Title: Last Day in Denerim
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: As Thedas changes around them in the wake of the Fifth Blight, Sagramor and Leliana find what comfort they can. A contest submission for The-Bards-College Summer Contest 2016. Major spoilers for the end of Dragon Age: Origins
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Last Day in Denerim

As the days lengthened into summer and the sun waxed hot and fierce over the world, so too did the tale spread like wildfire, carried on swift horses and strong currents and the whispers of a thousand storytellers until all of Thedas burned with it. From the gilded halls of the Chantry to the meanest elven hovel and everywhere in between, it was told, until every watchful eye looked south towards Ferelden in wonder of what had transpired and the changes that had taken hold.

For there had been a war, and it had been won.

Not merely a war, but a Blight; one of those apocalyptic darkspawn invasions that too many had long derided as the impossible stuff of folklore. The old stories told of endless hordes of monsters laying waste to all before them, of cities sacked, of armies butchered, of lands despoiled, of innocents dragged to their subterranean lairs to be eaten, but these dread tales only underestimated the horror that Ferelden had endured and what so many thousands had fled to avoid. With them came word of treachery and tyranny, of the death of kings and the rise of tyrants, and the laws of men and the Maker subverted by hatred, brutality and greed.

But then more tales emerged from Ferelden, ones of hope, each more incredible than the last. They spoke of the Sacred Ashes of Andraste found, the secret son of a King restored to his rightful throne, and a mighty coalition raised under a banner long dismissed. They told of the tyrant cast down, the darkspawn defeated by heroes forever standing in the shadows, vigilant, and the skull of the Archdemon Urthemiel hanging from Maric’s Gate in testament to Ferelden’s endurance against all odds.

And most remarkable of all, they spoke of an elf at the centre of these events, one raised up from Denerim’s slums into the Order of the Grey Wardens, his road to greatness carved through the endless hosts of the monstrous and the mad. In the years to come, the stories of Sagramor Tabris would echo across the known world, no matter what title they preferred to use for him: the Grey Wolf of Denerim, the Elven Knight, the Hammer of Retribution, the Hero of Ferelden, and many more. It was because of him, the tale declared, that Ferelden would live to prosper once more. It was because of him the world had been saved, and a new era of change had come into being, the repercussions felt wherever the legend of the Warden was heard…

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The sun had already risen high over Ferelden’s capital city of Denerim, bringing with it the promise of another pleasant and warm summer day, but within the cool confines of the Royal Palace, Leliana had yet to stir from the opulent chambers she shared with Sagramor. The red-haired woman’s attentions were instead fixed on the wide bed where her lover lay sleeping, the fresh light filtering in through the curtains streaming over his pale, nude form and sending a shiver of pleasure up her spine. Beyond the walls of the Palace, the reconstruction of Denerim was well underway, hammers ringing out a symphony that drowned out the shouted orders and chatter of thousands of workmen. Above the noise lingered the unearthly stench of the countless bodies being put to the torch: one pyre for the city’s valiant defenders, the other for the seemingly endless numbers of darkspawn they had put down. Yet Sagramor slept through it all, dead to the world save for a contented smile gracing his angular features, and Leliana knelt down beside him, soft lips planting rose-petal kisses on the stubborn scars marking his wiry frame.

There, at his right shoulder, puckered flesh marked where Flemeth, the infamous Witch of the Wilds, had struck him with enough force to fracture the shoulder pauldron. At his jawline, a pale scar, earned averting the Worldstorm during their journey to the Frostbacks. Another lingered just below his left ribs where the Summer Sword had bitten so deep, while above his heart, a jagged stitch of still-healing wounds caused by the Archdemon’s claws shattering his breastplate and driving the metal shards into his chest. It had been two weeks since that climactic battle against Urthemiel, but between Wynne’s spells, Avernus’ formulae and Leliana’s loving ministrations, the Warden was already recovered and ready for duty. Duty, Leliana mused, kissing the elf’s forehead. The Blight had been vanquished, but the darkspawn still remained, and even though part of him might wish otherwise, Sagramor would never abandon his responsibilities, even for her. In the Grey Wardens, he had found his calling; the fact that it would lead to the Calling was immaterial, a mere footnote compared to all the good he could do in walking the Grey Path. “Good morning, Warden-Commander,” Leliana whispered huskily, imbuing his newfound rank with all the passion she could muster.

“Still sounds strange, doesn’t it?” Sagramor Tabris muttered, grey eyes opening wide to greet her. “Feels almost unreal sometimes.”

“It is a role that will grow to fit you, my heart, and it’s well-earned,” Leliana reassured her lover, giving him a soft kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” the elf responded, caressing her shoulders through the thin robe of blue silk she wore, the garment flattering the contours of her lithe figure. Leliana had hardly left his side since the battle’s end, tending to him in his convalescence with the same kindness and generosity of spirit that had made him fall in love with her to begin with. She had always been there for him in all his darkest moments, a wondrous star to guide him when he was lost, and the gratitude he felt her for welled up inexorably… as did the guilt. “And you?”

“Soundly,” Leliana replied. “When do you need to head to Amaranthine?”

“As soon as possible,” admitted the Warden, flopping back onto the goose-down mattress as he held her close. Despite all the damage Denerim had experienced during the darkspawn attack, the Royal Palace stood largely untouched, its walls never breached by the rampaging horde, and the newly-crowned King Alistair had gratefully given them a suite of their own while Sagramor recuperated. King Alistair, the elf mused, thinking back to their success at the Landsmeet. Maric’s bastard son on his rightful throne, Amaranthine given over to the Wardens, the Blight ended… Ferelden has changed, and with the Maker’s grace, for the better. “The First Warden wants me to take up the Order’s stewardship of Amaranthine quickly: Howe left the arling in a sorry state, and now with the remaining darkspawn focusing their efforts there, he wants the situation stabilized before it consumes the entire province.”

