I wrote this before the characters for DA2 were announced, in case that isn't obvious.

Thanks forever to Mutive for the betas, and to everyone for reading.

9:59 Dragon

-o-

The old mage looked young for his age, she mused, and smelled strongly of sulphur and formaldehyde. Anora felt sick to her stomach. He was an offense against the Maker, but she was not one to be put off by any sense of moral outrage, not at a time like this. It was only the smell that upset her.

"Have you considered my request?" she asked evenly.

"I have," he replied, tugging on the sleeve of his robe. "You offered too much coin to ignore. Unfortunately, what you ask is impossible."

"I don't see how it's impossible," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You've been a Warden for more than thirty years, I should think." She sat forward in her chair. "Are you playing games, Avernus?"

"Not at all," he protested, blanching. Anora realized that she was looming, and she forced herself to sit back, arranging her hands in her lap. Avernus shook his head. "It would be different if you let me work with him openly, but there is simply no way to treat him without his noticing." He looked at her curiously. "You do not think he would consent to meet with me?"

"With you? A blood mage?" Anora rolled her eyes. "You've obviously never met the man."

Avernus nodded, and an unpleasant silence spread out between them. "How long does he have?" he asked eventually.

Anora looked down at her hands in her lap. The skin was lined with age, and as she clenched them, the creases deepened. "A few months," she said, her voice tightening. "Perhaps days."

"My sympathies, then, your Majesty." His wizened face twisted into a gruesome expression, possibly disgust. "The Calling is a difficult thing for a lover to witness. Wardens are always so vital when young, but at the end—"

Anora stood quickly. "I didn't ask for your sympathies," she snapped. "I asked for your help, and you've refused me." She felt something hot pushing at the corners of her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her temples. "I think you should leave, and quickly, before I alert the Grand Cleric to your presence here."

The old mage quavered and fled before she could make good on her threat. She would find a way, Anora thought, as she pulled up her hood to hide her face. There was a still a little time.

-o-

Alistair cried in his sleep, and it was his crying that woke her. Anora lay beside him helplessly, watching him thrash in the throes of his Calling. His unseen enemy chose a different attack with each nightmare. That night it seemed to be stabbing him to death with small knives, and he sobbed in protracted torment, tossing and turning. Anora wanted to wake him but she knew from past experience that it would not help.

When the nightmare reached it's inevitable conclusion he bolted awake, as he had every night for months. Alistair lay there stunned for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, before he noticed her watching him. He rolled over to his side to look at her, blinking curiously.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked.

"Not long," she lied. She touched his cheek. "You were dreaming."

"Oh? Was I?" He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. The sun was just coming up, and in the pale morning light she parsed the details of his face. His skin was marked by unkind years. At this stage of their lives, between the strain of office and the needling poison in his blood, he no longer looked younger than her.

"Do you remember what about?" she asked, knowing that he would not tell her.

"Mmm. Not exactly, but I think it involved two sea nymphs, a tropical island, and some coconuts." He rolled over and buried his face in her hair, nuzzling against her neck. His hands roamed over her hips and pulled her closer.

"I gather the nymphs tried to seduce you?" she said, shifting under him.

"Ah, sadly, no," he said, with a sigh. "But one of the coconuts did. It was very awkward." He lifted himself up on his arms, holding himself just above her face. "I had to tell her I was married."

Anora could feel his breath and his skin and the weight of his body against her legs. If he was tired from lack of sleep, it didn't show. His eyes locked on hers, dancing with thinly veiled desire. She inclined her head.

"Make love to me," she said. He smiled and obliged her.

-o-

It was her second meeting with a mage in as many days, but Anders did not stink of death; he smelled like sunshine and cats and fresh picked elfroot. She had met him once many years ago at some drab Warden function, and he was easily her favorite mage in all the kingdom. She would have liked for him to be the one to help her.

Anora found him in the Warden compound, wandering the perimeter. "To what do I owe this great pleasure, my lady?" he asked, as he coyly kissed her hand.

She smiled faintly. "I need your genius once again, Anders," she said. "I need you to heal the King."

Anders frowned. "Is his Majesty ill?"

"You know very well what I mean," she said. "He is not ill, he is a Grey Warden, and it's killing him." She crossed her arms under her breasts, holding herself tightly. "I need you to fix him."

Anders mouth opened, and then closed again, at a loss for words. "Ah. Well. That." The mage winced. "It can't be done, your Majesty."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "I know that's what they say, but it's a fool who believes everything he hears." She lifted her chin in challenge. "You are the best healer in all of Ferelden, Anders. Have you tried?"

Anders snorted. "Yes, actually. Of course I have. I've a vested interest in the matter too, remember." He tapped the amulet at his neck, beneath his robes. "You flatter me, but it's beyond the reach of spirit magic. I wish that it weren't, believe me."

She watched him kneel on the ground, leaving a bowl of food for some feral kitten that had caught his attention. Anders had helped to heal her daughter once, one cold morning when she had been fevered and it seemed that she might die; he had already seen her weakness. Anora allowed her voice to falter.

"Very well," she said, and her hands went limp as she let go of hope. "Tell me what I can expect."

Anders stood up and smoothed his long robes. "Are you sure you want to know? It's not pretty." Anora nodded. "Well, the first stage is the nightmares. As I'm sure you've already noticed." She nodded again. "Then come the lesions. Have those appeared yet?"

"No." Although Anora had made a point not to look.

"They start as small bumps, like an allergic rash," he explained. He watched her and she did not flinch, so he continued. "Then you'll see larger ones, dark scaly patches near major blood vessels. And then the next stage is madness. And then death." His face pinched and he turned away. "Mostly we leave before all that, though."

