Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the shining opulence of Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter, the birth of the second child of the Aeducan family is cause for great celebration. The nobility of Orzammar flood the palace with gifts of gems, ceremonial armor, and other such finery that does a better job of flattering the king than of serving any use to his newborn daughter. Favor is earned and alliances are evaluated as Marja Aeducan gurgles in her crib, oblivious to the fact that she is second in line to the throne her father sits upon.

In the tired streets of Orzammar’s Dust Town, the birth of the second child of the Brosca family passes with little notice. The people here have better things to do than fawn over yet another Casteless infant. An exception lies in the boy’s sister, still a child herself, who devotes her time to caring for her new sibling. Darvis Brosca sleeps contently in her arms, unaware of the mark on his face or the meaning it carries.

At seven years old, Marja is the darling of the palace and the favorite of the king. Most of her time is spent with her tutors, where she learns politics, culture, and history from the large tomes brought in from the Shaperate. Any time not spent at her lessons is spent at her father’s side, where she sees these concepts put into practice. Marja prefers the practical application; even at a young age she delights in reciting her knowledge before the attentive court, just as her father delights in showing her off.

Her only other companions in these times are her brothers. Bhelen, just a few months her junior, trails after his sister whenever he can, and Marja loves exploring the palace with him at her side. Trian, the eldest, considers himself too mature to indulge his siblings in their childish games, but he's still Marja's brother, and she supposes she loves him anyway. She and Trian sit with their mother every evening, and she reads them stories of Ancestors and Paragons past, and everything feels just about as perfect as it could possibly be.

At seven years old, Darvis knows the alleys of Orzammar like the back of his hand. The pathways are dirty and dark, but they are hidden, and in the shadows there is nobody to yell at him for venturing past the limits of Dust Town. Occasionally he comes across others in the alley, people he instinctively knows to be dangerous, but they pay little mind to the scrawny boy with skinned knees scampering past.

This is where he meets Leske. Leske is older and smarter, and he teaches Darvis how to pick a spot and sit in wait until the moment is just right. Together, they dart into the street, Leske knocking over carts and stalls as a distraction while Darvis snatches coins from the hand of some unsuspecting citizen. It’s risky business, but the boys are small and quick and reckless, and at the end of the day the guard has more dangerous criminals to spend their time chasing. Rica has given up on telling him to stop and now merely tells him to be careful. Darvis knows she worries, but with their mother sinking ever deeper into her alcoholic haze, they must do whatever they can to provide for themselves. And the look of relief on his sister’s face when he hands her the coin is enough to make it worth the danger.

When Marja is thirteen, she meets her first assassin. She watches, stone-faced, as he is brought before her father and executed for the murder of the Queen.

She had cried, when she was first told what happened to her mother. She knows better than to cry now, when people can see. You are an Aeducan, her father has said to her, and Aeducans remain strong, no matter the trial. In the following days she attends court as she always does, smiling her usual well-practiced smile at the fellow nobility, and she never quite stops wondering if any among them were in on the plot.

Until then Marja has regarded her combat training as a mildly interesting subject, much like her history lessons. Now she commits herself to the practice with vigor. Her trainer gives her a ceremonial sword and shield, all bright and polished and beautiful. Marja, however, prefers the large double-handed greatsword, even if some of the older warriors snicker at the sight of the young princess struggling to lift the large blade. Trian refuses to practice with her altogether, claiming it’s beneath him to spar with an amateur. Marja pays them all little mind. She seeks out someone who will spar with her- the son of one of her father’s Warriors, a boy her age named Gorim- and practices every day until she can wield the imposing weapon with ease. The weight of the sword is a comfort, and with its presence at her bedside she is able to sleep soundly again.

When Darvis is thirteen, he meets Beraht. It happens on a typical day, when he is returning home with the hope that his mother will be passed out by now and that Rica has scrounged up enough food to make dinner. Instead, he finds Rica conversing with an imposing man he’s never seen before, and the lack of Casteless brand on the man's face is Darvis's first warning that something is off.

The man, he learns, is Beraht, and he has come with a job offering. Rica’s face is pinched and worried, but she tries to inject some brightness into her voice as she talks about the opportunity Beraht has for her. The man has a predatory look that sets Darvis on edge, but it's too late to hide the stolen coins clutched in his fist. Beraht's eyes fix on the money immediately. And where did you get that from, he wonders. Darvis glares at him defiantly, and Beraht laughs. I just might have a job for this one, too.

Darvis already has his own knives, pulled from the scrap pile behind the smithy, but the set of daggers he gets from Beraht is shiny and new. Darvis runs his fingers lightly over the edges, admiring the handiwork. He’s not stupid; he knows that Beraht can’t be trusted. The jobs he gets from the Carta are far more dangerous than running through the streets and pick-pocketing strangers, and the jobs given to Rica are worse. But the money is good, and for now that’s all that matters.

By the time Marja is eighteen, she knows the intricacies of court inside and out. She studies each of her acquaintances carefully, taking note of the different ways each can be persuaded and the unique signs that mark their lies. They do the same to her, always searching for something which can be exploited. Marja keeps careful control of all she does, offering smiles and soothing words and nothing more to the circling Nobles that wish to win her favor and undermine her power in equal measure. It is a competition of sorts, built around the tenets of dwarven honor and surveyed by the eyes of the Paragons, and it is not for the faint of heart.

Fortunately, Marja has Bhelen and Gorim at her side. Bhelen rarely gets involved in the complex schemes of the nobility, and in fact finds amusement in most of the mechanics of the court. Rarely does a ceremony go by without a sarcastic, under-the-breath comment from the young prince, and he is one of the few who can coax a sincere laugh from his sister.

Gorim is even better. He often jokes that Marja has no need for his services as her Second, but Marja is thankful for him all the same. Steadfast and loyal, he is everything a Warrior should be, and one of the few people Marja knows who will always tell her the full and honest truth.

Her relationship with Trian, however, only grows more strained. As time passes, his resentment of his sister festers, and finally comes to a boil on the day Marja convinces him to spar with her on the training grounds. Trian is highly skilled in combat, but he underestimates his sister, and to the surprise of them both Marja manages to knock him flat. The spectators laugh, and Trian has never liked to be laughed at. He leaps to his feet and glares at Marja, dark fire in his eyes. Don’t forget that I’m the one who’s going to be king, he spits. I’m going to rule, and you’re going to be married off to whichever House is the highest bidder. He turns and stalks away, and Marja swallows her own angry words as she watches him go. She wants to fight back, but Trian is right about one thing; being the future king carries a certain power. For now, she has to hold her tongue.

By the time Darvis is eighteen, he’s well known as a thief and lackey of the Carta. He’s good with his daggers and his fists, and he can lift a purse as easy as breathing. In a way, he’s lucky. The Carta is respected and feared, and membership provides protection from the other Dust Town dangers. The job is simple. He follows orders, gets things done, and brings home just enough coin to ensure his family won’t starve. If the job is also unpleasant, well...most things in Dust Town are unpleasant. Darvis doesn’t expect anything else.

Rica, however, carries an endless optimism. She speaks of "someday" with a smile. Someday when she finds a wealthy patron. Someday when they pay off their debts. Someday when he’s free of the Carta and can become whatever he wants. Darvis doesn’t see the bright future she describes, and he doesn't even know what he'd want to be if given the choice. But he can’t bear to tarnish her hope by arguing.

In the meantime, the Carta isn’t all bad. Darvis is good at what he does, and he has Leske to watch his back. Leske is sarcastic and crude and still more clever than he looks, and he somehow greets each new day in Dust Town with a laugh, as if it's all his own private joke. They make a good team, and Darvis knows he would have landed in the Orzammar cells long ago if not for his friend.

Of course, the city guard is not the only danger. The Carta may offer protection and payment, but it also doles out punishment. Darvis knows what happens to those who defy orders, so when Beraht visits he bites his tongue and smothers his temper. His family’s welfare is dependent on this man; it’s just hard to remember that when Beraht speaks to Rica the way he does. Once, Darvis leaps to her defense, until a blow from Beraht sends him to the ground.  You’re useful, Beraht snarls, but you’re not the only lowlife for hire. Remember that, and be a little thankful for all I’ve done for you. There are a million things Darvis wants to say in response, but he sees Rica trembling in the corner, and he says none of them.

Marja is twenty-one when she hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The rumors say he is looking for aid against an upcoming Blight. Orzammar holds little sympathy for the Grey Wardens; darkspawn on the surface are no concern to the dwarves down below. But it is still tradition to honor such a visitor, and as dictated by tradition there will be a banquet, a Proving, and every other piece of ceremony the Nobles can hold to impress their ally from the surface.

The Warden’s visit is not the only reason for celebration and ceremony. Marja has at last been given her first moment of command- the first of many, she believes. Rumors are sweeping the nobility, saying that the king will pass over his eldest son and make Marja his heir. Marja has heard them all, and knows they are more than idle gossip. She has known for a long time that Trian would make for a terrible king. He is stubborn and callous, and the only favor he holds in the Assembly is with the staunch traditionalists. Marja, however...Marja is beloved. And there is nothing she wants more than to lead Orzammar to glory.

Her command is an opportunity Marja cannot afford to waste. The king will be looking to impress the Grey Warden, and this mission will provide the perfect opportunity. If all goes well, this will be the last push needed for her father to officially name her as the future Queen of Orzammar.

Darvis is twenty-one when he hears that a Warden will be visiting Orzammar. The man’s arrival would not matter to him in the least if not for the Provings, but the Nobles never miss a chance to show off their favorite pastime to visitors, and Beraht makes a lot of money off of bets placed and lost. He sends word to Darvis and Leske to ready themselves for an important task on the day of the Warden's visit. No more details are given, but Darvis knows what to expect. For all the Nobles like to talk about honor and glory and all that useless sod, most Proving champions are decided by people like Beraht before the participants even step into the arena. Beraht simply needs some rogues that are good at not being noticed to make sure everything goes according to plan.

Like everything they do, the risk is significant. If Darvis and Leske are discovered, the Nobles will have their heads. But for once, Darvis has a good feeling about what the future holds. Rica is positive that she has a patron now, a wealthy man that is fully enamored with her. She needs a little more time to secure her place at his side, and then they’ll have enough coin to last them the rest of their lives. More importantly, Rica will have all the luxury and safety she deserves, and Dust Town will be nothing but a bad memory.

It's an opportunity Darvis can't pass up. Beraht normally keeps eyes on Rica, but with the nobility flaunting their wealth for the Warden, he'll have his hands full running a dozen different schemes. Darvis just needs to do his job and keep Beraht happy. With a little luck, Rica will have won her spot alongside her Noble by the time the ceremony is over. Once that happens- if she can get there without Beraht getting his talons into her first- they’ll never need to turn to the Carta for help again.

A Warden is visiting the grand city of Orzammar, and everything is about to change.

Chapter Text

Days never end well when they begin with Beraht at the door.

The Carta boss enters the Brosca home without introduction, pushing his way through the door with a rough, unsatisfied look on his face. Darvis jumps up at the sudden intrusion, but the boss's glare slides right past him and the rest of the meager, cramped room to focus in on Darvis's sister.

“Rica!” he barks, and Darvis’s fists automatically clench. Rica places a calming hand on his shoulder before turning to Beraht, who stares her down coldly. “I haven’t gotten an update this week. Do you have a patron yet or not?”

Rica puts on her best expression of appeasement, somehow mustering a smile for the fuming sod standing in their home. She has all the warm charm and patience which Darvis lacks, though even that is rarely enough to soothe Beraht. Even so, she always tries.  “Not quite yet, which is why you haven't heard anything. I was waiting until I had good news for you.”

“Don’t make me wait forever, precious,” Beraht growls, turning to pace across the room. Rica’s eyes follow him warily. She’s not in her work attire yet; just a simple dress, no makeup, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun. She’s only a few years older than Darvis, but at times like this her eyes are lined with worry in a way that makes her seem far older.

“Honestly, you've gotta start putting in a little more effort,” Beraht continues, “Do you even realize how much time I've spent waiting for my interest in you to pay off? Those pretty looks of yours will only last so long, sweetheart.”

An angry noise escapes from the back of Darvis’s throat, and Beraht’s hungry eyes slide over to him. “Something to say, boy?”

“Yeah- don’t talk to her like that,” Darvis snaps, though he knows it's a mistake. It’s not smart to talk back to someone like Beraht; but then, Darvis has never been particularly smart.

Beraht steps forward, bearing down over Darvis. “As long as you both eat off my plate, I’ll talk to her however I damn well want. And you,” he says as he jabs a finger at Darvis’s chest, “will keep your head down and say “aye” to any job low enough for duster scum like you. Got it?"

Duster scum. As if Beraht weren't just as much a criminal, even when sitting pretty with the other Merchants. As if his entire Carta empire weren't built off the backs of people like Darvis and Rica. Anger burns in the back of Darvis's throat, and his fingers itch for the feel of a dagger in his hand.

From behind Beraht’s back, Rica gives Darvis a cautionary, pleading look. She’s right, Darvis thinks to himself. He knows she is, but there are times he just can’t stop himself. For now, however, he’s able to turn his eyes down and mutter, "...aye."

"What was that?"

"Aye, boss," Darvis says through gritted teeth, biting down on his tongue to keep from adding anything else. It leaves him with a taste of blood, but he’ll bleed worse if he says what's on his mind.

Beraht backs away, pleased, and turns back to Rica. “And the entire reason I bothered with this family in the first place was so you could hunt down a Noble. But at the moment, my investment isn’t bearing much gold. My patience is growing thin. If you can’t find a patron, it’ll be up to you to pay me back for all those fancy dresses and poetry lessons. And you don’t want to be in the position of owing me any more money.”

Rica pales. “I…I might have someone,” she says hesitantly. “I can’t promise anything yet, but he seems interested. Please, I just need a little more time.”

Beraht snorts. “We’ll see.” He looks towards Darvis. “As for you, there's important jobs that need doing today. Leske will fill you in on the details. And don’t you screw it up this time- the whole lot of you is on loose sand with me right now.” Without another word, he strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to shake the beams of the Brosca’s rickety house.

“Fuck him,” Darvis says furiously to the closed door, and Rica gives him another warning look.

“You have to be more careful. One day that temper is going to get you into real trouble. Now that Beraht’s getting impatient, he’s going to be much worse than usual.”

“He’d bad enough already. He shouldn't be treating you like that,” Darvis mutters, and Rica gives him a fond smile.

“I know, I know. You want to protect me. But you have to trust me, as well. This patron I mentioned… he could get us out of here for good.” She looks around at their surroundings, her eyes wistful. “You should see the homes some of these Nobles have… more rooms than I can count, with silk sheets and golden trimmings on every bed. With that kind of coin, we could leave all this behind forever. We could be something.”

“And who is it, exactly, that’s promising these luxuries?” Darvis asks, but Rica just shakes her head and presses her lips together, as he knew she would. A friend of hers had recently bragged to all of Dust Town that she was carrying a lord’s son, only to be thrown back on the streets when she realized she wasn’t pregnant after all. Ever since, Rica has been strictly superstitious, not letting a detail slip of her mysterious suitor.

“If all goes well, you’ll be meeting him soon enough,” is all she says, and Darvis tries not to roll his eyes. At this rate, she'll have the baby in her arms before Darvis ever learns his name.

“Well, whoever he is, we need to act fast.” The thought of simply escaping into a fantasy of gold and silk is a pretty one, but Darvis knows well enough that’s not how the world works. Any good fortune Rica finds, Beraht will claim. But the Carta’s dealings have been expanding, and with the Nobles all preparing to impress a visitor from the surface, Beraht’s been busier than ever with his schemes. If Rica secures her position soon, they can make their move while the Carta's attention is elsewhere. Once they get themselves- or at least Rica- into a house surrounded by a nobleman's guards, they might stand a chance of leaving Beraht in the dust.

It’s a plan based on luck, which is something neither Darvis nor Rica have ever had, but it’s better than nothing.

Darvis shakes his head, batting away the distracting thoughts. For now, he still has to follow Beraht’s orders. “I better get on my way.”

“Be careful,” Rica says. “And no more trying to skim off your earnings, okay?”

Darvis winces. “You heard about that?”

“I’m your older sister. It’s my job to know about all the trouble you get into,” she teases, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. This is exactly why Darvis hadn’t told her what happened; she has more than enough to worry about without adding his stupid mistakes to the pile.

“It was a nice piece of lyrium,” Darvis says, as if that can make it better. “Would’ve been worth a lot of coin.”

“The coin’s not worth the risk. I’m so close to securing a patron; just hold on until then, please.”

“I’ll be careful,” he says reluctantly, knowing it’s probably not a promise he can keep. But he says it anyway, because it at least seems to make Rica feel a little better.

“Good. Now, I really do need to get dressed,” Rica sighs. “Honestly, these Noble fashions are going to be the end of me. My newest dress has about a thousand buttons on each sleeve.” With that, she disappears behind her small partition in the corner of the room.

Darvis heads for the door, but he stops on the way out to check on their mother. She lies slumped over the table, somehow still asleep despite Beraht’s loud entrance. Darvis sighs and grabs the half-full tankard in front of her. He rummages through the kitchen to find a skin of mosswater and adds some to the cup, filling it to the brim. Hopefully the watered-down alcohol will prevent her from drinking herself into a stupor again; if not, it will at least keep her from wasting money on another cask. When he’s done, he slides the drink back in front of her and nudges her shoulder. It takes a few more nudges and some water flicked across her face before she wakes with a start.

“Rica?” She squints at Darvis, her mouth setting itself into a deep frown. If Darvis looks hard, he can see where Rica gets her beauty; their mother has the same dark red hair and wide eyes, and must have been pretty once, before she started living out of the bottle. Darvis supposes his own hard-lined features and thick brown braids must come from his father, although he can never be sure; he has no memories of the man who disappeared long ago. But he wonders if a resemblance might explain the disappointment that colors his mother’s face whenever she looks at him.

“Oh," she says, somehow slurring her words already. "It’s you. What are you bothering me for now?”

“You blacked out again, Mother. Try drinking some water today.”

She makes a grumbling noise and reaches for the cup. “Don’t tell me my business.”

“You’re going to end up killing yourself like this,” Darvis snaps, and his mother simply lets out a harsh laugh as she takes a long drink. She doesn’t seem to notice the watered-down alcohol, which Darvis counts as a small victory. He sighs. “I have to go. Just try to dry up before I get home.”

But he’s lost her attention now, so he leaves her to her drink and steps out into the streets of Dust Town.

Dust Town is the type of place nobody wants to be unless it’s the only place they’ve got. The streets are full of beggars and other miserable faces, each one with the telltale brand of the Casteless stamped across their skin. There’s not a building in the town that’s not half falling apart, and the buildings are for the lucky ones.

Darvis’s own ramshackle house is squeezed into a corner on one of the backstreets of the town. Leske leans against it, examining his knuckles with boredom until he catches sight of Darvis. A sharp grin appears on his face, and he calls out, “About sodding time! I was about to bust in to get you. Maybe say hi to Rica.” He bounces his eyebrows at the last comment.

Darvis heaves a sigh and pushes past his friend. “Not in the mood for that right now, Leske.”

Leske snorts. “Oh, I do enjoy your lively banter. But since you’re in such a hurry… we have an appointment at the Provings today.”

“At the Provings?”

Leske sets off down the old dirt road, Darvis falling into place next to him. “You heard me. These orders come straight from Beraht.”

“You mean at the actual Proving hall?” The Provings are a Noble’s game, a setup for pompous warriors to feel like they’re gaining honor or some shit by bashing each other with swords in front of an audience. Everyone knows that, just like everyone knows that the games are often fixed by people like Beraht. It’s usually simple enough to interfere with the smaller Provings that happen every week or so. But today’s Provings are part of the ceremony for the surface visitors and the king’s army. Darvis has plenty of practice shaking down people who've made bets they couldn't paid up, but he's never been let loose into the grand hall itself, especially not when something deemed 'important' is happening.

“The fighter that Beraht has money on is a bit of an underdog. We need to make sure he has a certain advantage over his opponents.” Leske fishes a vial out from his belt and rolls it casually between his fingers. “You’re the quickest thief in Dust Town, aren’t you? Beraht wants you to do some reverse pick-pocketing. A bit of this in the opponent’s drink, and our guy is guaranteed a win.”

“And how are we supposed to get within fifty feet of the place?”

Leske pockets the vial and shrugs. “Beraht got us papers. I didn’t exactly ask a lot of questions...especially not with the boss still pissed that you tried to sneak off with that lyrium ore.”

“That was your idea as much as mine,” Darvis points out. As a matter of face, most ideas are Leske's, especially the terrible ones. Darvis has always been more hands-on, and he has the bruises and broken bones to prove it. “It’s not my fault the bartender ratted us out.”

“We should've known he would, the sniveling nug-humper. Scared of Beraht, just like everyone else.”

“For good reason,” Darvis grumbles. It had been an idiotic thing to do; the whole point of the job was to dispose of the Merchant who'd been cheating Beraht in the first place. They’d achieved that part easily enough, and even turned over most of the lyrium he’d been smuggling; it was only one ore that they kept, figuring it was beneath Beraht's notice.

Not only had Beraht noticed, he'd nearly gutted them both in retribution.

And he still hasn't forgotten, which could be the reason for the job they’ve been assigned today. The Provings will be crawling with higher castes just waiting for the chance to call the guard on a couple of Casteless dusters. Getting in will be risky enough, let alone sneaking drugs into a warrior’s drink, and there will be no rescue from the Carta if they get caught.

"Oh, wipe the scowl off your face, duster," Leske says, jabbing Darvis playfully with his elbow. "Don't let the boss ruin your usual pleasant mood."

Darvis pushes him away with a huff, but Leske just laughs as they make their way through the town. They’ve both lived on these streets their whole lives, and greetings are exchanged with casual familiarity. Or rather, Leske exchanges familiar greetings while Darvis mutters under his breath. This is how the two of them have always been- Leske chatting and joking openly, laying his charm on anyone who will listen, all while Darvis hangs back under a cloud of dark humor. By all rights they should drive each other crazy. Somehow, they don’t.

“You two!” One voice in particular cuts through the street, and Leske adopts a charismatic smile as they approach an old, bedraggled woman sitting by a makeshift tent on the side of the path. She sits awkwardly, her bad legs hidden by a long blanket, and gives them a lopsided grin. “Spare any coin today, boys?”

“My lovely Nadezda!” Leske swoops forward to pat her hand. “How are you this fine day?”

“I’d be better with some coin,” she replies, turning her gaze to each of them in turn.

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Do we look like we have coin to spare?”

“You watch your tone around your elders!” Nadezda says, shaking a finger at him. “You’re certainly better off than I am. Would it kill either of you to show a bit of charity?”

“Sadly, it very well might,” Leske says, pulling away from the woman. “We have urgent business to attend to.”

She waves them off. “Yes, yes, scurry off to tend to Beraht. But when he pays you, remember those who could use a spare piece of copper.”

The comment earns a grim chuckle from Darvis. “I promise, the day I have a copper to spare, I’ll let you know.”

“And you watch that smart mouth of yours!” she calls as they walk away.

Leske shakes his head and laughs. “Always a pleasure!” he calls back. But Darvis knows that beneath the levity, Nadezda makes him nervous. She was like them once- an errand runner for the Carta. But she got unlucky. One encounter with the guards was all it took, and after they broke her kneecaps beyond repair, she was useless to the boss. Now she spends her days begging in the streets and reminding people like Darvis and Leske just how easily they could suffer the same fate.

Getting into the Provings turns out to be shockingly simple. Darvis had been half-convinced that the first person to spot him and Leske, with their brands and daggers and clearly un-Noble intentions, would toss them both off the pavilion and into the lava below. But no- Leske just flashes some papers to the guard at the door, who takes one look and hurries him and Darvis through a side entrance. They move quickly and quietly through the hallways, avoiding roaming Nobles and Warriors, until they finally reach the contestant’s quarters.

“The guy we’re betting on is Everd, and his opponent's room should be…ah! Here we are! They all get ale before the fight- it should be in here waiting for him.” Leske presses against the wall next to the doorway, keeping watch from the shadows as Darvis pulls out a lockpick and begins to work.

The Provings Hall may be impressive- all sturdy pillars and carved walls and high ceilings meant to seem intimidating- but the locks are shit. The door opens easily, and the ale is waiting inside just as Leske promised. It takes less than a minute to finish the task, and as they leave Darvis is marveling at how simple the job was. His brief optimism is rudely interrupted when they pass the next room and Darvis catches sight of a man sprawled on the floor in a drunken stupor.

“Leske, did you say our guy was Everd?”

“Yeah, why?” Leske follows Darvis’s gaze- first to the man on the floor, then to the nameplate next to the doorframe. “Shit.”

Darvis swiftly moves into the room, pulling Leske in behind him. “Shit, shit, shit,” he echoes as the familiar stench of alcohol hits him. He prods the man cautiously with his toe and gets only a grunt in return. “He’s not winning anything in this state. This is bad for Beraht.”

Leske puts a hand to his temple, his typical easy expression marred with worry. “This is bad for us. If this sod doesn’t win, Beraht will scoop out our guts and feed them to the nugs. And that’s a direct quote. This idiot’s going to get us killed unless we do something.”

“Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Darvis demands. He prods the drunk man harder. “Get up, you useless…” he continues muttering and kicking the man until Leske grabs his arm. A grin is sketched on his face now, and he’s looking at Darvis expectantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the meanest thing with a blade in Orzammar?”

“I thought I was the quickest thief in Dust Town,” Darvis says cautiously. He knows Leske too well to think that flattery like this will lead to anything good.

Leske shrugs off his comment. “Everd’s armor is right here. Helmet and everything. And you’re just the right size.”

It takes a moment for the implication to set in. When it does, Darvis can only stare at Leske, mouth agape. “No.”

“Come on-“

“No. If I get caught these Nobles will have my head-”

“Beraht will have both our heads if we let this asshole lose.” A voice rings out from the hallway, calling for the fighters, and Leske gives Darvis a frantic, pleading look. “We don’t have time to argue about this, and even if we did, we wouldn’t have a better option.”

“It’s a terrible idea!” Darvis rubs at his beard anxiously, looking between Everd, the armor laid out neatly near the door, and Leske’s desperate expression.

“It’ll be fine! Trust me!”

Darvis groans, but he knows Leske is right. If they leave now, Everd will be disqualified. The Carta will lose a lot of money. And Beraht will take out his frustration on all of them.

“Fucking fine! Help me get this armor on.”

Leske grins triumphantly and hurries to help Darvis strap on the man’s armor. It’s heavier than Darvis is used to, and it takes some maneuvering to fully hide his long, braided hair, but in the end Darvis is ready to enter the Provings with a false name and a stolen sword.

“This is a terrible idea,” he repeats to Leske before he leaves, but Leske only chuckles. His smile is wide, although his eyes betray the slightest hint of worry.

“Don’t talk and you’ll be fine. Now go kick some upper-caste ass.”

It’s a terrible idea. Darvis is still certain of that. It’s a terrible, stupid, dangerous idea.

And he’s enjoying it far more than he should be.

He should be more cautious, should be taking more care to properly impersonate a noble-blooded warrior. He probably shouldn’t be goading the other fighters with crass insults or using street-fighting techniques some would consider dishonorable.

But fuck it, for once in his life, he’s having fun.

Darvis whips around his opponent, striking out at the man's knee as he dodges the slow, heavy blow of an axe. The other fighter hits the ground, and before he can recover Darvis plants a foot solidly in his back. The man’s helmet flies off as he goes sprawling across the floor, laid flat and out of breath, and Darvis takes advantage of the moment to bring the hilt of a dagger down hard on his head.

Victorious, he grins viciously beneath his visor. “Take that, you nug-humping Noble.” The man is beyond hearing him, but the thought of the headache he’ll be waking up with fills Darvis with vindictive joy. Cheers from the stands- cheers for him- echo louder through the arena. The eyes of so many upon him feels unnatural, but at this moment, with adrenaline rushing through his veins, Darvis can’t help but enjoy the strange sensation.

A hush falls over the crowd as the announcer stands and raises his arms. “Orzammar!” the man booms, sweeping a dramatic hand toward Darvis. Behind the announcer, a human-the Warden, Darvis assumes- watches with quiet interest. His intense gaze sends prickles down Darvis’s skin, and he doesn’t look away, even as the announcer continues to bellow. “I present your champion of the Provings- Ser Everd!”

The crowd erupts, even louder than before. I did it, Darvis thinks deliriously. He won. He impersonated a Warrior and won the Provings and finished Beraht’s mission. The cheers of the crowd make him dizzy and bold, giving him an unfamiliar confidence. Darvis thrusts his fist victoriously into the air, and the crowd gets even louder.

A small protest rings from the practical part of his mind. Get out of here now, idiot. Get to Everd’s room and make the switch.

In a minute, he retorts to himself, squashing down the thought. He can enjoy the adoration of the crowds for just a bit longer. Darvis grants the audience a deep bow, and eventually begins edging his way- slowly- to the arena’s exit.

He’s nearly there when he’s slammed into by a drunk, half-dressed Everd.

“M’here!” the man cries, lurching forward. Darvis’s blood runs cold as the cries from the crowd halt in confusion.

Time to go, time to go, time to go!

He whirls around but the exit is blocked by guards who point at him accusingly. From his place on the podium, the announcer is shouting angrily. “Who is this? Who are you?!?”

Darvis’s mind races for an answer, a way out of this, but there aren’t many options. He turns to the guards, holding up his hands pleadingly. “I’m Everd! I demand you arrest this fraud!”

One of the guards hesitates, and Darvis takes the chance to make a run for it, but this time he isn’t fast enough. The guards wrestle him down, their grip tight on his arms, and before he can break free the helmet is ripped from his head.

As Darvis’s face is bared and his brand becomes visible to all, the crowd moves from confused to enraged. Vicious screams fill the arena, the cries of people booing and calling for his head. Darvis has just enough time to think I might not be getting out of this one, before a guard slams his head into the ground and the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

For the tenth time that morning, Marja twists in front of her mirror to check over her armor. The straps, the fitting, the polish- everything needs to be perfect for today if she’s going to stand up to the scrutiny of the Assembly. She’s brought out her best ceremonial armor for the occasion- the suit of mail once belonged to her great-grandmother, the Assembly should appreciate that- and her pale hair is braided elaborately in the latest fashion. The hairstyle is a lengthy task that requires the help of two servants, and it leaves her scalp feeling prickly and tight, but it's worth it. Each element of her appearance carries a message, from her intricate braids to her freshly shaven face to every inch of her ancestral steel.

Now that she’s finally taking command of her own military commission, she’s not going to ruin it by showing up to court looking like some common soldier. She is an Aeducan, and she has much more to live up to.

“Your shield, my lady?” Gorim stands at her doorway, mildly observing Marja’s self-inspection.

“Yes, yes. I can’t let people forget what we’re celebrating; they should see strength when they look at me.”

“As opposed to the Paragon of Beauty?” Gorim asks with a teasing grin. "It's not too late to swap out for that gown Lady Meino gifted you last week. She claims it's the softest of surface silks. Perfect for fighting darkspawn."

“You’re impossible.” A hint of exasperation creeps into her tone, but Marja can’t deny that Gorim's mere presence makes her feel better, however weak his jokes may be. Despite said jokes, his armor has also been painstakingly polished, and his golden-brown beard is recently trimmed and woven into its own pattern of braids- not as intricate as a Noble's, but practical and neat as befits a Warrior. As Marja’s second, Gorim has just as much at stake today as she does. Yet, he somehow manages to smile at her as if it were any other day.

“One can’t take all this marching about too seriously. It’s not good for the health," he says as he hands over the shield. Marja rolls her eyes but lets a smile of her own slip onto her face as she exits her room and Gorim falls into step at her side. Guards and servants pause and bow respectfully as Marja passes, and she returns their greetings with polite acknowledgement. Gorim, following half a pace behind, waits until they have a quiet moment and asks, “Speaking of, what’s the plan of attack?”

Marja tilts her head back in thought. The Diamond Quarter will be full today, not just of Nobles but of Merchants and Smiths and Warriors, all decked out for the ceremony. The sheer amount of people will be close to exhausting, but there's no better time to make a good impression. “We’ll browse the market, make an appearance at the Provings, and be back in time for the banquet. And try our hardest to avoid Trian.”

Gorim’s face falls a fraction. “Aye, he’s in a state today. I heard him raging at one of the servants this morning from two rooms away.”

“Prick,” Marja mutters, but that's the brother she knows. “Perhaps we should go to the Provings first. We won’t run into him there. The whole spectacle is beneath our beloved prince.”

“There won’t be much peace for you at the Provings,” Gorim warns. “From what I hear, half the men fighting today will be claiming to do so in your honor. You’ll have quite a few suitors clamoring for your favor. Lord Harrowmont in particular is convinced that one of his sons will sweep you off your feet.”

Marja swallows down a frustrated sigh. She knows that such courtship is an inherent part of the political games they play in the Assembly; any such alliance she makes could affect the entire city for years to come. She can't even deny that a Harrowmont son would be an advantageous match. Lord Harrowmont is her father's oldest advisor, and nothing solidifies an alliance quite like a union with the king's daughter. And Harrowmont or otherwise, the day will inevitably come when Marja will have to throw herself on the sword of marriage for the sake of such politics.

The knowledge of this certainty doesn’t make the process any less grating.

“Perhaps I’ll meet these suitors in the arena,” she says scathingly. “We’ll see who knocks who off their feet.”

Gorim frowns. “The traditionalists may see that as an insult.”

“The traditionalists take most things as an insult. The people would love it.” The more Marja thinks about it, the more appealing the idea is. “And so would Father, for that matter. Nobody in the Assembly would argue with him.”

Noise from the gathering outside becomes more obvious as Marja and Gorim approach the large palace door. Marja takes a deep breath and schools her expression into a smile. The celebrations are in full swing now; the court is waiting.

“Ready to head into battle?” Marja asks Gorim, her hand on the door.

Gorim inclines his head. “I always am, my lady.”

The streets of the Diamond Quarter are just as full as Marja expected, and it seems that everyone in attendance requires a word with the princess. Marja mills about with the people, doling out flattery and intimidation as needed. In between conversations, she and Gorim exchange comments in low tones. One Noble throws sharp words after a disagreement; he will need to be watched. Another seems over-eager in her compliments; she’s fishing for a favor, which they can work to their advantage. Everything is mentally filed away for future use.

Eventually, an all-too familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “Marja!”

Gorim tenses beside her, and Marja takes a moment to scowl privately before forcing a smile and turning to greet her brother. “Astra vala, Trian!”

Trian looks as stiff and pompous as always in his own ceremonial armor, a darkly tinted piece emblazoned with the Aeducan crest. Bhelen is a sight next to him in his more festive surface silks, though the rich tones are set off somewhat by his weary expression. Although all three siblings share the typical Aeducan looks- pale hair, strong chins, grey eyes- the two brothers could not be more different in personality. Marja can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy as she wonders how much of the day Bhelen has already spent tending to Trian’s moods.

Unlike their elder brother, Bhelen greets Marja with enthusiasm. “Astra vala! It’s a pleasant surprise to see you out in the market.”

“Yes,” Trian adds, eyes narrowed. “Especially since you should be attending our father at the feast today. Have you so little respect for him that you ignore his wishes to laze about with common folk?”

Gorim frowns. “Lord Harrowmont told me we wouldn’t be needed for hours at least-”

“Silence!” Trian spits at Gorim. “If I want the opinion of my sibling’s second, I will ask for it.”

“That's enough!” Marja snaps immediately. Trian turns angrily to her, and she fights to push back the stab of regret. She’s had a lifetime of experience in dealing with her brother; she knows better than to provoke him. He’s always had more temper than tact, and is quite unfortunately prone to letting personal issues spill over into matters of business. It’s easier for everyone involved if Marja stays on his good side.

But she refuses to stand by while he treats Gorim like dirt. Marja stares her brother down steadily, positioning herself between him and Gorim as she does so. "You asked a question, and Gorim provided an answer. There is no need to speak to him in such a way."

“I speak to lower Houses as they should be spoken to,” Trian says slowly, as if explaining a simple concept to a rather dull-witted child. “Now go do as I say.”

Marja bristles at the order, but she forces herself to remain calm. The last thing she needs is a shouting match with her brother on the streets for all to see. When she does speak, her voice is soft but sharp. “It truly is adorable how you think you can order me around, you know. It’s almost as though you think you’re some kind of king.”

Trian’s face turns an impressive shade of red. “I’d advise you to watch that tongue, dear sister. Sometimes I think you forget who the heir actually is.” He stalks away, turning over his shoulder to shout, “Come along, Bhelen!”

Bhelen sighs darkly at the order, but he shakes it off and follows his brother with an apologetic glance at Marja as he goes.

Well, that could have gone worse, Marja thinks. Beside her, Gorim fidgets unhappily. Marja knows her Second is more intimidated by Trian than he admits- Trian has that effect on a lot of people, unfortunately. A side effect of being next in line for the throne, Marja supposes, although that may not be a position he holds much longer.

Marja mentally pulls herself back from the thought. There are rumors, yes, and the rumors grow with each passing day. Anyone with eyes can see that Marja is the king’s true favorite, and Trian’s attitude has done little to earn him any steadfast allies in the Assembly. It would not be completely unreasonable for the king to pass over his eldest son. But it would be dangerous for Marja to boldly assume he intends to do so, and so for now she plays her part and tries not to antagonize her brother any more than is strictly necessary.

“Ignore him, at least for today,” Marja says firmly to Gorim. “We’ve a lot to look forward to. Let’s not let Trian ruin it.”

They never do make it to the Provings. The news reaches them before they even leave the Diamond Quarter: the Provings came to an abrupt end due to some scandal, although nobody quite agrees upon what happened. Any details that make it past the arena are muddled- Marja hears contradicting reports that ring with various degrees of truth. The disruption of her plans causes Marja no small amount of displeasure, but there is little to be done about it now.

With few other options, Marja and Gorim return to the palace. The sense of urgency which permeates the streets is absent here; the Nobles drift through the banquet hall under a façade of calm opulence. Their attention turns to Marja as soon as she enters, and she and Gorim spend several minutes greeting the fellow members of the court and thanking them for their congratulations. Of course, congratulations are not all they receive- even now, the Nobles clamor for favor and advantages. Lord Dace in particular is quite stubborn in his request for support on an upcoming vote, which Marja entertains for a short while until her interest fades.

“I’m sorry, Lord Dace,” she says at last, and his face falls as he realizes his pleas and flattery have been for naught. “But I still don’t see why we should so easily hand out Noble titles to those who turned their backs on the Stone. A Merchant title, perhaps, if you are so concerned about trade, but nobility?”

“Why, the surfacers are our lifeline!” Dace insists. “I would have thought you of all people would understand, given your rather infamous views on the Casteless situation.”

Infamous, am I? Marja thinks, somewhat amused. A kinder word might be unconventional, but Dace has never been especially tactful. “It was the ancestors of the Casteless who were dishonored; those who bear the mark now have done nothing to earn it for themselves. Is it so strange that I wish to give them opportunities to redeem their names? But the surfacers are different. They chose their own path. Even so, I am always willing to hear someone out, so tell me, Lord Dace- what is it about this cause that interests you so?”

Hope sparks in Dace’s eyes, and he begins spinning a story about his wife’s favorite cousin and a desire for a reunion. Marja exchanges a quiet, doubtful glance with Gorim; in addition to being tactless, Ronus Dace does not have a sentimental bone in his body.

“-and of course I could offer you support in return, my lady,” Dace continues. Perhaps he senses Marja’s waning patience, for he adds, “I keep my ears to the stone, and I hear many things which could be useful-”

“Ah, there you are!”

Seemingly from nowhere, Bhelen materializes next to Marja. He lays a hand on her arm and gives Dace a not-very-apologetic smile as he says, “I’m afraid I must steal my sister away for a moment. Important things to discuss before tomorrow, you know.”

Dace makes to protest, but Bhelen is already tugging Marja away, and she gives the Noble her best smile as she tries not to laugh outright. “Apologies, Lord Dace, but I’m certain you understand. We may discuss your support of me at another time.” With that, the Lord can only watch sullenly as the royals move across the room.

“You owe me,” Bhelen says under his breath.

“So I take it there’s not actually an important matter you wish to discuss? I’m shocked.”

“Better shocked than bored to tears as Ronus tries to sell you on House Dace’s latest coin-making scheme.”

“Ah, that explains it. I take it he tried to secure your support as well?”

Bhelen shrugs. “Nobody cares about the youngest child’s support- he was after Trian. You can imagine how that went.”

Marja can indeed, and she frowns as she scans the crowd for signs of her elder brother. The last thing she wants at her ceremony is for Trian to go off on another one of his tantrums. “Speaking of, where is our dear brother? Don’t tell me you finally managed to escape his company completely.”

“Oh, he’s well entertained without me,” Bhelen drawls, inclining his head to far end of the room. Marja follows the motion and sees that Trian is indeed quite absorbed in a conversation with the women of the Helmi House- or rather, he is absorbed in a conversation with the lovely, dark-haired Jaylia Helmi, who flutters under his attention.

“Wasn’t him I had to escape from so much as Lady Helmi,” Bhelen says, nodding in the direction of Jaylia’s preening mother. “Apparently she’s not satisfied with just one of her House’s daughters being promised to an Aeducan; she’s been hinting all night that Nerav and I would make the most tremendous match.”

“You could do worse,” Marja points out, and Bhelen shoots her an annoyed look. She responds with a light, teasing smile, and adds, “And she could certainly do better.”

“Sadly for Lady Helmi, courtly matches are not my type,” is all Bhelen says in response.

Marja can certainly understand that, although she’s never dallied with paramours the way her brother has. She doesn’t quite see the point of indulging in relationships which can only be temporary. Still, her attention drifts back to Jaylia, and something in her chest aches as she watches the woman bask in the attention received from the crown prince. She could do better, too.

“Oh, but why are you standing here listening to me gossip?" Bhelen says, his cheer suddenly returning. "Shouldn’t you be off getting honored for something?”

“I’ve been looking for Father all night,” Marja replies truthfully. “I can’t imagine-”

As if on cue, the doors to the banquet hall open wide to allow in a large group of guards, a handful of humans whom by their armor can only be Grey Wardens, and, at the head of them all, King Endrin.

“Perfect timing,” Marja muses, tipping her head to Bhelen in farewell and moving to intercept her father as he makes his way across the room.

“Then take care of it,” he orders fiercely as she approaches, and a few guards split from the rest to hurry away. The king sighs and raises a hand to his head in frustration. In moments like this, it’s easy to see how Endrin earned every silver hair in his long beard.

“Astra vala, Father,” Marja says, and his look of anxiety melts away.

“Astra vala, my daughter.” His wrinkled face breaks into a fond smile. “How fine you look in your great-grandmother’s armor. You really are the very image of her.”

“I’m honored to wear it,” Marja replies, bowing her head slightly in respect. She glances inquisitively at the men behind her father, and he moves to introduce them.

“Wardens, may I present my daughter, the Princess Marja Aeducan. One of the finest warriors you’ll ever meet, and the crown jewel of Orzammar.”

“My father honors me greatly, but he is far too kind,” Marja says, even as she glows at the praise.

One of the humans nods politely in response. “I’m certain it is well deserved.” He stands at an awkwardly long height, as all humans do, but his speech and manner are measured and respectable. He holds himself with a casual authority, and Marja immediately identifies him as the leader of this group of Wardens. “My name is Duncan, and it is a pleasure to meet you. But if I may, there was an urgent matter we were discussing…”

Endrin huffs and shakes his head. “The guard is sorting everything out as we speak. We’ll have the criminal apprehended by tomorrow or they shall answer for their incompetence. But we should not allow such a thing to sully our ceremony tonight.”

“I do appreciate the lengths you have gone to welcome us, your Highness," Duncan says, "but we cannot stay long. I will happily aid with the search-”

“And I do recognize your need for recruits, Warden, but surely even you must recognize that is out of the question in this particular case.”

Marja raises an eyebrow. “May I ask what this is all about?”

“This about our traditions,” the king answers swiftly, anger creeping into his words. “What that Casteless did today brought dishonor to many fighters in the Proving. We will see the brand answer for his actions, not be whisked away to join some surface army.”

A Casteless fighting in the Provings? The rumors circulating the city are beginning to make sense, as does the interest of the Warden. The Grey Wardens have long come to Orzammar for the purpose of filling their own ranks- who better to fight darkspawn than a dwarf, after all?- and in their search they have a tendency to seek out...well, the polite word would be oddities.

“Did this person truly defeat our Warriors?” Marja inquires. “Perhaps the Warden’s interest is not unearned. If there is something to be gained from enlisting such a proficient fighter…”

“Not this again.” Her father sounds tired, but Marja presses on.

“If we allow Casteless to join in the army-”

“I have entertained this argument enough already. I do not need to hear it again.” The reply is sharp, and Marja holds back her words. What the king says is true- the argument is long-standing, and every time it is revisited the Assembly dissolves into chaos. The more progressive families are in support of the allowance for those born Casteless to join the Warrior Caste; it is a sharp break from tradition, but it would go far in improving the lives of many within the city. More practically, it would bolster the ranks of the dwindling dwarven army and drain influence from the Carta. No matter how many times Marja and her younger brother make these points, however, the majority of the Assembly remains steadfastly traditional, declaring the entire notion to be downright blasphemous. Trian stands with them, and the power of the crown prince outweighs that of his siblings.

To his credit, the king has always allowed the discussion to be had, although he has little patience with it. Tonight, especially, his nerves are worn thin, and Marja knows she should tread softly. “I merely mean to express my surprise that an untrained alley fighter would cause so much trouble for the Proving participants. It would seem that either this Casteless is worthy of the Warrior title, or our actual Warriors are not.”

The king gives her a stern frown that slowly shifts into a begrudging look of appreciation. “Well put as always, my girl. But this is an argument we should save for the Assembly.” He glances to the Warden and with some reluctance adds, “For now…if you can find him, you can have him. But if my guards find him first, I cannot promise mercy.”

“Rest assured, joining the Wardens is not a mercy,” Duncan says. “But I thank you all the same.” The Warden looks to Marja, and she recognizes instantly the scrutiny in his eyes. She gives him a small, pleasant smile, allowing him to size her up.

“And thank you for your support, Lady Aeducan,” he says at last, and without another word turns to leave.

“Surfacers,” Endrin murmurs as he watches the Warden go. “Sun-touched fools, all of them. They say it’s a real Blight this time around- as if that should concern us at all.” He shakes his head, but quickly recovers himself and turns to Marja with a smile. “Let our distinguished guest run about on his fool’s errand. Tonight, we celebrate your first command and prepare for the morning’s battle. Come, let us enjoy the banquet.”

“We’re so close, Gorim,” Marja says as they return to the palace that night. The hour is late, and the halls are empty but for the occasional Servant passing by. The quiet is a welcome change from the chatter and crowds of the banquet; Marja can finally breathe a little easier as the tension that's been building in her all night slowly abates. Even now, however, possibilities prick at her mind incessantly. “I know the court loves to gossip, but… what do you think will come of all this? They say my father wishes to make me heir, but it’s all speculation at this point.”

Gorim considers this for a moment, and Marja feels a rush of gratitude. She knows he will answer honestly, without fawning or worrying over her ego. At last, he says, “King Endrin will be hesitant to do something too soon. While there is precedent, it’s an uncommon act, and one that may be questioned. But he also sees the flaws in Trian, and it is obvious to all he favors you. A strong success on your part would be the only excuse he needs to officially make the decision.”

Marja lets out a long breath. The words have been whispered around her for some time now, but she has scarcely let herself believe them. Future Queen of Orzammar. Try as she might to remain realistic, she wants this fiercely; it feels as if her whole life has been leading up to the title. Trian may be her blood, and she remembers a time before they resented each other, but she also knows his temper and obstinate attitude in the face of progress will only bring harm to their city.

“Then let’s give my father a strong success,” she says, and Gorim nods.

“May the Ancestors look down on us with pride,” he whispers, almost to himself.

Marja smiles, her eyes distant, already imagining the possibilities. “I can see it, Gorim. We are going to be spectacular.”

Suddenly, a figure darts around the corner, looking feverishly behind him. It’s Bhelen, and when he sees Marja he grabs her arm and without explanation ushers her into an empty room.

“Bhelen! What is the meaning-”

“Marja, I’m so glad I ran into you. There is something very important we need to discuss immediately.”

“Prince Bhelen-” Gorim begins, following closely behind Marja, but his words halt when the prince whirls around on him. He regards Gorim for a moment, then nods.

“Yes, we can trust you.”

“Bhelen, what’s happened?” Marja demands. Her brother turns to her, the concern clear on his face, and when he speaks his voice is heavy.

“Trian is going to kill you.”

It doesn’t take Bhelen long to explain the situation. As he talks about overheard plans and intercepted letters, Marja stands still and silent, taking it all in.

She isn’t shocked, or even all that surprised by this revelation. That might be the worst part of it all.

“He’s decided you’re a threat to his claim to the throne,” Bhelen says hurriedly, casting a furtive glance at the door. “And to be completely honest, he’s probably right. Compared to you, he’s not… personable. And with the mission tomorrow…”

“A success will make me even more of a threat,” Marja finishes, fists clenching at her sides. Hadn’t she just been telling Gorim what the mission means for her future? She should have known Trian would have the same thoughts- and he’s hated her for such a long time.

“You know his pride would never allow him to step down.” Bhelen eyes his sister with concern, waiting for her reaction, but she remains quiet.

Yes, Trian’s hated her for a long time. And assassination among the nobles is, unfortunately, commonplace. That Trian wants her dead is no surprise, but suspicion and confirmation are vastly different. An icy fury threatens to sweep over her, but she bites down on her tongue and forces herself to take a calming breath. Anger leads to idiocy, and she can’t afford that right now.

“You say he’s finally making his move. Do you have any details?”

Bhelen scoffs. “He doesn’t trust me. I was lucky to hear what I did. But the way things are going, he’ll be acting fast. If you want to fight back, you’ll need to act faster.”

“Gorim?” Her voice comes out harsh, and she takes another steadying breath before continuing. “What do you think about all of this?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering towards Bhelen. “May I speak freely, my lady?”

“Of course.”

“Trian has friends in the Assembly, but not enough to become king. Even those who support his policies know he would make a terrible leader. But he has enough power to make things very ugly for you. To kill him now would save a lot of bloodshed later.” His voice is low and solemn. He meets Marja’s eyes with a steady gaze as he speaks, and she knows he truly believes this.

The strategist in Marja knows he’s right. Trian will only ever be against her, and taking him out while she has the advantage is the practical thing to do. The smart thing. Furthermore, it's only a matter of self-defense. There's no reason for a sick sliver of guilt to curl in her stomach underneath the initial anger.

But succession is a tricky matter. Acting too rashly may land her in trouble far worse than whatever Trian has in mind. And for all the she knows it would be pragmatic to strike quickly, she cannot bring herself to consider striking first. Trian has no true sense of honor; she has known that for a long time. But she is better than that- better than him, no matter how much he cheats.

“Let's not do anything drastic just yet,” Marja says decisively. “I’d prefer to know what Trian’s next move is before we go charging out with our swords drawn. If he is going to expose his own lack of honor, I say we let him. We'll catch him in the act, and all of Orzammar will know what he really is.” Gorim’s brow furrows in worry, and Marja gives him a reassuring smile. “I’m not afraid of Trian. Whatever he does, you know he’s no match for me.”

Chapter Text

A heavy, throbbing pain in his head is what finally manages to wake Darvis. His consciousness returns bit by bit, reluctantly acknowledging the hammering in his skull as he groggily blinks his eyes open. A groan escapes his lips, and after a few moments of dull confusion, the memories come rushing back.

Darvis jerks up in a panic, inviting a torturous burst of pain from…pretty much everywhere. The guards aren’t known for being gentle at the best of times, but they really let him have it today.

“Look who’s alive!”

Leske’s familiar voice is a small source of comfort, even as Darvis looks up and realizes he’s speaking from a cell across the room. They’re both in cells- dark and dusty and eerily familiar.

“Alive for now,” Darvis replies, testing his sore muscles as he stands up. “Last I remember, half the city wanted to execute me for ridiculing the Warrior caste.”

“Nah, that’s the concussion talking,” Leske says breezily, leaning against the bars of his own cell. “For ridiculing the Warrior caste, you just get a public whipping. But you also stole the armor, which calls for the loss of your left hand. And you befouled the Smith’s work, so there goes your right hand. You’ll be flayed for impersonating a higher caste. And of course you polluted the Proving- that’s what you’ll finally be put to death for.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Darvis says flatly, and Leske only grins.

“You were out for a long time- hard to tell how long exactly, you were already fast asleep when they dragged me in here. But it's been a while, and there's not much else to think about down here.”

“And I think you technically stole the armor. I just wore it.”

“Fine, keep your left hand, then,” Leske says with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, that’s only if the guards get their hands on you. What the Carta has in mind is probably much worse.”

Darvis blinks a few times at his surroundings. So that’s why this feels familiar- these are the Carta's dungeons, not the city’s. “What happened?”

“You mean after you showed your stupid branded face to the entire fucking city?” Leske’s words grow sharp, and Darvis shoots a glare in his direction.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice in that. Your idea didn’t have much of an escape plan.”

“My idea assumed you would get away from the crowds as soon as you could. Anyway, the guards hauled you off, but Beraht must have some deep connections. Guess he really wanted to punish you himself. I tried to lay low, but it’s not easy to hide from Beraht. Didn't even make it a full day before his guys picked me up and threw me in here.” Leske gives his cell door a dirty look, as if he could will it open through sheer malice. "I'm surprised that ruckus wasn't enough to wake you from your beauty sleep- they must've drugged you on top of cracking your skull."

“Oh, good, you’re awake!”

Darvis knows the cool voice that cuts through the dungeons, and he knows the expression that will accompany it even before he turns to see an unmistakable figure of Jarvia leaning in the doorway.

Within the Carta, Jarvia’s name earns just as much fear as Beraht’s- a fact she is clearly proud of. She’s Beraht's right hand, the one who puts his biggest schemes into action, and to catch her attention is never a good thing. And they've definitely caught her attention now; she meets Darvis's glare with a sly smirk, clearly enjoying herself. Her brand stands out starkly against her pale skin, a constant reminder that she's one of the few Casteless to claw her way up to such a powerful position; according to rumors, she even warms Beraht's bed, though with her short, choppy hair and undecorated face she couldn't look more different than the Noble Hunters he collects. The rest of her is sharp and vicious, from the look in her eyes to the array of daggers strapped to her hip.

“You caused a lot of trouble today, you know. The Carta lost a lot of money because of your little stunt, and now the Assembly is calling for investigations. I think the only thing Beraht hates more than losing money is being investigated.” Jarvia takes a few steps closer to Darvis’s cell, eying him the way a deepstalker eyes a nug. “You can’t begin to imagine the state he was in when he told me to retrieve you.”

“Look, we didn’t have much of a choice-” Darvis tries to explain, but Jarvia cuts him off.

“You think we want your excuses? You made a lot of trouble for us, and now you’re a liability.” She gives him a sharp smile, and chills run down Darvis’s spine. Beraht is one thing- vicious and brutal, certainly, but he has a straightforward way of handling things. He doesn’t enlist the aid of his second-in-command unless he wants to drag things out, and Jarvia has built herself a reputation for being creative. As if she can sense his unease, Jarvia’s expression slips into one of cold speculation, and she runs a finger along the hilt of the dagger strapped to her side.

A thought comes unbidden to Darvis’s head- at least the deepstalker doesn’t play with its food.

But Jarvia doesn’t seem to have any intentions of harming them- yet, at least. She instead turns and strolls back to the door, barely giving Leske a glance on her way out. “Beraht will want to know that you’re awake. Enjoy the rest of your time together, boys. There’s not much left.”

Darvis looks at Leske, and he knows they’re thinking the same thing.

We need to get out of here.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

Darvis looks up at the guard, annoyed. The man Jarvia left to watch over their cells is remarkably single-minded. The lock on the barred door would be easily picked if he had a little time, but he can’t even glance at the thing without inviting the guard’s wrath.

“I’m just sitting here, the way I’ve been the last ten times you checked in," Darvis gripes. "Just nicely waiting for my death.”

The guard gives Darvis a dirty look but stalks away, appeased for the moment. Leske watches the exchange sullenly, and when the guard’s back is turned he shoots Darvis the silent sign for, Do something!  followed by a pointed look at the lock.

Darvis answers with a pointed look of his own, motioning to the guard and signing back, You first.

“Hey! Stop with all the waving around!”

Leske heaves a sigh, but he gives Darvis a look that says all on it's own: Fine. Allow me.

He adopts a crouched posture and begins to stagger around his cell. “Ohhhh. Uggghhh. Please, I need help! Something’s wrong! I’m going to-” he cuts off mid-sentence and falls forward to the ground, making gurgling noises and twitching.

A bit dramatic in Darvis’s opinion, but it certainly attracts the attention of the guard. He runs right up the door, staring at Leske’s prone body in confusion. “What the blazes is wrong with him?”

“Looks like the… plague, if you ask me,” Darvis says wildly. “Horribly contagious in the final stages, you know. We’re all in danger being in the same room as him!”

The guard pales, and he looks nervously around the room. “Aw, shit. I don’t get paid enough to be stuck down here with the plague.” He hovers hesitantly by the door, weighing his options. In the end, it seems the threat of Leske’s mysterious sickness is enough to counteract his orders. “I’m going to find Beraht! This better not be a trick!”

The dungeon door slams shut behind him, and Leske immediately pops up with a chuckle. “Where does Beraht find the idiots that work here?”

“I hope you realize that when you talk about idiots that work for Beraht, that includes us.”

“Hey, I never claimed either of us is a genius. And we won’t be alive to argue about it if we don’t get out of here soon. How’s that lock looking?”

“Easy enough.” The bars of Darvis’s door are just wide enough to fit his arm through, and with a bit of twisting he can reach the lock. His weapons have been taken, of course, but over the years Darvis has learned to carry countless thieving tools stored in his pockets and belts. He even has a few pins tucked away into the braids of his beard- a trick inspired by Rica and the elaborate hairpins she often wears to work.

The thought of Rica sends another spike of panic through Darvis's gut. He doesn’t like the mental image of his sister home on her own, wondering what’s happened to him. Even worse is the thought that Beraht has already had his cronies find her and bring her here, where she’ll be deemed a traitor by association. If she’s in danger because of Darvis’s idiocy…

I can’t let these bastards hurt her.

Darvis dismantles the lock with more ferocity than tact, and it soon lies in pieces on the floor. Leske’s lock is next, and just like that the two dwarves are free- or as free as they can be while still in the Carta dungeons. Leske immediately heads for an old chest on the edge of the room, digging through until he finds their confiscated armor and weapons. He pulls the daggers out, turning them over thoughtfully in his hands.

“You know how this is going to end, right?” Leske says, gaze flickering between Darvis and the daggers. “At this point, either Beraht is finally going to kill you, or…”

“Or I kill him.” Darvis can’t count how many times he’s made that threat before. Never to Beraht’s face, of course, but the thought is constantly in his mind. Even so, it's always been just that- an empty threat. Beraht has the power of the Carta behind him. Some Duster thief like Darvis can't take him down.

But then, some Duster thief couldn’t win the Provings, either.

Darvis reaches out for the dagger. “Are you ready to do something incredibly stupid?”

A sharp grin appears on Leske’s face. “Always.”

The tunnels that make up the Carta headquarters are long and winding, but Leske and Darvis know the way. They move quickly and quietly, making short work of any unfortunate guards that they encounter. Darvis is on high alert for Beraht, but they make it nearly all the way to the exit without finding any sign of him.

And then, at last, they hear a familiar voice through the walls. Darvis moves quietly to stand against the door, Leske acting as his shadow. They’re so close- if they can make it through these last couple of rooms, they’ll be out of the Carta’s clutches.

But it won’t last, not while Beraht lives. They need to take care of him now. Darvis edges the door open and gets a peek of Beraht standing around a table with two of his henchmen.

“Yes, I’m sure!” Beraht’s irritated voice fills the room. “She’s been singing the same song about having a patron for weeks. I’m sick of it. After what her brother pulled, I’m done with this entire family. They’re cut off.”

One of the henchmen grins. “I’ll be happy to deliver that news. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that girl for too long.”

That’s it, Darvis thinks. They all die. 

Gritting his teeth, he bursts into the room, daggers at the ready. The men inside jump up in alarm, but not quickly enough. Darvis catches the first henchman by surprise, and his dagger slides easily across the man’s throat.

“You’re not going to lay a finger on my sister,” Darvis hisses as the man falls to the floor. His eyes flash up to Beraht. “None of you are.”

Beraht has pulled his own weapons now, and they’re pointed straight at Darvis. His dark eyes blaze with fury, the angry veins practically popping out of his face. “What is that doing out of its cage? Can’t anybody here do their fucking job?”

“Speaking of jobs,” Darvis says, “I’d like to officially quit.”

He darts forward to Beraht, knives out and thirsty for blood, and manages to catch his former boss in the arm. A pained hiss escapes Beraht’s throat, and he retaliates by driving a knee into Darvis’s gut and bringing him to the ground. From somewhere behind him, Darvis can hear Leske scuffling with the other henchman. He doesn’t have much time to focus on that, however, as Beraht launches his foot into Darvis’s stomach, driving the breath from him.

"You stupid, worthless, stone-cursed brand," Beraht hisses, kicking him again. "You should have just stay down in the dirt where you belong! But you could never resist making things difficult, so I'm going to have to make this hurt."

A knife flashes above Darvis, ready to come down on him just like every other punishment he's received at Beraht's hands. But this isn't like all those times before; Darvis doesn't have to bite his tongue anymore. This time, he's fighting back.

Darvis twists out of the way of the knife and strikes out with his foot, making contact squarely with Beraht's chest and sending him back a few feet. Jumping up, Darvis once again leaps forward, daggers in hand, and manages to land another hit, this time leaving a long, bloody scar on Beraht’s face. Beraht screams, a noise of half pain and half fury, and raises a hand to the wound. It’s all the distraction Darvis needs to bring the dagger down one final time across the man's neck. The blow is quick and frantic and messy, but it does the job.

Just like that, the leader of the Carta lies dead at Darvis’s feet.

The ruckus behind him fades, and Leske approaches only to stop in his tracks. “Holy sodding shit." His words are a whisper, but as he stares at Beraht's body, a disbelieving grin spreads over his face.

"That was amazing!” Leske laughs, then winces as he clutches at a wound in his side, then shakes his head and laughs again. “You just charged right in here and killed him! You killed him! Beraht’s dead and we’re alive! I gotta be honest, I really didn't think this would wok- we must be the luckiest fucking dusters in Orzammar!”

“For once, I think you’re right,” Darvis replies, letting out a shaky laugh of his own. He didn't really think this would work either; now that it has, he's not sure what comes next. He glances nervously around the room. “But we should probably leave before our luck runs out.”

“Good point,” Leske mutters, his elation fading a bit. “We need to figure out a good place to hide. There are still a lot of people who want to kill you.”

“Yeah, I think I’m getting used to that. But we need to find Rica first.”

“Of course we do,” Leske sighs. “Hey, when we see Rica, could you tell her that I was the one who killed Beraht? That’d impress her, don’t you think?”

Darvis shoots him a warning look. “I’m still holding a weapon, you know.”

“Never mind, then.” Leske follows Darvis to the door. “Just remember, we need to keep a low profile.”

The street is clear when they leave- for about thirty seconds. But almost immediately, people begin shouting. Darvis looks in the direction of the noise, and to his horror sees a patrol of city guards, one of them pointing straight at him. Darvis kicks himself- he’s probably the most wanted criminal in Orzammar right now. Of course he’d be spotted right away.

The two rogues begin to run, but it’s too late. Within seconds Darvis and Leske are surrounded by angry guardsmen, all with swords drawn and pointed right at them.

Chapter Text

The Deep Roads are dark and vast, a series of never-ending tunnels teeming with darkspawn, deepstalkers, and valuable artifacts of a history long lost. Sturdy, reinforced doors block the passageways between the tunnels and the city, and there is a sense of ceremony as the Orzammar armies march through.

Marja has been to the Deep Roads before, although never as the leader of a mission. The familiar sense of the Stone’s growing power rises to greet her, and she smiles as she takes in its presence. How the Grey Wardens manage to descend through the Deep Roads without the Sense, she will never know. But the surfacers and their dull senses are not her concern; today, she stands proudly at her father’s side, helping him to organize and prepare the troops.

All the while, she also keeps a watchful eye on Trian. He acts much as he always does- which is to say, he is temperamental, impatient, and domineering. Whatever he has planned for her, Marja can at least trust that he will not be subtle.

She means what she said to Gorim the previous day; she does not fear her brother’s plans. She has been the target of assassinations before, and she knows to take care of herself. For now, she will wait and prepare. Perhaps Bhelen is wrong. Perhaps Trian will change his mind. Either way, she has no intention of striking first and making a mistake out of haste. Her brother’s blustering ways have taught her the value of temperance, if nothing else.

Despite her confidence, Marja can’t help the wariness that gnaws on her nerves as she departs from the main army to navigate the Deep Roads with her own small troop. She moves cautiously through the tunnels, her greatsword at the ready and her eyes on the two newcomers put under her command. One is a Warrior whom she’s never worked with before, but the other is a face she recognizes- Frandlin Ivo, who comes from a minor House but has been making a name for himself in the Provings. Marja can only hope his skills hold up when put to the test against darkspawn.

Of course, the new soldiers are nothing compared to this surprise mission her father has sprung on her. It should be a good thing; her father is entrusting her with the retrieval of an ancestor’s shield, an ancient artifact from the ruins that possesses extreme importance to the Aeducans. But the deviation in their expected assignment leaves Marja with a sense of foreboding, especially in light of recent discoveries. She can’t help but suspect that her brother had something to do with the unexpected mission which keeps her and Gorim separated from the rest of the group.

Even so, everything seems to be moving according to plan. The thaig is exactly where her father said it would be, set back far in the tunnels across a long bridgeway that has nearly been destroyed by time and the ever-flowing rivers of magma that twist through the Deep Roads. It takes a fair amount of searching and shuffling, but they finally manage to locate the old Aeducan crypt.

And within it, the famed shield of Marja’s ancestors.

“Look at that,” she murmurs to Gorim. She turns the shield in her hands, examining the old metalwork and the ancient symbol of Aeducan. “A real piece of history, right here in my hands. One of the very tools that built the foundation of the Aeducan House."

“Quite the inspirational image,” Gorim agrees. “You father will undoubtedly be pleased.”

Marja grins, the exultant rush of victory flowing through her blood. “Let’s not keep him waiting, then.”

With her prize securely strapped to her back, Marja leads her troop back though the thaig- only to be stopped by a group of strangers lying in wait for them at the base of the bridge.

“About time you showed up!” The apparent leader approaches Marja with a cruel smirk and all the confidence of someone who truly has no idea what he is getting into.

“I was not aware we had visitors waiting for our arrival,” Marja replies, eying him critically. He does not appear to be Casteless, although some of his men do bear the brand. But his armor is well cared for, and he sports a number of glittering rings on his fingers. This man has both coin and resources at his disposal.

“This is how it’s going to be, your Highness,” the man says, the smirk never dropping from his face. “You’re going to give us that pretty little shield, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”

“You’ll go easy on us?” Marja can’t help but smile. This is her brother’s plan? Looters? Somehow, that stings more than the fact that Trian is trying to kill her in the first place- he thinks her defeat can be accomplished by sending common, grave-robbing looters after her? She almost feels sorry for the poor, outmatched fools.

Almost.

Marja's greatsword shines in the lava-light as she draws the weapon from its scabbard. “Gorim,” she says casually, leveling the sword at the leader, the man who took Trian’s coin in exchange for her life and her family’s prized history. “These men need to die.”

Gorim grins. “Aye, my lady.”

Marja launches forward, bringing her sword around in a wide arc that sends the man before her flying. He’s thrown against the cave wall with an echoing thud, and doesn’t stir again. Gorim moves with her in perfect coordination, and he his sword through the armor of another would-be attacker approaching from her left. He glances at Marja with a laugh. “I haven’t even broken a sweat!”

The entire battle is over within minutes. With relief, Marja notes that her new companions are fighting just as hard as she and Gorim, holding nothing back. All this time, she's been imagining some great conspiracy from Trian, but if his assassination attempt is as simple as an ambush in an isolated tunnel, this will be even easier than she imagined. When the fighting is over, it is Gorim who confirms her suspicions.

“My Lady, look here.” He’s standing over the body of one of the attackers, and as he motions forward Marja sees what has caught his attention. There, on the dead man’s hand, is a royal signet ring.

“I can only think of one place he would have gotten that,” Marja mutters, prying the ring loose. It’s a small thing, but it feels heavy in her hand. The moment is bittersweet; she now holds in her palm tangible proof that her brother has tried to end her life.

And with that, she has everything she needs. Marja pockets the ring and checks that the old shield is still strapped to her back. All of the pieces are in place- now, it’s time to act.

Marja leads her small troop through the tunnels quickly, her mind racing as she plots out the conversation she’ll have with her father. Trian will be taken by the guard, possibly exiled to the surface. That’s the proper punishment for this kind of treason. However prudent it may be to simply eliminate him, Marja can’t help but feel a small gleam of relief at not having to go that far. Despite everything, he is still her brother.

That relief is shattered when she reaches the rendezvous point and turns a corner to find Trian laying facedown on the stone floor, a pool of blood congealing beneath him.

A small, choked noise escapes her lips and before Marja fully realizes what’s happening she’s kneeling beside him, checking desperately for breath or a pulse. But there’s nothing. Trian- proud, opinionated, insufferable Trian- is gone.

“By the Stone…” Gorim’s voice manages to break through her haze. He stares at the body, aghast. “What’s happened?”

More shocked voices ring out, and Marja dimly realizes that more people are pouring into the tunnel. She rises to her feet and staggers backwards from the body, just as her father comes into view.

“No!” The word comes out in a horrified gasp. Endrin races to Trian’s side, taking in the sight with wide, stricken eyes. After a moment of stunned silence, his gaze turns to Marja. His expression shifts from disbelief to outrage. Bhelen stands behind him, and as Marja locks eyes with her younger brother, everything slides into place.

“You,” she whispers, but he makes no acknowledgement. His eyes leave hers and drift to the body of their brother on the floor. Nausea and guilt and anger hit Marja all at once, and without fully realizing what she’s doing, she moves towards Bhelen. For once she has no plan, no thought-out words. All of that has crumbled to dust around her, and all that’s left is the knowledge that Bhelen is a traitor.

But as Marja moves forward it is her father who intercepts her, with burning eyes and a voice ragged with grief. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like!”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Bhelen says, his voice of low and full of sorrow. “It seems I was right. We were too late.”

He lays a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder, and something about that gesture is what finally makes Marja snap. She lunges forward with a growl, only to find herself immediately caught in the grip of her father’s guards. She pulls against them but is vastly outnumbered; escape is not an option here, she realizes with a chill.

Marja tries to regain herself, but when she speaks her voice shakes with barely contained rage. “I did not do this!”

“My lady is innocent!” Gorim yells, but Endrin shakes his head.

“I have no interest in your testimony, Ser Gorim. I know where your loyalty lies.” His gaze moves to the other men, who have so far remained silent. “There were others present. What do they say?”

Marja twists to look at them, but neither man meets her eyes, and she knows what they’re going to say before they speak.

“Lady Aeducan approached her brother with a greeting, and attacked him when his guard was down,” Ivo's voice shakes in an imitation of shocked grief, and he keeps his eyes fixed accusingly on Marja. She wonders what it is Bhelen has promised him in return for such a performance. “We had no time to act. She threatened us, told us to keep our silence. She was in the midst of disposing of the body when your group arrived earlier than expected, but she had time to strip him of his valuables.”

The ring. Marja’s stomach drops. Trian’s signet ring is still secure in her bag, sure to be found as soon as she is searched. How could she have been so blind?

Gorim is screaming now, shouting insults at the witnesses, until he, too, is restrained by the other warriors. From the position in which she is held, Marja can’t see the entirety of the scuffle, but in the din of fighting and shouting she hears the crack of bones.

“Gorim!” Marja twists and lunges and very nearly breaks free. “Leave him, please! He didn’t do anything! Neither of us did anything!”  

Endrin is silent as he watches his daughter struggle. He hesitates, pain clear in his eyes, and for a brief, beautiful moment Marja believes that he will trust her. But at the end of his prolonged silence he only looks away, his face shedding the concern and grief of a father and slipping into the well-practiced, cold expression of a king. “The princess will be judged before the Assembly. Bind her and escort her to the dungeons.”

Marja protests and fights against the Warriors holding her back, but it does no good. She manages one last look at Bhelen, and he gives her a small, smug nod as she is dragged away.

I’m going to kill him.

I’m going to kill him.

I’m going to kill him.

That thought is the only thing keeping Marja sane as she stews in the dungeons. She had been dragged here like some common criminal, tossed into a cell without a word from the guards- the guards that are supposed to obey her orders.

But Bhelen has outplayed her. Bhelen has outplayed her.

Marja growls and kicks against the bars of her cell. The tinny sound of iron reverberates through the dungeon, and it makes Marja want to scream. She doesn’t belong here, and she knows that if she can only get a chance to speak to the Assembly, she can convince them of the truth.

And then I’m going to murder him.

The thought flashes through her mind with an image of Trian, facedown on the stone, and Marja’s stomach heaves violently. She grits her teeth and swallows a scream. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen. But if she can just get to the Assembly- to her father- she can salvage something out of this. All her father has is Bhelen's side of the story, but if she could explain, if she could just talk to him...

The noise of footsteps catches her attention, and she nearly cries in relief at the sight of Gorim approaching her cell. He moves clumsily, mouth tight, and the relief is offset by the knowledge that he must be delivering bad news. Nevertheless, Marja is glad to see him. “Gorim, please tell me what’s happening out there.”

He opens his mouth to answer, then hesitates, as if searching for the words. Frustrated, Marja slams her palm against the iron bars. “Gorim! What is the Assembly saying? When can I speak with them?”

Gorim’s face is somber when he finally answers. “You can’t. They’re not calling for your testimony.” Marja’s cell suddenly seems much smaller, and it’s hard for her to focus as Gorim continues to speak. “With Trian dead, Bhelen has taken his place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately, and…”

Gorim trails off, shaking his head. His hands clench into fists, and when he continues his voice shakes with anger. “And it passed! He had half the Assembly willing to vote on something completely against tradition and justice! He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not years.”

“And I missed it all,” Marja says numbly. She has always been so focused on Trian- the brother who hated her, who wanted her gone. He was the tyrant to Marja’s defiance, while Bhelen was always playing the peacekeeper. How many lies has her younger brother woven, all the while planning this?

“I’m going to kill him,” she growls, fingers curling around the iron bars.

“I don’t think you’ll get that chance. The Assembly has decided on your sentence.” Gorim pauses. “And mine, as well.”

Another spike of guilt courses through Marja This whole time she’s been so concerned about herself, and she hasn’t even fully realized that as her second, Gorim’s life is just as destroyed as hers. “What will happen to you?”

Gorim gives her a shaky smile. “They’re not killing me, so… there’s that, at least. But my status will be stripped, my name torn from my family records. They’re sending me to the surface. The guards were… kind enough to let me come here first, but by tomorrow I’ll be in exile.” The smile fades. “Lord Harrowmont moved to do the same for you, but Bhelen’s supporters overwhelmed him.”

Marja swallows and nods. Her failure means the end of Gorim’s legacy in Orzammar, but not his life. He deserves so much more than this- in Marja’s opinion, his loyalty far surpasses Paragon status. But her opinion matters little at the moment. “And what did Bhelen’s supports decide for me?”

Gorim is silent for several long moments. When he finally answers, he does so in a quick, tight voice. “You’re to be taken to the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

Marja takes in this information in silence, though her knuckles are deathly white as her grip on the iron bars tightens. “My father allowed this?”

“He was not involved. He’s taken ill, according to Lord Harrowmont. Supposedly, the loss of two children at once has taken a toll on his health.”

He’s not losing me, Marja thinks, he’s throwing me away. Anger sears through her veins- at her father, at the Nobles, at Trian, and more than anyone at Bhelen. Her cowardly, conniving, lying little brother.

I’m going to kill him.

Gorim reaches through the bars, grabbing Marja’s arms and distracting her from her thoughts. “Lord Harrowmont sent me here to do more than just say goodbye. He believes you. And he wants you to know that the Grey Wardens are in the Deep Roads. If you can find them… they accept anyone into their ranks. It’s your only chance of escape.”

Grey Wardens. The surfacers who spend their lives as darkspawn-fighting vagabonds. The hope is a hollow one...but it is a hope all the same. “One chance is all I need.”

A shout rings out from down the dungeon hallway, and Marja knows that their time is drawing to a close. She reaches through the cell bars and grips Gorim’s hand tightly in hers, all the thousands of things she needs to tell him fighting to get out. “Thank you for coming here. And thank you for everything else. I could never have asked for a better second, or a better friend. And… I’m sorry.”

Gorim squeezes her hand. “May the Paragon guide your sword and the Stone hold you up. No matter what happens, my Lady, I was honored to have served you.”

They stay like that for a moment, hands joined between the bars of the cell, and then Gorim disappears down the hallway. He is limping, Marja notices now, and she remembers the crack of bone she heard during their arrest. Another rush of righteous fury spikes through her chest, made all the worse by the knowledge that her anger and resolve is useless here. Her plans have all been dashed, and for the first time in her life, she isn’t certain of what she is supposed to do.

All she knows is that she will find the Wardens. She has to. She will survive. And someday, somehow, she will make her brother pay for what he’s done.

Chapter Text

“Now would be the perfect time for one of your brilliant ideas,” Leske mutters as he positions himself back-to-back against Darvis.

Darvis's eyes sweep across the crowd of guards before him. The odds aren’t good. In fact, Darvis might say they’re pretty fucking bad. He and Leske are cornered and outnumbered, and all Darvis can think is that of course he would finally kill Beraht only to be taken down by the damn upper castes.

“Drop your weapons!” The order is shouted gruffly by a man bearing the uniform of a guard captain and a nasty glare to match. He sounds quite proud of himself for the feat of cornering two dusters with the help of an entire troop of Warriors. “You’ve nowhere to run. Come quietly before we resort to dragging you to the palace by force.”

“I have a hunch force will be involved either way,” Darvis responds. His grip on his dagger tightens. “I think we’ll take our chances.”

The captain scowls and starts forward, his own weapon drawn, but his approach is interrupted as a tall dark-skinned man- a human- pushes his way through the crowd. His presence is easily noticed among the crowd of dwarves, and from the looks of panicked reverence he earns from the guards, Darvis can tell he carries a weighty authority. There’s only one kind of human that can elicit that kind of respect from the Warrior Caste: A Grey Warden.

“One moment, my friend.” He speak in a solemn tone, unhurried but authoritative, and the captain begrudgingly takes a step back.

The Warden regards Darvis and Leske with an inscrutable expression. “You had suggested that the criminal known as Beraht was the mastermind behind this trouble. I take it neither of these men are him?”

“No, but they’re his lackeys.” The disdain in the captain’s voice is obvious. “They’ve broken countless laws on his behalf.”

“You should be thanking us,” Darvis snaps. “Beraht’s not going to be causing anybody trouble anymore.”

For the first time, the captain is caught by surprise. He blinks at Darvis in disbelief. “You incapacitated Beraht?”

“If by that you mean I made him dead, then yes.”

“One of the worst criminals Orzammar has ever known!” Leske adds quickly. “And me and Brosca here put an end to him for good!”

The statement causes a surge of murmuring in the crowd that has gathered around them, and Darvis can’t help but notice the interest with which the Warden is now eyeing him. But the captain doesn’t look appeased. “It doesn’t matter! You are still guilty of numerous crimes, including impersonating a higher caste! The penalty is death!”

The Warden holds up a hand to quiet the guard. “I have another suggestion.” He turns his attention to Darvis, who immediately feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle under the weight of this man’s stare. “I’m afraid we have not been properly introduced. My name is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. I have come to Orzammar searching for those with the potential to join in the fight against the Blight. I believe that you fit that description.”

Darvis can only stare back at him in bafflement. “Wait, what?”

Duncan smiles, somehow amused, and says, “Let me make the offer formal. I am officially extending the invitation for you to journey with me to the surface and become a Grey Warden.”

“This brand is wanted for treason!” The captain is openly outraged now, and he turns on Duncan in fury. “You cannot do this!”

Duncan remains stoic and unimpressed. “I can, and I am. The Right of Conscription says the Wardens may take on whomever we deem worthy. If you disagree, I suggest you discuss this with your king. You remember his orders, don't you?” The guard captain grits his teeth but, after a long moment, deflates. Reluctantly, he motions for the guards behind him to stand down as well.

And just like that, Darvis goes from being surrounded by drawn swords to being face-to-face with a Warden who has just offered to take him away from Dust Town forever. Duncan looks at him expectantly. “This is not an offer I make lightly. It will mean leaving your people and traveling to the surface, but it is a necessary duty. One that comes with great honor.”

Behind him, the guard captain makes a face, and at the word honor spits harshly on the ground. Darvis barely notices; he’s still busy trying to process what this all means. The adrenaline that has been surging through his blood has begun to fade, but uneasiness still pricks at his skin. This is too easy. It’s a mistake, it’s a trap, something is going to go wrong. You let your guard down in that arena and see where it got you, are you really going to make the same mistake again?

The thoughts chase themselves around his head, all echoing a simple truth- you don’t get to just walk out of Dust Town.

And yet, it’s happening. “You’re serious?” Darvis says cautiously. “You’ll make me a Warden, just like that?”

“It’s not quite so easy as it sounds,” Duncan replies. “There is great danger involved. But I must say, it does seem to be the best option available to you.”

Darvis glances at Leske, who looks just as shocked as he is. “I… I think I need a moment.”

“Very well.” Duncan turns to address the captain. “I can handle this from here. You may want to report these events back to your king.” The captain shoots one last dark glare at Darvis, but turns to wave the crowd away and bark orders at his guards.

Leske takes immediate advantage of the distraction. He pulls Darvis to the side and punches his shoulder, disbelief plain on his face. “Did Beraht crack your skull in that fight? This guy wants to make you a Warden! Why aren’t you already jumping into his arms?!”

Darvis knocks him away. He wants to come up with a witty retort, but the words die in his throat. All that comes out is a shaky question. “You really think I should?”

Leske gives him an incredulous look and tries to punch him in the arm again. Darvis dodges and continues quickly, “What about Rica? What about you?”

“Listen to me,” Leske says, his face growing serious. “You stay here, you’re dead. That’s the short of it. I didn't show my face to the entire city after fucking around with the Noble's Provings. That was you. And don’t forget what you just did to Beraht! It may have been the best thing I’ve ever seen, but Jarvia is going to be furious. That’s the Carta and the palace both out for your blood. You really think you can take on this entire city at once?”

Darvis heaves a sigh, rubbing his head. He knows he’s dead if he stays here. He knows this offer is too good to pass up. And he knows there’s a part of him that’s ready to go now, to run up to the surface and never step foot in Orzammar again. But there’s another part of him, no matter how irrational, that screams he needs to be here for his sister. Leske watches as the conflicting emotions race across Darvis’s face, and finally sighs. “I know you’re worried. But you’re no use to Rica- or to me- as a corpse.”

The words are painful, but true. “Okay. Just…watch out for her. Please.”

Leske grins, although there’s a hint of sadness behind the usual mischief in his eyes. “Don’t I always?”

“Seriously. Or else I’ll come after you, and you know I can beat you in a fight.”

“Sure you can, duster. Or shall I say, Warden,” Leske says with an exaggerated mock bow. When he rises, he rolls his eyes and pushes Darvis towards Duncan. “Now get going before this guy wises up and changes his mind. And…”

Leske lingers over his words for a moment before covering his hesitation with a grin. “Just take care of yourself up there. Never know what weird shit you’re gonna see on the surface.”

Darvis nods, swallowing down the strange pain in his chest. “Same to you.”

“Hey, you know me. I always find a way to get by.” Leske gives Darvis one last smirk, then slinks out into the streets, eventually disappearing into the shadows of an alleyway. Darvis watches until he vanishes from sight. When he’s finally gone, Darvis turns back to Duncan.

“I guess I’m coming with you.”

Duncan nods, casting a look behind him at the few lingering guards. “We need to be on our way, then. The other Wardens whom I traveled with are still on a mission into the Deep Roads, but we may be wise to wait for them on the surface.”

“Wait,” Darvis cuts in, panicked, “I need to go home first. I can’t leave without talking to my sister.”

Duncan shakes his head. “We can arrange for a message to be sent, but we should not delay our departure. The Right of Conscription is not always respected as it should be. It’s best we make ourselves scarce before tensions rise more than they already have.”

The thought of leaving without saying goodbye to Rica hits Darvis like a punch to the gut, but he notices the way the remaining guards are eying him. He doesn’t doubt that if he tries to return home, he'll be followed- and perhaps fall victim to an ‘accident’ in the shadows of Dust Town. With much reluctance, he follows in Duncan’s trail.

They’ve almost reached the Orzammar gate when Darvis hears his name being called out. He turns with alarm at first, but his heart leaps when he sees Rica dashing through the street. She crashes through the crowd, long skirts hitched above her knees and face red with exertion, paying no heed to the dirty looks her presence elicits. Before Darvis can say anything, she’s throwing her arms around him and gripping him in a tight hug.

“Leske… told me… what happened,” she pants, trying to catch her breath. “I ran as fast as I could. I had to say goodbye.”

Darvis hugs her back fiercely, screwing his eyes shut so that when he pulls away Rica doesn’t see any moisture in them. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I hate to leave you here-”

“Don’t!” Rica’s eyes are wet, but her expression glows. “You have to go! I always knew you’d get your chance, and this is it. You’ll finally get to show the world how great you are- the equal of any Paragon.”

“I’ll stay alive, at any rate,” Darvis allows. “You keep yourself safe, okay?”

Rica wipes at her eyes and laughs. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be just fine.” A shy smile flits across her face as she self-consciously tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “I… I have my patron. It’s real. I spent the whole day with him, and if everything works out, I will be more than taken care of. He’s already promised to move us to a better house. If I can bear him a son, things will only get better.”

Relief and concern flood over Darvis in equal measures. Rica will be okay. If this patron is everything she says he is, she will have every comfort she deserves. But it still feels wrong to leave her here, to leave her fate in the hands of some Noble he's never even met. Still, Darvis manages to fight back the uncertainty and give Rica a smile. “And you’re happy with him?”

“I am.” Her expression grows determined, and despite the worry that Darvis can't quite manage to chase away, he recognizes the strength in his sister. The Brosca's are a tough family. It's the only reason they've made it this far. Rica knows this just as much as Darvis does. “I can take care of myself, and of Mother. And you can go make a name on the surface. You’re better than you realize. Remember that.”

She gives Darvis one last, quick squeeze, before granting Duncan a slightly embarrassed bow and retreating back towards Dust Town. Darvis resists the urge to run after her. She can take care of herself, he assures himself quietly. He only wishes she didn’t have to.

At last, Darvis turns back to Duncan, who has been pretending not to hover over the encounter as he waits patiently a few feet away. “Okay. I'm ready to go.”

The two of them continue on, journeying through the large, steep hall which joins Orzammar to the distant outside world. Towering statues of Paragons line the long walkway, glowering down at any who pass by. Darvis smirks at them as he passes through. If the tales are correct, he’s going somewhere the Ancestors can’t follow, and that suits him just fine. Let them keep their blood-soaked halls and obsessive austerity. Let them stand guard over the city that has never wanted any part of him and yet has always refused to let him escape. He's leaving at last, and they can't stop him now.

As the tall gates open to the side of the mountain, Darvis catches his first glimpse of something he's only ever heard of in stories. He blinks a few times, his mind racing to catch up to his eyes as he takes in the sun- bright and blinding, like lava, only it's up above instead of down below. His stomach lurches as he tries to reorient himself, but even through the confusion and the lingering concern for the people he's leaving behind, Darvis smiles. 

For once in his life, he feels uncharacteristically hopeful.

Marja would trade all the gold in the Orzammar treasury for a fitted suit of armor and a balanced greatsword. To send her to die alone in the Deep Roads is bad enough; to send her to die alone in the Deep Roads with nothing but her prison clothes just seems an unnecessary cruelty.

The entire process is horribly unceremonial, in Marja’s opinion. She is an Aeducan- if they must kill her, they could at least do it with some respect. But she had been dragged from her cell just as rudely as she had been dragged into it, and only Harrowmont and a handful of guards were there to witness her exile to the Deep Roads.

A smart move on Bhelen’s part, Marja has to admit. She can’t imagine what he said to their father to convince him not to speak to her, but of course she knows now just how cunning her brother can be when necessary. And Marja knows, just as Bhelen surely knows, that if she could have seen her father just once more, she could have avoided such a harsh sentence. Instead, all of Marja’s practiced speeches have yet again been rendered irrelevant.

Harrowmont had tried to offer her kindness as she left. Just words, of course- Harrowmont has always been a carefully measured man, not keen on placing bets that aren’t in his favor. But it's because of him that Marja has any chance at all, so she’d held her temper and allowed him to assuage his own conscience through meaningless sentiment as he watched her match off to her death.

Thankfully, Marja has at least been lucky enough to stumble across the body of a would-be adventurer- probably a foolish relic-hunter hoping to find some ruins to loot. It seems he found a nest of darkspawn instead, but his loss is Marja’s gain. His armor is tight and his sword has long rusted over, but even this meager equipment is better than nothing.

This is what Marja keeps reminding herself as she carves her way through the tunnels. Ill-fitting armor and a rusty sword is better than nothing. Being sent to the Deep Roads is better than being executed. Knowing that the Wardens are somewhere in this tunnel is better than being faced with certain death.

Still, she wishes she had her greatsword, especially when her unfamiliar, unbalanced blade swings wide and misses the head of the genlock she’s fighting.

The genlock hisses and lunges, and Marja grits her teeth in irritation as she dodges away. She quickly recoups and throws herself against the creature, using her weight to shove it to the ground. At this close a distance, even the unfamiliar balance of the longsword can’t cause her to miss.

Once she’s finished the genlock off, she hurries down the tunnel before the noise can attract any more. As she moves, she hastily checks herself for open wounds, knowing that if she allows herself to become contaminated with darkspawn blood, she won’t live long enough to find the Wardens at all. She fears she may have missed them already; time is hard to gauge in the endless paths of the Deep Roads. The pains in her stomach tell her it’s been too long since she’s eaten, but this alone is not much help when all she had while stuck in the cells were a few pieces of crust.

It can’t have been too long. It simply can’t. Marja keeps herself moving, ignoring the deepstalkers that have taken to trailing behind her, eagerly chittering to each other as they wait for something to scavenge.

The Wardens are here, they have to be, just around the next curve, just through the next tunnel. She’s exhausted, and her feet protest with every step in her unarmored, ill-fitting boots, but she can’t stop. She can only forge forward, trusting that her Stone sense is leading her in the right direction and hoping that the Wardens will offer the salvation she needs.

Renewed determination courses through her veins when she finally finds signs of non-darkspawn travelers. After hours of following footprints that she hopes aren’t hurlock, she at last hears voices echo from the road ahead.

“Hello?” she calls out, throwing any sense of caution to the wind. She is not taking the chance of losing these people in the winding tunnels. “Wardens?”

The torches that soon come into view are the most beautiful sight Marja has ever seen. Her knees wobble with relief as the Grey Wardens come into view, but she somehow finds the strength to remain standing.

The Wardens approach, shock obvious on their faces. In the back of her mind, Marja can’t help but shudder at the sight she must be- donned in obviously stolen armor, filthy from the dungeons, hair a tangled mess streaked with dirt and blood. They probably don’t even recognize her as royalty. Still, she offers them a smile, trying to invoke the same charm she once used on Assembly members. “Grey Wardens, I presume? I hear you’re looking for recruits.”

After that, things happen in a blur. Marja answers the many, many questions put forth by the Wardens, doing her best to remain diplomatic and elusive. The Wardens may take criminals and murderers, but she still doesn’t want to give them any doubts regarding her trustworthiness. She tells an abridged version of her story, and when pressed for details she finally allows herself to stumble in exhaustion.

“May we continue this conversation elsewhere?” she asks, and thanks the Ancestors when the Wardens usher her back to their camp on the surface.

At first Marja fears passing back through city- such a return, she knows, will not go unnoticed. But instead the Wardens lead her up a side passage that thankfully bypasses Orzammar itself. As they walk, she does her best to take note of every name that is mentioned. There is Grigor, the rather large human who was the first to sight her in the tunnels; Richu, another human, who inspects her wounds and has a seemingly endless supply of strange poultices; Tarimel, an elf who rarely speaks but leads them through the tunnels with confidence.

There are no dwarves among them- not now at least, Richu amends with a scowl, as the leaders of Ferelden refused to let someone named Solenne lead reinforcements across the border. All the names mean little to Marja, save for one: Duncan. She remembers him from the feast, and she remembers his desperation for new recruits. This is the man she must find, and who must agree to welcome her into the Wardens' ranks if she is to survive her exile.

The trek back to the surface is a long one, but despite the exhaustion in her bones, Marja’s mind is working at top speed. That is, until they finally reach the mouth of a cave, and she looks up and sees the stars.

The stars stop her in her tracks, and for a long time all she can do is stare. She’s heard about such things before, of course. The “stars”, the “sky”. Words don’t do any of it justice. The gaping expanse of dark blue stretches out above her, more distant than any cavern ceiling could ever be and filled with innumerable pinpricks of golden light.

Marja understands now why there are legends about falling upwards. Staring up at the stars like this, she feels likely to float away at any second.

A voice breaks her from her reverie, and she tears her eyes away from the stars long enough to see the long-awaited for Duncan approaching, concern etched into his face.

“Lady Aeducan,” he greets her, and Marja works to keep her expression steady even as the title strikes her heart.

“Just Marja now, I suppose,” she corrects lightly. A bitter taste is left in her mouth, but she bites her tongue and continues. “I’m sorry to report that there has been a shift in the political structure of Orzammar over the past few days.”

“So I’ve heard,” Duncan muses. He studies her with a look Marja knows all too well- the look of somebody weighing their options. “I will not ask about the accuracy of the rumors that pass through the city. Wardens have no place in politics, and anything you may have done will be left behind. If you are wanting to join us, that is.”

“And I do wish to join,” Marja says, perhaps a bit too eagerly. But what else can she do? Everything in this world is strange to her, and she predicts that most of it will not be as harmless as the stars. Left alone, she will die on this mountain just as surely as she would have died in the Deep Roads. And she knows that the Wardens are in no position to turn down recruits. “A Blight is coming, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. We need Wardens, and you would make an excellent one. That you survived on your own in the Deep Roads proves that.” He pauses, and Marja frowns at the hesitation. “But first, I should warn you of something.”

“If it is the danger, I assure you-”

“No. It is the rules of the order. The rules that you, as a Grey Warden, will be required to follow. You must understand that the Grey Wardens leave their old lives behind completely. And we take no part in political matters. Once you become a Warden, that is all you may ever be.”

Ah. Marja looks away, her mind spinning. She feels as if Duncan can peer into her very thoughts, although perhaps it would be easy for anyone to draw certain conclusions after the upheaval Orzammar has just witnessed. “Are you afraid I’m going to come marching back here with an army to usurp my brother?”

“Is that what you want?”

Yes.

But Marja knows she cannot tell Duncan that. She meets his gaze, her chin set. “The whole city believes me a murderer. They exiled me. The Wardens are the only place left for me to go.”

She can’t tell whether he hears all the words left unsaid, and she can’t help but feel a grudging respect for this human. It’s clear that he takes these rules seriously. A pity- unreadable as he is, he would make a talented politician.

“Very well,” he says at last. “I admit, I am glad to have two new recruits from Orzammar.”

A flutter of hope rushes through Marja. “Two? You saved someone else? Is Gorim here?” Perhaps he has managed to find the Wardens, perhaps he waited for her, perhaps her only ally has not disappeared-

“Gorim?” Duncan frowns, the name obviously unfamiliar to him, and Marja’s hopes are dashed. She looks down, doing her best to contain her disappointment.

“I suppose not, then. Is there another disgraced Noble I haven’t heard about?”

“Not exactly. But there will be time for introductions on our way to Ostagar,” Duncan says. “For now, get some rest. We begin travel at dawn, and it is a long journey down the mountain.” He turns to leave, and Marja reaches out uncertainly to stop him.

“Apologies, but… what is ‘dawn’?”

A good-natured smile flits across Duncan’s face as he answers. “Just get some sleep for now. We’ll be moving in a few hours.”

Marja nods and watches Duncan depart, but it is a long time before she seeks out a tent of her own.

Instead, she sits and stares up at the stars.

How many of her ancestors have seen such things? Not many, she believes. Self-respecting, noble-born dwarves don’t visit the surface. Trian certainly would have died before letting himself be brought up to the surface world to look into the sky. Which, Marja numbly supposes, is exactly what happened.

But she is alive. Everything else may be ashes around her- one brother dead, another turned traitor, and a father who thinks her a liar and a murderer- but she is alive. And even if she joins the Grey Wardens and the Shapers purge her name from all records, she is an Aeducan still.

And when she is ready, when Bhelen has grown complacent in the belief that he is safe, she will return to this city and show her brother what it looks like when an Aeducan wages war.

Chapter Text

The surface, as it turns out, is really fucking weird.

There’s so much about it that’s just not natural. The sky, for instance. The sun is just as impressive as it was that first moment stepping out of the cavern, but once Darvis adjusts to the immense and constant light, it's the sky that really unnerves him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look up without immediately feeling nauseous. It’s all too much- the distance and openness and constantly changing colors. Looking at it too long causes shivers to run down his neck.

Not to mention that apparently things will just… fall out of it from time to time. Things like snow, or rain, or hail. It's exciting at first, but Darvis's appreciation of the novelty fades quickly as he realizes all it means is he's going to be cold and wet for the foreseeable future.

He wonders what Leske would have to say about all of this. Stop with the bellyaching, duster. At least we’re not in that cell, waiting for Beraht and Jarvia to feed us to the nugs. Probably something like that. The thought helps to lighten the weight of guilt that still sits in Darvis’s stomach. If Leske were here, he’d knock Darvis in the head and call him sun-touched for having doubts about the surface, or for feeling bad about leaving at all.

And if Leske were here, he’d be laughing himself into a fit over the fact that even on the surface Darvis can’t get away from the worst part of Orzammar- fucking Nobles.

"Another recruit from the city," is all Duncan says when he introduces them. Darvis doesn't know when she showed up; she certainly wasn't here when he finally fell asleep under the gaping sky. But she's there in the morning, and it takes all of ten seconds for Darvis to pin her as a Noble straight from the Diamond Quarter.

She's dressed in old cloths and cheap armor, but it makes no difference. It’s in the way she holds herself, with a strict, upright posture and a nose in the air. Even on the surface, a person can tell just by looking at her that she's used to getting her way. More than that, it's the way disappointment immediately colors her face when she sees him, the way her eyes adopt that sneering look that everyone in Orzammar gives the Casteless- but with that special air of What is this thing doing in my presence? that only Nobles can really pull off. She quickly recovers, replacing the disapproving frown with a placid smile, but it's too late.

"You may call me Marja," is all she says by way of introduction. No family names or rattling off of titles, and Darvis certainly isn't going to ask. All he does is throw an accusatory glance in Duncan's direction.

"Marja has shown great potential as a Warden, just as you have," Duncan says in reply to the glare. Darvis can't help but snort at that- the Nobles do love impressing each other with their fancy weapons and training, but he doubts this woman has been through anything half as harsh as a typical day in Dust Town.

"Darvis Brosca," he bites out in greeting. She nods, seemingly waiting for him to say more, although Darvis can't begin to imagine what she actually wants from him. He's certainly not offering up any details of his recruitment- any Noble who knows of what happened at the Provings would only react with scorn and outrage, the very things Darvis came to the surface to escape. So without another word, Darvis simply turns and stalks away, hoping the other Wardens will act as a buffer between the two of them.

As he goes, Marja mutters something to Duncan. Darvis doesn't hear everything, but he catches the reproachful words, "You didn't tell me he was Casteless."

His fists clench tightly at his side. Yes, she's definitely a Noble.

What he doesn't know is why she's here. She probably pissed off somebody important- Nobles are a fickle lot, and quick to take offense. Whatever it is, it must be severe to send a high-blooded lady running for the surface. The curiosity about her crime sits in the back of Darvis’s mind, but it’s anger and bitterness that wash over him whenever he sees her chatting with Duncan. Because she’s not supposed to be here at all- not on the surface, not with the Wardens, not with Darvis.

This is supposed to be a fresh start. A way to become more than the mark that’s followed him his entire life. With a Noble who knows exactly what that mark means, Darvis doesn’t see how a fresh start is possible.

But time will tell. The Wardens march towards Ostagar now, where from what Darvis gathers some battle will be taking place soon. With luck, the misplaced Noble will get herself killed quickly and Darvis won’t have to put up with her any more than he already has. That thought manages to cheer him up, just a little.

Until that happens, Darvis plans to avoid her. He tries to stick with the other Wardens, but his attempts to speak with them quickly fall flat- Duncan is the only one who goes out of his way to interact with Darvis at all, and he can hardly be called talkative. Darvis might be more offended, if not for the fact that they treat the Noble woman in much the same way. Perhaps they, like Darvis, are biding their time and waiting to see if their new recruits will last past the first clash of blades.

Unfortunately, the cold shoulder from the Wardens means that the Noble has nothing to distract her attention from Darvis as they travel. She merely watches him the first day of the journey; on the second morning of their march, she approaches.

“Our introduction the other day was a bit rushed,” she says with a small smile. She even has the accent of the nobility, a precise, haughty tone that immediately sets Darvis’s teeth on edge. “I thought perhaps we should take a moment to get to know one another. You are, after all, the only other dwarf around.”

She looks at Darvis expectantly, as if their shared dwarfhood should matter at all. But Darvis knows better. He sees the way she flinches when her eyes land on the tattoo on his face. If their paths had crossed a week ago, she would have spit on him sooner than introduce herself. He doesn’t know what she wants now, but he refuses to participate in whatever game this is.

“Our introduction was rushed because I don’t want to talk to you,” he says flatly. The momentary displeasure on her face is immensely satisfying. “And I know you don’t really want to talk to me. What do you want?”

Her lips purse, but she regains her composure quickly. “I simply thought we should take a moment to speak before we reach Ostagar. We come from different places, but we are both recruits, are we not? I am willing to work together as allies.” She waits for a response, and when none comes she simply pushes on as if she does not notice Darvis's suspicious glower. "What I mean is, you needn't worry that I will hold your status against you. I can put aside our trivial differences in Caste-"

She keeps on prattling, as if he should be grateful she's deigning to speak with him at all, but Darvis doesn't wait for her to finish before interrupting her words with a derisive snort.

"Put aside our differences?" he snaps. He turns to look her in the eyes, wondering just how stupid this woman thinks he is. Different places? Trivial?! What she means is that she came from a glistening palace, and he came from dirt. Even here on the surface this woman thinks that means he should follow at her heels and grovel at the chance for her to bless him with her presence when she's a mighty Noble and he's nothing but Casteless. Outright insults would be preferable to this phony camaraderie. “Look, we may both be stuck here with the Wardens, but I can promise you we’re not fucking allies, and nothing you say is gonna change that.”

Her mouth falls open in surprise. “You must-”

“You think I have to accommodate your wishes? Not here, I don’t.” The words send a rush of adrenaline through Darvis’s blood. Some remnant of self-preservation is telling him to shut his mouth, but he doesn’t have to. Not here.

Marja is silent for a moment. Her well-practiced cordiality is gone now, and she stares him down with serious, steely-grey eyes. “I see. You don’t wish to cooperate. Very well.  But we don't want to be enemies, do we?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it however you wish,” she says with a shrug. “I have no quarrel with you. If you simply wish to stay out of each other’s way, I am content with that.”

“Sounds like a fucking fine idea to me,” Darvis says. After one last look of annoyance in his direction, the woman moves away. Darvis grins to himself as he watches her go. He could never speak to a Noble like this back in Orzammar.

Perhaps the surface has some benefits, after all.

After days and days of traveling- Darvis thinks they must have walked the entire width of Ferelden- the towering battlements of Ostagar finally appear, looming over the horizon. This, apparently, is where the battle will be taking place.

Duncan has spoken little of the upcoming fight. From what Darvis can tell, he’s not the type to dole out more information than is required. But he has said that they will be meeting with even more Wardens at Ostagar, where they’ll be cooperating with the king’s troops to push back the latest incursion of darkspawn.

Darvis is more worried about this business with the king than he is about the darkspawn. Kill things? He can do that. But when it comes to thrones and crowns, he would rather keep his head down.

Marja, of course, has the opposite attitude. When at last they reach the gates and are greeted by a group of knights in regal armor, Darvis notices that she has placed herself near the front of the party. Darvis hangs back, just close enough to listen as the groups exchange droning pleasantries.

The human king is easy enough to pick out from the crowd. He’s tall, like most humans, and younger than Darvis expects. Unlike the older soldiers who surround him, he beams brightly as he speaks of the upcoming battle and of fighting alongside the Wardens. Despite his enthusiasm, his shining armor looks as if it’s never seen a single day of violence, and Darvis can barely keep from rolling his eyes at the man’s naïve bloodlust.

“And I heard you gathered some new recruits- from Orzammar, no less!” The king’s smile grows as he peers behind Duncan, looking around for any dwarves. When his gaze lands on Darvis, the rogue gives only a curt nod.

Marja, however, returns his smile readily. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty. Have you ever visited our lovely city?”

“I have, but far too long ago. How fares King Endrin?”

“My father was quite well, last I saw him.”

A choked noise escapes from Darvis’s throat, and he quickly tries to hide it with a cough. Nobody seems to notice- the human king is now fully focused on Marja.

Marja Aeducan.

Darvis doesn’t recognize her- how could he, he’d be killed if he got within fifty feet of the palace, and it’s not like royal parades travel through Dust Town- and the name is just another on a list of important people he doesn’t care about and will never meet. Except he has met her. She’s here, standing with the Grey Wardens and chatting away with the human king as if any of this makes sense.

Darvis isn’t just stuck on the surface with a fucking Noble. He’s stuck on the surface with a fucking princess.

He swears that even from here, he can hear Leske laughing at him.

Marja is becoming acquainted with King Cailan- because she possesses a sense of manners and civility, unlike some people- when Duncan coughs politely and gives a nod. Cailan hurriedly straightens and gives Marja an apologetic smile. “We must talk more, my friend, after you have all had the chance to rest.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she says, although in the back of her mind she’s scrambling for a story to tell when he begins asking questions. Ever since she learned the king would be at Ostagar, she’s been planning her approach. She needs to make a good impression on this man; Orzammar is isolationist, but whether they admit it or not they still depend on trade. The support of the Fereldan King could be quite the help when she returns home.

But any support will have to be won. Marja will need a good explanation for why she was exiled. It has occurred to her to share the truth, but that route has its own dangers. If the king doesn't believe her story and decides she's a lying kin-slayer trying to cover up her crimes… well, it just won’t do.

There will be time to worry on that later, however. For now, Marja focuses her attention back on the conversation between the king and Duncan.

“Loghain will want to go over the battle plans before tomorrow,” Cailan is saying to Duncan. His voice grows in excitement. “Truly, Duncan, it is an honor to fight alongside the Wardens. It shall be glorious.”

“As you say, my king,” Duncan says, betraying no emotion. “Now if you will excuse us, there is business among the Wardens that must be attended to.” After successfully extricating the group from the conversation, he gives a tired sigh.

Marja smiles wryly. She’s known men like this King Cailan before- young, charming, eager for battle. At least half of them are likely to vomit at the first sight of a darkspawn. “He’s certainly… excited.”

“He expects a simple battle. He does not believe this is a true Blight.” There is no humor in Duncan’s voice, and Marja’s smile fades.

“But you do?”

“Yes. The Wardens always know. Speaking of which, there are preparations that must be made. You two-” he motions at Marja and Darvis, who makes a face at their being included together, “-should find Alistair. He will be assisting in the Joining tonight.”

“Joining?” Darvis’s voice is sharp and suspicious.

“The Joining Ritual, where you will officially become a Grey Warden. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at this time. You will need to meet with Alistair and the other recruits.”

“Officially? I thought we already were Wardens!” Darvis crosses his arms as he speaks, his fingers running across the blade hilts on his belt with nervous energy. Marja doesn’t want to show it, but Duncan’s words have alarmed her, as well.

“There is more to being a Grey Warden than simply calling yourself one.” Duncan looks out across the camp. “There are more meetings I must attend. I will join you and the other recruits later, and we will discuss what must be done. Until then, speak with Alistair and take what time you have to rest.”

And just like that, Duncan is gone. Marja frowns, wondering what he could have meant-

“So.” Darvis’s voice is directed at Marja now, to her surprise. The man made it very clear over the course of their journey that he wants nothing to do with her, and thus far she has been happy to let him simmer alone in his discontent.

It is possible she could have approached him better. She should have talked to him sooner, made efforts to form a connection when they were first introduced. But she'd foolishly been holding onto the hope that Duncan had been mistaken, that Gorim had found his way to them after all. Instead, she'd been forced to admit she will probably never see her only friend ever again. Even now, that fact is a like a knife in the gut, a feeling which she tries not to dwell on. Or perhaps nothing she'd done would have made any difference. The lines of Caste are hard to cross to begin with, and this man seemed determined to resent her from the moment they met, throwing all of Marja's attempts at diplomacy directly back into her face.

How ironic that a week ago she thought she was soon to be Queen, and now not even a branded Casteless man will have anything to do with her.

Or so it had seemed at first. Now, that same Casteless man is staring at her intently. His face is partially obscured by thick, dark brown hair that falls even longer than Marja’s, but the hostility in his eyes is clear enough. “What in the blazes did you do?”

Marja raises an eyebrow in response. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the princess.”

Ah. Marja has been wondering if he recognized her at first. Now she wonders how much of the story he’s heard; he left the city before she did, but news travels fast. Especially scandals. “I was, yes.” He waits for her to elaborate, but she only gives him a small smile.

“What did you do? The princess doesn’t just decide to join the Wardens.”

So he doesn’t know. Marja wonders if he'll believe her. “My brother…” the words stop in her throat, and she closes her eyes for a moment to steel herself. Getting into the truth, here and now, is a bad idea. Her own father thought her a liar and a murderer; what reason would this man have to think any different? “There was a bit of a familial disagreement. I came out on the losing end. Technically, I’m not a princess anymore.”

Darvis hasn’t stopped eying her with suspicion. “Seems extreme for a… disagreement.”

“Well, I’m sure you know how nobility can be when it comes to matters of honor. Matters like interfering with Provings, for example, can really get a rise out of people.”

Darvis blinks in surprise, and Marja smirks. She’d suspected, but now she knows. “So that was you, then. I have to say, I’m impressed. If you really did blow away the entire Warrior Caste, it’s no wonder Duncan recruited you.” She’s laying it on a little thick, but a bit of flattery is far from the greatest sacrifice she’s made in the name of diplomacy.

But far from being appeased, Darvis’s eyes narrow. “Your guards didn’t seem very impressed when they came for my head.”

“Yes, guards can be sticklers for rules like that.” Darvis doesn’t respond, and Marja can’t help but feel out of her depth. When it comes to charming politicians and royalty, she is an expert. But she’s never had to attempt to get into the good grace of a branded man determined to hate her. “Look, it’s clear we’re going to be thrown together in this Joining. Surely, we can try and cooperate.”

Darvis stares at her for a moment as if she’s lost her mind, then chuckles and shakes his head. He dips low into an exaggerated bow, the tips of his long, braided hair nearly brushing the snow-covered ground. “Well, if the high and mighty princess wishes it, I’m sure it’s going to happen.”

Marja’s mouth twitches into a frown, and she reminds herself to take a deep breath. She knows when she’s being made fun of, and she refuses to rise to the bait. “Very well, then,” she replies in an even voice, then turns and walks away, head held high even as the anger threatens to burst out of her.

If the world were right, she would be in command of entire troops that respected her. She would be on the cusp of the throne. Instead, she’s on her own in a human camp being mocked by a common criminal.

It’s nothing you can’t handle, she reminds herself. You dealt with Trian for years. This can’t be worse than that.

The words are true, but they ring hollow all the same. Even when dealing with Trian, Marja had Gorim by her side. She had- or at least thought she had- Bhelen. But up here, the only person Marja even remotely trusts is Duncan, and even he is inscrutable at the best of times.

But you’re alive. You can handle this.

The mantra eventually calms her, and Marja is able to focus and catalogue her surroundings. The sprawling camp is filled with soldiers of all kinds, and tents have been arranged in small clusters. Marja has no idea where this ‘Alistair’ is, but if he’s another Warden he shouldn’t be too hard to find.

The most vexing thing about Ostagar is that even here, the surface world still has the nerve to be beautiful. Marja can’t help but be in awe of so many things- the sky, the trees, the snow. Oh, the snow. Marja can’t say she much likes the feel of it; the cold just brings on a longing for the heat of Orzammar’s glowing magma river. But she has been entranced by the look of it for days, ever since she first saw the sun rise over the frozen peaks of the Frostback Mountains. Even here, in the midst of the drudgery of a war camp, it covers the trees and tents in a soft, glittering blanket of white.

It’s different from Orzamaar, that much is certain. Just like everything else.

Chapter Text

Find Alistair, Duncan had said, and Marja intends to do just that. But first, there are other important matters which must be taken care of.

She studies the rack of weapons laid out before her for a long moment as the human quartermaster looks on impatiently. “You can’t afford that,” he says as she reaches for a fine-looking sword, and Marja purses her lips. The armor she’d worn just last week was worth more than all this equipment put together. Now she’s being forced to make do with not just human craftsmanship, but shoddy human craftsmanship.

At least she was able to trade in the sword she took from the Deep Roads, even if she feels a twinge of guilt imagining it in the quartermaster’s hands. She would prefer to return it to Orzammar, to be buried with its owner in a proper funeral. It deserves better than to be pawned off here, so far from the Stone- but there’s nothing to be done about that now.

Marja moves down the weapons rack, waiting for something to catch her eye. There are plenty of swords, but none of the caliber she is accustomed to. She passes over shields (she never liked those anyway, only wore them for ceremonies) and mauls (Trian’s favorite, he always loved having the largest weapon on the field).

At last, she settles on a hefty, double-edged battleaxe. Such a thing isn’t her usual weapon of choice, but her usual way of things hasn’t exactly been serving her well as of late. Besides, the weight of it feels right as she holds it in front of her. “I suppose I’ll take this one, then.”

The quartermaster snorts derisively. “You sure you can handle that? It’s a big weapon for a tiny thing like you.”

Without a word, Marja gives the axe an experimental swing upward. It arcs through the air and back down, and with a twist of her arm Marja brings the weapon to a hovering halt mere inches from the man’s knees. He yelps and staggers back, and Marja smiles brightly. “I believe I can handle it just fine.”

With her new weapon strapped to her back, Marja feels a bit more cheerful as she picks her way through the Ostagar camp. She focuses on the groups of armored humans, hoping to once again catch sight of King Cailan. The man himself is nowhere to be seen, but Marja gives his guards a charming smile and introduces herself as a Warden, and soon enough they’re passing on some interesting pieces of gossip.

It seems that despite the army’s victories in recent skirmishes, Teyrn Loghain- the king’s foremost advisor- is far from pleased with their activities.

“And where is this Teyrn?” Marja asks, but the guard shakes his head.

“He’s preparing for the upcoming battle. He…” the guard casts a furtive glance behind him before continuing in a hushed tone. “He and the king have been arguing for days, and it’s left Loghain in a right sour mood.”

“That can’t be easy to work with,” Marja says sympathetically. “Especially when you’ve been so successful lately. What could he have to complain about?"

The soldier gives a commiserating sigh. “It’s those Orlesians. I have to say, I agree with Loghain- nothing good can come of inviting them back on our soil. But the king wants their support, and every time he brings it up Loghain gets riled. I reckon the king should pay more him more heed- Loghain’s the whole reason we’ve been doing as well as we have, after all.”

The nearby tent flap opens noisily, and the guard Marja is chatting with springs to attention as a towering, dark-haired man lumbers by. Judging by the expensive state of his armor and the hostile expression he wears, Marja supposes that this must be the formidable Teyrn Loghain. A soldier follows behind him, listening intently as Loghain rattles off orders.

"-tell him we are still waiting on forces from Redcliffe, but the first wave of Highever armies have arrived. Unfortunately, Bryce has sent his son instead of leading the troops himself…if only he were here, he might help me talk sense into-"

He pauses after catching sight of Marja. She smiles and nods her head respectfully in his direction, but the teyrn only gives her a dark look and stomps off, his voice lower as he continues speaking with his companion.

“That’s him,” the guards says rather unnecessarily after Loghain has passed. “And Ser Cauthrien- she’s his second-in-command, so she’s never far off.”

“I see what you meant about a sour mood,” Marja says mildly.

“Aye. He must know you’re with the Wardens.”

“Of course he does,” Marja mutters. The king’s welcome had been more than friendly enough, but apparently that's another matter on which the teyrn and the king disagree. Marja sighs. Grudges and rivalries are what landed her here in the first place; she’ll need to make an effort to get on this teyrn’s good side if she wishes to avoid more of the same. As she ponders her options, Marja eyes the retreating figure of the soldier at Loghain’s side. Ser Cauthrien wears a stoic expression as she follows after her commander, but she is young; perhaps she would be easier to approach, provided she does not share Loghain’s dislike of the Wardens. If she's his Second, he likely heeds her advice well...provided Seconds are treated with the same honor here as in Orzammar. So many of the rules are different up here, and Marja is still trying to puzzle them all out.

It's something to keep in mind, at least. But speaking of the Wardens…

“Do you have any idea where a fellow named Alistair is?” she asks the guard.

He motions further down the camp. “Another Grey Warden? One of the mages came through a while ago looking for him. Went storming off that way.”

Marja frowns. An angry mage doesn’t sound good. Just how many people here, she wonders, have a problem with the Grey Wardens?

“You’re not another mage, are you?”

The man- Alistair, Marja presumes- looks down at her with a tired smile. He’s outfitted in Grey Warden armor, but other than that is not at all what Marja expected. He’s young, for starters, young enough to be Duncan’s son, and had been in the middle of a flippant quarrel when Marja finally located him. The other Wardens Marja has met have all had a somehwat grizzled quality about them, but not Alistair. Even as the man readies himself for another verbal assault, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes.

His question catches Marja off guard. She raises an eyebrow, trying to discern whether he's actually serious. “I’m a dwarf.” Surely the surfacers know that dwarves can’t perform magic?

Alistair only shrugs. “Hey, you never know. These mages can be sneaky. And they don’t like me much. Not that I can blame them, I suppose. I'm pretty sure the Revered Mother is using me as a messenger specifically to insult them."

"Is the presence of a Grey Warden such an insult?" Marja asks, and Alistair shrugs somewhat self-consciously.

"It's not the Warden part they care about. I was once in training to be a Templar, you see. It was long ago, and it shouldn't matter anymore. But still. You can imagine how the Circle mages feel about that.”

Marja can’t imagine, in fact. She wracks her brain for what she’s learned about Templars- something about working with mages and the Circle, but there’s obviously more to it than that. Before she can ask for clarification, Alistair rubs his chin and nods in recognition. “Oh, wait, I know who you are- you’re one of the new recruits. Duncan told me to expect you. You came straight from Orzammar, didn’t you?”

