AN: Okay, well...this game has pretty much eaten my life, so I felt compelled to write a fic about it. I cannot promise fast/frequent updates because of school and the like, but I will certainly try. Other than that...enjoy! Btw, I think I ran into a story on this site that is going to seem very similar, at least at first, and I want to say right now that A) things will quickly become different and B) I thought of the premise for this story before I even knew that one existed. Don't want to step on any toes!

Rated M: just to be safe really, I don't want to have to go back and change it later.

Disclaimer: Bioware owns all the regular characters, but at least...half? we'll go with half, of Elemmire Cousland is mine!

It was early autumn and the sun shone down on the pillars and arches of the ruins of Ostagar in warm golden rays, dappling silently through the treetops. It could have been the scene for some kind of epic romance, if not for the hundreds of soldiers swarming its crumbling walls. But perhaps it was this throng of scared and desperate fighters that made the air hang thick with the scent of destiny. The strings of fate tightened around the old fortress, drawing in all the necessary players; calling out for heroes and villains, traitors, kings, and lovers alike.

He was wreathed in the afternoon sunlight; it gleamed in his coppery blond hair like a crown upon his head as he stood alone: waiting. Had he always been here? He glanced about him at the broken columns of the abandoned temple that surrounded him like wizened lords, looking down on him with disapproval. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a nervous habit the chantry had never quite managed to beat out of him. Wasn't someone supposed to be coming?

Dark storm clouds rolled in as a lone figure materialized at the base of the ramp leading up to where he stood. He watched its sluggish movements with apprehension, though he couldn't tell if it was excitement or fear that caused the strange flipping sensation in his stomach. There was something familiar about it, the shape of its long legs, the shade of its straw colored hair…The man had to bite back a sudden urge to reach out and hold this person who staggered up to him, so obviously full of pain.

He suddenly knew it was a woman, despite her closely cropped hair, he knew the curve of her hips, the feel of her skin, and the sound of her laughter. She was gripping her left arm tightly and her right leg trailed uselessly behind her. It was not until she stopped, just out of the reach of his arms, and looked him straight in the eye that he knew her name.

"Elemmire" He breathed, condemnation and redemption echoed in his voice simultaneously. It was both a soothing balm and a dagger in his heart to hear her name, even from his own lips…especially from his own lips. He saw his own heartache at the word reflected in the depths of her wide blue-green eyes.

"How did you get here?" she rasped, her breathing shallow and uneven.

"I don't know," he replied, eying her injuries with mounting distress. "I've always been here I guess…waiting."

She chuckled mirthlessly, "Yes, well, sorry I took so long, fighting an arch-demon doesn't exactly leave one fit to travel. Not even in the fade apparently."

"This is a dream?" he asked, startled.

"For you maybe," She said, still wincing in pain, "Ugh! Who knew death would hurt this much?" She groaned. "And to think-it seemed like such a good idea at the time." She gasped suddenly and fell to her knees, blood pooling around her. He made a move to go to her side, but she stopped him with a snarl.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed. She glared up at his panicked face with hate filled eyes, not even attempting to slow the blood flowing from her wounds now. She appraised him slowly, suspicion radiating from her form and bitterness twisting her mouth into a deep scowl. "Tell me, my love, is this reunion everything you hoped it would be?" she queried, her voice raw with physical pain and emotional anguish. She grasped at her throat and gurgled thickly as blood ran down her chin, it tinted her teeth an unsettling pink and she slurred slightly through the liquid as she continued, "Do I steal your breath? Do I stop your heart? Shall you swoon from the effects of your violent love for me?" Her lips curved into a smile as cold and cruel as a dagger's edge, "Or perhaps this is what you were waiting for: the chance to see the fruits of your labors?"

"Ellie, please…I just want to help!" He almost begged her, as what little color was left in her cheeks swiftly faded. She crumpled to the ground and writhed in agony, her sharp cries piercing his flesh like arrows. He was beside her in a flash, kneeling in her blood and cradling her in his arms, despite her weak struggles against him.

"That's rich." she said; her voice barley a whisper now, "Help from a man who quit an unquitable order to become a wandering drunkard? Help from a man who abandoned his country and his friends in their darkest hour? No, no…I think I've had about as much of your help as I can handle." She sighed softly, closing her eyes and leaning against the cool metal of his armored chest.

"I didn't have a choice." He told her.

