Redcliffe Castle was unusually quiet. It was a mild night, the only thing keeping the cold at bay being the fact it was summer. Only a select few stars peeked out from behind clouds as black as the sky. An aura of stillness seemed to surround the fortress, and inside the great stone walls not a single person roamed the halls, but no one was asleep. It was the eve before battle.
One room in particular, located on the second floor, was less quiet than the rest of the castle. It hosted three people engaged in tense conversation.
"Just... consider what I am offering," concluded a woman, her voice low and weary. There was a pause while the other two people nodded, then the door was opened, flickering firelight spilling out into the hall. An elven man and a human woman exited side-by-side.
"We're not going through with this," the woman said decidedly, arms crossed. "I'll make the final blow."
Her companion halted in his tracks, staring at her incredulously. "What? You're joking, right?"
She stopped walking as well, turning to face him with a frown on her small mouth. A wavy lock of blonde hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it back. "I'm completely serious. I'm not letting you or Alistair die. So that leaves me."
"No. No. Pherra, we're doing the ritual. If you're uncomfortable with me doing it we can convince Alistair to."
Pherra waved a hand dismissively. "That's not what I'm worried about at all. Dyin, this entire thing is just too suspicious. A child with the soul of an Old God -- an Archdemon? Raised by Morrigan, who insists on leaving and never seeing any of us again? She's planning something, and it isn't going to be good."
"Who cares?" Dyin let out a short huff of a laugh."How could she possibly hurt anyone?"
Now it was Pherra's turn to look incredulous. "What else would she use it for?"
Clearly not getting anywhere with that tangent, the dark-haired elf shook his head in frustration. "Just think, you could be the first Warden in history to survive killing an Archdemon!"
"It's a part of our duty to die."
She said it without batting an eye, not a tremor in her voice. Her face had the same passive, near emotionless expression that she had worn so often at the beginning of their journey, nearly a year ago. And now that Dyin knew Pherra was so much more than that blank stare, it incited outrage within him.
"I can't lose you, Pherra! Don't you want to live?"
Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. "This is exactly what Wynne warned us about. You're being selfish."
Dyin gave her an utterly dismayed look. "Okay, so I am selfish, Creators curse me!" He threw his arms up in a wild gesture. "Do you remember what happened the last time I tried to save someone I cared about? He went missing and when I found him, I had to kill him with my own two hands! I want a happy ending, just once. Please, just... give me one victory."
"Some things are bigger than you and what you want, Dyin." The blankness had returned, and her voice was quiet, but now there was the tiniest waver in it, if one listened closely enough.
Dyin gritted his teeth, feeling his anger rise from the pit of his stomach to his throat, threatening to spill out all at once. He felt so helpless, so out of control, and it was driving him mad. "Fine. Fine!" Another sweep of his arms, in frustrated resignation. "If we're not doing the ritual, then let Alistair kill the Archdemon."
Pherra was shocked. "Alistair is to be king! We can't sacrifice him."
"Why not?" Dyin asked bitterly. "Anora is still queen, she could rule just fine without him."
"He's our friend!"
"And you're mine! That's the whole point of this! I love you, Pherra, and I can't just sit by while you kill yourself." He felt disgusting, laying his heart out bare in such a way, but if it would change her mind, so be it.
She stiffened, her brown eyes narrowing. "I'm doing what is right, and that's that." She straightened her arms and turned back to the room behind them, entering it with a gelid finality to tell Morrigan they would not accept her proposal.
Pherra enraged him sometimes, with her solemn, certain practicality. She was too tactical, to the point it seemed she threw away life if she felt it would benefit her definition of the greater good. Dyin didn't understand how she could live like that.
Dyin wanted to yell at her, call her all sorts of names. But the only thing he could manage was a quiet, "You stupid shem."
He would have tied her down and forced her to stay behind so she wouldn't make the final blow if he thought it would work. But he knew that there was only one way to be sure she didn't die in the final battle.
Pherra exited the room after several minutes, regarding Dyin coldly. "Good night," was all she told him before walking down the hallway, her arms moving with jerking, precise swipes at her sides.
Despite her evident anger, Pherra trusted Dyin far too easily. Fists clenching, he watched her go, then entered Morrigan's room.
***
Two days later, Dyin and Pherra reached the rooftop of Fort Drakon and engaged the Archdemon in combat at long last.
The fight waged on for hours before the demonic dragon showed signs of weakening. Pherra, of course, was the first to notice -- the smallest of falters in the darkspawn leader's movements, a roar of pain instead of challenge. Blonde hair matted with dark blood, she turned to Dyin and shouted above the sounds of clashing blades and screeching darkspawn. "This is it!"
Pherra's eyes were tired, and Dyin saw they held a kind of sadness in them before she pulled him in for the quickest of kisses. Dyin's hand gripped her arm as she pulled away, and as she slipped from his grasp he had a moment of suffocating fear: what if Morrigan was lying what if the ritual didn't work what if--
"Pherra!" he screamed without thinking, vision clouded with sheer terror as he watched her charge towards the Archdemon.
He was snapped out of his panic as he felt a wrenching pain in his arm. Whipping his head to the side, he saw a wounded darkspawn gripping him, tearing his bow from his hand.
Suddenly all his fear turned to fury, and with a cry he kicked the hurlock away and ran after Pherra, drawing a dagger from his boot. The warrior had dropped her crossbow and lunged for a greatsword from one of the many bodies that now littered the battlefield, and continued running straight at the writhing beast before her. Dyin followed, cutting down any darkspawn that dared come too close.
Pherra slid underneath the dragon and prepared her sword. Dyin turned his back and continued fending off the hurlocks and genlocks that approached, clenching his teeth and praying to any god that would listen that Pherra would make it. She had to.
He felt and heard rather than saw the Archdemon die. From behind him came a blast that set his ears ringing and would have knocked him off his feet had he not braced himself on a sword plunged in the ground. A deafening white noise continued. Turning, he shielded his eyes against a flare of blinding light and saw the silhouette of Pherra, struggling to keep her grip on her own sword that was stabbed deep in the Archdemon's skull.
Instead of fleeing the beacon, Dyin fought to move towards it, towards Pherra. His heart leapt to his throat as he saw her fall to her knees, and with a final valiant push he reached her. Immediately as he did so, the light vanished and the dissonance ended. Everything became still, the only sounds being the panting from both Grey Wardens.
Pherra stared at the ground, her gaze vacuous. She slowly lifted her trembling hands, examining them for a long while as it slowly sank in that she was still alive. Abruptly her face lifted to meet his, eyes filled with a chaotic mix of emotions -- disbelief, anger, amazement, horror.
Dyin's mouth formed a shaky grin as he looked down at her. "Hey," he said.
A rock-hard fist met his jaw, sending him sprawling.
The elf stumbled back but quickly regained his footing. Rubbing his cheek, he let out a long sigh, then glanced over to see Pherra still on the ground. She was crying, but trying to hide it. Dyin calmly walked over to her, knelt down, and held her in his arms, burying his face in her hair. Not a word was spoken, and there were no coherent thoughts in his mind: just Pherra's soft weeping and an overwhelming sense of relief.