“We did. And apparently, we need to complete some sort of Joining?” Something flickers in Alistair’s expression at Marja’s question, and she takes the opportunity to push further. “Duncan was very brief on the details- could you clarify on what, exactly, this ritual entails?”

Alistair shuffles awkwardly. “I really can’t say much…”

“But surely you can say something,” Marja prods. “I’ve come all the way from Orzammar for this, after all.”

The man wavers, and he stutters out, “Well- It’s- it’s not a pleasant experience, I can tell you that much. But anything more, you really need to talk to Duncan. He’ll explain the details once we’re all together, but we’ll be going into the Korcari Wilds. Nothing too dangerous out there, really, just rabid wildlife and darkspawn.” He grins, and Marja thinks he might be making another joke. She wonders if he’s trying to distract her.

“I have plenty of experience with darkspawn from the Deep Roads, so that doesn’t sound too difficult,” she replies, letting the matter drop for now. At least the mission for the Joining will be out in the open; Marja already prefers the vastness of the sky above her to the suffocation of the Deep Roads tunnels she’d been exiled to. There’s no possible way the Wilds can be worse than that.

After an hour in the thick woods, Marja still doesn’t think the Wilds are worse than the Deep Road tunnels, but she is starting to think that their group may be lost. Alistair leads them through twisting paths, his Warden senses supposedly pointing him to the darkspawn they seek.

As they walk, she has little time to pause and appreciate the new landscape, although she wishes she could. Snow still covers the ground in some places, but it’s warmer than it was in the mountains, and every now and then stubborn flowers peek up from beneath the white powder.  Marja has seen flowers, of course, but they were dry, wilted things, brought to the palace by traveling merchants. These are soft, alive, and in colors so bright Marja can scarcely believe it. Alistair claims some of them can be used for healing, and Marja grabs a few as they walk and tucks them into her bag. She’ll study them later, but for now she needs to focus on this mission.

Which would be easier if she knew why they're on this mission.

To collect darkspawn blood is the reason Duncan gave, but Marja can’t imagine why they would possibly need something like that. The rest of the mission makes sense- find an old Warden fort, retrieve treaties drawn up years ago between the Wardens and their allies- but darkspawn blood? Marja has been turning over different possibilities in her mind as they search, but she can’t think of any sensible reason for the task.

All she knows is that they need it for the Joining Ritual, and that fact makes Marja uneasy. She’s reminded of the Silent Sisters of Orzammar, and how as a child she’d briefly wanted to join their ranks- she’d been quite enamored with the idea of the legion of warrior women. Then Trian had informed her of their practice of cutting out their own tongues, and with sword in hand had offered to remove hers for her. Marja had lost her interest after that.

Whatever this Joining is, Marja thinks, it can't compare to removing a tongue. Especially if the other recruits are expected to do it.

To say the other recruits have left her unimpressed is an understatement. In addition to Marja, the Wardens have recruited Jory, who jumps with fright at the very idea of darkspawn, and Daveth, a petty criminal who argues like a child. And of course there’s Darvis, who still refuses to have a civilized conversation.

If these are considered candidates for the Wardens, then surely Marja herself is more than qualified for whatever this Joining entails.

“I can sense some of the darkspawn up ahead. When you collect the blood, try not to touch it,” Alistair calls from the head of the group. Marja looks in the direction he indicates and sure enough, a huddled group of dark figures is just barely visible in the distance.

“Are there any more around us?” Marja asks, studying their position.

“Not that I can tell,” Alistair responds.

“Good. We can move around the ridge and hit them from behind.” Marja cuts a glance at Alistair as she says this, wondering if she’s breaking some chain of command by giving orders, but he doesn’t appear to notice.

“So now you’re the one in charge?”

Marja shoots an icy glare at Darvis. It seems he’s ready to take offense on Alistair’s behalf. “I’m merely offering a plan of attack,” she says tersely. “I have experience with these creatures, and I know how to deal with them.”

“Maybe the actual Warden has a better idea on how to deal with them.”

Alistair looks immensely uncomfortable as he realizes he’s been dragged into the argument. “Umm… that sounds fine, really. Let’s not waste time arguing- we need to find the old Warden outpost after we get the blood, and we want to return before it gets dark.”

Marja smiles and lifts her head, pointedly ignoring the glare Darvis continues to shoot her way. “I agree.”

The darkspawn are gathered in a small group- a handful of hurlocks and one genlock. Darvis and Daveth, the quietest of the group, edge forward ahead of the warriors to catch the creatures by surprise. Darvis moves in first, rushing in close to bury one knife in the back of a hurlock’s knees and the other in its neck as it falls to the ground. The other creatures turn at the noise, but not quickly enough to launch a proper defense.

Darvis frees his knife and rolls to the side as one of the creatures rushes at him. Before he can retaliate, Marja is in front of him. She heaves her battleaxe high, swinging it in an arc just in time to catch a hurlock in the face and cleave its head neatly in two. Marja grins grimly as she pulls the axe into another swing to push back a second incoming hurlock. She decides in that moment that she’s rather happy with her new weapon.

Between the five fighters, the darkspawn are quickly disposed of. Once they’re all down, Marja pulls the small glass vial from her bag and begins the messy work of gathering the darkspawn blood, which is congealing quickly into a thick black slime. She takes great care not to touch it as she gathers it into the vial.

“Is this enough for… whatever we need this shit for?” Beside Marja, Darvis holds his vial up for Alistair’s inspection. Alistair glances at the vial and gives a quick nod. Marja can’t help but notice the way his eyes dart away just a bit too quickly. She's trying not to become paranoid, but with every passing minute this process is making Marja more nervous. Lost in her thoughts, it takes Marja a moment to realize that Darvis is still kneeling by the fallen darkspawn, running his hands over the creature’s armor.

“What are you doing?” Marja asks, distaste evident in her voice.

Darvis glances up and raises an eyebrow, motioning to the body at his feet. ”Looting.” He tugs at the thing’s holster until he manages to release a knife, which he then slides into his own belt.

Marja wrinkles her nose as Darvis continues to search the mangled corpse. To steal from a body for the sake of survival is one thing, but this just feels vulgar. “We don’t have time for this,” she snaps. “And you certainly already have enough knives.”

“You can never have too many knives, Princess.”

Marja decides not to argue further, settling for a simple glare of stark disapproval before she turns back to Alistair. “We have the blood. Now where are these treaties supposed to be?”

Darvis can’t help but wonder if this mysterious Joining is just a bizarre hazing ritual.

If it is, he’s lived through worse. Beraht had his own ways of testing his people’s loyalty, and Darvis would much rather hunt down hurlocks than fellow Carta members who’ve been skimming a little too much off the top of their profits.

Still. There’s something about collecting the blood that sets his nerves on edge, especially since Alistair won’t just tell them what’s going on.

Other than the freaky blood mysteries, Darvis likes this young Warden well enough. Alistair is tall and broad, even more so than the other humans, and he jokes and chatters with an ease that Duncan lacks. And yet he’s still tight-lipped about the reasons behind the blood collection. With nothing else to go on, Darvis hopes it’s simply meant to prove they can kill darkspawn on their own and that they’ll be getting rid of the stuff as soon as they can.

Not with your luck, duster, a voice says in the back of his mind. Darvis tries to ignore it.

The other recruits are human as well, which should probably be expected on the surface. There’s Daveth, whose story is similar to Darvis’s- a thief who got caught and was rescued from punishment by the Warden’s Right of Conscription. He seems pleased with his change of fate, and between his snarky jokes and nonchalant attitude Darvis thinks he and Leske would get along.

And then there’s Ser Jory, the only recruit who joined of his own will and who now seems to be regretting that decision very much. The man looks like he’s going to be sick just from the act of scooping the slimy blood into a little glass vial, and his rambling stories of his family and hometown grow in longing by the minute. Darvis might have sympathy, if the man hadn’t made the decision himself to leave it all behind. As it is, he just wishes the knight would shut his mouth for a few minutes.

The noise of snapping branches jolts Darvis from his thoughts. Before he can locate the source of the noise, a large black thing shoots out from a nearby bush and launches itself into the sky, emitting a raspy shriek as it rises. Darvis jumps in surprise, his hand reaching automatically for a dagger even as he realizes there is no threat.

“I hate those fucking things,” he mutters darkly to himself.

“The crows?” Alistair asks. “They’re not so bad. They always show up around battle sites, but they’re just scavengers. I’d rather have them than the darkspawn, at any rate.”

Darvis falls into step next to the Warden, keeping a wary eye on the sky and tree branches overhead. “Scavenger or not, I don’t trust anything that can fly,” he says drily. “There’s just something wrong about that. At least the darkspawn stay on the sodding ground.”

Alistair chuckles, and he gives Darvis a curious look. “Have you fought many before? Darkspawn, I mean. Not crows, obviously.”

“Nah, fighting the guardsmen kept me busy enough.”

“Ah. I see. I didn’t realize you had such a… colorful background.” Alistair shifts awkwardly, as if suddenly worried he’s said something wrong.

Darvis raises an eyebrow, trying to read the intent behind Alistair's question. “That’s probably the nicest way you could describe my ‘background’.”

The awkwardness doesn't exactly fade, but Alistair nods, and at least doesn't seem overtly disapproving. They walk in silence for a moment, until Alistair clears his throat. “So, uh… not to pry, but how do you know Marja? I was under the impression you hadn’t met before being recruited, but you two seem to have some… issues.”

Darvis snorts. “I don’t have to know her to know what she’s like.”

Alistair looks confused at this, and Darvis realizes that this human has no context for the reasons a dwarf with a brand on his face might take issue with anyone from nobility. He may not even know that the mark on Darvis’s face has a meaning. A fleeting shiver of panic seizes Darvis as he wonders if he should explain the weight of his Caste- or lack of it, rather- to Alistair.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. Before Darvis can formulate an answer, Daveth gives a shout and points ahead to where crumbling ruins have become visible over the tops of the trees. The Wardens hurry their pace, and more of the ruins quickly come into view.

An old stone arch, so overgrown with moss that it’s hard to distinguish from the surrounding forest, marks the entrance to what must have once been a small fortress. It’s not a promising sight. The odds of documents surviving out here, even if locked away, seem slim. The forefront building doesn’t even have a roof anymore- it’s fallen away, taking one of the walls with it.

“This looks pretty hopeless,” Darvis says, peering through the remains of the wall into the room within. Not much is visible; the floor is covered in chunks of stones and invading vines.

Marja pushes her way to the front of the group, studying the ruins with a critical eye. “Duncan didn’t send us out here so we could give up at the first obstacle. We still need to at least make an attempt to find the treaties.”

“You’re welcome to begin digging, Princess,” Darvis snaps back as he scans the darkness. He expects a retort from the Noble, but the voice that cuts through the ruins is one he’s never heard.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Startled, Darvis turns on his heel, reaching for his daggers. At the other end of the ruins, standing at the end of a set of old stone steps, is a tall, dark-haired human woman. She approaches them slowly, gradually descending from her perch as she observes each of them in turn. Her eyes finally fix on Darvis, who still stands in the opening of the old fortress, hands on his weapons.

“Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

For a moment, Darvis can’t find his voice. This woman is strange, and not only because she’s out here in the forest by herself. Everything about her seems a bit… different. She certainly doesn’t speak like the other humans, and her attire doesn’t match that of the women at the Ostagar camp. She wears a long skirt made of some sort of black leather, and her top is a matching material covered by a dark purple shawl decorated with what Darvis can only assume to be crow feathers. Her eyes and lips are decorated in bold colors, and even her movements are marked by a deliberate grace. She makes for an eye-catching image, to be sure.

Despite her strange appearance and challenging words, she makes no move to attack. Her eyes are still locked on Darvis, and hesitantly, he steps forward. “We’re with the Grey Wardens. Who are you?”

“You are the intruder here, not I.” She moves closer, her voice rising. “I have watched you for some time. Where do they come from, I wondered. Why are they here? And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

Watching us? Darvis thinks. True, his senses are confused by the woods, but he's certain they were alone until now. Before he can question the woman, Alistair speaks up. “Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The woman remains unimpressed, a mocking smile forming on her lips. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

Alistair frowns and mutters, “Yes, swooping is bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth shouts, a bit of hysteria creeping into his voice. “She’ll turn us into toads!” Daveth certainly looks frightened by the notion, but Darvis has no idea what the man is talking about.

“Enough!” The exclamation comes from Marja, who shoots Daveth a stern glare before turning her attention to the woman. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here to retrieve treaties that are of great importance to the Grey Wardens. Once we find them, we will be on our way, and you can have the Wilds all to yourself just as you did before.”

The woman considers this for a moment before answering. “What you seek is here no longer.”

 “Here no longer?” Alistair asks. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent,” she replies flatly. “How does one steal from dead men? In any case, it was not I who took them. ‘Twas my mother, in fact. If you wish, I will take you to her. ‘Tis not far from here, and you may ask her for your papers, if you like.”

Alistair frowns and looks at the other Wardens. “We should get the treaties, but I dislike this. It’s too convenient.”

“Well, we’re not finding anything here. Let’s just go see if she’s telling the truth,” Darvis says impatiently.

“You trust her?” Marja asks, voice tinged with disbelief.

Darvis merely gives her a noncommittal shrug. “Not like we have much choice, if these papers are so damned important.”

The woman, who has been waiting silently through their discussion, smiles at this. “Finally, some sense. I like this one.”

“That’s how it begins,” Alistair mutters. “One minute it’s I like you, and the next- zap! You’re a toad.”

“Alistair,” Darvis says seriously, “maybe everything you just said would make sense to a surfacer, but I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. So I say we just get these treaties and get out of here.”

“If you are done squabbling amongst yourselves,” Morrigan says, irritated, “do feel free to follow me to the treaties which you seek. Otherwise, continue to wander aimlessly through these ruins until night descends and the darkspawn devour you all. I care not which path you take.” Without another word, she sets off into the trees, and the Wardens are left with little choice but to follow.

“You never did answer my question,” Darvis says as he picks through the bushes after the woman. “Who are you?”

She looks back at him, and he notices for the first time that her eyes are a startling shade of gold. In the shadows of the forest, they almost seem to carry a light of their own. “You may call me Morrigan, if you wish.”

Chapter Text

Marja does not trust the mysterious woman who appeared out of the woods, and that feeling does not change as they follow her deeper into the forest. Judging by the reactions from the humans in the group, she’s not the only one with suspicions. Unfortunately, there doesn't appear to be any other option- not if they want a chance at fulfilling the very first quest Duncan has assigned to them.

Morrigan leads the group to an old, twisted hut hidden away in the trees, a single trail of smoke curling from its long chimney. The structure leans haphazardly to the side, as if a good shove would be enough to send it toppling, and yet the moss growing along the walls indicates that it has stood in this spot for many years. In the doorway stands a woman, ready and waiting as if she's been expecting visitors. She’s old, with gray tangled hair and leathery skin, and she watches them with sharp eyes and a crooked smile.

“Allow me to introduce my mother," Morrigan says, motioning to the woman without much enthusiasm. "Flemeth.”

Jory takes a sharp, frightened breath at the name, but before he can say anything Morrigan is already calling out their presence.

“Mother, I’ve brought the Grey Wardens-”

“I see them, girl,” Flemeth cuts her off in a voice which reminds Marja of rough, unsanded stone. She tilts her head as she studies the people before, light amusement flickering across her face. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

“What, we’re supposed to believe you were expecting us?” Alistair grumbles, clearly unhappy with the situation they’ve found themselves in. Morrigan flashes him a look of annoyance, but her mother doesn’t seem affected.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe.” Flemeth grins. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide… either way, one’s a fool!”

“She’s a witch, I tell you,” Daveth whispers, and although Marja doesn’t exactly know what a witch of the wilds is, she thinks he’s right to be wary.

“If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?” Jory responds, and this earns a laugh from the woman.

“Now, there’s a smart lad! Sadly irrelevant, but it is not I who decides such things.” Her eyes fix on Marja and Darvis. “I know what these humans believe. What of the dwarves?”

Marja frowns at being lumped together with the unpleasant rogue, but she pushes away the irritation and focuses on the woman before her. “I’m not quite certain what to believe about you,” she says slowly. "We've only just met, after all."

She can practically feel Darvis rolling his eyes. “So far, I believe you’re all crazy,” he says. Marja shoots him a warning look, but Darvis ignores her. His eyes are on Morrigan and her mother. “Look, I've never heard of any 'Witch of the Wilds'. Honestly, it sounds like a lot of surfacer gibberish, but I don’t really care. All I know is you have some papers that belong to the Wardens.”

Flemeth laughs again. “Witch of the Wilds? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

“They did not come here to listen to your ramblings, Mother,” Morrigan says, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

Her words are answered with a sigh. “True. They came for their treaties.” Flemeth pulls a thick roll of papers from her robes. Before Marja has a chance to ask how this woman knew they would be in search of the treaties, she’s handing them over to Alistair. “Your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected them.”

“You…protected them?” Alistair asks, surprised, but Flemeth takes it in stride.

“And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”

“What do you mean?” Marja asks sharply.

Flemeth tilts her head and grins wider. “Either the threat is greater, or they realize less. It is up to you to decide. Now, you have what you came for!” She nods curtly, the dismissal clear. “Morrigan, see to your guests.”

Morrigan sighs, obviously unamused by her mother’s behavior. “Of course. Come, I will lead you back your camp.”

Marja is more than happy to leave this strange meeting, but even as they move away, the uneasy feeling doesn’t fade. Flemeth’s hut slowly fades from view, but her laughter still seems to ring in Marja’s ears.

Night is setting in as the group returns to Ostagar once more, the stars above shimmering into focus one by one as the vast sky gradually darkens over the camp. The Wardens are waved inside by the guards and greeted immediately by Duncan, who takes the treaties and flips through them with relief.

“These will be of much aid to us,” he says, nodding to himself. “And I trust you were successful in your other task as well?”

“We were,” Marja answers. “Although we still don’t understand the purpose of it.” Duncan’s gaze moves to her face, and for a brief moment Marja thinks she can read some emotion in the stoic man. What she sees is not irritation, or apprehension, or any other reaction Marja is accustomed to receiving in response to her questions. She's not certain, but she thinks it may be concern.

“You will find out soon enough. I must go and finish the preparation for the Joining Ritual. We will meet for the ritual in an hour’s time, and your questions will be answered.” Without any further explanation, Duncan turns and leaves the recruits to the cold night.

“The more I hear about this ritual, the less I like it,” Jory murmurs as they watch Duncan leave.

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth snaps, shooting the knight a venomous glare. The tension of their tasks has only made both humans more irritable through the day, and now they’re both on edge, eyeing each other with misdirected suspicion. In the meantime, Marja notes, Darvis has yet again somehow managed to slip away unseen.

“Why all these damned tests?” Jory demands. “Have I not earned my place?”

“Oh, I’m sure this is all for the sake of annoying you,” Daveth says curtly.

Marja shoots a glance at Alistair, but he gives no sign of intending to step in. She bites back a sigh. If left to their own devices, these fools will start brawling right in the middle of camp.

“Enough,” Marja says firmly, and they both look at her in surprise, as if they forgot she was even there. No small amount of impatience rises in Marja’s blood, and she allows a hint of it to creep into her voice as she continues. “Arguing changes nothing. We’re all here. We’re all about to become Wardens together. There will be plenty of time for the two of you to make your complaints known, but that must be saved for later. For now, we should all get some rest before the Joining. I have a feeling we’ll want our strength and our wits about us for this ritual.”

The men deflate but part ways without further argument, and Alistair gives Marja a sheepish, relieved look. “Joining is always stressful for recruits, I suppose. I… I should go help Duncan, he-”

“What aren’t you telling us?”

Alistair’s face is far easier to read than Duncan’s. The guilt that flashes through his expression may as well be written in ink on his forehead. Marja’s eyes narrow. “And no more vague answers, Alistair, it’s obvious there are important details we haven’t been told. What will happen during this ritual?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air as Alistair opens his mouth wordlessly, then closes it again. At last, he says, “You’ll become a Grey Warden, I hope. I’m sorry, I really can’t say anything more.” And then he, too, turns and retreats into the camp.

“Hey.”

Darvis stops in his tracks and turns to face Marja with his signature scowl. It’s what made him easy to track him down; she just asked the humans if they’d seen a grumpy-looking dwarf pass by. Before he can say anything, Marja holds up a hand. “You don’t want to talk to me. Fine. Just tell me- do you know anything about the how this Joining works?”

Darvis eyes her warily. “What makes you think I know anything you don’t?”

“Just covering my bases.” It’s the truth- Daveth and Jory are as clueless as she is, as are all the other humans in the camp. The only ones who might have a clue are the other Wardens, and they all remain as tight-lipped as Duncan. In fact, they all seem quite determined to keep their distance from the new recruits, going so far as to set up their own tents and campfires as far away from the main forces as they can manage.

But Darvis has already proven adept at skulking around. If anyone could have been spying on the other Wardens, it's him. “Nobody else knows and I can’t get Alistair to talk. Has Duncan or any of the other Wardens said anything at all about it?”

For a moment Marja thinks Darvis is just going to insult her and stalk away again, but after a short pause he crosses his arms, and a pensive look settles onto his face. “No. And I’ll admit, I don’t like it either. But there’s no backing out now, is there?”

“I’m not trying to back out. I’d just like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Well, I don’t have answers for you.” Darvis sighs, and Marja realizes that although he’s trying not to show it, the lack of knowledge is just as frustrating for him. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but before he has the chance their conversation is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a frantic human rushing to Darvis’s side.

“Excuse me! The guards said a group with some dwarves entered the Wilds today. Was that you?”

Are there really no other dwarves in this camp? Marja wonders, but all she says is, “Yes, we were in the Wilds.”

The man clasps his hands together and gives her a hopeful look. “Did you happen to gather any medicine while you were out? Flowers, with white petals?”

“I don’t know about medicine, but…” Marja rifles through her bag until she finds a plant fitting the description. “Do you mean these?”

“Yes! Wonderful! May I purchase some? It’s for a noble cause- one of the war hounds was poisoned by the darkspawn, and I need this plant to cure him-”

“A hound?” Darvis interrupts, looking perplexed.

“Like a nug with fur,” Marja explains. She's heard of these things before- mainly that the Fereldan humans are incredibly fond of them. “And of course I’ll help.”

She hands the plant over and waves away the man’s money. “Please, no- this seems a worthy cause, and it will do you more good than it will me.” She hears Darvis make a noise of disbelief and pointedly ignores it.

The man doesn’t seem to notice at all, obviously overjoyed to simply be holding the plant. “Thank you!” He turns, then pauses and looks back at the two dwarves. “And if it’s not too much to ask, I do have one other favor you might help me with…”

The monster in front of Darvis is most certainly not a nug with fur.

The dog stands nearly as tall as Darvis himself, with claws and teeth and a predatory look. It gives a low warning growl as Darvis approaches with muzzle in hand. Still, he can sense Marja and the kennelmaster watching him, so he grits his teeth and doesn’t back down.

You’re being paid for this, duster, he reminds himself. Unlike some, he isn’t dull enough to not leap at a chance to earn some easy money. He just hopes he’s right about the ‘easy’ part.

“Go on,” the kennelmaster encourages from his secure spot behind the fence. “Just slip the muzzle on. You’ll be fine.”

The dog stares at Darvis with wary eyes. “Uh…easy there,” Darivs says uncertainly. He edges forward, and it bares its teeth- its very large, sharp teeth- and growls again.

This is stupid, Darvis decides. He’s not about to be bullied by this weird surface beast. “Look,” he hisses under his breath to the dog, “either I’m going to put this thing on you so you can take your medicine, or you’re going to kill me and get sick, and then we’ll both be dead. What do you want to do?”

He feels ridiculous, but the beast seems to consider his point. After a moment, it lets out a low whine and sits, its previous distrust replaced with a sense of resignation.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Darvis mutters to himself. He quickly fits the muzzle onto the dog and exits the enclosure, while the kennelmaster beams.

“Well done! I can treat the poor fellow properly now.”

“Not bad,” Marja comments, and Darvis can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic. He’s more focused on the important matter at hand.

“The payment?” he prompts the kennelmaster.

“Of course!” The man rummages through the coinpurse at his waist and hands a few silver over to Darvis before nodding and turning back to his work. Darvis clutches the small sum and eyes the man’s purse, his fingers twitching at the thought of how easy a target it is. The princess is chatting now with the kennelmaster, neither of them paying him much mind. A simple bump is all it would take, perhaps as he leans over for another look at the dog. Before he’s even consciously made the decision he’s leaning forward, moving into position, and is only interrupted by a voice calling out for him.

“There you are.”

Duncan has appeared out of nowhere, and Darvis jumps back, trying not to look suspicious. Duncan eyes him disapprovingly anyway. “Come. It is time for the recruits to gather for the Joining ritual.”

The Grey Warden leads Marja and Darvis to the far end of camp, where Alistair tends to a secluded campfire. Daveth and Jory are hanging nearby, waiting anxiously, and Duncan motions for Marja to join them. Darvis, however, he holds back.

“We will join the rest of you in a moment,” Duncan says, and although Marja obviously has questions, she does as he says. From the look she gives him before walking away, Darvis knows she’ll be interrogating him again later. Once Marja is out of earshot, Duncan turns to Darvis. “I know of your talent with… sleight of hand.”

Shit. “Hey, I didn't actually steal any-”

“It is a good talent to have.” Duncan’s words catch Darvis by surprise, and the protests of innocence die in his throat. “Grey Wardens use a diverse range of skills and tools to accomplish their mission. This is no different from any other.”

Darvis waits for the catch, expecting this to be some sort of joke. But Duncan doesn’t take back the words, and honestly he doesn’t seem the joking type. “Oh. Huh. So the Wardens are all right with me… finding a few things, every now and then?”

Duncan rubs his forehead. “So long as it aids in accomplishing the missions. And do keep in mind these skills must be practiced with caution. The law is very hard on thieves.”

“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”

“And your standing as a Warden will not always help you.”

“Help?” Darvis shrugs. “You only need help if you get caught.”

His wit earns no reaction. “I know that you have done what you’ve needed to in order to survive. It’s why I recruited you. The instinct to survive will, I hope, make you into a great Warden. And as a Warden you must act in the best interests of the order. This includes not risking yourself on something as trivial as a handful of silver.”

“I wouldn’t call that trivial. If it were copper, maybe. But silver…”

“Brosca,” Duncan cuts in, with a look that says I already let you off the hook once, don’t test my fucking patience. “All I ask is that you remember that after tonight, all of your past is left behind. Whatever you were before- whatever crimes you may have committed- you will become a Warden, and you must be dedicated to serving a higher purpose. At times, that may mean we will need skills that are considered less than scrupulous. And at other times it will mean that you need to show restraint.”

Darvis shifts under Duncan’s weighty gaze. He doesn’t know about all this ‘higher purpose’ shit, but so far the Wardens have treated him better than the Carta ever did. He can cooperate, if he has to. “Fine.”

Duncan nods. “Thank you. And while we’re on the subject, I should also remind you that all Wardens leave their past behind. What another Warden was before should not be held against them.” Darvis is confused by this shift in subject until Duncan looks pointedly to where Marja is standing by the fire.

Darvis narrows his eyes. Restraint is one thing, but asking Darvis to smile and play nice with the high and mighty Lady Aeducan? This human may have visited Orzammar, but he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had to watch the Nobles sit pretty on their diamond thrones as they spit on people like Leske and Rica who have to fight and claw to live another day.

When he gets no response, Duncan sighs. “Think on what I’ve said. Perhaps we will speak on this again. but first, we must see what tonight brings. It is time for the Joining.”

The night sky is black as coal as Duncan begins the ceremony. Before him stands a stone altar holding a large, silver goblet filled with liquid not fully discernible in the dim light of the nearby fire. Darvis and the other recruits are gathered in front of the altar as Alistair stands to the side, watching with apprehension as Duncan begins to speak.

“We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.” He pauses. “You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

A chance to survive? The realization strikes Darvis like an iron hammer, and yet it makes sense. The strange tasks, the unanswered questions, the blood and the ritual and all of the cryptic warnings…

This ritual might kill them.

 Darvis glances at the other recruits- Marja and Daveth are watching Duncan with serious, unreadable expressions, but Jory is white as a sheet. Solemnly, Duncan lifts the goblet. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

“We’re going to drink the blood of those… those creatures?” Jory’s voice wavers as he speaks, and for once Darvis finds himself agreeing with the human. He’s never heard this type of story about the Grey Wardens before.

Duncan is oblivious to the horror- or, more probably, doesn’t care to acknowledge it. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory. Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.” He lowers his eyes to the large goblet in his hands. “Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.”

Forever changed? Duncan doesn’t elaborate on that part, and Darvis knows this isn’t the time to ask. His instincts scream at him to run, but his brain reminds him it’s far too late for that. Like it or not, he has to follow through with this- as do the other recruits.

Daveth is the first to drink. He steps forward with a willingness that takes Darvis by surprise. Without hesitation, he takes the goblet and pours the blood mixture into his mouth.

The reaction is immediate and violent. Daveth’s breath cuts off in a gurgle, and he clutches his throat, staggering and trying to take in ragged breaths between strangled gasps. His skin changes shades, deathly blue to pale white to an odd pallid gray. Darvis looks away as he falls to the ground, biting down on his tongue to keep himself from becoming sick. He’s seen men die in countless ways; nothing has been like this.

The others are just as horrified. Marja’s eyes are wide and her hands cover her mouth. She seems to be whispering something to herself, though all Darvis can make out is the frantic repetition of Ancestors. Behind her is Ser Jory, who looks as if he may vomit at any second.

Duncan, however, wastes no time on the now dead recruit, instead fixing his gaze on the human knight. Jory shakes his head and backs away, staring open-mouthed at Daveth’s motionless body.

 “No…I have a wife. A child! Had I known…”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan says gravely. He moves steadily towards Jory, no hint of emotion in his expression.

“Jory, calm down!” Marja reaches toward the man but he jerks away, his eyes wild.

“No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!” He reaches for the sword at his back. Don’t be stupid, Darvis thinks, but it’s too late. As soon as Jory’s hand reaches the hilt, Duncan is in front of him, his own blade drawn. One swift strike, and Duncan’s dagger is embedded in Jory’s chest.

Duncan shoves the blade in deeper, slowly lowering Jory to the ground. As he lays the man down, Darvis just barely hears him say in a low voice, “I am sorry.”

Jory’s death is easier to watch. This, at least, is something Darvis has seen before- some fool getting himself killed because he wouldn’t follow orders. The bitter familiarity of the scene helps Darvis to steady himself.

Duncan stands and retrieves the goblet. “The Joining is not yet complete.”

He turns to Marja first. She is pale and silent but offers no protest when Duncan hands her the cup. Darvis half expects her to lose her nerve at the last minute, but although her hands shake she raises the goblet to her lips and takes a drink.

When she lurches forward with a choked gasp, Darvis thinks that she is about to meet the same fate as Daveth. But rather than convulsing, Marja goes rigid. Her head snaps up, eyes wide open and rolled back. Shallow, quick breaths shake her body. She stays like this for a long moment before collapsing to the ground, limp but breathing.

“She will awaken soon,” Duncan says, and Darvis nearly laughs out loud as he imagines the satisfaction the Warden must feel. At least one of them lived! What a success!

The delirium dies in his throat when Duncan turns to him, holding the goblet out expectantly. There’s not much of a choice to make. At Darvis’s feet lay the three options, and he can’t say he much likes any of them. But only one path offers even the chance of survival, so Darvis takes the goblet from Duncan and readies himself. He takes a drink, and only has one quick second to note the horrid taste before he blacks out.

Chapter Text

Darkness.

Whispers.

Blood running cold, then hot, then burning.

Light, a painfully blinding flash of white.

Out of the light, a creature- large and scaly and dragonish.

The name comes unbidden. Archdemon.

It screeches, high and piercing.

And then again, darkness.

Glaring light pierces Marja’s vision as she returns to consciousness, and it takes a few moments of fighting through the disorientation for her to remember where she is.  She sits up with a start, her heart pounding.

“The dragon-”

“Hey, it’s okay. You made it.” Alistair’s voice brings back memories of the ritual, and relief washes over Marja as she realizes she’s in Ostagar, alive and safe. She’s with the Wardens. She is a Warden. Gradually, her breathing slows and she’s able to take in her surroundings. She’s still at the site of the ritual, on the ground where she fell after drinking-

The memory makes her stomach turn. Let’s hope that was a one-time occurrence, she thinks, and pulls herself to her feet with a groan.

“How are you feeling?” Alistair hovers over her, face drawn with worry. “Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my Joining. We all do.”

“Dwarves don’t dream,” Marja says automatically, but… she did. Or she thinks she did. She doesn’t have another word to describe the terrifying vision. “I don’t know. I saw… something.”

The rush of adrenaline begins to fade. Despite the momentary panic and the vision-dream, Marja doesn’t really feel any different, which isn't actually very comforting. She just drank darkspawn blood. By all rights, she should be emptying her stomach into a bucket right now.

“You saw the archdemon,” Duncan says. He’s a few feet away, leaning over Darvis. From where she stands, Marja can’t tell if the other dwarf is dead or simply unconscious. “Such dreams come as you begin to sense the darkspawn. It happens to all Wardens- even dwarves. That and many other things-” A spluttering cough interrupts his words, and Darvis lurches up violently.

“Fuck!” he cries, rubbing his head, and as strange as it is Marja can’t help but be glad to hear him complain. After what happened to Jory and Daveth, it’s simply reassuring to see somebody else survive.

“So I dream now. Okay,” Marja murmurs. “Wow. I see now why the Joining is such a secret.”

“Such is what it takes to become a Grey Warden.” Duncan’s words are soft and serious, but the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that Darvis is still loudly growling obscenities next to him. Duncan reaches out to steady the dwarf as he climbs to his feet, then continues. “You both can take some time to rest, but unfortunately we don’t have long. We’ll be meeting with the king tonight.”

Marja’s ears perk up, and for a short moment the darkspawn are all but forgotten. “The king?”

“We will be discussing strategy for the upcoming battle, and he has requested our presence. But first…” Duncan nods at Alistair, who hurries to the altar near the campfire. The Joining Chalice sits on top, looking much less ominous when empty of darkspawn blood. Alistair ignores the cup and retrieves a bundle of clothes and armor from a compartment in the altar. He hands a portion of the bundle to Marja- dark blue cloth, heavy and durable, folded under polished silver armor emblazoned with the symbol of a winged creature.

“You are now truly Wardens,” Duncan says. Marja runs her fingers over the silver symbol. A griffon, she remembers. Even in Orzammar, children are told tales of the creatures. She’s never given them much thought before.

"You also get this."

Marja looks up to see Alistair holding out a small locket. He drops it in her palm, and Marja holds it close to study the simple grey metal. As she turns it over she feels liquid move inside, and a strange tingling spreads through her fingers.

"We all get them," Alistair says, bringing a hand to the identical locket around his own neck. "It's the leftover blood from the Joining. To remember those who didn't make it."

Marja nods solemnly, and her fingers close around the chain. Alistair hands a locket to Darvis as well, and there is a long pause before the man finally takes it and stuffs it into one of the many pockets at his belt.

"As if I could forget that," he mutters, shaking his head. "But hey, we're in the club now. What happens next?"

"For now," Duncan says, “I must attend to the king. When you are all ready, come join us, and we will prepare for battle.” Marja has a million more burning questions for the man, but before she can voice any of them, he is gone. Marja sighs and turns to Alistair instead.

“What was he saying before? About the dreams, and sensing darkspawn? We can do that now?”

“You won’t sense them right away,” Alistair replies. “It comes a little at a time. The dream was the start of it. And there are other changes, as well.”

“There’s more?” Darvis asks.

“Yes, we’re full of surprises here,” Alistair replies, but his joking tone is met only with stony stares. “It’s not all as bad as the Joining,” he rushes to clarify. “There are some useful changes. The legends of Warden strength and endurance aren’t just tall tales. It’s gradual, but you’ll start to feel like you have more energy- you’ll definitely be eating a lot more over the next few months.”

He pauses, then adds reluctantly, “And if Duncan is right and this is a true Blight, you’ll be having more dreams.” 

“Great,” Darvis mutters. “Are they all like… whatever the blazes that was?”

Alistair shrugs helplessly. “Probably. Sorry. I know they’re far from pleasant. But at least you’re alive!” He looks between the two dwarves, his smile full of hope.

“At least we’re alive,” Darvis repeats in a far less optimistic tone. He unfolds his own uniform, letting the fabric run between his fingers, and grunts in appreciation. Marja looks back at her own, the silver griffon glinting in the firelight.

No point in waiting around, she thinks as she gathers the uniform and heads to her tent. She has a meeting to attend.

After changing into her new equipment, Marja heads toward the area of camp reserved for the king and his advisors. Voices are already raised in argument by the time she arrives.

“Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault!” Cailan’s voice is strained but firm- the sound of someone who’s had the same fight too many times. He, Duncan, and Loghain are gathered around a long table overlaid with parchments and maps. Others are gathered as well- a few soldiers of high rank and one man who wears the robes of a mage- but none seem willing to intervene as the king snaps at his general.

Alistair stands to the side, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to disappear. Marja quickly joins him, standing at attention so she can peer over the high table for a view of the maps. Just as she starts to wonder where Darvis has run off to, he appears out of nowhere beside her, outfitted in his own uniform. Alistair nods at them both in greeting, but their attention is drawn back to the meeting as the argument gets louder.

“You risk too much,” Loghain growls as he glares at the young king, his impatience a nearly tangible thing. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces, after all,” Cailan replies, and Loghain’s face darkens further.

“I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

Cailan stares back coolly. “Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they? In which case, you should not be surprised that I refuse to send my people into battle while I hide in the back. I will be leading the charge. Duncan, will the Wardens be ready to join me?”

Duncan nods, his gaze flickering for a moment to Alistair. “Yes, Your Majesty. If that is what you wish.”

For the first time, Cailan seems to notice the young Wardens, and the hostility he showed Loghain melts away. “Ah, the recruits I met on the road. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations?” Darvis mutters dubiously. “For what, not dying?” Marja elbows him in sharp disapproval, although she doesn’t take her eyes off the king as she flashes him a smile.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It is truly an honor to be here.”

Cailan beams at her. “Anyone would be proud to join the ranks of such prestigious warriors. Together, we will drive the darkspawn from our land.” He motions towards the table, where the geography of the Wilds and the ruins within are laid out before them, with small markers depicting troop movements scattered across the paper.

Loghain huffs. The glare he shoots towards the Wardens is enough to show what he thinks of the king’s praise. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality.”

“Fine,” the king says curtly. “Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?”

Loghain motions to the map. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my soldiers to charge from cover. I have some scouts stationed at the tower. Lighting the beacon will not be a dangerous task, but it is vital.”

“Then we should send our best.” Cailan’s eyes flash towards Alistair, who is standing far from the table and seems to be trying to sink into the background. “I'm certain Duncan can spare some Wardens to make sure it is done.”

Loghain’s mouth draws tight in irritation. “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is this truly wise?”

Marja rushes to speak before Darvis can make another snarky retort. “I’m certain Alistair and Brosca will be up to the task, Ser. My own skills are better suited for the thick of battle- and my experience in dealing with darkspawn is something you may find quite useful, Your Majesty.”

Loghain turns his glare to her, and she meets it steadily, giving him no expression other than a slight, polite smile. Whatever his grudge against the Wardens, she has said nothing which could earn his ire. To her surprise, however, it is not Loghain who protests.

“You will be going to the Tower as well,” Duncan says, his eyes not leaving the map as he addresses Marja. “Cailan is correct in saying this is a vital task. You will be more valuable here than on the front lines.”

Marja’s smile slips away, and she has to fight back the urge to argue further. This task seems a waste of her talent, not to mention of a waste an opportunity to easily gain favor with the king. But unlike Cailan, she knows better than to argue so plainly for all to see. As much as she hates to admit it, she is not in a position to make demands; Duncan is her commander and she must follow his orders. A part of Marja has to wonder if that is the point Duncan is trying to make in so deliberately sending her on this errand.

“Very well,” she says. “I will that it is done.”

Duncan nods, and studies the map for a moment before turning to address the king. “Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing.”

“Isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?” Cailan responds, raising an eyebrow, and Duncan falls silent for a moment.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says at last, although he’s clearly far from satisfied.

Cailan, however, grins with excitement. “I cannot await that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens doing battle alongside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Yes, Cailan.” Loghain’s voice is tired as the man turns his attention back to the maps on the table. “A glorious moment for all.”

Alistair isn’t pleased with the assignment from the king, although unlike the princess, he isn’t so bold as to bring it up in the middle of the war meeting. He simply grumbles about it afterwards, while Duncan stands firm against his pleas to join the main battle.

“This is the king’s personal request, Alistair,” Duncan says, a look of warning on his face. “If the beacon is not lit, the Teyrn’s men won’t know when to charge.”

“I agree with Alistair,” Marja says, frustration creeping into her voice. “We should be in the battle. Surely this task doesn’t require all three of us?”

Darvis says nothing, just runs his fingers over the buckles of his new uniform. He doesn’t understand why the other Wardens are so ready to run headfirst into the worst of the fight. He’s barely recovered from the archdemon visions that the Joining sent flashing through his brain- the last thing he wants is to jump into a pile of darkspawn, even if ‘jump into a pile of darkspawn’ seems to be the Warden job description.

At least the uniforms are nice. Darvis is pretty sure his new armor is worth more than his family's house back in Dust Town.

“We must do whatever it takes to destroy to the darkspawn. Exciting or no.” Duncan’s tone invites no argument. Alistair deflates slightly, and Marja crosses her arms with a resigned look.

“I get it,” Alistair sighs. “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.”

“You have some odd ideas about the king,” Darvis comments. Alistair chuckles, and even Marja’s mouth twitches slightly upward in the suggestion of a smile.

The levity is short-lived. Duncan runs through their orders- ascend the tower, light the beacon, kill any darkspawn they come across. Simple enough.

“And can we join the battle afterwards?” Marja asks.

“Stay and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

Marja doesn’t look completely pleased with the answer, but she offers no more argument as they head out. They part ways with Duncan at the gate, and Alistair nods at Duncan before they go.

“May the Maker watch over you,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious, and Duncan nods in return.

“May He watch over us all.”

Darvis remembers those words later, in the thick of battle.

The mission that Alistair and Marja have labeled as being too simple and safe turns out to be far more complicated than they anticipated. Darkspawn surround the tower in waves, and these are not the unsuspecting, disconnected groups they found earlier in the wilds. This is, truly, an army.

The three Wardens carve through the darkspawn as quickly as they can, but the tower is thickly infested and their progress is slow. If this is what they’re facing, Darvis shudders to imagine what Duncan and the main forces must be up against. He hopes, in the back of his mind, that the humans’ Maker is better at protection than dwarven Ancestors.

But he doesn’t have time to think about Duncan for long- the battle at hand commands his full attention. By the time they clear the tower’s main entrance of darkspawn, the group is already blood-spattered and breathing heavily.

“There weren’t supposed to be this many,” Alistair says when they take a quick moment to rest. His voice is tight with concern as he scans the darkspawn corpses littered across the floor.

“I thought you wanted to fight more,” Darvis points out as he rubs a poultice into a wound on his shoulder. The injury isn’t too severe- the arrow barely grazed him- but it means he’ll be favoring one arm for the near future.

“So this is a silver lining, then?” Alistair replies with the ghost of a smile. He takes a deep breath and re-positions his silver shield. “Fair enough. Come on- we need to keep pushing through if we’re going to light the beacon in time.”

“Hopefully the darkspawn were contained to the lower floors,” Marja comments. She stands at the foot of the stairs, her blood-soaked battleaxe held loosely in one hand. “This tower must have had some defenses to slow them down.”

As it turns out, no, the tower doesn’t have defenses. What it does have is a fucking massive ogre rampaging on the top floor.

“How did this thing even get up here?” Darvis demands as he skirts along the wall, trying to stay out of the beast’s sight. The ogre is thick and gruesome and easily nine feet tall, with sharp horns and fists heavy as anvils. But thankfully, it seems to have poor eyesight.

“Not important right now!” Alistair answers. He circles the monster with Marja, who slashes at it with her axe and manages to draw blood but is swiftly repaid by being thrown against the wall. The ogre advances on her but is distracted by Alistair attacking from the side, sinking his sword into its arm.

Darvis stays at his spot against the wall. He has knives, and compared to this thing those knives look more like toothpicks. He'll let the proper warriors handle this monstrosity.

Marja is back on her feet now, and together she and Alistair attack the ogre with an onslaught of blows. The ogre’s movements slow, and for a moment it seems as if they’re about to bring it down. Then the creature lets out an angry, ear-splitting bellow, and throws a punch at Alistair that sends him flying across the room. Marja manages to dodge the blow but is left on her own against the towering beast, not able to get close enough to land a hit as she tries to avoid getting pummeled herself.

The ogre now has its back turned completely to Darvis. Alistair is on the other side of the room, struggling to his feet and about to charge back into the fray- but he’s also only a few feet from the beacon.

Shit. Darvis knows what he has to do.

“I’ve got this, you light the signal!” He shouts, and doesn’t give himself too much time to reconsider before darting forward and sinking a blade into the back of the ogre’s knee.

With a screech of pain, the ogre staggers, flailing for Darvis but unable to find him in its hobbled state. Darvis throws all of his strength into a blow aimed at the ogre’s back, sending it to its knees. Marja wastes no time in taking advantage of the position. She leaps forward and brings her axe down hard across the ogre’s neck.

The thing falls to the ground hard as a blinding light fills the room. Darvis turns to see Alistair standing next to a blazing fire. “There,” the man says with a breath of relief. “Loghain’s forces will be joining the king now.”

“And we should as well,” Marja says, pulling her axe from the ogre’s body. Darvis still can’t believe they took the monstrosity down, and he jumps in alarm when the body twitches feebly. He stabs it once more through an eye, just to be safe. Marja nods at him in wordless thanks, and despite the battle they’ve just been through she still wears a steely, determined expression. Darvis hates to admit it, but her resolve is impressive. “If what we saw here is any indication of the forces-”

A series of screeches and roars interrupt her words, and the Wardens turn in unison to the tower entrance.

“Reinforcements,” Alistair says grimly, and Darvis shakes his head. Impossible, he thinks. We killed so many. How can there be more?

But the sounds from below don’t allow him to doubt for long. He draws his daggers, shooting a look at Alistair. “Any chance we can expect reinforcements?”

“We can hold them off,” Alistair says, and Darvis resists the urge to point out that he didn’t answer the question.

“Will there be more of these ugly things?” he asks instead, motioning to the ogre body.

Marja heaves her axe to a fighting stance. “We’ll find out soon.”

Darvis knows the odds- with only the three of them against another surge of monsters that have them cornered at the top of the tower, they aren't good. But knowing the odds has never stopped him before, so he readies his blades and, side by side with the other Wardens, braces himself for the first wave of darkspawn.

Chapter Text

The fight is hopeless from the start.

There are simply too many darkspawn. Darvis dodges and stabs and slices until his daggers are slick with black blood and his muscles are drained of energy, and they just keep coming.

The others aren’t faring much better. Alistair lost his shield at some point in the fray, and now desperately fends off darkspawn with only his sword. Marja’s heavy swings have less and less power to them, exhaustion evident on her face as she forces the axe through the head of yet another Hurlock.

Darvis does his best to stay near them, but the horde is on every side and they soon disappear from sight. An arrow catches him in the arm- fuck, that’s the same arm as before, now he can’t even hold up his left dagger, and with his defenses down the monsters are quick to close in. Darvis grits his teeth and readies his remaining blade even as his knees go weak from fatigue and blood loss.

A resounding roar fills the tower, and he has just enough time to think, Not another sodding ogre, before it all goes dark.

For one blissful moment as his consciousness returns, Darvis doesn’t remember where he is. Then the memories hit him like a sledgehammer to the head.

He starts forward, hands immediately reaching for the daggers that should be at his side. Panic grips him when his hands come back empty. The panic increases as he realizes something is restraining him, and he tries to jerk away-

“Be calm,” a voice says curtly, and a firm hand pushes him back into the bed.

The bed. The strangeness of waking up in a bed makes Darvis pause enough to actually take in his surroundings, even as his heart continues racing. He’s in a small room, tangled in blankets, and a dark-haired human woman is looking down at him with impatience.

“Your eyes finally open, I see,” the woman muses. “Mother will be pleased.”

It’s her golden-eyed stare that finally sparks recognition. “You’re the girl from the Wilds,” Darvis says, still confused by his new circumstances.

“I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten,” she says brusquely, although she seems pleased that he remembers her face. “You were quite injured in the battle. Mother and I have been treating your wounds.”

Darvis sits up again- slower, this time. It’s the second time in the past twenty-four hours he’s awoken confused and feeling like shit, and familiarity doesn’t make the situation any easier. At least this time he doesn’t have the taste of darkspawn blood in his mouth.

And at least Morrigan seems to be telling the truth about helping him. Darvis stretches cautiously, testing his range of motion, and is surprised to find his arm in working order. His muscles still ache and the pounding in his head hasn’t let up, but aside from that no signs of the battle remain. He doesn’t even have any new scars.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and Morrigan inclines her head slightly in return.

“You are welcome.” She moves away from the bed, although she still watches Darvis with wary interest. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“Rescue?” Darvis searches for the memory, but can’t recall anything beyond the swarm of darkspawn.

“I take that as a no,” Morrigan says after a moment.

“What happened?”

“The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.” She delivers the news with little emotion, and it takes a moment for the reality to sink in.

“Massacred? All of them?”

“Near enough. A few stragglers have escaped, I’m sure, but they will not last long. The darkspawn are still in the fields, scavenging the remains of the battlefield."

Darvis’s stomach turns, and he decides he doesn’t want any more details than that. All those fighters, thousands of people, now dead. The king, the soldiers, the Wardens- gone. And Darvis would be just as dead if not for the help of these strange women.

“You said your mother saved us? How? Why?”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked you from atop the tower.” Morrigan’s tone is dry. Darvis doesn’t think she’s serious, but he remembers the wild look in Flemeth’s eyes and the human tales of witches, and he can’t be entirely sure. No further elaboration is given by Morrigan, who simply shrugs at Darvis and continues, “As for the why, I wonder at that myself. Mother rarely tells me her reasoning for what she does. If it were up to me, I would have saved your king. He would have fetched a higher ransom.”

The dark humor takes Darvis by surprise, and he chuckles hoarsely. “Much higher.”

A smile plays on the edges of Morrigan’s lips. “Ah, but Mother is rarely so sensible. Instead, she chooses the Wardens- and the most inexperienced Wardens, at that.”

Darvis picks up on the plural. “She rescued Alistair as well?”

Morrigan nods, but her smile slips away. “She did. He is not dealing well with the outcome of the battle. He has not ceased moping since he awoke.To tell the truth, his wailing and moaning has been giving me quite the headache”

Darvis heaves a sigh. “At least he’s alive.” He pauses for a moment, then begrudgingly adds, “And the other Warden? Dwarven woman?”

“Alive as well. They are both outside with Mother.”

Darvis nods. Three survivors. Things could be worse than that. “I should join them.”

“Very well. We saved your equipment for you.” She motions towards a chest at the foot of the bed before turning to the door. “I will tell your comrades of your awakening. They have been worried for you.”

Or at least one of them has, Darvis thinks as she leaves him to dress. He throws off the blanket, taking the time to once again inspect his body for injuries and not finding a scratch. Whatever “witchy” method this woman used to heal him, Darvis decides that he likes it. He hurries to pull on his armor, wondering in the back of his mind just how long they’ll be safe here. Flemeth may have saved them, but she doesn’t seem the type to offer long-term shelter. And if the other Wardens have all died, what does that leave for Darvis on this strange surface world?

His thoughts stray to Orzammar, to Rica and Leske. They told him to leave to save his own life, and he’s already come dangerously close to screwing that up. He can only hope they’re doing a better job at staying safe than he is.

As Darvis pulls on his armor, his eyes fall to the silver locket which somehow survived the battle. The special Grey Warden locket, filled with blood from the Joining, the one that's supposed to remind him of sacrifice or some nugshut like that. As if Daveth and Jory's death actually meant anything, now that the battle is done and lost. The Wardens were supposed to be a brave new start, weren't they? But not only is the Noble still hanging around like a permanent shadow of what can never be, it turns out that being a Warden is far more likely to get Darvis killed than anything he ever did for the Carta. Looking at the locket now, Darvis feels cheated, and he barely resists the urge to throw thing in the fire. Instead, he ties the chain around one of the loops on his belt, allowing the necklace to hang at his side. Maybe he can sell it, and at least get something out of all this trouble.

The last thing Darvis does is slide his daggers back into their rightful place at his belt, and the familiar weight calms him slightly. He’ll figure something out. He always has. It’s this thought that keeps him steady as he steps out the doorway.

Outside, Flemeth, Marja, and Alistair are gathered beneath a large tree, with Marja pacing back and forth and Alistair sitting, head bowed. All three heads turn as Darvis approaches, and Alistair leaps to his feet.

“You’re alive!”

“Just as I said,” Flemeth says. “I know a thing or two of magic, after all.”

“Yeah. Um, thanks,” Darvis replies. He still isn’t sure how to react to this woman- there’s something off about her that he just doesn’t trust, but she did save his life.

Marja stops her pacing long enough to give Darvis a curt nod. “It’s good to see you on your feet.” Her attention then shifts back to Alistair. “Can we please discuss our plans now? We can’t be safe here.”

“Why not?” Darvis frowns. “Are the darkspawn-”

“The largest part of the horde has moved on,” Flemeth interjects. “You are safe. But not for long. They will notice you eventually- you are Wardens, after all.”

“Exactly.” Marja’s words are firm and sharp, a departure from the airy façade of politeness she’d displayed before. “Which is why we need to decide what we’re doing next.”

“What you’re doing? It has always been the Grey Warden’s duty to unite the lands against the Blight,” Flemeth remarks wryly. “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“’Unite the lands’ is a noble goal, but it isn’t a plan,” Marja snaps. She looks to Alistair. “You’re the Warden here with the most experience. Any suggestions?”

Alistair sighs, rubbing his head. “I… I don’t know. Duncan… the other Wardens… they’re all dead.” His voice shakes as he speaks, and Darvis notices that the man’s eyes are red and puffy.

Marja’s voice softens the slightest amount when she speaks again. “I’m sorry, Alistair. Truly. But surely there must be others. We can regroup-”

Alistair shakes his head. “No, all the others are still in Orlais. They won’t risk crossing the border and breaking the peace with Ferelden. By the time we reach them, it will be too late.” His fists clench, and he makes a frustrated sound. “Why would Loghain do this? Why would he betray his king right as a Blight is about to hit?”

“Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature,” Flemeth says solemnly.

“That’s politics,” Marja adds, her voice hard as stone. “His reasons don’t matter. What matters is that we put a stop to his games and end the Blight.”

“Stop him? End the Blight?” Darvis repeats in shock. He’s ready to formulate a plan- a plan to get out of this mess, not further in. “In case you haven’t noticed, Princess, you don’t have an army behind you anymore. There are three of us, and the three of us going against Loghain and the darkspawn is a suicide mission.”

“It’s our duty.” To Darvis’s surprise, it’s Alistair who answers sharply. His eyes turn pleading as he looks at Darvis. “Duncan was like a father to me. I won’t let his..." Alistair trails off, choking on the word before recovering himself. "I won't let his death be in vain. But I can’t do anything on my own.”

“You also can’t do anything with three people against an entire nation.”

“Will it be an entire nation?” Marja asks. “Might there be any nobles who would protest against Loghain?”

It takes a moment for Alistair to process the question, but eventually he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, thinking. “Arl Eamon, of Redcliffe. If the truth got out about what happened at Ostagar… I believe he would be the first to call for Loghain’s execution.”

“Then we should go to him. That’s a first step. Are there any other allies-” Marja takes in a sharp breath, and her grey eyes light up. “Of course! We still have the treaties!”

Comprehension dawns in Alistair’s eys, and for the first time since Darvis awoke, a smile breaks through the lines of sorrow on his face. “The treaties! The mages, the Dalish, Orzammar- they’re all sworn to aid the Wardens during a Blight!”

“We track them down, invoke the treaties-”

“-and they’ll be obligated to help us-”

“-and there’s our army!”

Darvis watches and listens, a slow sense of horror creeping over him until he can’t stand it any longer. “Hold on just a minute! Am I the only one here who’s not completely insane?”

Darvis’s outburst startles Marja out of the plans running through her head.

Since the moment she awoke in Flemeth’s hut, her mind has been spiraling, attempting to develop a plan despite this latest setback and obsessing over how she could have missed the signs of Loghain’s impending betrayal. Loghain’s hostility to the Wardens, his impatience with Cailan- everything had pointed towards this outcome. And yet, she had been so focused on impressing the king that she hadn’t noticed the warnings from the man who supported him.

Hasn’t she learned anything?

She resolves to heed her lesson well, this time. She will not let her guard down again. She will not allow herself to be taken by surprise. Already, she is thinking of future maneuvers, how best to ensure they get what they need. She may still be a stranger to the surface, but this is a game she knows how to play. And with the treaties, everyone will have to listen. Orzammar will have to listen. And if she can return and win back their respect… if she can even get the armies on her side…

Well, that’s a thought for another time. For now, what matters is that the Warden’s mission is actually possible.

The anticipation is so great that she doesn’t immediately realize Darvis has different plans. “Maybe you two don’t remember,” he says in a voice approaching a snarl, “but we were nearly killed today. And that was just plain old darkspawn- what if that dream dragon thing had shown up? I vote we don’t get involved in this mess.”

“We’re already involved. We can’t just leave-,” Alistair begins, but Darvis cuts him off.

“Why? I say we cut our losses and find a safe place to just… disappear. Let Loghain clean up his own mess.”

“He won’t,” Marja says coldly. “Loghain doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. If we don’t do something, the Blight will destroy Ferelden.”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Alistair adds, his voice soft but insistent. For a moment, Marja worries he will dissolve into tears once more. But their plans seem to have ignited some remnant of purpose within him, and he is able to maintain his composure.

Darvis looks between the two of them in disbelief. A hard expression passes over his face, and he slowly shakes his head. “No. You two can go be Wardens if you want. Not me. I want to live.”

“You mean you want to run away.” Marja’s voice comes out harsh, but she’s past the point of caring.  “Do you even realize what the Blight will do to the world if we don’t intervene?”

“And why should I care?”

“Don’t you have any sense of honor?”

“Don’t give me that nugshit,” Darvis scoffs. “You’re not doing this for honor or nobility or whatever it is you’re telling yourself. You just need to be in charge of something. You’re not royalty anymore, so you’re playing the hero instead. Don’t pretend this is coming out of the good of your heart, and don’t drag me into it.”

Marja’s jaw clenches. How dare he accuse her of selfish intentions? Whatever her future goals may be, at least she’s not going to abandon a dying world. “Fine. Don’t consider the fact that it’s the right thing to do- consider the fact that if the Blight wipes out Ferelden, you’ll be wiped out with it. Don’t you understand? There’s nowhere you can hide from this.”

“Orzammar has survived darkspawn for centuries.”

“You’re planning on returning to Orzammar by yourself, then? I’m certain the fighters you disgraced in the Proving would relish the opportunity to welcome you back.”

Darvis’s dark eyes flash with anger, and Marja knows she’s struck a nerve. Good. Appealing to his better nature has not worked so far; she doubts he even has one. If provocation is required to get through to him, so be it.

“And just what do you think is going to happen when you go crawling to our ‘allies’ with these little treaties?”  Darvis’s question comes out as a growl. “You think they’ll just open their coffers to us and give us their soldiers, no strings attached? You really think this arl will believe three nobodies over Loghain and his soldiers? You have no idea how the world works outside of your pretty little castle, Princess.”

Marja steps closer to Darvis, drawing herself to her full height. “You mock me, but you do not understand that title. Since I was born, I have been trained in the arts of war and negotiations. I have faced off against politicians twice my age. I have led soldiers into battle.  And I have survived against the darkspawn, even when left alone and defenseless in the Deep Roads. I do not fear the Blight. I plan to stop it. And I plan to use every resource to do so. Right now, unfortunately, that includes you.”

Darvis takes a step back, but his defensive posture does not change. “Right. I’m useful now,” he answers. His eyes narrow, and his fingers stray to the dagger hilts at his side. “What if I leave anyway? Are you going to stop me?”

Marja thinks of the carnage in Ostagar. She thinks of her city and of her people, who for all their pride have a lot to lose should the Blight be allowed to reach a climax. She thinks of Duncan, driving a sword into Jory’s chest in the name of the Wardens. Distantly, she is aware of the others watching- Alistair with anxious concern and Flemeth with mild curiosity- as her hand moves to the handle of her own weapon. “If I must.”

Darvis studies her quietly, perhaps searching her expression for hints of a bluff. Marja knows none will be found. There is a price for desertion-for betrayal- and if necessary, she will see it paid.

As the two dwarves stare each other down, it’s Alistair who breaks the silence. “If there’s anyone you care about,” he says in a gentle, pleading tone, “even in Orzammar… this Blight will hurt them if we don’t stop it. There’s an archdemon out there. You know, you’ve seen it. And right now, there are only three people in Ferelden who can fight it.”

For the first time, Darvis’s defiant glare wavers. He looks down, his face a battlefield of anger and worry.

“The Wilds still crawl with darkspawn.” Marja looks up in surprise at the first contribution Morrigan has made to the conversation. The woman isn’t looking at them, but rather into the darkness of the surrounding trees. Her voice is indifferent as she continues. “A single traveler will be picked off quickly.”

Darvis glances at her. His shoulders slump the slightest amount, and in a low voice he says, “Doesn’t look like I have much choice, then.”

Relief blooms in Marja’s chest, but she controls her expression as she, too, relaxes her stance. “At last, you finally see reason.”

“Yeah. Reason.” Darvis lets out a long sigh. “The three of us against the armies of Ferelden and a fucking archdemon. The reasonable choice.”

“The four of you,” Flemeth corrects. Marja stares at her, but it’s Morrigan who grasps her meaning first.

“What?” she asks in a sharp voice, and Flemeth gives her daughter a withering look.

“You heard me, girl. The Wardens need all the help they can get. You will go with them.”

“Have I no say in this?”

Flemeth shakes her head. “You’ve been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.”

“We don’t want to force her to join us,” Darvis says, sending a dirty look in Marja’s direction, but Marja just frowns back and speaks over him.

“We do need all the help we can get. We’d be happy to accept whatever Morrigan can give us.”

Morrigan looks between the Wardens and Flemeth, her usual nonchalance falling away to shock. “Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready-"

“You must be ready.” Flemeth’s voice is firm, inviting no further arguments. “Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan holds her mother’s gaze for a long moment, and some sort of understanding seems to pass between the two. “Very well, Mother. I will go.”

Flemeth’s fierce gaze swivels to Marja. “And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed.”

“I understand,” Marja answers. Darvis huffs, but nods along.

Alistair, however, still looks unsure. When Morrigan departs to gather her things from the small house, he leans close to Marja. “This may make our situation worse. Outside of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

“A little illegal magic is probably useful,” Darvis counters. He’s still wearing a dour expression, but Marja appreciates that fact that he’s at least being practical.

“And we truly can’t afford to turn away help,” she adds.

Alistair doesn’t seem pleased, but he glances between the two dwarves and seems to accept that if they agree on something, it’s best not to argue. At last, Morrigan returns, a bag slung over her back and a resigned look on her face. She glances towards the sky, as if she’s scrutinizing something above them. “Let us be off, then.  I suggest a village north of here as our first destination. ‘Tis only a few days’ journey, and we will need to gather supplies for our mission.”

“Seems as good a place to start as any,” Marja says. “Do you know the way?”

Morrigan nods, and then looks hesitantly back at Flemeth, who watches from the doorway of her shack. She lifts her chin and calls out, “Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut.”

Flemeth makes a dismissive noise. “’Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight.”

The words make Morrigan flinch. “All I meant was-”

“Yes, I know.” Flemeth smiles fondly, but the expression does not quite reach her eyes. “Do try to have fun, dear.”

Morrigan gives her mother one last, long look, then turns and begins walking through the trees. Before they follow, Alistair looks down at his companions. “Are you two going to be okay?” he asks hesitantly. “We can’t be at each other’s throats here.”

“What do you expect?” Darvis demands. He casts a sidelong glance at Marja. “I’m not happy about any of this, and I certainly don’t trust her.”

“You don’t have to be happy, and you don’t have to trust me,” Marja replies. “Just do your job.”

Darvis scowls but gives a stiff nod, and Alistair lets out a long exhale. “That will do for now, I suppose.”

“Are you coming along or not?” Morrigan calls impatiently. Darvis turns and follows her without another word. Marja follows suit, eying Darvis warily as she walks behind him. Alistair falls into step last, taking in the situation with a sigh and a furrowed brow. Together, the Wardens allow Morrigan to lead them away from the relative safety of the hut and into the darkness of the darkspawn-infested forest.

Chapter Text

The walk to Lothering is a long one.

In reality, the village is not terribly far away. The trip will take about three days, according to Morrigan, a much shorter journey than the one Darvis already took from the Frostback Mountains to Ostagar. But that first foray into the surface world was not weighed down by the same tension that now hangs over the group and makes every hour on the road feel like a year.

Darvis spends the first day in angry silence, and the first night in fitful sleep as he fights against the Blight-induced dreams. By the second day the bitterness has subsided slightly. He’s still pissed, of course, but he’s also desperate for some type of distraction. He refuses to converse with Marja- the look of utter contempt she gave him for simply wanting to live is still fresh in his mind. Alistair is harder to stay angry with; he may be siding with the princess, but the grief that has been hanging over him like a curtain since Ostagar simply doesn’t invite further antagonism. Still, he’s a Warden, and the last thing Darvis wants to do at the moment is deal with anything Warden-related.

And so Darvis finds himself sidling up to Morrigan as they traipse down the snow-dusted road.

“Regret joining up with us yet?” There’s humor in his question, but honest curiosity as well. The previous night, Morrigan had pointedly set up her tent a good distance away from the main campfire. Even Darvis, stubborn though he may be, didn’t forsake the safety of numbers simply to make a point.

Morrigan regards coolly him for a moment, her golden eyes impassive. Even outside of the strange shadows of the swamp, she seems to carry something otherworldly in her expression, something Darvis can't quite place. Perhaps it has something to do with her magic; witches aren't something Darvis had much experience with in Orzammar, after all. Morrigan does not slow her pace at his question, nor does she loosen her grip on the long, gnarled staff in her hand. “I had little choice, if you will recall.”

“I know how that feels. Sorry you got dragged into this.”

She shrugs. “’Tis not your fault. I suppose something such as this would have happened sooner or later. Evidently, Mother wishes for me to expand the horizon of my experience beyond the Wilds.”

“So you’ve been in these Wilds all your life?” Darvis asks, casting a glance at the treetops above them. Clumps of snow collect on the thick branches, and patches of gray sky are visible through the gaps. To grow up in a world so open and unpredictable and cold isn’t something he can imagine at all.

His question provokes a flash of irritation from Morrigan. “What is the purpose of such questions? I do not probe you for useless information, do I?”

The sudden hostility takes Darvis by surprise. He holds his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Fine. You want to walk in silence, I’ll leave you to it.” He begins to move away, intending to return to his resentful silence, when Morrigan stops him.

“Wait.” She still sounds annoyed, but now it seems more of a general exasperation rather than anger directed specifically at Darvis. “I did not ask to be left alone. I simply wondered from whence comes this strange curiosity.”

“How else are we going to pass the time?” Darvis asks. “Gotta talk to someone, and you’re the only who hasn’t tried to give me a speech about honor and duty. Besides, you really want to be strangers for the whole journey?”

“What a stranger does not know cannot hurt him,” Morrigan answers, a hint of humor creeping into her voice. “But fine, have it your way. Yes, I was raised in the Wilds. For many years it was only Flemeth and I.” She glances down towards the brush that creeps onto the edges of the road, then back up at the barren treetops above. “The wilderness has always been more real to me than the world of civilized men.”

“Well, I don’t know a lot about the Wilds. Or anything up here, really. I only saw my first tree a few weeks ago,” Darvis says. “But I can say with confidence that the world of ‘civilized men’ isn’t all that great. You didn’t miss out on much.”

Morrigan chuckles. “A sentiment I can agree with. I have ventured beyond the Wilds in the past. Never for long. I’ve found life amongst so many other humans… overwhelming.”

“And you’re an…” Darvis scrambles for the word used back in Ostagar. “An apostate? That’s magic, right?”

Morrigan gives him an odd look, one eyebrow slightly raised. “…Yes. ’Tis the word the Chantry zealots uses for mages it cannot control.” Her tone turns defensive. “They fear any mage not leashed to their Circle shall invariably resort to blood magic and become demon-enslaved abominations. Even the ancient magics Mother passed down to me would be considered too dangerous for their sensitivities. The Chantry would see all of that knowledge simply eradicated. But those of us who prefer freedom see no reason to submit to their control.”

“Wait, back up- what’s this about ancient magic?”

“You will see in time, I do not doubt.” She smirks, drumming her fingers along her staff. “For now, suffice to say I possess a great many skills that, in the Chantry’s mind, mark me as an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch.”

Darvis can feel Morrigan’s eyes on him as she speaks, gauging and judging his reaction. He spends a moment trying to assemble the meaning of these new concepts- Chantry, Circle, ancient magic; why do surfacers have to be so complicated?- before disregarding the futile effort. “Look, I don’t know how any of this mage stuff works, or why the Chantry apparently has a stick up their arse about it. But if what you can do is useful, then use it. Seems simple enough to me.”

A sharp laugh escapes Morrigan’s lips, and she regards Darvis with a new appreciation. “Oh? You’re simply full of surprises, aren’t you? ‘Tis good to know. In any case, my apostate status should not endanger us. Only once have I been accused of being a witch. ‘Twas easy enough to avoid persecution- when it came down to my word against my accuser’s, I batted my eyelashes at the Templars and played the victim. The type of dim-witted folks who enter the Chantry’s service are quite easily fooled.”

"To be fair to the easily fooled folks, that tactic does sound pretty effective," Darvis says, and Morrigan smiles again. For someone so reluctant to be asked questions, she certainly seems to be enjoying the conversation. Darvis wonders if she’s ever spoken at such length with someone who was not her mother. Likely not, he guesses. He takes the opportunity to ask another question that’s been stewing in the back of his mind.

“What is a Witch of the Wilds, anyway? It’s more than just another way to say apostate, isn’t it?”

Morrigan gives him a dubious look. “Have you never heard the legend of Flemeth?”

“I never set foot above the surface until I got dragged into this Warden nonsense. Let’s just assume from now that if it has anything to do with magic, plants, or anything that falls out of the sky, I haven’t heard of it.”

“I see. Shall I regale you with the story, then?”

Darvis nods, and Morrigan obligingly begins a long, dramatic tale. Darvis can’t help but think she may be embellishing the wilder parts of Flemeth’s past, but even if the legend is a complete work of fiction and Flemeth is nothing more than a frazzled old bat, listening to Morrigan tell the story makes the time on the road less monotonous.

Marja is beginning to worry about Alistair. The man who once chatted and joked with enthusiasm has barely said more than a few sentences since leaving Flemeth’s hut. Marja hopes he isn’t upset about the argument; Alistair may have been on her side, but her methods may still have unnerved him. Not that she regrets what she did- her actions were necessary. But she also knows that in the wake of the deaths of so many Wardens, a fight between comrades is likely the last thing Alistair needs.

There’s not much Marja can do about that, but she can at least attempt to comfort him.

“I’m sorry about Duncan.” It’s the second day of their travels, although the scenery hasn’t much changed- still snow and trees as far as the eye can see. She and Alistair are trailing behind Morrigan and Darvis- not too far, but at enough of a distance to have their own conversation. “I… don’t believe I’ve had the chance to say that yet. And I know you were close.”

Her words startle Alistair from his contemplative silence, and he immediately tries to cover with a forced smile and a shake of his head…but Marja notices how his hand automatically raises to the Grey Warden locket hanging around his neck. “You don’t have to do that. I know you barely knew him.”

“I know he was a good man. He and the Wardens saved my life.”

The words give Alistair pause, and sorrow colors his expression. “He was. He was a good man who didn’t deserve his fate.” Alistair blinks hard as he speaks, and Marja looks away, pretending for a moment to study the landscape.

For all her time spent around people, Marja realizes that she has little experience in actually comforting somebody. Not like this. Alistair’s reaction is not that of a soldier who lost his commander.  A sudden memory occurs to her, one she hasn’t dwelled upon in years- her mother’s funeral. She and Trian had stood soberly side by side, united, for once, in their grief. Bhelen had fidgeted through the whole thing; he was was too young to understand what was really happening, and besides, it wasn't his mother who had died. And of course there was her father, always strong and wise and stoic, offering words of reassurance to the people as the Queen was lowered into the tombs.

Marja glances back at Alistair. “In Orzammar, when a loved one dies, we return them to the Stone. Their spirits enter the thaig and become part of our foundation. Our strength. I know these customs are different than yours, but I believe the principle still applies. His spirit is still with you, and it makes you stronger.”

Alistair smiles- a genuine this time, small and sad, but sincere. “I like that. Thank you. Have you… lost someone like this before?”

“My mother, although that was long ago.” Marja pauses. “And my brother, more recently.”

It’s the first time she’s said the words to someone who doesn’t already know. Alistair offers her some sort of condolences, and Marja accepts them with a nod, but her thoughts are elsewhere. For all of her plans and her anger towards Bhelen, she realizes for the first time that she has barely spared a moment of grief for Trian. Surely he had a funeral, full of the traditional pomp and circumstance he so appreciated. Bhelen would have been there for it, certainly, had probably even made a speech. He's a good enough liar to stand in front of a crowd and pretend to mourn.

At least Marja is spared the need for pretending grief. It’s a horrid thought, but one she can’t deny. There is a reason she so easily believed Trian planned to kill her. He’d hated her, had threatened her and bullied her and tried to make her life miserable for years.

But he was still her brother, wasn’t he, and just as much a victim to Bhelen as she? Does he deserve more from her? Is it wrong that Marja craves vengeance not for Trian’s death, but for her own exile? The thoughts whir around Marja’s head like the buzzing insects that populate the Wilds until Alistair hesitantly touches her shoulder. “Are you okay there? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

Marja forces herself to breathe and put on a smile. “Nothing to apologize for. I’m fine. It’s just… family is complicated.”

Alistair looks at her with concern but doesn’t push the issue. “Anyway, thank you again. I’m glad to have you here. We got off to a rough start back there, but I’m glad we’re doing the right thing.”

Marja has no answer to that, but thankfully a distraction arrives in the form of a sudden commotion from the trees.

It begins as a distant rustling, but quickly grows in volume as a dark shape becomes visible through the forest. Marja already has her axe in hand when she realizes it’s not a darkspawn- it’s a dog. The beast crashes through the trees ahead, and as it nears the group Marja recognizes it as the recovering warhound from Ostagar. The dog pays her and Alistair little attention, instead racing straight for an extremely alarmed Darvis.

Darvis lets out a small yelp and takes a step back, but rather than attacking, the dog sits himself in front of the dwarf and barks happily. The animal looks quite pleased with itself- as much as a dog can, anyway- but Darvis only stares at it.

“What the blazes?”

“We could always just eat him.”

The suggestion makes Morrigan chuckle. “I fear the Fereldans would view such a thing as even worse than my apostasy. Watch your tongue, or you may find yourself at the end of a pitchfork.”

“Eh, he doesn’t look like he would taste that good anyway,” Darvis concedes. Despite his lack of enthusiasm towards Nug, the dog has continued to trot faithfully at his heels ever since he joined their little group.

The name fits him well. Now that he’s decided he likes Darvis, the creature does actually resemble the description of ‘nug with fur’. A slobbery, oversized nug that can tear into darkspawn with teeth and claws, but the similarity is still there. And Nug seems to like the name.

Marja doesn’t. She’s already made a few attempts to rename the beast- ridiculous things like Moroc or Heidrun. But her ideas come too late, and the mabari now refuses to answer to anything but the name Darvis has chosen. Even with all of Alistair’s talk of ‘imprinting’, Darvis finds it odd that the dog favors him so much, but truth be told, he minds it less than he lets on. It’s comforting to have a companion with whom there’s no risk of a sudden knife in his back.

Which isn’t to say that Morrigan is unpleasant company. Far from it. She humors his many questions about the Wilds, pointing out which plants along the road can be used for healing and which are poisonous. Darvis grabs a few of the latter- something like that always comes in handy eventually. When Darvis’s questions begin to stray towards more personal matters, however, Morrigan deflects with a sarcastic comment, a lengthy tangent on arcane matters, or- on rare occasions- with a teasing smile that does a far better job of derailing Darvis's thoughts than it should.

She gives him one such smile after he makes another inquiry about her time with Flemeth, and her amused laughter sends an ill-advised thrill up his spine. “So full of questions, aren't you? I daresay it is almost endearing.”

The words are taunting, a mix of mockery and flirtation floating beneath her tone. Darvis can play that game, too. “The way you evade questions isn't half bad, either.”

Morrigan laughs. “Really? Perhaps we should be wrapped in ribbons and adorned with flowers, so precious are we.” She shakes her head. “Surely you do not wish to hear more of my tales? What of your family? You’ve said little enough of them yet. You have a mother, do you not? Few are abominations of legend, ‘tis true, but I find myself curious nonetheless.”

Darvis’s light mood darkens, and a scowl pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s a reasonable inquiry, he supposes- she’s been sharing information of herself. It’s only fair he do the same. “My mother is much less interesting than yours, I’m afraid. She spends most of her days drunk and angry. Or, she did. But I don’t expect much has changed since I last saw her.”

“Ah.” Morrigan’s expression goes somber for a brief moment. “You have my sympathies, for what it is worth.”

Darvis shrugs. “Don’t bother. I’ve been luckier than many in Dust Town. I’ve always had Rica- my sister. She was the one who raised me, really.”

“And what of her?” Morrigan asks. “I confess, I know little of what ‘tis like to have a sister, but I have…wondered.”

The sensation of homesickness tightens like a knot in Darvis’s gut as he tries to adequately describe Rica. “She’s the responsible one in the family. Good with people, more than I ever was. Tougher than most people think, but still kind- the only person I knew who was like that. And she always believed that we could be better.” He pauses. “That I could be better.”

Darvis wonders what Rica would say about the mess he’s in. He wonders what she would say if she knew he’d tried to leave the Wardens, after she was so proud of him for joining. He thinks he knows, and the answer adds a small weight of guilt on his conscience.

“A kind heart does not come to much use in this world,” Morrigan says.

“No, it doesn’t,” Darvis agrees. “But she has one anyway.” He sighs and turns his eyes towards the sky. “I probably won’t ever get the chance to see her again.”

“Such a vote of confidence in our abilities,” Morrigan says in a dry tone- attempting, Darvis thinks, to move away from the sentimentality of the subject at hand. “With every passing hour I grow more grateful to have joined you.”

“Maybe I’m just being pessimistic. Or maybe I’m right, and we’re both marching to our graves. But I am glad you’re here.”

“Glad to have me on a mission you’ve described as likely doomed?” When Darvis opens his mouth to correct his answer, Morrigan only smirks again. “Not that I lack appreciation for your comment. Thank you. And I certainly have no intention of dying. So long as you can keep up with me, you needn’t worry about it, either.”

Darvis falls silent at that, and he takes a moment to study Morrigan from the corner of his eye. He hasn’t quite managed to figure out all of her moods. There’s the prickly indifference she carried at their first meeting, the snappy contempt she shows to Alistair, and the occasional friendly teasing she now uses on Darvis. And then, occasionally, there are moments like this.

Moments that disappear as quickly as they come. Morrigan glances away, her posture straightening, and when she speaks again her voice is brusque. “Come along, then. We should quicken our pace before the ground opens up and swallows us, yes?”

Darvis is almost positive she’s being metaphorical- he has developed some ability to read her shifting tones- but he hurries his steps anyway. Just in case that’s something that actually does happen on the surface.

“-and you’ve no idea how to make more Wardens?”

Alistair shakes his head, a thoughtful frown on his face. “I’m only a junior in the order, myself. Exactly how the Joining works, I can’t say. It involves lyrium and darkspawn blood and it’s quite complicated- that’s as much as I know.”

It’s unfortunate, but no less than what Marja expects. The simplest solution to her current predicament would be to use the Right of Conscription on as many soldiers as possible, to make up in numbers what they lack in experience. Alas, nothing is ever simple. “Then we shall make do with the allies we have.”

They’ve spent the day going over their predicament. Alistair veers off the subject at times, talking about old times with the Wardens and with Duncan. The subject makes him emotional, but talking about it seems to be doing him some good. Marja doesn’t mind listening; it’s better than talking about herself at the moment. But as they get closer to their destination, she attempts to steer him back to important matters.

“Tell me about this Arl Eamon,” she presses.

“He’s a good man, and loyal to the king.” Alistair’s voice is full of conviction, but Marja is still wary of putting her trust in this human stranger.

“You know him well?” she asks.

Alistair pauses, as if trying to decide what to say, but Marja waits silently and at last he lets out a breath and says, “Yes, actually. He raised me. Oh, how do I explain this…” He hesitates again, then says his next words in a hurried rush. “I’m a bastard- and before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl and died when I was young. Arl Eamon isn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow.”

Marja frowns. “If he isn’t your father, who is? Do you know?”

Alistair shakes his head. “He died even before my mother did. It isn’t important.”

“Of course it is!” The callousness with which Alistair dismisses his ancestry leaves Marja scandalized. An arl doesn’t just take in any orphan on the street out of the kindness of his heart. At least one of his parents must be important. And if it isn’t his mother… “Was he a Noble? Are you a Noble?”

“No!” Alistair's look of panic is almost amusing. “I’m a Warden, and even if I wasn’t, I’m just a bastard.”

“But if your father-” Marja stops herself, remembering that humans have an odd way of doing these things. “But I’m thinking in terms of dwarven customs, of course. In Orzammar, any son of a noble man is a noble as well, no matter who the other parent is. But humans have a fixation on inheritance through marriage, do they not?”

“I… suppose you could put it that way.” Alistair is blushing now, and obviously desperate to change the subject. “Anyhow. Eamon eventually married, and Isolde- his wife- didn’t like having me around. There were always rumors that he was my father, you see. She did everything she could to make my life miserable at Redcliffe, and eventually succeeded in convincing Eamon to send me away. That’s how I ended up with the Templars.”

Marja tilts her head as she listens to the story, imagining how a young Alistair must have felt, being pushed out of the only home he’d ever known. “I’m sorry.”

Alistair shrugs. “It was a long time ago. Don’t get me wrong, I was plenty angry at the time. I remember I had this amulet- my mother’s, one of the few things I had of her, with Andraste’s symbol on it. I was so furious at being sent away I threw it against the wall. It shattered into about a million pieces.” Alistair shakes his head at the memory. “Stupid thing to do. But looking back, everything worked out, in a way. I ended up with the Wardens.”

“It still seems strange to me,” Marja says thoughtfully. “If this had all happened in Orzammar, you’d be a Noble just as legitimate as any other.”

“Thank the Maker I’m not from Orzammar, I suppose.”

Marja stares at him, aghast. “You truly would not want to be counted amongst the nobility?”

Alistair laughs. “Absolutely not. I don’t mean to offend- I’m sure it was well enough for you. But I can barely take care of myself, let alone rule over others.” He pauses, seemingly warring with himself for a moment before asking, “What is that like, anyway? Being in line for the throne? Everybody seems to think it’s all grand, what with the adoring public and shiny crown and the best cheeses imported from around the world. But it can’t be that easy, can it?”

Marja considers his question. She’s never been asked what it's like to be royalty- it’s simply what she is. “It’s a lot to handle, that much is true. The crown is a heavy weight. But knowing you can bear it well, and use it to lead your people to better times…it’s the highest honor one could ask for. And of course, that’s in addition to the typical perks that come with authority. It may sound vain, but I do miss taking hot baths every night.”

Somehow, Alistair doesn’t appear convinced. “But surely there are downsides? What would you change, if you could?”

Marja shakes her head- despite her current estrangement from her city, she knows it’s where she belongs. “The only thing I would change is my current state of exile.”

“Oh, come on. Nothing? Boring meetings, itchy clothes- nothing?”

With a huff, Marja casts her mind for an answer to satisfy Alistair. Certainly, there are droning Assembly meetings and dangerous political rivals, but such things don’t stick in her mind. Instead… “Well, I suppose if there’s something I prefer about the surface…I won’t have to get married here.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shoot up. “Married? I thought it was us humans who had the obsession with that kind of thing.”

“In terms of legitimacy of heirs, yes. But ties between houses still carry weight in Orzammar.” Marja sighs. “If it were a purely political alliance, I would not mind. I’m not completely unreasonable. But as an Aeducan I would at some point be expected to carry on the bloodline and have daughters of my own. And I- it’s just not something I’m interested in. Not with any of the hopeful suitors that had their sights set on me.”

“Noble men aren’t your type?”

Marja hesitates. She’s made her distaste for marriage known before, but never the true reasons. She suspects Gorim knew, or had guessed, although she never said the words aloud. No matter her personal feelings, it has never been worth risking the opportunity of a valuable alliance. But on the surface, away from prying deshyrs and hungry matchmakers… what does it matter? “Men in general aren't my type, actually.”

“Ah.” Alistair rubs awkwardly at his neck. “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to not want to marry someone you don’t care for. You should have the chance to be with someone you actually love, you know.”

A chuckle escapes from Marja’s throat, and all of a sudden she feels a bit lighter. “You’d make a horrible Noble.”

“Of course I would,” Alistair says with a grin. “But you’d still return to Orzammar, wouldn’t you? Despite everything?”

“In a heartbeat.” Marja doesn’t know how to convey to this human just how essential Orzammar is to her. The arching stone ceiling above, warmth from the rivers of lava radiating from below, the knowledge that the Ancestors are watching over her from the Stone… it’s her home. “And I will, one day. I know it. When I do, I’ll be stronger for the trials I’ve gone through.”

“That’s… one way to look at it, I suppose.” Alistair’s face is unsure, and he seems about to say something else when Morrigan calls back to them.

“It seems we have nearly arrived.” She motions ahead, and in the distance Marja can make out an expanse of fields, and just beyond, a cluster of buildings. “Lothering awaits.”

Chapter Text

“Pretty as a painting, isn’t it?” Alistair remarks as the group of Wardens shuffles down a well-tread dirt path into the village of Lothering.

“You must have some ugly paintings on the surface,” Darvis answers. There’s no point in hiding the fact that this place is not exactly thriving. He supposes Lothering might be fair enough under normal circumstances, even with the surface’s ever-present grey clouds and cold wind. But under the shadow of the darkspawn invasion, the town just seems… well, sad.

Humans wearing ragged clothing and ragged expressions drift through the town around them, speaking to each other in low tones about their needs for transportation, for shelter, for food. Most ignore the Wardens’ group, but a few give them sharp, suspicious glances, eyes sweeping over the blue and silver of the Grey Warden armor. Darvis scowls darkly in return and crosses his arms across the griffon emblazoned on his chest.

The bandits on the fringe of the town had been the first warning sign. They didn’t give the Wardens any real trouble; after the carnage at Ostagar, a small group of overconfident humans hassling travelers for a few coppers had been almost laughable. Between the Wardens’ blades and Morrigan’s magic and Nug’s sharp teeth, the confrontation lasted barely thirty seconds. But before letting them go, Marja had extracted some information from their leader, and that was the troubling part.

Lothering, it seems, has been overrun with refugees fleeing the Blight ever since the Battle of Ostagar had been lost- and it had been lost due to the treachery of the Grey Wardens, who turned against the Fereldan king at the battle’s most crucial moment.

Morrigan had gotten rather irritated that point, and had efficiently sent the bandits running by turning herself into a bear. Because apparently that's something she can just do. Darvis has plenty of questions about how that works, but he's saving them for a time when there are less easily-spooked villagers throws suspicious looks their way. The 'traitorous Warden' story may be a stupid rumor, but apparently it's one that quite a few people believe.

Luckily, the townspeople and refugees have their own, more immediate problems to focus on, but Darvis still doesn’t argue when Marja suggests they don their cloaks to try and blend in. He almost suggests avoiding the village entirely…but even with the rumors, the fact remains that they need supplies if they’re going to make it much further.

Many of Lothering’s shops are already boarded up and abandoned, but one cart laden with goods is stationed just inside the village limits, drawing a large gathering of people in need. Darvis hangs back, allowing Marja and Alistar to be the ones to approach the merchant. Marja walks with a confident air, but Darvis is damned if he knows what she plans on doing. The group has some money between the four of them, but not nearly enough for what they’ll need on the road.

The thought makes Darvis’s fingers twitch. He can get them what they need easily enough; the people here are distracted, and not on the lookout for pickpocketers.

They’re also refugees fleeing the destruction brought on by the Blight. The nagging, guilt-bringing voice at the back of his head annoys Darvis. They’re trying to stop the Blight, aren’t they? Greater good, noble purpose, and all that? If they want to save Ferelden, they’re going to need to eat at some point. Still, Darvis’s conscience gets the better of him and he instead occupies his hands by scratching at Nug’s ears. The dog, still following faithfully at his every step, grunts happily at the attention.

“You want me to aid in your war profiteering?”

Darvis heaves a sigh. At some point while he was lost in thought, Marja’s discussion with the merchant seems to have turned into an argument. Her voice is high and judgmental, and the merchant glares sullenly at her while an elderly woman in a long golden robe stands to the side, looking just as irate.

“I have to charge something for my wares,” the merchant snaps back to Marja. “It’s business!”

Reluctantly, Darvis moves forward to join his fellow Wardens. “What’s going on?” he whispers, eyeing the angry man.

Marja breathes deeply and shakes her head. “A dispute over prices. One moment.” She turns back to the man, her expression rearranged into a smile, and when she speaks her voice is equal parts pleasant and pleading. “Nobody is disputing that, good sir. But surely you see that it is unscrupulous to raise prices so high in times of such desperate need? I’m certain a compromise could be reached- lower your prices to a reasonable amount, and with the cooperation of the Chantry, your goods could be more easily distributed to your customers. Doesn’t that seem better for business than riling up an angry mob?”

The man scowls at Marja, but his posture slackens as he sighs in acquiescence. “Fine. But there’ll be no discount for you lot, and certainly no payment.”

Marja smiles warmly and thanks the man, but Darvis has stopped paying attention. He stares at Marja, unsure whether to be angry or simply dumbfounded. “You turned down a payment?”

An annoyed frown forms on the princess’s lips. “He was taking advantage of the people here. I wasn’t about to help him.”

“And is it our job now to solve every insipid quarrel we come across?” Morrigan asks, her tone echoing Darvis’s annoyance.

“Hey!” Alistair steps defensively between Marja and Morrigan. “She did a good thing! Is the idea of that so repulsive to you?”

“That’s not the point,” Darvis cuts in. “The point is, we need supplies, too, and supplies cost money. More money than we have.”

“The payment would hardly have been worth it, anyway. He only offered a hundred silver.”

“You turned down a hundred fucking silver?!”

“Excuse me?” Darvis jumps as the robed woman, still hovering nearby, interrupts the group’s argument. “You've already helped us by reasoning with that man, but with so many refugees coming through, the Chantry is in need of as much aid as we can get. We have some jobs available, if you’re up to the task. I can show you to the Chanter’s Board.”

Darvis doesn’t know what the old woman is talking about, and Morrigan’s expression only darkens at her words, but Alistair lights up. “Ah! The Chanter’s Board! Perfect!” He looks eagerly at Darvis and Marja. “And with so many people passing through, the Chantry will surely have news of… of recent events. We can get some money and some information at the same time.”

“What’s a Chanter’s Board?” Darvis mutters to Morrigan.

“An opportunity to run errands for the betterment of mankind.” Her words drip with sarcasm.

“Seems like a waste of our time.”

“…and for a few coins.”

“Ah. That’s better.”

If Marja can hear the exchange between Darvis and Morrigan, she ignores it. After a moment of considering the offer, she nods. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

“You may go the Chantry,” Morrigan says curtly. “I shall wait for you here.” Her fingers drum against the staff she uses as a walking stick, and Darvis remembers her words about the Chantry and its stance on apostates. The robed woman’s eyes narrow, and Darvis quickly tries to distract her.

“Er, that’s a good idea. We have a lot of ground to cover. You two check out the Chantry, and Morrigan and I can explore the rest of the town.” He glances at Morrigan. “You mentioned a tavern? There's bound to be work there. Or at least some news.”

“I don’t like the idea of splitting up,” Marja murmurs, lips pursed, and her eyes dart down towards her own blue armor hidden behind the folds of her cloak.

Darvis rolls his eyes. “Are you worried we’ll run into more terrifying bandits, Princess? I know the last batch left us all quaking in our boots, but I think we can handle ourselves.”

His quips earn no reaction other than a shrug. “If you’re certain about that, then fine. Gather what news you can and meet back with us in an hour’s time.” And with that she strides away, following the robed woman through the crowd of villagers with Alistair at her side.

Darvis watches them go, then glances down at Nug. “You have any ideas for making money, boy?” The dog only pants in reply. He turns to Morrigan next, only to find that the woman is already well on her way down the road. She pauses to shoot a look back at him.

“Are you coming, or not? Let’s see what we can find in this drab little town.”

The familiar stench of alcohol washes over Darvis as he and Morrigan step through the doors of the tavern, and his stomach lurches in response. It reminds him of home in ways he doesn’t wish to dwell on, so instead of dwelling he pushes through the crowded main room until he reaches the bar. The bar, like everything else in the place, is scaled for human use, and Darvis has to stretch himself as tall as he can in order to peer over it.

The man behind the bar eyes him warily. Darvis wonders what he makes of the sight before him: Morrigan, in her Wilds attire, Nug, drooling on the floor, and himself, the only dwarf in the tavern. Darvis pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders and tries not to look too much like a man trying to hide something. “We’re finding ourselves a bit short on coin. Know where we can find some work around here?”

“Everybody’s short on coin these days,” the man answers tersely. He tilts his head, regarding Darvis with a frown. “What are you, a smith?”

“A Smith?”  Darvis repeats in bafflement. Behind him, Morrigan snorts a laugh. “No, I’m not a sodding Smith, I’m a-”

“A Warden.”

Darvis turns towards the sound of the new voice and groans in annoyance. Their new friend is a knight, outfitted in mail and wearing the same expression Darvis used to see on the city guards. Worst of all, he has friends- three men in similar garb, hanging behind him. The man who spoke grins stupidly. “That’s what you are, innit? Been lookin’ all over for Wardens, you know. Heard they’d be wearin’ silver armor. Heard one of ‘em was a dwarf with markings on his face.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’ve found this Warden here?” He glances at Morrigan. “She doesn’t look much like a dwarf to me.”

The man strides forward and reaches out to grab Darvis by the arm, but Darvis sees him coming. He ducks under the arm and whirls around, evading the man’s grasp. He prepares for another assault, but before the man can move any closer Nug is between them, snarling with hackles raised.

Darvis grins. “Oh, you meant me.”

The man scowls and reaches for his sword, but he is stopped by a sudden flash of gold and red. Darvis steps back in surprise as a woman, clad in the robes of the Chantry with short orange hair to match, places herself between him and the knights.

“Gentlemen, please! Surely we’ve all seen enough death due to the Blight; let us not add more violence to these troubling times.” She speaks with an accent unfamiliar to Darvis, and her voice is soft and cajoling. But despite her gentle tone, she stands firmly and unafraid before the knight with one hand on his sword.

“Step aside, Sister,” the knight growls. “This here’s a Warden. Him and his friends are traitors to the king. You protect him, so are you.”

He’s not bluffing, Darvis can tell that much. With one hand easing Nug back, he says, “You may want to listen to him, lady. This could get bloody.”

The woman doesn’t seem concerned. “I have seen blood before. And I will not stand aside while these men harass those who do not deserve it.”

“Enough talkin’!” The knight draws his sword at last. “Take the Warden into custody. Kill the Sister and anyone else in our way!”

Darvis anticipates the incoming blow and rushes to meet it with Nug at his side. He blocks the soldier’s steel with his own dagger, pushing him back as Nug sinks his teeth into the man’s ankle. Another soldier approaches from the side- and then halts, his legs suddenly encased in brittle ice. Darvis chances a look over his shoulder to see Morrigan, staff in hand, readying another spell.

A blade whistles past his ear, and Darvis's attention is pulled back to the battle as the remaining soldier hacks violently in his direction with a longsword. Darvis manages to sidestep the attack, and turns to respond only to find that another dagger is already at the soldier’s throat.

The Chantry woman, whom Darvis had assumed would flee once the fighting started, is standing behind the soldier, one arm holding him in place while the other presses a dagger against his neck. “I did ask very politely for you to leave,” she says. Her gaze slides over to Darvis. “I apologize. Lothering is usually much more hospitable to travelers.”

The ways of the Chantry are still new to Darvis, but he's fairly certain it's not typical for the followers to be holding knights at knifepoint. He stares at the redheaded woman, mouth agape, and asks, “Who are you?”

 “Do you think the others will be alright on their own?” Marja asks Alistair as they follow the worn dirt road to the Chantry. The towering building is the grandest in town, which is to say that it is built of sturdy stone rather than wood and the roof doesn’t seem to be leaking. Despite the lack of grandeur, the place is dry and clean, which is more than Marja can say for herself. She straightens her posture and does her best to brush back her hopelessly travel-mussed hair as she crosses through the doorway.

“How much trouble can they get into in Lothering?” Alistair answers lightly. “I’m just glad for a few minutes away from Morrigan. I swear, I can feel her glaring at me all the time.” He glances down at Marja, and she must still look concerned because he quickly adds, “And besides, they have Nug to watch over them!”

Nug. The ridiculous name still makes Marja roll her eyes. “Are you saying that between the three of them, the mabari is the most responsible?”

Alistair gives her an apologetic shrug, and Marja sighs. She knows it’s efficient, but she doesn’t like being split up like this. Best to get the information they came here for and be quickly on their way, no matter how warm and dry Lothering’s Chantry may be.

In addition to the many women wearing sun-colored robes, the Chantry is full of refugees and townsfolk either praying or searching for some kind of help. “So many people,” Marja murmurs as she and Alistair move through the crowds, looking for someone with authority.

“I know,” Alistair says solemnly. “All running from the darkspawn. The Blight has taken too much already.”

Marja wishes dearly that they had the time to stop and help them all, but she knows they don’t. They can stay long enough to fulfill some tasks from the Chanter’s Board, which will hopefully provide some aid, but they must continue on to Redcliffe sooner rather than later.

The refugees are not the only people to catch Marja’s eye. She nudges Alistair and motions to a soldier clad in heavy armor, a blazing sword engraved on her shoulders. She is not the only one wearing the symbol- Marja can count at least three more from where she stands. “Who are they?”

“Templars,” Alistair answers, mouth twisting into a frown. “They’re usually all in the Circle Tower, but they go anywhere the Chantry tells them. I suppose they’re here to help the refugees, but if they’ve heard rumors that Wardens committed treason…well, they’re not a very understanding lot. No sense of humor, either.”

“Noted. It sounds like we should avoid them for now. At least until we get these rumors straightened out.” Marja cranes her neck, searching for someone, preferably unarmed, who looks like they may be able to provide reliable news. Her attention is caught by an older human, clad in steel like the Templars but without the Chantry symbol on his breastplate. He bears a different coat of arms, one Marja does not recognize. “What about him? Do you know that sigil?”

Alistair follows her gaze, and instantly perks up. “I should hope so! That’s Ser Donall, of Redcliffe!” He begins walking over, but Marja hesitates.

“Are you sure-”

“He’s one of Arl Eamon’s men. I’ve known him since I was a boy. We can trust him.” Alistair’s expression is confident, and so Marja takes a breath and approaches the knight alongside him.

“Ser Donall?” Alistair calls with the warmth of familiarity, and the man turns to face them with a puzzled expression.

“I beg your pardon…” his words trail off as he takes in the sight before him. “Alistair?! By the Maker, how- I thought you were dead!” He claps Alistair on the shoulder with a grin, all while Marja stands back with watchful eyes.

“Not yet!” Alistair replies with cheer. The smile slips from his face when after a moment he adds, “No thanks to Teyrn Loghain.”

“Loghain,” Donall growls. He shakes his head, and Marja’s caution subsides at the sight of his displeasure with the teyrn. “I knew I smelled a lie in his story. Accusing the Wardens- accusing you- of treason… if only Arl Eamon were well, he’d set him straight quickly enough.”

Marja frowns. “If he were well?”

Donall looks between the two Wardens and sighs heavily. “It seems there’s quite a bit you haven’t heard yet,” he says. “Let me start with telling you why I’m here.”

“Well, things just got a lot more complicated,” Alistair sighs as he and Marja trudge away from the Chantry. “Arl Eamon would help us if he could, of that I’m certain, but…”

“…but he can’t do much in his current state,” Marja finishes grimly. “Which is a shame because we need all the help we can get if Loghain is already spreading his lies to the entire kingdom.” She tries to keep her temper in check, but the accusation has set her blood boiling. The Grey Wardens have been officially declared traitors to the king and enemies of Ferelden, and with Loghain in charge of the kingdom’s armies and his daughter sitting on the throne, the truth could easily stay hidden forever.

But Marja won’t let that happen. Just like Bhelen, she thinks to herself. Let him think he’s won. But traitors and liars will get their due in the end.

Such thoughts keep her occupied until they reach their meeting point, a narrow stone bridge where Darvis, Morrigan, and Nug are already waiting- along with a woman Marja has never seen before. The dog bounds up to meet them eagerly, and Marja gives the beast a friendly scratch behind the ears. Morrigan seems happy to see them as well, which surprises Marja until she realizes that their arrival is an excuse to end the conversation she is having with the unknown woman.

“Finally,” Morrigan says, quickly standing, her back to the woman. “Let us be off, before we pick up any more fools to add to this journey.”

Marja shoots a questioning look in Darvis’s direction, and he holds up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “She offered to help! Apparently we’re all wanted criminals now, but she’s on our side and she can use a blade-”

“Although I prefer arrows,” the woman cuts in, with a pleasant, lilted accent that instantly catches Maria’s attention. “And my name is Leliana.”

Marja doesn’t know which element of this newcomer is most surprising- the cordial welcome, the Chantry robes, and the longbow in her hands all contradict each other in rather peculiar ways. Even so, Leliana’s bright smile is a welcome change from the dull hopelessness hanging over the rest of Lothering. The woman nods her head courteously at Marja and Alistair. “And you must be the other Wardens, no? I am here to aid you in your quest.”

“Oh.” Alistair’s surprised tone echoes Marja’s thoughts perfectly. “Nice to meet you?”

“Tell them who sent you,” Darvis urges, with a hint of a chuckle underneath the words.

Leliana hears it, as well, and she frowns at him. “It is not a joke, I assure you. I have been sent to help you by the Maker.” She smiles kindly at the Wardens, and when her words are met with only confused silence, she presses on. “I had a dream, you see- a vision. I am meant to be here.”

“A…dream,” Marja repeats cautiously, and Leliana sighs.

“I know how that sounds, I do. But it’s true! In my dream, there was an impenetrable darkness. It was so dense, so real! And there was a noise, a terrible, ungodly noise. I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything…including myself. When I woke, I went to the Chantry’s gardens, as I always do. There was one rosebush that was dead, all grey and twisted and gnarled- the ugliest thing you ever saw." Leliana pauses in her hurried explanation, and her voice goes softer as she continues, "But there, in the middle of the bush, was a single, beautiful rose. It was as though the Maker himself stretched out his hand to me, saying to have faith even amidst the darkness.”

Marja studies the woman intently as she speaks. She certainly believes what she’s saying, of that Marja has no doubt. And she knows little enough of the humans' Maker; perhaps this is normal behavior for religious folk on the surface. Alistair’s skeptical expression, however, suggests this is something else.

“And that made you want to join us?” Marja asks skeptically.

Leliana nods, firm even in the face of their disbelief. “I cannot truly explain it. But after that experience, I knew it would not be possible for me to sit by and do nothing as the Blight devours us all.”

“And where did you find her, exactly?” Marja mutters to Darvis, and he nods in the direction of the road leading north.

“She helped us deal with some of Loghain’s men in the tavern. I told you, she can use a blade. Also, we’re banned from the tavern now.”

“Loghain’s men?” Leliana’s oddness and the fact that Marja knew she couldn’t leave Darvis and Morrigan alone for an hour without supervision are both concerning matters, but Marja puts them to the back of her mind for now. “Here?”

Darvis shrugs. “We took care of them. Scared 'em so bad they won't stop running for days."

Marja frowns. She's relieved to hear the Wardens are not leaving a trail of bloodshed behind them, and she knows the soldiers are simply following orders, but... "If you left them alive, Loghain will learn of our location within the week."

"Hey, complain to her," Darvis says, nodding towards Leliana. "She's the one with the bleeding heart. Besides, a lot of people saw that fight. It got us some work offers, which is good because we need money-” he shoots a pointed look at Marja- “but-”

“But word will definitely reach Loghain of our location, no matter what,” Marja sighs.

Darvis nods. “I hope this arl of Alistair’s can give us some help, because we’re going to need backup.”

“Let’s hope he manages to stay alive long enough to give it,” Marja mutters.

Alistair winces. “At least we still have the treaties. We have allies, even if Eamon…” he sighs softly and rubs his temple. A pang of guilt runs through Marja’s chest.

Morrigan, however, heaves an irritated sigh. "Please do not start again with your bawling. 'Tis the last thing we need right now."

Alistair's head snaps up to glare at Morrigan, but Marja hurries to cut him off before the two can dissolve into a pointless argument. “I’m sorry, Alistair,” she says. “I didn’t mean to speak so harshly. We should still go to Redcliffe- perhaps his illness is not as bad as we believe.”

Aside from a dirty look thrown to Morrigan, Alistair eases somewhat at the support. After considering Marja's words, however, he shakes his head. “No, you have the right of it. I should be prepared for the worst. If his knights have been sent out searching for Andraste’s ashes, the situation must be desperate.”

“Andraste’s Ashes?” Leliana repeats with wonder in her voice.

“They’re just chasing rumors,” Marja says firmly. She can see the reverence in Leliana’s face, and she doesn’t want to get distracted by fantastical tales of magical healing granted by the ashes of the humans’ holy woman. What they need is actual, tangible resources. Speaking of which… “So are you coming with us then, Leliana? As you can see, we’re in no position to turn away aid.”

Leliana clasps her hands together in excitement. “Yes. I swear to you, I shall do all in my power to help you end this Blight before it devours the world.”

Well…Leliana’s well-spoken manner and willingness to help are certainly refreshing. Marja only hopes she fully realizes what she’s signing up for. One tavern brawl does not a warrior make, and with her bright robes and talk of visions, Leliana doesn’t exactly seem battle-ready. “It will be a dangerous task. We’re going to need more than prayers.”

A soft giggle escapes Leliana’s lips. “I assure you, I can handle danger.” There’s an edge to her smile now, a sharpness that wasn’t there before. Marja raises an eyebrow, a smile of her own pulling at her lips against her will. Perhaps there is more to this woman than meets the eye, after all.

“Very well, then. We can stay for a day to gather what supplies we can, and then we’ll set off for Redcliffe.”

Lothering itself is crowded enough with refugees, so the Wardens and their allies decide to make camp on the edge of the village. Marja doesn’t allow herself to complain, but she can’t help missing the royal bedchambers in the Orzammar palace as she contemplates another night of sleeping on the ground. Her daydreams of hot baths and soft bedsheets are interrupted by what may be the strangest sight of the day.

On the side of the road, at the very northern edge of the village, sits a large iron cage. Inside the cage sits a still, silent person larger than any man Marja has ever seen. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make any noise, and for a moment Marja is uncertain whether or not he is indeed a living creature, until Darvis follows her gaze and says loudly, “What is that?”

The man’s eyes shoot open, and he turns to look at the group.

“That is a qunari,” Leliana says quietly. “One of the giants from Par Vollen. I heard he was captured after slaughtering a family in their home.” Her mouth forms a thin, disapproving line. “He was left here for punishment. What he did was awful, but leaving him here for the elements and the darkspawn… I cannot say it is any better.”

“This is what the merciful Chantry does,” Morrigan adds with venom. “Locks people up like animals. And they call apostates barbaric.”

Marja nods, studying the man for a moment longer before striding closer until she’s standing directly in front of the cage. The qunari doesn’t say anything, so Marja takes the initiative. “Hello. May I ask your name?”

The man’s eyes narrow. His skin is an odd tone- something between bronze and grey- and his short hair and beard are a stark white. Up close, he seems even taller than before.

“You mock me.” His voice is deep and somber, but the accusation lacks sting.

“It is not mockery, I assure you. Merely manners.”

This seems to amuse the qunari. “That is something I have not come to expect in these lands.” His eyes flicker to the others behind Marja. “In answer to your companion’s question, I am a Sten of the Beresaad. You may call me as such, although it will not matter for long. I will be dead soon enough.”

“You… are a Sten, or that is your name?”

The man- Sten- just stares at her. “Why do you speak to me?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Darvis mutters.

Marja motions at him to be quiet and turns back to Sten. “I'm curious about you. Are you guilty of the crimes of which you are accused?”

For the first time, Sten looks away. “Whatever I’ve done, my life is forfeit now. I do not deny my actions. This is why I surrendered myself. Death shall be my atonement.”

Marja doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t seem like a killer- or, no, that’s not quite right. He certainly doesn’t deny the charges. But he doesn’t seem like a remorseless murderer who deserves to be left out as darkspawn bait. Something about the situation reminds Marja unpleasantly of another unfair sentence involving death by darkspawn.

“Come with us,” she says impulsively. “We are on a mission to stop the Blight. I could convince the villagers to free you. Let this be your atonement.”

For the first time, Sten regards the group with interest. “You are Grey Wardens, then? I have heard legends of the Warden’s strength and skill…although I suppose not every legend is true.”

Darvis chuckles. “Sure, why not? He seems like a great guy.” He glances sideways at Marja. “You really sure about this?”

“I am. Alistair?”

Alistair tilts his head, sizing up the man in the cage. “I wouldn’t say I’m sure, but it doesn’t feel right to just leave him locked up.”

Darvis shrugs. “All right, then. Don’t bother trying to convince the villagers- I got this.” He steps up to the cage and, after a few seconds of fidgeting with the lock, the door swings open. Sten steps out, still eying the group with no small amount of wariness. Marja gives him a welcoming smile.

“You’re with us now. Ready to stop the Blight?”

Darvis laughs loudly. “We’ve already got three Wardens who barely know what they’re doing, an illegal witch, and a crazy Chantry sister.” Nug barks indignantly. “And a dog,” Darvis amends quickly. “With the addition of a murdering giant, Ferelden has nothing to worry about.”

Chapter Text

“Are you really a dwarf?”

Darvis blinks in surprise. Behind him, Leliana laughs at the question, but the child who asked it just stares up at Darvis, waiting for an answer. He’s one of the many refugees housed in the Lothering Chantry, where the Wardens and their accompanying riffraff have been running errands all morning. Their latest job consists of tracking down the locals still unaccounted for after recent darkspawn attacks- one of whom is the small boy’s mother.

Darvis looks down at himself and shrugs. “Either that or a very strange-looking elf.”

The kid giggles shyly. “I’ve never met a dwarf before! Father says you live under a giant mountain in the dark, and that you make weapons and lyrium all day, and you only come outside to sell things because you’re very greedy and like a lot of gold-”

“And I was told all humans go mad from being sun-touched and end up falling into the sky.” Darvis interrupts. “You can’t believe everything you hear.” The kid giggles again and seems about to ask more questions, but Darvis quickly cuts him off. “Can you just tell me where you last saw your mother?”

With that, the giggles disappear as the boy’s face falls. “By the river. It was dark and I got lost, and Mama always said if I ever got lost to go find a Chantry and the nice Sisters would help me until she found me again. Is she going to be here soon?” His voice wavers as he asks the question. The child is young, but old enough to know that he should be worried.

“I’m going to go look for her,” is all Darvis says, but it’s enough to restore a smile to the child’s face. Darvis wonders how long it will last.

“I wish we could do more,” Marja sighs as they leave the Chantry.

Darvis crosses his arms, still trying to shake off the guilty feeling in his gut brought on by the boy’s hopeful expression. “Unless you have some way to raise people from the dead, I don’t know what more you want to do.”

“You know what I mean,” she snaps.

“And we don’t know for sure she’s dead,” Leliana adds. Darvis raises an eyebrow, and even Marja looks skeptical at that.

“Perhaps you’re right,” the princess says anyway, forcing a smile in Leliana’s direction. Darvis scowls and walks ahead without a word.

Morrigan and Sten are waiting outside the Chantry, being as inconspicuous as a Wilds apostate and a qunari can be. Luckily, nobody in the village has yet protested the presence of the Wardens or their actions in freeing Sten. Darvis supposes word of their fight with Loghain’s men has spread; after all, there’s nothing like a public show of violence to get people to stop asking questions. Still, bringing Sten into the actual Chantry might be pushing their luck a little too far.

“We got another job,” Darvis announces as he pushes through the doors.

Sten’s only reaction is a sullen glare. “Why are we still here? I was under the impression the Wardens would be combating darkspawn, not wild dogs and roadside bandits. We are wasting our time.”

“By all means, feel free to go out on your own.” Morrigan’s tone is scathing when she answers. “I’m certain the darkspawn will appreciate the easy meal.”

Darvis sighs, not even bothering to try and mediate between the two. They’ve been picking at each other like this for some time now; Morrigan may have spoken in favor of Sten’s release, but that hasn’t stopped him from making his disapproval of magic loudly known, and Morrigan never takes an insult quietly. Before they can exchange any more barbs, however, Marja and Leliana catch up and quickly provide a distraction in the form of Marja barking out orders.

“We’re going to the river north of town,” she says brusquely. “Keep an eye out for any more wolves- their pelts sell for a decent price. Alistair should have gathered enough elfroot by now, we can meet up with him on the way.”

As usual, Darvis ends up trailing at the end of the group as they walk through Lothering. To his surprise, Marja slows her pace and falls in step next to him. “So is Morrigan angry with Sten, now, too?”

Darvis is caught off guard by the question. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the only one Morrigan seems to be willing to hold a conversation with,” Marja answers, her expression cross. “And because I need to know who she hates so I can try to prevent in-fighting. It’s a challenge, you know, since she already hates both Alistair and Leliana.”

For a moment Darvis wants to refuse to answer simply out of bitterness. But eventually he relents and says, “Sten doesn’t hold a high opinion of mages. Of course she doesn’t like him. And if you want her to get along with Leliana, tell Leliana to stop talking about the Maker so much.”

Marja closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “We can’t all be fighting with each other. Leliana shoots straight enough to hit a wolf in the eye, and Sten can lift a sword that weighs more than I do. They’re useful.”

“I know they are. But they did kind of come out of nowhere. You can’t trust somebody you don’t know.”

He has a point, and he knows Marja can’t argue with it. They don’t know much more about these new companions now than they did when they first met them. Sten is tight-lipped, answering any queries with no more than five words at a time, and those words are never a straight answer. Leliana is the opposite- she talks more than enough for two people, reciting songs and stories and bits of information about a wide range of topics. And yet she dances around the subject of her own past. She was a Chantry sister, she says, and she was a traveling minstrel and she was a servant to a wealthy woman in Orlais. Any attempt to uncover further details is met with a story about old folk heroes or a monologue about shoes.

“I’m not asking for trust,” Marja says. “Ancestors, the only one of us here who trusts anybody else is that dog of yours. I’m just asking that we don’t all kill each other.”

They find the woman they’re looking for near the river. Judging by the state of her body, the wolves got to her days ago.

Everyone is a bit more subdued after that. They return to the Chantry for their payment and split into groups to gather supplies from the village as quickly as possible. Darvis and Morrigan end up perusing the wares of the very merchant Marja argued with the day before.

The heavy bag of coin Darvis left the Chantry with disappears quickly as he pulls items from the cart. He tries to stick to the essentials, but he doesn’t know what the essentials are at this point. The road to Redcliffe will be long and full of darkspawn- how much medicine will they need? Should they invest in spare weapons? Sten and Leliana both need actual armor, as well as tents and bedrolls, and after all that there's still the matter of food. Supposedly they can do some hunting, and Morrigan has already pointed out some edible plants, but Darvis has no idea how much sustenance that will actually provide. He's done a fair job of ignoring the gnawing in his stomach so far, but they will need a filling meal at some point.

He looks up to ask Morrigan her opinion, but her attention is elsewhere. She’s bent over one of the merchant’s other items- a golden necklace, made of slender, interweaving threads. Morrigan's fingers hover over the jewelry for a moment before she finally picks it up, turning it gently in her hand so that the metal catches the light of the sun.

“What you got there?” Darvis asks, and Morrigan starts and nearly drops the necklace on the ground.

With a huff, she regains her composure and returns the trinket to its proper place. “’Tis merely a bauble.” She moves to examine other wares, her gaze darting away a touch too quickly. Darvis takes a moment to study the necklace. It’s no jewel for nobility, to be certain- just a simple chain, although he judges the gold to be real enough. He wonders what about it has Morrigan acting so flustered.

“An overpriced bauble,” he comments with a shrug. “This merchant really is a hiking up his prices. Pretty enough, though.”

Morrigan scowls. “Pretty has no use to us. Even if we had coin to spare, ‘twould be wasteful to spend it on trinkets.” Her tone is dismissive, but Darvis doesn’t miss the way her eyes drift back to the ‘useless trinket’. The moment is short, however; Morrigan swiftly and suddenly turns away from the cart altogether.

“Let us be off. I believe we’ve picked this place clean of anything with value.” She sets off at a quick pace, leaving Darvis to hastily pay for their items before jogging to her side.

“And here I thought everyone liked jewelry,” he replies, keeping his voice light and nonchalant. “Could be a dwarven thing, I guess. Back in Orzammar everyone loves to decorate themselves with all kinds of jewels- those who can afford to, at least. I always wanted to nick one, but it’s risky lifting something like that. Especially when it’s hanging around someone’s neck.”

A reluctant smile pulls on Morrigan’s lips, and she nods. “That is one thing that is much the same among the people here. We did not indulge in such frivolities in the Wilds, but the wealthy will flaunt the most extravagant pieces. And as for stealing them…”

Her eyes turn mischievous as she trails off, and Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Wait. Really?”

Morrigan's grin widens. “I was young, and reckless. I ventured beyond our home in the Wilds and happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage. She was adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I had never seen and I was…dazzled.” She looks away for a moment, seemingly embarrassed. “As I said, I was young. To my mind, the scene before me was the epitome of wealth and beauty. I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. I remember it well, even now- ‘twas encrusted in gold and gemstones.”

Darvis lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like something worth a good pile of coin.”

“’Twould have been wise of me to sell the thing,” Morrigan says, her tone darkening as her smile fades. “Instead I raced back to the Wilds with my prize. When Flemeth saw it, she was furious that I would risk discovery for something so foolish.”

The stories Morrigan previously told of Flemeth return to Darvis’s memory, and he winces. If those stories contain even a pebble of truth, an angry Flemeth is not something to be faced lightly. “That must have been a difficult argument.”

“Indeed.  To teach me a lesson, she took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground.”  The words are delivered in a matter-of-fact manner. “I was heartbroken.”

“Shit.” Now Darvis is reminded of his own mother, who is prone to her own fits of shouting and smashing things. He looks down, fidgeting with the edges of his cloak. “Seems a bit harsh. You were just a kid.”

