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In the years to come, Neria Surana will be said in the same breath as Aveline the Brave, Aveline the lady knight, Aveline who paved the way for women who wished to become chevaliers. In the years to come the minstrels will sing of the elven Warden-mage, she of the hair which shone like the moon and the eyes blue as ice, as steel.
Led by a grieving Leliana, the whole of Thedas will know of Neria Surana and what she sacrificed to end the Fifth Blight.
How did that ale-sodden dwarf put it once?—surrounded by a great glowing nimbus, with a large but chaste bosom that heaved magnificently—magic at her fingertips, chaos at her order, purer than the snow and lovelier than the sky. The knife-ear who became the Hero of Ferelden, the one who singlehandedly saved the Circle of Magi and gained equal rights for all the elves in Ferelden.
There could be none kinder, none sweeter, none braver than brave Neria, who took her lover’s sword and slew Urthemiel at the cost of her life.
Morrigan knows better.
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It all begins when they are pulled into the Fade by a sloth demon.
(Or perhaps it began sooner, in a tower with an ogre, in a tower with a golden-haired prince who shielded her as she cast spell after spell, draining herself dry to defeat waves of darkspawn that never seemed to end. But Morrigan saw Neria Surana before the Tower of Ishal, and the girl did not start becoming a blade until she returned to the Circle Tower.)
Neria Surana comes to save her in bloodspattered mage robes, breaks the hold of a false Flemeth with darkspawn guts in her moon-silver hair. It is true, what the bards sing about her beauty. Pale as the moon, shining as ice. But that day, her eyes were not gentle, not loving—she is frantic, furious—Morrigan, have you seen Alistair, Morrigan, I have rescued Wynne but I cannot find Alistair, Morrigan please help me, help me—
How should I know where his nightmare lies? Morrigan asked. The sloth creates what we wish to see. How did you find us, and yet not him?
Neria shook, but with what Morrigan could not tell. I followed your mana, she said. But Alistair is not a mage—how do I find him, Morrigan, please—
Morrigan had rolled her eyes then. Calm yourself. You are being ridiculous. The sloth demon creates what we wish to see, so I surmise if you wish to find him, simply wish it so.
The elven girl had pressed Morrigan’s hand then, and she was too surprised to pull away until the elf had already done so. Thank you, Morrigan. I do not know what I would have done—
And then Morrigan was whisked away, and her last sight is a shaking elven Warden-mage closing her eyes and clasping her hands.
After that Neria starts becoming ferocious. After that Neria moves away from creation magics—healing, rejuvenation—and begins practicing flame and lightning. She begins to bare her teeth at genlocks, begins to wield her staff in destruction and not elegant kills. Morrigan, then and now, prefers to drain the life from her enemies, prefers to freeze them then shatter them. Neria’s fire left flesh melting off bones. Neria’s lightning left smoking corpses so burnt one could not tell what they once were.
And, Morrigan notices, she is most violent with the enemies that dare attack Alistair.
You do not touch him, she once hears the other mage hiss under her breath. He is mine.
Morrigan grew up with a woman both powerful and vicious. She looks into Neria’s eyes and sees the beginnings of Flemeth within.
Flemeth has done everything for power. Neria, she sees, will do the same.
She asks once, just once. They are sitting by Morrigan’s solitary campfire, idly setting sticks aflame. She cannot really explain their friendship, except that powerful women attract powerful women, and that she revels in being the only one who sees the dark side of Neria Surana.
Leliana will insist that Neria is the sweetest, gentlest creature in the world; Sten will call her kadan and think of her as honorable. Oghren thinks of her as a lighthearted drinking buddy; Zevran, a flirtatious almost-bedmate. Wynne, an almost-granddaughter.
And Alistair? Alistair looks at her like she is the sun, like she is the only flower in a Blight-torn land. Alistair looks at her and sees salvation.
Does he know? Morrigan asks her. Of what you sacrifice, to keep him safe?
What do you mean, Morrigan?
The witch pulls up the sleeve of the Circle Mage robe.
Of these, my friend.
Strapped to her arm is a dagger. Beneath it, healing cuts.
I do not care, Morrigan hastens to assure her. But your Templar lover—he will.
He will never know, Neria says, fiercely. Everything I do, I do to protect him. You were not there, Morrigan. You were not there when the darkspawn overwhelmed us. He would have died protecting me—and he’d known me for a day. How could I not do the same?
Neria, Morrigan thinks, loves like a war. Loves as if there is a Blight always raging within her ribcage.
I will do anything to win this war and keep him safe, Morrigan, Neria says. If it means becoming a blood mage, then it is worth it.
Is he worth it, friend?
He is worth everything.
Love like that, Morrigan thinks, can never end well.
For Flemeth loved Osen, and Osen betrayed her. For Flemeth loved Osen, and it drove her to do terrible, legendary things.
She does not want her friend to do the same. And yet, it seems there is no stopping it.
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It comes to a head when Arl Eamon declares Alistair king—and Anora Mac Tir, his queen.
