Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first floor of the unassuming four-story building appeared be built over a small, slow-moving river that flowed downhill through Denerim's alienage. As it crept into the other districts, it would be diverted underground with pipes, but the Arl had never quite gotten around to transforming what eventually became an open sewer in the city's poorest quarter. The first floor being soggy, the building's owner had built a ramp so that people visiting it could go directly to the second floor, which while perhaps dryer, was no better built. Eddin Rasphander smirked and looked at his subordinates. There were but four men assigned to the Alienage at any given time, and he had been put in charge of them a mere week beforehand. He didn’t want the assignment. When he’d signed on to the force, he’d envisioned taking down smuggling rings and saving pretty girls from kidnapping pimps, not walking the beat of a slum where everyone just seemed to ignore him. But, a promotion was a promotion, even though his squad consisted of two old men and a coward, and if he paid his dues, it could be a stepping stone to something greater. And when those two old men and the coward told him that getting things done in the Alienage meant a meeting with this specific member of the community, he had rolled his eyes and agreed.

“Who is this woman, again?” he asked, stepping gingerly over the dubious stream, “I already met with their ‘elder.’” Valendrian he had liked, the man knew his place, kept his head down and spoke deferentially, as elves who knew what was good for them did to any human, let alone the law.

“She runs a potions shop,” Kennit Maycomb, one of the old timers said, “But she’s something of a…”

“Community leader,” Jochrim Stillpass - the one other man there under the age of fifty - cut in.

“I’ve seen her record,” Eddin said, “She seems like a regular old miscreant to me.”

“If you’ve seen her record, you know that despite all the arrests, there is not a single conviction,” Guardsman Maycomb said, “Your job will be impossible to do without her buy-in.”

"I don't see what's going to be so hard about keeping these savages from killing each other," he said.

Two of his subordinates exchanged a meaningful glance. "You'd best be keeping that opinion to yourself in front of the Arlessa," Machias Colm, the other old-timer, offered

"And have I mentioned how ridiculous it is that she calls herself an arlessa?" Eddin replied, "I'll address her by her first name like the lowlife she is."

"She doesn't call herself that," Maycomb said, "I call her that. It's what she is. Listen, Rasphander this isn’t the same as ordering around the servants in your household. These elves are citizens of Denerim, same as you and me, and on paper they have all the rights that folks in every other district have."

"They live here because we allow them to live here," Eddin admonished his subordinate, "Things have been going wild in this neighborhood precisely because of attitudes like yours. They aren't like us, Maycomb, they're not civilized. They have to be reminded that we have laws for a reason. Without us, they would be tattooing their faces and romping through the forest like the Dalish, wiping their asses with pinecones."

Kennit was silent, but an expression flitted across his face. Was it a smirk? Eddin was suspicious of the old man, to say the least. A guardsman all his life, never wanting a promotion? There must be a reason for it. He feared this Arlessa of the Alienage, that much was clear. The other two guards were no better. One, Jochrim Stillpass, was around Eddin’s age but had been patrolling the Alienage for some time. The other, Machias Colm, was nearly up for retirement. Hardly a fearsome bunch, he thought, no wonder the natives have been restless. 

"The fact that I'm even deigning to meet with her shows remarkably bad judgment on my part," Eddin grumbled, "I should just ignore her and go about doing my job, like a real guardsman, not kowtowing to some wench."

"I can't tell you any more than I've told you," Kennit said, "But I've been walking this beat for years, and I will tell you that we don't matter. This place polices itself. Until Jock was brought on, it was just me and Mac and Sergeant Canty, and for some reason, the place didn't burn to the ground before that."

"No thanks to its inhabitants, I'm sure," Eddin said, "We were likely doing them a favor. At least when we owned them, we could look over their shoulders every so often and make sure everything was on the up and up. Now we let them loose in a neighborhood, and look how they treat it." He poked at the roof of the building with the point of his halberd and the thing started shedding shingles like a Mabari sheds his winter coat come springtime, "Then again, I suppose it's good we don't invite them into our own neighborhoods so they can burn us in our beds."

Eddin reached down and opened the door without bothering to knock, and caught his breath at what was inside. While outside the buildings were in poor condition, nearly falling down, this room was fairly decorated. A roaring fire blazed in the large fireplace at the end of the room, and the walls were hung with huge portraits. At first, he thought that it must be stolen art that some servant had pilfered from her master, but on closer inspection, the portraits were all of elves. What a waste of a skilled hand, he thought, admiring the paintings, why, this artist could have painted kings! Great battle scenes! And here he was, memorializing a bunch of slaves. What a shame.

"I see you admiring the work of Anorin Valstrig," a voice came from behind.

Eddin whirled. Standing there, wearing a simple but well-made gown of green silk, stood an elfin woman. She had odd coloring, as many elves did. When a human had a dark complexion, like the Rivaini traders who came through the port every so often, they generally had black hair and dark eyes. With elves, it was as though the colors had nothing to do with each other. Her hair was curly and a glossy light brown, as were her eyes. Indeed, as was all of her. Her callused hands indicated that she toiled outside by day, and the sun had lightened her hair and darkened her skin until she looked as though she were a statue all carved out of a single block of wood. Eddin had never found elfin women attractive, preferring humans and the occasional dwarf, with broad hips. Still, he found something otherworldly about the girl, and he found it difficult to take his eyes off of her.

"He painted arls and teyrns, and even the old King Maric Theirin once," she continued, "Not many knew him to be an elf, but he was, from this very Alienage. When he wasn't working, he would paint his fellow residents. See, my mother there."

She lifted one long finger to indicate a portrait of a woman younger than she, with black hair and green eyes. The name 'Adaia Alurani' was carved into the frame of the picture.

"We keep his paintings here for his memory," she said.

"What happened to him?" Eddin asked, curious despite himself.

"He fell in love with a woman," she said, "A servant in the house of the arl. Not the current one. His father.”

"And?"

"She was human," the elfin woman said, "And unmarried. When it came out that she was with child, she accused him of rape, and a lynch mob hung him from the vehnadahl, the great tree that grows outside this very building. His body was left there for weeks, and the arl forbade us to cut him down. His mother had to walk by every morning and see the crows peck at her son's distended body."

"I am not a supporter of vigilantism," Eddin said, "But you have to understand, it's not as though a human woman could consent to lie with an elfin man. It just isn't natural," The thought of it made him sick. He imagined, for a moment, how he would feel if his sister told him she wanted to marry an elfin man. Everyone knew that elves bewitched young human girls and took advantage of their naivety. This Anorin Valstrig probably was a rapist and deserved his fate. There was a reason things were the way things were.

She looked him up and down, then, as though sizing him up. He chuckled inwardly at this. The girl was half his size if that.

"Yes," she said, "If only more of your males thought that way, there would be fewer round-eared babies born to women here." She spat out the word 'males' as though she were talking about an animal, a hound, or a rooster. She looked him up and down again, “Please. Have a seat.” She sat at the head of the table in front of a stack of papers, and started going through them. 

Eddin realized at this moment that this woman was the fabled Arlessa of the Alienage. No wonder she has such a smart mouth. She was used to being among her own kind, day in and day out. Sort of like being the fastest pig in the world, he thought, very good when you're among other pigs, but not very effective when a horse showed up to the race. Very well, I’ll play this game. He walked over to the table and sat himself next to the head. His three guards hung back for a moment, but upon being ordered to do so, sat themselves. 

“We have had some problems with a few thugs from the docks district attempting to extort some of the businesses here,” she said, not looking up from the page, “I don’t think they’ll be back, but I would appreciate if you could at least have a chat with them, make sure they’re not part of something larger…” she licked her finger and flipped through more pages, “Oh, and then there was that investigation of a man who turned up dead in the river a couple days ago, I think it would be best for everyone if that death were declared an accident. Just trust me on that one.”

“Are you… are you giving me orders?!” Eddin exclaimed in disbelief.

“Of course not,” she said, looking up briefly, then back at her notes, “I’m just a wee elfin maiden who owns a potions shop. I’m making suggestions. As a concerned citizen.”

“You will watch your tone with me!” he exclaimed, “I have met some uppity elves in my time, but…”

She looked up again, her eyes lingering on him longer. Her expression remained static, but somewhere behind pale brown eyes, something fundamental had changed. Beside him, Eddin saw Machias slap the heel of one gnarled hand to his forehead. As if summoned by some silent signal, into the room walked two ginger-haired elves, one man whom he recognized as a porter at the warehouse where his wife worked as a bookkeeper, and a woman with the cracked hands of someone who handled rough" soaps frequently. They sat beside her, one on each side.

"Hello, Guardsman Maycomb,” the redheaded man said, "How's your wife doing?"

"Much better, thanks for asking, Soris," Kennit said.

"Good to hear," the elf man said, smiling.

"Our Soris is getting married soon,” Machias added, a ribbing undertone to his words, “Congratulations, my boy. I tell you, there's nothing like coming home to a wife to ease a man's troubles.”

At this the lad blushed red, and nodded, "Thank you.”

"Cousins," the "Arlessa" said, smiling, "We are here to greet and welcome the newest sergeant of the guard assigned to our little corner of Denerim. His name is Eddin Rasphander."

Her people were silent, but the elf woman seated across from Eddin smirked.

"Eddin Rasphander is twenty-nine years old," the arlessa said, "His wife's name is Maylin. He has two children, Eddin Junior, who is eight, and Andry, who is six. Maylin is pregnant again, but he doesn't know it yet. She's waiting until the quickening, because when she miscarried her last pregnancy, he broke her jaw." 

Eddin felt the blood drain from his face. The two old timers on the force shifted uncomfortably. Jochrim, a father of two himself, looked at his new sergeant with contempt. But the Arlessa was not done.

"Of course he insists it was an accident, and due to some friends in high places - I’ll tell you about that soon - it went away. Eddin and Maylin and their boys live in a house on the north bank of the Drakon River. It's unmistakable because of the blue shutters. Maylin had them painted several years ago, and she's dreadfully proud of them. Eddin Rasphander  buys a case of brandy every two weeks, but from different places so the shopkeepers won’t see how much he goes through. Most recently, it was from…” the elf shuffled through her papers, “Nan Darvey in the Market District. Nan overcharged him, but he’s only realizing that right now."

She paused, as though thinking over her next move.

"He, of course, has a litany of other vices, but we'd be here all night. So let's get to the important part. Eddin’s mother’s name is Jocasta Childers. The man who raised him was called Parric Rasphander, but he’s not his natural father. You see, Jocasta is a maid at the Arl of Denerim’s estate, but before that, she a whore working out of a brothel called the Pearl. Then Arl Urien showed up one day approximately thirty years ago, and she saw a very good chance at moving up in the world. He knocked her up, then gave her a job in his household and paid off poor Parric Rasphander, who was a groom in his stables, to marry her. A stipend from the arl’s family kept her mouth shut and her legs open for years, and paid for a decent education and eventual spot on the City Guard for the only product of that liaison. Indeed, I imagine the promotion to sergeant had something to do with Jocasta. See, she knows a bit more about the arl than he would prefer, and the man does like to keep his bastards close. This has caused some stir in the barracks as Eddin was not up for promotion. In fact, his record prior to last week was questionable. So much so that Knight-Captain Berengier has been looking for an excuse to fire him for years. And so, any disturbances that occur in the Alienage on his watch will likely be disastrous for his career," She paused, and produced a pipe from her belt. Silently, she filled it, while the others in the room, elves and humans, watched her. She lit it from the candle burning on the table before her. She took a couple of puffs, and passed it to the woman to her right, who did the same. "So now tell me, Eddin Rasphander," she said, "What do you know about me?"

He sat there, dumbstruck, realizing that he could not even remember her name. Something strange was occurring at the corners of his vision. He kept seeing movement, as though someone were sneaking up on him, but when he went to look, it was nothing but shadows on the wall, dancing in the lamplight. 

"That's what I thought," she concluded, "My name is Teneira Tabris, and while perhaps you are the one on the Arl's payroll, I am the one who keeps peace in this district. When there is trouble brewing and a riot is imminent, the arl can send whomever he wants to try to quell it, but I am the one who has the power to stop it. When the domestic labor threatens a strike and boycott, it happens or does not happen because I say so. Your dishes get washed and your laundry gets done because of me. I keep the elvish moonshine in the casks and elfin whores in the beds at every establishment in town.” 

“Are you threatening me?” he asked. He felt a growing agitation. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, and the features of the woman sitting before him appeared almost distorted, demonic, as if she were transforming into something arcane and terrifying.

“Of course not,” she said, smiling slowly. It was almost as though her mouth went too far up, like a snake’s,  “We’re just having a friendly chat. It’s really up to you how you want this to go. Your career to date was bought and paid for by corruption, and its continuation may be bought in the same manner, though I won’t make you do half the degrading things your mother has in furtherance thereof.”

“I never… I have never been spoken to like…” he stammered, blood pounding in his ears, “How dare you speak to me like that?! I could have you in the pillories for a week just for thinking half the things you…”

She started laughing at that point. She took the pipe back from the ginger elf, and took a lusty drag. She sat back, and slowly let the smoke out, as though she were going to blow a smoke ring. It was not a ring, however, and the cloud of smoke materialized into the shape of a great wolf, hanging there in the air between them. Behind it, her features grew contorted, her voice unearthly, "If peace or war happens here, it will have nothing to do with you."

"You uppity, knife-eared bitch," he growled, "What, are you all apostate mages now? I ought to report you to the Chantry for this… this dark magic! I knew it, you're all witches and demons!"

"That's a bad move, Ed," Jochrim sighed, but made no move to stop him. Eddin's halberd was out by this time, as though he could fight the smoke-wolf with steel. He backed himself into a corner, brandishing it out in front of him so that none could get too close.

"What a disappointment," Teneira sighed, waving her hand and dissipating the smoke in the air, "And I thought perhaps we might be able to get along so famously. Very well, Eddin Rasphander. You may go. Don't get too comfortable as a sergeant, though, for I assure you, your command of this squad is quite temporary."

"I only suspected before, but now I know that this quarter is populated by nothing but thugs and brigands and… and blood mages! Your kind only respects one kind of power, and believe you me, I know how to wield it."

"Do you!” she exclaimed, “I would be quite curious to see how that goes, but, unfortunately I won’t get the opportunity.”

Eddin didn't need to be told twice. He turned and all but ran out of the house, scrambling down the ramp outside, muddying his boots as he forgot where the open sewer ran. His men followed him.

"That was a mistake, Eddie," Machias said, shaking his head. The other guards nodded their agreement.

"How did she do that?" he said, gasping and redfaced with rage, "Is it some kind of curse? Some kind of magic unknown to the Maker?"

Kennit and Machias looked at each other, and shrugged, "I wouldn't know," Kennit said, "Cantrips and charms, more likely. It did seem to get to you, though. I just saw flowers growing out of the ceiling."