“A foolish one,” Morrigan replies forcefully. “Flemeth was right to break me of my fascination. Beauty has no meaning in the world. Survival has meaning. Power has meaning. These are more important than little golden mirrors covered in crystals.”

"That's true enough," Darvis admits. Survival has meaning- a smart rule to live by, whether underground or in a swamp. Morrigan's tense shoulders lower slightly when she realizes he isn't going to argue, although her face remains set in a dark frown. Darvis finds he can't suppress the urge to try and lift her gloom, so in a light tone he adds, "'Course, the best option is to be pretty and tough. I'm a bit of a lost cause on the first matter, but you seem to be doing pretty well at both."

To Darvis’s pleasant surprise, his words have the desired effect. Morrigan tilts her head, a small smirk appearing on her face. “Such high praise. Ah, if only we lived in a perfect world, where everything was as we wished it and one could drape themselves in jewels whilst obliterating every irritating creature in their path. But alas, we are in Ferelden, and we must remember that which is most important. I will take power, and be satisfied.”

The conversation drifts to other things, until they return to the rest of their group. Darvis adds the supplies they bought to their stockpile, counting and sorting what they’ve acquired and still, in the back of his mind, remembering the way Morrigan looked at that necklace. She can say whatever she wants- Darvis knows the expression of a person who sees something they want.

He doesn’t feel guilty when he sneaks back into town that night and makes for the unguarded merchant’s cart. This man is not one of the bereft, displaced refugees. Marja even called the merchant a ‘war profiteer’. Perhaps a stolen trinket is the world delivering a bit of justice for once.

Despite his confidence that she does indeed want the necklace, Darvis doesn’t give it to Morrigan directly. He considers it, looping the golden chain through his fingers and watching her from the corner of his eye. But in the end, he’s too wary of accidentally offending her; he’s seen her mood shift too often to be certain of her reaction. So instead, he waits until her attention is elsewhere and simply leaves it with her things at the foot of her tent.

Morrigan makes no mention of the necklace’s sudden appearance. But that night, as their group shares dinner around a campfire, she shoots Darvis a subtle smile whenever the gold around her neck glints in the firelight.

Darkness all around her, darkness and heat and the earthy scent of the Deep Roads. Whispers hissing, not in her ears but in her bones and her blood, filling her senses and pulling her forward, forward, following the call until-

A jagged, reptilian shape towers overhead. Wings stretch out. Almost ready to take flight. The archdemon twists its neck until its staring her in the eyes and then it screams-

Marja jerks awake in a cold sweat. It takes a few moments for her breathing to slow, for her mind to remember where she is. She’s miles and miles away from any archdemon, in a makeshift camp set up in the fields of Lothering. Not in the Deep Roads, she reminds herself sternly.

Even once she’s calmed down, Marja knows sleep is now a lost cause. She leaves her tent, hoping that the cool air will ease her nerves. She soon realizes, however, that she is not the only one whose sleep has been disturbed. Alistair is already outside, coaxing some life into the fire pit. Darvis is there as well, skulking in the shadows just beyond the reach of the flame’s light. Nug is curled up at his feet, the picture of perfect contentment as Darvis scratches his ears.

At the sound of Marja's approach, Alistair looks up. “Bad dreams, huh?” The fire finally catches, and Alistair sits back with a satisfied expression.

“You could say that.” Marja moves forward, warming her hands on the growing flames. “Those seem to be the only type I’m capable of having. Are dreams always so… real?”

“Not the normal kind. I once dreamed about having tea with a family of flying mabari. I don’t even like tea.” Alistair smiles weakly, although the grin fades as he continues speaking. “The darkspawn dreams, on the other hand…well, they sort of are real. That archdemon talks to the darkspawn horde, if you can really call it talking. We hear the same thing they do. That’s how we know this is a real Blight.”

Shadows from the fire dance across Alistair's face, and his eyes go distant. "I went through the same thing, but at least when I joined I had the others to help me through the initial changes. They'd been through it before, they knew what they were doing." He takes a sharp breath in and rubs at his eyes, which are red-rimmed from some suffocating combination of campfire smoke and grief. His voice is tinged with regret and bitterness when he speaks again. "They should be here now, explaining all of this. I would have warned you about the dreams, but with everything that's happened I forgot you're even more new to this than I am."

“So is this a new Warden thing?” Darvis asks. "Or is this going to keep happening?"

“You do learn to block the dreams out a bit. Eventually.” Alistair looks down, poking the fire even though the flames are now rising healthily. “But it never truly stops. You just get better at...understanding how it works, I guess.”

“Just another perk of being a Grey Warden,” Darvis says with dark humor, shaking his head.

Alistair winces. “It’s no picnic, I know. I screamed like a little girl when I got hit with my first round of dreams as a recruit. Duncan had to come check that I hadn’t been murdered.” He gives a weak laugh. “Not embarrassing at all.”

Darvis doesn’t appear to appreciate the attempt at humor. “Exactly what I need. Less sleep and more… dreams.” He says the word like a curse. For once, Marja doesn't disagree.

"Is there anything else we should be aware of?" she asks.

Alistair releases a long sigh. "There's a lot that changes when you become a Warden, but you won't notice it all at once. There's the dreams, and soon enough you'll sense darkspawn. The good news the Joining does seem to boost your strength, at least for a while. But eventually..."

"Eventually what?" Darvis demands as Alistair trails off.

Alistair casts his eyes down to the fire. His voice is quiet when he finally answers. "Eventually the dreams turn into something else. You start hearing the voices even when you're awake. That's when you know the Taint is about to take you for good. Most Wardens make their way to the Deep Roads when that happens, so they can take as many darkspawn with them when they go. We call it-"

"The Calling," Marja interrupts softly, and Alistair gives her a sharp, surprised look.

"You know?"

"There are rumors. The Wardens pass through Orzammar when it happens. People talk." She keeps her eyes on the dancing flames of the campfire, on the sparks that catch the wind for an instant before fading away into the night. "I'd hoped that rumors was all they were."

"We're not that lucky," Darvis grouses, throwing a stick into the fire with disdain.

Alistair looks about to say something, but he's interrupted by a sudden loud growling from Marja's stomach. With almost complete surprise, Marja is distracted from her thoughts long enough to realize that she is hungry. The rabbits Morrigan cooked for dinner had seemed filling at the time, but now it feels as if she hasn't eaten all day. Despite his gloom, Alistair manages a grin at the sound of her stomach, and with levity that is only slightly forced says, "And there's another side effect. Being a Warden makes you stronger and gives you more stamina...but it also makes you want to eat a lot more."

"I'll keep that in mind. I don't suppose we have any dinner left over?"

"No," Darvis answers bluntly. "We have some berries Morrigan found out in the woods, but we should ration our food."

The answer makes sense, but it doesn't stop Marja's stomach from protesting loudly. She frowns and gives Darvis a curious look. "Aren't you hungry?"

He shrugs. "I'm used to it."

Marja almost presses him for further response, but quickly thinks better of it and keeps her questions to herself. Despite his apparent nonchalance, the man is obviously tired; dark circles have appeared under his eyes and his posture is noticeably more strained. He also, Marja notices with some curiosity, looked oddly flushed.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look…red.” She glances at Alistair. “Is that another Warden thing?”

Alistair chuckles. “You’re both red. The two of you got quite a sunburn today, I’d wager.”

“A what?” Darvis demands, reaching up to feel his face. Marja unconsciously mirrors the action; her skin feels normal, albeit slightly warmer than usual. Over the course of the previous day, the clouds that normally loom overhead had parted to allow the sun to shine through. Marja rather liked it; the light blue of the sky was a good deal more cheerful than the usual somber grey. But Alistair’s tone implies something less pleasant.

“You got a burn from the sun,” he elaborates, looking expectantly between the dwarfs. When his words garner no further reaction, he sighs and rubs the back of his neck, thinking. “Right. Sorry. You wouldn’t know. Um, well, if you spend a lot of time in the sun when you’re not used to it, your skin turns red and gets really sensitive-”

“That thing actually burns you?” Darvis’s voice is incredulous. “Why does anyone live up here with something that is constantly fucking burning you?”

“It’s not all that bad. You'll probably adjust after a while. I've never had too much of a problem with it.”

Marja frowns, still running a hand over her skin. “I don’t feel burned.”

“You will in the morning,” Alistair promises. “It can take a while to kick in, but once it does, you’ll know.”

Marja gives up trying to puzzle out this new concept and drops her hands back to her lap. “Just when I think understand the surface,” she murmurs. “Sun-touched, indeed.”

“And I always thought that was an expression,” Darvis grunts. “Blight dreams and burning alive. Sure am glad I stuck around for this.”  

The statement lacks the spite Marja has come to expect, and she realizes with strange humor that Darvis is simply too tired for his usual venom. And yet he makes no move to return to his tent, instead remaining with her and Alistair under the stars.

Marja understands. After so many days of walking and working and worrying, the call to sleep is singing strongly in her muscles. Yet the thought of retiring to her bedroll is abhorrent; she has no desire to close her eyes and possibly return to the world of darkness and whispers.

We just need to reach Redcliffe, she tells herself. Just hold it together until then. Sick or not, the arl will help them. He must.

The next morning proves Alistair right: as Marja stretches and dons her armor, her skin screams in protest at the movement. It itches fiercely, and yet scratching just brings new flares of pain to the stinging patches of red that color her face and neck. Tying up her hair is even more of a chore than usual, as each pull against her scalp sets her nerves screaming.

Thankfully, Leliana is able to make an elfroot concoction that soothes the burn, although it is unfortunately not a full cure. When Marja offers the ointment to Darvis, he grabs it from her without a word. But Marja has more important things to worry about than his lack of grace. She pushes away the distractions of her blistered skin and her exhaustion and directs the group to begin the march to Redcliffe.

“We may be wise to avoid the Imperial Highway,” Morrigan suggests. “No doubt Loghain still has patrols looking for you.”

The advice is sound, even if Marja doesn’t like it. The roads mean easier, quicker travel. But Morrigan is right in that it also means they will be far more exposed, so she consents and allows Morrigan to lead them a distance from the trail.

Alistair, at Marja’s insistence, stays close to Morrigan as they walk. Their inevitable bickering is enough to drive anyone to madness, but he’s the only one in the party who has actually been to Redcliffe, and she’s the only one who knows how to navigate the forests. Their combined knowledge is enough to assure Marja, who still finds the task of navigating the open surface somewhat intimidating, that they will not get lost.

“Are we lost?”

“Of course not,” Morrigan replies, although the way she eyes their surroundings with uncertainty says differently.

“Possibly.” Alistair holds his map closer to his face, peering closely at the scrawled markings. “It’s been a while since I’ve returned to Redcliffe, you know. If I could just figure out where the road is…”

“You people and your roads,” Morrigan says scathingly. “I know just where we are. I simply need a minute to be certain. Preferably a minute without being distracted by foolish babble.”

Marja rubs her head, silently chiding herself for asking Alistair and Morrigan to work together on anything. “Okay, let’s-”

Her words are cut off by a sudden torrent of barking. Marja turns quickly towards the noise to see Darvis, looking just as confused as she is, trying to quiet his suddenly aggressive mabari. Nug doesn’t seem to notice these attempts; his focus is on the surrounding woods. Teeth bared, hackles raised, he howls and barks into the trees, crouched defensively in front of Darvis.

“What’s wrong with him?” Marja asks.

“How should I know?” Darvis puts a hand on the dog’s back, and Nug takes a brief pause in his noise-making to shoot the man a beseeching look. Then he goes straight back to the barking. Darvis pulls a dagger from his belt, eying the woods with new apprehension. “Something’s out here.”

“It can’t be darkspawn,” Alistair says, although he draws his sword and moves to peer through the woods in the direction of Nug’s attention. “I would have sensed them by now.”

“Wild animals?” Marja suggests, although that doesn’t quite make sense. Nug has never made a racket like this before, even when they were hunting bears. Uneasy, she readies her axe- just in time to recognize the sound of something heavy and fast crashing through the trees.

Marja catches a glimpse of a sleek grey figure moving through the forest, too quick to make out any features. Tightening her grip on her weapon, she pushes cautiously onward, motioning for the others to follow behind. Hesitantly, she takes a few steps in the direction of the movement-

And then suddenly the creature is in sight. It’s a wild thing, with matted grey fur and long jagged fangs, and yet it stands haphazardly on two legs. Its nose is turned toward the sky, sniffing the air, as crazed yellow eyes dart about in every direction. There’s something deliberate in the motion, and yet there is nothing in those wild eyes that speaks of intelligent thought. The creature scratches at its own fur with crooked claws- claws that are caked in a dark red substance.

Marja goes still at the sight, but it’s too late. At the sound of her approach, the creature’s crazed eyes fix on her, and it charges.

Chapter Text

Marja barely has time to register the sight of the crazed beast charging in her direction before her instincts take over. In one fluid, automatic motion, she hefts her axe up into a mighty swing that catches the creature in the shoulder. The blow redirects the monster’s attack, sending it sprawling to the dirt, but it quickly springs back up again with an enraged yowl, clutching a twisted paw- or is it a hand? a claw?- to the gash in its arm that now seeps with blood. Wild eyes dart around in a panic as the creature takes in the presence of Marja’s companions and realizes it’s surrounded.

By now the others are moving forward, readying their attacks, but rather than charge again the creature throws back its head and lets out a long, shrill howl. An arrow suddenly sprouts from the creature’s neck, and the howl cuts off into a wet gurgle. The creature takes one staggering step, then falls forward. Marja glances behind her to see Leliana, looking pale but determined, another arrow already notched to her bow.

The creature on the ground twitches a few more times and eventually goes still. For a brief moment, a stunned silence falls over the group. Then-

“What in the bloody sodding fuck is that?” Darvis demands.

For once, Marja shares the sentiment.

“I think it’s a werewolf,” Alistair answers in a hoarse voice. Before Marja can ask further questions, another howl rings through the forest. Alistair lets out a weak laugh. “Oh. And it has friends. How nice.”

“How many do you think there are?” Marja asks.

“They’re supposed to be rare,” Leliana says. “I’ve heard stories of them, but I never dreamed I’d see one with my own eyes.”

“But what are they?” Darvis demands again. Before he can get an answer, a crashing noise from somewhere in the trees around them has the entire group alert and preparing themselves for a fight.

“They’re bad,” Alistair says, raising his sword and shield. “Is that good enough for now?”

Blades already in hand, Darvis lets out a weary breath. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

A sudden surge of snarling is the only warning they get before the trees around them explode with motion, and the beasts are upon them. One lunges for Marja, and she knocks it back with a wide sweep of her axe, leaving it bleeding and stunned and the perfect target as Nug leaps in and goes for the throat. At Marja’s side, Alistair pushes another wolf back with his shield as Leliana fires a volley of arrows, and the flash of sudden fire to her left tells her that Morrigan is handling another.

In the distance she can hear Darvis cursing and turns to help, only to be knocked to the ground in an attack that leaves her breathless, and above her is a rabid beast leaning in with bared fangs-

But the expected bite never comes. Instead, the pressure on Marja’s chest is suddenly released as the wolf goes hurtling through the air. Sten wrestles the creature to the ground, ignoring the strikes from claws and teeth that drag across his arms. He pulls back just enough to maneuver his sword, and in one decisive strike sinks the blade into the creature’s chest.

It’s the last werewolf to fall. The others lay strewn across the clearing, looking just as twisted and mutated in death as they did in life. With heavy breaths, Sten staggers to his feet, blood dripping from his wounds. Marja rushes forward to support him.

“Are you injured?” she asks, frowning as she examines his shredded skin. “It’s that armor, they made it too small, I knew we should have commissioned a better fit-”

“Help.”

The sound sends chills down Marja’s back. She turns slowly, thinking she must be mistaken, but no. The voice is real, and it is coming from one of the wolves. The monster whimpers, injured but not yet dead, and stirs feebly on the blood-stained grass as it tries to speak again.

“Shit,” Darvis murmurs. “It’s alive. And it can talk.”

“Help…us…” the wolf wheezes. Its eyes blink rapidly, showing large pupils that flash from the same crazed look they held during the attack to something more…intelligent.

It’s not an animal, Marja realizes with a sinking horror in her stomach. Swallowing her apprehensions, she kneels down next to the creature and does her best to keep her voice steady as she speaks. “You attacked us. Why should we help you?”

The wolf shakes its head. “Not me…too late…the Dalish…the curse…”

“The curse,” Alistair mutters. “It’s talking about the werewolves, I’d wager. People don’t just turn into these things out of nowhere.”

“Wait,” Darvis says. “People? This was a person?”

“Danyla…” the wolf sighs. It closes its eyes, chest shaking. “I was…Danyla. But the spirit…the curse…too much. Seeking help…too far…madness set in. Find the Dalish…tell Zathrian…only one way…he must…end it…”

And with one last rattling breath, the creature that had once been Danyla dies.

“So werewolves are crazed, mutated wolf creatures that were once regular people, but they got infected by some sort of curse, and now they want to kill everything they see?”

Leliana puts her chin in her hands as she considers Darvis’s words. “That is…not an inaccurate summary, I suppose. But only sometimes. Sometimes, they are abominations which were once ordinary wolves, but now find themselves possessed by rage demons.”

“That still want to kill everything they see.”

“If the legends I’ve heard are true, yes.”

“Please be joking,” Marja says, rubbing her temple. Leliana’s expression is the only answer she needs.

Darvis groans. “Just when I think the surface can’t get any fucking weirder…”

A not-completely-muffled grunt of pain from Sten causes Darvis to turn his attention back to the task at hand. “Shit, sorry,” he grumbles, focusing again on the wound on the Qunari’s arm. "No, don't get up, sit still, you big idiot."

Marja watches with a frown as Sten tries not to shift under Darvis's needle. “I wish we knew more about this ‘curse’. We might be able to figure out a better way to treat you.”

“I will live,” Sten says stiffly, but even he can’t mask the strain in his voice. Still, Marja is impressed he’s doing as well as he is. Morrigan has applied her usual magic to the werewolf bite, but whatever strange magic the beast carried seems resistant to her healing. Normal wounds would knit themselves together when exposed to her healing spells, leaving nothing more than a strange itching sensation. But not only is Sten’s wound continuing to bleed, it now seems to be worsening with each passing minute. With no other way to treat the open wound, they’ve turned to dwarven healing-a large bottle of the strongest liquor they have on hand and good old-fashioned stitches.

Alistair sits at Darvis’s side, handing him supplies when asked and eying the whole practice with skepticism. Marja supposes that after relying on the Wardens' mages for most injuries, this attempt at treatment does seem crude by comparison.

“You’re going to leave a scar. Try to make the stitches smaller,” she advises, and Darvis pauses just long enough to glare at her.

“Would you like to take over?” When she doesn't answer, Darvis grunts and continues with his work. "He should be glad I’m doing as well as I am. This isn't exactly my area of expertise; I was always the one getting stitched up.”

“'Tis barbaric,” Morrigan states. She sits on the other side of the campfire, drawn to the spectacle by equal parts horror and fascination. “How anyone manages to survive without magic…”

“I would be less worried about scarring and more about the bite itself,” Leliana says nervously. “It’s quite possible that he may…”

“…Turn into one of the creatures?” Morrigan finishes when Leliana trails off. Her tone is noticeably unsympathetic. “We slayed the others easily enough.”

“That is not the point!” Leliana protests.

“I’m trying to focus, could you all shut it?" Darvis snaps. Sten hisses through his teeth as Darvis's fingers slip, and a few darkly muttered words in a language Marja doesn’t recognize spill from his lips.

“Sten, do you feel like you’re turning into a werewolf?” she asks cautiously.

“No.”

From anyone else, the short, ill-tempered answer would cause Marja worry. From Sten, she can’t tell if the irritated brevity is indicative of pain, a symptom of transformation, or just Sten being Sten.

Morrigan certainly does not seem satisfied. “How would you know?” She presses. “You have experience with the sensation of becoming a werewolf, do you?”

“Enough!” Marja shakes her head. “We obviously need to figure this out. We need to seek out these Dalish that Danyla spoke of.”

“The Dalish?” That part catches Alistair’s attention. “What about Redcliffe?”

“I’m sorry, Alistair,” Marja says, throwing a beseeching look at the other Warden. “I know you’re worried about Arl Eamon. But that… woman said she was looking for help. The situation sounded desperate. And if there’s a chance Sten might now be in danger-”

“There is no danger. We should continue to Redcliffe.” Sten’s voice is stubborn and firm, and Marja can only gape at him.

“Seriously?” Darvis leans back, his work finished, and stretches his arms. The result isn’t pretty, but it should keep Sten from dying of blood loss- and, Marja admits to herself, it's likely better than she could have done. For all of her experience in battle, she’s never actually had to perform a procedure like this herself.

“For once, the princess has a point,” Darvis continues. “You want to take the chance of becoming one of those things?”

Sten stretches his arm stiffly, expressionless despite the obvious severity of the injury. “I was told I was to aid in a quest to stop the Blight. If the quest leads us to your human arl, that is where we must go. If I am weak enough to fall victim to this curse they speak of, I deserve no less.”

Marja closes her eyes and silently begs the Ancestors for patience. “I understand that, Sten. We will still go to the arl. But our quest will also lead us to the Dalish eventually. They are to be our allies, according to the treaties. And they can’t help us if we let this curse turn them all into werewolves. This must be dealt with swiftly.”

And you can’t help us if you turn into a werewolf, either, she doesn’t say, but she thinks Sten understands the implication. The Qunari grunts, considering her words, then bows his head. “Very well.”

According to Morrigan, they’re not going to find the Dalish by just walking blindly deeper into the Brecilian Forest. Rather, if they continue walking blindly deeper into the Brecilian Forest, the Dalish will find them. And after hours of traveling through increasingly thicker trees and enduring swarms of biting insects (because, Darvis reflects, of course that’s a normal part of life on the surface), Morrigan is proven correct.

The elf appears out of nowhere, as if she’s sprung directly from the bark of the trees that surround them. Two more materialize at her side, and all three have bows drawn and aimed at the approaching group. “Stop right there, shemlen.”

“Mostly shemlen, anyway,” one of the other elves comments. Their eyes drift over the odd group gathered before them. “Who are you and what do you want?”

Naturally, Marja steps forward and begins explaining in overly-diplomatic tones about the Wardens and the treaties and the werewolves. Darvis is sure it’s all very eloquent and placating, but he doesn’t hear a word. He’s too shocked by the sight of the elves to comprehend the assurances Marja gives, or the suspicious manner with which the elves treat them even after the weapons have been put away. Even as the elves lead them to the Dalish camp, he doesn’t pay attention to the twists and turns of the path they take through the dark woods. His attention is too fixed upon the markings that decorate the faces of the Dalish guides.

Darvis has never known elves could be Casteless.

“Wait here,” the elf who led them to camp says tersely. “Zathrian will wish to speak with you.” She gives the group one last, searching look before turning and disappearing into the maze of tents and wagons that populate the forest clearing. Although clearing isn’t quite the right word- the trees are less thick here, true, but not absent. The branches overhead cast an odd shade over the place, for which Darvis, still suffering from his sunburn, is grateful.

Despite the overabundance of nature, the Dalish have managed to set up quite the campsite. Several small fires are clustered at one end of the clearing, decorated with artwork and statues. At the other end, strange rickety wagons seem to be used as workplaces, sleeping places, and anything-else-you-need-to-do places. Something about the camp seems off to Darvis, although it takes a moment for him to figure out just what it is.

At last, it hits him- despite the obvious size of the clan, there is very little activity within the campsite. A few elves peer around the wagons to observe their visitors, but the only conversation Darvis can hear is subdued whispers.

He has also realized by now that the tattoos cannot possibly be used to indicate the Casteless, not when every elf in the camp bears the brand. Each tattoo he sees has a different design or color, but he has yet to see an elf without any marking. He's about to ask the others what they mean when their guide returns with another elf in tow.

“Greetings, Wardens,” he says in a low, serene voice. “I am Zathrian, the Keeper of this clan.” He carries an air of authority, and rather than the leather armor of the Dalish sentries, he wears long robes of richly colored fabric. Dark swirls of ink decorate his forehead, twining up his bald scalp and back down to his jaw. From the reverent looks he receives from the other Dalish, Darvis can only guess that this is their leader. Definitely not Casteless.

What follows is an exchange of introductions that drags on much longer than it should. As Marja and Zathrian enjoy each other’s talkative-ness, Darvis continues to find himself distracted by his surroundings. Beyond one cluster of wagons, he sees an altar decorated with branches; in the distance he spots a group of strange horned creatures with snow-white fur; across the nearby campfire, a small elf girl tugs on her mother’s hand and points openly at the Wardens before being quickly ushered away. It’s a struggle for Darvis to stop his staring and drag his attention back to the conversation.

“If you’ve come about our treaty with the Grey Wardens,” Zathrian is saying to an attentive Marja and Alistair, “I fear we cannot fulfill our promise. We are rather preoccupied with our own troubles at the moment.”

“We are aware of that, actually,” Marja replies. “We were set upon by a group of what we believe were werewolves. They told us to seek out your clan.”

“They… told you?” Zathrian’s eyes narrow. “They spoke?”

“Only one of them. She said her name was Danyla.”

“Danyla.” Zathrian raises a hand to his brow and releases a heavy breath. “I had hoped…but when her hunting party did not return, I should have known to fear the worst. Is she…”

Marja hesitates, so Darvis steps forward and says it for her. “She’s dead. She was one of the creatures, and she attacked us.”

“But before she died,” Marja continues, “she had a moment of clarity. She told us to find the Dalish, and you. She spoke of ending the curse, and she asked for our help.”

Zathrian bows his head, fingers knitted together under his chin, eyes deep in thought. “She retained some semblance of intelligence longer than I thought possible. I knew these werewolves were different, but this…I’ve never heard of the beasts having control over themselves. From what I know of such magic, the curse should fill them with a rage that cannot be reasoned with.”

Darvis throws a sideways glance at Sten. The warrior has been largely silent since the attack, but a pained grimace has snuck into his expression as he holds his injured arm gingerly at his side. The wrappings are stained red, Darvis notices- the stitches must have opened. Swallowing his quickly increasing concern, Darvis nods at the warrior and asks lightly, “You’re not feeling any more rage-y than usual, are you?”

For the first time, Zathrian notices the bandages on Sten’s arms and goes pale. “One of yours was bitten?”

“That’s partially why we’re here,” Marja begins, but Zathrian only shakes his head.

“The bites of these creatures bring either transformation or agony. We have all of our healers searching for a way to treat it, but have made no progress. If it is a cure you seek, you will not find it here.”

“You say this is a curse.” All eyes turn to Morrigan, who has been silent up to this point. Now she studies the elven Keeper with a critical eye. “Curses can be counteracted. Destroying the source of the curse would end the effects of the bite, would it not? Why have you not done so?”

Zathrian tenses. “Our warriors have made many attempts, but this is no trivial task you speak of. Our legends and history tell us the curse was first spread by a great wolf, which dwells deep in the Becilian Forest. Witherfang, we call it. If the wolf were to be slain, and its heart brought to me, I may be able to reverse the curse.”

“So, kill the wolf. End the curse. Save Sten and your warriors.” Darvis ticks the points off on his fingers. The list is deceptively simple. “Why do I have the feeling there’s a catch?”

“The wolf you seek is a mighty creature. It lives in the oldest part of the forest. Besides the werewolves, there are spirits to contend with, and all manner of beasts-”

“We’re Grey Wardens,” Marja says, with a confidence that Darvis thinks is perhaps a bit large for what they have to offer. “If killing the wolf is what we need to do, we can do handle that. But beyond the Forest, there is a Blight approaching. We need your warriors. If we do this, will you uphold our alliance and lend us your strength against the darkspawn?”

Zathrian pauses, studying Marja with curious eyes. “I do not know if you are truly as powerful as you claim, but unfortunately you are the only hope we have left. Our clan is suffering. The werewolves cannot be allowed to live. Bring me Witherfang’s heart, and you shall have both our gratitude and our support.”

As they prepare for their foray into the depths of the forest, everyone agrees that it will be best for Sten to stay at the Dalish camp with the healers. Everyone, that is, except for Sten.

“You are not fit to fight,” Darvis repeats. “Now get back in the bed before I pin you there with my daggers.”

Sten scowls and continues to try and stand. At this point, Darvis is just amazed that the man can put up such a fight. The healing area-which is really no more than a collection of beds and tents- is full of wounded hunters that can only moan in agony from the pain of their own bites. Five of them together wouldn’t have this kind of energy.

Maybe they’ve just been suffering the cursed wounds longer than Sten has. Maybe the Qunari has some sort of natural defense against the infection. Maybe Sten is just a stubborn, stone-headed idiot. Whatever the reason, Sten’s protests are drawing attention. The elven healers hover nearby, clearly wondering if they should intercede but unsure of how to do so. Darvis can’t really blame them for not wanting to wrestle down the ill Qunari. He can blame the others for going and leaving him to do this alone, and he can definitely blame Sten for making the job so damned difficult.

“What are you going to do out in the forest, with a fever and an infected arm and the possibility you’ll suddenly want to kill us all?” Darvis demands. “Just stay here and try not to die until we come back!”

Sten growls, deep and angry, but as he tries to maneuver around the dwarf his expression suddenly tightens in pain, and he clutches madly at his injured arm. Something between a swear and a snarl rumbles deep from his throat, and when his eyes flash up to glare at Darvis they are angry and intense. For a fleeting moment, Darvis’s irritation gives way to genuine worry. He very much does not want to fight an enraged Sten, partially because killing allies is something best avoided when possible and partially because the man is at least three times his size. He briefly considers calling for Marja- at least Sten listens to her, for the most part.

Luckily, the moment passes. Sten takes a long, ragged breath and seems to regain himself, and at last he allows Darvis to push him back onto the bed. “You…may have a point.”

Finally, Darvis thinks. Convincing the stubborn Qunari of anything is harder than catching a greased nug. He hopes the others are quick in gathering the supplies Zathrian promised to provide; they’ll need to move quickly before Sten changes his mind.

As Darvis thinks this, Sten glares at his own arm as if he’s been personally betrayed. “I came with you to fight against the Blight. Now I cannot even do that.”

“Why’s that so damned important?” Darvis asks. He remembers that speech Marja and Alistair gave, about honor and doing the right thing for the good of Ferelden. Somehow, he doesn’t think those reasons apply to Sten.

“I left my home to accomplish a task. To serve the Qun. My every attempt to fulfill this purpose has been met with only failure and dishonor.”

Darvis hesitates. This is the most Sten has said about his home, about his life at all before they found him in that cage in Lothering. “What was the task?”

“To find the answer to a question.”

“…And what was the question?”

“What is the Blight?” Sten recites. “It is a question posed by the Arishok. My leader. For the sake of my people and their safety, it must be answered.”

“Well,” Darvis says with some awkwardness, “we’ll kill this super-special wolf, and you’ll be all healed up, and we can go fight the Blight to your heart’s content. Then you can go home and tell them how horrible it all was, and that’ll be your answer.”

The jape does not earn a reaction. Sten’s face is stoic as ever when he says, “I cannot go home.”

Behind that one statement, Darvis senses a much deeper story. But then Sten grimaces and clutches his arm again, and Darvis knows now is not the time to dig through his past. Instead, he shrugs and says, “Join the club, I guess. At least we’re sticking together, right? Even if it is just because of a lack of better options.”

Sten’s mouth twitches. “I suppose so. Thank you.”

“And who knows? Maybe we’ll help you get home again. Unless we get eaten by wolves out in the forest.”

A part of Darvis wants Sten to say that of course that won’t happen, that they’ll kill the beasts and save everyone. It might be nugshit, but it’ll be comforting nugshit. But Sten just nods and says, “From what I have seen so far, such an outcome is likely.”

Chapter Text

There are two subjects in which Marja knows she is woefully under-educated: forests, and fade spirits. Unfortunately, if the Dalish tales are to be believed, those are two things she will soon need to become very well acquainted with.

Lanaya seems surprised by the depth of Marja's inexperience. The elven woman is Zathrian’s First- a term which, Marja gathers, means she is second-in-command among the Dalish, and she has spent her entire life in forests such as this. She also knows quite a bit of magic, and she spends some time trying to explain the workings of the forest spirits as Marja does her best to follow along.

“The forest is haunted,” she explains, no trace of mockery or exaggeration in her tone. She says it the same way Marja might say Orzammar is underground. “Spirits possess the trees, the wolves, even the bodies of the dead.”

The other elves who have gathered around the communal fire nod along, occasionally interjecting with additional details or bits of lore of their own. If even half of the information is true, the Brecilian Forest is a much more dangerous place than Marja first believed. For now, however, she’s still trying to sort out the truths from the superstitions.

The others in her group have dispersed to rest or gather supplies, save for Leliana. The bard sits next to Marja, listening to the Dalish tales with rapt attention. Many of the elves throw distasteful looks in her direction, although she scarcely seems to notice their hostility. The elves are more trustful of Marja, but only barely; Orzammar may never have warred with the Dalish, but they are hardly close enough to be called allies.

Marja intends to change that, starting with Lanaya, and so she listens patiently as she and Sarel, the clan’s storyteller, take turns reciting the clan’s history and legends. So far, the tales have told of old battles fought between the Dalish and the humans, of spirits that inhabit the old lands, and of the legendary werewolves that roam through the wilderness. Sadly, these tales have little in the way of concrete information. While Marja had hardly expected detailed directions to the wolves’ dens, she still can’t help but be disappointed.

“I wish we could be more help,” Lanaya sighs. “But the exact workings of this curse are a mystery even to us. Not even Zathrian can say how it began, and he has more experience with this forest than anyone.”

“He does?” Marja pauses, choosing her next words carefully. The Dalish have made their dislike of outsiders plainly known; the last thing she wants to do is offend them unnecessarily. “Earlier, he said he might be able to end the curse. Do you believe he truly can?”

“I believe if anyone can, it’s him,” Lanaya answers with conviction. “He’s one of the most powerful mages you will ever meet. More than that, he’s led our clan for longer than anyone can remember, and he’s always kept us safe.”

“Longer than anyone can remember?” Leliana repeats. “How old is he, exactly?”

“You’d have to ask him yourself,” Lanaya answers with a grin. “But we have elves in our clan who are now great-grandparents who can remember Zathrian being our Keeper when they were young.”

Marja frowns at that- it can’t possibly be truth, after all- but Leliana only nods. “Like the ageless elves in the old stories,” she says in wonder.

“The glory of the ancient elves has not completely disappeared,” Lanaya says. “Zathrian is a powerful Keeper, and he has access to a small fraction of that magic. I only hope that one day, we can all share in it.”

Despite Lanaya’s certainty, Marja’s uneasiness has not receded. No matter how she tries, she can’t quite shake the feeling that Zathrian is withholding something. As reluctant as she is to consider the idea, Marja has to acknowledge that it’s entirely possible Zathrian has no way to end the curse, and that this quest for the wolf’s heart is a hopeless cause meant only to give his people something to believe in.

Perhaps Lanaya reads the doubt on Marja’s face, for after her tale she pats Marja’s arm in a reassuring manner and says, “Zathrian is reserved, especially with outsiders, but do not doubt him. He is a very good man who has been through much. He lost his family long ago, but he protects every member of the clan as fiercely he would his own children. He would not have sent our hunters into the forest unless he believed their quest could succeed.”

“You think very highly of him,” Marja replies. She still carries a small sliver of doubt, but for now, she puts it to the back of her mind. Even if killing Witherfang is not a guaranteed cure, it certainly can’t hurt. “I’m sure you are right. Thank you for all of the information, and for the stories.”

“They’re not just stories,” Sarel cuts in, his voice sharp and accusatory. “This is our history. And I hope you understand our purpose in sharing it with you.”

His wary stare is directed not at Marja, but at Leliana, and it is Leliana who answers. “We do, and we appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. I admit, your people are not what I had expected. I am pleasantly surprised by what we have found here.”

“And what does that mean? What did you expect?” he retorts, his brow furrowing in anger, and this time Marja is quick to interject.

“She simply means that you were quite difficult to find, and we are glad for the opportunity to work with you.”

Sarel doesn’t seem completely satisfied with the answer, but Lanaya shoots him a look and he does not argue further. Marja motions to Leliana that they should make their departure, but as she stands to leave Lanaya speaks up one last time.

“Please remember,” she says, “this forest is like a thing alive. It changes at its own will, and many have become lost within. Were I you, I would endeavor not to make the forest my enemy.”

Marja nods and thanks her for the warning. As soon as they are out of earshot, however, she lets out a long sigh. “That was not quite as helpful as I had hoped.”

“Well now, I don’t know about that,” Leliana muses. “We learned much, did we not?”

“Not about the werewolves.”

“Not exactly, no,” she concedes. “But we learned about the Dalish. What I said before, about being surprised by them- most of what I knew of the Dalish is from stories, you see, and..." she pauses and looks around, then continues in a softer voice. "And the stories told of the Dalish back in Orlais are far from complimentary. Those stories would have you believe they are little more than savages, always thirsty for human blood. But these people are not like that at all. From what they say, they have plenty of cause to be suspicious of outsiders, and yet they are taking a chance and accepting our aid."

"True," Marja allows. "But does that knowledge really help us right now?"

Leliana shrugs. "Perhaps not. But you are considering the immediate problem of ending the werewolf curse. That is all very well and good, but it is also good to think of the future. It may be useful to know that the Dalish greatly revere their forests, despite the dangers within. Just as it may be useful to know that they all trust their Keeper with their lives. If we wish to ally with them against the werewolves, the Blight, or anything else, these are valuable insights. Especially considering they are people who are hesitant to make any alliances in the first place. If we show them they are understood and valued, it will be much easier to work alongside them.”

“That’s…actually quite a good point,” Marja admits, giving Leliana an appreciative glance. “Although I hope you don’t mind me saying…your skills in diplomacy are a bit rusty.”

Leliana raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Rusty?”

“If we’re trying to convince the Dalish we can be their allies, you probably shouldn’t be mentioning the horrid rumors about them in front of their leaders.”

“But I was saying the rumors were wrong!”

“You were saying you were surprised they were wrong.”

“I…” Leliana trails off, then reluctantly nods. “I see your point. I suppose I should apologize, once we return. Perhaps I will look in the forest for the ironbark their crafter was speaking of; apologies do tend to go over better when they come with a gift…” Leliana continues her quiet musings to herself, and Marja can’t help but smile as she listens. Despite their time together, she still hasn't quite managed to figure this woman out. At times, Leliana seems naive and hopelessly romantic in her view of the world, just a young woman thoughtlessly following a vision of her own fanciful invention.

But sometimes, something else slips through. Marja didn’t miss the fact that Leliana failed to contradict her assumption that the woman had previous experience in diplomacy. It is no surprise; Leliana is quite pretty and quite graceful and far more observant than she is given credit for. If not for her constant talk of the Maker, she could fit easily into the fabric of a court.

Marja files those thoughts away for later contemplation before returning to the matter at hand. “Still, I wouldn’t mind an old legend that comes with a map to Witherfang’s lair and a foolproof recipe for curing werewolves.”

Leliana laughs softly, and her smile takes on a mischievous edge that would be quite out of place on a simple Chantry girl. “Ah, but such a thing would be far too easy. Where is the fun in that?”

“You sure you want to take on Sten-sitting duty? He’s sleeping now, but if he tries to get up again…”

Morrigan answers Darvis’s question with a smirk as she stares down at the Qunari’s slumbering figure. “Do you not think I can manage our injured ally on my own?”

“I’m more worried that you’d set him on fire,” Darvis replies, and is rewarded with a laugh.

Their conversation is interrupted when one of the healers comes to check on Sten, and Morrigan’s eyes light up with interest as she turns the talk of healing to other arcane matters. Darvis knows that her offer to stay behind probably has less to do with concern for Sten’s well-being and more to do with the slew of questions she has for the Dalish mages, but it’s still probably a good idea for somebody to stick around and stop Sten from referring to his caretakers as ‘weak and pointy’.

Darvis stays a while longer, until the conversation has become too embroiled in magical terms to make sense to him any longer. When he moves to leave, he feels Morrigan’s gaze shift back to him.

“Brosca,” she calls, “do try and be careful on your little adventure. If you get eaten by wolves and leave me to put up with the others alone, I will be most cross.”

Darvis chuckles and gives her a slight nod. “I’ll do my best.”

Outside of the healing area, the Dalish camp is full of elves milling between carts and campfires. Darvis can feel their eyes on him- not angry, he thinks, but uneasy. He moves quickly through the camp, eager to get away from the scrutiny- only too soon finding his path blocked by a small elven girl who looks at him with undisguised curiosity. Darvis casts a glance around but doesn’t see any sign of the girl’s parents. With a sigh, he gruffly asks, “Can I help you with something?”

Without preamble, she reaches a hand out and points at the markings on Darvis’s face. “What does your vallaslin mean?”

The strange word catches Darvis off guard. He blinks and sputters for a moment before saying, “What did you call it?”

“Your vallaslin! I know all the vallaslin for the gods. My mamae has Andruil’s and my papae has Sylaise’s. When I’m old enough, I’m going to get Elgar’nan’s. He’s my favorite because he’s the boss and everybody else has to do what he says. But I’ve never seen that one before!” Her eyes suddenly light up, and she clasps her hands together in excitement. “Oh! Is yours for a special dwarf god? Is that why I haven’t seen it before?”

Vallaslin. Darvis has never heard the word before. It certainly sounds nicer than brand.

“Um…sure it is,” he says. The elves must like these tattoos, seeing as every adult seems to have one. Darvis is fine with pretending his own marks are normal, too. “It’s for the, uh… the dwarven god Gherlen. Gherlen the Blood-Risen.” That was always one of Rica’s favorite stories- the paragon who was born Casteless but gained prestige after adventuring on the surface and eventually returned to Orzammar in glory. Seems as good a name to claim as any, Darvis figures.

“Wow,” the little girls breathes, eyes now wide as saucers. “What kind of god is that? Are there more dwarf gods? Do they know the elven gods?”

Before Darvis can make up more answers to her questions, a voice calls out for his attention. “There you are!”

Darvis winces as he turns to see Marja approach. He wonders if she heard what he said, and hopes that the answer is no. The elven girl whirls around as well, her questions apparently forgotten in the presence of another stranger. She studies Marja for a moment before demanding, “Where’s your vallaslin?”

Marja raises an eyebrow at the question, but only says, “I don’t have one.”

The girl’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “Maybe if you kill the wolves they’ll let you get one!”

Maybe they’ll let her get one. Darvis can’t hold back the snort of laughter at that thought, especially coupled with the look of confusion on Marja's face. “If she’s lucky,” he says, still chuckling to himself. “Are we ready to go wolf-hunting, then?”

Marja’s face grows serious. “We’re ready as we’ll ever be. Let’s be off.”

For the first time since Marja has arrived on the surface, the weather has warmed enough to melt away every trace of snow from the landscape around her. Left in its wake is a thick layer of mud that puts its utmost effort into sucking Marja’s boots into the earth with every step she takes through the forest. It’s been nearly an hour since she and her companions began their trek, and after scrambling through muddy underbrush and fending off wolves and bears, Marja is absolutely covered in muck. Her only solace is that her companions are just as bedraggled as she.

Leliana leads the group down the trails twisting through the trees, holding aloft a rough map Zathrian had hastily sketched out before their departure from the camp. Darvis walks beside her, stretching to look over her arm and study the map himself.

“You’re sure we’re going the right way?”

Leliana points to something on the parchment. “We need to go north, see? And we know this is north because the sun is there, and it always rises from the east…”

“Check the moss, too,” Alistair adds. “Moss grows on the south side of trees.”

Marja frowns and stops to study the forest around her. “Moss is growing on every side of these trees.”

Darvis snorts. “They’re both making stuff up.”

Leliana’s sputter of protest is cut off as a sudden deep growl reverberates through the woods. Marja’s first thought is just how many bears are in this forest? , but as she looks to the source of the noise, she realizes bears are the least of her worries.

Just ahead, a group of werewolves stand, two-legged, in a line that blocks the passage down the muddy path. They pace back and forth in jerky, agitated motions, but they make no move to attack. When the largest wolf locks eyes with Marja, she sees the rage and wildness that Zathrian spoke of- but she also sees, undeniably, intelligence.

The wolf steps forward, regarding the group in front of it with obvious disdain. When it speaks, its voice is low and guttural. “The Dalish send humans and dwarves, of all things, to put us in our place.”

“They shouldn’t be speaking,” Alistair mutters. “They shouldn’t be speaking like this, right? Zathrian said…”

“…he said they were mindless beasts,” Marja finishes, and the werewolf sneers.

“We are beasts, but we are simple and mindless no more.” A fanged grin spreads across the werewolf’s face. Feral eyes rove over each of the travelers in turn. “Let that thought chill your spine. Turn back now, and tell the Dalish you have failed.”

Darvis glances at his companions, then back at the wolf. “…No?”

The wolf snarls and takes an angry step forward, but Marja moves to intercept it- no, him. Despite what Zathrian initially told them, these creatures can clearly think. And that means they may be reasoned with. “We cannot turn back. The Dalish are suffering. But that doesn’t mean we have to fight.”

The lead wolf lets out a low growl. “Tell the Dalish we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will see them pay!”

“Why?” Marja says. She steps forward hesitantly, her eyes on the hulking, fanged creature before her. “You are clearly capable of negotiation. Of peace. Can we just talk for a moment?”

“Talk?” Rage shakes in the wolf’s voice. “Was it not Zathrian who sent you? He wishes only our destruction!”

“You know Zathrian?” Leliana cuts in.

“He sends his hunters after our Lady! He sends you to slaughter us! So do not speak to us of peace and reason. If you think this is possible, then you know of nothing of us, and even less of those you serve.”

Marja’s brow knits together in confusion. “What-”

Her words are cut off by an impatient roar from the wolf. “We are not here to talk! Leave this forest, or face the consequences!”

“Now, hold on a moment,-” Marja begins, but her words are drowned out in a chorus of growls as the group of wolves turns and bolts through the trees.

“Wait!” Marja cries in frustration, but the wolves pay her no heed.

“I’d bet they’re running back to Witherfang,” Alistair says, giving a Marja a questioning glance. Marja chews her lip as she thinks; she'd rather speak to the wolves than scare them away, seeing as they clearly have knowledge which the Wardens lack. But if they refuse to parley, they'll be leaving the Wardens no choice.

Either way, the first order of business is hunting down these creatures and making sure they harm nobody else.

“You’re probably right. Quick, let’s follow them before they get away.”

The werewolves are fast, far too fast to catch up to, but they leave a clear trail behind them. Darvis and the others follow broken branches and misshaped wolf tracks through trees and over an ancient wooden bridge that spans a flowing creek. Nug leads the party, his nose to the ground and stubby tail wagging madly. But as they move deeper into the forest, the signs begin to thin out. Darvis is certain they must be going the right way- there’s no other way to go, not with the sheer rock outcroppings on the left and the steep gorge of rushing water on their right.

And yet as they press on, the signs of the werewolves vanish completely. Instead, Darvis’s view of the trees only gets hazier and hazier, as if the forest has suddenly been enveloped in a thick cloud of steam. Darvis slows his pace as dread settles into his gut. This is not like the fog and mist he has seen before on the rainy, cold Fereldan mornings. This is something altogether different.

“Stop!” he cries, but Marja is the only one of his companions still in his sight. Alistair and Leliana, with their longer strides, have been following closer to Nug, and the swift onset of the fog has completely obscured all three from view.

Marja stumbles to a halt next to him, craning her neck to gaze through the sudden mist. “This can’t be normal,” she mutters, then raises her voice to a cry. “Alistair! Leliana! Fall back, we need to regroup!”

Darvis barely registers her words- he’s focused on the fog, and to his horror, the fog is moving. It’s moving towards and around them in a manner that can only be intentional. Marja follows Darvis’s shocked gaze, and right before the fog washes over them completely she reaches out and firmly grasps his arm.

The fog is cold and dizzying, but as soon as it sweeps over Darvis and Marja it disappears just as suddenly as it came. Darvis shakes Marja’s hand off his shoulder and turns in place, trying to figure out what has just happened.

“Alistair?” Marja calls again, tentatively. “Leliana? Nug? Are you out here?”

“Hush,” Darvis says, waving his hand. A sinking feeling is settling over him as he starts to realize their predicament. It's hard to be sure- all these surface trees look annoyingly similar- but if Marja can handle not talking for a single moment, he can focus on that nagging suspicion. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

Marja is quiet for a moment, but she doesn’t seem to understand. “What? I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. We just crossed a bridge over a nearly flooded river. We were right next to the river the whole time we were moving.”

Marja pales as his meaning sets in. “I don’t hear the water.”

“I think…” Darvis struggles to find the words, because this doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the only explanation. It’s not just the sound of the river; it’s also the shifted formations of boulders and trees, the odd vertigo left behind by the fog. “I think we’re in a different place now.”

“The forest changed on us.” Marja’s voice is full of disbelief. “Lanaya said the woods had a mind of their own, but I never thought she meant…” she shakes her head, then turns to Darvis. “So where are we now?”

Darvis looks up at the sky, trying to find meaning in the position of the sun as Leliana did, but the burning light above tells him nothing. “I have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Everything is fine.

This is what Marja keeps telling herself. True, she may be lost in the depths of this strange forest with only Darvis Brosca, of all people, for company. And true, the sky may be darkening above them, and every breeze that blows through the shifting trees may trigger a spike of anxiety as she wonders if the forest is about to shift again. But still. Everything is fine.

You can handle this, she tells herself in her most commanding tone. You don’t have any other choice.

“This is pointless,” Darvis mutters from behind her, and Marja rubs her temple as she bites back a retort. Convincing herself to push forward is taxing enough; it’s almost too much to convince Darvis as well. Ever since their companions disappeared, the other dwarf has done nothing but complain, which in Marja’s opinion is the most pointless activity for him to pursue.

With a deep breath, she says, “At least we’re trying something. We couldn’t just stand there calling for Alistair and Leliana all night. But if we can find the river-”

“-we can follow it back to camp,” Darvis recites with a sigh. “Assuming we’re anywhere near the river. And assuming we guess correctly on whether we’re upstream or downstream of the camp. And assuming the werewolves don’t find us before-”

“You’ve made your objections quite well known,” Marja cuts in coldly. “And I will be willing to consider an alternate plan if you have one to offer. Do you?”

Darvis huffs and crosses his arms. “We should be focused on finding the others first. Going back to the camp doesn’t do us any good if they’re still lost out here.”

“In case you haven’t realized, we don’t know where they are.”

Her words come out harsher than she intends, and she expects a scathing reply. But to her surprise, Darvis is silent. Marja knows the man is studying her- she can practically feel the weight of his gaze- but she ignores him and presses on through the brush. No matter his protests, Marja believes their best hope is finding the river before nightfall. She doesn’t like being closed in on all sides by the trees, not with the darkness of the sky weighing down above her.

Eventually, Darvis says, “We could light a fire. If they see the smoke, they can find us.”

“And so can the werewolves,” Marja points out. She can’t deny that a fire sounds comforting, especially as the sunlight fades, but is it worth the risk? “Anything with light in these tunnels is going to attract a lot of attention.”

A short moment of silence passes, and then Darvis says quietly, "Trees."

For the first time, Marja pauses in her march to look back at him. “What?”

“Trees, not tunnels.”

Right. She’s not in the Deep Roads. Marja looks away from Darvis without another word, taking a moment to close her eyes and center herself. You’re not in the Deep Roads. Trees, not tunnels.

And that’s when it hits her, the idea so obvious that she can’t believe it took this long for her to think of it. “Of course! The trees!”

Her sudden outburst startles a jolt out of Darvis, and the wariness in his expression only grows. “Yes. Trees,” he repeats, looking bewildered. “Have you finally lost it?”

Marja shakes her head in exasperation and points to the branches above. “We need to figure out where we are, right? If we can get to the top of these things, we could see over the whole forest. The camp, the ruins, maybe even Alistair and Leliana, if they’re close enough.”

Understanding finally hits Darvis. “We could make our own map.” He shoots an apprehensive glance at the towering trees around him. “Assuming we don’t fall to our deaths in the process.”

“Ever the optimist,” Marja sighs, but the new idea has lifted her spirits, and even Darvis’s moaning isn’t going to bring her down now. “Let’s at least give it a try.”

It takes some searching, but eventually the two dwarves settle on a promising candidate, a thick tree that towers over its neighbors and sports a fair number of low-hanging branches. Marja and Darvis both stand before the trunk, puzzling over the best approach.

“The thing’s probably full of crows,” Darvis says with a frown.

“Better than wolves. At least crows have never attacked us.”

“Not yet, anyway.” With a reluctant expression, Darvis moves forward. “I should try first. I’m smaller than you, and I don’t know how sturdy these branches are.”

The offer takes Marja by surprise, and she raises an eyebrow in Darvis’s direction. “Is that a hint of chivalry I detect?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies flatly. “It’s a matter of me not wanting to haul you back to the camp with a broken leg.”

Marja smirks at the answer, but she doesn’t argue. Darvis does have a point; he is the lighter of the two, and his leather armor is better suited to the task of scrambling up the branches than her own heavy metal plate.

"Try not to fall," she calls as Darvis hoists himself up to the first branch.

“So glad for the suggestion, Princess,” he answers, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The idea never even occurred to me.”

Don’t look down, Darvis thinks to himself as he scurries higher and higher into the branches. He doesn’t like being this high up, it’s just not natural, but he’s desperate to try anything that will get him out of this forest.

And even if it doesn’t work, it at least gives him a moment of peace from the bossy princess. She won't admit it, but Darvis can tell that something about being here unnerves her, even more than it does him. Unfortunately, whatever anxiety she has is only making her even more controlling than usual.

Darvis manages to climb through the first few branches with relative ease. Even off the ground, he knows how to be light on his feet. But the branches thin as he gets higher, and his progress slows as he fights to keep his balance. Halfway up the tree, he finds himself shimmying along a particularly treacherous branch. With a bit of maneuvering, he manages to unhook a dagger from his belt and sink it into the bark of the tree, using the handle as a grip to steady himself on.

His concentration is suddenly broken by a shout from below, and his foot nearly slips from its place against the bark. Darvis grits his teeth and readjusts himself, struggling to maintain his precarious position. He chances a glance towards the ground and immediately regrets it. Marja stands far, far below him, staring up at him with her hands cupped around her mouth.

Stomach churning at the sight of the drop below him, Darvis forces himself to look away. He clings tighter to the bark under his fingers, cursing Marja and her inability to be quiet for just a few minutes. Can’t she tell I’m bloody busy?

But his thoughts are interrupted when the branches and leaves around him burst into sudden motion, and the limb below his feet is gone, and he reaches out wildly for purchase but finds none, and he is falling.

Darvis’s hands claw at the air for anything, anything, to stop the descent, and miraculously he manages to make contact with one of the tree's branches. His shoulder is thrown fiercely back by the sudden stop, but pain has never been such a relief. The branch seems to somehow jerk away at his touch, the bark digging into his bare hands, and Darvis quickly loses his grip once more. This time, at least, he’s close enough to the ground that when he lands its merely extremely painful rather than extremely fatal.

His body now feels like one giant bruise, and the last thing he wants to do is move, but of course Marja is there, pulling him to his feet. “We have to go now!”

“Fuck!” he wheezes, struggling to his feet. “Give me a minute! What the…” the words die in his throat as he finally catches full sight of the tree he just fell from.

“What the fuck?”

The tree is…moving. Not shaking in the wind, but moving in a horribly deliberate and aggressive fashion. Branches and limbs thrash frantically in the air. One lashes out dangerously close to the dwarves, but Marja meets it squarely with her axe, slicing off the end and sending it flying in the other direction.

“We have to go!” she repeats, and this time Darvis doesn’t argue.

Even through the panic, one positive thought manages to worm its way into Darvis’s thoughts- at least the tree can’t chase us down.

The second the words form in his mind, a great creaking sound fills the forest. Glancing back over his shoulder, Darvis watches with disbelief and outrage as the tree completely uproots itself from the ground in a shower of dirt and leaves. Thick roots prop up the trunk and act as spider-like legs as the tree lumbers after them, still striking about with branches and vines.

“Okay, that’s just not fair!” Darvis shouts. His protest is met only by another lash of vines, which are in turn beaten back once again by Marja’s swinging axe.

Darvis ducks behind her, patting frantically at his pockets as he tries to come up with an idea. One of his daggers is still buried in the tree’s bark- he doubts he’ll ever get that one back- but even with his spares he feels horribly small against this attacker. At least Marja has an axe; trees can’t exactly be felled with daggers. Darvis mutters curses under his breath as the tree continues its onslaught. What can he use here? He has daggers, just daggers and-

And his iron and flint.

With Marja still chopping at the attacking tree, there’s plenty of wood around. Darvis grabs a long branch and strikes hurriedly with his flint until at long last a spark catches and the most beautiful fire Darvis has ever seen bursts to life.

“Get down!” he shouts, and Marja ducks just in time as Darvis hurls the burning branch towards the tree. The flame takes quickly, eating up leaves and bark and roots, and Darvis laughs in triumph. The tree staggers backwards in pained confusion, twisting to and fro. Darvis doesn’t know just how conscious this thing is, but he thinks that if it had a mouth, it might be screaming.

But not for long. Whatever sensations the tree might be feeling are swiftly cut short as Marja throws herself forward, axe raised. With the tree already distracted and weakened, her blade strikes true. The axe cuts cleanly through the roots, sending the still-burning tree tumbling to the forest floor. A mighty crash fills the forest as it makes impact, kicking up a spray of mulch and leaves. When the air clears again, the tree is still.

Marja and Darvis simply stare at it for a short moment, both too stunned and exhausted to speak. At last, Darvis says weakly, “I told you we should have made a fire.”

That actually earns a feeble laugh from Marja before she snaps back into command mode. For some reason, she hurriedly begins stomping on the remaining flames and kicking dirt over the ashes. “Help me out with this, we don’t want the whole forest to catch fire.”

“We don’t?”

“Not while we’re in it. Help me before the rest of the trees get mad, too.”

The thought of more killer trees spurs Darvis into motion, and soon he's stamping out the flames alongside Marja. “Do you think they all do that?” he asks with a shudder as they work. “Has every sodding tree we’ve seen since the mountains been waiting for me to get just a little bit closer so that it can kill me?”

“I think these are different,” Marja says, her gaze turning distant and thoughtful for a moment. “We already know this forest isn't normal. You just happened to make the wrong tree angry.”

“It’s a tree. What in blazes does it have to be angry about?”

“Now that’s a question!”

Both Marja and Darvis jump at the new voice, weapons ready in hand as they turn to face whatever new obstacle the forest has thrown at them. But where Darvis expects to see a threat, he sees something…confusing.

It’s a human man, old and weathered, with wild hair and a slightly unhinged smile. He claps his hands as he looks past Marja and Darvis to the fallen, smoldering tree. “Oh, you did this one good! The barky old trees, they don’t like you. Because you knock them right down. Don’t like me either. Because I trick them! Smarter than them, I am.”

“…and who are you?” Marja asks in a strained voice.

“No! Not your turn for questions, not yet!” The man turns and beings to walk away, then stops and looks back. “Well? You come, you answer, you ask!”

“Yeah, no,” Darvis says flatly. “This isn't right. I vote we don’t follow the crazy human into the crazy forest.”

“Yes? No?” The man stares at Darvis, head tilted and eyes wide. “You come, you eat, you sleep. You stay, the trees keep you. They have tricks, you know, but you don’t know. I know. I know how to trick them back.”

“I think he means that he knows the way the paths move,” Marja says with an uncertain glance at Darvis. “Maybe…”

“No.”

“Brosca.” Her voice grows hard and insistent again, ready to argue as always. “We don’t want to stay lost here forever, and this is our only lead on a way out.”

Darvis sighs. At this point, he’s too tired to fight. “Okay, fine. It’s not like this day can get any weirder, anyway.”

Chapter Text

“Sir, it’s very important that we find our way-”

“No!” The hermit glares at Marja, his arms crossed in petulance. “That is not a question! Have you no sense for rules?”

Marja sighs and rubs her temple before trying again. “Fine. What can you tell me about this forest?”

The hermit’s ire turns to delight, much to Marja’s relief. Extracting information from this man is quite tedious, and her patience is quickly wearing thin; she doesn’t know how much more of this question game she can stand.

But for all of the hermit’s apparent madness, there’s also something…else about him. Something that can't be easily dismissed. The clearing he brought Marja and Darvis to is bare but for a campfire and a large knotted tree stump. No supplies or shelter can be seen, even though it’s clear that this man has been surviving in the forest for some time. More than that, not a single creature- animal or tree- has attacked them since they entered his little clearing.

In response to her question, the man looks at the trees around them with a scowl. “Too many spirits! That’s the problem here. All the curses and angry wolfmen, with their howling. And you yell at them to hush themselves, but they just run deeper into the forest, and the trees protect them.” The hermit’s frown lifts into a grin again. “But there are ways to fool trees, of course. Thick, wooden things they are. Easily fooled if you know how.”

Marja leans forward eagerly. “How do you fool them?”

The man shakes his head. “Not your turn! My question now!”

Marja bites back a groan, and she can’t help turning to glare, just a little, at Darvis. While she’s been dealing with the hermit, he’s been no help at all. Marja watches with a frown as he leans against the stump and warms his hands on the fire, completely ignoring the torturous conversation. It’s only the fact that she still feels slightly guilty for sending him up the possessed tree in the first place that keeps her from dragging him over to suffer with her.

But even as Marja prepares herself for another pointless question, the hermit’s eyes gleam and his posture shifts ever so slightly. He leans forward and says conspiratorially, “I stole something from the grand old oak tree, you know. Serves it right, the nasty thing, but now it’s angry. Can’t get to me, no, not clever enough, but such a nuisance. So my question for you: would you be so good as to turn it into firewood?”

This is by far the most intriguing question so far. Marja may not understand all of these trees and spirits, but she does know how to make a deal, and she knows that this man has knowledge they need. So she gives him an appraising look and nods. “We could do that. Now here’s my next question: what will you do for us in return?”

The negotiations take longer than they should; the hermit still insists on playing his maddening question game, even during matters of business. But after much talking and an increased headache, Marja has the information she needs.

She just hopes she can persuade Darvis to go along with her plan. He was the one to bear the brunt of the damage from their last encounter with a possessed tree, after all. Still, Marja’s certain she can convince him to see the sense in the deal she’s made.

Eventually, the hermit disappears into the forest once more- to gather dinner, he says, and Marja decides she’d rather not know exactly what that means. Instead, she takes advantage of the short moment of silence to begin the daunting task of speaking to Darvis.

To say Darvis had been uneasy about trusting the hermit at first is an understatement. He still doesn’t trust him, as a matter of fact, but he’s accepted that this is simply the next string of weird events that seem to make up life on the surface. Werewolves can speak, trees are alive, and he and Marja are trusting this strange forest man to not murder them in their sleep tonight.

And at least Marja is the one stuck talking to the hermit. Darvis is grateful that he doesn’t have to entertain the unsettling man. He’s also grateful for the distraction as he subtly searches the stump he leans against.

As far as hiding places go, this one is rather obvious, being the only landmark in the clearing. It’s also obviously trapped, although Darvis has seen enough safeguards in his day to avoid them. And he’ll be damned if he’s letting his guard down without knowing what sort of weapons this guy is hiding.

The answer, as it turns out, is none, which Darvis admits is a nice change of pace. In fact, the stump doesn’t seem to hold anything of actual value- a few trinkets, some food, an acorn that for some reason has been wrapped in scraps of cloth. The lack of knives or poison actually puts Darvis well enough at ease that he’s nearly about to nod off to sleep when Marja approaches him.

“How do you feel about fighting another tree?” she asks without preamble, and for a moment Darvis can only stare at her.

“You’re joking, right?” he finally says, but she shakes her head.

“To make a long, confusing story short…there’s this ‘grand oak’ the hermit keeps talking about. If we kill it, the hermit will help us get through the forest.” Marja looks at him expectantly, as if the sentence she just spoke made any sense at all.

“Well, if the crazy hermit says so!” Darvis claps his hands together sarcastically, only to wince as the motion agitates one of his many fresh bruises.

Marja notices- of course she does- and frowns. “We don’t have to go immediately, of course. You can rest first. I wish I still had some of those poultices Leliana made; you look like you could use something on that arm.” As she speaks she moves to touch Darvis, right on his shoulder where the bruises are the worst, and he instinctively knocks her hand away.

“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “I’m fine, so you don’t need to pretend to care.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as Marja blinks, stunned, before she says in a tone that actually manages to sound offended, “Pretend?”

“Yeah. Pretend.” Darvis frowns, wondering how she still doesn’t get it. It’s almost as if she honestly believes in her own posturing. But Darvis certainly doesn’t, and he’s in no mood right now to play along. “Look, I already said that I can work with you if I have to. But don’t insult my intelligence by acting like you actually care about my well-being. I’m fully aware that I’m just here to be another body between you and the darkspawn.”

Marja’s expression hardens, her eyes turning to steel as she stares Darvis down. “The only one here who seems not to care about anything besides themselves is you. Honestly, what in the world did I do to make you think so little of me? Or are you still hating me merely on principle?”

“What did you do?!”  Darvis snaps. His knuckles tighten at his sides, and he doesn’t bother to lower his voice as he continues. “What haven't you Nobles done? Don’t come crying to me about being hated on fucking principle. Last time I checked, you’re not the one-” Darvis cuts himself, shaking his head angrily. There’s no point to this, he knows that. He shouldn’t be wasting his breath trying to tell someone like Marja something she doesn’t want to hear.

But Marja doesn’t let it go. “I’m not the one who what?” she presses, her stare growing even harder.

Darvis meets her gaze, ignoring the instincts that tell him to drop his eyes. He doesn’t have to, he reminds himself. He’s not in Orzammar anymore, and he can say what he wants. “You’re not the one who’s always been worth less than dirt because of Orzammar’s fucking principles. You keep pretending that everything is fine and that I should be happy to follow your orders and bow at your feet. But I don't have to put up with that, not up here. I don't owe you shit.”

Darvis stares at Marja, defiant and ready for a fight, but it’s not the venom in his words that takes Marja by surprise. It’s the honesty, and the realization that he truly believes that’s how she views him. Worth less than dirt.

He’s wrong. Marja admits she has very little experience working with Casteless, but she's never treated them with cruelty. She's tried showing that, she’s tried being cordial, she's tried to work with him…how can he accuse her of prejudice when he was the one who turned her away? Marja sighs, trying to sort through the scattered thoughts running through her head. When she speaks, her voice is strained from fatigue and frustration. "I never thought any less of you because of your Caste. I thought I made that clear. I tried to treat you with respect. I even offered an alliance upon our first meeting!"

Darvis snorts. "And why should I put any faith in that offer? Especially knowing any 'alliance' you offer only exists because it is literally your very last option. Whatever you say, you're still a Noble. And Nobles don't help Casteless. You can tell yourself that you're above all that, but you're not. That's just how it is."

A strange, bitter thought occurs to Marja, and a choked laugh escapes from her lips even as her throat tightens. She takes a moment to gather herself before replying. "But that's just it- I'm not a Noble. Not anymore. In fact, whatever Orzammar says your worth is...I think mine is even less."

That gives Darvis pause, although he still appears far from pacified. “What, because of your ‘family dispute’? What, could the Aeducans not agree on what type of jewels to use when decorating the throne room? You really think that’s comparable to being Casteless?”

“This is not a joke," Marja snaps. "I have no idea what it’s like to be Casteless, I’ll admit that. But I know what it's like to lose everything. To have everyone in Orzammar hate you. To have your name erased from the Shaperate, as if you never even existed.” She pauses, takes a moment to steady herself. She will not fall to pieces in front of Darvis, no matter what. "I cannot change the hard times you have faced in your past. But you are not the only one who has known injustice."

Darvis looks at her for a long moment, his dark eyes sharp and searching. "Fine. Tell me, then, Princess. What did you do?"

The question takes Marja by surprise. "Pardon?"

"What did you do?" Darvis rests his chin in his hands, his scowl as prominent as ever. "You want an alliance? Then treat like me a fucking person and not just some lackey you can order about and manipulate. Tell me what you did that was so bad it got the perfect little princess kicked out of the city. No nugshit, no lies."

"How will that help?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you killed a bunch of other asshole Nobles or something, it'll make me hate you less." Darvis is smirking as if this whole thing is funny, but that's finally too much for Marja.

"That's just it!" she explodes, the words falling out before she can stop them. "I didn't! Perhaps I should have- perhaps I should have killed both of my brothers and just been done with the whole mess of inheritance a long time ago. But I didn't, because I trusted Bhelen, and as much as I hated Trian at the end, he was still my family and I still cared about honor. So I waited, because I didn't want to be the one to make that choice. And I paid for it."

Marja pauses, and forces herself to close her eyes and take a deep breath and wrestle the anger back down where it belongs. Losing her head will do her no favors now. She has to look forward, not dwell on past mistakes. When she opens her eyes, Darvis is regarding her with both interest and confusion. She fights back the urge to keep yelling, and instead tries to organize her words into a story that makes sense.

“This is how nobility works. Bhelen wanted the crown, so he turned Trian and I against each other. But I wasn't quite bloodthirsty enough for his liking, so he had Trian murdered, and I was framed for the crime. My father believed the false charges and I was sent to the Deep Roads to die. That's why I'm here. I was exiled as thoroughly as a person can be. I'm not an Aeducan, or a Noble, - I'm not anything. My name will be forgotten. According to them, I don't exist.”

It’s such a simple summary of everything that has happened to her, but it’s all Marja can say for now. She looks back at Darvis, and gives him a thin smile. “You know, as much as you hate Nobles-and Ancestors, you hate them- I guarantee that there is at least one whom I hate more than you do.”

Darvis sits silently as she speaks, his expression settling into something Marja can’t quite read. Finally, almost reluctantly, he asks, “Your own brother did all that?”

“He did.”

He shakes his head. “Fuck.” His brow furrows. “What an ass.”

His words startle a laugh from Marja, and some of the tension in her chest eases slightly. “Indeed.”

“That’s one heck of a family dispute.”

“That’s Nobles,” Marja answers drily. “You are correct in one matter- they are nothing if not ruthless." She sighs, remembering all of her plans from long ago, and adds, "And I know you don't believe me, but I would have made things better. I was going to become Queen, I know I was. And I was going to fix the city's problems instead of just ignore them like we’ve been doing for centuries. I was going to help everyone in the City. Even the Casteless. I was already trying to pass laws to let them into the army, to let them earn their way out of Dust Town.”

She pauses to give Darvis a pointed look. “Which you would know if you would talk to me.”

Darvis snorts. “You say that as if you could clean up Dust Town with a wave of your hand. I don't know if you've noticed, but ordering people to play nice doesn't exactly work out very well. Especially if they still have to earn the right to not be treated like shit. What do you think would happen if we fought in your armies, with commanders who hate us? We'd be fed to the fucking darkspawn! You can dress it up all you want, but that doesn't make you any better than the Carta."

The accusation stings. Marja has heard countless arguments against her plans, but those had all come from Nobles stuck in their old ways, blind to how things could be better. Marja had fought for progress, and she would think Darvis should appreciate that. "Of course it's better. It's a path to legitimacy-"

"A fucking long path, though, isn't it?!"

“I know it's not simple!" Marja snaps. "And I know it's not enough. But we have to start somewhere, and it would lead to more. I had plans, Brosca, whether you believe me or not. I still haven't given up on them. That’s why I have to go back.”

Of everything Marja has said so far, somehow that’s the most surprising. “You want to go back to Orzammar?” Darvis asks, giving her an incredulous look. “I admit, it’s fucking weird up here, but at least it’s not there.”

“I have to go back,” she insists, a stubborn edge creeping into her voice. “I can’t let Bhelen take the throne. I meant what I said. Whoever is ruling has a duty to make things better for all of Orzammar’s people. I have to try.”

“You really think you can do anything, can’t you?” Darvis asks, but the words don’t sound as scathing as they should. Even now, he can feel his anger ebbing away, and he hates it. He wants to be angry- anger is easy. Anger is what the higher-ups of Orzammar deserve for the shit they've shoveled onto people like him for their terrible luck at being born.

But for better or worse, Darvis has spent quite a bit of time with Marja, and right now he actually thinks she’s being sincere- no matter how delusional it makes her sound. And she is delusional. Exiled or not, a Noble is a Noble. She's lived in luxury her entire life, while people like him and Leske and Rica struggle every day to survive. And she thinks she can fix it with some pretty words and ideas, as if it's that easy to wipe away lifetimes of hatred.

Marja only shrugs off his remark. “Believing you can do something is the only way to get it done. Sometimes the reward is worth the risk.”

Darvis shakes his head. “Not always. Most of the time, risks just get you killed.”

“Really?” Marja raises an eyebrow. “After that stunt in the Provings, I’d assume you like risks.”

The memory makes Darvis groan. “I was never supposed to be in those Provings. Fucking stupid idea."

"Why do it, then?" Marja gives him a searching look. "When I first heard the story, I pictured the Casteless trespasser as some bold warrior from Dust Town trying to show that even they could earn honor and glory before the Ancestors. That's what the Provings are for. But you obviously don't care for either of those. Why were you there?"

Darvis can't help but roll his eyes. "You really believe your own nugshit, don't you? The Provings are a way to earn gold. And if you owe the Carta gold, you don’t go crawling back without it.” He runs a thumb over his knuckles as he speaks, remembering previous failures. Those times are something he should probably he leave behind…but Marja’s already shared some of her past, so maybe fair is fair.

“Making the Carta angry- that's what taking a risk looks like. Once, I brought back less money than I was supposed to. Had to- our mother spent all we had on booze, and without that money we wouldn’t have food for the week. Beraht didn’t know for sure what I did, but he suspected. He spent an hour threatening to cut off my hands. In the end he settled on just breaking a couple fingers.”

Darvis glances sideways at Marja for a brief moment; her expression is a mix of pity and righteous anger, and he quickly looks away again. Forcing nonchalance into his voice, he shrugs. “So yeah. Between losing his money and fighting in that arena, I took the less risky option. That’s why I’m here. And that's why you should stay as far away from Orzammar as you can. No matter what you think, you really don't know how bad it is there for people without a fancy name to hide behind.”

Marja shakes her head. That stubborn, righteous anger is still in her eyes, but it's not completely focused on Darvis any longer. "I'm afraid I have to disagree with you there. I know the very worst they are capable of. And I have to go back."

"You disagree. Big shocker."

Marja chuckles reluctantly. "What can I say? It’s still my home. And yours. Surely you must admit Orzammar has some redeeming qualities. At least there aren't any trees."

The comment reminds Darvis of the original topic of conversation, and he groans. "Right. You want us to kill another sodding tree."

"For good reason- a reason which, if you'll remember, I was about to tell you before you began screaming at me."

Darvis scowls at Marja, to little effect. "If you'll remember, one of those things almost killed me today. Why do we have to fight more of them?”

Marja straightens, her momentary vulnerability gone as she recovers some of her typical authoritative posture. “The hermit knows these trees, or spirits, or whatever they are. Apparently there’s one… I don’t know, a king tree, I guess…that is causing the forest paths to change. From what I gather, the hermit stole his acorn, which made the tree angry, and now we need to kill the tree to stop the forest from shifting.”

“This is all over an acorn?” Darvis repeats. Of all the stupid… he rolls his eyes and pulls the wrapped acorn from the stump. “All that magical forest nonsense is over this fucking thing?”

Marja’s eyes widen in surprise. “Where did you get that?”

“The stump.” Darvis shrugs. “It’s the hermit’s hiding place. Unless he has two important acorns, this is the thing everyone’s losing their minds over, isn’t it?”

Marja glances surreptitiously over her shoulder, but the hermit it still nowhere to be seen. A smile slowly forms on her lips. “Well, if you don’t want to fight the trees, I might have another solution.”

Darvis regards her for a moment. He doesn’t like that I-have-an-idea look on her face, but he likes the idea of fighting the rest of the forest even less. “I’m listening.”

“We don’t need to kill the tree, necessarily. We just need it to stop being angry. Make it like us more than the werewolves. How about…we offer a truce?” She holds her hand out for the acorn, looking at Darvis expectantly, and after another moment of consideration, he nods and drops it into her palm.

“A truce. Yeah, that could work.”

Chapter Text

It is with no small amount of relief that Marja and Darvis bid goodbye to the hermit the next morning. The man chats happily in his strange way as they leave, and before they depart he even replenishes some of their supplies. Despite his oddities, Marja is grateful for his assistance, and hopes he never realizes their plan of double-crossing him; barring that, she hopes they will be far away when he does.

Marja and Darvis set off into the thick trees, and once they are certain they are alone and out of earshot, they enact their plan.

“There’s no way this’ll work,” Darvis mutters, more to himself than to Marja as they both stare into the depths of the forest surrounding them. “This plan is horrible.”

“It will work. Just leave the talking to me,” Marja replies.

“And if the trees don’t listen to you? Which is likely to happen because they’re fucking trees?”

“Then do as we discussed and follow the plan.” Marja shoots him a warning look. “You didn’t think it was so horrible when you were helping make it.”

A frown creases Darvis’s features as he shakes his head. “Yeah, well, plans that sound good when you’re making them are always the ones that end up going to shit.”

Marja bites back a sigh and a retort, choosing instead to ignore Darvis’s doubts. Their little moment of civility from the day before hasn’t smoothed over their relationship entirely, but at least they now have a tenuously working partnership. Testing just how far that partnership can stretch may not be wise just yet.

For now, they have a plan to carry out. Marja clears her throat, lifts her head high, and calls out, “We seek an audience with the Grand Oak!”

The trees around her give no reaction, although their leaves shake in the wind with a rustling that Marja could swear resembles mocking laughter. Undeterred, she tries again. “We have news regarding the whereabouts of the Grand Oak’s prized acorn!”

This time, her words earn a reaction. The rustling of the leaves quickens, and there is no possibility it’s merely the wind. Branches bend and shake, and Marja knows it’s not her imagination that the trees suddenly seem much closer.

“Brosca…” she mutters, and Darvis steps forward, hand held high, fist clenched around a small object.

“I’m not afraid to use this!” he shouts, and with a forceful motion brings his hand down to strike the flint and send a small spark shooting into the air. The motion of the trees halts for a moment, and Marja takes advantage of the hesitation.

“Lead us to the Grand Oak, and we will ensure that the acorn comes to no harm. Attack us, and everything- you and all of your acorns- will burn.”

A tense silence fills the forest. Marja glances sideways at Darvis, hoping he remembers not to actually follow through on the threat. They don’t need to burn the acorn; that would only make the trees even more furious than they already are. They only need to make sure they have the Grand Oak’s attention.

But the trees don’t know that, and despite showing no outwards means of communication it soon seems that a decision has been reached. A great rustling noise fills the air, accompanied by a strange creaking, and in one fluid motion the trees to Marja’s right shift. Their branches bend towards the sky, forming an archway and clearly marking a path through the forest.

Marja shoots a triumphant grin towards Darvis, who stares at the path with wide eyes.

“I told you it would work.”

For a brief time, as she and Darvis walk cautiously through the forest, Marja wonders how they will recognize the Grand Oak amongst all the other trees. Her worries are proven to be unfounded when they follow a bend in the path and are at last confronted by a massive, gnarled tree rooted alone in the shadow of a steep cliff. With a thick trunk at least five feet in width, an overarching canopy of dark golden leaves, and roots that reach out above the ground in an intricate pattern, Marja has to admit that Grand is not a misnomer.

“So…” Darvis sighs, with a glance at Marja, “Do we just go up and give it the acorn, or…?”

Before Marja can respond, the tree twists itself, sending leaves and twigs raining down frown the canopy and shaking the ground as its roots shift their position. The bark rearranges itself into…not quite a face, but something that is a close enough approximation to give Marja a profound sense of uneasiness.

“What manner of beast this be, that comes before this elder tree?”

The voice is not a voice, not exactly; it rustles and creaks and sounds like nothing Marja has ever heard, yet she understands the words all the same.

“Ah. Good. This one talks,” Darivs says, not even bothering to sound surprised any longer.

Marja doesn’t acknowledge the comment, keeping her eyes instead on the tree. “You are the Grand Oak?”

“Is this what you have come to learn? And why my land you threaten to burn?”

“Apologies for any distress we have caused, Grand Oak,” Marja says, bowing her head respectfully. She is aware of the army of trees still 'watching' her, and she hopes her plan hasn’t led them straight into danger. “In truth, we have no desire to fight, or to harm you. We simply needed an audience, and answers to our questions.”

The tree’s withered face takes on a curious expression. “A child of the deeper stone… yes, I hear it in your tone. The woods have never been thy home. ‘Tis far beneath the earth you roam.”

“That is part of the problem, actually,” Marja says. “We must find the leader of the werewolves and end their curse. But we have become lost in the forest, and we would request that you and your fellow spirits show us where we need to go. Would you be willing to work with us?”

“Also, are you going to be doing this rhyming thing the whole time?” Darvis adds.

“That is not an important issue right now,” Marja hisses under her breath, throwing a glare in his direction.

“It’s a serious question!”

Despite Marja’s protest, the Grand Oak’s visage twists into a smile. “Perhaps there is a poet’s soul in me…does that make me a poet tree?”

A brief moment of silence falls over the clearing, and the Grand Oak continues, “’Twas merely a jest. A jibe to entertain my guests.”

“Yes. Poetry. I get it,” Darvis replies in a dry tone. “Very funny.”

The Grand Oak’s rustling laughter fills the air, then fades as he grows serious once more. “As for what you seek amongst these trees, first you must return what belongs to me.”

“And if we do, you will help us find the werewolves?” Marja prompts.

Another rustling noise comes from the Oak, but it is not laughter this time; it is a sigh. “In the center of the forest the weres do dwell, or so go the tales my fellows tell. But they cannot be followed there; the forest doth protect the weres. The wolf we know as one of our kin, and so we keep them safe within.”

“Your kin?” Marja asks. “You mean another spirit?”

“One not contained within a tree,” the Grand Oak replies, “yet from beyond, as are we. They do not give us cause for alarm, and we have no reason to wish them harm.”

“We’re not asking you to act against your kin,” Marja says gently. “Please understand, we only wish to stop the spread of the werewolf curse. All we need from you is safe passage. No fighting for either side. Just let us through- and our companions as well, if they are still here in the forest.”

“There is no cause to worry or weep,” the Oak answers. “Your friends still live, in a hypnotic sleep.”

“Alive?” Darvis repeats. “That’s… good, I guess?” Darvis glances at Marja, one eyebrow raised. She can only give a hopeful nod in answer; she doesn’t know what the tree means by ‘hypnotic sleep’, but ‘alive’ is certainly a step in the right direction.

“Do we have a deal then?” she presses.

For a long moment, the Grand Oak is silent. Although the tree has no eyes, Marja can feel it studying her and Darvis as it considers the proposition. At last it bends forward, and with a booming splintering sound drops a large, thick branch to the ground at their feet. “All I have is my being, my seed,” it says heavily. “Without it I am alone, indeed. I could not go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without. My wooden skin has some magic, see. Part of it I give to thee. The forest will see thee as a tree, and so no harm will come to thee.”

“Thank you,” Marja says, letting out a breath of relief. She turns and nods to Darvis, and he steps forward and places the acorn next to the branch on the ground.

“And we would ask for one last boon,” the Grand Oak adds. “You will be facing our kin soon. We know not why they start this fight, nor the cause of the were's plight. But we hope not to see them ended- stay your blade, and let their wound be mended.”

“You want us to not attack the spirit?” Marja bites her lip in contemplation as she considers the request. Zathrian had made it clear the creature’s death will be needed to end the curse, and she’s not eager to add yet another broken promise to her record.

But they need the Grand Oak’s help, and they have very little to negotiate with. It’s not even as if her motives for manipulation are selfish; the Wardens need to reach the wolf to defeat it, and they need to defeat it to earn the alliance of the Dalish. They need the alliance of the Dalish to stop the Blight, and if they fail, the Blight will destroy all of Ferelden- including the Grand Oak’s forest.

So Marja takes a breath, nods, and says, “We will do what we can.”

It’s not even an outright lie.

Darvis should probably be relieved when the Grand Oak follows through on its promise and leads him and Marja to their unharmed companions. But really, he’s more pissed than anything else.

“You’re telling me,” he says in a sour growl, “that while we’ve been running around this forest and dealing with all this crazy spirit shit, you’ve just been napping the entire time?”

“Not napping, exactly,” Alistair corrects, although he does have the decency to look sheepish as he says it. A yawn creeps through the edge of his voice, quickly followed by a shudder as he looks around suspiciously. “The forest spirits must have laid out the trap- I think they were planning on feeding off our energy for a while before killing us.”

Darvis just crosses his arms and scowls. It’s hard to summon much sympathy for the companions he found curled up on plushy bedrolls around a glowing campfire.

Marja, however, wears an expression of concern as she rushes to help Leliana to her feet. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Leliana assures her, rising with only a bit of wobble in her step. “Just…very tired.”

She does look a bit pale- her and Alistair both do, and even Nug had greeted Darvis with a subdued lick instead of his usual enthusiastic barking. The situation still seems more than a little unfair- Darvis nearly got stepped on by a tree, for fuck’s sake- but he has to admit the campsite is beginning to make him uneasy. The campfire is inviting, but the flames don’t move in quite the right way, and although it’s warm and seems to be burning, it gives off no smoke.

“How did you find us, anyway?” Alistair asks, and Darvis tears his gaze away from the flames and remembers that he’s annoyed right now.

“We spent two days wandering through a creepy fucking forest, that’s how,” he says gruffly. “While you were getting some beauty sleep, we were getting attacked by trees- because apparently that’s a thing that happens. And then we made a deal with a crazy old hermit who lives in these woods to kill the boss tree. And then we broke that deal to make a different deal with the boss tree to exchange an acorn for passage through the magical forest so we can find the wolf that is apparently also a spirit.”

He pauses and throws a glance in Marja’s direction. “Did I leave anything out?”

Marja thinks for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I think you got all the important points in there.”

Alistair blinks a few times in surprise as he processes the explanation. “You- okay, sure, I guess that all makes sense.”

“About as much as anything else up here does,” Darvis agrees.

“I still have questions, actually…” Leliana begins, but Marja shakes her head.

“Let’s talk while we walk. We still have a wolf to kill, remember?”

Even when the forest is on their side, it’s still fucking creepy.

Marja and Alistair march at the head of the group, with Alistair carrying the branch from the Grand Oak slung over his shoulder. As they walk, the trees part before them, clearing a path and leading them to what Darvis hopes is the wolf lair they’ve been searching for and not a path straight off a cliff.

Not that the wolf den is a very pleasant destination itself. And speaking of… “What’s the plan on dealing with the wolf, then?”

Marja glances back at him, pausing only a moment before answering, “We have to find it first.”

She’s dodging the question, and they both know it. Darvis huffs and persists.“Obviously. What’s the plan after that? You did tell the giant tree spirit that rules the forest that you wouldn’t kill it, so…”

“You did what?” Alistair asks, startled, and Marja huffs.

“I said I would try not to kill it,” she corrects firmly. Darvis snorts- he doubts the trees out here will be very understanding with that piece of semantics- and the next look Marja gives him is a stern glare. “We needed the assistance. If we find this spirit and it’s a deranged wolf-monster going around cursing people, I’m sure the forest will understand.”

“Right. Reason with the trees after killing their friend.” Darvis sighs and shakes his head. “You do that, Princess, just be sure to keep a hand on that giant hatchet of yours while you do.”

“Careful,” Marja says, a trace of amusement evident in her tone. “You’re starting to sound concerned. And it’s a battleaxe.”

The retort forming in Darvis’s throat dies as their path finally arcs over a hill and their destination comes into view. A strange, foreboding sense of nostalgia grips him as he surveys the cluster of large stone ruins, reminiscent of the buildings they’d found in the Korcari Wilds. These, however, seem to have been here far longer; long enough for thick trees to grow within the ruined city and burst through the ceilings. The only visible entrance is a set of steep stairs that descend downwards into the earth.

“The wolves are in there?” Alistair asks. As soon as the question is out of his mouth, a long howl resonates from deep within the ruins.

“I’d say that’s a yes,” Marja says. Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks, the confidence she had mere moments ago suddenly diminished. Darvis gives her a questioning glance, but she doesn’t seem to notice; her eyes are fixed on the entrance to the shadowy cavern.

“Well?” he prompts. “Are we going to finally hunt down these wolves?”

Matja’s expression hardens so quickly Darvis thinks he may have imagined the momentary vulnerability. “Of course. Let’s go- I’m ready to end this.”

Chapter Text

The underground ruins should be familiar territory- moreso, at least, than the haunted forest. But the ruins beneath the Brecilian Forest are nothing like Orzammar. They may have been, once; Marja and the rest of the group enter through a large archway to a room that must have once held mosaics and fountains and splendorous statues, not terribly unlike the Hall of Paragons back home. But that would have been long, long ago. Now, the carvings and mosaics are covered in thick layers of dirt and moss, and any remaining statues have crumbled beyond recognition. There is a sadness to the sight- all the one-time glory and opulence, forgotten and left to fall apart in dusty silence.

Fortunately, the stairs they take into the depths of the ruins are stable, carved with a craftsmanship that is impressive even now, years after the etchings have faded and worn to faint impressions of what they once were. Marja brushes the dust away for a better look, but what little of the carvings remains is unintelligible, decorated in unfamiliar symbols and lined with runes whose meanings she can't begin to decipher.

“This place is strange,” Marja remarks as she carefully makes her way down the stairs. She pauses a moment to glance at the twisting roots of one of the large trees that has encroached through the ruin’s wall. The wall is in a state of half-collapse, unable to hold up against the tree’s intrusion, and a loose pile of soil has gathered at the base of the largest crack. Marja hopes the rest of the ruins are built sturdier.

“No kidding,” Alistair replies. He lifts his chin and closes his eyes, concentrating on something unseen by Marja. “There’s definitely some powerful magic here. The Veil must be thin. It’s making my Templar senses twitch.”

Leliana nods, her eyes sweeping over the carvings on the walls. “These are elven ruins, after all. They have always made more use of magic than humans. Still, these are unlike what we saw at the Dalish camp. Times have changed greatly.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Marja says, barely paying attention to their words. She’s too busy trying to figure out just what it is that unnerves her about this place. She frowns and crouches lower to the floor, and tries to focus on the ground beneath her feet. “It doesn’t feel like the Stone.”

Marja glances back at the humans for confirmation, but of course they only look confused. With a sigh, she turns to Darvis. He seems reluctant to answer at first, but at last, he huffs and crosses his arms. “Yeah, it feels weird. Not like Orzammar. Must be the magic.”

Marja’s answer is lost as an echoing howl, long and haunting, fills the room. As one, the group turns quickly towards the source- one of the hallways branching from the large main room, descending lower beneath the surface.

After a long moment of silence, Alistair is the first to speak. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Marja says. “They’re leading us straight to them. They must have something planned.”

“Not like we can turn back now,” Darvis points out. “We need that heart, don’t we?”

“We do.” With a sigh, Marja heaves her axe over her shoulder. “But let’s be careful.”

In a way, Marja must admit that the foreign feel of the ruins is a blessing. They don’t remind her of the Deep Roads and their suffocating endlessness. She merely has to stop herself from lingering too long on the caved-in pathways, from wondering just how far these twisting passages go-

With no Stone sense to depend upon, those thoughts leave her dizzy and disoriented, and she forces herself to focus on other things. It’s easier to have the others here- even Darvis. Their numbers give her a sense of security.

Every now and then, another howl will resound from deep within the ruins, calling them to its desired direction. After the third large, empty room with towering doorways and moss-covered stones, Alistair chuckles nervously and quips, “Some architect clearly suffered from an unrequited love of the pointed arch.”

It’s not the funniest joke, but Darvis snorts and Leliana giggles. Marja even manages to muster a smile as the strange levity lifts some of the tension from her shoulders.

Unfortunately, the lightheartedness doesn’t last long. Alistair is the first to cross the threshold into the next room, and Marja nearly barrels into him when he freezes in his place. “Maker,” he breathes, and his tone indicates nothing good. Marja peeks around his side to see what has caused the change in attitude, and immediately a shiver runs down her spine.

The room ahead is covered in thick, white spider silk. Webs hang from the ceilings, from the statues, from any surface available. Worse than the webs are the thick bundles in the corner- Marja doesn’t know what they used to be, and she quickly decides she doesn’t want to. Whatever they once were, they’re now spider meals.

“Look out!” Leliana shouts, reaching and pulling Marja out of the way just as a jet of bright green liquid covers the place she once stood. Alistair yelps and leaps in the opposite direction, shaking the acid splash from his armored boots. Across the room, a hairy brown spider- massive, larger even than Nug- clambers out of the shadows, hissing wildly. It rears back and spits another blast of acid towards them.

Alistair quickly raises his shield to block the spray, letting out a noise of frustration as his boots are once again splashed with the substance. “Why is it always spiders?”

Leliana creeps closer to the doorway and strings an arrow to her bow. “Don’t worry- this will not take long.”

Leliana is correct; the spider is hardly a match for their group. But it is also far from the only thing in these ruins that wants to kill them.

The spider-infested room empties out into a long hallway lined with skeletons, still in their trappings and armor. At first, Marja takes them for the remains of the spiders’ unfortunate meal- but all too quickly, they prove to be much worse. They’ve barely had time to shake the web trappings and spider guts from their boots when the skeletons rise of their own volition, weapons and all.

“Why the blazes aren’t these things staying dead?” Darvis demands as he faces off against one of the skeletons, his back pressed against the wall. He dodges swipes from blades with a scowl on his face before striking out and sending the skull flying across the room. “Oh, wait, let me guess- more weird magic shit?”

Alistair lets out a short laugh. He and Marja are standing back to back, fending off a legion of the attackers. “I’d wager magic has something to do with it, yes.”

“Judging from the armor, they’re ancient elves,” Leliana shouts. She’s further back, firing arrows into the crowd of skeletons as Nug guards her, tackling any creature that comes too close. “The elves must have laid some sort of spell of protection, to guard these ruins even after they were gone.”

“Then why didn’t they attack the spiders?” Marja asks through swings of her axe.

A skeleton comes bearing down on her left, and Alistair swings his sword above her head to knock it back. Even through the din of the fight, Marja hears him laugh again. “Maybe the ancient elves kept the spiders as pets?”

Marja would roll her eyes if she weren’t so focused on dismantling the waves of decayed attackers.

The presence of the dragon in the ruins actually makes Marja mad.

In other situations, she might admire the sight. She’s never seen a creature quite like this before- not counting the blighted beast from her dreams, of course. This one is smaller, and not quite so frightening, and thankfully it lacks the power of flight. But it’s still nearly twenty feet tall and very intent on eating Marja and her companions, so it seems a good idea to kill it quickly and make comparisons later.

She buries her axe in the dragon’s forearm, earning a shriek of pain and rage from the creature. She scowls; she’d been aiming for its neck, but it turned at the last moment. Now it bares its teeth at her and lunges forward.

Marja moves just in time, and a well-timed arrow from Leliana draws the dragon’s attention away before it can launch a second attack. Marja takes a moment to catch her breath, glaring at the creature before her.

From the other side of the beast, she can hear Darvis swearing as he tries to figure out a way to approach the creature without being battered back by its thrashing tail. “How is there a dragon underground?” he shouts.

“It’s not a dragon, it is a drake,” Leliana corrects coolly. She fires off another arrow, then ducks behind a caved-in piece of the wall as the dragon whips its head around, searching for its attacker.

“Big fucking difference!” Darvis yells, and the dragon- the drake- swerves to face him. It rears its head back, opens its mouth, and releases a stream of fire in his direction. Luckily, Alistair is near enough to dive in and block the worst of the flames with his shield.

“There is a difference,” Alistair says, breathing heavily but still managing a light tone. “If it were a dragon, that would’ve killed the both of us.”

Marja doesn’t pay mind to Darvis’s irritated reponse; as soon as the drake has its back is to her, she charges forward once again, this time managing to sink her axe into the creature’s exposed side.

The following enraged shriek is interrupted by Darvis’s dagger. The man ducks a wild swipe from the dragon’s claw as it struggles, furious but quickly weakening as blood flows from its numerous injuries. Leliana is the one to finish the job with one last arrow, striking true into the already open wound left by Darvis’s dagger. And just to make sure it's truly down, Marja heaves her axe one last time, slicing through the drake's neck until it is undoubtedly dead.

They stand over the beheaded creature, all breathing heavily, until Marja asks, “That was the only one, right?”

“I sure sodding hope so,” Darvis grumbles, but he edges a little further into the room to make sure. A moment later, his voice rings out. “Holy shit.”

Marja spins around, axe at the ready, searching for whatever insane new threat Darvis has stumbled upon. For a fleeting second, she imagines what else these ruins could possibly hold, and prays fervently to the Ancestors that the drake did not have a mate.

But as she runs forward, passing around a pile of debris from the partially collapsed ceiling, she quickly realizes that Darvis is in no immediate danger. Rather, he’s on his knees, stuffing coins into his bag, and the pile of assorted treasures he kneels in front of is enough to make Marja understand his initial reaction.

“Where did all of this come from?” she asks, staring with wide eyes at the collection of gold stacked high in the corner of the room.

“It’s a dragon hoard,” Leliana says breathlessly. “Or a drake hoard, I suppose. Anything that glimmers, they will collect.”

“And it’s made us rich,” Darvis says, and it’s almost strange to see his face lit with joy that is not marred by bitterness or sarcasm. “Look at all this loot! You know what, I changed my mind- if this is what fighting a drake gets us, I think I like them now.”

The group decides to rest for a while in the dragon’s lair, to regain some strength before confronting the wolves- and to bask in the glow of the piles of gold coins.

Darvis does more basking than resting. He should try to get some shut-eye, and yet every few minutes his attention returns to the gold and treasures stuffed in his bag, and he can’t control the manic glee that rises within him.

Still, he is weary enough to try and actually rest for a few minutes. He wonders if their venture so far is the werewolf version of playing with food- let the monsters of the ruins tire them out, and then sweep in for the kill. It’s among these cheerful thoughts that Darvis somehow manages to nod off for a short while.

It doesn’t last long. Darvis has never paid much mind to talk of Stone sense- if any Ancestors are supposed to be guiding him through the rocks, they’ve fucked up that job long ago. But he can’t deny that something about these ruins feels weird, like trying to breathe through a stuffed nose. He sighs, scratching at Nug’s ears to try and distract himself. The dog has curled up next to Darvis, happily gnawing on one of the bones he’d claimed from the mass of destroyed skeletons. Darvis wonders briefly if that’s safe- who knows what crazy magic that thing is covered in- but Nug is so content with his prize that Darvis decides it’s probably fine.

Watching Nug chew at the stolen femur can only keep Darvis entertained for so long, and soon he rises to once again take a survey of the treasure. They don’t have enough pocket space to take everything here, so they need to make sure they’ve grabbed all of the most valuable things.

“Are you okay?”

The question from Leliana surprises him. He hadn’t even realized she was awake; but she is, and looking at Darvis with interest. A small, apologetic smile forms on her lips. “Sorry- I did not intend to alarm you. You merely seemed disturbed.”

Darvis shrugs and waves her off. “I’m fine. It’s just…well, like the princess said. Feels weird in here.”

“It must be the closeness of the Fade.” Leliana tilts her head thoughtfully. “I have never considered the effect of magic underground like this. But if dwarves are resistant to magic and sensitive to Stone, it seems logical that they should cancel each other out, yes?”

“Sure.” Darvis turns back to the pile, sorting through the junk to find the more expensive trinkets. An odd object catches his eye, and he pulls out a small stone covered in unfamiliar signs. It doesn’t look very valuable, but it gleams in a way Darvis is beginning to recognize as magical. He slips it into his pocket, making a note to pass it off to Alistair later- at the very least, perhaps he can use his templar training to decipher the strange runes.

As he sorts through the treasure, Darvis can feel Leliana continue to watch him. Her concern is slightly off-putting, and he wonders if she’s going to try and make conversation again. Sure enough, barely five seconds of silence have passed before she says, “You are certainly enjoying the treasure. Not that I blame you. We won’t have to worry about paying for supplies for a good while now.”

Darvis chuckles. “You can say that again. I’ve never laid eyes on this much coin in my life. If the folks back home could see this…”

He can imagine the reactions so clearly, it’s almost as if his family is here. Leske might actually cry at the sight of all these coins- Darvis can practically hear his voice, his gloating cry of Who needs the Carta now? And Rica- Rica would never have to work again. She’d be able to buy her own food and clothes without relying on anyone else. Even their mother might crack a smile.

If they could see this. Darivs sighs, his good mood suddenly gone. He’s being stupid. This stuff doesn’t help Leske or Rica at all, not with Orzammar miles and miles away.

“Not that they ever will," he mutters. "But at least we won’t starve to death before the darkspawn kill us.”

Leliana doesn’t comment on his sudden mood shift, instead letting her gaze drift to the pile of trinkets. She tilts her head, and after a moment walks over and pulls a silver bracelet from the pile. With a smile, she tosses the bracelet to Darvis.

“We will not starve, and you have another gift for Morrigan when we return.”

By instinct, Darvis catches the bracelet, and doesn’t try to show how Leliana’s words alarm him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leliana only shrugs, unfazed and still smiling. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice her shiny new necklace? Don’t worry- I won’t tell anyone. Now come, let’s see if the others are ready to continue on.”

Darvis doesn’t know whether to be thankful or suspicious when they resume their travel and aren’t immediately attacked by another strange creature. The group continues down the hallways, passing through three more large, ceremonial-looking rooms and finding nothing but dust and crumbling rocks.

And of course there’s the howling, always in the distance, luring them down through the winding paths. Perhaps it’s only imagination, but each time it sounds a little closer.

The waiting has Darvis on edge. His fingers never let go of his daggers, tracing and twirling the hilts to give some sort of focus to his nervous energy. He knows an attack is coming soon; he can feel it. But despite his caution and expectations, the werewolves still manage take them all by surprise.

It’s shocking how quickly and quietly the great beasts can move when they wish. One moment, Darvis is following the others into the next chamber, wondering how much longer they have to walk and whether Witherfang will show itself soon.  The next, a dozen shadows have launched themselves from every corner.

Darvis jumps into a fighting stance, daggers raised, but the wolf at the head of the pack raises his crooked hands cautiously- a gesture of peace greatly at odd with the large number of snarling beasts filling the chamber.

“Stop. We have not been sent to fight.”

A tense silence falls over the group, broken only by the occasional growl from the surrounding wolves- most of whom look all too willing to rip the Wardens apart. For now, however, they follow the example of their leader and restrain themselves.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marja asks in a sharp voice.

The wolf’s expression twists into a grimace, and the distaste for the words he is about to speak is evident in his tone. “In the forest, you spoke of parley. We have decided to give you a chance.”

A tense silence fills the air, broken only when Darvis lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Seriously?” he asks. “After all this, now you want to talk?”

“Yeah, you didn’t seem interested in giving the Dalish that option,” Alistair points out.

An irritated growl rumbles from the creature’s throat. “That was different. Now, the Lady has decided she wants to speak with you. She believes the Dalish have not told you everything.” His eyes roam over the party’s drawn weapons, and he begrudgingly adds, “She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley is honest.”

“And just who is this Lady you speak of?” Marja’s voice is haughty and incredulous, and Darvis finds it strangely satisfying to hear that tone be directed at someone else for a change. “We have no reason to trust her, or to walk into another ambush at your behest.”

“She is the Lady of the Forest. And she can tell you of this Witherfang you seek. If you wish to know more, you must come meet with her.”

Darvis glances at the others. “Any of you buying this?”

Alistair’s eyes narrow. “Well, they’ve just been so trustworthy in the past, haven’t they?” He shakes his head, eyes never leaving the wolves in front of him and hand never straying from the hilt of his sword. “I don’t believe them.”

“But if there is a chance we can have a peaceful talk…” Leliana’s protest trails off, and she pauses for a moment, uncertain. Then she takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again her tone is firm. “I believe we should attempt this parley. Surely it is our duty to solve this without violence if we can.”

“I agree. I would prefer to solve this peacefully,” Marja says. Her gaze shifts back to the wolf standing before them. “But last time we offered to talk, we were denied. Now the parley comes? This is almost certainly a trick.”

“If we wanted to attack you now, we would have!” the wolf snarls impatiently.

“That much is true, at least” Darvis mutters to the others, inclining his head toward the wolves waiting to the side. “Seems like the question is whether to fight now or see what they have up their sleeves. Fur. Whatever.”

Marja considers this, then finally gives the wolf a curt nod and relaxes her fighting stance. “We will parley. Take us to this Lady.”

“And if they betray us,” Darvis says under his breath, “we can always kill them later.”

The wolf huffs, but turns and motions for them to follow. He leads them to a thick curtain of ivy covering one of the walls, and pushes the plant life aside to reveal a narrow staircase. Before descending, he turns back to them, eyes narrowed and suspicious. “Before we go, I must warn you- if you break the parley and harm our Lady, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay.”

As they follow the werewolf further into the depths of the ruins, Darvis can’t help but wonder if they’ve made a horrible mistake. He doesn’t know for sure how many wolves are lurking down here. At least a dozen surround their little party, and every now and then he catches more yellow eyes watching from the darkness.

His fingers drum against the hilts of his daggers- still sheathed at his belt, but ready. Just in case.

At last, they reach their destination- a large chamber whose original purpose Darvis cannot guess at, for now it is nearly completely covered in the large sprawling roots of a truly massive tree. Even more werewolves await them here, perched on the roots and watching hungrily as the Wardens and their companions approach. None make a move to attack- not yet, at least.

Something else moves near the base of the tree, and as one the wolves suddenly shift their gaze to the new creature. It approaches through a strange haze of fog, and as it nears, Darvis realizes it is a wolf- a true wolf, twice the size of a normal creature but graceful, not half-formed like the others. Its fur is a pure, shocking white, save for the paws and legs which are covered in so many leaves and vines they appear to be colored green.

“That’s got to be thing we came to kill, right?” Darvis whispers to Marja, and she nods mutely.

Before they can ask any questions, however, the wolf’s form lengthens and shifts, floating like mist until a new shape solidifies before them. The vines are still present, now extending further and covering the vaguely elven-looking figure in a strange lattice of roots and foliage. The- wolf? Woman? Spirit?- smiles at her visitors. When she speaks, her voice has a strange ethereal tenor that echoes through the room.

“Greetings. I am the Lady of the Forest.”

Darvis glances at the others, and gives voice to what they’re all thinking. “You’re Witherfang.”

One of the wolves growls threateningly and stalks forward, but the woman holds out an arm and the creature stills. “I was, when I first was summoned. I suppose Zathrian would say I still am.” She tilts her head and studies the group standing before her; calculating, Darvis thinks, but not outright predatory.

“We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

That the spirit has not made any attempts to kill them so far is a good sign. At least, Marja hopes so. She hopes that it’s-her?- request for diplomacy is sincere, rather than some trap Marja has led her companions straight into. The werewolves crouching behind the spirit don’t do much to put her at ease; they eye their visitors hungrily, shifting with impatience as if waiting for the signal to spring into action.

But whatever sign they’re waiting for, the spirit does not give it to them. For now, it seems she does simply wish to talk.

Marja has questions- many questions. But she doesn’t know how long this audience will last, so she begins with one that is hopefully simple. “Who are you, exactly? The wolves called you Lady of the Forest, but I believe Zathrian knows you as Witherfang.”

The spirit tilts her head and looks down at her own vine-covered form, as if considering the question. Her skin is an odd amalgamation of moss, bark, and leaves, with parts of her body seemingly undecided as to whether they wish to present as elf or tree. Her long dark hair billows out behind her in a nonexistent breeze, casting a shadow against her delicately structured face. When she speaks, her soft voice echoes strangely against the walls of the ruins. “Both are names that have been given to me. My nature is similar to that of the forest- savage and beautiful in equal measure. When I first came to this side of the Veil, I was restricted to the form of wolf…but I have grown and learned much since then.”

Marja gives Alistair a questioning glance- of the four of them, he has the most experience with magic. “Is that possible? For her to be both?”

He eyes the spirit, curious but wary. “It does make sense, in a way. Spirits are tricky. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them took a form to disguise itself.”

The spirit frowns at his words. “The form you see before you is no lie,” she insists. “Neither is the form of the great wolf to which I was first bound. I am Witherfang, and I am the Lady of the Forest. Both of these are true.”

“Lady of the ruins, if we’re being literal about it,” Darvis mutters, casting a glance at the crumbling stone around them.

His remark earns a snarl from the werewolf at the spirit’s side, and in a blink the creature lunges forward towards Darvis. Marja’s hand immediately goes to her weapon, but the spirit raises a hand first and calls out, “Swiftwunner!”

The beast freezes at her voice. He stands mere feet away from Darvis, glaring furiously at the dwarf who now holds a dagger in each hand, ready to defend himself as Nug stands in front of him with bared teeth. After a short, tense moment, the wolf takes a step back, although his hackles are still raised and his claws curl in anger at his side. “She is the Lady of the Forest!” he growls. “And you will not speak to her in such a manner!”

Darvis relaxes slightly as he the wolf retreats, although Marja notes that his face has gone a shade paler than normal. This is why you need to learn to keep your mouth shut sometimes, she thinks, but that is a conversation for later. For now, she turns her focus back to the spirit, who is laying a calming hand on the werewolf’s shoulder.

“Your urge for violence will only bring about more death. Is that what you wish?” she asks quietly, her voice firm and yet unexpectedly gentle.

The wolf grumbles, still eyeing Darvis in anger, but his posture eases. “No, my Lady.”

“Then set your rage aside.” The spirit sighs and turns her attention back to the Wardens. “I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.”

“We all do, at times,” Marja answers, looking sideways at Darvis. He still appears shaken from the near attack, but he recovers enough to glare at Marja.

“It was just an observation,” he says, lowering his weapons. “And if you didn’t like that, you’re really not going to like the next question on my mind.”

“Brosca…” Marja says in a warning tone, but-of course- he doesn’t heed her.

Instead, he looks around at the werewolves, points a dagger towards the spirit, and says, “Why aren’t any of you attacking her? Witherfang is the one who cursed all of you! Why wouldn’t you want us to just kill her now and take the heart?”

A chorus of snarls erupts immediately from the crowd of werewolves. Three of the wolves close in protectively around the spirit, and three more spring forward, teeth bared and hackles raised. Marja lifts her axe, ready to fend them off-

“Stop.”

The spirit’s voice reverberates around the room, and as she speaks Marja feels a rumbling from beneath her feet. She barely has time to step back before thorny vines burst from the stony floor- not attacking, but forming a small barrier between the Wardens and the wolves. The spirit steps out from behind her werewolf protectors, who look up at her with obvious distress but make no further move to attack. After a moment of tense silence, the vines slowly slink back into the ground.

“Such constant fighting,” the spirit sighs. Her gaze drifts from the wolves, to Darvis, and back to Marja. “Don’t you see that I am tired of it? If I could end the curse I would, but it is not within my powers. I can lessen the effects, somewhat. I have given guidance where I can. But to undo it completely…that is something only Zathrian can do.”

“I believe her,” Leliana says in a quiet voice. Marja looks at the other woman in surprise, and Leliana gestures towards the spirit.

“Look at her, and what she can do. If this was some kind of trick she could have killed us by now. Instead, she’s only trying to speak with us.” Leliana nods, as if affirming something to herself. “I believe her.”

Leliana does have a point; if this is a trap, it is an elaborate one. Marja regards the spirit before her, wondering just how far this apparent goodwill is going to extend. “Zathrian sent us here for your heart,” she says carefully, “because he requires it to make the cure.”

A grumbling spreads through the wolves, but the spirit’s expression shows neither anger nor fear. “Perhaps he does,” she answers simply. “But it will not be the only requirement. Not to end the curse completely. But he has not told you that. There is much he has not told you.”

“You tell us, then.”

A small, hopeful smile spreads across the spirit’s face. “I wish to see the curse not only cured, but ended- for all those who suffer.” The smile falters, and she lowers her gaze. “But I alone cannot, for I was not the one who caused it all those years ago. That person is Zathrian.”

Darvis and Alistair both make noises of surprise, and Marja raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying Zathrian is the one cursing his own people.”

“That was not the purpose of the original curse,” the spirit replies. She looks away, eyes closed, and releases a sigh full of sorrow. “Long, long ago, Zathrian had a family. A son and a daughter. They were alone in the forest when they came upon a group of human hunters.”

“Dalish have never been welcome in human lands. Zathrian’s children were outnumbered. They were tortured, and they were murdered. Zathrian was the one to find their bodies.” The spirit’s words are short- she clearly does not wish to linger on this tale- but her voice is heavy with emotion far beyond what Marja expects from a creature of the Fade.

And no wonder, Marja thinks, closing her eyes as she takes in the account.

“Those poor souls,” Leliana breathes.

“And so Zathrian wanted to avenge his children,” Alistair says in a low voice.

The spirit bows her head. “Yes. He came to these very ruins and summoned a powerful spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf.” Her face twists into a frown. “And so Witherfang came to be. He attacked the humans, and they became twisted and savage just as he was. The creatures were driven to the forest, pitiful and mindless animals.”

Darvis makes an angry noise, and when Marja glances his way she sees that his eyes are full of venom and his hands are straying towards his daggers again. “They deserved every bit of what they got.”

“They did,” the spirit agrees. “I cannot say I condemn Zathrian’s actions at the time. But those who hurt his family are long dead now. Over time, Witherfang changed- I changed. And I was able to bring that change to the descendants of the creatures I had created.”

“Yes,” Swiftrunner says, looking up at the spirit with an adoration bordering on worship. “You granted me peace, Lady.”

The sorrowful lines on the spirit’s face soften, and she smiles kindly at the wolf. “Swiftrunner was the first whom I was able to help. I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. He brought the others to me.”

“And then they began attacking the Dalish,” Darvis interjects pointedly.

The spirit’s good humor dissipates. “Their minds have been restored, but these creatures still suffer terribly- and undeservedly. They are cut off from their homes, forced to live as wild beasts in penance for crimes they had no hand in. Every time Zathrian’s clan passes this way, we send word, pleading for his aid in stopping the curse. He has always ignored us.” She lifts her chin, resolute. “It is not my wish to cause more suffering. But we will no longer be denied. If he will not end the curse for the sake of the werewolves, he must do it for his own people.”

Marja pauses a moment before speaking, trying to word her next statement delicately. “He does want to help his people. That is why he asked us to search for you.”

“You mean he sent you to hunt me down,” the spirit replies, nodding as if she expects nothing less. “My death would end the attacks, and return these creatures to mindless beasts. It may even help the Dalish who have been afflicted- I cannot be certain. But it would take more to truly undo the original curse. That is why you must bring Zathrian here. If he comes- if he sees these creatures for himself, hears their plight- he will agree. I believe that. But he must swear to it. If he does not, the attacks will continue, and he will never cure his people. That, Wardens, is why you must bring Zathrian here.”

She says Wardens, but the spirit’s deep eyes are focused on Marja. Marja glances to the side, and realizes that Alistair and Leliana are looking to her as well; Leliana’s expression is hopeful and almost pleading, while Alistair simply wears a worried frown. The only one not waiting for her to speak is Darvis, whose eyes sweep over the horde of wolves. Marja can practically see him calculating the odds of them winning a fight against the entire pack. From the look on his face, the odds aren’t good.

Marja takes a steadying breath, her head reeling with all of this new information. She’s learned more of magic and spirits in the last few hours than she has in her entire life. But beneath all of that- the curses and creatures and ancient spells- this is actually somewhat familiar territory. She is dealing with a desire for vengeance, and a desire for compromise. How different is this, really, from a generations-long conflict between two Houses that needs to be sorted out?

She doesn’t know much about magic, but that, she can handle.

“We’ll bring Zathrian,” Marja says. “We’ll figure this out. But it has to be a peaceful talk.” She casts a meaningful look at Swiftrunner. “And your wolves must stand down. This meeting will be between you and Zathrian. No armies on either side.”

Predictably, Swiftrunner is not the only wolf to protest this demand. Growls and mutterings echo through the ruins, but Marja stands firm and raises her voice above the din, keeping her eyes on the spirit. “I would not ask you to appear alone amongst the Dalish warriors. I cannot ask Zathrian to meet you with a pack of werewolves at your back. My companions and I will act as neutral parties to ensure neither of you come to harm.”

The spirit considers Marja for a long moment. At last, she nods and says, “Very well.” Swiftunner immediately turns to her, distraught, but she raises a hand to stop him. “Do not worry for me. I am capable of defending myself, if it comes to that.”

“Then we have a deal?” Marja asks.

“We do.” The spirit lifts a hand in the air, and the greenery covering the cavern walls springs to life in response. Vines pull back towards the ceiling, revealing a steep, dusty staircase leading upwards. “This will lead you to the ruin’s entrance. Return as quickly as you can.”

Darvis squints at the staircase. “Has that been there this entire time? You realize we had to fight a drake to get down here, and this staircase was just-”

“Thank you,” Marja says loudly, cutting him off. “We will bring Zathrian here as soon as we can.”

If we convince him, she thinks, but of course there is no need to say that part out loud.

Darvis is relieved to finally leave the werewolves behind; almost as relieved as he is that they won’t have to retrace their steps through the endless ruins, even if he’s still seething about the hidden staircase. Next time he finds himself trudging through centuries-old grime and carving a path through hordes of skeletons, he’ll have to remember to double-check for potential shortcuts.

These thoughts keep him occupied until the group reaches the top of the stairs, with the spirit and the wolves a safe distance behind. Only then does he begrudgingly turn his mind back to slightly more urgent matters. “You really think bringing Zathrian here is a good idea?”

Marja pauses in her steps, stopping just before the main archway of the ruins. To Darvis’s surprise, she doesn’t turn to glare at him; instead, her gaze is thoughtful as she actually considers the question. “It’s a risk,” she allows. “But it seems worth the effort to speak to both him and the spirit at the same time.” She glances over to Alistair with a raised eyebrow. “And no offense, but nobody else seemed to be offering any ideas.”

“Hey!” Alistair holds up his hands defensively. “I trust your judgment, you know. And I would’ve spoken up if I disagreed, but it just so happens that I think you’re right. Maybe Zathrian can undo the curse, maybe he can’t. But we have to try, don’t we?”

Leliana nods in agreement. “I believe the Maker would prefer this be solved peacefully; he must be granting his favor to this mission.”

It takes more restraint than he’s usually capable of, but Darvis manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes at Leliana’s comment. Instead, he looks down at Nug, desperate for any source of backup, but the dog only barks happily and licks his hand. Darvis sighs. “Look, I agree that if Zathrian comes in and fixes everything, we could just put a pretty bow on this and everyone could go home happy. But even if he can, do you really think he will?”

Leliana frowns. “But with his own people now afflicted, what reason has he to continue this madness?”

“Never said it made sense,” Darvis replies with a shrug. “But both sides of this are out for blood. This kind of shit always ends in a fight.”

“Not always,” Marja insists. “The spirit doesn’t want bloodshed, and Zathrian should be smart enough to see the wisdom of a compromise.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow in her direction, wondering if she even believes her own words. “Is that what you’d do in their place? Give up your vengeance because you ‘see the wisdom of a compromise’?”

Marja’s expression turns stony. “Zathrian already has his vengeance, doesn't he? He killed the people he needed to kill. Now he’s just prolonging suffering for everyone. He’s a reasonable man; I’m sure he’ll see that this will be best for everyone.”

