A/N - I make no claim to Dragon Age. I just can't seem to shake the addiction.

I can hear the Bard singing softly, the sly banter of the Assassin, the soon to be Warden Queen cementing their love. I can hear the gravelly rumble that is Shale lumbering the perimeter of camp, owned by the Cousland as thoroughly as if her control rod still functioned. The sodden dwarf and the stoic Sten, and the not quite dead Circle Mage, and they all worship the deceitful bitch. All blinded by her lies, as once I had been. My only unlikely ally, the only one who had known her before she'd learned the benefit of a gilded tongue, a man who'd nearly sworn his life to hunting down my kind.

He is cleaning his armor, the silverite shell turned red-gold by the flicker of the campfire. The golden Bastard Prince, half brother of a golden King. Almost Templar, soon to be King, he watches his betrothed with what seems amused tolerance, as she flits from Bard to Assassin and back again. At first glance, you'd think him blind to the flirtations of his beloved, but I see him, beneath that affable exterior, the blinding smile, the idiotic jokes, I see him. He is harder than he once was, my golden nemesis. I see the steel in his eyes, as he watches a woman he despises toy with the affections of those who adore her.

He is silent in his antipathy, letting her believe he has forgotten, letting her believe he, too, adores her, is excited to wed her. She will teach him to be King, and in return, she will sit the throne beside him, pretending to love him, as he pretends to love her. They will fool Ferelden, they will fool each other, but he cannot fool himself.

A sly tilt of his chin as his eyes flick to mine, I only see because I watch him so closely. And I sigh, because he knows that I see, for he knows that I watch. Not long ago, there would have been anger, at myself, at him. Now there is resignation. I nod, and see his eyes grow warm, the chill melts, and his smile grows. He continues rubbing away the blood, removing the stain from his armor, and trying to scrub clean his soul. It is his time honored ritual, each night. His arms and armor sparkle by the end of it, and as the taint of guilt grows, his need expands, his skin scrubbed raw, his gear clean and tidy. As much order as he can make in his chaotic world.

I close my eyes tightly, turn my face back to my own fire. So many months I've traveled by his side. How many times has he thrown his shield in front of me, thrown himself in front of me, to keep me from harm? I've lost count. So many times I've healed him, a skill begrudgingly learned from the sanctimonious, preachy Circle Mage, on the order of the Cousland bitch. A surprisingly intimate invasion of self, reaching in to knit tissue and bone, 'tis no wonder Mother never taught me, for she could not teach empathy, nor the selfless acceptance of pain it requires.

Wynne is no less an interfering old biddy, simply because she is admirable.

Keep him upright. This my order from the deceiving wench, once obeyed because I loved her, now because I cannot bear to see him fall. How were any of us to know the bond created by such an order, such an undertaking? Delving deep into both his mind and his body so constantly, it has faded our distaste of each other, and we have learned to fight as Templar and Mage, steady and sure, no longer untrusting.

She has come now to lay her hand on his shoulder, her voice soft and deceptive in his ear. He stiffens oh so slightly at her touch, his eyes cold again, before he forces a smile, forces interest, and turns toward her. She looks at him beseechingly, but his shoulders shudder in a sigh, and he shakes his head. He rubs his palm against his thigh in agitation, but all she hears is the promise of someday.

He yawns, packs away his armor despite the stains, and moves pointedly to his tent. She makes to follow, but he has only to raise an eyebrow at her, and she retreats. Despite the betrothal, they are not lovers, and I know that he does not even desire that. But she is necessary, is the Cousland bitch, to both he and I. So we all pretend.

I met his sister in Denerim, I heard the words she told him after. Had I cared then as now, I would have slapped her for such, though even now, I see the necessity of it. But he is colder now then he was, and much of it is her fault. I have felt his spirit strengthen, his resolve harden. He cares a little less about what is right, and a little more about what is necessary.

The night has grown quiet, only the rumble of Shale's steps to be heard, but it is a comforting sound, it means the monsters are not near. The canvas of my tent rustles, and I smirk slightly. Distanced from the main camp, my smaller fire is sheltered from view, and he sits on the grass with a sigh of relief. He grins up at me, and I know my eyes are soft, but I cannot help it. Idiot, I mouth at him.

He nods, and whispers "That's royal idiot, thank you." He is laughing silently, the cold steel hidden deeply. I reach over to run my fingertip across his wrist, sinking my senses deep into him. A tiny spark burn from the main fire, chapped skin from wet cloth on steel, left to dry in cold air, a strained muscle along his spine from twisting wrong with too much weight. The healing spell warms my hands as I lay fingers along his temples, flooding his flesh with my will, smoothing the tiny hurts away. Body healed, I dive deeper, and I am touching his soul, oh so gently, and here, too, I soothe, softly brushing away the bruises.

His arms curl around my hips, and he presses a kiss against my belly. A soft hum that thrills against my skin, left bare by scant robes and leather skirt. His hands glide up my ribs, until he grasps my torso tight, and pulls me hard against him, clutching. My hands in his hair, I let him cling, the scorn I would have felt once replaced by sorrow.

My heart is in my throat, my senses tuned to him, monitoring his wounds. She had left me at the gates, under Sten's command, but when have I ever been anyone's to command? Before the darkspawn even began to break through the gate, I was winging my way to Fort Drakon, where I was more needed than she knew. Slipping half into the Fade, I am a mere shimmer in the air beside him, fingertips brushing his jaw, bolstering his flagging stamina. They have been slogging through battle for hours, with little rest. I will not let my Templar fall, not now that we are so close.

The Archdemon is down, clinging to life by the barest breath. The Cousland bitch is reaching for her blade, casting a sidelong look at Alistair. I hear him laugh, so quietly it can't be heard beneath the labored breathing of the dragon.

He takes the sword from her hand. "This is mine to do, Elissa." He waves off her relieved protests. "You made me King. This is how I can be a true King, in my own right."

The death blow flares into the sky, Urthemiel's soul fleeing the dragon corpse, brushing against Alistair's briefly. Rather than fight with the Warden for possession, the old god flows on, and the barely conceived child welcomes it, melds with it, tugs the old god into the slumber of growth. My child…our child, has saved his life, his soul.

The ceremony is lovely. Queen Anora has dedicated her speech to the Grey Wardens who have given their lives to end the Blight, to Alistair. There is no body to bury, consumed by the blaze of the dragon's death. Elissa Cousland throws herself on an empty tomb, prostrate in grief. Her wailing is loud, long and wretched.

The cloaked man beside me snickers. "She really wanted that throne, you know." His hand is warm on the bare skin of my lower back. "The perfect touch, that the Landsmeet wouldn't allow her to have it without me."

My smirk is just as venomous, being able to strip the lying little strumpet of her dream of ruling as Queen. His hands come to rest on my hips, his mouth against my shoulder. His request, for taking part in Mother's ritual, in saving Urthemiel's soul, is to remain with us, to help raise our child. To protect me from Flemeth, when she made herself known again. And for reasons I cannot articulate, can barely stand to think on, I have agreed. Is it that I know he will protect me, or that I have no desire to give up his warmth? My Templar, protector, friend, my lover. I will keep him, and into his keeping, give my heart.