"This is… this is ridiculous. And I think you've also forgotten who your superiors are just as much as she has. I am alerting my father of this little encounter. If you think he'll be as forgiving as I am for this type of outrage, then you are sorely mistaken.” He paused, fuming a second, and then felt the blood rush to his face as he realized he had just confirmed with that strange little elf woman had said about him.

Kennit and Machias looked at each other. Those two had been patrolling the Alienage for longer than either of them could count, and Jochrim for the eight years he’d been on the force. There had always been an elf they dealt with, sometimes a crime boss, sometimes an elected official, to keep peace in the District. For the several years that Teneira Tabris had been filling the post, the Alienage had been peaceful. She kept the peace, and in return the guards conveniently botched the investigation when she suggested that a human turned up dead in the river had deserved it for one reason or another. Her predecessor, Leonara, had not been nearly so reasonable – the Alienage under her leadership had rioted at the drop of a pin, doing more damage to themselves than to Denerim as a whole, but enough damage to put a dent in the number of available domestic servants. If this bastard son of the arl were going to take true control of the Alienage in his own hamhanded fashion, they would have to brace themselves for an all-out war. Indeed, looking up to the darkened buildings, every flat and every house had at least one shutter opened, and at least one elf staring daggers down at the squad. On the lower buildings, several of them stood silently on each rooftop, not moving, not speaking, just... watching. The older guardsmen were as much a part of the fabric of the community as any of the elves, and treated politely at least, like one might an eccentric great uncle. Jock had started out like Eddin, thinking he was going to be the one to singlehandedly end petty crime in the neighborhood, but he had fallen in line eventually. 

"Nothing to be done about it, may as well go home," Kennit said, but he might as well have said "Get out of here for Maker's sake, before everything goes to blazes!" given how fast the guards scattered back to their homes.

Eddin Rasphander shook his head and inwardly vowed revenge on the "arlessa." She probably thought she knew everything. She was not banking on a few cards he had in his deck. She would pay dearly for her arrogance, he thought, dearly indeed.

Meanwhile, inside, Teneira had gone from relaxed and flippant to a ball of nervous energy. She snatched the pipe from where it had wound up at the end of the table, and smoked furiously. She was young for one in her position. Though she did not know her precise date of birth, she said she was twenty-five and pretended her birthday was two days past the fall equinox. She distinctly remembered twenty winters, although she was unsure of her age when she began to recall things, so that was not terribly helpful. Still, she spoke with the easy grace of a diplomat, or the cunning, cutting tone of a crime boss, convincingly enough that most of the guards would be happy to play ball. Eddin Rasphander, though, seemed to have an agenda already set out before he came to the table.

"What do you think he saw?" Shianni, her redheaded right-hand woman asked.

"Hopefully, the end of his career," Soris quipped.

The two of them were both cousins to Teneira, and though they were not technically cousins to each other, they were close in age, with Teneira being the eldest. They had all formed something of a family unit their entire lives and may as well have been related at this point. 

"They see what their mind makes up," Teneira said, “If they come in afraid, it’s predators and demons, if they come in in a good mood, it’s just the walls moving strangely. I’m beginning to think Kennit actually likes it.”

“And how would you know? It doesn’t work on elves,” Shianni said.

“I’ve heard,” Teneira corrected herself, rolling her eyes. The woman who’d taught her her trade was human. Discovering that the smoke of this particular herb only had psychedelic effects on humans was a thrilling and hilarious discovery she had made one day and then promptly gotten smacked across the face with the woman’s slipper when she giggled a little too loudly.

"In any case, we're all going to have to watch our backs until Eddin's replaced," Soris sighed.

“We all have to watch our backs, period,” Teneira said, “We all know what happens to elves who don’t.” She made a gesture of a noose around her own neck.

“Well, you’ve been chasing that death since you were twelve,” Soris pointed out.

“It is true I didn’t plan to live this long,” Ten acknowledged, “Ugh, and Maycomb had to remind us of weddings…”

“You’re deep into spinsterhood at this point,” Shianni pointed out, “It was going to happen eventually.”

Ten shook her head, “Poor lad from Highever doesn't even know who it is he's tangling with. You know my dad can’t write. I don’t know what he told Valendrian, but the letter that went out trying to find me a husband said that I like gardening and sewing."

“Did you have it corrected?” Soris asked.

“Well, it’s not technically a lie,” Ten pointed out.

“Sure, but the garden is full of hallucinogens and poisons and the sewing needles hollow and barbed.”

Teneira laughed, but her laughter was hollow. Nothing was in stone yet, but the near decade of putting her father off, insisting she was too young or too busy to marry, rejecting potential matches left and right, was over. She had given her consent to this one, some lad from Highever, also a little old for a first marriage - begrudgingly. The elfin population of any given city was kept in check, if not with outright murder, then with malnutrition and disease which often lead to a... limited gene pool. Without a careful mapping of family trees and constant communication with other elves in other cities, all of them would be gone in a generation or two. Ten had seen the effects of inbreeding on families too poor to make good matches. Mismatched facial features, blindness, children born with too many fingers – or too few. While she recognized the need for a husband from far outside Denerim, and thus a stranger, this did little to ease her nervousness about the prospect. She was a good match on paper, she knew that. Sure, a little on the older side, but all in all, still in her prime, the owner of a successful alchemist's shop. Then again, her arrest record alone…

"As for your..." Shianni paused, looking for the right word, "Your role in the Alienage, just wait until the marriage is legal and unbreakable. And then, the morning after your wedding you roll over and say 'Oh, by the way, dear, there may or may not be a sergeant of the Guard who would like nothing better than to take my ears for a trophy! Hope you're not dreadfully put out with me!'

Teneira sighed, "I suppose we should be getting on home then. Who was that lieutenant who's fucking his captain's wife?"

"Guither Langerre," said Soris, "I'll get him a message gently suggesting that Rasphander be replaced."

The three of them left the meeting room and walked the few blocks to the flat Shianni and Ten shared, and Soris split off to go to his own place, which he had only just rented in anticipation of his wedding. Inside, the two women silently sat down at the kitchen table in front of a bottle of clear elfin moonshine. Ten drank down two drams, silently contemplating just how much trouble she'd gotten the lot of them into, and then crept off to the back room and crawled into bed.

That night, for the first time of what would be many, she dreamed of dragons.

Chapter Text

The following week - she thought it a Monday but in hindsight, did it matter? - as Teneira was minding her stall, someone new came to see her, though the guard uniform with the sergeant’s pin on the surcoat should have been a clue. This was an odd and alarming feeling for her. She was not a great warrior of any degree, any power she had came from her being at least a few steps ahead of everyone around her.  And so, when a very young sergeant of the guard, even younger than Eddin Rasphander, came to her stall, it made her quite nervous indeed. Showing this, of course, would be a mistake of the highest order and so she sized him up while trying to keep her eyes on the ground. There was, after all, a chance he did not know who she was and merely wanted to purchase some of her wares. There were many humans who found eye contact from elves a sign of great disrespect, so she had made a habit of averting her eyes whenever one was around - unless she was trying to be disrespectful.

"Can I interest you in a poultice, ser?" she asked, talking to the counter in front of her. Right now, she was just Ten the Alchemist, who signed her bottles with the numeral "10" and always had what you were looking for, no matter how unsavory its purpose, "Life of a guard must be dangerous, I'm sure you could use one."

"I'll have none of your poultices, love," he said, "I'd take a kiss from that sweet mouth, though." 

Ugh. He’s one of those. She scoffed inwardly. She wasn’t quite sure where the stereotype came from that elfin women were all completely helpless to resist the charms of human men. In all likelihood, it was made up by said human men to absolve themselves of the rampant sexual assault they tended to commit. With impunity, of course. 

“Well, ser, that’s not the business I’m in,” she said, fiddling with her vials, “I suggest you visit any of the numerous brothels in town, I’m sure there will be a woman glad to take your coin and give you what you seek.” She fished a vial out from under her counter, “If you need assistance with your... performance in that department, it’s five silver for the bottle.” She slid it across the counter. The bottle was actually a run of the mill sedative, but he had no way of knowing that.

She held out her hand for his coin, and looked him full in the face. She understood where the bravado came from. He was certainly pretty enough to get away with saying such things to women and probably only getting slapped on occasion. But there was also something… unusual about his features. He had high cheekbones, a narrow chin and a high-bridged, straight, nose, all of which certainly appeared in human faces with varying frequency, but usually not all at once. That, coupled with the pale, marble-green eyes which stood out starkly against medium brown skin... again, neither one out of place on a human's face, but in combination…  

He smirked at her, mistaking her fascination with his face for something else entirely. "I'm Sergeant Anton Villais. The lieutenant sends his regards and suggested I meet with you," he said, winking, "Peace in the Alienage is, after all, of such importance to Denerim." He pronounced his name, which was certainly foreign, in the Fereldan way. Anton Villaiss.

"I see. Perhaps we'd better have a conversation out of the public view then, Sergeant Villais," Teneira said, "I'll call Shianni to tend the shop."

Interpreting this statement in the only way his ego would allow, Villais grinned from ear to ear and followed her down the street into her kitchen. 

Inside, she boiled a pot of water over the fire and set a handful of herbs to steep in the clay teapot while Villais unbuckled his sword belt, laid it on the ground, and sat at the rickety kitchen table. The tea wouldn't do anything to her except taste slightly sweet and mellow, but once he drank it he would be rendered impotent for a day or more, until it ran through his system. You never could be too careful when dealing with humans alone behind closed doors, after all. Teneira, plying her trade and living all within the walls of the alienage, was not beholden to a human employer who would threaten her livelihood in order to take his liberties. But... most women in the Alienage did, the larger part of them working as domestics or in shops where their masters had access to them behind closed doors. And so, Ten did a brisk business in the stuff, selling them powdered and liquid concentrates of the herbs she was using now. Slip it into his breakfast in the morning, he would leave you alone until nightfall. That was her guarantee, and it was effective enough to keep them coming back. 

While she bustled about her kitchen, she slyly packed her pipe and lit it. Her kitchen was larger than her meeting room above her father’s woodshop, but ideally, this would not dilute the drug she’d slipped in there. She puffed it, making sure the air grew smoky enough that he could not avoid getting a lungful. Satisfied, she put it out, poured the tea she was brewing into two mugs, handed one to Villais, and sat across the kitchen table from him. He looked completely unperturbed by the smoke. He took one of the mugs, but did not drink it. Someone warned him about me. I wonder who. Maybe one of the old timers, but that just means they want him to stick around.

Under the guise of just fidgeting, she waved a hand in the air. Usually, that would get someone going once they’d gotten a lungful. Seeing the walls move, creatures creep in in their peripheral vision or, as her potions mistress Alticia had, seen moths crowding the lamps in the dead of winter. He continued to be unbothered. The inkling Ten had had out in the square was growing. The accusation she was about to make could certainly win her a set of iron bangles and a excursion to the city lockup, but having taken such holidays while wearing such jewelry before, she wasn't all that frightened of the prospect. And so, turned, took a breath, she jumped in with both feet.

“How long have you been passing?" she asked. 

The rakish grin dropped from the guardsman's face like a mask. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, a few times. 

"So you've clocked me," he said, his voice quieter and lower, confirming her suspicions, “And it took you all of five minutes.”

"I’m honestly surprised you’ve fooled any humans,” Ten said, pretending that she had seen it all along and not had to confirm it with her little pharmaceutical experiment, "You should have known you weren't going to fool everyone here."

"They don't look at you the way you look at them," he said, "No ears, no elf, as far as most of them are concerned."

"Well, I suppose I'll never have to worry about that," she said, fingering the pointed tip of her own left ear, "But more importantly, tell me, Anton Villais," she pronounced it with the Orlesian accent it certainly called for. Antonh Veelay, "What are you doing here and why didn't I know about it?"

Looking relieved that she had moved on from the topic so quickly, he answered. The tone of his voice had shifted, and she realized that his jaunty, easy manner outside was as much a show as her lowered eyes and soft voice, "Well, I'm here because I'm a guardsman. I’m… actually fairly good at being a guardsman, and I was up for promotion anyway when Rasphander got the boot.”

“What are you doing in Denerim, with that name?”

“My mother moved us here when I was a child. Why does that matter? And what kind of name is yours, anyway? That’s not Fereldan.”

“I never told you my name.”

“Maycomb did.”

“Teneira’s Elvish and Tabris is Tevinter, I’ll let you do the math on how that happened. Who’s your mother? Do I know her?”

“I doubt it,” he said, confused at first and then realizing what she was getting at, “Oh. Well. She’s the human one. That’s what you meant, isn’t it.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

Folks of mixed heritage were not rare, of course. Most had enough elfin features to just be considered elves for legal purposes, regardless of how much human - or dwarf, though less frequently - was in their background. Halfbreeds who could pass for human were a little bit rarer, but also certainly not unheard of, especially given how many folks who were actually half human themselves were classed as elves. Ten’s own best childhood friend, Ioan, was such a dead ringer for his human father that he had up and left the Alienage once he was old enough to be on his own, pretended to be a human orphan from somewhere else, and just gone on about it. But... halfbreeds with human mothers actually were rare. Well, not rare at conception. More rare at birth. But, at six months, vanishingly so, let alone being permitted to survive to adulthood. 

"She didn't sic a lynch mob on my father. I know that's what you were thinking,” Villais continued.

"What happened, then?" she asked.

"When she told him she was with child, he took off into the wilds to find the Dalish, rather than stick by her side and see her through it," Villais said.

“What do you think happens to elfin men who get children with human women? Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have protected him.”

“Well, he could have waited to see what I looked like. He’d be in the clear.”

“So long as your mother kept her mouth shut. But, well, that’s neither here nor there. You’re grown now. You never got curious about us? Your own people?” 

"That's not entirely fair, is it," he said, "You're not my people. The only parent who wanted me is human, all my brothers are human, everyone I grew up with is human. Most of my family doesn’t even know. I didn't even know for years." He looked down at his tea.

"But now that you're a lawman, you took this post," Ten scoffed, "So you can prove how human you are by bringing out the irons and dogs."

He didn't respond right away, and instead picked up his mug of tea then, and drank it down. A show of faith. They then sat there a long moment in silence, each sizing the other up. After he was satisfied that nothing nefarious was in his drink, he continued, "I'm not a fool, I know the trade of the Arlessa of the Alienage. If you were truly afraid I would come out with the irons and the dogs, there would have been something nasty in that cup. But I don't think you are, and I don't there was."

"So why did you tell me all that? You could have denied your heritage, seems you’ve been doing that all your life. If even a rumor about your parentage were to spread among the guard, you might lose everything, and you have given me the power to start such a rumor."

"I might," he said, "But the thing about me, is that I can skip town. Go somewhere else. Somewhere where the only elves folks see are racist caricatures and nobody knows what to look for. But you? You're stuck here. There will always be guardsmen posted to the Alienage, regardless. And you might find yourself with someone worse even than Rasphander. Trust me, you're better off with me than any number of other options."

"Perhaps," she said, "Perhaps not. You have not shown me what kind of man you are yet, after all."

