Death is warm and dark.

And snores. And…smells like dog fur?

No, she decides, that can't be right at all.

Death is probably also not accompanied by as much pain and discomfort as she feels right now. At least she hopes not. Slowly she becomes aware of herself – breathing…yes, breathing is a good sign of being less than dead. Sense of smell, definitely…eyes…eyes that are too dry to open…mouth that tastes like moldy bathwater. Arms, legs, fingers, toes – everything aches, dull and constant, but seems to be in working order, or at least attached in its proper place. This apparently includes her stomach, which suddenly lets out a loud, painful growl.

Bone-numbing weariness makes it difficult for her to convince her body to do anything but remain wrapped in her cocoon of warm darkness. The command for her eyes to open – because this seems to be the least complicated and most productive thing she can do – takes several minutes to be carried out. Everything is a blurry, unfocused mess that makes her head pound, but her struggle is cut short by the sudden assault of a warm, slobbery Mabari tongue.

The hound whines in muted elation, his whole body wiggling against her as he snuffs at his elf's face. The woman, torn between a weak protest and a tiny, uncontrollable giggle, lacks the strength to fight off the attack of adoration, and the Mabari seems to sense this, settling back against the curve of the front of her body. He stares at her with big, happy eyes, his little nub of a tail wriggling so fiercely that the whole bed trembles. She smiles at him, realizing he is the source of the smell that invaded her dreams, as well as the wonderful heat soaking into the front of her.

Her vision is improving, and she frowns as she glances past the dog to her surroundings. It is a large room with cold, high stone walls. There is the faint, lingering scent of smoke hanging in the air, and she can see what look to be scorch marks and possibly bloodstains high on the walls where it would be hard for anyone to clean. Is…she still in Denerim? How did she end up in this bed?

Her last memories are fragmented and unclear. She remembers the screaming, vividly, of both enemies and allies. She remembers darkspawn everywhere, pouring out of every doorway like tainted rivers, flooding the streets, the palace hallways, the roof of the Fort. She remembers the Archdemon, and Alistair crying out for her to stop, wait, don't!

The memories go dark at that point, and she wants so badly to try to remember, but thinking of Alistair sends a jolt of fear through her and she tries to sit up. Her body fails her and she cannot even push the heavy blankets off, and there seems to be an extra weight around her middle that will not budge. She twists as best she can, trying to turn over and feeling more than a little frantic. She ignores the concerned whine of her hound and the black dots that swim on the edges of her vision, because she must know what is going on, what has happened, where is…

Worried brown eyes are suddenly all she sees, and she slumps flat on her back against the pillows, limp from some combination of relief, surprise and weariness. Alistair blinks owlishly at her, his arm tightening around her waist. "You're awake," he murmurs in a voice thick with sleep and disbelief.

He is the reason her back is so warm, she realizes numbly, and the reason for the snoring that woke her. And here she was, ready to blame the hound for that. The human at her side was obviously sleeping only moments before, his hair all a mess and his expression still dazed and unfocused. His clothes are all wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with thick stubble – and yet he is the best thing she has ever seen right now. He is resting atop the blankets, curled around her wrapped form…protecting her. Guarding her.

A lump settles in the elf's throat, and there are suddenly so very many things she wants to tell him, but she can only stare at him – though, in all fairness, that seems to be all he is capable of as well. She memorizes every flaw, every scar, every fleck of dark gold in his eyes because she is now so acutely aware of how fleeting life is, and this feels something very much like a second chance. It does not matter than he is a shem and that she has no clan – they are Grey Wardens, together the same.

"You're alive." Her voice is breathless and unsteady. Alistair's eyes soften as he gently touches her cheek, stroking the corner of her mouth with his thumb. And of course, her mind chooses this moment to latch onto the worst possible thing to say. "You slept with Morrigan."

