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Chapter Text

"Maker's Oily Pig Breath," the red-headed elf cursed as she swept through the door. She swiftly crossed to the kitchen table and let the soft bundle in her arms drop onto it. "I want new cousins. Those two dunderheads are obviously defective."

Uncle Cyrion chuckled, glancing up from his cooking. "Need I remind you, Shianni, that one of those 'dunderheads' is my son?"

"Exactly." She crossed her arms, but the smirk on her lips assured her uncle of how serious she wasn't. "I blame you."

Cyrion's smile was gentle yet amused as he returned to dicing. "And what is it, pray tell, that I am taking the blame for this time?"

"Apparently, they didn't show up to their fittings this afternoon, which of course meant that Caria came at me with those nasty needles of hers." Shianni raised her voice in an unflattering imitation of the elven community's tailor. "'If that layabout doesn't care enough about his own wedding to show up for his fitting, then I don't care about it enough either!' And then she thrust a pile of cloth into my arms and stalked off." She gestured toward the bundle on the table. "What am I supposed to do with cloth, I asked myself? Really expensive cloth, I might add? And then it hit me… I can strangle them with it! Seems only fair, right?"

The elder elf was barely holding back laughter. "Shianni, you are not strangling my son."

"Well, fine. But I'm not sewing any wedding outfits, either. Let Soris and Finian say their vows plumb naked, for all I care." She paused thoughtfully, then let out an amused snort. "Actually, that certainly would liven things up around here."

"Shianni!"

"Oh, don't even pretend to be scandalized, Uncle. I can see right through you."

The elder finally tilted his head back and laughed. Then, he turned his smile to her and shook his head in exasperation. "Be that as it may… perhaps you should go fetch the boys. To warn them of Caria's wrath, at the least."

Shianni let out the most put-upon sigh she could muster. "Fine, fine. I'll go find them and sic them on Caria. But only because I want to watch Fin try to talk his way out of this one." She snagged a piece of carrot that Cyrion was currently trying to prepare for dinner, and bounded out the door to the sound of his gentle scolding.

The Alienage was alive in the late afternoon. The buildings may have been sparse and sagging, but the people were as warm and familiar as ever, greeting one another by name and exchanging pleasantries as they went about their business. Old Mariel was under the great tree, telling her grandchildren about its history again. The Gerel twins were just returning from work at the Howe estate, looking as haggard as ever, poor guys (Some nobles were easier on their servants than others… Arl Howe was, by all rumors, not). And there went Valendrian, no doubt rushing past to quell some dispute in the Alienage.

Alienage life wasn't the easiest, but it was home, and it was the people in it that made it so.

Though there were two particular people who Shianni was feeling less than homey toward at the moment. If only she could find them to tell them so on no uncertain terms. She spotted Ma Terrin as the older elf puttered in her scraggly patch of scrub brush that counted as a garden in the Alienage. "Hey, Ms. Terrin!"

"Yes, yes, child. No need to yell." The elderly elf squinted up at her. "You mar those pretty features of yours every time you open that mouth, you know."

Shianni rolled her eyes, but smiled, because she knew the elder meant the words fondly. Probably. "I'm looking for my cousins. Have you seen them today?"

"Ah, that little rascal was skiving off again, was he?" Ma Terrin tutted, smoothing the soil in her garden. "That certainly explains the grin on his face when he left."

Shianni leaned on the fence, relieved. Leave it to one of the community busybodies to keep an eye on the troublemakers. "Left? So he's out in the city?"

"And dragged poor dumb Soris with him. Getting into trouble in the market, no doubt." Ma Terrin rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to her garden. "Better go rescue him, girl. Now shoo."

Shianni nodded her thanks and turned to head toward the wrought iron gate that separated their world from the one outside.

Shianni had been out in Denerim proper plenty of times—usually to visit the taverns down by the docks, and that was beside the point—but she still didn't like it all that much. The shems... expected certain things. They wanted their elves acting a certain way, all quiet and demure and subservient: all things that Shianni was very much not. And she preferred it that way, thank-you-very-much.

But still, a city elf that didn't lower their eyes got noticed, and getting noticed by shems was a bad thing.

Shianni scoped the market crowd, wandering through the stalls idly in hopes of spotting her wayward cousins. When she finally did find the two slender forms of a pair of elf men, she sighed, because they were currently proving that very point.

"...think I didn't see your fingers wander a bit too close to that woman's pocket, elf," the stern-faced guardsman was saying as Shianni approached. No weapons had been drawn yet, but the guard's hand was on the pommel of his sword in clear threat.

Soris was, of course, in full by-the-Maker-we're-gonna-die mode, his eyes frantically darting around as if searching for an escape. He spotted Shianni, his eyes both relieved and pleading.

Finian, though, was too occupied with the guardsman to notice Shianni's approach. He had stepped in front of Soris, as if to act as a shield, but his posture was artfully nonconfrontational, down to the hands stuffed shyly in his pockets. He stared down at his shoes, his brown bangs falling over his lowered eyes in a move that Shianni had seen far too many times to be fooled by. "My... my apologies, sir... I... I swear I wasn't stealing. But the leather of her belt... it was.. I was simply overcome."

The guard blinked, obviously taken off guard. "What?"

Finian raised his eyes, all big and brown and entirely too disarming for his own good. "The etchings on the belt were like my mother's. She..." his head lowered again, his voice shaking. "She died some time ago."

The guard's hostility faded. He looked around uncertainly, as if looking for backup or confirmation, then turned back to Finian. Roughly, he growled, "Be that as it may, don't let it happen again, knife-ears." With that, the guard whirled on his heels and stalked off.

As soon as the guard was out of sight among the market stalls, Finian straightened up and grinned back at Soris. "I don't want to say I told you so... no, actually I do. I wish we had put a bet on it."

Shianni stepped up next to the pair, crossing her arms. "And how did that guard not recognize you, Cousin?"

He turned his mischievous grin to her. "He's new."

Soris sagged against the nearest stall in relief. "Him and most of the other guards, since all the real fighters are apparently headed south. Fin's been testing out the newbies all day."

Finian shrugged. "So far, I'm not particularly impressed. A few look suspiciously inbred."

"All day, huh?" Shianni asked pointedly, struggling to stifle her grin. Dammit, she was supposed to be mad at him! "Forget something else you were supposed to do today?"

Finian's brown eyes went wide and innocent, but Shianni knew him far too well to be fooled. "Oh, right! The fitting! It completely slipped my mind that Caria wanted to poke and prod me in intimate places!"

Soris snorted. "That isn't usually the sort of thing most people forget, Cousin."

Finian's mask broke as he burst out laughing. "You have a point." Some sincerity finally slipped into his visage as he gave Shianni a wry look. "I suppose you were the one she came after?"

Shianni waved off the implied apology with a smirk. "Never upset a woman who's good with needles, dummy, or you might find one in your eye. Better yet, never upset a woman, period."

"Sound advice all around."

The trio turned and started back in the direction of the Alienage.

"I suppose it's advice we should both take to heart," Soris said. "Since we're both going to be married soon."

Finian waved dismissively. "I don't know why everyone keeps saying that. It's all blatant lies."

"What, that you're betrothed?" Shianni laughed. "Soris, I think he's onto us. He knows it's all a conspiracy to get him to reform his roguish ways. What will we do now that he's caught on?"

Soris didn't seem to want to play along, instead eying their cousin with his brow furrowed. "Cousin, this is getting a little... worrying. My wedding is less than a month off, and yours won't be long after that, depending on when your betrothed can come down from Highever. Maybe it's time to drop the game?"

"It's not a game."

"Guys…" Shianni started warningly, not wanting to see this particular argument now. It had been brewing for weeks, really, but did it really need to happen in front of a bunch of shems?

Soris ignored her. He stopped walking, right in the middle of the road, just to stare at the other man. "Not a... Finian, we're getting married. This is supposed to be exciting... it's a rite of passage."

"Into what?" Finian whirled, face darker than Shianni had seen since Aunt Adaia died. "A life shackled to some woman I don't know? And what for? Tradition? Tradition is what keeps us in that miserable cage! Always spat on by the humans, stooping and bowing for the so-called privilege of working in some spoiled noble's household, because tradition dictates we can't do any better. What kind of life is that?"

People were staring, most narrow-eyed at the sight of an elf ranting in a public square. Ranting about them even, which Shianni would have found amusing if she couldn't see a pair of armed guards making a swift approach.

"Guys, let's go," Shianni urged.

"We have to make do with what we have," Soris implored.

"I'm not getting married. I'm going to find some way out of it, and then I'm going to get out of that place and give you, and Shianni, and my father, and everyone a better life. We all deserve to be free, completely and truly, for once."

"If you ask me," a harsh voice drawled, "you knife-ears got enough freedom already." The guards had reached them. "You enjoy making your scene, elf? Because it's time for you to leave the stage or be dragged off it." The guard then chortled at his own bad joke.

"Sorry, sir," Shianni swooped in, because Finian appeared too riled up to work his usual magic. "We were just going."

"Nah, I think you wanna stay a bit longer." The other guard cracked his knuckles. "Maybe see how loud you can really shout, huh?"

"That will be enough, boys," a third voice chimed in, and the two guards snapped to attention as a third armored figure stepped up to them.

"Sergeant Kylon, these elves..."

"Were just on their way, as they said." The sergeant eyed all three elves sternly, but without the casual contempt that most shems showed. "The two of you may go."

The pair of guards stalked off, muttering.

"Tabris, turn out your pockets."

Shianni barked a laugh, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

Finian cracked a wry smile and did as ordered. Shianni was honestly surprised when nothing fell out of them but a couple silvers and a feather… though she did catch a glimpse of something shiny disappearing up her cousin's sleeve.

The sergeant stared flatly at Finian for a moment, obviously not for a second believing that Finian was innocent. Her cousin wasn't even trying to act it, as he just grinned cheekily up at the guard.

Finally, Sergeant Kylon sighed. "One of these days, elf. Now go. I don't want to see you here for the rest of the day."

Finian dipped an elegantly mocking bow and scooped up his dropped silvers. "A pleasure as always, Sergeant."

Finian was practically skipping with triumph as they headed back home, his previous argument obviously forgotten. They were nearly at the wrought iron gate when Shianni finally burst out, "I don't believe for a second that your pockets were empty."

With a smirk, her wily cousin produced a golden sovereign from his sleeve. "A little sleight-of-hand goes a long way, dear cousin."

Soris groaned. "You're lucky your sleight-of-hand hasn't gotten the hand cut clean off. And mine too!" They crossed the bridge into the Alienage.

"Now now," the other man said smoothly, "we all know that cutting off hands is really only a punishment for thievery. For abetting a criminal... well, you'd probably just hang."

"Not funny. So very not funny."

Finian led them to Caria's shop; Shianni followed because she couldn't not watch this exchange. Donning his most disarming smile (and he had a broad selection of those to choose from), Finian knocked and poked his head through the banged up wooden door of the tailor's shop.

Immediately, Caria's voice screeched out. "Oh, and there he is now, come to try to wheedle more work out of the old tailor! Because she has nothing else to do but wait on his whims all day!"

Finian slid into the shop, mien oozing regret and apology. Soris followed after, his contrite posture much more sincere. Shianni came in last, closing the door behind them.

The tailor was at her worktable, graying blond hair pinned up while she worked on what appeared to be someone's servants' garb. She glared flatly at Finian, no doubt in her mind who was responsible for the pair's earlier absence.

And she was right, of course. Shianni loved Soris, really… but Andraste's Ass was the man easily led.

"Caria," Finian began smoothly, "I cannot express just how sorry I am that we missed our appointment."

"This should be good," the older woman said snidely, crossing her arms. Shianni agreed wholeheartedly.

"It's just... while I was out in the market this morning, I saw the most amazing hairpin—lined with silver and carved so beautifully. I just had to get it for you, in return for working so hard on the wedding outfits for Soris and me."

A hairpin? Why would Caria want a hairpin? Shianni cast a puzzled look at Soris, who shrugged nervously.

Caria, however, looked stunned, her hand going up to touch her hair.

After a beat of silence, Finian stepped forward, reaching into his shirt to pull out a small, flat box. "I spent most of the day running messages in the marketplace, but I still wouldn't have been able to afford it if Soris hadn't helped. I fear I caused us to miss our appointment... I'm such an idiot, I know."

He presented the box, and Caria took it with wide eyes. When she opened it, Shianni swore she saw the tailor get a little misty-eyed. "It is... quite exquisite. And thoughtful." She glanced at Soris, then gave Finian a wry look. "Who knew you had it in you?"

Finian cast his eyes down. "I understand if you don't want to work on our garb anymore, of course."

"Nonsense," Caria sniffed, setting the pin aside. "We can't very well have the two of you taking your vows in your smallclothes."

"Though it certainly would liven things up," Shianni put in, only to receive a scolding look from the elder.

"Tomorrow morning, both of you. Not a moment past noon... I mean it." She looked at them sternly. "Now out with you; I've much to do!"

Obediently, the trio left.

"Maker's Balls, Cousin," Shianni said with a low whistle as they crossed the Alienage. "You planned that! You have got to be the most manipulative little scoundrel I've ever seen."

He smirked. "But I've got a heart of gold... somewhere."

"And a tongue so silver it could pay for an arling."

"Your hurtful words wound me, cousin!" Fin's hand went to his heart dramatically. "So much so, that I fear I can not muster the strength to present you with your purloined gift!"

"You pickpocketed me a gift? How noble and sweet!"

Finian reached into his vest and pulled out a slender bottle. "Again, with the wounding words! I fear I will need this instead, to drown my sorrows!" He smiled teasingly, waving the bottle around.

"By the Maker, you can be over-dramatic, can't you?"

Finian winked. "It's an Orlesian vintage… I think."

Shianni laughed and took the bottle when it was presented to her, knowing that this was probably a wine none of them would ever have been able to afford. Still, it was hard to be horrified of Finian's blatant lawbreaking, because it wasn't like he stole from people who couldn't afford it.

If him pickpocketing a few uppity shem nobles meant they got a couple nice things... she wasn't going to be the one to call him out on it. He just wanted everyone to be happy.

And free, too... but that wasn't something any amount of charm or nimble fingers could provide.

Chapter Text

The cavern's stale air was thick with the scents of sweat and blood. The air was a din of the clashes of metal on metal, metal on flesh, and the screams of the dying all joined in a cacophony that drowned out all words. It was a frenzy of survival and death, no politics outside the inevitable consensus of who killed whom first.

It was just the way Marnan Aeducan liked it.

"Prepare the rockslide!" Commander Blackstone barked out from somewhere behind her. Her waraxe cleaved in the skull of another genlock, and she spared a glance at him from under her steel helm as she yanked it out. He stood on a defensible outcropping ten paces back, his thick black beard matted with darkspawn blood.

In reaction to his order, a trumpet sounded: two long brays followed by a short. It echoed across the expansive cavern where the expeditionary force had made their attack. They had over a hundred darkspawn pushed up against a cliff face, the monsters fighting vainly against the best soldiers Orzammar had to offer.

"My Lady! Left!"

Reacting unthinkingly to that most trusted of voices, Marnan dove to her left just in time to dodge the swing of a hurlock's blackened greatsword. The creature roared and spat, but Marnan wasted no time in introducing her axe to the back of its knees. It crumpled with a monstrous shriek, only to be silenced by Gorim's sword going into its eye.

Marnan nodded to her longtime right hand man and friend, and he nodded back. No need for words or gestures of gratitude when there were darkspawn to kill.

The dwarves tending the trap would be ready by now. Marnan shoved a genlock away, waiting for the signal.

"Fall back!" The Commander's voice shouted. "Back! By the Stone, where did that trumpeter go?!"

Marnan spared another look around, and cursed again as she saw the trumpeter's limp body thirty paces and a swarm of monsters away. Resolutely, she stamped on a genlock that was still twitching, and raised her axe so as to be better seen. "Free hands, to me! We must retrieve the trumpet!"

"Here, my Lady!" Gorim's voice responded immediately.

"My Lady!"

"Here!"

"Sounding off!"

"At your order, My Lady!"

No more voices responded, but a squad of six would do. She charged into the swarm of darkspawn that had overtaken the dwarven force's right arm, trusting her men to be at her back. She could hear them behind her, cutting a swath of destruction as they became a V-shaped prong with her at the apex. The monsters roared and charged at her, but she did not fear them.

This was her purpose, her true honor: to face the darkspawn and cut them down.

At last, the squad reached the fallen trumpeter. The rumbling sound was positively ominous now, the floors shaking with it.

Without hesitation, she raised the bloody trumpet to her lips and blew three wild, short clips. Immediately, the dwarven lines began to pull back. She could practically feel the collective sigh of relief at the order, but she smiled. The line had not broken during the wait. She was damn proud of her city's warriors.

No sooner had they vacated the battlefield than did a rumbling tumble of rocks roll over it, pouring out of a hidden crevice the dwarves had commandeered and crushing all in its path. Darkspawn roared and were silenced by the stones, the swarm cut easily in half.

Commander Blackstone raised his sword. "Back in, men! We must take the thaig!"

Those nearby roared in agreement, and Marnan smiled as she blew the order's corresponding cadence on the trumpet. The line surged back forward, sweeping over the darkspawn with new energy.

Marnan pulled back from the front lines, because that was nowhere for a signal trumpet to be. She headed over to where the Commander and his defenders held their position, out of the fighting for the moment. Secretly, she hoped that one of them would offer to take the trumpet.

Wait, why secret? This was the army, not the Assembly! There was no need to mince words here. "Someone take this so I can get back to killing!"

Commander Blackstone laughed. "Always eager for sport, My Lady! It is good to have you along, as always."

"It is good to be along… thus why I am here. Now really. Someone take this."

One of the Commander's escort laughed and obediently took the thing. He attempted to wipe the blood off, only for his equally-gory gauntlet to make things worse.

"Should have been born Warrior Caste, I always say," Commander Blackstone said.

"Be mindful of who you're speaking to," Gorim's voice piped up behind her.

"It's all right, Gorim." She cast him a smile from under her helm. "Would that I had been. I find myself much more suited to this than my own caste's particular brand of sport."

"Of that, I have no doubt," the Commander said, raising his sword in a strange sort of toast. He cast out over the fighting, and Marnan was pleased to note that it seemed to be dying down. The last of the darkspawn were being routed, the thaig nearly won.

"A strong success to bring home," Commander Blackstone declared, and then something unexpected happened.

The darkspawn got reinforcements.

They swarmed from behind the dwarves, pouring into the chamber from multiple exits to flank the dwarven line. Marnan only realized what was happening when a genlock charged into her from behind, biting and clawing at her armored form.

She kicked it off with some difficulty, only for the thing to latch onto her helm. Its claws reached into the helm, trying to pry out her eyes. She hastily undid her chinstrap and shoved the helm off, just so she could dash the thing's head against the stones.

It took four blows before it went limp. Marnon paused to catch her breath, assessing the situation through a curtain of red, shoulder-length hair. The dwarven force was completely outnumbered and scattered, the black spread of darkspawn thick throughout the chamber, only occasionally broken up but a cluster of shiny dwarf fighters.

"My Lady!" Gorim panted, a new red line across his face where a sword had struck. "They flanked us!"

"Indeed," she agreed. "We've been outmaneuvered by mindless monsters… how is that even possible?"

"It's not. Not unless something is controlling them."

She shook her head in disbelief. They needed to retreat and reassess, she realized. The thaig was lost, and there was no point losing any more perfectly good warriors on a lost battle. She looked around for the Commander, hoping he would agree…

…only to find him in the fight of his life with a creature four times his size. An ogre.

The Commander's defenders were a bloody pile on the cavern floor, so the Commander stood alone against the beast. It was huge, and horned, and far more fearsome than anything Marnan had ever encountered in the Deep Roads. It let out a monstrous bellow, and answering cries could be heard among the swarm.

The Commander stood his ground, much to his honor. He dodged a slam that might have crushed him, swiping his sword along the back of the thing's knees.

The ogre barely seemed to notice the injury, whirling around to swipe a heavy arm at the Commander. The dwarf was caught in it this time, and thrown farther than could possibly have been healthy.

"Commander Blackstone!" Marnan cried, and dove in to take on the great beast herself. She thought she heard Gorim yell something behind her—it sounded like a protest—but she couldn't worry about that.

She swung her axe right into the darkspawn's exposed back—it wasn't hard to miss on a monster that big. The blade buried in near the spine, causing the monster to roar and spin back around. Marnan, for her part, held onto her axe, which was solidly stuck in the thing's thick hide. Thus when the ogre whirled, so did she, dangling from her weapon like an armor-plated puppet.

The ogre's arms tried to reach around the grab her, but it couldn't seem to get to her. She smiled and braced herself against the monster, then surged upward. Daringly, she whipped a hand up and climbed, reaching one of the beast's horns. It whipped its head around and roared, but she clung on with the strength and tenacity of one born of the stone.

Her axe was left in its lower back, unfortunately, and she dared not loose her grip enough to retrieve it.

Instead, there was that familiar voice again. "My Lady! Catch!"

She looked up through the wild red mess that her un-helmed hair had become, and saw Gorim charging for her. He raised his own sword and let it loose, and it soared through the air between them.

She risked releasing a hand and lunged up, catching the sword blade-down in midair. Then, bracing against the back of the ogre's skull with her knees, she dared to grip the weapon with both hands, and brought it down swiftly and brutally into the darkspawn's eye. It roared in pain, and time seemed to slow down as it tumbled.

She released her hold on the beast as it fell, falling less-than-gracefully from the thing's back. Gorim was there to catch her, saving her from too much injury, helmetless as she was.

"My Lady, the Commander…"

Abruptly, she recalled the leader of their force, and broke away from Gorim's grip to hurry toward the broken form not far off. The battlefield was wet and slippery with gore, so she slipped slightly as she threw herself down beside him.

"….Lady… Aeducan…"

He was still alive, thank the Stone.

"Commander, we must retreat. The darkspawn… they flanked us."

"Call it… My Lady…" The brave Commander's eyes blinked blearily up at her, the light slowly fading from them. His breath was wheezy, and it looked like part of his chestplate had caved in. She was not so naïve as to think that he could be saved from this.

"You are very courageous, Commander Blackstone. I will be sure to tell your family of the honor you earned them here."

His smile was weak, but warm. "That is… all I can… ask… My Lady…" His last wheezing breath slipped out from his lips, and Marnan bowed her head in a moment of solemnity.

It couldn't last long, though, for other darkspawn were beginning to amass. Only the swords of Gorim and other brave warriors had provided her with even this respite.

Decisively, Marnan stood. "Fall back! Retreat into the tunnels! Where is that blasted trumpet?!"

Someone—a dark-skinned dwarf with a blond beard poking through his helmet—managed to find the horn in the gore. He immediately started blowing out the retreat cadence. Marnan watched as what was left of the dwarven line surged back, pushing against the darkspawn with enough force to break through. She raised her hand and pointed to the exit tunnel nearest the bulk of the line, and the survivors surged into it.

Marnan cast one last look over the battlefield: the rockslide, the ogre corpse, her fallen brethren. As she did, she felt pride and sadness, courage and uncertainty. This battle was lost, but it had been fought well, and there would be more to come. There were always more battles to come, and Marnan fully intended to be a part of them.

That was, provided her father let her continue to risk herself in this kind of battles, rather than the more complex (but just as deadly) kind that most of the nobility favored.

Darkspawn, she could handle with honor and courage. It was the prospect of facing the Assembly about this that terrified her.

Chapter Text

Felicity Amell was a master of the art of storming. She could out-storm the most pompous of nobles, the most intimidating of warriors, and the most powerful of magisters, because, once stirred, her anger was something to be feared, and she would not cease the tempest until she had seen that whatever had upset her had been corrected.

Or so he had once told her, laughter proprietarily hidden behind his helmet.

The fearfulness of her righteous fury was never better demonstrated than now, as she stalked through the halls of the Circle Tower. She had one book tucked under her arm (a historical account of the Fourth Blight), but its presence was irrelevant, merely a vestige of the dutiful studies she had been engaged in when word had reached her.

The mages were leaving.

Well, not all of them, obviously. Some were to stay behind, continuing their studies as usual. That was part of the problem.

Felicity whirled around a corner and through an open doorway, and there stood the intended target of her storming, serenely packing her bags. Senior Enchanter Wynne smiled warmly up at Felicity as she entered.

"Ah, it's good to see you, Miss Amell. Have you come by to say your farewells? If so, you mustn't worry."

"Why aren't I coming with?" the young woman snapped. Her black hair and mahogany skin made the outrage in her dark eyes flash all the brighter.

Wynne did not look surprised by the demand. She unbent from over her bags, taking a moment to stretch her back. "Ah, I remember when I was so impatient."

Felicity didn't have time for Wynne's lectures. The senior enchanter was something of a mentor to her, so Felicity felt the older woman owed her an explanation for this. "I have always been the top of my class. I have an excellent grasp of magical theory, herbalism, history, tactical theory… all things that will no doubt be useful on a battlefield. And I've been studying the darkspawn day and night ever since word reached us that the king was calling the mages in. I know things. I can help!"

Take me away from here! Away from him!

Wynne thought, obviously choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps the First Enchanter thought it best not to interrupt your studies. If I recall, you are working on no less than three theses at the moment, correct?"

"Well, yes…" Felicity fumbled, momentarily losing her grip on her anger as she considered that. "It would be a pity to set aside my study on the connection between entropic magic and… but no! That's not the point!" She shook her head, resolutely pulling her anger around her again. "This is a snub! I wasn't even approached with the offer!"

"Not all mages in the Tower were. And consider, Miss Amell, that you are amongst the most junior of the Circle. Our youth are our future. I suspect Irving did not want to risk as promising a scholar as you."

Felicity sagged, her energy seeping out of her as her anger did. Replacing it came a wave of bitterness. "We both know there's more to it than that." She wrinkled her nose, staring down at the book that was for some reason still in her arms. "The king wants power, doesn't he? Magical power, I mean. He wants fireballs, and quagmires, and the wrath of the Maker summoned from on high. And I can't provide that."

Wynne's eyes were gentle with compassion as she stepped forward and enfolded the younger mage into a warm hug. "It will come, my dear, if you only have the will and the patience. And I know you well enough to know that you certainly do have the will."

After a moment, Felicity pulled back and tried to master herself. She blinked back the tears that had suddenly come to her eyes, taking deep breaths so as not to let them fall. A mage was dignified and wise… they didn't cry like spurned schoolgirls just because the bigger kids didn't want to play with them. "I simply don't understand… why is it so hard for me? I understand the theory perfectly… you take the elements and fold them in the desired fashion to suit your ends, and then exert your magical energy proportionally to achieve the desired effect. There are so many treatises on different meditation techniques that can augment the placement of-"

Wynne laid a gentle hand on Felicity's shoulder, silencing her. With utmost confidence, Wynne repeated, "It will come. You are a brilliant young woman, Miss Amell, and a wonderful student, if I do say so myself. The Circle is truly blessed to have such a mind among our ranks. Truly, I would hate to risk your safety at Ostagar, when you have such potential ahead of you."

Felicity wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe, giving up the battle. She cast the older mage a watery smile. "I suppose I should be content with that, then."

Wynne nodded and took a step back toward her bag, then paused, seeming to think of something. She turned back to Felicity with a thoughtful smile. "There is one more lesson, perhaps, that I can give you before I leave."

"Wynne, I am hardly the quiet little apprentice anymore."

"My dear, you never were particularly quiet, when it came to learning." Wynne smiled, mischief sparkling in her deep eyes. "Which is perhaps for the best, as one never does stop learning. Even at my age, the world contains its own lessons."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "If only so you can impart them on those younger than you, I suppose."

"What good, I ask, is having learned said lessons if no one else gains the benefit? Ah, but I am straying off topic." Wynne bent to dig through her bags for a moment, and stood back up holding a sewing needle. "This is something we've worked on before, you recall, and you did seem to have a great deal better grasp on it than most of my students." Felicity was confused, until she added, "Excepting, perhaps, certain mages who have recently escaped again."

Felicity perked up, clutching the book to her chest in anticipation. "You speak of healing magic? But the creation branch of study is hopelessly complex. It can not be properly taught in a single lesson."

"The theory is certainly complex, but I suspect you of all people will not have much problem with that. The practical application is really quite simple, requiring none of the forcefulness nor manipulation of primal or spirit manifestations. You must merely first understand that which you are affecting."

Felicity leaned forward, taking the needle when offered. "But, as you've said, we've been over it before. Unsuccessfully."

"Because the lesson lacked a practical element. I could hardly have let you apprentices prick yourselves, now could I? Goodness, the Templars would have gone absolutely mad."

"Prick our… like blood magic?"

"No, no, of course not… but it would not be unexpected for them to jump to such conclusions. Don't you agree?"

Felicity nodded, sharing a mischievous look with Wynne. "So, now that I am a full mage, it is hardly your place to say whether I might or might not prick myself."

"I should not be surprised that you understand so easily."

Felicity carefully set the tome aside and inspected the needle. "So what do I do?"

"Merely understand that which you heal, Felicity. Understand it so fully that you merge with it and become one with it. Then let your energy flow into it, guiding it to where it needs to go, and the affected area will do the rest."

Felicity nodded, carefully lowering the needle to the back of her hand. She bit her lip as she pricked the tip into her skin, wincing as she drew blood. Then, she pulled the needle across the skin, creating a shallow, but irritated, scratch.

She closed her eyes and let her magic flow into the injured hand. She could picture the hand from her anatomy studies… all the bones and muscles that came together to form the universal instrument. She let her magic rush through it, until it coalesced on the tiny injury. Warmth infused the area, and then a sudden itching as the broken skin knit back together. When she opened her eyes and released her magic, the skin was smooth and unmarred.

"Very good, Miss Amell. I do believe I told you so."

Felicity couldn't help the excited smile she cast at the elder woman. "This is… oh, thank you Wynne!"

"It is, as ever, my pleasure. Now, do make sure to practice every day. You can only get stronger and more confident by doing so."

Felicity nodded, pocketing the needle. "Thank you… and… good luck at Ostagar."

"Thank you. I have the utmost confidence that, if Ferelden works together, we can succeed. I will have returned before you even know I'm gone… particularly if you bury yourself in your studies as much as you usually do."

The gentle teasing made Felicity blush, but she was too elated over her personal accomplishment to take any offense. "I… have rather busied myself since my Harrowing, haven't I?" And not necessarily in studying, more the fool I.

"I daresay these last months have been the happiest and most productive I've seen you. And that is certainly saying something."

The younger mage smiled shakily and turned to start away, and then paused, the mention of Harrowings bringing up something else that had been bothering her lately.

"Is there something else, dear?"

Hesitantly, Felicity turned back to face Wynne fully. "There is one thing. There have been whispers among the other mages. I… I was wondering if they were true."

Wynne regarded her curiously. "I would say that would depend upon the whispers, though it's hardly polite to listen to gossip."

It was probably a good thing Wynne did not listen to current gossip, but that wasn't pertinent to this discussion. "Well, it is simply… they are saying that the next Harrowing will be Kazar Surana."

"Ah." The elder mage spoke that single word as if it contained all the understanding in the world… a mildly perplexing puzzle clicking into place.

"Is it true?" Felicity demanded, finding an echo of that righteous indignation that had brought her here in the first place. "If so, you must realize he is far too young. One of the youngest to have been put through the Harrowing, if my readings on it are to be believed. Really, sixteen?"

"You are not upset about his youth," Wynne said, ever the shrewd one.

Felicity's rant was cut short at that, and she took a moment to muster herself. "Well, it's just… the timing. They intend to take him to Ostagar, don't they?" Bitterly, she glared at Wynne, daring the elder to deny it. "And why not, I suppose? A mage as talented at wreaking destruction and havoc as him ought to do quite well at decimating an army of darkspawn, right? And I'm sure the little cretin would enjoy it, too. Everyone benefits."

"Felicity." Wynne's voice was gentle, but firm. "Even if the rumors were true that Kazar will be Harrowed soon—which, given his natural aptitude, I would certainly not be surprised—I assure you that Irving has no intention of sending him to Ostagar. As you said yourself, Mr. Surana is far too young, and he has that… rather volatile personality to account for as well. Rest assured that neither Uldred nor I would permit him to come with us."

That soothed her outrage. "Truly?"

"Truly. Now go attend to your studies, my dear. I suspect you have a number of projects waiting for you."

Felicity sighed and nodded, retrieving her book from where she'd set it. She turned to leave, and then paused once more.

"Really, now…"

Felicity studied her slippers. "Stay safe, Wynne. I couldn't have gotten as far as I have here without you… I fear the other enchanters find me quite insufferable."

"Hardly true, my dear, but I do appreciate the sentiment. Farewell."

"Farewell." Felicity cast one last smile back, then finally left. Her step was much lighter as she crossed the Tower back to her studies.

Chapter Text

"All right, Hugo. Just like we talked about."

The mabari barked softly in response to Percival's whisper. Kneeling as the noble was, he was at his hound's eye level.

"Remember… adorable eyes," he whispered conspiringly. "You're a cute little puppy. No digging in the flowerbed or getting too sloppy with the kisses, all right?"

Hugo quirked his head to one side with a soft whine.

"Well, yes. You can give some kisses… but no sloppy ones. That's my job, and you know it."

The mabari barked once again, and, at Percival's pat, bounded out of the bushes and across the courtyard.

Percival remained hidden, crouched in the bushes on one side of the Cousland estate's courtyard. The position kept him from prying eyes (although, admittedly, not particularly well, since his sandy blond hair, swept dashingly back into a tail of course, did tend to catch the sunlight) while still affording him a view of the entire yard. It was a vital position for observing his current prey.

She was a pretty blond thing: the daughter of one of the knights his father had summoned for the march south. She would be worried about her father's upcoming battles, and afraid of the unfamiliar environment. It was a challenge that was, in all honestly, beneath his skills… but that bust and those eyes simply made her impossible to turn down, unsportsmanlike though it may be.

She startled as the mabari came bounding up to her, nearly dropping her needlework, and Percy wondered if he shouldn't have told Hugo to approach calmly. Ah well, too late to call him back now.

"Nice dog…" she said uncertainly, leaning away from him in obvious fear. Percy snorted to himself, as ever surprised that anyone could find Hugo intimidating. Then again, he was the imprinted master, so he supposed the mabari gave him special treatment.

Hugo played his part well enough. He sat on the grass outside of threatening range, cocking his head and whining softly in a plea to be petted. Percy couldn't tell from his vantage point, but he was certain the mabari was giving the girl the full force of his puppy-dog eyes.

It was a look that Percival Cousland wasn't half bad at pulling off himself.

Tentatively, the girl reached out and patted Hugo's head. Hugo's tail started wagging gleefully at the attention, but he was smart enough not to start barking and rolling around like he probably wanted to. Instead, he sat still, letting the girl become more confident in her attention.

"Well, you're just a sweet doggie, aren't you?" the girl said, smiling as she scratched behind Hugo's ears. Hugo responded with a couple happy licks to the girl's hand. She subtly wiped it on her skirts. "Where's your master, I wonder?"

That was his cue. Percival bounded up to the dog, pretending to be relieved to have found him. "Hugo, there you are! Wandering off again! Bad dog!"

The mabari tilted his head with a confused whine, but it didn't matter because the girl was quick to jump to the dog's defense (Percy liked her more and more). "He wasn't doing anything wrong, sir. Just saying hi, really."

"Well, I'm sorry if he bothered you. I love the dog, but by the Maker is he ever a handful."

"Really, he wasn't any trouble." She smiled. "It's sweet that you care for your dog like that."

"And why wouldn't I? Thank you very much, my lady, for finding him."

Her face went red, but her smile brightened further, her gaze lowering demurely. "Oh, I'm no lady… you may call me Yulie."

"Ah, Yulie. A beautiful name… fit finely to such a beautiful girl."

Her blush turned scarlet, but that was definitely interest sparking in her eyes. An innocent sort of interest, truly, though it was full of curiosity. Percival had no qualms about sating such curiosity. "Well, I thank you, my lord, for your kind words. Might I have your name?"

"Percy. Tell me, Yulie, what brings you to Highever? I don't know that I've seen you before… surely, I would have remembered."

Her hand covered her face, but she didn't protest as he lowered himself onto the bench beside her. "We're staying here while my father marches south with the rest of the teyrn's men. What of you? Do you live here?"

He nodded. "That I do. My father, too, is marching south, as is my elder brother."

Her blue eyes widened fretfully. "A brother, too? You must be so worried for them!" Such pretty, clear blue eyes.

"That I am… frightfully so. I would that I could go with them, but I must stay and look after my mother while they are away."

"That is very sweet of you."

He smiled, and he could practically see the effect his Maker-blessed facial features were having on her. He couldn't deny it: he knew he was handsome—all manly lines, an athletic build, golden hair, and just enough stubble about his chin to hint at roguish charm. It was like the Maker wanted him to be like this, really. "Kind of you to say so. Tell me, do you have someone to look after you while your father is away?"

She shook her head. Shyly, she said, "Perhaps…" her gaze flickered to the longsword Percival always wore strapped across his back. "Oh, I hate to impose…"

"Say no more, my dear Yulie. I will certainly do what I can to protect you." He took her hand and kissed the back, and she practically melted right there on the bench. Percival wondered whether this wasn't going just a bit too quickly to be truly any fun.

"Unhand her, knave!"

Ah, never mind. Enter the obstacle that would make the hunt so much sweeter.

Percival turned to see an older man stalking across the yard toward them. He was dressed in chain and carrying a worn broadsword in one hand. Yulie jumped from the bench. "Father! It's not… he's not…"

"Yulie, stay out of this." The knight stopped in front of Percy to glare down at him menacingly. "Don't think I didn't see the look in your eyes, boy. My daughter will not be sport for some lowlife rake!"

Percival couldn't help but be amused, because this man certainly didn't know who he was. However, he was content to let it continue as such, if it made things more interesting. He quirked an eyebrow up at the older man. "I can't help but notice, good ser, that you have your sword drawn. Do you intend perhaps to use steel to make your point?"

"I know of no better way. Stand down, or draw your own."

"For a lady as lovely as your daughter, I fear I must meet your challenge, ser." He stood and grinned, his own sword slipping out of its sheath with an exhilarating hiss.

The knight's sword came down at him, and the battle was joined.

The knight was skilled, as was hardly surprising of one of his rank and experience. However, his moves were fairly typical of Highever forces, who were exactly the kinds of fighters Percy had trained with all his life. The man's steady, straightforward swinging held no surprises, much to Percival's disappointment. He parried each blow sent toward him, and was quick to cut in with his own. The other man was obviously thrown off guard by his skill, perhaps not expecting the younger to actually be passing handy with a blade.

It made Percival smile. He may succumb to the vice of Sloth in most areas of his life, but there were two things he was very, very good at. One of those things was swordplay.

Well, the other one was too. After a fashion.

Percival's velvet outfit was soon matted with sweat as he dodged and struck. He'd gotten two touches in quick succession, where the knight only had one. Yulie watched the duel with a fretful expression, biting her lip as her gaze passed between them. Hugo stood beside her, barking happily in encouragement.

The knight swept in, the older man's fatigue making him reckless, and Percival swept his sword aside. Then, the younger man stepped into his reach to place the blade of his sword square at the knight's throat. Defeated, the older man lowered his own blade and stepped back.

Glowering, the knight admitted, "You're a good hand with a sword; I'll give you that."

"It certainly is the only thing he puts any effort into," a voice spoke behind them. "Or rather, one of two things." Percival turned sheepishly to greet his father, who arched an aristocratic eyebrow at him. "Picking fights with my men, are you, Pup?"

"To be fair, Father, he issued the challenge. Not I."

"And I'm certain you gave him no cause, then?" Bryce Cousland cast a meaningful look at Yulie, who was still standing fretfully off to one side. Percival rubbed the back of his neck, grinning, and he could tell his father was being very careful not to be amused by any of this.

The knight, for his part, looked horrified. He stared wide-eyed at Percival, obviously realizing that he'd called the son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever a "lowlife rake." Then, the man threw himself to his knee in front of Percival. "My… my apologies, my young lord. I had no idea."

"Obviously not," Percival laughed.

"It's fine, Ser Gerald," Father spoke up, gesturing for the man to stand. "This is my younger son, Percival. Pup, this is Ser Gerald. A man I would prefer fighting at my side with his whole mind at Ostagar, not worrying that his daughter's virtue may be prey to your charms back here." The admonition was firm enough, though certainly nothing like what Mother or Nan could have doled out.

All the same, Percival sighed. "I apologize, Father. And to you, Ser Gerald. But, your daughter is truly lovely…" He gazed at her fondly, and she blushed and gave him a little smile. "I simply couldn't help myself."

"Really, Pup. If you only put as much effort into disciplining yourself as you did into your swordwork…"

Percy shrugged, unapologetic. "Discipline has never been one of my virtues."

"Of that, Nan has taken pains to inform me." There, Bryce cracked the barest of smiles. "Now, off with you before you make this situation any worse. I have other matters to discuss with Ser Gerald, here."

Percival bowed and turned to leave, but he could feel Yulie's blue-eyed gaze following him. She looked… enchanted. Ensnared by the roguish noble's son who thought to give her attention.

Subtly, he turned and winked at her, a promise of things to come. And thus he left the courtyard on a high note, Hugo trailing gaily at his heels.

Chapter Text

"We are dead. We are so very, very dead." Leske banged his head back against the unforgiving stone wall, wishing that it would swallow him up before Jarvia or someone came back. "I thought we were in trouble when he caught us trying to smuggle that lyrium, but this is gonna be so much worse…"

"Would you shut up?" His companion's voice rumbled from the other cell. "Beraht's not gonna kill us."

"No, he's gonna torture us first. Make us pay for what happened in pain… then he's gonna kill us."

"He's not. Gonna kill us." The shadows in the adjoining cell diagonal to his shifted, and Leske thought he could maybe see his friend's hazel eyes glittering out of them. His companion's dirt-colored skin and dust-brown hair were certainly too hard to make out. They always made his friend seem to blend into the shadows, even when he wasn't trying to. "We're not gonna let him."

"Uh-huh… and so just how are we not going to let him, huh?" Leske stood and walked to the bars of his cell, hoping to get a better view of his friend. "Oh, I know… you can sneak out of here by stealing Jarvia's armor. Just mind the boss doesn't try to grope you on your way out."

The shadows moved again, and a figure detached from them. Garott's corn-rows were a mess, and the dim light illuminated very little of his scruffy, broad-featured face. What little Leske could see was glaring at him. "You must've gotten hit on the head, too, Leske," the other duster's rumbling bass said. "Because I seem to remember that stealing Everd's armor was your idea."

Leske slumped against the bars, because the other dwarf had a point. "We shoulda killed that drunk in the pits."

"No use dwelling on it," Garott turned away from the bars, and Leske lost sight of him again. The duster did, however, hear something shuffling around, and then a soft snap.

"…Hey, what are you doing?"

"Coming up with a plan."

"Oh goody." Leske dropped to the floor again. "Hope this one works better than your 'let's try to sneak lyrium out of a crowded tavern' one. Genius, buddy. Genius."

"Says the one who decided a duster could pose as a warrior, and then didn't have the brains to at least tie the real warrior down so he didn't wander onto the field and expose everything."

Leske opened his mouth to protest, then sighed. "Yeah. We've both been dumbasses lately, huh?"

Garott made a low rumbling sound that might have been a grunt of agreement, a growl, or a laugh. Sometimes, it was hard to tell with him.

Leske sat in silence for a moment, listening to the continued sounds of rustling in the other cell, punctuated by occasional wooden cracks.

"Really, what are you doing?"

"There are some bits of old wood in here. Splinters."

"And so… we're going to… what? Throw wood shavings at the guard?"

"No, we're gonna punch the guard in the face and take his stuff. After using the splinters to pick the lock."

Leske blinked, thoughtful. "Will that even work? Using wood to pick a metal lock?"

"Only one way to find out, ain't there?" The sounds in Garott's cell paused. "And it's not like we don't have time to try. Beraht's not gonna want us to die too quick."

Leske groaned, again wanting to pound his head into the stone until oblivion came. "How in the name of the Ancestors do you make being slowly tortured over a period of days or weeks sound like a good thing?"

"What can I say?" Garott's voice rumbled, and this time, it was a laugh. "I'm an eternal optimist. Now shut your trap and let me save our asses."

And that's what Leske did.

Chapter Text

As Keeper of the Sabrae Clan, Marethari had seen her share of tragedies, and she had little doubt that she would see more. It was the way of the Dalish, to bear their tragedies with dignity and strength, nurturing the seeds that the past gave them so that the future might bud and thrive.

That did not, however, make the sight before her any easier to bear.

The worst of the young warrior's sickness had abated, for the time being. The young woman was up and moving about with the same pride that she always had… to a stranger, it might perhaps seem that Meila Mahariel was not ill at all.

Marethari, however, was no stranger. There were signs, and telling ones. It was in the way Meila's step across the rough ground was slightly less confident as she retrieved her arrows from the practice range. It was in the way her bow quivered as she raised it once more to take aim. It was in the upward tilt of her chin as she loosed the next arrow, defying her aim to falter, and then in the way that it inevitably did, the arrow striking the target a hairsbreadth from the center.

Meila Mahariel was dying, and the young warrior knew it, deep down.

The Keeper sensed a presence moving up to stand beside her a moment before the stranger spoke. "I admit, I certainly did not expect her to be back at it so soon. Any other victim of the Taint would be at rest."

"You obviously do not know her, nor us, Duncan."

"I apologize if I offended." This human, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, was cautious with his words, but honest and brave where it mattered. Marethari could respect that. In addition, she could hardly begrudge the man who had saved the young hunter's life, and who was seeking to do so again.

Marethari turned away from the sight of Meila at archery practice, turning her full attention to the Warden. "Do not apologize, merely learn. Our people are proud, Warden, and Meila is prouder than most. She will not easily agree to go with you."

"Certainly, she can be convinced to see reason," Duncan began, but then paused at Marethari's doubtful expression. "Truly? She would refuse my offer, even if doing so means her death?"

"You must understand, Duncan. To submit to a human is something we Dalish have sworn never to do again. To her, this will seem a submission, which she will then see as a betrayal of the clan. She will rather die than betray the clan."

Duncan was silent for a time, casting his gaze over to the warrior in question, at practice at the camp's archery range.

Meila was lithe, but strong, her tanned skin decorated with the vallaslin of Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt. Her fierce forest green eyes were, as ever, trained entirely on her target, unflinching even as she loosed her bowstring. Her hair was red as wildfire and strung with various beads that she had carved herself from the bones of her slain hunts… the only trophies the young woman allowed herself to indulge in.

In another time and place, Meila might have been considered beautiful, with her smooth face and easy grace, but Meila was too hard and intense for any man to have ever considered courting her as more than a passing thought. Marethari suspected that was the way the young huntress preferred it—she had never shown interest in any of the young men of the clan, only in her duty. The girl was as strong and proud as a grand oak tree, and just as immovable once she had set her roots down.

Marethari did not want to see her fall because of it.

"What do you suggest I do?" Duncan's voice asked, and the Keeper was impressed. The Warden's voice was genuinely querying, trusting in her wisdom and experience in this matter. A rare human indeed.

"Nothing, for the moment. I will speak with her."

Duncan nodded. They both saw Meila double over briefly, her face contorted with pain. Marethari laid a hand on Duncan's arm, wordlessly keeping him from going to the young elf's side. A moment later, Meila straightened again, her face as impassive and her posture as strong as if the previous seconds had never occurred.

"I see what you mean, Keeper," Duncan said. "I shall leave it to you, then."

"You are a wise one, Warden. We will come speak with you in a moment."

Marethari stepped forward, turning her attention fully to the warrior in front of her. A warrior, and an accomplished one… but also still a child in many ways. "Da'len, I would speak with you."

Meila lowered her bow and respectfully turned to greet the Keeper. "What is it, hahren? Have you spoken with the shemlen about my cure?"

"I have." She drew up beside the young woman, mustering her strength to speak these words. For the girl's sake. "You will not like it."

Meila's brow knit in confusion, but she did not speak. It was not her way to question the Keeper, who was the mouth of the clan. To one such as Meila, the clan was everything. That was what would make this so difficult.

"Duncan will be leaving soon. You must go with him, da'len."

Meila's green eyes lit with inner fire, but she remained otherwise hard and immovable. "You ask me to leave the clan? I realize I have only brought hardship these past days. What happened to Tamlen because of my complacency weighs on my soul, and I will gladly pay penance for it. But… to cast me out is… disproportionate."

It was as close to a plea as the huntress ever got. The fire in the girl's eyes held anger, and resolution, of course, but also fear. "I am not casting you out, da'len. In truth, I wish there were some other way. But it seems that the Creators have crafted you for a different purpose than we had anticipated, and your path must diverge from ours."

"I do not understand." Flat. Defiant. Hiding much fear.

"When I was treating your illness, da'len, I noticed things about it. It corrupts rather than destroys, and that is what makes it impossible to cure by any means the Creators have bestowed upon me. According to Duncan, this is the taint of the darkspawn. I have managed to delay it, da'len, but I cannot stop it. The only known cure is to become a Grey Warden."

Meila's green eyes flashed at the mention of the Warden's name. "And you would trust the word of a shemlen?"

"The Grey Wardens have long been allies to our people," Marethari said sternly. "This you know. This is why I trust that human to do what is best for you, dear child."

"I will not do it." And then, as if deeming the discussion over, Meila raised her bow and returned to her target practice.

Marethari's slow temper stirred, but she tamped it down. This was not Merrill, who could be led with a mere expression of disapproval. Light touches, with this child. "It is either that, or die."

"Then I will die. Better to die here among the elvhen than to walk with the shemlen and not have the right to exact payment for their crimes."

Marethari sighed. "Then what of us, da'len? Do you not care that your clan would prefer that you live?"

That made the huntress pause, her jaw tightening. Slowly, the girl lowered her bow again. "What good could I be to the clan if my bow is not here to fight for it?"

"You could do much good for the clan, merely by fighting that which might consume our lands if left alone. If the darkspawn taint the land, the elvhen will have no homeland to rediscover."

Meila stared across the range at her target. The young warrior was faltering, the harsh wood of the great oak finally bowing. It was testament to just how much this taint was affecting her. And testament to her own strength that she continued to fight against it.

"Do it for Tamlen, da'len. Destroy that which destroyed him. That is how you might honor his memory. It is what the Creators crafted you for."

Meila's gaze dropped, finally, in defeat. "Very well, hahren. I will… go with the shemlen. For Tamlen."

Tentatively, Marethari reached out and placed a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder, as she had not done for many years. Meila merely shrugged her off and raised her bow to continue her archery practice. Marethari made no comment about the tears she saw in the proud warrior's eyes.

When the time came, after Tamlen's funeral had been resolved, the clan embraced their wayward sister one last time. Meila bore their farewells with the strength and courage that Marethari had come to expect in the young woman, walking with chin held high as Duncan led her off into the forest.

But when Meila reached the top of the final ridge that would take her out of sight of her clan, her head turned one last time to look back, and the Keeper could read all of Meila's heartbreak and terror in that gesture alone.

"Walk ever forward, da'len. Never hesitating, nor looking back." Marethari said quietly. "Walk forward until our paths cross again."

Chapter Text

Jowan hurried through the corridors of the Circle Tower, his shoes scuffing loudly against the stone floor.

Whispers had passed through the tower mere minutes ago: Kazar was awake, and, apparently, not as demon-possessed as several of the Templars had been wagering. One of the Templars had even joked that he was "tempted to stab that uppity knife-ears anyway, and claim he was."

At least, Jowan hoped it was a joke. Please Maker, let it have been a joke.

The apprentice ran his right hand absently along the tiny scar on his left wrist as he walked. Jowan hadn't even found out that Kazar had been taken away until early that morning, when he'd returned to the apprentice quarters to find Kazar's bunk empty. Jowan had been out of bed all night himself, first with Lily, and then practicing his… new hobby.

Not that he meant anything bad by it, of course. It was just supposed to give him the edge he needed to be submitted for his Harrowing.

He entered the quarters and headed to the last row of bunks down the line. Sure enough, Kazar was awake… and staring at the brand new mage robes in his lap as if they were a poisonous asp.

"So…? How does it feel?" Jowan asked, coming to rest against his own bunk, which was opposite Kazar's.

The elf wrinkled his nose. "How is it that something can feel like both a badge of honor and a leash at the same time?"

Finally, Kazar looked up and met Jowan's eyes, and Jowan was surprised to see no real happiness in his fellow's expression. Instead, those grey eyes held only their usual cynicism and hints of that ever-present temper that the elf was so infamous around the Tower for… expressions that were ill suited to such a young face.

And Kazar was young. At sixteen, he was—as of this morning—one of the youngest mages to ever pass the Harrowing. He looked it, too: he was small and delicate, even by elven standards. His strawberry blond hair was styled in a boy's cut: cut short and feathered... though he claimed he kept it like that so it didn't get in the way during spellcasting. The way Kazar Surana approached spellcasting, Jowan believed that.

The elf's face was traced with light tattoos that suggested a fire dancing across it, fearsome and beautiful at the same time. Many of the younger apprentices believed that the elf had been given those tattoos before he came to the Tower, and that it meant he was Dalish. Older apprentices, like Jowan, remembered well that this was not the case. Kazar had simply shown up to class with them one day when he was twelve. When asked about them, the elf offered no explanation.

Besides, Kazar had been brought to the Tower when he was four. Everyone knew he didn't remember his real family, so what would it matter if he was Dalish?

Jowan sagged against his bed, discouraged at his young friend's lack of enthusiasm. "I admit, I would have thought you'd be more excited."

"Tch." Kazar picked at a stitch in the mage robes. "Sure, I am. Now I get to walk on the second floor of the Circle Tower without getting funny looks. Hurrah and huzzah, I feel the world opening up before me."

"Well, at least your Harrowing's over and done with, right?" Jowan paused to check that they were out of earshot of any other apprentices, then leaned in. "What was it like, by the way?"

Kazar arched an eyebrow at him, a knowing smile flickering across his tattooed face. "You really want to know?"

"Of course I do!"

"Nah, I don't think you do. Better to just let you sit and wait for your own. Half the fun is the mystery, you know."

"You are a very cruel little elf. Just so you know."

Finally, Kazar barked a laugh and beckoned Jowan forward. Jowan's heart was in his throat as he leaned over his smaller friend, even as Kazar's eyes danced with secrets. "They make you fight a demon."

Jowan's heart stuttered, and distant guilt flashed through him, quickly shoved aside. "Wh-what? You're… you're putting me on, aren't you?"

Kazar grinned, his eyes lit with excitement in a way Jowan had rarely seen from the younger apprentice. "I'm serious. They make you fight a demon." The elf laughed giddily and motioned for Jowan to step back, which he did.

Then, Kazar spread his hands in front of him, palms facing one another, and conjured a roaring flame between them. Jowan flinched back, momentarily taken off guard by the sudden heat and light. When he looked back, Kazar had shaped the fire into a creature that Jowan had seen only in books: a Rage Demon. While Jowan watched, Kazar made the manifestation gesture and swipe, like a puppeteer playing with a rather deadly puppet.

Then, just as abruptly as he'd summoned it, Kazar dismissed the flame and leaned forward again. "Did you know that Rage Demons are immune to fire?" he said, his voice picking up speed in obvious excitement. "I didn't. I kept blasting it with flames, but the demon didn't even feel it. So then, I switched to lightning, and zap!" Kazar illustrated the story by sending a thin bolt of lightning arcing over Jowan's head, making the older apprentice duck on reflex. "Dead demon!"

"Why do I get the feeling," Jowan said, hesitant to uncurl from his protective hunch, "that you enjoyed fighting the demon?"

"And why not?" Kazar snapped indignantly. "It sure as the Fade made a better target than a couple practice dummies or a shielded enchanter who's pulling his blows. With that demon, I didn't have to worry about being scolded for being too 'enthusiastic'." He rolled his eyes. "I ask you, how am I supposed to know what I can do if the only place I'm allowed to do it is in the Fade, which is literally in my dreams?"

"Perhaps now that you're a full mage, they'll let you practice a bit more freely."

Kazar fell back on his bed as he snapped, "On who? The Templars?" He paused, his eyes narrowing with a smirk. "Though I certainly wouldn't mind that. Just for curiosity's sake, of course… see how effective their so-called anti-magic disciplines are when they're simultaneously turned to stone and on fire."

"You have a rather disturbing imagination, my friend."

"It'd be funny, though, right?" Kazar's smirk broadened. "I think I'll write my first paper about it. 'The study of the effects of the Templar Order pissing me off'. I'd have to do some in-depth research… test it out on lots of Templars."

Jowan chuckled. "And to think that some people were suggesting they make you Tranquil."

Kazar laughed. "If they tried, I'd give them good reason to: nothing says 'Tranquilize me' like a fireball to the face, right? If they tried, I'd take this entire damned tower down with me." He smiled sharply, apparently getting lost in imaginings of doing just that.

Jowan bit his lip, his right hand once again going to that little scar on his left wrist. The mention of Tranquilling reminded him of why he'd sought out Kazar in the first place this morning.

However, it could wait. When Kazar was in one of his 'I like to burn things' moods… it… was not a good time to ask for favors. Then again, it rarely was.

Chapter Text

"I do not understand." Meila said flatly.

"I have received word of something that must be investigated in Orzammar." The shemlen actually acted sincere… the nerve of him. "I apologize, but I'm afraid your Joining must wait."

The only outward sign of her outrage was her jaw tightening. "You pull me from my people, take me overland to this ruin for some human ruler's stand against the darkspawn, and then tell me you are leaving me here alone? Is this a customary way for you humans to treat your warriors?"

The trio of Grey Wardens who had greeted Duncan and Meila as they'd come into Ostagar exchanged glances behind their commander's back. They'd borne an urgent message from the durgen'len, apparently… something that drew the Warden-Commander back out of Ostagar barely five minutes after they'd stepped foot in it.

"You will not be alone, Meila. There are many here who will help you get settled in. The king's men, the other Wardens, mages, and the like."

"All shemlen."

Duncan forged on. "There is one other recruit present, as well. A knight by the name of Ser Jory. Perhaps the two of you might meet."

"I have nothing to say to his kind."

Duncan's expression darkened. "'His kind' are going to be your comrades-in-arms. You will be, at the least, civil to them."

Meila looked hard at the human man, taking in the stern expression on his face, and the commanding tone of his voice. Perhaps if she had been a human, she might have balked. But she was not. She was Dalish. And the Dalish took orders from no human.

"Make me," she said defiantly. Then, she spun and stalked off, past the protesting guard out of camp and straight into the woods. If she had to wait in Ostagar for the shemlen Warden's convenience, she would at least be productive and independent.

She'd compromised once just by being here. Vir Bor'assan: bend but never break. She wasn't going to submit to his commands any more than necessary.

Chapter Text

At some point in the last two days, the weapons merchant who worked the stall on the northwest corner of the market square had picked up a pair of daggers.

Usually, Finian's fingers didn't get twitchy around the weaponsmith. Anything that could potentially be used against the gracious overlords wasn't allowed in the Alienage, and being caught with pointy things was more trouble than even Fin could probably weasel out of.

But still, his mother had instilled in him a certain appreciation for fine weaponry, so he liked to stop by the stall every now and then to admire the new wares.

The daggers were twins. They weren't particularly fancy: no gaudy jewels or gold leaf or anything equally flashy. No, the craftsmanship in these was simple and subtle. They were steel, the blades sharpened to a fine point that glittered in the morning sunlight. The crossguards were crisp and solid despite their delicacy, and the pommels the perfect size, so that Finian suspected they might be balanced for throwing as well as wielding.

Just looking at them was enough to make his fingers twitch, and not for the usual reasons. These were no easily pawnable jewels that could help pay for a new set of sheets at the Alienage orphanage, nor was it some Alienage elder's absolutely perfect gift, to be doled out when he next got into trouble. No, for once, these were things he wanted to have, just for the sheer pleasure of having them.

But how to get them past the Alienage guards? Well, it shouldn't be too difficult… he snuck things in and out of the Alienage all the time, the only difference being that these were specifically forbidden.

That had never really been a deterrent before, anyway.

Finian didn't even need to think about it anymore. One moment, he was striking up a conversation with the weapon merchant, pretending to be the curious servant of a lord interested in equipping his garrison. The next moment, he was walking away with one dagger stowed precariously up each sleeve, his prizes kept out of view merely by the particular way he curved his wrists.

It was a moment of triumph, as all such little thefts were. Finian couldn't deny the thrill of it: outwitting the mark, nudging them in just the correct fashion with words or guile, and then the subtle motions that distracted and misled at the same time they secured the desired item and hid it about his person. He didn't really even care all that much about monetary reward—though the ability to fund the Alienage's less fortunate was definitely a perk—no, to Fin, the real prize lay in the game itself.

He wondered if he'd still be able to play such games when he was married… to, Maker, a woman…? How would he even… no no. Best not to think about that now.

It took him by surprise, to want the daggers for their own sake, but he wasn't really of a mind to question it. Honestly, the things had reminded him of his mother, and he was content to leave it at that.

"Tabris, I'm beginning to think you want to be thrown in Fort Drakon for theft. If so, you need only have asked."

Finian paused, turning a cheeky grin to the familiar figure of Sergeant Kylon, the poor officer in charge of the Denerim market district. He must have really ticked off someone important, to be stationed in the criminal capitol of Ferelden.

"Well, you know me, sergeant… I'm too shy to speak my mind. Not good with words, you know."

"Hm, yes." The sergeant's posture was forbidding, yet tired. "Roll up your sleeves."

Ah, but the sergeant was too proficient at his job for his own good. Well, for Finian's good, anyway. "Is something the matter, sergeant? Or perhaps you have simply taken up an interest in peoples' wrist decorations? I understand embroidered bracelets have become something of the fashion in Antiva."

While he spoke, Finian carefully adjusted the dagger in his right sleeve so that it was more secure (having it fall out right now would be, while hilarious, badly timed), then used his right arm to fold the cuff of his left back, gripping the left-arm dagger through the cloth.

"Alas, as you know, we elves can't afford anything like that. Though I do know a couple elves that wear fine gloves. The Dalish make excellent leather gloves, they say." Finian showed the sergeant his bare left forearm. "As you can see, I'm not lucky enough to own a pair."

Sergeant Kylon stood through Finian's little show with a flat expression. That was something Finian liked about the sergeant; he obviously saw through the mask, but he was just too jaded to reach out and yank it off. Sometimes, Fin wondered whether old Kylon didn't get a little enjoyment out of the games they played too.

After a moment of silence, Kylon sighed and shook his head, exasperated. "Antivan bracelets? Really? Do you just make those up on the spot?"

Finian grinned brightly and pulled his sleeve back down, recognizing the sergeant's capitulation. "Would you know the difference if I did?"

"Regarding jewelry? Not one whit." Kylon sighed again and started off. "I'd tell you to keep your hands to yourself, Tabris, but we both know how effective that will be. Just… try not to pickpocket anyone important today, hm?"

"I do love our little chats. Same time tomorrow?"

"Probably," Kylon muttered as he walked off, disappearing among the stalls.

When he was gone, someone laughed nearby. "That was a fine bit of squirreling the sergeant, that was. Don't know that I've ever seen anyone treat a law officer like that and keep his tongue afterward."

Finian turned to see a wiry, scruffy man leaning casually against the mouth of the nearest alley. The man wore a crooked grin on his long face, as if sharing some joke. If the man hadn't been looking directly at him, Finian might have thought he was talking to someone else. Not many humans addressed elves out of the blue.

Ah well: Finian was, if anything, adaptable. "Sergeant Kylon and I have a strong relationship, forged by mutual apathy. It works well for us, so why change a good thing?"

"I certainly suppose so." The man laughed. "But still, you may want to take your own advice… some nice leather bracers can do wonders to keep things nice and secure, you know."

Finian eyed the man, while sticking his hands in his pockets so that he appeared non-threatening, but so he still could palm the pommels of his new daggers. "Know that from experience, huh?"

The man matched him grin for grin. "Might be that I do." He held out a hand. "Name's Daveth."

"Finian." The elf smirked and took the hand, noticing that this Daveth was, indeed, wearing leather bracers. "Do I have to pay for these tips in some horrible or degrading fashion, or are you new to Denerim?"

Daveth threw back his head and brayed a laugh. "That does about cover it, don't it? No, I just appreciate a good con when I see one. Never been much for it myself, you see. Too used to the old-fashioned cut-and-run."

"I've tried that, but it never works," Fin lamented. "All the guards know where I live, what with me being an elf and all."

"Ah, that does limit things, doesn't it?" A chuckle. "Well, anyway, I thought I'd just give you your dues from one peer to another. Maybe I'll see you around the district?"

"Probably will. All I ask is that you don't cut someone's purse while I'm trying to work them. It somewhat spoils the pitch, you know."

"Unless, of course, that's the point." Daveth winked, then slid back into the alleyway, disappearing into the shadows.

Finian adjusted the weight of the daggers in his sleeve as he headed toward the Alienage. Perhaps the human cutpurse had a point… and he knew a leatherworker in the Alienage who might have the time to whip him up a pair of bracers. It would make carrying these daggers around a possibility, to have such a form of concealment. All Fin needed was some pastries to satisfy the leatherworker's notorious sweet tooth…

Spotting a baker's cart crossing the district, Finian smiled and turned to take a quick detour. His fingers twitched in anticipation.

Chapter Text

Garott Brosca could not stop laughing.

The topsiders who were now his traveling companions obviously thought he was crazy, and maybe he was. But sod it, he'd won. He'd beat the warriors in their own arena. He'd outmaneuvered the nobles by escaping justice for his crimes (though that was mostly the Warden-Commander's doing). And he'd killed that slimy son-of-a-bitch Beraht.

And now, instead of living out the rest of his days as some casteless thug, or some surface dwarf lost to the Stone, he was becoming a Stone-damned Grey Warden. One of the highest honors a dwarf could earn, second only to sodding Paragonhood.

Oh, by the Stone. He should try to become a Paragon next. The very idea sent him into paroxysms of laughter.

As his latest bout died down, one of the Wardens—a narrow-faced human named Emmit—cast him a curious look. "This isn't usual for you, is it? If so, it seems an unusual tactic for battling darkspawn."

"What can I say, topsider? It's been a damn good week." He grinned and bit back a chortle. "Anyone else kick an oppressive system in the balls recently? No, just me?" His laughter slipped out, and there he went again.

Rica was cared for. Leske was out from under Beraht's thumb. Even that drunken whore of a mother of his had sobered up enough to goggle at his newfound status shift.

Best sodding week ever.

The Commander and another Warden returned from scouting a side tunnel, and Duncan only paused to give Garott the briefest of exasperated looks (and that didn't help the dwarf's state at all). "I believe we've found a way around the cave-in. This way."

The small group of Wardens started down the tunnel, leaving the grand, painstakingly constructed Deep Road for the rough-hewn labyrinthine corridors around it. A perfect metaphor for the whole of dwarven civilization, really. All pompous-ass grandeur, torn up and overtaken by dust.

Dust. Dusters. Oh boy, and there he lost it again.

"I'm beginning to worry about the mental stability of the new recruit, sir," one of the Wardens, Ira, told Duncan flatly.

"Fair bit more entertaining than that Dalish elf, though, isn't he?" said Emmit.

"Hmm," Duncan grunted noncommittally, the sly dog.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. "You think I'm crazy, huh? Obviously, you ain't met many dwarves." Garott's chuckles finally settled down into a crooked grin. "I think it's all the lava in Orzammar. Fries the brains."

"If that's the excuse you're going for," said the archer, Rehg.

Then, as one, all four Wardens tensed. Garott had been with them in the Deep Roads for a couple days now, so he knew what that meant. The smirk fell off his face as he unhooked his handaxe and dagger from his belt. Instinctively, he slid into the shadow cast by a crevice in the tunnel wall, his natural dusty coloring making him blend in with it, as it always did.

A moment later, a clump of wandering darkspawn rounded the corner of the tunnel ahead. They growled and charged, and the Wardens met them with gusto, arrows flying and swords banging.

Garott, for his part, was unnoticed, so he used it to his advantage, slipping up behind one that was itself trying to sneak up behind Ira. A handaxe to the hamstring disabused it of that tactic, and when the darkspawn whirled on Garott, it got a dagger up the nose for it.

He pulled his weapons out of the darkspawn corpse and whirled away, just in time for a massive hurlock to come barreling into him with a maul. Garott received only a glancing blow from the hammer, but even that hurt a great deal. His left side immediately started to throb where it had been hit, and his dagger dropped.

Growling low, Garott stooped to the ground and scooped up some dirt, still dodging the swooping maul. He then introduced that dirt intimately to the darkspawn's eyes, making the hurlock hiss and hesitate for just a moment. It was all Garott needed to slam his handaxe into a very unsportsmanlike part of the hurlock's anatomy (though who could say whether the blighters even used it?) and then scooped up his dagger and stab it under the thing's armor and into its heart.

The other Wardens were just finishing off the rest of the darkspawn band. They were efficient; Garott had to give them that. Then again, so was he.

"Let us move on," Duncan said, stowing his blades. "There could very well be more coming."

"Yeah, no doubt drawn by the sound of this one losing his mind." Rehg jerked a thumb toward the dwarf. Garott smirked and flipped his dagger before sheathing it.

The Wardens turned to make a swift exit from the scene of the skirmish, but Garott spotted some things on the field that got those wheels in his head turning. Among the darkspawn corpses were a bow, daggers, various bits of metal that had once been armor…

He let the Wardens get ahead of him, knowing he'd catch up in a moment. Instead, he deftly scooped up anything sharp or jagged and started tying them together, interlocking the scraps where he could.

"What are you doing?" one of the Wardens asked from up ahead. They'd stopped to watch him.

Garott smirked. "Giving any darkspawn that follow us a little present." Finished, he tossed the contraption on the ground in a narrow part of the corridor, kicking dust over it to conceal its presence from the unwary enemy. The claw trap was weak and probably wouldn't last beyond the first bite, but that was still one darkspawn leg torn open. "Think I should wrap it?"

Emmit snorted. "Looks good to me as it is."

Garott stepped up to join the Wardens, and they continued to delve into the Deep Roads together.

They were back on the main highway before they encountered anything else. As they were heading down a long hall, they heard something scuffling around from the tunnel up ahead. The Wardens' lack of reaction meant it wasn't a darkspawn, but Garott could hear the distinct creaking of armor. Rehg raised his bow, and Garott instinctively slipped into the nearest shadow. Whatever it was seemed to be getting closer, though at least it sounded like it was alone.

It took a minute, but soon enough a dwarf-sized figure in mismatched armor walked bold as you please out onto the Deep Road. At first Garott thought that it might be a genlock after all, but a look at the fair skin under its horned helm made Garott realize that the dwarf-sized form was actually a dwarf. Go figure.

The newcomer looked around for a moment, then spotted the Wardens and said, "There you are." Like she'd found a lost nug, not a pack of armed Grey Wardens two days into the Deep Roads.

The Wardens startled, but lowered their weapons. Duncan, as ever, took the initiative. "You were looking for us? Do you bear a message of some kind?"

"You might say that." The dwarf stepped toward them, taking off her horned helm as she did so, revealing a cascade of red hair and eyes as molten and angry as magma.

Garott felt his jaw drop, because he recognized this woman. What Orzammar citizen wouldn't? Sure, he'd never seen her in person, but all the stone-cuts dedicated to her apparently bore her likeness close enough.

"Lady Aeducan!" The boss apparently recognized her as well. Duncan hurried forward to inspect the noble. "Are you all right? What are you doing alone this far into the Deep Roads? Were you not leading your own forces elsewhere?"

"I'd rather not speak of it." The princess stalked forward, joining the rest of the Wardens. "Suffice to say that I am coming with you to the surface, if you'll have me."

Garott stayed in his shadow, studying her. The princess was not dressed in her usual Aeducan armor, nor was that any fancy noble's waraxe on her back. No, her armor was a hodgepodge of stained and torn items: a leather chestplate, steel boots, chain gloves… and the waraxe on her back was black and notched. Garott had seen enough darkspawn weapons in the last few days to know one when he saw one.

The warrior princess of Orzammar was alone in the Deep Roads and dressed like a scavenger, and it wasn't hard for Garott to figure out what that meant.

Laughter roared out of him, startling the Wardens. The princess whipped out her waraxe and spun on him, obviously not previously realizing he was there.

"Not this again," Ira groaned.

Garott mastered himself and stepped out of the shadows, just so that the king's daughter could see his mocking bow. "Let me be the first, princess, to welcome you to the ranks of the casteless. Would you like your brand now, or later?"

Her eyes flickered to the tattoo on his own cheek, and he could just imagine what was going through her mind. Her eyes flashed and she straightened. "And just who are you?" She seemed to be living up to the reputation of the infamous spitfire of House Aeducan. Garott wondered what she had done to get kicked out of it.

"You don't need to know that."

"Actually, Garott, a bit of civility wouldn't go amiss," Duncan cut in thoughtfully, eyeing the princess with an impressed expression. "Especially if we're traveling together. If I might ask, Lady Aeducan-"

The princess flinched and interrupted, "Don't call me that. It… is as this brand says. I am no longer a lady, nor an Aeducan."

Duncan's face saddened, though Garott rolled his eyes. He was 'this brand' still, apparently. "Then what might we call you?" Duncan asked.

"Marnan. My name is Marnan."

"Marnan, then. What do you intend to do once you've reached the surface, Marnan?"

"I…" Marnan frowned, then turned to set herself squarely before Duncan. "I was thinking about what you said at my feast. It seems as though I no longer have any commitments in Orzammar to hold me back. As such, I would like to join the Grey Wardens. If you'll have me."

The other Wardens started whispering, but Duncan just smiled. "Of course we will. It will be good to have one with such experience among us."

She nodded, as if it was her due. Garott couldn't help but note the wary glance she cast over at him, and he just scowled in response.

So they were taking some uppity noble bitch back to Ostagar with them, huh? Suddenly Garott didn't feel much like laughing anymore.

Chapter Text

"He lied to me!"

"By the Maker… a b-blood mage…" Lily muttered from somewhere nearby. "I never… I…"

Kazar glared back at her in annoyance, pushing himself up into a sitting position from where he'd been sprawled. His right side hurt: he'd been knocked down pretty hard by the concussion Jowan had unleashed. That damn blast had wrenched his shoulder something awful, and he hadn't even been in front of it! Who knew blood magic could give such a mediocre mage raw power like that?

And Jowan had had the gall to lie to him about it!

"Maker's Breath! Is everyone all right?" That was Knight-Commander Greagoir, apparently regaining his senses enough to sit up.

The chamber was a mess. Nearly a dozen Templars were knocked out on the floor, though some were beginning to stir. First Enchanter Irving and some bearded stranger had gotten the brunt of the blast, and had been thrown halfway across the room by the force of it. Everything and everyone was covered in specks of Jowan's blood.

Kazar peered over at the First Enchanter, relieved to notice that Irving seemed all right… the First Enchanter's favoritism was the only thing that kept everyone else from turning on him sometimes. Then, he spotted the figure kneeling over the First Enchanter, apparently checking on his injuries. Long black hair. Ink-spattered robes. Horse face. Felicity Amell.

"YOU!" Kazar surged to his feet, magic pooling hot and vicious in his hands. He launched himself at the Tower's resident know-it-all, intending to stuff a fireball down her nosy little throat, but a suit of heavy armor moved to block his path, and he simply ended up bouncing off a Templar chestplate.

Not to be deterred, he shoved against Greagoir's grip. To his credit, the Knight-Commander held on to him, even though the air around the small mage crackled like an imminent storm.

"You brought them, didn't you?!" Kazar hissed at the woman, straining against the Knight-Commander's firm grip on his shoulders. "You were eavesdropping in the chapel, and then you ran and tattled to the Templars!"

The young woman stiffened, glaring at him with righteous indignation that only stoked Kazar's anger. "I couldn't very well sit by and do nothing. You were going to destroy his phylactery… you did destroy his phylactery!"

"And it was none of your business!" He summoned a surge of fire, intending to blast the insufferable woman into charred little pieces with it, but Greagoir grabbed him by the back of his neck and did something. Kazar felt all his magical energy rush out of him… along with a great deal of physical energy. Groaning, he sagged bonelessly in the Knight-Commander's arms.

"Everyone calm down," the First Enchanter's voice said. "We must think through this rationally." Irving finally sat up, rubbing his head. The bearded stranger nearby was already climbing to his feet.

"I knew it, Irving," Kazar heard Greagoir growl. "Blood magic. Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down. And we have this one to thank for it!"

Kazar felt Greagoir's hands tighten on his shoulders, but his head was spinning too much to do more than struggle feebly. Blast it, but Templar anti-mage skills were effective, weren't they?

"None of us expected this, Greagoir." Irving climbed to his feet with the Amell woman's help.

"I did. I've been saying for years that this little menace should be made Tranquil. Now he's aided the escape of a maleficar! I submit that he and this young woman be sent to Aeonar immediately!"

"I… I will pay my penance," Lily said somewhere behind Kazar, causing a fresh spike of anger to shoot up his spine. "I had no idea he was a… a blood mage."

Kazar gave a wordless shriek of rage and tried again to break out of Greagoir's steel grip. When that failed, he merely whirled on the woman as best he could and spat out, "So much for love, huh?" Lily flinched, but refused to meet his eyes, the coward. "Find out the guy's a blood mage, and suddenly he's the inhuman scum of Thedas, is that it? You're nothing but a brainless, spineless Chantry whore!"

"Kazar, that is quite enough," Irving's voice cut in firmly.

Kazar turned back to see the First Enchanter moving to stare down at him with weariness in his wizened eyes.

"Have you no regret for what you've done?"

"You mean me helping a lifelong friend escape existing for the rest of his life as some empty, soulless… thing? No, can't say I do."

Greagoir cried, "He's a blood mage!"

"He's a person! Kind of a dumb one… but he's not evil!"

"Perhaps not now, Kazar," Irving said with a sigh. "But blood magic corrupts. The Jowan you knew will have already started to disappear."

"Chantry propaganda!"

"No, it's true," the know-it-all snitch piped up. "There have been records of well-respected mages dabbling in the art, and then becoming more susceptible to demonic influence. It has to do with the way it drains the life force of the user, making resistance across the Veil more difficult. And then when you factor in the mind control…"

Irving turned to her. "Thank you, Felicity. But I do not believe he will listen to reason in this." Irving turned back to Kazar, his eyes… disappointed. Kazar froze, because that was an expression he didn't often see on the First Enchanter's face. Not aimed at him. "I am sorry, my boy, but you've left me no choice in this matter. Greagoir, you may take them away."

"WHAT?!" Kazar's world went hot again, but this time, the anger was accompanied by an emotion just as strong: fear. "You're… they're going to make me Tranquil! Illegality be damned, I know they will!"

"It is… for the best." The First Enchanter looked defeated.

"But… but…." Kazar's breath escaped him in panicked gasps, and he could feel the magic surging through him in response to his terror. "But I'm the most talented mage of my generation! You've said so yourself!" Lightning danced up and down his arms, despite Greagoir's magic-blocking grip.

"And it will be most regrettable to lose you." The old man's eyes were steady and resolute, and pitying. The pity was the worst part.

The Knight-Commander called for backup, and two other blood-splattered Templars stepped in to add their dispelling talents to the panicking elf. It felt like his magic was being covered in a heavy blanket… perhaps the last magic he would ever be afforded. Kazar shrieked as he felt them try to snuff it—try to snuff him—and surged with everything he had. Fire and lightning and wind gushed from him, the magic tearing at the leashes the Templars were attempting to construct.

All three Templars stumbled back, and Kazar felt their leash snap, the magic vortex he'd conjured rushing out without restraint, fueled by fear. As terrified as he was, he couldn't find the wherewithal to control it, so the storm grew and threatened to consume all of them.

And then Felicity stepped up to him through the torrent, her form sheathed in the white glow of a spell shield. He stumbled back from her, but she stepped in and grabbed his chin, then poured something from a vial down his throat.

His fear ebbed away, and his magic went with it. He felt completely drained, having pulled too much power from the Fade in too short a time. He was left gasping, standing powerless and vulnerable before those who would take away his humanity.

"Well done, Felicity," Irving said. He'd surrounded himself and the bearded stranger in a shield, which he now dispelled. "Most laudable thinking. What did you give him?"

"It's just calming draught." She waved a flask. "I used to take it before important exams."

Kazar felt Greagoir's hands fall on his shoulders again, and he slumped, defeated. He couldn't fight back. Not as drained as he was, and not with what the Templars could do.

"We will use every means necessary to track down the maleficar," the Knight-Commander said. "In the meantime, I will personally escort this mage and the girl to Aeonar."

"So be it," Irving said, turning away.

"If I may speak, Commander," the bearded man said, stepping forward. He had watched the entire exchange with an assessing gaze. Kazar might have found it insulting, but he couldn't really muster the will to care at this point.

"This does not really concern you, Warden." Greagoir snapped.

"I believe that it does. As the two of you know, I came to the Tower seeking mages for the army, but I am also seeking recruits for the Grey Wardens. I believe I have found one."

"What? You're not talking about him?" Greagoir sounded like he honestly couldn't believe it. Kazar couldn't either.

"There is a Blight upon us, Commander, and we need every advantage we can get. I believe that a mage of this boy's raw talent would go far in turning the tide against the darkspawn."

"But… he aided a maleficar!"

"And in doing so has shown outstanding loyalty to his friend." Kazar stared at the Grey Warden, hardly believing what he was hearing. A new emotion sparked in his chest: hope.

"Yes, yes." Irving said, sounding like he was warming to the idea himself. "That may just do."

"But what if he turns on you?" Greagoir spat out. "This boy is volatile. He'd just as soon set you on fire as follow you!"

Much to everyone's surprise, most of all Kazar's, the Warden turned to him. "What do you say, Kazar Surana? If I take you from here and recruit you into the Grey Wardens, would you agree to work with me against the Blight?"

Kazar's chest was tight with gratitude. He tried to speak once and failed, then managed a squeaking, "Yes."

"There you have it. I will take this mage under my wing, and assume all responsibility for his further actions. In return, he will be an asset to Ferelden against the darkspawn.

"Now listen here, Warden!" Greagoir released Kazar, just so he could place himself challengingly in the Warden's face. "This mage is too dangerous to allow to-"

"I will invoke the Right of Conscription, if necessary. Please, do not make me do so."

Greagoir sputtered, but stood down. After a moment, he barked at one of the other Templars to go fetch Kazar's things from his room. The underling left to do so.

Irving turned back to Kazar, relief in his eyes. But still, Kazar couldn't shake the very recent memory of the First Enchanter agreeing that Greagoir should cart him off. So, when Irving took a step toward him, Kazar stepped back. The First Enchanter sighed. "It… is good to know your talents will be put to such a use, though a pity it came about in such circumstances, Kazar."

"Warden," the Amell woman said, "are you sure you can control him? If not, I can provide you with the recipe for my calming draught."

"That is a kind offer, Miss Amell. However, if you wish, I would prefer to have you with me instead."

All heads turned. "What was that, Duncan?" Irving said.

"I had been considering recruiting Felicity here before this whole chain of events occurred." Duncan turned back to her. "Irving spoke highly of you before, and judging by what I just saw, I must say he did not exaggerate."

Amell's dark skin reddened. "I am flattered, truly… but I must warn you that I am not nearly as powerful as you must think. Certainly nowhere near Kazar's-"

"While power is an asset, the Grey Wardens need more than sheer force to stop the Blight. We need intelligence, resourcefulness, and the will to do what must be done for the safety of all. You, Miss Amell, have these qualities in spades. I would be honored to recruit you into the Wardens."

"I… oh my… all the things I could learn! Yes, yes, I'll join you!"

Irving sighed, "And so I must lose two of my most promising mages in one day."

"It will be worth it, Irving," Duncan assured him, "when their promise is turned on the darkspawn."

"Yes, I know." He turned to say his farewells to Felicity, and Kazar used that chance to approach Duncan.

"You… saved me."

Duncan smiled down at him. Blast it, but the man was tall, even by human standards. "The only thing I ask in return is that you fight the darkspawn with me."

Kazar nodded, still stunned. He didn't really know much about darkspawn—the book-reading part of his studies had always been excruciatingly dull—but he saw no harm in turning his talents on them for a while. Not when the alternative was being made Tranquil or worse... though Kazar couldn't really imagine what could be worse than being made Tranquil. Not even death.

He shivered, all too aware of just how close he'd gotten to that awful fate, if not for Duncan's intervention.

The Templars returned shortly, bearing two bags instead of one. One of those bags held all of Kazar's worldly possessions. That didn't include much, since most things in the Tower were considered property of the Tower (as far as the Templars were concerned, that included the mages themselves).

The other mage's bag was a great deal heavier, since it included a tome stuffed with all the notes and herbal recipes the woman had apparently ever learned.

Then, Kazar followed as Duncan led Felicity Amell and himself out of the tower. The other mage was already chattering, asking Duncan obscure questions about darkspawn. Kazar supposed he should listen and learn, but he couldn't really muster the will. His emotions were too churned up after everything that had just happened.

When Duncan pushed through the huge doors that led outside the Tower, he kept on going as if it wasn't a big deal. Felicity and Kazar, however, stopped at the threshold.

The woman took a deep breath of the outside air, her face spreading into an exhilarated grin. "Do you smell it? Its vastness, opening up before us? All the possibilities!"

Kazar didn't deign to respond to her—she had still snitched to the Templars about Jowan's plan, after all. Instead, he took two steps out the door and looked up at the place that had been his cage for the last twelve years. Hadn't he wanted to be free of it? So then why did the prospect of leaving it now make his stomach twist in anxiety?

The tower was so tall. It seemed to look over all of Thedas, but really its view was so very, very small.

No, he wouldn't be scared about this. He was glad he was leaving. No more holding back because it made the enchanters nervous. No more having to sit quietly for hours on end. No more run-ins with a certain enchanter who always made him want to scream and burn everything. No more blasted Templars, watching every little step, just waiting for the opportunity to run an innocent mage through.

He was free of it all. Like an apostate in that he was free from Circle rule, and yet he would never have to worry about the Templars trying to hunt him down for it. They could no longer touch him! In retrospect, this was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Smirking, he turned away from his view of the tower. Duncan was waiting for them patiently down by the dock. Kazar headed down the worn path between them with a spring in his step.

Chapter Text

"It's called a shell game, Marnan." Emmit bent over the table, shifting the three goblets where he had placed them face-down. Under one of them was a glass marble.

She frowned, perplexed. "But how can it be a shell game? There are no shells."

The other two Wardens chuckled as they looked on. They were at the adjacent table, sampling the Spoiled Princess's wares. The group had been frittering away the day there while Duncan visited the Mage Tower in search of recruits. Thus far, Marnan only found the surface world more and more puzzling.

"It's not the shells that matter," said Emmit.

"But it's called a 'shell game'," the exiled noble pressed. "How can the shells not be important?"

There was a low rumbling chuckle near the door, and the last member of Duncan's band made himself known. Marnan whirled a glare at him, wondering how long the duster had been lurking there. He had a habit of doing that: lurking. It was something about the way his coloring made him fade into the shadows.

"Maybe the term 'shell' is saying how thick the mark's skull has to be to fall for it," the casteless said with a smirk. He strode up to the table, giving Marnan a grin that was sharper than any sword. "You ever fall for one, princess?"

"I resent the implication, brand. I would challenge you to a duel of honor, except you obviously don't have any."

He laughed, and even that seethed with hostility… a sentiment she entirely returned. "And now neither do you." He reached over the table and starting moving the goblets around one another with the ease and swiftness of practice. When he was done, he said, "Now pick one."

Marnan sighed, but nonetheless pointed to the goblet on the right.

Garott smirked. "Wrong." He lifted the goblet to reveal no marble.

"How could you have possibly known that? You weren't here when Emmit hid the marble."

"Because, your royal highness…" (she winced) "…the marble ain't in any of them. That's the trick." He reached out and lifted the two remaining goblets. Sure enough, they were also empty.

"But, then where…?"

"In his palm the whole time."

Emmit smiled wryly and held out his hand, revealing the marble.

Marnan sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. "I do not think much of this 'shell game.' It seems a cruel one."

The casteless threw his head back and laughed, and Marnan wished the brand did not make her feel so wrong-footed all the time. Did it matter if these games of cunning were not her forte? When it came to cutting down darkspawn, there was none better, and that was what mattered.

"So where'd you go, anyway?" Ira asked the brand from the next table over.

Garott shrugged and dropped his pack down between the tables… a pack that Marnan realized was a great deal bulkier than it had been an hour ago, and it had a number of rather large weapons strapped to it.

Marnan narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Where did you get those?"

To that, the brand grinned. "Battlefield. Just outside and up the hill."

"You looted the dead?"

"Hey, they weren't using 'em. I figured I might as well see they ended up in good hands. Namely, mine."

"You could not possibly have use for that sword. It's twice your height."

"'Selling it for money' is still a use, princess."

Marnan couldn't take much more of this. She jumped to her feet. "I've told you to stop calling me that!"

"And what does it matter what you tell me to do?" he sneered. "You can order me to walk into a lost thaig and die, princess, and I don't have to do shit but waggle my dangle at you and laugh. Because, like it or not, we're equals, princess. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Princess."

"That's it!" She swept her waraxe off the table and launched herself at him, but didn't get within melee range before the door opened and Duncan came in.

"At it again, are you?" He sounded tired, and Marnan aborted the attack, despite the way the brand was smirking at her, just daring her to strike.

Ashamed at her loss of control, Marnan replaced her axe back on the table. "I apologize, Duncan. I must…learn some self-restraint."

"Tempers are frayed all around, it seems." Duncan came into the room, a robed young woman trailing in more slowly behind him. She was looking around curiously, seeming to study every detail of the room with both scrutiny and wonder.

"How was your trip to the tower?" Marnan asked, watching the woman. "Successful?"

Duncan smiled. "Very. Felicity, would you like to meet your new companions?"

The girl named Felicity jumped, startled, then scurried over.

"I found two mages with a great deal of promise. I will be curious, Marnan, to know how you think it will be best to utilize their skills."

Marnan nodded, curious herself. She had never had a mage before in battling the darkspawn… simply because she'd never had a non-dwarf before. They sounded… useful. To say the least.

"Felicity, this is Ira, Rehg, Garott, Emmit, and Marnan. Ira, Rehg, and Emmit are Grey Wardens under my command, while Marnan and Garott are recruits like yourself. Everyone, this is Felicity Amell."

"How do you do?" Felicity said, smiling politely. "I am so very excited to have a chance to fight against the darkspawn. Granted, I don't expect to be in the thick of it, but I certainly have skills that will be crucial for seeing that there is as little loss on our side as possible."

"Felicity is a healer," Duncan supplied, mostly to Marnan.

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm a healer." The woman's dark skin flushed. "I'm certainly nothing compared to the more experienced mages, but I've dabbled a bit in it. Also in herbalism, though Duncan would not allow me to bring my full recipe kit…" She sighed sadly.

The corner of Duncan's mouth lifted in half a smile. "If I had allowed you to bring all the books and tools you wished to bring, we would have had to find a dragon to carry it all."

Felicity's eyes widened in excitement. "Oh, you don't suppose we'll see any dragons, do you? I've always been so curious about them… all that weight and yet still they can stay aloft indefinitely."

All the Wardens' faces darkened. "Oh," Ira said, "I can think of one dragon I'd rather not see any time soon."

Felicity's face fell, and Marnan frowned, confused. Then, she remembered what the Shapers had taught her about the nature of Blights, and what led them. "Oh, right!" she cried, causing everyone to look at her. She felt her face go hot.

And then, "You're dwarves, aren't you?" Felicity said, and everyone was back to staring at the mage. She also flushed, but continued on. "I haven't seen many dwarves. Only the traders who deliver lyrium to the tower, really, and they never stop to chat. But I've read so much about you… the history of the thaigs is tragic, and all the knowledge that was lost! Like golems! Would that we could find a way to recover the golems!"

Emmit gave a low whistle and quietly said, "Lot of lungpower in this one." Garott chuckled.

Felicity turned her attention to the male dwarf. "That mark on your cheek… that's a face brand, right? I've seen diagrams in my readings on the Orzarmmar caste system." Both dwarves stiffened. "Is it true that each child born takes on the caste of the same-sex parent? Does that mean that one of your paternal grandfathers was a criminal, or does it work differently for the casteless?"

Garott turned a sharp grin toward Marnan. "Well, look at that, princess. Someone more insufferable than you."

"Enough," Duncan said with some exasperation. He turned a reproachful eye on Garott, then Marnan. "Now, I need you two to promise me that you will behave on the journey south."

The dwarves exchanged a dark look.

"Very well," she said.

"As you say, boss," he said.

Ira frowned. "Duncan, you make it sound like you're not coming with us back to Ostagar."

Duncan sighed. "I'm not… at least not right away." The Wardens started to protest, but Duncan waved them to silence. "Shortly after I recruited him, Ser Jory mentioned a knight with some skill he'd met in Highever. As we are only a couple days southwest of there, I thought I might head over and scout him out."

"We can come with you," Marnan said.

"That will not be necessary. In fact, I suspect you will do far more good helping the king at Ostagar. No, tomorrow morning, you will all be headed south while I make my way north to Highever."

Marnan seethed, disliking the prospect of allowing her commanding officer to head off alone. Still, she supposed traveling the surface world alone wasn't as dangerous as braving the Deep Roads. And Duncan could certainly handle himself, even if it was.

"So just how many new recruits are you planning to have?" Emmit asked, taking a gulp from his mug.

"As many as it takes."

"I'm not complaining," Garott rumbled. "The more the merrier… though try not to pick anymore women, boss. I think your taste in 'em is a little skewed." He smirked at Marnan.

She fumed. "Is this your definition of 'behaving'?"

"We ain't on the road yet, are we? Besides, I'm just calling it as I see it. Not my fault if it's truth when I say you're a stuck up, hammer-brained bitch, now is it?"

Marnan had had quite enough of this whole exchange. "Go walk into a lost thaig and die," she snapped. Then, she stalked out the door to the sound of the brand's laughter.

The sun was setting over Lake Calenhad. As Marnan stepped out into the evening, she had to blink so that her eyes adjusted. It still caught her by surprise, how the surface's only steady source of light moved.

Two weeks, she had been up here while the Wardens worked their way down through the Frostback Mountains, and still she could not shake just how much everything on the surface… changed. The sun, the winds, the weather—life on the surface was just one change in situation after another, it seemed. It was unnerving at the same time that it was exciting. Who knew when water would next fall from the sky, after all?

And there was one thing to be said about the sun… it was quite pretty. Marnan especially loved the colors the sky turned when it was first cresting the world in the morning, or when it was slipping away in the evening. There was simply no equivalent back home.

And now, Marnan saw how the sunset sparkled off Lake Calenhad ahead of her, and she gasped at the sheer beauty before her. The Circle Tower was silhouetted against the oranges and pinks of the evening sky, surrounded by water that reflected the same. The sight was soothing, and wiped away all the frustration that had building up that day. As she strolled down to the lake shore and stood on the edge of the water, she completely forgot why she had stormed out here in the first place.

The sound of carefree laughter pulled her away from her admiration of the sunset, and she noticed that she wasn't the only one outdoors.

An elf was out on the water some distance to her left, dancing on top of the calm surface as if it were a solid floor. It took her a moment to realize that a shimmering sheen of ice coated the surface of the water where he frolicked, allowing him to stand atop the waves without fear of falling in.

He waved his hands about, drawing graceful lines in the air. In the wake of his hands glittered more icy tendrils, creating frozen sculptures made of arches and curves around him that glittered in the sunset.

He laughed again, tossing his head back and spreading his arms wide to the sky. Colorful sparks flickered around his hands, and he spun, showering them down upon his icy creations in a magnificent play of light on water.

It was during this twirl that the elf noticed her watching. He lowered his arms and stopped spinning, but the carefree smile on his face remained. He, like Felicity, was dressed in robes, though he had faint, fiery tattoos across his face that the other mage had not. Marnan wondered at the meaning of such marks, then wondered whether they had any meaning at all.

After a moment of the two just looking at one another, the elf said, "I've always wanted to do this."

"Do what?" Marnan asked softly, not wanting to disrupt the moment.

"Walk on the lake." He turned outward again to face the sun. "It was always so close, just outside the doors. But we could never reach it. It was like… a symbol, I guess."

"And now you're free of such restrictions," she hazarded, smiling.

"Yeah, free." He closed his eyes and raised his face up to the sky. "You have no idea how free."

Looking out at the sunset herself, she thought back to the world she had left behind. A world of intrigue and scheming. Where rank was everything, but cunning and manipulation were more than that. A world where Marnan had never been allowed to simply be what she was, free of the expectations of her birth and her caste. All cast aside, now.

"Actually," she said softly as she gazed out at the sunset, smiling for the first time in a long time. "I think I do."

Chapter Text

Bryce Cousland had been up late with Rendon when his old comrade had—quite literally—stabbed him in the back.

To say it had been unexpected was an understatement. One moment, the two of them were discussing battles past and future over Amaranthine's finest vintage. The next moment, Bryce felt cold steel cut into his back, just above the waist.

It was only Bryce's own battle instincts that saved him from instant death, as a turn of the hip sent the dagger plunging into his side rather than his kidney. It was a slightly less mortal wound, but barely.

The next thing he knew, he was collapsed on the floor, watching Rendon's embroidered shoes walk away. Howe emitted a dark chuckle, and foreboding rippled through Bryce as Rendon bent out the door and said, "It's time."

Rendon Howe had always been an ambitious man, and one particularly fond of the subtleties of politics… but Bryce would never have expected this from his old friend. Still, as he lay on the expensive carpet, feeling his lifeblood pour out of him, he knew that this would hardly be the end of it. Howe was, if anything, clever and thorough. If this was a coup, he would not stop killing at just the teyrn.

Bryce pushed himself up, one hand clutching his side while the other supported his weight against the back of a stuffed chair. Rendon turned from the doorway in time to see Bryce straighten back to his full height.

"Still alive, are we?" Howe chuckled, his voice curling around the words with disturbing pleasure. "You always were quite stolid, I suppose. Easily remedied."

"You won't get away with this, Rendon," Bryce hissed, feeling his head start swimming with blood loss.

"Oh, yes, old friend. I think I will." Howe smiled the smile of a cat considering the canary. Too bad for him, the Cousland family had always been far fonder of dogs.

Bryce yanked an old sword off the mantel, bringing it to bear against the other noble. Howe skittered back—he'd never been much for straightforward dueling—and slid out the door, calling for his men. Sure enough, three soldiers wearing Howe's crest stepped into the room, even as Rendon fled.

Bryce cursed. Of course Rendon would have more of his men about! How many were here, waiting for Howe's signal to strike? By the Maker, Eleanor and the children!

The Teyrn of Highever had not earned his reputation for battle prowess lightly, and such did he prove to the three young men who sought to strike him down. Unarmored, wounded, and outnumbered, he still managed to overcome them.

He was standing over the bodies, shaking off his light-headedness and saying a quick prayer for the men's souls (they weren't to blame for the fact that their employer was a duplicitous snake) when Duncan of the Grey Wardens burst into the room.

"You lordship, there's treachery…" Duncan trailed off, taking in the scene. He stood in the doorway for a moment, holding a bloodied sword. "I see."

Bryce took a step toward Duncan, then doubled over as pain shot up his injured side. Duncan was at his elbow immediately, steadying his swaying form. "Duncan, my family!"

"We need to get you to safety, first."

"No!" Bryce tore out of Duncan's grip, and didn't so much walk out into the hall as stumble into it. "My wife and son… my grandson… the entire household is in danger!"

"More than you know, my lord." Bryce felt fear lance through him, and turned to Duncan.

"How do you mean? What state are the castle defenses in?"

Duncan shook his head sadly and started leading Bryce away from the sitting room where this treachery had begun. "There are no defenses, I'm afraid. They were waiting inside the castle for the signal. And now, they've cut off the exits. Ser Gilmore set up barricades to keep the main force out and is currently holding the main hall, but the outlook is grim. The estate is surrounded, and all exits are heavily guarded by Howe's men."

"Blast and damnation!" Bryce cursed, then wobbled as a wave of coldness swept over him. "We have to get everyone out!"

"I know many of these castles have hidden exits, in case of siege…?" Duncan prompted.

"Yes. Yes, that's right. We have a small exit through the kitchen larder… it's hidden and only used by the servants and rats. We need to secure it…!" He hissed and felt his knees buckle, but Duncan caught him and held him until the weakness passed.

"Where is this exit, Teyrn?"

"This… this way!" He pointed, and the two rushed off, Bryce stumbling in Duncan's wake.

They met their share of invaders on the way, but Duncan was an efficient dual-wielder and Bryce wasn't about to lay down and die yet, so it was nothing they couldn't handle. They reached the kitchens without too much ado. Bryce swallowed thickly as he stepped over the hacked up body of the woman who had practically raised his sons.

It was in the larder that Bryce's strength finally fled him entirely, and he fell to his knees on the stone. The sword clattered out of his limp grip.

"You lordship!" Duncan knelt down beside him, the grim look in his eyes confirming what Bryce already knew. He was dying.

"Duncan, please. Go find my family. You must save them! I'll… I'll defend the exit."

Bryce couldn't even stand, much less lift a sword, but the Warden didn't say a word about it. Instead, he nodded grimly and rose back to his feet. "I will return shortly… for better or for worse."

As Duncan left through the larder door, Bryce couldn't help a small incredulous snort. The Warden didn't mince words; a quality the Couslands shared.

Bryce tried to push himself upright again, leaning heavily on the larder shelves. Alas, his upper body had no more strength than his lower, and he ended up once again in a heap on the floor. Instead, he could only kneel there in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of his family's ancestral home being overrun.

And then, after what seemed like a very long time, there was a new noise. A bark, and Bryce's heart lifted as a squashed snout nosed through the larder door. Hugo, his son's dog. But did that mean…?

Sure enough, the door swung wide, and Eleanor and Percival ran into the darkened room. Both were bearing armor and arms, and were splattered with blood. Very little of it seemed to be their own.

"There… you both are…" Bryce managed to gasp out, then promptly collapsed to the stone.

Eleanor spotted him first, throwing her bow to the ground to run over to him. She had dusted off her old leathers, it seemed. Covered in the blood of Howe's treachery as she was, Bryce thought she had never looked more beautiful.

"Father, they're dead," Percival's voice whispered emptily. "Oren, and Oriana, and Mallol, and Nan, and…" His younger son knelt down beside him and helped Eleanor raise him into a sitting position. "They slaughtered everyone."

Looking into the boy's eyes was heartbreaking. Had this blood-splattered shadow been the same boy who, not six hours ago, had teasingly complained about the responsibility of running a keep? The one who had jested with his brother about his conquests?

Now, Percival's blue eyes showed no laughter, only turmoil. This was the boy's first real battle—as good with a blade as Percy was, all he'd known before this was sparring and tourneys, neither of which taught the lessons of death and pain that true combat did. Percy had always been a creature of passion, feeling things more strongly than his older brother. Bryce had always hoped to protect his younger son from this sort of pain. His laughing, bright-eyed, charming pup hadn't been cut out for the harsh truths of the battlefield.

It seemed, however, that those truths had found his son all the same.

"Maker's breath, Bryce!" Eleanor cried. "You're bleeding!"

"Why is Howe doing this, Father?" The plea in those words was a tired one, as if he'd been asking the same all night. Bryce had no hope of explaining the complex world of political intrigue to his younger boy.

Instead, he met his son's eyes and opted for a firm, "He can't get away this." Percival's hand went to the pommel of the longsword strapped to his back. His son was carrying the Cousland family sword from the vault. Good: Howe wouldn't get it. Percival also had a shield with the Highever crest strapped to his back. It was a sight that filled Bryce with a mixture of pride and pain.

"First, we have to get you out of here," Eleanor said, ever the practical one.

Bryce shook his head sadly, feeling weakness pulling him down now more than ever. "I… won't survive the standing."

"Then we'll make our stand here," Percival said fiercely, some of his old spark returning to his eyes.

"No!" Bryce cried, then hissed in pain. "No, Pup. Listen to me. You must take your mother to safety. Then, find Fergus and…" he gasped as a stab of pain rocked him, "…tell him what's happened here."

"We won't leave you."

"The servants' exit is right here," Eleanor agreed. "We'll find you healing magic."

Again, Bryce shook his head. "The arl's men have the castle surrounded… I won't make it."

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," Duncan said as he returned, wiping fresh blood off his sword. "The castle is surrounded. Getting past will be difficult." Duncan knelt down as well.

"We can carry him out," Percy said sharply, his voice cracking like it hadn't in years. "Then we can come back in and come after Howe." The rage and hatred the usually-amiable young man put in that single name left Bryce little doubt that his death would be avenged.

If Percival survived.

"We can't attack Howe here," Duncan said calmly. "There are too many men… we'd never get to him."

"We have to try!"

"Patience. For now, flight is the only option."

"I won't run away!"

It brought tears to the teyrn's eyes, to see his son find his sense of duty at last.

"Duncan," Bryce said, "you are under no obligation to me. But I beg you… take my wife and son to safety."

"I will, your lordship." Duncan nodded, despite Percy's shout of protest. "But… I fear I must ask for something in return."

"Anything."

"I came to Highever seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

The request was respectful, and reasonable, and promptly drowned out by one upset young pup. "What? NO! I won't agree to any such thing!"

"You must, Pup," Bryce whispered. "Our family always does our duty first…"

"My duty is to take vengeance on Howe!" Again, Percival's voice seethed with rage at the name. But there were tears in his eyes; he was accepting that Bryce would not be coming with.

"Do so by living, Pup. Take word of what has happened to your brother, and tell the king so that all of Ferelden will know what happened here. See that justice is done. Then, become a Grey Warden. I could never have asked for any more for you."

Both mother and son were in tears now. Biting back sobs, Percy capitulated. "Very well. I'll do it, Father. For you."

Hugo growled in the direction of the doorway. Duncan stood, glancing through the open entrance. "We must leave quickly, then."

"Bryce," Eleanor pressed, laying a gentle hand on his side wound. "Are you… sure?"

"Our son will not die of Howe's treachery," he said, mustering all the strength he had left to instill his faith and pride into his son's last moments with him. "He will live, and make his mark on the world."

Eleanor's grip on him tightened, then she turned to Percival. "Darling, go with Duncan."

"Eleanor…!"

"Hush, Bryce." Her grip was strong and steady on his shoulders. "I'll kill every bastard who comes through that door to buy them time."

Percival sobbed in earnest now. "I love you both… so much…" He let Duncan pull him to his feet.

A great crash sounded throughout the castle. Hugo started barking.

"They've broken through the gates," Duncan said. "We must go now."

"Goodbye, darling," Eleanor said.

"You do us proud," Bryce gasped.

Percival opened his mouth as if to say something, but Duncan pulled him away and the two men disappeared through the servants' exit. The last view Bryce had of his younger son was of Percival bearing the Cousland sword and the Highever shield, tears in his eyes and hound at his heels as he disappeared into the night to face his destiny.

Then, black closed in on his vision, and Bryce gripped Eleanor's arm. He would die in the care of his wife. His beautiful, fierce, proud wife. "I'm sorry it's come to this, my love."

"We did the best we could. It's in the hands of our children now." She hugged him one last time and set him down on the stones. Then she picked up her bow and aimed it at the doorway as the sounds of armored footsteps drew closer.

"Goodbye, my love."

"I will join you soon, darling."

And then his world faded to black.

Chapter Text

Alistair wound his way through the king's camp, his splintmail boots kicking up dust and… other things… as he hurried past kennels and practice ranges. He'd been in the mess tent when he'd heard, which was why he still carried a half-eaten loaf of tack bread, forgotten in his right hand.

Word had rippled through camp: the scouts had seen the Grey Wardens approaching on the road, and they had several others with them. Finally, it sounded like Duncan had returned.

"Whoa!" Alistair nearly tripped over a mabari in his hurry, but managed to dance into a turn that kept him on his feet.

"Watch it!" the mabari's handler snapped.

"Sorry!" Alistair called, but he was already moving toward the front gates again. Duncan was back, so Alistair had no time for lectures on camp propriety and long-winded apologies.

He rounded the corner into view of the huge bridge that connected the camp to the Tower of Ishal. There, he skidded to a stop as he saw the group halfway down it, crossing toward him. Alistair frowned, spotting Rehg's bow first, and then Ira and Emmit, but no Duncan.

It looked like they'd picked up some recruits in Orzammar, though. And, judging by the two figures in robes walking behind the Wardens, they'd made a stop at the Circle Tower as well. Oh joy. Mages.

"Alistair!" Emmit laughed, waving as they came into speaking range. "By the Maker, is it good to see another familiar face!"

Alistair smirked, leaning against the ruin's stone façade as the group stepped up to meet him. "Did you lose something? Or should I say someone?"

"Duncan ran off to Highever," Ira said, looking tired and annoyed, "looking for more recruits. Apparently, he wants to build an army just out of new Grey Warden recruits."

Alistair raised his half-eaten loaf in toast. "The more the merrier."

The dwarf man let out a low rumbling chuckle. "That's what I said."

Alistair blinked, recalling the new recruits' presence. He slapped his head. "Oh, where are my manners?" He stood up straight and spread out his arms. "Welcome… everyone… to Ostagar. Site of glory, and darkspawn slaying, and a fair bit of dog leavings, so watch your step. I am Alistair, one of your soon-to-be comrades, if all goes well."

"Well met, Alistair," the dwarf woman said, stepping forward with a bow of her head. "I am Marnan."

The other dwarf cast an arched eyebrow at the woman, as if puzzled by something in that rather straightforward introduction. "Garott Brosca," he grunted. No bow from him, then.

"My name is Felicity," said the female mage with a distracted air. She seemed to find something utterly fascinating about the ruin around them, judging by the way her head kept turning about.

When Alistair turned to the other mage, all he got from the elf was a narrow-eyed glare. The kind of glare that said 'I'm going to turn you into a frog just so I can have frogs' legs for dinner.' Ouch. "You're a Templar," the elf snapped.

"Ex-Templar, thank you very much. Now I'm just Ferelden's most junior Grey Warden. A position I much prefer, I might add."

The elf mage didn't stop glaring. And then Marnan asked, "What's a Templar?"

"A Chantry mage-hunter," Felicity said, now fully attending to the conversation. She gave Alistair a considering look. "How did you get untangled from that? Even if your recruiter invoked the Right of Conscription, certainly the lyrium withdrawal should have been most painful. Or are you still being supplied with lyrium? Does it help against darkspawn mages as well?"

"Whoa, okay," Alistair laughed uncomfortably. "Very much not a discussion I want to have right now. But no, I'm not addicted to lyrium. Duncan pulled me out before I had to take my vows. Now can we talk about something else? I think the elf is trying to fry me with his brain."

The elf's eyes only narrowed further. "Rest assured, if I wanted to fry you, you'd be a charred husk by now."

"Ooookay. Right then. Mess tent's this way."

Garott snorted. "Best thing I've heard all day." He started in the direction Alistair indicated, and the rest of the group followed behind.

Alistair fell into step next to the other Wardens. "Did Duncan say how long he'd be?"

Emmit shrugged. "Who knows, with Duncan? He could be a couple days behind us, or it could be another two weeks."

Alistair sighed and, recalling the loaf of bread in his hand, took a bite. "And so in the meantime, we'll be stuck here, just twiddling our thumbs I suppose."

Emmit laughed. "Well, from what I've seen of the new recruits, just 'twiddling our thumbs' would be a good thing."

Chapter Text

If we run into trouble, Soris had warned him, we won't be able to talk our way out of it. Finian had just smiled tightly and said something about how he could talk his way out of anything.

Soris would say "I told you so," if his stomach would stop heaving.

The plan had started out well enough. They snuck past the kitchens without incident by keeping their heads down, pretending to just be common servants. Soris did see a couple of the estate's nicer trinkets disappear into Finian's pocket, but his cousin was careful enough not to get caught at it.

But then they opened a door and stumbled onto a trio of guards standing over Nola's body, the humans making disgusting comments about how she was "still warm enough if they're not too picky," and something in his cousin snapped. The next thing Soris knew, daggers popped out of Finian's sleeves and cut twin trails across the first guard's throat. Things had… spiraled down from there.

Now, they were cutting their way through the Arl of Denerim's palace, leaving a trail of human bodies behind them. Soris had a guard's stolen longsword clutched tight in one hand, though it was slippery with blood by now.

"This is bad, this is bad, this is bad," Soris couldn't stop muttering as they ran through the palace corridors. They were going to be in so much trouble for this… if they even made it out alive. Finian didn't say anything, and that scared the crap out of Soris.

They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with one of the bodyguards that had accompanied Bann Vaughan to the Alienage. The man was leaning outside a closed door, looking bored. Two armed, blood-covered elves caught his interest, though.

The guard didn't ask any questions, just attacked. Soris brought his sword up once again when the guard swung his mace in, and the elf managed to messily parry the swing. He wasn't particularly strong or skilled, and he would have given his life's savings for some armor right now… but he didn't really need to be all that good. He was just the distraction.

Soris didn't know where Finian had learned how to fight, though he suspected his aunt—Finian's mother—had something to do with it. Aunt Adaia had reputedly been something of a wanderer before meeting Uncle Cyrion and settling down. It seemed she hadn't settled down too much, if she'd taught her son to fight like this even under the watchful eyes of the Alienage guards.

Finian flitted behind the guard, his daggers simultaneously going into the human's sides, then pulling back out. When the guard stumbled, Finian kicked him in the back, and Soris stabbed his own sword in while the man was distracted by the pain.

Soris's sword was still stuck in the shem when he fell, so Soris toppled to the ground after him with a squeak.

Finian laughed. Once. It was wheezy and tight, but Soris was glad to see his cousin's grim expression crack, despite the oh-so-very grim circumstances.

To think, the day had started out so promising. A double-wedding… it should have been exciting, despite Finian's twitchiness over the prospect. Then the humans had arrived, and everything since then—the arguments, the abductions, the infiltration—had been one long nightmare.

His cousin helped Soris extract his sword, then held out a hand to pull him to his feet. When Fin was trying to pull him up, their blood-slicked grips slipped loose, and both went tumbling down onto the expensive rugs.

Finian, lying flat on the floor, threw back his head and laughed, maybe just a little hysterically. "Ha ha ha… By the Maker… ha ha… we are in so far over our heads, aren't we?"

Soris sighed in relief and sat up. "We must be crazy to try this. Are we crazy, Cousin?"

"Probably." Finian sighed and turned his head toward Soris, all mirth leaving his eyes. "But someone has to be. We can't just let him… that he would…" Fin closed his eyes and turned away, apparently overcome.

"We'll save them, Cousin," Soris assured him, his voice holding a great deal more confidence than he felt. "We have to."

Finian's eyes opened again, this time sparkling with tears. "It's my fault, Soris. If I hadn't tried to talk to the bastard—twice—he wouldn't have been able to take the women. If we'd just fought him when we had the chance…"

"We'd all be dead. You know the guards would never have let us get away with that… they'd have seen it as some sort of riot." Soris sighed, tossing the borrowed sword between his hands. "Though they probably won't be very happy about this, either."

"No, I don't think they will." Finian looked at him then, his eyes surprisingly clear and considering. Soris wondered what was going through Fin's head, to make his cousin look at him like that.

Finally, after being stared at for almost a minute, Soris cleared his throat and stood up. He dusted himself off by force of habit…and only managed to smear more blood onto his borrowed servants' linens. "Well, we should get moving."

Fin nodded and climbed to his feet, not even bothering to sheathe his daggers. They pushed through the door into an empty antechamber.

That was when they heard the sound of someone crying.

Both elves ran to the other door, bursting through it together. Inside the bedroom beyond was what—or who—they had come for.

Two men in rich clothing—Soris recognized them as the men who had come with Vaughan to the Alienage—knelt on a plush carpet in the middle of the room, holding down an elven woman. That woman, Soris realized, was Shianni, and the tear-streaked face she raised to them when they entered made Soris want to rip out the throats of all humans present.

Vaughan, standing over the others, turned at the sound of the door opening. He'd been smirking, but that expression died as he took in the sight of them.

"Well look at that," one of the nobles sneered. "Some more elves want to join the party."

"Quiet, you idiot," Vaughan snapped. "They're covered with enough blood to fill a tub. What do you think that means?"

Finian stepped forward, wearing one of his patented cheeky smirks—though this one was quite a bit darker than it was when he was just riling guards. "We heard there was a party. We wanted to dress for the occasion, but we didn't have enough dead babies to suit your tastes… so we went with the blood of your guards instead."

"So I see." The nobleman's eyes flickered toward the blades both elves held bared, and Soris was surprised to see fear flash through the man's eyes. He was a sick bastard, but he wasn't stupid. "All right. Let's not be too hasty here. Surely, we can talk this over."

Fin's grin turned into a rictus. "But we already did, at the Alienage. I seem to remember us having a rousing conversation. You made an excellent point with that backhand of yours… I thought I might offer my counter-argument." He pointedly flicked his daggers, splattering blood all over the bedroom carpets.

Vaughan stared at the daggers, and there was a moment of silence where the only sound in the room was Shianni's sniffles. Then, Vaughan raised his eyes again, a sly smile stealing across his face. Soris knew that look. It was the same look Finian wore when his tongue was about to get its most silver.

"Think for a minute," Vaughan said silkily. "Kill me, and you ruin more lives than just your own. By dawn, the city will run red with elven blood."

Soris felt his own sword lowering. The shem was right… this was a bad idea.

Vaughan dared to take a step toward them, his voice gaining confidence. "Think about it. Or we could talk this through. Now that you have my undivided attention."

Finian did something unexpected, then. He threw back his head and laughed. Everyone stood, frozen in a stalemate, while the elf's laughter bounced off the walls.

"Oh, you're good!" Finian crowed. "The calming tone… the confident stance! The way you figured out what was most important to us and used it against us! If I didn't know better, I'd never guess you were terrified for your own life!" His laughter abruptly stopped, and his face darkened. "But see, I do the same dance, so I know all the steps. You know we can kill you." He twirled his daggers deftly around his hands. "You want to talk, bann? Then let's talk about how you're going to let the women go before I get a little stab-happy."