"I may not know what it is to live as an elf in this city, but… well, I’m not the only one of my brothers to be born out of wedlock. Surely you can imagine how a family of Orlesian bastards were treated. Sure, we weren't walled in, but that just gave the neighborhood lads better access to us. I think that you and I can have a civil working relationship. I mean, I respect what it is you do. You don't trade in drugs or women, like some of the other neighborhood bosses, and you don't extort merchants or passers-through."

The other neighborhood bosses, of course, wielded perhaps more clout in polite society than Ten, but, as far as she knew, none were quite as well-connected to the lifeblood of the city. Of course, they all had them. The Market Quarter had Boss Guilder, the Docks had the Captain, the Antivan and Orlesian quarters had Don Cangrejo and Madame Hirondelle, respectively. She didn't remember how the slums on the hill's boss styled him or herself, but nobody really cared; they were only good for riots and the occasional citywide prank. The last time, a couple of years before, it had been collecting frogs' eggs from all over the region and dumping them in the canal, which ran the length of the north end of the city and behind the estates of most of the peers of the realm. It had resulted in several weeks of chaos as millions of the slimy bastards spawned and spread. Though, Ten had to admit, it was a summer blessedly free of mosquitoes.

She looked at Anton critically over her mug. She hadn't had the time to research him  properly as she had with Rasphander. She had, in fact, never heard of Villais before this very day. The list she had compiled, given all the intelligence she had on the guard, was that the next sergeant in line should have been one Enerys Welfeth, the mistress of one of the higher-ups in the command. She was actually looking forward to dealing with a woman for a change. But this Anton Villais, this halfbreed, he might be of some use to her yet. But he was far too comfortable there. 

She stood up and went into the cupboard. There, the Reverend Mother sat coiled in the wicker basket that was her home these days. Ten reached in carefully and caught her around her neck. The Mother hissed her displeasure.

"Sorry, darlin'," she said, grasping the black snake, "I need something from you and you'll have a fat and tasty rat for your troubles."

Holding the snake by the back of the head and supporting the rest of her body in her arms, she returned to the kitchen.

"What in Andraste's name is that?" Villais demanded, leaping up from the table, shoving his chair to the floor with a clatter.

"This is the Reverend Mother," she replied, "I like keeping little pets. She’s actually quite an affectionate little creature. If you can get past the fangs.”

"That's a black cattle adder," he said, identifying the species correctly, which was rather impressive, "I've seen what a bite from one of those will do. Forgive me if I'm not too thrilled to see you cradling one like a baby."

Ten giggled, and made a show of affection to the snake as she reached out for a glass jar over which she'd stretched a thin bit of leather and placed it in the center of her counter. Easing up on the Reverend Mother's neck, she let the snake strike out and bite it. She grabbed the snake's head again, not too hard, just enough pressure to hold it there while the venom, clear and viscous, oozed into the vial. "The venom of a cattle adder is potent, you are right, but used correctly, it can cure paralysis."

"Is that what you use it for?" he asked, still eying her nervously.

"Not me personally," she said, "I'm not a physician. I can keep a wound from bleeding out or stitch you up, but if you're actually sick or dying you're out of luck with me," She stroked the snake's head with her finger, coaxing more venom out of her, "A drop diluted in water will add sting to an arrow, coat your blade with it, it will make your enemy's muscles seize and spasm even with the smallest nick. I'm one of two or three people in Denerim with the stones to pick up a full-grown cattle adder by the neck, let alone keep one in my cupboard."

The flow of venom slowed as the Reverend Mother emptied her sac.

"Thanks, dearheart," she said to the snake, disengaged her fangs from the leather, and put her gently back in her cage. She then went to the rat trap in the corner, where a freshly dead one was lying with its neck broken. She picked it up by the tail and put it in the snake's cage. She didn't watch her eat, something about the way a snake could unhinge her jaw to swallow a rat twice the size of her head didn't sit quite right with her.

"And you have gotten five or six doses of that in that vial alone," Villais observed, "Are you fulfilling an order for someone?"

"Do you have a warrant?"

He actually laughed at this, and admitted he did not, "You were just trying to scare the shit out of me, weren't you."

"Listen, Sergeant. I don't know your dad. Sounds like you don't either. And I don't know who his people are. You may carry some of the blood, but to me, you're just another shem who thinks he can act however he wants in here."

"Maker's breath, is this about the whole asking for a kiss thing? Most women think it's charming," he said.

"My aim is the safety and dignity of the people within these walls," she said, not deigning to answer, “Do you think you can get on board with that?”

“I took an oath to protect the safety and dignity of everyone in this city.”

“All guards take that oath, very few of them keep it. Do you know what happened to the last Sergeant?"

"Kit Canty?" he asked, referring to the guard that Rasphander had been brought in to replace, "Sergeant Canty died in his bed of apoplexy. He was in his sixties, that... sometimes happens."

"Yes, he did," she said.

Anton looked at her sideways, and then down at the mug that he'd emptied.

"Did you kill him?" he asked her flat out.

"You said it yourself," she said, shrugging, "He died of apoplexy. Such things happen, after all, to old men. Men who have outlived their usefulness, so to speak."

"And what can I do to be of use to you?" he asked.

"There was a body found in the river last week. Rand Ashby.”

Villais nodded, relaxing visibly, “Was he the one who had such a terrible accident at his print shop?”

Ten let loose a soft huff of a laugh and smiled in spite of herself, “It was terrible, wasn’t it. What machinery can do to a man...”

"Well, he probably shouldn't have had any of his... extremities uncovered around the gears," Villais said, "I already signed the report. It's on Berengier’s desk, waiting for the stamp.”

"It appears we understand each other after all, Anton Villais," she said.

"I look forward to working with you for the betterment of this great city," he replied. He put out his hand, intending her to shake it.  And so she did, but then pulled him to her and gave him the kiss he had requested. She told herself it was because it would keep him on his toes, worrying about whether she intended to kill him or take him to bed or both. But, eventually, she had to admit that she just wanted to. And, after all, what was the harm? She was grown. He was grown. He wasn’t wearing a ring, and neither was she… just yet. It was just a kiss with a young man who tasted not unpleasantly of woodsmoke and who had inherited a smooth, hairless face from his elfin father, and so he didn't feel alien as it had the two times she had allowed a human man to kiss her, all stubble and such. For how boldly he’d approached her at her stall, he was certainly not expecting it, but reacted enthusiastically nonetheless. She broke it off before he could get too excited.

"What was that for?" he asked after a moment's stunned silence.

“You shouldn’t go around asking for things if you don’t want them.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t… just… I…” he stammered.

“Don’t worry, my father is in the process of arranging a marriage for me, I'm just going around kissing all the pretty lads I meet. I need to get it out of my system so I can be a faithful wife."

"I'm not sure if I feel sorry for the man that will be sharing your bed, or if I'm ragingly jealous of him," Villais observed, shaking his head and chuckling, "If I stay any longer in your house, I'm sure the townsfolk will talk."

"And we can't have that, can we, Sergeant Villais," she said, grinning, "I'm sure we'll see each other with some frequency."

"Yes," he said, "I suppose we shall."

He returned to his beat, and she to her stall, and she spoke of it with nobody.

Chapter Text

Ten had always been fascinated by the paradoxes of life. Particularly, how elves were restricted in some ways, but free in others. Though her father, who had raised her alone since she was a toddler, could barely write his own name, he had instilled in his only child a thirst for knowledge that she had never grown out of. He had gone without meals to send her to what passed for school in those parts, and once she had learned her letters, he made her spend every evening reading whatever news broadsides he could get his hands on aloud to him. And so she knew quite a bit about how humans lived. Most of them, the middle and lower class ones, anyway, chose their spouses, but once they did, it was considered a grave sin to share a bed with anyone else. It was even a defense to a murder charge if you caught your spouse in flagrante delicto with another. By contrast, while most elves did not choose whom they could marry, what was acceptable or unacceptable within the bounds of said marriage was entirely up to the couple. Judgment from outside the marriage was just considered crass.  

Ten had also heard that premarital relations among humans were looked down upon, and that humans were somewhat expected to go to the altar as virgins. Kind of a ridiculous idea, Ten thought privately. Then again, for the elves of the cities - the women especially - it was a known fact that at some point during their lives, some human was going to take advantage of them sexually. And so, the elfin mothers and aunties did not say ‘keep yourself pure for your husband’ as the humans did, but ‘don’t let a rapist be your first.’ Ten couldn’t even remember the name of the lad she’d lain down with in a hayloft during the summer of her fourteenth year - he’d gone and married a girl over in the Marches not long afterwards. That was how it was, after all, you could do pretty much what you wanted with the boys in town, but only rarely was it anything other than a fling, something pretty and ephemeral that would have to end when a spouse was found.

And so, during the weeks - and there were eight of them - before her wedding, she lived in an odd dream. Every day, the same thing happened. She stood behind her stall. Villais came by. She offered a poultice, her eyes cast down. He asked for a kiss. She blushed like a proper elfin maiden and waved him off, but when he went to the gate at the end of his shift, ready to head back to the Orlesian quarter where he still made his home, every so often she would be waiting for him, to give him the kiss he requested beyond the prying eyes of the neighbors. There would be snippets of conversation, sometimes, small pictures into the life each of them led when they were not hiding in the sentry box. 

It wasn't a love affair, not exactly. They could not, of course, discuss it explicitly. That would mean one of them giving up the upper hand. They certainly could not discuss it with anyone else; that would have meant a loss of credibility for her and a loss of job—or at least posting—for him. But every so often, when she felt like it, they could pretend that they were just two ordinary young people doing what young people do.

On the day before her wedding, she was closing up shop early for the day. Most of her regular customers had already come by with their orders, and she wanted to take some time for herself. She was stacking the boxes of potions back into her wagon when Villais came by.

"A poultice, ser?" she asked, lowering her eyes.

He leaned on the counter of the stall. "I require a meeting with the arlessa," he said. She looked up at him sharply. His voice was uncharacteristically grim, and there was no merriment on his face.

She returned to her business, speaking to the bottles, not to him. "In the room on the second floor above the woodshop. Tonight, after sundown. Will you have your guardsmen with you?"

"I will be alone."

"I am never alone," she replied, "Bring your guards if you'd like."

"I think it would be better if I didn’t," he said, though he looked uneasy.

In the room where she had first met Eddin Rasphander, Teneira sat, puffing nervously on her pipe - this time with nothing but sweet tobacco in it - and waiting for Villais to arrive. She looked up at the portrait of her mother, hoping that it all wasn't about to bite her in the ass. Adaia looked coldly down at her through the eyes that Anorin Valstrig had painted so beautifully, offering neither advice nor comfort.

Villais arrived soon after, alone, as promised, and out of uniform, with a cap drawn down and collar drawn up over his face 

"Where are your people?" he asked.

"They're around," she replied, "The walls are thin. What do you have to tell me? Or was this a pretext to get me alone?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Tabris," he said brusquely, "This is serious business.”

“Serious business about what?”

“Eddin Rasphander,” Villais declared.

“Rasphander!” she exclaimed. She hadn’t given a second thought to Villais’ predecessor since he had stormed out of that very room. She’d thought, given his record with the guard, that his dismissal from the Alienage would have meant his dismissal from the force at large. No such luck, apparently.

“You humiliated him, Teneira,” he said, “Mac told me what happened. Did you think he was going to let it go?”

“What did you hear?” she asked quickly.

“That he called in some favors with some… relatives of his,” Anton said, “You know the ones. He wants your head and he wants everyone who was in that room with you.”

"My cousins," Teneira said, "Bloody hell… Soris is getting married tomorrow as well, I can't exactly tell him to leave town…"

"Tomorrow?" Villais asked, all of a sudden taking on the look of a cat that had been doused with a basin full of dishwater, "You're getting married tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," she said, unable to meet his gaze, "What’s he got planned?”

"I won't bore you with politics in the guardhouse," Villais said, "Smug prick was bragging all over the barracks that he had a plan to take care of you and your cousins and the whole Alienage at the same time."

"But you don't know what he's planning," she said.

"Like I said, it involves some relatives of his. You know, the ones in the ruling family," Anton said, "I don't think I can protect you. I’ll be surprised if I get to keep my post, to be quite honest.”

"You're not here to protect me," she said, "You're here to protect the Alienage."

"I don't think this hole has a fighting chance without you," he said.

"Does he mean to kill me?" she asked.

"No, just to 'send a message,' as he put it," Villais responded, "To 'put an uppity sow in her place.' He was drunk when he said it, I don't know if it was all bluster or… or what."

Ten sighed. She was expecting something like this to happen. Of all the damned stupid times to get married. 

"Is there no way I can convince you to leave town?" Villais asked.

"Leave town and go where?" she asked.

"One of the hamlets outside the city walls. Even leaving the Alienage… you could stay with my mother. Pretend you're her new live-in maid."

"Seriously?" she said, though she was surprised and a little flattered at his offer, "And how long do you expect me to wash your mother's underthings until I return?"

"Until Eddin forgets about it," he said.

"He's not going to forget about it," Teneira said, "There's no way out of this one. I thank you for the warning, Sergeant Villais, but not showing up at my own wedding would put me in a worse position. The best I can do is prepare."

"How are you going to do that?" he asked, "If I may ask."

"You may not," she said, "If you're a clever boy, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"I think you're in over your head, Ten," he said.

"I think I am too," she admitted, and saying it out loud felt as though she were putting a huge burden down. She slumped in her chair, her head in her hands, thinking furiously of what she would have to do. A dagger under her wedding dress, poisons in leather flasks in her boots. She could protect herself, but there would be consequences.

"Don't do it, Ten," Villais said, his voice suddenly gentle. He got up from his seat and approached her from behind, gingerly putting his hand on the back of her neck, "They'll destroy you. If they don't figure out a way to hang you, there are all sorts of things they could..."

"They can do what they want to me. If they don’t get me, they’ll take it out on my family.”

"Don’t say that," he said. His hand on her neck became bolder, spreading out, his fingers curling over one shoulder.

"The guards know that peace in Denerim depends on a subtle balance of power. And whatever his prejudices, the arl is not a fool."

"Or he’s decided it’s worth it," Anton said, "I must confess that I…" He put his other hand on her shoulder. She made no move to stop him, though his touch raised goosebumps on her upper arms. She wondered to herself, briefly, if the lad from Highever would have the same effect on her. 

"No," she said, standing up quickly and extricating herself from his grip, "I don't want to hear it."

"Look me in the eye and tell me there's nothing between us, and I'll leave and never look your way again," he said, his voice urgent.

"And if it suited me," Teneira said, "What makes you think I would not lie to you now?"

"You're not denying it," Villais said, his tone growing desperate, "We could both run. Come away with me to Orlais. Antiva. The Free Marches, I don't care. Just…"

"I can't," she said, her voice fierce, "What sort of person do you think I am? That I would leave my home, my family, my people, all because some pretty lad who thinks he's human wants me to?"

He looked for a moment like she’d just slapped him.

