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Chapter Text

“Mother! Mother, when is it that we are leaving? Is it soon?” Flemeth’s most recent daughter asked her, eager to finally meet the slender and beautiful Dalish elves of legend. 

Only five years old, Morrigan had already provided Flemeth with more headaches than her past two daughters combined. Willful, difficult, curious and, above all, powerful. Even at  age 5, Morrigan had power that she had not sensed for ages, and that made all of her daughter’s inane prattling worth it. Flemeth would teach her how to behave soon enough; she always did. If Morrigan refused to behave, well, Flemeth always found ways of ensuring her daughters’ obedience. She had been doing this for hundreds of years.

“Mother! I’m ready! Let’s go!” Morrigan called. Flemeth she was searching for something in the tower that was attached to the hut Morrigan called home. 

Morrigan was not yet allowed in the tower, and, despite wanting nothing more than to know what secrets her mother kept in there, she dared not venture in for fear of Flemeth’s full wrath. She had endured that wrath not but a week or two ago when she came across that beautiful golden mirror that she still missed so dearly. Flemeth finally answered her daughter, and though Morrigan could not see her face, she could certainly hear the anger in Flemeth’s voice.

“If you do not stop pestering me, girl, you will not leave at all! I will leave you in the Wilds to fend for yourself until I return and you will have to wait for years to meet any elves. Now, you will be silent and still until I say otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother,” Morrigan sighed.

She directed her gaze at her muddy feet, standing solemnly until mother had found whatever it was she had been looking for. Mother surely could not blame Morrigan for being excited, could she? She had not been in the best temperament as of late, that was certain, but she no matter how cranky she was, she had to understand that it was Morrigan’s first time meeting elves. Elves! Morrigan could scarcely believe it. If only mother would hurry up, then Morrigan could finally go an adventure! Not a scary adventure, like the ones mother would share with her on those lonely nights in the Wilds, but a real adventure, with heroes, knights, dragons, and the lot! Speaking of dragons…

Mother emerged from her hut with a crooked smile on her face. She was dressed in her rags, as usual. Admittedly, Morrigan was slightly disappointed; she enjoyed seeing mother in her dragonskin leather and silverite armor. Flemeth’s long black hair was blowing in the breeze and, as her piercing yellow eyes regarded her daughter, she smiled slightly. There was something most curious about mother today, however: she had a silver blade strapped to her hip, engraved with runes that seemed to resemble elven, though she had not learned all of her elven letters just yet. Morrigan knew better than to ask about it with the mood Flemeth was in today, however, so she quietly began imagining her own grand history for the shimmering longsword.

Asha’bellanar was pleased to see that Morrigan was standing exactly where she left her, looking meek and obedient, and exactly as Flemeth had asked. First, she breaks them, and then she builds them back up to create something suitable to her needs. She looked down at her daughter, smiling mischievously, and spoke.

“Well, girl, are you ready?”

“Of course mother!”

“Then show me,” Flemeth responded, almost challenging her.

Morrigan closed her eyes, and when she opened them again Flemeth saw that they had changed; they were no longer the curious amber eyes of a five year old, but the clever black eyes of a raven, tricky and troublesome. The rest of her body followed suit: she began sprouting feathers and contorting her body into the shape of a raven until she had transformed completely. Flemeth had to hide her surprise: not only was Morrigan’s transformation speed improving, but she had finally mastered this form; Flemeth could find no flaws. And at the age of five! Smiling inwardly, Flemeth thought to herself  ‘Trouble indeed, this one,’  before addressing her daughter and transforming herself.

“Ha! I suppose that was adequate, girl. Now don’t fall behind!”

In a flash of light, Asha’bellanar was transformed herself into a raven as well, sword and all, and, together with her daughter, set off to see the walkers of the lonely path.

“Did you hear? Another Aeducan born today, and a girl this time. Diala’s her name,” the father of Kalah Brosca’s beloved children grumbled as he entered their shack in Dust Town. 

“Not so loud!” Kalah cautioned. “You might wake the kids!”

“Right, right, the kids. Sorry, hon. So how was your day?” he asked, kissing his beloved before he sat down to have some ale after a long day at work.

Before responding, Kalah took a second to admire the man in front of her. He was handsome and strong, hard-working and dependable and, somehow, despite being casteless, good and honest. How he had survived for so long in Dust Town and not lost those qualities, she had no idea, but she thanked the Ancestors every day that he had. He had striking sea green eyes and jet black hair, just like his son, Mayrin, who she was holding in her arms. His skin was tanned and callused from a lifetime of hard work. She loved this man more than she could express: he loved her, he cared for her, he gave her another child, and he supported her no matter what, even if that meant working overwhelming hours at back-breaking jobs. Most importantly, though, he never lied to her. She had to do something to reward him, she felt, and had a big surprise planned for him in two days time.

“I can’t complain,” Kalah stated truthfully. “The kids were good, nobody threatened to rob us, and little Rica even wrangled herself a nug! You should have seen the look on her face, so proud to’ve caught us such a nice dinner.”

“That’s nice, Kalah,” Mayrin’s father said distractedly. 

“Are you alright?” Kalah asked, sensing that something was amiss. “Anything wrong?”

“No, no… Just… I just had a really long day at work is all, and I’m off to bed.”

“Already?”

“‘Fraid so,” he said, gulping down the last of his ale and heading off to sleep.

“I’ll join you as soon as I put Mayrin to bed!”

And that was the last time Kalah kissed Mayrin’s father good night, for in the morning he was gone without a trace. He left them nothing except a few copper pieces to feed themselves with for a few days. Of course, food is not what Kalah Brosca spent them on. That was the day she bought mosswine for the first time in over a decade. That also happened to be the day the kind and grateful, if slightly naive, Kalah Brosca disappeared into a bottle, never to be seen again.

Another new arrival! Jaime could hardly wait. Maybe this one would make the tower a little bit more interesting than the last one. Not only did Jaime Amell miss his family terribly, but he missed his friends, or just having friends in general. None of the other apprentices his age ever wanted to do anything fun, not like his old friends did. He missed his companions and he missed his mother and he missed Kirkwall; this entire country smelled like a wet dog. Jaime positioned himself as close as was permitted to the Circle’s entrance, as he did whenever there was a new arrival, and waited patiently for the new apprentice to arrive.

He happened to know one of the two templars that guarded the door today, Knight-Captain Greagoir. He was nice enough, for a templiar, and smiled at Jaime as he approached, offering a little wave.

“Some of the older apprentices said you were going to be Knight-Commander soon! Is that true? Will you be the boss then?” Jaime inquired innocently.

Chuckling a little bit, Greagoir responded, pointing his finger playfully at the seven-year old, “I am not sure yet, child, but I sure hope so! But you know as well as I do that the First Enchanter is in charge, not I.” 

They always said that, but, from what Jaime had seen, the First Enchanter still had to listen to the templars. He was about to comment on that, but was interrupted when the doors to the front of the tower were unlocked, opening to reveal a single templar and a small elven child. The elf had mossy green eyes and long black curly hair down to his shoulders. His dark skin meant he was possibly Rivaini, or from somewhere around there, Jaime thought. He would have to ask him about that later. 

“Hello! How do you do? I’m Jaime. Jaime Amell, from Kirkwall. It’s nice to meet you! What’s your name?”

“R-Rayne,” the small elf responded nervously, fear in his eyes.

“Run along now, apprentice,” Greagoir commanded. “You can pester the new arrival later, after he’s had his orientation.”

Solemnly, Jaime left and returned to the apprentice quarters. Curiously enough, there was an elven mage waiting there for him. Leorah was her name, and he knew her well enough. She had just passed her Harrowing a month ago and was always kind to him, not like some of the other older apprentices. She smiled at Jaime, greeting him warmly, and as if expecting a barrage of questions from the young apprentice, she simply stated: “I am responsible for the new apprentice’s orientation. Yes, I have enjoyed my time as a full-fledged mage thus far. Yes, I volunteered to do the orientation-“

“Can-“ Jaime attempted to interject, but Leorah continued.

“And yes, I suppose you can accompany us for the orientation if you really want, so long as you are not a distraction, and you don’t mention it to Greagoir.”

Jaime was very impressed that Leorah could read his mind. He wondered if he would ever learn to do that when he became a mage. Leorah smiled internally, proud of herself for being able to deal with one of the Circle’s brightest (and definitely it’s most exuberant) young mind. He was a good lad, even if he was a bit of a nuisance at times. He would make a good mage one day, and hopefully she would be a Senior Enchanter by then. 

The new apprentice was soon led into his quarters by Greagoir, who motioned to Leorah, a blonde-haired and recently-harrowed elven mage of moderate talent. Rayne’s eyes lit up when he saw that an elf, and not a human, would be giving him his orientation, and that his mother had been right when she said that elves and humans were equals in the Circle of Magi. 

Despite being separated from mother and his family in the alienage, Rayne could tell he was going to like it here: it was warm, everybody had clean clothes, there was furniture that did not look like it would fall apart at any minute, and the smell… It smelled like books, not refuse! That was what he liked most of all. Leorah led him around the tower, explaining what each room was for and where he was and was not allowed, and she introduced him to everybody along the way. Everyone seemed so nice here, even the templars, despite what he had heard. He met all kinds of people: Irving and Sweeney, Torren and Niall, Uldred and Wynne. This was all so exciting! This Jaime, especially, who had been following him and Leorah around, and pestering Rayne with questions, seemed to be completely genuine (if a bit annoying), not like the other human children he had encountered back home. 

Jaime was happy when the orientation was over, as he already knew everything that Leorah was explaining to Rayne. During the orientation, he learned a few things: Rayne Surana was from the alienage in Highever. His mother had lived there her whole life, but his father arrived there from Rivain a few years before Rayne was born. It was his father who had taught him how to read, but the man had recently died of fever, and Rayne still seemed quite sad about it. Jaime noticed how fearful Rayne seemed throughout the entire tour, despite his smiles, and made an effort to be as friendly as possible. Rayne even explained how he had been brought to the tower: when he accidentally froze the water he was drinking, his mother reported him to the templars straight away, which had surprised Jaime. What kind of mother would do that?

“She knew that I could have a better life here at the Circle than I ever would in the Alienage, so she was sad about saying goodbye, but really happy for me because she knew I would never have to be hungry, and that I could read so many more books than just the three we had at home,” Rayne explained. 

Jaime supposed it made sense; he had heard about how bad things were in Alienages, but he had never though the Circle would be better! After returning to the apprentice quarters and getting Rayne’s bed set up, Jaime was ready to have some fun! Much to his dismay, however, Rayne wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day in the library. It wasn’t like Jaime had anything better to do, though, so he accompanied his new elven friend. 

Rayne was in awe: so many books in one place! He sensed that Jaime wouldn’t enjoy spending long here, but he couldn’t resist! He could spend a whole week in here and still not read a tenth of the collection! Him and Jaime spent the better part of the afternoon in library, until dinnertime. After that, Jaime insisted that they do something fun. Smiling, Rayne smiled and put a finger on his lips as he crept outside near where a templar was standing guard. He bent down, put his hands on the floor, and closed his eyes. Jaime noticed that the floor was getting coated with some kind of shiny, clear, substance: grease, perhaps. It slithered across the floor to where the templar was standing. The templar shifted his weight a bit, and immediately slipped on the grease, toppling over and landing on his stomach. Jaime couldn’t help but laugh, and the templar saw them right away, yelling angrily. He tried to get up and fell over again, cursing. Rayne and Jaime took that as a cue to leave a dashed away as quickly as they could, hiding for half an hour until they were sure it was safe, unable to stop smiling at each other. Rayne hoped that that qualified as fun. 

That night was marked as the night that Amell and Surana’s reign of terror began; for years, their pranks kept everyone on their toes, and the ridiculous bets made ensured that any room they were in was a hazard. While most bets were dangerous and often involved fire, some were mundane: they still had a bet about who could go the longest without a haircut. Yet, despite their disruptions, even the Senior Enchanters admitted that they were a bit disappointed when Rayne and Jaime declared that they had ‘grown out of it’, as they had always brought some much-needed levity to the otherwise-somber Circle Tower. 

Arl Wulff poured himself and his wife some wine, and then settled into his chair. He enjoyed the quiet of his study in the evening— the fire crackled, him and the governess had put the children down to sleep, and the servants had mostly retired to their quarters as well. Like most Fereldans, the Arl of West Hills' study was sparse, and covered in fur. He did allow himself one extravagance, however: directly in front of his desk over the fire place, there was a family portrait, framed in gold, painted by a gifted— and expensive— Antivan painter. The only thing better than the portrait were the real people in depicted.

Speaking of which, in front of the fireplace, his wife, Arlessa Luella, was quietly reading Stone Halls of the Dwarves by Brother Genitivi. Though her back was turned to her husband, she could feel him admiring her. 

“You have work to do, darling. Those letters aren’t going to write themselves,” she said teasingly, without turning around.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, dipping his quill in ink before there was a quiet knock on the door. Luella and Gallagher looked at one another, confused. They had not been expecting anyone.

“Arl and Arlessa Wulff?” they heard a familiar voice ask from outside the door. It was Revered Mother Farrah. “I apologize for the interruption, but I was hoping to discuss the events of the day with you.”

“Certainly,” Luella responded. “Come in, Your Reverance.”

Revered Mother Farrah was a new addition to the West Hills Castle, and had come from Denerim after the previous Mother passed away. She was younger than the Arl and Arlessa, and a part of her looked up to them. While the previous Revered Mother was set in her ways, traditional, close-minded, and, well, a bit cranky. Farrah, however was young, and took every day as a new challenge, and a new opportunity to learn. She had beautiful curly brown hair and warm, curious brown eyes. Though her dark skin indicated Rivaini heritage, she had not yet had the chance to leave Ferelden.

“Your Reverence,” the Arl said, “feel free to take a seat opposite Luella. How can we help you on this fine evening?”

The Revered Mother nodded respectfully at them both, and took her seat beside Luella in front of the fire, smiling warmly at the woman. “I was just wondering, my lord— after I returned from my visit to the orphanage today, I heard some of the sisters say that there were qunari in the castle today. Is that true?” she asked, eyes wide.

The Arl smiled. He should have anticipated this. “Indeed, Your Reverance. Two of them, a husband and wife. Now, I know what the Chantry says about them, but they seem to have turned their backs on whatever heathen religion they follow up north. They seem intent on being Fereldans, no matter where they came from, and I say we should give them the chance.”

“You misunderstand, my lord. I did not wish to question your decision; I was merely curious. I am not sure if you have read Brother Genitivi's Travels of the Chantry Scholar, and specifically the volumes on the qunari, but they are a fascinating people. I have never met one, but I am curious to see what made them leave the life they led behind to come so far south.”

Wulff smiled, a bit embarrassed at getting his back up. Revered Mother Farrah was still taking some getting used to. “They said that, if they stayed, they would be reeducated, or killed. They said that they were formerly a part of an organization called the… ban… ben… ben-hessarian?”

“Ben-Hassrath,” Luella interjected, smiling at her husband.

“Right, that’s it. Thank you, dear. Regardless, we still have empty freeholds after the Rebellion with no one to claim them. They assured me that they will learn to farm, and tend to the fields like any other free Fereldan. They understand that it will be difficult, but aren’t opposed to hard work. In fact, from what I understand, the woman is already with child.”

“Indeed? That is… Exciting news. From what I recall, the ben-hassrath are their priests… And secret police. Do you think they’d mind if I pay them a visit after they settle in?” Farrah asked.

Luella smiled at her, raising her eyebrow. “Do you intend to spread the word of the Maker to our new arrivals?”

“No, of course not!” Revered Mother Farrah responded a little too excitedly. Then, collecting herself a little bit and blushing, she explained: “I mean, not right now. I do not plan on going anywhere, and nor do they, from the sounds of it. That will come later but, for now, I want to make sure they feel welcome, and have what they need to start a life here. Just think: this may be the first qunari child born and raised in Ferelden. It’s an exciting prospect!”

“I suppose it is, Your Reverance,” Wulff chuckled. “I suppose it is.”

“Yes, that’s it Evelyn! Good. Just like that. No, don’t drop your elbow… Yes, perfect!” Adaia said, critiquing her daughter’s form as she fought against imaginary shemlen.

“Die, shem!” Evelyn shrieked, thrusting the air with one of her daggers. 

“Now, now,” Adaia scolded, half-joking. “Be nice.”

She knew what her husband thought of what they were doing, but she didn’t really care. Adaia was proud of her daughter, proud that she was teaching her to take care of herself. They sparred almost daily, and Evelyn improved each time. Aside from that, she was as quick and agile as the smallest cat, and would not be heard unless she wanted to be. They both knew that Evelyn would most likely never have a chance to use the skills her mother was teaching her, but neither of them cared; they were useful, practice was fun, and Evelyn would rather know how to defend herself than not. 

Evelyn was just about halfway through her cooldown when Adaia’s niece, Shianni, barged in, panic in her eyes. They did not look like cousins: Shianni was pale with bright red hair, whereas Evelyn’s skin was darker, like Adaia’s, and her hair was black like her father Cyrion’s.

“Adaia, Adaia!” Shianni cried, tears streaming down her young face. “We need your help! There are shemlen here and Valendrian is in trouble and you’re the best fighter I know and I don’t know what we should do and-“

“Hush, dear,” Adaia said, trying to pacify her niece. “Stay here, you two,” Adaia commanded, taking as many of her daggers as she could possibly conceal. She knew the law: elves weren’t allowed to carry weapons. If nothing went wrong, the shemlen would never know.

Adaia left her house and made her way to the alienage’s vhenedahl, the Tree of the People, where the commotion was coming from. She saw two shemlen men, one armed with a longsword and the other with two daggers. Their armor did not indicate any status, nor did it bear any sigils, but they were armoured, however shoddily, a fact that made Adaia curse under her breath. At least they weren’t knights, from what she could tell. Likely mercenaries, or criminals. They were motioning towards a young woman whose name Adaia could not recall. She had recently come to Denerim from Highever after marrying one of the elves from the Denerim Alienage. The poor girl was cowering behind Valendrian, eyes darting around wildly. Calm and collected as ever, Valendrian was trying to convince the humans to leave calmly.

“Please, we have no quarrel with you. If you just run along, we’ll forget this ever happened,” the elder suggested.

“You hear that?” one shem said to the other. “Bloody knife-ear here thinks he can tell us what to do!”

The other one let out a chilling laugh that made Adaia’s skin crawl. 

“That he does! Listen here, knife-ear, this is how it’s gonna go: you’re gonna get out of our way and let us have that pretty little lass behind you, or my friend and I are gonna go on a little rabbit hunt.”

Just as the one began to draw his longsword, a knowing grin began to creep across Valendrian’s face. He spotted Adaia on her way to the vhenedahl and offered a challenge.

“Is that so?”

Adaia was on them in an instant. Despite carrying them as precautions, Adaia did not draw her daggers, and would not unless she were desperate. She flew at the one, delivering a swift knee to the back of his head and knocking him out cold. She pushed Valendrian out of the way, stepping in between the shem and her family. He drew his sword and took a clumsy swing at her. Adaia easily sidestepped it and elbowed him in the nose, breaking it instantly. He let his sword tumble to the soft earth as he grasped his nose in pain, blood flowing freely. Quick as a fox, she snatched up his blade, pushing the bleeding shem to the ground. She held his sword at his throat and growled, “Like our elder said, just run along and we’ll forget this ever happened.

Terrified, he stood up, blood still streaming out of his nose. He threw his unconscious friend over his shoulder and skirted away with his tail between his legs. Realizing that the blade would be trouble later, Adaia sheathed it and it sword over the gates, hopefully never to be seen again. After ensuring the girl was unharmed, Adaia took a moment to take in her surroundings. She looked around the alienage and saw happy, thankful faces greeting her, clapping for her and cheering her name. Even Evelyn and Shianni, whom she was sure she had told to stay inside, were among them, eyes full of wonder and admiration. She chuckled, despite the situation, and looked at her husband, Cyrion, who had made his way to the vhenedahl as well.

“No,” she teased Cyrion, with a rueful smile in sad triumph, “Evelyn will never need to know how to defend herself.”

Evelyn followed her parents back home, wondering why her mother never stuck around to hear people thank her or praise her. Seeing her take down two armed shemlen with her bare hands was so exciting, and she could see the other elves felt the same way. Her mother was remarkable! What some considered ‘remarkable’, however, was nothing special to Adaia; it was just another day in the alienage. 

“Dammit!” a young Fergus Cousland swore as his arrow yet again flew over the target.

His failure elicited a chuckle from young Thomas Howe, who Fergus liked just as little as his father, Rendon. Both reminded him of snakes. He sometimes wondered how Nathaniel and Delilah had turned out so well. Perhaps it was their mother who was responsible for that, but as he had never met the woman, he could not say. 

“Don’t worry,” Nathaniel said, putting a hand on Fergus’ shoulder. Fergus notched another arrow, as Nathaniel continued: “You’ll get it. Good… Good. Keep your bow steady and-“

Fergus loosed another arrow. It landed nowhere near the bullseye, but the fact that it landed on the target at all was a marked improvement. His younger brother, Keegan, gave him an congratulatory punch on the arm. Nathaniel nodded, smiling at Fergus. Thomas grumbled a bit, but Fergus didn’t really care overmuch about Thomas Howe.

“Getting better!” Teryn Bryce Cousland, called out from across the way, sitting on wooden chairs and sipping wine with his friend, Arl Rendon Howe. The Arl raised a glass for Fergus, giving him the most insincere smile the young Cousland had ever seen.

“Alright, my turn!” Keegan insisted, snatching the bow from his brother.

The young red-headed boy trotted forward and notched an arrow. He began to line up his shot, seemingly ignoring any advice Nathaniel was giving. Apparently not doing very much aiming, he loosed his arrow, and somehow… Bullseye! Bryce and Rendon sat there looking stunned for a few seconds, before Nathaniel began clapping for Keegan, everybody else soon following suit.

“It seems we’ve finally found your weapon of choice, pup!” Bryce called out happily. “Your mother will be so happy to hear of it.”

And so was Keegan. He was not gifted in swordplay; his brother got the better of him no matter which weapon they sparred with and no matter how much time he spent with their master-of-arms. Keegan loosed a few more arrows, none of them landing exactly where he wanted, but all of them very close. He was a bit disheartened, but Nathaniel ruffled his bright red hair and offered words of reassurance:

“Hey, this is your first time! I’m gonna tell you a little secret,” he said, crouching to get on Keegan’s level and whispering in his ear. “You’re better than I was when I started! I can’t tell you how many times I shot right over the target,” he said, imitating the arrow with his hand. 

Keegan stayed out at the range practically all night, even after everybody else went inside, and much to his surprise and delight, so did Nathaniel. The boy was a few years older than he was, but Keegan believed he had made a new friend that night. He was lucky that the Couslands and the Howes were such close friends. It was nearly midnight when Eleanor Cousland, Keegan’s mother, came out to tell her son and Nathaniel that it was time to come inside, her bright red hair shimmering in the moonlight. However, in her arms, she held a small mabari puppy, who was looking around at the range excitedly, taking in new sights and smells.

“Mother!” Keegan yelled excitedly. “Is that a mabari puppy? Is it for me?!”

He ran to meet his mother, with Nathaniel in tow, and scratched the new puppy behind its ears. Asking permission first, Nathaniel did the same, fascinated by the dog.

“In truth, this one was supposed to be for your brother, but the pup did not seem too taken with Fergus, so I brought him out to see you and-“

The mabari bounded out of her arms and ran towards Keegan, tail wagging. Keegan sat down and hugged the puppy as it yipped excitedly. Keegan laughed as his new friend licked his face, and Eleanor smiled down at her son.

“As I was saying, we wanted to see if the puppy would take a liking to you, and it seems he has decided that you are to be his owner. He needs a name, however, my dear.”

“His name is… His name is Felix!”

“Felix, is it? Very well then. Understand that Felix will be your responsibility: you will feed him, walk him, train him, and clean up after him. If a servant offers to do so, you will refuse. Should I ever learn that a servant cleaned up after your dog, I will ask Aldous to double your homework and Mother Mallol to triple your Chantry service for an entire month. Have I made myself clear?” the Teyrna asked, smiling at Keegan.

“Crystal,” Keegan responded happily.

“Well, enjoy, you three, and off to bed soon. I understand you have an early day tomorrow.”

“Of course, Teryna Eleanor,” Nathaniel said politely.

“Yes, mother! Thank you so much for Felix! I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Eleanor smiled, giving her son a kiss on the head before heading back inside for the night.

Keegan and Nathaniel stayed for another two hours, playing with Felix and enjoying each others’ company. When he was going to bed, Felix curled up beside him, and Keegan was happy, realizing that he did not just make one new friend tonight. He made two.

Morrigan found the elves to be a curious people. Unlike the humans she met, they neither recoiled in fear nor attacked in fury when mother appeared before them, landing as a raven before reverting to the form with which Morrigan was so familiar. The elves… Bowed to her mother, and called her by a name Morrigan had heard spoken only a few times: Asha’bellanar, or “Woman of Many Years” which is what Asha’bellanar meant when translated into the King’s Tongue. However, Morrigan sensed that there was something quite wrong at the Dalish camp: the air was tense and somber, and there was nary a sound in the air save for a few choked sobs and gasps. Indeed, something bad had happened here.

After Flemeth decided that she had been worshipped enough for the day, she instructed the elves to rise, telling them that, despite all evidence to the contary, she had no need to be worshipped.

“Where is your Keeper?” Flemeth asked, addressing nobody specific. There were quiet murmurs for awhile until a young elf stepped out of the crowd, bowing to Flemeth once again, choking back tears.

“Forgive us Asha’bellanar… But we have no Keeper. He was killed just last night by some shemlen, and his wife was badly wounded as well. Marethari is trying to save her and the child as we speak.”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow, her lips contorting into a crooked smile.

“Nonsense! You know as well as I that you Dalish always have a Keeper. Take me to Marethari,” Morrigan’s mother commanded, firm but without malice.

“Of course, Asha’bellanar,” the young elf said, rising from his knees and setting off towards a large tent, bidding Flemeth and Morrigan to follow him.

The scene that awaited them in the tent was a terrible sight to behold, but far from the worst Morrigan had ever seen, even at such a young age. Even before Morrigan saw the pools of covered in numerous stab wounds. In the corner of the tent, there was another elven woman sitting on ground, sobbing. She was covered in blood, clutching what appeared to be an infant’s corpse.

“Marethari,” mother said, with not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. “What has happened?”

The elven woman took a second to compose herself, looking up at mother with pleading eyes. 

“The Mahariels were attacked last night… Keeper Mahariel was killed and his wife died in childbirth. Not only that, but the child… Was stillborn. I- I failed them. The Mahariel line ends here because I was not strong enough, or wise enough, or skilled enough to save them!” Marethari said, before she started sobbing again.

“Mother!” Morrigan said, noticeably distressed by the scene in front of her. “You can save them! I know you can! You musn’t let a baby die!”

“I’m aware of what I can do, girl,” Flemeth snapped at her daughter, before realizing that an opportunity had just presented itself to her. “The question is: will I?” Flemeth asked, putting on a show at considering the matter carefully. “It seems I will. I will help the infant, provided that you do something for me.”

“Of course, mother,” Morrigan pleaded.

“If I save this baby, I will brook more disobedience nor questioning. You will do what I say when I say without fail. If you disobey me again, I will find this very child, no matter where she is and no matter how old she is, and I will bring her back to the Wilds. There, she will be shown the same hospitality we show the templars when they visit… and that will be all your fault. Do I make myself clear?”

“I- yes, mother,” Morrigan said meekly.

“Give me the child, Marethari,” Asha’bellanar commanded.

Slowly, Marethari stood up, and brought the body to Asha’bellanar. Flemeth took the child in one arm, and with the other placed a hand over its stomach. Her hand began to emit an eerie white light, and then, all of the sudden, the baby’s blue eyes opened, and she started crying, soliciting tears of joy from Marethari.

“Thank you, Asha’bellanar! Thank you!”

“Oh, don’t thank me, Marethari, thank my dear Morrigan, who pleaded for the child’s life, moving me to act,” Flemeth said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. While Morrigan believed that Flemeth had saved the child due to her urging, this child was, in fact, the entire reason Flemeth had come in the first place. She would be needed, eventually.

Marethari squatted down and thanked Morrigan. She tried her best to smile, though knowing what was in store for the poor child made it difficult.

“Now, with that over with, we must attend to some other matters,” Flemeth said, all business. “Was the child named?”

“No, Asha’bellanar, or, if she was, her parents died before telling anybody else.”

“Very well. Her name will be Enid. Enid Mahariel. Now,” she said, drawing the sword she had brought with her, “this was to be given to your Keeper. The sword is called Rage’s End. It is a fine blade of elven make, and forged by Mahariels’ ancestors even before The People called the Dales home. Though anyone may wield it, only a Mahariel may use it as it was intended. So, I suppose you can give it to Enid here when she comes of age,” Flemeth chuckled as she laid the sword on the table.

Marethari took a second to admire the blade: it was beautiful and obviously quite ancient; that much she could tell, at least. Curiously enough, it was not made of ironbark, as most dalish weapons are. Its handle was forged from the same metal the blade was: a beautiful, reflective, metal, most likely silverite. There were runes carved all along both sides of the blade that she did not recognize. Bowing awkwardly, as she was holding the still-crying Enid in her arms, the now Marethari thanked Flemeth and Morrigan both. 

Bidding Marethari and the elves farwell, Morrigan and Flemeth turned back into ravens.  They were both quite satisfied with what had happened today. Morrigan believed she had saved a life, and she even got to see Dalish elves. Their camp had been beautiful: statues and land ships and halla as far as the eye could see. Flemeth was even more pleased than her daughter, however: everything had gone better than expected. Through some quick thinking, she had ensured Morrigan’s obedience by doing nothing more than exactly what she had intended to do when she had initially left the Wilds. And, in bringing the elf back, she had ensured that the Fifth Blight would end before it ever really began. Not bad for a day’s work.

Arriving back in the Wilds, Flemeth and Morrigan returned to their human forms. Turning to her daughter, Flemeth commanded Morrigan to go out into the Wilds and catch them some rabbit for dinner. For what seemed like the first time, Morrigan obeyed without a word of protest. Not bad at all.

Chapter Text

“I’m here on behalf of the Blackstone Irregulars,” Mercy said, bored.

“Yeah? What’s this about?”

“I hear you stole supplies from the guild.”

After they were dead, Mercy let out an exasperated sigh, gathering the guild’s supplies and putting them in her pack. Another day, some more people slaughtered, some more coin… Some more emptiness. Killing was easy— easier than being a farmer, even, but she missed her parents. She wished she could go back to how things were… But she couldn’t go back to West Hills. Not after what happened.

She was currently on the shores of Lake Calenhad, where she had just finished tracking down some supplies for a mercenary guild. Just as she was entering the Spoiled Princess, the inn near the lake, a well-armed man walked out the door. His skin tone pegged him as Rivaini, most likely, and his armour and weapons were of fine make. That was not what intrigued Mercy, however: he had a fire in his eyes. They blazed with true purpose, exactly what Mercy had been looking for. She then watched him get on the boat to the Circle Tower, even more curious than she had been moments ago.

“Who was we? Why is going to the going to the Circle?” she asked the innkeeper.

“Oh, him? He was off to look for some new recruits. That was Duncan, a Grey Warden.”

“Thank you, sir,” she nodded from under her helm, heading up to the room she had booked. “Grey Warden?” she wondered. “If I am to find my purpose, it will be there.”

After the shock and horror had worn off, Evelyn Tabris realized that she was really quite bored in the Arl’s dungeon. The cell was cold, deep and dank, and it smelled absolutely terrible. More so than the alienage, even. She was expecting to be hanged, drawn and quartered, tortured, as well as everything else humans so liked doing to ‘pretty elven women’ like her. So far, though… Nothing. No guards, no patrols, no visits, and not even any shouting. Had they… Forgotten about her? The elf that cut her way through the Arl’s estate almost singlehandedly? She chuckled to herself. She’d almost be insulted… If she wasn’t so hungry. 

The boredom eventually ceded its position to the all-consuming hunger and solitude that came with being forgotten about in the bowels of some noble’s estate. How long had it been now? Days? Weeks? What bothered Eve wasn’t that she would die here, but that she would die because they had forgotten about her.

Then, she heard it: footsteps. Two, three people? Male voices. Some frustrated, one resisting… 

*click*

The door to her section of the dungeon creaked open, and the voices became more distinct:

“—won’t get away with this, Loghain! The Maker will judge you for your crimes!”

“Quiet!” one of the guards said, silencing the prisoner with an armoured punch to the gut. Him and his compatriot threw their prisoner in another cell, each of them standing aside to give the man in charge a view of his new prisoner. He wore finely crafted silverite armour and straight black hair. She could only see his back, but he walked with the posture of someone who hadn’t relaxed since the day he was born. Did the new prisoner say Loghain? Teryn Loghain? Why would he be in the Arl of Denerim’s dungeons?

“I… Apologize for this, Irminric. You and Alfstanna are good, loyal Fereldans, but you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Until the Blight is dealt with and the King defeats the darkspawn, you will remain here. Know that your sacrifice is for the good of Ferelden.”

“Loghain! Please—“

“Enough, Irminric,” Loghain said decisively, but with a twinge of regret in his voice. It wasn’t until he turned around that he noticed Eve, curled up on the floor in her cell, and regarded her sympathetically.

“How long have you been here?”

“I’m n- not sure. It’s been a long time,” Eve responded, her voice raspy from disuse. It was easy to play the part of the pathetic elf because, well, starvation does that to a person.

“A result of that… Unpleasantness with Vaughan, I presume?”

Eve nodded, but even that effort took a lot out of her. The Teryn looked at her not unsympathetically, just realizing just how long she had been here.

“Captain,” the Teryn said, looking at the man who punched Irminric. “Fetch her food immediately. Ensure that both prisoners are treated with dignity and given at least three square meals a day. When Arl Howe arrives, inform him that we will decide what to do with them when I return from Ostagar, however long that will take. Until then, they are to remain alive and unharmed.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the captain responded.

It looked like Evelyn Tabris would not starve to death after all.

“I see he’s grown into a fine young man. Pleased to see you again, lad.”

Swallowing the bile that threatened to make an appearance whenever he was forced to talk to Rendon Howe, Keegan Cousland put on his best smile, but could not be bothered overmuch with pleasantries when he had more important matters on his mind.

“And you, Arl Howe. Is your family with you?”

“Oh no, I left them in Amaranthine, well away from the fighting in the south. Except, of course, for Nathaniel, who is still in the Free Marches.”

Just then, the double doors to the main hall were flung open, and, lo and behold, Nathaniel Howe came striding in, looking exhausted from what must have been a long journey from Kirkwall.

“Nathaniel?!” Arl Howe reacted in surprise, not nearly as happy as he should have been to see his son.

“Nate!” Keegan exclaimed, running over to his old friend to give him a back-breaking Fereldan bear-hug.

“It’s good to see you again, Keegan. And you, Your Grace,” Nathaniel said, giving Bryce a small bow. 

“Father! What did I tell you about visiting the Couslands without me?”

Apparently not hearing his son, the Arl sputtered: “B-but, you’re supposed to be in the Free Marches. Your training is not yet finished.”

“Father, did you really think I could leave Ferelden to its fate during a Blight? I came here as soon as I could; almost rode my horse into the ground, poor bugger.”

“But— it is not safe! If something were to happen to you—“

“Then I can die knowing I was fighting to defend my home, alongside the Couslands, much like you and His Grace here, yes?” Nathaniel finished, knowing he had won this little disagreement. He gave his red-headed friend a wink, surprised to realize just how much older he had gotten, beard and all. The chinstrap wasn’t what Nate himself would have gone with, but with Keegan’s blue eyes, he could get away with anything. The little ponytail and earring gave him a little bit of a roguish charm as well. Nathaniel then looked back at Arl Howe, more seriously this time. “Do not worry, father. We are not fighting Orlesians. This is not White River.”

Conceding, Howe sighed heavily. “Very well. However, Teryn Cousland was not expecting you. Surely you can find an inn near the Castle, as not to impose—“

“Nonsense, old friend!” Keegan’s father interrupted. “You’re much too worried about all of this. Even if most of our army wasn’t marching towards Ostagar, we still have ample space in the guest quarters. Not that I expect the young Lord Nathaniel to be using them, of course,” he finished, looking knowingly at his son.

“But, Your Grace!”

“Rendon, it’s no trouble. A Howe always has a place to stay in Highever.”

“…very well. Nathaniel, I will speak to you later this—“ but, before he could finish, Arl Howe realized that Nathaniel and the Cousland boy were already trotting off to do Maker knows what.

“Off to raid the wine cellar, no doubt,” Teryn Cousland chuckled. “It might be best if Nathaniel stays here with Keegan, if only because he will be in no state to march tomorrow morning. Actually, if things are going as well as reports lead us to believe, we can make it back before they’ve recovered from this night of debauchery.” 

“Yes… That would be best, I think,” Howe said, preoccupied with what this new development meant for his grand ambition.

Merrill was in a panic, all because of that mirror. The mirror that killed Tamlen. The mirror that was slowly killing Enid, her oldest friend. Enid had had no recollection of what happened to Tamlen, other than that he was with her when they encountered the ancient, poisonous mirror and the walking corpses. Merrill and Enid had investigated, but found nothing, 

Yet, when they returned to camp, Enid fell ill. Her skin was a sickly pale and her beautiful blue eyes had already begun to lose their shimmer. Her long brown hair stuck to her head, drenched in sweat, and she was even subject to occasional convulsions. She was in constant pain, and drifted in and out of consciousness, almost always raving about nothing at all. Marethari told her that she was tainted with darkspawn corruption, a condition for which there was no cure. Despite that fact, Marethari and Merrill were took shifts at Enid’s bedside trying to alleviate her pain.

“Keeper! You must think! Please, there must be something you know that can cure her!” Merrill pleaded, eyes welling up with tears. “You told us Asha’bellanar saved her! She must have had her reasons. Enid can’t die here, she can’t… She has always protected us, taken care of us as best as she could… And now… No! I won’t accept it! I can’t!”

“I am sorry, Merrill, truly. We can lessen her suffering and prolong her life for another few weeks, but there is nothing we can do to save her. There is no cure,” Marethari explained once again, defeat in her eyes. She had failed the Mahariel family once again.

“That… Isn’t completely true,” came a voice from outside the tent. In walk an elf the two women recognized as Aneirin the Healer striding purposefully towards Enid and placing his fingers on her temples. “Sleep,” he said, as Enid slipped into the Beyond, looking peaceful for once. 

Aneirin then began basking her entire body in a healing blue light. He looked at the two elves, Keeper and First, with a flicker in his eyes. “She could become a Grey Warden.”

Merrill’s eyes widened, looking hopefully at the Keeper. “Truly?” she asked.

“That is true, I suppose. The darkspawn gather in the south, and the Wardens will be there to meet them. Enid could not survive a journey that far south. The thought had crossed my mind, but I thought it too far-fetched to even bear mentioning.”

“Without me here, you would have been right. However, I did not earn the moniker ‘Aneirin the Healer’ for nothing,” the nomadic elf said with small grin. “I know a few spells to preserve her life for longer than nearly anybody else could muster, and if you send a mage to escort her to the Wardens, that mage can keep Enid asleep and without pain while keeping her as healthy as they possibly could with all the magic they know… Were she to have all of that, well, Enid might have a chance.”

“That settles it then! I’ll take her!” Merrill said, standing up excitedly. “Aneirin, cast your spells. I’ll pack her armour and weapons into an aravel and find a halla or two willing to take us south.”

Marethari, however, was opposed to this idea. Merrill was her First, and training a new one would be quite a time-consuming task which she absolutely could not spare. Aside from that, however, she cared for Merrill, and, with the darkspawn gathering in the south, Marethari planned to take the clan north and across the Waking Sea to escape them. Merrill would not be able to come with them, and would perhaps never see the clan again. As much as it pained her to admit it, letting Enid die was the better decision; she would lose fewer elves that way. But she knew her First. Merrill was not one to take no for an answer. 

Indeed, it was one of the reasons for which she was chosen as First, and Marethari knew that there was little she could do to persuade the young elf to stay. Had Enid been anyone else, Merrill would never think to abandon her clan, but this was Enid. Having no living parents, she had been raised by— and was cherished by— the entire clan, Merrill above all. Marethari knew Merrill would sacrifice anything to save her friend. With a heavy heart, Marethari nodded at the girl she loved like a daughter, and stood up, beginning to prepare the slumbering Enid for travel. Aneirin, for his part, did all he could for Enid and then spent the night telling Merrill just which spells and herbs she would need to keep Enid alive. He then set out for the south, perhaps to the Brecilian forest. He had not been there for many years.

The aravel and the halla were soon prepared… Everything was in order. Merrill was acutely aware that she was abandoning her clan, and it pained her horribly. However, Enid had been her dearest friend for as long as she knew. She’d saved Merrill’s life so many times that Merrill felt she owed it to Enid to do everything in her power to save her. With a heavy heart, and after quickly saying her goodbyes, Merrill mounted one of the beautiful white halla and ensured that she still had a clear view of Enid in the aravel. Tears in her eyes, Marethari approached the halla, absentmindedly stroking its head as she tried to muster a smile for Merrill.

“Dareth shiral, da’len. Creators speed your path. And just know… That I have always been proud of you. So very proud,” Marethari said, biting back her tears as she laid a hand on Merrill’s shoulder.

“Ma serannas, Keeper, for everything… And… Mythal protect you all on your journey north.”

With a half-hearted smile and hope in her heart, Merrill began her journey south, praying to all the Creators that she would be able to repay Enid for all that she had done over the years.

Mayrin Brosca did not know how long he had been imprisoned, and neither did he know how much longer he could take being stuck with Leske. He was a friend, certainly, but one could only endure so much of his constant chatter. Thankfully, relief came in the form of well-dressed dwarf  with hungry eyes named Bodahn Feddic. Apparently, Bodahn had persuaded the jailor to let Mayrin and Leske go, for a price, of course.

“I’ve invested a great deal in you two, especially you,” he said, motioning to Mayrin, continuing, “I hear you won the Provings against the best of the Warrior Caste. But it seems that our beloved Orzammar have left you to rot in jail for doing something you would be revered for, had you been born into another family! I say, why not put your skills to good use? That’s what I plan on doing.”

Raising an eyebrow as Bodahn unlocked their cells, Mayrin had to admit that his curiosity was piqued.

“Not that I’m not grateful for freedom, and I am, but what, exactly is it that you have in store for us?”

“Yeah!” Leske added, ever the wordsmith.

Bodahn’s lips twisted into a mischievous but kindly-looking smile.

“Well, you see… I’m merchant caste. I run a business where I help to reunite the dwarves of Orzammar with treasures I’ve recovered from lost thaigs. I, however, am not a fighter, just a merchant, as I mentioned. I employ casteless to venture into the Deep Roads for me. That’s where you come in. You and your friend will work for me until either you have salvaged enough goods to repay your debt, in which case you will be free to go, or you are killed in the Deep Roads. Expect no more than two expeditions, which will each last about two weeks, give or take a few days. After that, you may continue to work for me, and will be paid, or you may go on your way. It’s all the same to me. And, as long as you’re in my employ, I’ll pay to keep the Carta off your back. Do we have a deal, boys?”

Mayrin and Leske exchanged smiles, nodding, before Mayrin said to Bodahn, “We have a deal. It’ll sure be better than Beraht.”

Only a day had passed before the Grey Warden came back from the Circle of Magi, and he was not alone. With him there was an elf. His skin was the same colour as the Warden’s and he had long and curly black hair that was tucked behind his ears. It reached down to his waist, and Mercy wondered how exactly he would combat darkspawn without tying that up. The elf’s eyes were a deep mossy green and they were filled with a mix of trepidation, sorrow and terror. They darted all around him, taking in what Mercy assumed were all new sights to the poor mage. It must have been jarring, exiting the tower for what could have been the first time in his life. Mercy felt pity. Just like her, however, his life had been better here than it would have been in Par Vollen. Cautiously, she began to approach the two men, ensuring that was fully covered in armour before she did so, lest she scare them away. When she was fully outfitted, her horns appeared to be a part of her helmet.

“Grey Warden!” she called out, offering a friendly wave as she approached. “My name is Mercy, and I wish to join the Grey Wardens. I am a proficient fighter, trained in all manner of combat. I believe I would be an asset in the coming Blight.”

The older man smiled curiously and raised an eyebrow. The mage tried to smile, but he could do nothing to hide the panic he was experiencing.

“That is very kind of you, milady, and if you are truly as skilled as you say, it seems the Maker has smiled on the Wardens today. We may have two two new recruits instead of one. However, I the Wardens only recruit those with skill, and you are an unknown. I will have to verify that you can handle yourself in combat.”

“I understand, Warden-Commander,” Mercy said, drawing her two beautifully-crafted silverite longswords. “I am prepared to duel you, if that is what you require.”

Intrigued, Duncan drew his sword and dagger. “Truly? Being a Warden is not for the faint of heart. Remember that a Warden forfeits all titles and holdings she has ever held. She leaves  her old life behind.”

“I am aware, Warden-Commander. Are you ready to begin?”

With a nod, Duncan rushed at the tall armoured woman. The fight was fast; Rayne could scarcely keep track of who was doing what. Metal clanged again and again, sword meeting dagger, dagger meeting armour, and armour meeting sword, but none of the four blades ever meeting flesh. There was rolling, jumping, kicking, ducking, punching, and, of course, cursing. Rayne thought he heard the woman mutter ‘parshera’ under her breath, but that could not have been right.

Rayne could scarcely believe that a woman dressed in heavy plate like this one was could move so quickly and efficiently. She was tall, but she was strong as well. Even Duncan did not wield two fully-sized longswords as she did, and she made it look effortless. This woman was quite intriguing, and despite the day’s events, she had sparked Rayne’s spirit of curiosity. She was taller than Duncan and Rayne both, and was covered head to toe in heavy plate. He could not see any of her skin. Her armour looked well-made and useful— though Rayne was far from an expert. Apparently, though, she did not seem to care how it looked at all: it did not look like it had ever been polished in all the time she owned it. Her manner of speaking was… Curious. She spoke with a Fereldan accent, but it her speech seemed stilted and formal. And what was that word she said? Just who was this woman? 

The fight took so long that Rayne had time to reflect on the day he had suffered through. It had been quite the trial indeed: he had been cast out of his home, perhaps never to return again, on the day that he became a full-fledged mage. He would miss so much about the tower: the library, his friends who had become family, the Senior Enchanters, the First Enchanter… And Jaime. Would he ever see his best friend, his brother, again? Rayne was unlike most of the other mages at the tower: he had never thought of it as a prison, but as a home, a place of comfort and security. And then the Grey Wardens, this Duncan, had taken him away from his home. He knew it was irrational to be angry at Duncan, but it was hard to be rational when his world just got turned upside down. It was likely that the man had saved him from Greagoir, but he did not care that much at this point. Duncan was here, and Jowan, the one with whom he should truly be angry, was not. Poor Duncan had to deal with it instead.

After about ten minutes, the fighting stopped, with, surprisingly, each combatant holding a blade at each other’s throat, panting. Rayne was fearful that they would hurt each other and prepared a healing spell, only for both of them to lower their blades, Duncan letting out a hearty laugh, and Mercy apparently not reacting at all, simply sheathing her swords and standing before Duncan, still panting.

“I trust I was adequate?” Mercy asked the Warden-Commander.

“You were,” Duncan chuckled, “More than adequate. Welcome to Wardens, sister,” Duncan said, extending a hand. She shook it quickly, and donned her pack.

As the trio set out from Lake Calenhad, Duncan began to say: “Not many actively seek out the Wardens, even in this time of Blight. What drew you to us, Mercy?”

“I was a mercenary who wanted to become a Warden. Must you know more?”

“It is true that who you were before you were a Warden is your business, but I do make it a point to learn a bit about the people alongside whom I will be fighting.”

For the first time since leaving the tower, Rayne spoke, seemingly realizing what he was saying as he was saying it.  “She’s a qunari. Or… Tal-Vasoth, most likely. Judging by the fact that she is both a woman and a fighter, I would say that she was ben-hassrath.”

Both of his travelling companions stopped in their tracks, turning to look at him.

“Not exactly, but an impressive guess. I was born here in Ferelden away from the qun’s influence, and am thus simply Vasoth, though my parents were ben-hassrath. I suppose they… trained me well. How did you know?” Mercy asked, absolutely dumbfounded that the meek-looking and silent mage had figured out who she was so quickly, when so few others had even come close since she set out on the road herself.

“I… Read a lot of books,” Rayne said, retreating back into himself and smiling shyly.

“Not just a talented mage, Mr. Surana” Duncan said, smiling at the mage. He was intrigued by Mercy, and made a mental note to find out what ‘Ben-Hassrath’ meant later.

Mercy let out a heavy sigh and removed her helmet, snow-white hair falling down behind her back, tried into a tight braid. Her face was harsh and impossible to read. The irises of her eyes were a striking violet, and her skin was an intriguing charcoal colour. Upon her head sat two impressive horns that curved out and backwards. Despite their metal decoration, they were apparently not part of her helmet, as Rayne had originally guessed.

Giving Rayne a frustrated look before turning her gaze to Duncan, she asked him with a threatening voice: “I was told that the Wardens take all who are capable, and I am quite capable. I trust my being qunari will not be a problem?”

“Not at all,” Duncan said without missing a beat. “Though, I am not certain I have ever heard of qunari Grey Warden. This is quite possibly a first for the Order. I am curious to hear how your parents found yourselves in Ferelden, if you are willing to share. However, we’ve dallied long enough. Let us make haste for Ostagar; the king awaits. You can avail us with your tale on the road.”

With a relieved sign, Mercy set off with her new brothers-in-arms. 

Chapter Text

Keegan awoke in his room in Highever to someone shaking him, slowly realizing that Felix’s barking was not, in fact, part of his dream. He opened his eyes to see Nathaniel looking at him with concern. 

“Keegan! What’s happening?”

There was a rapping on the door. 

“Lord Nathaniel, please come with us, for your own safety.”

“My own safety? What are you talking about?”

“We’re under orders from your father to take you into protective custody.”

Felix’s barking had not abated, and his growling was the kind he reserved solely for visiting Orlesians and thunderstorms. Keegan and Nathaniel shared a skeptical look, and the two of them sprang out of bed, putting their armor on as quickly as possible, Keegan putting his hand on Felix to quiet him down. Ferelden’s most eligible bachelors each drew their bows, ready to loose their arrows on any who entered.

“Lord Nathaniel! If you do not open the door, we will need to force our way in.”

“Be our guest!” Keegan yelled at them.

Though the soldiers tried to enter with their swords drawn, neither of them made it past the threshold. Arrows found themselves in each of their foreheads the moment the door opened, loosed from the young noblemen. Taking a second to examine their assailants, Nathaniel saw the bear sigil on their shields and came to understand the reality of their situation.

“These… These are my father’s men, and not just the rank and file. I’ve known them since I was a boy. What could he be thinking?” Nathaniel asked, tears in his eyes, hands shaking.

Another few arrows flew past their heads to find purchase in the men rushing into the hallway, both boys turning to see Teryna Cousland in full armor, ferocity in her eyes. As she nodded at them, Keegan finally understood how her mother earned the moniker of Seawolf during the rebellion. While there was no water to be found, she was deadlier than any wolf.

“It… It doesn’t matter right now,” Keegan responded, pushing down everything he was feeling. With an unnatural calm in his voice, he continued. “What matters is surviving. We can figure out the why and the how later.”

Nathaniel nodded solemnly, accepting that he was about to carve his way though Amaranthine’s men and women, some of whom had protected and served his family his entire life. He would do this, and worse, so long as it meant his best— and possibly only— friend survived.

“Bodahn, you better not make me regret this,” Mayrin said, cleaving his way through the genlock in front of them. “You paid me some good coin,” he continued, raising his shield to block a menacing hurlock before cleaving its head off with his handaxe, “but I’m not so sure about the surface.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Brosca! I haven’t steered you wrong yet!” Bodahn responded.

“Enchantment!” his newly-adopted son agreed. Sandal was an odd boy, but had a talent for enchantment. 

It wasn’t like he had a choice, honestly. Bodahn had just gotten himself exiled, and exile meant that his payoffs would stop, and the Proving Masters, or the Noble Caste, or even Beraht, would collect what they felt they were due. Impersonating a fancy fighter in the Provings didn’t win a casteless dwarf a lot of friends in Orzammar, and shaving your beard could only hide you for so long. Leske was able to blend in again, forgotten, but Mayrin had no place in Orzammar anymore. Not even Dust Town.

“And remind me again why we couldn’t just leave through the main gates again? You know, the exit that isn’t perilous and infested by darkspawn?” Mayrin asked, smashing his shield into a charging genlock while Bodahn made sure to carefully tiptoe over its corpse.

“Think of what we could find on this route out! One never knows what treasures they’ll find in the Deep Roads, and I have no doubt the humans will be very interested in dwarven artifacts!”

“Enchantment!” Sandal offered helpfully.

“I guess, but—“

Mayrin was cut off by the immense battle cry they heard from a tunnel ahead of them.

Bodahn looked ahead, shocked. “That sounded like—“

“A dwarf!” Mayrin said as he took off running, before coming face to face with one of the most impressive sights he’d seen in his life: a well-muscled dwarven woman wearing a mismatch of different armor, each piece haphazardly thrown on to the last. She was covered in black darkspawn ichor, and Mayrin saw pale, sickly skin hiding under the vile taint. She had straight, shoulder-length blonde hair, which was caked to her scalp. As she cleaved a hurlock in half, her deep brown eyes met Mayrin’s deep blue, and he saw an almost animalistic ferocity in the eyes of a woman who had all but accepted her fate. Mayrin, however, had other plans, and charged into battle, realizing just how right Feddic had been. 

“Careful, Mr. Brosca! She already looks tainted; there’s nothing we can do for her. She’s a dead woman walking.”

“I don’t believe that,” Mayrin said, slashing and dashing his way through the ranks of the darkspawn until he found himself back to back with the mysterious woman. 

“Good to see another dwarf out here,” she said, parrying a hurlock alpha’s massive axe.

“Likewise,” Mayrin responded, slicing the head off another genlock. “Mayrin Brosca. Pleasure.”

“Diala Aeduc— Just Diala,” she responded, bisecting two screaming hurlocks with one fell swoop. “But he’s right, you know. I can already feel it inside me, and I don’t want you to die for nothing,” she said with a calm and respect that surprised Mayrin, if she has who he thought she was.

Bodahn, apparently, had the same realization, thinking of all the gold he could get from this particular bit of treasure he had discovered in the Deep Roads. Changing his attitude immediately, he shouted: “Mr. Brosca! Protect her!”

“Funny how quickly he changed his tune,” Diala said, finishing off the genlock of this particular group, and trying (if unsuccessfully) to wipe away at least some of the taint from her face. The merchant approached her like one would priceless treasure treasure, bowing low before the former princess.

“Lady Aeducan, my name is—“

“Don’t care. And I’m not an Aeducan anymore. Let me die here in the Deep Roads, merchant, and be on your way.”

“Nonsense, milady. Mr. Brosca, my son and I are on our way to the surface. We can take you with us!”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t mind having someone I know can watch my back along for the ride,” Mayrin responded, cleaning his axe, shield and armor of any remaining taint.

“And as much as I would love to not die a horrible death from the darkspawn, I’m already tainted. I’d rather die against them in battle than slowly and painfully succumb later.”

“I… I guess there’s nothing to be done, then,” Mayrin responded, unable to meet her eyes. “If we’d been here sooner, maybe I could have—“

“No need to be so dramatic yet, Mr. Brosca!” Bodahn assured him. “There exists a cure, if the tales are to be believed.”

“You can’t mean—“ Diala started, the realization dawning on her.

“I do. We’re off to find the Grey Wardens,” Bodahn announced, his motives not entirely pure.

“Enchantment,” Sandal added sagely, as the exiled princess joined the trio on their journey to the surface.

Enid Marahiel slowly became aware of the sound of the halla bleating somewhere outside her… Aravel? What was she doing lying inside an aravel? Had she been cut off from the clan? She couldn’t hear them, or feel them around her. She looked to her side to ensure that she still had her sword, and valiantly struggled to sit up, before crying out in pain and lying back down.

Creators, what is this? Enid thought. It feels as though I am burning… Everywhere.

Soon enough, she heard frantic footsteps running towards the aravel, the curtain swung open by a frantic-looking Merrill with dangerously dark circles under her eyes. 

“Merrill?” Enid asked, “Where am I? What’s going on?”

“Oh Enid, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be awake. We’ll get there soon, I promise! Back to sleep!”

And with a flash of yellow light from Merrill’s staff, Enid drifted back into the embrace of The Beyond, and ever closer to Falon’Din.

“—and that,” Eve explained, “is reason number thirty-seven why the Chant is bullshit, the Maker is a scam, and Andraste was just some crazy abomination.” She saw Irminric wince at her, but he was able to hold tongue, knowing what Eve was planning. It brought her no pleasure to blaspheme either, but this guard was particularly pious, and they needed to get out of here.

“Alright, that’s it, you knife-eared bitch!” their guard, Johnathan, roared, stomping towards her cell. He was a young guard, and underestimated the capabilities of the rake-thin elven woman that he had guarded these past months. Then again, they always did. Unlocking her cell, he he stomped towards her, armored fist raised. “Keep the Maker out of your heathen mouth, you knife-eared bitch!” he said, eyes alight with fury.

Feigning cowardice, Eve backed into the corner and started doing her very best to pretend to cry. “No, please sir!” she said, practically begging him to come closer, at least as far as he was concerned. As soon as he got close enough, he took a swing at her. In one fluid motion, she ducked under his arm, grabbed the key from his belt, and twirled behind him. Before he percieved what was happening, she had already taken his sword from its sheath, and hit him on the head with its pommel, knocking him out cold. She made her way to Irminric’s cell, and let him out as well.

Eve wordlessly unlocked Irminric’s cell as well, but smiled softly. She had gotten to know him well enough, and he seemed decent, for a shem. He was horrified when he heard her story, and he did listen to her.

“I- I- I am sur- surprised that he still lives,” Irminric said as he exited his cell.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t attempt to rape me, just beat me… So that puts him head and shoulders above most of his kind,” she said, eyes lingering on the delirious, pale templar. “Anyways,” she said curtly. “Get his armor on.”

“Y-yes, m-my lady Tabris,” he sputtered out. He was covered in sweat and shaking almost violently, and Eve realized for the first time just how serious lyrium dependancy was. “You know, m-my lady… After we d-depart, you d-d-d-don’t have to travel with me. I would understand if—“

“No, Irminric. You’ve been nothing but perfectly decent so far.”

“You’re certain? I would understand—“

“I’m certain. After we get some lyrium on the way out of Denerim, we’ll go see your sister Alfstanna. Just… Don’t disappoint me, templar.”

Taking a knee and bowing his head before his elven liberator, the disgraced templar said: “Lady Evelyn Tabris, I swear by the Maker and Andraste that I will endeavour to do all I can not to disappoint you, and that no harm will come to you so long as you are with me.”

Eve snickered at that last bit, but appreciated the sentiment, hoping Irminric would finally  show her the good that Valendrian had always insisted shemlen had in them. She prayed to the Maker that she wouldn’t be disappointed again.

The journey south seemed to be an easy one, for Rayne’s companions, at least. Rayne had never walked this far or this long in his life. There were times on his journey where he seriously thought that the templars’ justice may have been better than this. Most times, though, he was enjoying things. The Grey Wardens were fascinating enough, but a chance to meet a qunari? The spirit wisp he kept floating at his side to empower his spells seemed just as curious as he was, flitting about excitedly whenever he spoke with Mercy. 

For warriors, both Mercy and Duncan were kinder than he expected. Neither of them boisterous bruisers or vicious killers, and they both had a sense of humour, howevermuch they kept it hidden.As long as he kept casting healing spells on his feet, he wouldn’t slow them down too much. Rayne was grateful that Duncan had spared some coin and let him purchase some blank journals early in their journey. He had mostly kept to himself as he processed the reality of his situation, but he had been able to learn a little bit about the qunari and the Wardens both. No doubt he’d have more questions as he acclimated to his new life.

What hurt more than his feet, though, was the fact that Jaime were not here with him. He was the one who wanted to escape the tower, not Rayne. While Jaime was nowhere near as determined or reckless as Anders, he’d always wanted his freedom back. He had no idea what happened to his family in Kirkwall. Rayne would have to write to Jaime, though, and let him know he was okay, and that Jaime hadn’t won their bet.

“All I am saying is that it seems impractical for someone of your particular skillset,” Mercy yelled back to Rayne, snapping him back to reality. They were in the Korcari Wilds searching for darkspawn blood— not the time to zone out.

“And what I’m saying is that it was never supposed a big deal in the Tower. If my hair ever got set on fire (which did happen once or twice) it was promptly put out by another mage,” Rayne said, pulling his new fur cloak around his body. Of all the reasons he missed Kinloch Hold, the lack of bone-chilling cold was just behind Jaime. Honestly, part of the reason he liked his hair how it is is because having waist-length curly hair was additional protection from the cold. “Plus, a friend and I have a bet. Whoever cuts their hair first owes the other… His dessert for the night,” Rayne said sheepishly. It was a bet made over a decade ago, and they stuck to it more of stubbornness than anything. They’d always been competitive.

Mercy spun around, and looked at Rayne, dumbfounded. Mages were a different breed, she supposed. Sighing slightly, she offered: “You could at least tie it up, like that Morrigan woman we met. I could braid it for you, like I keep mine. Or I could cut it for you when return to camp if you wish.” Mercy offered helpfully.

“Ha!” Daveth jumped in. “I don’t think the elf would like that, but I wouldn’t find seeing someone else get fireballed today, so I say you should do it.”

Stifling a snicker, Alistair added unconvincingly, “Alright, recruits! That’s enough. If he wants to give the darkspawn something to grab on to, it just means that we can put one more body in between us and them!”

“By that logic,” Daveth continued, “Ser knight here will outlive us all! Nothing to grab!”

“Tr-truly?” Jory asked, apparently too anxious to process banter. “That’s encouraging. I—“

“Have a wife and child at home in Highever. Yes, we know,” Rayne said, rolling his eyes and jogging a little bit to fall into step with Mercy, and trying not to show how out of breath that made him. Now that they were on a mission and not simply travelling, keeping up with his titanic compatriot was an ordeal in and of itself. Apparently, she’d been going slow for him.

“Mercy, I had some more questions about the qun!”

“I am hardly surprised,” she responded, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Can you not at least wait until tonight? My parents always said saarebas were dangerous, but I never realized that their true danger was in boring their compatriots to death.”

“I suppose,” Rayne whined. “It’s just— oh, wait, straggler,” he stopped, freezing a darkspawn a few feet ahead before unleashing a bolt of arcane energy to destroy it. “Anyways, it’s just… There was so little about the qun in the tower, and what I did learn was from the foreign language section. The First Enchanter secretly kept translated passages of Genitvi’s work. Some of them had been banned by the templars, but none of them were smart enough to learn Antivan. But even Gentivi’s writings left a lot of questions about qunari culture.”

“You did not learn about the qun? I thought your Circles had books on everything. That is interesting, but not entirely unfortunate.”

“Yes it is!” Rayne argued, surprising all of his traveling companions with his volume. Even his blue spirit wisp to jump in surprise. “Sorry… I just mean… Knowledge should be shared, not hoarded! The Chantry’s censors make things even more alluring and enticing.”

“There is wisdom in that, but I can understand why the Chantry makes the choices it does. Dissenting viewpoints can only hurt a cause, after all,” Mercy offered.

“Not if your viewpoint or belief system is strong enough to stand against opposing or contradictory viewpoints or ideas. Stifling that knowledge is cowardly,” Rayne asserted. He had clearly given this a lot of thought.

“And there is wisdom in that, as well,” Mercy nodded.

“You know,” Alistair said, “I think I liked it better when you two were our wacky new and quiet warden recruits: the stoic qunari lady and the homesick mage boy.

“Hey!” they said in unison. 

“I will have you know that I am quite emotive for a qunari, and I have no doubt that Rayne will be complaining about the weather, or the fighting, or his feet, before you know it.”

As if on cue, Rayne let out a panicked yelp and blasted fire upwards, falling hard onto his backside and giving everyone even more of an excuse to stare at him.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Bug.”

Chapter Text

“Join us brothers and sisters. 

Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. 

Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. 

And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. 

And that one day we shall join you.”

If he wasn’t so horrified, Rayne would be a little excited. Not only was learning the secret ritual that made Grey Wardens what they were, but he might very well be seeing the very first instance of a qunari joining the Grey Wardens in the history of Thedas.

“Mercy, step forward,” Duncan said, holding out the Joining chalice. Taking a sip, Mercy immediately started coughing, just liked Daveth had.

“I am sorry, Mer-“

“Wait,” she grunted, holding her stomach in pain. Then, before their very eyes, she began to change. Her already-impressive horns grew even larger and thicker, splitting like tree branches as they grew, and her nails poked through her gloves into sharp claws, her canines doing the same. It was at this point that Duncan and Alistair put a hand on their blades.

“Wait!” Rayne said, his wisp circling him erratically in anticipation of what was happening to Mercy. She grew nearly an entire foot, some of her equipment breaking in response to the sudden change, before she collapsed onto the ground, her eyes turned completely black.

Staring blankly for a second, Duncan eventually snapped out of his spell. “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden,” he said before turning to Rayne.

Okay. Okay. He could do this. Grey Warden. Not a comfy mage in the tower. Grey Warden, darkspawn, bugs and all.

“Step forward, Rayne.”

After taking a sip, Rayne nearly vomited the Joining potion back up right away, but kept it down through sheer force of will. As the ground rushed up to meet him, he heard Duncan’s somber words.

“From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

Chapter Text

Mercy could get used to this. As a vashoth, she was already easily stronger than most humans she encountered, but the Joining potion had done something unthinkable… It made her even stronger. Faster. More resilient than ever before. Luckily, Duncan found some silver and blue Warden armour with which she could be outfitted that actually fit, as well as two beautiful silverite longswords to go with the set. Rayne, too, was outfitted with the Warden mage uniform and given a new staff. She enjoyed the company of this saarebas and was happy he had survived the Joining. It was refreshing to meet a human, elf or dwarf who didn’t cower in fear when meeting her or, treat her like a mindless giant. He really should cut his hair, though, or at least tie it up a little more, like Mercy herself did.

Preparation for the battle was underway, and Mercy was actually excited. Fighting darkspawn was simple and being a Grey Warden made it even more so. Of course, the darkspawn were monstrous, could be devious, and incredibly dangerous, but they didn’t have families that might love them or explanations for their wrongdoings, like that supposed deserter she had met in the camp. That made things simple, morally. No darkspawn deserved mercy. They were just monsters to kill. 

She and Rayne made their way to the war council. The two of them had apparently particularly fascinated King Cailan, so they joined Alistair and Duncan at the war council. As she and Rayne approached the group, it dawned on her just who she was looking at: a personal hero of her’s, a nearly legendary figure: the Hero of River Dane. It almost made her feel badly for the darkspawn. With Loghain in charge, they couldn’t lose.

A lot of firsts for Eve, in the past month. First time stealing lyrium. First time killing nobles. First time in jail. First time breaking out of jail. And first time leaving Denerim. It’d be exciting, if it wasn’t so terrifying. Traveling the countryside was exhausting, especially with a shemlen so fascinated with Eve’s horrifying life in the alienage. She appreciated his willingness to learn, but she wasn’t a teacher. She shouldn’t have to relive the worst parts of her life just to educated the shem about how they had mistreated, and continued to mistreat the elves.

“There! Castle Eremon. Almost home,” Irminric said excitedly. His giddiness was dwarfed only by Eve’s trepidation. Why was she doing this? More than likely, she’d be executed by this Alfstanna to pay for what she did to Vaughan. But Irminric had not betrayed her yet, and she had enough knives that she would be ready for when he did.

The Castle itself was massive; bigger than the palace at Denerim, and much more defensible. Her keen eyes identified myriad archers hidden among the obsidian ramparts, from which the Waking Sea bannorn’s flag was hung: a shining sun over some water. The Eremons had always been a particularly devout family.

“Lord Irminric? Is that you?” a guard called from above.

“Ser Irminric, Samuel,” the templar corrected. “I haven’t been a lord of anything for a long time. If you could, please open the gates and let Alfstanna know I’m here!”

“Right away, my lo- Ser.”

The Rusted Horn in Crestwood was an accommodating enough tavern. Beds were comfy, bread was hearty, mead was good. However, it was still an inconvenience to its two newest guests. Nathaniel Hower and Keegan Cousland were on their way to Ostagar, and annoyed that they had to stop at all. They had considered Amaranthineto recuperate, but didn’t know how many among them would throw their lot in with Arl Howe, and how many Nathaniel. More importantly, though, the King and Teyrn Loghain were at Ostagar, and they had to be informed of the crimes Rendon Howe had committed. Nathaniel, for his part, was still confused: he tended to jump from anger to despair to disbelief and then back to anger again. How could his father do this? He had ruined everything. He’d always been ambitious and… Even a little brusque, but the Howes were loyal to the Couslands, and the Couslands to the Howes. Their relationship to the Couslands was foundational to their identity as Howes.

Making his way up the stairs to their room, Nathaniel opened the door to find Keegan exactly where he left him: sitting on the bed and staring at what was apparently a very interesting wall, Felix curled up beside him. Nate sat down on the other side of him and said softly: “According to the barkeep, the war effort in the south has gone well so far, and the darkspawn haven’t gained any ground. Fergus most likely made it unharmed and is with King Cailan and Teryn Loghain now.”

“Good,” Keegan said without looking away from the wall. Keegan’s behaviour had worried Nathaniel the past few days. He barely said anything, but he didn’t seem sad or morose.  He didn't seem… Anything. No sadness, no despair, no fury. Nothing. It was like Keegan had sealed all of his emotions in a bottle the night they fled Highever, and had no intention of liberating them anytime soon.

“You know, Keegan… You can always talk to me. I know I can’t make up for what my father did, but I… I can promise you that I will never become him, and that I will never betray you like my father did yours’.” At this point, Nathaniel had his arm on Keegan’s shoulder, who so far hadn’t responded. 

With a serenity defying comprehension, Keegan responded, still looking at the wall: “I am aware. Thank you, Nathaniel. I vow the same.”

“Like there was ever any doubt,” Nathaniel said, trying to smile enough for the two of them. He hugged his best friend tight, and, though there was no response, he knew that Keegan appreciated it. Felix, ever a cuddly mabari, licked each of their hands and pressed his head in between them, feeling utterly ignored.

“Well,” Keegan said, undoing his little ponytail and taking his earring out, “have a good night.”

“You too…” Nathaniel responded, frustrated with his lack of progress at reaching his friend.

Keegan, he silently pleaded, where are you?

Bann Alfstanna hadn’t ordered Eve’s execution yet, so things were going well in her book. The human woman was angrily pacing back and forth in her study while Eve and Irminric sat in silence. She was everything the Orlesians expected from a Fereldan “dog-lord”: her hair was short and braided haphazardly, her face wasn’t powdered, and she held the audience in full leather armor with her mabari, Angus standing guard at the door. The midnight black mabari, despite looking terrifying, was incredibly friendly, and Eve had already decided that she preferred him to most of the shemlen she had met in her time. The study itself was sparsely decorated. Its stone walls were fairly bare, but had a few adornments: along with various depictions of Andraste in tapestry and paintings, there was also what Eve assumed was a family portrait of Irminric and Alfstanna as children with their parents. There was a copy of the Chant of Light on her desk beside a small wooden carving of a mabari. 

“I know that war makes people do terrible things, but interfering with a templar’s sacred duty? Imprisoning him indefinitely? What was Loghain thinking?”

“I am uncertain, sister, but I thank the Maker that Lady Tabris was in that dungeon with me. Without her, I would surely have gone through lyrium withdrawal… Or worse, and no one would be any the wiser.”

“Indeed,” Alfstanna said, giving Eve a respectful nod. “Thank you, my lady, for saving my brother. I am forever in your debt.”

“Wait… I’m not in trouble? For… you know?”

“Reports of Vaughan’s death were unclear and contradictory, and who would believe that a pair of elves made their way through his estate on a quest for justice? Besides, one fewer Kendalls at the landsmeet can never be a bad thing,” she said, before realizing that that was something she should not have uttered out loud.

“You’re… Serious? I knew what Irminric said, but for a human noble to…  wow. Thank you.”

Smiling sadly, Alfstanna simply responded “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. You will always be welcome within these halls.”

“Thank you, bann Alfstanna.”

“Now, we must put word out of what Loghain has done. Irminric, make a stop by the Chantry to stock up on lyrium. Revered Mother Ciara will be happy to see you.”

“Yes, sister.”

“For the rest of the day, rest, eat and drink— but not too much. I’ll be sending messengers out tonight, but we need to ensure that messages to our most powerful allies are not lost along the way, and few hold as much sway in the landsmeet as Arl Eamon. Obviously, the Grand Cleric would be preferable, but sending you two back to Denerim would be… Unwise.  Could I trouble the two of you to deliver news of Loghain’s crimes personally to Arl Eamon personally, along with a letter from me? You would, of course, be fairly compensated for your travels, Lady Tabris, and would carry with you an official letter granting you the authority to act in my name.”

“That would be…more than acceptable, bann Alfstanna. Once again, I must thank you for your generosity,” she said completely genuinely. Even if shemlen were not good, it seems that the Eremons were.

“Nonsense. This is not generosity. It is only proper strategy to hire skilled help. Now, would five sovereigns, paid in advance, be acceptable for the journey, or is that too little?”

Evelyn froze for a moment. Five sovereigns? Her instincts were telling her that this was too good to be true, that she needed to get out now, but Alfstanna had been nothing but kind so far. Better to be agreeable and deferential than suspicious and ungrateful.

“Not at all, bann Alfstanna. In truth, I would do it for five silver!”

“Wonderful!” Irminric said. “I had grown quite fond of your company, Lady Tabris, and am most pleased that our partnership will continue.”

“Then it is settled,” Alfstanna said. “Tomorrow, you leave for Redcliffe.”

“So, why are you so important?” Mercy yelled to Alistair. The two of them paused for a moment at the other side of the bridge to the Tower of Ishal to give their out-of-shape mage companion time to catch up.

“What are you talking about?” Alistair responded, honestly having no idea.

“Why are you here? Cailan wanted you here. Specifically. Why?”

“He wanted us all here. We’re Grey Wardens! Important job, signal fire, flanking charge. Ringing any bells?”

“Alistair. That is certainly true, but he was worried about you, specifically. He was fascinated by Rayne and I, but he was worried about you. Why?”

All of the sudden, Alistair realized what she was getting at. “You… Noticed that? Truly? How could you tell?”

“My parents were trained to read facial expressions, but you aren’t answering my—“

“Wait up!” Rayne called as he approached. “Just— just give me a minute to— to catch my breath,” Rayne said, his hands on his thighs as he panted, gasping for air.

“Saved by the mage,” Alistair said, winking at Mercy. Running forwards, he yelled back “If we survive this, I’ll tell you after!”

Mercy took off running behind him, equal parts amused and annoyed, leaving an exhausted Rayne behind her. There was no way she’d let the little templar outdo her.

“Hey!” he said halfheartedly, “you guys can’t keep doing that!” Rayne muttered to himself as he tried fruitlessly to catch up to his armored companions. 

Chapter Text

It was a quiet, somber walk from the Wilds, each Grey Warden grieving in their own way. Their new companion, Morrigan, was content to walk in silence. Eventually, Mercy tried her best to talk about happier things, or just to fill the silence. Her and Alistair were currently talking about… Well, something about swords, Rayne assumed. That’s what warriors talked about. Mercy was trying her hardest to get Alistair out of his slump, which proved difficult when Rayne and Mercy in that slump with him. Mercy had trusted entirely in Loghain’s judgement, too enamoured with the legend of the man too evaluate who he was as a person. Her and Alistair’s conversation was, above all, an attempt to distract them both from the fact that there were now three living Wardens left in Ferelden. 

Rayne, however, was a few paces behind them, walking beside their newest traveling companion, with whom the elven mage was incredibly fascinated.

“Truly, Morrigan. It wasn’t like that. The Circle was home for a long time, and I had a better life there than I ever would have outside.”

“Please. You allow yourselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. ’Twas only a matter of time before your masters decided you too much trouble and disposed of the problem entirely. You are lucky to have escaped when you did.”

“You might be right about that,” Rayne said, chuckling. “I was aware of the control the Chantry and templars have over us. I know they censor knowledge that doesn’t agree with their worldview, that they silence dissidents with Tranquility. Still, the Circle offers protection, home, knowledge… And those who know the system well enough can change it from within.”

“Indeed? And were you one of these heroic reformers, struggling valiantly to better the plight of his fellow mage?”

“No…” Rayne admitted. “Not me. I liked to keep my head down, not make waves. I had a friend, Jaime, who would be much better suited to this life. He was the revolutionary. He was the one who joined the Libertarians the day after his Harrowing. It should have been him.”

“From your description, I find myself agreeing. Though you were chosen to become a Grey Warden; why?”

Rayne’s fist clenched in anger. “Good question. I… put my faith in someone I shouldn’t have, and Duncan gave me a choice between Aeonar and the Grey Wardens. Greagoir didn’t let him take Jaime as well, though he did want us both.”

“Aha! You see, that was your problem. Trusting another. Friendship, loyalty, faith… None of that matters. Power is what matters. Survival is what matters. And ‘twould seem you learned your lesson well,” said Morrigan, smiling smugly.

“Maybe… Or maybe— Hey, wait, didn’t I ask you about shapeshifting? How’d we get here?”

Morrigan chuckled mischievously. “‘Twould appear magic is not the only thing I learned from my mother.”

“Cailan is dead. Loghain’s forces were the only ones to escape, and the darkspawn amass in the south,” Nathaniel told Keegan, tossing him the bottle of wine he procured from the barkeep at the Spoiled Princess. He then turned to Felix and threw him a mabari crunch, which he devoured hungrily before whining for more. They had made it as far as Kinlock Hold before receiving the news of Ostagar.

“Interesting,” Keegan said, like he’d just learned what the weather was today. “Denerim, then? To petition Loghain and Anora?”

“That would make sense,” Nathaniel said as Keegan poured him a glass of the Orlesian red he found, taking a large sip. “…if my father wasn’t the new Arl of Denerim.”

“Arl of Denerim, Arl of Amaranthine and Teryn of Highever. Quite the impressive set of titles,” Keegan said, bemused. “I wasn’t aware that was possible.”

“It usually isn’t, but father seems to have seized the vacancy left by the Kendalls, as well as, well… Highever. Still, I don’t think we can trust anyone who allies himself with my father.”

“A good thought. But Anora is still in the capital and alive, is she not? She is sure to reign Loghain in if your father has any… Undue influence over him.”

Unable to meet Keegan’s serene icy gaze, Nathaniel said, scarcely louder than a whisper: “If I am any indication, I don’t think we should count on that.”

Contemplating that for a second, Keegan seemed to come to a decision. “We’ll avoid the north, then. Anything under your father’s or Loghain’s control could pose a danger, which means Gwaren too. I’ll send a letter to Anora, however, informing her of what happened. And though I am loathe to see either Eamon or Isolde again, we will set off for Redcliffe on the morrow.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But how will you get a letter to Anora? Will the Queen’s mail not be intercepted and read? I know you have, or had… Feelings for Anora, but I am not sure that this is the best course of action."

“The Queen’s mail will be intercepted, yes. But a letter from Félix Larochelle,” Keegan explained, scratching the mabari from which came up wiht his alias, “addressed to the Queen’s Orlesian handmaiden, written in Orlesian, from her former Orlesian lover, will not.”

Nathaniel looked at him, confused.

“Anora married Cailan, and she did love him… But she always found me entertaining. I was a small child, in love with the golden lady who would be queen, ten years my senior. I may not have been at court much, but Anora and I maintained a friendship. Nothing improper, don’t worry: she was committed to Cailan, even if he may not have been committed to her.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. He had heard the rumours about Cailan, and even Maric, but it was something else to get confirmation. Poor Anora… And poor Rowan. He decided that Keegan’s current feelings about Anora were a topic for a later date, hopefully when Keegan had feelings again at all.

“You would trust an Orlesian maidservant?” he asked, skeptical of using Erlina as a go-between.

“No, but I would trust the Queen’s personal bard,”  Keegan responded, something resembling a human emotion finally appearing on his face in the form of a smirk. “You have a lot to learn about our beloved Queen, Nate.”

They were about an hour out of Lothering when they came upon what was certainly the strangest thing Rayne had encountered today, though far from the strangest thing he had encountered since leaving the Circle. Rayne heard it before he saw it: the sound of an angry dog, struggling against attackers. That, and… Was that the crackle of magic? Before the mages could react, Alistair and Mercy already took off running. Maker, Mercy was an intimidating woman.

By the time Rayne caught up, the battle was half over, but it was a most curious sight. The Wardens were cleaving their way through a group of darkspawn to make their way to an angry mabari and two… Dalish elves?! One had short black hair and bright beautiful green eyes; she was casting powerful Dalish magic that either immobilized or skewered the darkspawn with blades of grass turned thick, sharp vines.

On her back were some straps that allowed her drag to around… Another elf? On the ground, there was an elven woman with sweaty and matted long, straight brown hair. She was strapped to a crude stretcher of leather and wood. Her skin was pale and her lips and eyelids were beginning to blacken: from what Rayne had read, she was in the terminal stages of blight sickness. On the other side of the unconscious elf was a mabari with brown fur, fighting to protect the elves. The mabari seemed… Familiar to Rayne. Could it be, the mabari from the camp for whom they’d found the flowers?

The Dalish mage yelling “May the Dread Wolf take you!” to a newly-decapitated hurlock snapped Rayne out of his little trance, and reminded him where he was. Taking a deep breath, he tapped his staff into the ground and his blue spell wisp vibrated excitedly. From the staff’s base, a clear, slippery coating of grase spread over the dirt and the grass, creating a circle around his fellow Wardens and the Dalish elves, and causing most of the encroaching darkspawn to lose their footing and comically fall to the ground. The comedic effect did lot last long, however, as with another tap of his staff, the grease sparked and ignited, immolating the remaining darkspawn and filling the air with their bloodcurdling and monstrous screams. With that, the fight was over.

“Um, Rayne? Alistair called from inside the ring of fire. “Do you mind putting out the the fire? It’s getting a little too hot for my liking.”

“Just wait a second! The grease should be burned up soon enough.”

“We don’t have time for that!” came a voice from inside the fire that would be adorable if it wasn’t so anguished. The fire was immediately extinguished as a wave of cold energy blasted out from the Dalish mage. “You’re Grey Wardens! Unless you’re just wearing their armor, but that wouldn’t make very much sense…”

“We are,” Mercy responded. “Why?”

“I need your help! My clan mate has become Tainted, and our Keeper said becoming a Grey Warden was the only cure, so I came to find you! You must help her!”

“That’s true,” Alistair responded, “but I’m afraid we can’t recruit her right now.”

“Why not?! She is a skilled warrior. She’d be a great help to you! By the Creators, she’s singlehandedly saved out clan more times than I can count! And me! She won’t let you down, I promise!”

“For what it’s worth, we believe you,” Mercy said, apparently speaking for the group now. “It’s not a matter of letting or not letting her in, but having the means to do so. We do not have the… Necessary ingredients to cure her right now.”

“See?” Morrigan whispered to Rayne as they approached the others, even laughing a little bit. “Useless attachments do naught but reduce one to a simpering fool. Pathetic.”

At this point, the mabari from Ostagar bounded forward to excitedly greet Rayne and his strange new companion, ecstatic that he had found his new human again. The dog had imprinted on Rayne, it seems.

“Then when will you have them?! Dalish magic has kept her alive this long, but she is fading. She needs your help! Please!” Merrill continued, tears flowing freely now.

“Nowhere near soon enough to help her,” Alistair said sadly.

“We’re sorry, my lady,” Mercy added, putting a hand on the Dalish mage’s shoulder as she fell to her knees.

“NO! All this, for nothing,” she said between sobs. “No… ma halani, Creators! Emma ir abelas.”

Morrigan approached the others as a wolf does dying prey, a small smile on her lips, before turning her attention to the sobbing mage. “Well, well, what have we— WHAT?!”

“Morrigan, that isn’t a real sentence. But I get it, I do. Growing up in the Wilds, it must be hard to learn proper speech,” Alistair joked, but what Rayne saw on her face gave him pause: it was fear, concern, trepidation. And, in an instant, that expression gone, and Morrigan was as stone-faced as she ever had been.

Once again all business, she started barking orders like she was a Fade spirit of Command made flesh. “Alistair, fetch a cup from your pack. Surana, I need lyrium. Hissera, draw some darkspawn blood,” Morrigan said as she started rifling through her pack and opening a hidden compartment stitched into the back. 

“Hey! Who made you the boss of—“

“Alistair,” Rayne cut him off. “Do as she says.”

Alistair gulped and began his search for a cup.

Morrigan took out a small rectangular box of obsidian and cast an incantation on it. Then, she removed a key from a compartment in her necklace, which she used to unlock the box. Inside was a collection of herbs, some that Rayne recognized, and some that he did not. She crushed a few up and dropped them into Alistair’s cup, Rayne and Mercy following suit with the lyrium and darkspawn blood.

Realizing what she was trying to do, Rayne cautioned “Morrigan, I don’t think this will work. We don’t have—“

“Yes,” she simply said. “I do.”

With that, she revealed the false bottom of her small box, uncovering a small black vial tinged with crimson and violet. 

“Is that what I think…?” Rayne asked, certain he was looking at a vial of Archdemon blood.

“Later, Rayne,” Mercy said as Morrigan let a single droplet of archdemon blood fall into the wooden cup, which was already beginning to dissolve in reaction to the darkspawn blood. “Alistair, help me prop her up,” Mercy commanded, walking with Alistair to grab one of Enid’s arms and her head as Morrigan stepped forward.

“I am sorry, old friend,” Morrigan said with something resembling regret, and very obvious frustration. She held the cup up to the unconscious elf’s lips and forced it down. “From this moment forth, ‘twould seem that you… Are a Grey Warden.”

“There’s no end to them!” Carver exclaimed, rather unhelpfully, his brown eyes darting between all of the darkspawn surrounding them. Christopher Hawke contemplated his destiny silently, rallying all of his mana for one last strike against the darkspawn. He couldn’t save Bethany, but he could ensure the rest of them escaped.

It turns out he needn’t have bothered, however. As if out of legend, a great High Dragon descended upon the darkspawn from the heavens, burning them all to a cinder. It landed, and crushed the remaining stragglers with its tail and claws, before transforming into a curious old woman with voluminous white hair shaped into draconic horns, golden eyes, crimson leather armour, and silverite bracers and boots. Surrounded by flames, she walked leisurely towards what was left Hawke family and smiled a sinister smile before opening her mouth to speak.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Chapter Text

Diala didn’t see the point of all this. She was going to die anyways, and Bodahn wasn’t going be able to get a single red copper from her body, no matter how much he imagined she was worth. Her time had come, and delaying it by coming to the surface on some fool’s errand to find the stone-damned Wardens wasn’t going to change a thing. Ah, well. At least surface ale was good. It was like father always said: “you have to blow off the dust to find the vein of silver”. Father. She hoped he was okay. She didn’t miss Orzammar, but by Ancestors did she miss her father. 

“You good there, Dee?” Mayrin asked a swaying Diala, fighting to keep conscious. His deep blue eyes showed more kindness than she had been raised to expect from a casteless, and more than most of the nobles she’d ever met. Bodahn looked at her like an investment, but this duster looked at her like a person.

“Yeah. I mean, other than the nausea, dizziness and burning feeling in my entire body. Really, this slow wasting away is so much better than dying a good death in the Deep Roads.”

“Don’t worry, Princess! We’re to sure to find the Grey Wardens soon!” Bodahn said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“For the last time, Bodahn I’m not a princess! Sod Orzammar and its politics.” She felt the pent up page bubbling inside her. “And you know what, Bodahn?! Sod the Grey Wardens! They’re all dead now anyways!” Diala was standing now, and all of Dane’s Refuge was looking at the crazy grey dwarf and her compatriots. “And for that matter, sod the surface and sod the darkspawn and sod the taint and, most of all, sod you, you stupid, smooth-talking deepstalker! You should’ve let me die in the Deep Roads! You— You should’ve let me die with honor, dammit…” she said, quieter. 

“Well exca-use me,” came a cultured voiced voice from the entrance. “I think we’re pretty great.”

Diala and her compatriots looked to see two well-armed individuals enter the tavern. One was human man and had dirty blonde hair, a nice stubble and tan skin. He was wearing heavy Grey Warden armor and had a silverite blade and shield of fine make on his back. He was fairly well-muscled, and even handsome… For a human, that is. The thing behind him was another matter entirely. Having to duck as not to hit its massive horns on the doorway, its form towered over everyone in the tavern. It had grey skin and violet eyes, and was also wearing Grey Warden heavy armor with a helmet that had been modified to fit around its horns. It carried a longsword on either hip, and gave its compatriot a playful smack on the head after his comment.

An angry-looking man in fine armor stepped forward and said: “Well, look what we have here, men. I think we have just been blessed. ”

“Uh-oh, Loghain’s men,” Alistair said.

One of the other men asked the leader: “Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a qunari of this very description, and everyone said the only one they had seen was in the cage? This one has horns!”

Diala looked over at Mayrin to see he already had his handaxe out, and Diala grabbed her greatsword as well. If the legends were to be believed, the Wardens wouldn’t need help, but Diala hadn’t killed anything in a long time.

Enid was confused, to say the least. Last she could remember, she was at that mirror with Tamlen, and now? Cut off from the clan with Merrill, traveling with a flat-ear and a shemlen mage, and, if the dreams were to be believed, she was a Grey Warden? She took a deep breath and took in her surroundings, appreciating the fresh air. The shemlen village had cold, stone, buildings, to be sure, but she was quite impressed with vast open space and surrounding farmlands. These shemlen, at least, understood and respected the land.

