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It didn’t add up. Neria stared down at the tomes with narrowed eyes, as if glaring might somehow make the answers reveal themselves. With an aggravated sighed, she began to flip the pages back, skimming the words once more, searching desperately for something she had missed, but there was nothing new, no great revealed message in the pages.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said to herself, collapsing into a chair. The books didn’t say what killed those few Wardens that had slain the archdemon’s of the past. When Dumat was killed, it’s said the result brought down ‘seven or more’ Wardens, but it wouldn’t say how. None of them did. Was there something about being that close to the archdemon that corrupted the Wardens further? “I don’t understand.”
Neria let her head fall to the table, clasping her hands behind her neck. There had to be a reason, but wherever it could be found, it wasn’t going to be the library of Arl Eamon. Ostagar might have held answers, Weisshaupt no doubt, but neither of those places were exactly within the elf’s reach. “Warden? What are you still doing up?” She looked up, surprised to find a figure standing in the doorway, candlelight dancing off the many trinkets around her neck.
“Morrigan?” she asked, squinting a little. The apostate stepped closer, revealing herself in the brighter candlelight that Neria had for reading. “I was just, um, looking for something.”
The Witch’s eyebrows rose, and she placed her small candle on the table, golden eyes skimming over the tomes spread before her. “Blight history. Trying to learn from the Wardens of the past?” she asked. Neria nodded, gesturing around her.
“I was looking to see if I could find any documented strategies on how to defeat the archdemon,” she explained. “And then I realized that whichever Warden deals the final blow on the beast ends up dying almost immediately after, so I tried looking into that, but I can’t find anything to explain why.”
Morrigan nodded slowly, walking to the other edge of the table and taking a seat. “As far as I can see, it doesn’t appear as if the Wardens were too gravely injured, and even if they were, it wouldn’t explain the immediate death,” the elf continued, pushing a book away from her.
“You are aware, of course, that only a Grey Warden can truly defeat an archdemon, no?” the Witch asked after a few seconds.
“Of course?”
“Why do you think that is?” Neria frowned, glancing over at the tomes again, but the sound of Morrigan shaking her head stopped her. “Think about it, Neria, you’re smart enough.”
Normally, such a compliment would have made the elf smile, but there was something snide about the tone of her voice that suggested she should have already known this. “The soul of the archdemon will just find another Darkspawn host,” she said carefully, recalling on every story she had ever heard from the First Blight. “And become reborn.”
Morrigan’s eyes flashed in the candlelight, a twinkle that the elf was learning not to trust. “Correct,” she said, examining something on her hand. “Though, would be more accurate to say it seeks out the nearest tainted creature.”
Neria looked down at the books again, and then back up to her friend. “Which also means it would search for a Grey Warden,” she said slowly. “I can’t imagine a soul could tell the difference between a Warden and a Darkspawn, it would just be...looking for the taint.” The thought made her shiver, and the elf pulled one of the candles a little closer as if its’ feeble warmth might help.
“Very good.” Morrigan flashed her a rare smile, and then returned to her hand. “The difference is, of course, that Darkspawn don’t have souls, thus allowing the Old God to recreate himself within their body.”
There it was. The answer she had been looking for, the explanation that the elf had been searching for all evening. “But a Warden still has a soul,” she said, eyes going wide. “So the archdemon can’t recreate itself. It can’t take over a body that already has a soul, so all it does is just...” She let her voice trail off, feeling her body go limp in the chair as realization finally struck her.
The Grey Warden that took the final blow would die alongside it.
Tears bubbled up to her eyes as Neria began to comprehend what this would mean, and she stared at the candle in front of her, eyes tracing a small drip of wax as it splattered on the table. “One of us is going to die,” she breathed, finally blinking. The tears spilled over, staining her sun kissed cheeks before landing on her collarbones. “Me or, or Alistair.”
No.
The first sob that came up burst from her chest, and the small elf doubled over, one hand gripping the fabric over her heart as the second and third ones followed. Normally so controlled, so careful with her emotions, there was nothing that could seem to stop the flood of emotions spiraling within her. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair.
Thrust into a life she had never wanted, now forced to choose whether the love of her life died, or her.