I cannot be with you, Alistair says to Neria. In her form as a sparrow near a window, Morrigan notices his voice is calm but his hands are shaking. Ferelden will need an heir. We both have the taint. We could not have children.
And, Neria says bitterly, Ferelden will never accept an elf as queen. A mage, perhaps. An elven mage, never.
Neria, Alistair pleads.
I have done everything, Neria says. You are mine, Alistair. You promised me I would be the only one you ever love.
You are and will be the only one I ever love, Alistair says. Please. For the good of Ferelden.
And then, an idea—
Would you like to—
Be your mistress? Neria laughs cruelly. Be your elven whore on the side? Watch as Anora Mac Tir takes my place in your life? I think not, King Alistair.
Alistair recoils. Neria, you said you’d never call me that—
Alistair, you said you’d never leave me.
And with that, Neria leaves, closing the door not with a bang but with finality.
Morrigan finds her later, sitting in a chair, perfectly still. Her face is blank but beneath her skin, Morrigan can feel the mana humming.
Her face is blank, but on the table, blood is pooling.
What are you doing, friend?
What must be done, Neria says.
Neria, Morrigan begins, you must know—the Archdemon—
Can only be defeated if a Grey Warden kills it, Neria finishes. I know, Morrigan.
I know a ritual, Morrigan tries. It will save your life, and his. For you know he will never let you die, not when he can sacrifice himself. And, trying to insert a moment of levity, He is like a puppy that way. Too foolish by half.
He will not die, Morrigan, Neria says very calmly. I will not permit it.
He betrayed you!
Ah, so you were listening, she says. I thought I felt you. Never mind, Morrigan. He will live. I want him to live.
Even after all this?
Especially after all this.
And Morrigan? Neria adds, when Morrigan has grown silent. If you ever bore me any friendship, do not propose the ritual to Alistair. This will be my last request to you.
I want you to live, Neria, Morrigan says. Live well, and gloriously.
It will be a fine death, Morrigan, my friend, the other mage says, still ice-calm. I will die gloriously.
And the rest of the facts, the minstrels know. Neria Surana fights her way from the walls of Denerim to the peak of Fort Drakon. With her are the friends she started her journey with: Morrigan the Witch, the mabari Alistair insists on calling Barkspawn, and Alistair Theirin himself.
When they reach the peak of Fort Drakon, mages, elves, dwarves, and humans work together to weaken the Archdemon, to cripple Urthemiel. Morrigan knows she has never fought so hard in her life and perhaps never will again, draining herself dry over and over just to make a dent on the dragon—lyrium potions can only do so much, after all.
Neria Surana fights relentlessly, her silver hair flying out behind her, streaks of blood in the strands. She does not seem tired at all. But Morrigan, stealing glances at her friend in between spells, sees the blood dripping down from her sleeves—others will think it battle wounds, but she knows what they truly are.
They are what permit Neria to fight like a woman possessed. Perhaps, Morrigan thinks, she already is.
And finally, after what feels like hours, the Archdemon falls to the floor. Neria picks up a discarded sword and begins to sprint.
No! Alistair howls, and tackles the elf to the ground.
I will not let you die for this, he says, holding his once-lover. I love you too much, Neria Surana. Let me be the one to slay this demon—let me be the one to save you, this time.
You say that, Neria says, ice-steel eyes flashing, as if I give you a choice.
And with a swift movement honed from months of battle, she knocks the pommel of the sword against her once-lover’s head, snatches his from the ground, and begins to sprint towards the archdemon.
No! No, Neria, no!
But it is done. The elven mage plunges Alistair’s sword into the Archdemon’s head, and with a scream and a burst of light, Urthemiel dies.
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Leliana’s stories would have the king mourn his beloved for the rest of his life, would have him laying roses on her grave every year. Leliana’s stories would have him reject the marriage to Anora Mac Tir, and either rule alone or leave the palace entirely and wander the world, heartbroken. In self-exile from the land he and his love once adventured.
But this is Neria’s story, and Morrigan’s to watch play out.
Alistair Theirin marries Anora Mac Tir, and on their wedding night a rage demon erupts from under their marriage bed and murders Anora Mac Tir in a spray of blood. Before Alistair Theirin can snatch his sword to slay the demon, it melts away, laughing—a familiar laugh that sends chills down the king’s spine.
All his life he sees silver hair just around the corner, hears laughter from outside the windows. He chases after the ghost, screams Neria, Neria, I am so sorry, please—and the servants hear, and whisper, and swoon, He has gone mad for love of the Hero of Ferelden, how romantic! How tragic!
Shadows stalk him in the halls of the palace—his servants walk up to him with stiff limbs and pupil-less eyes, and murmur memories of fighting the Blight that they could never have known—then shake their heads and look confused, as if they had no idea why they were speaking to the king.
And in the gardens of the palace, the roses never stop blooming—but their thorns contain a deadly poison.
I love you, Alistair, he hears her whisper, every night in the Fade. Always.