Akana ducked just in time to see the muscled limb unfurl, slamming into three Redcliffe soldiers, crushing their armor and sending them flying back.

But the battle would be over soon, that was becoming obvious. Akana felt her body growing weary, but every so often the giant creature would twist just so, and she would catch a glance of him: bits of his armor gleaming in the places where the blood hadn't splashed and stained. His helm had been torn away, and she could see his brow was set in both determination and pain. She saw his lips pull back over his teeth, which were startlingly white compared to the red-black sheen coating his face and neck: red from the blood of their fallen allies, black from the Darkspawn. Her companion. Her Knight. Alistair, the Grey Warden.

And that was all she needed -- Oghren had told her that you needed to think of something to make you furious if you wanted to be a Berserker. She'd been a fast study: rage was nothing new to her. At first she'd only had to think back to the Alienage, remembering seeing Shianni lying broken and sobbing on the cold floor of the Arl's Estate, and that had been enough fuel to last her several lifetimes.

Now, though, she thought of him. Alistair let out a rallying cry that briefly overtook even Leliana's song. Akana let the fury blossom in her gut and in her chest till it burned just like the Joining's elixir, setting her throat aflame until she was screaming too: nothing as inspiring as Alistair's, but more ferocious, bestial, horrible. He was strong and good, and as long as he stood against the darkness, she was free to let her caution -- and her morality -- fade.

With every blow against him her bloodlust grew, and it would not be slaked until each foe lie crippled, eviscerated, mangled beyond repair.

She tried, for all their sake's she tried, to be good. She had helped those who needed it, without question of reward. She had sought out evil and punished it. On occasion she had even been merciful. But here she released herself from the bonds of decency. The Darkspawn were evil. Even Wynne had said nothing as Akana had killed them with such brutal efficiency that gore had to be prodded and pulled and plucked from the chinks in her armor. Life had afforded her quite few guiltless outlets for her rage, and Akana had grown to relish the simplicity of facing an enemy that was irredeemable, unquestionably beyond compassion. When it came to fighting Darkspawn there was no need to worry about what Wynne, or Leliana -- or most importantly, Alistair -- thought.

The demon bellowed with such force that she found herself unable to move against it, the sound a thing made solid. Several of the remaining troops were brought to their knees, a couple even dropping their weapons to clutch their skulls. Pushing forward, borrowing on reserves of stamina that had long since be drained, Akana slashed at an exposed stretch of the dragon's belly. One of its hindquarters at been all but crippled, and she dodged its now clumsy attempt to kick at her. A cowering soldier was not so lucky: a claw easily two feet long punched through her chestplate like it was made of cheap tin rather than well-forged steel.

As quick as Akana was on her feet -- a necessity when you fought with two long-swords and had little defensive skill to speak of -- the thick, queasy mire underfoot got the better of her. She slipped, at least adept enough to break her fall without landing on any of the fallen weapons (or her own). As she moved to climb back to her feet, already looking up to catch a glimpse of her fellow Grey Warden, she had time only to see a band of blackness swinging towards her. The archdemon's tail hid her broadside, flinging her like a doll across the stony battlefield.

Her armor, which had been crafted from dragon scale itself, absorbed much of the blow, but there were two audible and simultaneous pops as she felt a couple of ribs break on impact. After sailing through the air she hit the ground elbow first, and the flare of pain followed by a tingly lack of sensation informed her that the arm was going to be useless until Wynne could set it. She continued to roll, collecting all other manner of bruises and gashes, though nothing as debilitating.

Akana came to a stop lying face-first in blood, unsure of whether it was her own or not, and unable to care. She breathed in a gulp of it, wretching and sneezing it out, trying to push herself to her feet. Her head was swimming and she coughed up more blood that she hoped wasn't from internal bleeding but rather a busted lip. Her helm was twisted half to the side, suffocating her, and with her good arm she wrenched it off, letting it clatter dully to the ground.

Her hair, a blinding platinum and kept cropped in short ties, was instantly sprayed with a fine mist of blood as the archdemon roared again. Trying to focus her eyes, Akana saw Wynne first, praying in the distance. Her pain began to ebb away, and the ribs mended themselves. The arm, though, would take more time than Wynne could spare, and Akana watched as the healer turned back to the main fight at hand.

Akana turned her head as quickly as she was able, on her knees and propped up with one hand, the other arm limp and lifeless at her side. What she saw made the breath leave her body, even if she was not one to often be stunned in battle. She didn't freeze up, as many soldiers -- both green and veteran alike -- were wont to. Now, though, as if all happening very slowly, she saw the dragon swing its tail back, trying to right itself. It put too much weight on its destroyed back limb, which slid, just has she had, in the mess of bone and limb and guts.

The archdemon slipped, splayed, if only for a half a second: but that was all that Alistair needed. He lunged forward, moving with impossible speed for all his heavy armor, and grappled the creature's skull. It jerked its head back, and for a moment he was suspended in the air above it. He only just managed to grab and hold, and whether it was luck or fate did not matter in the slightest to her. She watched as he slung himself around the back of its neck, just behind the head. He wasted no time in driving his sword through the flesh there.

The dragon's scream was no longer just pain or outrage, but also fear and desperation. Before he could get a second blow in, it violently snapped its long neck to the side. Alistair was tossed down with enough force that she felt it through the stone. The creature backed away, spasming wildly. The soul-searing purple flames that it had been vomiting now seeped from the fresh laceration, and it could not get its balance, scrambling with claws that left six-inch deep gouges in the marble.

