Chapter Text
It was well past midnight when Rowan Cousland and her escort finally drew near to their destination, Vigil's Keep. The fortress loomed against the mountains, shrouded in mist, casting foreboding shadows across the already-darkened valley. Occasionally, the flicker of firelight could be seen along the ramparts – the watchmen's torches, Rowan assumed – but the distant gates were shut tight, and no other movement broke the expectant stillness. Ahh, a warm welcome to your new home, she thought grimly to herself, studying the edifice with a critical eye as they marched along the uneven road, maintaining a steady pace. It looks like something out of one of Father's ghost stories. The haunted castle, shrouded in gloom.
The journey had taken two days' time, passing mostly in hushed silence as they traveled unseen, hooded against the damp fog that seemed to shroud the entire coastline in shadow, the very air pressing down upon them with an invisible, inexorable weight. Her escort – Mhairi, a slim, unimposing young warrior who had met up with her at the last village, had thus far intuitively kept silent except when necessary.
In truth, the fog was no match for the oppressive cloud of resentment and regret under which Rowan traveled, her mind wandering to so many previous journeys along the darkened highways of Ferelden. Always, the future looms uncertain ahead of me. And now I face it alone. So many times, she turned on impulse, searching for that steadying presence that had always been there, that should be there still. And each time, had to choke down the brief panic that rose in her chest when she saw only empty air beside her. Alistair, you fool. Oh, you idiot.
In the months since the destruction of the Archdemon, she had lived at the palace, and Alistair Theirin's angry stares and pain-filled eyes had haunted her every waking moment. She had hoped that time might ease his frustration, that he might come to understand her reasons for sparing Loghain, that they could at least find some kind of balance, middle ground, friendship. But with each passing day, he only grew colder towards her, more resentful. Once upon a time, their path had seemed all but set in stone: they would be King and Queen, ruling Ferelden much as they had battled the ravages of the Blight: side by side. Instead, the long-concealed bastard prince, who wanted only to be a soldier – to be a Grey Warden - was trapped in the palace with the cold and imperious Anora to call wife, and a long list of duties he couldn't even begin to grasp. Meanwhile, Rowan, raised to become a ruler herself, was the sodding Hero of Ferelden, her only responsibility lay in rebuilding the order that he so cherished, and the bile that he swallowed each time he uttered her name in a speech or proclamation tasted just as bitter in her throat.
The official summons to Amaranthine to take up her position as Warden Commander of Ferelden had been a blessing, a reprieve from the constant torment. Finally, she could move out of that horrible palace and begin again, attempt to put it all behind her. And yet, now that the Keep was in sight and this new beginning awaited, she found the sight almost as bitterly painful as the palace. She had escaped the weight of his eyes, but his memory rode heavily on her, and all she could see in the grim lines of the fortress ahead was the future that would never come to pass.
It matters little, she thought grimly to herself as she trudged along the muddy road. It is done now, and not all is lost. She still had some family left to her – Fergus, working to rebuild the Cousland family name from the ashes in Highever; and Zevran, off in Antiva somewhere eliminating the remaining threats there so that he could, presumably, return to Ferelden and fight at her side. And of course, she still had this, the Grey Wardens, her duty and her responsibility to an order she had come to love in her own right. Strangely, she knew deep down that no matter how much she resented Alistair's abrupt and painful betrayal, part of her would do this for him, because she knew it was what he wanted more than anything else – to see the order restored to its former glory, to ensure that come the next Blight, no one else would suffer the tragedy and pain that they had endured.
And now they came to the final leg of their journey; in the near distance, she could hear the faint ring of steel, an occasional shout. Training exercises, in the dark? she thought to herself. A bit excessive, although I suppose I should be grateful that they sent me such dedicated soldiers. The First Warden had sent twelve Wardens from the nation of Orlais to serve under her command, to give her a working force to assist her with the daunting task of both rebuilding the order, and smoothing over the residual tensions in the region, left in a state of disarray in the aftermath of civil war.
They were drawing closer to the gate now, well within the fences of the outlying fields that surrounded the Vigil, and a sense of pervasive wrongness struck her. She tensed, hands creeping upward towards the hilts of the blades crossed over her back. And then it washed through her, that cold burn, that tingling slithering sensation in her bones that could only mean one thing. "Darkspawn," she hissed at Mhairi. "Be on your guard."
Ahead of them, the gates swung open slightly, and a soldier dashed out, followed closely by three of the monstrous creatures. With a ring of steel, Rowan drew her longswords, dashing ahead to cut down the fiends before they could strike a fatal blow to the man's receding back. She felt the adrenaline rising, the battle-lust hot in her veins, as she swung the blades in sweeping, fatal arcs, cutting down the man's attackers with ease. Whimpering, drenched in blood, he stumbled, crawled to his feet, and turned to look at her. His eyes widened when he spied the heraldry emblazoned on her cuirass: two argent gryphons addorsed, maintaining a branch fesswise between them, on a field of azure. "Oh, thank the Maker you're here, Commander!" he exclaimed.