“So that… Monster? That was the Archdemon?” Enid asked, her stoic voice betraying none of the fear she felt inside. 

“It was. Or is, rather. That’s why Grey Wardens exist. We fight the Blight, wherever and however we can,” the flat-ear mage explained. Until now, only he and Merrill had spoken, while the shemlen witch just regarded her curiously. 

“So… I can’t go back to the clan?” she asked, tying her straight hair brown hair into a ponytail.

“Technically, you could,” the flat-ear said uncertainly, “but truth be told, we need all the help we can get. Being a Grey Warden is kind of a lifetime commitment, according to Alistair.”

“And even if we were not indebted to these Grey Wardens, the Keeper took the clan north to Kirkwall,” Merrill added.

“We, Merrill? They saved my life, not yours’. You need not stay with me.”

“Need? No, I suppose not, but I will, I think. Where else would I go? Could you imagine me navigating human society alone?” she responded, chuckling at herself.

“Then I suppose it is settled,” Enid said, sitting up on the grass. “I swear to you before my First and all my Creators that I will do my best to uphold the will of Mythal and do my duty to protect you— and all the land— from the Blight, and make the Dalish proud,” Enid said, conviction behind her blue eyes.

“The oath is unnecessary, but appreciated, Enid. We’re just happy to have you— and Merrill— along for the ride,” Rayne said before ducking suddenly his head and holding his hands over it when he heard a bee buzz by his ears. Bugs.

At that point, Morrigan scoffed scornfully, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck.

“I understand you are to thank for saving me,” Enid said. “Might I ask your name, so I can thank you properly?”

“You may call me Morrigan, if you must.”

Hearing her voice caused something of an epiphany in the young Dalish warrior.

“Well… Thank you, Morrigan. I— I know you from somewhere, do I not?”

“Possibly.”

“No, no, I do. We’ve met; I swear.”

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan admitted reluctantly: “’Tis true, but ’twas many years ago. I am surprised you remember.”

“If you’re talking about my birth, I don’t remember that, no. When I was given my sword, however, the Keeper also explained what you did for me that day. No, I saw you when you would visit. You did well cloaking yourself in the trees, but I could always feel you watching me. Your golden eyes are not something I’d soon forget. Why did you stop visiting?”

“I grew up, and I ceased to care about such frivolous things.”

“Frivolous things like my life? You didn’t think it was so frivolous yesterday. Why did you save me then?” Enid teased. 

Morrigan stood up from the greenery and started towards the Dane’s Refuge, then turned back for a moment, regaining all of the composure through which Enid had pierced. “’Twas to spite my mother, elf. Not everything is about you, as much as you Dalish like to believe otherwise.”

“Don’t believe her,” Rayne whispered to Enid. “She cares, in her own weird Morrigan way. At least, she cares about you more than the rest of us combined, but that isn’t necessarily saying a lot…”

“Her mother? Why does she hate her mother so much? Is that a human thing?” Merrill asked as Morrigan left.

“You would, too, if your mother was Flemeth,” Rayne responded. “Or, if Brother Genitivi spelled it correctly, your people call her… Achoo… No… Asha’Bellanar.”

“What?!”

“More crazy? I thought we were all full up,” the male Warden said when the one with the horns agreed to let the Chantry sister join them. 

“I hope there’s no quota on that, salroka,” Mayrin shouted as he walked down the stairs, “because I’ve got a deal you just can’t refuse!”

“Is that so?” he reponded, amused with the offer. “What can you offer me? A lifetime supply of cheese? A dozen mabari?”

Only momentarily flummoxed by the Grey Warden’s flippancy, Mayrin snapped out of it to pick up right where he left off. “Even better!” Mayrin promised, reminding himself that he’d also have to watch what his mouth was doing during this pitch. He still wasn’t used to not having beard to cover it. Made lying just a little bit harder. “I can offer you two Grey Warden recruits, your own personal enchanter, and fine and upstanding dwarven merchant!”

Alistair began to respond, but Mayrin held up a hand to interrupt, continuing: “But wait, that’s not even the best part! On our travels, we came across a control rod for a golem, an indestructible dwarven weapon of old, located right here in Ferelden.” Diala snickered at that bit about Bodahn being an upstanding merchant, and Mayrin didn’t blame her.

“Two, Mr. Brosca?” Bodahn whispered, annoyed. That’s what Feddic got for giving Diala fancy armor for free but telling Mayrin he’d have to “earn” his, like he hadn’t already. Mayrin had no reason to stay loyal, and there wasn’t a thing Feddic could do about it.

“And the catch?” the qunari woman asked, raising her eyebrows skeptically and crossing her arms.

“Catch? There isn’t one. Well, not really. All we need is a cure for the blight sickness, and we will be at your service.”

“I think that sounds wonderful! Dwarves have the most experience fighting darkspawn. They will be an asset, no?” the Chantry sister contributed. 

“Leliana, I’m happy you’re taking initiative, but you have literally just joined us,” Mercy said, apparently not able to decide whether she was annoyed or amused. “I’ll be making the decisions around here. That being said…” the qunari continued, turning back to the dwarves. “Yes, she’s right. Come with me; we will get you your cure immediately. This is a Blight, and we need all the help we can get.”

“Perhaps. What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?” the qunari asked, strangely calm for a man trapped in a cage for weeks. He’d been approached by Enid, Merrill and Rayne, along with Rayne’s new mabari companion, who he named Gabriel.

“You could help me defend the land against Blight,” Rayne offered.

“The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden then?”

“I am,” he responded. Rayne had thought Mercy a bit stoic, but she was a social butterfly compared to this fellow.

“Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey—“

And then everything changed. The caged qunari had been nothing but calm so far, but then roaring angrily, and began shaking the bars of his cage.

“Whoa!” Rayne yelped, jumping backwards and nearly falling onto his bottom. “What’s wrong, big guy?”

“Is this normal for qunari to do? Maybe this is his language. Oh! I wonder if we could learn it! Ahh! Raaahhh! Grrr! Arrgh!” Merrill contributed excitedly. Garahel barked in agreement. 

“I think that’s my fault, Merrill,” Mercy called out, walking towards them with Alistair and Morrigan, as well as… four dwarves and a Chantry sister? 

Rayne’s wisp reacted to the female dwarf the same way it had Enid. She was tainted, but looking at her, you couldn’t tell. Not like Enid. Rayne surmised was likely that her dwarven constitution was a contributing factor, but her sheer force of will no doubt had a lot to do with it as well. She was tough and powerful-looking despite her stature, and wore fine dwarven armor full of hard geometric lines and intricate runes. On her back was a dwarven greatsword as tall as she was, and her shoulder-length blonde hair flowed freely, framing her pale skin and deep brown eyes very well. The other armed companion wore dwarven armor as well, but nowhere near as expensive as her’s. He had much darker skin, and short curly black hair. A black tattoo sat underneath each of his deep blue eyes, and his beard was short and, well, pathetic, frankly, compared to the beards Rayne saw illustrated in codices back at the tower, and the few dwarves he’d already met on the surface.

“Ebost issala tal-vashoth!” Sten screamed in a language none of them understood, rattling the bars of his cage so much Rayne was concerned they would break.

“Shanedan, sten,” Mercy responded calmly. “And I’m simply vashoth, not tal-vashoth. I was born outside of your precious qun, right here in Ferelden,” she added, smiling.

“Vashedan,” Sten responded, nearly spitting the word at Mercy.

“Thanks for that,” Mercy said, walking right up to him. With the height she gained after imbibing the Joining potion, she stood a few inches above the already-gigantic qunari man, strangely hornless. The two stared at each other, saying nothing, before Rayne broke the silence. 

“A few seconds ago, you were ready to follow bas, even bas sarebaas, in order to seek your atonement. Yet you cannot follow a forthright soldier who has lived as a good Fereldan citizen her entire life? Mercy who cannot be blamed for turning her back on the qun if she never learned about it in the first place.”

“You speak sense Warden, but I cannot follow her. It is not done.”

“Asala,” Mercy said, the realization dawning on her. Sten said nothing.

“What? I’m sorry, Mercy, but I’m a bit lost here,” Alistair said.

“So am I, but don’t worry. This is so fascinating!” Merrill added.

“Sten. So you were part of the antaam, were you not?” she asked. This was a word that Rayne did not know— he’d already exhausted his limited knowledge of the qun.

“I still am.”

“But you aren’t, are you? Not without your sword. You’re not even qunari anymore. Unless it’s hiding somewhere in your cage…” she asked, leaning forward and pantomiming looking for a blade behind Sten.

“What? He’s a qunari all the time, isn’t he?” Enid asked, honestly more than a little bit confused by all of this.

“Not right now. He’s soulless. A deserter. Even if you accomplish whatever the arishok sent you to do, you cannot report back,” she continued, sounding almost smug

“What is your point, vashoth?”

“What if I promised you that we would find asala? That we would give you back your soul? Would that be a satisfactory reason to follow a vashoth?”

“Such a thing cannot be promised,” Sten said, pausing for a moment. “However, it speaks well of you to make the offer. Very well, Warden, I will follow you. For now.”

Chapter Text

It was the morning after the new Wardens’ Joining. Unlike Rayne and Mercy’s, they had all survived. However, that feeling of relief— and hope— at adding to their ranks had been tainted somewhat by the revelation of the secrets Morrigan had been keeping. If she had not had a personal connection to Enid, they would have lost her and the dwarf, Diala, and they would not have been able to Join Mayrin. Mercy knew that Morrigan had secrets— everyone did, but she had not realized just how relevant those secrets were to their mission. 

“’Tis not your concern what secrets I may or may not be keeping, qunari,” Morrigan insisted.

“It is my concern if you have knowledge that can help us against the Blight!” Mercy responded, furious at the witch.

“Like, say, the recipe for the Joining or its ingredients, for example,” Alistair added, happy to be part of the brigade against Morrigan. In this, he may have been justified. Mercy had no many questions. What else did Morrigan know? More than the rest of them, evidently. And where did she get Archdemon blood? Either she had gone to the Deep Roads and taken some from a sealed Archdemon— which was unlikely— or that Archdemon blood was from the Fourth Blight, four centuries ago.

“And I do,” Morrigan added, looking up at Mercy unintimidated. “I know a great deal about a great many things, some of which could aid you in your mission. But you forget, Warden: I am here of my own volition, and could leave any time I wished. I will share what I know I believe it pertinent, or not at all. If this displeases you, I will take my leave now,” Morrigan said, refusing to break eye contact with Mercy, challenging the qunari to escalate the situation.

“Fine,” Mercy said, conceding defeat, but not happy about it. “Just ensure that you remain useful. How many more could Join before we would be required to restock?”

“I am uncertain. The herbs are common enough, but I would say the archdemon blood would be sufficient for a maximum of a dozen more Wardens, likely fewer.”

“Very well. That is sufficient.” Mercy turned to the crowd the Wardens had amassed around them, looking at the people who had sworn to aid them in the Blight. “We will march tomorrow morning. Welcome to Wardens Brosca, Mahariel and… Does Diala have a last name, Mayrin?”

“Indeed she does, Ser Hissera. It’s Aed—“ Bodahn cut in, before being interrupted.

“She’ll tell you if she wants, but she may wanna keep you in suspense a little bit longer,” Mayrin interrupted, giving Bodahn a threatening look. “Isn’t that right, Feddic?” 

“Suspense? Oh, exciting!” Alistair exclaimed.

“And Merrill?” Enid asked. “I will remind you again: you do not have to stay here if you don’t want. You are free to go, really.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll stay. I have to make sure you don’t get yourself killed, especially after I worked so hard to save you.”

“Ma serannas, lethallan,” Enid responded, squeezing Merrill’s shoulder lovingly.

“It will be so exciting to have two Dalish elves traveling with us! And two qunari! We could all learn much from one another, yes?” Leliana exclaimed. 

“One qunari,” Sten corrected her.

“I agree with Leliana,” Rayne said. “Welcome, all.”

“Now,” Mercy said, turning to Bodahn. “Apparently, Grey Wardens have been outlawed in Ferelden by Teyrn Loghain, so, for the time being, we will need new armor. I assume your stores have armor for Alistair, myself and Enid, as well as robes for Rayne?”

“Armor for me? Why? Mine is perfectly satisfactory, and if the shemlen don’t like it, they are welcome to take it up with me,” Enid said, hugging her emerald ironbark armor and shield. She definitely stood out, but none of her clothing identified her as a Warden. Mercy was impressed by the armor, and surprised elven crafting was not more sought after. The only incongrous part of her outfit was her sword: while her armor and shield were finely-crafted ironbark, the sword seemed to be enchanted silverite, humming with magic.

“Of course, Enid. I apologize. Bodahn?”

“Indeed! I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the goods my boy and I have collected! And with your discount!” 

Mayrin couldn’t supress his laugh at that. Feddic’s discount was… Suspect, at best.

Father had returned today, with grave news. Anora was supposed to be mourning, but the country seemed to be falling apart at the seams. She spent the morning burying herself in her work, writing and responding to letters both inane and important, but was interrupted when she heard an urgent knock at the door.

“Yes?”

A familiar Orlesian accent called through the door “It is Erlina, Your Majesty, and I have news.”

“Come in, Erlina.”

The raven-haired elf stepped delicately into the room, bowing deeply to her queen. The queen’s study was warm and inviting, various Fereldan tapestries hanging on the walls and a beautiful crimson rug adorning the oak floor. Her bookshelf was overflowing with books, and the precision with which her desk was organized told one everything they needed to know about the queen.

Anora smiled fondly at her right-hand woman. “How was your evening, Erlina?”

“It was perfectly acceptable, Your Majesty,” Erlina said, automatically checking every crevice or nook in which a spy, informant, assassin or even magical listening device might be hidden. “Though I received some interesting news from a friend of mine back home.”

“Indeed?” Anora said, feigning disinterest. “Salacious gossip?”

At this point, Erlina was climbing out of the queen’s window onto the battlements just to be certain they were alone, calling back in: “Not exactly, Your Majesty. An old flame, actually: Félix Larochelle.”

That gave Anora pause, but she did her best not to show it. Keegan. That beautiful, stupid boy had survived. “That’s wonderful news! Tell me all about it!”

At this point, Erlina slipped back into the room from outside, and sealed and locked the  window behind her, closing the curtains as well, all of her feigned enthusiasm disappearing along with Anora’s.

“Keegan? He is alive?” the queen said, now all business.

Finally sitting down, Erlina responded: “Indeed, Your Majesty, but his news is grave. He now travels with Nathaniel Howe, and they are en route to Redcliffe.”

“The eldest? This confirms my suspicions. The Couslands… Were not guilty of treason, were they?”

“Non. Not Lord Keegan is aware, at least, Majesty. Arl Howe acted seeminly without provocation. Here is the letter, in cipher. I will be outside your door to keep watch while you read it. Assurez-vous to—“

“Burn it when I am finished,” Anora finished, chuckling. “I did learn a few things from you, after all.”

“Bien sûr. Je suis désolée, Your Majesty.”

“Do not worry, Erlina. I will call for you when I am finished. It will take awhile to recall the cipher, so do ensure to fetch something to read.”

“Take your time, Your Majesty,” Erlina smiled. “I have already made arrangements to send your response to our people in Redcliffe as soon as you are ready.”

Anora nodded happily as Erlina bowed low and left the room. Leave it to Keegan Cousland to take her mind off the death of her husband.

The Wardens and their companions spent the better part of the day doing odd jobs around Lothering in order to pay for Bodahn’s “discounted” armor. Enid never thought becoming a Grey Warden would entail chores for the human Chantry, but at least the tasks seemed fulfilling. It felt good to protect some people, human or elf, no matter how fruitless an endeavor it might ultimately prove to be. She regretted that her and Merrill had no halla to join them. When asked, Merrill informed her they had taken the two of them relatively far, but refused journey beyond a certain point, obviously sensing the darkspawn. Enid wondered how long Merrill had dragged her on foot.

“I don’t know how much more of these I can take,” Alistair said, deflecting a bear claw with his shield. “It’s becoming… Unbearable!”

“Are all humans like this?” Enid asked Mercy, slicing through a giant spider with Rage’s End.

“No, but you get used to him,” Mercy chuckled, decapitating a black bear.

“I’m right here, you know! Stop teasing! I can’t bear it!” Alistair continued, seemingly for only his benefit.

“I can’t blame him,” Mayrin yelled, driving his axe into a wolf’s head with a thunk. “If we had these in Orzammar, I’d have been saying the same thing! There aren’t a lot of words that have ‘bronto’ in them. Makes it a lot more difficult.”

Enid could hear Leliana chuckle at that as she loosed some more arrows, Sten merely grunting in dissatisfaction. Leliana had a beautiful laugh.

Enid just met these people, and she still wasn’t sure that they weren’t all out of their collective minds, but she liked them well enough. Not only that, but they had saved her, something for which she would be forever grateful. She wouldn’t fail them, not like Tamlen. By Mythal, she would protect these people from whatever came their way.

Chapter Text

“I fail to see the point of this “exchange” you are suggesting, Surana,” Morrigan complained. “I can learn nothing from you, and you therefore have nothing to offer.”

Rayne had called a little conclave of the mages before the big meeting tonight in order to finally satiate his Curiosity. He couldn’t keep it in check anymore, and his wisp vibrated with anticipation of the prospect. They were out in a farmer’s field and secluded enough that no one would see them practicing their magic.

“And as much as I would love to learn from you, I’m a little bit hesitant to teach a Circle mage old elven magic,” Merrill said, agreeing with Morrigan.

“Even a fellow elf? I may be a flat-ear, but I’m also a Grey Warden. We need whatever tools we can to stop the Blight,” Rayne said, looking directly into Merrill’s eyes. “Teaching me would help preserve traditions dating back to the days of Arlathan, and I could show the Circle just how valuable Keeper Magic is.”

“That sounds… Acceptable, I suppose. But, for some reason, I find myself agreeing with Morrigan: what would you offer us?”

“Both of you are primarily primal or entropic casters, with one or two spirit spells, correct? Other than your specializations, I mean.”

“Oh. I guess we are! I had never noticed that. Why do you think that is, Morrigan?”

“I do not know, and neither do I care. What is your point, Warden?”

“However, neither of you can cast a single creation spell. You couldn’t heal a paper cut. Did you never learn how? Morrigan, for someone so focused on survival, that seems counterintuitive. And Merrill, if Genitivi’s writings are to be believed, a Keeper is responsible for the well-being of the clan. But how can you do that without healing magic?”

“I know that, lethallin! But I never learned how! I just couldn’t figure it out,” Merrill responded, clearly ashamed. This seemed to be a sore spot.

“Indeed. Despite my aptitude for other schools, Flemeth was never able to teach me healing. She always said it was a difficult school… Though I am now nearly certain ’twas just another way for her to exert control,” Morrigan reflected.

Rayne smiled triumphantly. “There’s a reason for both of those things. From what I’ve seen and read, Dalish magic is based more on instinct, training and practice than hard academic study. And Morrigan, despite your mother’s power, there is no guarantee that she was a good teacher, or that she was honest about what she was teaching, as you’ve pointed out. However, we Circle mages do nothing but study, and those studies have borne fruit. I believe that it’s made learning creation magic much easier in Circles than from any other source in Thedas. I think the logic was along the lines of: how can you be expected to heal a body if you have no idea how it works?”

“’Tis… Logical, what you are saying. You propose teaching us this?”

“I can do you one better,” Rayne said, reaching into his pack and producing codices of vellum each containing the same information. “I spent all night working on these. They contain detailed diagrams of human, elven and dwarven bodies, and everything we have discovered their inner workings and various systems. It also contains the theory behind rudimentary healing spells, a theory built on a solid understanding of different bodies. Would this be… Acceptable, as a trade?”

Merrill grabbed at her’s greedily, thumbing through it excitedly. “This is amazing… If a little bit scary,” Merrill said upon seeing the diagrams.

Smirking slightly, Morrigan relented as well. “’Tis… Acceptable. Now, pay attention: the first and most basic form you will learn is that of the crow. I will also have to treat your clothes to meld to your form, unless you are keen on fighting the darkspawn in the nude.”

So Diala not-Aeducan was a Grey Warden now. So far, it seemed good. Better than good, actually. Deep Roads expeditions that led to killing darkspawn were her favourite things about living in Orzammar, and she had just joined an order that existed for no reason other than to kill darkspawn. All things considered, she might have to thank Bhelen for getting her exiled and nearly killed.

Sitting up in Bodahn’s caravan, she took a second to process how she felt post-Joining. The burning was gone; indeed, any indication she had once had Blight sickness had disappeared. Diala felt better than ever. Donning her casual clothes— “generously”gifted by Feddic— she stepped out of the caravan to join her new companions. They had made camp a day outside Lothering and were currently sitting around the fire, engrossed in conversation. The human warrior was the first to notice her and waved happily.

“Diala! Come grab a seat! Are you feeling alright?” Alistair said.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she responded. 

“Dee!” Mayrin called, happy to see her. “Saved you a spot.” He was always so kind to her. Bhelen may have been right about the casteless, if Mayrin was any indication. Did Orzammar do anything right?

Diala obliged him and sat between Mayrin and the Chantry sister, now outfitted with combat leathers and a bow. She smiled kindly, her blue eyes sparkling in the firelight.

“Good. We’re all here,” Mercy said decisively, standing up so that everyone could hear her. With her helmet off, her long white hair reached past her shoulders. It grew around her massive horns, one of which was now outfitted a shining gold ring.

“Rayne, Alistair and I have made some decisions. We will be pursuing the ancient Grey Warden treaties written in Blights past, but because of Teryn Loghain’s insistence to outlaw the Wardens, we will need some political allies as well. I will lead a group to West Hills to seek aid from Arl Wulff, my former Arl, who was always a good and righteous man. On the way, my group will also investigate the village of Honnleath, because the promise of a golem is too good to pass up. Rayne will lead a group to Kinloch Hold, as the mages will be our most valuable weapon in this Blight. Lastly, Alistair and his team will go to Redcliffe, the seat of Arl Eamon’s power. If the knight we met in Lothering’s Chantry is to be believed, Arl Eamon is sick. After our missions are fulfilled, we will converge on Redcliffe in a month’s time to plan our next move. Objections?”

“No. Your plan seems sensible,” Sten said.

“Depends on the groups,” Mayrin said, shrugging slightly. 

Mercy nodded. “I’ll be bringing Morrigan and Mayrin. Alistair will travel with Diala, Leliana and Merrill, as well as Bodahn and Sandal, who seemed keen to ply their trade in Redcliffe. Lastly, Rayne will take Enid and Sten to the Circle Tower with him, and will probably come back with at least one more recruit, as well as the mages, right Rayne?”

“Right. There’s a friend of mine in the Tower who always wanted to see the world, and had wished to join the Wardens as well when Duncan recruited me.” Then, standing up and turning to his compatriots, he said: “Wardens, don’t forget: we may invoke the Right of Conscription at any time, and there is no better time than this. We have the means to Join perhaps a dozen more Wardens, and will try to procure more materials for the Joining. Anybody you think may help against the Blight is worth taking. Thieves, knight, murderers, guards… Even templars,” he said, chuckling a bit to himself. 

“Good point, Rayne. Please remember that your personal feelings are secondary to stopping the Blight. Any worthwhile enemy should be offered mercy, and the chance to Join the Wardens. Killing them all is a waste.”

“There is some qunari in you after all, vashoth,” the male qunari said to Mercy in what must have been his version of a compliment.

“Wait a sec,” Mayrin interrupted. “You’ve met this Wulff guy, but what about Eamon? Why do we think he’ll help us?”

“Alistair has had… dealings with him in the past. He is apparently a just and fair man, and holds a lot of sway in the landsmeet.” Seeing a lot of confusion on the faces of her elven, dwarven and qunari companions, Mercy elaborated: “The nobles. He’s a popular and powerful nobleman.” That cleared things up.

Alistair looked at Mercy and smiled, before saying: “It’s okay. I was raised by Arl Eamon, and I know Redcliffe well.”

“You’re his son, then?” Diala asked, still trying to wrap around her head around all these different human terms for deshyr. “You’re noble?”

Mercy looked at Alistair not unsympathetically, before he sighed and said: “No. My father is— was King Maric. I was raised in secret by Arl Eamon until I was sent to the monastery.”

Leliana gasped. “Maric the Saviour?! That is… That is wonderful!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and raising her hand to the air and gesturing dramatically. “A dashing Rebel Prince, fighting not only to save the land from the darkspawn but to save his throne from usurpers! This would make quite the tale.”

“No! No no no. That’s exactly what I don’t want. Neither Maric nor Cailan ever acknowledged me or named me heir, and I’m happier that way. Queen Anora should keep her throne; it’s just Loghain we have to worry abouut. And Grey Wardens can’t hold titles, anyways, so it’s a moot point.”

There were a lot of shocked faces around them. The Dalish were mostly confused, but everyone else was quite surprised at having a prince in their midst. Mayrin, however, was just looking at Diala expectantly. Damn that duster. Diala exhaled dramatically, walking forward so everyone could see her.

“Alistair isn’t the only royal scion in the midst, sadly,” Diala said. 

“My lady, do you really think this is the best idea?” Bodahn asked.

Ignoring him, she continued: “My name used to be Diala Aeducan, second child of Endrin Aeducan, the King of Orzammar.”

“Used to be?” Merrill asked. “You can’t just change your family name, can you? Don’t you have to get married? Or, do dwarves do that often? That wasn’t offensive, was it?”

Diala chuckled. “No, it wasn’t. Dwarves don’t often lose their family names, but it can and does happen…”

Diala explained everything as well as she could, often having to stop to clarify the meanings of terms like caste or deshyr. Everyone except Sten and Mayrin were enraptured by her tale, and she did make sure to put on a performance like she always had for the Assembly. She may not have liked it, but she was good at it. Bodahn insisted that Diala would be useful in Orzammar and that her father would be amenable to forgiveness, but Diala was uncertain. Furthermore, she didn’t want it. Sod the Assembly and sod Orzammar.

After the discussion was over, Rayne broke the silence and asked, only semi-seriously: “Does this mean we have to treat the two of you differently?”

“NO!” the royals said simultaneously, before looking at each other and sharing a hearty chuckle.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your family, Diala. I know how difficult that can be,” Mercy said. “Maybe someday you can find a new last name, one that fits a little bit better than your old one.”

Diala shrugged, smiling. “Thanks, but I’m in no rush. I think I’m right where the Ancestors need me to be.”

Chapter Text

Mayrin thought humans were tall until he met the qunari. He thought qunari were tall until he met Shale. Mayrin usually hated being proven wrong, but this was even worse than usual. Sodding giants were gonna stomp on him if he wasn’t careful.

“It lived here? This farm seems a bit… Dirty, even for a soft, squishy qunari,” the golem remarked.

“Well, it’s been abandoned for years, Shale,” Mercy said, already exasperated with their new rocky companion. Mayrin shared a knowing look with Morrigan. While they agreed on very little, they were both happy that Mercy was dealing with Shale. It was useful in combat, but Mayrin wondered if that usefulness was worth the golem’s incessant sass.

“Abandoned? It abandoned its home to become a Grey Warden? That seems illogical. Would it not prefer a quiet life on the farm to a life of constant peril against darkspawn? Then again, I suppose that would be quite boring, even for a soft and squishy creature like yourself.”

“It… Would have, but it— but I—  didn’t have a choice,” Mercy said, removing her helmet and placing it on the dusty and disused kitchen table.

Mayrin raised his eyebrow, sensing a story here, but thought best to let it lie. The Commander didn’t seem to want to discuss it. Morrigan had other ideas, apparently.

“No choice? It seems to me like a strong, powerful creature such as yourself can choose to do whatever she wants.”

“Not even I can fight an entire countryside alone, Morrigan,” Mercy said tersely, but Morrigan did not abate.

“You cannot just expect us to drop the subject after such a tantalizing statement, Warden. There is a story you are not telling,” 

“A child went missing, and the other freeholders blamed my parents because they were qunari, despite living here for 20 years. Then they killed them. The Revered Mother was able to stop them from killing me, and I left. Not much of a story,” Mercy said before stomping off to her former bedroom. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”

“As will I,” Shale said to go off and do whatever it did every night while the rest of them slept. Murdering birds, if Mayrin had to put money on it.

Mayrin, however, wasn’t tired, and helped himself to an old bottle of wine he found in the cellar. The bottle was not terribly expensive looking, but would no doubt be a far cry better than anything in Orzammar. One of the best things about the surface had to be its alcohol. After doffing his armor, he poured himself a glass and settled into one of the kitchen chairs, taking a long sip of the wine and letting it warm him. It was only when he opened his eyes that he saw Morrigan sitting across from him glaring.

“Problem?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“What? Is the casteless dwarf too proud to pour a glass of wine for the horrible Witch of the Wilds?”

“The Wilds part isn’t the problem. More the witch part. Or bitch, rather.”

“Truly?” Morrigan asked, letting out a scornful laugh. “I am given to understand that you were a cutthroat brigand your entire life, yet you lecture me on morality? That is amusing.”

“I did what I had to do to survive, Morrigan.”

“As do I. Survival is paramount.”

“Survival, yes, but what you just did wasn’t survival. It was needlessly cruel. You say and do things just to hurt people.”

“Me? I was simply curious,” she said, swatting the air dismissively.

“I know it’s hard to understand for someone raised by an evil abomination, but usually the loss of one’s family is difficult.”

“Perhaps. But our fearless leader is better for it, is she not? She has nothing to tie her down. She is decisive, powerful, effective. Forcing her to confront and get over the last vestiges of her useless attachment to the relics that raised her can only be a good thing.”

“Have you really lived such an empty life, with no love at all?”

“Love?!” she asked, incredulous. “Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death.”

Taking a long sip of his wine, Mayrin considered that for a second.

“I… Actually agree with you.”

“Aha! I knew you had at least a modicum of intelligence between those hairy ears.”

“But not for the reasons you think. You’re right: love is a weakness, love can be death, but that weakness makes life worth living. To have nothing that you love, nothing that gives you a reason to do more than just survive? That’s not a life I’d wish on my worst enemy, Morrigan. I hope, someday, that you find someone who will mourn you when you’re gone, because I’ve yet to meet one.”

That gave Morrigan pause, and she did not seem to want to respond. The two of them drank in silence for the rest of the night, Morrigan studying the notes Rayne gave her, and doing all she could to avoid the gaze of the dwarf across from her.

Chapter Text

The journey from Lothering north to Kinloch Hold proved much easier for Rayne than the initial journey had been. He had apparently already gotten a lot stronger. His new mabari, Garahel, proved a fantastic travelling companion, and often hunted for food for the entire group before the rest of his party had finished setting up camp.

Enid and Sten turned out to be great travelling companions as well. Enid had adjusted better to the reality of her new situation than Rayne did, and was generally good-natured, patient and reliable. She was more than happy to answer Rayne’s questions about the Dalish and her clan in particular, and he spent every evening writing down everything he learned from her. He was even picking up a little bit more elvish from her, as fractured as her understanding was.

Sten, for his part, was a lot less friendly than Enid, but could be counted on in combat, and to do his job around camp. Sten never complained— in fact, it seemed everything he said had purpose. He was even less of a conversationalist than Mercy had been during their initial journeys, but Rayne did learn why Sten was here, and what exactly Mercy had meant when she called him soulless. He also learned a bit about qunari beliefs about the hornless among them, such as Sten.

Near the shores of Lake Calenhad, they found their first lead on Sten’s sword, a scavenger named Faryn… As well as the bodies of Sten’s former comrades.

“Is that normal for humans, scavenging through the remains of the dead like that Faryn was?” Enid asked as they approached Kinloch Hold from the surrounding farm land.

“It would not surprise me,” Sten grunted.

“Yeah,” Rayne said sadly, pulling his fur cloak over his old yellow mage robes. “I spent my first few years in an Alienage, and that sort of thing was common. We do it a lot, now, though.”

“Yes, but only those who attack us. We do not pick apart bodies we come across on the road. I find it so sad,” Enid said. “Are you okay, Sten?”

“Yes. Would I have a reason to be otherwise?”

“I just… I know that if I found my clanmates like that, I don’t know what I’d do. Even now, I can’t stop worrying about Merrill.”

“That does nobody any good, and neither does dwelling on the past. There is nothing to be done for the shells we found. I survived, and I have learned from the experience. I will honor them by ensuring that it never happens again.”

“There… is wisdom in that, Sten. Thank you.”

“We’re here,” Rayne said, nodding at the tower in the distance. Garahel barked in agreement.

Sten regarded it for a moment before saying “Humans over-compensating as always”. Enid couldn’t help but snort a bit. Maybe Sten had a sense of humour after all. Before approaching the docks, Rayne made a beeline for an old man in front of the Spoiler Princess inn.

After a brief chat, Rayne explained to them that they had apparently sealed the Tower, and that the Knight-Commander wasn’t letting anyone in or out. Enid was unsure what a Knight-Commander was, but Rayne looked concerned, as well as annoyed about the prospect of talking to Carroll, the human templar on the docks. 

“Actually,” Rayne said, spotting something interesting. “Wait a moment,” he continued, walking over to a human in purple wearing and what Mercy considered a rather stupid-looking hat. After a few minutes of whispered conversation, Rayne took a slip of paper from him and walked away smiling.

“What was that?” Enid asked as they started towards the docks.

“Something I didn’t think existed. They call themselves the mages’ collective, a group of clandestine mages that work together to live in peace away from the Chantry. I had thought they were a myth, but that… Is good to know. It may be useful later.”

Enid and Sten followed Garahel and his master to the dock. Rayne looked the templar up and down as his wisp danced excitedly around his head. Enid wondered if the wisp had a mind of its own, or if it just reacted to Rayne’s emotions. She had never really understood that much about magic, anyways. That was the Keeper’s job.

“Alright, Carroll, I don’t really have time for you right now, so here’s what’s happening: I’m a Grey Warden now, and I need to get to the Tower. You’re going to let us across.”

“What? I don’t know you,” Carroll said.

Putting his hand on his forehead, Lucifer sighed heavily. “I only left the Tower a month ago, Carroll. You know what, never mind. I’m a Grey Warden now, and we need the Circle’s help. Here, look at this treaty,” Rayne explained, fetching it from his pack.

“Yes? Oh, a Grey Warden seal. A-ha. So you’re claiming to be one of those! You know, I have some documents, too. They say I’m the Queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?”

“Andraste’s heaving bosom! That’s it. Sten, tear his arms off.”

After they piled into the boat, Rayne became quite serious, staring intently at the tower looming before them. The elven mage wasn’t usually like this, at least in the short time Enid had known him. He was quiet, contemplative, curious, but generally upbeat. Enid could tell the uncertainty of the state of his home was really getting to him, and she couldn’t blame him. She slid closer to him in the boat and put his bare hand in her armored one, smiling at him sympathetically.

“It will be alright, lethallin. Whatever we find, we will face it together, and we will get through it. Together we are stronger than the one,” she assured him

“Ma serannas, lethallan,” he responded, surprising Enid with newly-acquired elvish and squeezing her hand. “But you don’t have to do this. Comfort me, I mean. We only just met, and I think I’m supposed to be your commanding officer or something. I’m older than you, and I definitely have seniority. You don’t have worry about me.”

“It is nothing. We are both part of the same clan now: the Grey Wardens. And as a clanmate, protecting and reassuring you is my duty.”

“Parshaara, we have arrived,” Sten said, apparently annoyed by all of the feelings happening around him.

“Alright,” Rayne said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this. Together.”

Chapter Text

"Really? Neither of you wish to rule?"

"Yes, Merrill," Alistair repeated. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"No! I mean yes. Well, maybe. It's just, well, the Keepers are mostly all descended from the nobility of the Dales, and we have to compete fiercely if we want to become First. Sometimes, mages that weren't nobility compete, just for the honour. I've never met a Dalish mage that didn't want it."

"Well, we don't," Diala said. "I always preferred fighting to ruling. When I'm fighting, I have to be responsible for my unit, but if you rule a thaig— or in Alistair's case, a country— there are too many people relying on you. I can't deal with that responsibility."

"Yes, exactly! Alistair said. "I'm so happy someone else understands!"

"I suppose I see your perspective, Your Majesties," Leliana said teasingly, "but it's just so romantic! An exiled princess? A bastard prince? It is the stuff legends are made of."

"But, as a Grey Warden, are you not responsible for all of Thedas?" Merrill inquired.

"Well, I mean, I suppose but— but that's— it's different," Alistair sputtered. Leliana and Diala both laughed at that, and Leliana crouched to whisper in Diala's ear: "Quite a handsome man, but not much behind those beautiful brown eyes, is there?" It took all Diala had not to burst out laughing at that as they continued to Redcliffe.

This was not the job Eve signed up for. She could deal with delivery girl, but how did she get roped into saving a whole village of shemlen? At least Alfstanna was getting her sovereigns' worth. There was a grand total of one elf in the village, and he was just a shifty drifter. Most of the humans in charge she had met were polite enough, especially Bann Teagan, but if one more peasant called her "elf", she could not be held responsible for the injuries they incurred.

The two humans that arrived after her and Irminric were not your average humans, and Eve was yet unsure of what to make of them. Bann Teagan seemed to know and trust them, but his seal of approval didn't mean very much yet either. The one was a grumpy and morose pale man with raven hair and silver eyes, but he treated her with respect, and even called her "my lady". She was still getting used to that. The other one, however, scared her. He had a bit more pigment than his compatriot, with red hair tied into a short ponytail and a chinstrap beard. On his right ear was a golden hoop earring and his eyes were blue and cold like ice. He was kind and deferential enough, but his eyes never smiled with his lips. They were just… Empty. The two of them had leather armor of fine make and finely-crafted longbows.

Eve had just finished carrying a barrel of lamp oil up to their spot when she saw something interesting in the distance as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Approaching were five individuals: a human man in chainmail carrying a sword and shield, a dwarf with some fancy armor and a greatsword, and another human with leather armor, a longbow, daggers, and a sunburst symbol around her neck. On her shoulder was a crow. Behind them was an ox-drawn caravan upon which two more dwarfs were sitting.

"Hey… 'Ric?"

"Yes, my lady? Irminric responded as Eve instinctively put her hands on her new daggers.

"You see that too, right?"

"I do, my lady. Ho there, travelers! Have you come to aid Redcliffe in its time of need?"

"Aid? What's happening here? We've heard Arl Eamon is sick, if that's what you mean," the dwarven woman responded.

"I see. Well, my name is Ser Irminric, and this is my partner, Lady Tabris. We will take you to Bann Teagan. The situation here is grave."

"Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon's brother? He's here?" Alistair asked excitedly as the strange new arrivals followed Eve and her templar companion down the mountain.

Alistair stood in front of Redcliffe's militia with Diala, weapons drawn and ready. The sun had just set, and the monsters would be here soon, if the villagers were to be believed. Alistair was nervous, but a little excited about being able to wear his Warden armor proudly again. Teagan had even insisted on it. But really, what did he have to be nervous about? Redcliffe had a Cousland, a Guerrin, a Theirin, a Howe, and even an ex-Aeducan to defend it.

He heard them before he saw them, their terrible moaning giving them away before the walking corpses appeared before them.

"Now?" he heard Merrill ask Keegan.

"Wait," the Cousland said, eyes set on the corpses. He waited a few more seconds for more of them to gather in one place before shouting, "NOW, MERRILL!"

Merrill's eyes flashed green for a second, drawing on all of her mana and, with a deafening thunderclap, a bolt of lightning from the heavens struck the barrels of oil, causing a massive explosion and lighting the ground aflame, incinerating a good number of the corpses.

"Archers!" Keegan yelled as he, Leliana, Nathaniel and some of the villagers drew their bows. "Loose!" A torrent of arrows was unleashed on the monsters, felling even more.

"Ready, Your Highness?" Alistair asked Diala with a smirk on his face.

"You bet your ass I am, Your Highness," Diala responded, leveling her sword at the approaching monsters. Maker, she was cool.

"Militia!" Keegan roared over the sound of corpses dying (again) in agony. "Charge!"

Alistair flew into battle like a bastion of pure destruction, leaving naught but remains in his wake. Diala fought beside him, ferociously cutting swathes through the enemy and matching Alistair corpse for corpse. Merrill's vines grasping the stragglers made them easy for the rest of the militia to cut down, and any corpses that they missed, Leliana or the noble boys would pick off with their arrows. This was going… really well, honestly. That is, until the knight approached.

"The monsters are attacking from the lake! They're attacking the barricades! We need help!"

Without hesitation, Diala yelled: "Leliana, Alistair, Merrill: let's go! They have this handled!" as she started off down the mountain path, faster than any of them despite her small stature and heavy armor.

What they found at the bottom of the hill was pure chaos. Unlike the knights and militiamen at the top of the hill, these people had no training, no real military or combat experience, and it showed. They were being cut down left and right, the walking dead feasting upon their still-living forms. Their two saving graces were Ser Irminric, his templar armor nearly completely obscured by the mass of corpses with which he was contending, and Eve, her nimble form ducking and weaving its way through the crowd, daggers making quick work of any unlucky enough to find themselves in her path.

"Merrill!" Diala yelled as she tore into the corpses before her. "Forget about the corpses; these men need healing!"

"I— Okay. I'll try my best," Merrill said, running towards the nearest downed man she found.

"Alistair!" Irminric called, downing a lyrium potion. "The creatures are vulnerable to our smites!" As if to demonstrate his point, the corpses before him fell in an explosion of holy light.

"Good to know!" Alistair yelled, bashing the corpse in front of him with his shield. He mustered all of the energy he could and unleashed a smite on a group of corpses surrounding the mayor.

"I think that's all of them!" Murdoch said. "Thank you, Grey Wardens. We—"

"No!" the elven woman yelled as an enraged corpse charged towards the mayor, claws about to tear into his neck. She leapt to intercept the blow, the corpse's claws reaching deep into her abdomen.

"EVE!" Irminric screamed as he unleashed another smite on the corpse, but the damage had been done, and Evelyn Tabris fell to the ground, her raven curls soaking in the blood pooling around her.

"Merrill! Merrill, we need you!" Diala screamed, taking a poultice out of her pack and running towards the injured elf.

"Lady Tabris, why would you do that?" Murdoch asked sadly, cradling her head as Diala approached.

"Just seemed like the thing to do," was all she was able to say before her eyes closed.

Chapter Text

This wasn’t the homecoming Mercy expected on her return to West Hills. Awkward, she anticipated. Uncomfortable, even. But the desolation was a surprise. The darkspawn had already made it farther than she’d realized, destroying and tainting the once-fertile countryside she called home, and she couldn’t help but mourn for the place she grew up. They encountered a few isolated groups of darkspawn on the way, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Her and her companions eventually caught up to Arl Wulff and a force about one hundred strong in a clearing south of the town of Elmridge. She smiled when she saw West Hills’ crest of the mountain-and-stag-antler flying proudly for all to see. The sigil was for the the morale of the men, not the darkspawn, who didn’t care which family their prey came from.

The guards posted at the entrance to the war camp were both perplexed, suspicious and a little afraid of the qunari, dwarf, golem and witch that approached them. After they explained they were Grey Wardens but the guards quickly led them to a large tent on a small hill. The Arl had apparently not yet made a decision about whether to obey Teryn Loghain in regards to the Grey Wardens. When asked by his men, he sidestepped the topic and simply insisted that the Blight was the true threat, for which Mercy was grateful. He had always been a practical man, and clever. 

After a minute or so of waiting outside, the guard that brought them to the tent emerged from the tent and bowed to them respectfully, saying: “The Arl will see you now, Grey Wardens.”

“Thank you,” Mercy responded, bowing back and leading her companions into the tent. She made sure to duck going through the door so as not to rip the tent with her horns

The inside of the tent was austere, and spoke to her former Arl’s practicality. There were three makeshift beds and simple wooden chairs placed around a table. Maps covered the canvas walls, and in the middle of the room stood Arl Wulff, a giant of a man by human standards with piercing eyes and a long grey beard. He wore ornate plate armor, as did the two other men in the tent, both of them seeming to be in their late twenties. They had the Arl’s piercing eyes and impressive figure, and each nodded at the new arrivals.

“I bid you welcome, Grey Wardens. I am Arl Wulff.”

Mercy bowed respectfully to her former lord, and Mayrin followed suit, if a little reluctantly. He’d been given very little reason to trust nobility, but he’d been given ample reason to trust Mercy. Morrigan, true to form, scoffed at the two of them, and Shale sighed heavily. Morrigan had been pricklier than usual since that night at Mercy’s old farm, and particularly hard on Mayrin.

“Arl Wulff. I am Warden Hissera, and this is Warden Brosca. With us travel our two companions, Morrigan and Shale. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

“Mercy? Is it really you, girl? I didn’t recognize you. You have certainly… Grown up,” he noticed, looking up at her. She was taller than he remembered. “I am sorry for what happened to your parents,” the Arl said not insincerely.

“It’s in the past now, Arl Wulff, and that is not the reason for our visit. The Blight is what concerns us, and we have come to request your aid in fighting it,” she said.

“That’s what I have been trying to do, but the darkspawn are simply too strong. We’re fighting a losing battle. I’ve sent to Denerim for aid, but apparently the nobility is too embroiled in its own civil war to respond,” he said, clearly angry at the situation.

“You can’t hope to stand against the darkspawn with this force, just as Ferelden cannot stand against the darkspawn in such a fractured state. Our proposal is this: retreat. Your knights, clergy, militiamen, freeholders, peasants… Everyone needs to flee. Myself and the other Wardens are using our connections and ancient treaties to amass our forces at Redcliffe. Our hope is to ally with Arl Eamon against Teryn Loghain,” she said. She trusted Wulff, and there was no sense in hiding her intentions from him.

“Against Loghain? He may have made some questionable decisions of late, and the civil war is helping no one, but you cannot honestly expect me to ally against the Hero of River Dane. Without him, we could still be living under the Orlesians!”

“I know,” Mercy said quietly. Her heart was still broken over the betrayal. “Loghain was a personal hero of mine; I grew up reading about his role in the Rebellion and the Battle of River Dane played. Maker, I wanted to be Loghain, but the reality of the situation is that he abandoned the king’s forces and the Wardens in Ostagar, and left King Cailan to die,” she said more confidently, not flinching from the Arl’s gaze.

“I heard it was a tactical retreat. If Loghain had not pulled out, he would have been slaughtered as well, right? I trust you, Warden Hissera, so tell me honestly: if Loghain hadn’t retreated, would it have made any difference?”

At this Mercy hesistated. She again chose honesty. As much as it pained her, there was a part of her that understood Loghain’s actions, and a bigger part of her that hated him for it. “I… Am unsure, Your Grace. He was against the proposed strategy from the start, but the king refused to acquiesce to his demands. It is possible that he made a sound tactical decision, but the fact remains that one cannot combat a Blight without Grey Wardens. His efforts to outlaw us are certain to doom Ferelden and all of Thedas.”

“She speaks sense, father,” one of the two men behind the Arl said. 

“I am not so sure,” said the elder of the two. He had black, short and messy hair and a full black beard. Like his father, his eyes were a piercing silver. “Loghain hasn’t lead us astray yet.”

Mercy could practically hear Morrigan rolling her eyes at the noblemen. The qunari Warden was about to respond, but suddenly felt a familiar ringing in her ears, heralding the arrival of the darkspawn. “Commander!” Mayrin said, obviously feeling the same. 

“Arl Wulff, darkspawn approach! Ready your men, but do not have them charge until my signal. Shale, are you sure that those fire crystals we found will work?” Mercy asked, already starting out of the tent. 

“Now, wait just a minute, Warden. You don’t give the—“ the elder son started, before being interrupted by his father.

“In a Blight, boy, she does. Listen to her and get going!” Wulff barked.

Following a frantic Mercy out of the tent, Shale responded: “I am. Does it wish to test the crystals now?” 

Wilhelm, Shale’s former… Owner… had been experimenting on it with various magical implements and crystals. The ones they found in the crypts at Honnleath were attuned for various elements, and were defensive and offensive both. Morrigan informed them that Wilhelm had not originated this specific magic, and that they’d likely be able to find more such crystals in their travels.

“It does,” Mercy said in response to Shale. “Morrigan, get yourself up to a good vantage point, and be ready to bring a firestorm down on the approaching horde on my signal. Shale, you’ll be charging in to that storm and fighting as long as it rages. Mayrin, you’re with me. We’ll be leading the vanguard after the storm subsides.”

“Wonderful,” Shale said. “I was starting to get bored of all that talking anyways.”

Morrigan nodded and transformed into a crow, searching for a branch high enough and strong enough to hold her human form. If the qunari, golem and dwarf weren’t already attracting attention at the camp, the shapeshifting witch certainly did. The camp had come alive, and soldiers were running to and fro to prepare themselves for the coming fight, too worried to worry about an apostate at the moment. Mercy prayed to the Maker that their preparations were not in vain.

Mayrin was at the edge of the camp, standing in the vanguard of the human deshyr’s army at Mercy’s right side, with Shale on the left. Some of the humans scoffed at being led by an oxwoman, while others took comfort in the fact that they now fought at the side of Grey Wardens. The complainers quickly fell into line after a glare from Wulff. Plus, how could you not be confident about how the battle would go when you were being led by a woman who looked as if she could kick a bronto over the Frostbacks? 

It was quiet, and a voice rang out among the crowd. They looked up to see a human woman on one of the watchtowers. She was younger than Wulff, but older than the Wardens, with greying black curly hair and a warm, patient smile. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Men of West Hills, show those demons just what you can do! May you walk in the Maker’s light!”

That elicited a cheer from the men, and Mercy couldn’t help but smile. “Revered Mother Farrah,” Mercy said to no one in particular.

Mayrin looked up at Mercy, asking quietly: “Ready, Warden-Commander?”

She looked down at him, feigning annoyance. “How did I become Warden-Commander?”

Mayrin shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t gonna do it, and everyone else seemed more than happy to let you take the lead, salroka.”

Before she could respond, the darkspawn emerged from the ground before them and began to charge, only to be met with a rain of arrows. Genlocks and hurlocks surged from the ground earth itself, accompanied by a few shrieks, a massive ogre and a floating emissary. 

“Shale, go! Target the emissary,” Mercy commanded. Then, looking up: “Morrigan! Now!”

A great column of fire erupted on the battlefield, instantly incinerating a great number of the horde. Mayrin heard a few soldiers yelp in surprise and stifled a chuckle. He shouldn’t laugh, though: that firestorm could easily get through even a dwarf’s resistance to magic. The witch was powerful, and proved once again just how valuable she was.

“Archers, don’t worry about hitting the golem,” Mercy yelled as she saw Morrigan hex the ogre from the tree, but her mana was fading fast. “Ready… Loose!” Another torrent of arrows was unleashed upon the flaming darkspawn before the column of fire finally dissipated. Mayrin looked up to see Morrigan panting from the strain and opening a lyrium potion.

“Knights of West Hills, charge!” Mercy commanded, raising her silverite blades and roaring as she surged into the battlefield, Mayrin not far behind. She tore her way through the remaining darkspawn like a knife through butter, Maryin making sure to finish off the few whose wounds from Mercy were not mortal. The human soldiers, emboldened by the terrifying golem, qunari giant and deadly dwarf, charged in with the same reckless abandon. With Morrigan’s help after drinking the lyrium potion, Shale and the Wardens even downed the ogre.

The battle was going well enough, the darkspawn casualties far outweighing the human ones. Morrigan’s targeted magic could easily down even the strongest spawn without hurting their allies. Then, everything changed. Ahead of him, Mayrin saw Mercy frozen solid by a second emissary that emerged from the ground. A hurlock alpha charged in, brandishing a wicked axe, and plunged it into her abdomen with a sickening crunch, her frozen mail giving way to the vicious weapon. Mercy’s swords fell to the ground as the Winter’s Grasp spell wore off, splashing into the growing puddle of her blood.

“COMMANDER!” Mayrin screamed. “Morrigan, heal her!”

“I cannot, not from this far. And I’ve only just started learning!” she said, scrambling to find the notes Rayne gave her in her pack.

Mayrin charged up to the hurlock alpha, ready to give his life for his Commander, but stopped when he realized that, not only was Mercy still standing, she seemed to be fighting back. She snarled monstrously at the alpha, grabbing the axe, tearing it out of her stomach and wresting it from the alpha’s grasp, throwing it aside. Bearing her claws, he charged towards the alpha, driving the things into the monster’s eyes with one hand, and grabbing its shoulder for leverage with the other. With a guttural and animalistic roar, she ripped its head clean off and lobbed it at the remaining emissary, parts of its spine still attached. 

She paused for a moment, observing the blood on her gauntlets, and Mayrin watched as it seemed to absorb into her grey skin. In fact, he saw the the blood from the darkspawn corpses at her feet ripped violently out of its former owners towards Mercy, as if by magic. The massive wound in her belly began to close as each of the drained corpses slowly wilted like deep mushroom in the sun. Picking up her blades, Mercy resumed the battle as if nothing had ever happened. With the soldiers, she was able to finally dispatch the remaining emissary and its minions.

“Commander?” Mayrin asked, panting and covered in taint. “What just happened?”

“I am uncertain, but I am not about to complain about it,” she responded, inspecting the now-healed wound as Morrigan came running up, finally ready to treat a gash that was no longer there. 

“It is not as squishy as I thought, is it?” Shale asked, flicking various darkspawn organs off its hulking form. Before they could discuss what happened though, a familiar voice called to them. They looked to see Arl Wulff’s dark-haired, older son from before, just sheathing his sword.

“Wardens,” he called. He was named Aeron, Mayrin recalled Mercy telling him. “My brother, Cadoc, has been tainted! He needs your help!”

Chapter Text

What was supposed to be a simple trip to the Tower had turned into anything but. Just what had happened to his home? Rayne was overjoyed that Wynne had survived, at least, and protected the rest of her group, but what of the rest? What about Torrin and Leorah? What about Sweeney and Anders? What about Irving? He couldn’t think about that now, though. He had a mission to complete. He needed to save his family.

“Stay. The fuck. Away,” was all Rayne heard as he turned the corner with his companions before seeing an abomination explode in a flash of blue light. The abominations around the explosion immediately began giving off the same sickly blue light before they, too, exploded, blood covering every single surface in the room. 

“Effective, but a bit gross,” Rayne said to the mage who cast the spell, surrounded by a blue force bubble that was splattered in a coating of blood and obscured the form of the caster. Still, Rayne recognized that voice anywhere. The bubble dropped to present a bloodless— if exhausted and sweaty— human mage in yellow robes with a wooden mage staff. He had black stubble and hair to match. The hair curly and tied in a bun, but still almost as excessively long as Rayne’s hair, tumbling out in every direction. His silver eyes were confused for just a second before they flashed with recognition. Before Wynne, Sten, Enid and Rayne stood Mage Jaime Amell.

Like something out of one of the First Enchanter’s sappy foreign romance novels, Jaime and Rayne ran at one another, embracing and holding the other tight. Giving Rayne a passionate kiss on the lips, Jaime eventually collected himself and asked just what the elf was doing here. 

“The Grey Wardens needs allies against the Blight, and I couldn’t pass up a chance at visiting home again. I just didn’t realize how much you guys needed me here. I leave for a few months and the whole place goes to shit,” Rayne said, trying to joke his way through the fact that the place he had called home was desecrated beyond recognition and many of his family was dead.

“Wonderful. Another bas sarebaas,” Sten grumbled, walking past Jaime and Rayne and further into the tower. Enid chuckled as everyone else fell in behind him, trying as well as they could to step over the entrails of the abominations Jaime had dealt with.

“Surprised the Wardens didn’t make you cut your hair,” Jaime said, trying to pretend everything was normal as they fought their way through the abominations and maleficar that infested Kinloch Hold. Garahel eagerly greeted the human his master embraced with such affection.

“They tried. Well, one did. But she’s not here, and I couldn’t give you the satisfaction of winning,” Rayne responded as his wisp circled Jaime’s body excitedly.

“Oh, Maker forbid!” Jaime exclaimed, making a big show of it.  

“Lady Wynne,” Enid whispered to the woman she had just met. “What are they talking about?”

“Wynne will do fine, child, or Enchanter Wynne if you insist on titles. I am no lady. And, truth be told, I haven’t the foggiest. The Senior Enchanters long ago learned to ignore their antics unless they posed a danger to someone. Well, someone other than themselves.”

“Antics?” Enid asked. “I wouldn’t presume to know him very well, but since I have met Rayne, I would have never thought him capable of ‘antics’.”

Eventually, Rayne realized he hadn’t actually made any formal introductions, and rectified that immediately. While him and Jaime continued their incessant banter, the rest of their other companions traveled in silence. Wynne was worried about her home and Enid her new friend. Anything other than silence from Sten, of course, would have been news for the town crier. He did shock his companions, however, when he insisted on keeping the water-stained portrait they found, saying he appreciated the mastery shown by its artist. The group eventually made it to a particularly terrifying abomination towering over the exact person they were looking for: Niall. Not taking a moment to hesitate, Rayne immediately raised his staff and drew upon his mana reserves to combat the beast, but he needn’t have bothered.

“Why do you fight? You deserve more… You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you,” it said, as the party entered the land of the Fade.

“Have a good night, First Enchanter Rayne,” Knight-Commander Hadley nodded at Rayne as he departed the elf’s study.

The First Enchanter was just finishing his treatise on darkspawn taint and how it interfered with, and even changed, a mage’s magic. Rayne was something of an expert, considering he had… No, that can’t be right. He had lived in the Circle nearly his entire life; he wasn’t a Grey Warden. Shaking his head, he stood up and tidied his desk; that was enough writing for tonight.

Rayne made his way up to his room, bidding goodnight to the mages and templars he saw along the way, with Garahel trotting along at his side. He arrived in his quarters to see Morrigan had already gotten ready for bed, and was thumbing through some ancient elven book. She didn’t look up to greet him, but smiled as he entered the room. Wait, Morrigan didn’t smile, and since when would she be happy in a Circle?

“’Tis so cold, here in our bed. Do hurry up, dear.”

Garahel growled at her, barking madly like he would at a darkspawn or demon. Wait, why did a Rayne need a war dog again? He was a first enchanter. Something was very, very wrong. 

“Just a sec,” Rayne said, running over to a washbasin to clean up before going to bed, Garahel at his side. It was then that he noticed the glowing blue figure in the mirror behind him, its slight elven features given an unnatural and unsettling beauty by its iridescent and translucent skin. Its eye sockets were glowing blue, and it regarded Rayne disappointedly. It had a hard time remaining disappointed, however, as Garahel began to nuzzle its hand, causing its firm expression to melt into a reluctant smile as it pet the mabari. Even spirits here not immune to the beast’s charms.

In an instant, Rayne knew exactly at whom he was looking. Curiosity.

“This is not in the pursuit of knowledge, da’len. Sloth offers you complicity, stagnation, death. You have become ensnared by its trap. It is… Disappointing. Even Garahel knows this is a trick.” 

The mabari barked in agreement.

“Wait… You’re familiar. Are you… You’re my wisp, aren’t you? My spirit wisp. You’ve been with me since…”

“Since a month after you arrived at the Tower, yes. I had been watching you, your young curiosity shining across the Veil. Your dreams called to spirits of Desire and Curiosity both. But, when you conjured your first spirit wisp, you unknowingly drew but a piece, of me across the Veil, and it is that same piece that has returned to you every time you called since that day. It has been… Pleasant, thus far, learning with you,” its voice, neither female nor male, echoed inside Rayne’s head.

“Why reveal yourself now? After all this time? Not even during my Harrowing?”

“There was no reason to before; I was content experiencing the world alongside you, da’len. The need arose when you let yourself be caged.”

“Rayne, my dear, to whom are you speaking?” Morrigan asked, before seeing the spectre beside Rayne. 

“Begone, Sloth,” Curiosity commanded. “Mortals are not for us to toy with, this one especially.”

Not-Morrigan let out a scornful laugh as everything came flooding back to Rayne in an instant. The demin Morrigan’s eyes flashed red and, in a voice that was her’s and a demon’s both, she said “’Tis not your choice to make, Curiosity! He belongs to me now.” At this point, the facsimile of Morrigan’s hands lit up with raging violet fire.

“He belongs to no one save himself, Sloth.” Curiosity said, interposing himself between Rayne and the demon wearing Morrigan’s face. He needn’t have bothered, however.

Just before letting off a blast of her sickly flames, a beatiful runed longsword pierced through not-Morrigan’s chest, and she dissipated into smoke before their eyes. When the smoke cleared, a relieved-looking Enid Mahariel was standing before them, green ironbark armour practically shining as she sheathed her ancient blade. Garahel charged at her happily, assaulting her with kisses. She nodded at Rayne, relieved he was okay.

“There you are. Let’s go,” she said, leading Rayne out of his room and into the greater Fade.

“So, about what you saw in there, with me and Morrigan…” he tried to say before she cut him off. 

“I won’t tell her if you won’t,” Enid assured him. “Creators know the Beyond can be a weird place.”

Anora summoned Loghain and Howe both to the throne room first thing in the morning, and judging by increased presence of armed guards at every entrance and on either side of Anora, this would not be a pleasant meeting. Loghain swore silently to himself as he saw Anora’s pet Orlesian Erlina at her side, face as inscrutable as ever. He counted at least five daggers hidden in her servant’s robes, and there were likely more he missed. For her part, Anora was in blue vitriol plate armour, her piercing blue eyes complementing the plate nicely. She could be almost as intimidating as Loghain when she needed to be. 

“Arl Howe. Father. Thank you for coming to see me. There are some things we must discuss,” Anora said, regarding them not without suspicion. 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Howe said, bowing low, ever the simpering fool. “Though it is Teyrn Howe now, of course.”

“What is this about, Anora? There are things to do, and we cannot waste time with—“

“You will speak when spoken to, Teyrn Loghain. You may have declared yourself regent, but I am still your queen,” Anora said, with enough conviction that Loghain almost believed her. “And Arl Howe,” Anora said pointedly, making Howe bristle. “I was wondering if I might inquire about the… Unpleasantness with the Couslands.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Howe said, hiding a scowl.

“I understand they were traitors, cavorting with Orlesians and plotting direst treason against our good King Cailan, my dear departed husband.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. Why do you ask?”

“While I, of course, do not doubt your word, Arl Howe, the landsmeet will need assurances. None of my agents were able to find any proof of such treason, nor had any nobles ever suspected the Couslands before. It is of course possible that they may have used that to their advantage. No one would have suspected the Couslands.”

“I believe they did, yes. Bryce was a dear friend of mine, and it broke my heart to do what I did, but such is the price of Ferelden’s continued freedom.”

“Indeed, and we thank you for your service.”

“Anora, is it necessary for me to be here?” Loghain asked, crossing his arms.

“Patience, Teyrn Loghain. Now, Arl Howe, in preparation for the landsmeet, I will required that you find proof of the Couslands’ treason. That way, there will be no issues in confirming you as Teyrn of Highever. I have no doubt that this will be quite easy, considering the immediacy you felt to act. Furthermore, I expect you to name your replacements for Arls of Amaranthine and Denerim within the week, and I will consider them.”

“My replacements, Your Majesty?”

“Indeed. One man cannot hold all three of those titles,” Anora chuckled mirthlessly. “That would be preposterous, wouldn’t it?”

“I… Of course, Your Majesty,” Howe pouted.

“Wonderful. As my next order of business… Some papers have come into my possession, and I must confess that they made me feel sick to my stomach. Erlina?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the Orlesian said, producing a parcel that… No, that was impossible. How did Anora get that?

“Now, these papers bear my father’s seal, but this is not his writing. Arl Howe, you may approach the throne. Is this your handwriting?” she asked, holding the papers out for him to see.

“It is, Your Majesty…”

“As I suspected. I assume you both know what these papers are?” Anora was trembling in anger now.

“Anora, we did what we had to do. This is a war. You don’t understand the costs of—“ Loghain started.

“I understand just fine!” Anora said, slamming her gauntleted fist into the arm of the wooden throne with almost enough force to crack it. “ I understand that you have sold natural-born Fereldan citizens into slavery, the both of you! Citizens that rely on us to protect them, to watch out for them. They are not our possessions, they are our subjects, and it is our responsibility to do right by them!”

“Anora—“ Loghain started.

“Queen Anora, Teyrn Loghain” she corrected him coldly.

“Queen Anora, war has costs. It is an ugly business, but the bannorn has left us little choice,” he explained, with less confidence this time.

“There is always a choice, Teyrn Loghain. Especially when we are fighting against the very people with whom we should be allied! By Andraste, should we not be fighting the darkspawn, instead of each other?”

“Your Majesty,” Howe piped up, taking a patronizing tone as he looked pointedly at Anora’s handmaiden. “I fail to see the problem. They are just elves.”

“Just elves, Arl Howe?!” she nearly yelled, before taking a deep breath to regain her calm. “Be careful, Rendon. You’re beginning to sound like a Tevinter… Or worse, an Orlesian.”

Maker, she’s right, Loghain realized, his face reddening in embarassment and anger, mostly at himself. This is exactly what they would do. How could I have agreed to this?!

“Your Majesty,” Howe started, raising his voice for the first time since they entered, before being cut off once again by his Queen.

“You two have one week to get the slavers off Fereldan soil, whether that be through rescinding your offer or dealing with them more… Violently.”

“Your Majesty, how can you expect us to fund—“

“I. Don’t. Care. We are Fereldan. We are not Orlesians, or Tevinters. There is no slavery in Ferelden. We are not the barbarians they think we are, and we should give them to reason to doubt that. We are better than that. Get it done,” Anora said, disappointed with her father for perhaps the first time in her life.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Loghain said, bowing low. 

“Good. You are both dismissed.”

“Revka, dear, the de Launcets have dropped off an invitation for a soirée at their estate next Saturday,” Jaime’s father said to his mother, passing her the letter. The Amell family was enjoying a quiet evening by the fire in their vast Kirkwall estate.

“Oh, Maker. Not again. I can scarcely stomach Dulci’s nattering by letter. How can we be expected to sit through it in person?”

“At least Fifi and Babette will be there,” Jaime said mischieviously.

“Really, Jaime,” his mother scolded jokingly. “Even your standards can’t be that low. Now, go fetch your siblings. The servants have prepared roast duck this evening.”

“Of course, mother,” Jaime said, starting down the stairs of their lavishly-decorated and expansive Kirkwall mansion, but before he was able to find even one of his five other siblings, he heard a knock on the door. Confused about why he didn’t see any servants running to answer the door, Jaime sighed and went to get it himself. 

“Hey, Jaime,” the elf at the door said sadly, his long black hair tumbling over his Grey Warden robes. He was accompanied by his mabari, the Dalish elf, Wynne and the qunari that Jaime had just met… Where? Where had he met them? Following all of them was a shimmering blue elf, long hair flowing behind it as if underwater, its transluscent form emitting an unsettling light.

“Rayne, what’re you doing here?” Jaime asked, beckoning them inside. “I’m not sure the servants made enough for you and your guests, but we can certainly try to accomodate you…”

“Jaime…” Rayne started. 

“Mother! Father! We have guests!” Jaime called happily.

His parents appeared on the balcony and waved politely at Jaime’s guests. 

“Jaime, this isn’t real. This is the Fade.”

“The Fade?” Jaime asked, amused. “Why would I be in the Fade? I’m not even a mage.”

“Yes you are. Why would a noble from Kirkwall know a senior enchanter of Ferelden, a dalish elf, a qunari warrior and an elven mage? Think about how you got here. Remember who you are.”

“I… I will try,” Jaime said, rubbing his eyes. 

“NO!” called the discordant voices of his parents as their bodies erupted in flame, replaced instantly by rage demons. In an instant, everything came flooding back to Jaime.

“Rayne… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—“

“So am I,” Rayne responded, hugging Jaime tight. "Don't worry; we'll get through this. Together."

“Shouldn’t we… Do something?” Jaime asked, turning to face the demons.

“Just watch this,” Rayne said, nodding at Enid, who had now drawn Rage’s End, smiling.

From the balcony shot two intense blasts of fire, likely to incinerate them all. Jaime put a spell shield up, but Rayne stood there calmly. Just as the fire was about to reach them, it changed its course, and arced towards Enid’s silverite blade instantly absorbed by its shimmering form. Satisfied with its performance, Enid took off up the stairs, brandishing her elven blade. In a single slash, each of the rage demons were killed instantly, leaving nothing behind

“How… How is that possible?” Jaime said, staring at the grinning Dalish elf.

“Rage’s End is a blade forged in the days of Arlathan, imbued with great magical power. I had thought them all lost, but it seems that this one was preserved, protected. It shields its wielder from flames and silences Rage. Furthermore, it seems that its funcionality is not impaired in the Beyond. It is… Good to see that some such things still exist in the waking world,” the spirit said.

“You are… Useful to have with us, spirit,” Wynne said. “However, the time comes now to leave this place. Shall we confront the demon?”

“Finally,” Sten nodded, leading the charge to Sloth’s lair.

Chapter Text

When Keegan said he was dreading visiting Isolde and Eamon again, this wasn’t the reason he envisioned. Apparently, Isolde’s stupidity had ruined more than just dinner this time. It would take Redcliffe a long time to recover from her decisions, and it was all because that damn Orlesian decided to hire an apostate blood mage to tutor her son. Maleficar. She didn’t know that he was a blood mage, but, Maker, when had anyone ever met an apostate that wasn’t one? 

At least Nate and Felix were okay. And Anora. The letter arrived at Redcliffe, and he found he could sleep a little easier after learning that she was okay… For now at least. What she said about Howe and Loghain was… Disturbing, and worrying. Slavery in Ferelden? Even in his current state, what they had done was… Monstrous. As far down as he had pushed his humanity, he could still feel the anger bubbling inside.

Keegan sometimes wondered if it was a blessing or a curse that he had been able to escape. Nathaniel and him fought their way out of there, and had not stopped fighting since. Irminric and Eve proved competent and useful, as did the Grey Wardens and their companions. Diala, the dwarven woman, seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. Alistair was dependable, if a little annoying. He didn’t know what to make of the Dalish mage, Merrill, but he had a healthy suspicion of the Orlesian. She’d given them no reasons to doubt her, but being suspicious of Orlesians— especially ones with her particular set of skills— was just good sense.

The party made their way through the passage Teagan told them about as quick as they could. The corpses in the castle were dealt with quickly; it seemed the prowess of the Grey Wardens was not exaggerated. Diala choosing to release the blood mage from his cell was not what Keegan would have done, but couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to object. Alistair and Irminric had done enough of that for him, anyways. Keegan could see why the Eremons had decided that Alfstanna should be bann; Irminric was unable to separate his feelings from his duty, whereas that was all Keegan could do to keep on living. A Cousland does his duty. Of course they would have to deal with the blood mage, but there were bigger problems right now. Right now, they had to make sure they to keep a possessed child from murdering anyone else.

“Either someone kills my son to destroy that thing inside of him or I give my life so my son can live. To me, the answer is clear.”

He may not have liked Isolde, and this entire mess may have been her fault, but one could never say she didn’t love her son. He could never say she didn’t do her duty as a mother. His mind began to wander. Speaking of mothers…

“I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time, but I won't abandon you.”

No. Not yet. He would not think of his family yet. Keegan could not let himself feel, else he’d be consumed entirely. Duty is what matters right now. Justice for the people of Highever, and Amaranthine. Stopping the civil war. Ending the Blight. Saving Ferelden, and the world. At this point, though, that meant sitting around on their asses.

Merrill, Diala, Nathaniel and Alistair did not want to kill Connor. Eve, Nathaniel, Irminric and Alistair were opposed to sacrificing Isolde for Jowan’s blood magic ritual (Alistair was one disagreeable Warden). Keegan thought either would be a viable option, but did not say that out loud. Felix seemed to agree. Thus, Merrill set out for the Circle in the form of a crow. If she didn’t return or they heard no news in a week’s time, they would need to make a decision. Keegan hoped she didn’t pass out over Lake Calenhad and drown mid-flight, but, if she did, well, that was just one more casualty of the Blight. The dwarves the Wardens travelled with, Bodahn and Sandal, were staying in the castle as well, but the elder was getting noticeably more impatient every day.

They were taking turns guarding the abomination, now, sleeping in shifts. One group would sleep in the the guest or servant quarters while the other would sit in the main hall and read, play Wicked Grace, or just chat, ensuring the door to the family’s quarters— and therefore to Connor— remained locked. Teagan, Perth, Isolde and Jowan all also remained hovered by, Jowan doing his best to avoid Irminric. Each group had a templar, ready to smite should the need ever arise. And it did, a few times, when the boy escaped. 

They learned that a templar’s holy smite was even more powerful against an abomination than a normal mage, and Connor’s unconscious body was put back to bed every time. It was apparent, however that Connor was slowly becoming more resistant to the smites— and frustrated. According to Irminric, if the others didn’t get back soon, Desire might physically possess the boy, making his condition permanent and the ritual moot.

It would simple things up, at least, Keegan considered.

The group with which Keegan found himself in the great hall at four in the morning was Diala, Eve and Alistair (and Felix, of course), which suited him just fine. Alistair was telling Diala about the theory behind becoming a templar, and she seemed to be picking it up quickly.  Eventually, the two of them joined him, Eve and Felix at Wicked Grace, but that grew tedious as well. And so the conversation turned to blood. Royal blood, that is. While pilfering Eamon’s castle, the elf, Eve, had discovered an amulet that belonged to Alistair’s mother, and Alistair. Alistair had been clutching it since it was found. The boy was incredulous that, unlike himself and Diala, Keegan had never shied away from his familial responsiblities.

“Really?” Alistair questioned. “You wanted to be teryn?”

“I would have wanted to, if Fergus didn’t. Either way, I wanted to play a role in the administration of our lands, to serve the crown. A Coulsand always does his duty, after all. Not that it matters anymore,” Keegan said with the same cold detachment his companions had already come to expect.

“That’s… Noble,” Diala said. “Better than me, at least. All I wanted to do was fight darkspawn. I always wanted to be Warrior Caste. Where I grew up, being noble wasn’t about responsiblity, or duty… It was just about being noble, which mostly meant lording over everyone in the lower castes. It… Wasn’t the best place.”

“I can understand that,” Keegan said. “I’ve never been to Orzammar, but I did have to study it, and my parents visited once or twice. It seemed… an unorthodox way to run a society.”

“That’s an understatement,” Diala chuckled. 

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Eve finally said, clearly annoyed. “Responsibility, shmesponsibility. All your pampered asses had to worry about whose butt is sitting on a throne, and whether or not it’s yours. I had to worry about whether winter meant that I would starve to death, or which of my friends was getting kidnapped and raped that day.”

That shut the table up pretty quickly.

“Well, Alistair didn’t exactly grow up pampered. He was tolerated, but barely,” Keegan said, breaking the silence a few minutes later.

“Hey wait! How do you know that? I grew up just fine,” Alistair responded. 

“Didn’t you grow up in a… Stable, Alistair?” Diala asked.

“Wait,” Eve interrupted. “You just, like, worked in the stables, right? You didn’t sleep there?”

“Well, I mean…” Alistair started. 

“Alistair,” Keegan said seriously.

“Yes, I slept in the barn. It got chilly sometimes, but it was… Fine,” Alistair said, increasingly unconvincingly.

“Well shit, this Eamon guy kind of sounds like an asshole,” Eve commented, ignoring Alistair’s facial expression. “I may have been treated worse than dirt, but at least I had a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. Why would he do that? Especially if you were Maric’s son?”

“He was a threat,” Keegan said simply. “And a stain on Queen Rowan, at least from their perspective. Not that that ever made any sense.”

“Yeah,” Diala said. “Ancestors, if you were born in Orzammar, you would’ve been thrown in lava before you were even named.”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“Alistair,” Keegan continued, not all that concerned about Alistair’s, or anyone’s feelings, right now. “This is Ferelden. Maric’s trueborn son Cailan was such a fool that my father was nearly crowned king instead. It seemed that the landsmeet would have preferred any Therin to Cailan, bastard or not. You were barely taught how to read, made to sleep in the cold, even in the winter, kept in ignorance about Fereldan’s nobility. You weren’t taught history, weren’t taught to rule, weren’t taught diplomacy. You were kept as ignorant as possible as not to threaten Cailan’s rule, the rule of Eamon’s nephew. And he was complacent in it, aided it. Perhaps it was out of loyalty, or perhaps it was for… More selfish reasons. He was a terrible father figure to you, and has apparently been a terrible father to Connor.”

“Wow,” Alistair said, inhaling sharply. “Someone’s got is-sues,” he said in the singsong voice he used to deflect any painful conversations with sarcasm.

“I might, but consider it,” Keegan said, leaning back in his chair and staring into the fire. If one wasn’t paying attention, one wouldn’t notice the tears Alistair was biting back, and they wouldn’t notice Diala gently putting a gaunteleted hand on Alistair’s thigh, but Keegan was always paying attention. He may have even felt bad about it, if he was capable of feeling anything at the moment.

Greagoir felt so useless. Waiting for the Right of Annulment, waiting for the Wardens, waiting for Irving. Waiting, waiting, waiting. How could he have let this happen? This was his responsibility. The mages were his charges. First Jowan, Lily and the Surana boy, and now this? Greagoir had been in charge of a stable, successful tower for years, but he would no doubt remembered for this colossal failure, and rightfully so.

Maker, please keep Irving safe, Greagoir prayed. 

Then he heard a knock on the Tower’s double doors.

“Blessed Andraste, I told Carroll not to let anyone else across on the boat. What is it?” he called out as he walked towards the doors. 

“Oh, I didn’t come across the on the boat,” came an accented voice from the other side. He opened the door to see a barefoot elf with a tattooed face and shimmering green eyes. “I flew here, and by the Dread Wolf are my arms tired! Oh, you’re shiny! Hello. I’m Merrill. I hope this is the right place; I didn’t see any other big towers in the middle of the lake, but I could be mistaken. I’m looking for Enid Mahariel and her companions. Are they here?”

“Of course I do. I love stories far too much to keep them to myself. Everyone should be able to benefit from them, I think,” Leliana said to Irminric.

How Nate got saddled with watch duty with the Orlesian Chantry sister and the nattering, idealistic templar, he had no idea. At least Keegan had told Felix to keep him company. Felix was  probably the most dependable person in the room, and he was a dog.

“While I know a great deal about Ferelden history and legends, I’ll admit that Orlesian folklore still eludes me. Do you have any Orlesian stories?” the templar asked.

“Orlesians enjoy telling stories. I shall tell you my favourite tale of Aveline, the Knight of Orlais,” the sister responded. “A long time ago, a girl-child was born to a…”

That was all Nathaniel needed to hear before tuning her out completely. He’d met enough Orlesian chevaliers or female knights in general at the Grand Tourneys while he squired in the Free Marches, and had no desire to hear the tale of Ser Aveline again. Irminric was a wonderful example of why so many foreigners thought Ferelden a nation of barbarians. He understood that, after the occupation, there was a concerted effort to get rid of any remaining Orlesian influence, but how in Andraste’s name had be not heard of Ser Aveline?

What interested Nathaniel more than Irminric’s embarassingly Fereldan gaps in his knowledge was the Orlesian. The martial skill, complemented with her archer’s eye and experience at subterfuge and infiltration betrayed a certain discinctly Orlesian skillset. It made Nathaniel nervous, but could be very well be useful. As much as he hoped she would simply be an asset, he was too paranoid not to prepare for betrayal. Since him and Leliana had many overlapping skills, he though that they could learn from one another. Every time he brought it up, however, Leliana gave him clever non-answers, or expertly changed the topic entirely. When really backed into a corner, she would feign ignorance with such skill Nathaniel almost believed her.

She was a bard, that much was sure. Whose side she was on remained to be seen, but Nathaniel prayed she would put the Blight above petty political ambitions and games, unlike his father had. But when had Orlesians ever been practical? She would need to be watched. He was still debating whether or not to confront her directly, or continue to try to extract information subtly.

“—and to this day, any woman who is knighted reveres Aveline the Brave, for she is the patron of all women chevaliers.”

“That is so inspiring. It seems odd that such a pious nation used to hold such views but—“

They were interrupted by a magical explosion, followed by a clang, as the door to the family quarters was blown off its hinges and loudly clatterd to the ground. The young form of Connor charged out, shrouded in sinister, coursing crimson energy. He immediately conjured a burst of lightning and blasted Irminric, arcing through the air and knocking the templar to the floor. A discordant cacophany of voices echoed from his mouth as he wailed: “How dare you keep me locked up! I saved father! I should be celebrated, worshipped, but you Wardens and templars interfered! Templars always interfere!” He stalked towards a dazed Irminric. Leliana and Nathaniel were firing arrow after arrow at his small frame, but he had conjured a barrier to deflect them. Leliana was screaming as loud as she could murder to alert the others. 

Connor was standing over Irminric now, whose eyes had glazed over. The templar was praying to center himself and block out the pain, skin singed and smoking from the lightning bolt that had seared his armour to it. 

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.”

Leliana unsheathed her twin daggers, charging towards the boy, Felix in tow. She was knocked aside by a blast of arcane energy, tumbling to the ground with the mabari.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.”

Connor looked down at the templar, laughing. His eyes were black as sin and his hand was dripping with his own blood, using it to power his profane, demonic magicks. He reached out a hand, and Irminric went stiff.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.”

Irminric coughed, sputtering blood, caught in the abomination’s hold. Blood then began to pour from his mouth, his nose, his eyes and ears, and he screamed out in pain. Nathaniel, meanwhile, charged at Connor as well, meeting just as much success as Leliana had.

“In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

Eyes filled with blood, Irminric raised a hand to the abomination above him, struggling past blood magic hold. He mustered all of his energy for one last holy smite. 

“Let mine be the last sacrifice.”

As Irminric’s head exploded into a million pieces, blinding divine light was called down from the heavens in what was the largest smite Nathaniel had seen yet. Leliana and Nathaniel shielded their eyes and, when they could see again, they saw an unconscious Connor, and the headless body of Irminric, his blood, brains and skull exploded behind him. Keegan, Ser Perth and others arrived just as Nathaniel had finished throwing up in the corner, too late to help by far.

Chapter Text

“From this moment forth, Cadoc, you are a Grey Warden.”

“Darkspawn blood, eh? It makes sense, I suppose, but I can’t I like it,” Arl Wulff said, sitting beside his unconscious son’s bed and holding his hand. “But you saved my son, as well as my men, I know better than to complain. Thank you, Wardens. I’ll keep your secret.”

Mercy and Mayrin nodded respectfully, both pleased that Shale and Morrigan had occupied themselves elsewhere.

“Indeed,” Aeron agreed.

“It is evident your assessment of your order’s importance was accurate, no less so than your assessment of strength of the darkspawn. As soon as I am able, I will collect my forces and tell my freeholders of our march to Redcliffe,” Wulff promised. “But Cadoc will go with you as soon as he awakes. I suppose he’s a Grey Warden now, after all.”

“Thank you, Arl Wulff, for the men and the Warden,” Mercy said. “You said you would move when you are able. Are you unable to march right now?”

Arl Wulff grunted, rolling his eyes. “One of my daughters, Izot, ran off with an avvar tribesman, and the two of them got in over their head. I hired a group of adventurers to find them, and they’re to return soon, if their letters are accurate.”

“Avvar? The mountain men, right?” Mayrin asked. He was learning what he could about the surfacers, but he had no idea that there were so many different kinds of humans.

“Indeed,” she said to Mayrin before looking back at the Arl. As usual, Mercy saw an opportunity. “Arl Wulff, if your daughter is married to one of them, might you be able to use that fact to secure an alliance with the avvar people? The Blight threatens the avvar just as much as the rest of us.” Mercy inquired.

At that, the Arl let out a hearty laugh, but then considered it for a moment, thinking it over. “No, not the whole of the avvar. They are a petty, vengeful, proud people, strong enough to have descended from the Frostbacks and conquered my arling ages ago, but too stupid to stop fighting amongst themselves and get organized enough to actually do so.”

“Still, the Blight threatens us all. Could you convince some of them, perhaps? The more of us there are, the greater our chances become.”

“It is not a terrible idea, actually. They are ferocious fighters, especially when they can stop fighting each other,” Wulff reflected, considering. “As I said, the whole of the avvar would be an impossibility, but a few holds? Perhaps. It is something to consider Warden-Commander, and you will have your answer by the time we arrive in Redcliffe.”

“That’s good enough for us, Arl Wulff,” Mayrin said with an easy smile. “We’ll leave ya to your son.”

“Thank you, Wardens. May the Maker watch over you.”

“May the Maker watch over us all,” Mercy said, smiling as she left his tent.

“Warden?” Wulff called as she was exiting. “Visit Revered Mother Farrah before you go. She’ll want to see you.”

Mercy knew he was right. “I will. Thank you, Arl Wulff.”

“Helloooooo? Curiosity? Can you hear me? Are you in there?” Jaime asked as he helped First Enchanter Irving down the stairs with Rayne. The surviving mages were following them down the stairs, Leorah among them, who Rayne was relieved to see. Irving had not succeeded, and, despite all the dead, Rayne was able to save his home, and a lot of his family.

“It can always hear you, that’s why it’s with me. It just… Isn’t a chatty spirit, I think. Which isn’t a bad thing, considering the chatty ones tend to be demons,” Rayne explained.

“It was in the Fade,” Enid said. “Also: are you sure that you don’t want myself or Sten to help you with the First Enchanter? We are a little, well… Stronger.”

“No, no. He’s our First Enchanter. It’s fine,” Rayne said as his wisp swirled around Irving excitedly. Evidently, the part of Curiosity that was a part of their world was as happy to see the First Enchanter as the mage who conjured it. “And we better spend at least some time with him, if both of his favourite pupils are leaving now,” he continued.

Jaime didn’t comment on that, but Irving let out a weak chuckle. “Now, children, you know I don’t play favourites.”

“I must say,” Wynne said kindly. “However chatty it may or may not have been, Curiosity was an immense help in the Fade and against the sloth demon. I hope it knows how grateful we are.”

“I think it does. Maybe. Possibly. I don’t know; this is all so new to me,” Rayne said, sputtering a bit. 

“I am aware, da’len. You may tell them if you wish. I am grateful to them as well, for allowing me to continue learning with you.”

“Oh. Apparently it says thank you to you as well.”

“A polite demon. Wonderful,” Sten said, finally piping up after the fight with Uldred.

“I am no demon, da’len. I can be silent again, should you wish, or leave you and find another.”

“No, don’t. I happen to appreciate you,” Rayne thought. “And you said… You could give more power to my healing spells? Teach me new techniques. Is that still true?”

“If you wish, da’len. I can draw more of the Beyond into you to reshape your allies’ flesh as easily as I would reshape my own realm. It would please me to help you however you need, so long as you continue to learn, to satiate your Curiosity.”

“Sounds good to me,” Rayne responded.

They eventually reached the last door before the entrance hall, and Enid gave it a respectful knock.

“Yes?” they heard the Knight-Commander ask.

“Greagoir, it is me. The tower is safe, thanks to the Grey Wardens,” the First Enchanter said weakly as the doors opened before them. A familiar elven form burst through the doors as Merrill gave Enid a big hug.

“Lethallan! Oh, Enid, I’m so pleased that you’re okay,” Merrill exclaimed, forgetting for a second that anyone else was in the room. “Oh, hello again everybody else! Of course, it’s wonderful to see you all as well. Though, I must say, the tower doesn’t seem as nice as you described it, Rayne, but then again I suppose it’s having some problems…”

“Merrill!” Enid interrupted. “Slow down. Why are you here?”

“She claims to have flown from Redcliffe, and needs the mages’ help. I explained your low likelihood of surviving in the Tower, but her faith in all of you was unshakeable,” Greagoir said with a slight smile, his relief more apparent with every step he took towards them.

“Why do you need our help?” Rayne asked. “Is this about Arl Eamon?”

“No. Well, yes. He’s been poisoned, but he’s not why Diala sent me. The Arl’s son is a mage, and he’s been possessed by a demon. According to a squirrely little human mage we met— he actually poisoned Arl Eamon, but he seemed quite nice, other than that— we can still sever the demon’s connection to the boy in the Beyond.”

The people around Merrill took a moment to process what she said, before Greagoir responded. “I apologize, but we cannot spare any—“

“Of course we can, Greagoir,” Irving said. “It will be good to help this boy. With myself, Wynne, Jaime, Rayne, this fine young Dalish elf, and myself, we will have enough mages to conduct the ritual, and should be back within the week. Please have some of your templars fetch the lyrium.”

“If you insist, Irving,” Greagoir responded.

“Knight-Commander, this is madness! We do not know how many of them have turned!”

“Cullen,” Jaime said curtly, really having no patience for the young templar at the moment, however traumatized he may be. “Shut up.”

The Commander was back in her blue and silver Warden armor, but considering the state of her chainmail, they figured it was better to be recognized as a Grey Warden and protected than unarmoured and anonymous, however anonymous a qunari could be in Ferelden. Mayrin wished he had some Warden armor; it was so shiny.

Mercy was walking in the front with Cadoc and Shale. She spent time telling Cadoc what to expect in his first few weeks of being a Grey Warden, and reassuring a skeptical Shale that many birds tended to leave Ferelden in the winter. Mayrin wasn’t exactly sure what winter was. It seemed like every day on the surface had something new and annoying for Mayrin to learn about. First, there were feathered nugs with wings called birds. He understood why Shale hated them. Now, there was white shit falling from the sky and he was freezing his bits off. According to Mercy, this wasn’t even close to the coldest it would get. For the first time, he found himself missing Orzammar, and his family. Ancestors, he hoped Rica and Leske were okay.

Cadoc was an attractive enough human: he had a square jaw, shaggy chestnut brown hair and stubble, and piercing brown eyes. The Wulffs were an intense family. His heavy plate armour marked him as a noble, and his greataxe marked him as a warrior. He was courteous and straightfoward like his father, but not nearly as self-assured.

Behind Mercy, Cadoc and the golem, Mayrin was walking astride Morrigan. The two of them had barely spoken since that night at the cottage, but she seemed about to change that.