"Please," Shianni's voice pled. "Please, I want to go home."

"I always had every intention of returning your women," Vaughan said smoothly. "A little worse for wear, perhaps, but all alive, I assure you."

Soris felt himself pale, looking down again at Shianni. His female cousin was staring down at the carpet, suppressing sobs.

"If you…" Finian took a harsh breath. "You've got a lot of nerve, treating other people like that."

"Oh, that is cute. You think you're people?"

"People enough to kill you." Finian's voice went low. "You know what? I'm done talking." One of his hands flicked up and back, and one of his daggers soared across the room, lodging itself in Vaughan's chest.

The bann stumbled back, but his two friends leapt forward in his defense. As all three nobles drew the swords at their hips, Soris gulped and brought his own sword to bear.

What happened next was a frenzy of whirling blades and pain. It was all Soris could do to dodge most of the swords swinging at him. The bann's two friends were both going after him, for some reason (they probably figured he was the easier target, which he wouldn't deny), which meant he was ducking under and parrying blades from both sides. It didn't surprise him when he felt one of the blades graze his hip, and then another swipe through his shoulder.

But he got a couple lucky shots in himself, and one of the nobles went down after Soris's sword found his throat. Soris barely ducked in time to avoid getting his head chopped off by the other guy.

"You know what my favorite thing about you knife-ears is?" Soris could hear Vaughan say tauntingly. "Your women. So lithe and supple, and unable to do a damn thing about me claiming what's rightfully mine."

"Shut UP!" Finian could be heard shouting, but Soris didn't have time to look over and see how that duel was faring.

He stumbled back as his opponent's sword swept his aside, then twisted. Pain lanced up the elf's arm at the maneuver, and his sword slipped from his grip. Unarmed, Soris could only back away from the noble advancing on him. The shem smirked, sensing victory.

Clonk.

The man fell, and Soris saw Shianni standing behind the human, a heavy book in her hands. She looked up at Soris with wide, pained eyes, then collapsed.

Soris leapt forward to catch her, easing his cousin to lie back on the floor. Her face was tight with pain, and her hands were fisted over her stomach. Soris swallowed nausea at what this implied. She needed healing, and him throwing up wouldn't help matters.

"Fin…" Shianni whispered, looking over Soris's shoulder. He turned and saw that the rest of the battle had resolved itself in Finian's favor… though the sight made Soris's gorge rise once again.

His cousin was straddling Vaughan's defeated form, shaking and stabbing into the corpse again and again. The young man's usually expressive eyes were wide and scarily blank. Again, the dagger stabbed in. And again. The body's chest cavity was a mess of gore.

"Finian," Soris managed. "Fin, he's dead."

The dagger stabbed in one last time. Then, Finian sagged, a ragged "…Maker…" passing through his lips. "Maker… Soris, what have we done? Oh Maker, we killed them all…"

Soris forced out a laugh. "Don't fall apart on me now, Cousin. If you go crazy, there's no hope for me."

Finian blinked up at him, then seemed to recall himself. "Shianni… Shianni, are you alright?"

Shianni didn't answer at first. She looked between them. "Take me home. Please."

"Yes, of course," Soris assured her, then stood up. "I'm going to go look for the other women."

Fin nodded and stood up himself. As Soris left the room, he saw Finian head over to check on Shianni himself. As soon as he was out of their sight, Soris sighed in relief… then promptly got sick in a flower pot.

They collected the other women—who were in a better state than Shianni, thank the Maker—and headed out of the palace by the same bloody path they'd come. Soris took the rear guard, and it was saddening to see the way they huddled together. Poor Valora… if what had happened to Shianni had happened to her…

No wait. That was an awful thought. It shouldn't have happened at all.

Finian procured a pair of cloaks from among the launderer's things, so that the men wouldn't attract too much unwanted attention with their blood-stained garb. Soris had to leave the sword behind, though he felt vulnerable without it. After this ordeal, he doubted he'd ever feel perfectly safe ever again.

When they returned to the Alienage, they found a small crowd waiting for them. Valendrian was at the head of it, with a good amount of worried elven faces behind him. As soon as the rescued women came through the door, their families and friends rushed forward to greet them. Soris looked away from the sight of Nora's father searching in vain for his daughter.

Soris's eyes turned to the side, to a sight that made him tense up and miss the weight of that sword. There were humans in the Alienage again—that had worked out so terribly for all involved last time that Soris wondered why Valendrian allowed their presence so soon afterwards.

They stood back from the crowd, respectful of the community's private matters. The closest one was tall, bearded, and armed. His face watched the proceedings with a compassionate, yet shrewd, eye. His contemplative gaze briefly met Soris's, and the elf looked away.

The other two watched from behind the bearded human, both leaning against the wall of one of the houses. One was a scruffy, dark-haired man with keen eyes and a bow on his back. He watched the elves avidly, one brow arched as his gaze followed Finian.

The other man was blond, and would have been handsome if his eyes weren't so icily cold. He leaned against the wooden wall with his arms crossed, his gaze absent as he scanned the crowd, as if he wasn't even aware of what was going on. There was a gigantic dog at his knee, and Soris shivered. There had been such dogs guarding the Urien estate.

"Tell me," Elder Valendrian said as the two men stopped in front of him. "What happened?"

Soris exchanged a look with Finian. The latter sighed and tried to dredge up a small, wry smile. "We asked nicely?"

The elder eyed the blood stains that covered them both. "I see. We won't have much time, then." He glanced over at the bearded man. "Duncan, I think now is a good time to finish our discussion."

The bearded human stepped forward, and Soris noticed Finian tensing. It seemed Soris wasn't the only one shaking off the sense of fight-or-flight.

"This is Duncan," the Alienage elder explained. "He's a Grey Warden, and an old friend of mine."

"Valendrian speaks highly of you, Finian Tabris," the human said, quite respectfully.

Finian blinked, obviously taken aback. Then, he threw on an abashed smile. "You obviously have me mistaken for some other Finian Tabris. I'm just the local lovable rogue."

"Somehow, I suspect you are quite a bit more than that." Duncan eyed the bloodstains pointedly. "I came here to ask Valendrian about possible recruits, but found the entire place in quite an uproar when I arrived. Not many mere pickpockets would risk themselves to rescue others."

Finian shrugged. "They'd taken my family and friends. I just retrieved them."

"And it is that attitude that does you so much credit. It takes more than fighting skill to be a Grey Warden." He nodded behind him, to the other humans.

Finian's eyes landed on the brunette man and widened. "Wha… you?"

The scruffy human smirked. "Said I'd be seeing you around, didn't I?" He made a motion toward his cheek. "You've a bit of blood… right there."

Finian absently rubbed his cheek, where a splatter of blood had, indeed, dried. It did not come off.

Heavy footsteps heralded the arrival of the town guard, and most of the elves in the square scattered. Soris made to go with them, but Valendrian laid a hand on his arm. "Don't panic," he said firmly. "Let's see what comes of this."

Soris swallowed thickly, but nodded. That didn't stop him from hiding behind Finian, though, as a small contingent of guards rounded the corner into the square.

"I seek the elder of the Alienage," the leader called. "Is he here?"

Said elder stepped forward. "I am Valendrian, Captain," he said calmly. "I take it you're here about today's disruption?"

"'Disruption'?" the captain said sternly. "Either you are playing dumb, or you have no idea what was perpetrated just now." The captain raised his voice so that any elves brave (and stupid) enough to remain nearby could hear. "The arl's son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through the entire palace! I need names, and I need them now!"

Soris felt himself go cold, and he drew the concealing cloak tighter around himself. This was it; he was sure of it. He was never going to see the light of day again…never going to see Valora again… to know what sort of life he might have had with her…

A hand on his arm startled him out of his panic spiral, and he looked up to see Finian flash him a wry smile. Then, the hand left as his cousin stepped forward.

"It was my doing," Finian said.

Wha… what? What was his crazy cousin doing?

The captain scoffed. "You expect me to believe one man did all that?"

Soris started to step forward himself, but Valendrian stopped him with a hand. "We are not all helpless," the elder said firmly, and Soris wondered whether Valendrian was speaking to the captain or to him. What did the elder know? What was going on?

The captain considered his cousin with honest respect… so very rare from a human to an elf. "You've saved lives by coming forward. I don't envy your fate, but I applaud your courage." Again, he raised his voice. "This elf will wait in the dungeons until the arl returns. The rest of you, back to your houses!"

Many elves disappeared through doors and around corners, but just as many stayed to watch this until the bitter end. Soris was one of those who stayed, though he had to fight back tears over what his cousin was doing for him. Prison was one of Fin's biggest fears, and yet he was willing to… He owed it to Finian to stay.

His cousin was white as a ghost, but he made no attempt to go back on his words.

Then, Duncan stepped forward. "Captain. A word, if you please."

"What is it, Grey Warden?"

"I'm afraid I must intervene on behalf of this man. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription. I remove this prisoner into my custody."

Soris wasn't the only one who stared: he saw Finian jerk around to gape at the Warden as well. Valendrian, however, watched the exchange with a soft, knowing smile.

"You… you can do that?" Finian sputtered. Soris almost laughed at seeing his silver-tongued cousin so tongue-tied.

"Son of a tied down…" the Captain groaned. "Again?" He cast a glance back at the scruffier of Duncan's human companions.

The brunette grinned and waved.

The captain scowled and turned back to Duncan. "Very well. I cannot challenge you. But for the love of the Maker, get this elf out of the city. Today. He must not be around when the news hits."

Duncan bowed his head. "Agreed."

With that, the captain brusquely excused himself and motioned for his men to move out.

Finian looked dumbstruck, watching the guards who might have arrested him calmly walk away, and Soris couldn't say he blamed his cousin. He was a little dumbstruck himself.

"I… I can't believe you did that."

Fin turned at the sound of Soris's voice. Then, he smiled with such relief that Soris couldn't help but mirror it. "Honestly," Finian laughed, "I can't either." He shook his head. "Wow. Me, a Grey Warden… it feels…"

"Amazing?" Soris ventured.

"Weird," Fin laughed.

"So… you're leaving then?" Soris felt his smile fade. "I mean, of course you're leaving. Heh, dumb question…"

"Yeah…" Finian blinked, and started looking around the Alienage as if seeing it for the first time. "Yeah, I… I have to leave." A slow smile stole onto his lips. "By the Maker… I'm actually getting out of here." He grinned at Soris. "I told you so, didn't I? I told you I'd find a way to get out and…" his face fell again. "…and leave you all behind."

Soris could tell his cousin was struggling with how to feel about all of this, so he just put a hand on Fin's shoulder. "It's not like you won't be able to visit. Shianni and me will be expecting handouts, after all. Being the family of a Grey Warden has got to have its perks, right?"

That seemed to settle Finian's anxiety, because his grin turned bright again. "Damn straight it will, and I entirely intend to play favorites. You'll keep my father and Shianni safe while I'm gone, right?"

"Of course. And you'll keep Ferelden safe in return?"

"By the Maker, Soris," Finian laughed. "You make me sound like an actual hero, or something."

Soris, however, wasn't laughing. "Well, you have been my hero since we were kids. It's just official now."

Finian again looked a little dumbstruck, so Soris just squeezed his shoulder and left. When he glanced back at his cousin one last time, Duncan had started talking to him, Finian smiling that sly way he had when he was looking for openings for his word games. The Grey Wardens had no idea what they were in for.

Soris smiled and turned back around, heading back home. He had business with Valora to attend to, after all.

Chapter Text

The boar rushed at her, but Meila kept her bow level. It already had two shafts in its flank, causing it to skid slightly in the swamp mud. She loosed the next arrow, which landed in the animal's shoulder.

The boar tossed its head, changing its course to go wide around her. She pulled another arrow from her quiver as it tore through the foliage to her right, grunting and squealing. She nocked the arrow and was about to draw the bowstring when it happened again.

Burning, tight and hot, tore through her. It always started in the vicinity of her stomach, but then rushed through her with the swiftness and relentlessness of a mighty river, sweeping away her consciousness for the brief moment when she knew nothing but tearing pain.

She clenched her teeth so as not to cry out, her eyes shutting without her consent and her arrow dropping from her fingers, even while her left hand clenched on her bow. Slowly—oh so very slowly—the pain receded.

While she was recovering, the boar tore out of the foliage, slamming its tusk into her leg, tearing a gash in it. She dodged back before it could do any more damage, then deftly pulled out another arrow and released it at point-blank range into its eye.

The boar finally collapsed, skidding heavily through the mud. Limping slightly, Meila stowed her bow and knelt down beside it, careful to keep her injured leg out of the swamp water. She retrieved the arrows and inspected each one for cracks or bends. Any arrows deemed worthy were returned to her quiver, while the rest were stowed in her bag to be disposed of later (A Dalish did not leave a trail, after all, and Dalish arrows did tend to stand out in the wilderness if left just lying about).

Only then did she allow herself to take out her hunting knife and cut off part of its tusk. This, she stowed in a special pouch at her belt, to be later carved into a bead. Then, she hefted the boar onto her shoulders—doing her best not to think about how her body quivered under the weight as it very well should not have—and turned to start back to camp. It had been a couple days since she'd visited, and the shemlen tended to get uppity if she didn't check in every now and then.

When she had first arrived at Ostagar, she had roamed the wilds for the better part of a week. When she'd returned to the human camp to check whether Duncan had returned, everyone had been shocked to see her alive. They had assumed she'd wandered off and died, and several Wardens had attempted to impress upon her the danger of wandering the Wilds alone. She had ignored them, but had nonetheless agreed to return every couple days.

She didn't really care much what the shemlen thought of her roaming the Korcari Wilds, but she had made a promise to Keeper Marethari that she would live and fight the darkspawn in Tamlen's memory. And as that required that she become a Grey Warden, she had to play by their rules. Occasionally.

It had been a month, now, and she did not honestly see why the shemlen feared the forest so much. Certainly, it was a bit swampier than Meila was used to, and she did occasionally run into roving bands of wild folk, but any obstacles were easily avoided or overcome by one as at home in the wilderness as she was.

There were the occasional darkspawn, of course… but after what they'd done to herself and Tamlen, she was all too eager to strike against them. When she found a band, she would follow it, picking off the individuals one-by-one from a safe distance. Then, when the band noticed her, she simply retreated into hiding until they had given up the chase. It was then only a matter of tracking them and once again picking off the members from a distance.

After a month of doing so, she liked to think she was making some mark upon the beasts.

Tracking her way back to camp wasn't particularly difficult… one simply had to find the streams of shemlen "scouting parties" and soon Ostagar's gate into the Wilds appeared from among the foliage.

The gate was closed this time, as it was every other time. Rather than ask the human guards on the other side to open it—a truly embarrassing prospect—she instead walked to the familiar crooked tree that grew right beside the gate. Its branches reached up over the twenty foot wall that separated the camp from the Wilds: tall enough for her purposes.

All it took was a bit of rope to pulley the boar carcass up into the tree. Then, she tied off the rope and followed it up, climbing deftly from branch to branch. The injury in her leg pulled uncomfortably as she climbed, but she merely ignored the pain, as she did the swirling dizziness that was a near constant companion these days.

Then, she was looking over the top of the wall, perched in the tree while she gazed over the Ostagar camp. Tents littered the grounds, of course, many flying flags with symbols or pictures on them. Humans swarmed among the tents... talking, eating, training. None of them doing anything particularly productive. There had been a couple small battles against the darkspawn since Meila had arrived, but the humans really seemed to spend most of their time sitting around, wasting resources.

Worse than that, however, were the flat-ears. They were servants and messengers nearly to a man, and that thought twisted Meila's gut. How did none of them see that they were still slaves, merely with a nicer cage? They spoke like shemlen, walked like shemlen… even cursed by the shemlen Maker. They had no concept of self outside what the shemlen had made them into… no sense of history or culture.

She ached for them. She pitied them. She hated them. She wanted to see them all freed at the same time she wanted to destroy such echoes of past entrapment. It was a jarring contradiction, and she was beginning to understand why Paivel had always said that their duty was to educate the flat-ears. They didn't realize all that they had given up… all that they could be again.

But changing them was a task no elf could do alone.

Meila levered the boar up and over the wall and untied its rope, and it fell on the other side with a heavy, wet plop. The guards near the gate startled and spun, even as Meila swung over the wall herself and landed on the ground beside the boar.

"Maker's breath… stop doing that!"

Meila did not acknowledge the humans, merely picked up her boar and made her way to the Grey Warden camp. It was nestled amongst the other pavilions, a relatively small collection of cookfires and tents, at least compared to the many other armies present.

There was a 'mess tent' near the Warden camp, which serviced it and the nearby forces with hard tack and gruel. That was where she took her catch, raising her chin against the stares that the shemlen always gave her when she was in camp.

Then, when she was within sight of the tent, a particularly vicious wave of dizziness overtook her, and she stumbled a step before she managed to get her knees locked. She couldn't show signs of weakness… not here.

"What the… Andraste's knickers, Meila!"

Of all the times for her self-appointed minder to appear... Fen'Harel must have been laughing at her.

And there he was: the obnoxious blond human who kept claiming to be responsible for the new recruits. He was in front of her then, helping keep the boar from slipping off her shoulders. Still fighting off the increased dizziness, she could only glare at him stonily.

"What? Oh, were you carrying this?" he said. "And why not, since it's only the same weight you are?"

"I am hardly delicate," she said shortly.

"No, but you are sick. And… for the love of… is that a leg wound?"

"I don't need your help," she said, and pulled away from him, dizziness be damned. She masked another stumble as best she could and continued on to the tent.

There was another human with the blond shemlen this time: one Meila recognized as one of the Wardens who had left with Duncan. Good; perhaps Duncan was back, and she could get this whole ordeal over with.

"Alistair, is this typical?" the other asked.

"Hm? Oh, yes, Rehg, it is. This is what she does. She disappears for days at a time, and returns with something twice her size slung across her back. I think she thinks we're incapable of feeding ourselves."

She dropped the boar off with the cooks. They were always startled by her arrival, but then they took pains to thank her profusely for whatever she brought for the table. While she appreciated the sentiment, it nonetheless rankled to be so lauded for something she was supposed to be doing anyway. She was a hunter. It was her duty to supply the clan (or camp, she supposed)… so why did they always seem so shocked when she did so?

She stepped back out of the tent, and noticed with some annoyance that the two Wardens were still there, waiting for her.

"One of the recruits is a healer," said the stranger. "We should really take you back to camp to get that leg looked at."

She stiffened at the tone of his voice… like he was speaking of a pet that had gotten its muzzle scratched.

The blond snorted a laugh. "No, no. That's not how you talk to her." He stepped forward, sweeping a bow. "Meila, might we perhaps suggest, as respectful equals, that you maybe could consider accompanying us back to camp… if you're not too busy, of course?"

"Don't patronize me, shemlen."

Alistair straightened and let out an exaggerated sigh. "There's just no winning, with her."

Even so, she followed them as the pair started back toward their camp. Walking around the swamp with an open wound was ill advised, after all. She couldn't bear to have it get infected, and then be forced to rely on the shemlen for succor. No, better to head it off now.

They weaved their way through the Warden camp, finally coming to stop at a small pitch next to a cluster of tents. On the pitch, a durgen'len woman was leading a group of the camp's Grey Wardens (as well as the human named Ser Jory) through some sort of training exercise. It involved them pushing at one another while holding onto long poles, and that was all Meila really cared to understand about it.

Next to the pitch were five people. Two were the other Wardens that had left with Duncan (though not Duncan himself, she noted). They were speaking with another durgen'len, who held some sort of metal device between them and motioned to one rather sharp-looking edge as she watched. This one had a curving tattoo on one cheek; she wondered if it carried as much meaning as her own did.

Beside them sat a dark-skinned shemlen woman in robes. She worked at a mortar and pestle amidst several stacks of pressed leaves and dried roots. Meila had seen the Keeper at work often enough to know an herbalist when she saw one.

Some distance away from the rest of the group stood a robed elf. Meila knew he was a flat-ear just by the clothes he wore and the way he watched the humans without showing any apparent awareness of their crimes. However, he stood with a particular defiance that had been lacking in the other flat-ears she'd seen in camp, as if he had never, and would never, bow and scrape as other flat-ears did. That, Meila could respect.

What she could not respect, however, were the faint tattoos that were scrawled across the flat-ear's face. Were those supposed to be vallaslin? If so, they certainly weren't in any of the traditional designs, and this flat-ear looked to be too young to have earned the blood writing the proper way. It made a mockery of the culture of the elvhen, and only her own silent repetition of Paivel's lessons about tolerating the flat-ears' ignorance, so it might one day be rectified, stopped her from gutting him for insolence right there.

The flat-ear stood separate from the group, watching the combat practice with a bored air. Thus, he was the first to notice the trio's approach. When he spotted Meila, he stared openly. Like a child confronted with his first sylvan. When she shot him a cold look that communicated her displeasure with him, his eyes narrowed in return.

Meila ignored the challenge in them and turned to the blond human, Alistair. "Has Duncan returned?"

"What? Oh, uh… no. Not as such." He made a face. "I'm starting to think he just doesn't want to be here, to be honest. Can't say I blame him, getting stuck between the king and Loghain as he is. Must be a lot like getting stuck between a wet cat and a hungry dog." He glanced back at her with a smirk. "Or between you and any human, actually."

She stared flatly at him, wondering if it would be a betrayal of her promise to scalp one of the Grey Wardens who was supposed to train her.

"Aaaaand now you're scary again. Seems to be a pattern." Alistar turned to the group ahead of them, and Meila noticed that the Wardens on the pitch had stopped their practice to watch their approach. "All right, everyone. Allow me to introduce Meila…" He trailed off, then turned to her with brows furrowed. "Actually, I don't know your last name."

She didn't deign to respond, just waited for him to get on with it.

"Right. Anyway, she's another of Duncan's recruits, though you wouldn't know it with how little time she actually spends in camp."

"Well met, Meila," the female dwarf stepped forward with a bow of her head. "I am Marnan."

"Oh my! Your leg!" That was from the herbalist. The woman picked herself up and hurried forward, reaching out a hand and invading Meila's personal space without so much as a how-do-you-do.

Meila skittered back a bit too quickly from the human's upraised hand. "Do not touch me, shemlen," she snapped.

Everyone stared, including the herbalist. Then, the male durgen'len snorted. "I don't know what that word means, but I'm pretty sure it was an insult."

"What's a 'shemlen'?" the one named Marnan asked the general group. As if they would know.

Then, to Meila's surprise, one of them said, "It means 'quickling.'" Meila stared at the herbalist, who still stood only a few paces in front of her. Now, the human was studying her avidly. "It's a very old elven word, referencing humans' shorter lifespans. Or at least, they were shorter at the time… it's said that elves lost their immortality because of proximity to us." She paused and glanced back at the male dwarf. "So I suppose, depending on context, it could certainly be an insult."

Meila was absolutely astounded. This… this human…? "You know my peoples' history?"

The human shrugged and smiled wryly. "Well, some. Only what Brother Genitivi detailed in The Travels of a Chantry Scholar… But he wrote as an outsider, so I imagine there must have been much he missed." The woman brightened, her voice picking up speed as she spoke. "You're Dalish, right? I can tell by your vallaslin. Am I saying that right? Vallaslin?"

"I… yes."

"I've never seen one before, though I've seen them illustrated. Which Creator does yours represent?"

Meila took a moment of the ensuing silence to recover from that onslaught. She could feel the gazes of the others on her, and got the distinct impression that several of them found something humorous in this situation. Still, Meila found it hard not to stare back at the human who was asking such informed questions about her culture. Finally, with not a little wonder, she said, "You really want to know, don't you?"

The human nodded enthusiastically. "Elven perspectives are so rare among Ferelden scholarship, since the Imperium took such great pains to wipe it out…" She paused, her eyes widening. "Oh no… I probably shouldn't have mentioned that to a Dalish. I'm sorry."

"No," Meila said, still somewhat in awe of this human. "It is good to hear a shemlen acknowledge it." The human relaxed, and Meila found herself doing so as well… just a bit. "As to your question, my vallaslin is a dedication to Andruil, Lady of the Hunt."

The woman stayed silent, as if waiting to hear more. Meila could not do anything but continue.

She felt a small smile creep onto her face as she spoke of familiar matters. "Through my vallaslin, Andruil guides my bow and gives me the wits and keen eyes needed to pursue my quarries, both on the hunt and off. By bearing Andruil's markings, I am sworn above others to uphold the Vir Tanadahl—the Way of the Three Trees."

"The Way of the Three Trees?" the human queried curiously.

Meila nodded and thrust out one arm. "First, Vir Assan, the Way of the Arrow. Fly straight and do not waver. Second," and at this she added her other arm, spread apart to suggest holding a bow, "Vir Bor'assan, the Way of the Bow. Bend but never break. Third," and here she turned her palms up and spread her arms wide, "Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest. Together we are stronger than one." She dropped her arms. "These are the Ways that all Dalish live by."

"Wow… that is…" the human seemed to be getting misty-eyed. "Thank you. For sharing that, I mean."

Meila nodded, though she had the distinct feeling that she should be thanking the human… as absurd a notion as that was. "If you wish, you may approach now. I will not… retreat from you."

"Oh, right!" She flushed and knelt down, hesitantly reaching out to touch Meila's injured leg. While the warm itchiness of healing magic rushed through her—soothing more than the leg, to be honest—a familiar voice spoke up.

"Wow," Alistair whistled, and Meila was startled to find that everyone was still staring at them. "Felicity, just so you know, you got her to say more words just now than I think I've ever heard from her combined. That. Was. Awesome."

The male durgen'len looked incredulous. "I can't believe we found someone who can actually tolerate the mage's nosy nattering."

The herbalist, Felicity, finished healing Meila's leg (the Dalish inspected it: it was as good as new) and stood up. Her face was flushed. "I'll have you know I'm not nosy… merely curious. It's not a sin to seek knowledge of things you don't understand."

"I would agree," Meila said. When Felicity smiled at her in gratitude, Meila nodded.

"Still, bravo." Alistair turned his lopsided grin to Meila, like they were friends or something. "So why didn't you just share any of that before?"

Meila felt the barest of smirks flit across her face, but that alone was enough to make the blond Warden goggle. "Simple, shemlen." She turned and started away, content now to return to her hunting. "You never asked."

Chapter Text

"So what do you think his story is, eh?"

Finian stumbled over a root and nearly fell into a ravine, but caught himself against a tree. Give him a busy market full of merchant stalls and running kids, and he was nimble as any given acrobat… but stick him in a forest, and he became more prone to falls than Shianni after one too many drinks. "Whose?" he asked distractedly.

"The noble's." Daveth, on the other hand, navigated the woods like he'd been born here. According to him, that wasn't far off the mark.

Finian glanced up at the human between watching his steps on the muddy earth. "You think he's a noble?"

"Don't you?" Daveth glanced back, smirking. "I'd think someone of your talents would be able to smell it on him, same as me. He's just got that… 'I got me a right heavy purse' quality."

Finian snorted. "I don't do much smelling. Learned better than to use my nose, growing up in Denerim." Daveth laughed. "Me, I work with words. A guy says 'hello' to me, and I'll be able to tell his temperament, his motivations, his mother's first name, and his favorite kind of Orlesian pastry. But Percival doesn't talk… so, alas, it seems I will never know whether he prefers croissants or crème puffs."

Daveth chuckled as he skirted them around a rock fall.

The two were out hunting in the woods, trying to catch dinner. Or rather, Daveth was hunting (he had two rabbits already swinging from his belt), while Finian fumbled about with his new shortbow in a way that may have been considered shooting if one were blind, drunk, and had never seen a bow before. Finian's new leather armor kept creaking, too, and he found that disconcerting.

He was used to passing through thick crowds, completely unseen and unheard. A creaky armor-wearing bow-wielding elf was very likely to draw attention. At least he still had his daggers at his wrists, though Duncan had stopped at the last town to have a proper pair of wrist sheaths fashioned for him, complete with a spring mechanism that made them pop out when he needed them.

The sheaths were small and unobtrusive enough to fit under a reasonably loose shirt, too. Duncan would have had to order that special, to make that work, as if he knew Fin would need to be secretly armed while in plainclothes in the future. Duncan played all cool and unassuming, but he was wily when he needed to be.

As they walked, looking for game to stir up, Finian's mind turned toward their fourth companion. Percival did sort of have that noble look to him, Fin supposed. His equipment was certainly nice enough, and that crest on his shield was one Finian had seen before, on the liveries of some servants who worked the various Denerim noble estates.

Thing was, Finian couldn't name which crest that was. The pickpocket had never really bothered to pay attention to the differences between the nobility; he tended to chalk them up as being cut from the same wealthy, arrogant, casually racist stock.

Then again, he knew from personal experience that some nobles could be much, much worse.

"You've gone a bit quiet, friend. You all right?"

Finian shook his head to clear it. "Yeah. Just trying to think, and that's hard enough for me without navigating a forest while doing it."

"Oh, wait, are we 'navigating' now? Honest, I was just walking us around in circles."

Finian laughed and threw a rock at the human. It bounced off his leather pauldron.

"Oh, you got me, you did!" Daveth made to stumble forward, clutching his shoulder with an over-empathetic groan. "I'll never be able to shoot a bow again! Actually, I think I'm dying!" Daveth collapsed on the ground with a cry of "Oh woe!" Finian doubled over laughing. "At least my death was by a mighty foe, slain by a foul rock beastie!"

Daveth fell limp in the dirt, letting his tongue loll out for good measure. Finian managed to collect himself. Grinning, he nudged Daveth in the ribs with his boot.

Daveth cracked an eye open. "What do you think? Too much?"

"I think… you just scared off all the game with your awful acting."

"What? No encore, eh?" He chuckled and sat up, dusting himself off. "Just as well. I'm right sick of rabbit stew for dinner."

"You prefer biscuits and jerky?" Finian helped pull Daveth to his feet. "Then it sounds like the army's the right place for you to be headed."

"Cripes, the army." Daveth shook his head to himself as they started back to their camp. It was getting pretty close to sunset anyway, so they would have had to turn back soon as it was. "Can you believe you and me are going to be in the bloody army? How in Andraste's armpit did that happen?"

"The question is, does it say less about us, or about Duncan for recruiting us?"

Daveth laughed. "Fair bet you don't want to mention that to him, eh?"

"I might, just to see his reaction."

"All I can say is be careful. That old bugger's a fair bit faster than he looks. Bet he knows how to wield those blades on his back, you mark me."

"That's me, tempting fate with tongue wagging." Finian slipped down a sandy slope, but recovered at the bottom without actually having fallen down. A fair bit of fancy footwork on his part, if he did say so himself.

Daveth laughed as he took a slightly rockier path to avoid the sand. "You know what I think the problem is? You're too bloody light. I don't know if it's because you're an elf or what, but your feet just seem to fall lighter. Makes the ground keep trying to fly out from under you."

"Huh. And to think, usually it works to my advantage."

"What, being light-footed or being an elf?"

Finian laughed. "You're obviously not an elf, asking a question like that."

This made his companion grow more somber. "That bad, is it?"

And that sucked all the fun from the atmosphere. Finian tried to keep it light. "It's not so bad, as long as you learn to come and fetch when told. And if you're real good, sometimes you get a cookie." Daveth shifted uncomfortably as they walked, and Finian poked him in the side. "You don't seem to mind, though."

"After what I saw you pull with the sergeant back in Denerim? I'd have been right out of it to mind." Daveth cast him a self-depreciating smile. "I do admit, though… I was a bit surprised when Duncan recruited you. It hadn't really occurred to me at the time that an elf could be a Grey Warden, though it made sense once I'd thought about it… Why not, right?" He glanced at Fin—gauging his reaction—and Fin smiled back to show he wasn't offended. "Besides, you were rather covered in blood at the time, so who was I to argue?"

"But if I hadn't been covered in blood, then you'd have let me have it, hm?"

Daveth seemed to be loosening up a bit. Finian was glad for it—he wasn't going to let a bit of shaky race relations get in the way of a potential friendship. "Oh, you're right I would have," Daveth said. "And Duncan too. 'Can't have a pickpocket better'n me on the team' I would've told him. What would be the point of me cutting purses if you then just pickpocketed the cut purses, eh?"

"Ooh, that does sound like a good system. Remind me to try that next time you cut Duncan's purse. You know, before he mows you down and cuts you into dozens of little Daveth pieces."

Daveth laughed as they crossed through the last foliage into camp. "Isn't that the truth?"

The Warden-Commander himself was getting the evening's fire started in the clearing they'd found off the road. He raised an eyebrow as they joined him, as if wondering whether he dared to ask what they'd been talking about. Duncan seemed to find it more prudent not to get involved in their conversations… preservation of sanity and all that.

Daveth settled down next to Duncan to start preparing the rabbits. Finian, meanwhile, started digging through the saddlebags that had been dumped a little farther away from the firepit. The mule they'd rented for the journey down to Ostagar was grazing lazily near the treeline.

The fourth member of their party sat on an overturned log some distance from the firepit, near the bags. As if Duncan had dumped him there at the same time he'd dropped the bags… which may not have been far from the truth. As usual, the human sat listlessly where he'd been set, staring at nothing and acknowledging no one. He ate when given food and followed directions well enough when setting up and taking down camp. But it was obvious his mind wasn't all there… and judging by the look in his eyes, wherever his mind was, it was a very dark place.

Percival's gigantic dog, Hugo, sat next to him, always the stolid sentinel. In the past couple days since leaving Denerim, Finian had watched the dog, and noticed that it guarded its master like it might an injured littermate. It never left his side, even as it watched its surroundings with the attentive eyes that its master lacked.

Daveth's question came back to Finian, then. What was the man's story?

What Finian had said was true; he had never heard the noble utter a single word. Even the names of both noble and hound had been provided by Duncan, so who was to say they were even correct?

Finian had always had a curious mind, so the idea of such a mystery intrigued him.

The dog was watching him, he realized. Those too-smart eyes studied him just like he was studying them. Finian blinked, startled, and the dog quirked an ear. Almost like it… he… was asking him a question. Just how smart was this dog?

There had been mabari hounds in Vaughan's estate. Fin worried if their deaths should weigh on his conscience too.

Finian pulled their cooking gear out of the saddlebags. When he pulled out a wooden spoon, he saw the dog twitch out of the corner of his eye.

He glanced up, and saw that Hugo was staring at the spoon intently, both his ears perked up. Then, the dog seemed to startle, and he looked back at his listless master. Slowly, his ears lowered again.

Hm, the dog had been sitting loyally by his master's side for at least two days, maybe longer. He had to be restless by now.

"You want to play, boy?"

The dog's head snapped around, and he stood in excitement, but then he seemed to recall himself and sat back down.

Finian waved the spoon around. "I'm sure your master won't mind."

The dog whined and looked at Percival again, and Finian realized that wasn't what he was worried about. "You're worried about him, huh? Well, I'm sure Duncan will protect him for a couple minutes."

"Volunteering my services, are you?" Duncan's voice sighed. "I suppose one of the reasons I recruited you was your boldness."

Finian stood and walked over to the dog. Hugo's tail wagged, and he watched the elf approach raptly. When Fin raised the spoon as if to throw, the dog jumped to his feet and barked happily.

The spoon sailed off into the forest, and the dog went streaking after it. He returned a moment later… but not with the spoon. Instead, he'd grabbed a fallen branch that was at least half as long as Finian was tall.

He laughed and did his best to heft the thing and toss it again. It didn't go far, but Hugo brought it back and he gave it another shot. By four throws in, Finian had perfected a technique that involved him spinning around in a circle and releasing the fallen branch mid-spin, sending it flying in a random direction. Between how often he fell to the ground, and the time he nearly clocked Daveth with it, he had almost as much fun as the dog.

Finally, as the sun was setting, the dog tired. Daveth tossed the dog half a rabbit, which he happily devoured. Duncan ladled out stew for everyone, and Finian took a bowl over to the noble's listless form.

"Thank you."

Finian nearly dropped the bowl. The voice was hoarse with disuse, and thick. The elf looked up and saw the noble's blue eyes looking at him—actually at him. Eye contact and all.

For the first time, Finian was struck by just how arresting those clear blue eyes were, and how, when he wasn't staring off listlessly into space, Percival was quite handsome, in a golden, chiseled-by-the-Maker-Himself way. However, that was, as ever, a thought best kept to himself.

"You're welcome, of course." Finian cracked a smile, trying to be encouraging to this new development, despite how his heart raced. "Can't have you starving before you've put at least one darkspawn away."

"Not… that." His hand reached out and tangled his fingers in the fur behind Hugo's ears. "I've been… unfair to him. Thank you."

Daveth was right: the man certainly had an aristocratic accent, though the cultured tone was marred by its emptiness. His tone was low and dead, handling speaking like one would a fine crystal ball: as if were he to inject any emotion into it, everything would crack and shatter.

Shianni had sounded a little like that, when she'd been fighting back tears.

Finian just held the bowl out to the noble, keeping the warm smile on his face despite the empathetic pain that twisted his gut. "It's no trouble. Guarding you is hard work, I suspect. I figured he could use a break."

The dog barked in agreement, and the darkness in Percival's eyes became perhaps a bit less all-encompassing. Then, the noble took the bowl and looked away, and he was gone again.

Finian watched the noble eat for a minute, just to make sure he did, and then headed back to the fire. He sat down, and Daveth handed him a bowl of his own.

As soon as he'd settled, Duncan sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I suspect that I should thank you as well." The commander smiled down at him softly, then nodded back in the noble's direction. "He will need a shoulder to lean on in the coming days. I would hate to lose one of such skill to his own grief."

"So it's grief, then?" Daveth asked softly. "For who? Who did he lose?"

Duncan shook his head. "I'm afraid it is not my business to say… although I suspect the both of you will find out soon enough." He stood. "Eat up. We've got a long road yet to Ostagar."

Chapter Text

"So why do you suppose we're to be confined to the king's camp?" The other three weren't asking the question, and Felicity was never the one to let a question remain unasked.

"I wouldn't say confined… exactly," Alistair hedged.

"Do you think it has something to do with that… erm… tantrum the elf threw last night?" Ser Jory asked, then turned to Felicity. "Is he always like that?"

"His temper was rather infamous back in the Circle," she said somewhat wryly.

In front of them, Marnan remained quiet as she led them in their tour around the king's camp. She seemed to be too busy studying the fortifications and making mental notes of supplies to attend to the conversation. Felicity wasn't clear on why or how, but it was obvious the dwarf had experience with pitched combat. It was more than could be said for the rest of them.

Really, Alistair should probably have been leading the four of them, being the Grey Warden and all, but he seemed content to escort from second rank, as it were. "I know what it looks like, but it's really nothing to do with… what was his name? Kazar?" Alistair shrugged and scratched his chin. "Though the way he glares at me, I wouldn't mind it if someone decided to put him in time out for a while. Hopefully before he decides he wants to see what a roasted ex-Templar looks like."

Felicity held her tongue at that. Sometimes, she forgot that the amiable Warden had Templar training… it hadn't come up much in the three days since their arrival. Kazar, though… she suspected that after what had happened at the Tower, he had a much more difficult time dismissing it. Given that, she couldn't say she blamed him for his hostility toward anyone connected to the order.

By the Maker, was she feeling sympathy for Kazar Surana?

"So what would you call it, Warden?"

"For the hundredth time, Ser Jory, call me Alistair. It is my name, after all, and a damn good one if I do say so myself." The blond sighed. "All I really know is that a letter from Duncan arrived this morning by courier. Apparently, he's left Denerim and is on his way here. As such, he would like all recruits kept to the king's camp. Knowing him, it's probably just so, when he finally does come in, he can collect you all quickly without having to scour the army camps from walls to washrooms."

"If that's the case," Jory said, "someone should tell that Dalish elf."

"If you want to go find her and tell her, Ser Jory, be my guest."

"You… you mean go out in the Wilds? Are we even allowed to do that?"

"…actually, no. I don't think so." Alistair frowned. "I wonder how she keeps getting out."

That was another matter that had been pressing on Felicity's mind lately. While healing Meila's leg the day before, Felicity had felt something… strange… in the Dalish elf. Something dark and twisted, spreading through her like drops of black oil in a bowl of clear water. She hadn't been able to identify it, and the Dalish elf had disappeared as soon as she had been healed. As of yet, Meila had not returned.

Oh, she hoped the Dalish elf did not stay out in the Korcari Wilds with that seething around inside her.

"You have not been sentenced?" Marnan's outraged voice snapped Felicity from her thoughts. She looked up in time to see the dwarf turning to a guard minding a set of hanging cages. "Just what kind of army are you running here?"

The guard shrugged. "Not my fault. I suppose the higher-ups have more important things to do than worry about some deserter."

The other three moved up to stand next to the dwarf. Felicity noted that one of the hanging cages was occupied with a gaunt, nearly naked man. That certainly couldn't be healthy, as wet and cold as this area was this time of year.

Marnan frowned, crossing her arms. "He's a deserter, then?"

"I wasn't deserting." the prisoner spoke up, pressing against the bars of his cage. He looked around at the other three pleadingly. "Does it matter? Please, all I want is some food and water."

Marnan cast a disapproving look at the prisoner. "Where I come from, deserters are cast out into the Deep Roads."

Alistair and Ser Jory looked confused by the reference. Felicity, however, only sighed and started digging around in her belt pouch for the half-eaten tack bread she'd stored there this morning. "And you don't think that's a little… extreme, Marnan?"

"Of course not!" the dwarf seemed shocked that Felicity would even question it. "When you are fighting darkspawn every day of your life, you need your army to stand together, bravely facing their own deaths with conviction and courage. Deserters undermine that, and undermining morale can be absolutely disastrous when you are facing impossible odds."

"Is that what fighting darkspawn is like?" Ser Jory asked. "Impossible odds?"

"Not impossible, Ser Jory," Alistair assured him. "Bloody unlikely, but they still die when stabbed well enough."

"Still," Felicity said, finding her half loaf of bread. "Starving him is an unnecessary cruelty." She handed the loaf of bread through the bars.

"Oh thank you! Thank you!" the prisoner said, devouring it hungrily. Felicity followed the bread with her waterskin. He drained it.

"It wouldn't hurt to give him a shirt as well," she told the guard.

The guard snorted in annoyance. "And where am I supposed to get a shirt, huh? No one gives me nothing."

Alistair smirked at Felicity. "Not a fan of half-naked men, are you?"

She blushed. "He'll catch a cold like this. Dampness and cold makes one highly susceptible to all manner of diseases. It's even worse if he doesn't have a proper chance to tend to his own hygiene, which only allows diseases to—"

"All right, all right." Alistair laughed and started unbuckling his cuirass. "'Naked man bad,' we get it." Once the cuirass was off, he tugged off his undershirt and rolled it into a wad, pushing it through the bars.

"You are all… very kind," the prisoner stuttered, fumbling with the cloth.

Alistair shrugged and grinned. "I just didn't want to listen to her talk about it for ten minutes." He turned to wink at Felicity, and she felt her face go hot as she noticed just how broad and strong-looking his bare chest was. Coupled with that devilish wink, it left her vexingly tongue-tied.

Marnan spoke to the prisoner then. "We'll see whether we can't find someone to sentence you. That will at least have this finished, one way or another."

"Thank you. You all have my gratitude… for what that's worth."

"None would be needed, if your imprisonment were being addressed properly," Marnan sighed. "Even so, you're welcome. Right, Felicity?"

"What?" Felicity tore her eyes away from Alistair, who was gathering up his splintmail, but making no move whatsoever to put it back on like he should. She blinked, gathering her wits. "Yes, of course."

Felicity followed as Marnan led them away, down a pair of stone steps to a broader section of the ruin.

"That was the right thing to do, I think," Ser Jory said as they walked. "Giving him a little dignity, I mean."

"And food," Alistiar chuckled. "The food probably helps too."

"He must have a family somewhere," Jory said. "A wife, or siblings, or something. I'm sure they would have appreciated what you all just did."

"Never really thought about that," said Alistair.

"I know I would have. I have a wife, you know. And a child on the way. I'd have hated to have wasted away like that, each day knowing they'd never hear from me again."

"I agree," Marnan said from up front. "Far better to die with honor, facing the darkspawn, than to die curled up in some cage." Her voice softened. "It is why my people exile some criminals to the Deep Roads."

Alistair raised a hand. "I'm a fan of not dying at all."

While they were crossing the camp, Felicity spotted a familiar set of maroon robes. Her heart did a leap, and she hurried forward. "Wynne!"

The senior enchanter looked up from the book she had been reading. As Felicity came to a stop beside her bench, Wynne's wizened face crinkled into a welcoming smile and she gently closed her book. "Felicity. I had wondered when you might find me. I hear word from the Tower that congratulations are in order… for both of you."

"Thank you, Wynne," Felicity couldn't seem to tamp down her elated grin at seeing her former mentor again. She could hear the others coming up behind her, and she couldn't bear to embarrass herself. "I've been practicing creation magic… it's just as you said; it's gotten much easier."

"That is good to hear." The older mage glanced behind Felicity. "And who are your friends, my dear?"

"Other Warden recruits." Felicity turned herself to point to each in turn. "This is Marnan, and Ser Jory. And Alistair is the Grey Warden who's been tasked with supervising us."

Alistair chuckled. "You make it sound like it's against my will."

"Is it not?" Marnan asked with a grin.

"Well, yes. But she doesn't need to know that."

"Well met," Wynne chuckled. "I am Wynne, a senior enchanter of the Circle of Mages." Wynne turned back to Felicity. "It is good to see you getting along so well with your new companions, Felicity." The others wouldn't have caught it, but there was relief in Wynne's voice. Wynne knew well that Felicity had never been particularly… adept at making friends with her peers. "Tell me, how is Kazar faring? I'd heard something about a disturbance in the general camp last night."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes. That was him. He met a Dalish elf that looked at him sideways, and so he decided to shatter all of the practice dummies in the West Hills camp."

"I see." Wynne said calmly, though Felicity swore the elder woman was holding back laughter.

"It did make a very pretty light show," Alistair put in.

"Let's hope he shows so much enthusiasm against the darkspawn," Marnan said.

"Well, that won't be a problem," the blond replied. "Just have Meila glare at him again, and make sure the archdemon is in his general vicinity. That should about stop the Blight right there."

"Actually, Wynne," Felicity said when reminded of Meila. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"One of the other recruits is a Dalish elf. Yesterday, I healed her for a leg wound, but there was something… else. Wrapped around her like moss on a stone."

"Ah, yes. I believe I have seen the elf you're speaking of. Unfortunately, I haven't had any opportunity to examine her closely, so I can't say what might be ailing her."

"I…can." Both mages turned to Alistair in surprise. He shifted uncomfortably, raising the armor in his arms to cover his torso, as if suddenly realizing he was still shirtless. "Though I don't know if I should."

"Please, Alistair," Felicity said. "The enchanter is a healer… much better than I am. Maybe she can help."

He shook his head, his lips thinning. "Trust me, what Meila's got, no magical healing can help."

Wynne made a sound of understanding. "It's the Taint, then?"

The Warden nodded.

Felicity felt her stomach flip. "But… but how is that possible? She doesn't seem all that affected… she's not showing the standard symptoms, from what I can tell… no weakness, or pain. Just yesterday, she purportedly took down a boar and brought it back to camp singlehanded!"

"Oh, she's showing it," Alistair said grimly. "When she first came to camp a month ago, she was a great deal quicker, and stronger. More stubborn, too, though I know that's hard to believe."

"A month?! She's had the Taint for a month?! How is she even still alive?!"

"That," Wynne said ponderously, "is a very good question."

Alistair just shrugged. "All I know is that Duncan took her from the Dalish when she got sick, because the only cure for the Taint is to become a Grey Warden."

"That seems… odd," Ser Jory said with a frown. "What about being a Grey Warden cures the Taint?"

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Grey Wardens are immune to it. You're to become one, and you don't know that?"

"That's how we can defeat the darkspawn, then," Marnan said wryly. "Just induct everyone in Ferelden into the Grey Wardens, and suddenly no one gets sick from their blood. That would be one massive problem solved right there."

Alistair returned the wry look. "If only it were that simple."

"Well," Felicity said, "why isn't it? If we're facing a potential Blight, and Grey Wardens have an advantage over non-Wardens, why not induct the entire army into the Wardens and give them every advantage possible?"

"It's… look, there's some things I'm not allowed to tell you, all right? But let's just say that the Joining ritual is not exactly the sort of thing you want to inflict on people who aren't absolutely dedicated to wiping out the darkspawn." Alistair rubbed the back of his head, nervously. "It's why Duncan has to be picky with his recruits. This is a pretty large wave of new recruits right here, and that's just because there is a Blight on the way."

"Wait, go back," Ser Jory said nervously. "A Joining ritual? That sounds like another test. Have we not already had enough of those?"

Felicity turned to him. "Does the prospect of magic worry you, Ser Jory?"

"No, it's not that. I'd just thought… I mean, haven't we already proven our worthiness? How many tests do we have?"

Marnan eyed him coolly, obviously not approving of his attitude. "As many as are necessary. The Grey Wardens know what they're doing when it comes to the darkspawn."

"If you're worried about tests," Felicity said, "all you need to do is study. I happen to be very good at tests myself, so I can tell you it's all about preparation and self-confidence."

"A wise lesson, dear," Wynne said with a smile. "One that, I think, applies to many aspects of life."

Ser Jory nodded, his lips pursed. Meanwhile, Alistair chuckled. "Feels like I'm back in school, all right." Felicity couldn't really imagine why that would be a bad thing.

Chapter Text

And now there were Templars here. As if he could hate this camp any more than he already did.

Kazar could feel them watching him as he wandered the king's camp alone, and the weight of their stares made heat prickle up and down his spine. Word of what had happened at the Tower must have gotten back to them, to make them watch him as unwaveringly as they did while he passed. Only his own assurances that they could no longer touch him kept him from exploding right there… though whether in rage or gibbering fear was up for debate.

He just couldn't shake the memory of Greagoir's hand on the back of his neck, somehow pulling all the magic from his body and blocking his connection to the Fade. To him, being left bereft of his magic was absolutely terrifying. Without it, he was just… an elf.

He'd never really thought of his race before. At the Tower, he'd always just been Kazar Surana, Irving's favorite apprentice and mage not to be trifled with if you valued keeping certain parts from being frozen off.

But here… ugh. Here, no one knew about his exceptional talents or his reputation. Here, he was "the elf". As in, when someone didn't know his name, they called him "the elf".

As in "Hey, elf! Fetch my quiver, would you?" or "You're the elf Duncan recruited" or "What's it like being an elf at the Tower?" Elf elf elf elf ELF ELF ELF!

As if that was some important, defining feature, or something. It was just the shape of his ears, for the Fade's sake.

And then that… that other elf had walked into camp, all proud of her heritage and speaking of things that Kazar had a feeling he should understand… And he hadn't. And he had sort of wanted to.

Why did he care? He wasn't like other elves, who scraped livings together being walked on by Ferelden's upstanding nobility. He was a mage, and a powerful one. He didn't need some stupid list of gods or codes of conduct or sense of kinship.

He'd never needed any such thing before. So… why did the Dalish's obvious rejection of him hurt so much?

"Hey, elf! Where's that armor I requested?"

Kazar whirled, lightning coming unbidden to his hands. "Do I look like a servant to you?!"

The tall, balding man who had addressed him backed up, eyes widening. "Whoa, sorry. Didn't mean anything by it. I just thought-"

"That I was an elf, so obviously I must exist to do your bidding? Wrong." Kazar released the electricity building around him at a nearby crate, destroying it and its contents. Then, he whirled and stalked off. He could see that a pair of nearby Templars had put their hands on their swords, but he just glared at them and they made no move toward him.

"I'll give ya one thing, elf," a low, rumbling chuckle sounded from nearby. "Watchin' you is sure as a prince's balls a lot more entertaining than watchin' any of the other sticklers here."

Kazar whirled at the voice, because if one more person called him "elf"… just one…

Garott hopped off the base of a ruined statue. He'd been sitting there, apparently, though Kazar would never have guessed it a moment ago. The shadows had an eerie way of blending into the dwarf's skin; it made him hard to spot if he didn't move too much. "Easy, kid. I been called 'brand' and 'duster' all my life." The dwarf tapped the curving tattoo on his cheek. "I know better'n anyone here how frustrating it can be. So stop pointing that thing at me, huh?"

Belatedly, Kazar realized he'd been nursing a lightning bolt in his hand. With some effort (given his agitation), he let it dissipate. "Then why did you do it just now?" Kazar snapped.

A toothy grin crossed the dwarf's face. "Like I said. You're entertaining."

Kazar made a noise between a scoff and a growl. Then, he spun on his heel and continued his exploration of the king's camp.

Garott fell into step beside him. "I notice how those Chantry tin cans watch you. Not too fond of ya, are they?"

"The feeling's mutual."

"Mm. Then would ya like to have a little fun with 'em?"

Kazar stopped, turning curiously at the dark humor in the dwarf's voice. "What do you mean by 'fun'?"

The dwarf shrugged casually, though the smirk on his face was far from innocent. "Nothing permanent, of course. But wouldn't it be funny if, sometime around dinner, they started to feel real woozy. Too woozy to harass any young mages who are minding their own business, of course."

Kazar was intrigued. "And how would this come about, exactly?"

Garott laughed and pulled a vial out of one of the pouches at his belt. "Why, how do ya think?" He twirled the vial around his fingers and smirked. "My own special brand of magic."

Grinning himself, Kazar followed Garott as the dwarf led them through camp, toward the Templars' mess tent. Perhaps there was a silver lining to having the Templars here, after all.

Chapter Text

When they rounded a bend in the hillside and Ostagar finally came into view, Percival could do little but stare.

The ruin had been a fortress once, grand and impenetrable. Now, it was cracked and tumbled in several places, the walls marred by both age and battle. Percy wondered whether an ally of the presiding lord had ever taken the fortress from the inside.

Fergus would be somewhere within those walls, unaware of what had happened in Highever. By the Maker, Fergus had lost more than just parents to Howe's treachery. He'd lost a wife. And a son.

Percival's mind flashed back to the memory of his mother weeping over the corpses… the first they'd found of many. The image was burned into his soul, bleeding his heart of emotion that had long since drained. He'd never get to teach his nephew swordwork now, or, when he got older, sneak behind Fergus's back to show him the ways of women. Oren was now nothing but a ghost left to haunt the halls of the Castle Cousland.

He wanted to weep, but he'd wept all the tears he had over the course of that first awful night. Now, there was only a vast, cold pit in his soul where there had once been warmth and happiness.

"Come on," a soft voice said, and Percival registered that the elf was standing in front of him, gently taking his arm to lead him forward. "The journey's almost done, and if Daveth doesn't get a bath soon, I'm going to push him into the next lake I see."

"Ha!" came the other's voice from somewhere ahead. "I'd like you see you try, you runt! Even if you managed it, you'd probably just slip and fall in after me, you would."

"Well… I do need a bath too."

Percival tried to smile, he really did… but he couldn't seem to remember how. The elf had kept doing this on the journey south: including him in things and speaking with him as if Percival was capable of speaking back. It ignited a spark of warmth in his internal winter, knowing that he perhaps didn't have to carry the burden of his grief in isolation. It certainly helped keep his mind off it.

Until, of course, Percival looked at Finian's smooth, expressive, very elven features and recalled all the elven corpses he'd had to step over. The Couslands had employed many elves as servants, most of whom Percy had known since he was a child. Like the cook's assistant who always filched him rolls when Percy snuck into the kitchen after bedtime. And the gardener who always grumbled when Hugo got into his flowers, but then promptly pulled a Mabari Crunch out of his pocket.

And then… Maker… there had been Iona. The poor elven woman had made the grave mistake of picking Percival's bed on the night of the attack. No, wait… it had been Percival who had picked her. He was the seducer—the rake whose appetites had gotten the poor woman killed. If he'd only disciplined himself that one time, decided not to play that same blasted game, maybe she would have had a chance to escape. Or to hide.

It had been his lust that had killed her, not the Howe arrow that had gone through her heart. Desire was just as deadly a demon as Pride and Sloth, it seemed. And he'd been a thrall to all three, then.

Now, the only demon he knew was Rage.

Hugo's head butted anxiously into his thigh, and Percival sluggishly recalled his surroundings. While he'd been… preoccupied, they had somehow walked the distance to the ruin, and were now passing through the gate. Stone arches curved overhead, the vestiges of an empire that had fallen a long time ago.

Everything fell, and died, and decayed, it seemed. One day, there would be nothing left. No wonder the Maker had abandoned the world.

Duncan was talking as he led them. Something about the strategic advantages of their position… Percy couldn't really attend to it. Whenever anyone spoke of battles, images would surface in his mind. His sword plunging into someone's flesh. The sting of an arrow grazing his arm. Ser Gilmore, standing battered and blood-splattered as he urged the Cousland matron and her wayward son to escape the scene of what would soon be a doomed battle. Percy hadn't even been afforded the closure of seeing the knight's body.

"Look at that tower," the elf said softly to Percival, drawing him out of himself again. "I wonder if there's anything interesting in there. Do you think Duncan would let us explore it?"

"I wouldn't count on finding anything," Daveth's voice called back. "Been here for a thousand years, hasn't it? That's an awful long time for the scavengers to pick through it."

Duncan, ahead of them all, could be heard sighing, his lecture falling silent.

Percival looked up at the indicated tower… but all he saw was more old stones.

"Ho, Duncan!" a voice cried up ahead, one that rang a bell of familiarity strong enough to pull Percival out of his murk. Ahead, coming toward them, was a man with golden hair and a charismatic smile. Cailan Theirin.

Percival had met Cailan on occasion, of course, since their fathers had been so close (he ignored a stab of pain at that reminder). Percival had always been a bit dazzled by the man's sheer… brightness. Everything about Cailan was golden, and optimistic, and exciting. Growing up twelve years' Cailan's junior, Percival had always been somewhat in awe of the prince.

And how the prince could spin a tale… Percy recalled hours spent with the other young nobles, listening to Cailan tell grand tales of his father's accomplishments. They were certainly more interesting than any accounting Aldous had ever taught him (and then he'd seen Aldous, limp in the library, bleeding out over all his beloved books… no, focus!).

Percival had dueled Cailan once, back when he'd still been Prince Cailan. And Percy had won, much to his father's dismay. Cailan, of course, had laughed and congratulated Percy on an outstanding duel.

Duncan was talking to Cailan, Percival realized.

"…if I can help it, your majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious!" Percival felt his stomach twist. "In the meantime, the other Wardens tell me you've found more recruits."

"Yes, your majesty. Allow me to introduce them to you."

"No need, for this one," Cailan said laughingly, stepping up to Percival. The sun glinting off his golden armor was far too bright. "You are Bryce's youngest, are you not? Well do I remember your sword pressed up against my throat. It will be wonderful to have you fighting at my side."

Percival tried to think of something to say, but couldn't seem to find anything.

"Tell me, how is your father faring? I'd expected him to arrive by now. I'd hate to have him miss the battle tomorrow."

Percival swallowed and found some words. "Father… will not be coming. He's dead."

It had been the first time he'd acknowledged it aloud. Pain twisted a dagger in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe even as it stoked the burning anger that had been seething deep within him all this time.

For the first time, Cailan balked. "I heard nothing of this when your brother came in. What happened?"

"Arl Rendon Howe," Percival growled, feeling that fire burn up into the only real emotion he'd felt since his world had caved in. Rage. He embraced it, and it burst forth from him in the form of words. "He betrayed my father. Sent his men in to kill everyone, woman, child, dog, elf…" His voice was rising with his anger. "He slaughtered the entire household like animals. Howe deserves nothing but the same mercy he afforded them!"

Brows knit in consternation, the king turned to the Warden. "Duncan, is this true?"

"Yes, your majesty," the commander replied gravely. "Arl Howe has shown himself to be a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished."

Cailan turned away. "I… can scarcely believe it. How could he think he would get away with such treachery?" The king turned back around, meeting Percival's eyes with conviction. "As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice, you have my word."

"So long as Howe dies, your Majesty," Percival said thickly.

"He will hang, I assure you. I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this."

The rage that had burned inside him cooled at the assurance, tampered down until it was undetectable. He could only nod his thanks.

The king's face softened. "No doubt you wish to see your brother. Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"I… am not eager to tell him." About Oriana. Or Oren.

"No, I'd imagine not. Your brother will not return until after the battle is over. I apologize, but there's nothing more I can do."

Percival simply nodded again. His father would have been horrified at how casual he was being about addressing the king… but he couldn't find the strength to do otherwise.

The king glanced back at the ruin behind him, then turned to Duncan. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I'm afraid I must return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies." He nodded to the rest of them with a somewhat reduced smile, and then turned. "Farewell, Grey Wardens."

Duncan bowed his head respectfully as the king left. Percival was too drained by that conversation to so much as raise a hand in farewell. So they were going to concentrate on the battle with the darkspawn? Of course they were… it was why everyone had amassed here.

It was… disheartening, to see everyone here, concerned about other matters while Arl Howe resided in Highever, sitting in his father's chair. How could he fight the darkspawn, knowing the usurper lived off his family's coffers?

But what could he do? It was out of his hands now. He had told the king, who would handle it once matters here were taken care of. Now, as he'd promised his father, he would become a Grey Warden.

He knew, though, that his heart would not be in it. After all, he'd lost his heart back in Highever.

"Blimey," said a voice softly behind him. "Your whole family?"

Percival turned, recalling that there were more than just Duncan and himself present. The two thieves looked shocked by what they'd overheard: Daveth stared with wide, appalled eyes, and Finian had turned three shades paler.

"My whole family," Percy acknowledged tiredly. "And the guards. And the servants. And anyone connected to the Cousland name. Except my brother and me."

Hugo butted his head against Percy's thigh with an anxious whine. Percy pressed his hand hard against Hugo's fur, gratefully drawing strength from his loyal hound's mutual experience.

"Are you going to be okay?" the elf asked.

Percival paused to consider that. Was he? He hadn't really considered the future, beyond the brooding wish to see Howe slain. Surely, this emptiness inside him must abate sooner or later. What might fill it, he couldn't say, though he knew it wouldn't be what had been there before.

"I'm not sure," he replied honestly. "But I'll be better. Eventually."

The elf reached out and put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and Percival drew support from that as greedily as he had from Hugo. Anything to diminish the pain.

"Tomorrow, the king's army will battle the darkspawn horde," Duncan's voice cut in softly, and all three recruits (plus one dog) turned their attention to him. "Despite the victories so far, they grow larger in number with each passing day. We will need every man possible on the field. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

Finian's hand fell off Percival's arm as the elf said, "A hot meal might be nice, first."

Duncan chuckled softly, much to everyone's shock (Duncan was not much for humor, after all). "I agree. We have until nightfall to begin the ritual, though some preparation is required, which must be begun soon." Duncan motioned for them to start moving again, and the recruits fell into step around him. "There is a Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits. Hopefully, he will know where to find them all." He paused them at the edge of a long stone bridge that spanned a deep ravine. "In the meantime, I must attend to some business in the camp. You will find me at the Grey Warden tent when you are ready."

With that, Duncan turned and started off down the bridge, presumably toward camp.

Daveth eyed the bridge dubiously, tapping his bow against the stones. "So do you think this old thing is safe?"

Finian stepped out onto the bridge and quirked a grin, though it was a muted one. "Maybe not for you humans. But for a light-footed elf like me, it'll hold."

"Oh, touché, elf. Got me there."

Percival followed the pair as they started across the bridge. The thing had a couple holes in it—signs of battle, probably—which did make the integrity of it seem somewhat questionable. Thing was, Percival didn't much care anymore. If the Maker decided to strike him down where he stood… so be it. He'd accept such a fate, if it meant being with his family again.

He paused partway down the bridge, though, as he took in the view. The Korcari Wilds stretched out in the distance, misty and unknown. His brother was out there somewhere, unaware of what he'd already lost. Or maybe he did know. Maybe Arl Howe had planted assassins among Fergus's men as well, and now Fergus's corpse was rotting in a bog… Howe had arrived before Fergus had left, after all.

Oh Maker, Percival really couldn't be the last living Cousland. He really, really couldn't be.

"Percival?"

Percy turned to face forward again, moving to catch up to the other two. They were waiting for him expectantly. Patiently, even. They were handling him with kid gloves, it seemed, but Percival couldn't say he blamed them. He had been rather… delicate lately. Knowing they were aware of what had happened at Highever—even if none of them could do anything about it—eased his burden somewhat.

The trio started off again, with Hugo's nails clicking against the stone behind them.

"So, elf," Daveth began after a few steps. "You don't suppose there are any good marks in camp, do you? With all the nobles running about and all?"

"Well, sure," Finian replied. "If you don't mind the fact that all of them will be heavily armored and armed."

"Right, that does make things a bit more interesting, doesn't it? Though, I'll tell you this from experience… there is nothing funnier than cutting the purse of some noble in heavy steel armor, and then watching him huff and puff as he tries to keep up with you. Even more fun than robbing most other nobles, it is."

"I am right here, you know," Percival said quietly. All three froze in surprise that he'd spoken without prompting, Percy himself the most of all.

"Well…" Daveth chuckled after a moment. "Present company excepted, of course."

"I don't know…" At this, Finian cast a sly smile back at Percy. "We are both pretty good at what we do, and you, my lord, haven't been the most attentive. Who's to say that your pockets haven't already been picked?"

Percival felt a lightening of his features, very nearly a smile. "Because Hugo would have bitten your hand off if you'd tried. He's a bit protective, like that."

"Ah, so to get to the master, I have to go through the dog first?" The elf winked at the mabari, who barked happily in response. "I think I'm up to the task."

"For such a big, scary dog," Daveth said. "He's a bit of a soft touch, isn't he?"

Finian grinned. "I bribe him with games of fetch. It works for me."

"We never did find that spoon…"

Percival looked out over the Wilds again, half listening to his companions banter. The pain in his heart had dimmed, and there was some warmth now nestled in that pit. Perhaps this would be what he needed, after all. A foe to fight and a family name to retake. Perhaps that would help focus this turmoil into something… productive. Percival Cousland, productive? A novel thought.

He would have a purpose. He'd never really had one of those before. Other than to do whatever (and whoever) he damn well pleased, of course.

For his father, he'd become a Grey Warden. For his father, and for Ferelden. But also… for himself.

Provided Arl Howe died a gory, painful death in the end, anyway.

Chapter Text

"And so, there we are sneaking around in an off limits area, trying to be as quiet as possible—because, hey, Templars have beheaded people for less—when Jowan suddenly yelps."

"Did you fry him?"

"Almost, yeah." Kazar smirked. "First because I thought we were under attack. Then, when I turned and just saw him just standing there, I almost fried him because he'd yelped. While we were risking our heads going after his phylactery!"

Garott leaned back against the column, surveying the mountain view as they talked. The pair had found this quiet little corner of the king's camp not long after the whole 'poison the Templars' bit had gone the way of the thaigs. Apparently, the Chantry had herbalists who could identify cave spider venom when presented with it; who knew?

Fortunately, Garott had noticed quick enough to split the scene, dragging the kid behind him with only some mild hissing and spitting on the elf's part. A duck around a tumbled wall and a hop up to a balcony later, and they'd found this hidden little edge of the ruin that was well out of the paths and views of any metal-covered humans who hadn't liked a little extra seasoning in their lunches. The fact that the isolated hiding spot happened to have a spectacular view of the Korcari Wilds was only a happy happenstance.

"So," Garott glanced over at his elven partner in crime. "Why'd he yelp?"

"I couldn't tell at first. 'Something bit me!' he kept saying, and he started swatting at the ground with his staff. I was like, hello, Jowan. You're an apprentice mage. Just fire some lightning at it or get over it."

Garott chuckled. "Did he do either?"

"Didn't need to. As it turned out, he was right. Something had bit him. And then it had the unmitigated gall to bite me."

"Ah." Garott eyed the remembered annoyance on the mage's face. "Let me guess, it never lived long enough to learn better?"

"Damn straight. On pure reflex, I shoot out a blast of lightning." Kazar illustrated by doing so now, electricity leaping from his hands to crackle into the air in front of them. A moment later, it dissipated. "Next thing I know, I see a half dozen little two-legged lizard things just emerge from the shadows and fall to the ground, dead."

Garott laughed full-bellied, because he recognized that description. The little vermin had a tendency of getting into the tunnels around Dust Town and making a mess of the refuse. "Deepstalkers, eh? Yeah, they do that."

The elf wrinkled his nose. "Is that what they were? Annoying little things." He paused thoughtfully. "Fun to kill, though."

"Tell me about it." Garott flipped his dagger idly as he spoke. "Me and the other duster kids used to make a game outta chasing the things. One point for a kill, two for a live capture. Ten points if you managed to get one of your catches to spit acid on another player."

Kazar threw back his head and laughed. "And to think, the most fun game I had back at the tower was 'Hide the Enchanter's Staff'."

Garott smirked at his younger companion. "Why do I get the feeling that's not nearly as dirty as I'm imagining it?"

"Because I've played it since I was seven, you sick and twisted dwarf."

Garott simultaneously laughed and gagged. "By the Stone, that was a nasty thing to say! Even for you, you evil, evil elf!"

"And now the image will stay in your mind forever." Kazar smiled devilishly. "My work here is done."

Truth be told, Garott liked the mage. He was a little snippy, sure, and Garott didn't want to be on the receiving end of his spells anytime soon, dwarven resistance to magic be damned… but the kid was overall a lot more tolerable than the other goody-two-shoes. Like that other mage and the knight. And that wasn't even touching on the princess. Kazar had a disdain for authority for its own sake that the duster related to. Also, like Garott, the elf had a bit of a mean streak. Garott approved.

"…thought I heard someone cast lightning over this way," a familiar voice came into earshot behind them, somewhere on the other side of the pillar they were hiding behind. Garott stifled a chuckle when Kazar groaned softly and started banging his head against the stone. "Or maybe I'm just losing my mind… tends to happen, you know, around bad-tempered mage runts who can't take a hint!" The last bit was delivered in a shout, obviously for their benefit.

Kazar sighed and raised his own voice. "Go away, Templar."

"Ex-Templar, thank you very much." Alistair's blond head poked around the column. "And there you are. Enjoying the view, are you?"

"I was before your ugly face got in the way."

"Ooh, what a clever comeback. Don't think I'll top that. Now come on; time to go."

Kazar bristled, and Garott saw a couple sparks started coming off his hands, as they tended to do every now and then. "Or what? I'm not some dog you can order around, you know."

"Me," a new voice spoke up behind Alistair. "I like dogs, I do." This was followed by an actual dog's bark.

Curious, Garott stood up and started around the column to see just who the Warden had brought with him.

As soon as he moved, Alistair jumped. "By the-! Don't… do that, Garott!"

Garott smirked, pushing past Alistair to see the landing proper. "What, walk?"

"Oh, ha ha. Like you don't know what I mean… you… lurky person." He heard Kazar chuckle at Alistair's discomfort.

Behind the Warden was a small group of strangers. Judging by the dust on their armor, they'd just come off the road, and the plates of camp food they were each working on only confirmed it.

Two of them had that distinct not-on-the-up-and-up look that Garott recognized as akin to his own. If they'd been dwarves and branded, he would have taken them for dusters, but they weren't either. One was tall and human, with a longbow slung across his back and a cheeky grin on his scruffy face. The other was an elf, who Garott's keen eyes noted had a dagger on each forearm and what appeared to be a lockpicking kit tucked into his belt.

Behind them stood another human and a dog. The human was blond and thicker set than the other two… more along the lines of Alistair's build. He had a longsword and shield stowed on his back, and wore armor that indicated access to decent craftsmen. No mere sword grunt, there.

While the other two were grinning, this one bore an expression that was both listless and careworn. It was the sort of expression a guy saw a lot, in Dust Town. It said that the person had been through a lot of crap, and was about one bad hair day away from either trying to scratch the eyes out of the nearest caste-member or throwing himself on his own dagger.

Interesting.

Next to the blond man stood a dog that was very nearly as tall as Garott. He'd seen a lot of mabari since their arrival almost a week ago… and he didn't much like seeing one off a leash like this. Scary things, mabari. And waaaay too smart.

The elf of the newbies smiled in a way that was likely supposed to be friendly. "How do you do? We're the new Warden recruits."

"So the boss scrounged up more, eh?" Garott smirked at Alistair. "Pretty soon, we're gonna outnumber you actual Wardens. So watch your back, Goldie."

"Ah, so that's your plan, is it? Going to take over the Wardens from the bottom up?" Alistair rejoined. Always good for a bit of banter, was Alistair. "Can't say I mind, but watch your back when you get to Duncan. He'll school all of you at once, just you wait."

The human thief burst out laughing. "Learned that first-hand. Man, but the old bugger can run, can't he?"

Alistair turned a worried look on the human. "Do I want to know why you were running from Duncan?"

"Cut his purse," the man deadpanned. "Had to run, or else he'd have caught me sooner, wouldn't he?"

Garott couldn't help it: he threw back his head and roared with laughter. The mental image! And the way the cutpurse admitted it so baldly, in front of goody-two-shoes Alistair!

"Is he all right?" Garott heard the new elf asked when his laughter didn't abate.

"Ooh, the other Wardens told me about this…" Alistair said. "Apparently, he's out of his bloody mind… fits in rather nicely with the rest of them, really."

"I resent that!" Kazar's voice snipped. He'd come out from behind the pillar, and now stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He scowled at Garott. "And you shouldn't be encouraging him. You're supposed to be on my side."

Garott took some deep breaths and mastered himself. He smirked up at the mage. "You know, I'm noticing a couple things about Duncan. Recruiting a guy who cut his purse…" He pointed to the human. "…a kid who helped a blood mage escape…" Pointing to Kazar. "…a fella who worked for the local crime lord…" Pointing to himself. "…and who knows who else?" He turned his smirk to Alistair. "Duncan's a little shifty, ain't he?"

"He… but… it's…" Alistair sputtered.

At this, the new elf laughed. "I'd noticed that, too. You know, he plucked me out of the hands of the Denerim guard right as they were about to arrest me?"

"Same song here, elf," Garott said. The elf was amiable enough… might as well make nice. "Name's Garott Brosca."

"Finian Tabris." The elf glanced about at his companions. "And this fine upstanding citizen is Daveth. Behind us are Hugo and his pet human, Percival."

The only acknowledgement the human behind them gave that he'd heard was to reach down and scratch the mabari behind its ears.

"How about you?" Finian turned to Kazar, who had remained silent and smoldering the entire time. "It's good to see another elf among the-"

Garott suppressed a snort before the explosion hit, knowing that was entirely the wrong thing to say.

"Us both having pointed ears," the mage interrupted flatly, "does not make us kin."

Finian, to his credit, recovered quickly. He turned apologetic so swiftly and smoothly that Garott leaned forward, reassessing the elf's demeanor. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I assumed we were. You've got a staff: you're a mage, aren't you? Must be a strong one, to catch Duncan's attention."

By the Stone, did the elf just do what Garott thought he did?

Kazar's guard relaxed slightly. "Of course I am. In fact, I'm one of the most talented mages of my generation."

Finian smiled abashedly, and Garott narrowed his eyes, the gears in his head turning. "Admittedly, I don't know much about magic…"

"I don't know how you could, the way the Chantry keeps everyone locked up in the Tower." Kazar was speaking freely now, his previous hostility completely forgotten. "They barely even let us learn about magic, and that's only because we'd probably unwittingly pull Ferelden into the Fade if we didn't."

While Kazar continued to rant, Garott only stared with new respect at the smiling, seemingly unassuming elf in front of him. This elf had just cooled, with a few words, one of the hottest heads in camp. Or rather, he'd redirected the heat, like a master smith redirecting his fire so that he could use it to serve his own purposes.

Very interesting.

When Kazar had wound down—ending with a note somewhere along the lines of "and that's why all Chantry priests need to die painful fiery deaths"—the ex-Templar stepped forward.

"Well, that was… informative. Anyway, believe it or not, you two, I didn't just come here for the company and promises of mass murder."

Garott smirked. "Aw, I'm hurt."

"The fact is, Duncan's back." At that, both stood a bit straighter. "Turns out he's done building an army of new recruits, and is ready to put you all through the Joining. He wants to get the ritual done by tonight, so the sooner we get started, the better."

Kazar sighed. "Finally."

"So the boss wants to see us?" Garott guessed.

"Yep." Alistair nodded. "As soon as possible, all gathered together for the first time. Quite touching, really."

"A moment that bards will sing about for years," Finian agreed with that disarming grin of his. So he bantered too, did he?

"Well, let's get going, then." Alistair made a shooing motion, and they all started off toward the middle of camp. "If we take too long, he'll give us his 'disappointed Warden Commander' look. Believe me, you do not want to be on the receiving end of that little gem."

Finian's riposte was quick. "Know that from experience, huh?"

"I do try to live as an example to the rest of you. Mostly, a cautionary one."

Finian and Daveth both laughed. Kazar, trailing behind even Percival and the dog, just wrinkled his nose.

Garott drew even with the new elf as they walked. Softly, he said, "You are one manipulative son of a nug, ain't ya?"

The lollygag grin on his face faded slightly, and he shrugged nonchalantly. "I just want everyone to get along."

"With you."

"Hey, Garott?" Alistair called back.

Garott's head snapped up. No way had the guy heard that brief exchange. "Yeah?"

"You haven't seen Meila about, have you? She's the only recruit we haven't found yet."

Garrot snorted a laugh, though he was aware of how the mage behind them hissed at the sound of the Dalish elf's name. "What, you're actually looking in camp for her?"

Alistair groaned. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Relax, Goldie. From what I saw in the deep roads, Rehg's a decent tracker. He can probably pick up her trail."

"Won't need it," Kazar grumbled from behind them. When they glanced back at them, he pointed over toward the wall that separated the ruin from the Wilds. There seemed to be a giant lizard of some kind dead on the ground beneath it.

As Garott watched, the Dalish elf's lithe form landed lightly next to it and stumbled a step, having jumped off the top of the wall.

"What the…" Alistair groaned and raised his voice. "Meila, is that how you've been getting out? Climbing over the wall? And that doesn't seem a mite bit dangerous to you?"

The Dalish only acknowledged the question with a cursory glance in their direction. Then, she picked up her dead lizard and started off in the direction of the mess tent.

"Pleasant girl, Meila Mahariel. Talkative. Friendly." Alistair sighed. "You guys go on and report to Duncan. I'm going to go see if I can't convince her to stay in camp long enough to meet us there."

Garott chuckled, and Kazar mumbled something under his breath. The other three only looked on in confusion, though there was definitely awe in Finian's expression as he watched the Dalish elf weave through the camp.

First Kazar's sulking when she didn't want to make friends, and now Finian's semi-reverent staring? What was it with elves and their fascination with the Dalish? It was like Meila was a bloody Paragon or something.

Kazar was the first to continue on toward camp, expression dangerously close to murderous (and to Garott, Carta thug, "murderous" was not just a figure of speech). The dwarf followed behind, though he let himself turn to watch Alistair try to catch up to the Dalish elf. It proved well worth the attention as the Warden nearly bowled over a messenger, and the dwarf chuckled.

The other three followed behind him and Kazar, speaking quietly amongst themselves. Or rather, the two shadier ones were speaking, while "Percival" followed behind in brooding silence. The dog seemed to be attending to the conversation more than he was.

Garott narrowed his eyes at the dog, again wondering how smart it was. And how vicious. He'd have to step lightly around the hound, because a dog as big as a dwarf could easily tear his head off. He rather liked his head where it was. It was useful.

He turned his attention forward again. As far as he was concerned, that dog wasn't the only one to keep an eye on out of the new batch of recruits. Daveth didn't really seem wily enough to be much of an actual threat to anyone without a bulging purse, so Garott wasn't really worried about him. No, it was the other two.

Finian… that elf was crafty. Garott had seen a lot of someone else in the elf's quick responses… the way he could change course mid-conversation, and bring you along for the ride. The way he could talk his way around a volatile situation when pressed. It reminded him of Beraht. And anyone who reminded him of Beraht, no matter how seemingly benevolent, was someone to be watched.

Percival, on the other hand, wasn't much of a threat… now. But Garott had seen that look before: he was hanging onto sanity by a thin thread. If that thread snapped—and who could say what would make it do so—then the blond man was just as likely to go berserk as he was to throw himself off a cliff. And if Duncan had recruited him, it was a fair bet he knew how to use that fine blade on his back. Garott didn't relish the thought of being mowed down by some depressed pretty-boy who couldn't handle a couple punches from the bitch known as life.

Garott, for his part, took any punches life threw at him. And then he laughed in her face.

Thinking about the sorts of people he'd be expected to work with from now on, he just hoped the bitch wasn't laughing back.

Chapter Text

Marnan walked Jory through the motion again. "It is a downward cleave, Ser Jory. Of course your body is exposed for the duration of the swing. The point is that when it connects, any vulnerability on your part does not matter."

Jory shook his head, glancing around as if for help, first at Duncan, then at Felicity. Felicity watched with the curiosity that was characteristic of her, absorbing the technique even though the mage would likely never use it herself. Duncan, however, merely watched with the impassive expression of a casual observer.

"It… it just doesn't seem like a safe maneuver. It can't be good for your shoulder joints."

Marnan rolled her eyes in exasperation. She respected Ser Jory well enough, but the man was far too cautious. He'd obviously never had to fight tooth and nail for the right to exist as the dwarves did. "Neither is being devoured by darkspawn. And that is what will happen if you do not use everything you have to defeat them. Any given half-hearted swing is not going to tear through an ogre's hide. This…" she demonstrated the cleave again. "…is. And that, I can say with the confidence of experience."

"You've fought an ogre?" Felicity said with some surprise from her seat beside Duncan.

"And killed it." She looked pointedly at Ser Jory. "With a downward cleave."

Ser Jory sighed and sat down on a log across the fire from Duncan and Felicity. "I'm sorry. Yes, I suppose it's a fair enough maneuver, but it's just not my usual style." He dug the tip of his greatsword into the dirt and leaned on it. "I'll see if I can't find an opportunity to give it a try on the field, though."

There was a brief silence. Then, as was customary for her, Felicity broke it with an unintentionally intrusive question. "When did you fight an ogre?" When Marnan did not immediately reply, the mage forged on. "It's just, I understand that they're only seen during Blights. Or, at least, that's what some sources say. So it must have been recently. Unless the sources are wrong… which wouldn't be surprising, since the Tower never kept many dwarven accounts. Are there ogres in the Deep Roads between Blights? There must be, or they'd die out between Blights, I suppose. Do-"

"Felicity," Marnan said firmly. "Enough."

The mage's mouth snapped shut, and she had the grace to look embarrassed. "I did it again, didn't I? I apologize."

Marnan nodded and was glad to have the subject dropped. While it was true that she made ample use of her fighting experience here, she did not like to go into the specific details of her battles… not in front of people who didn't know who she was—or rather, who she had been. Because if she told them the specifics—like her height in the command structure—then they were bound to guess at least part of it.

Marnan preferred to stay a nobody here. Here, she was just a warrior with a decent amount of field experience. No expectations based on caste, or upbringing, or who she was related to. The only ones who knew the truth were the handful of Grey Wardens from the Deep Roads and Garott Brosca. The Wardens had tacitly agreed to keep her identity secret.

Brosca, on the other hand, seemed to be hoarding her secret, waiting for the correct moment to use it to his advantage. She would have to be careful not to give him the opportunity. It was a dance that she'd learned well, growing up a noble in Orzammar… though apparently not well enough to avoid that single dagger in the back that had removed her from Orzammar in the first place.

And there was the duster now, appearing when summoned like a bad omen. He had Kazar and the new recruits with him, though she noted that Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

Alistair had brought the recruits by twenty minutes ago while Marnan and Jory had been with the soldiers, the former laying out effective techniques for killing darkspawn without getting infected. The blond Warden had pulled the two recruits aside and introduced the new trio, then told them to meet at Duncan's tent in the center of camp.

The new elf, Finian, seemed friendly enough, and Daveth was rather honest for a thief, if a bit too candid for his own good. Percival made her curious, however. The young man bore a crest on his shield, spotted only as the group was walking away. When they had seen it, Ser Jory had pointed out that it was the crest of Highever, and explained that that was one of the noble holdings of Ferelden. Ser Jory had then commented that the man's gear didn't match the usual design of a common Highever soldier, and that custom gear meant the man was likely a knight that served the nobility directly... or a noble himself.

Marnan wondered which he was: knight or noble. Curiously, she couldn't seem to detect any indicators either way.

"I heard there's a party here," the casteless said smoothly, coming to a stop at Jory's shoulder and leaning against it. "But you all look stone sober. Looks like I was lied to again."

Duncan smiled. "Hello again, Garott. Good to see you well."

"Same to you, boss."

"And you as well, Kazar," the Warden-Commander greeted as the elf in question sat on the bench next to Jory. "I must admit, I was rather surprised to return to Ostagar and find that your casualty list only consisted of some practice equipment and a crate."

Kazar merely breathed an agitated sigh through his nose and glared at the fire.

"But where are Alistair and Meila? I had assumed she would be coming back with you."

Marnan saw Felicity open her mouth, no doubt to tell Duncan all about just where Meila likely was… and was not.

"Here, Duncan!" Alistair's voice called before the mage could speak.

Marnan was not the only one to be surprised at seeing Meila trotting dutifully at the junior Warden's heels. Jory startled and did a double-take, and Felicity's jaw dropped so low that it may as well have been dragging on the ground.

Marnan, however, did a double-take for a different reason than Jory. The Dalish elf looked… pale. A great deal paler than she had been a couple days before. And had she lost weight in the intervening time as well? Marnan's eyes narrowed as alarm bells tolled in her head.

"Ah, good." Duncan nodded a greeting to the late arrivals and stood. "Now that we are all here, we may begin." He turned a stern eye to Alistair. "Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up the mages, Alistair?"

This evoked a sharp laugh from the elven mage across the fire.

"What can I say?" Alistair said with a bashful smile. "The Holy Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army."

Marnan chuckled at that one.

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

Alistair sighed. "You're right, Duncan. I… apologize." It was said with all the sincerity of a child scolded for stealing cookies. Marnan wasn't the only one to smirk at Alistair. Even not knowing the context of the younger Warden's slip, she could well imagine what sort of trouble he'd been pressed into. She had fought alongside Houses who were secretly warring with one another at the same time they were battling the darkspawn… she could well imagine that similar politics arose on the surface as well.

"Now, then, let us not waste any more time," Duncan said, unspoken apology in his voice. "You will all be headed into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. First, each of you must obtain a vial of darkspawn blood."

"Darkspawn blood?" Felicity repeated, eyes wide. "Why would we need darkspawn blood?"

The duster snorted a laugh. "Probably for this ritual that's so secret. Right, boss?"

"Yes, that is correct. Though I can't say more about it yet."

"But…" Felicity clenched her fists. "But isn't that dangerously close to blood magic?"

"Why, because it has blood in it?" Kazar snapped. "Unless you decide to stab yourself and pull magic from your own body, no. It's not blood magic."

"That still skirts dangerously close, though. The Tevinter Imperium was fond of blood magic, and it was they that released the darkspawn into the world in the first place."

"Propaganda!"

"Enough, both of you," Duncan said. "If you are having second thoughts, Felicity, I beg you to speak up now, because there will be no turning back later."

Felicity lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No, Duncan. I was merely… concerned."

"I know." He raised his voice to address the rest of them. "That warning carries to the rest of you. Becoming a Grey Warden is not a decision to be taken lightly, and is not one you can undo. If you are having doubts, speak up now. You may not get the chance later."

Everything was silent but for the crackling of the fire and the barking of the dogs in their kennels. Then, the one called Daveth chuckled quietly. "Well, I wager that's your answer right there, isn't it?"

"What is the second task?" Marnan asked.

Duncan nodded, a brief, proud smile flickering over his features. "There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"I think I have seen such a building," said Meila. She stood on the edge of the circle, setting herself apart from the group. "It is overgrown and given to the wilderness, but there are still some stores of information inside."

"I do not doubt it. You, Meila, can lead them to the archive."

Meila nodded dutifully, but Marnan protested. "Is that wise?"

The Dalish elf turned a stony glare down at her. "You object to an elf leading you, durgen'len?"

Marnan was insulted by the implication, but she let it slide for more important matters. "No, I object to someone who is ill leading us." Marnan turned to Duncan. "Perhaps it would be best if she stay here, in camp. We can retrieve a vial of blood for her."

Daveth scratched his stubble. "I'd assumed that killing the darkspawn was also part of the test."

"In that, Daveth," Duncan said, "you are correct. I apologize, Marnan, if you find this disconcerting-"

"Not disconcerting. Unwise. A military force must be strong, with all members in the best shape possible, because it only takes one weak arm to break the line. This woman is ill. That means she will not be performing at her best."

"Do not speak of me as if I am not here, durgen'len."

"Do you disagree?" At some point, Marnan had risen to her feet. The effect was perhaps less effective here, among the physically taller topsiders, but it got her point across all the same. "You are much paler than three days ago, and I suspect that you are trembling, even now. You are strong, elf… far stronger than most warriors I've known to go through this. But to me, it is obvious that you are finally succumbing to the Taint."

At last, Meila showed an emotion other than cold disdain when her eyes widened in surprise. Then, she turned her stony glare to Alistair. "You told."

"In my defense, I never actually said the word 'Taint'," Alistair said weakly. "I just said you couldn't be healed with magic, and the senior enchanter drew her own conclusions. They… just happened to be the correct ones."

"Marnan, right?" a soft voice said, and the dwarf saw that the elf, Finian, stood at her elbow. "The rest of us are hardly defenseless… maybe this can be considered another part of the test. You know, working as a team, so that even the weakest of us succeeds."

Meila's hard look shifted to him. "Are you calling me weak, flat-ear?"

The casteless one laughed. "Easy, elf. He's on your side."

Marnan considered that for a moment, because she supposed it was a bit more tolerable if she thought of it like that. She sighed, because this was a battle she wasn't likely to win. She knew when to retreat. "Very well, then," she relented.

Duncan nodded, but Felicity spoke before he could. "What are on these scrolls you wish retrieved?"

"Old treaties, if you're curious. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago." Duncan sighed, his expression wry. "Though once only formalities, I suspect it may now be a good idea to have something to remind many of their commitments to us."

"Who would be foolish enough to forget?" Marnan asked.

Felicity shook her head. "I'm afraid the darkspawn threat isn't quite as clear up here as it is in the Deep Roads, Marnan. Up here, the darkspawn are largely considered defeated, and Blights only seem to happen in history books."

Finian nodded. "Let's hope the whole of Ferelden never has to learn differently."

"Enough talk," Kazar said, looking up at Duncan with fire in his eyes. "Let's just get to the part where we fry some darkspawn."

It seemed such a perfect summation of the upcoming quest that Duncan dismissed them with that.

Chapter Text

It took about twenty minutes out in the Korcari Wilds for Finian to realize that he was out of his league.

He'd been a passing decent fighter, for an Alienage elf. His mother had taught him dual-wielding, and he'd practiced in secret after her death to keep his skills sharp. It had come in handy during the whole Bann Vaughan fiasco, and in the days since, while fighting off bandits and wild animals on the road. Suffice to say, he knew his way around the pointy end of a dagger, which was more than most city elves could say.

But the thing was, he had nothing on some of the powerhouses he now fought alongside.

"Take out the archers!" Marnan cried, her war-axe a blur of whirling death around her. She hacked at the knees of darkspawn twice her size, creating a pile of tumbled creatures surrounding her. A pile that Ser Jory was quick to take advantage of with that greatsword of his. The way the knight wielded that thing, he made cutting limbs from bodies look as easy as cutting up a carrot for dinner.

Marnan seemed to slip into the leading role by default: when they set out from camp, she had taken the rank of their party directly behind Meila's lead, putting Marnan next to Alistair (who, by contrast, had been grumbling that he hated being in front). Obviously, she had experience fighting darkspawn… something to do with being a dwarf, Finian understood. He couldn't guess at the details, though. His education wasn't that great.

Ser Jory did not have the experience, obviously. He was a prototypical warrior: all muscle power and not much by way of brains. Finian's first meeting with the guy had involved him saying something obvious about Finian being an elf, and then bumbling through a sideways apology while said elf simply looked on, amused.

"Do not order me around," Meila cried in response to Marnan's command, even as she hopped nimbly onto a rock and raised her bow. The draw and release was a smooth, single motion… and then one of the hurlock archers on the ridge above them suddenly had an arrow sticking out of its eye.

When they'd left the Ostagar camp, the Dalish elf had led them through the wilds with the sure feet of someone familiar with one's surroundings… far more so than Daveth had been. Finian still couldn't shake his wonder at that thought… a Dalish elf. Meila was a real, living Dalish elf. All the things he'd wondered about his heritage over the years… all the times he'd wondered what it would be like to live away from the shems… He had so many questions he wanted—needed!—to ask her.

But now, hip-deep in a darkspawn ambush as they were, was obviously not the time.

"Nice shot, elf!" Daveth crowed as a second of Meila's arrows struck home. He was on a small ridge nearby, shooting at the same group she was. Finian noticed a genlock sneaking up behind his fellow thief, but a shadow moved and then Garott was on its back. The dwarf buried his hand-axe in the back of the genlock's neck while his dagger flitted around to the creature's vital points. The monster fell without Daveth ever noticing the scuffle right behind him, and Garott ducked off into the bushes and disappeared again.

Finian wasn't sure how to react to Garott Brosca. The dwarf had proven himself exceptionally keen when he'd called Finian out on his silver tongue within mere minutes of meeting him. Fin still wasn't sure how to feel about that. The insinuation that Fin played his word games purely for his own benefit… it couldn't be true. Could it?

Finian dodged a charging hurlock, and resolved not to dwell on it right now.

They had been ambushed from all sides while in the bottom of a wide gully, with darkspawn shooting from the ridge above and coming at them from both ends of the ravine.

The swamp made footing treacherous (and wet), so Finian had to be careful as he moved around the crowd of darkspawn circling Percival. He picked off a hurlock by stabbing it in the side, and but it grabbed his arm and yanked him down as it fell. Finian landed on top of the dying darkspawn and kicked out at the snarling thing, getting out of its reach. He rolled back to his feet, now coated with swamp sludge.

"Ow!" Alistair's voice called from ahead. "Why do they keep attacking me?"

"Perhaps because you present a strategic disadvantage on their part with your current placement."

"…is that magey talk for 'I'm in their way'?" Alistair had placed himself in the center of one of the ravine outlets, blocking any darkspawn who thought to come through that way. For all his complaining about being in front, he seemed content to form the solid shield that protected the rest of the party from oncoming threats.

Overall, Finian liked Alistair. The man had a healthy sense of humor that Finian rather enjoyed using as a springboard for his own. If given the chance, he suspected the two of them might devolve into an endless cycle of purportedly witty banter that would only stop when someone cut out one of their tongues.

Felicity was right behind the ex-Templar, using him rather shamelessly as a living shield. Occasionally, she ducked around him to fire a bolt of light at an incoming enemy, but she then flitted behind him just as quickly again.

As Finian watched, Alistair took a nasty stab to the armpit from a hurlock's sword. Felicity simply reached in and put a hand on his shoulder, and blood stopped flowing from the wound.

"That is quite handy…" Alistair said as he bashed his shield into the creature that had stabbed him. "You mages are all right. I think I'll keep you around."

"I am glad you approve," Felicity said with some amusement.

Felicity, too, Finian liked, in an amusing sort of way. The mage was curious and talkative, not unlike Finian himself. The difference, of course, was that Felicity had spent her entire life studying hundreds of dusty old tomes, and all that book-learning seemed to just tumble out of her at the slightest provocation. When Alistair's tour had run into her, Finian had made the mistake of asking her about the potion she had been in the process of mixing. The ensuing lecture on the history of rock salve and its varying nontraditional uses had been utterly exhausting, though he'd tried to remain polite and attentive. Alistair had been holding back laughter during the whole thing.

A growl sounded behind Fin, and he spun away from a genlock that had snuck up on him. It waved a serrated broadsword viciously at Fin, and he, with his little daggers, could only jump back and hope the genlock stopped swinging long enough to give him an opening.

It proved unnecessary, however, when Hugo went barreling into the genlock from the side, taking it down in a blur of teeth and pure canine muscle. Fin grinned and saluted the hound, silently promising him lots more games of fetch in the future.

While Alistair, Jory, and Marnan seemed to have the ones who came from ahead under control, it was up to Finian, Percival, and the dog to stop the stream of monsters behind them from coming through.

Percival in battle was… a little scary, to be honest. Finian was fighting close enough to him to see the dark, heated expression on his face as his sword danced around him. The sword was a deadly piece of work, wielded with a strange mix of easy skill and unrelenting brutality. But it was the dark intensity that glittered in the noble's eyes that discomfited the elf… and intrigued him. Percival was… dangerous. It made something in him flutter.

Finian, all the while, flitted around among Percival's opponents, doling out backstabs and cheap shots with his daggers wherever possible, and then dodged out of range before any of the creatures could retaliate. Again, he was competent.. but nowhere near the courage and skills of his soon-to-be comrades.

Finian snuck behind a pair of genlocks who were heading for Percival. The elf stabbed first one, then the other in the back. The first stumbled and fell, but the other turned and brandished a mace at the elf. Finian was too slow, and took a stinging blow in the side that had him stumbling sideways... right into a massive hurlock a head taller than him.

The hurlock growled, and Finian could smell its rancid breath. He attempted to scramble away, only to be blocked in by the genlock. The hurlock swung its massive hammer at Finian, and he dropped to the ground on reflex, feeling the wind of the hammer sail over him.

Then, the air above him cracked and flashed, and Finian looked up to see both darkspawn that had been menacing him twitching and falling as lightning raced over their forms. Nearby, he heard an exhilarated whoop.

For all that collective prowess among the other recruits, it was nothing… nothing… compared to the walking apocalypse that was Kazar Surana.

He was laughing now, standing safely in the center of the melee fighters, despite the fact that most of the darkspawn seemed to want to get past the sturdier members to go after him. Finian couldn't say he blamed the darkspawn for that: as soon as the ambush had made itself known, the other fighters had drawn their weapons and waited. Kazar, however, had raised his hands and shot a chain of fireballs up at the archers above them, decimating most of them instantly in a fiery explosion.

Even now, lightning bolts danced across the battle, instantly scorching unsuspecting enemies mid-charge. More explosions rocked the air while Kazar blasted any darkspawn who clustered at the choke points on both ends of the ravine. The most destructive elements of nature danced at his fingertips, then swept forward to do his bidding. All the while, he laughed, apparently having the time of his life.

Kazar Surana confused Finian a little, just because he'd never run into anyone who had so very little care for what others thought of him. Well, except maybe Bann Vaughan, but that was another case of someone who confused him. At least Kazar was a predictable sort of confusing… arrogant, self-absorbed, and with a bit of a violent side.

A violent side evidenced by the glee with which he spun and charbroiled a trio of darkspawn menacing Marnan. Finian could only thank their lucky stars that the mage was on their side, climb to his feet, and dive back into the melee.

Finally, the last of the attackers fell to Meila's arrows, and everyone sighed in relief.

Alistair knelt and wiped his blade off on the grass. As he did so, he turned a raised eyebrow at Kazar. "Just so you know: that laughing thing? Very creepy."

The elven mage was… grinning. At Alistair. That was a new development. "You know us mages, going mad with power and everything. I'm sure it's nothing your Templar training couldn't handle."

"Uh… yeah, sure. That was all completely within my capabilities as a Templar-in-training. Right."

"Order up!" Garott called, juggling a vial of black liquid in one hand. "Who wants some liquid Taint?"

"Ooh, I'll call dibs on that one" Daveth said, pausing in pulling an arrow out of a darkspawn chestplate. He deftly caught the vial when it was tossed to him.

Garott knelt back down and started extracting more from one of the corpses, careful not to let the black ooze touch his fingers… he seemed the only one willing to risk touching the stuff.

Finian noticed Meila swaying where she stood, but when she noticed him watching, she only gave him an intimidating glare and turned away.

Hugo emerged out of the foliage and plodded up to the group, hacking and coughing. The darkspawn's black blood coated his muzzle. Percival immediately rushed to his hound's side and knelt, inspecting his dog's snout with drawn features.

"Oh no…" Felicity hurried over to stand next to the Highever duo, peering down at the dog as well. "It looks like he swallowed darkspawn blood."

"Can he be healed?" Percival asked grimly… it was the first time he'd spoken in front of the other recruits. Finian saw many of them startle at the sound of the noble's cultured voice.

Felicity, however, was all business. "Not unless he can be made a Grey Warden. However… there is a chance he might survive the Taint. It works differently on animals than it does on people. If he survives it, he'll be immune to it, just like a Grey Warden. But… it's a painful process all the same." Felicity glanced over at Meila, who merely pursed her lips.

"Actually," Garott said, tossing a third vial of blood on the ground next to him, "wasn't the kennel master offering a reward for some flower out here, to help cure the sick dogs?"

"Oh, right!" Felicity cried. "White with a red center, he'd said."

"I have seen such flowers," Meila said. "Though I do not approve of this… enslaved wolf being forced to fight alongside us, he fights too bravely to allow him to come to harm."

Hugo quirked his head at Meila, then let out a bark that quickly turned into a whine.

"That's decided, then," Alistair said. "One more thing to do, on our jolly jaunt through the creepy swamp."

Finian smiled at Alistair. "At least we have all the darkspawn blood we need."

"And then some." Garott stood, a pile of vials in his arms. "I wonder if I could coat my weapons with this stuff. There's sure as the Stone enough supply."

Marnan's eyes narrowed at him. "You would poison your weapons?"

"Every advantage helps, princess."

"Stop calling me that!"

Finian sensed an old argument there, and sought to diffuse it before it came to blows… he wouldn't put it past either of them. "Well, considering we're fighting the darkspawn, Garott, I don't think tainting your weapons would really do much. For all we know, it might make them stronger. Imagine, you stab a hurlock, and the wound heals right back up as soon as you remove the dagger."

Garott cast him a suspicious eye, but then smirked. "You make a good point, elf."

Hugo hacked loudly, and everyone winced, Percy worst of all.

"A bit unnerving, isn't it?" Ser Jory muttered. "First the Dalish elf, then the dog. Any one of us could be next."

"Do not speak of me as if I am already lost, shemlen."

"Even if any of us did catch the Taint," Felicity said matter-of-factly, standing up, "we will be taking our Joining tonight. I assume, Alistair, that the ritual has something to do with Taint immunity?"

The Warden nodded. Meanwhile, Garott passed by and pushed a vial into Finian's hands. The elf stored it in his pouch.

"In that case, even if we did get ill, the chances of dying that quickly of the Taint are small. Rather, you'd merely be in awful pain for a couple hours. First, there would be an itchy sensation, like insects under the skin. Then, a burning sensation, followed by trembling and weakness. Now, if you were to decay to the point of the hallucinations, it may be problematic to partake in the ritual, as I understand the visions can be quite horrific, judging by all the screaming and thrashing victims exhibit-"

"Please stop," Jory said weakly. "Just… stop. Please."

"I think what the lady mage is trying to say, Ser Knight," Daveth said with some amusement, "is don't catch the Taint. Easy as that, right?"

Hugo coughed again, as if to drive the point home that it was not, in fact, as easy as that.

"Come," Meila said. "There should be a cluster of the flowers this way." She turned and started off through the woods. With a shrug at the others, Finian turned and followed after her. He heard the rest fall into step behind him.

It took ten minutes of winding through the swamp to find the indicated flower, during which time a pack of wolves thought Felicity would make a nice snack. A couple thwacks on the nose and a blast of lightning from the resident thundercloud made them think otherwise.

Finally, they emerged from the trees into a relatively dry clearing, overlooking a tower that had long since sunken in the swamp. A fallen log sat at the edge of the mire, surrounded by a cluster of white flowers with red centers.

"There, see?" Meila said, stowing her bow. She bent down to pluck one, then froze, her face going white.

Finian wasn't the only one to rush forward. Alistair, who had been right behind him, got there first, catching the elf as she collapsed. Carefully, the Warden lowered the Dalish elf to the ground, and Felicity pushed through the clustered recruits to kneel down next to her.

Meila's face was tight with pain, her eyes glazed even as she stared stubbornly forward. Her mouth was pressed tightly shut, as if afraid she might scream if she opened it. Her hands, meanwhile, clutched at her bared midriff, nails curling to dig into her own skin.

"She's succumbing," Felicity said, yanking off her pack and digging through it. She pulled out a small clay pot and popped off the stopper. "Oh, someone stop her from scratching herself!"

Finian did so, leaping forward to grab the other elf's hands as they started to draw trails of blood.

"I warned Duncan that this would happen," Marnan's voice said irritably from behind them.

"You warned him that the dog would get sick," Kazar said, "so then we'd go looking for some magic flower to heal it, and then she'd keel over while picking it?"

"That'd have been impressive, it would," Daveth chuckled.

Felicity spread the salve in the pot onto Meila's bare stomach, and the pain on the Dalish elf's face eased. She blinked, her eyes coming into focus.

"Abelas… I apologize," Meila gasped tightly. "I seem to have fallen…"

"This is just a temporary salve," Felicity said. "It eases the pain, but not the symptoms. Meila, we must get you back to camp."

The Dalish elf fought against Alistair's and Finian's grips, breaking away from them and pushing into a sitting position. Her hand, Finian noticed, clutched at her leather breastplate, just above her heart. "The mission is not complete. Vir Assan; I must not waver."

"If you continue on," Marnan said flatly, "you will not make it back at all."

"So be it." Meila attempted to stand, but her legs did not seem to want to hold her. Felicity reached out to support her. "If that is to be my path, then I will walk it with pride."

Once again, Finian was a little awed. Was this the strength of the Dalish he'd heard so much about? Had all elves been like this, once?

Man, had the Alienage elves fallen a long way, and Fin was no exception to that.

"All of us don't really need to look for the scrolls anyway," Finian said.

That caught more than just Meila's attention.

At their curious looks, he shrugged. "We've got what we need for the ritual, right? Now, we just need to get those scrolls… which I seem to recall Duncan tasking to Alistair, not to all of us."

"Wow, thanks," said junior Warden said dryly. "I do so love being left alone in the Korcari Wilds to die."

"Some of us would go with you, of course," Finian assured him. "But, honestly, we'd probably pass through the woods easier if there were fewer of us." He turned back to the Dalish elf for confirmation. "Right?"

"That is… correct." Meila looked reluctant to admit it. She winced and brought a hand to her chest. "And I suppose I would only slow you down."

"I'll come back with you," Felicity said to the elf leaning against her. "I know a very talented healer in camp… if anyone can stave off the Taint until the Joining, it will be her."

"Hugo," Percival's voice said softly. "You go with them as well."

The dog's head was hanging low at this point, but he raised it to Percy and let out an anxious whine.

"I'll be fine. Just be a good boy and let the kennel master treat you." Percy turned a furrowed brow to Felicity. "You will see him safely to the kennels, I hope?"

"Of course."

"I… will go back to camp as well," Ser Jory said, shifting uncomfortably. "The women will need an escort, after all, in case of darkspawn attacks."

Kazar snorted. "That, and you're afraid of the forest."

Ser Jory frowned at the mage. "That's not fair… not all of us can shoot lightning out of our fingers. I'm just being realistic, here. They will need protection, and I am ready to be done with this particular test. There is nothing wrong with that."

"Well, I, for one," Marnan said, "would like to continue on to fetch the treaties. I am quite curious as to what potential allies they concern."

"Same here," Daveth said. "You don't suppose the ancient Grey Wardens were lucky enough to treat with high dragons, do you? That'd be a nice twist, right there."

Finian chuckled. "What, summoning an army of high dragons to take out the darkspawn?"

"Would be something to see, wouldn't it?"

"Sure, right before they ate all of us whole."

"Good way to die, though," Alistair put in. "Lots of people die from battle and disease, but how many ghosts can come back and say they were eaten by a dragon?"

"We'd be the envy of all the ghosts, we would." All three laughed.

Garott snorted, staring at the three of them incredulously. "This is going to be a loooong journey."

"We'd better be off," Felicity said.

Meila winced as the mage helped her walk. "The ruin you are looking for is south-east of here," the Dalish said, "on a hill just past the sunken dome. It has many statues in front of it, so I hope that even you shemlen would be able to identify it."

"Ah," Alistair sighed wistfully, "the insults to our collective intelligence. I missed those."

Meila just scowled at the blond and allowed herself to be walked off. Ser Jory nodded and followed, attentively keeping an eye on the forest around them. With a last whimper and wag of his tail, Hugo trailed after them, though he kept pausing to look back at Percival… as if to check that his master was still all right.

That left seven of them, standing on the edge of the bog.

"So…" Alistair started, looking around. "Southeast is…"

Daveth pointed, chuckling.

"Right. I knew that." Alistair started off, and Marnan fell into step beside him.

Finian found himself walking in second rank, next to Garott. The dwarf smirked up at him. "Nice work," he rumbled, too softly for any of the others to hear.

"What do you mean?" he asked casually, though he had a feeling he knew what this was about.

"The Dalish elf. Changed her tune like a minstrel on a lute. I don't know whether to be impressed or disgusted."

Finian swallowed. He didn't like being confronted about this… not by a stranger. For the second time, he said, "I just want everyone to get along."

"If that's what you gotta tell yourself to help you sleep at night, go ahead." The dwarf's grin was dark, the shadows of the canopy playing across his face. "But me? I know different. If you ever want to fess up and admit what a smarmy, silver-tongued little bastard you are, I'll be all ears."

Finian didn't say anything else for a good long while.

Chapter Text

By Kazar's reckoning, being recruited into the Grey Wardens was, by a far margin, the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Kazar laughed as he felt an arrow fly past his ear. Turning, he sent a volley of thunderbolts out at the darkspawn archer who had dared to target him, the mage chortling in delight as the creature shrieked and blackened into a charred husk under the onslaught.

It was freedom. It was power. It was… so amazingly wonderful to finally let loose, just the way he'd always wanted. The scent of burned flesh surrounded them, and it brought a satisfied smile to Kazar's face to know that he had put that smell there. This was what he was made for! This was what he was meant to do!

He laughed again as he rained fire down upon the darkspawn alpha. Alistair stumbled back as he got caught in the blast, since he'd been engaging said alpha.

Alistair turned a glare back at Kazar. "Hey, watch it!"

"Too hot for you, Templar?" Kazar laughed gleefully, then swept out a hand and encased a stream of approaching darkspawn in ice. He then made a game out of blasting each to bits with lightning in the most spectacular way possible.

He couldn't imagine how other people lived without magic. He certainly didn't know how he had, locked up in the Chantry's cage for so long. Let Knight-Commander Greagoir try to Tranquil him now!

Finally, much to Kazar's disappointment, the darkspawn attack ebbed. Finian killed the last genlock with a double stab to the back, and all that they were left with was the sound of frogs and their own heavy breathing.

Alistair stomped over to Kazar. He looked furious, and his face was now red and blistered in patches, which only heightened Kazar's elation. "What was that? You blasted me, you little creep!"

Kazar couldn't seem to stop grinning. "No, I blasted the alpha. You just got in the way." He felt his grin morph into a smirk. "What's the matter: your Templar training can't stand up to a little bitty fireball?"

"There was nothing little or bitty about that thing! What were you thinking, firing into melee?!"

The others were gathering around the two of them. "Remind me never to get on that elf's bad side," Kazar heard Daveth whisper. It was a sentiment Kazar could appreciate.

Marnan stepped between Alistair and Kazar, scowling her disapproval at both like an enchanter scolding unruly apprentices. "It does not help us to fight amongst ourselves."

"Right," Alistair said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'll just ignore the blatant attack against my person. That sounds like an excellent idea."

Kazar laughed. "I've told you before, Templar. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd already be a charred husk by now."

Alistair paused, looking around that the corpses nearby. Nearly half of them had been dispatched by Kazar's spells, and showed it. "You know, I'm starting to believe that."

Kazar just smirked and pushed past the Templar. He could still feel the magic singing through his veins, and it made him want to dance with it. Alas, they were in the ruin's shadow, so it wasn't likely any more of the creatures were lurking about. More's the pity.

"Mm, old ruins," Garott said as the group started up the hill toward the archive. "Always good for a little scavenging." The dwarf smirked and shifted the kit on his back. Kazar had seen a number of things disappear into that pack out here… but never anything of any apparent use. A bit of wood here, a leaf there. Either the dwarf suffered from some kind of strange compulsion, or he saw uses for random junk that others did not.

"You don't suppose we'll know the scrolls when we see them, do you?" Daveth asked. He had a fresh scratch across his face where a darkspawn had gotten him. Kazar was glad he hadn't taken any damage himself. Without the Amell woman here—annoying twit though she was—any wounds they collected had to make do with only a quick poultice application for healing.

"They'll bear the Grey Warden crest, I suppose," Alistair said.

"The Grey Warden crest?" Finian said teasingly. "In an old Grey Warden archive? Shouldn't be hard to spot then. I'm sure the scrolls will be the only Grey Warden items in the Grey Warden archive."

"Ooh… good point." Alistair sighed. "I suppose we're going to have to do a bit of digging around, then."

And that's what they did. When they reached the ruin, they found it caved in and tumbled, rubble covering almost everything. Admittedly, earth had never been Kazar's strongest element, but between him magically breaking through the rocks and Garott rigging up a pulley to clear the debris away, they managed to unearth a wall of what had once been shelves. Finian started digging through that while the rest of them continued clearing the debris.

Finian worked down the lines of shelves. Occasionally, something would clink or clatter as he found an object of interest and tossed it on the growing pile… an old knife, a pot, a stamp, something that may have been a letter opener… but no scrolls, as of yet.

Kazar blasted apart another rock, making the attached wall of rubble come tumbling down nearly on top of him. He jumped back, and looked up to see that the fall of rocks had revealed a staircase heading up behind it.

Sitting on it, watching them, was a woman.

"Well, well," she said silkily. "What have we here?"

Behind him, Kazar could hear weapons being drawn, and something that sounded like Finian hitting his head on something (complete with a soft yelp). Kazar didn't do much of anything, transfixed as she stood and made her way smoothly down the stairs.

Kazar may have been a mage, but he was also a healthy, hot-blooded young man. And this woman was not wearing a shirt. Well, sure, that drapery thing she had may have been counted as a covering… technically… but there was far more skin than not.

"Are you vultures, I wonder?" the woman continued, reaching the bottom of the steps. "Scavengers, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely intruders, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" She rounded the curve of the rubble pile, turning to face them with arms crossed under her bosom. It was… distracting. "What say you? Scavengers or intruders?"

"We are neither," Marnan's voice spoke up sternly.

There was a low rumbling chuckle. "Speak for yourself, princess."

"We're Grey Wardens," Finian said quickly, coming forward to stand in front, next to Kazar. He was rubbing his head. "From what I understand, the Wardens once owned this tower, so we can't really scavenge or intrude."

"The Grey Wardens have long since left," said the woman. "Invoke a name that means nothing here if you must; it means little to me." The woman started walking, moving around the group. Some might say prowling around them. "I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go,' I wondered. 'Why are they here?' And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long." She stopped and stood at a window, so that the afternoon light touched her skin just so. "Why is that?"

"Nobody answer her," Alistair whispered. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

The woman made an amused sound. "You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

"Yes… swooping is bad…"

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is," Daveth said, looking more nervous now than he'd been when facing down darkspawn. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"An apostate?" Kazar said, now staring at the woman for a reason other than to appreciate her ample bare skin. Yes, she did have that certain… carriage… that defined a mage who was assured of their own power. Also, a staff. It was mostly the staff that gave it away.

"A Witch of the Wilds?" The woman leaned against the stone and looked over them, obviously amused. "Such idle fancies, those old legends."

"Notice she doesn't deny it," Garott said with amusement.

"How have you escaped the Tower for so long?" Kazar found himself asking. He was fascinated by the discovery of her… this was a mage who was every bit as free of the Chantry as he was! "You must be powerful. Or very clever. How did you do it?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Sense I more than casual curiosity in your questions? No matter." She raised her head to Percival, who stood in the back with sword still drawn. "You there. You have not yet spoken. Have you a mind of your own? What are your thoughts?"

Percival's gaze was steady and heated, full of suspicion as he regarded her. Kazar was honestly surprised when the man actually answered. "I think you're toying with us."

The witch laughed. "Toying with you, am I? Nay, but I am merely a curious local, come to investigate the home intrusion that you committed." She turned to Marnan, pushing off from the wall. "You. Women do no frighten like little boys. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

The dwarf's lips pinched, but she nonetheless nodded her head in greeting. "I am Marnan. A pleasure to meet you."

The witch paused in surprise. "Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds." She looked over all of them. "You may call me Morrigan."

One by one, the party gave their names, though Alistair and Daveth seemed reluctant to do so. Kazar would have laughed at their superstitions, if he hadn't been so rapt on watching the witch.

"Shall I guess your purpose?" Morrigan continued when introductions were done. "You sought something in this ruin? Something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer'?" Alistair advanced a couple steps, hand going to the pommel of his sword. "You stole them, didn't you? You're… some kind of sneaky…witch-thief!"

"Smooth," Kazar deadpanned.

"How does one steal from dead men?" the witch posited.

Garott chuckled. "Quite easily, actually."

"Those documents are Grey Warden property," Alistair pressed, showing a bit of spine, for once. "I suggest you return them."

"I will not," Morrigan said sharply, "for 'twas not I who removed them!"

"Then who did?" Finian asked politely, as if they were having a discussion about the weather over tea.

Morrigan balked a bit, apparently caught off guard. "'Twas my mother, in fact."

"So she's the daughter of a sneaky witch thief," Garott said.

"Your mother?" Finian asked. "Can you take us to her?"

"Hm." Morrigan studied Finian, and Kazar was surprised by how sharp her eyes could be. Like a bird's. "Now there is a sensible request. I like you."

"I'd be careful," Alistair whispered. "First it's 'I like you…' Then zap! Frog time."

Kazar cast an incredulous look back at the blond. "Who in the Fade taught you about magic, Templar? Because they obviously need to be fired."

"Mean that literally, do you?" Alistair sneered back.

"Very well, Morrigan," Marnan said diplomatically. "Lead on, and we will follow."

"If it pleases you." She turned and disappeared into the rushes, and the group slowly moved to follow after.

Percival, Kazar noticed, had still not put his sword away.

