No Armor Against Fate (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Of Babies

Thora's heart hammered in her chest as she closed the door behind her. In the room behind her was a nightmare she could never have imagined—Alistair. And Morrigan. In bed together. Not sleeping. And at Thora's own urging, no less. She clenched her teeth together against the rush of nausea she felt.

"It won't be as unpleasant as you think," Morrigan had purred at Alistair, enjoying the moment. Thora felt those words like knives. She'd known someday there would be a queen, some beautiful young human woman ... but Morrigan? Tonight? There, on the other side of the door? Performing a ritual that was destined to create a child? It was more than she could stomach.

It had been surprisingly easy to talk Alistair into the act. (She tried not to think about why that was, whether he'd always secretly been attracted to Morrigan.) He hadn't even asked about the child, hadn't asked about the ritual. He'd simply said, "I trust you. I'll do it."

Thora felt incredibly guilty, standing there. And sick to her stomach. And ghoulish, listening there for ... sounds? She put her hands over her ears. No sounds. Definitely no sounds. She moved away from the door, walking down the hallway. She could feel the heaviness in her belly, where her own child was growing. Wynne thought the baby was probably past the danger point by now and gave it good odds of being born normally.

Something tugged at the back of Thora's mind. Something about the baby, she thought, frowning. But what? And then it came to her, and she was running down the hallway to Wynne's room, pounding on the mage's door.

"All right, all right, wait a moment," came the sleepy, impatient voice. Wynne opened the door, blinking at Thora.

"You were sleeping?!" Thora said incredulously. "How can you sleep on a night like this?"

"Someone has to get some sleep," Wynne said. Her eyes took in Thora's obvious distress. "What is it, child?"

"Can I come in?" Thora asked. "I can't ... talk about this here in the hallway."

Wynne opened the door wider, letting the younger woman in. "Clearly there is more going on in the castle tonight than preparation for tomorrow's battle," she said.

Thora shook her head, collapsing on Wynne's bed. "This is the night that will never end," she groaned. "And apparently neither will the bad news."

Wynne took a seat in the chair by the window. "Tell me," she said simply.

"Where to start?" Thora said, staring up at the ceiling. "I suppose first is Riordan's bombshell, that a Grey Warden has to kill the Archdemon because the Archdemon's soul leaves its body when it dies, seeking the nearest darkspawn. So if there's no Grey Warden, a new darkspawn becomes the Archdemon and the Blight goes on. If there's a Grey Warden, the Archdemon's essence goes into the Grey Warden, and they both die."

"Will Riordan do that, then, as he is the oldest?"

"He plans to. But I don't think it will be him. Maybe I'm just a pessimist, but I think it will have to be one of us."

"And how do you make that choice?"

"Well, that's what I thought, too," Thora said. She gave a bitter little laugh. "But that was before the next hit." She paused, sitting up and looking seriously at her friend. "And you may not approve of this bit ... but it's done. Or, rather, is," she caught her breath as a sob snuck up on her, "being done."

Wynne waited, her eyes never leaving Thora's face.

"Morrigan." Wynne's face hardened, but she said nothing. "She knew—about the Archdemon—and told me she had a ritual. It's why Flemeth saved us, why she sent Morrigan with us. Morrigan," and she paused as the great, heaving sobs threatened to take over. "Morrigan will be—is—in bed with Alistair. Right now," she said, and then had to stop again, holding herself and trying to stop the shaking. She looked back at Wynne's white face. "The ... ritual will create a child. Who will absorb the Archdemon's essence, and will then become an Old God."

Wynne contained herself with an obvious effort. "Child, child, child," she said wearily. "I cannot lecture. I see what this is costing you, and I understand the impossibility of the choice in front of you—sacrificing the life of your child, or that of your child's father, the man we've all gone through so much to put on Ferelden's throne—but I tremble at the danger inherent in trusting Morrigan in this way."

"As do I," Thora said. "But I—I had no choice. And I have trusted her this far. Why else did I allow her to stay with us all this time, if I did not trust her? My instincts tell me that she is telling me the truth. I have listened to them, and it is ... I hope ... done by now."

"But here you are," said Wynne. "Telling me all this." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened. "I see. Because it will not be Morrigan who is closest to the Archdemon at the time of its death. It will be you."

"Wynne?" Thora's eyes were wide, desperate and pleading. "Can you protect my baby? Because if you can't, this is all for nothing and I might as well have chosen to sacrifice myself."

Wynne stood for a long time, facing out the window, lost in thought. Thora sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, her eyes glued to the mage's face, waiting.

At last the older woman turned. "I think I can do it. I will need to do some preparation, but I think there is a way."

Thora slid to the floor, murmuring something in gratitude.

"My dear," Wynne said gently. "You are utterly exhausted, mentally and physically. You must get some rest."

"How can I?"

"You have to try." Wynne was implacable.

Thora got up from the floor with some difficulty. "Thank you, Wynne," she said, putting her arms around the mage's waist. "Thank you."

Surprised and touched, the mage hugged the dwarf in return. "I would do much more than this for the two of you, child," she murmured.

As Thora exited Wynne's room, she heard another door close down the hall. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, the candlelight from the sconces flickering on her face. As if he could sense her standing there, he lifted his head, and they stared at each other. The naked anguish and guilt on her face struck Alistair like a blow, and although he had been bitter toward her for forcing him into this position, her distress melted his anger. He opened his arms, and she pelted down the hallway, throwing herself into them, feeling the warmth of him enfold her. He held her easily with one arm, as he had so often before. His other hand cradled her head into his shoulder, feeling the short, tousled hair where the two smooth coils of braid had been, as she whispered against his neck, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over again.

Beyond words, he held her to him, carrying her down the hall to his room. Exhausted in every possible way, they fell asleep still clinging to each other.