"There is always a choice." She breathed, "Anora would have let you fight as a Grey Warden; she had her throne, her father, and your vow. It was in her best interests as well as everyone else's to have as many Grey Wardens as possible to face the Blight and she knew it. You chose to leave."

"You betrayed me." He accused hotly, sounding like a petulant child, when really all he wanted was her apology, her absolution, her love.

"And you left me to die." She said simply; her voice soft and trailing away from him. "I think we're pretty even." She raised a pale hand, smeared with gore, and ran her fingers down the side of his face, her eyes seeking out his one last time, bleary and unfocused as they were. Her breathing slowed, then stopped and she sagged heavily in his arms. He crushed her to his chest and sobbed.

There had been no solace in those eyes, no forgiveness. He rocked her in his arms, willing her back to him, pleading without words for her to rescue him from the darkness welling in his own heart. But, just like before, she had left him, broken and alone. He barely noticed the rain as it washed her blood over the cool stones of the courtyard in long crimson rivulets.

Alistair awoke disheveled, sweaty, and still clutching a bottle of some rank smelling liquid. It had been a little more than half a year since the end of the Blight and the death of everything he had ever wanted. He had been in the Free Marches less than a week when he heard the news that Elemmire Cousland: the Hero of Ferelden, had died slaying the Arch-demon and ending the Blight. He had immediately gone out and gotten as drunk as possible and had stayed that way as often as his purse allowed for it.

He looked at his face in the mirror and a hollow, haunted man stared out at him through the murky glass. His hair was long and unkempt, his beard was matted and filled with various things he had sipped and spewed, and his hazel eyes seemed like bottomless pits.

Alistair remembered the dream in perfect clarity; the way she scorned the man he had let himself become, the disgust in her sapphire eyes. He glanced at the bottle in his hand, and threw it against the wall in fury. He watched the brown liquid trail down the stone in satisfaction before grabbing the slightly dull razor on his dresser and beginning the arduous task of shaving the filth from his jaw. He was sick of running from his past; from her. He had let everyone else control his life, and when none of them were left to order him about he had turned to drink to make his decisions for him. It had lost him everything. He grimaced: nothing was going to steal his choices from him ever again.

Five years hence, Alistair was wearily making his way down a steep gangplank. He squinted uncomfortably in the harsh morning light and ran a large calloused hand through his shaggy hair, sighing heavily; he hated ships. The quarters were always cramped and uncomfortable, there was no safe way to shave, unless you wanted to slit your own throat, and being surrounded by the endless blue-green of the ocean was like drowning in her eyes.

A cool breeze brushed his face and roused him somewhat; he had never been much of a morning person. The air smelled of sea salt and fish, gulls cried mournfully and wheeled in long graceful arabesques through the cloudless sky, and all around him was the dull rumblings of people going about their lives. So, this was Highever. It was strange; these same sights could be found in Denerim, but somehow things just seemed…brighter here. Everything was open and airy, the buildings might not be as grand as those in the capital, but they were clean and cared for, and the people milling about seemed generally cheerful and at peace.

"Maybe I'll go to Highever with you, when you go." Her promise echoed softly in his mind. He hadn't known at the time that she was the Teyrn's daughter, but he knew it was her home, and that she had just lost everything; he had been moved that she wanted to share it with him. That he was someone she wanted beside her when she finally came face to face with her grief.

Alistair wandered aimlessly into the marketplace, not quite sure what he was looking for; the rumors said that a great monument to the Grey Wardens was here, in Highever, but none of them had said where. He felt a bit guilty that it had taken him so long to get here and honor Duncan's memory the way he swore he would, but… After the Blight, when he learned of Elemmire's fate, he just couldn't bring himself to see this place. It was her home, and somehow he felt the city itself would sense his crimes against its beloved fallen and cast him out.

"You look a bit lost there, Love. Need help findin' anything?" the question came from a rail-thin Elvin woman with graying hair and rosy cheeks. He returned her encouraging smile with one of relief and asked her about the memorial. "If it'd been a Mabari it woulda bitten ya!" she laughed, pointing up and behind him.

Sure enough, right in the middle of the square stood the towering figure of Elemmire Cousland, her stoic marble countenance watching over her city. He could make out a pair of broad shoulders behind hers and for a moment he scowled. 'If they put her back to back with that traitorous, lying, son of a-'

But as he stepped back and around, to get a more complete view of the statue, Alistair saw that it was not Loghain keeping vigil with her, but Duncan. It was a very general likeness when compared to Elemmire's, but there was no mistaking that stern gaze, even if the stone could not portray the subtle tenderness that should be lurking there.