She’s still missing the point, but Darvis doesn’t know how to make her see that. He thinks of his own family- of Rica, of Leske. If anything like what happened to Zathrian’s family happened to them, no amount of suffering would be enough to settle the score. But as he looks around at the faces of his companions, Darvis gets the feeling they won’t relent until they attempt this extremely optimistic plan. “Do we at least have a plan for if he doesn’t see reason?”

Marja gives him an exasperated look. “As a last resort, we will have to kill the spirit to stop the attacks, which we would be doing anyway. At least this way, we won’t be at such a disadvantage- not if the spirit follows through on her end of the deal, anyway.”

Darvis blinks, his misgivings starting to fade as he realizes what she’s saying. “Ah- you mean she won’t have the werewolves with her for backup. That’s…" he thinks for a moment, then nods and grins. “That’s actually kind of devious.”

Leliana frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “Wait a moment- we are attempting a truce, no? Or was this talk of compromise simply a ploy to set up an ambush?”

“Honestly, you lot are almost as bad as the Assembly,” Marja sighs. “I do want a compromise. I believe this will work. And we will do our best to ensure it does, won’t we?”

The last question is directed towards Alistair and Darvis, although the sharpness of her tone makes Darvis think it’s meant more for him. Alistair, of course, nods eagerly, and gives Darvis a questioning glance when he doesn’t immediately do the same. After a moment of trying to think of a better plan, Darvis finally sighs and admits to himself that this might be their best shot. “Yeah, sure. Just remember that the important thing is getting the cure, whatever it takes. Otherwise Sten will either die or grow fangs, and I’m not sure which would be worse.”

Leliana nods, smiling despite the worry still present in her eyes. “You are right, of course. We must fight if the situation calls for it. Still, I pray this does not end in slaughter.”

“Nobody will be slaughtered,” Marja says firmly. “We just need to make sure each side stays calm during the talks- and it would help if we can all refrain from blurting out every comment that comes through our heads.”

That comment is definitely meant for Darvis. He snorts and says, “I’ll do my best to polish up my manners, Princess. What’s the etiquette for speaking with wolf-spirits in a ruined underground fortress, again?”

“Oh, wait, I know this one!” Alistair replies. “I think the most important rule is to always keep your pinky up when you’re sipping tea.”

Even Leliana manages a giggle at that, while Marja just frowns. “I’m not joking. This is a serious situation. And as you already pointed out, there are sick people counting on us. I hope it doesn’t take too long to bring Zathrian-”

Her next words are drowned out as Nug suddenly bolts from Darvis’s side, barking loudly as he excitedly races ahead of them to the clearing.

“Hey!” Darvis shouts, drawing out his daggers just in case it’s a bear Nug’s caught wind of. But to Darvis’s surprise- although really, he shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point- it’s not any sort of wild creature that comes stepping through the trees.

“Zathrian,” Marja says, and not even she can mask being taken aback by his sudden appearance.

Darvis whistles at Nug, who comes galloping back, stubby tail wagging proudly. He gives the dog a short scratch behind the ears, not taking his eyes off the elf who steps cautiously forward out of the trees. “What are you doing here?”

The Keeper hesitates, his measured gaze slowly shifting from the group to the ruins behind them. “Looking for you, of course,” he finally says with an uneasy smile. “It had been some time, and I was concerned that you met the same fate as our hunters. At first I feared you had simply disappeared, but whatever dealings you made with the forest spirits left traces. I was able to follow your path here.”

“Yeah, you certainly know how spirits work,” Darvis replies, and Zathrian’s eyes narrow.

Before he can respond, however, Marja speaks up in a placating tone. “We are grateful that you would feel such concern over us, Zathrian, and we’ll happily accept your offer of aid. I must say, you possess impeccable timing.”

Confusion momentarily clouds Zathrian’s face, and Darvis can’t help but chuckle. The Keeper quickly recovers and says, “What aid do you require? You’re leaving the ruins, and I would hope that means you’ve acquired the heart.”

“We don’t have the heart,” Marja says. “But we did discover some new information that we wish had been shared sooner.”

A moment of silence passes, and then Zathrian closes his eyes and releases a deep breath. “I take it you’ve met the spirit, then.”

“And the werewolves,” Alistair interjects. “The full-sentence-speaking, not-feral werewolves.”

Zathrian shakes his head, his knuckles white around his staff. “Whatever that spirit may have told you, don’t forget what you have seen with your own eyes. Those beasts attacked my clan. They deserve to be wiped out, not defended.”

“We’re not defending their actions, Zathrian,” Marja says. “But those attacks weren’t senseless acts of violence. The werewolves truly have regained their minds, and they are desperate for your help in undoing the curse.”

“They’re desperate?” Zathrian lets out a hollow laugh. “Don’t speak to me of desperation. You are not Dalish- what do you know of our desperation? Our constant struggle for survival? These are the same worthless creatures their ancestors were, and I will not allow their crimes to go unanswered. Or did the spirit fail to mention what was done to earn this misery?”

“We know what happened, Zathrian,” Leliana says softly. “And we know it was horrible. But it wasn’t them.”

“She’s right,” Marja continues. “The ones who did that are long dead. Continuing this punishment for all of eternity does nothing but hurt your own people, the ones who are trusting you to take care of them. Do they deserve to die for your vengeance?”

Zathrian scowls and moves forward, still clutching the staff. “Do not dare to presume-”

“Don’t you start threatening us now,” Darvis snaps. “We’re not going to fight you, okay? But you wanted us to end the sodding curse, and that’s what we’re trying to do.”

“Then explain to me why you have not retrieved the heart of Witherfang!”

“The spirit- Witherfang- has agreed to do whatever is necessary to end the curse. Even if it ends her, too,” Marja says. Zathrian looks at her in surprise, and she quickly presses on. “There is one condition- you must end it for everyone. Your people and the werewolves.”

Zathrian is quiet for a moment, and despite his own misgivings Darvis finds himself hoping the Keeper is actually thinking it over. The spirit offering itself up without out a fight must be tempting- suspicious, too, sure. But still tempting.

At last, Zathrian sets his jaw and shakes his head. “You put too much trust in the words of these creatures.  Spirits have a will to live, just like anything else. You cannot be so naïve as to believe it would truly be willing to give up its own life.” The anger in his voice has faded somewhat, and now as Zathrian speaks he merely sounds bitter and tired. “I just want this to be over. Take me to the creature. We can fight it together. I can force it into Witherfang’s form, and we can take the heart.”

Marja lifts her chin, and when she speaks her words take on a harsher tone. “And then every wolf in this forest will revert to a mindless beast who slaughters indiscriminately. The curse will continue to claim victims. How long do you think it will take for this cycle to start again? You may cure your people this time, but as long as the curse remains, so does the threat. Is that what you want for your clan? Do you really value this punishment more than their safety?”

Something hostile flashes in Zathrian’s eyes. “Watch your words, Warden. Nothing is more valuable than the safety of my clan.”

“Then prove it. Come with us. Speak to the spirit.” When Zathrian does not immediately answer, Marja sighs. “If after this talk you have not changed your mind, we will support you. We only want to be sure what is done is in the best interests of the Dalish.”

She’s laying it on a bit thick, in Darvis’s opinion, but it seems to be working. Zathrian bows his head slighltly, although the tension does not leave his shoulders. “Very well,” he says through gritted teeth. “You wish for us to talk? I will do so. But if this ends in violence, I want your word that you will protect me from harm.”

“You have it,” Marja answers readily.

Behind her, Alistair shuffles and gives Zathrian an uncertain glance. “Just don’t be the first to attack,” he warns.

“I am not the one you have to worry about,” Zathrian replies briskly. Without waiting for further reply, he strides towards the entrance to the ruins. “Come. It is time we finish this.”

Their group quickly follows, with Alistair and Marja falling into step beside Zathrian and Leliana trailing just behind, keep a watchful eye on them. Darvis follows her, Nug still trotting following along at his side. Darvis runs a thumb over the hilt of his daggers. In his mind, he flashes through all the ways in which this could go wrong- the spirit could be planning an ambush, Zathrian could lose his temper, destroying the heart may not even work.

But whatever happens, Zathrian is right- it’s time to get this over with, one way or another.

Chapter Text

“Spirit.”

Zathrian stands tall and firm, arms crossed, not taking his eyes off the otherworldly being before him. The Lady- Witherfang, Marja reminds herself, because it could be dangerous to forget even for a moment that the spirit is quite capable of being both- nods, her eyes solemn but betraying no hint of fear. “I am more than a mere spirit now. They call me Lady of the Forest.”

Tension is thick in the air as the two stare each other down, and Marja has no doubts that if not for the presence of her and the other outsiders, a fight would have already broken out. Still, to have come this far at all is a good sign. They are gathered beneath the stone ruins once more, at the base of the large tree where the Lady resides. Marja is impressed to see that the spirit kept her word; the werewolves are nowhere to be seen. Doubtless they are still prowling the ruins, ready to leap in at the first sign of trouble, but at least they are not around to provoke Zathrian further.

Marja and her companions stand between the two opposing forces- a wise decision, as even without the wolves, Zathrian seems liable to snap at any moment. Alistair eyes him with obvious wariness, and Leliana keeps watch on the various entrances, ready to raise the alarm should any wolves appear. Darvis’s eyes flicker between the two sides, his mouth set in its permanent scowl. Even Nug appears to be taking the situation seriously; his tail has ceased its usual wagging and his ears are pointed and alert. With their group, they should be able to hold their own in any eventual fight; still, Marja would rather not test that theory.

Zathrian scoffs at the spirit’s words. “Is that what your pets call you?”

The spirit sighs, a heavy motion that sends ripples down the vines and leaves across her body. “I have no dominion over them. They follow me because I help them to find who they are. Who they truly are.”

“Who they are is no different from who their ancestors were. Wild savages, worthless dogs, all of them!” Zathrian takes a step forward, eyes flashing with anger. “Their twisted shapes only mirror their own monstrous hearts.”

“Zathrian,” Marja says in a low warning tone. “You said you were willing speak civilly.”

The elf turns his eyes to Marja. “I did, although I hardly see the point. We all know where this will lead. This creature’s nature compels it…as does mine.”

The spirit closes her eyes for a moment, and when she speaks again her voice has softened. “Zathrian, please.” Despite the gentle tone, Marja can’t help noticing the way Zathrian flinches when the spirit says his name. “It does not have to be this way. There is room in your heart for compassion. I believe that. You have heard our cries for help, seen our desperation. Surely your retribution has been spent.”

“My retribution is eternal,” Zathrian spits. “As is my pain. This is justice- no more, no less.”

The spirit studies Zathrian for a long moment, and her pleading expression hardens- perhaps literally, Marja thinks, eying the thick layers of bark mottled over her strange green skin. “You say you will not end the curse for the sake of your pain, your justice. Are you certain that is the only reason?”

Zathrian takes another outraged step forward. “That is not the reason!”

“What does she mean?” Marja asks. From the corner of her eye she sees Darvis edging closer to Zathrian, hand on his dagger hilt, and she can feel the possibility of a peaceful solution slipping away. She bites back a frustrated sound and places herself fully in Zathrian’s path. “Calm down, both of you, and explain what you’re talking about.”

It is the spirit who answers, her voice no longer calm as it rises loud enough to echo across the room. “You continue to hide things from them, Zathrian? Just as you do from your own people?” Zathrian opens his mouth to respond, but the spirit gives him no chance to speak. “The curse Zathrian put upon the first humans was powerful magic. Such a thing requires more than mere skill; it could not be accomplished without Zathrian’s own blood. His people think he has regained the immortality of their ancestors, but that is because he has not revealed the truth- that so long as the curse exists, so too does he.”

“Blood magic,” Alistair sighs quietly, shaking his head. “As if this situation couldn’t get any more complicated.”

“Hold on,” Marja says, narrowing her eyes at Zathrian as the spirit’s words sink in. “Tied to your life- you didn’t think that might be important to mention, Zathrian?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Zathrian replies. “The end of my life would not end the curse. What matters is killing the beasts!”

“He speaks the truth- his death would not end the curse. Not on its own,” the spirit says, ignoring Zathrian’s interjection. “But his life depends on the curse’s continued existence.”

“And now we know why he’s so reluctant to even consider talking with you,” Marja finishes. She grits her teeth, trying to remain calm despite her rising temper. “Zathrian, why didn’t you just tell us? We can work something out, there’s got to be a way to undo this-”

“There is no way,” Zathrian says quietly, his voice low and his face pale. He drops his eyes to the ground, glaring at the root-covered stones. “I made this decision long ago. An eternity of vengeance for my children. Think of me what you will; this is not for the sake of my own life. It is for their lives, cut too short.”

The spirit tilts her head as she regards the Keeper. She hesitates for a moment, the anger in her face slowly melting into pity, and then slowly reaches out a hand. “Zathrian…”

In a flash, Zathrian steps back, swatting away the spirit’s gesture. “Enough! You have brought me here to kill me, that is plain enough. But that will not help you. You do not know the ritual needed to end the curse- only I do, and I will never help the likes of you!”

His hand goes to his staff and before anyone can react, a burst of light fills the room. Marja tries to lunge forward to stop him, but the vines at her feet have suddenly sprung to life, wrapping around her ankles and bringing her to the ground with a hard thud. She hears Alistair’s grunt as the same thing happens to him, and from the corner of her eyes sees Leliana’s bow knocked from her hands. An enraged howl fills the room, and Marja knows the wolves will be upon them soon and she needs to stop this before everyone kills each other, and she could if she could just get to Zathrian but she is too far away-

But Darvis isn’t. While they’ve been talking, he’s shadowed Zathrian closely, and now in one swift motion he grabs at Zathrian’s wrist. Vines scramble for his legs as he lunges and he hits the stones below as they finally ensnare him- but he manages to wrench the staff from Zathrian’s grasp as does.

The writhing vines halt for just a moment, but its long enough. Alistair hauls himself to his feet and with a shout holds a hand towards Zathrian. For a moment Marja is confused- Alistair’s sword lies forgotten on the ground, what is he doing?- but to her surprise the air seems to bend around Zathrian. When the effect fades the elf is left staggering on his feet and breathing heavily. Frantic, he makes a motion in the air, but nothing happens.

Alistair laughs weakly. “Templar training. Good for something after all.”

“I think I’ll hold on to this, anyway,” Darvis says, clutching the staff as he gets to his feet with a groan. “Just in case.”

“This is not over-” Zathrian growls, but Marja interrupts him.

“Yes, Zathrian. It is.” She crosses her arms and fixes him with a stare. “What are you thinking? Have you forgotten about your dying people? Is your own life worth so much that you would disregard this chance to heal them? If you would throw them all away for the sake of prolonging this curse, we should throw you to the spirit-”

“You should show him mercy,” the spirit cuts in. Marja looks to her in surprise, realizing for the first time that despite Zathrian’s attack, the spirit has made no move to strike back. Her yellow eyes are wide, and the thick bark has now spread across her entire body in a defensive coat, ending in long, splintered claws at her hands…but still she keeps her distance.

A feral howl suddenly rips through the room, and the spirit turns just as a large wolf barrels through a doorway, the rest of the pack on his heels.

“Swiftrunner, stop.”

The wolf halts its attack at the spirit’s command. The others, while confused, follow his lead, although their hackles remain raised and many continue to glare hungrily at the Keeper. Swiftrunner looks to the spirit in alarm. “But he-”

“He is no threat at the moment. You will not harm him at this time, nor will your brethren.” Her tone is stern, and she locks eyes with Swiftrunner for a long moment.

“He tried to kill you,” Swiftrunner protests.

The spirit nods. “He did. He has much anger, just as you do. But if there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how would I expect there to be room in his?”

The words are so unexpected that they hang silently in the air for a long moment without any response. Majra can hardly believe what she is hearing; as calm and peaceful as the spirit has been, Marja had never truly believed she would be so committed to her push for reconciliation.

Neither, it seems, did Zathrian. He watches the exchange silently with a furrowed brow, confusion and worry evident in his face. The fight has gone out of him- his shoulders are slumped, and he slowly sinks to his knees. But the deep frown does not leave his face, and when he speaks there is no hope in his voice. “You shame me, spirit. But I…I cannot do it. I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the face of my children, my people…I cannot do it.”

Marja takes a deep breath, her anger at Zathrian churning into something horribly akin to guilt as his turmoil becomes obvious. After all, she knows the pull of vengeance as much as anybody. Their situations are hardly the same, of course; Zathrian is still fighting in the name of something that is long past saving. But she cannot deny a certain level of understanding.

Slowly, Marja approaches the Keeper and places a hand on his shoulder with a gentle touch. “Your children are gone, Zathrian. I’m sorry, I truly am. But your people are not lost. You can lift the curse. You can remove this burden from their shoulders. Even if you cannot move on…you can allow them to move on for you.”

Leliana moves to Zathrian’s other side, kneeling beside him on the ground. “I cannot imagine what you have been through, but I have known grief. I have known hatred. And I promise you, it is never too late to change things for the better.”

Zathrian considers this in silence for a long moment, then lifts his head and looks to the spirit. “And what of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

The spirit gives Zathrian a small, sad smile. “Zathrian…you gave me form and consciousness where once none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life.” She looks over her shoulder, back to the wolves, her expression a mixture of fondness and deep sorrow. “Yet of all things, I desire nothing more than an end.”

She turns her focus back to Zathrian, takes another step forward, and in a slow, hesitant motion, lowers herself to look him in the eyes. “I beg you, put an end to this. Show mercy.”

Marja holds her breath, barely daring to hope as she watches a cascade of conflicting emotions pass over Zathrian’s face. He holds the spirit’s gaze for a long moment, then shifts his attention to Marja. “More than anything, I care for my people. Please…I just want them to know I have always tried to do what is best for them. Will you tell them? Will you make sure they understand?”

Marja remembers how the Dalish looked to him- with admiration, respect, trust. “Zathrian, they already know. Of course they will understand.”

He nods. “Yes. Yes, you are right.” He takes a deep breath and pulls himself to his feet. “Lanaya will become Keeper once I am gone. She will need to be strong; these are not easy times, and our people will be tested. But I have faith that she is ready. As for me…I think my time has come at last.”

Darvis understands very few of the details of what happens next.

He relinquishes Zathrian’s staff, with no small amount of reluctance- the man did just try to kill them, after all, but the Keeper is apparently sincere in his regret. Zathrian takes a few more moments to recover from whatever it was Alistair did to him, and as soon as his strength is returned he sets about performing a series of intricate incantations before the base of the overgrown tree. The spirit is quiet as she watches him work, even as her wolves growl and pace impatiently.

As Zathrian continues his preparation, Darvis sidles up next to Alistair and mutters, “You think he’s actually going to follow through this time around? How do we know this isn’t some trick?”

Alistair shrugs helplessly. “This is nothing like the sort of magic we see in the Circle. I guess we just have to take him at his word.”

That’s not the reassuring answer Darvis would have liked, but before he can say so another voice cuts him off.

“It is ready.”

Zathrian’s statement draws everyone’s attention back to the ritual. He hardly spares the Wardens or the wolves a glance, instead stepping up to the spirit. “I believe our time here is finally done.”

The spirit nods and looks to her followers one last time. “You are being given another chance. Please, do not waste it. Remember my words, and return to your lives in peace.”

She turns back to Zathrian and without hesitation takes his hand. Immediately the room is filled with a blinding, brutal light. At first it is centered on only Zathrian and the spirit, but within seconds it spreads like shining lava across the roots and stones until it reaches the wolves and envelopes them as well, the searing brightness growing stronger and stronger until Darvis is forced to close his eyes.

When the light has faded and he can see again, the elf and the spirit are both gone, and a crowd of disheveled humans stand in a circle around the large tree trunk.

“It worked,” Marja breathes. She lets out a surprised laugh, looking to the others. “It worked!”

“I shouldn’t be surprised by shit like this,” Darivs mutters, blinking hard. Spots of light dance across his eyelids, remainders of the strange scene he’s still trying to process. “Nothing on the surface should surprise me anymore. Why does it keep surprising me?”

“But not all surprises are bad, are they?” Leliana asks with a smile. Before Darvis can respond the woman is already rushing forward to the shocked group of humans. Their reactions are varied- some wear large grins, others are crying in relief, many simply stare at their hands in shock. Leliana begins gathering them together, and soon there is talk of nearby villages and roads for safe passage. The humans perk up at this, and soon she has the entire group’s attention- save for one man who pays her no mind. He stands apart from the group, by the tree, resting a palm against the mossy bark.

He appears oblivious to his fellow ex-wolves, to Leliana, even to Darvis as the dwarf warily approaches the tree. He just keeps running his fingers over the bark, silent and seemingly lost.

“You still all there?” Darvis asks, wondering what effect this much magic has on the brain, but the man doesn’t even look in his direction.

“She’s gone,” he says in a hollow voice, staring at the bark.

His voice is unrecognizable- no feral snarl in the throat, no mangled words formed around fanged teeth- but if Darvis were a betting man he’d place his gold on the guess that this man used to be known as Swiftrunner. “Yeah,” he says, looking down. As silly as the idea is, Darvis suddenly feels as if he’s intruding upon something. “Yeah, they’re both gone.”

The man sighs. “I’ve dreamed about being human for so long…now I don’t know what to do.”

Darvis looks over to the other humans, watching as Leliana and Alistair describe the state of the country beyond the forest. “Well, you should probably leave in the opposite direction as the Dalish. You probably know this already, but they don’t like you much. Sounds like everyone else is heading to a village just north of here. After that…” Darvis shrugs. “That part’s up to you.”

“I guess it is.” The man’s eyes remain distant for a moment, but then he takes a deep breath and gathers himself. He looks at Darvis, and for the first time, manages a weak smile. “Thank you.”

The sheer amount of gratitude in his eyes is almost overwhelming- certainly more than has ever been directed at Darvis before. For a moment, Darvis has no words to give in response. “Well…that’s what Wardens do. Apparently. Not really, but we had to this time.” He frowns, feeling completely out of his element, and motions back to the others. “Come on. Let’s get you lot out of here.”

“Can we agree to never come back here again?” Darvis asks as they trudge away from the ruins for what he really, really hopes is the last time. The humans have departed, off to resume their lives among their own kind; Darvis can only hope the village they’re heading toward hasn’t been devoured by darkspawn yet.

Leliana seems optimistic, but then again, that seems to be her default disposition. “Oh, it was not so bad. We ended the curse!”

“We did,” Marja agrees. “Although it was a close thing. A few seconds longer stopping Zathrian and we may have had an all-out war on our hands.” She looks over to Alistair. “Nice work in there, by the way.”

Alistair rubs his neck sheepishly. “I may not be a fully-fledged Templar, but I did pay attention to the lessons every now and then. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t totally sure it would work. This type of magic isn’t really the sort of thing you see at your average Circle.” He frowns and adds, “And now that I think about it, we probably shouldn’t mention it to them. The Circle can be a bit…’burn it to the ground’ when it comes to spirits. Best not to get them riled up.”

“Avoid spirit talk around the Circle. Noted,” Marja says with a grin. She glances at Darvis, and with a surprising lack of reluctance adds, “Nice work from you, too, disarming Zathrian like that.”

Darvis blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the compliment. He frowns at Marja, wondering if she’s mocking him, but she shows no signs of sarcasm. Still, it feels weird. “Stop being so cheerful. I don’t trust you when you’re cheerful.”

Marja huffs. “Do you have to always make things so difficult? Take the compliment, Brosca.”

Darvis gives a noncommittal grunt, and Marja sighs. She studies him for a moment, and says in a quieter voice, “Actually working together these past couple of days hasn’t been so bad, has it?”

It’s strange to think they only entered the forest a few days ago- it feels more like months. After a beat of silence, Darvis shrugs and replies, “Better than getting killed by wolves and walking trees, I guess.”

“Coming from you, that’s quite the compliment,” Marja remarks wryly. “So…think we can keep up the truce?”

Again, she actually seems sincere. Darvis doesn’t know what to make of that. It’s true that working together is not quite as painful as he first expected…but he doesn’t know how long that will last. It may be easy to forget when they’re focused on surviving curses and forest beasts, but the princess is still- well, a princess.

Then again, stranger things have happened. If Zathrian and Witherfang could reconcile, perhaps Darvis can refrain from constantly wanting to strangle a Noble.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Sure. Truce.” Marja smiles, but before she can make some smug remark Darvis turns away and focuses on the trees looming ahead instead. “The more important question is, think we can make it through without getting attacked this time around?”

“Ah. Right.” Marja frowns, and for a moment is lost in distant thought. After a brief silence she snaps back to the present and steps into the shade of the overheard forest canopy. “Hello, tree spirits, if you can hear me. If you would, I’d like you to carry a message to the Grand Oak. We are sad to say that the spirit who lived here has…died?” She glances briefly at Alistair for confirmation on the last word, and he shrugs in a way that Darvis takes to mean close enough. “It- she- has passed. We know she and the Grand Oak were close, and we had been asked to try and help her. But it was what she asked for, and she was at peace in the end.”

No response comes- apparently the trees only speak when it suits them. Finally, Marja sighs and says, “Hopefully that was satisfactory.”

“Yeah, hopefully the trees don’t try to step on us,” Darvis mutters. “Again.”

As it turns out, the trees don’t bother them at all as they set off once more. Maybe they liked Marja's speech, after all; Darvis doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly care. He’s just ready to get out of this haunted forest and back to the slightly less bizarre portion of the surface world. Luckily, Nug manages to catch Zathrian’s scent and leads them along his still-fresh trail, and the forest turns out to be much easier to navigate when the trees are not twisting its shape. Darvis even recognizes a few landmarks- a large fallen tree trunk, a rickety bridge across the creek, a steep hillside path- that seem to indicate they’re heading in the right direction.

Even the sounds of the forest are much less confusing now. The rustling of who-knows-what kind of animals through the leaves once left Darvis uneasy, but now the mere absence of howling makes his surroundings almost peaceful. Not completely, of course- the flurry and noise of a large crow hurling itself off a nearby tree and into the air still manages to startle him.

Finally, Nug raises his nose from the trail he’s been following and barks excitedly. Darvis looks ahead through the thinning trees to see a wispy curl of smoke in the distance. “We made it back.” He rewards Nug with a scratch behind the ears. The thought of a full meal and warm campfire awaiting them in the camp is enough to bring a grin to Darvis’s face.

But the sight of Lanaya waiting for them quickly chases it away.

She leans against one of the large carved statues that marks the camp’s borders, and as soon as she catches sight of their group she runs to meet them, a bright smile on her face. “The injured and the sick- they’ve recovered! Does that mean it’s done? You’ve truly ended it?”

Her eyes wander over the group, and her smile falters. This is the part Darvis hasn’t thought about- the part where they have to tell the Dalish how Zathrian lied to them for years. And how they more or less convinced the Keeper to end his own life.

He doesn’t have much time to plan for it now, because Lanaya is quickly catching on to the fact that something is amiss.  “Wait…where is Zathrian? He followed you into the forest, said he was worried you needed his aid. When the curse ended I thought he had succeeded, but…” Lanaya blinks, the realization slowly dawning on her even as she tries to deny it. “Where is he?”

Darvis finds himself at a loss for words. The others seem to be in a similar situation- but of course Marja steps forward, calm and collected even now. “Zathrian gave his life for the Dalish. His sacrifice ended the curse.”

“So he’s gone.” Lanaya closes her eyes and runs a hand through her hair, breathing deeply as she attempts to gather herself. “I truly hoped…”

“He was very brave,” Marja offers in a gentle voice, and Lanaya nods.

“Of course he was. He was Dalish.” She takes one last deep breath to compose herself, then stands taller and asks in a steadier voice, “How did it happen?”

Marja pauses for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and eventually says, “There is much we need to tell you.”

Marja and Leliana handle most of the explanation. That’s for the best, Darvis figures; they tell the story with more tact than he could ever summon. Marja really plays up the sacrifice and forgiveness and reconciliation elements of the story, gracefully spending as little time as possible on the fact that Zathrian was the source of the curse that plagued their clan. Darvis is almost impressed by her ability to beautify the truth without actually lying.

When it’s over, Lanaya nods. “I see. Thank you for telling me all of this. And for your aid- Zathrian is gone, but our clan will live.” She looks back over her shoulder. “And speaking of our clan, I have many arrangements to make. But first- as the Keeper of this clan, I promise that we will offer whatever aid we can against the Blight.”

“Thank you,” Alistair says earnestly. “And…condolences for your loss. It’s a difficult thing, to lose someone like this.”

“Ma serannas,” Lanaya replies, her voice wavering slightly. “You can all rest here tonight, of course. I must tell the clan of Zathrian’s passing, and we will mourn. Tomorrow, we can discuss what comes next.”

Chapter Text

The shift in attitude the Dalish display after the Wardens evolve from outsiders to saviors of the clan is nearly extreme enough to be alarming. Where once there had been suspicious glances and a cautious distance, there is now an expectant camaraderie which takes Darvis by surprise.

Not that it’s a bad thing. While Lanaya handles the grim task of taking over Zathrian’s role, the rest of the clan has busied themselves with providing supplies to their new allies. The sudden acceptance isn’t shared by all, of course; Darvis catches a few dirty glances still thrown their way by some of the elves who hang back even as their brethren happily offer their aid. Oddly enough, the distrust helps Darvis to relax; unanimous generosity, while convenient, would be far more unsettling.

Between the Dalish gratitude and the treasure they hauled from the ruins, Darvis quickly manages to ensure that their immediate supply needs are taken care of. It doesn't take long before he's procured enough food to last them to all the way to Redcliffe, plus improved or repaired equipment for everyone- complete with a spare set of armor for each of them, an extravagance Darvis never would have conceived of before. With that settled, he leaves Leliana to converse with the Dalish craftsmen about the merits of ironbark bows and sets off in search of Sten.

True to Zathrian’s words, everyone who had been afflicted with the curse had made a swift recovery within hours of the ritual. Still, everyone- except for Sten, of course- agrees that those infected still need rest to regain their strength. Darvis doesn’t see why Sten is putting up such a fight against his own well-being; if he was the one who’d been dealing with a curse for the past few days, he wouldn’t turn down the chance for uninterrupted sleep.

Still, when Darvis gets to the recovery area and finds Sten’s bed deserted, he can’t say he expected anything different.

“Where’d he run off to?” Darvis asks the nearest elf, inclining his head towards the empty bed.

The Dalish man sighs, and Darvis guesses he’s also spent some time dealing with Sten’s obstinance. “Your friend said he needed to speak to the leader of your group- the dwarva?” The man shrugs helplessly. “I did not try to stop him. Sick or not, I’m not standing in the way of a giant like that.”

Our leader, Darvis thinks with a roll of his eyes. I hope he doesn’t let the princess hear that. Her head is big enough as it is. “Fine. If he’s feeling well enough to bother her, it means he’s not my problem. What about Morrigan? The woman who was here caring for him?”

That question is met only with a blank stare, so Darvis gives up on his questioning and begins searching the camp, Nug leading the way with his nose to the ground. Darvis isn’t particularly worried about Sten or Marja; he doubts either will stay out of his hair for very long. But Morrigan has been keeping her distance ever since they returned from the forest. It’s none of Darvis’s business why, of course, and he has no plans to make it his business. He just wants to check in on her, if only because he knows nobody else will.

He and Nug eventually find Morrigan on the very outskirts of the encampment, scrutinizing a statue and writing in a thick, leather-bound tome. Darvis has rarely seen her look so content; her eyes are focused on her work, her mouth moving silently as she writes, no trace of the scowl she usually wears around people. The moment is broken quickly, however, as Nug approaches her, running forward eagerly and barking with pride at having found his quarry.

Morrigan merely wrinkles her nose at the intrusion. “What do you want from me, mongrel?”

Nug pants happily in response, his stubby tail wagging madly as he looks back to Darvis for praise.

“Not bad,” Darvis allows, scratching the animal behind the ears as he approaches.

Morrigan eyes him with a bemused expression. “Ah, so he was working for his master. And what did you want from me?”

“I'm not here to bother you,” Darvis says simply. “Just wanted to say that we’ll be moving on soon. You got everything you need from here?”

“Not as of yet,” Morrigan answers shortly, turning her gaze back to the book in her hands. “But I’ve procured herbs for our medical supplies, and I’m certain rations and other necessities have been taken care of. The rest can wait, for now.”

“The rest?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Morrigan answers with a shrug, her eyes still fixed on the book.

“Well, now you’ve gotten me curious. You need help finding more supplies?”

“I daresay not. I expect if you go off in search of anything else, you’ll spend another week lost in the woods with nary a clue as to your location.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow at that. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it sounds like you were worried about us while we were gone.”

“’Tis a good thing you know better, then,” Morrigan retorts. “And no, ‘tis nothing that can be searched for here. I simply did not have the chance to learn quite as much as I wished from the mages of this clan. The Dalish know much of ancient magic, but they are quite reluctant to share with outsiders. Even those who have come to their rescue, it seems. One would think they would be more grateful for our aid.” Displeasure twists her mouth into a frown, and she shakes her head. “Alas, ‘tis not the time now to push the subject. We have quite enough on our hands with the darkspawn. And so for now I will settle for things such as this.”

She nods slightly towards the book in her hands, and as he peers closer Darvis realizes she’s copying the symbols from the statue into her tome. He hasn’t the slightest clue what any of it means; as far he can tell it isn't even written in Common, and even if he could read the words he likely wouldn’t understand the magic behind them.

“I doubt you have ever seen a grimoire before?” Morrigan says.

“A what?”

She chuckles. “There is the answer, then. 'Tis a book in which to record arcane knowledge. I daresay mine is more impressive than most you will find, although it pales in comparison to my mother’s. A pity hers was stolen away by the Chantry.”

“So what are you recording?”

Morrigan nods toward the stone-carved symbols. “Protection wards. I expect they will be useful when camping on our own again.”

“I’d never say no to more protection,” Darvis agrees, studying the statue. It depicts a wolf- not a werewolf, just a normal animal, but even so Darvis frowns. “You’d think they would have had enough of these things by now.”

Morrigan shrugs. “Wolves on their own are not so bad. When you spend enough time around such creatures, you learn how they work. Wolves have a great many useful abilities, although I admit I tend to prefer birds.”

Darvis shudders. “Even worse.”

“You have strange priorities, indeed,” Morrigan replies with a shake of her head. “Perhaps if you continue to distract me from my work, I shall change you into a bird, and give myself a moment of peace.”

“You can do that?” Darvis asks, ignoring the threat. In spite of her words, her tone is still conversational, and he suspects she does not mind his company as much as she says.

He’s proven correct when she refrains from following through on the threat. “’Tis easier to change myself, but I can give it my best attempt. You may end up stuck as an animal, but at least you would be quieter.”

“Ah, but then you’d be alone with all the others, remember?”

“True.” The corners of her mouth twitch, as if she is holding back her amusement. “I suppose I shall save my energy for turning Alistair into a spider.” The hint of a smile abruptly disappears, and Darvis follows Morrigan's displeased gaze to see Leliana approaching, a small smirk on her lips and a new bow slung across her back.

“Ah, there you two are” she says in greeting, raising her eyebrows slightly at Darvis.

Darvis simply rolls his eyes back at her, and Morrigan sighs, definitely sounding more irritated now. “Look who you’ve led to me,” she says. “I was having a pleasant time, studying in silence. ‘Tis a rare enough thing when I’m around all of you. Tell me what it is you want so you may leave.”

Leliana’s smile falters, if only for a moment. “Oh, Morrgian, there is no need for such hostility. But yes, I did find you to tell you something. It seems a decision has been reached- we will leave for Redcliffe tomorrow, with a group of Dalish to accompany us from the forest.”

“Why the wait?” Darvis asks with a frown. “Why not go today?”

“It seems the scouts have received word of another clan traveling nearby. They have not arrived just yet, but Lanaya believes their Keeper will be willing to lend some of their fighters and guides. It's very good new for us, seeing as so many in this clan are still recovering.”

“Another clan?” Morrgian remarks coolly. “How convenient they come now, when the danger is over.”

“So cynical, Morrigan,” Leliana says, giving the mage a teasing smile. “I say we should focus on what we have to be grateful for, no?” She hesitates for a moment before adding, “Also…the Dalish wanted to have a funeral for Zathrian tonight. Lanaya was initially uncertain whether they should- they usually require the bodies…”

Her voice trails off, and Darvis wonders if she’s remembering the same thing he is- namely, how Zathrian’s body dissolved in a burst of magic light. He sighs and says, “Please don’t tell me they want us to trudge back to those ruins to search for any leftover bone dust.”

His words receive a disapproving look from Leliana as she replies. “No, they have simply decided they can make an exception. They still wish to honor him, after all. And I believe the Dalish would appreciate our presence at the funeral ceremony tonight.”

"Wonderful," Morrigan mutters, turning her attention back to her grimoire. "I'm certain we are all looking forward to it."

The truth is, Darvis usually tries to avoid funerals.

And who can blame him? They’re depressing, and they’re supposed to be. Especially for the Casteless. There is no ‘returning to the Stone’ for people like him. In many cases, where the dead has no family or friends with the funds for any sort of ceremony, they don’t even get funerals. The single exception to the rule is for those who join the Legion of the Dead. Those don’t really count, though, because despite the ridiculous technicalities of the law nobody has actually died. That little fact always allows them to be a bit more enjoyable.

Darvis hopes this funeral for Zathrian will be similar to the Legionnaire funerals; after all, Zathrian lived decades longer than he should have, well past his time. But when the clan gathers that night, their sorrow is so thick in the air Darvis could just about slice it with a knife.

He hangs back from the main crowd, and for once his companions do the same. Despite their newly-earned acceptance, they are all very obviously out of place here. Much of the funeral makes little sense to Darvis; words are spoken in the foreign elvhen tongue, and throughout the ceremony the elves break into songs he has never heard. Eventually, Lanaya kneels in the fresh dirt and places a tiny, thin tree into the ground.

“Their traditions are similar to ours,” Marja says quietly. “If they had Zathrian’s body, they would place it in the ground and let him return to the woods just as we return to the Stone.” Her breath catches and she pauses, perhaps realizing the error in her words. For once, Darvis doesn’t bother to correct her.

“They don’t seem too affected by the revelations about Zathrian’s lies,” he observes.

Marja shrugs. “It’s easier to look past things like that now, knowing he sacrificed himself for them.”

That much is true, Darvis will admit. Grudges do tend to end at the grave. Thinking of grudges, he can’t help bust ask, “Do you really believe all that stuff you said to him?”

Majra has been watching the proceedings with a quiet solemnity, but now her brow furrows in confusion as his question distracts her. “What stuff?”

“You know. Zathrian, you have to make nice with the people you wanted revenge on. You sure seem to believe it when you say it, but you can’t blame me for being doubtful. ‘Forgiveness’ doesn’t really strike me as your thing.”

Comprehension dawns on Marja’s face, and she scowls. “You want to talk about that now?” She shakes her head, turning away. “I told Zathrian what he needed to hear to make the best decision for his clan, and in doing so I helped resolve our problem. Do you disagree with that?”

The urge to poke further is hard to shake away, but Darvis decides to resist, just this once. They are, as Marja pointed out, at a funeral. “I guess not.”

“And besides,” Marja continues under her breath, “The validity of that advice depends heavily upon the situation.”

“Easy, Princess,” Darvis says. “Wasn’t trying to get under your skin. Truce, remember?”

After a long moment of scrutiny, Marja apparently finally decides he’s sincere. “Yes. Truce.”

Their group spends the rest of the funeral in silence- aside from Leliana, who occasionally hums along with the Dalish music. Darvis is slightly surprised; he’d thought she would disapprove of anything that didn’t have to do with her Maker. He’s proven wrong as she watches the ceremony with a sorrowful expression, her lips moving silently along with the songs as she sounds out the elvhen words.

It’s not too bad, all in all. It’s still depressing, and there’s no newly recruited Legionnaire giving her own tearful eulogy to lighten the mood, but at least is seems to bring the elves some peace of mind.

Marja is far past ready to move on from the Brecilian Forest. Now that the Dalish are safe, she can’t help but think of how much they still have left to do; firstly, find Arl Eamon and hope he has not died while they were dealing with tree spirits.

She is not the only one feeling restless; Sten has spent the day at her side, urging her to finish their remaining business and move on. Marja suspects his urgency comes from a desire to prove useful after being indisposed for so long rather than true concern for the Arl, but either way it does nothing to help calm her nerves. She does manage to get some solace from the improvements to their armor and weapons. The Dalish warriors have never encountered someone of Sten’s size before, but they manage to put together some armor to accommodate him, complete with a sturdy breastplate and gauntlets to prevent further wolf bites.

Even so, an uneasy feeling settles over Marja as Zathrian’s funeral draws to a close, and it is with no small amount of impatience that she waits for the other Dalish clan to finally arrive. When at last they do, she and the two Keepers are quick to make arrangements.

“With the help of the Sabrae clan, we can provide much better assistance,” Lanaya tells Marja with a smile. Relief colors her tone, and Marja can’t blame her; half of her best fighters are still recovering from the curse, and although she had been willing enough to honor the treaties, it had been clear the potential harm to her remaining people was a heavy concern. The new reinforcements are nothing if not timely.

“And we are happy to help our sister clan,” Keeper Marethari answers solemnly. The other Keeper is an elderly woman, with graying hair and a face lined by years of responsibility. From the moment her clan finally emerged through the trees, Marethari has been at Lanaya’s side, planning out the specifics of who will continue on with the Sabrae clan and who will stay to fight.

“And you are certain you can spare this many?” Lanaya asks, and Marethari lays a hand on her shoulder.

“You have greater need of them in this moment. With Zathrian gone and the Blight descending, it is the least we can do.”

“Pardon my forwardness,” Marja says, dipping her head respectfully to Marethari, “but you could stay, as well. There is strength in numbers.”

Marethari’s gaze slides towards Marja, and Marja meets her eyes without hesitancy. Yes, perhaps she is asking for more than they are prepared to give. But the Wardens are owed the Dalish support, and after the days Marja spent wandering the forest to secure it, she is going to get as much as she can. If Marethari thinks her an impertinent interloper in their plans, she does not show it. Instead, she inclines her head and says, “Normally I would agree. But I am afraid we are needed in Kirkwall, and we cannot be delayed.”

The name is unfamiliar to Marja, but it earns an immediate response from Lanaya.

“Kirkwall?” she repeats, her brow furrowed. “Why?”

Marethari’s answer is in elvhen, much to Marja’s frustration. She tries to keep track of what the Keeper is saying, hoping that perhaps later she can convince someone to translate, but the words flow too quickly. She catches a few- something ash, something bell. Nothing that makes any sense to her.

The two Keepers exchange a few more phrases in elvhen, Lanaya’s eyes widening slightly as the conversation continues. “I see,” she says at last in the common tongue. “Of course, you must go.”

“Care to enlighten me on any of that?” Marja asks drily, knowing full well they won’t. But she’s had a long few days, and what secrets could the Dalish possibly have that would surprise her at this point?

Lanaya actually opens her mouth to answer, then pauses as her eyes flicker to Marethari, and closes it. After a brief moment of hesitation, she starts again. “Elvhen business. Nothing for you to concern yourself over. But rest assured, we will have the support you require to fight the Blight.”

Marja still doesn’t like being kept in the dark, but she doubts pressing will gain her any more information. In any case, she has her answer to the most important question- the Dalish will be on the Wardens’ side in the coming battles. “Very well,” she allows, letting the matter slide. “So Marethari can lend some of her warriors to Lanaya, and we will travel tomorrow with the Sabrae clan. We plan to leave at dawn, if that suits you.”

Marethari nods. “We will guide you through the forests, as far as the Imperial Highway. Once you reach human lands, Dalish companions may be a liability. You are better off traveling the rest of the way to Redcliffe on your own.”

“And when we are ready to gather our allies, how will we contact you?” Marja asks, looking to Lanaya.

“Our scouts will keep an eye out for your messengers,” Lanaya assures her. “And if you require our aid swiftly, your shemlen witch will know of ways to reach our mages.”

“Okay,” Marja says, releasing a breath. Yes, the past few days have been long and exhausting and confusing. But against all odds the first part of their plan is falling into place, and that feels good. “You will hear from us when we are ready to fight.”

“We will be ready,” Lanaya promises. Then, before Marja can react, Lanaya reaches out and clasps Marja’s hands. “Dareth shiral. Safe journey. You have a long road ahead of you, but we will be there with you at the end.”

Marja is unsure of how to respond; the earnestness of the gesture has left her nearly overwhelmed. In the end, all she can do is nod and say, “Thank you.”

With their plans and promises made, the three women depart for the night. Before leaving, Lanaya turns back to Marethari and says, “I very nearly forgot to ask, but where is Merill? I haven’t seen her since the last Arlathvhen, and I was hoping to speak with her again before you leave.”

Marethari sighs, a heavy, mournful sound. “You may try. But she has been distant since we left our last camp. I am sad to say we lost two of our young hunters recently to the Blight. They were both good friends to her, and I fear she is not handling the loss well.”

“Mas serannas,” Lanaya says, bowing her head. “I will offer her my sympathies.”

“Please do. I worry for her.” Marethari turns to Marja. “And please, do not let us down. I do not trust our people to you lightly. This Blight must be stopped.”

Do you think I don’t know that? Marja thinks desperately. All she says is, “I promise, we will do everything we possibly can.”

Marja is making her way back to her tent after the meeting when she runs into Alistair and Sten, both deep in discussion. They see her approaching, and Alistair’s face brightens even as Sten’s sinks into a serious scowl.

“What are you two up to?” she asks warily, knowing that the answer is likely more complicated than a simple chat.

“According to this one, there are darkspawn nearby,” Sten answers immediately, fixing his stern glare on Alistair.

Marja instantly tenses. “What? Where?”

Alistair shakes his head quickly, hurrying to ease her concern. “No, no, I said there might be. Maybe. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“What exactly are you trying to figure out?” Marja presses, and Alistair sighs.

“You know we can sense darkspawn. You’re still new, but have you felt anything lately? It’s like…like a chill down your spine, or an itch you can't scratch. And normally it comes with a sense of direction, pointing you towards them. I’ve been having that feeling lately, just very faint. And every time I try to pinpoint it, it just kind of…fades away.” Alistair gives Marja a hopeful look, as if she can make sense of the rambling explanation.

Strangely enough, she can. Marja admits she’s been on edge today, even moreso ever since the funeral, and the chill he’s describing…she doesn’t feel it as sharply as he indicated, but now that he’s put a name to it, Marja can recognize the feeling. Slowly, she nods, and asks, “So what does it mean? Are there darkspawn nearby?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair says, rubbing the back of his neck as he thinks. “My best guess is some darkspawn were passing nearby and got lost in the forest, just like we did. Maybe the spirits are messing with how we can sense them?”

“I never thought I’d be thankful for those spirits,” Marja says with a wry smile, “but that is good news, I suppose.”

“We should find these darkspawn,” Sten says firmly. “This is our purpose, is it not? We have wasted too much time. I came to investigate the Blight. I was under the impression you were doing the same.”

“That wouldn’t do us much good now, Sten,” Marja points out. “We want to win the war, not a battle. Fighting with a group of darkspawn that are already being taken care of by spirits doesn’t further our goals.”

Sten’s expression darkens, and before he can argue Marja says, “But we should keep watch, just to be safe. Now that I know what to be aware of, I can try and sense if they come closer. Until they do, let’s focus on what’s really important.”

For a moment, Sten is silent- probably internally debating on how much he wants to fight back. Finally, he relents. “Very well. I will take first watch.”

Marja knows better than to ask if he’s feeling up to the task; every previous question about his health has only annoyed him. So she only nods and says, “Two sets of eyes are better than one. I’ll keep watch with you.”

The watch is quiet. It’s a nice change of pace, even with Sten skulking across the campfire. In the distance, Marja can hear a few elves continue about their business in the main camp, and in the back of her mind, she can feel the very faint presence of darkspawn. It’s unnerving, but it remains distant and hazy, so Marja can assume whatever darkspawn she senses are still a safe distance away.

The news doesn’t make Sten very happy. He remains alert and stiff for hours, staring into the woods. Eventually, with a sigh, Marja says, “You can return to your tent, if you wish. You need rest.”

“I do not,” Sten insists. “I require the opportunity you promised me- to fight against the Blight.”

“Don’t worry,” Marja assures him, leaning forward to warm her hands against the fire. “Just because we’re not fighting now doesn’t mean things will stay peaceful. I expect we’ll be putting those muscles of yours to good use soon enough.”

Sten gives a noncommittal grunt, which Marja takes as a good sign. She continues, saying, “You’re obviously a capable warrior- that’s why I want to make sure you’re in good shape. I want you to be able to kill as many darkspawn as possible- when we need you to, in real battles. I’m not planning on wasting you in skirmishes in the woods.”

That puts him more at ease, as Marja had expected. She may not understand much of the Qunari ways, but she does understand matters of pride. Sten considers her words for a while, and finally says, “Very well. Your leadership to this point has not yet resulted in failure. You are, perhaps, more capable than I first judged.”

“From you, that is glowing praise.”

“It is a shame you are a dwarf,” Sten continues. “Were you born Qunari, you would have made a passable Sten.”

“I assume that’s a compliment?” When Sten nods his confirmation, Marja smiles. “Well then, thank you. That’s quite the honor.”

Another long moment of silence falls over them- until out of nowhere, Sten flatly asks, “Are you a woman?”

“What?” Marja splutters, taken completely off guard.

“You appear to be one, and others address you as such. But I am uncertain.”

Marja blinks a few times, trying to figure out just how to respond. “This isn’t Qunari flirting, is it?”

“Of course not,” Sten says, and Marja breaths a sigh of relief. Thank the Ancestors for that, at least.

“I am simply trying to understand how you can be what you are,” Sten explains. “Sten- our warriors- are men. That is the only way it can be. If you were to be in the Qunari army, you would be a man. So I do not understand why you are a woman.”

Marja takes a deep breath, rubbing her temples. Just when she thinks she’s starting to make sense of him…“Well, I am a woman, Sten. And a warrior.”

Her words earn a skeptical noise. “Your truths are strange.”

“Sten,” Marja says, her voice strained, “This conversation has been…enlightening, but let’s go back to sitting in silence for a while.”

“Very well.”

The rest of the watch remains uneventful, with no signs darkspawn aside from the fading chill in the back of Marja’s head. The next morning, the Wardens and their companions prepare to depart alongside the Dalish as the sun begins to peek over the horizon.

“The wagons will be a nice change from walking,” Darvis comments to Marethari as he helps Marja and Alistair load the wagon, and the Keeper smiles.

“Aravels. You will find they are far better than simple wagons. Enjoy it while you can. I expect we shall reach the Imperial Highway within the day.”

“And then we’re back to tents,” Marja says, thinking forlornly of carriages and carts and various other things preferable to aching feet. “Believe me, I know.”

As they’re speaking, another elf approaches, her own bag slung over her shoulder and a nervous look on her face. She carries the staff of an elvhen mage but looks even younger than Lanaya, with dark hair pulled back in a lopsided bun and large green eyes that fix on the Wardens immediately. Marethari welcomes her with an air of familiarity.

“Ah, I see you have finally decided to join us." Marethari places a hand on the young elf's shoulder, and turns to the Wardens with a smile. "This is Merrill, First to our clan.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Marja says, and Merrill gives her cautious smile in return.

“Oh, yes. Same for me of course. A pleasure to meet you, I mean, obviously.” She stumbles over her words for a moment, her fingers making fluttering movement as she speaks. Her eyes are underlined by dark circles, as if she has been missing many nights of sleep, but they shine with intensity as she studies Marja.  “You’re Wardens!”

“We are,” Marja says, and Merrill nods.

“Of course you are! I mean, Marethari told me you would be here. I’ve heard so many tales…you know about the Blight, don’t you?”

“We’ve heard of it, yeah,” Darvis says with no small amount of sarcasm, and Merill flushes.

“Oh! I meant more in general- not this Blight, but the Blight. You know how it works, more than most, at least. I have so many questions-”

“Now is not the time,” Marethari interjects, and Marja doesn’t miss the sharp edge to her voice, nor the stern look she gives her First.

Merrill deflates slightly, but her eyes do not lose their stubborn spark. “Fine. Later. But I do have questions.” There's an undercurrent of tension to the last statement which seems more directed to Marethari than Marja, and the Keeper sighs as Merill moves on to another wagon.

“What was that about?” Marja asks, but Marethari simply shakes her head.

“Nothing, I hope.” Before Marja can inquire further, Marethari motions to the other elves, and the aravel beneath Marja begins to shift. “We have much ground to cover. Let us be off.”

And with that, the halla hooked to the front of the wagon throw their horned heads back and begin pulling the aravels across the grass. It is only a matter of time before the trees are sliding past, faster and smoother than Marja thought possible. Above them, the sun continues to climb through the sky. Ahead of them, the Imperial Highway awaits to lead them to Redcliffe- and, Marja hopes, their second alliance.

Her only hope is that it will be easier to secure than the first.

Chapter Text

“There must be something…right?”

Merrill looks up at Alistair, her bright green eyes all wide and hopeful and pleading. It’s hard to say ‘no’ to eyes like that, and Alistair tries very hard to focus on the stew simmering over the campfire rather than Merrill’s expression. She’s been asking him questions for nearly an hour as he tries to keep their dinner from burning, and a spike of guilt hits his gut every time his answers fall short. He’d direct her to Marja and Darvis, but they know even less than he does; and besides, they’re on a short patrol, checking for the source of whatever is still faintly setting off their darkspawn senses. Alistair hopes this isn’t a permanent fixture of the Blight, as the constant sense of danger makes it rather difficult to focus.

It also doesn’t help that Merrill is rather pretty, and Alistair has never been any good at talking to pretty girls.

“No,” he says truthfully, and he swears he can feel her disappointment. “I’m only a Junior Warden, of course…I’ve been in the Order less than a year. But if there’s one thing that gets drilled into your head pretty quickly, it’s that the taint is permanent.”

“But there must be a way to counteract it,” Merrill insists. Her persistence is surprising; she’d seemed painfully shy at first, spending the entire trip within her own separate aravel. Now that Marethari is distracted by the task of setting up the Dalish camp for the night, however, Merrill’s determination appears to have overcome her hesitations. And she is determined. Alistair can still feel her gaze boring into him, stubborn and sure. “Someone must have made attempts to cleanse the Blight.”

“Probably,” Alistair answers with a helpless shrug. “The Wardens have been around for… well, ever. I’m sure they’ve tried it all at some point or another. But there’s never been success.”

He expects more questions, but this time his answer is met with silence. Chancing a glance at Merrill, Alistair realizes she’s now simply staring into the fire, her mouth set into a distant, mournful frown.

And there’s the guilt, coiling in his stomach again. It’s a shame; all she wants is to know more about the Blight, about the taint, about the darkspawn. Alistair should be the perfect person to help with that. And for a while, he was- her initial questions were easy enough for a Warden to answer, even a Junior one, but she quickly moved on to topics out of his depth. She doesn’t want to know how to kill infected creatures- she wants a cure. The one thing the Wardens don’t have.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair says, trying desperately not to fumble over his words. “Marethari told us about your friends. I hate to say it, but even if you found them…by now, it’s too late. Maybe when they were first afflicted, the Joining would have helped…”

That catches Merrill’s attention. “I thought you said you couldn’t purify something tainted.”

Alistair winces, knowing he’s only going to disappoint her again. “Not helped in that way- we still have to live with the taint, and honestly we don’t live very long. Becoming a Warden just slows the process, really. But the process has to be done quickly, and if your friends were hit by the Blight that long ago…they’re now past anything we can do for them.”

Merrill closes her eyes and rubs her temples, releasing a shaky breath as she considers his words. For a moment, Alistair thinks she might cry. But when she speaks, her words are clear and resolute. “Then I won’t let their deaths be for nothing.”

She stands abruptly, looking past Alistair, back to the distant forest from which they came. “Allys and Tamlen were two of our best hunters, you know. So brave and strong. I never thought anything could hurt them, not as long as they were together. But they were out in the woods all on their own. When they didn’t come back, we went looking. We followed their trail to an old ruin, some site left behind by our ancestors. It was the exact type of place those two would have wanted to explore- and it was full of darkspawn. We never did find their bodies.”

Tears are starting to gather in Merill's eyes now, but she wipes them away with a sound of frustration. “I wanted to stay longer- really investigate the ruins they found. We could have learned so much. We have so little of our past already. Every new piece should be precious. Allys and Tamlen knew that, that's why they went into the ruin in the first place. And if I'm to be Keeper one day, it should be my job to make sure that sacrifice is worth something. But Marethari insisted we move on, and now she won’t even…” She trails off, screwing her eyes shut to hold back more angry tears, and Alistair is left trying to find something comforting to say.

“I’ve lost friends to the Blight recently, as well. They were Grey Wardens, so I guess it's to be expected. That's the job. But still...it's not easy.” It’s not much, but it’s all he can think of. Luckily, it does seem to help- Merrill looks back to him, this time with a small smile of solidarity on her lips.

“No, it isn’t.” She tilts her head, regarding him curiously. “I don’t have much experience with humans, but you’ve been kinder than I expected. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says automatically. The memories of his fellow Wardens- his friends, his family- echo in his head. Marja and Darvis…they’re Wardens, too, but they never really knew the others. They never spent a night in laughter as Grigor drank every one of their comrades under the table, or sparred with Rondall until their arms were sore, or embarrassed themselves by constantly mixing up Tamarel's and Tarimel's names. In a strange way, it feels good to see that someone else feels this type of grief.

The moment between them stretches on just long enough to make Alistair self-conscious, and he hurriedly turns back to the pot over the fire. “But don’t thank me too quickly. Any goodwill I’ve earned will almost certainly be lost as soon as you taste this dinner.”

Merill lets out a startled laugh, and the conversation turns to more inconsequential things. She is surprisingly easy to speak with, and Alistair finds himself wishing the Dalish could continue to travel with them to Redcliffe.

Ah, yes. Redcliffe. That’s another distracting thought, even as Alistair tries to push it away for just a little longer. He’s been so concerned over Eamon, he hasn’t really thought through the fact that certain information is bound to come to light. The possibility sends a small shudder through him. He thinks of the way Darvis’s face goes hard whenever he speaks of royals, and the way Marja lit up with expectation at the mere thought of him having noble blood. Honestly, he doesn’t know whose reaction will be worse. At least Morrigan will appreciate the irony, after spending their journey reminding him just how little talent he displays; she’ll probably laugh herself sick at the thought of him having any lineage to live up to. The thought doesn’t help his nerves, and he groans inwardly. How in the world is he supposed to tell them all the truth?

“Is human food supposed to smell so burnt?”

Merrill’s question pulls Alistair out of his wool-gathering, and with a start he frantically scrambles to salvage the stew. He’ll worry about how to tell them later; they still have a few days before their arrival. For now, he needs to focus on not ruining one thing at a time.

The Dalish are true to their word, going their separate way as soon as they hit the Imperial Highway in the morning. Morrigan’s feelings on their departure are rather mixed. She doubts they have much more to offer in terms of the knowledge she seeks- indeed, from the wary looks she’d received from their Keeper whenever she tried to make inquiries, she doubts the type of magic she has in mind would be well-received by this particular clan. Furthermore, the group of aravels and elves is becoming rather suffocating, hardly any better than being confined in a crowded human town like Lothering.

Still, Morrigan watches them leave with some reluctance, for they at least acted as a buffer and distraction from the permanent members of the Wardens’ little group. The company she is left with leaves much to be desired.

She can feel Sten’s eyes boring into her as she sets the wards at their camp that night. His dislike is no mystery; rather, he has always made his thoughts on her quite clear. Her behavior as a mage is uncivilized, as a woman it’s inappropriate. All drivel that she has heard before, and which has not become less weary with time. His strength may be useful in battle, but had he fallen to his sickness, Morrigan would not have wept.

Her work finished, Morrigan moves on to set up her tent- only to be immediately accosted by the simpering Chantry sister. Morrigan groans and sidesteps her, in no mood to entertain the girl’s attempts at philosophical discussion. But Leliana does not give up, and what does come out of her mouth is far worse than her typical parroting of Chantry rhetoric.

“They say your mother is Flemeth.”

Morrigan freezes in her tracks. “They do, do they?” Her tone is sharp enough to draw blood, but Leliana remains, staring at Morrigan with an expectant smile as if this were a pleasant topic of conversation. Relenting, Morrigan sighs and says, “Fools say many things. But they are not always wrong, and in this case, they are correct. What does it matter to you?”

Leliana draws closer, eyes full of curiosity. “You know the stories about her, yes?”

“You think my mother would raise me to be ignorant of her legacy?”

The girl’s face immediately goes dreamy. “My mother told me stories, too. She was the one who kindled my love of the old tales and legends. I cannot help but wonder how many of the epic legends surrounding Flemeth are based in truth.”

Of course she wants a story. The girl can hardly speak of anything else, her head full of fairytales about heroes and saints. Surely she cannot truly be so naïve; even Leliana must realize that truth tends to be much darker than fiction.

“Ah, so that’s who’s to blame,” Morrigan says, and the affronted look on Leliana’s face is an immediate satisfaction. “My mother’s tales curdled my blood and haunted my dreams. Or have we heard different stories of Flemeth?”

“I have heard many versions,” Leliana says, trying to recover, and Morrigan grins viciously.

“Did your version include the Wilder men she takes to bed, using them until they are spent, and then killing them?”

Leliana’s mouth falls open, but for once the bard seems at a loss for words. Morrigan takes the opportunity to sweep away, satisfied that this time she will not be followed.

“What in blazes did you say to Leliana?” Darvis asks later. He’s made a point lately of bringing her a bowl of whatever dinner they’ve managed to scrounge together every night, despite the fact that Morrigan has her own fire and is quite capable of hunting and cooking a rabbit on her own.

Still, she allows it. As the single person who manages not to irritate her on a daily basis, he is permitted that much.

“I merely regaled her with tales of my childhood,” Morrigan answers innocently. “I thought she rather enjoyed that sort of thing.”

Darvis snorts. “Apparently not.”

“Ah, she will be back to pestering me tomorrow. She is nothing if not persistent.”

For a moment she thinks Darvis will admonish her, and is more than ready to point out the hypocrisy of him telling her not to lose patience with other members of their group. But he merely changes the subject, and with nothing to snap back against Morrigan lets the defensiveness slowly bleed away. As they talk, Darvis’s mabari comes snuffling up to Morrigan’s dinner. Morrigan scowls and wrinkles her nose, shooing him away. “Off, mongrel. I have nothing for you. Go catch your own food like a proper beast.”

“He must like you,” Darvis says, and the dog barks in agreement. "Good taste, that one."

“Lucky me.” The beast continues to look at her expectantly for a moment, but when she does not relent he wanders back towards the main campfire, where Alistair happily tosses the beast a hunk of meat.

Two simple creatures, and yet the man is still the dumber of the two, Morrigan reflects as she observes the other Warden. A simple-minded fool he is, falling so easily in line behind others and hardly thinking for himself- and missing no opportunity to remind Morrigan that she is an unwanted, unscrupulous addition to their little adventure.

Her gaze drifts back to Darvis. He, at least, treats her with respect and a refreshing lack of judgement. His face is not one most would typically consider handsome; the most prominent element of his appearance is the large tattoo across one side of his face, but beneath that his features are lined and wary. He has a crooked nose- probably from being broken one too many times- and a smile to match, although the smile does not appear often. It is a face that has been shaped by a hard life, and Morrigan can appreciate that.

Not that it truly matters what he looks like. What she is here for- what she will eventually have to do- will not be affected by her feelings for anyone involved. But she is grateful that she has been afforded an option other than Alistair. And yes, she is grateful that the option is Darvis, if only because it will make her eventual actions that much easier.

But that is still a long time coming. For now, they simply dine together, and Morrigan grudgingly admits to herself that it is better than eating in solitude.

Leliana has always enjoyed the springtime. Watching the stubborn sprigs of glass and early flowers fight their way through the frosty remnants of winter…it fills her with a sense of hope. It feels almost as if the Maker himself is reminding her of her vision, sending her assurances that she is on the right path.

She points out clusters of flowers as they walk, teaching Marja the different types as they go. Sten stalks at their side, silent as ever, but Alistair adds to the conversation every now and then with the local Ferelden names. Through it all, the dwarven woman takes them in with charming attentiveness, always seeming surprised whenever they encounter a new color or type.

“All we have down in Orzammar is moss,” she says, admiring the violets popping up along the Imperial Highway. Occasionally she grabs handful, admiring the colors before tucking them away into her bag. “Some of the craftsmen try to grow elfroot. It’s useful, but the enchantments to simulate sunlight are expensive to maintain. We’d never waste resources for regular flowers.”

“Such a shame,” Leliana sighs. “In Orlais, the nobles would keep gardens larger than houses, full of the most colorful blooms you can imagine. For a time, there was a trend for sewing them into your clothes. It required a skilled tailor, and you could hardly sit for fear of crushing the petals, but the smell was lovely.”

Marja shakes her head, her brow creasing at the image. “That might be taking it a bit far.”

“That’s Orlais,” Alistair laughs. “Taking things too far is what they do best.”

“Perhaps,” Leliana allows with a smile. “I can still see all the highborn ladies in their flower-trimmed dresses, trying to pretend they didn’t notice the bees swarming around their heads. Still, things of beauty should be appreciated, no?”

Leliana glances ahead, where Darvis and Morrigan walk on their own, and a hint of slyness creeps into her voice as adds, “I’m sure Darvis would agree.”

“He doesn’t care much for flowers,” Alistair says blithely. “I tried to show him a rosebush back in Lothering and he hardly cared at all. He only seems to like things that are poisonous. You know, deathroot and such.”

Marja sighs. “She’s not talking about flowers, anymore, Alistair.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in, and when it does the man looks downright shocked. “What, Morrigan? Eugh.”

Leliana rolls her eyes at his reaction. “Oh, stop. You don’t think it’s just the slightest bit sweet?”

“It’s Morrigan,” Alistair repeats. “Don’t go acting like you enjoy her company.”

“I…” Leliana tries to find something both truthful and kind to say, and she must admit it is a struggle. She has tried being friendly towards Morrigan, has tried finding common ground. But the woman is even pricklier than the aforementioned rosebushes.

Except when around Darvis, and that is a curious thing. As Leliana watches, the witch makes some comment to the dwarf and earns an appreciative laugh- and an appreciative look, as well. Perhaps Alistair has the right of it- some people admire flowers, while others prefer things a bit more poisonous.

“At least when they’re with each other, they’re not biting someone else’s head off,” Marja says mildly. Alistair still doesn’t seem happy with the idea, but before he can protest Marja changes the subject by turning her attention to Sten. “What was that white one called?”

The Qunari quickly straightens and frowns at the question. “What are you talking about?”

“The flower you just picked.”

The frown deepens. “I picked nothing.” Marja raises an eyebrow, and he sighs. “It does not matter. They are…medicinal.”

Leliana sidles up to see what he’s holding and giggles. “Dandelions? Oh Sten, how darling! I would never have guessed you had a soft side.”

Alistair snorts at that, and even Marja can’t hold back a smile. Sten is the only one not looking very amused.

“Don’t make that face, it’s all in good fun,” Leliana says, falling to walk in step with him. She quickly leans down and swipes another dandelion from the side of the road, handing it to him with a smile. “No hard feelings.” Her words elicit a noncommittal grunt, but Sten doesn’t argue as he takes the flower from her.

The conversation continues, the simple chatter of travel that carries little of importance. It is almost easy, in times like this, for Leliana to forget where she is and what she is doing.

A murderer, a madman, and a heathen, the Revered Mother had called Sten, back when they found him in the bloodstained fields so long ago. Leliana should not be teasing him and giving him dandelions. But nor should she be trying to make friends with an apostate, or aiding in the cause of wanted fugitives. She should not be watching with a fond smile as Marja discovers flowers, and she certainly should not be wishing she could return to Orlais with the dwarf at her side, just to show her it's wonders. This is all the very type of trouble she went to the Chantry to escape from.

But she cannot deny that she has missed it. The playful teasing and charming of friends…it reminds her of a time long forgotten. Even watching Darvis and Morrigan dance around each other fills her with a nostalgia for the more romantic days of her life, back when she was young and had no idea where her path would lead. She has packed those memories away for so long, and had not realized just how quiet and cloistered her life had become until she stepped back into the world. It is odd, how well she is able to slide back into this life. A bow at her back, a dagger at her side, willingly surrounding herself with killers and knowing that she is just as dangerous as any of them.

Her Chantry robes still lay nestled in the bottom of her pack, waiting for the time when she will put down her armor once more, but with each passing day she thinks of them less and less. She thinks of Lothering less and less- the people she served for years, teaching and helping in small ways, before leaving them behind.

You are still serving the Maker, Leliana silently reminds herself. The image of the blessed flower from her dream, vibrant and alive against the dead, shriveled bush, plays again in her mind. Nothing you could do in that Chantry would have saved anyone from the Blight. But you can still help save Ferelden.

She knows that nobody in their group truly believes her vision. Even Alistair, with his faith in the Maker and Chantry education, thinks she is deluding herself. That’s fine; she doesn’t need their belief. Her own has always been strong enough to sustain her.

Sten may be coming to regret certain decisions he has made.

Every day that he spends with these bas, the stranger he finds them. They squabble amongst each other and fix upon things that seem of little importance. And all the talking- Sten had thought he would be joining a legendary group of warriors. Instead, he has been treated to days of inane chattering about flowers and something called I Spy.

It is a welcome reprieve when the darkspawn finally attack, and Sten finally gets to do something that makes sense.

The Wardens are the first to be alerted to their presence- it seems they are good for something, after all. They give a shout of warning just before the crowd of creatures is visible over the hill. Even from this distance, Sten can make out their vile features- twisted forms, misshapen teeth, rotting skin. Or perhaps Sten is merely remembering his last encounter with the creatures. His grip on his ill-fitted greatsword tightens.

“Alistair, Brosca, with me,” Marja cries. “Everyone else, fall back!”

The other basra- the angry witch and the chatty archer- comply, sending spells and arrows from a safe distance as the Wardens move forward. Sten grits his teeth, warring internally for an instant. The Warden had not seemed overly impressive at first- she is an exceptionally small bas, and a woman at that- but she has proven herself to be a surprisingly effective leader. As his temporary commander, her orders carry weight.

Even so, he is a Sten of the Beresaad, and he does not fall back.

The fight is messy but short; they outnumber and outmatch the darkspawn, and the creatures are disposed of easily enough. When it is done, Marja rounds harshly on Sten.

“I said fall back! Did any of your injuries open back up?”

“My arm has been healed for days,” Sten insists. The wound was never truly serious; he cannot be killed that easily. And he never would have been injured in the first place, if only he’d had his proper weapon.

“That’s not the point, Sten,” Marja sighs, narrowing her eyes as she inspects him for injuries. “You didn’t get any blood on you, did you? If that stuff gets in your mouth, or an open wound-”

“I am aware of the threat posed,” Sten says firmly. “And still it is my duty to fight. I do not fall back.”

“Oh, lay off,” Darvis says, wiping his dagger on the grass. The dagger leaves a thick black trail behind, and Sten suspects the grass here will not regrow. “If he wants to charge in headfirst and get a mouthful of this nasty shit, that’s up to him.”

Marja remains unappeased, and Sten heaves a sigh. “You recruited me to fight the darkspawn, did you not?”

That, she cannot deny. With a small nod, she says, “I did. But I would prefer you live through the battles so you can continue to fight. Don’t go wasting your life on a skirmish.”

As with so many things, someone like her cannot understand. At least if he dies in battle, it will be more honorable than wasting away in a cage or living in shame like a tal-vashoth. But Sten does not voice these thoughts- trying to show these people logic is very rarely a fruitful endeavor. He merely looks down at the concerned dwarf and says, “I shall do all within my power to not die.”

“Better than nothing,” she sighs, still eying Sten with a frown.

“At least we knew they were coming,” Alistair adds after a moment of tense silence. “I was worried for a while, after we couldn’t track down the darkspawn near the forest. But it’s back to normal again- maybe we just had to adjust to the Blight.”

“If only the dreams would ease up,” Darvis grumbles. “I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days.”

The new topic distracts Marja, and she turns away to discuss it more with the other Wardens- but not before giving Sten one last look of concern. He sighs and nods, and only then does she fully turn her attention away.

Sten is still certain that he is in the right; fighting darkspawn is his current purpose, and he will do so despite the danger. But he must admit his new leader’s concern is not entirely unappreciated, however unfounded it may be.

The others are well enough distracted in the aftermath of battle, and the mabari is the only one to sit beside Sten as he cleans his sword.

“You charged into battle as well, beast,” Sten remarks. “And yet you are not lectured. Why is that?”

He receives no answer, save the mabari sniffing at his sword and raising his hackles as he lets out a low growl. Sten growls back, shoving his cleaned sword back into the scabbard. The beast does not back down, even as Sten towers over him. In fact, his growling increases to a determined bark.

Sten nods. “I see. You are indeed a warrior worthy of respect.”

Perhaps the madness of the Wardens is rubbing off on him.

Zevran leans against an overturned cart, idly tossing and catching a dagger as he waits. The blade spins through the air, its edge dancing dangerously close to Zevran’s fingers before he twists his wrist and catches it by the hilt.

He’s been waiting a long time. But he knows how this game goes, and he has patience to spare. The Wardens will come this way eventually. The men who hired him claim one has strong ties to Redcliffe, and the Imperial Highway is the only way to get in or out without scaling the steep cliffs that gave the place its name. His targets will have no choice but to pass right through his little trap.

His targets. Wardens. A prestigious contract, to be sure. The thought brings a half-hearted smile to Zevran’s face. The opportunity couldn’t have come at a better time.

But he can’t allow his thoughts to wander that far. He will take this one step at a time. First, the Wardens will come. Two dwarves and a human, if the arl’s intelligence is to be believed. The human is the one with ties to this place- what is his name? Alfred? Aston? Normally Zevran takes care to learn about his marks- one never knows what information will become useful- but in this case his usual level of detail hardly applies.

A sharp whistle rings through his air, and Zevran tenses. That’s the signal- his fellow assassins have, at long last, spotted someone.

In a flash, Zevran is at the ready, taking his position in the ambush and ignoring his increasingly racing pulse.

His time for waiting is over. Now, it’s time for things to get exciting.

Chapter Text

To be perfectly honest, Marja can’t stand assassins.

It’s one thing she could never quite adjust to in the political games of Orzammar. She can take the posturing and maneuvering, but when it comes to killing? Call her blunt, but she prefers to meet her actual opponent face-to-face. Or blade-or-blade, if the situation turns out so. Hiring out someone else to take care of her opponents through shady methods has always struck her as both unseemly and unnecessary. Still, they are a fact of life in any political landscape, and although many things are different on the surface, some things remain the same.

Marja ducks an incoming arrow and quickly takes shelter behind an overturned cart, waiting a beat before poking her head out to count how many attackers are left. Whoever they are, their forces were not large to start off with, and she and Sten were able to quickly deal with the initial pair who had masqueraded as refugees. The rest, however, are shielded behind trees and rocks and are either firing volleys of arrows or waiting for opportunities to slip across the battlefield with daggers at the ready.

And I’d wager they chose this place precisely for that kind of cover, Marja muses. They’re obviously trained, and too well-armed and well-organized for simple bandits. The mix of elves and humans suggests they’re not part of any official Fereldan army, either. But they knew exactly who they were waiting for- the command of kill the Wardens shouted by their leader rather gave that away.

A burst of fire from Morrigan blows smoke over the battlefield, and Marja takes advantage of the cover to enter the fight once more, keeping her head low and axe high. Through the haze she once more catches sight of the leader- he’s left his hiding spot and is in the middle of the fray now, his daggers a shining blur as he throws himself at Alistair. Marja launches forward to help- only to find herself falling over a tripwire set up between the caravans.

To reiterate, she really cannot stand assassins.

By the time Marja is back on her feet, she’s lost sight of both the leader and Alistair. With a frustrated growl, she throws herself back into the fight, dodging the swift, dance-like blows of her attackers and meeting them bluntly with her axe. The assassins are skilled, and they might have succeeded in their kill- had they accounted for the Wardens’ companions. Perhaps three Grey Wardens could have been disposed of by a half-dozen fighters bearing light swords and arrows, but with their extra muscle and magic, it is not quite so simple. One by one, the assassins fall, either to blade or arrow or magical blast.

“Is that all of them?” Marja calls out as the last archer within her sight finally collapses. She pulls an arrow from where it has lodged between the joints of her armor, mere inches away from skin, and throws it forcefully to the ground as she turns away. Thank the Ancestors the Wardens have durable equipment.

“It better be!” Darvis’s answering cry rings out from the other side of the battlefield. “They swarmed on us like deepstalkers. Deepstalkers with knives.”

“Um, that’s not quite all of them.”

Marja turns towards Alistair’s voice, relieved that he hasn’t been hurt, only to see him standing above the assassin’s leader, an elven man who now lies prone on the ground with no dagger in sight. The elf’s eyes flicker between Alistair and Alistair’s sword, which hovers above his head in warning. For a moment it’s hard to tell whether it’s he or Alistair who looks more uncertain about the position they've found themselves in.

“What’s this about?” Marja asks, and Alistair shoots a helpless look in her direction.

“He, uh. He yielded.”

“He yielded?”

“I yielded,” the man agrees with a hopeful smile. He’s pale-haired and dark-skinned, and for a moment Marja almost takes him for another Dalish due to the markings that decorate his face. But the tattoos he wears don’t resemble the Dalish vallaslin; the style is different, smooth curves running down one side of his face and winding down his neck. Despite his predicament, the grin stays on his face as he nods towards Alistair. “Although I rather thought this strapping young man would cut me down anyway.”

A smooth, defined accent is evident in his voice- not one Marja can place, but it’s certainly not Fereldan. And there’s certainly no trace of fear as he speaks; no, his tone is that of someone who wants to bargain.

Marja scowls. She doesn’t like the idea much, but if this man has information, she’s willing to entertain him. “Since he didn’t and you’re still alive, you’re going to answer some questions for us. Think you can do that?”

“Most certainly! In fact, allow me to save you the effort of interrogation.” The man sits taller, although he still somehow maintains an infuriatingly casual air. “My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends,” he adds with a wink at Alistair. To his credit, the other Warden hasn’t lowered his guard; his expression is mixture of suspicion and confusion, and his sword remains in the air. When the weapon doesn’t waver from its position, Zevran clears his throat and continues.

“I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I am rather embarrassed to admit I have obviously failed at.”

“I’m not complaining,” Darvis interjects, approaching with Morrigan at his side. They seem to have gotten to work looting the fallen fighters; Morrigan’s arms are full of unused potions, and Darvis’s belt sports a few extra daggers. Marja tries not to let the evidence of their graverobbery grate her too strongly. She knows the supplies are useful. Even Leliana, in all her righteousness, is claiming the leftover arrows of the fallen archers.

Darvis studies the elf as he secures his newly acquired weapons, a contemplative frown settling on his face. “You know, you don’t look like much of a crow to me.”

“That’s an Antivan Crow, my friend,” Zevran corrects. “Have you not heard of us? We are quite infamous.”

When Darvis meets his words with only a blank stare, Leliana clarifies. “He means he is a hired assassin. The Antivan Crows are a very powerful organization, renowned for always getting the job done. And for being quite expensive.” She purses her lips, studying Zevran for a moment. “Someone went to great expense to hire this man.”

“Loghain,” Marja and Alistair mutter in unison, and Zevran nods in confirmation.

“Ah, yes. Loghain. I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen a scowl so impressive. It seems you have managed to earn quite the grudge from this fellow. Your lovely companion is correct- he paid quite the sum for my order’s assistance in dealing with you.”

“This order of yours can’t be that great,” Darvis replies with a shrug. “I mean, you did a pretty piss-poor job at assassination just now, didn’t you?”

Zevran brings a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. “Is this the Fereldan manner of dealing with prisoners? Torture by way of intense mockery?”

Darvis’s only response is to snort in laughter, and in return Zevran flashes him a smile. Marja clears her throat, pointedly shifting the axe still within her grip in an effort to remind them both that this is an interrogation.

“When were you to meet Loghain next?” she demands. If there’s any chance of setting up a counter-ambush…

But her plans are dashed before they’ve even fully formed. “I wasn’t. If successful, I was to return to the Crows, and allow my higher-ups to manage the rest of the business. If not…well, I would be dead, and hardly in any condition to show up on time for a meeting.”

“And how do we know that’s the truth?” Alistair asks, his brow wrinkling as he looks down at Zevran. “Assassins aren’t typically known for being open and honest, after all. And neither is anyone who allies themselves with Loghain, I’d wager.”

“You think I lie out of loyalty to him?” Zevran gives a throaty chuckle. “I was contracted to perform a service. That is the extent of our connection, I assure you. What interest would I have in your power games?”

“What about loyalty to the Crows?” Marja asks. “Spilling your client’s secrets doesn’t strike me as very professional.”

“Neither is failing to kill your mark,” Zevran counters, his smile thinning. “As far as the Crows are concerned, I am now dead to them, no matter what I do. Which brings me to a question I have for you- one which, seeing as you’ve already bothered to keep alive for this long, I do hope you will consider.”

“You're not exactly in a position to be making requests,” Marja replies flatly.

“And that position is exactly the topic I wish to discuss,” Zevran continues, non-flustered. “You see, because I failed to kill you, my life is forfeit. Even if you are so kind as to not kill me now, the Crows will do so eventually. As it turns out, I like living. And you are obviously strong enough to give the Crows pause. So here is my proposal- I ask that you spare my life and allow me to serve you on your journey.”

Darvis has to hand it to the elf- he’s got guts.

It’s a bold request this assassin has just made, and it’s hard to tell who in their group is the most surprised. From behind him, Morrigan lets out a disbelieving scoff, while Marja’s eyes narrow in angry suspicion. Even Alistair is so taken aback he nearly drops his sword as his eyebrows shoot up.

“You want to join us? What, so you can finish the job later?” Alistair demands. “Look, I don’t know what Loghain’s told you about us, but do you really think we’re stupid enough to let an assassin who’s already tried to kill us into our camp?”

“I think you are exceptionally capable warriors. I merely hope that you are stupid.” Zevran flashes Alistair another wide grin, and once again Darvis finds himself admiring the elf's nerve while also marveling at his lack of self-preservation. When Alistair’s brow only furrows further, the elf’s smile falls slightly. “Only a joke, my friend. But truly, do you think so little of me? What would I have to gain from killing you now?”

“You’re literally an assassin,” Alistair points out. “Isn’t that what you do?”

“Not by choice, I’ll have you know,” Zevran says earnestly. “In fact, I was sold to the Crows as a child. It’s quite the popular recruitment tactic. At this point, I’ve surely paid my worth back to them, plus interest. But the only way to leave their employ is to join forces with someone they cannot touch.”

“Meaning us.” Marja’s voice carries a harsh edge as she speaks, with none of the trace of sympathy Zevran was likely hoping to evoke with his tale. “Whom, again, you just tried to murder. It doesn’t exactly inspire loyalty, does it?”

“I’ll have you know that I am, in fact, a greatly loyal person- up to the point I am expected to die.” Zevran shrugs. “Is that such a fault? And in additional to my wonderful combination of loyalty and practicality, I can offer a wide range of skills. Fighting, stealth, picking locks…”

“Just don’t ask you to assassinate someone, right?” Darvis interjects. “Because, again, you seem kind of shit at it.”

The familiar feel of Marja’s glare hits Darvis; apparently now is not the time for jokes. But Zevran doesn’t seem to mind at all. Despite the insults, he smirks and replies “You are a funny man, no? If it is entertainment you like, I can offer that as well. Massages, party games- I assure you, I am quite a joy to have around.”

“That is a terrible idea,” Alistair says quickly. He looks to Marja and Darvis for reassurance, gesturing with his sword as he speaks. “It’s not just me thinking that, right? This is an objectively terrible idea.”

“Trusting an assassin?” Marja asks, her tone tinged with disbelief. “Yes, it is a bad idea.”

Darvis’s immediate inclination is to agree; it would be extremely, inexplicably stupid to invite this assassin to join their merry little team. Besides, the sob story he’s peddling is most likely nugshit, and the surface is enough of a mess without adding another complication. But in spite of all that, Darvis can’t deny that he likes the guy.

“Maybe we should…” he begins, and he doesn’t get very far before Marja stops him, her voice stern and sharp.

“You’re not actually considering this?”

“Why not?” Leliana asks, stepping forward, her hands clasped earnestly together. Meanwhile, Marja seems to be barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes.

“Don’t give me that look,” Leliana insists, a stubborn frown crossing her face. “Everybody deserves a second chance. Just think about who we already have gathered- I cannot speak for everyone, but I know I have done many things I am not proud of. I strongly suspect I am not alone in that. But we have all been given a chance to do the Maker’s work on this quest. Why should he not get another chance as well?”

“Are you truly so eager to awaken one day with a blade in your neck?” Morrigan snaps. Her stormy gaze flits over to Darvis, wary and questioning. “And you agree with her? I thought you had better sense.”

Darvis prickles under Morrigan’s disapproving look, but he doesn’t shrink away. ‘Second chances’, or whatever Leliana is on about, aren’t exactly something he's familiar with. But he does know about trying to get away from bosses that are out for blood. “Look, would this really be the craziest thing we’ve ever done? If these Crows are anything like the Carta, then he’s telling the truth. Fucking up a mission like this will get him killed. At this point, it would be stupid for him to go back to them.” He pauses to give a pointed look at Marja. “And you keep talking about how much backup we need. We recruited Sten, for crying out loud!”

Darvis motions towards the Qunari, who sits on a rock as he cleans his sword, completely uninterested in the conversation. Marja falters for a moment- she has to know Darvis has a point, dammit- but shakes her head.

“Sten never actually tried to kill any of us,” she points out. “And maybe he’s not the most…approachable, but we know he wants to end the Blight. Assassins, however? They do whatever the highest bidder tells them.”

“Or whatever saves their skin,” Zevran adds. “Which in this case, I must repeat, means fighting at your side.”

Marja just shakes her head. “I just don’t think we’ve reached this level of desperation just yet.” She glances towards Darvis. “And with Morrigan on our side, you and Leliana are outnumbered.”

“Since when the fuck is this a democracy?” Darvis demands, crossing his arms. “And even if it is, what about Sten?”

Marja raises an eyebrow, but nods and calls out, “Sten, thoughts on bringing the assassin along?”

“Do as you wish,” he answers flatly, his focus still wholly on his sword. “This is already taking too long.”

“Do I get a vote?” Zevran asks hopefully. His only answer is a cold glare from Marja.

A heavy silence hangs over the group for a moment, until Darvis finally sighs and asks, “So what, then? You going to be the one to kill him, Princess?”

For once Marja has no ready answer, and after a moment of tense silence, Zevran speaks up. “All I ask is that you don’t eat my remains- or do anything equally barbaric. I have nightmares about that sort of thing.” It’s impressive, really, the levity this man has in discussing his own imminent death.

“Ew,” Alistair responds with a grimace. “No, we’re not going to do anything like that.”

“We should kill him,” Marja says quietly, crossing her arms. “Otherwise he’ll run back to the Crows, or Loghain, and they’ll just try again.”

“Oh, they will try again, regardless,” Zevran says quickly. “This Loghain fellow very much wants you all dead. Especially you,” he says, nodding to Alistair. “If only you had an assassin in your ranks, you might be better prepared…”

“We can’t just let him go?” Alistair asks, ignoring Zevran’s interjections as he turns to Marja.

“He’s a liability, Alistair,” she says apologetically. She sighs, and to her credit, she does actually look guilty about what she’s saying. But she reaches for her axe, and despite her reluctance she has that steely look in her eyes, and Darvis doesn’t think she’s about to back down.

For a wild moment he thinks about interrupting, insisting that they at least leave the elf alive. The whole thing is suddenly like a memory replaying in his head, all those countless times in the Carta, watching people get killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d gotten used to it; he never had much choice. But Zevran’s desperation has a sickly familiarity, and Darvis realizes for the first time he might actually be able to step in. Even if it is, admittedly, a stupid idea.

It’s a sudden, impulsive thought, and before Darvis finds out if he can actually act on it, Alistair speaks up.

“Wait!”

Marja pauses, and shoots an irritated look to Alistair. “You want to talk about this more?”

Alistair lets out a long breath between his teeth, obviously not ecstatic over what he’s about to say. “If those are our only choices, then I change my vote. Sorry, I can’t…it’s just, he’s unarmed, and he doesn’t really pose a threat anymore…it doesn’t feel right, killing him.” He lowers his sword and steps back, leaving only Zevran and Marja, uncertainly facing each other.

Marja heaves a sigh- but she puts away her weapon and nods to Zevran. “Just…go, okay? Before I change my mind.”

Before she’s even finished speaking, Zevran is on his feet. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He gives a short bow to Marja, then to Alistair, and then even to Darvis. “Thank you dearly, oh merciful Wardens.”

The group is silent as they continue in the direction of Redcliffe. Nobody seems quite happy after dealing with the assassins; which, Marja muses, is usually the mark of compromise. Ensure all parties leave the table equally unhappy.

She’s certainly not pleased. A part of her may be relieved that she didn’t have to spill the blood of an unarmed man, that much is true, but she’s equally unnerved by the thought of another loose end out in the wild. It would be nice if they could take the man at his word- just as it would have been nice if she could have taken her brother at his word, or Loghain at his.

They should have killed him. It’s not a nice fact, but it’s only fair. She doesn’t like it, but at least she acknowledges it, unlike others. Honestly, Marja still can’t believe they actually considered letting the admitted hired killer- hired Warden killer- join them. Life has taught her at least enough caution to not let that happen.

Their walk takes them over a few more hills before the silhouette of a large keep finally appears in the distance, and Marja lets out a breath of relief. Even if Eamon is sick, Marja is looking forward to spending a night within stone walls rather than on the winding roads full of dust and assailants. Lost in lovely thoughts of civilization, it takes Marja a moment to notice that Alistair has begun to lag at the end of the group. She slows her pace to match his, and quietly asks, “Is everything okay?”

She expects him to be worried over the arl’s sickness, or perhaps still fretting over the fate of the assassin. But rather than bring up either topic, Alistair takes a deep breath and says, “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you. Something…well, something I probably should have told you earlier.”

Marja takes stock of his reluctant expression, then raises her voice to the others. “You all go on ahead for a bit, okay? We have some business to discuss, and then we’ll catch up.”

“Actually, Darvis should stay, too,” Alistair adds. “It’s Warden business. Sort of.”

Darvis and Morrigan share a skeptical look, but with a shrug he peels himself from her side. It’s Leliana who lingers, watching them with concern.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no.” Alistair rubs the back of his neck. “Everything’s peachy. We just need a moment.”

It’s not exactly convincing, but the others accept it- for now- and leave Marja, Darvis, and Alistair in a small huddle on the road.

“So…” Darvis drawls, raising an eyebrow at Alistair. “What is this ‘Warden business’?”

Alistair takes another deep breath, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere else. “That wasn’t entirely true. Just a tiny white lie, really. It’s only sort of Warden business- that is, it's business concerning me and I'm a Warden, so by extension-”

“Alistair?” Darvis interrupts. “You’re rambling.”

“That I am.” Alistar visibly braces himself, then says in a quick rush, “KingMaricwasmyfather.”

His confession is met by stunned silence as Marja tries to decipher his rushed words- and then tries again, because surely she heard him wrong the first time. “What was that?”

Alistair winces.  “Okay. I told you before a bit about my parents- how my mother was a serving girl, and Eamon raised me after she died…”

“I recall,” Marja says carefully, trying to tamper down her rising emotions at this new revelation. “And you said who your father was didn’t matter!”

“Because he doesn’t!” Alistair responds quickly. “At least, not to me. But…he wasn’t just some noble. He was the king.”

“How does that not matter?” Marja demands, losing her internal battle. She can’t help it- her thoughts are swirling now, re-evaluating everything about their situation. “Even with human laws, surely that still counts for something! Alistair, you’re heir to the throne!”

Even Darvis is reacting- not quite with the sudden excitement Marja is feeling, but his eyes are wide and he clearly recognizes the gravity of this reveal. “You’re the fucking prince and you never mentioned it before now?”

“No!” Alistair waves his hands frantically, his expression one of pure panic. “No, see, that? That’s why I didn’t tell you. Whatever it is you’re thinking this means, stop. I was never meant to be an heir, and I’m sure not one now.”

“You can’t be serious!” Darvis snaps. “You’re the son of a king, that makes you a fucking heir!” He runs a hand through his hair and groans, shooting Marja a dirty glance- which is rather unfair, as for once she has done nothing to offend him. “Another fucking heir. Just how many of you are there?”

“But it’s not like that with me!” Alistair insists. “I was only ever an inconvenience, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule-”

“And that’s why Loghain wants you gone so badly,” Marja finishes, furrowing her brow. “You said it yourself- even as a bastard, you complicate the line of succession. You’re the king’s son. Of course Loghain feels especially threatened by you-”

“But I’m not a threat,” Alistair implores. “I’m really, really not. I was never taught anything about being a king. I’ve kept it secret my whole life. Anyone who ever found out either resented me-” at these words his eyes flicker to Darvis, who only glowers silently. Alistair gulps and continues, “-or they coddled me. You saw how even Duncan kept me out of the fighting.”

Distress creeps into his voice at the mention of Duncan, and Marja forces herself to rein in her thoughts and speak calmly. “Alistair…I realize this turn of events is not what you expected, I do. But this is relevant now. You might be the next king! Don’t you want that?”

Again, the look of panic crosses Alistair’s face, and it is something Marja cannot understand in the slightest.

“No, no, no. I’m still the son of a commoner, and a Warden to boot- I’m sure Duncan gave you the no politics speech. It’s been made very clear to me my entire life that I should stay away from the throne. And that suits me just fine.”

A million arguments spring to Marja’s mind- Cailan is dead, Loghain is out for their heads, Ferelden is in turmoil. How can Alistair not see the opportunity he has been given? She wants to argue, to make him see- but the desperate look in his eyes stops her.

There will be time for convincing, of that she is sure. She will make time, and she will make him see reason- but later, when they have eaten real meals and had real baths and slept in real beds at Redcliffe. Perhaps that will make Alistair more amenable to sense. For now, Marja steadies herself and nods. “Okay. Please know that we will need to talk about this more in the future. But at least you finally told us.”

Guilt colors his face now. “I figured I couldn’t put it off much longer. Not if we’re all going to see Eamon. I just didn’t want you to know, for as long as possible.” He glances again at Darvis. “I mean, you understand why, right?”

Darvis snorts. “You didn’t want to be lumped in with the other asshole nobles?” His eyes go hard, and he bows sarcastically- Marja can’t help but grimace as she is seized by a memory of her own unpleasant first meeting with the Casteless man. “As you wish, my prince.”

Alistair winces at the way the words twist into an insult, but before he can say anything, Darvis turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving a wounded Alistair behind.

Carefully, Marja approaches and says in her most comforting voice, “He’ll come around, given a little time. He doesn’t even totally hate me anymore.”

“I hope so,” Alistair sighs. His disappointment is obvious, but he does manage to muster up a weak grin as he nudges Marja. “But I’m not as worried about him as I am about you. You’ve already got your scheming face on, I can tell.”

Marja scoffs at that. “I never scheme. It’s called strategizing.”

“And just what’s the difference?” Alistair asks with a laugh, and Marja can’t help but smile in return.

“Intention.”

Their banter is interrupted by a shout from up ahead, and Marja lets out a weary sigh. “Darvis might be sharing your news with the others right now.”

“Oh, right.” Alistair starts walking up to meet them, his pace urgent. “I was going to tell them, too. I figured it was easier in small doses. Better go try and… I don’t know, control the damage.” He shakes his head, resigned. “At least Morrigan will get a laugh out of this whole thing.”

A prince. A fucking prince. Because of course every other Warden would be some sort of nobility- that’s just the sort of luck Darvis has. It’s funny- he always thought the Ancestors didn’t give a shit about him. Now he thinks they might give just enough of a shit to really get a kick out of tormenting him.

No wonder he and the princess get along so well, Darvis fumes to himself. I should have known.

But he didn’t. Maybe that’s the worst part- that Darvis never would have guessed it before today. Whatever faults Alistair has, the typical noble pompousness is not among them. He actually seems decent. And Darvis had been under the impression that he’d had a relatively humble beginning, despite the unknown noble father and Templar training. Alistair had certainly encouraged that impression. But how humble could the life of king’s son ever be?

Two Wardens of noble birth…and me. It sounds like the beginning of a fucking terrible joke.

The dark thoughts buzz around in his brain as he stalks back up to the others, distracting him to the point where he doesn’t even notice the newcomer until he’s caught up with the group. But the man- a human, looking frantic and disheveled- nearly jumps with the joy at the sight of Darvis.

“A Warden! Just like you said!”

“Yes,” Leliana says, laying a calming hand on the man’s shoulder. She glances to Darvis. “This is Tomas, of Redcliffe. He came to greet us, and we were telling him how we have come-”

“You’ve come to save us!” Tomas cries out, relief flooding his features.

Darvis exchanges glances with the others- Leliana and Morrigan look just as confused as he feels, while Sten wears his typical neutral expression. Shaking his head, Darvis asks, “Save you from what, exactly? The darkspawn can’t be here already.”

Tomas’s face falls, just a fraction. “You haven’t heard?”

“We’ve heard your arl is sick,” Darvis says with a shrug. “And we might’ve heard just a bit about a Blight that’s blazing through the country. If that’s what you mean, we’re still working on the whole ‘saving you’ thing.”

“But what about the undead?” Tomas looks desperately around. “You really don’t know?”

“Undead?” Morrigan repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Either this man is insane, or there is powerful magic at work here.”

“More magic,” Darvis mutters. “Perfect.” He looks over his shoulder, where Marja and Alistair still lag behind. “Hey! Break up the royal dinner party. Looks like we’ve got another mess on our hands!”

Tomas leads them down a long, steep trail that hugs the edge of the giant cliffs that overlook the village. At least now Darvis sees how the name came about- he’d never given it much thought before, but now it seems almost too on the nose. The cliffs are even sort of red.

Darvis has never seen red cliffs, or any other kind of cliffs before. And when his stomach drops oddly at the view from the top of the trail, he decides he doesn’t particularly want to see any more after this. The sun glints brightly off a large expanse of water just beyond the village, but Darvis barely notices the scenery. He keeps his eyes on the ground in front of them, steadily ignoring the drop to his side and barely listening to the conversation with Tomas.

The wooden houses on the edge of town stand silent and empty, but as they near the center of the village, more noise and people appear. At the sight of the townspeople, any hopes that Tomas is simply crazy after all are dashed; Darvis can recognize desperation and hopelessness, and these people have it in droves. Humans rush back and forth, carrying supplies and barking orders at each other. Families huddle on the steps of the large Chantry, the cries of children still audible over the din. To the side, a group of warriors train with targets and sparring sticks, but it’s obvious at a glance that these are not seasoned soldiers.

“What happened here?” Alistair asks quietly, and Darvis can’t help the pang of sympathy in his gut. Noble or not, this is Alistair’s home, and it’s obviously in trouble.

“Whatever it is, we’ll help,” Marja promises.

“Of course we will,” Leliana and Morrigan say in unison- Leliana with bright determination, Morrigan with resigned sarcasm.

“Teagan can probably explain it best,” Tomas says as he ushers them inside. The Redcliffe Chantry is a good deal bigger than the one in Lothering- and good thing, because it’s filled to the walls with people. Without slowing, Tomas leads them through the crowded aisles until he comes upon another human.

This one is far more finely dressed, although Darvis would judge that he has been wearing those same fine clothes for a few days now. The man turns at their approach, already looking tired, and then freezes as he takes them all in. His eyes linger on the blue-and-silver armor, and widen as they land on the human Warden.

“Alistair?”

“Teagan,” Alistair answers with a nod and a subdued smile. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but given the circumstances…” He trails off, then looks to his companions. “Oh. Everyone, this is Bann Teagan- he’s Arl Eamon’s brother. Teagan, these are-”

“Grey Wardens,” Teagan finishes in a tone of wonder. He shakes his head, a surprised chuckle escaping from his lips. “Things just get stranger every day. I thought all the Wardens fell at Ostagar.”

“Not all of them,” Marja answers, stepping forward and sliding into her typical role of self-importance. “We’re still alive. And we’re here to help.”

Teagan looks between Marja and Alistair, who nods earnestly, and lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. We need all the help we can get.”

Chapter Text

Redcliffe is actually quite picturesque, if one can ignore the battle damage and general air of resignation. The lake especially is a source of novelty for Marja; it is nothing at all like the underground springs of her home. Despite her fascination, she is careful not to venture too close. Such vast amounts of water, just sitting there, deep and still and heavy under the open sky…to say it does not unnerve her, just a bit, would be a lie. But when the sun shines over the red-clay cliffs and casts its sparkling reflection over the waters, it is enough to make Marja forget her trepidation.

Still, it is not quite enough to make her forget that once that sun sets, the village will be overrun by undead monsters.

If that is indeed what they are. Bann Teagan refers to them simply as ‘evil things’, and can offer no explanation for their presence. He can only say that they have been attacking for days, surging from the castle as soon as night falls over the valley. Nobody knows how things are faring inside the arl’s estate- the only way to find out would be to storm the place, and the only way to do that is to clear the village of these supposed walking corpses.

The strangest part of all of this is that Marja is not as shocked by the notion of doing battle against undead creatures as she perhaps should be. But if trees can rise from the ground and walk, why not the dead?

What does concern her is the fact that there has been no sight or sign of Arl Eamon. As protector of these lands, he should have been the first to offer sanctuary and defense to the villagers. Under other circumstances, Marja might assume he has taken the cowardly route and is barricading himself in the safety of his own fortress. But the tales of his sickness combined with his brother’s insistence that the monsters are originating from the keep suggest something much darker at work.

At least Bann Teagan seems a decent enough fellow, with enough sense to have kept the village alive thus far despite a severe lack of resources or actual soldiers. But hiding in the Chantry can only last them so long, and it is obvious that no help is coming from the keep. Those doors remain sealed, and so will have to be forced open; but first, they must all survive the night.

And they will. After a long discussion between the Wardens and the bann, mayor, and senior commander of the remaining knights, the Wardens have formed a decent image of the state Redcliffe is in. The odds may not be ideal, but they are far from hopeless.

From the reports, it seems that if one good thing can be said of the undead it is that they are incapable of any thought beyond attack. With this in mind, they need not worry over counter-strategies; they can set up a chokehold at the main road into the valley and fend all the creatures off from there. The only thing holding Redcliffe back from victory is the small fact that they are out of weapons, out of medical supplies, and the main force of defense is comprised of despairing common folk who have no idea how to perform as warriors.

Fortunately, Marja is still every inch the commander she was meant to be in Orzammar. And a commander always has a plan.

Marja’s lofty thoughts are interrupted by the unsteady creak of the wooden staircase beneath her feet, and she holds back a flinch. She can’t imagine living in a place like this, constantly atop a platform of rickety, narrow beams holding up entire houses, some of which actually stretch over the vast lake. The view may be lovely, but Marja can hardly imagine it’s worth the vertigo.

“Don’t worry,” Alistair says, noting her hesitation. “These buildings have stood since I was kid. I’m sure they’ve got at least a few years left in them.”

Only a few years? Marja thinks. Is that what the humans consider impressive workmanship? Some of the ancient thaigs have stone halls that have stood for centuries. But she shoots Alistair a grateful smile all the same in recognition of the attempted reassurance, and he smiles back. It’s good to see his optimism returning; between the reveal of his heritage and the state of his hometown, he’s been more subdued than usual.

Leliana, however, is in her element. Marja almost felt bad when she pulled her away from the Chantry, where she’d been comforting crying children and offering support to the orange-robed sisters. But their preparations will require a good deal of persuasion, and Marja hopes that between Alistair’s familiarity with the locals and Leliana’s obvious charitable nature, the villagers will be more inclined to grant them their trust.

Darvis, Morrigan, and Sten, on the other hand, were sent to the abandoned houses on the water to gather supplies. It isn’t that Marja doesn’t trust them to not offend the townspeople, but…

Well, yes, it’s exactly that. Thankfully, they’d seemed more relieved than offended at the assignment. Marja is grateful for that, as there is much to do and very little time to waste arguing. After all, they only have until nightfall to turn this village into something that can stand against an army of the undead.

“Find anything good yet?” Darvis asks, and Nug simply wags his tail before turning and trotting down the docks.

Darvis sighs, shaking his head slightly as he follows after the mabari. He’s grateful to be out of the Chantry; every corner of that place had been filled with either ashen-faced families or Chantry women reciting prayers in weak attempts at encouragement. Scavenging for supplies is leagues better than dealing with that.

“If these people had any sense,” Sten says as he walks at Darvis’s side, “they would have salvaged all they could the first day of attacks. What exactly are we expecting to find?”

“At this point, anything that can be used as a weapon could help,” Darvis replies. He pauses, noting a loose board on one of the house’s small wooden stairways. A moment of tugging pulls it loose, and he weighs it thoughtfully in his hands. Not as good as a dagger, that’s for sure, but better than nothing. And some of the villagers, who look as though they’ve never wielded anything sharper than a bread knife, might be better suited to a stick than a dagger anyway.

Darvis tucks the board into his sack, alongside a few other promising items. While they haven’t exactly found a stash of valuable weaponry, they at least won’t be returning to the Chantry empty-handed. Nug has managed to sniff out some extra food- not useful for fighting, but still never a bad thing to have on hand. Morrigan, despite being somewhat scornful of the entire endeavor, has turned her attention to the weeds growing on the banks of the lake, claiming they can be used in the making of healing mixtures. And Sten’s general indifference is counteracted by the fact that he can reach even the tallest of shelves and cupboards in these ridiculously stretched-out human houses.

An intense bout of barking urges Darvis to return his attention to the task at hand. When he follows the noise, he finds Nug standing proudly at the door of a boarded-up house, happily thumping his short tail against the wood.

In spite of the villagers’ efforts, the door is easy enough to get through. Darvis isn’t sure the mayor meant for them to break into places when he asked them to search for additional supplies, but, as Morrigan points out, half the owners’ of these houses are likely already dead. Not a cheery thought, exactly, but based on the tales of previous attacks, not wrong.

Once inside, Darvis realizes the building is actually some sort of store. The realization is somewhat uplifting for the brief second before Darvis realizes the previous owners cleared out all of their wares when they left. Still, Nug seems excited over something, so Darvis follows the dog past the counter and into the back room. As it turns out, the real treasure wasn’t in the food that had once lined the walls; it’s in the barrels clustered in the corner.

“Fucking jackpot,” Darvis breathes, a grin splitting his face as he inspects the barrels. Morrigan moves forward to expect his find, her expression dubious.

“You’ve found…” she wrinkles her nose as she peers over the barrels. “Oil? And this is…a good thing?”

“Is it good? It’s brilliant!” Darvis exclaims. Explosives aren’t his specialty; he tends to prefer a quieter approach. But Leske always liked to experiment with volatile traps, and with all their years together, Darvis has learned more than a few of his friend’s tricks. Even the most basic of bombs can do a lot of damage when combined with this much fuel.

“Look, I don’t know anything about these undead creatures,” Darvis admits, “but as far as I know, fire hurts everything. We spread this stuff, set up something to ignite it, and boom.” He tugs at one of his braids, thinking. “We don’t want to be too close when it goes off…maybe we can rummage up an incendiary arrow for Leliana…”

“Or an ignition trigger,” Sten adds. “I know of ways to construct such a thing. They are typically used for Qunari blackpowder, but should still work even with this primitive mixture.”

“Arrows? Triggers?” Morrigan sounds downright offended. She thrusts her palm out, summoning a small ball of flame that dances brightly between her fingers. “Have you forgotten the true power we have at our disposal?”

The grin on Darvis’s face widens. “Right. That’ll do.” Suddenly remembering where they are, he quickly places his hand over Morrigan’s, waving away the flames. “Maybe not while we’re in here with all the flammable stuff. But yeah, that’ll do just fine.”

“You’d better have a damn good reason for breaking into my home.”

Marja grants the dwarven man in front of her a small, only slightly apologetic smile as she steps over the splinters from the bashed-in door that now litter the ground. “When you didn’t answer my knocks, I was worried something terrible may have happened to you. Luckily, I was wrong and you appear to be just as able-bodied as the mayor said.”

“Hmph.” The man- Dwyn, he calls himself- gives Marja an appraising look. His eyes flicker to Alistair and Leliana, who follow through the battered door to stand at her side. Marja can only assume Dwyn is mentally comparing her companions to his own backup, two burly humans who stand silently and wait for some kind of cue from the Warrior- no, the mercenary, Marja reminds herself. He’s a surface dwarf, and warrior though he may be, he has no Caste to speak of.

But according to Mayor Murdock, this mercenary has all the skills one would expect of a Warrior, and thus far he has not lifted a finger in the village’s defense. His inaction greatly decreases any guilt Marja might feel over her rude entrance, despite the disapproving look Leliana had given when she hammered her way through the door.

“You’ve a highborn look about you,” Dwyn says at last. “Well, don’t expect any bowing and scraping from me. Especially after the mess you’ve made of my home.”

Two months ago, Marja might have been insulted by such a reception. But after dealing with Darvis, Dwyn’s glibness is practically a royal welcome.

“Speaking of your door,” she says, ignoring his other comments, “what are you doing hiding behind it? I’ve heard tales of your skills. You could be a large help to this village.”

“Not interested in helping,” Dwyn answers shortly. “I’m interested in surviving. We can last here on our own for quite some time, and that's what we're going to do.”

“And what exactly do you plan to do when the undead breach your home?” Marja asks. “You’ll die in here just as easily you would out there in battle, only without reinforcements to aid you.”

Dwyn shakes his head. “I’ll take my chances. No sense risking my neck for those fools- and if I’m lucky, any blood spilt will just distract the monsters away from us.”

Leliana gives a small, appalled gasp, and Marja grits her teeth. She had hoped to appeal to Dwyn’s altruistic side…but evidently, he does not possess one. Marja has dealt with people such as him before, and in her experience, different methods must be applied.

“Here’s the thing,” Marja says, exchanging the pleasantries for the authoritative tone she learned from her father. “That’s not a choice any longer. We’re making a stand tonight. You can either fight with us, end this threat once and for all, and be gifted with the knowledge that you’ve actually done something worthy with your life- something which I’m certain the Arl will be quite grateful for in the future. Or you can die in here like a coward.”

Marja kicks a splintered piece of wood across the floor for emphasis and adds, “And believe me- you will die.”

Dwyn watches the wood clatter until it land at his feet. He’s silent for a moment as the wheels turn in his head. “And just what makes you so certain those are the only two outcomes?”

“I don’t lose.” Marja crosses her arms, steadily meeting Dwyn’s searching gaze. “And I don’t bluff.”

There is a moment of silence as Dwyn continues to meet Marja’s gaze, as if he’s waiting for her to back down…and then he snorts, rolling his eyes slightly but relaxing his shoulders. “You’ve got some nerve. But I reckon you at least have a better chance than most out there. And another dwarf is more likely to have a few rocks to rub together between their ears.” He narrows his eyes. “Just be sure you tell the arl how much his little village owes its continued existence to me.”

With that, he turns from Marja, motioning to his two followers. “Come on, boys, time to sharpen your weapons. We’re going out tonight.”

After a few hours spent pilfering every empty house on the lake, it becomes apparent that oil and tar is probably the best they’re going to get.

Still, Darvis and his companions rummage through each unoccupied home, taking whatever can be salvaged into something useful. Darvis is shifting through the bedroom of one such empty house, disappointed but not surprised at the lack of additional explosives, or secret chests full of daggers, or-

A noise from across the room interrupts Darvis’s thoughts, and in one breath his knife is in his hand and he stands alert, eyes sweeping across the open space. Morrigan and Sten are spread out across the house, searching other rooms, and a shout would be enough to draw them near. But before Darvis can call and alert them to the possible presence of darkspawn or demons or monsters, the noise comes again- a short shuffle, obviously originating from the corner wardrobe.

In Darvis’s experience, darkspawn don’t typically reside in wardrobes. He approaches the source of the noise swiftly and throws the door open, expecting to find only a few rats hiding out among the abandoned cloaks. What he sees instead is far more surprising- a small child, pressed against the back of the wardrobe, clutching a sword against his chest.

“Go away!” The boy shrieks immediately, pressing himself further back into the wardrobe. “This isn’t your home! It’s mine!” He fumbles with the sword, clumsily attempting to point it towards Darvis, who easily takes hold of the hilt and twists the blade away.

“Easy, kid,” Darvis says. “You’re more likely to take your own eye out than you are to hurt me.” It scarcely takes a second for the child to be disarmed, and the sword clatters to the ground as the boy’s eyes widen with panic.

“I’m not going back to the Chantry!” he says as he wrenches his wrist away from Darvis. “I hate that place! I hate it!”

“I’m not here to take you anywhere!” Darvis snaps back. “I’m looking for supplies for the army, okay? Not little brats hiding in closets.” He pauses and looks around the obviously empty house. “What are you doing in here anyway, kid?”

The boy pouts and rubs at his eyes. “My name is Bevin. And I told you, this is my house. Kaitlyn said we have to go to the Chantry tonight, but I don’t want to. Everybody there is scared, and sad. Kaitlyn is too, even if she says she isn’t. But she’s been crying ever since Mother died.” Bevin glances back at the sword, still lying on the ground. “I wanted to be brave. I was going to take Father’s old sword and fight off all the monsters!”

“Kaitlyn is…your sister?” Darvis guesses. After receiving a nod of confirmation, he continues, “Does she have any idea you’re here?”

The boy pauses a moment, then shakes his head, his face the picture of guilt.

Darvis sighs. “Well, you’re not fighting anything from in there. And no offense, kid, but it doesn’t look like you’re ready to wield that thing. A dagger, maybe, but you’ve got a few more years before you can handle a longsword.”

Bevin looks down, his voice barely a mumble when he speaks. “I just wanted to be brave.”

The memory of the Chantry, full of death and fear, makes Darvis grimace, and he doesn’t exactly cherish the thought of sending this kid back there. But if he’s not indoors when the sun goes down, there’s no way he’ll make it through the night. “Just go back to your sister, okay kid? You’ll have plenty of chances to be brave when you’re older.”

With a silent nod, Bevin slowly climbs out of the wardrobe. He glances at the sword on the ground, then back up at Darvis. “You’re a fighter, right? Like Father used to be.” He reaches down and grabs the hilt, and carefully holds it out in offering. “You can use this to kill all the monsters, since I can’t. Kaitlyn will probably be mad I gave it away, but those monsters killed Mother. So you have to kill them. Okay?”

Darvis regards the kid for a moment, then nods. He takes the sword, running his fingers over the hilt. It is a finely made piece of weaponry, of that there’s no doubt. A bit longer than Darvis is used to, but still light and strong. Whoever this ‘Kaitlyn’ is probably will be pissed at it being given away so easily…but it’s better than letting this kid run around with it, right?

“Yeah, kid. We’ll kill the monsters for you.”

Having emerged victorious from her meeting with Dwyn, Marja next sets her sights on Redcliffe’s tavern. Leliana has heard from many of the villagers that the owner, Lloyd, is a miserly man, and there are rumors that he sits upon a large store of supplies even as the Chantry struggles to treat the wounded soldiers. It doesn't take long for those rumors to be confirmed.

“You can’t honestly still be charging people? Not at a time like this!”

Marja’s protests fall upon unsympathetic ears. Lloyd crosses his arms defensively, giving the Wardens a petulant look. “All this nonsense is already bad for business,” he says bluntly. “If I crack open the kegs for every soldier who passes by, this place will be run into the ground.”

“Do we even want to be getting people drunk before the fight?” Leliana asks quietly.

Alistair motions to a group of men in the corner, staring despondently into their cups. “Normally I’d say no, but…Maker, I think these folks need anything that might cheer them up. And I don’t think the sunny attitude of our friend here is quite doing the job.”

This earns a giggle from a pretty barmaid nearby, who quickly falls silent as Lloyd turns to glare at her. She looks down, turning her full attention to the cleaning of the tavern counter. As soon as Lloyd looks away, however, her eyes return to the Wardens, and she gives Marja a small, mischievous smile. Lloyd, however, only continues to glower, and Marja turns her focus back to their conversation. “I’m not speaking of ale,” she says. “But food to support the armies? Any additional weaponry or armor? The mayor said this place doubles as a trading post, you must have something.”

“You want armor or weapons, go talk to Owen. Assuming you can shake him out of his stupor.” Lloyd eyes Marja suspiciously, and she meets his stare with her own. It’s infuriatingly ineffective, as he’s a rather large man and her chin barely reaches over the tavern’s counter. Why must humans be so horribly long?

“Who are you supposed to be anyway?” Lloyd demands. “If you’re Owen’s replacement, you’re sniffing around the wrong place. The forge is down the hill, and doesn’t matter whether you’re a smith or a soldier, nobody gets nothin’ here for free.”

“I am a Grey Warden,” Marja answers sternly. “And we have the right to conscript anything we need for our battles.”

It’s a true statement, or at least it’s true enough. The Wardens’ rights extend to battling darkspawn, not undead- but if this will ultimately help them end the Blight, the difference is irrelevant.

Lloyd, however, is outraged with this pronouncement. “That ain’t no better than common thievery! And even if it wasn’t, I already said we got nothin’ for you.”

At this, the barmaid who has been hovering near the counter with a full tray of drinks, obviously eavesdropping, chimes in. “Oh, Lloyd, don’t you remember? I could have sworn we had a stock of healing supplies stowed away in the back.”

“Bella!” Lloyd barks, and the barmaid shrugs, smiling innocently as she tosses her coppery hair over one shoulder.

“What? I thought it must have slipped your mind. Only trying to help.” With that, she slips away before Lloyd can reprimand her again, winking at Marja on the way. This time, Marja can’t help but smile back.

“That will do nicely,” Marja says, and when Lloyd looks about to protest again she continues. “We can either conscript your supplies, or we can conscript you for the battle tonight. Perhaps that is how you would prefer to support your village?”

Lloyd has quite obviously never held a weapon in his life, and his face visibly pales at the thought of joining the imminent fight. The Wardens leave the tavern five minutes later with a crate of potions and poultices, and Bella cheerily calls out a farewell as they go.

With arms full of scavenged and broken weapons, Darvis pushes his way into the town’s smithy and immediately thinks Murdock must have given him wrong directions. It looks enough like a smithy, or at least what Darvis imagines a smithy would look like; weapons on the walls, benches full of hammers and tools. But it reeks like a brewery, and the man slouched over a table would be more in place at a tavern barstool.

The man doesn’t even look up at the sound of the door swinging open. “Smithy’s closed.”

“Fuck,” Darvis says, wrinkling his nose. So it is the smithy- and this must be Owen, the man who’s supposed to be able to fix their scavenged junk into something usable. Why can’t anything ever just be easy? “What’s wrong with you?”

Owen still doesn’t look up, so with a huff Darvis walks up to the table and drops the pile of weapons in front of him. This finally riles the man from his stupor, and with his attention captured Darvis says, “Whatever your problem is, you can drown it in booze later. Right now, we need weapon repairs.”

With a few bleary blinks, Owen shakes his head. “I already told Murdock. He can make the weapons his own damn self. Or hey, you dwarves are smiths, right? You do it. Or join me as I get besotted. I don’t care much either way.”

Morrigan sniffs, kicking away one of the bottles that litters the floor. “Honestly. It is as if this pathetic place wants to be destroyed. Just how long have you been emptying the entire town’s store of alcohol?”

Her scathing tone doesn’t seem to completely register with Owen, who only blinks again as he tries to calculate the answer to her question. “Since I woke up today. However long ago that was.” He scowls and grabs another bottle. “What else am I supposed to do? Valena is gone. It’s been days, and not a word. Murdock won’t send anyone to look for her. So yes, this is what I’m doing.”