“You know, dwarf, it occurs to me that you were wrong,” Morrigan said, her silky voice snapping him out of his daydreaming.

“Oh, is that right?” Mayrin responded, not really sure what the witch was on about now.

“’Tis indeed. You spoke as if I had nothing to live for because I am not beholden to the same pedestrian feelings as most others. But ’tis untrue. I have much to live for: the pursuit and of ancient mysteries, the unearthing and preservation of knowledge once thought lost… These are things worth living for, not your pathetic love.”

“Alright,” Mayrin said, barely listening.

Morrigan scowled. “You heard me, yes? You were wrong, and your inane moralizing does not make you superior to me simply because you put your energy into transient, finite and ultimately useless, relationships. My goals, at least, serve a greater purpose. Your goals serve no one save yourself.”

“Whatever you say, Morrigan,” Mayrin said tiredly.

“You— you are impossible!”

At that, Mayrin finally snickered. “Thanks, I try.”

Ahead of them, Mercy, Shale and the new guy were accosted by a dirty-looking human woman in peasant clothes.

“Oh, thank the Maker! We need help! They attacked the wagon, please help us! Follow me! I’ll take you to them!” and she was off, Cadoc almost setting off after her before being stopped by Mercy.

“Hold for a moment, soldier. She was lying,” Mercy said, turning to face Mayrin and Morrigan.

“How could you tell?” Cadoc asked, obviously anxious to help the woman.

“My parents. Shale: with me. We’ll meet whatever this is head-on. Morrigan: take to the skies, and find yourself a good vantage point to support us from above. Mayrin, Cadoc, it looks like there are alternate paths on the right and left; each of you advance along one and join us on my signal.”

“Sure thing, Commander,” Mayrin said, as everyone set off to do as they were told.

Mercy and Shale advanced cautiously, Mercy’s blades drawn and shining in the sunlight. She watched as her Wardens weaved their way through the forest and the hills, staying out of sight but still close enough to react when the time came. Eventually, Shale and Mercy came face to face with the woman and her compatriot, a handsome elf with golden eyes and golden hair. On his signal, a veritable army of armoured assassins poured out of the woodwork. He smiled as he drew his blades, and yelled: “The Grey Warden dies here!”

Chapter Text

It was nice to be out of the Tower, even if it was different than Jaime remembered it. The Circle had a boat on the island for emergencies. This was one such emergency. Unlike Kester’s, it was a respectable ship, and had some cabins and a sail. From the view moonlit view as they crossed Lake Calenhad, Jaime realized that Ferelden was a little more… Drab than Kirkwall. And he was pleased with himself for not having thrown up on the boat even once, unlike Rayne. Poor guy. He should have made a bet about it.

Wynne had been tending to Irving during the trip, and Garahel the mabari to his elf. Jaime was a bit jealous of Rayne’s mabari, but as long as Jaime got his fair share of snuggles when he got the chance, he wasn’t going to complain too much. Sten stood on the deck, staring forwards unmoving. Jaime hadn’t seen him move in the past few hours, but was assured by those who knew the qunari that he was not, in fact, dead or paralyzed.

Most of Jaime’s companions had retired to their quarters for the night, but Jaime was leaning on the railing, appreciating the fresh evening air and the taste of freedom. The peace was, unfortunately, soon disturbed by the familiar sound of Merrill hurling over the side of the boat. Jaime turned to see the poor girl already being tended to by Enid, her tender hand on the First’s back. He walked over and cast a small rejuvenation spell on her, giving her a momentary reprieve from her seasickness. She took a seat on the deck, leaning against a railing post.

“She’d thank you, were she capable of speech right now,” Enid chuckled. The elf was out of her ironbark armour and in her everyday tribal leathers. Like this, Jaime could have almost forgotten what a strong warrior she was were it not for the blade strapped to her hip. Her long brown hair, usually tied up in a fight, flowed freely in the wind. She moved gracefully towards Jaime, putting her arm around his shoulder, a bit too familiarly. She leaned towards him and said: “So, our not-so-fearless leader really talked you up before we got here. And, I have to say: you really lived up to it in the Tower. I hear you’ll be joining us soon?”

Jaime smiled nervously at the elf, her blue Dalish tattoos and sapphire eyes a little too close for comfort. “Umm… Yup,” his voice cracked. “That’s the plan,” he responded, convincing absolutely nobody.

Enid’s face fell. “He said you always wanted to get out, that he’d be freeing you. Have things changed?”

“I… I honestly don’t know. The Circle was my home and my prison, and… they really need me right now. I couldn’t abandon them. If things had been different, maybe, but…”

“I understand. Were it not for the taint, I would not have left my clan. I sometimes still feel like I’ve failed in my duty to them. Rayne, though… Rayne might not understand. It will be much more difficult the longer you wait. It would be best to tell him sooner rather than later.”

Merrill grunted in agreement, surprising them both with the fact that she was still conscious. 

“Yeah,” Jaime said, leaning into Enid’s strangely comforting embrace. “Yeah… I will. Soon. Really.”

So this was Redcliffe. This was Enid’s first time seeing an honest-to-Mythal human castle up close. She couldn’t imagine living in such big, cold, empty space, but she could see the appeal of living somewhere so secure. It would make her job as protector a lot easier; that’s for certain. The humans in the area had apparently never seen a Dalish elf before, but she bore her Mythal vallaslin proudly, happy to answer any well-intentioned questions, however ignorant, from any humans who worked up the courage to ask. Those that rudely stared received glares in return, more from Merrill than Enid. 

They were greeted by soldiers at the gate and quickly rushed to the Great Hall, where they were met quite an unhappy sight. There was a crying human woman with red hair sitting at a table, comforted by a human man with a goatee, brown hair and brown eyes. Two human men sat near them, both wearing fine leather and wielding well-made longbows… For humans. Across the hall sat Alistair and Diala, enraptured in their own discussion. On the floor, sitting beside a massive and freshly-scrubbed (though not very well) bloodstain was a beautiful elven woman with dark skin and beautiful black curls, sobbing into her hands, Leliana trying (unsuccessfully, by the looks of it) to comfort her. In the corner across from the door through which they entered stood a mage with shoulder-length black hair, trying desperately to sink into the stonework and disappear, by the looks of him. 

It was then that Rayne spoke from behind her, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper: “Jowan?” he asked in disbelief.

“By all that’s holy… Rayne! I can’t believe it!” the mage named Jowan responded.

“Believe it, asshole,” Rayne practically spat, tense with cold fury. Rayne was on Jowan in a flash, delivering a devastating right cross that sent Jowan sprawling to the floor. “Fuck you Jowan!” 

Quickly healing his own bleeding hand, Rayne kicked the already-bleeding mage in the stomach as Jowan tried to curl up and protect himself. “You were our friend! We trusted you! I trusted you!” he was crying now, as Jaime and Enid ran up to restrain him, but not before he was able to kick Jowan again. “I had a life! I had a family! You took it all away, you useless, snivelling waste of space! I hate you! I HATE YOU!” With that, all of his rage subsided, and he deflated into the arms of his two friends, sobbing quietly. “I could have been there,” he muttered. “If I had been there, I could have stopped it…” 

Wynne was already on her knees healing the bleeding and broken Jowan. For a skinny, weak mage, Rayne packed quite the punch. The time he had spent outside of the Tower had strengthened him. The rest of the room was in shock, but the First Enchanter eventually broke the silence and addressed the room, as nobody else seemed to want to: “I am First Enchanter Irving of the Circle of Magi.” He turned to the man comforting the older woman, recognizing him. “Bann Teagan, I understand that there is a possessed child that needs our help. Whatever other problems we may have can be resolved after we save him,” he said, looking at Rayne disappointedly with a look that would give even Keeper Marethari a run for her money. Rayne suddenly became very interested in the floor, suddenly reverting to the nervous apprentice he was the day he came to the Tower.. “For now, let us get the ritual underway.”

“I do not think that was the wisest course of action, da’len. During your… Outburst, you resembled a demon of rage, not one of The People.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rayne responded as he plodded through the dreamscape of a confused old man and sad little boy. It was Rayne that had been sent to the Fade to help Connor, figuring that Curiosity would be there to help him as it had before.

“I was with you, when Jowan showed his true hand, you know.. I was not aware you felt so strongly about blood magic.”

“Honestly, it wasn’t even the blood magic thing,” Rayne said as he and Curiosity entered another portal, transported to another island in the Fade. “Jaime was the only thing that stopped me from going straight to the First Enchanter when Jowan asked me for help.When Jowan betrayed me, I realized that I had betrayed the man who helped make me into the mage I am, who believed in me all these years. I betrayed him and threw that all away for someone who couldn’t even be bothered to be honest with me. I can never go back to that life, and never hope to earn the First Enchanter’s forgiveness, but at least I can make Jowan suffer for what he did. Maker’s balls, if he’d told me he was a blood mage in the first place, I would have asked him to teach me a thing or two!”

“Truly, da’len?” Curiosity wondered, obviously perplexed by its elven companion. “Does your Circle not frown on blood magic?”

“Partially. The Circle follows the Chantry’s edicts, so it also frowns on me carrying on with a spirit like this. It frowns on elves. It frowns on dissenting views. It frowns on just about anything. My years in the Circle taught me how to separate fact from Chantry claptrap, and to me, it sounds like blood magic is magic like any other, except that it may give us a fighting chance against the darkspawn in the Blight. Like with everything else, I want to learn.”

“It is interesting to hear you say that, da’len. Many spirits know such secrets, myself among them. I could teach them to you, if you wish.”

They were interrupted by a confused and dreaming Arl Eamon, grey hair and beard frazzled and unkempt. “You there! Have you seen my son? I can… I can hear him, but I cannot find him. The blasted fog has me turning in circles.”

“A demon has trapped you here, Arl Eamon. This is the Fade,” Rayne responded.

“The… what? I don’t understand. Is Connor here or not?”

“It is of no use, da’len. He is confused, and all we can do to help is end this nightmare.”

“You’ve got a point,” Rayne said to his luminescent companion. “Lead the way, Curiosity,” he continued, following Curiosity to Maker-knows-where while the Arl stumbled aimlessly through The Fade.

“Certainly, da’len.”

“Now, wait… You can teach me blood magic?”

“If you wish.”

Rayne chuckled a bit as him and his spirit companion continued through the Fade. “But for a price, right? Don’t think we weren’t warned about deals with spirits. I don’t think it’s all Chantry claptrap."

“Not at all, da’len. Knowledge can be dangerous; I have accumulated enough over the ages to know this well. But I do not believe you would abuse the knowledge I might grant you. Just know that when you make use of blood magic, I will not be able to help you heal your friends. You will neither be able to perceive nor draw any power from me, though I will still be with you.”

“Really?” Rayne said, shattering the frozen form of another illusion of Connor twisted by Desire. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“It would only be temporary, da’len. Since you are drawing power from blood and not the Fade, the Fade becomes almost imperceptible to you. There is a way to circumvent this, of course, but that includes me joining you in the mortal world, something I do not believe either of us are eager to have happen.”

“True enough,” Rayne chuckled. “Ma serannas, Curiosity. I will think about it. But for now… Shall we go quash Desire?”

“Nothing would please me more, da’len.”

Chapter Text

“We welcome your aid, all of you, whether or not you wish to join the Grey Wardens. We need all the help we can get, and you have all more than proven yourselves in combat. You have the week to do what you wish here in Redcliffe while we get organized. Over the course of that week, Alistair, Rayne and myself will discuss our next steps, and a Joining will be held for any who are willing. Should you choose to Join us, be prepared to depart at dawn on the first of Harvestmere.”

Was that what Eve would do? Join the Grey Wardens? Evelyn Tabris had taken a walk to clear her head, and found herself in the forests near Redcliffe castle in the early hours of the morning, silently contemplating all that had happened. The Warden-Commander was an impressive and terrifying woman, and seemed honest enough. But she was done trusting non-elves. Look where trusting Irminric got her.

Maker… Irminric. The first— the only— shem she ever really trusted, and he was dead. If she had been there, she would have been able to do… Something, anything. She could have saved him. But no, she had been asleep for the entire ordeal. Eve had spent her whole life thinking humans foul, cruel and cowardly creatures, and then this one went and sacrificed himself to prove her wrong, to save that little abomination. No— she couldn’t fault the child for this. He was an innocent. His parents were to blame, and that blood mage. His mother’s damned pride, thinking that she knew better than the Chantry. Did she not know the Chant? 

And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought, and despaired.

What her pride had wrought was Connor, her own son, being turned into a Maleficar in order to save his father from a blood mage assassin that Isolde herself had hired.

They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world. Or beyond.

But that wasn’t right, was it? Connor was not responsible for what was done, nor was he Maleficar any longer. Surely the Maker would not blame him for what happened. Surely he would be granted rest in this world, and in the next. 

Since when did she care this much about the Chant? Irminric’s influence, no doubt. It was  only thing she ever really read, and only because mother and father insisted. Still, she found comfort in its words. She spent some time sitting on the grass, leaning on a tree, and took out the fine dagger she received from her father, the Fang of Fen’Harel, and carressed it lightly, thinking of home. She hoped everyone was okay without her protection. Hopefully Soris could keep them safe. Eventually, she broke into prayer, She wasn’t a good singer, but she thought that her recitation of Chant sounded pleasant enough when whispered under her breath.

“My Maker, know my heart:

Take from me a life of sorrow.

Lift me from a world of pain.

Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

My Creator, judge me whole:

Find me well within Your grace.

Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

She became so caught up in her chanting that she didn’t hear her visitors approach from behind her until they made themselves known. Eve heard a childlike voice with a strange accent interrupt her praying by saying: “Oh! Is that the humans’s Chant? It sounds pretty.”

Eve jumped in surprise, turning around to see Merrill and Enid standing above her smiling.

Enid was out of her nearly-omnipresent fancy green armour and dressed in what Eve assumed was traditional Dalish garb, her feet bare like Merrill’s. The warrior turned to Enid and said: “Aneth era, lethallan,” before sitting down beside her only to be greeted with a blank stare. “Ah. I am sorry. I hadn’t realized that our city elf cousins had truly lost so much,” Enid continued with genuine sympathy in her eyes. “Our understanding of elvish is fractured and tenuous at best, but…”

As Merrill sat down on her other side, Eve asked: “So you’re Dalish, then? Honestly, we weren’t even sure if you were real.”

“Well, we are,” Merrill said. “And thank the Creators for that. I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t real.”

“It’s true then, that you don’t worship the Maker?”

“Your ‘Maker’ is a story humans use to explain the world. We have our own stories. The Dalish don't need to borrow theirs’, and neither should you,” Merrill said, before backing off at Enid’s glare. 

“If that’s what you decide, of course,” Enid said. “I saw you sitting here and you seemed… Lost, maybe? I could be wrong, but we were wondering if we could help.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m quite happy worshipping the Maker…” she said without much conviction.

“Ir abelas. Sorry. You misunderstand… We are not trying to convert you. Well, I am not,” Enid said, giving Merrill another pointed look. “But you definitely seem at a crossroads, and we were hoping to offer some advice.  Have you heard of the Vir Tanadhal, or Way of the Three Trees?”

“I can’t say I have,” Eve said, not meeting her gaze.

“It’s a philosophy epoused by our hunters, based on the teachings of the Goddess of the Hunt, Andruil. We have many such philosophies, but this one is quite popular. We have a lot of hunters. What you choose to do with it is up to you,” Enid explained, looking at Eve for permission to continue.

“Go on,” she granted.

“Very well. Ma serannas. It has three components: Vir Assan, the Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver.” At this, Enid picked up a stick on the ground and hurled it at a tree, lodging the stick on the bark with terrifying strength and precision. Following that, Merrill picked up another branch and began to bend it, but it did not snap. Enid continued and motioned to Merrill: “Vir Bor'assan, the Way of the Bow: bend but never break.” And lastly, Merrill picked up a small, skinny branch, and broke it in half. She went on to pick up another few of the dead, weaker branches, and tried to break them again. This time, together, it did not work. “Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest: together we are stronger than the one.” Maker, it’s like they had rehearsed this. Enid put her hand on Eve’s knee and looked at her warmly. “If you need our help, lethallan, any help, we will be waiting. All you need do is ask. Vir Adahlen.”

“Vir Adahlen,” Eve responded, taking comfort in the Dalish cousins she hadn’t ever really been aware she even had.

Rayne greeted the First Enchanter and Wynne as they joined him and Jaime in the Arl’s library. He poured some tea for everyone and sat down, content for the first time in a long time. Rayne was overjoyed to see them all again, pleased beyond measure that they were okay after everything that happened. No matter where in Thedas mages found themselves, they could always find the library. Garahel was dozing at Rayne’s feet, but whined loudly when he realized that he was not, in fact, getting tea like the others. No one seemed too eager to say anything at the moment, so Rayne broke the silence first, addressing the First Enchanter directly: “First Enchanter, I… With Jowan, with his escape and with my outburst earlier… I— I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it. I betrayed the Circle, and you. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I still regret it. I shouldn’t have lied to you about Jowan… But I also should not have attacked him like that when I saw him again. You taught me better than that.”

“Yeah, you should have set him on fire,” Jaime said, chuckling, before Wynne shot him a glare.

The First Enchanter sighed heavily before smiling kindly at Rayne. It was a smile Rayne hadn’t seen since before he was recruited into the Wardens. “It is forgotten, Mr. Surana. Recent events have put things in perspective, and it seems a good thing that you were recruited into the Wardens. Furthermore, it seems we will bring Jowan back into our custody after all. Your apology is accepted, nonetheless, and, despite everything, you have done the Circle proud.”

Rayne’s wisp reacted happily, flitting about his head. “Thank you, First Enchanter.”

“You are quite welcome. Now, I understand I will be returning to the Tower with Wynne and Jowan, but without you, Mr. Amell?”

Rayne looked at Jaime excitedly, almost vibrating at the prospect of conscripting his oldest friend, but Jaime’s silver eyes were pointed directly at his feet. “Right, Jaime?” Rayne asked, his voice faltering. Garahel nudged Jaime’s hand, if for nothing else than to make him feel even guiltier.

Jaime finally met his gaze, putting his hand on Rayne’s. “I… I’m sorry, Rayne, but I won’t be coming with you.”

“But you always wanted to escape! I’m giving you your chance. We could find your siblings, see Kirkwall again, all of that, as soon as the Blight’s over.”

“I know, Rayne, and I’m thankful, but… The Circle was our home for so long, and I can’t leave it now, not in the state it’s in. Maybe after we’ve rebuilt, but I’d feel too guilty now.”

Rayne deflated instantly, tears welling up in his eyes. He looked like he was about to say something he’d regret, but stopped himself and instead said: “Okay… Okay. Fine. I get it, but… Of course I get it. But I wish you would’ve told me sooner, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Jaime said. “I’m sorry.”

“And on that topic, Irving,” Wynne said, setting her tea down on the table. “I have a request. I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens.”

“Wynne… We need you here. The Circle needs you,” the First Enchanter responded, eyes pleading to an old friend.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me. The Circle has you. And Mr. Amell. These Grey Wardens are good and true, and I’ve already discussed the matter with the Warden-Commander.”

“You never were one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere,” Irving conceded.

“Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?”

“Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Wardens, but know that you always have a place here. As do you, Mr. Surana.”

“Thank you, Irving.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter.”

Garahel barked in agreement.

“She is Orlesian, Warden-Commander. An Orlesian bard! She was a player of the Great Game. Lying is in her nature. Death and deception are her trade. It is what she is, what she will always be!” Nathaniel insisted, almost yelling now. Keegan was sitting at the Arl’s desk in his study, and Nathaniel was standing in front of him. Leliana was near the door, trying her hardest to disappear, but Mercy stood in front of her, staring unflinchingly at Nathaniel’s comparatively tiny form before her.

“It is what I was; I am part of that life no longer, Arl Howe. The Maker saved me from that life,” Leliana responded, struggling to hold back her tears. Still, Mercy noticed her strategic use of “Arl Howe”, when Nathaniel was anything but right now. Neither of the two young noblemen were even close to being confirmed by the landsmeet, but they were acting as though they were already Arl and Teyrn, and wished to be addressed as such. It wasn’t a bad strategy if they wanted to oppose Rendon Howe and Loghain in the future.

“That’s what you say, but this is all a ruse! That’s what they do; they get you to trust them however they can, and then they stab you in the back! King Maric fell for it during the rebellion; we can’t let the Wardens fall for it now,” Nathaniel argued.

“Arl Howe,” Mercy said calmly, her violet eyes boring into his grey ones. “I know what bards are, and I have always known Leliana had secrets, but she is earnest in her desire to help us. I am certain that she will do nothing to compromise our mission. I would stake my life on it. She is not the only one with secrets, after all.”

“Thank you, Warden-Commander,” Leliana said quietly.

“But how do you know that, Warden-Commander Hissera? You can’t be sure.”

“My parents were secret police for the qunari, and they were being to deceive and recognize deception while they were still learning to read. After they escaped, they passed some of that training onto me. Leliana has given me no reason to doubt her. End of discussion,” she said. In truth, Mercy had a hard time reading Leliana. A harder time than most. There was no reason to vocalize that, however.

“Teyrn Cousland, give me a hand?” Nathaniel pleaded. The young Cousland had been sitting back in the Arl’s chair observing the exchange impassively, his hands together and resting on his stomach. 

“If it’s good enough for the Warden-Commander, it’s good enough for me. The Wardens take all kinds— even Orlesians— and I’ve heard firsthand how useful an Orlesian bard can be when she’s turned to our side.”

“Keegan—“

“Nathaniel, the matter is closed. You are all dismissed,” he said, standing up and starting out the door, a glaring Nathaniel Howe in tow, leaving Mercy and Leliana alone in the study. 

“On your head be the consequences, Commander,” Howe snarled as he was leaving.

“Thank you, Mercy. You did not have to stick up for me, but I appreciate it nonetheless,” Leliana said to the qunari.

“We all have a past; what matters is what you’re doing now. We’re in this together, Leliana, and some grouchy son of an Arl isn’t going to change that. Now, come,” Mercy said, embracing her Orlesian companion in a much-needed hug. While Leliana was still incredibly hard to read, in this, she seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Mercy,” Leliana said, letting herself forget about the Blight for just a moment to look up at the qunari for whom she’d come to care so much. Mercy looked down at Leliana and smiled, wiping away an errant tear. They held one another’s gaze for a moment longer, before Leliana reached up and stood on her tip toes, kissing Mercy passionately.

“I— wow,” Mercy said as she came up for breath. “That was… unexpected,” she said truthfully. Again, Leliana was hard to read, and she never thought the bard would ever feel for her what Mercy felt for Leliana.

“But not unwanted, I hope?”

“Not at all,” Mercy responded. 

Chapter Text

“Your sister taught you this game? She must have been a genius or something. I still don’t get it,” Alistair complained as he laid out his fifth losing hand of Diamondback in a row.

“Not a genius, salroka. Just slightly more intelligent than the average nug,” Mayrin responded teasingly.

“Ah!” Alistair emoted, feigning indignation and putting his hand across his heart. “You wound me, Mister Brosca. How could you be so cruel?”

“Be careful, my dear Warden,” Zevran said from beside Mayrin. “This friend of yours’ appears most fragile for a warrior. You wouldn’t want to break him.”

Diala was… Hesitant about the assassin Mayrin and the others had brought back from their journey to see the Arl. In Orzammar, she learned not to take assassination attempts personally, but she had never shacked up with an assassin two days after meeting one. She waited a week, at least. Alistair had shared her concerns when they talked last night before bed, but the elf’s easy laugh and charming manner seemed to be winning him over. He seemed genuine enough, but he was an Antivan Crow— a guild so infamous that whispers of their order even reached Orzammar—  and he could easily be biding his time. This might even be a part of his plan! There were quite a few Wardens now, after all, and there would be more before the week was over. Mayrin was a good man, and he was smart and practical; he had to be, growing up in the slums. She just hoped the duster knew what he was doing. 

After losing another hand, Alistair declared: “Okay, that’s it. We’re playing Wicked Grace this time!”

“Are you certain, Alistair? You should never bet against an Antivan, you know,” Zevran winked.

“Is that a challenge, Arainai? I’ll make you eat those words!” Alistair said as he and Zevran began to explain the game to the dwarfs.

After they all lost a few more sovereigns to the Antivan elf, Alistair suggested raiding the Arl’s wine cellar. Him and Mayrin excused themselves to begin their quest for alcohol, leaving Diala with the Crow.

“So, I understand you were a princess, my lady dwarf. Is your entire family as beautiful as you, or were you some kind of fluke? Because I must say, you are simply breathtaking.”

“Ancestors, elf, do you ever shut up?” Diala sighed, exasperated.

“Not yet, no! But stranger things have happened!”

Diala was out of her chair and on him in a second, grabbing his collar with her callused hands. “Here’s the thing, elf: I don’t trust you. I don’t like you—“

“Oh, I had no idea!” Zevran interrupted sarcastically, completely unfazed by the manhandling.

“Let me speak,” Diala growled. “Whatever your intentions are with Mayrin, you better not hurt the duster.”

“My dear lady, I couldn’t if I tried! And I have. You know this, yes? It is how we met. Quite a romantic tale, one full of—”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it, you blighter. You can betray us all, kill the Fereldan Wardens one by one and unleash an unchecked Blight on Thedas. That’s business. That, I can understand. But if you hurt, Mayrin, really hurt him, I’ll feed you to the darkspawn myself,” she said with enough conviction that the Antivan wasn’t able to come up with a convincingly flippant response. With that, she released her grip on his collar and let him fall to the ground, returning to her seat across from him. He picked himself up, frowning only momentarily before lazily sitting back into his chair and slipping back into his carefree façade.

The two of them sat in an uneasy silence until their companions returned, Mayrin leading the way with a bottle in hand. “Who’s ready to try some West Hill Brandy?” 

This was greeted with cheers from Diala and Zevran, who continued as though nothing had happened. Yeah, Mayrin could take care of himself, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a former princess of Orzammar looking out for him. It was only fair, after he’d looked out for her.

Warden Cadoc Wulff found himself in the practice yard with some of Redcliffe’s soldiers, Bann Teagan, Sten and Shale. He sparred with Felix, Keegan’s mabari, for awhile, until Felix went off to play with another mabari whose coat was black as night and eyes had golden eyes. He asked Sten and Shale to spar, but the two of them didn’t seem to take him seriously. The paused momentarily, looked him up and down, and kept fighting. They didn’t even see fit to dignify his question with a response! He was a Warden, too, now. He could fight. He’d been fighting the avvar his whole life, until Izot had to go and run off with one. 

After a good hour of sparring with Bann Teagan, Ser Perth, and the men, Cadoc grabbed himself some water and leaned against one of the castle walls, enraptured by the deadly dance between golem and qunari. Sten would strike at Shale with seemingly no damage, but always knew where to hit to give the golem pause. Shale, in turn, delivered thunderous blows to the qunari, and Sten could only parry and dodge so many. Those blows would have killed a lesser man. What’s more is that they seemed to be carrying on a conversation while they were fighting.

“What do you estimate are the chances of success, qunari?” Shale asked, striking at Sten’s head but finding no purchase as the giant ducked out of the way.

“For the Grey Wardens? Little to none,” Sten responded as he struck at Shale’s knee, causing pebbles to fly and the giant to stumble momentarily.

This caught Cadoc’s attention. He stepped towards his two strangest companions to listen in.

“So, why does it follow? I do not risk death, but it does,” Shale asked, this time landing a blow on Sten’s torso and pushing him back as he slid along the ground.

“My mission is no different from the Grey Warden's. I must see this through to the end,” Sten continued, slashing down at Shale only to have his blow parried by the golem’s hulking arms. 

“Hold for a moment,” Cadoc commanded with more authority in his voice than he felt inside. Sten and Shale stopped fighting immediately, but neither of them appeared intimidated, only confused or mildly annoyed.

“Yes, Warden?” Sten asked, sheathing his sword.

“What do you mean, we don’t have a big chance? The Wardens are uniting the nobility, invoking old treaties, doing everything they— we— can to stop this Blight.”

“Believe what you wish Warden, but nothing I have seen indicates that what you are doing will have any degree of success. You are not qunari. It is not your fault,” Sten responded. Shale was watching the exchange curiously, and it was garnering the attention of the knights and the bann.

“What? You’re saying only the qunari can stop the Blight? We did fine without you the last four times it happened,” Cadoc responded, flabbergasted by the qunari’s arrogance.

“That is up for debate. I am not saying this Blight will not end, but the way that your leaders fight amongst themselves, the difficulty you have had enforcing the treaties, and this country’s overall lack of any coherent social order all lead me to believe that this Blight will be even longer than those that preceded it.”

“Stop talking, qunari. Stop talking now,” Cadoc said, dangerously close to exploding. If Sten was right, why had Mercy saved him in the first place? Why didn’t she just let him die and be done with it?

“As you wish, Warden. It is a wonder you even speak sometimes,” Sten said dismissively.

Then everything turned red. This was Ferelden. These were the Grey Wardens. This was something worth fighting for. How could Sten be so dismissive of it? Of them? Cadoc charged at Sten, axe raised and ready to slash, and brought it down in a wide arc towards the qunari, only to have Sten block the hit with his blade. For a second, Cadoc saw surprise in his eyes before they returned to their usual passive contempt.

“Parshaara, basra!” Sten said with more emotion than Cadoc had ever heard from him. He pushed the human away with his sword and regarded him curiously. “You are at a crossroads, bas. You rage at the world like maraas imekari but do not understand why. You lack resolve, dedication. You lack conviction. I can show you what true conviction is, if it helps you to stop bleating like a qalaba.”

“A fight, is it?” Shale sighed. “Don’t kill the Warden too quickly, qunari. That would be awfully boring.”

Ignoring Shale, Cadoc responded: “That sounds… Agreeable, Sten.”

Sten nodded, saying: “Very well,” before charging at Cadoc Wulff with a cold fury the likes of which he had never encountered. This would definitely be a learning experience for the young pup. “Anaan esaam Qun!”

Isolde was reading to Connor in bed. She hadn’t left his room for hours now, and was terrified to let her poor baby out of her sight, especially now that he was going to be shipped off to the Circle like some common mage. He was her baby boy. He needed his mother.

“—and then vanished as swiftly as it had appeared,” Isolde said as she finished reading Andraste & the Wyvern from Sister Marigold’s Bedtime Stories for Good Children, stroking Connor’s soft hair lovingly. She then heard the unmistakable clicking of mabari claws on the stone castle floors, and Connor looked at his mother excitedly. The mabari were one of Isolde’s favourite things about Ferelden, second to Eamon and Connor, of course.

Eventually, she heard some scratching at the door, and went to get it, Connor laughing excitedly. One mabari bounded in confidently, leaping onto Connor’s bed. His chestnut brown fur marked him as Felix, the Cousland boy’s pup. Connor pet him excitedly as Felix gave him enough kisses for a lifetime, slobbering everywhere. Behind him was a markedly less-excited mabari with raven fur and intelligent golden eyes. This one entered slowly and gave Isolde the most disdainful look she had ever seen from a dog before morphing into a beautiful, dangerous-looking woman with the same golden eyes as the dog. This was Morrigan, the apostate.

Connor yelped in surprise, and Isolde nearly fell off her chair. “Apostate! Get away from my son! We have had enough trouble from your kind!”

The witch chuckled at that. “You surely realize that your son is my kind, yes? In fact, ‘twould appear that he is the only mage in Redcliffe now that does not have dispensation from the Chantry to be here— other than myself, of course. Furthermore, ’tis quite unlikely I could cause any more trouble than you already have.” Isolde bristled at that, but could offer nothing in response. Morrigan was right, after all.

“Mother, is she going to be one of my teachers at the Circle? Forgive me for saying so, miss, but you don’t look like the other mages here,” Connor asked, hugging Felix, who had nustled himself deftly into Connor’s lap.

Before the Arlessa could answer, Morrigan let out a mirthless chuckle and sat herself at the foot of the bed, which caused Felix to wag his tale excitedly. She had the mabari’s approval, at least, and that spoke well of her. “No, child, I will not be an instructor of yours’, nor will I ever set foot in a Circle of Magi. However, as one apostate mage to another, I offer you some advice,” she continued. “What happened here was not your own fault, but rather your mother’s and your father’s.” 

“A rather impertinent accu—“ Isolde interrupted before Morrigan did the same.

“Quiet, woman, or I will turn you into a toad this very moment.” Isolde did as she was told. “Now, child… You have already learned the first thing about being a mage: you should never trust a spirit. However, you have nothing to fear from spirit nor demon so long as you ignore them.”

“Okay, miss. Thank you. Is there anything else?” Connor asked. He was happy to finally be allowed to speak with a fellow mage. 

Isolde noticed the witch bite back a snarky response before inhaling deeply and regaining her composure. “Indeed. Now listen, child, and listen well: the Circle and the Chantry will try to tell you to fear your magic, that it is a curse, a sickness. They are wrong. Learn from what they teach you, eat their food, live with them, but never submit to them. You are a supremely powerful young mage, and that power should be embraced, nurtured and respected for the gift that it is, no matter what they say. Listen not to the Chantry’s drivel, but walk your own path, wherever that may lead you.”

Connor contemplated the words for a moment, before nodding at Morrigan. “Thank you, miss. I’ll remember that. I have a question, though, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Connor, I think that—“ Isolde continued only to be interrupted again.

“’Tis not. Ask away, Mister Guerrin,” Morrigan chuckled, but it was genuine this time.

“Will I learn how to turn into a mabari too?” he asked excitedly. Felix barked, realizing that that would just mean more playmates for him. 

“Unfortunately, ’tis not something you can learn in the Circle. However, I promise you this: should we ever see one another again, ’twill be the first thing I teach you,” she said, giving Connor a kiss on the forehead before standing up and turning back to Isolde, her cold veneer returned. “Should you ever tell anyone about this, Orlesian—“

“I understand, Lady Morrigan,” Isolde said respectfully. “Nobody will know.”

Morrigan nodded before returning to her mabari form, running off into the night with Felix in tow.

Well, Jowan was in the dungeon. Again. He sat on the cold, damp floor and contemplated his rather hopeless situation. Everything he had done was for nothing: Lily had been shipped off to Aeonar, Rayne hated him, Jaime seemed to completely ignore him, and Greagoir would no doubt have him executed when he returned to the tower. At least he was not being tortured, he supposed. And he was being fed. So it was better than his last stay here.

“Maker, what have I done?” he asked himself for the umpteenth time before he heard the familiar turning of a key in a lock. The door to the dungeon open and he perceived a singular set of footsteps approaching his cell. Eventually, Warden-Commander Hissera appeared. She was dressed in an indigo doublet, brown slacks and black leather boots. Her swords at her sides and her white hair flowed freely. She presented herself before Jowan and regarded him curiously, the shadows obscuring her expression. 

“Jowan, right?”

“Yes, Warden-Commander,” he responded meekly, stepping forward to the bars of his cells.

“Well, Jowan, if what I’ve heard about you is true, I have a proposal.”

Chapter Text

A day before they were to leave, a letter from Arl Wulff arrived, informing the Wardens that his main force would be there soon with some avvar tribesmen in tow. Apparently, his daughter’s marriage to one of them wasn’t as terrible a thing as he originally thought. Wulff was bringing all of his four remaining children with him. His wife, Arlessa Luella, would be accompanying them as well. Refugees and freeholders had been filtering in from West Hills over the past week, replacing townsfolk lost in the attacks from the undead.

Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde worked to oversee the reconstruction efforts and make the castle itself more defensible. Furthermore, over the course of the week, several mysterious individuals in purple clothing of undetermined origins arrived to help as well. Each of them got a vote of confidence from Rayne, who was incredibly tight-lipped about who they were other than that they could be trusted. Any of the Circle Mages recognized their purple-clad brethren as members of the Mages’ Collective, a group whose existence had merely been rumoured inside of the Tower.

Jaime was sad to leave the Redcliffe and his brief taste of freedom, but eager to get back to the tower and rebuild. It was an odd feeling, realizing he cared about the Maker-damned Circle. Wynne, Rayne and his mabari Garahel followed Jaime, Connor, the First Enchanter and Bann Teagan down to the dungeons to fetch Jowan. They brought with them chains with which Jowan would bound, and then dragged back to the Circle. How had things come to this? A few months ago, things were normal. He was a recently-harrowed mage. Rayne was supposed to be complete his Harrowing next, and then Jowan, if things had gone according to plan. Being a mage, he might have actually gotten dispensation to leave every now and then. Now, he was here. In the dark, cold dungeons of Redcliffe.

Connor was holding Jaime’s hand, nervous at being down in his castle’s dungeons for the first time. Garahel was nuzzling into Connor’s ribs for comfort. The group eventually approached Jowan’s cell, surprised to see Mercy standing before it. Most of them were perplexed with this appearance, but Connor could not have been more excited. He, of course, was incredibly thankful to Rayne for saving him, but he just thought Mercy was so darn cool.

“Warden-Commander, what are you doing here?” Bann Teagan asked, but Rayne had already figured it out. 

“Andraste’s tits, Mercy, you can’t be serious,” Rayne said. Jaime covered Connor’s ears at Rayne’s language, but he knew the child heard it when he chuckled and put a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry, Rayne,” she said, ignoring his blaspheming. “We need all the help we can get,” she continued sadly. “The is a Blight.”

“Warden-Commander,” the First Enchanter began to say. “This course of action is… Unwise.”

“Once again, I must apologize, but my mind is made up. Bann Teagan, First Enchanter Irving: I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription, and remand Jowan into Grey Warden custody.”

Eve heard a knock at the door and looked up to see the pale, grumpy human standing in the doorway to her room. “Eve, correct?” Nathaniel asked, apparently not bothering with an introduction.

“Yeah. Why does it matter to you, shem?”

“I apologize,” he responded genuinely. “I had heard that you were going to Denerim with us, and I just wanted to get to know you a little better since we are to be traveling together.”

“Maybe. I might go see the Dalish instead, so don’t be counting on the elf to carry your shit and string your bow for you.”

“I would presume nothing of the sort, my lady. You were instrumental in the defence of Redcliffe, and I was looking forward to learning from you, and to having your expertise on the the capital. I have not been to Denerim for many years, and your experience would be invaluable,” Nathaniel said as respectfully as possible.

“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind,” Eve said dismissively, finally meeting his eyes but not letting even the tiniest spectre of an expression cross her face. My lady. Either he was mocking her… or was cut from the same cloth Irminric was, but it was hard to tell.

“That is all I ask,” Nathaniel said respectfully, bowing deeply before setting out the door. After a few seconds, he returned to the room and took a deep breath. “And, my lady?”

Eve sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Howe?”

“I only wished to say… I am sorry for what happened to Ser Irminric. I had not seen him or Alfstanna since we were young, but he seemed like a good man. If we all learned to be a little bit more like Ser Irminric, Thedas would be better for it.”

Eve looked at him for a moment, searching for the slightest hint of insincerity. But in this, he seemed honest. “…Thank you, Nathaniel. Your words are appreciated.”

“Another invitation from Howe, Erlina?” Anora asked, incredulous, as she threw the note into her fireplace. “He cannot honestly believe that I am stupid enough to visit him in his estate at a time like this.”

Erlina chuckled a bit as she finished tying the queen’s hair into the buns she so adored. It was early in the morning, and the rest of the palace was asleep. Erlina enjoyed moments like this, when it seemed like her and her queen were the only two people in the world. “Your Majesty, I don’t believe there is a limit to what Rendon Howe will believe. He has all the subtlety of a high dragon.”

“True enough, Erlina,” Anora chuckled, taking a bite of her breakfast.

“Your Majesty, I apologize for bringing up the topic again, but I must insist something be done about the Arl. I fear for your safety.”

“And I will once again insist that we wait until Keegan arrives. I will not have you needlessly risking your life in his estate alone when allies are but a few days away.”

“Your Majesty, I was a Shadow of Orlais. The bards feared us, and even the Crows respect our skills. I can—“

“Erlina. Enough. My answer has not changed. We wait for Keegan.”

“Yes, Your Ma—“ Erlina began to respond before hearing heavy footsteps and clinking armor outside the door in the hallway. They exchanged a quizzical look before nodding at one another and preparing themselves for what may come. Erlina unsheathed two of her hidden daggers and quickly coated them in poison while Anora did the same, fastening them to her belt. Erlina positioned herself to the right of the door while Anora sat calmly back down in her chair, re-initiating conversation as if nothing was amiss.

“And did you hear that Lady Habren is in town?” Anora asked, staring at the door with her hands on the hilts of her daggers. “After that display at Eleanor’s salon, I would have a hard time showing my face again in Denerim. How embarassing.”

Erlina managed a manufactured chuckle, twirling one of her blades in her hand. “As you say, Your Majesty. What might—“ Erlina started before being interrupted by an agressive knock on the door.

“Queen Anora! We’ve been ordered to take you into custody for your own protection! The Horde is moving north!”

Anora and Erlina exchanged a curious look before Anora gave the man permission to enter. As soon as the door opened, she came face-to-face with a vicious, rabid, monster of a man. The man's armor marked him as a former member of Harwen Raleigh’s infamous Hard Line, a group of troops who, during the Rebellion, became known for rape, torture and other war crimes. After being stripped of his lands by King Maric, Raleigh came into the employ of Denerim’s Arl Urien until disappearing under mysterious circumstances— some say he was tangled up with Orlesian agents— a few years ago. Apparently, Howe was stull employing The Hard Line’s leftovers, despite publicly firing them upon arrival in Denerim. Wonderful.

The man’s helmet covered most of his face, but she could see his unkempt beard poking out from the bottom. He drew his longsword as he and his compatriot entered the room, chuckling. “I’m afraid this is the end of the line for you, Your Majesty. Teyrn Howe sends his regards,” he said. He was raising his sword to strike, but turned around at hearing a mysterious thud behind him. Horrified, he discovered that his companion was already dead on the floor, a dagger in his neck and an elven maiden looming over him. He was unsure of what to do, looking between the two women, and that moment of hesitation gave Anora the chance to step towards him to draw her crimson drakestone dagger across his throat. He gurgled a little bit before he fell to the ground, his blood pooling at the feet of the queen.

Erlina picked up, cleaned and sheathed her dagger. “Shall I call for the guard, Your Majesty? We can tell them what happened.”

“Please do. They can clean this mess up. This is concerning, however. Howe is… Cleverer than I expected; he very publicly fired The Hard Line when he came to Denerim, and I suspect there will be no written orders linking him to this attack. He will be able to claim ignorance. Father would likely believe me, but, on the other hand, I cannot discount the possibility of him being party to this…” Anora trailed off.

“Your Majesty, this was clumsy enough, but there is no guarantee that the next attempt will follow suit. Surely you agree that action must be taken, n’est pas?”

“Once again, I am not authorizing an assassination attempt that will put your life at risk, and I do not want to fight my father. Were you caught… He could torture you. He could use you as ammunition to start a war with Orlais. You would be killed, and likely much worse,” Anora said, quietly calculating her options. “No… As much as it pains me to say it, we must retreat for now, and lay low. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Just one, Your Majesty,” Erlina offered. “But nobody will ever think to look for you where we are going,” she assured the queen as she began to gather any supplies they might need.

“Perfect. Je te remercie encore une fois de ton aide, ma chère. Begin preparations immediately.”

Chapter Text

…and I must give the Warden-Commander credit. She has begun to gather a small army at Redcliffe, and she is not done yet. While Eamon remains comatose, Teagan is preparing Redcliffe’s men for war. Arl and Arlessa Wulff will soon be arriving from West Hills with their men and family in tow, but that’s not all. I’m told it’s a long story, but what I do know is that Wulff’s daughter Izot eloped with an avvar barbarian, and Warden Hissera used that to her advantage. The men and women of Ferelden will soon be fighting alongside the avvar against the darkspawn! It is hard to believe, I know.

While it seems there was some unpleasantness at the Tower, Warden Surana was able to secure the aid of the mages against the Blight, and what few they can spare will be arriving soon. The Wardens have also secured the cooperation of a group called the Mages’ Collective, a group of mages living outside of Chantry control. Best not to look into that until after the Blight is over, I figure.

The Warden-Commander also encountered a man called Levi Dryden, apparently a descendant of Sophia Dryden (yes, that Sophia Dryden). With him, the other qunari, the Orlesian, the golem, and the blood mage, she will be setting out to Soldier’s Peak soon. The Warden Enid will be leading the Dalish mage, Senior Enchanter Wynne, Cadoc, the Antivan Crow and the casteless dwarf to the Brecilian Forest to meet a clan of Dalish elves. For my part, I will soon be setting out to meet you in Denerim. I will be travelling with Nathaniel, Alistair, Dalia Aeducan, an elf from Denerim’s Alienage, and Warden Surana, as well as Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds. 

Stay safe until my arrival, Your Majesty. I will be there soon.

Your loyal servant,

Keegan Cousland

It felt good to use his own name again, and not a pseudonym, even if the letter was in cipher. Keegan was sitting in Arl Eamon’s study drafting some more letters before he set out for Denerim to meet up with Anora. Maker, he hoped she was okay. He was safe and established enough in Redcliffe to reveal his hand, and, if assassins were sent, he would already be gone by the time they arrived. The letters he wrote for Arl Bryland were written Nathaniel’s help. Even if Bryland had cut ties with the Howes after his sister’s marriage to Rendon, Nathaniel was still Bryland’s nephew. Keegan hoped Nathaniel’s condemnation of his father would convince Bryland of the righteousnessness of their cause. Then, with Eve’s help, he wrote the letter to Bann Alfstanna, informing her of her brother’s death, and Keegan, Eve and Nathaniel all sent their condolences. They left out the part about Jowan’s conscription. 

Letters were also sent to the majority of the bannorn and some key arlings, of course leaving out Ceorlic, ever Loghain’s crony. He did not anticipate all of the letters arriving nor did he anticipate them being believed, but if he could sew doubt, that would be enough. Reports of Howe’s treachery and Loghain’s crimes— against both his king and the Chantry— would at least give the nobility pause. To his uncle Robert, bann of the Storm Coast, and his husband, Edward, he sent a more detailed letter written in the Cousland family cipher, which the Mac Eanraigs had adopted when mother became a Cousland herself. Mother’s other two brothers had died at Ostagar with Fergus, but Bann Robert and his son still had all of their troops. 

A knock on the door interrupted the monotony of his writing, and he was happy to be given the reprieve. “Come in,” he beckoned. 

Alistair Therin entered, his face a comical mix of anger and trepidation. “Teyrn Cousland,” he said, bowing. “I have a matter I need to discuss with you.” The bastard prince’s usual levity was gone, replaced by a barely-contained fury. He’d seen that look from Maric at a landsmeet he attended as a child. Keegan could scarcely recall what set the King off, but the look haunted him for years to come. He could recall it with perfect clarity to this day.

“Yes, Warden Alistair?” the young Cousland responded, his icy blue eyes peering at Alistair and trying to discern what set him off.

“I have come to speak with you about Warden-Commander Hissera and her most recent decision.”

“Ah,” Keegan intoned, realizing what this is all about. “The conscription of the blood mage, yes?”

“Yes, exactly! You understand! Surely you can ask her to change her mind, or convince her. You’re a teyrn. We can’t recruit a blood mage to the Grey Wardens!”

“And what do your other Wardens think of the matter?” Keegan asked passively.

“They… Well, the dwarves don’t care, but it’s because they don’t understand. And Enid is wary, but trusts Mercy. Cadoc feels as I do, and Rayne is fuming, but refuses to fight Mercy on it. Usually, I would trust her, but this… This is too far.”

“Alistair, this is a Blight. The Grey Wardens do whatever it takes to combat it, do they not? This isn’t too far. The Blight still rages, so it likely isn’t far enough.”

“How can you say that?!” Alistair screamed, standing once again. If Keegan was startled, he didn’t show it. “He poisoned Arl Eamon,” Alistair continued. “It’s his fault that all of those people are dead, that Connor might grow up without a father! I know how you feel about Eamon, but what Jowan did cannot be forgotten nor forgiven.”

“Perhaps not, Alistair. But, again, this is a Blight. Your feelings don’t matter; doing your duty and saving Ferelden are the things that matter. For that, there is no line I will not cross, no enemy I won’t sleep with, no blood mage I would turn away.”

“You can’t be serious, Keegan. It might be war, but we still have our principles.”

“This isn’t war, Alistair. This isn’t about conquering or winning. It’s about survival. Of course I’m serious, with everything on the line.”

“Really?” Alistair asked doubtfully. “And what if Arl Howe decided to one day join the Wardens, or Loghain? What would you say then?” the Alistair asked confidently, certain that he’d made his point.

“That is simple. Loghain is one of the greatest generals in history, and his martial skill is surpassed only by his tactical mind. And Howe is… Well, he’s a snake, certainly. He murdered my entire family and betrayed his oldest friend. But, by the same token… he is a tenacious fighter with a keen mind for underhanded tactics, and could also be an asset. If it meant stopping the Blight, I would charge into battle with Rendon Howe and the Empress of Orlais herself at my side,” Keegan said, sounding more and more like a Tranquil as he continued talking. Alistair was speechless, absolutely flabbergasted that the last remaining Cousland could be so cold. Perhaps when Keegan allowed himself to feel again, he might have a different opinion. But still, he felt nothing.

“Furthermore, Alistair, ask yourself why she is doing what she’s doing. Think beyond her duty as a Warden. Jowan is sure to be executed by the templars, yet the Commander is choosing to save him. Her parents may have been tal-vashoth, but they still grew up under the Qun, and under the Qun, names have meaning. I have no doubt Warden-Commander Hissera’s is no different.”

“Mercy,” Alistair said realizing the significance of it for the first time.

“Indeed. And hissera means hope in qunlat. Yes, the Wardens do whatever is necessary to end a Blight, but I think it goes deeper than that for her. In her view, everyone is deserving of mercy, and nobody is beyond hope of redemption, or at least atonement. I think that’s a commendable attitude to have. But, if you disagree, take it up with your commander. Just stop whining to me.”

“Do not presume you can have your dog fetch me like some bone whenever the mood suits you,” Morrigan said as she strode into Rayne’s room, throwing the door open in what was melodramatically.

“Yet you came,” Rayne said from his desk, looking up from what he was studying to meet Morrigan’s eyes. 

“Your mongrel was… Most insistent. Now, may I ask why I am here?” Garahel whined indignantly at that. He wasn’t a mongrel; he was a pure-bred mabari.

Rayne closed the tome he was studying for the moment and opened one of his desk drawers, producing a short necklace made of several strands of silver chain. He stood up and walked towards her, holding it out.

“Oh? And what’s this?

“A— A gift, if that would be acceptable,” Rayne stammered. Why was he so nervous? Him and Jaime grew up constantly flirting with one another or with any number of other apprentices in the tower. Why did Morrigan fluster him so?

Morrigan turned around and help up any strands of hair that were not already tied up, inviting Rayne to put the necklace on. When his hands grazed her skin, he had to supress a shiver. Morrigan was electric.

“A fine gift! You have my thanks,” she said, turning back around and eyeing him curiously. “Was this the reason for my summons? ‘Twould seem this gift could have been given on the road when we set out tomorrow… Not that I am ungrateful.”

“You’re right, but that’s not the only reason I asked Garahel to get you,” he said, motioning for her to follow him back to his desk as the mabari snuggled up beside the fire. “When I was in the tower, I… I, well, I kind of stole an incredibly interesting book from the First Enchanter. Well, I stole a few books, but I’m having trouble reading this one. I’ve been trying to decode or translate it since I got it, but the language appears to be an odd variant of ancient elvish with traces of ancient alammari and shrouded in a cipher,” Rayne continued as he picked the book up from his desk. “Considering your… Unconventional upbringing and specialized knwoledge, I was hoping that—“ was all Rayne could get out before Morrigan hungrily snatched the grimoire out of his hands. She ran her own hand along the cover with something almost resembling reverence.

“I take it you know what this is, then,” Rayne asked, chuckling.

“I do indeed. ’Tis… A grimoire that once belonged to my mother. I was planning to ask you if you had come across it but… This… This is most fortuitous. You have my thanks. I will begin study of the tome immediately.”

“Or…” Rayne said, putting his hand on her’s, “We could do that tomorrow night, and spend this one… Finding other ways to occupy our time.”

Morrigan considered for a moment before smiling at the elf and putting the tome on his desk. She leaned down, touching her nose to his. “Very well, Surana. ’Twill be most interesting to see if the rumours of Grey Warden stamina are to be believed.”

Chapter Text

Jowan was cold. Jowan’s feet hurt. Jowan’s legs were sore. Jowan’s head was throbbing Jowan couldn’t stop crying. Jowan couldn’t figure out what in the Maker’s name he was doing. He was surprised he even survived the Joining, let alone this journey. He never imagined being a Grey Warden would involve so much walking.

The Warden-Commander was quite strong— and kind enough— but he could tell she was wary of him, and seemed to be regretting her decision to recruit him more every day. The golem would have been fascinating to study… If it hadn’t named Jowan “the fool mage” and couldn’t get through a single conversation with him without rolling its glowing eyes. The qunari ignored him entirely, which suited Jowan quite well, as he found Sten terrifying. The merchant they were traveling the Soldier’s Peak with, Levi, was more terrified of Jowan, the dreaded blood mage, than the two qunari or the golem. The only person to show genuine kindness and interest was the Chantry sister Leliana, and even that felt patronizing. 

It had been slow-going through the bannorn so far. The civil war was in full force, and the bone-chilling cold that came with Harvestmere wasn’t helping matters. According to the others, it would only get colder from here, but Jowan didn’t see how it could. He’d always been fascinated reading about weather in the tower, but experiencing it was something different entirely. Mercy told him that he was lucky they didn’t have to contend with bugs in the winter, which had apparently given Rayne a lot of difficulty when first leaving the tower. 

Maker. Rayne. Apparently he was supposed to come to Soldier’s Peak with them, but him and Morrigan changed their minds and joined the expedition to Denerim at the last minute. Denerim wasn’t an option for Jowan right now, and they all agreed he’d be useless in the Brecilian Forest with the elves. Well, more useless.

The sun was setting, and they were on the way out of Bann Loren’s lands. Mercy had run into someone who knew the former king, and informed everyone that they would eventually need to return Ostagar soon. Mercy was walking in front, lost in conversation with Leliana, while Sten and Shale were behind them, discussing the merits of the Qun. Mercy and Leliana seemed particularly… Close. Jowan was bringing up the rear with Levi, who refused to even look at him, apparently afraid that Jowan could possess him with eye contact. They were on a narrow path with a cliffside to their right and a river to their left when Mercy suggested stopping for camp. Their preparations were interrupted by the sound of an deflecting off her Warden armor.

Jowan looked to see a well-equipped band of mercenaries coming out of the woodwork: human, qunari, elf and even mage. Without a second’s hesitation, his companions charged into battle as Levi went to find somewhere to hide. While they did that, Jowan took out his staff and cast… Nothing.

“Ebost issala tal-vashoth!” he heard Sten scream as the giant lopped off the head of the qunari he was fighting. Leliana grunted as she took an arrow to the shoulder, but returned the gesture in kind, landing a shot right in the forehead of her assailant.

“You know, Sten,” Mercy said as she bisected a human in front of her with her longswords, “seeing how you treat other vashoth makes me really thankful you swore to follow me and not to fight me.”

Ahead of them all, Shale had crossed a makeshift wooden bridge and was enjoying knocking all of the squishy humans who opposed it into the river to be swept away. Arrows and swords bounced harmlessly off the golem’s hide with impunity. The magic being slung, however, did not. Suddenly, a spell was cast, and Shale was frozen in place, sickly yellow rings appearing around its massive form.

“Jowan!” Mercy yelled. “They have a mage! We need you!”

Jowan didn’t move. He couldn’t. After all his magic had wrought, how could he—

And then Sten was knocked unconscious by a fireball while Mercy contended with one of the last humans in their path. His companions were falling one by one and, still, Jowan did nothing. 

“JOWAN!” Mercy screamed as she was struck by a bolt of lightning. It did not deter her, though; she was only slowed momentarily, gritting her teeth through the pain. Leliana’s arrows were bouncing off the mage’s barrier. Finally, Jowan mustered his courage and cast a paralyze spell. That ended the fight, as Mercy finished the job for him, lopping the opposing mage’s head clean off.

That could have been him.

The five of them regrouped near the last remaining survivor, and Sten drew his blade before being interrupted by Leliana.

“Stop. Don’t kill him,” she commanded. Sten looked at the still-smoking Mercy for assurance before sheathing his blade. Mercy, for her part, gave Jowan a dirty look before standing beside Leliana.

“Jowan,” Mercy said, the anger in her voice barely contained. “Go stand with Levi. We have business to conduct.”

“Bann Teagan, you have a visitor,” Ser Perth announced as the door was opened to Eamon’s study. Teagan was coordinating training and reconstruction efforts now and thought it only logical if Eamon’s study was used to coordinate efforts and maintain books.

Through the door entered a nearly six-foot-tall woman wearing nondescript travelling leathers and a fine purple cloak. The cloak marked her as one of the mages from the Collective, something with which Bann Teagan was not at all comfortable. But that was something to be dealt with after the Blight. The Collective had already proven their worth in construction efforts.  The purple-clad woman had short black hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin as pale as snow. She carried a black iron spear tipped with silverite that had snake designs etched in silver slinking along the shaft. It was most likely her staff, but Teagan thought better of speaking out of turn when alone with an eccentric apostate. At her side was a white mabari with orange spots, which reassured Teagan somewhat. If she had a mabari vouching for her, she couldn’t be all bad.

“Bann Teagan,” she said respectfully enough, giving him a slight bow. “Name’s Mel. Member of the Collective, lifelong apostate and questing adventurer. You’ve got a nice castle. Lots of shiny things,” she lazily, looking around. Her accent marked her as a Marcher.

“I… Thank you?” Teagan asked, frowning. He was both perplexed by and suspicious of the woman before him. “It is a pleasure to meet you… Mel.”

“Not problem! Anyways, I’ve been working with some of the people in the castle and the town— nice town, by the way, if a little sparsely populated— and I heard some things. Is it true that there was a mage here from the Fereldan Circle by the name of Jaime Amell? Helped with the whole your-nephew-was-an-abomination-for-awhile thing?”

“It’s possible…” Teagan said, becoming more offended the more he talked to the woman.

“You’d have remembered him. Pretty, shiny, straight, black hair like mine (or at least it used to be— he might be bald now for all I know; I haven’t seen him in years), good bones with some really kickass cheekbones— also just like mine— and some really nice silver eyes.”

“Ah. Yes,” Teagan said dryly. “Yes. He was a good young lad, and on his way back to the Circle now, I believe. May I ask why you care?”

“He’s my brother, and I’m going to find him. Thanks! I’ll be back at the castle to help again sometime before the Blight— presumably— unless the templars kill me, of course. Wish me luck!” and she set out the door just as quickly as she came. She was… a character, to say the least. Bann Teagan had a feeling he had not seen the last of her.

Levi made some wonderful hare for dinner, and Jowan has ecstatic to get some food in his stomach now that they had set up camp. His companions were healed with poultices and they had been pretty much ignoring him all day, but at least he got to have some hare. Apparently, the assailants they faced had been sent for Leliana of all people, and the Leliana would have to pay a visit to Denerim soon, but she insisted she could wait until it made sense for her to do so.

After devouring her dinner, Mercy turned her violet eyes to Jowan. When she was out of her armor and helmet, Jowan remembered just how unsettling she was. Now liberated from her helmet, her snow-white hair tumbled past her shoulders and around her horns.

“So, Jowan. We need to talk,” she said, leaning forward on her log and clasping her hands together.

Jowan winced. “Should we not do this… Elsewhere? In private?”

“Nonsense,” Mercy said. “There were people relying on you that almost got seriously hurt or even killed today, and you owe them an explanation just as much as me.”

Shale snickered. “Oh, this should be good. Will it punish the fool mage?”

“Not now, Shale,” Mercy snarled before turning back to Jowan. “What do you have to say for yourself? I saved you from the templars’ justice, the Circle, and gave you a place as a Grey Warden. I had heard that you were skilled, but I suppose that not everything Rayne says is true.”

“I… I’m sorry. I hate what I did— all of it, ever since the tower. Look what my magic has wrought. You should have given me to the templars… I’m useless out here.”

“Agreed,” Sten grunted. “From what I have seen, I am suprised you can control your bowels, let alone something as dangerous as magic.

Before Mercy could respond, Leliana put her hand on Jowan’s shoulder. “I do not claim to know all of the Chant, or even most of it, but growing up, there were always certain Canticles that interested me more than the others. Have you heard of the Dissonant Verses?”

“I haven’t, sister,” Jowan said meekly.

“I thought not. They were stricken from the Chant during the Exalted March on the Dales, as well as most other mentions of elves, but Lady Cecilie insisted on my learning them nonetheless.”

“Leliana, what purpose does this serve?”

“I am getting there, Mercy,” Leliana said calmly. “When Shartan— you know of Shartan, yes? He was Andraste’s elven companion and friend. When Shartan led his people to the Dales, many of them wanted to turn back. The Long Walk was arduous and seemingly impossible. Many of Shartan’s fellow elves wished to give up, to turn back and submit again to their Tevinter masters. There, at least, they would be safe, comfortable.. Do you know what he said to them?”

Jowan was interested now. He supposed the Circle never allowed any mentions of these Dissonant Verses. In fact, the whole camp was silent, everyone eager to find out what happened next; even Shale seemed interested in this tale. “What did he say?”

“Now, forgive me if I butcher any of this— I have not sang the Chant in awhile, especially not this Canticle,” Leliana warned, clearning her throat before letting the melody fly free.

“They will taunt you and humiliate you

While they hang you in the marketplace.

They will pelt you with offal while they call you

Broken, a coward, and a failure.

A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten

And be forgiven, but a slave never.

If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight. ”

“That was satisfactory, Leliana. You displayed fine vocal control,” Sten said to everyone’s surprise. Leliana blushed and thanked him, just as confused as her companions.

Leliana then smiled at Jowan knowingly, and he smiled back. Mercy took his hand, and looked him right in the eye.

“I can offer you freedom, but you need to want want more than that. This is your chance at atonement, as well as a way to escape the headman’s axe. I’m not asking you to use blood magic, or even destructive primal magic, but I am going to need you to at least give us a hand in battle— debilitating enemies or bolstering allies, learning some healing magic. You have a chance, but it’s up to you to take it. I have no use for Wardens who cannot contribute. Like Leliana sang: If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight. Does that sound fair?”

Jowan swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to bite back his tears. “It does, Warden-Commander. Thank you.”

“And if you do succumb, bas sarebaas, you may rely on me to cut you down before you do any others harm,” Sten offered helpfully. It actually made Jowan feel a little bit better.

“Thank you, Sten,” Jowan chuckled, though Sten failed to see the humour in it.

“Wonderful!” Leliana said excitedly. “Now that that is out of the way, I have been working on a ballad for our inevitable victory in the Blight. I was wondering if I could have your opinions!”

“That would be acceptable,” Sten said. After receiving nods from everyone else, Leliana took out her lute and began to play…

“Now her hands are raised

Two swords to pierce the sun

With shining blades she defends the ‘fraid

Let chaos be undone…”

Chapter Text

“You are certain, ladies, that his name is Aneirin? And that he came from human lands?” Wynne asked the Dalish elves with whom she was traveling. Originally, Wynne was supposed to to go to Denerim and meet the scholar Genitivi. She had been quite excited about it. However, when she heard Enid and Merrill talking about an elven mage named Aneirin, she elected to join them to meet the Dalish elves. This Aneirin had apparently helped their Keeper stop the darkspawn taint from consuming Enid entirely. It was unlikely, but… if there was even a chance he had survived… She had to apologize, to make things right. 

“Quite certain, hahren Wynne. He is quite skilled, maybe even more than Keeper Marethari! Or you!” Merrill said.

“Truly, child?” Wynne asked, raising an eyebrow. “That is… Most intriguing. I do hope this is the same Aneirin I knew, but I shouldn’t get my hopes up. It isn’t likely.”

“Do not worry, my darling Wynne! If you are let down, my shoulder is always available to cry on,” Zevran joked.

“Oh? I thought I had claim to those shoulders now,” Mayrin teased.

“And that is usually the case, my dear Warden, but I am afraid that Wynne and her marvelous bosom must take precedence.”

“Understandable. It is quite a marvelous bosom,” Mayrin agreed.

“Oh, Maker,” Wynne said, rubbing her eyes wearily. “The two of you are incorrigible. Stop… Talking about my bosom.”

The group of them continued on their trek towards the Brecilian Forest, taking detours and alternate paths where needed. The ruins of Lothering were avoided entirely, and Merrill was making ample use of the techniques Morrigan had taught her that originally got Alistair, Mercy and Rayne out of the Wilds without incident. While the main Horde was easy enough to avoid, they did occasionally encounter stragglers, of which they made quick work.

Enid and Merrill were excited to see more Dalish elves, even if they were not of the same clan. In fact, Merrill was practically vibrating. They shared Dalish traditions and customs with their companions, excitedly letting them know that there might even be singing and that they should be prepared for the possibility. Merrill was especially excited to see Lanaya again, a young mage that had made an impression on her at the last Arlathvhen. The fact that Lanaya was able to become the clan’s First despite being born among the humand and not being descended from the nobility Dales was incredibly impressive.

They eventually made it to what Cadoc told them was the arling of South Reach, under the rule of Arl Leonas Bryland. Wynne recognized the name— he had been at the battle of White River during the Rebellion. They could see the city of South Reach itself in the distance, its grey stone walls starkly contrasting the surrounding farmland and forest. The darkspawn had control of the city; the Wardens could sense a massive group of them inside the walls, and the taint had seeped into the ground. They didn’t seem to be venturing outside of the walls for now, and were as-of-yet separated from the rest of the Horde.

It looked like the arling had been abandoned, the arl advising his citizens to move north when it was prudent. They found the bodies of a few freeholders among the farmland, but not nearly as many as they would have found had Arl Leonas not advised departure. Wynne thanked the Maker that the Circle was in the middle of a lake, and that her family would probably be fairly safe from the Blight for a good while. At least until they were called into battle, that is…

The Wardens and their companions decided to camp in a little abandoned settlement a good distance away from South Reach itself. Mayrin and Zevran claimed one of the houses for themselves, and Cadoc and Wynne took the one beside it. The Dalish elected to sleep outside. The bodies they found in the village were given to the flame, though there was a single tattooed elf who was buried in once-fertile soil, Merrill planting a tree to mark the grave, and there were a few dwarves that Mayrin insisted on burying himself as well. Surfacers were casteless, too. 

Wynne bid her companions goodnight and made her way up to her room. The room was sparse enough; there was a simple, wooden, double bed, a dresser, a chamberpot and a copy of the Chant of the bedside table. Leaning her staff on the wall, and hanging her cloak and bag up, she collapsed on the bed, excited to let her hair down and take her boots off. Keeping up with these young folks was hard work. When she fell onto the bed, though, she heard a yelp from under her.

She paused for a moment, processing what happened, and then got on her knees to have a look under the bed. In front of her was a waif of a girl in common clothes, nearly a skeleton at this point from malnutrition. She had dark skin, deep brown eyes and curly black hair, and her eyes were red, puffy and streaked with tears. Wynne smiled at her and held her hand out, saying: “I mean you no harm, child. My name is Wynne, and I travel with Grey Wardens. We are here to help.”

The girl took her hand hesitantly, and tried to say: “Darla. I’m D- Darla.” Her voice was raspy from disuse and lack of water. As Wynne helped her onto the bed, she offered the child water as well as some bread and cheese, careful not to overfeed her. 

“It is nice to meet you, Darla,” Wynne said warmly as Darla eagerly devoured her food.

“Thank you for the cheese, miss. If you are with Grey Wardens, does that mean the monsters are gone?”

“The Blight is not defeated, but my Warden companions have assured me that this area is safe for now,” Wynne responded calmly.

After speaking with the girl for awhile, Wynne learned her story, and it was sadly nothing too surprising. Her parents had told her to hide in their bedroom some time ago, and she hadn’t moved since. Yet another child orphaned by the Blight.

After Wynne gained Darla’s trust, she was able to use her magic to restore, rejuvenate and heal the child to the best of her abilities. Darla eventually fell asleep on Wynne’s lap, and Wynne soon followed suit, happy to finally be given a Fade-granted reprieve from the horrors of the Blight.

Mayrin awoke to a familiar ringing in his ears. He looked at Zevran, sleeping peacefully on his chest, and hesitated for just a moment, not wanting it to end. Still, had his duty and all that. He shook Zevran awake and commanded him to get dressed, warning him of the impending threat. He could already hear Enid yelling to wake everyone up, and Cadoc’s muffled voice fretting about the incoming threat.

Mayrin and his assassin made his way down the stairs and out of their house, meeting their companions in the settlment’s square. Enid, Mayrin and Cadoc formed a triangle around Wynne and Merrill, with Zevran skirting around the outside, dagger and longsword drawn and as he flit between shadows.

“I can sense them, but where in Dirthamen’s name are they?” Enid asked.

“Shit,” Mayrin realized. “If we can’t see them that means—“

He was interrupted by blood-curdling high pitched shrieks, darkspawn assassins appearing from the shadows and striking like lightning. Mayrin silently cursed; they hadn’t prepared the newbies for Shrieks. Mayrin, Merrill and Enid had fought plenty of them, and Cadoc saw some when they first recruited him, though he wasn’t very experienced. Wynne and Zev were even worse; he doubted either had ever seen one.

He parried a strike with his shield, and heard Enid do the same behind him. Cadoc roared— in anger and pain both— as a shriek lodged its blade into his abdomen. He took to opportunity to bring his axe down on the monster’s head and moved onto the next one. Wynne and Merrill both cast stoneskin on themselves, and then proceeded to do what they did best: Merrill called great vines from the earth to bind and entrap her opponents, while Wynne used her considerable talent for healing to keep her companions on their feet. Any blow they took, Wynne healed them almost instantly.

Zevran was a part of a deadly dance between him and two sharlocks, and he was having trouble taking even a single strike at either between their incessant attacks. Thankfully, Mayrin intervened before things became too dire, and the duo quickly dispatched the Shrieks that were in their way. This was good; they were winning. Mayrin and Zevran charged towards their fellows in order to help them deal with the last remaining shrieks when they heard a child cry out: “Wynne!”

Wynne froze and turned to the source of the voice: a small child looking scared, desperate and confused. “Darla!” she cried, “Get back inside! It isn’t—“ was all Wynne could say before one of the darkspawn took advantage of her distraction and flipped over Cadoc, cutting a deep red gash across her shoulder. She fell to her knees, clearly trying to maintain consciousness.

Wynne wasn’t the only one distracted by the girl: Enid and Cadoc both paused momentarily at the sound of her voice, and that was all the darkspawn needed to do some damage. Mayrin, Zevran and Merrill eventually finished off the remaining shrieks, but the damage was done: Wynne was barely awake, and Enid and Cadoc were losing blood too quickly for Mayrin’s liking. That was when he realized that the buzzing hadn’t stopped yet; not entirely. And it was getting louder.

The ground trembled before them as a single, solitary ogre came charging out of a nearby farmhouse. Darla screamed and ran towards Wynne’s fading form.

“Creators, that's a big one!,” Merrill exclaimed hopelessly, obviously nearly depleted of her mana and frantically searching her pack for a lyrium potion.

“Zev, Merrill: get the others out of here and heal them. I’ll hold this thing off while you retreat,” Mayrin said, stepping forward and raising his shield and axe in what was sure to be a heroic last stand, until Zevran appeared beside him.

“You are not getting rid of me that easily, my Warden,” Zev said, blades bared as the ogre barreled ever forward.

Suddenly, there was a flash of brilliant blue and white light behind them, and they looked back to see that Senior Enchanter Wynne was the source, her eyes glowing blue and hands pulsing with power. She put a hand on Cadoc and another on Enid, pulling them back from the brink of death with little more than a gesture. Then she raised her staff to the sky, rejuvenating all around her. Mayrin felt his wounds closing and energy returning, and had no doubt that his companions felt the same. Ancestors, Mayrin had no idea the old woman had it in her.

“Nor I, Grey Wardens,” Wynne chuckled, her voice accompanied by a choir of discordant voices inspiring hope and faith in her allies. As ambient magic crackled around her, Darla clung to her robes and gazed up at Wynne in wonder. “Now, show this monster that you are worthy of the trust Thedas has placed in you! Show it what being a Grey Warden truly means!”

Chapter Text

Teyrn Loghain was supposed to be a hero. What Eve heard growing up, even from other elves, made it seem like he was a good man that judged people based on their deeds, not where they came from or by the shape of their ears. His station was a testament to that fact, as were his Night Elves during the Rebellion. The only time she’d met him— in the Arl of Denerim’s cell— he treated her with respect and something even bordering on compassion. But what they’d seen on their way to Denerim, the civil war in the bannorn… They saw so many refugees, shemlen and elvhen both, fleeing from the darkspawn only to find even more carnage from the human lords that were supposed to protect them… It made Eve question what she had heard. 

The same could be said about the Wardens. She had thought them strong and virtuous heroes of legend, but when she realized that Jowan was Joining with her, she almost stabbed him herself. The fact that he was still alive probably meant that she was growing as a person. It was Jowan’s fault that Connor had been possessed, that Redcliffe was ravaged by undead, and, especially, that Irminric was dead. She was happy to see, at least, that Alistair and Rayne were of the same mind as she. Some Wardens had standards, at least.

Returning to Denerim was one of the most terrifying and exciting things she had done in a long time, feeling both dread and anticipation as she approached the gates with her compatriots. They were to enter in different groups: first went Bodahn and Sandal with Keegan and Nathaniel in their cart to hide them from prying eyes. Diala acted as their hired help. Second, Morrigan and Alistair would present themselves as Chantry folk. Alistair had… Irminric’s armor on, fresly cleaned and polished. Morrigan was eventually convinced to don Leliana’s old Chantry robes. With them were apparently a couple of poor elves they were helping flee the Blight— Eve and Rayne (whose staff had to be forcefully ripped from his fingers to be thrown into the wagon)— and the good templar’s mabaris. The mabaris— Garahel and Felix both— would distract from any suspicion aroused by Morrigan’s eyes; Fereldans were, after all, a predictable bunch.

They got past the guards easy enough and renconvened in the Market District at Bodahn’s stand. The dwarf was obviously very pleased to be able to ply his trade somewhere where none of the population was composed of walking corpses. They split up, each group having their own little mission to which they had to attend. Alistair and Diala were apparently going to visit his half-sister. Rayne was taking Morrigan and Garahel to pay a visit to Brother Genitivi (the former was almost vibrating in anticipation— apparently this Genitivi was a big deal). Keegan, Nathaniel and Felix would visit a smith named Wade to work on the drake scales Rayne found in Kinloch Hold, though Eve was certain that the Cousland obviously had greater plans than simply visiting a smith. What they were, he did not say. That left Eve. And the Alienage. Maker, she hoped her family was okay. Rayne also expressed an interest in visiting later, and, surprisingly, so did Nathaniel.

Hood up, she moved deftly through the the market stalls and crowds to make her way to the gates of the Alienage. When she overheard a shem noble with the most annoying voice in Thedas verbally abusing her elven maid, Eve had to remind herself why she was here. Zevran had given her some training in poison and assassination techniques in Redcliffe, but testing them out in the middle of Denerim on a Fereldan noble would not be a good idea. Nor was stealing from the stalls that used to be her primary sources of income. She even passed by Sergeant Kylon, who either did not recognize her or pretended not to, because Eve was certain they had made eye contact. She never had any bad experiences with Kylon. Certainly, the role each of them used to play often brought them into contact, even at odds, but he was nothing if not respectful, and always treated her fairly. Eve wondered what he thought of the new Arl.

As she arrived at the gates, she was greeted by a most unwelcome sight: a shemlen in armor, armed with a sword.

“By order of the new Arl of Denerim, no one is to enter the Alienage.”

Wonderful.

Keegan tightly grasped onto the ivy that had grown outside the Couslands’ Denerim estate, struggling to pull himself up. It had been awhile since he’d snuck in or out of this estate, and this was the first time he had ever done so in broad daylight. Luckily, however, the guards posted seemed to be particularly sparse today, and Keegan had no trouble avoiding them. He eventually made it onto a large window facing towards the back of the estate, but it was locked— it was fall, after all. Peering into the room, he saw that the fire in his mother’s sun room was burning and cursed silently. The estate was not unoccupied. No, it would have been to easy if it were. Unless…

He took another look into the window and apologized to the Maker for his most recent blaspheme. Sitting on a rocking chair and reading a great tome of a book was a rake-thin elderly woman with brown eyes. Her white hair was pulled back into a tight bun, not a hair out of place. She was wearing her familiar servant clothes and an immaculate white apron.

Keegan rapped on the window quietly, trying to get the attention of a woman he considered member of his family. It took her a moment, and when she did hear him, she nearly called for help before she realized just who was outside her window. She hurriedly opened it and beckoned Keegan inside before squeezing him in a hug tighter than any woman her age should be capable of. 

“Keegan! Dear boy! What are you doing here? Come in, come in. What’s going on? I thought that…”

“I was the only one who made it, Mistress Peyton,” Keegan said flatly, removing himself from her embrace. Not yet. He couldn’t let go just yet. “We have much to discuss. Come with me.”

“Of course, my lord,” Peyton said, giving the man she helped raise a slight bow and despairing at what seemed to have become of him. She was happy to see him, of course, but where was his easy smile, his mischevious laugh? Where was the good-natured teasing that had kept her mind sharp all these years?

Peyton led Keegan through a familiar but sparsely-furnished upper floor of the estate to the former Teyrn’s sitting room. Once a room overflowing with books and adorned with various baubles, statues, maps and tapestry, Keegan realized that is had been ransacked, purged and repurposed by its new owner Rendon Howe. Howe took everything of values, and disposed of the rest Bryce Cousland’s personal affects thrown away like yesterday’s dinner. As Keegan took his seat, she made some tea for the two of them, and they began to talk.

Keegan recounted the horrible events of the past few months to Peyton, knowing her loyalty to the Couslands was unwavering. She listened quietly, her expressions oscillating between horror, shock, sorrow, and unadulterated fury. Despite all of that, she was also relieved and vindicated to find out that Howe’s slander about the Couslands’ seemed to be just that: slander. Lies. Old and frail as she might be, there was a reason the Couslands had trusted her for so long, and she was living up to that trust now. After she calmed a bit, Keegan interrogated her about the state of things here in the Denerim estate.

According to Peyton, Howe had apparently only been here a handful of times, and hadn’t visited in months, preferring the comfort afforded by the Arl of Denerim’s manor. Many of the servants who did not live at the manor, especially the elven ones, quit— either in protest or fear for their own safety— to return to their homes in the Alienage Howe was in the process of destroying. Many of the guards also quit, and any remaining ardent Cousland loyalists were fired. Those who stayed on did so because they had no alternatives nor home to which they could return. 

“Why’d you stay on then, Miss P?”

“Our new lord thinks I am but a frail old woman, too old to be a threat. Let him,” she said as she took a sip of her tea. “Furthermore, you know as well as I do that this place would fall apart without me. Not a thing happens here that I do not know about.”

Keegan nodded at that, allowing himself to smile slightly. “Now… I’m going to ask a favour of you, Mistress Peyton. And it is a favour, not an order. I want you to know that you the have the option of saying no. This will be quite dangerous. In fact, you could be executed just for—“

“Whatever it is, you may count on me, my dear,” Mistress Peyton interjected, taking Keegan’s empty cup from him and beginning to clean up.

“Without even hearing what I have to ask?” Keegan questioned, allowing himself to smile. Mistress Peyton had that effect on people.  

“Of course, my sweet. It’s quite simple, really: a Cousland always does his duty. How could I do any less?”

Chapter Text

Bend but do not break, Enid and Merrill told her. Working with a shemlen to get into the Alienage wasn’t a betrayal of her people, was it? No. Eve was checking on her family, and would help them if needed. She hadn’t betrayed the people, even if the father of this particular shem was the reason she couldn’t get into her home in the first place.

“You sure you’re okay with this, Nathaniel? If we use your name to get into the Alienage, your father will know that you’re in town.”

Nathaniel smiled to himself. She may not have had any venom in her voice anymore, but she still refused to refer to him with a noble title. He had to respect that. “He was going to find out sooner or later, and I think that the fact that I’m his son will make him hesitate— at least momentarily— before sending assassins after me. I hope, at least… But, really. It’s no trouble, my lady. Let them come.”

Eve smiled at him hesitantly as they approached the gates. The conversation went much better than expected. Nathaniel’s identity would remain a secret for now, as the guard was quite amenable to a bribe from the younger Howe. Eve had never considered that. Adventuring across the countryside and pillaging the corpses of those she killed had been quite lucrative for the young city elf, but it still didn’t feel like it; she wasn’t used to having money and had never even considered a bribe. It would have been impossible in her old life. The bribe was also helped by Nathaniel’s haughty noble demeanour. It seemed that all of his kind were born knowing how to affect it. At least with this noble, it seemed to be an act.

The portcullis was raised as Eve lead Nathaniel into the foul-smelling and refuse-strewn Alienage she once called home. It was as she remembered: the streets were littered with filth of all kinds, and the ramshackle houses looked fragile enough to crumble after a strong sneeze. The only thing in the entire Alienage that wasn’t completely devoid of vibrancy and life was the vhenadahl. The ancient tree stood tall and proud, vibrant as ever. And then there was the smell. Maker, Eve had almost forgotten the smell. Nathaniel looked horrified, gagging slightly.

“Maker, what happened here?” he asked, plugging his nose as his eyes began to water.

“‘Happened?’ Nothing happened. This is an Alienage, and nicer than some others in Ferelden. I’m told it’s on the nicer side, though I have nothing to compare it to. This is normal for us,” Eve stated matter-of-factly.

“Truly? I had heard Alienage conditions were less than ideal, but to force our own citizens to live like this… This is unconscionable,” Nathaniel whispered.

“And is it any wonder we think most shems are monsters?”

“No,” Nathaniel responded quietly. “At this moment, I am inclined to agree,” he continued, clenching his fist in anger.

As they continued into the Alienage, more and more people began to recognize the dear departed daughter of Cyrion Tabris. A veritable crowd began to gather around her. It was clear they wanted to approach, but kept a healthy distance, regarding Nathaniel warily. “It’s okay,” she assured them. “He won’t hurt us.”

With her reassurance, the Alienage elves swarmed her, hugging and embracing a woman they all thought were dead. A woman who was a hero to most of them. All around her, tears of joy flowed freely as Eve lost herself in the embrace of the family she had so missed. 

Something was wrong, though: even though the Alienage was apparently on lockdown and should be filled to the brim, it was considerably more sparse than she expected. And where was her family? Neither her father, Shianni, Soris nor even Valendrian were anywhere to be found. She eventually picked a familiar face out of the crowd, Alarith, and pulled him aside, politely asking him where everyone was. He hesitated at first, eyeing Nathaniel warily before getting a nod from Eve that he could speak freely.

“They’ve been holed up in Valendrian’s all day, and no one else is allowed in. There are rumours, of course, but nobody knows for sure what’s going on. We were thankful that they were among the lucky ones, though. Your father is almost as much elder as the hahren himself!”

“Lucky? What do you mean?”

“You hadn’t heard, then? The new Arl purged the Alienage when he arrived for… Well, for the wedding. Then he put the orphanage to the sword. No one knows why— not that shems ever need a reason. It was… The worst thing I’ve ever seen, Maker rest their poor souls.”

“The orphanage?! What about the children?!” Eve asked, tearing up once again. Nathaniel looked at her, concerned and wanting to comfort her. He tentatively put a hand on her shoulder, and she didn’t shrug him off.

“All of them… Gone. And then the Tevinters arrived,” Alarith continued.

“Tevinters? Maker, what were they doing here?”

“They said they were healers. There was an outbreak of plague, and the Tevinters said the crown had sent them to help us, and to cure the plague… But nobody they ‘helped’ ever returned. Eventually, the queen and the regent’s forces came in and killed them, but not before a bunch of us had already been shipped off. Thank the Maker for Teyrn Loghain and Queen Anora.”

That was a lot to process. Eve considered on it for a moment, before halfheartedly agreeing and thanking Alarith. She then set out to Valendrian’s, knocking on the door excitedly. There was murmuring in the house before she heard her father’s voice call out from the inside, saying: “Apologies, friend, but Valendrian is occupied at the moment. He’ll see you later this evening.”

“I think he’ll make an exception for me,” Eve responded in a singsong voice. There was silence for a moment from the inside, before she heard who was likely one of her cousins bounding towards the door. It flew open and Shianni looked at Eve, eyes welling up with tears as she began to process what she was seeing. Shianni embraced her cousin in a back-breaking hug before ushering Eve and, cautiously, Nathaniel, into the Valendrian’s home.

“Cousin! You’re alive! I can scarcely believe it!”

Valendrian’s home was stiflingly hot compared to the chilly Harvestmere air outside, presumably from the amount of people crammed into such a small space. Reunions were as quick as they were heartfelt, with Soris, Shianni, Valendrian and Cyrion thanking the Maker and embracing Eve before the expressions on their faces became deathly serious. They were wary of Nathaniel, but thanked him for helping Eve get into the Alienage.

Valendrian told Eve that they had some guests, and led her back to his desk as she came face-to-face with a human woman of all things, with perfect skin pale as snow. Her golden hair was tied into two neat buns and she was wearing servant clothes, but servant clothes that indicated she served someone of great means. Beside her stood an elven woman with black hair and a very angular face. The elf was dressed in the same fashion, except that she had daggers on her belt, while the human woman seemed to be unarmed. By the way the unknown elf carried herself, Eve guessed there were even more daggers hidden on her person.

While Eve analyzed the new arrivals and tried to place them, Nathaniel immediately dropped to one knee and bowed his head before the human woman. Eve was confused, but supposed that this woman was some kind of noble. “Nathaniel! It is good to see you. Please, there is no need for that,” the woman said with a cultured accent and sincerity in her eyes.

“Uh, Nathaniel?” Eve asked. “Who in the Maker’s name is this?”

Rayne was getting quite used to having servants, and he couldn’t say he hated it, though he would never admit that. After him and Morrigan visited Brother Genitivi’s former abode, they followed Keegan’s directions and made their way to the Denerim estate of the Teyrn of Highever. The servants, few as they were, were attentive and deferential, and he ate better than he ever did in the Circle.

Genitivi’s absence from his home was disappointing, and his assistant’s murder and impersonation was horrifying… If not a little intriguing. Still, they at least had a destination, and Morrigan was happy for a little sport, as Denerim offered very little. Diala and Alistair’s journey had apparently been less than successful, whatever it was; Alistair had been sulking all day. At least he was handsome when he pouted, Rayne reflected. He was handsome doing most anything, actually.

Nathaniel and Keegan had visited the armor smith before Nathaniel accompanied Eve into the Alienage, but he wasn’t exactly sure how that went. She seemed to be an odd mix of worry, sadness, elation and anticipation. Whatever happened, they were tight-lipped about it, which just made Rayne want to know even more. Andraste, why people outside the Circle insisted on privacy he would never understand. Bodahn and Sandal were staying at the Gnawed Noble, meaning the rest of them didn’t have to worry about the merchants while they were here. That suited Rayne just fine. He realized that he actually missed the communal living of the Circle. On the outside, everyone was so possessive. Money, space, knowledge, even love… Rayne thought these things should be given freely and shared with all, not hoarded greedily.

Peyton, the mistress of the manor and a sharp, no-nonsense woman, invited them all to the dining hall for dinner. Seeing that she would be serving a dwarf, she took the opportunity to have some roast nug from Orzammar prepared for them, served with Legacy White Shear. Diala was incredibly thankful to Peyton for the nug, and all were impressed by the Shear. Mistress Peyton treated them all very well— dwarf, elf, human and mage alike, which impressed Rayne deeply. She even had some mabari crunches for Garahel and Felix.

By dinner, Diala seemed to have roused Alistair from his funk, and the two of them were being even more touchy-feely than usual. Morrigan may have scoffed at the affection, but Rayne was happy for them. Whatever was happening between him and Morrigan may not have been as pure and romantic as the bastard prince and exiled princess, but it was just as meaningful— to Rayne and Morrigan both, even if she didn’t agree just yet. Everyone shared their findings for the day, but Eve was still leaving something out, and Rayne could barely stand it.

“When Keegan gets here,” she kept repeating. 

Sure enough, the wayward young teyrn showed up about halfway through dinner, striding in from Creators only know which secret entrance or passage. Happy to see his human again, Felix went bounding towards him, intent on smothering him with kisses. For the first time, Rayne saw something resembling an emotion on Keegan’s face: anger, mixed hopelessness and despair. But, above all: panic.

“Keegan!” Eve called, jumping to her feet as he walked in. 

Ignoring her, he began ranting: “She wasn’t there! Andraste’s ass, she wasn’t there!”

“Keegan,” Eve tried again.

“I snuck into the palace, avoiding guards, picking locks, bribing and lying and killing to get to her. But she wasn’t there. What if they’ve killed her? Or worse? Howe, maybe, but Loghain wouldn’t allow that, would he?”

“Keegan,” Nathaniel attempted.

“This was a waste of time! We were too fucking late. We should have been faster… I should have been—“

“KEEGAN!” Nathaniel and Eve screamed in unison, snapping him out of it.

“We know where she is,” Eve said. Keegan regarded her curiously, not fully comprehending what she meant.

“Anora’s in the Alienage, Keegan. She’s alive, and she’s waiting for you.”

Chapter Text

They were late. Mercy had planned on arriving at the Peak yesterday, but Levi’s maps and guidance were… Not exactly reliable. Still, he was sure they were only a day away. They better have been. 

Since their talk, Jowan had been better, and even useful. Sten and Shale both seemed to be tolerating Mercy more and more every day, and Leliana’s presence had been… Pleasant. Along with being beautiful, talented, kind and capable, Leliana was also a puzzle. Her training as a bard— and upbringing as an Orlesian— made her much better at lying than the average Fereldan, or at least hiding her feelings. Unlike the rest of them, she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, and it was… Intriguing. Like a puzzle.

