He had to stop short at the open doorway to gather his thoughts, which had been whirring like a litter of mabari pups-or, rather, like a nest of angry hornets-ever since he'd left Anora after their little chat. It hadn't felt like a conversation so much as a negotiation in a language he didn't speak, the terms of which he couldn't begin to fathom. All he knew was that he was getting married, and not to the woman who'd captured his heart and wrapped it in a bed of roses. Now it felt like the petals were wilting, leaving thorns to claw at the inside of his ribs, and he could barely breathe as he gripped the door jamb. He squeezed tight to keep his hand from shaking in its glove.

She was there, in the arl's study, lounging in fine robes she'd only gotten a couple of days ago upon their arrival in Denerim, reading one of Eamon's leather-bound books. It was odd to see her so clean, after slogging through three seasons of Fereldan mud and snow in patched-together civilians' clothes inexpertly enchanted. For the first time since Flemeth's hut she looked like a Circle mage, of the kind Alistair had been so worried about having to spend his life watching over when he had submitted himself to training as a templar. He'd thought that Duncan had freed him from worrying about gaining a mage's ire, but like with so many things he'd supposed, Alistair was wrong. The Maker must have a sense of humour, he thought, trying to summon just a glimmer of the courage that Maya had shown over and over again on their journey. From the Tower of Ishal to the Anvil of the Void, from the Brecilian Forest to the Urn of Sacred Ashes, from the Korcari Wilds to the Denerim Alienage, the elven mage had proven herself brave and wise and good, so much better than he'd had any right to expect in a friend, much less a lover. He owed it to her to emulate the courage she'd shown him time and again. He was going to need that courage to do what must be done, and the longer he delayed it, the harder it would be.

"Maya," he called, softly, as he stepped over the threshold. It nearly ended him when her impossibly-green eyes flitted up from her book, and the instant look of pleasure on her freckle-dusted cheeks almost set the rosebush in his chest ablaze. He had to fight to keep his lips from tugging up in a sympathetic grin. "We...need to talk."

Those green eyes blinked, her brows drawing together as she shifted to a sitting position. When it became clear that Alistair wouldn't step closer she stood, sweeping a curtain of chestnut curls behind a pointed ear, uncertainty playing over her features. "Did it not go well with the queen?"

"No," Alistair sighed. "I mean, well, yes...we had a...a talk," he corrected, "and we...that is to say she...came to a decision. It's all planned out, will be announced at the Landsmeet. Eamon'll be happy, at least."

"But not you?"

"I...no, not really," the reluctant prince admitted. "Not at all, actually." Maya's expression shifted from confusion to more obvious concern, and she closed the gap between them with surprisingly few steps. It was as natural as breathing to fold into her embrace, to let his strong arms lace across her back and pull her into his chest. He buried his miserable face in the corner of her lithe neck, breathing deeply, searching for a trace of scent of wildflowers that might still cling to her hair. He'd braided the petals into it himself, just three days ago, before the alienage and Anora's presence in Eamon's great house, before the promise had passed his lips and locked his hopes at the bottom of a dungeon of duty. No matter how deeply he breathed, however, there was not a hint of wildflower to be found...only the scent of lavender from the bath, the kind Isolde had favoured, the kind that would've been stocked in every bathing chamber in the house. "I'm so, so sorry, my love," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

The elven Warden stiffened in his arms, but she didn't pull away or move to look at him. "What do you mean?" Her breath teased against his neck in a light breeze that he would've welcomed not half an hour before.

It was Alistair who drew back, his hands settling at her hips. His lips parted; a breath came and went, and then another, before he finally found his voice again. "I...I can't do it," he strangled out, and by the flash in her eyes, he guessed that she knew what it was. "I'm...sorry. I love you too much." So much.

It was hardly the first time he'd expressed his feelings; a good I love you, Maya Surana could break up the monotony of hiking through one more boggy forest or hacking off yet another genlock's arm quite nicely, in fact, right up there with Down you go or I never knew woodpeckers were so rude. Apart from the sheer truth of the expression, it was always worth hearing the retching from Morrigan's direction whenever those three words came from Alistair's lips...not to mention the dawning grin which they'd never failed to drag across Maya's face.

Never until now, that is, he realised, as he watched the storm gathering on the edges of her features. "What are you saying?" She asked, but she didn't wait for an answer. "Is this...are you...are we…"

"We can't do this anymore, Mai," he said, his vision blurring before he closed his eyes. "I've spent my life around powerful men, married men, who...carried on with elves."