Darvis crosses his arms, knowing he’ll likely regret getting involved but seeing few other options. “And Valena is?”

“My daughter,” Owen snaps. “She works in the castle. Ever since the attacks, not a soul has come in or out of that place. No word if she’s okay, or if she needs help, or if she’s already…” A choked sob escapes his throat, and he quickly silences it with a long drink from the bottle.

“So now you’re just going to lie down and drink yourself to death,” Darvis observes flatly.

“And why not? Ain’t living past the night anyhow,” Owen replies with a shrug.

Darvis shoves the pile of weapons across the table, closer to Owen. Whatever patience or sympathy he might have had when he walked in is quickly running out. “Well, we’re fighting tonight, and we need weapons. So pick your pathetic self off the ground and get to work, and maybe we don’t die tonight.”

For the first time, Owen seems to actually notice Darvis’s armor and the weapons at his side. His eyes flicker over to Sten towering in the doorway, Morrigan thrumming her fingers against her staff in irritation, and the wardog sitting happily at Darvis’s side. “Who are you?”

That is a question that would take far too long to answer in full, so Darvis simply says, “A Grey Warden. And there are more of us. If you’re lucky, we’re the ones who are going to save your sorry asses tonight.”

“Grey Wardens…” Owen squints at Darvis. “You’re warriors. They say you can fight anything.” The stupor suddenly falls away, replaced by a sudden vigor as Owen stumbles to his feet. “Find her. Find my girl.”

“I’m not here for that,” Darvis says swiftly. “If we could get into the castle, we would already be there. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a horde of monsters that’s stopping all the knights here from doing anything.”

“But if we live through this thing tonight, you can get to the castle,” Owen insists. “Look, I don’t have no delusions- you’re here to save the arl and the rest of the nobles. But my girl is in there too. Please.”

Fuck. He’s right, Darvis can’t really deny that. Even if they survive to the morning, everyone will be focused on rescuing the arl next; anyone else is just collateral damage to the nobles. But that doesn’t mean Darvis can do anything about it. He looks away, and in a gruff voice points out, “It’s been days. She could be dead.”

Owen is unfazed. “You think I haven’t been considering that possibility ever since these things attacked? I’d rather know for sure than go to my grave wondering.” He looks over at the weapon pile and grabs a sword. “I’ll get your weapons, okay? But you gotta promise to find my girl.”

“From the smell of you, you’ll light up the second you get near the forge,” Morrigan remarks drily.

“I’ll get you your weapons,” Owen repeats. “I’m good at what I do. But you gotta promise.”

Before Darvis can even answer, Morrigan steps forward, her golden eyes flashing. “You are asking a great deal, you wretched little man. Shall we also go about rescuing every kitten from every tree in this monster-ridden country?”

Owen flinches at her words. “She’s my daughter. Don’t you understand how tortured a parent is not knowing if their child is even alive?”

Morrigan and Darvis let out identical short, cynical laughs.

“Come on,” Owen pleads, looking between them in disbelief. “Ain’t you got a conscience?”

“Not that I know of,” Darvis replies automatically. If this guy wants some sort of hero in shining armor, he should go crawling Marja or Alistair; they’re the bleeding heart nobles, not him. But then Owen looks at him, tears in his eyes, and says in a broken voice. “Please. She’s all I got.”

And fuck, there’s something there that Darvis can’t bat away so easily. So before he can change his mind, Darvis steels himself and bites out, “Yeah, I’ll find her. I promise.”

He can feel Morrigan’s startled glance, but she merely folds her arms and says nothing. Owen, on the other hand, releases a long sigh of relief. Darvis just barely resists gagging at the alcohol on his breath, and adds, “And drink some fucking water before you get near that anvil.”

“Aye,” Owen says, nodding and wiping his eyes. “Don’t you worry, everything will be ready by nightfall.”

“Must we do this?”

Marja sighs. Leliana has made her unhappiness clear ever since retrieving the amulets from the Chantry, and try as she might Marja cannot understand her protests. All of this ‘Maker’ nonsense has never seemed especially convincing even under the best of circumstances. Still, she tries to keep her voice even and diplomatic as she answers. “If it helps, then yes.”

“The faith that will protect these men must come from their heart,” Leliana insists. “To promise them protective charms- that is not how faith should be stoked.”

“But the amulets certainly won’t hurt,” Marja points out. Alistair had been right back in the tavern; the people of Redcliffe are miserable. Morale is important in battle, and Marja would rather the fighters receive that morale from silly, fake trinkets than from drinking themselves into a stupor. “And is it really so bad to give these people some hope?”

“The amulets could inspire their faith,” Alistair suggests, and Leliana huffs.

“It is still a lie.”

“Leliana,” Marja says, giving the other woman an imploring look. “These will brighten the fighters’ spirits, and that will help them in the upcoming fight. Isn’t that what your Maker wants?”

That finally causes Leliana to waver, although she still does not appear completely appeased. With a sigh, she hands the amulets in her hands to Alistair. “If that is what you believe is necessary, I will not stop you. Just do not ask me to be the one who lies to these people.”

“Fair enough. I can do all the talking, if that will keep your conscience clear,” Marja allows, although she can’t completely shake her frustration with Leliana. Why this, of all things, is causing the woman such distress, she simply cannot puzzle out.

“See? We have a solution and nobody needs to argue anymore,” Alistair says. He chews on his lip, casting a worried glance at the two of them. “Come on, let’s not be cross. I think this place is getting to everyone a little bit.”

The obvious concern in his voice causes Marja to soften slightly. “Don’t worry, Alistair. We’ll pull through. Everything we’ve done today will be a big help come nightfall.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I hope so,” Alistair says, his brow furrowing for a moment as his face goes unusually somber. But just as quickly as it came, his dark mood lifts and his smile returns. “See, this is why it’s a good thing someone like you can be in charge! Somebody who knows how to talk to people, and actually come up with a plan. But me, I would be totally unsuited to something like that.”

“Very subtle, Alistair,” Marja says with a roll of her eyes.

But the distraction works on Leliana, and for a moment her eyes light up. “No, do not discount yourself! Why, there are countless grand tales of lost kings, ignorant of their heritage and of their destiny, returning to their lands to reign in glory-”

“Hey!” Alistair’s voice is panicked at this sudden backfire to his plan of changing the conversation. “That’s not me! I am not lost, I am certainly not a king, and there is nothing at all glorious about me.”

Marja eyes him, still not comprehending how he can say these things with such conviction. “You really don’t want to be king?”

Alistair laughs, his voice still unnaturally high. “The very idea of it terrifies me. I don’t want to be the person who sits on the throne, making decisions that affect the lives of others. I like being a Warden. And although you might think different considering our whole situation, I am good at it.” He grins sheepishly. “Or at least the fighting darkspawn part. Plus, we’re helping people. That’s enough for me.”

Marja only shakes her head, unable to agree but deciding not to say anything. That is an argument for another time.

Darvis walks slowly back to the Chantry, watching the sun sink closer to the horizon. Night is coming quicker than he’d like; he still needs to find Teagan and tell him to send the troops to Owen’s for their new weapons. With any luck, they’ve done enough to actually make a difference when it comes time to use them.

Across the town’s main square, Darvis can see Murdock consulting with a group of soldiers, motioning emphatically as he speaks. Occasionally he points at Sten, who has unsheathed his greatsword to practice against one of the wooden dummies- and in doing so attracted a crowd of admiring villagers attempting to mimic his fighting stance in their own practice. If nothing else, the people here seem to have more energy than when the Wardens first arrived. A few of the fighters give Darvis hopeful smiles as he passes by, and Darvis quickly looks away. This new vigor may be a good sign, but it doesn’t mean he has to like the fact that they’re pinning every hope of survival on the Wardens.

“Fools, all of them,” Morrigan mutters, a dark echo of Darvis’s own thoughts. “Depending on us to save their hides.”

“The true mark of desperation, huh?” Darvis replies with a smirk.

“We should have left them to their fight,” Morrigan continues, shaking her head. “Infiltrating the castle on our own would not have been overly difficult, and that is where our target lies. ‘Tis no concern of ours whether the village lives or dies.”

Darvis regards her quietly for a moment, watching how she stubbornly refuses to meet the eyes of any villager, the way she keeps her staff tight in her grip and glances towards the sky as if she wants nothing more than to leap into the air and fly off. “I don’t think you really mean that.”

She scowls. “And who are you, to presume what I mean?”

“Hey, I don’t like it any more than you do,” Darvis says. “I’m the last person who should be trying to save anybody. But if you really didn’t care, I think you would’ve walked away already.”

Morrigan snorts, putting on a thoroughly disgusted expression. “You know nothing of my reasons for being here.” She pauses, peering down at Darvis thoughtfully. “First you go and promise to save a damsel in distress, and now this. Do not tell me you are growing soft.”

Now it’s Darvis’s turn to laugh. “Oh, of course I am. In fact, after the battle tonight I plan to retire here and spend the rest of my days saving orphans and damsels at the Chantry. Maybe I’ll even find one of those ‘kittens’ people keep going on about.”

“Do not even jest about such things,” Morrigan says severely, although the corners of her mouth appear to be fighting off a reluctant smile. “Even the mere notion brings on the urge to vomit. ‘Twould be better for you to fall in battle tonight rather than face such a fate.”

The teasing grimace on her faces deepens into something more sincere as they near the Chantry, and with a sigh Morrigan says, “Now, I must go mix some potions before tonight. I daresay I shall have better luck with it somewhere…quieter. Do try not to have a complete change of heart while I’m gone.”

“Would it really be that bad?” Darvis grins and raises an eyebrow. “I bet I’d look great in orange.”

“The only orange you would be wearing would be from a fireball, as I put you out of your deluded misery.”

Darvis is still chuckling as he enters the Chantry, scanning the area quickly for Teagan. The man is easy enough to find; he stands near a young woman, both of them speaking earnestly to a young boy, who fidgets in the woman’s embrace. The boy looks up, and Darvis recognizes him as the kid from the wardrobe. The recognition is mutual; the boy points at him, and suddenly the woman is approaching Darvis.

“You’re the one who found Bevin?” she asks, and before Darvis can answer she grabs his hand. “Thank you, thank you so much! I don’t know what I would have done if he’d been stuck out there at nightfall- oh, thank you.”

This close, Darvis can see that her eyes are red and swollen, in stark contradiction to her sincere smile. He can only assume that this is Kaitlyn, the boy’s sister. “Yeah,” he says gruffly, quickly withdrawing her hand from his grasp. “Tell the kid not to go hiding in closets when there are monsters about.”

“Oh, I have,” she says, fixing Bevin with a stern look. “I don’t know what he was thinking…running off on his own, taking that sword…” She shakes her head, turning back to Darvis. “He said he gave it to you?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Darvis quickly insists. “The boy handed it over, just ask him.”

“Oh, I wasn’t implying anything!” Kaitlyn assures him. She chews her lip uncertainly for a moment, then adds, “And in this case, he’s right. You can do far more with it than we can. And it’s the least I can do to repay you for saving Bevin’s life.”

For a moment, Darvis is speechless; then, all too quicky, his words come back and before he can think any better of it he blurts out, “Are you crazy? You’ve seen this thing, right?” He pulls slightly at the sword on his hip, taking it out just far enough for the light to glint off the steel. “Do you have any idea how much this thing is worth?”

Kaitlyn wavers. “I really don’t, to be honest. But certainly less than Bevin’s life. Less than Redcliffe. In light of everything you’ve done, it’s really nothing.”

And to that, Darvis can’t even formulate an answer. He still can’t believe she’s simply giving this to him. Aside from the first set of daggers he received from Beraht, every weapon Darvis ever owned has been looted or stolen, and the ones from Beraht certainly didn’t come without a price. And now this woman stands here with a smile, gives him a family heirloom crafted by a real smith, and tells him it’s nothing?

The whole situation gives Darvis that same uneasy prickly feeling he got from Owen’s shop, from all those hopeful knights staring at him like he’s something he most certainly is not...but Darvis can’t exactly tell this woman that. So he only shrugs and gruffly says, “Suit yourself.”

Teagan, perhaps sensing Darvis’s desire to end this conversation, takes the opportunity to step forward. “You can rest easy now, Kaitlyn,” he says. “Bevin is safe now. And we are well-prepared for the battle tonight, are we not, Warden?”

“Yeah,” Darvis says, remembering why he came here. “Owen’s got the forge fired up. Murdock said to send the rest of the fighters down his way.”

Message delivered, Darvis turns to leave. But he only gets a few steps before the entire scene begins repeating in his head. He thinks of the waver in Bevin’s voice when he spoke of his mother’s death, the obvious distress on Kaitlyn’s face, their threadbare clothes and ransacked house and-

And before he can stop himself, Darvis is turning around, reaching into the bag at his belt. His coinpurse still hangs heavy with coins stolen from the Dalish ruins, coins that he’d once wished Rica and Leske and even his damned mother had been able to see. Now, he takes a fistful of those coins and thrusts them into Kaitlyn’s hands.

“Don’t be stupid, okay? It’s a well-made sword and it’s probably worth more than the kid anyway. So just take the money and try not to die tonight.”

Kaitlyn’s eyes go wide at the sight of the silver, and she stammers something out- a protest, or a thank you. Darvis isn’t exactly sure; he’s already turned on his heels and heading back towards the door, moving quickly before he can regret his actions.

Maybe he is going soft, after all.

As the daylight slowly fades from the sky above, Marja walks the perimeter of the village one last time, keeping an eye out for encroaching monsters and wondering what the generals of Orzammar would make of this situation. She doubts any of them have ever approached battle with so few resources; even in the Deep Roads, they have fleets of highly trained Warriors, all equipped with the finest of weapons and armor.

Here, Marja has farmers and fishermen, people who were never meant to enter battle. But there is a newfound resolve among the villagers, a glint of determination where once they seemed only tired and resigned. Marja watches as supplies are passed around; swords and hammers to those fighting, healing salves and potions to those awaiting near the Chantry to treat the wounded. Soldiers proudly show off their amulets and shout words of encouragement that might almost be battle cries.

Dwyn and his men await at the top of the cliff, along with the few remaining trained soldiers who form the first line of defense. He gives Marja a cursory nod as she passes, before returning to the work of sharpening his sword. To Marja’s surprise, Darvis is there as well, helping the villagers overturn large barrels onto the pathway winding down from the hills.

“What’s all this?” Marja asks, approaching with a curious eye.

Darvis glances at her. “What’s it look like? We’re gonna set some undead assholes on fire.”

Marja frowns, confused for a moment, before the smell of oil hits her and she realizes what it is they’re spreading. “Oh,” she says, looking up at a path, then back down to the village. Unless the creatures start throwing themselves from the cliffs, wading through oil will be their only path to the people below. “That’s brilliant.”

Darvis doesn’t answer, and when she looks back to him, Marja catches genuine surprise in his face before he covers it with a scowl. “Yeah, well, you Nobles aren’t the only ones allowed to come up with ideas.”

Marja can barely restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “Just take the compliment, Brosca.”

For once Darvis doesn’t have a retort for her, and she watches in silence as the last of the oil is spread. When the work is done, Darvis stands back, surveying the path with shrewd eyes. He glances back to the village below, where shadows have begun to fall as the sun travels lower.

“You think they’re ready?”

“I do,” Marja says immediately. “I’ve never fought undead before, but they can’t be worse than darkspawn. Redcliffe has suffered heavy losses, but their morale is greatly lifted with our arrival. We’ve managed to secure an impressive amount of supplies. And between the soldiers, the mercenaries, and our own companions…well, we’re still relying a lot on the townspeople, but we’re not completely lacking in skilled forces.”

“All right, I get it,” Darvis says with a wave of his hand. “A simple we probably won’t all die would've been fine. Save the victory speech for your adoring public.”

Marja is about to point out that ‘we probably won’t all die’ is in fact not sufficient to inspire soldiers before a battle, but before she can say anything Darvis suddenly asks, “And this mercenary? He’s dwarven, right?”

“He is,” Marja confirms, tilting her head slightly at the question. “Why?”

“How’s he feel about…” Darvis trails off, then motions to himself. “You know. Fighting alongside a Casteless.”

Marja considers the question for a moment; she can’t lie, the thought has crossed her mind, too. Back home, the armies were full of Warriors who would have considered such a thing a momentous disgrace.

But they are not home, and none of them are Warriors. “It doesn’t matter how he feels about it, he will do it,” she says with finality. She glances at Darvis, and in a slightly softer tone adds, “Although he did not seem overly concerned with Caste. So long as we are all here in Redcliffe, we are all surfacers.”

Darvis doesn’t respond right away, and Marja hopes she has not managed to inadvertently offend the man once again. Then he snorts and says, “According to the humans, we’re actually all Smiths.”

His words startle a laugh from Marja. “They do all assume that, don’t they? Why is that?”

“No clue. And if they’re not talking about smithing, they’re staring at me like I’m actually…” Darvis trails off, and shakes his head. “Sun-touched, the lot of them. Speaking of, where did our humans run off to?”

“Leliana and Alistair are helping with the Chantry barricades,” Marja answers. She eyes Darvis for a moment, evaluating his good humor, and takes the opportunity to say, “You should talk to Alistair, by the way. He’s still afraid you hate him for hiding the truth of his birth.”

Even now, Marja half expects Darvis to snap again once the topic comes up. But although his dark frown does indeed return, he actually seems to consider her words. “I am still pissed. Can’t take two steps in the Wardens without running into a fucking Noble now. But…he’s not so bad.”

“Better than me, you mean?” Marja asks drily, and Darvis grins.

“Exactly. And that much is only because he couldn’t lord it over anyone. If he’d been raised noble, he’d be just as much an asshole as the rest of you.”

“I know as well as anyone how cruel how nobility can be, but believe it or not, there are some decent people as well,” Marja says, and Darvis gives her a pointed look.

“Name one.”

Marja opens her mouth to answer, many names springing to mind- there is her father, of course, and her allies in the Harrowmont and Helmi Houses. But it’s difficult to offer them up as examples when she remembers how none of them so much as raised a finger to defend her when she was exiled. The only person who had tried at all was Gorim, whom according to Caste is lower than any Noble.

“See?” Darvis says, taking some kind of grim satisfaction in her silence. “Don’t feel too bad, Princess. Being an asshole is practically part of Orzammar culture. You could count the number of decent people in the whole city on one hand.”

That, Marja knows, is simply untrue. It has to be. They have their ideals, their Paragons; the mistakes of a few, however grievous, cannot erase that. But before she can argue further, the low toning of bells echoes out from the Chantry in the valley below, signaling the onset of night. Villagers quickly spring into action, hurrying to grab their weapons and take up their positions.

Marja sighs, pushing away her clamoring thoughts; there will be time for those later. Right now, there are creatures to fight, and a battle to win.

Chapter Text

For a few minutes after the sun sets, Darvis entertains the hope that this was all for nothing, and the villagers were suffering under some sort of collective delusion. Not a very likely thought, but it helps pass the time as he watches the distant hills and waits for the creatures to descend.

“When exactly are these things supposed to show up?” he mutters to Morrigan, who stands at his side amidst the crowd of fighters.

She frowns, her eyes are fixed on something in the distance. “They are coming,” she says in a low voice. “There is magic in the air.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “What, can you smell it or something?” When she merely narrows her eyes in response he nudges her lightly. “Come on, I’m serious. Dwarven, remember? I don’t know how this works.”

“’Tis a presence in the Fade," Morrigan explains. "There is magic here…powerful, and uncontrolled.” She blinks, and quickly stands straighter while readying her staff. “And it is close.”

Darvis follows the direction of her gaze, furrowing his brow in confusion. The landscape before them is still empty…

But then he sees them. It starts as a few distant figures moving down the hill, but the numbers grow quickly until a small army is headed straight for the village. Unrest ripples through the fighters around Darvis as the villagers begin shouting and fidgeting at the sight of the encroaching figures.

“Hold rank!” Marja shouts from her position at the front, holding her arm out in a signal of stay back. “Let them run through our traps first. Remember your orders!”

Her voice quiets the murmurings, and the ragtag army holds position until Marja looks back at Morrigan and nods her signal.

With a flourish and a flash, Morrigan’s hands burst into flame. The light catches her eyes, which glow golden with determination as she focuses her magic. Darvis watches, transfixed, as the fire grows larger and brighter around Morrigan’s fingers. For all that magic remains a mystery to him, even he can’t deny it’s a striking sight. Finally, with one final gesture, Morrigan launches the flames forward in a fireball that sails over the Redcliffe army and explodes right in front of the undead. Darvis holds his breath at the sight, hoping that their setup has worked- and releases it as the flames catch, spreading out to envelop the army in an inferno.

In the light of the fire, the details of the creatures’ forms are clearly visible for the first time, and Darvis sees what has villagers so terrified. The things staggering toward the village are grotesque assemblages of bone and rusted metal armor, with empty eyes and gaping mouths. Decaying flesh hangs from their skeletal bodies, and they shamble with single-minded determination to the gathered group of warriors.

And at this particular moment, they’re also on fire. Thankfully, Darvis seems to be right about fire hurting just about anything.

The first wave of monsters gets blasted back by the initial explosion, and a few of the remaining creatures fall to the ground as the flames devour their rotting bodies. A rousing cheer runs through the crowd of humans, and with this newfound vigor they surge forward to begin the fight in earnest.

The good part about fighting undead, Darvis quickly realizes, is that they’re slow and they’re stupid. The bad part is that there are a lot of them. Darvis tries not to think too hard on where they’re all coming from as he ducks and twists his way through the fight, sending the monsters reeling with his daggers. A blast of energy from Morrigan’s staff sends an entire group of creatures flying, and Darvis has just enough time to exchange grins with the witch before cutting down the few that remain standing. In the distance he can hear Dwyn and Marja barking orders as they organize the forces, and he turns toward the center of the battle to regroup-

-only to be taken surprise as a monster rushes in from the shadows and launches itself at him, swinging a large, rusted greatsword, and Darvis has just enough time to think where in the blazes did these things get fucking weapons from before his attention is wholly occupied fending off his attacker.

His daggers flash up to meet the sword, dashing the blade away even as the impact leaves his palms ringing, and before the creature can make another attack Alistair is there to help, his shield slamming into the monster. The blow is followed by a slash from Alistair’s sword that sends the monster’s head flying.

“You okay?” Alistair asks, keeping his eyes on the approaching enemies.

“Yeah,” Darvis answers, readying himself once more. He glances at the decapitated corpse on the ground and with a grunt adds, “Not bad. For a royal bastard.”

Alistair lets out a surprised chuckle. “Thanks, I guess.” His expression grows serious again as another wave of creatures approach. “Now we just have to do that about a thousand more times.”

One creature, faster than the rest, lurches forward at Alistair, but before the warrior can even raise his sword the monster’s motion is stopped as a dagger flies through the air and embeds itself firmly between the creature’s eyes.

“Nice aim!” Alistair shouts, looking to Darvis. But Darvis only gives him a look of confusion in return, holding up the daggers still in his hand.

“That wasn’t me…”

“Only nine hundred ninety-nine, now!” Another knife glints in the moonlight, catching Darvis’s eye for a brief second before the familiar elf who wields it leaps from the shadows and draws it across another attacker’s neck. The rotting flesh doesn’t bleed, merely caves beneath the blow as the creature is pushed backwards. Zevran plucks his other dagger neatly from the skeleton, then looks over his shoulder with a sly smile and a cheeky wink. “Make that nine hundred ninety-eight.”

Darvis gapes for a moment, barely recovering himself in time to dodge an incoming arrow (seriously, where did corpses get longbows?) While he’s occupied, Alistair gives voice to his thoughts as he shouts, “Where in the world did you come from? I thought you’d be halfway back to Antiva by now!”

“Did you really?” Zevran replies with a shrug. “Strange as it may seem, I was being truthful when I said my best chances of survival lay here in Ferelden.”

“So what, you’ve gone from killing us to saving us now?” Alistair demands. Before Zevran can answer, another volley of arrows rains down. Alistair quickly raises his shield, allowing Zevran and Darvis to both take cover.

“Is it such a surprise? See how well we work together already!” Zevran chuckles. “Ah, but we can discuss details later. For now it seems you could benefit from my assistance, no?”

Alistair looks resistant, but Darvis speaks up first. “We’ll take what we can get. Just keep those knives pointed in the right direction.”

“But of course, my friend.”

For a moment it seems that Alistair may argue, but before he can speak up another voice rings out over the din of battle, loud and high with panic.

“They’re coming from the lake!”

Darvis risks a look back over his shoulder, glancing down over the cliff’s edge at the valley below. The night is dark but a bonfire burns in the village square, and through the shadows he can make out the large, dark lake- as well as the hazy, staggering figures of the undead that emerge from its depth.

And he can see that they’re heading straight for the Chantry.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit.” He turns back to the battle and raises his voice. “We got a problem!”

His cry catches Marja’s attention, and her eyes immediately narrow at the sight of Zevran. “What is the assassin doing here?”

“Helping, my dear lady!” Zevran shouts back, remarkably cheery despite the lack of welcome in Marja’s face and the way she brandishes her bloodied battleaxe.

But they don’t have time to waste on her suspicion, so Darvis quickly shouts, “Leave it, we’ve got bigger things to deal with!”

At his words, Marja’s eyes travel down the cliffside and go wide at the sight of the undead creeping towards the village.

“We need to split up!” She shouts, her focus now entirely on the fight on hand. “Brosca, take Alistair and the assassin and rally a group to protect the low ground. Sten and I will stay with the rest and hold them back up here. Leliana, Morrigan, get some high ground and pick off any that get too close to those Chantry doors. Go!”

The battle rages on, a chaotic haze of shouts and noise and fire. Darvis stabs his way through the horde of undead with Alistair and Zevran at his side, and slowly, the crowd of undead thins. The monsters get slower and less frequent, and at long last Darvis looks around him and realizes that while the ground is littered with bodies, the villagers are the only ones still standing.

Someone lets out a tired cheer, and after a moment of uncertainty others begin to join in, until the entire village is shouting out the declaration of their victory.

The victorious feeling is dampened quite a bit when the villagers begin tallying up the price of the fight. Redcliffe may have won, but there are plenty of humans laying amongst the fallen monsters. As people cautiously begin leaving the safety of the Chantry, the villagers begin the grisly task of searching for familiar faces among the dead.

Darvis doesn’t envy them the task. He also doesn’t envy Zevran the look Marja shoots him when she stomps in his direction after the battle.

“What are you doing back here?” Her voice is a low whisper, more tired than accusatory. Zevran seems to take this as a good sign, for he sweeps into a low bow and flashes her a winning grin, as if he has no memory of their recent encounter. Darvis watches the whole scene with amusement alongside Alistair, the two of them pretending to focus on cleaning their weapons as Marja conducts her interrogation.

“Is it not obvious? I am demonstrating just how valuable I can be,” Zevran says, sweeping a hand towards their surroundings. Marja frowns, and he rushes to add, “I do appreciate you sparing my life, Wardens. But you must understand- I am no longer a Crow.”

Zevran’s face falls slightly at his own words, just for a moment, but he quickly pushes forward. “At best, I am a failed Crow, and a failed Crow is a dead man. I understand your suspicions, but my motivations for traveling with you are simple. And surely you cannot deny my use after this display- it was quite impressive, if I do say so myself.”

Marja is silent as she mulls over his words, before finally giving him the slightest nod. “I suppose I can’t deny that. Your aid in battle was appreciated.”

It’s the first time she hasn’t completely disregarded Zevran’s offer. Darvis exchanges a surprised look with Alistair, and in a low voice Alistair says, “Let’s say that maybe- maybe- we entertain this idea. Aside from the whole ‘trying to kill us first’ thing, he actually did help. But still… what’s to stop him from stabbing us in the back later?”

His words are quiet, but Zevran answers anyway, turning his gaze to Alistair’s for a brief moment and never relinquishing his smile. “Self-preservation, of course.” Alistair regards him with uncertainty, and at his hesitation Zevran adds, “And if you still doubt my usefulness, perhaps I should inform you of what I have learned of the arl.”

That earns the attention of both Alistair and Marja, and they respond quickly in near unison. “What?”

A glint of satisfaction shines in Zevran’s eyes. “I take it you are interested, then? Well, I am most happy to oblige. It seems that somebody with deep pockets and high connections took quite an interest in the arl’s state of health- interest enough to instruct spies to lurk about the keep and carry word back to Denerim.”

“Spies?” Alistair’s brow furrows. “Why in the world would anyone send spies here? And how do you even know about this?”

“An assassin has his ways. There are spies and informants to be found everywhere, my friend. One only needs to know where to look. In this case, the place to look was amongst tavern-goers who have a bit more coin than they should and no reasonable explanation for their time spent in village. Simple enough, really.” Zevran chuckles. “You should see what I am capable of when presented with a real challenge.”

“Did you challenge yourself enough to find out who it was that sponsored these spies?” Marja asks.

Zevran nods. “A man by the name of Arl Rendon Howe- the very man, I should point out, who first called upon the services of yours truly.”

“And Loghain’s right hand man,” Alistair growls, his fists clenching at his sides.

Marja breathes a long sigh. “You did say Arl Eamon was certain to stand against Loghain’s grab for power. How convenient that Eamon falls ill as soon as Loghain and Howe make their move. And let’s not forget that the village has been under siege for days; surely some news of their struggle has spread by now. And yet no help has come from any direction.”

Alistair drags a hand across his face, shaking his head slightly. “So this is all just a part of some evil plot, then?”

Zevran clasps his hands together. “My thoughts exactly! See, we work together quite splendidly, do we not?”

Marja frowns, the tight lines around her mouth indicating some sort of internal battle before she finally nods once more. “Yes, fine, I will admit it. You have been useful, after all.”

“And does this usefulness change your response to my previous offer?”

The prodding question only deepens Marja’s frown, and Darvis finally has to laugh.

“She really hates to admit she was wrong, doesn’t she?” he says quietly to Alistair. Then, louder, “Can we just move on with this? Yes, Zevran, you can join our fucked up little group.”

Marja shoots him one of her looks, but Darvis only rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only Warden here, Princess. And you’re outnumbered on this one. Right?”

Alistair starts slightly as the focus of three people suddenly shifts to him, but to his credit he gives steady nod. “Yeah. I admit it may not be a great idea, and I'm likely to regret this later. But he did really help us.”

Maybe Marja had been going to relent anyway; maybe she’s simply too exhausted now to argue any longer. Whatever the case, she finally gives in. “Fine. As I said, you have proven yourself capable- not to mention persistent. Just try to remember which side you’re on.”

Zevran’s face brightens, and he sweeps into another dramatic bow. “I swear, my lady, I shall never forget. What a fortunate day for all of us! Now, do you wish to discuss the dear arl’s unfortunate situation right away, or shall we permit ourselves a meal first?”

“Just…help me find Teagan, and we’ll get it all sorted out,” Marja says with a sigh. As she turns to leave, Zevran follows quickly after, his chatter and charm unperturbed by Marja’s obvious remaining wariness.

Alistair watches them go. “We just keep picking up more and more interesting people, don’t we? Leliana will be happy, at least.”

“Morrigan will think it’s a horrible idea,” Darvis chuckles, “but I’m pretty sure assassin is still above Chantry sister in her books. She’ll be okay.”

Alistair begins to say something, pauses awkwardly, and starts again. “And we- we’re okay, too, right? Our conversation before didn’t end very well, but I really wasn’t trying to lie to you-”

“We’re fine,” Darvis cuts him off with a shrug. It’s the truth, or close enough; Noble or not, Darvis can’t deny that Alistair has done nothing but try to help things along in his own uncertain way. “I was pissed, don’t get me wrong. Call it a natural reflex to rich-blooded assholes. But…truth be told, you’re not all that bad.”

Alistair grins, and with a laugh exclaims, “A finer compliment I’ve never received!”

“For a royal bastard.”

The victorious smile on Alistair’s face falls slightly. “You’re never going to get tired of that joke, are you?”

"Not anytime soon, no."

The villagers gather in the main square, drinking and eating and talking together in spite of the late hour and the massive amounts of work that still must be done. Marja watches from a distance, not quite ready to approach, her gaze drifting between the merry fires and the mess of the surrounding fields and ramshackle houses. To call this a festivity would be inaccurate; there is a feeling of victory in the air, true, and a tangible relief has settled over the people.

But there is loss as well, too many of their own dead at the hands of something they still don’t understand. Scarcely half an hour ago, they found the body of their own mayor, a sword still in his hands, ready to defend his village. Even so, there are too many bodies to do anything with now; from what Marja has heard, surfacer funerals involve burning and chanting and some sort of preparation. The Chantry Sisters say the rites will take place within the next day, but with the loss still so raw nobody in the village wants to return alone to their homes.

So they gather together, and they share a meal around a bonfire, and it is not quite a funeral and not quite a celebration, but hopefully it is some kind of comfort.

The Wardens were invited to join the villagers in their midnight meal by firelight, and most of Marja’s companions already have. She will, too, soon enough. But first, she is using a rare moment of solace in this earthquake of a day to plan for what must be done next. After all, though they may have saved this village, they still know nothing of what has happened just beyond the arl’s gates.

“Grumpy isn’t a good look for you, Princess.”

Marja starts, glancing to her left where Darvis has emerged from the shadows. “Ancestors, please stop doing that.”

“You first,” he says with a scoff. “This whole standing-off-to-the-side-and-scowling thing? That’s my thing. Your thing is schmoozing people.” He shifts, looking away as he continues. “So why aren’t you out there gloating over your victory?”

Marja rolls her eyes. She’s starting to recognize Darvis’s sarcastic barbs as his strange version of cordiality. It’s honestly a wonder anyone can tolerate a conversation with him, but it’s still an improvement from pure hostility, so she simply answers in an even voice, “I save my gloating for when a job is completed. We still have work to do here.”

“So what, you want to go charging through the gates now? After we just fought off about a hundred monsters? You can take a few hours to rest, the keep will still be there in the morning.”

“But will Eamon?” Marja demands. “Or will he have died by then? What of the others still trapped in the castle? We learned that somebody is specifically planning for the arl to die and will go to great lengths to make that happen-does that not give you any sense of urgency?”

Darvis shrugs. His nonchalance only irritates Marja further, but when he notices her glare he huffs and explains, “Look, we can’t help anyone if we get ourselves killed, can we? I want to get this over with as much as you do, believe it or not, but I’m not fond of suicide missions.”

The worst part is that his words make sense. Marja hates the realization that Darvis Brosca, of all people, is the one bearing the voice of reason. She nods slightly, although her voice is still dark when she answers, “I know. But I’m just not fond of waiting while others plan.”

Darvis snorts. “It’s a wonder you sleep at all. Keep brooding if that’s what you really want, but I think you need to join everyone else so Teagan stops asking me and Alistair to give the speeches. Nobody wants to see that disaster.”

In spite of herself, Marja has to fight back a smile. “That much is true.”

The fire is welcoming, Marja cannot deny that. She is greeted eagerly, and her well-worn smile returns as she makes her way through the crowd to where her group is gathered near the flames. Along the way, a woman in the crowd grabs her hand, and Marja recognizes her as Bella, the copper-haired serving girl from the tavern.

Her grip is warm and tight as she beams at Marja. “You’ve done it! I can’t believe it- truly, we can’t thank you enough.” She pauses, her eyes shimmering in the firelight as she appraises the Warden. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m perfectly well,” Marja assures her. “Your blacksmith truly did wonders with our armor.”

“Good.” Bella nods firmly. “We certainly don’t need any more casualties. It will be a trial to care for the injured in the coming days. Thank the Maker you got Lloyd to loosen his grip on the supplies; we can’t afford to be selfish in times like these.”

“It was truly my pleasure,” Marja answers with a smile of her own. “And I’m sorry for those that have fallen; Redcliffe has a long journey ahead, but I’m confident you will recover.”

“Yes,” Bella sighs. “Hard times are coming. But our odds now are better than they have been in what feels like a very long time. So thank you, for that.” Her fingers tighten around Marja’s one more time, and then she does something that shocks Marja completely.

She leans forward and places a soft kiss on Marja’s cheek. The gesture is quick and light, Bella’s lips just barely catching the corners of Marja’s mouth before she straightens, and then with a smile and a blush Bella slips back into the crowd. People continue to bustle around Marja, a few of them stopping to thank her further, but for once in her life Marja is utterly speechless.

“My, my.” Zevran’s voice from behind finally startles Marja from her haze, and she can hear the smug smirk in his voice. Without turning to face him, she pushes forward in her original direction, hoping that their other traveling companions will distract the man.

Her efforts, however, are in vain, and he simply follows along at her heels. He even goes so far as to settle onto the ground next to her as she finds a seat near Leliana, his teasing continuing all the while. “I should have guessed that a fierce and beautiful Warden such as yourself would make the ladies swoon.”

“You are still on very loose sand,” she snaps, furiously trying to ignore the flush that has risen to her cheeks. Marja herself has little patience for Zevran’s copious flattery, as his endless supply of compliments are a rather transparent attempt draw attention away from the fact he was contracted to kill them all. It would be insulting, has Marja not herself witnessed people gaining power by fawning over leaders. But she does not lower her guard so easily.

“I intended no offense, dear lady.”

But whatever his intent, it is already too late, and now Leliana is watching Marja with a curious smile upon her face. She leans forward conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow as she says, “You know, he is right in that tales of great heroes often overlap with tales of great romance. Does that hold no interest for you?”

“Do you ever speak anything other than nonsense?” Morrigan interrupts with a scoff, and for once Marja is glad for the woman’s bluntness.

Unfortunately, Leliana does not seem willing to let the subject drop. In fact, Morrigan’s resistance only serves to encourage her. “Come now, Morrigan,” she says in a sweet voice, with a pointed glance at Darvis. “Surely even you cannot deny the appeal of a brave Warden of legend.”

Marja is at least glad the attention is off of her, although now it is Darvis’s turn to appear uncomfortable. “Well,” he says gruffly, “first you’d have to find a brave Warden of legend. We’re just three new recruits making it up as we go along.”

Zevran bounces his eyebrows at Darvis. “Are you saying you have had no offers? But who can ever resist a dashing rogue?”

It’s difficult to miss the way Morrigan’s eyes narrow at that statement, but Darvis is saved from answering as Zevran’s gaze swiftly moves to Alistair. “And what of you? Certainly a strapping young warrior such as yourself has received plenty of appreciation?”

Alistair turns ruby-red within the instant, sputtering under the sudden attention. With a sigh, Marja firmly says, “Enough. You’ve all had your fun, but our time would be far better spent discussing how best to enter the keep come morning.”

But it’s too late to rein in her rowdy companions, and in the end Marja must relent as the jokes and teasing continue. It’s not that bad, in truth; they soon tire of trying to make her blush and move on to other games and stories. Zevran provides most of the entertainment, just as he once promised, regaling the group with tales of assassinations gone ludicrously wrong.

The gathering quiets down as the first signs of sun being to color the sky and the villagers trickle back to their homes. Their own group slowly quiets as well, with Marja’s companions gradually leaving to get some rest until it is only her and Alistair still sitting together. Marja knows they should get some rest as well, but she also knows already that between the Blight dreams and her own insistent thoughts, sleep will be difficult. Alistair seems to be of the same mind; his usual smiles slips occasionally as he looks towards the keep in the distance.

“Don’t let me keep you here,” he says finally. “There’s probably better company to found.” For a moment, a teasing look glints in his eyes. “Not to be presumptuous, but if you did want to find Bella again before we get back to business, there’s still time…”

“Ancestors, not you too,” Marja mutters, shaking her head to try and dislodge her sudden anxious thoughts and maintain a professional composure. “That was hardly anything worth making such a fuss over. It was just a…”

“A kiss from a pretty girl?” Alistair teases.

“A gesture of gratitude.”

“Oh, is that what it’s called?” Alistair chuckles, although his laughter fades when he notices Marja’s frown. “Okay, okay, sorry. It’s not that funny, I suppose, it’s just the way your face looked when it happened- but then, I shouldn’t make such fun. You probably have more experience than I do.”

“You’d be surprised,” Marja mumbles, running a hand through her hair. The truth- one she would never admit to with Zevran or Leliana around- is that the brief moment with Bella is the closest she’s come to any amount of real romance. She’s thought about it, certainly; she still remembers being entranced at her first sight of Jaylia, the pride of House Helmi, who shone with regal beauty. She also remembers the clenching in her gut that had taken hold when Jaylia’s engagement to Trian was announced.

Ever since then, Marja has been of the mind that it is best to not let such things distract her.

“Really?” Alistair does seem surprised, though when Marja glares at him he quickly backtracks. “Sorry! I just meant- I thought with being a princess, people would be throwing themselves at you. That’s certainly how people seem to treat our royalty.”

“I had suitors, certainly,” Marja allows, wrinkling her nose at the memory. “The sort of suitors that were deemed appropriate for a daughter of the king. But nobody I cared for. Nobody I would wish to marry.”

“Not everyone would care about the marriage part,” Alistair says.

“I did.”

“Me too, actually,” Alistair says with a small, sheepish smile. “Truthfully, from some of the tales the other Wardens used to tell, Zevran isn’t too far in his assumptions. Wardens aren’t supposed to have attachments- you know, families and such- but that didn’t stop anyone from going down to taverns and brothels. They’d play the hero card, use the Warden reputation impress all the pretty girls for a night. But I think I’d like the courting part of a relationship, not just- you know, what Zevran was talking about. Getting one’s kettle mended or whatever.”

“What? That is not a real euphemism,” Marja says, although she can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, and Alistair takes it as encouragement.

“Ah, you know. Buttering the biscuit. Doing the demon’s dance. Licking a lamppost in winter!”

“You have to be making these up,” Marja insists, trying to control her laughter. But after the long night of fighting and exhaustion it actually feels strangely good to laugh, and before she knows what’s happening both she and Alistair have dissolved into undignified giggles.

It’s a strange way to end such a serious night, especially as there is so much planning and work still ahead of them. But it fees good to laugh, even if for just a short moment.

Chapter Text

Morning comes far too quickly, in Marja’s opinion. But with the dawn comes a request from Teagan to meet at Redcliffe’s mill as soon as possible, and she knows they shouldn’t delay. After rousing her companions, Marja leads them to the meeting place, the aches of sleeplessness soon fading in the face of the work still in front of them.

“You said you have a plan?” Marja asks, and Teagan nods, resolute.

“This-” he points to the strangely shaped building behind him, “-is our way inside the castle.”

Marja frowns. Leliana has given her a brief explanation as to the purposes of this ‘windmill’, but her description mainly centered on surface agriculture, with a brief detour on the entertainment offered by a ride on the blades. Siege tactics hadn’t factored into the conversation.

“How is this-” she begins to ask, but her question is cut off by a sudden shout.

“Teagan! Oh, Teagan, thank the Maker!”

Marja turns quickly, hand on her axe, but the noise isn’t coming from an attacker. Rather, it’s a woman- a tall human wearing a dress of silk finery with ragged, torn skirts that she gathers in her hands as she runs up the hill towards Teagan. Dark golden hair falls in her face, and it isn’t until she is nearly upon them that Marja realizes there are tears in her eyes.

“Isolde?” Teagan’s voice is equal parts shocked and relieved as he greets the woman, catching her in his arms as she sags against him in relief.

Isolde clings tightly to Teagan, and when she speaks her words come out high and frantic. Her accent is similar to Leliana’s, yet in her panic it lacks the same soothing cadence. “Please, listen, I do not have much time. I managed to slip away, but I must return quickly. And you must come with me.”

She doesn’t even seem to notice the Wardens at Teagan’s side until Marja steps forward. “What is all this about, now? Did you come from the castle?”

Marja’s voice seems to jolt Isolde from her panicked state, and with a start she turns her eyes to the Wardens. Surprise colors her expression as she takes in the odd gathering- the dwarves, the Qunari, the elf, the witch. “What? Teagan, who are these people?”  Her face darkens when her eyes land upon Alistair. “And what is he doing here?”

Marja can sense Alistair stiffen at her side, and with no small amount of evident reluctance he says, “Hello, Lady Isolde. I see you still remember me.” He glances down at the Wardens, and adds in a low undertone, “This is Arl Eamon’s wife. I believe I mentioned her before.”

Ah, yes- Marja remembers this woman from Alistair’s stories of his childhood, and the images those stories painted is far from flattering. Marja moves to stand protectively between Isolde and Alistair, intercepting the the dirty glare the noblewoman is leveling at the Warden. She lifts her chin and keeps her eyes locked with Isolde’s as she says, “In answer to your other question- we are Grey Wardens, and it is due to us that Redcliffe has not been completely overrun by undead monstrosities.”

Isolde flinches slightly at the mention of the undead, and in a stammering voice replies, “Ok...of course…thank you, Wardens, for your service. Under better circumstances I would take more care to exchange pleasantries. But right now I must insist that Teagan-”

“Can’t you just tell us what’s happening?” Alistair blurts. He shrinks back slightly when Isolde turns her disapproving gaze back in his direction, but after only a brief hesitation he pushes on. “Please, we weren’t even sure anyone inside was still alive!”

“Yeah, this whole thing would be a lot easier if we knew anything about whatever the fuck is going on in there,” Darvis adds.

Isolde bristles, and Marja elbows Darvis sharply. “Lady Isolde,” she says in a more placating tone, “it is clear you have been through great distress. We swear to do everything within our power to help you. But you must tell us everything you know.”

There is a tense moment of silence as Isolde looks from the Wardens back to Teagan, her fists clenched tightly at her side. Marja has no doubt that this woman is truly frightened- but she also knows there is much she is not saying. For her to be locked away in the castle all this time, only to re-emerge when the fighting is done? It’s all too convenient. The least she could do is have a decent cover story.

At last, Isolde sighs and says, “I wish I could tell you more, but there is so much even I do not fully understand. All I know is there is a terrible evil inside that castle. The mage responsible has been apprehended, and yet still it continues. I am at a loss for what to do now.”

“A mage?” Teagan repeats, brow furrowed, and Isolde nods again, casting her gaze towards the ground.

“An infiltrator," Isolde sniffs. "He snuck in as one of the staff. We discovered he was poisoning Eamon- that is why he fell ill.”

“You see?” Zevran prompts in a loud whisper. “My information is never to be doubted.”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” Alistair answers in a sour voice. “But what exactly did this mage do? Are there demons at work?”

Isolde pales at the question. “As I said, I do not know. Danger still haunts us, that much is certain. More than that, I…” she loses her nerve for a moment, turning tearfully back to Teagan and gripping his hands tightly. “I fear so terribly for Connor! He has seen so much death, and now even though we have survived, he refuses to flee- he's too frightened to even leave the castle! Teagan, you could help reason with him- please, I do not know what else to do!”

“Connor?” Marja asks, looking to Alistair.

“Eamon and Isolde’s son,” Alistair says in a low voice. “Just a child; about ten years old now, if I remember correctly.”

“Too young for all this,” Isolde says, looking away. “And now he won’t…he can’t get away, and I will not abandon him.”

“Then we will all return with you,” Marja says, but Isolde shakes her head quickly.

“No! I- I can only bring Teagan. I do not think it safe to say much more than that.” She lets out another frantic sob. “Teagan, I know how this sounds, but you must come with me. Connor needs you!”

Darvis leans closer to Marja. “So…we all agree this is some nugshit, right?”

“I don’t trust any of this for a second,” Marja whispers back, and Alistair nods.

They are all rendered momentarily speechless when Teagan says, “Of course I will go.”

Isolde releases a cry of relief, and Alistair steps forward to grab Teagan’s arm and pull him back. “Teagan, you can’t be serious!”

Teagan glances to Isolde, then leans closer to Alistair. Marja edges in as well to listen as Teagan whispers fervently, “Truth or not, I cannot leave Isolde and Connor to face this alone. If Connor cannot leave, then I will go to him, whatever the risks. But I know we will need your help.” He slips something into Alistair’s hand and continues, “This is how you enter the castle. There is a secret passage in this mill, one only my family can enter. I couldn’t go in on my own, not while the village was still in danger. But now, I will go with Isolde, and you will meet with us on the inside. Perhaps we can take whatever evil this is by surprise. Be swift, but be careful- Maker only knows what’s really going in there.”

Before Marja can protest further, Teagan steps back to Isolde, who grabs his hand and ushers him to follow her. “Come, we must hurry!”

Teagan gives them a nod, and they can do nothing but watch him disappear over the hill. Marja grits her teeth, barely restraining herself from dragging him back. She can’t believe he’s putting everything on the line over the word of a woman who is so obviously hiding something. Why, in the name of the Ancestors, can’t he just take a moment to think about the bigger picture instead of walking straight into danger?

But it’s not her choice to make, so she all can do is scowl until the two figures fade from sight.

When they’re gone, Alistair holds up the item he was given- a small signet ring stamped with the Redcliffe crest. “Well,” he says, “I guess we have to trust that Teagan know what he’s doing.”

“I trust that he’s doing something incredibly stupid and that we’re going to have to drag him out of his own mess,” Darvis grumbles, snatching the ring from Alistair’s hand and setting off towards the windmill. “But that’s just business as usual these days.”

Of all the places Darvis has snuck through, the Redcliffe dungeons are not the worst.

That’s probably the best thing he can say about their grand rescue so far. First, they’d let Teagan get dragged off to who-knows-where with someone whose story made zero sense. Then they’d discovered that their special passage in was barely wide for one person to crawl through at a time- bringing an entire army with them is out of the question. In the end, it came down to the Wardens- him, Marja, and Alistair- along with Morrigan and Zevran. Morrigan, because if there really is some sort of evil demon behind all of this, she’s the best person to sort it all out, and Zevran, because of his apparent talent for sneaking through dark passageways.

And, Darvis suspects, because Marja doesn’t trust him enough to let him out of her sight just yet. But so far, her worries seem to be for nothing; as soon as they enter the passageway, Zevran’s playful demeanor shifts entirely. He scouts ahead, focused and careful, checking each new turn for traps or wandering monsters. By the time they finally emerge from the tunnel to the dungeons, Darvis has to admit he’s slightly impressed.

“We’re getting close,” Alistair says eventually, glancing at the stone walls around him. “This looks familiar- I think we’re underneath the chapel.”

Zevran sends a glance over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Looks familiar? You spent much time in the dungeons, then?”

“Not in the dungeons. Not like that, anyway. But I explored most of the castle when I was young. Not much else to do, especially when I was trying to avoid Isolde. This place was out of the way, and quieter than the kennels.” Alistair chuckles fondly. “Once I accidentally locked myself in one of the cells. I was down here for a whole day.”

“A whole day?” Marja repeats, her brow furrowing as she looks at the dingy cells with concern. Even Darvis can’t fight back the smallest pang of sympathy-if Alistair's choices were between dungeons and kennels, maybe he was more wrong about the Warden's 'princely' life than he realized.

Alistair, however, seems unaffected, simply shrugging and saying, “I figured out how to get free. Eventually.”

“Unfortunately,” Morrigan drawls.

Alistair glares at her, but before he can shoot back a barb of his own, another voice echoes through the dungeons.

“Hello? Is somebody alive out there?”

Darvis freezes, ready to slink back into the shadows. But even as he’s about to motion for the others to hide as well, Alistair is stepping forward and calling out, “Is somebody alive in here?”

“Over here! In the cell!”

Alistair follows the voice, with Marja at his side, as if neither have ever heard of traps. Darvis stifles a sigh and follows with more caution only to find a surprising sight- a man, pale and bedraggled but very much alive, desperately trying to stretch his arms between the bars of a cell.

Not a trap, then, but a prisoner- left to die when the undead eventually overwhelm the entire castle. It’s no wonder the man bears a panicked, desperate look in his eyes. Those eyes swivel across the group, wide with disbelief. “You- are you from outside the castle?”

“We are,” Marja answers in a short tone. “Who are you?”

“Whoever he is, he has magic,” Morrigan says. She tilts her head, studying him with no small amount of curiosity. “I can sense it.”

“Isolde did mention a mage who had infiltrated the castle,” Alistair mutters, and the man’s shoulders slump as he listens to the exchange.

“I- yes. That’s me. My name is Jowan. And it seems you already know what I did.”

“You poisoned the arl,”Marja says, and Jowan flinches at her words but offers no protest. “You caused the devastation we’ve seen in the village.” She waits for a moment, and when no answers comes, presses further. “You don’t deny it?”

“I’m not proud of it,” Jowan answers, bringing his arms around his shoulders. He ducks his head, hiding his eyes behind long strands of unkempt dark hair. “I’m not proud of anything I’ve done. But no, I’m not denying it anymore. I came here because I was under orders to poison Arl Eamon. It wasn’t exactly my choice, but I did it. As for everything else…” he trails off, releasing a long breath, somehow managing to look even more sunken when he finally continues. “It’s more complicated than it seems. I’m certainly not free of blame, but I never intended all this.”

“You’re claiming it’s not your magic that’s been terrorizing the village?” Marja pushes.

Jowan shakes his head vigorously. “Maker, no! I was already imprisoned when all that started! Even so, Lady Isolde thought I’d somehow managed to lay some sort of curse on the place. She had me tortured, trying to force me to undo it. But I didn’t cause it, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. When she realized that, she and the others left me here to rot. You can suspect me all you want, but it won’t do you any more good than it did her.”

Marja frowns, narrowing her eyes at the mage for a long moment before glancing towards Morrigan. “What do you think? Could he have caused all this?”

Morrigan shrugs. “’Tis hard to say for certain. But this is a large feat of magic; at the very least, if he did such things on his own, the effects should have vanished once he ran out of mana. He could have summoned a demon to do the work for him, but that seems unlikely. A demon would either kill him immediately or force his release from this prison.”

“So he’s only guilty of poisoning Eamon, then,” Alistair says darkly. “Let me guess- you had a little chat with our friends Howe and Loghain?”

A flash of surprise crosses Jowan’s face, and he nods. “The teyrn said that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden. And he said that if I poisoned him, Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. I believed him…and I needed his help. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I was looking at a life on the run from the Templars. I’m no assassin, but I was desperate.”

“I can confirm the ‘no assassin’ part at least,” Zevran mutters. Darvis glances at him in surprise; the elf has been rather quiet for most of their time in the dungeons. Zevran notices and gives him a conspiratorial smile, adding under his breath, “Poison is a rather simple way to kill someone, especially when not expected. Any rookie amongst the Crows could have completed this job easily.”

Morrigan leans forward to study the man through the bars. “I, for one, am more interested in what great threat the Templars saw in you. Just how did somebody so pathetic earn such a manhunt?”

Jowan flinches again, but there’s a defiance in his gaze when he looks to Morrigan. “I escaped the Circle- that’s enough on its own. But I did have to resort to desperate measures to get out. I…I used blood magic.”

“You?” Morrigan sounds almost impressed.

“Because I had no other choice,” Jowan says pointedly. He looks away, an unsettling melancholy crossing over his features. “I never wanted anybody hurt because of me. I thought perhaps this-serving Ferelden, teaching Connor, helping the Teyrn- could be a chance to redeem myself. But you see how that turned out. Everything’s fallen apart, and I’m responsible.”

Darvis frowns, eyes narrowing as he attempts to gauge the man’s sincerity. He’s admitted to many crimes, and he wouldn’t be the first to feign guilt or good intentions. But it’s difficult to remain suspicious when face to face with the hollow, haunted look in Jowan’s eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” Darvis says quietly to Marja and Alistair, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

But of course, Marja isn’t so quick to take his word for it. “You said you wanted to teach Connor. What does that mean?”

“Connor had started showing…signs,” Jowan answers. His frown turns a touch softer, sorrow creeping in through the bitterness. “Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle would take him away. She wanted me to teach him just enough to hide it.”

“Connor’s a mage?” Alistair’s voice is high with surprise; Darvis still doesn’t really get why the surfacers make a such a fuss about their mages, but apparently the arl’s son being one is quite the shock. “Does Eamon know?”

Jowan shakes his head. “I doubt it. Lady Isolde was the one who sought me out. And then…”

“And then Eamon was overcome by a mysterious illness and couldn’t be told anything,” Alistair finishes harshly. He shakes his head, releasing a low breath. “Now we have to save this family twice over.”

“Let me help!” Jowan lunges forward, his fingers curling around the bars of his cell. “Please. I know I’ve made a mess of this, but I need to do whatever I can to set things right.” For the first time, conviction burns in Jowan’s eyes, a sharp departure from his previous resignation.

“Why?” Marja asks, her voice still heavy with suspicion.

“I told you- I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I don’t know what made all this happen, but I do know magic that could be valuable in stopping it. After everything I’ve done- the Circle, the arl, everything- I need to fix something.”

He’s persistent, that’s for sure. Not that persistence is always a good thing, but at least it’s something. And besides, Darvis doesn't think he could ever feel right leaving someone in a cell. “I say we let the blood mage help."

Alistair gives him an incredulous look at that, and Darvis has to roll his eyes. “Yeah, I know, big bad evil magic. But let’s be honest, of everyone in this room right now, he’s probably directly killed the smallest number of people.”

His logic doesn’t seem to impress Alistair. “If he did set off this curse on Redcliffe…”

“I did say directly.”

“If we let you out,” Marja says, ignoring their bickering, “will you help us reach the others? We need to find the Guerrins, and there are likely more monsters within the keep.”

In spite of his previous fire, Jowan now falters slightly. “I’m not exactly the best at battle magic-”

“Then you are better off in here, anyway,” Marja interjects crossly. “If you truly wish to help, you need to fight.”

“I know,” Jowan replies. “What I’m saying is, there’s a reason I turned to blood magic. I’m not exactly powerful in any other area. I can help, and I can fight. But if you want me to be of any use I will likely have to use it again.”

“I say take him with us,” Morrigan says, her tone decidedly amused. “At the least, it shall make things more interesting.”

Darvis steps forward to the door, pausing to raise an eyebrow at his fellow Wardens. Alistair crosses his arms, muttering “This is a very bad idea,” under his breath, but Marja offers no protest as he approaches the lock.

And just like that, the blood mage is freed- and looking as if he can’t decide whether his luck has taken a turn for the better or worse.

The group splits at the top of the dungeon stairs; Darvis and Zevran stay on the cellar floor, which Alistair claims opens out into the courtyard, while the others continue upwards. Darvis can’t decide who has the worse assignment; he and Zevran may be on their own, but their chances of running afoul of demons are much lower. They simply need to make it to the front gates, where their other companions will be waiting along with the Redcliffe soldiers to storm the castle.

Still, being alone with only Zevran for backup makes Darvis twitchy. He may not share Marja’s concerns that the elf is going stab him in the back, but he certainly doesn’t expect him to risk his neck if Darvis is danger. These thoughts and various other dark musings escape his lips in incoherent grumbles as he works at the locked cellar door, all while Zevran simply looks on in amusement.

“You have a way with words, my friend,” the assassin muses. Soon enough the lock gives way- it’s an old thing, the type of lock that offers polite precaution rather than any real security. Still, Zevran gives a low whistle as the door creaks open.

“And good with your hands, too.”

The suggestion is not lost on Darvis, and despite the situation he has to chuckle just a bit at the brazenness. The elf is cute, he’ll give him that, and it’s not just the attitude. His features are sharply cut, so different from any dwarf Darvis has known, but still undeniably handsome. There’s even a part of Darvis that’s tempted to play along and see just how sincere those inviting smiles are.

But then a memory of Morrigan, golden eyes blazing in the light of her magic, flashes through his mind uninvited.

It means nothing. Morrigan has no reason to care if Darvis, of all people, engages in a bit of fun with somebody else. And why should Darvis even worry whether she does or not? But whatever moment there might have been is already lost, and Darvis doesn’t have time to analyze any of that right now. Still, Darvis watches Zevran for a moment more, and on impulse blurts out, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what, exactly?” Zevran quirks an eyebrow. “Be devastatingly charming?”

“That,” Darvis says. “The flirting. I mean, if you really want to, knock yourself out. I’m not complaining. But we already decided to keep you around. You don’t have to keep trying to convince us.”

Zevran regards him with a curious expression, and after a moment gives a slight nod. “Hm. Good to know.”

With that out of the way, Darvis shoves the door open- and immediately has to fight the urge to vomit. Under normal circumstances, some surface noble’s cellar might sound like a perfectly pleasant place to skulk through- certainly better than the dungeons. But these are obviously not normal circumstances.

“Fuck,” Darvis mutters, bringing a hand to his nose and trying not to gag on the smell that fills the lower level of the estate. It’s rancid down here- and not with the sort of stink that comes from garbage or animals. This is something much worse.

“There are bodies down there,” Zevran says quietly. The previous levity is now entirely gone. "Many, judging by that...odor."

“Yeah.” Darvis bites back his revulsion and presses forward. “Anything that reeks like that is too dead for us to help now. Let’s just get our army in here and finish this.”

“Do you know if there are any survivors? We need to get them out as soon as we can,” Marja says as she leads the others through the castle. Whatever it is that they need to fight, they’ll need to clear the place of any civilians first.

“I have no idea. Nobody’s come to see me since Lady Isolde.” Jowan’s voice is quiet- he looks at the halls around him with a strange detachment that seems to have replaced his previous fear. “I hope there are still people here to save.”

Marja doesn’t miss the skeptical look Alistair gives the blood mage. “If you care so much,” he says, “you wouldn’t have done any of this in the first place.”

Jowan drops his eyes to the floor. “I’m on your side,” he says, quiet but surprisingly firm.

“And if it turns out he's not,” Marja says pointedly to Alistair, “that’s where you come in. Until then, let’s focus on the largest threat.” She pauses, then adds in a lower tone, “But do keep an eye on him, Alistair.”

“I will, but Templar abilities don’t do much against blood magic.”

“We also have Morrigan to keep him in check.”

That elicits a chuckle. “Oh, sure. A blood mage, a demon, and Morrigan walk into a haunted castle. I can’t decide which part of that sentence is the scariest.”

“We can hear you,” Jowan says sullenly from behind them.

“Worry not,” Morrigan says to him. “You learn to tune them out soon enough. ‘Tis rather like the buzzing of gnats in that way.”

“Apologies,” Marja says, ignoring Morrigan’s comment. “But surely you understand why we feel the need to take some precautions."

Jowan just sighs and crosses his arms. “No, I…I do. Good intentions don’t count for much in the end, do they?”

Alistair throws him a disbelieving look. “And how, exactly, was poisoning the arl supposed to carry out your good intentions?”

“All I wanted was to be free.” A bitter edge creeps into Jowan’s voice. “To live my life as I wanted. To be with the woman I loved. Believe me, I know how badly I messed it all up. I lost it all- my love, my friends. I lied to everyone I ever cared about, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they never forgive me. That's what hurts worst of all. And now I’m probably going to die before I see any of them again.”

“Speaking of that,” Marja says, “let’s not get distracted from the monster infestation that we’re currently in the middle of.” It’s a practical suggestion just as much as it is a means of escaping Jowan’s heavy gloom; the weight of his regret is thick enough to spread across the room like a heavy, smothering blanket.

“Right,” Jowan sighs and glances around the halls, finally motioning to the corridor to their right. “The main hall is this way. Maker willing, we’ll find some survivors.”

Marja doesn’t think the Maker has much to do with it, but they do find a survivor hiding in a narrow staircase.

All she sees at first is a movement in the shadows, and her axe is in the air and about to swing when she realizes it’s just a person- a woman, blonde and willowy, whose face is streamed with tears. Marja pulls back just in time, although that doesn’t stop the woman from releasing a terrified yelp.

“Who are you? What’s happening?” she demands, stumbling backward and nearly tripping over the stairs.

“Valena?” Jowan pushes his forward. “Valena, it’s okay.”

His reassurances don’t seem to help much- in fact, Valena’s expression only darkens as she takes in his presence. “Jowan? They said you were part of this. What did you do?”

Marja decides that now is a good time to step in. “We’re here to help. I’m a Grey Warden.” She pauses, studying the woman’s face, and she finally remembers where she’s heard her name. “Your father is the blacksmith, yes? One of our group met him in the village. He’s safe.”

Valena blinks in surprise, and as the words sink in, she sags against the wall in relief. “Thank the Maker.”

“Now, are you okay?” Alistair asks.

“I think so. I hid when all this started. So much was happening- people were screaming, and-” her voice breaks, and she begins shaking. Marja reaches over to steady her, and notices for the first time that it’s not merely nerves that leave the woman unsteady on her feet.

The stairs leading upwards are slick with blood.

“He killed so many,” Valena murmurs. “The guards at least had their armor, but the servants…I only escaped because he never even saw me. I’ve been trying to find somewhere safe, but I’m terrified of running into him again!”

There’s a heavy pause, and finally Marja prompts her further. “Who?”

Valena’s doesn't answer right way. Finally, her eyes lift from the floor, only to settle once more on Jowan. “The servants talk, you know. There were always rumors that you were…”

“An apostate? A blood mage?” Jowan’s voice is strained. “I can’t say they’re wrong. But I didn’t do this.”

“You were the one teaching him.” Her voice shakes, but it does nothing to lessen the sharp edge of her accusation. “How else would he learn to summon demons?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Jowan snaps. He pauses and takes a moment to collect himself before continuing, keeping his eyes low even as his fists shake at his side. “Maker, is that really all we are to you? Crazed apostates who want to summon demons at every turn? Is it any wonder Isolde wanted to hide him? Perhaps if the world weren’t so ready to hate children like him for existing-”

“Wait, you’re not talking about Connor, are you?” Alistair interjects. He looks between the two, and when neither deny it, he shakes his head insistently. “You can’t be serious. Being a mage is one thing. But you can’t tell me he summoned a demon! He’s probably not even tall enough to hold a staff!”

“It’s still possible,” Jowan says in a low voice. “Even a young mage has the potential to accidentally tear an opening in the Veil. He could have let through a powerful demon. But it’s not his fault.”

Marja stares at him. “You already suspected this, didn’t you? You knew it was Connor who caused all this!”

“I don’t know that’s what happened. Not for sure.” Jowan protests. “But…I had a lot of time to think in that cell. It’s possible, and I can’t think of any other source for this. I didn’t say anything because it’s still speculation.”

“I don’t have to speculate. I saw.” Valena wraps her arms tightly around herself, shaking her head. “He was just a normal child before all of this. Before you showed up. He should have been sent to the Circle, where he would have been protected. Instead, Lady Isolde entrusted him to you.”

The accusation makes Jowan wince, as if Valena had struck him with a knife, and he lets out a shaky breath. “Believe me, I am fully aware of the blame I bear. But we all have our reasons for the things we’ve done.”

We don’t have time for this, Marja thinks wearily. There will be plenty of opportunities for regret and blame later; right now they need to find this child. She turns to Valena. “There’s a safe path out through the dungeons. Get yourself to the village. We’ll take care of everything else.”

After a long moment, Valena nods. “Thank you. I can find my way out.”

She makes to stand, but a commotion from the distance freezes her in place. Something thuds heavily against the ceiling above. Shouts sound out, somebody screams. And then silence.

Nobody speaks for a long moment, until finally Marja takes a slow breath. “Go now, Valena.”

Valena nods and stands, but before leaving she turns to Marja and grabs her arm, her grip tight as a vice. “I don’t know who all is still alive. But I know a lot of my friends are dead because of what has happened. Someone has to end this. You have to.”

Marja meets her eyes and nods. “We’ll take care of it,” she repeats.

When Valena is gone, Marja can feel the eyes of the others on her. It’s Alistair who speaks first.

“If it is Connor who caused all this…what are we going to do?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? There’s blood covering the castle and a lot of bodies that will need to be buried and a dying arl whose help they desperately need. And at the center of it all, a child.

Marja sighs. “First, we wait for Darvis and Zevran to arrive with the reinforcements.”

“Wait? But they need our help-”

“Our job was to find survivors and track down Teagan. We’ve swept the castle, found survivors, and there’s only one place left for Teagan to be. We’ve done our job. Now we wait for reinforcements.”

“But-”

“Surely there’s something rattling around between those ears of yours,” Morrigan snaps. “But if you want to throw yourself at this demon on your own, I certainly will not stop you.”

“If we want to stop Connor without hurting him,” Marja says in a far more measured tone, “we need to be in control of the situation. We have a better chance of that with an army behind us.”

Alistair is silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “Fine. We wait for reinforcements.”

It’s a good deal less stressful storming a demon-ridden castle with someone like Sten to act as a battering ram. Between the Qunari and the legion of fighters waiting at the gates, it doesn’t take long for Darvis and Zevran to meet back with Marja and the others.

“Finally,” Alistair says when they arrive, and Darvis glares.

“Well, next time, you can be the one to sneak through the demonic murder basement-”

“We don’t have time for this,” Marja cuts him off, heaving her axe over her shoulder. “We need to deal with this demon.”

There’s a stoniness to her silence, and for once Darvis knows better than to prod further. “Fine. Lead the way, Princess.”

Darvis doesn’t know what to expect when they smash through the doors to the main hall. The demons from the forest were one thing, but he can’t picture them and their wild, tree-twisted shapes in the middle of a noble’s castle. Still, he expects something terrifying. More carnage, more bodies, more of the horrors they’d seen strewn across the cellar floor. He grips his daggers tightly and braces for the worst.

But when they finally break through the door, that’s not what greets them. Instead, they’re treated to something far more baffling.

Teagan is dancing in the middle of the room. A smile is plastered on his face, and he waggles his hands in exaggerated motions as he hops through the air. Lady Isolde watches him from the front of the room with rigid posture. Next to her, an older man sits slumped over in a chair, eyes closed and face pale, but with a slight motion to his chest that indicates life. And in the middle of it all, seated on a large chair far too big for his size, is a little kid. A boy, red-haired and smiling at the show. Connor, Darvis assumes with a sick feeling spreading through his stomach. The child looks up at the sound of the door, and the temperature in the room plummets as the smile falls from his face.

“Who are you?” His voice is unsettling and discordant- high and reedy and young, and yet it echoes across the room in a rumble.

Darvis glances over to Morrigan, and she gives a subtle nod. The demon.

But to Darvis’s immense surprise, it’s Jowan who steps forward. “Connor. Do you remember me? I’m here to help you.”

A flash of anger crosses the boy’s face, and Teagan drops to the floor, whatever spell was laid on him now forgotten.

“No. You lie. You’re the one who hurt Father!”

Marja moves forward, one hand on her axe even as she tries to keep her voice low and pleasant. “We can help your father, Connor. And we can help you. Let’s sit down and talk-”

“No!” The table in front of Connor flies across the room, and Marja barely ducks out of the way in time before it explodes into splinters against the opposite wall.

As she scrambles back to her feet, Darvis darts forward, readying his daggers. There’s no use talking to this thing- their best hope is to take it by surprise. But as he lunges towards Connor, it hits him just how small the kid is, and shit, he really can’t be older than ten, and as soon as that thought sinks in, Darvis hesitates-

And the next thing he knows he’s being hurtled away with more force than any child should have, slamming into the floor.

“You came here to hurt me. You came here for my father.” Connor stands over him, his small body wreathed in a sickly glow. “But I’m not going to let anyone hurt me or my family ever again!”

Chapter Text

The demon approaches Darvis with hands full of shadowy magic and glowing eyes that promise destruction, and Marja knows she must act quickly. She readies her axe and charges across the room, and yet even through the cold clarity of battle, the sight of Connor- possessed and angry and dangerous and yet so young- threatens to bring a falter to her steps.

You are an Aeducan. You are a Grey Warden. The Stone runs in your blood, and you have a duty. Those truths ring in Marja's head, and she reminds herself that it is not Connor they are fighting. It is a demon wearing his face, and she must be strong enough to do what is necessary. Her grip on the axe tightens as she steels herself for the attack.

But Leliana’s arrow reaches the boy first. It slices through the air, just in front of his face- an intentional miss, Marja is sure of it, for she has seen Leliana spear targets from much further distances. But although it does no damage, it does distract the demon. The thing pauses, looking away from Darvis, and that gives the dwarf just enough time to roll back onto his feet and duck away from his attacker.

“What do we do?” he shouts. His daggers are lifted, blades facing the demon, but Marja saw how he hesitated before, and she’s not certain he has the resolve to truly strike a blow.

“We’re going to have to kill it!” she replies anyway. Her words are met with sounds of shock from her companions- but Isolde’s cry drowns them all out.

“You can’t hurt him! He’s still my boy!” The arlessa throws herself forward, between Marja and the demon, and although Marja’s chest aches at the sight of her grief-stricken face she also can’t help but grit her teeth at the woman’s utter foolishness.

The thing in Connor’s body turns to Isolde, it’s eyes flickering strangely as it reaches a hand out to her, and Marja barely has time to shout a warning before another surge of dark light fills it hands.

Before it can attack Isolde, however, a different kind of power washes over the room, invisible but undeniable, like the waves of heat from a magma pool. Marja tenses as her skin prickles at the familiar sensation, and she realizes it's the same power used by Alistair in the Brecilian Forest. The demon steps back with an anguished cry, the magic instantly fading from around it. Its eyes sweep frantically around the room before settling on Alistair. The warrior stands at a distance, his sword held aloft and his face tense with concentration.

Alistair glares at the demon through narrowed eyes. “Let him go.”

The demon stumbles further back, it’s breathing growing ragged. “Templar.” It shakes its head, curling Connor’s lips into a smirk in spite of its obviously weakened state. “No. He’s mine. And you can’t keep this up forever.”

Marja lunges forward to grab the demon as it turns to run, but Isolde is still blocking her way, and all too quickly the thing wearing Connor's skin has disappeared into the halls of the Redcliffe castle.

“You let it get away.”

Darvis gives Marja a dark look. “He’s not an it, he’s a kid.”

Indignation boils in Marja’s chest at the accusation in his eyes, as if he has any right to preach to her about morality. As if this is even about morality anymore, when Connor seems to already be far gone, and the demon that’s brought immeasurable death to Redcliffe is using his body as a shield.

She doesn’t back down, keeping her eyes locked with Darvis as she sweeps a hand over the room, where Teagan still lays unconscious amid the debris of the table the demon destroyed. “Can a kid do this? We're dealing with a demon!”

She looks to Alistair for confirmation, only to forget the argument as she watches him stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Startled, she takes a step forward, but he waves her off. “I’m fine,” he says. “That was just a bigger dispel than I expected. Takes a bit more effort than it would on lyrium, and it doesn’t help that I’m out of practice when it comes to demons.”

“That was another Templar trick?” Marja asks.

Alistair gives her a wry smile. “I did go through the training, remember? Works on demons just as well as mages. I cut Connor off from the Fade. It’s not permanent, but he should be weakened for a while.”

“And that means he can be helped?” Isolde demands. “Please, you must help my boy!”

Marja glares at her. “We could have helped sooner had you told us any of this yourself!”

Isolde wrings her hands and looks away. “You do not understand.”

“Don’t blame her.”

Marja turns in surprise to see Teagan, rising from the floor, supported by Leliana. His voice is weak as he continues to speak, but he seems otherwise unharmed. “She shouldn’t have kept this a secret, I know. But Connor is her son. She was just trying to protect him.”

“Maker, are you okay?” Alistair asks as he rushes over to help, supporting Teagan’s other side.

“I think so. Connor- the demon- put some sort of enchantment on me. But it’s not the lad’s fault.”

“It’s the fault of that mage,” Isolde hisses. Her eyes fix on Jowan, her panic giving way to fury. “He poisoned Eamon. He brought this evil into our home. He drove Connor to this!”

Jowan does nothing to repute this; he merely keeps his eyes low and says, “I thought I was doing right. I was told…it doesn’t matter. But I never, never, meant to hurt Connor.”

“Foolish, all of you.” Morrigan observes everything from a distance, and her voice is cold with disdain. “The boy makes a deal with a demon, not expecting any consequences, and you make excuses.”

“All he wanted was his father!” Isolde’s voice breaks into a sob, and she buries her face in her hands.

“The demon must have promised him…” Teagan trails off, turning to look at the man seated, unconscious, in a chair at the other side of the room. Arl Eamon, Marja realizes as Teagan lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“My brother was dying,” Teagan says. “Everybody knew it. Whatever this demon did…Eamon still sleeps, but he is stable. The magic is healing him. Can you blame a child for falling prey to something that promised that?”

“Child or no, any mage should know better than to let anything take over their own body,” Morrigan murmurs darkly. “Especially over something so paltry as that.”

Another protest breaks out from the Guerrins, and Marja sets her jaw. “Now is not the time to speak of blame,” she says firmly, shooting a look at Isolde. There will be blame laid, of that much Marja is certain; for a child to be tempted is one thing, but for a noble to forsake the very people she has sworn to protect? That is something that surely must be answered for. But before justice can be delivered, safety must be ensured.

Marja looks to Alistair. “You said you weakened the demon?”

Alistair nods. “Like I said, it’s not permanent. But he won’t be doing any magic or summoning anything else for a while. He’ll need to build up his mana reserves before his connection to the Fade is restored.”

“Then we should attack before-”

“He is not just the demon,” Isolde interrupts, her voice frantic. “Connor resurfaces at times. The demon has made him do horrible things, but he never hurt his family. He awakens, and he tries to fight off this evil force. There must be a way to save him.”

Alistair’s voice is quiet when he answers. “I’ve never heard of a way to save a mage once they’ve been possessed. I’ve seen a mage turn into an abomination, and it was…” he stops himself and takes a breath before continuing. “Once the demon has left the plane and taken control, it can only be destroyed by killing the host. I’m sorry.”

“You could kill the demon in the Fade.”

Jowan’s words are quiet, but they catch Alistair’s attention immediately. “Kill it in the Fade? I’ve never heard of something like that.”

“Because normally, nobody tries.” Jowan rubs at his arms, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny, but he forges on. “Templars are ordered to kill a mage as soon as they become possessed, and in most situations the demon burns through its hosts body so quickly, there isn’t much left to save. But Connor is still…intact. And in theory, if a mage were able to enter the Fade and confront the demon there, they could kill it without harming Connor. With the demon gone, his mind should be his own again.”

“In theory,” Marja repeats, skeptical, but Jowan nods insistently.

“Just because the Circle hasn’t tried it before doesn’t mean it won’t work.”

Marja looks to Morrigan for confirmation, and after a moment the witch shrugs. “What he says does make sense. I see no reason that such an attempt should fail- so long as the mage in question does not fall prey to the demon as well. I am curious as to how you intend to enter the Fade; ‘tis not an easy task.”

“Mages do it in the Circle,” Alistair adds, suddenly hopeful. “For their Harrowing! It takes a massive amount of lyrium, but it’s possible! We need to go to the Tower anyway, we could get the lyrium and the mages to perform the ritual!”

“If it will work…” Marja says carefully. She doesn’t want to go chasing after hope at the expense of reality; that’s exactly what got Isolde into this mess to begin with. And to an extent, Marja understands; after all, she knows what it’s like to be blind to the reality of a family member’s flaws. But that’s why somebody here has to remember that there’s more at stake than just one life. Marja fixes Jowan with a strict glare. “And you’re certain this would rid Connor of the demon.”

Jowan nods, but he still looks nervous. “It would, once it’s done. And your friend is right, it can be done with lyrium. But…the Circle is a long way to travel."

"How long?"

"On foot? About two weeks.”

Two weeks. Marja groans quietly and closes her eyes as she rubs at her temple. Behind her eyelids, images flash- the undead horde, the mourning villagers, the destruction that has plagued Redcliffe. Connor has been subdued for now, but for how long? Long enough for them to travel to the Circle, convince the mages to help, travel back, and perform the ritual? The most generous estimate still puts the wait at over a month- over a month for the demon to regain its strength, for Redcliffe to sit as an easy target while the Wardens are away.

However much they want to save the boy, letting the village burn in the process is simply not an acceptable sacrifice.

Nobody says what they are all thinking, and so naturally it falls to Marja. She takes a breath to gather herself before speaking. “That’s too much time. Too much of a risk. It’s not an option.”

"What if we sailed?" Alistair asks, desperate. "It's much quicker to go straight across the lake-"

"The undead tore the docks apart," Teagan answers in a numb voice. "Any ships that could still make that kind of trip have already been taken by people trying to escape or look for help. We could wait for them to return, but I cannot guess as to how long that would take."

Isolde begins to cry again, and Leliana and Alistair both look at Marja with stricken expressions, but it is Darvis who is the first to argue.

“What options are we left with, then?” he demands. His fingers curl and uncurl at his side, as if Marja’s logic is something he could battle with his fists. “Because we’re not killing a kid. Even in the Carta, I’ve never pulled any shit like that.”

“What do you suggest?” Marja shoots back, her voice rising as she tries to maintain her composure. “Do you think I want this? That I’m such a monster I don’t realize what we’ll have to do?” It had been so much easier, when they were speaking of strategies and maneuvers, for Marja to allow herself to think of the demon as just that; a foe, a threat that must be neutralized. Seeing Connor, seeing the reality of how young he is and how wrong it seems that he be responsible for so much death- that makes it harder.

But the facts cannot be denied, and Marja hates the looks on her companions’ faces that she earns by speaking the truth. Still, she keeps her chin high and does not look away or falter. “I know it’s horrible. But we can’t just leave Redcliffe at the demon’s mercy. It’s already killed dozens, and if we had arrived any later than we did, half the people down in the village would be dead, too. I don’t want Connor to die, but is his life worth more than theirs? Maybe this plan will work. But maybe we get back just a day too late, and every life we have saved here is lost.”

“We must also take into account that the Circle may not be of any help at all,” Morrigan adds, gliding over to Marja’s side, “From what I hear, your Templars would have no reservations about driving a sword through the child’s chest themselves.”

Alistair opens his mouth as if to protest, but pauses, and finally looks away in silence. For a moment, the only sounds in the room are the soft cries from Isolde. Darvis glances at the arlessa, his face pulled into a frown.

“So, what?” he asks in a flat voice. “No matter what we do, this kid dies?”

“Actually,” Jowan says, “I had another option in mind. Something that would save Connor, and that we could do without help from the Circle.”

Every eye in the room turns to the mage, and it takes Jowan a moment to work up the courage to continue. Finally, he gulps and says, “I am a blood mage. I can perform the ritual to send another mage into the Fade, and I don’t need lyrium. I just need…well, blood. A lot of blood.”

“You want to use blood magic?” Alistair asks sharply, and Jowan hurriedly starts explaining things that Darvis doesn’t like the sound of. Spirits and demons and mana and blood magic. But he likes the idea of murdering a child even less.

“What exactly are we talking about here?” Darvis asks, cutting to the chase. “How much blood do you need for this?”

Jowan’s expression tells Darvis all he needs to know even before the mage answers. “I think…all of it.”

“So somebody must die?” Teagan asks.

“Is that how it has to work?” Darvis asks. “We’ve got plenty of blood between all of us, or we can get an animal-”

“That’s not how it works,” Jowan interrupts. “It’s complicated, but…blood magic is still magic. You’re looking at the sum of the parts, but there’s more to it than that. For something this big, there has to be sacrifice.”

Isolde stares at Jowan through watery eyes, taking in his words. For a moment Darvis tenses up as he wonders who she would be willing to sacrifice for the sake of her child; she’s already put everyone in her home in danger, and he doesn’t doubt that she’s capable of ordering a soldier or servant to their death.

But what she actually says surprises them all. “Then let me be the sacrifice.”

“Isolde!” Teagan grabs her arm, eyes wide. “Are you mad?”

Tears run down Isolde’s face, but she stays firm. “This is not Connor’s doing. It is mine. Let me pay this price for him.”

“Eamon would never-”

“Eamon is not here to make the decision,” Isolde snaps. She wraps her arms around her chest, ignoring Teagan’s disbelief as she focuses her gaze on the Wardens. “You have made it clear to me. Either my son is killed to destroy the demon inside of him, or I give my life so my son can live. To me, the answer is obvious.”

Darvis is surprised by the clarity in her eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t be; Darvis knows there’s not much he wouldn’t do if his own family was in danger. But he hadn’t expected this level of self-sacrifice, not from Isolde: the same woman who was once the bane of Alistair’s childhood, the woman who watched her village burn as she hid in her castle. He waits for her resolve to crumble, but as the tense silence stretches on, it becomes clear that she has no intention of walking back on her words.

Well. It looks like they have their solution.

Teagan stares at Isolde in despondent disbelief, but finally, slowly, gives a nod and releases her arm. “I suppose I cannot stop you. Wardens, I imagine you know more about this sort of thing than I do. If you agree…I cannot protest.”

“We’re not really going to let this happen, are we?” Alistair’s voice is pleading, and despite Darvis’s sympathy for the man he has to fight the urge to shake him until he comes to his senses. They’ve just been handed an answer on a silver platter, and he’s against it?

“Alistair,” he says gruffly, “This will kill the demon. It won’t hurt the kid. And it’s something we can do now. I don’t think a better offer than that is coming around.”

“But this isn’t right! We can’t just go around sacrificing people, even if-” Alistair cuts off his own words, and with one last desperate look turns to Marja. “You understand, don’t you? Blood magic is how this whole thing got started- it’s not a solution! Shouldn’t we have some sort of morals to stick by?”

“Morals?” Darvis repeats in disbelief. “What, like child murder?”

“Obviously not!” Alistair exclaims. “We shouldn’t be killing anybody! We should be thinking about other options!”

Darvis has half a mind to drag Alistair down to the basement this second, to show the Templar what he and Zevran found down below: the bodies of servants piled in the corner, the dried blood coating the floor. He knows that if they leave this place for too long, the number of corpses will only grow, and it will be the poor sods who had nothing to do with this in the first place- people like the villagers huddled in the town’s Chantry- who will pay the highest price.

“From where I’m standing,” Darvis says, “I don’t really see any other options.”

“There must be something,” Alistair insists. “And besides, let’s not forget the fact that we’ll have to send somebody into the Fade to face this demon alone, and we don’t exactly have any trustworthy mages around right now.”

“We have Morrigan,” Darvis replies pointedly, and Alistair makes a derisive snort. Indignant irritation strikes in Darvis’s chest, and his fists clench at his sides. “Seriously, Alistair?”

Leliana puts a gentle hand on Darvis’s shoulder, and in a soft voice says, “I think Alistair simply means…it seems wisest to consult the Circle first, yes?”

“Oh, is it wise to just let the demon snack on villagers for a month?” Darvis retorts, shaking out of her grip.

“If you were wise at all,” Sten says, “you would keep a tighter leash on your saarebas to begin with, and this would never have happened.”

“Very helpful, Sten, thanks,” Darvis snaps.

“Enough bickering.” Marja’s voice is loud and decisive, cutting through whatever response their other companions may have. Darvis fumes but stays silent, waiting for her to finally add her two coppers to the conversation. For better or worse, people listen when she talks, and Darvis has to believe that despite her disdain for him, she’s smart enough to know he’s in the right. Marja is silent for a moment, her face betraying little emotion until finally she lifts her chin and looks Isolde in the eye.

“Are you certain that you’re willing to do this?”

Isolde nods without hesitation. “I am certain. If there is even a chance to save Connor, I will do anything.”

“Then this does seem to be the most sensible course of action. We’ll do the ritual as soon as possible, before the demon can gather its strength again.”

Alistair blinks at her in stunned silence, his shoulders deflating as he realizes that he’s outnumbered.

Marja spares a glance his way, and in a pacifying tone says, “I know, Alistair. But if it works, only one person has to die. If we leave and come back…there might not be anybody left to save.”

“I just think there has to be a better way,” Alistair repeats, shaking his head. “Of all the things for the two of you to finally agree on…”

“These are the choices we have to make. We're Grey Wardens, remember? The last in Ferelden. And that means we have to make some difficult decisions." Marja waits for a reply, and when Alistair remains sullenly silent, she adds, "Duncan knew how to make difficult decisions, didn't he? Think about what he would do in this situation.”

“Don’t.” Alistair’s reply is quick and sharp, and he shuts his eyes tightly as he looks away from Marja. “Don’t do that. Let’s just…get this over with, if we’re doing it.”

“I’ll start the preparations,” Jowan says quietly. “I- I’ll need a dagger, if that’s okay.”

Darvis pulls a dagger loose from his belt and tosses it to Jowan with a sigh. “Be quick about it. Like he said- let’s just get this over with.”

The preparations take surprisingly little time. Darvis would have imagined something much more elaborate- books, runes, incantations. Aren’t mages supposed to chant, or something like that?

But Jowan simply arranges a table in the main hall, muttering to himself the whole time. Occasionally he closes his eyes and goes still, and Darvis doesn’t know if he’s communing with spirits or simply trying to imagine what the best position would be to drain the blood from Isolde. Maybe he’s simply praying to the human’s Maker that this whole thing actually works.

As Darvis watches these proceedings, Morrigan moves to his side. “Have I been volunteered to enter the Fade, then?”

“Well, you’re the only option we’ve got,” Darvis says, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He hasn’t even thought to ask her about this; he’d already assumed she's plenty capable, and figures she’d make her protests known if she has any. “You can handle this demon, right?”

“Undoubtedly,” Morrigan answers in a bored tone. “’Twould not be my first. I suppose I am merely surprised you trust me with such an important endeavor.”

“Is this about what Alistair said?” Darvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t look, but he can feel the man in question staring at the two of them from across the room. Honestly, Darvis has trouble understanding just why this solution offends him so deeply; from everything he’s heard, Isolde was a terror of Alistair’s childhood. Of all the blood sacrifices to weep over, it seems strange that she should be one of them.

Morrigan only scoffs at his question. “As if I pay any mind to what that oaf thinks. I suppose I should be glad you were able to talk any sense into him at all. I do loathe the idea of asking the Circle for any form of aid.”

“They’re really that bad?”

“The smartest thing this blood mage ever did was escape,” Morrigan says. Her lips curl into a smirk as she adds, “Although that does not seem to be a particularly high standard. I am surprised he got so far into this ill-conceived assassination plot.”

“I can hear you,” Jowan says quietly. He draws his dagger and looks to Isolde, and in a louder voice announces, “I’m ready.”

Marja orders the guards around the room, building a protective circle around Jowan, Morrigan, and Isolde. Alistair ends up the closest; he initially tries to hang back, but Marja points out that he's the only one with any Templar training.

“We’ll need you to do that ‘dispel’ thing again if anything goes wrong,” she says, and although Alistair glowers, she stares back in stony authority until he takes up position.

Teagan wraps Isolde in one last hug before she approaches, the both of them crying when they part. But despite her tears and the obvious fear on her face, Isolde does not protest as Jowan leads her to the table. It’s an odd, morbid sight, and to his own surprise Darvis finds that a small part of himself wonders if Alistair is right, if there is a better way than this. It’s strange, the regret that thought stirs in him. This woman is a prime example of everything Darvis despises about nobility- her horrible decisions, her selfishness, the ways she has used and lied to and mistreated the people around her, the fact that Alistair still can’t look at her without shrinking into himself. And yet, Darvis can’t deny her resolve.

Despite her many, many faults, this woman loves her son.

Before they begin, Darvis leans close to Jowan. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

Jowan gives a stiff nod. “Of course. I would never go this far otherwise.”

“Good,” Darvis says, lowering his voice. “You know, considering everything that’s gone down recently, you’ve actually got an impressive skill for surviving things you shouldn't. But if this doesn’t work- if you end up hurting Connor or Morrigan, or if this whole ritual is for nothing and the demon is still here afterwards- you’re not walking out of here alive.”

Jowan releases a shaky breath. “I know.”

He takes the dagger carefully in his hands, approaches Isolde, and begins.

Isolde’s screams are piercing, but mercifully cut short. For all of Jowan’s talk of sacrifice, it seems that the death and blood is enough, and the mage does what he can to end her suffering quickly.

Still…there is a lot of blood. Darvis is no stranger to that sort of thing; he’s been splattered in blood, both his own and others’, often enough. But he’s never killed someone with the express purpose of collecting as much of the stuff as possible. Finally there comes a moment, when Jowan has traced Isolde's veins with his knife and is letting them pour thick and warm onto the stones below, where Darvis simply has to look away. Even then, the smell of it floods his senses, rich and coppery, and he can picture all too well how violently red Jowan’s hands are.

To block out those thoughts, Darvis keeps his eyes on Morrigan, who sits a small distance away, her hands gripped tightly around the staff in her lap and her eyes shut tight. Darvis doesn’t know what to expect- is there some visible sign he should be looking for to let him know if she’s in the Fade, if she’s found the demon? There is far too much time passing and far too little for him to do, and he can’t help wondering what they’ll do if something goes wrong, if Morrigan gets stuck in the Fade or if the demon resists this method of attack.

Minutes tick past, too many, too slowly. Enough time passes that the guards around them start murmuring, and Isolde’s blood must surely be cooling on the ground.

But then Morrigan gives a small gasp, and her eyes open, golden and bright as always.

“It is done,” she says. “The demon is dead.”

Chapter Text

The rest of the night moves in a blur.

The important thing, the only thing Darvis really understands, is that Morrigan and Connor are both safe. Morrigan gives only a brief description of her time in the Fade, saying that it took some effort to hunt down the demon but that it has been slain and will not return. Teagan’s first action upon hearing this is to rush off headfirst through the castle, hardly waiting for the Wardens to catch up until he bursts into Connor’s room to find the boy huddled on his bed, alive and free of demons.

Teagan lets out a cry of disbelief and rushes to wrap Connor in his arms. Darvis watches the boy, trying to detect any sign of magic weirdness, but he just looks like a kid, one who looks at the three Wardens in his doorway with confusion and fear as he clings to his uncle.

“What happened?” Connor asks, his voice trembling- his normal voice, not amplified and ethereal like it was before, and hearing that change finally allows Darvis to release a long sigh of relief. Still, it’s hard not to wince when the boy follows up his question with more. “Is Father better yet? Where's Mother? I want Mother!”

“It’s okay,” Teagan says, shooting a warning glance to the Wardens even as he keeps his voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. Your father is still sleeping, but he’s okay, too.”

Is he? Darvis wonders. The demon had been keeping Eamon alive- did the demon’s death undo that healing? Morrigan hadn’t said anything about the arl, and Darvis knows she is not overly invested in the truth of the man’s fate. Not that he blames her for that- the life of one noble would not be worth the sacrifices required to keep that demon around.

Darvis just doesn’t want to be the one to explain that concept to Connor.

Connor sniffles and looks up at his uncle. “I think I had a bad dream. I-” He stops, eyes wide, and pulls back slightly. “Uncle Teagan, there’s blood on your shirt.”

Teagan blinks and looks down at himself. “Maker,” he mutters quietly, taking in the stains on his sleeves. Darvis is so accustomed to the color of blood by now, he’d also forgotten that all four of them are splattered in gore. Teagan hadn’t even been in battle, but he’d been nearby, had been holding Isolde’s hand as she-

Darvis shuts down those memories. What’s done is done.

It takes a moment for Teagan to recover, but somehow he manages to keep his voice calm. “Don’t worry, Connor. I’m okay. We’re okay. You’ve just been…sick, these last few days. But you’re better now.”

Teagan glances to the Wardens, his face still holding that silent plea. “Wardens, I thank you for your service. Right now, I require some privacy with my nephew. There are many things I need to explain to him, and I think we all need rest. Please, help yourself to anything the castle can offer, and we will speak more tomorrow.”

Marja hesitates. “Teagan, as the acting arl-”

“Tomorrow,” Teagan snaps. He presses his mouth into a thin line before adding in a more controlled voice, “Please.”

Darvis nudges Marja softly, giving her a look which hopefully conveys the message to drop it. Whatever inane bureaucracy she’s worried about, it can wait for one night. Whether it’s due to Darvis’s expression or Teagan’s tone or the fact that Marja herself looks absolutely exhausted, she relents. “Of course. We’ll speak tomorrow morning.”

After they close the door, however, Marja hesitates once more. She glances back to Connor’s room, as if expecting another demon to come crashing through the stone walls, and asks, “Should somebody stay and watch over them? Just in case?”

Darvis groans. “We have to guard the door now? The demon’s dead and the kid is fine, isn’t he?”

Marja gives Darvis a pointed look. “Do you really want to leave Connor and Teagan unattended after this family’s actions caused so much death? Even if the demon really is gone, they might need somebody here.” She crosses her arms and sighs. “I recognize that we need rest, especially after everything that’s happened. I can stay here, while you two go ahead and tell the others everything is fine. Tell them all to get some sleep. As for me, I’ll rest easier when I’m certain the danger is gone.”

“Princess, you’ve got bags under your eyes so big not even all your Servants back home could carry them. You sure you’re up for keeping guard?”

Whatever retort she has is interrupted when Alistair speaks up. “I’ll keep watch.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken since the ritual, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice which Darvis can’t contribute entirely to a lack of sleep. Darvis opens his mouth to argue, but Alistair shakes his head and speaks first. “I’m the one with Templar training, remember? I’ll give a shout if I sense anything demonic. And I’d like to speak with Connor, anyway. Make sure he’s all right.”

Darvis considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “If you want to stay up all night, knock yourself out.”

“I could stay with you,” Marja offers gently.

“No.” Alistair’s reply is flat, and Darvis can’t help but notice that he doesn’t quite meet Marja’s gaze. “You’ve done enough.”

Marja stiffens, and Darvis recognizes that stubborn, steely look that enters in her eyes. She regards Alistair with the same cold authority she uses so often on Darvis, and it’s strange, to have that look turned against Alistair instead of himself.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think?” Alistair snaps. He glances at Connor’s door, and in a hushed voice continues. “Lady Isolde is dead! We sacrificed her for blood magic! What is Eamon going to think of all this when he awakens? What is Connor going to think when he learns the truth?” Alistair rubs at his temples, and Darvis isn’t sure whether he’s trying to hold back tears or his temper. Maybe both. “I can’t believe we did that. I can’t believe I let you do that.”

“Do you think I haven’t considered all this?” Marja asks. Her voice is firm, certain, and invites no argument as she presses on. “Alistair, this is what we do. We make the hard decisions, and we live with them. I stand by what we did today. Eamon will understand that there were larger things at stake, and he will be grateful that his only child still lives. If Eamon still takes issue with our actions, we can point out that Isolde was harboring not just one, but two apostates. Her actions allowed an assassin to enter the Redcliffe estate and set off this entire chain of events, which resulted in the deaths of many of Redcliffe’s people.”

There is a slight pause before Marja frowns and adds, “In any case, you won’t need to justify yourself to Eamon. You didn’t let me do anything.”

“But I didn’t stop you, either, did I?” Alistair says, more to himself than to Marja. “Maybe I should have. And I know, I know, you made the logical decision. That doesn’t mean it was right. But you wouldn’t have listened, anyway, would you?”

Marja doesn't answer, but her silence says it all. Alistair buries his head in his hands and mutters, “I owe Eamon more than this.”

Darvis doesn’t know what to say, or if he even should say anything. He does feel a pang of sympathy for Alistair, even if he can’t understand why the man is carrying such guilt over Isolde’s fate. He glances at Marja, wondering if she has some perfectly chosen words that will clear this whole thing up.

But Marja is still wearing her mask of cold control. “This isn’t about you and Eamon. This is about us being Wardens, and doing what had to be done.”

"I guess it’s over either way, isn't it?" Alistair looks away, clearly not wanting to argue any further. “Guest chambers are down the hall, corridor to the right. Find some beds and get some rest.”

For a moment, Marja appears on the verge of saying something more to Alistair. But whatever it is, she holds it back and only nods before turning away.

Darvis, however, lingers. Alistair gives him a dull look and asks, “What? Something to add? Going to lecture me about my 'sentimental stupidity', or whatever Morrigan calls it?”

“Hey, I have no business calling anyone else stupid,” Darvis says, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “I just…don’t take all that personally, okay? That’s how the Princess is. Maybe not to you, usually. But Nobles are always a pain in the ass to argue with. It’s what makes them Nobles. It’s also why you’d make a pretty shitty Noble, the more I think about it.”

He’d hoped to make Alistair laugh, but no such luck. Alistair only gives Darvis an odd look and asks, “So now she’s upset with me, and you’re being nice? Quite the turn of events, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, I’m not nice,” Darvis grumbles, crossing his arms.

That finally makes Alistair crack a smile. “Of course. My mistake.”

Darvis shakes his head, cursing this whole stupid idea. Before he turns to leave, however, he has to ask. “Why do you feel like you owe this arl so badly, anyway?”

“You know he raised me.”

“So?” Darvis leans against the wall, studying his knuckles as he speaks. “My mother technically raised me, and I don’t owe her shit. Maybe Eamon was better to you than I’ve come to think. I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But it sounds to me like he spent most of his time ignoring you and then shipped you off to make Isolde happy. Why are you so protective of them all?”

Alistair is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. You might be right, and I’m just being foolish. But I still care about this family, and…and I just want to do the right thing. I want to make things better. I don’t want to become cynical or bitter like-”

Alistair stops himself, and Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Like me?”

No answer comes, which is as good a confirmation as any. Darvis shrugs, not too offended. “It’s called survival, Alistair. If you can do more than that, you’re a bigger person than I am. Which, hey, you already are.”

“I don’t think-” Alistair stops, and narrows his eyes down at Darvis. “Wait, was that a dwarf joke?”

Darvis snorts, and Alistair finally laughs even as he shakes his head. “Was this whole speech just a setup for that? You’re sneakier than I realized.”

“Fatal mistake.” Darvis gives him a smirk. “But you should still think about it. You wanna be all nice and forgiving…well, I don’t see the appeal, but knock yourself out. Just don’t go beating yourself up because you think you owe it to these people. You’ve already saved their entire blasted town, and that’s more than they deserve.”

Alistair gives a hesitant nod. “I’ll think about that, I guess. But I can’t just stop caring. That sort of thinking- maybe it helps you survive, but it doesn’t seem like much of a life. Maybe you should think about that.”

Darvis shrugs, still doubtful, but the exhaustion is beginning to seep into his bones and he doesn’t have the energy to argue any longer. He just gives Alistair a nod and finally leaves to find his way down to the guest rooms.

At first, he’s nervous about what may still be lurking in the dark hallways, but it seems the undead and evil spirits are all truly gone, and the guest rooms are relatively untouched by the chaos of the past few days. Darvis pauses only to dunk his face in the basin of cold water in the corner of his room, cleaning himself of some of the dirt and grime he’s gathered during their adventures. With that done, he throws himself onto the large, soft bed, relief washing over his mind as he finally succumbs to sleep.

The whispers start soft, as always. And as always, they grow louder.

The heavy noises in his head. The smell of rotting flesh. The vibrations of a distant roar. It forms a chorus, a beat, a song calling out to his blood, and then-

And then the archdemon is upon him.

The smooth hilt of a dagger is already in Darvis’s hand, slashing at the air in front of him as he jolts awake.

It takes a few moments to reorient himself, and for those moments his grip on the dagger remains tight and tense, ready for whatever is waiting in the shadows. But slowly, the events of the past days come back, and as Darvis’s heartbeat slows he gradually loosens his stance.

He’s in Redcliffe. The immediate danger has been dealt with. He’s in some Noble’s spare bed which is three times too big for him, and he’s trying to get some real sleep for the first time in far too long. Darvis groans and pushes the dagger back into place beneath his pillow.

Sooner or later, these damn Warden nightmares are going to drive him crazy.

Nug, nestled in the blankets at Darvis’s side, makes a whining noise and nuzzles his nose against Darvis’s hand. Darvis sighs, but dutifully scratches begind the dog’s ears. Nug had hopped up into the bed as if he belonged there, and Darvis is too tired to push him off now, even if it means he’ll end up smelling like dog. And sure, maybe it’s a little comforting to have the giant hound seated right next to him when he wakes from a nightmare.

Still, Darvis doubts he’s getting back to sleep tonight. This bed is too big and soft, the room too unfamiliar. It’s all too nice; nothing like a place he where actually belongs. Darvis swings his feet off the bed, patting Nug’s head as he goes.

“You stay here, boy. Enjoy the bed. I’m going for a walk.”

Darvis moves silently through the lavish halls. He doesn’t even stop to slip anything into his pockets, and yet he still feels like a thief in the night, an intruder in this castle of formal portraits and silver candlesticks. How can one family need so much room, so many things? He follows long hallways of velvet carpets and low burning torches, moving with no clear direction in mind- or so he thinks. Eventually he passes a doorway and through the crack notices a candle still burning brightly inside, and it’s only then that he realizes his wandering feet have brought him to Morrigan’s room.

Before he can consider the wisdom of his actions, Darvis knocks softly at the door. Morrigan’s voice answers softly through the wood- “Come in, if you must”- and he pushes his way inside.

He finds Morrigan hunched over a table in the corner of the room, her grimoire open in front of her and a circle of candles burning nearby. She looks up as Darvis enters, a single eyebrow arched as she gives him a cool smile.

“Ah. ‘Tis only you.”

“Only me,” Darvis agrees. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“I am very nearly finished here, if you do not mind waiting a moment.” She turns back to the book without waiting for an answer, narrowing her eyes as she works.

Darvis leans against the doorway, watching her. Like him, Morrigan has obviously been taking advantage of Redcliffe’s hospitality; her face is scrubbed clean of any trace of battle or travel, and even her usual eye paint is gone. Her hair is loose and draped over one shoulder, where it falls along her collarbone. Darvis also can’t help but notice that her usual woven shawl is left on the bed, and without it the top she wears has become considerably more revealing.

“Like what you see?” Amusement colors Morrigan’s tone as she leans further over her book.

Darvis realizes that he is indeed staring, and he tries not to sound too embarrassed as he lets out a soft laugh. “Always.”

Morrigan’s smirk grows in a way that is most certainly not displeased. She puts her quill down, finally leaning away from her grimoire to give Darvis her full attention. “Did you visit my room at this late hour merely to enjoy the view, then?”

“It’s a perk,” Darvis admits as he moves closer. His confidence falters for a moment, and he drops his eyes as he adds something that’s been on his mind ever since Morrigan returned from the Fade. “And I wanted to check on you, after the demon and all. I mean, you had to fight that thing alone.”

“And I was more than capable,” Morrigan says firmly, defensiveness prickling through her playful attitude.

“Yeah, no shit,” Darvis says. “I was there, I saw- the demon is gone. You don’t have to convince me you’re a badass, it’s already plenty clear.” Morrigan’s tense shoulders ease, and she tilts her head to regard Darvis with a more contemplative look as he keeps talking. “But I don’t know how this mage stuff works, so I thought maybe someone should check. I was going to wait until morning, but since we’re both here…”

The open grimoire catches his eye, and for a moment Darvis is distracted by the drawings on the pages. “Shit- is that what you faced off against?”

The hand-drawn picture on the page is a strange thing- almost human-like, but with even more stretched-out proportions. Its bones protrude at odd angles and long, ragged nails sprout from its hands. Everything about the creature is sharp and piercing, save for the head, which is colored over in a haze of charcoal strokes.

“It is my rendition of it,” Morrigan answers. She narrows her eyes critically at the sketch and makes a few more lines with her charcoal. “If the child were asked, he would say it looked exactly like his father. ‘Tis the trick of a Desire Demon to appear in different forms. Our confrontation forced the thing to reveal itself. This is the closest thing it knows to a true appearance.”

“Desire Demon?” Darvis repeats, and Morrigan nods.

“There are many different classes of demon. This type reaches into a mortal’s mind and pulls out that which they long for most, using it to manipulate them. The Circle would teach that they are a particularly vulgar demon, for they are often associated with carnal desires. But they are just as capable of presenting as something innocent, should that be what a mortal longs for. In this case, the mage in question desired nothing more than to see his father again.” Her description of the creature is delivered in a stoic, unbothered tone, as if she is speaking of something perfectly commonplace, rather than a shapeshifting demon which has kept an entire village hostage.

“Wow.” Darvis gingerly flips a page in the grimoire, eyes roving over the text and sketched figures. “This is some powerful stuff.”

Morrigan continues to watch him, a curious look gleaming in her eyes. “You often remark that you know nothing of magic or the Fade. Would you wish to learn?”

“Really?” Darvis shoots her a surprised look.

“Of course, you cannot actually learn magic. But you can learn of it, and of spirits and demons and other such things of which you are dramatically uneducated.”

“You sure you want to put up with teaching me?”

Morrigan laughs softly. “I could be persuaded. You are an oddly intriguing man, Darvis Brosca. I believe you might have many hidden talents.”

The look in her eyes sends a shiver down Darvis’s spine, and he suddenly becomes very aware of where they are in this moment. Slowly, he closes the grimoire and turns back to fully face Morrigan. With him standing and her still seated in her chair, their eyes are level as he meets her gaze. “You said these things pull desires out of your head? What did it pull out of yours?”

“Nothing.” Morrigan’s smirk widens, and she leans closer, so that her breath tickles against Darvis’s beard as she speaks. “When I desire something, I do not wait to be tempted. I take it myself.”

Darvis chuckles. “Do you, now?”

He could tease her more, but any other words he might have are lost as Morrigan closes the distance between them and captures his lips in a deep kiss. He immediately returns in kind, pulling her close and wrapping his hand around the small of her back. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he marvels over the fact that this is actually happening- but most of his attention is focused wholly on her mouth, soft and hungry against his.

The kiss is broken when Morrigan abruptly stands from her chair, but Darvis has little time to catch his breath before she is pulling him towards the bed, and soon enough they are both in the sheets, and Morrigan is leaning above him, her dark hair falling in her face and a fervent look shining in her eyes. She sinks down to kiss him again, and her lips taste like fire.

Later that night, for the first time in weeks, Darvis sleeps without dreams.

Chapter Text

Marja wishes she could go to bed straight away, but she knows she won’t truly rest until a few things are taken care of.

First, she sends one of Teagan’s soldiers down to the village to spread news that the demon has been defeated. She gives the man strict orders on what exactly to tell the people; after all they’ve been through, there’s no need to panic the villagers with wild tales of demon-possessed children. It is enough for them to know that the chaos has been dealt with and that the mage who started this all has been apprehended.

The mage in question, she sends back to the dungeons. Jowan does not fight against the order- in fact, he’s scarcely said a word since the ritual. The most he does is ask her to confirm that Connor is safe, and with that done he is quiet and compliant as the guards lead him away. Marja actually finds herself somewhat sympathetic to the man, despite the trouble he has caused. Perhaps she’s being idealistic, but she believes that he regrets his actions. More relevantly, it is only because of him that they were able to stop the demon without injury to Connor…and yet, it is not the Wardens’ place to either pardon or punish him. That duty lies with the Guerrins, and in the meantime Marja will simply ensure that he does not escape.

In addition, she makes arrangements for the main hall to be scrubbed clean of blood and for the bodies within the castle to be carried down to the village, where funeral preparations are underway. The entirety of the cleansing will take some time, she knows, but she wants to at least ensure that Lady Isolde is cared for with as much dignity as possible. Marja may not have liked the woman, but Isolde did make the honorable decision in the end. Besides, the last thing she wants is for Connor to stumble upon his mother's exsanguinated body rotting in the open.

The last bit of business to take care of is Arl Eamon. He lives, which is the only good thing Marja can say for him. The man remains fixed in a deep sleep, apparently stable but completely unresponsive. For now, all Marja can do is ensure that he is tucked away safely in a guarded room.

Eamon’s fate is what concerns Marja the most; he is the entire reason they came here, and they were depending on his support to lend their cause credibility. Teagan would do just as well, she supposes, if he were to take over the ruling of Redcliffe. Still, she would rather it not come to that. Eamon is already well-known and respected in Ferelden, and standing up against Loghain will not be an easy task for somebody whose fellow nobles would view as a second rate replacement. But that is something Marja cannot solve tonight, and so with Eamon safely sequestered, she finally retires to Redcliffe’s guest wing.

Before she goes to sleep, Marja does indulge in one luxury- she has the servants draw her some water, and for the first time since Orzammar she bathes in something other than a freezing Fereldan river.

Marja sinks under the water, relishing the feel of actual cleanliness. She still misses Orzammar terribly, with its heated springs and large palace bathtubs, but the experience is exquisite all the same. She’s certain she’d still been carrying around dirt from the Brecilian Forest, and as she scrubs the sweat and grime from her hair, she finally begins to feel a little more like herself.

And maybe it’s more than just the bath. Redcliffe is a far cry from the Diamond Quarter, but organizing troops and taking charge of an estate naturally reminds her of her position back home. Not exactly, of course; things are much simpler here, with no other Nobles breathing down her neck and constantly trying to spin things to their own agenda. Back home, the incapacitation of a Deshyr would leave the other members of his House scrambling to claim his power, not revive him.

In a way, that simplification makes surface life much more complicated.

It’s with a strange, sinking feeling that Marja remembers the anger- more than that, the disappointment- in Alistair’s voice today. She knows her decision was the correct one, and she has nothing at all to feel guilty about. Her logic was sound, and the actions she took were best for everyone given the circumstances. Marja is certainly no stranger to others disagreeing with her decisions, and that has never been something to bother her. The knowledge that she is certain of her course is always enough to assuage any second-guessing from others.

So why isn’t any of that helping now?

Marja heaves a sigh and decides to distract herself with the task of untangling her ragged hair. She’s tired, that’s all. In the morning she will be clean and well-rested and back to her usual confident self. But even after Marja has finished brushing out her hair and is dressed for sleep, she doesn’t find herself tempted by the bed. This is another familiar feeling from Orzammar: her mind whirring incessantly, refusing to quiet until she has untangled the problem sitting stubbornly at the front of her brain. Marja knows from experience that when she’s like this, sleep is a futile endeavor.

Instead, she slips from her room and begins walking the hallways. If she can’t rest, she can at least familiarize herself more with the estate- the offices, the armory, the exits. Perhaps she can even return to Alistair, try to explain herself further. But no, she has already explained herself enough. A repeat of her arguments will not make him any more amenable to them. For now, Marja will give the man some space, and hope that he is more reasonable in the morning.

With that decision made, she finds her way through the main hall and out into the courtyard, where the stars shine and glint overhead. She assumes she will be alone, save for a few servants or soldiers still running errands. All of her companions have been shown to the guest wing, and they should be enjoying Redcliffe’s hospitality and soft beds. But it seems she is not the only one to forgo immediate rest; Leliana is awake as well, her familiar red hair like a signal in the night as she kneels over something in the courtyard garden.

Leliana looks up at Marja’s approach and grants her a welcoming smile. She sits back and motions Marja over, and as Marja draws close she sees what has caught the woman’s attention- a cluster of small, white flowers, growing in a bush near the tall tree that stretches past the roof of the estate’s main hall. Leliana holds one of the blooms delicately in her fingers, studying it with thoughtful eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re still out here,” Marja says.

“I could say the same for you.” Leliana’s eyes flicker over to Marja, and she tilts her head, that little smile still on her face. “I don’t think I’ve seen you with your hair down before. It’s very nice.”

“Oh.” Marja hadn’t been expecting that. She reaches self-consciously for her hair, still loose and slightly damp from her bath. “Yes, well, leaving it down isn’t very practical for battle. Easier to keep it braided up, even if it’s a pain to do it myself.” The fact that she used to have Servants to do that for her nearly slips from her lips, but she stops herself. She can practically hear the way Darvis would mock her for that sort of comment.

“I do like the braids. They suit you- pretty and practical.” Leliana pats the ground in front of her. “I can help you with it, if you’d like.”

Leliana’s offer doesn’t fully sink in right away, and it takes Marja just a moment too long to respond. “Oh- you don’t have to…”

“I insist. I assure you, I am quite capable of a few simple braids.” Leliana motions again to the empty space in front of her, still wearing her innocent, friendly smile. “Besides, it will give us a chance to talk. I do enjoy your company, you know.”

Marja raises an eyebrow, curious and somewhat wary, but finally settles onto the ground in front of Leliana. Before she begins, Leliana places the flower she’d been examining on the grass beside her. She sets it down gently, delicately, as if the petals were made of glass, and then sets those same gentle fingers running through Marja’s hair.

Her touch is soft. For a few long seconds, all she does is smoothly straighten Marja’s locks, her fingertips occasionally brushing against Marja’s cheek or neck as she works. It’s really no different than what Marja’s Servants used to do for her every day.

And yet it is. There is something different between the formal bustling of the Servants within the palace and the patient brushing of Leliana’s touch as they sit beneath the stars. Marja can feel her skin prickling at the sensation and for once, she is too uncertain to speak.

It is Leliana who finally breaks the silence. “How does Connor seem to be faring now?”

The question is a sobering reminder of their reality, and it helps Marja to focus as she answers. “He has recovered as much as he can. I don’t think he remembers what happened, which is a blessing. But dealing with this won’t be easy.”

“Especially without his mother.”

“Are you going to lecture me about that, too?”

Leliana makes a thoughtful hum. “Alistair is still upset, I take it?”

Marja shifts under Leliana’s touch, sitting up slightly taller as the irrational guilt starts to creep its way back into her chest. She huffs and tries not to sound overly defensive as she answers. “He does not approve of sacrificing Isolde, as you know. I realize you both think the ritual was the wrong decision. But it worked, and we may have saved many lives by killing the demon now. I cannot apologize for that.”

“Did I ask you to?” Leliana weaves strands of Marja’s hands between her fingers, twisting and pulling. The result it tight but not uncomfortable, and Marja cannot help but reflect on how strange of a way this is to have a conversation. “Truthfully, I wish it had not come to such a decision at all. And I can’t say it was right, but…I also cannot say it was wrong. I believe you did what you thought was best. So no, I am not asking you to apologize.”

“…Good. I just wish Alistair could be that reasonable.”

“Alistair listens to his heart,” Leliana says. “That is not a bad thing; in fact, I think it is rather admirable. It is important to remember what you are fighting for. But it makes moments like this all the more painful for him, particularly when it puts him in opposition with a friend.”

Marja sighs, and winces as she realizes it came out sounding more like a scoff. Disagreements between friends have no business being more complicated and worrying than navigating political rivalries with dwarven Nobility. And yet here she is, fretting the night away. Maybe she’s just not good at this; it’s not as if she has much to use as comparison. Her only real friend in Orzammar had been Gorim, and he never sulked or argued, even when he obviously disagreed with her.

Of course, he never braided her hair while trading gossip, either. But this is another thing friends do, isn’t it? Is it? Marja lets out another sigh; the change of customs on this surface world is leaving her far too muddled.

“There. Done,” Leliana announces proudly as she finishes the last twist to Marja’s braid. The style is different than what Marja is accustomed to- rather than a series of braids pinned in a crown around her head, Leliana has opted for one long braid which hangs tightly down her back. It certainly feels different, but it is admittedly less likely to come undone in the thick of battle.

Marja runs a tentative hand across her hair and nods. “Thank you.” She chews on her lip, thinking hard as she turns to glance at Leliana. She may be risking another ‘disagreement with a friend’, but she is quite curious. “You also listen to your heart- or at least your faith. From what I know of the Maker, he doesn’t approve of blood magic. Why are you so understanding about all this?”

Leliana props an elbow on her knee and rests her chin in her hand, regarding Marja in a practiced manner. “You think me naïve, I know. The innocent Chantry Sister who does not understand how the world works.” She laughs softly and without humor. “It is true, in a way- I try very much to act as the Maker would wish, and at times my eyes can be blinded by what my heart wishes them to see. But in truth, I have seen very much of the world. I understand how cruel it can be.”

“And you learned this from your time as simple minstrel in Orlais?” Marja challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Leliana holds Marja’s stare, a wry smile sneaking onto her face. “What are you suggesting?”

Marja leans forward, mimicking Leliana’s pose. “You know, I wasn’t sure at first. Orzammar is so isolated, after all, and I was always kept busy with only our own politics. But we do learn some things about other nations, and I finally remembered what Orlais is so famous for- its bards.”

Spies, Orzammar would call them, although the tales of Orlesian bards claim they prefer to hide in plain sight. Leliana’s eyes widen, just a little. The rest of her expression stays neutral, her smile still on her lips, her posture still relaxed. She’s good, Marja thinks. But she’s given just enough reaction for Marja to tell that her hunch is correct.

