No Armor Against Fate (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

The Last Push

The gates of Denerim rose before her, what was left of them. Around them lay the bodies of darkspawn mowed down in their advance. Looking around at her group—the inexorable fighting force that had put Ferelden back together from one end to the other and was about to end the Blight—Thora felt a sudden wave of premature nostalgia. This would be the last time they would all be together, fighting, the last time they could all count on each other. How she would miss them.

Riordan broke into her thoughts. "I would suggest taking Alistair and no more than two others and going to the top of Fort Drakon."

"You mean to draw the dragon's attention," Alistair said. It warmed her heart how much more he was acting like a leader now that he had been confirmed as king. He was no longer the wounded animal who had begged her to take the lead after Ostagar. If she'd ever had any doubts that she'd made the right decision, his behavior had silenced them. He was the right king for Ferelden.

"You're not coming with us?" Thora asked Riordan.

He shook his head. "If there are too many of us, the Archdemon can sense us. If the two of you can clear the rooftop, I will try to take down the Archdemon."

"May the Maker watch over you," Alistair said. Thora remembered him saying the same thing to Duncan before Ostagar. The Maker didn't do Duncan much good, thought the part of her mind that still didn't understand the human religion.

Riordan crossed his arm over his chest, bowing toward them. "And over you," he murmured. "May we prevail." And with that he was gone, running lightly through the gates, darting from shadow to shadow to avoid being spotted.

Thora looked at her assembled group, all of them watching her closely. "Oghren," she said. "You'll be in charge here at the gates. See that nothing gets in."

The dwarf growled his assent. "Warden," he said, "the world is made of blighters and heroes. As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you." He bowed, and she smiled at him. "Now ... let us show them our hearts. And then show them theirs." The dwarf's lips drew back in a snarl.

She turned to Lohengrin, going down on her knees next to the dog, putting her arms about his broad shoulders. "I'll be back, boy," she whispered. "Keep Oghren out of trouble." The dog barked happily, licking her face.

Meeting Morrigan's eyes, Thora shook her head. "I am not to accompany you?" Morrigan asked, her eyebrows raised.

"In your delicate condition?" Thora murmured.

Morrigan gave a surprised little laugh. "Very well. I will remain here." Her face grew serious. "We will not meet again." Clearly there was something else she wanted to say, but didn't know how.

"Travel safely, Morrigan," Thora said. She saw the mage's eyes flash with relief at being saved from her own awkwardness.

"And you." Morrigan inclined her head, turning to follow Oghren and the dog.

Thora watched them go, taking up position at the gates, and then turned to look at the three people she knew she could rely on at all costs. "Leliana?" she asked.

The bard laughed. "I am ready. We go to do the Maker's work together, and I look forward to the battle." Thora's mouth quirked at the martial light in her friend's eyes.

She held her hand out to Wynne. "I am with you," the mage assured her. "To the top of Fort Drakon and beyond."

"You're ready?" Thora asked, hoping the mage would know what she was talking about.

"Yes. I even have some new spells for the occasion," Wynne said with a small half-smile. Thora breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't know if she would be able to do this if she knew it would put her child in danger.

Wynne and Leliana moved a few steps away as Thora turned to Alistair. She remembered that last morning in Redcliffe, when they'd woken in each other's arms after the long fearful night with Riordan and Morrigan. In the early morning light, she'd watched his sleeping face until wakefulness came to him and he opened his eyes, smiling to see her there. Out of sheer habit, his arms had tightened around her, pulling her close for a good-morning kiss. She'd allowed it—welcomed it, savored it—as his tongue caressed her mouth and his body pressed hers back into the pillows, until one of his hands began to slide down her side, grazing the edge of her stomach. Then she'd had to drag her mouth away from his, calling his name in a painful moan to bring them both back to the reality where they didn't belong in bed together.

He'd looked at her, his face inscrutable, then gotten out of bed and begun restoring his clothes to rights without another word to her. They'd been short with each other ever since, except for the heartfelt speech he'd given the troops about her just before the battle.

Alistair looked at her now, spreading his hands helplessly before him. "Here we go," he said. "The last push."

"Hopefully."

"I just— With everything that's happened, I want you to know: it's been an honor fighting by your side."

"The honor was mine," she said softly, meaning it.

They turned, joining the others, and the four of them jogged through the line of soldiers cheering them on, heading into the heart of the destroyed city.