"Of course. Your people," he said, "And for them, you must do as is expected of you. Even to your own death, I see that now. You would rather die doing your duty than live a thousand years looking back on having betrayed it."

"And you, you would leave your mother, your brothers?" Teneira said.

He looked away, and she understood then that he absolutely would. If she had said yes, he would have been at the docks in an hour. She felt a sharp pain like a wasp sting at the base of her sternum, and suddenly she couldn’t look at him.

"Well, let's pray that you never have a duty beyond preventing all the maids in Denerim from poisoning their mistresses," he said.

"Or encouraging all the maids in Denerim to poison their mistresses, if it's politically expedient," Teneira countered, forcing the tightness out of her voice, "I thank you for your concern, Sergeant Villais. I do hope that we will continue to have such a fine working relationship in the future."

She sat, her back to the door, while he walked out. Then she went home, and then she went home, and to bed, though she did not sleep for many hours.

One of Teneira’s first memories was of a body being launched over the high gate with a catapult, sprawling on the cobblestones. She didn't know the boy personally, but hung back and watched as the crowd gathered. Her father stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, not even trying to shield her and chiding her gently when she tried to look away. The body was purpled with bruises, the face so swollen it was unrecognizable to all but the boy’s own mother, who let loose a scream so guttural and strangled it sent chills through Ten’s body.

"Is she scared, Dad?" asked Ten. She couldn't have been much older than six.

"Yes, my girl," her father had told her, "We're all scared."

"What happened to him?"

“He did something a human didn’t like," he replied.

"Will that happen to me if I leave the Alienage?"

Cyrion did not say no. “Guard your eyes, my girl,” he said, “And guard your body. Above all, guard your spirit. That's the one thing they can't hurt without your permission."

"Yes, Dad," she replied, though she didn't really know what he was talking about.

She left the Alienage for the first time when she was maybe thirteen or fourteen, to work and learn from an alchemist who operated out of the Antivan quarter. She was grateful when Alticia declared her ready after a year or two and set her loose on the alienage to ply her trade. When the women and girls came to her, mostly elves but a few human women as well, seeking to cast out the child, she saw in their eyes what her father was talking about. Damaged spirits, all. Hollow eyes and cheeks, bodies deprived of rest and peace. She would give them the potion to bring on a miscarriage, a poultice to stanch the blood, and then a sedative.

The first girl who cried in her arms, a girl not much older than her, did so through blackened eyes, as when she'd told her parents what had happened, her father had called her a harlot and beaten her bloody. Mysteriously, the son of the girl's master - the culprit, evidently - came down with a strange disease. He'd survived, but the infection took both of his legs. The father was easier. She and Soris, with masks over their noses and mouths to hide their identities, crept in through his window and held a knife to his throat, promising a slow death if he laid hands on his daughter again.

"Part of me understands him," Soris said, after they'd climbed down and sheathed their knives, "He doesn't have the power to protect his daughter. It angers him, and he turns that on her."

"He's a fool and a bully," Teneira surmised.

That was the path she had gone down that, maybe ten, maybe eleven years later, had her sitting pretty as the Arlessa of the Alienage. But she knew, tossing and turning, that she had just come face to face with the limits of her own power.

Chapter Text

The morning of her wedding dawned bright, though little sunlight came through the windows of her ground-floor flat, the buildings close by casting shadows over everything below. She awoke to Shianni shaking her. The dear girl had evidently been up for hours, clearly much more excited about her cousin's wedding than her cousin was. Evidently Cyrion had only found a husband for his wayward daughter because the girl his brother Cedrin had found for Soris had a cousin whose own family was trying to offload him. This good fortune did not extend to Shianni, whose mother was dead and whose father was a mystery. Indeed, Ten was her only living family in town. Though once she was married, she would have some legitimacy trying to find a match for the girl who - for reasons Ten did not understand - really wanted a husband.

"Come on, Ten!" Shianni squealed, "It's your wedding day, no sense in dawdling about. Anyway, the word is your groom is the handsomest lad seen around these parts in ages!"

"I'm up, I'm up," Teneira grumbled. She wrinkled her nose, "Have you been drinking already? Nevermind, don't answer that."

She tied her hair back and brewed a pot of tea, something with a jolt to wake her up and get her through the day. She tried to get excited, she really did, but had to settle for just letting her cousin do what she wanted, braiding her hair into some intricate pattern that was only impressive from the back, and then fuss over her face for near to an hour, fixing every out of place hair, plucking her eyebrows, and painting her face with pigments that she was sure had cost much too much for the girl's meager budget. She barely recognized the woman in the mirror when Shianni was done with her. 

She slipped the beaded wedding dress over her head. She'd picked out the fabric, but it was Shianni who had done most of the work, sewing glass beads onto the collar of the silk shift, ensuring it hung properly on Teneira's narrow hips. Shianni, satisfied with her work, pronounced her as good as she was going to get and went off to change herself. Quickly, Teneira opened the chest where she kept her "emergency kit." She strapped one small knife to her thigh. The soft kidskin boots that she had planned on wearing had precious little room in them. Still, she managed to tuck two small vials, one containing the venom she harvested weekly from the Reverend Mother, the other containing a powerful neurotoxin produced by a particular breed of eel that haunted dark waters underneath the docks. There was no room under her clothes for a proper dagger, but she had needles. She coated them carefully with sedatives, put them in a leather pouch where they would not stick her by accident, and hung the pouch on her belt as though it were something much more innocent.

As she left the house, she encountered Soris, sitting on the front stoop, moping. She sucked in her breath sharply. Soris moping could mean one of a few things, and on his wedding day there was one that was more likely than the others. In all likelihood, he'd snuck a peek at his bride and been… disappointed.

"Ain't like you're much to look at," she admonished him preemptively. Men were all the same, expecting to have a lovely woman while they themselves were asymmetric in the face or fat or, as in Soris's case, pale and freckled - this in and of itself would not have been a disaster but for the fact that all of his seven brothers before him were dark like Teneira, which for a place like Ferelden was considered exotic and thus desirable. 

"I could dream," he sighed.

"I'm sure she's not that bad," Teneira said, "Maybe she's a great cook."

"You look amazing," he said, "Your husband might even be impressed." He gestured with his chin over to where two elves, a man and a woman, were chatting underneath the vehnedahl. The woman was plain, but not ugly, though her ears did stick out like the racist caricatures of elves that occasionally graced the illustrations of human books. The man, though quite pale, which she should have anticipated; Cyrion had told her at some point that he was a goldsmith by trade, was, as Soris had suggested, very handsome.

"What's his name again?" she asked her cousin, realizing that in all the hubbub that had gone on for the last week, she had not bothered to find it out.

"Nelaros," Soris said, "The girl's Valora."

"I'm sure she'll give you a dozen fat and beautiful children," Teneira said, clapping him on the back and going to say hello.

"That's hardly a comfort, Ten!" he called after her.

On her way over, her father interrupted her by quite literally standing in her way. It was the only way he could be sure of having his only child's attention, in the years since she'd grown and become positively uncontrollable.

"I would have a word with you, daughter mine," he said. She smiled a tightlipped smile at her old man, and nodded, not wanting to fight about whatever he wanted to fight about. Cyrion was of the mind that women, his daughter in particular, should stick to soft power. Marrying Adaia, even though he knew exactly who she was, had been the only act of rebellion the poor man had ever committed. He had made the mistake of thinking that he could marry the beautiful, wild creature and tame her once he'd locked her up. She understood her father's concerns, really, but he just simply didn't understand that some things were necessary. He wasn't from Denerim - he wasn't even Fereldan - he'd grown up in the Free Marches where the elvish population was large enough that nobody ever tried the absolute bullshit the humans of Denerim had. He'd only moved to the city as a young teenager, following his older brother, who was his only family. But he'd never learned, even in the thirty-something years he'd been a resident, how things worked. He truly believed, even after all that he'd seen, that all the elves needed to do was keep their heads down, and they would be left alone.

"What is it, Dad?" she asked, though she knew very well what it was.

He sighed, "You look like your mother."

"No, I don't," said Ten, "I look like you. I've always looked like you. And I'm doing what you want, at long last, so if you have a lecture for me, I'll thank you to keep that in mind."

"I want this for you for your own protection," said Cyrion, "I had hoped that perhaps, with a marriage, your little… conspiracies… might be at an end."

"I'm not a conspirator, Dad," she insisted, a fact which she seemed to point out to him on at least a weekly basis, "Any more than my mother was. And you chose her. You had the freedom I did not, and she is who you chose. So don't look at the regrets you have in your own life and take them out on me. Like I said, I'm doing what you want."

"I don't regret marrying your mother, my girl," he sighed, "That's not where I was going with this. I know you and I have not always seen eye to eye, and don't get me wrong, I am proud of you in my way, Teneira, but…"

"But what, Dad?"

"You're getting married now, to a nice man with a good trade," Cyrion said, "Don't you think you ought to give up your…"

"My alchemist's stall?" Ten asked, "My garden? My little pets?"

"You know very well that's not what I'm talking about," he whispered furiously, "This whole… crime boss business, whatever it is you do."

"I'm not a crime boss, Dad," she said, "I'm just a negotiator. I make sure things run smoothly and nobody gets too big for their britches. People listen to me here. It wouldn't be wise to let that go."

"I wish I were a young man again, back when I still knew everything," Cyrion sighed.

"I'm a grown woman, Dad," she said, "And I have been for many, many years. A fact which you have been reminding me on at least a biweekly basis since I was fifteen years old and you started your little campaign against my spinsterhood."

"I know you fancy yourself a public servant," he said, "And if you were human, I am sure that you would be high up in the arl's, or even the king's, council chambers. But there comes a time when every one of us must accept their lot in life."

"My lot in life is to keep the peace in this neighborhood," she said, "Mind you, you live here, you keep your shop here. You ought to be very glad that we have not had a riot in ages. That the good folk of Denerim have not assailed us with torches and pitchforks."

"I can't protect you," he said, lowering his voice in volume but not tone.

"Of course you can't. Elfin men can't protect their own women, you never have," she said, "That's how we learned to protect ourselves." She turned her back on the look of hurt this pronouncement brought to his face and stalked off. She was right, though. Her father could not protect her, nor could her uncle or cousins, and her new husband would not be able to either. She fingered the pouch at her waist, remembering Villais' warning. She hoped and prayed that she had been right when she teased him, that he had invented the whole thing to try to get her alone.

By this time, she had been noticed. The pale man who was to be her husband hurried over. She smiled, and he paused, about a foot away. They looked at each other awkwardly. Out of nowhere, they both started laughing.

"This is awkward, isn't it?" she said.

"Quite," he agreed, "I'm Nelaros. I guess… I guess we're to be married."

"I'm Ten," she said, putting her hand out.

"You're ten?" he asked, confused, "You don't look… I didn't… you're joking right?"

"Maker's breath," she swore, "My name is Ten. Short for Teneira. I'm maybe twenty-three on the young side. Probably twenty-five? Maybe six?"

"Oh!" he exhaled a short breath of relief, "Me too. Somewhere around there. So, I'm guessing you also have spent the last ten years rejecting matches?"

"Actually, yes," she said, "So here we are, both a bit old for this, and probably less ready for it than either of us was ten years ago. I can see why my father approved of you."

Nelaros chuckled, "Well, if you must know, I was a package deal. The whole thing was her idea, and there was no making a match for your brother…"

"Cousin," Ten corrected him.

"There was no sending a bride for him without also sending along someone for you."

"Ahh," she said, "So I'm the clay beneath the gold veneer. I hope you don't feel too shortchanged."

He chuckled and grinned, "My father was eager to be rid of me as well, if you must know."

"And here she is now!" he exclaimed, "This is my dear friend Valora." She looked up to see that the plain girl had joined him. Up close, she really wasn't all that plain. Her skin was pale and her features delicate. It was just that her ears were quite… something… but her eyes were a brilliant hazel that sparkled in the sunlight. Teneira looked behind her to see that Soris had come to join her after all. She seized him by the arm and pushed him in front of her.

"This is my cousin Soris," she said, "I wish you a dozen fat and beautiful children."

Nelaros began laughing again as both Valora and Soris blushed red, "She's been hearing that for weeks."

"Come walk with me," she said to Nelaros, "I'd like a word in private before we're eternally bound."

"Maker save us all," he chuckled. They took a turn around the Alienage, and she informed him softly of exactly who it was he was throwing his hat in with. He listened to her, obviously not quite sure if she was joking as she described the sorts of things she did, the types of codes she enforced, and the informal treaties she had with various guards and other neighborhood bosses.

"Look, I'd hate for you to get into something without your eyes open," she said finally, "If you don't want to marry me, I won't blame you. In fact, I'll make it happen, I'll announce I'm pregnant with another man's child, and make a scene so embarrassing that nobody will blame you for abandoning me at the altar. I even have another single cousin my father can ceremonially offer to you in my stead."

"That's quite an offer, Teneira," Nelaros said. He was silent for a moment, "My little sister was taken advantage of by the man who owned the shop she swept." He blinked quickly, and Teneira could see that he had tears in his eyes, "I went after him with a knife one night in a dark alley. I meant to kill him, but he was faster than I was. I took off two of his fingers, but he still beat the tar out of me and left me there. I’m pretty sure he thought he’d killed me.” 

“Is that why you had to leave town?” asked Ten, suddenly far more interested in the man. 

“Sort of,” he replied, looking down, “My… sister never really recovered. She drank rat poison a few days later.”

“I’m sorry,” Ten said, “That’s awful.”

“So, if you're the one who prevents things like that from happening, or sees that the people who do it are punished properly… then, I’m far better off with you than I ever have been."

"I'm glad we understand each other," she said. She was surprised by the weight that his approval lifted from her shoulders. He was a good man, she could tell that much, and she had always been good at sizing others up. He was a good man, and handsome, and approved of her line of work, where the last two men she had spoken to demanded that she abandon it. And, as Cyrion had warned her, if she rejected this suitor as well, he would give up, resign himself to being the father of an old maid, and never make another attempt.

"I am as well," he said.

She smiled, and took his arm. Elder Valendrian, the man who ran the day-to-day affairs of the Alienage, or at least who thought he did, was waiting to perform the ceremony. He was chatting with a human, an older male in his early fifties. He wore the shining plate of a knight, but his head was uncovered, and Teneira could see that he kept his hair long and his face bearded. She looked at him suspiciously as they approached the elder. The human said nothing, but she could feel his eyes upon her. It wasn't in an untoward way, though, she felt. His eyes lingered on her thigh where she kept her knife, and she knew that he had discovered at least that one secret.

She looked at him and put a finger to her lips. The human smiled, seemingly impressed by her boldness.

"Well, well!" she heard the cry raised over the chatting crowds that had gathered for the spectacle, "What do we have here?"

Her heart sank as she looked up to see a small group of human men. She fingered the pouch of needles at her waist and looked to the human man Valendrian had been talking with, but he had disappeared sometime in the intervening seconds. This human man, though, was exactly who she had feared laying eyes on since Eddin Rasphander had found himself the recipient of a summary and ignominious demotion. Arl Urien had one legitimate son. His name was Vaughan. And he had been taking his liberties with the women who worked at his father’s estate since he was old enough to be interested in such liberties. 