“Take it as a compliment,” Marja tells her. “Your combat skills, the way you read people- it’s too impressive for somebody who’s never experienced any of this before. The only thing I don’t understand is this- if you’ve seen so much of this world, why you were hidden away in that little Chantry in Lothering?”

For the first time, Leliana’s amused expression breaks. Her lips purse and she quickly looks away, her eyes distant. “It’s…not a happy story.”

“They never are, it seems,” Marja says. “But I’d like to hear it all the same, if you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” Leliana says. She glances down to the flower she’d lain on the ground and picks it up, staring at the petals as she speaks. “It’s just been a very long time since I’ve spoken of what happened. But perhaps it’s best for you to know the truth. Yes, I was bard in Orlais. And I had to leave because I was being hunted.”

“Hunted by whom? Why?”

“I was betrayed,” Leliana says, a darkness entering her eyes. Her fingers grow tense around the flower stem. “I was lied to and framed by- by someone I thought I knew. Someone I thought I could trust.”

A long breath escapes Marja’s chest. “Sounds familiar.”

“Does it?” Leliana arches an eyebrow.

“I was exiled for treason,” Majra says, and marvels at how easy it has become to state such a thing. Anyone can adjust to anything with time, she supposes. “My younger brother is now first in line for the throne. You can make your own guesses regarding that.”

“Familiar, indeed,” Leliana concedes with another small, wry smile. “For you, it was your brother. For me, it was…Marjolaine. She was my mentor, and my friend, and so much more. She taught me the bardic arts, and I used these skills to serve her…because I loved her.” Despite her romantic words, Leliana’s tone as she speaks of Marjolaine is hollow and bitter. The smile slips from her face, her tone growing more cutting as she continues. “And because I enjoyed what I did. I cannot deny that. I enjoyed it, and it made me feel special, and smart, and important. I thought I was right in helping her. I was wrong.”

Marja pauses. She’s starting to feel that guilt again now, as she watches Leliana wrestle with her words. But they’ve already begun and they might as well finish, so she cautiously asks, “What happened between you two?”

“I discovered a secret I was never meant to know,” Leliana answers with a heavy sigh. “Marjolaine was lying to me. She had betrayed Orlais. To tell the truth, I did not even care about that part- I only feared for her. Her life would have been in terrible danger if she was caught. She brushed my concerns aside and said that those activities were all in the past. I believed her. And I kept on believing until they arrested me for her crimes- until they showed me the documents falsified by her own hand.”

“I endured a traitor’s punishment. The things they did…” Leliana trails off, lost in memory for a moment before shaking herself and continuing on. “But my bardic skills were still worth something. I broke free as soon as I found the chance.”

“And you went after Marjolaine?” Marja prompts.

“I almost did. I was furious, and it was so tempting to think of going to her and-“ Leliana stops herself and shakes her head, as if forcibly removing herself from her reveries. “But no. What could I have done against her, all on my own and with Orlesian nobles out for my blood? No. I fled, and I hid.”

Marja doesn’t know what to say to that. She almost wishes she’d never asked. But she’s glad she did, both because these sorts of thing are important to know about her companions and because…it seems like it helps Leliana, to talk about this. Marja does want to help, and she means it when she says, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

But now Leliana’s dark mood suddenly lifts, and she smiles as she twirls her little white flower between her fingers. She lifts the bloom to her face to inhale its scent, and when she speaks again her voice has regained its airy, gentle tone. “I’m not. In my hiding, I found light. I found forgiveness. The Maker saved my soul and granted me something far greater than the turmoil I once knew.”

At that, Marja has no choice but to laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Leliana smiles, but her eyes hold no trace of levity. “I was far better off in Lothering than I ever was in Orlais. It sounds so silly to you, I know. It would have sounded silly once to me. But in Lothering I found my peace and my purpose. And now, the Maker has placed me in your path. This, I believe, is where I was always meant to be.”

Marja shakes her head, completely baffled, but she knows there is little point in arguing over what this ‘Maker’ wants. “I can’t say I understand that part. Maybe it’s a human thing. But I do understand that pain of a betrayal. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“You should know,” Leliana says, nodding to herself. Her eyes flicker to Marja again. “You remind me of her sometimes, you know.”

“Of Marjolaine?”

Marja’s tone seems to startle Leliana, and she quickly adds, “I do not mean to offend, or to accuse. I have seen you do so many good things. You honor your duties, you fight for the defenseless. You did so much for the Dalish, and now for the people of Redcliffe. And yet sometimes…”

“Sometimes what?” Marja demands. Despite Leliana’s assurances, she is most certainly offended. How in the world can she remind anyone of an underhanded, treasonous assassin?

“It’s simply that Marjolaine had a gift with people,” Leliana explains. “She knew when to cajole and when to threaten. She knew how to arrange things to her own liking. And she was not one to compromise once she decided upon a course of action. Does that not sound familiar at all?”

Marja huffs and looks away, angry at herself for having fallen into this trap. “So you are upset about our decision regarding the ritual.”

“No. I meant what I said before,” Leliana insists. “But these skills…they are like a blade. Always dangerous, but capable of either good or evil depending upon who wields it. Today, we did a little of both, and I believe the good outweighed the bad. But that is a tricky path to walk, and if you ignore your heart and your conscience, you may eventually find yourself on the wrong side.”

Marja shakes her head, still unable to believe that Leliana could accuse her of similarities with such a woman. “I would never do what she did.” What Bhelen did. What half of the Nobles in the Diamond Court do every day. She has always been above that. Even with the difficult decisions she makes, she has always thought of the greater good, always kept her honor.

Whether Leliana believes this or not, however, is hard to say. The bard simply nods her head- not an agreement, but an acknowledgement. “I certainly hope not. As I said, I do not mean to lay any blame upon you.”

Leliana’s gaze drifts away from Marja back to the flower between her fingers, and she lets out a low breath. “In truth, I worry more for myself. I know what I am capable of, should I let myself stray from the Maker’s path. When you are burdened with that knowledge, you are conscious of any possible misstep.”

In spite of herself, Marja softens slightly. “Despite whatever disagreement we may have, you are the last person I would ever accuse of moral missteps,” she admits, and Leliana chuckles softly.

“I’m not sure that was a compliment, but it’s still kind of you to think so.” She shakes her head, running a thumb across the flower still in her hands. After a moment, she holds it out, showing Marja the delicate petals.

“I found a patch of these growing right here, in the courtyard. A Chantry Mother I used to know would have said it was the Maker’s serendipity that led me to them. Perhaps he knew I needed the encouragement.”

“They’re pretty,” Marja allows, although she doesn’t quite understand the strength of Leliana’s reaction. “We can add them to our collection. What are they called?”

“Andraste’s Grace. A beautiful name, isn’t it? They were my mother’s favorite. I think they reminded her of home. You see, I may have been raised in Orlais, but she was always Fereldan at heart. I remember the scent of these blooms; it clung to her, to her clothing and her hair. It’s one of the few memories I have. I was quite young when she died.” Leliana pauses. “I do wonder what she would think of me now.”

Marja quietly takes the flower from Leliana’s hands, brings it to her nose, and inhales softly. The scent is difficult to describe; almost like perfume, but grassier, nothing at all like anything she could ever find in Orzammar. After a moment of silence, Marja says, “You are helping to end the Blight. That should make any mother proud.”

“I’d like to think so. But my own judgment is not always the most reliable.” Leliana sighs deeply. “Still- I do not regret joining you. I hope you are not too harsh with Alistair, and I hope you understand what I meant tonight. I hope in the future our choices are easier, and we do not have to weigh the values of lives against each other. I hope I am right to trust you.” A quick smile plays on her lips. “I admit, I have a lot of hopes.”

Leliana reaches over to the flower bush and gently plucks another bloom. She looks down at it with a fond expression, and then before Marja can realize what’s happening she leans over so that their faces are mere inches apart. Gentle as ever, Leliana tucks the flower behind Marja’s ear, nestling it in her newly-braided hair. Her fingers trace along Marja’s cheek for a brief moment before she withdraws.

“But that’s the thing about faith. I believe my hopes will lead me to good things. Perhaps even better than I expect.”

Marja is too busy trying to process Leliana’s touch and her closeness and her everything to formulate a response, even as Leliana giggles and pulls herself to her feet.

“Just another thing to think about. Good night, Marja.”

And then she leaves Marja alone in the courtyard with her flowers, more confused than ever.

Chapter Text

When Darvis wakes, the bed is already empty. He rolls over, blinking sleepily, and sees Morrigan standing at the mirror across the room, fully dressed and studying her reflection as she pins her long dark hair up into its usual twisted bun. She turns at the sound of Darvis shifting, a smirk playing on the corners of her lips.

“Ah. You finally awaken.”

Darvis yawns and stretches- and damn, he'd almost forgotten how good it feels to actually get a good night's sleep. “Good morning to you, too.”

“The others will undoubtedly be clamoring for our presence soon. Were I you, I would get dressed before they come calling,” Morrigan says in reply as she turns her attention back to her reflection. Her smirk grows as her eyes follow Darvis in the mirror. “Or not. ‘Tis up to you.”

Darvis snorts and heaves himself from the bed. His clothes are scattered around the room, and it takes him a moment to gather them and dress. For a while, the only sound in the room is the shuffling of cloth and the metallic clink of buckles, and in the quiet Darvis is all too aware of the unspoken question hanging in the air. Morrigan certainly doesn’t seem as if she’ll be voicing it anytime soon, so when Darvis is fully dressed and can put if off no longer, he braces himself and breaks the silence.

“What now?” He asks the question with nonchalance, only glancing at Morrigan from the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I had a good time last night. Was that a one-time thing, or…?”

He trails off, trying not to betray any expectations. It’s not as if he’s never had one-night stands before. In fact, that was just about all he had back in Orzammar; men and women came and went, and nobody was foolish enough to speak of the future. Not in Dust Town, when the Carta and the city guards and everything in between could cut it short at a moment's notice. Now that Darvis is a Warden, he can’t exactly say that mindset has changed.

Still. Darvis would be lying if said he’d turn down a repeat performance.

Morrigan’s eyes flicker back to him in the mirror, revealing nothing of her thoughts. After a short moment, she shrugs and says, “That is entirely up to you.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. You should know by now that I wish only to do what I desire. If that just so happens to coincide with what you desire…” Morrigan trails off as she finishes tying up her hair, and when she is done she looks over her shoulder at Darvis, her eyes alight with mischief. “…then so be it.”

Those eyes set Darvis’s blood racing, no matter how much he knows better than to get his hopes up too far. “That works for me. And if any of the others ask what we’re up to?”

Morrigan scoffs. “To be quite honest, I could not care less what any of the others think. We are two people who are simply enjoying themselves, are we not?”

Darvis grins. “I’d say so.”

“And that is none of their business.” Morrigan leaves the mirror behind and moves to sit on the bed next to Darvis. “Before we continue with this, however, there is one thing I must make clear- I have no designs on your independence, and I do not intend to relinquish mine. Nor shall I be indulging in any sentimental drivel regarding romance, or any other such nonsense. I simply have certain needs that I would see satisfied. I assume you feel the same?”

“If by all that you mean ‘we’re just having sex’, then yeah. I can do that.” Darvis raises an eyebrow at Morrigan. “I can do it as many times as you like.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes at his admittedly terrible line, but a laugh escapes her lips all the same. “Very well. It seems then that we have more misadventures to look forward to in the future.”

“Misadventures? Is that what we’re calling it?” Darvis smirks and move closer to Morrigan. He slowly presses a kiss to her lips, then moves down, planting more kisses along her collarbone. “Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?” he murmurs, his lips brushing over her skin.

Morrigan hums and cranes her neck to give him further access. “You’re a smart man. You should know how to take it.” She tilts her head so that her breath tickles Darvis’s ear as she speaks. “You know, there are infamous tales of Warden endurance. Based on last night’s performance, I would say they are not exaggerated. I would be most interested in testing the limits of that endurance.”

Darvis grins and moves back up to kiss her mouth again, lingering there until she pulls away.

“Alas, now is not the time,” she says, giving Darvis a teasing smile as she moves to the bedroom door. “At this moment, there are unfortunately other things to attend to.”

Darvis accompanies Morrigan to the castle kitchens, where despite the morbid circumstances of the past few days a few workers still bustle about their jobs, preparing a practical buffet of food for the Wardens and their companions. Oddly enough, neither Alistair nor Marja have appeared to help themselves to the feast. Darvis nods a goodbye to Morrigan, grabs a hunk of bread and a few pieces of meat, and slips back into the hallway, ignoring both the disconcertingly grateful attention from the workers and the sly, knowing look from Leliana.

He finally tracks down his fellow Wardens in what looks like an office; most of the room is taken up by bookshelves and chests and a large desk, where a weary-eyed Teagan sits with Connor at his side. Alistair is engaged in active conversation with Connor, while Marja paces around the room, her focus on the many books lining the walls. A guard stands at attention in the corner, looking oddly out of place in her full armor.

Alistair looks up as Darvis comes in and gives him a smile. “Good news- Connor is feeling much better.”

“That so?” Darvis grunts, and Connor nods with only a touch of hesitation.

“Uh-huh. I don’t even feel sick anymore.” Connor crosses his arms and edges closer to Teagan, suddenly shy. Darvis wonders just how much the boy’s uncle has told him. He tries not to dwell too much on that thought; whatever the case, it is a comfort to see the kid looking at least somewhat normal. Connor regards Darvis for a moment longer and adds, “Alistair said you all helped me.”

Darvis shrugs. “Morrigan did most of the work.” Alistair shoots him an incredulous look, and Darvis makes a face back. “What? She did.”

“Oh,” Connor says, nodding seriously. “I should thank her, then. Father always says to remember to thank people who did nice things for you.”

“That’s a good rule, Connor,” Alistair sighs. “Although I really don’t think Morrigan cares about manners all that much.”

“In any case,” Teagan interrupts, patting Connor on the shoulder, “I have things I need to discuss with the Wardens now. Why don’t you go get some breakfast, Connor?”

The kid nods and dutifully runs off, and Teagan’s face falls as he watches him go. He gives a small nod to the guard, who nods back and follows after Connor as the boy runs down the hall. Darvis frowns at the exchange. It probably is a good idea to keep watch on the kid, but Darvis has to wonder if Connor will ever again be allowed to exist without a guard or Templar at his side. He doesn't have long to dwell on that thought, thankfully; as soon as Connor is gone, Marja glances away from the books she’d been studying, her gaze now focusing in on Teagan.

“I don’t mean to push,” she says in a carefully controlled voice, “and I recognize that your family is still recovering. But we really must discuss what we came here for: support against the Blight, and against Loghain.”

Teagan nods and straightens in his chair. “I will do what I can, but I can only do so much. Eamon is still the arl.”

“Yeah, about that,” Darvis says. He leans against the desk and tries not to get too distracted by the assortment of fancy paperweights and other useless golden trinkets that cover its surface. “Last time we saw Eamon, he didn’t seem to be in a position to do much arl-ing.”

Alistair groans quietly and rubs a hand across his face. “What these two mean, Teagan, is that whatever is needed to heal Eamon, we’ll do it.” Alistair gives a pointed look first to Darvis- who quickly withdraws his hand from a golden paperweight- then to Marja, as if waiting for one of them to object. He holds the gaze with Marja a touch longer, until she finally clicks her tongue and nods.

“Of course. Arl Eamon will be instrumental in our efforts to keep Fereldan safe. Is he still stable?”

Teagan nods again. “Yes. The danger seems to have passed, if we can only get him to awaken.”

“Then we should visit the Circle next.” Marja’s eyes move to Alistair as she makes the declaration, and Darvis knows they both see the way his jaw tightens. Marja waits a moment, and when Alistair doesn’t outright object, she carries on. “Eamon is stable, so the situation isn’t urgent. We should have time to go to the Circle and seek out an experienced healer to help him. Meanwhile, we could also secure the Wardens’ alliance with the mages-”

“The mages can’t help Eamon,” Teagan sighs. “We tried, back when he first fell ill. Nothing they did could save him.”

Marja frowns. “Things may be different now-”

“No,” Teagan shakes his head firmly. “No, even before this business with…demons, we’d exhausted all options. Eamon only had one hope left.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Alistair sighs. “The ashes.”

Marja frowns and looks back and forth between Alistair and Teagan. “The- oh, you’re not serious, are you?”

“Ashes?” Darvis faintly remembers Leliana going on about something like that back in Lothering, but…well, he hadn’t exactly been paying much attention to any of her ramblings about the Maker.

“The Urn of Sacred Ashes,” Alistair clarifies, as if that explains anything.

“The what of what?”

“It’s what Isolde sent all the knights after before Redcliffe was attacked,” Marja says. Her words are carefully neutral, but her tone is sharp enough to tell Darvis what she really means- it’s why the knights weren’t here to protect Redcliffe when they were needed. Marja’s lips purse, and she continues. “I admit, I don’t know much of Andraste, but…well, forgive me Teagan, but from what I’ve gathered it’s nothing more than a folk tale.”

“It’s our only hope,” Teagan insists. He reaches over the desk and pulls a stack of papers towards him. “There’s a scholar in Denerim. Eamon was funding his research- even before all this, Eamon was interested in the Ashes. Isolde sent men to find him, back when Eamon fell ill, to see if he’d made any progress. They couldn’t track him down, but maybe you could. That’s our best bet.”

“That’s our best bet?” Darvis repeats. “Track down some guy who may or may not be where we think he is, and who may or may not know where to find something that may or may not even exist?”

“We’ll do it,” Alistair says.

Darvis’s head whips around so he can stare at Alistair. “We will?”

Alistair gives him a pleading look. “Won’t we? We need to help Eamon!”

Do we? Darvis almost asks, but he manages to bite his tongue. Blasted Nobles- even when they’re on their deathbed, they manage to make things complicated. He glances to Marja and raises his eyebrows in exasperation, hoping she’ll understand his intent.

“Eamon is important,” Marja agrees reluctantly. “He’s somebody this country trusts, and we need their trust right now.” She frowns just a little as she thinks, and her eyes go distant for a moment. Darvis is about to prod her with further questions when her gaze snaps back into focus and she gives a stern nod. “Very well. We will look for the ashes- after we go to the Circle.”

“After?” Alistair demands, and Marja’s eyes narrow.

“We will go to the Circle and secure our alliance with the mages. We will send healers to Redcliffe, and they will try once again to revive Eamon. In case they cannot, we will look into this scholar. But we can’t go chasing after legends until the other courses of actions have been exhausted.”

Alistair scoffs. “So now you want to go running to the Circle?”

“If this is what you think is best,” Teagan cuts in, standing up quickly, “then I can’t argue. Perhaps I’m wrong, and a healer can do more now that the demon is gone. But before you leave, please- just look through the information Eamon has gathered. Please, consider this. In the meantime, I will organize Redcliffe’s knights. Our forces will need to be strong when Eamon awakes.” He motions to the stack of papers and hurries out of the room, obviously eager to sidestep the ensuing argument.

Not a bad idea, Darvis thinks, glancing back at Alistair and Marja. Not with Alistair still clenching his jaw, his fuming nearly visible in the air, and Marja keeping up that stony impassiveness. Darvis had hoped that by now they would have made nice and gotten over the whole blood ritual thing, but clearly, they still have some issues to hash out.

And Darvis really doesn’t have to be here for that.

“Well,” he says, “We all know I’m not the one who’s going sort through all those letters. I’m just gonna go tell everyone we’ll be setting out for the Circle soon. You two have fun here.”

With that, he palms the shiny paperweight he’s been eying and makes a quick exit.

The room is quiet for a moment after Darvis leaves, and Marja wonders if she should say something. On the other side of the study, Alistair shifts uncomfortably, clearly wrestling with something he both wants and doesn’t want to say.

Marja considers letting him stew, but she does wish to patch things up, and prolonging the stubborn silence doesn’t seem entirely conducive. “Something to get off your chest, Alistair?”

Alistair opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. It’s almost funny, how easily readable his expressions are- Marja can see the disapproval in his clenched jaw, the second-guessing in his constantly averted gaze, the resignation in the half-hearted way he rifles through the letters left on the desk as he tries to buy himself more time to think.

Finally, he releases a heavy breath and says, “I didn't mean to snap at you. I shouldn't have done that. I just...” He trails off, but his shoulders remain hunched and his remaining frustrations may as well be printed on his forehead.

“We’ve all been under a good deal of stress,” Marja allows in a quiet voice. “I’m doing my best, Alistair. I won’t apologize for that.”

“I know you won’t,” Alistair says drily. “Because that would mean admitting what we did might have been wrong.”

A twinge of annoyance rises in Marja, and she can’t keep the sharp edges out of her voice as she replies. “So you keep saying, and yet you never offered a viable alternative to any of the decisions I’ve made. If you had any better ideas, I would have been happy to consider them.”

“Would you?” Alistair bites back. “I said we should ask the Circle for help with Connor, and we didn’t. I said we should look for these ashes, and we aren’t. Why should I believe that you listen to me at all, when you already have all the answers?”

“I’ve already explained why we couldn’t expect help from the Circle!” Marja snaps. “And don’t forget, Brosca agreed as well. It was you who wasn’t listening.” She scowls down at the letters stacked across the desk, all bearing false promises of miracles and magic dust, and adds, “As for the ashes, they sound like nothing but the ramblings of desperate humans. We will help Eamon, but we will have to use something that actually exists. Do you really want to waste the Wardens’ sacrifice- Duncan's sacrifice- by neglecting our treaties and alliances to chase down some folk tale instead?”

The color drains from Alistair’s face, and Marja realizes too late that she may have crossed a line. Before she can say another word, however, Alistair turns away completely and practically flees from the room.

Left alone, Marja can only glare at the empty doorway and curse silently to herself. Stubborn fool.

She shakes her head and turns her attention to the desk. If these humans want so badly to chase after magical ashes, then fine, Marja will at least humor them. Let it never be said that she is not diligent. Still, she doubts she will find anything of value as she sorts through Eamon’s correspondence with his Denerim scholar.

Denerim. Marja has seen the city on maps, and it is nowhere near where they should be headed. The Wardens’ duties are clear- they should be securing the promised support of the mages and the dwarves. In Marja’s opinion, she is being quite gracious in allowing the detour to Denerim at all; she would much rather set out for Orzammar immediately after their visit to the Circle. It is Orzammar’s armies which will be most useful against the darkspawn, and with the Wardens’ treaties Marja could easily force their cooperation. The idea, she admits, is very enticing.

It is only Teagan’s insistence- and the admitted likelihood that they will need to organize with the nobility of Ferelden as soon as possible- that offers any reason as to why they should march in the opposite direction.

As Marja sorts through the collected correspondence, her low expectations are sadly not exceeded. Some of Genitivi’s work is intriguing, true. From what Marja gleans in the letters, he seems to be a man with deep knowledge of history and lore. But he says little of solid value, and Marja’s limited patience grows ever thinner as she shifts through the stack of pages.

“This is ridiculous,” she hisses to herself. And honestly, she should have expected no less. All of Alistair’s notions are ridiculous, aren’t they? How can he blame Marja for not pulling miracles out of thin air? Frustrated with the uselessness of the information before her, Marja starts rifling through the other drawers in Eamon’s desk. She pulls at the handles with more force than strictly necessary, until one drawer full of trinkets nearly comes loose with a loud rattle. At that, she chides herself- the last thing she needs is to go breaking the arl’s personal belongings- and checks quickly to make sure all is still intact.

What she finds is rather strange. Among the unused paperweights and loose coins is an amulet, old and worn and covered in glued-up cracks. Amidst the lines and jagged edges, Marja can just barely make out a symbol of the Chantry, and for a moment she is baffled. This trinket doesn’t appear very valuable; the Chantry Mother in Redcliffe had many just like this one. Why go through all the trouble of mending such a thing?

Then the memory of an old conversation resurfaces, and Marja realizes what it is she has found.

The news of their next destination is received as Darvis expects- which is to say, everyone seems content enough with Marja’s decisions save for Morrigan, who glowers at the mention of the Circle. It’s clear she expects the mages there to be of little use, but when Darvis tries to ask about the true extents of the Circle’s healing abilities, she can give him no clear answers. It’s not a surprising result; after all, Morrigan has never actually been to the Circle.

Darvis only knows of one person who has. And as much as he wants to avoid the source of Redcliffe's turmoil, he would like to know just how much they should be expecting from their future allies.

So he trudges down to the dungeons to find Jowan, who is locked up in the cells just as he was at their first meeting. The mage sits slumped against the wall, head down, as Darvis descends the stairs. He doesn't shift from the position until Darvis moves closer and knocks against the bars, at which point he finally starts and looks up. His sullen expression lifts slightly as he realizes it’s not a guard who has come to pay him a visit, but he still remains quiet, his shoulders hunched in nervous anticipation.

“We’re going to the Circle,” Darvis says without preamble. “To see if the mages will be any help to Eamon. Will they?”

Jowan frowns even as he relaxes slightly against the stone wall. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re a Circle mage. Or at least, you were.”

“I’m not a healer. I was never-” Jowan cuts himself off with a sigh. “I don’t know. I doubt it. The poison I gave Eamon- magic couldn’t help him before. I doubt it will now.”

Fuck. Darvis heaves a sigh, and Jowan quickly adds, “But I can't say for sure. There are talented healers at the Circle. Wynne is one of the best in Ferelden, or so I’ve been told. Maybe she can help, or she could send- she could send one of her students. Maybe they could figure something out.”

“With our luck, that’s not likely,” Darvis says, shaking his head. “Great. I guess we either let Eamon die or go chasing after ashes.”

Marja won’t like that. It’s clear enough she doesn’t even believe these ashes exist, and Darvis…well, Darvis can’t say he disagrees. But apparently they can’t refuse Teagan outright, and Eamon is far more useful alive than dead. It’s all another headache that they really don’t need right now, and all because of the target Loghain has placed on their backs. Fucking Nobles.

Caught up in these thoughts, Darvis almost forgets Jowan is still watching him until the man shakily asks a question. “If you’re going to the Circle…I know I have no right to ask, but...I have a request for you.”

Speaking of headaches we don’t need… “What kind of request?”

“It’s a small thing,” Jowan says, dropping his eyes back to the floor. “It's just…I left some people behind, when I ran away. They got caught up in the mess I made, and I need to the know that they’re okay. Two enchanters and a Chantry sister. They…I hurt them, when I left. I lied to them, and I put them in harm's way.” Jowan clenches his eyes shut and releases a ragged breath. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask. I've probably lost any right I had to call them friends. I just want to know they're okay.”

Darvis groans quietly to himself. He probably shouldn’t be having pity for this man; he’s an assassin and a blood mage and who knows what else. Darvis can still hear Isolde’s screams, can still see her blood on the stone floors. But here in his cell, the mage just looks small and defenseless and terrified for his friends.

“I’ll try," Darvis says gruffly. "No promises. Who am I looking for?”

“Shay. Ros. Lily.” Jowan whispers the names in a hoarse voice, his eyes closed. “Please, tell the Circle that any blame they might have been given rests solely with me."

Darvis watches him a moment longer, then against his better judgement says, “I could just let you leave, you know.”

Jowan’s eyes shoot open, and he stares at Darvis with open disbelief. “Why would you do that?”

Fuck if I know. “Nothing to do with you, really.” Darvis glances around him at the dark, damp dungeons, and remembers the Carta and Leske and many other things he really should have left behind in Orzammar by now. “I just don’t like seeing people locked up.”

Jowan is quiet for a long moment, but finally he releases a deep breath and says, “No. Don’t bother. Just…find them, please.”

“Your funeral,” Darvis replies with a shrug. It’s less trouble for himself, really, to not have to explain how a prisoner disappeared. Still- what kind of idiot turns down a free escape? “What do you want me to tell them, then?”

“Nothing!” Jowan sits up insistently. “Don’t tell them anything about me, or what I've done. Just find out if they’re okay. When you come back, tell me they’re okay.”

Darvis crosses his arms, not exactly happy with the idea, but relents with a sharp nod. “Okay.”

He turns to leave then, and he can’t help but think that if this were Morrigan, she would have blasted her way out of this prison cell ages ago. That, Darvis understands. But this? Sitting around and giving up? Darvis can't say he understands this man at all.

“Of course you don’t understand a Circle mage,” Morrigan says dismissively when Darvis relates the conversation back to her. “They have allowed the Chantry to chain them and treat them as caged birds. ‘Tis not a logical arrangement in the slightest.”

"Isn't this one an apostate now?"

"And yet he remains behind bars, does he not? The Circle trains their birds well."

Darvis just shrugs and turns his attention back to the weapons that line the wall. They’ve made their way into the Redcliffe armory, and although Teagan has apologized for its “understocked” state, Darvis might as well be in the middle of a treasure vault. Daggers- good daggers, expertly-crafted daggers- are just here for the taking, and Darvis doesn’t even have to watch the door for guards because Teagan actually gave him permission to just take anything he wants.

And it’s not just Teagan. The people of Redcliffe look at all the Wardens, even Darvis, with a grateful awe, and despite all the resources and food and weapons they’ve been taking, every single person has insisted that they don’t pay a single copper. Bella has offered free drinks from the tavern, along with insisting on supplying enough rations for the entire trip to the Circle. Teagan has given them the run of the estate, with all the weapons and supplies that come with it. Owen even sent a special set of armor, dwarven-made and everything, as some sort of thanks for his daughter’s survival.

Marja had barely even looked at the expensive armor; after all, she’s a princess, and probably used to getting all sorts of gifts from her boot-kissing admirers. But Darvis? Darvis has never been allowed to so much as look in the direction of something made by a master craftsman, let alone receive something so valuable as a gift. This set is even nicer than the one Darvis stole for the Provings all those ages ago.

It’s weird, this inexplicable generosity, and Darvis doesn’t completely trust it. But he’ll take advantage of it while he can. He loads his belt with daggers as Morrigan looks on. He’s not totally sure why she’s here; the armory is full enough of swords and shields and daggers, but it doesn’t have much to offer a mage.

“I suppose our visit to the Circle could be interesting, if nothing else,” Morrigan sighs. She sits perched on a wooden chest, examining her nails as she speaks with an air of disinterest. “I admit, there are a few things which I suspect they have locked away, and I would be quite interested in getting my hands on them.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Oh, you shall find out in time.”

“Tease.”

Morrigan laughs, and the smile she flashes is as wicked and sharp as the dagger in Darvis’s hands. “Don’t you fret. ‘Tis worth the wait, I assure you.”

As shameful as it is to admit, there is a small, spiteful part of Marja that almost wants to shove the amulet back in its hiding place and let it stay locked away.

But there is a line between standing her ground and wallowing in pure pettiness, and Marja can’t allow herself to be that vindictive. Even so, she doesn’t exactly feel gracious as she hunts Alistair down, the amulet burning like an ember in her pocket.

She finally finds Alistair up on Redcliffe’s battlement walls, watching smoke billow over the lake below. A weight settles in Marja’s chest as she peers over the wall and catches sight of the fires that dot the lake, each representing a floating, burning grave. She still doesn’t quite understand the human tradition of burning their dead. She can admit that it’s practical- the last few days have been testament enough to that- but still…it feels so strange to honor a soul with smoke and ash.

Alistair watches the proceedings below with a somber expression, only diverting his eyes once he hears Marja approach. His brow furrows at the sight of her, and he releases a long breath. “Sorry for storming out like that.”

Marja raises an eyebrow in surprise, but nods. “Oh. That's not the greeting I expected.”

Alistair gives a humorless laugh. “What, were you hoping I’d yell some more? You didn't come up here to argue, did you?”

“Actually…” Marja pulls the amulet from her pocket. “I wanted to give you this. I found it in Eamon’s office. I think…well, it sounds like the one you were telling me about before.”

Alistair glances down, confused, but as soon as he sees the amulet his eyes widen and his mouth falls open. He takes the amulet from Marja, his fingers tracing carefully over the cracked edges and lines. “It is. This was my mother’s. I can’t believe it’s still…” He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe that you found it. I can’t even believe you remember that story.”

He bites his lip and blinks, and Marja looks away so she can pretend she doesn’t see him fighting back tears. She now feels horribly guilty for even considering keeping this find a secret, and as much as she wants to hold on to her previous annoyance, she just can’t.

“I do listen to you, Alistair,” she says quietly. “This was something important to you. Of course I remembered.” Alistair gives a small, incredulous scoff, and Marja frowns. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“No,” Alistair says quickly. “Not really. It’s just…sometimes I’m not so sure. You can be a hard person to read, you know. It’s not always easy to tell when you’re taking someone seriously or when you’re just…humoring them and their foolish ideas.”

“You’re not foolish. Not as much as you seem, anyway.”

“You’d be the first to believe that,” Alistair says lightly, a small grin on his face.

And Marja could leave it at that; the peace offering has been given. She has done her part. But there’s still a distance between them, and for all that Alistair's spirits seem to have lightened Marja has seen how he wields his jests like a shield. If she wants him to lay down his armor, she will have to lay down hers first.

“You should know that I am not accustomed to people who actually want to help me,” Marja says quickly, before she can change her mind. She doesn’t look at Alistair, instead keeping her gaze fixed on the lake, the billowing smoke, the reminder of what all is at stake. “In Orzammar, every piece of advice you get comes with strings attached. You can’t be easy to read, because if others know what you want, they will use it against you. If they sense the smallest doubt, they will dig into it ruthlessly. I do listen, Alistair, and I do care. But I cannot let that affect my certainty in my own decisions. To allow others to make me waver is a weakness I can’t afford.”

“It’s not weakness,” Alistair says, his grip tightening on the chain of the amulet. “You’re a good leader, Marja. I never meant to say that you aren’t, even if we don’t always agree. But you don’t have to be right about everything all the time. You’re still just a person.”

“I’m not.” I’m a princess. I’m an Aeducan. Maybe those words aren’t strictly true anymore, but Marja still can’t shake the duty in her bones. “I’m a Grey Warden.”

“So am I,” Alistair points out. “It’s okay for other people to help, you know. It’s okay to admit somebody else might be right. Nobody’s going to think any less of you for that.”

"Wouldn't they? A leader is someone who is trusted to make the right choices." Marja glances back to Alistair, and finally asks the question that's been burning in her mind. “I admit I assumed leadership of our group rather quickly. Did you ever want to be the one leading us? Is that what this is all about?”

It’s a fair question, or so she thinks. But Alistair immediately shakes his head with vigor, not even the barest hint of interest in his face. “Maker, no. Terrible things happen when I lead, trust me. I’m just offering to help, and I do want to be listened to, but- lead? Make all those decisions on my own? No, not me.” The words come out in a rush until Alistair finally pauses, looking slightly abashed by his own vehement denial. “I guess that means I’m not really the model example of a Warden, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

Alistair rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “It’s like you said before, right? Making tough decisions is what a Warden does.” He frowns, and his voice goes soft. “I always thought I made a good Warden, that this was what I was meant to do. But then, I always had Duncan to follow. Without him…” He pauses a moment longer, and when he speaks again his voice is thick, as it always is when he speaks of Duncan. “It wasn’t fair of you to use his memory against me, you know.”

His words have a ringing of truth to them, and that’s the only thing that prevents Marja from immediately defending herself. She still doesn’t believe she was wrong; she stands by everything she said. But she can’t completely deny the unspoken accusation that she only brought up Duncan at all because she knew it would make Alistair falter.

“No,” Marja agrees. “It wasn’t fair. But none of this is fair, Alistair. To any of us.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” Alistair shakes his head. “And honestly, I’m just as mad at myself as I was at you. I wish I could be like Duncan. But I’m not. And now I’m just left wondering who I am, all over again.”

Strange as it seems, Marja knows that feeling all too well. But she doesn’t know what to say to make it go away. She just reaches out, hesitant but wanting to offer some measure of comfort, and lays a hand on her fellow Warden’s arm. “You’re Alistair.”

“And what does that mean?” Alistair asks with a helpless shrug. “A king’s bastard who was never supposed to exist? A Templar who hated being in the order? A Grey Warden who will never be as good as the ones who came before?”

“Don’t talk that way,” Marja says firmly. “Look…maybe you’re right, and I don’t have all the answers. But I do know Duncan cared about you. Not because you were a king’s bastard, or because of anything to do with Templars or Wardens. He just cared about you. And that’s worth something.”

When Alistair doesn’t respond, Marja quietly adds, “And I care about you, too. You’re my friend. For whatever that’s worth.”

A smile- small, uncertain, hesitant, but a smile all the same- flickers across Alistair’s face.

“…thanks. And thank you for this, too,” he adds, holding up the amulet. He pauses, then says in a lighter voice, “So, the Circle, then? If you think that’s the right call, I’ll go with it. No more arguing from me, I swear. It’s too exhausting.”

Marja breathes a sigh of relief, glad to have at last reached some sort of resolution. “Yes, the Circle. And if we don’t find anything to help Eamon, then we can look into those ashes.”

“Okay.” Alistair studies the amulet for a moment longer, a thoughtful frown on his lips. “You said you found this in Eamon’s office?”

“In his desk, yes. He must have fixed it for you.”

“He never mentioned it,” Alistair murmurs in wonder. “Never tried to give it back. Why do you think went through all this trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Marja says. Something about the image before her- this man clinging so tightly to some proof, any proof, that Eamon cared for him- leaves her feeling heavy. But she musters up as much optimistic determination as she can to say, “You can ask him yourself, when we wake him up.”

The smoke from the pyres reaches far above the lake, and it lingers in the sky as the Wardens begin the next stretch of their journey.

Two weeks to the Circle, Marja thinks with a sigh. Teagan had suggested they stop at villages along the way and try to requisition some horses- it seems all of Redcliffe’s stables have been emptied by either traveling knights or bloodthirsty demons, unfortunately- but even if they manage to acquire some, it will be a long trip.

As their group begins their journey down the Imperial Highway and Redcliffe fades into the background, Leliana sidles up to Marja with bright, shining eyes.

“So we are after the Urn of Sacred Ashes, are we?” she asks, not bothering to conceal her excitement.

“How did you even-” Marja begins to ask, but Leliana gives her a mysterious smirk, and Marja is reminded that secret information was once the woman’s specialty. Marja just shakes her head, frustrated but not unimpressed. “If you know that, I’m certain you also know we are going to the Circle first. As I have said many times now, the ashes are something of a last resort.”

“But such an opportunity!” Leliana exclaims. “To think, we could discover such a holy relic! You must realize how magnificent this would be!”

“We’ll do what we can.” Marja allows herself a small smile in the face of Leliana’s excitement. “And yes, if they are real, and if we can find them, it would be quite the achievement. But it’s not our first priority.”

Leliana doesn’t allow Marja’s restraint to dampen her own enthusiasm. “I assure you, the ashes are very real. You shall see.” She reaches out and clasps Marja’s hands in hers, halting their walk as she looks down earnestly at the Warden. “I told you- the Maker sent me to you for a reason. First my dream, and now this mission? Can you honestly believe it is all coincidence?”

A distant part of Marja’s mind reminds her that she should try to control this woman’s expectations, but another, louder part is focused wholly on Leliana's shining smile and the tight grip of her hands, rough and warm around Marja's.

Leliana seems to take her silence as agreement, and with a laugh she releases her grip, her thumb tracing over Marja's knuckles in the process. “We will find them. You’ll see," she repeats.

A call from another companion draws Leliana away, and Marja lingers behind, all too aware of the heat rising to her face. She barely even notices when Alistair appears at her side until he clears his throat and asks, “What was that?”

“That was…” Marja almost says nothing, but she wants to be honest and she’s not entirely certain that statement would be true. “That was a discussion I will not be having right now.”

“Oh, really?” Alistair raises an eyebrow. “Good thing we have a long walk ahead of us. Plenty of time to gossip, you know.”

Although Marja can feel her blush intensify, she has to admit it’s nice to have Alistair acting friendly again; at the very least, it certainly makes the prospect of the next few weeks of travel seem less daunting.

And if securing the support of the mages is anywhere near as complicated as securing Redcliffe, Marja will take all the cooperation she can get.

Chapter Text

Not that Alistair doesn’t trust the wisdom of his companions, but he does have to wonder if it’s a good idea to let the assassin cook dinner.

In his defense, he clearly isn’t the only one with misgivings (or as he calls it, a sense of self-preservation). It's taken a week and a half of Zevran offering his culinary services every night before Marja allows him to do so much as touch an onion. When she finally relents, it is with the caveat that Leliana must be at his side the whole time, observing his every movement as he prepares the food.

Zevran agrees happily and stirs the pot with a blithe smile, paying no mind to the suspicion around him.

“So paranoid, aren’t you?” he laughs, flashing an innocent smile as Leliana and Morrigan take turns inspecting the food he presents to them. Only once they declare it safe does Alistair relax enough to taste for himself.

“You can’t really blame us,” Alistair says around a bite of venison. Much as he hates to admit it, the dinner actually does taste pretty good. He waits a few minutes, half-expecting to fall victim to a sudden bout of stomach cramps. When nothing happens, he takes another bite.

“Assassination attempts do tend to leave people rather wary,” Marja points out drily, picking at her own meal with a slight frown.

“Ah, how long must you continue to bring that up?” Zevran shakes his head, the very picture of remorse. “Is it not enough that I wish to treat us all, myself included, to a worthy meal? Alas, I cannot do as much as I would like without the proper spices, but at least we shall be spared another night of tasteless Fereldan stew.”

“Hey now!” Alistair protests. “My stew isn’t that terrible, is it?”

Leliana makes a noise suspiciously similar to a snicker, which she covers by stuffing a bite of food into her mouth, any concerns about poison apparently forgotten.

“Far be it from me to say…” Zevran says, trailing off but not bothering to hide the humor in his voice.

Now recovered, Leliana gives Alistair a placating smile. “It is quite serviceable, Alistair, but you must admit-”

“Your food is bland and tasteless,” Sten says plainly. “But this fault does not lie wholly with you. Most of the food I’ve had in your country is of similar quality.”

“What? Come on, it’s not that bad.”

Sten considers this for a moment, and finally admits, “You do have…I do not know the word, but they were provided in Redcliffe. Baked things, like bread, but sweet and crumbly.”

Alistair stares at Sten, incredulous. “You don’t mean cookies?”

But Sten nods, serious as ever. “Yes. We do not have such things in my homeland. That should be remedied. And you should consider preparing these ‘cookies’ for future dinners, if you do not wish your cooking to be degraded.”

Alistair crosses his arms defensively- he knows he isn’t the best cook, but surely this is a bit much- and looks around the circle of companions in search of some support. Marja catches his eye, and after a brief but noticeable hesitation says, “Well, it’s a bit hard for me to judge surface food…you do occasionally use fruit, which are considered quite the delicacy in Orzammar…”

“But you turn them into mush,” Darvis interrupts. Marja shoots him a look, but he just shrugs, stuffing a forkful of Zevran’s dish into his mouth. “What? Look, I’m not complaining. Even fruity mush tastes better then boiled nug four times a week.”

Nug’s ears perk and he looks up at Darvis with a concerned whine. “Not you,” Darvis says, rolling his eyes and tossing the dog a piece of meat. Mollified, Nug sets to the meal with far more enthusiasm than he ever did for anything Alistair ever gave him.

Marja glances at Alistair with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry. I tried.”

She did, and Alistair appreciates that. It’s a relief to be on friendly terms with her again; arguing with her was exhausting, and he doesn’t know how Darvis does it all the time. Looking at them sitting next each other now, however, Alistair realizes that their bickering has become…well, maybe not light-hearted, but certainly less vicious than it once had been. Duncan always did say that combat had a way of bonding people. Alistair may once have doubted those words, but after months of killing darkspawn and demons and undead monsters with this motley group, he’s starting to see what Duncan meant. Maker, even Morrigan appears slightly less disgusted with everyone these days.

(Although that may have something to do with the fact that she and Darvis have been ‘spending time’ together almost every night, a fact which Alistair tries very hard not to think about lest he vomit up his probably-not-poisoned dinner.)

Zevran finally ceases his chuckling at Alistair’s expense, and he grins at the Warden in what is likely meant to be a cordial manner. “I do not intent to insult you, my friend. Even the traditional Antivan foods would suffer under these conditions. How Fereldans manage to grow anything at all is a miracle in itself; this land is so harsh, so cold. In Antiva, the air is warm, and the flowers are always in bloom. We have spices, we have wine, we have-”

“Assassins?” Darvis asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Every land has assassins,” Zevran replies, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m certain our lovely Orlesian lady can attest to that.”

Leliana blinks as she realizes the comment is directed at her, and she regards Zevran for a moment with an air of wary reservation. “Perhaps. But if we are to reminisce over our homelands, I prefer to remember the finer things Orlais has to offer.” The brittle look she’d given Zevran softens into a smile. “The music, the fashion- the beauty! For all its faults, Val Royeaux is a magnificent city.”

“So is Orzammar,” Marja says, a fond look in her eyes. “Nothing else I’ve seen has ever compared.”

Darvis snorts derisively. “Yeah. The dungeons and the slums of Orzammar are real fucking magnificent.”

Marja’s mouth thins in disapproval at Darvis’s contradiction, but rather than snap she simply resumes picking at her food in stony silence. Alistair is just about to make a joke to lighten the mood, but Zevran swoops in before he gets the chance.

“Ah, Orzammar, the city of lava and stone. Beautiful in its own way, to be sure, but still- how sad to never see sunlight, or to never breathe in the scent of the ocean. At least now we are all able to experience these things together, yes?”

“Exactly!” Alistair agrees, seizing upon the change of subject. “Or at least, we get the sun here. We’re a little far from the ocean, unfortunately. I’ve never been to the coast myself, so I can’t exactly comment on the smell, but I’ve heard it’s nice.”

“It would be preferable to our current location,” Sten agrees. “Most of Ferelden smells of wet dog.”

Alistair scowls at Sten- what’s so bad about dogs, anyway?- and Nug echoes the sentiment with an indignant bark. But the others barely notice, too caught up now in their own reminiscing. Zevran sighs wistfully and says, “Do you know what is odd? One of the things I miss most of all from Antiva is the leather. Good, fine Antivan leather- it has its own distinctive scent, and there is nothing like it in the world.”

Leliana stifles a giggle at his words, but Darvis’s laugh is loud and blunt. “Are you really going to tell us about your leather fetish while we’re eating?”

Marja rolls her eyes at the comment, but Alistair just furrows his brow, wondering if he missed something. “His what?”

Morrigan abruptly stands, leaving her dinner half-eaten by the fire. “If this is the type of scintillating conversation to be held tonight, then I do believe I shall retire early.” She turns on her heel and marches towards her tent, pausing only to glance over her shoulder and coyly add, “Although it does get quite cold in my tent at night. I may not manage to sleep at all.”

Darvis hastily gulps down his last bite of food and jumps to his feet. “Ah. I can help with that.”

A grin curls across Morrigan’s face, and she slips into the tent erected distantly from camp with Darvis following close behind.

Gross. Yeah, Alistair is going to try very hard to never think about that.

The rest of the dinner passes in relative peace, and afterwards Alistair volunteers to take first watch for the night. Leliana claims the watch after, and Marja quickly stammers out an offer to take it alongside her- something which Alistair very graciously does not tease her about, mostly because he’s simply grateful that those two are not nearly as nauseating as Darvis and Morrigan.

Somehow, Zevran ends up as Alistair’s watch partner. Alistair positions himself at the campfire with a touch of unease- just because the assassin makes a good meal doesn’t mean that Alistair has forgotten why he’s here. Zevran seems to pick up on Alistair’s hesitation, and he regards Alistair with a sort of bemused curiosity. “You are not still nervous, are you? Shall I point out that there has not been a single poisoning tonight?”

In spite of himself, Alistair laughs- just a little. “Not that I don’t appreciate the lack of poisonings, but it’s going to take a little more than that to prove yourself. You tried to kill us, after all. It takes a while to get over something like that.”

Zevran tilts his head, his usual playfulness suddenly fading in the silence and solitude of the night. “If you think so little of me, then why spare my life?”

In that moment of quiet, he looks less like the teasing, confident rogue that Alistair has come to know and more like the man Alistair first saw during the ambush- the one with a harsh sincerity to his face, the look in his eyes that dares Alistair to deliver the final blow.

He yielded, Alistair had told his friends, but that wasn’t strictly true. Zevran had never said those words, not on his own. But he had given Alistair that look, and…well, striking him down just wouldn’t have felt right.

“I don’t really know. I guess I thought you deserved a chance,” Alistair answers truthfully, looking away to hide his discomfort. Eventually, he musters up a smile and adds, “Not that we have to make it easy on you. The lack of poison is good start, but like I said- it will take a little more than that to win me over.”

Zevran gives a short nod, his lips lifting into an appraising smile. “Very well. I shall endeavor to make the best possible impression upon you, my friend.”

The hour is late, but Morrigan is no stranger to long nights. This is especially true now that she has made a habit of inviting Darvis into her tent, even if they do not always spend the time as she would expect.

Tonight, for example, they speak of magic as Morrigan sorts through her books, the pages of which are illuminated by the pale white light shining from her summoned wisp. The wisp is born of a simple spell, one Morrigan had learned before she’d turned seven, but it fascinates Darvis all the same. Even after weeks of such nightly activities, his gaze often travels up to stare at the casual display of magic as if he can scarcely believe his eyes.

Morrigan must admit- she had always harbored a small suspicion that Darvis’s previous interest in magic was at least partially fabricated for the purpose of impressing her. But rather than fade away upon the consummation of their relationship, Darvis’s interest has only grown. He listens intently to Morrigan’s explanations on spirits, schools of magic, and the intricate differences between true spells and the weaker enchantments used in places like his dwarven homeland. He has very little in the way of formal knowledge or education, but Morrigan cannot deny that he is an attentive listener.

He is attentive in other ways as well, and of course their evenings are not wholly dedicated to books and magic. Indeed, their lessons usually end with activities of an entirely different sort.

It is, all in all, quite a pleasing arrangement. Morrigan has enjoyed these nights they’ve shared together, and Darvis has stood by their original deal- he and Morrigan satisfy each other’s needs, and afterwards he quietly retires to his own tent. She has an inkling that he might stay the night with her, if she were to ask. But no; there is something about such a request that is too intimate for what they have, and the only time they have slept together in a literal sense was that first night in Redcliffe.

“So that shapeshifting thing you do- you can do that with anything?” Darvis asks. He’s stretched out on his back next to Morrigan as she sits with her grimoire open in her lap. “How does that even work? Can you only do animals?”

“I have never attempted to turn into another person,” Morrigan explains, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the very notion. “I see no point in it. As a bird, I can fly where my feet cannot reach; as a wolf, my senses are heightened beyond a human’s limitations. What does re-shaping myself into the image of another person gain me?”

“Well, to start, it’d be dead useful for sneaking and thieving.”

“Perhaps. But an animal can move unnoticed just as well. After all, you did not notice when I trailed after you and the other Warden recruits in the Korcari Wilds.”

Darvis blinks, a small frown twisting on his face as Morrigan’s words sink in. Morrigan doesn’t try to suppress her smirk when he finally sits up and gives her an incredulous look. “Wait, are you serious? I thought your whole ‘mysterious watcher’ thing back there was just a show to make us sweat.”

“Did you think I waited in the ruins all day for you to happen upon me?”

“And you were…what, one of those crow-things the whole time?” Darvis imitates a flapping motion with his hands, something akin to horror slowly dawning on his face.

Morrigan arches an eyebrow. “’Tis not so bad. The ability of flight is quite freeing.”

“Oh, no,” Darvis says, shaking his head emphatically. “The sun and sky and weather is all bad enough already, you can’t add flying to the list. Fucking unnatural, is what that is.”

“Unnatural, am I?” Morrigan asks, her irritation only slightly exaggerated.

“You? No. Birds? Fuck yes.”

“Oh? Shall I restrict myself to the form of a giant spider in the future, then?”

“You’d make a beautiful spider- so long as all eight legs stay on the ground where they belong.”

The response startles a laugh from Morrigan, her amusement chasing away the remnants of the offense. With anyone else, she may have clung to her annoyance, just to make her point. But it is difficult to maintain such displeasure with Darvis when he treats her truly dangerous magic with practical acceptance. He may be a singularly stubborn man who refuses to admit to appreciation of the surface world, but he is still far more sensible than anyone else she has met.

Even now, despite his overblown shudders, his eyes follow Morrigan’s hands as she adds a few notes to her grimoire. It is strange, the things she takes for granted which he finds so entrancing; it hadn’t even occurred to her at first to ask how Darvis knew to read at all, not until he’d revealed that writing was a skill he was never taught. Morrigan thinks back on all her years in the Wilds, with only the animals and her books and her mother for company, and she cannot conceive of a world in which she could not escape by burying herself in the notes and drawings of her grimoire.

Darvis, however, had treated the topic with his typical gruff indifference. “You don’t need stuff like that back home,” he’d said in response when Morrigan had finally asked. “I only know as much as I do because of Rica. Her job- well, there’s apparently lots of ways that Nobles like to be entertained. She got lessons in all sorts of ridiculous things- music and poetry and rot like that. She’d come home trying to keep it all straight, and insisted I help her practice memorizing the stuff in her books. Pretty sure she never actually needed my help- just wanted me to learn a little, too. I never thought I’d get much out of it, to be honest, but I guess it wasn’t all for nothing.”

That was all the information he’d given at the time, and Morrigan has not pressed further since. She appreciates the balance she and Darvis have achieved in their arrangement, and she is reluctant to upset their arrangement by prying into matters he does not wish to discuss.

Tonight, however, Morrigan has a topic on her mind which may stray into more personal territory- but it is something she must ask while she has the chance.

“Speaking of my magical practices,” she begins, “I believe I have mentioned before that the Circle considers these abilities to be dangerous, something which they must declare forbidden.”

“Yeah,” Darvis says, eying her with curiosity. “Why bring it up now?”

“It has occurred to me that if we must visit the Circle, we may have an opportunity that should be taken advantage of.” Morrigan thrums her fingers against the spine of her grimoire, thinking of all the notes and wisdom she has stored within its pages, and of all the things she still does not yet know. “My mother was once divested of a particular grimoire of her own by a most annoying Templar. It occurred long before I was born, but even today Flemeth speaks of the loss with great rage. There is no doubt this grimoire eventually ended up in the hands of those at the Circle…”

“And you’d like to swipe it from them,” Darvis finishes, nodding along. “You think they got it locked up somewhere?”

“If they did not destroy it completely.” Morrigan hopes fervently that this is not the case, but she knows how fond the fools in the Chantry are of wiping out any knowledge they find disturbing, no matter how valuable it may be. She forces nonchalance into her voice, not wanting to betray how very much she wants this book in her hands. “I cannot say for certain they have it, but surely there is no harm in looking.”

“What’s so special about this thing?” Darvis asks, and Morrigan cannot hold back a sharp laugh.

“This thing, as you so eloquently put it, is a book of spells- much like mine, but one which holds magical secrets Flemeth has learned throughout her long life. ‘Tis not the sort of thing the Circle would use, even if they had the means of deciphering it.” Morrigan allows herself a small smirk as she says, “I, however, would benefit greatly from acquiring this book. I know my way around the wards my mother would have placed on such a tome, and I know the language she would have written it in. This item could provide me with significant power and knowledge, so of course I wish to acquire it.”

“Alright. We’ll see what we can do,” Darvis says. Morrigan waits a moment for the inevitable price of such a favor- but none comes. He simply returns his gaze to the wisp, with no further mention made of the agreement he has offered with no price asked.

Perhaps that is not so unexpected, Morrigan reasons. After all, she and Darvis already have their arrangement, and Flemeth always did say that sex is an unfailing method of making men more agreeable. A simple transaction- yes, Morrigan decides firmly, that is how this task she has given Darvis can best be described. Not a gift, not kindness; merely an extension of their mutually beneficial relationship.

With that matter settled, Morrigan decides she has had enough of books for tonight. She sets her grimoire carefully to the side and moves to wrap her arms around Darvis, enjoying the grin that flickers across his face as he gathers her intentions. He catches her mouth with his, and Morrigan kisses him back fiercely, threading her fingers through his beard and pressing him to the floor of the tent. Above them, the wisp she had summoned dissolves away, bathing them in darkness.

Unfortunately, they do not get very far before Darvis tenses, and he pulls from Morrigan with a strange expression. Before Morrigan can question him, he gasps out, “Darkspawn. There’s darkspawn coming. I can sense them.” He shudders. “Shit, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. But, uh, we should-”

Morrigan is already readying herself, pulling her shawl over her shoulders and grabbing her staff. She tosses Darvis the armor he’d shed upon entering her tent, and he nods in gratitude before scrambling to put it on.

Another night, then, Morrigan thinks with disappointment, cursing the darkspawn for being so inconsiderate of her time.

“Mighty good timing you folks have- really, I can’t thank you enough. My boy and I would’ve been goners for sure if you hadn’t come along. The road’s just too dangerous for us these days, but what are we supposed to do? Gotta make a living somehow, you know. Of course, you have to be alive for that, so really, thank you again…”

Leliana smiles to herself as she listens to the man ramble his gratitude to the Wardens. Poor Alistair looks slightly bewildered by the merchant’s chattiness, but Marja is collected as always as she reassures him once again that they were simply doing their duty. Darvis, of course, has already slipped off, eager to avoid any unnecessary conversation with the dwarven merchant they’d rescued.

To tell the truth, none of their group had even realized the man was out here; the Wardens had simply sensed the presence of darkspawn, and subsequently readied themselves for trouble. Whether by chance or by providence, they’d arrived just in time to rescue the hapless merchants caught in the middle of a roving darkspawn horde.

Leliana is inclined to believe the Maker had a hand in their timely intervention. She finds validation in her faith when the merchant (who after many repeated sentiments of gratitude finally introduces himself as Bodahn, and his son as Sandal) quickly asks if he and his son can travel with them, providing supplies and use of his wagon in exchange for protection from the darkspawn. They agree, naturally; even Morrigan is not quite misanthropic enough to turn down such a proposition.

The witch does not, however, offer to help load the wagon, and it is only Leliana who lifts their heavier items into the cart as Bodahn continues to flood the Wardens with thanks. Leliana doesn’t terribly mind; her spirits are too high to be dampened by a little extra work. She is happy enough that they have been given this chance to help someone in such a straightforward manner, especially after their…bloodier dealings with Lady Isolde. For all that their actions in that matter were practical and justified, Leliana still wonders what the Maker must think of it all. Surely He understands they are merely doing what they must?

“Need some help?”

The question pulls Leliana out of her thoughts, and she smiles as she realizes that it is Marja who has made the offer.

“I certainly wouldn’t turn it down,” Leliana says. She hums a short, happy tune to herself as she finishes pushing a tarp onto the wagon, and adds, “This was quite a fortuitous event, no?”

“For all of us,” Marja agrees, glancing towards the merchant and his son. “In times like this, it’s impossible to save everyone…”

“…but those moments when you can save someone make all the grief worth it,” Leliana finishes in a soft voice. Marja nods, clearly pleased at Leliana’s understanding, and the two spend a few moments in companionable quiet as they continue loading the cart.

“Still,” Leliana cannot help but add, keeping her voice light, “it is a shame our watch was interrupted. Our talks together are so nice.”

Her words hardly count as flirting, but that scarcely matters; ever since their moment in the Redcliffe gardens, Leliana has noticed that the slightest compliment from her brings a faint blush to Marja’s cheeks. It’s quite adorable, honestly, especially for one who is normally so serious and eloquent.

It’s not the only thing that has changed since that night. Leliana has always noticed that Marja is attractive, of course; how could she not? She can practically hear the sonnets that would be written about her in Orlais, with her stormy grey eyes and regal bearing. But Marja is also so guarded, so controlled. For that short time in Redcliffe, however, the woman had shown Leliana a cautious, vulnerable sincerity, and Leliana cannot deny that she is intrigued by the prospect of seeing that side of her again.

And perhaps she is merely flattering herself, but Leliana thinks it quite likely that Marja would not grow so flustered at the smallest touch if she did not return the interest.

Leliana finally decides that she best show mercy to the tongue-tied dwarf, and so rather than wait for a response, she carries on as if she hasn’t noticed Marja’s flustered state. “Although perhaps it is more apt to say that I do quite a bit of talking and you listen. I do apologize for that; sometimes a minstrel cannot help herself.”

The statement coaxes a laugh from Marja, and she finds her voice once more. “No, I like listening to you talk. You…” she trails off, spends a moment searching for words, and eventually settles on, “…are very good at telling stories.”

Even this supposed attempt at returning Leliana’s flirtation has made the blush in Marja’s cheeks more pronounced, and she hurries to follow it up with something more casual. “And that salve you made has really helped to deal with the sun. I didn’t burn at all yesterday. Now I just have to figure out what to do about these…freckles.”

She scrunches her nose as she speaks, obviously displeased with the smattering of dots she’d discovered once her skin had finally stopped burning with every exposure to the sun. And Leliana can’t help it- the expression on her face is just so precious. “You don’t like them? Oh, but they are so cute!”

Marja’s eyes widen slightly, her composed mask falling away yet again. “Oh- that is, I-”

“Ah, you’ll get used to them, I wager,” Bodahn interrupts, carrying a sack of his own and hauling it onto the cart, apparently unaware that he has walked into the middle of a conversation. “It’s a big shift, isn’t it, coming up here the first time? I thought you might be in the same boat as us- no offense, but you don’t have the look of a surface dwarf about you.”

He nods at Marja with those words, and surprise colors her expression only to fade away just as quickly, replaced by a wry smile. “Oh, yes. It is quite the adjustment, isn’t it? I must admit, it’s a nice change of pace to find a cart that is actually built at a sensible height.”

“Aye, I had a man in Lothering who helped me with this one. Cost extra, but worth every penny. Never did make it back to that place after the mess at Ostagar, but I hope he got out okay.”

A chill races through Leliana’s blood, and the bag she’d been holding slips from her fingers. “Got out? What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Bodahn asks. The smile fades from his face, replaced by a wavering look that is far more somber. “Lothering is…well, it’s gone. The darkspawn got to it. I don’t think everyone had fled by the time they came, either. Word has it they swarmed the entire area. Heard some Chanters were going to head down south, maybe try to find survivors. I’m not holding out much hope, myself.”

Gone. Leliana knows she shouldn’t be surprised, and she’s seen worse than this before. That simple word should not be such a blow.

But it is. Faces flash in her mind- farmers, merchants, bakers, masons, all just trying to live their lives. Her fellow Sisters, the Revered Mother, the tiny chapel that had been her home for years. People she once befriended, taught, served. Gone.

“I’m sorry,” Bodahn says, “Did you know someone…?”

Leliana shakes herself and steps away, giving the man a fragile smile. “Do not worry for me. I just…need a moment.” Without another word, she turns away from the bearer of this horrible news and makes her retreat.

She cannot go very far- these are still darkspawn-infested lands, after all. But she can put a little distance between herself and the others, and once she has done that it is much easier to think- and more importantly, to pray. Leliana releases a deep sigh, reveling in the silence and the cool air of the night, and she turns her eyes upward to the stars.

Maker, watch over their souls. For those to who we could not provide our protection, provide your peace.

Her lonely reverie does not last long. Leliana hears Marja’a slow approach before she sees her, and she is grateful for the extra time to steady herself. When she is ready, she turns to greet Marja- but her words fall silent at the gentle expression on the other woman’s face.

There it is again, she thinks. That rare, unguarded sincerity, shining through as their eyes meet.

When Marja speaks, her voice is soft as the wind in the distance. “We can’t save everyone, remember? But…we’re saving who we can. And as hard as this is, it’s going to be worth it. We’re going to stop this Blight.”

Leliana releases a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you.” She is quiet for a moment, looking up at the stars above and thinking of all the people she knows whose souls have passed.

“It is odd,” she says, not taking her eyes from the starry sky. “Death used to be just another part of the great Game of politics I played in. Sometimes I forget that; sometimes, I want nothing more than to return to my old life in Val Royeaux, with all its beauty and song. Now, I believe I would give it all up forever if doing so would bring back one small Fereldan village.”

She can feel Marja watching her, but she is surprised all the same when the other woman moves even closer and takes her hand, giving it a hesitant yet comforting squeeze. She doesn’t say anything…but that’s okay. This quiet comfort is enough, for now.

Sten grows quiet as the days pass and the landscape softens around him. The steep cliffs and ledges that surrounded Redcliffe have given way now to gently rolling hills which disappear into the calm lake below, and the scene might be quite peaceful if not for the memories they carry.

The others don’t seem to notice. Perhaps Sten’s dark mood is imperceptible to them; their own self-focused chatter is enough to distract their attention, and that never ceases. This is especially true after they are joined by the small merchant, who supplies a steady stream of inane rumors and conversation as their group gradually makes its way over the hills toward the Tower of Saarebas. It is Marja who seems particularly eager to question the merchant, and despite his disinterest in the conversations, Sten finds this somewhat forgivable. Her home is surely no Par Vollen, but it is a home all the same.

In truth, it is not only this understanding which prevents Sten from complaining as the dwarves’ conversation continually turns to inconsequential matters. While before he had little regard for the Warden’s competence as a leader, he must admit that the situation in Redcliffe was deftly handled. It was not through any method that the Qun would approve of, and yet it seems to have been successful all the same. It seems the Wardens, odd as they are, are not quite as ineffectual and callow as they first seemed. With this in mind, it is not so grating as it once was to endure their strange bas chatter.

(And although Sten refuses to acknowledge this truth, the chatter is far preferable to sinking into the memories of what happened when he last traveled these lands.)

It is with these thoughts on his mind that Sten finds himself walking near the merchant’s slowly rolling wagon as their destination creeps ever closer. Marja sits next to the merchant on the cart, and the two are currently engaged in a conversation that seems to mainly involve reminiscing over various places in Orzammar. Darvis sits in the back with the merchant’s son, idly taking stock of supplies and occasionally allowing his eyes to dart back to Bodahn, as if trying to measure some invisible quality of the man.

“I must admit, I am surprised we didn’t come across each other back in the city,” Marja eventually says, but the merchant merely shrugs.

“Oh, I’ve been up here for a while now. Seems like a long time ago I was down there selling artifacts and such to Nobles.”

“Speaking of,” Darvis says, finally joining the conversation, his head tilted with interest, “what is your story? Not many dwarves just decide to make the jump surface-side.”

Marja gives Darvis one of her looks, her brows furrowing. Although Sten still thinks it would be far simpler for the Wardens to state what they mean, he has come to recognize what this look means, especially when leveled at Darvis. Typically, it is a request for silence.

“You don’t have to answer that,” she says, turning back to the merchant.

“I don’t mind,” Bodahn responds. “At this point, it’s all water under the bridge, as the surfacers would say.” He chuckles to himself as if this were something clever. “To tell a long story short, I’d made a successful business for myself selling rare artifacts and the like in Orzammar. Nobles loves those things- reminds them of the lost glory days, I suppose. Thing is, a lot of those artifacts- well, I had to acquire them from somewhere. Lost expeditions, Nobles that got it in their heads to explore the old thaigs, Warriors that wandered a bit too far from their armies and got themselves killed…well, their things were just going to waste down in the Deep Roads…”

“You were a looter and a thief,” Sten says plainly, cutting through the dwarve’s litany of unnecessary words. The merchant jumps slightly, and Sten must admit it does take some effort not to smirk. Far too many bas seem to take Sten’s lack of conversation as an excuse to forget his presence.

Marja looks from Sten to the merchant with narrowed eyes. “Is that true?”

The merchant casts a wary eye to Sten before turning back to the Warden. “I repurposed some items. I got found out, obviously. Some noblewoman recognized her brother’s things in my shop and had me arrested on the spot. Nobles are touchy like that, you know.”

Darvis’s answering laugh is sharp and loud. “Tell me about it.”

Sten notices how Marja’s mouth presses into a thin line at Darvis’s words, but she gives no reprimand. The merchant doesn’t appear to notice; his eyes are on Darvis, who tenses slightly under the observation. “Ah, yes. You would know, wouldn’t you?” He shrugs, and Sten notices that Darvis relaxes visibly as Bodahn returns to his story. “Anyway, it took a few bribes but I was able to make my way out of the city before they could decide what to do with me. I came to the surface and never looked back.”

Darvis grins, but Marja’s brow furrows further as she looks back into the cart. “Hold on- none of these supplies were stolen, were they?”

“No, not stolen!” The merchant insists. “Just…taken. There’s lots of…well, lots of battlefields these days. Lots of stuff that could be put to better use than laying in the dirt. You’d be surprised how many abandoned swords I’ve come across…”

Sten freezes in place.

The dwarves are all bickering- Marja’s control has finally broken and she cannot hold back her reprimands, and Darvis is making some sort of placating protest- but Sten barely hears it. His feet are too heavy to move, and the air around him suddenly seems much thinner. Dimly, the clanging of steel rings in his ears, and the screams of his companions mingle with the snarls of the creatures that surround them-

His hand clenches at his side, fingers closing around empty air.

The world comes back in a rush, and it only takes a few strides for Sten to catch up once more with the slow-moving cart. The dwarves are still talking, but he cuts through their words without care.

“Have you searched this area?”

His voices is harsh and demanding, and the merchant looks momentarily terrified- as he should, if he has done anything with Sten’s asala. “Not quite. I had planned on…”

He pauses under Sten’s glare, and Marja sighs. “You were planning on looting the area while we were busy with the Circle?”

“Lay off, Princess,” Darvis snaps. “What are you going to do with him, lock him up in the prison we don’t have? Throw all this stuff back in the mud and let is rust?” He turns his glower to Sten. “And why do you care, anyway?”

Sten grimaces. He owes these Wardens no answers, no matter how semi-competent they have proven themselves. Commanders they may be, but they are still bas, and they will not understand what this loss means to him. Even if they did, they cannot change the past.

“It is no concern of yours,” Sten says firmly, and he stalks away without another word.

The group arrive at Lake Calenhad as night is descending, and the decision is made to rest at the inn near the water before approaching the tower in the morning. The inn presents itself as a rather sleepy place, quiet and slow, and yet there is something in the air that makes Zevran uneasy.

Marja wears a stern expression as she speaks to the barkeep about rooms; Darvis had burst into laughter upon learning the name of the place, and she has been in a sour mood ever since. Zevran observes from a distance, allowing his gaze to drift across the other people who have found themselves in The Spoiled Princess. Nothing appears terribly out of place, yet goosebumps run down his arms- and Zevran knows by now to never doubt his instincts. Adopting a casual air, he leans a touch closer to Alistair, who is gazing out the window at the towering Circle stronghold in the distance.

“May I ask you to humor a few curious questions, my friend?”

Alistair starts a bit at his voice, shooting Zevran a suspicious glance. “Depends on the questions.”

Quite a few responses spring to Zevran’s mind, but he quite mercifully holds back. In this instance, Zevran is speaking of business rather than pleasure; teasing Alistair is quite fun, but Zevran doubts it will get him anywhere. For now, he has more pertinent concerns. “Is it common for a Templar to act as the lake’s ferryman?”

Alistair frowns and glances back out the window, where a man in full plate armor stands idly by a rowboat which looks comically small in comparison to the man’s stature. Zevran has to wonder at the wisdom of that much weight on a such a vessel; the mental image is somewhat amusing, but not at all practical.

“…No,” Alistair admits, “it’s not.”

“Interesting.” Zevran’s eyes flit over to the far corner of the inn, where a few symbols are etched into the wooden wall. “And is it common for agents of the Mages’ Collective to abandon their post?”

“The who?”

“You do not know? The Mages’ Collective- a somewhat secret organization of mages and those who are sympathetic to them. They do business under the table with most Circles, provide magical services the Chantry tends to frown upon-”

“The Carta smuggles lyrium up to them all the time,” Darvis adds, ambling over. His eyes linger on the symbols as well and Zevran grins, mildly impressed. Darvis throws a derisive look to Alistair and asks, “How do you of all people not know that?”

Alistair’s chin juts out defensively. “I was never actually a Templar.” He glances at Zevran. “And how do you know of it?”

“Any worthy assassin knows of all the so-called secret organizations,” Zevran answers breezily. “The Collective is not as deadly as the Crows, but they have their uses. They also turn their fair share of coin, which is why I find it so odd they should flee their post.”

“Yeah.” Darvis glances around the inn, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is weird.”

“…Maybe it’s the Blight?” Alistair suggests. “Lots of people have fled.”

Zevran tilts his head, his voice even and noncommittal as he answers. “Perhaps.”

“Real convincing,” Darvis snorts. “I’d have thought an assassin would be a better liar than that.”

“It is no lie- odd as these things are, we do not know yet what they mean,” Zevran replies. “I have merely learned that it is best to suspect the worst. But I suppose we will learn for ourselves tomorrow, one way or another.” He pauses and allows himself a smile. “It has been quite some time since I’ve been to a Circle, myself. I wonder if your Fereldan tower is much different from the Circle in Antiva.”

Alistair scoffs. “Don’t bother getting too excited. It’s really not that fun a place to visit.”

“No? So the tales of mages conducting rituals in which they shed their clothes and make love under the light of the moon are not true, then?” Zevran raises an eyebrow, taking wicked delight in the way Alistair turns crimson and very determinedly avoids his gaze. “Ah, my friend, I only tease! Tell me what it is really like, then. It is odd that one with all the training of a Templar should avoid the subject so diligently.”

“There’s no need to make me sound so dramatic.”

“He’s got a point,” Davis says. “You act like you hate it, but you do still do all your Templar-magic stuff.”

“It’s not magic, and I only use it when we’re about to be killed by a demon- which has happened at a concerning frequency recently, if you care to remember.” Alistair glances between Zevran and Darvis, and upon realizing that he cannot shake off their attention, adopts a light, lofty voice and declares, ”Besides, I never said I hated it. Have you seen the uniforms? Who could hate something so stylish?”

It is obviously another attempt at diversion, but Zevran cannot resist playing along. “Stylish? Is this questionable Fereldan taste striking once more? My friend, you really must travel more.”

“Again with the hatred of Ferelden?” Alistair asks, his show of fake offense thoroughly ruined by the laughter in his voice. “But look, I’m not speaking of the heavy plate they wear in public. In private, we had these wonderful purple and yellow tunics- much more comfortable, you see, and the beds don’t break when you jump on them during a pillow fight.”

Zevran waggles his eyebrows. “And you had many of these pillow fights?”

At that, Alistair’s nerve appears to waver. Flustered, he looks away from Zevran to frown at Darvis, who’s lost in a fit of snickering. “Oh, very mature. If you’re going to be that way, I’ll just tell the boring version.” Alistair pauses, shifting uncomfortably as his gaze once again finds the tower across the lake. “The Circle is- well, it’s quiet and dour and not any place a kid wants to be carted off to at ten years old. My pillow-fight story is much more preferable, whatever horrid jokes you two make about it.”

Darvis shrugs, clearly not impressed. “There are worse things than boring. I joined the Carta around that age, and I would’ve killed for some boring days.”

“I was bought by the Crows at seven.” Zevran leans casually against the wall as he talks, keeping his head turned to the window as he watches Alistair and Darvis from the corner of his eyes. He’s no fool; his position here is hardly secure. His childhood is hardly a pleasant topic of conversation, but if his sob story does anything to endear him to them, it’s all for the better.

Alistair’s eyes widen a touch, and he blurts, “Wait- is that actually true?” before wincing at his own straightforward question.

Oddly enough, Zevran feels no satisfaction at the evidence that his scheme has worked. Perhaps that look is too similar to the one Alistair gave him upon their first meeting in the battlefield, when the Wardens made the decision to consider themselves merciful.

Looking back, Zevran can’t quite articulate his reasons for allowing their mercy. It would have been easy enough to force their hand, and wasn’t that what he had wanted? He’d certainly thought it was, up until the moment the Warden’s sword was hanging over his head and he found himself struck by the sudden, powerful urge to live.

A part of him knows he is only delaying the inevitable. Eventually the Wardens will tire of his presence, or the Crows will finally catch up to him and make him pay for his failures. But those are problems for the Zevran of the future; the Zevran of the present has merely decided to see how long he can keep this game going. In service of that goal, he gives Alistair a charming smile and answers, “Of course- and for quite an impressive sum, I am told.”

“Shit,” Darvis says, eloquent as always. “Zev wins ‘worst childhood story’, I guess.”

Zevran chuckles. “I shall cherish this victory.”

Their conversation is interrupted as Marja calls them over, although Zevran spares one last look to the distant tower. He hopes his instincts are wrong; after the mess at Redcliffe, it would be nice to deal with something easy for a change. Incredibly unlikely, if past experiences are any indicator of the future, but nice all the same.

The roar of the demon echoes loudly through the long Circle halls, and Wynne knows it cannot be far behind them. She pushes herself to run faster, but her bones are old and aching and she cannot keep up with the younger mages who flee ahead of her.

Petra hangs back, noticing Wynne’s lagging, and offers the woman a helping hand.

“Come on, we’re almost to the dormitories. The doors aren’t much further. Just keep going, Wynne.”

We’re almost there, Wynne tells herself, and the thought fuels her to keep moving forward. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she reflects that she should not be pushing her body so hard, not at her age. Then again, women over seventy should probably not be doing battle with demons at all. She simply has no other choice.

“Go ahead of me, Petra,” she says between heavy breaths.

“What? Wynne-”

“Protect the apprentices.”

Wynne barely hears Petra’s shouts of protest as she turns back to face the demon barreling towards them. Gathering every last bit of mana she has, Wynne throws a forcefield against the creature, her hands shaking with the effort as she keeps it at bay.

“Wynne!”

Petra’s voice is high and frantic, but Wynne knows she will listen to her orders. She always was a good child, ever since she arrived at the Circle. Wynne was there to greet her, to teach her, to watch her grow up as she has for so many children over the years. If the last thing Wynne does is make sure Petra and her other charges reach the doors, then she will greet the Maker with smile.

The demon roars again, thrashing against Wynne’s magical shield. The strength of the mana at her fingers begins to fade, and that is the last thing Wynne remembers before she is thrown to the ground and everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

The Tower of Kinloch Hold is an impressive structure. It stands tall above Lake Calenhad, it’s smooth stone walls reaching up to dizzying heights as it’s reflection shimmers in the lake below. A cluster of arches and spires stretch up from the waters around the main tower, reaching a lower height but standing just as proudly in the light of the morning sun.

Indoors, however, with torchlights throwing shadows across the walls and Templars running about in disorganized chaos, impressive is the furthest word from Marja’s mind.

This underwhelming impression of the Templars is not improved by the terseness with which the Grey Wardens are received. It is insulting enough that she had to waste so much time coercing the single-minded Ser Carroll into taking the Wardens’ party across the lake in the first place; now, Knight-Commander Greagoir barely looks her in the face as he attempts to brush her off.

“We simply do not have time for this,” he says gruffly, stalking across the large entrance hall of the Circle. He pauses only to bark short orders to the other Templars, who scurry away like mice at his command. Many of the Templars appear to have been injured; a small, makeshift infirmary has been erected on one side of the hall, and even the warriors who still stand bear clear marks of recent battle. It is almost enough to elicit a pang of sympathy for Greagoir’s sake; his grizzled face is etched deep with lines of stress as he surveys his troops, and Marja can only assume that this is not the normal state of things at the Circle.

What the Knight-Commander does not seem to understand, however, is that nothing in this land is in its normal state, and the concerns of the Wardens undoubtedly supersede his own. Marja moves quickly to match Greagoir’s long strides and raises her voice so that she cannot be ignored, no matter how he tries.

“The Circle has an obligation to aid the Grey Wardens-”

“No, the mages have an obligation. And we- you there! Stop laying about and aid with the barricade!- And we are dealing with far more immediate problems.” Greagoir pauses to glare down at Marja. “In case that were not immediately obvious. Whatever you Wardens are looking for, you will not find it here.”

“Knight-Commander, what is going on here?” The question comes from Alistair, but he is not looking at Greagoir. “Why are the doors barred?”

Marja follows Alistair’s gaze to the large doorway at the far end of the large hall. Templars stand guard at the large door, securing sturdy locks, and Marja realizes that what she initially took for a simple entryway is in fact a sturdy, reinforced gate with an intricate locking system, not dissimilar to the type used in Orzammar at entrances to the Deep Roads. But while those doors had been constructed to keep the darkspawn out, these have clearly been installed to keep something in.

“Kinloch Hold is no longer under our control.” Greagoir confirms Marja’s thoughts in a heavy voice. “The tower halls are filled with demons and abominations.”

Marja can already sense the unease of her companions as they tense behind her- and she would be lying to say she does not share the feeling, not after the lengths they’ve just gone through to deal with one abomination.

“This is why we cut the tongues from our mages in Par Vollen,” Sten mutters darkly.

“You will do well to remember you are not in Par Vollen now,” Morrigan retorts, “And if you should try it here, you may find the mages will cut off something of yours in exchange.”

“I apologize for my comrades,” Marja says, cutting off the argument.

“Your oxman friend may have the right of it,” Greagoir grumbles, his wary gaze flickering to Sten. He sighs heavily and turns away, his armor creaking with the movement as he resumes his pacing. “Maker knows the Qunari would not have gotten themselves into this mess.”

“Be that as it may,” Marja continues, “We can all agree that the Circle owes us their aid.”

“As I have told you-”

“You have told us nothing.” Marja’s response is terse and hard, but she is tired of being interrupted and ignored, and she is almost beyond caring about whether she stays on this man’s good side- almost. But the Wardens cannot leave the Circle empty-handed, so she takes a breath to steady herself and in a calmer voice says, “Start at the beginning- where, exactly, did these demons and abominations come from?”

The answering pause is long enough that Marja is about to repeat the question when Greagoir finally shakes his head and admits, “We don’t know. We saw only the demons, hunting mages and Templars alike. By the time I was in the thick of it, I had already realized we could not defeat them. Our only choice was to retreat and keep the threat contained.”

“You didn’t stop them?” Alistair asks, and Marja can’t disagree with the shock bleeding through his voice. “But you’re Templars! This is exactly what Templars are trained for!”

“I will not be lectured by a child who never understood the purpose or importance of the Order to begin with,” Greagoir snaps, his eyes narrowed. “The abominations took us by surprise- we were prepared for one or two, not the horde which fell upon us. We did what we could, and we have provided ourselves a temporary measure of protection. Believe me- were it possible, I would fulfill my duties and raze this tower to the ground right now. Unfortunately, I have already lost enough Templars and I cannot risk any more. But rest assured, reinforcements have been sent for. We will see this threat ended.”

“And where are the mages in all this?” Darvis demands. “’Cause I sure don’t see any out here. What, did the demons kill them all before you lot could figure out what was going on? Or did you just throw them in there with the damn things to make your escape easier?”

“Enough!” Greagoir’s voice echoes through the hall. “What do you know of the risks we face here? Barring these doors required sacrifice of my Templars as well as the mages, and it was not a decision I made lightly. When the reinforcements arrive, we will take care of this once and for all, but in the meantime I am certain you can understand why I have little time for the endless demands of the Grey Wardens!”

As he speaks, Marja’s patience grows ever thinner. Alistair and Leliana both seem to agree, as they are already tripping over each other’s words of protest by the time Greagoir is done, but Marja waves at them for silence as she steps forward herself, her chin tilted up to meet the man’s eyes as best she can.

“I’m afraid I must beg your pardon, Knight-Commander. You see, many facets of the world outside of Orzammar are still unknown to me, and sadly this includes the workings of the Circle and the roles of those who are involved in it. I had previously been led to believe that it was the job of the Templars to act as guardians of the Circle and the mages within. I was told they were uniquely qualified to monitor the use of magic, and to eliminate any related threats. Was I mistaken?”

Greagoir’s jaw tightens. “As I said before, they took us by surprise-”

“Since I have arrived,” Marja continues, her tone taking on a hard edge, “I have observed that you were caught unawares by an entire horde of abominations, after which you abandoned your posts and locked your innocent charges in the tower with the monsters you are sworn to fight. Now you wait on reinforcements to come and rectify your failure, and in the meantime you have no idea how this situation happened in the first place. I ask again, Knight-Commander, was I misinformed of your order’s purpose? Or are you merely strikingly incompetent?”

Greagoir’s face turns an impressive shade of scarlet. He glares down at Marja for a long moment, his jaw visibly grinding. “I am doing what is needed for the safety of everyone,” he says through gritted teeth. “Whether or not you approve is not my concern.”

“What of the guiltless mages whom you’ve sentenced to death? Are they your concern?”

“They are already dead!” Greagoir snaps. “Nobody could survive what I’ve seen in these halls! And once the request for the Right of Annulment is approved, this will all be settled once and for all!”

The words mean nothing to Marja, but it is impossible to miss the shock and horror in Alistair’s answering gasp. “What?”

“What is he talking about?” Marja demands, looking between Alistair and Greagoir.

It is Greagoir who answers first, his voice steely and firm. “It is an authorization from the Chantry which gives Templars the right to neutralize all mages within a Circle. Completely.”

“He means he’s going to slaughter them all!”

Leliana shakes her head, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Surely things are not so dire! The Divine would only allow such a horrid thing if all hope were truly lost. There must be something more that can be done?”

“Do you not see where we are?” Greagoir motions to the room around them, with its groups of injured Templars and heavily barred doorway. “The mages are already dead. My highest priority now is dealing with the abominations that remain. There is no alternative.”

“But you don’t know they’re dead, do you?” Darvis points out. The vigor of his response is somewhat surprising, as Marja has become rather accustomed to his habit of hanging back in sullen silence on matters such as these. But right now his eyes are full of angry fire, and when his gaze flickers to Morrigan for a fraction of a second, Marja realizes why. “They’re mages. It’s not as if they’re defenseless in there!”

“We cannot take that chance,” Greagoir insists. “I would lay down my life, and the life of any mage, to protect the innocent folk of Ferelden. No abomination must cross this threshold. Do you understand?”

“Are the mages not innocent folk?” Marja asks pointedly.

For a moment, Greagoir’s eyes go hollow and something almost like regret passes over his expression. “Perhaps some are. Perhaps I am wrong. But there is too much at stake- and I cannot take that kind of chance.”

But it is too late for Marja to be moved by such sentiments; any sympathy she had for this man has dissolved completely. “So instead you give up,” she says, disdain clear in her tone. “Well, we come carrying unfortunate news for you- Ferelden is plagued by Blight, Teyrn Loghain is set on destroying his own country, and it is very likely that you will be left waiting for reinforcements far longer than you anticipated.”

She pauses, irritation flaring at the knowledge that they are left with yet another mess to clean up, but there is nothing else to be done about it. Marja knows what their next course of action must be. “It appears the Wardens will need to assist you with this problem.”

It takes a few more minutes of circular arguments with Greagoir to finalize the details of their deal; if nothing else, the man is stubborn in his convictions. Marja can almost respect that- however low her opinion of the Templars’ performance may be, he does take his duty seriously. But then she looks around the saferoom and realizes all over again that while a number of Templars have managed to stumble to safety, not a single mage has escaped the chaos in the tower, and her indignation sparks to life all over again.

By the time she and Greagoir have reached an agreement, her companions have already begun the task of preparing themselves for their mission. Darvis in particular has invited himself to the Templar’s meager store of supplies and is stuffing his bag with healing poultices and lyrium potions. For once, Marja doesn’t begrudge him the greediness; they will certainly need these items more than the Templars do.

“You know,” he says, when Marja comes to join him and the others, “it’s actually kind of fun to watch you harass someone else. Especially someone who deserves it.”

Marja doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll her eyes, so she settles on simply saying, “It’s not harassment, it’s negotiation.”

“If that makes you feel better, sure. Here, take these.” Darvis pushes a handful of lyrium bottles towards her, Alistair and Morrigan.

Morrigan is content enough to take the offering, but Alistair just looks confused. “Uh, you know I don’t actually use-”

“Yeah, but those will sell for a pretty price later and my bag is already full.”

“Brosca.”

“What? If the mages are all going to die, the Templars won’t need it, will they?”

“This is serious,” Marja says, but of course Darvis and Morrigan are less than impressed.

“A serious waste of our time, yes,” Morrigan sighs. Marja would have thought the witch would be more concerned about the endangerment of her fellow mages- but no, she speaks with a bored air, dismissive as ever.

“Oh, you say that about everything,” Alistair replies. “Can’t we do a single good thing without you complaining about it?”

“Take it easy, both of you,” Marja says, interrupting their inevitable argument. “We need to focus on this task. Dealing with Connor was tough enough, and that was just one demon. We don’t know just how bad it’s gotten in there.”

Morrigan scoffs, but Darvis’s face tightens slightly with a brief flash of concern. He glances at the Templars surrounding them, then back at Morrigan, and in a quiet tone says, “Speaking of…Morrigan, are you sure you wanna come with us? You could always go back and wait this out at the inn.”

Her eyes narrow at the question. “Why would I do such a thing? I may have no sympathy for these foolish caged birds, but I hardly wish to twiddle my thumbs in some backwater inn while the rest of you search the tower.”

“The Templars are already jumpy,” Darvis insists. “If they find out you’re- if they see you fighting, don’t you think they’ll try something?”

The question is a smart one, in Marja’s opinion, but Morrigan clearly does not appreciate Darvis’s considerations. “I am under the great Grey Wardens’ jurisdiction, am I not? If that does not sway these fools, then I shall simply kill them along with the abominations.”

“That’s not-”

“The Circle does not scare me, and I do not require coddling.”

“Fine,” Darvis says, lifting his hands in a sign of defeat. “It’s your own skin to risk, I guess.”

“It is indeed,” she says firmly in a tone the invites no further argument. She stalks off without another word, not even waiting for the Wardens to join her as she approaches the large door guarded by Templars.

Alistair clears his throat awkwardly, and Darvis’s head snaps back to glare at him and Marja. “And what do you want?”

“Nothing at all,” Alistair says quickly. “I’m certainly not getting in the middle of that. I can say with total honesty that it is much more pleasant to think about the dozens of demons we’re about to fight.”

It’s difficult, but Marja manages to hold back a smirk at Darvis’s expense. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Focus, Brosca. We have a job to do, and it won’t be easy.”

“We already dealt with Connor’s demon situation,” Darvis grumbles. “How much worse can this be?”

There are bodies on the other side of the door.

Nobody can claim they’re surprised. They came in here knowing what to expect. But that doesn’t lessen the heavy feeling in Darvis’s gut when he first catches sight of them, strewn carelessly about the long hallways in lifeless heaps. The bodies include Templars and mages alike, easily identifiable by heavy armor or long robes, all bearing signs of a brutal attack. Worst of all are the ones slumped against the wall right next to the large reinforced door, so close to safety but dead all the same.

Those doors close with a large, echoing thud behind him, and there’s a grim finality to the sound as it echoes through the twisting hallway. It’s too late to turn back now; Darvis can only follow behind his companions, daggers at the ready, and hope that this isn’t all for nothing.

The warriors take lead; Marja and Alistair’s expressions have hardened with resolve at the sight of the bodies, but Sten remains as unreadable as ever. Leliana pauses to bow her head and whisper a prayer before drawing her bow and taking position at the rear as Darvis, Morrigan, and Zevran cautiously fan out along the edges of their small group. Darvis is thankful once more that they’ve overruled Marja’s objections to bringing Zevran along- assassin or not, he’s happy for any additional blade between them and whatever caused all this death. Strangely enough, Morrigan is the only one who doesn’t seem very disturbed by all this; she strides along the hallways with defiant eyes and her head held high, barely sparing a glance to the carnage around her.

Circle is an appropriate name for this place; the hallway curves and spirals upward with the shape of the tower, and Darvis can’t shake the expectation that something is about to jump out at them every time they round a bend. Each time, he is left in anxious anticipation; whatever it was that killed the people here, it seems to have receded for now. All that remains are the bodies and long trails of dark blood. Nug sniffs at one of the trails and growls, his hackles raising immediately, and Darvis calls him back to his side with a low whistle.

He doesn’t like this quiet. It’s too eerie. Honestly, he’d rather whatever they’re hunting just jumped out now and got it over with. As it is, he just feels like something is watching them. There are far too many places for things to creep in this tower, especially with broken furniture and debris scattered haphazardly though the halls.

“Where are the survivors?” Marja asks. Her voice is hushed, but it still echoes through the halls a little too loudly.

Maybe there aren’t any, Darvis thinks. He hopes Greagoir is wrong as much as anybody, but so far…

Those worries are cut off by a bout of barking as Nug’s ears perk up and the hound bounds forward, yelping all the while.

“Well, he heard something,” Darvis mutters. He quickens his pace to follow after the dog, adding under his breath, “Hopefully not something that’s going to turn us into another smear on the wall.”

“Come no closer! I swear, I will strike you down where you stand!”

The words are punctuated by a flash of bright energy, gathered in the hands of an elderly woman who stands resolutely before the Wardens. Behind her, a bedraggled group of younger mages huddle together under the cover of a shimmering forcefield. Darvis tries to edge closer, searching for any hint of the sallow sickness Connor displayed when possessed, but a bolt of sizzling magic hits the ground in front of him before he can approach.

“I said, stay back!” The woman repeats, drawing her hands together for another spell.

“Shit, lady, we’re on your side!” Darvis yells back.

“We mean you no harm!” Marja adds. “We are Grey Wardens, and we’re here to help.”

“Grey Wardens?” The woman’s hands lower slightly, and the magic flickers away. Behind her, a few mages stand warily, the oldest of the group gripping staffs tightly as they watch the exchange. The younger mages stand further back, and Darvis is shocked by just how many there are. At least a dozen mages- children- are gathered here, with the youngest looking not a day over seven years old. They wear torn robes and tear-stained faces, and their eyes are wide and fearful as they take in the Wardens’ appearance.

This is the horrible threat Greagoir is so intent on exterminating?

“You are here about the Blight, I assume,” the leading mage says steadily. Her hands are no longer alight with magic, but her stance does not relax. “Why did the Templars let you in? They had the doors barred…”

“They were…”  Marja pauses, her gaze shifting to the children. “…waiting for reinforcements. We wanted to help before that was necessary.”

“Reinforcements,” the woman repeats, her voice grave. “I know what that means. Greagoir assumes we are all dead, does he?”

“But Wynne, how could he?” The question comes from one of the other mages, a woman who looks barely older than Darvis himself. “We were shouting for him…”

The woman- Wynne- looks away from the Wardens just long enough to lay a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, and her voice turns soft and cajoling. “Come now, Petra. Now is not the time.” She looks back to the Wardens, hardening once more. “As you can see, despite our circumstances, we have survived. But if the Templars invoke the Right of Annulment, we cannot stand against them.”

“They’d do that?” Darvis asks. “I know what Greagoir said, but- look at all these kids!”

“What about them concerns you?” Wynne demands, moving to stand protectively in front of her charges.

“Why shouldn’t they concern us? They’re here in the tower!”

“Why is that surprising? The tower is a place of learning. Young apprentices are always here.”

“But if the Templars knew-”

“It won’t matter, Darvis,” Alistair says quietly. “Not to Greagoir. The Templars are already trained to see apprentices as threats because they haven’t undergone their Harrowing yet. Their presence here won’t slow him down.”

“It won’t matter, because we will not allow them to invoke the Right,” Marja says firmly. “Wynne, I spoke with Greagoir- we are to clear the tower and bring Irving back alive. If Irving gives his word the tower is safe, Greagoir will call off the Right. There is hope still.” She waits a moment for her words to sink in, then adds, “And it would help us greatly in our mission if we knew what happened here.”

“Uldred happened.” Wynne spits the name like a curse. “One of the Senior Enchanters. We were both stationed at Ostagar, and we saw what happened to the king. I don’t know what Loghain promised him, but when we returned, Uldred tried to take over the Circle. Whatever he planned, something has obviously gone very wrong. I don’t know what became of him, or if he’s even still alive after all of this…but I will not let the tower fall to his pride and stupidity.” Wynne turns back to her charges, beckoning to the two eldest. “Petra, you and Kinnon stay here and protect the children until the Wardens and I return.”

Petra’s eyes go wide. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Yeah, what are you doing?” Darvis echoes.

“You are intending to clear this place of demons, aren’t you?” Wynne replies brusquely. “You need someone who knows the tower. I’m coming with you.”

“Wynne, are you sure? That blow you took…” Petra shakes her head. “Maybe I should come along.”

“No.” Wynne’s tone is firm. “You are needed here. Keep everyone safe and calm.”

Her charges still don’t seem happy, but they only give her resigned nods; Darvis gets the feeling they’re used to taking the lead from this woman. The feeling isn’t contradicted by the way Wynne strides off with authority, motioning for the Wardens to follow. “Come along, all of you. If we’re to save my home, we must move quickly.”

“Oh, I like her,” Leliana whispers, but Marja still doesn’t look convinced.

“Are you certain? We don’t want you to strain yourself-”

Wynne shoots a withering glance over her shoulder. “You can stop with that right now. I will protect my home and my students. Irving is not First Enchanter for nothing- I am certain he is alive. And Greagoir is not an unreasonable man- when Irving is back, he will have to listen to us.”

“Not unreasonable?” Darvis doesn’t even try to mask his doubt. “You sure about that?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Marja says. “We’ll make sure Greagoir keeps his word. If you’re truly up to the task, we’ll be grateful to have you. But if you’ve been injured, I assure you that we are fully capable of handling this on our own.

“Your confidence is refreshing, child, but do not let it blind you to your weakness.” Wynne’s words are kindly, but the affronted look that crosses Marja’s face at being called child nearly makes Darvis laugh out loud. “And do not worry for me- there is fight in these old bones yet.”

“And are you still convinced this is the wisest course of action?” Sten grumbles to Marja, and she sighs deeply.

“Sten, I am aware of your opinions on the matter…”

Darvis doesn’t see what the point of arguing with him about this is, and he quickly tunes out their conversation. His attention drifts instead to the group of mages, all in various degrees of distress. Luckily, the older mages singled out by Wynne seem to be keeping themselves together well enough, but not all of them are so composed. One woman sits by herself in the corner, rocking and whispering to herself. One of the children tries to approach her, speaking softly, but she pushes them back and hisses, “Stop it! We deserve this- we are being punished for our wickedness!”

“Keili, stop it!” Kinnon scolds as he ushers the now-crying child away, but the woman doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Andraste will cleanse us,” she whimpers to herself, resuming her praying position. “Andraste will cleanse us.”

They’re even more of a mess than we are, Darvis thinks, glancing back to where Marja and Sten are still arguing. He sighs, annoyed, and beckons Nug over.

“Hey, boy. You’re gonna stay here, okay?” The dog’s ears droop, but Darvis stands firm. “Stay here and keep an eye on these people. Especially the small ones. Any demons try to get in, you know what to do.”

Nug still looks slightly dejected, but he gives his tail a single wag and licks affirmatively at Darvis’s fingers.

“Good boy.”

“Hey.” Darvis looks up, surprised to see Petra watching him closely. She jerks her head towards Wynne and says, “Look after her, will you?”

Darvis frowns. “She seems like she can look after herself, can’t she?”

“Normally, I’d say yes.” Petra crosses her arms, her forehead etched with worry lines. “But when we were running from the demons, she got pretty hurt. I thought for sure she was…just take care of her, all right? She might not be able to handle another blow like that.”

Take care of Irving, take care of Wynne. Darvis sighs; the people they need to save are already piling up again, just like in Redcliffe. “We’ll do our best.”

Petra makes what Darvis can only guess is an attempt at a smile, but she really just looks like she’s about to cry. “Thank you.”

Thankfully, Kinnon calls Petra over for help before Darvis has to reply. He sighs again, running a hand along his face, and goes back to the others. Marja seems to have quelled Sten’s disagreements, and they all now stand in front of a large archway simmering with a shining blue energy.

“I made this barrier to keep us safe,” Wynne says. “I admit, I’m amazed it has held so long. It will take me a moment to dispel the enchantment.” She moves her hands in a series of elaborate gestures, and slowly, the light begins to dim.

Morrigan watches the proceedings with a dark expression. Darvis is reluctant to provoke her again so soon, but it’s not like he can just ignore her growing displeasure.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks.

“Look at them.” Morrigan voice drips with disdain, and her eyes flash back to the mage girl who continues to pray through her tears. “Pathetic excuses for mages, aren’t they? I am almost inclined to leave them to their deaths.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow, taken aback by Morrigan’s venom. “I thought you hated the Templars. Now you’re on their side?”

“Look at them,” she repeats, her voice almost a snarl. “Cowering and useless. Look at this place. All stone and iron bars. How could anyone allow themselves to be trapped in such a way?”

“Well, they take them young, don’t they?” Darvis averts his gaze as he speaks, looking instead at the stone walls that surround them. “If you’d had the bad luck to be born into this life, you wouldn’t question it, either.”

Morrigan’s hands tighten around the staff clutched in her hands, and her golden eyes burn furiously. “And what reason is that for me to show sympathy to their plight?”

“Shit, Morrigan, what do you want me to say?” Darvis has seen Morrigan’s pointed anger before, but never quite like this. She prickles defensively under his stare, and if it were anyone else he might say there was a flicker of uncertainty in the way she holds herself.

But even as the thought enters his head, Morrigan’s expression sharpens to convey nothing but cold contempt. “At the very least, I would die fighting before I allowed anyone to control me in such a way. Perhaps it is this Uldred who has the right of it.”

“I don’t know who has the ‘right of it’,” Darvis says, shaking his head. “But we’re not gonna let a bunch of kids get themselves eaten by demons or slaughtered by Templars.”

Whatever Morrigan is about to say in response is lost as a flash fills the room, and the magical barrier finally falls away under Wynne’s hands. She nods, satisfied, and calls back, “Be prepared. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk further in the tower.”

“Do not fear, my good lady,” Zevran replies, still in as good a mood as ever. “Our dear Wardens are very good at fending off attackers. I can speak with experience to that.”

Darvis glances to Morrigan and motions forward. “You still with us?”

Morrigan says nothing, but she picks up her staff and strides forward without complaint, which Darvis figures is as close to agreement as he’ll get right now.

Their group returns to its previous formation, this time with Wynne joining alongside Leliana in the rear. Her eyes linger upon Morrigan and the staff she bears, but despite her clear concern, she says nothing. Darvis takes care to move himself between them; whatever is going on with Morrigan right now, suspicion from a Circle mage won’t help.

Their journey takes them through a few more hallways, all eerily empty, before a large, tall room opens up around them. It takes a moment for Darvis to recognize the place for what it is- a library, full of shelves and tables and more books than he’s seen in his entire life.

It is also full of strange, hulking figures which lumber through the shadows. Darvis barely has enough time to wonder what exactly they are before the clang of Marja and Alistair’s metal armor draws their attention, and suddenly the Wardens are standing under the burning glare of what can only be a dozen angry demons.

Chapter Text

The demon roars in Marja’s face- a horrid, deafening sound, a sound accompanied by a foul smell and a glimpse of jagged black teeth. A sound which is swiftly cut short as the blade of her axe slices straight through the thing’s face.

“Behind you!”

Marja ducks just in time for Leliana’s arrow to go sailing over her head and into the burning form of another demon. The creature lurches back, hissing and sizzling as flames curl and bubble over its body. Another arrow follows the first, and then another, and finally the creature falls, melting and crumbling until it’s nothing but a pile of ash.

“Nice work,” Marja says, giving Leliana a brief, grateful smile, but the moment of victory is short-lived. Another roar echoes through the giant library, and Marja readies herself to enter the fray once more as she catches sight of the last remaining demons advancing on Alistair. His sword, like Marja’s axe, is coated in black from charred skin and tar-like blood- remnants of the demons they’ve already cut through.

Marja rushes to help Alistair finish off the horde, but before she can reach the fight a resounding crash echoes through the library, and the demons disappear under an avalanche of books and splintered wood. When the dust clears, Darvis stands over the toppled bookshelf with a surprised grin. “Huh. It worked.”

Marja relaxes her fighting stance, allowing her weapon to drop as she surveys the damage. “Destructive, but effective.”

“What, you want me to put them on a silver platter and tie ‘em up with a bow, Princess?”

“If you did, I wouldn’t complain. But I did say effective, didn’t I?” Marja points out, breezing past him to check on the others. The twisting bookshelves of the tower library are not ideal fighting conditions, but it appears their group has finally managed to flush all the creatures from the shadows. Piles of ash and scorch marks decorate the library now, the only signs left of the creatures that once infested the room.

“In any case, I’m afraid we’re past the point of silver platters,” Wynne says brusquely. Despite her words, she gives the ruined bookshelf a long, regretful look before releasing a sigh and turning away. “The damage is unfortunate, but we must do what is necessary. Demons are not to trifled with.”

Wynne remains serious and focused as she leads the Wardens on through the tower, steadily directing them through the stairways and circular halls. She sips from a small bottle of lyrium as she walks, but as far as Marja can tell the mage is suffering from neither injury nor exhaustion. She can only hope the worries of the other mages continue to be unfounded, for Wynne quickly proves herself invaluable. The Enchanter knows the quickest way to each staircase, as well as the locations of several useful supplies. She even provides a few healing spells as they go, soothing the burns Marja sustained on her arm from the rage demons. Her magic is cool and clean, and it leaves Marja’s skin smooth and healthy without any of the uncomfortable scratchiness which so often accompanies healing from Morrigan.

There had been a tense moment when Wynne tersely asked about the obvious apostate in their group, but Marja had pointed out that there were more pressing matters at hand. Wynne seems to have accepted that answer for the time being, although she is clearly not pleased. But that will be a problem for later, once they all make it out of this alive.

Thankfully, they manage to avoid further demon hordes as they ascend through the tower. A few lone monsters still roam the halls, but only alone or in pairs, and those are easily dispatched. Even so, an air of paranoia hangs over the group as they travel, a feeling not helped by the occasional discovery of more wreckage and bloodstains. Whenever they walk in silence for more than a few minutes Alistair is quick to try and distract from the eerie quiet.

“So, which is worse- demons or darkspawn?”

Marja gives the question careful consideration. “I suppose demons are cleaner when they die. And we don’t have to worry about any of our non-Wardens becoming tainted.”

“True,” Alistair says, rubbing his chin. “But I have to say, there’s something much more satisfying about getting rid of darkspawn.”

“Spoken like a true Warden,” Wynne interjects, giving Alistair a measuring look. “But you fight the demons with the training of a Templar.”

“…Yeah, I guess I do,” Alistair answers, a look of alarm crossing his face. He glances at Marja and drops his voice to a whisper. “Mages. Somehow, they always know.”

“And we hear everything, too, young man,” Wynne says loudly. Alistair turns red and begins stuttering out an apology, but Wynne just gives him the ghost of a smile as she says, “Not that I hold it against you- Maker knows that Templar skills are useful right now, and I’m certain there’s a story to go along with them. You have many stories, I’d wager, judging by the makeup of your group. I am grateful for your arrival, but you are certainly not what I would have expected from a group of Grey Wardens.”

“You’re not wrong,” Marja admits. “But trust me, we know what we're doing. We won’t let you down.”

“Will you be quiet?” Darvis asks, his own voice low and cautious.

“It’s already too quiet,” Alistair says blithely. “It’s eerie. Reminds me of the monastery I had to go to for training. You know, sometimes I’d scream in the middle of the night just to break the silence. And for the priceless look on the teachers’ faces when they ran to check on me.”

Leliana glances at Alistair with a look of confusion. “You did what?”

“Come on, don’t tell me you never wanted to do the same at the Chantry.”

“Of course not! The Chantry was peaceful-”

“I said shut up!” Darvis hisses in a whisper. “Do you hear that?”

Leliana gives him a disapproving frown, but Marja motions for her to stop as she listens close. The sound is faint at first, but as the Wardens carefully edge down the hallway the voices become clearer- two people, having a hushed but fervent argument in one of the rooms up ahead.

“You’re not going to get out of here on your own! We need to get back to Uldred-”

“Uldred’s completely lost his mind. I didn’t do all this just to be killed by him instead of the Templars.”

“But you can’t get out of here on your own!” Footsteps echo through the hall as the speaker begins pacing. “Maybe if we surrender to the Templars...if we beg the Chantry for forgiveness…”

“They’ll kill you all the same, Vera. Now either come with me or get out of my way!”

Alistair raises his sword and makes to move forward, but Marja motions for him to stop, bringing a finger to her lips to indicate silence. These people obviously know more about what happened to the tower; she wants to catch them by surprise. Alistair doesn’t seem to completely understand her intent, but he holds back all the same. Darvis, however, moves forward, much more silent in his leather armor than Alistair in his chainmail. He pauses at the doorway to give Marja a questioning glance, and to her surprise he sends her a silent sign.

Sneak attack?

Marja raises an eyebrow. Most Warriors and Nobles learn the signing language of the Silent Sisters, so as to better work alongside the order- she’d never considered that Darvis might know it as well. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later, but for now she just nods and signs back, Question them, if you can.

Darvis gives her a quick nod and motions for Zevran to come with him. They move silently together, pressing against either side of the archway. They wait together for a few tense moments, listening as the mages continue to argue, and then in one quick motion Darvis darts into the room, Zevran close at his heels, both with daggers drawn.

There is barely enough time for one of the mages to shout, “Wait, someone’s coming!” before they strike.

Marja rushes in after them, ready to provide backup, just in time for a bolt of electricity to fly over her head. The mage who fired the spell had been aiming for Zevran, but he ducks and weaves, easily dodging her frantic attacks, and before she can change tactics, he slips behind her and brings his dagger to her throat. She freezes in place, eyes wide and furious as she glares at the newcomers.

The mage facing Darvis has less resolve. As soon as he corners her, knives out and ready, she falls to her knees.

“Please, let us live!” Her desperate voice echoes through the room. “We’ll surrender, we’ll repent, but please don’t kill us. Not like this. This was never supposed to happen.”

“We’re not planning on killing you.” Darvis says as he glances at Marja. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Just answer our questions,” Marja elaborates, turning her focus to the crying mage. The dark-haired woman’s robes are stained with dried blood, and her face is ashen with fear as Marja approaches. “What was never supposed to happen?”

“The…the demons. We weren’t supposed to let them do this. We were just trying to free ourselves. We were supposed to be fighting back against the Chantry. Uldred said…he said Loghain would grant us freedom from the Circle if we supported him. He said he would take control back from the Templars, but…now he doesn’t even seem to have control of himself.”

“Vera,” the other mage says, her voice low and insistent.

“There’s no point in denying it now, Ros, we should just tell them-”

Unlike Vera, the other mage’s gaze betrays no hint of fear, even with Zevran’s dagger leveled at her neck. She’s obviously been through a fight of her own; her robes are just as blood-stained as Vera’s, her long sandy hair is a tangled mess, and her eyes are rimmed with red as she glares at them all. “Vera,” she repeats. “Run.”

The mage reaches for the dagger at her throat, and Marja understands her intentions a moment too late. Her fingers close around the blade, and as the blood flows down her hand a wave of force is sent through the room, knocking Marja and her companions off their feet. Through the haze of confusion, Marja can see the mages pull away from Zevran and Darvis’s prone forms. Vera takes the opportunity to run, but their attacker stays, flames gathering in her hands.

“Alistair!” Marja calls, but Alistair is already there, his sword held aloft as he dispels the magic in the room.

The fire in the mage’s hands fizzles out, but she still has blood magic. Her technique is far different from Jowan, who had seemed apologetic even as he cast his maleficar spells. This woman is relentless, and her next wave of force manages to send Alistair flying back across the room. Marja tries to rise to his aid, but her legs are stiff and unmoving, and she is fixed to the floor-

But then Wynne lifts her staff, and the room is filled with a sudden blinding light. When it fades, everyone’s wounds have healed over- including the blood mage’s. She clasps at her hand, but blood no longer flows, and when she looks up to see the array of weapons pointed directly at her, she finally seems to recognize defeat.

“Let’s not do that again,” Darvis growls, but the woman ignores him. Her eyes focus instead on the Enchanter in front of her, and the corners of her mouth raise in sarcastic, taunting smile.

“Are you going to kill me, Wynne?”

Wynne looks stricken at the question, but she doesn’t lower the staff pointed squarely at the girl’s chest. “I wish I didn’t have to, Rosalind. But you know this is wrong. Blood magic is forbidden for a reason!”

“It’s not the blood magic that matters! I would have fought with lightning and fire and daggers and swords, if I could! We deserve to be free, don’t you believe that?” Rosalind makes to take a step towards Wynne, but Marja brandishes her axe, stopping her in her tracks. The mage scowls, but apparently judges the blade too large to risk her blood magic trick again.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she says, glaring at Marja. “You don’t know what’s like- to be always watched by the Templars, to have their threats hanging over you every second of the day.”

“The ends do not always justify the means,” Wynne says. “I would think that you, of all people, should know this.”

Rosalind’s eyes flash as her attention turns once more to the Enchanter. “And I would think you, of all people, would understand why I’m angry!”

“This is not the way!”

“What-” Marja tries to ask, but in their heated argument the two mages seem to have forgotten the presence of the Wardens completely.

“What other way is there?” Rosalind demands. “You’re Andrastian- tell me, when Andraste needed to fight for her beliefs, did she write a strongly worded letter? Or did she wage war?!”

“Do you truly think war is what Shay would have wanted?”

Rosalind flinches, as if struck by the words. For a brief moment the anger seems to leave her, and her voice is cold and hoarse as she answers, “Well, they’re not here to protest, are they?”

“Wynne,” Marja says, officially tired of this cryptic conversation. “Care to explain what you’re talking about?”

Wynne glances down at her, and with a soft sigh explains, “This is Rosalind Amell- one of my former students. Although it seems Uldred has taught her far more than I have.”

“Yeah, well, at least Uldred was willing to do something other than roll over and let the Templars have their way.” Rosalind crosses her arms, and her shoulders slump as she catches sight of the bloodstains on her sleeves. “But Vera was right about one thing- this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. We were ready to fight the Templars, but we weren’t supposed to hurt anyone else. Then Uldred…he lost control. Something happened to him and now he’s…he’s wrong.”

“He’s possessed, most likely,” Wynne says. “As often happens to blood mages. He signed his own death warrant the moment he turned to such dark magic.”

Morrigan scoffs, and Marja notices for the first time that she is the only one whose weapon is not trained on the blood mage. Rather, she stands to the side, regarding the proceeding with cool disinterest. “Dark magic,” she sneers. “And you wonder why you are so easily corralled by the likes of the Chantry. You’re all fools, but at least this one-” she jerks her head towards Rosalind- “has something of spine.”

“What she has is a temper, and a great lack of wisdom,” Wynne says sadly. “But still…Rosalind, I never thought you would do something like this. Whatever you were planning…you know that Shay is long gone by now.”

“So then what did I have to lose? All I could do was try and make the Chantry see what they’re doing to us.” Rosalind casts a glance to the Wardens and adds, “But I guess I signed my own death warrant, as well.”

“We’re here to save the Circle,” Marja says. She does feel for this woman…but she also feels for the other mages who have been caught in her crossfire, and the Wardens cannot afford to lose focus of their actual goal. “That means taking down the people who have put it in danger, and it means we can’t allow blood mages to live.”

Rosalind runs a hand through her tangled hair. “I- I could take you to Uldred. I could help you stop him. Maybe you’ll still kill me anyway when it’s all said and done, but…” she trails off, and closes her eyes. “I only wanted to hurt the Templars, you know. But now Uldred is hurting people who don’t deserve it, and I think he needs to die just as much as Greagoir does. I can help you do that.”

Her words give Marja pause. They shouldn’t. This is a blood mage on the brink of death, surely saying whatever is needed to save herself. But oddly enough, she still doesn’t look afraid. She merely waits expectantly for an answer, and in spite of herself, Marja is already mentally running through the advantages of having one of Uldred’s own blood mages on their side.

Alistair notices her hesitation. “Working with maleficarum?” he asks incredulously, and the question makes Darvis snort.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Maybe, but this seems a particularly bad time for it, don’t you think?”

“We cannot kill her if she wishes to atone, can we?” Leliana asks, going so far as to lower her bow.

“She is a blood mage,” Wynne says gravely.

“But she is repentant! If she asks the Circle and the Chantry for forgiveness-”

“The Chantry?” Alistair shakes his head. “Leliana, the Chantry won’t care how sorry she is- they’d sooner drive a sword of mercy through her heart than let a blood mage live.”

“And I’d rather take the sword than grovel for forgiveness from the Chantry,” Rosalind says bluntly. “I said I didn’t mean to hurt the innocent mages here. But don’t get me wrong, I’d still burn the Chantry to the ground given half the chance.”

“You’re really not making the best case for yourself here,” Marja says drily, even as Morrigan chuckles at her words.

“I like her, for whatever that is worth,” Zevran says quietly. His daggers, still stained with the mage’s blood, remain pointed in her direction even as he regards her with a smile. “And far be it from me to speak of such virtues, but a little mercy can be a good thing, yes?”

Alistair mutters something under his breath about pots and kettles and assassins. Marja, however, is doing her best to ignore the bantering of her companions- including Wynne and her disapproving frown- as she considers her options. She’s about to decide that this is just too much of a risk when Leliana steps to her side, her eyes soft and pleading. “Please- let us give her a second chance.”

Marja wishes she could say those eyes had no effect on her decision, but she knows that would be lie. She glances away from Leliana quickly, hoping that her weakness isn’t as obvious to everyone else as it is to herself.

“Fine. Where is Uldred?”

Rosalind raises her eyebrows, genuine surprise coloring her expression, but all she says is “He’s in the Harrowing chamber. Follow me.”

She takes a step toward the arched door only to find herself barred by Sten’s greatsword. She stops and glares up at him, but he doesn’t move aside until Marja says, “Sten, stand down.”

Sten’s ever-present scowl deepens, but he does as ordered. He watches Rosalind pass, obviously displeased, and mutters under his breath, “This is a mistake.”

Marja sighs deeply and rubs her temples. “Sten, stop pouting. Alistair, keep your eyes on the blood mage. Remember, our job here is to stop Uldred and save Irving. Everything else will be for the Circle to sort out afterwards.”

The blood mage doesn’t make any trouble as they move through the tower, although that hardly makes Marja feel any calmer. Wynne seems to share her opinion; she keeps an icy eye on the younger mage, her silence speaking volumes.

Her stern countenance does not break until they pass through a large open room, occupied by a lone mage who sits quietly at a desk. Instinctively, Marja readies herself for combat once more, but Wynne steps forward easily and without hesitation.

“Owain? What in the world are you doing here?”

The man rises to greet her, and despite the chaos of his surroundings he answers her worrying questions in an even, unhurried tone. “I was attending to my work in the stockroom when the attack began. I was trying to tidy up, but there was little I could do. I apologize for the mess.”

“You’re joking, right?” Darvis asks. “Or have you not noticed that everything is kind of going to shit right now? Why aren’t you trying to get out of here?”

“I tried to leave when things got quiet,” Owain says. “That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to work.”

“You should have said something!” Wynne admonishes. She waves a gentle hand over a few bruises the man has sustained, tutting over him all the while. Her hands pause for a moment over the gleaming tattoo on his forehead before she sighs and steps away. “I would have opened the door for you.”

“The stockroom is familiar. I prefer to be here.”

Marja frowns, casting a furtive glance at Alistair. Neither he nor Wynne seem troubled by this man’s overly calm demeanor, but he is unlike any other surfacer Marja has met. One thing is clear enough, at least; he’s not a blood mage, and he’s certainly not hostile. Marja glances down the hallway they’ve just cleared and says, “It seems safe enough, for now. We got rid of most of the demons. But you should probably join the others, just in case.”

“I would prefer not to die,” Owain allows with a slight nod. “I would prefer even more that the tower returned to the way it was. I do hope Niall succeeds in saving us all.”

“Niall?” Marja glances at Wynne.

“One of the other Enchanters,” she explains, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, save us all? What was he trying to do?”

“I do not know, but he came here with several others and took the Litany of Adralla.”

The words mean absolutely nothing to Marja, but Wynne gasps softly, her face lifting in a smile. “Of course. Oh, Niall, you brilliant lad.”