Jowan, Sten, Leliana and Mercy were eating the stew Leliana made for dinner while sitting around the campfire with Shale. After dinner, Leliana performed a Fereldan favourite, Andraste’s Mabari, which had Jowan and Mercy loudly (and badly) singing along. While Shale rolled its eyes, Sten listened to Leliana impassively, nodding to her as she finished the song. In his own qunari way, he enjoyed Leliana’s singing, no matter what she was singing about. Maybe he was a “big softie” after all.

As the rest of the party was retiring for the evening, Leliana hovered around Mercy as she was heading to her tent.

“How can I help you, Leliana?” Mercy asked, smiling.

“I’ve told you how much I love that you wear your hair, but I have noticed that it is always in the same style. As we have some time here at camp, I was wondering if I might teach you some other styles?” she asked. Before Mercy could respond, Leliana added, giggling: “It has been so long since I could do anything with my hair, and I was hoping to live vicariously through you!”

Mercy’s long white hair was currently unbraided blowing lazily in the evening wind. Leliana’s face was illuminated by the moonlight, and she smiled up at Mercy, absentmindedly stroking her hair.

Mercy smiled back, opening the flap of her tent and motioning for Leliana to come inside. “I would be delighted,” Mercy said, following Leliana inside.

Making conversation as she got to work on Mercy’s hair, Leliana said: “I enjoy the nights at camp, the night always seem more peaceful to me. Safer.”

“I know what you mean,” Mercy responded, closing her eyes. She was perfectly content at the moment.

“I feel the night grants us a reprieve from the troubles of the day. Silly, isn't it? The darkspawn never sleep, and they lurk in the shadows,” Leliana continued.

“It is not silly to seek moments to lay down your burdens,” Mercy responded. Leliana paused for a moment.

“Is that what you seek? A moment to lay down your burden?” she asked, and then continued braiding.

Mercy inhaled, and then sighed deeply. “Perhaps, some days. I am proud of being a Warden, and doing good work, but… I would not lie if I said I did not long for a quiet evening on the farm after a hard day’s work.”

“I am no farmer, and this is no farm, but it is quiet enough. If you wish, perhaps you and I could lay might our burdens together, if only for a moment,” Leliana said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

Mercy turned around and smiled at Leliana. “Perhaps we could,” she said, and then leaned in to kiss the bard. 

Leliana returned her kiss, but then gently pushed Mercy off her. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mercy said.

“No need to be sorry,”  Leliana said, smiling. “But your hair is only halfway finished, and you look quite frightening right now! Not at all fit for a Grey Warden of legend. Allow me to finish first, Commander, and then we can move on to… Other things.”

Mercy could not say that she hated waking up beside Leliana. She wanted to stay in her sleeping bag forever, but she had a job to do and a keep to investigate. Levi was came through eventually, and he was able to get them to the Peak that day. They were able to make it through the tunnels, and might never have been able to do so without him. They also might never have heard of the Peak at all, in Mercy’s case. She would be lying if she said a part of her wasn’t excited.

The Peak itself was… Remarkable. Why Ferelden had never claimed the Keep for itself after exiling the Wardens was a mystery… At least until the dead began to rise, that is. They were attacked by skeletons shambling towards them angrily, dressed Fereldan and Grey Warden colours both. They were vicious and fanged, and would have been terrifying to any regular soldier. But the party was used to battling unnatural dangers by now, except for Jowan. While he had not fought the undead, he sure got used to them in Redcliffe.

There were a few close calls against the undead, but what really unnerved the party was waking dreams. It was similar to the Fade, but felt more real. Jowan explained that the waking dreams felt like the Fade, but a little more real, and a little more permanent.

“The Veil is thin here… Perhaps even torn open,” Jowan said quietly. “Expect more trouble inside, Warden-Commander. I can sense a particularly powerful demon lurking inside the Keep.”

“Thank you, Jowan,” Mercy said, nodding at him. “Everyone, keep on your toes. Listen to Jowan for any tips against the demons.”

“So the Fool Mage proves itself useful once again? Oh, wonder of wonders,” Shale rumbled, plodding up the stairs. 

“Oh! I suppose we are pressing on, then! Let’s go, everybody!” Leliana said, notching another arrow and winking at Mercy as she excitedly followed the golem up the stairs.

Felix was sad that his human was still so down, but really happy to see the golden lady again. He dozed on Keegan’s bed while him and Anora discussed their situation. Neither was very happy, but both seemed relieved. 

Keegan was still staying in his room, even though his parents’ room was technically now his own. He couldn’t bring himself enter, though. He couldn’t even cross the threshold. He was sitting next to Felix on his purple bedspread while Anora was perched on his desk chair.

“What possessed you to do this, Keegan? I am, of course, thankful, but staying here puts Mistress Peyton and the rest of the staff at risk. If Howe finds out I was here… Or that you and the Wardens are here, for that matter…”

Keegan sighed wearily. “I know, Your Majesty, but I knew that I was coming to help you, and that we might have to get you out of the city. But before that, we would need to hide you somewhere… And we couldn’t very well have had you stay at the Gnawed Noble, could we? And you hid in the Alienage. You put the elves at risk, just like I have with Miss P. and the rest of the staff.”

“It seems we have both found ourselves relying on the kindness of those we’ve traditionally considered our… Lessers. Regardless, thank you. I am in your debt, Teyrn Cousland.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty. I am simply doing my duty to Ferelden; I am a Cousland, after all,” Keegan responded, as if by rote. Anora took note of his demeanour; Keegan was wound tightly, and might unravel at any moment.

“It is appreciated, regardless. I will have to reward Mistress Peyton, as well, of course… And the elves.” She pursed her lips in thought, her cold blue eyes looking towards the future even in this time of crisis. “The way they live… I— I had never been to an Alienage before, I regret to say. But as Ferelden’s queen… It is unconscionable that Fereldan citizens live that way. Something must be done to rectify that when this is over. Is it the same in Highever, do you know, or other cities in Thedas?” she asked.

“I regret that I have never been to the Highever Alienage either, Your Majesty. One of our traveling companions, however, has said that Alienages are pretty much the same everywhere. She is from the Denerim Alienage, and her name is Evelyn Tabris. The conditions in the Alienage are certainly disconcerting, but it also seems like such a waste. If she or the other elves I’ve met are any indication, elves are just as capable and clever as any man, or at least have the potential to be… If they are permitted the opportunity, Your Majesty. I am aware that the Chantry teaches us that elves are further from the Maker’s light than we are, but… No one deserves that.”

Anora chuckled at his insistence on her formal title, despite everything. “Keegan, it there is no one listening, except perhaps Erlina. No need to be so formal.”

“Of course… Anora,” Keegan chuckled before forcefully choking back a sob, tears filling his eyes unbidden. He put his hand over his mouth, shocked that he was falling apart already. Fruitlessly, he tried to swallow everything back down once again. He cleared his throat. “Apologies, Anora, I…”

Anora looked at him, concerned. The tears were flowing freely now. Felix had awoken to the sound of his human’s sobs, and was already licking Keegan’s face. Anora joined Keegan on the bed, hugging him close and letting him cry onto her shoulder. “Keegan, tell me how I can help.”

He sobbed a little bit longer, his entire body wracked with sobs. He was able to calm himself just enough to choke out some words in between his shaky breaths. “I can’t believe this is happening. We have a Blight to contend with, a civil war to pacify, and, here I am blubbering and— Maker, I miss them Anora. If Nathaniel hadn’t been there, I’d be dead in the ground with them. Some days, I wish I were. I’ve tried not to feel anything, to push it all down, but…” he stopped, consumed again by violent, mournful sobbing.

“For what it’s worth, Keegan… I am happy you are not dead. Without your letters, I may have continued to be blind to my father and Howe’s schemes for Maker knows how long. Thank you, and I will have to thank Nathaniel as well,” she smiled, wiping tears from his eyes as one escaped her own. She cupped his face in her hand. “However, I am so sorry for what happened. Bryce and Eleanor were loyal Fereldans and good friends. Your mother especially. Fereldan is lesser without them.”

He hugged her again, tightly, before taking a deep breath and finally succeeding at collecting himself, mostly. Felix came between the two of them to pushed Anora away, obviously jealous of Keegan’s affection. It elicited a laugh from them both before Keegan turned to Anora more seriously, taking another deep breath

“I’m sorry, Anora… That… Display was selfish. You’re grieving too. I am sorry about Cailan,” he said sincerely. “…and your father.”

She smiled again, sadly. “Thank you. I have had some time to process and to grieve, and I had Erlina to help keep my wits about me… But, now, more importantly… We must plan for the future. Your alliance with the Grey Wardens seems to have borne fruit. Tell me all of the details.”

“A qunari as Warden-Commander! I can still scarcely believe it,” Avernus said, peering down at them from the raised platform on his laboratory. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, let alone met a qunari, Warden or not! Judging by your companions, your people never ended up conquering us! Still, I never thought your kind would be living this far south. How did this come to be?” Avernus asked, the old man’s eyes examining and visually dissecting Mercy and her entire party, incredibly intrigued by the new Wardens. The old man made Jowan shiver; his workshop was the stuff nightmares were made of.

“Accepted is not the word I would use, and I’m not a true qunari— you know what, we can go over this later. You helped us close the tears in the Veil, and we’re grateful for that. The things you’ve done here, however, are… Monstrous. And to your fellow Wardens. How do I know I can let you live, let alone trust you? Even for a blood mage, this seems… Excessive. Would you agree, Jowan?”

Jowan nodded sheepishly. He was the only mage on the expedition to Soldier’s Peak and his expertise was invaluable in Mercy’s meeting with Avernus, but by the Maker did Jowan hate it. Fighting the skeletons, killing the possessed Warden-Commander, and even sealing the Veil… Taking back the Peak was easy, but something as simple as having a casual conversation with a two-hundred year old blood mage was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever done.

“All I did, I did for the Wardens. The battle was lost, but some good could come from it. What I did here could save the Peak, and possibly save the Wardens. Do what you deem fair with me, Warden-Commander, but make use of my research. Ensure that my fellow Wardens’ sacrifices were not in vain.”

“In regards to that, actually… I found your potion as we were making our way through the Peak, and I drank it. The taint had already made me stronger than any person I’ve ever met, but your potion was… Something else. Can you do that for everyone?”

“If I had more Warden blood, and samples of yours’ specifically, I have no doubt. If the Wardens adopt my modified potion, we will be stronger, faster and more resilient than ever. The Calling will be staved off for longer than anyone could have dreamed. Lastly, it may even solve the… Fertility problem Wardens have. And for mages… Well, the power is impossible to describe.”

“And the cost, Senior Mage Avernus?” Mercy asked, face deliberately neutral.

“Next to nothing. I won’t need more than negligeable amounts of blood from other Wardens, some pure darkspawn blood, and the archdemon blood I have here in reserve. And the necessary lyrium and herbs, of course.”

Mercy thought on it for a moment, and looked at Jowan before agreeing outright. He looked like he was about to wet his pants, but he nodded at Mercy. Like Mercy, he believed that Avernus was saying. Mercy extended her hand and smiled carefully at Avernus, saying: “You won’t work without another Warden mage supervising you, and only select few will be told about the nature of your former work here, but it can continue. The day you go too far, or the day you stop being useful, however, is the day you die.”

Taking her grey hand in his spotted and wrinkled one, Avernus responded: “I am at your service, Warden-Commander.”

Leliana had spent most of the day working with Levi to dust, clean and make the Peak liveable again. Sten and Shale couldn’t be bothered, but they both agreed that the fortress was impressive, and that it would make a good home base for the Wardens and the Drydens.

“Did you see the note from Bann Wulff, Sten?” Leliana asked the qunari as he fixed himself some food to eat. 

“I did. What of it?” he responded.

“It was most likely Cadoc’s ancestor! That’s fascinating, no?”

“No.”

“Truly? I am sure Cadoc would find it interesting,” Leliana said as she finished fluffing some of the pillows that hadn’t crumbled to dust over the centuries.

“Likely,” Sten responded.

Leliana chuckled ruefully to herself more than anyone. “Truly, it is a wonder I even try to converse with you anymore, Sten.”

Sten merely grunted at that, but Leliana swore that this was an amused grunt. She was becoming proficient at deciphering them.

“Do not take it personally, Leliana,” Mercy called as she came down the stairs from the mage’s tower. “From what my parents have told me, he’s downright chatty for a qunari.”

“Oh? Then I suppose I should take it as a compliment.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Mercy chuckled, as she stole a spoonful of Sten’s porridge. He merely rolled his eyes in response. “See? If he didn’t like us, he would have snapped my neck then and there.”

“The day is still young, Warden,” Sten said with the slighest hint of mirth.

“Is that sarcasm from a member of the beresaad? It truly is the end of days,” Mercy smiled as she sat beside Leliana on the couch. “Now, what can we do while we wait for the rest of the Wardens to arrive? Unless Sten starts telling jokes, we are going to be pretty bored up here.”

“Oh, I’m not so certain,” Leliana said, leaning into Mercy and smiling mischievously. “I am certain that we can think of something.”

They could practically hear Sten rolling his eyes as he took his porridge and fled the scene.

Chapter Text

It felt good to truly be among the People again. Enid had done well adjusting to life among the Wardens, better than most of her fellows probably would. She quickly accepted that they were to be her new clan, and she knew that it was her responsibility to make the Dalish proud and do her duty. It helped that her compatriots were mostly all competent, capable, and free of the prejudices she had come to expect from humans.

Merrill was overjoyed to see Lanaya and some of the other mages again, and it felt good to be near Halla as well. Even Cadoc seemed taken by their beauty, which made him a little less twitchy about all of the mages and heathens about. Wynne was quite taken by the Dalish, and given the deference due to a mage of considerable years and experience. Mayrin found the whole thing rather quaint, but was respectful, even if his view was tainted somewhat by Zevran’s less than stellar opinion of the People.

Merrill couldn’t understand why a fellow elf would show such scorn to the Dalish, but Enid had difficulty blaming him. She knew how the Dalish talked about flat ears and shemlen. But she also understood why the Dalish were so insular and xenophobic. In the past, interacting with humans was often lethal for the Dalish. What good had ever come from elves trusting them? Never again shall we submit.

Hahren Sorel was even less friendly than Hahren Paivel, and younger than Mercy expected. Zathrian was nowhere near as warm as Marethari, but he was still quite pleased to see Enid, and especially Merrill. She apparently made quite the impression on him at the last Arlathven. Merrill was fascinated that Zathrian had somehow rediscovered the secrets to immortality, and spent most of her time prodding him to reveal his rediscovered knowledge. Zathrian seemed jaded, but Enid supposed that she might also be were she in his shoes. Living that long must have been lonely. At least Lanaya was friendly.

Enid was practically vibrating after her conversation with Varathorn, the clan crafter. The elder elves of clan Sabrae never much wanted to talk about her parents. Ashalle also did such an exemplary job raising Enid that she never asked all that much. Still, to hear of her father, Keeper Mahariel from an old friend of his, and to hear that he would be proud of her for becoming a Grey Warden… Well, words couldn’t describe what she was feeling. “You wear Mythal's vallaslin," he said. "There is no better way to honour her nor to protect the People than by fighting darkspawn.”

As much as Enid and Merrill wanted to stay, however, they had a job to do… And, by the sounds of it, it would be messy, but at least it would be easy. Morally, at least. No ethical quandries, no hard decisions… She just had to kill some werewolves, and this clan could join the Wardens. Easy.

This was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to feel good, for once, without any pesky moral dilemmas. Enid had been nearly vibrating at the prospect of slaying some monsters and saving her fellow elves. At protecting the People, just like Mythal before her. It had felt like coming home. Even the elven children were happy to spend time with the shemlen child they group brought along. Not yet as xenophobic as their elders, Darla was fit right in while the party went off adventuring. Enid even found some nifty ancient elven armor, the Juggernaut Plate! She felt invincible, at least for a little while.

This was supposed to be easy.

But the werewolves were… Sentient? Zathrian described them as mindless beasts ruled by and bound to a terrible spirit, not real people who were simply trying to end their curse. Enid was lost in thought, but at least capable of communication, unlike Merrill. Since leaving the Lady of the Forest’s chamber and heading up the stairs, Merrill had barely acknowledged her companions, let alone what they had just learned. She was completely silent and staring at her destination with an almost Keegan-like emptiness in her eyes.

“Hey, Enid?” Mayrin asked. “I know it isn’t really my place, but this isn’t normal, right?”

“Which? Merrill, the demon, or the magic? Because if you ask me, the answer is none of them,” Cadoc responded.

“He was not asking you,” Wynne interjected with uncharacteristic harshness in her voice. “Merrill, dear, can we do anything to help?” Wynne tried to offer, putting her hand of Merrill’s shoulder before the elf shrugged it off.

“To answer your question, Wynne,” Enid responded, “none of this is normal. Merrill is usually, well, you know Merrill, but what Zathrian did doesn’t sound like a Keeper at all. Mythal’enaste, they’re supposed to protect us…”

“Unfortunately for our fellow elves, it appears he does not take his duties too seriously. But fear not, my elven beauties, I will protect you!” Zevran said, smiling at Enid halfheartedly and trying to lighten the mood. Wynne was still trying to be serious, but couldn’t help the smile that appeared on her face as she rolled her eyes at the Antivan assassin.

True to his word, as soon as they entered the antechamber, Zevran and Mayrin stepped in front of the Dalish elves when they saw who was waiting for them, blades drawn. The gesture was unnecessary, but sweet.

Kneeling over the corpses of some werewolves, Zathrian said absentmindedly, with more than a little bit of condescension: “Ah. And here you are.”

Before Enid or anybody else could respond, vines violently burst forth from the floor, shattering the stone and entrapping Zathrian. Merrill bellowed in fury as the green energy from her staff became brighter and brighter, animating various branches and plant life scattered throughout the ruin. Like great serpents, more vines snaked towards Zathrian, binding all of his limbs and ripping his staff from his hands.

“Ma harel lasa!” she screamed. “Ma banal las halamshir var vhen!”

“What is the meaning of this?!” Zathrian asked in surprise and anger. “Free me, da’len! You do not want to do this,” he said threateningly enough that Enid assumed a defensive position in front of her First, fully prepared to test the limits of her new Juggernaut Plate.

“Dirthara-ma,” Merrill responded with enough venom in her voice to melt silverite. She clenched her fist, and the vines constricting Zathrian tightened even further. Cadoc looked to react, but Mayrin stopped him before anything could be done. They needed to let Merrill say her piece. “You call yourself Keeper? A Keeper?! A Keeper guides their clan, teaches them, nurtures them… But, before anything else we protect them! I understand vengeance against shemlen; all elvhen do. But the moment that your vengeance threatened your clan, you should have ended this curse. The moment you decided your vengeance was more important than them was the moment you failed not only as a Keeper, but as a Dalish elf.”

Zathrian looked ashamed now, and had stopped struggling against the vines. This condemnation from anyone but a First would not have meant much, but it came from another Keeper. It meant everything. “You cannot understand, da’len,” he said, hanging his head in shame.

“Na melana sahlin, hahren. It is up to you to decide how it happens.”

With that, Merrill let the vines retract and Zathrian fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Everyone’s blades were out, but they waited to see what the man before them would do. He took a moment to breathe before leaning on his staff to stand up and making eye contact with Merrill.

“Ma nuvenin, da’len,” he said as he set off down the stairs. “Let us put an end to this curse.”

“Ma serannas, lethallin. For this, and for Enid,” Merrill said to Aneirin as he finished healing the last of the scratches on the emerald-eyed elf. The cutesy smile she gave him almost made Cadoc forget that she put the fear of the Maker into all of them in that tomb with her accursed magics. His father the Arl had always said that the Circle was too harsh for mages, and Cadoc had always agreed, even after fighting alongside his fellow Warden mages. But seeing what Merrill really could do, seeing the horrors Zathrian had been able to commit… It made him wonder if the qunari were right about mages all along. Sure, Zathrian had relented and broken his curse, but the fact remained that a single elven mage was able to cause that much suffering. Sten had already proven himself wise and practical about many things, and Cadoc was grateful for the guidance he had received so far. What if this was just one more thing the qunari was right about?

“What she said,” Enid agreed. “Aneirin, you saved my life; there’s nothing I say to show you just how grateful I am, but… Thank you. Without you, I never would have made it to the Grey Wardens.”

“You are quite welcome, Enid. I am pleased to see that you survive. It seems some of your lessons took root, Wynne,” Aneirin said, smiling at his old mentor.

On the way back from the werewolves, the group had finally managed to track down Aneirin, Wynne’s old student. He was happy for Wynne, who had saved his life countless times. Still, Aneirin was just… Another apostate.  Maker, how many apostates were there roaming Ferelden? Cadoc had really begun to questioning the efficacy of the templars and the Chantry. He should discuss this with Sten when they reunited.

The Wardens and their allies in Denerim were gathered around the table at the Cousland Estate once again. Mistress Peyton and her staff brought out bacon, eggs and bread for breakfast.

They were thanked, and both Eve and Rayne passed on some silvers to excited elven servants, to Morrigan’s annoyance. “Are you sure we should be starting without the teyrn, or his… Guest?” Alistair asked skeptically, though his ravenous stomach was cursing him for the delay.

“Teyrn Keegan told Mistress Peyton to serve us without him,” Nathaniel explained. “Him and his guest are not to be disturbed.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice!” Diala said, digging in, more and more impressed with human cuisine. Alistair smiled at her as she shoveled mouthful after mouthful of scrambled eggs into her mouth.

“What?” she asked when she saw him starting, mouth filled to the brim.

“Nothing, my dear” he said, smiling.

“Well, we need to wait until Keegan’s arrival to share what we’ve learned,” Rayne said, slicing some breakfast for Garahel and putting the plate on the ground. Morrigan scoffed and, again, rolled her eyes, but Alistair noticed her small smile. He was concerned about Morrigan, and her influence over Alistair’s fellow Warden. Everyone knew mages were vulnerable to corruption, but Alistair thought the Chantry had always just meant demon corruption, not witchy corruption. 

“But, how has everyone’s trip to Denerim been? Relaxing? Entertaining?” Rayne asked casually, soliciting a chuckle from a few of his companions. They idly discussed Denerim for awhile as they ate, bringing one another up to speed. It seemed that Bodahn and Sandle were the only people who had trips that weren’t incredibly stressful.

Alistair may not have had the best time meeting Goldanna, but he was happy that Diala had been there with him. He was happy that she had helped him start looking at things from a new perspective. He also saw that she kept the rose he had given her in her pack, dead as it was, which gave him all kinds of butterflies.

Eve and Nathaniel had, along with their royal rescue, been able to make it into the Alienage. From what Alistair understood, it was not a good visit. Before the nobility put a stop to it, there had been slavers in the Alienage, and a lot of her community had been sold like cattle.  Eve’s immediate family was safe, but she was shaken, and even angrier than usual. 

The Queen’s servant, Erlina, also joined them for breakfast, and thanked them for their hospitality. She was a sharp girl, in more ways than one, and her Orlesian accent was thick. Alistair wondered why Teyrn Loghain ever permitted an Orlesian so close to his daughter.

She noticed Alistair eyeing her and smiled curiously, raising her eyebrows. “I assume you are wondering, Ser Alistair, how I came to serve Queen Anora.”

“Among other things… You helped ferret her out of the castle? You hid her in the Alienage? It all seems a little bit…”

“What, Ser Alistair?” she asked. “Convenient? Suspicious? To answer the question you’re too afraid to ask: yes, I am a bard, an Orlesian spy.”

The servants still in the room had to stifle gasps when she said that, and they weren’t the only ones. While Morrigan only raised an eyebrow curiously, Rayne reached for his staff and Eve her dagger, while Diala only looked at Alistair, waiting for him to act. Nathaniel put a hand on Eve, bidding her to stop. “She is trustworthy, My Lady,” he assured her, before turning to the rest of the table. “Wardens, permit her to speak. She is an ally, and an asset.”

The table calmed, but regarded her warily. “Why don’t you tell us everything, Erlina?” Nathaniel asked gruffly.

“Everything, my lord? Surely, there are some secrets that—“

“Everything,” Rayne insisted sharply, his spell wisp vibrating as if to punctuate his sentence. Nathaniel nodded at her.

“Very well, Wardens. I was trained in the bardic arts from a young age in Orlais and grew up in her capital, Val Royeaux. I eventually came to serve Empress Célène when she ascended the throne, but by then, I had become one of the Shadows of the Empire, Orlesian assassins. Nowhere near as famous or powerful as the Crows, of course, but just as effective. Possibly more, as we are not bogged down by reputation.”

“An assassin?!” Alistair interrupted before being shushed by Rayne.

“Indeed, though I was originally sent to observe, not kill. I came to serve Queen Anora when she was simply Lady Anora of Gwaren, daughter of the Hero of River Dane. I claimed to have fleed Orlais under threat of death, and Anora added me to her staff. Within a few years, the order came to… Take care of her. It seemed évident that she would grow to be as capable in peacetime as her father was in wartime. I was to use poison, but I… I could not do it. I told the queen everything, and to my surprise, she told me she had known for some time, and been feeding me false information.

“By the time she ascended the throne, I had become her spymaster. I trained her in combat and poison, archery and stealth. She learned the intricacies of The Game and how to properly contend with the Orlesian nobility. From her, I learned loyalty and compassion, and I learned what it was like to be valued as a person, not a tool. I would give my life for my Queen, do not doubt that,” Erlina affirmed, smiling. Rayne had a million questions, none of which he would be able to ask. Interrupting, the seneschal announced the arrival of Queen Anora and Teyrn Keegan.

The whole table stood silently, except for Morrigan. Anora and Keegan entered, both of them dressed in Fereldan finery, fine silks and animal furs displayed in equal measure. Anora sat at the head of the table, Keegan sitting to her right.

The rest of the table was seated as well, and Anora spoke. “Thank you, Erlina. Though I do hope that it doesn’t come to that. Now, Warden Surana, I hear you have news about the Urn of Sacred Ashes and Brother Genitivi? Please share all that you can. We will be setting out for Redcliffe in the this evening, and I wish to prepare as much as possible before we do.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Rayne offered. “Forgive me but… Am I to understand that you are coming with us?”

“Certainly, Warden Surana. Ferelden is in crisis. I cannot sit idly by while you and your fellows toil to unite an entire country against this Blight. If I cannot help from the palace, I can at least help the Wardens; indeed, I must help. It is my duty as queen.”

Chapter Text

Queen Anora proved herself to be an agreeable traveling companion, with nary a complaint and no expectation of preferential treatment. While the humans and elves struggled to adjust to traveling with Anora, Diala had no such trouble. In another world, they may have been social peers. They had, in fact, met before, though only in passing. Anora and Cailan had twice visited Orzammar after Cailan’s ascension in 9:25 Dragon, and Anora had been polite enough, though Diala preferred Cailan at the time. 

Together, though, they had a wide appeal in Orzammar. Cailan was boisterous, charismatic, and a hell of a swordsman. He even accompanied a small Deep Roads expedition while he was there, and he was quite popular among the dwarves that appreciated that kind of thing.

His queen, however, was another thing entirely: well-read, soft-spoken, double-talking and calculating. At the time, it occured to Diala that Anora probably knew more about dwarven history and customs than Diala herself, no doubt studying before her arrival. Her diplomatic skills and attention to etiquette were exemplary, impressing the entire Assembly. Though the trip was supposed to be ceremonial, Anora was able to secure some new trade agreements while she was there, to everyone’s surprise. Bhelen had liked her a lot, though Diala tried not to hold that against her. To the queen’s credit, Anora seemed to appreciate Diala treating her like a normal person while they were on the road, especially since she mostly remained cloaked from view. It would not do to let everyone know that the Queen of Ferelden was traveling with a small band of Grey Wardens across the Fereldan countryside.

“What do you think your commander will make of the Ashes, Warden Aeducan?” Anora asked as she walked alongside Diala, dressed in well-made drakeskin leather armor and wearing a black cloak, a longbow resting on her back.

“Please, Anora, call me Diala. I’m not even an Aeducan anymore, remember? And I’m not sure; Mercy is focused on the Blight and probably won’t be too excited about going to a town we aren’t even sure exists to find something you topsiders consider a myth.”

Anora considered. “A practical woman, by all accounts. Are there no other options for Eamon, then?”

“Not according to our healers,” Diala explained. “He seems to be worsening by the day. Alistair insists that Arl Eamon is our best chance of opposing your father. He apparently holds a lot of sway over the Landsmeet. Keegan seemed to agree,” she added, shrugging. Diala could see Anora choosing her next words very carefully. It was her father that had Eamon poisoned, after all.

“I see. It is true: Arl Eamon was not at Ostagar and still has all of his forces. Arls Wulff and Bryland are also important voices in the Landsmeet. Bryland is in Denerim with the remainder of his forces, but it was very astute for the Commander to seek out Arl Wulff. Arl Eamon’s brother, Bann Teagan, has been an outspoken critic of my father since Ostagar, and is apparently indebted to the Wardens for what happened in Redcliffe…” Anora trailed off.

“And since his son isn’t of age, is a mage, and Eamon is incapacitated, Bann Teagan could become Arl Teagan in the interim, at least until the Blight is over, right?” Diala asked, raising an eyebrow. She may not have liked all the surface politics and history she learned at from her tutors, but she couldn’t say that the knowledge hadn’t come in handy. “Then, we could find a cure for Eamon? If he were to survive that long, which he probably won’t be doing?”

“I was simply wondering if anyone had considered the option, as, like you said, it may be unwise to chase legends and folktales in a Blight,” Anora said. 

Diala considered for a moment. “If I were in charge, I think I’d make that decision, yeah, but Alistair wouldn’t be happy about it, and neither would Leliana. It would risk the Arl. Isolde and Teagan also wouldn’t like it either. But, regardless, this Gentivi guy is pretty respected, right? Not known for flights of fancy? Rayne puts a lot of stock in him, and I don’t see Mercy flat-out refusing. If she doesn’t go herself, the Ashes will probably be investigated. If not, she’ll never hear the end of it from Rayne.”

Anora nodded, satisfied with the answer, even if it wasn’t the choice she would have made. These people were her allies as well as her subjects, but it was much more important that they were her allies right now, and that they had a good opinion of her. Her position was precarious, and she might be killed back in Denerim.

Ahead of them, Keegan walked with Alistair at the front of the group. Felix walked just ahead of them and looked back every few seconds to ensure his human’s safety. His human had been in better spirits lately, and Felix was overjoyed by that fact. The golden lady had made him really sad for just a moment, before helping to make him better.

“So, Alistair, my good friend,” Keegan started, his tone jovial.

“Oh, are we friends now?” Alistair asked sarcastically, an edge to his voice. “Am I not whining too much for you, my good and noble Teyrn Cousland?”

Keegan sighed, smiling a bit and scratching his head awkwardly. “Sorry. That was… Unworthy of me. I wasn’t in the best place at the time… I was not dealing well with the slaughter of my entire family and what have you.”

Alistair winced a bit, backing down. “Right… I’m sorry, too, my lord, I—“

“No, no!” Keegan interrupted. “Don’t you go my-lording me again. I was explaining, not justifying. You just lost your family as well, in a way,” he said softly. Alistair made eye contact with Keegan and nodded a thank you.

“If you say so, Keegan… What do you need?”

“Well, you know how you’re the bastard son of Maric the Saviour, the only living member of the Theirin line, and possibly Cailan’s heir?”

Alistair eyed him suspiciously. “…yes. Why?”

“Well, Eamon and Teagan both are fairly traditional. Eamon has never completely agreed with Maric about making Loghain Teyrn of Gwaren, and he has never liked the idea of Anora on the throne. He would have much preferred Alfstanna, Edna or even Habren. We will need to call a Landsmeet to end this civil war, and I have no doubt that the Guerrins will insist that you take the throne.”

“What?!” Alistair gasped, turning white. “But I’m a Grey Warden! We don’t get involved in politics. And I don’t want the throne anyways. I think Anora’s a great queen. As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to it.”

“My thoughts exactly, Alistair,” Keegan said, nodding. “I just wanted to talk to you now so you aren’t shocked with our alternate proposal for the landsmeet: that Queen Anora marry me, and I become King of Ferelden.”

Alistair was shocked at this as well, but less so than when Keegan mentioned getting put  forward as king. He considered it for a moment, but then nodded. “Anora I trust, but you… I’m not sure if I trust you yet, though. But my opinion doesn’t matter; I’m a Grey Warden.”

Keegan thanked Alistair for his honesty, and they continued walking. “Regardless, I will try to convince you,” he said, smiling genuinely for the first time since Alistair had known him. Things were looking up. 

Enid and Mayrin’s squad was making good time from the Brecilian Forest to Soldier’s Peak, if the maps from Levi Dryden were to be believed. The human child, Darla, slowed them down, but Mayrin and Enid were hardy enough to carry her on their shoulders. Zathrian— or Lanaya’s— clan would soon make their way to Redcliffe to join with the rest of the army they were amassing. Lanaya had also sent word to some other, less influential clans, who agreed to come as well. Enid and Merrill did not know what exactly became of the Sabrae clan, only that they had left the halla and gone north to the Free Marches. Enid had asked Merrill if she wanted to head to Redcliffe with Zathrian’s clan now, as she wasn’t a Warden nor was she sworn to any of them, but Merrill of course insisted on staying.

Merrill had been continuing practicing the shapeshifting and healing magic she learned from the other mages she had met, with Wynne’s help. She had mastered the form of the halla easily, after she knew the theory behind being a shapechanger. At the moment, she was capable of transforming into a raven, a halla and a cat. Healing was harder, and she had yet to succeed at more than a basic healing spell. To Merrill’s chagrin, Enid had been doing a great deal of inquiry into the faith and cultures of their companions.

From Mayrin, she learned about the dwarves and the Stone, and about Ancestors and Paragons. She had learned a little bit from Marethari and the rest of the clan growing up, but nothing like what Mayrin was able to give her. The way they venerated their ancestors— and not any creators— was interesting. More interesting, however, was that, by Enid’s assessment, nothing about the Dwarven faith interfered with or contradicted the Dalish’s stories about the Creators. Indeed, it seemed possible that the elven name for dwarves, durgen’len— or children of the stone— may not have been mere allegory.

Merrill, unlike Enid, was a lot less open-minded about other religions. She in particular did not enjoy Enid’s discussions with Cadoc. While Enid and Cadoc were walking along one evening as dusk was falling, they were engaged in what seemed like their thousandth discussion about the Evanuris and the Maker. 

“If I am understanding it correctly, your faith says that, despite everything they did create and all they gave the elves, your Creators did not actually create this world, right?” Cadoc asked thoughtfully, his brown eyes considering something.

“It does, lethallin. Why do you ask?” Enid responded.

“Well, is it possible that these Creators, and the Forgotten Ones, were some of the Maker’s first children? The Chant teaches that, first, he created the spirits. What if your Evanuriswere just particularly powerful spirits who helped shape and guide the first of the elves?”

Merrill overheard this. Well, she had likely overheard everything, but this was the first time she reacted, indignant. “I can’t believe that—“ she began, before Enid raised a hand to cut her off calmly. 

“What I think Merrill was going to say, Cadoc, was no. It’s not possible. If I understand it correctly, spirits— according to our Keepers— embody a single facet of our material existence: valor, bravery, rage, hunger, curiosity, faith…” She said, smiling at Wynne. “Despite their power, they are simple. But the Evanuris, according to our stories, were anything but simple. They were  multifaceted and complicated. Many stories even contradict themselves! To your other point, though… I suppose it’s possible that, if He existed, your Maker created the Evanuris,” she conceded before adding: “and neither Merrill nor myself can offer anything to contradict it.”

Many Dalish— Merrill included— would be scandalized by this notion, but Enid was open-minded, and her faith was strong. Any new viewpoints and perspectives just made it stronger. Merrill pouted and Cadoc smiled— not smugly, but satisfied.

“However,” Enid started conspiringly, “you must also be open to a view of your Maker that many Dalish hold. No one can dispute Andraste’s power, influence or existence. Even among the most xenophobic of clans, Andraste is respected, as opposed to the Chant of Light itself. But many stories— elven and human both— tell that Andraste was, in fact, just an incredibly powerful mage, even a… What’s the word? Dreamer?”

“Somniari,” Merrill responded. “The same word is used by both the Dalish and the Imperium. A dreamer has incredible influence on the Beyond, and can use it to shape the dreams of others, or access memories long thought lost,” she explained.

Enid nodded, thanking her, and then continued: “Perhaps your Maker truly exists, or perhaps He was merely a powerful spirit that granted power to— or even possessed— Andraste.”

Merrill nodded smugly. “Spirits are shaped by our impressions of them, our feelings and our beliefs, just like the rest of the Beyond, and a somniari has even more power there. Perhaps your ‘Maker’ didn’t even truly exist until Andraste believed it did,” she said haughtily.

Cadoc’s face was a comical mixture of shock, outrage and bewilderment. “You— you can’t be serious! Andraste was not a mage! She was fighting against mages!” 

“Oh, no… I don’t think so. Or… Well, I suppose she was, but not because they were mages. She was fighting against the Tevinter Imperium… And I think slavery was probably a much bigger priority than magic, don’t you? Surely, owning another person was more objectionable than simply being born with magic, unless you disagree?”

Cadoc considered gravely, choosing his next words carefully. “I think… I think that she had many reasons for doing what she did,” was all he could say, before walking ahead of them.

Enid put her arm around Merrill’s shoulder and brought her in tight. “Be nice, lethallan! You are going to make the poor boy’s head explode!” she said, before frowning as she recalled what she had been told of the templar in Redcliffe. “That was a poor choice of words, but go easy on him… We are representing The People, you know.”

Enid’s party was the first to arrive at Soldier’s Peak. Denerim was much closer to than the Brecilian Forest was, but Mercy supposed that Denerim ended up being a more exciting trip than she had originally anticipated. It worried her slightly, but she was confident in her Wardens.

They brought good news about the elven alliance. Mercy was proud of their conduct with the Dalish, and excited to meet this Lanaya. As soon as they returned, Cadoc grafted back onto Sten like a lost Orlesian puppy. He was intrigued to learn about his ancestors, but tried not to show it when he heard how unintrigued Sten was. Cadoc was surprised that Arland was a tyrant, however. History had apparently forgotten that. Wynne gave Jowan and Avernus a wide berth, and did not hide her discontent about being around the two of them. She stayed close to Enid, Merrill and Leliana, and she seemed more confident and at peace than before she had gone to the forest. 

Any Wardens who were willing were put through Avernus’s modified Joining ritual, and all reported similar effects to Mercy. The Drydens helped bring Soldier’s Peak to life, and were assisting in reconstruction and restoration efforts. Mayrin was even able to offer some advice; apparently even casteless dwarves knew as much about stonecraft as any human mason.

The biggest point of contention was the child, Darla, that Enid’s party had brought back with them. Mercy couldn’t very well make her a Grey Warden, but had no desire to leave the girl to fend for herself. Luckily, the Wardens and their allies were not the only inhabitants of the Peak. The Drydens agreed to take care of and watch over the girl while the Wardens were away, until a more permanent solution could be found. Levi and his wife Rose already had a few children of their own, and they were excited to meet their new friend. Darla was glad of their company as well… When she could finally be convinced to leave Wynne’s side, of course.

It took the Denerim group another two days to arrive, and they had apparently recruited another couple of companions. It was Leliana who spotted them from the lookout while catching up with Wynne. She raised the alarm, and Mercy and the others made their way to the gates. 

At the back of the procession was, as usual, Bodahn and Sandal’s cart, drawn by their oxen. Perched on the oxen were two familiar ravens. In front of the oxen, Alistair walked beside Diala, laughing at something she just said. Eve and Nathaniel were in front of them, and it seemed that Eve was actually smiling. On Eve’s other side was an elven woman dressed in fine leathers and armed to the teeth, also an active participant in the conversation. In front of them, Teyrn Keegan was walking beside a cloaked figure. A woman, certainly. And Felix seemed to trust her, which boded well… Just who was she?

As they approached, her companions greeted the new arrivals happily. Mercy stayed back, and didn’t take her eyes off the mystery woman. She walked up to Keegan to inquire about the woman, and he ushered her and the others inside, telling them that he would explain there. When the entire group was inside the main entrance, the woman pulled down her hood. Her hair was gold and tied tightly into intricate braids. Her eyes were an icy blue and she carried about her an air of dignity and confidence. The new elven woman went to stand beside her, deferential but confident. In a glance, Mercy saw that this was a woman who was likely as used to killing as Zevran.

Keegan said— with a smile to which his companions were not yet accustomed— “Grey Wardens and friends, I present to you all Queen Anora Theirin of Ferelden, our newest ally in the fight agains the darkspawn, as well as her bard, Erlina.”

“Thank you, Teyrn Keegan,” she said easily. Raising her voice only slightly so that she could be heard by all, she added: “I am honoured by the trust you have placed in me and the risks you have taken on my behalf.” She walked towards Mercy and extended a hand. “If I am not mistaken, you are Warden-Commander Hissera. It is my honour to finally meet you.”

“The honour is all mine, Your Majesty,” Mercy smiled, taking her hand bowing slightly. She then looked into Anora’s eyes and was impressed when Anora did not turn away. Most people she met found her violet eyes unsettling. Instead, Anora met her gaze with confidence, smiling warmly at her new ally.

Chapter Text

Mercy called a meeting first thing in the morning after everybody had returned. First, there would be a Warden meeting in Avernus’s tower, and then the whole group would meet over lunch to discuss future plans. The torture racks, cages and the other less savory parts of the blood mage’s workspace had been disposed of, and the Drydens were nice enough to put together some makeshift tables and chairs. The hole in the wall was on the way to being patched up, and the cobwebs were cleared. Mercy made it clear that his tower would be far from private, and that anyone could enter at any time.

Most of the Wardens had been put through the modified Joining, with holdouts from Alistair and Cadoc, and all were reporting good things with no ill side effects. Additionally, they were able to find Warden arms and armor, magically preserved for over 200 years, and all the Wardens had been properly outfitted like Mercy, Alistair and Rayne were. They were still to keep their old armor if they got into trouble or needed to go somewhere undercover, of course. The only exception was Enid, who was quite attached to her newly-acquired Juggernaut Plate, and her longsword, Rage’s End. 

Mercy stood at the head of the table, with Enid to her right and Rayne to her left, Garahel dozing at his feet. Rayne was leaning on his wooden staff lazily, his waist-length hair blowing in the slight breeze that came from the nearly-patched hole in the wall. Enid stood at attention, wearing simple Dalish leathers. She was so slight that it was easy to forget the punishment she could take on the field of battle. Alistair and Cadoc sat beside one another, Diala on Alistair’s other side. They were holding hands. Jowan simpered at the end of the table opposite Rayne until Mayrin motioned for him to sit down. They were all Wardens, after all. Eve’s death stare made Jowan reconsider; she was still nursing a grudge over the part he played in Irminric’s death. Him being a human didn’t help, of course. Avernus stood on his platform above the whole scene, listening as he made notes on the unique properties of Mercy’s blood.

Mercy looked at her Wardens proudly and smiled. “It’s wonderful to see all of you again; you have been doing great work, and our goal is in sight. While it hasn’t shown itself, we know the Archdemon is angry and getting impatient, which means we’re doing her job.” The group smiled at one another and raised their glasses, cheering the work they had done so far. It was no small feat, and they showed no signs of stopping.

She got the bad news out of the way first: as vile as Avernus was, he was useful, and from him she learned all kinds of Warden lore. The group was just as horrified as Mercy to learn of how the darkspawn reproduced. And since there were records of ogres in past Blights, it means that the kossith had come to Thedas before the qunari ever did. Most importantly, she shared with them a vital piece of Warden lore: an Archdemon cannot be slain by anyone other than a Grey Warden, and that Grey Warden dies in the process. Giving them time to react and process, she continued:

“Now, somewhere along the line, I assumed command. I am uncertain if I decided on that, or if others decided for me. Regardless, however, I became Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. I believe that I have done a pretty good job so far: our Wardens have increased their number from three to eleven, and we have secured the allegiance of the Circle, the Dalish, Arl Wulff, some Avvar, the future Teyrn of Highever, and even the Queen of Ferelden. We saved the Arl’s son, and, during a Blight, we retook Soldier’s Peak for the Grey Wardens. We are gathering an army in Redcliffe, where we will muster all of the allies we can to end this Blight,” she continued, smiling. She took a deep breath before continuing.

“That is not to say that I have not made some mistakes,” she continued. Alistair smiled at that, hopeful she would be turning over a new leaf. Even though she had made decisions with which he didn’t necessarily agree, he acknowledged that she had still done a better job than he ever could have in her position. Still, there were some things he would change; namely, the blood mages.

“I’m happy to hear you admit that, Commander!” Cadoc interrupted, his brown eyes jubilant.“I know we’re Wardens, but even the Dalish have more sense than to travel with his many mages! I’ve heard that they have to leave any extras in the woods alone to fend for themselves. Can’t risk attracting the templars. Me, I’d suggest at least getting rid of the blood mages,” he said without a hint of irony. Avernus raised an eyebrow at that from his desk, but kept working. Jowan looked mortified.

Enid laughed a bit and put her face into her hand before looking at Cadoc incredulously. “Is that what the shemlen say about us? Really? Magic is celebrated among the People, Cadoc. Young mages are our most precious resource. Of course, every clan is different… But you can’t believe everything you hear, especially not from your Chantry,” she asserted. 

“And furthermore,” Mercy cut in, annoyed at the interruption, “that was not what I was going to say. I don’t regret recruiting Jowan, or letting Avernus live. Jowan had a rocky start, but has done well working with Avernus. I have no doubt he will continue to be a great asset in the days to come. And Avernus…” she said, looking at him hesitantly. “What Avernus did was monstrous. If I had been in command, I would have forbidden the experiments on his fellow Wardens, and stopped him if he disobeyed. But not using what he has learned would mean that our forebears died for nothing. He will continue his experiments ethically, or not at all. It is because of Avernus that you might be able to one day retire and die of old age, instead of going to the Deep Roads on your Calling.” 

Some Wardens began to voice objections, but Mercy raised her hand to silence them. “What I do consider mistakes, however, are, in my opinion, fairly grave. First: I have been using the Joining as a charity, or a cure, for the Taint. With Enid, we didn’t really have a choice if we wanted Morrigan’s help, and Bodahn made a pretty strong argument for Diala. However, Cadoc, your Joining was incredibly foolish of me, especially since we allowed your family be present. Honourable as they may be now, it is impossible to know when that knowledge may come back to bite us. And we’ve been incredibly lucky so far— if Cadoc had died, who knows whether or not I would have had the Arl’s support, or his enmity?”

They were listening now. Some, like Diala, were nodding gravely, while Cadoc looked offended on behalf of his father. At least he had enough sense to keep quiet about it this time.

“The other issue I must mention is the way in which I have been running things: we are a group with a singular purpose, an organization with a duty that cannot be forsworn… But I’ve been treating this like a group of good friends. From now on, while you may take issue with some of the decisions I make, they are decisions with which you must live, and not decisions you can go complaining to our noble allies about,” she said with a hint of steel, her violet eyes boring into Alistair, who had the courtesy to look contrite.

“Now, as you all know, my name is Mercy Hissera. I am a vashoth: a qunari born outside of the qun, and my parents were tal-vashoth. They were were born into the qun, but escaped from it. Somehow, they escaped, and fled as far as possible, settling in Ferelden. Every part of their society would seem foreign to the rest of Thedas, especially the way they raise their children. Qunari practice selective breeding to create the strongest, fastest and smartest qunari possible. The father’s role ends in conception and the mother’s at birth. Qunari aren’t named when they are born; babies are assigned a series of numbers. They are raised by priestesses called the Tamassrans, evaluating them every second of their early lives. At the age of 12, they are assigned a role in society, and given a name. This name can change if the role does. 

“Know also that qunari waste nothing. If at all possible, they capture enemies instead of killing them, and then try to convert them to the Qun. They have people that have been training their whole lives for that sole purpose. Those that are not amenable to conversion are still not killed; they are given qamek, a substance that effectively lobotomizes them, making them mindless labourers. Willing converts are called viddathari, and become a part of the Qun, assigned to wherever the Tamrassans decide. The mindless labourers are called viddath-bas.”

She paused, taking in their reactions. Rayne was writing everything down eagerly, but most of her Wardens looked horrified. Diala, Enid and Mayrin were all listening intently, however, faces intense but impassive. Perhaps they saw some wisdom in the qunari philosophy, or perhaps they anticipated where she was going with her story.

“My parents were both part of the ben-hassrath, which translates into “the Heart of the Many”. They maintain spiritual and moral clarity among the qun… Which means that they are essentially secret police, dealing with threats from within, and maintaining peace and unity through any means necessary. They’re actually considered priests,” she said, chuckling mirthlessly, “and allowed to use whatever tool is necessary for the job. Unlike the soldiers in the antaam, such as Sten, whose swords represent their very souls. In their roles, my parents knew of one another and had worked together in the past.

“My father’s role was hissrad— he was a spy. He was placed with a unit of soldiers on Seheron, obstensibly as a karasaad— a soldier— and even given his own sword, forged in secret to fool his brethren. My father’s placement was routine; it was his job to check in with these units every once in awhile, making sure everything was ‘up to code’, as it were, since living on Serehon is apparently an ordeal that breaks even the strongest of wills. He got… Attached to them. That would have been fine, had their commander— their Sten— not had his sword destroyed in battle with a Tevinter mage. It was shattered by magic, with no hope of being reforged. Thus, that Sten should be deemed soulless, and killed… But that isn’t what happened.

“The unit had become so close that they refused to turn on their Sten, and my father agreed with them… But that meant that the entire squad was to be reeducated, or become mindless labourers. If anyone else found out, their Sten would die. In an act of mercy, he revealed himself to them and helped them escape, before reporting to his superiors what he had done— he was still qunari, after all. He thought he was going to be reeducated, and have his thinking realigned a bit— fixed. That was not the case. A decision was made— since my father essentially created an entire squad of tal-vashoth, one with their commander still alive, he was to be given qamek immediately. Skilled as he was, he broke free and ran for the jungles, avoiding qunari and Tevinter both.

“My mother was a skilled tallis— fixers and assassins. They are sent as a last resort. She tracked him down easily, and was set to kill him… Until she saw who he was. She recognized him. Not only did she recognize him, but she looked into his eyes and saw that he was afraid and harmless, and not a monster like so many tal-vashoth she had faced. My mother granted my father mercy, and they went on the run. It took them years, but they eventually reached the arling of West Hills here in Ferelden. During that time, they had fallen in love, and, soon after, I was born. I was named Mercy, for the virtue that gave them their new life. They chose the last name Hissera, meaning truth. They would be spies and assassins no longer. It was mercy that let them find each other, and mercy that allowed them to try to seek redemption for the crimes they had perpetrated as part of the qun.”

It was a lot to take in. Her companions had mixed emotions about the story, but most seemed to at least like how it ended, with Enid even wiping a tear from her eye, despite Mercy’s matter-of-fact recounting. 

“Wow… And I thought my mom was badass,” Eve remarked to no one in particular.

“The qunari are really like that? Surely, your parents must have exagerrated somewhat,” Cadoc said, his voice trailing off.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rayne said, considering. “Everything Mercy has said matches with what little I’ve read about the qunari, but less tinged with Chantry fanaticism and propoganda.”

Nodding at him, Mercy continued. “What that means about how I see the world, and how I will steer the Wardens from now on, should be quite clear. Make no mistake: if we fail, the Blight will be unleashed on Thedas, and thousands will die. We have a chance to stop it before it truly begins, and, in order to do that, we need a singular vision. We cannot keep squabbling. Thus, I am calling for a vote. Two, actually. First, about whether or not I will continue as Warden-Commander, and second, if the vote is no, who the Commander will be. I will abide by the results, no matter what they are. If you cannot… Well, I suppose we can deal with insubordination later.

“I will reiterate: we are in a time of Blight and need every advantage we can get. If that means using a blood mage’s research, even if it cost Wardens their lives, so be it. If that means recruiting the man who poisoned Arl Eamon and helped cause the destruction at Redcliffe, so be it,” she continued. Eve looked sad and angry, and Jowan seemed as if he was trying to sink into the floor. If looks could kill, however, Alistair’s glare alone would have done Jowan in. “Now that we have more Archdemon blood from Avernus, we can begin recruiting in earnest. I will offer mercy to even our most despicable foes if I believe they will be of use: firstly, because I sincerely believe that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, but, secondly, because it just makes sense. If my parents did not believe in mercy, I would not be here. Next time we’re in Denerim, we will be tracking down Leliana’s old bardmaster, a woman who framed and betrayed her, and left her for dead. I intend to offer her a chance to Join the Wardens. The same goes for Arl Howe, even though he massacred Keegan’s entire family. The future teyrn is— if reluctantly— on board.”

There were some shocked faces at that, as Alistair realized that Keegan’s comments had not been hyperbole. Alistair was simmering, though, because he knew what was coming next.

“That means that, if we can defeat Loghain, he will be given the same chance,” Mercy said calmly, regarding Alistair gravely. Diala grabbed his hand, trying to be a calming presence, but it was of no use.

“I didn’t just hear you say that. You’d consider letting him live, after everything he’s done?!” he asked, incredulous.

“The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him redeem himself. If him, or Howe, or Marjolaine refuse, I will not force the issue. If they were conscripted, they may wish revenge. But if they are earnest and willing, they will be Joined.” Mercy argued coolly, face impassive.

“And the Joining is often fatal,” Rayne added thoughfully. “If Loghain survives, we gain a general. If not, you have your revenge.”

“Absolutely not! Mercy, this man abandoned our brothers and sisters and then blamed us for the deed! He has hunted us down like animals. He poisoned Arl Eamon,” he yelled, glaring at Jowan. “Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment! Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all! I will not stand next to him as a brother! I won’t!”

“Not all of us have spotless honour, you know,” Mayrin said cynically, meeting Alistair’s gaze. 

“Some things can’t be undone or forgiven. This goes way beyond having spotless honour. Loghain is a monster! I… I can’t talk about this anymore,” he said, getting up to leave the room. 

“Alistair, this is a Blight,” Enid pleaded from behind him, standing up. Her blue eyes were wet with tears; she hated seeing her new clan in pain. “We must all make sacrifices. The Hero of River Dane is famous even among the People— his usefulness can’t be overstated. I don’t know if I would make the same decision, but Mercy is just—“

“What would Duncan do, Alistair?” Mercy asked, cutting Enid off. That made Alistair stop in his tracks, and spin to face her.

“We don’t bloody well know, do we?!” he fumed. “Because the man you want to induct into the Grey Wardens is responsible for his death, and the deaths of all of our brothers!”

“What Duncan would do,” Rayne said with quiet fury, “is recruit Loghain into the Wardens, and then reprimand you for insubordination, whether it be about this or the improved Joining potion!” he screamed, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground and causing the torches in the room to flare dangerously as his waist-length black hair began to float, charged with magic. “Or do you not remember Ser Jory, from our Joining? Of course joining the Wardens is an honour… Anyone should be honoured to protect Thedas one of its most ancient enemies. But the Wardens themselves… We are not honourable, and have a history written in blood. Historically, we have been a refuge for men and women wanting to escape their pasts, or to atone for what they’ve done. Avernus was a Warden at the beginning of the Storm Age— over 200 years ago now— and his Commander ordered him to use blood magic and summon demons.”

“Sophia Dryden was an outlier,” Alistair argued, “and the Wardens got exiled for her choices! If all Wardens were doing that, we wouldn’t be allowed anywhere!”

“Dryden got the Wardens exiled because of politics, not blood magic, Alistair. Have you read accounts of the First Blight?” Rayne asked, annoyed, before turning to the rest of them. “For that matter, have any of you, other than our exiled princess, for whom the darkspawn are not simply ancient history?” 

He waited for a moment, and no one responded. “I have. The First Blight lasted one hundred and ninety-two years. One hundred and ninety-two. Entire generations were born and died knowing only war with the Darkspawn. The Grey Wardens were something of a coalition… And a revelation. But the Grey Wardens were no accident. Diala, Mayrin: have there ever been any accounts of accidental Grey Wardens appearing in Orzammar, the Legion, or any other dwarven lands? Or even on the surface?” he asked, eyes wild.

“I don’t think so, no…” Mayrin said, scratching at his now nearly-respectable beard.

“No, there haven’t,” Diala confirmed, impressed that the elf knew about the Legion. “But the Taint has caused major fertility problems among the dwarves; nobody is immune… At least, nobody about whom I have heard. Except the Wardens, of course. If it were possible to accidentally become a Warden due proximity with the darkspawn, I would have heard of it.”

Rayne nodded, almost maniacal, his rant picking up more and more speed the longer he went. He walked up to Avernus’ overlook now, eyes wild. “As I thought. I’ve seen the Joining formula Alistair; the herbs, the rare ingredients, the darkspawn and archdemon blood… The precise ratio of all of these ingredients to the lyrium. There is no way that that was discovered accidentally. That formula was created through careful experimentation of Tevinter blood mages and ancient elven magic, most likely… A formula written in blood. The only reason that the Grey Wardens are here— and the only reason Thedas is here— is because they took the time to do the unthinkable, to test their hypotheses, to put their feelings aside, and to do what matters, regardless of the cost. There is no way that this was achieved without extensive experimentation— most likely on elven slaves and others at the lowest rungs of society.

“The creation of the Wardens was an act of desperation. Now that Avernus has told us exactly why we are so needed, we can better understand the era in which our order was born. Can you imagine it? The Tevinter Imperium, at the height of its powers, its reach stretching all across Thedas, unable to kill a single dragon. Every time they defeated the Archdemon, it would rise. Again. And again. And again,” he said, voice quieting and cadence slowing. His mossy eyes narrowed, looking at no one in particular and lost in thought for a moment. “Regardless,” he said, coming back to reality, “the Grey Wardens do whatever is necessary to end a Blight. We worry about the consequences after the fact, or not at all. Mercy seems to have taken this to heart. If you weren’t prepared for that, you could have assumed command after Ostagar, being the Senior Warden. If her way of doing things means recruiting the man responsible for the death of the Wardens— and that is debatable, from whay I understand— then so be it. If you can’t stomach that, then this was never about saving Thedas for you. This was always about revenge. And if that’s the case, then you are no true Warden at all,” Rayne spat. 

The silence that followed was long, but Alistair hadn’t moved, and Diala grasped his hand tightly as he tried to hold back tears. Enid broke the silence by shyly calling for the vote. Surprisingly, Mercy was unanimously confirmed as Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. Directly under her was Enid, who was made Warden-Constable, and Rayne, promoted to Senior Mage Warden, meaning Avernus and Jowan, as well as any other magical recruits, were directly under his command. Diala, Alistair and Mayrin were made Senior Wardens, below Enid and Rayne. For now, it didn’t mean much other than command of Eve, Cadoc, Avernus and Jowan, but as recruitment increased, so too would the need for a definite command structure.

“Now… If that’s all decided,” Mercy sighed, rubbing her eyes, heart heavy after Alistair’s dressing down. It had been necessary, but she didn’t have to like it. “We have about an hour before we meet the queen and our allies for lunch. Please try to be on time. And Rayne?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“As my first official command, I order you to have Leliana cut your hair. Since you are so opposed to tying it up, it can be no longer than shoulder-length until you change your mind.

He deflated a little, but chuckled. Jaime had won the bet. “Yes, Commander. Right away.”

Chapter Text

Anora had had to get used to a great deal very quickly, but she was nothing if not adaptable. Gone was her legion of ladies-in-waiting, save for Erlina, though Erlina had never been a simple lady-in-waiting. The amenities of the palace were gone as well, and she would have to make do with the meager accomodations of Soldier’s Peak. Not that she was ungrateful, of course. In fact, despite the discomfort, this was all working out relatively well. Anora had no idea the lengths to which her father— or Howe— would have gone to secure power, and she felt safer than she had in a long time. Though the Peak lay between Amaranthine and Highever, Howe himself was in Denerim with father, and no one would think to search for a missing queen in a fortress that had been abandoned since the Storm Age.

Much of the ceremony to which she was accustomed was abandoned; few of the Wardens seemed to know how to properly interact with royalty, and, after the novelty of it all had worn off, few seemed to care. The most they did was refer to her as Your Majesty, and only when the mood suited them. Nathaniel and Keegan, though, stuck to protocol when others were around, and Erlina was still ever so formal. The Commander treated Anora with the same cautious respect that Anora herself showed to the Commander. Despite her foreign nature and appearance, Mercy Hissera was a Fereldan, the daughter of Freeholders. Anora remarked to herself that this may have been the only nation in Thedas where a qunari mercenary could attain such a rank, except perhaps Rivain. Her violet eyes were unsettling, and her grey skin and horns made her seem more demonic than mortal. She towered above all of their traveling companions, even Sten, and her long, snow-white hair, when she was not in armor, was always arrayed in intricate and impressive. arrangements.

Lunch today was prepared by the newly-appointed Senior Wardens: Enid, Rayne and Alistair. Everyone had to participate at some point; only the Queen was exempt. Anora was wearing a practical but fetching samite gown and small, sensible emerald earrings. She supposed that, since she was no longer in Denerim and constantly observed, she could take her wedding band off, yet she could not bring herself to do so. 

The Commander was wearing a fine silver doublet and black slacks, as well as black leather boots. Her hair— which Anora still found peculiar— was braided in an intricate Orlesian style, as functional as it was fetching. Where did a Fereldan qunari learn that? Leliana? Anora and Mercy each sat at a head of the table, the rest of the Wardens and their allies arraying themselves between them, Erlina sitting to Anora’s left. 

After lunch was served by the Drydens, Mercy began to speak, her voice wary and eyes heavy.

“Yesterday evening, I had thought that we would be splitting up into two groups before we set out, but it appears that that number will actually be three. Last night, Senior Mage Warden Surana and our ally, Morrigan, came to me with a third goal. Morrigan, if you would?” she asked, looking at the witch. Morrigan stood up and cleared her throat.

“For those who are unaware, I am the daughter of Flemeth, the ‘Witch of the Wilds’ about whom you all tell such quaint stories. Recently, while in the Circle of Magi, Rayne came across a most curious tome, one he was unable to decipher. When he brought it to me, I recognized it immediately: ’twas written by my mother years ago in her own code, in languages long extinct. At first, I had hoped for collection of her spells, a map of the power she commands. But that is not what I found. Here, in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries. If you know of the legends, you know that Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime; there are stories of these many Witches of the Wilds throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not. And now, I know: they are all Flemeth. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter, and when the time is right, she takes her daughter’s body for her own.”

The witch let that sink in, and sat back into her chair. Anora was shocked, but kept her face impassive. Was this the same Flemeth her father had met during the Rebellion? It seemed likely. 

“This is why the qunari leash our mages,” Sten said matter-of-factly. “Such a thing would be impossible under the Qun.”

Jowan frowned, staring at Sten. “You can’t condemn all mages for the sins of one ancient abomination!” he said. 

“From what I have seen, she is far from the only example I have seen of the dangers of an unbound mage.”

Wynne jumped in. “That is why the Circles exist, Sten. There, mages can learn and grow in a place where they are cannot pose a risk to any mundane Thedosians. The Circle also keeps the mages safe from the outside world.”

“Yet it took a single unbound mage to kill nearly every person in your precious Circle,” he argued. “Even the smallest bit of freedom is too much for a saarebas. You are a danger to yourself and all others around you.”

This prompted even more responses from the table, before Rayne tapped his staff on the ground and called for their silence.

“Regardless of how one feels about mages in general, everyone here can agree that Flemeth not only poses a danger to Morrigan, but to all of Thedas, and cannot be allowed to live,” he stated coolly. Anora noticed the hint of a smile on Morrigan’s lips. “Morrigan believes that slaying Flemeth here will likely not prove the end of her, but it will likely weaken her, and disrupt her plans. Morrigan must not be near when Flemeth is slain, for there is no way of knowing if her mother would be able to possess her then and there. Those who join me to slay her will be using the very techniques Morrigan learned from Flemeth to evade the horde on our journey. And, since we’ll be in the area, we’ll poke around Ostagar too. In our travels to the Circle, my initial group came across one of the late King Cailan’s men, Ser Elric Maraigne. He carried with him a key to the King’s chest. I might suggest that it would be in our best interests to recover all that we can from Ostagar as well, Your Majesty.”

“Ser Elric? He was a good man… As was Cailan,” she said, quietly, before snapping herself back to reality. “I believe that both of those pursuits are worthy of our efforts. In fact, I will accompany your party to Ostagar, and to slay this Witch of the Wilds,” she asserted.

“As will I, then,” Erlina added quickly, surprised at her queen’s decision.

“Queen Anora, if I may, I strongly suggest that you pursue another avenue. This seems remarkably dangerous, or, at the very least, inadvisable,” Keegan tried to say.

“Nonsense,” Anora said, dismissing Keegan’s concern with a wave of her hand. “No more dangerous than chasing this Urn of Sacred Ashes… or than Orzammar politics, I am told,” she said, smiling at Diala. “I insist: not only is that Cailan’s resting place, but also likely where the fabled sword King Maric the Saviour lies. It would not do to let the darkspawn have it. But I need you in Orzammar, Teyrn Keegan. As the future King of Ferelden, you must ensure that whoever is chosen as successor to Endrin’s throne represents the best interests of not only Orzammar, but Thedas at large.”

Diala’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes filling unbidden with tears. “Successor? My father is dead?” she said quietly. Alistair hugged her to him. Anora had not been aware they didn’t know, but she supposed that they had been cut off for a few months. “Who will succeed him?”

“I… I believe the choice is between a Lord Harrowmont and your brother, Prince Bhelen,” Anora said quietly. “I apologize. I had not realized you were not yet aware of your father’s passing.”

Diala was already composing herself, resolving to grieve later. “No. Thank you for the news, Anora. I guess that decides it, though: I have no sodding reason to return to that place. I’ll be coming witch hunting, I guess,” she said, smiling, trying to hold herself together, at least for the moment.

“As will I,” Alistair said gravely. “Now, we’ll get the details later, but I think Diala and I should retire for the afternoon. With your leave, Commander?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mercy said. “Just let us know if you will be needing dinner brought to you.”

With that, Alistair and Diala retreated to their room.

Mercy sighed again. This Blight was taking its toll. “Very well. Unless there is anything else: Rayne will lead the expedition south, along with Diala, Alistair, Queen Anora and Erlina. I will also send Jowan, as any additional mages will be a great help against Flemeth. Avernus will remain here.

“Since Orzammar is the only treaty that remains, I will be heading that expedition. It seems that Teyrn Keegan will be accompanying me. I also believe Mayrin has unfinished business, which means Zevran will come as well, I presume. Shale will also be joining us, to see if we can uncover anything about their past. We also have a lead on Sten’s sword that points us to Orzammar. We will be needing a mage as well, so Morrigan should accompany us. Bodahn and Sandal will stay here at the Peak with the Drydens for now, and we’ll meet up with them again at Redcliffe after our journeys.

“Ironically enough, I think, our Dalish Warden Enid will lead the expedition to Haven. Leliana and Wynne both expressed interest in this quest, and will be accompanying her. I will also send Eve and Cadoc with her from the Wardens, and Merrill as well. Lastly, I believe it might be wise to keep our noble allies apart from one another to ensure their survival— if they insist on not staying at the Peak, of course— and am hoping that Arl Nathaniel will agree to follow Enid’s party to Haven.”

“As loathe as I am to leave either Queen Anora or Teyrn Keegan, that is a sound strategy… And I would be lying if I said I did not want to see the Urn of Sacred Ashes for myself.”

“Good. We will set out in two days after we are fully prepared, and will hopefully reconvene by the end of Firstfall in Redcliffe. I will speak with the Wardens further before we leave, but please remember: we still hold the Right of Conscription, and any new Wardens will increase our chances of victory.”

There were nods of agreement around the room. Leliana’s elation at getting to see the Ashes was tempered only slightly by the fact that she would be parting company with Mercy. Most of Enid’s group were Andrastians, devout or not, and were brimming with excitement. Enid was excited as well, and even Merrill was curious. Mercy would have liked to send Shale against Flemeth, but the golem was traveling with them voluntarily, and she would not presume to order it around, especially not after what happened to its former master.

Chapter Text

Mel left her spear-staff and purple mage collective vestments in her room at the Spoiled Princess, donning instead unassuming travelers’ clothes. Of course, had not left Spot behind. Especially in Ferelden, she had no doubt that her faithful white and orange spotted mabari companion would make this a little bit easier. Kester had taken her across the boat mostly without issue; family apparently did come to visit occasionally, though they were usually among the nobility.

She had never entered a Circle willingly before, especially not alone, and not to just “drop by” on family. Kinloch Hold was imposing, and a lot less accessible than Montsimmard had ever been. Escape— if necessary— would be a lot more difficult than breaking off from the crowd on the way back from a soirée after bribing a templar to destroy her phylactery. But Marian Amell had accounted for all of her siblings since escaping the Circle, and wanted to visit any she could.

Spot noticed that Mel was a bit twitchy and licked her human’s hand comfortingly. Mel took a deep breath, looking back at the lake one last time, and scratching Spot behind the ear. “Not to worry old girl! We’ve done stupider things than this before… Well, I have. You’ve always been quite sensible.”

Spot yipped in agreement. She was the brains of the duo.

Mel walked up to the great metal doors of the tower, knocking hard three times. From the other side, she heard a suspicious voice ask her: “We’re not expecting visitors today, and you don’t look like anyone from the approved list. State your business.”

“My name is Bethann Amell, Ser Templar! I am a relative of one of your mages, Jaime Amell, from Kirkwall. With the Blight threatening Ferelden, I wanted to check on him and make sure he was safe. And so did Spot!” she said. On command, Spot barked happily, playing her part to perfection. She had been deliberately vague about the nature of her and Jaime’s relationship. She knew the Circle had records of her and her siblings, but it was impossible to know which templars had actually read those documents.

She could hear the templars muttering from inside, and at one point distinctly heard them mention her mabari. Fereldans. After a few moments of discussion, the door was opened. She was greeted by a templar with brown hair, a goatee and a friendly smile, as well as one with curly blonde hair and stubble, who was staring daggers at her. 

“I am Knight-Captain Hadley, and this is Ser Cullen,” the brown-haired templar explained. “As you are not on the list, you will have to wait in the lobby while we speak with Jaime and the First Enchanter.”

Mel nodded amiably. “Of course, Knight-Captain,” she said as Spot started to ingratiate herself to the knights. Even the most stalwart of Fereldan templars could not resist attention from  a mabari, and Spot was quite affectionate when she needed to be.

Ser Cullen was sent to fetch Jaime, but not before voicing his objections. It was good to see that the more moderate templar was in command, but this Cullen fellow seemed a bit unhinged. She hoped he would not pose a danger to her brother, or the other mages in the tower. Were it within her power, she’d burn it all to the ground.

It took about twenty minutes, but Ser Cullen eventually returned. In the intervening time, Mel had ferreted out as much as she could about what had happened in Kinloch Hold, and it was none of it was good. She was happy Jaime had survived, but wanted to get him out of here as soon as she could. He and Cullen soon arrived through the barrier doors, and she heard Jaime trying to figure out just who had arrived. “You’re certain this was a young woman? The only Bethann I know was my great aunt in Kirkwall, and…” he trailed off, locking eyes with Mel. He froze for a second, before a massive smile crossed his lips. “Oh, that Bethann!” he yelled, running towards her and embracing her in a hug, whispering: “Marian, is that you?”

“It is so good to see you, Jaime,” she said, nodding. She realized that her and Jaime were not going to get any privacy, but had a seat in some chairs in the lobby. 

“So… Bethann, what brings you here?” he asked, happy to follow along with her charade for a few moments with a sister he had not seen since they were children in Kirkwall. She was taking a big risk being here. 

“I wanted to check on you, and make sure you were okay, what with the Blight and all. I also have some news about your siblings that—“

“That is not permitted, Mistress Bethann,” Cullen explained curtly. “It would encourage escape.”

Jaime did his best to look like a dejected puppy, pleading silently with Hadley. The Knight-Captain sighed deeply, clearly exasperated with Cullen. “Ser Cullen, you and I both know that Mister Amell had a chance to leave and join the Wardens with Mister Surana, but he chose to stay. His loyalty to the Circle is not in question.”

Mel was surprised at this. Jaime stayed willingly? The same Jaime that had to be knocked over the head when Mel and her siblings her ripped from their home in Kirkwall all those years ago?

“But, Knight-Captain, the Knight-Commander—“ 

“Is in Denerim at the moment, and I am in charge,” he said, sounding ready to snap at Cullen. 

Cullen deflated, seeting. “Very well. You may tell him, Mistress Bethann. But I will be watching you.”

“And what a treat I am to watch Ser Cullen. Lucky you!” she said, shimmying a little bit. The templar grimaced, and then blushed slightly, electing instead to look at the floor “Anyways, Jaime… Your younger sister, Elva, ended up back home in Kirkwall. I have been unable to see her, but I know that she passed her Harrowing. Clayton ended up in the Anderfels, and has joined the Grey Wardens last I heard. Your older brother, Floyd, is in Rivain at the Dairsmund Circle, is married, and is incredibly happy.”

“Married?” Jaime asked, confused. Mages couldn’t get married.

“Rivain’s Circle, like the rest of the country… Walks its own path,” she said. More than that, she knew, would set Cullen off even more.

“And my eldest sister, Marian?” Jaime asked, happy to find out about his siblings, though saddened for Elva. Kirkwall was a nightmare, if the rumours were to be believed. Obviously, Marian had escaped, but from where? He wished he could hear about what really happened, but would have to be satisfied with the answers he received.

Mel smiled. “Marian lived at Montsimmard for many years, and was a powerful mage. Unfortunately, she escaped some years ago, and is presumed dead after being hunted by the templars,” she said, putting her best sad face on.

The two of them continued to talk for hours, catching up and reminiscing. Eventually, Cullen was dismissed, but Hadley remained, maintaining respectful distance and pretending not to listen. Jaime couldn’t wait to tell Rayne about all of this when the two were reunited again.

Evidently, now that the Queen was at Soldiers’ Peak, everybody wanted an audience with her. Not that she complained; she wanted an audience with most of the new denizens of Soldier’s Peak as well. The Commander had been gracious enough to let Anora and Keegan set up in her office for the day for meetings. She sat in the chair that had once belonged to Sophia Dryden, with Keegan to her right and Erlina her left.

First on the list— by Anora’s insistence— was Evelyn Tabris. The dark-haired elf entered grumpily, along with Warden-Constable Enid and Nathaniel Howe. Anora was puzzled, as the meeting had only been with Eve herself, though she chose not to comment on it. Nathaniel bowed deeply, Eve following suit, though she looked much less enthused than he. Enid simply nodded to them and took a seat to Eve’s right, across from Erlina. She raised her hands and smiled, saying: “Don’t worry; I’m only here for moral support.”

Eve was trying her best to be respectful and formal, as much as it pained her, and asked, quietly: “May I ask as to the nature of my summons, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly, Miss Tabris,” Anora replied warmly. “Keegan and I have been talking… And we must both apologize, but myself especially. Until recently, I had believed that elves, while second-class citizens, were lucky to be Fereldan, that we were different than, say, Orlais. I believed— mistakenly— that the status quo was for the good of all. Erlina was one of the first elves to show me the heights your people may reach, if just given the opportunity. Yet it was not until she and your hahren hid me in the Alienage that I truly understood the plight of your people… Or so I thought. It was only after I heard from Arl Nathaniel about what you and your people had suffered at the hand of the Kendalls, I think, that I understood the extent to which Ferelden— and I— have failed you. I cannot make up for centuries of mistreatment, nor the horrors perpetrated by Kendalls. Still, for whatever it is worth, I am truly sorry,” Anora declared, letting it hang in the air for awhile. Enid put her hand on Eve’s shoulder, and Nathaniel looked at her nervously. Eve remained silent, however, face impassive as she let Anora continue.

“What you are no doubt thinking, however, is that words, no matter how pretty, are ultimately meaningless. In order for this apology to mean something, it needs action, and action is what we intend to take… But not blindly. What might seem a good idea to an outsider might prove to be disastrous in your day-to-day lives. Thus, should you be willing, we are asking for your input into how to ameliorate the lives of Fereldan elves. Your input, and any who you think have ideas worth hearing.”

“Are you sure about that, Anor— er, Your Majesty?” she asked skeptically, trying to give Anora the deference she was apparently due. She was saying all the right things, but she was still a shemlen. Still a noble. She still looked quite stabbable.

Nathaniel put a hand on her shoulder and nodded at her.

“I am quite sure, Miss Tabris,” the Queen assured Evelyn. “Do not spare my feelings.”

“Alright, well… First of all, short term, let us clean up our shit, and long term, build us sewers. It’s no wonder plague breaks out every few months when our shit and piss sit in the streets for weeks. We get punished if we try to clean it up, or fertilizing our gardens with it. The old bann insisted his men do it, so they can collect it for fertilizer, but they only came twice a month, which is bullshit.”

Anora was shocked at the frankness, but mildly amused. No one used words like that in front of her, especially not elves. Keegan was snickering.

“Second: let us own our homes. The slumlords set rent as high as they possibly can. They make sure we mostly still have enough money for food and clothes, and the rest is for the rent. They leave our homes in disrepair and fine us for fixing them ourselves… or ‘making alterations’. If you had simply permitted us to own shops, join a trade, or take any job other than servant— which you should do, by the way— the slumlords would raise the rent to compensate. It wouldn’t solve anything unless we owned those homes. But, third, yeah… Give us legal ways of making money. If you outlaw every respectable profession, of course we’re going to turn to crime. We have no other options. Make sure the new Arl hires some elves to the city guard, or maybe add some to your personal retinue— as long as they prove themselves, of course. Give our merchants and cooks and tanners and weavers employment opportunities outside of the Alienage, and give the guards some oversight. Too many times have I woken up to find a friend or family member violated by one of the guard, or even killed. If you still insist they are necessary, ensure that the city guard takes our complaints seriously and actually does something about them. Oh… and lastly… Make every Alienage of sufficient size its own bannorn.”

Until then, Anora had been on board, already thinking up ways to achieve Eve’s suggestions, some of which she had considered herself. She had not anticipated making Alienages their own bannorns. It… Would need some thought. It was surpising, certainly, but it not a bad idea. The rest of the nobility might disagree, however.

“The Denerim Alienage has a larger population than at least a third of all of Ferelden’s bannorns,” she continued. Nathaniel had mentioned that her mother had educated her more than the average elf, but did not tell her the extent of it. “They have more than enough citizens to justify having their own banns,” Nathaniel added. “Edgehall may not, but Gwaren’s Alienage is only slightly smaller than Denerim’s, and Highever’s is larger. Who better to advocate for the elves in the Landsmeet than an actual elf?”

They discussed details, and refined ideas, for a good hour or so. Anora made no promises, and was clear about that, but told Eve she was hopeful, and she believed it. Eve, however, had no such faith, but, for now, it was better than nothing.

Zevran awoke slowly, dozing lazily on Mayrin’s broad chest, his rough tan skin warm in the morning chill. Mayrin was looking down at him, smiling. The dwarf’s raven hair was getting longer, and his beard was growing out to a respectable dwarven length once again. It would soon be long enough to braid.

Zevran yawned slightly, smiling back. “My dear Mr. Brosca, might I ask what brought on such an expression in this time of Blight? One might mistake you for an innocent young initiate, not a dashing Warden and Ferelden’s only chance of survival in a land that has put a bounty on his head.”

“Just taking it all in. Back home we learned to take our moments of happiness where we could, and it doesn’t get much better than this right here. We’ll be heading back that shithole soon and, well, Orzammar has a talent for crusing any happiness under its boot.”

The elf looked melancholy for a moment, before putting his brave face back on. “Perhaps, my dear Mr. Brosca, but you left Orzammar a casteless duster with a bounty on his head and nary a copper to his name, and you return a respected Grey Warden, a hero to all of Thedas!” he said, sitting up and waving his hands empathically. “It doesn’t hurt that you have a sword made of stars to impress them… And a gorgeous Antivan companion. Though, I suppose you still have a bounty on your head… Two now, in fact!”

“True…” Mayrin said thoughtfully. “They— we— regard Wardens highly in Orzammar, and Starfang is pretty gorgeous,” Mayrin said. On their way to Soldier’s Peak, their party had come across a rare metal that seems to have fallen from the sky. There wasn’t much, but there was enough that Mayrin was able to have Mikhael Dryden forge a sword made of it. It was like no other weapon he had ever wielded.

“And?” Zevran asked expectantly.

“And what? That’s it. Nothing else worth mentioning,” Mayrin responded, kissing Zevran on the cheek. 

“Is that so, my dear Mr. Brosca? You wound me!”

“You’re the assassin. Isn’t that your job?”

“As you recall, it is not something at which I am always successful. 

The men began to crawl out of bed and dress. Mayrin usually ogled Zevran shamlessly, but he was still so distracted.

“Is there anything else, my dear Mr. Brosca, that I may do to put your mind at ease?”

Mayrin considered for a moment, hesitating.

“I’ve been thinking… There is one thing, but it’s a little embarassing, especially among such rarified company…” he said quietly, trailing off.

“Go on, my Warden.”

“Growing up in Dust Town, I never actually learned how to read. Do you— do you think you could teach me?”

“That is all? Of course I will teach you, though I am not certain how much progress you will make before we get to Orzammar. Still though, I have just the poems in mind…”

Though the day had been long, and Anora and Keegan were quite exhausted, they had been quite successful. They learned about the Thaw and the Joining. Most importantly, they learned why Grey Wardens are so necessary to ending a Blight. The Warden-Commander said that, according to Avernus, all heads of state were privy to this information, as well as the Chantry and the Divine, which perhaps explained why Wardens were able to get away with as much as they were.

Perhaps more importantly, they learned just how much work would have to be done after the Blight. The Darkspawn tainted the land upon which they walked. Anora had heard about the Valarian Fields and the Anderfels, and it would spell disaster for Ferelden were the same fate to befall the Bannorn. Rayne had a suggestion, and it actually a lot of sense. Ferelden’s remaining mages could purify the land with fire. Of course, Rayne also had some other ideas about the future of mages in Ferelden. They could possibly fight in Ferelden’s army. They could live outside of the Circle serving bannorns or villages, acting as healers, midwives and advisors. He reasoned that nobles had their own mages, why should peasants not? Rayne was more optimistic about the peasants accepting the mages than Anora, but that would be a discussion for another day.

Merrill and Enid also offered a solution for ensuring that Ferelden’s breadbasket recovered as quickly as possible after the Blight and the fiery cleansing that would follow: Dalish Keepers. Apparently, Circle mages had no talent for nature magic; it was not something that was taught. While it was the bread and butter of Dalish magic, such a thing was not even discussed in the Chantry’s Circles. If the Dalish mages were not killed on sight, they could do wonders for the bannorn’s next harvest… But why would they?

Enid also had an answer for that. As a reward for both their aid in the Blight and their presumed help in the harvest, Enid proposed that the Dalish be granted a homeland once more. Anora was reluctant at first and promised nothing, but Merrill emphasized just how much longer recovery would be without the help of the Dalish, and how difficult it would be to convince the Keepers to help the shemlen without any guarantee of reward. The treaties obliged them to help the Grey Wardens combat the Blight, not to aid shemlen nations without any promise of reward.

Keegan had done some work convincing her though: the lands around Ostagar and the Brecilian Forest were mostly uninhabited— the latter widely believed to be haunted— and giving the Dalish a homeland would stop any skirmishes the Dalish might have crossing through human lands, or any complaints from the nobility of the elves hunting “human game”. Many Fereldans would see it as giving up Fereldan land, however… and it would not do to lose Gwaren. Anora suggested making them banns like Eve had proposed for the city elves, but Merrill said that would not be enough. They would agree to bow to no human lord.

Never again shall we submit, Enid had agreed. 

Perhaps a protectorate, then. The Brecilian Passage and Gwaren would need to remain Fereldan, but the other two proposed areas seemed agreeable enough. They would certainly need Fereldan ambassadors in those lands, however, and the Dalish would need to send ambassadors to Denerim as well. To ensure peaceful relations, the Dalish elves would need to be given a voice in the Landsmeet, as well. Not as banns, arls or teyrns… But as Keepers. Two Keepers to begin, and then, as their population increased and the Landsmeet became more used to seeing elves among them, a few banns from elven lands as well. Yes, that could work.

In the quiet time in between meetings, Anora had some time to think. Why had father not yet met the darkspawn again on the battlefield? Why had he focused on seizing power in Denerim? And why had she let him, for that matter? She had been such a fool. If father wanted what was best for the country, Ferelden’s army would be in the bannorn fighting the darkspawn now, not fighting itself. Anora had trusted her father. He was a man to whom she compared all others. And yet… her trust in him had left them ill-prepared for this Blight. 

Any other nation in Thedas would have had their allies flooding in to help them, but Ferelden technically had no formal allies, even decades after the Rebllion. Father’s fear of foreigners had prevented Maric and Cailan from ever establishing any true alliances. Like a fool, she had thought he was correct, that Ferelden should stand on its own… But at a time like this, wouldn’t it be fortuitous to have some allies? Not the Orlesians, of course… but perhaps some Marcher cities, or the Nevarrans? Still, she had been queen for five years. This was just as much her fault as his, and she had to fix it.

Mercy and Leliana retired to their room for the evening, and Leliana quickly got ready for bed. Mercy, however, sat at her desk, pensive. She had come to care for Leliana a great deal, and was trying to capture these moments together in her mind. They were to be their last, if this conversation went as Mercy anticipated.

Leliana smiled at her warmly, getting out of bed and taking a step toward her. “I know that look. You have something on your mind, don’t you?” she said as she grabbed Mercy’s hand.

“I do… It’s about Marjolaine,” Mercy said softly.

“Oh? I told you: I would prefer not to have to wait, but our current quests are more important than confronting her in Denerim. She will no doubt grow impatient, but we are fighting the Blight!”

Mercy sighed. “I did not want to talk about when we will meet her, but what you intend to do with her after.”

“Oh! Well, like I said, we must confront her… And after that, I suppose it depends on her. I hadn’t really given it much, thought, honestly…” Leliana said absentmindedly, before shrugging. “We will figure it out. Marjolaine could not hope to stand against the fabled Grey Wardens!”

Mercy smiled sadly. “Well… I have. You have been a great asset so far… Your skill with a bow, with stealth, and with picking pockets… Your knowledge, your charm… you have been indispensible. While you would make an exemplary Warden, I am not going to force that on you. However, Marjolaine trained you… And if the teacher is even half as competent as the student, I … intend to conscript her,” Mercy said quietly.

Leliana let Mercy’s hand fall, gasping as she took a step back. “You must be joking! Marjolaine is dangerous, Mercy. She is conniving and paranoid, and cares only for herself. You’d just as soon recruit a scorpion! Then, at least, you would see the sting coming.”

“I’m not joking. Of course, if it seems that she is going to stab us in the back, will be a hindrance, or will desert, she will be executed. But she must be given the chance,” Mercy uttered with quiet conviction.

“Marjolaine had me imprisoned, and tortured! She left me to die! She didn’t betray me because I moved against her, but because it was fun! You cannot be considering letting someone like that Join the Grey Wardens!”

Mercy met her gaze. Perhaps it would have been easier to blindside Leliana, and enjoy this last bit of their time together… But that was not who Mercy was raised to be. “I can. I am. We take all sorts, Leliana. We are needed to end the Blight, and the more Wardens we have, the better our chances become. Beside, the Joining is often fatal… Even with the old mage’s modifications. This discussion is most likely academic.”

“I…” Leliana began, tears welling up in her eyes. “I hope that it is, Mercy. If this were anyone else, I might even agree with you, but not Marjolaine…” she pleaded. “I believe I am meant to be with you, that the Maker put me on this path. I will not desert the party, but if this is your decision, I cannot be with you any longer,” she stated sadly.

Mercy clenched her jaw, trying not to betray any emotion. “I thought that might be the case. While it pains me, I understand your decision,” was all she said

Leliana met Mercy’s eyes for a few more seconds, staring at her sadly before gathering her things and softly closing the door behind her. Mercy collapsed into her bed as the tears began to flow freely.

Darla laughed uproariously as she hit her new friend Ruby in the face with a snowball. Wynne, and Levi and Rose Dryden watched as Darla fought valiantly in her snowball fight against both Ruby and Jonah Dryden. Of all of the mages Levi had met so far, Wynne seemed the least intimidating, not like that blood mage Avernus… Perhaps it was because she was a proper Circle mage, and had received approval to leave and go on this journey.

Wynne had brought little Darla to Soldier’s Peak from the Arling of South Reach. Now that the Wardens and their friends were leaving again to do something else heroic, they had needed someone to take care of her. Levi had been nervous accepting, but Rose was absolutely taken with young Darla, and it seemed Ruby and Jonah were of a mind with their mother.

“She doesn’t seem to want to talk about what she’s seen, but she’s a smart young woman, and resilient, as children often are. Young Darla knows her letters, which is an unusual for a peasant girl. Thank you for taking her in. I do not believe she will be a burden to you. A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and onto Maker,” she quoted.

“Thank you, Senior Enchanter,” Levi said sincerely.

“She is so darling, isn’t she Levi? I have a good feeling about this. You don’t know this, Enchanter Wynne, but Levi and I had been trying to have a third child for some time… This truly is a blessing.”

“Already she seems part of your family,” Wynne smiled. 

“All who walk in the sight of the Maker are one,” Rose responded. “She already is.”

“You know the Chant well, Mrs. Dryden. That speaks well of you. I am glad to see that Darla is in good hands.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to go back?” Alistair asked Diala as they awoke, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Surely you have people in Orzammar other than your father you cared about.”

“I’m sure. Of course I did but… Stone I hated it there. I was close to my brothers, despite their faults, until one murdered the other and framed me for it, of course. The nobles I knew were either scheming to get me on their side or out of the way, and the warriors and smiths I knew were too busy trying to earn my favour to actually talk to me. Even Pyral will try to use me to justify becoming king… And I can’t even say that he’d be any better a king than Bhelen. No, other than Gorim in Denerim, my father would have been the only reason I returned.”