Chapter Text

All she knew was fire.

It was a burning, all-consuming heat, roaring through her until her muscles spasmed with it. Meila felt trapped by it, hedged in by disorienting red and thrumming pain.

At some point, she had fallen to the ground. Above her, she could see shapes moving and hear the sounds of battle. She knew she needed to get up, but the pain made it hard to focus. It was hard to see with everything so bright. She scrabbled for her bow, certain she had dropped it nearby.

A genlock growled right above her, and she forewent looking for her bow to draw her hunting knife instead. She slashed wildly at the looming shape. Something cold and sharp slashed into her arm, and the knife dropped. Still, she refused to cry out, despite the stinging pain that flowered from the wound.

Something else growled behind her, and a brown blur tackled the darkspawn, tearing into it despite its own wheezing breaths. The dog.

Meila had not thought much of the creature at first… seeing in it the same twisted deformation of domestication that her own people had undergone at the hands of the shemlen. It, too, had once been a noble creature, now doomed to serve the shemlen because it knew nothing else.

Except that this creature was still certainly noble, in its own way. It fought on, despite the pain of its illness, and made protecting its clanmate—the human named Percival—its top priority. In that, Meila saw something Dalish in the dog.

"Felicity, 'ware your flank!"

"What? I… EEK!"

"Got it!"

The two humans were running around above her, though Meila saw them as little more than blurs at this point. Her arm wound stinging, she felt around for her knife.

The mabari's heavy four-legged tread approached, and she saw the knife drop in front of her with a metallic glint of sunlight. Gratefully, she retrieved it. "Thank you, brave creature," she managed hoarsely.

The dog barked, then coughed.

The sounds of battle had wound down; it seemed the humans had proved victorious. Felicity's dark form appeared in front of Meila. "You're bleeding!"

"It is a flesh wound."

"Exactly. That means your flesh has been wounded. May I?"

Meila sighed and held out her arm, knowing she couldn't afford to be any more of a detriment than she currently was. The human grasped her arm, and healing magic flowed into her, knitting it up. "My bow… I think I dropped it."

"…Meila, it's on your back."

"Oh." She frowned. Her head felt muzzy, and a fresh wave of hot pain sliced through her, flowering out from her stomach in a pulse of agony. She hissed, but did not cry out. Crying out was weakness.

"Come on. We're almost there… Ostagar is in sight."

"I… cannot tell," she gasped between gritted teeth. Visions of dark shadows and red hot rivers swam before her eyes. "It is far… too dark."

"J-Jory!"

"Here, my lady. I'll get her."

The knight's large form knelt over Meila, and she felt herself be lifted and borne like a child. In the wake of the pain, she was too weak to do much but struggle feebly.

"Hurry!"

There was a bouncing sensation and a sense of movement, but those were just distractions when compared to the seething darkness that seemed to creep in on the edge of her awareness. That darkness had voices… thousands of them. They were there, watching her. Hissing and laughing. One of them had Tamlen's face.

"Vir sulahn'nehn," she chanted as the world faded around her, trying her best to keep the shadows at bay. "Vir dirthera… vir samahl la-" She gasped as another spike of heat swam through her. Somewhere, the dog whimpered. "…vir samahl la numin… vir lath… sa'vunin…"

Voices broke into her awareness, one of many now… all of them dark and twisted, beckoning for her.

Come to us. Join us, little lethallan.

"Wynne! Wynne!"

"Felicity? What's the matter?"

You are weary, da'len. Come and rest. Submit to the dreams and join us.

"Oh dear. Yes, I see what you mean. Lay her here."

"Can you do anything?"

"We will see."

Come to your new home. Your new kin need you, lethallan.

Vir Assan. Vir Bor'Assan. Vir Adahlen.

I will not submit.

And then all was blackness.

Chapter Text

"So… does anyone else here doubt that that was really Flemeth, or is it just me?"

Percival looked up at the sound of Alistair's whisper. So far, the journey back toward Ostagar had been quiet. Everyone, it seemed, was deep in thought.

"Since I have no sodding idea what a 'Flemeth' is…" Garott said with a snort. "…I'm gonna go with 'who cares?'"

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't know," Daveth said. He'd been uncharacteristically twitchy, ever since this Morrigan showed up. Percival didn't blame the thief; he didn't trust her either. "Me, I was born in a small village not too far east from here. Grew up hearing tales about the Witches of the Wilds. They'll drag children off in their sleep, they will."

"And what, pray tell, would I do with children, I ask?" their guide called from up ahead, letting them know that, despite the distance they were keeping from her, she could still hear them.

"Eat them, probably," Alistair grumbled. Again, Percival agreed.

The moment the witch had appeared, alarm bells had tolled in his head. Something about her was just… evil. He couldn't place it. Perhaps it was the way her eyes watched them predatorily, probing for weaknesses. Perhaps it was the silky, yet challenging way she spoke. Perhaps it was just the fact that she was an apostate and a barbarian, and therefore could not be counted on to follow the strictures of society. Like common decency, for one.

That was perhaps what frightened him most, about this woman… not her manner or her magic. Not the fact that she may or may not have been the daughter of a thousand-year-old sorceress. No, she was a woman, and a damn sexy one. And she knew it.

Her ensemble was crafted painstakingly to elicit promises of excitement and mystery; Percival's experienced eye knew that upon first sight. And worse… it worked. Percival felt himself… stirred by it, mind roaming unbidden as he pictured himself running his hands over that wind-roughened skin and through that tangled hair.

That was what alarmed him most of all about her. She awoke things in him that should have been dead. But life went on even after tragedy, and his body still remembered fondly the whisper of sheets. If she realized and acted upon it… he couldn't say that he could control himself.

No, losing control was not an option anymore. A Cousland did his duty first… that's what his father had said as he lay dying. For his father, Percival would do his duty. And that duty was to not bed wilderness witches who had stolen Grey Warden treaties. No matter how much he may have wanted to.

All this rage and desire was filling up that emptiness inside him. He had a hard time letting it go, when at least it made him feel things again.

"And here we are," Morrigan said, stopping at a ridge. As they pulled up beside her, they saw Ostagar's walls before them. "'Tis reasonable to assume you can take it from here, I think. Do come back soon."

Despite the silky sarcasm in her voice, Finian's response of "Thank you, Morrigan," sounded entirely sincere.

Marnan sighed and started down the ridge, heading toward the ruin. Percival took up the rear. He fought not to let his eyes linger on artfully revealed skin as he passed the witch, but he could tell by the quirk of her lips that she was all too aware of his internal struggle. A Desire Demon given flesh, she was.

Once they were out of earshot of the apostate, Alistair immediately got to mocking. "'Thank you, Morrigan, for stealing our scrolls and then not turning us into to toads on the way back. So kind of you, really'. Andraste's knickers, Finian, do you have to be nice to everyone?"

Said elf shrugged. "She wasn't that bad. A bit cold, but we were strangers… heavily armed and outnumbering her. She was scared."

"Scared?" Alistair snorted incredulously. "Somehow, I don't think that was it."

"I agree with Alistair," Daveth said. "They're witches, right? Maybe we should check the scrolls over for hexes, or something."

Kazar threw his hands in the air. "For the last time, magic doesn't work like that! By the Fade, I wish that Amell twit were here, just so she could explain it to you!"

"Obviously, there are other kinds of magic than what you encountered in your Tower," Marnan said reasonably. "Myself, I'm not sure what to think of either woman. They did return the scrolls. Without asking anything in return, at that."

"Good point," Garott chuckled. "She did hex the things, then."

"They obviously recognize the darkspawn threat," Finian reasoned. "Think about it… if Flemeth is as old as they say, she's had to have lived through several Blights, right? So she, out of anyone, would know the danger."

"Or maybe it's all a trick," Alistair argued shrewdly, "to lure us into a false sense of security."

"If the trick is to put us at ease," Finian bandied back, "then it's obviously not working… is it?"

That made Alistair pause. "Well… maybe they're not very good at it."

"No…" Percival said softly, though he could tell everyone's attention swiveled to him every time he spoke. It made him inwardly wince. Still… "They're manipulators. Or at least, Morrigan is. Whatever their motivation, they're getting something out of this."

"I agree with Ser Smiles back there," Garott said. "They both stank of craftiness to me, and not just in a witchcrafty way."

"It's a moot point now," Marnan said. "It's over and done with. Let's just get these treaties back to Duncan."

They walked the rest of the way back to Ostagar in silence, passing through the gate into camp with a collective sigh of relief. Alistair went off to report to Duncan, while the rest were left to their own devices until nightfall, still an hour or so away.

"So where do you suppose Felicity took Meila?" Finian asked.

"Who cares?" Kazar scoffed, and abruptly turned and stomped off. Garott made a pointing motion and slipped off into the shadows, presumably to keep an eye on the young mage.

"She knows a healer in the mages' camp," Marnan said. "She will likely be tending to her there."

"Ah." Finian then glanced up at Percival. "You want to check on Hugo first?"

Percy unclenched a fist he hadn't realized he'd been clenching. Shortly, he nodded, and the four recruits set off toward the sounds of dogs barking.

Ser Jory was there, looking out over the dogs. He turned and smiled at them as they approached. "Ah, good. You're back. I trust everything went well?"

"Yep," Fin said. "We got the treaties, all ready to be rubbed in peoples' faces."

"Excellent."

Marnan asked, "How are Meila and Hugo?"

Ser Jory nodded to one of the pens. "Hugo's doing much better." Sure enough, when Percy drew even with the indicated pen, his hound looked up at him and gave a wag of his tail. "The kennel master fixed him up with a paste from that flower. Says he'll most likely make it through, and be fine in a couple days."

Percival sighed, feeling something close to a smile reach his face. A burden he hadn't been aware of lifted from his shoulders. His last connection to his past was here, safe. As Percy watched, Hugo laid his head back down on his paws and went to sleep.

"Meila, though… She… erm… she collapsed on the way back to camp."

All four of them turned to Jory. Marnan sighed: "I knew we should not have let her come."

"Is she all right?" Finian asked.

Jory shrugged. "I can't rightfully say. When I left them, Felicity and the elder mage were working on her, but they shooed me out of the tent before they'd made any progress. Last I saw, she was spasming and kicking around, and looked to be holding back a scream."

"Poor elf," Daveth whispered.

"Will she last until the Joining?" Marnan asked.

Again, Jory just shrugged.

"Perhaps it is best we do it sooner, then," said the dwarf, "rather than later."

"I think I'll go peek in on her," Finian said, and flitted off.

Marnan turned to Daveth. "You go retrieve the duster and the mage. I'm going to help Duncan get the ritual started."

"Agreed. I'm about ready to have this done, I am." Both also departed, heading for opposite corners of the camp.

This left Percival and Ser Jory alone. Percy spent the silence just watching his dog breathe. One less casualty to mourn.

"So…" Ser Jory began. "I've been wondering."

Percy looked up at the knight expectantly.

"You carry the Highever crest on your shield. I'd moved up there recently, you know, to start a family with my wonderful wife."

Percival turned his eyes back to the kennel, not liking the direction of this conversation.

"Well… I'm just wondering, really. Your name is Percival, right? And there's… Well, since his swordplay is rather legendary in the tourneys up there, and yours seems fit to match that description-"

"Yes," Percy cut in, a bit sharper than he'd intended. "I'm Percival Cousland."

"Oh. Sorry, my lord. I did not intend to pry."

Percival turned that over for a moment, then sighed. "I know, Ser Jory. It's just… a painful connection for me, right now."

"Oh? And why would that be? As I understand it, the Couslands are considered one of the most—"

"Were considered, Ser Jory." His grip on the kennel fence tightened at that dagger in his heart, though it was perhaps not as sharp as it had been before. "Now, I'm all that's left."

"Oh." Ser Jory was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry." And he sounded sincere, damn him.

That left Percy with only that burning rage, circling low in the otherwise empty pit of his soul, and nowhere to let it loose. If he kept going like this, it would soon consume him.

And part of him was beginning to wonder why he didn't simply let it.

Chapter Text

The circle of gathered recruits was soundless. Despite what they had just seen, no one had the courage to break the sacred silence of the ritual.

Meila was already unconscious on the ground, having been the first to be submitted.

Daveth, the next, had not been so lucky. He would precede his fellow recruits into oblivion.

Ser Jory, after him, had panicked and drawn his sword, and Duncan had illustrated under no uncertain terms that, in this, there was no turning back.

That left six pairs of shocked eyes, one slightly less shocked pair, and one that was merely saddened and world-weary.

"You have been called to submit yourself to the Taint," Duncan's voice broke the silence, and the cup passed hands again. One by one, six more drank darkspawn blood. One by one, they each fell back, fading into dreams of a fearsome black dragon.

Chapter Text

Marnan awoke feeling much as she usually did after spending a night carousing with the Warriors: an ache in her head, a foul taste in her mouth, and some new bruises that indicated she'd probably fallen flat on her face at one point.

She opened her eyes and sat up. Above her stretched the night sky, still so dazzlingly strange to the dwarf. Around her were the twilit ruins of Ostagar… sprinkled with the prone bodies of her new comrades.

Well, most of them were prone, anyway. Percival's pale figure knelt beside Daveth's body, and Alistair crouched over him with a hand on his shoulder. They were speaking quietly… though Marnan could not make out what was being said. Perhaps some kind of benediction or prayer?

Duncan moved around the ruin, checking on the rest of them for signs of life. Some of the others were stirring. Finian was mumbling fretfully like a child caught in a nightmare, and the casteless groaned and rolled over as Marnan watched. The mages were both still out cold, and she couldn't tell the Dalish elf's state from here.

"Ah, good, you're awake," Duncan said, reaching down to help Marnan to her feet. "How do you feel?"

"A bit like I just spent a night sampling something a fair bit stronger than mosswine."

Duncan chuckled, the relief of having the ritual done evident on his face. "I daresay I can't imagine one of your background getting quite so…"

"Drunk?" Marnan smiled, feeling some of that relief herself. "You have obviously never been a dwarven warrior."

Then, it hit her. The Joining was over… she was a Grey Warden now. A Grey. Warden. One of the most honorable vocations that any being—be they human, dwarf, elf, or nug—could take on.

She looked at her hands, as if they might have somehow transformed to reflect the change. She didn't feel particularly different, really, but she knew she was. Whatever they had drunk—darkspawn blood included—had made them darkspawn-killers to the core. They had been stuffed in the forge and shaped, and now it was only a matter of time until it could be discovered what sort of weapons they might become.

"Sodding Stone," the duster's voice groaned. "Who let a nug burrow into my head?"

Marnan scowled, recalling that the casteless wretch was also a Grey Warden now. A blatant criminal, being afforded such an honor… oh well. As he'd pointed out often enough, they were equals now. She just had to tolerate him, and try to fight as far away from him as possible.

Duncan crossed the ruin to help Brosca to his feet, and Marnan wandered over to where the other two humans were kneeling. Only as she got closer did she realize that what was being said was no benediction.

"…all die, Alistair. Every last one. Finian will be next, just you wait, or Duncan. And then the rest of you…"

Marnan shivered, because the human's voice was as empty as it was soft.

"Easy, Percival," Alistair whispered soothingly. "You're just a bit upset."

"You don't know." Percival shook his head, and, when Marnan could properly see his face, she saw that his eyes were as cold and lost as his voice. "You can't know. How everyone… all of them…"

"Death is a necessary consequence in war," Marnan said, and those deadened eyes turned up to her.

Percival blinked, and suddenly his face contorted with anger so intense that Marnan was taken aback. "Don't speak to me of 'necessary consequence'." He stood abruptly, pulling away from Alistair's comforting hand. "You may know war, dwarf… but I have a more-than-passing acquaintance with murder. Death is never necessary, and I sure as the Void am not going to just sit and accept it." With a spin of his heel, the blond man stalked off into the night.

"Oh dear…" Finian's voice said softly from nearby. He looked wryly at Marnan in the firelight, still lying on the ground. "That's the sort of thing I was hoping to prevent."

"You'd better go after him or something," Alistair sighed.

"I will… in a minute… when I can sit up without retching." Finian paused, taking a deep breath. "All I can say is I've had lichen ale that sat better than this."

"Is that some sort of dig at the spirits of my people?" Marnan asked.

"No, it's a dig at lichen ale."

Marnan considered that, then shrugged. "Fair enough. And for what it's worth, I'd agree."

Felicity's prone form let out a groan then, reaching a hand up to rub her face.

"I'm glad most of you made it," Alistair said, standing up. "At my Joining there was one death. It was… horrible."

"I can't believe you stabbed him!" Felicity's voice cried, and she sat up.

Duncan's response was gentle, but firm. "It was necessary. Ser Jory knew that there would be no turning back once the ritual had begun."

"But… you stabbed him!"

"What," Brosca scoffed, "you'd rather have the whole 'Grey Wardens are Taint-twisted, and that's why they're so good at killing darkspawn' secret come out?"

"Ser Jory… probably wouldn't have told."

"When he went for his blade," said Duncan, "he left me no choice. I'm sorry."

Kazar started thrashing around. When sparks started dancing from his hands in his sleep, everyone stood up in alarm.

"Someone slap him awake, or something," Alistair suggested. "Hopefully before he kills us all in his sleep."

"On it," the duster said. He leaned over the elf and smirked, and Marnan turned away, because she really didn't want to know what devious way the criminal was going to wake the mage.

Instead, Marnan walked over to where Meila still lay, senseless.

"She'll probably take a bit longer to recover than the rest of us," Felicity's voice said, and the healer appeared beside her. "After all, she did not have many energy reserves before the ritual, because of her sickness."

"But she will recover?"

"Almost assuredly." Felicity cast Marnan a smile. "She survived the Taint for that long, after all… I don't see why a bit of darkspawn blood now should give her any trouble."

Behind them, Kazar awoke loudly with a sputter and a crack of lightning. A moment later, Garott burst out laughing. Marnan rolled her eyes.

"Everyone, it is finished," Duncan said. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens."

"I feel special already," Brosca chuckled.

"What was with those dreams?" Kazar sat up, rubbing his head. "I've had less disturbing dreams when literally fighting a demon in the Fade."

"Kazar!" Felicity hissed, for some reason. He made a face over at her.

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn," Duncan explained. "As we all do. That, and many other things, can be explained in the months to come."

"Before I forget… there is one last part to the Joining." Alistair moved to the table where they had first put the cup. Now, there was a stack of something glittery and metallic. Alistair held up a piece of the pile to reveal a black pendant on a silver chain. "We take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us… of those who didn't make it this far."

There was a moment of silence while he passed the pendants out, while everyone reflected on the deaths of Daveth and Jory.

"Take some time, all of you, and rest up," Duncan said softly. "Tomorrow will be a long day for all of us."

There were nods all around, and several of the new Wardens started off. Felicity drafted Alistair into carrying Meila back to camp, and Finian took the last pendant, to deliver to Percival.

"Marnan," Duncan's voice said, before the dwarf could head off to a much-needed bedroll. She turned expectantly. "If you are up to it, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king."

"What makes her so special?" Kazar could be heard muttering, but then the mage had disappeared into the darkness.

"Of course, Duncan. I'd be honored."

He nodded, and motioned for her to follow him. She fell in step behind him and to the side, as she would have any commanding officer back home. And that's what he was, now that she was a full-fledged Warden.

They wound their way down a slope, and a candlelit table appeared in the darkness, surrounded by a cluster of figures.

"…Loghain, my decision is final," a golden figure was saying as they approached. He was wearing what was obviously largely ceremonial armor. He must be the human king, then. "I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault."

"You risk too much, Cailan," argued a darker man in darker armor. As Duncan and Marnan rounded the table to take the free place on its other side, Marnan could see that there were heavy bags under his eyes. "The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

"If that's the case, Loghain, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all."

The darker man, Loghain, stiffened. "I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!"

Ah, politics. How Marnan had missed being stuck in the middle of it.

The pair argued a bit more about the current state of the forces, and Marnan deduced that this Loghain was some sort of general or tactician, and likely far more experienced than the much younger king.

Then, once the king had made his point rather succinctly, he turned to the Wardens. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your majesty."

"And this is one of your new recruits? I understand congratulations are in order."

Marnan bowed. "Thank you, your majesty."

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan," Loghain sneered. "We must attend to reality."

"Fine," the king snapped. "Speak your strategy." He unfurled a map onto the table in front of him. "The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines. And then…?"

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon," Loghain said, pointing to a spot on the map. "Signaling my men to charge from cover."

A flank? Marnan was intrigued, remembering the battle down in the Deep Roads that had so efficiently routed them after such a maneuver.

"To flank the darkspawn, I remember," the king said with impatience. "This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light this beacon?"

"I have a few men stationed there. It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital."

"Then we should send our best." Marnan could already see the tactician's displeasure at what was to come next. "Send Alistair and some of the new Grey Wardens to make sure it is done." The king smiled at her.

Marnan stiffened. "I cannot speak for the others, but I would personally prefer to fight in the battle, your majesty."

"Of course… we need not have all of you climb the tower. The rest of you may join in the battle with me."

Marnan thought over that, looking at the map. It illustrated a line of the king's main forces, front and center across the gorge. Off to the side, hidden in the Wilds, were the forces that she assumed to belong to this Loghain man.

"May I offer a suggestion, your majesty?"

King Cailan smiled. "Of course. I'd be happy to hear anything a Grey Warden brings to the table."

"Take the flank…" she pointed to the marker for Loghain's men, and then crossed the gorge to its mirror position on the other side. "…and change it into a pincer. We'd have a much better chance of catching the lieutenants and emissaries near the back if we come at them from both sides."

"That will not be necessary-" Loghain began.

The king interrupted: "I think it's an excellent idea!"

Duncan cast a curious eye down at her. "You are thinking of placing the rest of the new Wardens there? Just the handful of you?"

Marnan faced her commander's doubt with confidence. "Kazar Surana alone could absolutely decimate the horde… but he won't get a clear shot if he's stuck behind a line of knights and mabari hounds. Put him behind the enemy, with the advantage of surprise, and then clip his leash… I am certain that will make the difference.

The smile the king flashed her was brilliant as the sun. "You must have quite a bit of experience under your belt. I assume you will be leading them?"

Marnan bowed her head respectfully. "If that is your majesty's wish."

"It's settled then. My forces will draw the charge. Then, when the beacon is lit, the forces of Loghain and… oh, how daft of me. I'm afraid I never caught your name."

"Marnan, your majesty."

The king blinked, and then smiled in a way that told her he very much recognized it. "Stone met, Marnan. Loghain's and Marnan's forces will leave hiding when the beacon is lit and charge the back of the horde."

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much!" Loghain protested, glaring at Marnan. "Is that truly wise?"

"Enough of you conspiracy theories, Loghain," the kings said with exasperation.

"Your majesty," Duncan broke in. "You should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing."

"There are no signs of any dragons in the Wilds," Loghain protested. Marnan was beginning to grow rather annoyed with this man. A little tactical caution, she could understand, but he obviously flat-out distrusted the Grey Wardens!

"Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" the king said.

"I…" Duncan looked like he wanted to protest, then settled on, "Yes, your majesty."

At this point, a new voice broke in, and Marnan recalled that there were more than the four of them at the table.

"Your majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary," said a gaunt, bald man wearing mage robes. "The Circle of Magi-"

"We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!" snapped another voice, this one belonging to an elderly woman in red and gold robes. Marnan understood that meant she was from the human Chantry. Marnan was rather glad she hadn't specifically mentioned that Kazar Surana—the lynchpin of her arm of the attack—was a mage.

"Enough!" Loghain cut in, taking command with the ease of experience. "This plan will suffice." Reluctance filled his tone as he relented. "The Grey Wardens will light the beacon and create a third arm behind the horde."

"Thank you, Loghain," said King Cailan. "I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battling beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!"

Loghain, for his part, was already walking away. He paused to look over his shoulder. "Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all."

Marnan shuddered. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something in Loghain's tone reminded her of Bhelen.

Chapter Text

"We're not fighting in the battle?"

"No, Templar. You're not fighting in the battle. I, on the other hand, am necessary for it." Kazar's teeth glinted in the firelight at his smug grin.

Garott fingered the heavy pendent around his neck, still startled by its weight. It kept banging against his chest… he supposed it would take time to get used to its presence. Still, he was reluctant to take it off. Not because of any sentimentality, of course… but because Duncan might sodding stab him if he did.

Though the look on the knight's face had been priceless. Best. Cult ritual. Ever.

The new Wardens had once again been collected from the four corners of camp, and were now gathered in front of the brazier. Apparently, the news Duncan and the princess brought was too urgent to wait until morning. What news? Why, half of them would be sent up a tower to turn on a glorified lamp, while the other half would play heroes down on the ground. Easy bet where the princess had put Garott in her little scheme.

"The task of our force will be to engage the enemy from afar," Marnan said, ignoring Alistair's complaints and Kazar's smugness, "so as to give Kazar the longest possible window to sling his spells. For that reason, I would like Meila and Felicity with us."

Meila nodded from where she was sitting on one of the benches. She was still recovering and weak, but that didn't mean she wasn't back to her old stone bitch ways. "I will atone for my failings this afternoon."

Marnan smiled at her. "I'm counting on it."

"But what of me?" Felicity said nervously. "Certainly, you can't think that I would be particularly effective…"

"Honestly, I need you there primarily to heal. If Kazar and Meila are creating an obvious threat of themselves, they're going to attract attention and take some fire. Your job will be to keep them on their feet." Felicity nodded in understanding, but still bit her lip.

"What about you, princess?" Garott asked with a smirk, startling those nearby when he spoke. Heh. "You going to pick them off from afar with the heat of your glares?"

"My job is defense. Any darkspawn that comes too close will taste my axe."

"Leaving the rest of us to climb the tower. Convenient."

"You are welcome to come along, brand."

Garott gave the princess one of his sharpest smirks. "I wouldn't follow you into safety if the cavern was coming down on my head, much less follow you into a fight."

Her eyes narrowed all disapprovingly, but she didn't rise to the bait. More's the pity.

"I can't believe I won't be in the battle!" Alistair cried, throwing his hands in the air.

"Hey, we have an important job," Finian said, nudging the blond man. "Without the beacon, the plan doesn't work."

"Ooh, strategy. Exciting."

The princess turned a wry smile to him. "The king felt much the same, actually."

Alistair slumped. "Oh, great. Now I'm being compared to him, am I? This day can't get any worse." Finian looked baffled, but nonetheless reached up to pat him on the shoulder.

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair," said Duncan.

"He needs four Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch? Just in case?"

"This is not your choice. If King Cailan wishes the Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there."

"I get it, I get it." Alistair paused, the corner of his lip curling up. "But just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line, darkspawn or no."

"Way to take a stand, blondie," Garott chuckled.

"I don't know," Finian said with a smirk. "That could be a great distraction."

"If we're lucky," Kazar said, "maybe they'd go blind."

"Or at least we could cut them up when they all keel over laughing," Alistair concluded.

Duncan looked over the gathered Wardens, a low sigh escaping through his nose. Garott wasn't the only one to laugh.

Chapter Text

The sounds of pitched battle waged somewhere outside, fierce and frightening… but inside, there was a much different conflict unfolding.

"Would you two… stop… looting things?! It's making me uncomfortable!"

"Then don't look," Garott grunted while he jimmied the lock off an old chest.

Finian, meanwhile, had climbed halfway up a wall to take a peek at an urn in an alcove. Yep, these settings were definitely ruby. His fingers twitched just looking at it. "Relax, Alistair. Duncan said we had about an hour. It doesn't take that long to climb three sets of stairs."

Percival stood a silent and stolid watch in the doorway of the chamber they were currently ransacking, on the second floor of the Tower of Ishal. He watched them impassively, that cold, empty look back in his eyes. It made Finian worry. Well, at least the noble wasn't sinking into himself, like he had on the road out of Denerim.

And like he'd been after the Joining. Once he'd been able to stand up and keep his dinner down, Fin had found the noble just sitting by the kennels, staring off at nothing. Nothing Finian did had been able to rouse him, so he'd slipped Percival's amulet into his pocket and sat with him in silence well into the morning.

"Garott!" Fin called. "Catch!"

Deftly, the dwarf turned and caught the urn when it was tossed to him, and Finian had his hands free to slide back down the wall.

"Nice find, elf. These rubies have a good cut."

"I know, right?" Fin grinned. He and Garott may not have entirely trusted one another, but if there was one thing they could commiserate on, it was their mutual fondness for finding nice stuff. "I can't decide whether to break the urn and just take the jewels, or try to find room for the entire urn in my bag."

"If you think it's worth something, go for it. It's your find." Garott tossed it back with a shrug. Fin caught it and stowed it in his pack. If he needed the room, he'd just break it later.

Alistair had his hands over his eyes. "Whatever happened to 'we have an important job, Alistair'? That's what I want to know."

"Don't you know?" the dwarf chuckled. "The elf's a wily little puppetmaster. Would've said whatever you wanted to hear, just to get a chance at the tower."

"Oh, sure," Fin crowed while digging through a bookshelf next to a window. "And your so-called 'refusal' to fight under Marnan's command had nothing to do with possible scavenging?"

"What can I say?" Garott's smirk was toothy. "I'm an opportunist."

"Don't let me disturb you two, then," Alistair groaned. "I'll just be over here. Not lighting a beacon. Don't mind me."

While digging through the bookcase, Finian saw something down below the window, the shadows shifting in rain-soaked courtyard beneath it. He peered out, leaning over the sill, feeling the spray of rain against his face.

"Oh no…" Alistair whispered. "Percival, get back!"

An arrow whisked past Finian's ear at the same time he heard a crash behind him. He jerked away from the window as a volley of arrows followed the first through it, flying past his face close enough to feel the wind of their passage. The elf ducked out of sight behind the bookcase.

When he turned, he saw Percival in the doorway, his shield blocking a stream of darkspawn who were trying to enter. As Fin watched, the noble's sword lopped off the head of one hurlock, but another only crowded into its place. The weight was slowly pushing the noble back into the room.

"What the sodding Stone are darkspawn doing past the front lines?" Garott growled.

Finian twisted his wrists, popping his daggers out of his wrist sheaths. He cast the dwarf a grin. "I assume they wanted to get in on the looting."

Garott snorted, unhooking his dagger and hand-axe from his belt. "Too bad we got here first, eh?" And with that, the two of them dove in.

Percival and Alistair created an impenetrable wall around the doorway, their swords flashing while their shields steadily pushed back against the encroaching pack. Finian honestly saw no way around the pair, until he noticed Percival being backed up into a table.

Finian nimbly hopped up onto the table, then, grinning, used it to jump straight over the shield wall. He landed ungracefully on top of a genlock, but slit its throat before it had a chance to complain about being used as a landing pad. Sporting a few new bruises, the elf spun away from a sword that came at him, and swiped at the neck of one of Alistair's hurlocks. A hand-axe to the throat presently took down the darkspawn that had attacked Finian anyway, though he was hard-pressed to spot the dwarf in the crush.

And then, it was over, the small wave of darkspawn dead at their feet. All four Wardens took a moment to catch their breath, carefully wiping the blood off their respective weapons before stowing them.

"So much for this being the safe job," Garott grumbled.

"There are darkspawn ahead of the line," Alistair panted. "It's official… we have to get to the beacon. Now."

"Agreed. Looting just got a lot less tempting," Finian said, putting on his best 'oops, my mistake' smile. Alistair just made a face at him.

The four of them hurried out into the hall. They could now hear the sounds of darkspawn throughout the tower around them: growls from down the hallway, and the scrabbling and clanging of feet on the floors above them. And something heavy slamming around above that, the tower echoing with the thunderous sound.

They found the stairs up to the third floor, Alistair taking the steps two at a time. As they continued on, Finian noticed Garott stopping at the upper landing. The elf turned and saw the dwarf digging through his scavenging sack.

"What are you doing?" He hissed, hearing the sputtering sounds of darkspawn coming from below them. The darkspawn were heading for the same staircase the Wardens had just climbed.

Garott flashed a toothy grin, deftly tying a rope across the staircase doorway. "Giving them a reason not to follow us." Something bladed lay at his feet. The sounds were coming closer. "Go on. I'll catch up."

"But…" A gauntleted hand pulled Finian away from the landing, and the elf reluctantly stumbled after Alistair as they continued running through the curved halls.

Percival was in front now, and he skidded to a stop abruptly around a corner, then ducked behind his shield as a volley of arrows shot into it. The room beyond was seething with a good two dozen darkspawn, and they'd all seen the trio come in.

Alistair ran past Percival, bowling through a line of archers like an angry midwife through… anything, really. Finian followed behind him, leaping on those darkspawn that were unlucky enough to fall down. It was his job to make sure they never got up again.

Over the clashing of steel, Finian could hear the sounds of dogs barking. He saw Percival go rushing by into the next room, but he was too preoccupied with ducking the greatsword that tried to shorten him by six inches to think about it much. Then, Percival reappeared, a dark smirk on his face like a herald of death, and with no less than four huge mabari hounds behind him.

"Avenge your masters," the noble growled, and the dogs leaped into the fray, tearing and biting at tainted flesh with relish.

Finian felt a glancing blow from a mace sting his side, and he dropped to the ground and rolled under a weapon rack to escape his attacker. A moment later, a concussion rocked the floor, and said attacker had been sideswiped by a ballista bolt, and was now pinned to the wall by a two-foot long wooden shaft through its shoulder.

Garott smirked at him, standing on a ballista that had been pushed against one wall. "Didn't miss all the fun, did I?"

"I think it's arguable that you are the fun," Finian panted, getting to his feet and running up behind one of the hurlocks flanking Alistair.

"Sodding right," he heard Garott mumble, followed shortly by the concussion of another ballista shot.

Finian took out the hurlock attacking Alistair with a swift double jab into its side. Then, he twisted around to hamstring a genlock that was clawing at the flank of one of the hounds. Said hound promptly jumped on said genlock and ate its face.

Percival was nearby, fighting off a hurlock and a genlock near the exit into the next room, keeping his back to the wall so they couldn't flank him. Finian dove in and jammed both daggers into the hurlock's sides, and, while it roared in pain, Percival took the chance to thrust his sword through its chest.

The genlock then tried to climb Percival's shield, actually latching onto the thing. However, a swift, brutal motion from Percival slammed the monster into the wall. It dropped off the shield and slumped, leaving a trail of blackened blood on the wall as it fell.

A mabari howled nearby, and Finian turned to see that the skirmish was over, and none of them seemed the worse for it. Fin had a couple new slices he couldn't quite explain, but all four Wardens looked around with clear eyes and intact limbs… which was more than could be said about any of the bodies on the floor. Especially as the mabari hounds continued to tear at them.

"That…" Alistair panted, wiping his brow with one bloodied gauntlet. "…was insane."

Garott glanced back. "More coming." Now that it had been pointed out, Finian heard growls from the stairwell behind them, though the growls were interrupted by a metallic swooping sound.

"What did you…" Finian began. Garott just winked.

"They're everywhere," Alistair said. "I can feel more up ahead. I… don't think we can take much more."

"Someone better make a call," Garott growled. "My traps won't hold them for long."

"There are side rooms off the next chamber," Percival said, then turned and ran through the door without waiting for a response.

They followed after him, turning into a side room off the corridor just as they heard another wave of darkspawn clatter up the stairs behind them. As soon as Alistair had lumbered into the room, Percival and Garott slammed the door shut behind them.

All of them stayed still, holding their breath as they heard a veritable horde of darkspawn pass by the other side of the flimsy wooden door. Someone gulped.

They had ended up in a barracks. Bunks lined the walls, interspersed with trunks and various personal knickknacks. Out of habit, Fin snagged a scrimshaw necklace off a nightstand and slipped it into his pocket. Then, he winced, because he hadn't really meant to do that at a time like this.

Finally, the sounds of growling and shuffling outside their door faded with distance, and everyone breathed again.

"We're never going to make it to the staircase at this rate," Alistair groaned quietly. "How are we supposed to get past a small army of darkspawn with just the four of us?"

There was a window in the room, open and unshuttered to the spring rain. Finian leaned out of it, seeing the courtyard below seethe with pockets of darkspawn. From up above, he could hear something thundering around, closer now than it had been before. Like something gigantic was walking around up on the roof.

Finian poked his head further out the window, trying to see what the thing making the noise was. Then, he noticed the jaggedness of the stones of the tower's façade.

"How well can you climb, elf?" a low voice asked right next to his ear, and Finian jumped, realizing Garott was leaning out the window next to him, also looking up at the stones.

Fin pondered that. There had been a certain palace district estate back in Denerim where he'd had a personal interest in frequently climbing into a second story window. And rooftops had always made excellent escape routes when the guards had seen his hands wander a bit too much. So he wasn't unfamiliar with how to pick a vertical path... But… "It's raining, and higher than anything I've ever tried. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be a bit shaky."

Garott snorted a laugh. "You, lie? Never."

"Um, hello?" Alistair's voice called behind them. "What are you guys doing: enjoying the view? The darkspawn army is through the door this way."

Finian thought about that, then grinned at Garott. "He makes a good point. Darkspawn army's that way… so I'm going this way."

The dwarf chuckled and pulled a rope out of his bag. "Loop it around something and drop it back down. We're probably going to need to pulley the tin cans."

Finian nodded and stifled a laugh as he glanced over at Alistair and Percival, both of whom were watching Garott and Finian with baffled expressions. Alistair's expression, in particular, was something he wanted to get a painting of someday.

Then, as Finian looped the rope around his shoulders for safekeeping and climbed up onto the windowsill, Alistair finally seemed to realize what they were planning. "Hey… hey hey hey! Are you insane?!"

"Honestly?" Finian said with a grin. "I've been called that from time to time." Then, he hopped up, his leather gloves catching onto the rain-slicked stone above the window. Carefully, he found a solid foothold on a broken brick, and started making his way up the wall.

It took him a long time to pick his way up the side of the tower. The wind and rain buffeted at him, making him slip around more than he was honestly comfortable with. Once, a brick he was using as a foothold broke loose, and he listened to it clatter its way down the tower for several very long seconds. It was a long distance down. He swallowed.

Finally, shaking with nerves, physical effort, and being soaked through, he reached the lip of the top of the tower… and what he saw there made him duck right back down again.

The creature on the top of the tower was huge, with menacing, spiraling horns bursting from its head. It bent over the bodies of what had once been guards. As Fin watched, it tore off the leg of one corpse and closed its jaw around the limb. Armor and bone alike crunched under its bite.

"Maker's Acrid Bootstench…" Finian whispered. Then, he spotted the box that would light the beacon, right behind the beast. Shaking, Finian fought to remain still—far more still than he had ever been when hiding from guardsmen or angry Alienage elders. His breathing seemed incredibly loud and ragged.

Then, when the monster turned its back—its heavy footsteps were the thunderous sound they had heard two floors down, it seemed—Finian pulled himself silently up over the lip of the tower, and took cover behind a broken bit of wall. He uncoiled the rope from around his shoulders with trembling fingers, and looped it around what had once been part of a decorative iron latticework in a window. He slipped both ends of the rope over the edge, hoping the others had the sense to climb quietly.

Garott came up first, and, when he spotted the monster, the look on his face matched pretty closely with Finian's own. A moment later, he'd stepped sideways into a shadow and disappeared.

Alistair was next, his chestplate tied to the rope so that he could pulley himself up, with help from Percival below. The ex-Templar was grunting with the effort of it, but Finian's frantic 'shut up shut up shut up' gestures silenced him as soon as he came into view.

Unfortunately, that was not soon enough. Even as Alistair reached solid ground, Finian heard the creature moving around behind them, coming closer. It had heard something, and was coming to investigate.

Alistair spat a curse and started frantically pulling at the rope, trying to bring the last of their team up before things went south. This made him rather conspicuous, of course. As soon as the giant darkspawn rounded the broken wall, it would see him.

"Hey, you ugly son of a nug!" a voice shouted from the other side of the tower. "You smell worse than my mother's breath! Take a bath!" There was the sound of something shattering, followed by an acidic sizzle and a roar of pain.

The monster thundered away from their hiding spot, and something smashed. The monster roared again, and there was the sound of a mighty slam.

"ELF! A little help?!"

Finian jumped, realizing that he was just sitting there while Garott faced that thing alone. Alistair was still pulling Percival up, his hands slipping on rain-coated rope in his haste. Finian was the only one who could do anything.

He jumped up from behind the wall and rounded into the room. The chamber took up the entirety of the top floor, with a high ceiling that housed the beacon above them. Smashed crates and tables littered the floor, and the dwarf seemed to be doing his damnedest to use them to his advantage. Garott was running for his life from the charging monstrosity behind him, the dwarf ducking between piles of rubble that only made decent cover for the two seconds it took the monster to swipe them aside.

Finian gulped, the weight of his daggers suddenly feeling very insignificant.

Still, Garott was going to be crushed by a sweep of those powerful arms if Finian didn't do something. The elf and dwarf might have had their differences, but he was still a teammate, and Finian wouldn't let him down.

Finian ran around behind the monster—not a difficult thing to do, since it seemed fixated on tearing Garott into little dwarf pieces. Then, the elf leapt in and stabbed both daggers into one massive ankle.

The creature growled and paused in its tirade, then kicked backwards, catching Finian in the stomach and sending him flying across the room. He landed roughly on the stone and rolled a good ten feet before he stopped—hard—against a pile of broken crates.

It was all he could do for a moment to breathe, even as the monster roared and charged through the debris toward him.

And then Alistair was in front of the thing, bracing with his shield against the monster's momentum. The human, too, went flying when it hit him, and Alistair crashed into the debris next to Finian. The creature's charge had nonetheless been broken, though, and then Percival was there, plunging his sword deep into the monster's left side. The darkspawn swept an arm out like it was swatting a fly, and Percival was pushed a couple steps back, despite the swipe hitting his shield.

"Well, this is nice," Alistair said, carefully levering himself to his feet. "Us getting together to fight for our lives… spending terrifying time together… we should do this more often."

He reached down to help pull Finian to his feet, and the elf only winced a little. Somehow, he had kept hold of his daggers through the tumble. "We could invite the large guy along," Fin said. "Make it a real party."

Alistair smiled wryly. Then, they both winced as Percival was knocked off balance by the monster pounding against the ground at his feet. The darkspawn picked up the noble by the chestplate, and might have done worse if Garott's hand-axe hadn't landed in its foot. The monster dropped the noble and started after the dwarf again, who turned and ran.

"We've missed the signal for sure," Alistair said, face and voice serious. "Finian, you light the beacon. We'll… try to keep it distracted."

Finian nodded, disturbingly relieved not to have to get near that thing again. Then, Alistair charged toward the monster with shield raised, and Finian ran for the box of fuel that would light the signal. It was a compartment in the wall that connected up to the brazier above them. There was a tinderbox next to it, still somehow intact.

His hands shaking, trying not to listen to the crashes and roars behind him, Finian lit the tinder. Then, he stoked the flame, blowing on it to encourage its journey up toward the top of the tower. Soon, the heat was too much for the elf, and he closed the compartment door. Only when he looked up and saw that the signal fire was blazing above them did he turn back to the battle.

The monster was bleeding from a myriad of lacerations around its legs and thighs, but remained relatively unharmed about the head and shoulders. If anything, the cuts to its lower, more reachable half only seemed to make it angry. Alistair and Percival had taken up opposite positions on each side of the creature, each doing their best to hack one arm each to bits. It didn't seem to be working.

Garott seemed to have a broken nose, judging by how much he was bleeding from it, but he dodged around and between the monster's legs all the same, continuing to hack and stab at it. It seemed obvious to Finian, now, that Garott's light little weapons were not going to be able to penetrate that tough hide.

Finian frowned down at his own daggers, because his weapons weren't any better. The only place on this thing that they'd likely even be able to penetrate would be its eyeballs.

The eyes. That might work.

When the monster slammed both hands on the floor, creating a concussion that sent all three of his teammates sprawling, Finian started moving forward. He sprinted, jumping over a pile of debris so as not to break momentum. As he did so, he reversed his grip on his daggers to a backwards one. When he was right in front of the creature, the monster slowly straightening from its ground pound, Finian sprang.

He stabbed downward with all his strength, and his daggers hooked onto the top of the monster's horned head as it rose from its crouch. It roared, and Finian felt its hot breath on his stomach. He kicked out and bent his knees to keep his legs firmly out of reach of the thing's jaws.

One gigantic hand curled around his waist, and Finian moved frantically, yanking his daggers out of the creature's thick skull to bring them in again… this time with perfect accuracy.

The monster roared as both its eyes were slashed clean through, and that hand around his waist tightened so violently that Finian felt something inside him crack. He gasped, but didn't have time to react, because he was suddenly whipped around, his head snapping forward with the force of it. Then, he was flying through the air at impossible speed…

…until he hit something solid a moment later.

There was a second where the only thing he was aware of was a ringing in his head, and he lost sight of the tower to a wave of blackness.

Then, the pain rushed in. His leg his back his head his ribs oh Maker it all hurt so bad. He tried to cry out, but he couldn't seem to find the breath to fill his lungs with.

"FINIAN! Oh Maker, don't you die on me too!"

Hands were on him, and everything they touched throbbed. He tried to whimper, but there was something in his lungs. A cough didn't clear it… was that blood he tasted?

He opened his eyes, and blearily registered the man kneeling over him. A golden halo in the firelight.

"More coming," Alistair's voice said from far away… or maybe he wasn't too far, and Fin was just hearing everything through water. "We need to go."

"I'm not leaving anyone behind," Percival hissed. Percival was the figure above him. But where… the thought slipped away as another wave of pain rushed over him. "Can he be pulleyed down?"

"Not in that state," Garott said, somewhere behind Fin. "Bet that toss busted some ribs. It'd probably only make things worse."

"Then I'll carry him."

Finian felt hands slide under him. In any other case, they'd have been overly gentle, but now… when one of them brushed his right thigh, agony shot through him and a strangled shriek left his mouth, despite lack of air. Blackness started closing in from the corners of his eyes.

"May be kinder to put him down quickly," the dwarf's voice grunted.

"You try it, and I run you through here and now." Then, more gently. "Easy, elf. Just hang on."

Someone was whimpering feebly. Finian thought it sounded like himself. He couldn't see anything anymore through the darkness. His whole body throbbed, a steady beat of pain to the rhythm of his heart.

"Oh blast it!" Alistair's voice cried. "Here comes round number… I can't even remember anymore!"

From far away, Fin heard the sound of steel being drawn, and there was a sensation of movement that faded as the rest of the world did. And over it wavered a frightened, fading voice: "Don't die on me, Finian. Please… hang on."

Chapter Text

"What is taking them so long?"

Kazar's impatient hiss, barely audible over the sounds of battle in the distance, only heightened Felicity's anxiety.

"Something is wrong," Marnan whispered, craning her head through the leaves to try to see the tower from their hiding spot in the foliage.

"Perhaps we should take the initiative." Meila's voice floated down from above them. She was perched somewhere in the trees to watch for the signal.

"No," Marnan said through gritted teeth. "If we attack without the added threat of Loghain's men, half the horde will turn around and crush us."

"Bring it on," Kazar growled.

Felicity was shaking, by now. The rain was colder than any she'd experienced before, in her short time out of the Tower… seeping into her robes and through her shoes. Her ears and nose were numb with it, despite the hooded cloak she had pulled over her head. There was some weak ice salve in her pack, but she was loathe to use it for something so mundane, when there was the possibility of encountering emissaries wielding frost spells in the near future.

That was, if the beacon would light. What was taking Alistair and the others so long?

"Marnan," Felicity whispered, "you don't think they encountered trouble, do you?"

"Da'halam! It's lit!"

"What?"

Meila's voice revealed her relief. "The beacon was lit just now!"

Marnan sighed. "Thank the Ancestors." Felicity heard shifting as the dwarf pushed up from the undergrowth.

Felicity did her best to extricate herself, stifling a groan. Her limbs ached both with cold and with crouching down for so long. Through the gloom, she could see Kazar's petite form stretching as he stood next to her. Presently, Meila dropped out of a tree and joined them.

"All right. Our job is to cull the horde from behind," Marnan said, fixing a helmet over her head. At some point during their stay at the camp, it seemed she'd gotten a suit of plate armor made for herself. "Target emissaries and lieutenants as a priority, and don't make targets of yourself by just attacking wildly."

"Yeah, yeah." The elven mage rolled his eyes. "Can we just go kill stuff now?"

"Kazar, she's talking mostly to you," Felicity pointed out.

Marnan turned toward her. "Felicity, I want you to try to keep out of sight as best you can. I have a feeling things could get pretty hot. I don't want you needlessly endangering yourself."

Felicity nodded, more than happy to comply with that.

Meila deftly strung her bow and nocked an arrow. "I am ready."

"Good." Marnan sighed, hefting her axe. "Let's move out."

The four of them ran through the foliage of the Wilds, heading around the base of the Ostagar cliffs, toward the sounds of battle. It wasn't long before they broke through the trees and came upon the sight of the darkspawn horde slicing hard through the Ferelden lines. Felicity peered through the rain, trying to figure out who still stood, but she couldn't tell from this distance.

Meila was the first of their group to attack, her arrow catching a hurlock emissary mid-spell. Then, Kazar lit up the darkspawn with fire, and it was all Felicity could do to fling the occasional sputtering spell bolt and wait for the inevitable.

And there it was… a group of archers near the downed emissary turned to them, and the four Grey Wardens ducked behind cover as arrows filled the air around them. Kazar shortly responded in kind, and ice streaked across the ground the darkspawn stood upon, freezing their legs in place, making them easy targets for Meila.

A force of darkspawn melee fighters broke away from the horde to come toward them across the rain-dampened ground, only to be scattered by a well-placed fireball. A handful stood back up despite scorched skin, and kept the charge. However, Marnan stepped up to meet them with axe swinging, well before they got to the ranged Wardens.

Felicity felt another rain of arrows rush past them, and reached over to touch Meila on the shoulder, giving her a burst of healing that closed up the new gash on her upper arm. The Dalish elf nodded her thanks.

Kazar grinned gleefully not far off, fire and lightning shooting from his fingertips to the point of excess. The younger mage never had had much grasp on the concept of mana conservation. However, Marnan's plan seemed to be working: the elven mage was decimating the darkspawn back line. The field was now set ablaze in several places despite the rain, and blackened darkspawn corpses littered the ground in their corner of the horde.

An enemy's lightning spell streaked through them, making Felicity yelp with both surprise and burning pain. Immediately, she pushed a healing spell through herself to repair what had been burned, then hurried around to do the same to the other three. Kazar growled and responded in kind, sending lightning of his own to the emissary who had attacked them.

Marnan killed the last of the current darkspawn wave, and raised her axe again as more broke away from the horde to head toward them. "Where in the Ancestors' name is Loghain?"

Felicity jerked her head up, realizing that the reinforcements should have been here by now, crashing into the horde from the other side. But she looked around and only saw more and more darkspawn emerging from the forest behind the horde. It seemed the darkspawn army in front of them wasn't even the entire force their enemy had!

"Marnan," Felicity hissed, pointing to where it appeared the darkspawn were getting reinforcements, rather than the king's men.

"Might of the Paragons! What is this?!"

Suddenly, a yelp sounded from next to them, and Kazar stumbled back three steps, wavering on his feet. Felicity rushed forward to help steady him, only to see, to her horror, an arrow shaft sticking out of his upper chest, just under his collarbone.

The elf's lithe finger's gingerly touched the growing red spot around the shaft. "I'm…I'm bleeding?" Kazar stuttered in shock, color draining from his face.

Felicity surged healing into him, but dared not remove the shaft. It went in deep… so deep that it may very well poke through the other side, and puncture some vital organs along the way. She couldn't heal all that… not in time to save him, not without proper bandaging. Perhaps not even then.

"Marnan!" Felicity called, holding Kazar upright as the other mage's legs buckled. She looked over her shoulder, only to see the dwarf engaged with another group of darkspawn that had broken off toward them.

Sparks fizzled feebly from Kazar's hands. "Stop that! Save your energy!" she scolded, though she wasn't sure whether he heard her, with his eyes glazing over like that.

"Come," Meila's voice spoke, and the Dalish elf moved to keep the slumping elf upright from the other side. "We must get him to safety, or he'll perish."

"Agreed," Marnan gasped, shoving the last of the darkspawn to the ground and cleaving its head in two. "We must retreat," she said grimly. "This battle is lost, and we'll just die dashing ourselves upon the stone if we don't."

Felicity cast a look over the battlefield, hoping to see Loghain's men crushing the horde, or the king's men pulling off a miraculous victory. But all she saw were more black, tainted shapes. Many of them approaching… far too many to hold off without Kazar.

"Move out!" Marnan said.

When she felt Marnan's hand push at her lower back, Felicity wrapped one of Kazar's arms around her shoulders, and Meila did the same with the other arm, and both started running through the foliage with the young elf dangling between them.

Kazar stifled a shriek behind clenched teeth as they started moving, and Felicity poured more creation magic into him, doing her best to knit up whatever internal damage that arrow shaft was causing. They needed to find safe, dry ground before she could address it properly, but this should at the least keep him going.

Theoretically, anyway.

Hearing the roaring of the battle continuing behind them, Felicity could only stumble through the underbrush with the others, hearing the grunting of pursuit behind them and hoping that Alistair and the others would at least get out of this mess alive.

Chapter Text

The clashing of steel was all around him, a symphony of pain as he dodged and ran. And the form in his arms was growing so cold and so still. Only the body's occasional whimpering gasps indicated that he was still on this side of the Veil.

He roared out his pain, using the shield still clasped in his hands to both bash through the attackers and defend that delicate, mangled form. Blades slashed into him from behind, but he only used that pain to find the strength he no longer had, to turn around and throw himself at those that sought to cut him down while protecting his new charge.

He was fury. He was vengeance. He was Rage.

And then, at last, the darkness closed in, and even that strength failed him. They closed in around him as he fell to his knees, still curling protectively over the shuddering form in his arms. He couldn't let them take another. No more.

Please, Maker. Don't take another one

And then he woke up.

Percival jerked upright with a gasp, a jolt of remembered pain lancing through him. Where was his sword? He had to fight… had to…

"Oh, do calm down, dear. You're safe enough, for the moment."

He whipped around in his seat at the voice, only to gasp as pain lanced through his back and over his shoulders. They'd slashed through his armor in places, he recalled.

He was sitting on a pallet in a small hut, sunlight filtering in through the windows on each wall. In the distance, birds chirped and frogs croaked, and the air was fresh with subtle herbal scents. The dichotomy was jarring, after the remembered frenzy of the battle; Percival had to breathe deeply to calm his stuttering heart.

Across the room, there was a bed. That was where the voice had come from, for a familiar old woman sat on the edge of it, putting together a poultice in her lap.

In the bed was a familiar elf, very drawn and very still.

"Is he…"

"Alive, for now," Flemeth said, not looking up from her work. "Though it is hard to say what his future holds. Then again, can the same not be said for anyone?"

Carefully, now mindful of the healing cuts along his back, Percival climbed to his feet. He was aware of his knees twingeing, bruises fading on the caps, but he didn't pay it any mind. He'd been stripped down to his trousers, and didn't know how he felt about this strange wild woman being the one to do so. Well, perhaps better her than Morrigan.

Percival cast his gaze around for the younger witch, but it was just the two of them in the hut.

No, three, he told himself firmly, walking carefully over to the bedside. It made his heart sink, seeing the elf like this. Since Percival had first met him, Finian had always been all smiles and motion and brightness. To see him draped in sheets, broken and still, was as good as seeing him put on a pyre.

Just like Daveth. Just like his family. "You… healed us? You? Why?"

"Might I take that as a 'thank you', young man?" The old woman's mouth tipped in a knowing smile. "No matter. In answer to your question, my reasons are my own. Suffice to say that I want the oncoming Blight to succeed no more than you do, and it would certainly be hard to ensure its failure without Grey Wardens."

"Without…" Percival's mind flitted back in time. "The battle. What happened at the battle? Why are we here, and not at Ostagar?"

The witch did not answer right away. She carefully wrapped up the poultice and pulled the sheet off the elf to place it on one splinted leg. Percival looked away, because Finian's body was black and swollen in more places than not, and that thigh-bone had definitely been broken, though at least now it was set and splinted. As Percival was looking at the hut's hearth, he realized that each breath Finian took was accompanied by a soft wheeze. Percy shuddered.

"Ostagar is lost, I'm afraid," Flemeth finally said, and Percival turned back to see her covering the elf again. "By the time I got there, you four were the only ones I could salvage. The rest of them have long since fallen to the darkspawn."

Percival's world rocked. "We… we lost? But certainly, some must have survived!"

"Oh, some certainly did. The forces of that Loghain boy, it seemed, never stepped onto the field at all." She turned and fixed Percival with that too-knowing gaze. "But as for the rest of them—the members of your order, for example—no. There were no others that Morrigan or I could find."

Percival felt it again: that emptiness opening up inside him. Duncan. Cailan. Hugo. The other Wardens. Suddenly, the hut seemed far too small, and far too quiet. He stumbled to the door and burst through it. He barely registered the door banging against the side of the hut, nor the way that made the other Warden standing outside jump.

An ever-growing list of names rattled around in his head as he staggered to the edge of the swamp. Father, Mother, Oren, Oriana, Iona, Mallol, Aldous, Nan, Ser Gilmore, Fergus Daveth Ser Jory Duncan Cailan Hugo Marnan FelicityKazarMeila so many oh Maker there are so many. And if that sight in the hut was anything to go by, Finian's name would soon join that list as well.

Percival's knees buckled, and he landed roughly in the mud, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. It was happening again. Maker, it burned. He could feel it eating him up inside. No one left… once again, no one was left. There would be no Duncan to whisk him away and give him a purpose this time. Because now Duncan was dead too.

"P…Percival?" Alistair's voice was soft and uncertain, thick with a grief that Percival knew very well. The sound of footsteps approached him ponderously.

It burst up in him then. Laughter, harsh and painful. This man… the one who had put a hand on his shoulder after the Joining and pretty much told him he was imagining things… he now knew better, didn't he?

Alistair didn't come any closer, and when Percy looked at him over his shoulder, he saw the other Warden watching him with wide, broken eyes. Suddenly, he couldn't laugh anymore, and his pit emptied of everything but that low burning rage that was his constant companion.

"I told you, didn't I?" Percy said, his voice sounding a great deal steadier than he felt. "I told you. Everyone I know dies. Stay away from me, or you'll be next."

"Percival…" Like he was biting back tears.

How dare he… Percival felt the rage coiling up inside him, wrapping around his heart. "Don't you look at me like that. Like I'm your last connection to what you lost." He stumbled to his feet, whirling on the other Warden. Alistair took a startled step back, but stayed silent. "Don't you get it? They're dead. They're all dead, and you might as well lie down and die too, because you're going to follow them. Just like the rest of them. Just like everyone!"

There were tears in Percy's eyes now… a surprise, since he hadn't been able to dredge up enough feeling for tears for weeks. It was all fresh again… the pain of seeing his father, lying on the floor in his mother's arms. Of Oren's cut-up body. Mother Mallol, friend and spiritual guide, pinned to the pulpit with a sword through her chest. Now the older images were mixed with new ones of cheerful, amiable Daveth, dead and cold on the ground of Ostagar. Of Duncan, bidding them a safe battle as they started across the bridge toward the Tower of Ishal. Of Hugo, curled up in the kennel, trying to sleep off an illness that destroyed everything it touched. Of Finian lying so still, that wheezy little sound coming through his lips.

Everyone he cared for died. Every single one.

He spun away from Alistair, because he couldn't bear to look into those broken eyes anymore—such a mirror to his own now. Rage whirled through him, and raised his head to the clear spring sky and roared out his fury.

"IS THIS ALL PART OF YOUR PLAN?! Shall I befriend the archdemon too? Make nice with him? Then will you strike him down too?!" He threw out his hands, beseeching the Maker. "Or is this some sort of punishment?! Killing others to account for my sins; how is that fair?! Whatever happened to 'Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart'?! Or was Andraste just full of SHITE?!"

Alistair was still standing behind him, far too silent and still looking at him like that. Percival spun back on the other man again, advancing a step with a canine snarl. "You should have died with them. We should have died with them." He took another step, and the other man took a shaky step back. "Doesn't it just burn, knowing that they gave their lives for you, and you're not the least bit worthy of it?" He advanced more quickly, feeling around his person for a sword… a dagger… anything. "That there is nothing you could ever do to make up for that sacrifice?" He growled again, shoving Alistair up against the wall of the hut, and the other Warden was still just looking at him. "You want me to end it for you, Alistair? The pain? Because it doesn't go away. It never. Goes. Away."

"Or for the love of…" a new voice rumbled, and Percy was suddenly yanked off Alistair by someone gripping his ponytail, snapping his head back.

He growled ferally, his world going red, and he whirled on the attacker with a punch. Garott caught the flying fist with his free hand and twisted it. Percival felt the pain as the maneuver strained his shoulder, but he didn't care. He needed to hurt something, because there was so much pain inside him that it could only overflow… if not at Alistair, fine. Garott, then.

Percival kicked out, his bare foot catching the dwarf across the recently reset nose. Garott responded in kind by biting the leg—the dwarf was no stranger to dirty fighting, apparently. Again, Percival felt the pain, but it only added to his compulsion to make someone hurt. He grabbed Garott's throat and squeezed, and the dwarf's jaws loosened enough for him to pull his leg out.

Garott grabbed his arms with both hands, yanking him forward so that they were eye level, Percival snarling into a pair of brown eyes that looked… miffed?

Then, Garott swiftly drew back one hand and delivered an open-palmed slap across Percival's face that sent the noble reeling. His head ringing, he stumbled a step to the side before losing his balance and falling, his rage suddenly fleeing him as his head spun.

For a minute, he lay face-down in the mud, catching his breath and realizing what he'd just been trying to do. "Oh mercy… oh Maker, what have I done?"

"Nothing, yet." Garott bent over him, studying him with a flat expression. "Better now?"

"I…" He swallowed, and shame washed over him. "I was trying to kill you."

"Yeah?" Garott arched an eyebrow. "Not doing a very good job then, were ya?"

Percival turned his face into the dirt, ashamed. Oh Maker, what had come over him? He'd been a bit… off lately, sure. But to try to kill an ally? One of the few allies he had left?

The dwarf nudged his bare back pointedly with one leather boot, then started walking away. "Get over it."

Percival raised his head, watching the dwarf sit down in the shadow of the hut and resume sharpening his weapons. Apparently, he'd been sitting there doing so during Percy's entire scene.

Percival's hands clenched in the dirt, and he felt that awful, destructive anger flicker, still inside him. "It is not that easy."

Garott swiped his hand-axe across his whetstone, dark eyes looking up to meet Percival's. "Didn't say it was."

Slowly, Percival nodded, then lay back down in the dirt, because he didn't trust himself to do anything else.

Chapter Text

Something heavy landed on the ground nearby, and a Dalish accent said, "This was all I could find."

Kazar opened his eyes. He tried to turn his head at the sound of the voice, but doing so sent a fresh wave of agony from the vicinity of his collarbone.

"Don't move," Felicity's voice said wearily above him. She sounded tired, and frustrated. Then, her voice rose. "Thank you, Meila. Were you able to find anything in the mage camp?"

"I could not get that far in."

"So it's completely overrun, then." So Marnan was nearby too. She also sounded tired. And sad.

Kazar squinted, the world swimming in and out of focus. There was something green and splotchy above him. A tree. And beyond that, the bright, sunny sky. Hadn't it been raining? It felt like it had been raining… he was cold enough for it.

"What… about the Tower of Ishal, Meila?" Marnan's voice continued. She was somewhere to his right, but he couldn't see her, because it hurt to turn his head. All he could see was the stupid tree above him.

"I attempted to scout it, but it, too, was overrun. It is impossible to say whether the other Wardens would have gotten out in time."

"They had to have," Marnan said tightly, though it was obvious she didn't believe that any more than Kazar did.

His head was clearing a bit now, even if his eyes couldn't seem to focus right. They'd been in a battle, he remembered, and he'd been shot. Then they'd dragged him through the woods and… he couldn't really say what had happened after that. He remembered a lot of Felicity telling him to do things, and the burning pain of someone taking the arrow out of him… but everything else was pretty vague.

A dark form appeared in his field of vision. Ah, there she was now… his over-bearing know-it-all of a savior. Her hands were all gentle and caring for now, but he had no doubt that she'd turn stiff and self-righteous again the moment he did something she disapproved of.

There was the soft pop of a cork being removed, and then Felicity's hand spread something wet across his forehead. Something that swiftly began to feel like ice, seeping through his skin and into his veins.

"W-what's the id-dea?!" he stuttered hoarsely, every word stretching that arrow wound. He shivered in earnest now. "That's-s-s fucking c-cold!"

"Kazar! Language!" Yep, there it was. Like an annoying, bossy older sister.

"He's awake?" The red hair of the dwarf warrior appeared in Kazar's vision on the side opposite from Felicity. He squinted, but couldn't seem to make out her face.

His chattering teeth jarred the arrow wound, and he clamped both jaw and eyes shut with a groan. Ice coursed through him.

"I'm sorry if it's uncomfortable, Kazar," Felicity said, not sounding very sorry at all. "But I need to lower your fever, and the only means I have of doing so at the moment is warmth balm."

"I ha-a-ave a f-f-fever?"

Someone gently tucked covers tightly around his torso, though he couldn't say who, since his eyes were still closed.

"For nearly two days."

"How are you feeling?" Marnan asked.

"C-cold."

Felicity sighed. "Meila, have you had any luck finding help?"

"There are no settlements within a distance that we can reasonably carry him," said the Dalish.

There was a moment of silence, then Felicity reluctantly said, "Perhaps we should track down those apostates after all, then. I'd hate for my own concerns to endanger anyone's life."

"I have already attempted to do so."

"You… what?! But I said I didn't want you seeking them out!"

"And since when do you have the right to command me, shemlen?"

Kazar chuckled, opening his eyes and craning his head around just so he could see the glares they were giving one another. It hurt, but it was worth it. So much for them being the only ones who could tolerate one another.

"It doesn't matter," Marnan interrupted tiredly. "The end is the same, Felicity, is it not?"

Felicity harrumphed, but capitulated. "I suppose."

"However," Meila continued, "I'm afraid that I was unable to locate them, based on the instructions. Perhaps if you could be more specific, durgen'len?"

Marnan laid her head in her hands. "I cannot. These surface forests… the navigation of them is so unfamiliar to me, with no specific pathways or separate chambers. Without a guide, I get confused. I am sorry."

Meila nodded. "This is understandable. These mages are obviously quite skilled at hiding. I've found very little evidence of their presence here, and certainly nothing I can track. I do not doubt that this 'Morrigan' led you about in circles while guiding you, merely so that you would have difficulty retracing the path later."

Kazar squinted over at the other elf, and the question came out of him, unbidden. "Is that s-something D-dalish do?"

Meila looked at him coolly, but nonetheless nodded. "On occasions when we have reason to accept a stranger into our camp, yes."

"Oh." A particularly harsh shudder jerked through him, jarring his wound. He closed his eyes again against the ensuing flash of pain. "F-fuck."

There was a minute of silence while Kazar just shivered. Then…

"I… I am so sorry, Kazar," Marnan suddenly said harshly. "All of you. This is all my fault."

"What?" That was Felicity. "Marnan, no. We've been over this."

"And I stand by my apology. It was my idea to try to flank. I agreed with Duncan to let the front lines face a potential Blight horde. The guilt for this fiasco is mine."

"Marnan, that's not true!" Felicity cried.

"It seems to me," Meila put in, "that the greatest guilt here belongs to the man who did not answer the beacon as we did. If we are to be angry with anyone, let it be him."

"Now that," said a new voice, and all three women around him jumped, "is the most sensible thing any of you has said all day."

Meila's bow was out and drawn in a flash, an arrow aimed into the trees toward the voice. "Who goes there? Show yourself."

"Meila, be at ease," Marnan said. "That… is Morrigan."

"'Tis true," the witch said, stepping out of the shadow of a gnarled tree, "I am certainly myself. And you, it seems, are lucky to be alive."

Kazar squinted, having difficulty focusing. Felicity was still huddled over him, even while Marnan and Meila stepped forward to greet the new arrival. The witch looked exactly as wild and exactly as shirtless as she had been last time Kazar had seen her. Judging by the pink in the splotchy blur that was all he could make out, anyway.

"How long have you been watching us?" Meila said stonily.

"Touchy, are you? Worried that your infamous 'Dalish survival skills' are failing you? How very quaint. Did you not recently say that I was 'obviously quite skilled at hiding'?"

"Apparently, a while," Marnan said wryly to Meila. Then, she addressed Morrigan. "Then you know of our plight?"

"Yes, I am aware of the… state of your fellow Warden." At that, Kazar saw her cast a glance in his direction. He couldn't read her facial expression with how his vision swam, but her voice sounded… unconcerned. That wasn't good.

After a moment of silence, Marnan pressed, "Might you be able to help us?"

"Perhaps. But why would I want to help you?"

"What?"

"You come into my woods twice now, always asking and never offering. You ask me to take this creature in for healing, yet you offer nothing in return."

"What would you ask?" the dwarf said. "Wealth? Power?"

"Oh, but that is a question…" The woman began circling around the camp, eyeing them each in turn like a prowling cat. "What could I, a mage of some not insignificant skill, possibly want from you, four—and, let's be honest, soon to be three—Grey Wardens wandering lost in the woods, with no order behind them and nothing of their own but ashes and rubble? What might I want from you? Why, the answer is simple then, is it not? I want nothing."

Marnan's voice was confused. "Then you will help us after all?"

"No…" Kazar said hoarsely. "Sh-she's leaving m-me here to die."

"You make it sound needlessly malevolent," the witch said. "I am merely leaving you as I found you. That I announced my presence at all is merely a matter of chance on your part."

Marnan's axe came off her back. "You could truly be that cruel?"

"'Cruel' is a matter of opinion. Is it cruel for the wolf to strike at the weakest member of the herd, if it means feeding its young? Is it cruel for the spider to spin its web across the most likely path of the fly, when it would starve otherwise?"

"No," Marnan said sternly, "but it is wrong to leave a child to die when you are perfectly capable of doing something about it."

Kazar squeaked a protest. Child?!

The witch began to speak again, but Felicity's voice interrupted her.

"Perhaps… there is something we can offer you… Morrigan, right?" A wary nod. "You're an apostate, correct? A mage trained outside the Tower?"

"If this precedes some sort of threat, mage, I will not be taken in by it."

"Not… a threat. A trade."

There was a moment of silence. "I'm listening."

"Kazar and I were Tower trained. Between us, we possess a wealth of knowledge that you may not have been privy to during your upbringing out here. Uses of healing, primal magic, spirit magic… would it not be beneficial to supplement your current repertoire with somewhat more… standardized knowledge? If only to get a fuller range of magical skills?"

The witch thought that over. "And you offer to… teach me these Tower-taught skills? The pithy spells that your Chantry approves of? You really think that a fair trade?"

"Knowledge," Felicity said, quite firmly, "is always a fair trade, because only by having it can you ensure that it is never used against you."

The witch hummed thoughtfully. Then, quite suddenly, she said, "Very well."

"You'll help us?" Felicity squealed with excitement.

"Provided you hold up your end of the bargain… yes. I will show you and your companions back to my mother. She will be able to care for your companion there."

"Thank you, Morrigan," Marnan said dutifully.

"Gratitude is hardly necessary." The woman turned and started off into the woods. "'Tis a trade, after all."

Kazar found himself being shifted from the bedroll he was on onto a makeshift litter made of reeds and wolf skin. Ah, the usefulness of having a Dalish elf in the party. The transfer hurt, but he was just too tired, cold, and miserable to curse anyone out for it. Then, the litter was borne up, and he watched the tree canopies pass above him. Above that, solid and bright, was the clear spring sky.

Chapter Text

It took two days for the elf to wake up.

When he did, Garott heard him hoarsely ask for water. Then, once given a sip, he slipped away again.

It took another day of the elf wavering in and out before he showed any sort of coherence. And when he did, the blond wreck spent a good half hour weeping into his lap. The elf, of course, spent the entire time patting his back and whispering soothing words, and that was really only encouraging the man's wallowing, as far as Garott was concerned.

But what did he know? He was just some dumb duster, after all.

The ex-Templar wasn't handling things much better, to be honest. He wasn't screaming at the clouds or trying to kick the crap out of his companions, but he had grown overly morose. Apparently, his defense mechanism—his sense of humor—had completely broken down under the weight of his personal tragedy.

Pfft. Please.

Garott was hardly heartless, mind. He wasn't particularly happy that the boss was dead; of course not. And he'd miss some of the more entertaining Wardens, like Emmit and Kazar. But you just had to adjust to their absence and move on with your life.

He didn't understand why the topsiders didn't get that.

He chopped dexterously at the gourd now, feeling his frustration pique just at the thought of it all. They had a sodding job to do. It didn't matter that his boss was dead (again)… when Garott Brosca was given a job, he finished it. And his companions—the only other Grey Wardens within any reasonable distance—were starting to become a distraction. Not the entertaining kind, either.

He glanced over his shoulder at them now. He was stationed in the hut's kitchen area, preparing dinner from what he could with the witches' strange stock. After living with humans for a month, Garott was under the impression that these herbs and cuts of meat were strange, even by surface standards.

Still, one couldn't go wrong with some old-fashioned roasted meat and vegetables. Thus, the gourd. And it was better than letting Percival try to cook, or—Ancestors forbid—Alistair.

He shuddered at the memory of that one time they'd let the ex-Templar cook dinner at Ostagar. No one would ever make that mistake again.

The rest of the Wardens were in the hut's bedroom area. Finian was, of course, still bedridden—although Flemeth indicated that he should be up and about in only a couple more days. The broken leg would likely not stand up to extended travel for another week or so, but that was still damn impressive as far as Garott was concerned. He'd once seen a woman get her arm broken by an angry client. It had been swollen and useless for over a month afterward. Of course, she'd then died of whatever sickness the client had given her, but that wasn't the point.

Finian seemed to be teaching Percival some sort of card game. It looked like a gamblers' game to Garott—the kind Beraht used to rig. And it seemed it worked the same way up here on the surface—every time coin changed hands between the two, it always passed from human to elf. The sneaky rascal was cheating, no doubt about that. Still, they both seemed to be having fun. Garott even saw the blond wretch crack a smile or two.

Percival had been relatively docile since his breakdown a couple days earlier. He seemed to have better control of himself, anyway, though there was still the potential for something nasty. Garott had resolved to keep an eye on him. If there was one thing they didn't need at this point, it was to have one of them cut down by the sword of their own comrade.

Alistair sat on the other pallet, watching Garott, of all things. Apparently just because he could. It made the dwarf sigh. Like he'd said… all this wallowing was distracting.

Flemeth puttered around the kitchen near Garott, mixing some sort of potion together out of various herbs and roots. He never bothered to ask her what she was up to… as something of a tinkerer himself, he found the greatest satisfaction in being able to work uninterrupted during the building process, thus saving all the payoff for when the item in question performed the way it was intended. This was the case whether it was a claw trap concocted out of old bits of armor, or an acid flask rigged to burst explosively when one threw it at an ogre. He assumed it was the same case for potions.

Morrigan had been in and out in the last few days, but she rarely did more than offer cool remarks or be deliberately provocative—in multiple meanings of the word. That morning, she'd quite deliberately trailed a hand up Percival's arm while asking insincerely about his fading injuries. After she'd left for her daily woodsy wandering, Percival had set to brooding something fierce. Finian had then pointed out that she was likely just uncomfortable with the strangers in her home and was trying to take control of the situation. After a bit of thought, Garott had to admit that the elf was probably right. Finian was one manipulative son of a nug, but that certainly gave him a good eye for motivation.

Sometimes, Garott wondered what the elf saw when he looked at him.

The hut door opened, and there was the witch now. "Mother, I'm home. And it seems I've been followed by a handful of strays."

"Welcome back, dear. Do be a good hostess and let them in."

Garott glanced back curiously, only to nearly drop the kitchen knife as a familiar dark-haired head poked through the door.

"Felicity!" Percival was the first to react, leaping up and crossing the room in two long strides. He swooped down on the mage and wrapped her in a hug that was part enthusiasm and part relief.

"P…Percival?"

Alistair was equally dumb-founded. "You're… you're alive?" Finian just smiled broadly and waved from his bed.

"Great," Garott grumbled, though he couldn't bite back his own smile at seeing the mage alive, obnoxious though she was. She'd healed his ass once or twice, after all. "Now I gotta cut up more of these damned gourds."

"You're… you're all here?" Felicity's smile grew as she extracted herself from Percival's embrace. "Alive? Oh, wonderful!" She turned and shouted through the door. "Guys! Alistair and the others made it!"

Percival hurriedly opened the door, and Meila's tattooed head poked in, scanning the room. Meanwhile, Flemeth shooed Alistair off the pallet and began smoothing it out.

"Lay him over here, dears."

"One might think, Mother," Morrigan said acidly, crossing her arms under her bosom, "that you were expecting me to bring company."

"Of course not, dear. Your will is your own, after all." That sly smile said entirely differently, and that made Garott chuckle.

Meila moved into the room, a litter behind her, borne on the other end by Marnan (aw, son of a nug. Her too?) Slung between them was Kazar, looking weak and pale, and rather miffed at life in general.

Garott laughed. "What is it with elves being so damned delicate?" At Meila's sharp look, he amended, "Well, elf men anyway."

Finian, of course, had a smile and a retort for that. "It's because we're so handsome. The Maker felt the need to compensate somehow." This earned a snort from Kazar.

The girls laid the mage on the pallet, and Flemeth retrieved some of her fresh brew and ladled it into a bowl. This, she brought over to Kazar. While she coaxed the elf to drink, Garott turned and started digging through the cooking supplies. They genuinely did need more food, if all of them wanted to have dinner.

Really, Flemeth could have warned him, at least.

"Oh, Fin!" Garott heard Felicity cry. "What happened?"

"He decided to take a ride an ogre, that's what," Alistair said. Ah, so there was a bit of that humor again, though a bit more melancholy in tone than usual.

"Not recommended," Finian said lightly.

Marnan chuckled. "Well, I could have told you that. Going for the eyes, I take it?"

"I dual-wield daggers. It was pretty much the only target I had available."

"I gotta say, funniest thing I've ever seen," Garott put in, chuckling at the memory. He glanced back, noticing that the others had settled down into various positions around the hut. Morrigan, meanwhile, was sulking in a corner, glaring coldly. Yep, elf had a point about her. "The look on the ogre's face, when the elf just jumped up and latched on… like 'what the Stone is this little thing, and why is it stabbing my face?' Priceless."

"And then," Finian said sheepishly, "it decided to use me for sackball practice. I was kind of tempting fate, on that one."

"Still," Percival put in, "we couldn't have beat it without you."

He could feel the shock run through the new arrivals at the sound of Percival's voice. Garott just shrugged and started preparing the spit for the meat. He was now used to the advent of the man talking. They'd get used to it, too. Assuming the guy kept talking.

"It's true," Alistair said. "If you hadn't blinded it, Percival and me would have just kept smacking at it until it got smart enough to just try to attack one of us at once." He paused. "Lucky for us, ogres have very short attention spans." That drew some chuckles, though it was more the relieved kind of chuckling than the humor-elicited kind.

"How about you, Kazar?" Finian asked. "What happened?"

"What does it look like?" the mage said crossly. "I got shot."

"Loghain quit the field," Marnan said, and the whole room darkened at the reminder. "We were left with a horde of angry darkspawn and an incapacitated mage. So… we retreated."

Morrigan chuckled. "Is that another way of saying you ran away like little schoolgirls?"

"Wisest decision I've ever heard you make, princess," Garott countered.

"Honored to have your approval, brand," she shot back.

"Whoa, whoa!" Alistair broke in, looking between the two dwarves. "Can we not… do this right now? Please?"

Marnan sighed. "You're right. I apologize." She met Garott's eyes with determination. "Garott Brosca, if you'll have it, I would like to declare a truce between us. At least until certain more pressing matters are dealt with."

Garott snorted. Leave it to the princess to make a big to-do about not biting one another's heads off. Still… he agreed with the sentiment. It made a lot more sense than the topsiders he'd been coping with recently. Maybe the dwarves did have something in common. "I'm game if you are… Marnan."

Judging by the look in her eye, she was very aware of the lack of surname, and not a little surprised by it. He just smirked and turned back to his cooking.

"I, too, would like to… what was it? Declare a truce?" Felicity said. She turned pointedly toward Kazar, who was squinting up at her with narrowed eyes. "Kazar, I… apologize for what happened at the Tower. It was none of my business, and I never would have wished… what almost happened… upon you." That piqued Garott's curiosity… there were lots of things left unsaid in that sentence. "I do not expect you to forgive me, or even like me. But I would like it if we could work together, as colleagues, and mutually endeavor to stop the Blight."

Kazar looked at her suspiciously for a minute from the pallet. Then, he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." Still, even a lukewarm response was a win, with him. And judging by the smile on Felicity's face, she knew it.

"I, too, would like to apologize, if we're airing things," Percival said, and all eyes turned to him. The blond man had taken up a position by one window, leaning back against the sill. When he spoke, it was in a soft, cultured tone… with none of the growls and clipped tones that Garott had assumed were customary for him. Percival's gaze flitted from Warden to Warden. "These past weeks, I've been… rather indisposed. Truth be told, some fairly painful events unfolded shortly before Duncan recruited me. I'm still not ready to speak of it… I don't know that I ever will be…" He drifted off for a moment, but then shook his head to clear it. "The point is, I've said some things I regret, and done some things I'm not proud of." At that one, Garott was included in the gaze. The duster shrugged it off. "I haven't been able to put my heart into the fight, and for that I apologize."

"In that case," Marnan said with a diplomatic smile, "we are glad to have you join us at last. It is nice to meet you, Percival."

He smiled. It was thin and still had some of that pain in it, but Garott definitely found it much more tolerable than any of his other expressions. "My friends call me Percy." He then did a strange hesitation, his mouth opening and shutting once. Then, he took a deep breath and swept a courtly bow, "Percy Cousland. A pleasure to meet you all."

Felicity gasped, eyes going wide and hand going over her mouth. Alistair, who had been tipping back on a stool, suddenly fell backwards with a crash. Finian hid sniggers behind his hand.

Everyone else, including Garott, looked around, confused by the reactions.

"Cousland?" Felicity sputtered. "As in Teyrn Cousland?" For some reason, the blond man winced.

Aaaah, a noble. That might explain it. Well, well; it seemed the princess wasn't in solitary company.

Finian smiled at Percival, though there was something sad in his eyes. "You know, Daveth once told me that from the moment he met you, he knew you were a noble. He called it a 'quality'."

"Did he?" Percival matched the elf's expression.

"Yeah." Finian sat back on the pillows, sighing wistfully. "I never did get him to teach me how to sense it. It would have come in handy."

"Mm. You'll have to detect nobles the old fashioned way, then."

"How's that? Look for the upturned nose and contemptuous smirk?"

"No. Walk up and ask a man the time of day. If he then kidnaps your cousin for your impertinence, he's a noble."

Finian fell back against the covers and roared with laughter. Garott sensed a story there, but it was obvious no one else was privy to it. Everyone was still too dumbfounded with the revelation that Percival had just told a joke—more than the fact that he was a nobleman, even.

Garott smiled and set the meat to cooking over the fire. Percival, it seemed, wasn't going to be too much of a burden after all. Now, they just had to worry about Alistair.

Speaking of whom… "Well, this is all quite touching, isn't it?" The man carefully picked himself up again after his tumble. "While we're at it, does anyone else want to submit any apologies? Say, for being a little bit difficult?"

"Why do you look at me as you say that, shemlen?"

"And don't you dare turn that look on me, Templar."

A sigh. "Right, never mind. Moment over, I guess."

Garott wasn't the only one to chuckle.

Chapter Text

Meila was not nervous.

Two days ago, they'd come upon a packed road. It was heavy with foot traffic, wagons, and pack animals. Such groups passed theirs once every couple hours, laden with children, the elderly, and all the earthly possessions some of the travelers seemed to have. All the while, the party passed farms and homesteads, every one of them abandoned. Lothering was the apparent destination of all these humans, just as it was for the Wardens.

Lothering. A shemlen settlement made of stone and wood. Stationary. Brimming with the people who had enslaved hers for a thousand years. And she would face it with shemlen, two durgen'len, and a couple of flat-ears.

She was most certainly, most definitively, most obstinately not nervous.

The Wardens had been traveling for over a week now, when the journey should have taken only a couple days. However, Finian had been unable to walk for most of that time, and Kazar was still getting his stamina back after his illness. Or perhaps the mage had never been particularly hardy to begin with; Meila really couldn't say.

Now, at the least, Finian was capable of walking (instead of alternating between hitching rides on the backs of Percival or Alistair), albeit not very fast and only with the aid of a walking stick. Morrigan had been most cross about the elf using her magic staff to help him walk, but he had nonetheless somehow gleaned her permission out of her, as was his knack.

Meila was beginning to pick up on little things like that, after having spent time with these outsiders. It came as a surprise to her at first—though she now knew it shouldn't have—to find that each of her companions was just as prone to subtle differences and idiosyncrasies as any Dalish elf.

Felicity Amell, for example, had a heavy book in her bag. Meila had not initially understood the mage's compulsion to carry such a thing around, as it was heavy and the bearing of it obviously exhausted her. Then, after their flight from Ostagar, Meila had watched as the healer spent a frazzled day caring after the injured flat-ear. That night, the healer had pulled out the book and started reading it and writing in it. Meila had watched as the human had settled right back down, obviously soothed by the process.

Felicity was a Keeper, or as close to one as the shemlen could come. She kept the knowledge of her people, and was constantly seeking to expand it. This was something the other Wardens obviously did not understand, with how they teased her about 'bedtime stories' and 'diaries'… but Meila understood. Meila found it… respectable. A strange thought, concerning a human, but humans, as a whole, were strange.

Like Alistair. All the time Meila had been in Ostagar, Alistair had been the one to try to take control, telling her to stay in camp and whatnot. But only now, as she watched the way he deferred to others, did she realize how very reluctant he had been to perform such a task. He was the most senior of their numbers, but seniority held no importance, for him.

It was all very strange. And yet, it was these various oddities that made it easier for Meila to see the people underneath each face. Perhaps she had judged too harshly, initially.

Even if their people had enslaved hers for a thousand years.

Since stepping out on the packed road, Meila had given up her position at the front of the group to Marnan. The huntress much preferred to walk parallel to them off the road (she just preferred the feel of turf under her feet over packed dirt). As such, when they stopped moving, she could not tell why right away.

Only by peeking out of the trees did she see the cluster of figures up ahead, in front of what appeared to be overturned wagons sprawled across the road.

"Uh-oh." Alistair could be heard whispering as a trio of figures stepped forward to meet them. "Highwaymen. Preying on refugees, I'd bet."

Meila slipped back to the treeline, unslinging her bow. When she saw Garott slip away, she hoped it was to do the same.

"Ho, there travelers!" the cheerful human in front called. Meila was all too aware of other humans approaching them stealthily through the trees, and she slid between a pair of twin trunks so as not to be detected. "So good to see new faces! And led by a dwarf, of all things!"

"I am hardly a thing, ser," Marnan said, openly putting her hand on her axe handle.

"Uh…" the human on the right said. "They don't look much like them others. Maybe we should just let these ones pass."

"Nonsense!" the leader cried, cheerfully turning to Marnan. "Wonderful day, is it not? A simple ten silvers, and you're free to move on and enjoy it."

"Or we could roast you on a spit for free," grumbled Kazar.

"No, no need for any of that," Finian said, limping his way up through the other Wardens so that he stood next to Marnan. He made an unimpressive figure, wearing that friendly smile and leaning heavily on the twisted piece of wood Morrigan used as a staff. "I'm sure we can come to a peaceful agreement, here."

"Ah, yes, see?" the highwayman leader crowed. "What a smart elf you have here, indeed!"

"It's a pretty nice set-up you have going here…" Finian continued, waving at the overturned carts. "The carts blocking most of the road are a nice touch… though a little obvious."

"Well, we certainly appreciate the compliments! You have a bit of experience with such things?"

Finian chuckled. "Oh, you might say so, and not usually from this side." He winked conspiringly and lowered his voice as if to impart a great secret. "As your friend noticed, we're not refugees."

"Well, even non-refugees have to pay the toll…"

"All in good time, my friend!" Fin hobbled forward and put a hand to the highwayman's back, leading him back toward the broken carts. "But the thing is, I notice some things about your operation that you could do a bit better on. First of all… ten silvers is way too low for marks as obviously capable as us."

"Maker's breath," Alistair could be heard whispering as they moved to follow. Meila silently paralleled them, flitting from hiding spot to hiding spot. "He's not bartering them up, is he?"

"Just let the elf do his thing," Percy whispered back.

"Well, I can hardly set the cost any higher," the highwayman said. "Refugees don't tend to have much more than that. To ask more would provoke them to fight, and we don't really need the pointless bloodshed."

"True, true, but that's not the point," Finian said breezily. "You didn't evaluate your mark. You should have scouts out ahead of the ambush point, to let you know about unusual circumstances. Case in point, you haven't even noticed that two of my men have disappeared."

"Wait, what's that?" the highwayman turned to peer back at the group.

"Uh… yeah…" said the second highwayman. "Weren't there another dwarf, or something with them?"

"Good eye!" Fin crowed, slapping said highwayman on the back. "This one's a keeper, good ser!"

"If you had more men, where…"

"Oh, they're around. It… probably won't be important." Finian grinned toothily, but even Meila could detect the threat in the cheerful words. She kept still among the trees. She could hear one of the bandits hiding near her whisper to another one. They were close by indeed.

"Now," Finian continued, after allowing just enough time for that to sink in, "were this my ambush, I'd put archers behind the carts, and maybe even get a mage, for if the marks get frisky. Though those get expensive, and be careful of the blood mages. Oh man, does that get messy." Finian stepped back from the highwaymen and let out a wistful sigh that, had Meila not known better, she would have sworn was genuine. "Ah, I miss it sometimes. Not the blood mages, of course. But the thrill of the trap! The comradery of the gang! And, of course, the weight of the sovereigns in one's pocket! Though…" he looked around thoughtfully. "…I don't suppose you get much coin out here."

"Alas, no." The highwayman also sighed. "At least the picking's easy."

"Well, as easy as picking off the living gets, anyway."

The highwayman's curiosity was piqued. "What do you mean by that, friend?"

Finian laughed, waving at the team behind him. "Where do you think we just got all our nice things? The dead! Ostagar, man!"

"Uh…" said the second. "We heard that's full of darkspawn."

"If it's full of darkspawn, how did we get all this stuff, hm?" Finian winked. "We certainly didn't walk up and ask nicely. No, there's an entire ruin down there, full of abandoned army camps. The king himself left some stuff down there, not to mention several noble houses, and you're here picking off refugees? Heh, good luck with that."

"Will… erm… will you excuse me for a moment?" The highwayman turned and conversed quietly with his two companions, and Meila felt the men in the trees near her shifting nervously. The Wardens, meanwhile, all stayed silent, seemingly reluctant to break the spell. Meila looked over them from her position. Most seemed to be staring at Finian in shock, though she noted that Percival merely had the look of someone who was waiting for something.

She had noted that the shemlen noble and the flat-ear had something of a comradery between them that went a bit further than most of the others', possibly crafted before Duncan had brought them to Ostagar. The fact that a human could be so casually friendly with an elf intrigued her… though it was obvious to her that the human did not regard them as equals, even if he himself wasn't aware of it. And she wondered whether the elf didn't perhaps think of them as more than mere comrades… but she was certainly imagining that.

Then, the highwayman turned back around, and his two fellows ran back to the carts to start gathering everything.

"Well, now, friend! You've given me much to think about! And Ostagar's just down the way, you say? Why, I do grow a bit bored of this old trick myself. Perhaps a change of scenery would do the men some good, eh? Get the blood flowing?"

"That's the spirit," Finian agreed enthusiastically. "Oh, and of course. Your ten silvers."

Finian flipped a coin through the air between them, which confused Meila. Had he not been doing this in the first place to avoid that very thing?

"Much obliged, friend!" With that, the highwaymen started off, loading up one of the carts and heading south. Meila waited in perfect stillness as shadows moved around her, the potential ambushers now following their leader southward.

The Wardens all stayed still and silent while the highwaymen passed. Then, only when they were safely out of earshot, did the beaver dam break.

"That was… what was that?!" Alistair sputtered.

"I don't get it," Kazar said. "What was with the ruse, if you just paid him in the end anyway?"

Finian grinned, holding up two heavy purses he hadn't had a moment before. "What, you think I paid with my own money?"

Marnan, however, regarded Finian grimly. "You realize, do you not, that you just sent those men to their own deaths?"

Finian's grin faded. "Yeah… I do." He paused while he tied the purses onto his belt. "The way I figure it, their deaths would have been just as certain if we'd fought them. Now, it's their choice. In the end, they're willing to risk the danger for a little loot… I just nudged them in the direction."

"By lying to them."

Finian shrugged. "I was also pretending to be another highwayman. Only an idiot trusts a highwayman."

"And a pickpocket, apparently," Marnan said. Then, she walked purposefully past Finian, done acknowledging him. The look on Finian's face was… crestfallen.

As they started forward, once again heading toward town, Morrigan said disdainfully, "I fail to see why we did not simply kill them." Meila left the trees as the road rose up on an old Tevinter stone highway. She followed some steps behind the rest of the group as they traveled.

"No… killing," Percival muttered. "No more than necessary. There's been enough of that already."

"Why? Have you not the stomach for it?"

"Why must you make not wanting to go on a murderous rampage sound like a weakness?" Percival hissed darkly.

"My, my, but that did come to mind quickly despite the fact I never mentioned any such thing. Your quick protestation doth give thee away."

Meila heard it all from outside the fray, as she usually did. It was keeping her vision clearer, perhaps, than that of her companions, to be afforded the outsider's perspective.

Then again, there was perhaps something to be said about always being the one looking in. It grew wearying, sometimes, keeping up her stoic defenses against her companions' encroachments. She had to remain pure… to maintain her independence from the quicklings' matters, so that she would never be forced into a position where she must rely on them for anything. Becoming dependant on an outsider was as good as submission, and submission was a betrayal of the Dalish.

Still… it grew tiring, keeping her mental bowstring constantly pulled so taut.

After some minutes of walking, the trees thinned and gave way to campsites. These were not the robust, homestead campsites of the Dalish, nor the tidy, functional camps of the Ostagar armies. These camps were scattered and disorganized, and heaped with crates and knickknacks in equal measure.

Beyond these camps, down the road and behind a low wall, was a village. Or at least, Meila supposed it must be a village. The squat, stone structures were similar enough to the various ruins she'd seen, including Ostagar. However, these weren't inhabited by undead or human armies, but by shemlen civilians. And so many shemlen civilians. The place was swarming with them.

Meila stopped at the crest where the road turned downwards and wound through the campsites. Something about the sight of the town unsettled her, and it took her a moment to realize what it was: there were children here. This was no army camp, full of human fighters like those who had Marched upon her people. These were the innocent, and the frail, and the frightened fleeing their homes as best they could when their homes could not flee with them.

They would see her for what she was, and hate her or fear her… and she could not rightfully take up arms against them. Not against civilians. It left her at a loss for how to face these people. It was a sensation she did not appreciate.

"Well," Alistair's voice said up ahead, "here we are. Lothering."

"It's like someone poked up a nest of spiders," Garott observed. "They're everywhere, aren't they?"

"Look at all these refugees," Felicity said. "They can't think this is a safe place to stop…?"

"We're planning on stopping here," Kazar pointed out flatly.

"Yes, but we have big swords and the ability to sense darkspawn creeping around," Alistair replied. "They don't quite have the same luxury."

"And we wouldn't be stopping," Marnan said, "if we didn't need someplace stable for you and Finian to finish healing."

"I'm fine," the mage snapped.

"I, however," Finian said softly, "would appreciate the rest." He was still eyeing Marnan apprehensively, and she was still not acknowledging his presence.

"We'll need to figure out what we're going to do before proceeding anyway," Felicity said. "After all, stopping the Blight will certainly not be as simple as walking up to the archdemon and stabbing him in the eye. The chance to study our resources and plan accordingly would not go amiss."

"You're talking about the treaties?" Garott asked.

"In part. Like I said, this is the sort of thing that requires consideration of all possible goals and the most efficient routes to said goals."

"By the Void," Kazar groaned. "You're going to make this into a blasted homework assignment, aren't you? I thought I left that behind when I was recruited into an order designed to kill the living crap out of things."

"Think of it as a learning experience," Alistair said cheekily, obviously enjoying Kazar's unhappiness.

"I don't want to learn! I want to set things on fire! That requires no additional learning!"

They had started toward the town, still arguing. Meila however, found that she was rooted on the top of the slope. She was left staring over the settlement, her stomach in her mouth.

"You all right?"

That was… Percival, strangely enough. The man had been in the back of the group, as seemed to be his habit, and was thus the only one to notice her hesitation. The thought crossed her mind to question why he cared, but she snuffed it before it was given voice.

Instead, she confessed, "I am nervous."

The human's face showed his confusion, and he tried to follow her gaze. "Of what? The town?"

His confusion made her regret the slip. "You would not understand, shemlen."

He looked back at her. "No, I suspect not. Still, if you must wander into the wolves' den, at least you have others to shield your back." The silent assurance under the words surprised her: it was a promise that, should anything happen, the other Wardens would stand by her.

Vir Adahlen. Together they were stronger than one

Meila found herself nodding speculatively and followed Percival as he started down the path. Indeed, she was learning many surprising things about her companions. Now she could only hope that the rest of the humans in this 'Lothering' felt the same.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean there's no room?"

"Inn's full. Chantry's full. Every house has more boarders than floorboards." The Templar looked over the group, then turned back to Marnan. "If you want to set up camp outside with the others, no one's going to stop you. But you'd be far better just moving on."

Marnan could not stifle a pang of annoyance at such an inconvenient twist, but it was hardly the Templar's fault. As far as she could tell, the man was doing the best he could.

"Who is in charge here?" she asked.

"No one, really, since the bann went north with his men. The Revered Mother and the Templar captain, Ser Bryant, are doing their best to make up for the absence, but…"

"May we speak with them?"

He shrugged. "Sure, if you wish. Won't get you any place to sleep, though."

"Thank you, ser," she said with a sigh. As the Templar nodded and walked off, Marnan glanced behind her.

They were in the village proper now, having just come in through the campsites when the Templar had greeted them.

Alistair stood at her right shoulder, with the others trailing behind. Marnan felt a fresh pang of rage as her eyes flicked past Finian. That he'd… she still couldn't believe that seemingly friendly, gentle Finian Tabris had just convinced a group of men to walk to their own deaths.

But she supposed that was the way of it. She'd grown up in a nest of vipers, and the ones with the most dangerous poisons were often the ones who could convince you they weren't poisonous at all.

Bhelen came to mind. He'd always been her ally, she'd thought, always good for a bit of support when Trian got too uppity. He'd been able to smooth over with a smile and a few words any commotion caused among the Nobles regarding Marnan's frequent trips out with the Warriors. He had been a welcome island of sanity among the hair-pulling madness of the Diamond Quarter.

Then, he had betrayed both her and Trian, all while wearing that charismatic smile.

Finian was perhaps a different species from her brother, but a poisonous snake was still a poisonous snake. She was ashamed that she had been fooled by the act. And the fact that he still held consternation in his eyes as he watched her… she would be a fool to believe any expression he put on his face from now on. To people like him, everything was a mask.

"The Chantry is right there," Alistair said, nodding toward a large building up ahead. "Shall we?"

"You're kidding, right?" Kazar's voice snapped. He was glaring at Alistair, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in a posture Marnan had long since attributed to an imminent rise in his temper. "I'm not going in there. It's bad enough that the Templars have taken over the town."

"They had to, Kazar," Felicity reasoned. "With the bann's forces gone, no one else is around to impose order."

"So they need Templars to lay down the law?" He scoffed. "Whatever, as long as they don't bother me. But that doesn't mean I'm walking in there and offering my head on a platter for them."

He turned and started off.

"Good idea, kid," Garott said, making the elf pause before he could get too far. "I think I see a tavern across the stream, and it's been way too long since I had a drink. Anyone wanna join?"

Finian cast one more glance at Marnan, then smiled tiredly at the duster. "I could use a seat."

"And I," Morrigan said, "could use my staff back. Thus, I must accompany you to this establishment, lest you squirrel it away."

"I wish to see the Chantry," Felicity said suddenly. "Outside the Tower of Magi, the Chantry scholars keep the best archives in Ferelden. I've never had a chance to peruse a Chantry library."

Marnan nodded her approval. "Very well. We will see if we can't speak with this 'Revered Mother'…" She was still uncomfortable with the nuances of surface religion. "Then, we will meet you there." She started toward the Chantry.

Alistair fell into step behind her, but he did call out to the other group. "Finian, see if you can't use those weird mind control powers of yours for good and get us a couple inn rooms. I'm so sick of sleeping in a tent."

"I'll see what I can do," the elf joked, and Marnan's hackles rose. "Though I have to warn you… the laws of nature are a bit outside my power, as of yet."

"You'll just have to keep working on it, then."

Marnan marched resolutely toward the Chantry, and only looked back when they reached the entrance into the courtyard. Alistair paused in following her, looking startled by the glare she leveled at him. Coming behind him were Felicity and, farther back, Percival. Everyone else had turned and was heading across the river toward the inn.

"What?" Alistair said, looking confused.

"I can't believe you're encouraging him." She spoke sternly, but softly enough that her voice wouldn't carry across the square.

"Who, Fin? Wait… you're actually really upset about the highwaymen, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?"

Felicity broke in thoughtfully, "He did make a good point on the road, Marnan. If we'd fought them, their deaths would be assured. Now, they have a chance of survival, though slight, as well as a chance to change their minds."

"At least a fight," Marnan growled, "would have been honest." She whirled on her heel and stomped the rest of the way to the Chantry. After a moment, she heard the others following.

However, when she pushed through the doors, only Alistair and Felicity came in with her. Percival stopped at the threshold and, for a long moment, stared up at the front of the chapel with blank eyes.

"I… I have to go." He all but fled, leaving the three of them wondering. Alistair seemed to be biting his lip.

"Alistair," Marnan said, breaking the silence that had ensued. "How might we recognize the Revered Mother?"

"Oh, trust me. We'll know her when we see her." Alistair turned and led the way into the chapel, and Marnan took the time to study the religious space. Felicity did the same.

The Chantry would usually have been grand, in its own way. It had high, arched ceilings, and plentiful decorative columns and carvings. It was built out of solid stone, which Marnan was dwarf enough to appreciate, though she'd never really held much interest in building things herself.

Now, however, most of the floor space was packed with bedrolls and supplies. People idled near the edges of the room, seeming to have nothing to do but stand about and pray to their Maker.

The Wardens passed refugees and priestesses alike, and turned a corner. "Aaaand there she is." Alistair waved a hand, indicating an older woman who was sitting in an alcove, her head bowed with exhaustion. Marnan couldn't help but pity the burden she must bear, trying to keep control over such a chaotic town.

Standing over her was a man in Templar armor, though he had his helmet tucked under one arm. He, too, looked tired, and he spoke to her in a soft, wearied tone. From what snippets drifted toward them, it was a report regarding the local availability of food stores.

Marnan approached the pair with respect. She may not have followed the Chantry, but people who would do so much for so many deserved what honor she could afford them.

The man stopped speaking as they approached, and they both turned to the Wardens with expectant expressions, though their eyes weren't unkind.

"I apologize for the intrusion. My name is Marnan. Are you the Revered Mother?"

"Yes, I am. Can I help you with anything?"

"We are Grey Wardens in need of assistance. We were wondering if there were any help you could offer."

"Oh. Oh dear." She looked up at the Templar, who now bore a worried expression.

"Grey Wardens?" he said. "There is a bounty on any information pertaining to your whereabouts, and a higher one for your heads. You must know this."

Alistair's spluttered "W-what?!" echoed through the chapel, and Felicity frantically shushed him.

Marnan decided it best to lower her voice. "No, we did not. Who issued such a bounty?"

"Teyrn Loghain," the Templar said.

"THAT SON OF A-"

"Alistair, hush!"

"I am sorry to be the one to deliver such news." The Templar bowed his head in greeting. "I am Ser Bryant, the captain of the Lothering Templars. Rest assured, I do not believe the reports, so you will not be harassed by any of my men while you are here."

Marnan could hear Alistair and Felicity holding a furious, whispered conversation behind her. "What reports might those be, precisely?"

"The report handed down from Denerim is that the Grey Wardens betrayed the king at Ostagar, and left him on the field to die."

"That's a lie!" Alistair roared. "Loghain betrayed the king! Most of our order died fighting by the king's side, while he walked away!"

"I… find that almost as hard to believe," Ser Bryant said uncertainly.

"You put us in a difficult position," the Revered Mother broke in. "We can not be seen to aid you; you must know this. All I can promise is that we will keep your presence here a secret."

"Then that is all we will ask," Marnan said, even as she heard a protest raised behind her. "Thank you."

"I apologize, Grey Wardens. Good luck to you."

Disappointed, Marnan turned and led her companions away from the alcove. However, they'd barely left earshot when a Chantry sister slipped smoothly out from behind a bookcase to meet them, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

She smiled brightly and smoothed a strand of short red hair behind her ear. "You are Grey Wardens, yes?"

Marnan was surprised to hear that her accent wasn't Fereldan, but rather Orlesian. Standing on the border between the two countries as Orzammar did, Marnan was well familiar with the current charged relationship between the two nations. At least, the theory of it, from what trickled in through traders.

"So you heard that, did you?" Alistair said, half sarcastic and half sheepish. Felicity's hand on his arm seemed to have calmed him, at least.

"I am Leliana. You said you were looking for help against the darkspawn. That's why I am coming with you."

Marnan was both amused and taken aback by the girl's boldness. "I'm sorry, but our path will be very dangerous—"

"I can fight," she interrupted, not missing a beat. "I have daggers, and I'm a good shot with a bow. And I have picked up other skills in traveling that might be of use to you."

"Where would a Chantry lay sister learn how to shoot a bow?" Felicity wondered sincerely.

"I was not always a sister. Please, I will not be a burden, I promise."

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but…" Alistair said, "why would you want to join us?"

"The Maker wants me to go with you," Leliana said with confidence. "He sent me a dream."

"Oh, is that all…"

Felicity appeared confused. "But Chantry canon dictates that the only one the Maker has ever spoken to directly is Andraste. Particularly since her death. I haven't read any accounts of such holy visions."

"What I saw was real," Leliana pressed. "I know it was. The Maker needs me to help you in this troubled time."

"Right," Alistair grumbled. "And I'm the King of Ferelden. And this dwarf here? She's a magical dwarf, who spits candy and swings an axe forged from wishes and starlight."

"For all you know, Alistair," Marnan said, "that may be true." Then, she turned back to the priestess, studying her. Beneath the Chantry robe, the human was certainly fit enough… better than some of the priestesses she had glimpsed at Ostagar, anyway. Marnan was inclined to believe the Orlesian when she said she had combat experience.

Then again, the dwarf's faith in her own ability to judge people had been very recently shaken. Thus, Marnan did what any great leader did when necessity dictated it: she deferred.

"Felicity, what are your thoughts?"

Felicity looked startled at being addressed. Then, she said, "Well, we certainly do need all the help we can get, and having someone with an association with the Chantry could hardly go amiss. If we are indeed to be hunted, we will need all the potential allies we can scrounge up, particularly if they have access to connections the rest of us do not."

Leliana was nodding along thoughtfully, Marnan noted.

"With that in mind, we do intend to stay here for several days… although, come to think of it, that may prove quite risky, if we've a bounty on our heads. Then again, I can't imagine Finian could travel much farther without a break. I do need to tend to... oh, I'm digressing, aren't I? Regardless, if we are staying for a time, we hardly need to come to a decision immediately. Thus, we can test out Leliana's skills—with your permission of course, Leliana—in order to confirm that they will, indeed, prove beneficial to us. Such a trial period will also allow Alistair to come to a decision about whether or not she is as mad as he obviously believes she is."

Alistair cracked a smile at that one. "Picked up on that, did you?"

Felicity returned the expression. "I daresay Kazar could have picked up on it, and his grasp of subtlety equates to freezing things so that they shatter instead of making them explode in a blinding ball of fire."

"Healing magic and insulting Kazar? You are the best mage ever."

Marnan did not miss the flush that came to Felicity's cheeks at that, and she made a mental note to keep an eye on that situation. Even so, she turned back to Leliana, who watched the exchange with an amused smile on her face. "Very well, Leliana. Will you consent to a trial period while we stay in Lothering?"

"Of course I will. Oh, you won't regret it!"

"Please, see that we don't." Even so, Marnan smiled, feeling optimistic for the first time since setting foot in this town.

Chapter Text

Finian jumped as a tray laden with tankards landed heavily on the table in front of him. Garott was settling into the seat across from his.

"The bad news?" the dwarf said. "There's a Blight coming, no one can afford any food, and there's still no free rooms in the inn. The good news? There's still booze."

Finian chuckled, and stopped rubbing his sore leg to lift one tankard in toast. "To there always being booze." Garott grinned wryly and tapped his drink against Fin's. Both took a gulp, and Fin immediately coughed, then laughed.

"Yep," Garott said, wiping his mouth. "Awful swill. Makes me a little homesick, actually."

The mages both eyed the tray dubiously. Morrigan took a sniff of the air and wrinkled her nose disdainfully. Kazar, however, experimentally picked up one of the other tankards and studied it as one would a piece of jewelry of questionable authenticity.

The mage sipped it, and then jerked away as if burned and started spitting. "Demons' teeth! People willingly drink this?!" Garott and Finian both laughed.

Through a clever combination of intimidation, smooth-talking, and Morrigan transforming into a rat and nipping at some toes (mostly the last one), the group had managed to commandeer a table in the Dane's Refuge. It was along the wall under the balcony, making it crowded as well as small. There was enough room for one person on each side… which made it awkward, considering there were six of them.

Meila had showed no interest in the table, fortunately. She leaned against the nearby wall, stiff as a tree as her eyes darted around the room. Morrigan and Kazar milled next to the table, whispering to one another what were most likely snide comments on both their parts about the other customers in the tavern.

The Refuge was as packed as the rest of the village. Most tables were crowded with ragged refugees who were fortunate enough to be able to afford a table, though Fin did spot a couple armed figures, some priests, and even what appeared to be a Templar conversing with a knight.

At Kazar's exclamation, Percival roused, raising his head off the tabletop. He'd slunk into the tavern about two minutes after the rest of them, wordlessly slumping into the seat next to Finian. Now, he picked up a tankard and downed it all in a couple long gulps. Only as he set the empty tankard back down did he make a face in reaction.

"That is… truly awful."

"My cousin, Shianni, says that with drinks like this, getting drunk is a reward for getting it down."

Garott leaned back in his chair and arched a brow. "This cousin get kidnapped?"

Finian laughed and went in for another sip. "Actually, yes."

"Ah. I'd wondered."

"Drinks that aren't mostly dregs taste better," Percival informed Kazar, who was glaring at his tankard as if it had insulted him. "The best is a good wine. Something with a bit of sweetness, or, even better, spice, and a kick, but still subtle." His eyes went distant, and he fidgeted with his empty mug. "I used to help Fergus—my brother—sneak bottles up from the wine cellar, back when he was courting his wife. Oriana was Antivan and therefore foreign, so, of course, Father didn't approve. So Fergus made me, the baby brother of twelve, his accomplice, and favored me with a sip of what I'd brought as a reward." Percival twirled the tankard, smiling sadly. "He got me rather addicted to the stuff, I'm afraid. From those days on, I associated wine with illicit romantic entanglements, much to my father's simultaneous chagrin and amusement down the road."

It was more than Finian was used to hearing Percival say about the past. The pickpocket wondered if the noble even knew he was speaking aloud.

"I take it you must have had your own share of such… entanglements, then?" Morrigan said with an arched eyebrow. Finian sipped his mug, hiding a twinge of far more interest in Percy's answer than he really ought to have.

Percival chuckled darkly, setting the tankard down. "Let us just say that the Cousland castle wine cellar now has more blank spots than not." Then, any mirth dropped off his face, and he growled. "That is, if he hasn't made off with the entire stores by now."

The others looked on quizzically, but Finian had an idea of who Percival was referring. When they'd met King Cailan, Percy had spoken of an Arl Howe who had betrayed his family, and he'd injected such hatred and rage into that name that Finian felt an empathetic spark of anger for his sake.

Now, seeing the anger and grief churning in the noble's eyes, Fin reached over and patted his shoulder.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" A low voice said nearby, and the Wardens looked up to see two armored men approaching their table.

The other one sneered, "It looks like an armored elf, a shady-looking dwarf, and a man with a Highever shield on his back."

"Looks like we just need the man with the Templar shield and vacant eyes, and we'll have the complete set." Finian noticed the way their hands hovered over their weapons. Oh boy.

"Whoa, wait a second," Finian said, and they glanced down at him with the casual contempt many humans reserved for elves. That would make this harder. "Sers, sorry if we've offended, but is there a problem here?"

"I'd say there's a problem," the second man snapped. "You're Grey Wardens. The exact Grey Wardens Teyrn Loghain appointed us to watch the roads for."

"You have a problem with Grey Wardens?" Kazar snapped, eyes narrowing.

"You lured the king into a trap to die," the first man growled in a low bass. "You betrayed him, and now—"

"What?!" Percival roared, leaping to his feet. "How dare you accuse us of betraying Cailan! The real traitor is Loghain!"

"We were there! We saw what happened!"

"Then you are obviously blind. Or what else do you call quitting the field when the king was depending on his reinforcements?"

"Loghain recognized the trap for what it was. If he had sent us in, we would have all died too."

"Or we would have won, and the Blight would be over, instead of coming through the Wilds, nipping at our heels!"

The rest of the tavern had gone deathly silent but for the stand-off between the two. Even the minstrels on the second level had stopped playing.

"Percy…" Finian hissed, trying to get his friend's attention. But the human was out of his reach, and his leg throbbed too much for Fin to be able to stand and approach either man.

"You don't deny you're Grey Wardens, then," the second man said. He started to draw his mace, but Meila was then behind him, pressing her hunting knife against the back of his neck.

"We are all Grey Wardens," she said coldly. "And the human speaks true. We did not betray your king."

"I've have enough of these lies!" cried the first of Loghain's men. "Kill them all!"

With that, there was the hiss of steel as two tables on opposite sides of the tavern, with three armored men apiece, rose to their feet and armed themselves. Percival whipped his shield from his back and pulled out his longsword with a feral growl, and Finian saw Meila duck under a mace blow from the man she had been menacing.

Finian tried to stand up, but his leg throbbed sharply as soon as it touched the floor, and Morrigan had already taken up her staff (his makeshift walking stick) to wield it against one of the approaching trios. He hissed in pain, then noticed the fire crawling up Kazar's arms. The mage looked at the trio Morrigan wasn't attacking with a smirk of anticipation.

"No collateral damage," Finian thought it prudent to warn the other elf.

Kazar glanced sidelong at him with some annoyance. "But-"

"No collateral damage. This is the only eating establishment in town. Do you want to live off hard tack even here?"

Kazar growled, but nonetheless dispelled the fire in his hands. Instead, he swept his hands forward, conjuring a sheet of ice across the ground that crawled up the enemies' legs, freezing them in place. Garott emerged from the shadows underneath a table behind them, and promptly smacked one in the back of the neck with his hand-axe, laying him out.

On the other side, a giant spider was darting among the other trio, and it took Finian a moment to realize that spider was Morrigan. She jumped up on tables, and at one point climbed the wall, to dodge the soldiers' sweeping blades. One soldier's arm was stuck to the staircase banister by a clump of webbing.

All the while, Percival engaged the leader with sword whirling. He moved with the ease and precision of a dancer, even while his eyes were hot and clouded with that anger that sometimes overtook him.

Meila wasn't faring quite as well. She ducked and dodged to try to keep out of range of her opponent's mace, but he kept closing in. Knowing that Meila worked best when given some distance, Finian popped his daggers out of their wrist sheaths, and threw one into the side of the man's neck. He thanked all those nights spent sneaking out to practice that it actually connected, though it didn't sink in very far.

It served to distract the man, though. He turned toward Finian, ripping the dagger out of his neck and tossing it aside. In three steps, he had advanced on Finian and took a swipe at his head. The elf attempted to jump back, out of the chair, but his leg buckled as soon as he put weight on it. He tumbled to the tavern floor, and the man looming above him smirked in triumph.

Then, a sword swung in low from one side, and Finian saw the knight he'd noticed earlier taking the soldier's legs out from under him. A moment later, there was a Dalish arrow in the back of his neck, and the soldier began coughing and wheezing, obviously choking on it.

Finian winced and scooted across the ground toward the soldier. He then used his remaining dagger to properly put the man out of his misery. Once that was done, a gauntleted hand reached down and helped Finian to his feet. He nodded his thanks to the knight, leaning on the stranger while his bad leg bucked and trembled under him.

The rest of the fight seemed to be proceeding in a similar fashion. The knight's Templar friend had joined the fight alongside Morrigan, facing off against two soldiers at once while the Morrigan-spider darted in to gnaw on their backs. Meanwhile, lightning streaked across the room as Kazar fought off two simultaneously, though Garott kept getting between the soldiers and the mage with his dagger and axe, never letting them get in sword range of the magical powerhouse. As Finian watched, an arrow sprouted from the chestplates of one of those enemies, telling Fin what Meila was up to.

Percival, however, stood against the leader alone, the pair cleaving out an empty spot in the crowded tavern as they fought wildly. As Finian watched, Percival smashed his shield into the other man, sending him stumbling back, then followed it with a stab that would have been lethal, had the soldier not deflected it off his own shield. The stab was returned, but Percival batted it aside with a growl.

Lightning streaked from Kazar, who had downed his opponents, to the one the Templar was fighting, and then Morrigan pounced upon the last of her group and bore him to the ground, shredding his armor to pieces with her mandibles.

Percival surged forward, smashing into his opponent once again and moving too quickly for the soldier to get his guard back up. Just like that, the leader was on his knees with the noble's sword at his throat.

"Okay, okay! You win!" the man gasped.

