As if in slow motion, the blood from Loghain's neck wound sprayed within the air, speckling the air in a wake of brownish red. Anora paled at the display, feather soft and elegant features going slack, her father's blood dappling her ivory complexion. She swayed as if she might faint. She did not, however. Even in the face of such tragedy, her resolve seemed steeled. Anora was a Mac Tir. She lowered herself to the ground and took the lifeless hand of the man she had called Father in her pale palm.

The Teyrn is dead.

From her concealed position within the Landsmeet, Ser Cauthrien lurched, a chainmail covered hand reaching to pat the armor covering her belly. The contents of her stomach revolted causing loss of control, vomit falling on the stone floor at her feet.

The Teyrn is dead.

Eyelids sealed shut in wishful hope the scene playing out in the main portion of the Landsmeet chamber to be that of a tragic play. At any moment, the Teyrn would stand up and put an end to the farce. The blood would have been the stuff of theatrics. The audience would applaud. The man would bow. The woman waiting in the wings would smile. Brown eyes opened to the cold and harsh. Wishful thinking was denied. It was over and could not be undone.

She had betrayed him.

The Teyrn is dead.

Each breath became increasingly more difficult. The weight of the moment bore down upon her heavily, crushing her beneath a pile of too much and what have I done.

He was…

Trembling hands shook off chainmail gloves, letting them fall upon the ground with a loud clank. What care she had taken to obscure herself from view no longer seemed to matter. Subterfuge? It was the stupid folly of a silly girl. Urgency filled her steps as she pushed away from her corner of somber solitude and sped out the main entryway.

Her gait did not slow until she reached an isolated portion of the Palace gardens. Fingers made quick work of the metal stays at the side of her armor, allowing for a bit more breathing room within the confining mail. Another bout of nauseas brought about a flurry of dry heaves that left her utterly weakened and kneeling upon the grass.

The jeers of the nobles at his protests mixed along with the cheers that echoed triumphantly at his death stung her ears in cruel playback. He had been their hero. He had been their savior. And in the end? He had been their fool. If she did not cry for him, who would?

Tears edged at the corners of her eyes, they flow imminent. She was a soldier. She was his soldier. In an attempt to protect, she had destroyed. Guilt and anguish sunk their claws into her skin, rending her flesh with the knowledge of her sins, of the knowledge of his betrayal.

He had been…

He had deserved so much more.

This was not to have been his ending. This was not to have been their ending. She was not the foolish girl any longer that believed in fairy tales. In his pragmatism, she found her own. But he was not supposed to die like that. The Wardens had been asked to have pity.

She had thought…

If she had known…

If she had expected…

Shoulders slumped, weighted down with what could not be changed. "To no regrets," he told her once. If only he was there to help her heed those words. She had failed him. She had failed herself. And for that, she felt nothing but regret.