"To the Deep Roads." Anders nodded, and she closed her eyes, holding back panic. After a moment she turned and walked away.

-o-

Anora sat behind her desk and watched as Gareth entered her study. At twenty-six the Prince had grown into a Theirin, tall and regal, although his shining hair and slender build favored Maric more than his father. His eyes were dark and knowing, though, and she thought they came from her side. He sat down opposite her and waited for her to speak.

"I suspect you know why I've called you here." Anora drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair, finding a familiar rhythm.

"Father." Anora didn't answer, and Gareth returned her solemn gaze. "I thought it would be soon. I've spoken with Elaine, and we're prepared for the transition."

Anora clasped her hands together in her lap. "We should talk about a ceremony for his departure."

Gareth sat back, resting against the back of his chair. After a moment he shook his head. "You know he doesn't want fanfare," he said. "I know it's... well, I expect I know what you'll say, but do you think we could just... let him go?"

Anora regarded him wearily. "I can't do that," she said. "It's not in my nature."

Gareth shrugged. "Even so," he said. "I think it's traditional for a Warden to leave without remark, and it would make it easier. For him."

Anora looked down, her eyes falling on the assorted papers before her, plans and schemes for his sending, and she released a defeated breath. "Well, I suppose," she allowed, and she shook her head quickly. "But we should arrange an honor guard to accompany him, at least. I think—"

"He doesn't need protection, mother." Gareth stood up, and he pulled his chair around the desk to be closer to her. He sat very still and watched her. "Not this time. I think that sort of defeats the purpose."

"Oh. Of course." She gathered her papers and stowed them in her desk. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." She blinked, and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, pulling away moisture. "Have you called for your sister? I think she would like to return to Ferelden, before he leaves."

"Tenny already said goodbye at Satinalia." He smiled gently and reached out to take her hand. "We've known this was coming our whole lives, mother. You needn't worry about us."

Anora lifted a brow. "You are taking it rather well," she observed. There was a sharp edge to her voice.

Gareth pulled away. "I suppose I am," he said. "I've been afraid of this moment for so long that think I've already mourned him. Now I'm just grateful for the time we've been given." Gareth paused, and then asked, "How is he dealing with it?"

"I am sure I have no idea." Her hands closed into fists and she trembled. "For all I know he's ecstatic. He finally gets to die fighting his demons, like Duncan, and Nya, and everyone else." She looked at her son and her voice shook with unexpected anger. "It might be his fondest dream come true."

His dark eyes softened. "You can't possibly believe that."

Anora turned away. "No." She crossed her arms across her chest and took a deep breath. "I am sure that he is terrified and there is nothing I can do."

-o-

"So I heard a new joke in the market yesterday." Alistair reclined on their bed in his nightclothes, his head resting on crossed arms as he watched her undress. "Okay. So one day there's this horrible accident and you, and I, and Empress Celene all die. It's quite tragic."

Anora pulled her nightgown down over her head and then crawled under the blankets with him. "This is already hilarious, Alistair."

"Just wait." She pushed her body into the crook of his shoulder, and Alistair folded his arm around her. "Celene wakes up in the Fade, in a small white room filled with smoke. Very spooky. The door opens, and this really awful monster walks in. I mean it's covered in spikes, and scales, and it has fangs and it drools something fierce." He turned his hand into a claw and growled. Anora laughed, and he grinned. "So she's horrified. And then she hears the Maker's voice, and the Maker says, 'Celene, you have sinned. Your punishment is to spend eternity trapped in a room with this creature.'"

"Well, that seems appropriate." Anora closed her eyes and settled against him.

Alistair idly stroked her hair. "So then I wake up in a white room," he said, "and the door opens, and you enter." His hand caught in a tangle, and she stirred beside him as he paused to free himself. "And I say, 'Hi, Anora,' and you say, 'Hi, Alistair.' And I think, oh, I guess I wasn't such a bad person in life after all. I mean, at least not as bad as Celene, poor old bat."

Anora frowned, opening one eye. "I think I know where this is going..."

"No, no, listen." Anora sighed, and she draped her arm over his waist. He covered it with his hand. "Then the Maker says 'Anora, you have sinned.'" He lowered his head, so his voice hummed against her ear. "'Your punishment is to spend eternity trapped in a room with this creature.'"

Anora didn't respond, and Alistair squeezed her shoulder. "You get it? Because the monster... but it's not... anyway."

Anora shivered suddenly, and she sat up to look at him. Alistair gave her a sweet smile, but when she didn't return it the expression it faded. Her stomach knotted. Without speaking she picked up his hand and pushed back his sleeve, turning it over to look at his wrist. She noted the growing lesion there, rough and blackened, like a overcooked meat. She looked up at his face.

"When are you going?" she asked.

Alistair pulled back his hand and didn't quite meet her eyes. "I don't know." He drew the blankets closer around himself. "Soon, I guess."

"Are you sure?" Anora rested her hand on his chest. "You don't have to go."

Alistair hunched his shoulders. "I do, actually," he said. "I should have gone weeks ago. I just didn't..."

His voice trailed off, and Anora lowered her chin to her chest. She drew a long breath and held it, keeping it to the point of pain before she released it, letting it rattle out of her, taking her grief with it. She looked up at him.

"I love you," she said finally.

Alistair's breath caught in his throat, and he stared back at her. "I love you too," he said, after a while. He brushed his knuckle against her cheek.

Anora nodded. She curled up beside him in silence. His breathing slowed and then he drifted off, but Anora kept herself awake, holding him close for the last time. He was a peaceful for the moment. After a little while she shut her eyes and surrendered to sleep, and in the morning he was gone.

-o-