"Isn't it cute, Braden?" he asked, "They're playing at getting married. It's like they think they're people."

"Not today," one of Soris's groomsmen, a stable lad, started. He fancied himself a tough guy, and she supposed he might have been under certain circumstances, but Teneira raised her hand, and he was silent.

"Well, if it isn't the Arlessa of the Alienage?" he said, coming much too close for comfort, "I’ve heard of you. You say jump and every elf asks how high, I see. And is this your Arl? That's just precious."

"How can I help you, Ser…" Teneira asked, keeping her voice soft and eyes on the ground.

"You don't recognize Bann Vaughan?" he exclaimed, "The son of the actual Arl of Denerim?"

"You will not kneel before nobility?" he asked, putting his hand roughly on her shoulder and shoving her to the ground. She caught herself on one knee, taking the opportunity to seize one of her little needles from the pouch while everyone watched in horror. With her eyes on the ground, she raised her hand slightly, planning her strike. She did not see Shianni approaching the Bann from behind, and until her needle had struck home, deep in the bluish vein on the back of Vaughan's hand, she didn't see that Shianni had struck him over the head with a pot. The young lord passed out, from the blow to the head or the needle in the back of the hand, she was not sure which. She grabbed her needle out of his vein quickly and hid it in the folds of her dress.

"She just knocked him out!" one of the men in the group of humans exclaimed, "That little elf girl just knocked him right out!" The other men started laughing a bit.

"Arl's son or no, he ain't gonna live this one down," one of the others said.

"Bet she's this fiery in bed!" one of the others exclaimed. Shianni just stood there, paralyzed by the magnitude of what she had just done.

The humans slung their friend, one arm over each of their shoulders, and got him out of there. The gathered elves looked over at the sentry box, where Kennit, the old guardsman, was dozing. Depending on how hilarious the friends found Bann Vaughan being knocked on his ass by a drunken wisp of an elf girl, there was the possibility that they would have gotten away with it.

The wedding proceeded. That was the way of the city elves. Something odd happens, you stop and look for a moment, then you go on about your business. Teneira could not concentrate on the ceremony, but offered her consent when prompted. Her mind raced. She hoped that there would be at least a couple of days before retribution for this particular incident. The sedative she'd given him was somewhat powerful, but since she could not afford the fancy syringes that human alchemists and doctors used to administer drugs intravenously, she was reduced to giving him a very small dose, only that which a sewing needle could deliver. It would probably last less than an hour, even when compounded by the blow that Shianni had delivered.

What she was worried about was Shianni. Nobody had seen the needle, and if he were preoccupied with his head, Vaughan would probably not notice the pinprick wound on the back of his hand. That was unfortunate. Teneira could protect herself. She was not so sure that she could protect Shianni.

Her train of thought was interrupted but her new husband taking her hand and sliding onto the third finger of her left hand a thin band of gold, and then seizing her about the waist and kissing her passionately, if clumsily. She smiled, and reciprocated, though her cheeks burnt scarlet, realizing her father was right there and watching it. Beside them, Soris had gingerly kissed Valora on the mouth. Shianni clapped happily, and somewhere in the crowd, a fiddler started to play a merry tune.

Over the heads of the crowd, she looked over to see that Anton Villais had been standing there, watching the whole thing from the shadows. He smiled with his mouth but not his eyes, and saluted her. She waved back. Uneasily, Teneira went back to the crowd to receive congratulations, but knew that she had not seen the last of this Bann Vaughan.

The fiddler played, the elves of the alienage drank moonshine, and Teneira allowed herself to calm down for a moment while she danced, twirling her silk dress around her, flashing the knife at her thigh. Her small shows of power only went to cement her place in the Alienage. She saw a few knowing glances as the partygoers saw the flash of steel as she stepped and wove and swished her skirts. She didn't touch the beer or moonshine available, though, knowing that something was coming and that she had better be sober to meet it.

As the sun went down over the buildings to the west, the music stopped all of a sudden. Coming through the alienage like a shadow moving over the land, three familiar shapes arrived.

"A kiss from the bride!" roared Bann Vaughan, "I want a kiss from the bride!" Shianni had raised a goose egg on the back of his head, and his speech was slurred from the drug that Teneira had stuck him with. After it made you sleep, it made you act as though you'd had a few too many. As he approached her, tossing Nelaros out of the way like he was a bag of flour, she smelled the whiskey on his breath.

"And you, ginger!" he shouted, grabbing Shianni by one thin arm, "We have unfinished business!"

A hush fell over the crowd.

"Leave those women alone!" called a familiar voice. Anton Villais, flanked by Kennit, who had evidently risen from his nap and called in his supervisor for the absolute nonsense which was sure to ensure, and Jochrim who had just gone ahead and thrown his armor over his civvies, approached, "I am charged with the peace in this quarter, and you are most definitely disturbing it, arl's son or not!"

"Piss off, you Orlesian piece of shit!" he growled, striking out with his arm and knocking Villais nearly over, "The guard serves at the pleasure of my father!"

"And if your father knew you were here harassing these women?" Villais countered. He wiped a streak of blood from his mouth where Vaughan had split his lip.

"Mind your eyes, guardsman," warned one of Vaughan's friends, the one he'd called Braden, "You know as well as we that the Arl is the rule of law."

Villais' hands went for his halberd, but Kennit put his hand on his arm. The old man knew when even a guardsman could do nothing to stop a crime.

"Take me, then," Teneira said boldly, "Leave these other women alone. We both know I'm the one you're after."

"And why would I give you what you want, whore?" Vaughan said, "No, I think not. Two elvish bitches are better than one, and five is better than two!"

Her mind raced. Distract him. Get him so mad at you that he leaves the rest of them alone. She leaned back and spat in his face. She was satisfied a moment, watching it run down his face, and braced herself as he hauled off and punched her square in the jaw. She fell back and felt her head crack on the cobblestones. Her vision went blurry around the edges, and a vision of a dragon flew through the stars dancing before her eyes before the world went black.

Chapter Text

"Maker keep us. Maker preserve us. Maker keep us. Maker preserve us."

The words woke her up. Her head buzzed. She fingered her jaw, which was swollen and probably a questionable shade of purple. She also seemed to have a goose egg to match Vaughan's rapidly rising on the back of her head. Her hands flew to her sides. She still had her needles, and her knife, and in her boots the vials of poison she'd kept for this purpose. She looked around, taking stock of her situation.

"Where is Shianni?" she asked, her voice a rough croak.

Valora came into her field of vision and cradled her head against her arm. Brida, a friend of Soris's who had been at the wedding, was there too, and she tore a patch from her skirt to wipe the blood from Teneira's mouth. Nola, a cousin of Soris’s on his mother's side, was kneeling in the corner, on her knees, hands clasped before her in fervent prayer.

"Maker keep us. Maker preserve us. Maker keep us. Maker preserve us."

"Where is Shianni?" she asked again.

"They took her," Valora said, her tinkling Highever accent laden with sorrow, "Oh, Teneira, if everything they say about you is true, then you have something up your sleeve, you must have some way to save us."

Teneira sat up straight, which sent the world spinning. "Yes," she said, "Yes, I have something up my sleeve." She took the knife from where it was strapped to her leg and found the vial of poison in her boot. She opened it gingerly with her hands – she dared not uncork it with her teeth, even if her jaw had not been throbbing. Deftly, she coated the blade of the little knife.

"With all respect due, cousin," Valora said, fingering the wedding band on her finger, "Do you plan to kill them all with a paring knife?"

"I plan to try," Teneira growled. She considered for a moment. The poison would take down the first man she stabbed, but it would be weakened with the second blow. She tucked the blade back into its little scabbard and waited.

"Maker keep us. Maker preserve us. Maker keep us. Maker preserve us." Nola's voice was desperate, the tears running down her chin.

"Did they uh… hurt her?" Teneira asked.

"Not yet," Brida said, her dark eyes wide and scared, "They said… they said that they'd come back for us when they were done with the redheaded bitch who knocked Vaughan out."

"Unless they’ve got guards in the room with them, we’d outnumber them if they took us all at once," Valora observed.

Teneira got up. There were two doors to the room. The first was barred from the other side. The second had a lock too rusty to pick. She began kicking it, trying to get it open. When she succeeded, she was horrified to find that it opened only onto a broom closet.

"Are you going to beat them all to death with a mop handle?" Brida called.

"Maker keep us. Maker preserve us. Maker keep us. Maker preserve us."

"They'll come for us eventually. I'm going to wait behind this door, the next time someone comes in, I'll get him from behind. Try to stay alive, I'll do what I can."

It seemed like an eternity that she stood, back against the wall, the hinges on the door to her left. Finally, the deadbolt creaked open, and in walked three guards.

"Maker keep us. Maker preserve us. Maker keep us. Maker preserve us."

"This bitch's whining's been keeping me up," the first said, nudging Nola with his boot, "Shut the fuck up!" Before Teneira could leap upon him, he had drawn steel and struck Nola in the breast. She fell to the floor, gurgling only a moment before her breath stopped and eyes rolled back. The guard looked around at the other two women, who were staring back, eyes wide and shocked. “Wait, weren’t there four of you?”

Ten sprang, getting her left arm around his neck and her knife into the exposed flesh right below his jaw. He made a noise betraying both surprise and pain as she jumped free and scrambled outside the range of his sword as he clapped one hand to the wound.

"That was a bad move," he said, turning to look at her as she pulled the blade free, "Flesh wounds only make us ang-"

He stopped cold. His face began to go purple as his tongue swelled and protruded from between his lips. "Aungh!" he wheezed between his lips as the venom of the Reverend Mother, that black snake, closed his throat and blackened his face. He fell over, face-first, on the floor. The whole thing had happened far too fast for the two guards behind him to figure out what to do, and they looked at their comrade in confusion for long enough that Ten had time to grab another vial.

"Who's next?" Teneira demanded, “Come on, you’re both big men. I’d bet on you!”

The other two guards stared at their fallen brother, and then looked back up at her.

"Here!" she heard the cry. She turned in time to see Soris, covered in blood and wielding a sword clearly meant for a much larger man. He held out an ax, one she recognized from her father’s shop, used to break logs down into manageable pieces before they became furniture or floorboards. In a fluid movement, she'd seized the poison flask from the ground and uncorked it with her thumb. She coated the blade clumsily as the other two guards came at her. She threw the half-full vial at the first of them. The viscous venom flew out and hit him in the forehead, which confused him at first, but then he screamed in pain as it entered his eyes and mouth. The second one tried to run, and in doing so, found himself impaled on Soris’s broadsword. 

"If you can’t fight, run," she shouted to Valora and Brida. They evidently knew which one they both were better at, and scurried.

"Ask the kitchen boy, he'll show you the back passage out of here!" Soris called after them.

"Where's Shianni?" he asked.

"They decided to take us one at a time," Teneira replied, the thought making her sick to her stomach.

Soris uttered something foul in a defeated tone of voice and turned, “Come on, your husband was out there holding off some guards in the mess hall.”

“He what?!”

“It was his idea,” Soris said.

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“Our dads were trying to get him to calm down, and he just kept saying ‘I’m not letting it happen again,’ over and over, and well, here we are.”

They tumbled out of the door to the storeroom where the women had been kept and Ten followed her cousin down the hall, first to the left, then to the right. Night had fallen while Teneira was out, and the downstairs, populated exclusively by the help, was nearly deserted. Well, more so now that half the night shift was dead and gone. There were still trays on some of the tables in the mess, but nobody was eating. There were three more corpses, guardsmen on their break from the look of them - all large, burly humans where most castle staff were elves - but having doffed their armor to eat comfortably. And, in the corner, Nelaros propped himself against the wall. The trail from the last corpse across the floor told the tale of how he had vanquished the last one of them, and then dragged himself to a corner. He was breathing, but if the sword sticking out of him were to be believed, he would not be for long.

Soris swore again as Ten rushed up. She knelt by his side, feeling every inch of steel in his breast. There was nothing she could do. Even if the best physician in the land had walked in, he could not be saved. 

"I got them this time," he said when he saw her, his grin made ghoulish by the blood on his teeth.

"You sure did," she said.

"Do something for me," he wheezed, "As my wife. Take this blade from my chest."

"You'll die."

"I'm going to die no matter what," he said, "I'd rather not do it with shemlen steel inside me.”

She nodded. It was the least she could do, but gathering the nerve would be a process. She smoothed the pale hair from his forehead.

"I'm sorry we didn't know each other better," she said, "If it makes you feel better, having gotten you into this will eat at me for the rest of my life.”

“And you will have an interesting life. Though… I can’t say it’ll be a long one.”

“If I make it to sunrise, I’ll be impressed,” she said. She looked down at the hilt of the blade, the blood oozing out around it, “I think I could have loved you."

"I think I could have loved you as well,” he said, a flicker of pain passing over his features, “Just… please write to my father. Tell him I didn't die on my knees.”

"I will," she said, feeling sick with guilt, thinking of her father-in-law, probably sleeping peacefully in Highever, not knowing he had sent his eldest son to his death, “Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready to leave this awful world for years. Now go save your little sister.”

She pulled his head against her shoulder so he could not see, feeling his eyelashes flutter against her collarbone, and seized the hilt of the blade. Braced herself against the bloody floor and pulled it free, casting it aside. Following it was a great gush of blood, and within a minute, her husband lay dead in her arms. She kept him there, a minute more, then laid him back against the wall. 

"I don't think I'm coming back from this, Soris," she said, shutting Nelaros’s eyes with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, seeing the ring he had given her but a few hours before, too caked with blood to shimmer in the torchlight.

"Ten the Alchemist?" she heard a woman's disbelieving voice say. She turned to see a maid, an elf, standing in the doorway. She looked in horror at the volume of blood that covered the floor, probably thinking how much time it would take to clean it up. Ten recognized her, the daughter of a shopkeeper. She wracked her brain for her name.

"Manda Virlas," the maid said, "You helped me out when I started working here three.”

She remembered her all of a sudden. A world-weary woman in her nineteenth year, she had come for a preventative. She knew of her new master's appetites, and wanted to guard against having to end a pregnancy. Teneira had given her something that would prevent conception, and some of the tea that would make a man impotent. Manda had cried silently for fear at what was to happen to her, but she had an ailing brother and could not support the family without the arl's generous wages. 

"Wash yourself in the basin over there," Manda commanded, pointing to the scullery she'd come from, “Hurry.” Numbly, Teneira obeyed, stripping off her ruined wedding dress and scrubbing the blood from her skin. After two buckets from the great stone cistern, she was clean, if shaken. The maid arrived in a minute with a spare uniform.

"You too!" Manda shouted to Soris, "The kitchen boy keeps a change of clothes in that cupboard over there. Put them on." Soris did as well, stripping down and washing the blood from himself.