There was a painful clench in his chest; here they were, the only two people who, supposedly, had ever really given a damn about him, raised up and hero-worshiped by strangers who had never even met them. He supposed it should make him happy to see them thus, but all he could manage was a vague bitterness at the thought that they had both left him behind. All to protect him, for his own good; the words were bile that stuck in his throat. Because, as angry and betrayed as he had felt after the Landsmeet, he understood now that she had been trying, in a really stupid and infuriating kind of way, to shelter him from...something. And while he still couldn't figure out the logic behind her actions, he had found room in his heart to forgive her, even if it had taken her death and a year of getting piss-drunk to get there.

"Ya know, I never really stop to look at this thing, even though I pass it every day." The Elvin woman said, staring up at Elemmire. "She was quite lovely wasn't she?" He nodded silently and gazed up into the face that haunted his dreams.

It was just like her, down to the last detail. Her shoulders squared and her feet slightly apart in her typical, "you really don't want to mess with me" stance, her short boyish bowl-cut hair, and…Maker, how did they manage to carve those sad eyes out of cold white marble?

As his eyes drifted down the familiar shapes of her silverite armor, he found himself wishing the sculpture could move. He wanted so much for those firm lips to quirk suddenly into that teasing grin, her hands to fumble shyly with the buckles of her armor (or his for that matter), but more than anything, he wished he could watch her run. He yearned to fall in step behind her, as he had so long ago at that doomed encampment, to listen to the rhythmic pounding of her footfalls, to watch the easy loping grace of her strong legs, and the hypnotic sway of her slender hips. He had found his home there, in her trailing footprints, and six years of feeling miserably lost had taught him that he was unlikely to find another.

Her heirloom shield was resting between her feet and he smiled briefly at the familiar twin laurels, she never fought with it, but it was always strapped to her back, weighing her down needlessly. When he had asked about it, she had given him a soft smile and said, "It's my tortoise shell. It slows me down, but keeps me strong." Her arms were out stretched so her hands could cover the pommel of the Cousland family long sword that stood before her, and held between those fierce-looking gauntlets was… Alistair fell to his knees, whatever defenses he had built up during the long years without her suddenly crumbled as he buried his face in his hands.

There were thin fingers grasping at his shoulder, "Are you alright?" The older woman asked in alarm.

"…a rose?" He managed to get out, even though it felt suspiciously as if something was crushing his windpipe.

"Ah, y-yes…"The woman said, obviously confused, but at his imploring glace she did her best to explain. "It's her symbol, anythin' to do with the Hero of Ferelden has the laurels of Highever surroundin' a single red rose; ya must have really come a ways if you don't know that."

"But…why?" he asked, his voice still sounding soft and shattered.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure, now that ya mention it. Of course, after the Blight there were all sorts of rumors flyin' about, but who knows what the truth is?"

"What kind of rumors?"

"Well, the 'official' one, if there's such a thing as an official rumor, is that the bard travellin' with her had a vision of the Blight in which Lady Cousland was represented by a rose: the last hope for life bloomin' from our dead country."

"But you don't believe that?" He stated more than asked, a sad half smile forming on his lips as a mental image of Leliana's indignant face flashed through his mind. The elf shrugged noncommittally.

"Most of these things have a kernel of truth at their core," she said, "but I never put much stock into religious signs; stuff and nonsense if ya ask me." She paused and smiled wistfully, "Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic." Alistair felt his throat contracting again, yearning for her to continue, but dreading it as well.

"They say that the Lady Cousland's lover gifted her a rose as a symbol of his affection, common enough really and none too original if ya ask me."

'Well, excuse me for being awkward.' He thought crossly.

"But then there was some kind of fallin' out…a betrayal I think. It must have been on his side, can't rightly see the great Hero of Ferelden doing anythin' like that."

Alistair almost snorted, 'If only you knew lady.'

"At any rate," the woman continued, "he left her, and she was naturally heartsick over it. Yet, the Lady stayed steadfast and true to her love, despite his disloyal ways, refusin' offers from many handsome admirers, swearin' that she would have none of them, and remain a maid for the rest of her days."

'Contrived nonsense,' he thought to himself, despite the way his heart hammered painfully in his chest. 'Who would propose to the last proper Grey Warden in the middle of a Blight? Besides, she was probably warming her bed with that smarmy elf the night she realized I wasn't coming back.'