Akana felt her eyes widen, the snake tattoo that curled along the right side of her face framing one bright blue-grey eye. Though it was dangerous and stupid, she ignored the dragon: she looked only upon Alistair, felt not rage or fury but only empty despair. This had been Wynne's warning, Morrigan's warning: love was clouding her reason. They could not afford this hesitation. Fereldan could not afford a Grey Warden who cared more for her fallen comrade than to finish off an archdemon and end a Blight.

"Alistair..." She croaked, half gurgling the name around a fresh mouthful of blood. There was no way he could have heard her, she was too quiet, and the distance seeming greater and greater the longer she looked upon his still form. But there: he stirred. His head turned towards her, and for a moment their eyes locked. And she, here, in a pool of blood, on her gods-damned knees, while the greatest enemy they would ever know shrieked its death cries to the Maker.

He did not say anything, perhaps could not. But he turned his eyes from her to the demon, and she saw his hand grip for his sword, saw him move to his feet. He was closer to the archdemon than she was, and already Wynne was chanting another spell to get him back to his feet. There could be no doubt: if he stood again, he would kill the archdemon.

Both Wardens understood what it meant to be the one to strike the final blow. Morrigan's "deal" or no, neither would risk the other to do it if they had the choice. And suddenly, the fury was there, and Akana rose on willpower that was not her own. She gripped the hilt of her remaining sword tightly, and forced herself into a sprint. There was no subtly to it, no grace. The creature seemed unaware of her approach, or unable to control its thrashing to do anything about it.

Akana thanked the Maker -- whether she believed in Him or not -- for Alistair's heavy plate, for the large shield bound to his arm, for every bit of protection that weighed him down now. She charged, wishing she had the strength to let out a fearsome cry that would herald the beast's death, but there was nothing to spare for such extravagances. There was only the need to win, the duty to end it, and the love that demanded her sacrifice.

Just as the creature turned to face her, perhaps hoping to snatch her in its maw and break her bones against its fangs as its last act, Akana shifted to her side. The blood that had made the battlefield so precarious before now came to her aid: she slid, controlling her momentum and ducking underneath the archdemon's attack. Its jaw snapped together so hard that she felt her armor rattle.

Now the length of the creature's neck was exposed, with scales that were much weaker than what shielded the rest of its body. Akana plunged her sword into the soft meat there, slicing four feet before she stopped sliding and rolled out from under the dragon's stomping, flailing claws.

The creature slumped to the ground as its black blood jetted in turrets. Akana wasted no time now: she could not think, could not reconsider. She spun, took the couple steps towards its head. The inky eyes gazed up at her, and she felt the demon's presence in her mind, just as she had during all the nightmares.

What she felt was a strange blend of emotions: hatred and admiration and recognition. Most of all, there was a taunting, if bitter smugness. Finish it then, the archdemon seemed to snarl into her mind. You may kill me, but I will drag you to the same cold grave, Warden.

Akana's eyelids flickered. She was not afraid of death, but truly, it was only in these past few months that she'd ever felt she had anything worth living for. And now she stood to lose it all, even if for the noblest cause possible. Even hoping that Morrigan's spell would work rang false: Akana had little doubt that she was going to be meeting the Maker very soon.

I only wish that I'd had more time with h-

The archdemon lurched forward, weakly, and Akana reacted. Putting all the weight into her good sword arm, she sank the blade into the demon's skull.

Light and power erupted up against her, hotter than fresh blood, both painful and righteous. Akana screamed but did not hear it, trapped in a wall of light. She pulled at the sword's hilt, needing to be dislodged from the demon, needing to be away from that power source. Its escaping soul poured over her, its prying fingers touching all over her mind and looking for a way in. It did not occur to her to let go of the weapon: she could not. The act of slaying had made it one with her in this moment.

As her eyes rolled in her skull she saw her three companions. Leliana had grabbed Alistair around one arm, trying to hold him back. He shrugged her off roughly, and took two staggering steps towards Akana before Wynne muttered a spell that made a barrier around him, binding him. Though his limbs could no longer move, Akana saw the terror and the pain in his eyes: what hell it must have been, to have to watch her suffer and be unable to do anything about it.

SEE IT TO THE END, GREY WARDEN. The voice in her head was thundering, deafening even as it made no sound. The demon commanded her, now not just a demon but something older and without the tainted corruption. Akana put her boot against the dying dragon's eye-ridge, and with one last great heave, pulled her sword free. An surge of power exploded outwards, knocking Wynne and Leliana from their feet, with Alistair still frozen in place. Akana was unaffected, likely due to her role in killing the archdemon.

Wynne's power over the barrier broke as she fainted, and Leliana groaned as she rolled to her side. Akana stepped back, sword dropping now from her fist. Alistair, stumbling with the sudden freedom of motion, rushed towards her. She fell backwards, collapsing against him in a distant clank of plate and chainmail. He didn't have the strength left to hold them both up, and caved to his knees, cradling the elf woman to his chest. There were tears on his face, and she only barely felt the hard steel of his gauntlet as he tried to gently cup her face.

Akana did not know if this was death, but if it was, there were far worse ways to die.

Blackness overcame her.