Finian's heart jumped in his throat when he saw the expression on Percival's face, and realized that the human had no intention of stopping there. "Percy, no! He's surrendering!"

Percival growled ferally, and for a moment, Finian thought he'd ignore the words and kill the man anyway. Finian tried to step forward, but could only groan and clutch onto the nameless knight as his leg gave out again.

But then, Percival tossed sword and shield on the floor with a clatter, and reached down to pick up the soldier by the front of his chestplate. He slammed the man into the nearest wall with such gusto that dust fell from the rafters.

"You take a message to Loghain," Percy growled, an inch from the other man's nose. The soldier could only nod, obviously terrified of what he was seeing in the noble's eyes. "You tell him that the Grey Wardens know what really happened. And we will not stand idly by while the debt of all those deaths at Ostagar remains uncollected. You tell him that we are coming for him. Is that clear?"

The man nodded again, wide-eyed. Percival held him to the wall for a couple seconds more. Then, he contemptuously dropped his prisoner and stooped to pick up his sword and shield. The leader and the two soldiers left alive scurried out of the Refuge without another word.

Fin bit back a shiver that wasn't entirely fear as Percy's darkened gaze swept past him. The noble certainly was… intense in the heat of battle. Dangerously so.

There was a clatter and a thump, and Garott climbed on a table and addressed the rest of the tavern. Unsurprisingly, everyone was staring, either fascinated by or afraid of the battle that had broken out in their midst.

"Anyone else have a problem with Grey Wardens?" Garott rumbled flatly to their silent audience. This prompted the staring faces to turn hurriedly back to their business, and sound slowly began to emerge in pockets around the tavern again.

The minstrels were starting to play again as the knight helped walk Finian back to his seat.

"Thank you, for that," Fin said. "I'd be two halves of an elf instead of a whole one, if not for you."

The knight smiled wryly. "They were obviously the aggressors, and it looked like you and your friends could use the help."

"We were doing just fine," Kazar said, moving to lean back against the wall with arms crossed. The rest of the Wardens were converging back on the original table as well.

"I'm sure you were," the Templar said, following now-human-Morrigan back to the group. His dark eyes narrowed under brown brows as his gaze darted between the two mages. "Am I to understand that both of you are Grey Wardens, and not just apostates using them for protection?"

"You can 'understand' whatever you like," Morrigan said dismissively. "You stepped in to help us, after all. We owe you no explanation."

"Henric," the knight said calmly, "we're not here for that." The knight turned back to the group. "I am Ser Donall of Redcliffe, and this is my travelling companion, Ser Henric. We've no quarrel with the Wardens."

The Templar nodded, lips still pressed together.

"I'm Finian," the elf said, gingerly lowering himself back into his vacated seat. "And these are Garott, Percival, Kazar, Morrigan, and Meila." He met Donall's eyes questioningly. "Is it true, then? Loghain has declared us traitors?"

"Yes."

"That bastard," Percy growled, slamming a fist on the table as he sat down. Finian laid a hand on his arm to calm him.

"We don't believe it, for what it's worth," Donall assured him. "Nor did my lord, before he took ill. Truth be told, one of my comrades was recruited into the Wardens not long ago."

"Ser Jory," Finian guessed.

Donall looked surprised, then smiled. "Yes. You know him?"

"He was recruited in the same wave we were." He paused, feeling his heart sink at the man's hopeful expression. "I'm sorry. He didn't make it."

Kazar made a disgusted noise, and Fin hoped he didn't mention the manner of Ser Jory's death.

Donall's face fell, but then turned wry. "We'd thought as much, when we heard what happened at Ostagar. Though, like I said, we have doubts about Teyrn Loghain's version."

"Good on you." Garott had slipped back into his original seat across from Fin. "Have a drink on us, since they'll go to waste otherwise."

Donall laughed lightly. "No, I made the mistake of drinking here the other day. Won't be doing that again."

Garott shrugged and took a swallow from his mug.

"Wow, looks like we missed a bit of excitement," a familiar voice said from the entrance, rising above the tavern's renewed noise. "And I thought we were having fun in the Chantry. Then again, I never do have much fun in the Chantry."

Finian smiled up at Alistair in greeting, which the blond man returned with a nod as he and the other Wardens wound through the tavern toward them. Finian noted that a red-headed Chantry sister seemed to be trailing behind the three. Both she and Felicity were staring at the bodies around the tavern with wide eyes.

"Alistair?" Ser Donall asked. "You're all right?"

"No thanks to Loghain," Alistair said dryly, then nodded in greeting. "Good to see you, Ser Donall. What are you doing in Lothering?"

"Oh dear… you hadn't heard?"

That was a phrase that was rarely followed by good news. Judging by the look on Alistair's face, he knew that too. "What is it?"

"Eamon is sick. Very sick. They've tried potions and magical healing, but all to no effect. Lady Isolde sent us out to search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, in hopes that that may heal him."

"The Sacred Ashes? The remains of the prophet?" Felicity said, drawing even with the table. "It is said to merely be myth. If not, I can't imagine that an urn could have stayed intact for so long when there are so many factions that would seek to possess such a thing, even if only for its symbolic power."

"That's not true," said the priestess who had followed them in. Finian was surprised to hear that she was Orlesian. "It is said that Andraste's most faithful disciples secreted the Ashes away and hid it. Any true believers would have made certain such an important relic was well protected. I'm sure of it."

"Or they may have run away with it and gotten felled by a dragon," said Morrigan, "thus smashing said sacred artifact upon the rocks and scattering these holy ashes upon the four winds like so much dust. So sad, I'm sure."

"That… is one concern," Ser Donall hedged.

"Who's to say such ashes would be able to do anything, anyway?" Percival said, staring darkly at his hands. "Who says Andraste was special at all, and not just completely mad?"

The Templar and the priestess both gasped, and Alistair goggled. Finian was himself taken aback, to hear such things from Percival.

Kazar barked out a laugh. "I don't know about mad, but I always did say she was an unholy bitch for what she did to us mages."

"She was also the shemlen who freed our people from the Imperium," Meila said, staring stonily at Kazar.

"Yeah, and then condoned the domestication and imprisonment of every mage in Thedas. Forgive me for not praising her for putting me in one form of slavery instead of another."

"Guys, this is off topic" Finian broke in, seeing several people ready to verbally pounce on the mage (and, in Ser Henric's case, possibly physically). He turned to Marnan, who only stared back at him flatly. "How was the Chantry? Any luck?"

"No," she said shortly. "It seems their hands are tied, what with our new status as outlaws. One you seem to have already discovered." She waved at the bodies that the tavern servers were now going about disposing.

"Nothing like an old-fashioned tavern brawl to say 'welcome to town'," Garott said with a chuckle.

Alistair, however, was still distracted by Ser Donall. "How long has Eamon been sick?"

"A couple weeks," Donall said with a sigh. "He just grew tired and stopped eating, and now no one can wake him."

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

Morrigan groaned. "We are not going to go all the way to Redcliffe on some personal quest of yours, are we?"

Alistair scowled at her. "Eamon is a good man, and one respected at the Landsmeet. Further, his forces never made it to Ostagar… though I suppose now we know why. If… when. When he recovers, he can help us."

"With more than just forces," Percival said thoughtfully. He glanced back at Alistair. "He's Cailan's uncle, King Maric's brother-in-law through his wife. I remember that. And further, King Maric always deferred to him in matters of state."

Alistair stared at Percival, and his voice wobbled a bit as he asked, "You knew King Maric?" Finian studied Alistair, wondering at the ex-Templar's strange tone of voice.

Percival shrugged. "I never met the man personally outside being introduced once as 'Bryce's second son'… but, yes, I've seen him meet with the other nobles, when my father could get me to sit still enough to watch the royal court in Denerim." He frowned thoughtfully. "Teyrn Loghain met with him often… and so did Arl Eamon. He can help us against Loghain."

"This Loghain man did us wrong," Meila said, "but he is not our primary enemy. The darkspawn are our enemy, and should remain our focus."

"We won't be able to focus if we're in hiding from common lawmen," Percy argued. "We need to take care of this business with Loghain. I take it he's running Ferelden through his daughter?" He looked at the knight for confirmation.

Donall nodded. "He's declared himself Anora's regent, and is currently ruling in her name."

"Wait, explain this to me," Marnan broke in, frowning. "What right does Loghain have to claim the throne? I was given to understand that the kingship up here was hereditary."

"It is… usually," Alistair said. "Thing is, Queen Anora was the king's wife, wasn't she? And her father just happens to be Teyrn Loghain."

"Had he no heirs?"

"Not as such, no."

Marnan made a noise of understanding. "Ah, so King Cailan's death not only paves a path to power for him to point the finger at us… but it also vacates a throne that has no clear successor." Marnan sighed. "If I know anything about politicians, this can only lead to civil war."

"And just why would a warrior," Kazar said with narrowed eyes, "know anything about politicians?"

Garott, for some reason, laughed. Hm.

"Eamon is respected and Cailan's uncle," Alistair repeated. "I know him; he's a good man. If anyone can speak for us, it will be him. Problem is, he needs to be able to speak. Which he can't do if he's unconscious."

"I hope you're not suggesting we track down this relic of yours," Morrigan said snidely.

"No… just that we keep him in mind. When we're making plans."

Percival nodded. "Agreed."

"Well, we'd be happy for the help," Donall said. "If you're staying for a couple days, Henric and I will be in the Chantry. Scouring the library in hopes of tracking down a relic no one has seen in a thousand years."

"I'll help, if you like," Felicity offered. "I'm quite good at scouring libraries."

Donall smiled. "If you've the time, we'll take all the help we can get." With that, he and Ser Henric excused themselves and left, although not without Henric casting suspicious looks back at Kazar and Morrigan.

The Wardens clustered around the table spent a moment in silence. Then, Marnan climbed into the spare spot at the table and picked up a tankard. "This anyone's?"

Finian shook his head.

Marnan gave the ale a taste and wrinkled her nose, but then tipped her head back for a hearty swallow. Setting the tankard solidly back on the table, she said, "We have our work cut out for us, it seems. We are the only Grey Wardens left within a hundred miles. It is up to us to stop the darkspawn, and now we've lawmen to dodge as well."

"Sounds like fun," Garott chuckled. "At least between the lot of us, we've got plenty of experience doing both."

Finian raised his tankard. "To taking impossible odds and rigging them into a win."

Garott chuckled, and both dwarves clinked their mugs with his in toast.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, the Wardens and their rather attractive duo of camp followers staked out a camping spot in a clearing, slightly outside the city of refugee tents. All the while, Garott derived no end of amusement from the way the Dalish elf was glaring at the newest of their number.

Meila's stony façade had gained a couple cracks since their first encounter, the elf warming to the other Wardens until most of them received a lukewarm response from her most of the time, with perhaps a few degrees in either direction depending on whether you asked her intrusive questions about her people (solely Felicity, at this point) or did something she disapproved of.

However, this Leliana girl was obviously categorized back under 'shemlen' in the elf's mind: an unfamiliar outsider who was to be mistrusted and subtly blamed for everything that had ever happened to the elves.

Thus, Garott's amusement.

The Wardens were getting quite practiced at setting up camp by now, even the ones who had never had occasion to do so in their previous lives. As was usual, Meila proved the most adept at finding the perfect spots to pitch the tents and dig the firepit. Between her direction, and the combined efforts of Percival, Marnan, and himself, they managed to get the tents erected. This was in spite of the fact that Alistair had his hands full with Finian, who was crashing fast. The pickpocket slumped against the ex-Templar, his injured leg completely limp; he seemed to have trouble keeping his eyes open.

Finally, once the cluster of their tents had been arranged around the small site, Alistair ducked into one of the tents and eased Finian onto a bedroll. Felicity scurried in after them.

"Morrigan," she called, "you should come help me take a look at Fin. It'll be a wonderful learning opportunity!"

"Exciting indeed," Morrigan said with a roll of her eyes. Even so, she sashayed her way over to the tent and followed the healer in.

Alistair settled outside the tent with a sigh. "Well, this has been an exhausting day. Anyone else think Fin has the right idea of it?"

"What," Garott said with a smirk, "laying in a tent with two young, attractive women tending to his needs? If only we could all be so lucky."

Alistair's eyes widened and his face went red. However, Percy, Kazar, and (surprisingly) Leliana all laughed.

Marnan gave Garott an incredulous look. "You have a thing for human mages, then?"

Garott shrugged and grinned. "Apparently."

"If it is all the same," Meila said, shouldering her quiver. "I would prefer not to idle about camp when there are things to be done."

"Let me guess…" Alistair said sarcastically. "You want to run off into the woods and go hunting?"

She gave him that ice bitch look of hers. "The humans in the town lack for food, correct? It was my duty in my clan to provide. I see no reason that the shemlen here should not benefit from that."

Alistair looked genuinely shocked. "Is… is that why you kept bringing all those animals to the Ostagar camp?"

She turned from him without answering. "If any of you wish to come along, feel free."

"I think I will," Percival said with a sigh, gathering his shield from where he'd set it. "If only to help you carry your kills. It will help keep my mind off… things, at the least."

Meila nodded and walked off into the woods. Percival trotted out after her.

Marnan sighed. "I must admit. I don't like the idea of sitting around doing nothing, either." She paused and turned to Leliana. "Perhaps now would be a good time to familiarize ourselves with the town. Do you mind?"

"You want a tour, yes?" Leliana grinned. "I will be happy to show you around. Anyone else want to come?"

"Pass," Alistair said, dropping back into the dirt.

"I wouldn't mind scoping the place out," Garott said, and grinned at the sour expression Marnan cast him.

"Sure, whatever," Kazar huffed. "Better than staying in camp alone with this idiot."

"Ooh, upgraded from 'Templar,' am I? Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy."

"Shut up, Templar."

"Aaaand there it is."

Garott was chuckling as the four of them headed out, winding their way back toward the town proper. Leliana immediately began expounding upon the history of the town (something about trade routes), but Garott tuned her out. Instead, as they wandered through the village, he was studying the town itself.

The Grey Warden recruits had passed through Lothering on the way from the Mage Tower to Ostagar, but they'd only stayed long enough to spend the night at the inn. Garott hadn't had the chance to properly case the town. And with so much chaos and only a handful of Templars keeping order, any given residence wouldn't have been hard to burglarize.

Not that Garott thought doing so would actually be worth it… not now, when everyone was selling their earthly possessions just to feed themselves. Still, old habits died hard.

"Do people actually live like this?" Kazar asked, squinting around at the admittedly unimpressive houses.

"If you think this is bad," Garott said, "I should bring you to my part of Orzammar sometime."

He saw Marnan glance back from where she walked beside the human.

"What? And get robbed as soon as I stepped in? No thanks."

Garott chuckled, because the elf had the right of it.

"You are from Orzammar, then?" Leliana asked. The four of them had stopped in a narrow avenue among the houses. Refugees still clogged the streets, but not as much as the main thoroughfares.

"Marnan and me both. Where else would a dwarf come from?"

Leliana shrugged. "The ones I've met in Orlais all grew up on the surface. I've never known one that actually came from underground. But now it seems I know two!"

"It is hardly something to get excited about," Marnan said, frowning up at the human. "You speak of us as if we are some novelty."

"Oh, sorry! I meant no offense."

Marnan sighed. "No, I'm being unfair. It has just been a… grating day."

Garott arched an eyebrow at her. "You still upset about the elf?" At Kazar's hiss, Garott amended, "The other elf."

Marnan looked away, then snapped back, her face heating up. "I would not expect you to understand, Brosca. However, in my part of Orzammar, talking people into doing things that will ultimately be their undoing is practically a sport. Far more than the Provings. It's despicable… and I'd thought I'd left that all behind!"

"No, no. I get it." Garott rubbed his hands over his corn-rows, remembering his own first impressions of the elf. "I knew someone a little like that, too. My boss, actually. Could talk a snake into eating its own tail."

"And yet Finian does not bother you?"

"Of course he does." Garott shrugged. "I sniffed out the elf's puppeteering ways before you did. But the thing is, I don't think he knows his own power. He doesn't know he's being manipulative."

"How can he not know?!" Marnan cried.

"Same way Felicity doesn't know how nosy her questions can get, and Kazar doesn't get how nuts he sounds when he laughs mid-battle."

"Hey! I'm right here!"

"People don't see themselves clearly. It's up to everyone else to shine a mirror on 'em"

Marnan eyed him. "That is… surprisingly astute."

He smirked. "What, for a piece of casteless scum?"

She paused, then sighed and looked away. "I was going to say 'for a thug', but I suppose I would have meant the same thing." She turned back to Garott. "I take your point. Mirror reflected. I suspect I owe you an apology for all—"

He waved her off. "Nah. I don't need it. Besides, if you apologized, then I might have to too. And we both know that ain't gonna happen."

He swore he saw the beginnings of a smile spark across her face before she turned away. Then, she started back through town, and the other three followed. Leliana was looking between them with an eerily knowing smile, and Kazar just looked bored. Not enough burning things for his taste, probably.

They resumed their tour of the village, and Garott followed in silent thought until they reached the edge of towm opposite the refugee camps. There, he spotted something that made him pause and move in for a closer look.

"What is that thing?" Kazar asked, obviously spotting it too.

"A Qunari," Garott grunted distractedly, moving up to stand in front of the cage. The other three followed him, all while the large man inside looked at them flatly. "They make damn fearsome fighters. My boss used to keep a couple Qunari mercenaries on hand, for when heads really needed busting."

Marnan turned to Leliana. "Why is he in this cage?"

"The Revered Mother said he murdered a whole family, even the children." Marnan's face, of course, showed only horror at the thought.

Garott, however, was intrigued. He turned back to the Qunari and asked curiously, "Did you do it?"

At first, it didn't seem the creature would answer. Then: "Yes." Flat. Matter-of-fact.

"That is all we need to know, then," Marnan said, and made to leave. However, Leliana, of all people, stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"He is to be left here, to the mercy of the darkspawn. No one deserves that… not even a murderer."

Garott chuckled. "Glad to hear you say that, lay sister." Then, he turned his attention back to the cage. He ran his hand along a metal bar, feeling the familiar chill of it. "You know, I was stuck in a cage once. Spent three days there before I broke me and my buddy out. Not for murdering a family, but the way everyone acted, defiling the Proving was just about even with it."

"Defiling the…" Marnan's shocked voice said. "That was you? You are the duster who defeated the Warrior caste's best?"

"Damn straight, princess," Garott laughed. "And I don't regret a moment of it."

Marnan was silent for a moment. "I honestly regret that I missed seeing that fight."

He was surprised by the words, but chose not to acknowledge them until he could analyze them a bit more. Instead, he turned his face up to the Qunari.

"So, do you want out?"

"No."

Again, Garott was surprised. He'd never known a convict who didn't jump at the chance at freedom. "What?"

"No. This is my atonement."

"You mean…" Kazar said quizzically, "…you're sorry for what you did?"

"No. Such feelings serve no purpose."

Kazar stared at the Qunari, his eyes narrowing. "You're weird."

Garott, however, could feel those gears in his own head turning, a plan hatching. "So you want to atone. What if there was another way, besides starving in a cage or being torn apart by darkspawn?"

The Qunari just looked at him, but didn't shoot him down. Garott decided to take that as a good sign.

"See, we're Grey Wardens trying to stop the Blight. And we kinda need every sword we can get at this point. What do you say?"

The Qunari looked at him flatly for a moment. "I had heard the Wardens were mighty warriors. Clearly, not all rumors are true."

"Oh, that's it." Kazar's hands lit with fire, but Marnan stepped between him and the cage.

"We are not warriors of legend, Qunari," Marnan said. "That is why we would have you join us."

At this one, Garott turned to her in surprise. "You agree with me, do you?"

She met his eyes flatly. "He expresses a desire to atone for his crimes. It is a point of honor that we should provide him with the opportunity to do so."

Garott smirked. To the Qunari, he said, "So, if we let you go, will you fight with us?"

"So be it," the Qunari said.

"You can't possibly trust him!" Kazar cried, hand still sparking.

Meanwhile, Garott slipped his picks out of his pack and started tinkering with the cage lock.

Marnan turned on the mage, lips pursed. "He wishes absolution for his wrongs. From what I've heard of your past, you wish no such thing."

Kazar's eyes narrowed on the princess. "What I did wasn't wrong."

"Precisely my point."

The tumblers slipped into place with a click, and the cage door swung open.

"So it is done," the Qunari said, stepping out. "You may call me Sten. You have freed me, and so I will fight with you against the darkspawn. That will be my atonement."

All his sentences were terse and direct. However, Garott wasn't interested in someone friendly, like this Leliana woman. They needed strength and power, and a Qunari could deliver that in spades.

Though first, he supposed, they'd have to get both of them some gear.

Chapter Text

"Of course elfroot is important, but 'tis hardly the only herb in the woods, now is it?"

"But none of the books I've studied on the subject mention cattails as a legitimate herbal supplement."

"No… I don't suppose they would, would they?" Morrigan's knowing smirk might have been infuriating, if Felicity hadn't been so fascinated by the information the witch was imparting.

They had been in Lothering for three days now. In that time, Felicity had had plenty of time to make good on the deal struck with Morrigan back at Ostagar. She had taught the witch a basic heal spell and what few spirit spells she could pull off, like the shield. Morrigan, in return, had proved to be a font of information in her own right.

The other mage's shapeshifting abilities, for example, were fascinating to Felicity. She had badgered the other mage with questions over the last week about what it was like to wear another form. In response, the witch had merely rolled her eyes and answered something along the lines of "you will never know."

That did not stop Felicity from continuing to ask, of course.

Morrigan was tolerant of the attention, at least (perhaps flattered, even?). The same could not be said of Sten, who was the other main source of interest in their camp.

Felicity had never seen a Qunari, of course, and mentions of them were surprisingly scarce among the reading material allowed in the Circle. It was a pity, really, as any nation that could face the Tevinter Imperium was certainly significant in the larger picture. Yet so little was known about the kossith and their strange religion. At least, so little was known to her.

She'd attempted to rectify that ignorance, of course. When the other Wardens had walked him into camp, she'd peppered him with questions about the Qun and his homeland. He had tolerated it for a few minutes of spare, single-sentence answers, then had cut her off with a terse, "This is pointless," and had walked away. Garott and Kazar had both burst out laughing.

In the three days since, it had been a source of both frustration and fascination, and she wasn't certain which emotion she should feel more strongly.

Now, Morrigan and Felicity were wandering the woods just southeast of Lothering, collecting herbs to replenish their stocks. Alistair trailed behind them, looking thoroughly bored as he stared up at the sky.

"Alistair," Felicity teased, "I do believe escorts are meant to keep an eye on their surroundings. Or do you expect an attack from a wily nimbus cloud?"

Alistair's lips quirked. "Just keeping an eye out for stray dragons." He tipped his head forward to aim that roguish smile at her, and she felt her face go inexplicably hot. "Can't have them swooping down and gobbling up our healer, right?"

"Oh please," Morrigan groaned.

"You, on the other hand… I think I'll let them eat you. Then I'll probably laugh."

"How very chivalrous."

"Be nice," Felicity scolded, though she didn't really expect either of them to listen. They'd been at one another's throats since their first meeting, after all. Or so the others had told her, as she'd been otherwise occupied during that particular event.

Morrigan harrumphed and resumed gathering cattails.

Alistair, however, stepped up alongside Felicity as she collected the leaves off an aloe plant.

"So what nefarious mage use will you put this plant to?"

Felicity smiled. When he waggled his eyebrows, it turned into a giggle which she quickly stifled. "Aloe is most commonly used for soothing burns."

"Ooh, sign me up for that. Especially if I'm going to be squadding with Kazar in the near future."

Felicity couldn't fight back a laugh at her fellow mage's expense. "It can't be that bad."

"He seems to think 'friendly fire' means 'setting his friends on fire.' And he loves doing that, let me tell you."

"Yes, he did always have a habit of such things back at the Tower. Being rather careless about the wellbeing of his peers, that is." Felicity gingerly worked off a branch, careful not to waste any leaves. "Most of us other apprentices wondered why Jowan followed him around, when no one else could stand the little horror. With the revelation that Jowan is a blood mage, I suppose it makes sense… obviously, Kazar made him bleed, making it easier for Jowan the practice his magic."

"Wait… Kazar's only friend was a blood mage? That explains so very much…"

She laughed. "Doesn't it just?"

Morrigan could be heard muttering something under her breath not far off, but both of them ignored her.

"What about you?" Alistair said. "Did you have any tagalongs, blood mage or otherwise?"

"Oh, no. No, I didn't really have any close friends growing up. I was far too shy."

That made Alistair stop and give her a quizzical look. "You, shy? You?"

She laughed, moving onto the next plant. "It's true. I've always related better to books than to people, and I'm afraid most of my peers found me quite intolerable. The enchanters who taught my classes liked me well enough, but I've never really connected with any of my peers on a personal level." She cut off a branch. "The only two people who ever seemed to genuinely care about me beyond my schoolwork were Wynne and Cullen."

"Ah, right. Wynne was that mage at Ostagar, right?"

Felicity nodded. Not for the first time, she felt a pang of worry about how her mentor had fared. The mages wouldn't have been on the front lines. They might have made it out.

"And Cullen? Was that another shy apprentice?"

She shouldn't have brought him up; already, guilt was stirring in her stomach. She straightened from her herb collecting, glancing at Alistair to see that he watched her curiously. "Actually… he's a Templar."

Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "A Templar took an interest in you? How, exactly? Did he hurt you?"

"What? NO! Cullen would never have hurt me." Felicity felt her face heat up again, this time in embarrassment. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"What do you… oh. OH!" Alistair's own face went red, and he stared at Felicity. "Are you serious? You… with a Templar?"

"Nothing so untoward as what you're thinking!" Felicity protested. By the Maker, she could have curled up and died of mortification right there. "We never got that far. He didn't allow it."

"But if he had, you would have…?"

"Perhaps." She studied Alistair, trying to read the tension in Alistair's shoulders. Alas, she wasn't sure why he looked like he'd been hit with a paralyzing spell all of a sudden. "It's… hard to say. We were… well… sweethearts, I suppose."

"How did that happen?" He asked softly, his eyes still masked.

"I'm not quite sure, to be honest. It just sort of… fell together." She shook her head, a fond smile coming at the memory. "When he was first stationed at the Tower, fresh out of training, he was constantly stuttering and dropping things around me. I thought he was maybe a bit lyrium-addled, to be honest, and made it my business to help him about his duties as the charitable person I was. Little did I know that his bumbling was nerves, and my proximity only made things worse. Still, he was unbelievably sweet, and I often got the feeling that he watched me not with intent to guard the world from me… but rather to guard me from the world.

"Then, I was selected for my Harrowing." Her smile faded. "As you may know from your own training, it is a process we must go through, to weed out those apprentices without the mental acuity to become full magi. The Templars take the selected mage apprentice out of bed in the middle of the night and bring them up to the top of the Tower. There wait a number of mages, including the First Enchanter, and a greater number of Templars. One of those Templars is afforded a spot right next to the magical font where the ritual will take place, and it is he or she who is tasked with the duty of slitting your throat should you fail the Harrowing and fall to the demons of the Fade… or even if you simply take too long."

Alistair was staring at her, wide-eyed.

"When I walked into the Harrowing chamber, my stomach all tangled with nerves and my mind abuzz trying to dredge up every little magical fact I'd ever learned… I crested the stairs to see Cullen standing next to the font. The look on his face as I approached… he was so very frightened. His eyes were pleading with me to be strong enough for this, but he was also proud. Of me, for being afforded this chance. It was that which made me set aside all the theoretical babble that my mind was tangled up in, and to forget the fact that, for all my good grades, my actual spell abilities were really not strong enough to warrant a Harrowing, and to instead simply dive in and do it.

"It was only afterwards, as I was moving my things to my new quarters with the other mages, that Cullen finally came in and said it. He stopped by to help me carry my belongings to my new room and, over the course of four trips, confessed that he had always had a crush on me, and that he had been so relieved not to have to kill me that he simply had to let me know so, as a point of honor."

She smiled fondly at the memory of Cullen's flustered face as the words tumbled out of him, occasionally stuttering and uncertain, but still carrying their own brand of assurance and strength.

"And that's when you got together?" Alistair asked.

"Oh, no! No; I hadn't previously even considered the possibility, though he was certainly kind and handsome enough. But Cullen was always very dutiful, and would not have accepted any actual actions on such feelings. Even as I warmed to the idea over the next weeks, he refused to acknowledge me and took pains to avoid me, obviously embarrassed over his slip. It seemed that every time I turned around, I was catching glimpses of him escaping around a corner in the other direction."

"So you found the one thing a mage can do to truly frighten a Templar," Morrigan's voice said. Even she had paused in her foraging to listen. "Bravo. I think I shall have to try that." She eyed Alistair pointedly.

"Don't even think about it," the ex-Templar said.

"Still," Morrigan continued. "I take it you must have forced a confrontation at some point, since this Templar of yours was obviously too much of a scared little boy to do it himself."

"I did." Felicity felt her cheeks flare up again, wondering why she was saying all of this. To make it hurt less, perhaps? "By this time, I had realized that I reciprocated his fondness, and thus thought it unproductive for the two of us to stumble over ourselves avoiding the subject. So, I cornered him while he was on nocturnal storeroom duty—a relatively secluded post—and… forced an acknowledgement of our mutual affections."

"What," Alistair said sharply, "did you walk up and kiss him or something?"

Felicity felt her face go so hot that she wished she was any good at ice magic, just to cool it. Morrigan burst out laughing.

"You… did, didn't you?" Alistair's expression was incredulous. "You, a mage, walked up to an on-duty Templar and laid one right on his lips! Felicity, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

She tried to will her blush away. "It's not as if I made a habit out of doing such things."

"If anyone had seen you…!"

"I know, Alistair. Cullen said much the same thing." He'd been both horrified and delighted by the kiss. Felicity could remember his strong hands resting uncertainly on her upper arms. "But as I assured him, I had made quite certain that we were alone, for the moment, and, unless he intended to do something quite a bit more involved, we would notice someone coming in long before they noticed us." She smiled. "He turned completely scarlet at the mere words."

"Frustration over your insanity, no doubt," Alistair grumbled. "A Templar, of all people."

"Cullen was hardly just any Templar. He was different." Felicity's face was burning. "Besides… don't you think it isn't a little romantic? A mage and a Templar, caught betwixt duty and forbidden love."

"Romantic?" Morrigan scoffed. "Try disturbing."

Felicity twisted the sleeves of her robe. It was in dire need of a good wash, she noted. "After that first kiss, things got away from us, a bit. We never set up any formal meetings or anything… but the Tower was only so large, and thus we certainly ran into one another from time to time. And when we did, his protestations about duty and his vows as well as my own resolution not to let him distract me from my studies were thrown aside. Our eyes would meet this certain way, and then we'd be stealing off behind a bookcase for a kiss, or ducking into an alcove for an embrace. It went on like that for months.

"And then, the rumors started. They were innocuous at first, and no one paid them much mind, since mages are awful gossips. But then, Cullen was called into the Knight-Commander's office and given a stern lecture about the dangers of mages and the importance of duty. He told me later that no names were mentioned, but it was obvious that Greagoir had heard something.

"And so, as the whole thing was my fault in the first place for drawing him into it, I realized it was my duty to push him back out. All it would take was for us to get a little sloppy, and we would be found out. Discovery was something neither of us could risk."

Alistair nodded. "He would have been ejected from the order, and you…"

"Precisely. So, when I realized that the two of us could never work…" She sighed, the next part making her heart sink. "…I called it off. I told him I could not afford the distraction, and it was better if we both forgot anything had ever happened. It broke his heart." She bit her lip. "I don't think he ever did forgive me."

"And he was still stationed at the Tower after that, wasn't he? Talk about awkward," Alistair joked wryly.

Felicity winced. "I… yes, it certainly was. In all honesty, shortly after our… falling out, word came that King Cailan was summoning mages to Ostagar. I wanted to go, because it would mean not having to pass him in the hall every day and pretend I couldn't detect the hurt under his helmet.

"And so, I studied. For weeks, I pored through the libraries and absorbed everything I could about darkspawn, and battle tactics, and anything remotely useful. I made my intentions clear to several of the senior enchanters, and most of them agreed that such things would certainly come in handy. However, in the end, I was simply not a strong enough spellcaster to go along. I never had been."

"Felicity..."

"But then Duncan asked me to join the Wardens, and I jumped on the chance. It would take me away, completely and utterly. No more Templars. No more mage politics. No more him, still watching over me like a fool even though I knew it pained him to do so now." She shook her head and sighed, staring down at her sleeves.

"Would you go back?" Alistair asked softly. "To start again with him, I mean, since you're a Grey Warden now?"

Felicity thought about that. She supposed that, yes, she was no longer technically under the Templars' authority. It wouldn't have been quite as taboo to involve herself with Cullen now, though it certainly still would have violated his vows. Still, not the world-rocking, career-ending kind of violation. Now that she was a Grey Warden, she and Cullen could have had something of a future together.

At long last, she shook her head. "No. Setting aside the fact that I can hardly afford the distraction, what with the oncoming Blight, I suspect this entire ordeal has had its toll on me, and will only continue to do so over the course of it. I'm not the same studious apprentice he stuttered over in the Tower halls, and I wouldn't pretend to be."

Alistair cracked a smile. "Well, if it helps any—which it probably won't—I can't really say I much care about that Felicity. I like the one who's right here."

Behind them, Morrigan muttered something and stalked ahead.

Felicity felt her blush shoot up to the tips of her hair. "Th-thank you. That's very sweet of you to say."

Alistair shrugged, but that lopsided grin was in full effect. "You heal me when monsters stab me. That's not kindness… it's self preservation."

She laughed and turned to continue picking herbs. "Then, thank you. That's a very selfish, shrewd thing of you to say, and you should be ashamed of yourself. You're a bad person, Alistair."

"Wardens-" Morrigan's voice called.

"At least I didn't use my feminine wiles to corrupt some poor Templar," he teased.

"I suspect, Alistair, that 'feminine wiles' hinge upon the status of one being female. Therefore, if you had, I would be rather disturbed."

"Oh, no you would not. You'd be fascinated; try to figure out how I worked. You'd probably try to dissect me or something."

Felicity paused at that, then shot him her best approximation of a sly grin. The way he was grinning back, it was like the two of them were the only people in the world. "You know, you may be right."

("Wardens!")

Alistair clasped his hands to his chest. "Maker, save me from the curiosity of Felicity Amell! I promise, I will forever be boring and predictable, if it will keep her dirty magey hands off me!"

"Oh hush. You could never be boring." As soon as she said it, her face flushed… again.

Alistair paused in his jesting to give her a quizzical smile. "You… you think so?"

"Oh, for the love of-" Morrigan's voice shouted from up ahead, a frantic note in it. "BEARS, YOU MORONS. BEARS!"

Felicity and Alistair whirled, and only then did they see the pair of large brown bears that were bearing down upon them from across a clearing. One charged right through Morrigan, and if she hadn't transformed into a cloud of insects, she would certainly have been crushed.

The other came for them, and Alistair's switch into battle mode was absolutely breath-taking. His sword and shield sprang into his hands, and suddenly the laughing jokester was gone, replaced with a strong, protective knight. His arm swept back to move Felicity firmly behind him, and then he set his feet in the ground to receive the bear's charge.

It lumbered up, roaring low in its throat as it rose onto its hind legs in front of them. Then, it let itself fall on top of the man. Felicity focused what healing magic she could, and began knitting his wounds from a distance, even as the bear's claws bit through his armor.

Finally, Alistair managed to kick and wiggle his way free. He rolled away, and then jumped right back in. Felicity risked a look over at the other bear. It was caught in a swarm of insects, but didn't seem to be particularly hurt by it.

The bear Alistair was fighting bayed in pain, and Felicity turned back to see that Alistair was repeatedly bashing his shield against its snout, disorienting it. He slashed at its hide, but his sword did not seem to be having much effect. Even worse, the other bear heard its fellow's cry and started lumbering toward them, ignoring the flies.

Felicity turned and shot a spell-bolt at it, but the bolt was as weak as all of her offensive spells, and that only seemed to provoke the creature. It turned toward her and ran at her at a full-on charge. She could only watch, frozen in horror as the gigantic mountain of fur bore down on her.

"FELICITY!" Alistair fought to step to her aid, but his own opponent knocked him aside.

Felicity shot another bolt at the charging bear, but the spell fizzled harmlessly against its fur. Three more bounds, and she would be crushed beneath its massive paws. Two more.

One more.

There was a rumbling bark, and a blur sprang out of the foliage and attached itself to the bear's neck. The bear roared and drew back on its hindquarters, close enough that Felicity could feel the spittle falling from its mouth. Hanging from the bear's throat by a powerful set of jaws was a gigantic, filthy mabari.

It couldn't be!

The dog growled and tightened its jaws, even as the bear thrashed and pounded at it. It seemed that the dog was weakening… but then a giant spider crawled up onto its back and added its own mandibles to the bear's throat. Between the two of them, the bear tumbled down with a final sputtering growl.

Alistair, meanwhile, was still fighting off his bear. His right arm and back were a mess of scratches where the bear's strong claws had broken straight through his armor. Still, they were largely superficial wounds, and a burst of healing magic knit them up without any fuss.

The warrior's sword plunged deep into the bear's hide, even as the Morrigan-spider spit a glob of web into its face. The bear tossed about, but finally went down as Alistair smashed his shield over its head one more time. Finally, gasping for breath and splattered in blood, Alistair stepped back and noticed the dog.

"Andraste's knickers… Hugo?"

The mabari hound raised his head, his tail wagging tiredly. Then, he whimpered and collapsed. Felicity and Alistair both rushed over to meet him.

"Ugh. What is that thing?"

"This thing, Morrigan," Alistair bit out as Felicity knelt to inspect the dog, "just saved our collective hides. So shut up for once, would you?"

Felicity ran her hands along the dog's back, regretting that she had never really studied canine anatomy. Hugo was an absolute mess… his fur was matted and burned, and caked with blood both black and brown. His hide was covered in a patchwork of scratches, many more than a week old from the look of it. Still, she couldn't feel any broken bones, as far as she could tell. And when she ran a hand along his snout to check for bruising, his tongue snaked out to lick her hand.

Experimentally, she sent a burst of healing magic into him, and was surprised as it rushed through him as easily as any human, closing many of his worse wounds. The dog startled at the sensation, its head popping up with a growl.

"Easy, Hugo. I'm healing you. We can't take you back to Percival with you in this state."

At the mention of his master's name, the dog's ears perked, and he abruptly jumped up with a happy bark. His tongue lolled out.

"I wonder where he's been all this time," Alistair said, studying the dog.

Felicity only shook her head helplessly and scratched the dog behind the ears, sending more healing magic into him as she did so. Then, she wiped her hand on her robes. "All I can say is that, wherever it was, it was filthy. Let's stop by the stream before we take him back to Lothering, and see if we can't wash some of this off."

"That," Alistair laughed, "sounds like an excellent idea. And since it's your idea, you can be the one to wash him."

"Alistair, I can not say enough how very chivalrous and gentlemanly you are."

"I do try."

"Somebody kill me," Morrigan groaned.

Hugo barked happily, and followed the rest of them as they turned back to Lothering.

Chapter Text

As if the Leliana person couldn't get any more obnoxious… it turned out she sang, too.

Kazar glared across the camp at her, wondering if he could make her burst into flames without being too obvious about it. She was currently singing for a bunch of the refugee children, who were gathered around her feet like ants over a dropped sweet. The songs were all stupid ones, about talking animals and griffon-riding warriors and, of course, Andraste.

They were all children's songs, Kazar thought. Though, if he'd ever known any of those, he certainly couldn't remember them. Who'd want to anyway? They were completely inane.

The Warden camp had become something of a curiosity among the refugees since their arrival in Lothering. To some, the Wardens offered hope. To others, the Wardens offered somebody to blame. To still others, the Wardens offered a pretty good bounty if collected, though Sten's greatsword and Garott's various well-hidden traps tended to dissuade that last group from actually acting upon it.

Kazar sat near the firepit in the afternoon sun, helping Garott and Finian sort through the many objects they'd salvaged from the abandoned belongings scattered around the village… and perhaps from some of the not-so-abandoned belongings, knowing those two.

At least, Garott was sorting through the findings, his face heavy with concentration as he picked up bits of seemingly useless scrap metal and set them carefully aside into a separate pile. It was more of the dwarf's strange compulsion that Kazar had noticed long ago. Now, Kazar figured that Garott must use such things for the traps that currently kept scavengers from getting into their camp.

Finian, however, watched Leliana, and he looked fascinated. Every once in a while, he'd hum along to a snippet the bard was singing, and Kazar had to fight with himself not to blast the other elf in the face in annoyance. The only thing stopping him was the fact that they'd spent three days here, waiting for Finian to heal. Kazar didn't need to make it longer. No matter how much he wanted to.

Percy sat about four feet away from them, working on sharpening Marnan's axe. Next to him was a stack of armor and weapons that were in dire need of upkeep. Kazar didn't really understand how such things worked, since the only upkeep a mage needed to worry about was making sure he didn't waste all his magic on one spell.

Included in Percy's stack were the suits of armor they'd scrounged up for Sten and Leliana. Sten's armor was mostly the castoffs of the Lothering bann's garrison, while Leliana's leathers had required some finagling on Fin's part with a rather ornery merchant. Kazar didn't get the point of going through so much trouble to get the bard armor when they let Meila strut around in practically her smallclothes. The Dalish elf's bare belly-button was just asking for a lightning bolt in it.

The Dalish elf was out of camp on another hunting trip, and Felicity, Morrigan, and the Templar had left to go collect herbs. Marnan was in town—something about helping the Chantry track down a missing amulet. Kazar honestly didn't care.

Sten stood at the edge of the camp, stiff and silent. Just like he'd been the last couple days. The Qunari was creepy, as far as Kazar was concerned. He was just so… cold. Kazar didn't really understand cold people, being an elf of passion himself. And what he didn't understand, he liked to blow up in a ball of fire. Except no one was letting him do that. Ugh, it was just like being back in the Tower. When could he go back to killing darkspawn?

"Do you think it takes long to learn that?"

Kazar, Garott, and Percival all looked up at the sound of Fin's voice. He was still staring at the damned bard. Kazar turned back to his work.

"Learn what, elf?" Garott asked. By the Fade, every time the dwarf said that word, Kazar's hackles rose. How would he like it if Kazar said 'duster' all the time?

Finian waved a hand in Leliana's direction. "That. The storytelling. The songs. And of course, the musical instruments." Finian positioned his hands as if strumming an invisible lute, his infamously nimble fingers dancing over imaginary strings. "To inspire through song, and evoke joy or sadness with a well-placed note."

Garott snorted a laugh. "Something tells me you'd be a natural at it."

Fin turned guileless brown eyes to the dwarf. "You think so?"

"Assuming you can carry a tune, of course."

Finian grinned and turned back toward their supposed work. Then, he started humming.

"That wasn't an invitation," Kazar snapped.

"You can sing along, too, if you want," Finian said with a smile that made Kazar want to kick him.

"No, I can't."

At that, Garott chuckled. "Can't sing, eh?"

"I sing fine. Musical studies is one of the cultural classes we were forced to take at the Tower." Kazar looked away from them, glaring at Leliana as he said, more quietly, "I just don't know any of these songs."

Finian actually laughed. "Everyone knows these songs. Right, Percy?"

The noble nodded distractedly. "My caretaker, Nan, especially loved the ones where naughty little boys had nasty things happen to them." He smiled softly. "Can't imagine why."

"Well I. Don't," Kazar bit out through clenched teeth.

Something in his voice made the others turn to look at them.

Finian was immediately soothing. "Well, what songs do you know?"

Kazar shrugged, staring into the firepit. "The great Tevinter cantatas. The twelve symphonies of Val Royeaux. And more of the Chant than I really tried to remember."

Finian looked taken aback. "Those aren't children's songs. Surely, you were-"

"I don't know."

"But what did your mother-"

"I don't know." Anger flared through him.

"But how could you-"

He spun on the nosy twit, magic flaring hot and wild in his hands. "Because I don't remember my mother!"

The three of them were silent, even Garott's face registering shock at that statement.

"I was brought to the Tower when I was four. So no, I don't know any fucking children's songs. Now stop. Talking. About it."

And so they did, the four of them falling into a silence that Kazar might have thought awkward, if he hadn't been so relieved. At least Finian wasn't humming along anymore.

It was only after about ten minutes that their silence was broken, when a bark could be heard above the singing of the children and bard.

Percival's head shot up. "Was that…?"

"A dog?" Garott finished with amusement. "I didn't know what a dog was before Ostagar, but I'd've thought you would."

"No, that's not it." Percival set aside the cuirass he'd been working on and stood. "I'd recognize that bark anywhere… but how could that be?"

As if on cue, a gigantic, wet dog bounded out of the brush. It slid to a stop at the edge of camp, barked once, and then barreled straight into Percy, knocking him into the dirt.

"Maker's breath! Hugo!"

While the noble was being mauled by an overzealous mabari, Alistair emerged from the treeline near where the dog had come from, followed shortly by Felicity and Morrigan. They were all as wet as the mabari, but the grins on Alistair's and Felicity's faces were self-satisfied.

"Oh, thank you, Maker," Percival muttered. "You're all right. Thank the Maker you're all right." He clung onto the dog, water and all, and Kazar was taken aback to notice that the nobleman was actually weeping. Seriously? Over a dog?

Kazar missed the Percival Cousland who had called Andraste a madwoman. That guy, at least, had had some fortitude.

"I think he was waiting for the right dramatic moment to show up," Alistair said cheerfully as the trio drew even with them. "So that, when Felicity needed saving from being mauled by a bear, he could leap out of the bushes and maul that bear right back."

"You were mauled by a bear?" Finian asked Felicity, eyebrows high.

"Actually, there were two of them," Felicity said. "Though Alistair rather selfishly kept one all to himself."

"You know me," said the Templar. "I'm selfish like that. Felicity says I'm a bad person."

Felicity nodded sagely, and then they both laughed. Kazar silently groaned, because this looked to be the beginning of some sort of unholy pact between the two. They were bad enough individually.

Percival sat up, but he still had one arm wrapped around the dog. "Thank you, both of you. And Morrigan."

"Twas no doing of mine," she said dismissively. "Although now that I know the mangy creature is yours and not Alistair's, I find myself far less repulsed by it."

"He's not mangy," Alistair said, leaning down to make a truly disgusting face at the dog. "Are you, boy?"

"Even so," Percival said, smiling at both of them (wait, smiling?), "I can't possibly express how much it means to me, to have Hugo here again." He turned to the dog and said in mock reproach. "You do realize you're never leaving my sight again, I assume?"

The dog wagged its tail and barked.

"I didn't know you had a mabari," Leliana's voice said, and the bard came to stand next to Percival, her lute slung over her shoulder. The children she'd been singing to were dispersing, sped along by Kazar's glares at them. "Oh, he's cute!"

Hugo's tongue lolled out.

"Don't let him hear you say that too often. It'll go to his head." Percy rubbed behind the dog's ears. "And yes, I've had him since we were both pups."

"I sense a story!" The bard sat down next to the pair, reaching out to pet the dog as well. This seemed to be a cue for the rest of them to settle in. Alistair sprawled out on Leliana's other side, and Felicity knelt over Garott's pile to investigate their findings. Morrigan, Kazar noticed, hovered behind Percival, her lips drawn in a thin line.

"Well, there is a bit of one, I suppose." Percy smiled wryly, rubbing the stubble on his chin with the hand not clutching the dog. "I got him when I was thirteen, although 'got' is probably not the right term…" He shook his head and continued. "You see, the kennelmaster's favorite hunting hound had just given birth to nine healthy, purebred mabari puppies. It was all he ever talked about: how strong they all were, and what good things they'd do for our defenses. And so, being a curious sort of lad, I wanted to see them.

"Thing was, that wasn't exactly allowed. Mabari puppies are fiercely sensitive to the imprinting process. Not even the kennelmaster can come near them for those first weeks, or else they imprint on him and don't nurse correctly. So they have to leave the bitch alone with the puppies, and then walk the potential trainers into the kennels so the dogs will imprint on them. Hopefully, anyway. Mabaris can be notoriously picky." Again, Percy scratched his hound fondly behind the ears, and the dog barked contentedly.

"Well, I'd never been one to let little things like rules and logic stop me from exploring. So, one night, I snuck out of my room and crept down to the kennels. They kept nursing mabari in a back room behind the others, so I snuck in there and opened the door just a crack. Just to peek. By the light of my torch, I could see the mother, sleeping on a pillow, a bunch of soft little shapes cuddled up next to her. It was strange to me, that such big, powerful dogs could start out so small and soft. Curiosity satisfied, I closed the door and turned to go… but then I felt the softest little tug on my ankle."

Leliana covered her mouth, giggling. Everyone else seemed to be fully into the story, too. Kazar, despite himself, found his curiosity piqued.

"I looked down, only to see a tiny mabari puppy, no bigger than a cantaloupe, gnawing on the bottom of my pajama pants."

"He snuck out while the door was open?" Finian asked.

Percy shrugged. "I can only assume so. Obviously, I panicked. This was the kennelmaster's prize litter, and I had inadvertently let one out of the room. I reached down and grabbed hold of him, but it took me a while to pry him off my trousers. And then, as I picked him up, he only latched onto my thumb." Percy rubbed at his right thumb, looking at Hugo fondly. "Strong jaws, even back then."

Sten, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye, made a low "hm" sound. Kazar jumped and stared at the giant suspiciously as Percy went on. Again, creepy.

"I rushed back to the room and opened the door, but when I tried to put him down, he wouldn't let go. I managed to pull him off, but as soon as I set him on the ground, he ran back out again. I tried to get a hold of him again, but he just kept running around me and then latched right back onto my pant leg. I practically had to kick him back into the room before I finally managed to get the door closed with him on the other side of it.

"I snuck back to my room with my heart in my throat, now more sure than ever that I didn't want to get caught. But no one was up, so I got back to my room safely, and soon forgot about the entire thing."

"Except you were imprinted," Alistair guessed with a smirk.

Percival nodded. "A couple weeks later, the kennelmaster started going about imprinting the dogs. The knights who wanted a hound could go in first, followed by the rest of the Cousland garrison. Those that were lucky would get one right away, otherwise they would simply have to try again with the next litter. But after a couple days, some of the dogs just wouldn't imprint. This wasn't unusual, since some mabari are pickier than others. So, the kennelmaster decided to walk the unbonded dogs through the castle and see if any of the men struck their fancy. I happened to be in the courtyard with Father, Fergus, and a couple of my father's men, practicing my swordwork at the time.

"And so, when the kennelmaster came out into the courtyard with the unbonded dogs, one of the puppies started going crazy. He barked and wagged his tail, and generally acted how a mabari usually does after a long separation from its master."

"Kind of like how he did just now?" Finian teased.

"As a matter of fact, yes. The thing was, that reaction was very obviously the action of a dog that had already been imprinted. The kennelmaster was confused, because this puppy in particular had shown no interest in any of the possible candidates. Still, he went ahead and untied the dog's leash.

"And so, imagine everyone's shock when the puppy bounded straight up to me while I was in the middle of a drill and barked in greeting, tail wagging. Next thing I knew, everyone burst out laughing. I'd gotten a bit of a reputation as a miscreant by that time, so it was immediately obvious to everyone what had happened." Percival's smile was wide and warm with memory. "My father had to drag me to my mother so that she could scold me, because he was laughing too hard to properly pull it off himself."

"Percy," Finian chuckled, "I had no idea you were such a trouble-maker."

"Nor I..." Morrigan mumbled thoughtfully.

Percival shrugged. "I probably could have given even you a run for your money, elf, back when I was at my worst. Father always said the Maker made me the perfect second son."

He and several others laughed. Kazar just scoffed, admitting silently to himself that perhaps he just didn't get the joke. And it didn't help his temper at all that Cousland was now saying the "e" word too.

"You're lucky you got to keep the dog," Alistair said mournfully. "Imprinted or not, where I grew up, my caretaker's wife would have whisked the puppy away, that's for sure."

Felicity's head popped up. "That's terrible!" Kazar twitched. Hello, Circle Tower, much?

"I can't really blame her or anything," Alistair said with a shrug. "See, I was a bastard without a father, and Arl Eamon took me in and raised me. I'm pretty sure she was worried I was Eamon's son."

"But to not let you have a puppy..."

Kazar threw his head back and groaned. "By the Fade, can we stop talking about the damn dog?!"

Alistair gave him a sour look. "You're just upset you never got one either."

"No, I'm sick of listening to all these life stories!" He couldn't take it any more. "Just, all of you shut up!" Magic surged through him, unbidden. "Just shut up!"

"Kazar!" Fucking Felicity.

"No, just no! What are all of you, priests taking confessions? If I have to hear one more person talk about their parents, or their cousins, or some bleeding heart noble who took them in, I am going to personally make every last child in this town explode, just out of spite! ARGH!" He could feel the torrent inside him surging through, and so he blasted a puff of fire into the firepit and turned to storm off into the forest.

Footsteps scurried behind him. "Kazar, wait!" Felicity's voice called.

He whirled around and shot a fireball, and only Felicity swiftly erecting a spell shield saved her face from being burned off. She stared at him from behind the shield in shock.

"Stop, Amell. Just stop it. You are not some older sister who has to loom over me all the time, scolding me for cursing or chewing with my mouth open. I don't want you in my life, so back the fuck off." Kazar turned back around and continued toward the treeline. "Call me when we cut this psychobabble shit and get back to killing darkspawn."

The silence rang heavy behind him as he delved into the forest. Only when he was out of sight, and he was sure he wasn't being followed, did he let the magic in his hands go.

He felt… drained, and it had nothing to do with his magic. It was exhausting, being so upset… but why was he so angry? Gah, he never liked to analyze his own reactions to things. Doing so made him uncomfortable.

He wandered his way through the woods until he found the stream that curved around to pass through the town. Here, it was fifteen feet wide, the cool, clear water rushing past. He leaned down to splash some water on his face, hoping it would refresh him. All it ended up doing was make him notice his reflection.

The Circle Tower didn't have a lot of mirrors. Vanity wasn't the sort of thing the Chantry approved of, so the apprentices tended to rely on their friends and bunkmates to tell them when they had a pimple or were looking exceptionally ugly that day. For that reason, Kazar's reflection always surprised him a little.

He looked like an elf. It used to catch him off guard, when people referred to his race, but now he supposed it was what most people who didn't know him saw. His ears stuck out proud and pointed from among the spikey mess of his strawberry blond hair. His hair was getting a little long… it was starting to get in his eyes. He usually asked Jowan to cut it by now.

His face was still a field of fiery tattoos, and that, after the elf thing, was the first and only thing most people ever noticed about him. He preferred it that way, because otherwise they'd notice the soft lines of his face, or the delicate point of his nose, or his grey eyes that had occasionally been compared to a woman's. Blast it, if anyone ever called him 'pretty' again, he'd throw up. And then he'd turn them to stone.

There was a noise across the stream, and Kazar looked up to see Meila picking her way along the opposite bank, her belt laden with various grouses. He wondered what she saw when she deigned to look at him. It wouldn't be the fact that he was an elf… at least not in any way that the others did. And probably not the tattoos, either… she had to be used to face tattoos, being Dalish. So what did she see? A mage? Or a kid? Or something else completely?

And why did he care?

"Oh, thank the Maker. Other elves. And here I was worried we'd have to avoid more humans"

Kazar spun his head, and saw an elven woman emerging from the trees, a crate of dishes clasped in her arms. Behind her was a young girl with her hair all done up in braids. The girl carried a bundle of dirty cloth, likely laundry. Both woman and child were looking from Kazar to Meila and back, relief on their faces.

Meila, who had been studying the ground directly across the stream from Kazar, stood up straight and said, "Andaran atish'an." Kazar thought that might have been a greeting. "Have the humans in camp been giving you trouble?"

"Oh, no. Nothing more than the usual. Still, it makes doing the laundry uncomfortable, to have them leering at us. As if we don't have the right to wear clean clothes, too."

The woman knelt down next to the stream. The girl openly stared at both of them, standing just behind the woman's shoulder. Mother and daughter, Kazar realized with a pang.

"Then don't let them leer," Kazar snapped, standing up from the stream. "If someone gives you a hard time, you stand up and give it right back."

The woman's eyes widened. "Oh no, we dare not do that. It may be different where you're from, but here among the humans, elves have been put in prison for less."

"Why?!" Kazar cried, no longer able to contain his building frustration over the entire matter. "Human or elven, what does it matter?! It's just the blasted shape of our ears!"

The mother and child stared at him in awe. Meila, however, looked utterly horrified, which Kazar supposed was an improvement over her usual wall of ice.

"Is that truly all you think we are?" Meila asked slowly, as if having difficulty processing that. "Shemlen with pointed ears? Do you not know of your own history?"

"History is dead and gone," he spat back. "I don't see how it matters either way."

"But… have you no sense of heritage?"

He threw his hands up in the air. "What do you want me to say? That I've always longed for the kinship of other elves? Because I haven't, Meila. There were only a handful of us in the Tower, and the only thing—the only thing—we had in common was the fact that we had to work twice as hard as any of the humans to gain any respect, all because of your so-called 'heritage'. My sense of identity lies in the fact that I am a mage, and a damn formidable one. I don't need any inane 'kinship' from strangers who happen to have the same ear shape."

He spun and started away from the stream (he grew so tired of storming off), but he heard Meila hiss something in a dead language behind him, and then she was suddenly in front of him, blocking his path.

Her feet weren't even wet from crossing the stream… how had she done that?

"And what of when that magic fails you, da'lethallin? What are you then?"

"It won't," he growled, though the memory of Greagoir's hand on his neck, snuffing out his magic, sprang to the forefront of his mind.

"Magic is what you do, not what you are. I do hunting, and that perhaps makes me a hunter. But I am a member of the Sabrae Clan of the Dalish, and I am one of the elvhen, and I am one of the chosen of Andruil. These are core parts of my being that cannot be taken from me by any means. Can you say the same, da'lethallin?"

He couldn't, not with the renewed memory of Templar anti-magic dancing in his mind. So, instead, he focused on something else. "Stop using that language! It's dead! Why don't you understand that it's dead?!"

She started away, approaching the elves who still watched them from beside the stream. "It will not be dead so long as there are those among us who remember," she said firmly. "As you, obviously, do not."

"Neither do you! You're not some immortal keeper of ancient lost knowledge! You're, what, ten years older than me? Tops?"

Meila did not answer right away. Instead, she offered one of the kills at her belt to the woman. Only after the woman had nodded her thanks did Meila turn back to regard Kazar. Now, there was actually some expression in those usually-stony eyes. Sadness. And pity.

It was ridiculous. No one pitied him. The things he did warranted respect and fear, not pity.

"Perhaps it is that you do not knowwhat it is to be one of the elvhen. But whether you acknowledge or not, da'lethallin, you are, and it will always be so. "

"What does that word mean?" the nameless elven woman asked.

"'Little cousin'," Meila answered, not taking her eyes off Kazar. "For kin is what we are, whether he accepts it or not. He does not need to face everything alone."

A knot was tightening in his throat. Like a noose. "I don't need your kinship."

"Yes, da'lethallin. I think you do."

He wanted to blast her, but he couldn't seem to summon the appropriate anger to do so. So instead, he spun on his heel and stormed off into the forest, away from her pity and her kinship and her stupid dead language that rang true with something distant and faded inside him. And if his storming looked more like running after a while, no one was there to see it. And if that burning in his eyes hinted at tears threatening to fall, well… he would vehemently deny it later, even to himself.

Chapter Text

"So, there is an entirely logical way that I have deduced to go about this," Felicity said, sitting down on a flat patch of dirt near the campfire. She carefully unrolled the map (drawn on hide courtesy of Meila, of course) she had been working diligently on the last few days, revealing a completed map of Ferelden.

Percival knelt down with the others, marveling at how much detail the mage had been able to infuse into it, from the various curves of the rivers to the smaller keeps of the Bannorn. Percival's eyes lingered on the far northern dot of Highever.

Finian's fingers danced along the coastline. "Did you draw this entire thing from memory?"

Felicity flushed. "Well, yes. So it's probably off in several details. However, the major points of interest should be accurate enough for our purposes."

Marnan nodded and sat across the map from the mage. "So what is your idea?" The rest of them were circled around the map, firelight flickering off the faces of eight Wardens, three companions, and a dog. Percival knelt between Marnan and Hugo, fingers idly buried in the scruff of the dog's neck.

Having Hugo back was a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders. Hugo was now his oldest friend, and remained the only link he had to his past. Percy had gotten better since those first days after the tragedy in Highever, but it seemed that the presence of his loyal hound made the transition to this strange new life much more bearable.

Percy didn't care if he had to carry the mabari on his back… this dog was never leaving his side again.

"Well," Felicity said, looking flustered, "it's obvious, isn't it? We have three treaties, plus an additional possibility that Alistair has suggested, and a limited amount of time before the Blight gains too much strength. Four destinations; eight Wardens. Therefore, we split into groups of two, divided according to who each pair would be best suited to convince, and bring the applicable treaty and any willing allies to the intended destination." Felicity leaned over the map and pointed to each location in turn as she listed them off. "Garott and Marnan to Orzammar, Kazar and myself to the Tower, and Meila and Finian to track down the Dalish rumored to be somewhere in the Brecilian Forest. That leaves Alistair and Percival to go to Redcliffe to investigate Arl Eamon."

"What? No!" Kazar snapped. He'd been quiet since his tantrum a couple days before. Some might even say pensive, if it had been anyone but Kazar. It seemed he had his usual fire back now, anyway… not that Percy was in any position to judge another based on temper. "What makes you think I'm going to the Tower? I'm never going back there, least of all with you."

"Each group is separated by how well they will appeal to the leading power there," Felicity reasoned. "Thus, the dwarves will have the best reception in Orzammar, the Dalish will be more likely to listen to elves, and the enchanters of the Circle know us as former members." Her brow furrowed. "First Enchanter Irving likes you, Kazar. He'll be most likely to listen to you."

"Likes me?! He almost had me Tranquilled!"

Percival jerked to stare at Kazar. Now, that, he hadn't known. And judging by the shocked expressions around the circle, no one else had either.

"There were extenuating circumstances-"

"Bullshit. I'm not going back."

Felicity sighed. "Well, where would you like to go?"

Kazar's eyes flicked toward Meila.

"The Dalish?" Felicity sounded as shocked by that as Percy felt.

"It is true," Meila said, "that my people will be more receptive to elves than to humans—even if those elves are not Dalish. I think it wise that I take only Finian and Kazar with me." Fin, sitting by the map across from Percy, nodded thoughtfully.

Felicity rubbed her hand over her eyes. "But then that leaves me journeying to the Tower by myself. If I were to run into trouble—"

"I will come with you," Leliana burst out, smiling brightly even in the dim light. "I have always wanted to see the inside of a Mage Tower. It will be fun, yes?"

Felicity nodded gratefully. "Although I still worry about what will happen if we run into trouble on the road."

"Then I will come as well," Marnan said, and Percy was once again shocked. In response to the varying questioning looks she received, the dwarven warrior admitted, "I, too, have little desire to return home. There… is nothing for me there. It would only be awkward."

Awkward? How could a homecoming be awkward?

Garott chuckled, and Felicity turned to look up at him. "Then you'll be going to Orzammar as the only Grey Warden… if you want to, that is."

Garott's chuckling became a rumbling laugh. "Of course I want to. I've been dying for the chance to go back and rub my status in the Assembly's collective faces."

Felicity frowned. "You shouldn't go entirely alone."

"And so I won't. Hey, Sten! Wanna come to Orzammar with me?"

The Qunari at the back of the group eyed him for a moment "What will this journey entail?"

"Politicians, probably. But if we get lucky, maybe darkspawn will have overrun the city, and we'll get to bash in some heads."

The Qunari paused, glancing among the other Wardens. Then, he sighed. "Very well."

Felicity nodded, lips pursed, then glanced around at the other Wardens. Her gaze landed on Percival. "You don't mind going with Alistair to Redcliffe, do you?"

Percy shrugged. "Chances are Alistair and I are going to be dealing with nobles. That's my area of expertise, I guess. If Arl Eamon can't be roused, hopefully the words of a Cousland will help keep things from getting too out of control among the Ferelden nobility."

Felicity nodded. "That was my reasoning. That leaves… Morrigan." The healer looked up almost hesitantly at the witch. "Where would you prefer to go, Morrigan?"

"Hmm," the witch hummed, and Percy's hackles rose as her eyes landed on him. Maker's breath, she was like a vulture. One sniff of weakness and she never stopped circling.

"No," Percy snapped, before he could stop himself. "Not with us. Your strangeness will make the situation with the nobles even worse." It was an excuse, and they both knew it.

That mouth of hers was curled into an alluring, knowing smile, yet she said, "Very well then. If I cannot go to the Dalish, and I will not go to the Tower, then it seems I am bound for Orzammar." She stepped smoothly around the circle to stand next to Garott. One of her hands trailed up his arm, and Percy's hackles rose again, albeit for a different reason.

The dwarf grinned. "Glad to have you along," he purred.

The woman was a leech. So why was she still so damned appealing?

"It is settled, then," Marnan said. "Tomorrow morning, we will split up and set out. Garott, Sten, and Morrigan will go to Orzammer. Felicity, Leliana, and myself will head to the Circle. Meila, Finian, and Kazar will seek out the Dalish clan known to currently be wandering the Brecilian Forest. And Alistair and Percival will go to Redcliffe." Hugo barked, and Marnan smiled. "Sorry. Alistair, Percival, and Hugo will go to Redcliffe." She sat back. "The travel times vary, but hopefully the convincing itself will not take long." She turned to Alistair. "Do you think Arl Eamon would mind if we met in Redcliffe when the treaties have been collected upon? It's centralized, and home to a neutral party."

Alistair shrugged. "If he's feeling better, he'll probably actually love the idea. He always did love to have a front row seat."

"Very well. We'll convene back in Redcliffe, then." Marnan looked around. "I don't think I need to tell you all that what we set out to do tomorrow could very well change the course of the Blight, and therefore history."

"No pressure," Alistair said.

"Still, it's pretty epic, isn't it?" Finian said with a grin. "Uniting factions that have stood by themselves for centuries, all under our own broken banner? It's like something out of a story."

Leliana giggled. "I think that's my line."

"Still," Percival said, "whether it ends happily or in tragedy is yet to be seen. Maker knows it began tragic enough already."

"But that's what Grey Wardens do," Finian pressed. "We turn the tide of darkness. 'In War, Victory.'"

Marnan said, "'In Peace, Vigilance.'"

A chorus of voices around the circle finished the motto: "'In Death, Sacrifice.'"

"Until we meet again, my friends," Marnan whispered, "stay strong, and Stone guide you."

With that, they slowly dispersed, heading to their tents or away to begin their watches. Percival stood up and dusted himself off. Finian uncurled nearby, stretching out his previously wounded leg seemingly just because he could.

The elf favored him with a grin. "So… alone on the road with Alistair, huh? Good luck with that."

Percival cast the elf a smile. "At least he's easy to get along with. Even your infamous diplomacy will have trouble keeping the nations of Meila and Kazar from declaring war on one another."

"You're preventing a civil war, and so am I," Finian sighed with mock weariness. "Such is the burden of the Grey Wardens." He paused to look around them. The camp was settling down, now. Marnan and Felicity spoke with heads bowed together by the fire while Garott puttered with his trap kit nearby. Meila stood watch at the edge of the firelight. Everyone else had settled into their tents. "Still," the elf said, "I can't say I'm not excited."

Percy arched a brow at that. "About what, exactly? The Dalish?"

The elf chuckled. "Why do you sound so surprised?" At Percival's quizzical expression, he explained, "Back in the Alienage, the Dalish were this nebulous… thing. An aspiration. When someone ran away from the Alienage, it was to join the Dalish. Like they were this elven paradise we could only aspire to. Even after meeting Meila, it's hard to shake that." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually, especially after meeting Meila."

Percival didn't quite understand. "There were really elves who left the safety of the city for such a meager existence?"

Fin snorted with little humor. "You saw the Alienage. Our existence was already meager."

"But at least it was safe. Alienage elves have stable homes, and work—"

"And they even bathe themselves and only speak when spoken to. Almost as smart as any given mabari." Finian was looking at him, his smile gone. "It was a cage, Percy. And it kind of hurts to hear that you think it a fitting one."

Fear curled tight in Percy as he looked at the disappointment in the elf's eyes. "That's not what I meant…"

"No, it's not what you meant to say." Finian sighed, playing with his sleeve where Percy knew his dagger sheaths were hidden. "I notice things, you know, about what people say. What people call each other. And you know what you tend to call me? 'Elf'."

Percival felt himself pale, having not realized such a thing himself. "So does Garott."

"Yes, but he means something different by it. He calls me 'elf' in a sort of 'you're an elf; I'm a dwarf; and we're surrounded by humans, so let's commiserate' way. You call me 'elf' in a 'you're an elf, and that makes you different from me' way. Yet you saved me back in the Tower of Ishal, endangering yourself in the process." Finian met his eyes earnestly, and Percy knew Fin's masks well enough by now to detect the pain there. "Percy, what, exactly, am I to you?"

Percival swallowed, having difficulty coming up with an answer that didn't make him sound like a terrible person. He glanced down at Hugo, who looked back up at him quizzically.

It had seemed natural, back at the beginning, to rely on the smiling elf who had so gently drawn him out of his misery. He'd placed himself in the elf's care, because that's what elves always did… they cared for people. He'd had his elf and his dog, and losing either had been unthinkable… that's why he'd panicked when he'd seen Finian crumple back in the Tower of Ishal. Because Finian had been his elf.

His servant. Oh mercy.

When Percy went too long without speaking, Finian smiled. It was gentle and warm… if Percy hadn't seen Fin's expression a moment before he put the mask on, the noble never would have guessed how hurt the pickpocket was.

"You know, Percy. I'm pretty good at reading silences, too."

"Fin…"

"It's okay. You've had a lot on your mind. I shouldn't have brought it up." The gentle hand on his arm spoke of forgiveness, but Percy couldn't figure out whether it was genuine or one of the elf's acts.

Maker, stop thinking of him as the elf!

Before he could collect his thoughts on the matter, Finian had excused himself and slipped into his own tent, citing an early departure the next morning. Percy was left frustrated and angry with himself, wondering how he could have let himself hurt the elf like that. And it only made it worse when he realized that most of his guilt was because he was still thinking of Finian like that. It was a lord's duty to protect and see to the happiness of his vassals and servants, after all, as his father had hounded into him time and time again.

It was all a twisted mess of awful emotions, and he found himself longing for that empty pit of grief, because this was a tangle he couldn't hope to control.

And there it was, bubbling beneath all the rest of it: the rage. Except, this time, it wasn't aimed at Howe, or Loghain, or even the Maker. No, this time, the focus of Percival's burning, searing fury was himself. And he knew of no way to let it out as it continued to bubble and build.

Hugo whined, and Percy forced himself to unclench his teeth and take a deep breath. He set about getting ready for the night, going through the motions mechanically while the mess inside him continued to churn. Even after he'd settled into his bedroll and blown out his lamp, he continued to toss around under the surging heat of rage that curdled inside him. He wanted to dash something against the nearest tree, but the current target of this inferno was himself. So he could only grit his teeth and clench the ground until his knuckles turned white, hoping that the fire in his veins would subside on its own.

At some point amidst his tossing and turning, Hugo left the tent. Percy didn't think much of it as he curled in the dark, suspecting the dog would sleep better outside than with him flopping about anyway.

He was therefore surprised when he saw the dog's dark shape return sometime later and move behind him. Percy forced himself to relax, sighing out through his teeth.

Then, a dark chuckle filled the tent. "If this is how aware you continue to be of your surroundings, you will be killed by an assassin ten feet out of camp."

Percy jerked upright violently, getting tangled in the bedroll. "Morrigan!" He ripped at the sheet, trying to free himself as he sputtered, "W-what do you think you're doing here?!"

Her sillhouette was barely discernable in the dim light filtering through the walls of the tent. She lounged, the low light caressing her form and making her skin look warm and more inviting than ever.

Her shadowed smile sent twin bolts of fire through him... one outrage, the other, something else. "Hello, Warden." It burned hotter as she leaned forward and gently touched her hand to his cheek. "One might think you were unhappy to see me." Maker, her scent, wild and distinctly female; he shivered.

He forced himself to jerk back. "Unhand me this instant, or I swear I will tear your hand off."

"Is that a threat, or a promise?" She loomed now, creating a striking sillhouette that struck longing within him. And mercy, her scent… at this proximity, that wild, sharp scent she exuded was utterly intoxicating. He was suddenly having trouble thinking.

"Why…" Focus! "Why the blazes are you in my tent?"

"The proper question, Grey Warden," she said in a tone that was practically a scold, "is why I haven't been in your tent before now. I'm not blind. I know you desire me." She leaned in, her warmth a tangible thing that reminded him of so many pleasurable nights. "And it just so happens that I find you not... unhandsome." A warm hand trailed down his arm from shoulder to elbow, and his flesh prickled in his wake. "'Tis our last night sharing a camp. Why not make the most of it?"

He took a breath to protest, but that damn scent overwhelmed him more completely than any spell could have. His rage faded away, but in its place roared a desire of such intensity that he was taken aback by it. How long had it been since he'd touched a woman like this? Since a woman had touched him?

Morrigan gently guided one of his arms forward, so that his palm sat at the curve of her waist. The skin there was weathered and the muscles taut, yet the flesh was warm and soft in the way that only a woman's could be. So inviting to stroke it… Maker, she was so damnably beautiful.

Unbidden, a soft sound escaped him, and she chuckled and leaned in, her warm breath hitting his lips.

No… no. He couldn't give into this. He'd cast this demon out! Desire had no more hold on him!

Except that was definitely what this was, roaring up inside him.

He shoved Morrigan away from him, struggling to get untangled from his blanket before she could recover. He mustered up the previous anger, because that was the only thing that could combat desire this intense. "How dare you, you witch?!" he spat as he managed to free himself from the bedroll, stoking the flames with his frustration. "What are you playing at, sneaking into my tent in the middle of the night? I knew you were bold, but I wouldn't have pegged you as some wanton trollop!"

"How dare I?" she scoffed, leaning back. In the darkness, Percy could make out the unmistakeable shape of her arms crossing. "I come in here and offer myself on a platter, and you ask 'how dare I'? What would you have me do, wrap myself up in bows like some gift?"

"I'd rather you didn't come in here at all!"

"Now, we both know that's not true." His anger flared. "But you wish to spend the night cold and alone? Have it your way; I won't stop you." She got her feet under her and started toward the entrance. "Perhaps I'd better send the elf in, instead. I doubt you'd turn him away."

His anger suddenly flared, infusing him with white-hot fury, and before he could stop himself, he'd launched himself at the witch. He bore her to the ground, hands shaking with the desire to rip to tear to cause her to hurt… but then her scent wafted over him and something inside him buckled and collapsed and then he was kissing her.

Everything burned. It was fury. It was need. It burned through his body, making him want to do something that he suspected was both horrible and wonderful. His Rage and his Desire had combined into something new: something terrifying.

He grabbed at flesh, fingers pressing in just a bit too hard, to really feel that supple body pinned beneath his. He bit and bruised, and she shuddered beneath him, nails drawing stinging lines across his back, and it was pain and ecstasy all at once.

Amidst the flames that had overtaken him, a thought crossed his addled mind that this wasn't like him. He'd never bedded a woman like this: primal and rough. But then he felt Morrigan's hands at the ties of his trousers, and the thought fluttered away.

He growled low with… something (angerdesirehateneedfuckyes), and he felt Morrigan's sultry chuckle against his cheek. His lust—or was it his fury?—surged through him, and he slammed his mouth over those smirking lips, taking control of that acidic tongue with his own. It made her moan, being forced into submission, and that itself sent another jolt of heat through him.

He was a roaring bonfire, and she the fuel. He devoured her, uncaring for her gasps of pain, unflinching when she bit and scratched and left just as many marks on him as he did her. He took, and he destroyed, and she joined in the primal, mad dance with wild abandon.

The witch of the wilds had awakened a beast, and now it devoured her with all the savagery owed it.

Chapter Text

Their parting of ways the next morning was muted and lacking for lengthy goodbyes, for the most part because each trio packed up and left at different times. Meila kicked a groggy thief and irritable mage awake and marched them out of camp at the crack of dawn. Then, Marnan and Felicity packed in the dewy early morning and Leliana attempted to make breakfast, all while Sten shuffled around them to get the campfire masked. It was only long after the first two groups had left that the rest even stirred.

And if a giant spider skittered out of a certain noble's tent at sometime around midmorning, while the rest were just beginning to awaken, the only one to see it was an uninterested Qunari, who merely glanced at it, sighed, and then went back to eating his biscuit.

Chapter Text

"You know. I think she's lying to us. She's not following trail markers. She's just leading us deeper and deeper into the forest, and then she's going to leave us there to die."

"Kazar, we're not lost."

"No, she's not lost. We, on the other hand, have spent the last two days wandering past what I swear are the same three clusters of trees. We are completely, utterly, absolutely lost, and she knows it. It's all part of her plan to get rid of us."

"I… really can't tell if you're joking."

Meila had long since stopped trying to silence the pair's banter. Still, she could only sigh and lament the loss of all the game they scared off with their noise. She supposed that the Dalish scouts currently lurking among the trees might at least get some entertainment from it. Perhaps that was why they had yet to make themselves known?

She'd sensed the scouts watching the Wardens at camp that morning, and the scouts had been shadowing the party ever since. Still, it was bad form to address them before they were satisfied as to the harmlessness of their group, so Meila continued leading the flat-ears through the Brecilian Forest, following the subtle stacked stones that were meant to lead friendly travelers to a neutral area near the camp.

She supposed she might have lurked overlong, herself, just to listen to the pair's back-and-forth.

"Maybe the whole Dalish thing is a trick, meant to lure us into the woods where no one can hear us scream. Maybe they actually kill other elves. Who would know?"

Finian laughed. "I'd think someone would have noticed a trail of elven corpses, even in the middle of the forest."

"Not if they've got a way to get rid of them. Two words. Demonic. Trees."

"Well, now you're just starting to sound paranoid."

"I'm dead serious. We had a class on this at the Tower. In places where there have been lots of deaths, the Veil wears thin, and demons sneak through. Thing is, they don't always possess people, or even animals. Ergo… demonic trees."

"We call them sylvans, da'lethallin" Meila offered from up front.

"AHA! See? She's totally planning to feed us to one!"

"I think I'll choose this time to point out," Finian laughed, "that, demonic or not, trees are made of wood, which I understand burns even better than darkspawn flesh. If it comes down to it, you'll just have some particularly evil kindling."

Kazar mumbled something, and even Meila had to bite back a smile.

Admittedly, she hadn't held either flat-ear in high regard as they'd set out on the journey. Finian was friendly enough, but soft and used to the ways of the human cities. Still, he was curious and receptive, and seemed genuinely eager for the chance to meet a Dalish clan. Kazar, on the other hand, stubbornly refused to acknowledge the primal yearning that Meila knew plagued him. She could only hope that he didn't choose to take out his frustrations on the innocent elvhen, if only because it would make asking for their aid all the more difficult.

Dalish did not easily give aid to outsiders. That, Meila knew from personal experience on the other side of the exchange.

"Halt, strangers. Come no further."

The flat-ears jerked in surprise at the voice, but Meila only bit back a relieved sigh. At last, the Dalish were showing themselves. She had admittedly begun to worry that they would not do so at all.

"Dar'atisha," Meila bade them, stepping forward to greet the trio of warriors that emerged from the path ahead of them. "I am Meila Mahariel of the Sabrae Clan. I bring Grey Wardens in need of assistance from the Dalish who dwell here."

"You are not of our clan, Meila Mahariel," said the leader, a tall, striking blond woman with a voice as unyielding as the earth. Her bow was steady she leveled it at them. "If you would seek out the Dalish, go to your own clan for aid."

"I cannot." Meila knew that she could not show hesitance to a woman like this. "They have moved north, and are beyond the point where I could get to them in time."

"And yet you did not go with them." The accusation and suspicion were as sharp as any knife.

"I am a Grey Warden. My place is here, to combat the Blight."

Still, the scouts hesitated, and Meila began to get the sinking feeling that something was wrong. This was more than simple caution—they were raising their defenses like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

The hunter to the left of the woman turned to the leader. "Grey Wardens are exceptional at combating evil forces. Perhaps they can help."

"It is not their business," the leader hissed back.

"Is everything all right?" This was Finian's voice, open and caring in the face of defensive hostility. "It's true; we've got a number of skills between us that might give a fresh perspective on whatever your problem might be. And as we desperately need the legendary warriors of the Dales to combat the upcoming Blight, we will do whatever is necessary to secure your safety and health in order to make that possible."

The flat-ear's words seemed to be working. At the least, the scouts lowered their bows. "We have felt the Blight encroaching on the land," the leader said, eying Finian. The flat-ear just grinned, adopting a nonthreatening, yet still confident stance that spoke of hidden strength. Meila wondered whether such a posture was a natural one, or fabrication on the thief's part.

At least his leg had fully healed. It wouldn't have been very convincing to assure the Dalish of their capabilities while sporting a limp.

"Very well, Grey Wardens," the leader said. "I am Mithra, and I will guide you to our camp. Mind yourselves." With that, she turned and began leading them back along the path, cutting through the underbrush with confidence and grace.

As the Wardens fell into step behind her, Meila heard Kazar whisper, "Is is just me, or is Meila totally checking out Mithra?"

"You, my friend," Finian chuckled, "need to learn the meaning of the word 'tact.'"

Meila felt her face go warm, but ignored the flat-ears, instead leading them silently along the path Mithra cut back toward her clan.

When they finally broke through the trees and came upon the camp, it felt like coming home to Meila. Sure, the people were different, and the layout of the tents not one her clan would have used. Yet the scent of the halla… the comforting bulk of the aravels… the sound of the wind whistling through the chimes set over the Keeper's tent… it all made Meila's blood sing with pride and joy.

It seemed, however, that it did not necessarily have the same effect on the flat-ears.

"So this is it?" Kazar's voice asked as soon as they emerged from the trees. "Wow. Tents. How very mystical and ancient."

Finian, on the other hand, stared around with wide eyes. He seemed to be dumbstruck—a state Meila had doubts would last for long.

The men and women of the camp looked up at them as Mithra led them through it, obviously curious about the strangers. Meila nodded to each in greeting, hoping her obvious origin as one of their own might soothe any anxiety as to their intentions.

She also noticed, however, that the overall feeling of the camp was rather subdued, lacking the laughter and playing children her own usually had. She wondered if this was merely a difference between clans, or a signal of something far more sinister.

Then, she no longer had to wonder, as they rounded a copse of trees and came upon the Keeper's tent. Strewn behind it were a dozen pallets, each containing a sickly figure. Meila guessed by the size of the camp that this was a good portion of their population—no wonder they had been so careful about strangers, with their warriors depleted.

"Is this the darkspawn taint?" Meila guessed, her mind going back to her own survival of such. Tamlen hadn't been so lucky.

"No," Mithra said shortly. "It is not darkspawn. Here is the Keeper; he will explain."

Sure enough, a tall, serene man unfolded from among the pallets and approached. His shoulders hung with weariness as he addressed them, but his voice was kind. "Andaran atish'an," the Keeper said. "I am Zathrian. Tell me, strangers: what is your business here?"

"We're Grey Wardens," Finian said, stepping forward. "I'm Finian Tabris, and this is Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana. We've come to seek aid against the Blight."

"Ah, I see." The Keeper cast an eye over his shoulder at the pallets behind him. "I am sorry, but I cannot offer any assistance at the moment. As you can see, we do not have the warriors to spare for such an endeavor."

Kazar scoffed. "We have treaties that say you're traditionally beholden to us. I thought you Dalish were all about tradition."

"We are about more than that, da'len."

"Again with the dead tongue names?"

"I would certainly offer aid if I could, but we barely have the warriors to defend ourselves." He indicated the pallets. "I can not risk more. I am sorry."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Meila asked.

"I would not ask any such thing of outsiders. But perhaps…" He paused thoughtfully. "If you want your warriors, then our problem must first be addressed. If you see fit to help us in this matter, then we will certainly be able to accommodate the Wardens in whatever way they see fit."

Finian grinned. "Just point us at what monster needs killing."

"Hmm. While there certainly is a monster to kill, it will not be so easy as that." The Keeper's eyes roamed over the three of them. "It is no ordinary affliction that plagues my clan. It is one spawned of demonic forces, a darkness that is both vicious and insidious."

"See?" Kazar snorted. "What did I tell you? Demonic trees."

"No, da'len, but close. Very close." He knelt and rooted through a pile of herbal supplies, only to come up with a fang, far too large to belong to any wolf. "You see, my clan is besieged by werewolves."

All three Wardens paled. "You can't be serious," Kazar said weakly.

"So then, all these people…" Meila said, looking behind the Keeper at the ill.

"Have been infected, yes. I… have had to lay many more down, and these will likely be just as unfortunate. However, I have to try to heal them."

"There's no cure?" Finian asked.

"None that I have come upon in my many years." Zathrian sighed. "The only way to save these men—and thus earn your warriors—would be to kill Witherfang, the monster that leads the rest. None of my men have been able to do so, but perhaps you Wardens will prove luckier than they."

Meila exchanged a glance with Finian. The thief's face was taut, but held a note of determination on it that she had rarely seen him carry.

"Very well, hahren," Meila said. "We will hunt down this Witherfang for you."

"And so we're delving back into the forest," Kazar groaned, "full of demonic trees and now werewolves, which, I might add, can turn us into one of their own if they so much as give us a playful nip. All to kill some mega-werewolf, risking health and sanity to get a bunch of archers so we can slay a demon-tainted dragon-god." Kazar paused, then smirked, a ball of fire sparking to life in his hands. "You know what? That sounds like my kind of fun. Point the way, Keeper."

Meila and Finian both smiled as well.

Chapter Text

"So…" Alistair started, "there's something I think I should mention. Before we get to Redcliffe."

Percival looked up at him curiously, but didn't say anything. He hadn't actually spoken much since leaving Lothering. Most of the time, Alistair felt like he was holding a conversation with himself. It made him babble, just a bit.

"Not that it's anything too important… that's why I didn't tell you this before now. But… it might come up."

A smirk twitched at the noble's lips, and Alistair was glad of some sign of humor from the guy. Maker's breath, had he been dour. "You might as well spit it out."

"Well, you remember how I told you I was a bastard," he said in a rush. "My mum being a maid from Redcliffe, and then me being sent off to be raised in the Chantry? Well, there's a bit more to it than that. Turns out…" He trailed off as a familiar rush of tingling trickled into the edge of his senses, and he groaned.

Percival scowled and looked up ahead, apparently feeling it too. "Hold that thought."

"Darkspawn," Alistair grumbled as he, Percival, and the dog took off at a run along the hilly road. "I'm having a dramatic moment, so of course there would be darkspawn."

They could hear the sounds of it, now: the familiar growls and clangs echoing through the hills. Someone cried, "Help!" from up ahead, and the two Wardens put on a burst of speed. Their armor clanged and clattered as they ran, Hugo bounding around the hill ahead of them.

When they rounded the bend in the road, they saw a single, heavily laden cart being set upon by a band of darkspawn. A pair of dwarves stood on top of that cart, one batting any darkspawn who attempted to climb the cart away with a walking staff. The other dwarf… just watched.

Hugo got to the darkspawn first, leaping upon a hurlock mid-climb with jaws gnashing. He tore his quarry off the cart and pinned it to the ground, tearing out its throat.

Percy and Alistair were right behind the mabari. They rounded to opposite ends of the cart with shields and swords raised. Alistair swept in low, knocking two of the creatures off their feet. Then, putting his back to the cart, he went about the bloody business of cutting the creatures into little bits.

It wasn't long before he was surrounded by a mountain of the things. Even so, when he heard one of the dwarves above him cry, "Get back, boy!" he wasted no time in jumping to the man's aid. He slid around the cart, only to see that a pair of genlocks had succeeded in climbing on top of it, with a third halfway up. Alistair put his sword through the one still climbing, then tried to climb up onto the cart himself. It proved more difficult than it looked.

Grumbling, he let his bulky shield drop to the ground, then tried to climb up again. The dwarves were being backed to one corner of the cart, though the elder tried to ward them off with his stick, the younger safely behind him.

Alistair got his foot on one of the wheels and, with a grunt, rolled up onto the edge of the cart. The entire thing rocked, making both dwarves and genlocks need to regain their balance. Alistair didn't even try to stand up on the over-laden thing. Instead, he got to his knees and drove his sword into one genlock's side. It shrieked and turned on him, and it didn't take much for Alistair to grab hold of the creature and toss it off the cart. The genlock landed flat on its back on the ground, and that was all Hugo needed to maul it to death.

The other genlock continued to harry the dwarves, grabbing the walking stick and wrestling the older one for it. Alistair crawled up behind it and pommel bashed it over the head. It slumped, and the elder dwarf kicked it off the cart after its brethren.

Percy and Hugo had done a stellar job cleaning up the darkspawn below—blackened corpses now littered the road. Percival himself stood over the pack's alpha, panting heavily and staring down at the thing.

"Thank you kindly. Mighty tight, that was," the elder dwarf said with a relieved laugh. "If you and your friend hadn't shown up when you did, I don't know that me and my boy would still be standing."

Alistair smirked and sketched a mock bow, even though he was on his knees. "It was no problem. It's what we heroes do, you know. Now… how do we get down?"

The dwarf laughed, and nodded toward the younger, who was already hopping off the cart.

When the boy hit the ground, however, Percival's head snapped up, and the look in his eyes made Alistair scramble off the cart despite his bulky armor. His ankle jarred from the fall, but he ignored the pain to put himself between the dwarf and the noble.

Percival's rage-clouded eyes turned to him, and there was no flicker of recognition in them. The other Warden took a menacing step toward him, a snarl rumbling in his throat.

"Percy? Chum? Battle's over. Nothing left to kill." Hugo whined his agreement.

The noble blinked, and sense slowly returned to his features. Alistair sighed in relief as the noble glanced around, getting his bearings. This battle frenzy Percy tended to work up was getting a little bit disturbing, but Alistair couldn't really think of a way to fix it.

He limped back to the cart to help the elder dwarf down.

"Many thanks again," the dwarf said. "If you keep helping me out, I'm going to owe you quite a debt!"

"Hey, the chance to kill a bunch of darkspawn? We should be thanking you."

The dwarf chuckled. "You're a braver man than I, then. Or more foolhardy… hard to tell the difference sometimes. Name's Bodahn Feddic, and this is my boy, Sandal. Say hello to the nice gentlemen, boy."

Sandal smiled brightly up at Alistair. "Hello." Alistair could only blink and wave a greeting at the boy's cheerfulness, given the circumstances.

Percy drew even with Alistair, apparently now fully recovered as he wiped blood off his sword. "I'm Percival, and this is Alistair. What are you doing out here, traveling in darkspawn-infested areas? You don't look to be refugees."

"Ah, and that we are most assuredly not. I'm a merchant, braving the roads no other man would dare, and making a tidy profit off what gets left behind in the shuffle."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "So… you're a scavenger?"

Bodahn seemed honestly surprised by Alistair's flat tone. "I rescue things. A man leaves in a hurry, he leaves some things behind. Nice things. Things that we can't let the darkspawn horde get a hold of. I find these things, keep them out of darkspawn hands, and bring them somewhere people can actually use them. That's not wrong, now is it?"

"You know," Alistair said to Percival, "between him and Garott, I'm starting to think this is a dwarf thing."

"What would be Fin's excuse, then?"

"Hm… you think maybe he's half-dwarf? Can that even happen?"

Percy snorted a laugh, then turned back to Bodahn. "No, I can't really say it's wrong. You're right; better you find them than the darkspawn. Still, you might consider hiring guards, if you're going to be travelling cross-country in the middle of a Blight."

"A Blight, is it? Can't say that's a rumor I've heard." Bodahn rubbed his beard, eyeing the pair consideringly. "But hiring guards? I just might do that. Tell me, where are you two young sprouts headed? Perhaps we're going in the same direction."

"Redcliffe," Percy said.

"Ah, good place, Redcliffe. Lots of good trade. What's your business there, if I might be so bold?"

"Actually, we're Gre-" Alistair began, but Percival made a hissing noise that silenced him. With a jerk of his head, Percy drew him aside. Bodahn watched quizzically as they took a couple steps away.

"We shouldn't go throwing that around, Alistair," Percy whispered.

"What? It wasn't like I was going to intimidate him or anything."

"He's a merchant and a scavenger, which means he's obviously driven by profit. Do you really think he wouldn't sell us out to Loghain's men if given the chance?"

Alistair felt a dark anger stirring in him at all the levels of treachery the teyrn was guilty of, but he shoved it down. Still… "You want me to lie?"

"Not lie. Just don't go walking around screaming 'We're Grey Wardens, come and get us' from the top of Fort Drakon. The fewer people who know what we are, the less likely we'll be betrayed by one of them."

Alistair studied his companion for a moment. "Something happened, didn't it? Before Ostagar, even?"

"Let's just say I know well the feeling of having a figurative dagger thrust into my spine. It's not an experience I'd like repeated a third time."

Alistair nodded, the bitterness of Loghain's betrayal of the Wardens making him agree with the noble. As one, they returned to the dwarves. Bodahn was watching them curiously.

"We're king's men," Percy said, at last.

Bodahn laughed. "Something tells me there's more to it than that… but as you will, I won't pry. Pleasure to meet you both. I find myself fancying a stop at Redcliffe myself. Mind if I tag along?"

Alistair glanced at Percy, who frowned.

"I'm sorry, but speed is of the essence. I can't imagine your cart moves very fast."

"On the contrary, friend! My mules are the fastest and strongest stock this side of Orlais! And having me and my boy along is hardly without its perks. Why, strong young fighters like yourselves will no doubt have use for enchantment, which my boy is a fair hand at…"

"Enchantment!" Sandal broke in cheerfully.

"…and I've got lots of supplies, and a fine stock of cheeses and sweets that will no doubt be a nice change from travel fare. All priced at a mighty fine discount, of course, given what you did for me and my boy!"

Alistair glanced at the cart. Cheeses, was it?

Percival smirked at Alistair, no doubt guessing his thoughts. Alistair snorted and pointedly mentioned, "Can't have good cheese without wine. You do have wine, right?"

"Of course, of course!"

Percy laughed, bobbing his head in defeat. "All right, all right. We'll travel with you, Bodahn. Though don't think we don't know this is just a scheme to get a pair of capable bodyguards for free. We expect payment in the form of enchantment and supplies."

"And cheese," Alistair piped up. "Can't forget the cheese."

All three laughed, and the dwarves started going about picking up after the attack. Alistair couldn't help but notice how Bodahn's hands checked the darkspawn for trinkets and gold. Hugo, meanwhile, was introducing himself to Sandal, who just smiled brightly as the dog sniffed his legs. Dog and dwarf were the same height.

"So… what was it you wanted to tell me?"

Alistair jerked away from the sight. "Hm?"

Percy regarded him, somewhat sheepishly. "Before the darkspawn attack… you were about to say something. Something that might come up at Redcliffe?"

Alistair opened his mouth, his mind going back to the conversation not ten minutes ago. Suddenly, it seemed like too much. Maybe Percy had a point… the fewer people who knew dangerous secrets, the better. "You know what… it doesn't matter. It probably won't be important."

Percy just shrugged and moved to wipe some of the blood out of Hugo's fur. Alistair was left alone, thinking that maybe he'd regret the decision later. Still, for now, it didn't matter. So he'd just keep his mouth shut, and hope that Eamon was well enough to be able to do the same.

Maker, he hoped Eamon was all right. After Duncan… he didn't know what he'd do if he lost Eamon, too.

Chapter Text

"And that is how you properly dispatch a group of bandits," Marnan said, planting her bloodied axe in the ground as she caught her breath. "Not by talking them into walking to their own deaths."

"I really wish I had seen that," Leliana said with a grin. She wandered among the bodies strewn about the lakeside road, collecting her arrows.

Felicity, however, frowned over the bodies, even while Marnan felt a burst of healing go through her that eased her new bruises. "This isn't right," the mage said. "There shouldn't be bandits this close to the Tower. The Templars would never allow it."

Marnan cast a distracted glance out over the lake. In the distance, the Tower of Magi could be seen rising from the water. "It is a Blight. Perhaps they retreated to the Tower."

"The horde is nowhere near here, though." Felicity, too, cast a look at the distant spire. "Oh, I hope you're right. What else could possibly happen, to make them stop guarding the roads outside the Tower? They've always done so, if only to ensure escaped mages don't get far." Still, Marnan didn't miss the way the mage bit her lip.

"If something is amiss," Marnan told her, "then we will fix it. We must, to stop the Blight."

After a moment of hesitation, Felicity nodded. "Of… of course. You're right. If other factors present themselves, we will simply address each as it comes." The mage shook her head to clear it and started forward. The other two women fell in step beside her.

"So…" Leliana said, seemingly just to break the silence. The bard never really seemed to be comfortable with silences. Between her and Felicity, Marnan was coming to appreciate the practical silences of a good old-fashioned forced march through the Deep Roads. "…do Templars really do that? Go out of their way to keep mages from escaping?"

Felicity sighed. "It's really not so bad, provided you don't actually try to escape. There are a couple odd cases that make escaping practically into a hobby, but most of us—them, I suppose now—are fairly content just to go about business under the Templars' vigilant eyes."

"Ah, so you are used to being stared at by Templars?" Leliana said, a teasing smile stealing across her features. "Yet you blush so much when Alistair looks at you."

Sure enough, Felicity's dark features darkened further in a blush. "I-I do not! Do I? I mean, he doesn't look at me, does he? Well, of course he must look at me, I suppose, as he must look at everyone, not being blind. But he doesn't look at me especially… does he?"

Leliana laughed, and Marnan couldn't help an amused smile herself.

"Well," Leliana said, "you are very pretty. I don't see any reason why he wouldn't look at you."

"Oh, stop teasing me," Felicity huffed. "I'm a mage."

Marnan thought it diplomatic to point out, "You are also a fellow Grey Warden, and therefore a comrade-in-arms." She felt sorry for her companion, even though she really shouldn't be encouraging this. "I suspect that would carry much more weight, for one of his disposition."

"A pretty comrade-in-arms!" the bard laughed.

Felicity fidgeted with the sleeves of her robes. "Am I really that obvious? Oh dear, if I've revealed so much to you, he's surely noticed. I suspect the two of us will have to speak about it when we reconvene. One way or another, that conversation will prove to be utterly mortifying."

"I would not worry about it," Marnan said. "Alistair is… rather dim about certain things. I assure you, he has not noticed."

A burst of laughter escaped the mage before she got a hand over her mouth. "I don't know whether to find that rather accurate evaluation encouraging or depressing."

"What about you, Marnan?" Leliana asked, turning a bright smile to the dwarf. "Do you have any strapping young men waiting to sweep you off your feet back in Orzammar?"

Marnan chuckled. "I highly doubt it." What with everyone in Orzammar thinking she was dead.

"Oh, come. Certainly you must have some stories, yes? You never talk about your adventures!"

"The majority of my best 'adventures' have happened while on the surface, and Felicity has been present for most of those. If you wish, ask her."

Leliana gave Felicity a pleading look. The mage sighed. "Admittedly, Marnan, I wouldn't mind getting a bit of teasing material. It seems only equitable, after all."

"Well, when speaking on the subject of romance, you will find little material for me." After a pause of bearing their pleading looks, she admitted, "In truth, I never had much time for romance… my dalliances were always more related to mosswine and smashing things. I had my share of suitors, certainly, but each one that my father approved of, I did not… often for the very same reasons. The men I preferred—and, I suppose, occasionally fancied—would never have met my father's expectations."

Leliana's brows were furrowed. "But parental approval is not everything, yes?"

Marnan allowed herself a wry chuckle. "In my family, it most certainly was."

"I never knew you had such an overbearing father," Felicity said sympathetically.

"It was his right," Marnan said. "And it was not so bad as you topsiders think. Caste is an important part of Orzammar culture… and from a young age, I had a bit of a habit of ignoring that in favor of playing with the boys across caste lines. I never really grew out of it. In truth, it was… irresponsible of me."

"But I always thought you liked the Warrior Caste," Felicity said, confused. "Why would you have dallied in others when your own fits you so perfectly?"

Marnan stopped in her tracks, shocked by the words for more than one reason. Silently, she cursed the mage for being so simultaneously well-informed and ignorant.

Both humans stopped walking to look back at her with questioning expressions.

"Felicity," Marnan said, forcing herself to meet the mage's eyes, "I am not of the Warrior Caste."

Felicity's lips came together in a silent 'Oh,' and Marnan could almost see the intelligent woman putting pieces of the puzzle in place. 'If she wasn't born a Warrior, that means she must have dallied with the Warriors.' 'So her father didn't approve of her spending time with Warriors.' 'But what family wouldn't approve of one of the most prestigious castes in Orzammar?' 'Unless she comes from a caste that is even more prestigious.' 'There's only one above Warriors, right?'

There was a long moment of silence while Felicity didn't ask what caste Marnan was actually from. She didn't have to.

And the fact that Leliana didn't, either, was telling in a very different way.

It was dark by the time they got to the docks outside the Circle Tower, so they decided to check in for the night at the Spoiled Princess. By this time, even Marnan was beginning to get nervous about the lack of people about. Last time she'd been here, the place had been reasonably active… now, the dock community was an absolute ghost town.

Also, there was a Templar out on the docks, standing where the ferryman should have been. He did not look to be offering rides.

Chapter Text

Meila had always been one of the more difficult of his companions to read. Still, Finian was rarely one to back down from a challenge, so he had with great care learned to tell the difference between her stony looks and her icy ones. Between her confused frowns and her annoyed ones. It was a process that required trial and error coupled with careful observation.

Still, it seemed to pay off, because he could tell that the frown on the Dalish elf's face now was definitely puzzled. It wasn't a promising expression, when she was leading them through a thick, possibly haunted forest.

"Okay, now I know I've seen that rock before." Kazar stopped and pointed at a boulder up ahead on the game trail. "I remember thinking, 'hey that looks a bit like a mouse getting eaten by a fat bird.' And look, there it is again."

Meila stared at the indicated boulder stonily. She was definitely puzzled, and a little frustrated too.

"Just admit it," Kazar went on. "We're lost. We're lost, and we're going to die in the spooky forest, nothing left to mark our passing but our bleached bones."

"You're feeling particularly morbid today," Fin observed lightly.

"Can you blame me? An hour ago, I almost got sat on by a tree. Being killed by a tree… I never would have lived that down! Well, not lived… gah, you know what I mean."

"At least you set it on fire before it came to that."

Kazar paused, then smiled fondly at the memory. "Yeah, there is that."

"We are not lost," Meila's voice broke in. She was still staring at the boulder Kazar had pointed out, this time glaring at it as if it had done her wrong. "I know exactly where we are. However… we are not where we should be."

"And that means… what?" the mage asked.

Meila sighed through her nose. "It seems the legends of this part of the forest being guarded by a wily spirit are true. It is turning us away from our destination."

"A spirit." Kazar crossed his arms and smirked. "Right. Or maybe you were just so busy thinking about Mithra and her sexy bare midriff that you got turned around."

The hard look she gave Kazar was annoyed, but Fin detected the slightest reddening of her tanned features. "I was doing no such thing."

"Is that sort of thing frowned on among the Dalish, too?" Finian broke in as Kazar took a breath to continue baiting her, feigning less interest in the subject than he should rightfully have been able to. "Because it is in Ferelden, at least among the Alienages. Marriage is considered this huge rite of passage, steeped in tradition. You don't even get a say in it; the elders pick someone of the opposite gender for you, and if you deviate from that, it's you who are in the wrong."

He'd often wondered if it was the same way among humans, especially given Percy's... no. No. He wasn't thinking about Percy right now. It was too sore yet.

Meila was frowning at Fin now. Possibly consternation? This was one expression he had difficulty reading. He felt like he was on pins and needles here, with this particular subject… one of the few things he rarely talked about, in the interest of not implicating himself.

"There is nothing against it in the old ways, but it serves no purpose," Meila said sharply. "It does not benefit the clan—or community, I suppose—for two women to bond in such a way. There can be no offspring of it, when a Dalish's utmost priority is to see that our lore is carried through to the next generation. Pursuing such bonds is therefore pointless."

"So…" Kazar said, tilting his head. "…you're a virgin?"

Now Meila's face was definitely red. Her glare, however, was ice cold. "I don't see how that is any of your business."

"It's not wrong, you know," Finian said, proud that his voice sounded soothing instead of defensive. "I say people should be free to enjoy themselves with whoever they choose, however they choose."

"You would think that," Kazar grumbled.

"You don't agree?"

"Sex shouldn't be a free-for-all." Finian was honestly taken aback to hear such candid words from a sixteen-year-old. "There are some things that should probably be common to all of it. Like consent."

Finian forced a laugh. "Well, that's a given."

"Not to some people," Kazar grumbled, not looking at either of his companions. Finian had difficulty keeping his smile.

The ensuing stretch of silence was broken by a nearby howl, and the three Wardens' conversation was abandoned as their weapons came out. Finian held his daggers loosely in his hands as he scanned the treeline, and Meila had her bow out as she did the same. There was another baying howl, this time from a different direction.

"I think we found the werewolves," Finian said lightly.

"Thank you, stater-of-the-obvious." Lightning danced up and down Kazar's arms. "You're as bad as the Templar."

"Alistair doesn't state the obvious. He simply tends to make observations."

"Yeah. Obvious ones."

"Be silent!" Meila hissed, and they could hear the sounds of several large forms crashing through the trees around them. A moment later, they appeared.

Seven large, looming creatures emerged from the trees. They were humanoid in build, though their ragged fur and vicious, slavering snouts left little doubt that these were not, in fact, humans. They walked with deadly, loping grace, and each sported fangs and claws that looked like they could cut through steel like cheese.

Suddenly, Fin wished they'd brought one of their sturdier comrades along.

"Hrr…" One of the creatures stepped forward, this one taller and more golden in coloring than the rest. "You are sent by the treacherous Dalish… you will come no further."

All three Wardens stared. Kazar sputtered, "Did… did that thing just speak? Because I think I just heard that thing speak."

The werewolves growled and, Finian, sensing an avoidable confrontation, stepped forward. "What Dalish do you speak of? We are simple Grey Wardens…"

"Do not play me for a fool, elf. I can smell the evil one's presence on you. He sent you to kill Witherfang!" The werewolves howled in apparent rage, now surrounding the trio from all sides.

"Well, yes, he did," Finian hedged, trying a different tactic. These things had encountered Zathrian before, it seemed. "But we're honestly a third party. We have no quarrel with you. Perhaps if you could take us to Witherfang, we could work out something—"

"NO! No deals with elves! You will only trick us!" The wolf growled. "I am Swiftrunner, and I will not stand by and let you elves hurt our lady!" He threw back his head and howled, and the werewolves attacked.

Lightning erupted all around them, scorching dirt, trees, and werewolves alike, and Finian heard the dull twang of a bowstring. Fin could only hope that the other two had the rest of the pack in hand, because Swiftrunner dove in at him, snarling, and it was all Finian could do to keep his feet under the onslaught.

Swiftrunner was vicious, pressing the attack in a way that had Fin unable to do much but dodge and roll. He came out of a roll behind Swiftrunner's back, and managed to slash out at the werewolf's hamstrings, but the creature's hide was thick, and Fin had to jump away again before it truly did any damage.

"The prey thinks it can run away?" Swiftrunner growled in outrage, its arm darting out faster than Fin could anticipate as he was trying to skirt around the large creature. Swiftrunner's claws pierced his leather armbands, drawing blood, and the creature used its grip to whirl the elf around and slam him into a tree.

Fin's breath whooshed out of him—parts of him were still a bit sore from last time he'd been slammed around like that—and he blinked spots away from his eyes. When he could properly see, Swiftrunner loomed over him. The elf swiped toward the monster's throat, but Swiftrunner's jaws snapped out and caught his left hand, even as the right one slit a shallow red trail across the werewolf's neck. Finian winced as he felt the creature's strong jaws crushing the delicate bones of his hand, and his dagger dropped to the ground.

Swiftrunner's claws came up and pinned Fin's hands to the tree. "You take a message to the Dalish elf," Swiftrunner growled, its rancid breath stealing over Finian's face. "Hrr. You tell him no more tricks. He knows how to end this. Hrr. You tell him to break it, or all of his precious elves will die." Finian nodded, his mind whirling through what such a message might mean.

With a final snarl, the werewolf pushed away from the trunk and howled, and the three werewolves left standing bounded away from the globe of fire that had sprung up in the middle of the road. The werewolves growled and ran off up the path.

"Finally!" Kazar's voice groaned, and the globe of fire dissipated in a puff of smoke. Meila and Kazar were inside of it, though the archer was on her knees. She raised her bow after Swiftrunner's retreating form.

"No!" Finian cried, jumping into the woman's shot. A moment later, the werewolves had disappeared into the forest.

Meila lowered her bow, scowling at him. "You would defend such a creature?"

"They're sentient," Finian panted, rubbing at his injured hand. "Zathrian never said they were sentient."

Kazar was looking at him as if he'd sprouted another head. "They're also still werewolves."

Meila nodded in agreement and tried to stand, but promptly doubled over again, hand going to her midriff. Four deep lines crossed her stomach where one of the beasts had gotten its claws in her.

"Blast it!" Kazar spat, noticing the marks at the same time Fin did. "I think we're out of poultices too. We should have bullied Amell into making us more back in Lothering."

"I am fine," Meila said, this time succeeding in standing. It did not make Finian any less wary.

"I'd… like to head back to the Dalish camp anyway," Finian said. "I think we need to talk to Zathrian about something before we try to go any farther."

"It's not like the haunted spirit forest will let us get any farther anyway," Kazar said, and the trio started back—reluctantly, on Meila's part.

Finian sighed. "Anyone else get the feeling we're just running a maze for someone else's entertainment, here?"

Kazar snorted. "Remember when you accused me of sounding paranoid?"

Fin shrugged. "I don't do well with being… trapped. And that's what this whole thing feels like."

"…trapped."

"Well, you know what it's like, Kazar! Having everything dictated for you by others: where you can go, what you can do, where you can live…"

Kazar stiffened. "No one tells me what to do."

Finian stifled a sigh, because really. "Well, they did to me. I've never handled… cages… very well, I guess." He paused, noticing that both were looking at him curiously as they walked. He figured a story might illustrate his point best. "My cousin Shianni once caught a rabbit. It was a spindly little thing that had been getting into the neighbors' vegetables, but she managed to catch it with an old water cistern. Next thing I knew, she'd dubbed it Cabbage and pestered my father into building an enclosure for it in our yard.

"I felt sorry for it. It was like it had its own Alienage, separating it from its natural brethren." Meila made a soft sound, and Fin didn't look up to see whether it was from the story or from her wounds. "So, one night, I snuck out and let the rabbit go. I snuck out of the Alienage with Cabbage bundled in my arms—if anyone had caught me, they'd probably have thought I was smuggling something. But I let it go among the noble estates, where it would have plenty of food and room to roam, then snuck back into the Alienage with no one the wiser.

"Of course, when Shianni saw what happened, she immediately guessed it was me. She was so furious… I had to do chores for her for a week before she would even speak with me again." He chuckled fondly at the memory. "Can't say I regretted it."

"The freedom of a dumb animal was worth a week's chores?" Kazar said incredulously.

"It was symbolic," Meila posited softly. She eyed Fin thoughtfully, and only Finian's diligent study of her allowed him to read the new respect there. "You could not free yourself, so you freed the rabbit."

Fin nodded, smiling. "I've never liked the cage of Alienage life, but I couldn't think of any way to get out of it. Any other city would treat me exactly the same, and I certainly wasn't going to bank on stumbling into the Dalish—no offense Meila."

"We do pride ourselves in being difficult to track."

"Then, Duncan came along, and freed me in a way that I never thought possible. We're more than elves, you know? We're Grey Wardens, and that means that even the shems have to respect us."

"They should respect us for being elves, as well," Meila said quietly. Uncertainly, Fin nodded. They thought about that all the way back to camp.

They had been walking the Brecilian forest for two days, yet it took them only a handful of hours to return to the Dalish camp… as if the forest had been deliberately turning them around in hopes that they would stay near it. Meila, Fin could tell, was agitated by this revelation.

They walked into the camp at dusk, weary and dirty. Zathrian greeted them just inside the camp.

"Ah, you return. And yet the curse remains. Have you given up the quest?"

"No," Finian said, suddenly annoyed by the older elf. Still, he hid it well behind his tiredness. "But there's something we need to discuss."

Zathrian nodded, as if he'd been suspecting as much. "Now is not the time for such things, then. Come, rest and heal. We will handle such things by the light of the morning."

He left them at that, and another robed elf came forward. "I'm Lanaya, Zathrian's First." To Meila, she said, "Come, lethallan, I'll see to your wounds." Meila sighed and nodded, and Lanaya turned to the men. "Are either of you hurt as well? If so, we have herbs that can ease such things. It's the least we can do, after what you've agreed to do for our people."

Finian waved her off, and Kazar sniped, "It really is the least, of that I agree."

"Thank you, Lanaya," Meila said. "Perhaps you might show me the uses of some of these herbs, so we might be better prepared?"

"Of course. This way." The two women headed off, toward the area that still seemed to be functioning as a hospice.

This left the two non-Dalish elves alone. For a moment, Finian just looked around, at a loss as to what to do. The Dalish camp was beautiful in the evening light, in a wild, yet homey way. Torch posts littered the grounds, casting a flickering orange glow over the dusk-lit earth. The craftsmen seemed to be tidying up their workstations for the night, and Finian saw a group of elves gathered in a circle around a man who gestured in the manner of one telling a story.

"Great, so now we're spending a night among these people," Kazar's voice grumbled next to him.

"I don't know, it could be exciting," Fin said, understating his curiosity so as not to upset the mage any further.

"Exciting? Facing an army of darkspawn is exciting. Setting a demonic tree on fire and listening to it burn is exciting. But this? This is just… aggravating!"

"How so?"

"How so what?"

"I find the atmosphere rather relaxing. So why do you find it aggravating?"

Kazar had obviously never been asked to explain such a thing before, by the way he stuttered. "Well…I… it's… it just is!" He huffed and stalked off, leaving Finian alone.

Finian wasn't one to waste such an opportunity to explore. He'd spent his whole life confined to the narrow world of Denerim, where an elf was better off keeping out from underfoot and blending into the humans as much as possible. As it happened, Finian had very often taken advantage of how beneath notice elves were—not being worth attention made it a great deal easier to slip away with things that may not have been strictly his.

But this… this was entirely different, and the sheer magnitude of that difference only dawned on him as he wandered around the camp. These elves didn't just acknowledge their elvishness… they celebrated it. It was in their food, their clothing, the tales the storyteller spun around the campfire. It was a novel concept, to know that there was a culture here outside what little the humans afforded them. One richer and longer than any human's could hope to be.

For the first time, Finian didn't feel restrained by his race. No, he felt freed by it.

The Dalish elves seemed to sense his wonder, for they helped him with knowing smiles and eyes that only hinted about how deep this well could go. They shared their food with him, occasionally extolling on the religious significance of the beast they ate, and Finian was left marveling at the strange, yet pleasant palette of flavors. Rather like a metaphor for the entire camp, really.

One of the craftsmen spoke with him briefly while carefully wrapping a suit of leather armor he was working on. The leatherworker extolled on the importance of keeping the leather wrapped overnight so that it did not dry out before it was properly shaped. Then, Fin spoke to the halla keeper, who even brought one of the beautiful creatures out so that he could stroke its sleek white fur.

But it was Sarel, the storyteller, who enchanted Finian most of all. Though the man was initially wary, Finian's earnest curiosity won him over (although a bandaged Meila coming over to sit next to Finian undoubtedly helped too).

Soon Sarel was telling him about the long, often tumultuous, history of the elves. Finian sat on a log across the campfire as the sun disappeared from the sky, committing every word to memory. The other listeners around the campfire, including Meila—who was carving what appeared to be a bead out of a werewolf tooth—often joined in, making the stories an interactive experience that impressed upon Finian just how close to the core this history was to the Dalish elves. And how they overcame that history by doing everything as one.

Vir Adahlen. 'Together we are stronger than one.'

After the histories, they moved into songs, some in Trade tongue and others in the language of the Dalish. Suddenly, simply speaking the old words seemed to be clumsy… the melodic ancient language was obviously meant to be sung.

First, Sarel sang a ballad of an ancient elven hero, then everyone joined in on a traditional war march. And then Meila walked the whole gathering through one of her clan's favorite elven language rounds, the harmonies blending and flaring beautifully as they echoed against the trees. Finian joined in all of it with gusto, whether it was a soft, tragic song about a lost home, or a lively dance around the fire meant for couples (on that one, he actually got Meila to laugh as he dipped her and spun her about, and he counted that as one of his more impressive feats).

Then, while Sarel was singing a gentle lullaby—dropping any of the children still awake right to sleep in their parents' arms—Finian heard something from behind him, in the trees. A second voice sang along with it at barely a whisper… but it was the owner of the voice that surprised him.

Fin excused himself quietly and slipped away, working his way cautiously to the edge of the camp. Silently, he leaned around a large tree trunk to confirm the identity of the second singer.

Hidden from the rest of the camp but still within earshot of the storytelling circle, Kazar sat nestled against the base of the trunk, and Fin couldn't say how long he'd been there, listening. Now, the mage sang softly along with the Dalish lullaby, his arms wrapped tight around his knees and tears streaming freely down his face.

There was movement in Finian's peripheral vision, and then Meila slipped softly around the opposite side of the tree trunk and knelt down next to the mage. Kazar didn't startle or anything, but he did stop singing, looking over at her with wide, watery eyes.

Fin slipped in and gently sat at Kazar's other side, and the three silently listened to the lullaby for a moment. Kazar's eyes wandered upward, searching the sky. Roughly, he whispered, "I know this song."

Finian smiled, thinking that a lightly teasing comment about stating the obvious would be out of place here. "It's a beautiful one."