Morrigan did not come to comfort her, but she also did not leave her friend, and for that, Neria was grateful. When the sobs had run out, and her breathing slowly returned to normal, she looked up at the Witch, blue eyes bloodshot. “You knew,” she rasped. “You’ve known all this time, haven’t you?”
“I know many things, Neria. This is just one of them.”
Anger flashed, and the elf rose to her feet, wooden chair falling to the floor in her force. “You could have told us!” she snapped. “You could have warned us, said something!”
“‘Tis not my place to meddle in the affairs of children,” Morrigan retorted angrily, immediately rising on the defensive. “And even if I had informed either of you, would it have somehow changed whatever feelings you developed for him?” Neria glared back at her, slowly picking it up before sinking back into the chair and covering her face with her hands. “Now that you know, what will you do?”
The elf shook her head, trying to take a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know.” She sat in silence for a few moments, sniffling a couple times to try and control the flow of snot threatening to come down her face. “We make him King,” she said finally, lifting her eyes and looking at Morrigan through the flickering candles. “Ensure him a good future.”
“You intend to sacrifice yourself?” The shock in her voice was uncharacteristic, and she seemed to lean forwards slightly. “Why not wait for the Wardens from Orlais?”
Neria shook her head. “We can’t put all of our hope in them,” she said. “No, I will make this sacrifice. Eamon is right, Ferelden needs Alistair to take the throne.”
The Witch scoffed, but didn’t comment on it. “And if he tries to stop you?” she said instead. “If he makes the same revelations as you have, surely he will not be so willing to let this happen.”
“Then I guess he just can’t know.”
“Oh?”
Neria took a deep breath. “You’re right, if he finds out about this, he’ll insist on being the one that...” She couldn’t say it. “He deserves better than this. I’ll...I’ll work out the details later, but for now, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this to him.”
“As if I go out of my way to speak to him.” Neria nodded, looking down at the tomes. With shaking hands, she closed them all and began to stack them. “I can take care of this, Warden,” Morrigan said after a second, voice surprisingly gentle. “Get some rest. We leave for Orzammar in the morning.”
The elf flashed her a grateful smile, and then straightened up. She wanted to thank the Witch, but she wasn’t sure what exactly she should be thanking her for, so instead she just nodded her good night and left, feet dragging a little on the cold stone floors. Alistair had hinted earlier that he wanted her to join him whenever she retired for the night, but Neria wasn’t sure she had the strength to face him so soon after all of this. He would know she was upset, know that something had happened, and she couldn’t tell him.
More tears filled her eyes, and the elf hastily wiped them away, sliding into the room Eamon had prepared for her. It was nice, having a bed and a genuine room. Comforts from the Circle that Neria truly missed, and as she collapsed onto the straw mattress another soft sob came forth. Pale hands rose up to cover her face for a second before her body turned, curling up in as tight of a ball as she could.
How could she face him again with this knowledge? Could she even look him in the eye again while knowing that she would have no choice but to eventually walk away from him?
The night was rough, filled with a mess of tears, snot, and anxiety that Neria was happy no one else had to deal with. When the sun began to peek over the horizon, she was already up, using a bowl of cold water to rinse the evidence of her poor night off her freckled cheeks. With shaking hands, she reached behind to tie her hair back and away from her face, trying to mimic normalcy.
Funny how normal everything seemed for a world that had come undone overnight.
Breakfast was tense, but that wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary. No one wanted to leave the comforts that Redcliffe’s Arl offered them and it showed. When she finally took a seat next to Sten, the Qunari regarded her with watchful eyes. “Kadan,” he said, tilting his chin up slightly. “You appear paler than usual. I believe this is a sign of illness in your people?”
Her blue eyes found Alistair, sitting next to Zevran and Leliana and rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, Sten,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “Thank you for the concern.”
“I am only concerned about your ability in battle, Warden. I do not wish for a repeat of the last time you insisted you were well.”
Neria laughed a little, a small burst of air through her nose as one hand rose to the now-healed tip of her ear. “I know, Sten. No need to worry, I won’t waver in battle again,” she told him. He nodded, the slightest tilt of his lips to indicate a smile.