"And as her comrades lifted her broken body from the top of Fort Drakon, somethin' fell from the remnants of her ruined armor; the very same rose, wrapped in white silk, pressed and preserved, and close to her heart. He abandoned her, but she carried him with her all the same. To the very end, her love was unwaverin', her heart pure. She waits for him in the Golden City, patient and loyal as ever, and eternal as the Maker himself in the abundance of her forgiveness."

So many things were welling up from somewhere deep within him, he felt his entire being clench at the sheer intensity of it. Alistair knew it was just a story, a trumped up mockery meant to sugar coat the bitter rinds of the life that he and Elemmire had lived in the hellish year and a half of the fifth Blight, but Maker, if it didn't make him ache for those long cold nights standing watch, the smell of campfire smoke, the sound of Leliana singing softly as she cooked dinner, Ellie's sleeping face illuminated by starlight. He pressed a forefinger and thumb into his eyes to bottle the betraying liquid that was threatening to rip from him in a very un-manly way. He felt the thin worried hand on his shoulder again and dared a glance up to see the kindness in the stranger's eyes. She reminded him of Wynne, and he leaned into her pre-offered maternal warmth just as readily as he had with that white-haired mage from what seemed like another life.

Across the market, his eyes lingered on a particular stall; he excused himself as she followed his gaze. He returned shortly, blushing slightly at the tender look of understanding that flooded the elf's features. She stood near him, close enough to offer comfort, but far enough away to give him privacy as he walked up to the base of the grand monument and placed a long stemmed rose at Elemmire's feet. It was that same dark scarlet as its shabby counterpart from all those years ago, the color of love, the color of betrayal, the color of blood.

"Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?" he practically mumbled, placing the faded bloom in her hands with trembling fingers. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, kicking himself mentally for asking such a dumb question; he recalled his recent talk with Leliana…'Well, at least I didn't ask her if she was female.' He thought ruefully as Elemmire gave him a questioning look.

"Is that a trick question?" she asked, arching a thick blond brow and shooting him a rather puckish grin.

It had been a bit droopy and slightly crushed by the time he had finally plucked up the nerve to give it to her. She had teased him at first, brushing away his fumbled attempts at being gallantly complimentary, but he had expected that to some extent, she never liked being fussed over and praised, even when she deserved it, which, in his personal opinion, was practically every day. He had chickened-out towards the end; defending himself with his usual self-effacing humor and backing away with cheeks as red as Leliana's hair, but the weight of the words he was still too scared to say seemed to shine through, because she spent the rest of the evening strangely quiet, staring down at the partially crumpled flower with soft eyes full of wonder.

"I never meant to leave," he told her quietly, "Not really…I was just-just so angry." He paused for a moment to reign in his grief. "And when you never came for me, I thought…" He shook his head, there was no point in making excuses; he had left and she hadn't followed him: end of story.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, "I still can't fathom the reasons behind your actions, but I know you were just trying to do what you thought was best, as always." He sighed, feeling suddenly ancient and haggard, "I still-" he fumbled helplessly with the heaviest words of all, "There has never been anyone else… I doubt there ever will be. You're my…I only ever…" He groaned in frustration and ran a hand roughly through his shaggy locks; apparently even a statue of Elemmire was capable of transforming him into a jabbering fool.

He heard a soft sniffling sound and turned to face his Elvin companion; she was crying. She stepped up to him and gripped his hand fiercely. They stood there, silently gazing up into Ellie's stoic face, waiting for some kind of response.

"Do you think she ever forgave him?" he asked, after could have been years of reverent silence.

"I do." She said, squeezing his hand.

"Do you...really think she's waiting?" She squeezed harder.

"I know she is." He smiled at her shakily.

"Thank you." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver, and pressed it into her palm, "I know it's not much, but …really, thank you."

"That's not necessary, but you're quite welcome, Lad." She said, smiling as she tucked the coin into her apron.

"Alistair." He corrected.

"Alistair, then; it was my pleasure. My name's Rosyline."

"Thanks Rosyline." He said, a stronger smile stretching across his face. She gave his hand a final reassuring squeeze before turning to walk away. He watched her disappear into the throng of people milling about the square, before looking back up at the face of the one who had saved them all.

"I love you." He whispered; a final prayer he hoped would somehow reach her, wherever she was, "Always." Something in him seemed to loosen at his admission, slightly alleviating the painful tightness in his chest that had plagued him for nearly six years. He shifted his pack to sit more comfortably on his shoulder and set about finding an inn for the night.