"Someone… someone used to sing it to me. In someplace warm and safe." The mage's voice wobbled, and he cleared his throat. "I think it might have been my... my mother."

"Mamae," Meila whispered.

"Mamae," Kazar agreed, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "I…" his voice broke. "…I'm Dalish."

Meila dared to snake her arm around Kazar, and Finian leaned his shoulder against his young companion's.

A grateful smile broke across the younger elf's face, which he cast at both of them. Then, with a bit more confidence, he repeated, "I'm Dalish."

Finian would have clasped Kazar's shoulder, but his injured hand gave a warning throb. So instead, he just sat with Meila and Kazar, listening to Sarel move from the lullaby into a song celebrating the elven spirit. Meila led them through it with a gentle smile, and Kazar's wasn't the only set of misty eyes that night.

Chapter Text

"Well… this is new."

Percival glanced behind him. Alistair had stopped to stare at the makeshift wooden barricade that had been erected across the road into town.

"It is a Blight," Percy said with a weary smile. "We should take it as a good sign that the people are at least setting up defenses."

"Right, that's how to defeat the archdemon… shoddy wooden barricades." The other man kicked at the low barrier, making it shudder. Still, he was smiling lopsidedly as he fell back into step with Percy. "Now if only we could find a way to cut off the dragon's wings, they'll be so much more effective."

Percy chuckled, adjusting his shield against his sweaty back. It was a warm day, and both men were perspiring enough to show it. Still, at least his sweat no longer stung the healing scratches in his back.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking, letting Morrigan mark him like that. No, he didn't know what he'd been thinking, period. Then again, perhaps lack of thought was the root of the problem. Really, Morrigan? Tangling up (both figuratively and literally) with that witch was bound to lead to disaster. And yet, if she approached him again, he didn't know whether he'd be able to deny her. Already, he was missing the earthy taste of her skin and her intoxicating scent, and that was just all kinds of wrong.

Still, at least Alistair was decidedly… dim about certain things. The first time the two had bathed while traveling together, Alistair had noticed the various nips and scratches on Percy's person. He'd promptly laughed and teased Percy that being thrown around by darkspawn was Finian's job.

Percy had done his best to smile and play it off like all the marks were battle wounds, but a mortifying part of him delighted in the sordid secrecy of a dangerous tryst. A hold-over from his previous life, of course. He'd always used to take his entertainment from such games. Except now he shouldn't be immersing himself in such distractions; he had a duty. Maker, what was wrong with him?

And, again, because the absolute horror of it could not be stressed enough… Morrigan?!

They wound their way down the hilly path to the town nestled on the lake below. Hugo bounded along the path beside them, marking every tree and lamppost he could find. Percy couldn't really say where the hound was getting all the water for it.

Further down the path, Bodahn and his son trundled their cart along the bumpy incline. The two Wardens figured they might as well see the dwarves safely into Redcliffe village before heading up to the castle.

"You know, for all the years I lived here, I never wondered why it was called 'Redcliffe'," Alistair said, gazing around. "Is it because the rocks are kind of reddish? Or is it something else? I bet Felicity would know."

"Feeling pensive, are you?"

The other man shrugged. "I just never really thought of it. But Felicity does. Wonder, I mean. All the time. You know, the first time I met her at Ostagar, she was staring at the ruins like they were a giant piece of cake that had just been put in front of her. Of course, then she asked me point blank if I was addicted to lyrium." He chuckled. "Lot of balls on that girl, considering how brainy she is."

Percival didn't bother hiding his grin. "Felicity is quite remarkable, isn't she?"

"I don't think I've ever met anyone so… flabbergasting. You know, I once asked her about the different kinds of insects that tended to swarm the camp at Ostagar… I was just venting really. And she went off and started naming every single kind. Like she had some sort of mental list previously constructed in case such a conversation ever… what's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing." Percy stifled his laughter, because, really. The man was talking about the woman blathering on about bugs, and he still managed to sound like a mooning puppy. Pah, virgins.

Percy glanced down the trail, and only then did he realize that there was a commotion up ahead. The dwarves, it seemed, had run into their welcoming party… in the form of one harrowed-looking guardsman.

"…not here to help us? Have none of our messengers gotten through?"

The two Wardens picked up their pace as Bodahn cast a confused look back at them.

"What's this, now?" Alistair asked, the two of them stopping beside the merchant. "What's going on?"

"You really don't know?" the guardsman asked. He couldn't have been much older than Percy, but he looked wearied beyond his years. "Maker's breath, has no one heard?"

"Heard what?" Percy asked, his patience worn thin from the long journey.

"Redcliffe is under siege, sers. It's all we can do to keep our village standing."

"Under siege from what?" Alistair asked with an arched eyebrow. "As we were strolling casually in, I couldn't help but notice the lack of an invading army."

"They don't reveal themselves during the day, but they're still out there. Now that you're in, good luck getting out again. I'm so sorry."

"Damn it, specifics," Percival growled, though he did his best to rein in the completely inappropriate surge of anger that bubbled up from nowhere. "What is menacing you?"

The guardsman just shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me. I'll take you to Bann Teagan. He'll explain everything."

That made Alistair startle. "Wait, Teagan? He's here?" At Percy's sharp look, he explained, "He's Eamon's brother. I suppose if the arl's sick, it would make sense for Teagan to come." He turned back to the soldier. "But why is he down here in the village, and not up in the castle?"

The soldier eyed Alistair curiously, but answered, "We haven't let him. No one's heard from the castle in days. And with the creatures coming out of it… it would be far too dangerous to send him up there, too."

Alistair paled. "What do you mean, no one's heard from the castle in days?"

"Come on. The bann will explain everything."

The guardsman turned and hurried down the path.

Bodahn breathed out a sigh through his nose. "Well, seems my boy and me have stumbled out of the Deep Roads and into a Deepstalker pit."

"Come on," Percy said, putting a hand on Alistair's shoulder to nudge the shocked man forward. "We'll get you two safely settled in the village, then see what we can do about this mess."

And so they continued down the winding path in lower spirits, with Bodahn's cart trundling behind them. As they descended into the village proper, actual residents could be seen, scurrying about with the hurried steps of people afraid to be outside, lest a demon leap out of the bushes upon them. Those that stayed outside were armed with what seemed to be farming tools and old, barely-useable heirlooms. Wooden barricades similar to the ones they'd already passed crossed the main thoroughfares, making it hard to navigate the merchant's cart through the defenses, flimsy though they were.

Blood darkened the soil underfoot, and Percival could smell the faint scent of decay on the air. Dully, Percy noted that, if these people were, in fact, under siege, then a town this shoddily defended was doomed. He'd never been all that interested in Aldous' lessons on siege warfare, but he'd absorbed enough from his father's battle stories to know that much.

And yet, Percival couldn't much find it in himself to care. Sure, a part of him ached over the death that he knew was to come upon these people. But a greater part of him merely sighed at the inevitability of it all, already giving these souls up as lost. After all, anyone who came in contact with Percival Cousland died.

Listlessly, Percy helped Alistair get Bodahn's cart parked in a free spot behind the Chantry, where the defenses were strongest. The other Warden, in stark contrast to Percy's apathy, was thrumming with anxiety, obviously worried about his childhood home. Had Highever not already fallen into traitorous hands, Percy might have empathized.

The travelers followed the guardsman into the Chantry building. Once inside, the others continued forward, but Percy stopped in the doorway, a spike of anger shooting through him, just as it had back in Lothering's Chantry.

He had never been particularly pious in his previous life… no pristine Chantry brother in the making, for certain. Not with his habits. However, Mallol, the Cousland estate's Mother, had been a dear friend, always willing to lend a gentle ear when his parents' judgment would have been too harsh. One of the few women in his previous life who he hadn't attempted to bed.

In the end, he'd found Mallol in the chapel, pinned to the pulpit by a Howe soldier's sword through her bosom. Where was the Maker, then, while his kindest and most noble followers died? And yet Percival, sin incarnate, was allowed to keep on living and sinning?

The Maker had much to answer for, and thus Percy couldn't stand to listen to the Chanters spout about the Maker's wisdom and Andraste's compassion. If he did, he suspected he'd lose his tenuous hold on his sanity and kill every priest in the chapel.

A cold, wet nose nudged his hand, and Percival came back to himself with a start. He looked down at Hugo, who peered up at him anxiously.

"I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

The hound whined, and Percy sighed, scratching the dog behind his ears to comfort him. Then, step by step, he proceeded into the Chantry.

The similarity to the Lothering Chantry was striking. The Redcliffe Chantry, too, was packed from wall to wall with huddled forms and collections of junk. Women and children settled behind makeshift barricades, as if a couple stacked chairs would be an effective deterrent once the heavy chapel doors came down. It would be far easier for all of them to just wait to die.

Alistair and Bodahn were talking to a man in chain armor near where the front of the chapel had once been… it seemed a pillar had toppled at some point, smashing against the front wall. A cruel sort of poetry, that.

As Percival approached, the cheer in their voices grated his raw, weary nerves.

"…to see him standing there," the stranger was saying, "covered in mud and holding four chicken feathers!" All three men burst out laughing.

"In my defense," Alistair chuckled, his face red, "that horse always did have it out for me."

"According to you," the man said with a winning smile, "all the horses had it out for you."

"Why yes. Yes they did." Alistair glanced back and spotted Percy standing two steps behind the group. "Glad you finally joined us. Percy, this is Bann Teagan. Teagan, Percival Cousland."

Percy flinched at the use of his full name, but he supposed it would be necessary, when dealing with nobles. Best to wave his connections around as much as possible, little as he liked such blatant flaunting.

Pride. Maker, he wasn't going to succumb to Pride too.

Percy sketched a bow appropriate to their stations and surroundings, just to get the point across. Teagan arched an eyebrow, still smiling. "Percival Cousland? I don't believe we've ever met, but I've certainly heard enough about you." He laughed, and Percy had to tamp down a flare of temper. "Your name is reportedly used as an insult in West Hills. Small surprise, considering the utterly scandalous things you were said to be doing with Arl Wulf's twin nieces." The older man arched a brow. "Out of curiosity, were any of the rumors true?"

Percival had no will to delve into past conquests, especially with Alistair staring at him with such shock. "Aren't you under siege or something?" he growled, and Alistair's shocked look morphed into a disapproving frown.

Teagan, too, seemed taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "Ah, yes. I suppose I should get right to the point."

Bann Teagan went on to outline a dire situation, involving undead coming out of the castle and the mysterious lack of any word from it—things that were obviously related, in Percy's opinion. He only paid half a mind to the man's report on the state of the village. Instead, he spent most of the explanation watching Hugo and Sandal play with a couple of the village children.

Maker, he felt so drained.

"Well, of course we'll help!" Alistair cried after explanations had been handed out, and Percy winced. The man was obviously not thinking clearly, though Percy could hardly blame him.

"Do we really have time?" Percy asked his companion sharply.

Alistair turned incredulous eyes to him. "What? Are you serious?"

"We have a duty, Alistair. Or had you forgotten that you're a Grey Warden? This was already a divergence from directly addressing the darkspawn horde when we left Lothering. We don't have the time to go around adding complications to it."

Alistair's brow furrowed, and his voice had some bite in it as he asked, "So you'd… what? Leave all these people to die?"

"These defenses won't stand up to a prolonged siege." Percy's voice was empty as he watched Sandal run around with a ball raised in the air, four children and a dog chasing him gaily. "They're doomed no matter what."

"Teagan, will you excuse us?" Alistair grabbed Percival's chestplate and dragged him into a semi-private corner behind a bookcase barricade. There, the senior Warden spun on him, eyes flashing. "What in Andraste's name is wrong with you?!"

"Alistair," Percival said flatly, "Redcliffe is, in the larger scheme of things, not vital to the Grey Warden cause. You're letting your personal attachments get in the way."

"Personal atta… By the Maker! You make having a past sound like a bad thing! But then I suppose you would, wouldn't you? What's wrong; embarrassed by what a hellion you used to be?"

Rage surged in him, and he struggled to keep the flames down. "Grey Wardens do what must be done to stop the-"

Alistair's fist came in too fast for him to react, and he stumbled back against the bookshelf, nearly toppling it. His face stung and throbbed, and he touched his nose gingerly as Alistair exploded.

"No! I'm calling this out right now! This isn't a Grey Warden thing; this is a Percival Cousland thing! You're pissed off because all these tragedies keep happening—and I'm with you there! I understand that part! But we actually have a chance to stop this one!" Alistair waved a hand wildly to indicate the chapel full of civilians. "Think of all these people! They might lose everything, just like you did! If you could, wouldn't you want to at least try?!"

It was an emotional plea… one that stole all the rage from him and left him with empty desolation. "Why invest such hope in a hopeless situation? I… I can't do it." Something in him broke, and he sank to the floor, feeling that awful pain in his chest resurfacing with all the buried memories this whole mess unearthed. "I can't care anymore, Alistair. If I care, and we fail… I'll break. I really will."

Alistair was silent for a moment, and Percy didn't have the strength to look up and read his expression. Then, slowly, Alistair said, "Then do it because we need Arl Eamon to combat Loghain."

Loghain. A name that stoked that fire back up. Howe was Loghain's man—everyone knew that—and Percy had little doubt that the double betrayals were connected somehow. Which one was pulling the strings, he couldn't say, but they were tied together in Percy's mind. They needed Eamon to fight Loghain. They needed Eamon to fight Howe.

Slowly, Percy looked up, and Alistair flinched back from something he saw in Percy's eyes. "Very well. We'll fight these undead. To take down Loghain Mac Tir."

Alistair nodded grimly, in complete accord with the motive, if not the sentiment. He held out a hand and pulled Percival to his feet. As one, the two Wardens returned to Teagan to start discussing how to save a doomed village.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing about the surface that he would never get used to, it was the weather.

When Garott had first stepped out of Orzammar with the Wardens (and Marnan), it had been cold. Not the still, old kind of cold that you found in the Deep Roads, but a stinging, active kind of cold that bit at your fingers and toes.

As Duncan and the new recruits had originally descended the path along Lake Calenhad, things had gotten warmer and more pleasant. Then, in the Korcari Wilds, the air had felt sticky, but cool. Finally, after Lothering, the air had warmed up to the point of discomfort.

Except, now, they were ascending into the mountains again, and it was back to the first kind of weather: stinging, windy cold.

Garott didn't know how the topsiders coped with all this change all the time.

He rubbed his hands against the fur beneath him to warm his fingers up, earning a snort from his mount.

"Laugh it up, missy," he chuckled. "Let's see how well those pretty assets of yours hold up when that scarf thing is all that protects them against the cold."

The beast beneath him rumbled, and Garott was sure it would have been an acidic response had she been able to speak. But, no, Morrigan kept her bear form and continued plodding up the slope. Her warm, furry bear form.

Sten loped alongside the bear-witch and her dwarven rider, as usual seemingly unaffected by the cold bite in the air. Then again, Sten wasn't typically affected by much. After a week of traveling with just him and the ice witch for company, Garott was honestly starting to miss even the princess. At least needling her had been entertaining. Now, he was sodding bored.

The three of them had taken the western route up through the mountains. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that Garott, with his stubby legs and laden tinkerer's pack, was by far the slowest of the group. Over dinner the first night, he'd joked that perhaps Morrigan could transform into a griffon and fly him there like Wardens of old.

The next morning, Morrigan had shapeshifted into a bear, and Sten had picked the dwarf up and set him on her back like one might a saddlebag. Garott wasn't about to complain… not if it got them to their destination faster. And he wasn't about to turn down the free ride, either, though he had no doubt Morrigan was keeping a mental tally of every time he accidentally tugged her fur or kicked her.

Apparently, a bear-witch and a Qunari could make really good time when they wanted to. It had taken them nearly a month to get from Orzammar to Ostagar, all told. Now, a week in, they were probably about halfway there… if the map Felicity had drawn was any indication, anyway. The mage was annoying, but he couldn't help but defer to her in these sorts of things.

Too bad the map hadn't indicated how sodding cold it would be. Amell could have at least mentioned that. She couldn't expect a dwarf to figure these things out his first time on the surface.

Garott glanced sidelong at the Qunari as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, big guy, why aren't you cold? Isn't your homeland… kinda tropical?"

The Qunari didn't answer right away. Only after a minute of Garott's pointed staring did he relent. "It is irrelevant."

"Sod that. You're cold. Just admit it."

"Why does it matter?"

"It'd make me feel better about complaining, for one."

"I am not here to indulge your feelings." Anyone else would have made that line drip with contempt, but from Sten, it was flat and matter-of-fact. Below him, Morri-bear rumbled with what the dwarf could only assume was a laugh.

Garott wasn't one to give up easily, though. He was bored. "Then why are you here, big guy?"

"I am fulfilling a need," the Qunari said. "You had need of help against the darkspawn, and so here I am."

Garott eyed the giant curiously. "I thought you were atoning?"

"I atone by fulfilling this need."

"So at what point will the debt be repaid?"

Sten cast him a flat look. "I do not understand the question."

Garott leaned back, running his hands through Morrigan's rough fur. "How many darkspawn heads do you need to squish before you've atoned? Twenty? A hundred? A thousand? When are you done settling your mental ledger?"

Finally, there was an expression on the giant's face… he looked slightly insulted. "The worth of lives cannot be measured by arbitrary increments."

"Good point." Garott gave the Qunari a sharp smile. "Where I come from, they're usually measured by who their daddy is."

"And that is a failing of your society, not mine." Sten turned forward, and seemed content to end it there.

Not sodding happening. "No need to get philosophical about it. I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna walk away mid-fight just because you'd cleared your conscience."

"I will not leave until the task is done," Sten said, starting to actually sound impatient. Good, it proved the guy wasn't a golem. "I said I would help the Wardens combat the Blight, and so that is what I will do."

Garott snorted. "You've got a lot of honor, for a guy who killed a bunch of people." The Qunari's look would have been extremely intimidating, if Garott hadn't been riding a sodding bear. "Not that I'm judging, big guy. I ain't exactly got a clean conscience, either. I was a thug and hitman for a crime boss, before the Wardens scraped me out of the dung pile. But the thing is, it's kinda bad for the brain to let it bother you. Leads people to drink, and there is nothing worse than wallowing uselessly in a bottle. So yeah. We killed people. It happens."

"You were serving your role. I was not. It is different." Then, the Qunari huffed, "Enough of this. Let us move on."

"Ain't got anywhere to go, big guy."

"I do not wish to discuss this."

"Fair enough. Admit you're cold, and I'll stop."

The look. Stone, this Qunari was intimidating. That was kinda the point of bringing him along, actually. "Very well. If it will cease this pointless line of questions."

Garott waved his hand in a 'do go on' gesture.

The giant sighed through his nose shortly and turned forward again. "I admit that the… climate here is certainly far different from that of Par Vollen."

"Colder, you might say?"

"Yes. Are we done now?"

Garott leaned back in his seat with a smirk. "Yeah, I think so."

Sten nodded and turned his attention forward. They walked in silence for a while, minus the occasional snuffling from the Morri-bear.

Then, the quiet was pierced by a distant, echoing roar.

The trio paused and looked up to identify the source. A moment later, a gigantic dark shape swooped into view high above them, appearing from behind the Frostback Mountains to the west. It circled around a peak for a moment, then swooped low below the treeline behind them. When it rose again, it had something in its talons—it looked like a deer, if Garott knew his surface animals.

The creature roared again, its mighty wings sending out gusts of wind that they could feel even from a distance. Painstakingly, it rose, angling off to disappear back behind the mountain peaks with its doomed prize.

Garott let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Was that what I think it was?"

"That depends what you thought it was."

"Not one for rhetorical questions, are ya, Sten?"

"If you continue talking, you may draw it closer and be able to confirm whether it was what you thought it was."

Morrigan rumbled a chuckle, and Garott kicked her pointedly. "Laugh all you like, missy. A dragon that size could probably pick even you off the ground. Bet you look a lot more filling than little old me." The bear huffed, and Garott smirked. "Anyway, let's hope it doesn't come any closer."

Sten eyed him. "You do not wish to pointlessly fight it?"

"What? Sodding Stone, no! I'm not suicidal." He snorted a laugh at the very thought, and Morrigan rumbled her approval as she started moving along the mountain road again. Garott cast a glance back at the peaks behind which the dragon had disappeared. "In the immortal words of one of my dimmer colleagues: 'swooping is bad'."

Morrigan rumbled again, and Garott couldn't decide whether it was amusement or irritation. Ah well, he'd never been all that good at reading her in human form either.

"Perhaps you could ask it whether it is cold," Sten deadpanned.

Garott took a moment to stare at the Qunari, then threw his head back and laughed. "You know what, big guy? You're all right."

Chapter Text

Felicity prided herself at being good at puzzles. When presented a problem, she approached it like a puzzle, and was thus able to come up with a solution. This particular dilemma, however, she was beginning to think was unsolvable.

They were waiting in the Spoiled Princess, because no amount of logic, cajoling, or bribery had been able to have any effect on the Templar who guarded the ferry boat. The man simply stared at Felicity with obvious hatred, impervious to the papers she waved plainly in his face.

Marnan was tapping her fingers impatiently on the table when Leliana came in, fresh from her latest turn at trying to persuade the man. The bard came up to the table and looked between them, shaking her head in exasperation.

"I will give the Templars this: they are certainly disciplined," the Orlesian said. "I turned on wiles for him I haven't used in a long time, but he just clenched his jaw and told me to go away." The bard paused, shrugging. "He must fancy men, or something."

"A pity we're short on those," Felicity sighed. Marnan grunted distractedly, staring at her hands as if they'd done her a personal wrong. "I just don't understand. This isn't normal. He's obviously covering up for something that is happening in the Tower."

"The question is," Leliana said, "is he keeping something out, or keeping something in?"

Abruptly, Marnan stood. Wordlessly, she grabbed up her pack at the foot of the table and stalked out into the night. Curious, Felicity and Leliana followed.

The dwarf stalked straight toward the Templar, who frowned as she approached. He said, "How many times must I tell you women, the Tower is off—"

Marnan pushed him off the dock. He toppled back into the lake with a splash, and Marnan turned to the other two while he bobbed and spluttered in the dark waters of Lake Calenhad. "Diplomacy has broken down," she said simply, gesturing to the now unblocked ferry.

Leliana was giggling, and Felicity couldn't help but agree with the bard as the trio piled into the boat. The Templar spluttered and shouted in protest, but by the time he'd gotten back up onto the dock, they had pushed off and were a good fifteen feet out. His heavy armor would never allow him to follow them, and taking it off would doubtless take too much time. And further, there was no other boat the Templar could use. He was well and truly evaded, that simply.

"For such a simple plan," Felicity observed, "that certainly was effective."

Marnan cast her an incredulous look as she pulled on the oars, but Felicity did not miss her smile in the moonlight. "What part about 'I push him in the lake and we steal the boat' was a plan, exactly?"

Leliana pulled a lantern out of her own pack and lit it, illuminating the softly churning waters of the lake around them. "Sometimes the simplest plans are the best, no? It means they have less chance of something little going wrong."

Felicity nodded, seeing the logic in that.

"Now I feel foolish not to have tried it sooner," Marnan grumbled. "Serves me right for trying to be civilized."

Leliana laughed. "It can sometimes be very difficult, no?"

"And inconvenient." Marnan shook her head, still pulling on the oars.

Felicity, in the meantime, found words largely escaping her. She simply sat in the front of the boat, watching the dark silhouette of Kinloch Hold loom closer. There was something ominous about it now: dark and waiting. Even so, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was coming home.

They landed at the docks below the tower, much to the obvious surprise of the pair of Templars guarding it. The two attempted to explain the exact same things the one on the other shore had: that the Tower was off limits, and that no one was allowed inside.

Marnan simply marched them past the protesting Templars, complaining rather loudly that no one seemed to respect Grey Wardens topside. The Templars were too thrown off to force them back into the ferry boat, but they did follow closely behind as the trio marched up the steps to the Tower.

When they entered, Felicity's nose was assaulted with the familiar aromas that she hadn't even realized she'd missed. The air of the Tower was always peppered with herbal and alchemical scents, the dustiness of hundreds of books in a small area, and the stuffiness of hundreds of bodies in the same, all layered over by a subtle scent of something burning.

It made her sharply miss her old life, but at the same time, she couldn't help but detect another, newer scent among the familiar ones. It was something earthy… something thick. She couldn't guess what it was, but its presence was disconcerting. Nothing changed in the Circle Tower, not even the scents.

Felicity was pulled from her thoughts by the ringing sound of steel being drawn. Then, a blade of cold metal pressed against her throat, and Knight-Commander Greagoir's steely eyes were looking down at her.

"Have you been corrupted?" he barked, even while she heard answering weapons being drawn from her companions. "How did you get past the guards? Was it blood magic?"

"I… no! How could you think that?!" She was shocked by this turn of events. Greagoir had always remained calm and resolute in the most stressful of situations—like the incident with Jowan. This tired, overreacting Greagoir worried her even more than the lack of any mage presence in the entry hall.

There wasn't a single mage in sight, but the place was absolutely crawling with Templars.

Greagoir looked at her through narrowed eyes for one more moment, then cast a glance at her companions. Finally, he lifted his blade from her throat, but didn't sheathe it. "I'm sorry for the abrupt greeting, Miss Amell, but I can't take any chances."

That was more akin to the Knight-Commander she was familiar with. She rubbed her neck and nodded back to her companions. Marnan warily put her axe away, and Leliana's daggers disappeared. "Please, Commander, could you explain what's going on? I came expecting to be able to speak with Irving about the Blight, only to find the Tower barred."

The Templar commander pressed his lips together, finally putting his own sword away. "I'm afraid Irving is… unavailable, at the moment. As are all the mages."

Felicity swallowed, and noticed that the heavy emergency door that led from the entry hall to the rest of the Tower was barred shut. It had never even been closed before, in all the years she had lived there. It was merely supposed to be a precautionary measure, so that the Templars could guard the exit if something dangerous were to get loose in the Tower.

In fact, such a disaster would lead to a scenario that looked exactly like this.

"What's happened? Is there something in the Tower? Did you leave the mages in there with it?!"

He raised a hand to cut off her increasingly incredulous questions. "As a matter of fact, the mages are what we're keeping in. The Circle has been corrupted by blood magic, releasing all manner of demonic forces upon the Tower. Every mage beyond those doors is a risk, and I will die before I let it spread beyond this Tower."

Marnan stared at the inner doors with a frown. "So there are monsters in there? Why not just kill them and save the mages?"

"Because the monsters are the mages, Marnan," Felicity said, feeling faint as the enormity of the disaster dawned on her. "Demons corrupt the living, much like the Taint does. The difference is that demons are drawn to magi, because we have a strong connection to the Fade… we're easily possessed. When a demon possesses a mage, the mage is… transformed into something called an abomination. And once a demon is joined with a soul as an abomination, the only reliable means of separating them is death."

Marnan looked decidedly paler. "So the creatures in there would be innocent mages?"

"Innocent no longer," Greagoir said, "if demons have corrupted them."

"This was caused by blood magic?" Felicity asked quickly. "How? Who?"

"Uldred," Greagoir growled. "The bastard led a coup… he must have been brewing the thing for years, and saw his chance after so many Templars died at Ostagar. He certainly overwhelmed us at first; I'll give him that. But we will not be put down so easily; justice will be served, and soon."

Leliana asked softly, "What does that mean?"

"I've sent a request for the Right of Annulment from Denerim."

Felicity gasped, horrified, and Leliana let out a soft, "Oh no..."

Marnan looked sharply between the two of them. "What is that?"

Felicity could barely say it, but forced it out. "They're going to purge the Circle!"

"Purge?" Marnan eyed Greagoir sharply. "As in kill the entire Circle of Magi?"

"It is a necessary action," Greagoir said calmly, glaring at both women, "when a Circle is irredeemable."

"But isn't Irving in there?" Felicity squeaked. "And the other senior enchanters?! What if they're still alive?!"

"I can't take that chance!" In the shout, Greagoir showed just how much this ordeal was wearing him down. He took a deep breath and gathered himself before addressing the women again. "The Circle is lost, Miss Amell. Simply thank the Maker you weren't in there as well."

Unbidden, tears came to Felicity's eyes, thinking of all the people who had been in there. The enchanters… her peers… roommates and study partners… she had never been close to many of them, true, but she had known them all, in the way that people who lived together tended to know one another. Their faults and strengths were familiar to her, and it was their presence that made this home. She could not let them be annulled.

Felicity clenched her fists, and she blinked her tears away. "No. No, you can't do this."

"Miss Amell, you are not thinking clearly-"

"Of course I'm not! You're threatening to kill my peers and mentors!" Anger sparked in her: a true righteous fury that was as vicious as it was slow to stir. "I refuse to believe that every mage in the Tower succumbed to the demons. The Harrowing is designed to weed out such people, after all. Thus, it only stands to reason that there must be survivors, clean of the demonic taint, and that such survivors would be capable of helping to cast out the abominations."

"The problem is that there's no way of knowing who is safe and who isn't," Greagoir said with narrowed eyes. "We're dealing with blood magic, Miss Amell. Not only are blood mages indistinguishable from their fellows, but they also have the means by which to enthrall anyone who might disagree."

"And so you'd rather kill the lot of us and be done with it?" Felicity got in the Knight-Commander's face, challenging him with a finger to his chestplate. "Templars claim to protect us mages from ourselves, so is this what you call protection? Or are we merely your prisoners, meant to exist quietly in our tower while the world forgets we exist, with you the ever-watchful guard-dogs just waiting for the excuse to pounce on our throats? I've never believed such things before, but your speed at seeking the right to Annul the Tower can have no other logical conclusion than that you value our lives below your own. But you tell me, Knight-Commander of the Templars: what are you without us? Just some Chantry choir boy with a pointy stick, that's what!"

With a huff, Felicity whirled away and stalked toward the door leading into the Tower. She heard someone give a low whistle, but nonetheless heard Marnan and Leliana fall into step behind her.

"Blast it, Miss Amell! If you go through that door, we are locking it behind you!"

"Then you'd better pray that I do find some survivors, if you don't want three more deaths on that quagmire you call a conscience."

The Knight-Commander was silent as Felicity reached the door, and the Templars beside it stepped aside after a quick glance at him.

Heavy footsteps came up behind them, and Felicity turned her glare on the Knight-Commander. He matched it.

"Irving," Greagoir said. "If you find Irving, and he tells me himself that the Tower is safe, I will call off the Right of Annulment. I will only accept the word of the First Enchanter."

Felicity nodded, glad to have that much compromise, at least. "Irving, then." The heavy doors were opened for them, and the three women stepped through.

The doors shut behind them with a note of finality. Felicity suppressed a shiver, staring back at the unyielding steel.

"That was… amazing!" Leliana said. "The way you stood up to him!" She shook her head with a smile.

Marnan eyed her as well. "I have to admit, seeing that finally made me realize why Duncan picked you. You've got a backbone of steel under all that flower-picking and useless knowledge, don't you?"

Felicity felt her face heat up in a blush. "Well, I couldn't just let him kill all the mages, could I?"

"No," Marnan said, smiling. "You couldn't have. Come on: let's go save us some survivors."

And when Marnan spoke of survivors, Felicity wasn't thinking of looking for only mages. There was a certain young Templar who she hadn't seen in the front hall, and that frightened her more than it really should have.

As it turned out, they didn't have to go far to find the first survivors—there was a cluster of them at the end of the hallway, ranging from tender apprentices of ten, to Harrowed mages, to white-haired Wynne. A glowing barrier blocked the single door leading into the rest of the Tower.

"Wynne!" Felicity ran up to the senior enchanter, relief bringing tears to her eyes to see her mentor healthy and—more importantly—unpossessed.

The elderly mage turned to her with pinched eyes, showing the same weariness that Greagoir had, even as Felicity enveloped her in a hug. "Felicity? My dear, what are you doing here?"

"Grey Warden business, technically," Marnan said wryly. She nodded cordially to the mage. "It's good to see you well, enchanter."

"And you, Marnan." Wynne extracted herself from Felicity's grip. "Though I can't imagine why the Wardens would wish to enter the Tower at so perilous a time, we could certainly use the aid." She turned to Leliana and forced a weak smile through her obvious exhaustion. "Hello. I don't believe we've met. I'm Wynne."

The bard smiled warmly. "So I'd gathered. I am Leliana. I travel with the Wardens, though I am not one myself."

"They stand for a good cause," Wynne said, a real smile flickering across her features. "Even so… Felicity, should you not be out battling the Blight?"

Felicity couldn't find the words to explain, so Marnan said, "We would if we could, but Ostagar decimated all the forces that would have fought beside us against it. We came here to recruit more allies." Marnan frowned, looking over the huddling collection of mages. "It seems such allies will be scarcer and harder to come by than we'd hoped."

"Have no fear, Marnan," Wynne said. "Even if our numbers are depleted, we mages are strong. Even a handful of us can turn the tide of the war."

Marnan smiled. "So have I learned. If we dwarves had mages like you surfacers do, we'd never have lost the thaigs. Though I suspect the ancient cities would have been a great deal more scorched."

Wynne chuckled. "And how is young Mage Surana faring? I can't help but notice that he is not with you."

Felicity smiled wryly. "He opted to search for the Dalish elves instead. He… wasn't particularly eager to return to the Tower."

Wynne's own smile saddened. "No, I don't suppose he would be. Still, it is good to know that he is alive, at least. We lost a great deal many good mages at Ostagar. Not as many as the Templars or the Wardens, but we hardly left unscathed before Loghain's deception became apparent."

Leliana asked, "Then you do not believe the story that the Wardens betrayed the king?"

"How could I? I am old, not blind." Wynne sighed. "Even so, there is little we can do about it, now that the Templars have locked us in here."

"I'm surprised you got past the Templars," said one of the other mages, Petra. The red-headed mage nodded cordially to Felicity in greeting—they'd never had any reason to dislike one another, before. "Last any of us heard, they'd barred the door."

"Truth be told, Greagoir let us in," Felicity admitted, drawing curious looks all around. "It was… a one-way trip."

"Oh, Felicity," Wynne sighed.

"I couldn't just sit by! Not when he…" she cut herself off, looking at the assembled survivors. A dozen eyes around the room watched her, and she swallowed. Then, she raised her voice, because they all had the right to know. "Knight-Commander Greagoir has sent for the Right of Annulment."

Whispers, both fearful and angry, broke out over the room. Exclamations of disbelief and surprisingly creative curses filled the air for a time, until Felicity raised a hand and cleared her throat. Slowly, the din died down.

"There is one hope. Greagoir said that if Irving tells him the Tower is safe from demons, he'll call off the Right." Felicity turned uncertainly to Wynne. "You don't happen to know whether he's even alive, do you?"

Wynne chuckled. "Oh, I have no doubt that old devil's still kicking, somewhere. It should only be a matter of finding him."

"And killing abominations along the way," Marnan put in, a hand on her axe handle.

"That as well. Come, we should leave at once." Wynne picked a pack up off the ground and grabbled an enchanter's staff that was leaning against a wall. "It should take more than a week yet for the messenger to get to Denerim and back, even if Greagoir sent it out as soon as the Tower fell. Nonetheless, we shouldn't waste any more time than necessary."

"Wynne," Petra said fretfully, "are you sure you're up to this? After what happened…"

"I am hardly made of porcelain, Petra. Watch over the younger mages. We will return."

Felicity bit her lip, carrying not a few reservations herself about having the elder woman join them. Even so, she nodded and followed Wynne as the elder let down the barrier that led into the rest of the Tower.

Chapter Text

Kazar twirled the long, sinewy oak branch in his hands. He could feel the natural energy pulsing through it. It was like holding a piece of the planet's soul: ancient and powerful. "I have to say, I'm really starting to see the benefit of dealing with demonic beings. I don't get why the Chantry freaks out so much."

Meila glanced over her shoulder at him from ahead on the trail. "Do all demonic beings speak in rhyme and impart magical gifts?"

"How should I know? I've only met three that didn't try to kill me." Kazar paused, then chuckled. "Or that I didn't try to kill first, actually." He waved the staff, letting his mana channel down it. The magic burst out of the twisted end in a green puff that hit the ground and immediately blasted up into a mire of vines and weeds. Kazar giggled—not his usual destructive style, but satisfying in its own way. "But really, trading a bone necklace for an oversized acorn? And then the acorn for one of the receiver's limbs? I'm starting to think this forest has an adverse effect on the sanity of all creatures that dwell in it. But if I get a staff out of the deal, I say it's a fair enough trade!" He barked a laugh.

"By all rights," Finian grumbled, "a fair trade would mean that the staff goes to me. Since it was my necklace that was traded."

"Ha! And you're going to tell me that the necklace was legitimately yours to begin with? You, with the stickiest fingers on this side of the Frostback Mountains?"

"Good point. I could just steal the staff."

"And what would you do with a magic staff?"

"Use it as a walking stick, obviously." Fin cast a flat glance over at Kazar, and the mage sighed through his nose. Finian's banter had been lackluster today; the other elf seemed to be in a bad mood or something. It had been hours since he'd even tried to crack a smile.

It was a pity. Ever since that night at the Dalish camp, an ease had settled between the three of them. Kazar felt… like he belonged to something. It was a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one. "Okay, I give. What's wrong?"

"Why would you think that anything's wrong?" Fin asked sharply.

"Was it that hermit's nosy questions? Because I am all for going back and giving him a little shock to the nuts, if you want. 'Have you ever been in love?' Sheesh."

"It's not an unreasonable question," Fin said defensively. "Or at least it wouldn't be, if you'd ever made any sort of real connection with another person in your life."

"Whoa, hey!" Kazar was getting pissed off, because that one had actually hurt. "Okay, what crawled up your ass and died this morning?"

Finian blinked, then looked away. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I guess I'm not feeling well."

"You guess?"

Meila studied Finian over her shoulder. "I had noticed that you did not eat much of your breakfast. This is rarely the case, for Grey Wardens. Perhaps you're hungry? Would you like to stop for lunch?"

Finian went a little green. "No, no. I don't think hunger is the problem."

"So you get a little tummyache and start sniping at people?" Kazar scoffed. "Wow, Garott's right. Deep down, you're kind of an asshole."

"Are you seriously accusing me of that right now?" Finian snapped. "You?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?!"

"Dar'atisha, both of you. Calm down." Meila had stopped trying to lead them through the forest, and instead turned to give them her full attention. She frowned thoughtfully at Finian. "I admit that Kazar has a point. You are uncharacteristically sharp-edged today."

Fin sighed and looked away. "What, so I have to be all smiles and empathy all the time? I'm not allowed to have bad days too?"

"We only wish to help, lethallin. Tell us what's wrong. Perhaps we can ease it."

Finian's right hand started rubbing the back of his left. "I… don't know. I'm just not up to all that joking around today. Everything's so… grating."

"Welcome to my world," Kazar said with a snort.

"Maybe I am sick. I dunno." He cast a look at Kazar. "Is being a hot-headed ass contagious? If so, I think I know where I got it."

"Oh, ha ha. And you said you weren't up to joking today."

Meila frowned. "Why are you rubbing your hand?"

Finian froze, like an apprentice who had just been caught sneaking into the storeroom. "W-what?"

"You're rubbing your hand, lethallin. Is it paining you?"

Finian blinked, staring down at it. "I… I guess. Swiftrunner got his claws into it during our fight with him."

"Why did you not tell anyone? We could have healed it at camp."

Fin shrugged. "It wasn't anything too bad… not like what you had. I didn't want to bother anyone over something so small."

Meila was already digging through her herbal pouch. She had learned a couple basic herbal remedies from Lanaya, Zathrian's apprentice. In a forest inhabited by bears, sylvans, and the occasional darkspawn, it had come in handy in the two days since. Meila pulled out a sprig and started toward Fin.

"It's fine," Finian said, testy again. He held the injured arm protectively to his body. "It's not a big deal. You don't need to waste our resources on it."

"Herbal resources are hardly a problem in the Brecilian Forest," Meila said flatly. She held out her palm pointedly, and Finian placed his wrist in her hand with a sigh. Deftly, Meila uncinched his left arm's dagger sheath and handed it off to Kazar.

Kazar took the leather wrist sheath carefully, trying not to trigger the mechanism that would make the dagger pop out. That sounded like a good way to cut his hand open.

Meila, meanwhile, was rolling up the other elf's sleeve. As she did, she froze, and Kazar knew the Dalish elf well enough to know that was as close to jaw-dropping shock as Meila ever got.

"What's wrong?" He prompted. Finian looked up at her anxiously.

"You said Swiftrunner gave you these?"

"Yes."

"With his claws?"

"Of course. Or do you think I wouldn't remember him goring my arm?"

Kazar peered over Meila's shoulder, and immediately saw why Meila was worried. The scratches on Finian's forearm weren't healing properly… or at all. They were red and raised, like the arm had just been injured earlier that day, and they were threatening to burst open at the slightest movement.

Meila went pale and leaned in close to inspect the back of Fin's hand. "Is this... a tooth mark?"

Finian and Kazar paled as well, and Kazar involuntarily took a hasty step back.

"He… he did have my hand in his jaws for a second… but he just held it! He didn't break skin!"

"He wouldn't have to," Kazar realized shakily, studying Finian for any outward sign of contamination. "If he'd already clawed you open, and then a little saliva seeped into the claw wounds…"

Meila nodded, her expression stony as she raised her eyes to Fin's. "That would explain-"

"Explain what?" Finian snapped, snatching his hand away. "I'm not at my best, and that means I'm a werewolf? I'm allowed to be in a bad mood!"

"Defensive, aren't we?" Kazar snorted, though he found very little funny about this situation.

Meila's voice remained even and calm. "I would like to take you back to camp, lethallin. Just in case."

"We won't get that far," Kazar pointed out. "The Swiftrunner attack was days ago. There's no way we'll get back in time."

"I'm not a werewolf!" Fin skittered back, holding his hand against his chest and glaring at both of them. Kazar may not have been an accomplished liar like Fin, but he knew enough about bluster to know that the other elf was terrified.

"Calm down, lethallin." Meila was gritting her teeth. "You are being irrational-"

"I'd hardly trust you to be the judge of rationality," Fin spat. "You'd mistrust your own mother if she spent a year or two among the shemlen. I'm surprise you suffer Kazar and me, much less the rest of the Wardens. You must scrub yourself raw every night, trying to get rid of our quickling corruption."

Meila's face went red, though Kazar couldn't read her well enough to know whether she was angry or embarrassed. "That's enough!"

"Right, get righteously angry. It's the only emotion you know, except maybe pride and pig-headedness. I can't figure out how you managed to stay with the Wardens at Ostagar for a full month, and yet none of them tried to slap some sense into you."

"How dare-!"

"Oh, not because of any racial inferiority. The opposite, actually. You think you're better than everyone else, and it gets really obnoxious. It's no wonder everyone thinks you're such a stone cold bitch. You're never going to belong with the rest of us. Ever. And you no longer fit in with the Dalish. So where do you belong, Meila Mahariel?"

Meila opened and closed her mouth a couple times, squeaking once. Kazar barely stifled a snort of laughter, but even that turned Finian's attention to him.

Fin practically hissed. "Why hide your laughter, Kazar? You love seeing innocent woodland creatures get torn apart—why not your companions as well?"

"Going to go into how much of an arrogant prick I am, are you?"

"No." Fin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You know that. You count on it. Because otherwise people would see that, underneath that fire and noise, you're just a scared little boy who's never had anyone love him."

Kazar bit down a twinge of fear, quickly replacing it with anger. "Would a scared little boy melt your face off?" he growled.

"Yes, if that scared little boy happens to be a mage who over-compensates for his weaknesses with magical overkill. But I suppose it makes sense that you would, since you only feel in control of your own life when you're chucking fireballs."

"Shut-!"

"It's no wonder you didn't want to go back to the Tower, when all they want to do there is control your magic—the only thing that makes you feel like your life is worth living. What are you without it, Kazar? No family. No friends. No one who cares whether you live or die or become a soulless, lifeless Tranquil… even those you thought you could trust were willing to do that to you, weren't they?"

"SHUT UP!" Kazar was horrified to find tears in his eyes. He channeled that horror into anger, then changed that anger into a blast of fire aimed at Finian.

The thief anticipated it, leaping easily upward and grabbing a tree branch. He flipped up into the tree, glaring down at the both of them. "There you go again: trying to hide behind your magic. I know something about hiding emotions, so realize that it comes from a knowledgeable source when I say you're awful at it." He ducked behind the trunk to dodge another blast, hopping deftly into a different tree as that one caught fire. "And now you'd destroy one of the few people who actually could give a damn, just because of a couple hurtful truths?"

"You're not Finian!" Kazar growled, blasting again a little wildly. "You're some Rage-Demon-twisted abomination! Get out of my friend this instant, or I'll do to you what I did to the last Rage Demon I fought!" Finian had disappeared into the trees, so Kazar stopped to catch his breath. His pool of magic was getting dangerously low. The forest around him burned quietly.

Then, light laughter echoed throughout the trees, bouncing off the trunks so that its source was impossible to pinpoint. Kazar and Meila both looked around warily, unnerved.

"I'm not Finian?" Fin's voice sounded like its usual cheery self, and Kazar shrieked as the thief dropped out of a tree right in front of him. Finian smiled brightly and assumed a relaxed position with his hands in his pockets—had Kazar not been in the middle of a very disturbing conversation with the thief, he'd have sworn Fin looked completely normal. "Or could it be that you never really knew me at all?" Finian's smile turned wistful, and he gazed down at his injured hand. "Could it be that Garott's right, and I'm just a puppeteer so used to pulling strings that I don't even notice my own fingers anymore?"

The smile dropped altogether, replaced with an eerily blank expression that he now turned on Kazar. The mage shuddered, because those brown eyes seemed to gaze into parts of him that he kept thoroughly locked up, even from himself.

This close, Kazar could also see how pale Finian was.

"So werewolves are abominations…" Fin said thoughtfully, as if discussing the weather. "But so are sylvans, right? What makes the Grand Oak so special, I wonder?"

"Special how?" Meila hazarded from somewhere behind Kazar.

Fin's eyes flicked over Kazar's shoulder, presumably to meet hers. "He listens to reason, and just wants to live in peace. And, of course, he can speak."

"So could Swiftrunner."

And Fin grinned, bright and… relieved? Now Kazar was just confused. And still unnerved. "I suppose he could, couldn't he?" He turned to Kazar, and chuckled. What? "Do you think he'll give you any gifts, if you give him an acorn?"

"What is wrong with you?"

Fin ignored the question, again looking past him, at Meila. "A spirit protects this forest, right? So why do you think it's protecting the werewolves, too?"

"It wasn't protecting them," Meila's voice said uncertainly.

Finian shrugged, his eyes now lifting to watch the clouds. "It turned us around when we were looking for them, then didn't interfere when we abandoned the search and headed straight back to the Dalish. If I were a forest spirit who was up to mischief, I would have probably done the exact opposite."

Kazar was still reeling from the biting words from before. "Hello? Can we get back to the topic of you being a werewolf?"

Finian's eyes dropped down to meet Kazar's, and his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. "I lied, you know. To the hermit."

"Wh-what? By the Fade, you've completely lost your mind, haven't you?"

"When he asked if we'd ever been in love. All three of us said 'no.'"

"And I meant it," Kazar said, confused.

"Yes, you did." Finian's gaze flicked back to Meila. "Both of you. But I was lying."

Despite himself, Kazar felt a twinge of curiosity. For all the talking Fin tended to do, it was rarely about anything personal. "You've… been in love?"

Finian nodded, starting to undo the buckles of his remaining wrist sheath. "Well, puppy love, I guess. I wasn't much older than you, and hadn't ever really thought about such things before." His leather bracer popped off, and he handed it to Kazar. The mage took it, bemused.

"In Denerim, there was this tavern down on the waterfront. The seediest dive you've ever seen, but they didn't mind elves coming in and speaking their minds. That was actually part of the appeal for the human patrons, because drunken elves are an excellent source of information on what goes on behind closed doors in the noble estates. No one ever notices the servants, after all."

Fin pulled off his pack and started digging around in it. "Anyway, the point is, after my mother died, my cousins and me would go down to this tavern and get completely sloshed, at least until the guards came in after dark to drag all wayward elves back to the Alienage." He pulled a coil of rope out of his pack and held it out to Meila. "Tie me up."

Silently, Meila stepped forward and took the rope. Finian held his arms out with his wrists pressed together.

Kazar warily shifted his grip on the dagger sheaths in his hands. "Does this story have a point?"

"Other than distracting me?" Finian said grimly. "Not really. But unless you want me to start either hyperventilating or trying to chew off my own arm in a minute, I'd really like to continue. If it's not too much trouble."

Despite himself, Kazar smirked. "Go ahead. I won't stop you."

"Much obliged. Anyway, so Soris, Shianni, and me—my two cousins, remember?—would head down to this dive of a place almost every night, because my mother had just died, and Shianni's answer to unhappy emotions has always been 'drown them in booze until they're happy again'…" He suddenly paled, frowning. "Maker, I hope Soris has been keeping her stash out of her reach." He shook his head to clear it.

"So one evening, I'm playing cards with a couple other elves from out of the city—and making a bit of a killing, since I knew a thing or two about sleight-of-hand by that point—all while doing my damnedest not to fall sideways out of my chair. Then, one of my current opponents leaves, and this human with bright red hair and a devious grin sits down in the free chair, plays a round, and then calls me out on my cheating."

Kazar couldn't suppress a laugh. "Your 'puppy love' busted you?"

"Well, nothing so dramatic. More of a comment on how nimble my fingers were… followed by a whisper of how useful that might be for 'other things.'" He swallowed, nervously eyeing the knots that Meila was tying around his arms. "I was quite drunk, and my cousins were distracted with a bawdy ballad by the bar, so it didn't take much for him to lure me, giggling, out of the tavern and into a back alley."

"Wait wait wait… Him?"

At that, Fin aimed a little smirk up at Kazar, though there was something challenging in his eyes. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Kazar didn't bother hiding his disgust, because that was far better than the spike of old fear that churned low in his stomach. "I don't need to hear about two men doing that!"

"Then I'll spare you the graphic details." Finian was full-on grinning, now. "Anyway, I snuck out to that seedy tavern every evening after that, whether my cousins were going or not. We would meet in the alley behind the tavern, and soon we were doing more than just messing around. It turned out he wasn't half bad with a dagger."

"Oh by the Fade!"

Finian laughed. "That's wasn't a euphemism, honest! Aiden always wore this finely jeweled dagger at his hip, though I suppose that should have been a giveaway, but I'll get to that. The two of us would duel, which was something I'd been sorely missing since my mother's death. Aiden was also the one who taught me how to pick locks and pockets." He sighed, turning wistful. "Everyone always assumed my mother taught me that, but she'd probably have been ashamed. She knew how to, I think, but she never would have wanted me to turn into a criminal." He glanced at Meila, softly saying, "My legs, too." Meila nodded grimly and bent to start tying Fin's ankles together.

"So what happened?" Kazar asked, because Finian looked distracted by the rope wrapping around his ankles.

"One night, we were cornered on the streets by a contingent of household guards, looking for their wayward lordling. As it turned out, Aiden was a slumming noble… the son of some bann who had an estate in the palace district. I never did pay much attention to the names and crests, to be honest. He was apparently studying in Denerim for a couple months, and had been off his father's leash for the time we'd known one another. But now his father was in the city, and wouldn't allow his son to spend his time in seedy taverns and suffer the company of knife-ears."

This time, it was Meila who asked, "So you ceased relations?"

He laughed, though it was thin. Finian was starting to look pale and shakey. "Oh, no. Actually, it got more interesting after that. See, now, instead of sneaking out to the docks, I was sneaking into his estate in the palace district every night. It certainly honed my stealth and lockpicking skills, I'll tell you that, and most of my climbing was learned from trying to climb up the stone wall into a second story window near his chambers.

"And some of the treasures that they kept just lying around! I swear, Aiden would put the most random trinkets out along my path, just so he could chuckle when he found them in my pockets later." He sighed wistfully. "He never did begrudge me anything I stole… always said it was the least he could do."

"You really cared for this shemlen, then?" Meila said, and Kazar definitely detected a note of suspicion or bitterness or something in her voice.

"I said it was puppy love, didn't I?" He forced a shrug, though he now looked pained. Kazar wasn't sure whether the pain was his current condition or something to do with the story. "I was young and ignorant of human culture; I didn't really know what I was getting into. He never made an issue about my race… at least, not that I knew about." He winced, and this time Kazar figured it was the story.

"So he turned out to be a shemlen pig?" Kazar guessed, the old elven word feeling strange—but not wrong—on his tongue.

"Pretty much." Finian tugged at the ropes around his wrist, swallowing. "Like I said, elven servants notice a lot, and they'll talk about it freely once you give them a little drink or gold. One way or another, our little affair became known to the noble father, who… wasn't pleased that his son was dabbling with an elven man. A knife-ears and a male… one would have been a scandal, but both was a downright crime, apparently." He snorted a laugh, but it was forced.

"He burst into Aiden's room with a full squad of household guards and turned us both right out of the bed. I was dragged, plumb naked, down to the household dungeons. And as they carried me away, I heard them arguing—him denying that there was anything between us, claiming I was just a male street-walker he'd picked up, because that was apparently preferable to him actually caring for an elf. I'm told he was shipped out to Orlais the very next day… for his studies. I never saw him again."

His eyes grew haunted, and he kept tugging at the ropes around his wrists.

"So…" Kazar hazarded, guessing that the hardest part wasn't even told yet. "…how long were you in that dungeon?"

"Four days." Fin's voice shook. "I was locked up in pitch darkness for four days, in a cell so small that I couldn't even lay out flat on the floor. I didn't see anyone else the entire time—they didn't feed me or check on me. I think they might have put me on trial for theft—they did go through my pockets after all—if they'd thought I was worth the trouble. But I was an elf… I would have starved and rotted in that little cell, and they figured no one would have noticed or cared. Because who cares if another knife-ears dies in another fetid hole?" Fin's voice seethed with bitterness.

"That is awful," Meila said. "That is exactly why we Dalish fight the shemlen, because we can not stand to see our kin treated like that."

Fin nodded distractedly, his eyes staring desolately at something the other two couldn't see.

"How did you escape?" Kazar whispered, feeling a twinge of sympathy that was very unlike him. Still, he couldn't imagine being so trapped and powerless.

"I didn't," Fin said hoarsely. "Valendrian, the Alienage elder, interceded on my behalf. Again, it was the elven servants knowing things… he found out where I was being kept and paid for my freedom right out of his own coffers. My first sight after four days of captivity and darkness was of him standing sternly in the doorway, giving me that 'oh, Finian' look of his.

"I swore, after that day, that I'd give back to the Alienage in what ways I could… sneaking expensive trinkets and useful items into the Alienage when they were called for. Because of what Valendrian did for me. And for myself, I swore that I wouldn't ever lose control of a situation like that again. No one could ever talk for me, and I certainly wouldn't let myself fall into a position where I would be at someone else's mercy." He pressed his lips together, looking down at his bound wrists. "I think I'm about to break that vow."

And that's when Kazar realized just what was going on. "How long until you… uh…"

"I dunno." Finian tugged at the ropes again, visibly shaking now. "But I can feel it. And I… Maker, don't these seem a little tight?" Finian struggled with the ropes, white as a sheet, and Meila had to grab his arms to still him.

He needed a distraction, Kazar decided. "You know, I was almost put in prison, once."

Finian's eyes darted up toward him. "You… you were?"

"Yep. Knight-Commander Greagoir of the Templars wanted to send me to Aeonar, the mage prison. Would have done it, too, if Duncan hadn't been there."

"Wha-why did he want to do that?" Finian was still pale and shaking, but seemed to be successfully distracted, from both his bindings and his imminent fate.

"Hm… well, I think I'll start from the beginning. I had this friend named Jowan. Failure of a mage, but good minion material, or so I always figured. He tended to follow me around like a loyal dog, which, I admit, was pretty damn flattering. But I never suspected that he was keeping, not one, but two secrets from me…"

And so Kazar told the trembling elf the story of how he'd tried to help a friend escape and had nearly been made Tranquil for it. Finian listened avidly, shaking like a leaf and occasionally wincing in pain. He seemed to have difficulty concentrating, but Kazar kept him occupied by illustrating the basement battles by conjuring flame-formed figures between his hands. As said figures reached the phylactery chamber and destroyed Jowan's leash, Fin laughed with shared relief, though it was an airy, pained sound.

And then, at about the point in the story when Jowan blasted everyone and fled, Finian doubled over and started screaming. Kazar leapt back, but Meila drew her bow off her back, falling into a defensive stance. Watching Fin's lithe form become bulkier and larger, Kazar couldn't bite down a burst of nervousness. Suddenly, the ropes did not look nearly strong enough. Kazar used his staff to pull vines down from the nearby trees and wrapped the transforming figure in them.

By the time Finian was back on his feet, he wasn't Fin anymore, but rather a slavering, furred creature who just happened to have their comrade's brown eyes.

"Do you suppose he's one of the talking ones?" Kazar hazarded weakly.

The werewolf lunged at them with a snarl, the wrappings around its ankle bringing it to the ground. Kazar and Meila both paled as they heard one of the bindings snap almost immediately.

"Guess that's a no." As the werewolf lurched back to its feet, Kazar drew more vines out of the trees, these wrapping around its limbs to hold it to those very trees.

Meila leveled her bow at the thrashing creature. "If he cannot be reasoned with, we must take him out," she said slowly, holding her arrow level with the monster's head. Meila didn't flinch. She never did. She didn't shoot right away either—Kazar wasn't sure he wanted her to.

"Come again?" Kazar winced as a vine snapped, and the werewolf lurched forward a step. Kazar sent another puff of magic from the Grand Oak branch, and roots burst up from the ground, wrapping around the monster's ankles.

The Finian-wolf howled its rage to the sky and thrashed, and the ropes around its wrists gave way with a creak and a final snap. It started clawing at the vines around its arms and shoulders.

"I see little other choice," Meila said grimly. "He's a werewolf now."

"We're trying to lift the curse, aren't we? Once we do, he should—probably—revert back!"

The wolf howled again, kicking at the roots around its feet. Most of the restraining vines and ropes now lay in shredded heaps around it.

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime? This obviously won't hold him. We need some sort of cage."

Both winced at the thought of subjecting Fin to that, but Kazar wasn't going to let a sob story stop him from doing what he had to. "Then we'll make a cage."

He planted the oak staff in the ground and rolled up his sleeves, then dug deep into his mana. He raised his hands toward the thrashing wolf and infused the earth underneath it with magic. Then, he pulled up, first one handful of earth, then another, then another, until eight pillars of stone rose up around the werewolf, twice the height of the creature.

It was exhausting, Kazar realized, to exhibit that much control over his magic. Yet it was also strangely satisfying, to pull off a reasonably complex task. More satisfying than the simple destruction of a fireball. It was something to ponder, perhaps, when he wasn't in danger of being savaged by a former friend.

The werewolf broke out of the roots and howled, throwing itself against the walls of its stone cage. It tossed itself against one side, then another, snarling and thrashing like the trapped animal it was. The creature wasn't happy about it, but it would hold.

Meila lowered her bow, her brow furrowing as she watched the werewolf pace. "Do you suppose he's in there? Aware?"

"If so, we'll have to apologize to him later… or make him grovel in gratitude for sparing him." Kazar picked up the oak branch, using it to stabilize the earth around the stone pillars. "For now, we've got a white wolf to find."

Meila nodded and, now only two, the Wardens set out to head deeper into the Brecilian Forest. The desolate howl of the creature that had been Finian Tabris echoed among the trees behind them.

Chapter Text

"So… what do you suppose our chances are?" Alistair's voice called over the din of battle. "That Eamon's still alive, I mean?"

Percival beheaded another walking corpse, then pivoted with his shield to block an axe that came in at his back. Hugo wove around him, sinking his teeth into the shin of Percy's newest attacker. "If the source of this is, in fact, his son? Probably better than any of these poor saps." He dodged back from a sundering blow, then kicked out and sent the undead staggering backwards, right into the Wardens' prisoner.

The mage cried out and backed away, releasing a pulse of energy that repelled the corpse away from himself. Percy bashed the undead with his shield, sending it to the ground. He wasted no time in crushing the thing's skull with a stomp of his steel boot.

Then, while Alistair and Hugo flanked the last cluster of undead in the castle's chapel chamber, Percy turned a sour look to the mage. "Can't you cast anything useful? A fireball, or something?"

"Blood magic doesn't work on the undead," Jowan replied defensively. "They don't have any blood!"

"There's more to magic than stabbing yourself, you know," Percy growled, turning to slice apart one corpse that had escaped the ex-Templar's circle of re-death.

Ever since they'd stumbled upon the blood mage, Alistair had been all for leaving him in his cell to rot, but Percy figured they might as well make use of the mage's claims of wanting to set things right. Still, Percy was watching him carefully for deceit. If the mage showed any signs of betrayal, Hugo was under orders to take him down in the most vicious way possible.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable echo of this whole situation that had Percy so on edge. Redcliffe castle looked very much like Highever from the inside, and this wasn't Percy's first time forging through hostile corridors during an enemy siege in search of the castle lord.

At least this—forging through the corridors of the haunted castle—felt more productive than defending the town had. After spending an entire day gathering supplies, shaking sense into the smith, bullying the tavern keeper into being more than dead weight, and flat-out bribing the only combat-capable person in town to help them... the battle for the village had still been a rout.

Percival and Hugo had watched the road with what remained of the arl's knights. It was depressing, how happy they had been to take orders from anyone, much less someone as inexperienced with such things as Percy. It was only after most of the men had fallen to the shambling hordes (and they were a horror that did not even bear thinking upon), and Percy was forced to retreat down to the village proper, that he saw just how ragged Alistair was run after directing the townspeople in holding off the undead coming up from the lake. By the time Percy got there, the blond Warden had apparently run out of pseudo-inspiring speeches.

In the end, they'd managed to withstand the attack, but barely, the dregs of the arl's men backed against the chantry doors. Many of the men believed it was Andraste's own grace that had kept the undead from breaking through. Percival wasn't sure whether he should pity them or envy them for such a sentiment.

Honestly, he didn't remember much of the night. Most of it was a blur of bashing and bloodshed. All he knew that he'd been bruised and bone-weary—and therefore spectacularly short of temper—come the following morning.

And so, when Lady Isolde had come down from the keep and pulled Teagan away, Percy had been more than happy to forge through the bowels of Redcliffe Castle in an attempt to track down and destroy the source of these evils. It had just so happened that said path led through the dungeons, and thus past a certain maleficar.

Hugo leaped on the last of the corpses and started tearing into it and, the chapel skirmish done, Alistair stormed over and glared at Jowan. "So this is a lot of trouble you stirred up, isn't it?"

"I told you, I'm sorry." The mage's eyes darted between them, but neither Warden showed anything but hostility. "I promise… if we can get to Connor, I can make things right."

"I still don't like the idea of working with a blood mage," Alistair grumbled. Even so, he wiped the rotting gore off his sword and sheathed it.

"Much less the blood mage that enabled the release of an army of undead," Percy agreed. "It makes Kazar look like a child playing with flint and steel."

Jowan blinked. "Kazar… Surana? You know Kazar Surana?"

Alistair snapped his fingers. "Jowan. Now I remember where I've heard that name before!" He pointed at the mage. "You're the blood mage friend who almost got Kazar Tranquilled." A ghost of a smirk crossed the ex-Templar's face. "Really good at messing things up for other people, aren't you?"

"Tra-Tranquilled?! Is he all right?"

"Oh, certainly," Alistair said with a smirk that bordered on cruel. "Last I heard, he was quite contentedly enchanting weapons. They say the life of a Tranquil is very peaceful, you know."

"Oh, Maker…" Jowan sank to his knees, his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry, my friend… what have I done?"

Percy arched an eyebrow at Alistair. "That was a bit vindictive, don't you think?"

"You know what? I feel much better about working with him now," Alistair sniggered, then raised his voice. "I said almost, genius. He's fine, and as hot-tempered as ever, I suspect. He's probably setting cute little woodland critters on fire as we speak."

Jowan peeked up at them from between his fingers, as if hesitant to believe him. "I don't understand… woodland critters? Why wouldn't he be at the Tower?"

"Well, he did get kicked out of the Circle. That part was your fault, from what I understand." At Percy's questioning look, Alistair shrugged. "Felicity told me a little of what happened. For example, our friend here doesn't have an intact phylactery, so the Templars can't track him."

Percy nodded. "Which was why Lady Isolde could hire him without fear of the Templars knocking down the walls in search of a malificar." He knelt to inspect Hugo as the mabari sat beside him. The dog's muzzle was absolutely caked with congealing blood, but there was no helping that.

"Right, which led to this whole mess with the army of undead, and Connor being an abomination, and whatnot." Alistair glared at Jowan, eyes narrowed. "I hate to say it, but apostates like Jowan and Morrigan make a really good case for why mages should stay locked up in the Tower, and Kazar, legitimately free mage or no, doesn't exactly help either."

Percy did his best not to wince at the mention of the witch. "At least there's Felicity."

Alistair hummed thoughtfully. Then, his mouth tilted into a grin. "If we tried to lock her back into the Tower, I suspect she'd lecture our ears off on the far-reaching moral implications or something. What a way to go deaf…"

Percy suppressed an eye roll, then stood, content that Hugo was uninjured. "We should get moving." He grabbed the mage by the collar of his ratty robes and pushed him forward, and Alistair fell into step beside him.

They ran into more undead as they delved deeper into Redcliffe castle, but never quite as many as the chapel free-for-all, meaning everyone—including the handful of knights they let in through the front gate—managed to keep their limbs intact all the way to the main hall. More's the pity, in the case of the mage.

What they saw when they got to the arl's audience hall turned Percival's stomach: Teagan dancing and carrying on like some sort of jester, Lady Isolde with her shoulders slumped in defeat, and the boy who must have been Connor Guerrin, playing at lordling while his hometown fell to pieces around him.

Of more interest, though, was the squad of dull-eyed soldiers behind him. Not undead… enchanted. Controlled by a child. Percy found that more unnerving than the walking corpses.

Percival could hear the knights following behind as he and Alistair stepped forward into the main hall. He held Jowan's robes tightly in one hand, even though the mage had made no attempt to bolt. He wasn't taking any chances with this one.

The delight dropped off the boy's face as they approached. "So these are our visitors? The ones you told me about, Mother?"

"…yes, Connor." The Arlessa's voice was as defeated as her posture.

When Connor spoke, there was a dissonant echo in his voice, as if something much more terrifying were speaking with the child's voice. Percival shuddered, because he had no doubt that this was precisely the case.

"These are the men who tore through my guards? The one I sent to take back the town?"

"…yes."

So this was an abomination… this was what it was like to look into the eyes of a demon. Everything in Percy was screaming at him to kill it. Run it through, his mind shrieked.

Percy got a hold on the heat that flared up inside him, channeling it into throwing Jowan down on the rug in front of him.

"We've brought you a present," Percy growled at the child. Then, to Jowan, he said. "Fix it."

"I-it's not really that simple," Jowan stuttered. His eyes were wide and fixed on the abomination.

"Fix it, or I kill it."

"You dare to threaten me?" Connor cried.

"Please, do not hurt Connor!" Isolde cried, near tears. Percy wasn't moved; he was too disgusted by the spineless, underhanded shrew who had half caused this. "He is not responsible for what he does! It was him!" She pointed a finger wildly at the mage. "That mage poisoned my son's mind, made him into this creature!"

"Actually," Alistair said drily, also scowling at the Arlessa, "I believe it was your husband that he poisoned."

"I didn't summon the demon!" Jowan protested weakly. "I just… made it possible for him to do so…"

"It doesn't change the fact that a demon was summoned," Percy said shortly. "As far as I'm concerned, all three of you are culpable."

"It was a fair deal!" Connor roared, louder than he should have been able to. "Father is alive, and now no one can tell me what to do!" The Teagan creature cackled in agreement.

Percy's hair stood on end, and his sword was in his hand before he'd even thought of it. As he took a step forward to behead the monster, Alistair's hand fell on his arm.

Blinking back the redness that had been creeping into his vision, he noticed that the abomination was rubbing his eyes.

"M… mother?" the child's voice said, now lacking its supernatural echo. "Where am I?" Eyes peeked up fearfully from between his fingers. "What's going on?"

"Connor!" Isolde cried, falling to her knees beside her son. "Thank the Maker!"

Percival couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. Connor… was still alive under that? No, no. He couldn't believe this! It was a trick, certainly!

He looked pleadingly at Alistair, who watched the boy with wide eyes. Connor's face was back in his hands, his head shaking as if fighting off a nightmare. When the boy's face rose again, the previous coldness was back in his eyes. "Mother, stop that!" The vocal dissonance was back as well. "You are beginning to bore me!"

Shaking, Percival slowly slid his sword back into its sheath, his rage now a sputtering, ineffectual thing. He couldn't attack Connor, not after seeing that. Something about seeing that frightened child, comforted by his worried mother… it made him think of Oren and Orianna.

"But let's keep this civil," the abomination said, turning to squint at the Wardens. "Tell me, teacher. What are these men here for?"

Jowan picked himself carefully off the carpet, eyes darting nervously. "I believe they wish to help you, Connor."

"Ha! Help me? Like you helped me? You never were anything but a bumbling fool, and now I'm more powerful than you!" With that, Connor swept out a hand, and Jowan went hurtling back across the hall. He hit the wall and slumped to the floor, dazed.

"Well?" The abomination snapped at Percival and Alistair. "What do you want?"

To kill you, Percy wanted to say.

Alistair cleared his throat. "We seek an audience with Arl Eamon."

"Do you think me a fool?" Connor sneered. "You would hurt my father, just like he did!" The boy waved an arm at the mage's slumped form. "I will not let that happen! Men, kill them all!"

And then, to no one's surprise, the men behind Connor leapt at his command, drawing their weapons and charging the Wardens and knights. Isolde shrieked and scurried back into a corner… at least she was out of the way. Then, Teagan drew his own sword and lunged straight at Percival, his eyes wide and mad.

Percival got his shield out in time to deflect, but didn't draw his sword again. That red heat burned through him, bidding him to lose himself in the battle, to give into that rage that was his constant companion nowadays. He knew that if he drew his sword, he would do exactly that… the weight of steel in his hand would be all it would take for him to lose control and mow down the entire room.

But he couldn't do that here. Even as Teagan swung madly, each impact on his shield sending a spike of anger scorching through him, Percy did not draw his sword. Teagan and the guards were innocent. They were slaves to the abomination.

Connor had to die.

Still stepping back and blocking Teagan's swings, Percival looked around for the boy. Everywhere he looked, soldiers in Redcliffe armor fought one another, and it was impossible to tell who was fighting for which side. Alistair was holding down two at once, Hugo had one man's ankle in his jaws, and Jowan was on the ground, fumbling around with a longsword someone had dropped.

Then, Percy spotted the boy, who was now near one wall, watching the fight with wide, terrified eyes. Connor's eyes met Percival's, and then the boy shrieked and ran for the servants' exit. Seeing the innocence return was almost enough to break Percy's resolve, but then Teagan's sword slammed against his shield again.

Hugo was suddenly at Percy's side, growling low as he snapped at Teagan. "Hugo!" Percy cried, blocking another swing and pointing to the fleeing child with his free hand. "Take down!"

Hugo immediately turned at the command and bounded after the child.

"NO!" Isolde's voice shrieked, and she tackled the dog with more courage than Percival had honestly come to expect from her. Hugo snarled and spun, but she clung to his back, out of reach of his jaws.

Meanwhile, Connor disappeared through the doorway, and Percival cursed. He turned his concentration back to his fight, only to realize that Teagan had gotten some good hits through his armor and shield. His ribs hurt, and his shield arm was beginning to twinge with exhaustion. He couldn't stay in defensive mode much longer… sooner or later, he would have to draw his sword and lop the noble's head off. He grit his teeth and grasped for his sword.

Then, a wave of magic shuddered through the chamber, and everyone stumbled under it, thrown off balance. Percy's shield was blown wide, and he fully expected the bann's sword to pierce his gut in the next moment. However, when he looked up, Teagan was rubbing his head and looking around with wide, clear eyes.

A brief survey of the room revealed that all the enchanted men had regained their senses, though it was far too late to save some. And, collapsed on the ground, surrounded by a spray of blood, was the reason for their renewed coherency.

Jowan smiled weakly up at them, pale from blood-loss and with a longsword shoved into his own thigh. His hands trembled as he attempted to remove it, but his fingers slipped and he fell back, apparently exhausted.

"I'd always heard blood mages had the ability to control minds," Alistair said, also eying the mage. "I never knew they could un-control them, too. Guess it makes sense, in a really icky, still-evil way."

"YOU!" the Arlessa shrieked, stomping over to the mess that the blood mage was lying in. Hugo followed warily behind her. Isolde stopped carefully outside the worst of the puddles, so her skirts didn't get stained. "How dare you show your face here! Teagan, kill him quickly, before he casts another spell!"

"Considering his last one made my mind my own again," Teagan said carefully, still rubbing his head, "I'm going to have to respectfully decline, Lady Isolde."

"If it helps," Alistair said, "I don't think he's really up for another spell. Or standing, for that matter." Alistair gave the mage a flat look. "I'm sure we all feel bad for him. Poor helpless maleficar."

Percy walked carefully through the slick blood until he was standing next to the mage. Jowan looked up at him with nervous eyes, which widened in fear as Percy knelt down and put a hand firmly on the sword still sticking out of the mage's leg. He pressed down on it, making the blood mage wince.

"You could have run away at any time during that skirmish," Percy growled, the battle rage still threatening to break through despite the fact that the fight was over. "But you did not. For that, you live." Roughly, he yanked the sword out of the mage's leg. Jowan cried out and tried to clutch at his thigh, but Percy batted his hands away and pulled out his injury kit to start bandaging the wound.

"What?!" the Orlesian harpy shrieked. "You're going to help this assassin?!"

"Hugo," Percy said, not looking up, "third wheel."

The dog responded readily to the old command. Percy heard the dog growl, and then Isolde's yelps and protests quickly backed to a much more tolerable distance.

"I… thank you." Jowan said weakly.

"You said there was a way to fix Connor," Percy said shortly. "Speak it."

"It's… it's a ritual. In my grimoire, provided the Arlessa hasn't destroyed it." Jowan's eyes flickered over to the fuming woman, now trapped against a wall by a bloody mabari. "I can send a mage into the Fade, and they'll be able to combat the demon possessing Connor, without hurting him."

"You're talking about blood magic?" Alistair said, and Percy realized that the other Warden was standing right above them. "You really expect us to use blood magic?"

Jowan shrugged. "It's either that, or kill the child."

Alistair ran a hand over his eyes. "How is it that blood magic is the lesser of two evils here?"

"We'll need to begin as soon as possible," Teagan said, stepping up to stand beside a scowling Alistair. To Jowan, he asked, "I take it you need some time to recuperate enough blood?"

"Well, yes... but…"

"But?" Percival said impatiently, prodding the wound to get the mage talking faster.

Jowan winced and sat up. He was still shaky, but he seemed to be regaining some strength. "The thing is, the ritual needs three things: a blood mage to cast the spell, another mage to go into the Fade, and… erm… a power source."

Percy frowned, not trusting the mage's hesitancy. "Explain."

Jowan seemed to sense Percy's waning patience, judging by how quickly the words tumbled out of him. "It takes a lot of magic to send someone into the Fade. So, since this is a blood magic rite, it takes a lot of life force."

"How much?"

"…all of it?"

Slowly, Alistair said, "So you're saying, someone needs to die, to save Connor?"

Jowan's eyes shifted between the two Wardens nervously. "In a nutshell, yes."

"No, absolutely not," the ex-Templar said. He met Percival's gaze. "We can't condone blood magic. It's... it's insane. Even without the whole, 'killing someone' bit."

Percy sighed. "In that case, we have a choice between allowing the undead to continue attacking the town, or killing Connor. Tell me, Alistair: which sounds more appealing?"

Alistair opened his mouth, but not words came out for a moment. Then, he closed it and gave Percival a sour look. "Stop making blood magic sound like the least awful option, here. It's blood magic."

"A Warden does what he must, to stop the darkspawn. Perhaps it is time we learn just what that means."

Alistair huffed a sigh, glaring at the far wall. "Fine. But we can't sacrifice anyone. What are we supposed to do... hold a town raffle to see who gets to be the one to take one for the team?"

"I'll do it."

Percival, Alistair, and Teagan all turned to stare at Lady Isolde. She was huddled against the wall, pinned by a menacing mabari hound, but her eyes burned with resolution.

Percy swallowed a swell of grief, because he'd seen such resolution before, on another mother willing to give herself to save her son.

"Lady Isolde-" Teagan protested.

"I will gladly give my life to save Connor's. Please."

"You can't be serious," Alistair argued. "Look, that's very noble and all, but there's got to be another way. Maybe without killing anybody?"

"Well…" Jowan said, "I suppose if I had lyrium instead, no one would have to die. But it would take a lot of lyrium."

Alistair jumped upon the chance. "The Circle Tower has lyrium! And, ha! You know what, we can find a second mage there, to fight the demon. Maybe Felicity can give it a go!"

"That's days away by boat," Teagan broke in. "I would hate to risk Lady Isolde, but can we really lose that much time while that demon is set on terrorizing the town?"

"Please," Isolde begged, braving the mabari to take a couple steps closer. "Please, I will do it now."

"Um…" Alistair said. "There is another problem with that. We don't have a second mage."

"Then we will find one!" Isolde cried. "I will gladly give up my life, if it will save Connor!"

"I'll kill every bastard who comes through that door to buy them time."

"No," Percival said, his voice rough. He stood, hoping that would make him feel less like the world was tilting from under him. He stared down at the blood-stained floor, trying to shake off the images of a blood-splattered larder.

"I've heard there's a collective agent in town…" Jowan said.

"No, we are not sacrificing Isolde."

Alistair arched an eyebrow at Percival. "Now you're compassionate?"

"How dare you say what I can and can't do!" Isolde cried, anger flashing in her eyes. "You would deny a mother's right to protect her son?!"

Percy's rage flared up in response, and he spun wildly toward the woman. "And what of your son, after your death?!" he roared. He stalked toward her, fists clenched. "You would doom him to a life without you? With the knowledge that you had died to save him, and he must somehow prove himself worthy of such a sacrifice?"

The woman shrieked as he lifted her, single-handedly, by the front of her dress and shoved her against the nearest wall. Somewhere far away, someone cried, "Percy!"

"Losing a mother is the worst pain a son could possibly endure," he growled, letting go of his rage, just a bit, so that she could see what such a loss had done to him. "You would take away his mother, when his father's survival is already in doubt? You're a fool and a bitch, arlessa, but I never took you for cruel."

Arms grabbed him and pulled him back off the arlessa. He didn't fight them, merely continued to stare at the woman with that rage stirring inside him. She stared back, wide-eyed, seemingly hypnotized by what she saw in his eyes. Even Teagan fussing over her didn't make her stir.

"You… you're right," she said softly, stunned. "I did not think of that."

"We'll head straight for the Tower and back," Alistair said quickly from somewhere near Percy's elbow. His grip was firm on Percival's upper arm. "If you guys just make sure to burn all your corpses before each sunset, Connor shouldn't be too much of a threat in the meantime."

"If you think that best," Bann Teagan said uncertainly. "I and the men will hold the castle, then. You two will head for the Circle Tower?"

"Within the hour," Alistair assured him, guiding Percy toward the door with a firm hand. Percy didn't protest… that old grief had swept up to drain him like a dagger to the heart. He kept hearing his mother's voice, bidding him farewell as he fled into the night after Duncan.

Somehow, Alistair seemed to sense that, and Percival couldn't even summon up the wherewithal to be grateful for that.

It was all he could do not to collapse into himself, because he couldn't say that his mother would have been proud of what he'd become. Oh sure, he was a Grey Warden… but he was one who shoved defenseless women around and sicced his dog on children. Oh, how she would have scolded him for that. Suddenly, he keenly missed the sound of his mother's voice, even if only to admonish him.

Then, Percy tasted fresh air, and blinked to find that they were winding their way back down the path toward the village, just the three of them again: the two Wardens and the dog.

Alistair was talking. "…maybe Kazar or Morrigan would be better suited for that sort of thing, but I wouldn't trust either of them as far as I could throw them. Besides, the only two places that have lyrium are the Circle Tower and Orzammar, and the dwarves are probably going to be a bit suspicious if we just walk in there and start taking their ore. Unless we pose as miners. I don't know… I think I could make a convincing dwarf, if it came down to it."

"Thank you," Percy said, before realizing he'd even wanted to say it.

Alistair glanced over at him curiously. "Oh, you're back are you? And you're welcome. Why are you thanking me?"

"For backing me up, in there."

Alistair shrugged. "I didn't want to kill anyone, either. This way makes the most sense, and does the least harm."

"Provided Connor doesn't attack the town again," Percy said bitterly.

"Well, yes. There is that." Alistair was silent for a moment, then cast a sidelong look at Percy. "So… are you all right? You got a bit riled up, in there."

"Wouldn't you?" he asked tightly.

Alistair sighed. "No, I suppose so. So that's what happened, huh? To your own…" He trailed off uncomfortably.

"Yes." Percy winced at the pain in his chest. Where was that protective layer of anger when he needed it? "My father lay dying from treachery, and my mother decided to hold the exit over his body against the usurper's men, so that Duncan and myself could escape."

Alistair's eyes were full of sympathy. "I'm sorry."

And there was the surge of anger, at least. "Don't be." He embraced the anger, reveled in it. "The one who will be sorry is Arl Rendon Howe, for daring to do what he did to my family."

Percival startled as he felt Alistair's hand fall onto his shoulder. "There's not much we can do for it now… but when the time comes, you won't have to face him alone."

Percy nodded, the rage abating in favor of something… warm. "Thank you."

"All in a day's work, for us heroes." The weight of Alistair's hand left his shoulder, and they made the final turn into the village. "So what do you think the chances are that Bodahn's going to want to come with us?"

Percy cracked a small smile. "You actually like the dwarf following us around, don't you?"

"I'm just saying, having easy access to something other than biscuits and salted meat is nice. And come on, we're picking up lyrium… I'm sure we can pick up a little extra for Sandal to make an enchantment or two, right?"

Percy just shook his head and followed Alistair through the barricades, down to the town proper. Percy turned toward the docks, seeing that someone was already preparing a boat for their trip across the lake. It would likely be a long, anxious journey while they fretted about the fate of the village they were leaving behind.

Percival could only pray that it survived in their absence, and prayer was not something he put much stock in these days.

Chapter Text

Marnan felt a little bit invincible.

She stood solidly planted on the floor as a lesser demon blasted fire into her. The heat seared for a moment, breaking through her natural dwarven resistance, and then she felt a burst of healing magic from somewhere behind her. Grinning, Marnan cleaved the demon's head in twain while it was still spitting fire.

A pair of abominations behind it stumbled back as the rage demon combusted, and Marnan waded through the smoke with her axe swinging. They were sliced open under her onslaught, and she ignored the pain of their dying blows to tackle the desire demon that had positioned itself in the doorway.

The demon wove a spell that closed around Marnan's mind like icy pincers, but she shook it off, more glad than ever for her dwarven heritage. A moment later, her axe connected with the demon's inappropriately bare torso. The demon shrieked and clawed at Marnan's face, leaving stinging welts across her cheeks and nose under her helmet. Another burst of healing magic, this time from off to one side, quickly closed the wounds.

"With axe in hand the warrior cleaves

"A path of blood; wades through like leaves…" Leliana sang between her laughter.

"And should you ever do her wrong

"You'd do well to recall this song

"For bloody and proud and gory and strong

"That is the warrior Marnan!"

"Did you make that up just now?" Felicity called. A spell bolt shot out from the side, slamming into an abomination that Marnan realized was clawing at her back.

An arrow followed close behind the spell bolt, piercing the abomination's side. "Do you like it?" Leliana laughed. "I thought it quite suitable for our Marnan, yes?"

"A fine battle anthem," Marnan called, grinning despite (or perhaps because of?) the battle. "Any dwarf would be proud to be so lauded for her ability to wade through the guts and gore of her enemies!" She punctuated the statement by whirling her axe around herself and tearing open part of the desire demon's stomach. Acrid smoke spilled out of the creature through the wound, and it shrieked.

"Really, now," Wynne tsked. "Felicity, if I had known you became this chatty during life and death situations, I might have opened fire in class more often."

Leliana laughed. "Now that is a good way to teach students defensive magic, no?"

Marnan chuckled herself, slamming her shoulder into the desire demon's injury. When it doubled over, a final swing buried her axe in its throat, and the desire demon started to dissolve. Something bit into Marnan's back, but a burst of healing magic from Wynne's direction gave Marnan plenty of time to dislodge her axe and turn on her other attackers without any danger.

The four women were on the second floor of the Circle Tower, having fought their way past dozens of such monsters, and likely still to face many more. They were currently positioned in what had once been an office of some kind: a ruined desk provided ideal cover for Felicity and Leliana to fire from a distance, while the single doorway into the Tower corridors was an ideal choke point. All Marnan had to do was stand in the doorway and look menacing, and the creatures lined up for her axe like livestock to slaughter.

Wynne stood against one wall, separated from Felicity and Leliana as a matter of strategy (and Marnan agreed with the wisdom of not having both healers in a position where they could both be taken out by one fireball). The dwarf had to admit: while Felicity certainly did well enough as a healer, the younger mage had nothing on Wynne's capabilities. Marnan felt not only healed, but legitimately refreshed whenever one of Wynne's spells ran through her. It was rather spoiling her for any other healing, to be honest.

The last abomination dropped with a messy splurch, and Marnan yanked her axe out of it and looked around. The floor around her was littered with felled abominations and the ashy remains of lesser demons. She was the epicenter of a puddle of blood and gore that completely obscured the stone floor underneath.

Marnan grinned, leaning on her axe to catch her breath. Her three companions eyed the mess with a great deal more disdain than she did. "Why is it I'm the only one getting dirty, here?" the dwarf teased, pointedly wiping off the gore caked onto her armor.

"You seem to enjoy it, dear," Wynne said, smiling gently. "We wouldn't want to spoil your fun."

Felicity, meanwhile, was looking a little green. "You have part of a colon on your shoulder…"

Marnan dutifully picked off the offending organ and flung it away.

Leliana, meanwhile, was starting to range around the room, checking chests and drawers for anything of use. Marnan wasn't sure how to feel about the recent revelation that the bard truly was quite deft with locks and traps—the Orlesian had implied as much when she had joined the Wardens, but it was another thing entirely to see it in action.

Still, it wasn't Marnan's business to pry into the bard's past, though she was growing increasingly curious. Asking after others' stories would have been rather hypocritical, after all.

"Those were full manifestations," Felicity said at last. She raised her bag onto the desk and pulled out the large leatherbound book she was always carrying around. She flipped through it quickly with one hand, her other fumbling around in her pack for quill and ink. "The demons, I mean. No hosts or anything. That means that either the Veil has torn very thin here, or someone is purposely summoning these things, and they have enough ambient psychic energy to sustain their forms."

"Meaning…?" Marnan pressed, wading through the corpses to meet the mages at the desk.

"Well, if it's the latter, it might actually be a good sign." Felicity apparently found the page she had been looked for, and huddled over the book to jot down some notes. "It means that there are still people alive in here."

"Unless the only ones left are blood mages," Wynne said sadly.

Felicity paused in her writing, glancing up at Wynne with a frown. "Do you think they would suffer being used as energy sources like that? It would be more logical for the demons to keep a handful of mage or Templar prisoners alive for the purpose of fuel. Unless they can use the abominations… I hadn't thought of that, though I doubt the possessing demon would want to share. I suppose it depends on the type." Felicity flipped a page and hurriedly started writing.

Marnan leaned over to peek at the page and saw something about 'anchoring the animus through the Veil' and 'full manifestations in connection to partial.' The dwarf could only shrug and trust that Felicity could put whatever knowledge she was collecting to good use.

"Hey, you ladies like books, yes?" Leliana's voice spoke up, and Wynne and Marnan both glanced over. The bard was kneeling at a heavy wooden chest, her lockpicking tools arrayed around her.

The older mage chuckled. "I admit, I have a fondness for them, be they painstakingly researched histories or not-so-painstakingly researched romances."

Leliana chuckled as well, then reached into the chest and pulled out a huge black book. She dropped it on the ground in front of her with a heavy thud. While Felicity barely glanced up before continuing to pore over her codex, Marnan and Wynne crossed the room to Leliana's side.

Wynne knelt next to the bard and gracefully turned to the first page. The dwarf was careful not to drip blood on the book as she leaned over Wynne's shoulder. For the most part, the contents of the book were incomprehensible—even moreso than in Felicity's codex. Each page Wynne turned revealed another strange symbol or design, and the few words present did not seem to be in any language Marnan knew. And as a well-educated noblewoman, she knew more than a few, at least well enough to recognize them.

Wynne's brow was knit as she carefully turned each page, her eyes boring into the paper. Leliana bit her lip and met Marnan's eyes, seemingly taken aback that her find was perhaps not as well-received as she'd thought it would be.

"What is it?" Marnan finally asked after a long silence.

"It is a grimoire," Wynne said. "A mage's spellbook." She sighed and closed the tome. "It is, however, not like any spellbook that I've ever seen. It is… archaic. The few rituals that I recognize are very, very old versions of ones used today. That Irving had a book of such ancient knowledge, locked up in his office all this time… why did he never tell us?"

Felicity had wandered over now, and bent to study the cover of the book. The black leather was etched with a stylized tree. "That symbol…" she ran over to grab her codex and brought the heavy tome back to the group. Kneeling on the ground, Felicity began flipping through the pages. Then, about a third of the way into the tome, she uttered a soft "Aha!" and pointed.

On the open page of Felicity's tome was a sketch, accompanied by various scribbled notes in the margins pertaining to symbolic meaning and historic precedent. The sketch matched the etching on the front of the tome almost perfectly, with any variations excusable as caused by the rendering process itself.

"This is one of the symbols associated with Asha'bellanar. Meila told me about it when we were recuperating after Ostagar. Apparently, it's an old Dalish legend about a spirit woman who walks the wilds. The name means 'Woman of Many Years,' and it's said she is a powerful mage who walked the Wilds centuries ago, and continues to do so today."

Marnan blinked. "Flemeth?"

Felicity nodded and looked up at her. "Yes, or so Meila seemed to believe. That's why she brought it up, because we were staying at the hut of a Dalish legend. She was practically gushing, to be honest."

"Flemeth?" Wynne asked, shocked. "You've met Flemeth? The Flemeth?"

"Ooh, I would have given anything to be there," Leliana said. "I wonder if all the stories about her are true?"

"A couple, at least." Felicity closed her codex and hugged it to her chest. "She is a powerful mage—a shapeshifter. And she does have at least one daughter. Leliana, you've actually met her."

Leliana's eyes widened. "You mean Morrigan, don't you? I thought there was something strange about her. To think, she's Flemeth's daughter!"

Wynne continued to frown in apparent bewilderment. "How can you be so sure this was truly the Flemeth of legend?"

Felicity opened her mouth, a spark in her eye indicating that she had a mentally prepared argument for the affirmative. Such arguments from Felicity were often long and rambling, so Marnan spoke before the mage.

"Perhaps she was, and perhaps she was not. In either case, it is apparent that this—" Marnan indicated the black grimoire "—is hers. After how she saved our lives and sheltered us after the battle, it is the least we can do to return it to her."

"Why would the mages have Flemeth's grimoire in the first place?" Leliana wondered.

"Why else, child?" Wynne said. "To study it." Wynne pulled her own pack off her back and slid the book into it. "Though I admit I intend to have a stern word with Irving once this is all over. Really, keeping such a find from the rest of the Circle? What was he thinking?"

Felicity smiled, and all the women packed up their various books and thieving tools. "You always did say that mage politics was a matter of madness more often than not."

"And getting moreso all the time," Wynne sighed, and stood.

As the four women headed out of the room and started back through the circular corridors, Leliana said, "Felicity, Meila is the Dalish elf who is always glaring at me, yes?"

Marnan laughed. "That is a pretty apt description of Meila in general. 'The glaring Dalish elf.'"

"She doesn't glare at me," Felicity said with a shrug. They turned and started heading up a staircase to the next floor.

"And rest assured that the rest of us are amazed by that."

Leliana smiled, but pressed on with, "Does she know many Dalish stories, like that?"

"Oh, yes. She has a great deal of knowledge of her peoples' lore." Felicity's eyes glazed over a bit, which Marnan found both curious and amusing. "I can't tell you how much knowledge I've gleaned from her that is impossible to find in Ferelden texts. The historical accounts that the Dalish keep are an entirely different perspective from what stands as historical 'fact'… it's both fascinating and disconcerting to know two different versions of history, realizing that both can't be true."

"I think I would like to hear some of these stories," Leliana said wistfully. "I've heard a couple in my travels, but the Dalish are usually so private about such things."

"Oh, I couldn't do them justice," Felicity said. "Don't ask me to try to storytell… I'm notoriously dull at anything requiring such creativity and finesse."

"You should ask Meila when we get back to Redcliffe," Marnan suggested. "The elf seems to love talking about her culture. Who knows? It might make her stop glaring at you quite so fervently."

Leliana smiled. "I think I will do that."

Their conversation was cut short by a pair of blood mages who came around the corner, spotted them, and immediately started casting. Marnan dove in immediately, barreling into the shades that the mages summoned while Leliana's arrows sailed past her, into the mages themselves. The women made short work of that encounter. The abominations that littered the floor beyond them proved of little difficulty as well.

The desire demon and enthralled Templar on the next floor proved a bit more difficult, if only because the Templar actually had a fair amount of battle prowess. Even so, Marnan far preferred taking a few hits to letting the demon play with the poor man's mind, and her companions seemed to agree. Thus, she was forced to put the poor man down, rather than let him be the plaything of the wretched creature.

A couple heals from the mages later, and Marnan was ready for her next bout. Felicity hung back in the room with the poor Templar, jotting down a couple notes in her codex, while the other three started ahead.

However, the women didn't anticipate what kind of battle they were in for as they stepped out into the central hall on the third floor. Standing beside a pillar of flesh-like corruption, over the prone body of a mage, was a creature larger than any of the abominations they had seen thus far.

Ponderously, it turned its eyes to them, and Marnan felt a rushing in her ears. "Oh, look… visitors. I'd entertain you, but too much effort involved." Its voice was sluggish and smooth, calming like a lullaby. Marnan shook her head, feeling a strange lethargy descending upon her.

"I will not listen to your lies, demon," Leliana said sleepily, covering her ears with her hands. "You have no… power over me." The bard swayed and collapsed, and Marnan couldn't seem to dredge up the proper alarm.

"There's so much violence in the world," the demon cooed. "Don't you want to leave it all behind?"

"Resist!" Wynne muttered. "We must resist, else we are all lost…" The elderly mage fell to her knees.

"You've fought hard. You deserve… to rest."

Marnan planted her feet, fighting the waves of drowsiness, even as Wynne collapsed behind her. Her mind was fogging, despite Marnan's attempts to shake off the spell. She couldn't… give into…

..what? What was she…

No. No, fight it!

Her head drooped, and she felt the world tilting around her. Her mind reeled, but there was something… some spark of hope…

Felicity! Felicity hadn't yet entered the room! She was still free of this trap!

Marnan opened her mouth, taking a breath to shout a warning to the unenchanted mage… but her voice chose that moment to flee her, as did the rest of reality.

The ground rushed up to meet her, and she knew no more.

Chapter Text

They watched from the safety of a ridge as the werewolves milled about thirty feet below, picking over the ruins of an ancient elven city. Swiftrunner, the one who had bitten Finian, was among them.

Meila glanced over at Kazar as they crouched in the shrubbery. The mage was biting his lip, one hand running along the twisted wood of his staff as he considered the pack of deadly creatures below. Meila had half expected him to begin aggressive actions as soon as the wolves were in sight… but the younger elf had been uncharacteristically thoughtful in the past hours.

In the hours since they'd left Finian trapped in a stone cage, that was.

Meila had to admit, she'd been rather lost in thought herself, even while carefully tracking the werewolf pack through the forest. It seemed that the Grand Oak was as good as his word; Kazar's branch allowed him to offset the machinations of whatever wily forest spirit was protecting the werewolves.

There could be no doubt, really, that this was exactly what was going on. Finian had been right; the forest itself wanted to protect the werewolves. The Dalish were hardly prone to blindly submitting to the random whims of every wild spirit they came across, but they nonetheless had a healthy respect for such entities. It was in their best interest to exist in harmony with such beings, so Meila found it disconcerting to be moving so blatantly against its will. What's more, why was this against its will?

Did it have to do with the Dalish elves? Was Keeper Zathrian truly not telling them everything? That a Keeper would so withhold information, when it would hurt his people to do so… it was unthinkable. And yet…

"Do you think he was right?" Kazar suddenly whispered, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.

Meila didn't have to ask what he meant. It seemed it weighed heavily on the mage's mind as well. "They do speak," she whispered back. "That shows some degree of control. There is more to this than the Keeper told us."

Kazar bit his lip again, looking over at her with uncertainty… an expression that, on him, was both refreshing and disconcerting. "What if Witherfang's heart doesn't cure the curse?"

Meila didn't answer, because doing so was unnecessary. They would lose not only the Dalish elves, but Finian as well. After a moment, she said, "We should speak with them."

They both peered through the foliage. The werewolves were sniffing around suspiciously below, and Swiftrunner's head swiveled around warily. Had they been detected?

Kazar swallowed, and nodded. "There are obviously two sides to this story. We've only heard one."

They traded a look, for once in full agreement. And what a startling agreement it was, for them to try something this rash. But they had to, for the sake of their comrade.

Kazar smiled wryly. "I swear he planned it this way." Still, when Meila stood and stepped up to the edge of the ridge, he dusted himself off and followed.

"Swiftrunner!" Meila called.

Immediately, the werewolves spun and growled, taking up battle stances as they peered up at the elves. Swiftrunner bared his teeth as he spoke. "Hrr… you dare to approach our sanctuary?"

"We would speak with Witherfang."

"You think we are fools, elf?" The werewolves growled in agreement. "You will not harm our Lady!"

Meila paused, confused as to who this 'Lady' was.

Kazar took up the conversation. "We don't want to harm anyone. We just want to talk. Zathrian's a big fat liar, so we thought we'd get your side of the story before we do something stupid."

Swiftrunner growled, but didn't answer right away. He looked between the two of them, then sniffed the air. "Where is the third one? The one with the knives who spoke for you before?"

"You bit him," Kazar snapped. "Where do you think he is? We had to put him in a cage just to stop him from eating us."

Swiftrunner quirked a head to one side. He still growled, but Meila was beginning to think that was a fairly constant sound with him. "Hrr… he has not found his mind. You bring him to the Lady, and she can tame him."

"We would rather cure him," Meila said. "And you. That is what you want, is it not? To be free of the curse?"

This was met with barks and growls from the other werewolves that Meila could only hope was assent.

Swiftrunner stared up at them, his eyes narrowing. "Very well, Dalish elves. But if you betray us; we rip you apart."

Meila nodded, thinking it best not to correct the vicious beast in its assumption that Kazar was Dalish. She grabbed a vine hanging near her feet, and swung off the ridge by it. It flung her over the werewolves, and she slid down it deftly as it pendulumed back. She landed deftly on the ground in front of Swiftrunner.

The werewolf stepped up close, and it took all of Meila's self-control not to draw her knife or make any other hostile actions as it loomed over her. Instead, she stood perfectly still as the werewolf's fetid breath ghosted over her. He sniffed around her gingerly, as if checking for the odor of trickery (who knew; perhaps werewolves could sense such a thing?). She stood, unflinching, as the teeth came within inches of her throat.

"Very well," Swiftrunner growled at last, stepping back. "Come; we will take you to the Lady." And with one last backward glare, the werewolves started off toward the elven ruins.

There was a rumble behind her, and Meila turned to see Kazar riding what looked like a slow-motion rockslide down the cliff face they'd been above. His brows were knitted in concentration as he pushed the stone under his feet, riding the rock like a lift. When he was at ground level, he jumped gingerly onto the dirt path next to Meila, though he did turn to look up at the deep vertical furrow his magical stunt had cut in the cliffside.

Kazar leaned on his staff, seeming to need the rest. At Meila's questioning look, he nodded back toward the ridge. "I have to say, control takes a lot more effort than just letting go and destroying everything."

Meila considered that, looking up ahead where their unlikely guides had disappeared into the trees. "I suspect that is true in more than just magic."

It was surprising how quickly Kazar caught onto her meaning. The two elves seemed to simply be in accord over this entire affair. She could not guess whether that was a good sign or bad.

Even so, she followed the tracks that Swiftrunner had left, winding their way deeper into the ruins. Both were well aware that this was likely a trap of some sort. However, both were confident enough in their own abilities—as well as desperate enough—to take the risk.

Silently they followed the tracks down to a stone entrance into a large ruined building. The werewolves had long since disappeared inside, but she could hear their growling tones echoing about as if in a large hall.

Meila found her steps faltering slightly as they proceeded inside, and a heavy stone ceiling closed in overhead. The last time she had been in such a structure, Tamlen and herself had been beset by undead, and then cursed with the Taint. What's more, the stuffy, confined feel of such stone structures made her all too aware of just how few escape routes there were, should trouble arise.

She couldn't retreat into a tree and snipe from the upper branches here. Nor could she blend into the shrubbery. She was hopelessly exposed and vulnerable… and, above all, trapped. It was a sensation that made her feel an unexpected stab of empathy for the flat-ears who had to endure this on a daily basis.

One such flat-ear beside her stepped into the building as if it was no big deal, apparently unaware of how disconcerting being enclosed was. He had grown up enclosed, she realized. In fact, he hadn't known anything else until he'd been recruited into the Wardens. It was a strange idea, when, to Meila, it was the exact opposite.

Kazar turned a quizzical look back at her, and she realized she'd stopped in the doorway. Shoving down her nervousness, she tilted up her chin and strode into the chamber. Such fear had no place here; they had things they needed to do.

Swiftrunner was waiting for them off a side corridor. He watched them with narrowed eyes, but nonetheless turned and led them into an even more confining stone hallway. Kazar cast her an arched eyebrow, and Meila realized she was breathing much too quickly. She forced herself to calm… her people had once lived in cities like this, long ago. She could stand it for a little while.

The corridor opened up, and they were greeted with a chamber full of snarling beasts. Werewolves surrounded them from all sides, too many for even Kazar to take out before they ripped him to pieces. Judging by the widening of the young mage's eyes, the same thoughts were passing through his head.

Here, they were truly at a disadvantage. Now, they could only put their faith in the mercy of these beasts.

Standing in the center of the chamber, lit by a stream of sunlight coming down from the ceiling, was a spirit that Meila could only assume was the Lady.

She was beautiful: a creature who encompassed both the savage power and the wild beauty of the forest. Her eyes were black and fathomless, and her only coverings were the vines that wrapped around her legs and arms, as much a part of her body as her midnight black hair and her smooth, silver skin.

Meila's mouth went dry, and she fought not to fall to her knees in awe of such a lovely creature.

"I bid you welcome, mortal," she said in a voice that echoed with the voices of a thousand trees. "I am the Lady of the Forest."

"I admit," Meila registered Kazar saying through her haze, "I was expecting another werewolf."

Swiftrunner growled, stepping up to menace the small elf. "You will speak with respect to the Lady!"

The Lady lifted one hand to the wolf's shoulder, and he instantly calmed. "Hush, Swiftrunner. Your urge to battle will only see the deaths of those you are trying to save. Is that what you want?" Transfixed, Meila noted that the Lady's hand was made of graceful wood, though it was also twisted with age.

"No, my Lady," Swiftrunner said, mollified. He looked at the two elves with apparent contrition, and Meila began to understand why the spirit—this spirit—protected these creatures.

"Then the time has come to set our rage aside, and speak with these outsiders." She turned back to the elves. "No doubt you have questions, mortals. There are things that Zathrian has not told you."

"That, we'd gathered," Kazar said.

Meila struggled to find her voice. "What would you have us know?" Something in her voice made Kazar's head whip around to stare at her.

"It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer. The same curse that Zathrian's own people now suffer."

Meila listened raptly, as the Lady of the Forest told her tale. When he was young, Zathrian's family had been accosted and killed by a nearby tribe of humans... a tale that echoed what Ashalle, her guardian, had once told Meila about her own parents' deaths. In revenge, Zathrian had summoned the Lady and bound her to a wolf—Witherfang—to wreak havoc upon the tribe. The humans—all the humans, not only the ones who had committed the crime—suffered, and the tribe fled, leaving the werewolves behind.

Once, perhaps, Meila might have dismissed this as justice well served against the shemlen… but now, she wasn't so sure. Looking into the face of this noble spirit, and seeing the long suffering in the eyes of the werewolves around her, Meila realized that perhaps Dalish vengeance did not supersede all else. The elves had been enslaved and cast out of their homeland. But that did not make right the fact that these creatures struggled with their sanity every day, and spread their curse simply as a matter of their natures, whether they willed it or not.

"Why did you attack the Dalish?" Meila asked after the story had been told.

"To force Zathrian to act. We have sent Zathrian word every time he's passed this way, but always, he's ignored us. This time, we will not be denied."

Swiftrunner stepped in, passion ringing through his rough voice. "We spread the curse to his people, so he must end it to save them."

"And yet he does not," Meila said bitterly, anger sparking within her for the sake of the werewolves. She understood now… why Zathrian asked for Witherfang's heart. Why he denied that the werewolves were any more than mindless beasts. "Even with the lives of his clan on the line, he merely seeks revenge. I'd never thought a Keeper could be so… small-minded. So petty."

"Please, mortal," the Lady said, stepping toward Meila. "You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees the creatures, hears their plight… surely he will agree to end the curse."

Kazar snorted. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"In that, the boy is absolutely correct," said a new voice behind them.

The chamber filled with noise as the wolves snarled and bayed, but Zathrian was unmoved as he entered the chamber, strolling in with his staff swinging.

"Hello, spirit," Zathrian said coldly, coming to a stop some distance behind Meila and Kazar.

Swiftrunner bounded up and towered before the Keeper. "She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!"

"Swiftrunner, stand down," the Lady said softly, and the werewolf returned to her side.

"You've taken a name, spirit? And given names to your… pets?"

"It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian, and the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them find who they are."

"Mindless beasts my ass, you manipulative bastard," Kazar muttered, glaring at the Keeper. Meila couldn't help but agree with the mage on this one.

"Who they are now does not change them from who their ancestors were. A point that you two," he turned his cold look on the Wardens, "would do well to remember. These creatures were shemlen, once. They deserve nothing but to wallow as they once had us wallow."

"The shemlen who enslaved us are long dead, Keeper," Meila said. "As are the ones who harmed your family. These beings before us have done nothing to deserve their fates."

"And you call yourself Dalish? Have you forgotten, then, what it is we fight for?"

The implication stung, but she held her ground. She turned to face Zathrian fully, well aware that in doing so, she was showing her back to the Lady and the werewolves. It was Zathrian, now, who she was wary of. "I am Dalish, and I do not need your approval to claim myself as such. I follow the Vir Tanadahl. You, on the other hand, have forsaken it."

"You dare to lecture me on the Vir Tanadahl, child?"

"I do, as that is my duty as a devoted child of Andruil." Meila took a step toward Zathrian. "The Way of the Arrow, you have forsaken, for your unwavering duty as Keeper should be to your people. The people in the present, Keeper, who suffer from the curse you caused."

Another step. "The Way of the Bow, you have forsaken. You do not bend when necessity demands it, grown stiff and brittle with time and anger. As such, you lose your utility as a leader and a father figure, and weaken the clan as a whole because of it."

Meila stopped two steps in front of the Keeper, meeting his unwavering gaze with one of her own. She could see the doubt in his eyes. "And the Way of the Forest, you have forsaken. You think yourself a lone figure of vengeance, but it need not be that way. If you release your isolation, and at the least grant these creatures their humanity, you can end the suffering of not just your own people, but of all the people affected by this curse, elvhen, shemlen, or spirit."

"That… I cannot do," the Keeper said firmly. "I am sorry, child, but you ask too much. I held my daughter in my arms as she died. These creatures killed my son and daughter, and that is something I can never forgive."

"An impasse," Kazar said from somewhere behind Meila. "Wonderful."

"Are you certain that is the only reason you won't end this curse?" the Lady asked ponderously. Zathrian's lips pressed together, and Meila turned her head enough to ask for an explanation… but not enough to let Zathrian out of her sight. "Witherfang and I are bound as one being, but such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian's own blood."

"A blood mage," Kazar breathed.

"Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of the ancestors," the Lady continued to the Keeper, "but that is not true. As long as the curse exists, so do you."

"No," the Keeper denied a bit too quickly. "That is not how it is!"

"Coward," Meila hissed, and heat flared into the Keeper's eyes as he glared at her.

"So, out of curiosity," Kazar said. "If we were to kill him—hypothetically—would that end the curse?"

"No," the Lady said. "His death would not end the curse, but his life relies on its existence… and I believe his death plays a part in its ending."

"Then we'll kill him now!" Swiftrunner howled. "Let's tear him apart!"

"For all your powers of speech," Zathrian sneered, "you are beasts still. By killing me, you would destroy your only chance at ending it. Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never perform it."

"Then we'll just have to beat it out of you," Kazar said sharply, lightning dancing up his arms and around his staff.

"You would turn on one of your own kind?" Zathrian snapped at the mage. "Then you are no better than these beasts!"

"That's a comparison I will wear with pride, if it means I'm less like you."

Zathrian turned to Meila. "Come, da'len. We will put down these creatures. For the pride of the Dalish."

Meila didn't even deign to shake her head in response. "I will do no such thing, Keeper."

"Then you will die with them!" The elder elf skittered back, raising his staff in the air.

Glowing lights surrounded the werewolves, trapping them in lit prisons that they could only struggle vainly against. The Lady of the Forest transformed into a white wolf and howled in pain or rage; it was difficult to tell which.

The howl was answered above them, and another werewolf fell from the hole in the ceiling, landing nimbly in the center of the room, in front of Witherfang and Kazar. This werewolf was also surrounded in a nimbus of light, but rather than confining, this one seemed to be controlling it, guiding it like a leash.

Meila had her suspicions, as she took in the werewolf's rough brown fur and relatively smaller build. And when the wolf threw back its head and let out another baying howl, Meila caught a flash of familiar brown eyes.

Meila didn't have time to think about it as a cone of frost blasted into her from Zathrian's direction. The huntress rolled to the side, out of the effect area, but not before her left arm had already gone stiff and sore from the cold. She skittered away from the mage, drawing her bow. Her first arrow flew straight for his heart, but he negated it with a blast of fire that burned it to ash before it arrived.

The two Dalish elves backed into opposite sides of the chamber and began slinging attacks at one another, a deadly battle of arrows and icicles raining through the air between them.

Meanwhile, Meila was peripherally aware of the rest of the battle. The trees in the chamber had uprooted themselves, becoming lumbering sylvans that Kazar kept back with a constant ring of fire spells (one of the sylvans was already crackling and falling apart). However, Kazar was having difficulty because of the werewolf that dogged after him, interrupting his spells and forcing the mage back on his heels. Already, the boy's form was a bloody mess of welts from the wolf's claws, his robes hanging in tatters.

All the while, Witherfang and the werewolves howled and snarled from within their prisons of light.

Meila's arrow hit its mark in Zathrian's shoulder, but the elder elf was unfazed. Instead, Meila felt her heart go cold as she saw the blood from the wound coalescing in the air around the Keeper. Blood swirled around him, pulsing with a strange rhythm, and then he swept his arms forward, toward Meila.

She was blasted halfway across the room, only her instincts making her duck into a roll in time to stave off severe injury. Even so, she would be bruised.

She rolled under one of the decimated sylvans that littered the chamber, coming up right in front of Swiftrunner.

"The small one!" the wolf cried, though his voice was muffled, as if spoken through water.

Meila turned to look for Kazar, and went cold as she spotted him. The Finian-werewolf was on top of him, savagely ripping into his chest while the mage's hands sparked feebly. He was out of magic, Meila realized.

Without thinking, she drew back her bow and sent an arrow slamming into the wolf's side, and the wolf rolled off the mage. Meila didn't waste any time in sprinting toward the other elf, digging into her pouch for the herbal concoctions she had been practicing on. She could only hope they were at least partially effective.

The werewolf leapt up to meet her before she could close the distance to Kazar's shuddering form. The wolf's snarling face was abruptly in hers, and only a timely duck saved her from losing a good chunk of her face to a swipe of those sharp claws.

An aura of leaves grew to surround the werewolf, and the beast hesitated before its next swing, shaking its head roughly.

The Lady's muffled voice reached her ears. "I've settled his rage for the moment. Speak with him! Quickly!"

Meila put her trust in the spirit, even as she shot an arrow across the room at Zathrian, who was reviving the sylvans. "Finian! Listen to me, lethallin!"

The werewolf howled, snapping out at her, but she didn't flinch.

"I know you are in there. You do not wish to do this, lethallin. You are not Zathrian's slave, or anyone's."

The wolf snarled, but stepped back, shaking its head again. Zathrian's leash of light around him twisted and tugged, and Meila took that as a good sign.

"He cannot control you!" Meila pointed toward the mage, who was surrounded by blood as he summoned a pair of shadowy demonic creatures, seemingly from straight through the Veil. "Free yourself, lethallin! Bite the hand that would trap you!"

Sure enough, with a feral growl, the werewolf turned and bounded across the room, the leash of light snapping apart. The Finian-wolf barreled into the Keeper just as the shadow creatures manifested, and all three enemies were soon consumed by a whirlwind of snarling fury.

Meila sighed in relief and sent a smile of thanks to the Lady, who nodded back. Then, the huntress closed the rest of the distance to the mage. Kazar seemed to have started patching himself up with previously provided poultices, though his entire torso was still a gory mess. When Meila offered him one of her lyrium potions, he made a face.

"Ugh, homebrewed." Still, he downed it without further complaint, and another quickly applied poultice and an injury kit set him aright again. Meila helped the mage to his feet, and they looked over to see their unexpected ally diving and rolling around the two shades with all the dexterity of an elven thief, and then savaging them with all the strength of a werewolf. It was a potent combination.

Kazar picked up his staff from where he'd dropped it nearby, and Meila watched from the corner of her eye as he waved it around. Meanwhile, she sent a well-aimed arrow through Zathrian's right arm, interrupting his next spell. A moment later, roots reached out from the walls of the chamber and closed around the elder elf, and the stone floor snapped up to clamp around his ankles. Within seconds, the Keeper was bound by roots and rocks, and stretched out at their mercy.

"Release them, Zathrian," Meila said, "or your own creation will tear you apart." She indicated Finian, who had already utterly destroyed one shade, and was making short, vicious work of the other.

"Very well," the Keeper said, his head hanging. "I cannot defeat you." He waved a hand within the confines of the roots, and the werewolves abruptly broke free of their cells.

The white wolf immediately leapt forward to take out the last shade, then turned to confront Finian. The Finian-wolf showed no signs of calming at first, growling and leaping upon Witherfang. However, a swift tussle between the two soon had the werewolf at Witherfang's mercy, the white wolf's maw at Finian's throat. The white wolf transformed back into her spirit form and whispered softly in Finian's ear, and the cloud of rage started falling from Finian's eyes.

"Fascinating," Zathrian whispered, "that she can so tame such beasts."

"Not tame them," Meila said. "Free them."

Sure enough, when the Lady stood up, the Finian-wolf was looking around with wide, clear eyes, and Meila wondered how much the creature that had once been their friend understood of the situation.

The Lady approached the Keeper's strung up form. "Then let us get this done at last, Zathrian."

Zathrian stared at her, long and hard. His head drooped, and his voice was broken as he spoke. "I… can not do it. I am too old for mercy… all I see are the faces of the ones who killed my children."

"Then maybe it's time to end it," Kazar (surprisingly) said, leaning heavily on his staff.

"I have… lived with this hatred… for a very long time. It has consumed me like an ancient, gnarled root."

"I, too, desire nothing but an end," the spirit said gently, and Meila's heart ached for the heavy echoes of years in her voice. "I beg you, Maker. Put an end to me." She swept out her arms, and the werewolves all bowed their heads. "We beg you. Show mercy."

Silently, slowly, Zathrian nodded. Kazar released the root bindings and stone shackles. The Keeper stepped forward, head bowed. "You shame me, spirit. I think it is time. Let us put an end to this."

The two moved to face one another, and wolves crowded protectively around their Lady. The air was thick with anticipation, with longing.

And then, a flash of light, and it was done. Zathrian fell dead, then the Lady faded in a white light. One by one, the werewolves began to glow as well… and each shrank and reformed. Humans and elves alike fell to their knees in a circle around where the Lady had stood, bearing clothes of different origins, of different lifestyles. One was a rich merchant woman, another a gruff human in old robes, another a Dalish hunter in leathers. Among them, too, were humans who bore no clothes at all… who had never been fully human, born with their curse. And then there was Finian, near the back of the group, staring at his own hands.

The human who had been Swiftrunner—now a tall man who was one of those who bore nothing—stepped forward. "It's over…" he said roughly, seeming to have difficulty working his human jaw, even as he marveled at it. "She's gone, and we're… human! I can scarcely believe it!"

Meila and Kazar shared a smile.

"Grey Wardens," Kazar said with a smirk. "Heroism is what we do. Or so we're told."

"Will you be all right, to get out of the forest?" Meila asked.

The man chuckled. "Oh, don't worry about that… we have lived here for many years, no matter what form we've taken. We will find other humans… see what's out there for us." He bowed his head. "Thank you. We will never forget you."

One by one, the former werewolves expressed their gratitude, some bowing heads or exchanging words, while others insisted on shaking hands or touching them in some other way. One large man swept them both into a tight hug, making both elves stiffen in discomfort. Their mutual horror as their eyes met over his shoulder was certainly a bonding moment between them.

Finally, it was just the three Wardens left in the chamber: the two of them standing awkwardly, and Finian sitting with his head bowed. Their companion had yet to acknowledge them, and Meila worried that something was wrong. Did becoming a werewolf do something to one's mind? What if he'd been legitimately hurt?