Maya did step back, then, her robes slipping through Alistair's suddenly-nerveless fingers. "Is that what I am to you?" Her voice was so small, it was hard to believe the same throat could nearly make an ogre's ears bleed in the thick of the fight. "An elf you're carrying on with?"

His lips parted, Of course not and I'm so sorry fighting to crawl out of his mouth at once, to the effect that his tongue refused to cooperate at all, and he had to shake his head. Swallowing gave him a moment to think. "No," he managed. "But that's what you'll be to everyone else."

"Have you considered," she answered, a bit more forcefully, "that I do not care what I am to everyone else?" There was lightning gathering in her eyes, and Alistair couldn't tell if it was her magic or simply his imagination. "You know that doesn't matter to me, Alistair."

The man took another uneven breath, shaking his head again. "I know." She'd grown up in the Circle, with no memories of any place beyond the shores of the island on which its tower stood, surrounded by templars and other mages. There was no such thing as marriage, no family as the rest of Thedas understood the term, nothing much beyond hurried trysts in shadowed corners. Falling in love was a luxury of the outside world; within the tower's walls, it was just another weakness the templars could exploit, when push came to shove. All this and more Maya had told him on watches they'd sat, or as they lay sleeplessly in their bedrolls under the stars, and eventually within the tent they'd come to share. But he'd grown up in a castle, and then a Chantry; isolated, but hardly cloistered, he'd seen a parade of freeholders and banns pledge their vows to beloved wives or husbands, and he'd overheard rumours beyond the counting about bann so-and-so straying on his wife or freeholder such-and-such cuckolding her husband. With an elf of all things was always the most scandalous whisper of them all. "But it matters, Maya. Maker's Breath, you know I don't want this, but I'm going to be king. That means that once this is over, if we both survive the Blight, you'll have to lead the Wardens in this country, rebuild them, make sure they're respected by the kinds of people who do care." He was weeping, now, even as he spoke. "I can't put you through that. It'll be hard enough as it is."

A few strands of those chestnut locks rose, and Alistair's recently-honed templar skills buzzed from a surge of barely-contained magic roiling just below the surface of her flesh. "Well, then," Maya breathed, a half-buried chuckle colouring her voice, as sharp as the blade at the end of her staff. "It seems you've decided everything, Your Majesty." This she said with the faintest of bows, though her eyes did not drop an inch. "Might I take my leave, sire?"

"Don't do that, Mai," he begged. "Please don't shut me out." There was still more to say, so much that he didn't know where to begin, and she hadn't said anything, and he couldn't live with himself if he never saw that smile again...but it was too late. He knew it when Maya raised her hand, balled into a fist, sparks dancing across her knuckles.

"Allow me to rephrase, Li," she countered. "Move, or I'll act like you're the door you're pretending to be. Don't you think I won't."

The threat was real enough, but for a heartbeat Alistair wondered if he hadn't been stung more by the acid edge she'd given his pet-name than he would've done by the bolt of lightning she was only barely holding back. Still, he found his feet shuffling him to one side, unable to keep from watching her sweep from the room. He told himself he knew better than to follow, but he took a step toward the doorway, regardless; it was only an iron-hard hand clapping down on his shoulder that kept him from following that step with another.

"I am thinking this wonderful land of fur and mud can ill-afford you diving headlong down the foolhardy path, mi amigo integro." Zevran's grip relaxed as he came alongside the reluctant prince in the doorway; whence he'd come, Alistair had not an inkling. "Though, admittedly, I have little understanding of the urge to chase after an angry woman, especially if I am the cause of her anger."

Delicately, finger by finger, the Antivan peeled his hand from Alistair's shoulder, and he leaned against the doorway beside the would-be king. Alistair spared him a glance, but his eyes swiftly returned to the hall, though it was now as bereft as he felt. "I just...I don't know what to do. Maker, Zev, I don't don't know what to do."

"Were you less honourable, I would suggest a stroll along the docks to clear your head, among other things. But an inventory of the arl's wine casks might be a decent idea." When Alistair's gaze returned, the Antivan cocked a brow and canted his head, and Alistair was all too happy to let the other man lead the way.

It was an excellent idea, as it happened, at least until the next morning, and most of the next afternoon. But after his hangover wore off Maya still refused to acknowledge him in the halls of the estate, and despite their similar appetites, he didn't catch her in the kitchens that night. He could find little comfort in the companions they'd gathered; Shale and Sten were utterly indifferent to the situation, while Oghren was always too deep in his cups to care. Dane, of course, was as unapproachable as his mistress. If anything, Wynne seemed pleased, or at least looked slightly less severe whenever she caught sight of him. Zevran's advice had already been followed, at least as far as Alistair felt able, and the memory of it was too pointed to invite a second trip to the cellars. Leliana was aloof...not unsympathetic, but unwilling to show favour to either Warden. And Morrigan…well, the one time he crossed paths with Morrigan that day, he hadn't bothered hanging around long enough to question the gleam of appraisal that snuck into her glance, beneath the accustomed contempt. Eamon was far too relieved at the arrangements to confide in, and Alistair would rather crawl through a field of broken wine bottles than seek out Anora at the moment.