Scrubbed clean of her enemy's blood, Teneira took the kitchen maid's clothes and put them on, pulling the simple shift over her head and tying the apron about her waist. She tied her hair back and put Manda's kerchief over it. Similarly disguised, Soris joined her. There was room under the apron for her to hand both her ax and his sword from her belt. Neither would show too obviously if she were careful when she walked.

"Make them pay," Manda ordered. She took the wedding dress and put it in the basin, pouring water from the cistern over it.

Meekly, a new scullery maid and kitchen boy snuck down the hallway of the great castle and up the servants' stairs. The guards ignored them. They heard the carousing all the way from the top of the stairs. Scanning the hallway, she saw no guards. Quietly, they made it to the end of the hall. They hadn’t even barred the door.

The first thing she saw was Shianni on the floor, covering her head. Her dress was on, but ripped, and she could see purple bruises rising on the pale skin of her neck. Then, she saw the Bann, and his friends. They then saw her. For a moment all of them stood at détente, staring at each other.

"You've really got a pair, don't you, arlessa," Vaughan sneered eventually.

"By the end of tonight, I'll have yours too," she replied.

He rolled his eyes, “Look, I know how the lot of you live. I’m having a good night, how about you take what’s in the purse on the nightstand there, walk out, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened. I’ll even let the pot over the head go.”

Ten chuckled to herself. Clearly, he had no idea what she’d done to his staff, “Let the girl go and you can keep one hand.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her. We'll return her in the morning. We'll try not to use her too hard," he said, "Any more than we already have."

Ten's world crumbled then. She could see the stones of the castle buckle and bend, the void open up below her, and she felt herself fall in. She lived again her very first memory, sitting in the front room of her aunt's house when the midwife brought her a bundle. "This is Shianni," the midwife had said, "She doesn't have a big sister. So you will be her big sister, and you will protect her." Four-year-old Ten had looked down in awe at the gingerhaired newborn she held in her own chubby baby arms. And she had promised with all the solemnity a toddler could call forth. And now, twenty years later, she had broken that promise. Nothing she had ever done in the intervening years mattered. She had failed in the very first duty she had ever taken on.

"I am going to end your line," said Ten softly, "You will sire no sons. You will be nothing more than a gruesome footnote to a story about your betters."

"Now, that I would like to see," Vaughan said, "Boys!"

The two young lords who had accompanied him looked at each other nervously. "I don't know about this, Vaughan," one of them said, "Maybe we should give them what they want."

"Cowards!" scoffed Vaughan, "Give them an inch, they'll take a mile."

The first lord tried to leave the room, not meeting her eyes. She reached out in a flash of steel and caught him in the shoulder. He drew his own blade, and tried to fight her. He was talented, feinting and parrying, but she'd injured his sword arm, and he was clumsy with his off hand. He died with his head flapping nearly free of his neck.

The second approached her, too horrified at what had just happened to his friend to stop it. He was unarmed, and his pants were undone, and he was barefoot.

"I'm sorry, missus," he said, "It was just a bit of fun."

She didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on Shianni. He thought he was going to walk away from this one. This belief made him slow, and she slipped the blade of Soris’s broadsword into his soft belly, thrusting it up behind his ribcage and into his heart, without him even making a sound. His blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across her face. She did not flinch.

"The bards will sing of how you suffered," said Ten again, looking at Vaughan again.

Shianni had taken advantage of the distraction, sprung to her feet and grabbed a torch from the sconce on the wall. She thrust it into the bann's face while he screamed and tried to shove her off him. She would not be stopped, though, acting with a strength that was not hers alone. He reached out blindly, his face like raw meat, seeking to choke her. Ten took the ax with both hands. She started at the bottom.

When he finally died, it was from blood loss as it spurted from where both arms and feet had been severed, and instead of doing him the grace of planting the ax in his skull, she just watched. All three of them did. They watched, and they smiled, as first he grew too weak to scream, his face went gray, and he breathed his last.

"Come on, Shianni," said Soris, "Let's get out of here before the alarm is raised. Manda knows the back ways out." He took her by the shoulders and guided her from the room. From the way Shianni walked, they must have used her roughly indeed. She brought her foot down on Vaughan’s still face and then paused, surveying the havoc she'd wrecked for a moment more before following her cousins down the dark staircase to the servant's quarters, and then to the alley behind the estate, and out into the city. She did not want to be back at the Alienage, at least not yet. She had unfinished business before they hung her.

Instead, she took a left when she got to the markets. That was the thing about Denerim. A blood-covered woman provoked absolutely no reaction from the sots and whores that walked the streets at that time of night. They had their own business to attend to, no time to worry about anyone else's. She went to a door in the Orlesian quarter, and knocked.

Anton Villais didn’t say anything when he answered the door, just stood back and let her in. He closed it behind her and threw several deadbolts, then waited for her to gather herself.

"Sergeant, I need to report a crime," she said finally, "I just murdered nine men and I'm here to turn myself in."

Chapter Text

“What did they do to you?" Villais asked when she had finished telling a version of the story where she alone had been responsible for the demise of guard and lord alike.

“To me? This blood isn’t mine,” Ten replied.

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant, I know to believe you when you said you killed nine men. What did they do to you that you’re just giving yourself up like this? There’s plenty of time to run…”

“It’s not anything they did to me,” Ten said, “It’s what they’ll do to the rest of them if they don’t have someone to hang.”

He flinched, and shook his head. “And you’re going to make me go along with it,” he said, “After everything else, you’re going to…”

“Do you think that a massacre like that will reflect well on the man charged with policing us? They’ll have their sights on you as well, but if you're the copper that catches me, you'll keep your post. Maybe even get a promotion. I’m not dragging you down with me.”

“No, you’re just expecting me to…” The sentence started out tightly, his voice strangled, but he paused, then nodded grimly. He knew she was right. Whatever she'd done, she would hang if she were lucky. There were all manner of torturous execution methods waiting for her if she was not. And, there was one surefire way to save his job. He nodded brusquely. “I won't parade you before the city looking like that. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She was grateful for the fire in his front room, though it was not a cold night. Silently, he fetched her a basin of water, and she sat by the hearth, and let him wipe the blood and sweat from her face and hands with a rag. He paused as he reached the gold ring on the third finger of her left hand.

"They killed him," she said.

Villais swore softly, “I’m sorry, Ten.”

"I’ve been too harsh on you, I think," she said, “Since I’ve been reminded how elfin men tend to die, I can’t really blame you for not wanting to live as one.”

She waved him off, and did the rest of the scrubbing herself while he kept his back modestly turned from a body he’d seen with his hands, but not his eyes. He handed her a towel and a shirt that covered her to her knees when she was done.

“Does it have to be right now? Can it wait until morning?” he asked.

“Are you sure that won’t make it worse?” she asked, but sat down beside him on the bench before the fire. 

"Teneira, I… what I wanted to say, last night…" he said.

"I know what you wanted to say last night," she said, "And you know why I didn’t want to hear it then, and you know why I don’t want to hear it now.”

“I knew from the start how it had to be,” he said, more to himself than to her, “I knew you were getting married, and I did it anyway.”

“You are Orlesian, after all,” Ten pointed out, citing a popular stereotype of the liberal interpretation of marriage vows common in their neighbor to the west. 

“If I’d known it would end in me marching you to your execution, though.”

“You knew I was a criminal, too,” she pointed out.

“I suppose that’s on me, then.”

He leaned in and kissed her then, a gentle, exploratory kiss that she could have broken off at any time. 

Fuck it, she thought, my life is over. What duty do I have anymore? Why not do one thing Teneira wants to do, and not what's best for the elves of Denerim? She leaned in, let him kiss her more deeply, the warmth of his mouth sending tingles all over her aching body. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down on her on the bench. He stroked her neck, her shoulders, tugging her hair lightly. He lifted her gently and took her back into his bedroom, putting her on his bed and pushing her - well, his - shirt above her thigh. 

It was entirely different from all those frantic times in the sentry box where half the fun had been knowing they could be caught. Behind locked doors, in an actual bed, she suddenly felt like the man she was with was a stranger. Then again, I was always supposed to be in bed with a stranger tonight. She put that thought out of her mind, keen on wringing what enjoyment she could out of her body while it was still hers. He seemed likewise desperate to devour what he could of her before she was lost to him. They probably fell asleep for a bit at some point, but both knew how limited their time was. They were already awake when the first rays of the sun started leaking in the windows, her head on his chest, tracing the lines of a tattoo on his upper arm, two swallows with their tails crossed.

It felt like only a moment or so later that a courier knocked on Villais' door. He threw on his discarded breeches to answer it, and came back in holding a folded piece of paper that came down from the Captain of the Guard himself. He read it out loud while Teneira stayed naked in bed, not wanting to ever move again. All of her, mind, heart, and body, ached.

"All hands to the Alienage, searching for the murderess Teneira Tabris, suspected of the most foul slaughter at the estate of the Arl of Denrim. She is believed to be hiding out somewhere in the city, but sources have assured us she will not stay away from the Alienage for long. Until that time, the quarter is on lockdown, no elf is to exit, or enter, without the escort of a human or dwarven chaperone."

"The dishes don't wash themselves,” Ten grumbled.

She reluctantly put her feet to the floor and began pulling on her clothes – or rather Manda's clothes.

"Don't do this, Ten," Villais pleaded with her on seeing what she was doing. He went to her and held her tightly around her shoulders, preventing her from pulling her shirt over her head, "We can be at the harbor in two hours, we can sign on to a ship…"

"It's either I die or the Alienage burns to the ground before the week's out," Ten said, taking him gently, her hands on either side of his face, "Do you think they'll look for me forever? And how long do you think until the good folk of the city get a mind to invest in torches and pitchforks?"

"So what? Let them fight. Ships leave this harbor every day, we can go to Orlais, or the Marches. Folk are more tolerant there.”

“You want me to let my family burn.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, “No. I know you can’t.”

It was simultaneously the longest and shortest walk of her life. Her feet felt leaden as they walked through the city through the gates of the Alienage. None of the regular guards were there. Ten didn’t recognize any of the men. As they approached, a guard recognized Villais, and the great gate swung open, letting them into the district. Ten kept her eyes on the ground, but sensed a hundred shutters opening, and a hundred elves peeking out. In an instant, Soris was at her side, bruised, but in one piece. The place was crawling with guards. An older man, wearing lieutenant's epaulets, approached them, looking at her quizzically.

"Found her sleeping in a gutter outside the estate," Villais said, roughly shoving Teneira towards the arl's guard, "She came quietly.”

"Are you Teneira Tabris?" the guard asked her, looking at her not entirely unkindly.

"Yes," she said, "And yes, I did it. I am guilty. I killed them."

"You alone?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes, me alone. I'll show you how I did it, too," she said. She kicked off one boot and showed him the second vial of poison she had stashed in there.

"Poison," one of the subordinate guards scoffed, "Typical cowardly elf."

"Yes, because it's so brave of big, strong, armed human men to gang-rape a five foot tall elf woman!" she retorted, spitting on the ground at his feet. Make it a show. Be the bloodthirsty knife-eared bitch they will relish watching dance at the end of a rope. 

"You know what your confession means," Valendrian, who had appeared by her side along with Soris, said, "You know what you're doing, Teneira?"

"With all due respect, elder," she said, "I've always known what I'm doing." She looked at her cousin, and at her elder, and saw her father further off in the crowd, struggling to get to her, "Now, Lieutenant, I'll thank you to take me to jail before I get lynched." 

She noticed, then, for the first time, that the human man at Valendrian's hand was not a guard, but the same man who had been there the day before. He watched, silently, without judgment. She felt the irons clapped about her wrists, but somehow, felt free for the first time in her life. She was grateful they didn't have Villais march her through town to the holding cells at Fort Drakon, she didn't think either of them could bear it.

The cells at Fort Drakon were larger than the ones at the regular folks jail down by the docks. The city lockup, where those who committed crimes against commers were held, was a newer building with more cells, meaning men and women could be segregated and so could humans, dwarves, and elves. Fort Drakon, which held perpetrators of more serious felonies, had only two, separated by bars from the rest of the block and each other, the stone of the ancient fortress on the other two sides. She was the only woman in there, meaning they had to move the elfin men in with the human men - there were no dwarves there either. She sat there on a wooden plank for awhile, wondering what would happen next. There would be no trial, not in any meaningful sense, as she had already confessed, the best she could hope for was to plead to a magistrate for hanging and not something more nefarious. She slept a lot, when the men in the next cell quieted down enough to let her. Her family visited her. Cyrion, and Soris, and even Shianni. Teneira reacted numbly, and found herself wishing on the second day of her confinement that they would just kill her already. This feeling doubled when on the second guard change of that day, a half-drunk Eddin Rasphander somehow found himself standing outside her cell.

"What'd you do to wind up here, Eddin Rasphander?" she asked, loudly enough that the every man in the cell besides hers could hear her, "I thought you were a sergeant."

"Shut up, prisoner," he slurred. His face was unshaven and he looked like he hadn't slept. Of course, he hadn't. He thought he was calling in a favor to teach the uppity knife-eared bitch a lesson, not sending his half-brother and two of his friends to their doom.

"Got more than you bargained for, didn't you," she said, "You thought you could call in your noble dogs. What did you think was going to happen? Did you truly think I was going to take it lying down?"

"I said," he hissed, "Shut the fuck up."

"What are you going to do, kill me?" she teased, "Are you sure you want to try? You saw what I did to your brother. Maybe I'll cut you into pieces as well. Burn your face to a crisp. Send you back to your wife and children in a burlap sack. Is that bit true? How they had to bring him to his pyre in a sack?"

A few of the men in the next cell guffawed.

"You're a murderous bitch, and they're going to kill you," Eddin hissed.

"Oh, they certainly are," she said, "But you're going to have to live with the shame."

"Hanging is too good for you," Eddin said, "They should break you on a wheel."

She laughed right in his face, "I will gladly die in agony a thousand times for one more crack at that lecher.”

"I said, shut the fuck up, prisoner," he growled, turning to face her and making a grab through the bars towards her. She danced away from his grip.

"Or what, you pathetic bastard?" she countered, more to the cutpurses and murderers in the next cell than to him, "You hear me, boys?” she called the group of murderers, rapists, and thieves in the next cell, “This guardsman’s name is Eddin Rasphander. He lives in a house by the Drakon River. It has blue shutters. And now you know when his shift is."

Eddin Rasphander was not assigned to guard the prisoners again.

On the fourth day, a human man was led to the cell across from her and locked in. Mostly the men came and went, cutpurses and brawlers, and one murderer who was quickly dispatched of. This man didn't brawl, though. His garb said that he was a bandit or something like it, the five o'clock shadow said that he was human, and the grin on his face said that he was having entirely too much fun observing the little elfin murderess through the bars.

"What're you in here for?" he asked, pushing his arms through the bars between their cells. Teneira backed up instinctively.

"You know very well who I am and what I did," she said, not looking up.