It is more of an observation than an accusation, but the way Alistair grimaces and glances away from her makes her feel terrible. He shakes his head and fixes her with a wry stare. "You know, I spent hours locking away that memory, sealing it far, far from the rest of my mind with painstaking care and effort, and you just up and undo all my hard work. Such a cruel woman you are."

Despite his faint smile and the gentle touch of his fingers against her face, the elf can see the guilt lingering in his eyes. "No," she tries to protest, fishing for the right words. "I'm not…I just…I didn't think you would actually go through with it."

Alistair blows out a long breath then reaches to pull her against him. The elf does not protest – and truthfully she lacks the strength to stop him even if she wants to, which she does not – and wriggles closer to him, her face buried in his chest. He does not want to look at her while he talks, and she can hardly blame him.

"I didn't think I would either," he begins after a moment. "I…still don't know if I made the right choice, but I guess I have to live with it now. After you left, I started thinking…"

She cannot help but tease him, just a little, wanting him to know that she is not blaming him for anything. "Sounds dangerous," she murmurs.

"You know," Alistair's voice holds no hint of amusement, "it is. It really is. So, don't let me do it again, hmm?" She smiles into his tunic.

"Anyway," Alistair sighs, "I thought about what you said, when you left, about not wanting to lose me. I didn't want to lose you either." He pauses and she can hear the frown in his voice when he quietly speaks again. "That sounds so…weak, put like that. It's more like…I wouldn't lose you, or…wouldn't let you be lost." She feels him nod against her hair. "I wouldn't let you take the killing blow, not if I was alive to do it myself. And…I knew you wouldn't let me take it either, if you could stop me."

The elf manages to slip one hand free of the blankets and idly tugs at the laces on the neck of Alistair's tunic. "That would have left us at quiet an impasse," she comments softly.

The human tilts his head back to look down at her face, his eyes revealing a touch of surprise. "Yes, my thought exactly," he says with a bit too much forced levity. "I mean, however would we have done our duty if we're too busy fighting each other for the honor of the killing blow? So…this just seemed like the logical solution."

There is so much more to it, there must be, and she nearly says this out loud, but something in his expression stops her. And what does it matter now? It is done and they are alive and the Archdemon is dead. If something terrible does come from this, they will face it head on. Together. Just as they always do.

Her stomach chooses this moment to voice its protests at being ignored. Alistair chuckles softly and brushes his lips across her forehead before he rises from the bed. "You've been unconscious for days," he explains as he bends to pull on his boots. "I'll see if I can find you a little something to eat."

The elf does not reply. Her eyes trace the outline of his figure as he moves, from that handsome face, to his large, strong hands, to the pleasant contour of his backside. She knows it is almost certainly because of nearly losing him, but he really is easy on the eyes, and she is grinning to herself when he turns around to give her a curious look.

Morrigan got you for one night. I want you every night for the next thirty years.

Alistair blushes and runs a hand through his hair, and the Dalish only then realizes that her words were spoken aloud. She is not sure whether to be embarrassed or apologetic, but those thoughts flee when Alistair leans over the bed, his face hovering above hers. His fingers play through her hair and gently caress the pointed tip of her ear, and she can feel the smile on his lips as he brushes a kiss against her mouth.

"I can live with that," he murmurs warmly.

"Good," she whispers between light kisses. "Now – food. I think…cheese. Yes, definitely cheese."

Alistair moans, a full-throated, rumbling sound that makes her lips tingle and she cannot help but laugh at the expected reaction. "If I wasn't in love with you already, that would have done the trick right there."

The elf smiles, heedless of the cold room in the half-destroyed palace of a human city that was nearly consumed by the Blight. Looking into Alistair's eyes, this foreign world is far away and unimportant, because when his loving gaze is on her, she knows she is right where she belongs.

A/N: I don't know when I became a sucker for happy endings. It probably has something to do with the way none of my DA games have had a truly happy ending. So...fluffy it is! Thank you all for reading and reviewing. This is such a fun community to write for right now. I'm pretty sure this won't be the last story I post, not if my overactive muse has anything to say about it anyway.