She barely remembers the battle.
She remembers fighting the archdemon, she remembers the
sword in her hand, running towards it, and then everything is
black. The next thing she remembers is waking up in a bed
with far too many people gathered around.
In the next few days that follow, she barely has time to rest.
Aelith is by her side the entire time, but there is no chance
to ask what happened. Too many ceremonies, too many
people demanding the attention of the Heros of Fereldan.
And perhaps it is for the best – the longer she is kept
busy, the longer she can put off dealing with the aftermath.
Finally, FINALLY, she has time to breathe, and she
ends up curled up in her room by the fireplace, a book
open in her lap that she isn’t reading. She doesn’t look
up when Aelith enters, only sliding the book shut and
staring into the fire. There are silent tears rolling down
her face, half of her wanting nothing more than to curl
around Aelith and sob until there are no tears left in her,
the other half wanting to ask her to leave and not return.
❝ I was supposed to die. ❞
The essence of the archdemon is destroyed,
BUT SO IS THE WARDEN.
Aelith on one side, Alistair on the other,
I will not let them die, I will not let them die
I WILL NOT LET THEM DIE ON MY WATCH.
She doubles over, shoulders shaking, and in this
moment she is more broken than mighty.
It is a conversation she’s been dreading, for a thousand different reasons.
She says the name not unlike a prayer, the syllables falling from her tongue in a manner that is outright reverent -- and if she loved the witch before she loves her all the more now, in a manner that leaves her baffled and, frankly, almost afraid. Every inch of her aches with the realization of the other’s absence: SHE IS NOT COMING BACK, and the truth is enough to make her feel almost as though the world has dropped out from under her.
Slender hands fall to Aelith’s lap -- and she hates this, the constant scrutiny, the eyes always upon her. It is only now, long past the last of the nobles has left, that she’s stripped off the silks given to her by Anora in favor of a pair of coarse leggings and a tunic, her feet bare, her hair tied off in a simple braid. She feels like the girl she was before all of this happened -- she doesn’t know whether or not she is the same person anymore, and to be frank, she doubts it.
She’s lost Morrigan ( she is not coming back ) and now she’ll probably lose Nimia, too, for the sin of their survival ( she is not coming back ) and she does not allow herself to weep, no matter how badly she wishes she could ( she is not coming back ) but instead, she clears her throat, sits up straighter, squares her shoulders as if she’s preparing for a fight.
“The night before we left for Denerim, when Riordan told us about what happens when a Warden kills an Archdemon -- Morrigan offered me a way out. And it required Alistair’s cooperation, so we -- I talked to Alistair, and he agreed to do it, once he’d had a chance to speak to Morrigan himself.” A beat. “We decided that -- you wouldn’t approve, and we had so little time -- certainly not enough for a debate -- and since Morrigan and Alistair were willing...
“Morrigan’s ritual was blood magic, Nimia. Or something very close. Certainly something old and dangerous enough that the Chantry would never allow it, now. She’s with child now. That’s why she’s gone. She’s with child, Alistair’s child, and the taint in that child drew the Old God in -- it was unhurt, it survived, and now Morrigan is gone, carrying an Old God inside her, and she is not coming back.”
S H E I S N O T C O M I N G B A C K .