He realized that he still hadn't paid his respects to Duncan yet, but he reasoned that his mentor would understand his need to collect his thoughts after nearly making an ass of himself in front of a large group of strangers. He had almost lost it when he was talking to Ellie, and somehow he didn't think Duncan would appreciate him wailing like a small child in front of what was basically his tombstone.

He was almost to the door of a promising looking establishment, when something small and frantic smacked into his thigh. It was a little boy, eyes wide with fright and panting heavily from running as he gazed up at Alistair from where he had fallen.

"Help!" the boy pleaded breathlessly, grabbing Alistair's hand and tugging him back in the direction he had come from.

"Steady there, Lad." The man admonished gently, "What's wrong?"

"There were men-angry men!" the boy cried, still pulling at his arm, "Nana told me to run and get help!" The part of him that had spent nearly six years in exile picking drunken fights and sleeping with one eye open in case of Crows wondered briefly if this was some kind of trap. Was Anora really still concerned that he was after her crown? But there was such an earnest look of desperation in the youngster's face that he found himself jogging lightly behind the child as he led him through a maze of back streets. He tried to tell himself that he was doing it solely out of moral obligation and not because the boy's wide frightened eyes were the all too familiar color of a tumultuous sea.

They moved into a sketchier part of the city, and at the opening to a particularly dark and foreboding alley Alistair could hear the raucous laughter of men and the muffled cries of a distraught woman. He handed the boy his pack and motioned for him to hide behind a few nearby crates, to which his young guide nodded silently and moved into the shadows.

Alistair tried his best to move silently as he pulled a long knife from the sheath at his hip. He thought he could make out three figures standing in the gloom of the alley huddled around something that was trembling violently on the ground. He quietly prayed that they were not well armed, as his own armor was what paid for his passage across the Waking Sea in the first place, and while he was by no means out of practice when it came to brawling, three on one when your best defense is a linen shirt and a knife…The odds were not in his favor.

"P-please!" he heard the woman sob, "I gave you everything I had- I swear!" The tallest of the thugs laughed and leaned down to grab the woman's wrist.

"I think you're quite mistaken, Lassie. I think there is a lot more you can offer…Each of us." He cooed, dragging her to her feet. There was a feminine whimper. "What do you think boys?" There was a chorus of coarse approval and Alistair's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger. 'Pigs!' he thought furiously.

He tapped the tall one politely on the shoulder, giving the man a chance to turn around and utter a half-formed cry of surprise before Alistair's blade sank into his gut. The man on his right moved to draw his own weapon, but Alistair managed to back hand him across the face, sending the ruffian headlong into the stone wall of the alley. There was a sickening crack and the man slid to join his comrade on the dirty ground.

He turned to the woman, who was staring up at him, horrified. He was a bit put off by her apparent remorse for the men who had robbed, beaten, and almost defiled her, when he saw her raise a shaking hand to point behind him. Too late, he remembered there had been three of them.

The bandit's mace caught him in the shoulder, a blow that would barely stagger him under normal circumstances, but without his armor it sent him to his knees. Alistair looked up to watch the fall of his own death blow, resigned to his fate. He wondered briefly if he would find himself again at Ostagar; if Ellie might be waiting for him this time.

Then came a fluttering of silken skirts and a flash of blades, the broken woman had transformed. Now she was all liquid movement and righteous fury as she cut her last assailant down. He suddenly found himself back in the Korcari Wilds, watching Elemmire kill her first darkspawn.

He had braced himself against the horror he would see in the faces of the new recruits, and her reaction to it had him worried most of all. Despite Duncan's assurances that she was a force to be reckoned with, all Alistair could see when he looked at her was a lost little girl. It was obvious that up until now she had never so much as roughed it in the wild, let alone fought to the death with the most evil creatures in Thedas. What if she got herself hurt, or screamed, or, Maker forbid, started crying? If there was one thing Alistair had no idea what to do with, it was crying women. He needn't have worried.

She had fought like a woman possessed, her dual blades weaving effortlessly in a dance that drew evil to its end like moths to a flame. Her face was a mask of grim determination and the only time she made a sound was when an arrow nicked her thigh and she hissed in pain. Afterwards, she had calmly wiped her weapons on the grass and gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach those sea-storm eyes; he had stared at her with his mouth hanging open as wide as a fish out of water. She was amazingly gifted, she was calm and brave, she was sad and broken…and she absolutely terrified him. Because if this was how she fought when she was weary from travel and distracted by recent heartache…Maker save the poor bastard dumb enough to make her angry.