“He’s Tranquil.”

Darvis starts and looks up at Rosalind. She’s staring not at him but at Owain, who’s deep in conversation with Wynne and Marja. Apparently, this Niall fellow had some sort of plan to guard against a blood mage’s mind domination. Darvis wishes Niall could have worked a little faster- it would have been nice to arrive somewhere and find all the problems already solved for once. But a plan is at least more than what the Templars offered up, so it’ll have to do.

Rosalind, however, doesn’t seem to care much for this discovery. She stares at Owain with her brow furrowed and lips set in a deep frown. “I know you were wondering. Why he’s like that, I mean. He’s Tranquil.”

She’s not entirely wrong. Morrigan has told Darvis about the Tranquil, but her descriptions hadn’t made much sense until now. The man’s tattoo seems to stand out much more brightly than it should, and Darvis suppresses a shiver. At least his brand doesn’t come with some sort of personality-wiping curse.

“It almost happened to a couple of friends of mine,” Rosalind continues, still staring at Owain as if she could melt the brand off with her glare.

“Almost?”

“One of them escaped. Doesn’t happen very often- at least, not for long. The Templars always drag you back in the end. The other…they weren’t so lucky. They got sent to Aeonar. Irving said it was a lighter sentence, but...Maker's balls, it's still Aeonar. Nobody ever comes back from that prison." She's quiet for a moment, but Darvis can see a storm brewing in her eyes.

"The worst part of it all is...I thought they were safe. They were a prodigy, everyone said so, one of the ‘most promising mages of their age’. They weren’t like me- they never got in trouble, never did anything wrong. The only rule they ever broke was to help Jowan, and for all I know they could be dead because of it, and Greagoir has the nerve to call that justice!” Her voice grows in volume as she speaks, and her fists clench at her sides. Darvis notices how her fingernails dig into her skin, adding faint red marks alongside the other cuts and scars.

Rosalind catches him staring, and with a scowl she stuffs her hands into the sleeves of her robes. “All I’m saying is, you can’t really blame me. You’d lose it, too, locked up in here while all your friends either get sent to their death or just...disappear on you.”

And then the pieces finally click together. “Wait- oh, fuck, you’re Jowan’s ‘Ros’, aren’t you?”

Rosalind’s eyes widen, and her anger turns to desperate shock as she grabs at Daris's arm. “You know Jowan?! How?! Is he okay?!”

“He…” Darvis trails off, wondering how he can possibly explain to this woman what her friend has been up to since his escape. He decides that they probably don’t have to get into all of it right now, and just settles on, “He’s alive. Everything else is a long story. But he did want to know if you were okay. You and Shay.”

Rosalind laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “I’d like to know if Shay’s okay, too. But at least Jowan’s alive. That’s something.”

“He didn’t actually want me to tell you about him. Just wanted us to check on you.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him. Asshole." The mage releases her grip on Darvis and shakes her head. "It was supposed to be me, you know?”

"What do you mean?"

“I was supposed to help Jowan escape. But he and Shay went off without me, the idiots. If I'd been there...but I guess that doesn't matter now. The Circle is probably just going to make me Tranquil, anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Darvis says. “This Uldred guy might kill us all before that happens.”

Rosalind snorts. “Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

“Just a different way of looking at things.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Rosalind shakes her head again, still wearing a wry smile. “Well, it looks like we’ve at least got a chance of stopping Uldred now, thanks to Niall. I should stop wasting your time with my reminiscing and see if we can track down this Litany.”

“What the fuck is a Litany, anyway?” Darvis asks, and Rosalind laughs.

The Wardens split up to search the tower, hoping to find Niall and his Litany somewhere in the maze of offices and classrooms. Darvis heads in one direction with Alistair, Rosalind, and Wynne, while Marja drags Sten in the other with Zevran and Morrigan trailing behind. Before she leaves, Morrigan leans down to Darvis and whispers, “Remember- look for that grimoire.”

He gives her a nod, but to be honest, he’s not holding out much hope; so far, most of what they’ve come across are demons and abominations. They do manage to find a few other mages hiding among the wreckage, and Wynne gives them soothing words of comfort before sending them to huddle in the safe room downstairs. She’s attempting to coax one particularly frightened mage out of his hiding place in a wardrobe when Rosalind rolls her eyes and walks away, clearly bored of the conversation. She stops suddenly in front of one of the vacant rooms, and look of defiance crosses her face before she storms in.

It's probably not a great idea to let the blood mage run rampant on her own, so Darvis sighs and motions for Alistair to come along as he follows after her.

“Looking for evil blood secrets?” Darvis calls as they walk in to see Rosalind struggling with the locked drawers on a large desk. “You’re, uh, not very good at it. Need some help?”

Rosalind huffs and summons a small ball of fire in her palm. Darvis has a dagger out and ready before he realizes she’s only using it against the desk, burning and warping the wooden drawer until it finally comes loose.

“I think I’ve got it handled, but thanks.”

“Rosalind Amell, what are you doing?!”

Rosalind barely looks up from her search as Wynne storms into the room. “Just trying to help, Wynne. You don’t think Irving might have some information about the Litany?”

“That does not give you liberty to destroy his desk!”

The mages continue their arguing, and Darvis decides it’s best to let Alistair be the one to try and mediate- he’s the one who stands a better chance against a fireball aimed at his face. Meanwhile, Darvis circles around the room, studying the many shelves and chest.

Personally, he thinks Rosalind has the right idea. Just the thought of the valuable the stuff a First Enchanter might keep lying around makes Darvis’s fingers twitch. One chest with a noticeably thicker lock catches his eye, and he busies himself with picking it apart as the mages continue to pick at each other amid Alistair’s attempts at peace-keeping.

“Honestly Rosalind, it’s as if this is all a game to you.”

“Why don’t we all just-”

“Oh, please. Is a messed-up desk really your biggest worry right now? I’m just looking.”

“Okay, but maybe-”

“What in the world do you think you will find? I assure you, Irving wouldn’t be keeping a copy of the Litany locked in his desk.”

The loud clunk of a drawer slamming closed echoes through the room, and Darvis glances away from his work to see Rosalind searching intently through the next set of drawers. Her mouth is set in a determined frown as she pulls out a pile of letters and begins rifling through them.

Wynne is quiet for a moment, then says in a much softer voice, “There has been no word of Shay. I would have told you. Don’t you trust me at least that much?”

The lock finally gives way beneath Darvis’s hands, and he turns his attention back to the chest with a grin. He doesn’t know what all these amulets and rings do, but they’re definitely valuable- and damn, how many lyrium potions does one man need? At the very bottom of the chest, however, lies something much more interesting than the lyrium. The thick, leather-bound book is out-of-place here, but as Darvis carefully pries open the cover, he recognizes the symbols inscribed on the pages.

The grimoire.

He sneaks a glance back to the middle of the room, where the others are still gathered around Irving’s desk, and quietly adds the book to the stash in his bag. Morrigan should be pleased with this; it might even lift her out of the dark mood that’s been stuck in ever since reaching the Circle.

“Are you lot ready?” he calls once the book is safely stowed away. “I don’t think that desk can take much more.”

Rosalind doesn’t respond; she’s staring at one of the papers she’s found, her face paling as she reads. Wynne reaches over to take the paper but Rosalind jerks away, holding the paper aloft.

“’The environment of the tower is such that certain modes of thought are encouraged’- Did you know about this?!” She glares at Wynne, but the Enchanter only looks confused. Rosalind growls and thrusts the papers in her hands. “Uldred gave Jowan the books. He was the only reason Jowan knew blood magic at all, and Irving knew the whole time! Tell me again why I should trust a single thing any of you have ever told me!”

Darvis watches her stomp out of the room, and he swears he can hear the air crackling around her as she passes him. He glances between her and Wynne, torn between keeping an eye on the angry blood mage and staying out of the way of her temper. “What was that about?”

Wynne shuffles the papers in her hands. “These are Irving’s notes. He speaks of Uldred and his talent for exposing apprentices with a tendency towards blood magic. Irving ruminates here on how valuable those skills are…and that he should teach them to the other Enchanters in the Circle.”

“Exposing?” Alistair appears equal parts confused and wary. “What does that mean?”

Wynne doesn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, she takes a breath and lays the papers back on Irving’s desk. “We are an institution for protecting and educating mages. I do not know of everything Irving does, but I know firsthand that being a mage means facing constant temptation. It seems that Uldred would...manufacture tempting situations, to see if an apprentice could resist. And it sees that Irving was of the belief that tests such as these prevent worse disasters.”

“Yeah. How’s that working out for you?” Darvis asks, and Wynne glowers at him.

“What are you all doing?” Marja’s voice cuts through their discussion as she enters the room. “We’ve already searched the rest of this floor, and we need to- where’s the blood mage?”

Darvis sighs, turning away from the still glaring Wynne. “It’s fine, she’s around here somewhere. We just gotta catch up-”

A shout and a blast echo from down the hall, and everybody tenses for a moment before rushing towards the noise, weapons drawn. As they go, Darvis swears he hears Sten mutter, “I knew the sarebaas would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

Darvis expects the sounds of fighting will lead them to find Rosalind locked in combat with a demon, or even another blood mage. Instead, he enters the room just in time to see Rosalind unleash a wave of crackling lightning at a Templar who faces off against her in half-assembled armor.

The Templar raises his shield quickly enough to catch the brunt of the attack, sending a shower of sparks through the air. Some even fly towards his face, although he hardly seems to notice; he simply raises his sword and charges forward once more, slashing at Rosalind with far more ferocity than finesse.

Darvis darts forward to help, and he manages to take the Templar by surprise, striking him in the knee and sending him sprawling. But before he can do anything else, he’s blasted backwards by a force that leaves his spine tingling. He glances up from the floor to see a strange creature, shadowy and half-formed, with shining yellow eyes that feel eerily familiar. The creature cackles above him, its- her?- voice haughty and mocking. It pauses for a moment to glance over its shoulder and call to the Templar, “Darling, please! Finish off that wretched intruder!”

“Of course, my dear,” the Templar says, his voice going sappy for a brief moment before his former intensity returns and he lunges again at Rosalind.

The mage dodges to the side, trips over her robes, and barely escapes losing her head to the Templar’s blade as the man lashes at her. She stumbles to the ground, and rather than scrambling back to her feet she makes a frantic motion in the air. A brick from the stone wall responds to her magic by dislodging itself and flying toward the Templar, knocking the sword from his hand.

The creature standing over Darvis hisses and turns away, and he takes advantage of the distraction by sending a dagger hurling at the thing’s head. His strike lands, but the blow doesn’t do as much damage as he’d hoped; the demon mainly just looks angrier as it flies backward, shouting more encouragement to the Templar on the ground.

But Rosalind is already gathering flames in her hands, and looks about to unleash them when-

“Rosalind, do not hurt that boy!”

Roaslind’s spell fizzes out, he flames disappearing into smoke as she throws a glare at Wynne. “He attacked me!”

“He is entranced,” Wynne says, stepping between Rosalind and the Templar. “He’s not in his right mind. Cullen, it’s me, it is Wynne-”

“Look out!” Alistair dives in font of Wynne just in time to catch the Templar’s sword with his shield. Alistair pushes the man away and raises his sword to parry the next strike, all while the strange creature floats above, ushering on its thrall.

“I told you!” Rosalind shouts above the din of the fighting.

“He is still innocent, we cannot simply kill him!”

“Then figure something out,” Marja says firmly as she rushes to aid Alistair, her axe held aloft. “Before we’re forced to take his head off!”

Darvis pulls out a throwing dagger, wondering if killing the demon will break the spell, but before he can launch the attack the thing melts into the shadows, its voice still echoing though the room- “Help me, my love!”- even as its form fades from view.

“Give me a knife.”

Darvis jumps, startled by Rosalind’s sudden appearance at his side. “Are you crazy? Absolutely not.”

“You want me to break the spell? Give me a damn knife!”

It’s probably a stupid move to hand a dagger to a blood mage, especially when said blood mage has every reason to turn her powers on Davis himself. But with the chaos all around him, Davis acts on pure instinct and tosses the dagger in his hand to Rosalind.

Without hesitation, she pulls up the sleeve of her robe and drags the blade against her skin. The effect is instantaneous; blood seeps from the wound and then dissolves into the air, and as Rosalind sweeps a hand above her head, a searing light fills the room. Darvis’s skin prickles and every hair on his neck stands upright, and for a moment he wonders if he made a mistake. But when the light clears, the Templar has stopped his attack and simply stands, dazed, in the middle of the group of fighters.

A furious hiss emanates from the shadows in the corner of the room, and the demon appears in a flash as it screeches, “How could you? You’ve gone and ruined my plaything!”

An arrow from the Leliana strikes the thing in the shoulder, and with another screech it darts out of the room, skittering through the shadows. With its power diminished by whatever Rosalind did, Darvis is able to make out more of its true form: long, distorted body, spindly tail, claws like scythes.

“Desire demon?” he asks Morrigan.

“Yes. Annoying, but easily dealt with.”

“Alistair, take Morrigan and Sten and finish that thing off,” Marja orders. “Wynne, is this Templar okay?”

“I believe so.” Wynne steps forward cautiously. “Cullen, can you hear me?”

“Wynne?” The man asks weakly. He shakes his head and looks around, red-eyed and confused. “What…”

“You were controlled by a demon,” Maja says bluntly. “And the demons are here because the Templars have lost control of the tower. If you’re up for it, we could use all the help we can get fighting against them-”

Darvis can’t really fault Marja for slipping straight into recruitment mode, but it’s clear the Templar is still too out of it to register a word she’s saying. He just looks around, blinking- and as his gaze settles on Rosalind, her hands still covered in blood, his face tuns red.

“You.”

He lunges again at the mage, sword drawn, and the movement is so unexpected that even as Darvis rushes forward, he knows he won’t get there in time.

But Rosalind reacts quickly on her own. She raises her arms as if she could stop the blow with her bare hands, but the strike never comes. There is no flash of magic this time, but the blood on her hands seems to grow dark as it wraps around her fingers and dissolves into the air around Cullen’s head. The Templar freezes in place as his eyes go blank, and Rosalind releases a shaky breath.

“What did you do to him?” Darvis asks.

“He’s fine,” Rosalind says. “I’m pretty sure. I’ve never done this before, but it’s not permanent-”

“Release him this instant.” Wynne’s voice is grave as she points her staff squarely at Rosalind. “I have been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I cannot stand by and watch you turn Templars into thralls. Stop this blood magic!”

“And let him kill me?” Rosalind snaps back. “I’m not even hurting him-”

“Release him, now!”

“We won’t let him hurt you,” Marja says, her voice soft and cajoling. Darvis can swear he detects the faintest hint of alarm in her eyes, but she betrays none of it in her tone as she continues. “Please, release him. We don’t need any more deaths.”

Rosalind’s glance flickers between Marja and Cullen. After a long moment, her fingers flex and the Templar falls limply to the ground. Darvis thinks at first that she’s killed him after all, but as she steps over his prone body she says, “He’s fine. Just knocked out. But he’s not any use either way. They never are.”

“Did you know him? Why did he attack you?” Darvis asks.

Rosalind doesn’t pause, doesn’t spare a glance at the Templar on the ground. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a blood mage now, and it’s kill on sight- right, Wynne?”

“Do not act as if you are innocent. We would not be in this mess if not for blood magic!” Wynne throws a scathing look at Darvis. “And I am surprised the Grey Wardens are so slow to protest these dark arts.”

Darvis crosses his arms defensively in response, but before he can offer a retort Marja cuts coolly through the conversation.

“The others are taking a little too long with that demon. Let’s go make sure they’re not getting into another mess, shall we?” She waits expectantly for Rosalind to lead the way, keeping a close eye on the mage as she follows her out of the room.

Wynne watches them go, still wearing a deep frown. When she notices Darvis staring her way, she releases a heavy sigh. "I don't know what she has told you, but there are reasons blood magic is forbidden. It is dangerous, especially for mages as reckless as Rosalind. She may think she knows better than the Circle, but she is young and angry, and there is much she refuses to understand."

"Sounds like she has reason to be angry," Darvis admits, and something mournful cracks through Wynne's stern expression.

"She has experienced loss. We all have. She was close with another student of mine- Shay Surana. I had hoped they would be a good influence on her...but it seems the opposite was true. And now poor Cullen..." Wynne glances to the Templar lying prone on the ground and shakes her head. "You do realize this will not end well for her? At this point, my only hope is that she does not harm anyone else."

With that cheerful sentiment, Wynne finally turns to follow the others. Darvis rushes to join her, wishing that for once things didn't have to be so damned complicated.

Chapter Text

The enchanted torches lining the Brosca family’s workshop gleam with a soft but steady light, making the longsword in Darvis’s hands shine even before he applies the second coating of polish. It’s a handsome blade already, plain and undecorated as it is. When Darvis is finished with it, it will be a weapon to make any Warrior proud.

Darvis considers his options for a moment before finally pausing over a container of gold dust. Gilding and engraving will be just what the sword needs, and something about the golden shine seems especially promising. He takes a moment to picture in his mind the designs he has planned, and he smiles to himself as he imagines the fine finished product- and the fine price it will be worth when completed.

Could take a while. Better get started.

He gathers his tools and gets ready to work, and out of habit runs a thumb over the flat side of the blade. The sensation is familiar, and for the briefest moment a memory flashes-

He has a dagger in each hand, and if he’s quick enough he can end this now. He leaps over Alistair’s unconscious body and can’t spare the time to hope the man is okay. He has to make sure his strike lands before it’s too late…

The dagger slips from Darvis’s hand, clanging loudly as it hits the stone floor of the workshop. His head throbs, and as he winces against the pain as his vision goes hazy. A sense of panic rushes to his gut and in a swift, instinctual moment he dives down and retrieves the dagger, ready to fight off-

There’s nothing to fight here. It’s just his workshop. Even if he had to fight, he’s no Warrior. That’s not his job anymore.

Anymore? No, that doesn’t make sense.

It’s not his job.

Darvis releases a low breath and carefully lays the dagger back on the table. He glances down at the weapon and chuckles wryly at himself- it’s not even a dagger, it’s a longsword. Damn, how long has he been working? Perhaps he needs a rest. And besides, his work here is done. The longsword is engraved and gilded, looking just as beautiful as Darvis pictured. The Merchants will be happy to receive this piece, which will be quite a change of tune from their usual reaction to Darvis-

No. No, the Merchants are always happy to see Darvis, because he always does good work. Why would they regard him with scorn and suspicion? The idea is laughable. Darvis does good work, and they appreciate him.

Something fidgets uncomfortably in the back of Darvis's mind, but before he can track it down the sword is lifted off the table by the person who has just come sweeping into the room.

“Looking excellent- as always,” Rica says, giving Darvis a fond smile before turning away to place the sword on a shelf. “Orzammar wouldn’t expect any less from one of its finest Artisans.”

“Of course,” Darvis says, his strange anxieties fading to nothingness as he smiles back at his sister. It’s a strange relief to hear her voice again- again?- and before he can fully process that thought Darvis blurts out, “It’s good to see you.”

Rica laughs and turns back to him, beaming brightly. “Thank you, but you know I’m always here.”

Darvis’s reply dies in his throat. The relief he’d felt before is gone, replaced by a creeping unease he can’t name. Rica tilts her head, her smile slipping ever so slightly as she regards him with concern. “Are you okay, Darvis?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He blinks, desperately trying to ignore the prickling of his skin and the nervous energy coursing through his veins. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You know, I think you may have worked too late again. Come, get some dinner. Mother made that stew you like.”

“Mother did what?”

“And it’s getting cold, dear.”

Darvis spins around at the sound of his mother’s voice, alarms ringing in his ears. The panicked reaction is instinctual, unthinking, but his paranoid expectations suddenly seem unfounded once he sees her standing in the doorway at the back of the shop. Kalah Brosca is actually smiling, and looking at her children with gentle, bemused affection. She motions to Darvis and Rica, beckoning them both into the room behind her. “Put your work away and let’s all sit down for a nice family dinner. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

It does, and before Darvis can think twice he’s seated at the dinner table with his family, laughing and talking in the gentle light of the torches. His mother’s food smells amazing and tastes even better, and he smiles in between bites as he listens to the conversation. Rica laughs as she tells stories about their customers, and Mother muses over whether it’s time to expand the shop. Darvis speaks up every now and then, but for the most part he just listens, content to be a part of this perfect evening.

He reaches for a knife to cut himself a slice of lichen bread, and as his fingers close around the handle, the memory of a bloody dagger flickers behind his eyes. Darvis’s hands fumble, and the whole bowl clatters to the ground. Dimly, he hears startled yelps from Mother and Rica.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, mustering a smile to reassure them. “I’m fine.”

He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

But it’s not. Because even as he repeats those words to himself, anxiety and shock and confusion ripple across his mind. There’s something off here, he knows it- but there’s also his sister, and his mother, and he should be happy to enjoy a meal with them after a good day’s work.

“Darvis?” Rica’s voice is tinged with worry. “Are you listening? I said don’t worry about the bowl, there’s plenty more.”

He should let this go. He should listen to his sister. He shouldn’t keep pushing and ruin everything like he always does. But he just can’t ignore the shiver in his hands telling him that he’s missing something.

“I was doing something. Something important,” he says slowly. “In…the workshop?”

Rica lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Still thinking about work at this hour? I know you take pride in what you do, but it will still be there tomorrow. There’s no need to worry.”

Does he take pride in his work? The concept suddenly feels distant. That sword- did he even gild it himself? What’s the point in that? A sword is for killing things, and it doesn’t work any better with a coating of golden flourishes.

And he would know about killing things, wouldn’t he?

“I was…fighting something.”

“We don’t fight.” His mother is suddenly at his other side. “We’re Artisans. It’s a simple life. A good life. Why would you want anything else?”

“I don’t,” Darvis says. He groans as his head starts to throb again. He tries to pull his eyes away from the knife still on the floor, but that just brings his gaze to the faces of his family, and the aching in his brain gets worse. “I just…remember.”

The dagger slips from his hand as exhaustion overpowers him, and Darvis feels his knees hit the floor. Even as his heavy eyelids close unwillingly, he knows he can’t surrender…

You want to fight? A voice stronger than the memory echoes through his mind. Fine. I can oblige.

“On your toes, Brosca!”

Darvis leaps backward, out of the reach of his friend’s blade. Leske grins sharply and shouts, “There he is! I thought you’d dozed off for a second. Come on, don’t go easy on me now!”

A laugh rises unbidden to Darvis’s lips. “Come at me again and I’ll show you just how easy I am!”

With a twirl of the daggers in his hands, he leaps back into the spar. The motions of fighting are familiar, as are the barbs Darvis and Leske trade back and forth. They are evenly matched, and the training goes on for what feels like hours. Darvis could continue like this for even longer, but one parry brings him face to face with Leske and suddenly shivers run down his arms.

There it is again- that strange sense of wrongness, that same thing that plagued his conversation with Rica-

Rica. Where did Rica go?

The hard ground of the training arena interrupts Darvis’s thoughts as Leske sweeps his legs and sends him sprawling. “Ha! That’s what happens when you get distracted. You’re thinking too much, Brosca. Come on, let’s give that one more go.”

Darvis groans he pulls himself to his feet- he tries to pull himself up but he’s too weak, it already has hold of him, he can feel himself falling can feel his eyes closing can feel sleep suffocate him like a blanket-

Ringing fills Darvis’s ears, and for a moment everything around him is smoke. But he blinks and the illusion is gone, and Leske is regarding him with a lazy smile.

“You there, Brosca? I thought we were supposed to be training. Can’t have the best Warriors in Orzammar slacking off, can we?”

“Warriors?” Darvis echoes, the title clumsy in his mouth, and Leske’s brow furrows in concern.

“Yeah, Warriors. You hit your head with that fall? You know we’re the people’s favorites. And it’s a respectable position, so we can’t go getting distracted-”

“Respectable?” Darvis takes a step back, suddenly feeling like a nug in a pot. “No. No, you’re not respectable. You think the Warriors are a bunch of assholes.”

Leske opens his mouth to speak but Darvis can’t stop, the words and revelations falling like a heavy rain (how does he even know what that is?). “And my mother doesn’t cook dinner, and we don’t own nice things. And I’m not- I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Of course you are.” Despite the obvious wrongness of all this, Leske’s voice is firm and certain. “We’re fighting in the Proving tonight, and everyone is going to love it.”

“The Proving…” A helmet ripped from his face. The arena filled with boos and jeers. The guards advancing on him. “That’s a bad idea. It goes wrong.”

“What could go wrong?” Cheer and comfort shine in Leske’s face as he steps toward Darvis. “You’re a Warrior. You have screaming fans. You have honored ancestors. Isn’t that what you want?”

The wrong feeling solidifies a little more with every second Darvis spends staring at Leske. He lets the man take one more step towards him, lets him lay a hand on his shoulder. And then he springs into action, a dagger in his hand, and he spins around this person who cannot be his friend and presses a dagger against his throat.

“The only thing more unbelievable than Leske caring about honor would be Leske thinking that I care about honor.” Darvis growls. He glares at Leske, eye-to-eye, and at last the wrongness he’s been trying to identify makes itself clear in one single, breathless revelation. “Fuck. Your brand.”

“What brand?” Leske asks calmly, not even trying to push Darvis away, and that’s just another sign that this is not Leske. Leske would give just as good as he got in any fight, even it was Darvis pressing a blade against his neck. But before Darvis can say a thing, a soft hand touches his arm.

He jumps back, still holding up his dagger, but the weapon lowers slightly at the sight of Rica’s clear, peaceful face. “None of us have brands, Darvis,” she says, cajoling, sounding just like she used to when Darvis was a child turning to his older sister to soothe his fears. “Don’t be silly.”

None of us have brands. Something deep in Darvis shakes at those words. He raises a hand to his face, tracing over…over what? The glint of his metal bracer catches his eye, and he angles it to try and catch his reflection. The image is blurry, impossible to make out clearly, but he thinks…he thinks Rica might be right.

It should be a comfort. A relief. But Darvis’s stomach lurches, and he thinks for a moment that he might be sick.

“Why so glum, dear?” The question comes from Darvis’s mother, who has just appeared next to Rica, and Darvis doesn’t know where she came from, and now that he thinks of it he can’t remember how he even got here in the first place. But he doesn’t have much time to think it over before his mother beams lovingly at him, and the sight is so strange it stops his thoughts for a moment.

“Just tell us what it is you want,” she says, “and we can go back to being a happy family.”

“Just like we’ve always been,” Rica adds. “And always will be.”

“And you won’t have to worry ever again.” Leske closes the circle around Darvis. “Isn’t that what you want?”

The words curl sluggishly through Darvis’s mind, and he knows that this isn’t right…but there’s something tempting in the promise. He knows he was doing something important. He knows he has to get back. He can feel it in his gut, in the back of his mind, tickling at his conscience.

But you don’t want to go back, do you? You never wanted to be there in the first place. You want to be here.

He does. He really does. He wants to stay with Rica and Leske, and even his mother.

But when Darvis looks around him at the blissful faces, he knows he’ll never be able to shake the knowledge that it’s not really them.

“Darvis?” Rica asks, softly, and he does the only thing he can in this moment- he runs.

The people behind him call his name, and something in his bones aches to turn back around, but Darvis can’t stop and listen. He just knows he has to get out.

Out of where?

Out of…

His footsteps slow as he looks around him. He’d left the training grounds- hadn’t he? No, he’d been in his workshop. Where was that, again? Darvis hisses out a low stream of curses as the pounding in his skull picks up once more. The worst part of it all is the knowledge, deep in his gut, that it would stop if he could just turn around, turn around and go back.

Go back. It’s what you want.

But he can’t. He has to get out of…

“The Fade,” a silky voice croons in his ear, and Darvis nearly jump out of his skin. He whirls around only to come face to face with the last person he expected to see here.

Morrigan. She tilts her head down at him, her golden eyes glinting with cold amusement. “You’re in the Fade, sweet thing.”

“The fuck I am,” Darvis murmurs, his head spinning. “How would that even…I’m a dwarf!”

“All too true. That’s what makes you so interesting, isn’t it?” Morrigan reaches out as if to touch Darvis’s face, but he backs away on instinct. She doesn’t seem offended; she merely tilts her head, a smile curling across her face. “Such a compelling little mystery to solve.”

“You’re not Morrigan,” Darvis says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows they’re true. “You’re like those other…things?”

“Oh, you mean Sloth’s little helpers? Please, I’m nowhere near as boring. But I can forgive you for the mistake, seeing as you are rather out of your…depth.” Not-Morrigan laughs, and the mocking sound echoes strangely around them. “A dwarf in the Fade. Maybe that’s why you see through Sloth’s little farce so easily.”

Darvis tears his eyes away from Not-Morrigan’s face, trying to focus on his surroundings. He’s still on the wide, stony streets of Orzammar-

Except no, he’s not. Now that he knows this isn’t real, and now that he’s looking for the cracks, Darvis can’t believe he ever saw this place as anything other than magical. The illusion of Orzammar is still there if he lets his focus slip, but now he can see the haze over it all. The air is thick and almost smoky, and constantly in motion. Darvis can make out blurred shapes in the distance- he can’t quite tell what they are, but he thinks he can see movement, rocks, a tower…

“We’re in the Tower still,” he breathes. He screws his eyes shut and tries to pull memories through the sludge that’s filled his head-

He rushes towards the creature, but he’s only halfway across the room before the magic starts to take effect. Wynne fires a blast of magic at the creature, but it lazily raises a crooked hand and the spell slows midair, uncurling from itself until it dissipates into a harmless fog.

“Oh, look. Visitors.” The voice is heavy and droning, and makes Darvis feel as if his ears have been stuffed with dirt. “I’d entertain you, but…too much effort involved.”

And then there’s only the falling.

“Fuck,” Darvis growls, shaking his head to dispel the lingering sluggishness. “That thing- what did you call it?”

“Sloth,” Not-Morrigan answers, although she seems rather bored with the topic. “He's gotten his hooks into you and all your little mortal friends. He’s a powerful demon, although I personally have never found him particularly fun. I’m much better company, if I do say so myself.”

“Wait, what do you mean Sloth ‘got his hooks’ into us?”

The creature shrugs, her tone still disinterested. “You know- you saw Sloth’s little farces. He likes to feed slowly. Lull people into a trance, make them nice and complacent and sedentary as he sucks their energy away. I actually rather enjoy prey that fights back a little, but to each their own.”

Bodies slumped on the floor. Exhaustion seeping through his bones. Sloth is trying to kill them all. They’re all asleep- Darvis hopes they’re just asleep- and as they sleep, Sloth is killing them. And he’s using this sick imitation of Darvis’s family to keep him happy and stupid through all of it. “Fuck. Fuck. How do I stop it?”

“Oh, you don’t.” Not-Morrigan’s smile sends a chill down Darvis’s spine. “Sorry, sweet thing, but it’s too late. There’s no going back now. And anyway, why would you want to?”

“What kind of questions is that?” Darvis snaps. “I have to get back.”

“You really don’t. You could go back to Sloth’s little parasites, let them play with you while Sloth slowly sucks you dry. Or…” she takes a long stride forward, closing most of the distance Davis has created between them. “…you could let me help you.”

It finally occurs to Darvis that he shouldn’t be talking with this thing, whatever it is. If this is the Fade, he can’t trust anything that’s offered to him...but he can’t get out of here on his own, either. Darvis fumes over this for a moment, then reluctantly asks, “Why would you help me?”

“Like I said, you’re intriguing. And I could get something out of an arrangement, as well.” Her eyes take on a hungry edge, and Darvis finally recognizes the creature for what it is.

“Desire.”

She laughs. “You’re a sharp one, all right. You ruined my last meal, you know- and he was such a fun one, too. But don’t worry, I can be very forgiving. I’m even willing to let you stay with me in his place. I can hide you from Sloth’s little helpers- I’m doing it right now, in fact. And I’d treat you to something much nicer than anything they could offer.”

She reaches for his arm, but Darvis jerks it away. “Is that what you meant by help? Just another method of death by demon? Fuck off.”

“What is your plan, then?” Desire demands, having the nerve to sound insulted at Darvis’s refusal. “Even if you defeat Sloth, there’s nothing for you on the other side of the Veil. There are no secrets in the Fade, sweet thing. I know what you are- and what you aren’t.”

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“Don’t I?” She hunches forward, her voice dripping with venom. “There’s not really much to know, is there? Certainly not enough substance to be worth caring about, even for your own mother. Your sister took on the burden of raising you, and that responsibility has been dragging her down your whole life. Your little thieving friend couldn’t wait to get rid of you. You want to go back to that life?”

“Oh, but I almost forgot- you’re a Warden now. But we both know you’re no hero. You think you’ll be missed by- who, exactly? The great Lady Aeducan? The lost prince Alistair Therein? Those are heroes. You? You’re a duster. A worthless brand.” Her intense gaze bores into Darvis, and a mocking smile covers her lips as her eyes travel from him to look down at her own form. “Even your enticing friend doesn’t see you as much more than a slightly amusing distraction, does she?”

Darvis’s hands shake with anger, tightening around the dagger still in his hands. The monster is doing this on purpose, he knows that, but the knowledge doesn’t make him any calmer. “Is this your idea of tempting me? I’ll tell you one more time: Fuck. Off.”

“I’m giving you a choice, and if you’re smart, you’ll consider it. Because I know that you know the truth. They’re all right about you. You’re nothing. You have no purpose, no place. So why go back the real world, in all its cruelty? Stay here. Let me make you happy.”

What if she’s right?

The thought only flickers through Darvis’s head for a second, but it’s enough to weaken him, to tangle his anger into uncertainty.

“Well?” the demon prompts. “I think even you can tell what the smart choice is here, sweet thing.”

“Yeah,” Darvis agrees, feeling the truth of her words slither into his mind. “Yeah, there probably is something smart about taking the easy way out.”

Because she is right, about so much. And it’s not as if he could save the world, anyway. He knew that from the start. But she’s wrong about one very important fact.

“Thing is,” he says, summoning all of his willpower to curl his fingers around his blade, “I don’t make very many smart choices.”

The demon releases a sharp cry as the dagger plunges into her shoulder, and with a hiss she dops the Morrigan disguise completely, revealing the crooked horns and sawlike teeth of her demon form.

“Stupid Stone-child!” she screeches. “Fine! Let Sloth have you for all I care!”

The thing dissolves into the air, but Darvis only has a few seconds to revel in his success before Sloth’s parasites suddenly surround him once more.

“There you are.” Leske steps forward, a mockery of concern on his face. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you-”

“Don’t bother,” Darvis snaps. “I don’t want any of the ‘happiness’ you have to offer.”

A moment of tense silence follows, and then a drowsy voice rumbles through the space of the Fade.

If misery is what you want, that can certainly be provided.

The world folds around Darvis in a mess of fog and dust, and when his vision clears again he’s in a familiar setting- the Carta headquarters, deep in Dust Town. Darvis scowls and turns in place, and shouts into the empty air, “I know this isn’t real, Sloth! Show your face!”

“What are you yammering about, Brosca?”

The voice slices through Darvis’s thoughts in an instant, and it’s with a feeling of shock and dread that he finds Beraht now standing before him.

“No,” Darvis, more to himself than to his old Carta boss. “This isn’t real. You’re not here.”

“Shut it,” Beraht snaps, an ugly expression on his face. For half a second Darvis wonders why he would be surprised at that, why he should be surprised that Beraht is advancing on him with that same sneer he always wears. This is life, he’s used to it by now, nothing has changed-

Yes it has, dammit, he reminds himself, but he can’t quite remember anymore why that’s so important. He’s distracted from his confusion as Beraht continues to bark at him.

“I don’t have time to listen to your nonsense. You still owe me after your last screw-up.”

Give in. The thought presses in on Darvis’s pounding head, and it’s all he can do to mutter out a stupid, stubborn refusal. “No.”

“No?” Beraht growls. “You think you can tell me no?”

Darvis senses a presence behind him just before somebody kicks him sharply in the back of the knee, and as he staggers another Carta enforcer appears at his side and delivers a blow to his stomach. Darvis stumbles to the ground, and the situation is so familiar that for a moment he’s overwhelmed by the memory.

He’s stuck in Dust Town. Stuck with Beraht. In trouble for talk back or skimming off the top of a score or doing something stupid in the middle of a job.

“This could’ve gone differently,” Beraht says. “But you had to keep making trouble. Still, you know how this goes. You don’t win.”

Stay down. Give in. You know how this goes.

Sprawled in the dust, nursing a splitting head and aching body, it’s hard for Darvis to think of why it’s so important that he keep fighting. He has no power here. No weapons. No allies. Only the singular rule of survival: bite your tongue and keep your head low.

Stop being pathetic.

The thought that rings through his head is not Sloth’s voice, but it’s not quite his own, either. It’s sharp and demanding and for a moment Darvis’s head clears as his reeling mind conjures the image of Morrigan- not Desire’s cheap imitation of her, but Morrigan, and what she would think if she could see him now.

You do know how this goes. You know how the Fade works. Fight back.

He remembers Morrigan’s lessons about magic and the Fade, about dreams and the illogical logic which rules the spirit’s world. He remembers her describing her spells, how she controls her power by enforcing her own will onto the fabric of the Fade. And he hopes with every fiber of his being that he’s lucky enough to actually make this insanity work as he clenches his fist tightly and focuses on the most familiar feeling in the world- the smooth hilt of a dagger in his hand.

Darvis looks up at Beraht- no, the spirit impersonating Beraht. He heaves a breath, focusing on that spark of truth.

“I killed you once,” he growls, “and I can do it again.”

He leaps to his feet and rushes forward in a quick-stepped feint, a movement he’s performed a thousand times, and when he turns the feint into a lunge he already knows what will be in his hand- a fine, sharp Carta blade.

The Not-Beraht puts up less of a fight than the real one did when Darvis last drove a dagger into his neck- there is only a short of look of surprise on its face, then an even shorter flash of fury, then nothing at all as the spirit dissolves into a wisp and uncurls beneath Darvis’s blade. The other spirits fly into action immediately, swarming over Darvis. He’s ready for the onslaught and slashes them down as they come, but more and more keep appearing. It’s quickly apparent that Darvis is going to need more than a couple of Fade-daggers to get through them all. He needs to get out of here and find the others.

An enemy’s blade flies near Darvis’s ear, missing him by an inch, and he parries the next strike with his own dagger as he desperately tries to think of anything else that could be helpful here. If he really does have some level of control in the Fade, he should be able to do anything, but he doesn’t even know where to start, especially when distracted by attacking spirits. But he still remembers some of Morrigan’s lessons, and he now tries to reach for those feelings she’d spoken of. He just needs to be able to move through this place, to put himself in some form that will let him pass unnoticed and unfollowed.

Anything but a bird, he thinks to himself, hoping the world around him will listen and respond the way Morrigan once described to him. Anything but a bird.

And the world around him listens.

Darvis scrambles through the disconnected landscape of the Fade, trying to put some sense to the maze of fog and arches and towers of lyrium. He can’t think about the logistics of the place too much; if he does, it starts to fall apart, unraveling at the edges, making navigation damn near impossible and making it much harder to maintain his rodent form.

He’s trying not to think too much about that, either. Not that he has anything against rats, but if he has to shapefshift to get through the Fade, he can’t help but think that a bear or wolf or bronco might be just a bit more useful. But as much as he tries, Darvis can’t force himself into any other shapes.

At least he’s not a bird.

And at least this form serves its purpose; he can move quickly, and the spirits seem to have a harder job of finding him now. As for finding his missing companions, Darvis has one thing to guide him that the spirits don’t- his Warden senses. There aren’t any darkspawn in the Fade (or at least, he really hopes there’s not) but there are two more Wardens. And if he can just follow the shiver that alerts him to their presence, he can find some backup.

After much wandering, that shiver finally strengthens to something concrete, and Darvis lets the rodent form fall away as he approaches the source of the feeling. He finds himself in another section of the Fade, in something almost like a cave, if caves had murky green skies overhead. Spirits drift around him and Darvis prepares for another fight, but they pay him no mind; they all seem completely focused on something else.

Soon enough, Darvis figures out what that something is. The longer he stands here, the more the world around him solidifies, and if he lets his mind lose focus for a moment the strange surroundings of the Fade melt into solid walls and floors, into lantern-lit streets much like the ones he just escaped. But these surroundings are far grander than anything he’s ever seen himself, and a heavy weight sinks into his chest as he realizes where the Fade has taken him.

“Why couldn’t it have been Alistair?” he mutters as he looks around at what can only be the Diamond Quarter. He mutters a few curses to himself and then in a louder voice calls out, “Anybody out there?”

Silence. Darvis scowls and tries again. “Hey! Princess! Has Sloth eaten your brain yet or not?”

“Brosca?”

Darvis turns at the sound of his name, and the world turns with him, shifting swiftly in a wave of vertigo that leaves him standing in the middle of a grand room with glittering chandeliers lining the high ceilings. At the other end of the room, surrounded by a swirl of spirits, stands Marja Aeducan.

“Finally,” Darvis says, and it’s so nice to find anybody alive in this place he doesn’t even bother to hide the relief in his voice. “I’ve been looking all over this damn place-”

“What are you doing here?” The harsh interruption comes not from Marja, but from one of the spirits who floats in front of her in the form of an armored dwarven guard.

“I’m here to get her, and I’m not exactly thrilled about it, either,” Darvis snaps. Before he can take another step forward, the spirit draws its sword and forces him back.

“You would do best to watch your tone when speaking in the presence of your Queen!”

Queen? Darvis looks around again at the gaudy room, the guards, the spirits who hover around Marja in the form of elegantly-clothed dwarves with features that mirror her own. At Marja herself, who stares at him with a furrowed brow, the recognition she’d shown when she called his name now fading into confusion.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darvis says, feeling the desperation creep in when Marja doesn’t answer. He hadn’t accounted for this. She’s supposed to be smart, dammit- shouldn’t she be able to see through all this? “Don’t tell me you’re falling for this nugshit. You’re not a queen, you’re a Warden!”

She falters, Darvis thinks, but only for a moment. Then the confusion clears, and her expression is one of confident composure, calm and poised and haughtier than Darvis has ever seen her.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,” she says. “Now state your business- and I advise you do it in a respectable manner, or I will have no choice but to allow my guards to throw you back out into the street.”

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

The large hallway echoes Marja’s footsteps as she strides through the palace, surveying the staff as they go about their preparations. So far, everything has been running smoothly; the floors below her feet are polished, the chandeliers above her head are gleaming, and every guard stands upright and attentive in their finest armor. All is in its proper place, operating just as it should, and pride swells within Marja at the sight of her domain in such a grand state.

“Can we count on full attendance for the Assembly meeting this evening?” Marja asks, and Gorim- ever-present, ever-dependable- nods at her side.

“Of course, my lady. None of the deshyrs would dare offend you with their absence on today of all days.”

“And how goes the support for my proposal?”

“I’ve had our people keep their ears to the Stone, as you asked. From the sound of it, we may very well see a unanimous vote tonight in your favor.”

“Excellent.” It would be hasty to celebrate now; Ancestors know the opinions of the deshyrs change as easily as shifting sand. Still, Marja allows herself a small moment to revel in her success. This meeting marks the passing of one year since she took the crown, and despite the constant churn of Orzammar’s tumultuous politics, things truly could not be better. Her military strategies have kept the darkspawn confined far within the Deep Roads; her words in the Assembly have swayed the deshyrs to support her policies and laws.

Orzammar is thriving. To be here, to be the one making it happen, leading the charge, is all Marja has ever wanted.

“I think I’ll pay a visit to Lady Helmi before the meeting,” she muses idly. “Her support is quite valuable in the Assembly. I would like to ensure it continues.”

“Will that be before or after the meeting Lord Dace requested?”

An amused smile tugs at Marja’s lips. “Let’s save it for after. Dace is still unhappy about his House’s lost profits, but I only intend to give him my ear long enough to make him feel heard. If his griping drags on for too long, I’ll have an excuse to leave- and an easy way to remind him there are more important things on my plate than his foolish business expeditions.”

“Very well, my lady. I’ll alert your guards and tell the Servants…”

Gorim continues speaking, detailing the schedule for the day, but as he continues to speak some errant thought tugs stubbornly at Marja’s brain. There’s something about this arrangement. Some detail that worries at the back of her head.

“Lord Dace’s business expeditions…” she says slowly, searching her memory. “He was making a proposal concerning surfacers, wasn’t he? I can’t quite remember.”

There’s a conversation, distant in the back of her mind, from when Dace first brought the issue to her attention. It was at…a feast, wasn’t it? She’d turned him down, naturally, because-

“The surfacers have no place down here,” Gorim supplies readily. “Its little wonder Dace has had such trouble getting people to listen to him. This is Orzammar. Why would we want anything to do with the surface?”

For the briefest of moments, an image flashes behind Marja’s eyes- dark expanse overhead, pinpricks of lights glittering like diamonds high above. But the moment passes in the span of a single breath, and it is an easy thing for Marja to regain her composure. “You’re right, of course. It’s a ludicrous notion. And Dace cares far more his family’s coffers than anything that comes from the surface. But if it soothes his wounded pride, I can indulge his complaints. Perhaps I can even steer him towards a more profitable undertaking that would actually benefit Orzammar.”

Gorim chuckles, but it’s a different voice that answers- a voice that is familiar and taunting and that causes Marja’s blood freeze in her veins.

“Just remember to take a break from babysitting deshyrs and actually enjoy yourself today.” Bhelen appears in the hall, greeting Marja with a casual grin. “Especially since all this pomp and circumstance is in your honor.”

Marja’s hands clench at her sides, and for a moment she can’t move- until Bhelen looks at her again with that expectant grin and suddenly she wants to scream. Her hands itch to grab at the weapon that should be at her side, but there’s nothing there. In its absence her hand curls into a fist, and she has to fight the desire to punch her brother in the face like some kind of common street brawler.

“What are you doing here?” Marja demands, but Bhelen doesn’t even seem to notice the hostility in her tone.

“Bracing myself for a day full of drudgery, of course,” he sighs dramatically, and Marja’s chest clenches as she remembers the way things used to be with her little brother. Used to be? No, the way things are. This is the way things are. “You know I can’t stand these Assembly meetings. But the banquet will be a good time, won’t it? Food and wine to celebrate another successful year gone by?”

“A successful year, indeed,” Gorim agrees, and Marja can only stare at him, aghast. Gorim is just as furious with Bhelen as she is, isn’t he?

Shouldn’t he be?

…Why is she furious with Bhelen?

The question takes Marja by surprise, and for a moment the world around her lurches. She knows she has a reason. She knows. But even as she tries to reach for it, the thought slips from her fingers, and she’s left with Bhelen and Gorim chatting and smiling as if everything is normal. Marja finally manages to reach something solid through the haze of her thoughts, and the questions escapes her lips before she can think better of it. “Where is Trian?”

There is a moment, she thinks, where everything pauses. But then Gorim tilts his head and simply answers, “He awaits us in the main hall.”

“Yes,” Bhelen says with an irreverent eye roll. “I’m certain he can’t wait for the meeting. He’s probably practicing the speech he’ll make to the Assembly, as if he doesn’t know all his speeches by heart.”

Marja shakes her head. “No, Trian can’t-”

Bhelen cuts her off with a chuckle. “Now I know he’s long-winded, but even I have to admit he has his uses. And when the two of you work together, you can convince the Assembly of just about anything.”

“And what about you?” The words come out in a sharp rush. “What could you convince the Assembly of?”

There it is again- that flicker, that pause. But after the briefest of seconds Bhelen merely shrugs, an unconcerned look on his face. “You know me. I’m just here because the chairs are so wonderfully comfortable.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction, and when none comes he shakes his head. “So serious! You used to like my jokes. Don’t tell me becoming Queen killed off your sense of humor.”

Queen.

Yes, she is Queen. That fact is set in Marja’s mind, as solidly as her own name. But there is something about Bhelen addressing her as such- a rush of relief, a rush of victory. She breathes out slowly, her momentary panic fading back to the edges of her mind. “And what do you think of my taking the crown, Bhelen?”

If Bhelen thinks the question an odd one, he doesn’t show it. “You know I don’t like getting involved in politics. I’m the third child, and it suits me. I’m happy letting you and Trian handle that side of things.”

“What of Trian, then? What does he think of all this?”

Bhelen raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

He motions to something behind Marja, and when she turns…there he is. Trian, her older brother, looking at her with a slightly bemused expression as he saunters down the hallway.

“If you did ask,” he says, his loud voice ringing through the palace, “Trian might say that he prefers to be included when his siblings gossip about him. Especially if he’d been waiting quite patiently all morning for them to meet him at the time they’d agreed upon.”

Marja shakes her head, but Bhelen seems to see nothing wrong as he steps forward to clap his brother on the back, laughing about how the Stone isn’t going anywhere. Trian releases an exasperated sigh before turning his attention to his sister.

“Astra vala, Marja. I suppose Bhelen slowed you down, did he? If you’re all done fooling around, I’d like to remind you that we have much to do. There are at least eight potential proposals I’d like your opinion on before I present them to the Assembly.”

It’s Trian. But it isn’t. But it is. Marja glances to Gorim- he’s always been wary of Trian, he would know if something were wrong, and out of all of them Gorim is the one who would tell her the truth- but Gorim simply shrugs.

“Your brothers are stubborn, my lady,” he says in a quiet voice. “But they know what is best for Orzammar. Everybody knows. You’ve earned this.”

Marja takes another deep breath. Her hands have ceased their shaking and are steady once more as she pushes a stray strand of hair from her face.

She is Queen. She has earned this, and everybody knows.

 “Well, then,” she says, pulling herself up to full height as she leaves the momentary confusion behind and resumes her duties. “Let’s make our rounds meeting with the Nobles. Gorim, tell the Servants to have the dining hall sparkling by the time we are done. If the deshyrs are in good humor, we can get through the Assembly meeting quickly and give Orzammar’s fortune the celebration it deserves.”

The rest of the day passes pleasantly, which is something Marja hasn’t been able to say since- well, she can’t even remember.

(She doesn’t need to remember. She just needs to let herself enjoy this moment.)

Marja moves through the Diamond Quarter with confidence and ease, Gorim at her side and her brothers not far behind. They discuss the state of the city and their fellow Nobles, their plans for the evening and further in the future. For once, Marja is at peace.

“Anybody out there?”

The voice stops Marja in her tracks, and she grips Gorim’s arm tightly. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, my lady?” Gorim tilts his head, concerned, and Marja is almost able to convince herself that it was nothing but a momentary slip of the mind when the voice cries out once more.

“Hey! Princess! Has Sloth eaten your brain yet or not?”

She recognizes the voice- what’s more, she recognizes the utter lack of decorum. The name slips from her lips of its own accord. “Brosca?”

The air around her shifts, and suddenly he’s standing before her- a man she half-recognizes, who has a long beard and a scowl and a Casteless brand stamped darkly across one half of his face. He looks almost laughably out of place in the grandeur of the palace, but he barely seems to notice as he stomps forward.

“Finally. I’ve been looking all over this damn place!”

Before Marja can answer, her guards are in front of her, ready to hold the man back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to get her,” the Casteless man practically spits, nodding towards Marja. “And I’m not exactly thrilled about it, either.

Marja’s brow furrows- what could a Casteless possibly want with her? And how could he possibly believe he could get away with speaking of her in such a manner, especially here of all places? The guards echo her sentiments as they draw their weapons. “You would do best to watch your tone when speaking in the presence of your Queen!”

The Casteless man looks around, as if just now noticing where he is. For a moment his eyes meet Marja’s, and the irritation in his face dips into something almost desperate. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Don’t tell me you’re falling for this nugshit. You’re not a queen, you’re a Warden!”

For a moment, the breath is knocked from Marja’s lungs. A Warden. More faint images tug at her mind- towers and muddy fields and lakes and trees and so many things she should know nothing about.

“My lady?” Gorim’s concern is clear in his low voice. Marja clenches her jaw and fights off the strange images. The weakness.

You are a Queen.

Yes, she is a Queen. She has earned this. And she will not let some Casteless criminal walk in off the street and take it all away. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looks steadily at the intruder and says in a clear voice, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Now state your business- and I advise you do it in a respectable manner, or I will have no choice but to allow my guards to throw you back out into the street.”

“This isn’t Orzammar!” The man snaps with a ferocity that surprises her. The Casteless don’t speak to Nobles like this. He shouldn’t be speaking to her at all. “Can you really not see that? Come on, Princess, use your eyes!”

The guards close in around the man, and Gorim steps forward, his face going cold and harsh as he speaks. “She is your Queen and you will address her as such!”

“I’ll address her however the fuck I want,” the man says, “because she’s not a queen, she’s a surfacer like me!”

“That’s enough, brand!” Trian snarls, and on instinct Marja whirls on him, her composure forgotten in the sudden burst of anger.

“Trian!” Her blood is racing, but even as she scolds her brother Marja can’t say why his insult brought forth such a reaction. True, she has never liked the way he spoke to those of lower castes, but…

Her brother gives her an odd look, and Marja huffs as she straightens her posture once more. “I am quite capable of defending myself. This man speaks nonsense, but there is no need to lose your temper.”

The Casteless man watches the exchange with curious eyes, and a horrid smirk creeps across his face. “Trian? Remind me, was that the brother who was dead or the one who betrayed you?”

For a moment, Marja can’t breathe. She turns the full force of her glare upon the stranger, and through gritted teeth hisses, “Leave. Now.”

“Not without you.” The man tries to step forward, but Gorim blocks his way, flanked by two guards. With a word, Marja could give them the orders to get this man out of her sight for good, but for some reason she holds back, even as he keeps talking. “You made me do the whole Warden thing, remember? You stopped me from up and leaving. If I don’t get to escape, neither do you. So stop playing pretend-”

“This is not pretend, this is my life! And I will not lose it again!” Marja’s voice shakes with anger, yet the man has the nerve to look relieved.

“Again? See, you do remember.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Bhelen insists, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“You remember drinking darkspawn blood-”

“My lady, he lies,” Gorim assures her. “This is all rightfully yours, you know that.”

“And getting attacked by trees-”

Trian growls, his temper slipping through once more. “Why should the Queen listen to the ramblings of some brand?”

“And demons-”

“Enough!” Marja shouts. Her hand flies to the handle of her axe- because she uses an axe now, doesn’t she? More and more is coming back- the fights and the hardships and the trials. “Ancestors, Brosca, why do you always have to be so awful?”

Darvis watches her carefully, his eyes dipping to her weapon as if unsure what exactly she intends to do with it. To tell the truth, Marja doesn’t quite know, either. She only knows that she wants nothing less than to believe him when he says, “You’re in the Fade. This is just some demonic fantasy. They’re trying to make everything perfect, but you know it’s not.”

“Marja,” Bhelen says, his voice as steady as the hand on her shoulder. “Who can you trust- him, or us? We’re your family.”

Too many memories and thoughts and wishes are at war in Marja’s mind. She can’t make sense of them. She looks from Bhelen, to Trian, to Gorim, all giving her reassuring smiles. She looks at Darvis, who’s staring at her with stubborn insistence. Her hands tighten around her axe.

“Do you mean it?” she asks, turning to her brothers. She can’t bring herself to look at Gorim, but she can demand answers from them. “When you support me as Queen- is that a trick? A lie?”

“Of course not,” Bhelen says immediately.

Trian nods in agreement. “You are the rightful Queen of Orzammar.”

Marja believes them. She knows, in her bones, that for as long as she is Queen they will stay loyally by her side. And that is how she knows the truth.

“You’re not my brothers,” she whispers.

Her axe flashes in the flickering torchlight as she heaves it through the air and brings it slashing down across Trian’s form. She moves quickly- before the spirit can react, before she can second-guess herself, before she can let the Fade’s tricks ensnare her mind once more- and she pushes the weapon forward to cleft completely through the spirit. A shocked look covers its face, just for a moment, before it dissolves into smoke around her blade.

The spirits around Marja screech as they watch their fellow apparition disappear, and in a flash they charge. They hold the forms of Bhelen and Gorim, but now that Marja knows what they are, she can see through the illusion- the strange transparency to their forms, the unnatural way they move, the glow of their ethereal weapons as they descend upon her. Marja meets their weapons with her own, throwing her full weight into each blow, pushing Bhelen back so she can focus on disarming Gorim.

The spirits who had been acting as her guards swarm in behind her, and for a moment Marja thinks she may be in trouble. But then Darvis charges in, a dagger in each hand, and slices clean through the nearest spirit.

“About damn time,” Darvis says, his tone a mixture of annoyance and relief. Marja doesn’t respond; she’s too focused on burying her axe in the Bhelen impersonator’s neck. It’s not the real thing, but it did lie to her, and it feels good to watch the thing turn to dust.

With Bhelen gone, Marja turns her attention to the spirit disguised as Gorim. Her axe meets his longsword with a resounding clang, and even thought Marja knows this isn’t him, it feels so wrong to face off against her old friend like this. But then the specter veers its sword to the left and Marja has to wrench her should back to keep it from slicing her head off, and she's able to push those feelings down and focus on putting her weapon through its chest.

The blow pushes the spirit back, but it stubbornly stays on its feet. Darvis slides forward, knives out, ready to finish it off, but before he even touches the thing it begins shifting, changing shape. In less than a second Gorim’s image is gone, and its place is a dwarven woman with dark red hair and a Casteless mark inked on her face. Marja thinks there’s something almost familiar about her, but it’s not her the spirit fixates on.

“Darvis, no!” she cries, her eyes wide and terrified.

Davis falters. His weapons lower, and he trips over his own feet as he tries to pull back. It’s all the distraction the spirit needs, and it launches itself forward, nails extending like claws as it leaps on top of him.

Marja is over them both in a flash. She catches the spirit in the side with her axe, throwing it off Darvis and sending it flying into the strange rock formations which have sprung up around them. The thing looks up at Marja and in the blink of an eye it’s Gorim again, holding his hands up, pleading. “My lady, wait-”

Marja’s axe buries itself in the spirit’s shoulder, and that finally does the job. As the creature dissolves into smoky mist, Marja glances around, preparing for any other attackers, but it seems their fight has scared off the other creatures of the Fade. They must have decided these mortals are not worth the trouble- for now. Now it’s just Marja and Darvis, standing alone in a maze of rocks and fog.

As the adrenaline of the fight fades away, Marja is left with nothing but cold fury with herself. How could she have ever thought this was Orzammar? How was she so easily fooled? How is it that even now she’s so willing to believe every lie that gets to told her, so eager to be betrayed? An angry noise escapes her throat, and it sounds infuriatingly close to a cry.  Marja bites down on her lips and tries not to lose control, but the faces keep flashing in her mind- Trian’s surprise at her attack, Bhelen’s smiling reassurance, Gorim’s last plea- and it’s all she can do not to scream.

“Dammit. Dammit.” She whirls on Darvis and demands, “What happened?”

Darvis has staggered to his feet by now, looking shaken but not hurt by the fight. In a tight voice, he answers, “We were in the Circle tower. A demon got us. Now we’re in the Fade.”

“I can’t believe I let this happen again. Ancestors, I should be better than this, I shouldn’t keep letting myself…” Marja presses a hand to her temple, trying to fight back against the promises of queenhood still ringing in her ears. Tears threaten the corners of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. She may have been fooled, but she will not show that type of weakness.

She can feel Darvis staring at her, but she knows he doesn’t understand. And indeed, all he says in response is, “Again? How many times have you been in the Fade?”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” Marja snaps. “First Bhelen, then Loghain, now this…all these lies, and I’ve fallen for it every time!”

Darvis looks away, and for once he doesn’t look surly or angry- he just looks uncomfortable. The fact that he saw the entirety of Marja’s dream, that he knows how thoroughly she was tricked, just adds insult to the injury of the whole thing.

“Marja…” he says in a cautious voice, and somehow that’s far more infuriating than if he had come at her with insults or derision.

“Don’t you start acting decent, or I’ll have to assume you’re a spirit, too,” she says harshly. “Given how much you hate me, I’m surprised you came to find me at all, honestly.”

Darvis’s eyes narrow, and his typical scowl returns as his temper flares. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather I’d left you in here forever?”

Maybe I would, Maja thinks bitterly. She doesn’t mean it, not really- but she hates the small part of herself that does. When she doesn’t answer, Darvis scoffs and digs further into the wound. “Well? Should I start addressing you as Queen Aeducan now?”

“Ancestors, Brosca,” Marja snaps. “Does this really seem wise, given I was just very tempted to kill you?”

“Sure. But you didn’t.” He studies her face for a moment, and his scowls fades slightly as he adds, “Maybe you were tempted to stay, but you did see the truth.”

“Not soon enough.” Marja grits her teeth and forces a deep breath through her lungs. She wills her anger to flicker away, and only then does she manage to ask in a calmer voice, “How did you do it? You knew what was going on the whole time. The Fade tried to trap you, too, didn’t it? How did you see through it so quickly?”

Darvis crosses his arms, and at first Marja doesn’t expect him to answer at all. But then he sighs, and begins speaking in a gruff voice. “The demon kept trying to show me perfect things. A perfect life. But my life’s always been shit. So when it kept trying to make me happy…” He shrugs and looks down, turning a dagger over in his hand. He studies the light reflecting off the blade, and finally says, “I don’t know. I guess that’s just not possible.”

It's such an unexpected answer that it leaves Marja taken aback, unable to form a response. She turns Darvis’s words over in her mind, marveling at how strange he can be sometimes. “No offense, Brosca,” she finally says, “but that might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Darvis chuckles drily. “It’s not wrong, though, is it? I win a Proving, I get arrested. I join the Grey Wardens, they go from respected warriors to public enemies.  I see myself as an Artisan, or a Warrior, and it’s actually…this.” He waves a hand towards the hazy green sky above his head, then shrugs. “I see through it because I’ve learned not to expect that much.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Since when does right matter?” Darvis asks. For once, he’s not sniping or sarcastic; it’s simply a matter-of-fact statement. “It’s fucking Orzammar.”

“Still. You...you deserve better.” Darvis doesn’t say anything in response; he just frowns deeply and turns his face back towards the sky. He looks almost contemplative, and for a brief moment it’s difficult to reconcile that look with the sour, scowling man Marja has come to know. The hazy glimmer of the Fade sky reflects oddly off his hair, turning it briefly dark red- just like the dwarven girl who appeared to halt his attack.

“That spirit…” Marja asks carefully. “It was pretending to be your sister?”

The thoughtful look disappears as Darvis starts and glares at her, suspicion coloring his voice as his answers. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” Marja searches for what to say, tries to untangle the complicated web of thoughts spinning in her head. She's seen Darvis fight, but she's never seen him drop a weapon as quickly as he did the second he saw his sister’s face. “She’s lucky to have a brother like you, you know."

Darvis only stares at her, and Marja wonders if she pushed this just a step too far. But then he looks away, and in a quiet voice says,  "It's more the other way around, really."

"Still. I wish my brothers had been more like you.”

“That’s just the Fade talking," he replies with a dismissive snort. "If your brothers were anything like me, you actually would have murdered them.”

“I’m being nice,” Marja insists, although she’s unable to fight back the smallest of smiles. “Don’t be an ass.”

“An ass?” Darvis raises his voice in mock outrage. “Shit, Princess, what kind of language is that? That’s no way for a sodding proper Noble to talk.”

Marja rolls her eyes, determined not to give him the satisfaction of laughing. But her smile does grow, and from the smirk on his face he seems to count that as a victory. With a shake of her head, Marja turns her gaze to the hazy islands floating in the distance, and the reality of their mission has a sobering effect.

“The others are here, too, aren’t they?” she asks.

Darvis pauses, his eyes scanning the same hazy horizon, then reluctantly nods. “They gotta be.”

“Then our next step is to find them. If we’re all together, we’ll be able to figure out how to escape.” The problem in her simple plan is immediately apparent, and Marja sighs. “Although I have no idea how we’ll go about finding them.”

“I have a way…” Darvis says slowly. “But you might not like it.”

Before Marja can ask what in the world that is supposed to mean, Darvis takes a step back from her, closes his eyes, and then-

Then he’s gone, and there is a rat on the ground in front of her.

“What in the name of…”

There’s a shift in the air, and then Darvis is standing in front of her again, wearing an expression that might be apologetic if it weren’t also so amused. “I can move around the Fade in that form. I could probably teach you. I’m pretty sure it’s our only option.”

Marja closes her eyes and brings a hand to her temples, and tries not to dwell on how in such a short time she’s somehow gone from queen to literal rat.

“Look, Princess, I know it’s not exactly glamorous-”

“No, I can do it. If I need to, I can do it.” Marja takes a deep breath. “But I think I really hate the Fade.”

Chapter Text

If he’s being completely honest, Darvis doesn’t actually know where he’s going. He thinks he can sense Alistair somewhere nearby…maybe. Hopefully. But the Fade has more twists and turns than a Dust Town alley, and being a rat doesn’t exactly help his sense of direction. Even so, he thinks he’s going the right way. Something feels different in this part of the dream world, at least, and it’s not much, but this vague sense of intuition is the best lead he has.

The fog in the air clears as he follows that feeling, and after a long series of tunnels Darvis finally passes through a twisted stone arch that widens out into a clearing- a clearing where an actual person is pacing in circles, and Darvis has never been so glad to see a stranger.

He releases the rat form and Marja follows suit, her expression twisted into a mask of immense distaste.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she mutters. “Ancestors, how do surfacers put up with this every night?”

Somehow, Darvis resists the urge to poke fun at the princess’s discomfort. There’ll be time for that later, when the memories of her insistent dreams and messed up family are a little less fresh. For now, he gives her a moment to shake off the vertigo before pointing ahead at the figure he’s found. “Come on. Somebody’s here.”

The somebody in question has noticed their presence, and is already scrambling backwards in fear. It’s a bit comforting to see that, actually; Darvis had been worried this was another Fade trick, but even in the illusions he’s never seen a spirit look so terrified.

“What is this? Who are you?” the stranger demands. His eyes are wide and underlined with dark circles, and he stares at Marja and Darvis from beneath of mop of shaggy black hair. Even in the Fade, he wears the robes of a Circle mage, and Darvis realizes he’s seen him before- as a prone body lying on a stone floor, beneath the shadow of a lumbering demon.

“Niall?” Darvis guesses, and the mage takes another step back.

“Who are you?” he repeats.

Daris and Marja exchange a quick look, and Marja sighs. “That’s a bit of long story. But we’re here to help.”

“This is incredible,” Niall murmurs to himself. He’d maintained a cautious distance through the first half of Marja’s story, but now he finally seems convinced that she and Darvis aren’t secretly spirits in disguise, and his caution has turned to some strange kind of scholarly interest. There is a wonder in his eyes as he regards the two of them, and Darvis shifts uncomfortably under his stare. “Dwarva in the Fade.”

“Yeah,” Darvis sighs, crossing his arms. “We get to be part of the dream-world. Lucky us. Mind telling us how we’re supposed to wake up?”

The fascination drains from Niall’s face as he is reminded of the important issue at hand. “I wish I knew. We’re in the trap of a Sloth Demon. Even as we speak, it’s feeding on us. This one is powerful, and it’s only getting stronger. I’ve never dealt with anything like this.”

“But we can kill it, can’t we?” Marja asks. “Demons can be defeated, however strong they think they are. And killing it would stop whatever spell it’s put us under, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Niall answers. “I think so. But…” He glances down as his cheeks redden with embarrassment. “I’ve been too afraid to try. I know my way around artifacts and research, but I’m no fighter. Honestly, I should have known something like this would happen- serves me right for trying to play the hero, I guess.”

“You’re talking about the Litany, right?” Marja prods. “You had a plan to use it.”

Niall nods, still looking miserable. “I thought I could save the whole tower, but I can’t even face one demon, let alone Uldred’s army.”

“But you did find the Litany?” Marja presses, and Niall nods again.

“I have it- it’s in my bag, back in the real world. I’m no use fighting, but at least all those years in the library paid off.”

For the first time since leaving her rat form, Marja smiles. “Then thanks to you, we have a plan to face Uldred. And we can get out of here, Niall, I promise. Once we find our friends, the demon won’t stand a chance- and I’ll bet you can help with that, too.”

She’s putting on that ‘inspirational’ voice that normally makes Darvis want to roll his eyes, but her words have the desired effect on Niall. The mage straightens his back, and he looks a little less nervous as he nods back at Marja. “Yes, I can- I can help. I think I know how this demon works by now, and with enough concentration I should be able to pinpoint other dreamers.”

“We both had our heads messed with in these demon traps,” Darvis says. “Is that what’s happening to all of them?”

“Probably,” Niall admits. “I was like that, too, for a bit. I think being a mage helped me break through. Maybe the dwarven resistance also helps…although I would think the demon wouldn’t have any influence on you at all…maybe the demon being strong enough to enter the physical world changed it’s Fade connection? But no, even that would require ripping a hole through the Veil, and if these were actual dreams…maybe I’m missing a factor, would you mind describing-”

“Maybe another time?” Marja asks, a hint of impatience finally breaking through her polite veneer, and Niall ceases his distracted muttering.

“Right. Not important right now. But yes, your friends may not be quite themselves when you find them. But I’ve made this place something of an anchor point for myself. If I can summon them here, it should protect them as well. I’ll just need you to make them aware enough that I can establish a connection for the summoning. Fair warning, it may be dangerous- spirits don’t like to give up their prey once they’ve started feeding, and the spell will only be strong enough to send one of you at a time.”

Marja looks to Darvis. “None of this means much to me- does that sound like it will work?”

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re better than I am at this Fade stuff, aren’t you?” she responds, and Darvis has to look away to hide his surprise at hearing her admit that so readily. He doubts she notices; she merely continues to sound impatient as she continues, “You’ve got at least some grasp on how this magic works, which is more than I can say. If you think this will work, we’ll do it.”

She waits for an answer, and finally, Darvis gives a curt nod. “Yeah. We’ve killed spirits before; we can do it again if we have to. And it’s the best shot we’ve got.”

“Give me a moment to prepare,” Niall says, “and we can begin.”

“The sooner the better. We need to get our friends out of this demon’s clutches,” Marja says, an edge creeping into her voice. Darvis understands her resolve; he’s been trying hard not to dwell on the spirit that wore Rica’s terrified face, or the spirit that used Morrigan’s voice to whisper poison in his ear, or the fact that every moment he’s in this place he risks the chance of yet another spirit worming its way through his mind. He’s certain Marja is thinking similar thoughts as he watches anger flash in her eyes. “And then we need to take this thing down. It has a lot to answer for.”

“Damn right it does,” Darvis mutters, and Marja gives him a grim smile as together they wait for Niall to begin the ritual.

“Alistair? Come inside, dinner’s on the table!”

“Already?” Alistair calls back, and Goldanna nods and beckons him forward. With a smile on his face, Alistair turns back to his nephew. “Guess we’ll have to pick this up later.”

“But I was having fun!” his nephew protests, a small wooden knight still clutched in his hand.

Alistair shakes his head and rises to his feet. “We’ll have more fun later! But you don’t want to keep your mother waiting, do you?”

His nephew pouts, until Alistair swoops down and snatches him up, swinging him around until the boy shrieks with laughter. His complaints forgotten, the boy runs into the house after his mother, and Alistair happily follows. Inside, Goldanna is already passing a bowl of greens around the table, with various levels of protest from her children. She hushes them all with a look before handing the bowl to Duncan, who smiles as Alistair takes a seat beside him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Alistair says, “but the kids wouldn’t rest until I played a game of knights and dragons.”

“It is no trouble,” Duncan replies with an indulgent chuckle. “They are excited to see you, after all. And I enjoyed the chance to exchange stories with your sister.”

“Gossiping about me, were you?” Alistair asks in a wry tone, but Duncan’s answer is cut off as the door slams open and a new visitor steps inside.

“Alistair!” The visitor shouts, and for a moment Alistair is utterly baffled as to why this dwarven woman in heavy armor is barging into his sister’s house and shouting his name. But as he stares at her, a faint tickle stirs at the back of his brain, that feeling of knowing he forgot something but not remembering what he forgot.

“Alistair?” she repeats. She lingers in the doorway, glancing around at the people filling the room. Her gaze lingers for a long moment on Duncan before she tears her eyes away and focuses once more on Alistair. “It’s me, Marja. We’re Grey Wardens, and we’re friends. Remember?”

And just like that, it all falls into place- of course, of course invited Marja to this dinner! He beams brightly and waves her forward. “Marja! I was just wondering when you’d finally get here, isn’t that a marvelous coincidence? Come on in, we were all just about to enjoy some dinner.”

Marja takes a slow step forward, her brow furrowed. Goldanna rushes forward to offer her a plate, but Marja sidesteps the woman and gives Alistair another questioning glance. “Wait, who…”

Right- how silly of Alistair, not to introduce everyone right away! “Oh, this is my sister, Goldanna! And her children! With things so quiet these days, I figured it was the perfect time for a nice family visit.” He grins and motions to the man next to him. “Duncan came along too, of course, and now you! I’ve invited the other Wardens, as well- you know, Grigor and the rest. They’re on their way, and then it’ll be all my favorite people in one place!”

The news doesn’t seem to make Marja as excited as it should. All she says is, “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

Alistair frowns, trying to remember. Surely he’s mentioned Goldanna before? His family is so close, after all. But they haven’t always been, have they? “No…you wouldn’t, I guess. We…”

“I grew up in Denerim,” Goldanna interjects, beaming over at Alistair. “We finally reunited after the Grey Wardens defeated the Blight. Now we can be a big happy family again, just like we were always meant to be.”

“I thought Grey Wardens didn’t have families,” Marja answers, her tone still stony, and Alistair feels a twinge of annoyance. Why can’t she just be happy for him?

“Those are rules from harsher times,” Duncan says, echoing Alistair’s thoughts. “The Blight is over. The Wardens are at peace. Now, we can rest, and enjoy the victory we have earned.”

Marja gives Duncan a long look, her expression as unreadable as ever. But Alistair thinks he detects a small, strange hint of reluctance- such an odd attitude for such a happy occasion- as she turns away from the older Warden. “Alistair…I’m sorry. I am. But we need to go.”

“Go where?” Alistair asks. “Everything we need is right here.”

“We still have a duty to uphold. Remember? The archdemon is coming, and we need to stop it.”

Yes, Alistair remembers the dragon from his dreams, and the memory sends a shiver down his spine. He stands abruptly from his chair, pacing across the room. “No. The darkspawn are gone. Everybody here is perfectly safe.”

“It’s true,” Duncan confirms, and Alistair shoots Marja a smug look. Because Duncan would know, wouldn’t he? If Duncan says everything is all right…

“You know the truth,” Marja insists, not even sparing Duncan another glance, and Alistair’s previous annoyance returns with a vengeance.

“Aren’t you listening to me? The Blight is defeated, the darkspawn are gone! Isn’t that a good thing? I don’t want to spend my life fighting, you know!”

“I know, Alistair, but-”

“And I don’t want to end up in the Deep Roads, either!” he continues, his frustration exploding, spilling out like blood on the battlefield. “Or on some tainted field in the middle of nowhere with a pile of rotting darkspawn corpses, with nobody left who’s going to even miss me!”

Saying the words is like releasing a breath he’d never realized he was holding, and it leaves Alistair oddly exhausted. He heaves a deep sigh and looks away, embarrassed at his outburst. He’s always been too emotional, too prone to buckling under pressure, but he’s never been so blatant about the fact. He waits for the scolding that he knows is coming, but instead he feels a cautious hand on his arm.

“Is that what you think will happen to you?” Blinking away angry tears, Alistair sees Marja at his side. She waits for an answer, and when none comes her grip tightens and her mouth takes on a determined edge. “I won’t let that happen, Alistair. Not to my friend. I swear it.”

Alistair’s throat goes thick, and it takes him a moment to be able to answer. “…Thank you.”

“But we do have to leave. Quickly. I’m sorry.”

Alistair blinks, and he looks back to the others in the room. He’d almost forgotten they were here, and-

And that’s odd, isn’t it? He blinks again and rubs his eyes, trying to shake away the fuzzy sensation he’s just now noticed has filled his mind. Goldanna seems to notice that something is amiss, and she steps forward with a smile. Alistair sees traces of himself in her face- when they first met, they’d laughed about that, about how similar they looked.

Hadn’t they? It’s getting harder to remember.

“Don’t you want some of that mince pie before you go?” Goldanna asks, bright and hopeful, as if Alistair hadn’t just nearly had a breakdown in her kitchen.

“No,” Marja says firmly. “We’re leaving.”

Her words earn a pleading look from Goldanna, who reaches out as if to grab at Alistair. But he takes a step away, as more and more pieces fall into place. The Blight, their mission, the Circle tower…

“Yes,” Alistair says, and he can hear Marja breath a sigh of relief. “Yes, I think we are. I’m starting to remember…”

Goldann’s happy face suddenly curls into a snarl, and she seizes Alistair’s arm roughly. “You remember nothing.”

Alistair yanks his arm away, stumbling backwards, and he curses himself for ever being so stupid as to fall for this. He draws his sword, points it at the creature, and wills his voice not to shake as he speaks. “No. I remember demons.”

The thing which was never his sister hisses and launches itself at him, but Alistair is ready. It’s not her, he reminds himself, and with that in mind he’s able to meet the demon’s claws with his blade.

What he’s not ready for is Duncan joining the attack. The sight of Duncan, of all people, bearing down on him with a sword, is almost too much. But before the Warden can reach him, Marja is there to cleave it in two with her axe. She glances back at Alistair and gives him a firm nod.

The two of them make short work of the demons, but even knowing full well that it was all fake, Alistair can’t shake off a feeling of grief as Goldanna’s house dissolves into dust around him. Worse still, he can feel Marja watching him, and he just knows she’s going to have questions.

But she doesn’t ask any of them, Instead, she explains in a rush something about a mage and summoning and gathering everyone together, and Alistair doesn’t have much time to decipher her meaning before a strange glow envelops his body and the world around him begins to spin.

The symphony I see, it whispers songs to me-

The rack beneath Zevran creaks as it turns, and he grits his teeth as it pulls on already strained muscles.

“I think I saw him flinch that time,” one of figures standing over him laughs, and Zevran bites his tongue and closes his eyes. His joints are all but singing with pain now, but he shushes his fiery nerves and distances himself from the moment.

How did that poem go again? It’s right on the tip of his tongue…ah, yes!

Songs of hot breath upon my neck-

Another creak, another pull. Something pops, but Zevran focuses on the words, not the feelings. Never the feelings.

Another soft laugh from above. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

Is that a promise? Zevran almost asks, but as he opens his mouth the rack creaks again and he must clench his teeth together to prevent a cry from escaping.

Enough of that, he orders himself. He will not give these men the satisfaction of breaking him so easily. He is a Crow. Or, he will be a Crow, after he proves his strength. It is only a bit of torture. Zevran has withstood worse, and he knows how to distance himself from the inconvenience of physical pain. Back to the poetry. How did that recitation end?

“Get away from him!”

Shouts ring out above, and Zevran’s eyes flutter open just in time to see a look of dismay on his associate’s faces. There is more shouting, and weapons are drawn, but Zevran is tied too tightly to watch as they run off and away from their posts.

The sounds of a distant struggle do reach his ears, however, and as he analyzes the noise of clanging metal, he also picks up on curses being shouted in an oddly familiar voice. Before he can place it, he senses someone approach the rack once more. Something tugs at his restraints, and Zevran braces himself for another flash of pain.

Oddly enough, the pain never comes. Instead, the restraints fall away.

Zevran rises cautiously, rubbing at his wrists, still tense and ready to retaliate against whatever new tactic this is that the Crows are employing against him. He glances up at his- his rescuer?- and is surprised to see that the man before him isn’t a Crow at all.

“What the blazes is all this about?” the dwarf demands as he moves to the other side of the rack. His knife flashes as he brings it down, and Zevran tenses once more, but he merely slices through the restraints around Zevran’s legs.

“You…are not supposed to be here,” Zevran says, his brow furrowing as he studies the dwarf. He knows this man, doesn’t he? He does, he is certain. Zevran never forgets a face…he just can’t seem to place this one at the moment.

Is this another part of his test?

“None of us are supposed to be here,” the man grumbles, and with the last of the restraints cut away, he steps back and motions Zevran forward. “Come on, let’s get out of here before those spirits come back.”

Zevran doesn’t move. He has no idea why the Crows would test him like this, but the Masters have no limits to the tricks up their sleeves. “I know nothing of spirits, but I can assure you that Crows travel in flocks. Whatever you have done with my associates, more will be here soon.”

“Your associates?” the dwarf repeats. His brows furrow as he stares at Zevran in disbelief. “What do you- you know what, we don’t have time to get into that right now. Don’t you want to escape before they come back?”

“Ah, so this is a tactic to trick me into letting my guard down, is it?” Zevran flashes the dwarf a smile and shakes his head. “A fine performance, my friend. Does this mean the endurance part of the tests is over? Have we moved on to loyalty?”

The dwarf just stares at him for a moment, before groaning and muttering to himself, “And I thought the Carta was fucked up.”

Zevran tilts his head curiously. The Carta? This…this does not add up. But before he can investigate further, the dwarf’s eyes snap back to him, and in a louder voice he says, “Listen up. You already failed at loyalty or whatever it is you’re going on about. You failed your mission and joined up with your marks, and if you see any Crows again they’re gonna try to kill you. So if you really think they’re showing up soon, that means we should get out of here, doesn’t it?”

Failed his mission? No, that cannot be correct. Zevran is still in training, and he must not fall for such traps if he is to graduate from his apprenticeship. Especially when the lies are as obvious as this; if Taleisen ever got wind that Zevran had so easily believed something so ridiculous…

Taleisen.

The thought leads down a winding trail of memories that grips Zevran’s mind like a noose. His missions, Taleisen-

Rinna.

Zevran closes his eyes against the barrage of images which suddenly flood his mind. It hits him all in one instant, and not for the first time Zevran is glad for the training the Crows put him through, however rigorous it was. He remains silent as everything he’s done since earning that coveted Crow membership so many years ago comes rushing back.

“Zev…?” Darvis’s voice breaks through the memories, his former frustration replaced by a hint of concern. Zevran realizes his silence has lasted a touch too long, and he pushes himself to open his eyes again and give Darvis a careless, breezy smile.

“Deepest apologies for the lapse in memories, my friend, but my senses have returned. But that was bracing, wasn’t it? I assure you, there is nothing like a good racking to make one feel refreshed!”

“You can’t be serious right now,” Darvis mutters. His eyes follow Zevran with undisguised wariness as the assassin hops up from the rack, taking care to force a spring into his step.

“What is the matter? This is not the first time I have been tied up, I’ll have you know, and I do hope it will not be the last.” Zevran is quite pleased by how steady his voice is, so much so that he nearly does not notice as an odd tingling spreads through his fingers. It is only when it reaches his elbow that he glances down, concerned.

“Hm…this, however, is new.”

“Yeah, like I said, I don’t have much time to explain,” Darvis says hurriedly. “Just listen to the mage, he’ll tell you what’s going on. And…” he trails off, falling quiet even though he obviously wants to say something more.

Zevran gives him another easy smile. “And don’t fall into any more spirit lures? Don’t you worry, I shall be on my highest guard from here on.”

Leliana’s favorite thing about the Chantry has always been the music.

It washes over her now, soothing her nerves, filling her mind with a peace she has never known anywhere else. She kneels in front of the altar, below Andraste’s watchful eyes, and bows her head as she softly sings along to the calming rhythm of the Chant.

“Bessed art thou who exists in the sight of the Maker. Blessed art thou who seeks his forgiveness.”

The words find a home in her heart, and they chase away every bad memory.

“Leliana?”

The sound of her name, muddled and distant, almost breaks through her meditation. Leliana stumbles over the words of the Chant, but the serenity washes over her again and she picks up where she left off.

“Blessed art thou-”

“Leliana!”

The voice is louder this time, and Leliana opens her eyes. She rises to her feet just in time to see a woman approaching- a dwarven woman, with desperate eyes and pale hair pulled back into a fraying braid. There is something…odd about seeing her here, although Leliana cannot put her finger on the reason why. She is about to ask if the woman needs help when a soft, firm hand appears on her shoulder.

“I beg you,” the Revered Mother says, looking sternly down at the newcomer, “do not disturb our meditations. This girl needs to clear her mind.”

The dwarven woman pays the Mother no heed; her eyes are fixed only on Leliana. “Thank the Ancestors I found you. Leliana, do you remember who I am?”

The sound of her name on this stranger’s lips brings on another odd feeling of…something. Something familiar, and the feeling grows stronger the longer Leliana looks at her. It's the way she speaks with such deliberation. The light freckles dotting her cheeks. Her serious grey eyes. Entranced, Leliana takes a step forward, only to be held in place by the Revered Mother’s grip.

“Leliana, do not vex yourself with such things. What you need is quiet and solitude, to calm your mind and heal your heart.”

“This conversation does not involve you.” The venom with which the woman speaks to the Revered Mother leaves Leliana speechless, but the woman barely seems to notice. She simply glares at the Mother with surprising anger, before her gaze softens as it returns to Leliana. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But…it isn’t real. You left the cloister. Remember?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” the Mother snaps. “She knows how harsh the world is, but here she has found a place of refuge. Why would she ever wish to leave?”

But Leliana is already stepping away, wrestling out of the Mother’s grip. The woman’s words echo in her head, and something returns to her mind as if from a dream. “There was a sign…”

The Mother’s eyes narrow. “No. We have discussed this sign of yours, haven’t we? The Maker does not care to interfere with the affairs of mortals. To think you received a sign is nothing more than hubris-”

“That’s enough.” The woman’s voice is cold and commanding, and she moves to stand between Leliana and the Mother. The Mother scowls down at her but the woman stands firm, an axe in her hand, and perhaps Leliana should protest the presence of weapons in the Chantry, but-

But the woman glances back at her, and in a quiet, insistent voice says, “You know what you believe, Leliana. I’ve heard you tell this story so many times.” Her mouth twitches into a hint of a smile as she adds, “Even when people didn’t want to listen. I’ve never seen you waver. You know what the truth is here, don’t you?”

The thoughts are flooding back now. Her dream- her vision- is blossoming in her mind as clear as day. The darkness, the Blighted land, the rosebush!

“I do,” Leliana whispers. The music playing in the back of her mind increases in volume, but she shakes her head and blocks it out. Lothering doesn’t have music- not like this. This is the music of pipe organs and grand choirs- the music of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. Lothering was simpler than that, but Leliana had loved it still, had been sorry to leave-

But she had left, just like the woman said. And now…now Lothering is gone.

Grief curdles within Leliana’s chest, but alongside it is anger. She does not know what is happening, and she does not know who this person pretending to be the Revered Mother is, but she knows one thing- this creature has no right to twist her memories against her like this.

“Okay. I believe I trust you…Marja.” The name comes unbidden, but as soon as she says it, it feels so right that Leliana can’t believe she ever forgot. Marja’s face glows with relief, and Leliana can’t explain the warmth that fills her in response. She looks back to the Mother, and in as firm a voice as she can muster says, “I will be leaving now.”

The Mother stares back at her, the false concern disappearing from her face. Around them, the trappings of the Chantry- the statues, the candlelight, the stone archways- dissolve into fog. The illusion of the Mother disappears with it, and the creature that is left standing in front of Leliana is all teeth and claws and gaping black eyes. “You are going nowhere, girl. I will not permit it.”

“You don’t get a say in this!” Marja shouts, and she launches herself forward, axe held aloft. But the creature is quick, and it dodges the blade and appears again behind Leliana, craning its long neck to whisper in her ear.

“She must stay. This one still has much to atone for. Don’t you, my sweet Leliana?” It’s voice is different now- it is a voice Leliana has not heard in years but one she recognizes instantly, and it sends chills down her spine.

And it triggers instincts inside her in a way nothing else has. In one quick motion, Leliana jabs her elbow into the creature’s gut and spins around, twisting the monster’s arm and forcing it away from her. Her hands fly to the bow that she knows is secured on her back. The creature hisses and rushes toward her, but it is too slow. Leliana’s arrow finds its neck, and it collapses into dust before her eyes.

Leliana is left frozen, still sorting through the tangles of her mind as the day’s events come rushing back. The only thing that pulls her back to the moment is, once again, Marja’s voice. “Leliana? Are you okay?”

Leliana closes her eyes, gathers her thoughts, and lowers her bow. When she speaks, her voice is light, but still shaky. “I feel like I’ve been trapped in a terrible nightmare.”

“That makes sense,” Marja says with a deep sigh. “I never want to dream again.”

In spite of herself, Leliana chuckles, and she…she remembers this, too. The way being around Marja makes her feel just a little bit better. She reaches out to her, but stops as her hand become enveloped in an odd light. “What…?”

Marja snaps back to her commanding posture. “There’s a mage who’s helping us. He can explain all of this. We don’t have much time right now, but I- I’ll see you again when we’re ready to fight the demon.”

There are so many questions Leliana wants to ask, but she can feel herself being pulled away, and she knows she only has time for that which is most important.

“Thank you,” she says quickly, and before she fades, she leans down swiftly and presses a kiss to Marja’s lips. “For everything.”

Chapter Text

Sten sits near the campfire, letting the flames remind him of the Par Vollen’s warmth as he rests his aching bones. The heat is a welcome comfort in this foreign land, as are the voices of his bickering brothers-in-arms. They are arguing about dinner, he thinks, and whose turn it is to cook. They speak in Qunlat, and Sten revels in the familiar words and phrases which he has not heard in so long.

There is nothing particularly special about the moment; it is simply a nice night, and Sten is content. After everything that has happened, he has almost forgotten that feeling. It’s a relief, in a way, to know he’s still capable of it, even if only as a memory.

He is not surprised when Marja appears.

“Shanedan,” he says by way of greeting when she steps out of the fog, weapon in hand.

“Sten?” The sound of the name rather than the title is odd here, amongst his brothers, as are the clumsy vowels of the Trade Tongue. “Do you remember who I am?”

Instead of answering, Sten turns to his brothers, cutting through their banter with a shout. “Parshaara! We have a guest. Make room at the fire.”

“I know this will sound- wait, what are you doing?”

“Having dinner, obviously,” Sten says, patting the place next to him. Marja watches warily, and although she takes a few steps closer, she does not sit. Good. She is smart enough not to let her guard down, even when caution is unnecessary. Sten has always appreciated that about her.

“You are welcome to stay,” he says evenly, taking a bowl from his pack. “Though I don’t suggest you eat anything the karashok cooks.”

“It’s not my fault there’s no food in this miserable, frozen country,” Karashok grumbles, still speaking in Qunlat. He gives Sten a beseeching look. “We’ve been days in this place and there’s no sign of any threat. Clearly, the arishok’s report was wrong. Can we not go home?”

Perhaps this is why Sten’s mind has insisted upon returning to this moment, despite the lack of significance he’d given the conversation at the time. This, after all, is the decision that could have changed everything. But even now, Sten knows that nothing can truly change.

“No.”

Karashok sighs, but he turns back to his conversation without further protest. Sten’s gaze returns to Marja, who has been watching the exchange with a furrowed expression.

“Sten…” she says slowly. “I’m sorry, but-”

“This is a dream,” Sten interrupts, and her eyes widen. “I’m not a fool, Warden. I remember.”

He wishes he didn’t, but he does. He remembers the stench of the darkspawn swarm that found his group near Lake Calenhad. He remembers the desperation of the fight that followed. He remembers the sight of Karashok’s head being sliced from his body by a hurlock’s rusted greatsword.

“You mean you know? You know that they’re demons?”

Sten sighs deeply at the question, letting his gaze drip back to where the karashoks laugh and chatter.

“This is a dream,” he says again. “But it is a good dream.”

There is a moment of quiet, and Sten wonders if there is a chance Marja will simply turn and leave him here. But of course, she does not; rather, she comes closer and rests a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just another cage, Sten. Like in Lothering.”

Her voice is soft, gentle, as if she understands. But she does not. She cannot. She is bas, and she will never understand what it is that Sten has lost.

“Even if it is,” Sten bites out, “what awaits beyond this cage? Nothing, and no one. I cannot return home. I cannot complete my mission. I am no longer even a Sten of the Beresaad.”

There is a brief pause, and then the question that Sten has been dreading. “What happened?”

Sten grimaces, turning away from Marja to stare at his brothers. Marja is, in a way, his commander now. She has a right to know. That fact does not make the memories any easier. “I told you I was sent here,” Sten begins in an steady voice. “I was not sent alone. I came with my brothers of the Beresaad to seek knowledge about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe…until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad.”

A shudder threatens to creep through him then, but Sten forces it down, willing himself to remain strong. “They came from everywhere- the darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, but it was far too late. I fell.”

“I don’t know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead, nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I woke, I was no longer among my brothers, and my sword was gone from my hand. I searched for it, and when that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it. They said they found me with nothing.”

She should not need to ask what comes next. She knows, has known since she took him from his fate in Lothering. She asks, anyway. “And then? You…”

“I killed them. With my bare hands.” Those very hands are shaking now, but Sten clenches them into fists so the tremors will not be noticed. This is the worst part of the story, he knows; not only for the loss of innocent lives, but for the loss of all control and rational thought. Death is one thing; to die in the name of something greater than oneself is nothing but an honor. But the deaths Sten delivered that day were thoughtless, panicked, pointless, and in that there is nothing but shame. “I knew they did not have the blade. But I struck them down, and I cannot justify it.”

“That’s why you didn’t resist when they arrested you?” Marja asks, and Sten lets his silence serve as his answer. Marja releases a deep breath, processing the tale, her shrewd eyes studying him all the while. “I- I don’t understand you, Sten.”

To explain these values to a bas is futile, but Sten tries all the same. “That sword was made for my hand alone. I have carried it from the day I was sent into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Without it, they would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath. Without my sword, I am nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Marja insists, as Sten knew she would.

He merely shakes his head. “It is as you said. You do not understand.”

“It’s just a…” she begins, but she stops herself from finishing the thought. She chews at her lips for a moment, apparently deep in thought, then nods and says, “Okay. Then let’s find your sword.”

Sten frowns. “If I knew where it was-”

“You lost it near the lake. We have a place to start.” When she receives no response, Marja sighs. “I can’t make a promise here, I know. But…I can try. I still don’t understand why this is so important, and what you did was awful. But…you’ve come this far with us. If this is what you need, then we’ll do it.”

It is a rare moment that leaves Sten without a ready response, but now he finds himself at a loss for words. The oath of a bas means little, this he knows- but thus far he has not been betrayed. It is highly unlikely that anything will come of this promise, but the fact that it was made means something all the same.

“Thank you,” Sten says quietly, and Marja nods again.

“I’ll keep my word if you keep yours.” She stands from her seat around the fire and motions to the distant fog. “There’s still a Blight out there. Are you ready to return to the fight?”

“Yes.” Sten casts one last look at his brothers, and is not surprised to find their eyes fixed on him.

“Leaving so soon?” Karashok asks, still in Qunlat, and Sten wonders whether this will be the last time he hears his native tongue spoken by another.

“I must.”

Karashok releases a long breath, and as he does, his appearance shimmers and unfurls, revealing the smoky mirage of the spirit within. “Very well. We will see you again, though you may not see us.”

Marja tenses at Sten’s side, her hand going to the weapon, but the spirits that have gathered drift away without incident.

“They’re not attacking?” she whispers, confused, and one of the spirits halts for a moment to regard her and Sten with wide, depthless eyes.

“Not all spirits wish destruction,” it tells them. “Grief has its place, as do all things. You can try to slay us, and still we shall fade and return as fate dictates. But for now, we leave you here.”

Sten shudders as the creature passes through him. Now that the temptations have lost their trimmings, he can hardly believe he was so taken with the false image they provided. He will need to discuss this all with an ashkaari when he returns to Par Vollen. If he returns.

That thought is only further supported when the shudder turns into a tingling that overtakes his body, and Sten finds himself whisked away in a flash of magical light.

The air in the Fade is thick and heavy, almost humid- a decent enough imitation of the swamps in the Korcari Wilds, Morrigan must admit. Familiar knotted trees twist up from the ground to form a willowy canopy above her mother’s hut, and the sun filters through the leaves to cast a green-tinted light over her surroundings.

But she can see through the illusions. It would be an embarrassment if she could not; she knows the feel of the Fade, and she cannot be easily duped by some demonic spell. Especially when the demon who has latched onto her is so appallingly inept.

“Won’t you come in and sit by the fire with me, dear?” the spirit simpers. It has taken on Flemeth’s appearance well enough, with her wispy gray hair and raspy voice measuring perfectly against Morrigan’s memories. Her behavior, however, leaves much to be desired.

“Away with you!” Morrigan snaps, pushing the spirit back. She strides towards the forest, pressing out with her senses against the boundaries of this illusion. The spirit pestering her is of little consequence; the sloth demon is where the true threat lies, but try as she might, Morrigan cannot determine its location. Whenever she tries, the Fade resists her efforts, the magic in the air pushing hot and thick against her skin and filling her head with fog.

It is most maddening, and the insistent spirit following at her heels does not help matters in the slightest.

“My dear, you don’t want to go out at this hour-”

“I said, away!” Morrigan snarls, sending a blast of ice towards the creature. Attacking, she has learned, does not help rid herself of this particular spirit; the thing merely disappears for a short while, hiding from her ire until it gathers the courage to pester her once more. But it is satisfying to send the spirit running, and it provides Morrigan a few blissful moments of peace before it returns.

With Flemeth’s imitation gone, Morrigan turns her attention back to the Fade. She does not understand why escape is so difficult; the Veil should be thin here at the Circle, with so much magic gathered in one place. But every time Morrigan attempts to push back her fake world, the uncomfortable heat returns and sets her head throbbing, leaving her no choice but to return to the hut.

And to the spirit wearing Flemeth’s face. Morrigan scowls as it appears before her once more, its eyes wide in a mockery of sorrow.

“Is this any way to treat your poor mother? Do you not love me, my dear?”

Anger spikes within Morrigan- perhaps more than is warranted. This creature is merely rooting through her mind, picking at wounds, and she should not let it affect her so. She knows this, and yet for a moment her thoughts of escape are forgotten as she turns to the spirit in a fury.

“You are as much my mother as my finger here is the queen of Ferelden,” Morrigan sneers, thrusting her middle finger toward the spirit. “I know what you are. You cannot fool me. So begone.”

The spirit pauses in the face of Morrigan’s rising anger, and something in its expression shifts. “You think yourself more clever than your own mother, girl?” It asks, its voice taking on a harsher tone. It lurches forward, and before Morrigan can react she is met with the sharp sting of a slap against her face.

Morrigan’s head snaps to the side, and for a moment she is left speechless. She is not hurt- she has endured far worse than this- but she is, for the first time, truly reminded of what it was like to be back home.

“That is far more like it, spirit,” she says, forcing a chuckle from her lips. “But it is too little, too late.”

“Morrigan!”

The shout echoes through the Fade clearing, and Morrigan had not realized just how hazy her mind had gone until a single word from that voice clears her thoughts. She turns on her heel to find Darvis stepping out of the smoke, his blades drawn and his glare fixed on the spirit.

The spirit is just as startled, and a hiss sounds out near Morrigan’s ear. “Stone-Child!”

Darvis runs forward, but Morrigan is quicker. She takes advantage of the spirit’s distraction and unleashes a torrent of ice that tears through its façade. The remnants of Flemeth disappear completely, and the shimmering light of the spirit’s undulating Fade-form does not last much longer before it is shattered apart by the blast.

Finally, Morrigan thinks with no small amount of venom. She allows the power of the spell to surge, perhaps beyond what is strictly necessary, just to make certain that the spirit will not return. Her heart is racing as she watches her mother’s face whither and vanish, a fact which she attributes to the sudden release of the Fade’s weak hold upon her mind. She waits until her pulse has settled before she turns back to Darvis.

His daggers are still drawn, his eyes wide, but as he notices Morrigan’s attention he relaxes and gives her a slight nod. “You okay?”

Morrigan answers by summoning more magic to her palms and unleashing a wave of force against the ground, pushing Darvis backwards and sending him tumbling.

Curses fall from his lips as he staggers back to his feet. “What the fuck was that for?!”

A smirk crawls across Morrigan’s lips, and it’s in spite of her better sense that relief sparks within her chest. She stamps it out immediately, of course; such feelings are exactly the sort of foolishness her mother has always warned against. It is not as if she needed Darvis to come and fetch her, after all.

“Come now, ‘twas not even a powerful spell. I simply had to verify the truth of your appearance. A demon would have fought back immediately, and so now I know ‘tis truly you.” Morrigan pauses, then begrudgingly adds, “I am…pleased to see that you are unharmed.”

“Strange way to show it,” he grumbles, but Morrigan can tell by the crook in his small grin that he’s not sincerely irritated with her. “And…thanks. Same to you.”

His grin soon fades, however, and something more cautious takes its place. “Seriously, though, are you okay? Your mother-”

“That creature was most certainly not my mother,” Morrigan cuts in swiftly, determined to kill off any trace of pity within his eyes. “’Twas merely an illusion, and a rather irritating one at that. You seem to have found a way to navigate this place- have we a plan for escape?”

Darvis’s expression is still a touch too concerned for Morrigan’s liking, but he allows the matter to drop. “Oh. Yeah, I guess being a dwarf helps see through this place. The princess and I found another Circle mage trapped here, and he’s gonna help us. You’ll probably disappear in a bit- I don’t really know how that part works- but he’ll explain everything when you see him.”

“Another Circle mage?” Morrigan huffs and crosses her arms. This news may be good, in a way, but it irks her nonetheless. Any good grace she may once have had has been thoroughly drained by the spirit, and she cannot pretend otherwise.  “I tire of requiring their assistance. It is the foolish practices of the Circle and its puppets which led to this entire mess- we should not have come here in the first place.”

“We didn’t have much choice,” Darvis points out with a frown. “What else were we supposed to do?”

“We could have left them to the fate they have earned.” Morrigan is aware that she is snapping, but her frustration has boiled over, and there is no stopping it now. “Instead we chose to offer our typical daring rescue, this time to those who have complacently sat in their entrapment for years. Why do we always insist upon giving such help to those who will not help themselves? I knew the others to be soft-hearted fools, but I did hope you were not so insipid!”

Her voice gets louder as she speaks, although she does not quite realize this fact until she stops and the ensuing silence echoes heavily around her.

Darvis watches her quietly, his brow furrowed and his frown more pronounced than ever. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because no offense, but that’s a lot- even for you.”

“I am fine,” Morrigan bites out before she can reconsider. “As I told you before, I do not require your concern.”

For the briefest of moments, genuine hurt flashes across his expression, and Morrigan instantly feels a sharp stab of regret. But before she can even examine that feeling, let alone say anything else, the familiar creep of magic overtakes her body, and she is gone.

They’re all dead.

Wynne rests on her knees, sobs wracking her body as she cradles an apprentice in her arms. These are her students; they are practically her children.

And she has failed them.

The child in Wynne’s arms shifts faces as she cries. It is Miya, the newest apprentice, barely seven, who lost a tooth on her way to the Tower and speaks with a lisp. It is Lancel, the eager lad who wants to study medicinal herbs and whose Harrowing was only days away. It is Shay-

And at that, Wynne can only sob harder, clutching the lifeless child closer. Because it is Shay, the brightest student she ever taught, the one she was most proud of, the one she knew would go far in the Circle.

How could she have failed them so completely?

“Maker forgive me,” she whispers, her shoulders shaking with grief as she softly brushes a curly lock of hair away from Shay’s face. The elf’s dark skin is ashy in death, their once thoughtful eyes now dull and lifeless. Wynne remembers the shy, quiet child who arrived at the Tower so many years ago, and the grief overwhelms her once more. She welcomes that pain- it is no less than she deserves, and there is a certain peace in surrender.

Yes, a peace. Keep that feeling close. Close your eyes to everything else.

It is tempting, oh so tempting. But something pulls Wynne’s mind back to the surface: a tugging on her arm, an insistent voice in her ear. Wynne lifts her head- a slow motion, a heavy motion, yet still she manages- and sees it is Rosalind at her side. Her face is streaked with tears, her long blonde hair is a tangled mess, and she clutches at Wynne with vice-like claws.

“Shay’s not dead, Wynne! The Fade is lying to you!”

“How can you say that?” Wynne demands. “Can’t you see the death all around us?”

She tries to pull away, but Rosalind’s grip on her arm only tightens, and Wynne’s grief takes on a sharp, bitter edge. Rosalind should not be here. The reasons are lost in Wynne’s flurry of emotions, but she knows this to be true. She has always known, because Wynne has always seen the rage in this girl. She’d seen it when Rosalind was first brought to the Tower, fighting the Templars every step of the way and seething at anyone who offered help. Wynne had tried to reach her, back then. She truly had.

But the girl refused to listen, and she’d dragged Shay down with her. And Wynne…

Wynne had been blind to everything, even as it happened right under her nose. Another sob shakes through her, and she doesn’t even try to fight the tears. “Why was I spared, if not to help them? I tried to help. I tried to guide them. Why…”

“Wynne, please,” Rosalind insists. Why will this girl not leave, and allow Wynne to mourn in peace? “Wynne! Get up! That’s not Shay!”

And finally, finally, after years of guidance and concern and failure to make a difference, Wynne lashes out. She shoves Rosalind off her arm and glares at her, and though clenched teeth hisses, “Why were you spared, and not them? It should have been you who died!”

The words have the desired effect- Rosalind recoils as if she’s just been struck, releasing Wynne from her grip. Somewhere past the grief and the bitterness, Wynne feels shame over that; Rosalind had her part in the destruction wrought upon the Tower, but she is also young, and easily manipulated, and for all of her faults she does care for Shay.

Rather, she did care for Shay. But Shay is gone now, and with that reminder, the grief envelops Wynne all over again.

So young when they came to the Circle. Too young. They were timid, quiet. They clung to Wynne’s robes when frightened, and she gave them comfort. She raised them. And she failed them.

You have not failed them.

The sentiment pulses within Wynne, feather-soft and familiar with thoughts that are not her own.

But I have. They were taken. Mages do not return from Aeonar alive. Their fate is sealed, be it Templars or demons or-

You have not failed. Have faith.

The message ignites something inside of Wynne, setting off a burst of light inside of her as those words echo in her mind- have faith, have faith.

She will. She must.

With immense effort, Wynne opens her eyes once more and attempts to center herself. She is greeted first by the sight of her murdered apprentices: Petra, Kinnon, Lucille, Keili, Phineas, Marion. Their faces surround her, and Wynne cannot remember which deaths are real and which are lies. But this time she manages to hold on to that light, that piece of Faith, and with great effort she blinks again, and again, until the threads woven by the Fade become clear.

Rosalind returns to her side, and this time when she pulls at Wynne’s arm, Wynne allows herself to be hauled to her feet.

Together, they stagger through the fog and mist. The scene of death does not change, but between Rosalind’s support and Faith’s lended strength, Wynne manages to fight off the clinging tendrils of despair.

“Where are we going?” Wynne asks when she has recovered enough to speak.

She can swear she hears Rosalind heave a sigh of relief, although her tone is short as ever when she replies. “I don’t know. Away from the demons, at least.”

“Then you should allow me to lead.” Wynne’s strength is returning at a greater speed now, and soon she is able to push away from Rosalind and stand her own. “I know a thing or two about spirits. I can make sense of the Fade.”

“Where was all your sense back there, then?” Rosalind snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of master at this sort of thing?”

Wynne has to wonder how the girl can still show such pettiness after being faced with the consequences of her own actions. Still, she manages to keep her own voice steady- if sharp- as she answers. “I was momentarily overwhelmed, which I should think is understandable.” She pauses, remembering how she lashed out at the girl, and in a softer voice adds, “Even so…I should not have said what I did. For that, I apologize.”

“For that?” Rosalind snorts, averting her gaze, her shoulders still tense. “Don’t bother. It’s the only thing you’ve been right about.”

“Rosalind…”

“Oh, don’t use your ‘sweet old grandmother’ voice on me,” she spits. “I’m an evil blood mage, remember?”

Wynne scowls, the images of her fallen students still burned into her brain. “And you still do not appreciate the severity of any of this, I see. It is not wise to take death so lightly.”

“Do you really think-”

Whatever retort Rosalind has is lost as something shifts in the Fade, sending ripples through the air and setting Wynne’s nerves alight. She holds a hand up to Rosalind for silence and cranes her neck in the direction of the disturbance. “Somebody is here.”

Rosalind’s eyes are sharper than Wynne’s, and she catches sight of their visitor first. “Andraste’s ass. Is that the dwarf?”

“The dwarf has a name,” their newcomer gripes, and Wynne sees that in this case, Rosalind is correct. “And he’s a Warden, in case you forgot. I hope you didn’t forget, because honestly, I’m tired of explaining this to everyone.”

“We know who you are,” Wynne assures, and relief colors the man’s face. He launches into a much shortened explanation of the plan they have made, and Wynne nearly cries with relief upon learning that Niall not only has been found, but has succeeded in securing the Litany.

It is only as they wait for Niall’s summoning that Wynne once again takes notice of Rosalind. The girl is gazing back at the distant cloud of mist, where spirits swirl in the shapes of slain mages. But there is no sorrow in her gaze- only a blazing determination. Cautiously, Wynne reaches out to lay a hand on the girl’s shoulder, but Rosalind tenses and immediately jolts away. In that motion, Wynne once again sees the angry, lonely girl who came to the Circle so long ago, and in spite of everything she cannot fight back a pang of sympathy.

“I am grateful for your help,” Wynne says gently. Rosalind simply continues to stare out into the Fade, silent, and with a mournful sigh, Wynne continues. “But do not let the demons fool you. It is not possible that Shay…”

“Shay is alive,” Rosalind hisses, her eyes fervent and bright. “I know it. I saw the same fake bodies you did, but this was different. I really saw them. And I made them a promise. I promised them we would stay alive, too.”

A part of Wynne knows she should insist, that acceptance is the only way either of them will ever reach something close to peace. But then that light inside of her flickers again- have faith- and deep inside, Wynne knows that if anyone were clever enough to figure a way out of Aenor, if anyone were talented enough to reach across the Fade from so far away…it would be Shay Surana.

So for now, she concedes, just enough to sit in silence until Niall calls for them.

“The demon lies just ahead,” Niall whispers.

Marja takes a deep breath. It’s difficult to focus, here in the Fade. If Marja lets her attention wander for too long, whispers start to curdle in her ears again, hissing empty promises as they try to pull her back into an oblivious trance. Having the others gathered in one place again makes it easier; she can let the mages track down the demon, and turn all of her energy towards keeping her senses together.

Now that Niall has drawn her attention, however, Marja realizes that the mage is looking paler than usual. “Are you certain?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “I’ve been here so long…I’m more attuned to it now, I think.”

“This should be the center of its nest,” Wynne adds. “It will have much power here, but once it is defeated and its hold is broken, I will be able to release from the Fade.”

“Then let’s go kill this bastard already,” Rosalind snaps. She doesn’t look at her fellow mages as she says this; her eyes are fixed straight ahead, blazing with a fire that says she would be willing to charge headfirst into the demon’s nest right this second if she could. The blood mage has been acting like this ever since returning to the group, her increased impatience matching perfectly with Niall’s growing apprehension, and Marja is starting to wonder whether she should be concerned.

Of course, the mages are not the only ones acting just a bit off ever since being pulled from their dreams. Alistair wears a sheepish look upon his face, as if he still wishes to apologize for being fooled at all. Morrigan is even more snappish than usual- a feat Marja had not thought possible, and yet the witch has managed to prove her wrong. Sten and Zevran seem largely unaffected, thankfully, and Leliana…

Ancestors, but Marja can feel herself turning red just at the thought of Leliana. She desperately hopes the others do not notice, and she does her best not to meet the other woman’s eyes. It’s just too much right now, and Marja cannot form a strategy while also dealing with the swirl of emotions that one brief, chaste kiss has managed to stir inside of her. She can’t even be certain as to whether the kiss was real, or if it was the work of spirits once again delivering Marja her own wishes.

Marja hopes it was real. She very much hopes so. But pursuing the matter will have to wait, preferably for a time when she and Leliana are alone and Marja has had some time to think.

“Are we going to fight this thing or not?” Rosalind demands impatiently, and Marja shakes herself from her reveries, cursing the Fade for her wandering thoughts.

“Yes, of course we are. But if we’re going to win, we need a plan of attack.”

“And let me guess,” Darvis says, with the barest flicker of smile as the only hint that he’s not actually mocking her, “you have one?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. We’ll send in the mages to draw it out, and once it’s distracted, Leliana and Zevran will take it by surprise from behind while Alistair and I-”

Bust Marja’s words are quickly cut off as a sinister voice snakes through the air around them.

What do we have here? Rebellious minions? Escaped slaves?

The mist of the Fade swirls and solidifies until a figure is standing in front of them- impossibly tall, with rotted, musty skin and a face obscured by odd growths and tangled veins. The voice it speaks with is not truly a voice- even as its words make themselves heard in Marja’s head, the only sound escaping its gaping mouth is a halting wheeze.

You do have some gall, I admit. But playtime is over. It is time for everyone to go back to where they belong.

“Okay, new plan,” Marja says, drawing her axe. “Just kill it.”

But killing the demon turns out to be much easier said than done.

Marja charges forward with a yell, hoping to end this quickly, but the demon is gone before her axe can deliver its blow. It reappears in the distance, glowing an angry red, and then everything around Marja explodes with light. The force of the explosion sends everyone staggering in different directions, and when Marja’s vision finally returns, she finds herself lost in a whirlwind of formless spirits and wisps. The Fade creatures swirl furiously around her as the whispers filling her head suddenly grow immensely in volume.

Marja grits her teeth and blocks out their words. Her axe feels much heavier now, but she wields it all the same and cleaves through the spirits around her. To her relief, she sees some of her companions nearby- all similarly blocked by the spirits, but still standing and fending off their attackers.

“Alistair and Sten, stay focused on the Sloth Demon!” Marja shouts, hoping they can hear her. “Leliana, Zevran, Brosca, cover us while we try to get close! Anyone with magic, do something about these spirits!”

Orders given, Marja rushes through the wall of spirits, taking out as many of the attackers as possible as she barrels forward. The wisps fall easily under her axe but there are always more to come, and it is too late that Marja sees the looming shadow descend upon her.

A spindly, leathery arm seizes her by the throat and hoists her into the air, bringing her up to meet its blazing red eyes. The demon has shifted forms and is now a sharp, twisted thing, with mottled purple skin stretched tight over protruding bones. It lifts a clawed hand, and Marja flinches, expecting the thing to rip the flesh from her face.

But the caress it gives her is horribly gentle, and the demon’s voice is cloying as it holds her closer and croons, You needn’t do all this. Come back quietly. I’ll do better this time…I’ll make you much happier. Just come with me.

Marja wriggles in the demon’s grasp, and through desperate gasps hisses, “I don’t want anything you offer.”

No? The thing sounds almost amused, and its grip on her neck tightens. You cannot lie to me, Stone-child. I’ve tasted your dreams. You should be glad it was I who found you. Those other demons would have devoured you in seconds. So much desire. So much pride. Those yearnings will follow you forever, and only with me can you know peace.  Come with me-

The demon’s words are suddenly lost in a hiss of pain as Sten’s greatsword slices through it’s arm.

Marja tumbles to the ground, breathing heavily, as Sten continues his assault. The Qunari slams against the demon relentlessly, his sword slashing through bone and skin without hesitation. The demon shirks back, but doesn’t get far before it finds itself trapped in the arcs of lightning being woven by Rosalind from afar. The demon shrieks again, and at its wordless command another horde of spirits roll in. They don’t get very far, however, before they’re felled by a storm of arrows and daggers. Leliana darts forward, her bow held high as she stands protectively over Marja, and from the corners of her eyes Marja catches sight of her other companions rushing to surround the demon.

Hunched beneath a rain of blows, the demons looks for a moment as if it is about to fall. But just as Alistair is about to drive his sword through the creature’s chest, it throws its head back and with a roar, it changes form once again. Spikes rise from its skin, and the cloying voice disappears into a guttural growl. It grows in size until it towers above its attackers, and the ground beneath its feet cracks under the new weight.

A swipe from one of the demon’s arms sends Sten hurtling in one direction, and the other nearly flattens Wynne before Alistair dives in front of her, shield raised. Darvis dodges a third swipe, and he darts in close to bring a dagger slicing through its knee. The demon lets out another roar, but Darvis appears largely unimpressed as he stares into its maw.

“Damn,” he mutters, readying another weapon, “how is it that you just keep getting uglier?”

You. The demon hauls itself forward towards Darvis and with unexpected swiftness pins the man under its foot. The creature that thinks itself so clever for seeing through my world.

Oh, no. Marja forces herself to her feet and says to Leliana, “Cover me.”

“Of course,” Leliana nods, not taking her eyes off the demon. “Be careful.”

Marja rushes to the demon once more, fearful that she won’t make it in time. She can see Darvis wince as the demon presses down on him, and she can hear the evil spirit’s words echoing in her mind.

You are nothing, and nothing you will remain, even if you escape. Even in my dreamscape, you cling to your life of misery. I grow weary of watching you struggle- it is time instead that you sleep.

But just as the demon seems about to finish him off, Darvis look straight into the thing’s face and growls, “You talk too fucking much.”

And then he explodes into fire.

The demon is just as startled by this development as Marja, and with a howl it falls back, fighting off the flames. Darvis is equally shocked; he backs up in the opposite direction and stares at his own hands with wide eyes. Flames continue to lick through his fingers, white and hot and utterly impossible.

“How did you…” Marja asks, but Darvis shakes his head frantically.

“I don’t know! All I could do before was turn into a rat, but then the demon pissed me off and- it just happened!”

Right. The demon. Marja shelves whatever this is for later contemplation and turns her focus back to the demon, which has reverted to its Sloth form as it quells the flames still licking at its arms.

“Whatever it was,” she says, heaving her axe upwards, “do it again!”

The tide of battle turns quickly after that. It is as if the Fade itself has turned upon the demon now, as the spirits cease running to its aid and its powers weaken with every strike. Darvis continues to throw blasts of fire, and is soon joined by Rosalind and Morrigan- who Marja swears actually cracks a smile at the sight, try as she might to hide it. Meanwhile, the others rely on their blades, until finally the weakened demon screams out one last, desperate plea.

Think of all you are giving up! You could have everything-

Marja can still hear the voices of her family, ringing in her ears as the demon begs. But she closes her mind to those thoughts and instead focuses on her anger. What she finds is not blazing and bright, not like Darvis’s rage; no, what she finds is as cold and harsh as the Stone itself.

She smiles down at the demon. “Brosca is right. You talk too much.”

And with the uncompromising strength of a Golem, she heaves her axe through its neck. It falls to the ground at Wynne’s feet, still stirring feebly. Wynne lifts her staff into the air and thrusts it down, straight through the demon’s form as a burst of bright, brilliant white enshrouds her.

“Your time is here is finished, Sloth,” she says in an echoing voice, and everything around Marja dissolves into nothingness.

The next thing Marja knows, she is lying facedown on a stone floor- cold and hard and tracked with blood, but gloriously real, and she has never been so grateful to open her eyes.

Chapter Text

Darvis’s thoughts are muddy and slow as he blinks his eyes open, and he mutters quiet curses under his breath as he forces himself off the ground. For a moment, nothing makes sense- but then the image in front of him solidifies, and the memories rush back.

“Blazes,” he mutters, hauling himself fully to his feet. As he moves, he realizes that he- and everything else in the room- is draped in some kind of musty covering, something between moss and spiderwebs. It crumbles into dust and releases a smell of mildew as Darvis brushes it off, and he takes pleasure in grinding those last remnants of Sloth beneath his heel.