“They still have no idea why the darkspawn haven’t retreated underground?”

“None,” the elf answered with a small shrug. “Just my luck to have the Thaw go off-book when I’m involved.”

It was a weak jest, made in hopes of dispelling his fears, and Leliana frowned, gesturing over to the greatsword resting against the end table. “In that case, he could have left you Starfang.”

“He had his reasons,” Sagramor allowed, privately smarting at its loss. He understood why the First Warden took the starmetal blade back with him to Weisshaupt Fortress; it was a sword that had killed a fallen god, and it was far better to keep it secured and maintained in anticipation of the next Blight rather than risk it falling into the hands of those who would misuse its tremendous power. The Warden’s Reach was a worthy replacement, a mastercrafted greatsword forged by the Warden-Armourers of Weisshaupt in recognition of his deeds, and even from across the room on a baking hot summer’s day, he could feel the cold seeping from the runes of frost etched into the long silverite blade. Even so, Starfang had seen him through some of his greatest trials, and its absence pained him more than he realized. “It doesn’t really matter. Having a different sword doesn’t change what I have to do, and I’ll make it work regardless.”

“I understand. I’ll try not to linger too long in Orlais,” promised the beautiful redhead. “Dorothea is eager to hear about the Blight and the Urn of Sacred Ashes, but I won’t let her keep me from you for any longer than I have to. You will need me in Amaranthine.”

“There’s no need to rush on my account, Leliana, I’ll be alright,” Sagramor assured her. He was not some weakling who insisted on micromanaging his woman’s every move and interaction; if Leliana wanted to spend time with a close friend, then he was more than willing to accept it. He just hoped the Chantry would be open to hearing her perspective on the events of the Blight, for there were so many who deserved recognition for their efforts in fighting it. And not just his companions either: the Hawkes, Merrill, Bann Teagan, Aelle Bjornfist… The victory over Urthemiel, and the glory that went with it, belonged to more than just him. “I know how much your friendship with the Grand Cleric means to you.”

“You matter more,” Leliana snapped, steel emerging in her bright blue eyes. “You’re not just the Warden-Commander, my love; Alistair’s decree means you hold the Arl of Amaranthine’s seat as well. An elven Arl, Sagramor, there’s never been such a thing in Ferelden, nor in any land where the Chantry holds sway. Combine that with the prestige you’ve earned as the Hero of Ferelden, and you wield more political power and influence than any elf has since the fall of the Dales. There will be many who resent you for that, who feel threatened by such a change, and politics can be a deadlier battleground than even the foulest darkspawn pit. I would not leave you to face that alone.”

“I know,” the Warden whispered, feeling the beat of her heart against his bare chest. In the year they’d spent travelling together, Leliana had become a constant source of wisdom and support for him, something he’d tried his utmost to reciprocate, and he found it difficult to imagine a life without her. She was the last of his companions who remained, the rest of their fellowship departing back to their own homes with the Archdemon’s death, their duty done. While he’d no doubt the new Wardens he’d recruit would be noble and worthy souls in their own right, the company he led to defeat the Blight was beyond compare. He’d come to rely on them over the past year, to trust and care for them, and parting with them over the past two weeks had been bittersweet, to say the least. Commanding the Ferelden Wardens would be a far different experience without having Wynne to remind him of his duty, and Alistair to offer his insights into what it meant to be a Warden, without Zevran’s cunning and Ursula’s determination to call upon, without Sten or Shale or Morrigan...

Morrigan… the thought came unbidden, and Sagramor tried to shove the memory of her away, the guilt a burning ingot in his heart. “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Leliana asked evenly, kissing away a stray tear.

To inquire who she meant was useless. To deny it even more so. “I am,” answered the elf, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “I know you’ve forgiven me, Leliana, but I’m having a hard time forgiving myself.”

“So, you’re being Sagramor then,” Leliana muttered, guiding his lips towards her own. “Sagramor, you’re alive because of what Morrigan did, and if the price she demanded was a night in your bed, then… I’m willing to accept that. I know you would not have accepted her offer unless you had any other choice, and I’m willing to endure the cost of her schemes if it means not having to suffer losing you. As I told you before you bedded her, mon amour, the consequences…” She paused for a moment, the memories of that night in Redcliffe flooding back. “I don’t care about the consequences, so long as you’re safe. The Maker guided me to you for a reason, and I will not accept that He did so only so I could experience the pain of your loss.”

With catlike swiftness, Leliana pinned her lover’s wrists above his head, the elf unresisting as she met his gaze. “Do you honestly think that I would be here if I thought you untrustworthy?” she demanded, her silken tone laced with steel. “If you’re truly a bad person, do you think I would have fallen in love with you?”

Sagramor couldn’t help but smile, the words he’d spoken after Leliana’s confrontation with Marjolaine echoed back at him. “I suppose not.”

“Then forgive yourself, Sagramor. Please, for my sake.”

The Warden remained in silent contemplation for a moment. “When does your ship leave for Val Royeaux?”

“Tomorrow, on the morning tide.”

Teeth gleamed in a lupine smile. “Then I suppose we’d better make the most of our time, shouldn’t we?”

The pressure on his wrists vanished, and Sagramor drew her into a passionate kiss, hands sliding the silken robe down to expose her naked glory. Gasping in pleasure, Leliana responded with equal affection, sinking deep into his embrace, and the elf let his guilt over Morrigan’s ritual fade away. He would not be found wanting again, and no matter his responsibilities with the Order, he would be there for Leliana. For no matter how the world might change, he would stand by her until the end...