That was why Alistair spent the days before the Landsmeet with his thoughts, such as they were. When he'd lost Duncan, Maya had been there for him in those first dark days; they were both terrified, virtual strangers, with a task beyond either of their comprehension, much less their competence. She'd been there for him in Redcliffe, when it looked like darkspawn would be the least of their worries. She'd been there for him after they'd decimated Haven and he could barely cope with all the innocent people they'd had to kill. Not long after, he was able to be there for her in the Circle Tower, in between wading through rivers of blood shed by the only family she'd ever known. In this way they became friends, confidantes, and, eventually, lovers. But that was all gone, as swiftly and inevitably as a sunset. All that was left to him now was a terrible duty he hadn't asked for, over and above the death sentence in his blood.

Duty, yes. Along with revenge.

oOoOo

"Stand aside." Maya did not hold her staff, but she took a breath, letting the magic spin up within her so that it would be ready to channel at a moment's notice. "I have no wish to kill you, Ser Cauthrien, but if you do not relent, I will be forced to." Her voice was remarkably even, calmer than she'd felt in days. Calmer than she had any right to be, staring down the woman who'd locked her in Fort Drakon, who'd happily see her upon the headsman's block even now.

"I would expect no less of Arl Howe's murderers," the warrior retorted, hoisting her greatblade with a practiced ease that promised to make the job difficult. "I do not know how you've escaped justice time after time, but I cannot allow you to poison the Landsmeet with your lies. The nation's fate is at stake."

Of all the sodding…but, before she could open her mouth or reach for her staff, the big lug beside her took a step forward, his hands raised in a supplicating gesture. "I understand you want what's best for Ferelden," Alistair said, and Maya didn't trust herself to say anything that wouldn't get him skewered by that void-forged greatblade Cauthrien kept angled high. "And I understand you owe Loghain your loyalty...maybe even your life. But you don't owe him your soul.

"He betrayed you when he gave his daughter to Arl Howe; when he looked the other way at Howe's villainy in the alienage; when he ordered you to turn your back on the king at Ostagar. And if you sacrifice yourself for him now, he'll have betrayed you again, just as he's betrayed this country." Alistair lowered his arms, standing within easy striking distance of the woman's blade, but he made no move to defend himself or to attack her. "I am going to address the Landsmeet, and thereafter I will assume kingship of this land. I will do everything in my power to unite us against the darkspawn, to see this Blight ended and peace restored." He shrugged, a cynical edge creeping into his voice that twisted in Maya's gut like a knife. "Or they will side with Loghain, spike my head outside the gate at Fort Drakon, and the archdemon will swallow the land whole. Either way, you owe Ferelden far more than you ever owed Loghain, and it would be too great a waste for you to die on this floor, no matter the outcome in the chamber beyond."

The air grew thick with tension; Cauthrien had a few men-at-arms behind her, all armed and armoured and ready for a fight, but Maya had spent the better part of a year collecting the oddest gang of killers she could imagine from every corner of Ferelden, and unlike in Howe's estate, every single one of them stood with her and Alistair in the Landsmeet's antechamber. There could be a struggle, perhaps even a dear one, but if it came to blows there would only be one outcome this day.

Whether it was the surprise of Alistair's intervention, or the sheer calculation of the odds, Ser Cauthrien relented after another handful of heartbeats. She took a step back, slowly lowering the point of her sword until it rested upon a flagstone, and she looked from Alistair to Maya. "I...owe him everything. But I am not blind to what he is becoming. I'll not stand in your way, but I promise you, should the Landsmeet decide that Teyrn Loghain's hands are the best to guide Ferelden, I will do my duty."

That was about as much as Maya could ask for, and she nodded, easing the tight coil of magic she'd gathered within her as consciously as it had been summoned. "Thank you, Ser Cauthrien." She spared a glance to Alistair, but his wry smirk only brought another twist to her intestines, and she pushed on to the Landsmeet's assembly chamber.