The thug crumpled to the ground, like a puppet with cut strings, and the trampled woman looked down on his corpse with flinty eyes and spat on it in revulsion. Her shoulder length hair looked as if it had been some shade of blond before it became mussed and caked in dirt, her dress was simple, but of fine make, and though her face was pale from recent terror, there was some kind of radiant fury that rippled off of her being.

Alistair could only gape at her from the ground, his left hand gripping his slightly crushed shoulder, because he knew he must have either died or gone completely insane. He had looked up at her face less than an hour ago, reflected perfectly in cold marble. It was Elemmire Cousland, in all of her fiery strength and beauty; it had to be. Then warm hazel clashed with cool sea-colored sapphire and she melted.

"O-oh, sweet Andraste!" She cried, her 'borrowed' daggers clattering to the ground, "I k-killed him! I killed him! He's dead because of me!" She dug her fingers into the flesh of her cheeks, smearing the dead man's blood across them as she sunk to her knees beside him. Her eyes landed on the blood seeping through Alistair's shirt, "Dear Maker, you're wounded!" She wailed, tears welling in her eyes, "Is it bad? What can I do? What should I do? Who-" He pressed his fingers to her lips to silence her.

Her eyes narrowed in irritation, but she bit back a rather rude comment about invading her personal space when she saw his expression. He looked so vulnerable, like a little boy who had never gotten so much as a sugar cake for Feastday suddenly being told he was about to go live in a castle, shock and disbelief etched into the lines of his rugged face. And there was something so much like tenderness and hope shining in his dark eyes that she couldn't help leaning into the warm calloused hand that had moved from her mouth to her cheek, stroking it gently.

Alistair was a man haunted, and he knew it. He was plagued nightly by visions of ghosts and angels, demons and darkspawn, and Maker knows what else, but this…this was too raw, too real… He could smell her, taste her in the air, hear her breathing out and in; she was invading every sense he possessed. He couldn't fathom what new devilry had conjured her, but he wasn't about to ruin it with something stupid like talking. He leaned forward to catch her lips with his when-

"Duncan?" She whispered.

"What?" He asked.

"Where is Duncan?" She said; the panic rising in her voice.

"Who is-" He began, but he was cut off by the reappearance of his young guide.

"Nan!" The boy cried, throwing himself into her waiting arms. "I'm so glad you're safe, Nan…" The child whimpered into her shoulder as she rocked him back and fort, shushing him quietly.

Silence hung between them for a time, all hunkered down in the dirt, all lost together. Alistair watched the other two cling to each other with a slight envy. He wondered why he hadn't recognized her voice the instant it had reached him when his ears had burned to hear it for so long. It was the fear, he realized; Ellie's voice was always brave, always strong. He had never once heard her beg for anything, her unrelenting Cousland pride would never have stood for it. Except once…

"Don't Go." She had called after him in a voice so small and frightened he almost doubted it was her. He turned to look at her one last time, to memorize the tears that shown in her eyes like diamonds, the ones he knew she would never shed, not here, where others might see and peg them as a weakness.

Maybe if she had cried for him, had run to him and begged without thought or care of who might be watching he would have stayed, would have found a way to forgive her, but she didn't. He knew how important it was to appear strong right now; their sway with the nobles was new and tentative at best; she couldn't afford to been seen as some lovesick female.

He knew it, and yet…it still made it feel as if what they had built up together wasn't worth it to her. Their love wasn't enough…he wasn't enough, and if it was true now, hadn't it always been true? He burned with the all too familiar sting of rejection as he forced his voice to sound as hateful as possible.

"I don't have a place here any more, not in the Grey Wardens, not in Ferelden, and definitely not beside you." He snapped, though the undercurrent of pain in his voice was obvious. He pushed past the guards and was gone, trying to erase the expression on her face at his words, the complete and utter devastation he saw there. Even through his anger, he knew that those two desperate words to him had been the sound of her pride cracking, just has his had been the sound of a breaking heart. He tried to convince himself that there was only one, but the memory of her face…of the lone tear that had broken past her defenses, told him otherwise.

"Duncan," the sound of her voice pulled him from his memories and he returned his gaze to the pair huddled beside him in the alley. "Duncan, where is Alistair?"