“Well, my dear, if you’re sure,” he said, kissing her on the lips. “I, for one, could never understand people treating you differently just because your father was someone important,” he said, smiling slyly.

“Of course not, Alistair. You were raised by dogs, remember?”

“You remembered! Eventually, I’ll have to introduce you… Though I have to warn you, they’re slobbery kissers.”

They both chuckled at that, before sighing and hugging one another even tighter, Alistair stroking her hair absentmindedly.

“You know, despite the Blight, my father, Trian, and everything else that’s happened… Depsite it all, I’m happy I met you Alistair, and I’m happy to be a Grey Warden. I… care for you a great deal.”

Alistair was flustered and sputtered for a moment, before kissing her on the head and smiling. “And I you.”

Grand Cleric Elemena’s first meeting of the morning was with Bann Alfstanna. The Eremons were a pious, faithful family, and she was always happy to meet with one of them. In her letters, Alfstanna had said that this meeting was important, and insisted on having it as soon as possible. She had only arrived in Denerim from the Waking Sea Bannorn last night.

The Grand Cleric’s bones ached in the cold of late Harvestmere, winter having well and truly arrived. Elemena had not thought she would see a Blight in her time, nor civil war. She had lived a good, full life, and had seen her beloved Ferelden liberated from Orlesian oppressors. But she was an old woman, and did not have much time left, or much spirit left to give.

Alfstanna arrived on time for their meeting and was shown in by the Grand Cleric’s attendants. Accompanying her was her companion, a black mabari named Angus. He looked to be in his later years, but it made Elemena glad to see him. Angus bowed with Alfstanna as she thanked the Grand Cleric for meeting with her, and laid down at Alfstanna's feet after she took her seat.

“It’s very good to see you, my dear,” Elemena said. 

“And you, Your Grace,” Alfstanna responded. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“I am always happy to meet with a member of my flock, especially one as faithful as you,” she assured Alfstanna, smiling. Alfstanna noticed just how old the Grand Cleric looked; as long as she’d known her, the woman had been grey and wrinkled, but always vital and strong. Now… She seemed small, and frail.

“That gladdens me to hear, Your Grace. I have some horrible news that will require your direct attention.”

The Grand Cleric raised an eyebrow. “Is this regarding Irminric? I have not seen him for many moons, and am growing concerned.”

Alfstanna sighed. Apparently, her letter had never reached the Grand Cleric. “That… And more.”

And so she told him of Irminric’s death. First, about the elf who helped him escape and came with him to meet the Waking Sea bannorn, and then learning about just why he had been imprisoned: Loghain took a blood mage from her brother's custody and imprisoned him. Alfstanna had believed that coming to Denerim would be too dangerous and that they should report to Redcliffe. They tried to report to Arl Eamon, only to find it overwhelmed with the walking dead. After investigating his castle, they learned that the very blood mage Loghain freed from custody was the one who poisoned Arl Eamon, posing as a tutor for young Connor, possessed by a demon.

She spoke of how the Grey Wardens, the young noblemen and Irminric waited, guarded, and protected both Connor and the people of Redcliffe before the Circle arrived, and how Irminric gave his life to make sure the boy would be able to live his.

The Grand Cleric was listening quietly, her face giving away nothing. “How did you come to hear of this?” she asked. “If Irminric died and you were not there…”

“The elf with whom he travelled, Evelyn Tabris,” Alfstanna responded, realizing too late that it had been the wrong thing to say as the Grand Cleric’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “But what I learned about Teyrn Loghain’s actions were from Irminric himself,” she reminded the woman, doing some damage control.

The Grand Cleric considered for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “What you have told me about Teyrn Loghain is quite serious. To interfere with a templar’s sacred duty is a crime agains the Maker. He will face justice for his crimes.”

Alfstanna sensed a but coming.

“However, I cannot move against him now. We are in the middle of a Blight. Despite the young Cousland’s letters, most of the nobility still believe that the Hero of River Dane will see us through this, just as he did the Orlesian occupation. Many of my templars grew up wanting to be Loghain.”

“Your Grace, he had Arl Eamon poisoned! By a blood mage!”

“I believe you, Alfstanna,” the Grand Cleric said, putting a hand of the younger woman’s shoulder. “I believe you, and I want to help. But without Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan, or Arl Wulff, we stand little chance of convincing the rest of the nobility. If, somehow, he was brought to justice… The country would be thrown into chaos.”

“What of Queen Anora?” Alfstanna asked. It was a fair question.

The Grand Cleric hesitated, but decided she could trust the Alfstanna. She had trusted Irminric more than most of her templars, and she had been a good friend of their parents, who visited Denerim’s Chantry every time they were in town without fail.

“I have heard— though I cannot say how— that Queen Anora is missing. Loghain claims that she is ill and has been unable to see guests, but my sources say differently. I fear that, if Teyrn Loghain were gone, and without either Queen Anora or Arl Eamon in any position to object, Arl Howe would take charge and…”

The Grand Cleric tried not to speak ill of anyone, and but let her implication hang in the air. Alfstanna understood her perfectly. Even Angus growled quietly at the mention of Howe's name.

“However,” the Grand Cleric said. “As you have no doubt heard, Arl Wulff and Bann Teagan are in Redcliffe with the army the Grey Wardens seem to be gathering. Before we can face the Blight, a Landsmeet will be called to end this civil war. I will be able to offer my support then. In the meantime, try to convince your fellows and shore up support, especially from Arl Bryland. He is the only Arl whose allegiance is not yet clear.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Alfstanna said. “Thank you for meeting with me, and for dissuading me from doing anything foolish. I think Bryland will be amenable to reason; he already hates Howe.”

The Grand Cleric nodded as she and Alfstanna stood. Alfstanna noted sadly just how much of an ordeal that seemed to be for the Grand Cleric.

“It seems likely, my dear,” Grand Cleric Elemena said. “But do be careful. Ferelden has already lost a good and righteous templar. I fear Ferelden could not bear losing you as well, and nor could I.”

Chapter Text

The parties set out early in the morning, bidding their goodbyes to one another and wishing each other good luck. Since every group was beginning its journey on the same part of the Imperial Highway, they would space out their departures as not to attract any attention. Rayne’s party was first. They would have an arduous journey south, and he was not looking forward to all of the walking. It was an interesting group: Alistair and Diala, Anora and Erlina, Jowan, and, of course, Rayne himself.

He supposed that he was in charge now. Senior Mage Warden and all that. In charge of the expedition, at least… they were traveling with a queen, after all. Not that he was complaining; she was very respectful of his command. She offered suggestions and would veto certain ideas, but was otherwise rather agreeable. Erlina was prickly and protective, but seemed satisfied with Rayne himself. That was all very good, because she was rather intimidating.

Rayne was still getting used to his hair. Leliana had braided if after cutting it, and the braids were tied up in a ponytail. He went to stroke hair that was no longer there a few times, and Jowan seemed to notice, smiling meekly at him, before risking conversation.

“Jaime will be pretty satisfied, I imagine,” he stated quietly.

Rayne scowled at him, but responded. “Yeah. I can just imagine the look on his face.”

“When did you start the bet, anyways, and why?”

Rayne shrugged. “We must have been, what, around 12 or 13? We were hiding from Greagoir after we put some itching powder in his armor while he was sleeping,” he said, smiling fondly. “We were whispering and got into an argument about who could grow their hair longest without cutting it… We bet dessert, I think. Both of us were too stubborn to give in, of course. Weeks became months, months became years and, eventually, the Senior Enchanters stopped trying to convince us to get the Tranquil to cut our hair.”

Jowan chuckled. “The itching powder was you?! I always thought it had been Anders! Even the First Enchanter was laughing! You should have seen his face,” Jowan said, before an awkward silence filled the air. “I… I am sorry, Rayne,” he said quietly. “I’ve only used blood magic that one time! Not since then. Still, I should have told you…”

“You really should have, Jowan,” Rayne said dejectedly. “If you had, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe you would never have poisoned Arl Eamon, or maybe…”

Diala cut in, overhearing them and running up behind them, her new Warden armor clinking loudly. “I’ve played the maybe game myself, Rayne. It does nobody any good. We’re here now, and we have a job to do.”

Rayne nodded at her, smiling. He looked at Alistair, who was looming a few feet back and still refused to meet his gaze after the lecture Rayne had given him. Alistair looked up for a moment, making brief eye contact with the elf, before Rayne himself looked away. Apparently they were neither of them mature enough to talk about what happened.

“You’re right, of course, Diala,” Rayne said, turning to Jowan. “Just… Don’t lie to me again, okay?”

“I promise,” Jowan said. “And I won’t use blood magic ever again either. I swear.”

“Never say never, Jowan,” Rayne countered. “We’re Grey Wardens. Whatever it takes, remember?”

It was a few days travel before they came on the camp of qunari. Unlike Sten, they were exactly the monsters the Chantry described: horned, massive, imposing, and mostly with eyes that were black like the void. The qunari didn’t seem to notice their party, however.

Rayne held up a hand to stop the party. “They could be more of the beresaad, sent to find Sten…”

“Or tal-vashoth,” Anora interjected, finishing his thought. “Their gear looks Fereldan-made, and the shields bear Gwaren’s heraldry. Most likely that they are mercenaries in my father’s employ.”

“Most likely,” Diala agreed. “How do you wish to proceed, Anora?”

Erlina scowled a bit, as she did whenever anyone did not address the queen properly.

“I wish… To listen to Senior Mage Warden Surana, of course,” she said, smiling at Rayne. Alistair rolled his eyes. 

“Right. Diala and Alistair in the front. Anora and Erlina will provide any cover fire from the rear, while Jowan and I will be able to safely cast from the middle. I know that the four of us aren’t exactly hiding that we’re Wardens, but we should at least try to talk to them first,” Rayne said.

The six of them advanced, and Alistair waved at them. Rayne called out: “Shanedan, travellers! I am Senior Mage Warden Rayne Surana, of the Grey Wardens. May I ask what a such well-equipped group as yourself is doing in the Fereldan countryside?”

One of the qunari, dressed in crimson armor, stepped forward. “Shanedan, Senior Warden. I am Asaaranda, captain of the Kadan-Fe mercenary company. Unfortunately, if you are a Grey Warden, it means that we must bring you in, or at the very least dispose of you.”

“That’s unfortunate, Asaaranda,” Diala said. “The Grey Wardens are always looking for skilled recruits, and tal-vashoth are more skilled than most.”

Asaaranda considered for a moment, looking at the Kadan-Fe mercenary company to gauge their feelings. “What do the Wardens pay, dwarf?”

“At the moment, wandering around the countryside and killing anybody who gets in our way can be pretty profitable, but after the Blight’s over and things return to normal, I don’t doubt we’d be making even more coin! Before Ostagar, we received a quarterly stipend from Duncan,” Alistair remarked, his hand still twitchy and hovering around his hilt.

Anora spoke up. “Indeed! If the Blight is ended soon, I have no doubt that the crown will be well-disposed towards the Wardens!”

Asaaranda considered for a moment, and turned around to talk to his fellows. They conferred, and Jowan smiled meekly at Rayne. This was the oddest on-the-road confrontation they had had so far, and it was very polite.

Asaaranda turned to face them, his face as unreadable as any qunari they had met. “I apologize, Wardens. You seem honourable, but Teyrn Loghain can guarantee sovereigns now, and not a promise of future payment. Good luck, Grey Wardens,” he said sincerely, drawing his mace. “Vinek kathas!”

The tal-vashoth fought well, which was far from surprising, but they were no match for four Wardens and an Orlesian Shadow. As they were charging, Anora and Erlina began dipping their arrows in deathroot poison. Diala hefted her greatsword and Alistair raised his shield. Jowan enchanted their weapons, lighting them on fire, and cast a weakness hex on Asaaranda. Rayne, meanwhile, cast a grease spell on the Kadan-Fe in the back, causing some of them to slip and fall, and the rest to slow considerably.

As Alistair and Diala engaged the qunari in the front, Rayne cast a fireball on the qunari in the rear, setting the grease on fire and burning them alive. His wisp vibrated, supercharging the fireball. Anora and Erlina loosed some arrows. Erlina’s struck many qunari foreheads with terrifying precision, and Anora, while not as accurate, hit her target more often than not. 

The Kadan-Fe were dispatched pretty handily but, as soon as Diala lopped off Asaaranda’s head, one of the surviving qunari behind him raised his hands in surrender. “Hold, brethren! Hold!”

Only three qunari remained, and all of them raised their arms in surrender and dropped their weapons willingly. The one who had called for the surrender spoke: “I am Taashath,” he said calmly. “I am now the ranking officer of the Kadan-Fe, and I hereby surrender to you, Grey Wardens. The remaining Kadan-Fe will join you, and forswear any loyalty to Teyrn Loghain.”

Only one of the Kadan-Fe survived the Joining a few days later, even with the improved potion. The death was shocking to Diala and Jowan but Alistair and Rayne figured that it was only a matter of time. They’d been exceedingly lucky in their choice of recruits so far. He had handled himself well against the darkspawn. His name— or the one he had chosen for himself— was Shokrakar, meaning “rebel”. A bit on the nose, but acceptable. 

He had skin that was white like soot, had crimson eyes. His horns were large and curved upwards, neither of them gilded like Mercy’s. The Joining had changed him much like it had Mercy, making him taller and stronger than he had been before, and elongating his horns. Shokrakar wielded a shield of Gwaren, a well-made mace, as well as gorgeous silvertite armor. The wares of his fellows were looted, and Shokrakar made no objections, even encouraging his new companions. They could get good coin for their wares. Tal-Vashoth he may be, he was still born under the Qun. Like Sten, he believed that dead bodies were but empty shells, nothing about which to trouble onself after the moment of death.

Shokrakar really did resemble Sten more than he did Mercy. Rayne supposed that that was the difference between being raised in Par Vollen and raised in Ferelden. Immediately after the Joining, Rayne tried to squeeze as much information out of him as he could— anything he had not already learned from Sten and Mercy— and he was more amenable to talking about the Qun and Par Vollen than Sten, but not by much. Erlina, for her part, watched him closely. They had not yet told him that Anora was queen, but it was sure to come up eventually, and Erlina was even less certain of the qunari’s loyalty than she was the rest of the Wardens.

The journey had been hard on Anora, though she tried not to show it. Erlina had taught her the ways of the bard: lying, manipulation, infiltration, assassination… But she had not taught her how to journey around the countryside on foot. But she would not show it; she was queen, after all… Even if she had abandoned Denerim.

Anora was relieved when they camped for the evening. The Wardens told her that they needed to have a talk amongst themselves. As far as Anora was concerned, they were welcome to it. Anora set about helping Erlina prepare the boar she had felled; she was determined to make herself useful to these people. She was the granddaughter of a Fereldan Freeholder, after all. Her father made sure she could take care of herself.

In Rayne’s tent, the Wardens came together. They took turns giving Shokrakar important pieces of Warden Lore. It had apparently been policy to keep the most traumatizing parts of their secrets a secret from the recruits for a year, but this was a Blight. The old policy had meant that, if they had never gone to the Peak, Mercy and her Wardens would have faced the Archdemon without ever knowing why Wardens were needed. They may not have known the importance of a Warden getting the killing blow.

Shokrakar was, as all qunari, difficult to read, but seemed to be taking the news in stride. The dreams, the Calling, the killing blow… It was a lot to absorb, but Shokrakar’s stoicism never wavered. After the meeting, Jowan and Shokrakar were sent to join Erlina and Anora for dinner, though Diala insisted on staying back to speak with her fellow Senior Wardens.

Alistair rolled his eyes and huffed, while Rayne suddenly seemed incredibly interested in the grass under their feet. Diala sighed. “Look, I know that some words were exchanged and some feelings were hurt, but Rayne, you’re the ranking officer. You’re in command of this mission. You can’t look away from Alistair every time he looks at you. And Alistair: you’re the most senior member of the Order in Ferelden! You may not be in charge of anything, but you have to realize that the Blight takes precedence over how you’re feeling.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Diala, I’ve been repeatedly reminded of that fact,” Alistair said bitterly.

Rayne sighed. “Alistair… I’m sorry. I still think that I’m right, but I am sorry. I didn’t have to be such an ass about it. And of course we care about your feelings, and your opinions: we sought out Arl Eamon because of you, and Enid is seeking a legendto cure him. The Arl will be an asset in the Landsmeet and against the darkspawn, sure, but on a personal level, I’m happy we’re saving him because you want to save him. Despite the way he raised you, you obviously still care about him. And I care about you, Alistair. We all do. You’ve saved my ass— and all of our asses— countless times in battle. After Ostagar, it was your shitty jokes that kept me going. I kind of miss them.”

Alistair considered for what seemed like an eternity before looking up and making eye contact with Rayne. “I accept your apology, Rayne. And I apologize too… I’ve been thinking, and talking with Diala. I’ve had to do a lot of growing up these past few months. It hasn’t been fun, but it’s been… Necessary. So thanks, I guess,” he said, shrugging. He extended a hand to Rayne and smiled. “Friends?”

Rayne pulled him into a hug, startling the templar a bit. “Of course, Alistair.”

Diala rolled her eyes. “Good. Now that the children have kissed and made up, let’s go join the queen for dinner. I’m starving!”

Chapter Text

Teagan was getting less and less comfortable with Redcliffe as a place to amass the Grey Warden’s army… Or Ferelden’s army, and that was in large part due to Arlessa Isolde. They had done well at filling up Redcliffe village again, but any time anyone had arrived at the castle, Isolde seemed likely to provoke a diplomatic incident. When the mages arrived, she nearly ruined the alliance the Wardens had created with them. Luckily, the mage leading the contingent, Senior Enchanter Torrin, was a fellow with a good head on his shoulders. He knew the Blight was more important than some Orlesian. Some of the mages even began training Connor; even Isolde couldn’t complain about that, after everything that had happened.

There was more tension when some of the Mages’ Collective arrived. Only a few of them, but any mages were an incredible help. The templars took their existence as a personal offence, and some of the mages were dangerously intrigued about their purple-clad, free brethren. Teagan and Isolde were of a mind when it came to the impropriety of the Collective, but they were helping against the Blight, so Teagan— and the templars— had to sheathe their blades. There was peace, for the moment.

The Arlessa was much more excited about the arrival of Arl Wulff and his family, whom she had just last year described as “scarcely more civilized than the barbarians they spend all of their time fighting”. Teagan supposed that she was happy to have any new arrivals that she could consider a peer. She was scandalized when she realized they had enlisted the aid of two groups of Avvar: Stormhold and Redhold, and that their leaders had accompanied them! One of his daughters even married one of the savages, a tragic-looking oaf of a man named Azur ar Brosna o Redhold. What a ridiculous name! Arl Wulff brought the rest of his family with him as well: Arlessa Luella and their children: Aeron, Raina, Izot and the youngest, Berchan, scarcely more than ten years old. Apparently the second son, Cadoc, had Joined the Wardens. Tragic.

Wulff’s wife, Arlessa Luella, knew how to act like a proper lady, and was up to Isolde’s standards… As low as they had sunk. Isolde had tea with Luella daily. Sometimes Lady Raina would join them if her schedule permitted. If Lady Izot were not so enthralled with her new husband, she might have joined them as well.

The arrival of the Dalish “savages” was greeted with even more disdain by Isolde than that of the mages. The elves had simply appeared in town and around the castle one day, apparently evading every sentry that Teagan had stationed to keep watch. Their leader— or Keeper— was named Lanaya, and seemed friendlier and more civilized than the rest of them, despite being a mage. Apparently, all their leaders were mages! Teagan couldn’t believe it.

The Dalish kept to themselves and mostly camped outside of the village, except for a select few. One of their tradesman, Master Varathorn, traded in the city— accompanied by some hunters for protection, of course— and what few customers he had were satisfied with their purchases. The Keeper, Lanaya, as well as her First, a young elf named Vamael, stayed in Redcliffe Castle itself with the rest of the leaders, but seemed to spend as much time outside as possible. Isolde avoided them like they had the Blight sickness.

Eventually, not content to sit in Denerim, Arl Bryland and the men of South Reach arrived in town. Isolde was excited to meet with other proper ladies that accompanied the Arl, but it was not to be: Arlessa Aldona, Arl Bryland’s wife, was eight years dead, and Lady Habren was in Denerim with her younger brother. Habren’s older sister Edna was much more interested in training with the soldiers than dining with Isolde, and did her best to politely decline all of the Arlessa’s invitations. There was a bright spot, however: Bann Alfstanna accompanied Arl Bryland, and she could always be counted on for good conversation, even if she insisted on bringing that mongrel she called a dog with her everywhere she went.

Teagan was surprised at Bryland and Alfstanna’s arrival, especially since Bryland had gone to Denerim early on in the Blight. Teagan was impressed by their priorities. Apparently young Cousland’s letters had been relatively convincing, and Bann Alfstanna’s news about Loghain even moreso. Bryland took with him some of his most loyal Banns and most of his forces, and with Alfstanna were two templars, apparently sent by the Grand Cleric to aid however they could.

Teagan had invited a peasant girl, Kaitlyn, to stay in the castle for the immediate future before her it was safe enough for them to travel to Denerim. Their home had been destroyed during the attacks, and Teagan had insisted on offering her a place to stay. Isolde thought it was all very improper, though her younger brother Bevin made a good companion for Connor, as did Gallagher Wulff’s youngest son, Berchan. 

Isolde placed herself comfortably onto her settee and smoothed any ruffles out of her dress. She had worn a beautiful turquoise Orlesian gown trimmed with silver swallows today, and had the cook prepare delightful finger sandwiches and some rare Antivan Cheddar. The cheese tasted of the elation of watching fireworks with one’s family on Summerday.

Arlessa Luella Wulff was welcomed into Isolde’s salon, and took her seat across from the Orlesian woman, joined by her daughter Raina. Luella’s grey hair was braided and fell down her back beautifully. Her grey eyes went well with her green gown, Fereldan as it was. Raina wore a beautiful purple gown, cut low and trimmed with silver. She had her mother’s eyes, and her dark brown hair was tied in elaborate braids placed ornately around her head. Isolde told her maid to ask Raina’s maid just how she accomplished it. Lady Izot Wulff, it seemed, had been busy today, as had Bann Alfstanna, but Lady Edna Bryland arrived, if a bit late. Her chestnut brown hair was tied up in a drab bun, and she was wearing her battle leathers. Isolde tried to hide her disgust as Edna took her seat, seeing that she had brought along that fiendish apostate, Mel, today.

“Lady Edna,” Isolde said through gritted teeth, contorting her face into her best approximation of a smile. “I did not realize you would be bringing a guest, and not a guest who is so… Particulière, on dirait.”

Lady Raina jumped up and smiled, giving Mel a hug. They had apparently become friends. Edna turned to Isolde, smiling as innocently as possible, her green eyes sparkling innocently. “Arlessa Isolde, I have recently discovered that Mel’s real name is Marian Amell, and is of noble Marcher blood from Kirkwall.”

“What wonderful news,” Arlessa Luella said calmly. “You are among friends, Lady Amell. Please have a seat.”

Mel set her obsidian spear-staff against the wall, and plopped down on a couch beside Lady Edna. Her mabari, Spot, made herself comfortable at the mage’s feet. Isolde wracked her brain. Amell, Amell… Where had she heard that name? Of course!

“Ah, Amell,” Isolde said pointedly. “My good friend la Comtesse de Launcet told me about your family. It is truly a tragedy what had become of them. Are you one of Lady Revka’s children, or Lady Leandra’s?”

Mel showed no signs of offence at the taunt, lazily putting her muddy boots onto Isolde’s table. “Revka’s,” she said, shrugging. “And I suppose being torn away from my family was shitty, but it’s better than becoming an abomination after my tutor poisoned my father and then murdering a bunch of the peasants that relied on my father’s army to protect them,” Mel responded casually, as if discussing the weather.

Isolde gasped audibly, shocked that anyone would be so very rude, or so… Tactless. To her credit, the Wulff girls managed to looked suitably shocked as well, but Edna just put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her smile. 

“How dare you, mage! You and your lot have been here, poisoning the mind of Teagan and everyone else in camp, and I have held my tongue! I was gracious enough to extend my hospitality to you apostates and this is how you repay me?!”

Spot stood up, growling menacingly, before Marian told him to calm down, taking a swig of whatever it was she kept in her silver flask. “Bann Teagan has extended his hospitality, Lady Isolde, and I’m here because of an agreement the Collective made with the Grey Wardens. Or would you rather we left you to the darkspawn, and fled to the Free Marches? Because I’m tempted, believe me,” she said, smiling calmly at Isolde.

Arlessa Luella spoke up now, putting a hand on Isolde’s shoulder to calm her, smiling at Isolde and then Mel. “My Lady Amell, I think that perhaps today is not the best day to meet for tea, though it was a pleasure to see you. I believe Edna can show you out,” she said not unkindly. 

Mel smiled. “Perhaps you’re right, Arlessa Luella. It was good to meet you too! And you, Raina. I’ll be in the training yard after I meet with the Council if you wish to speak later,” she added, waving at the ladies as she left. Spot took one last smug look at Isolde, before following her human and Lady Edna out of the room.

Arlessas Isolde and Luella were served their tea with Lady Raina a few moments later. It was an awkward silence, and mother and daughter both took pains to avoid eye contact with Isolde, who was still shaking with rage. As inadvisable as it was to enrage the wife of one of the most influential people in Ferelden, the Wulffs were glad that someone finally did it.

Revered Mother Farrah was adjusting as well as she could to life in Redcliffe. She had barely left West Hills for many years, and definitely not for so exciting a reason. She had never met a Dalish elf before, and had never seen this many mages in one place. It was an eclectic group, and she couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride that it was all thanks to little Mercy Hissera, who she’d known her whole life. Pride, and shame. What happened to the Hisseras haunted Farrah still.

At the moment, she was sitting outside of the village’s Chantry, reading a book on the Legend of Luthias Dwarfson. She was excited to meet the dwarves as well. Farrah had spent many an hour sitting outside of this Chantry, watching important people go to and fro. Avvar and noblemen, Dalish and city elves, Circle Mages and those of the Collective.

Today, she recognized Vamael, the apprentice of Lanaya, leader of the largest Dalish clan here. No, not leader, she reminded herself. Keeper, and Vamael was Lanaya’s First. He had pale skin and brilliant green eyes with Dalish face markings to match. His black hair was elaborately braided, and he carried with him a sylvanwood staff.  Vamael made his way to Master Varathorn’s stand, and greeted one of the hunters who accompanied the old Dalish smith.

The First gave the hunter a hug and kiss on the cheek, before telling him something quietly that Farrah was too far to overhear. The young hunter’s eyes went wide as if he was suddenly reminded of something he forgot, and he began to run towards the edge of the city. As we was leaving, Vamael waved his staff in the air and cast a spell on the hunter, causing him to double his pace. Magic was truly remarkable.

Evidently, the templars that were out and about thought differently. Two templars in the area saw Vamael cast his spell, and started towards him. “Oi! Knife-ear!” one called. They were both in helmets, so she was unsure who they were. Farrah stood up and began walking towards them as well.

Vamael spun to around, clearly angry. He took a breath, demonstrating more self-control than many of the humans she had met in her time, and said: “Yes, shem?”

The other templar responded. “We know you Dalish savages are here to help, but that don’t mean you can go around casting your heathen magics in front of our mages!”

The first templar nodded. “Might go giving them ideas!”

“Ideas like what?” Vamael asked. “Like they shouldn’t be treated like slaves by your human Chantry? If anyone here is savage, it is you templars,” Vamael responded. 

“How dare you!” the second templar yelled, reaching for his blade. Vamael’s eyes began to glow as the air around him became charged with magic.

“Templars! Vamael!” Revered Mother Farrah called out. The three of them paused, turning towards her.

“Your Reverence,” the templars said in unison, bowing.

“I know that living in such close proximity has us all a bit tense, but we must remember that our alliance is paramount. If it is not maintained, all of Thedas might be lost,” she said seriously.

“But Your Reverence…” one of the templars began.

“No buts, Ser,” she responded, cutting him off. She was smiling warmly, but there was steel in her voice. “We have forged an alliance with the Dalish. We have not conquered them. In this, they are our equals. Though their ways are different from our own, we must focus on that which unites us, lest the darkspawn devour us all.”

The templars nodded, having the decency to look almost contrite under their helmets. “Very well, Revered Mother,” they said, moving to get back to whatever it is they were doing before harrassing Vamael.

“One more thing,” she said as they were walking away. “Calling someone ‘knife-ear’ does not foster unity. Should I hear it again, Knight-Commander Harrith will be informed of the templars intent on jeopardizing our alliance against the Blight.”

“Yes, Your Reverence,” they repeated.

Vamael didn’t say anything, but nodded at Farrah, and smiled. It wasn’t much, but she was doing what she could. That’s all anyone could do.

Arls Wulff and Bryland were meeting with Bann Teagan and Bann Alfstanna in Eamon’s study before the War Council meeting. It was even more extravagant than Bryland had remembered it when he visited after the Rebellion. Wulff, privately, was disgusted by the opulence of the place. It was gaudy— almost Orlesian in its excess— which was especially egregious given the state of the village of Redcliffe. Wulff’s freeholders had more than Eamon’s did, and Redcliffe didn’t spend all year fighting off the Avvar! 

Teagan, to his credit, seemed to be handling this crisis well enough, and had earned the love of the villagers for his part in fighting the walking dead. The only thing the man couldn’t seem to handle was the Arlessa. Teagan poured them each a small glass of Sun Blonde Vint-1, on the rocks. Very extravagant indeed.

“So, Teagan, that lass Kaitlyn’s a pretty one, eh?” Wulff teased. “You might be Ferelden’s most eligible bachelor. Do you plan to make her your wife?”

Teagan blushed a bit. “I suppose that she is quite… Fetching, but I invited her here so Connor would have a friend in her younger brother. There is perhaps another woman… But Eamon would never approve.”

Bryland frowned at that. Wulff chuckled. “And you think he’d approve of me giving my blessing to Izot and her husband? Really Teagan, you’re a grown man, a Bann, and it’s a Blight. Make your own decision! Luella was the third daughter of some nobody family in the bannorn, and I still thank the Maker every day that my father approved the match.”

“My parents insisted I follow my heart as well, and I have yet to find an acceptable match,” Alfstanna added. “Yet I am content as I am, and not trapped in a loveless marriage. If you have found a chance at happinness with someone, I say take it!”

Leonas shrugged. “As long as she is no mage, the Landsmeet will have no problem with it, though some might grumble.” It went without saying that she must also be human.

“I suppose you are correct,” Teagan said nervously. “Her name is Bella and she… Owns the tavern in village.”

That surprised the Arls, but not Alfstanna. She had visited the tavern with some of the nobility last night, and had seen how Teagan looked at her. They had no issue with the match, but were shocked a Guerrin might consider it. “I saw her a few nights ago when I was at the tavern with the men. She’s a pretty girl, and has a sharp tongue! No doubt she’d keep you on your toes!” Wulff said.

“No dowry, of course,” Leonas added. “But if she can give you an heir— especially now that Connor is disqualified— then it is a fine idea.”

“You just better do it before Eamon wakes up!” Wulff added jokingly. “Speaking of marriages: Bryland, have you found a match for Habren yet? Or Edna?”

“Well, I was trying to work the Couslands to agree to marrying their youngest to Habren, but that obviously didn’t go as planned…” he trailed off sadly. “And I suppose I should finally give up on any hope of Teagan agreeing to take Edna as his betrothed,” he chuckled.

“Well, what about Aeron? Cadoc might be a Warden now, but Aeron is the eldest. I’d have to talk with him first, but if one of your girls are interested, she’d become Arlessa of West Hills.”

Bryland considered for a moment. “Edna is already my heir… But I’ll speak to her about it. Otherwise, I believe Habren would be overjoyed to be made Arlessa of West Hills.”

Alfstanna knew Habren, and hoped the poor lad wouldn’t agree. She could say nothing to the Arls, however; they outranked her. She just prayed to the Maker that Aeron would insist on meeting Habren before the marriage.

Lanaya and her First, Vamael, arrived for the War Council in the Audience Chamber first, served by some human servants who were clearly annoyed at having to wait on elves. Lanaya had heard that most servants were elves. Why were there none in Redcliffe castle? Her guards and hunters, Athras and Dilanna, were as twitchy as ever at leaving their Keeper alone in the Audience Chamber, but did as they were told and waited just outside. Vamael was scarcely younger than Lanaya herself, and had pale skin and elaborately-braided black hair. His eyes matched his green Vallaslin, which venerated Sylaise.

Next to arrive was Senior Enchanter Torrin, who bowed respectfully to the Dalish and was incredibly polite to the servants. Of all of the humans they had met, they found Wardens and mages to be most tolerant of elves. She theorized that it was because elves were equal to humans in both the ranks of the Grey Wardens and the Circle hierarchy.

The leaders of the avvar holds, Thanes Owyne o Redhold and Norig o Stormhold arrived next, ducking under the door in order to not hit their heads. Owyne had short grey hair and a bushy brown and grey beard, bright green eyes matching his nephew Azur’s. Norig was bald, and had hard silver eyes. His hold— which Lanaya had surmised meant clan— was much more influential than Redhold. They were accompanied by Stormhold’s “augur”, an older human man named Elorn with a long grey beard. The avvar were giant, wore pelts and used crudely-made weapons. Yet, despite their appearance, the way they lived proved they were shrewd and clever men, and understood the value of living alongside nature and not stamping all over it like most humans. They also understood and valued their magic. Vamael had remarked that the Avvar had more in common with the Dalish than they did with other humans, and Lanaya found she could not disagree. 

The Arls, Bann Alfstanna and Bann Teagan arrived just on time, the four of them laughing over something or other that one had said. Teagan sat at the head of the table, since he was acting as Arl in Eamon’s absence. To his right and left sat Bryland and Wulff respectively, and Alfstanna took a seat beside Lanaya.

“Is that everyone?” Leonas asked.

“Almost. We are just waiting on our friend from the Collective,” Torrin said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

As if on cue, the door swung open, and Marian Amell entered dramatically as Spot trotted alongside her. “Fear no longer, o esteemed Council, for I have arrived!”

“Miss Amell,” Teagan said through gritted teeth, “It is good to see you. Please have a seat.”

She sat down and winked at Teagan, leaning back in her chair.

“This is a Blight, Miss Amell. And you’re among nobility. A little decorum, please,” Torrin insisted.

“You’re right, Senior Enchanter. That’s what the darkspawn need: decorum. If only they knew their etiquette, they would realize how terribly impolite they’re being and crawl back into the Deep Roads,” Mel said, voice dripping in sarcasm. Spot yipped in agreement.

Elorn, the avvar’s augur, snorted.

Lanaya stayed silent and respectful, her and Vamael providing nothing more than noncommital smiles. Vamael wondered if more shemlen were this… Odd, or if it was unique to her. Still, the Dalish had their duty, and no shem could ever claim they had shirked from it.

“Regardless, we have business to discuss,” Arl Bryland said. While Teagan may have been standing in for Eamon, Arl Bryland was still the most high-ranking noble at the table. 

“Aye,”  Owyne rumbled. “We are wasting time preparing when we should be fighting darkspawn. We’ve got quite an army here, Wardens or not. We should be using it.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Thane Owyne,” Wulff reflected, stroking his grey beard. “We’re planning, drinking and getting fat while the south is being ravaged by the darkspawn.”

“Aye, lowlander. Perhaps you aren’t as foolish as we believed,” Thane Owyne smiled warmly. Maybe the family his nephew married into was not so bad after all, and his new niece-in-law could useful to Redhold.

Mel shrugged. “The Collective’s alliance is with Warden Surana, but I could probably convince them to march. All five of them.”

“I hate to rain on your parade— as it were, but I am unsure if this is a wise course of action. We would be fighting both Loghain's men and the darkspawn, and the Grey Wardens have not yet returned,” Alfstanna said.

Lanaya spoke next, choosing her words carefully. “I would agree with Bann Alfstanna. While none of you have given any reason to distrust you, our alliance is with the Grey Wardens, and many of my people— as well as the Keepers of the smaller clans— might… Object to marching at the direction of human lords without any input from the Wardens.”

“I would also agree with that,” Arl Bryland said, stroking his chin pensively. That comment put any notion of marching early on hold for the moment; Bryland was the highest-ranking noble in the room. “But the men are getting restless, and tensions between the Chantry, the mages, the templars, the Dalish, and our own armies are coming to a head. We need to do something.”

Alfstanna nodded in agreement. “It cannot be anything too drastic nor risky— much of this army is the Grey Wardens’ army. Even if that were not the case, we will need to call a Landsmeet once Eamon awakens, and the lot of us will need to be there to oppose Loghain.”

“Aye,” Wulff agreed.

“What of the rest of the horde?” Thane Norig offered. “By now, the bulk of the horde has moved north, but stragglers remain in the south.”

Bann Teagan nodded. “Ostagar, and the Wilds. That is… Not a poor idea. Not too great a risk, and killing darkspawn can only be a good thing.”

“It will give our hunters a chance to stretch their legs,” Vamael whispered to his Keeper.

“I find no fault with this proposal,” Lanaya agreed. “It will be a good chance to work together.”

“And shed blood together!” Wulff added. “Small rotations of soldiers to make sure that we don't risk the bulk of the army. A chance to refine our tactics before we face to bulk of the horde. Some of us are old enough to remember how effective Maric’s mage was during the rebellion, and Loghain’s Night Elves. I can picture it now: a healer in every unit, a battlemage, and a Dalish too. The spawn won’t stand a chance!”

“Oh, can’t say I hate that idea!” Mel said. “But the templars will!” she said, smiling at Senior Enchanter Torrin.

“She is not incorrent,” Torrin said. “I do not believe Knight-Templar Bran will allow the mages to be unsupervised, and we do not have enough templars here to watch over all of the Circle.”

Arl Bryland frowned. “We are in a Blight. Surely the templars will see the necessity.”

“Well, if they can’t, I’m sure the Collective will be happy to accept new members,” Mel said, winking at Teagan, who blushed and looked at the ground.

“Technically, Revered Mother Hannah is the most senior member of the Chantry here, and the templars should report to her. If we can convince her…” Alfstanna offered.

“I fear she may not be amenable to convincing,” Bann Teagan said. “She is traditional.”

“Well, I will ask Revered Mother Farrah to talk to her,” Arl Wulff said. “She can be pretty convincing. Then we can go from there.”

"Yes," Vamael agreed, smiling at the recollection of his interaction with her this morning. "She can."

“Thank you, Wulff,” Arl Bryland said. “Let us know how that goes. In the meantime, we will address our men. The rest of you may do the same. We will aim to have our first group set out by the beginning of next week.”

Chapter Text

Since arriving the Soldier’s Peak and meeting with the queen, the young Teyrn Cousland had become an entirely different man. Seemingly overnight, this man had become someone who joked with Mayrin and Zevran, teased Sten, put up with Shale, and even traded suprisingly good-natured barbs with Morrigan. Keegan was full of mirth and good humour, even during the Blight, and barely resembled the hollow shell of a man to whom his companions had become so accustomed. His companions— even Morrigan— were too polite to mention the sobs they heard coming from his tent in the evening. Grief takes time, especially grief as heavy as his.

Mayrin had been trying to give his companions an idea of what they would face in Orzammar, but nothing could truly prepare them for dwarven society. Their entry into the Frostback Mountain Pass was something of a bad omen, all things considered. They were attacked by well-trained and well-armored bounty hunters, who even counted an apostate among their number. There were eight of them, and only seven in the Wardens’ party. Though the bounty hunters put up a good fight, they could not hope to stand against Mercy’s company. She offered them a chance to surrender before the fight began, but they didn’t take it. Mayrin couldn’t say that he was disappointed to be able to try out Starfang.

Luckily, three of them survived the melee and surrendered. They were all offered the chance to Join the Wardens. Their commander, a man named Dougal, refused, and was executed immediately. Of the remaining two, both were human. One was a human man who fought with a maul. He was in his forties or fifties, had tan, weathered skin, greying brown hair, a full beard, and green eyes. He seemed Fereldan, and was named Cowen. The other recruit was the mage: an Orlesian apostate with a short black bob, pale skin and blue eyes named Aelizia. Keegan chuckled a bit at that, certain that Loghain would never have permitted the group to be hired if he had known that they employed an Orlesian. Perhaps Howe had done it.

While Recruit Aelizia was standoffish, she was generally grateful for her survival. She was also quite curious about her Joining, but had better sense than to continue prodding her large, qunari Warden-Commander. She was also immediately taken with Morrigan, grateful that there was not only another mage in the party, but another apostate. Keegan, for his part, kept a wide berth, as Aelizia’s accent reminded him far too much of Isolde. Aelizia said that she was the distant relation of a duc, or a comte, or some other Orlesian noble, who had smuggled her out of Orlais instead of turning her over to the Circle. He must have loved her quite a lot to take so big a risk.

Cowen was much more easygoing than his Orlesian compatriot, and seemed to be accepting his new situation with grace. He was quiet, and all of his words were deliberate; he did not speak simply to fill the silence. When he met Shale, he simply shrugged his shoulders and held a hand out to shake, even apologizing for cracking one of Shale’s crystals in the melee. 

“Mage that fought with the Rebellion had a golem too,” he remarked. “Only ever saw the thing from a distance, but I know how useful you can be in a fight.”

That evening, Keegan, Morrigan, Cowen, Zevran, and Aelizia began to set up camp outside of Orzammar as Sten toured the merchant stalls with Mercy and Mayrin. Shale stood off to the side, mostly spending its time sighing heavily, and trying really hard not to crush the annoying, squishy dwarves gathering around them, poking and prodding at a previously-unknown golem. More than one of the merchants asked Keegan to buy Shale, and for a tidy sum at that. While the party was preparing camp for the evening, Aelizia asked: “The Commander mentioned that hornless qunari is not a Warden. He is simply tal-vashoth then, non? A mercenary. I have not heard of tal-vashoth being interested in ‘causes’, as it were. Is he being paid?”

Zevran chuckled. “You’d assume so, my beautiful Orlesian minx, but you’d be mistaken. Sten there is a true qunari, and a member of their army, or so I am told.”

“Vraiment? My tutor taught me that qunari treat their mages even more poorly than the Circle does. Has he attempted any such thing with you, Morrigan?” 

“Ha! ‘Twould be most amusing to try and see the qunari try to leash me. I am more than a match for any man— templar or qunari— who would dare try such a thing.”

“You don’t have anything to fear from Sten, madamoiselle,” Keegan said calmly. “He is not here to convert us, but to investigate the Blight,” he explained, shrugging. “Plus, it’s not like he could go back anyways. He lost his sword.”

“His sword?” Aelizia asked, confused. “He cannot return without his sword?”

“It’s complicated,” Keegan smiled, offering no further explanation.

“For that matter, does being a Grey Warden pay anything?” Cowen asked.

“And that is something you will need to ask your Commander,” Keegan said, smiling as he retreated into his tent for the evening. Keegan knew that, during normal times, the Crown at least partially funded the Grey Wardens— they even had a compound at the palace. These were not normal times, however, and he had no idea the kind of funds the Warden-Commander had at her disposal, or if coin had even occurred to her in this time of crisis. A problem for another day, certainly. The Fade beckoned, and Keegan could not keep it waiting any longer. He snuggled up beside an already-asleep Felix, and drifted off into the realm of dreams.

Mercy had already learned a great deal from the merchant dwarves outside of Orzammar before ever walking up to the gate. Before they arrived, she thought that Mayrin may have been exaggerating, or that his view of Orzammar was skewed due to him being casteless, but, from what she had learned from these merchants, Mayrin’s assessment seemed accurate. Mercy was beginning to understand why Diala had been so resistant to returning. 

Her more immediate concern, however, was Sten’s sword. The trail had led them here and, just as the merchants began to pack away their wares, they found him: Faryn. After an annoyingly drawn out conversation, they found out that Sten’s sword had been right under their noses the whole time, and that they had already met its new owner: the dwarf named Dwyn, in Redcliffe. Well, they could add that to their list of things to do in Redcliffe.

“If you wish to make the journey to Redcliffe to find your sword now, Sten, I understand,” Mercy offered. 

“No, Commander. I have vowed to aid you in your mission, and qunari do not break their word.”

“Happy to have you with us then, Sten,” she said, smiling.

Sten only grunted as he turned away, but she could swear she saw the edges of his mouth curling into a smile as he did. 

The group awoke early in the morning to a bored and impatient Shale, ever resentful of the fleshy creatures’ need for slumber. “Well, this is it, I guess,” Mayrin said miserably.

“Have no fear, my dear!You will have your trusted Zevran at your side, and have no reason to worry!”

In getting to know one another last night, Aelizia and Morrigan had found that their skill sets were complementary: while Aelizia focused more on spirit and creation, Morrigan’s bread and butter were the primal and entropic schools. It gave the new recruit even more of a reason to follow Morrigan around like a lost Orlesian poodle, and it was already wearing on the witch. As they were packing up the camp, Aelizia narrowed her eyes at Mayrin and Zevran, and then leaned over to Morrigan, whispering: “It is most improper for a Grey Warden to be in a relationship with an elf, non? Even if Monsieur Brosca is a dwarf.”

Morrigan bristled at that, spinning on Aelizia angrily. “While there are many things one should find objectionable about their… Coupling, ’tis not due to the fact that Zevran is an elf. ’Tis most ignorant of you to assume that Wardens cannot themselves be elves.”

“Agreed!” Keegan chuckled. “If they take Orlesians, they’ll take anybody!”

That got a hearty chuckle out of Cowen, in the process of donning his armor.

Aelizia, however, wondered just what she had done to offend Morrigan so. Why would she be offended? They were just elves, after all. Nobody important. Could elves truly Join the ranks of the Wardens? She had learned that they would take anyone, but she had not realized her tutors had meant elves. That could not possibly be so.

“Indeed, Senior Mage Warden Surana is your direct superior, and is himself an elf,” Morrigan responded, smiling snidely.

“You cannot be serious, Lady Morrigan! How droll!” she exclaimed, certain Morrigan was making some kind of jest.

“She is, Recruit Aelizia,” Mercy said with just a hint of menace in her voice. “Among the Wardens, all who can fight darkspawn are welcome, and promotions are given out based on merit and seniority, not race. If that policy is not agreeable… Well, we will be venturing into the Deep Roads for your Joining, anyways. No one will notice if we return one Orlesian apostate fewer than we left with.”

Morrigan smiled, satisfied and maybe even a little proud of her Warden. Mayrin gave Morrigan a smug but warm smile. Morrigan, in turn, scowled, blushed, and looked away. Aelizia, for her part, looked ready to cry. She took the message well enough, and questioned Mercy no further.

“A sound policy,” Shale added. “All of you fleshy creatures are the same to me.”

As they approached at the gates to Orzammar in the daylight, and Mercy took a moment to take in the sight. She had never seen anything so grand growing up on a freehold in West Hills. She was snapped out of her admiration, however, as they approached the gates, hearing a smug human man arguing with the dwarven guards.

“King Loghain demands the allegiance of the deshyr or lords or whatever you call them in your Assembly! I am his appointed messenger.”

“I don’t care if you’re the king’s wiper, Orzammar will have none but its own until our throne is settled.”

“King Loghain, is it?” Mercy queried, and turned to Keegan. “Is that right, Keegan? I could have sworn he was the Teyrn of Gwaren.”

“No, that sounds correct, Warden-Commander,” he responded lightly. “Unless a Landsmeet was called in the middle of a civil war to confirm him?”

The messenger turned to them, and saw Mercy and Mayrin’s silver and blue Grey Warden armor. His eyes flared with anger. “Grey Wardens? How dare you! The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly doomed Ferelden! You are criminals, and sworn enemies of King Loghain! In the name of King Loghain, I demand that you execute these stains on the honour of Ferelden!”

Mercy put a hand on the hilt of either of her longswords, smiling at them menacingly. “Run to your false king. The dwarves will not hear him today.”

Any fool could see that the three men Loghain had sent were no match for Mercy’s motley crew. But this man was sworn to Loghain… Would he put his honour before reason?

“You… You’ll hear of this. King Loghain will see you quartered.”

Mercy silently thanked the Maker. She would not have to waste even more lives. They would never have Joined willingly; they were Loghain’s sworn men.

“’Tis surprising that you did not conscript those fools as well, Warden-Commander,” Morrigan chuckled. Mayrin stepped forward to address the guards, taking a deep breath.

“We have urgent business in Orzammar,” he said with more confidence than he was feeling.

“I will give you the same answer I gave those— Wait, look at me,” he exclaimed, examining Mayrin closely. “You’re the brand who dishonoured the Proving. Trust you to be ignorant of our tragedy. Orzammar has—“

“A succession crisis, right?” Keegan interrupted. “Ferelden is going through something similar. I am a Fereldan… deshyr, and I travel here with two honourable Grey Wardens, two of their recruits, and their companions.”

“Yup,” Mayrin said, more than a bit smugly. “I am a Grey Warden. This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid me.”

The guard scowled, but snatched the documents from Mayrin, examining them closely for any signs of forgery. As if it physically pained him, he grumbled: “Well, that is the royal seal. That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it. You are free to enter Orzammar, Grey Wardens, though I do not know what help you will find.”

Within five minutes of entering the thaig, they had witnessed a melee in the streets between two prospective kings, and Mayrin had been insulted by a guard he had just met for having the audacity to exist. This is home alright, Mayrin thought to himself. But he didn’t have time to dwell; his first priority was checking on Rica, and finding out whether or not that noble patron of hers’ had kept his word. Dust Town or the Diamond Quarter first? He’d have his answer either way in the Diamond Quarter, and he had to admit that he relished the idea of the scandalized nobles when they saw a duster like him brandishing weapons openly, especially there.

By the time they made it to their first merchant stall, they had already received ten different opinions from ten different dwarves about who should rule Orzammar and what happened to King Endrin. It was hard to tell what— if anything— was the truth, especially when everyone but Mayrin and Keegan were still wrapping their heads around words like deshyr, thaig, and duster. Before entering the Diamond Quarter, Mayrin and Mercy made a few purchases from a lyrium-addled merchant, while most of the party spoke with a nug wrangler. Felix was listening to the wrangler intently, curious about just how tasty these “nugs” would be.

Mayrin chose his destination correctly. Almost immediately after entering the Diamond Quarter, Mayrin was hug-tackled by his sister. Despite the Warden strength, years of combat experience, and expensive armor, she nearly bowled him over. Rica looked absolutely radiant, done up in finery, and wearing jewelry worth more than the entire Brosca family had ever seen when they were in Dust Town.

“Rica?!” Mayrin cried.

“I can’t believe it! Leske told me you became a Warden, and when I heard a dwarven Grey Warden came to Orzammar, I just had to check… Look at you! My little brother, a battle-scarred veteran, and with some interesting travelling companions as well,” she said, obviously never having seen a qunari before, let alone two. “What’s with that beard, though? You call yourself a dwarf with that pathetic display?”

“I’ve missed you, Rica…” was all Mayrin could say. 

Mercy smiled at Rica, bowing slightly. The qunari woman towered over the dwarf, who had to crane her neck to look at Mercy. “Hello, Rica. I am Warden-Commander Mercy Hissera. It is an honour to meet you. Mayrin has told us a great deal. I think, perhaps, we should let you two catch up. Mayrin, we will spend some time getting familiarized with the Diamond Quarter and Orzammar, and then you can meet us tonight at the tavern? Tapster’s, was it?”

Rica took a second to give Mercy a once over, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that her brother was travelling with a grey-skinned, horned giant woman. “Actually, Warden-Commander, there’s a Warden Compound here in the Diamond District, and they’ll see to all of your needs. Maybe Mayrin can meet you there when we’re all finished?”

“A fine idea, Lady Rica,” Keegan said lightly, also bowing. “It was a pleasure to meet you!”

“And you, my lord!” she said, smiling. “Though I am no lady!”

“I believe I will join you for now, Warden-Commander,” Zevran said. “I will give the Broscas a chance to catch up for the evening.”

Mayrin looked at him. “Are you sure? It really won’t be a problem, Zev.”

“Of course I am, amor. You two have much to discuss. I will interrogate your dear sister for all of your deepest, most embarrassing secrets later!”

The Warden Compound was gorgeous, even a bit ostentatious. The accomodations were far nicer than most of the party had ever experienced; even Keegan was impressed. There were at least 40 rooms, one dedicated specifically to the Commander. They had heated baths, and runic light that shone from sconces on the wall without fire. Keegan thought that it made even the palace in Denerim look barbaric in comparison, though Aelizia found it all rather drab.

“It is acceptable,” Sten said. “It is good to see that the dwarves have discovered the importance of personal hygiene. Perhaps the Fereldans will learn from them soon.”

“Optimism, from our stoic qunari companion? I must disagree with you, Sten. If the good Teyrn here is any indication, that seems a long way off,” Zevran mused.

“I would agree with the Painted Elf. From what I saw in Honnleath, there is truly no hope for them,” Shale agreed.

“I am ever so thankful for your votes of confidence, my faithful companions. I shall be sure to remember your kind words if I am crowned King,” Keegan quipped back, slowly removing his pack. Felix barked in agreement, startling the staff that came to greet them. They had certainly never seen a mabari before.

Mercy spoke with the compound’s steward. He was a dwarf with greying blonde hair and a beard that came down to his waist. He was incredibly well-dressed, and had a silver griffon pin on his tunic obsidian tunic. He looked up at Mercy with curious green eyes, obviously never having seen a qunari before, and then smiled wide.

“My lady Warden, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Steward Jemerin Routack. I had not expected a visit now, especially not during this time of Blight. Nonetheless, the compound is at your disposal. I am having your rooms prepared for you presently. However, I am having trouble placing your name. I do not believe we have met before. Are you a newly-appointed Warden-Commander? I believe that Warden-Commander Alisse of Orlais was nearing her Calling, as was Warden-Commander Duncan of Ferelden… Or do you hail from Rivain? You should know that, tragically, Grey Wardens have once again been outlawed in Ferelden, milady,” he cautioned.

Mercy smiled warmly. This dwarf seemed to know more about the surface than any dwarf she had yet encountered in Orzammar, and more about the Wardens than any surfacer non-Warden she had ever met, save for Morrigan, who likely knew more than the First Warden himself. Mercy wondered how often the Wardens from outside of Ferelden and Orlais visited, and made a note to inquire later.

“Strangely enough, Steward Jemerin, I am Fereldan, and acting Warden-Commander… At the moment, at least. You may call me Mercy. Now, my people and I must get settled in, fed, and bathed. We can discuss any other business after that.”

“Certainly, Warden-Commander,” Jemerin said, bowing deeply before running off to brief his staff. “Oh, and welcome to Orzammar!”

After getting a snack, scrubbing all of the dirt away, and taking a moment to catch her breath, Mercy tracked down Morrigan’s room and knocked softly on the great metal door, hearing a what was almost a snarl from the other side.

“For the last time, you nattering shrew, begone! I tire of you.”

“Now, Morrigan, I thought we had least a better working relationship than that…” Mercy responded jokingly, hearing Morrigan stand up from her bed and walk quickly to the door. 

Morrigan opened the door wearing a fine human-sized dressing gown she had found at the compound, tea in hand. It was blue, and had a silver griffon on it. Mercy wondered if any of those dressing gowns would fit her. “Ah. ’Tis only you. I had feared it was the Orlesian shrew… I daresay that she makes Leliana seem almost tolerable.”

Mercy smirked. “Not the biggest fan of our new recruit, I see.”

“’Tis true that she is a competent enough mage, but she is a simpering fool, and cares far too much for the rules of a country that would prefer her caged, collared, and obedient. But…’tis no matter; you must be here for a reason,” she said, almost pleasantly, exhaling and smiling at Mercy. “What do you wish of me?”

“I have something for you, actually. May I come in?”

Her eyes lit up and she smiled mischeviously. “Certainly, Warden-Commander. What, pray tell, could you have found for me here under all this rock?”

Mercy entered the witch’s room and sat on her bed, carefully taking out the gift from her pack and passing it to the witch. Morrigan opened the cloth in which it was wrapped curiously, clearly confused. “What have you there? A mirror?”

She considered for a moment, holding it gently, almost in reverance. It was of fine make, and crafted from gold. “It is… Just the same as the mirror which Flemeth smashed on the ground, so long ago. It is incredible that you found one so much like it. I am uncertain what to say. You must wish something in return, certainly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a gift, Morrigan,” Mercy responded. Somewhere along the way, these two women had become friends, and it made Mercy glad to see Morrigan smile.

“You say that as if I should be accustomed to such a thing. I have never received a gift, not one which comes at a price. Other than from Rayne, of course, but he and I are… Entangled. I suppose I should say thank you… For the gift. ’Tis… most thoughtful, truly.”

“You are quite welcome, Morrigan. I am glad of your company, and have you to thank for having been able to recruit as many Wardens as I have. Because of you, we might yet save Ferelden. I know this is a small gift, but please know that I am grateful to you, and enjoy your company. I hope that you don’t find mine too disagreeable, either,” she said, smiling slightly.

“’Tis… Not exceedingly disagreeable, no, and certainly no fool,” Morrigan said, smirking in return. “On your good days, ‘twould not be too outrageous to call you… Tolerable.”

Mayrin arrived at the compound well after dinner, grinning from ear to ear. Zevran shot up from his seat from around the table where he was playing Wicked Grace with Keegan and Cowen, and ran over to greet the dwarf. “My dear Warden, I had gotten worried! I was nearly ready to start assassinating my way through the Diamond Quarter to find you!”

“You can still do that anyways, salroka. Don’t think I’d mind. Just don’t touch the palace, at least for now.”

“Oh?” Keegan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah… Turns out I have some good news. I’m an uncle! And Diala’s an aunt!”

“That is wonderful news, Monsieur Brosca!” Aezilia said. Then after a moment, she asked: “Who is this Diala?”

“Another Warden,” Mercy said, thinking over what Mayrin said. “So, your sister and… Diala’s brother Bhelen?”

“Yeah, crazy, huh? Guess that solves who we should support for the throne! Just, don’t tell Diala. Rica mentioned that Vartag gave you all a task from Bhelen.”

“Finally. Then this can be settled quickly and we may get back to fighting the darkspawn,” Sten said.

“Not so fast, Sten…” Mercy said hesitantly. “Are you sure that we should be supporting Bhelen? Dulin Forender seemed much more trustworthy ally. This Vartag seemed like a bit of a snake, and the Shaperate confirmed that the documents he gave us are fake.”

“Not before they offered to buy me, though,” Shale grumbled. 

“Oh, sod the Shaper. So what if the documents are fake? Keegan and I spoke made sure to talk to Bodahn before we left, since I barely knew more about Harrowmont and Bhelen than he did. Bhelen is a deepstalker, yeah, and he might have killed Diala’s father. We know he killed his older brother and framed Diala, so odds are he did his dad in too. That being said…”

“Bhelen is the best option for Orzammar, the Grey Wardens and Ferelden,” Keegan continued, finishing Mayrin’s thought.

“Elaborate, please,” Mercy insisted, failing to see how putting a tyrant on the throne could help anyone.

“Indeed. Do enlighten us on your sudden insights into the intricacies of dwarven politics and how they pertain to the Grey Wardens, o wise Teyrn,” Morrigan said scornfully.

“No, he’s right,” Mayrin explained. “Harrowmont is a… Traditionalist, I think the word is. But dwarven tradition is the reason we’re— they’re— dying. According to Bodahn,  Harrowmont hates surfacers, and opposes any changes to ‘the natural order of things’. But ‘natural order’ are means that a big part of Orzammar aren’t even people. Casteless like me don’t have a lot of options: we can smuggle, enforce, try to fuck our way into a noble house, or die. The Denerim Alienage is like the Royal Palace compared to Dust Town; you’ll see that tomorrow,” Mayrin said, looking at Keegan.

Picking up where he left off, Keegan continued: “As cruel current policy is, it’s also a waste of resources, and a downright idiotic tradition. Most of the citizens seem to know that Bhelen represents change, whether they agree with it or not. If he’s willing to grant more rights to casteless, he’s probably more likely to work with the surface as well. It just makes sense.”

“It is sensible, Teyrn. Deciding one’s role from their parentage seems foolish enough, but this ‘Dust Town’ is a level of idiocy that makes Alienages seem wise by comparison,” Sten offered disdainfully, obviously not thinking the way humans treated elves as any different than the dwarves treated their casteless. Keegan couldn’t say he was wrong.

“I suppose that’s settled then,” Mercy said. “Thank you both for your input. It makes sense. Tomorrow, we can stop in at Dust Town with Mayrin to see if we can find any of your old friends, and then head to Tapster’s to find this Lord Helmi. After that, I will take Mayrin and our recruits into the Deep Roads. We will set out for Aeducan Thaig to meet Lord Ronus Dace, and so that our recruits may undertake their Joining.”

The Wardens and their companions retired their rooms for the evening. Mayrin and Zevran began to settle in to their bed for the evening, and Mayrin’s expression finally grew serious. “Hey, Zev?” he asked, snuggling up to the elf.

“Yes, my dear Warden? You seem concerned once again. Is it simply being back in Orzammar, or is this newfound responsiblity of uncle-dom weighing on you?”

“No, not that… It’s just, do you remember me mentioning Beraht?”

“Your former patron, yes? It sounded like he could give the Crow Guildmasters a run for their sovereigns.”

“Yeah, well… According to Rica, his investment paid off. He left Jarvia in officially in charge of the Carta, and is now living in a wing of the palace along with Rica and my mother, claiming to be a cousin. Rica is too scared to tell Bhelen about it, and I’ll respect her wishes on that… But I don’t want that man around my sister, or my nephew.”

“From your tone, my dear Mr. Brosca, it seems that you would prefer he not be around anybody anymore. Are you seeking to make use of my expert services?”

“I’d pay you, if you want Zev. I know it’ll be hard but… But I want that bastard gone. By the time my nephew can talk, I don’t even want Beraht to be a memory.”

“Of course not, my Warden. I will do this for free— pro bono, as they say. Anything for my dear Mr. Brosca. Getting into the palace will be difficult, however… Actually, if I pay a visit to your sister while you venture into the Deep Roads… That could work,” Zevran considered, excited to get back into the assassinating game, and with such a challenge before him.

“Good plan,” Mayrin said, kissing Zevran on the head before wrapping his arms around him. “Now, enough about that. I’m an uncle. Let’s celebrate!”

Chapter Text

They were a day into their journey to Haven when they found Tamlen, a day into their journey when Enid drove her sword through his heart. 

She insisted on digging his grave herself. After Tamlen was buried, her companions began to gather around her. All of them offered comfort, and even Cadoc gave her and Merrill and sympathetic look. 

Enid began to speak for her departed comrade, hoping she remembered what little elvish she knew. “I am sorry I did not find you, Tamlen. I should have searched harder… I… Well, there is nothing for it now, really. Ar lasa mala revas, lethallin. Ir abelas, ma vhenan. Ir abelas,” she said, voice cracking as tears fell from her eyes. Leliana put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Merrill stepped forward. Merrill nodded sadly at Enid and then placed her staff on the grave, magically willing a small carniferous sapling to grow, and saying: “Falon’Din enasal enaste, lethallin. Dareth shiral.”

Leliana stepped forward, quietly saying: “Long ago, when my mother died, a wise elven woman comforted me with a song. She told me that death is just another beginning. One day, we must all shed our earthly bodies to allow our spirits to fly free.”

Seeing that Enid and Merrill were not offended at her interjection, but curious about what she would say next, Leliana continued: “I still recall it, though I must confess I do not understand it. I could sing it for Tamlen… If you wish, of course.” The expression of Leliana’s face was hesitant, unsure if she was overstepping her bounds.

Enid smiled, and looked at Merrill, who nodded in agreement.

“We would be honoured, lethallan,” Enid said.

Leliana began to sing, unaccompanied by her lute this time. She sang earnestly and vulnerably, baring her soul through her music. Within the first few notes, Merrill gasped.

“In uthenera,” she whispered to Enid, clearly shocked that this was the song Leliana knew. Once again, tears began to well up in Merrill’s eyes, as both her and Enid now let them flow unashamedly. They were not the only ones, in fact: Eve had joined Enid and Merrill’s embrace, and both Wynne and Nathaniel could not help but be affected as well. Even Cadoc was seen whiping the tears from his eyes.

After the song was over, there was a moment of silence, and the party began make camp for the evening. 

“That was beautiful, Leliana. Thank you,” Enid said as Leliana was preparing the stew for the evening. The bard blushed, and smiled.

“I require no thanks, Enid. And even if I did, the look on your faces was thanks enough for any performer,” she responded. “I am sorry for your friend.”

“Yeah, me too,” Eve said, walking up beside them. “I didn’t know him, but he survived as a ghoul for months, and even broke free of the Archdemon’s control to talk to you. He clearly cared a lot. It’s too bad that he was too far gone for the Joining,” she added. Enid could feel her eyes welling up again.

Wynne had come to see how Leliana was doing with dinner, but noticed how distressed Enid looked. “Perhaps it would be prudent to discuss another topic at the moment, Warden Tabris?” Wynne suggested, smiling sadly at Enid.

“Right, yeah. Shit, sorry Enid.”

“Don’t be,” she said, wiping yet another tear from her eye. She couldn’t seem to stop crying. “Talking about him is good for me. I thought I’d finished mourning, but… I think this has reopened some old wounds.”

Leliana nodded. “I have often found that recounting tales of the departed can be most healing. Perhaps you could tell one, over dinner?”

Enid smiled widely, hugging Leliana from behind. “That’s a great idea, Leliana. Thank you. I have just the one in mind.”

“That fellow was suspicious, was he not? I do not believe that I like this place,” Cadoc said as they entered Haven’s town centre.

“Indeed, Warden,” Wynne said, looking around. “I can feel their eyes upon us. They are watching.”

“And a Revered Father?” Leliana questioned. “I have heard of no such thing, except…”

“Except in Tevinter,” Nathaniel finished. He still mistrusted Leliana, and was watching her closely. She was charismatic, though, and the more he got to know her, the more he wanted to trust her. He just had to remind himself of what father had told him of the damage Katriel had done during the Rebellion.

Enid shrugged. “You know, that was far from the worst interaction Merrill and I have ever had with a human,” she said, chuckling a bit. 

“Yeah! That town guard was downright pleasant for a shem,” Eve said, snickering at Nathaniel. “Polite, even.”

“It’s true! He didn’t assemble an angry mob or spit on us or anything!” Merrill contributed excitedly, breaking away from a group to go greet a child she saw watching them. He was singing an odd nursery rhyme, which is what had drawn Merrill’s curiosity in the first place. “Hello little one! My name is Merrill. What is it you’re singing?”

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he scowled, regarding Merrill curiously. It was possible that she was the first elf he had ever seen.

At this point, the party caught up and Leliana stepped in beside Merrill, crouching beside her.

“I bet you’re a clever boy. What do you know about Haven?” 

The boy was less put-off by Leliana, but still confused by her strange accent. He seemed more amenable to discussion, however. “Haven is Haven, but I have a secret. Do you want to see?”

“Oh, I love secrets!” she said, whispering and leaning down to get close to him. “Show me!”

The party all came to realize what it was at different times, Merrill and Wynne catching on just before Enid and Leliana. Nathaniel and Cadoc were last, and Cadoc bristled, snarling, before Enid put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Where had this child gotten a finger bone? Leliana, however, while no doubt shocked, showed no sign, and maintained her relaxed smile.

“Where did you get that?” she asked sweetly.

“Over by the mountain,” he explained, pointing it out. “It’s lucky. I keep it with me. Don’t tell anyone, all right?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she asserted, maintaining her smile, and leaning in conspiringly, looking around in an exaggerated manner.  “Now, I have a secret! We come here in search of someone. Do you know a Brother Genitivi?”

He moved away from Leliana suspiciously, taken aback. “Who? Why would you come here looking for someone? Lowlanders don’t belong here,” he asserted as if rehearsed, before running off into one of the houses.

The party then made their way up the hill to the general store, hoping to resupply before meeting this “Father Eirik”. A villager they saw on the way had nothing for them other than a nasty glare and to say that “Strangers are nothing but trouble.” 

“They make me seem almost friendly,” Eve whispered to Nathaniel.

The party entered the general store to find a red-haired man behind the counter.

“Who are you? You’re not from Haven,” the owner asked Cadoc, apparently deciding he was the leader of the group.

“Why does everyone tell me that like I don’t already know it?” asked Cadoc, running his hand through his shaggy brown hair in exasperation. 

“We… we don’t get very many visitors,” he responded.

“Can you tell me about Haven?” Enid interjected, just as Merrill stalked off on her own, smelling something curious. 

“How would you describe a place you—“ he started, before catching Merrill out of the corner of his eye. “What are you doing? That’s private!” he yelled at her, about to enter his back room.

“What are you hiding?” Merrill asked calmly.

“I don’t see how that is any of your concern, elf,” he spat.

Nathaniel was about to speak, but was interrupted by Merrill. “I smell decay, and blood. Human blood,” she said, deathly serious.

The man leaped at Merrill angrily, but did get more than a few steps before being knocked on the head by Enid’s shield and crumpling to the ground. Cadoc began to tie him up.

“How can you know that?” Eve asked.

Before Merrill responded, Nathaniel called out from the back room, apparently already having made his way in. “She was right,” he said gravely. “This was one of Arl Eamon’s knights. His shield has Redcliffe’s sigil on it.

The party made their way into the back room to find the horrific display, the corpse dismembered and desecrated, and in a pool of its own blood.

“No one deserves that,” Eve said.

“He needs a proper funeral,” Leliana agreed.

“He will be put to the pyre properly,” Wynne said. “But we must first figure out just what is happening in this village.”

Enid agreed. The party picked through the general store, taking as much supplies as they could carry, and left in a hurry to continue their investigation. Outside, they were confronted by three men wearing horned helms and wielding battleaxes, and an old, wizened apostate. They attacked without any pretext, and Enid barely had the chance to step out the door before an axe swung down towards her. She blocked the blow with her shield, but was pushed back, and certain her arm would ache when this fight was over.

Despite the element of surprise, their enemies were outnumbered, and quickly dispatched, though not withou struggle. The melee combatants were particularly ferocious, and fought until death, showing no sign of fatigue or injury even as blood flowed from open wounds. Cadoc even cut off one of their arms, and the warrior continued to fight as if nothing happened. The mage, however, was old and frail; Nathaniel’s shot to his shoulder wasn’t intended to kill him, but the shock was more than the old man’s heart could take.

“An apostate,” Wynne said coolly.

“Indeed,” Cadoc said. “We must be on our guard; there could be more of them.”

“You might be right,” Enid said as she finished looting the bodies. “Did anyone find anything odd about the way these men fought? Their ferocity almost reminded me of…”

“The Warden-Commander,” Nathaniel said, finishing her thought. “I noticed the same thing, though I am uncertain as to why.”

“The connection may become clear later on. For now, we should continue, yes?” Leliana asked.

“Yes,” Enid agreed, smiling at her Orlesian companion. She seemed sad, for some reason, and quieter than usual. Perhaps the strangeness of this place was getting to her.

“Duck!” Leliana yelled as she tackled Enid to the ground, an arrow flying over their head. The party looked down the hill at what seemed to be the entire village charging up at them. They were mostly unarmed, supported by the archers at the bottom of the hill. Leliana landed on top of Enid, and their noses were almost touching. They made eye contact, and Enid blushed before they both stood up to meet the villagers.

“These are not soldiers; they are just villagers protecting their home,” Wynne said as they approached. Her and Merrill erected a barrier to shield the group from the arrows and give them a moment to assess the situation.

“People that want to kill us,” Cadoc said, hefting his axe menacingly as they grew ever closer.

“We need to scare them,” Enid said. “Merrill, get flashy. Nathaniel, try to convince them to stand down when she does,” Eve commanded.

In response, Merrill’s sylvanwood staff flashed white and purple as she twirled it above her head, before thrusting it up towards the sky with a brilliant flash. Lightning struck, shooting from her staff into the heavens. A half-second later, six other bolts of lightning shot down, striking the land between the party and the charging mob. Most paused, shocked, and some even turned to run.

“You cannot hope to defeat us,” Nathaniel yelled. “Most of you are unarmed and unarmored, and we have elvish, heathen magic on our side, magic against which you will not survive! We have no quarrel with you. Go back to your homes and you may yet live!”

They looked at one another uncertainly, clearly terrified. They seemed ready to retreat, until one was shot with an arrow in the back and killed, screaming as she fell to the ground. The shot came from the archers at the bottom of the hill, urging the villagers on. Apparently, the inhabitants of Haven were more afraid of the armed men in horned helmets than Enid’s party. Their mistake. Their tragic, bloody mistake.

They had their answers about these fighters soon enough. After saving Genitivi and entering the temple, they fought their way through hordes of demons, warriors and mages, all of whom having one thing in common: they bred, raised, worshipped and drank the blood of dragons. Wynne and Merrill explained that imbiding dragon blood granted great power, but that power often came at a cost: madness, and sometimes even physical transformation.

The madness, they were seeing firsthand, as Father Kolgrim tried his very best to kill them. “To arms, my brethren! Andraste will grant us victory!”

He fought with the strength of ten men, and Enid was doing her best to hold him off while Wynne kept their strength up. With Kolgrim were two other reavers, as well as two powerful mages that were well back, cursing their enemies and empowering their allies. 

“Merrill, Nathaniel, Leliana focus on the enemy mages! Focus fire, one at a time. Cadoc, Eve, handle the other two warriors, and pray that I can survive until you do!”

Enid again silently thanked the Creators for her luck in finding the Juggernaut Plate. That and her ironbark shield had saved her life in this fight from Kolgrim’s axe a few times already. The two warriors clashed, and for every blow that Enid was able to land, Kolgrim landed three. For all her training, all her Grey Warden strength, all of her fancy magical equipment, a single warrior could not stand against Father Kolgrim, more dragon than man at this point.

Evelyn Tabris was faring much better. The man with whom she was engaged had no experience fighting someone like her, who preferred tricks and poison to a fair fight any day. He swung his axe in an arc horizontally, and she ducked out of the way, snickering. He then swung his axe downward, and she rolled out of the way, taking her chance to stab into a weak spot in his side, before running backwards to get out of his range. He barely noticed the stab, and continued to menace her. It was going to take more than one strike for the poison to take effect.

Cadoc bellowed a battle cry, and met the warrior wielding a sword and shield in battle. Cadoc’s opponent parried his first strike, and blocked his second with a wooden shield. Cadoc’s Grey Warden strength, however, was such that the axe became lodged in the reaver’s shield. Usually, Cadoc was strong enough to deal with that and pull his axe free, but the reaver was so strong that he used his shield to wrench Cadoc’s greataxe from his hands, and then moved in, brutally stabbing Cadoc in the hip with his longsword.

Nathaniel and Leliana were bearing down on the older of the two mages, firing arrows to break through his barrier. As soon as it was down, Merrill shot a stone fist at the the man, shattering his skull and killing him instantly. The other mage sent a fireball their way, knocking back Leliana and Nathaniel and setting them aflame. Merrill put out the fire with a cold spell, and Wynne immediately began healing them, her eyes glowing blue as she channeled the spirit that dwelled within.

Eve was able to dispatch her reaver with a few more quick cuts, the poison taking effect quickly. She silently thanked Zevran for showing her how to brew it, and charged towards the surviving mage. Just before Eve reached him, Merrill fired chain lightning between Kolgrim, Cadoc’s opponent, and the mage, shattering the mage’s barrier. Eve gleefully stabbed into his chest with both of her daggers, laughing as he fell to the ground.

She turned back to see Cadoc getting up and clutching his side as Wynne healed him. The only opponent that remained was Father Kolgrim, who had disarmed Enid. She was on the floor on her back, and her sword and shield were knocked away from her. Kolgrim roared and held his axe above his head, ready to swing down, before he started gurgling as Nathaniel’s arrow lodged itself in his throat, Leliana’s landing only moments later in his right away. He fell to the ground, finally dead. Wynne’s eyes stopped glowing, and she drank a lyrium potion before set about healing everyone’s major wounds and then sitting down on the ground herself, clearly needing to catch her breath.

“I apologize. I just… Need a moment, to gather my energy,” she explained.

Leliana smiled fondly. “There is no need to apologize, Wynne. You risked yourself to save us when you summoned your spirit companion. We should be apologizing for causing you such strain.”

“No apologies are necessary at all,” Enid said to her party, sheathing her blade, Rage’s End. “No one should apologize for needing help. I actually think that now is a good time to camp for the evening, as hahren Wynne is not the only person in need of a break."

“But, what about this ‘Risen Andraste’? What about the Urn?” Cadoc asked, impatient to wait. He did not have a lot of energy left either, though, he realized.

“Whatever this Risen Andraste is, She will be waiting for us tomorrow, Cadoc,” Nathaniel said, rubbing his eyes. “The Warden-Constable makes a good point. Who knows what we will face tomorrow? Better to be prudent and rest now than risk ourselves unnecessarily.”

After dinner, Enid asked to speak with Leliana in private, and the two of them found a private corner of the cavern to talk. Enid had taken her Juggernaut Plate off, and was back in her traditional Dalish garb. Her brown hair was pulled up into a bun, and she had big bags under her sparkling blue eyes. “I know that look. You have something on your mind, don’t you?” Leliana asked as the two of them sat on the ground beside one another, leaning against a stone wall.

“I actually wanted to thank you,” Enid said, smiling. “You saved my life today. Ma serannas.”

“I think it was the Arl’s arrow that did it,” Leliana said, smiling, and slightly confused. Enid chuckled.

“Maybe, but that’s not all of it. I believed that I had gotten over what had happened to Tamlen, but I never thought I would have to bury him again. Your song, and what you said after… It really helped. Elgar’nan knows it still hurts,” she said, wiping yet another tear from her eye, “but you’ve helped.”

“Well, then I am happy to have done so,” Leliana said, smiling. “You have all helped me so much as well. I have never been more certain that the Maker put me on this path for a reason,” she added. 

Enid leaned in and cupped Leliana’s chin, looking her in the eyes with intensity. 

“Enid,” Leliana started, before Enid cut her off, kissing her. Leliana kissed back for only a second, and then pulled away, gasping. “Enid!” she said again, with more force.

Enid put her hand over her mouth, horror coming to her face as she realized what she did. “I— I am so sorry. You are with Mercy, and I should not have— I’m sorry.”

“No, it is not that,” Leliana said quietly, smiling sadly and Enid. “Mercy and I have… Gone our seperate ways. But you and I, we are both quite vulnerable right now, and we may die tomorrow facing whatever this Risen Andraste is. Our hearts are heavy, and we are not in a state to be making such decisions. You just had to lay Tamlen to rest, and my heart still aches for Mercy.”

“But we are always facing death! I am a Grey Warden, and you have not chosen a safe path either. Our lives are full of constant danger. We should make the best of what little time we have.”

“You make a fair point, Warden-Constable, but I must refuse you again. You are young, and the first time in your life that you leave your clan, it is to face a Blight. You have been made Warden-Constable, and you are only, what, twenty-one?”

“Twenty,” Enid said quietly. “My birthday was last month, actually, during Harvestmere, but you can’t be much older than I, and…” 

“Enid,” Leliana said, much more firmly this time. “I look much younger than I am, and have experienced many more things than you have. But you need to stop trying to convince me; my answer will not change,” she said seriously. “You have told me the vallaslin on your face venerates Mythal, the elven goddess of protection. You do well to honour her, and have become quite the protector yourself, but I fear that that is all you have made yourself, Enid. You think you are attracted to me because you are hurting right now and I offered you comfort. But you must work through your feelings about Tamlen, and then figure out what it is you actually want,” she said, putting a hand on Enid’s shoulder and standing up, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“Ask me again in a few years when you’ve grown up a little bit, and we shall see then. For now, however, it is late, and we should get to sleep. I shall see you in the morning, Warden-Constable.”

Chapter Text

Rayne led his party south around Lake Calenhad to avoid the horde, but they still encountered stragglers. The snow made the journey harder, too, and Jowan and Rayne could only clear so much of it by magic without dangerously depleting their mana supply. Both Rayne and his silent spirit companion were making use of their journey to squeeze any other information they could from Shokrakar about the qunari and Par Vollen, as well as making more notes on dwarven history, at least as it was remembered from Diala. He was particularly interested in why Shokrakar became Tal-Vashoth, and why Sten reacted so violently to them in general.

“It is good that you have such a thirst for knowledge, Commander saarebas,” Shokrakar said. Unlike Sten, Shokrakar said the word neutrally, without any of the suspicion Sten usually included. “The Qun was wrong about many things, but not in the virtue of pursuing knowledge to improve oneself.”

Diala snorted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, definitely not at all annoying,” she said.

The Queen, for her part, was completely exhausted, not at all used to travelling this far without a horse or carriage, but she would not complain. Her father had insisted she learn practical skills growing up, as well as diplomacy and history. She was regretting letting those skills fall out of practice. In fact, she spent most of her time trying to keep up with Rayne and eavesdrop on his conversations. While Diala and Shokrakar may not have noticed— or cared— they were both providing interesting and important information about their people, Shokrakar especially. Anora was trying to commit as much of it to memory as possible.

A day out of Ostagar,  they came upon another group of darkspawn stragglers. They were walking through what used to be Lothering, the homes destroyed and people left to rot. The bulk of the horde was now working its way through the bannorn and did not leave many behind in the frigid south, but they left enough of them to be an annoying diversion.

Garahel was the first to signal them, growling before even their Warden senses could warn them.

“That usually only means one thing,” Alistair said as he began to hear the whispers in his head signalling approaching darkspawn.

“Darkspawn,” Jowan agreed, his wooden staff flaring to life.

“Get behind me, Your Majesty,” Erlina said as the two women began drawing their bows.

The darkspawn in front of them were composed of mostly hurlocks and genlocks with a single ogre, and not a sharlock in sight. They also had an emissary with them, around whom they were all gathered. They were roaring and laughing at the Wardens… But did not yet charge at them, which was odd. Darkspawn hated Wardens, and sought them out on the field of battle.

“Be careful,” Rayne said, stepping forward cautiously. “I think they’re… Guarding something,” he said.

“Whatever it is, I’ll bet it needs killing,” Alistair responded.

Diala sniffed the air loudly, eyeing the spongey ground on which the darkspawn were standing, and spying a small opening in the ground behind them. “It’s a nest,” she said. “A broodmother nest.”

Anora, Erlina and Shokrakar had not yet learned what a Broodmother was, and the rest of the Wardens had only heard about them. As a dwarf, Diala was the only one who had really encountered them before, and only from afar. Out of anyone, she knew the danger here. “Rayne, I’m assuming command.”

The elf nodded at her, looking grave. The party continued approaching the darkspawn, getting close to being in range. “Rayne, you’ll start with a grease spell, and then a firestorm. Jowan, from you, I want a mass paralysis after grease is cast and they fall on their asses, and then a death cloud. Any spawn that survive that onslaught need to be destroyed utterly. Erlina and Anora, keep as far back as you can and focus on, in this order: the emissary, the ogre and then the spawn with bows. If any sharlocks show up, they take priority before the ogre and after the emissary. Use poison. Shokrakar, Alistair, Garahel and myself will put ourselves between you and the darkspawn, but none of you will charge before my signal.”

The group nodded, and stepped forward, getting into formation. Jowan and Rayne began to weave their spells, until Erlina spotted something curious. “There is a woman with them… A ghoul.”

She was right. At first mistaken for a hurlock, Rayne realized that there was a tainted ghoul with the group, and she carried a metal staff. She was bald, and her eyes and skin were tainted and rotting. She was dressed in rags, and her body was strangely bloated and misshapen, strange growths protruding from her stomach. “Another mage,” Jowan said, looking at her sadly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Diala said. “She needs to die just the same.”

“No,” Rayne said as his eyes flashed green and he shot a weak stone fist at the woman, knocking her far back from the main group. “Leave her alive,” he told them. Jowan cast a quick sleep spell on her and, before Diala had a chance to complain, the emissary cast its first spell, and the battle was joined.

The darkspawn were dispatched, though not without struggle, and Rayne immediately made his way to the unconscious ghoul, standing a bit too close to the hole in the ground. Garahel followed cautiously, smelling evil beneath them. Rayne grabbed her under the arms and started dragging her away from the hole. “Non-Wardens, step back!” he called, before crying out in surprise as a thick, fleshy tentacle wrapped itself around his chest and hoisted him into the air.

“Rayne!” Jowan called, casting an immobilizing spell that was resisted by the tentacle. Rayne put his hands on the mass of flesh and, straining, began to freeze it as it tightened around him, crushing his torso. Garahel was biting at it where it came out of the ground, tearing flesh away. Diala and Alistair rushed towards the tentacle, and she swung her sword, cutting the tentacle in parts and causing it to retreat into the ground. The leftover piece went slack and Rayne fell to the ground, immediately beginning to heal his crushed insides.

Diala grabbed Rayne and slung him over her shoulder as he groaned painfully. Alistair picked up the ghoul uncertainly, and followed Diala out of range of the hole. 

“Sodding blighted nughumper,” Diala muttered to Rayne. “She’s too far gone to be Joined. By the Ancestors, what were you thinking? You may have been reading about the spawn your whole life, but I’ve been fighting them. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“Yeah, but you saved my rump again,” he said as she put him down, continuing to heal his ribs and smiling contritely. Then, more seriously, he said: “I’m not going to Join her. I’m going to cure her.”

Nobody responded, all of them staring at him blankly. The ghoul began to stir, and Jowan cast another sleep spell. “There is no cure for the Taint other than Joining the Wardens, Rayne. If there was, we would know about it,” Alistair said, squinting suspiciously.

“No known cure, no. But I want to test a hypothesis, and I’ll Jowan’s help,” he said, kneeling on the ground and putting the ghoul’s head on his lap. He reached into his pack, and began to take out lyrium potions, which he set on the ground beside him. Rayne then looked up at Anora apologetically, and said: “Your Majesty, Erlina: might the two of you give us Wardens a little privacy? What I am attempting will likely be considered a Warden secret… If it works.”

Erlina smiled, about to agree with him, but Anora spoke first. “I apologize, Senior Mage Warden, but I must insist on bearing witness to this. The Warden-Commander informed me of the Joining, the Calling and even why Wardens are necessary to kill an Archdemon. If this is truly a cure for the taint, the more people that witness it the better. Should you or Jowan perish against Flemeth, any survivors can inform the rest of the Wardens about your cure.”

“That is… Eminently sensible, Your Majesty,” Rayne admitted. “But, be warned, very few of you are likely to approve of my methodology.”

Jowan looked at Rayne nervously, and Alistair squinted in his direction. “It’s blood magic, isn’t it?” Alistair asked. Jowan gulped loudly. Anora looked shocked only for a moment, and then set her jaw, pushing the fear downwards. 

“It is, in a sense. More… Blight magic, I think. As Grey Wardens, we can sense tainted creatures, and they can sense us. The taint that gives us power also draws us all together. A regular mage could not do what we are attempting, not even a powerful, blood-magey Magister.”

“And just what, exactly, are you proposing, Rayne?” Diala asked, cautiously intrigued. 

“We can all feel the taint in this woman’s blood. As Grey Wardens, we can hone in on it and, I surmise… Extract it. Jowan, I need you to use blood magic to rip the taint out of her, brutally and without hesitation.”

“Will that not kill her?” Shokrakar asked. “Drawing it out of her body will tear through her organs and skin. Even a qunari would have difficulty surviving that.”

“And her blood is basically all taint at this point. She can’t survive without blood. What good will an untainted corpse do us?” Diala asked.

“That’s why I’m here. With Curiosity fueling my spells, and a few lyrium potions, I will be healing her wounds as they come and trying to make sure she survives this. Whether or not she does will be up to not only my skill as a healer, but her will to survive.”

“The pain will be unimaginable,” Erlina said quietly. As a Shadow of the Empire, she had seen a great many things, but it was not often that she encountered blood magic.

“But worth it, to cure the taint…” Diala said, her mind considering the implications this could have for the Wardens, or even the dwarves, if there were Warden mages in Orzammar.

Rayne looked at Alistair, who had been quiet throughout the explanation. He was frowning, but deep in thought. “Do it,” he said. “May the Maker forgive us for this.” 

Anora found herself praying quietly as well.

Rayne nodded at Jowan, who kneeled beside the girl. Diala and Shokrakar held her arms and legs down, and Alistair prepared to supress any magic the ghoul might muster, as she did carry a staff. Erlina and Anora distanced themselves from the experiment as not to be exposed to the taint, and Jowan took his glove off and drew his knife, taking a deep breath in before making a cut across his palm. Rayne’s eyes began glowing blue, and his omnipresent spell wisp grew and grew until it became a spectral humanoid form behind him, granting him its power.

“I am intrigued to see if our hypothesis is correct, da’len.”

As am I, Curiosity, Rayne thought. Thank you in advance for the help.

Jowan’s blood dripped slowly onto the body of the ghoul, and she began to writhe in pain as the spell was cast. Like thousands little gnats, black particles of taint began to be drawn out of her body, violently and painfully, perforating her skin and tearing the rags she was wearing to shreds. As her clothes fell away, the party began to see exactly what the growths they noticed before were were. They were breasts. Eyes turned to Diala in confusion and horror, hoping for an explanation.

“Stone… She’s becoming a broodmother,” Diala said quietly. “Broodmothers are ghouls?! That’s why they take us, that’s how they make more… Ancestors. I need to write to Orzammar immediately."

As soon as the tears in her flesh were appearing, they were being healed by Rayne, the three of them enshrouded in blinding blue light that made the rest of the party shield their eyes. Rayne and Jowan were both panting and sweating profusely, Rayne choking down an entire lyrium potion in a few gulps. The woman’s cries began as monstrous and otherworldly, more darkspawn than human, but slowly began to transition into that of a scared young woman in incredible pain, and was all the more heartbreaking. Jowan was gathering the taint in a foul, black orb suspended above the woman’s body, and, slowly but surely, colour began to return to her skin. Her eyes lost their milky texture, and her body began to revert to that of a human.