"Hey, Fin?" That was Kazar, daring to limp closer and crouch down next to their fellow Warden. Gently, the mage prodded the pickpocket in the shoulder with his staff. "You okay?"

Finian's form shuddered, and then something that looked suspiciously like a tear glinted in the air under his downturned face. Meila and Kazar exchanged an alarmed look.

Meila felt a distinct twinge of anxiety. During her time among the Wardens—particularly this last week—she had come to think of the two elves as kin. And it worried her, to see a young man that she considered of her own clan in such a state.

She knelt down beside the elf and laid a hand on his shoulder, and that seemed to break some sort of internal dam. He shuddered again, and a sob burst out of him, and then another. His hands went up to cradle his face while he wept, and it was all Meila could do to drape an arm around his shoulders and wait it out.

In a Dalish, such tears as she had now seen both fellow elves exhibit would have been a weakness. With these two, however, it seemed there was a sort of strength in it. Neither was prone to acknowledging their own troubles in such a way, and so, as horrifying as it was to see Finian reduced to tears, she also knew that he needed the release. If he had smiled and jested after such an ordeal, she would have found that far more worrying.

She winced inwardly. These were very un-Dalish thoughts. Maybe Zathrian had had a point, and she was forgetting herself?

There was a thud as Kazar sat down in front of them, his lips pursed in thought. No snide remarks, no impatience or scoffing… just silent contemplation. Could it be the young elf was growing up?

"I'm sorry," Finian's voice croaked thickly from behind his hands. "I'm so sorry."

"If this is about mauling me," Kazar said, "then forget it. I'm surprised no one did it sooner… though I always expected it to be the Templar who cracked first."

A cracked laugh escaped the thief, and Fin wiped at his eyes. "Not for that." Finally, he looked up, and Meila caught a glimpse of watery eyes before they darted away to stare at a wall. "I… I don't deserve this. Not after all those terrible things I said..."

Meila fought back the stinging memory of it. "You were not yourself, lethallin."

Finian shook his head. "But I was. And the worst of it... you don't even know..."

Now, Kazar did scoff. "What, that you manipulated us into talking to the werewolves? You really expect us to be mad about that?"

Finian blinked, his eyes flitting between them in surprise. "You… knew?"

"Yeah, duh. And, honestly, I'd be madder if you hadn't. Can you imagine if we'd tried to kill Witherfang instead, and just ended up finding out about what a jackass Zathrian was afterward? And then we'd have had to explain to everyone why you didn't come back with us to Redcliffe." Kazar made a face. "'Yeah, Fin couldn't really come. Why? Oh, he's probably devouring innocent children right now. That or chasing his tail. Yeah, he has a tail now'. Right, that'd go over real well."

Finian laughed, though it was still cracked and hoarse.

"For what it's worth," Meila said gently, "in the future, I would hope that such dissembling will not be needed. I think you've proven yourself insightful enough that can simply give your opinions on such things outright, without resorting to manipulation."

Fin nodded slowly, his fingers running through his hair. "It's… a hard habit to break. No one listens to an elf, otherwise."

"Perhaps not an elf," Meila conceded. "But to a Grey Warden, they do. And you are that, now, as much as any of us."

"They especially listen," Kazar said, sitting back with a glare, "when you imply that they'll get some sort of reward for helping the werewolves. I fully expect some kind of payment for all this goody-two-shoes crap, just so you know."

Finian laughter was fuller now, his usual spirit re-emerging. "Duly noted." Meila helped pull the thief to his feet, and the three of them started winding their way out of the ruins.

Kazar picked at the tattered robes, the remains of the fabric now growing stiff and brown with his blood. "Ugh. I think I'll start by requesting a new set of robes. Fin, you think you can 'liberate' one of Zathrian's sets when we go back through the camp? He won't exactly need them."

Finian cast the mage a sly smirk, though it remained somewhat reduced. "I don't know, the tattered look is good on you. Really matches the facial tattoos and oak branch staff for a 'mad wildneress mage' flavor."

"What, you're trying to turn me into Morrigan now?" They stepped out into the high-ceilinged hall of the entrance chamber. "Or should I start asking dumb questions and trading cheap ornaments for giant acorns?"

"You never do know when we'll have to placate a giant squirrel," the pickpocket said solemnly. Meila smiled.

"I approve of Kazar getting in touch with his less… domesticated roots," she admitted, not without humor. She paused to give the mage a considering look. "The forest looks good on you."

Kazar just rolled his eyes. "Oh, you would say that. For a minute back there, I was worried that you'd try to get 'undomesticated' in the middle of negotiations."

Meila's furrowed her brow, even as Fin stifled a laugh. "I do not understand."

"Don't you?" Kazar arched an eyebrow, but now he was grinning too. The mage clasped a hand to his chest and spoke in a falsetto, "'Oh please, noble forest spirit, let us help you. In return, I only ask that you ravage me with wild abandon!' Admit it, if she'd asked it, you would have knelt down right there and pleasured her. …however you'd do that to a woman who's part tree, anyway."

Finian barked out a laugh, seemingly at Kazar's sheer audacity. Meanwhile, Meila felt her face go red, because Kazar wasn't far off the mark. She had been rather… taken with the Lady. But it was merely awe of such a noble, beautiful creature, certainly.

Finian nudged her side, his smile bright and soothing. "I was there, remember? From what little I saw, he was staring too."

"Well, she was naked," Kazar said crossly.

The conversation fell away as they stepped out of the ruin and into the sunlight, and Meila had never been so happy to breathe the forest air again. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and savoring the feel of the breeze on her face.

"Uh, guys?" That was Kazar, who pointed at a lone creature up the hill in the path ahead of them. It sat in the middle of the path, still and silent, a white shape against the muddy, grassy forest backdrop.

Finian gasped, "Is that…?"

"It can't be," Meila said uncertainly. "The spirit was released."

Carefully, they approached the white wolf. The creature watched them with calm eyes until they were within ten feet of it. The wolf's eyes pierced into Meila's, its gaze both soothing and empowering. Then, with a flick of its ears, it rose and ran off into the forest, disappearing into the trees.

The three elves watched the white wolf go.

"Meila, why was it staring at you?" Kazar asked.

"Its mind is its own," Meila said with a slight shrug. "Perhaps for the first time in a very long time."

Fin smiled at her teasingly. "I think you made a friend."

"Perhaps I did," Meila said, and she could not help but smile. She looked pointedly at her companions. "I seem to be doing that quite a lot as of late."

"Careful you don't get too many," Finian said gravely. "It can get quite addictive, having so many people to talk to. You start actually caring what they think and everything."

Kazar snorted. "Is that the excuse you're going with now?"

Finian grinned and shrugged. "It's one I'm testing out. What do you think?"

Kazar blinked, then his eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk. "I see what you did there. Can't fool me, you silver-tongued rascal. You're trying to make me into a friend."

Fin winked. "Oh, you're too smart for me, Kazar. Now I realize that I will never wheedle my way into your good graces, for the company you keep is very exclusive."

"Damn straight."

"And you could certainly never care for a comrade. Such emotions make you weak, after all."

"Yep."

"Why, the likes of Kazar Surana would certainly never risk his life to help another. Such rash actions as, say, walking virtually undefended into a werewolf lair for the sake of another is certainly below you."

"…shut up, Fin."

Meila couldn't help but chuckle, and it wasn't long before all three of them were laughing in earnest. All the while, in the trees, Meila felt the continued eyes of the white wolf watching. But rather than unnerving, she found the gaze… comforting. And as they wound their way through the forest back to camp, she was happy to sense the white wolf follow.

Chapter Text

When the whispers started rippling through Orzarmmar, Oghren didn't pay them much mind. What did he care if another sodding Grey Warden had wandered into the city? One had been in a couple months back, and Oghren had been sick of the brouhaha then too.

Still, at least it made better listening over his cups than all this lamentation about the various tragedies that had recently befallen House Aeducan. He much preferred brooding in a corner while listening to rumors about some lucky sod of a casteless who had returned to the city as a Warden, than brooding in a corner listening to rumors that Lord Harrowmont had killed the king, or that Prince Bhelen had killed his entire sodding family. At least the rumors of the ascended casteless came with supposed accounts of the Warden's amazing prowess at the Proving, and his courage and valor in the Deep Roads.

Whole bunch of nug piss, as far as Oghren was concerned, but at least it was decent entertainment.

Thus, he wasn't sure how to feel when the Warden walked into Tapster's and parked his legendary keister at the table right next to Oghren's.

It was a busy evening at Tapster's, the usual bustle of the front room more lively than it had been since they'd closed the great doors to the surface. Everyone just seemed to want to talk, lately. Talk and get drunk… Oghren was on board with the second one, at least, though he'd have preferred it if he had a buxom beauty or two to have a 'conversation' with himself. Not many ladies seemed to want to associate with the local laughingstock these days. Not since Felsi left.

He sat alone at a table in an alcove at the back of the tavern, nursing his fifth (Seventh? Twelfth?) mug. The warmth in his belly was hitting him just right, everything just fuzzy enough to be fun without dulling his awareness too much. Thus, he picked up on it quickly as the murmur in the front room suddenly changed in volume and tone. This sound was excited and loud, and Oghren was tempted to peek out to see what all the fuss was about. Nah, too much work.

Soon enough, though, the source of the hubbub stepped up into the back room, scowling at something behind him and telling a waitress who was dogging at his heels in a rumbling bass that he didn't want to be disturbed. Obediently, the army of gawking locals behind the dwarf and his strange companions was batted away, and the trio dropped into the table next to Oghren's.

The leader let out a sigh of relief and leaned his head back against the wall behind him, and Oghren only had to catch a glimpse of the brand on the man's right cheek to guess who this was. Honestly, the stories had been every bit as much bull as he'd thought. Some noble, humbled warrior of a man this was. The fabled casteless Grey Warden looked… annoyed. Like a cook who'd found a nug in her larder.

The human woman with the Warden let herself into her seat more gracefully… and what a woman she was. She was dark and formidable, though Oghren would have been hard-pressed, in his current state, to say what exactly made her so dangerous-looking. Her lips were quirked in a reserved sort of amusement as she eyed her dwarven companion.

The third companion was far taller than the human, and broader than the dwarf. A Qunari, Oghren realized, and one who didn't seem to be showing much expression at all.

"Sodding Stone," the Warden rumbled tiredly, his eyes still closed. "I have never needed a drink this badly, and I once fell into a crevice for two days without any water."

"Oh, certainly it can't be so bad to be lauded as a hero," the woman said silkily, amused.

"For what? Kicking the crap out of a couple Warriors? I don't remember everyone being so happy about it at the time."

Oghren chuckled into his mug, remembering the fuss some time ago about the casteless upstart who had trounced the best Warriors on the Proving grounds. Way to go, kid.

The Qunari's head turned to stare at Oghren, and the dwarf raised his mug in toast to the large man. The Qunari turned away.

"Tis not the homecoming you expected, I take it?" the woman said, leaning back in her seat.

"Oh, I expected the bowing and the hilariously ironic awe, and I wasn't disappointed about that. But by the Stone did his royal pain-in-the-ass-ship choose a bad time to die. We have a Blight to settle, and I'm stuck having to prove my loyalties to a pair of yes-men? I used to get paid to knock around guys like those ankle-biters. You'd think bein' a Warden in the middle of a Blight would at least grant me a sodding audience with one of the blighters who can do something about it."

Oghren snorted a laugh. So that part of the rumors was true, then… the two contenders for the crown were fighting over the Warden. Oghren didn't envy to guy; he'd had his fill of politics back when Branka had been rubbing elbows with everyone in the Assembly. He couldn't imagine how much a headache being thrust into the middle of this mess would cause.

A waitress came by with a tray, plunking another mug in front of Oghren, then setting the tray of three cups in front of the trio. The Warden grabbed up one and downed it with a swig that gave Oghren a dose of respect for the guy.

"I used to stare up at the Diamond Quarter, you know, just wishing I could spend a single day there," the Warden said wistfully after he'd set the empty mug back on the table. "Now that I have, I can say that I miss Dust Town. The vermin there are much smaller, and they don't talk."

"Perhaps you could kill the both of them and take the crown yourself," the woman suggested with a sly smile. "That would solve the impasse, one way or another."

"Yeah, right. Doesn't work that way, more's the pity." He rumbled a sigh, his voice going so low that Oghren had to lean over in his chair a bit to hear. "I wonder if she could make a difference here. Sod it, I should have dragged her along, even if it meant weathering her glares the whole way."

"Why do you keep her secret, I wonder? And so very well that the rest of us do not suspect it until we stumble upon broken carvings of her?" The woman arched a brow at him. "Could it be that you truly never intended to tell it?"

The Warden shrugged, but took a pull from a second mug instead of answering properly.

For the first time, the Qunari spoke, his voice flat and business-like. "You said the 'Paragon' the Shaper spoke of might be able to end this quickly?"

Oghren nearly choked on his ale, suddenly feeling much more invested in the strangers' conversation. The beast of a man could only be talking about Branka.

"Maybe…" The Warden sighed, setting his mug back down. "Paragons are like sodding gods here, Sten. The Shapers would have you believe they shit gold and live forever in the stone, or some claptrap like that. All she'd have to do is point a single finger, and this whole damn fuss would be done with.

"Problem is, she left Orzammar a couple years back and took her entire House with her… I don't remember why, only that it caused a lot of chaos among the upper castes, and that trickled down to the lower."

The woman arched a brow. "Good for business, I take it?"

"Sodding right it was. Point is, unless we want to wander the Deep Roads, looking for someone who's most likely already dead, that idea's probably not going to amount to much other than wasting our time."

The Qunari made a sound not unlike a growl. "You, a Grey Warden, think fighting darkspawn is a waste of time?"

"No, I think fighting random darkspawn is a waste of time, when I should be working toward getting that army to take out the archdemon. There's no army to collect in the Deep Roads, unless you count the Legion of the Dead."

The woman hummed. "Then it seems we must suffer the machinations of these nobles until we have satisfied one of them enough to gain their audience." She paused. "At such a time, my suggestion to simply kill one of them will likely resurface."

"Honestly, Morrigan, yeah. I'm keeping it on the table."

The woman smiled her approval. "I always did like you."

The Grey Warden tilted his head back and drained the rest of the mug.

From that point on, Oghren paid a great deal more attention to the rumors of what the Grey Warden was doing.

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, Sloth Demons were not, in fact, particularly lazy.

In fact, they were masters of deceit, more than willing to expound a great amount of effort to trap and ensnare their victims. They fed upon doubt and depression, wringing every last bit of willpower from their victims through means that were often insidious and frightfully effective.

However, as far as demons went, they were not particularly spiteful. Felicity would even hazard to say that they were the most reasonable of the demonic archetypes, and sought to sustain themselves in a way that was efficient, rather than to seed destruction and chaos.

It was with this in mind that Felicity, upon overhearing her companions' downfalls, had approached the demon. For this reason, she had been able to talk it out of immediately entrapping her, as her suggestion of ensuring that its feeding sources remained accessible seemed to intrigue it—although she suspected a certain long-acquired… resistance to mental intrusion… played a part in keeping her upright long enough to lay out her intentions.

Thus, Felicity made a deal with the Sloth Demon … she would not interfere with its business and would ensure that all its current living victims remained alive for it to continue feeding on. In return, she would remain awake and in possession of all her faculties, so that she could best perform the task.

It wasn't the first Fade creature she'd encountered face-to-face, and perhaps that was what allowed her to phrase her suggestion in the correct way. Even so, dealing with a demon raised all sorts of internal alarms. Was proximity alone enough to corrupt her soul? What if the creature asked more of her; how much of herself was she willing to sell, to save her companions? It was a quandary she'd only faced once before, when she was little more than a child playing with forces outside her understanding.

Back then, that protective instinct had cost her freedom and family. This time, it may just cost her soul.

For what must have been days, now, Felicity had stood above the bodies of her companions and Niall, keeping them watered and comfortable while they slept fitfully. She wished that she could merely shake them and awaken them, but she knew enough about this sort of magic to know that their spirits were elsewhere, and could not be drawn back until the demon released them.

And so she could only bide her time, trying to calculate how long it would be until the Right of Annulment arrived. It was a futile exercise, since she didn't know when it had been sent for, nor was there an easy way to tell the passing of the days from within the shuttered Tower without the regular tolling of the meal bells. Still, it was better than worrying… about her friends, about Irving, about Cullen… no, far better she keep her mind occupied.

Now, she surreptitiously checked over her shoulder to make sure that the demon was occupied. As usual, the creature was in its own world—or, more likely, in the Fade. It rarely stirred and spoke to her, and only then to ask her curious questions about her friends in the manner of an alien spirit attempting to understand the mortal mind. Why did the priestess conceal its true nature? Why was the dwarf afraid of its sibling? Why did the old woman so easily accept a spirit, but so scorn demons? Felicity could answer none of these questions, though her mind keened with curiosity with each minor revelation.

Satisfied that the demon was currently oblivious to the plane, she knelt beside Niall's sleeping form again. She had not known the older mage all that well back in the Tower; he had been too brash for her sensibilities, though she'd never had any real quarrel with him. Still, his habit of acting too quickly had apparently worked to their advantage, because, the first day, Felicity had discovered something of interest on a parchment stuffed hastily in the mage's pocket.

The Litany of Adralla was the sort of thing that Felicity had only read about. Had Niall not scrawled its name in the upper left-hand corner of the page, Felicity might have thought it merely a particularly fervent prayer. But, now that she'd had time to study it, she recognized the magic in the words: the symbolic power invested in the stanzas that bolstered the willpower. Combined with proper application of magic, it would be quite effective indeed against the mind-control effects typical of blood mages.

She had spent the last few days memorizing the words, making certain she got it exactly right, should she need it. Now, the Litany was scorched into her mind, for the most part memorized in its entirety… however, 'for the most part' would not suffice. She needed to know this, like she had never known anything before.

Something crashed outside the hall, and Felicity hastily hid the parchment back in Niall's pocket. She had seen a good share of abominations and blood mages milling about these last days (it was a state that had her constantly on edge), but the presence of the Sloth Demon seemed to warn them off from doing anything to her. She was under its protection, and that thought made her shudder in fear at the implications.

Still, this was how it had to be. Otherwise, her companions would not have survived this long under the demon's magical sleep. Not physically, anyway, though she could not say anything about their mental states.

There was another sound—a shout—and Felicity registered it as coming from through the hall's entrance door. Her heart started pounding as she recognized the voice. She glanced at the Sloth Demon, who hadn't stirred.

Hurriedly, she stood and went to the door. She could hear them now, their heavy footsteps pounding through the corridors, getting closer. She slipped out the door and into the hall. As soon as she had shut the door behind her, she was tackled to the ground by a huge mabari hound and promptly smothered in smelly dog tongue.

Two armored figures pounded up behind Hugo, and Alistair barely stopped himself from beheading Felicity. His jaw went slack and his sword fell to the ground. "Felicity? You're alright!"

Percy, however, thrust out his shield to block Alistair from reaching out to her. Then, his sword swung down so that the tip was an inch from her eye in obvious threat. His eyes were hot, but his voice was cold. "What manner of abomination are you?"

Felicity, despite the noble's hostility, couldn't quell her relief at seeing the two warriors. "I'm not one, though I don't blame you for thinking so. Honestly, Alistair, you're a Templar breaking into a tower held by demons and blood mages… suspecting demonic possession should by all rights have been your first instinct, not his!"

Percy blinked and lowered his sword, and Alistair chuckled, "You are Felicity."

"How are you here, unhurt?" Percy asked, shooing Hugo off her. She gladly accepted their help in standing.

"There's a Sloth Demon in the next room. It found me more useful awake than ensnared in the Fade with the others, and so here I've been, biding my time."

"A Sloth Demon?" Alistair hissed, lowering his voice. "Did it hurt you? Has it tried to possess you?"

Felicity shushed him, though she couldn't stamp down the warm feeling in her chest that his questions were out of concern for her.

Percy's question, however, was not. "What do you mean, the others are ensnared in the Fade?"

And so, quietly and as succinctly as possible, Felicity told them about what had happened, and what manner of creature they were dealing with. "And if you walk in there," Felicity finished, "it will most likely merely pull you into the Fade as well."

Percival made a low growling noise. "Then how can we hope to beat it?"

Alistair, however, studied Felicity. He favored her with a knowing smirk. "You have a plan, don't you?"

Felicity felt her face warm, though not unpleasantly so. Alistair had such faith in her, it seemed. "You didn't think that I spent the last days playing nursemaid without studying the way the magic works, now did you?"

He chuckled. "You'd have to have studied something, or else you'd have gone mad."

"I have a very curious mind," she admitted with a smile, feeling lighter than she had in days as she looked up into those laughing eyes. Alistair was here… with his help, they could fix this.

Percival cleared his throat, and whatever spell they'd been caught in broke as they recalled their situation. At least Alistair looked as discomfited by Percival's knowing expression as she was. "So, what, exactly, is your plan?"

"Well, the demon spends most of its time in the Fade, while keeping a manifestation here by feeding off the sleepers. Meanwhile, it feeds off the psychic energies of its victims in the Fade, likely all kept in its own realm. There is no guarantee that defeating its manifestation here will break its hold on the sleepers. However, if someone were to be pulled into the Fade, but stay in possession of their faculties, they could confront the demon there, breaking its hold on its victims. The demon will be banished and the sleepers will awaken unharmed."

"All of this assuming, of course," Percival said flatly, "that we can resist the demon's spell in the first place."

"It is hardly simple, but I have deduced some means. I've discovered a litany—a spell—that wards off mind-control effects. Altering that into a ritual may protect someone from such things in such a subjective realm as the Fade, where willpower is so powerful. I had initially expected that I would be the one who had to go plunging in alone, but now that you are here…." Felicity paused, realizing that this, in itself, was no mere boon. "Why are you here? Should you not be in Redcliffe?"

The men exchanged a look. Alistair cleared his throat. "They're… having a couple demon problems themselves. Let's just say that, if your ritual requires lyrium, we should be sure to save some. They'll need it at Redcliffe."

Felicity's heart fell at such news. "It does. And that's awful news." Both men nodded solemnly, and Felicity made a mental note to ask them more about it later. "Speaking of the lyrium, that's the main reason I haven't been able to do the ritual before now. It needs raw lyrium, which is kept in a cache in the storage tunnels. I don't have access to them while I must remain near the Sloth Demon, but as it is not yet aware of you two, you'll be free to go fetch it. Bring me about five pounds, and I'll be able to cast a ritual strong enough for all three of us."

Percival and Alistair nodded their understanding. "Where are the tunnels?" Percy asked.

"The second floor. There's an entrance to a staircase there… though it's usually locked." She frowned, well aware than neither man owned a lockpick, much less knew how to use one. Then, Felicity snapped her fingers as realization dawned. "The Senior Enchanters were provided with keys."

Swiftly, she ducked back into the main room, once again checking to make sure that the Sloth Demon remained unaware of its surroundings. She skirted carefully around it, not wishing to startle it awake by approaching. When she reached the pallets where she'd laid out the others, she knelt next to Wynne and started digging through her former mentor's pockets. She winced as she did so, well imagining what sort of stern lecture the elder mage might have for her regarding proper respect of the privacy of the helpless.

Then again, Wynne was a practical woman. Perhaps she would have approved of Felicity's actions during this whole ordeal, though that was very doubtful.

Finally, her fingers closed over a keyring, and she slipped it into her own pocket and stood. As she started back toward the door, however, the demon's smooth, curling voice spoke.

"You grow restless," the Sloth Demon purred. "Perhaps a bit of rest might do you some good?"

Felicity could feel the demon's tendrils seeping lethargically into her mind, but she wrapped her willpower around herself and resisted. The tendrils retreated. "I am restless because I worry about my friends. You are not being cruel to them, I hope?"

"Cruelty is such a… strange concept. So nebulous. Undefined. I do not force them to stay as they are… I offer them places to do so, and they remain on their own. Is that your definition of cruelty, mortal?" It sounded genuinely curious, honestly thoughtful.

Felicity had to bite her tongue not to quibble. She had a deal to upkeep, at least for a little while longer. "If their minds are their own, that is all I can ask."

The Sloth Demon hummed thoughtfully. "What a silly concept… their minds were mine as soon as they entered my realm. Just as yours could be, if you wish." And then its alertness retreated again. Felicity remained where she was for several minutes, just to make sure the demon was completely unaware of its surroundings. Then, carefully, she crossed to the door.

Alistair and Percival were waiting for her on the other side, both pale.

"What do you suppose it's doing to them?" Alistair whispered, eyes flickering toward the door into the corrupted chamber.

Felicity shook her head and thrust the keyring into his hand. "I don't want to think about it. Here. Get me five pounds of lyrium, and hurry. I'll prepare the ritual… we need to perform it as soon as possible."

"Agreed," Percy growled, his eyes narrow. "We'll make that monster feel every minute of pain it might have inflicted on our allies."

Felicity nodded, though something about Percy unnerved her when he spoke like that. Alistair seemed to sense it, for he laid a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Five pounds of lyrium coming right up." His sideways smile made her trepidation evaporate. "You're lucky I'm not a full Templar, you know, or else I'd probably take all that lyrium for myself and run."

In her relief, Felicity's chuckle sounded a bit too much like a giggle. "As if you could abandon your fellow Wardens, crippling addiction or not. You'd probably thrust it into my hands regardless, right before you keeled over and went into a withdrawal seizure."

Alistair's grin grew wide and warm, and something sparkled in his eyes. "That is possibly the best way anyone has ever described my painful demise." His hand squeezed her shoulder again, and their eyes locked as sincerity thickened his voice. "Thank you for saying that."

Felicity only smiled, because there was nothing for him to be grateful for. When he smiled at her like that, she should be thanking him. "It's only the truth. If you enjoy hearing it so much, perhaps I should describe your possible painful demises more often."

His free hand reached up, and his thumb reached up to stroke her jawline, and her heart soared. His chuckle was gentle and soothing, warming her blood. His eyes sparkled, clear and warm; she couldn't seem to look away. "You know," he said softly, "I don't think I'd mind that."

She tried to summon up some sort of teasing response, but her head seemed to be full of cotton. His hand on her shoulder was a supportive weight, a promise of a strong shield arm that she had certainly taken advantage of more than once. Meanwhile, the hand at her jaw was gentle, his thumb running idly along her skin with all the delicate care one would give to fine porcelain. It made her feel… cherished. Cared for. Protected.

It was something she hadn't felt since Cullen. Cullen, who had regarded her with much the same warmth as Alistair now did, and it suddenly seemed she was looking up into her former beau's eyes instead of her fellow Warden's.

Abruptly, she backed away, and she didn't miss the flash of confusion and hurt that crossed Alistair's face as she did so.

"I really am counting on you two," Felicity said quickly, turning to Percival so she didn't have to see that expression on Alistair's face. The nobleman's face was impassive. "Be back as quickly as possible. There's no saying how long we have until the Templars invoke the Right of Annulment."

"Yes, the Knight-Commander mentioned something about that," Percy said with a nod. "We'll do our best not to let you become a splatter on the Tower floor." The noble turned and started back toward the stairs down. "Hugo. Alistair. Come."

The dog immediately fell into step behind the nobleman, but the ex-Templar lingered, looking at her.

"Felicity, I'm…"

"You've got nothing to apologize for," she said firmly. She dared to step up to him and pressed a hand to his cheek, marveling at the roughness of his stubble. "We'll have plenty of time to speak. Later. For now, I think our minds should be focused on saving our companions, don't you agree?"

After a brief hesitation, he nodded. "Later, then." Then, that smirk flitted across his features. "It's a bit unnerving, you know, when you read me like a book."

"Well, you do leave yourself open for it." She stepped back, feeling better again. "At least you're an interesting one."

"You're not half boring yourself, you know." He winked and turned to follow Percy, and Felicity was glad that he'd turned away, before her blush had completely consumed her to the tips of her ears. Alistair was sweet, but he would never have let her live it down.

Chapter Text

He'd intended to come to Lothering to find information. The rumors spreading across the countryside claimed that such was the place where his targets had last been seen, so it had seemed a promising place to start. A couple coins slipped under a table here or a wink offered in the right direction there, and the locals would surely tell him everything he needed to know about the targets' numbers, skills, and, most important, destination.

But alas, it seemed it was not meant to be. The dead tended to be quite uncooperative, even to those as skilled at interrogation as the Antivan Crows.

Carolina scowled and stood, kicking the corpse she had been studying. He chuckled, and she turned a hard look on him. "You find something amusing about this, elf?"

Ah, that word. Most seemed to think it an insult, but he found it refreshing to be reminded of that which had so often given him a distinct advantage. "I was merely considering what such a display of temper does to your lovely boots, my dear. When yours are covered in gore, where will you find proper replacements in a country like Ferelden, hm?"

"What I do with my boots is none of your concern, elf."

"Ah, and yet my offer to help you remove them—along with the rest of your clothing—still stands, my dear Carolina." He winked lasciviously, if only to see her scoff. He did so enjoy provoking the hard-edged mage. She was often the most entertaining, and it wouldn't be long before they were both dead in the dirt anyway.

Ah, but not today, it seemed. Today, he was doomed to lead his charges through this ghost town. Zevran glanced around, once again sighing at the empty houses and torn bodies that littered the streets. Old blood splattered the cobblestones and what remained of the citizens were well into the decay process, indicating that this place had been overrun quite some time ago. A week, at least.

The lesser Crows were currently split into small groups, scouring the village for survivors that could be questioned. But Zevran knew it was futile. Any survivors of this massacre would have fled long ago. Lothering was a dead end.

Zevran couldn't resist chuckling at the thought. A dead end for dead men walking. Ah well, he could stand to wait a couple more days.

As for the lesser Crows who accompanied him, he could only assume that, as they were still following him now, they would not return to their senses in the next few days. Most of them were apprentices overeager to prove themselves, or newly promoted Crows with unrealistic ideas as to their own abilities. Such idiocy from all of them, to sign up for this suicide mission under Zevran's lead. Not a single one would have made it as a Crow. If anything, Zevran considered granting them all such swift ends a mercy.

Carolina stomped through the ruins, Zevran following at a lazier pace behind her. He inhaled the scent of death and decay, feeling this a fitting place to end his illustrious career. Too bad the Wardens he was hunting did not seem so eager to oblige his wishes.

As if summoned by the thought, a pair of young assassins came running from the direction of the highway. Zevran had set these two to watch the road for travelers while the rest of them picked through the town. It seemed they'd found something. Either that, or they wanted in on the fun picking through the corpses themselves.

"Master Arainai!" One of them called, and Zevran couldn't suppress a chuckle at the honorific the newer assassins had given him during their travels. He was certainly quite a bit above any of their levels, but he was hardly a Master.

"Master Arainai! You won't believe this! They're coming right to us!"

Zevran felt a twist of anticipation, but didn't let his face betray any of it. "Oh, and who is this?"

"The Wardens!" The apprentice and the new assassin skidded to a stop in front of him, their eyes lit in anticipation of what they no doubt thought would be an easy fight. "There are three of them walking right into the town now!"

Only three? Zevran suppressed his disappointment, reminding himself that even a single Warden should be enough to kill the entire squad of assassins. Assuming the legends were true, of course. "Then let us see what all this fuss is about, hm?" He motioned for the pair to lead, and he fell into step behind them, the three assassins soon disappearing into the alleys of the ruined village.

Zevran heard them before he saw them, as the Crows were winding their way through the yards of what had once been humble abodes.

"…come by sooner. We might have been able to stop this."

"What, and face down the entire horde? Anyway, you were a bit preoccupied chasing your new tail, so I don't see how that could have happened."

They spoke with one another, it seemed, completely heedless of the nest of assassins they had walked right into. Or perhaps the Wardens did know, and did not care, knowing their skills would easily overpower the assassins? Ah, but Zevran was rarely so lucky.

"You're right, I guess. It doesn't make the sight any easier to bear, though."

"You forget, lethallin, that these villagers had plenty of warning. They chose to stay here, rather than leaving to seek out safer lands."

He motioned for the apprentice and rookie to stay out of sight, then approached the voices on his own, creeping through the yards until he reached a fence that overlooked the main road into town. There, he crouched, obscured by bushes and watching as the trio crested the hill leading in from the farmlands. Zevran was surprised to see that these fabled Wardens who walked right into his snare were all elves.

"Not everyone is as easy to move as the Dalish, Meila," the one in the lead said, glancing over his shoulder at the woman. He was dressed in leathers, and Zevran's practiced eye caught the glint of wrist sheaths on both forearms. An interesting choice, that. The man also had a small lyre strapped to his back, the instrument unusual in its lopsidedness and the strange, vine-like carvings crawling up the sides.

The other two, however, were the ones that truly caught Zevran's eye, and he could see how even these Crow apprentices had recognized them. The guards who had survived their encounter with a group of escaped Wardens some weeks back had been most descriptive, featuring heavily among the stories two elves that bore such facial tattoos.

There was the elven woman with her red hair strung with beads and a bow strapped to her back. Zevran nodded to himself at that; the Dalish were notorious for their bowmanship, and rightfully so. He would have to warn Carolina to mind that one, as mages and archers rarely got along on opposing sides of the battlefield. The bedroom, of course, was another matter entirely, but such was the case for most things, Zevran had found.

The guards' stories, however, had mentioned nothing about the large white wolf that followed at the archer's heels. He suspected if the wolf had been present at the time, it no doubt would have featured in the tale, just as the giant spider and vicious mabari hound had. It was amusing, how unnerving some people found animals on the battlefield.

Zevran would have to use it as a disarming tactic at some point. Then, he recalled that he wouldn't get any such chance. Alas, such was the way of things.

The wolf's ears perked up, and it turned its head to growl straight at Zevran's hiding spot. The assassin could only arch his eyebrows, wondering if this would be his end here and now.

"Not again," the third Warden groaned. "Meila, can't you control that thing?"

"He is a creature of his own mind," the woman said calmly. "And a noble one at that. Would you ask a friend to be put on a leash?"

"It's a friend now? By the Fade… Fin, talk some sense into her! This isn't Hugo… this is a wild wolf!"

The man in front only shrugged and sent a tight smile over his shoulder. "I don't know, Kazar. I rather like having Fang around."

"Oh by the… you named it?!"

Zevran stifled a chuckle as all three disregarded the wolf's growling and continued up the road. How silly for them to ignore an obvious omen, but perhaps he was in a particularly apt position to appreciate the irony.

The third Warden gave Zevran the most hope. An elven boy by his description had also featured prominently in the soldiers' retellings… a mage, supposedly. Zevran had previously seen robes like this one wore: they were made of hide and fur, which Zevran recognized from his brief sojourn with the Dalish as the type Keepers and their apprentices preferred. So he was dealing with two Dalish elves, was he? Strange, the boy did not act particularly Dalish, but Zevran was not one to quibble over details, if it meant he was as deadly as the Dalish reputation merited.

Zevran dismissed the dual-wielder as a non-threat, but the two Dalish elves would prove quite interesting. Perhaps they would provide the end he craved after all. And if not… well, there were still other Wardens about. His end would come from one of them, certainly.

He slipped away, nodding to the pair of fresh assassins that still waited on his signal. The three flitted off into the village, collecting the others and preparing for an ambush. Zevran found a suitable spot next to the ruined chantry, stacked with plenty of crates and broken walls for his companions to use as cover. Several of them set out leghold traps in the obvious choke points, but Zevran knew such things would prove little use against a skilled archer or a powerful mage. And if these elves were Grey Wardens, then it was safe to assume that they were skilled.

Zevran made no attempt to hide, to the awed whispers of the nine apprentices and fresh assassins around him. Zevran leaned against an abandoned merchant's cart, in full view of the road, and chuckled to himself. Yes, Zevran Arainai was so skilled, so fearless, that he needed no concealment from even the fabled Grey Wardens. Or so they fancied, no doubt.

Again, not a single one would have made it as an assassin, if they truly did not see the dagger poised right between their collective shoulder-blades. Zevran was doing them, and the Crows, a favor.

When everything was ready, Carolina smirked and ran off, crying rather unconvincingly about the darkspawn that were attacking her. Any fool would have noticed that the corpses here were a week old, and that Carolina did not have a scratch on her, but such was the consequence of hiring one of the Crows' dimmer hedge mages for this task.

Sure enough, Carolina returned a couple minutes later with three rather skeptical-looking Wardens at her heels. Well well… they, at least, weren't fools. Their eyes fell on him, and he chuckled as he watched all three immediately came to the right conclusions.

Zevran reflected that he always did have a flair for the dramatic, even as he stepped forward and gave the signal. His fellows appeared from their hiding spots, bows drawn and blades at the ready. The three Wardens were surrounded by eleven of the most well-trained murderers money could buy. If Zevran had been trying, it might have been a fair fight.

With a grin, savoring the irony of the situation and anticipating the oncoming battle for more reasons than one, he drew his sword and raised it. "The Grey Wardens die here!"

Bowstrings all around the clearing twanged, and all three Wardens sprang into motion. The mage's fingers began dancing, and fire soon rained on one pocket of archers. And sure enough, as soon as Carolina revealed herself to be a mage with a lightning spell, the Dalish archer's arrows were set straight on her, even as the Dalish elf dove for cover against the assassins' suppressing fire.

The white wolf streaked across the road, nipping at the heels of the Crows' melee fighters as they closed in on the mage. The Warden mage seemed to be doing well enough at keeping them at bay, regularly casting a rather impressive series of lightning and fire blasts that kept the killers at a safe distance.

Zevran dove into the chaos gleefully, his longsword and dagger becoming a whirl of death as he went straight for the mage. In such matters, it was always best to take the casters out quickly, and this mage appeared more dangerous than most, judging by the smoking ruins where half his archers had been a moment before.

Oh yes, he wanted to die. But he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for them to bring it about!

As he was lining up for the killing blow behind the mage's oblivious back, his dagger was intercepted by another's. Startled, he dodged back in time to avoid the second dagger arcing in toward his neck, and he turned to see the dual-wielder, crouched in an easy battle stance, smirking at him as if teasing him for failing to stab his friend.

So this dagger fighter wanted to play, then? Zevran was hardly one to turn down such a challenge.

Zevran turned his full attention to the dual-wielder, stabbing his sword in to end it quickly with a killing blow, but his blade was easily knocked aside and rejoined with a stab at his side. He parried the blade gracefully, but the second dagger swooped in quickly enough to throw him back on his heels, lest he mar his perfectly marketable face.

The dagger wielder pressed the advantage as well as any Crow, and only Zevran getting behind the other elf allowed him to gain equal ground again. The other elf spun agilely to meet him, blocking his double-thrust with a two-handed parry, and Zevran nearly laughed as the elf's foot came forward to kick at a rather impolite area. Zevran slid back out of harm's way as soon as he saw the other elf's weight shift. So this elf knew how to fight dirty, did he? How often had the assassin used that very same maneuver himself? It was particularly effective, he'd found, when his opponent wasn't wearing any clothes.

Now completely engrossed it their deadly, whirling dance, Zevran's awareness of the rest of the fight faded. How silly he'd been, to discount the dual-wielder as a non-threat… this was the most challenge he'd had in months! He dodged the whirling daggers and ducked behind the broken merchant's cart, hoping to catch his target as he came around. However, the elf didn't follow Zevran around the side as expected. The Antivan looked around for the other elf, perplexed, and then yelped as the elf came down from above, having climbed over the cart.

Zev rolled away before he could be pinned down, but not before taking a slice to the shoulder for it. It was one of many such wounds he already bore from those glinting daggers, and it was all Zevran could do not to laugh with elation. Yes, this was exactly what he wanted, to die in a battle as one befitting his skills! The secret poet in him crowed in triumph, even as he again threw himself on those whirling daggers, his own blades blurring as metal rang on metal again and again.

At some point as they spun and ducked around one another, their eyes locked, both sparkling with primal enjoyment. Zevran could see the wonder in the other's eyes—that of one just discovering the beauty of the deadly dance… not unlike the discovery of sex, really. Zevran was almost disappointed that he would not be able to enjoy that discovery with future duels. Alas, they were trying to kill one another, and that did put a damper on future relations.

So engrossed in the fight was he that he didn't notice as, one by one, his assassins were consumed by a torrent of fire. He didn't hear Carolina's screams as a white wolf tore into her throat. He did not register that the only sound left in the abandoned village was the rapid ring of steel on steel as the pair traded blows again and again.

And then Zevran sprinted back around the cart, turned to anticipate the dual-wielder's little jumping move, and came face to face with a small, irritated mage. The mage lifted a hand, and the sting of lightning enveloped Zevran. The world flickered out, and Zevran thought that this was it… and that he was not nearly as happy about that as he should be.

His senses returned slowly, first and foremost accompanied by the tingling ache of the newly electrocuted—one of many sensations he was familiar with, courtesy of the thoroughness of Crow training. He wondered if this was what it was like to be dead, but quickly discarded the idea. There were many different beliefs about what happened after one kicked the bucket, but Zevran suspected 'eating dirt' was not one of them.

He opened his eyes and lifted his face from the mud, rather surprised to see just who was crouching over him. His mind swiftly assessed the situation: his arms were tied behind his back, and the woman had a knife held threateningly in front of him. They'd kept him alive? Why? An answer presented itself easily enough: they obviously wished to interrogate him before they killed him.

A bad time to lose his nerve, it seemed, but there it was. He couldn't deny the wave of relief that washed through him at realizing that his end had not yet come. He… didn't want to die? He wanted to live? Yes, it seemed it was so.

It seemed this would have been far more convenient to have discovered sooner, but Zevran was never one to dwell upon lost opportunities... he was more skilled at making new ones.

The woman and dual-wielder were both crouching over him, the first with a hunting knife trained on him and suspicion in her eyes. The second, however, looked more curious than hostile… a strange expression, given Zevran had just spent the last five minutes trying to kill him. Behind them stood the mage, arms crossed and scowling. The wolf could be seen in the background, making a hearty meal of the fresh corpses. Ah. Yes, not a single other Crow was left alive, it seemed. That was, admittedly, rather impressive.

Zevran attempted to sit up to meet his captors with a bit of dignity, but that only woke up all the stings of his battle wounds, on top of the ache of electrocution. For all his years of training, he couldn't suppress a groan.

"I rather thought I'd wake up dead… or not wake up at all, as the case may be."

The mage grumbled something, but it was the dual-wielder who engaged him. "We have some questions, and corpses can be stodgy about answering."

Zevran couldn't help but smile, since he'd made a very similar observation not that long ago. And wouldn't you know it… the dual-wielder's lips quirked in response.

"Ah, so I am to be interrogated, then." Zevran knew this technique… he'd seen it employed many times, and had occasionally been roped into it himself: one interrogator makes himself look menacing and ready to kill at a moment's notice, while the other smiles and pretends to be the victim's friend, so the victim feels like they can trust that person. Usually, Zevran was cast as the friendly one, likely due to his race and amazingly good looks. Just once, he would have liked to be the intimidating one. Ah, but that was neither here, nor there.

Still, from this angle, bound and helpless on the ground, he could see why it worked. "Let me save you some time. My name is Zevran—Zev to my friends—and I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly."

"Obviously," the mage said snidely, but the rogue waved him to quiet.

"What are the Antivan Crows?" he asked, and Zevran was actually a little insulted by the question. Could they really not… no? No, the dual-wielder was exchanging curious looks with his two companions. They'd never heard of the Crows; that must be rectified, if only as a matter of professional pride.

"We are an order of assassins based in Antiva. We pride ourselves in getting the job done, given the right price, that is. I'm surprised you haven't heard of the Crows. Where I come from, we're rather infamous."

"Not for being good assassins, apparently," the mage snapped.

Zevran forced a weak laugh. "Yes, I can see how you might get that impression. Rest assured, for one to fail like this is quite… rare. It's rather frowned upon among the Crows, you see, to get paid to kill a mark, and then not kill him."

"Who paid you?" the dual-wielder asked.

"Me personally? The Crows. But as to who paid the Crows… it was a rather taciturn fellow in the capitol. Loghain, I think his name was."

The mage spat a rather blasphemous curse.

The answer sparked an interesting light in the dual-wielder's eyes, and Zevran definitely detected the gleam of a plot being spun. Ah, so the mage and the archer were the muscle here… it was apparent that the brains of this operation was the rogue. After a moment of thought, the rogue asked smoothly, "When were you to see him next?"

Ha, as if Zevran could not guess what the schemer was planning. Pity, he'd have to spoil such a poetically delightful plan. "I wasn't. If I had succeeded in killing all of you, I would have returned home, and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least, as far as the Crows are concerned." He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "No need to see Loghain, then."

The rogue let out an appreciative snort of laughter. Zevran cursed silently as he was taken in by it; he knew it was a mask for the matter of interrogation, but it was an effective one. Even he, a Crow trained to withstand such techniques, was warming to the rogue.

It didn't help that all three elves were quite attractive. Alas, it was as if the powers that be had designed this trap with Zevran's specific weaknesses in mind.

"Are you particularly loyal to Loghain, then?"

Ah, but that was an awkward question to ask a Crow. "I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?"

All three nodded, as if there was any doubt.

"Beyond that, no. I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service. Should you wish to return the favor, you would have to take it up with my superiors." He paused, and amended, "...or would have, anyway, were I not now as good as dead in their eyes."

Something glinted in the rogue's eyes. "And sparing your life would not be fair payment for seeing such a job done?"

"WHAT?" the mage squawked. "Finian, he tried to murder us! You said we'd wake him up for questioning, not take him on as another pet!"

The woman leveled a hard look up at the mage. "I hope you are not referring to Fang as a 'pet', da'lethallin."

The mage threw his hands in the air. "You too? Wonderful, we named it. Now we have to keep it."

Zevran allowed himself a chuckle, and turned his attention back to his interrogator. He startled when he realized that the rogue hadn't taken his eyes off Zevran. The assassin could feel the assessment in the other elf's gaze. Definitely the brains, yes.

And it seemed the rogue was still awaiting his answer to that rather possibility-laden question. Zevran had expected to be killed as soon as the Wardens were out of questions, but it seemed this 'Finian' had other plans.

The assassin pondered the question. "In the Crows," he said carefully, "it is rather bad for business for one to stab the hand holding the purse strings, if you take my meaning. However… dead men do tend to have minds of their own, yes? What with being uncooperative in interrogations and the like."

Zevran was surprised by how easily the other elf caught his meaning. A sly smirk stole across Finian's face. "You seem to be doing well enough at that, though."

"Ah ha ha… yes, I suppose I am. I do aim to please, in whatever way befits the situation."

"Fin," the mage spoke up again. "You can't be serious, here. This guy's an assassin. What's to say he won't turn around and stab us in the back as soon as we untie him?"

The rogue sent a grin over his shoulder. "And you'd let him? I'd expect you to turn him into a husk of charred meat if he even implied it in jest, much less made an actual attempt."

The mage wrinkled his nose, mollified, but made no move to deny it. Zevran arched an eyebrow, making note not to provoke the mage unnecessarily, even if the boy's obvious temper looked like it would be great fun to rile.

"In this," the woman said, "I agree with Kazar. This man is dangerous."

"And that's why we can use him," Finian said. He turned to arch a brow at the assassin. "Right, Zevran?"

"In whatever way you see fit," he replied easily, masking his nervousness from having his continued state of existence be voted down. "I am quite good at a number of things—stealth, lock-picking, poisons, making people die—and I assure you, I have other talents that, should they be necessary, would also be at your disposal." And that could be used against the Wardens, if Zevran felt so inclined to finish his contract after all.

"You must think we're royally stupid!" the mage, Kazar, snapped, as if reading his mind.

"No, I think you're royally tough to kill… I'm only hoping you're royally stupid." The woman tensed, her knife coming a couple inches closer to Zevran's throat, and Zevran quickly backpedaled, realizing that Finian was the only one he should be joking with at the moment. "Let me rephrase that." He met the rogue's eyes, because he wasn't making any ground with the other two, and it was obvious who the one in charge was anyway. "I'm hoping that you're the sort of fellow that takes a chance every now and again. Ha ha… no?"

The rogue let him stew on his nerves for a bit, the bastard. Again, Zevran felt the piercing nature of the elf's gaze—even if a smirk did quirk the rogue's lips—and the assassin wondered whether the rogue had spotted his rather unloyal thoughts a moment ago. If so, he was as good as dead, and he did not want such an end anymore. Not like this, anyway.

"One last question, Zevran of the Antivan Crows." The assassin swallowed at the low, silky tone in the rogue's voice. "Is your loyalty worth your life?"

It was a threat, even if it was delivered in a soft, seemingly friendly tone, and Zevran wondered just what sort of creature this particular Warden was. The other two were straightforward enough—to the point of boredom, in the case of the woman—but this elf was dangerous in the way that the smoothest of Crow Masters was dangerous. All soft words and silver tongues, until you died of a poison you hadn't even been aware of drinking.

He licked his lips, trying to come up with a way to get this man to put some trust in him. At least until he could properly sort this out. "I happen to be a very loyal person, up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, really."

The rogue didn't react one way or another. It was... disconcerting.

"But as I said, the Crows do not take kindly to such things as failure. The severance package is garbage, let me tell you. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Even if I finish the job later, they would be just as likely to kill me on principle for failing the first time."

That, at least, made the rogue nod thoughtfully.

"Thing is, I like living." Surprisingly. "And you are obviously the sort of people to give the Crows pause. It is in my best interest to serve you, yes?"

He heard the mage growl, "You can't seriously believe this," but he didn't take his gaze off the rogue's big brown eyes. This 'Finian' was obviously the one to convince… Zevran suspected that, if he could be won over, a clever, scheming sort of man like this would be able to persuade any dissenters from cutting Zevran's throat. At least until the assassin had a chance to decide whether he intended to do the same to them.

"So you'll be using us as protection," Finian said slowly. "You're expecting them to come after you?"

No point denying it. "Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you." He glanced around at the assassin corpses that littered the ground. "Not that you seem to need much help in that department."

"That we don't." Again, it was a threat, delivered with a smile. Even so, Finian nodded to the woman, and the Dalish elf bent over him with the knife. For a moment, Zevran worried that they had decided to kill him after all. Instead, the Dalish elf reached behind him, and, a couple seconds later, Zevran felt the ropes around his wrist lose their tautness.

He pulled his hands forward and rubbed his wrists. He was startled to see that his bindings hadn't been ropes, but vines. The doing of the mage, perhaps?

Both elves crouching over him stood, and the rogue offered a hand to help Zevran up. The assassin took it, all too aware of the deadly dagger stored inches from where his hand gripped, ready to pop out and stab him in the heart should he reveal any ill intent toward the Wardens.

"We accept your service, then, assassin," the rogue said, pulling Zevran to his feet. "Your life for your loyalty."

Zevran flourished a bow. "So it is then that I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you," he said, catching and holding Finian's gaze, "until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear."

An amused smile quirked the rogue's lips. "Now that, I didn't expect."

And with that, the tension hanging in the air dropped, though Zevran had difficulty placing just what kind of tension it was. "So, my exalted and most merciful master, what would be your bidding?"

"For now? Kill darkspawn with us."

"Ah, a fine use of the legendary subtlety and finesse of the Antivan Crows."

Finian smirked and started leading them away from the scene of the carnage. The other two elven Wardens fell in step behind them. "Do I detect a hint of sarcasm there, assassin?"

Braska, but the rogue's grin was infectious, now that the threat of imminent death seemed to have passed. "Why, I would never think to speak so disrespectfully to one of the fabled Grey Wardens. Especially not one who has no reservations about jumping over carts to stab hapless assassins."

Finian laughed, and Zevran took that as a good sign. Yes, getting into this one's good graces was his best bet at surviving this new development, especially given the glares the other two were leveling at his back.

"This is just wonderful," the mage's voice grumbled behind them. "First the wolf, and now an assassin? You know what? I want a dangerous pet that will one day turn around and kill me. Maybe a sylvan. Or a Rage Demon. Can you talk a Rage Demon into joining us, too, Fin?"

"We need every able sword we can get against the darkspawn," his rogue said in entirely reasonable tones. Silver-tongued rascal. "And think of it this way: should Loghain's regency become a thorn in our sides down the road, well… let's just say having a trained assassin on our side may make things a lot smoother."

Zevran arched a brow at that, even as the mage grumbled quietly to himself, seemingly mollified. He never would have expected a Grey Warden—heroic saviors of Thedas and all that—to be so… shrewd. Ah well. It would certainly make things more interesting, at the least.

Until he decided whether or not he was going to kill them all, of course.

Chapter Text

They got a couple stares as they wove their way back through Orzammar. Garott supposed the citizens had their right to stare, since the trio was absolutely covered in darkspawn blood. Still, he couldn't help but chuckle. Most of the poor sods had probably never seen a darkspawn in their lives. He hadn't before Ostagar.

And look at him now, covered in the creatures' gore, with a recommendation from Lord Dace tucked firmly in his pocket. Sure, the materials used to 'convince' the deshyrs were likely forged—or at least stolen—but that was right up Garott's alley.

Lord Harrowmont could shove his Proving. He'd already gone through that once, and he had no intention of risking his neck like that again. Prince Bhelen was more Garott's style anyway, if the blatant blackmail was anything to go by. Garott just wouldn't let himself become a lackey again.

"Mm, I must say I like this deadly Grey Warden walk you've got," Morrigan's voice said silkily behind him. "Feeling particularly formidable today, Warden?"

"Wouldn't you be?" Garott shot back with a smirk. "I'm a darkspawn killing machine. Maybe once the Assembly sees how much blood I'm coated with, they'll buckle down and give me my sodding army, king or not."

"Yes, and perhaps my mother will keel over and die in the next couple days."

"Never hurts to be optimistic." He arched a brow back at her, and she laughed. That, at least, seemed to be a genuine one.

He had Morrigan pegged, now, after so long traveling with just her and the Qunari. She was manipulative, yes, but only to certain ends. He hadn't quite figured out what those ends were, but it seemed to have something to do with ingratiating herself with the Wardens. She'd had Percival panting after her back in Lothering (and gotten a couple bites from him, judging by those new marks on her bare skin when they'd left the village), and now she seemed to think that seducing Garott was a viable course of action.

He had to admit that she was a damn fine woman, especially for a human, and he doubted that she was one to get emotionally attached after a tumble. However, Garott didn't trust a person whose motives he didn't understand. Until he knew what the witch was getting out of it, he didn't trust her enough to be alone and naked with her.

Sten followed behind Morrigan, his face impassive as he scanned the crowd with an eye attentive for trouble.

Garott could not believe how glad he was that he'd saved the Qunari. The man was a strong, steady sword, willing to wade right into a fight with his blade swinging, leaving Garott the chance to sneak in and pick around the edges. The dwarves only wished their warriors were so brave. No wonder the Qunari were so damned good at taking over Thedas.

Still, there were things about Sten that Garott found perplexing. He'd tried to pay the Qunari once, as a good boss should pay any of his hired swords. The Qunari had refused to take the purse, and, obviously insulted, had said something along the lines of "You would not reward a spider for spinning a web." Garott could only shake his head in confusion and make a note not to try that again.

Vartag Gavorn had said to meet him in the palace once all the applicable votes had been secured, so that's where Garott was headed. By now, the auspicious glamor of the Diamond Quarter no longer impressed him, due mostly to the conduct of its residents. At least when dusters had quarrels, they settled it by honorably trying to kill one another. None of this whispering behind other peoples' backs and blackmailing and bribing their way to the top.

Then again, Garott supposed if the castes weren't prone to such things, he never would have gotten his job in the Carta, and then where would he be? Begging for scraps, that's where.

Garott tossed the palace doors wide as he entered, and every guard in the place turned to watch him cross the entrance hall. The nobles and servants alike started whispering among themselves as he stepped inside. He smirked at the lot of them, well aware of the eyes that were trained on his face brand. How it must stew them, to see casteless trash elevated to the illustrious Grey Wardens.

Walking around in areas that had been denied him before never got old, if only because it so obviously steamed those who felt entitled to his exclusion.

Garott stopped expectantly in the middle of the hall. There were three doors off the chamber, and Gavorn had not seen fit to offer him further instructions other than 'Report to the royal palace when you're done.'

"What is your business here, Grey Warden?" One of the guards said, stepping forward to meet him.

Garott crossed his arms casually, still smirking. The guards were glaring at the weapons hanging off his belt, and he had no intention of removing them. "Is that any way to address your prince's champion? Then again, I suppose delivering a couple papers isn't exactly the height of heroism. Where's Vartag Gavorn? He here?"

The guard nodded behind him, and another guard went running through a doorway, hopefully to fetch the prince's yes-man.

"We will let him know you came by," the guard said, turning back to him. "In the meantime, honored Warden, please wait outside. You're dirtying the entrance hall."

Garott barked a laugh. "Oh, am I? And do you mean my current coat of darkspawn blood when you say that?" He laced his next words with menace. "Or are you just maybe talking about something else?"

The guard paled. "I would never presume to... We are honored to have a Grey Warden in our midst."

"Yeah? Funny how that works, isn't it? I was born less than a person, not even worth the effort of putting me out of my misery, and now I come back a Grey Warden and it's suddenly an 'honor' to know me. Guess we dwarves are charming, like that."

The guard looked utterly flustered, probably trying to reconcile the casteless Grey Warden dichotomy. However, he was saved from trying to scrounge up an answer by the door on the left opening.

The head that peeked out at him wasn't Gavorn's, and Garott was genuinely dumbfounded at seeing this particular face in the palace, of all places.

"You're back!" Rica cried, bursting out of the doors and running over to him. His sister tackled him in a hug, burying her face in his filthy leathers. "Garott! It's so good to see you!"

It was all he could do to stand there and blink, the usually smooth-running cogs in his head stuttering over this shock.

He hadn't had the heart to set foot in Dust Town yet. He'd fought and scraped his way out of that rat hole, and had no intention of ever going back. As such, he hadn't had a chance to meet his family and old friends. He'd kind of hoped they'd crawl out of the tunnels when they heard of his presence in Orzammar… and he admitted he'd been disappointed when he'd passed a couple days without word. Still, he'd had more important things to do than dwell on missed happy reunions, so he'd shrugged and gotten on with his job.

"And just who is this?" Morrigan asked silkily, though there was an underlying hostility in her voice. "An old flame, perhaps?"

"What?" Rica drew back to look at the witch. Then, she laughed, and Garott marveled that he'd never seen his sister so happy. "No, no, nothing like that. I'm Rica, Garott's sister. And you are…?"

"Charmed, I'm sure." The sarcasm in the witch's voice was thick enough to spread on bread.

"Morrigan, act civilized for a couple minutes," Garott said, finding his wits. "Rica, what are you doing here?"

"You don't know?" His sister peered up at him in surprise. "No, I don't suppose you would, would you? I'm…" Her grin was bright, once again so very unlike the downtrodden sister he was used to. "I'm Prince Bhelen's consort!"

"Oh, how convenient indeed," Morrigan's voice cooed. "If one must sell oneself, one couldn't have picked a better buyer than-"

Her words were cut off by Garott's hand-axe flying at her. She apparently anticipated the weapon, and the axe passed harmlessly through the cloud of flies she immediately shapeshifted into. The axe embedded itself in the wall behind her with a clunk, and several guards around the room looked uncertain over whether to apprehend the Warden or not.

As the Morrigan swarm reformed into her usual shapely figure, Garott scowled at her. "I usually don't mind your snide remarks, but my sister is off-limits. Got that? Or else I'm gonna have to bring up a certain nobleman you ain't exactly been chaste with yourself."

"If you thought I was being sarcastic," the witch said stiffly, "then that is your own failing, not mine. I, for one, applaud such ambition, particularly if casteless life is as unbearable as you have often implied. I say bravo to her for managing to claw her way out of such a dreary existence."

Sten, however, frowned at that. "So the woman seeks to change her own station by attaching herself to one of the leaders. This is strange. What does he get out of this?"

Garott stiffened, but Rica smiled shyly at the question, silencing any response. She smiled up at him, her hand going to her belly. Which Garott realized, was a bit rounder than it had been when he'd left. And not merely from plentiful food.

His eyes widened. "You're…"

She nodded. "Bhelen says he doesn't care… even if it's a girl, he won't turn me away. He's… he's a good man, brother. It means so much to me to see you supporting him."

"As it does to us all," said a new voice, and Garott looked up to see the man himself, leaning in the doorway through which Rica had come.

At least, Garott could only assume this was Prince Bhelen. He looked enough like Marnan, though his hair was a shade lighter, closer to strawberry blond than Marnan's spitfire red. His eyes had the same confidence she did, though, as well as a certain amount of craftiness that Marnan did not.

Not for the first time, Garott wondered what the truth behind Marnan's exile truly was.

"You must be the honorable and suspiciously well-positioned prince," Garott chuckled, not bothering to bow.

Bhelen nodded with a good-natured smile, though his eyes watched Garott with the cunning intensity of a cat on a mouse. "That I am. It is good to meet you at last, Garott Brosca. To say that I've heard a lot about you is an understatement. I admit, the stories do not disappoint."

Yep, this was a silver-tongued adder, if he'd ever met one. He snorted. "You'll find flattery doesn't work on me, your princeliness."

At this, the prince smirked and inclined his head. "I did not say that all the stories were flattering."

At that, Garott laughed in earnest, and finally gave the prince a bow… though it was one of a man bested in a verbal sparring match, rather than that of a commoner to a prince.

The prince nodded his own acknowledgement. "When you've caught up with your sister, Warden, please, meet me in my chambers. We've matters of the throne to discuss, I believe."

"That we do." The prince left back through the doors, and Rica immediately swatted his arm. "Ow. What?"

"I can't believe you talked to Bhelen like that!" she laughed. "I was used to it with Beraht… but not with a prince! By the Ancestors, Garott, if he didn't have the sense of humor he does…!"

"He'd be down one of his most influential supporters, wouldn't he?" Garott said with a smirk. "Don't worry, Rica. Bhelen's not the kind of man to let an opportunity slip by him, even if that opportunity gives him a little lip."

Rica shook her head in exasperation, still smiling fondly. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? I guess I should be glad. When you left to join the Wardens, I was worried you'd come back as some grim, straight-laced figure from out of an old tale or something."

Garott wrapped an arm around his sister again. "Never fear, Rica. I will always be the same irreverent thug you know and love. I just happen to have added 'kicking archdemons in the balls' to my job description."

"I still can't believe it, you know. My little brother… a Grey Warden."

"Says the sister who is carrying the child of a sodding prince." Oh Stone, this would make him and Marnan in-laws. "Seems we Broscas are moving up in the world, eh? What must Ma think?"

Rica caught the question that he would never be able to ask out loud. "She's okay, Garott. Bhelen's providing for her, and for me, and she's doing a lot better these days. She misses you, though."

He grunted, looking away.

"Come on. You shouldn't leave Bhelen waiting." She started back through the door, and Garott followed.

Morrigan and Sten walked behind. When the guards blocked them from following the dwarves into the residences, Sten looked about ready to start adding notches to his greatsword.

"It's okay," Garott said to his companions. "I'll go on alone. You guys wait for me; I won't be long."

"I will not be left out," Morrigan fumed.

Garott arched an eyebrow at her. "If the prince wants to see me alone, then I guess I get to be the only one he'll see." He could tell by the flash of understanding in her eyes that she took his meaning, and he turned and left the pair to their own devices.

Rica led him through the corridors silently. She was nervous, he realized. But was she worried for Bhelen or for Garott?

After a couple minutes, they turned to a set of double-doors and Rica knocked. "Let him in," came that smooth voice from inside, and Garott stepped through the double doors into a chamber bigger than four or five houses in Dust Town. Bhelen sat at a desk off to one side, and nodded a greeting. "Thank you, Rica. If you don't mind, I'd like to speak with him alone."

"Of course, my lord," Rica said with a bow, and disappeared with the soft click of the door shutting.

Garott was left standing alone in the middle of the adder's nest, being studied by the king of snakes himself. It was surprising how nervous he suddenly was. Bhelen was an opportunist, and Garott knew from personal experience just how little such kinds could be trusted.

"Let's not mince words, Warden," Bhelen said at last, the charismatic smile dropping from his face as he leaned back in his chair. Now, the prince was all cold calculation, and that was a change that Garott found himself appreciating. "You're an intelligent man, that much is clear, and not above getting your hands dirty. I can appreciate that. But if you ever dare to come out and accuse me of what you just implied in the entrance hall, I will have you killed. Do not doubt that."

Garott nodded, feeling much more comfortable with this Bhelen than the smiling, laughing one from five minutes before. Heh. "Don't worry; I don't volunteer information. Not unless the price for blabbing is higher than the cost… and since you've got my sister in your pocket, the cost is more than I'd ever be willing to pay."

Bhelen's eyes narrowed. "If you're implying that I'd ever hurt Rica-"

"Why wouldn't you?" Garott let one hand fall to his dagger, lamenting the fact that his hand-axe was still stuck in the entrance hall wall. "She's a casteless concubine. Last I heard, you nobles don't exactly get invested in those unless there's a little bundle involved. You don't even know if it's male, so what's she to you?"

Bhelen stood up, obviously beginning to lose his temper. Garott found it encouraging that this would get him so worked up. "You'd speak of your sister that way?"

Garott laughed humorlessly. "You're one to talk, considering what you did to your own."

At that, both of them froze. Bhelen's eyes went wide as he studied Garott, and the Warden cursed inwardly at the slip. Too late to recall it now.

The prince's lips quirked in a sly smile, and Garott could practically see him putting the pieces together. "You were still in the Deep Roads, weren't you? You and the Wardens? Harrowmont, that scheming son of a nug. He'd spoken with the commander about his projected route… he would have sent her straight to you."

Garott forced a smile, though he felt like he'd just lost a major bargaining chip. More… he felt like he'd somehow… betrayed Marnan. What was that about? What did he care? "Imagine if she came back and testified against you. I bet her accusations would carry a bit more weight than mine, since she obviously knows what went down first-hand."

Bhelen sat back again, eyes hooded. "And you would allow her to do this, knowing that, if Harrowmont won, it would send your sister back to Dust Town?"

"She can find another noble. There's only one throne."

Bhelen was silent for a minute, obviously turning that over in his mind. Garott kept his gaze steady and confident, unsure whether this all was a bluff or not. The only sound for a long moment was that of a nug, scrabbling quietly in a corner of the room.

Then, the prince asked, "What, exactly, are you demands here?"

"Just this: if I make you king, you treat my sister with the respect a girl like her deserves, whether that kid is a son or daughter."

"A non-issue." Bhelen waved a hand dismissively. "I have no intention of turning her away. If the child is a girl, then the deshyrs will just have to hold their tongues until we can present them with a son. Of that, you have my word."

It was Garott's turn to study the prince, and Bhelen met his eyes steadily. Garott couldn't detect any lie in that assurance, and he prided himself in being pretty good at detecting bullshit. Satisfied, he nodded. "Then I guess we both got a good reason to get along, don't we?"

Bhelen's smile was slow and sly, and a little respectful. "That we do. Well played, Warden."

Garott bowed again, smirking. "So, my prince. What's the next step in making you king?"

The prince's smirk widened. "Oh, this is one you'll appreciate, I think. Rica did say you have a strong sense of irony."

Garott arched a brow.

Bhelen stood up. "Orzammar has some… problems. Ones that I'd like to see solved, and intend to do so should I take… receive the crown."

Garott smirked, unfooled.

"And so, I need to send a message to the Assembly, to make my intentions clear. At the same time, it will be cleaning up a deepstalker nest that has been festering in this city for far too long, ruining lives and leeching off what little economy we can maintain."

Garott laughed, because he did, indeed, have a strong sense of irony. "You're talking about the Carta."

"That I am." Bhelen smiled at him, a gleam in his eyes. "What do you say, Warden? Would you like to take back Dust Town, for all the branded boys who have to sign on as a thug or get their heads knocked in, and for all the casteless girls who have to spread their legs to have any hope of anything better?"

Garott laughed heartily. "For them? No. This, I'll be doing for me. You got yourself a deal. Boss."

The prince held out his hand, and sod it if Garott didn't shake it. As he left the room and worked his way back to the entrance hall alone, a nug crawled out of a hole in the wall and climbed up onto his shoulder. Once perched, it chittered something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"Not a word, Morrigan," Garott said with a snort. "Some people would pay for the sort of entertainment you just witnessed. Now, let's find our Qunari. We've got some heads to bash in."

Chapter Text

They didn't find five pounds of lyrium. As it turned out, the storage tunnels had been completely overtaken by abominations. This was to be expected, Alistair supposed, because one couldn't have a proper quest without slaying a dozen monsters on the way. They only managed to get part of the way in before they had to call it a loss and head back.

Still, Felicity took what little lyrium they had scrounged up with pursed lips, and Alistair felt a bit like he was back at the Chantry, forgetting parts of the Chant again. "This is enough for one of us," she said, her gaze flicking between the two of them.

"You should be the one," Alistair said. "Since you, you know, actually know what you're doing."

She smiled bashfully, and he stifled the urge to reach out and touch her. He was having the strangest impulses lately. He'd already given into that one once… no need for an encore. "No, it is probably best if I remain outside, so I can continue to sustain your material bodies." She looked up at him. "It should be you, Alistair. Your Templar training already gives you a natural mental resistance to demonic control… the ritual will be able to build upon that."

Alistair glanced over at Percival, who nodded. "I agree. When it comes to demons, I do not have the… best defenses." There was bitterness in his comrade's tone, and Alistair thought it best not to ask.

They were huddled in a side room off the main chamber, Hugo occasionally growling in the direction of the door. Felicity took the lyrium and dipped a broken quill pen inside. Then, using it like a brush, she started drawing fancy designs on the floor, and an old, Chantry-trained part of him started to spike in nervousness.

"So… this isn't going to hurt, is it? Or turn me into anything… warty?"

Felicity smiled teasingly. "You still think being turned into a frog is the worst thing a mage can do to you? After this?"

Alistair shrugged, but returned the smile. "Not the worst, no. But that doesn't exactly make it pleasant, now does it?"

Her soft laugh was musical, and Alistair again wanted to reach out and touch her. He seemed to be a bit muddled lately.

She gestured for him to stand on top of one of the runes. Obediantly, he did so, even offering her a mocking salute. He was rewarded with another chuckle. Then, Felicity stood on another rune she'd drawn and started chanting something. Alistair bit down a spike of anxiety as he felt magic begin swirling around the both of them; everything in his Templar training told him to disrupt the spell, but he suspected Felicity would be a mite miffed if he did so.

That Templar voice became ten times stronger as he felt the magic seep into his mind. Calm, he reminded himself. You know this. Discipline. Mental fortitude. He closed his eyes and sought the old meditations, even as the magic wrapped gently around his mind. It didn't intrude, as he'd worried it might, but rather wrapped around his mind like a shield. It almost tingled, actually.

From somewhere far away, above the magic and the sound of Felicity chanting, Alistair heard Hugo start barking. Then, there was the hiss of Percy's sword leaving its sheath, and Felicity's chanting stopped mid-word.

There was a long sigh, deep and echoing with a sibilance that set Alistair's hair on end. "Certainly, mortal, you did not expect this to work…?"

He opened his eyes, and he froze when he saw the demonic creature. It towered over all of them, regarding them with tired, fathomless eyes.

Felicity didn't look up, but the manner of the spell she was casting abruptly changed, and he felt something like a tether join the shield around his mind, connecting him to her.

Percy stepped between the pair of them and the demonic creature. "Get back, demon!" he growled. Hugo braced himself next to his master, hackles raised at the creature.

"How bothersome," the creature sighed, and Alistair felt lethargy descend on his mind.

"No… no!" Percy said, his voice thickening. "We won't submit, demon!"

"Somebody pinch me…" Alistair murmured, his eyelids drooping.

Felicity continued chanting, even as her head started nodding.

Percy was the first to drop, his hound collapsing beside him with a whine. The room swayed around Alistair, and he fought to keep his grip on those meditations. However, they slipped away, buried under the realization that this was a perfect place to take a nap. Yep. Naptime.

Felicity mumbled one last thing with a flash of light flying between them, just as Alistair spiraled down into slumberland.

He was therefore rather surprised when he opened his eyes a moment later, and realized that he was still in the Circle Tower.

He sat up, rubbing his head where he'd hit it when he'd fallen. Something was different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. At least he'd fallen on one of the soft carpets that the mages decorated their tower with.

Wait, why had he fallen, again?

He climbed to his feet, dusting off his armor. He paused in confusion, his fingers lingering over the Templar logo on his chestplate. That… wasn't right. Was it?

"Alistair! Dozing off on the job again, are you?" One of his comrades laughed, poking a helmeted head into the room. Strangely, his fellow Templar's name escaped him at the moment.

"Honestly, I'm feeling a bit muddled," Alistair said, rubbing his forehead.

"Some apprentice's prank, no doubt. By the Maker, the little terrors should all be made Tranquil."

"That's an awful thing to say!"

His friend laughed, holding up his hands in defeat. "I know, I know. Alistair, defender of the weak and obnoxious, and all that. Now come on, the Knight-Commander will have your head if you're late to your post."

Alistair nodded and followed his fellow Templar out of the room, though he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He was supposed to be doing something, wasn't he? Maybe he was just late for his post, as his friend said.

They wound through the corridors of the Circle Tower, weaving around the mages that scurried to and fro like rats in a larder. Most mages avoided the pair of them, many pretending they didn't exist. This was normal; a Templar got used to withstanding their contempt. Most Templars returned that contempt tenfold, but Alistair had never really been able to hate the mages on principle like that. Just a few in particular.

Though he did have a healthy fear… erm…respect for their spells. He had a distinct memory of being fried by a fireball once, though he couldn't recall for certain when that had actually happened.

He followed his friend through the corridors and down a level, to a small study that was often used by the enchanters to get work done when they didn't want the lesser mages and apprentices bothering them. He hid a smile as he saw just who was making use of that study.

Felicity sent him a pointed glare over her book, then turned nonchalantly back to whatever paper she was currently working on. Alistair bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from grinning like a moron as he took up his post by the study door. The Templar he was replacing saluted, and both other Templars marched off, leaving him alone with the mage.

"Honestly, Alistair," Felicity tutted, snapping her book shut and sending him a withering glare. "You couldn't be any less subtle if you painted a sign in the great hall."

Alistair shrugged, unrepentant, and allowed his grin free rein. "Not my fault I like watching you. Even better that I'm duty-bound to do it."

She just rolled her eyes and shuffled through her papers. "I don't see what could be so interesting about watching me pore through old books."

He closed the door quietly, then wandered over to the table she had commandeered. "Well, for one thing, when the others ask me what the Tower's newest enchanter is up to, I can answer them."

She smiled up at him teasingly. "So you're spying on me? I should have expected as much."

"Nah, I just like to sound smart. I don't get to do it all that often, you know."

Her dark eyes softened. "Oh, I think you're plenty smart about the things that matter."

He once again felt that urge to reach out and touch her. This time, he gave in, running one gauntleted hand over her cheek. "Yes, but you, my dear enchanter, are unashamedly biased."

"Hm, I do believe you're correct." Her eyes sparkled, and she carefully set her papers down. She stood up, and something about the enchanter robes she wore seemed strange… well, she was still recently promoted. He hadn't gotten used to seeing her out of basic mage robes yet. That had to be it. "Is something wrong?"

He glanced up, startled, to see her watching him with concern. Seeing no point in hiding it—she'd ferret it out anyway—he rubbed his head and admitted, "I've been feeling a bit muddled. The other Templars think an apprentice must have cast a spell on me as a prank."

"Hm…" she placed a hand on his shoulder and sent a burst of magic through him. From anyone else, he would have been nervous, but this was Felicity. Then, she smiled teasingly again. "Well, I don't sense any entropic spells on you. What I do sense, however, is that you have a bruise on the back of your head. How might that have come about?"

"I…fell?"

"Mm-hm. You know, for a trained warrior, you are awfully clumsy." She reached up to run a hand through his hair, and his breath hitched. She whispered a healing spell, and the ache in the back of his head abated. When she started to pull away, he caught her arms with his own.

"I do it so that you can have a reason to heal me. We both know how much you like taking care of me."

Her eyes sparkled, and Alistair's heart skipped in his chest. Her fingers smoothed over his scalp. "Yes, almost as much as you like protecting me."

He grinned in defeat, and she pulled him down into a kiss.

His heart pounded as their lips met, and confusion roiled through his mind. Her lips were soft and warm, and he felt a headiness come over him like he'd never felt at the mere touch. But that couldn't be right… this was hardly their first kiss. Was it?

He stiffened, confused, and Felicity drew back with a furrowed brow. She studied him for a moment. "Perhaps it wasn't the bump on your head after all. Are you still feeling off?"

"Something's wrong," Alistair stepped back, his hand dropping to his sword as he looked around the study. For the briefest of moments, he had a bizarre double-vision experience, where he spied, instead of the Circle Tower, a twisted plain scattered with gnarled plants. A nightmarish world.

Wait… nightmare. The Sloth Demon. Oh Maker.

That magical shield around his mind flickered into feeble existence, and his true memories resurfaced in a tidal wave. His first action after recalling just what was going on was to stare at Felicity and blush so badly that he feared his face might combust.

Felicity looked worried, now. She took a step toward him, and he stepped back. "Alistair? Are you all right?"

Oh Maker. He'd… and she'd… and they'd… He might faint, he really might. He couldn't say he regretted it, and it did make certain things make a lot more sense… but by Andraste, what a way to figure it out!

"Alistair?" Now she looked hurt, and that made him regret his hesitation.

"This isn't real," he blurted unceremoniously.

Okay, now she looked really hurt. And a little pissed off. "Is this your idea of calling this off?"

"What? No! That-that's not what I meant! Primarily because there's nothing to call off, but that's not the point-"

"Nothing to call off?" She now looked furious. "Alistair, I'd have at least thought you'd be a gentleman about this! I thought you different from other Templars!"

"That's not—by the Maker!" He reached forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, even as she tried to back away. "Felicity, you are the most brilliant person I know. Just think for a minute. This isn't real. You're not an enchanter; you're a Grey Warden. We both are!"

"A Grey Warden?" Her brows knit in confusion. "Why would I become a Grey Warden? I'm perfectly content here, at the Tower. With you."

Again, he felt himself blush. "Right, yes. Remind me again, then, how exactly we got together."

"Is this supposed to be funny? You know that."

"Maybe I hit my head harder than we thought. Humor me."

She rolled her eyes, then froze, her brows again knitting in confusion mid-roll. "We… met when you came to the Tower…"

"When? What did I say?"

Her eyes narrowed in thought. "Something about… lyrium. About not having completed your vows. But that can't be right… you wouldn't have been allowed into the Tower if you hadn't."

"Right, because we had that conversation on the bridge at Ostagar. Do you remember Ostagar?"

She blinked. "I… do. We fought darkspawn… and there was some kind of ritual? But how could that be? I've never been out of the Tower."

"Yes, you have," he assured her earnestly. "You know something feels wrong. Trust that feeling… or failing that, trust that this place obviously follows no rightful rules of logic. Just look at me… could you really see me as a full Templar?"

Felicity bit her lip in thought. "You'd probably go mad and take your sword to the nearest Chantry podium."

"Exactly, because I'm much happier as a Grey Warden. And until a couple minutes ago, I thought you were too." He couldn't hide his disappointment.

She stepped away, running her hands over the books on the desk. "I suppose… I would be more productive as a Warden, at least," she said ponderously. "An enchanter's life would be nice—I'd get full access to the vaults, and I think that I would love teaching the apprentices—but to what ultimate end is such a life? You make small difference to anyone outside the Tower, which exists as an island by itself."

"Compounded by the fact that it is, in fact, on an island."

She smiled, but it was a sad one. "I might have ended up like this, had Duncan not asked me to come with him. In the Tower. Continuing to my studies. Idle." Her brows knit. "Which would explain why a Sloth Demon would put me in this dream, to keep me complacent and to feed upon my unproductivity."

"And so why would I be here, then?" Alistair said, tapping the Templar crest on his chestplate. "I can't say I ever dream of Templars, except for the occasional one about smacking my old trainer in the face with a shovel."

She turned to look at him, as if for the first time, and he knew the moment when everything finally snapped into place by the blush that shot up to the tips of her ears. "Oh Alistair. I'm so sorry! This isn't your dream… it's mine." Her eyes dropped, and her shoulders hunched up in embarrassment. "It must be horrifying, to have been caught in such a compulsion, to correspond with the dream like that."

"Wait… a compulsion?"

"Well… this dreamscape is designed to follow closely with my deepest desires… or something else that would provoke an entropic response, I suppose. When the Sloth Demon discovered us, I realized I wouldn't have enough time to finish the ritual to make you completely immune to its effects, and so I switched the spell to one that linked us psychically. As such, it seems you were pulled into the same reality as I was, and were thus forced to live out the reality of my dreams."

"…you dream we're having a secret affair in the Circle Tower?" His head spun.

She still didn't look at him. "Well, me being an enchanter was certainly something I used to aspire to. And as for you… it's an obvious holdover from Cullen, isn't it? Following my brief involvement with him to the logical conclusion. Thus why it was projected onto you, as an obvious substitute."

"So… you thought I was Cullen?" He winced… that thought hurt.

"Well, it makes the most sense, don't you think?" She met his gaze, eyes hooded. "What else could it be?"

He sighed, feeling an ache in his chest he wasn't sure what to do with. All that had just been part of the dream? The feelings he was having for her weren't real? No, that couldn't be right. He'd been feeling this before the Sloth Demon had come along.

But it was obvious that the same wasn't true for her.

"No, you're probably right. As usual." He couldn't look at her, instead electing to look around the room. He didn't want her to see his disappointment. "So now that we're both 'awake', so to speak, how do we get out of here?"

"There should be a portal connecting this area of the realm to the others that the Sloth Demon holds, for ease of transit. We'll be able to see it once I dispel the illusion… give me a moment."

She closed her eyes, and Alistair felt free to look at her again.

She wasn't beautiful in a classic way, he supposed, but something in his heart still tugged as he watched her, biting her lip in concentration and with her brow furrowed. She had long, silky black hair that he just wanted to run his hands through, because it looked so soft. Her figure was equally soft, and Alistair mused that it might be rather pleasant to hold such gentle curves at some point when their lives weren't at stake. And her eyes, when they were open, had such spark and wit in them, hinting at the ever-active mind behind it.

It was smart of the Sloth Demon to try to trap her in a Tower full of books, because nothing else could have possibly distracted an ever-curious mind like that of Felicity Amell.

After a minute or two, the Tower around Alistair started wavering, the walls becoming transparent to reveal that nightmarish landscape behind them. After another minute, the Circle Tower disappeared entirely, and they were standing in a barren, gnarled area. Alistair looked up into the sky, and shuddered as he spotted a city on a distant crag.

The Black City, the source of all this corruption and the reason why mages were so dangerous. He may not have paid too much attention when the sisters tried to teach him the Chant as a child, but that, he remembered vividly.

"There are some indications, you know, that the Black City was corrupted before the Tevinter magisters got there," Felicity's voice said, and Alistair glanced over at her, trying to hide his nervousness. "As opposed to it being the golden seat of the Maker, that is. Some accounts claim that it was the city that corrupted the magisters, rather than the other way around."

"The Chantry lets such stories into the Tower?"

"Not directly. But when under such an obviously-biased thumb, one learns to read between the lines." She sighed. "I suppose it doesn't matter what corrupted what, in any case. The result was the same, regardless." She turned away and started walking up a sloping ravine. "Keep an eye out… there will likely be a couple lesser demons around to keep an eye on us."

Alistair dutifully put a hand on his sword, but nonetheless tried for a smirk. "So our babysitters don't look kindly on us breaking out of our cribs? Pity. I was looking forward to snack time."

She chuckled, and he felt a bit of that hurt from earlier fade. "Do you think dream cheese is as good as real cheese?"

"Why does everyone pick on that? So I like cheese; it's not unusual to have a favorite food, you know. Unless you're some sort of undead, I suppose. You know, I never really thought about that. Do walking corpses need to eat?"

Felicity, to his amusement, treated it like a real question. "No. Not in the way we do, anyway. Such undead are the result of lesser demons possessing the newly deceased. As such, it is the demon that must sustain itself, and they are perfectly capable of eating off strong emotions. Often in the most unproductive ways, actually, as that usually means they provoke such emotions from unwary mortals by attacking and killing them. A somewhat short-sighted means to go about it, come to think of it."

"Well, no one ever accused the dead of having good foresight."

There was a cry from up ahead, and Alistair's Templar friend from earlier rounded into view in the path. There was no fun banter this time, more's the pity, as the Templar raised his sword to attack.

Alistair wasted no time in drawing his own blade and stepping in front of Felicity, even as she started casting. The charging Templar demon bounced off his shield with a clang, and Alistair's sword swooped in, cutting through the Templar's armor like butter.

"That's an illusion too?" he muttered as he neatly impaled the creature on his sword, and the Templar faded in a gush of brimstone-scented smoke. More Templar-shaped demons were pouring in from around the landscape now, and Alistair charged up to meet each in turn. He felt the hum of magic wrap around him, and for a moment panicked, looking for an enemy mage… but then realized it was bolstering his strength.

He cast a grin back at his own personal support mage and cleaved a circle of demonic death around her. A dozen demons surrounded them, Templar- and mage-shaped alike. The former charged at him with swords swinging, while the latter stayed in back to sling destructive spells at the pair of them. Felicity constructed a glowing ball around herself that deflected the magic attacks, leaving it to Alistair to slice through the creatures one-by-one. He trusted his body to her healing as he felt demonic swords slice into his back and legs. When a fireball caught him clear in the face, a burst of healing immediately afterward made him grin and smash the offending mage to the other side of the Fade with his shield.

It was rather cathartic, honestly, to bash his way through the evil creatures that took such forms. Stabbing Templars proved a good release for old frustrations accumulated from years of enduring the scoldings of the lay sisters and the harsher punishments of Templar training. And as for the mages… well, it became a great deal of fun to knock them down, as he imagined one had Jowan's face… then Morrigan's… then Kazar's… then back to Jowan's.

Percy had a point. The only decent mage was Felicity.

After a frantic five minutes or so, things settled down, and Alistair was left panting and grinning on a field devoid of any more enemies. He met Felicity's gaze to find her face glowing with victory. Their eyes met, and Alistair was overcome with the desire to march over to her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her.

No, definitely not the work of the Sloth Demon, that.

He broke his gaze away before he actually did something so monumentally stupid as that. Because, really, things were awkward enough already. So he cleared his throat and put his sword away. "Such a fuss kicked up over little old us. You'd think we'd kicked their dogs, or something."

Felicity started leading them up the path again. "Maybe you did, in a dream, and simply don't recall it."

Alistair fell into step beside her. "What? I'm insulted! I have never kicked any dogs, imaginary or otherwise, and I am hurt—no, heartbroken—that you would accuse me of something so awful."

She arched an eyebrow, eyes sparkling. "Says the man who just wiped a good dozen sentient creatures out of existence."

"You've obviously never learned the Templar code of honor. Stabbing and killing things—especially mages—is honorable and a matter of duty. Hurting a cute wittle puppy is a thing worthy of scorn and as such will not be tolerated. Expecially in Ferelden."

"Ah, I see. One must never dare harm a dog in Ferelden, after all."

Alistair nodded sagely. "They're practically avatars of Andraste, if you ask the nobility." He paused, smirking as a thought came to him. "What do you suppose Percy would do if we erected an altar for Hugo? Like, put a crown on him and started worshipping him as a god? Would he find it funny, do you think, or would he murder us all in a fit of rage?"

Felicity laughed, and he forgave her, then and there, for any pain he'd been feeling about her not returning his feelings. "I suspect he'd primarily be confused, and ask whether we'd lost our minds."

"Well, that question would have been far more timely earlier. Say, about the time we accepted Morrigan's help. I personally started suspecting around then that we were all crazy."

"Speak for yourself, Alistair!" she laughed.

"Right, because there's nothing mad about walking into a Circle Tower on lockdown because it's invaded by powerful demons and blood mages, knowing full well that there was no way out again, should you even survive and not be captured. Yep, that sounds like a perfectly sane course of action."

"And so where does that put you, who did the same without even any prior experience with the Tower?"

He grinned. "See, I'm the big dumb sword jockey, so I'm allowed to do crazy stuff like that. You're brilliant, so you should know better."

Her face went red, and she looked away. He wondered if he'd said something wrong. After a moment, she mumbled, "You're not dumb, Alistair."

He shrugged and now it was his turn to look away, because he didn't want her to see how much hearing that from her meant to him.

They walked in awkward silence for a couple minutes. Then, they turned a corner and came upon a shiny portal in the middle of the path.

"This must be it," Felicity said. She stepped up to it and ran a hand along the twisted frame. "This will take us to another part of the Sloth Demon's realm, though it's impossible to guess where."

"So… we just step through? Like it's not all glowing and creepy?"

"Unless you wish to stay here for the rest of eternity, yes."

Alistair glanced behind them, back over the cracked, twisted landscape. "You're the mage. Lead the way."

She nodded and stepped through, disappearing into it with a flash of light. He swallowed a lump in his throat and quickly followed.

It was like being dunked into a tub of cold water—an abrupt, encompassing sensation that seemed to seep chillingly into his bones. But a moment later, it had passed, and he was standing on solid ground that looked a great deal like the place they'd just left.

There were two exceptions to that, though. One was a glowing podium with an open book on top of it. The other was a man in ragged mage robes slumped against it, his head dropped into the cradle of his arms in apparent despair.

Felicity stood next to Alistair, also getting her bearings. She cast an assessing gaze over Alistair, as if to make sure he was all right, and he couldn't deny that he quickly did the same for her.

Then, Felicity turned, spotted the mage, and said, "Niall?" Slowly, she started toward the podium, and Alistair followed right on her heels with his hand on his sword, in case this was just another demon.

The man at the podium slowly raised his head and blinked at them with deadened eyes. "Wha… Felicity Amell?" he said thickly. "What are you doing here? You weren't in the Tower…"

"I came back." Felicity's steps sped up, and she was soon standing next to the other mage, examining him with that healer's eye of hers.

"Felicity, who is this?" Alistair asked, not sure whether he could take his hand off his sword yet.

"Oh, right. Alistair, this is Niall, one of the Tower's more advanced mages. Niall, this is Alistair."

The mage used the podium to stand up straight… relatively anyway—even upright, he seemed to sag. The mage looked at Alistair, perplexed. "A Templar? I was under the impression you'd all either been ensnared or had left."

Alistair was confused for a moment. Then, he realized that he was still in the Templar armor, just as Felicity was still wearing the enchanter robes. "I'm not actually a Templar. Felicity, why am I still a Templar?"

"It's the manner of the Fade, Alistair. It's all about what mental image you project. You could likely change it if you wanted to… but it can be difficult, especially for non-mages. Unless you want to risk running around in your skivvies for the remainder of our stay, it may be better to leave the armor as is."

Alistair tapped the steel chestplate, then shrugged. "At least it's protective."

"I still… don't understand," Niall said, looked between them. "Felicity… you should not be here. You left the Circle… why would you come back?"

"I couldn't simply let demons destroy the Tower," she said.

"She's a little bit of a busybody, like that," Alistair added lightly.

"And now you're trapped here." The mage sighed and looked down at the book in front of them. "I suppose that explains the new additions to the nexus. You'll find no exit this way, I'm afraid. Not one that's easy to decipher anyway…" He trailed off and looked at Felicity for a moment. "Though I suppose if anyone can find a way to use this, it would be you."

Felicity blushed but nodded and stepped up to peer over the book. "What is this?"

"It's a map, as far as I can tell. It keeps moving and shifting, and spots keep appearing and disappearing, I can only assume as different dreamers are captured in the case of the former… and then, for the latter, when they die." He frowned and pointed to a blank spot on the map. "There was one there a couple minutes ago… that one must have been yours."

"You've been studying it, then?"

"Not much else to do. I… can't say how long I've been here. Far too long, I fear. I feel so weak… so tired." He drooped a bit, then seemed to shake himself awake. "But at least I managed to free myself of its illusion... that would have drained me far faster, I suspect."

"You mean like the illusions the others are caught in?" Alistair asked worriedly.

"That's what I was afraid of," Felicity whispered. She cast an anxious glance back at him, and he wanted to kill anything that would frighten her like that. "The others have been in the Sloth Demon's control for days. I managed to sustain their bodies, but their minds were being fed off of this entire time."

"So I guess there's no chance of them breaking out on their own, then?"

Niall was the one to answer, shaking his head sadly. "If your friends haven't broken the illusion by now, then they probably never will. I'm sorry."

"I probably wouldn't have broken it either," Felicity sighed, "if not for you, Alistair."

"Goody. Obviously, you just need to plop me in everyone else's dreams like you did your own. Maybe give Marnan and Percy a couple kisses, to shock them awake."

To his surprise, Felicity froze. Abruptly, she spun and enveloped him in a hug. "Alistair, that's brilliant!"

He blinked, very aware of her body pressed against him. Suddenly, when she smiled like this, he took back his previous thoughts about her not being beautiful. She was bloody gorgeous. And now her arms were wrapped around him, her weight pressed against him like she belonged there. He swallowed. "You… er… want me to go into their dreams and kiss each of them?"

"Perhaps… kissing wouldn't be necessary," she said, pulling back. Now her face was a little red, but she was still smiling. He couldn't resist reaching up to caress her cheek, because she was so beautiful like this it actually hurt not to touch her. She didn't seem to notice, as caught in her thoughts as she was. "We can go into each dream and dispel the illusion. That will gather more forces for us to face the demon with, as well as force it out of hiding to reclaim its captives. We will then be able to confront Sloth directly and break the spell! It's perfect!"

"Well," he said softly, "you did say I'm not as dumb as everyone thinks. Guess it was inevitable that I'd prove you right. You're always right, after all."

"Not always." Her face flushed, and she stepped back. Alistair sighed at the loss. "But in this, let us direly hope that I am." She turned her attention to the podium. "Niall, explain to me everything that you've discovered about this book, and this realm in general. We need to use this map to link the portal here to each of these locations, and I suspect it will not be an easy task."

Niall's smile was tired, but hope sparked in his eyes. "No, probably not. But… it's not as if we have much else to do, is it?" He and Felicity leaned over the podium and began talking about 'vertices' and 'essences' and other things that went right over the ex-Templar's head.

And so, he found a twisted tree to lean against and relaxed, watching the mages. Or rather, he watched Felicity, in her element solving an impossible puzzle. An amazing woman. Intelligent. Caring. Lovely. Even her occasional bursts of self-righteous temper were only proof that she was fiercely passionate about what she cared about.

Even if she didn't return his feelings, he was honored to be able to fight beside her. To protect her. Anyone who tried to hurt his mage would have to answer to his Templar-trained sword first.

Even as the mages cast some sort of spell and Felicity beckoned Alistair back through the portal, he was chuckling at the irony.

Chapter Text

Garott didn't know what was more surprising: that Leske turned and stabbed him in the back to defend his position as the local crime lord's second-in-command and plaything… or the fact that this didn't really surprise him at all. He pondered it, while he crouched over his former friend's body.

Leske had always been an opportunist. He'd gained what little power he could, no doubt scraping his way up to the top over a hundred other lives, but that was the risk everyone took when they joined the Carta. Landing on top of that deepstalker nest was an impressive feat. Took a lot of backstabbing. And frontstabbing, sidestabbing, headstabbing... just a lot of stabbing in general, really.

Garott couldn't hate Leske for betraying him. He probably would have done the same thing, and been more shrewd about it to boot. "You poor son of a nug," he whispered, voice forcibly level as he closed his ex-partner's eyes. "You picked the wrong bet to back." His throat tightened, and he cleared it. "You always were a sodding lousy gambler."

He remained crouched there while the other two looted the corpses, the dwarf working through his grief with the methodical patience of one who'd grown up in the instability of the slums. It would ache for a while, but he'd deal.

Finally, he stood and looked around. "Anything interesting?"

"Only a rather remarkable set of documents in this chest," Morrigan hummed. She held up a stack of papers. "They would be quite devastating to your prince friend's case, were they discovered." Suddenly, the papers erupted into a puff of fire, and Morrigan grinned. "Whoops. How clumsy of me."

Garott grinned himself, nodding his approval.

Sten, meanwhile, cast Morrigan a sideways look. "Was giving all our opponents horrifying visions with magic truly necessary?"

"Perhaps not, but 'twas fun."

Sten rumbled a disapproving "hm," but accepted that and turned toward Garott. "We have cut off the head, but it is unlikely that the body will die. The seed of rebellion is not something that can wiped out so simply."

Garott shrugged. "If it's good enough for Bhelen to give me my sodding army, that's fine with me." He snagged the remains of one of Jarvia's more brilliant traps, because he kind of wanted to reverse-engineer it. "Come on, let's get out of here. I never want to see this place again as long as I live." He led the pair out through what appeared to be a back exit. Sure enough, they emerged in an armorer's shop, much to the surprise of the rather startled armorer, who apparently had had no idea about the secret door into a criminal stronghold in his wall.

It was lucky Jarvia had decided to stand and fight rather than escape… if she had been the first one out of that exit, she'd have probably killed him. And what sort of mess would that make for Bhelen's case?

Triumphant, the trio returned to the palace. Bhelen was expecting them, and greeted them with noble words and a winning smile. Garott nodded and spoke with appropriate respect (well, for him, anyway), but otherwise didn't pay much attention to the conversation. He was suddenly just too weary for all these games.

And who could blame him? He'd just wiped out, single-handed, the organization that he'd worked for since he was ten. He'd killed his best friend and partner of ten years. His sister was carrying an Aeducan child, but there was no guarantee that if she birthed a daughter, the Assembly wouldn't throw her into a magma pit, even if Bhelen did keep his word.

It was all… exhausting. With all that, on top of the Blight, he felt overwhelmed. He even had the sudden urge to see Kalah. His mother.

Then, Bhelen gave them their next, and purportedly last, task: finding Branka. Sodding Branka. Paragon who disappeared into the Deep Roads two years prior Branka.

Garott all but stormed out of the palace, and didn't say anything to either of his companions until they were in the merchant's quarter, pawning off the odds and ends they'd found stashed in the Carta hideout. Then, the tired, rusty wheels in his head started spinning, and he found himself staring at a hunk of lyrium ore up for sale, trying to think of how the blazes the three of the them were going to survive the Deep sodding Roads.

"We're gonna need a map," he groaned.

"Beg pardon, Warden?" Morrigan asked offhandedly. She was admiring a jeweled mirror on the merchant's shelves.

"A map. Of the Deep Roads. We're gonna need one."

Sten said, "I take it finding such a thing is not that easy."

"Nope." Garott turned and started away from the stall, and the pair followed (reluctantly, in Morrigan's case). "Thing is, anything the Shaperate has upstairs will be sodding old. The place will have collapsed and been re-tunneled by 'spawn in the meantime. Might as well be working blind." He stopped them in an alcove off the square and rubbed the exhaustion from his face. "Only two kinds of people might have a good one... Grey Wardens and the Legion of the Dead. I ain't gotta tell you why finding Wardens with maps is a problem, and the Legion... well, if you get far enough into the Deep Roads that you find the Legion, you don't need the sodding map in the first place."

"It seems to me," Morrigan said, "that what we require is not a map, but a guide."

"Guides who'd be either Wardens or Legion," Garott said. "Same problem."

"Has not..." Sten began, then cut himself off.

That made Garott arch a brow. Since when was the Qunari hesitant about anything? "You got an idea, big guy?"

Sten sighed through his nose and shifted, and yep, that was definitely discomfort. Interesting. "I am given to understand that one of your fellow Wardens has frequently been involved in military expeditions into the Deep Roads."

Garott stiffened. "You mean Marnen?"

"Yes. The female karasten." He paused, then said quickly. "I cannot understand how such a thing might be so, that a woman would function as a soldier, but that is what I am told is the way of it. Correct me if I am mistaken."

Garott couldn't help but be amused by that. Stenny was weirded out by ladies in armor? Huh. Who knew? "No, you ain't wrong, and I'd bet my boots the princess would deck you for saying what you just did. You got a problem with woman Warriors, big guy?"

Morrigan huffed and crossed her arms.

"It is not a woman's place," Sten said.

Garott snorted. "Yeah, definitely don't say that in front of the princess." He shook his head incredulously.

"You are missing the point," Sten said sharply. "If she has, indeed, been part of military campaigns into the Deep Roads, then it would stand to reason that she would retain knowledge of them."

"Ah, I get what you're getting at. And, no. There's not a nug's chance in Dust Town that I'm going running to the princess for help."

"I see. I had thought you had no other viable plan for how we will survive the Deep Roads," Sten deadpanned. "It seems I was mistaken, or you would not dismiss this one so quickly."

Garott glared up at the Qunari, who returned the look flatly.

"It seems to me," Morrigan put in, "that the chances of anyone being able to track this woman are slim, particularly if she has been gone for such a very long time. Why not simply venture forth and let what comes come?"

Garott sighed and shook his head. "Bad idea." He unhooked his hand axe and flipped it while he thought. "Look, even with a map, dragging you two down there is a gamble. It's a big darkspawn nest... literally. Chances are better than not that you'll catch the Taint and die." He froze as his mind caught up to his words.

Son of a sod-swilling noble-hunting whore. These two weren't Wardens. If they caught the Taint, then it would be Garott alone against the entire whole damn horde, and even he wasn't slippery enough to survive sheer numbers on that scale all alone.

He turned and banged his forehead against the nearest wall.

"Are you well, Warden?" Morrigan prodded doubtfully.

"Sod it. Sten's right. We're gonna need back-up."

Sten hummed, as if it was a foregone conclusion. "You have assured us that you are not suicidal. Although the truth of that statement is yet to be determined."

"Thank you, Sten, for the ringing endorsement." Garott sighed and turned to address them. "Morrigan, I need you to take a message to Redcliffe."

"Why must it be me, I wonder?" she said with narrowed eyes.

Garott arched an eyebrow. "Unless you know of a way to make dwarves and Qunari fly, I'm gonna say because you can get there the Stone-damned fastest. Besides, weren't you saying the other day how much you hated this 'stinking hole in the ground'?"

Morrigan sighed. "Oh, very well. I shall do thy bidding, as usual."

"As it should be," Sten said with something that, on him, counted as a smirk.

"And you, my large associate," Morrigan rejoined sourly, "are lucky that I do not turn you into a toad." She waved a dismissive hand and started off toward the Orzammar exit. "Do enjoy your hole in the ground, boys. I will be flying free as a bird. As a bird, at that."

Garott snorted and watched her go, then turned to his stoic companion. "In the meantime... come on, Sten." He started walking, this time beelining for Tapster's. "You stopped Jarvia's daggers from filleting my ass. You may not like to be paid, but by my reckoning, that means I owe you a sodding drink. And you're going to take it, whether you like it or not. That's a sodding order."

Sten followed behind Garott as he made his way up the tavern steps, fully intending to get the both of them thoroughly drunk after a day like that. And by the Stone if the Qunari wasn't smiling, just a little bit.

Chapter Text

Finian picked idly at the lyre's strings, wincing as every couple notes came out sounding like they'd been picked specifically to sound the most discordant possible.

It had been a surprise when Sarel had presented him with the finely carved Dalish lyre—a gift for putting the curse to rest. Apparently, it had belonged to the storyteller's late wife, and Finian hadn't had the heart to turn the gift down.

"If I may be so bold, my friend, may I ask who taught you to play in such a… distinctive manner?" The assassin's Antivan accent always made him shiver a little bit, because damn. "I fear that I might need to track them down and murder them, so that they do not spread such a technique to other people."

Finian smirked, glancing up at the man walking beside him. "No one taught me… I'd never touched a lyre in my life before a couple days ago." He turned back to his instrument, plucking out a string of notes that didn't sound half bad. "But there is a minstrel who's supposed to meet us in Redcliffe. I'm hoping she can teach me."

"Ah. It is a good thing then, that we are almost there, yes? I would so hate to have to smash such a beautifully made instrument."

There was a snigger from behind them. "You know, I think the assassin's growing on me."

Finian turned his head to look at Kazar, who, despite his protests that he didn't need charity from any Dalish, was still wearing the Keepers' robes which Lanaya had presented him with. Like the lyre, the defensively-enchanted robes were a gift for fixing the curse, and also to replace those Finian himself had torn.

Fin suppressed a wince at that thought and turned back around, once again consuming himself in practicing the instrument. He could see Meila and the white wolf—dubbed 'Fang' at some point—ranging ahead, scouting for friends and foes alike. Every time he glimpsed the wolf, a spike of shame shot through him. So far, though, he'd done well at hiding it from his companions.

The four of them had been traveling out of Lothering for a couple days, now, and could see Lake Calenhad in the distance to their right. It wouldn't be long before they reached the keep. Fin hoped that then, at least, he could have a moment of privacy to thoroughly freak out. Bottling it up for so long could not be healthy.

It wasn't just the long, horrid hours he'd spent as a werewolf, consumed by a monstrous rage. It wasn't even just the fact that he'd attacked his companions, nearly killing Kazar. No, the most terrifying thought about the entire ordeal had been right before his transformation. The awful things that had just... poured out of his mouth, verbal barbs meant to hurt his companions. He hadn't known he was capable of such cruelty... that the things he noticed about other people could be turned into weapons like that.

And then, there was the most terrifying part of all. Meila and Kazar had said they weren't mad at him for manipulating them into allying with the werewolves, and the scary thing was… neither was he.

In his feverish, temperamental state of mind, he had coldly weighed the possibilities, predicting his companions' actions on their personalities and motives. He'd weighed them against his own, and he'd spoken a couple words that would best prompt each to do what he wanted them to, even if he wouldn't be there to direct them at the time. All this was done in a flash of insight, laid bare by the raw emotions summoned up by the curse.

And Finian wasn't sorry he'd done it. He was horrified, certainly, but not sorry. It had most likely saved his companions' lives, as well as the lives of any of the werewolves that they might have killed before being slain themselves.

And right before he'd changed... the thought had crossed his mind that he was glad he'd been cursed. Because it meant the two stubborn Wardens were far more inclined to try lifting the curse instead of simply slaughtering the beasts.

Garott had called it far before Finian could have realized: he was one manipulative son of a nug. And he wasn't sorry. He would do it again. Because it had saved lives.

He glanced over at the assassin now. The Antivan hummed quietly to himself, seemingly just so he didn't have to hear Fin's lyre. The acquisition of the assassin had been a calculated move on his part. No pretense. No lying to himself. He had straight-up worked the situation like clay, and now they had a trained assassin who was willing to kill Loghain for them, if need be.

Something in Finian quailed at that thought of sending an assassin to eliminate their foe, and perhaps that was why he hadn't sent the Crow to do exactly that. No, for now, the assassin was merely a card up the sleeve they could pull out as necessary. No need to show their tricks so early in the game.

Fin wondered how far he could take his silver tongue. What else could he lie about and still get positive results? Could a couple words in the right ear stop the civil war? Could a proper application of sheer charisma help them rally forces for the Blight?

His silver tongue was his greatest weapon. Why shouldn't he use it, if the results benefited the common good? Grey Wardens did what had to be done to stop the Blight; that's what Duncan had always said. So what if that meant pulling a couple strings, to make it so?

This realization about himself thoroughly freaked him out, but he didn't dare show any of it to his companions.

They saw the castle in the distance as the sun was setting, the stone walls in stark silhouette against the twilight sky. It would likely take another hour, at least, for them to reach it.

"We should make camp here," Meila said, coming back from scouting as the sun touched the horizon. The four stopped in the middle of the mountain path. "We can go the rest of the distance tomorrow."

"Why not go the rest of the distance tonight?" Kazar asked irritably, leaning on his staff. "I, for one, thoroughly miss sleeping in a bed."

"Maybe they'll be low on rooms at the inn, and we'll all have to share a bed," Zevran said with exaggerated hopefulness.

Kazar snorted. "Did you hear the word 'sleep', assassin? That was my operative word. Something tells me what you have in mind is anything but. Also, ew."

Finian sniggered. "I think I'm insulted. You don't think I'm handsome, Kazar?"

Zevran grinned. "I, for one, think you're quite handsome," he purred theatrically. "Though not as handsome as I, of course."

"Of course."

"I swear I'm going to blast you both," Kazar said flatly. "Right in your handsome faces if need be."

Fin and Zevran both laughed. The assassin, he'd found, appreciated the sport of riling the mage as much as anyone else, though he was careful not to do it unless Finian initiated. A good self-preservation instinct, as far as Fin was concerned.

The flirting was something that had emerged over the last couple days. The assassin flirted blatantly with all three of them, despite the fact that both Meila and Kazar were obviously not interested.

As for Finian… well, the other elf certainly was handsome. And that accent was just short of hypnotic. If the other elf made a serious offer, Fin didn't see any reason he'd turn it down... who knew, it may serve as a welcome distraction from a certain... other companion of his. But as far as he could tell, the assassin's flirtations were just that, merely meant to tease and play. There was no real guarantee that Zevran was even inclined toward men, and Finian wasn't going to make any moves until he knew that for sure.

Sex was a touchy subject in Ferelden, particularly when it involved anything other than a man and a woman in a Chantry-ordained marriage bed. Finian didn't know much about Antivan thoughts on the subject, but he didn't want to insult their new companion by making any assumptions one way or another. So, for now, he just played along.

Meila was frowning impatiently... she had once again become cold and detached since the Crow had joined them. Fin turned to her. "Many inn doors have locks, Meila. If we sleep in Redcliffe, you won't have to stay up all night, staring at Zevran's tent in case he decides he's changed his mind about murdering us."

Meila stiffened guiltily. "What is to stop him from sneaking into our rooms? He claims he can pick locks."

"Exactly. Claims."

"Ah, Warden, I am wounded by your lack of faith in my abilities."

Fin cast the Crow an incredulous look. "The chest near the spiders' nest."

A shameless grin met him. "It was a difficult lock."

"The bandit stash."

"My pick broke."

"The child's lockbox."

"I was struck by conscience, and could not bear to open so private a treasure."

Fin smirked and turned back to Meila. "He can't pick locks. Also, he's an awful liar."

"If I am so awful at lying, then why did you believe me when I told you I could pick locks in the first place, hm?"

Meila sighed and nonetheless turned to head back up the path toward the distant castle. The other three followed behind.

"It's lucky Fin's got his kit," Kazar snarked. "If stuck with the Crow, we wouldn't be able to open our own eyes without a key."

"Ah, at generating eye-opening experiences, I am quite skilled," Zevran quickly rejoined, still grinning. "Care for a demonstration, my young friend?"

"Sure, if I can demonstrate on you what I do to lecherous old men who can't take 'no' for an answer. Here's a hint: it involves a very specific application of ice magic."

"Ah. Yes, I can see how that would be quite effective at making your point. Has anyone ever told you that you'd make a very convincing Crow interrogator?"

"Has anyone ever told you 'shut up'?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Many times. Yet I am quite incorrigible, or so I have been told."

"You know what? Me saying earlier that your were growing on me? Yeah, I take that back. Except maybe growing like some awful fungus that's difficult to get rid of."

Up ahead of them, Meila stopped walking and drew her bow, and the rest of them immediately forgot the conversation and fell silent. Finian had often wondered why Meila's sense for danger seemed so much keener than the rest of them, but, with how often it had saved their hides, he wasn't complaining.

Finian slipped the lyre's strap around his back and stepped up lightly to draw even with the archer, who had her bow raised toward something ahead of them. Ten feet in front of her, Fang growled, hackles raised at something Fin couldn't see.

Then, figures lumbered toward them over the crest of the hill, and something about their jerky, slow movements made Finian shiver.

"What is that?"

"Undead," Meila said softly.

"What?" Kazar came up next to them on the archer's other side. "You can't be serious. Why would there be undead here?"

"Believe me, da'lethallin, once you've seen walking corpses, you do not forget them. Those are undead, without doubt."

"Then it seems it falls to us to make them redead, yes?" Zevran chuckled, twirling his sword and dagger in lazy circles.

Fin smirked, his own daggers springing into his palms with a twist of his wrists. "Is killing the already dead covered in Crow training, assassin?"

"Not as such, no. But one would think the principle is the same, yes?"

Kazar snorted. "Let's test that, shall we?" The mage swept his staff forward, and a lightning bolt crackled through the darkness.

Fin blinked away the after-image of the bolt, and saw the crackling glow of electricity still bouncing around the cluster of undead. The creatures jerked and screeched as bolts streaked between them, and Fin could see smoke rising against the twilit sky.

And then, to Fin's surprise, they continued shambling toward them, as if nothing had happened.

Meila's bowstring twanged, taking one through the throat. It didn't even slow down.

"Guess not," the Crow tsked. He waggled his eyebrows at Fin. "Shall we, my deadly little Warden?"

Fin nodded and they ran forward together, meeting the shambling corpses with blades spinning. Fin plunged his daggers into one corpse's eye sockets, and then ducked as it swiped out at him with open hands in the next moment. He slid around behind it, slicing its neck half off. It lurched to the side, and Fin rolled to dodge a strike from another corpse.

A moment later, that corpse was encased in ice, its rotting flesh made brittle with frost. Fin leapt in and stabbed his daggers into the two delicate points at the shoulders, and the brittle ice fractured and cracked. The entire thing shattered, leaving a gooey mess on the ground that had Zevran laughing something along the lines of, "Must you show off so blatantly, Warden?"

The assassin wasn't doing badly himself. His sword certainly seemed to be doing more damage on the creatures than Fin's daggers. Still, Finian wasn't about to be outdone by the Crow. He moved swiftly to his next opponent, dodging easily between a pair of the slow-moving monsters.

His next opponent was the one with Meila's arrow in its throat. He reached up to grip that arrow and pulled the corpse around, making it stumble as it sluggishly tried to correct its weight. With his free hand, he stabbed it four times in quick succession along the spine, then kicked it to the ground, where it twitched and moaned, but seemed unable to stand again.

Then, fire blasted behind him, and two of the creatures went down in flames. This left one last corpse standing, already blinded by an arrow sticking out of each eye. Zevran and Finian raced against one another to take it down, and it finally collapsed as the assassin's two-handed slash cut its head cleanly from its body.

Kazar and Meila approached and stood over the corpses while the melee fighters cleaned the gore off their blades.

Kazar scowled at Fang, who still growled from twenty feet away, having stayed out of the fight. "What's the matter, wolfie? Don't like predead meat?"

"He is not a slave," Meila snapped irritably. "Do not treat him as such."

"What? I was just asking it a question."

Fin kicked at one of the corpses that still twitched on the ground. "Kazar, can I get a light please?"

The mage grumbled, but nonetheless came closer. A moment later, a ball of flame sprang to life in his free hand, illuminating the path in flickering orange.

Finian studied the corpses, taking in the features and clothing under the various bits of gore. "They're guards and elves."

Zevran nodded. "Such people one might find working at a noble's estate, yes?"

In a sing-song voice, Kazar said, "Someone's been messing with demons."

"Alistair and Percival should have been here before us," Meila said. She, too, knelt beside the corpses, her face grim. "Something must have happened to them, to allow this."

Finian felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, because she was right. Percy.

"We have to get to the castle," Fin said, standing. "That's where Arl Eamon should be, so that's where they would have gone."

The others nodded, and they took off up the path at nearly a run.

Other clumps of undead met them on their way, but they were swiftly dispatched with a blast of lightning and a swipe of Zevran's sword. They passed a couple buildings that marked the outskirts of a village, but each was dark, probably abandoned. Then, they reached a bridge over a waterfall and stopped, staring at the stream of undead pouring down the hill in front of them.

They were about fifty feet from a fork: one path leading through a gate and up a winding hill toward the castle. The other fork led down, past a windmill, to the town proper. Going down that fork was a stream of undead—not an unmanageable horde, but certainly a steady line.

Set in front of the windmill below were a set of wooden barricades, where a rather scraggly group of defenders seemed to be holding the undead back, though barely. As Fin watched, a shambling corpse slipped through the line and shoved one defender off the cliff, only to have a knight kick it over after its victim. Bodies littered the ground around the barricades, and it was nearly impossible to tell which belonged to the undead, and which to the defenders.

"Enough of this," Kazar hissed in frustration. He stepped forward and planted his feet, then let out a vicious stream of fire that lit up the entire pathway, from barricades to gate, hitting every undead in sight down to the last. Finian had to avert his eyes from how bright it was in the night. The groans and creaks that filled the air stopped, replaced by crackling and the sounds of the burned out corpses collapsing.

A moment later, Kazar sagged against his staff, and Finian grabbed his elbow to help keep him on his feet. In the distance, they could hear the raised shouts and cheers from the defenders, and a couple of them broke through the barricades to greet them.

"Praise the Maker, Andraste answered our prayers again! Thank you!" cried one who, as far as Finian could tell in the dim light of the burning corpses, seemed to be wearing armor similar to Ser Donall's. "To what do we owe this timely arrival?"

Finian decided to go with something simple, and not too incriminating. "We're looking for two of our friends… Percival and Alistair? Do you know them?"

"The Wardens?" The knight nodded, waving a hand down toward the lake. "They left for the Circle Tower three days ago."

"They left?" Kazar said incredulously, even as he swayed. "Was this before or after the undead started taking scenic evening strolls?"

"After," the knight said uncertainly. "From what I understand, they're fetching something to stop… whatever it is that's causing these undead."

"Leaving you undefended in the meantime," Meila said grimly.

"It's not as bad now as it was before their arrival," the knight said quickly. "These attacks are manageable, at least."

"Tell that to the man who just got thrown off a cliff," Kazar grumbled.

The knight bowed his head in acknowledgement. "And our losses would no doubt have been worse if you had not intervened." He saluted. "I am Ser Perth, knight of Arl Eamon and leader of the village defenses."

"I am Finian Tabris, and these are Kazar, Meila, and Zevran. We're comrades of Alistair's and Percival's, and had hoped to find a bit of solace at Redcliffe."

"There's not much to be found here, I'm afraid. If you're with the Wardens, you'll want to talk to Bann Teagan up at the castle." He glanced up the path. "The road up there should be clear now. Once the waves stop, they rarely start again until the next night. Not that I'd expect you to have much trouble, in either case, after seeing that." He turned to look at Kazar in honest awe. "Would that we'd had you at the beginning, mage. We'd never have sustained as many losses if we had."

"Yeah, yeah," Kazar muttered, still looking drained. "I'm awesome. Tell me something I don't know."