"What has happened here?" she demanded in a clipped voice.
"They came out of nowhere," the man mumbled. "No warning, they just appeared…"
Mhairi looked at Rowan sharply. "How could the Wardens not have sensed their coming?" she asked.
Rowan shrugged helplessly. "I would very much like to know the same thing," she replied. "There is something very wrong here; we should be wary." She turned back to the guard with a sympathetic nod. "Go on with you," she said gently. "Get yourself to safety; I will handle this."
"Oh…thank you, Commander," the man muttered, already moving away and down the road. "There must be a patrol out on the roads somewhere, I'll send back more help!"
Rowan's eyes were already sweeping the face of the Keep's walls, and she paused to shoot a sidelong glance in Mhairi's direction. "You have not yet taken your Joining, Mhairi..."
"I have not yet had that honor, Commander," the warrior interrupted breathlessly.
Wonderful, an enthusiastic puppy, she thought, mastering her irritation with an effort. "Have you encountered Darkspawn before? Did you fight with us, during the Blight?"
"I did not, Commander," the girl replied, ducking her head as if ashamed. "I entered King Alistair's service just after his coronation."
Rowan turned her full attention on Mhairi for a moment, studying her carefully. Though she could not explain exactly why, having known her only a short time, she had the strange and unsettling feeling that this woman was not Warden material. "Be extra-careful in there," she admonished the over-eager young woman. "You are not able to sense them as I am, so stay very close to me and follow my lead. And for the love of the Maker, keep your visor down and don't let any of their blood into your mouth, eyes, or any open wounds."
"Absolutely, Commander," the warrior replied, swallowing hard before lowering the visor on her helm.
The lower yard of the keep was a bloodied nightmare, and Rowan's vision was obscured by a brief, bold flash of painful memory, in which she could see the lanes of the Denerim Market District stretching before them, awash in fire and blood and chaos, the terrified screams of survivors riding the air like spirits under a ceiling of oppressive, dark clouds. A shake of her head drove the image away, and she eyed the layout critically; at intervals, she could see guards struggling to battle clusters of Darkspawn squads, all of them completely overwhelmed, many sorely outclassed. Directing Mhairi with little more than nods and pointed glances, she moved as silently as possible around the open space, engaging clusters of the beasts, aiding soldiers wherever she could.
What felt like hours later, they stood before the main gates leading inside the Keep proper. They had secured the yard, and already a small triage station had been erected; men bustled to and fro, gathering what supplies they could from the outbuildings.
At Rowan's elbow, Mhairi's strong frame resonated with tension and fear. "I don't understand," the girl murmured, a distinct edge of hysteria in her tone, "how could they have…"
"Mhairi," Rowan said firmly, the sharp undertone of her voice snapping the woman back to reality with a jolt. "I need you to focus, now. You know the Keep better than I do; your guidance will be imperative." She watched carefully as the young warrior took a deep, steadying breath, and nodded. "On we go, then," Rowan said quietly, and motioned her to follow as she climbed the stairs to enter the Keep.
She found herself standing in a large gate-hall, a wide and echoing chamber exposed to the open air above. To either side, raised walkways led into various rooms and hallways. Straight ahead, the siege gates had been lowered over the main entrance to the halls. Mhairi stepped forward confidently, raising an arm to point to a small platform up on the right-hand walkway. "The gate release is there," she said quietly.
With a nod, Rowan mounted the stairs, only to be met with a barred door. She slammed a fist into the heavy wood in frustration; there would be no breaking through this. "Is there another way up?" she asked Mhairi.
The warrior pointed across to the other walkway. "If that door is unbarred, we can go around, over the parapets," she explained.
Rowan immediately began crossing the large open space in long strides…and then stopped abruptly, raising one closed fist to gesture a halt, as the cold, tingling sense washed over her. Where…? She looked all around, confused for a moment, then met Mhairi's eyes grimly. "Shrieks," was all she had time to say, before the ground around them erupted in smoke and shattered stone, and three hulking, keening forms surrounded them. Head down, focusing hard to ignore the wails the creatures emitted, she swung her swords almost blindly. "Stay with me, Mhairi!" she called out over the wailing din, hoping fervently that the warrior had not fallen victim to the hypnotic cries.
A minute later, she wrenched her blade free of the last ruined chest, and turned to her companion with a sigh, wiping a spot of black blood from her face. "They are the worst," she spat, indicating the twisted pile of elf-eared corpses. "You alright?"
Mhairi nodded breathlessly.
"Let's move," Rowan said, adjusting her grip on her weapons and continuing across the Hall floor. She climbed the steps slowly, Mhairi on her heel, all senses alert for the slightest movement. Carefully, she approached the closed door; with a pointed nod, she directed Mhairi to stand beside the door, protected by the frame. "Let's hope this one isn't barricaded," she muttered under her breath, and then her leg pistoned out, smashing the door inward on its frame.