“Please! Make it stop!” she cried, speaking intelligibly for the first time as tears streamed down her face. Her skin was dark and tanned like Rayne’s and she had warm brown eyes that were pleading with Jowan for respite.

Alistair and Diala were getting increasingly uncomfortable, though Shokrakar was looking on impassively. The Qun taught that all magic was dangerous, whether it be fueled by the Fade, blood or the taint. To Shokrakar, it also seemed that all magic had its uses, including forbidden blood magic.

Abruptly, the girl’s screams stopped, as Jowan extracted the last of the taint from her. He fired it towards the corpses of the darkspawn they killed earlier, and fell onto his back, gasping for breath. Rayne finished healing the girl as she lost consciousness, and began sleeping peacefully. He checked her vitals and used his magic to search for any lingering signs of the taint, and then covered the girl with his cloak. She would need a rest.

“Did it work?” Erlina asked, not yet able to to tell from her vantage point. Both mages had collapsed on their backs panting, far too tired to respond, or to at all acknowledge Erlina’s question.

“It worked,” Diala called back. “Feel free to approach. We’ll give the mages a chance to catch their breath… And this poor girl a chance to rest. When they’re awake, we have a nest to destroy.

The mages were given time to convalesce, and Alistair monitored the girl to make sure that there were no lingering side effects. Even completely hairless, Alistair couldn’t help but notice her beauty. He wondered who she had been, before all of this. While Alistair monitored her, Diala began explaining to Anora, Erlina and Shokrakar exactly what a broodmother was, and about her revelation of how they were made, and how darkspawn reproduce. Even Shokrakar, with inborn qunari unflappability, looked perturbed. Anora and Erlina were, of course, horrified. 

Back in Orzammar, a broodmother— though they were encountered rarely— would require a small army, complete with dwarven explosives and siege weapons. Here on the surface, resources were scarce, and people scarcer. But she had mages, and an idea. Back home, standard operating procedure when engaging broodmothers was to first decide if collapsing the ceilings above them was a viable strategy. If they were in the Deep Roads proper, collapsing the caverns was usually more trouble than it was worth, as dwarven stonecraft was notoriously difficult to destroy. If the broodmothers were located in a cavern carved out by the darkspawn, however, it was more than a viable strategy.

Diala knew that the Deep Roads stretched this far, but she was not sure that this hole lead to them. She’d guess that this was a cavern created by the darkspawn, easily destroyed. For that, all she would need were mages. If they failed, and these were the real Deep Roads, well… They could reassess later. It wasn’t like the broodmothers were going to come out and fight them.

The mages, rousing from their short respites, were impressed by Diala’s assessment. Rayne stepped forward, still keeping well back from the spongy matter surrounding the hole. He nodded at Jowan, who knew that this was entirely Rayne’s purview, and politely got out of the way. Rayne inhaled, and poured nearly all of his power into an earthquake. The sound was deafening, and Jowan was knocked off his feet, even at this distance. It took a few moments but… Diala was right, and the ground began to collapse in on itself, creating vast trenches of crushed darkspawn. Jowan conjured a cloud of necrotic energy, and, above the sounds of chaos around them, they heard the horrible screams of broodmothers taking their last, horrible, cursed breaths.

The party was so distracted by the spectacle that they did not notice their newly-untainted guest rouse from her slumber, confused about the racket and her surroundings. She quickly realized that the only thing protecting her modesty was the fur draped over her, and she pulled it up to her neck.

“Hello?” she asked, apprehensive, looking around for her staff, or any sign of her family.

Alistair, closest to her, turned around, and crouched down to greet her, blushing profusely.

“Oh, er, hello. My name is Alistair, and my friends and I are Grey Wardens… Mostly. You were, umm, taken by the darkspawn, and we… Well we saved you, kind of,” he said passing her the clothing that Anora had laid out for her and turning away from her, embarassed. “What, uh, what should we call you?”

“My name is Bethany. Bethany Hawke.”

Rayne barely slept that night. He’d done it! He’d done what was thought to be impossible for millenia! Yes, his method would kill anyone who did not have a spirit healer on hand, and it was only possible with a Warden blood mage, and the chances of success still depended on the patient’s will, but he’d still done it. That was something to be proud of. 

It seemed that, other than the hair loss, the patient was experiencing no lasting adverse physical effects from the procedure, or the taint. Rayne was making copious notes about the results of the procedure in his journal, and copying them into Jowan’s and Diala’s. Better to make sure this knowledge lived on. Garahel was dozing contentedly at his side, happy that his person was so happy. Rayne couldn’t wait to tell Morrigan.

“It is curious that no one else in Thedas has attempted this, da’len,” Curiosity echoed in Rayne’s head.

I agree. I think it’s likely that, if anyone has, it’s the Tevinter Wardens, and they wouldn’t be inclined to share. But even then, I have doubts. The Tevinters treat their spirits like any other slaves and bind them to their wills; they aren’t partners, like the two of us. Most Circles frown on the spirit and entropic schools, preferring to direct us to creation and primal branches of magic, ironically making spirit healers like Wynne and myself very rare. How often have a Grey Warden spirit healer and Grey Warden blood mage been able to work together, do you think? Likely not often, with how the Circles restrict recruitment. And, who among them would challenge conventional wisdom?

“We have had little use for conventional wisdom, da’len.”

I agree, Rayne thought. If I ever stop questioning, I trust that you’ll be there to set me straight.

“Of course, da’len. It is my reason for being.”

The next morning, Bethany told them about who she was: growing up as an apostate in Lothering, and fleeing north when the Blight came. She explained that she remembered being attacked by an ogre and presumed dead, left by her family. She would have died, if an emissary had not happened upon her and healed her, deciding that she would be more useful as a broodmother than a corpse.

She spared them no details about the ordeal, spitting each word and getting angrier and angrier as she told them just how a Broodmother was created. While dwarves know that broodmothers made darkspawn, they did not know, orhad perhaps forgotten, that broodmothers were once people. Bethany described being forced to eat the flesh of the tainted dead, and the flesh of the darkspawn. She described being… Violated by the creatures, unable to fight back.

“You say you are Grey Wardens, and you’re all obviously quite skilled if you made it this far south and… Cured me. I didn’t think you could,” she said, anger subsiding into something almost resembling wonder. “I could probably make it to Redcliffe from here by myself, but I don’t see a reason to do so. I am an apostate, and my family either perished in the Blight or made it to Kirkwall, which is no place for an apostate to be. I wish to join you.”

“But we just saved you!” Jowan said. “Joining the Wardens is often lethal, and even if it wasn’t, what we’re doing is…”

“Remarkably dangerous,” Anora finished, smiling ruefully. She had been listening quietly, trying to process the all of the new information she had to take in. “But it seems young Bethany here knows the risk of the darkspawn better than any of us except perhaps Warden Diala. The Commander has repeatedly emphasized that the Wardens need all of the help they can get. Why not let the young mage Join you?”

“Joining the Wardens is an honour,” Alistair asserted, smiling at Bethany. She did not return his smile, but looked at Rayne expectantly, eyes steely with determination. Her missing eyebrows and bald head gave her an unsettling, alien quality.

“No offense, but to the Void with your honour. I just want to kill as many darkspawn as I can before I die. I don’t intend to waste the chance you’ve given me, Senior Mage Warden Surana,” Bethany insisted. “I wish to be of use. Make me a Warden, and I won’t let you down.”

“I suppose that settles it then. I won’t turn away help. Welcome to the Wardens, Bethany Hawke. We’ll undertake your Joining presently, may Andraste watch over you,” Rayne said. Another mage certainly wouldn’t hurt. They’d need all of the help they could get against the Blight, after all. 

And there was still that other matter… The matter of Flemeth.

Chapter Text

“With Lord Dace and his men on the way back to Orzammar, we may commence with your Joining. Recruits Aelizia and Cowen, take these,” Mercy said, handing them each a glass vial. The party had just made contact with Lord Anwer Dace at Aeducan Thaig and delivered Bhelen’s papers to him, counterfeit as they may be.

Cowen and Aelizia each took their vials from Mercy, eyeing her suspiciously. “Is this… For our blood? It looks like a phylactery vial.” Aelizia asked, faintly horrified.

“Not your blood, no,” Mercy said. Aelizia chuckled nervously, before realizing that Mercy wasn’t joking. “You have already proven yourselves, but the Joining will be your final test before becoming full Wardens. You are to venture into the Deep Roads with Mayrin until you find darkspawn. Kill them, and fill your vials with their blood. As soon as you have the blood, you may return here.”

Cowen frowned, obviously horrified at the prospect of what they needed to do, but he nodded at her solemnly, jaw set with determination. Aelizia, for her part, looked ready to cry, but did the same, bowing to Mercy in an annoyingly ostentatious and Orlesian manner.

“It will be done, ma commandante,” she said shakily, before her and Cowen followed Mayrin through a tunnel to face their destinies.

Morrigan kneeled on the ground, and began to take out the herbs and lyrium necessary for the Joining, as well as a bronze chalice they had found on their travels.

“’Tis best to mix the potion only after all of the ingredients are available,” she explained. “Until then, it seems we have some time to waste, just the two of us.”

“Good,” Mercy said, smiling and sitting down beside the witch. “I have to admit: impressive as they are, I am not enjoying our stay in the Deep Roads so far.”

“Then I am afraid you’ve chosen the wrong vocation, Warden-Commander!” Morrigan chuckled. “But I find myself agreeing with you. Our return to the surface cannot come soon enough!”

Mercy nodded, and then paused. “Morrigan, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“We are alone, so ’tis as good a time as any.”

“I have been thinking about your… History with Enid, actually,” she began. 

Morrigan raised an eyebrow and frowned, but did not interrupt, allowing Mercy to continue.

“She says that you and your mother visited her clan when she was born, and saved her life. She says that Flemeth gave her that sword she still wields, Rage’s End. You have known her for her entire life, really. Is it true that you would check on her when her clan ventured close to the Wilds?”

“’Tis indeed,” Morrigan said quietly. “Foolish attachments of a foolish child,” she added without much conviction, waving a hand dismissively. Seeing the look on Mercy’s face, she put a hand up to stop her comment. “Yes, I know that you can tell that I am not truthful. ‘Twould be the polite thing not to bring it up.”

“And since when have you ever been concerned about politeness?” Mercy responded, smiling. “Look, I know that Flemeth taught you what she thought you needed to survive, and that you have hardened yourself against the world. But the panic you had when Enid arrived in Lothering, the way you look at Rayne, and the look on your face when I gave you the mirror last night… You don’t have to turn into Leliana overnight, but you are allowed to care, Morrigan. None of us will think less of you.”

Morrigan turned away from Mercy, sniffling quietly. For a few moments, neither of the women said anything. Morrigan eventually turned back, and looked Mercy right in her violet eyes. 

“You look confused, Morrigan,” Mercy said.

“Indeed I am, a little.” she admitted. “I am reminded of our first time in the Wilds. I had been in animal form for some time, watching your progress. I was intrigued to see such a formidable woman, obviously more potent than the men she travelled with.”

Mercy arched a brow. “Even Rayne?”

“Indeed! Even he. Surely, you remember how helpless he was in the beginning, throwing fire at mosquitoes,” she said, laughing, without any of the scorn to which her companions had become accustomed. Mercy laughed too.

“Luckily, learning is something he does rather well, and rather quickly. Like I said, I was suitably impressed, yet, I resented it, when Flemeth assigned me to travel with you. I assumed that, at best, you would drive me from your company as soon as we left the Wilds.”

“Why would I do that?” Mercy asked genuinely.

“I am aware that I have… Little talent for forming friendships. To put it lightly. ’Tis something I know nothing of, nor ever thought I needed. Yet when I discovered Flemeth’s plans, you did not abandon me. None of you did. You supported Rayne’s decision, and sent a party south,” she said, looking at intensely at a ring she wore. “He is in Ostagar now, leading his party to fight what will be a terrible battle without hope of real reward. Even Alistair is accompanying him.” 

“Well… We are your friends,” Mercy said quietly, shrugging. “Some of us, at least.”

“And that is what I do not understand. Of all the things that could have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend. Perhaps even a sister. You, Enid, Rayne… Nothing has gone as I expected. I want you to know that, while I may not always prove… Worthy… Of your friendship, I will always value it.”

Mercy wiped a tear from her eye, genuinely shocked at this outpouring from Morrigan. She was about to respond when the Mayrin’s party returned with a full complement. “We did it, Warden-Commander!” Aelizia called. “It seems that the darkspawn aren’t so scary after all!”

Morrigan looked at Mercy again, smiling as she rolled her eyes and stood up. Mercy smiled back, and turned to her recruits, praying to Andraste that at least one of them would survive.

“No, really, my dear, your brother's sword fell from the sky!” Zevran insisted.

“Well, not his sword as it is now, but the metal it was made from,” Keegan explained.

“Does that sort of thing happen often on the surface?” Rica asked, clearly convinced that it was even more dangerous up there than she had already heard.

Insisting that they stay out of the Deep Roads if possible, Mayrin and Mercy suggested that Zevran, Keegan, and Felix, the human noble’s faithful mabari, get to know Rica. Though Morrigan was not a Warden, she knew how to prepare the Joining potion, and Mercy was uncertain if Aelizia had sufficient nerves to go through with the ritual at all, let alone prepare the potion.

“Not often, no!” Keegan said. “Though more than it does here, I’ll wager. It’s not unheard of.”

“By the Ancestors!” Rica cried. “That sounds awful!”

Zevran shrugged. “Only if you’re under it! Though, ore is not the only thing that falls from the sky. Let me tell you a tale of my days with the Crows, and the perils an elf poses to those below when he falls from great heights!” he said, holding his hand up to dramatically set the stage.

Rica laughed again, clearly a fan of the handsome elf with whom her brother was so taken. “This, I have to hear!” she said excitedly, before little Endrin began to stir in his crib. “Or not! He’ll be hungry after his nap…” she explained, trailing off. “But I do really want to hear your story, Zevran.”

“Say no more,” Keegan said as he and Zevran stood. “Perhaps we could find a servant to give us a little tour of your section of the palace, and can come back when you’re finished.” Felix barked in agreement.

“That sounds great,” Rica said, a crying dwarven baby already in hand. Zevran and Keegan bowed— unnecessarily, as she reminded them— and were greeted outside by an older servant with grey hair and a smile, who gave them each a slight bow.

“Honoured guests, I overheard your conversation with Prince Bhelen’s consort, and I would be happy to give you a tour. Of course, some areas are sealed to visitors, even friends of the family,” she said looking at Zevran, “or visiting human dignitaries,” she continued, looking at Keegan.

The men nodded in agreement, and followed the servant along. Felix made her nervous, but he was trying his very best to ingratiate himself and earn some pets from this new dwarf. The servant explained the history of various wings and halls as they explored, pointing out guest suites, suites for family, and even bringing them to the throne room, which was empty at the moment. While Keegan was genuinely impressed, marvelling at the stark difference between Orzammar’s Royal Palace and Denerim’s, Zevran was barely paying attention. He was on edge, and had a job to do.

Near the end of their tour, they looped back around to Rica’s family’s apartments. “This is the room belonging to the the royal concubine’s mother. She does not usually wish to be disturbed at this hour,” she said as politely as possible, though both men could tell she didn’t think much of Kalah Brosca. She then motioned to another door, and said: “And that is Lord Beraht’s room. He is the consort’s cousin, and Merchant Caste,” she explained, obviously much more comfortable with Beraht than the casteless, favoured by the Prince as they may be.

Zevran whispered, almost inaudibly. “That’s him, Felix.” Nobody but the mabari heard him, but that was all Zevran needed. Felix sniffed loudly and then charged forward, barking angrily. He slammed himself into Beraht’s metal door, flinging it open, and then entered the room. Beraht was lounging at a table, reading a stone tablet and drinking wine. He flinched as the mabari entered and dropped his cup, spilling his wine on the floor. He reached for his mace and levelled it at the dog, who was barking and growling at the brown-haired dwarf.

“What do you sodding sufacers think you’re doing?!” he demanded.

“Felix!” Keegan cried. “What are you doing?!” 

The servant looked about ready to pass out, she was so mortified. “My lords, please control your pet!” she begged.

“I will fetch him,” Zevran offered. He entered Beraht’s room, making a quick assessment of his surroundings. “I apologize, Ser Dwarf. It seems Felix here smelled something that set him off. All of these unfamiliar new smells in dwarven lands, you understand,” he explained, putting a hand on Felix to calm him.

Beraht wasn’t wholly satisfied with that, but he decided not to push it. This elf was apparently travelling Rica’s duster brother, now a Grey Warden, and Beraht knew just how precarious his position was if that duster really was still alive.

“Just… Keep him leashed next time. Made me spill my sodding wine.”

“Of course, Ser Dwarf,” Zevran said, offering an extravagant vow and he and Felix made their way out of the room and back to see Rica.

What the dwarves didn’t know is that this was all rehearsed. Zevran was continually more impressed by the intelligence of mabari, and gave Felix a scratch on the ears, promising him extra treats tonight. Beraht, for his part, would pour himself more wine that evening, not realizing that Zevran had slipped some Quiet Death into the bottle during their conversation. Beraht would die that night, passing away quietly in his sleep.

Though Quiet Death left few traces in the body, it would not be a stretch for the palace staff to connect the strange visitors to the palace to the death of the consort’s cousin. An investigation could be undertaken, if anybody cared for Beraht. But nobody did. Beraht died unmourned and alone, forgotten by all but the Shaperate.

Sten’s orders from Mercy were to continue learning about Orzammar politics and culture while she explored Aeducan Thaig and Keegan and Zevran dined at the palace. Since the Wardens requested privacy for their Joining, Shale elected to accompany Sten, as it would at least be something to do.

After his first day in the Shaperate, Sten was mightily impressed. After two, he told Shale that it was perhaps the only facet of dwarven society with which he was not completely disgusted. Still, the Shaperate provided information that would be useful to both the Grey Wardens, and, more importantly, the Arishok, when Sten made his report. Shale, too, while they complained incessantly about the monotony of the task, was learning a great deal about the history of golems and their creator, Caridin.

At the end of their second day of research, something was becoming apparent to Sten: despite hearing extensively from Warden Brosca about the casteless and Dust Town, there were no mentions of casteless dwarves in the Memories. While the Memories certaintly catalogued interactions that Orzammar had with Dust Town, and did mention the casteless often, it was only ever when they interacted with the rest of Orzammar. And it never mentioned their names. Confused, Sten found one of the Shapers, and asked: “Where are records of your casteless?”

The Shaper, a dwarven man in his late middle age with pale skin, salt-and-pepper hair, green eyes and a comparatively simple long grey beard, looked at Sten with confusion, not understanding the question. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he responded.

Impatient, Sten repeated: “There are no records or Memories of the casteless dwarves. Are they kept in a seperate section? I am to learn of Dwarven culture, and I cannot if I do not have access to the Memories of the casteless.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, qunari, but there are no records of the casteless. They aren’t dwarves, and they weaken the Stone upon their return to it.”

Sten was barely containing his rage, and even Shale, beyond the trivial problems of squishy, fleshy creatures, was paying attention. Still, Sten mastered himself, and continued his investigation. With barely concealed contempt, he asked: “And how is it decided who among you become casteless?”

Seemingly unaware of Sten’s contempt, the Shaper, as if talking to a child, explained: “The casteless are criminals, or their descendants. To become casteless is punishment of the almost highest order, and your name and history are stricken from the Memories.”

“Very well,” Sten said tersely, before turning on his heel and looking at Shale. “Kadan, we are going to investigate this ‘Dust Town’ for ourselves. The Memories have proven to be inadequate, like so many things in Orzammar. There will be reckoning among the Diamond Quarter when the Qun brings enlightenment to the dwarves.”

“Oh, goody,” the golem rumbled as the Shaper began to sputter indignantly, ignored by the two giants that were already walking away. “Perhaps I will finally be permitted to squish some heads.”

Zevran, Sten, Keegan and Felix were settling in for dinner at the Warden Compound when Mercy and her party returned from their journey in the Deep Roads. Attendants brought dinner for them: Mercy, Mayrin, Morrigan and Aelizia returned, though Cowen had apparently not survived his Joining.

Shale, looming at the doorway opposite them, sighed loudly.

“Of course, the Whiny Mage survived, and the Wizened Fighter did not.”

Ignoring Shale, the Wardens and Morrigan had a seat, and began to dig in. “How was your lunch with Rica?” Mayrin asked as he took a bite of roast bronto too large to ever be considered polite. Steward Jemerin stifled a grimace.

“It went well!” Keegan said excitedly. “The palace was impressive, and little Endrin is adorable.”

“Isn’t he?” Mayrin responded with food still in his mouth, then he looked at Zevran expectantly.

“Very well, my dear Mr. Brosca,” he said, giving Mayrin a little wink and squeezed his thigh. Mayrin gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then took another bite.

“Thanks Zev. Really.”

Mercy, sensing a lull in the conversation, decided to announce their progress. They would be meeting with Prince Bhelen tomorrow, and hopefully finally put this business in Orzammar to rest. She then looked at Sten, and said: “Sten, report.”

Sten outlined his and Shale’s findings, especially those that pertained to the royal family, darkspawn, and golems. Of course, his research only scratched the surface, but it would be useful. “The qunari also decided we should investigate Dust Town personally, as it found the Shaperate’s records inadequate,” Shale added.

Mayrin raised an eyebrow and looked at Sten, who was… Paler than usual, he realized.

“I have never seen something so equally vile and devoid of any common sense. All life outside the Qun is senseless and cruel, but the casteless are not permitted to do even the most menial labour. They are not given a duty, and therefore cannot succeed,” he explained, for the benefit of the taller folks in the room.

“It’s no wonder us dusters are good-for-nothing criminals, eh?” Mayrin said lightly.

Sten looked at Mayrin, perhaps seeing him for the first time. “You make light of it, but this is no jest. I could not blame them for attacking Shale and I when we arrived, and it is regrettable that I was forced to kill so many.”

Mayrin nodded, expecting this. Dust Town had never seen a qunari before, and it was likely that not a one of the people living there now had seen a golem, either. Sten’s weapons and armor were finely made, and they made him an attractive target. The fact that Sten had any regard for their lives meant he showed more regard than any caste of dwarf in Orzammar today.

“I apologize for interrupting, sir,” Steward Jenerim said nervously, “but you have not yet mentioned the prisoners.”

Mercy looked at Sten, also seeing how pale he was. “Prisoners?”

“Indeed. I felt it prudent to investigate the carta as well. Many of them are dead, but many others were given the chance to make something of themselves. While I encouraged most to flee to the surface, their leaders were not completely hopeless when it came to combat, and thus I figured you might wish to recruit them, Warden-Commander.”

Mercy smiled, nodding. “If they have your approval, they will make fine Wardens.”

“There are prisoners here? You never mentioned that!” Keegan said, not even realizing that the Warden Compound had prison cells.

“Any why would I?” Sten, clearly confused about how this involved the human Teyrn at all. Keegan just sighed, and choked down another drink of his lichen ale.

“Their leaders?” Mayrin asked. “More than one? Jarvia, and who else?”

Sten shrugged. “I had not thought to ask.”

“Leske,” the Steward supplied helpfully. “The brand— er, the prisoner’s name, is Leske.”

Chapter Text

“That… is a dragon,” Cadoc said quietly, reaching for his axe as the group made their way across the snowy valley. “Their Risen Andraste… is a dragon.”

“Of course it’s a dragon,” Nathaniel said quietly. It seemed obvious to him now in retrospect. He was dipping his arrows in poison in preparation.

“Be cautious,” Wynne whispered as if it needed to be said, preparing to cast a spell if need be.

“Dragons have a remarkable sense of smell. It’s ignoring us for now, and we just need to make it to the door,” Nathaniel advised quietly.

The group continued across the valley, shuffling cautiously as each of them drew their weapons and spread out from one another in the event the dragon did notice them. 

“Andraste, please protect us,” Leliana prayed quietly.

“Almost there,” Eve said as the group approached the door. Then, something terrible happened. The dragon sniffed loudly, and looked at them. No, it looked at Enid. Then it roared, and took flight. Apparently, it had noticed them.

A vision of death with wings, the dragon soared over their heads, making a beeline straight towards them. The party broke out into a panicked run, trying to make it through the next door. The dragon exhaled a blast of flame towards the party, and landed in between them and the door, ready to devour the prey it had just scorched.

“Maker!” Leliana exclaimed as the flame blasted towards them. The group scattered, but, for some the flame would be unavoidable.

“June, please let this work!” Enid cried, invoking the god of crafts as she drew Rage’s End. She hefted the runed silverite blade above her head as it shone brightly in the sun, emitting a slight glow. The blast, once a raging fiery cloud of certain death, began to change course, as if guided by magic. The flames thinned and spun and darted towards Enid, every last lick absorbed into Rage’s End and snuffed out as if it had never been. The intense heat that had once signalled their end was replaced by the familiar, montainous cold.

“That’s really fucking useful,” Eve yelled, panting. The dragon, too, was confused, and roared angrily, expelling more flames at the group that had so insulted it by surviving. Those flames, too, were absorbed by Enid’s elven blade. The dragon roared again, charging towards them and trying to crunch Merrill in its jaws.

“Praise the Creators!” Merrill called before transforming into a crow to get to a safe place. The dragon devoured nothing but empty air. It roared, a set its eyes on Enid.

“Scatter!” Enid called. “And take this thing down!”

Taking the dragon down turned out to be much harder said than done. Merrill began blasting and cursing it as Leliana and Nathaniel’s arrows were scattering harmlessly off its hide. Each time Cadoc got close to one of the legs to swing, it took flight to adjust its position and continue menacing Enid. It seemed fixated on her sword, a part of it understanding that this was what was neutralizing its flame.

Enid was being battered by tooth and fang, kept alive by her ironbark shield and Wynne’s constant healing and empowering spells. 

“It’s useless!” Nathaniel shouted, frustrated at how ineffective his arrows were. Leliana was equally angry. 

“Its scales are like armor!” she said.

“I can’t even hit the bloody thing!” Cadoc yelled.

“I’ve studied dragons!” Merrill called. “We need to deal with its wings first, and then go for the eyes, mouth or joints!”

“We… Need to…” Enid started, between attacks. “Ready. Merrill, can you put it to sleep?”

“I can try, lethallan! Get ready!” 

The lightning storm stopped for a moment while Merrill mustered her mana, swirling her hands around as yellowish, pale arcane power coalesced into an orb in her hand. She grasped her staff as it absorbed the orb, and she pointed it at the the dragon putting all of her mana into one spell. There was a yellow flash of power, and the dragon… Stopped fighting, and fell asleep. Merrill fell to one knee panting and caked in sweat, but the rest of the party did not waste their opportunity. 

They had to be quick, and they had to be deadly. The party got into a position: a fighter and an archer on either side, while Eve stood at its head, daggers prepared to take its eyes out. On Enid’s signal, they struck. Cadoc brought his axe down on the creature’s resting wings, rending flesh and sinew, while Enid did the same on the other side. Stowing their bows, the archers drew their daggers and joined in, Nathaniel with Enid and Leliana with Cadoc. Even if the dragon killed them all, it would never be able to fly again.

It awoke in seconds, blinded and furious. It reared its head into the sky as Eve held on for her life, praying to the Maker as she was thrashed around its head, doing her best to avoid getting devoured entirely. She was too close to its mouth for Enid to absorb its breath, and her legs were blasted with fire, immediately catching as her vision went white from the pain.

“FUCK!” Eve called out, refusing to let go.

The melee fighters and the archers continued to hack away at the dragon, most of their attacks bouncing harmlessly off its hide once again. Every once in awhile, though, they found a chink in its armor. It was weakening.

“Let go, Warden!” Wynne pleaded as she cast a cold spell to douse the flames. Actually healing them would take longer.

“No… Fucking… Way,” she said through gritted teeth. She twisted the daggers and plunged them deeper into its eye sockets, using them as handholds to flip herself onto its head, landing deftly and wrapping her legs around its neck. It let out another roar, terrified and desperate. It turned, and smashed Enid and Nathaniel to the ground, Enid’s blade clattering out of her hand. As they got their bearings, it inhaled again, and blasted flame towards Cadoc as Eve started stabbing all the way into its brain.

“Cadoc!” Leliana cried, her reaction time much better than almost anyone else in the party. As if by reflex, she got low and tackled Cadoc out of the way, taking the full blast of the flame instead. She cried out in pain and fell to the ground, just as the dragon let out its last, dying cries. As it crumpled to the ground, Eve rolled off it, lying on the ground and panting.

Wynne was already kneeling down at Leliana, basking her in healing light. Merrill, only just regaining her strength, rushed over, taking in what had happened to her companions. “Merrill, heal Evelyn’s legs. I shall focus on Leliana.”

Merrill nodded wordlessly and set about healing Eve. She was not much of a healer, but would do her best, especially for the city elf of whom she’d grown so fond during their travels. Plus, Wynne’s cold spell meant that the burns were stopped before they did any real damage. The same could not be said for Leliana.

As Cadoc, Nathaniel and Enid gathered up around the group, Enid’s breath caught in her throat. Leliana was unrecognizable. The beautiful woman they knew was now nothing more than a charred, burned husk of a person, her leather armor either burned away or seared into her skin. Wynne was keeping her asleep, and had her hands on Leliana’s blackened temples as the older woman's body began to emit an intense blue light.

“Wynne! Is she going to make it?!” Enid asked desperately, tears in her eyes. 

Wynne responded not with one voice but two, the spirit housed within her reverberating against the mountain walls. “I am still uncertain, Warden-Constable. I will do everything in my power to ensure she does.”

“What can we do to help?” Nathaniel asked breathlessly, ignoring the pain in his ribs and shoulders.

“Rest, recover and pray. She is beyond the means of mundane healing. Right now, we are the only thing keeping her alive. Pray to the Maker that she finds the strength to carry through. We will know in a few hours if recovery will be possible. But even then, recovery will take time… And she will not be who she was.”

Enid nodded, and set her jaw. She tentatively walked up to Cadoc, and put a hand on his arm. “Could you… Help me pray to your Maker?”

Cadoc simply nodded, and led her away from the group, kneeling down and bowing his head in supplication. She did the same, and he looked over at her.

“I will offer a verse from the Chant, but… You need not quote the Chant to pray to the Maker. Any prayer will do, as long as it comes from your heart.”

Enid nodded shakily, allowing him to continue.

“Maker, hear my cry. With me is one of the Dalish, Enid Mahariel, a friend and companion. Today, we offer prayers for Leliana, one of your most faithful, a righteous, kind and brave servant. We pray that you will see her through the night and that she will live a long, happy life,” he said, smiling pityingly at Enid. Then, clearing his throat, he began to recite part of the Chant of Light. And, for the first time, Enid listened. 

“The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

“You speak well,” Enid said. “Thank you.”

Though she wasn’t sure about the verse he picked. It sounded as if he expected Leliana to pass on. That was unacceptable. She had to try everything she could to stop that. Enid cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands together. Merrill eyed her suspiciously but said nothing, continuing to tend to Eve, who was healing well.

“Mythal, All-Mother and Andraste, Maker-Bride… I have prayed to one of you many times, but never before to the other. In whatever capacity you can, I ask that you protect Leliana, and see her through this ordeal. She is a faithful servant of the Maker, and often acts holier than many Priests I’ve met. All-Mother, she is kind to all she meets, even us elvhen. She is good, and kind, and I… Care for her. And… I ask that, if she does not survive, that Falon’din may lead her safely to the Maker’s side.”

The party spent the next few hours preparing dinner, dressing their wounds, and taking a break. Nobody was talking all that much, but Eve had healed well and had been given some leftover leather armor and boots to cover her legs. While Wynne was no longer glowing, she had been tending to Leliana without rest since the end of the fight, and had already consumed a large supply of their lyrium potions.

Nobody was very talkative, and Merrill was able to help direct them on how to harvest some of the dragon’s hide and bone, suggesting it could be made into armor. It gave them something to do, at least. As they were bundling up their scales, they were interrupted by a piercing scream. Leliana was awake.

“Merrill, I have no more magic left in me. Put her back to sleep!”

Merrill obliged, and Wynne let out an incredible sigh of relief, sitting on the ground with her hands on her knees and head bowed, breathing heavily. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. 

“She will survive,” Wynne said. “She will not be what she was, but she will not die… At least, not from the dragon.” 

As if responding to Wynne, Leliana let out a small snore, beginning to breathe regularly and calmly for the first time since the battle.

Merrill jumped up and down with excitement, and Cadoc and Eve pumped their fists in the air, hugging one another happily. Nathaniel smiled quietly, and put a hand on Enid’s shoulder, who was wiping away a tear.

“Yes she will. We’re in the only place in Thedas where we can find something that can restore her to what she was. Wynne, if you could look after her, I will leave Eve here to protect you both if any cultists arrive. The rest of us will brave the trials that lay ahead, whatever they may be. Dread Wolf take Arl Eamon, the Ashes will be used to save Leliana.”

Without waiting for a response from her party, Enid set off towards the temple, throwing the door open for whatever lay ahead. Cadoc, Nathaniel and Merrill followed without question.

Inside, the party came upon a man in silverite armor with dark skin and a distinguished beard. His helmet was winged and he carried a greataxe on his back. 

“Who do you think he is?” Cadoc whispered as Nathaniel reached for an arrow.

“That is no shemlen,” Merrill cautioned quietly. “It is a spirit. Tread carefully, but do not attack. It doesn’t seem aggressive.”

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” it said, looking directly at Enid. “It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste.”

Nathaniel snickered at that, clearly amused that the spirit seemed to be speaking to Enid, a Dalish elf, instead of himself or Cadoc. It continued: “For years beyond counting I have been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.”

Enid carefully and reservedly conversed with the spirit, learning about the trials that lay ahead of them— called the Gauntlet— and his name, the Guardian. It was almost unbelievable that he could remain here for so long. Was he the man he claimed to be, one of the faithful, preserved through faith alone? Was merely a spirit, as Merrill said? Enid suspected the answer was a lot less simple than either of those options, somewhere in between the two. As the party was about to proceed, the Guardian spoke up once again.

“Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see that the path that leads you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past— your suffering, and the suffering of others. Tamlen was one of your clan— a blood-brother. You left him in the ruins, left him to his fate, and then killed him. Tell me, pilgrom. Did you fail Tamlen?”

“I—“ Enid began feeling herself get angry, before shaking her head and taking a deep breath. “No. There is no cure for a ghoul, and Merrill could not find Tamlen when she saved me from the cave. There is nothing we could have done.”

“Then you do not dwell on past mistakes— neither yours’, nor someone else’s.”

Then, he turned to Merrill. “Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae. Despite your Keeper’s protestations, you turned from your clan, forsaking your duty to protect them all in order to protect the one. Do you feel that you have failed in your duty as First?”

“Sometimes, I suppose. Late at night, when it’s quiet, and everyone else is asleep… I can’t help but wonder if I’m supposed to be with my clan, or if they even managed to get to Kirkwall. Still, if we save all of Thedas from the Blight, that counts as protecting the clan, doesn’t it?”

Enid smiled and nodded at her as the Guardian turned to Nathaniel.

“Nathaniel Howe, you are devoted to Keegan Cousland. For him, you disobeyed, betrayed and actively work against your own family. Because of him, you do not even know whether or not your beloved sister is alive. Tell me, Nathaniel Howe: do you ever resent Keegan, and do you ever fear that, in the end, he will forget what you’ve sacrificed for him?”

The young noble actually smiled at that. “Not for a moment, Guardian.” Satisfied, the spirit turned to Cadoc.

“Cadoc Wulff, your father always said that the Chantry is too harsh to mages, and that they should be pitied. Travelling with the Grey Wardens, you have seen magic that would given even the most hardened warriors pause. Through your qunari companion, you have learned that they are much harsher in Seheron, chaining their mages and sewing their lips shut. Do you think the same should be done with the rest of the mages of Thedas?”

“WHAT?!” Enid said, spinning on him and reaching for her blade.

“Cadoc, you can’t be serious,” Nathaniel said. 

“Let him answer the Guardian,” Merrill said, eyes fixed on Cadoc, but remembering that, out of anyone in this room, the spirit was by far the most dangerous.

Cadoc sighed heavily, face twisted with indecision. “I think that… On the whole, it would better for the regular people of Thedas. I can see why the qunari do as they do, but… Mages are valuable. All of us would be dragon food right now without Wynne and Merrill. More than that, mages are people too. They don’t deserve what the qunari have done to them. So… I don’t know, Guardian. I really don’t.”

The spirit nodded, face as impassive as ever, and stood aside. Behind him, the door opened as if by its own accord.

“The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek.”

“Whatta you think they’ll find in there?” Eve asked as she worked away with her mortar and pestle, mixing new poisons replenish the ones they’d used to kill the dragon. Wynne and Leliana were keeping warm in a tent while Eve watched outside.

“I have no idea,” came Wynne’s voice from inside the tent. “Though I have no doubt it will be harrowing. Whatever it is has kept these dragon cultists out all this time.”

“Yeah, harrowing… But also, it’s probably pretty cool, right?” 

There was no response for a few moments, though Eve heard the crackle of magic as Leliana began to stir once again and Wynne put her to sleep.

“…indeed,” Wynne responded quietly. “To have come so far and… It is no matter. I can be of service here.”

“Yeah,” Eve said softly. “Andraste’s Ashes, right here in Ferelden. Would’ve been something to see.”

Leliana awoke to the sound of frenzied whispers just outside the tent. Tent? The last thing she remembered was dragon fire, and pain, and Wynne telling her to go back to sleep. Oh Maker, the pain.  She propped herself up on her elbow, gritting her teeth through the pain, and became aware of the fact that she was dressed in rags in her bedroll. Pieces of her scorched armor were strewn about the tent, as well as bloody bandages. Attached to her armor was… Skin? Was that her skin? 

She looked down at her hand, and saw that it was scarred and raw, some of it still burned black. Reaching up to touch her hair, she found that she was mostly bald, and the hair that remained was scraggly, short, and frail. Outside her tent she heard Wynne’s voice.

“Is that more of the cultists? I cannot tell from so far.”

“They came from a door we haven’t seen opened yet. I think— I hope it’s our people, but be ready just in case.”

Leliana stood up, and cried out in pain. Her skin cracked and tore with movement, and she immediately fell back onto the ground. Even with magic, she would not walk for a long time.

“Leliana, you must rest!” Wynne called from outside the tent. The elder mage threw the tent flap open, and her staff flared blue, suffusing Leliana with healing energy.

Eve poked her head in as Wynne helped Leliana back into her bedroll. “It’s them! All of them! They’re all okay, thank the Maker.”

Nearly shoving Eve to the ground, Enid burst into the tent with a small leather pouch in her hand. “Wynne, I have them. I’m not sure how to apply them, but here they are,” Enid said, pushing the small pouch into Wynne’s hand. The mage gasped, a minute of contact with even the pouch suffusing her with warmth and hope. Even a thousand years later, they were still warm to the touch. Instinctually, somehow, Wynne knew how to use them, as if the Ashes of the prophet came with divine knowledge. The Spirit of Faith within her thrummed with awe.

“If you did not have a trained healer with you, they could be mixed with water and imbided. But, with me here,” she said, reaching into the pouch and grabbing the ashes in her fingers, “I can charge the Ashes with magic and apply them directly to Leliana.” 

“Wait!” Leliana said, her voice scratchy and strained. Every word was a struggle. “The Ashes are for the Arl.”

“You’re more important than Arl Eamon,” Enid said emphatically. “And besides, we all took a pinch. Cadoc has agreed to use his to cure the Arl.” She then turned to Wynne and nodded.

The Ashes in the healer’s hand began to glow orange as Wynne’s eyes emitted a familiar blue glow. She sprinkled the glowing Ashes on Leliana’s form, and the lot of them bore witness to miracle. 

“Praise Andraste…” Cadoc said quietly. 

“By the Creators!” Merrill exclaimed.

Leliana’s scarred and burned flesh began to be restored before their eyes. Every scar, every blotch, every wound was restored to what it once was, better than that even. Leliana herself, did not appear to be in the slightest amount of pain, wide-eyed and smiling as she began to understand what was happening, and as her pain melted away.

Leliana was restored, minus her hair. She looked even younger, more vital and full of life than she had ever been. She sat up, ran her hand along bald scalp and took a deep breath.

“Well, I suppose it will be a little while before I can do anything with my hair again,” she said, letting out a big hearty laugh. The rest of the party joined in, before she stood up and met Enid’s eyes, looking down at her slightly. Both women’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Merci, Enid. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you so much. I don’t know if I can ever repay you,” she said, enveloping the elf in a long hug.

“Don’t worry. You’re my clan,” she said quietly, and then stepped away from Leliana. “I’m just doing my duty,” she said, turning away to hide her tears. She cursed her overactive tear ducts. “I’m happy you’re okay, but we’ve just been through a lot. Let’s bed down for the evening, and set out for Redcliffe tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The Wilds were even colder and more miserable than Rayne recalled, but, with the winter, the bugs seemed to have gone to sleep. Their new Grey Warden was acquitting herself well in battle and performing her duties well, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He supposed he wouldn’t be either if he had been through what she had.

Nobody was in a very talkative mood after passing through Ostagar on their way to see Flemeth. While only Rayne and Alistair were at the battle themselves, it was Anora who took the the visit the hardest. How she hadn’t shed even a single tear when putting Cailan to the pyre was surprising to Rayne, but he knew better than to comment. She had found something in Cailan’s personal chest— something other than Maric’s blade— that had affected her profoundly. What, he wasn’t sure, but he wanted more than anything to find out.

Despite his objects, Anora also insisted that Alistair wear Cailan’s armor, and take up Maric’s sword and shield. They were the finest-made weapons and armor available, and they’d be fools not to use them. Even with the insistence that Alistair could give them back when this was all over, he was obviously incredibly uncomfortable with the prospect, but had a great deal of trouble saying no to Anora.

The spells Morrigan taught Rayne to evade detection by the darkspawn were working so far, and the he figured the group was about a day away from Flemeth’s hut. They set up camp a healthy distance away from a sparsely-populated Chasind village. Rayne could tell from afar that village had seen better days, but, even at a distance, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the construction he saw. If his eyes did not deceive him, many of their houses were built on stilts, or incorporated the trees themselves into their construction. He spent much of the evening sketching what he could make out in the darkness as Garahel dozed by his side. It seemed that there were still a few people who remained in the village, as he could see a couple of fires burning. Neither himself nor any of the Wardens sensed darkspawn.

As Bethany and Shokrakar began to parcel out the stew for the evening to the party arrayed around the fire, Jowan asked nervously: “Is it true that the Chasind practice cannibalism? We should be careful.”

Anora waved a hand dismissively. “Likely just quaint superstition. From what I know and what I’ve learned from traders in Denerim, they’re a largely peaceful people. Primitive, perhaps, but peaceful, unless provoked.”

“According to Morrigan, Her Majesty is correct,” Rayne said. “But, also according to Morrigan, so is Jowan.”

“You can’t be serious,” Diala said. “Back home, it sometimes happened when expeditions got lost or trapped in the Deep Roads, but only out of desperation. At least before the Blight, there must have been food aplenty in the Wilds.”

“By and large, Queen Anora’s assessment is the most accurate. Morrigan did tell me, though, that there are a few small, isolationist tribes who do practice cannibalism in order to venerate their gods and to absorb the strength of their fallen foes.”

“What a great topic for dinner, Jowan!” Alistair said sarcastically. “Is there a way to tell? If we meet them, are they go to be wearing signs that say ‘hi, hello, I’m a nice Chasind and I don’t eat people’?”

Erlina snickered. “I find it unlikely these people can read,” she said dismissively.

“There were actually a few Chasind traders that came to Lothering pretty regularly growing up. They people, and no trouble reading… They’re probably dead now too,” Bethany said darkly, and with a bit of annoyance. Bethany heard all about the nobility from her mother, and even saw Bann Ceorlic and his family once or twice. As a child, they always sounded fascinating and dignified to her. Now, they seemed haughty, dismissive, rude and rather useless. Still, this was not an attitude she’d expect from an elf. She supposed, elf or not, the woman was still an Orlesian.

Nobody said anything for a moment, until a voice broke the silence called out from the darkness beyond the fire. It was a woman with a deep and commanding voice: “You’re from Lothering, girl? What’s your name?”

The party immediately jumped up and grabbed their weapons, looking out at their perimeter to search for a sign of who just spoke, or a sign of anybody, really. None of the party was particularly well-suited to the Wilds, but it was impressive that their observers escaped the notice of even Garahel, who was growling menacingly.

Bethany looked at Rayne for permission to respond, and he nodded. “My name is Bethany Hawke. My parents were Malcolm and Leandra.”

Figures stepped out of the darkness from all sides. They had the party surrounded. All were dressed in various combinations of leather, hide, furs or bone, and wore angular facial tattoos. Most had bows, or another weapon. Their bows were readied, but not trained on the new arrivals in the Wilds. At first glance, it seemed that none of them wore human bones. With them were also a few mabari.

“Malcolm and Leandra? My father Drystan mentioned your family. And you’re right; he died months ago.”

The woman who spoke was the same voice that called out to them in darkness. Now that she stepped into the firelight, they could get a better look at her. She was in her late 30s or early 40s, and on the shorter side. Her face was round, but did not have many wrinkles. She was stocky, but all muscle, and wore hide armor and a fur cloak. Her skin was dark and her eyes were hazel. She wore dreadlocks, pulled back into a ponytail, and had severe, angular tattoos around her eyes and on her lips; she also wore a leather headband with a rabbit’s skull on it. In her right hand, she wielded a quarterstaff topped with a what appeared to be a small wolf skull.

The party was wound tight and ready to strike, but were waiting to see if Bethany could resolve this without bloodshed.

“You’re Drystan’s daughter! Your father was always kind to our family, and dealt fairly with my parents, always ready to give out grandfatherly advice. When he happened upon my father teaching my brother and I to control our magic one evening, he didn’t report us to the templars. He even invited our family to move to your village to evade them,” Bethany said, her smile wider than the party had ever seen.

“Aye, he mentioned that. He was puzzled why you never took him up on his offer,” she said. Continuing, she added: “It is good to be reminded of him, Bethany Hawke. Thank you. I am  Lisotta, augur of this hold. What brings such a well-outfitted party so far south in times of Blight?”

“We are Grey Wardens,” Shokrakar said simply, as if that would suffice as an explanation. His red eyes bore into Lisotta, who did her best not to shudder. Qunari were rare so far south, and unsettling.

A man to the right of Lisotta spoke up: “The legends say Wardens are peerless warriors, but they all died at Ostagar. Even if they didn’t, the horde’s moved on. What would Grey Wardens want this far south?”

“We’re here to kill Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds,” Rayne said simply, knowing that the truth was a risk, but a lie may have been an even bigger one.

Lisotta’s eyes went wide in shock for only a moment, and then she threw her head back in laughter, the surrounding Chasind joining in immediately. It was not a small snicker, but a full belly-laugh, as the people surrounding them struggled to catch their breath. Those that had not already stowed their weapons.

Rayne continued, cautiously: “I know that Flemeth is… An important figure in your culture, but we are doing this to aid Morrigan, her daughter.”

“Her most recent daughter, you mean!” another man called out, probably in his 50s or 60s.

“Aye, she’s quite important, whether we like it or not,” Lisotta said, finally regaining her composure and wiping a tear from her eye. “But better men than you have tried to kill her, and here she has remained for centuries. If that is your only business, you are more than welcome to try,” she said, nodding at the man to her right. He whistled, and uttered a command in the Chasind tongue. Rayne had been trying to learn it from Morrigan, but didn’t recognize the phrase the man used. Still, the surrounding Chasind cleared out, and disappeared into the shadows as silently as they had appeared.

“Well, I’d say that was a success,” Alistair said, exhaling and going back to wolfing down his stew.

“Indeed,” Jowan said quietly. “Now, let’s all pray to the Maker that things go that well against Flemeth tomorrow.”

Anora’s dreams that night were plagued with anxiety, sorrow and anger. Her mood in the morning was not much of an improvement. She had not told any but Erlina what she found in Cailan’s chest, and wasn’t sure she ever would, as much as Senior Mage Warden Surana obviously wanted to know.

After finding those documents, Anora was heartbroken. Heartbroken that Cailan would so readily ‘set her aside’, after all they had been through together. She had always been aware of his dalliances, but thought at least that her position was secure. More than sorrow, though, Anora was angry. Anora was angry at Eamon, so ready to sell out Ferelden to the Orlesians after his own sister fought for him to live in freedom. Anora was angry at the Empress, who made a big show about peaceful diplomatic relations, but was no better than her predecessors, and always in the market for new serfs. 

Most of all, she was angry at Cailan. How could he have been so stupid? How did Maric the Saviour and Queen Rowan raise such a fool? And why did she allow him to be such, indulging him instead of insisting he grow up? If he was a fool, what did that make her?

If the Queen hadn’t been so distracted, she may have noticed how suspicious her party was acting, even Erlina. She chalked it up to nerves about Flemeth— something quite familiar to her— and followed them in silence, trying to consider all of the implications of what she learned, and what she would do about it when she was back in Denerim.

The party arrived at a small cave about— Warden Surana insisted— an hour from Flemeth’s hut. A silent nod passed between he and Erlina, and, just as Anora snapped out of her stupor to realize what was happening, Jowan waved his fingers in the air, casting a spell at her.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, as she fell backwards into Erlina’s arms, falling into a deep sleep.

“You are just too valuable to risk, Votre Majesté,” Erlina said as she gently laid Anora’s head onto the ground.

“We should be back by nightfall. If not, assume that we failed and go to Redcliffe,” Rayne said. Erlina nodded, and frowned at the mention of Redcliffe.

Garahel whined loudly as Rayne scratched his ear and squatted to talk to him. “I know, buddy,” Rayne said. “I’ll miss you too, but we talked about this. Erlina and Anora need you in case something happens to us. They’re both capable, but you’re immune to the taint, and a better hunter than any of the rest of us. Erlina may be an assassin, but that doesn’t make her any good at hunting boars for dinner.” Garahel whined again, and licked Rayne’s hand. “I’ll do everything I can to come back to you, okay? But I’m trusting you to protect them. I know you won’t let me down,” he said, kissing his mabari on the head as he stood up, and led the party towards their destiny.

Rayne was honestly not sure what would happen when they reached her, and had no idea what Flemeth was truly capable of. Their best chance was with Alistair and Diala— he was a templar, and her natural dwarven resistance made it so that she could take more magical punishment than the rest of them. He had no doubt that an abomination as powerful as she could handle him, Jowan and Bethany, as powerful as they were. No, their best chance was a lucky shot from one of their warriors. Morrigan assured him that Flemeth would die just as easily as any mortal if a blade was plunged her heart. They had two blades— and a mace— and he hoped they would be enough.

They reached the hut inside of forty minutes, the trek much easier than any of them anticipated. It was almost as if the forest was leading them to her. When the hut entered their field of view, they could see that she was waiting for them, sitting outside on a rocking chair and watching them approach. Of course she was.

When they got closer, she waved and stood up, smiling mischeviously as they approached.

“And so you return. Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?”

“We know your little secret, Flemeth,” Diala answered. This was her first time meeting the witch, and she didn’t seem all that bad. Flemeth threw her head back in a hearty laugh. Rayne was getting tired of people laughing at them.

“Which one, I wonder? What has Morrigan told you, hmm? What little plan has she hatched this time?”

“She knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan,” Rayne responded.

“That she does. The question is, do you?”

Rayne considered for a moment, and then heard Curiosity in his ear. “Think of all we could learn from her, da’len. What if Morrigan kept things from you? From us?”

Before Rayne responded, Flemeth continued. “Ahhh, but it is an old story. One that Flemeth has heard before… And even told. Let us skip right to the ending, shall we? Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids? Or does this tale take a different turn?”

“You deserve to die, whatever the reason,” Rayne answered. Sorry, Curiosity. It’s not worth it. She cannot be trusted.

“Youthink you’re the first to come, so full of righteousness and bluster? If only that were so! From you, I expected more!”

“So sorry to disappoint,” Diala responded flatly, swinging her greatsword in an arc towards the witch. Flemeth conjured a shield, deflecting the blow, and exploded it into a shockwave, knocking the party backwards.

“It is a dance poor Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps. Come,” she said, striding confidently away from the hut. “She will earn what she takes. I’d have it no other way.”

As she strode away, magical energy coalesced around her, and, in a flash of light, she became a vision of fire and death. She became a dragon. 

She roared mightily, and took to the skies.

“A DRAGON?! WELL, THAT’S JUST PERFECT!” Alistair yelled as he held his shield up to block a blast of flame. It seemed Cailan’s armor was more than just for show; its enchantments held, and he was mostly unharmed.

“Ataashi!” Shokrakar roared as he began tried to get into an advantageous position, holding his mace up and watching Flemeth soar above then. Bethany, Rayne and Jowan were already firing spells at her, with varying success. Cold spells, evidently, seemed the most effective. 

“Stone, I wish we had some sodding archers right now, Rayne!” Diala said. She’d argued against leaving Anora and Erlina back, and was not enjoying being proved correct.

“Warriors, find cover! Mages, we need to bring her down!” Rayne commanded. Bethany had gotten the closest so far, her cold spells slowing Flemeth considerably, enough to earn Flemeth’s ire. The witch set her sights on Bethany, blasting fire in her direction. Bethany quickly conjured a shield, which saved her from the worst of the flames but cracked, shattered, and threw her back, knocking her out.

Near Bethany was Jowan, beside whom Flemeth landed. Jowan tried backing away from her, but she snapped at him, almost devouring him whole. He tripped, and fell backwards and, while she didn’t devour him whole, she did devour a part of him, engulfing his entire left arm in her toothy maw, and swallowing it whole. Jowan was sprawled on his back and in a pool of his own blood, looking up at Flemeth as she prepared to end what she started.

But she didn’t know he was a blood mage, and she’d just given him a lot of fuel.

With his right hand, he reached into the crimson pool and it began to swirl around him. 

“Andraste, please let this work,” he prayed somewhat antithetically, as he cast forbidden spell.

He thrust his remaining arm up and Flemeth was surrounded in a haze of red, the blood magic binding and chaining her.

“NOW!” Rayne yelled, and the warriors charged forward. While both Shokrakar and Diala were having trouble doing much damage, Alistair’s new sword cut through the dragon like butter. He’d hobbled her legs, but she was beginning to break free of Jowan’s grasp and take flight once again. Quickly, Rayne analyzed the two options before him: he could heal Jowan, and maybe save his friend’s life, but let Flemeth break free. Or, he could add to the binding, and give Alistair a chance to finish this. There was really only once choice to make.

Rayne made a cut across his hand, and doubled the power of Jowan’s original spell. Flemeth was completely immobile, though he didn’t know how long they could hold her, or how long they could survive this. This was using a lot of his life energy. He had no idea how Jowan had sustained the spell so long alone.

“Shokrakar, I need a boost!” Alistair shouted. The qunari got low, and held his shield above his head. Alistair took a running start, and leapt onto the shield, which was then thrust up by Alistair, who used the momentum to vault into the air, and onto Flemeth’s head.

The templar tore into her, using his sword to stab her eyes, her skull, and her brains. In a few quick, bloody, moments, it was over. Flemeth collapsed onto the ground, free of the binding and a bloody eviscerated mess.

The Witch of the Wilds was dead.

And Jowan might be as well. Rayne dashed over to him and fell to his knees. Jowan was pale, weak and unconscious, almost completely drained of blood. The shoulder where is arm was was no longer gushing blood, but leaking, very slowly. Rayne quickly checked a pulse and, feeling one, set about healing his friend. His eyes glowed blue and his hair swirled around him as a spectral form appeared above him.

“What is that?” Bethany asked Alistair, walking up to him as she focused on healing her own minor injuries. 

“Oh, I suppose you haven’t seen the spirit our Senior Mage Warden carries around with him in his skull. He says he’s his ‘spirit companion’. I say he’s his ‘one bad day away from being a demon companion’.”

“Wynne says it’s okay, and that there are a few Circle Mages like him that use Fade Spirits to heal,” Diala reminded him.

“Yeah,” Alistair responded a bit harsher than he had wanted. “But they usually aren’t also insanely powerful blood mages.” 

“I do not understand you. Magic is magic, no matter its source,” Shokrakar said simply, his red eyes watching Rayne with rapt fascination. “It is all equally dangerous, or equally useful— it depends only on how it is applied. The Commander Saarebas is quite skilled.”

Rayne, having closed Jowan’s wound, was now focusing on regenerating the blood in his body, and repairing any damage to his organs caused from the blood loss.

Maker, or Andraste, or the Creators, or the Ancestors, or even the Old Gods, help me save Jowan. He’s an idiot, but he saved our lives. Please.

Jowan awoke a few moments later, still enshrouded in a blue glow, and coughed, reaching for his water skin.

“We did it,” he said simply.

“Yeah, we did. Good work, Jowan.”

“Thanks, you too. I… Oh Maker, where’s my arm?!”

“You could have asked, Erlina,” Anora said. “I was having the same thoughts— I know I’m nowhere as skilled as you, or my father.”

“I was unsure how you would react, Your Majesty,” Erlina responded quietly.

“So you took the choice away from me, and asked a blood mage to help,” Anora said flatly.

Erlina looked at the ground, sadly, and Garahel offered her a comforting lick. It was quiet for a moment, and then Anora spoke again.

“I apologize, ma belle. All you’ve ever done is protect me. I have been on edge since I found Cailan’s letters, and I should not have taken it out on you. Thank you, Erlina.”

“Augur, the Grey Wardens have returned. They seem to have survived their encounter with Flemeth.”

Lisotta looked up from her preparations for the evening’s religious ceremonies, taking a moment to process what her clansman just told her.

“Really?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“Aye, augur,” he responded. “All of them are accounted for, and only one is missing a limb. Should we… Take vengeance?”

“That would be foolish,” Lisotta responded. “If they could kill Flemeth, we haven’t a chance against them. And you know as well as I that, even if they think they killed her, they will likely return. No, fetch our noble guest. He said he wanted to leave with them if they survived.”

“At once, augur,” he said.

The augur took their guest and a few hunters to meet the Grey Wardens’ party. They looked weary, and harrowed. No, it would be unwise to attempt vengeance against them. This Blight has brought too much grief already.

The black-haired elven mage leader looked at them warily, and said: “Please, augur. We have no quarrel with you, and just want to be on our way.”

“We want that as well, Grey Warden,” Lisotta reponded. “But, before Ostagar, we found and saved some human soldiers from darkspawn. Only one of them survived, and he wishes to join you,” she said, motioning to the man beside her. He looked at the group and squinted, and his eyes went wide with realization.

“Queen Anora?!” he asked, shocked, and then immediately fell to one knee in a bow. Lisotta would never understand northerners.

He seemed to be addressing the blonde-haired woman, who took a moment to realize with whom she was speaking. He was wearing Chasind leathers and a fine fur cloak, but still carrying a Fereldan longsword and shield with the symbol of Highever on it. 

“It can’t be!” Anora cried happily. “Fergus Cousland, is that you?”

Chapter Text

Mayrin supposed it was too much to hope for that Leske survive the Joining. Things had been going to well for him lately, with Rica’s new position, and little Endrin. No, that would have been too much. He should have guessed that Leske would perish, really; he had been too afraid to follow Bodahn and Mayrin to the surface to find the Wardens in the first place, and too afraid to be anything other than Jarvia’s number one lackey when he got back to Dust Town. Made sense that he didn’t have the stones to survives the Joining. Still sucked, though. Stone, did it suck.

Jarvia had refused to Join the Wardens outright. Given a chance between Joining and death, she chose death, and the Warden-Commander obliged her, though she took no pleasure in the act. Too bad, really— Jarvia would’ve made a great Warden, if they could somehow guarantee she wouldn’t be trying to stab them all in the back. The deceased’s useful weapons, armor and poisons were taken from their affects and distributed among Mercy’s people, and the rest were thrown into the lava with them. Steward Jenerim wouldn’t brook casteless non-Wardens buried in the Diamond Quarter, and Mayrin didn’t have enough of a fight in him to tell him differently. Not like the two of them would care anyways.

The party was preparing for their (hopefully) last task on their seemingly endless list of tasks from Prince Bhelen. Impressed as he was that Sten and Shale cleared out Dust Town alone and without asking, it apparently wasn’t enough to get Bhelen the votes he needed in the Assembly. No, they needed to go into the sodding Deep Roads to find a sodding paragon, who’s probably already been dead for months, if not years.

Mercy had briefed them on the mission over dinner, and the party were making last-minute preparations before bedding down for the evening.

“Keegan, you cannot come. It’s not just risky; it’s stupid. You’re the only surviving Cousland, one of the only two witnesses to Arl Howe’s crimes, you are not a Grey Warden, and you’re planning on following us into the most Tainted place in Thedas,” Mercy said, rubbing her forehead in exasperation.

“Well, when you put it like that… Yes, Felix and I will make for Redcliffe in the morning. But I am not the only person who would risk being tainted if I journeyed with you,” he said, looking at Morrigan, then Zevran, and finally Sten. Felix barked in agreement, looking sympathetically at Sten.

“You aren’t wrong,” Mercy responded. “Morrigan, Zevran, Sten: I know you have all been helping us until this point, but nobody was expecting us to have to venture this far into the Deep Roads. If you would rather accompany the young Lord—“

“Teyrn!” Keegan interrupted, smiling.

“—the young teyrn to Redcliffe and meet with the rest of the alliance. Sten, I know that you… Are not looking well. Perhaps it would be for the best.”

“As I have said, Warden, I am fine. I am qunari, and will not permit a cold to prevent me from fulfilling my duty to the Arishok,” he asserted. Nobody could argue with that: despite his pale and clammy skin, Sten was no less effective in combat than before. “If my effectiveness in combat becomes impacted, I will reconsider. However, I believe that I could best answer the Arishok’s question by going to the very source of the Blight.”

Nobody could argue with that logic. Mercy nodded, and turned to Zevran, who was already looking at a worried Mayrin.

“I’m afraid Mr. Brosca won’t be getting rid of me that easily, Warden-Commander,” he said smoothly, absentmindedly playing with his dagger. Mayrin started to talk, but Zevran held a finger up to his lip to quiet him. “I am your sworn man, my friend. It is you I follow.”

That decided that. Mercy turned to Morrigan, who scoffed. “The Deep Roads do not scare me, Mercy. In fact, ’tis likely it will be I keeping the rest of you alive,” she said silkily. Mercy smiled, and nodded. About to continue, she was interrupted by Aelizia.

“Excusez-moi, ma commandante ! If he is travelling unaccompanied, perhaps it would be wise to send me with duc— er, teyrn,” she said, hopefully.

Felix barked, obviously annoyed at the suggestion that Keegan would be travelling unaccompanied. The teyrn scratched his ear, and assured the hound that he would be more than enough company.

“You don’t get out of it that easily, girl!” Mayrin said.

“The Whiny Mage will still be joining us, then? Stupendous,” Shale added.

“They are correct, Aelizia. Your magic makes you an invaluable resource. It would be foolish to leave you here,” Mercy said, not without compassion.

Aelizia pouted a little bit and nodded, about to respond when Steward Jenerim interrupted their meeting with a knock on the door. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Commander Hissera, but you have a guest.”

“Who?” Mercy asked suspiciously.

“A disgraced and drunken warrior named Oghren Kondrat. Usually I would turn him away outright, but he says he knows where Branka was taking her house. He says that he wants to help you find her.”

“And how does he know that, exactly?” Zevran asked suspiciously.

“He’s her husband,” Mayrin responded before steward, sighing deeply. “Let’im in, Jenerim.”

Oghren had been as good as his word, and gotten them to Caridin’s Cross. From there, the party ventured to Ortan Thaig. They found papers for a nice little dwarf named Orta that they met in the Shaperate. They met a poor, tainted creature named Ruck, and let him live. They found ghosts and golems and apparition. And they found…

“Crawlers!” Oghren yelled, as the massive spiders descended upon the party. “Don’t let’em pin you down!”

“O Créateur !” Aelizia called, conjuring a shield and backing up to keep her distance. Mercy stepped in front of her, interposing herself between the mage and any of the beasts. It would not do to let their only healer fall. With Shale on the other side, they made quick work of the spiders surrounding them, freeing Aelizia up to watch over the rest of the party.

“This will be good!” Morrigan laughed, casting a few hexes on the Queen before turning into a spider herself to match the Queen mandible for mandible.

Mayrin banged Starfang against his shield to attract their attention— like any duster, he knew how much they liked shiny things, and Starfang glowed in the dark— and parried and dodged their hits while Zevran moved in to pick them off with quick, efficient stabs before they broke through Mayrin’s defenses.

Sten and Oghren were back to back, dealing with the remaining spiders in the only way they could. Though they were both fierce, two-handed warriors, their fighting styles could not be more different. Sten was all discipline— controlled, powerful and efficient cuts, as if he’d fought these creatures one hundred times. Oghren, on the other hand, despite actually probably having fought hundreds of these things, was swinging wildly and with abandon. There was no thought, no plan, no control— just rage. But it got the job done.

Soon, the spiders were dead. After the party handled the drones, they were able to support Morrigan and make quick work of the Queen. At the end of the melee, while the Wardens were looting and the non-Wardens were checking for Taint, Sten suddenly— and quite messily— threw up on the ground.

“Sten!” Mercy called, rushing over to him, Aelizia, Mayrin, Shale and Zevran following. Oghren and Morrigan couldn’t be bothered.

“I am fine, Warden. It is nothing,” he said, less convincing than the last few times. “My performance in battle was more than adequate.”

“Bullshit,” Mayrin said. Sten shot him a glare, but said nothing.

“This has gone on long enough, Sten,” Mercy said, crossing her arms. “You are not Tainted— we would sense that. It seems like a flu, but…”

“Qunari are not affected by illness like the bas,” Sten finished, continuing her thought.

“Vraiment ? Mon père— Er, my tutor never mentioned that,” Aelizia said.

“My parents explained this to me when I was younger— like Fereldan breed mabari to create the strongest, smartest and most capable dogs they can, the tamrassans do that with all of qunari society. Parents are chosen because they are believed to create the strongest offspring— because of that, I suppose, we have a tendance not to get sick as often as elves, dwarves and humans, and if we do, it isn’t severe.”

“It is as she says,” Sten said.

“Hold for a moment, friends,” Zevran said, looking at Mayrin signficantly. “If it is not sickess, as we all assumed…”

Mayrin slapped his forehead in exasperation. “By the balls of my fucking Ancestors, Sten. How stubborn are you? When you and Shale took the carta out, did she cut you?”

“She did, but…”

“Braska!”

“You are saying the qunari has been poisoned?” Shale asked, almost interested. “Another advantage of my perfect form, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Mayrin responded. “Most carta poisons’ll kill a man within the day. If not that, then the week. But to last this many weeks… Sodding impossible.”

“Indeed,” Zevran agreed. “This is useful information to know for the future…”

Mercy gave him a glare, and he held his hands up in surrender. “After the Blight is over of course, Warden-Commander.”

“Do you have any idea what it could be?” Mercy asked. “And is there an antidote?”

“Dunno, but I can find out.”

“Now comes the disrobing!” Zevran said excitedly. 

“He’s right. Let us have a look at you, Sten,” Mayrin said with a bit more tact than Zevran, though not much.

Sten begrudingly began removing his armor, and then his shirt, revealing a few bandaged areas. In examining under the bandages, most had been healed already by Aelizia’s magic, but one was a festering, black mess, dark spiderwebs extending out under the skin like a web of decay. 

“You’re a sodding idiot,” Mayrin said, reaching into his pack and taking out a small vial with transparent green liquid in it. “It’s fleshrot, nasty stuff. Without the Orlesian here, you’d probably die with or without this antidote. Now, drink this,” he said, holding out the vial. “Then lie still, and let the mage heal you.”

Sten took the vial, uncorked it, and drank without issue. He then did as Mayrin commanded, possibly even looking a little contrite, and said nothing as Aelizia began treating his wound. She first had to cut away and then cauterize the rotted flesh— which Morrigan was more than happy to help with— and then begin the healing process for real.

“Well, Sten,” Mercy said. “Your stubbornness is going to cost us precious time, and, in the end, a bas saved your life. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, even from us unenlightened ‘things’. Think about that while you rest up.”

“I will, Warden-Commander. I was unwise,” he rumbled as Aelizia made cuts to his flesh that would have made any of the rest of them cry out in pain.

Mercy, exasperated but happy that Sten would be okay, made her way over to Oghren with Mayrin and Zevran, who were whispering among themselves.

“I do not want to be alive when they finally decide to invade,” Mayrin said. “A whole sodding army of Stens? No, thank you.”

“Ah, but that is why you must keep me close, my dear Mr. Brosca. One needs not worry about invading armies when you have an Antivan Crow in your employ!”

“Mayrin, come see this,” Mercy interrupted. “Oghren says these notes are Branka’s. It looks like we have a further destination.”

Mayrin walked up to the book, and had a look. Mercy and Oghren stood awkwardly as he said nothing, squinting at the letters on the page.

“My dear Mr. Brosca…” Zevran began, before being shushed. Mayrin was determined to read it himself. He'd been improving.

“She’s going to the… The… Gimme a sec… The Dead Trenches! The sodding Dead Trenches!? Ancestors, as if this couldn’t get any worse.”

“Are those as bad as they sound?” Mercy asked the two dwarves.

“Worse, darlin’,” Oghren grunted, taking his last swig from his flask. “Much worse.”

Mayrin was putting his new armor of the Legion of the Dead through its paces and doing a few practice maneuvers with Starfang while the party took a breather. They’d fought through the Dead Trenches, fought another ogre, retaken a bridge, ransacked sarcophagi, and even seen the sodding Archdemon. And they still weren’t through the Dead Trenches. Oghren insisted they were close. Mercy prayed he was right, because she didn’t know how much longer she could keep the party together. 

“When you think about it, the Legion are not so différent des Grey Wardens,” Aelizia said.

“You’re right, I suppose. We both dedicate our lives to fighting darkspawn and spend a lot of time in the Deep Roads.”

“‘Cept the Legion’re already dead, and they ain’t immune to the taint like you Wardens are. Maybe you could make’em Wardens too,” Oghren added, reaching once again for his empty flask before thinking better of it. He’d been grumpy since his stash ran out, and was actually a bit less effective in combat, but still a hell of a fighter.

The Wardens all exchanged a significant look, and Morrigan smiled knowingly.

“That… Would make them more effective, certainly. But not everyone can be a Warden, and the process is often fatal. Down here on the front lines, it seems like it’s a numbers game,” Mercy said. “Every one of Kardol’s men seemed vital.”

Oghren grunted. “And it turns out they might even be a real Caste. Wonder what the nobles are gonna think of that,” the dwarf mused. The discovery that the Legion of the Dead could once historically retain the rights of the living was shocking to the dwarves in the party. Mercy hoped they would survive to inform the Shaperate.

“Yeah. They’re dead, and they still have more rights than I did growing up,” Mayrin said. He struck quite the figure, with a round dwarven shield, obsidian black Legion of the Dead armor, and Starfang, whose glow matched his own blue eyes. He put his helmet on and said: “Well, I’m good to go. If everyone’s rested up, we should press on.”

“It is as he says,” Sten agreed. “We have rested long enough.”

With Mercy and Zevran leading from the front and Shale in the back, the party pressed on. They passed through winding tunnels and vast halls, metal gates and wrecked holes in the wall. As they continued, they began to notice something coating the walls, and then on the floor as Mercy’s boot squelched loudly. It was… Living matter. The matter was home to pods of flesh, pulsing with life. The party continued, but slowly and suspiciously, drawing their weapons as they stepped forward.

“Warden-Commander, if I may… This is rather disgusting,” Zevran said.

“Indeed,” Morrigan complained. “‘Twould seem that this matter is alive… And Tainted.”

Mercy would never understand just how Morrigan could tell things like that so easily, especially because she was no Warden herself.

“Mayrin, Oghren, any idea what this is?” Mercy asked.

“No sodding clue,” Oghren responded. Mayrin shrugged, walking over to one of the fleshy pods. He used Starfang to cut it open, and out fell a genlock… Except it wasn’t fully grown. It was small, blind and pathetic, and died shortly after being cut free. Shale stomped on it to be sure.

“Créateur !” Aelizia exclaimed.

“Andraste’s ass, is this… How darkspawn reproduce?” Mayrin asked, already knowing the answer.

Before anyone could respond, a voice rang out from all around them.

“First day, they come and catch everyone.  
Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.”

“‘Twould seem we are not alone,” Morrigan said quietly.

“Hello?” Mercy called.

“Andraste, préservez-nous ! Je vous en prie !” Aelizia called

The party continued, cutting out and disposing of any gestating darkspawn along the way.

“Wardens,” Oghren said nervously. “I’ve never fought one before, but… This is a Broodmother. They aren’t mobile, but they’re—“

“Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.
Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.
Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.”

“Sodding stone, would you shut up already?!” Oghren yelled before turning back to Mercy. “They’re dangerous, Commander. Tentacles, claws, spit.” 

“But immobile? We can work with that,” Mercy responded, carving out another genlock.

“Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.
Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.
Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.”

“Commander, I think… I think we’re learning how a Broodmother’s made,” Mayrin said, the sense of dread mounting in all of them. Aelizia had tears in her eyes, and even Sten looked more nervous than usual. They turned the corner, and set eyes upon a sallow, tainted dwarven woman, eyes milky and body covered in tumours.

“Fuck this,” Mayrin said quietly. 

“Hespith!” Mayrin exclaimed.

As if in a trance, the woman continued her poem, not even seeming to notice them. She was scrounging around on the ground, ripping apart the fleshy mounds and… Eating them.

“Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.
Now she does feast, as she's become the beast.
Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams.”

At the end of her poem, she stood, and turned towards the group.

“What is this? A qunari? Exotic and impossible. Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors.”

While Mercy and Oghren spoke with the woman, Morrigan motioned for the others to join her in a small conference. Mayrin had a sarcastic remark ready, but stopped short when he saw something he’d never seen before. When he looked at Morrigan, he saw fear.

“According the drunken dwarf, this creature is immobile. ’Twould mean that, above all, I am critical to our success,” she explained. There was no false pride, no airs. She was being serious.

“Explain, witch,” Sten said.

As if talking to a child, she obliged him: “If the creature cannot move, it cannot escape any spells I call upon it. Firestorms, tempests, death clouds— all of that I can muster, and more. Even darkspawn are possessed of enough intelligence to flee from those clouds, but it sounds as though the Broodmother cannot. If you keep breathing and able to focus, ’twill be I that wins the battle for us. After that, the priority must be the Orlesian. If needed, she can heal me.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Mayrin had to admit that Morrigan spoke sense. He nodded.

“When Mercy gets finished talking with the ghoul, we’ll tell her. But this is the plan: Sten and myself will protect Morrigan. Mercy can watch Aelizia. Shale, concentrate on the Broodmother. And I guess Oghren’ll just do what he does best, wherever he decides.”

“The plan is sensible,” Sten stated. A saarebas is dangerous, but as long as it was pointed at their enemies, it was useful.

“And what of I, my dear Warden?” Zevran asked

“You’ll see things we never could.” Mayrin said shakily. “Just, do the most damage you can wherever you can and… Try to be careful.”

Zevran nodded, smiling as he covered his daggers in the last of his poison. “I will endeavour to be prudent, Mr. Brosca,” he responded, giving Mayrin a kiss on the cheek. 

Hespith eventually ran off as Mercy and Oghren joined the rest of the group, quickly appraised of the plan by Morrigan and the rest. They found no flaws, and Mercy quietly thanked Morrigan for taking the initiative and seeing things so clearly. Oghren briefed them on anything else to expect from a Broodmother and, after saying a few prayers, the party went to slay the monster once named Laryn.

The party was exhausted. They’d been subsisting on deep mushrooms and deepstalkers for some time now, and all of them were at the end of their ropes. Dirty, desperate, exhausted, and wanting beyond anything for this to be over. They’d faced countless darkspawn and deepstalkers, golems, spirits, myriad traps, ogres, and even a Broodmother. Oh, and they’d seen the bloody Archdemon. Now, finally, their journey was at an end, one way or another.

“No! The Anvil is mine! No one will take it from me!” Branka’s deranged cry rang out in the resting place of the golem that was once a smith name Caridin. 

“You! Please… help me destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls that it already has!” Caridin’s distorted voice echoed from his hulking metal form.

“You were a Paragon,” Mercy said, remembering why they came in the first place and rubbing her eyes. “I’ll help if you support a new king.”

Mayrin nudged Mercy, clearly annoyed. “And because it’s the right sodding thing to do,” he said pointedly.

“Don’t listen! He’s been trapped here for a thousand years stewing in his own madness. Help me claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you’ve never seen!” Branka cried. Mayrin was reminded of that saying about brilliance and madness. Rayne had taught it to him. Like in most cases, it seems like the mage was right.

“Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail! Does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t even see what you lost to get it?!” Oghren pleaded.

“Look around. Is this what our empire looks like? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory!” Branka retorted. She had a point. Mercy hated that she had a point. 

“And who exactly would you be making your golems out of, you crazy bitch?!” Mayrin exploded. “You and your kind wouldn’t hesitate for a second to put me and mine to the hammer. Instead of golems, maybe you blighted nobles could try letting the casteless actually do something. It’s our sodding home too.”

Sten nodded at Mayrin. “The darkspawn are monstrous, but the dwarven empire are truly the worst of all the bas except perhaps the qunari. Half of your people are wasted. It is idiocy almost beyond comprehension.”

“You wouldn’t be wasted making golems! You could finally do something with your lives, brand!” Branka said, somehow thinking that it would convince Mayrin. Zevran had his hand on his dwarf’s shoulder, glaring at Branka with his other hand on a dagger.

“The Anvil enslaves living souls! It must be destroyed,” Mercy said.

“So it fights with Caridin? Good. That seems right,” Shale agreed.

“Have you no desire to discover this Anvil’s potential? It is a marvel, a tool of creation!” Morrigan offered. 

“Mais oui! Would it be so bad? Instead of executing criminals, traitors or disloyal servants, they could be put to use,” Aelizia agreed. Mayrin was about ready to stab them both.

Morrigan nodded, locking eyes with Morrigan. “If you destroy the Anvil, you will regret it.”

A part of Mercy thought she may be correct. That utilitarian, twisted part of her that was intrigued by the possibility. Anything she can to stop the Blight, right? But no. The Anvil was monstrous, and she would not be the monster so many humans believed her people to be. She would not permit souls to be enslaved for eternity, no matter the cost. Before she was able to respond, Mayrin cut in again.

“And how would you like to become a golem? Or you, Orlesian” he asked, voice low and menacing. Morrigan’s eyes went wide for a moment.

“You would not dare!”

“Wouldn’t I, if I cared only for power?” Mayrin responded instantly, not breaking eye contact with Morrigan. 

“I would rather not find out. Fine, destroy it if it pleases you,” she said.

“Indeed, Monsieur Brosca,” Aelizia said quietly.

“Thank you, strangers. Your compassion shames me,” Caridin said.

He turned to face Branka again, unsheathing Starfang. “Now let’s kill this nug-humping, coal-for-brains deepstalker.”

“Bah! You are not the only master smith here, Caridin! Golems, obey me! Attack!” she commanded, revealing a long, familiar runed instrument from her pack.

“A control rod! But… my friend! You must help me! I cannot stop her alone!” Caridin bellowed.

“Leave her to me,” Mayrin commanded. Mercy was going to object, but thought better of it when she was the look in his eyes. 

“The rest of you, let’s focus on the golems! Give Mayrin a path through.”

Mayrin gave Oghren one last look. The veteran dwarf nodded at him, clearly accepting what needed to happen. He hefted his battleaxe above his head, and charged towards the nearest golem. That was all the assurance Mayrin needed.

With Starfang in hand, the casteless dwarf who became a Grey Warden clashed with the living god who killed her whole family to pursue a legend. For a smith, Branka was a better fighter than Mayrin expected. Hell, she wouldn’t be out of place in Warrior Caste. But Mayrin had the superior skills and the superior weapon. More than that, he had conviction.

When he looked at Branka, he saw every dwarf— servant to noble— who had ever spat on him and his family as they walked by, or pretended they weren’t there. He saw everyone who thought they were better than him because of a mistake his ancestor may have made a hundred years ago. Everyone who thought tattooing a child was a just, normal practice. He saw Beraht and Harrowmont, he saw Jarvia and Forender, he saw King Endrin. 

Really, the fight was over before it began. She tried her best, but Mayrin gained ground, and lopped off her sword hand. He knocked her shield to the side with his sword, and bashed her with his own shield, knocking her prone. Bleeding profusely from the stump of a wrist and bruised, she began crawling backwards, pleading with Mayrin.

“Please, listen to me! Think about what we can do! We can save my people, and yours’!” she pleaded weakly.

He stepped on her chestpiece, and leaned down as she struggled to get free. “That’s the thing, Paragon. I am your people.”

Mayrin drew his sword across her throat, turning away as she took her last breath. He looked Caridin, free of her control. He looked at Caridin, and saw a future for his people, for his family, and for all the casteless. Maybe he was an idiot to trust Bhelen, and maybe Rica was wrong about him, but for this moment, this fleeting, triumphant moment, Mayrin gazed upon a Paragon thought lost to history while standing in a puddle of another’s blood. In this moment, he felt hope.

Chapter Text

“Do you think it was truly wise to permit Genitivi to leave?” Nathaniel asked Eve.

“Well, we didn’t have much of a choice, did we?” Eve said. “Much as I like killing shems, all he wanted to do was tell the world about the Ashes. And he didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Plus, I think Rayne would’ve fireballed us if we had; you remember how mad he was about not being able to meet him.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “I suppose that you are right, Lady Tabris. Still, I worry about how Haven’s survivors will react to pilgrims. And that isn’t even considering the opportunists…”

Cadoc snorted. “I’d like to see a cutpurse survive the Gauntlet!” he said.

“True enough, Wulff,” Nathaniel agreed.

“More than that, the resting place of the Prophet belongs to all of Andraste’s faithful! It would not be right to keep it from them,” Leliana added, ever consistent. She was strumming her lute absentmindedly, trying to come up with a tune. “I cannot believe I missed it! Still, I was healed with the Ashes of the Prophet Herself. I could not be more grateful. I hope my ballad does not leave out any important details!”

A little bit ahead of the rest of the party, Wynne was having a very different conversation with the two young Dalish elves. “It must have been an amazing experience, even for you two. Andraste helped free elves as well as humans from slavery.”

“Yeah,” Enid said halfheartedly. “It was pretty remarkable. Makes you wonder.”

“And you, Merrill?” Wynne asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I think that Andraste was a good woman and a powerful mage, even if your Chantry didn’t follow her example. Whether the Maker was just a powerful spirit or a god like the shemlen believe… Well, I suppose you sensed the lyrium in the chamber too, didn’t you? Or was that just me?”

“No, I sensed it too, child,” Wynne assured her.

“Right, well… With all of that lyrium, I don’t actually think that the temple proves anything, sorry. The Veil was thin, and all of that lyrium, combined with such fervent belief… Even if her Ashes didn’t have any healing properties when your Prophet was interred, the spirits from the Beyond probably changed that.”

Wynne considered. “That is quite the hypothesis. While I, for one, have faith that I just witnessed a miracle, I cannot dismiss your theory outright. It seems that the Dalish Keepers are no less-educated than mages trained in the Circle, despite what they may tell us.”

Merrill frowned. “Of course not,” she said. “You need to understand magic to use it properly. That is as true in the wilderness as it is in your Circles.”

“I suppose you are right, Merrill,” Wynne said. The three women continued walking for a few moments, before Wynne turned to Enid and asked: “Warden-Constable, you have been uncharacteristically quiet of late. Might I assume that this has something to do with Sister Leliana?”

Enid said nothing, looking straight ahead. 

“The hahren is right, lethallan. Then again, you’ve never been as talkative as me. Have I been talking even more than usual? Is that why you’re so quiet?”

Enid smiled ruefully, and then earnestly. She looked back at Leliana to make sure that she was still a good distance away, now joking with Eve and Nathaniel at Cadoc’s expense. 

“No, Merrill. Of course it isn’t you. You never talk too much,” she said, smiling.

“Well, thank you, I suppose. But the Keeper says that it’s not good to keep our feelings bottled up— you spend so much time protecting us. Maybe we can return the favour,” Merrill offered.

Wynne and Merrill looked at her expectantly, offering comforting smiles.

“Mythal’enaste, I just feel like such a fool. Leliana just seems so… Worldly, and talented, and beautiful, and has done so much. I’ve done nothing. Like a fool, I thought that Leliana might feel as I do, but I could not have been more wrong. Again. When she was burned, I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. When I saved her with the Ashes, I thought that she might… But no.She still thinks I’m just a stupid kid.”

Merrill put a comforting hand on her companion’s armored shoulder.

Wynne smiled sympathetically, and tried to hold back a snicker. Ah, to be 19 again. It was easy to forget seeing her in battle that the elf was so young, but she was, and, at that age, everything felt like the end of the world… Except the actual end of the world, apparently. The young Warden-Constable seemed more distressed about this than the Blight. Wynne also, of course, thought that Leliana was correct, but needed to try and say that diplomatically. 

“Enid… I have learned in my many, many years— as you are all so keen of reminding me— that time heals all wounds… If you let it. Right now, every moment is agony, but that pain will dull and, eventually, fade, but you need to help it along its path. You are a Grey Warden— one of the only remaining Wardens in Ferelden— and you have a responsibility to all of Thedas. Perhaps, if you focused on that, it would help you to move past this open wound.”

Enid turned to Wynne, red in the face with tears in her eyes.

“Spare me the patronizing advice, hahren,” Enid snapped as she stomped ahead of the group and away from the elder mage. Merrill ran after her, calling her name, and looking apologetically at Wynne. 

Wynne smiled knowingly, reminded of her own youth. The girl would get through this just fine.

Nathaniel sighed as he sat down next to Eve by the fire. It was their turn to take watch.

“It seems as though it is all coming to a head, isn’t it?” he asked, staring into the fire.

“Sure feels like it,” she responded. “Dreams are getting worse, too. The Archdemon knows that we’ve been moving against it. It’s going to show itself soon. I know it.”

Nathaniel nodded solemnly and gulped, taking a sip of his wine. He’d learned not to question Grey Warden dreams; every one had been correct so far. “Maker preserve us,” he said, before changing the subject. “After Redcliffe, we will be in Denerim again for the Landsmeet soon. You must be excited, my Lady Tabris.”

“Yeah. Last time, I didn’t get to stick around too long, and they were focused on Anora. It’ll be good to just… Sit around and visit,” she responded, smiling. “What’s a Landsmeet like?”

Nathaniel sighed. “My father did not bring me to very many, but… They can be perfectly boring, just a matter of recognizing marriages, children, and catching up with old friends. Or… They can be a showcase of everything bad you and the rest of your people know to be true about humanity. Jealousy, infighting, petty debts… Selfishness with little regard for anything else.s A few times, a melee has even broken out in the Landsmeet chamber.”

Eve nodded, nonplussed. “And I’m guessing this one’ll be the second kind?”

“Of that I have little doubt. This might be the bloodiest Landsmeet in recent memory. But if Mercy has her way, she might have some useful Grey Warden recruits.”

“That’s assuming a lot. First, we have to win, and second, your father and Loghain actually have to agree to Join us.”

“Indeed,” Nathaniel responded quietly, staring intently at the fire.

“What if… What if your father refuses to Join? After what he did to Keegan’s family, and what Anora about the fact that it was his idea to sell my people into slavery, does he ever deserve it?”

“Of course not,” Nathaniel said. “But Mercy intends to offer him something he does not deserve. One way or another, his old life is over. The boy in me that will always love his father hopes he’ll agree to Join you… But if not, I’ll kill him myself.”

Eve nodded, and leaned on Nathaniel, resting her head on his shoulder. He was shocked at first, but then did the same. The two of them sat in contented silence for the rest of their watch.

Merrill woke Enid for their watch and the two women donned their armor and weapons. Enid’s eyes were red again. Merrill was so tired of seeing her this way, and wished she could help. As they left the tent, they found Eve and Nathaniel sitting at the fire… And they seemed to be snuggling.

“By the Dread Wolf, them too?” Enid whispered bitterly.

The elves bid Nathaniel and Eve goodnight as the two of them each returned to their respective tents. Merrill silently thanked the Creators that they did not go together, at least not while Enid could see them.

“Lethallan, I don’t really think it’s fair to blame them,” Merrill said as the women sat by the fire.

“No, it’s not. I just hate this feeling. Now I know how Tamlen felt, every time I turned him down. Elgar’nan, I miss him Merrill.”

“So do I, lethallan,” Merrill said quietly. “But, I was thinking, well, I actually had something to tell you…”

Enid turned to her, smiling softly. “Go ahead,” she said. Merrill blushed, panicked a bit, and looked down. She reached into her pack, and took out a curved blade in its sheath.

“Isn’t that the sword you got from the mage at the Temple?”

“It is, lethallan. It’s called Spellweaver,” Merrill said with a bit of wonder.

“Do you want me to teach you how to use it? We’ve tried before, but you’ve never really been… Gifted in swordplay, lethallan.”

Merrill stood up, smiling more widely now. She unsheathed her sword and held it forward as she began to cast a spell. Enid had seen mages cast with blades in hand before— they could get in the way, but there was nothing preventing it. But this was different. As Merrill’s eyes began to emit a green glow of power, the lyrium runes on the blade started to emit that same emerald light. Merrill stepped forward, and slashed in a diagonal arc upward. Her cut was perfect; none of the awkwardness or poor form that came when a mage tried to learn swordplay for the first time. No uncertainty. It was as if she had been training her whole life. As she cut, the grasslands around them responded in kind, blades of grass becoming twisted, sharp vines that moved in an to mirror Merrill’s slash. She took another step forward and slashed horizontally, and the vines responded in kind. Finally, she cut vertically downward, and the vines once again became pleasant grasslands, yet untouched by the Blight. Merrill sheathed her sword, and looked at Mercy.