"Actually I just arrived back in town last week and... oh, are you the girl that sliced up half the ruling family?"

"The same."

The man gasped, "You're Teneira Tabris?" he exclaimed, "That's you? Well blimey! Respect, Miss Tabris, utmost respect for you." He bowed, not altogether mockingly. He wasn’t from Denerim, he had an accent from somewhere in the southwest which grated on her ears even though his words were kind. Deferential, almost.

She looked at him straight this time. He wasn't particularly tall for a human man. He would have been tall but not extraordinarily so, if he had been an elf. He had black hair and looked to be in his early thirties - though she was not always very good at telling how old humans were. He certainly had enough scars for a man twice that.

"Daveth," he said, "The name's Daveth. I must say I do admire you!"

"Is that treason I heard?" a voice from the men's cell came. Teneira looked behind Daveth to see a larger human standing beside him, arms akimbo, "Are you actually congratulating the bitch as murdered the son of the arl?"

"I'm paying healthy respect for a five foot tall, hundred pound elf, who killed nine men twice her size and barely had a scratch on her," Daveth replied, turning to square off against the bigger man, "What does it matter to me who she killed? Those are some respectable fighting skills!"

The bigger man hauled off to punch Daveth in the face. Quick as lightning, the smaller man dipped out of the way. From somewhere, he produced a small knife, and as the lumbering giant moved to strike at him again, he'd leapt on his back and was holding the blade to his throat. "That's enough, love," he said, "Now you're going to sit your oversized arse down on that plank over there. And you and I are going to be very, very good friends from now on. Leastways for two days, then they're going to hang me and I'll be out of your hair."

"You too?" Teneira asked as Daveth released the giant. Duly chastened, he returned to sit among the other prisoners and lick his wounded pride.

"Aye," he said, "Seems ol' Davvy's gotten into a bit too much trouble over the last ten years or so, they've decided I'm better off doing a little jig on the end of a rope."

"Do they do all executions on the same day?" she asked. If she were to just die with the other wastrels, that boded well for hanging, and not something worse. Drawing and quartering. Breaking on a wheel. Burning at the stake.

"So I heard," he said, "Say! I suppose we'll be dying by each other's sides! Isn't that romantic! Well, let me rephrase my answer, then. It was decidedly worth it, because I will get to spend my last few minutes jerking around like a fish by the neck next to a great warrior like yourself, Teneira Tabris. How does that make you feel?"

"I suppose it beats drawing and quartering," she said, "And call me Ten. It's easier that way. There's not much time, may as well save the syllables. What'd you do to land in this fine establishment?" 

"Cut the purse of a I thought was a wealthy knight," he replied ruefully, "Such fine armor, I thought he would have had something good in there. Not to mention bragging rights for robbing such a fearsome-looking warrior. But, unfortunately, I was caught, and the guards ran me down. I knocked out three of them before they took me though, and me in me leathers, them in full plate armor!"

"What was in the purse?" she asked.

"Fat lot of nothing," he sighed, "Seems the fellow was a Grey Warden. They only look rich."

"Grey Warden?" Teneira asked, tales of the great threat that lay before their feet coming to her mind, and the semi-mystical, moderately cultish, order of warriors charged with protecting them from it, "What in the hell would a Grey Warden be doing here?"

"Maker only knows," Daveth said, "Maybe looking through the guard for someone competent enough to shine his boots. And finest luck to him with that."

Teneira chuckled, "Well, I hope he succeeds. I hear the Grey Wardens only peek their heads out of their holes when there's a blight coming. Darkspawn." She shuddered. In storybooks, they looked like men who had been burned within an inch of their lives and had their jaws broken so their mouths lolled slackly open. She hadn't been scared by many stories, but the tales of darkspawn had haunted her dreams since she was a child.

She heard a key turning in the lock to the outer door that separated the jail from the guards' quarters.

"Well, it ain't execution day yet," Daveth said, "Must mean new meat!" He turned to see who was coming through the door. It was the jailer, a pockmarked, sallow fellow in his mid forties. Behind him was, to Ten's surprise, was the human man who had been talking to Valendrian on her wedding day. She took another look at him, trying to figure out what his game could possibly be.

"And there he is right now," Daveth murmured through the bars, "That's the Grey Warden I was talking about!"

"Oy, you, Daveth, you're free to go," the jailer commanded, "You too, Tabris."

He unlocked both of their cells, waving the other male prisoners off with a nasty-looking barbed halberd. Daveth exited his cell and stepped outside, behind the older man. Teneira stepped forward hesitantly, wondering what had happened and if it was good fortune or ill that had brought this about. All this time, the bearded human watched calmly, his face betraying nothing of what might be about to occur.

"My name is Duncan," he said, "I'm a Grey Warden. I've invoked the Right to Conscript on both of you. You'll be coming with me."

"Forgive me, Ser Duncan," Teneira said, keeping her eyes on the ground, "But I am a bit confused."

"I am not a Ser, Miss Tabris," Duncan said, "Knights serve kings or lords. I serve no king. I am only Duncan. And you may look me in the eye, I promise that it will not offend me."

She turned her eyes upward, looking him in the eye. He was dark of complexion, but did not have black hair, but brown. A little like herself, she thought, almost all the same color. He was a large man, but did not look dangerous. On the contrary, something about him put her remarkably at ease.

"I am a Grey Warden, one of those charged with protecting the world from the Darkspawn. The ancient treaties give us the right to conscript those whom we need."

"What do you need with a murderer?"

"You may have killed a man, Miss," Duncan said gently, "But you are no murderer. Murder is a killing motivated by malice. And, if you must know, I had come to seek you out before the.... incident.”

Well, I suppose I've done a few things to make myself notorious. And if the rumors are to be trusted, the wardens are largely made up of war criminals and brigands, so I suppose a lesser noble of Denerim's underbelly wouldn't be out of place. “If they were giving me a trial, I’d hire you as my advocate,” Ten replied dryly. Daveth stifled a laugh. “And you couldn't have come and told me this before it all happened?""

"Well, when I spoke with Valendrian, he informed me that you were about to be married."

“I find it highly suspicious that you came to ask about me, and then found out I was to be married, and then within the day, I was taken and my husband killed."

"You poor child," Duncan said, reaching out and putting his hand on the top of her head, which made her flinch, "I don't blame you for being suspicious. You have my deepest condolences for your husband and for what happened to your cousin, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Now, we must away, the road to Ostagar is long."

Don't fucking patronize me, old man.

"And if I want to take my chances with the gallows?” she asked, crossing her arms.

"Your consent to an order of conscription is unnecessary. A blight is coming, Miss Tabris.”

She sighed and nodded. What was most clear to her at this point was that she was no longer in charge of herself. And so she followed.

Instead of the execution of Teneira the murderer and Daveth the cutpurse two days hence, the guard was mourning the death of Eddin Rasphander. It seems that, somehow, he'd been bitten by a black cattle adder while in the changing room at his guard post. How such a snake got into his spare uniform, nobody was quite sure.

Chapter Text

In the female guard's locker room - the men's was roped off after the unfortunate snake incident - Teneira buckled on the leather armor that was to be her uniform. She'd never worn armor before, and it felt strange against her skin. The set that Duncan had brought her fit very well, buckling tight under her arms and hardly constricting her breasts, which was something she'd heard women complain about. She felt a little better about going into a fight knowing that there was half an inch of leather between the enemy's blades and her. The armor had come with two daggers, each as long as her forearm, and a harness to sheathe them on her back. With her hair tied up and tucked under a leather cap, it was as though no trace of Ten the Alchemist remained. She looked dangerous. She was dangerous, she always had been – but her power had always relied on appearing harmless. Oddly enough, all armored in leather, she felt even more vulnerable.

Daveth walked in as she was pulling on her gloves, fingerless, intended to protect her hands while leaving her fingers free. She flexed her hands, cracking her knuckles. She took her dagger out. She didn't know why Duncan had bought two – she was terribly clumsy with her left hand, and would probably do more harm than good. She brought it up to a fighting stance, holding it sideways like a knife, palm outward, hilt gripped in her first.

"You're going to be battling darkspawn, not knife-fighting with thugs," Daveth said. He took the blade from her, and gripped it properly. He swung it around a few times, "This is a good weapon. Should respect that."

"I've just realized," Ten admitted, "I don't know the first thing about this." Back in the arl's estate, she had been running on pure adrenaline. She hadn't actually had to fight properly, she had the advantage of surprise. And a whole lot of toxins. Darkspawn would not be lulled into a false sense of security by her size or femaleness. The darkspawn cared not and would come at her with all of their fury.

"Aye," Daveth said, "But think of the alternative!" He pointed out the window where the gallows stood in the jailyard.

She fingered her neck, very happy that her vertebrae were intact, and nodded. She wasn't quite sure what to make of Daveth. He was human, to be sure, but he didn't talk to her like other human men. Neither, in fact, did Duncan. They seemed like an entirely different breed than what Teneira was used to dealing with.

"The old man says we're heading out," Daveth said, "I'm not a prodigy, but I know my way around a dagger. I can show you a few of the ropes on the road there. It's a long journey to Ostagar." He looked uneasy at this last pronouncement.

She nodded, and caught a final glimpse of herself in the mirror. For the second time in a week, she saw an alien creature, this one the opposite of the one she had been on her wedding day. Instead of the paints, she saw her own brown skin, her own brown eyes, all of her scars and blemishes. Without her hair hanging around her face, her high-bridged nose and pointed ears were more prominent than ever. She loved those things about herself, the features that had graced the faces of her ancestors. She imagined herself a shield maiden of the great empire that her people had once commanded and thought herself far more beautiful like this than she had been as a bride.

When she left the jail, her father, Soris, and Shianni as well as elder Valendrian - useless as ever - were waiting for her. Nobody was there to bid farewell to Daveth, and he waited uncomfortably by Duncan's side while Ten went to say her goodbyes.

"Well, daughter mine," Cyrion said, taking his daughter by her shoulders, "I confess I did believe this would be the time you did not manage to squeak out of trouble by the skin of your teeth. I should have known better.” 

"I am predictable," she said. 

"And predictability is its own form of honesty," Cyrion said, a slight smile crossing his features.

"Dad…" she said, "I'm sorry." She meant it, too.

"I only wish I'd have been there to kill him myself. That bastard deserved it."

She laughed in shock at her father's uncharacteristic candidness and profanity, "One might almost mistake this as you being proud of me," she said.

"I have always been proud of you, my girl. I regret I did not make this clearer," he said

"Well, shit," sighed Ten, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, "I hope one day we will understand each other better."

She wasn't permitted to wallow any further, for Shianni approached her from behind and thrown her arms about Ten's shoulders. When they were children, Shianni being four or five years her junior, Ten had often carried her younger cousin on her back like this. Now, Shianni had three or four inches on her.

"Ten," she said in her ear, "I can't believe you're going to live!"

"Let's not get our hopes too high," she said, turning, and putting her arms around her cousin, "Just... don't burn the place down."

"We might not have to," Soris said, looking uneasily around, "I'm pretty sure there's a bunch of people eager to do it for us." Ten did the same, and saw that it was not only her family that had come to see her leave town. A dozen or so stony-faced citizens were staring at her with less than kindly expressions on their faces. She said nothing.

"It won't be the same without you," Shianni said.

"Well, Shianni was always better than me at my actual job and Soris was always better at my… unofficial one. I’m sure between the two of you the place’ll be better off.”.

"I'll just have to find myself another cattle adder…" Shianni muttered.

"Did something happen to the Reverend Mother?" Teneira asked in alarm.

"The guards came through and searched the house," Shianni said, "That Orlesian copper confiscated the snake, cage and all. I only hope he let her go somewhere safe." They all had some fondness for the small, dangerous creature that Ten kept as a pet, though none of them dared to handle her.

"Yes, like the locker room down at the barracks," Soris said.

"Lass…" Duncan's deep voice said. He put one gauntleted hand on her shoulder, "We must away. The road to Ostagar is long and time is of the essence.

"Return to me," Cyrion said again.

"I will," she said, "I only hope it’s on two feet and not in an urn."

She turned her back on her family and followed Duncan and Daveth into the bright morning. She had been outside Denerim's walls only a few times, once on an excursion to the Bannorn to dig up the herbs that now populated the small plot of land behind her house, another time to go hunting for snakes at a farmer's barn on the outskirts. The world outside the city seemed darker, bleaker than it had been when she had seen it before, even though it was not yet midsummer. 

A few hours' walk along the road, she saw first on the horizon, and then caught up with, a great host of men. They stretched out over the rolling moors of the Bannorn into the distance as far as she could see. They stayed about half a mile behind, but never out of sight of the marching soldiers.

"Who are they?" she asked, not recognizing their insignia.

"Those are soldiers in the service of Teyrn Loghain MacTir," Duncan said, "We could certainly travel more swiftly than an army, but there is safety in numbers in these dark days. Should any darkspawn or others who wish us ill come upon us, they will be fighting these men as well."

"The queen's father," Teneira said, a little awed, "The warlord who drove the Orlesians back over the mountains."

"Aye, the same," Duncan said, "You've been well schooled. All of that happened well before you were born."

“Well, I always liked that story. It was funny.”

“Funny,” Daveth said, “What’s funny about the Fereldan War of Independence?”

“Well, first of all, they managed to bring the folk of this land to the barricades in the name of freedom and self-determination, but then thirty years later, only humans have any.”

“Well, if I had any doubt you were Adaia’s daughter, it’s gone now,” Duncan said, looking down at her in amusement.

"How do you know my mother's name?" Teneira asked, looking up at him in alarm.

Duncan chuckled, "I once came asking a favor of the Arlessa of the Alienage. I only met her that one time, but I could never get her out of my head. So, later on, I returned and sought a meeting with her, thinking to conscript her to our ranks, but when I arrived she was married and with child. It’s just as well. She was a brave woman, your mother, but… hotheaded."

"And I’m reasonable and even-tempered?" 

"In comparison? Quite," Duncan said, "And then… considering how she died…" 

"How did she die?" Teneira asked, interrupting him. She had very little memory of her mother. She knew that she had died when Ten was nearly a baby– she was younger than Ten was now. Cyrion refused to speak of his late wife's death and had forbidden his brother and sisters-in-law from telling his daughter. Theirs had been a love match, unusual but not unheard of. Though, if the whispers were to be believed, Cyrion's elder brother and only guardian did not approve and that had caused a rift that was largely mended, but certainly affected their relationship going forward. It must have been worth it, though. Cyrion was still a very young man when he'd been made a widower. And yet, he had never remarried.

"Your father didn’t tell you?" Duncan said, raising his eyebrows, "She challenged one of the king's knights, one Ser Edric, to a duel. He had a… relationship with her younger sister that she didn’t approve of."

"Shianni's mother? Pali?" Teneira asked in disbelief, "Pali had an affair with a knight?" Is it any stranger than me having an affair with a guardsman?

"I… don’t know the specifics," Duncan said, "But your mother fought the knight and died. She died an honorable death, Teneira, but an unnecessary one. Pali loved the knight, but could no longer look at him after he slew Adaia. Ser Edric may have walked away from that duel, but nobody won."