Loghain was there, of course, as was Eamon, whose professions of principle couldn't hide the fact that his principal principle was his own position. The teyrn himself was just wrapping up a rousing speech which Cauthrien's intervention had no doubt bought him time to finish, about how Ferelden must be united, with the implication that his daughter's arse on the throne and his hand at the till were the only means of keeping the country together and driving back the darkspawn. A hush settled over the gathered nobles as Maya and her companions made their way to the fore, and she secured Alistair's discretion with a glance, as she'd done so often since they'd crawled out of the Wilds. If his discretion mingled with shame and regret, she wouldn't turn down the twist in her throat or the gleam in her eye that it gave her as she addressed the men and women they would have to win over in order to leave this chamber alive.

"My lords and ladies, you have come to know me in these recent days; many by reputation, and none too few by direct acquaintance." Loghain barked an interruption, and Eamon was all too eager to overrule him; Maya let the old mabaris snarl at each other until they settled down, and she stepped more fully into the centre of the circle of nobles, standing just outside of Loghain's striking range. When it was clear that she had command of every set of eyes and ears in the chamber, she continued, consciously leaning into the Circle accent that made her sound more like a member of their company than an elf of the alienage. "You have had near to a year of slander from this man and his bosom companion, the late Arl Rendon Howe, who did not wait until King Cailan's body was cold before spinning lies about the Grey Wardens and moving to secure their power here. You've had near to a year of witnessing this man drive your nation apart, setting you against one another at precisely the moment when you all should have joined forces against the darkspawn. None too few of you," she repeated, casting her gaze about to catch the eyes of Alfstanna, Sighard, and Vaughan, "have suffered at Arl Howe's hands, and none of you have profited from his perfidy...none of you, save this man, who imprisoned his own daughter rather than expose dealings with Tevinter slavers in the alienage here."

The rage that threatened at that last had little enough to do with Alistair's misguided gallantry, and all to do with the fact that, had things turned out just a bit differently, it would've been her sold off to a magister and bound for Minrathous. She didn't bother holding back the sparks that arced between her fingertips as she swept her hand toward Loghain, finally deigning to acknowledge him directly. "You may yet be acclaimed regent by this Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain. But while there is breath left in your body, you will never escape the shame of what you did to accomplish it, and the Maker will not soon forget who stood with you, and who stood against."

"Don't you dare lecture me about the Maker, witch. I've fought and bled and suffered for this country since before your wretched mother was born, and I'll keep fighting, until my dying breath." His defiance came with a snarl, but still, he sounded tired, and not at all certain that he would prevail. "You may condemn me, you may carry the day and have my head off my shoulders, but you will never know the sacrifices I have made to keep this country free, and safe. Don't you dare judge me."

"Free, father? Safe?" A ripple of surprise washed over the crowd as Anora stepped forward onto the balcony behind Loghain, evidently choosing this moment to emerge from the alcove whence Eamon had secreted her. Murmurs erupted around them as nobles took stock of her appearance; rumours had abounded since she'd disappeared, wild and rampant speculation about her fate, but all stood at last to be settled. "Is that what you told yourself when you had Howe imprison me in the Kendall estate? When dear Sighard's son and Alfstanna's brother found themselves in that very estate's dungeons, alongside its rightful lord? When you filled your coffers with Tevinter gold?"

The teyrn had turned to look upon his daughter, his head craned back to give him a proper view, and from his profile he seemed relieved and proud, even as she drove what must have been the final nail in the coffin of his ambitions. He did not move, nor speak, not even as Eamon called for a vote to affirm Alistair as the rightful King of Ferelden and to remove Loghain as regent. He just looked up at his daughter, as though it was worth his life to memorise her face. Her own eyes filled with tears as she looked down at him, tears which only gathered as his partisans' voices failed to carry the day.

"I'll not go meekly to my fate," he said at last, turning to regard Maya and her companions with a smirk. "If you truly wish me to relinquish the fate of this nation to your care, we will do it properly, under arms and witnessed by the lords and ladies present. I challenge you to a duel, Warden. Do you accept?"

The bottom fell out of Maya's stomach as a hush fell over their audience, laws and customs more ancient than Calenhad falling into place. She could try to dispute the validity of the challenge, since the vote had been all but settled, but the warriors she hoped to corral against the darkspawn would never stop whispering about how she'd refused the Hero of the River Dane an honourable death.

Luckily, or perhaps foolishly, Maya was not the only Grey Warden present. "I accept," Alistair said, his first words since he'd talked Ser Cauthrien out of throwing her life away. He drew the golden sword he'd reclaimed from his brother's final battlefield, the blade that had belonged to their father, and he brushed past Maya without looking back at her.

"Very well, pup," Loghain allowed, drawing his own steel. "Let's see if Maric's blood really does flow through those veins, as you claim."