After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “Is it the other Warden?” he asked. “Would you like me to stab him for you?”
“Alistair hasn’t done anything,” the elf said quickly, glancing over at him for a second before looking back up to the Qunari. Sten watched her for a second longer before slowly nodding. “But you’ll be the first to know if he has.” The addition seemed to please him, and he offered her another quick smile.
They left not long after, bidding farewell to the Arl and promising that they would meet again in Denerim after securing the support of the dwarves. “Travel well,” Teagan told them, nodding. “The sooner you arrive in Denerim, the sooner we can expose Loghain’s treachery.”
--
That evening, Neria finally found the courage to ask her question. “Alistair, what sort of...future do you see for us?” she asked that night, leaning against him. He had been quiet, no doubt fretting over the future he didn’t want. Most everyone had already retired for the evening, leaving only Sten standing watch somewhere in the dark. Barkspawn was sleeping peacefully at her feet, a pleasant weight against her sore feet.
“Oh, you mean after we so valiantly defeat the archdemon and singlehandedly save Ferelden from the throes of certain destruction?”
Despite herself, the elf couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, after that.”
Alistair cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, I’m not too certain. Eamon wants to make me King, so I don’t know what that will mean,” he explained, shifting slightly so that he could look at her a little better. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t really have a better answer for you now. The future is too uncertain.”
The elf licked her lips, tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat. “If we’re together, isn’t that all that matters?” she whispered, feeling her hands shaking. The other Warden gave her a sad smile, but Neria could see that she had said the wrong thing.
“Is it? What about duty? What about honor? Those things are important too, aren’t they? I hope they don’t come between us, but I... I can’t say they won’t. I’m sorry.”
It was all she could do to keep the hurt from decorating her freckled cheeks, and Neria nodded carefully, clearing her throat. “Right. Of course,” she said gently, leaning back against him. “Those things should come first.” She felt him nod, and then pressed a careful kiss against her head. They remained like that for a few moments, basking a little in what they had while it was still certain they had it.
Alistair was the first to rise, yawning. “Are you coming?” he asked, gesturing to their now shared tent.
Neria shook her head. “Not yet. But I’ll be in later,” she told him. He nodded, and leaned down to press another kiss to the top of her head.
“Don’t be too long, love.”
And with the sound of a tent flap opening and then rolling shut once more, she was alone. Gently, the elf pulled her legs up against her chest, ignoring the way Barkspawn shifted from the sudden change, back leg twitching a little in his sleep. Alistair was right, she knew, but to hear him say it...was painful. More painful than Neria had really been prepared for.
Honor and duty were more important than love. That had never been more apparent than now, and she bit down on her knee to keep herself from sobbing again. It would be his duty to his country that tore him from her, and it would inevitably be her Grey Warden honor that made the final break.
And there, in the cool evening air of western Ferelden, Neria made her decision. She would leave him. Before the Landsmeet. She would have to. Give him no reason to run from his birthright, no reason to mourn her when the archdemon was dead.
Tears bubbled up, and the elf buried her head against the sharp bones of her knees, wishing it could be different. But duty and honor came first, duty and honor would always come first for them. And in the end, he would be happy. Eventually. The more he hated her, the easier it would be for him to move forward. He would come around, eventually, to the idea of being king. She’d remind him of his duty if she needed to. And then one day he would find a wife, a beautiful woman worthy of being his queen and they could have all the beautifully royal babies they wanted that Neria could never truly give him.
A small sob broke out of her, and she hit a fist against the ground. Barkspawn whined a little, bumping her leg with his nose. “I’m fine,” she managed to gasp, uncurling her fingers from a fist and placing it gently against his snout. “No need to worry, boy.”
The Mabari watched her carefully, and Neria was almost certain he could sense the turmoil in her heart, but then he whined once more and laid his head against her feet. She busied herself with petting him, scratching behind his ears gently as the anxiety settled once more.
She could do this. It was her duty, her honor. She’d make this sacrifice, and be done with it once and for all. Neria sighed once, resting her chin against the top of her knees.
When the fires had burned down to little more than embers, the elf rose for bed and came to one final conclusion: if there was truly a Maker, He had a terrible sense of humor.