She dashed through the door, Mhairi on her heels, and skidded to an abrupt halt, hands upraised to ward against the blast of heat that washed over her. Squinting against the unexpected glare, she took in the small space before her quickly: they were standing in a small L-shaped room, a prison holding area of sorts, with a single barred cell stretching the length of the far wall from end to end. The open area immediately before the cell was awash in fire, and standing amidst the inferno she saw a lone figure in silhouette, molten flame pouring from outstretched hands, incinerating a small cluster of flailing, nearly-dead Darkspawn. As the last of the creatures sank to the ground, wreathed in smoke, the blast tapered off, and the figure turned towards them, shaking droplets of liquid fire from his fingertips as idly as one might dash away water after washing, giving a nervous start as his eyes found them.
The man was tall and rather strongly-built for a mage, clad in slightly ragged robes of the Tevinter style, with a regal profile and longish ash-blond hair tied back from his face with a length of hide. She realized with a slight hitch of breath that he bore a marked resemblance to the King, a similarity made all the more striking by that utterly familiar expression: simultaneously sheepish and charming. Shrugging his shoulders, the mage faced them with an expression of saintly innocence firmly fixed on his lean face. "Uh…I didn't do it," he said.
Focus, Rowan. Her eyes went automatically to the pile of bodies at the mage's feet. Mixed in with the corpses of Darkspawn, she noted the presence of several Templar uniforms, and the reason for the man's guilty demeanor became immediately clear. Apostate, then. She could think of no good reason why he'd be locked up in her prison, but she'd already seen so many improbable things here tonight that this was nothing in comparison.
"Don't get me wrong," the mage was saying in a low, faintly amused tone as she surveyed the carnage, "I'm not broken up about them dying or anything. Biff, there" – here he made a vague gesture towards one of the Templar corpses – "made the funniest gurgle when he went down."
She surprised herself by almost laughing aloud. Not so much like Alistair, then. He would have been stammering and blushing; this man's every word was infused with a dark humor, a hint of sarcastic laughter that begged her to respond in kind. "Not too fond of them, huh?" she asked evenly.
"Oh, I know, I know, most people enjoy being kicked in the head to be woken up each morning. Me, I'm just so picky."
His tone never changed – that grim hilarity was still there – but Rowan's thoughts drifted back to the Circle Tower, a stubborn sense of irritation welling up as she recalled the animosity and even outright cruelty of some of the Templars there. Idly, she wondered if they had allowed Cullen to continue to serve, and decided that it was very likely they had. "What is your name, apostate?"
If the mage felt any trepidation at being so identified, he gave no sign. "You may call me Anders, my dear lady," he said, sketching a deep, formal bow.
"I don't recognize him, Commander," Mhairi said from her place at Rowan's elbow. "He was not here when I left."
The mage – Anders – took a few steps forward, zeroing in on Mhairi. "Ahh, I knew we must have missed one another...I'm sure I would remember such a lovely woman as yourself." More like Zevran than Alistair, now that I think of it, Rowan thought dryly, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes. "We were just stopping here on our way back to the Tower," the mage continued, turning and giving them his back as he stared down at the incinerated pile on the cobblestones. "'Just a short rest,' they said, and now they're dead. Such a shame."
"I don't really care what you were," Rowan said flatly, effectively shutting down the righteous tirade she could see brewing on Mhairi's face. Bless her, she means well, but she'll have to grow up very quickly if she hopes to become one of us.
"Pretty and pragmatic – a striking combination," Anders drawled (Rowan did roll her eyes this time), turning his head slightly to shoot what he likely thought was a charming glance in her direction . "Look," he continued, "I suppose I could help you with the rest of these Darkspawn…or you could just let me go. They'll send more Templars to find me eventually; they always do."
That she could have used his assistance – used any assistance – to clean up this unholy mess was unquestionable. However, the bitterness that crept into his jocular tone struck a chord, and Rowan found herself picturing Cullen again. Her eyes swept down to the pile of dead things in front of the prison cell, and then back up to the tense figure that stood over them. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, and he radiated frustration and a kind of a childlike hope, even with his back turned; sighing inwardly, she made a split-second, rather impulsive decision. "They won't if I tell them you died," she said quietly.
"Oh!" The overblown charm returned with a vengeance, along with the slightest hint of incredulity, as he spun to regard her with twinkling, gleeful eyes. "That is rather marvelous of you, to be honest."
Smiling faintly, Rowan jerked her head over her shoulder, towards the door behind her. "Head out the way we came; it should be clear. Carefully, though; some of these creatures are very good at staying out of sight until it's too late to avoid them."
The mage regarded her contemplatively for a moment, as though she were some fascinating mystical object, and then nodded. "Good luck to you then. And...thank you." With another small bow, he fled through the door behind her.
Mhairi turned a wide-eyed stare on her. "Are you sure about this, Commander?" she asked hesitantly.
"It would appear that I am, Mhairi, since it is done," Rowan snapped, perhaps a bit more sharply than she had intended. Nothing for it – she really will have to learn sometime. With one last glance at the mass of charred Darkspawn at her feet, she turned her focus to the door on the far side of the small holding area, senses on high alert. "There are more just through that door; no more than three, seems like. Be on your guard."