The others figures around Darvis also rise, save for one. Darvis stumbles closer to the unmoving figure, but its Wynne who reaches it first. She lets out a long, ragged breath as she kneels next to what Darvis now recognizes as an emaciated body.

“Oh…Niall.” She runs a hand over the corpse, light flowing from her fingertips as she attempts a healing spell, but with nowhere to go the light simply dissolves into the air. “He’s gone.”

“What? What happened?” Rosalind demands, joining Wynne at the man’s side. “Did something go wrong? Why did we all wake up and not him?”

“He was in the Fade for too long,” Wynne says, her voice tight. “Sloth already drained him. When the spell was broken, he had no living body to return to.”

“He still has the Litany, right?” Darvis asks, and Wynne fumbles through the man’s pockets until, finally, she withdraws a thick scroll of parchment. Darvis breathes a sigh of relief; at least something has worked out, even if the poor sod had to die for it.

Wynne clutches the scroll tightly, but she pauses over Niall long enough to mournfully trace a hand over his face. “He served the Circle until the end. You did so well, Niall,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze before rising to her feet.

The others have gathered now, as well. Morrigan regards the body on the ground with little emotion. When she catches Darvis watching her, her gaze flickers away, a hint of frustration wrinkling her brow. Darvis knows better than to bring up her outburst in the Fade, but its clear she remembers it just as well as he does.

Nobody else seems to notice the look that passes between them. Marja’s eyes are on Niall, and with a solemn tone she says, “He was very brave. He did us a great service, and he’ll be remembered for that.”

Rosalind stays kneeling a little longer, her eyes fixed on the dead mage. Her arms are wrapped around herself, and for a moment she doesn’t look as angry as she usually does; she just looks young, and scared, and shaken. At Marja’s words, however, her expression hardens once more. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Wynne frowns down at her, but when she speaks, her tone is not as sharp as Darvis expects. “You are correct in that. But he did what was needed, and because of him, we can still save the Circle.”

“There is no saving the Circle.”

Darvis turns quickly, nearly slipping on the demon sheddings in the process, to see Cullen leaning against the doorway. The Templar looks the worst out of all of them, but although he glares at them with sunken eyes, he makes no move to attack as he did before.

“Cullen!” Wynne gasps. “Are you alright? Do you recognize me?”

She moves forward, but Cullen steps back and draws his sword in warning. Darvis tenses as well and readies a dagger, but Wynne stops in her tracks, holding her hands out in a gesture of peace. Cullen eyes her warily, his sword still drawn.

“The demon’s hold is gone, at long last,” he says slowly, voice shaking. “But I’ve thought that before, and I was wrong. For all I know, you are all abominations.” He closes his eyes and shudders, sword quivering in his grip. “Too many abominations. The Circle cannot be salvaged. You don’t know what we’ve become.”

“Cullen, please,” Wynne says, calm and cajoling. “We have the Litany now. Here, let me help you-”

“Stay away from me!” Cullen shouts, raising the sword higher.

Even in his scattered state, the Templar moves quickly. But Rosalind is quicker, and in a flash she places herself in the middle of the confrontation. “Don’t you dare.”

Cullen pales at the sight of Rosalind, and a new snarl enter his voice. “You. Do you know what I have endured because of you?! You with your wicked fingers, snaking into my mind, corrupting my thoughts. Taunting me with things I could never have, twisting my emotions!”

“Oh, you can fuck right off with that-”

“That is enough!” Marja raises her voice above the argument as she places herself at Rosalind’s side. Darvis slides into place next to her, figuring they need as much buffer as possible between the Templar and the mages, and she gives him a grateful nod before turning her attention fully on Cullen. “We have enough to take care of without fighting allies. We’re going to kill Uldred and save the Enchanters. Will you help us or not?”

“Help you? You mean like she’s helping you?!” Cullen asks in disbelief. He shakes his head wildly at the notion. “This is a mistake. She started all this- her and all the other blood mages! You’ve seen what they’ve done- do you honestly think this will end if you let them live? Irving and the others have been with Uldred for too long, they’re all a risk! There is no saving anybody here! All we can do is make certain nothing else escapes!”

“We are saving as many mages as can be saved.” Marja’s tone is short and pointed, inviting no discussion, but Darvis can tell by the grinding of Cullen’s jaw that her commands will have no effect on him. “I have already had this argument with Greagoir- I assure you, my mind will not be changed.”

“After all this?! No, we must annul this Circle!”

“You’re talking about killing people!” Darvis snaps. “Killing kids!”

“I am speaking of what is necessary to prevent the releasing of maleficarum upon the world!”

Marja takes a step forward, drawing herself up to as full a height as she can, and for a moment she wears the same expression she wore in the Fade, when she still thought herself a queen. “I will not see the innocent people here condemned for crimes they had no part in. If you will not help us, then step aside!”

“No!” The word comes out in a roar as Cullen charges forward. Darvis is about to spring forward to meet him, but before their blades can clash the Templar is pushed back by a magical force which slams into him and expels him from the room. The forcefield attaches itself to the doorway, muffling Cullen’s shouts from the other side. Wynne stands at Darvis’s side with her hands extended, her eyes narrowed as she focuses on fixing the barrier into place.

“Nice work,” Darvis mutters.

She sighs. “His mind is still rattled. He will understand, later. Thank you both, for making the right choice.”

“Of course.” Marja gives the mage a tight smile. “But let’s not waste any more time. Uldred is waiting for us, isn’t he?”

The Litany is passed between the group, and everyone takes their time memorizing the words. Darvis isn’t certain how this is supposed to work; they’re not in the Fade anymore, and this seems close enough to magic that he worries he won’t be able to use it at all. But Wynne assures him and Marja that the recitation will activate the enchantment no matter who speaks it, and he takes her at her word. It takes a while for them all to prepare- Darvis’s reading is rusty at best, and the calligraphy and weird mage words used in the scroll don’t make things much easier- but eventually even he can recite the Litany with passing accuracy.

Rosalind is quiet throughout the practice, her gaze often drifting either down to Niall’s body or back to where Cullen paces on the other side of Wynne’s magical shield.

“You still with us?” Darvis asks her before they head out, and she huffs.

“You don’t have to keep asking me that, you know.”

“Just making sure.”

“Well, don’t you worry yourself. I’m with you.” She gives one last look to Niall and sighs. “…he didn’t deserve this. Nobody here deserved this, but…shit, if we’d been just a little earlier, he might’ve been okay. Or if he’d just stayed in his workroom instead of running off on his own and getting tangled up in this. Either way, he deserved better than to die. To die like this.”

Rosalind rubs at her arms, glancing quickly back to Cullen. “Truth is, he didn’t deserve this, either. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still an ass. They all are. But he wouldn’t be like this if I hadn’t…”

She trails off, then lets out a long heavy breath as her fists clench at her sides. “The problem is, my friends didn’t deserve what they got, either. Jowan just wanted a life of his own. Shay just wanted to help. None of us asked for this, we just- we have nothing of our own. They take our home away, and they take our family away, they take our own fucking minds away…and then they tell us it’s all for our own good. It all makes me so damned angry, and I don’t think I can be like Wynne and just…choose not to feel like that.”

“I think I get what you mean.” The words are out before Darvis can stop them, and he earns a slightly surprised look from Rosalind. But she studies him for a moment and then finally gives him a stiff nod and a small smile, as if she recognizes something in him.

“So did Uldred, apparently,” she says, the smile fading. “He knew how to take advantage of it, at least. I know good intentions don’t count for anything, but most of us did have them. I guess at some point, the ends and the means got all scrambled up. But I don’t know what else I would have done. I don’t even know if I would change it, if I could. It was either fight back or…give up completely.”

“So you fought.” The statement comes from Morrigan, who approaches holding a bottle of bright blue lyrium. She shoves the bottle into Rosalind’s hands without hesitation, and without a second glance towards either her or Darvis. “That is not something to be ashamed of.”

It might be the kindest thing Morrigan has ever said to a Circle mage, and Rosalind seems to appreciate it. She accepts the staff, at least, and she does not look back as she leads them up the stairs to where Uldred awaits.

Chaos reigns in the Harrowing Chamber when the Wardens finally throw open the door.

Fiery demons swarm the room, leaving trails of smoke and ash in their wake. A small group of older mages lay in a heap against the far wall, most of them bound and stirring feebly against their restraints. A few more stand free, arguing and shouting amongst themselves, but their noise ceases as the Wardens pass through the doorway. The demons, however, only shriek louder as they slither forward to greet them.

Darvis’s dagger is already in his hand, but the demons in freeze in place at a word from the man who stands in the center of it all.

“Halt.” The man steps forward with an air of confident authority, and Darvis can only assume this is the infamous Uldred. Oddly enough, he doesn’t look all that impressive; he’s just a human, tall and bald, lean and pale. He wears dark blue robes much like Wynne’s, and if not for demons surrounding him, he wouldn’t look particularly intimidating at all.

“There is no need for all of that,” he says, waving away the demons. They hiss disapprovingly but follow his lead, and he gives the Wardens a cold smile. “These intruders have fought their way to us. I’m quite impressed, even if they did kill my servants. But that is of little matter; those fools were likely better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible burden of independence.”

Rosalind’s posture stiffens, and when Darvis glances up at her, she’s staring intently at Uldred- not with anger or even fear, but with a sense of grim understanding. Her piercing blue eyes stay fixed on the man as he strides closer, still smiling in a cool, detached fashion. “For now,” he says, “I am more interested in speaking with you than in fighting.”

Wynne pushes to front of the group. “We have nothing more to say to each other. What you have done here is nothing short of horrendous!”

Her outburst doesn’t faze Uldred in the slightest; rather, he lets out a small chuckle. “You do not wish to join our revels, then? We were just getting to the good part.” He turns back to the captured mages. “Weren’t we?”

A soft sob escapes one of the bystanders, and Darvis recognizes her as the other blood mage they’d found with Rosalind, the one who’d managed to run off- not very far, apparently. Her cries attract Uldred’s attention, and his gaze fixes on her.

“Come, Vera!” He cries, pulling her forward by the wrist. “Tell them of our great purpose here!”

Vera says nothing at first, but Uldred yanks her arm again, and she quickly whimpers, “Yes, of course! Our great purpose!”

A smile curls across Uldred’s face. “Excellent. Now why don’t you show these visitors what they’re missing, and accept the gift we offer you?”

The girl’s eyes well with tears, but she shakily offers a hand to Uldred anyway. Rosalind and Wynne both shout in protest, but Vera looks up at them with a hopeless resignation.

“It’s like you said, Ros. They’re going to kill us either way, right?”

Her hand closes around Uldred’s, and faster than Darvis can blink, her entire form changes. Shadows erupt around her, clinging to her tightly and bathing her in darkness. She cries out, but the sound is muffled until she goes completely silent, all while her skin shifts and splinters until finally her form settles once more.

And then there is not a human standing alongside Uldred but a demon, tall and spindly and cloaked in floating shadows.

“This is what we offer all mages,” Uldred says, his eyes shining as he takes in the sight of the demonic creature. She wails in return, and with a wave of Uldred’s hand is sent to join the other demons spiraling around the room. Uldred looks to the remaining mages huddled against the wall, and his voice turns predatory. “This is true freedom, if they will only accept it.”

“You realize you sound raving mad, don’t you?” Darvis cries. “How the fuck is any of this freedom?”

“What are you even trying to accomplish here?” Marja asks, her voice strained. “I thought you were fighting for these people. Now you’re killing them?”

“Is this not how we fight?” Uldred challenges. “A mage is but a larval form of something greater. The Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have truly reached our full potential!”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense!” Darvis snaps, and this time, it is Rosalind who responds

“That’s because this isn’t Uldred.”

Darvis pauses to give her a questioning look. “What?”

“I mean it is,” she allows, still staring intently at the man. “But it’s not him anymore.”

Uldred’s grin turns smug as he takes in Rosalind’s presence. “Oh, my. Is that dear Ros, come back to us?”

“Mouse,” Rosalind says through gritted teeth, and it is not until Uldred chuckles that Darvis realizes the word is meant as a greeting.

“I’m surprised it took you this long. You’re a smart girl, despite what everyone says. But please- now that we’re better acquainted, you should call me by name.”

“I’m not here to chat, Mouse.”

“Of course. You’re here to- what, then? Kill me?” Uldred tilts his head in a patronizing fashion as he regards the girl standing before him, and he lets out another indulgent chuckle. “We both know you don’t want to do that. You’re better than that. Better than them.”

He glides closer, a hand outstretched to Rosalind, the demon that was Vera now hovering darkly at his side. “You would never bow to the Templars. You would fight. You would join me. So accept our gift, my dear. Take the power you were always meant to have. The Templars will never hurt you again.”

Rosalind stares him down, cold and angry. “I don’t need your power. I have my own. Remember?”

A brief sense of static in the air is the only warning Darvis receives, and he ducks his head just in time to avoid the errant sparks from the lightning Rosalind sends streaking through the air. The blast is blinding, and the demons circling Uldred shy away in fear. But when the light fades, he still stands, eyes red with fury as he gathers magic in his hands, his own blood running through his fingers.

“If you insist. You are nothing now but a thorn in my side, and I must remove you before you fester.”

The power Uldred unleashes is unlike anything Marja had seen before. Demons leap at his command, burning and devouring everything in their path, and his magic sizzles through the Harrowing Chamber. His spells are nothing like the flashy explosions and blasts Marja has seen before; these are subtler things, seeping into Marja’s bones and clawing at her mind as she forces herself to stay standing against the onslaught of demons.

She cuts them down, one after the other, but more and more spirits continues to pour through the Veil, and Uldred himself remains shrouded behind their protection. Alistair and Wynne do what they can to dampen the effect of his spells and heal the damage he doles out, the others do their best to close in and take out the Enchanter. Yet whenever Uldred seems to tire, a new river of blood flows from his followers to revitalize him.

He's not the only one making use of the blood; across the room, Rosalind stands defensively in front of the bound Enchanters, her hands bathed in red. Marja would be more disturbed at her continued use of blood magic if her shielding spell weren’t the only thing still protecting the Enchanters.

An arrow from Leliana sings through the air, but Uldred deflects it easily with a wave of force. Zevran dances in close, blades out, but Uldred sends a spell his way, and the elf gasps and stumbles to the ground. Marja shouts, drawing Ulred’s attention away from the assassin as she rushes in with her axe. The next spell comes for her, and she is hit suddenly by a roiling wave of nausea that leaves her stumbling and barely able to grip her weapon.

It's exactly what she’d expected, and in spite of the miasma wreaking havoc on her insides, Marja grins as she watches Darvis take advantage of the mage’s distraction. He strikes true with his daggers, burying the blade in Uldred’s shoulder- but the man only laughs wildly, unaffected by the pain of the attack. His own blood sizzles in the air, and Darvis is thrown back again by a new burst of power.

“Accept the gift we offer!” Uldred cries, and he turns his attention back to Rosalind and the Enchanters she is shielding.

“Begin the litany!” Wynne cries from across the room, but Rosalind shakes her head.

“Blood magic is the only thing helping me keep this barrier up! We don’t know how the Litany will affect it!” She looks frantically to Marja, as if asking the dwarf to decide whether the raging battle or the blood-fueled mind control is the greater risk.

“Can you stop him without it?” Marja cries.

Rosalind wavers, her barrier dimming in time with her heavy breathing. Finally, she curses and shouts, “She’s right- use the Litany!”

Marja wastes no time in beginning the recitation, hoping this thing can work its magic quicker than Uldred. Wynne joins in, and one by one so do the rest of her companions. The strange words of the Litany fill the chamber, and the storm of magic around Uldred thins and breaks apart in time with the words. Their group takes the advantage to press another attack, but Rosalind’s magic is faster than any of them.

Her spell explodes outward in a burst of lightning and strikes Uldred squarely in the chest.

The resulting blast is momentarily blinding, and stray lightning crackles across the room, prickling across Marja’s skin and causing her hair to stand on end. She blinks wildly, trying to clear her vision as she edges forward, ready to finish this-

But there is nothing to finish. Rosalind’s spell found its mark and Uldred lies dead on the ground, his skin charred and blackened by her lightning.

With their master gone, the demons scatter into the air, and it only takes a few moments after that for the remaining blood mages to buckle and surrender. As soon as they’re secured, Marja and her fellows Wardens hurry to release the captured Enchanters from their bindings while Wynne attends to injuries.

Rosalind, meanwhile, is silent. She kneels on the floor, looking dazed and clutching her bloody hands to the her chest. It isn’t until Wynne lets out a startled cry and rushes to her side that Marja realizes the blood isn’t Uldred’s.

“A powerful spell like that, without a staff?” Wynne scolds. She cups her hands around Rosalind’s and calls forth another shining healing spell, but even her magic does not completely erase the crack-pattern scars down Rosalind’s arm, nor does it regrow her missing fingers. “You’re lucky the backlash wasn’t any stronger- you could have killed yourself!”

“Shut up,” Rosalind murmurs. Her gaze remains fixed on Uldred, even as Wynne fusses over her. “I killed the demon. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

Their bickering continues, which Marja takes as a sign that Rosalind is in no grave danger. She turns back to the Enchanters and lends her hand to an elderly, bearded human who winces as he stands.

“Maker, I’m too old for this,” he sighs.

“Are you hurt?” Marja asks, and he waves his hand dismissively.

“I’ve been better, but I am alive.” He slowly sweeps his gaze across the room, taking in the sight of his rescuers: Alistair and Zevran cutting the other mages loose, Leliana passing out health poultices, Darvis and Morrigan picking through the leftover spoils of the fight. His gaze lingers on Rosalind, still clutching her injured hand, and his mouth sets into a thin frown. Finally, however, he turns his eyes back to Marja and gives her a respectful nod. “And it seems I have you all to thank for it? I truly cannot express my gratitude for what you have done here.”

“First Enchanter Irving?” Marja guesses, and he gives her a small nod. Despite his capture, the man is still remarkably calm, and he listens quietly as Marja gives him a shortened version of their venture. The only break in his composure comes when Marja tells him of Greagoir’s plans for Annulment.

“We should return to Greagoir immediately, then,” he says firmly, but once again his gaze returns to Rosalind. He sighs, and adds, “Simply…allow me a moment here, first.”

Marja nods and she busies herself with helping Alistair. She can sense that this is a highly personal matter- as so many things in the Circle seem to be- so she keeps a respectful distance, even as she watches the mages from the corner of her eyes. Irving and Wynne stand on either side of Rosalind as they inspect her injuries, all three of them in deep conversation.

It’s an odd picture they make. When the Circle was under attack, Wynne had been grimly determined to eliminate any threat, Rosalind included. Even now, she wears a deep frown as she argues with the girl. But she also pays careful attention to her injured hand, healing the injuries with gentle care. Rosalind allows the woman’s touch, though she pulls away when Irving draws close and places a hand on her shoulder. She’d defended the Enchanter fiercely during the attack, but now she only gives him a sullen glare.

Marja can guess what she is thinking of. It has been made very clear- blood mages receive either Tranquility or death. And after seeing what Uldred was capable of, Marja can’t help but think it’s for good reason. As for Rosalind…she did help them in the end, but she did many terrible things before that, and Marja knows the Circle will not forgive her actions.

Rosalind’s voice rises above the others, her words clear as she snaps Wynne. “Are we really going to have this fight again? I think I’ve made it pretty fucking clear which side I’m on!”

Yes, Marja thinks with a rueful sigh, it will be either Tranquility or death for her. She turns away to help the last of the mages to their feet, and busies her thoughts by planning out the words she will say to Greagoir. She doesn’t get very hard before she catches another snippet of conversation.

“…Right of Conscription. We don’t actually know how to make you a Warden right now, but…still.”

Marja whirls back around to see Darvis standing in front of Rosalind and Irving. Rosalind stares agape at Darvis with stark surprise written clearly on her face, and Marja shares the sentiment.

What is he thinking? A blood mage? Greagoir is already reluctant to work with them, Loghain is smearing their name across the country- this is the last thing they should be risking. Not to mention that Rosalind has hardly proven herself to be a dependable ally, even accounting for her last-minute switch of allegiance. This is, objectively and undoubtedly, a bad idea.

And Darvis must know that. He must even sense Marja’s disapproval, for he glances over his shoulder and gives her a questioning look, tugging uncertainly on the braids of his beard. At the sight of his wavering, Marja almost marches over to rescind his offer immediately and tell the blood mage in no uncertain terms that she cannot be recruited.

Then Darvis’s mouth sets into a stubborn line, and Marja knows that despite his own misgivings, this will be an argument. Marja frowns back, but she glances around at the companions they’ve already gathered: an apostate, an assassin, murderers and wanted criminals. She grits her teeth and groans internally, but gives Darvis a slight, reluctant nod.

Greagoir sounds nothing short of shocked when the group of Wardens and mages finally stumble back to the large bolted doors, but he holds true to his word. The iron entrance is unbarred, the plans for Annulment are called off, and- at long last- the tower is declared safe.

Marja watches quietly as Irving gives a recounting of the battle. The elderly mage is oddly difficult for her to form an opinion of; he keeps others at a distance, even his fellow mages. While in the tower he had allowed Wynne to support him as he walked, he now insists on standing on his own, leaning against his staff to steady himself. As he tells his story, his eyes flicker continuously towards a silent Rosalind; she tenses each time it happens, but he leaves her out of the story completely.

Whatever else he is, Marja finally decides, he is first and foremost a diplomat. After everything she has heard of the Circle, she would not have expected him to greet Greagoir like an old friend and make soft-spoken jokes. Yet he does, and his reassurances are enough to put the Knight-Commander at ease when minutes before he had been ready to bring his Templars down upon all of them.

“We owe the Wardens a great debt,” Greagoir says, when all is done. He looks down at Marja, the faint etchings of a scowl still visible on his face; it seems the words are difficult for him to admit, even considering their success in the tower.

“Indeed,” Irving adds with a mild smile. “It is almost as if you Wardens were sent by the Maker himself. It is the least we can do to help you in return. You came here seeking allies against the darkspawn, yes? We would be honored to offer our support.”

“Thank you,” Marja replies, at last breathing a sigh of relief. “We have much still to do, but for now we are gathering in Redcliffe. They have had problems of their own, and Arl Eamon lies ill. In addition to your help against the Blight, we were hoping you could send a healer to monitor his condition.”

“Of course.” Irving looks expectantly at Wynne. “Senior Enchanter Wynne is the best in the land. Wynne, I know you have been through much, but if you are feeling up to such a trip…”

“I am not quite so easily shaken, as you should know,” Wynne replies with a wry smile. “In fact- I have an additional request. I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens on their quest against the Blight.”

“What?” It is the first time Rosalind has spoken since returning to the Templars, and her indignation might be humorous under different circumstances. Indeed, Darvis releases a snort of laughter which he attempts to disguise as a cough when the young mage turns her glare on him.

“It is where I am needed,” Wynne says evenly, keeping her eyes on Irving despite the interruption. “I will do far more good out in the field with the Wardens than I would here. They may need my help- and whether or not you agree, Rosalind, I believe you will benefit from continued guidance.”

Greagoir frowns as her words sink in. “You don’t mean the Wardens are taking Amell as well?”

Marja does not miss how the words sound like an accusation. Neither, apparently, does Irving. “They have invoked the right of Conscription,” he tells Greagoir in a neutral tone. “I did not argue. We both know the law is on their side.”

“And isn’t that convenient?” Greagoir growls, turning on Rosalind with a scowl.

She glares right back at him, but it’s Darvis who speaks up. “Yeah, it’s convenient that we’re trying to get more Wardens in the middle of a Blight. Do you think we’d be here asking for help if we didn’t need it?”

“Perhaps you do not understand my reluctance,” Greagoir says, his voice hard. “If you are looking for soldiers, Amell is the last one I would recommend. This mage is known primarily for her dissent and disobedience. I do not know what she told you, but I would not be surprised if she were in cooperation with the maleficar who caused all this destruction.”

“Rosalind was instrumental in defeating Uldred,” Marja says quickly, before Darvis can do something stupid. She still thinks this is a bad idea, but they’ve come this far; she might as well present the best version of their case. “In fact, she was the one who killed him. She injured herself in the process, but she exhibited a great deal of power, and she saved the First Enchanter. Grey Wardens aim for recruits like this.”

It’s all the truth, and as Greagoir stares down at Marja, searching for an argument, she senses that he knows it. Still, he looks far from convinced, and he continues to push. “You are certain she is not a blood mage? Grey Warden or no, I cannot allow a maleficar to leave this tower, especially not after what has happened here.”

“She…” Marja wavers, struggling for a way to counter Greagoir’s accusations without outright lying to the man, until Darvis groans and speaks up himself.

“Yeah, we’re certain. All the blood mages either died, or exploded into demons and then died. What more do you want?”

Greagoir gives Darvis a long, angry look, but finally releases a long, resigned sigh of frustration. “Fine. Take her. One less headache for me to deal with.”

Rosalind’s eyes widen, as if she’d never actually expected this to work, but she doesn’t waste a moment. “You heard the man. Let’s get out of here. We’re going to Redcliffe, right?”

“Take one of the Circle ships, if you must,” Greagoir says between clenched teeth. “We will not be needing them anytime soon, and if you are taking her, I would rather you take her far away.”

After that, it is obviously best that they not linger. The Wardens’ group quickly departs the tower, and despite the long stairway down to the lake and the cramped rowboat ride that awaits them, Marja feels an impossibly immense relief as she steps out into the sunlight once more.

Irving escorts them down the stairs, and before they leave, he embraces Wynne one last time. “Be safe, my friend. And know you always have a place here.”

“It will be an adventure, Irving,” Wynne says with a smile. “Even if it is my last, it will be a good one.”

Irving nods and back ways, then turns to the other Circle mage. “Rosalind…”

But Rosalind takes a step away, nothing but cold warning in her eyes. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“He has saved your life today,” Wynne reprimands, shooting the girl a sharp look. “If Greagoir knew the truth-”

“He’s saving his reputation,” Rosalind says scathingly. “Can’t let the Templars know your favorite apprentice was a blood mage, is that it? Especially after you worked so hard making sure Jowan got caught for the same thing.”

“I only ever did what I had to do-”

“You did what you had to so you could keep playing your little games with Greagoir!” Rosalind snaps. Her voice shakes as she speaks, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself as she takes another step back. “But I don’t have to play anymore. I’m not a little kid, and you can’t hold promises over my head in exchange in for good behavior. Either tell him or don’t. I’m done.”

Irving regards her a moment longer. Marja still finds him difficult to read; the flinch in his eyes when Rosalind hurled her accusations at him suggests they hold a grain of truth, but his voice carries real sorrow when he finally says, “Be careful, child.”

Rosalind says nothing; she simply turns and stalks down the stairs, leaving Irving staring behind her. With a sigh, he looks to the Wardens instead.

“I have known Miss Amell since she was very young,” he says softly, “and I know better than anyone just how strong a will she has. I have tried to give her a sense of restraint, to go along with it, but…well, she has a long road ahead of her. I hope the Wardens will help her along that path.”

Wynne shakes her head.  “One of these days, you may need to consider the possibility that you expect too much of her.”

Irving chuckles. “We’ll see. There are other mages who have overcome their tempers, and gone on to do great things. Isn’t that so?” He gives Wynne a pointed glance, and she looks momentarily appalled.

“I would remind you that my temper never led me to forbidden magic. Rosalind is not a child any longer, Irving. She is playing with dangerous things.”

“Which is why I believe the Wardens will be better place for her than the Circle. I am not often wrong.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Marja promises. For better or worse.

If Irving catches her meaning, he does not comment on it; he simply gives the Wardens a nod and turns back to the tower. In the distance, Marja can make out the bustle of the mages and Templars re-organizing themselves. Above the din, a voice is raised in argument- Cullen’s voice, she realizes, arguing with Greagoir. She can only imagine the chaos unfurling, and she knows Rosalind is right about at least one thing: it is time for them to go.

As they take the long trek down the stairs to the dock, Marja can feel Darvis’s eyes on her- studying, puzzling over something. She gives him a sharp look of annoyance in return. “What?”

He studies her a moment longer, then says bluntly, “You’re a bad liar. How did I not know you’re a bad liar?”

The question is unexpected, to say the least. In fact, Marja is almost offended. “Why is that so surprising? It’s not as if I have extensive practice.”

Darvis gives her a look of pure skepticism, and Marja huffs as she realizes what he’s getting at. “I do not lie. Occasionally, I decide how much of the truth a person should know, and when they should know it. But I don’t lie.”

Her words earn her a snort of derision, and Darvis mutters something under his breath that Marja pointedly decides not to hear. Instead, she lets her gaze drift over to Rosalind, and says, “And in the name of not lying…you should know that I do not agree with this recruitment decision.”

“I figured as much,” Darvis replies with a shrug. “I didn’t expect you to go along with it, to be honest. So why did you?”

“I owe you, don’t I?” Her statement garners a look of confusion, so she elaborates. “For the Fade. I…I wouldn’t have made it out without your assistance. This makes us even, I think.”

Darvis gives her another odd look, but he doesn’t argue. “If you say so.”

Chapter Text

The moon over Ferelden is high and bright, and it sends a weak, silver glow through the windows of Darvis’s room at The Spoiled Princess. Outside, he can just barely discern the faint outline of the lake and the tower, and- most importantly- the boat provided by the Circle, waiting to take them all back to Redcliffe in the morning.

Marja and Alistair had been in favor of pressing on right away, darkness be damned, but they were finally convinced to wait until the light of dawn. Darvis is glad for that. Redcliffe’s undead monsters may be gone, but it’s still hard to shake the image of those corpses crawling out from beneath the cover of those dark waters. Waiting for sunlight before they take this strange new contraption over those very same waters is undoubtedly a good idea.

The owner of The Spoiled Princess just about had a heart attack when their blood-spattered group stumbled into his inn, asking for as many rooms as he could spare, but he’d taken their money all the same. Darvis hadn’t realized just how tired he was until he collapsed into the bed…but even now he doesn’t sleep. Sleep, he suspects, will only bring on more dreams of darkspawn or Blight or- the worst option of all- some sort of return to the demons’ domain.

None of those would make for a particularly pleasant night, so Darvis simply lies on his back, appreciating the quiet and occasionally slipping a crust of bread saved from dinner into Nug’s waiting mouth. The mabari accepts the treats happily, the soft thump of his wagging tail the only noise in the room. The dog had been overjoyed to reunite with Darvis once the fuss of the Circle was done with, although the mage children had been sad to see him go.

The moon inches higher in the sky outside, and Darvis has almost surrendered to sleep when his door creaks open.

“Figured you’d stop by eventually,” he says by way of greeting. The truth is, he hadn’t been sure of that at all; Morrigan has kept him guessing lately. Any maybe that shows, because she gives him a cool smile as she leans against the doorframe.

“Did you, now? Have I truly become so predictable?”

“’Predictable’ isn’t really the word I’d use,” Darvis admits. He sits up with a stretch and reaches over to the nightstand, where the thick, black leatherbound book sits in wait. “But I’d guessed you’d come looking for this as sooner rather than later.”

The second Morrigan’s eyes land on the book, her collected demeanor falls away entirely. A soft gasp escapes her lips as she rushes across the room, sweeping the book into her hands and positioning herself in the bed next to Darvis, much to Nug’s protest.

“You found it?! I admit, I did not- move, mutt- I did not truly believe this would be possible.” Her eyes are alight as she rifles through a few pages, examining the writings with a hungry curiosity. Even after everything, her excitement is enough to bring an unconscious smile to Darvis’s face- especially when she lifts her gaze to look at him with a rare, unguarded expression.

“This means more to me than you know. You have my thanks- truly.” She holds his gaze just a moment longer before returning to the book, that genuine smile still on her face. “I will begin study of this tome immediately.”

“What is it that’s so exciting about this thing?” Darvis asks. He squints over Morrigan’s shoulder, but the handwritten scrawl means nothing to him. “What do you think you’re gonna find?”

Morrigan’s grin turns sharp, and she leans in close as she whispers, “Secrets. My mother has many of them, and this grimoire represents the one time they were able to get away from her.” Her grip on the book tightens, and she looks down on it with renewed hunger. “I do not intend to squander this opportunity.”

If Darvis were a smarter man, he might let the subject drop there. But he seizes on the opening before he can think better of it and says, “Speaking of your mother, are we going to talk about what happened in the Fade? Or the Circle, or any of it?”

Morrigan tenses, and her voice comes out cold. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you could possibly mean.”

“Look, if really want me to drop it, I will,” Darvis says. He leans against the bedframe and frowns as he tries to assign words to his thoughts. “But you can’t say that something hasn’t been off. Is it really just that you hate the Circle that much? ‘Cause I get that, I do-”

“Oh, do you?” Morrigan’s retort is harsh. “Do you realize that I have spent my entire life at mother’s heels? As a child I ventured into backwater villages and thought myself daring, but I always wanted so much more. I want to see mountains, to witness oceans and step into their waters. I want to experience a real city, rather than imagine it in my mind. Despite all my wishes, I knew not whether any of these things would ever happen, for until very recently my mother’s hold on me has been inescapable.”

“But even then, I had my magic. It is all I have ever had that has been truly mine. And as you so astutely observed in the tower, there is a world in which I ended up in the Circle, and would not even have that. The Circle and its Chantry would see me destroyed- killed, perhaps, but they would prefer a version of myself whose head is filled with their lies. A version of me who is ignorant and pliable, whom they can control.”

Morrigan pauses in her ranting to take a heavy breath. Her voice hardens with her next words, final and resolute. “But if there is one thing I am certain of, it is that I will allow nobody to control me.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Finally, Darvis steels himself and says, “I’ve had all of Orzammar’s boot on my neck since the day I was born. And they don’t even notice, because I don’t even exist to them. I’m nothing, and I’ve got the mark to prove it. When I say understand, I do. Maybe not all of it, but everyone lining up to tell you what you are?” Faces float through his mind- Beraht, Jarvia, his mother. “Yeah, I get that.”

The bed shifts as Morrigan adjusts herself to face him, her searching, golden eyes boring into his. “Then you understand why I must be clear. We both understand what this is between us, do we not?”

Darvis’s brow furrows, and she reads his confusion. “It means,” she says emphatically, “that between us, there can be sex. There can be lust, and even passion. But I will not tolerate anything more. What people call love is merely another form of control. I do not require, nor do I wish for, your protection. And I certainly do not require your insight into my own thoughts.”

She’s right, of course. She doesn’t need him. Darvis tries to quell the strange sense of disappointment, and says, “If it makes you feel any better, I’d want to protect you even if you we weren’t fucking. I like having you around for other things, you know.”

Maybe he’s imagining things, but he swears a smile flits across Morrigan’s face. It’s gone just as quickly as it came. “I…do not wholly disapprove of your intentions. But that is precisely what I mean. I worry that despite our agreement, you are becoming too attached.”

Too attached. Darvis knows what that means, but he keeps his voice gruff as he asks the question anyway. “So you want to end this, then?”

“No,” she says, and she says it a touch too quickly, in a way that makes Darvis’s chest pound in foolish relief. “I merely…”

She fumbles for a moment, and Darvis thinks of everything he could say to her right now. That he heard her voice in the Fade, and she’s the only reason he was able to get out. That he wishes she would have wanted to come to see him tonight even if he’d never found that book. That he knows he’s being stupid, but when he looks at her in the moonlight like this, the last thing he wants to do is leave.

All of it is exactly what Morrigan doesn’t want to hear.

“If it’s attachments you’re worried about,” Darvis finally says, “then you can stop worrying. I’m not the smartest man in the world, but I’ve got two working ears and I hear what you’re saying. I’m not the type of idiot to chase after something that’s not real. If it’s just sex to you, it’s just sex to me. Simple as that.”

His words are met with silence, and Darvis half expects Morrigan to just take the grimoire and sweep out of the room without another word. But when she finally makes a move, it is to place the book back on the nightstand in a slow, deliberate motion. She turns back to Darvis, studies his face for a short moment, and then, finally, kisses him.

The kiss is hard, fierce, and she follows it up by wrapping herself around him and pressing him into the bed. Darvis returns with full force, eager to lose himself to her touch. He breaks the kiss only to fumble his shirt off and push an offended Nug out the door- “go sleep in Alistair’s bed tonight”- and then they are kissing again, her hands tugging at his belt as he pulls off her shawl. Her hair falls loose with the motion, and her eyepaint is smudged, and the moonlight streaming into the room bathes her skin a soft silver- and she is beautiful. More beautiful than anything someone like Darvis could ever deserve. But she takes him in her arms anyway, and for the moment, Darvis can let that be enough.

They lie in bed together afterwards; quiet, peaceful, comfortable. When Darvis has nearly drifted into sleep, however, the blankets shift, and he listens, eyes closed, as Morrigan stands from the bed. She retrieves her clothes and her grimoire and then, without a word, makes her exit.

Only when she is gone does he release a ragged sigh. He turns over in bed to bury his face in the pillow, but that doesn’t help- the damn thing still smells like her. Not the cloying perfume of a noble lady but something richer, earthy, a mix of leather and herbs he couldn’t begin to name.

He’d thought he knew better, when they started this. He should know better. He should know not to expect…whatever it is some small part of him had been expecting.

But it’s fine. It’s nothing. He’s been through far worse than whatever this pain in his chest is. He’s fighting for his life every damn day, he doesn’t need to be lying awake at night over something as stupid as this. He just needs to go back to focusing on survival, and not let anything else worm its way into his thoughts.

He can do that, he tells himself, and it almost doesn’t feel like a lie.

The morning sun is slow to crawl up into the sky, but the moment there’s light enough to see Darvis is up and ready to leave this place behind him.

Outside the inn, Bodahn and Sandal are already loaded up and saying their goodbyes. The merchants have little desire to continue in the direction to Redcliffe, it seems, and are instead setting their sights on Denerim. Whether through trading or looting, Bodahn has acquired a decent haul of new goods; he chatters to Alistair and Marja as he loads them up, nudging them into making a few last minute purchases. Leliana stands nearby, fiddling with a lute that Darvis can only assume was a successful sale. Meanwhile, Sandal sits happily on the wagon, his attention wholly captured by a small carved stone in his hands. The boy catches sight of Darvis approaching and proudly holds the stone out for him to examine.

“Watcha got there?” Darvis asks, and Sandal beams.

“Enchantment!”

“It’s a runestone,” Alistair explains. “I found it in the tower. Pretty neat, huh? I figured he’d like it.”

“A good eye, this one,” Bodahn says with a chuckle. Pride swells in his voice as he watches Sandal turn the stone over in his palm once more. “And I’d bet every sovereign in my satchel that my boy here figures out how to activate those runes within the week.”

“And besides,” Alistair says, holding up a sack filled to the brim with poultices. “Bodahn is in a generous mood with his discounts. Seems only fair.”

Darvis has to bite down on the immediate response that Alistair is defeating the purpose of Bodahn’s cheaper prices by giving stuff away for free. It’s…a nice gesture, he supposes. He can let this one pass.

Bodahn dismisses Alistair’s compliments with a wave. “Oh, please! You Wardens saved our lives- I only wish we could do more. And I wish I had better news for you about that sword,” he adds with a nod to Marja. “All the battlefields have been picked clean of anything interesting. One of the fellows still hanging around said their friend took the loot and moved up the mountains towards Orzammar. That’s all I could dig up, I’m afraid.”

“What’s this about a sword?” Darvis asks.

“Long story, I’ll explain later,” Marja replies. “But thank you, Bodhan. I knew it would be a long shot, but the information may still prove useful.”

“Ah, you’re being polite. It’s not much at all, I know. Luckily, I did find something else that might interest you!”

“Bodahn, I told you, I really don’t need any earrings-”

“No, no- ah, here it is!” Bodahn excitedly pulls a long rod from his bag and holds it out for the Wardens to inspect. Darvis waits a moment for the merchant to show off some magical property or hidden weaponry, but he just displays it proudly as if it needs no explanation.

Darvis leans closer, and sees that engraved into the rod’s metallic embellishment are a collection of runes, along with words written in archaic dwarven script. But nobody actually reads that shit anymore, and Darvis has no idea what he’s looking at. “It’s…a stick?”

“It’s a golem rod,” Marja breathes, her eyes wide.

She takes the rod from Bodhan with careful hands, and Bodhan grins wider at her recognition. “Knew you’d appreciate it. Quite a find, if I say so myself. Traded for it with a fellow from Honnleath.”

Marja gently turns the rod over as if it were some valuable discovery, but Darvis is still feeling pretty underwhelmed. “Isn’t a golem rod a bit useless without…you know, a golem?”

“It’s a piece of dwarven history,” Marja scolds. “There haven’t been records of functional golems in ages. The Shaperate would kill for an artifact like this.”

“Oh, well if the Shaperate would like it, that’s different,” Darvis says, rolling his eyes, and Marja just scoffs.

“Ignore him, Bodahn. I appreciate you sharing this with us.”

“Consider it yours, then. A thanks for the help you’ve given- and maybe a peace offering, to make up for that little disagreement over…ah, our acquisition methods. When you head to Denerim, I hope you find us again. We always appreciate return customers.” He glances to the boat sitting in wait on the lakeshore. “I have to say, I’m not envious of you lot. Never been a fan of boats myself. Just doesn’t seem right, does it?”

Darvis shrugs; after his experiences with the aravels glinding through the forest or the wards protecting the Circle tower, the boat doesn’t seem all that staggering. “I don’t know. I’ve seen magic do stranger things.”

“Magic?” Alistair laughs. “It’s not magic, it’s just a boat. Or a ship, I guess? I’m not really sure where the difference is.”

“Wait…” Darvis looks between Alistair and the large, unwieldy contraption currently defying gravity in the rocking waves. “What do you mean that’s not magic?”

“Seriously, how is this not magic?” Darvis edges close to the rail, near enough to watch the waves the boat creates as it glides through the lake, but not close enough to risk falling into the choppy waters himself.

The others are all gathered on the deck as well, but none of them seem to realize how unbelievable a work this ship is. Marja is impressed, at least, but she refuses to creep anywhere near the side of the ship- something about the rocking motion making her stomach turn. Darvis can’t blame her, but he also can’t keep himself away; there’s just something intriguing about the impossible craftsmanship at work here. “You’ve gotta be fucking with us. It’s magic, isn’t it?”

“Not magic,” Rosalind says. She shows even less caution than Darvis; in fact, she’s currently balancing on the rail in a way that makes his stomach lurch, standing with her feet on the bars and clinging only to a rope rigging for stability. “They’d never teach us anything this cool. Can’t have us using it to escape, after all.”

The wind pulls at her long hair, but it doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. In fact, she’s sincerely smiling for what might be the first time Darvis has seen, and she lifts her head hungrily toward the sun. She scarcely looks like the same haggard woman from the tower; she’s finally scrubbed herself clean of all traces of blood, and her mangled hand is bandaged and bound tightly. Even her Circle robes have been traded out for a casual blouse and pair of trousers.

Darvis has to admit, she cleans up nicely. Judging by the looks she’s earning from Morrigan and Zevran, he’s not the only one to notice.

“You know,” Zevran says, eying the mage with a wicked grin, “you would have made a dashing pirate.”

Rosalind tilts her head, smiling to herself as she considers the idea. “Huh. I like the sound of that. It would certainly be more interesting than the Circle.”

“The demons aren’t enough excitement?” Alistair grumbles. He’s made his place on a bench across the deck, keeping some distance between himself and their newest companion. Judging by his tone and the stony look on his face, he is far from warming up to her.

His question causes Rosalind to falter. “That’s not what…” Her grip on the rope nearly slips, but she catches herself with only a slight wobble. She takes a deep breath, tosses her golden hair over one shoulder, and resumes her casual tone as she continues. “You saw the Circle in a rare state. Most of the time, it’s dead boring. Nothing to do but read and stare at walls.”

“You said much the same yourself, Alistair,” Zevran sighs, ignoring the frown the Templar gives him. “A pity.  I was still holding out hopes for tales of moonlit orgies.”

Rosalind shoots Zevran an appraising look. “Well…”

A delighted grin crosses Zevran’s face. “Ha! So there is some truth to the rumors after all? I knew there had to be!”

“Think less moonlight and more back stairway in between classes,” Rosalind says, though the clarification does nothing to stop Zevran’s satisfied laughter. She shrugs, her eyes cutting back to Darvis and Morrigan as she coyly adds, “I can only speak for myself, of course, but in my experience, when you throw a bunch of bored people together…things happen.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Darvis says with a chuckle. Besides him, Morrigan tenses in response- much to his surprise.

“Yes, boredom and back stairways,” she says, her voice cold. “Very enticing, I’m sure.”

Darvis is suddenly, irrationally, irritated. If Morrigan has no interest in attachment, why should she bothered if Rosalind takes it upon herself to flirt with him?

Rosalind, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “You’d be surprised,” she says, with a lazy smile. “The singular benefit of boredom is that it gives you time to get creative.”

She punctuates her words with a wink, eliciting another appreciative laugh from Zevran and an unexpectedly bright blush from Morrigan, who for once seems to have no response. Darvis isn’t sure whether he should fee jealous himself, or merely impressed.

“Also gives you time to learn blood magic, apparently,” Alistair grumbles. The words are not quite under his breath enough to escape Darvis’s notice. “Let’s not forget that part. You know, it would’ve been nice to be given heads up before we conscripted a blood mage.”

“We didn’t have much time,” Marja mutters back. “Anyway, you can blame this one on Brosca.”

Darvis shoots her a glare, but the two barely notice; they’re already absorbed in their argument.

“We don’t even know how to do the Joining! How is she supposed to be a Warden?”

“I don’t know, Alistair, but we didn’t have many options. What would you have rather we done?”

“I’m just saying, maybe we should have discussed it more.”

“We’ve got a whole horde of non-Wardens following us around,” Darvis finally cuts in. “What does one more matter?”

Alistair frowns. “They didn’t try- well, most of them didn’t try to kill us.”

The statement earns a laugh from Zevran, who saunters away from the railing to perch on the bench next to Alistair instead, grinning all the while. “I would point out I haven’t tried a second time. I think that sets a good example, if I do say so myself.” Zevran’s eyes flicker back to Rosalind. “And if I may offer my opinion, I think she will be pleasant company.”

Alistair crosses his arms, his voice taking on a surly tone. “You would.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

“She’s a blood mage.”

“She can hear you,” Rosalind calls from across the deck. “And if you’re going to keep bringing up the blood magic thing, this is going to be a long trip.”

The shores of Redcliffe are such a welcome sight, Marja doesn’t even care that the villagers have to send out a rickety rowboat to fetch their party from the ship because the docks are still ruined. It takes four trips to retrieve everybody- Sten in all his armored weight nearly capsizes the poor boat all on his own- but once she’s back on land, Marja will be happy if she never steps foot on a boat again.

It isn’t necessarily that she lacks trust in human craftsmanship- not wholly, at least. She’s simply grateful to have solid ground under her feet once more rather than the constant, rocking motion of wooden planks balancing atop a vast pit of water. Even the long trek up the hill to Redcliffe castle is a welcome change from that.

They’re halfway up the hill up the hill when Wynne stumbles, and Marja automatically moves to help the older woman regain her feet. Alistair hovers at her other side, and it is with only slight reluctance that Wynne allows him to support her as they continue on.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Wynne says through tired breaths. “But I assure you, this is not a regular occurrence. I merely…”

She trails off, and Marja give her a reassuring nod. “Of course. You’ve been through more these past few days than most of us.”

And we’ve been through a lot to begin with, she adds silently, glancing back at the rest of the group. Some of them don’t appear affected by their trip to the Fade- Marja doubts anything could crack Sten’s composure or silence Zevran’s jokes- but other have been just as subdued as Wynne. Leliana in particular has been quieter than usual; she simply plucks thoughtfully at the lute she acquired from Bodahn, not giving Marja much notice at all.

She’s been like this ever since they left the Circle; the night before, she’d barely even spared a moment to bid Marja a glance before hiding herself away in her room at the inn. Which is fine. She probably doesn’t even remember the kiss. It was the Fade, after all, and her memories were all jumbled from the start, and even if she does remember, she clearly doesn’t wish to bring it up, or else surely she would have by now. Marja can read a room, and she is perfectly fine with leaving the whole matter behind, since it’s clearly what Leliana wants.

Marja forces herself not to stare at the bard, and instead turns her attention back to the conversation with Wynne. The old woman is laughing at some joke she’s made to Alistair, a wry smile on her lips as she says, “And of course I’m no spring chicken, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Marja frowns, trying to parse out the meaning of the joke, but before she can figure it out Wynne continues on. “All that is to say, do not worry over me. There is life in these old bones yet- they just need a little propping up, every now and then.”

“In that case, I’m happy to be of assistance.” Alistair says. “Especially if it means having a proper healer along. Between you and me, the magic stuff is the only reason we kept Morrigan around for so long. And I think she makes her healing spells sting on purpose, just because she can.”

“If that is the only reason you ‘keep me around’,” Morrigan interjects, “then there is no reason for me to trudge along with you and listen to this prattle.” She sends one last withering glare in Alistair’s direction before promptly shifting her form into that of a bird and promptly taking off into the sky, soaring above the rocky hills in the direction of the castle.

Rosalind watches her go with wide eyes, mouth agape. “Holy shit. Did you all see that?” She whirls back to the others, looking back and forth between them and the sky. “She can do that? Holy ass of Andraste, do you think she can teach me to do that?!”

Darvis answers with a shrug, still looking after Morrigan with an unreadable expression. “Dunno. Probably.”

Wynne takes in the exchange with silent disapproval. Marja worries for a moment that the older mage will provoke another argument, but when she does speak, what she says is unexpected.

“May I ask what being a Grey Warden means to all of you?”

Alistair, naturally, has an answer at the ready. “We’re here to fight back against the Blight,” he says, simple and certain. “We’re protecting people- doing our best at it, at least. It’s a noble calling.”

He looks to Marja for confirmation, and she gives him a nod of agreement. “That’s right. We were chosen for an important task.” Not a task she would have chosen of her own volition, Marja admits silently, but an important one all the same.

Wynne nods thoughtfully, then turns her gaze to Darvis. It takes him a moment to realize she’s waiting for an answer, and when he does, he just hunches his shoulders and grumbles, “What, you’re asking me? These two are the ones who are all about duty and shit. I’m just trying to kill darkspawn and not die doing it.”

“Well, there is certainly more to being a Grey Warden than that,” Wynne says. “Alistair has the right idea; the Wardens are an ancient order, and they have always served as protectors of all people. Mages and non-mages alike.” Her last words are accompanied by a pointed look at Rosalind, and with that, Wynne’s intent in this conversation becomes clear. Rosalind must see it, too, for she levels a scowl in Wynne’s direction as she continues. “And you protect these people because their continued existence is more important than you are.”

The only answer she gets from Rosalind is a roll of the eyes, but Marja’s interest is piqued. “You know a lot about the Wardens, then?”

Wynne smiles at the question, clearly pleased that someone is taking interest in her words. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you learn about a great deal of things. In all the stories I’ve heard, Grey Wardens are heroes. And heroes put the good of the world before anything else- their previous loyalties, their own desires, even their loved ones. Do you understand what I mean?”

“That does sound like something Duncan would say,” Alistair allows, and Marja can’t argue.

Rosalind, however, remains less than impressed. “Even after all this, I can’t escape the lectures.”

“You do not live apart from others,” Wynne chides. “When one has power, influence, and strength, every action becomes like a drop of water in a clear, still pond. The drop causes ripples, and the ripples spread. One must consider how their ripples affect the pond.”

“The world’s not a pond, Wynne,” Rosalind counters in a drawling voice. “It’s not still and stagnant. It’s chaotic. There are waves, and you have to push back against them.”

“Do all mages talk like this?” Darvis asks. Wynne's mouth tightens with disapproval at the question, but Rosalind gives a loud laugh.

“This is nothing. You should hear Irving when he gets started. Absolutely insufferable.”

Wynne frowns, yet her expression softens somewhat as she regards Rosalind from afar. “You know, you sound like him sometimes. He cared a great deal about you.”

Rosalind stops in her tracks, and throws Wynne a dark glare. The shift in mood is startling; gone is her wonder at Morrigan’s transformation, her delight in taking in the sights outside the tower. Now, Marja looks at her and only sees the same anger she held back in the Circle.

“Yeah, he cared about me. I had so much damned potential, he put all of his energy into watching over me so he could try and shape me into being like him. Meanwhile, he sold Jowan out to the Templars just to buy a little favor with Greagoir. Was that heroic, Wynne?”

Rosalind doesn’t wait for an answer; she just turns and stomps up the hill, away from them all. Wynne frowns as she watches the younger mage go.

“Perhaps I sound harsh,” she says in a quiet voice, “but I don’t know if she’s ready for this. I only want her to realize what it is she is getting herself into.”

“It takes a while for some people to adjust,” Marja says carefully. “But if it’s any comfort, I do take my responsibilities as Wardens seriously. We all do- even him.” She nods towards Darvis, who scowls back but doesn’t protest. “It might take a while, but…she’ll come around, too.”

Wynne doesn’t look completely convinced, but she gives Marja a slow nod. “Thank you. I do hope you’re right. Now, tell me more about this affliction your arl suffers from…”

Wynne and Alistair fall into conversation, and Marja takes the opportunity to move next to Darvis. He gives her a grumpy glare but doesn’t tell her to leave.

“Was that some trouble with Morrigan I sensed earlier?” Marja asks, and he scowls at her.

“Seems more like trouble with minding your own business.”

“I assure you, I don’t want any details,” Marja says, “But are you sure you know what you’re doing with her?”

She half-expects Darvis to meet her questions with more glares and obscenities, but he actually pauses in thought, and finally lets out a frustrated huff. “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. Happy now?”

Marja can’t help a quiet smile, and Darvis actually gives her the flicker of a grin before adding, “Anyway, if I were you, I’d worry less about Morrigan and more about her.” He jerks his head towards Leliana, and Marja has to fight to keep her eyes averted so that a traitorous blush doesn’t rise to her cheeks. Judging by the amusement in Darvis’s tone, she’s not successful. “Yeah, she’s been staring after you all day.”

“…she has?”

Marja chances a glance back at Leliana. A soft smile rests on the bard’s lips as she fiddles with her new lute, and the light of the morning sun seems to glow as it reflects off her hair. Marja hurriedly averts her gaze before she can be caught staring, but the image stays in her mind.

“Yeah,” Darvis says. “So…do you know what you’re doing with her?”

The question only pulls at the knots twisting in Marja’s stomach, and she lets out a shaky laugh. “Not at all.”

Wynne is still looking rather weary when they reach the castle, but she insists she’s well enough to see to Eamon. Alistair stays by her side as she runs through her arsenal of healing spells, and in the meantime Marja updates Teagan on their progress. At her behest, Teagan eagerly agrees to provide lodgings for the mages as they prepare to take on the Blight; he even offers to send scouts out to the Dalish with the same offer, should they be willing to accept it.

His agreement, however, comes at the price of once again turning the discussion to the subject of Andraste’s ashes. Marja sidesteps that debate, insisting that they at least wait until Wynne has tried her best to heal Eamon on her own, but she can tell Teagan is growing impatient. It’s all Marja can do to extract herself tactfully from the conversation, promising nothing and hoping that Wynne will be able to render this entire argument moot.

Marja knows she already gave her word to Alistair that they would look into the ashes, if it came to that. She knows that if she wants to keep this alliance, she will need to do whatever it takes to heal Eamon.

She just wishes these humans weren’t pinning their hopes on something so ridiculous.

Those thoughts follow her as she passes through the large doors into the courtyard, and she’s so absorbed in her plans on how to untangle this mess that she almost doesn’t notice Leliana sitting upon the stone stairway, strumming away at her lute.

Almost. But their eyes meet, and after a few second of awkwards silence Leliana puts on a smile and beckons her over. And as much as Marja suddenly wishes she could take a page from Morrigan’s book and simply flee into the sky above, she approaches.

“Bodahn really outdid himself with that gift, didn’t he?” Marja observes, and Leliana laughs as she sets the lute to the side.

“I am quite fond of it, I admit. I’d forgotten how much having a bit of music at hand helps to soothe my thoughts. It has been too long since I’ve picked up an instrument- the Chant was sung without accompaniment back in…in Lothering.” Her face falls at the mention of the village, and Marja settles down to take a seat next to her- not too close, but close enough to hopefully offer a show of support.

“I know it’s difficult. Are you okay?”

Leliana nods. “I am. I still remember it all fondly. I only wish the demons had not twisted those memories into something so cruel.”

“I know what you mean. They weren’t exactly kind with my memories, either.”

“No, I expect not.” Leliana glances back down at her lute, plucking idly at a single string as she speaks. The tinny sound echoes thinly against the stone steps before losing itself to the wind. “We have not had much time to talk since the Circle, have we? I wanted to take this chance now to…to apologize, I suppose.”

Marja blinks, taken aback. “Apologize? Whatever for?”

“For how I acted in the Fade,” Leliana explains, stumbling over herself in a sudden rush to get the words out. “First I did not even remember you, and then I… well, I was not thinking clearly, and when my memories returned I was so overcome with relief…I simply acted without consideration.”

Ancestors, Marja can feel herself turning red. She doesn’t know which is worse- the fact that the mere mention of Leliana’s kiss has her so flustered, or the fact that Leliana very clearly is aware of how much it has affected her. “Oh. So, you do remember that.”

“My mind was clouded by the Fade, but…yes, I do.” Leliana still won’t meet Marja’s eyes, and Marja wishes for nothing more than to melt into the stone below. She wishes Leliana had forgotten the kiss; that would be better than this drawn-out rejection. She wishes she knew the right words to say to cushion this blow, to laugh it off. It should be easy; Marja has wielded words as weapons, as shields, often enough. But with Leliana, her well-practiced diplomacy sticks in her throat, and she can only stay silent as Leliana continues on.

“And I realize it was unexpected, and perhaps that was unfair. You must understand that your friendship is very dear to me, and of course I did not intend to make you uncomfortable in any way. But you have been avoiding me ever since, and- and I simply wanted to assure you that I will not be so presumptuous again.”

It’s that last part that finally stirs Marja from her self-inflicted paralysis. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she says quickly, and relief colors Leliana’s face. The change spurs Marja on, and it is with a racing heart that she gathers the courage to add, “You never make me uncomfortable.”

A long, terrible moment passes before Leliana responds. But then she smiles, and she reaches out, hesitantly, to brush her fingers against Marja’s. “Good. I…feel the same. That is, I feel comfortable around you. I feel safe. It may not sound like much, but it has been a very long time since I have felt this way about anybody. You are a wonderful friend and…and sometimes, I wonder if we could be…more. More than friends.” She takes a deep breath, which turns into a laugh as she shakes her head at herself. “Maker…look at me stumbling over my words. Some bard I am. I promise, I am usually better at this.”

“You’re faring better than I am,” Marja says honestly. Even this light touch has her heart pounding in her ears, and she is still half-certain that this is all merely her imagination. “I’ve never actually done anything like this before. But allow me to say, you are not being presumptuous. I think…I think I want the same things you do.” She glances away and pushes a loose strand of hair from her face, self-conscious in a manner which she is completely unaccustomed to. “And here I thought I was being obvious.”

“Obvious?” Leliana repeats, and the indignance in her voice might be alarming if it weren’t softened by a pleased smile. “Oh, I feel like a fool. Here you are, feeling the same way I do, and nobody thought to inform me! Oh, you made me go and say all those silly things, when you could have said them first! How embarrassing.”

She shakes her head again, still laughing at herself. Even so, she shifts closer to Marja, and it is with a new confidence that she adds, “But it is good to know that my advances were not unwanted.”

“Not at all,” Marja breathes, her nerves fluttering at this new closeness. “Although to be honest…it all happened so quickly, I didn’t have much time to appreciate it.”

“Oh?” Leliana’s smile turns teasing, and she leans even closer, her nose brushing against Marja’s. “Maybe this will be better, then.”

Her thumb traces against Marja’s jaw, and finally, finally, their lips meet.

This is nothing like the kiss in the Fade. Marja had been truthful in saying that was too quick, too shocking, too haunted by the spirits lurking in the background. Now, however, they can take their time; Leliana’s lips can move softly against Maraj’s, gentle and cajoling and sweet as the woman herself.

Leliana doesn’t move away, even after they break apart. Instead the two stay close, foreheads touching, as Leliana gauges Marja’s reaction. “Well?”

Marja laughs breathlessly. “Yes, that was…that was good. But maybe we should try a few more times, just to be safe.”

Rosalind bides her time, and tries not to attract attention while in the Redcliffe castle.

She’s never been much good at that. She’s always been too loud, too quick to anger, too willing to fight. But Irving has managed to each her patience, if nothing else, and so she waits. She listens.

Wynne confers with Marja over the state of Eamon’s illness. The old arl’s sickness has proven immune to Wynne’s healing spells, it seems, and for all her talents there is nothing she can do.

“If only Shay were around to help.” The words are sour, and they leave Rosalind’s mouth before she can stop herself. Shay would be upset with her, for that. But Shay isn’t here, and that’s the point, and there a sick sense of satisfaction in watching the pained look flash across Wynne’s face.

Wynne does not grace her with an argument, and Rosalind leaves as she and Marja begin making future plans. Rosalind has learned all she needs to know; Eamon will not wake anytime soon, and as long he sleeps, Jowan’s fate remains undecided.

It’s not fair, that they should pluck her from the Templar’s clutches and not him. Jowan has made mistakes- mistakes that Rosalind will give him grief for, in due time- but he would never wish harm on anyone. Not Jowan, who could barely bring himself to squash a spider even when it crawled into his bedsheets, who had snuck Rosalind food from the kitchens her first night in Kinloch Hold, when she had been too angry and heartbroken to leave her bed. He was the one who’d known the secrets of blood magic for ages, yet never used them to hurt a single soul, while Rosalind…

The sounds of screams and the scent of blood echo in her mind. She forces herself not to dwell upon the memories.

Rosalind could beg the Wardens for Jowan’s Conscription. But they already resent her presence, and the recruitment of two blood mages may be too much ask.

Besides…there is one other thing that Irving has managed to teach her, and that is that there are very few people who can be trusted. Rosalind has always known not to trust the Templars; any fool would know that much. But there are other dangers, as well. Other people she should have been wary of. Irving and Uldred both proved that well enough. However Rosalind might feel about these Wardens, she knows better than to put their loyalty to the test.

So she waits, a little longer, until attentions are elsewhere. And then she slips down the stairs into the dungeons, knife in hand. One slice across her palm, and the guards fall unconscious to the ground. She rounds the corner, follows the line of cells, and then-

Maker. It has been ages since she’s last seen Jowan, and the time has not been kind to him. His skin is sallow, his face hollow- but he is alive, and that alone is relief enough for now. When their eyes meet, Jowan gives a startled yelp, and the shock on his face is so familiar that Rosalind almost cries.

“Shush!” she says quickly, rushing to his cell. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“Ros?!”

“I said shush!”

She’d taken the keys off the guards, but it’s still difficult to navigate the lock with the newly limited mobility of her hand. Jowan is silent as she struggles, just staring at her in wordless disbelief. Rosalind can’t bring herself to meet his eyes again; she has too many questions, and not enough time.

Eventually, he starts whispering to himself, his voice mingling with the metallic clicks of the lock. “This is a dream. It’s a new trick, and I won’t-”

“You’re not dreaming.” The lock finally gives way, and for the first time Jowan seems to notice her missing fingers.

“Wait, what happened to you?”

“Later,” Rosalind says firmly. “Let’s get you out of here, then we can talk.”

“No.” Jowan takes a step back. “Ros, you should leave. Get out of here before they find you, too.”

“Leave?” Her voice is not nearly as quiet as it should be, but she can’t help it; it takes all of her willpower not to shout the words. “What are you talking about?”

“I…I’ve done bad things, Ros.” Jowan’s voice shakes, and he hugs himself tightly. Rosalind has known him for years, has seen him at his worst, but she has never seen him look so defeated as this. “I’ve decided to answer for them.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done.” She sounds desperate. She is desperate. “Get our ass out of that cell. We’re leaving together.”

“Did you see the village on your way here? Did you see all the destruction? That was because of me. I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Tough shit, I don’t!” she snaps. She holds up her other hand, the one still slick with blood. “Because you’re not the only one, okay? So let’s at least make it worth it.”

Jowan’s face twists- in guilt or shock or horror, Rosalind can’t say for sure. But she has come too far to leave him here, and she knows what will spur him into action. “I know where Shay is.”

“You- what?”

“It’s too much to explain here, but I saw them in the Fade. I don’t know how, but…it was them.” It was them. Rosalind would know Shay anywhere. She knows their voice, their touch, the taste of their kiss, all better than anything else in this world. “I need your help to get to them.”

Whatever Jowan is about to say next is cut off the by the sound of steps descending the stone staircase. Rosalind fumbles for her knife, readying herself for an attack- but when Darvis turns the corner and takes in the scene, he simply crosses his arms and leans back against the wall.

“Figured I’d find you here,” he says. “I guess I’d be making a break for it, too, if I were you.” He tilts his head, studying them both with a furrowed brow. “You could stay, you know. Being a Warden…well, I’m not gonna lie, it’s kind of awful sometimes. But it’s probably better than living on the run as an apostate, right?”

It’s not that he’s wrong. Rosalind could stay. Her temperament would suit the life of a Warden- Irving told her as much himself, not too long ago.

But it’s Wynne who’s right, in the end. Being a Warden means…well, it means all that selfless shit she said, about being a hero. It means leaving Shay in the past, leaving Jowan to his fate. It is not a price that Rosalind can pay.

“Sorry,” she says, and almost means it. “But I have somewhere else to be.”

Darvis nods, as if he never expected anything else. “Well, who am I to stop two evil, scary blood mages? Even if I tried, they’d just knock me out and wipe my memory. They might even be able to root through my head and find out about the secret tunnel that leads to the windmill. If they did that, they could get out of the village before anyone even notices they’re gone.” He glances back up the stairway and adds, “If one of them can stop the fucking shouting and the other can stop pitying himself to death, that is.”

A slightly delirious laugh bursts to Rosalind’s lips. She can’t quite believe this, and she half expects Darvis to turn and run for others as soon as her back is turned, but somehow she manages to trust him enough to turn her focus back to Jowan.

“Are you coming, then?” she asks, holding out her hand.

The pause that follows is the longest moment in her life. But finally, Jowan nods, and he takes her hand in his, and for the first time since her Harrowing Rosalind feels like she can actually breathe again.

“Just don’t go and get possessed or anything,” Darvis calls as they leave. “if you idiots turn into abominations, the others will never let me hear the end of it.”

Chapter Text

It is an adjustment, traveling with the Grey Wardens.

And how can it not be, Wynne muses, after a lifetime spent with her fellow mages? Even when she was permitted to travel, it was always in the company of Templars and other Enchanters. Always with structure and security. She’d never thought she might one day find herself in a situation such as this.

She is glad that she has been permitted this chance. Her days are limited; she knows this all too well. At least she gets to spend them in the name of a worthy cause.

She wishes her runaway students had seen things the same way. News of the Rosalind and Jowan’s disappearance was…not surprising, but disappointing. Wynne had hoped they might learn something from their trials, but in truth, she was already past expecting anything more. Irving is the one who always had plans for Rosalind’s future…but his favor is surely spent by now, and Jowan never had any of the Circle’s favor to begin with.

There is a part of Wynne which hopes they run far and stay out of sight, for their own sakes. If they are captured, they will not be shown mercy again. There is another part of her which knows how dangerous maleficar can be, and which fears for the danger they are bringing upon themselves and others.

And what of you, Wynne? A small voice scratches at the back of her head. If the blood mages are dangerous, what does that mean for the abomination?

But no. That is different, Wynne is sure of it. Have faith.

The familiar thought brings a sad smile to her face. Rosalind and Jowan have made their choice, and she cannot change that; she can simply make choices of her own. The first of which is to leave behind her quiet, repetitive days at the tower.

Sometimes, however, it still feels as if Wynne is an instructor amidst a sea of apprentices.

“Here,” she says, passing a bundle of cloth over to Marja, “see if this is a proper size.”

Marja turns a blouse over in her hands, her expression dubious. The Warden has been most reluctant to adopt any outfit lacking in armor, and considering her history, Wynne can hardly blame her. But if they plan to approach Denerim without alerting all of Loghain’s troops to their presence, they will need to adapt to the situation.

Marja claims to agree with her logic- yet, she regards the outfit Wynne has been working on with nothing short of disbelief.

“There’s not even chainmail in this?”

“Of course not,” Wynne says, slightly bemused. “This is not a battlefield we will be entering, it is a city marketplace.”

“That hardly makes a difference,” Marja retorts with a frown. “All clothing should contain some modicum of armor. Orzammar fashions include armor in everything. It’s practical.”

“And this,” Leliana says, sweeping over to Marja’s side, “will keep Loghain’s soldiers from arresting us in the market square. We’ll be hiding in plain sight. Practical in its own way, isn’t it?”

“It had better be,” Wynne replies. “It’s harder than it looks to prepare these things, you know.”

“You did wonderfully, Wynne. Even if these Fereldan fashions are not quite to my taste.” Leliana’s smile fades as she runs a finger over the faded yellow cloth in her own hands. She, at least, could tailor her clothing herself- a far simpler task to begin with than adjusting human clothing to be suitable for a dwarf.

Marja eyes the redhead with a reluctant softness. “Oh, please. You…you look perfect in anything.”

Leliana beams and presses a light kiss to the top of Marja’s head. “You are far too sweet.”

A blush rises to Maraj’s cheeks, but she still manages to insist, “I’d still prefer to wear chainmail.”

“How about leather? We could figure something out with that…”

Wynne shakes her head and leaves the two to their conversation. Leliana has proven herself deft at handling people; she can convince Marja of whatever needs convincing. While convenient in this particular moment, that fact is also somewhat…concerning.

Wynne’s gaze travels across the camp, from Alistair and Zevran arguing over the cooking fire, to Sten quietly sharpening his large blade, to Morrigan and Darvis huddled together at the entrance to Morrigan’s tent.

The problem, Wynne thinks, biting back a sigh, is that they really are all just children. Even- especially- the ones who are supposed to be leading this charge. Alistair has a good heart, but withers in the face of any responsibility greater than cleaning his own socks. Darvis cannot go through a day without provoking some form of argument, and his preoccupation with the apostate witch is nothing short of alarming. Even Marja, for all that she carries herself as their leader, can hardly claim to be any better- for Andraste’s sake, Wynne has never even seen the girl try to cook, let alone mend her own clothing. And this dalliance with Leliana…whatever their intentions, it can not end well.

All this is to be expected, in a way. They are all young. But they are also Wardens, and they do not have the privilege of time. They need to learn quickly.

Memories stir unbidden, and Wynne cannot help but mourn again over Shay- her favorite pupil, so eager to learn and to help. They were young, too, and their naïve heart and youthful infatuations led them to throw away everything for the sake of people like Rosalind and Jowan.

For all that she tried, Wynne couldn’t guide them away from such folly. She wants to do better, this time around. But she knows she cannot push the issue; her situation requires more tact than that.

Morrigan, naturally, does not share any such reservations.

Wynne knows the apostate is up to something when she volunteers to join her for the first watch. Morrigan reads the surprise on Wynne’s face and grants her a haughty grin.

“You should have some company, don’t you think? Especially at your age. We can’t have you nodding off when there are darkspawn about.”

Wynne’s scowls, and Darvis looks between the two of them with concern. “Morrigan…”

“Oh, ‘tis merely a jest. I wish to converse with my fellow mage, and in the meantime the rest of you will get your rest.” She leans down to Darvis and presses a kiss to lips, humming, “You may wait in my tent for my arrival, if you wish.”

Wynne’s scowl deepens as she watches Darvis whisper something back before turning away obediently, leaving the two mages alone in the cool night air. Wynne sighs, and with as much temperance as possible asks, “What was it you wanted to talk about, then?”

Morrigan sets her elbows on her knees and rests her chin on her hands, regarding Wynne in quiet disdain. “You do not approve of me, do you?” she finally prods.

Of course Wynne does not approve of this woman. She remembers the casual cruelty the apostate displayed at the tower, and she has seen the dangerous magic she dabbles in so recklessly. “I suppose I am not being subtle, am I? I had hoped to remain civil, seeing as we are traveling together.” She frowns, but finally decides there is no point in denying the truth. “No, Morrigan. There is much you do that I do not approve of.”

A strange curiosity alights in Morrigan’s eyes. “Is my apostasy truly so offensive to you? I realize you are accustomed to Circle apprentices hanging upon your every word-”

“That is not the source of my disagreements with you,” Wynne interrupts in a huff. “We clearly have different views of the Circle, but…you are dangerous, Morrigan, and I recognize that. I do not take that fact lightly.”

“Is this overcompensation for the charges that slipped through your fingers, then? You did not guard them closely enough, did you? Oh, what will the Templars say?”

“Whatever regrets I have are mine alone,” Wynne snaps. She bites down on her lip, regretting the outburst already; she cannot allow Morrigan to strike her nerves so easily, however callous the woman may be. “If you wish to have a civilized conversation, know that I am willing. But you are looking only to provoke. You take pride in angering people. One day, you will realize that such a temperament does not endear you to others. Even Darvis will grow past it with time.”

Morrigan’s smile turns brittle. “Ah. So that is what you disapprove of so strongly.”

“Not just that,” Wynne says mildly. “But yes. As I said, you are dangerous. He is a Grey Warden, and he has a responsibility to the world, one which I suspect he does not fully appreciate. I know you do not appreciate it. But…you are beautiful, and he is young. It would not be the first such lapse of judgement I have seen.”

“Are those compliments I hear? And I thought you didn’t like me.”

Only you would take that as a compliment. I don’t know what it is you want from him, but distractions of any kind are something the Wardens cannot afford. There is too much at stake. Even if you do not truly care for him- or anyone at all, other than yourself- I would hope you have enough foresight to at least take the fate of the country into account.”

Morrigan is silent for a long moment, her stare as cold as ever from across the fire. Finally, she stands and sweeps away, back to where her tent is waiting.

“And where are you going now?” Wynne demands.

“I merely assumed that since you are oh so wise, you are capable of continuing the watch on your own,” Morrigan calls loftily. “As for me, I have a Warden to…distract.”

Wynne stifles another long sigh and lets the woman go without a fight. Pick your battles, she reminds herself- there is clearly no use in trying to reason with Morrigan about anything.

Children, all of them, she thinks again, feeling suddenly very tired. Yet despite everything, a stubborn hope still flickers within her chest as she ponders the road ahead of them. Somewhere within Denerim lies knowledge that will lead them to the final resting place of Andraste herself. It is a grandiose hope, Wynne admits, but the spirit within her knows it to be true.

Have faith, she is reminded yet again, and Wynne nods grimly in agreement. She has failed her apprentices in the past; she will do better for the Wardens. She will guide them; she will help them become who they need to be.

She will see that they all keep faith in their cause.

Alistair knows that saying ‘I told you so’ about the whole recruiting-a-blood-mage-because-she’s-totally-on-our-side-now thing would be in bad taste, so he restrains himself and only says it to Darvis a few times. No more than a half dozen. Okay, maybe ten by the time they’ve fully left Redcliffe behind, but that’s it.

To Darvis’s credit, he doesn’t take it too hard. Alistair would’ve thought he’d be angrier, given that he actually seemed to like Rosalind, but the dwarf just shrugs off her disappearance and lets Alistair make jokes at his expense. His reaction is so blasé it leaves Alistair doubtful towards the truth of the whole story. He’d prod further, but he suspects wringing the truth out of Darvis would be less productive than drawing blood from a stone. Instead, he settles for one last ‘I told you so’ and tucks the matter away in the back of his mind.

Truthfully, Marja is the one who’s actually the most bothered by the whole thing. Teagan had been…less than thrilled at Jowan’s escape, and understandably so. In a way, however, it had all worked out- that disapproval had finally spurred Marja into committing to the search for Andraste’s Ashes.

She still thinks it’s a dumb idea. Alistair can tell. But he holds the opinion that it can’t hurt to at least talk to Genitivi, so he’s pleased enough to be heading towards Denerim.

And that’s not the only reason he’s eager to reach the city. There’s another goal he has in mind, one he’s been thinking about ever since the Fade. The thought spins around his head and stirs up his nerves until he has to talk about it or else he might just explode.

He does manage to wait until he and Marja have some time to themselves, a rare occurrence ever since she and Leliana began…what was the word Wynne had used? Fraternizing, that was it. A nice, fancy description for making lovey-dovey eyes at each other all through the day.

Not that Alistair isn’t happy for them- Marja certainly has better taste than Darvis, at least- but this is a conversation he would prefer to keep one-on-one. As fond as he is of Leliana, the two of them have gossiped one too many times for him to trust that anything he tells her won’t be whispered to someone else.

 Alistair finally gets his chance at conversation one night when the group finds themselves in need of firewood. Leliana stays behind to finish setting up the tents, so he and Marja set off into the woods on their own. They chat at first of inconsequential things, but after a few minutes of gathering his courage Alistair finally takes a breath and says, “Maybe this isn’t the best time to be thinking about this, but there’s something I want to talk about.”

Marja looks up from the wood she’s gathering. “What is it?”

Alistair opens his mouth…and chickens out at the last second. “Um, you and Leliana! How’s that going?”

The scarlet blush that takes over Marja’s face is truly impressive. “I- what? Nothing at all is going, I don’t even-”

“Easy,” Alistair cuts her off with a laugh. “I’m not blind. I see you two ogling each other. I know you canoodle whenever you have watch together.”

“I do not canoodle.”

“Now that I think of it, doesn’t that violate her vows?”

“She never took those sorts of vows!” Marja flushes deeper as she hears the defensiveness in her words, and Alistair takes pity on her.

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to tease, I just…I think it’s nice, that you’re able to find something like that in these dark times.”

Marja finally relaxes, and her blush fades just a smidge. “Thanks, I guess. It’s…new. Very new. But…it’s good, I think.” She turns her gaze on Alistair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But what did you really want to talk about?”

Now it’s Alistair’s turn to grow bashful. He glances away, turning his utmost attention to the branches scattered on the ground. “Fine, fine. I was actually thinking, since we’re already going to Denerim and all, that while we’re there, we might be able to…look someone up. My sister, specifically. Goldanna.”

He waits through the pause as Marja connects the dots. She saw his dreams; she knows the silly fantasies he’s conjured up about the sibling whom he doesn’t actually know anything about. But when she finally speaks, her voice is even, almost deliberately unassuming. “You know, you’ve never talked about her before.”

“I’ve never even met her,” Alistair admits. “She’s my half-sister, you see. Turns out, my mother had a child. Not me- not just me, I mean. A daughter. Eamon never told me about her, and I doubt she knows about me. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Warden, I started asking around, trying to learn more about my mother. I’d never been allowed to ask much before. I still didn’t get many answers, but…I got a few. Her name was Nella. She was from Redcliffe. As far as anyone knows, she never married, and she didn’t have any other family. But…she did have Goldanna.”

His ears are burning with embarrassment now. He’s very aware that he sounds like a child, chasing after the storybook picture of family like this. But if he doesn’t pursue it now…he may never get another chance. “Anyway, Goldanna lives in Denerim now, apparently. I think I’d like to finally meet her.”

“Are you certain?” Marja has given up the pretense of collecting wood completely now, and Alistair can feel her gaze boring into him. “Family isn’t always-”

She stops herself, and sighs. “Family can be complicated.”

“Believe me, I know,” Alistair says. “But she’s the only family I have left, the only one not wrapped up in all this royal nonsense. And with the Blight coming…I don’t know, she might need help. I should at least warn her about the danger, right?” He huffs and rebalances the sticks in his hands, rolling the possibilities over in his mind. He hopes Goldanna hasn’t bought into the teyrn’s lies about the Wardens. He hopes he can actually find her. He hopes she’s safe. “I just…I want to try.”

“…Okay. We’ll look for her, then.”

The sticks almost fall out Alistair’s hands as he stumbles in surprise. Not that he’d thought Marja would refuse, but…well, he knows he’s not exactly being pragmatic with this wish. But when he regains his balance, he looks at Marja to see that she is looking at him with complete sincerity. “She’s your family. I get why you want to know more. Whatever she’s like, you deserve to at least meet her.”

“Thanks.” Alistair lets out a relieved laugh, and he shakes his head at himself. “Maker, would you believe how nervous I am already?”

Marja laughs, but the sound stops short. Alistair immediately knows why; he felt the same shiver running down his spine. Marja reaches for the axe at her belt and says, “If it’ll make you feel better, I sense a group of darkspawn nearby.”

“Yes,” Alistair breathes with relief. “Let’s go dismember some monsters. I hear that’s good for the nerves.”

“And…that’s Draconis?”

“No, no, that is Draconis.”

“What? Where?”

Leliana giggles and takes Marja’s hand in hers, guiding it across the night sky until her finger is pointing in the right direction. “See?” She traces the constellation with Marja’s finger. “There’s the heads. The wings. And the tail.”

“That looks nothing like a dragon. It’s just a bunch of dots,” Marja insists. But she keeps her hand in place, anyway, and her fingers curl in Leliana’s. “Show me another one.”

Leliana obliges. She recites all the stories she knows of Ferelden’s constellations, and she traces the shape of each with Marja’s fingers wrapped around hers. This is far and away her favorite type of night: when the darkspawn don’t venture near camp, when the sky is clear, when she and Marja can pretend there is nothing else in the world but the two of them.

It’s not that Leliana regrets the excitement of their adventures, not for a second. The return of danger to her life is somewhat thrilling, to be honest. Her old skills are returning with greater ease every passing moment- she has even taken up her own music again, has begun writing songs of the Wardens’ exploits- but this time, she is putting them to good use. This time, she has someone she can actually trust at her side.

So even with the Blight and the demons and the danger, Leliana is happy that the Maker has brought her here, curled together with Marja under the stars. Even if Marja never quite gets the hang of identifying the starry formations.

“It takes a little imagination,” Leliana says with a soft laugh, and Marja gives her a rueful smile.

“I’ll take your word for it. They’re a beautiful sight all on their own, anyway.” She tilts her head upwards, her eyes soft as she contemplates the heavens above. Leliana has never seen anyone look at the stars the way she does, as if she were seeing the whole world opened up before her for the very first time. Still smiling, Leliana presses a kiss to Marja’s cheek, tracing over her freckles as if they were constellations of her own.

The attention brings a slight flush to Marja’s face, even now. But a smile pulls at her lips as she leans into the touch, and eventually she turns her head to catch Leliana’s mouth with her own. They linger in the kiss for a long moment, until another story occurs to Leliana.

“Do you know that one?” she asks, pointing to a bright belt of stars to the west. “Alindra and her soldier?”

“Oh, you know I don’t.”

Leliana laughs and shifts to a more comfortable position, pulling Marja along with her. The story is as fresh in Leliana’s mind as when she first heard it, and she launches into the tale with practiced ease. “A long time ago, there lived a fair maiden called Alindra. She had many suitors, but spurned them all, for she did not love them. One day, Alindra was sitting by a window in her father’s castle, singing and dreaming, when her lovely voice caught the attention of a young soldier. Entranced by her song, the soldier drew near to Alindra’s window. As their eyes met, he fell in love with her, and she with him.”

“That’s awfully fast,” Marja says with a skeptical hum.

“It is a story,” Leliana says, bopping Marja lightly on the nose with her finger. “Now hush, you. When Alindra told her father about the man she had chosen, he was furious, for she was high-born, and her love was nothing more than a common soldier. To keep them apart, he had Alindra imprisoned in the highest tower of his castle and sent her soldier to the wars.”

Marja’s brow furrows. “Well, if she’s high-born, she should have known-”

“A story, dear. Alas, not a month had passed before news of the soldier’s death reached Alindra. Alone in her tower, Alindra wept for her love and beseeched the gods to deliver her from this cruel world. So earnest was her plea that the gods themselves were moved.”

Leliana’s voice goes wistful; this has always been her favorite part of the story, the part where the heroine’s love was so pure and strong that it overpowered even the most unshakable of fates. “They gathered Alindra into their arms and lifted her high into the heavens. She became a star, stationed high in the sky so as to watch over other young lovers who remained below and to give them hope- for the gods also raised up the soul of her soldier, and he is placed just across the horizon from her. The band of stars between them is a river of Alindra’s tears, cried for her lost love. When Alindra has cried enough, she will be able to cross the river to be reunited with her soldier at long last.”

Marja stays quiet this time, but upon realizing the story is done her face falls into a frown. “…that’s it? That’s a terrible ending.”

“It is not!”

“It’s so sad.”

“It is hopeful!” Leliana exclaims. She draws Marja closer, trying to convey the feeling the story sparks in her. “Alindra will one day be with her love again. We don’t know when, but she will. That’s how enduring her love is.”

“But if the gods could make her a star and raise her love from the dead, why wouldn’t they just place them together to begin with? Was the river of tears really necessary?”

“There is no actual river of tears,” Leliana says, somewhat exasperated. “It is a time of trouble Alindra must pass through before she can return to her love. Just as in life, circumstance can keep us separated from the people we love. But there is always hope. That’s the point of the story.”

Marja is quiet for a moment as she considers Leliana’s words. “I suppose that’s nice,” she finally admits. “Still sad, but…I can see why you like it.”

“It’s one of my favorites. Didn’t you have any stories like that in Orzammar?”

Marja purses her lips as she thinks. “We have stories about the Paragons. The legends talk about their strength, or their skill. They teach us about great battles and great rulers. My favorite was always the story of Astyth the Grey. She founded the Silent Sisters, after cutting out her own tongue in protest of the exclusion of women from Orzammar’s army.”

“That was your favorite?” Leliana asks, wrinkling her nose, and Marja laughs.

“It has a happy ending- she became a Warrior and founded a House, and now she’s remembered as one of Orzammar’s greatest Paragons. Anyway…no, we don’t really have stories like yours, about magic and love and such. They exist, I suppose, but they’re not the important ones.”

Given what she’s heard of Orzammar, Leliana can’t say she’s surprised. But still… “No love stories? Now you’ve gone and made me sad.”

“Well now,” Marja says, her voice dropping to a whisper, “we can’t have that.”

She lifts her head to brush her lips against Leliana’s, and Leliana pulls her closer to deepen the kiss. Her fingers run through Marja’s golden hair and trace circles along the back of her neck. Marja’s movements are slower, still cautious, even after all the time they’ve shared. Her calloused hands are gentle as she traces a thumb across Leliana’s cheek, as if she is afraid to hold her too firmly.

It is so different from anything Leliana has known before. The care, the delicacy…between the two of them, Leliana may have more experience, but nothing in Orlais was so sweet as this.

A rustling noise from the surrounding woods jolts both women to sudden attention. In a flash, Leliana is on her feet, her bow in her hands with an arrow notched. Marja is behind her in second, weapon in hand, both of them staring into the shadows just beyond the camp. Leliana motions for Marja to stay silent as she creeps forward, closer to the woods, and through the darkness she sees a figure stumble through the bushes. She holds her breath, heart racing in her ears as she waits for it to creep closer.

When it does, she releases the breath in a sigh of relief. Their mysterious assailant is simply a deer, nosing noisily through the brush. Leliana releases her arrow anyway, downing the creature with a shot through the eyes. It will make a decent breakfast come morning.

“A bit jumpy, aren’t we?” she jokes to Marja as they approach the animal.

“If there’s ever a time to be jumpy, it’s the middle of a Blight,” Marja replies, a grim look on her face as she prods at the deer with the edge of her axe. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

Leliana crouches down closer, and her blood goes cold at the sight of the grey, discolored flesh. The deer’s odd behavior makes more sense now, and Leliana’s plans for breakfast are immediately dashed. “No. It’s tainted.”

Marja groans, and her gaze goes distant as she turns back to the woods. “I don’t sense any darkspawn around…but maybe we should wake everybody else, anyway. Get an early move on. The sooner we get to Denerim, the better.”

“No, no, no. Hold it like this, see?” Zevran plucks the dagger from Darvis’s hands and twirls it slowly in his own, showing off the proper grip. “You want to keep your skin far from the blade once it is poisoned.”

“Or wear gloves,” Darvis suggests in a dry tone, and Zevran chuckles.

“Or that, yes. But better safe than sorry.”

Despite his quips, Darvis watches carefully as Zevran completes the maneuver. He’s an astute man, this dwarf; more than perhaps even he realizes. His eyes follow the glint of the blade, and he asks, “What kind of poison we talking about, anyway?”

“That is not for me to say,” Zevran replies, pulling back with a sigh. “I cannot give away all the Crow secrets so readily, even if I have left their ranks. They still guard their trade secrets quite jealously.”

That is putting it lightly. The Crows have found themselves murderous over far lesser offenses, as Zevran well knows. Granted, Zevran has already defected, and there are few crimes worse than that…but still. Some things are not quite worth the risk. He shouldn’t be allowing Darvis to handle his daggers at all, really, but…well, the Imperial Highway is long and boredom is a powerful persuader. Still, as much as he finds himself enjoying Darvis’s company, it is perhaps for the best that the man not know all of Zevran’s tricks.

“Besides, we hardly have the time tonight to go into the depths the subject deserves,” Zevran continues flippantly as he gives the blade one last twirl and slides it into his belt. “It took years of rigorous tests for me to earn the knowledge, myself.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you became an assassin at seven.”

“I was bought at seven,” Zevran clarifies. “Truly becoming an assassin was a long way off.”

Zevran is acutely aware of the others listening in on the conversation. Marja and Alistair walk ahead on the well-trodden road, both pretending disinterest, though Zevran is certain they are evaluating his every word. Morrigan lingers at Darvis’s other side, as usual, and she glares venomously in Zevran’s direction, as always.

Leliana strides alongside Zevran, and of course it is she who asks the question. “How does a child find themselves in such a situation? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I do not,” Zevran says, careful to keep his voice even. “It was a long time ago, after all, and the tale is not terribly exciting. My mother was Dalish, once, but she moved to the city to be with a woodcutter she had fallen in love with. She left her family behind, along with nearly all she owned. When the woodcutter died, she moved to the whorehouse to provide for herself. A common enough story.” He braces himself for- well, he does not know exactly what. Leliana recites the Chant and dons all the sparkling virtues of the Chantry, yet she has her own unsavory past. Her behavior and her judgements can be difficult to predict.

Leliana surprises him, as she so often does. There is no condemnation at all in her expression as she takes in the story, and one she has, she simply asks, “What was she like?”

In the face of such a question, Zevran allows himself a moment of simple honesty. “I never knew her. She died during my birth.” Sympathy falls like a shadow over Leliana’s face, and Zevran quickly banishes that pity with a tight laugh. “My first victim, as it were.”

Alistair glances over his shoulder to throw Zevran a dark, furrowed look, which Zevran meets with a brazen, uncaring grin as he continues on. “Myself and the other children were raised communally by the whores- until, of course, the Crows made an offer. The rest, as you can guess, is history.”

Darvis eyes Zevran with wary confusion. “You don’t have to be so cheerful about that, you know. It’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

Zevran shrugs, and stretches his arms behind him in a nonchalant gesture. “Ah, but what good does being angry do? It is what it is, and it has led me here. And none of us are the products of idyllic lives, are we?”

“No shit,” Darvis mutters.

Leliana is not so easily dissuaded. “You never imagined a better life for yourself?”

“I did try running off and living with the Dalish once,” Zevran admits. Fondness creeps into his voice, in spite of himself; that had been a good few months, after all, even if it hadn’t truly satisfied him. “I fantasized about doing that often as a child. I even kept a pair of gloves my mother had owned- Dalish make, beautifully embroidered. We weren’t allowed to have such things in the Crows, yet I risked it for those gloves. They were discovered eventually, of course. As was I, after a few months with the clan. But even I hadn’t been found out…the reality of such an escape could not live up to my dreams. Such a life was simply not meant to be.”

Leliana has that sad, pitying look in her eyes again, and before she can say anything Zevran quickly adds, “It was not so disappointing a discovery, I assure you. As a Crow I had adventure, luxuries, the attention of any person I desired. I have found it is best to enjoy these elements of life while I can.”

His words come out in a purr, and though they are directed at Leliana- who scoffs and drops the subject, just as Zevran hoped she would- Morrigan bristles all the same. Zevran watches with faint amusement as she pulls Darvis’s attention away with some comment about her magical studies, laying a possessive hand upon his shoulder as she does so.

She certainly wastes no time with subtlety, Zevran muses. He should probably do something about that.

After setting up camp that evening, Morrigan wanders a distance down the nearby field to collect elfroot and other such brewing ingredients. Her lovely features settle into a dark scowl when Zevran follows after her.

“What is it that you want?” she asks archly, pausing in her herb-picking to give him a truly impressive glare.

“Am I not allowed to do my own gathering?” Zevran asks. “These are some lovely crops of deathroot- it would be a shame to leave them to be choked by the Blight.”

“Deathroot, is it?” The pointedness of her annoyance fades slightly as her face takes on a smug expression. “And here I thought you had greater secrets than that. Any novice could fashion a poison out of deathroot.”

“Are we to be talking of secrets, then?” Zevran replies. He follows a few steps behind Morrigan, a grin on his lips. “I’m certain yours are infinitely more interesting than my own. For instance…I see your friendship with the Warden is going very well.”

Morrigan goes still, and she turns to Zevran with wary eyes, as if she were a bird of prey pondering whether to take flight or descend upon him with talons outstretched. “Is there a reason you say that with a smirk?”

“I think you know. You and I are not so dissimilar, after all.” A flicker of surprise crosses Morrigan’s face at that, but Zevran knows it to be true. He has watched her long enough now to recognize the tools they share. “I know what you are doing, lovely woman.”

“And just what is it that you think I am doing?” Morrigan takes a step towards Zevran, the elfroot forgotten beneath her boots. A hint of possessiveness- perhaps stronger than she intended- creeps into her tone as she adds, “Besides Darvis, of course.”

Ah, yes- there is that calculating edge, that brazen pragmatism which Zevran knows so well. “Biding your time, naturally,” he says lightly, tilting his head and tapping a finger against his chin. “But for what, I wonder?”

“Why don’t you ask him, if you’re so curious? You seem to enjoy his company well enough.”

At this, Zevran cannot help but laugh. “Is that truly why you dislike me so? If it eases your mind, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear in that regard. I have no desires to intrude upon your relationship- unless invited, of course,” he adds quickly with a wink.

It is the first time Morrigan has truly been caught off guard around him. In that moment, the relief in her face is clear as day- until she recovers herself with a huff, rolling her eyes disdainfully at his parting remark. “It does not ease my mind, for I had no worries to begin with. You are not half so charming as you believe yourself to be.”

“I take that to mean you will not be enlightening me to your mysterious motives? A shame. I suppose I shall have to wait and see.”

“Mysterious motives?” Morrigan repeats, her voice practically a growl. “You sound like Wynne, of all people. Demanding what I see in him, wondering what I am using him for. Has it truly not occurred to any of you that I do, in fact, enjoy the man’s company?”

Zevran pauses before answering, studying the woman before him- the crushed stalks of herbs in her hands, the defensive indignation in her eyes.

“I’m certain you do,” he finally says. “But it is as I said- you and I, we see things in similar ways. And we know that things are rarely so simple, yes?”

Zevran leaves Morrigan there, among the weeds and herbs, and returns to camp with his pack full of deathroot and his mind still full of questions. Morrigan’s plans are no business of his, of course- unless they threaten the safety this new alliance has brought him. He wrestles over these thoughts for so long, he almost does not notice when Alistair approaches, looking stiff and awkward as ever.

“Zevran?” the man says, quite unnecessarily, but Zevran gives him a sweeping bow anyway.

“At your service.”

Alistair frowns, and without explanation shoves a bundle of cloth into Zevran’s hands. “Here.”

Zevran raises an eyebrow, but dutifully unfolds the cloth to find a simple pair of leather gloves. He hums quietly in bafflement, turning the equipment over in his hands. “This is…not what I expected, I admit.”

“They’re Dalish gloves,” Alistair says quickly. He rubs at the back of his neck, fumbling for words as he explains. “We were in the Brecilian Forest, a while back, and we picked up a lot of supplies. I know there’s no chance they’re actually…but I thought you might like to have them, anyway.”

The story Zevran told earlier that day returns to him- as does the memory of Alistair’s expression as his tale unfolded. He’d thought the man had been put off by Zevran’s tales of his past- to say this sudden gesture is unexpected is an understatement. Perhaps Alistair is counting on some trace of sentimentality, some nostalgia that would make Zevran willing to pay more than what these gloves would be otherwise worth.

He wishes he could say the idea is unfounded, but Zevran peers closer at the material- and yes, the patterns are different from what he remembers, but the stitching is there. Handmade by the Dalish, bearing symbols of stories Zevran recognizes but has never known. Now that they are in his hands, he would be loathe to relinquish them. The Crows would be appalled at such sentimentality.

“I see,” Zevran says carefully. “They are quite handsome. What do I owe you, for such a find?”

Alistair’s eyes widen. “What? Nothing! It’s just-” he waves his hands at the gloves, as if that were to explain it all. When Zevran does not reply, he groans and says, “It’s just- my mother died, too. Same way yours did, actually. And I don’t have much to remember her by, so…so I know I would want those, if I were you. That’s all. You don’t owe me anything for them.”

Zevran blinks. He looks down at the gloves again, then up at Alistair- the warrior is embarrassed, obviously, yet somehow still earnest in how he doesn’t flinch from Zevran’s gaze- and then back down at the gloves once more.

“No has ever simply…given me a gift before,” Zevran says, still too taken aback to deliver his usual rapier wit.

“Really? I’m your first?”

The thoughtless question finally jolts a snicker from Zevran, and only then does a flustered Alistair avert his gaze. “Okay, I didn’t- that sounds- whatever you’re thinking, just stop!”

“I said nothing!” Zevran protests with a smirk. “For once, you are the one with the silver tongue.”

“Maker- you know what, forget I said anything at all.”

Alistair turns to beat a hasty retreat, leaving Zevran with the unearned, sentimental gloves still clutched in his hands. It is only then that Zevran says, just loud enough for only Alistair to hear, “…thank you.”

Chapter Text

Of all the places Darvis has been in the last few months, Denerim is definitely the liveliest. Or at least, it’s the most…’not actively dying’. It’s a shock, really, when he walks through the city gates and isn’t immediately accosted by someone desperate for the Wardens’ help in some life-or-death situation.

Not that there’s anything to signal their status as Wardens anymore. Their blue and silver armor has been left behind in favor of simple leather, and at Leliana’s insistence they divide themselves into small groups and enter the gates separately.

Two dwarves and a man who bears a striking resemblance to the dead king are too noticeable, she’d claimed, and so now Darvis enters the city with only Zevran, Sten, and Nug by his side. They don’t bother to hide their weapons; they pass well enough for mercenaries, especially once Alistair decorates Nug’s fur with a bit of Fereldan warpaint. Zevran trades a few words with the guard at the gates, and they enter without further incident.

“No skills at interrogation, these guardsmen” Zevran comments after with a mournful shake of his head. “Still, it is more caution than this city usually shows. Loghain must be dreading your appearance.”

A black raven cries out loudly overhead, and they follow the bird to a side road just out of sight of the gates. The others are already waiting; Alistair and Wynne had entered together first, followed by Leliana and Marja. The raven wheels overhead once more before dipping to the ground and twisting back into Morrigan’s human form, still in the same fashions she’d worn in the Korcari swamps. Wynne had tried to offer her a plain homespun dress to better blend in, and to nobody’s surprise had been firmly and fiercely refused.

Alistair shoots a panicked look down the street as Morrigan brushes a few feathers from her leather skirts. “Don’t do that here! Aren’t we supposed to be inconspicuous?”

Morrigan scoffs. “None of these people are looking beyond their own noses. Now cease your whining and let’s get on with this.”

She isn’t wrong; they’re in the shadows of an alley now, and her arrival has gone unnoticed. People move quickly up and down the nearby streets, but they’re too lost in their own tasks to pay much heed to the Wardens. It’s a straightforward bustle; no panic, no fear, no monsters or demons or darkspawn looming in the background. It’s simply people going about their business with no time to spare for the type of folk who gather in shadowy alleys.

But that clearly isn’t about to stop Alistair from snapping back at Morrigan, so Darvis cuts in before a true argument can be started. “We made it in, didn’t we? What now?”

Marja pulls a paper from the satchel at her side, frowning down at the scribbled words. “Eamon’s letters from Genitivi said he was living near something called the ‘Wonders of Thedas’.”

Darvis snorts at the name. “What is that, a brothel?”

“What?” Alistair shakes his head. “No, it’s- well, it’s kind of an eclectic place, all kinds of bits and bobs-”

“Yeah, you’re not really making it not sound like a brothel.”

“It’s a shop. They had these little toy golems- anyway, there’s definitely no broth. I’d remember if there was broth.” Alistair grins as if he’s just cracked the funniest joke, but Zevran is the only who rewards him with a snicker. Slightly deflated, Alistair points a finger down the main street. “Point is, it’s this way.”

 He makes to walk off in that direction, but Zevran interrupts with a light hand on his shoulder.

“If I may make a suggestion…” Zevran says, flashing Alistair an apologetic smile, “We may best be served by caution, no? Perhaps we might take a side road? A detour or two?”

“Zevran is right,” Leliana says. She leans against the wall, the picture of casual loitering, save for the way her eyes narrow as she watches the people pass by. “The guards did not seem to recognize us, but…we should take care all the same. I know a back way we can take.”

Marja gives Leliana a curious look. “How do you know your way here?”

“I know many things,” Leliana replies, her smile turning playful as she holds a hand out to Marja. “Come along, then. It’s best not to linger in one place.”

Leliana leads the group through the cobblestoned backstreets of the city. The houses here are large, larger even than the ones Darvis has seen in Lothering or Redcliffe. These stretch up to multiple stories, with crisscrossing beams and thin laundry lines providing connections between the roofs and windows. Above it all, the pointed roof of the Chantry sticks even higher into the sky, its gilded windows glinting in the sun. Darvis can’t help but wonder how much glass like that must cost.

It's not a question for Leliana, he figures. She and Alistair are too busy pointing out the familiar sights of the city, anyway, all while Marja takes everything in with rapt attention. Darvis only half-listens to their reminiscing conversation; he’s too busy being distracted by the novelty around him to focus on specifics.

The group has stayed clear of the main market streets, but the shouts of merchants peddling their wares blend in with the constant cries of the birds above to provide a constant backdrop of noise. Morrigan has joined those birds, and her raven form sticks out among the smaller, mud-brown creatures. She’s likely safer up in the air than any of them are down here, but Darvis keeps an eye out for her anyway. Her temper has been short, lately, even more than usual. Darvis blames her dark mood on Wynne’s constant presence, though maybe it’s simply the crowds and chaos of the city. Either way, he knows better than to pry. At least for now.

Darvis’s thoughts are interrupted when he nearly barrels into Alistair, who has stopped in his tracks to stare at a paper notice pinned to the wall.

“Oooh,” he says with a wince. “That’s not good.”

Darvis pushes past the man to see what he’s gawking at and finds himself peering up at a crude drawing of Alistair himself. Marja steps forward and begins reading through the notice, and her face settles into a deep frown as she quietly mutters the words printed underneath the sketch.

“For treason against Ferelden and the late King Cailan, and for conspiracy against the crown…” she trails off and shakes her head, eyes full of cold fury.

“We knew he was spreading lies,” Darvis points out.

“Yes, but- the nerve of him!”

“At least it’s a decent likeness,” Zevran observes with a sly smirk in Alistair’s direction.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Alistair replies in a dry tone, still staring at the poster, “I’m pleased as can be that they got my jawline just right. But don’t you think having our portraits plastered everywhere is a tad concerning?”

Zevran gives an easy shrug. “It is not ideal, I admit. But in my experience, the small people of the city would rather attend to their own concerns than insert themselves in the middle of a fight with such hardened criminals.”

Darvis raises an eyebrow as he slowly parses through the information on the postings. Alistair’s sketch may not be far off, but the two depictions of dwarves pinned next to him leave something to be desired- Darvis’s sketched beard isn’t even half as long as the real thing, and the artist clearly has never seen a Casteless mark with his own eyes. The price for Darvis’s head, however, almost makes up for it. He’s almost flattered that Loghain thinks he’s worth that much.

“What about the people who want a cut of that bounty?” he asks, jutting a thumb toward the number.

Zevran grins and pulls a dagger from his belt, flashing the steel in the sunlight. “Those who suddenly find themselves seized by an overwhelming sense of patriotism can be easily persuaded to look the other way.”

“But you don’t think anyone actually buys into this, do you?” Alistair asks.

Wynne sighs. “The Grey Wardens are known throughout the land as noble heroes…but they do have a complicated history in Ferelden, and the people trust Loghain more than they do legends of old. It’s up to us to show them the truth.”

Right, Darvis thinks. Because people care about the truth so much. Out loud, all he says is, “In the meantime, maybe let’s get rid of these while we can?” He rips the papers from the wall and leaves them crumpled unceremoniously on the ground, but before he can stalk away, Marja’s attention is caught by a scribbling of charcoal on the wall underneath.

“Don’t believe the lies,” she reads, squinting to make out the scrawl. “The griffons will rise again.” A smile flits across her face. “Huh. At least some people here have a bit of sense.”

An impatient squawk from overhead signals Morrigan’s annoyance at their delay, and the group continues on, picking their way through the crooked alleys. Darvis tears down a few more posters as they go- and glares at more than a few backstreet lurkers who eye the Wardens with a hungry look. Disguise or no, his grimace is still ugly enough to send them scurrying. As they turn tail, Nug lifts his leg over the pile of ripped posters, and Darvis considers the matter settled enough for now.

Sure enough, they actually manage to make it to Genitivi’s home without incident. The house is small but well-kept, and tucked away in one of the less cluttered streets. It’s almost too picturesque, and when Marja knocks on the door, Darvis half expects a troop of Loghain’s soldiers to come busting out.

Instead, the door is answered by a young human- a tall man with dark hair, whose brow furrows politely at the sight of the strangers at his door.

“Genitivi?” Marja asks, and the furrow deepens.

“No, I’m Weylon, his assistant. My master is out at the moment…did you need something?”

Leliana steps forward and graces the man with a disarmingly earnest smile. “Will your master be out long? We were hoping to speak with him about his research.”

“We’ve heard a great deal about his brilliance,” Marja adds. “And we have some questions we’d dearly love to ask.”

Weylon nervously glances down the road before returning his gaze to the odd group before him. “He isn’t…He’s not…”

“We really do just want to talk,” Marja says. “And we have news from Redcliffe which Genitivi might be interested in.”

Finally, Weylon nods. “Of course…why don’t we take this discussion inside?”

Once Weylon has ushered the Wardens into the privacy of Genitivi’s home, he wastes no time in getting straight to business.

“I assume you’re here about Andraste’s Ashes,” he says, and Alistair gives a weak chuckle in response.

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s what everyone comes here for, lately,” Weylon says. “I also assume you were sent at the command of Arl Eamon?”

“…in a way,” Marja replies. “We’re here on his behalf, and we’re on an urgent timeline.”

Darvis leaves Marja to do the talking, and turns his attention instead to the house they’ve found themselves in. The furniture is sparse and simple- a wooden table, a row of cabinets, a simple chest- but just about every surface is covered with books and papers. Darvis hadn’t expected this fancy scholar of theirs to surround himself with this much chaos.

He continues drifting around the room, though Weylon gives him a dirty look when he pauses to examine one of the many books left out on a table. Darvis makes a show of pulling his hand back, though Weylon doesn’t seem much appeased as he turns back to continue his conversation with Marja.

“I wish I could help, but I have no new information for you. I haven’t heard from Genitivi in weeks.” Weylon sighs and rubs anxiously at his arms, then adds, “To tell the truth, it does have me worried. This absence is very unlike him.”

“But you’re his assistant,” Marja presses. “You must know something.”

Weylon sighs and brings a hand to his temple. “He was investigating a lead near Lake Calenhad. He believed he was close to finding the Ashes. That’s all he told me, and it’s exactly what I told the other soldiers from Redcliffe. I haven’t heard back from them, either. Maker, what if something’s happened to them?”

“Lake Calenhad?” Wynne repeats with a frown. “What kind of lead had he found there?”

“I- I couldn’t say. I haven’t been able to find anything in his notes.”

“But you’ve been helping with his research, haven’t you?” Marja insists. “I would think you’d know something about his investigation. What exactly do you do for him?”

When Weylon pauses, Darvis locks eyes with Marja. He subtly moves his hands, silently signing to her: He’s nervous.

She’s still for a moment before sending back a quick signal: He is.

He’s hiding something, Darvis signs.

Marja’s mouth twitches into a frown. Probably.

Darvis casts another look around the room, but it’s difficult to tell if anything is out of place in the middle of the mess. Two doors line the opposite wall, and those seem as good a place to start as any- if Darvis were doing something sketchy, he’d probably do it in the room farthest from the front door.

Keep him busy, he signs to Marja, and though she gives him a skeptical look, she turns her attention back to the man.

“Could you at least tell us about his latest writings? Perhaps there’s something we could use…”

Darvis waits until she and Weylon are entangled in conversation about Genitivi’s books, then slowly edges toward the door. He’s more certain than ever now that Weylon knows more than he’s saying- he wrings his hands with every new question from Marja, and very clearly wishes they would all just leave.

No such luck for him, Darvis thinks as he takes advantage of the man’s distraction and slips through the doorway.

He finds himself in what can only be a study. A large desk is shoved against the wall, right next to a bookshelf filled with even more heavy tomes and papers. Darvis heads for the desk- no better place to stash secrets, he figures- but stops in his tracks when he notices a large, long bundle of wrappings shoved into the room’s distant corner.

The shape of the bundle is distinctive enough. Even if it weren’t, the wrapping isn’t quite thick enough to block the smell once Darvis creeps closer.

Well, shit, he thinks. This just got complicated.

Marja already knows something strange is going on with Weylon when he keeps dancing around her questions. She’s never met a scholar who didn’t leap at the chance to wax poetic over their research, but this one hasn’t been able to give her a single straight answer. Intent on cornering him into revealing more, she begins sharpening her observations, pointing out his inconsistencies, all with the aim of keeping her suspicions subtle until he slips up.

Then Darvis kicks open the far door, and in a loud voice demands, “Wanna talk about the corpse you’ve got stashed back here?”

Weylon spins around, eyes wide and glaring at Darvis, and suddenly he’s a different person entirely. His stuttering manners disappear as he shouts out a curse, and with a flick of his wrist sends a wave of flames soaring through the air.

Everyone bursts into action as the fire launches from Weylon’s hands. The attack is directed at Darvis, but he’s already rolling away from the blast, and Weylon doesn’t get the chance to launch another spell before he’s knocked to the ground by a tackle from Alistair.

Marja curses under her breath and grabs the small hatchet at her side, wishing fervently for the heavier comfort of her battleaxe. Too conspicuous, Zevran had claimed, and it shouldn’t be a surprise that this is what she gets for listening to his advice.

With her undersized weapon at the ready, Marja steps in and brings the bladed hatchet edge to the man’s neck, holding it just far enough back to not break the skin. “Enough! You’re going to-”

Her words are cut off in a yelp as the handle of her weapon suddenly comes to life with heat, and the grip of the fire sears through her gloves and travels quickly up her wrists, blistering her skin as it goes. It’s only for a moment that her grip falters, but it’s enough for Weylon to push himself away from her blade and gather another handful of fire.

A dagger from Zevran pierces his hand, ending the spell and ripping a scream from Weylon’s throat. Marja thinks for a moment that he will finally surrender, but the man’s resilience surprises her. With a shout, he rips the dagger from his hand and lunges toward Marja. Marja ignores the pain in her own hands and forces her hatchet up just in time to deflect the attack, and before Weylon can try again, Leliana is behind him, her own dagger slicing neatly across his throat.

“Ancestors,” Marja hisses as she lets her weapon clatter to the ground. She clutches her stinging hands to her chest and once again curses herself for being talked out of her armored gloves.

Leliana appears at her side in an instant. “Are you all right?”

“It’s not that bad,” Marja replies through gritted teeth. “Wynne?”

As Wynne sets to work on Marja’s hands, Darvis and Zevran begin picking over Weylon’s body. Marja shoots Darvis a frown and mutters, “Haven’t you ever heard of subtlety, Brosca?”

“Has he?” Darvis grumbles back. “The body was right there, he had to know we’d find it. What did he think would happen when he invited us in?”

Zevran hums thoughtfully as he pulls a piece of gold from Weylon’s belt. “A shame we cannot ask the man himself. It would have been helpful to question him, no?”

“He was trying to kill Marja,” Leliana retorts. “With the dagger you handed him, I might add. I assume it is poisoned?”

“But of course! Slow-working poison combined with the promise of an antidote does wonders for interrogations,” Zevran answers merrily. “It is a dependable tactic, as I’m sure you know. He was simply far more determined than I expected. I do wonder what could inspire such loyalty…”

Leliana gives Zevran a long look but says nothing further. Instead, she turns back to Marja, her scowl softening into a worried frown. Marja’s skin warms under Leliana’s gaze, and she gives her a reassuring smile in return. “He barely got me. I can handle a few burns.”

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Wynne says in a diplomatic tone. “Luckily, dwarves have a resistance to spells such as this.”

Maraj’s fingers twitch of their own accord as her skin reforms itself under Wynne’s care, and Wynne adds, “Unfortunately, dwarves also have a small resistance to most methods of healing. Just a moment longer; if you let me focus, it won’t even leave a mark.”

“Take your time,” Marja sighs. She glances around at the books decorating the small house. Some have fallen victim to Weylon’s fire, but most are thankfully still intact. It is a pity that they couldn’t restrain the man himself, but unrestrained access to Genitivi’s records is potentially even more useful. “The rest of you, start searching through everything here. We need to find out whatever it is Weylon didn’t want us to know.”

A quick perusal through Weylon’s notes does, in fact, reveal a handful of valuable facts: the first of which is that the man who attacked them was not Weylon at all. Rather, he was the man who killed Weylon and hid the man’s body for Darvis to find.

Who he was beyond that, however, is still unknown. The only personal effect they find is a copper amulet tied around the man’s neck- a simple thing, emblazoned with the image of a twisting dragon. It’s not a symbol any of them recognize, but Marja slips it into her pocket anyway, just in case. Luckily, no other bodies are found in the house, and Marja can only hope that Genitivi is still alive.

“What now?” Darvis grumbles, leafing through one of Genitivi’s thick books with an unimpressed scowl. “This guy’s disappeared, and it’s going to take ages to go through all his junk. I can’t even read half of it.”

“We don’t have much choice,” Marja points out.

“It’s a waste of time.”

“It’s important, Brosca. Arl Eamon-”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe all this ashes stuff now?”

Of course not, Marja almost snaps, before remembering that Leliana is still standing beside her. “I believe we need to put our best efforts into finding Genitivi, just as Teagan requested. And I believe that I’ve explained the logic in this multiple times already.”

She glances to Leliana as she speaks, but Leliana isn’t looking at her; she’s staring down at Weylon’s impersonator, something almost mournful in her expression as she says, “Whoever this man was, he was willing to kill for this information. That means something. He was protecting something.”

“She’s right,” Alistair says. “If he was just a regular old burglar, he could have robbed the house and left, right? Why would he go through all this trouble of impersonation if Genitivi was wrong?”

Darvis doesn’t look impressed by this argument, but before he can voice his obvious protests, Marja pushes forward. “There are concerns to staying here too long, I know. After all, this is…” she pauses and looks down to the body still slowly leaking blood on the floor. “…suspicious. Let’s not stay in the city any longer than we have to. We can split up- some of us can go out to the market to grab some more supplies, and some of us can stay and sort through all these notes. Anything we don’t get through in that time, we’ll just have to take with us.”

Darvis considers this plan, then gives a short nod. “Fine. I’ll take the market.”

“And remember- we’re laying low,” Marja says firmly. “So don’t get mixed up in anything to attract the guards’ attention.”

“No shit. I’m not in the habit of letting guards catch me, you know.”

“Nor am I!” Zevran declares, ambling to Darvis’s side. “Together, we shall be more than safe.”

“From the guards, at least,” Morrigan says drily. “But I suppose I should join this venture, to ensure your daggers do not find themselves in his back.”

“So suspicious!” Zevran cries, lifting hand to his chest. “Never fear, I shall win you over yet.”

Marja raises her voice before Morrigan can snap back. “You three will take the market, then. Just…don’t get thrown in jail, okay? We won’t have time to rescue you.” She glances to Alistair. “We have some other stops to make.”

Alistair startles under her sudden attention, but he quickly nods. “Oh! Yes, we do!”

Alistair’s always been an open book, and this is no different- anticipation and anxiety dance across his face in equal measure. Considering what he’s told her of the situation with Goldanna, Marja can’t blame him for the conflicting emotions. But there are other tasks on her mind as well, and as lightly as she can, she adds, “Speaking of such things, Alistair, if you happen to know of anyone in this city who would ally with us against Loghain…”

“Ah. Right.” Alistair scratches at his head as he thinks. “It’s hard to say for sure. Eamon was the only noble I ever knew personally. But…there’s a tavern near the market where soldiers and merchants like to stay. I suppose that’s as good a spot as any for gossip, isn’t it? And if people are gossiping about anything these days, it’s likely something to do with us.”

“I will join the two of you, then,” Leliana says brightly. “I do enjoy a bit of gossip.”

“Which I suppose leaves me to hunt down our friend Genitivi,” Wynne says from across the room. She eyes the papers she has already gathered with keen interest, and Marja has no doubt that she’s up to the task of dissecting their contents.

“What if someone comes looking for him?” Darvis asks, nodding to the corpse on the floor.

Wynne waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “I’m touched by your concern, but I can handle myself. And I’ll have Sten as backup, won’t I?”

“Whatever allows us to leave this place soon,” Sten says, looking bored of the whole discussion.

“Helpful as aways, big guy,” Darvis drawls as he whistles to Nug and heads to the door.

“If you are able,” Sten calls, “bring back some cookies from the market.”

Despite the chaos left behind them, the people on the Denerim streets barely take notice as Marja, Alistair, and Leliana depart Genitivi’s house and hurry down the road. It’s just past midday now and the crowds are thicker than ever, much to Marja’s displeasure. The people around them may provide good cover, but the need to push her way through crowds of humans who never look where they’re going is frustrating all the same. Alistair leads the way, still full of nervous energy, and Marja has to move quickly to keep up with his long strides.

“So this is it,” he says breathlessly, the slightest note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “I’m going to see my sister. Ha. Sister. Wow. What a day! I probably shouldn’t open the conversation mentioning that we just killed a mysterious impersonator, huh? What should I talk about? The weather? What do you say in this type of situation?”

He’s speaking almost too fast to answer- and in any case, Marja is distracted from replying as she realizes that Leliana has fallen behind. She turns back and sees the other woman stopped at intersection of cross-street, staring intently down the pathway.

“Leliana?”

“Well, that’s one option,” Alistair continues, oblivious. “But her name is Goldanna, so it might be confusing.”

“No- Alistair, stop for a moment. Leliana?!”

Marja’s shout rouses Leliana from her distraction, and she gives Marja an apologetic look as she hurries to rejoin them. “Oh- I’m so sorry, I thought I saw…” she trails off, then shakes her head. “Never mind. It was nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Marja asks.

“Of course.” Leliana gives a small, self-conscious laugh.. “This imposter has me paranoid now, is all.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m fine.” Leliana takes Marja’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Although…do you think we could stop by the Chantry, while we’re out and about?”

Marja feels as if she should ask more questions, but she hasn’t a clue what those questions are supposed to be. So she simply nods and says, “I suppose I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you.” She squeezes Marja’s hand again, then pulls her along to rejoin with Alistair, who’s still nervously arguing with himself as he waits for them to catch up.