“No, I don’t actually think you’ll need to teach me,” she responded with a bit of mischief.

Enid stood up, shocked and elated. “Where in Andruil’s name did you learn to do that?! And by Dirthamen, how did you keep it a secret?!”

“Do you remember our adventure in the Brecilian Forest, with that awful man Zathrian?”

Enid nodded. Of course she did.

“There was that… Phylactery I found, in one of the ruined libraries. It housed a spirit, if you recall.”

“Oh… Yeah, I guess. You freed it with a lifestone. I don’t recall it teaching you swordplay.”

“But it did, lethallan! I wanted to be sure I had mastered the basics before I told anyone, and sure of what I was doing.  Finding Spellweaver… It was like the Creators themselves granted me this blade. I learned the Dirth'ena Enasalin,” she explained excitedly. Enid stared at her blankly.

“My elvish isn’t as good as yours’,” she said apologetically. “The way of victory?”

“‘Knowledge that led to victory’,” Merrill elaborated, taking up the confident cadence she reserved for when she was teaching about elven history. “A part of our history thought lost forever… They were called Arcane Warriors, and served as elite guardsmen for the nobility. They— or we, now, I suppose— can channel the essence of the Beyond and magic into our physical forms. It makes us stronger and sturdier, and let us skip the years of training one might need to match our skills. As long as I have sufficient energy— and will, of course— I can fight just as well as any warrior.”

Enid took that in for a moment, just marvelling at Merrill. Then, she hugged her, nearly crushing the mage as she envelopped her in the Juggernaut Plate. “Merrill, you’re remarkable,” she said, her blue eyes looking into Merrill’s wide, green ones.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I…” she started, blushing.

“No, you are. You convinced Zathrian to end his curse and save not only his clan, but the shemlen too. You learned shapeshifting from Morrigan to share with all of the People, and now the technique of Arcane Warriors. Elgar’nan, you put a dragon to sleep a few days ago! Merrill, you’re… There’s nobody like you. I owe you so much. All of the People will, but… Really. And I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you. I’ve been so distracted by Leliana, by my own pain, that I haven’t noticed you singlehandedly reclaiming our history for us, and even making new history. You saved my life, for Sylaise’s sake! You got me to Lothering to meet the Wardens. After the halla fled, you strapped a stretcher to your back and dragged me there yourself. And after I was saved, you could have left. But you stuck with us. With me.”

Merrill had tears in her eyes and was blushing brightly, staring at her feet. She nervously brushed some hair behind her ear.

“No need to thank me, lethallan. I lo— I care for you. I would do the same for any of the People.”

“Merrill, I…” Enid started, the reality of the situation beginning to dawn on her. She laid a hand under Merrill’s chin, and turned her head so that they were making eye contact again. “I never even considered, never thought… But you’ve been here the whole time. All my complaining, and whining, and you’ve been here. Mythal, I am such a fool,” she said, leaning in so that there noses were touching. “Merrill, can you ever forgive me?”

Merrill leaned in too, and kissed Enid passionately, both of the women now crying. As they broke for air, Merrill laughed a little bit.

“Of course I can, ma vhenan. But a little more of that would go a long way,” she said mischievously, leaning in for another kiss before stopping. “Oh! And an apology to the hahren in the morning!”

Enid chuckled. “Of course, Merrill. First thing. Now, if we could get back to what we were just doing?"

Chapter Text

Their newest companion, Fergus Cousland, was apparently Keegan’s older brother. The Queen had taken it upon herself to share with Fergus the news of what happened to his family on the first evening of his time with them. Tent walls were not thick, and the cry of anguish he let out would stay with Diala for the rest of her days. Diala barely remembered her mother’s passing, and was almost relieved to see Trian dead. She shed tears for her father, but only a few. Perhaps if she had had children… Or perhaps dwarves were built differently than humans.

In the time following their exit from the Wilds, Fergus was an abyss of despair. Unlike Keegan, who, when the group had met him, had suppressed of all his emotions to the point of seeming tranquil, Fergus seemed completely consumed by his loss. The young lord only spoke when spoken to, and had trouble looking at anything but the horizon. He forgot to eat unless prompted, was distracted in combat, and looked like he would fall to pieces at the slightest provocation.

The party didn’t pass through Lothering on their way south due to the amount of darkspawn, but on their journey back, they discovered that the horde had pushed north, leaving only stragglers behind. Diala was unaware of any Deep Roads entrances in the area, but she was no expert. Her and Rayne agreed that the party should look for any signs of Broodmothers… After the stragglers were taken care of, of course. And Bethany seemed determined to see what the darkspawn had done to her home, and put it behind her.

The snow was falling lazily today, and it was almost pretty, despite everything. Even Diala could admit that. It was when it started piling up on the ground that she took issue with it. Dwarven legs weren’t built for snowbanks. In heavily Tainted areas, it didn’t ever pile too high, and Lothering was incredibly tainted. Looking for that vein of silver, she supposed. And by the Ancestors, even a dwarf had to admit that the Tevinters’ Imperial Highway was a marvel of contruction even all these centuries later.

They were approaching the outskirts of Lothering, and what they saw was not pretty. The bodies were hanged from the wall and the trees. Most had frozen mid-decomposition, and the bodies that were not hanging were piled high, missing various limbs, appendages, or chunks of flesh. While some of her companions reacted poorly, Diala had been fighting darkspawn her entire life, and even the devoured flesh did not shock her. Then, she heard a familiar ringing in her ears, and unsheathed her greatsword, smiling. She needed this.

“Darkspawn approaching!” she called, as her and Alistair advanced together.

“No emissary!” Rayne added. 

“Just an alpha,” Alistair agreed. “No ogres, either.”

“This’ll be easy!” Diala laughed. Jowan, Shokrakar and Bethany still couldn’t sense much beyond ‘darkspawn are close, in that general direction’, but herself, Alistair and Rayne were starting to be able to sense the specific makeup of various groups.

“They are concentrated in the Chantry,” Shokrakar said, his red eyes trained forward.

“I don’t think they like the cold,” Rayne said. “Let them come to us. We’re positively irresistable.”

Fergus looked at Anora, snapping out of his funk just enough to be functional for this fight. She was the only person he really knew here. “Are they always like this?” he asked.

“Only when it’s appropriate. They can be quite serious when the situation calls for it. Erlina, I think this will be a chance for Lord Fergus to see the Grey Wardens work, instead of fighting alongside them. Shall we head back up the Imperial Highway?”

“If you will it, Queen Anora,” Erlina responded, smiling. Fergus was still confused, but cautiously followed them up the highway. “When you watch them fight, you can almost believe they can stop the Blight, even as few as they are.”

From atop the highway, Fergus did just that. It seemed that Jowan had already cast some kind of fluid on the landing in front of the Chantry, and that Bethany has holding a fireball in her hand, ready to unleash it. Rayne conjured some kind of obsidian smoke around his staff as the blue wisp of energy that followed him around fluttered excitedly.

The doors to the Chantry were flung open, and the darkspawn poured out as the warrior Wardens charged forward. Many hurlocks, some shrieks, and a few genlocks emerged screaming. As soon as they did, they began to slip and fall on the grease outside, and the female mage let her fireball free, igniting the grease and cooking the darkspawn that were charging towards them. As she did, he could hear her laugh. “Die, fiends!” she yelled. The elf released his spell too, and a cloud of obsidian fog appeared over the fire, only adding to the darkspawns’ hurt. The cloud seemed to sap their very life energy, finishing off any who didn’t die in the fire.

“Is this… Normal?” Fergus asked. He was amazed, and a little terrified. He’d fought a few stragglers with the Wardens, but there was never much of a battle. He supposed this wasn’t, either… This was more of a slaughter.

Any darkspawn that made it through the greasefire and cloud of death met Diala, Alistair and the qunari in battle. The dwarf struck the first blow, bringing her sword down through the skull of a hurlock and cutting it in half while Alistair blocked its compatriot from landing a blow on her, and crossed blades with it. The qunari was a veritable juggernaut in battle, shrugging off lesser blows, and using his mace to crush the heads or cave in the chests of any who got too close.

Then, further back, there was a puff of smoke, and a terrible shrieking. “Majesté,” Erlina said cautiously, grabbing her bow and nocking an arrow.

It was hard to tell exactly what was happening, but a creature appeared from the smoke and slashed into Rayne’s back as he fell to his knees. Before anyone else could react, the elf’s mabari had knocked the shriek to the ground and ripped out its throat with its fangs. Another shriek appeared, but the elf’s cut was superficial and had already been healed by Bethany. From the ground, he cast a spell, and a massive vine sprung from the ground, and skewered the remaining shriek.

“It looks as though we needn’t have worried, Erlina,” Anora said, smiling, but clearly relieved.

Near the front of the Chantry, the three fighters had dispatched most of the darkspawn. All that remained was the alpha— at least, that’s what Fergus thought it was. It was larger than the rest with a wicked axe, and looked stronger by far.

At that moment, Jowan cast some kind of spell on Diala and Shokrakar. The dwarven woman rolled out of the way of the alpha’s axe with shocking speed as the qunari took a swing, only to be kicked away. Fergus could have sworn he actually heard her laugh as she stood back up. Alistair blocked a blow with his shield, but stayed engaged with the creature enough to distract it from the others. The qunari used his mace to bash in the creature’s right knee with a sickening crunch as it collapsed inwards. As the hurlock was falling, Alistair backed away, and Diala moved in, plunging her greatsword right through its chest. They had moved dazzlingly fast.

“The unnatural speed… Was that the mage too?” he asked. Of course, Fergus had met mages before— mother and father had had one at court occasionally— but he’d never seen them unleashed like this. They were powerful.

“Indeed,” Anora said, starting back down the ramp now that the fight seemed to be over. 

“Maker, it’s a wonder the Imperium ever fell,” Fergus muttered to himself as he and the other two non-Wardens rejoined the group.

Rayne began doling out orders: “Diala, you can help me and Garahel sort through the loot. Jowan, you can be on cleansing duty. Alistair, Bethany and Shokrakar: look for and eliminate any stragglers you find, and see if you can locate us an untainted building in which we can bed down for the night. It would be nice to have a roof over our heads for a change. If you find any trace of a Broodmother or a Deep Roads entrance, report back immediately.” Then, he turned to look at Fergus. “Lord Cousland: Queen Anora and Erlina are already aware, but darkspawn tend to like shiny things, and actually sometimes carry loot on them. We will dole everything out equally, but please do not touch anything until Jowan has cleansed it with fire to burn away the taint. We wouldn’t want you contracting the Blight too,” he explained.

“Understood, Warden Surana,” Fergus responded, happy to have something to focus on for the moment. “I must say… I am impressed with your capabilities. All of you. It seems the legends were accurate after all. Thedas might not be in such bad shape.”

“No use in counting our chickens before they hatch. This was good practice, maybe, but even Ostagar had a force at least twenty times this size, and it seems as though that was not even the bulk of the horde. Our dreams have been… Worrying, of late.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow at that, but was cut off by Anora before he could ask more. “Senior Mage Warden Surana, Lord Cousland and I have been talking, and we believe we have a matter to discuss with you this evening, in private. Before you retire for the evening, Erlina will come fetch you. Does that sound agreeable?” 

“It does, Your Majesty,” Rayne said, bowing slightly as he fed Garahel his last mabari crunch. His wisp swirled around his head in what seemed to be anticipation. 

“Die, die, die!” Bethany screamed as she pounded bolt after bolt of arcane energy into an already-deceased hurlock straggler.

“I… Think we got him, Bethany,” Alistair said. “Full marks for enthusiasm, though!”

Bethany only grunted in response.

Bethany had thought she was prepared for this, but being back here was harder than she thought it would be. Her, Alistair and Shokrakar killed a few stragglers but found most of Lothering to be otherwise abandoned. It was easy enough to make it to her family’s farm. 

“There is no trace of the taint here. You have chosen a suitable place to rest for the evening, saareb— Bethany,” Shokrakar said. He was trying to be better about that. He would be better.

Bethany opened the front door, and said, without turning around: “We won’t be staying here tonight. I’m only here to say goodbye. Join me, or don’t. I don’t care.”

She took a step forward, and inhaled deeply. She could see at a glance that the place had been ransacked by scavengers and looters— and she couldn’t blame them— but, once upon a time, for another girl named Bethany, this had been home. With every step she took, another memory was conjured forth. She found a crude, obviously homemade wooden chess set in a cabinet, and took it out, placing it on the table.

“Not even good enough for the looters,” she said quietly, smiling. Her companions stayed quiet, giving her the space to continue. “My father always said that he regretted not bringing his chess set from Kirkwall when he escaped the Circle. It was crafted for him by a tranquil.”

“I have heard the Tranquil have incredible disciple,” Shokrakar said. “Who crafted this?”

“My father, of course. He was a talented mage, an decent farmer, and a shit woodcarver. Still, we got a lot of use out of it. My twin brother, Carver, could only ever beat my mother, but he never stopped trying to beat my older brother and I. My older brother, Christopher and I were pretty evenly matched… But nobody ever beat father,” she said. “I think I’ll take this with us. I have space enough in my pack.”

Alistair nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe you can teach me to play,” he suggested. She ignored him, and continued into the bedroom, where she put her hand up to a small hole in a bedframe.

“Carver… He used to nail my braid to the bed while I was sleeping,” she said, and then looked out the window. “And the field back there: that’s where father would take Christopher and I to practice our spells. It’s a wonder we never got caught.”

Alistair put a hand on her shoulder. “You must miss your family a lot,” he said sympathetically.

She shrugged it off, a little bit more forcefully than she planned. “Must I? They left me to the mercy of the darkspawn. All these memories, they… They seem like they happened to someone else. I am not the Bethany that lived here. That girl is dead.”

Shokrakar nodded. He was quite familiar with personal metamorphosis. Alistair didn’t respond.

“Well, it’s time to go,” Bethany said quietly. “Give me a moment alone. I shall be out shortly.”

As Shokrakar and Alistair closed the door behind them, they heard the sound of a spell being cast. Alistair went for his sword instinctually, but thought better of it. Then they heard another spell, and another, and another.

Bethany opened the door and a wave of heat rushed towards them. She walked between them and continued up the road as the flames grew higher and hotter. “If this house was untainted, the neighbours’ should be too. We should be safe at one of their homes for the evening,” she said without looking back, as her flames consumed the only home she’d ever known.

Diala, Jowan and Rayne finished distributing the loot to the Wardens as they gathered around the dinner table for the evening. Alistair’s group found a large, untainted farmhouse where the Wardens and their allies could bed down for the evening. Alistair advised Diala that asking about the burned farmhouse in the property neighbouring this one was probably not advisable.

“It’s good to have a roof over our heads again, at least for the evening, and protection from the elements,” Jowan said. He was putting on a brave face, but the loss of his arm was hard on him. Jowan already found travelling around the countryside difficult enough, and now he had to do it with one arm. Diala tried to help him as much as possible— there were a lot of amputees back home, after all. Sometimes, it was the only way to stop the Taint from setting in. She’d seen prosthetics before among the noble and warrior castes, but… She questioned how useful they would be for Jowan. Usually, the warriors who could continue to fight at full capacity lost parts of their arm below the elbow, not in the middle of the bicep. Jowan was a mage, though— he was still plenty useful in combat. It was the other things he needed help with.

Shokrakar passed out plates of roast deer— thankfully untainted— and Diala began to cut Jowan’s before her own.

“Thank you, Diala,” he said genuinely. 

“Not a problem, Jowan. Let me know if you need anything else,” she responded.

“What I don’t understand is why you can’t just heal it,” Alistair said. “You’re a powerful mage, and you have that spirit whatever-you-call-it. Can’t you just grow it back?”

“Indeed,” Anora said. “What you did with Warden Bethany must have been much worse than this.”

Rayne finished chewing, and swallowed, brushing a tuft of curly black hair out of his mossy green eyes. “What magical healing does— even if we have a spirit guiding us— is supercharge the body’s natural healing process. That’s why we have to set bones before we heal magically. If something could conceivably heal normally, we can help it along. But the body can’t regrow an arm, so neither can we,” he said sadly. “However, Diala has mentioned dwarven prosthetic limbs. I’ve also read about magical Tevinter prosthetics. I’m sure if Wynne and I put our heads together, we can find a solution eventually,” he added hopefully. Jowan didn’t have as much hope… But he was adjusting.

After dinner, Rayne stood up, and looked at Erlina, Queen Anora and Lord Fergus. “I know it’s a bit early, but perhaps now is a good time to chat?” 

Fergus looked at the women, who nodded as they followed Rayne and Garahel up into one of the bedrooms, for as much privacy as they could manage. 

Alistair watched them head upstairs, waving goodbye to Garahel, and then motioned for the remaining Wardens to huddle in close. With varying degrees of apprehension, they did so, and leaned over the table.  

“What’s this about? Some more insubordination?” Diala asked jokingly.

Alistair rolled his eyes, but smiled. “I certainly hope not. No, I actually wanted everyone’s opinion on something.”

Shokrakar was listening intently, and Jowan looked worried. Diala had concern and interest on her face, while Bethany seemed as though she could not care any less about Alistair and his concerns.

“Being with the Wardens— with Rayne and Mercy— well, I’ve had to grow up a bit, and accept things that I wouldn’t have before,” he said, looking at Jowan pointedly. “But the templar in me is screaming at the top of his lungs that Rayne is… Well, of course I’m concerned about the blood magic, but… He’s experimenting with it, and using it in new ways I never heard about in my training. Most of them are good, admittedly, but,” he said, looking at Jowan, “the two of you paralyzed an ancient abomination dragon. Rayne has a spirit that follows him around that he calls a ‘spirit companion’, but, to me, it sounds a lot like demonic possession. I just… Well, I just wanted to hear what you were all thinking. I don’t want to go crazy righteous templar without cause, but I know I’d be kicking myself if something was wrong and I didn’t say anything.”

Diala shrugged. “You know what I’ll say. Magic is magic, and I still have a hard time seeing the difference, except that blood magic is more powerful. And messier.”

“I feel as though we have had this conversation before,” Shokrakar said. “Like all mages, the Senior Mage Warden’s power is as useful as it is dangerous. As long as it is turned against our enemies, we need not worry. If he turns it against us, I will change my opinion.”

Alistair sighed, but he expected this. He turned to Bethany.

“‘My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base,’” she said simply.

“Is that a verse from your Chant?” Diala asked.

“No,” she responded curtly. “It was something my father used to tell my brother and I. Our magic is a part of us, just like our arms, our eyes, or our hearts. It cannot be ignored, even as apostates. What was important, though, is that we used our magic to help, and to protect. That which is best in me. As far as I can tell, Warden Surana is dabbling in many forbidden magicks. Before the Blight, I’d have never come within a few leagues of him… Now, everything he’s done has been to help us. Andraste’s curled toes, he saved my life with blood magic. If I notice any changes, I will let you know… But he is too useful a tool to simply set aside.”

Alistair nodded, happy that he broached the topic, and feeling the worry slip away as more of his companions contributed. Now, he looked at Jowan. He was debating including him— he was a blood mage too, of course— but he had nowhere near the power Rayne did.

“What if he’s controlling our minds, though? What do you think, Jowan?” Alistair asked, genuinely curious. Jowan took a sip of his ale, nervous that all eyes were on him.

“No, I’ve been worried about that too. I’ve been reciting the Litany of Adralla every night, just to make sure.” 

Met blank stares from a few companions, he explained that it was a way to guard against blood magic and mind control.

“Like I said, I share your worries… Rayne is different than he was growing up. He was always hardheaded, and he always excelled at whatever we were studying. He was a prodigy, years ahead of everyone else.And I think it was his spirit companion that taught him blood magic… I don’t know how else he could have learned.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed. Rayne learned blood magic from the spirit? That sounded a whole lot like a demon.

“But we don’t have anything to worry about. I’m certain,” Jowan said.

“How do you figure?” Diala asked, intrigued.

“Garahel,” Jowan said simply. “The legend says that mabari rebelled against the Imperium. The mabari helped us identify werewolves. They’re smart, and Garahel is no exception. If Rayne is possessed, if he’s changed, if anything is wrong, Garahel will let us know before Rayne even has a chance to weave a single spell.”

Duh, Alistair thought. He was Fereldan. People were hard to trust, but you could always trust a mabari. 

Garahel bounded into what appeared to be the parents’ bedroom of this old farmhouse. He ran to and sniffed every corner, before hopping up onto the bed and making himself comfortable. Rayne sat beside him as Anora sat on the rocking chair opposite the bed. Fergus and Erlina stood to either side.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk, Senior Mage Warden Surana,” Anora said not inauthentically.

“It was no problem, Your Majesty. I am but a loyal subject,” he responded, with just a bit of sarcasm. While Anora’s face remained impassive, Erlina snickered a little bit, and Fergus frowned. At least frowning was marginally happier than all-consuming despair.

“You jest, Warden, but this is deadly serious,” Fergus said. Keegan had always described Fergus as being less serious than he seemed now. Rayne supposed a massacre could do that to a man.

The elf said nothing, letting them continue. Both him and Curiosity could barely wait, hoping they would learn what was in the chest.

“I have recently learned some disturbing things,” Anora said. “Due to these revelations, Lord Fergus, Erlina and myself think it’s best if we keep my presence a secret from Arl Eamon— that is, if the Warden-Constable’s group truly found the Ashes. I will stay outside Redcliffe when we return, perhaps with the Dalish. It will… Put us in a more advantageous position, come the Landsmeet. If you could let your Wardens know, it would be much appreciated. When we arrive at Redcliffe, you could shapeshift into a bird and find out whether or not Eamon has recovered, and if the rest of your Wardens have arrived.”

Rayne considered. “This is because of whatever you found in the chest, I assume?”

Erlina responded this time. “That is immaterial, Warden Surana. Can Her Majesty count on your discretion?”

“Probably. If you tell me what you learned.”

“You forget yourself, Warden! Your Queen has a request for you. It is not your place to question Her!” Fergus said angrily, shocking everyone.

Garahel poked his head up from his nap, growling low. Rayne stood up. 

“How many times have I healed Her Majesty in combat, just in the time you’ve travelled with us? Ask her how many times I saved your brother’s life, too. I did all of that because I wanted to, because I thought we were allies. Partners. Because we trusted one another.”

“We are, Warden Surana,” Anora said calmly. “What we learned was… Sensitive.”

“Then, by the Creators, stop treating me like your bloody servant and tell me what I want to know!” he yelled, his eyes flaring blue as his voice became low and distorted, echoing throughout the room with an otherworldly presence. Then, realizing what just happened, he sat down, and rubbed his eyes. “I… apologize. I am tired, and my curiosity got the better of me.”

Erlina and Anora looked at each other nervously, realizing that they would need to discuss this later, and Anora inhaled deeply.

“We found correspondance in Ostagar… Secret correspondace. Eamon was whispering in Cailan’s ear, it seemed. He had convinced my husband to… Set me aside, as I had not yet produced an heir,” she quietly. This was obviously quite painful for her, and Rayne let her continue when she was ready. “Now, the fact that Cailan’s wandering eye had yet to produce any bastards did not occur to Eamon, apparently. But he always resented my family— he thought my father a jumped-up commoner who should never have become Teyrn of Gwaren. To him, I was simply a commoner’s daughter, not anywhere near good enough for a Therein,” she said angrily. This was the most emotion Rayne had ever seen from Anora.

“The more I learn about Arl Eamon, the less I like him,” Rayne said, reflecting that this man did not know his own son was a mage despite living in the same castle, who made Alistair sleep in a barn, and now who conspired to break up a King and Queen simply because her blood didn’t pass the sniff test.

Anora nodded. “Was that all it were, we could still use him. At least he would be doing what he thought was best for Ferelden. But no, not only had Eamon convinced my dear husband to set me aside, but he found a new bride for her: Empress Célène Valmont of Orlais. That makes him a traitor. He cannot be trusted.”

“The Empress of Orlais?!” Rayne cried. “How? Why? That’s… Unbelievable.”

“Indeed,” Erlina said. “But it seems we must believe it. Arlessa Isolde still has family in Orlais, and is still a player of The Game. I suspect she was their channel to Orlais.”

“And the Divine seems to be completely under Celene’s thumb,” Fergus added. “Her Perfection could annul the marriage, and marry Celene to Cailan.”

“…making him the Emperor of Orlais, and all of their children heirs to both countries…” Rayne said, turning over the revelations in his head.

“And, in one fell swoop, retaking all of Ferelden for Orlais and doing what they never could through war,” Fergus finished.

“Maker’s balls, and during the Blight too…” Rayne said to no one in particular. “You can of course count on my disrection, Your Majesty. We will need to tell some of our companions, including Alistair, but you can leave that to me. For now, I hope you have a pleasant evening,” he said, standing up and making for the door. “Thank you for trusting me, despite my outburst. I remain your loyal servant,” he concluded, bowing deeply, this time without a trace of sarcasm.

Chapter Text

Cadash Thaig. Mercy reasoned it would make more sense to make the pit stop before returning to Orzammar, so that Shale could get the answers it sought before the Archdemon showed itself on the surface. It might be their only chance.

The darkspawn were far from a surprise. Records of Shale’s history, while surprising, just served to raise Shale’s estimation even further in Mercy’s eyes. It— she— volunteered for this. Maker.

No, what was most surprising, and most welcome after weeks in the Deep Roads was grass. Green grass, weeds, vegetation, life. Sunlight. Maker, how they had missed the sun. Even Mayrin had gotten used to it by now, though Oghren did his best to avoid it.

Transforming into a bird, Morrigan soared happily into the air and up to the surface. Mercy was beginning to get worried when Morrigan didn’t return for nearly an hour, but she should have known better. When Morrigan returned, her mood was noticeably improved. 

“We are under the countryside— a countryside, rather. ’Twas quite quiet, even peaceful,” Morrigan said.

“We must be under Orlais. No signs of darkspawn?” Mercy asked.

“Nary a one,” Morrigan said. “’Tis as if there is no Blight at all. Indeed, that is likely the case for most of Thedas,” she continued.

“Merci, Créateur!” Aelizia cried, prompting most of her party to roll their eyes.

“Were you able to locate any provisions, witch?” Sten asked.

Morrigan smiled with self-satisfied pride. She reached into her pack, and produced three recently-killed fennec foxes. How her pack’s entire contents disappeared when she shapeshifted, Mercy didn’t even want to try and understand. “Indeed I was, qunari. ’Tis not much, but it will serve us much better than mushrooms and deepstalkers.”

“Didja find any booze up there, woman?” Oghren asked grumpily. Sober Oghren was cranky. Sober Oghren mourning Branka was downright unpleasant.

“Would that I had, dwarf, for ‘twould be preferable for all of us. Unfortunately, the beasts that call these plains home have not yet discovered the secrets of fermentation,” she said bitingly, tossing a fox to Zevran for him to skin while she prepared the other. Oghren grumbled to himself. He was doing a lot of that lately.

“Well, regardless: thank you, Morrigan,” Mayrin said. Morrigan raised an eyebrow at him. What could he say? He was in a good mood.

“You… Are welcome, dwarf,” she said suspiciously. 

As the party continued to prepare dinner, Mercy looked at Oghren. “I have been wondering, Oghren. As warrior caste, you used to venture into the Deep Roads with the nobility, correct?”

“Yeah, what of it?” he responded.

“Well, you said that you yourself had never encountered a Broodmother before, but obviously the dwarves must have. Why do you permit women to enter the Deep Roads at all, let alone fight in the army? If Mayrin and Bodahn hadn’t located Diala Aeducan and brought her to us, that could have been her.”

Oghren raised an eyebrow. “The Princess survived, eh? Good on’er. And we don’t actually know how Broodmothers are made— they’re real rare, and none are close to Orzammar. We only ever encounter’em deep in the Deep Roads… Everyone just assumed that they were just another kind of darkspawn, not a ghoul.”

Mercy nodded. “Then we must ensure that this bit of information is added to the Memories, and recorded in the Grey Warden records as well. We can only hope King Bhelen acts on it.” 

Oghren nodded, going back to brooding, while Aelizia looked at Mayrin inquisitively. 

“Yeah? What?” he asked.

“I was just wondering, Monsieur Brosca… Do you still intend to crown Prince Bhelen?” 

All eyes turned to him, and he looked at Mercy questioningly. She shrugged, essentially saying “It’s up to you, Brosca”.

“I mean, who else would I crown? Not Harrowmont; he’d be a disaster. They’re the only two candidates, and Bhelen’s the only reasons Rica’s living as well as she is now.”

“C’est vrai, they are the only two candidates, but perhaps you might crown somebody else anyways. You speak with the authority of a paragon, n’est pas? If you claimed it was the Paragon’s wishes you not crown yourself king, even casteless?”

Mercy raised her eyebrows. What a positively Orlesian idea. It was the “Game” Leliana told her about. She wasn’t exaggerating about everyone back home was a player, even a fugitive mage turned Warden. Could… Aelizia still be a player, even here in the Deep Roads? Mercy had thought the fact that she had been an apostate and mercenary in Ferelden had taken her off the board, but she did mention that her father was important. Perhaps he still had use for her? Mercy would have to ask about that.

Mayrin looked at Aelizia quizically. “Me?” he asked. “You’re serious?”

“It is not the worst idea our Orlesian beauty has had, my dear Warden. Every king is in need of an assassin, after all…”

Mayrin looked at Zevran for a moment, and then stared back at Aelizia, his blue eyes meeting hers’ he tried to find a hint of insincerity. 

“You are serious!” he said, before throwing his head back and erupting in laughter. “Me?! A good-for-nothing brand? Seriously,” he said, laughing even more, and trying to catch his breath. “That’s sodding hilarious!”

Aelizia tried to respond, but he just kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Oghren joined in, smiling for the first time since the Anvil. At this point, Mayrin was rolling on his back and crying tears, trying his best to catch his breath. It took him nearly a minute to regain his composure. He tried several times, but broke back into laughter before he could even get two words out.

“It appears to be broken,” Shale observed. 

“A shameless display,” Sten agreed.

“I do not see what was so funny about what I said…” Aelizia muttered.

“He’s casteless, girl,” Oghren explained. “The Assembly tolerates him as a Warden, barely— it’s the only reason he isn’t killed on sight soon as he steps into the Diamond Quarter. But if he made that suggestion, even hypothetically, without an actual Paragon there to back us up…”

“They’d kill me before I got to the end of my sentence, and then each other trying to scramble for the crown,” Mayrin said, finally catching his breath. “Though, that second part isn’t such a bad idea…”

“Heh. You can say that again, Warden,” Oghren said. “Sod the lot of them. Worthless, every one.”

“Yet you still permit them to be in charge,” Sten grumbled. “Truly, I will never understand you bas.” 

“I… cannot defy a Paragon. The throne is yours’… King Bhelen,” conceded the defeated Harrowmont.

“Then as my first act as king, I call for this man’s execution! Guards, seize him!” Bhelen commanded.

“Harrowmont was an honourable rival. Let him retire in peace,” Mercy pleaded. Mayrin and Oghren made eye contact, and rolled their eyes. Mayrin even snickered. Surfacers.

“You know better than anyone the war facing us, Warden. Orzammar cannot afford to be divided. Anyone undermining my reign is serving only the darkspawn,” Bhelen said, not unreasonably.

“Then… You leave me no choice,” Mercy said quietly. She knew from Mayrin and Oghren how this was likely going to go, though she had somehow hoped for better. It wouldn’t stop at Pyral Harrowmont. Bhelen would hunt every single man, woman and child in the line until it was utterly exterminated.

Mayrin looked up at her. “Don’t screw this up! It’s not worth it.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “I find myself agreeing with the dwarf, Mercy.”

Sten nodded at her approvingly, slowly shifting his stance to prepare for an eventual fight.

The guards in the Assembly also prepared for fighting to breakout. Bhelen held a hand up to steady them, and glared at Mercy suspiciously. “Just what do you intend to do, Warden-Commander?”

“I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription,” she declared. Zevran thought it was played out at that point. Lord Harrowmont looked at her hopefully, though she did not meet his eyes. She had her hands behind her back and was standing tall, and did not even reach for her weapons.

“You can’t just conscript a whole house! We’d never be allowed back in Orzammar” Mayrin whispered up at her. He was right, of course. While the Right of Conscription was, in theory, absolute, it was not without consequences, and nations were well within their rights to exile the Wardens if suitably offended, Ferelden the prime example of that.

“Indeed, Warden-Commander,” Bhelen spat. “Just who do you intend to conscript?”

“I do not intend to insult you, King Bhelen. Being a Grey Warden is not a charity, and I simply wish not to waste any resources in this time of Blight. Any great warrior could tip the scales for the Grey Wardens,” she explained calmly. “Furthermore, they will be coming to the surface with me, where they cannot threaten your rule. I intend to conscript Lord Harrowmont’s second, Dulin Forender, and two of House Harrowmont’s best fighters: Lord Renvil Harrowmont, and Lady Ilsa Harrowmont. Is that acceptable to you, King Bhelen?”

“That’s why she was asking earlier…” Oghren muttered.

“That is… Acceptable, Warden-Commander,” Bhelen said through gritted teeth. “I will return to my palace to gather my generals and prepare our forces for the surface. My guards will deliver conscripts imminently. You are all… Dismissed,” he said curtly, stomping out the door without waiting for a response.

Chapter Text

“Darkspawn, watch for their blood!”

Rayne’s party descended on the darkspawn as effectively and efficiently as a qunari kith. Still south of the bulk of the horde, they were getting more and more adept at taking down stragglers. They were northwest of Lothering, and on the Imperial Highway to Redcliffe.

Partway through the fight, they heard another voice cut through the crowd. “CHARGE!”

On the other side of the darkspawn, Rayne’s party saw a welcome, if unexpected sight. Charging over the hill, there was a group of Fereldan soldiers, cutting into the darkspawn like a knife through butter. With them, they had…. Dalish elves! And a large red-headed avvar man wielding a massive maul, fighting alongside what seemed to be a Fereldan woman with two shortswords, leather armor, and brown pigtails. The man who gave the order had the same silver eyes as her, plate armor, a greataxe, and black hair and full, black beard. Beside him was… Was that Kinon? Rayne recognized him from the Tower— brown hair, soul patch, and a very competent mage. He was beside the warrior, healing and buffing the soldiers where he could, and casting targeted, powerful, primal spells on the spawn.

The party, even more enthusiastic at the sight of new allies, quickly dealt with the darkspawn, but Fergus, Anora and Erlina saw a problem. They saw children of the Fereldan nobility, some of whom may recognize Anora. Anora and Fergus made eye contact, and Fergus quicky shoved her aside, pushing her to the ground. She nodded up at him from the ground, and crawled away from the melee. While their new allies and the Wardens’ party dispatched the darkspawn, Anora scrambled through the party’s packs for a hood, a helmet, a mask, or anything. Eventually, she found a cloak in Rayne’s back, and a mask in Diala’s. Putting them on, she met the party as they finshed off the darkspawn and presented themselves to their supposed allies.

“Kinon! Is that you?” Rayne called excitedly as Jowan tried his best to hide behind Shokrakar.

“Rayne!” he called, turning to the black-haired man with whom he travelled and saying something. That black-haired man then spoke.

“Well met, Senior Mage Warden Surana!” the man called. “I have heard much about you. I am Aeron Wulff, son of Arl Gallagher Wulff. We are part of the army you and your fellow Wardens have assembled as Redcliffe. You already know Kinon, but this is my sister, Izot, and her new husband, Azur,” he said, motioning to the pig-tailed girl and the large avvar man. “With us are a contingent of Fereldan soldiers and Dalish elves.”

“Hakkon's Blood, it seems legends of the Wardens’ prowess is not exaggerated,” Azur muttered to his wife.

“You’re a day out of Redcliffe, if my memory serves me. Has the army already marched, already, Aeron?” Fergus asked, walking up beside Rayne.

“Fergus?! Fergus Cousland?! You’re alive?!” Aeron exclaimed.

“I am,” Fergus said without mirth. “I repeat: has the army marched already? Have the rest of the Wardens returned?” he asked, deadly serious.

Quickly understanding this was not the same Fergus Cousland with whom Aeron had spent his first Landsmeet raiding the Teyrn of Highever’s wine cellar and pranking Arl Howe’s seneschal, he adjusted accordingly, matching Fergus’s demeanour.

“They have not, Lord Fergus. The army was getting restless and tensions were high, so the nobility and the rest of the leaders decided we should start organizing, and get the men some experience fighting stragglers. It’s worked well so far.”

Diala walked up as well, nodding sagely. “Not a bad idea. Nothing can really prepare someone for fighting darkspawn other than… Fighting darkspawn.”

“And no Wardens?” Shokrakar repeated.

Izot spoke this time. “No, Lord Fergus. Your brother has arrived from Orzammar, however, and is unharmed. He reported that the rest of the Wardens were forced to venture into the Deep Roads. Our brother Cadoc’s party has not yet arrived either, but they sent ahead. They were a day or two out when we left, and are probably arriving soon, or already have.”

Rayne made eye contact with Erlina, who had been hanging in the background and hoping neither Aeron nor Izot recognized Anora’s elven servant, nor examined the newly-cloaked Anora too closely. They understood each other. If Enid’s party had been successful, they had the Ashes. If they revived Eamon, they would tell him about Anora, if they hadn’t already.

“I have to go,” Rayne said, without any ceremony. “Diala, you’re in charge.”

Aeron began to respond, but stopped short when Rayne transformed into a raven before their eyes and took flight, making for Redcliffe. 

“Shape-shifting… We thought those techniques were myth,” Kinon marvelled to no one in particular.

“Ha! Now that’s a proper mage!” Azur remarked. “Glad to see the lowlander mages haven’t all forgotten the old ways. That should prove mighty useful in the days ahead.”

Keegan was walking briskly down the halls of Redcliffe castle with Wynne, Cadoc, Leliana, Nathaniel and Enid to Arl Eamon, with Connor, Isolde and Teagan in tow. Enid’s party arrived not but a few moments ago, and immediately found Keegan and Bann Teagan to make their way to Arl Eamon. Merrill went to find her fellow Dalish with Eve tagging along, but the rest of the party wished to be there and see Eamon restored, for various reasons, ranging from responsibilty, to piety, to necessity.

“The Deep Roads? When will they return?” Enid asked Keegan quietly as they started up the stairs. Behind them, Cadoc was relating the tale of the Temple of Sacred Ashes to the Arl’s family, but keeping the part about the Gauntlet as vague as possible, as they had agreed.

“I have no idea. The woman they are seeking hasn’t been heard from for two years,” Keegan explained. Felix was happily trotting along in between them, happy to see his human’s other friends again.

“Elgar’nan, two years?!” Enid swore under her breath as Leliana’s eyes went wide, eavesdropping from behind them. Two years? She might never see Mercy again. She could already be dead.

“Best not to fret,” Wynne cautioned. “If anybody can achieve the impossible, it’s the Warden-Commander. We must simply give her some more time.”

“Doesn’t hurt to have an immortal, invulnerable golem with them either,” Keegan reminded them.

The party arrived at the Arl’s chambers, just as his physician and their mage finished tending to him for the day. 

“Jaime? Jaime Amell, is that you?” Wynne exclaimed, happy to see a familiar face.

The mage in yellow robes ran towards Wynne, giving her a big hug. “Wynne! I’m surprised you’re still kicking, you old bag!” 

Cadoc’s eyebrows went up, bracing for Wynne’s reaction. Jaime Amell looked just a bit older than Rayne and had long, black curly hair. His eyes were silver, and his face was covered in dark stubble.

“And I’m surprised you haven’t run for the hills, Mr. Amell. No better time to escape than a Blight, right? I wasn’t aware Irving brought the rest of the Circle to Redcliffe already.” she responded, smiling kindly.

He shrugged. “The Teyrn Cousland here sent word that we would be marching soon, so Greagoir and Irving mobilized the rest of us and brought us to Redcliffe. And, oh, y’know, I can  run for the hills after we help Rayne save the world. For now, we’re needed,” he responded sheepishly. Wynne nodded proudly.

“Indeed you are, mage,” Isolde said, clearly distressed that this is a mage who was not completely loyal to the Circle, and that he had been treating her husband this entire time. “Now, can we please cure my husband?!”

“I apologize for the delay, Arlessa Isolde,” Wynne responded deferentially, taking the Ashes from Cadoc’s hands. “Thank you, Lord Wulff.”

“I can scarcely believe it… We are about to witness a miracle,” Leliana said. The rest of her party had already witnessed one, but she was unconscious at the time, and the subject of that miracle. Furthermore, the rest of the party had agreed to say that the only Ashes they recovered were the ones Cadoc provided for Arl Eamon. It brought prestige to Cadoc’s family, and kept treasure hunters from harrying Merrill or Eve if they ever found out the elves had any.

“Are these truly the Ashes of the Prophet?” Connor asked, marvelling at the thought.

“It looks that way, Connor. I can’t believe it either,” Teagan said, ruffling the boy’s hair, genuinely elated at possibly witnessing a miracle.

Wynne stepped forward and began to cast her spell and reach into the pouch. Just as she was about to sprinkle the Ashes on the Arl, the party heard shouting from downstairs outside the door. There were rushed footsteps, getting closer. 

“Andraste preserve us, what is it now?!” Isolde cried. Enid drew her blade and stepped to the front of the party, with Nathaniel and Leliana on either side. The door burst open, and standing before them all, panting, panicked, and sweaty was… Rayne Surana.

Merrill, Eve, Lanaya and Vamael were sitting in the Dalish camp outside Redcliffe and passing around a bowl of berries. Halla grazed by them as hahren Sorel was relating another tale to the children, this time the story of the Duel of a Hundred years. The children— and even Sorel— had become sidetracked, though, with seeing a raven turn into an elf, and then back again.

“Have all of the mages travelling with you Wardens mastered shapeshifting? We thought the art was lost. It must be a miracle,” Vamael asked in wonder.

“Not all, no,” Merrill said kindly. “Only me and Rayne have had the skill to learn it, and I’m much better than he is. I hope that doesn’t seem like bragging, it’s just that, well, the technique requires knowing how a creature works, inside and out— and I’ve had much more time to learn that than he has, growing up that cold Tower. Morrigan is still the only one in our party who is comfortable enough to use the skill in combat— I think I’m much more useful in this form, anyways.”

“You can say that again,” Eve asked, thinking back to the dragon fight.

“Morrigan, is that…” Lanaya started.

“The daughter of Asha’bellanar, yes,” Merrill finished seriously. “Since we saw Rayne, lethallan, it seems that they were successful in killing her…”

“So it seems,” Lanaya said.

“So it seems,” Merrill agreed. Both of them knew that, even if she appeared dead, it would probably take much more than that to kill the Woman of Many Years.

“What did the Warden need to talk to you about?” Vamael asked.

“Oh, you know,” Eve said, looking at Merrill seriously and hoping she wouldn’t tell Lanaya. “Secret Grey Warden business.”

Lanaya frowned a little bit, but did not press further. Merrill trusted Lanaya, and Eve had no reason not to, but when Rayne told them not to tell anybody about Anora, he sounded pretty darn serious.

“Keeper Lanaya, I actually wanted to ask you something,” Eve said, changing the subject.

Lanaya raised an eyebrow and smiled. “How can I help, lethallan?”

“I’ve learned a lot about Dalish culture and religion travelling with Enid and Merrill… Now, I don’t know if I can ever stop believing in the Maker, and I don’t know if I can abandon my family for the Dalish… But what I’ve learned has connected me to my history, to our history. There is room enough in my heart for the Maker and the Creators, I think. And I was wondering… Keeper… Would it be possible for me to undergo the ceremony for vallaslin?”

The three mages looked at her shocked. 

“Lethallan, I had no idea that…” Merrill began.

“It is not usually customary to have fla— er, city elves to undergo the ceremony, if they are not actually joining a Dalish clan themselves,” Vamael said as diplomatically as possible, though his obvious disgust was hard to hide.

Lanaya looked at him admonishingly. “Nor has it been customary, da’len, to permit ‘flat-ears’ to become Keepers, but yet here I am. If anyone has earned it, it is our cousin who came from nothing, saved Redcliffe and became a Grey Warden, who may very well save all of us soon. Of course you may attempt the ceremony, Evelyn Tabris. And I believe Merrill should be the one to do it.”

“Me?” Merrill asked, both excited and nervous.

“Of course, lethallan. If your deal with the humans works out, we will need new leaders to guide us towards the future. And with Keeper Marethari and Clan Sabrae fled to the north, one of those leaders will be you,” she said, smiling reassuringly at Merrill before turning to Eve. “Now, have you decided which of the Creators your vallaslin are to venerate?”

“Of course. I have flown straight, but I have not wavered. I have bent, but I have not broken. And I have learned that, above, all, whether we are Dalish or not, together we are stronger than the one. I have chosen Andruil,” Eve said, giving Merrill a hug as the latter wiped tears from her eyes.

“Oh, lethallin!” Merrill cried. “I’m so proud.”

Chapter Text

“When do we begin this ‘Joining’, Warden-Commander? You already know of our prowess as warriors, and you know we have nowhere else to go. Is the test really necessary?” one of their newest recruits, Dulin Forender asked Mercy.

“The Joining is sometimes lethal, and, even if it isn’t, creates a delay we cannot afford after our time in the Deep Roads. We must return to Redcliffe and meet with the army as soon as possible,” Mercy explained patiently. They had made good time, and were an hour out of Redcliffe, walking along the Imperial Highway on a cold, winter day.

“But it was the brand’s choice that Bhelen become king at all,” Ilsa Harrowmont said as though Mayrin were not there. “We are grateful, certainly, but my grandfather would have triumphed without interference from outsiders and casteless,” she asserted carefully. 

“Or, more likely, Bhelen and Uncle Pyral would have kept feuding as Orzammar crumbled around them,” their third recruit Renvil said.

“And we’re all casteless now,” Oghren added, taking a gulp from his flask

Of their three recruits, Renvil was the most amiable, and grateful. He had black hair and a black beard, grey eyes and pale skin, was likely in his late 30s or early 40s, and wielded a sword and shield. He was Harrowmont’s nephew, and Mercy hoped he would survive the Joining. Dulin Forender, Harrowmont’s former second, dropped all pretext of politeness with Mayrin now that they were on the surface, and was putting a lot less effort into being polite with the rest of them. Like Renvil, he wielded a sword and shield. Their last recruit, Ilsa, was having the hardest time adjusting to the surface, used to being waited on hand and foot as Pyrral Harrowmont’s eldest granddaughter. Ilsa had no trouble in combat, choosing to charge into combat with plate armor, a longsword and a shortsword, but struggled more with cooking, travelling on foot, and sleeping somewhere other than her luxurious bedchambers. She was in her late 20s or early 30s, and had dark turquoise eyes, tan, perfect skin, and a thick, curly brown bob. She was thin for a dwarf, lithe and wiry, but strong, fast and clever.

“So, Oghren,” Mayrin asked, happy to talk to the only other dwarf in the party who didn’t see him as less than a man, even if that dwarf was an incorrigible drunk. “You think you’re gonna Join the Wardens as well?”

“Not sure, Brosca. Gonna see what the surface has to offer first. Got an old flame of mine to look up, too!”

Mayrin nodded. “Fair enough. Well, if you change your mind, we’d be happy to have you.”

“Indeed, ser dwarf,” Zevran jumped in. “Any Wardens in between the Archdemon and my dear Mr. Brosca here are a welcome addition indeed.”

“On that, the assassin and I agree,” Morrigan said, fingering a ring she wore on her finger. “My Warden killed my mother for me, and seems to have survived the ordeal. I would like to reward him. He is in Redcliffe now, and… Seems to be getting closer,” she said, looking at first confused and then smiling, turning to the Warden-Commander.

“Mercy, ‘twould appear that our Senior Mage Warden is coming to greet us. How fortuitous.”

Morrigan saw him first, soon after she sensed him with her ring, and pointed out the raven cresting over the horizon to the rest of her party. Ilsa, still not used to birds, flinched and hid her head out of fear. Even Aelizia had to laugh at that.

The raven touched down in front of them, changing shape from bird to elf, resplendant in his Grey Warden mage attire, silverite shoulder griffin freshly polished. He looked at the group, smiled, and ran to Morrigan, dipping her to the ground and kissing her passionately. To Morrigan’s surprise, she felt no impulse to push him away, despite the cheers or taunts from the rest of the party, except for Sten, Renvil and Mercy, apparently above such things. 

“It’s done,” Rayne whispered as they broke for air, still nose to nose. “She’s dead, at least for now. The grimoire is back at Redcliffe.”

With that, Morrigan kissed him again. As the two of them stood up and broke from their embrace, she whispered into his ear: “I never doubted you for a moment, Surana. You will be compensated well this evening,” she promised, giving his bum a little squeeze and scoffing at the jeers from her party.

Mercy was next, and gave him a friendly hug. “It is good to see you again, Rayne,” she said.

“You too, Commander,” he responded, turning to the rest of the party and greeting them in turn. He hugged Mayrin and Zevran, to Mayrin’s surprise, and simply nodded at Sten and Shale. He then introduced himself to Aelizia, the new Warden, and the four new dwarves travelling with the party. “I see recruiting went well for you, Commander, and that you didn’t lose anybody.”

“Maker be praised, we did not. And yes: meet Warden Aelizia, an apostate we recruited on our way into Orzammar. This is Oghren Kondrat, a dwarven warrior who helped us in the Deep Roads and has decided to travel with us, though maybe not Join us. Lastly, we have Dulin Forender, Lord Pyral Harrowmont’s former second, and then Renvil and Ilsa Harrowmont, the late Lord Pyral’s nephew and granddaughter.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Rayne said, bowing dramatically, and staring at the dwarves intently. “I’m curious about the political situation in Orzammar, but I suppose I will have to interrogate you all later. For now, forgive my rudeness, but I must converse with the Commander and our other fellows privately.”

Rayne brought a group aside, and left Aelizia with Ilsa, Dulin and Renvil and out of earshot. Elves, so rude, Aelizia thought bitterly. 

“What information do you have for us, bas saarebas?” Sten asked.

“Did they find the Ashes?” Zevran asked.

“Did you lose anyone to Flemeth?” Mayrin asked.

“Does the Arl still live?” Mercy asked.

Rayne raised his hands in surrender. “We will have time enough to debrief this evening. Things have gone well for us, better than expected, but I must communicate something before you return. The Ashes were found and the Arl is well; he intends to call the Landsmeet soon.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. “’Tis not the exact situation for which you were all hoping?”

Rayne sighed, not out of annoyance, but of exhaustion. The Blight had a way of wearing on a person.

“It is. It was. But that plan hit a snag. In Ostagar, we found private correspondance belonging to King Cailan. The specifics are… Personal, and I will inform you later, Mercy,” Rayne said, as Morrigan cleared her throat. “And you, Morrigan. Regardless, it seems the the Arl is not necessarily as stalwart an ally as Alistair hoped, and was playing his own game. For her own safety, and for our position in the Landsmeet, it is imperative that none of us let slip that the Queen is travelling with us, or that we even met her. As far as Eamon and the rest of Ferelden know, she is still at the Royal Palace. Loghain has said that she has been ill and has had to remain sequestered in the palace; until it becomes advantageous, the Queen and I agree that we should not contradict him.”

Mercy considered, nodding. This was the same Arl Eamon who thought it was a good decision to have Alistair spend his childhood in the stables. Though she had never met him, she was beginning to like him less and less.

“Where is the Queen staying?” she asked.

“A few hours outside the city with Erlina in the Hinterlands. They have a small camp, just the two of them, but we know where they are and are keeping tabs. We thought about leaving Jowan there, but Bann Teagan knows about his conscription, so we figured it was better to bring him than to hide him.”

Mercy sighed. “Likely a good decision, though not one that is going to ingratiate us to the Arl.”

“It was an intelligent tactical decision, Warden-Commander. If the saarebas cannot be bound, at least it can find purpose in the Wardens,” Sten reasoned. “Better it is put to use than killed needlessly. If this Arl Eamon cannot see that, he is a fool.”

“I’ve found in my many years, qunari, that the people in charge— human or dwarf— are all equally foolish, and equally squishy,” Shale contributed. “Are you certain the Arl does not require squishing?”

Most of the party smiled at that, and Rayne responded. “He’s useful for now, Shale. But as soon as he crosses us, you’ll be the first person we tell,” Rayne promised.

“I shall hold it to that,” Shale said as it resumed its journey Redcliffe without another word. “This conversation bores me. May we resume the journey to Redcliffe? I wish to speak with the Elder Mage.”

Keegan, Fergus and Nathaniel followed Felix to Anora’s camp outside the village. They could have gotten there themselves, but Felix’s nose usually found the fastest route, and the mabari was always so happy to help. Three players such as they could not be gone from Redcliffe for long, certainly not together and without attracting notice.

The Couslands’ reunion had been strange, difficult, and wonderful. For Keegan, the revelation that he did, in fact, have a living brother was an unequivocally positive experience. The tears shed— of joy and sorrow both— only served to further mend his shattered spirit. Fergus, who had had much less time to process the death of their family, used Keegan to unburden himself completely, and collapsed into his own despair, safe in his younger brother’s arms. For the few days since reuniting, the brothers had been inseparable, and both were better for the other’s presence. Perhaps they would never be whole again, but at least they could help each other move forward, however broken they might be. They were Couslands, after all, and they had their duty.

The little time Keegan spent away from Fergus, or Mercy, or the rest of the nobility, he spent with Nathaniel, who he had missed dearly. They were both overjoyed that the other had survived their ordeals, and come out the better for it. Nathaniel was just as fascinated with tales of Orzammar politics as Keegan was with tales of the Prophet’s final resting place— well, Keegan may have been a bit more fascinated.

The trio arrived at Anora and Erlina’s camp to find Erlina roasting some caught salmon over the fire. She had her bow drawn, but relaxed as they approached and she got a look at them. “It is the Coulsands, Your Majesty, and Arl Nathaniel Howe,” she said. Anora soon stepped out of her tent, and greeted the three men happily, ecstatic to see that Nathaniel had survived, and that they had truly found the Ashes. Adversary Eamon may be, Anora wished to best him in front of the Landsmeet, not let him die the hero so many believed him to be. Eamon dying would have been convenient, but she could work with this. She had the element of surprise, after all.

Anora and Erlina were caught up the goings-on at the castle: the army would march in a few days’ time for Denerim and the Landsmeet. Eamon was whole and hale, indeed saved by the Ashes of Andraste Herself. None of the Wardens’ parties had lost anyone, and most came back with a new recruit or two. Matters in Orzammar were settled as well: they had a king in Bhelen Aeducan, granted a crown forged by a Paragon of legend.

“This is all wonderful news. It seems the Maker smiles upon the Grey Wardens, and Ferelden,” Anora said.

“If that were so, would He not have had the Blight appear in Tevinter, or Seheron?” Nathaniel asked sardonically.

“The Maker works in mysterious ways, Arl Howe,” Erlina responded. The Couslands shared a look, neither of them particularly pleased with the Maker at the moment.

“We have been relying on our allies in the Grey Wardens for support against the darkspawn. Now it comes time for them to rely on us in the Landsmeet Chamber. I suggest we iron the details out now, so that we may give the Warden-Commander definitive answers when she asks,” Keegan said.

“Indeed, brother. It is also good to prepare for every eventuality… One can never know what might occur during a Landsmeet,” Fergus added.

“Indeed, Fergus,” Anora agreed. “Which brings us to our first matter: I assume that Keegan has told you of our plans to marry, and for him to rule alongside me as king. As the eldest Cousland, I believe the offer should first be made to you. Do you have any desire to crowned king?”

Fergus considered for a few, long moments, staring at the fire as Erlina took the fish off and began serving them to Anora and herself. “It would be a lie to say I had no desire to become king… But I have prepared my entire life to become the Teyrn of Highever. That is where I belong. And I would not wish to ruin such a match… You should hear the way Keegan used to talk about you.”

Keegan blushed and smiled sheepishly, staring at the ground and running his hand through his red hair.

Anora raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled tauntingly. “I cannot say that the match will be unenjoyable for myself, either. There is still the matter of succession, however. And of Alistair.”

“We insist that Wardens can’t hold titles and that should disqualify Alistair,” Nathaniel insisted. “He doesn’t want to be king.”

“Not that Eamon cares, not will many of the traditionalists among the Landsmeet. They will insist on preserving the Therein bloodline,” Anora said.

“Well, let’s make sure it’s preserved, then. They just have to wait a generation,” Keegan suggested seriously.

“Your and Her Majesty’s children will marry Alistair’s children?” Erlina asked. “If I am not mistaken, those children might be dwarf-blooded.”

“Then the Landsmeet can reject them in the future, and our child can choose a match for themself,” Anora said. “I would not suggest a binding contract, nor do I think Alistair would agree to it. Instead, I propose we discuss the possibility. It will not win all of them, but it leaves us the most options, and will still sway many of the traditionalists to our side.”

“Does that mean you will name Alistair heir?” Nathaniel asked.

“I don’t think so,” Keegan responded.

“No,” Anora said more definitively. “He will relinquish all claim he has before the Landsmeet; we can get him to agree to that. Our heirs will first be our children. If none are alive or yet born, next in line is Fergus, and then Nathaniel… and then Teagan, presuming he had nothing to do with his brother’s treason.”

“And did he?” Nathaniel asked. Fergus had informed Keegan and Nathaniel of the contents of Cailan’s letters the first evening they were all together again. 

“We are not yet certain,” Anora responded.

“But I can find out, when I return to Denerim,” Erlina added.

“Regardless, we will only present evidence of Eamon’s treason after we are secure in our position and have been confirmed by the Landsmeet. If Teagan had anything to do with his brother’s scheme, he will face the same fate as his brother.”

The group continued to hash out details, specifics, and schemes for the better part of the hour, until they were all satisfied. As they were setting out to leave, Anora requested a private conversation with Keegan away from the rest of the camp.

“How may I help you, Your Majesty?” he asked, equal parts genuine and silly, as he bowed deeply, in an exaggerated, joking manner.

“There is a matter that needs discussion,” she began, hesitating a bit. Keegan let her continue, seeing that this was important. “When you and I first discussed this idea, I was under the impression that, along with being advantageous, it would be… True partnership, something that may even blossom into love.”

I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you, was what Keegan thought, but did not say.

“I had hoped the same thing. Have things… Changed?” he asked, feeling his heart lurch.

She steeled herself, inhaling deeply to muster the courage. Her hands were clapsed just above her waist, as they always were when she was negotiating. Anora had not taken that stance with him since the Blight. “I have seen how you and Nathaniel act when in each other’s company, and there were always rumours at court… Cailan had his women. He was thoughtful enough to keep them discreet, but I always knew. Am I to have another husband whose eyes lie elsewhere? If so, I would appreciate knowing now.”

“I… Well,” he began, starting to explain. “No, I won’t lie to you. I just didn’t think it would come up. Nathaniel and I have been… Close since we were teenagers. Every time we saw one another, we’d… Find ways to pass the time. He is one of the most important people in my life, and that will not change after the Blight. But we both understand our duty— we must marry, we must produce heirs, like any Fereldan heir.”

Anora’s face flashed with anger. “I see, then. That is all I am to you: a duty. Very well. You will do your duty, and I will do mine. Perhaps I will require a Prince-Consort instead of a King, after all,” she said curtly, her jaw set. “That will be all, Lord Cousland,” she finished, dismissing him with a glare. Felix whined in protest.

“Anora, that isn’t what I meant— I… I phrased that poorly,” he sputtered, panicking. “Nathaniel and I have fun, but we’ve never been under any illusions about the nature of relationship. We haven’t slept together since my family was murdered. At first, I was… Not available, emotionally. And after that, well, I had made a commitment to you. If it would not bother you and I had your permission, we might have continued when visiting one another after being married, but you obviously aren’t. Therefore…” Keegan said, getting down onto one knee to make a point and grabbing her hand. 

“Your Majesty, Queen Anora Therein of Ferelden, I vow before Andraste and the Maker that I will be your faithful partner in love and in life, and will never stray. I have been in love with you since the day I met you, when I was just a snot-nosed child and you visited Highever for the first time with King Maric and your father. I had pimples, and you had golden hair so bright it outshone the sun and the stars. Being your husband, your lover, your king, and your partner would be the greatest gift I could ask for, and, by the Maker, I promise you that I will treasure each and every day we have together. ” 

Felix, for his part, gave her his best puppy dog eyes.

Anora held Keegan’s hand, not even breaking from his gaze for a pleading mabari. Slowly, she led him up from his knees and placed his hand on her cheek as he caressed it softly. She leaned towards him, her nose touching his and her hand in his as she whispered, tenderly: “Now, that is a proper proposal, Cousland,” before finally, after all these years, kissing him. It was tender, slow, passionate, and over far too quickly, in their estimation, as Felix excitedly jumped up on the two of them and nearly knocked them over, simultaneously excited for his human and jealous to have been left out.

“We may continue after we win the Landsmeet,” Anora said, still nose to nose with him.

“And defeat the darkspawn,” Keegan agreed. They stepped back from one another, each clearing their throats, smoothing their coats, and composing themselves for bidding one another goodbye.

“Indeed,” Anora said, once again in business mode. “I shall see you soon. May the Maker watch over you.

“May He watch over us all,” Keegan agreed, giving one final bow before rejoining his group to head back to Redcliffe.

Erlina, who had obviouxly been eavesdropping, smiled to herself and reflected on the two of them. Though nothing untoward had happened, Erlina had felt that their secret correspondance over the years had been risky. She was happy to be wrong. 

As Keegan rejoined them, Fergus couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s happiness, though he cursed the jealousy he was feeling as he thought of Oriana and Oren. Nathaniel smiled as Keegan met his eyes, nodding at him. It seemed it was time for Nathaniel to find a wife as well.

Rayne Surana knew better than to bother Morrigan while she was studying Flemeth’s grimoire. He’d usually be an asset in the study of, well, anything, but only Morrigan’s daughter could hope to make any sense of Flemeth’s ciphers and codes, based, apparently, on ancient Elvish, Alamarri, Avvar, Ciriane and Tevene. While he was learning, her command of all of those languages save Tevene and perhaps Elvish far exceeded his own.

No, instead he was spending the short time he had before they began marching with his old friends from the Circle, Jaime Amell most of all. Years ago, they had a bet on who could go longer without cutting their hair. As a point of stubbornness, pride and pigheadedness, both of them let their hair get down to their waists. It wasn’t until the Warden-Commander ordered Rayne to cut his hair that he finally relinquished.

Properly pleased with his victory, Jaime had insisted that, as the loser, Rayne should cut his hair. The elf had no objections, and spent some time cutting his friend’s curly black hair to a manageable, just-past-his-ears, length. After that, the two of them had a bath, and Rayne was currently lazing about on a couch in a free bedroom in the castle while reading a book on dragon blood that one of the other parties recovered from Haven. Jaime was lying on the couch with his head on Rayne’s lap, and was holding Rayne’s free hand.

They discussed their time apart, Jaime’s aid in the reconstruction of the Circle and meeting with his sister, a member of the Collective. She was even in Redcliffe. They both agreed that, while she and a few of the others they had met were of fine character, much of the Collective seemed every bit as bad as the Chantry said. Not that Rayne was much better: he told Jaime about his adventures and their fight against Flemeth and about Curiosity, his spirit companion, though he hadn’t yet mentioned the blood magic.

Eventually, they came to the topic of Morrigan.

“She must be a witch, to have convinced you of all people to risk your life against Flemeth, of all things,” Jaime said quietly.

Rayne closed his book and put it on the table beside the couch, and then used his newly-unoccupied hand to start playing with Jaime’s hair.

“I’ve had to do some growing up, lately, Jaime. By the Creators, I might even call myself brave now.”

“Or, you’ve completely lost your mind,” Jaime responded.

“Or that,” Rayne agreed, leaning down and giving Jaime a quick kiss. “I do think you’ll like her though; you two do have a lot in common.”

Jaime looked up at him, mischieviously. “Is that so? And what is it that we have in common, exactly? Other than our affection for a handsome, know-it-all elf?”

“Well, you both hate the Circle, for one… Or, she does. You used to.”

“Still kind of do. Haven’t really decided.”

“Of course, that’s for after the Blight. Other than that, you’re both smart, and you’re both talented mages, and you both like shiny things. You both have dark hair, you’re both incredibly attractive…”

“Do go on, Surana,” said an acid voice as Morrigan appeared before them, shifting from one of the insects in the room to her human form. She had the grimoire under her arm, and her other hand on her fist. She did not look happy. The two men stood up, and Jaime walked over to her, extending a hand.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Morrigan. I’m Jaime Amell,” he said.

She considered his hand for a moment, and then made eye contact with Rayne, electing to ignore it, and Jaime, entirely. “‘Twould be a good idea for you and I talk, Surana. Alone,” she said derisively, finally making eye contact with Jaime, who had the good sense to leave the room after a glance.

When the door was closed, she walked towards Rayne, who stood up to greet her. And she did, in a manner… With a slap.

“Maker’s hairy armpit, what was that for?!” he asked, raising a hand to his cheek to heal the impact as he blinked back tears.

“Do you take me for a fool? The mage is attractive enough, in his way. I can see why you would find another man such as him desirable,” she explained, annoyed.

“I’m glad you agree. What’s your point?” Rayne asked innocently.

“My point is that you and I have shared a bed together. You slayed my mother for me. You wear my ring. It seems hardly fitting to have you doting upon another at the very same time, does it?”

“Wait, where is this coming from? I’ve known him almost my whole life, and it’s not the same with you as with him.”

Morrigan chuckled mirthlessly. “Of that I have no doubt. The crux of the matter is this: I do not share. You may do as you wish, but if you pursue another you may not also dally with me. I will not be where I am not valued. I simply wish to know where I stand.”

“You ‘do not share’?” he asked incredulously. “The first time we were together, you told me that you had ‘no designs on my independance’. When did that change? I did find Flemeth’s grimoire for you; I did help kill her for you. And you’ve been invaluable to us, and to me: your magic alone has been invaluable, but your knowledge, your expertise, the Archdemon blood… Morrigan, both of us have benefited from this relationship, and both of us have enjoyed it, I think. I truly and honestly had no idea you would feel… Jealous.”

Morrigan scoffed. “Jealousy? ’Tis not jealousy. I simply wish to know where it is we stand.”

“Until now, I thought we stood on fairly solid ground. I have a relationship with Jaime, and one with you, and I get different things from both. Jaime and I are in no hurry to run away and get married, and neither are the two of us— you want your freedom for its own sake, and I want my freedom to fight the Blight, and to keep learning. I have plans after the Blight, if we survive. I imagine you do as well. I have no desire to limit your plans, and I imagine you can say the same for mine.”

“And, should I find myself in the bed of another man, or even woman, you would have no issue?” Morrigan challenged him.

He shrugged, sitting down on the couch. She sat beside him, calming down a little bit, and ready to dialogue. “Of course not, as long as you were okay with it,” he said, letting the sentence hang in the air a little bit. “Look, in the outside world, a lot of people have relationships with just one person, but it isn’t the same in the Circle. We date, break up with and sleep with whoever we want, no matter who else we’re seeing. I’ve slept with half of the Circle mages here that are around my age. I thought, growing up in the Wilds, you had a similar approach to things. You’ve scorned human society’s rules before; I didn’t think this was any different, but I may have been wrong. I apologize,” he said, putting his hand on her’s as she swatted it away.

“And you do not see the problem here, the contradiction? If you care for him, how can you care for me in the same way?”

“It isn’t the same… Not exactly. But it’s similar enough. And there is no contradiction, Morrigan. Love— and I know you haven’t told me you return my feelings— but love is not a finite resource. It’s not something I can only share with a few people. I love Jaime. I love you. In the future, I might meet someone else that I love. It would break my heart if you couldn’t accept that, but I don’t think that I could agree to being with only you, nor do I have no desire to tie you down either.”

Morrigan and Rayne looked at one another, saying nothing for a few minutes as Morrigan considered and Rayne worried. Eventually, she broke her silence: “With all that we have done for one another, ’tis impossible to say that you are not committed to me, or that I am not committed to you. Yours’ is a perspective I had not considered… But I can see the wisdom in it, and the convenience.”

“Then?”

“Yes. At least for now, ’tis acceptable, though you would do well to inform me of any other partners in the future.”

“Agreed,” he said, smiling at her. “Now, can you please tell me what you’ve learned from the grimoire?”

Diala and Alistair awoke to a knock on their door. It was almost spring, but the cold winter air still made getting out of bed every morning a struggle. Other than his own and Connor’s, Arl Eamon made sure that Alistair had the best room in the castle, and Diala reaped those benefits.

“What is it?” Alistair called groggily, wiping his eyes.

“Five more minutes,” Diala croaked, pulling the covers over her head.

“It’s Dulin Forender, Senior Warden Alistair, and I am with Warden-Recruit Ilsa. We were hoping to speak with Lady Aeducan in private.”

Alistair and Diala looked at one another, both of them rolling their eyes. They quickly dressed, and Diala stumbled over to the door. “We have an hour until breakfast. What do you need?” she asked, yawning.

“Might we come in, Diala?” Ilsa asked, smiling conspiratorially.

Diala let the three of them in begrudgingly as Alistair flagged down a servant for tea. “Lady Aeducan, it is so good to see you!” Dulin exclaimed as the four of them sat on chairs around the breakfast table.

“I am an Aeducan no longer, Dulin. You know that as well as I do. What do the two of you need? We are not setting out for your Joining until after breakfast, and we are missing quite a few recruits.”

“Indeed, Diala,” Ilsa said. “But there is another matter we must discuss: we presume you have already heard, but the Warden-Commander and that brand, Brosca, crowned your brother. At this moment, he is securing his power by executing my family.”

“Senior Warden,” Diala corrected.

“Pardon?” Ilsa asked.

“Senior Warden Diala,” she repeated. Ilsa had always been overly familiar with her, and she hadn't minded it back home when they were children. Here, she was addressing a commanding officer, but still playing the part of a daughter of the Noble Caste.

“Right, Senior Warden Diala,” Dulin agreed as Ilsa frowned. “Senior Warden Diala, I assume you are as outraged as we about your brother’s crowning?”

She shrugged as Alistair looked at her uncertainly. “I’m certainly not happy about it,” she said. 

“Then we have some ideas!” Ilsa said.

“I don’t think I’d be interested, Recruit Ilsa. You are dismissed,” she said curtly.

“Dia— Senior Warden Diala, please reconsider,” Ilsa implored her. “Bhelen is wiping out our entire line. He killed your father, he had you exiled, he is destroying our caste system— it’s unnacceptable. There isn’t much we can do now, but if you help end the Blight, perhaps you can be declared a Paragon, and stop him,” she suggested.

“And before that, we can correct the insult to your honour that is the brand walking around a free man. We can at least take care of him,” Dulin suggested, certain that he was offering a service.

“Maker’s Breath, you can’t be serious!” Alistair interjected.

Diala, usually calmer than him, jumped to her feet, matching his anger and adding righteous indignation. “Did I hear you correctly, Recruits?! Did you just suggest that, during the first Blight Thedas has seen in hundreds of years, we kill a Senior Grey Warden for a petty personal grudge?!” 

The other dwarves sat there in silence for a moment, until Ilsa began sputtering, matching Diala’s indignation. “Ancestors, Diala, Bhelen’s killing our families! Maybe you don’t care about Orzammar anymore, but we still do! It’s a reasonable proposal.”

Diala inhaled, trying to contain her rage. Alistair tenderly put a hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her. She nodded at him, giving him permission to speak for her and deal with these recruits.

“Let me make this clear to you, recruits: you were recruited by the Commander out of mercy. Your lives before you were recruited don’t matter anymore. As of now, you live for killing darkspawn… And following your superiors’ orders. Senior Warden Brosca is your superior, and any threat on his life will be treated seriously, and reported to the Warden-Commander. She’s offered you mercy once— do you think she’ll offer it again?”

They both looked suitably cowed, and Diala smiled up at him, calming down and choosing her next words carefully.

“Recruits, understand this: I hate Bhelen as much as you do, but he’s the father of my nephew, and he outplayed me. Then he outplayed my father, and poor old Pyral, and now he is Orzammar’s king. It was regular dwarven politics, and you only object because you lost. If Pyral had won, it would be the Aeducans being wiped out right now.”

Before they offered a rebuttal, she continued: “But here’s the thing: Bhelen might change that. If Pyral had become king, Orzammar would do what it always does: play politics as our births continue to fall and our society collapses around us. Bhelen actually offers Orzammar a way to break that cycle, no matter how objectionable you and the rest of the traditionalists might find it. I didn’t see that when I was an Aeducan, and it took Mayrin a long time to show me just how wrong we have been about the casteless. Bhelen is a deepstalker, but he might be the deepstalker the dwarves need to lead us to the future. Now, if there is nothing else, you are both dismissed. I will see you for your Joining outside the castle gates half an hour after breakfast is served.”

Mercy made her way to Arl Eamon’s study with Jowan at her side. When she was in Orzammar at the Warden Compound, she had found a large, drake scale trenchcoat that she had had adjusted to her size, and had a silver griffon pin over her heart. Under that, she wore a silver doublet, black trousers and black leather boots. Jowan was in his Grey Warden mage attire and staff, trying to look as official and as confident as possible. They agreed it would be better to present Jowan to Eamon than to hide him away and pretend as though nothing happened; his conscription had been quite public, after all.

She knocked confidently on his door. “Yes?” came a brusque response from the other side.

“Arl Eamon, it is Warden-Commander Hissera and Warden Jowan, here for our meeting.”

She heard footsteps as Arl Eamon opened the door to greet them. “Warden-Commander, it is good to see you,” he said, having a seat behind his desk. “Please, sit,” he insisted, smiling at Mercy and pointedly disregarding Jowan.

“It is good to see you looking well, Arl Eamon. I am happy that we could finally have this meeting,” she responded, having a seat on one chair as Jowan sat to her left.

“The first of many,” he said, chuckling.

“Perhaps,” she responded, returning none of his warmth.

Eamon cleared his throat, smiling jovially and ignoring her mood. “Indeed. Well, the first matter that needs discussion, I believe, is Jowan,” he said, looking at the mage the way a noble looks at a peasant who crossed him, in a manner that said Eamon thought of Jowan as being already dead.

“Indeed. Warden Jowan has a few things that he needs to say,” she responded.

The Arl looked at Jowan expectantly and leaned back in his chair. Jowan cringed a little bit, and then cleared his throat nervously.

“Arl Eamon, I know that no words will ever make up for what I did to you or your family, or the people of Redcliffe. My actions nearly killed you and your family, and condemned many of your people to death. I know that I can never truly apologize for what I have done, but… I hope that my efforts against the Blight might begin to make up for my mistakes, in your eyes and the Maker’s.”

Eamon sat in silence for a moment, and his expression did not change. “I thank you for your words, Jowan. However, while the Maker may find it in His heart to forgive you, Jowan, I cannot,” he said gravely, turning to Mercy. “There needs to be a discussion about Jowan’s future.”

“Jowan is a Grey Warden. What else needs to be discussed?” she asked flatly as Jowan cringed on his chair.

“I am told that you conscripted Jowan to spare him from Redcliffe or the Circle’s justice.”

“I recruited Jowan because every new Warden we have is an asset against the Blight, particularly mages,” Mercy responded.

Eamon considered for a moment, and then looked at Jowan. “Jowan, you poisoned me on Loghain’s orders. You taught my son magic in secret, and he became possessed by a demon trying to save me from your poison. It is because of you that so many in Redcliffe are without a mother, a father or a child.”

“Arl Eamon, I am truly sorry. I cannot apologize enough. I am doing what I can to make up for my actions. Teyrn Loghain saved me from the templars, and it was your wife hired me. I am sorry for poisoning you, but I thought I could trust Teyrn Loghain. He’s a hero… Or he was.”

“Whatever you thought, you must now contend with the consequences of your actions,” Eamon said, as casually as one discusses the weather.

“Must he, Arl Eamon?” Mercy asked. “Those crimes were committed before he was a Grey Warden. He has apologized. He is making up for his actions every day.”

“I understand that the Right of Conscription is absolute, however—“ he began.

“Oh, you do understand. Then I suppose this discussion is at a close,” Mercy said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair.

“Warden-Commander, I am requesting your discretion in this matter. He may be beyond our reach, but he is not beyond the reach of the Commander of the Grey. He is a blood mage, and too dangerous to have in your service.”

“Maker, Arl Eamon, this is not the hill to die on. Jowan helped us stop the undead, and helped us free Connor. As a Warden, he has aided us in killing countless darkspawn and saving even more lives. More than that, he lost an arm to help kill Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, a creature from childrens’ tales! As a Grey Warden, he is working every day to atone for what he did in a place where his skills can be put to use, instead of being put to death for petty revenge. He, however, is not the person who kept her son’s magic a secret and hired a maleficar to tutor him. No, that person is not a Grey Warden, or out of reach of the Chantry’s justice,” she said, with steel in her voice.

Eamon glared at her, challenging her, but she did not blink. “Warden-Commander, are you threatening my wife?”

“Arl Eamon, I am confirming that you understand the place of Grey Wardens in Ferelden, particularly during time of Blight. Jowan is a Warden, and he will die a Warden, fighting darkspawn either now in the Blight or later in the Deep Roads… Just like the rest of us. And then only the Maker may judge him. If you had any intentions otherwise, Arl Eamon, I strongly suggest that you set them aside,” she said, and then turned to Jowan, smiling. “Warden Jowan, you are dismissed.”

“Thank you, Warden-Commander. Maker watch over you, Arl Eamon,” he said, bowing to Mercy and then to Arl Eamon before making himself scarce.

“I suppose, now that the matter is settled, let us move onto the business at hand: the Landsmeet,” Eamon suggested, conceding defeat and already thinking about his next move.

“Indeed. I will trust your guidance there; my experience with Fereldan politics before the Blight consisted of meeting Arl Wulff and his family once or twice when they visited our freehold.”

“Of course, Warden-Commander. We will set out for Denerim tomorrow morning, with our armies and half of the nobility in Ferelden in tow. Your companion Lord Cousland did well in gathering allies in the months prior to this, and your alliances with Arls Wulff and Bryland will prove quite fortuitous, if you can keep them. Lord Cousland saw that we have no time to wage a campaign against Loghain. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance of fighting the darkspawn. Which is why we need a strong candidate to resolve the succession crisis. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daugther, the queen.”

“That is what my more politically-minded friends have told me. Is there a problem with Queen Anora?”

Eamon stifled a guffaw, and then cleared his throat. “Anora was a capable administrator for Cailan’s lands, but she has not a drop of royal blood. We did not fight the Orlesians all those years just to lose our royal line in a single generation. Not when there’s a surviving son of the blood. And if she is as ill as Loghain says, I fear the burden of ruling Ferelden would be too much for her.”

“You are referring to Alistair?” Mercy asked.

“I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred.”

“Alistair would be the first to tell you that he would be a terrible king, and he has no desire to wear the crown.”

“Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem no better than Loghain. Alistair’s claim is by blood.”

“But what about Alistair? Does anyone care what he wants?” Mercy asked.

“Alistair has a responsibility. Without him, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what Alistair wants? Is that what the Grey Wardens want?”

“Well, I care what Alistair wants, and so do the rest of his companions. He has no desire to be king, or training to support him; you and the Arlessa made sure of that. I have been educated on this recently, but, while Alistair is Maric’s son and the only surviving Therein, he is not the only surviving relation of the Thereins. The Couslands, the Howes, and the Brylands all have Therein blood. Furthermore, Lords Fergus, Keegan and Nathaniel, as well as Lady Edna, are all trueborn children, whereas Alistair is a bastard. They have all been trained and educated as nobility are, and could serve very well as Kings or Queens.”

“You have been doing your reading, Warden-Commander. I suppose all of those could be acceptable to the Landsmeet, but any of those candidates will lose votes for petty jealousy. Even before the Blight, a Howe could never be crowned King of Ferelden. Rendon made sure of that after the Rebellion. No. The safest and most unifying choice would be Alistair.”

“I see. There is a slight wrinkle in your proposal, however: Alistair is a Grey Warden, and Grey Wardens cannot be Kings and Queens. What about if Anora were to marry a Cousland? If she recovers from supposed her illness, would that not be an even better alternative? Might she agree?”

“If it lets her hold onto her power, certainly. It would be popular with the Landsmeet, as well. But Ferelden has not held the Wardens in much esteem these past centuries, and we have always struck our own path. His being Maric’s son is more important than his being a Warden.”

“I see. Well, you are the expert,” Mercy said. “I still insist that we talk with Alistair, and with the Couslands. Maker willing, I think we might find a good solution for all of them, all of us, and all of Ferelden.”

“Only time will tell, Warden-Commander,” Eamon responded, electing to reopen this matter for discussion at a later date. “May the Maker watch over you in this troubled time.”

“May He watch over us all.”

Chapter Text

Dulin Forender was fuming. How could Diala spurn them so? How could she care so little about her home, about her ‘Uncle Pyral’? How could she care so little about the Harrowmonts and their retainers, and care so much about that stone-damned brand Brosca? Even if she could abide the insult that was this piece of filth continuing to draw breath, he could not. And he would be remiss in his duty to the Harrowmont family if he did not ensure that Lady Ilsa and Lord Renvil were as comfortable as they could be, without the brand reminding them what he had cost them all.

Dulin had been a bit of a rogue in his younger days, a trickster. He still had his old lockpicks, and could be light on his feet if the situation required. He and Ilsa met with the traitor Diala and her human lover before the castle was really awake just in case things went wrong, and they had. But he still had time to do what was needed. He still had time to redeem himself, and die a hero.

Changing into his leathers and ensuring he was alone in the castle hallway, Dulin knelt outside the brand’s room and pressed his ear to the door. It was quiet; all he could hear was the brand’s steady breathing and his own. He was lucky human doors were less sturdy than dwarven ones. Almost impossible to hear anything through a dwarven door.

The locks were not great quality, and Dulin’s lockpicks got him through in seconds. He quietly opened the door and tip-toed in, quickly taking stock of his surroundings. All of the curtains were closed and the room was nearly black, but he could still see the brand dozing lazily on a bed that was far too good for the likes of him.

Dulin drew his dagger, and quietly stepped forward. He’d end this in a single strike, better than Bhelen would have ever given him. Better than the brand deserved, really. As he approached the bed, he raised the dagger over his head… Only for it to clatter to the ground, along with the hand that had been holding it. It took him a moment to process what happened, but when he did, the pain was almost unbearable.

He screamed, grabbing his new stump with his hand as he fell to the ground in pain, trying to stop the blood from from spurting out of his wound. He rolled onto his back, and looked up at a tan, blonde elf, wielding a fine longsword and completely naked. Dulin continued to scream, and the elf kneeled downwards, and put a single finger on the dwarf’s lips. 

“Shh, shh, shh, mister Forender,” the elf said with a thick Antivan accent. From behind him, the brand stepped forward, apparently not having been sleeping at all. “A proud scion of the great House Forender should face his death with dignity,” he continued, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Please! I’m sorry, I—“ Dulin began, begging.

“I am afraid your sorries will not carry you very far here,” the elf said. “Be thankful that you know who killed you. My dear Warden wanted to make sure that you saw our faces. His face.”

Dulin looked up at Mayrin, pleading. “Please, Brosca…”

Mayrin crossed his arms, and frowned. “You were shown mercy once, Forender. I’m afraid you don’t get a second chance. Do it, Zev.”

“Certainly, my dear Warden. And with unadulterated pleasure.”

The last thing Dulin Forender saw was Zevran Arainai’s wide smile as the elf slowly, happily, drew his sword across the dwarf’s throat. He was no hero, and would not strengthen the Stone upon his return. Dulin Forender died a traitor and an oathbreaker, shaming his family, his friends, his lord and House Forender forever with this final, desperate and fruitless act.

Evelyn Tabris had been summoned to Bann Alfstanna’s chambers for breakfast this morning, and she was both excited to and dreading seeing the woman again. She was shown in, and made her way out the balcony, where she was greeted first by Angus, Alfstanna’s mabari, and then by the woman herself. Angus barked and jumped and licked excitedly as Eve crouched down to give him the scratches and snuggles he never seemed to tire of.

“Very well, Angus, that’s enough,” Alfstanna said kindly. She outstretched her hands to give Eve a hug. As Eve stood up, she pretended not to see Alfstanna flinch at her new vallaslin, and returned her hug, if a bit less enthusiastically than she would have a moment ago.

Eve sat down opposite Alfstanna, and took sip of her tea as Angus plopped down onto her feet to get back to his morning nap (not to be confused with his late morning nap, or his early morning nap).

“It is wonderful to see you again, Lady Tabris,” Alfstanna said genuinely. Despite her feelings about Eve’s new tattoos, Alfstanna still treated her better than any noble in Denerim ever had.

“And you, Bann Alfstanna,” she responded.

“That pleases me to hear,” the other woman said. “Now, before we attend to other business I must ask you: is it true that you found the resting place of the Prophet?!”

“It’s true,” Eve said. “Truth be told, I didn’t do much of the finding, just the fighting.”

“I had heard there was fighting. So unfortunate. Still, tell me about your journey!”

And so she did, and Alfstanna hung on every word. The cult, the temple, Genitivi, Father Elrik… The dragon. She left out the details, but the description of the Gauntlet— secondhand as it was for Eve— was more than enough to satisfy Alfstanna and make up for any missing details about the dragon fight.

“That is… Remarkable,” she said with genuine wonder. “I must make the pilgrimmage myself when the Blight is over… If we are successful. I can’t help but think… Eremon would have loved it.”

“He would, my lady,” Eve agreed. The two of them sipped on their tea and scratched Angus a little bit more, before Alfstanna continued the conversation.

“Now, I must ask. You have… Well, you… Your face has…” she struggled, trying to come up with a way not to offend. She didn’t find one, but Eve appreciated the effort.

“My new vallaslin? Thank you for noticing,” Eve said, ignoring Alfstanna’s discomfort. “They venerate Andruil, the elven goddess of the hunt.”

“I… See,” Alfstanna said. “I know that some of your companions are Dalish— did they— do you… Do you no longer believe in the Maker?”

“Some of my companions are Dalish, and while one was definitely trying to convert me, the other respected my beliefs, and happily provided some of her own. I still believe in the Maker, but, well, I think I believe in the Creators as well.”

“The Creators… Are the Dalish gods, right? There is room in your heart for both?” Alfstanna asked, trying to hide her incredulity.

“Yeah, I think so. One of my Dalish companions has begun praying to the Maker, too, along with the Creators. A bit of give and take.”

That seemed to mollify Alfstanna somewhat. “That is certainly unorthodox, but it gladdens me to hear of the Chant spread to even some of the Dalish. My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.”

Eve nodded politely, smiling. She only knew a few verses of the Chant, and couldn’t recall them with the same accuracy all of the humans around her seemed to. 

“That brings me to the last thing I wanted to discuss, Lady Tabris,” Alfstanna said, even more visibly uncomfortable now.

“It’s Jowan, isn’t it?” Eve responded.

“Jowan is the name of the blood mage who poisoned Arl Eamon, yes? That is indeed what I wished to discuss. Your Commander has seen fit to make him a Grey Warden?” 

“She has. I agree: I didn’t like it either, but he seems to be really working to make up for what he did. It’s better he can help some people as a Warden than die for nothing, right?”

“I would usually agree, but… He is the reason Eremon is dead, the reason so many here in Redcliffe are missing family members. But more than that, he is a blood mage, a maleficar. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond. You may think he is trying to atone, but cannot trust him. He might have you in your thrall right now, or your commander! He might even be working with the Archdemon! He can’t be allowed to live!”

Eve would have thought the same thing before the Blight. It just now struck her how little most people— the nobility included— knew about magic, and mages. Even if he were controlling the Wardens… Why would he work with the Archdemon? It made no sense. Thinking about it for more than even a few seconds highlighted just how absurd it sounded.

“The Grey Wardens do not forbid blood magic, my lady. And we have our own mages who know how to guard against blood magic. Nonetheless, thank you for your concern,” she responded.

Alfstanna took another sip, and considered, studying Eve’s face carefully. Seeing no weakness, she relented.

“Very well, Lady Tabris. I simply ask that you treat him with caution, and that you never fully extend him your trust. He is a blood mage, and will always be dangerous, no matter what he says. From what I have heard, this Jowan is a weak man. Eremon always said that it is the weakest mages that are most vulnerable to possession. He could become possessed and not even realize it, and jeopardize our efforts against the Blight. For all of our sakes, I only ask that you watch him closely, and be prepared to strike if the worst occurs.”

“That’s… A reasonable request, my lady,” she said genuinely. Jowan could still be a danger, she supposed. It seemed Alfstanna knew more about magic than Eve believed. “Thanks for the advice. Really. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

“That is all I ask, Lady Tabris. Thank you. Eremon is at the Maker’s side, and I would hate to see you join him so soon.”

Sten, Mercy, and Mayrin left Dwyn’s home with their prize and walked in silence until they could find somewhere private to talk. Sten held Asala in his hand with the same reverance with which Cadoc had cradled Andraste’s Ashes. The qunari examined his blade for flaws, knicks, alterations or any signs of tampering, but was eventually satisfied, and then turned to his three companions. 

“Thank you for agreeing to come with me to see the dwarf. I fear I would not have been able to restrain myself were I alone,” Sten said.

“Of course, Sten. Thank you for trusting us to join you,” Mercy said.

He didn’t respond, staring quietly at his sword once again. “Strange. I had almost forgotten it. Completion. Are you sure you are a Grey Warden?” he asked Mercy, almost smiling. “I think you must be an ashkaari, to find a single lost blade in a country at war.”

Mercy smiled as well, understanding that this was one of the highest compliments Sten could have paid her. 

“You’re welcome, Sten,” she responded.

“I would thank you for this, if I knew how,” Sten responded, nodding at her.

“What will you do now?” Mayrin asked, confused but happy to have been asked to come along.

“My sword is in my hand again. I should put it to use,” he responded. “And I could deliver a much more satisfying question to the Arishok’s question if the Blight were ended, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Mercy responded.

“Then lead the way… Kadan.”