"Thank you, Ser Perth," Finian said as the knight looked confused by the mage's response. "We'll go talk to the bann. Will you be down in the village, if we need you?"

He nodded. "Here until dawn, and then off to sleep before the next round tomorrow night. These days, most folks are sleeping down in the Chantry."

"Joy," Kazar said. "It's like Lothering all over again."

Zevran arched a brow. "Let us hope that this village does not meet a similar fate, yes? Particularly not while we are in it."

"We'll be fine," Fin said, starting up the path to the castle. Meila fell into step beside him, her eyes trained expertly on the path ahead, in case of trouble. Behind them, Kazar conjured a flame that seemed to be the only light for leagues in the gloaming.

But, it was as the knight had said; no further waves of undead came. They reached the darkened castle gates only to find the courtyard inside abandoned. The door into the castle was broken inward, the heavy lock busted off and bits of wood clawed away. Fin swallowed, but resolutely stepped through.

The white wolf had trailed after them most of the way, hackles still raised. Now, though, it completely refused to enter the building, instead electing to pace outside the door. Meila muttered something about agreeing with its distaste for stone walls, and Fin had to stifle a smile.

He took the lead as they entered the foyer, his step light and his form flitting between shadows with the practice of a city-born thief. Meila was a good scout on the road, but this was Fin's element. He heard the creak of Zevran's leather armor off to one side, and turned to catch the Crow winking at him from a nearby alcove before he slid into a shadow and disappeared.

Zevran, too, it seemed, was passing familiar with how to sneak around a noble residence.

Fin grinned, not to be outdone, and sank into the shadows behind a suit of armor: a feat that took a great deal of dexterity. Zevran's soft curse floated across the corridor, and Fin had to chuckle.

"Seriously? Must you two really do this now?" Kazar's annoyed voice said from somewhere behind them, and both rogues burst out laughing. They vacated their hiding spots, and Fin couldn't help but share a look with Zevran. The spark in the Crow's eyes promised that they'd pick up their little game later.

All the sneaking around was unnecessary, anyway, as the place seemed to be abandoned. They entered what appeared to be a throne room, though the fancy draperies were tattered, and the floor was coated in dried blood.

"There was a battle here," Meila said unnecessarily. She cast her gaze around the floor, looking for something. "But there are tracks going through the blood… something survived, and passed through this room several times afterward."

Fin asked, "Was it undead?"

"It is hard to say… though most of these tracks don't have the dragging gait of the corpses." She knelt down and traced a bootprint. "No, these are quick and steady. Someone survived."

"Can you track where they went?" Finian asked hopefully.

She nodded and stood. "This way." She headed off through the entrance opposite the one they came in.

Fin was about to follow her, but stopped when he noticed that Kazar wasn't moving. The mage was staring, wide-eyed, at one particularly large marking on the floor. From the circular shape, it looked like something had exploded there. Something bloody.

"Kazar?"

The mage started and looked up, his eyes blank. Then, he blinked and shook his head, as if dispelling some thought. "I'm coming; keep your trousers on," Kazar grumped, starting after Meila. "Who decided you could boss us around, anyway?" Still, he followed without further protest, and the three followed Meila deeper into the castle.

"I, for one, am quite happy to have Finian boss me around," Zevran chuckled. "Particularly with regards to trousers and the matter of whether they are on or not."

"Fin, can I fireball him? Just a little teeny one?"

"No, Kazar." Despite the dire circumstances, Fin had to fight not to laugh. "You cannot fireball our allies. Not without a healer on hand, anyway."

"A most practical decision, Warden," Zevran said cheerfully.

"Suck up," Kazar grumbled.

They passed down a hall, and then through another broken door and up a staircase. Here, they did run into some resistance, in the form of a pair of skeletons in guard armor who seemed to be patrolling, of all things. These enemies were dispatched easily enough.

Another corner, and they reached a room with a large, iron-lined door in one wall. Meila pointed to the door. "That is where the tracks seem to lead."

Finian wasn't surprised when he stepped forward and found the latch locked from the inside. This was a classic vault door, and would be no easy lock to break. The perfect challenge, as far as he was concerned.

He stowed his daggers and opened up his lockpicking kit at his waist. "Be ready," he advised as he knelt before the lock and got to work. "We don't know whether they'll be friendly or not."

Behind him, he heard the comforting creak of Meila drawing her bowstring, and smiled. It was dark in the castle corridors, so Finian had to operate mostly by feel. There were a good five tumblers, requiring a manual dexterity even he struggled to match. One of the tumblers was surprisingly stiff, and he broke a perfectly good pick before he found the right pressure to coax it into place.

Finally, the lock clicked into place, and Fin sighed. He wiped the sweat off his brow and glanced behind him, happy to see all three companions ready for possible attack. Settling himself into a ready crouch, he opened the door…

…and ducked as a sword nearly took his head off.

Zevran was there a moment later, sword and dagger both pressed to his rather surprised assailant's neck—an assailant dressed in guard armor. From inside the vault a man said, "Hold! It's just a couple elves!"

"Ah," Zevran chuckled, "I don't know if 'just' is a word you truly wish to qualify that sentence with."

"Easy, Zevran," Fin said, sliding into the vault to stand behind the guard who'd nearly cut a foot off his height. He glanced around the room, hoping he looked non-threatening enough not to attack on sight, but still tough enough that they'd think twice before fighting him. A difficult posture to pull off, in all honesty.

The vault was a small room, packed with shelves and armor stands. He saw a couple paintings and jewelry cases that made his fingers twitch a little, but he knew better than to snatch anything now, with a dozen eyes trained on him.

The people packed into the little room looked ragged and tired, but no less willing to put up a fight if it came to it. Half of them were guards, two were elven servants, one was a man in chain armor, and one was an elderly human woman who leaned on a cane. There were also two people of particular interest. One was a woman in the bright, shiny garb that was apparently the current fashion among the nobility. The other was a gaunt man in tattered robes who sat in one corner, his hands tied together and one guard stationed practically on top of him.

"Is one of you Bann Teagan?" Fin asked the room at large.

"That would be me," the man in chain said, stepping forward. Despite his lack of decoration, he had a certain regal bearing that spoke of nobility. Hm, maybe Daveth had had a point; nobles did have a certain way about them, didn't they? "And who, if I may be so bold, are you?"

Finian sketched a bow as he heard his companions coming in behind him. "I am Finian Tabris, and these are Meila, Zevran, and-"

"…Kazar?" That was from the gaunt man in the corner, whose eyes were suddenly very wide.

In the blink of an eye, Kazar was in motion, launching a lightning bolt at the restrained man. The man rolled out of the way, obviously having expected the shot, and managed to scramble to his feet. As soon as he was on two legs, however, frost coalesced around his ankles and grew, encasing the lower half of his body in ice.

Kazar stalked over, eyes livid, and smacked the other man soundly over the head with his staff. Then, the young elf glared.

The other man cracked an eye open. "That's it?"

"What do you mean 'that's it'?" Kazar snapped. "You want me to hit you again?"

"I'd… expected you to kill me, honestly."

"I should kill you, you son of a bitch. You almost got me made Tranquil!"

Ah. This must be his blood mage friend from the Tower

"I know," the other mage said quietly, "and I'm so sorry. I never meant for that to happen."

"You never do, Jowan," Kazar said, throwing his hands up in the air, but his temper had obviously faded to mere exasperation, so Fin didn't see the need to interrupt the reunion. "Let me guess: you have something to do with this whole mess too, right? Despite 'not meaning to'?"

"This is all his fault," hissed the woman in noble's clothing, and Fin was surprised to hear an Orlesian accent out of her. "He… he seduced my Connor with his dark magic!"

Kazar snorted and turned an incredulous look to her. "Lady, Jowan couldn't seduce a Desire Demon."

"Ouch… hurtful," Jowan said.

"Oh, deal with it you big baby."

"Perhaps," Finian said lightly, "someone should start from the beginning."

The bann cleared his throat. "I'll try as best I can." And from there, he outlined the entire situation: Connor exhibiting magic, Jowan being hired to teach him, Eamon's poisoning by said apostate… followed by Connor's possession and the manifestation of an army of undead. Both Jowan and Lady Isolde—as that was apparently the Orlesian woman's name—broke in regularly to argue their sides, but they were swiftly silenced by the bann so he could continue his relatively neutral narration.

"During the ensuing flight," Bann Teagan finished, "Connor fled, and the blood mage used his magic to free the rest of us. None of us wanted to go up and kill Connor, of course, so the only other option was suggested by the blood mage." He nodded toward Jowan, as if anyone would be confused about who he was referring to. "He suggested a ritual that would send a mage to the Fade to confront the demon, since doing so would save Connor's life. The problem was, the ritual took a life to make that happen, and neither of the Wardens were willing to allow that."

"That brute of a man wouldn't let us even try to save my Connor," Isolde said, near tears. Fin wondered who she was referring to as 'brute'.

"So," the bann interrupted quickly, "the Wardens left for the Circle Tower, to gather enough lyrium to do the ritual without taking a life. Connor stayed quiet in his room for the day… and then the attacks started again that night. We have only managed to stay alive by locking ourselves in this vault every night."

"Meanwhile," Meila said disapprovingly, "your fellows in your village fight for their lives to defend it against the creatures. It seems foolish to balk over one life when the needs of the clan are at stake."

"Yes, exactly!" Isolde cried. "I even volunteered! I would gladly give my life to save my son's!"

"You still want to?" Kazar asked, eyeing the woman thoughtfully. "Because I could do it, if you do."

At that, the woman burst into tears. "Yes! Yes, I don't want my baby to suffer any longer!"

Bann Teagan frowned. "Now, wait. Alistair and Percival could be back any day now."

"And for each of those 'any days'," Finian said calmly, "more of your men die. Each of them has families too, you know. Can you really look into their family's faces, knowing that you could have done something to save their father, their husband, or their son? All at the price of one life, freely given?"

The bann's eyes flickered with doubt.

"Wait," Kazar said, turning narrow eyes on Finian. "You're on board with this? You?"

Fin shrugged. "She wants to save the one she loves. I say she deserves to be given that chance." It wasn't untruthful.

"Uh huh… First you approve of assassination, now blood sacrifice. If you ever endorse wholesale baby slaughter, I'm checking for demonic possession. Just so you know."

"I will consider myself warned." He turned back to Teagan, making his eyes carefully earnest. Grant him the power; make it his choice, so he would be less likely to change his mind. "We won't do it without your permission, of course, my lord. But every moment you hesitate costs more innocent lives. It seems to me you've wasted so many of such moments already."

"You're… right," the bann sighed, his head hanging. "Eamon would never forgive me if I let his city fall."

"Oh, thank you Teagan!" Isolde launched herself into the man's arms, weeping. "Please, take care of them when I'm gone. I just want them to be happy and safe!"

"Jowan," Kazar said in a business-like tone, "how soon can you start the ritual?"

"Within the hour, I think." The now-thawed Jowan smiled hesitantly at his fellow mage. "Lady Isolde was most careful to keep my grimoire nearby, once she knew what I needed it for."

"And you didn't once try to take it and escape?" Kazar scoffed. "I'm rather ashamed of you. You're losing your touch."

The human shrugged, his smile teasing. "I guess Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde just don't invoke the same sort of panic that the prospect of a pissed off Kazar Surana did."

"Damn straight they don't."

Fin watched the exchange with interest. It was easy to see why the pair had been—and still were to some degree, by the looks of it—friends. Jowan's demeanor was unthreatening and soothing, which seemed to work well as a coolant for Kazar's notoriously hot temper. And still, that spark of gentle humor was exactly the sort of thing to offset Kazar's harsher cynicism.

As Fin studied Kazar—taking in his flippant remarks and the off-handed arrogance he exuded—the pickpocket came to the conclusion that the young mage was actually quite happy to see his friend. Of course, Kazar would never admit it out loud, and would likely happily turn anyone who suggested such a thing into an ice statue.

Chapter Text

Marnan sighed, trying her best to stand still. Her legs ached and her entire body thrummed with restless energy; it felt like she'd been stuck in her father's throne room, standing dutifully between her brothers, for days.

"My Lady, you're fidgeting again," Gorim murmured in her ear, and she turned enough to glare back at him, only to meet with his laughing eyes. The three siblings stood beside their father's throne, watching their father hold court, and watching the deshyrs watch them, and her bodyguard and friend stood right behind her, as always, ready to guard and to chide as the situation required.

Still, there was something off about his eyes. What was off about his eyes?

Wordlessly, she turned her attention back forward, and she heard Gorim chuckle. She hated these functions; he knew that. Even worse when she wasn't allowed to attend them armed or in armor, as was the case now. No, this was a formal civil court. That meant she had to wear a dress like a proper lady of House Aeducan.

The bodice itched, and she didn't like how her blasted skirt tangled around her legs when she moved. Worse, without the weight of a weapon on her back, she felt naked and vulnerable… though that was a strange anxiety, here in the safety of Orzammar. No one would dare touch King Endrin's beloved daughter in his own palace; she knew enough about politics to know that much.

"…to excuse Lady Helmi's conduct in the Assembly, my king," one of the deshyrs was saying. "It is unbecoming of anyone, least of all a woman of her… reputation."

"I will not stand for such slander!" said lady shot back. "You will do well to recall, young man, who signed over the permit to your southern mines some years back."

"Only because you owed my father a debt, Lady Helmi. It was hardly a matter of honor."

"Even if that were true, it still speaks poorly of your own honor that you would denounce your business partner so."

King Endrin nodded along to all of it, allowing the drama to unfold as he always did. He enjoyed the games the Houses played, and encouraged his offspring to try their hands at it themselves.

Marnan hated it. She always had. But she could not disobey her father—thus, if he wanted her to stand in the throne room while he held court, then she would stand in the throne room while he held court.

"Do try not to get too far behind, dear sister," Trian's voice hissed in her ear. "I know how anything more subtle than a Proving bout confuses you."

Her spine stiffened. "The Provings are plenty subtle, in their way. Not that you'd know of that, having never fought in one."

"And why would I need to, when I have plenty of brave warriors who are honored to fight for me? A concept that you have never been able to grasp."

"Perhaps my warriors find honor in fighting beside me, rather than under me, Trian."

"Brother, sister… this is not necessary," Bhelen's voice said smoothly from her other side. "We should be enjoying the opportunity to stand in on this, not digging up old arguments."

Marnan sighed, because their little brother was right. Baiting Trian never did any good anyway. Despite the fact that he was the eldest and therefore the one traditionally voted heir, everyone liked Marnan better. That would be a sticking point between them until the day one of them died.

Something in her heart tugged at that, but it fluttered away, taken by the mind-numbing drone of the deshyrs delivering economic entreaties.

And then, something new happened. One of the heralds scurried into the room, announcing that they had visitors. Endrin stood, and the hundred deshyrs followed his example at the tables and benches throughout the hall.

Marnan's eyes widened as, of all things, humans walked into the throne room. She had seen humans once or twice, in the occasional traders that ventured into the city. However, none would have been so bold as to interrupt the king's court, and the deshyrs' disapproval was evident by the roll of whispers that echoed around the chamber.

Leading the way was a man in Templar armor (and something in Marnan paused in confusion, because she should not know what a Templar was). When the guards by the door reached for his weapons—after all, one must remove one's weapons in the presence of the king as a sign of good faith—the blond man merely frowned and shooed the guards away empty-handed.

Behind him were three women in robes: two in mages' robes and one in the uniform of a Chantry sister… and it again occurred to her that she should not know what such things were. She frowned, confused.

"Who are you, strangers," King Endrin said slowly, "that you come into my hall thus?"

To Marnan's shock, the man completely ignored the king's question. His eyes roamed around the hall for a minute. Then, they landed right on her, and they widened a bit. "Marnan? Wow, I didn't even know you owned a…" he trailed off, obviously noting Marnan's confusion. "Never mind. Let's just get out of here."

And suddenly, it came to Marnan that she much preferred to be with these strangers than to stand in her father's court for the rest of eternity. She nodded and took a step off the dais. "Let's go."

Tension thrummed through the deshyrs and her father frowned at her. "Daughter, what are you doing?"

She paused, though from respect for her father rather than uncertainty over her choice. "Leaving."

"In the middle of royal court? How then, will you ever learn to hold it yourself, if you never stay for one all the way through?"

Marnan fought down her annoyance. Again, this was her father; she had to be respectful. "I have stood here for long enough to get the gist, Father. Now, I wish to leave."

Trian growled, "See, Father, the contempt she holds for the throne and all it stands for!"

"Oh sod off, you nug's hindquarters."

"Marnan!" King Endrin rose to his full height, his mien regal, imposing, and not a little terrifying. "No daughter of mine will disrespect the matters of the deshyrs in such a way. Whether you like it or not, Daughter, this is where you belong… not out on the field with your Warrior playmates."

Marnan felt her face grow hot. Something in her quailed at having these humans present for this, but she was determined to hold her ground. Even against her father. "You think you are grooming me for the throne, but I've never wanted it! It's Trian's by tradition, and we both know he wants it a great deal more than I!" She turned to her elder brother, who glared back at her through narrowed eyes. "You want it? It's yours. I will gladly abdicate any right to it. If you want to squabble over that damned chair so badly, squabble with Bhelen."

"Daughter, you have a duty—"

"Sod your duty!" A rumble of disapproval went through the deshyrs. "My duty is to my men. Those who live and die in the Deep Roads every day so that we can continue to exist. And if being an Aeducan denies me the right to do so, then perhaps it is better that I no longer am one!" She wasn't sure why she spoke that strange last line, but something in it rang achingly true.

To the roars of the deshyrs, she turned and took another step toward where the humans waited, wide-eyed. However, the hiss of steel sounded behind her, and a cold metal blade pressed against the back of her neck.

"I am sorry, My Lady," rumbled Gorim's voice. "We can not let you leave."

Alarm bells were ringing in truth now in her head, because Gorim had always had her back. Slowly, she turned to look at him—really look—and she realized what was off in his eyes. In a flash, she realized that there was none of that which had prompted so much unwavering loyalty over the years… none of that silent yearning that she had long ago come to accept as a necessary part of his service.

He had never said it out loud, of course, but she'd known. All her life, she'd known. And he'd never asked her whether she felt anything in return, because he already knew what her answer would be. And yet still, it was there, down all those years.

Except not now, and that was when Marnan realized how wrong everything was. This whole thing was… off. Her standing side-by-side with her brothers. Bhelen's neutral smile. The human strangers who she wanted more than anything to leave with and never come back.

She frowned, grabbed Gorim's sword arm, and twisted it until he released the sword into her grip. Then, she punched him in the face.

The throne room was suddenly filled with monstrous shrieks and growls as chaos broke loose. Deshyrs grew claws and fangs (just another day at court), and threw themselves on her and the humans alike. Now armed, if perhaps wearing less protective armor than she would have liked, she turned to meet her attackers and rammed each of them through as they came.

She waded through the crowd, the deshyrs disappearing in puffs of smoke on her blade. She took blow after blow from the creatures, but a few bruises were nothing (especially when she felt a rush of healing magic go through her), and she swiftly retaliated and smashed through the shades in turn. Most of the deshyr-demons were weak enough that they poofed apart after one blow.

Soon, she found herself back-to-back with the blond man. Alistair, she recalled.

"I'm sorry to say, Marnan," the man said through a grin as he swept a pair of the creatures aside with his shield, "that you can't really pull off the docile lady-of-court look."

"You, on the other hand," she rejoined, "make a quite convincing Templar. Is there something you've neglected to mention, Alistair?"

"Why yes, actually. I've been a Chantry spy this entire time. Leliana and I are going to convert all you heathens to the faith, and then bring Morrigan in for apostasy. Oh, and we'll probably also lead an Exalted March at some point… haven't decided what against, though."

Marnan sliced the head off a guard, memories returning to her with each swing of her stolen sword. The Wardens. The Circle Tower. Bhelen.

Marnan cast around through the carnage for the demon who had been unfortunate enough to pick that form. The fake Trian was carving his way through the crowd toward Alistair with his maul, while the false father disappeared in a puff of smoke with an arrow through his throat even as Marnan noticed him.

But then, she spotted Bhelen, and the demon who wore his face got one thing right: this Bhelen was staying back from the fighting, obviously waiting for the opportune moment to make his move. It was so like the Bhelen who had betrayed both her and Trian that Marnan felt rage unlike any other spike through her.

She shoved through the line of clawing deshyr-demons, cleaving a path with her sword straight toward the likeness of her treacherous younger brother. A claw bit deep into her shoulder, but she ignored the pain and kept toward him.

She remembered when he'd fallen into that deepstalker pit when they were kids. He'd cried for days after that.

She remembered when he'd talked Trian and her into sneaking into Dust Town… 'just to see it'. The guards had been forced to intervene, but their younger brother had been so thrilled that they couldn't stay mad at him.

She remembered a dozen times that she and Trian would have torn one another apart, either by words or with hands, had Bhelen not stepped in and cooled both their heads.

But most of all, she remember Bhelen looking her in the eye and smiling as he condemned her to death in the Deep Roads.

The false Bhelen drew his sword and shield as Marnan approached, but she was not deterred by any demon's stolen skills. She knocked the weapon and shield out of its amateur grip and reached forward with her free hand. Gripping his chestplate, she lifted him onto his toes.

"You picked the wrong dwarf to impersonate, demon," she growled, and plunged her sword deep into the simulacrum of her brother's heart.

It was over far too quickly. Bhelen dissipated, and then so did the other deshyrs, and the very walls around her. She was left on a desolate, cracked landscape with the others staring at her.

And by the Ancestors, she was still wearing that Stone-awful dress.

She sighed and turned to fully face her companions, reading the shock and awe in their eyes. She would not lose her courage; not now. "I suspect that I owe you an explanation."

"You're… a child of King Endrin of Orzammar, aren't you?" Leliana breathed. "You're a princess!"

Marnan winced and snapped her "No!" a bit too harshly. Calming herself, she walked over to the humans. "No," she said a bit more gently. "I was a princess. But my brother Bhelen betrayed both myself and my elder brother Trian, and I was stripped of my title and exiled as a result. Now, I'm a Grey Warden, nothing more or less."

Leliana still looked like she'd found a particularly delicious piece of chocolate. Felicity, too, regarded her with bright, curious eyes, and Marnan guessed it was only a matter of time before the intrusive questions flowed out of her. At least she was holding her tongue, for now.

Wynne, at least, regarded Marnan with solemn sympathy. An expression that was matched, oddly enough, by Alistair.

"Andraste's knickers," the ex-Templar breathed, shaking his head. "Garott's nickname… I thought it was sarcastic, but he knew all along, didn't he?"

She nodded. "I don't know why he never let it slip. He certainly had plenty of opportunities."

"Maybe he figured it wasn't his secret to tell?"

Marnan could only shrug helplessly to that.

"Is it true that the dwarves vote on their kings?" Felicity burst out, seeming unable to contain it anymore. Marnan sighed. "Is that the reason for the hostility we witnessed with your elder brother? He was afraid that, if it came down to a vote, you'd receive more than him? And those were the deshyrs, weren't they, the ones who would have voted? I thought most of their meetings were done in an Assembly hall, not in a king's throne room! Just how symbolic is the king, anyway? What kinds of powers does he hold over the nobility?"

"Felicity," Alistair said gently, "enough."

And, to Marnan's shock, the mage fell quiet. The dwarf turned a startled look at Alistair, who was displaying a rather unexpected amount of sympathy. No wisecracks or indignant sputtering at having been lied to.

"You're taking this quite well," she observed carefully.

He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Let's just say… there's something I should probably tell you guys. When this is all over."

Marnan nodded, and Felicity started leading them through the landscape. After a couple minutes of walking, they found a round portal and stepped through.

There was a run-down mage waiting for them on the other side, huddled over a glowing book. He offered them a tired smile. "You're getting faster at that."

"I should hope so, Niall," said Wynne. "We certainly have little time to spare."

Felicity asked him, "Any sign of the Sloth Demon yet?"

Niall shook his head. "No. I don't know what he's doing… there haven't been any new dreamers since you came, and he doesn't seem to be resisting your release of them all that hard."

"I suspect that we will find out one way or another soon," said Wynne.

Felicity moved over to Niall's side and peered over at the book. "This last one must be Percival, then."

"Which begs the question," Marnan cut in, looking at Alistair. "Just what are you and Percival doing here anyway? Should you not be at Redcliffe, trying to cure Arl Eamon?"

"We… ran into a bit of a snag," Alistair hedged. "Seems our dear Circle Mages aren't the only ones getting possessed by demons these days."

"Oh dear," Wynne sighed.

"We may have a bit more trouble with Percival," Felicity broke in as she and Niall wove some sort of spell over the book. "There's a reason I kept this vertex until last… it's centralized, and there seems to be a great deal more entropic energy flowing from it than the others."

"Meaning…?" Alistair prodded.

"Meaning that whatever dream the demon put him in, he wants to stay there. Very, very badly."

No one had the heart to respond to that. They may not have known the details, but it was obvious some sort of tragedy had occurred in the nobleman's past. It seemed they would soon learn a great deal about the manner of that tragedy.

Marnan gripped her sword—how she wished she had her axe—and followed Felicity and Alistair through the glowing portal.

They emerged into a sun-filled courtyard. The grass underfoot was surprisingly soft, and lush greenery surrounded them. Creatures that Marnan understood were called birds perched in the trees above them, singing. Even the stone walls surrounding the courtyard were lined with vines and flower-colored trellises. It was all a sharp contrast to the nightmarish wasteland they had just left.

Across the courtyard was a practice pitch occupied by a dozen people. Men and women, old and young milled around the pitch while a pair of men sparred. One of those men, dressed in little more than cotton breeches, was Percival, and he was laughing.

It wasn't the dark laughter that she'd seen him occasionally partake in, nor even a lighter chuckle. These were the full-blown belly laughs of one who was thoroughly enjoying life, passionately and without reservation, even as he parried and riposted against the other man's blade. Marnan had never thought that Percival Cousland could laugh like that.

Leliana made a sad sound. "He looks so happy, doesn't he?"

"Remember, this is all the Sloth Demon's trick," Felicity said uncertainly. "We are doing him no favors by allowing this to continue."

"It is likely as you observed, Felicity," Wynne said. "This is the scenario with the most entropic energy because the dreamer will genuinely not want to leave."

Alistair sighed. "I, for one, can't wait to see how he reacts when we try to wake him up. Anyone want to take bets on whose head he tries to cut off first?"

"It may not be pleasant," Marnan said. "But it must be done." She started toward the pitch, and the others fell into step behind her.

She could see the gathered humans a bit better now. Percival and the young, dark-haired man he was sparring with (also shirtless) were centralized. Watching them from off the pitch were a pair of women—one older and one younger—and an older man. The man grinned and shouted teasing encouragement at the fighters while the elder woman alternated between scolding him for slips of the tongue and joining in the heckling herself. The younger woman, meanwhile, winced every time the dark-haired man got hit.

There were a handful of armored men on the other side of the pitch, also watching and laughing. Near them, a boy played with a practice sword, obviously mimicking the elder men. An elderly woman kept an eye on the boy with a sour expression, muttering to herself while she took a paring knife to a pile of potatoes.

Farther back, against the wall, was a gaggle of female admirers, whispering among themselves and watching the fighters with hungry eyes. What in the Ancestors' name would possess Percy to dream that?

It took a moment for Marnan to spot Hugo. The dog was off to one side of the pitch, alternating between growling at anyone who got too close and whining anxiously in Percival's direction. Could it be that Hugo was genuine?

"Only more proof," Alistair said, following her gaze, "that Hugo's smarter than the rest of us."

At hearing his name, the mabari's head swiveled around. He barked and bounded over, sitting in front of them with a whine.

"Aw, poor puppy," Alistair said with a small smile "Don't worry, we'll slay those nasty demons for you."

Hugo barked, his tail wagging.

"Well of course you can join in!"

Hugo stood and bounded around them, as if urging them on.

Wynne gave Alistair a quizzical look. "Are you honestly having a conversation with a dog?"

"In my defense, the dog converses back."

Leliana giggled.

It seemed the dog's barking had drawn some attention, because the boy came running over. Hugo's hackles went back up, and he turned to rumble a menacing growl at the child.

"Hugo! What are you doing over here?" The child turned wide eyes up at them, and Marnan almost believed the innocence there. "Who are you people? Are you friends of my grandfather's?"

"Oh do stop this charade, demon," Wynne sighed. "It befits none of us."

"What? What's a 'charade'? Is that a kind of wine? My uncle Percy likes wine, but he says it's better when its shared with a close friend. I tell him I'm his close friend, but he just laughs and says I'm far too young for that."

"And that you are, Oren!" came a voice, and, for a moment, Marnan didn't recognize it. The cultured accent was the same, but Percy's voice had never held such… energy. The blond nobleman came up behind the boy and ruffled his hair fondly. "Too young for both wine and close friendship."

"At least 'close friendship' as Percy defines it." Percival's sparring partner laughed. He had his sword slung across one shoulder. Both men were sweating and breathing hard, but had the exhilarated glow of exercise that Marnan was rather familiar with herself.

Percy turned his smile to them, and Marnan caught her breath despite herself. Percy was actually… quite handsome. She'd never realized it before, because the gloom and bitterness that accompanied him everywhere was ugly in itself. But now, his features were finely carved and golden, and his bare torso showed off an athletic, warrior's physique that any Warrior down in Orzammar would have envied.

"Welcome, my friends," Percy said warmly. "I have to say this is a pleasant surprise." He cast his gaze around them, finally resting on Marnan herself. There was a strangely enticing glint in his eyes as he bent down and took her hand. "I must say, Marnan, you are quite the stunning woman without all that steel plate masking your beauty." And, much to her shock, he raised her hand her his lips and kissed it. Then, he winked.

Caught between being outraged, embarrassed, and flattered, words completely fled her.

"Did he… did he just do that?" Alistair whispered, apparently just as shocked.

"Percy, do you know who we are?" Felicity asked carefully.

"Of course I do." Percy dropped Marnan's hand and stood up straight again. "I can't say I ever expected to see you here in Highever, but it's good to see you nonetheless. Come, you can meet my family!" He waved at the crowd behind him. Most of their eyes were now trained on the newcomers.

"Your family?" Leliana asked weakly.

The dark-haired man laughed. "Come, brother. Introduce us! Or have you now forsaken all propriety and manners altogether?"

"Only in matters where it doesn't suit me," Percy rejoined. To the Wardens, he said, "This ugly lout is my brother, Fergus." Fergus barked a laugh and swiped at the blond man. "And this scamp is his son, Oren." Again, Percy's hand ruffled the boy's hair.

"Hugo once had louts," the boy said sagely. "We had to bathe him in special soap sent in from Orlais to kill them all."

"That's lice, Oren," his father corrected with a laugh.

"You don't still have lice, right boy?" the boy asked the dog, stepping closer.

Hugo barked and snapped at the child, and only his father's timely grip on his shoulder yanked him back.

"Hugo!" Percy said sharply. "Bad dog! Really, what's gotten into you?"

Hugo whined, head low, and hunkered down beside Alistair.

"Is everything all right, Pup?" This was the old man. He and the two noblewomen were within speaking range now. The younger woman quickly gathered the boy protectively into her arms.

Percy frowned at his dog. "Something's wrong with Hugo."

"His stomach is probably just upset," the older woman tutted. "Small surprise, with what you let him get into."

"Mother!"

"Oh, hush. I don't believe for a second that him tearing up Lady Ellia's dressing room was an accident. Some of those cosmetics were likely toxic, you know. You only have yourself to blame."

The older man laughed. "Still, that one was damn creative of you, Pup. Getting into her skirts by having your dog rip up all her skirts?"

"Bryce! Don't encourage him!"

"All I mean, Eleanor," the man chuckled, "is that if he devoted that much thought and creativity to everything else, we would soon be the proud parents of the ruler of all Thedas!"

"Father," Percival groaned fondly.

Marnan couldn't find the heart to interrupt such a domestic scene. And, looking back at the others—Leliana was near tears—they couldn't either. Percy was happy, for the first time that she had ever seen him… well and truly content.

"This isn't right," Alistair managed thickly. "Percy, you must feel that this isn't right."

"What isn't?" the young noble asked a bit too quickly. "That's ridiculous, Alistair. You've obviously been hit in the head one too many times."

He turned sharply and walked back to the pitch, his 'family' turning to follow.

The Wardens and their companions exchanged looks among themselves.

"This is going to be more difficult than I'd thought," Felicity sighed.

"How can we convince him to leave," Leliana asked, "if he refuses to disbelieve?"

"Perhaps we should simply begin taking out the demons without his permission," Marnan suggested.

They all stared at her wide-eyed.

"Uh, Marnan?" Alistair said. "You know Percy, right? You've met? Because if we even attempt to attack one of those creatures, he's going to go into one of his rages and use us for sword practice."

"Not to mention," Wynne said softly, "such actions would obviously break the boy's heart."

"Agreed," Felicity said. "We must somehow convince Percival to remember on his own." She glanced down at Hugo, who quirked an ear up at her hopefully. "Perhaps if we can convince one of the demons to reveal itself, it will be enough to snap him out of it."

Alistair's face brightened. "Felicity, that's brilliant. He'd never hurt Hugo, even in a dream."

Felicity reddened and nodded. "A demon would defend itself." She looked across the courtyard. "Hugo, go for one of the women in the corner. They're unarmed and thus will be forced to manifest something, but they're not as emotionally charged as his family members."

Hugo barked, tail wagging, and sped across the yard. Growling, the hound barreled into the women, sending them scattering, shrieking.

"Hugo!" Percy's voice cried. He broke away from his family to chase the dog. "Hugo, heel!"

The hound ignored his master's commands, chasing one of the young women halfway across the yard before he caught her and barreled her to the ground. Sure enough, as he tore into her, her fingers elongated into claws, which dug into the dog's neck. Hugo howled in pain.

Percival stopped about ten feet from the scuffle, staring in obvious confusion.

Leliana leapt forward and tackled another of the 'women' as she came near them, and this one wasted no time in hissing a curse and freezing the bard where she lay. Marnan stepped up and kicked the creature away, before it could hurt her companion. Her feet promptly got tangled in her skirts, and she growled and used her sword to cut the damn things off at the knee.

"But… what…?" Percy's voice was thick, torn. "What's going on?"

"It's a dream, Percy," Felicity said in her most reasonable tone, even as she cast a dispelling spell on Leliana. "You're under the spell of the Sloth Demon."

"No… no, that can't be." Something haunted flashed through his eyes, before he turned an angry gaze on them. "Maybe you're the trick! You're trying to confuse me with these illusions!"

"You know that's not true," Felicity plead.

"Lies!" Percy pointed his sword toward them. "Leave now, demons. I won't tolerate you hurting my family!"

"You'd best do as he says," a silky, sibilant voice said, and Marnan shuddered to realize that it was coming from the child, Oren. "He's ours, and he will fight to protect us. Even if it means killing all of you." Percy didn't seem to even hear the demonic voice.

"Percy…" Alistair said, his voice breaking. "Percy, you've got no family to protect. They're dead. You know this."

"LIES!" Familiar rage flared in the man's eyes, and he leapt forward at them.

Alistair stepped up to meet him, blocking each furious blow with sword and shield but not striking back. "Fight it, Percy! You're letting the demon win!"

"The only demons I see here are you," the nobleman growled, and smashed a particularly vicious blow into Alistair's guard. The Templar grunted and stumbled back a step.

With alarm, Marnan noted that the rest of the 'family' was circling around them, obviously anticipating a fight, but none making any moves yet. Most had manifested weapons, even the older woman with the paring knife looked demonic and deadly.

"So much for ending this peacefully," Wynne sighed, and cast a spell that threw a stone fist into the cluster of guardsmen.

Marnan didn't waste any time springing into action. She followed that fist to the downed guardsmen, using their stunned states to stab one with her sword and then take his maul out of his hands.

Much more satisfied now that she had a decently heavy weapon to bear, she brought the maul around to crush in the spine of another demonic guard. It disappeared with a blast of smoke.

The battle was joined, now, though it was dangerously precarious. Marnan had no armor, so her dress tattered away under blow after blow… at least she had two healers behind her, because that was the only thing that kept her on her feet.

Leliana wasn't much better than Marnan in her Chantry robes. But at least she'd gotten a bow from somewhere, and wasted no time in returning fire to the demon in Percy's mother's form.

"NO!" Percy howled, breaking away from Alistair to charge at Leliana. Marnan was too caught in trying to smack a knight into oblivion to get there in time. Fortunately, Hugo met him halfway, barreling into the nobleman and pinning him to the ground with his bulk.

Percy struggled viciously, but Hugo just whined and pressed the man into the dirt. With every demon that dissolved into a cloud of smoke, his struggles became more half-hearted, as if the reality of the situation was finally winning out. At about the time that Marnan smashed the child-like demon's head in (demon or not, that image would follow her forever) Percival fell limp and silent. Hugo whined again.

Finally, the last of the demons were vanquished, and the sunny courtyard around them began to dissolve back into the twisted landscape of the Fade. Marnan's dress was in tatters, but at least she wouldn't have to wear the thing for much longer.

"Percy?" Felicity's voice said hesitantly. Marnan turned to see the others circling around the nobleman. "Percy can you hear me?"

"Hugo, get off him," Alistair grunted, and dog obediently lifted from off his master's back.

Marnan joined the circle around the noble, and she immediately saw why the others were so concerned.

Percival remained where he'd fallen, motionless. He didn't acknowledge any of them; instead, his eyes were clouded and distant—mad, a part of her squeaked—and filled with such consuming despair that Marnan almost regretted what they'd just done.

"He's in shock," Wynne said gently. "It's not uncommon, after a traumatic experience."

Alistair knelt down next to the other man, hesitantly reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder. Percy blinked.

"Percy, you have to snap out of it. We've got a demon to kill… and then another demon to kill. And then, when we get to Redcliffe, another demon to kill. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

Percival let out something like a whimper, but at least that was a response.

Marnan settled at the noble's other side. She and Alistair pulled Percival up into a sitting position. Percy blinked, his eyes still clouded, but he seemed to register their presence.

"Kill me," he whispered, and Marnan's heart stuttered, certain that she'd heard that wrong.

"What…?" Felicity said, leaning over them. "What did he just say?"

"Kill me," and now it was more of a growl. "Please… I can't…" His voice cracked, and a sob wracked through him. "I can't lose them. Not again. Please… please just kill me." More dry sobs shuddered through his form, and Marnan could only hold onto him while he crumpled. Alistair's worried eyes met hers.

"You did not think it would be so easy, mortals?" the Sloth Demon's voice spoke up. It formed about twenty feet from them, all sharp angles and darkness. "That I would let you roam my realm, tearing down these dreams I put so much work into constructing? I made you happy, and you went and knocked down my gift like spiteful children."

Percival's form wracked again, and the Sloth Demon groaned in something that almost sounded like pleasure.

"It's feeding off this young man's despair." Wynne's voice sounded horrified.

"Indeed," the demon purred. "Such a font I've found, in this one. So eager for nothing more than that everything stay the same. No progress. No future. Only the still, unchanging past." The demon glided closer, and Percy keened as it neared, his body drooping. "And now that you've shattered that… oh, his anguish is a banquet before me. Such hopelessness. Such… despondency."

Leliana raised her bow, standing protectively over them. "We won't let you take him, demon!" Marnan was surprised to hear such a hard voice out of the bard.

The Sloth Demon chuckled, and it was the oiliest sound she'd ever heard. "Foolish mortal… he is already mine."

Percy slumped in Marnan's arms, weeping, and even the dwarf could see the dark magic emanating from the nobleman. Skin-crawling shrieks pierced the air, and five creatures appeared in a circle around them.

Marnan and Alistair both stood and drew their weapons, and Percy fell limply to the ground at their feet. "You guard him," Alistair said to her. "I'll take ugly over there."

Marnan nodded, standing over the noble's shuddering form and raising her maul to the monsters around them. Her companions followed suit, circling around their comrade's prone figure. The demonic summons closed in.

The gaunt, twisted form of an abomination threw itself at Felicity. Meanwhile, Leliana kept interrupting one Desire Demon's spells with a constant stream of arrows, while a second Desire Demon circled Wynne, cackling.

It was the ogre-like demon that leapt straight for Marnan, and it was all she could do to keep the hulking creature from tearing her to shreds. She was hardly inexperienced with such creatures, but that did not make the fight easy. She met one swing of its powerful fists with her maul, jarring her already-aching shoulders, and then slammed her weapon into the monster's knee. It stumbled back.

It might have been a victory, had the last monster, a Rage Demon, not come around behind her and lunged for Percival.

She swept her maul around to meet it, batting it away and placing herself as a shield between it and its prey. The Rage Demon roared and spat fire, and she stood her ground, feeling her skin char under the onslaught.

She didn't have time to retaliate, because the ogre was nearly on top of her, roaring in triumph as it raised its arms to deliver the killing blow. She turned back around and slammed the pummel of her maul into its gut, then swept the weapon low to take out the ogre at the knees. It toppled.

The Rage Demon slammed into her back, and she stumbled forward. It again lunged at Percival, but she caught it with her maul and turned it aside. It stumbled away, and she stepped in and swung the hammer up into its belly. It toppled backwards, and she raised her hammer and slammed it into its head in a final, killing blow.

Concerned, she turned her attention back to the ogre, only to see it stumbling to the side, three arrows protruding from its neck. A fourth hit into it in the side of the head, and it disappeared with a roar.

Leliana smirked. "I said you wouldn't win, demons."

Marnan nodded her thanks and turned her attention to the others. Wynne seemed to have shaken off her Desire Demon with Hugo's help. Now, the elder mage was concentrating on healing Alistair, who was getting shoved around by the Sloth Demon something awful.

Felicity, however, was hunkered in a magical shield while the abomination tore at the invisible wall between them. Each blow made the mage flinch, and Marnan wondered how much such a shield was sapping her.

Marnan wasted no time stepping in to meet the abomination, even as Leliana's arrows soared past her to collide into it. A moment later, her maul took the creature through the chest, and it disappeared.

Felicity smiled at them, drooping as the shield dissipated. "Thank you… I fear I'm rather hopeless in single combat."

Marnan shrugged. "You're a healer. If you're in single combat, I'm not doing my job." The burns on her face made it sting to talk, but it was ignorable. She swung the maul up onto her sore shoulder, and turned to face the Sloth Demon.

It was running Alistair ragged, now, and Marnan was rather impressed that the ex-Templar had lasted so long alone against it. The Sloth Demon kept raising his arms in spellcasting, but Alistair was quick to leap in with a particularly vicious attack as soon as it began—Templar training, in this case, proved quite beneficial. Wynne seemed to be quickly tiring, behind her constant stream of healing magic.

"Felicity," Marnan said, "can we kill that thing in here?"

The mage hummed in thought. "Theoretically, yes. This being its realm, it may be more difficult than merely damaging it, but it would hardly be invulnerable."

"What happens if we kill it?"

"We should be ejected, once its hold on us is broken." She paused thoughtfully. "Either that, or the realm would collapse and we'd be spat deeper into the Fade, stranded and doomed to wander the dream realm for the rest of eternity."

"That is… not very comforting," Leliana said.

"Perhaps it isn't comforting," Wynne said tiredly. "But we do not have much of a choice either way."

"Agreed," Marnan said. "Hugo, guard your boy. Ladies, cover me." The mages and bard nodded, and Marnan hefted her maul and attacked.

Alistair stumbled back from a vicious blow and took a blast of cold for it. Marnan was on the creature a moment later, swinging the maul into its back. The weapon seemed to pass right through the demon's form with only some resistance, as if it were passing through gel. It turned ponderously to her and raised its arm to cast at her, and she ducked to avoid a wintery blast of her own.

Alistair's sword darted in, slashing into its stomach. His weapon, too, did not seem to do much damage, passing through the form as if through a ghost.

"Incorporeality!" Felicity gasped, and Marnan didn't have the time to ask what in the Ancestors' name that word meant. "It's not entirely manifested, to protect itself from us!"

"Always figured a Sloth Demon would cheat," Alistair panted drily between swings.

Marnan got sideswiped by one of its arms and stumbled back. "Feels manifested enough to me."

"It's fading in and out!" Felicity called. "We need to find a way to keep it here!"

"Allow me to help with that," said Niall's voice, and the demon began to glow and shimmer. It stopped fighting and turned its ponderous gaze on Niall, and so Marnan did too.

The mage was heading toward them from a portal up a nearby hill, the large book from before clasped open in his hands. He muttered to himself, and each word seemed to strengthen the glow around the demon.

"You expend so much effort, human," the demon cooed at him, and Niall's eyes squinted in resistance of whatever the demon was doing to him. "Wouldn't you prefer to rest?"

"Do it… quickly," Niall gasped. "I can't hold it for long!"

Alistair was the first to move, stepping forward and plunging his sword into the demon's back, and it shrieked in earnest as the blow finally did some damage. Marnan followed suit with her maul, taking out its legs. It toppled, and Alistair made short work of it with a slice across its throat.

Niall collapsed and then the world around them wavered nauseatingly. Marnan felt like her footing was slipping, even though her feet were solidly planted. The wasteland of the Fade turned to white nothingness, and Marnan knew no more.

Chapter Text

The first time she had disappeared, he'd been confused. The second time, he'd been annoyed. Now, he was just plain furious.

Kazar planted himself in the middle of the Fade island, letting magical fire crawl up his arms in clear threat. "Come out, demon, or I burn this entire place down, and take the kid with it!"

"As you wish, little mage," cooed the creature's sultry voice. The Desire Demon appeared in front of him in a rush of smoke, a pout on her face. "You're no fun."

"Fun? Maybe I was unclear about how this works the first three times. I fight you. You die. No more of this blasted poofing to a different spot when I'm about to deliver the killing blow."

"Must it really be so?" she sighed. The fingers of one hand idly ran down her bare breast. "There are so many more pleasant ways to handle this confrontation, don't you think?"

He forced his eyes back up to her face, and scowled, insulted. "Is everything about sex, with you creatures?"

"Not carnal pleasures, then." The Desire Demon glided past him, her hand brushing his cheek as she passed.

He jerked back and spun, not wanting to lose sight of her again. Not after chasing her halfway across the Fade island. Three times.

"Certainly, there are other things you desire. Things that may be in my power to grant." She studied him for a long moment, her eyes digging deep into his psyche. Then, her sultry smile turned sly. "Yes, I see that there is one thing."

"If you think you can extort me-"

She laughed, a musical sound. "Extortion? Such a strange word when faced with Desire!" She glided up close enough that he could smell the brimstone of her skin, and he hurriedly stepped back. "No, what I propose is an exchange. Something I desire more than anything… for something you desire more than anything."

He should blast her now. He really, really should just throw out a lightning bolt and be done with this whole ordeal. The others were waiting for him.

"Power, little mage," she whispered, reaching forward to wrap a talon-like hand around his chin. "And all the freedom and joy that comes with it. You crave it. You burn for it."

The words twisted inside him, wrapping around him like a spell. But it wasn't a spell. He swallowed.

"I can give you such power... more than you've ever dreamed. No one will dare to challenge you. No one will ever again tell you what to do. No one will ever be able to do as he did." One of her hands skimmed his throat. He shuddered but he was too entranced to think about pulling away. She stepped behind him and whispered into his ear with a voice like nectar: "Would it not be utterly delectable, to return and ensure his demise by the very same magic he once used to control you?"

"Blood magic," Kazar breathed, though there didn't seem to be enough air. All he smelled was brimstone. "You're offering to teach me blood magic."

She pressed against his back, running her hands leisurely up his sides. A ripple of goosebumps followed in her hands' wakes. "If your incompetent friend is made so powerful through the art as to send other mages into the Fade and knock Templars unconscious, then imagine what you, the most talented mage of your generation, will become." Her hand caressed his face, and he found himself pressing into the touch.

"Unstoppable," he whispered, and he sounded possessed, even to himself. He tried to shake her off and gather his wits, but the demon's words made his heart patter and his head spin. "No... this is a trick. You're trying to possess me."

"Mm… if only," her voice cooed in his ear. Her grip loosened, and she came around in front of him again, her eyes appreciative. "A mage of your power and beauty would certainly bring… delicious results. But no, a Pride Demon has already staked a future claim on your soul, and I am in no position to fight him."

Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end. "Mouse."

"But even a Greater Pride Demon would be no match for you," the demon purred, "were you to take me up on my offer."

Kazar's wits seemed to be returning, though he still shivered with the rush of powerlust she'd invoked. "What do you take me for? You think I'd sell my soul for... for power?" His mouth was dry, though, and his voice had an uncertain quaver in it.

"Not yours," she said. "The boy's."

"No deal." The words were not nearly as forceful as they should have been.

"Why so hasty?" she cooed, unperturbed, and began circling him again. "Think of what you're giving up. What you desire, more than anything, is to be seen as the great asset that you are. You wish for nothing more than the opportunity and tools to defeat your foes... which as a Grey Warden, happens to involve this Blight. Do you not owe it to your order, Grey Warden, to take a tool of such utility as the one I offer? When it means that, should your companions fall, you will have the strength to destroy an entire horde? Is that not worth more than one child?"

He was slipping. He could feel his will scrabbling for purchase, as if the floor were tilting and there was nothing to hold onto. "And what would you demand in return? The kid?"

"Eventually, yes." She pouted. "I can see that you would have no interest in my offer were I to continue as I have been. Your companions would immediately notice something amiss. But we spirits can be… very patient."

"You're saying you'd leave Connor and come back later?"

"Yes. Long after your Blight is finished. Long past the point when anyone would suspect you. You leave me with my life today, and vow not to interfere when I finally do claim my host… and you will have all the power you have ever desired."

Once again, her words were intoxicating, but more from the promise in them than any actual spell. He took a shaky breath. "The others would never forgive me."

"They need not know." Her smile was enticing, and he found himself taking a step closer to her.

Power. Unlike anything he'd ever imagined. He'd be able to move mountains… to call storms upon anyone who stood against him. No one would be able to use him like a puppet… a doll. All he had to do was sign away the soul of some dumb kid who had dealt with a demon to save his father's life.

They needed power, didn't they? They needed every advantage to stop the Blight. No one else but him could provide this sort of firepower, so didn't he have a responsibility to take it? Kazar licked his lips, and he felt the demon's claws twining through his hair. He leaned his head back into the touch.

"You will be free," she whispered, her breath hot against his throat. "The most powerful mage in the world." Her hands tugged, and a throaty groan escaped him. "Unstoppable."

"Yes," he gasped breathlessly. "I accept, yes. Teach me."

Her chuckle was molten against his throat, and he shivered in something that he could only assume felt like lust. Her talons glided down to caress his cheeks, guiding his face forward so that he looked into her deep, ageless eyes.

She smiled and Kazar could see all his old dreams and secret yearnings fulfilled in her gaze. "I knew there was a way this could end pleasurably," she purred, and leaned in to press their lips together.

Chapter Text

Percy felt… empty. Like a vessel that had been completely drained. No anger. No sadness. No pain. Just… nothing. He was too tired to feel.

The ceiling above him was high. Windows lined the top of the wall, revealing a starry night sky beyond. The air smelled of corruption and filth.

Something cold touched his ear, and he turned to see Hugo nuzzling into him. The hound whined and licked his nose. The man reached a hand up and stroked the dog's muzzle.

"Percy? Are you all right?"

He turned his head to see Felicity pulling herself to her feet nearby, watching him with concern. Next to her sat Alistair, rubbing his head and getting his bearings.

He turned back to the ceiling, pondering the healer's question. Was he all right? Just what was 'all right' anyway?

He wasn't all right. He hadn't been all right for a long time. Ever since Highever, he'd been a mess. In his depression, he'd been a burden. In his anger, he'd been a risk. And now, his soul had been used to sustain a demon against his fellow Wardens… because he'd been too weak to turn his back on the obvious illusions.

He couldn't let that happen again. He had to pull himself together. They were dead, and he had a new life now. He had a duty to the people of Ferelden, and he couldn't perform it while living in the past. He had to do as Garott had said so long ago… and get over it.

"Oh goody." Alistair's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "He's back to his 'strong silent type' act."

"I'm thinking," Percy said. He sat up, one hand running idly through Hugo's fur.

Felicity knelt in front of him and reached out a hand to feel his forehead. He winced at the touch, but allowed it. "You seem to be well enough. Are you feeling any aftereffects?"

He shrugged. "Just tired."

"So does this mean we're done?" Alistair asked. He walked over to the spot the Sloth Demon had been standing before it had sent them to the Fade. "We killed the demon? We can actually get on with it now?"

"Yes, Alistair," Felicity said with a small smile, standing. "We can get on with it now."

Percy pushed himself to his feet, feeling an unnerving calm settle over him. He hadn't felt calm since… before everything had happened. Was this what resolution felt like? It wouldn't be easy, but perhaps a bit of focus was what he needed.

"Maybe it's time we all get on with it," he muttered, invoking curious looks from the pair. He didn't offer an explanation, and they didn't ask.

Alistair cautiously stepped out of the little room they'd attempted the ritual in. His sword raised, the ex-Templar walked down the corridor and peeked through the open door into the floor's central chamber.

He jerked back with a yelp as Leliana turned out of the doorway at the same time. The bard laughed.

"Maker, Leliana! Don't sneak up on me! I almost lopped your head off!"

"Don't worry; I would have ducked. I may be able to sneak, but you are louder than a bear wearing bells, no?"

"Yes, well… you try walking around quietly with metal plates strapped to your legs." Alistair pouted, and both women laughed.

Percival shouldered past them and stepped into the chamber, noting the gummy patches of corrupted slime covering the walls and floor. This might have been their tomb, had the others been as weak-minded as him.

Never again, he resolved.

Marnan and the old woman from his dream knelt next to another, prone figure. He stopped, startled to see the old woman out of the Fade. He'd thought she was a part of it, but apparently not.

He didn't recognize the robed figure they knelt over at all. Whatever was going on there, the old woman didn't look happy about it. Her head was bowed, and she and Marnan both wore grim expressions.

Hugo sniffed the air, his hackles up. Still, he stayed quiet and close to Percy's side, as loyal and protective as ever. It made the noble insanely grateful for his hound, and he resolved never to doubt the mabari's instincts again.

Felicity and Alistair came through the door behind him, the pair keeping a rather conspicuous distance from one another. Felicity immediately cried out and ran to the prone form.

"Oh no! Wynne, what happened?"

The old woman shook her head grimly, cradling the man's head. "He's gone."

"Oh, Niall! After he worked so hard to save us, too!"

Percy remembered the prone figure now, though vaguely through the haze of that last battle. This man had done… something. He couldn't really remember. And it had cost the man his life. Again, something that wouldn't have been necessary if Percy had just been strong enough to resist the demon.

Rage spiked through him, and he stifled his frustrated growl before it could leave his throat. Just one more way his weaknesses had caused harm. Hugo quirked his head up at him in concern, and Percy patted his hound's head. Then, he stepped forward to watch the room's other exit while the rest fussed over the corpse.

"It must have been hard," Leliana's voice said softly. She moved to stand next to Percy, her eyes searching his face. "To lose all that."

He grit his teeth against the rush of pain, and cut it off abruptly before it could get to him. They were gone. He had a new life. "Are you looking for a confession, sister?"

"It helps to talk, sometimes."

"Not in this, it doesn't. This is best left forgotten."

"Surely, you can't mean that. Our memories are what make us who we are."

"Perhaps that is the problem," he said softly. He could hear the others moving up behind them, and he didn't want them to hear.

She got the point. Her eyes widened, but she closed her mouth and didn't press any further.

He turned to the approaching group. "Are we ready to move on?"

They nodded. The old woman said, "We need to find First Enchanter Irving. If he is not here, then the last place he could be is above us, in the Harrowing Chamber."

"Although I'd like to stay a bit longer and talk about Marnan," Alistair teased. "Specifically, Marnan in a dress. Why, just a couple jewels and you would have been quite the beautiful princess."

Marnan looked at him flatly, though her eyes carried some mirth. "I have my axe back, you know."

"Right. Shutting up."

"Still," Leliana giggled. "The look on your face when Percival kissed your hand…! One would think you'd never been greeted like that before!"

"That is because I had not. Any man who would have dared back in Orzammar knew my reputation well enough to know I would have punched him in the face for trying."

"You had a reputation?" Percy asked.

"She's a princess."

"Leliana!" Wynne chided. "That is not your secret to tell."

Everyone glanced at Percy, because he was apparently the only one who didn't already know. He shrugged. "I'm supposed to be impressed that she has a bit of blue blood? Shall I remind you what color mine is?"

Felicity chuckled. "Good point."

Wynne looked confused. "And what color is that?"

"Oh, right. I suppose we should introduce you properly," Felicity said. "Wynne, meet Percival Cousland. Percy, this is Senior Enchanter Wynne. She's the healer who patched Meila up at Ostagar."

He bowed his head, and Wynne arched an eyebrow, no doubt recognizing his surname.

"It seems the Grey Wardens have more than their share of nobility, then."

Alistair cleared his throat nervously. "Speaking of which… this may be a bad time to mention this, but-"

CRASH.

"…oh for Andraste's sake! You've got to be kidding me!"

The rest of them were already moving. Marnan opened the door into the corridor beyond, and Hugo charged ahead, barking.

Percy rounded the corner and skidded to a stop, startled to find a dragon, of all things. Well, not a full dragon. A drake.

"Oh wonderful," Alistair groaned behind him. "I always wanted to fight something that could bite me in half."

Hugo was already leaping at the creature's throat, so Percy didn't waste any time in charging him. Marnan was right behind him, and the two fanned out to either of the creature's flanks. His sword bounced off the drake's tough scales with its first swipe, but he didn't hesitate to thrust his sword in again, trying to get underneath the scales.

There was a flurry of high-pitched growls, and a half dozen baby dragons rounded the corner ahead. Alistair rushed to meet them.

The drake's head came around with a growl, and its teeth sank into Percy's shoulder. The pain fanned the heat inside him and spurred him into a rage—even as he felt healing magic flow through him—and he used the extra strength of anger to plunge his blade right through the creature's tough scales into its throat. It shrieked, dropped Percy's arm as it tossed its head back. Marnan's axe cut its spinal cord in half at the back of its neck, and it collapsed.

Percy's body still burned for blood, but he stepped back and managed to tamp it down as the others cleaned off the last of the dragonlings.

"What do you suppose a nest of dragons is doing here?" Felicity asked, kneeling next to the felled drake. Her hands traced the scales reverently.

"No doubt Uldred put them here as guardians," Wynne said.

Alistair furrowed his brow, prying the last of the baby dragons off his sword. "Can blood mages do that?"

"Not blood mages. But one of the Libertarians under his command was a respected draco-biologist who may have had a few spare eggs lying about." Wynne sighed. "Uldred must have been planning this for months, to be able to bring a drake in."

"Well… let's hope his other means of protection are a bit less… creative."

Fortunately, they were. The party fought their way through a final room of demons—rather cathartic, as far as Percy was concerned—before entering a chamber that had a staircase… and a Templar within a glowing cage.

The Templar turned as they entered, and his face immediately twisted. "This trick again? I know what you are! It won't work! I'll stay strong!"

Felicity looked caught between shock and heartbreak. "Cullen?" Alistair jerked in surprise.

His head was bowed but he watched them with a narrowed gaze. "Begone, illusions! I will be no more fooled by this one than any of the last!"

"Cullen, it's me!" Felicity stepped up to the barrier. "What's the matter? What have they done to you?"

"Stop it, I said!" The Templar fell to his knees and clasped his head, his voice strained. "Andraste grant me strength! How far they must have delved into my thoughts… Enough visions! If anything in you is human, kill me now and stop this game!"

Percy winced, knowing too well what such despair felt like.

"This is your old boyfriend?" Alistair asked Felicity with obvious hostility.

Felicity burst into tears, still staring at the broken Templar.

Percy said coldly, "He is fighting the blood magic. He must be far stronger than any of the other Templars."

"Cullen…" Felicity whispered.

"You broke the others," Cullen gasped, "but I will stay strong. For my sake, for theirs…" His voice fell to muttering, and there was madness in it. "Sifting through my thoughts… tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have… The ill-advised forbidden affair… a mage of all things! I am so tired of these cruel jokes!" His voice broke into more sobs. "…these tricks…. These…" He broke down into weeping, obviously near his limit.

"This is horrible," Leliana whispered. "There must be something we can do for him."

Felicity nodded resolutely, though tears still streamed down her face. "Cullen… Cullen, listen to me. We can get out out of there."

"Begone, I said! Why are you still here? I've always been able to banish you before!" His voice cracked in panic. Percival could only imagine what sorts of tortures would bring a man to the edge like this. This was a man who had lost everything and then more; that, Percy knew from experience.

"I don't know if letting him out in this state is a good idea," Marnan said. She watched him with narrowed eyes.

"We can't leave him," Leliana protested. "He's in pain!"

"He's completely off his nut, that's what he is!" Alistair said. "You'd let loose someone who's obviously lost most of his marbles? He might be dangerous!"

Percy gave him a hard glare. "You'd chain me up as well, then?"

"That's… that's completely different!"

"Come, Alistair," Percy said coldly. "We all know what your real problem with him is."

Alistair's eyes widened, but he seemed unable to come up with a response.

Wynne stepped up behind Felicity. "Miss Amell, is this true? Were you and this man truly…?"

"Yes," Felicity said. She turned from the Templar—who had bowed his head and seemed to be trying to pretend they weren't there—and faced the rest of them. "Cullen and I were… together. We never got farther than a couple kisses shared behind the stacks, but…" She cast a glance back at the Templar, biting her lip. "… but I still hate to see him in such a state."

"What can we do? I know of no way to break this spell over him."

"I do. Niall, he… he found the Litany of Adralla."

Wynne's eyes widened. Apparently, that meant something to mages. "You have it?"

"I've memorized it. I can use it to break the mental hold the blood mages obviously still have on Cullen."

"Would that stop him believing us illusions and attacking us?" Marnan asked pointedly.

"I think we can defend ourselves," Percy said. He nodded to Felicity. "I say release him. He'd be a strong ally, if he's got this sort of mental resistance."

"Maybe he's even Grey Warden material, no?" Leliana said.

"No, I think not," Alistair grumbled.

Felicity turned back to the trapped Templar. "Cullen, I'm going to cleanse your mind." This invoked no response, and she seemed taken aback. Again, she bit her lip before saying, "I just want you to know that I'm sorry. For the way things happened between us."

"You think to use that against me? That I care?" Cullen's voice growled, and his eyes, when raised, dripped with contempt. "If you've sifted through my thoughts, then you know I'm glad she cut it off… that I was never allowed to get so attached to her… a mage!" He said the word the same way Percy said Howe.

"Cullen!" She yelped, aghast.

"What a fool I was! But the Maker knows my sins, and I pray he will forgive me!"

"Cullen, you loved me."

"Love?" Cullen sprang to his feet, sneering. "No, never. It was the foolish fancy of a naive boy. I know better now."

Felicity started crying again, and Percy wasn't surprised to see Alistair's sword come out. "Don't you speak to her like that!"

"Is this your new thrall, mage? Your new bit of meat to puppet around?"

Alistair stepped right up to the barrier, so that only the thin glowing shield separated them. "How dare you! Felicity is one of the gentlest, most caring people in Ferelden. I don't care what those blood mages did to you. You will not speak to her like that. Is that clear?"

Percy arched an eyebrow, because he'd heard royals give orders with less authority in their voices.

Cullen looked around them with narrowed eyes, and Percy was glad to see that he actually appeared to see them now. Felicity, her face in her hands. Leliana, jaw dropped in shock. Wynne and Marnan, looking back at the man with equally guarded expressions.

Percy, himself, knew what it was like to lose control of oneself… to have one's entire worldview flipped in one cataclysmic event. He couldn't be angry at this man for lashing out. It would be hypocrisy.

"So you would have me believe you are real," Cullen said sharply. "That you came here? Why? Who are you, that you would fight through four floors of demons for a couple mages?"

"We're Grey Wardens," Percy said simply, and the Templar's face snapped to his. "We came here in search of aid for the Blight. Obviously, we met with some obstacles."

"The Grey Wardens… yes." Cullen turned his eyes back to Felicity. "They'd said you left to join them. Then this is… not an illusion?"

"No." It seemed Percy was the only one capable of words at the moment. "We are real, and we will get you out to prove it."

"What?!" Alistair whirled on him. "Are you insane?! After all those nasty things he just said to Felicity, you still want to free this bastard?!"

"You'd leave a man to blood magic just because he's been traumatized into hating that very thing which traumatized him?" Percy said coldly back. "Perhaps you'd better leave me in there as well, then. At least he has some mental fortitude."

"Percy, this is not about you!"

"No, it's about mustering every possible ally we can against the Blight. We're Grey Wardens, and Grey Wardens do what we must to fight the darkspawn. That includes helping people who may not be very nice."

"I… agree," Wynne said reluctantly.

"You've both completely lost your minds!" the ex-Templar protested.

"Alistair," Felicity's voice said softly, and the ex-Templar immediately spun back to her, his face softening. Shakily, she said, "I agree with them. I'd still like to free him."

Alistair's voice was gentle, and he reached out to hold her elbow supportively. "After what this bastard just said to you…?"

"I… I know." She wiped her tears from her eyes. "But Percival is right. We can't leave him under the blood mage spell any longer than necessary."

Alistair's lips pursed, but his eyes shone with an emotion that made Percy honestly uncomfortable. "You're too damned compassionate for your own good," he said thickly, but nonetheless pulled away.

She stepped up to the barrier and closed her eyes. Then, she started chanting. At first, it sounded like a prayer that might have been pulled straight from the Chant. However, as it went on, Percy felt something in his head loosen, like a collar that had slipped a notch. He could tell from the startled looks around him that the others felt the same.

Cullen watched her distrustfully, but the strain in his features slowly ebbed as some of what had been tormenting him faded. By the time Felicity's voice stopped and the mage opened her eyes, Cullen's expression had changed to wonder and relief.

"Finally," the Templar sighed, hanging his head. One hand rubbed his forehead. "I had forgotten what having my thoughts to myself felt like."

"How long have you been under their spells?" Felicity asked.

Cullen's head snapped up, and he again regarded her through narrowed eyes. After a moment, he answered. "I'm… not sure. Since they took over the Tower. They caught a bunch of us… put us in cages and tormented us. I'm the only one left."

Wynne stepped forward. "What did they do with the mages?"

"What, you mean the ones who didn't join them?" The Templar scoffed. "They were rounded up too. He's been turning them into abominations… but then, if you got this far, you already know that."

"What of Irving?" Wynne pressed. "Have you seen the First Enchanter?"

"I haven't seen anyone except what they conjured up to torment me!" he snapped. "And even if I had, what would it matter? Every mage involved in this disaster could be corrupted by now, either a blood mage or possessed!"

"That's not true," the enchanter said with forced calm. "I am not a blood mage, nor am I being controlled by any demon."

"And how would we know that?" The Templar looked her over suspiciously. "That's the insidious thing about blood mages: you can never tell who's made the deal until they stab themselves and make you dance like a marionette."

"There must be some way to tell," Marnan said with a frown.

"No, the only way to defeat the blood mages… to be absolutely sure… is to kill every mage in that chamber."

Gasps sounded from around the party.

"Kill everyone?" Leliana squeaked. "Surely, there must be some uncorrupted! The Maker would never allow-"

"The Maker is the one who bids us to cast those creatures down," Cullen growled. "Magic shall serve man, not the other way around. So spoke Andraste when she cast out the Tevinter magisters, and so must we uphold that law now!"

"You know, I was considering maybe letting you out of this cage," Alistair said. "But now I really can't say I want to."

"You can do that?" Marnan asked.

"Templars are trained to dispel this sort of thing," Alistair said, glaring at Cullen. "Which begs the question of why he hasn't broken out himself… I'm betting they took away his lyrium. Is that why you're so cranky, Cullen: no regular doses of lyrium to take the edge off?"

Cullen returned the glare. "And just what are you supposed to be, then? Some failed Templar who couldn't make it through training?"

"No, much better. I'm a Grey Warden, which means I'm in my full rights to leave you in there to rot, if I think it helps Thedas. And you know what? I'm pretty sure it does."

"Alistair," Felicity chided softly. "Free him."

"Yes, listen to your mistress," Cullen sneered, "like the loyal dog that you are."

Hugo whined in confusion.

"Do I have to, Felicity?" Alistair whined. "He's such an ass."

Despite everything, she smiled. "Yes, Alistair. You have to."

Alistair sighed, but nonetheless bowed his head and put a hand to his forehead. His face relaxed into a meditative expression, and for a moment Percy wondered that he was about to fall asleep.

Then, Alistair pulsed. A blast of energy came out of him, and the barrier fizzled out under it. This left them blinking at a possibly hostile Templar with a grudge against mages in a room with two mages.

Percy found himself relieved, despite that.

"I… didn't really expect you to do it," Cullen admitted carefully. "My mind is my own, and yet… I still thought this might have been a trick."

"Yes, well," Alistair grumbled. "We're just fine upstanding citizens like that."

"You're Grey Wardens, you said. You're looking for an army?" Cullen glanced around at them, his gaze turning to rest on Percy. "If you kill the mages… annul the Tower, we Templars won't have to guard it." Several voices around the room protested, but he rolled right over them. "We will be able to march beside you in full force. No fear of corruption, or blood magic. None of those dangerous magic spells."

"Magic is one of the most important elements of pitching a war against the darkspawn," Marnan protested. "Without their healing and crowd control abilities, we stand no chance at breaking through to the archdemon."

Cullen spun quickly on her. Percy did not miss the sight of Alistair stepping protectively in front of Felicity. "So you'd trust the lives of your army to mages?"

"Yes, I would."

"Have you not seen how easily corruptible they are? The abominations that roamed this tower—that you no doubt had to wade through just to get here—were all once mages. All of whom succumbed to the demons that are drawn to them like moths to flame! The mages can't help but be possessed!"

Percival was reminded of Connor, and he couldn't really argue the point, there. Still, without mages like Felicity, Kazar, and Morrigan, their chances against the darkspawn were decidedly slimmer.

For a moment, he imagined what would happen if a demon dared to approach Morrigan in the Fade. The idea of her disdainful outrage at such a creature, and then prompt brutal destruction of it, gave him a surprising amount of hope for the rest of them.

"And should such mages turn on us," Percival said, "we will slay them accordingly. Until then, they're useful."

"I… see. You will not take my advice." Cullen sighed, looking around at them. "Then perhaps it is best if I remain here, rather than accompanying you into the Harrowing Chamber." He eyed Felicity's dejected form, until Alistair moved to block his view. "No matter how much I'd love to kill that cretin, Uldred… I fear that once I start killing mages, I won't be able to stop."

"Then guard the exit," Percy suggested. "If any of the blood mages escape, be sure to lop their heads off."

Cullen's hand fell to his sword. "That order, I will gladly follow."

They left him there, simmering, and climbed the stairs to the final floor. Felicity was still oddly quiet, but that was understandable.

They walked in on some sort of ritual in progress. A handful of mages were arranged in a circle around the room, their hands magically bound and their forms sparking with magical energy—painful magical energy, judging by how they tossed around. In the middle of the room was a man and a handful of abominations, all clustered around another sparking mage. This man writhed and screamed, until the mage directing the ritual stepped up and grabbed his chin.

"Do you accept the gift that I offer?" he said sternly, as if this wasn't the first time asking the question.

The tortured mage gave the tiniest of nods, and the man let him drop to the ground. The mage lay there, crumpled, while the man and a duo of abominations circled above him. As one, the unholy trio raised their arms and thrust magic into him that seethed with evil even from a distance, and the mage started screaming again.

Percy had to look away for the brightness of the light. The screaming stopped, and Percy turned back to see an abomination climbing to his feet where the mage had been a moment before.

"That," Alistair muttered, "was something I never needed to see."

"It's horrible," Leliana agreed.

The man who had been directing the ritual turned toward them, followed by his trio of abominations. "Ah… look what we have here: intruders," he said silkily. "I bid you welcome. Care to join in our revels?"

"Uldred, how could you?" Wynne said softly.

"Where I come from," Marnan said, stepping forward and addressing the mage, "revels involve more alcohol and less evil magic. They do tend to involve a lot of head smashing, though, if you're interested."

"How very… old-fashioned. I am rather impressed that you're still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants." The grin on the madman's face was so oily, it made Percy yearn for a bath. "Ah, well. They are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence."

If Morrigan had been there, she would likely have hexed him then and there.

"Those were once people, you monster!" Leliana growled in an uncharacteristically hard tone.

"And now they are something better," Uldred replied quickly. "A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your Chantry vilifies us—calls us abominations—when we have truly reached our full potential!"

"Abominations?" Alistair said skeptically. "That's your full potential?"

"Look at them!" Uldred gestured around, at the mages still held captive. "They deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something glorious!"

"You're mad!" Wynne said. "There's nothing glorious about what you've become, Uldred!"

The mage laughed. "Uldred? He is gone. I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am more than he was." He smirked at the elder mage. "I could give you this gift, Wynne. You and all mages. It would be so much easier if you just accepted it."

"Yeah, no," Alistair said. "I think I speak for all of us when I say, 'take your glorious transformation and shove it up your nose'. Then suffocate on it."

The blood mage laughed again. "Such confidence! Do you not realize what you're up against? How much resistance I've already put down? Why, even the First Enchanter couldn't resist me forever." He gestured to one of the mages: one who was old and grey. "Isn't that right, Irving?" The mage shuddered, trapped.

"What have you done to him?" Wynne gasped.

"Stop him…" Irving gasped. "He… is building an army…"

"You're a sly little fox, Irving," Uldred interrupted. "Telling on me like that." He turned back to them with a shrug. "And here I thought he was starting to turn."

"There's still hope," Felicity whispered. "If we bring the First Enchanter back to the Knight-Commander unharmed, we'll be able to stop the Right of Annulment."

Percy whispered under his breath, "Hugo, guard the old man." The hound wagged his tail in understanding.

The man was still talking. "…wander around this tower, knowing you are a pawn of the templars? You are a thorn in my side, and I must remove you before you fester!"

Leliana wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

"I cannot let you leave, but… killing you? Such a waste." He looked around at them all with a sly grin. "Such raw potential, with the strength of demons behind it, would be unstoppable. I can do that. I can give you power, and a new life."

Percy felt temptation tug at him at the mention of a new life… but he would be damned if he would let it come at the hands of a demon. He turned to look at the others. Marnan, Leliana, Wynne, Felicity… no one was taken in by the offer, and Percy had never felt so proud to be a Grey Warden.

Alistair smirked. "Smash him to abominable little pieces?"

"Smash him to abominable little pieces," Marnan agreed.

"I call dibs on the abominations," Percy said, stretching his arms in preparation.

"Fight if you must," Uldred said snidely. "It will just make my victory all the sweeter." He motioned to his abominations, and they needed no more prompting than that.

Percy was true to his word and immediately went in to intercept the abominations that came toward them. A swooping blow from his sword caught two of them across the chests, and he turned to jab at the third, just to get its attention.

There was a roar from Uldred's direction, and, from the corner of his eye, Percy saw the blood mage transform into a Pride Demon. It was far larger and more fearsome than any of the religious texts he'd read growing up could have conveyed. Still, he trusted Alistair and Marnan to hold the demon down… he had to keep these three off the mages.

As he shifted into a defensive stance between the trio of abominations, he could hear Felicity's voice above the din. She recited the Litany continuously, her voice echoing around the chamber.

One of the abominations leapt at his back and latched on, its acrid breath against the back of his neck. He reversed his sword and stabbed back, impaling it, and it shrieked in his ear. He slid to the side as the other two lunged in at him, and he raised his shield. One bounced off, but the other slammed into his sword arm as he was bringing it back around.

He winced as he felt the creature's claws digging through the joints of his armor. He stepped into its grip, elbowing it right in the solar plexus. Its grip loosened, and he swung his sword into one of its arms, slicing it open. The abomination skidded back, and Percy ducked away, raising sword and shield to slam into another of the creatures that came in on him. He parried an arm swipe with his sword, then slid in to plunge his blade deep into the abomination's heart. It collapsed.

That left two, one hunkered over its stabbed stomach and the other with a bleeding arm. Percy wasted no time in circling around the one he'd stabbed. It tried to turn to meet him, but he was too fleet of foot. He pressed his shield against the monster's side to throw it off balance. It tipped a bit, and Percy stabbed its thigh in its weakness. It threw its hands out at him, but a kick to the injured leg sent it sprawling. He plunged his sword into its back, and it fell still.

He turned for the last abomination, only to see it pinned to the floor nearby by an arrow through each foot. He sent Leliana a salute, and started toward it.

Then, the Litany suddenly stopped. "ALISTAIR!"

Percy spun to see what caused such panic in the healer's voice. Alistair was suspended in the air in front of Pride Demon, his head thrown back in a soundless scream. The demon laughed, squeezing his fist together, and Alistair's armor crumpled inward, crushed by an invisible force. Then, Alistair dropped limply to the ground, and the demon turned to the rather startled-looking Marnan.

Percival was already moving in their direction as he heard Wynne call, "Felicity, the Litany!" Stutteringly, Felicity's voice resumed its chant, though there was a tight, worried undercurrent to it now.

Percy reached the Pride Demon as it was encasing the dwarf's feet in frost. Marnan fought valiantly, but only got one leg free before it batted her across the room like a rejected toy.

What arrogance this demon exuded! Percy found that pit of rage burning in him and stoked it, mustering his anger until the heat suffused his limbs. He stabbed his sword into its lower back, and the demon hissed and spun on him. He danced back from the mighty swipe, pushing the arm away with his shield so he could jab into the creature's thigh.

It laughed, and he growled. He felt a blast of fire hit him straight on, but the burning on his skin was nothing compared to that inside him. He growled again and plunged into the blast. The demon howled as his sword impaled its hand clean through.

The demon raised its impaled hand, and Percy, strengthened by his anger, gripped the hand with sword and shield and went up in the air with it. He swung his legs up and kicked the demon full-force in the face. It roared again and flung him away.

He landed roughly against the stone, his left shoulder jarring and making an unnerving popping noise. It dangled uselessly as he shoved himself to his feet, and the pulsing pain from it served to cover everything in a red haze.

With a growl, he let his shield drop to the floor and charged the demon again. He barely registered that Marnan was back to swiping at it with her axe, looking none the worse for wear—having two healers did seem to have its benefits.

His vision red, he slid right through the gigantic monster's legs, cutting its belly open from below. It raised a leg to stomp on him, but stone wrapped around the elevated leg, petrifying it. A spell bolt and an arrow hit it in the back in quick succession.

Marnan swept her axe into the frozen leg, tearing it open to the bone, and Percy slashed at its chest. The demon's arms flailed, and fire burst from the creature. Both melee fighters were tossed aside… which was just as well, because a flurry of spells came at it from all directions.

The Litany rang through the air, and Percy could see the mages around the room bursting free of their prisons. One by one, each threw the most destructive spell they knew at the abomination, lighting up the room with lightning, light, fire, and all manner of other things that Percy could not comprehend. The Pride Demon screamed, giant patches of its body smoking under the assault.

A final arrow from Leliana pierced its heart and the demon's form twisted in a fiery swirl of smoke and ash. It fell to its knees in the cloud, and when the haze lifted, Uldred's body was all that was left.

"Alistair!" Felicity ran across the chamber to where the ex-Templar had crumpled. Her hands shoved a series of healing spells into him. Too panicked to think it through, apparently.

Marnan, who had some sense, knelt on Alistair's other side and started working his crushed armor off, because no amount of healing was going to help if the man couldn't breathe properly.

Percy was startled when he felt something touching his shoulder. He vision flashed red and he spun on his attacker… only to see Wynne, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

"Your shoulder appears to be dislocated. Might I set it, or are you determined to walk around with it like that for the rest of the day?"

He forced down his rage and wrapped himself in calm again. "I… yes. Thank you, that would be appreciated."

She tutted and bent to inspect the shoulder. "Such manners, now of all times? I must say you are a most strange young man." She gently touched the shoulder, and he hid a wince. "I will reset it now. This will likely hurt."

It did, although her healing magic dulled the pain quickly, at least.

"Fe-Felicity?" Alistair's voice wheezed. The man was awake, it seemed. He was still a limp puddle on the ground, though now the healer had his head in her lap. The look they were sharing was so intensely private that Percy looked away.

Instead, he followed Wynne as the older woman moved toward the First Enchanter. The man sat on the floor, breathing hard. Hugo licked the mage's face encouragingly.

This 'Irving' looked up at them wryly as they approached. "Maker, I'm too old for this."

"Irving, I'm glad you made it," Wynne said. Percy reached out his non-throbbing arm and helped the old man to his feet.

"For a while there," the old man said, "I feared we might not." Voices rose nearby in agreement: the other mages scattered throughout the chamber. "Thank you, Wynne. And the rest of you." Irving turned a curious look on Percy. "To what do we owe this timely rescue?"

"We're Grey Wardens," Percy explained, glancing around the chamber. The other mages were picking themselves up and checking one another over. Leliana was, of all things, picking through the corpses, while Marnan resolutely ignored her scavenging and studied the downed abomination. And Alistair and Felicity were speaking quietly to one another, quaint little smiles on their faces. Maker, virgins. He turned his attention back to Irving. "We were hoping to recruit aid against the Blight, but, obviously, it didn't go as planned."

"No, I suppose it did not, and for that, we owe you our lives."

"That you do."

Marnan cast him a raised eyebrow as she stepped up beside them. "How many mages survived, do you think?"

Irving and Wynne exchanged thin glances. At last, Wynne said, "Other than the ones in this room, and the survivors down on the first floor, there will also be a few out around Ferelden, pursuing their research and such. Only some of those would be suitable for combat."

"Still," Irving added with confidence, "even a few mages can turn the tide of battle. We will help you fight the darkspawn however we can. It's the least we can do."

Marnan nodded her thanks, always diplomatic. "It is all we can ask."

Percy thought this a good time to break in. "There is one… other matter."

"Yes?"

"You are not the only ones who have had some difficulty with abominations. There is a matter concerning the Arl of Redcliffe that needs raw lyrium. Apparently, his young son is an untrained mage who somehow managed to attract a demon. Now, the entire village is besieged by undead."

"Oh dear," Irving said. "Yes, I can see how that could have happened, if the boy was untrained. How would lyrium help, precisely?"

"Blood magic," Alistair's voice wheezed darkly. He joined the conversation, slung between Felicity and Leliana with an arm around each woman's shoulders.

"There's a malificar at Redcliffe who was attempting to teach the boy," Percy elaborated. "And failing, apparently. He suggested a ritual that can send someone to the Fade."

"Yes, I see," Irving said. "To confront the demon directly. That could work. But to use blood magic…"

"It's either that, or kill the boy," Alistair said. "I just… can't do that. Not when he was just trying to protect Eamon."

Everyone but Percy looked confused by that.

"I think…" Wynne said gently, starting for the door. The rest of them followed. "…that you two had better start from the beginning. You can fill us in during our trip."

Chapter Text

He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't come back here. Yet… here he was. Ankle-deep in multiple kinds of refuse, smelling the stink of tunnels too tight and too populated, and staring at a scum-encrusted doorway he'd sworn he'd walked away from forever.

"You are unnerved," Sten observed.

Was that the word for it? Garott wasn't sure. He'd come here on some gut-wrenching impulse, despite the fact that he knew it was a bad idea. He was starting to make rash decisions based more on instinct than calculation, apparently—maybe it was a Grey Warden thing.

"Promise me one thing, Sten. If things get… messy, don't kill anyone."

"You are telling me not to fight for our defense?" The Qunari sounded miffed. "Why?" He'd been doing that more and more lately... questioning him. It was almost enough to make a guy feel inadequate.

"Let's just say I'd rather you didn't decapitate my mother."

"I see." The giant paused. "I do not understand the pointless importance you southerners put on kin ties. If she is worthy of being decapitated, why not let it be so?"

"It's a respect thing, Sten. This woman raised me and Rica on scraps... somehow between all the drinking, anyway."

"You do not sound respectful."

"Yeah, go figure. Just... don't kill her, okay?"

Sten seemed to mull that over, then sighed. "Very well." It was low, as if it were against his better judgment. The dwarf was half on-board with that sentiment.

Garott nodded his thanks and waded through the muck, opening the door without preamble.

The two-room shack was warm, at least, with the hearth lit. Even so, Garott had forgotten what a rotten pisshole the place was. After staying places like the Spoiled Princess and an upper-end inn on the edge of the Diamond Quarter (gratis for the financially-conscious Grey Warden, of course), he couldn't imagine living in this dungpile. Old trash littered the floor, and the walls were stained with decades of filth. It carried the same stink as the rest of Dust Town, with the addition of one particular sharp tang that Garott had gotten to know very well growing up.

"Sodding Stone, girl!" slurred a voice from the back room, where Garott knew the beds were. "I've told you time an' again not to come sloppin' through Dust Town. Those boots are too damn nice to-"

The voice fell silent as its owner stepped through the doorway. Kalah's hair was the same scraggly red mess, her face brand stark against her splotchy skin. Her bloodshot eyes narrowed at the sight of him.

"I don't think my boots are in any danger of getting worse," Garott said. "Darkspawn blood stains pretty damn bad."

"Don't you sass me, boy," his mother snapped. She stalked across the hut and backhanded him. Garott felt Sten tense up behind him, but the Qunari was as good as his word. "Who do you think you are, waltzing back through the slums like you own the place? How long you been back, huh? Days! Days an' you don't even visit your own mother, you ungrateful whelp! I hadda hear that you were in Orzammar from Alimar!"

This had been a bad idea. He'd known this had been a bad idea. Why had he come, again?

Garott took a breath, schooling his face into neutrality. "I had business in-"

"Don't feed me that slop, you little wretch! You were down here just yesterday, pokin' your nose in Carta business, 'cause you just can't leave anything alone. And now what we got down here to keep us afloat, huh? Am I supposed to go back to cleanin' chimneys?"

Despite himself, Garott felt anger stir in him, along with something else that felt an awful lot like grief. "I killed Leske yesterday."

"An' it's all about you, ain't it? You just had to have your revenge, an' now all us Dusters are gonna starve, because you went and slaughtered the only thing that made us matter!"

"We never mattered!" Garott rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it came out as a vicious roar. Even Kalah, in her drunken rage, flinched back. "Those people up there? They never cared about us; they're too busy living in their shiny little worlds to give a shit about the dusters… the only reason any of 'em ever cared about the Carta is because it dipped into their own profits. If that's all dusters had going for 'em, then maybe it's better I slaughtered 'em!"

"Why you…"

"We can be so much more! We can be craftsmen, and fighters, and… sodding paragons, if we work at it! We just have to get the chance!"

Kalah was staring at him like he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had. Once, the words coming out of his mouth would have felt like idealistic drivel, except now they felt sodding true.

"That's what I've been doing since I got back. Bhelen claims he's gonna change our lot if he gets put on the throne… let us in the army, make us respectable. I don't know if he intends to keep his word, but I'm gonna sodding make him keep it."

Kalah let out a bitter, dry laugh. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I do," he growled back. The insanity that had infused him was fading, leaving him simply tired with dealing with all of it. He turned and started toward the door. Sten even ducked down and held it open for him.

"Don't you turn your back on me!"

"Go sleep it off, old lady. Next time you see me, the world'll have one less archdemon."

Chapter Text

Night over Redcliffe was beautiful in its own way, she supposed. The lake shimmered in the darkness, and the lanterns across the village below flickered with a sort of charm not unlike fireflies. She could not get used to the blocky stone, though, nor the presence of so many shemlen.

Humans, Meila chided herself. Humans. If one of them had the nobility to give her own life for kin and clan, it was the least Meila could do to respect them for that capacity.

She perched on a small bridge between the castle and the town, the waterfall above her sending soothing sprays across her back as she looked out over the village and the lake. The white wolf sat beside her, and she wondered what it saw as it looked over the village. Territory? A rival pack? What could a white wolf that may or may not have been Witherfang possibly think of these strange situations?

Meila did not think it her place to pry, even if she thought she could. It was enough, for her, that the wolf continued to deem them worthy of protection. If that protection did not extend to the interiors of stone buildings, she couldn't say she blamed the noble beast. The only reason she herself tolerated such places was because they were so dear to her lethallinen.

And there was one of them now. Her eyes narrowed as she heard his voice, and she leaned over the bridge banister to try to catch sight of him. Sure enough, he and the din'tu-samahl—the laughing killer—were hopping between the rooftops below. Tonight, it seemed they were engaged in a game of agility.

Finian's figure leapt lightly across a gap in the rooftops, and he slid down to the eaves before he caught himself, laughing. The assassin followed suit, his voice low and purring—probably saying something deliberately provocative.

Meila did not trust the assassin. She did not trust his too-easy laugh. She did not trust his quiet way of walking. And she especially did not trust the way he clung onto Finian like a wolf guarding its meal. If Finian himself were not so adamant about the usefulness of such a being, Meila and Kazar both would have killed the man days ago.

Then again, the young mage was another concern of hers. Ever since the mage's trip to the Fade the previous night, Kazar had been acting strangely. He was jumpy and snappish, more prickly and prone to temper than usual. Yet, at the same time, there was a strange shine in his eyes. As if the boy were immensely satisfied with something.

Any questions, of course, were immediately met with a flare of temper. Jowan had nearly lost his hair because of that. Still, Jowan was proving exceptionally adept at soothing the younger mage's temper... a skill, it seemed, that had been honed over many years of practice.

The blood mage was another perplexing puzzle. Meila had been given to understand that all blood mages were like Zathrian… scheming and twisted by their magics. Yet Jowan was… not. He was bumbling and, if anything, too gentle, to the point of being gullible. He had poisoned Eamon, true, but because he had been tricked with promises of civic duty and return to a quiet life in a gilded cage.

The assassin teased the blood mage incessantly about being tricked into working for the 'obvious villain.' However, it was obvious the assassin did not believe in such labels himself: it was clear to her that this Zevran Arainai's morality was strictly based on personal gain.

She heard the pair approaching now, and smoothly slipped off the bridge, secreting herself in the recess under it. Fang silently followed suit.

"…so I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning."

Finian's laughter rang through the night. "And she didn't try to kill you?"

"Well, yes. Twice, actually," the assassin said gaily. "Then she decided to try and use me instead."

Two sets of light leather boots passed above her, and then continued on up toward the castle. She waited for a moment, then climbed back up to the path and silently fell into step some distance behind them.

"The woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf… what can I say? I was young and foolish at the time. Then, as I was kissing her goodbye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck." The assassin's shoulders rose in a shrug. "Shame, really, but at least it happened quickly."

"So… you didn't actually kill her." Meila was alarmed to hear only amusement in Fin's voice, not chastisement.

"Not as such, no. Ah, but as it turned out this was a stroke of luck on my part. I later found out she had told the driver to take her to Genellan Island instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows." They passed through the portcullis into the castle, and Meila stopped underneath it, slipping into a shadow. "As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play, and everyone was happier all around."

"Another stunning victory for the the great Zevran Arainai," Fin laughed. "Does that sort of thing happen a lot?"

"You mean being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps me escape from the Crows?" The assassin elbowed the pickpocket playfully, and Fin laughed again. "Yes, it does seem to happen now and again, doesn't it?" The pair stopped walking outside the castle side entrance that both seemed to favor over the main one. Apparently, neither wanted to go inside just yet. "It was after that when I learned that one needn't let a pretty face go to one's head. Professionalism is key. That's my moral of the day, you see."

"Right, you're nothing if not professional," Fin deadpanned.

"Ah, what can I say…" The assassin leaned close to Finian, and Meila frowned. "…I am known to break my own morals, from time to time. Then again, this exception to the rule did not come easily; you did have to capture me and tie me up first." He leaned in closer, so that Meila could barely see his grin. "Now that I've mentioned tying me up in that context, do we have any extra rope about?"

Finian stepped back quickly, though his face showed nothing but amusement. "I'd better get inside. You know how the others worry about you corrupting me."

"And with good reason… I would indeed enjoy corrupting you. Sleep well, my dear Warden. I know I will, with dreams full of you!"

Finian laughed once more and ducked into the side entrance. Once it shut, the assassin let out a dark chuckle and stretched like a cat.

"It is not polite, you know, to eavesdrop on private conversations," the assassin purred to the night sky. "Though I admit, I do not see why he seems so interested in my various adventures. I would hardly accuse you of the same, my beautiful Dalish maiden."

Seeing no point in hiding from a quarry who knew she was there, she stalked forward. He didn't even flinch as she grabbed him by the front of his vest and pressed her hunting knife to his throat… even then, he wore that same crooked grin.

"Ah, this is the part where you demand to know my intentions with your fellow Warden, yes?"

"I know perfectly well what you intend," Meila informed him. "You claim you spent a short time among the Dalish, so you know how important kin are to us." She leaned in threateningly. "I consider Finian to be my kin. If you hurt him, in any way, I will hunt you with such singlemindedness that you will throw yourself at your Crows just to escape me."

She didn't let him answer, swiping a thin line of blood pointedly across his throat. He still didn't flinch, but the smile did drop off his face. His eyes were half-lidded, calculating, as she walked away.

Chapter Text

Wynne wasn't entirely sure why she requested Irving's permission to go with the Wardens. Perhaps it was her maternal instincts kicking in, that she worried for the young people. Perhaps it was because she had missed Miss Amell, one of her protégées, in the past months. Perhaps it was her wish to do something important and right before she crossed the Veil.

Whatever it was, she now found herself standing on the deck of a ferryboat crossing Lake Calenhad, watching the distant silhouette of Redcliffe Castle draw nearer and nearer. The afternoon sun felt unusually bright after so many days in the darkness of the Circle Tower, and the early summer wind was brisk and warm on her skin.

She sipped the tea Felicity had brewed, smiling as she noted the presence of certain calming herbs in the mix. It was so like the dear girl, to worry that she might be anxious, when it was the Wardens who should, by all rights, be nervous wrecks.

It would only be an hour or so now before they arrived; after nearly a day on the boat, they would no doubt be happy to see land again.

And here was one now who would be particularly happy to see land, stumbling across the deck to cling to the side. The poor dwarf retched once again, and Wynne politely averted her eyes until she was done.

"Ancestors…" Marnan mumbled dryly. "And I used to think having no land above me was unnerving."

Wynne hummed and walked over to the dwarf. She laid her free hand on the woman's back and sent her a bit of healing magic to settle her stomach. The mage also offered her cup of tea, which Marnan politely waved away.

"Thank you," Marnan sighed. She turned and leaned back against the railing, still a bit green. "Where does all this water come from, anyway? Does it all fall from the sky?"

Wynne chuckled. "That is part of it, yes."

"We have lakes underground, of course. Springs, and streams from runoff. But it's always from up above… from the surface. I never wondered where it came from before the surface. At some point, you have to run out of 'up.'"

Wynne leaned against the railing next to her. "There is a philosophy in there somewhere, I think."

"If there is, I'm too damned tired to think of it." Marnan closed her eyes against the sun. "The first thing I'm going to do when I get solid ground under me again is fall asleep on the nearest bed. Or cot. Or large domestic animal. As long as it is soft, I will not care."

"Your stomach bothered you last night? I thought Felicity provided you with a potion to soothe it."

"She did. But she should have provided Leliana with a sleeping potion. Sharing cabin space with a bard is not advisable for those who would rather rest than hear tales from far-off lands all night."

"Ah, I see," Wynne said, trying to stay appropriately solemn.

Marnan angled a shallow smile at her. "Oh, go ahead and laugh. Someone should."

"I apologize, Marnan," she chuckled. "I mean no disrespect."

"I know. I suppose it is better that than listening to Felicity scribble into her codex all night. At least Leliana's stories are interesting."

Wynne chuckled again, because she was the one who had shared cabin space with the younger mage. "I admit, being old does have its advantages. One of those is falling asleep easily, despite incessant quill scratching."

"If only we could all be so fortunate," Marnan sighed with a half laugh. She fell silent and leaned back against the balustrade, and Wynne resumed her watch. The castle was closer now. Not much longer.

What she did not have the heart, nor the right, to mention was the fact that Felicity had done more the night before than write in her book (though, yes, there was a good deal of that... Wynne should have expected the girl would take to documenting her travels once she was out of the Tower). As it happened, Wynne had awakened in the wee hours of the morning to hear the girl stifling tears into her pillow.

Felicity did not seem to want anyone else to know, however, even Wynne. This was a surprise to the enchanter, who was used to the younger mage storming into her chambers at the slightest upset and venting until Wynne had relented and agreed to help remedy whatever had upset her. Then again, even Wynne had no cure for what affected the girl now.

Wynne did not think it wise for Felicity to bottle herself up as she apparently had been, and the enchanter had to remind herself not to meddle overmuch. She had pushed one apprentice away by being too overbearing; she could not do so again.

"AAAEEEEE!"

Marnan and Wynne both jumped as a shriek rent the air, followed by the thundering tread of heavy steps coming from belowdecks. A moment later, Alistair burst out onto the deck, laughing and clutching a sheet of paper in his hand.

"Alistair, give it back!" Felicity followed four steps behind, her face blushing darkly. Oh dear.

Alistair crossed straight to the balustrade next to Wynne, holding the sheet of paper out at arm's length over the water. "No need to be embarrassed! I think it makes me look quite dashing!"

Felicity leaned against the rail next to him, trying to snatch the paper back, but her reach was no match for his. "It's an… anatomical study! Purely academic!"

"Which is why you were academically hiding it under your pillow," Alistair laughed, winking at Wynne and Marnan.

Leliana and Percival could be seen peeking up the stairs from belowdecks. The bard giggled knowingly, while young Lord Cousland merely rolled his eyes and disappeared again.

Wynne had been rather surprised to see the obvious chemistry between her protegee and this young Warden man… almost as surprised as she had been to learn about the girl's brief fling with Cullen. Whether with a Templar or a Warden, Felicity had always seemed to be a relatively asexual girl, especially compared to the notoriously insatiable appetites of certain other mages around the Tower. To learn that she had carried a brief affair, no matter how trivial, with a Templar… and that Wynne had never suspected… well, it indicated that Felicity was perhaps a great deal better at secrecy than she would have given the girl credit for.

This Alistair, though… he was a good enough boy, that much was obvious. But it was also obvious that this was distracting them, as evidenced by Felicity's difficulty with the Litany after the boy had been injured. Such distractions were dangerous in Grey Wardens. Certainly, Felicity was smart enough to see that, and that was why it hadn't gotten any farther than these flirtations.

On top of that, Felicity's apparent fixation on Templars was rather worrying. Wynne would so hate to see the girl make the same mistakes that she had. Perhaps that, if it progressed, would be worth some meddling.

"What is it?" Marnan asked her fellow Wardens slowly, as if against her better judgment.

"Well, remember yesterday, Marnan," Alistair sang, "when we were practicing our weapons out on deck?"

"Yes, of course."

"You remember that it was warm out here, so I had my shirt off?"

"Right. You and Percival both."

"And you remember Felicity, scribbling at what we thought was just another codex page?"

"I… think I see where this is going."

Felicity stopped trying to grab the paper with a huff, her skin dark with a very telling blush. "It was a motion study. In the future, it will help me to learn more precisely where the muscles are located during active poses, for more efficient healing mid-battle."

"Right," Alistair chuckled. "That's why they're all of me, and none of Percy."

"Well… I… but… just give it back!"

He laughed but relented and handed her the paper, and Felicity stalked off in a huff.

Even as the door belowdecks slammed shut behind her, he didn't stop grinning. "Is it bad that I think she's adorable even when she's angry? How hopeless is that, on a scale of one to ten?"

"About a six, I think." Marnan arched an eyebrow. "Realized it, have you?"

"In the Fade, yeah." He turned to face them, leaning against the railing. Today, he was dressed in comfortable travel clothes, like most of them, rather than his borrowed Templar armor (the only full set of armor available, after his previous suit had been crushed). It was easy to forget how large the boy was, when he wore armor, but it was hard to deny it in a simple tunic and breeches. "But after that whole Cullen thing… I don't really have the courage to tell her."

"That doesn't stop you from teasing her, I see," Wynne chided gently.

"I can't help it. I'm weak. And bored. And she's really pretty."

"And here I thought most boys grew out of pulling pigtails," Wynne said thoughtfully.

"Alistair is very much a child at heart," Marnan said.

"Hey! I am right here, you know!"

Both women laughed. Wynne glanced across the lake and saw that the village docks were in sight. It would only be a matter of minutes, now. "It looks like we shall be arriving soon. I shall go see if I can't stir the other three to gather their things… and perhaps I shall smooth over a certain girl's temper while I'm at it?"

Alistair gave her a pair of puppy eyes. "Yes please."

Shaking her head, she went below deck to fetch the other three. Sure enough, they did arrive within ten minutes, and everyone was relieved to be on solid ground again, judging by the groans and sighs as they disembarked. Even the dog bounded around the dock happily.

"Well, this place looks much better," Alistair said, hefting the sack of lyrium dust they'd managed to collect from the caves under the Tower. He looked around the bustling village with a smile.

Percival, on the other hand, frowned (though that was hardly a change from usual). "A bit too much better… where are the barricades?"

"Took 'em down," said one of the dockworkers who was helping them tie off the ferry. He smiled at the Wardens. "Don't need 'em anymore, now the shamblers are gone for good."

Both men paled, and Wynne could guess, judging by the story they'd told the women, why they were worried. "What do you mean," Alistair said slowly, "by 'gone for good'?"

The dockworker shrugged. "They were gone for a bit, right? When the first Wardens came by? But then they came back. It wasn't until the second group of Wardens went up to the castle that they stopped altogether."

The Wardens exchanged glances.

"What second group?" Percival asked in a low voice.

"I dunno. Bunch of elves. They're staying up at the castle, though they'll come down to town every once in a while. Just look for an armed elf, and safe bet that's a Warden."

"Thank you for telling us," Marnan said diplomatically. "That's good to hear."

The dockworker saluted and wandered off.

The group immediately huddled up, and Alistair snapped out, "Kazar, that little twerp! He performed the ritual, I just know it!"

Wynne had known that Kazar Surana had been recruited to the order alongside Felicity, but she hadn't expected quite this hostility from a fellow Warden. "Alistair," the enchanter chided. "Calm down."

"Calm down?! Are you joking?! He would have had to kill someone, Wynne! Unless the Dalish elves suddenly have huge stores of lyrium lying about!"

"We should wait until we hear his side, no?" Leliana said. "Finian never would have let him hurt anyone needlessly. Not without reason."

Marnan snorted a laugh. "Keep in mind you speak of the man who talked a group of highwaymen into walking to their own deaths."

"…I still would have liked to see that."

What? Wynne tried to detect whether Marnan was joking, but could detect no humor in her tone.

"Whatever happened," Percival said in a low voice, "standing here arguing about it isn't going to help. Let's go up to the castle and check out the situation there."

"Since when are you the practical one?" Alistair grumped. Nonetheless, he followed as Percy started up to the castle, and the rest trailed behind them with their travel loads.

Wynne ran an assessing gaze over the villagers as they passed. The town had the feel of a place at the beginning stages of rebuilding: with the remains of chaos being picked through and cleared bit by bit. According to the boys, the village had been under siege. It was good to see the town in good spirits after such disaster… though she did see a couple long faces.

They walked up a long hill, and Wynne was soon digging her staff into the ground just to keep up with the young people. At one point, Marnan offered to take her bag; Wynne hesitated, but then accepted, because there was really no point in wearing herself out and slowing all of them down.

As they passed a windmill, Hugo sniffed a tree and started growling. This made Percival stop and, since he was in the lead, the rest followed suit.

"What is it, boy?"

The dog turned up the path and barked.

A white wolf rounded the corner in the cliff-side path ahead of them, its ears pricked. When it saw Hugo, it lowered its head and growled in return

"Oh goody," Alistair groaned. "A welcoming party. What do you want to bet there's more of them just around the corner, ready to eat us?"

A familiar elf stepped out behind the wolf. "Actually, no. No one is eating anyone." She knelt down beside the wolf, and whispered to it, rubbing the scruff of its neck. Slowly, the hostility left the wolf's stance.

Out of habit, Wynne ran an assessing eye over Meila Mahariel. The girl had made a miraculous recovery indeed, showing no sign whatsoever of having carried the Taint for so long, when most people who survived it at least had lesions and growths.

"Meila!" Felicity cried, and Wynne was rather startled when the girl ran up the hill and enveloped the other in a hug. From the look on the elf's face, Meila was equally surprised.

This broke the ice, and the rest of them climbed the hill in lighter spirits, obviously happy to see their fellow. All except the dog, who hung his head and followed Percival reluctantly.

"You look well," Marnan said as they pulled up beside her. "Is it just me or do I see a few more beads in your hair?"

"Yes, you do."

"You have a wolf now?" Alistair looked quizzically at the animal. "Where did you get a wolf?"

"In the forest, I would assume," Percival said flatly. "Hugo, play nice." The mabari whined uncertainly. "Just because the wolf marked your territory doesn't mean you can glare at him like that." The dog gave a short 'woof' and Wynne swore it was practically a conversation. Mabari were intelligent, reportedly, but could they really be that smart?

"This is Fang," Meila said, extricating herself from Felicity's hug with obvious discomfort over the gesture. It was a wonder that she tolerated it. "He is not a pet; he is a friend. We helped him and his pack in the Brecilian Forest, and so now he helps us."

Alistair stared. "You… helped a pack of wolves."

"It is a long story." Her eyes fell on Wynne. The girl's jaw hardened and she stepped forward, and Wynne braced herself, unsure what the proud Dalish elf had in mind.

To her surprise, Meila bowed her head. "I never thanked you, hahren, for what you did for me. You saved my life at Ostagar, and for that I can never hope to repay you."

Wynne smiled, even as everyone else stared at the elf in shock. "I need no thanks; we should all be so lucky as to help the Grey Wardens. All the same, your thanks are appreciated."

Meila nodded sharply and turned away… perhaps uncomfortable. The rest of the Wardens watched her with wide eyes and slack jaws. "What is it?"

"Who…" Alistair sputtered. "Who are you, and what did you do to the stand-offish Dalish elf we all knew and were kind of afraid of?"

Meila stiffened, her expression going stony. "You would prefer I go back to calling you all shemlen and running off into the forest alone?"

"No no. This is good. Forget I said anything."

"How were the Dalish?" Leliana asked, and the elven woman stiffened further. The gaze she leveled at the bard was cool. "Was it much different from your own clan?"

"…yes. A bit. But it was not a bad difference; it gave us a chance to share our different songs and stories amongst ourselves, and both with Finian and Kazar."

"Somehow, I can't really imagine Kazar singing along with the Dalish," Alistair snorted.

"He did. He has quite a good singing voice, as a matter of fact."

Wynne wasn't the only one to chuckle as Alistair's mouth dropped. "Yes, the Circle Tower does try to teach basic pitch and tone. To protect the Templars' hearing, as I understand it, since they're the ones who have to listen to us in the baths."

Marnan cast her a worried look. "They even watch you in the baths?"

"It's not nearly so bad as that," Felicity said quickly. "They merely stand outside the door. You do have to be quick, though… if you take more than three minutes to wash, they assume you're practicing blood magic and bang down the door." Felicity rolled her eyes. "Maker forbid you run out of soap and have to ask them to fetch more."

"Although," Percival said grimly, "their paranoia does make sense, given recent events. Uldred and the others had to practice their craft somewhere."

The Wardens fell silent at that, thinking for a moment.

Alistair turned to the elf. "Meila, what happened here? Did Kazar do the blood magic ritual?"

She eyed him a moment before answering. "He did, yes."

"That little son of-"

"Alistair," Felicity sighed.

"I do not understand," Meila said. "Why is this a bad thing? Was it not preferable to exterminate the demon as soon as possible?"

"Not if someone had to die," Alistair said through gritted teeth.

"People were dying anyway," Meila said flatly. "Every night, those things came down to attack the town. Many people died. If we had to take one life, freely given, to stop the deaths of many, then it was a necessary sacrifice, for the good of the community."

"So the undead were coming down every night?" Marnan sighed. "That's why you did the ritual?"

"Who was sacrificed?" Percival said very softly, though it was apparent by his clenched fists that his calm was very fragile. "Was it Lady Isolde?"

"Yes."

Alistair cursed, and Percy abruptly turned and walked three steps away, breathing deeply.

"I can't..." Alistair sputtered. "I can't believe this! How could you guys do this? Why?!"

"I do not understand the question," Meila said. "I just told you why."

"He's just upset," Felicity said softly to the elf.

"Just?! I'm not just upset!" He turned toward Felicity, but didn't seem to have the heart to yell at her, so he spun on Meila instead. "I'm really, really, really upset! And pissed off! We had a plan!"

"And so did we," Meila said stiffly, meeting him glare-for-glare. "I understand the mother's death was not ideal-"

"Not ideal?!" Alistair snapped. "Now you look here; just because she's human doesn't mean that she d-"

Meila had a hunting knife out and at Alistair's throat in a flash, and now, instead of stiff and stoic, she looked livid. "How dare you imply such a thing, alas. That woman's sacrifice was one of the most noble things I've seen any of your kind do, and I will not have you belittling it, nor me, by implying that we allowed it out of hatred."

"We?" Percival's voice asked softly. He was still turned away from them, his stance a picture of tension.

"All three of us agreed that it was the best path." Meila stepped back stifly and put her knife away.

"Still, it is very sad," Leliana said, "for the boy to lose his mother in such a way. Because of his own actions, even."

Alistair took a shaky breath and dropped his head into his hands. "Eamon's never going to forgive us."

"Is Bann Teagan still in charge?" Percival asked, turning back to the group. Meila nodded, and the group started moving again, this time with Meila and the wolf in tow. The atmosphere between them was very wrought.

"This Connor…" Wynne said reluctantly, breaking the tense silence. "Now that the demon is taken care of, he will need to be transferred to the Tower as soon as possible."

"Perhaps we should wait until his father is awake first, no?" Leliana said. "So that he at least has a chance to say goodbye."

Wynne frowned, unsure that was wise, but the others nodded, and it was not her place to tell all of them what was right and wrong. No matter how much she may have wanted to.

They climbed the hill to a grand stone castle, the courtyard alive with militiamen and knights running through their paces. The white wolf broke away from them at this point, disappearing into the woods by the castle. Up a staircase and through a doorway, they entered into a throne room that was depressingly marked by bloodstains and empty of anyone who might guide them. Here, the path branched off, and the Wardens paused uncertainly.

"Where do you suppose everyone is?" Marnan asked.

Percy turned to his hound. "Hugo, find Fin." The dog barked happily and jetted off. He led them through another hall with more doors, and paused at a closed one opposite them. There, the dog sat and barked again.

A moment later, a grinning elven face poked out. "Hugo!" The mabari tackled the elf to the ground, laying sloppy kisses all over the elf's laughing face.

Wynne had seen the young man before, but only in passing. He had poked his head in while she was treating Meila at Ostagar, asking after her recovery. He seemed a nice enough boy, though she didn't know him nearly as well as she did the other two elven Wardens.

"Finian, is that a Dalish lyre?" Leliana said excitedly, breaking the silence as if it had never been.

"Yeah," the elf replied from under the dog. "I was hoping you could… blegh, Hugo!... teach me how to play it… C'mon, gettoff… maybe?"

The bard grinned. "Of course!"

The door Finian had come through opened wider, revealing what appeared to be an office beyond it. Several men stood around a desk inside it, including a man in knight's armor, a man in chainmail, and another elf.

The man in chainmail stepped out with a broad smile. "Ah, Alistair, you've finally returned! You were taking so long, we were worried you'd run into trouble."

"Yeah, Teagan, funny story… we did."

"You'll have to tell me some other time. For now, come in! You're just in time for Ser Donall's report on the Sacred Ashes!"

"You've found them?" Leliana gasped in awe, and Wynne was very confused. She had heard nothing about the sacred artifact until now… at least not as the Urn pertained to the Wardens.

"No, no. But we may have made some progress."

They were ushered into the little room, which swiftly became cramped with all of them packed in. The man in knight's armor, who introduced himself as Ser Donall, explained that he had heard the Chantry scholar, Ferdinand Genitivi, was currently researching it.

This, as Wynne expected, elicited an excited gasp from Felicity. "Brother Genitivi? The Brother Genitivi? Oh, I've read all of his books; he's the Chantry's foremost scholar in the current Age. Where is he? Is he here?"

Ser Donall laughed. "No, last I heard, he was residing in Denerim. Sounds like as good a place to start as any."

Felicity turned to Finian. "You're from Denerim, right? Do you know where he lives? Have you ever seen him? Would he mind if we stopped by?"

Finian gave her a baffled look. "Felicity, I'm an elf. In Denerim, elves and famous Chantry scholars don't tend to link arms and take strolls down the boardwalk." He shrugged. "Though I suppose I could help ask around."

Wynne smiled and laid a hand on the younger mage's shoulder to calm her. "All in time, dear." Still, it was good to hear the girl excited about something again. "What's this about the Urn of Sacred Ashes, now?"

"Arl Eamon's sick," Finian began.

"You mean he was poisoned," Alistair growled.

"Right." The elf didn't miss a beat. "Thing is, nothing works to cure him. So, the Guerrin household figures, if they're stuck praying for miracles, why not help it along a little?"

Wynne hummed in thought. "Well, that certainly is a good thought. But I am not unfamiliar with curative mixtures myself. Perhaps I might try my hand at curing your arl?"

There was a low chuckle from near the wall, where the other elf leaned against it and watched them with dancing eyes. "Trust me: no amount of healing herbs will be able to cure that poison." The elf spoke in an Antivan accent. "It is a rather ingenius mixture, actually. A little nightshade, a drop of asp poison, a good dollop of sleeping potion… well, I dare not reveal the entire recipe—trade secret, you understand—but rest assured it is quite complex. It is also obviously made with the express purpose of not being curable, should your amateur assassin have been discovered. Which he was." The man chuckled again. "Considering how little expense your Teyrn Loghain took in finding the vessel to carry out the assassination, the poison itself would have been excessively expensive. I'm rather insulted none of us were hired for the job."

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Wynne, for her part, was wondering whether she could take this man's word that healing magic would do no good for the arl.

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "And just who are you supposed to be?"

"Ah, my apologies. It is very rude of me not to introduce myself." The elf pushed off from the wall and swept a deep bow. "I am Zevran Arainai of the Crows of Antiva."

Alarm bells immediately tolled in Wynne's head, and she abruptly pushed any of the children near her away from the dangerous man.

"You're an assassin," Leliana said, with far less horror and far more fascination than Wynne would have liked. Really, now.

"Well, yes, that goes without saying." The man's smile remained bright, and Wynne was disturbed to see how their fear and hatred amused him. "As a matter of fact, I was hired by your Teyrn Loghain to murder you all. Don't worry… I probably won't do it."

A number of weapons left their respective holsters and sheaths, and the assassin's grin didn't fade. It brightened, in fact, when Finian slid between him and them… putting his back to the assassin.

"Hey, hey," Finian said placatingly. "It's all right. He's joking about that last part." The elven Warden sent a glare back at the assassin. "His sense of humor has appalling timing."

The assassin chuckled. "Ah, but we cannot all be silver-tongued rascals, my dear Warden."

"Fin," Alistair said slowly. He seemed to be developing an eye twitch. "Tell me you didn't know about this."

"Well, yeah. Considering we first met him when he was trying to kill us."

Meila, who was leaning against the opposite wall, spoke up now, her voice hard. "Perhaps one of you can talk some sense into him. I do not trust the assassin, and neither should any of us."

"An assassin," Percival said thoughtfully. "You're thinking to use him against Loghain?"

"Yes, exactly" Finian said in obvious relief. As eyes widened all around, he quickly added, "Not that I intend to assassinate Loghain, necessarily. It's just… a good card up the sleeve, you know? Just in case the civil war isn't resolving itself fast enough."

It was the same sort of staring that Meila had gotten outside. Wynne agreed that the idea was appalling, but the Wardens were staring as if the boy had grown a second head.

"Are you feeling all right?" Leliana ventured softly.

Finian sighed, exasperated. "These are desperate times. And if Loghain's desperate enough to send assassins after us, it's a good idea for us to have someone on our side who knows how they work. It's the same reasoning that we used when first testing Leliana. It's just that Zevran's profession is a bit… more taboo."

"Taboo?!" Alistair sputtered. "He's an assassin, Fin. He's going to kill us in our sleep; he just pretty much said so right to our faces!"

"He's not going to kill us," Finian said flatly, his smile dropping. Behind it was a creature who was much more... cunning. "The truth is, he already tried to kill us. And he failed, badly. That means that as soon as he leaves our company, the Crows will track him down and kill him in the most painful, most humiliating way possible. He has to stay with us—and keep us alive—to save his own skin. Do you seriously think I hadn't thought this through? That I'm that gullible?"

Again, shocked silence met the outburst.

"He stays," Finian said firmly. "As my man alone, if need be. If you have a problem with that, come talk to me later, but be warned that there isn't a sovereign's chance in the market that I'm discarding a card this valuable."

Wynne was sure that this course of action wasn't wise, but it seemed the young elf wouldn't be persuaded by his friends, so what chance did she have?

"Well, this is a pleasant twist," Alistair sighed. "Percival and me pick up a merchant on the road, while the girls recruit an extra healer. The elves? They pick up a murderer-for-hire. I wonder what Garott'll pick up in Orzammar? Maybe a reformed darkspawn? Or ooh, I know: Marnan's treacherous brother!"

"Don't even jest about that," Marnan said wide-eyed.

The door behind them opened, and a lightly tattooed head full of spiky strawberry blond hair poked in. "Oh look. I thought I heard a cat being drowned, but it turns out it's just Alistair's whining."

"Kazar," Alistair growled in return.

The young mage stepped into the room, and Wynne wasn't surprised to see Jowan's head poke in behind him. Since hearing that both mages were present in the same castle, she had figured as much. Jowan had always followed young Mr. Surana around like a puppy.

"So how was the Circle Tower?" Kazar said with narrowed eyes, looking around the room. "Have fun? Oh look, you picked up another naggy healer. Hurray."

"Kazar!" Felicity hissed.

"It's all right, Felicity," Wynne said gently. She nodded to the young man. "How are you, Kazar?"

He glared at her suspiciously through narrowed eyes. "Fine. Great. Why are you here?"

