"I've seen your flag on the marble arch

But love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah"

- "Hallelujah," Rufus Wainwright

Yellow light filtered down from a bruised and uneven sky. The archdemon lay curled on the flagstones, the purple ridges of its prominent skeleton glowing dully. Four figures stood panting around the prone dragon. The sounds of battle far below them seemed distant and irrelevant.

Gwen waited for the breathless moment to spill over into speech, or action, or at least coherent noise. She felt as though she was watching everything through water. Slowly, agonizingly, Alistair turned towards her.

"I know you told Riordan that you would take the final blow, but I think that I should do it."

Gwen thought she could hear a rushing sound as time resumed its normal pace.

"I can't let you do that, Alistair."

The taller Warden shifted in his heavy plate armor and Gwen was seized by love for this man. This was their destiny, she realized: their relationship bound at each end by two doomed battles. Perhaps it was better after all that he had ended things. Now she could guiltlessly give him the rest of his life to do with as he wished. That was not so bad a parting gift.

"You have fought long and hard to protect Ferelden, and for what? So I could be king?" Alistair shook his head, one eyebrow raised. "I don't know much about ruling, but this would be a fitting first and last act, don't you think?"

"No. No, this will be the best thing I'll have the chance to do in my life - better even than killing Howe." Gwen laughed shortly. "You're just coming into your own. Think of all you've done for the people this last year, how much they love you! How much I—" She swallowed and stepped forward to grip Alistair's arms. "Listen to me. Ferelden needs you."

"I don't mean to rush you, my friends," Zevran murmured from behind them. He and Wynn stood watching the proceedings with quiet anxiety. "You may want to make your decision before the beast awakes."

"Yes. Of course. Listen to me," Gwen hissed again, leaning even closer to her fellow Warden. How tempting it was to lose herself in the sweat glistening at his neck, in the blood drying in his hair and the odd angle at which he held his left arm. She forced herself to focus on his eyes. Was that concern she read there? "Please let me do this, Alistair. Let me do this. Please let me do this."

Alistair jerked her forward into a crushing hug before her stammering could devolve into sobs. The rushing from before filled her ears at a deafening volume, but she could feel his fingers stroking her hair where it had come undone from its tight braid. The long exertion of the battle had warmed his chest plate.

What would it feel like to die? "Like falling asleep," someone had told her once, perhaps when she was first old enough to inquire after the death of one of her father's men. Or it might be more like the wild panic of being sucked from the Fade at great speed. Maybe it would simply be an abrupt end to everything.

Somehow she had kept her mind from wandering down this path every night during their months on the road, mostly by pursuing rambling conversations with her companions - and, later, by seeking Alistair's company. Now she had no reassurances.

Gwen blinked back burning tears and pulled away. Alistair's mouth was moving, but she still couldn't hear anything besides the roaring of her own exhaustion.

It was time.

She turned to stare at Zevran and Wynn, each of whom met her gaze for just a few seconds before bowing their head. Then Alistair put a hand to her jaw and gently turned her head so she faced him once more.

He was speaking more insistently now, but she knew what she had to do. She brought a hand up to rest on his face, thumb brushing his weather-worn cheekbone. He stopped speaking, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

"Thank you for everything, Alistair," Gwen murmured. "I'll never forget you."

Alistair's face hardened and he nodded resolutely. Gwen turned towards the archdemon, hand on the hilt of her sword, but suddenly Alistair rushed past, his blade already drawn.

Nothing made sense for a moment. "Alistair?" Gwen called after him. He ran faster.

Understanding crashed over her like a wave.

"Alistair!" Gwen screamed, drawing her blade and sprinting after her friend with renewed strength. "Alistair!" Her shouts faltered as she gasped for air.

It was too late: Alistair slid beneath the archdemon's throat, slitting it all along so that putrid purple blood showered down onto him. When he reached the thing's chest he withdrew his sword and plunged it deep towards where the heart ought to be.

Radiant light burst from the wound, forcing Gwen to stumble to a halt and shield her eyes. A great silence washed outward as the soldiers in the city below dropped their weapons to gaze up at the citadel.

"Alistair?" This time the question was soft, hesitant. Gwen dropped her arm and crept towards the dragon's body. There, limp and broken, lay Alistair.

Gwen closed her eyes and turned away. She heard Zevran run past and curse softly when he saw the body. There was a physical pain in her chest, deeper somehow than the wounds she had incurred over the course of her travels: grief and regret and anger, all wrapped up in the numb heaviness of finality.

"Come along," Wynn murmured, guiding the Warden gently away. "There will be time later."

Gwen muttered an inconsequential response and tried not to think about the spike being driven through her abdomen.

There were whispers for months of Lady Cousland's whereabouts. Some thought that she had been killed by the archdemon, after all. Others disagreed: they had seen her leave the city, and now they were certain she lived a life of isolation among the Dalish. Many theorized that she had taken her dutiful plunge into the Deep Roads early - young, much too young - in honor of her fallen King.

Alistair's funeral was held in great ceremony, the Chantry draped solemnly in white. Lady Cousland did not attend.

Nor did she appear when new Grey Wardens were brought in from Antiva and Orlais, their duty to the people drawing them across borders, to perform the Ritual on a few choice recruits.

Years later, when the whispers had died down, there came news of disturbances in Kirkwall to the North, and her old companions indulged in a spark of hope, but further investigation failed to reveal even a hint of the Hero of Ferelden's influence.

Nothing was heard of Lady Cousland until the old party of travelers had truly dispersed and her exploits had passed into song. Zevran Arainai, perhaps the only successfully retired assassin in Thedas, returned to the King's tomb one night to speak to the empty dark and conjure the camp where he had first found happiness. As he entered, a figure in a dark cloak slipped away into the shadows.

Zevran eased his way inside, cautious. He could see something dark against the white carvings of the sarcophagus where Alistair lay.

As he approached, the shape resolved itself into a dried red rose, shriveled and torn almost beyond recognition.

Zevran lifted the flower with delicate fingers. The powdery scent brought a rush of memories: watching Gwen and Alistair awkwardly courting each other; the presentation of the rose; Gwen painstakingly drying the thing between the pages of one of Wynn's spell books; sitting with his friend after Alistair had begun to distance himself, watching her turn the flower over and over, unseeing.

His chest tightened and he spun to look for movement, a hint of the figure he had seen before, but he knew in his heart that she was gone.

He sighed. Perhaps a tragedy of this magnitude was just payment for the pure happiness they had shared on the road, but the years had not dulled the pain of losing his two closest friends in quick succession.

A petal fell from the rose and spun slowly to the floor. He replaced the flower gently on the cold carved stone before heaving himself up to sit next to it.

"I miss you, my friend," he murmured. He glanced down at the rose. "Both of you."

The cloaked figure near the door froze at the familiar Antivan accent. That soft voice spoke of firelight and companionship and other seductive memories - seemingly to no one. She began to turn back, her heart full of hope, but a guard marched briskly around the corner and she had no choice but to keep moving.

A cork popped. "This is no fitting drink for a King, or else I would share," Zevran assured the empty tomb. His voice chased after the fleeing Hero as she melded into the night.