The practice yard was seeing a lot of use today, and First Enchanter Irving found it all rather fascinating. In the months since the Grey Wardens dealt with the demon infestation in the Circle, Irving, Greagoir and the rest of the survivors spent their time repairing, rebuilding and training. During that time, he and a few other enchanters had, after defeating yet another demon, discovered Yusaris, a Fereldan greatsword of legend. As a symbol of their alliance and his gratitude, he gifted it to the Grey Wardens upon his arrival. It had been given to the young dwarven woman, Diala, who was currently sparring against another dwarven Warden, Mayrin. If the rumours could be believed, his sword was forged from a star.

Also in the practice yard that day were Sten and Cadoc, Eve and Zevran, and Oghren and Shokrakar. 

“You have improved, Warden,” Sten said to Cadoc as he knocked aside the human’s greataxe with asala. “But still you lack purpose.”

Beside them, Eve and Zevran were dancing dizzingly in a flash of daggers and acrobatics. both enjoying the ability to practice together again. “My dear Eve, if you wanted face tattoos, you should have come to me first!” he called as he dodged a stab from Eve.

“Merrill needed the practice,” Eve said, kicking Zevran in the chest as he rolled backwards and landed on his knees. “And I’m not sure your tattoos count as vallaslin.”

He charged towards her again, laughing wildly as he slashed. She parried, but he went in on the other hand towards her abdomen, stopping just before making contact. “I believe that means I’ve won, my dear,” Zevran gloated.

“Check again,”  she said, nodding at the dagger she was holding up to his neck on the other side. 

“Braska! We’re too evenly matched!” Zevran laughed as they sheathed their weapons and shook hands. “By the way, I have been meaning to ask: how did your tattoos heal so fast? Ancient, Dalish secrets us flat-ears are too uncivilized to understand?”

Eve shrugged, holding her hand up again to her golden Andruil vallaslin with pride, still barely believing it was there. “Never had a tattoo, so I’m not sure, but it has something to do with the process. They aren’t tattoos in the traditional sense, I don’t think… Plus, Lanaya healed me after. Dalish healing magic is just like any other.”

“I see. Well, if you ever want any more, please do let me know. Particularly if they’re in those hard-to-reach areas.”

“Noted,” Eve responded, shoving him playfully. “How’s your better, shorter half, doing, by the way?”

The two of them sat on a bench as Zevran took out some bread, ripped it in half, and passed the other half to Eve. They watched as their companions continued to practice, Diala nearly taking off Mayrin’s head with a horizontal slash of Yusaris.

“I think you can see just how he’s doing, my dear,” Zevran said, chuckling.

“Is she still mad?” Eve asked.

“What? That we crowned the man who got her exiled, killed her brother and likely her father, and is going to exterminate a whole house of people with whom she grew up?”

“Yeah, that.”

“She’s actually taking it better than we thought. She broke my dear Warden’s nose when she found out, of course, but, with Wynne’s healing, it only served to make him more ruggedly handsome. No, she has mostly put Orzamamar behind her. When Mr. Brosca explained why, she actually agreed with him… But, at the same time, we still crowned the man who killed her family,” he explained, shrugging. “Hard to get over, you know.”

“And they’re working it out now, with their swords?”

“They are indeed, my dear.”

Aelizia, Alistair, Diala, Eve, Bethany and Mayrin were waiting a day out of Redcliffe in an abandoned cottage for the recruits to arrive. It was quaint, if a bit dusty… If you could ignore the broken windows and rotting roof, as well as the suspicious object they had on the kitchen table, covered by a blanket. The newest Warden, Aelizia, would prepare the potion and lead the recruits to find the darkspawn, and Diala and Alistair would help with the ceremony itself. They were uncertain of how many recruits they would get but, just in case, they were there as added protection. Bethany was just there to help kill some darkspawn.

This Joining would be for more than just their dwarven recruits: if reports were to be believed, there were a few humans, Dalish and even members of the Circle who wished to Join them. The first to arrive were the Dalish, two hunters who were inside the cottage before the Wardens even realized they were there.

One was a man and the other a woman, and they were in matching hunting leathers. The man, whose name was Alaros, had long black hair tied into a high ponytail, pale skin and grey eyes. He was tall, especially for an elf, and very thin. He was quiet and serious, and Eve remarked that his obsidian vallaslin venerated Ghilan’nain, Mother of Halla. Almost his complete opposite, the woman was named Vanweyna, and was a ball of sunshine: bubbly, friendly, and with an easy laugh. She had brown, curly hair, green eyes and light brown skin, and was short and on the plumper side. Her vallaslin venerated Falon’din. They had both lost a loved one to darkspawn, and figured the Grey Wardens could make use of them.

Next, their recruits from the Circle arrived. One was a young man named Kinnon, who, taking a liking to fighting darkspawn here with the army, had elected to join the Wardens. With him was a templar in her 30s or 40s named Branwen. She had greying light brown hair, pale, weathered skin and a blue eyes. Alistair was surprised the two of them were allowed to Join, until he learned that they didn’t actually tell Knight-Commander Greagoir or the First Enchanter. Alistair had to laugh.

The human recruits came next, all from various lords’ armies. One, a crossbowman, had blonde hair and a blonde beard, was in his 40s, and served in Arl Eamon’s employ until he decided to Join the Wardens. He was named Cillian, and with him was his wife, also a soldier in the Arl’s army, and a member of the infantry. She was named Carbry. Lastly, there was a young redhead, likely not yet 20, who was joining out of necessity. He was a soldier in Arl Wulff’s employ named Colm who had become tainted, and chose to join the Wardens rather than die of the taint. He wielded a sword and shield.

The dwarves, Ilsa and Renvil Harrowmont, arrived last, Ilsa completely out of sorts. “I apologize, Diala, but we were delayed.”

“Senior Warden Diala,” Alistair corrected her again.

“Right, Senior Warden Diala. We have been unable to locate Dulin,” Ilsa said, glaring at Mayrin, who appeared not to notice. 

“No matter,” Diala responded. “Nine recruits are enough. Have a seat,” she said, motioning them to some of the remaining chairs.

“Welcome, Warden-Recruits. For those who I have not had the pleasure of meeting, my name is Senior Warden Diala. With me are Senior Wardens Alistair, Mayrin and Eve, as well as our newest Warden, Aelizia. We are excited to welcome you as our brother and sister Wardens. It is encouraging to see that we have human soldiers, Dalish hunters, dwarven warriors, and even members of the Circle here with us today. You have chosen to Join a noble and storied order… But I must warn you, life with the Wardens is not like the stories. The Joining itself is an ordeal, and often lethal in and of itself. After that, while you may put your old life behind you, nobody leaves the Grey Wardens. It is heroic life, and rewarding, but it’s also a hard life, full of horror and fighting. If you survive the Joining, you will likely still die fighting darkspawn, or alone in the Deep Roads, killed by monsters from bedtime stories.”

“The fulcrum of true evil,” Mayrin added sarcastically, chuckling to no one but himself.

“It is worth it to defend the world against the Blight,” Branwen, the templar, said resolutely. Not everyone looked as resolute as her.

Diala looked at Alistair, and nodded. He stepped forward, and ripped the blanket dramatically off the kitchen table, unveiling what was sitting there: Dulin Forender’s rotting body, Aelizia’s magic helping to mask the smell. 

The dwarven recruits jumped to their feet, Ilsa demanding: “Dulin?! What happened to him?! The brand must have killed him, Diala! Don’t you see?”

Mayrin laughed. “No, I didn’t kill him. The elf I’m sleeping with did, though, after good old Dulin here tried to assassinate me.”

Ilsa’s eyes went wide, and she sat down at Renvil’s urging. “Dulin Forender here died in horrible pain, clutching that stump there and screaming as Zev cut his throat and he choked on his own blood.”

Bethany spoke now, for the first time. “Still, I’d prefer that to being torn apart and raped to death by darkspawn, which is what will happen if you’re a woman and they capture you. All the men have to deal with is being eaten alive.”

It was Diala’s turn again. “The Grey Wardens are out of reach of Chantry and civil justice, but that means that we just dispense our own. Dulin Forender is a traitor, an oathbreaker, and an embarrassment to his entire house. Rather than obey his superiors, he attempted to assassinate a Senior Warden,” she said, looking at Ilsa. “He will weaken the Stone upon his return, and will thus be put to the pyre. This is what lies in store for those who betray our order, or tell our secrets. After the Joining begins, there can be no turning back. Any who wish to back out now can so freely, but only now.”

The Wardens regarded their recruits seriously. Ilsa and Renvil had been conscripted, but the rest of them— except the tainted young recruit— were free to go. They couldn’t say they weren’t warned. Kinnon nervously cleared his throat, and stood up. “I apologize, Grey Wardens. I had thought that— well, Maker, I don’t believe I’m cut out for this.”

Diala nodded and smiled. “We completely understand, Kinnon. Have a good trip back to Redcliffe.”

He smiled at the templar, and gave the Wardens a bow before nearly running out the door. 

“Damn. Always hate to lose a mage,” Eve whispered to Alistair. 

“He wouldn’t have made it anyways,” Mayrin whispered up at her.

“Who can say? Jowan did,” Eve joked.

The rest of the recruits stuck around, Vanweyna even remarking, happily: “I’m not leaving! We’ll be killing darkspawn, and we’ll be even better at it than we are now! Falon’din will see us through this ‘Joining’ ritual, I have no doubt!”

“Or to our graves,” Alaros remarked fatalistically, but not with any despair.

The recruits were briefed on their mission: there were darkspawn stragglers near. They were to kill them, take a vial of their blood, and report back. Bethany would lead their mission. The dwarves seemed unsurprised at the mission, and the elves intrigued. The humans were afraid, the couple of soldiers almost terrified. But nobody objected.

The party set out, and the Wardens got to work burning Dulin’s body with Aelizia’s help. They began to prepare some stew, knowing the recruits who survived would be ravenous upon awakening.

“How many do you think will make it, Senior Warden Alistair?” Aelizia asked. Diala was still working on controlling her snickering when she heard Aelizia’s accent.

“Only the Maker knows. May He watch over them,” Alistair said seriously.

“May the Stone keep them,” Diala agreed.

“And may the Creators guide their step,” Eve added. “In war, victory.”

“In peace, vigilance,” Mayrin continued. Then, the lot of them together finished the oath.

“In death, sacrifice.”

Bann Alfstanna was on her way to meet the Warden-Commander, her chief lieutenants, the nobility of Ferelden, and the rest of the leaders of the alliance before the Landsmeet. On her way to the Council chambers, a voice called out to her.

“Alfstanna, is that you? Could you come in here for a moment please?” 

It was Arl Eamon, calling from his study.

“Certainly, Eamon,” she responded, stepping into his study. He rose to greet her, shaking her hand kindly.

“I’m grateful that you ventured so far south for our alliance, even when I was indisposed.”

“No thanks are necessary, Eamon. I’ve seen firsthand the horrors of the Blight, and what Loghain is capable of.”

“Indeed. That is what I wished to discuss before we spoke with the Council. While no one is questioning the Grey Wardens’ heroism, or their expertise in fighting a Blight, I have some concerns about their membership, and perhaps their even leadership.”

“You speak of Jowan, the blood mage? We may be of one mind on this,” Alfstanna offered, closing the door behind her and taking a seat on the chair in front of the desk.

The recruits returned, and Aelizia began to prepare the Joining potion. She was using the chalice Diala and Alistair located with their party when they were in Ostagar, the one that Rayne and Mercy used for their Joining. The tension in the air was palpable, but none of the recruits had been felled in their Joining. Now came the hard part. They agreed that Branwen was their most likely recruit to survive, and chose her first.

“Branwen, please step forward,” Diala said. Branwen reached down and took the chalice from her without a hint of hesitation. She took a sip, and handed it back to Diala. Her eyes went white, and she fell backwards into Alistair’s arms, catching her and setting her down gently.

“She lives,” he said, smiling.

“Vanweyna, step forward,” Diala said. 

The elven huntress took the chalice excitedly, gulping down a sip of the formula and handing it back to Diala. Like the templar, her eyes went white, and she fell backwards, Alistair catching her as he did Branwen.

“And so does she,” he said, smiling wider as Diala turned to Alaros.

“Alaros, step forward,” she said. He obliged, with the same stern expression on his face. After passing the chalice back to Diala, he grabbed his throat, clawing at it as he coughed and hacked and collapsed to the ground, dead in an instant.

“I am sorry, Alaros,” Diala said. The nervous energy was coming to a boiling point now, and the Wardens were all coiled tightly, prepared for any eventuality.

“Ilsa, step forward,” Diala repeated. The dwarf, too, survived. Diala was happy about that. At least the Harrowmonts would live on in her, if not Renvil as well.

“Renvil, step forward,” she asked. Like Branwen, Renvil was an older warrior, who had seen and been through a lot. He did not balk, and took a full-throated gulp of the potion. Like his grand niece, he survived, and was laid down gently by Alistair. The Wardens were happy about that: he would make a great Warden.

The humans were last. First, the young lad named Colm. Unfortunately, he did not survive the Joining. Next was the crossbowman, named Cillian. He and his wife, Corbry, were noticeably nervous.

“Cillian, step forward,” Diala said. Nothing happened. “Cillian, step forward,” she repeated. Again, nothing happened. Cillian looked at his wife, nodded, and reached for his crossbow as his wife leapt out the window. He has dead before he got his finger on the trigger, Bethany frying him with a lightning bolt. 

“I’ve got her,” Eve said sadly as she jumped out the window and threw a dagger at the fleeing woman. It hit the back of her head with a dull thump and she fell to the ground. “Maker. Killing darkspawn feels much better than that did,” she said as she dragged the body back to the cabin.

“Joinings are never a happy occasion,” Alistair said. “But that was awful.”

“Still,” Mayrin said. “Branwen, Vanweyna, Ilsa, and Renvil. That’s two dwarves, a Dalish hunter, and a templar. Could have gone a lot worse.”

“We still lost four of them. Could have been better, too. But no matter: Alistair, find some untainted ground to bury Alaros. Bethany, please have Eve and Mayrin prepare the pyre for Colm, Cillian and Corbry. I shall record all of their names for our records. Aelizia, they should be awakening soon. Prepare their meals.”

The Wardens nodded, and set about carrying out their tasks with as much alacrity as possible. Diala prepared herself for the unpleasantness of telling their new brother and sisters about the harsh realities of being a Grey Warden: the hunger, the dreams, the Calling, the killing of an archdemon, and, of course, Broodmothers. 

A few months ago, Bella was working unbelievable hours for a useless idiot who spent his day sleeping or groping her. After the Wardens and their friends saved the village, she became the owner of the tavern. Things were good, better than they had ever been. Now, Bann Teagan had asked for her hand in marriage. What was she to say? She had always envied the nobles, and now she might become one. But she wanted to give the matter the thought it required; she enjoyed running the tavern, after all!

Word around town was that the nobles and the armies were marching on Denerim tomorrow morning for the Landsmeet… And the tavern certainly reflected that. It was filled to the brim with patrons of all colours and stripes: elves, dwarves, humans, some qunari, and even an Orlesian or two. There was one particular red-headed dwarf that had been responsible for a quarter of her sales tonight, and he showed no signs of stopping. 

In the tavern, there were Couslands and Howes and Eremons and Brylands. There were Aeducans and Harrowmonts and carta thugs and golems. There were city and Dalish elves. There were soldiers and hunters. There were mages and templars. There was even an Orlesian mage. And they all had two things in common: they were all drunk off their asses, and they were all enraptured by the red-headed Orlesian woman performing an old Fereldan tavern song: Andraste’s Mabari. If there was one thing an Orlesian could do to ingratiate herself to a room full of Fereldans, it was sing Andraste’s Mabari.

You know Andraste 's old mabari .
He don't show up in the Chant .
And if you ask those holy sisters,
Well, they'll say Andraste can't
Have had some big old smelly wardog.
But all Ferelden knows it right:
Our sweet Lady needed someone
Who would warm her feet at night.

At a table with some Grey Wardens, Enid Mahariel snuggled up to Merrill, taking the moment of happiness where she could, still kicking herself at taking so long to realize what Merrill meant to her, and what she meant to Merrill. Though neither of them knew the song, they had to admit it was catchy.

And there's Andraste's mabari
By the Holy Prophet's side.
In the fight against Tevinter ,
That dog would never hide.
They say the Maker sent him special,
Always loyal, without pride,
So he could be the sworn companion
Of the Maker's Holy Bride.

Diala and Alistair, at the same table, were just as close. Diala was trying her best not to laugh as Alistair screamed along with the rest of the tavern, pouring his heart out to Andraste’s Mabari. Beside them, Oghren finished another tankard and belched, before snuggling up to Ilsa, who had thankfully survived her Joining. She kicked the chair out from under him, and then kicked him in his unmentionables. Renvil only nodded in approval.

Oh, that dog, he guards Andraste
Without arrogance or fear,
Only asking of his mistress
Just a scratch behind the ears.
But then old Maf'rath gets to plotting,
Tries to lure that dog away.
But even as they trap the Prophet,
Her mabari never strays.

Rayne, Jowan and Branwen were sitting with Jaime, Mel, Kinon and some other Circle mages. Torrin, Wynne, and even First Enchanter Irving had joined them, happy to eat and drink as peers with the students they’d known since they were children. Irving was shocked that Branwen had joined the Wardens, and could not wait to see Greagoir’s reaction when he found out. The Circle mages were polite enough not to comment on Marian Amell’s apostacy. Garahel and Spot, Rayne and Mel’s mabari hounds, were enjoying the song even more than the rest of the people, barking when appropriate to the song, to the delight of the all of the bar’s occupants, Bella included.

And there's Andraste's mabari
By the Holy Prophet's side.
In the fight against Tevinter,
That dog would never hide.
They say the Maker sent him special,
Always loyal, without pride,
So he could be the sworn companion
Of the Maker's Holy Bride.

Aelizia leaned over to Zevran who was sitting at a table with Mayrin, Shokrakar, Nathaniel and Eve. She asked the elf: “This is surely a Fereldan fiction, non? I have never heard of Andraste having a mabari.”

“Almost certainly, my dear, but I don’t think you want to insult the dog lords any more than I do,” he whispered back. Felix, Keegan’s mabari, looked back at the two of them and narrowed his eyes.

“I think the dog heard you two. Watch out,” Mayrin warned, whispering over at the two of them. “Watch out.”

Oh they thought the wounds had killed him,
But then he limped out toward the fire.
And Hessarian , he shed a tear,
As that dog laid on the pyre.

Cadoc sat with his siblings, as well as Nathaniel Howe, the Cousland brothers and Sten. Shale stood behind the table; they were not in Orzammar, and it was difficult to find a chair to support the golem.

“I am surprised that you appreciate the minstrel’s songs, qunari,” Aeron Wulff remarked to Sten. Unlike Cadoc, who had travelled with Sten for months, the eldest Wulff brother had had little interaction with the qunari until now. Before Sten responded, Keegan put on his best serious Sten face, and said, with in his best serious Sten impression: “The bard shows mastery. The qun demands that her mastery should be celebrated, no matter how historically inaccurate her song may be.”

The table burst out laughing, all save for Fergus Cousland, Cadoc and Sten himself. Cadoc was offended for some odd reason, and Fergus Cousland was lost in thought, still grieving. Sten merely grunted: “I do not understand the humour in this. It is as he says.”

“Shall I squish the noble brat for its impudence, Sten?” Shale rumbled. At that, the table laughed again. Sten simply went back to watching Leliana perform.

At the entrance to the tavern, the Commander of the Grey ducked under the door frame, drawing the notice of many of its occupants, her crimson drakeskin trenchcoat attracting any eyes her horns did not. The ambassadors from the Circle, from Orzammar, and the Dalish all nodded at her, and her Wardens smiled. Seeing that there was no seating for her, she found an empty corner and leaned against the wall, happy she could at least catch the tail end of Leliana’s song. 

And there's Andraste's mabari
By the Holy Prophet's side.
In the fight against Tevinter,
That dog would never hide.
They say the Maker sent him special,
Always loyal, without pride,
So he could be the sworn companion
Of the Maker's Holy Bride.

Yes that mabari's the companion
Of the Maker's Holy Bride.

The tavern erupted in claps and cheers, most Fereldans in the room rising to their feet and hollering uproariously. Some even threw coppers on the stage, or silver. Mercy could have sworn she saw some sovereigns. The bard played a few more songs, all of them Fereldan favourites (she certainly knew her audience), before thanking her crowd, taking a bow, and walking over to Mercy, briefly nodding at her various friends in the Wardens as she passed them.

Leliana made eye contact with Mercy, a hint of sadness flashing across her face before smiling at the qunari. 

“Warden-Commander,” Leliana said, nodding at her.

“Leliana,” Mercy responded. “That was quite the performance tonight,” she said.

“Really?” Leliana said, giggling. “I’m glad you thought so.”

Mercy didn’t respond immediately, and the women looked at one another, and then the floor, and then at another again.

“Might we speak outside, Leliana?”

“Certainly,” she said as the two stepped out and walked around the building, both enjoying the fresh evening air after being in a stuffy tavern. “I know that look. You have something on your mind.”

“A great many things, I would say,” Mercy responded, smiling shyly. “But chief among them is… You, and how we parted at Soldier’s Peak.”

“Indeed? I must confess, you have been on my mind of late as well. We have not had a chance to talk since you returned to Redcliffe.”

“What I suggested before… No, what I decided about Marjolaine— it should not be my decision, but your own. There are no skills she could provide us that you or Erlina could not, and… More than that, I am sorry. Whatever comes from your confrontation, it should be your decision, not mine.”

Leliana did not immediately respond, and regarded Mercy with curious eyes, choosing her next words carefully.

“That is very kind of you, Mercy, but that seems unfair, doesn’t it? I have not even decided what should be done with Marjolaine— and likely will not until we confront her— yet Alistair has decided a path. He knows that he wants to kill Loghain, and you have told him in no uncertain terms that that will not be happening.”

“That’s different. Rayne and I survived Ostagar with Alistair, and beyond that… Loghain would be an asset. Not only are his strategies legend, but the man himself is a legend. Marjolaine cannot provide that.”

“You say that Erlina and I can do anything Marjolaine can do, but that is simply untrue. We are not Wardens, and Marjolaine might be, if she agrees to Join you. I can match her in archery and swordplay, and Erlina is deadlier than either of us, but Marjolaine speaks Tevene and Qunlat. Neither of us do. Marjolaine is married to a Duke, and has his contacts, as well as her own. We cannot say the same. She’s made a reputation for herself that the Wardens could leverage. Maker, I am a nobody born to a Fereldan servant, and Erlina is an elf who is a part of an organization most of Orlais thinks is a myth, but among certain circles, Marjolaine’s name alone is enough to tip a negotiation in your favour. Marjolaine would be an asset, especially beyond Ferelden’s borders. Moreso than your Teyrn Loghain, even.”

Mercy frowned and stepped back from Leliana, this conversation not going at all like she anticipated.

“Maker’s breath, Leliana. What are you saying? Do you want her to Join the Wardens now?” she asked, slightly incensed.

“As I said, I am uncertain,” Leliana responded, controlling her facial expressions very carefully. She’d only very rarely drawn on her training as a bard since joining the Wardens’ party in Lothering, having very little reason to. But now, not even secondhand ben-hassrath training could discern a thing from Leliana’s face.

“Then what do you want?” Mercy asked desperately.

“Maker, I want you to be honest, Mercy! Why are you giving me this option when you aren’t Alistair?”

“The situation is different,” the qunari insisted again.

“It is not. Not in any way that matters. So tell me why!” the Orlesian said, not flinching from Mercy’s gaze.

“Because I love you, Leliana! Is that what you wanted me to say?! Every day we were apart, I felt like there was a part of me missing. In the Deep Roads, in the Dead Trenches, it was the memory of you that gave me strength! Not the Maker, not Andraste, but you! Is it fair? Absolutely not, but, by Andraste, I don’t give a damn! Becoming a Warden and eventually Commander gave me the purpose I was missing in life, but it is you that has made me happy. I don’t want to live my life without you.”

Leliana smiled, wiping a tear from her eye.

“I missed you too, Mercy. A great deal. And, for the record, I do think Marjolaine would be an asset, if you can get her on your side… If that is possible. I just didn’t like that you had decided for me.”

“I understand,” Mercy responded quietly. “And I do think Alistair has come around to my way of thinking.”

“As do I,” Leliana said. “But I appreciate your honesty, and your apology. It would not do to rekindle our relationship with a lie, would it?”

“Rekindle?” Mercy asked, smiling down at Leliana hopefully. 

As a response, Leliana stood on her tiptoes, reached up to Leliana’s head with both hands, and pulled the other woman down into a kiss. For a single, fleeting moment, Mercy Hissera allowed herself to forget the civil war and the Blight and the fact that the fate of Thedas was resting on her shoulders. All of the suffering, all of the hardship, all of the bloodshed… If they made it through, Leliana just might make this all worth it. 

Chapter Text

“That’s very good, Mr. Guerrin. Your barrier is coming along quite nicely, but it is still front-heavy. Next time, you must focus on distributing your mana evenly throughout your entire barrier, not simply in front of you. Danger could come from any side.”

“Thank you, Senior Enchanter Torrin. I promise that I will!” Connor responded, smiling earnestly at his instructor. The two of them were practicing in the Circle’s encampment outside the castle, where Connor went for his lessons every day.

Torrin sternly nodded at Connor, and then relented, smiling wide and rustling the boy’s hair. “Run along now, Connor. The Arlessa will be happy that you’ve finished early today.”

Since they’d arrived, Connor had been studying with the various Enchanters and Senior Enchanters that survived the massacre at the Circle, and even once had a lesson with the First Enchanter after his recent arrival. They all spoke well of him, though some of the younger mages and many of the templars complained that Connor was still allowed to stay with his family in the castle, while the rest had to stay in the encampment or the village. The Knight-Commander counselled patience and understanding; if they survived the Blight, Connor would be returning to the Circle with the rest of them. They could permit him a bit more time with his mother.

Connor made his way towards the castle, pulling his wool cloak over him as he left the warming enchantments of the mages’ encampment. It was Haring, and the snowfall showed very little sign of abating. Father said that he would be leaving for the Landsmeet soon with the army and the Grey Wardens, and that the snow would delay their arrival in Denerim to into Wintermarch. They’d have to celebrate First Day without father, just like Satinalia. Connor hoped things would be back to normal next year— perhaps mother and father could come to the Circle and celebrate, or perhaps Connor could come home for a few days.

Outside of the castle walls, Connor spotted a raven as it alighted on a tree branch. It had golden eyes, and squawked at the young mage almost as if it recognized him. That couldn’t be right, unless… He approached the raven, and gave it a slight bow.

“Lady Morrigan?” he asked uncertainly.

The raven descended to the ground in front of him, and transformed from bird to woman, though her golden eyes remained the same.

“‘Twould seem your are quite observant, little man,” Morrigan said, smiling conspiringly.

“Lady Morrigan, it was you!” Connor said excitedly, before changing his expression to one of concern as he looked about and realized that he was alone with a strange, dangerous apostate. “Lady Morrigan, I don’t think that my teachers would approve of us talking… Or the Knight-Commander, or my—“

“No, young man. ’Tis obvious that our meeting would raise the ire of any who heard tell of it, your mother chief among them,” she said derisively. “With templars about, she will likely be much less accommodating than our last meeting.” 

Connor sighed, obviously growing exasperated with his overbearing mother. “Maker’s breath! I am nearly 13, but she still treats me as if I am 5."

Morrigan smiled slightly, crossing her arms and looking down at him, chuckling slightly. “’Tis true, but a nattering shrew she may be, at least she cares. Regardless, ’tis not what I came to discuss. My Warden tells me that we will all be leaving for Denerim soon, and I… Am uncertain if we will meet again after the Blight. I believe, the last time we spoke, however, I made you a promise.”

His eyes went wide with fear and wonder. “Shapeshifting?!” 

Morrigan smiled, nodding. She spent the next hour or so teaching him the basics of the school: materials, spells, words, movements, gestures and the like. The most important, and most difficult thing to understand, however, was that much of shapeshifting was instinctual. A successful shapeshifter had to know how an animal moved, worked, thought, functioned, something that was difficult for those raised in a city or a Circle. Rayne, for example, had yet to master more than a couple of forms. Merrill, who grew up surrounded by wildlife, had been much more successful so far.

None of the nobility in Redcliffe had an imprinted mabari, and, while Connor had spent a good amount of time around them, he wasn’t familiar enough with mabari to achieve a transformation. There was one creature, however, that every noble child worth his salt knew intimately: a horse. Though Morrigan always had a distaste for the beasts, they both celebrated when Connor successfully transformed.

“Twelve years old, a scant few of hours of instruction, and already you have achieved something no mage currently a part of your Circle can do. ’Tis quite impressive, young man. You have the makings of a powerful mage.”

Connor beamed with pride. “Thank you, Lady Morrigan! I think I will ask mother if I can have a falcon, or a raven. I wonder what it’s like to fly!” 

“’Tis a wonderful feeling, like nothing else in the world. But I must impress something upon you, Mr. Guerrin: tell nobody what you have learned, for they will deem you too dangerous to live. They will kill you, or make you tranquil. Indeed, you should— and must practice— but, more importantly, you must keep this secret. That way, they may never control you. You will always have your freedom, should you choose to seize it.”

Connor nodded. “I understand, Lady Morrigan. Thank you,” he said, reaching his arms out to give Morrigan a hug. As if retreating from a darkspawn, she took a big step backwards, and he fell on his face.

“I think not, little man. That is what mothers are for, or so I am told. Now, I must attend to a meeting with the Warden-Commander. Goodbye, Connor. We shall not meet again.”

Mercy stepped to the front of her crowd of Wardens and their allies. For the first time in months, they were together in one place, save for Anora and Erlina. Arl Eamon had permitted them use of the chapel to meet, though Isolde still insisted on supervision while Jowan was in the castle. When Mercy suggested Revered Mother Farrah alone could supervise as the Wardens now counted two templars among their number, Isolde agreed. 

Mercy regarded the small army they had assembled with pride. Behind her to her right was Enid, and to her left was Rayne. She turned and smiled softly at them both as she turned to face the crowd. Garahel was dozing lazily in front of the fire snuggled up to Felix, happy to see his fellow mabari again. Their people would be lost without them. Revered Mother Farrah, who sat at the back of the chapel, smiled warmly and nodded as Mercy opened her mouth to speak.

“Greetings, one and all. For those I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, my name is Mercy Hissera, acting Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. To my left is Warden-Constable Enid Mahariel of the Sabrae clan. To my right is Senior Mage Warden Rayne Surana of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. I would like to officially introduce and welcome our sister and brother Wardens Bethany, Aelizia, Renvil, Ilsa, Branwen and Vanweyna. Whatever your life was before, you are now a Grey Warden. More mages are always a boon, and dwarves have more experience fighting darkspawn than anybody. Branwen: a templar will be a great asset against the spawn, and Vanweyna, Enid has made the Dalish proud serving with us. I have no doubt you will do the same.”

The crowd clapped, and those around the new Wardens who had not yet made their acquaintance shook their hands and introduced themselves.

“Before we get down to business,” Mercy continued. “there are some further introductions to get out of the way. For our new brother and sisters, please take note of our Senior Wardens: Alistair, Mayrin, Diala, and Eve. If neither myself nor Enid are available, take your orders from them. Mages, Rayne is your direct superior. Please report to him with any questions or concerns. To our newest Wardens, please feel free to report to Wardens Cadoc, Shokrakar or Jowan as well with any questions if none of us are available. They have all served proudly thus far.

“As Grey Wardens, only we are capable of ending this Blight, of making sure Ferelden puts up a fight. But we cannot, and have never been able to fight alone. I want to also thank our allies, new and old, who have joined us to combat the Blight. From our earliest allies like Morrigan, Leliana, Sten and Merrill, to those we met along the way, like Senior Enchanter Wynne of the Circle of Magi, Lords Keegan Cousland and Nathaniel Howe of Highever and Amaranthine, Zevran Arainai of Antiva, Shale of… House Cadash, as well as those who joined us more recently: Oghren Kondrat and Lord Fergus Cousland. It seems the Maker truly smiles upon us, blessing us with such an abundance of capable friends and allies in our fight against the darkspawn.”

Oghren smiled, winked at Leliana, and elbowed Fergus Cousland in the hips playfully. Fergus looked at him, ready to roll his eyes, but then found that he couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on the dwarf’s face. He may be an obnoxious drunk, but at least he was entertaining. Quite the fighter, too. Leliana, however, had no trouble rolling her eyes.

“I am also happy to report that all of our missions were successful, to varying degrees. My party, though it was difficult, secured the aid of Orzammar. Enid’s group found the Urn of Sacred Ashes to cure Arl Eamon. Lastly, Rayne’s party killed Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds… At least for now. Either of those last two adventures seem unbelievable; together, they all seem like they are from a children’s story. But they happened; we have the wounds to prove it. I truly believe that Andraste and the Maker are watching over us, and that victory is within our grasp.

“Which brings us to the final matter: in the coming days, we will need the Maker’s blessing more than ever. Alistair, Rayne and myself are certain from our dreams that the Archdemon will show itself soon, which makes getting the Landsmeet resolved even more pressing. I know even the newest Wardens can hear its song, hear its urgency. It’s impatient and frustrated, it wishes to take us off the map. Indeed, when we were deep in the Dead Trenches, my party saw the Archdemon in the flesh.”

She paused, permitting the muttering and gasps before she continued.

“It is true. I could scarcely believe it either. There were so many darkspawn that it did not sense us, but we were lucky. It is a great and terrible beast— a high dragon— and I fear not all of us will live to see the end of this Blight. If that is the case, someone must survive to carry on the fight. If we cannot kill the Archdemon and it takes Denerim, or Redcliffe, there will be no counting how many Broodmothers will be created. If we do not stop the Blight now, it might overrun all of Thedas.”

It was at this moment that she had to dismiss all of her followers who were not Wardens, explaining that the next bit would touch on Warden secrets. Revered Mother Farrah was permitted to stay. Morrigan, upon leaving the room, immediately transformed into a fly and returned to watch the proceedings.

She proceeded to tell those new Wardens in their party about Soldiers’ Peak and Avernus, a Grey Warden who would no doubt survive for a few more years even if they all perished against the Archdemon. She and Rayne marked the Keep on the map of those who had them, and gave directions to those who did not. The mages were given recipes for the improved Joining potion, written in a Grey Warden cipher, and also given the code, both of them by Rayne.

The newest Wardens were all a bit overwhelmed by their last few days, but mostly handled it with aplomb, Vanweyna the Dalish huntress dealing with it best.

“Creators, this is all quite exciting, isn’t it?” she whispered to Eve, seeing her vallaslin and thinking she’d met a fellow Dalish elf. She was only partially mistaken.

“Exciting. Or terrifying,” Eve responded, regarding the newest elven Warden strangely. “Your vallaslin… They’re for Falon’din, right? Sorry for saying so, but you seem, well… You seem… Sunnier than I’d think from a woman who feels most connected with a god called the Friend of the Dead.”

Vanweyna frowned for a moment, and then smiled kindly. “You were not born among the Dalish, were you lethallin? It is true that the People often invoke Falon’Din on our deathbeds, or from quests from which we do not expect to return, but it is not out of fear. Falon’Din is not responsible for our dying. He does not swing the sword. We call him the Merciful One: he guides us through the Beyond when our journey in this world is ended. He is kind, patient and understanding. I am grateful for the time I have here and excited to be a Grey Warden, but I do not fear death. When Falon’Din comes for me, whether it be tomorrow or when my Calling comes, I will embrace him with open arms.”

“You’re right, Vanweyna. I grew up in Denerim and didn’t meet any Dalish until I Joined the Wardens. I still have a lot to learn,” Eve said, smiling. Merrill had mentioned this, but she’d forgotten. Eve reached into her pocket and put her hand on her pinch of Ashes, feeling warmth even from outside the bag. For Eve, death was the last thing on her mind. She still had so much to do.

Mercy finished addressing the Wardens and bid them to follow her outside. Stepping out of the castle, The Commander and her Wardens, along with Revered Mother Farrah, met the crowd gathered in Redcliffe’s courtyard. The courtyard was not nearly big enough for the entire army, but the crowd was still impressive. Before them were the leaders and commanders of the armies her and the Wardens had gathered, as well as their elite troops. Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde stood at the top of the stairs addressing the crowd. To the right of the doors were Revered Mother Hannah, looking as strong as ever despite her age, and an anonymous templar in a helmet. Mercy walked to the left with Rayne and Enid to join Keegan and Felix, while the rest of the Wardens made their way down the stairs to join their allies at the front of the crowd.

Arl Eamon cleared his throat, and the crowd went silent. 

“As you all likely know, I have called a Landsmeet. We will set out for Denerim tomorrow with our noble allies and finally defeat the treacherous Teyrn Loghain and Arl Howe to unite Ferelden and defeat this Blight before it even begins!”

The crowd cheered at that, especially the dwarves. They understood the politics— though most thought human politics were soft— but they were here to fight darkspawn. In Orzammar, that’s what fighting is. The Arl went on at length, extolling the virtues of Mercy and the Wardens, as well as Keegan and Nathaniel. Eventually, he introduced Revered Mother Hannah to lead them in prayer and give her blessing before Mercy addressed the crowd.

The old woman stepped forward, flanked by the armored templar. She cleared her throat, and raised her hand. Instead of addressing the crowd, she immediately launched into prayer.

“Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

Then, with icy calculation one wouldn’t expect from a woman of her age, she looked over her shoulder and turned her gaze on Mercy before again looking at the crowd.

“What was that?” Rayne whispered.

“Is that not normal for a Revered Mother?” Enid asked earnestly.

“It is not,” Mercy said, not taking her eyes off the older woman. Her hands shifted slightly towards the hilts of her swords as the Revered Mother continued. The crowd was mostly oblivious, but Leliana reached for an arrow, ready to draw at the slighest sign of trouble. 

“The Maker turns his gaze upon Ferelden, and we must rise to the occasion. The Grey Wardens have accomplished much, and united a great army, but I fear we cannot trust an oxwoman to lead it.”

The crowd gasped, and some jeered. Still, there was an undercurrent of agreement coming from many of the rank-and-file humans, and even some of the mages and Dalish. Enid reached for her blade, and Mercy put a hand out to stop her. “Let her speak,” she muttered through gritted teeth. They couldn't very well publicly attack a frail old woman, especially not a Revered Mother.

“Indeed, this Mercy Hissera is powerful, and capable, but can we trust her? A qunari? She is unnatural, foreign, and far from the Maker’s light. The other two ranking members are a Dalish savage, and an elven mage! Legends say that Wardens take all kinds, but they should be commanded by a good, trustworthy, Andrastian. One of the Maker’s children, not some heathen oxwoman.”

Revered Mother Farrah was almost at the top of the stairs now, and she said loudly, but diplomatically: “I have known the Warden-Commander her entire life. She is Andrastian, and was born here. She is just as Fereldan as you or I.”

“You have heard the rumours of Qunari spies just as I have, Farrah! Who’s to say this isn’t one? The Maker will not grant us victory unless the Grey Wardens are led by one of His children. This creature knowingly recruited apostates, foreigners, assassins and blood mages! The very maleficar who poisoned Arl Eamon numbers among her Wardens! To permit this… Beast to command the Wardens is the height of foolishness, and I ask that you all stand with me in replacing her and the knife-ears with someone more suitable!”

The crowd erupted immediately. The Dalish, some of them drawn in by her originally, were ready to turn this woman into a pincussion, shemlen priest or not. The dwarves were mostly confused, and the few mages were split between indignant rage on behalf of Rayne and shame on behalf of Jowan. The worst were the humans troops, the rank and file split evenly down the middle, the bloodthirsty half ready to start taking their swords to the Dalish then and there.

“The Warden-Commander found the Ashes of Andraste! Nobody can argue Our Lady smiles upon her,” Farrah argued, though none among the crowd heard her.

“Pah. The qunari was not even on that expedition. The story says they were led by Sister Leliana, an initiate from Lothering,” Revered Mother Hannah said dismissively.

“I led that expedition,” Enid responded, taking a step towards the Revered Mothers only for the templar to step between them.

“You will go no further, knife-ear,” the templar said menacingly from behind his helmet as he put a hand on his sword.

Below, the crowd was getting louder, and closer to breaking out in violence.

“Maker, this could ruin everything,” Mercy muttered quietly. “Rayne, can you get everyone's attention?”

“You bet,” he said with more confidence than he felt, gulping as he looked at the templar.

He cast a small enchantment on his voice to amplify it and then raised his staff into the air, calling down a lightning bolt behind the castle.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, eyes flashing with magical energy.

The crowd, silent as their attention turned toward the top of the stairs once again, were nearly blinded. Without thinking, the templar reacted to Rayne and called down a Divine Smite from the heavens, overwhelming the elven mage with holy energy. He vomited instantly, and keeled over, unconscious. Enid caught him, and nodded at Mercy to indicate he was okay breathing and seemed okay.

“May I speak now, Your Reverance?”

“Pardon, qunari?” Hannah spat. “I’m afraid I couldn’t hear you over your elven companion’s retching.”

“You may, Warden-Commander,” Farrah interrupted, glaring at Revered Mother Hannah.

Raising her voice, Mercy began: “It is evident that you have already made up your mind, and that there is nothing I can say to convince you. Instead, let me show you that I have the Maker’s blessing,” she said as casually as if she were discussing the weather. “Have you a champion?” she asked, forcing herself to appear calm and collected, despite the rage boiling up inside her.

“I beg your pardon?!” Hannah asked.

“You seem to want to turn this into a trial, Revered Mother. As the accused and a proud Fereldan citizen, I am within my rights to request a trial by combat. I will fight for my own honour. I ask again: have you a champion? I would not imagine you would wish to face me yourself.”

“That seems fair,” Revered Mother Farrah agreed, and then looked at the Arl. Eamon had been conspicuously quiet until now, wanting to see how this would turn out. It seemed he was forced to step in. 

When I make my move, he thought, it will not be so clumsy.

“It does indeed, Your Reverance. Revered Mother Hannah, I’m afraid I must agree with the Warden-Commander,” he said. Even Isolde had the sense to keep quiet, her feelings on Mercy complicated. She was still Orlesian, however, and could easily see how this would go.

“I will be your champion, Your Reverance,” the templar beside her said. “The Maker will guide my blade.” 

Hannah nodded, realizing quickly she’d lost control of this situation. “Very well, Ser Kenrick. May the Maker watch over you.”

Eamon looked at Mercy. “Is that acceptable, Warden-Commander?”

“I have no objections, my lord. I am ready to commence posthaste.”

“Now?” the Arl asked a bit incredulous, but seeing why she might ask.

“Indeed. We cannot delay our departure tomorrow, and I would like to assuage any doubts among the crowd.”

“This moment could make or break the whole army, the whole Blight,” Leliana whispered to Branwen, their new templar Warden. “Have you met this Ser Kenrick?”

“I have. He is a fanatic… And quite the fighter. Though I am certain the Commander will be able to deal with him,” the older templar responded.

“As am I, though it does not hurt to pray anyways,” Leliana responded, silently pleading to the Maker to protect Mercy. 

Branwen and Leliana turned their attention back to the top of the stairs, where Kenrick and Mercy were taking their positions at either side of the landing outside the castle doors. The rest of the important people stepped down the stairs to witness the melee, and were given a wide berth by the gathered soldiers and allies.

“Let Arl Eamon decide the terms of the duel,” Mercy bellowed, ready to take this man down.

“It shall be fought according to tradition: a test of arms in single combat until one party yields. And we who are assembled will abide by the outcome: should the Warden-Commander fall, a new one will be appointed by myself and Revered Mother Hannah from among the remaining Wardens. Should she prevail, she will continue in her current role.”

Kenrick and Mercy nodded, as did Revered Mother Hannah, though not without a scowl. This was not going at all like she had planned.

Then, the duel began. Kenrick drew his sword and shield, and Mercy her twin blades, and they circled each other for a few moments before Kenrick roared and charged forward, bringing his sword down into a diagonal slash at Mercy, who parried the blow by crossing her blades to meet his. She kicked him back, and took a swipe with the sword in her left hand, easily blocked by his shield. She stabbed forward, and he jumped to the side, barely avoiding her blow, though backing up to the edge of the landing.

Backed into a corner, he crouched low behind his shield and bashed her, knocking Mercy off-balance as she struggled to parry the blow. He then slashed at her again while she was finding her footing, drawing first blood.

“Why isn’t she using her weird reaver stuff?” Mayrin whispered to Diala. “She’d kick his butt in no time flat.”

“This is like a Proving: as much a battle as it is a performance. She doesn’t want to scare them, or prove Hannah’s point. The Commander has to win by skill alone, not by her qunari strength or other abilities.”

Mercy was still on defense, parrying the templar’s frenzied blows with her blades as she was pushed further to her edge of the landing. This wasn’t great, but she knew she could do this, reaver or not. He continued to slash and stab at her and, this time, she let him draw blood. He cut deep, but got overconfident and overextended himself, allowing Mercy to roll on the ground beside him, and stab her sword into his foot. He was wearing armor, but with her qunari strength, the pure silverite blades she wielded could cut through almost anything. Kenrick cried out in pain, and Mercy retrieved her blade asking him: “Do you yield?”

“Never!” he responded, taking a sloppy slash at her that she dodged, quickly rising to her feet behind him and kicking him in the back, causing him to topple to the ground as his helmet fell off. She kicked away his shield, and stabbed his sword hand, skewering it into the ground. She levelled her other blade at his throat. 

“Do you yield?” she asked again.

“I…” he hesitated, as she pressed her sword against his throat.

“Ser Kenrick, rise!” Hannah called.

“Do not risk yourself, Kenrick! Yield, and survive! The Maker does not want you to waste your life!” Farrah called.

“Do you yield, Ser Kenrick?” Mercy asked for a third time.

“I… Do. I yield, Warden-Commander,” he said, defeated.

“Good. Now, let Senior Enchanter Wynne have a look at your wounds,” she said, helping him to his feet with his uninjured hand. Mercy turned to the crowd, and raised her blades to the sky in victory. Arl Eamon had already made his way up the stairs.

“There you have it! Fereldans, Wardens, allies: I give you… The Commander of the Grey in Ferelden!” he bellowed, gesturing to her as applause and cheers rang out from the crowd, none louder than from the Grey Wardens. “It is clear the Maker smiles upon us all this day, most of all the Warden-Commander! It is she who will lead us into victory against Loghain, and it is she, along with the brave men and women pledged to her service, who will save Ferelden! It is this woman who will kill the Archdemon and save Thedas! It is this woman that I choose to follow into battle! Who’s with me?!”

The cheers rang out again, louder now than before. Even the most suspicious among the crowd could not help but be drawn in by their fellows’ enthusiasm. Leliana smiled to herself. The Maker had sent her to the Grey Wardens, to Mercy. The Maker had given her hope again, had given her love again. In this moment, all of Leliana’s doubt faded away, ceding its place entirely to excitement, and hope.

Her faith hadn’t let her down yet, and she didn’t think it was about to start now.

Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.

They could win this.

Praise the Maker, they would win this.

Chapter Text

“He will strike back at us. The only question that remains is how soon?”

Eamon was currently in conference with Mercy, Rayne, Enid, Alistair, and Keegan. Just as soon as he finished speaking, Loghain himself strode in with a grey-haired man who reminded Mercy very much of a weasel, and a woman with dark hair and a fine greatsword.

“Loghain. This is… an honor, that the Regent would find time to greet me personally,” Eamon forced himself to say.

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every noble in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at the land?” Loghain spat.

“The Blight is why I’m here. With Cailan dead, Ferelden must have a king to lead it against the darkspawn.”

“Ferelden already has a strong leader: it’s queen. And I lead her armies.”

“Considering Ostagar, perhaps we need a better general,” Mercy cut in, stepping forward and glaring down at Loghain. He didn’t flinch from her gaze. He didn’t flinch from anything, from what she understood.

“Ah, Warden Hissera. I thought we might meet again. You have my sympathies on what happened to your order. It is unfortunate they chose to turn against Ferelden.”

“I have come to reveal your crimes at Ostagar,” she responded flatly. 

“You should curb your tongue. This is—“ Loghain began to answer before being cut off.

“Or what? You’ll send assassins? Betray us? Slaughter our families? It’s a bit too late for that,” Keegan said, walking up from behind Mercy and meeting Loghain’s eyes. Felix was by his human’s side, baring his teeth at Loghain.

“Cousland,” Loghain said. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “It seems the rumours were true. You know, your mother, the Sea-Wolf, was a sight to behold during the Rebellion. It is unfortunate that she and your father chose to throw their lot in with the Orlesians, but I suppose there was no helping it. Betrayal is in your blood. Long ago, the Couslands betrayed the Howes. They supported Sophia Dryden. Now the Couslands are once again conspiring to usurp Ferelden’s rightful ruler.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Keegan spat, pointing at Loghain as the woman beside him put a hand to her sword. “Arl Howe is the traitor, not us! I demand blood rights!”

“Keegan…” Enid cautioned quietly, putting a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.

Howe chuckled incredulously. “You have no rights. Your family surrendered them when I revealed them to be traitors to the king.”

“You think you can slander my family to my face?!” he retorted, shrugging off Enid’s hand. She supposed this was healthier than feeling nothing at all.

Cauthrien drew her blade, stepping in front of Loghain and Howe.

“You are either very bold or very stupid to threaten the teyrn before witnesses,” she said.

“Or very right,” Nathaniel called, stepping into the room from the adjacent library. 

Loghain’s eyes narrowed, while Howe’s went wide with surprise. Cauthrien turned to face the approaching man.

“…Nathaniel?” Howe asked, incredulous.

“Indeed, father. I’m still alive. And I know what you did. I was there. And the Landsmeet will hear of it as well. Now, get out of my sight. It does not serve either of us to start a melee now. We will settle this in the Landsmeet chambers.”

Enid woke up before Merrill, as she always did. It was her sincere belief that Merrill could sleep though the Archdemon landing on the roof, which made what she planned to do much easier. Dressing in her traditional Dalish leathers, Enid set out first to find a servant who would help her. She was a guest of Arl Eamon, and she was Warden-Constable of Ferelden— mostly, apparently— but she was still a Dalish elf, and she didn’t want to make too much of a commotion this early in the morning. 

Though she searched, Enid was unable to locate any elven servants, who would have likely been at least a little more amenable to her requests. She really wasn’t asking for much. The first servant she found didn’t deign to acknowledge her existence. The second called her a heathen savage. The third spat on the ground. Enid supposed she could have pushed the issue and invoked her title— she didn’t look much like a Warden at the moment— but she didn’t want to start the day with confrontation. It’s like the old Dalish saying, she supposed— fourth time’s a charm. Eventually, she found a human servant around Enid’s age with pretty chestnut ringlets, green eyes and pale skin, eager to please and happy to be of service, even to an elven savage.

Her name was Tara, and she first helped Enid locate an armor stand (there weren’t many about) and then carry it all the way back to her and Enid’s small room. Merrill, still voyaging peacefully through The Beyond in her dreams from the safety of her bed, didn’t hear when Enid and Tara entered, nor did she hear as Enid helped Tara arrange the armor on the stand, or cover it with a blanket (Enid wanted to be dramatic, after all).

When Enid gave a Tara two gold sovereigns as thanks this morning, the poor girl nearly collapsed, and at first refused, before being persuaded to take the payment and thanking Enid profusely, tears welling up in her eyes. 

Feeling ready, Enid took a seat on the bed and softly stroked Merrill’s beaded raven hair. Eventually, her First and her heart awoke, blinking lazily and smiling at Enid.

“Good morning, vhenan.”

“Good morning,” Enid responded, smiling at Merrill.

“You have a look in your eyes, vhenan. What’s… Is that an armor stand?” Merrill asked, sitting up and letting her eyes focus.

Enid smiled, nodding. “I have been thinking. You’ve been training as an arcane warrior with spellweaver, unearthing the lost lore of our people. If you’re going into the thick of battle, you need something a little more substantial than your Keeper robes. You’ll be…” she said, grabbing the sheet she threw over the armor stand excitedly and ripping it off with as much flair as possible, “…a juggernaut!”

“Your armor?!” Merrill gasped. “Oh, I don’t think I could wear this… What about you?”

“I am a Grey Warden, and always will be. There is more than enough armor to outfit me and identify me as one. The Juggernaut Plate was created by Tevinter Mages, but found in the ancient lands of our people. It’s made for someone with martial and magical prowess both. I’ll also be happier on the battlefield knowing you’re safe. Please. I insist, vhenan.”

Merrill swung her legs to the side of the bed and bolted up, hugging Enid and giving her a kiss.

“Oh, this is so exciting! Thank you so much! I’m going to try it on right away! I can’t wait to show Lanaya; she’s going to be so jealous.”

Mercy was staying in the Arl of Redcliffe’s Denerim estate along with Alistair, Diala, Leliana, and various other Wardens and allies. Keegan, Fergus and Nathaniel were holed up in the Cousland estate, in open defiance of the Regent branding the Couslands traitors. The rest of her Wardens and their allies were variably staying with the Couslands at their estate, or at the estates of the Arls of South Reach or the Western Hills. They also, of course, had some key players in the Alienage, where none among the Fereldan nobility would look. Eve was happy to visit her family again, and even took some of the Dalish with her.

Mercy awoke peacefully and quietly to the tranquility of a chilly winter morning. She looked to Leliana on her left, still sleeping peacefully, and smiled, quietly thanking the Maker for, if nothing else, bringing this woman into her life. She steeled herself for the cold morning air, took a deep breath and rose from the bed to tend to the fire before quickly climbing back under the warm covers. Ogres, she could deal with. Chilly Wintermarch morning air, not so much.

Leliana yawned softly, her eyes opening slowly as she smiled at Mercy.

“Good morning, mon coeur. How did you sleep?”

“Better than usual, not as well as I thought I might,” Mercy responded, giving Leliana a peck on the lips.

Leliana chuckled. “I know what you mean. I thought the stone walls would muffle Alistair and Diala… But it was almost as if we were right beside their tent back at camp!"

“At least they’re having fun, by the sounds of it,” Mercy responded.

“They are. Which reminds me,” she said mischieviously, smirking at Mercy. “I believe we have some time before we have to face the day.”

Mercy smiled, and Leliana leaned in and kissed her passionately, putting a hand on her breast and then… There was a knock on the door. Lips still together, both women chuckled softly, and Leliana pressed her forehead to Mercy’s in defeat.

“Go away! We don’t need breakfast yet!” Mercy said, not without kindness.

“Ma commandante ? I must speak with you. It is very important,” they heard from the other side. It was Aelizia. Both women sighed, accepting the fact that they could put the day off no longer.

“Give us a moment, Aelizia,” Leliana said sweetly. Mercy and Leliana rose from bed and quickly threw on just as many clothes as were needed as to be presentable. Mercy tied her hair up in a bun and opened the door.

“How can I help, Aelizia?” Mercy asked.

“I heard last evening that you plan to confront a woman from Leliana’s past today, a woman who goes by the name of Marjolaine.”

Mercy and Leliana exchanged a look, and Leliana stared hard at Aelizia, remembering that she could not escape The Game, even in Ferelden. She had been careless. She studied the mage: the dark hair, the vibrant blue eyes… Apostate, Orlesian, noble. A surprising knowledge of the qunari, especially compared to other Orlesians. The wheels were turning, and the pieces were falling into place as she narrowed down who exactly Aelizia could be.

“You… You’re the apostate stepdaughter,” Leliana said aloud as she realized it.

“Mais oui, Mademoiselle Leliana,” Aelizia responded, smiling mischieviously as if to say ‘it took you long enough’.

“I should have known, should have realized… Your father is a master of The Game, but Marjolaine is perhaps more dangerous than he realizes. Maker, does your father have any idea who he married?” Leliana asked, genuinely worried.

“I have no idea. I only met her once before I left home, and I did not think much of her at the time.” Aelizia explained. “She was infamous at court, as you know, and even feared… Moreso than just another rival player. After mother died, father thought to neutralize the threat to himself and gain an asset by marrying Marjolaine, and she had no objections. She was from a minor family, but acceptable enough to the court for father’s second marriage, especially after he and mother had three trueborn children.”

“Andraste’s ass, can someone tell me what is going on?” Mercy asked, getting more and more confused by the moment.

“You never told me Aelizia’s family name… And, like a fool, I never asked. I was… Distracted, I suppose,” Leliana said quietly, smiling to herself. “Aelizia’s full name is Aelizia Genviève Christine de Montfort, third child of Duke Prosper de Montfort, uncle, advisor to, and staunch ally of, Empress Célène de Valmont. He also happens to be Marjolaine’s husband.”

It was a quiet day in the Alienage. The Landsmeet was in town and human nobility were working their servants hard. Even those who were often out of work were able to find temporary employment among the visiting nobility. The orphanage had been quieted when Eve had been here a few months ago. As a result, the Alienage was rather empty at the moment, mostly populated by the very old and very young, and those who worked within the Alienage itself.

Then, there was Shianni. She was not working today, and she had no need to with the coin her cousin Eve sent back to her in her letters. Shianni was lying beneath the Vhenedahl with her cousin Soris, sharing the very expensive port that their very important guest had very graciously gifted them upon her arrival. It wasn’t quite to her taste, but it was better than the swill they usually drank. Though it was a chilly day, the snow was mostly melted as spring was arriving, and the port warmed them well enough. 

Eventually, a shadow appeared over Shianni, and she looked up to see her cousin Evelyn Tabris, her black curly hair tied into a bun today. “Mind if I join you, Shianni?” she asked.

“The more the merrier, cousin,” Shianni responded as Eve made herself comfortable, lying down between Shianni and Soris. 

“I thought your meeting with our guest wasn’t until this afternoon! What are you doing here?” Soris asked, taking another swig from the bottle before passing it to Eve.

Eve took a sip, and said: “It isn’t, but I figured I’d catch up with my family first. Just finished visiting with dad, and I figured I’d see how my layabout cousins were doing. We barely had a chance to talk last time I was here.”

“I understand. It must be busy, being an evil, traitorous Grey Warden,” Shianni teased. "Betraying kings and all that."

“You have no idea,” Eve said. “Treason is thirsty work.”

“Be careful, you two! That’s dangerous. Not everyone will know you’re joking,” Soris said. “Tell me cousin, is it true you found the Ashes of Andraste?”

“And what happened to your face?!” Shianni asked upon seeing Eve’s vallaslin, tattooed to venerate Andruil.

“Well, I didn’t. But I got close. I was busy tending to a party member who’d been singed by a dragon with a Circle Mage who has been travelling with our party. And they’re vallaslin, blood writing. Dalish tattoos. I… wanted them, I guess.”

“A dragon?! Maker, maybe the Alienage isn’t so bad after all,” Shianni muttered.

Eve spent the next little bit telling them about the travels of her and her companions while her cousins listened, enraptured: the Ashes of Andraste, Orzammar, Soldier’s Peak, Redcliffe, the Brecilian Forest, and honest-to-Maker Dalish! 

“I couldn’t imagine living like them in the woods, away from civilization. It would be so cold in the winter!” Soris said.

Eve shrugged. “It’s also away from nobles and rapists, shitty slumlords, and shems in general. As you can tell,” she said, gesturing at her face, “it’s appealing, in certain ways.” 

“Apparently,” Soris responded, mostly just confused.

“Speaking of shemlen, sounds like you’ve been travelling with a bunch of them, but you don’t seem too worse for wear. When the queen was here, she was… Well, she was really nice, actually… Quiet and a bit standoffish, but gracious. Were the rest the same?”

“No, but enough. Not that they’re all perfect, but I’ve travelled with shemlen nobles, templars and mages. And I can’t speak for all of them, but at least one of nobles was a very talented lover.”

“Cousin!” Soris exclaimed, turning bright red.

“You didn’t!” Shianni yelled, giggling and giving Eve a playful slap on the arm.

“I did. More than once,” Eve said, shameless.

“And what? You expect him to marry you? A noble would never marry an elf,” Shianni said, a little more annoyed now that the novelty had worn off.

“Andraste’s ass, I do not. Nathaniel is a good friend, but what he and I did was purely physical— I made that clear from the start.”

“Maker’s breath, Eve! I do not need to hear this!” Soris said, taking a very big swig of the wine. It was almost finished now.

Eve and Shianni continued their discussion, and got uncomfortably specific, while Soris tried his level best to ignore them. Looking at the entrance to the Alienage and not as his cousins, he saw a curious sight: there were three women approaching. All were elves, and all were armed. One had straight brown hair tied into a high ponytail, blue eyes, and blue tattoos on her face, in a different style than Eve’s. She was wearing Grey Warden armor, silver and blue. With her were a raven-haired Dalish mage with green eyes and shining silver armor, brandishing both a staff and a sword openly without a care in the world, as well as an elven huntress. The huntress had brown curly hair similar to Eve’s, light brown skin, green eyes, and was short, even for an elf. She had a bow strapped to her back and was wearing blue and grey Warden Scout armor. What Soris noticed most of all, however, is that they walked like Eve, and like very few other Alienage elves. There was no fear, or shame. No flinching or making themselves small. Only pride. Upon seeing Eve, the three women smiled, waved, and approached them.

“Cousin, it seems you have visitors. Are those elves… All Dalish? They’re wielding blades! And is that one a mage?” Soris asked, partially in awe and partially in fear. 

Eve stood up and waved back at them. “They are Dalish! And yes, Merrill is a mage. They mentioned wanting to stop by the Alienage today,” she said.

Eve introduced her cousins to Enid, Merrill and Vanweyna, the newest Dalish recruit, and gave them a small tour of the Alienage. Eve also introduced them to Cyrion, who joined them for the end of the tour. It was a short, depressing diversion, and Merrill, especially, seemed bothered by the state of things.

“By the Dread Wolf! Are all Alienages like this? You described it, lethallan, but…”

“Some are better, some are worse, but, from what I’ve heard, they’re all pretty similar, yeah,” Eve said matter-of-factly.

“I had no idea…” Merrill continued, more to herself than anyone in particular. 

“Again, told you,” Eve said nonchalantly. “We flat-ears have it a bit worse than you imagined, huh?” 

“Why don’t you repair anything? Fix the place up?” Vanweyna suggested.

“If we try, we get punished, or killed, for doing work that that Arl’s men were supposed to do, or the other slumlords who own the buildings… So, we have to wait until they get around to it. If they get around to it,” Eve explained to their newest Dalish companion.

“We call you flat-ears, but living, growing up in a place like this… It could break even the All-Father’s resolve. This is monstrous. I always wondered why more of you did not come and find us, like Pol did…” Merrill trailed off.

Soris and Shianni were watching the Dalish with something resembling reverance, as if legends had stepped out of stories to greet them in the flesh. Even Shianni, who found it difficult to go for more than thirty seconds without saying a word, was speechless. For a moment, at least.

“And we always wondered why, if you did exist, you didn’t come to help us,” she said quietly, and bitingly.

“At least they have a vhenedahl, lethallan,” Vanweyna pointed out to Merrill, putting a hand on her shoulder. “That is not a tradition we have been able to retain.”

“Bend but do not break,” Eve whispered, smiling sadly and putting her hand on Merrill’s shoulder. The mage nodded back, as if she were seeing Eve for the first time.

At this point many more of the Alienage elves had begun to gather around the Dalish. In a crowd filled with children and the elderly, there were mutterings of wonder, awe, and derision, coming from some of the older elves.

“Maker’s beard! The Dalish are real! I knew it!”

“‘Course they are. Don’t mean they’ve ever helped us none!”

“What do you expect them to do? This wasn’t a Blight, they’d be killed on sight, well-armed as they are! ‘Elves found carrying blades will die on them’!”

“By Andraste, do you think they’ll take us with them!”

“You want to leave your home and shit in the forest?”

“They got landships or something, don’t they? Maybe they shit there!”

“They don’t like us none anyways! Call us flat-ears, like we ain’t real elves! Their ears are just as pointy as ours’!”

At this point, Enid broke in, taking a step onto the raised platform where Eve was supposed to have gotten married what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

“They’re called Aravels!” Enid said helpfully, raising her hand to try to get the crowd’s attention. She reached a hand down to help Merrill up onto the platform, and Merrill looked at the crowd with, sadness, shame, and a bit of hope. 

“My name is Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae. My clan has already gone north to the Free Marches to flee the Blight, but myself and Enid have remained here to fight. I’ve only been here in this Alienage for a few moments, and I’ve already heard some rather nasty things about the Dalish. And I… Can’t disagree with them. All my life, we’ve been taught that we should ignore the flat-ears in the Alienages, if we talked about you at all. We accepted any elves who fled to join us, but believed that those who did not had submitted to the shemlen… As if you were responsible for your own mistreatment.”

Some of the crowd jeered and booed. A few threw things at her, and she conjured up a barrier, deflecting the rocks and trash and continuing. That quieted them, most of whom only associated magic with tevinter slavers or darkspawn.

“These past months, we have travelled with one of your clan, Evelyn Tabris, daughter of Cyrion and Adaia. When we met, I made it my mission to educate her on the history of The People, and to help her reclaim her lost heritage. I felt… Pity for her, and that was unworthy of me. Over and over again, she surpassed my expectations, and I ended up learning just as much from her as she did from me. Maybe even more. But… Elgarn’nan, I’m rambling. What I mean to say is that I was wrong. We are wrong. For you all to live here, and to go through what you do… And keep on going…” she trailed off. “You have a vhenedahl.”

“And a hahren,” Enid whispered to Merrill.

“And a hahren!” Merrill repeated, continuing. “Living in this place, you still manage to hold on to our oldest traditions. You have community, family. Pride. You’re stronger than we Dalish ever imagined.”

“Oh, shut up!” someone called.

“Andraste’s tits, stop patronizing us!” another shouted.

Still, Merrill continued. “I’m aware that words don’t mean much now, but, when the Blight is over, if we survive, I suppose, I mean, I swear by the Creators that I will do everything in my power to make sure the Dalish stop ignoring our flat— our city elf cousins. We are all of us elvhen, all brothers and sisters. And we have failed you. If I can help it, we will not do so again.”

The reaction was mixed, and still mostly negative. Though there were a few excited mutterings, mostly among the children. The elderly knew better than to expect better from the world. Every time they had, they’d quickly learned of the Maker’s twisted sense of humour. All agreed, though, that the events of the day were novel if nothing else.

Merrill stepped carefully off the raised platform with a hand from Enid, who was smiling up at her. Enid pulled her into a hug and whispered in her ear.

“You know, if I recall correctly, you told me awhile ago how nervous you were about being Keeper. You said that you were no good with people.”

“I suppose I did. Why, vhenan?” Merrill asked obliviously as the two women pulled apart from their hug and made their way with Eve to Hahren Valendrian’s home. Enid responded by giving Merrill a kiss on the cheek.

“The woman I saw on that stage? She was very good with people. I have no doubt that, when the time comes, vhenan, you are going to be exactly the Keeper our clan needs. Hopefully with a little less garbage thrown your way, too.”

Mayrin was whistling happily as he and his party made their way from the Market District to the Cousland Estate after a day spent shopping, drinking, laughing, and pestering Sten. He had spent the day with Zevran, Renvil, Diala, Jowan, Sten and Cadoc, as well was Raina Wulff, Cadoc’s sister.

Mayrin had bought a few pieces of jewelry that were shinier than anything he could have imagined owning when he was living in Dust Town. He also purchased a deep purple cloak for Zevran to keep him warm during the cold Fereldan winter, as well as a few books— he was still learning to read, but Zevran was patiently helping him decipher the words he didn’t understand.

Zevran bought a lot less, but did buy himself and Mayrin a fine Antivan vintage to share, happy to have a taste of home again. They were both of them learning how to manage all of the coin they’d picked up on their journeys, and each developing different philosophies. Mayrin figured he could learn about “saving” after they survived the Blight. If they survived.

Behind them, Jowan was showing an admiring Warden Renvil Harrowmont the new prosthetic he bought today from the dwarven merchant’s father-in-law— a silverite attachment built more for function than show. It was a feat of engineering: with his good hand, he could adjust and set the elbow mechanism to the angle he needed and then lock it. It had a claw that could hold his staff in place to free up his remaining hand when needed. 

Diala said the merchant’s name was Gorim, and that they had known one another before the Blight. Sten even purchased something himself, a beautiful portrait of the late Queen Rowan, depicted as a young woman in full armor during the Rebellion. Raina Wulff bought nothing, but instead spent her time teasing her little brother Cadoc, happy to have a small bit of normalcy to cling to before the Landsmeet.

“Little brother, you have changed. Did this large qunari fellow convert you?” she asked lightly.

“I did nothing of the sort, human. It is not my role to bring enlightenment to the bas, and no matter how I tried to dissuade him, he was persistent and continued to pester me with questions. The young Warden has sought purpose, certainty. It is not surprising,” Sten responded as if speaking to a child. Neither he nor Raina really knew how to act around the other yet.

Cadoc, looking annoyed with his sister, explained: “I have been curious, Raina, and Sten has sated some of that curiosity. The things that I have seen as a Grey Warden are like nothing I could have imagined, and certain ideas from the Qun have made a certain kind of sense. Don’t worry: I still believe in Andraste. I just… Understand the qunari better now, is all.”

“Well, praise the Maker for that. I suppose a little understanding can go along way. Your party is proof enough of that,” she said, shrugging. Sten simply grunted in response. Cadoc had always been easily persuaded and led, and always quick to find a cause. Raina figured that in a few months, he’d be advocating for abolishing the Circles of Magi and prosthelytizing about the Lady of the Skies.

“If memory serves, we can cut through here as a shortcut back to the Cousland Estate,” Raina called forward to Maryin as she pointed towards an alley.

Mayrin shrugged. “Whatever works.”

He and Zev led the party into an alley, and Zevran almost immediately reached for his weapons. “We are being watched, my dear Warden. Perhaps we should take another—“ he tried to say as a large portcullis closed behind them and a figure stepped out of the shadows, flanked by men in studded leather and armed to the teeth.

“Braska!” he swore as he drew his longsword and dagger. The rest of the party followed suit as the figure at the top of the stairs smiled and spoke. He was also wearing fine studded leather, had tan skin, black spiky hair and a goatee. 

“And so here are the mighty Grey Wardens at long last. The Crows send their greetings, once again.”

“So they sent you, Taliesin? Or did you volunteer for the job?” Zevran asked.

“I volunteered, of course. When I heard the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

“Is that so? Well, here I am, in the flesh.”

“You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake,” Taliesin said. Mayrin couldn’t tell if he was taunting or pleading, and he had no idea whether the man meant anything he said. He looked up at Zevran, silently pleading that what they had was more important than returning home.

“Of course I’d need to be dead, first,” Mayrin said, mostly to himself.

“And I’m not about to let that happen,” Zevran responded, looking down at Mayrin with gravely.

“What?! You’ve gone soft!” Taliesin shouted, genuinely surprised.

“I’m sorry, my old friend. But the answer is no. I’m not coming back… And you should have stayed in Antiva.”

And so Taliesin of the Antivan Crows made his final stand against a man he had, in another life, loved dearly. The Crows are talented, well-trained, and deadly, but most of their targets had spent the better part of the year fighting monsters, werewolves, golems, demons, abominations and darkspawn. A few assassins, no matter how well-trained, could not deal with them, especially in a melee. Raina acquitted herself well in the battle, Jowan only needing to heal a few wounds when the dust had settled.

“Well, that was bracing!” Raina said as she drank a sip the antitoxin Zevran was passing around, just to be on the safe side. “What an exciting life you lead, little brother. Does that happen often?”

“Well, it’s only the second time Antivan Crows have tried to assassinate us…” Mayrin said, taking off his gauntlets so that Jowan could take a look at a particularly nasty crossbow bolt wound that found a gap in his armor.

“However, something has tried to kill me nearly every day since I Joined the Grey Wardens,” Renvil responded, smiling dryly. “Redcliffe was a bit of a reprieve, thank the Ancestors, but it seems as if we’re right back on schedule.”

After Zevran had finished administering antitoxins and Jowan finished healing Mayrin’s arm, the Antivan elf tugged his dwarven paramour’s arm to drag him away for a private conversation.

“And there it is. Taliesin is dead, and I am free of the Crows. They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesin. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

There it was. Mayrin knew this was too good to be true. He could almost hear the other shoe dropping.

“So what does this mean?” he asked uncertainly, trying to keep his face blank.

“I do not know,” Zevran responded honestly. Mayrin kept his face blank, showing no emotion. “It seems I have options now, whereas once I had none. I suppose it would be possible for me to leave, now, if I wished. I could go very far away, somewhere where the Crows would never find me. I think, however, that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?”

The oath. That couldn’t be the only reason he was staying. Surely. Still, Mayrin had to make sure.

“If you want to go, you should go,” Mayrin said flatly. 

“But that is what I am asking you. Do you want me to go? Do you need me here?”

Of course I do. Don’t you see? No. It had to be his choice. Mayrin had never been able to choose a damn thing in his life until he Joined the Wardens. Zevran should be afforded that same freedom.

“I want you to do what’s best for you.”

“I… am not sure how to respond to that. Nobody has ever… I mean, normally these things are decided by others. Er… then I suppose I shall… Stay? Is that… good?”

Mayrin finally relented, smiling sweetly and reaching out to take Zevran’s hands in his.

“It would be hard to kiss you if you left,” Mayrin responded, stepping closer to the man he loved as the elf let out a little chuckle.

“You know… that is so very true,” he said mischieviously, dipping Mayrin and doing just that. Zevrain Arainai had come to this country to die, and upon arrival, he’d found a reason to live. He’d found a new life. And Maker willing, he’d hold onto it until his dying breath.

Mercy, Leliana and Aelizia were making their way to Marjolaine’s home in the market district. Accompanying them were Bethany, Ilsa, Diala and Alistair, as well as Nathaniel, who reasoned that, if there was an Orlesian spy here in Ferelden’s capital, it would behove all of the country for him to find out exactly why. Leliana was a little less than enthused about their accompanying party, but Aelizia had a difficult time keeping her mouth shut.

They arrived at the door, and Leliana took a deep breath. Mercy gave her a nod and smiled reassuringly. The door was locked, and Leliana bent down to pick it. As soon as they entered, the party found themselves facing fierce opposition: two tal-vashoth guards, armed with mauls. Fierce as they were, though, they were outnumbered and outmatched. 

The party took a second to catch their breath and looked around: to Leliana, Aelizia and Ilsa, the small chamber in which they found themselves was, at best, quaint and rustic, and very Fereldan. But for the Fereldans in the room, it seemed obvious that Marjolaine had done very well for herself here: the furniture, carpets and wall coverings were all of fine make. Nathaniel scowled. 

Mercy kicked the next door down, and the party filtered into the main area of the home with their weapons drawn. They came face to face with a dark-haired and beautiful woman wearing a very fine gold and white dress, who seemed neither surprised nor the least bit concerned with their arrival.

“Leliana! So lovely to see you again, my dear…”

“Spare me the pleasantries. I know you’re—“

Again, completely ignoring the reality of her situation, Marjolaine cut Leliana off, continuing: “Oh, you must excuse the shabby accomodations… I try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with? This country smells like wet dog. Everywhere. I cannot get the smell out. Even now, it is in my hair, my clothes… Ugh.”

Having no particular time for most Orlesians on a regular day, and especially none for this one, Mercy responded: “Why did you send assassins after Leliana?”

“So business-like, your savage companion,” Marjolaine said, voice dripping with disgust.

Leliana cut in this time. “You framed me, had me caught and tortured. I thought that in Ferelden, I would be free of you, but it seems that I am not. What happened to make you hate me so? Why do you want me dead so badly?”

“Dead? Nonsense. I know you, my Leliana. I know what you are capable of. Four, five men… You can dispatch easily. They were sent to give you cause to come to me. And see? Here you are.”

“We don’t believe you,” Mercy responded, crossing her arms.

“What are you up to, Marjolaine? Why are you in Ferelden?”

Nathaniel had his bow drawn a trained on the woman. She still hadn’t deigned to notice his existence. Ilsa was intrigued, seeing something familiar in the Orlesian. Less direct than the Noble Caste, but cut from similar stock. Diala saw the same thing, and it made her like the woman even less. 

“In truth, you have knowledge you could use against me. For my own safety, I cannot let you be. Did you think I did not know where you were? Did you think I would not watch my Leliana? ‘What is she up to?’ I thought. ‘The quiet life, the peasant clothes, hair ragged and messy like a boy… This is not her.’ You were planning something, I told myself. So I watched… But no letters were sent. No messages. You barely spoke to anyone. Clever, Leliana. Very clever. You almost had me fooled. But then you left the Chantry, so suddenly. What conclusion should I draw? You tell me?”

This is who father married? This is the legendary bard Marjolaine? Aelizia thought. No, it is not that simple. Paranoid, perhaps, but…

“You think I left because of you? You think I still have some plan for… For revenge? You are insane. Paranoid!”

“De plus,” Aelizia cut in in Orlesian, “c’est impossible de croire que vous avez passé deux années au Ferelden sans faire rien d’autre. Vous êtes une joueuse légendaire. Vous avez d’employés et gardes et, probablement, même des sorcières du Cercle avec vous, envoyés du Spireblanc ou Val Royeaux. Ils sont cachés, mais je peux les entendre. Mon père m’a bien entrainé. Le chaos au Ferelden pendant ces derniers mois… C’est quelque chose qui serait façile à engendrer pour quelqu’une comme vous. Deux ans, en ne faisant rien sauf espionner ta vieille amoureuse. Impossible. C’est tout ce que je peux faire pour ne pas éclater de rire,” Aezilia said, stepping forward between Leliana and Mercy.

“Uhm… Pardon me?” Alistair asked. Marjolaine turned to Aelizia, as did Mercy and Leliana. 

“She said that Marjolaine could not have just spent these two years watching me, especially not with all of these armed guards. She’s… Probably right,” Leliana admitted, reflecting on Aelizia’s observation. It would have been obvious, if she were not so focused on Marjolaine.

“Ah, ma belle-fille ! J’ai pensé que c’était toi. T’as beaucoup grandit depuis quand nous nous sommes parties, et t’es devenue tellement belle. Mais… Il semble que t’es devenue une Gardienne des Ombres ? Dommage. Ton père sera tellement déçu d’entendre que tu es morte pendant le Fléau.”

“The Trade Tongue, please!” Mercy insisted angrily.

“My dear stepmother just threatened to kill me. And then taunted Leliana some more. I do not believe she had any intention of telling us what she was doing here.”

“So crass, my beautiful step-daughter. How very Fereldan of you. And you, Warden-Commander. You look at her and see a simple girl— a friend, trusting and warm. It is an act.”

“I am not you, Marjolaine. I left because I didn’t want to become you,” Leliana asserted. 

“Oh, but you are me. You cannot escape it. No one will understand you the way I do, because we are one and the same. Do you know why you were a master manipulator, Leliana? It is because you enjoyed the game; you reveled in the power it gave you. You cannot change or deny this.”

“I trust Leliana, no matter what you say,” Mercy said without a second’s hesitation.

“Enough!” Nathaniel said, cutting Leliana off. “No more talking. I am sorry Leliana, I know that you said you wanted this to be your decision, but we must find out if her activities had a role to play in the civil war. She cannot be allowed to leave until we do.”

“Finally,” Diala whispered to Alistair, hefting her blade.

“Ah… Dommage,” Marjolaine sighed, throwing a smoke bomb onto the ground as the battle was joined. From the cloud flew three arrows, all of them deflected by the barrier Aelizia conjured, and not a second too soon. 

When the smoke cleared, Marjolaine was standing on the couch behind her with a longbow leveled at them, and the warriors hidden in the side rooms charged forward, attacking ferociously. They had with them more tal-vashoth guards as well as two mages and other human fighters. And, as Alistair so often finds out a second too late, the house was littered with traps. 

Of course, like anyone who came up against the Wardens and their allies, Marjolaine’s well-trained retinue fell before them. It was hard, bloody work, and took longer than any of them had expected, but it was done. Unfortunately, in the chaos, the only one to survive was Marjolaine herself. Leliana immediately set to disarming her and binding her, and Aelizia offered cast a glyph around the bard that would activate if she broke free of her bindings and tried to escape. Alistair, Aelizia, Diala and Ilsa remained to watch her while Leliana, Mercy and Nathaniel searched the guards and the home. 

It was Nathaniel who happened upon the chest first, picking the lock with some difficulty and beginning to rifle through the contents within. After that, at Leliana’s suggestion, he looked for and found both the false bottom and hidden compartments, where the important documents were located. In flipping through, Nathaniel became more disturbed by the minute.

“Commander! Leliana! Come here now!” he shouted, sounding angrier than he had meant. As the women arrived, they shoved one of the letters in Leliana’s face.

“What is this?!” he accused. “Why does she have letters from my father?”

Leliana took a moment to examine the parchment, and then, her brows furrowing, started looking through the others. Pages and pages of parchment of varying ages and lengths, from nobles across the land… And the land across the Frostbacks as well.

“Any correspondance she could intercept would be useful,” Leliana explained. “She could use them for forgery… Add to the chaos of the civil war. She was working for the Empress… A go-between for her and King Cailan, unofficially. And it seems… Maker, it looks as though she even framed the Couslands and gave your father the idea to attack them. He supplied fabricated evidence to your father that said they were traitors to Ferelden. Nathaniel… I am so sorry.”

Nathaniel held the parchment in his hands and gripped it tight. His face was drained of the little colour he had as he read it over and over and over again. “No. She was not the cause. He simply needed an excuse. Anora explained that, when she was here in Denerim, father was never able to produce any documents to prove his assertions about the Couslands. He must have known they were fabricated, and attempted anyways. And even if they had been traitors, he slaughtered every man, woman and child in Highever Castle. He killed little Oren. He would have killed his own son if we had not escaped. No. She may have helped him along, but my father was responsible for his own actions. But the rest of the chaos… She still had a hand in it. She was working for the Empress. It cannot be allowed to stand.”

Nathaniel stood, and began to throw her documents into the fire. All of them. 

“Let me handle this,” Leliana asked. Before getting an answer, she walked back into the main room of Marjolaine’s abode. 

“You have been up to so many things, Marjolaine. Dangerous things. Your documents have been destroyed, and you cannot be brought to the Landsmeet. If they knew how much Orlais had insinuated themsleves here… No, it is too risky. Nor can you be allowed to go free. You have two options, Marjolaine: either you can die here, or you can become a Grey Warden.”

Alistair frowned at that, and Mercy was a little bit surprised. 

“I thought perhaps you could simply go back to Orlais, never to see me again… But you are too dangerous, you know too much and have already done too much damage here. You cannot be allowed to return to the Empress,” Leliana continued.

“Me?! A Grey Warden? You cannot be serious, my Leliana. If this is a joke, I am afraid it is in poor taste.”

“No joke, Marjolaine. I am offering you Mercy. Become a Grey Warden, or perish.”

“And your oxwoman of a commander will simply agree to this, hmm? I find that difficult to believe, Leliana. You know she will never trust me. None of the Fereldans will. They are too small-minded.”

“Really not doing yourself any favours here, lady,” Diala grumbled. 

“Despite that, any help against the Blight is welcome,” Mercy said through gritted teeth.

“Ugh, it is almost too much to bear, but… If I have no other options… Very well, I will Join your dreary order, Warden-Commander. The Maker has a strange sense of humour.”

“Very well, Marjolaine,” Mercy said, nodding at Aelizia to dispel the glyph. “We will begin your Joining immediately. You will not be left unsupervised.”

“I understand, ma commandante,” Marjolaine said diplomatically. “And the bindings?”

“Will remain in place, at least for now,” Nathaniel cut in. “One false move, Orlesian, and you forfeit any mercy you may have found.”

The Teyrn of Highever’s party had attracted quite the crowd at the Gnawed Noble. Fergus Cousland alive and walking around Denerim and calling himself the Teyrn, despite Rendon Howe officially holding the office, was a commotion in and of itself, especially with his younger brother and the tacit support of some other nobles. But that was not the reason so many of the tavern’s august personages had their eyes on them.

Fergus Cousland had arrived with Aeron Wulff and Edna Bryland, as well as his younger brother Keegan, as well as Mel and Spot, the alliance’s representative of the Mages’ Collective, and Oghren Kondrat, disgraced and drunken dwarven warrior, formerly of Orzammar. He and the mage, Mel, were currently engaged in a drinking contest that should have killed any normal person.

They’d been going for an hour now, everyone else at the table having surrendered some time ago… Or passed out. 

“Must be using magic or something, Amell. No human could keep up with Oghren Kondrat drink-for-drink,” the dwarf muttered as he gulped down another mug.

“I’ll need it in the morning, Kondrat, but this right now is all me,” she responded, doing the same as him and belching loudly. Spot, sitting on the bench beside Mel, barked in agreement, quite confident that her human could beat this dwarf. The bartender brought another few rounds.

“One of them has to give up soon,” Lord Aeron Wulff said, almost pleading.

“Maker, I hope so. I want to get to bed,” Edna responded, yawning and resting her head on Mel’s shoulder before recalling how many eyes were upon them and bolting back upright.

Mel and Oghren started up again, each picking up a mug and downing it in seconds, not breaking eye contact. Then another. Then another. And then… Mel collapsed backwards, her eyes rolling back in her head as she rested on the booth. Oghren finished his mug, let out a loud belch, and raised his hands in triumph as the crowd began to cheer.

“Good man!” Fergus Cousland exclaimed, giving the dwarf a slap on the back. “I fear these two have put our old contests to shame, dear brother,” he said to Keegan.

“Get me… Outta here,” Mel whispered to Edna, fighting back unconsciousness. “I can’t cast a Rejuvenation in front of all these mundanes.” Spot whined worriedly for her human.

“I reckon we should all be getting back,” Aeron said. As the eldest child of five and heir to his father’s arling, it was difficult for him not to be responsible.

The party agreed. Keegan, paid the bar and the party stumbled outside into the market district. Leaning on Edna with one arm and using her spear-staff to walk with the other, Mel and Spot found a fairly private back alley, where the purple-clad mage quickly expelled the contents of her stomach, and then cast a Rejuvenation spell on herself. And then another one, the blue light making her feel better instantly.

“All better?” Edna asked, concern in her voice. 

“All better,” Mel said, standing up straight and giving Edna a kiss on the cheek. “Now, shall we get back to the Bryland Estate?”

Edna nodded, gave Spot a scratch on the ears, and set back to her family’s estate with her companion.

The rest of the group were making their own way back to their respective lodgings. Keegan and Fergus were both swaying back and forth as they stepped, and Aeron was trying his best to keep everyone together and upright. Felix was concerned that his human had drank too much; he hadn’t seen him like this since before his human’s parents were killed. He supposed that Keegan was happy to see his littermate again.

Oghren, to everyone’s surprise, was whistling a jaunty tune and walking without issue, not a care in the world. As they turned the corner towards the Cousland Estate, a figure crept out of the darkness behind them. He felt lucky: from what he could see, his targets were even less sober than he’d hoped for. This would be easy, and Arl Howe would reward him handsomely. Maybe with his own bannorn.

The assassin stepped forward, carefully unsheathing his blade and raising it high above his head. He was about to bring it down on the elder Cousland’s head, until a mabari collided with him, knocking him to the ground and biting at him. Struggling, he kicked Felix off him and tried to stand up, but Oghren was too fast. The dwarf swung his axe at the assailant and cut his head clean off, blood splattering as the head rolled in the dirt.

“They always count out the dwarf,” he smiled, bending down to wipe off his axe.

Aeron squatted down to examine the would-be assassin. “Nothing identifying him, but a nice dagger,” he said, taking it and the sheath for himself. “Maker, is that pyrophite? Loghain’s man, likely… Or Howe’s,” he said, nearly spitting the name.  

Standing up, he looked at Keegan and Fergus disapprovingly. “That was sloppy, Fergus. And you especially, Keegan. Can’t afford to be sloppy this close to the Landsmeet, not with a Blight on our hands,” he admonished. 

The Cousland boys both had the sense to look contrite. The excitement of seeing old friends at the Gnawed Noble and being back together had gotten the better of them. “You’re right, of course, Aeron. Thank the Maker for Felix and Oghren… That could have been much, much worse,” Keegan agreed.

Fergus nodded, giving Oghren a look up and down. That dwarf had imbided in one evening more than Fergus had ever seen anyone drink in his life. He was a drunk, to be sure, but he’d made Fergus laugh, which was difficult to do these days. More than that, despite all he’d drank, he wielded his greataxe with incredible skill. A useful man to have around.

“Say, Oghren, my good man,” Fergus began. “I have a proposition for you.”

Morrigan was enjoying the solitude of her and Rayne’s room at the Cousland Estate. She was working at a desk on the next chapter of Flemeth’s grimoire, and had made some distressing progress, as Garahel was dozing lazily beside her at the desk. It was his head perking up that first alerted her that Rayne was returning.

She smiled and got up from her chair, sauntering over to the window and unlocking it for the raven that was arriving. It flew through the window, and transformed back into the form of the elf with whom she had become so comfortable this past year. Though he looked concerned, even as he gave an elated Garahel ear scratches. He had spent the day visiting Brother Genitivi, who he had been so sad to miss on the expedition to the Urn of Sacred Ashes. 

“What seems to be the problem, Rayne? Was this Brother Genitivi not everything you hoped for?”

“No, no… He wasn’t expecting me, but he was happy to sit and chat. He’s already seen so much, but still wanted to learn from me! It’s… Flattering, really. And inspiring. I’m hoping it won’t be our last meeting.”

“’Tis all well and good, then, hmm? What seems to be the issue?”

“On the way back, in raven form, I wanted to scout out the city a little more, get a lay of the land and… When I was near the Arl of Denerim’s estate, I think I sensed a Grey Warden?”

“Truly? Most curious. Another of your order who was not at Ostagar, perhaps?”

“Perhaps… I can’t say without finding them myself. I want to gather a team and enter the Arl’s Estate. See what we find. Would you be interested?”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, and smirked. “‘Twould be quite the risk, right before your Landsmeet… You are certain it will be worth it?”

“Of course not,” he responded, returning her smirk. “But you know me. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to find out.”