"I wish to help the Wardens." She smiled. "I believe that puts me in your service, rather than the other way around."

"Oh Kazar, it's awful!" Felicity burst out. "Abominations completely destroyed the Circle Tower!"

Kazar turned his narrow gaze to her. "And why should I care? I say good riddance!"

"You can't mean that. It was your home-"

"Only because they took me away from my real home. Let me repeat: good riddance."

"I care…" Jowan put in, wide-eyed. "What happened?"

Felicity turned immediately hostile. "Blood magic happened, Jowan."

Jowan's swallow was audible, and he shrank away. Kazar jumped in front of him protectively, his infamous temper sparking in his eyes. "An abomination took over here, too, and blood magic saved everyone."

"Saved everyone by killing Lady Isolde, you mean," Alistair snapped.

"That was her decision, Alistair," Finian broke in calmly. "She practically begged us to do it, because she knew her son was suffering."

"You too, Fin?"

"If not for Jowan's blood magic," Kazar said pointedly, "that village down there would be a smoking ruin right now."

"Right. Since when have you cared about helping people?"

"Whether you believe it or not, Templar, I am a Grey Warden just like you. I fucking care. Lay. Off." He spun and stalked out, and Jowan slipped out just in time to avoid the door as Kazar slammed it behind them.

"He has been more ornery as of late," Meila said blandly.

Alistair shook his head. "How can you tell?"

"Believe it or not, he has gotten better," Finian said softly. "The forest mellowed him a bit." He moved to the desk, where a sheaf of papers was set out. "Maybe he's getting restless, though. We all know how he loves to wreak destruction." Wynne had to nod to that. She had taught the boy from time to time, after all. And patched up victims of his temper tantrums. Finian's eyes suddenly lit with an idea. "Hey, since we're all here twiddling our thumbs anyway, maybe we can do something about the Urn."

Felicity leapt on it right away. "You mean track down Brother Genitivi?"

"Ooh, that would be amazing," Leliana breathed. "To see the remains of Andraste herself… can you imagine?"

"Is it wise to get so distracted from the Blight?" Marnan asked with a frown.

"It's not a distraction," Fin said. "It's helping Arl Eamon. Who, I remind you all, is pivotal in stopping this civil war among the nobility."

"So tracking down some human holy relic is pivotal?" Meila asked doubtfully.

"Not just a human relic," Leliana gushed. "Andraste's Ashes belong to the world!"

"I find that naïve."

"Well, it's true."

"We should leave as soon as possible," Felicity said, her eyes sparkling as she warmed to the idea. "The sooner we set out, the sooner we either find the Ashes or discover that they are unobtainable, and then the sooner we will be able to turn our attention back to the archdemon."

Marnan sighed. "In that case, I suppose we should leave tomorrow morning. Is everyone good with that?"

There were nods all around, and the various Wardens excused themselves to go pack and otherwise prepare themselves for the trip.

Wynne could only blink and try to absorb what she'd seen so far. These… children were the Grey Wardens upon whom the fate of Ferelden rested?

Perhaps it was fortunate she had elected to come with them, no matter the reason. They all had a lot of work ahead of them.

Chapter Text

Leliana hummed to herself as she dug through the next bureau. The tune was an old Rivaini sea shanty… nothing all that deep or meaningful, but fun. Lots of verses about wenching and plunder. In her old life, it had kind of made her want to be a Rivaini pirate.

She laughed to herself at the thought. Companion to the Grey Wardens during a Blight was a definite step up from anything she'd been in the past: bard, lay sister, spy, or anything else. Who knew that in running from Orlais, she would find her true calling?

Ah, but the Maker did work in mysterious ways. To think that the Chantry thought that the Maker had turned from the world; it was obvious His hand was still at work. The Wardens alone were proof of that!

Leliana paused in her rummaging to pull out one of the outfits in the bureau. It was a classic man's quilted doublet with embroidered stitching in various colors, with a white linen undershirt underneath: most men would look quite dashing in it. It looked to be about Alistair's or Percival's size. Maybe she could get one of them to wear it somewhere, just for fun?

Well, maybe not Percival. The dour man obviously didn't like her, with how he glared at her whenever she tried to speak to him. But Alistair was nice. Maybe Felicity could help bully him into it; it'd be doing the girl a favor, after all, to put him in decent clothes for a change!

She laughed at the thought and draped the outfit over a chair with a handful of other salvageable ones. She was currently in one of the various abandoned quarters around the castle. Most of the remaining staff and the guests had all taken rooms as near the entrance hall as possible, leaving little hallways like this one abandoned yet.

Leliana wasn't really one to steal wantonly… Maker forbid! But such nice clothes would be eaten by mothballs before the servants ever got to this wing of the castle, so it was her civic duty to rescue them. And any matching shoes, of course.

It was a relief, anyway, to be away from the Wardens for at least a little while. They were fascinating people, and many of them were quite nice, but she needed a break. If it wasn't Alistair and the elf mage nearly coming to blows, then it was everyone's mistrust of the Antivan Crow. If it wasn't that, then it was Percival and Meila both glaring at her if she so much as looked in their directions. And dinner had been very awkward, because Alistair was still angry at the elves, and everyone else obviously wanted to know about the other teams' adventures, but no one was willing to reveal more than the bare details of their own.

It would have been funny, if Leliana hadn't been bursting with curiosity after the elves clammed up over as simple a question as where the white wolf had come from.

Leliana laid a final outfit—a slimming satin dress she intended to give a try herself—on the top of her pile and folded all of it into the wicker basket she'd brought for just that purpose. Humming to herself, she left the room and started down the hall, toward the next set of rooms.

She paused though, her humming falling silent, as her ears picked up another song. The voice wasn't refined, but it was strong and sure, and the melody of the song itself was positively haunting.

"Melava inan enansal
"ir su araval tu elvaral
"u na emma abelas…"

She set the basket down and stepped softly as she followed the sound. She turned a corner in the corridor and reached a window that faced into a small courtyard. The moonlight illuminated a copse of decorative trees and clusters of flowering bushes, with a stone path weaving between the greenery. A garden, though one much less strictly organized than the kind Leliana had often seen in Orlais. This garden was still somehow untamed, much like the rest of Ferelden.

"...in elgar sa vir mana
"in tu setheneran din emma na."

Between two of those trees hung a hammock, with a familiar Dalish elf sprawled in it, lit by a lantern swinging on a branch just above her head. Meila sang to herself in what the bard recognized as the ancient elven tongue, the elf's expression and posture utterly serene as she concentrated on something she was doing with her hands. Carving, Leliana realized, seeing the glint of metal.

"...lath sulevin
"lath araval ena
"arla ven tu vir mahvir…"

Leliana perched at the window, fascinated by the song. Meila Mahariel was no bard, able to evoke any emotion by an inflection of the voice… but her heart was in whatever she was singing, and her voice caressed the ancient language like family.

Abruptly, the song stopped, and Leliana blinked and realized that Meila was staring over at her.

"Oh, please don't stop. That was beautiful."

"I wasn't singing it for you," Meila said shortly. She turned back to her carving, but now seemed to be glaring at the item in her hand more than shaping it.

"I'm sorry to intrude, then. But may I ask what it's about? It sounds sad."

The elf's eyes flickered back up toward her, unreadable. "It is, and yet it isn't."

Leliana waited, hoping that the elf would go on.

After a long silence, Meila sat up in the hammock and peered at her. The bard had never met an elf with such piercing eyes before. Then again, she had never met a Dalish elf. They were not as savage and fearsome as the tales said, but they were certainly proud, if the Dalish Warden was anything to go by.

"It is a song of Arlathan, our homeland," Meila said softly. "Of loss, and enduring to a better future."

"That's beautiful."

"Yes. It is." The Dalish elf looked at her with stony eyes. "Is there something you want of me?"

Leliana leaned against the windowsill and shrugged, enjoying the cool night breeze that wafted past her. "What are you doing out here? Surely, you don't sleep out here?"

Meila stiffened, frozen as if by an ice spell. "And why is that so far-fetched? The others grow anxious if I camp outside the castle perimeter, and I do not wish to sleep within stone walls. This is a good compromise, is it not?"

"What's wrong with stone walls? I happen to find comfort in knowing there is a foot of stone between me and the rest of the world. Like a big shield, you know?"

"I do not know," Meila said flatly. She set her carving tools aside and stood, and Leliana realized she was still wearing her leathers.

"Are you sleeping in your armor?" Leliana gasped.

"Of course," the elf all but snapped. "What else would I sleep in?"

"A night-gown, or a robe. Something soft, and fluffy."

"And what good would that do if I were attacked during the night?"

Leliana stared, and realized then that the elf truly came from an entirely different world. How strange she must find everything here. "What is it like?"

The Dalish elf blinked, looking taken aback by the abrupt shift. "What?"

"To be a Dalish elf. Such a lifestyle, living in the forest, must be peaceful."

Meila's stony expression cracked into one of sheer incredulity. "Peaceful? Know you nothing about the history between our peoples?"

"Of course I do. I did not mean it like that." Leliana paused, trying to come up with a good way to say it. "I meant that your people live simpler lives, closer to the earth."

Meila stiffened. "It is not simple."

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to belittle your culture. I have met few elves who were not pledged to the service of an Orlesian noble-"

"Slaves."

"No!" Leliana said in alarm. "They're serfs!"

Meila had gone very cold. "They serve humans and are never offered anything better. What you humans call the practice makes little difference."

"It is not a bad life!" Maker, this was coming out all wrong. "Elven servants are well-compensated for their services. A well-trained servant is highly valued in Orlais. Elves are nimble and dextrous, and many people find them pleasing to look at."

"So your kind treats us like pets, to be bred and kept for utility and entertainment?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying!"

"You asked what it is like, shemlen, to be Dalish." Now, there was heat in those piercing eyes. "It is not merely a matter of being close to the earth, as you seem to think. We live like we do because we have no place to settle that does not belong to shemlen. We are not content to submit to the servitude of your kind, and so there's no other option but to avoid your civilization altogether."

"It doesn't have to be that way. There are many ways an elf can get ahead in the cities-"

"We do not wish to be free in spite of being elves. Each of us should be judged on our own merits and abilities."

"You're an elven Grey Warden. Perhaps you can serve as a good example for your people."

"And what would count as a 'good example'?"

"Many city folk tell tales of the Dalish, of how you snatch away children in the night. If you showed people how well-behaved you are-"

"Well-behaved?!" Meila actually sputtered. "I am not some pet who can be told to sit and stay on cue!"

"I did not say you were!"

"You did not have to!" Meila gave her the coldest, hardest look Leliana had ever seen. It was refreshing, almost, to have someone show you unabashedly what they thought of you. In Orlais, people smiled and talked circles around one another, and this sort of conversation would never have happened. "You see my kind as different from yours, and that is why you fear us."

"I don't fear you!"

Meila's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps not fear, shemlen, but you still see us differently."

Leliana paled, because there was truth to the elf's protests. "I… did not realize I was doing that. I'm sorry."

The fury fell from Meila's face, and the elf eyed her suspiciously."You... truly mean that."

"Of course. I will try better in the future to not let my past conceptions cover my sight, yes?"

The suspicion seeped away from the elf's expression, making way for bafflement. "You do not mind that I stood up to you, just now?"

Leliana just shrugged and smiled. "No, I don't mind. You gave me something to think about."

The elf looked away, back to her carvings. "I had not... expected that." More softly, she muttered, "Perhaps there is some merit in rethinking preconceptions on both sides." With that puzzling statement, Meila slipped back into her hammock and resume her carving.

After a moment of Leliana watching her at it, Meila glanced up again. "What is it?"

"Thank you for the talk. It was interesting."

The elf blinked, startled. "You… are a strange human."

Leliana grinned and just nodded a farewell, "Have a good night." She turned and walked back through the castle deep in thought. So distracted was she that she did not remember to retrieve the found outfits until an hour later.

Chapter Text

Finian was hiding. Blatantly and unashamedly. He wasn't sure what had happened at the Circle, but it had put something hard in Percival's eyes. Something that made him keep glancing over at Finian with cool distance and... betrayal.

He didn't want to deal with that. He couldn't deal with that, after everything.

Fin sighed, plucking idly at the strings of his lyre, too softly to make any real noise. He was nestled between shelves in the Redcliffe Castle wine cellar, a single lantern casting flickering shadows across the walls. Not the most pleasant of places—it was cold, even in summer, and it had yet to be cleaned after the siege—but it was better than the castle dungeons. Those two places were the only ones that weren't crawling with Wardens and Warden companions, and Fin had no intention of using the other place.

His fingers danced out a short melancholic melody, and it sounded much better than it would have a week ago. Just four simple notes in a minor key. He hummed an echo of the notes, wondering if there was a song in there somewhere. Or if there had to be. He'd have to ask Leliana.

He winced in the privacy of the cellar, thinking about the reunion earlier that day. It could have gone better, and probably would have, if Zevran hadn't been there. Or Kazar. Or Alistair, for that matter. Any combination of those three seemed like a bad idea.

Still, he was glad to see everyone back and in one piece—with the exceptions of the Orzammar crew, of course. And if he was inappropriately glad to see Percival, well... that was his problem. Especially if said noble was apparently not so happy to see him.

He laughed quietly to himself, plucking out another string of notes. Soothing, this time. A lyre was a lot like a person, he mused. You just had to know what strings to pull. An unflattering thought, but there it was.

Like Felicity. Distract her with something that piques her curiosity, and she would jump right on it, and drag everyone else along with her. The argument about Zevran, Alistair's outrage over Isolde, and Kazar's little outburst... all had been wiped from memory by the mere suggestion of tracking down Genitivi.

He admitted that he had his own reasons for wanting to go to Denerim. It had been his home, so of course he did. He just… needed to see how they were faring. The mess he had left behind couldn't have been easy to clean up. He needed to assess the damage.

He sat back with a sigh, and his pockets jingled. He winced again, because his fingers had rediscovered their old twitch in the past couple days. Jewelry, papers, gems, runes… anything that might sell to a vendor outside Redcliffe had found its way into his pockets these last days. He tried to feel ashamed, but very little of his finds would be missed, and every sovereign they could squeeze meant one more that could be put toward the war effort.

Saving the world didn't come cheap, after all. The others didn't know it, but Finian was already planning how they would get into Denerim, the very seat of the man who wanted them very, very dead. They needed disguises, and that meant buying different clothes, and supplies, and maybe even a cart.

The elves would likely slip by all right—though they needed some sort of skin-colored powder to mask certain facial tattoos—and no one would look twice at Leliana if she wore her Chantry robes instead of her leathers. But how to mask a big, loud man like Alistair… Or worse: grim, glaring Percival. When you glared at people like that, they tended to remember you, if only because they were afraid you'd corner them in a dark alley. And that was outside the fact that Percy was a noble, and thus had likely met half the bluebloods in Ferelden.

He sighed, and his next string of notes was sharp and discordant. Just like his thoughts.

Maybe the others were right. Maybe keeping Zevran on was a bad idea. It wasn't that Fin didn't trust the assassin not to kill them—he could read people well enough to know that the assassin's fear of Crow retaliation was genuine—but rather he didn't trust the assassin on general principle. The man was wily. And selfish. And cunning. And charming. And fun. And handsome. And dangerous.

Wait, was he putting 'dangerous' under the positive qualities?

Right. Well that was part of the problem right there, wasn't it? First Percy, now Zevran? He had always been attracted to the worst kinds of men, starting way back with that conman's son when he was twelve. One of these days, it was going to get him killed. It nearly had, back in his Aiden days.

He still couldn't believe he'd told Meila and Kazar that story, fit of werewolf-onset panic or not. All his life, he'd had a strict policy of keeping his preferences between himself and his lovers. He'd made the mistake once of being less discreet, with that conman's son. The conman's son's father—the conman—had ingrained it on Finian in no uncertain terms that such things were meant to be kept to the shadows. It got awkward, otherwise, and, depending on the person, it got potentially very painful. And then awkward again when your curious cousins scoop your battered body out of a gutter the next morning.

That was why not even Soris and Shianni knew about his preferences, much less anyone else in the Alienage. He'd kept his few trysts strictly outside the walls of the elven community, because he couldn't bear to think of disappointing his father like that. An elf was supposed to grow up and get married, and Fin never would.

A bark broke the silence, followed by the distinctive sound of a mabari hound thundering down rickety cellar stairs.

Finian leaned his head back against the rack behind him with a hopeless laugh. "Percival, you cheater."

Hugo rounded a wine rack and barked happily, obviously delighted to have found Fin. Little did Hugo know that he was just a pawn for his evil, cheating master, who came around the rack after his hound.

Percival crossed his arms and leaned against the rack, cutting an imposing figure, even out of his armor as he was. "Hiding, are you?"

Finian shrugged. "I wanted to practice my playing without hurting everyone's ears."

Percy looked at him flatly for a moment, then sighed. "You're a good liar, Fin."

"I do try."

"Don't. It's not a compliment."

Fin bent over his lyre, pretending not to be aware of the blue eyes boring into him.

"Why did you kill lady Isolde?"

The note he was about to strum came out sour, and he carefully corrected his fingering. So that was what had been bothering the man. "I didn't. Jowan did."

"But you had final say."

"No, that was Teagan."

The noble slammed a fist against the rack, making a dozen bottles clink and threaten to fall. Finian froze and dared to look up. Percy looked livid. "Don't read me that tripe. Teagan agreed with us. They all did. Then you were there for five minutes, with your silver tongue, and suddenly they changed their minds? Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"No," Fin said softly, even while inside he felt something shatter. "I don't."

The noble's jaw was tight, his hands clenched. "Then I have to assume you wanted Isolde to die. Just tell me why, Fin. You owe me that."

Fin swallowed and gently set the lyre aside. No use pretending to play it... and in this state, Percy may very well smash the instrument over Finian's head anyway. "It was the most good for the greatest number."

"You killed a woman!"

"To save an entire town."

"With blood magic."

Fin winced. Well, yeah. "It was for a good cause-"

"The Circle Tower was utterly routed by a blood mage. It's evil, Finian."

He stiffened, but stayed sitting. If he stood right now, Percy might just punch him in his current state. With careful calmness that he didn't feel, Fin explained, "It was either that, or allow the undead to continue attacking the town." Fin forced himself to meet Percival's eyes, showing the noble his conviction that, yes, he was still sure he'd done the right thing. "What is it about killing one to save a hundred that is so evil? Is it the fact that the one death is decided as a departure from the default and must be actively carried out, whereas the hundred are from negligence alone and therefore require no active killing on our part? Is that what makes it wrong?"

"You don't know that any more townsfolk would have died," Percy argued back. "You and the others could have simply fought beside the town defenders until we returned, but no. You took the route that involved sacrificing a human being to blood magic!" Percival turned away to calm himself, and Fin took the reprieve from those blue eyes to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry it had to happen, really," Finian said softly, watching Percy pull himself back from the brink. The human was really, genuinely upset about this, on a personal level more than a moralistic one. "But it was about ensuring that the fewest people possible died. We couldn't take the chance of another attack on the town."

"And the ends justify the means, no matter how brutal, is that it?" Percy said in a cold voice.

"No!" Maker's stained socks, this was hitting all the uncomfortable places that Fin had been ignoring over the weeks. "I mean, okay, a little. It stopped the undead. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Percy slowly turned and regarded Fin through a hard mask that even he had difficulty reading. The noble took a long, slow breath through his nose, then said, "My mother died defending me."

Oh.

"The pain of such a loss is... indescribable. Knowing that your life was somehow deemed more important than hers? More worthy, when she was one of the most important people in the world to you?" Percy looked away. "Did you consider Connor at all? You took his mother from him. Did you consider that, in your calculations?"

Finian found it hard to breathe, all of a sudden. He thought of his own mother, and how many habits he'd picked up over the years that she would have disapproved of. He couldn't imagine how much worse it would feel if she'd actively given his life for his. "No," he admitted softly. "I had not."

He stared down at his hands to hide a wave of shame. This was the cost, he realized, of playing games with lives. People were so much more complex than playing cards or a lyre's strings. Actions could have rippling consequences. He knew that. But he'd missed this part. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to think about it. What sort of monster was he?

But, even then, as he replayed the sight of all those bodies by the barricade, he couldn't say he would have done any differently if asked to do it again.

Percy sighed into the silence and moved in to sit across from him. The tension seemed to be leaving the noble's form, now that he'd said his piece.

"I won't apologize for it," Finian said quietly. "But you're right. How it affects Connor is awful, and I'll bear the guilt for that for the rest of my life."

Percy's blue eyes searched his, as if for artifice, but he wouldn't find any. Then, the human nodded to himself, and more of the tension left his shoulders. "I just keep imagining what it will be like, when he loses his father as well."

"You don't know that." Fin reached for his lyre, and plucked out a few light, soothing notes. They both seemed to need it. "We're going after the Ashes, after all."

Percival made an incredulous noise.

"We might find them."

"Chasing after echoes and dreams, if you ask me."

Fin reached out a foot to gently nudge Hugo, who was sprawled out between them. "We're Grey Wardens. We do what we must, right? And if we 'must' find the Sacred Ashes of Andraste, then I suppose the cosmos has no choice but to abide by that."

Percy slanted a glance at him. "Somehow, I doubt that is how it works."

Finian shrugged and bent back over the lyre. The tension between them was breaking, bit by bit, and he was suddenly feeling very aware of the noble's presence. "Would you like to talk about her?"

"Hm?"

"Your mother."

Percival leaned back against the shelf, his eyes going distant. For a moment, Fin thought he might do just that. Then, Percival shook his head sadly. "No, I'd best not." He sat up again. "I promised myself I wouldn't dwell on the past. We must keep moving forward, and not be bogged down by old pains." He paused. "Apparently, it's harder to do than I thought it would be."

"It's certainly not easy," Fin agreed. The song coming out of the lyre now was distant and sad. "I know I had trouble doing anything, after my mother died. But if you smile and tell everyone you're fine for long enough, even you start to believe it, right?"

Percy gave a weak huff of a laugh.

Finian nudged Percy with his foot. "I think happy memories, though, should be dwelled upon."

The laugh was a but stronger this time, if also a little incredulous. "You're like a mabari with a bone sometimes, aren't you?"

Fin dared a smile. "I just like hearing about you. I think you're interesting."

"Interesting?" That earned him an aristocratically arched brow. Victory! "Am I like some sort of study subject, then? What about me could possibly be that fascinating?"

"Good point. You're obviously dull as dirt." Fin leaned forward and scratched Hugo behind the ears. "Let's talk about Hugo, then. He's the most interesting of the lot of us, I think."

Hugo barked his agreement, and that got a far more genuine laugh from the nobleman.

Percy leaned back, fully relaxed now. He was still achingly serious, though. "I know you mean it in jest, but it is still good to be asked. About myself, I mean." He stretched out, his foot nudging his hound. "It is... a good thing that you took the time and care you did when we first met. You saved my life and sanity. I've never thanked you for that."

Fin smiled, fighting not to show how much such earnestness from Percy affected him. "It was hardly as dramatic as that."

"It was. If you hadn't been there… I can't say what would have happened. I'd probably have gone mad, thrown myself off the bridge at Ostagar. You made things… bearable. Thank you."

Maker, Percy was an unfairly beautiful man, especially when his blue eyes were going soft like that. Fin stared down at the lyre to hide the heat that crept up onto his cheeks. "You're welcome, for what it's worth. But it hardly was anything as dramatic as you shielding me from further attack with your own body when I was severely injured at the Tower of Ishal."

Percy's smile was slight, but more than Fin could have hoped for. His pulse quickened. "I would say it was much more. I suppose we'll have to disagree on who saved who, then."

Finian reached to the wine rack above him and pulled out one that looked like a decent vintage. He popped the cork and held it up. "Here's to being less heroic than the other guy."

Percy chuckled, and reached for the bottle once Fin had had the first taste. The nobleman took a sip and swirled it around in his mouth, and Fin had never seen someone take wine so seriously.

When he had swallowed, Percy arched a brow. "What?"

"I've never actually seen someone do that with spirits before."

"This, my friend, is wine. You may gulp down other forms of drink, but wine is meant to be enjoyed before it goes to the head."

Finian laughed and reached out to take the bottle back. "All right you posh, high-class noble: educate the poor deprived elf."

And so he did, extolling upon 'bases' and grapes, and Finian sat back to enjoy it.

The pair stayed down there for the better part of an hour, passing the bottle back and forth while Hugo dozed contentedly between them. They spoke of inconsequential things—past misadventures, Percy's conquests, Denerim, familial anecdotes, and, yes, their mothers—anything but the current situation and the Blight.

By the time the bottle was most of the way gone, Finian was feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy, and growing more so every time Percy laughed. The nobleman's face was flushed, practically glowing every time he smiled. Which was quite a bit, once he got some wine in him.

"…came by later, of course," he was saying with a devilish grin that made Fin's blood purr. "Her father nearly had an aneurism when he opened the door to see me standing there. Oh, how he glared. Then, he slammed the door in my face." His laugh was warm and free, and Finian wanted to throw himelf on the noble then and there. "Of course, there's nothing more thrilling to a young woman than a forbidden affair, so I just had to walk around to the window and pull her out of it." He raised the near-empty wine bottle in toast. "I introduced her to more than sex that night."

Fin chuckled. "Some might say you corrupted her."

Percy shrugged, still smirking. "Corrupted. Debauched. Freed. It's all about point of view."

He wanted very badly to be debauched by Percival, especially when the man grinned like that. Perhaps Fin was a bit more drunk than he'd thought (drunk on wine? Shianni would never have let him live this down), because he never would have said what he did next sober.

"So with all those women you've tumbled, have you ever tried something… else?"

Percy gave a baffled laugh. "What, like spanking? I always found that sort of thing a bit gauche."

"Not exactly that, no." Fin lowered his voice, even though they were the only ones there. "Have you ever tried bedding another man?"

Percy looked startled by the question, as if it had truly never occurred to him. Fin's blood warmed as he watched the nobleman honestly think it over. No immediate disgust; that was good. Then again, given Percival's apparent experience, Fin had expected him to be relatively open-minded "I can't say I'd ever considered it, no."

"Would you like to try it?" Percy's eyes widened, and Fin chuckled. "There are certain things, you know, that women aren't really equipped to understand."

"Are you… coming onto me?" Stunned. And a little frightened.

Fin shrugged casually, even while his heart pounded. "It's just something I thought might be fun."

Percy looked at him silently for a long time… or it felt long, anyway. Fin watched the emotions play across his face: shock, confusion, disgust…and a tiny spark of curiosity. And then, horror.

Percy stood abruptly. "I should get going. It's getting late."

Fin kept his grin, like it didn't matter. So it's just women, then. Of course.

"I suppose you're right." Fin chuckled lightly. "The girls will probably roll us out of bed at a completely unreasonable hour tomorrow. Meila is of the firm belief that every minute of daylight is meant to be utilized, including the minutes before the sun has technically risen."

Percy didn't respond, just looked down at him with a blank expression. Fin let his smile fade, because it didn't seem to be helping anything. For a long time, they just looked at one another, and Finian was surprised to find that he couldn't read the nobleman. Laying between them, Hugo whined.

Finally, Percy looked away. "Goodnight, Fin."

"'Night, Percy."

Percival left. Hugo woofed and stared after him. Then, with one last look at Finian, the mabari sprang to his feet and scampered after the noble.

After the sounds of their footsteps had faded, Fin let his head fall back against the rack. Then, he forced a laugh. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

A lyrical chuckle filled the cellar. "But you can have a good laugh at his expense when he fails, yes?"

Fin jerked upright. "Zevran? How long have you been here?"

"Long enough." The Crow's form emerged from the shadows at the end of the aisle, a cat's grin on his features. "Tsk tsk, Warden. Propositioning people behind my back. Here I thought I was the shameless one."

"You still are." Finian found himself wishing he was a bit less tipsy at the moment. He'd never be able to keep up with the assassin's quick wit in his current state. "Last I knew, spying was frowned upon, yet you show no remorse."

"Ah, but why would I be remorseful when it means I now have you all alone and at my mercy?" Zevran's voice was wrapping around him like a warm fog, and his heartbeat was picking up again. Especially as Zevran prowled closer.

Fin leaned back casually against the wine rack, trying for a cocky grin. "And now that I'm at your mercy, assassin, what do you intend to do with me?"

"Whatever I wish, of course." His voice was a purr. "You will find being my prisoner most agreeable, I think." Zevran stopped two steps from him, his eyes running over Fin with a predatory gleam. That look made Fin's head spin more than the wine had.

Somehow, Fin got some words out, though he barely registered them. "I'm pretty sure that taking me hostage is a violation of our contract."

"Not the way I treat my hostages, it is not." Zevran crouched down in front of him, gently lifting the lyre out of his lap and setting it aside. Finian let him, too distracted by how the lamp-light danced across the other elf's skin. "I am your man, Warden. Without… reservation." The way his tongue rolled around that last word made Finian shiver. Judging by the sudden quirk of his lips, the Crow had seen it. "It is my duty to see to the health and wellbeing of my employer, yes? And if that display just now was anything to go by, there are certain needs of yours that are not being attended to. They should be… addressed."

Zevran's face was a foot from his own, leaning over him. Still, Finian managed to collect his wits together, because he wasn't going to just let a dark, sexy, and apparently willing man reduce him to a stuttering puddle. "When you put it that way, you make it sound like I was throwing myself at Percy."

"Not throwing, precisely. But I have a feeling your offer was a great deal more sincere than you let him think." Zevran reached out, and Fin's breath hitched as the assassin's fingers played lightly along his collar. "It is becoming much clearer to me why you have been declining my advances until now."

At this, part of the fuzzy spell over Fin broke, and his heart started pounding for a different reason than the assassin's proximity. He forced a laugh. "What are you saying, exactly? That you think I'm in love with him?"

"Oh, not love. That would be silly. But a man has needs, yes? And that nobleman of yours surely used to be the focus of several of yours."

Zevran's other hand gently rested on his knee, and his thoughts turned dizzy again. "…used to be?"

The Crow's eyes darkened as he chuckled, and Fin shivered again. "That was all before you picked me up, of course." The hand at his collar moved up to trace his jugular, and Fin couldn't seem to breathe right. His head tilted back of its own accord. "Now, I think you will be pleasantly surprised to find that you will no longer have any need of him at all. Convenient, no?"

The hand on his knee slid up his thigh, and Fin's reply was cut off by a sound between a squeak and a moan.

Zevran chuckled again, the sound of his voice making heat coil in all the right places. "You seem rather at a loss for words, Warden." His head swooped in, and for a moment, Fin thought he was coming in for a kiss. Then, instead, Zevran ducked down and licked a line up his throat.

Fin's arms wrapped around Zevran, because now he could feel the other elf's warmth, and he had better not dare pull away. "Zevran," he managed, "if this is another joke…"

"No joke, my Warden." His lips moved against his collarbone, and Fin had to bite back another keen. "Simply tell me what you want, and you will have it. It is as simple as that."

Finian thought about fighting it. Zevran was an assassin, and one who used sex as a tool as often as not. He was a predator, and that thought should not thrill him the way it did.

His head was too thick with wine and lithe, overpowering man to think of any more protest than that, and any doubts were swiftly shucked aside when Zevran's lower hand reached his upper thigh.

"Take me to bed, Zevran." The assassin's hand moved even higher, and he didn't bother biting back his moan. "Tonight. Now."

Zevran's laughing eyes met his, and that chuckle made him melt. "As you command, my Warden."

He was already so wound up that the assassin's first kiss had him seeing stars. He turned to putty in the assassin's talented hands, and the Crow wasted no time in showing him an entirely new array of skills he had to offer.

As Fin gave into what the Crow offered, he wasted no thoughts of the Blight, or Percival, or anything except a pair of very talented hands, playing him like a lute as they drew him up and toward the bedroom Fin had staked out. And if this night's events led to more awkwardness with Percival the next morning, well, he couldn't say he regretted it.

Provided the assassin didn't stab him in his sleep or anything. But for this? That was a risk he was willing to take.

Chapter Text

Jowan had been trying not to let Kazar out of his sight for too long. A large part of it was survival instinct, as most of the current castle inhabitants would have been happy to throw Jowan back into his cell, or, even better, off the arling's eponymous cliff. The young elf certainly provided him a modicum of protection from the rest of them, but there was more to it than that.

They had been friends, once: practically brothers. Jowan wasn't sure what they were now, but a bond of twelve years could not so easily be broken. There was proof enough in the fact that the notoriously volatile Kazar Surana hadn't killed him on sight when they had crossed paths again.

Then again, perhaps that leniency was more because of Kazar himself than because of their bond. Something in the elf had… changed, though it was difficult for Jowan to place what, exactly, that change was. He was still temperamental, cocky, and cynical, but there was something different, too: something deeper.

Like now. Back at the Tower, when Kazar was upset, he would take it out on the nearest inanimate object and go into a stormy fury that would take Jowan hours to coax him down from. But now… he simply disappeared. No flung spells. No cornering innocents and letting them have the sharp edge of his tongue. Just… ducking out away from everyone and finding a quiet place to brood.

That was how Jowan found him up on the battlements, after a good three hours of searching the castle. Kazar had stormed off after dinner, when he and Alistair had very nearly attacked one another in an ongoing argument about the necessity of Lady Isolde's death. Jowan had spent most of the meal sunk low in his chair, trying not to call attention to himself.

Usually, when Kazar stormed off, Jowan just had to follow the trail of scorch marks and crying apprentices to find him again. This new Kazar was less destructive. It was both encouraging and unsettling.

In any case, he managed to find Kazar up on the top of the castle's walls, leaning on the balustrade while he looked out over Lake Calenhad. His posture was contemplative, and that was another shock in itself. Kazar didn't contemplate. Anything. He just did things, and then looked annoyed when older mages (that was, all of them) chided him for not thinking.

Again, it was a development that was both encouraging and unsettling. What had happened to his young friend to change him like this?

Well, other than being betrayed by a blood mage best friend. And being nearly killed at a rout at Ostagar. And killing a mother to save a child.

Stupid question, actually.

"Do you think you can see the Tower from here, on sunny days?" Kazar asked as Jowan approached.

Jowan stopped respectfully just outside Kazar's immediate blast range, turning idly to glance over the lake. It was night, thus far too dark to see anything, of course. The stars were pretty, though. "No, it's too far. I've looked."

Kazar's laugh was more of a snort. "It's ridiculous, isn't it? Even when we're free of the Tower, our lives still revolve around it. People from it keep popping into my life, despite my wishes for the opposite, and you went and poisoned a guy just to get back in."

"It was just the one time, and yet no one lets it go," Jowan joked lightly, though it wasn't really a joking matter, what with the arl still being sick.

Kazar laughed anyway. "Tell me about it. Try traveling with Amell sometime… I helped one maleficar escape, and she forever after treats me like a naughty little brother she has to teach better."

"Well, rest assured the maleficar is very grateful."

"Yeah, he better be." The smirk Kazar slanted at him in the starlight was wry, but also a little fond, and Jowan was glad he had one person who wouldn't be happier to see him hanged. "I think he can repay me by acting as my human shield between me and her for… oh, say, the next year or so."

Jowan's heart sank, because of course Kazar didn't know. He never talked to Teagan, so he wouldn't. "Kazar, I'm not going with you to Denerim."

The elf scoffed. "You really think I'm letting you slip away again?"

"Bann Teagan has demanded that I remain here until Arl Eamon either wakes up or dies. In either case, my fate will be decided then."

Kazar turned fully to face him, looking at him quizzically. "And you're just going to take that? Stand here and let yourself be caged again?"

Jowan sighed. "I'm… tired of running. I knew the consequences of my actions would catch up to me someday. I'm sick of trying to avoid them."

Kazar looked at him long and hard, the blankness in his expression making Jowan's stomach twist. Kazar didn't do blank. Then, the elf scoffed again and turned away. "Sure, run from me and Lily, but Maker forbid Teagan should ask you to sit and stay. Betraying him would just be wrong."

"I'm sorry," Jowan said. Again. Still heartfelt. And pained, what with the mention of Lily.

Kazar didn't look at him. "Why did you do it, Jowan?"

"I told you… I panicked. With Greagoir and Irving, and Lily going to be sent to Aeonar-"

"Not that." It wasn't a snap. It was an earnest question, asked with a sidelong glance. "What made you strike the deal in the first place?"

Jowan's world spun, because he'd never expected anyone to ask him that, especially not Kazar. He leaned against the battlements to steady himself, looking up at the stars while he thought about how best to explain it. Or whether to explain it at all. "It wasn't my choice, originally."

Kazar snorted, disbelieving. "To learn it, you made a deal with a demon. That's not the sort of thing you can just blunder into."

"I didn't approach the demon, all right? It found me." Jowan sighed. "Look, things between Lily and me were just starting to get serious, right? So I was restless, worried that we'd be caught, and that made my defenses in the Fade weaker than normal. So the demon came to me one night when I was dreaming and tried to… you know… break in."

Kazar's head whipped around. "You almost became an abomination? You never mentioned anything about that!" He sounded hurt at not being told, and that made Jowan feel even more guilty for what came next.

The blood mage swallowed. Well, Kazar hadn't torn him apart for the other thing, so maybe Jowan would survive this one. Besides, the elf had a right to know… better he be warned, for everyone's sakes. "I couldn't fight him… he was far too strong. But I managed to talk him out of it. He was a Pride Demon, and as he was knocking me about the Fade, he mumbled about how I was weak, but he supposed I'd do. So I… told him that I knew of a much stronger mage, one more befitting of such a strong demon." Kazar had gone very still. "He was delighted, of course. He pressed me for more information, and… offered to teach me blood magic—to get me to my Harrowing—if I told him. And if I didn't, he said he'd take me over anyway and find this mage himself. So… I made the deal. I had to; it was either that or die." Jowan fell quiet, rubbing the back of his hand as he waited Kazar's reaction.

Kazar was… quiet as he stared out over the lake. "He was right at the entrance of my Harrowing, like he was waiting for me. Like he knew…" Kazar made a choked noise, then whipped his head around to glare fire at Jowan. "You sicced a Pride Demon on me?!"

Jowan tried to swallow. "I panicked…"

"You panicked?! How is it that you panicking always ends up with me cleaning up your messes?! By the Veil, Jowan, you've got to be the worst friend ever!" Kazar paced along the battlements, his hands waving furiously and occasionally emitting sparks. "Damn it, Jowan, he found me. He was there at my Harrowing, pretending to be a previously killed apprentice! Do you have any idea how lucky it is he didn't make a move in on me right then?!"

"If anyone could have defeated him, I figured it was you."

"Bullshit!" Kazar whirled on him, fire flaring up his arms. He stuck a flaming finger at Jowan. "You panicked, so you went and saved your own skin, just like you always do! And now a Greater Pride Demon has apparently staked a claim on my soul, because you went and ran your mouth in your fear!"

Jowan paled. "Staked a claim…?"

Kazar threw his hands in the air and spun away. "I'm like a demon buffet, apparently, but Mouse—the demon you sent me, thank you again for that—is apparently so powerful that no others want to challenge him."

"You… how could you possibly know that?" Jowan's world tilted as realization of something Kazar had said earlier hit him. Slowly, he asked, "And how did you know that you need to make a deal with a demon to learn blood magic?"

Kazar went still and the magic around his hands dissipated into nothing. He was still turned away, so Jowan was left staring at his back in the starlight, panic clawing at his insides. The ritual. Connor's demon.

"Kazar, tell me you didn't. Please, tell me you didn't."

Kazar spun back, eyes blazing. "You're going to lecture me? You?" But it wasn't a denial, and something in Jowan broke.

Jowan sagged against the balustrade. This was all his fault somehow… everything was always somehow his fault. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You'll never be free of it, now. It follows you everywhere, like whispers in the back of your mind, begging you to let the demons in."

"You think I haven't noticed? I can fight off a couple more nightmares. Not everyone is as weak as you," Kazar snapped, and Jowan winced, suddenly wondering whether the Pride Demon didn't have a foothold in the younger mage already.

"It's not about strength… I thought you knew this. You were strong enough without it… why would you need to even make the deal?"

"You think this is easy, being a Grey Warden?" Now Kazar was spiraling up into frantic and upset. "Knowing I'm going to have to face an archdemon at some point, on top of the entire fucking horde?" Lightning spun around the elf, wild and distressed. "Marnan keeps saying that I'm going to be the lynchpin that turns the entire damned Blight… do you have any idea how much fucking pressure that is?! I'm a barely Harrowed mage, not Andraste!"

The elf spun out toward the lake and let loose the energy that had been building up, and it launched through the air with a deafening crack of thunder, and the flash of lightning lit up the night for one blinding second.

Jowan blinked, clearing his vision to see Kazar panting and leaning against the battlements, staring back out in the direction of the Circle Tower. They stared in silence for a while, two paces apart.

Then, Kazar said, "Don't tell anybody." It wasn't quite a plea, but it was close enough to add a whole new layer of worry to this already rather stressful situation.

"I… won't."

Kazar looked at him sharply, then nodded. He slumped down to the ground with a sigh, and Jowan wanted to do nothing but sit next to him and try to give any comfort he could.

But whatever they'd used to have, it had never been comforting, and this thing they were now was far too fragile to tread new territory. So he stood a silent vigil while Kazar sat in the darkness, the weight of the world on his very small shoulders.

And that, too—Kazar being pulled into the Wardens—was all Jowan's fault. Perhaps it would be better to be dragged off to Aeonar than to have to repay his only friend for all the wrong he'd done him. But even that, he knew, was the coward's way out.

Jowan was so sick of being the coward.

Chapter Text

This time was it… somehow Oghren just knew it. This was hardly the first time the Warden had elbowed his way into the back room of Tapster's, seeking the peace and privacy of the back wall right near where Oghren liked to set his own camp.

But this time, there was something different about the way the Warden's eyes scanned over the crowd, and Oghren sodding knew why the duster was there. He'd heard the rumors; it had only been a matter of time.

Sure enough, the Warden asked a brief question to a barmaid, who jerked a head back in Oghren's direction. The berserker hid his knowing grin in his mug.

About sodding time. For a while there, he'd worried the kid would try to leave without him.

The Warden wove his way toward the back room, as usual, and his Qunari companion followed behind, as tall and stoic as ever. At some point, they'd lost that lady mage of theirs, more's the pity. The woman was an ice queen, from what Oghren had overheard, but by the Stone was she some fine eye candy.

And then the Warden was standing over his table, staring down at him. "You Oghren?"

Yep, Oghren wanted to say. The drunk you keep sitting next to is the guy you've needed all this time. What are the odds, huh?

He settled for a simple "Yep."

The Warden cast a glance back at the Qunari, who grunted. Then, he kicked out a chair and sat in it, so the two dwarves were facing each other. "I'm Garott Brosca, a Grey Warden-"

"I know who you are," Oghren said, setting his mug down. "By now, every nug in the city knows who you are. You're here about Branka, and it's about sodding time."

The Warden blinked, then smirked, and Oghren decided he kinda liked this guy's style. "You expecting me?"

"Only for about a week, yeah." Oghren gestured to the barmaids for another round of drinks. This wasn't the sort of discussion he wanted with a cold belly… but then, few were. "Word is you're gathering supplies to strike out into the Deep Roads. I'm comin' along."

The Qunari spoke. "He would slow us down."

"Slow you down nothin'. I'm the only one in this town who can show you the way."

"Word is you got a drinking problem," the Warden said dubiously.

"Nah, it ain't a problem. Builds character. Trust me, I can find your Paragon three sheets to the wind and with an ogre chewing on my arm."

The Warden sat back with a doubtful look. "You think you can find Branka?"

"She's my wife, isn't she? She's got a special kind of crazy that only I've ever got inside. I know where she was headed, and I can follow her trail after that. You need me."

"Or," the Warden rumbled with a slow smirk, "I could beat the information I want out of you and leave you here to drown in your cups."

"I'd like to see you try, kiddo." Oghren leaned forward over the table, matching the Warden menacing grin for menacing grin. "You may be an ex-duster with a Qunari at your shoulder, but I'm a berserker whose amazing, gorgeous wife left him behind to wander the Deep Roads with a bunch of smiths. I'll cut the two of you into pieces before I even feel that little dagger of yours."

And, much to Oghren's surprise, the Warden threw his head back and roared with laughter. A frightened-looking barmaid placed the next round of drinks on the table, and the Warden picked up a mug. "Sod it. You're hired." He raised the mug in toast, and Oghren tapped it with his own. The Warden drained his mug like a pro, and Oghren figured they'd get along just fine.

Chapter Text

The morning dawned bright and warm, with a clear sky out of the west and a mild breeze that only cooled, and didn't hamper movement. It was, all in all, a good day to travel.

Felicity wandered downstairs with her codex in hand, hoping to finish up the last of her Redcliffe notes before she left. This wasn't likely, as she hadn't had nearly enough time to scour the entire castle the night before. There were bound to be secrets and objects of interest that she had missed.

Incomplete though they were, taking notes on Redcliffe had proved an effective diversion, at least. It was far better that than to dwell on what had happened at Kinloch Hold.

She did not think she would ever understand... and that bothered her. Why would anyone stoop to dealing with a demon? Didn't they understand the risks? How could a man fall so low as to destroy their home and kill everyone who lived there?

Then again, that wasn't fair. Felicity couldn't understand. Her first magically quickened foray into the Fade when she was eleven, had resulted in meeting a spirit. A good spirit who, unlike demonkind, had meant no harm at all, and the ensuing ordeal had been enough to caution her away from ever making anymore deals with Fade creatures. It was an experience that other mages did not have. When it came to understanding the temptation, she had no point of reference.

And yet, she wanted to understand. She needed to, on a fundamental level, because she could simply not comprehend a world where such terrible things were allowed to happen. Blood magic, and demons, and the Blights, and... and Cullen. Maker, Cullen.

Every time she thought of him, she heard his words again, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

And so, she buried herself. She logged events, and drew maps, and kept notes of such detail that there was no time to be upset. As a healer, she knew there were healthier ways to deal with pain, but she was hard-pressed to think of one.

When she got there, the castle dining hall was still waking up, with a handful of servants scurrying about between a cluster of groggy guardsmen and an ornery old woman with a cane. Percival sat bleary-eyed at the end of one of the tables, his hound at his feet. He was staring at the breakfast plate in front of him as if he hadn't even registered its presence yet.

Felicity sighed in sympathy. Being a Grey Warden meant a lot of mornings like that, when the nightmares were particularly bad.

Felicity nodded a greeting to Percival and dropped her codex on the table two seats down. Hugo's head shot up, and he barked a happy greeting, his tongue lolling. This seemed to startle the nobleman out of his stupor, and the man started picking at his plate.

Felicity bent down to scratch the dog behind his ears, then straightened and opened her codex to her most recent entries: maps of Redcliffe and the environs, notes on the various citizens of import, and the odd jotted memo to look into something that had caught her curiosity.

Percival peered over and pulled a map of the castle from between the pages. "There's a secret passage there." He finger tapped a blank wall in the dungeons.

Felicity blinked. "There is?"

"It leads out through the windmill. It's how Alistair and I got into the castle during the siege." Percy turned back to his breakfast, and Felicity could only sigh and make a note to investigate that when next she came to Redcliffe.

Raised voices approached from the hallway.

"…Warden, but it's out of my hands. He will await Eamon's judgement, assuming my brother even survives."

"That's an excuse and you know it. Do you know what the Tower does to blood mages, Teagan? Is that the fate you would wish on the guy who rescued your nephew?"

"Only because he began this whole incident in the first place!" Teagan walked briskly into the room, as composed as ever. Kazar, at his heels, was not nearly so.

"Bullshit. Lady Isolde started it when she had the hare-brained idea to hire a maleficar to teach her son. It's just lucky Jowan isn't the malevolent kind of maleficar."

Teagan spun stiffly to level a look at Kazar. "I don't know how it works in that Tower of yours, but in civilized society, we do not speak ill of the dead."

"So you'd rather condemn an honest man to Tranquility—after he's tried to make amends for something that wasn't even his doing—than admit that Isolde was just a dumb bitch with the foresight of a blind fish."

"Kazar!" Felicity couldn't help scolding. Kazar wrinkled his nose at her.

"He stays in his cell until Eamon wakes up," Teagan said levelly. "That is final." With that, the bann turned and walked away, perhaps a bit more briskly than was considered polite.

Kazar stood for a moment, his hands sparking, but he didn't throw off a spell. Then, he clenched his fists and sighed, and everything in him seemed to slump.

"He might have been more lenient," Percy said evenly as Kazar dropped onto the bench across from them, "if you hadn't insulted his dead sister-in-law."

"Dumb bitch deserved it," Kazar grumbled. He dropped his face into his hands, and it struck Felicity that he was genuinely upset about this.

"Kazar, I know it doesn't seem fair to have Jowan sent back to the Tower." She tried to sound comforting. "But he is a blood mage." Kazar stiffened, but Felicity pushed on. "They're highly prone to demonic possession and corruption. Perhaps it's better to have his connection to the Fade cut, for everyone's sakes. We can't afford what happened at the Circle Tower to happen again." Maker forbid.

Kazar raised his head from his hands, his face livid. "So you'd suck out a man's soul on the off-chance he might get possessed? Why not Tranquil every mage in Thedas, then, while you're at it?"

"He's a maleficar, Kazar. His soul already belongs to the demons. It's different."

"No, it's not. That's all just a load of Chantry propaganda. And that's a fact for your damned book, Amell."

Felicity fell quiet, realizing she would not convince him to step down from his stance. Kazar was a creature of passion, not logic, and his heart was too tied up in the subject of Jowan for him to see reason.

It was actually sweet, how hard he was fighting to save his friend, even after everything.

A servant came by with two plates of meat and eggs, and dropped one plate in front of each mage. Kazar dove into his with the gusto of both a young man and a Grey Warden.

Percy sighed into the silence, rubbing a temple. Felicity cast him a curious look, her healing instincts springing to life at the slightest indication of pain. "Are you alright?"

Percival shrugged. "Just a bit of a headache." The look he cast back at her bordered on a smile. "Fin and I found the wine cellar last night."

"Oh, I see." For a moment, Felicity considered refusing to heal him, as a lesson on the consequences of excess. But no… they needed every Warden at full capacity, for the road. "I might know a tonic for that."

"That's not necessary, though Finian might need it. He was pretty far gone." Percy stirred his plate, his brows furrowing as he continued softly, "At least, I hope he was. I can't think of any reason he'd flirt with me sober."

Kazar choked.

Felicity stared at Percy in shock. "He… he what?"

Percy froze, apparently unaware he'd said that last bit out loud. "It… it was nothing. Just a couple throwaway words. He probably didn't know what he was saying."

Kazar mastered himself and said sharply, "You know that Fin fancies men, right?"

Percy stared at him wide-eyed. "No."

"Well, he does. Apparently noble men."

The color drained from Percival's face.

Felicity tried to gather her knowledge on the subject. "It's not unheard of. A couple of mages in the Tower have been known to be caught dallying with members of their own gender, though I don't see the biological benefit of such an action."

Kazar snorted. "You think sex is about biology? If anything, biology is the unwanted part of it. Just ask our friend the reformed rake, here."

Percy didn't seem to be in any state to answer questions. He was pale and staring at nothing, obviously running over things in his mind.

"Kazar, you are far too young to be speaking so baldly about... such things!"

Something dark passed over Kazar's face, and he abruptly shut down. "Get stuffed," he grumbled, going back to his food. Now, he just picked at it.

A disconcerting reaction, when she had expected protests about how he wasn't a kid anymore or something. Still, both of her companions had retreated into their own thoughts, so Felicity could only sigh and turn back to her notes. However, she quickly found that she couldn't concentrate, so she closed the codex and put it in her bag, supposing she should go take inventory of their supplies before they left.

Grabbing a biscuit and her bag, she headed out of the castle, only to find the entrance courtyard a flurry of activity. Servants scurried back and forth, loading a horse-drawn cart with boxes and bags. The guards had paused in their morning routines to watch, which meant that Marnan, supervising, inducted them to help. Meila, meanwhile, was speaking sternly with a pair of men in grubby clothes, gesturing to the horses hitched to the cart, while her white wolf watched the entire scene from under the portcullis that led over the bridge toward town.

Felicity pulled up beside Marnan, and the dwarf nodded in greeting. "Is there anything you need, supply-wise?" Marnan asked.

Felicity smiled, glad the dwarf had already gotten the process started. Marnan always took charge, as if it was as natural as breathing for her. How had none of us ever guessed? "With Wynne's herbal supplies supplementing my own, we'll have plenty to last us a while. I'd hate to needlessly bog down the cart that we are apparently utilizing."

"Says the woman who carries a book as heavy as I am in her bag." Still, Marnan was smiling. "And as to the cart… it was Meila's idea. Apparently, the Dalish pack their entire lives onto landships every time they move camp."

"Ah, yes, I'd read about that. They call them aravels, and they use halla to pull them. As I understand it, though, they are quite a bit freer with the halla than humans are with pack animals."

"Those poor farmers will understand it pretty soon as well." Marnan's smile broadened, and she nodded toward where the elf's argument had escalated to her scolding them while they cowered. "I'm going to throw in a couple extra silvers, for their trouble."

"You bought the cart from them?"

Marnan nodded. "They are farmers from out east who lost most of their land to the Blight. They were more than happy for a bit of extra coin." She frowned. "Fin talked them down a bit too far to be charitable, in my opinion."

That startled Felicity. From what Percy had said, she'd expected Finian to still be in bed. "He's up?"

"Almost as early as I was, and even more chipper than usual. He keeps singing." Marnan rolled her eyes. "He left for the village some time ago, though. I dared not ask why."

Felicity sniggered. She pulled out a piece of spare parchment and a quill, then headed over to the cart to start checking stock. Marnan walked at her side, and started listing off the supplies they'd already packed onto the cart: food, spare weapons, camping supplies, sellables…

About ten minutes into it, Percival came out of the castle and silently helped load and sort the cart. He seemed to be brooding, though it was often difficult to tell, with him. Hugo alternated between darting around the yard, shamelessly soliciting for belly rubs, and glaring territorially at Fang, who hadn't moved from the portcullis.

In that time, Meila had scared the poor farmers away, and now brushed down the horses, speaking softly with them.

Twenty minutes after that, Leliana and Alistair came out of the castle together. Leliana was avidly gushing about Andraste and the Ashes, while Alistair was strapping on a new set of plate armor, obviously taken from the Redcliffe garrison.

Felicity couldn't help but sigh in relief. Really, seeing him in the borrowed Templar armor had been too much. Especially after the kis... incident in the Fade.

Abruptly, Leliana cut herself off. "Ooooh, look how pretty they are!" She scurried down the steps toward the pair of horses, and started petting one. "What are their names?"

To Felicity's surprise, Meila readily volunteered the answer. "Saber and Timothy." The elf frowned. "Hardly fitting names, but can any name gifted by another being be appropriate?"

"Who cares what we call them," Alistair said, "as long as I don't have to care for them. Just because I used to sleep in a stable doesn't mean I have any fondness for horses. It tends to breed quite the opposite, in fact."

Felicity's heart constricted. "You used to sleep in the stables?"

Alistair shrugged with forced nonchalance. "Lady Isolde wasn't particularly fond of me."

"But still! To make you sleep in the stables? She can't have been a very nice woman to do that to a child."

"In her defense, she did worry that I was Eamon's bastard son. I wasn't, but she didn't know that. She felt threatened by me, I guess. So, into the stables I went."

Felicity sighed, because this was no subject to be flippant about. Still, she couldn't press it.

Presently, Finian came through the castle entrance, ducking to give Fang a quick pat as he passed. He balanced a huge crate precariously in his arms. His face brightened as he saw them. "Oh, good! Alistair, bring your Templar armor."

"What, why?" Alistair blinked. "And how did you know I had Templar armor?"

Finian dropped the box on the back of the cart, and Felicity opened it up to count whatever was in it for inventory. "Chantry robes?" she asked in confusion.

Fin grinned. "When we get to Denerim, we're going to be refugees from a village Chantry near Lothering. The guard goes light on Chantry representatives, and, if dressed as Templars, a couple of our fighters could stay armed without raising eyebrows, even in town."

"That's a good idea," Leliana said thoughtfully. "It's simple, and no one will question why so many of us are together that way."

"The one problem was that I can't find anything that would cover up Kazar's and Meila's tattoos." Fin looked up at the healer. "Felicity, do you know of any flesh-colored pastes or anything?"

Meila protested before Felicity could even turn the question around in her head. "What makes you think I will hide my vallaslin?"

"It's very distinctive," Fin said apologetically. "We can't properly blend in with it showing."

"Wait, I don't like this," Marnan said with a frown. "Why are we preparing disguises?"

"Well, we're going to Denerim," Fin said with a shrug. "Loghain's seat of power. And he's already sent the one assassin after us; if he finds out we're nearby, I doubt he'll balk at sending more. This will make us able to wander the city without his knowledge."

"Can we not simply confront him and have this done with?" Marnan sighed. "What am I saying? No, I suppose a politician is a politician, no matter the race. Very well, but how do you expect to explain my presence? From my understanding, even surface dwarves are uncommon in the Chantry."

Fin's smile turned sheepish. "I hadn't gotten to that one yet."

"So, wait," Alistair groaned. "I'm still going to have to wear that Templar get-up? Do I have to pretend to be a stodgy, pious Templar?"

"It wouldn't hurt. If it helps, Percy will too." Fin glanced around. "Is he up? We need to drag him down to the Chantry so we can find a set that fits."

Felicity looked around. To her surprise, the nobleman had disappeared. Zevran was watching them from the balcony up by the doors, though. Upon being spotted, he winked and put a finger to his lips.

"Well," Alistair sighed with a crooked grin. "At least I get to smite every mage who looks at me sideways. Particularly certain evil little elven mages."

"Just don't actually bring him in for apostasy," Felicity warned.

"Aw, but that sounds so fun. Maybe they'd give me a medal. Don't you want me to get a medal, Felicity?" Alistair turned big puppy eyes on her, and it was one of those things that reminded her just how very unlike Cullen he was. Alistair was… just Alistair, and she couldn't say that was a bad thing.

There was the rumble of a cart approaching, and everyone looked up to see a pair of dwarves coming into the castle. The older, bearded one flashed them all with a smile.

"Word on the street was you folks were heading out for Denerim today. Mind if a humble merchant and his son tag along?"

Alistair snorted. "I think 'humble scavenger' might be more accurate, Bodahn, but sure."

The dwarf bowed, never losing that cheerful smile. "Generous as always, Warden. For the rest of you, my name is Bodahn Feddic, and this is my son, Sandal. Rest assured you won't regret allowing my boy and me to come along; I'll make any trouble worth your while."

"A merchant?" Finian asked Alistair.

Alistair shrugged. "His cart's good for carrying stuff. And get this: his son can enchant."

Felicity blinked down at her inventory list, something niggling at the back of her mind. It snapped abruptly to the forefront. "The lyrium!" she cried in realization. "Now that we don't need it for the ritual, we can use it to enchant our supplies!" She looked up at the others, watching realization dawn over each of them.

"Bring it right over to my cart," Bodahn said, "and we'll see what we can do."

"Enchantment!" Sandal agreed, clapping his hands together.

Marnan grabbed the sack of lyrium from amongst their supplies, and all three dwarves retreated to the other cart.

What followed was a flurry of activity while the Wardens gathered together their weapons for enchantment. Felicity dug through her codex for her notes on the proper Tevinter runes, hoping they were accurate enough.

Every weapon that could hold an enchantment was inscribed with a silverite rune, of course, except for Finian's off-hand dagger, upon which he requested a paralyze rune instead. Alistair further stacked a hale rune onto his sword, Leliana put a slow rune on her bow, and Meila's bow was inscribed with a cold iron rune, for undead.

Percival, when he reappeared midway through the enchanting alongside Wynne and Kazar, refused to allow his ancestral sword to be altered. Zevran also refused to allow his blades to be touched. When asked why, he merely grinned and said that he had his own method of making his weapons more deadly, and that made Felicity shudder.

The Wardens had finished that and were packing up the last of the cart when Hugo looked up and started barking happily. As they watched, an eagle flew low over the courtyard, and Hugo streaked after it with his tail wagging.

The eagle landed at the top of the stairway into the castle, and transformed into a human form as Hugo raced up the steps. Morrigan waved her staff, and Hugo froze, paralyzed, two steps from tackling her to the ground.

"Hey!" Percy cried, running up the steps after his dog.

"It serves the creature right for attempting to maul me," Morrigan said stiffly.

Most of the Wardens stared at her in shock. Finian, perched on the cart behind Felicity, was always fast to recover. "Morrigan, welcome back! It looks like you lost a couple people."

"I am but a messenger, it seems," the witch said. She stepped around Hugo and Percy and started down the stairs toward them, swinging her staff with each step. "Though I cannot say I am distressed to get out of that stinking hole you" –she pointed at Marnan— "call a city."

"Mm…" Zevran hummed appreciatively from his continued perch on the balcony. He eyed the area of obvious male interest on her person. "This stunning goddess is a friend of ours? I do believe the prospect of this journey just got more enjoyable."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed and Fin laughed. "She's a witch of the Wilds, Zev."

"Zev?!" Alistair hissed.

The assassin wiggled his eyebrows. "Wild, eh? Allow me to be one of those willing to fall under your spell, my fair witch."

She turned to glare at him. "And what, exactly, are you supposed to be?"

"My name is Zevran Arainai. I am an assassin hired to kill you all."

"Indeed? Then I will have to watch my food and drink more closely from now on." With that, she dismissed his existence and stepped up beside the cart, where Marnan and Felicity stood. "I come bearing a message from your dwarven friend. It seems he is being sent on an errand into the Deep Roads and he, being neither stupid nor suicidal, requests aid."

Marnan frowned. "What sort of errand would send him into the Deep Roads?"

Morrigan waved a hand. "Something about the need for a Paragon to settle the throne, and the only Paragon alive having wandered in there two years prior."

Marnan paled. "To settle the throne? My father's dead?" She turned away and cursed colorfully. "That bastard! I should have known he would take it to this conclusion!"

"Yes, you really should have," Morrigan said. "Your brother is most ambitious. I do not see how you could think he would not kill the king… but perhaps things work differently down in that hole than in the rest of the world?"

"No," Marnan said darkly. "Apparently not."

"What's going on?" Fin's voice asked. "Your brother, Marnan?"

Marnan sighed. "Perhaps it is time you all knew." The dwarf glanced around, taking in the Wardens, their companions, and a good number of the castle residents that had come out to watch them depart—not the least of which among them was Bann Teagan. "I was born to House Aeducan, daughter of King Endrin of Orzammar. However, due to the machinations of my younger brother Bhelen, I was stripped of my name and caste for the crime of killing my older brother Trian… a crime I did not commit. Even so, I was exiled to the Deep Roads to die, and would have done had Duncan and the Wardens not also been in the Deep Roads at the time."

"Your brother did that?" Percy's voice asked, shocked, and Felicity remembered that the nobleman hadn't been present in Marnan's dream to know the details. He stood up at the top of the stairs, his expression dark.

"Yes." Marnan's face was stone. "It was a play for power, of course. Trian was the eldest, and thus would have been traditionally voted king, whereas I curried favor among the more warrior-favoring deshyrs, and thus was a viable heir anyway despite my own thoughts on the subject. Bhelen was always ever third, a mediator and diplomat more than either myself or my brother. He was always… quite good with words." Marnan's eyes cast sidelong toward Finian, who had the good sense to at least look abashed.

"You have to go back," Percy growled. "Depose this usurper."

"To what end?" Marnan asked sharply, spinning to face the noble (the other noble, Felicity supposed). "To take the crown for myself? I do not want it. I never have."

"He's betrayed you, and your family," Percy said simply. "His family. That can not go unpunished."

"And cast my home city into chaos with the loss of the last heir?" Marnan turned back to Morrigan with a sigh. "You said the secession is in dispute. Who are the other candidates?"

"There is only one… a 'Lord Harrowmont', I think his name was?"

That name apparently meant something to her, because Marnan's face spread into a relieved smile. "Pyral's still standing against him? Lord Harrowmont is an honorable man. If he is made king, he'll be sure to help us. We should settle the throne in his favor post-haste."

"Wait, wait," Alistair cut in from near Bodahn's cart. "What about the Sacred Ashes? We can't just abandon Arl Eamon."

"The Deep Roads are not a destination to be taken lightly. Brosca will need our help."

"Right, and Eamon can just hop out of bed and find the Ashes himself, can he?"

Felicity sighed, because they were really both being rather illogical about this. No surprise, given their respective origins. "Then it seems clear to me that we simply must split up once again. Alistair will take a group to Denerim as planned, while Marnan brings another to Orzammar."

Both of them nodded in agreement, each still eying the other.

"But anyone who goes to Orzammar will miss out on the Sacred Ashes," Leliana protested. "That's a once in a lifetime opportunity!"

"You're assuming a handful of Grey Wardens can succeed where a thousand pilgrims have failed," Percy said grimly, coming down the stairs toward them with his dog at his heels. "And assuming the Ashes do as the legends say. And assuming they ever existed at all."

"That's an awful thing to say." Leliana nodded to the rest of them, looking resolved. "I'm going with Alistair to look for Andraste's Ashes. I know they've got to be somewhere."

"Yes," Morrigan said with an arched brow. "You have fun with that."

"Are you with me, Morrigan?" Marnan asked, and received a roll of the eyes and a nod. "What of the rest of you?"

"I'm in," Kazar said from where he'd been standing by the wall. He waved his staff at Alistair. "Anywhere that doesn't have him breathing down my neck sounds perfect."

Alistair glared. "Just because I have a conscience-"

"I get it: you think I'm evil and have no soul. Stop. Bothering me."

Felicity sighed, but held her tongue. Instead, she took her supply list back up and started going through it, trying to deduce what ratio should go with which party while the others bickered.

"Fine," Alistair said. "You know what? I'm glad I don't have to have you with me. You'd probably try to reburn the Ashes or something. Leliana's good. Fin, you still with me? We'll need a guide for Denerim."

The elf nodded, though his smile was diminished. "Of course. How else would you track down the Chantry scholar?"

"And that means," the Antivan called smoothly, "that I am also going to Denerim. Perhaps we will get a chance to inform my previous employer of my changed allegiances, yes?"

Alistair scowled up at the Crow. "No assassinating."

"Aw," Finian chuckled, "and I was looking forward to throwing the nation into further uproar."

"Perhaps another time," the Crow agreed with a grin.

Alistair rubbed his eyes, but then turned to Percival. "What about you, Percy? You with me or Marnan?"

Even while making notes on the supply list, Felicity could sense Percy's hesitance. When she looked up, she saw him glancing between—oddly enough—Finian and Morrigan, his expression shuttered.

Finally, he said, "Marnan." Morrigan smirked knowingly and Finian's smile grew brittle. It was a very strange exchange.

"Very well," Marnan said. "I shall take Percival and Kazar. Meila, do you mind coming as well? Your tracking skills will be an asset."

Felicity was surprised when Meila stiffened, and her eyes dropped to the ground in the first show of uncertainty Felicity had ever seen in her. "In actuality, I do mind. I… suspect I will be unable to perform at my best in these Deep Roads."

Marnan's brow furrowed. "It wouldn't be much different from tracking on the surface. You will do fine."

"I will not." Meila's face rose again, her expression hard. "I… have difficulty enough abiding the stone walls of this castle without losing sleep over the prospect of it collapsing upon my head. Were I to venture any deeper, for an extended period of time… I suspect I would be at the least highly distracted, at the worst utterly overcome. No, I will stay on the surface."

It was clear that this admission was a surprise to everyone. Meila Mahariel was not one to let others know her weaknesses.

Slowly, Marnan nodded. "I understand. It is a good soldier who knows their own faults."

Meila nodded absently, raising her chin in defiance that anyone should find fault in her decision.

"That leaves the two healers," Alistair said, and Felicity's head snapped up. Her face warmed as she found Alistair watching her. "Felicity, would you… erm… like to come with me?"

Her face went red-hot, because there was more in that invitation than there had been in any of the others. And judging by that hesitance, he was aware of it. It was utterly vexing, because she couldn't do that to him. Not after what she'd done to Cullen.

"I have no problem with going to the Deep Roads, dear," Wynne said gently, her smile just a bit too knowing, and Felicity felt even more flustered that the elderly woman would take such a taxing journey for her sake.

But then the thought struck her that the Deep Roads were not merely taxing, and all warmth fled her. The Deep Roads… the darkspawn. "No, Wynne. You shouldn't." She glanced around, doing her best to remember who had elected to go where. Leliana and Zevran would go after the Ashes, but Morrigan… "You and Morrigan should go after the Ashes, not the Deep Roads."

She very carefully did not look at Alistair's face.

"And what makes you think," Morrigan said, "that I have any interest in some long-lost Chantry relic?"

"It's not that," Felicity explained. "It's the fact that you're not a Warden." She looked at Wynne, feeling herself pale as she imagined her old mentor growing weak and splotchy with Taint. "The Deep Roads are essentially the home of the darkspawn, filled with far more than we can possibly conceive. We Wardens are immune, but non-Wardens risk contracting the Taint and dying a horrible, painful death."

Meila frowned. "Can we not merely cure the Tainted as I was? By making them Wardens themselves?"

"Even if they were willing," Alistair said, eying Morrigan as she scoffed, "we don't have the resources. The Joining involves certain… things that I'm not entirely sure about. All I know is it involves lyrium and it's very difficult to prepare. Duncan had a stash of supplies, I think, but I have no idea where it might have been."

"So we can't make new Wardens," Finian said, stunned. "We're really the only ones left in Ferelden."

They all stayed silent for a moment, digesting that. Surely, reinforcements might come if given enough time…? Though, if they were, surely they would have arrived by now… Perhaps Ferelden truly was abandoned, given up as lost. A depressing thought.

"Are you certain you wish to go with Marnan, Felicity?" Wynne asked gently. "I know you were looking forward to meeting Brother Genitivi."

Felicity winced, because she had been, so very much. "The Sacred Ashes mean more to you than they do to me, Wynne. I can always track down the scholar after the Blight is taken care of. For now, I am needed in the Deep Roads."

Wynne's smile was proud. "That is very selfless of you, my dear."

Felicity fought not to crinkle the parchment in her hands. "Just… promise me you'll take notes…? A lot of notes?"

"Of course. Thank you."

"I mean it. I want to be able to recreate the entire ordeal. Not a thing left unwritten!"

Wynne wasn't the only one holding back laughter now, but Felicity couldn't find it in herself to care. She was too relieved that Wynne, at least, would run a far smaller risk of being exposed to the Taint.

"That settles it, then," Marnan said. She nodded up to Felicity. "We'll split the supplies and head out."

And that's what they did. Their rations were split down the middle, and anything intended for the Sacred Ashes crew was moved to Bodahn's cart, including Finian's disguises, two crates of arrows, and most of the cheese. Wynne insisted that Felicity keep most of the herbal supplies, since the elder mage would have a chance to pick up more near the Brecilian Forest and in Denerim. Felicity could only agree with the logic of that, since she doubted elfroot would be in steady supply underground.

They said their goodbyes with a hopeful air, the taste of new journeys on the breeze. As Felicity was securing the last of the much-lightened cart, she mused that she would miss Leliana's chatter. She wished she'd had more time to ask Meila about the Dalish, and she'd only just reunited with Wynne, so could she really leave again before she'd learned everything the enchanter had to teach?

And, of course, she would miss Alistair, though she dared not dwell upon the pang that thought provoked.

It was only as Marnan was leading their group out that Felicity spent one last glance back at him as she followed the cart. He was watching her, his face an open book of hurt and longing, and it occurred to her that she had put that there.

No, it was better this way. She couldn't risk turning him into another Cullen… better to end it early.

But then she saw Leliana sneak up next to him and give him a whisper and a nudge, and after that he was running toward her, his armor clanging with each step. She stopped and waited, something in his eyes making her heart race.

And then he was there, his arms tight around her and his lips pressing against hers. The kiss was chaste, but not devoid of meaning because of it. His armor was hard and cold against her, but it promised strength and protection even as the hand cradling her head whispered of gentility and devotion. Her knees nearly buckled, so she clung hard to the planes of his chest.

It was over too quickly, and they spent a moment just looking at one another after parting, something new and wonderful sparking between them.

And then, Felicity registered their audience—complete with catcalls as well as hisses from certain mages—and she felt her face flush as she pulled away. Judging by the reddening of his cheeks as they stepped away from one another, he had come to the realization at the same time.

Still, he smirked, and it was just so Alistair that Felicity wondered how she could ever have thought he was like Cullen. "Sorry… I guess I just couldn't let you leave without making things really awkward."

She smiled reassuringly. "At least it was properly dramatic."

"You think so? And here I thought it was awful timing, but I guess that makes good drama." He fidgeted, and it was both endearing and exasperating how childlike such a gesture was. "Just… take care of yourself, Felicity? Please?"

She stepped in again, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm not the one who wades into the middle of the horde and starts shouting taunts to draw them in."

His smile turned lopsided. "Yes, but I'm also not as squishy as you are."

"Is that truly the term you want to use on a woman just after kissing her?"

His face reddened again. "But you are!" She yelped as he reached forward and brought her back against his chest again. His arms were tight around her, perfectly fitted across her back. He gave her a playful squeeze. "You're all soft and huggable. I'm not saying it's a bad thing."

She giggled, because this was probably the most ridiculous conversation they could be having right now. "Huggable?"

"Yep," he said solemnly, except for that crooked grin.

"Remind me to see about expanding your vocabulary when we meet again."

"I'll hold you to that."

And this time, as Felicity started off, she was looking to the future with more than mere planning. There was hope, there, too, and an unspoken promise.

Chapter Text

The archdemon's song keened to him, as it did to all of them when they slept. Years' worth of drills on how to protect his mind while sleeping went up in so much Tainted smoke when the dragon whispered its demands in a language he couldn't understand. Its presence was oily and unpleasant, clinging to his soul even as he tried to retreat from it.

He saw the dragon flying through a great canyon, bathed in red light and listening to the growls of hundreds… thousands of its followers below. The archdemon roared, and he shuddered and resisted its insidious pull. His blood burned.

And then, there was a pull from another direction—from somewhere else—and a sensation of being tugged through a curtain and doused in cold, purifying water.

Kazar gasped and opened is eyes to see a generic Fade landscape around him. He was sitting under a ruined stone structure, the Fade's twisted flora a familiar sight around him.

He sighed and leaned back against the cracked wall behind him, waiting for the burning ache in his blood to abate. Darkspawn dreams always did that, and it wasn't a sensation he liked, because it wasn't something he could fight against.

Not that the Fade was much better lately.

He could sense them, lurking just outside the blurry edges of his awareness. They whispered in voices made of oil and sin, their dark forms flitting around just at the corners of his eyes, but gone when he turned his head.

He tried to keep his shields up. He needed to defend against them, but between this and the darkspawn dreams, he was just too tired to last much longer. Blast it, why had he thought blood magic was a good idea?

And just what had pulled him here, out of the archdemon dream anyway?

He heard something skitter behind him on tiny claws, and Kazar jumped to his feet at the sound. He whirled and shot off a fireball without thinking, and it slammed ineffectually into a ruined wall and dissipated. The voices at the edge of his awareness tittered.

Kazar gripped his magic around him like a lifeline, casting around for the source of that skittering sound. He was here. That had to be why he'd been pulled into the Fade… what else could possibly be strong enough to break the enthrallment of an archdemon?

By the Veil, he needed to wake up. Why couldn't he just wake up?

There was another sound to his right—the shifting of pebbles—and Kazar shot a burst of ice that froze a hundred-degree arc around him in place. He panted now, his breath misting in the bitter cold in the air.

But this was the Fade; it shouldn't have air. The thought crossed his mind that Felicity or Wynne might have been able to explain that. They might have been able to help. But he didn't dare go to them, because then they'd know.

They'd know about his mistake; his moment of weakness. They'd know that he was more frightened by the shadows in his dreams than anything else in his life. The archdemon was a threat that could be taken down with swords and spells… this was not. This was an insidious encroaching, whispers weakening his mind until he could only yield out of sheer exhaustion. The Fade was a land of willpower, and Kazar had always thought himself as having plenty of that.

Bluster, all of it. As the shadows at the edges of his mind closed in, he could feel himself bending under their weight. The only thing that kept them out was his fear of what giving in would make him become.

The whispers had a response to that thought, promising power and sex and blood and anything else he might desire, and his knees buckled under the weight of his own indecision. He covered his ears with his hands, even though he knew that did nothing to ease the pressure on his mind.

"This isn't real," he whispered. "If I don't let you in, you can't touch me."

A low, rumbling laugh somewhere in the fog behind him had Kazar leaping to his feet and spinning around. He launched a torrent of lightning in that direction, pouring all his terror into the maelstrom. The broad, towering shadow on the edge of the Fade disappeared, blinking out as if it had never been, and the whispers abruptly stopped.

Kazar released the spell, panting. His nerves were frayed, ready to twitch into action at the slightest sound. But all was silence, the demonic presences he'd felt around him dissipated like so much smoke.

Was this a reprieve? Or a trick? He couldn't trust his own perceptions here. Just because the threat seemed gone didn't mean it was.

"You learn your lessons well, Mage," a voice drawled in his ear, and Kazar's heart stuttered to a stop. He hadn't even been aware of the rodent perched on his shoulder. Had he been there this entire time? "It will make victory all the sweeter when you finally yield to me." And then, Mouse laughed, his voice growing low and demonic. Kazar felt it wrapping around him, making the air heavy and black.

He screamed and threw his magic wide in an electric burst all around him, only to bolt upright in bed, his form still lighting up the tent with the lightning flitting around his form.

"…ow."

Kazar yelped and spun, the lightning around him sparking, only to see a ruffled-looking Percival Cousland squinting at him from his bedroll. The nobleman was rubbing his shoulder.

The tent flap opened, and a dog and a dwarf both poked their heads in. Hugo immediately crossed to Percy, snuffling about his master's form.

"Is everything all right?" Marnan asked. "I heard lightning being cast."

Kazar realized he was still sparking, and snuffed the last of his spell. The tent went dark. "It's fine," he said stiffly. "Just a bad dream."

"The archdemon?"

"…yeah."

Percy's sigh filled the tent. "I as well. I can't say I'm sorry you woke me, Kazar."

In the darkness, Kazar could see the dwarf's silhouette turning toward the nobleman. "Were you hit? Should I go wake Felicity?"

"It's fine. Just a bit of a shock."

"Is this normal, Kazar? Casting in your sleep? Do we need to worry about separating you during camp?"

"Percy said it was fine, so it's fine," Kazar snapped. He stood up and shoved past the dwarf out into the night. It was cloudy and dark, the only light a low campfire between the two tents. Somewhere beyond their camp, off in the darkness, was Morrigan's tent, always separated. Maybe she had the right idea of it.

Kazar crouched next to the fire and heard Marnan walk up behind him. He didn't bother hiding his scowl.

"I apologize if what I said was ignorant. I just don't want undue harm to come to anyone."

"Because I'm too dangerous to let around other people, right?"

In the low light, Kazar could see her puzzled frown. "That is not what I said."

"It might as well have been." By the Fade, he missed Fin and Meila. Marnan just didn't get him. None of them did.

At the same time, he was glad the other elves weren't here. They'd just know. Or Fin would wheedle it out of him, at least.

"Kazar."

"Go to bed, Marnan. I'll take watch."

"I don't know that I should leave you in this agitated state."

Kazar laughed, and it sounded bitter even to himself. "Don't you know? I'm always agitated. Go. It's fine."

She sighed, but nodded and turned to duck into the girls' tent. Kazar heard Amell's voice raised in a sleepy question, but Marnan's short answer seemed to satisfy the nosy twit, because he heard nothing more from that tent.

Kazar sat beside the campfire, finally letting himself hug his knees to his chest now that he was out of sight of everyone. His nerves were on end, every shift of the wind and rustle of leaves making him twitch. He kept expecting to see a pair of beady eyes glinting from underneath the bushes at the edge of camp.

It was all from his nightmares, but that didn't mean it wasn't terrifyingly real.

Chapter Text

Between the lingering song of the archdemon and a persistent ache where Kazar had inadvertently zapped him, Percival had difficulty going back to sleep. He sat in the darkness of his tent, running a hand idly through Hugo's ruff.

Outside, there was a shriek and a blast of fire, and Percy just rubbed his eyes in exasperation as he heard Marnan come bursting out her tent again, firing off questions. Kazar's voice was too soft to hear the words, but his tone sounded sheepish. It was going to be a long night for them all, it seemed.

Hugo shifted, his body tensing as something small and furry squeezed through the still-open tent flaps. A moment later, Hugo's tail thumped into Percy's knee in greeting, and a familiar silhouette peeked outside through the flap.

"My," Morrigan said, sounding amused as she dusted herself off, "but he is rather jumpy tonight. I've never seen someone leap so high at the sight of a harmless little mouse."

"Morrigan," Percy growled. "What are you doing here?"

That piercing gaze turned to him, glittering in the dark. "By such a question, I assume you do not pertain to the meaning of life, or something so existential as that?"

"In my tent, Morrigan. What are you doing in my tent?"

"I do believe this is the communal tent of multiple Wardens, and is therefore not yours at all. Gnash your teeth all you like; I am not leaving until I wish it."

This was bad… already, her scent was wafting over to him, enticing him. "If you think you can just crawl into my bedroll—"

"Oh do get over yourself. I am hardly some lovestruck schoolgirl who is blinded by a pretty face and a bit of troubled moping. Believe it or not, I am not here to throw myself upon you."

That surprised him so much that the rage that had begun to bubble evaporated. His next statement did not come out with any of the menace he'd intended. "I seem to recall you having no trouble doing that last time."

Morrigan's smirk was shadowed in the dark. "Worried that I am so easily capable of dismissing your entertainments after sampling them, are you?"

To Percy's silent horror, he very much was. He had once had sex down to an art… an experience that had women young and old clamoring for his talents, and rarely just once. It was Percival who decided whether he might bed a particular woman a second time. Never was it the woman to turn him down.

"I find your silence to be quite telling…" Morrigan sang softly, that wicked smile on her face. Percy once again had to fight the dual sensation of wanting to grab her and shake her and wanting to pull her close against himself.

More of the former at the moment, though.

"Get out," Percival growled, the rage returning.

Hugo whined in protest.

"Hugo, no. Earlier today, she paralyzed you. People who paralyze you can not stay in our tent."

Hugo whined again, licking Percy's hand.

"I believe the true alpha has spoken," Morrigan said smoothly. "Perhaps he is not the dumb, mangy beast he seems."

Hugo's tail wagged, but his whine sounded confused.

"You still haven't answered my question," Percival said sharply.

"And I have no intention of doing so. Am I not allowed to sit where I please? This is as much my camp as it is yours, you know."

Percy sighed and threw himself back on the bedroll. "Maker, you're impossible," he groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"If you truly find my presence so repulsive, perhaps you should have picked the elf instead."

And just like that, Percival's exasperation fled. He froze, one hand still over his eyes, trying to get his mind started again. "What… what do you mean?"

She scoffed. "Do not pretend that either of us is stupid; it demeans us both. I saw the way you looked at him today… like a badger cornered by a wolf."

Percival snorted a laugh, and lowered his hand to his side. "A badger isn't bad. Better than a bird or a hare."

"Only because badgers are exceedingly vicious. I should know, as I have been the wolf before."

Percival turned toward her in the darkness. All the fight had gone out of him. "Is that what this is about? I chose you over him?"

"I was merely wondering if you had come to your senses."

"Regarding…?"

"Not being such a frightened little boy over a subject we both know you are quite knowledgeable about."

Percival sighed and closed his eyes. "Get out."

"I've already told you-"

"Yes, yes. This isn't my tent, and I can't order you about. I don't care. Get out, or I'll drag you out myself."

There was a moment of silence. Then, she huffed. "So be it. Continue denying yourself that which should really be very simple. 'Tis no business of mine."

"Damn straight it's not."

She harrumphed and fell silent. When Percival opened his eyes a moment later, she was already gone.

Chapter Text

"I still don't understand, Meila. Andraste was the one who freed the slaves. Aren't you excited?"

"No, I am not."

Of course Meila had not expected the journey to be quiet: not when she realized just who her new party was comprised of. Between the still-somewhat-heated banter that sprang up between Fin and Alistair, Zevran's frequent innuendos, and Leliana's… Leliana-ness, Meila Mahariel was certain that any game within miles would have been chased off by the constant noise, had the Blight not done that already.

Hahren Wynne alone seemed to appreciate the peace of silence, and so the Dalish elf found herself the most at ease when she walked alongside the elder woman.

Occasionally, the healer would pause by the roadside to pick a plant, detailing the various medicinal uses for such an herb—a good supplement, Meila found, for the brief lessons Lanaya had taught her—but the woman was otherwise quiet, simply enjoying the warm weather, and occasionally casting kind, if somewhat baffled, looks at the antics of the others.

But the Dalish elf could hardly avoid it altogether. Thus, when the resident Chantry sister sidled up next to Wynne and began asking her about the Ashes, Meila was unwittingly roped into it.

"I am," the bard continued. "People have been looking for her Ashes for a thousand years. Can you imagine? We might be the first to find them!"

"Don't get too excited, dear," Wynne said gently. "If we do, it certainly won't be easy."

"But if anyone can do it, the Wardens can," Leliana said with utmost confidence. "The Maker smiles on them."

The Dalish elf shot her a hard look. "Just what about having lost most of our order—including our commander—and being betrayed by the king's adviser makes you think your Maker smiles upon us?"

"I believe he does," she said calmly. "I have seen you Wardens do amazing things so far, and I know I will see you do more. You give people hope in a very dark time. That is why, if Andraste's remains are to be found by anyone, it must be you."

"Or perhaps it is all some great jest by the Dread Wolf, who is only building us up to fail for his own amusement."

"I can't see how any deity would find the Blight amusing. Your gods must be very cruel if you believe that."

Meila did her best not to pounce on the other woman right there. "The one god certainly is, but only because he tricked our benevolent Creators into trapping themselves where they cannot reach us. At least the Creators do not willingly turn from us in a time of need, as your Chantry claims your Maker does."

"But I believe the Chantry is wrong about that!" Leliana protested vehemently. "The Maker is here. He does care about us. That is how I know we will win!"

"You speak of winning and losing as if this is some sort of tourney with a chance at clean victory. When the Blight corrupts everything and kills entire villages, can any such thing possibly exist? How could your Maker allow such a thing to happen in the first place?"

"It is not His fault. It is the old Tevinter magisters who corrupted the Golden City and began the Blight-"

"And your Maker was powerless to stop them? How can you claim he is all-powerful, then?"

"And yet your Creators did nothing as well."

"Because they were trapped by one of their own! Not because they grew upset with us and decided not to interfere in favor of pouting like a child denied a toy!"

"Because we betrayed and murdered the woman He loved! Would you not be angry with someone, if they had done the same?"

Meila threw her hands in the air. "But this is my point! How selfish is it, for your Maker to deny the rest of the world his care, simply because of something that happened centuries ago to a single woman?"

"You cannot call the Maker selfish. You cannot know His mind."

"And yet you claim to."

The women glared coldly at one another, until Wynne's sigh broke the silence. "And that, I think, is enough of that discussion."

"I am sorry you feel that way, Meila," Leliana said softly. "Truly, I am. Even if you don't believe in Him, I know the Maker will watch over you."

"Don't patronize me, shemlen," the Dalish elf growled. "I don't need your empty platitudes."

"They are not empty-"

"Girls," Wynne cut in wearily. "Please."

Meila obligingly fell silent and turned her efforts to ignoring the bard's existence, if only because she didn't want to upset the hahren she owed so much to. Upon turning her attention forward, she noticed the boys glancing over their shoulders at them with some concern. Meila could feel her face flush—it was usually not in her nature to make such a scene.

It was just as well that the party had fallen into a tense silence, anyway, because it wasn't long before Meila felt the burning pinpricks that indicated the proximity of darkspawn. On reflex, she whipped out her bow, and she saw Alistair and Finian draw their weapons at the same instant. Following their lead, their companions also got into ready stances, and a glance behind them ensured that Bodahn and Sandal had stopped their wagon and were looking for a defensive position.

They were on a stretch of road that had once been farmland, scattered with a few ragged, sick copses of trees. Gently sloping hills obscured the sight, but Meila guessed that Lothering couldn't be more than an hour ahead of them at this point. Still, the curves and dips of the farmland were sufficient to block the sight of the darkspawn Meila knew to be nearby.

She heard a guttural growl to the right, and whipped her bow toward the offending sound. A moment later, a trio of genlocks ran over a hill into view, Fang growling and nipping at their heels. Meila let fly without even thinking of it, taking one of the creatures in the side. A moment later, another arrow tore through its throat. The Dalish elf glanced sidelong at Leliana.

This, at least, was one thing they had in common.

Even as Meila let her next arrow fly, she was aware of darkspawn emerging from the dips and turns in the land all around them. She had a rhythm to these kinds of fights, aiming and loosing, and then reaching for her next arrow before the previous had hit its mark. On some level, she knew the boys engaged the creatures around them, but her focus was on the archers that hung back to take her comrades out from behind.

And then, an emissary stepped over the hill, waving its arms in glowing circles. She nocked an arrow and took aim, but too late.

Lightning burst forward from the emissary's hands, and the party was engulfed in a tangle of burning bolts that bounced between them.

Meila jerked under the burning pain, dropping her bow. Everything went numb and white for a moment, then screamed back to life in pinpricking agony. She was on the ground, her limbs floundering every which way, unable to draw breath correctly as her lungs twitched and locked up of their own accord.

Then, a curious warmth settled over her, soothing the burned muscles and returning her body to her own control. She took a deep, much-needed breath and looked up to see Wynne still standing. The healer stood with her arms outstretched—one hand over Meila, and one over Leliana—with healing magic pulsating around her in a way that Meila had never seen any Keeper or healer accomplish before. Wisps of light flickered around her.

A glance over at the emissary revealed that Fang had taken down the spellcaster, but the Wardens weren't out of danger yet, given the dozen darkspawn that charged in at their prone forms.

Meila didn't waste time recovering. Her bow had been dropped and had clattered out of reach by the side of the road, but that didn't mean Meila was defenseless against the darkspawn that circled around them. The elf sprang to her feet and drew her hunting knife, slashing out at the nearest genlock with vigor that denied the vestiges of pain still settled into her muscles. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leliana draw twin daggers to do the same.

Wynne started forward, running for where the boys remained prone, but a pair of hurlocks charged in to block the healer's path. Meila dove in front of the healer, slashing out with her knife, and one skittered back, growling through the newly opened slash at its throat. Meila felt the other dig claws into her side, and it took a couple stabs to pry the creature off her. Fang loped in to finish off the other.

Wynne fell to her knees over the boys' forms and began to glow, and Meila took it upon herself to guard the healer while she worked. They were surrounded by a ring of darkspawn, the monsters spitting and growling. Two dove in from opposite sides of the circle, and it was all Meila could do to leap between them with her knife, standing practically on top of the kneeling mage.

One creature threw itself into her knife, shrieking as she twisted the weapon in its gut. The other monster latched onto her left shoulder, its claws digging painfully into her skin through her leathers. When she felt its teeth dig into her shoulder, she yanked her knife out of the darkspawn in front of her and stabbed the one clinging to her in the eye. It fell back.

More darkspawn immediately swamped her, no less than three clawing at her, blocking her view of the battlefield. The only indications she had about what was going on were the white wolf's growl and Leliana's shouts.

Then, the hurlock to Meila's left was yanked away by its ankle, then kicked across the road by a particular ex-Templar. Alistair clambered to his feet next to Meila, scooped up his shield from the ground, and bashed another genlock over the head.

Meila sighed in relief as Finian and Zevran hopped to their feet as well, each taking one of the creatures down in a whirl of blades.

Warmth flooded Meila's limbs, and wounds she hadn't even been aware of sustaining closed up. She glanced over at Wynne; the elder's smile was tight, but warm.

The addition of three more fighters proved to even the odds, and it was only a matter of time before they were all standing over a pile of corpses. Meila retrieved her bow while the others went about ensuring that all the darkspawn stayed down.

"Well, that was refreshing," Alistair said, wiping blackened blood off his face.

"That isn't the word I would have used," Wynne sighed, then swayed rather alarmingly. Meila was at her elbow immediately. "I'm alright, Meila," the healer said, rubbing a temple with one hand. The healer's words were proven false a moment later when her legs buckled. Meila caught the woman before she collapsed, and found that the elderly woman was a dead weight in her arms.

"Maker's breath!" Leliana jogged over from the dwarves' cart, having apparently taken it upon herself to defend the merchants (And she'd succeeded on her own? That was curious). The bard now watched the healer with all the concern Meila felt. "She looks so pale, does she not?"

Finian walked up to stand beside them, twirling a pair of looted coins between his fingers. "We should find a place to rest, I think."

"Agreed," Alistair said.

"Lothering is not far from here," the bard said. "We will be able to get her a nice warm bed there, no?"

Meila found herself exchanging a glance with Fin. The other elf winced sympathetically, but nonetheless said, "I would… steel yourself, Leliana. Lothering isn't exactly in the state you left it."

"What do you mean?" The bard glanced between the three elves. Even Zevran wasn't making light of the situation, as much as Meila would have expected him to. "What has happened?"

"The darkspawn," Meila said shortly, and that was all that needed to be said. The Orlesian's eyes widened, and then turned to stare over the horizon, toward the distant village. The bard swallowed.

"Still," Fin sighed, "it's better than making camp out here in the open. Come on." He turned and started through the sea of darkspawn corpses.

Alistair sidled up beside Meila. "You need help with her?"

The Dalish elf didn't deign to answer the human, instead scooping up the unconscious woman and taking it upon herself to bear the burden. Alistair could be heard sighing and muttering something, but nonetheless fell behind to go talk to the dwarves.

For once, the Wardens walked in silence, which was only broken when they crested a ridge in the road and came upon the ruin of Lothering. The Orlesian gasped, and Bodahn could be heard fretting about the destruction.

Meila couldn't blame them; the ruins were no easier to look upon the second time around. The Dalish elf could not understand why so many of the humans had remained in the village, despite knowing about the approaching darkspawn. Had they not understood that remaining in one place would mean their obvious doom? Yet, even so, seeing the wanton destruction made something inside her ache.

Finian, who had been leading them to that point, paused and turned. "Any suggestions on where to take shelter?"

"While I was setting up my ambush to kill you," the assassin said lightly, "I could not help but notice that the Chantry seemed relatively intact. That is probably the most defensible position we can hope for. It is certainly better than sitting in the middle of town and hoping no opportunists are around to take advantage this time, yes?"

"Is there something we should know here?" Alistair's voice piped up, and Zevran chuckled. Even so, the Wardens resumed their march down into the town. Meila did not like the idea of staying in a ruined shrine to the humans' Maker, but the burden in her arms stilled any of her protests.

Leliana remained eerily silent as they made their way into the ruined village. Meila couldn't help but watch the bard out of the corner of her eye. She wasn't particularly fond of the lay sister, but that did not mean Meila would have wished this upon her. It was obvious from the stunned look on Leliana's face that this had once been home to her.

Meila could not imagine coming upon her clan's camp, only to find them all killed. Losing Tamlen had been difficult enough to bear.

They made their way through the town in silence. The corpses had been picked over by scavengers, but Meila couldn't help but notice that there were no signs of any animals feeding off the remains. In fact, the only animal Meila could detect nearby was Fang, and even he seemed reluctant to linger near the Tainted corpses.

There was debris piled in front of the Chantry doors, but Alistair and Zevran cleared it with little fuss. Meila followed the boys inside, her arms aching from her burden but refusing to flag.

The interior of the Lothering Chantry was as good as a tomb. It was dark and dusty, and the acrid stench of stale decay filled the air despite the shattered windows letting streams of dirty sunlight in above them. The corpses strewn around had died in the same manner as those outside, though some had obviously been afforded much quicker deaths than others.

Despite tears in her eyes, Leliana skittered ahead and brushed down what had once been a refugee's pallet. Meila laid the healer on the bedding, then opened her herb pouch to see whether she had any revival herbs on hand.

"Maker…" Alistair whispered, staring at the bodies. "Anyone want to help me… um… clean this place up a bit?"

"I'll help you," Leliana whispered, standing. "It is the least I can do, to make sure they are all given a proper burial."

Alistair and Leliana began moving the bodies, taking them outside. Zevran joined in, seemingly for lack of anything else to do… though Meila did see his fingers wandering into pockets as he did so. Bodahn snuck into the Chantry while they were doing this, his hand protectively over his son's eyes; the merchant ushered Sandal to a corner of the room and distracted him from the scene with something small and round.

Fin knelt on the other side of the pallet, drawing her attention back to the task at hand. "Is she all right?"

"It is hard to say," Meila answered honestly. "I am no healer." She placed a hand on the healer's forehead. The woman's skin was clammy, but not too warm or too cold …at least not as far as she could tell. "But collapsing can hardly be a good sign."

Fin nodded, looking worried. "Is there anything you need? Herbs, or something?"

Meila shook her head, upending her herb pouch on a relatively clean stretch of stone. "Nothing that we could get on land this tainted by the Blight." She found a chunk of Deep Mushroom, recalling Lanaya explaining that the reagent had energy-restoring characteristics. She'd also said something about it having less effect on mages… something to do with their connection to the Fade.

Meila hesitated, uncertain. She picked up the bit of mushroom to try simply putting it in the healer's mouth, but a smooth Antivan accent interrupted her. "I would distill that first, were I you."

Meila turned a hard look up at the assassin, who was standing over them with his hands on his hips. "And what would you know about potions?" she challenged.

"Ah, not potions, perhaps. But there is very little practical difference between a bungled potion and a well-made poison, yes?"

Meila felt herself pale. "This should not be poisonous. I was told warriors chew this to supplement their energy during long battles."

"And assassins slip it into food to induce heart attacks in particularly elderly and frail victims... to avoid suspicion of foul play, as it were. While our dear Wynne is quite… well-kept for a woman her age, she is still no spring chicken, yes?"

Meila reluctantly nodded, seeing the logic in his words. She suppressed a wave of guilty anxiety at what had almost happened. "I thank you for speaking up, then. You suggested distilling it?"

He looked amused, but then, when did he not? "It was a simple mistake, for a beginner. No need to look as if I have kicked your favorite puppy, my beautiful elven maiden."

"I do not," she said harshly, suspecting this was a lie. Even so, she turned her concentration to pulling out her tinder and getting a spark up to boil the bit of mushroom in distillation agent.

Zevran shrugged, and both he and Fin turned to help clear out the Chantry. This left Meila alone with her thoughts. She dove into the task of mixing up something to revive the hahren. There was nothing else for it, because the only one who might have been able to tell her what was wrong was Wynne herself.

While the others shuffled around her before finally leaving, she brewed up the potion and tipped it into the mage's mouth. There was no response as Meila gently set the flask aside, and she sat back to watch the healer, wondering what else she could do.

Then, the hahren's eyelids fluttered, and Meila sat up. Wynne's eyes opened, coming to rest on her a moment later. "Ah, for a moment I'd thought… never mind. Thank you, Meila. I can only assume the taste of Deep Mushroom on my tongue is your doing?"

"Mine and the assassin's," the elf admitted.

"Truly? Perhaps… there is more to him than I had initially thought."

"Perhaps," Meila agreed. "But I still do not trust him."

Wynne's smile was warm, igniting a spark of relief in the elf. "I would expect nothing less than utter vigilance from you, my dear." With great care, the elder woman sat up, and Meila reached forward to help her. Wynne looked around. "What is this place?"

"The Lothering Chantry. What remains of it, anyway."

"So I see," Wynne breathed. By now, the bodies had been cleared, but the destruction and bloodstains remained. "Rarely has the necessity of what you Wardens do been more clear."

Meila nodded, helping the woman to stand. "Are you all right? You collapsed. We were all concerned."

"I suspect that is another of your understatements," Wynne said, retaining her smile. "I am well, considering the circumstances."

Meila frowned, confused. "I do not understand. What circumstances?"

Wynne sighed. "I suppose it is time I explain myself. Come, let us find the others. I have something we must discuss."

Meila nodded, leading the healer out of the Chantry and into the afternoon light. The scent of burning flesh instantly assaulted Meila's senses, and she merely needed to turn her head to see a pillar of smoke rising from just outside town. Immediately, Meila unstrapped her bow and sprinted toward the disturbance, the healer following somewhat unsteadily at her heels.

She ran down the path out of the village, rounding a hillock to come upon the souce of the smoke. There, she skidded to a stop.

A makeshift pyre burned in a clearing where a collection of refugee tents had previously stood, the blaze spewing Tainted smoke into the sky. Zevran, Fang, and Fin all hovered just ahead of where Meila stopped, the latter turning to greet the two women with a nod. Next to the pyre, bodies were laid out in neat rows, and Alistair grimly moved between them, loading bodies onto the fire. Leliana stood before the pyre, chanting through tears.

Meila was not familiar with human funeral rites, but there was no doubt that this was such, and something in her quailed at the idea of simply sitting idly by while others honored the fallen. Thus, when Wynne stepped forward to join in, Meila found herself following. She stooped next to Alistair and helped him carry a particularly hefty body.

Leliana paused in her singing for a moment at the sight of Meila's participation. Then, the bard's face crumpled into a grateful almost-smile, seemingly incapable of any truly happy expression. Meila felt a pang of… something, but turned away and concentrated on the task at hand without analyzing it.

Then, Leliana resumed her chant, commending the souls of the dead to peace at their Maker's side, and it struck Meila that, whatever the differences between humans and elves, grief—one of the most fundamental parts of the experience of living—remained very much the same.

Chapter Text

When he'd been the local drunk's punk runt growing up in Dust Town, he'd never have dreamed that he'd one day be out in the Deep Roads, leading an official patrol on a sweep through the royal house's ancestral thaig. Yet here he was, doing exactly that. Fate had a sense of humor, sometimes.

Garott adjusted the final winch on his current mechanism: a beauty of a trap that spanned an entire tunnel entrance. When triggered by a pressure plate, a heavy blade would swoop across the opening, neatly bisecting any nasty beasts passing through it. Best of all, it was easily reset by anyone who had simply been told where the crank was.

"I still do not agree with setting traps across entire tunnels, Warden," the patrol's captain said hesitantly. "What if our own men were to stumble into one?" He was a Warrior caste dwarf, usually proud as a prince, but Garott in all his Grey Warden glory was apparently enough to cow him.

The rest of the dozen men in the patrol weren't much better, either. All these high-born dwarves turned meek and deferential around his casteless-born hide. Garott was getting too tired of it to find it very amusing anymore.

"Then maybe your boys shouldn't be 'stumbling' through the Deep Roads. I dunno what a bunch of strapping Warriors would be doing stumbling anywhere. They take tips from Oghren, do they?"

The aforementioned berserker brayed a laugh and took a hearty swig from his flask as if to prove Garott right. Oghren and Sten stood off to one side, watching Garott put the finishing touches on his trap. Oghren seemed to be enjoying himself, though Garott suspected that had more to do with whatever was in that flask than anything that was actually happening in the sober world. Whatever… Garott could handle drunks just fine.

Sten, meanwhile, seemed more content than he'd ever been. Whatever crazy logic the Qunari operated under, this current business of tromping through the Deep Roads with the Orzammar patrols seemed to be satisfying his expectation for whatever a Warden was supposed to do.

Garott had been at it for a week now, accompanying the patrols deeper and deeper into the lost thaigs, and setting up all sorts of goodies for the hapless dawkspawn who wandered the roads.

Oghren wanted them to press deeper, toward the old Ortan Thaig, where Branka had last been seen. However, Garott wasn't one to take unnecessary risks, especially when he was dragging two non-Wardens into the most Tainted place in Thedas. Garott was a planner at heart, and most of his plans involved the two warriors not dying a slow, horrible death by Taint poisoning. Thus, he kept within a couple days of Orzammar, securing the tunnels closer to the populace.

Still, it was better than staying in the sodding city. Ages ago, being bowed and scraped to had delighted him, but it had started to ring hollow after his heart-to-heart with his mother. What good was being treated like a sodding Paragon if everything else stayed the same?

By the Stone, this whole Grey Warden hero-of-Thedas business was going to his head.

"My apologies, Warden. I just mean that-"

"I know what you meant." Garott stepped away from his mechanism and turned his attention entirely toward the patrolmen. "You want your boys' strolls through the Deep Roads to be clean and worry-free, right? Well, that's too bad, because that aint gonna happen. I'm just evening the odds a bit… making it just as dangerous for those blighters as it is for us. You still got a problem with that, captain?"

The Warrior hung his head. "No, Warden."

Oghren laughed again, and Sten's expression was dangerously close to a smirk. Glad he had their approval, at least. "Good. Next time you think about opening your mouth, think about whether you have any idea what you're talking about, huh?"

He turned and started off down the next tunnel, already pulling the next bit of scrap metal out of his pack. With the sounds of clanking metal and Oghren's rumbling chuckles, the patrol fell into step behind him.

Chapter Text

"What is this, precisely?"

Percival's tight voice broke her out of her morning inventory. Felicity glanced up from her logbook, seeing that the nobleman had paused in loading the cart. He had a sack in his hand that Felicity recognized as one of Wynne's bags—lent to her to supplement her own herbal supplies.

However, Percy wasn't looking at the herbs. What he was staring at, muted horror on his face, was a very old, black tome that had apparently also been stored in Wynne's bags.

Felicity gasped, immediately recalling the book. She cast a glance across the camp, but Kazar and Marnan were both still picking at their breakfasts (as they had both done for the past week of travel), while Morrigan had yet to emerge from her own tent.

"This is a grimoire, isn't it?" Percy's blue eyes darted up toward hers, his face hard. "What is a grimoire doing stashed in your bags? Hidden, even?"

"It's not mine." Felicity set her codex down and scurried over to the noble. Only once she was in whispering range did she say, "It's Flemeth's."

Percival's eyes widened, his grip on the book tightening. "Flemeth's?"

"We found it in the Circle Tower. It simply didn't seem right to leave it there. However… I hesitate to return it."

"Is it dangerous? Is there blood magic in here?"

Felicity bit her lip. "I'm not certain. The writing is… impossible to comprehend. Symbols and lettering that have fallen out of use. Perhaps Morrigan could make sense of them."

Percival's knuckles turned white. "And then she might use whatever nefarious secrets are present in this tome for her own ends."

Felicity fidgeted. "Such does seem in alignment with her character, yes."

Percy turned his gaze down on the tome. "Then again, the alternative is to keep it hidden, when it should, by rights, be passed to Morrigan. Are we really in any position to decide what Morrigan does and does not have rights to?"

Felicity studied him. That question had not sounded hypothetical. "Of course we do. It is for the greater good that this remain out of the hands of both Flemeth and Morrigan. That is what Grey Wardens are about, after all: doing what they must for the good of all."

Percival's brows were low over his eyes, but he nonetheless slipped the book back into the bag. "Then why does it feel I'm overstepping my duty?" Even so, he placed the bag on the cart and bent to pick up the tent poles, resuming the matter of packing in silence.

Chapter Text

"So, what is the first thing you're going to do when we get to Denerim?"

The pickpocket's question was playful, so Alistair had to answer in kind as he led them along the road. "I'm thinking… bath. Definitely a bath. Scented soap, fluffy towels, the whole package."

"Mm," the assassin hummed. "You forgot to mention the beautiful Rivaini washing maid with wandering hands, insatiable curiosity, and long, luscious legs. Otherwise, I entirely agree." A pause. "Better yet, skip the bath."

Alistair fought not to smile, because the Antivan would never let him live it down if he did. Instead, the warrior concentrated on picking imaginary dirt off the borrowed Templar armor he was now sporting. They were almost in sight of Denerim, now, and it would hurt his disguise if he wasn't absolutely pristine. Or so he pretended, anyway.

"I want to go shopping," Leliana said excitedly. "I haven't seen a proper market since I came to Ferelden. Think of all the different clothing and jewelry that must be for sale in the capital city!"

Fin laughed. "Somehow, I suspect Denerim is a little different from Val Royeaux. It's better to hide your jewels in Denerim's market. Unless you want to attract pickpockets, of course."

"Attract pickpockets, eh?" Zevran purred, and, even without turning, Alistair just knew he was giving Finian some sort of wholly inappropriate look (Alistair was pretty sure they thought they were being secretive, but by the Maker, tent walls were not that thick). "I shall have to keep my jewels on full display, then. Although, the way I define 'jewels,' I suspect the guards might object. Or perhaps not… one never does know about these things until they've tried it, after all."

"That…" Wynne sighed, "…was a mental image that I did not need. Thank you, Zevran."

"Always a pleasure, my dear Wynne."

Alistair was still a little unsettled by Wynne's whole, 'oh, I have a Fade spirit living inside me, except it's dying' thing. It sounded a little too close to all the dire warnings about abominations he'd had drilled into him back in his Templar recruit days. The whole mess at the Circle Tower didn't really help him be any more comfortable with it, either. But he'd gotten used to the idea, at least. Mostly.

He just didn't really want to be standing nearby if Wynne's little friend decided it was a demon after all. There were a lot of things he could do out of necessity, but striking down kindly old ladies who darned his socks wasn't really one of those things.

As for Zevran… after a week on the road, it was becoming pretty clear that the assassin didn't actually intend to stab them all in their sleep and leave them for dead. At least not right away. Alistair still wouldn't trust the Antivan to cook his food or watch his dog for a weekend, but he could say the same about a couple of his fellow Wardens, too. He was pretty sure the assassin wouldn't carry on with Fin like this if he intended any immediate harm, anyway.

But still… Alistair was this close to giving the cheeky bastard the big-brothery 'if you hurt him...' talk. The only thing stopping him was that he was pretty sure Meila had already done so.

Yeah, Alistair had his differences with Fin. After some time, he accepted that (mostly because a week of manly pouting would have been exhausting). And if there was anyone who could convince you not to be mad at him, it was Finian Tabris.

"What about you, Wynne?" Fin pressed, ever cheerful. "What are you looking forward to?"

"I suspect finding a certain Chantry scholar so that we might find a holy relic is more than enough to be excited about, young man."

"Nothing else?"

"Not really, no."

Alistair called back, "Oh, stop being a stick in the mud and just say 'a nice warm bed' or something. He won't shut up until you do, and you don't really want him hounding you all day, begging for small talk, do you?"

That had Fin, Zevran, and Leliana all roaring with laughter behind him, which was a nice enough distraction.

While it was true that Alistair did want a bath (and, come to think of it, the bed sounded pretty good, too) there were a number of things he wasn't looking forward to as they approached the city walls. Walking through the front gates of Loghain's base of power, for one. Pretending to be a knighted Templar was a close second. And Maker, his sister was somewhere in the city, if Arl Eamon's records were to be believed.

He hadn't told the others about that part. He hadn't told them about a couple important things, and it was starting to weigh him down. That one… thing… it would come up; he knew it would. And it wasn't like he was hiding it or anything. He just… didn't want them to know. He really, really didn't want them to know. Maker, what would someone like Leliana make out of him being a king's bastard son? Or worse, someone as schemey as Fin?

And what would Felicity do, when she found out? Would she feel betrayed that he hadn't mentioned it sooner? Would she get all dazzle-eyed over the thought of him being some sort of shiny-armored prince, even though they both knew he was very much not?

The point was, it just hadn't come up, and he hoped it never did.

His sister, though… what might it be like to have a family?

Alistair's hand reached up briefly to touch the Chantry amulet now clinking against his Templar chestplate. He'd broken down a couple days ago and told them about his mother's amulet, and—wouldn't you know it—Fin had reached into his suspiciously full bags and pulled it out, right then and there. Apparently, someone's fingers had gotten a bit sticky in Eamon's study… but if it meant having that last connection to both his mother and Eamon back, Alistair wasn't going to be too righteously affronted by the blatant theft.

Maker, he hoped the amulet wouldn't become a memento of Eamon the same way it was of his mother. Eamon had to be all right… right? They couldn't really face Loghain without the man. The thought of taking down Loghain without Eamon's political genius… it wasn't a pretty picture.

"Perhaps, my dear Mother Wynne, you might look forward to having two strapping young elves bowing to your every whim, hm?" The Antivan's voice was, as ever, thick with lewd undercurrents and easy charm. "As everyone knows, we elven servants are at your… service, in whatever way a beautifully bosomed goddess such as you might require."

"For the last time, Zevran, stop talking about my bosom."

Leliana laughed. "If you keep this up, I don't think the gate guards will believe your disguises. Servants don't tend to flirt with the Chantry women who have taken their vows. At least, not in public!"

"Oh ho!" Zevran cackled. "So you are saying that such things might happen behind those pristine chapel doors, then? Do go on, dear bard! Do not spare us a single forbidden, secretly depraved detail!"

"I also seem to recall," Wynne said with a sigh, "that part of our cover was to remain quiet."

Zevran and Leliana both chuckled, but took the hint, and the troupe approached the city walls in silence.

Alistair glanced behind him at the others. Wynne and Leliana were both looking convincing enough in their Chantry robes, while Fin and Zevran wore simple servants' linens. A keen eye, however, might have noticed the daggers the bard and both elves hid under their clothing. It was just as well: Alistair didn't want to be the only one armed, in case something happened. And knowing their luck, something certainly would happen.

They'd had a bit of trouble getting Meila to accept a disguise, though. The Dalish elf stubbornly refused to cover her face tattoos… something to do with their religious significance, if he had to guess. The solution? Hiding her in Bodahn's cart. It seemed to Alistair that the lesser of two evils would be for her to just put some powder on her face, but what did Alistair know about the various neuroses of Meila Mahariel? He'd established long ago that he didn't understand her one whit, and would not even try for his own sanity's sake.

That, of course, meant the wolf was following Bodahn's cart like a vicious, wary wolfhound. Of course, if the wolf actually tried to follow them inside the city, there was no way the guards would be fooled into thinking Fang was only some wolf-like breed of dog. No, if there was one thing Fereldans knew, it was their dogs, and Fang was definitely no dog.

Minus that one thing, though, they were the innocent picture of a small band of refugees: a Chantry mother and sister, a Templar guard, servants, and a merchant and his son. Nothing to indicate they were renegade Wardens at all. Alistair had to admit: this idea of Fin's had been a good one.

They were in sight of the main gates, now, so Alistair unclipped his Templar helmet from is belt and settled it over his head, sticking him in a world where every sound was slightly muffled, he had no peripheral vision, and he was smelling his own breath. Not altogether pleasant… Alistair hated helmets, except the part where they stopped nasty things from happening to his head. He was rather attached to his head.

As it turned out, Alistair needn't have worried about the white wolf. As they stopped at the gate, Alistair threw one last glance back at the party, and the wolf was nowhere in sight.

The guards at the gate barely even glanced at them, basically asking their business because they had to. Then, the guards offered Mother Wynne (he grinned inside his helmet at that thought) their salutes and waved them into the city.

And what a city it was: all bustle and noise and strange smells that Alistair really didn't want to identify. They arrived early in the afternoon, and it seemed like everyone was out on the streets at this time of day. Alistair pretty much had to make a path, just so they could get Bodahn's rickety cart through.

The first order of business was to find an inn. They needed somewhere to set up base, so they could stash Bodahn's cart and let Meila stretch her legs. Fin, despite adopting an overly polite, submissive manner that simply oozed I'm-just-some-poor-elf-servant-don't-notice-me (Maker, but the elf was good), guided them to a dumpy little place about a block behind the Chantry.

The inn was called the Blessed Horse, and it was perfectly middle-of-the-road: not nice enough to attract anyone important, but not seedy enough to have unwanted ears hanging around. Even better, as close as it was to the Chantry, it was entirely believable that a couple misplaced Chantry people would reside there. As they pulled up in front of the two-story wooden building, Alistair could hear the Chantry's bells ringing in the air above them.

From the cadence of the tolls, it sounded like a funeral was on. Judging from Leliana's sad frown, she recognized it as well. Silently, Alistair wondered how many of those the Chantry was hosting these days, what with Ostagar, and the Blight, and impending civil war and all that. He thought it was best not to voice such a question.

Wynne, Leliana, and Fin went inside to see about rooms, leaving Alistair and the assassin to lead the Feddics around back, where they could stable the mules and cart. Immediately upon storing the cart in the lean-to designed for that purpose, Alistair and Zevran began off-loading some of the crates and sacks.

Meila bent out from a niche between two crates. She gave no sign of discomfort, despite having been stuck in the same, cramped position for hours (Due to personal experience involving a Redcliffe kitchen cabinet when he was a boy, Alistair knew that she should have been aching all over by now). Instead, she simply climbed off the cart and bent to retrieve her bow and quiver from behind the sacks.

"I must admit, my beautiful elven maiden," Zevran's voice purred as he slung one of the bags across his shoulder, "that such a demonstration of your flexibility is quite enticing. Would you object to further demonstrations?" Meila gave him one of her stony glares, and Zevran waggled his eyebrows. "No? Perhaps I will have to come up with ways to convince you, then. I can be quite… convincing."

Alistair removed his helmet with a sigh and then quirked an eyebrow at the assassin. "Does Fin really not mind you flirting so blatantly with everyone?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Zevran turned a look at him, and Alistair snorted incredulously, because if there was one expression Zevran Arainai could not pull off, it was innocence.

Bodahn approached them then, having briefly rooted through his cart, apparently to double-check that everything was there. The dwarf favored them with a smile and a bow. "Many thanks for your kind escort, Wardens. Do you have any further need of me or my boy today?"

Alistair exchanged a glance with Meila, who shook her head. "I think we're good for now, Bodahn. Off to go play in the city, are you?"

"A merchant's work is never done, messere. If that's all, Sandal and I will be heading for the market to see whether there are any stalls available to rent. Please, if you leave the city again, make sure to let us know."

"Will do." Alistair saluted, and Bodahn bowed again. Sandal grabbed a lockbox off the cart, and the two headed out, the younger dwarf humming tunelessly as he walked.

After they were gone, Zevran arched an eyebrow. "We should stop by their stall later, just to see what the going rates are for his merchandise. I have been dubious about your so-called 'discount' for some time."

Alistair couldn't help it: he laughed. "You're not alone." He motioned out the door. "Shall we go see whether Fin's finagled any first-born sons out of the inn staff yet?"

Meila frowned in confusion. "What would Finian want with first-born sons?"