A/N: This is the final chapter. Before everyone goes "but what about Aedan and the Landsmeet?", never fear: I plan to tackle those events in more detail in a separate story. As always, many thanks to those who've taken the time to review and comment.

Chapter 7

There was a bitter irony, she thought, in the way it had all turned out. In a sense, events had come full circle. The madness that began eight months ago, with the death of her husband, had finally ended today with the death of her father.

She'd moved swiftly to establish her authority, appointing Cauthrien as head of her personal guard, and ordering the release of all political prisoners from Fort Drakon. Anora was no fool; she knew that the more quickly she moved to distance herself from her father's actions as Regent, the easier her subsequent reign would be. She hated herself for it, yet it had to be done.

Loghain's body lay in a cool cellar beneath the palace, guarded by a mute, blank-faced Ser Cauthrien. There'd be no state funeral, not when he'd died a traitor's death, but she could at least ensure that he went to the flames with a modicum of dignity. He'd have a pyre, and prayers, and mourners – even if she and Cauthrien were the only ones in Ferelden willing to honour the man who'd once saved it.

Now she sat alone in the rooms that had been his chambers, surrounded by his possessions – books, maps, clothing, all the paraphernalia of a life that had ended brutally and without warning. He was gone – like her mother, like Cailan – and this time there was no one left to offer comfort or solace.

She'd suspected that it was coming, as soon as the Warden brought her the Tevinter contracts. He'd said nothing, just thrown them down on the table in front of her and turned away, but she'd seen his expression in that brief moment when their eyes met. And when she saw her father's seal and signature on that shameful document, she'd heard his words echo in her head – Something must be done, of course – and knew, deep in her heart, that his fate was sealed.

But it had been so close. If it weren't for Maric's little bastard – in every sense of the word, she thought bitterly – there might still have been a chance. Her mind recoiled from the memory of his death, that terrible moment when the blade struck his neck and blood sprayed from the wound and her heart cracked with anguish. She'd forced herself to watch; what kind of coward would she be if she had not? And yet it still seemed unreal to her: a hallucination, a twisted dream.

What hurt the most was that none of them had defended him. None of the men who'd fought by his side at West Hill and White River, who'd shared in his triumph over Meghren, who knew full well that they owed everything they had to the Hero of River Dane. Even the few who'd supported him in the vote had mostly been sycophants like Ceorlic, more concerned with their own self-interest than with the good of Ferelden. And yet she could not condemn them, for she, too, had betrayed him.

She cringed now to think how she'd denounced him, her words a carefully-woven tissue of lies, truths and half-truths that had rung all too convincingly in the Bannorn's ears. Her own intent hardly mattered; nothing could alter the fact that she'd gambled with her father's life, and lost.

Maker help me, I didn't want this. I never wanted this.

The tears came freely now, spilling down her cheeks and soaking the leather map-case she held clutched against her chest. They brought no relief, but still she let them fall, knowing it could be some time before she could next allow herself the luxury of weeping. A Queen could not afford to show weakness; one outburst of grief over a dead father's corpse might be excused, but two would not.

She hadn't lost everything, of course. Her father's blood had bought her a throne, and a husband – Aedan, last of the Couslands, and now the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Their marriage would give Ferelden the only things she lacked: strength of arms, and a noble bloodline. He'd make a good consort, she thought, as long as she could keep him under control.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Soon the people of Denerim would know that Loghain Mac Tir, the man who'd come to symbolise their freedom, was dead – slain by the Wardens as a traitor and regicide. She wondered if they too would remember him as a tyrant, if she would be the only one to recall the good he'd done along with the bad.

It was time. She stood, brushing traces of tears from her eyes, and laying her father's map-case on his desk. Later on, there would be time to properly mourn: for the man he'd once been, the hero who'd led his people to freedom. For the father who'd carried her in his arms and guided her first wobbling steps; who'd taught her to read maps, and to fight with the bow and sword; who'd tried so hard to protect her, at the cost of his honour and his sanity and ultimately his life.

But not yet. By the time she reached Eamon's estate, she would be perfectly composed once more, the grieving daughter submerged in the dutiful monarch. That was the price of power; it was, without doubt, what her father would have expected of her.

My Maker, know my heart
Take from me a life of sorrow
Lift me from a world of pain
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.