"And what would her love for him have brought her, except shame and illegitimate children?" Teneira commented, "It's not as though he could have married her.”

"Perhaps you are right," Duncan said, "Then again, perhaps he would have treated her fairly. The world is not as black and white as all that."

“Listen, Duncan, you are clearly wiser than I in many ways, but I do think I know a lot more than you do about how human men are permitted to treat elfin women.”

Duncan graced her observation with a slight smile, and walked ahead, making it clear that the conversation was over. She found this attitude frequently among humans. They would say with their words that they didn't really believe that elves were savages or that there was really much difference between humans and elves in terms of moral compass or intelligence. But then, the minute someone pointed out that their attitudes were not borne out across the board or - Maker forbid - suggest they say that to their fellow humans rather than whatever elf they were trying to impress, they would change the subject or end the conversation. Duncan was clearly not categorically against elves serving in the same capacity as their human counterparts, after all, had he not taken her from the foot of the gallows and equipped her with a set of blades that would make a guardsman envious? And yet… when asked to face up to the things that his own comrades had actually done to hers, he became uncomfortable and did not want to discuss it. Sure, you can trumpet your belief in liberty and equality from the highest tower, but how would you want an elf as a commander? 

"My mum died when I was young too," Daveth offered. He had evidently been walking close behind and listening to the whole thing.

"Was she defending her sister's honor too?" she asked.

"Nah," Daveth said, "She was defending me. From my dad."

Teneira looked up at him, regretting her tone, "Your dad killed your ma?"

He nodded, "People are shite sometimes, you know that as well as I."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Daveth shrugged, "I actually grew up not too far from the ruins of Ostagar, where we're going. I grew up there – a small village in the Korcari wilds."

"Is he still there?"

"Village fell to darkspawn," Daveth said, "I doubt he survived. He had a lame leg and couldn't win a fight with a grown man if his life depended on it. He reserved his fists for his children."

Teneira nodded, knowing the type of man he was talking about. The man who was weaker than his fellows and took it out on the only ones around weaker than him. 

"I didn't mean to say that elves have a monopoly on being treated like shit," she said.

"Well, I should hope not, for we both know that that's not true," Daveth chuckled, "Happy people don't wind up here, Ten. I hear things about the rites you have to go through to become a Grey Warden, and it's not pretty."

“Not much in this world is pretty,” she said, twisting the ring on her left hand.

"Aye," Daveth said. He glanced down at it.

"You've been looking at that since you showed up in the cell," Teneira said.

"Well," he said, "The stories they've been telling, about the revenge of the bride… I just… he died, didn't he?"

"They're probably true," Teneira said, "And yes, he did die."

"Why do you wear it, then?"

Ten thought about saying that she was hoping she would get less unwanted attention appearing to be a married woman, but while true, saying that was the reason would have been a lie. "He died because he tried to save me. The ring is the least I can do." She thought, guiltily, of her last night as a free woman. Or, rather, she tried to feel guilty about it. Feeling guilty was what a good woman would have done. Then again, a good woman would not have spent the night of her wedding and her husband's death in the arms of another man. The only negative feeling she could summon was sadness that she would probably never see Villais again. 

"I think I'm glad to have you along in a fight," Daveth said, "If you're so loyal to those you barely know."

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment," Teneira said, "Though I don't know how Duncan thought this was a great idea. I'm half the size of most of these soldiers, let alone whatever demonic creatures the earth can cough up at us."

"Bullshit," Daveth said, "I'm not a big man. You saw me bring down a six foot four three hundred pounder in the jail cell, and that was with nothing but my pocket knife and wits. You've got wits, Ten, and so you're dangerous. And you’ll be a lot more dangerous if you walk a little faster.”

"I’ve got short legs!" she protested.

"C'mon, soldier!" Daveth said, clapping her on the back, "Onward!"

They did stop not too long after, when the sun was going down. They were at the top of a hill in the shadow of some Tevinter ruins, while Loghain's army marched further into the valley, where there was more space. Their packhorse was let out to graze, and tents were unpacked. Teneira went out in search of water, which she found in the form of a small river that wound its way through the rocks. She also found a large quantity of deathroot, a poisonous plant that she had to coax into growing in her small garden plot off the alleyway. She gathered a few of the buds where the poison was concentrated and returned with them, along with a pot full of water. Duncan produced a few potatoes from somewhere in his pack, and Daveth went out in search of game.

"I certainly hope you're not putting those in our food," Duncan said.

"Of course not," Teneira said, "But you never know when you're going to need it."

"There's a mortar and pestle and some empty flasks in the brown leather satchel over there," Duncan said, gesturing to the pack saddle, which indeed had a brown leather satchel hanging from it.

"How thoughtful," Ten said, genuinely surprised. She went in and found what Duncan had said was there, a stone mortar and pestle, which she used to grind the buds, and a flask, one of which she filled with water and the crushed buds, and sat in the cinders of the campfire to boil. The buds immediately released their toxin, which was of a purple color. She wiped her hands thoroughly. While she was doing so, she felt the familiar cold touch of a blade at the back of her neck.

"I think Daveth is testing you," Duncan said, looking over her shoulder.

She could not move back. Forward was the fire. Left and right would still give him access to her neck and up was the direction of the blade. But… he was standing, and was squatting. She reached down slowly and grabbed handful of cool ash from the edge of the fire. She braced herself. One… two… on three she whirled, throwing the ash into the rogue's face and then dove between his legs, grabbing one ankle and yanking him off balance. He narrowly missed the fire, falling, but ad the good sense not to drop his blade. She kicked him in the shin, unfortunately protected by leather.

The ashes cleared from his vision, he swiped at her once, twice. She ducked and evaded, and eventually did what Soris had always done in a fight, and went for his knees. Blades forgotten, she barreled into him below his center of gravity, and he toppled facefirst onto the grass. She got a knee in the middle of his back. If she’d had a blade to stick in his throat, it would be over, but she did not, and he was stronger than she was heavy. He shoved her off him, and she went down on her back where she could not grab her blade. She tried vainly to use her feet to get him off her, but he had her quite securely pinned within five minutes.

"All right, all right, I yield," she said.

He chuckled and let her up, “If I were a darkspawn, you’d have thrown hot coals. Thank you for not doing that.”

"I bet you anything darkspawn don't fight like that," she said grumpily.

"You'd be surprised," Duncan said, "You certainly have the instinct. We'll work on technique as we move along. Anyway, you ought to eat something. Tomorrow we have far to walk, and your legs are going to hurt."

Teneira sighed and joined her companions at the fire. Something had been niggling at the back of her mind all day. Finally, she gave voice to it. "Duncan," she said, "If you knew my mother, then you know how long it's been since she died, yes?"

"Twenty-one years," he replied, "I was new to the order myself. Why do you ask?"

"Twenty-one years," said Ten.

She cast back to her first memory again, this time searching it for facts, not simply letting it beat her over the head. Sitting in the front room at the house that had been her aunt's. The midwife bringing her a baby with fiery red hair and telling her that this was her baby cousin, her name was Shianni, and since neither of them had any sisters, it was up to Ten protect her. She had fought to protect Shianni just as Adaia had fought to protect Pali. But… Ten thought, I won. Sort of. She did the math quickly, "She was pregnant when the duel happened. That's why Adaia went after him. He'd gotten her sister pregnant. And that means… Shianni's father is human."

She shook her head, the stark revelations too much for her to take in all at once. Her aunt had never married in the twenty or so - well, shit, now she knew - it was twenty-one years since her daughter had been born. And there never was a father. It was something that nobody ever spoke about. She searched her memory of Shianni from that very morning. Were her ears always slightly less prominent than her own? Or did they just look that way in her memory now that she knew? And her hair, it wasn't the deep russet that Soris had inherited from his own mother, it was bright, fiery, a color that she most often saw in humans. Or was it? 

"I didn't realize you didn't know," Duncan said.

"My father has made it his full-time job, keeping me in the dark," said Ten, "Not preparing me for anything. So I had to learn it all myself."

"And you have," said Duncan, "I'm sure your father had his reasons."

"I will never understand the old man," Teneira sighed in frustration, "Perhaps it's for the best I'm off to die saving the world, he can give me a grand funeral and always have a reason to be proud of me.”

"I think you're wrong on that count. I think one day you will learn to understand your father. And I also think he has never once been ashamed of you. Afraid for you, yes. Ashamed, no. I think his forbearance has done you well."

"I hope you're right," she said grimly.

Chapter Text

The rest of the journey passed without remark. They moved mostly over the vast expanse of the Bannorn, and then down through the Southron Hills and Hinterlands. The landscape would stay the same for days at a time, and then change all in an hour, something which Teneira found a little unnerving. By the time they reached the ruined fortress of Ostagar, its gray towers reaching into the hazy sky of the Korcari wilds, she felt as though her life in the Alienage was a lifetime ago.

"You know, if you had told me last month that I would be traveling through the nethers of Ferelden in the company of two grown human men, and the back of a hundred more, and I felt safe, I would have called you insane," Ten said to Daveth as they started down a long hill. They could see the ruin at the bottom, atop a cliff over a river that was further down still, "It's been… instructive."

"I'm glad to represent my race and gender in a way that pleases you, Arlessa," Daveth chuckled, “Though I do not doubt that there's twenty or more pigs in the host ahead of us that wouldn't think twice about rape and murder. Isn't it a comfort that you now know how to defend yourself without half a dram of poison in your bosom?"

"Well of course," Teneira said, ribbingly, "But I'm not giving up the poison."

"And of course they wouldn't dare. I'd gut them all like fish," he said.

"It feels good not to be afraid," she said, and realized once the words were past her lips how true they were.

"Well, don't get used to it," he said, "The war's coming. I hear darkspawn are scarier than all us scary human men put together."

"This is Ostagar," Duncan said, clearing his throat loudly. He had been growing progressively more impatient with his charges as the journey wore on, "The Tevinter Imperium built it long ago to prevent Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. If the Maker be kind, it will shield us against a different foe. We are among a very small group of Grey Wardens in Ferelden at this time, and this is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

"Well, thanks for the history lesson, certainly wouldn't have been prepared to fight without it," Daveth muttered under his breath.

"Your impertinence is unbecoming, Daveth," Duncan said sternly, but his expression was gentle, and he was silent a long moment, "I was once saved from the gallows, I suppose I behaved much in the same way, once. Before the battle, you will need to go through a ceremony known as the Joining. We have several days before the horde is expected to arrive. There will be much to do."

Teneira wondered at what must have happened to turn a man like Daveth into a man like Duncan. Although, she imagined, she would probably be in Daveth's company for the rest of their lives – as long or short as that was – and would have time to observe. She also thought on what sort of person she was going to be. One duty had been replaced with another, one group of people to protect with the whole world, but all of a sudden, it wasn't all on her shoulders alone anymore. She wasn't even at the head of it. It felt, strangely, though the task ahead of her had higher stakes, like a weight off her shoulders. Protecting the elves of Denerim was walking a fine line. Be tough, but not too tough. Feminine enough to be unthreatening but not enough they’ll think you’re a joke. But now… that wasn't on her. There was no politics, no deciding whom to risk allying with, no worrying about how she looked in public. Just follow orders.

They had made it to the first bit of Ostagar, the arches that surrounded the still-standing Tower of Ishaal, which was of different architecture entirely, though Ten did not know what sort. The main camp lay over a high bridge over the rushing river far below. She felt a little queasy – the bridge dated from the days of the Tevinter Imperium, and she was not entirely sure how much longer it would want to be standing. Not afraid precisely. She had resolved, somewhere on the road, perhaps the time that she had finally beat Daveth in a duel, that she was done with fear. It was a Grey Warden's task to defeat the darkspawn. They had neither husbands nor children – only constant war, war on the surface wherever the blight may lead, and a final, mortal conflict in the deep roads far beneath their feet. Perhaps Duncan had saved her from the gallows, but her doom was just as assured as if her corpse were in a gibbet in Denerim. 

They approached the camp from the east. Sentries stood on guard, though there were so many holes in the walls, she was not sure why they were guarding that particular gap over the others. The camp itself was a sight to be seen, colorful wool tents dotting the small space. Ten guarded her eyes, not to appear like a wide-eyed child, taking it all in, but she could not resist letting her gaze linger on the circle of mages, standing but limp, as though being cradled by some great invisible hands. They eyes were rolled back in their heads, and the materials of the world swirled above them as though they were bending existence itself.

"They are in the Fade," a kindly voice came from behind her, and Ten realized she must have been staring. She turned to see an older woman, probably not yet out of her sixties, yet with hair snowy white and her skin so pale it was nearly translucent. Then again, she was not always very good at telling how old humans were. The mage was dressed in the robes of a member of the Circle, and was probably high ranking given the intricacy of the embroidery on her robes, "Their spirits have left their bodies."

They look like they’re high on something, she thought. "They look like they’re…  asleep," she said. 

"They are and they aren't," the woman said, “Have you never met a mage before?”

“No,” she said. Mages outside the circle usually worked for lords, and having made a conscious effort to avoid working in the homes of courtiers her whole life, Ten had never had occasion to run into one.

“What about you, dear? Are you here to take in our laundry? You’ll want to see the fellow over there in the blue hat, he’s in charge of such things.”

Right. Back with humans who don’t know who I am. “No, Missus, I am not here for your laundry.”

“Oh no, that was…” the mage sighed, “I’m sorry, that was probably offensive. I’ve never met an elf who wasn’t a mage before, but when they talked about their lives before they joined the Circle, it seemed like they were all the children of laundresses and scrubwomen.”

“Why would I be offended? Do mages think washing clothes is shameful?” Ten asked.

“No, no! That’s not… that’s not what I meant, I just…”

She let the older mage squirm there for a moment. There was a time when she enjoyed watching people twist, but she had realized at some point that the only humans she could skewer like that were those who had shame in the first place. She let the edges of her mouth twitch up eventually and let loose a chuckle, watching the old woman’s face melt with relief.

“I’m with the Grey Wardens,” Ten said, “Though if I see an elf carrying a basket I’ll pass on the message. You know, since we all know each other.” This time she didn’t let the joke go on too long, “Thank you for the talk, I’m fascinated to see how mages… mage. But I must be going.”

"Maker keep you,” the old woman said benevolently.

"And you as well."

She found Duncan and Daveth by a great roaring fire, along with a third man, a burly, balding thing nearly six and a half feet tall, with a longsword on his back that would have stood taller than Teneira if he'd stuck it in the ground.

"This is Ser Jory, a knight in the service of the Teyrn of Highever," Duncan said, "He will completing the Joining with you and Daveth."

"Well met," the giant said, extending a hand larger than a dinner plate to shake. Teneira did so, though she was afraid he would lift her clean off the ground. He did not do so, and she was surprised that his hand was as soft as a gentleman's. Unlike Daveth, he had no scars, though he, too, looked to be on the far side of thirty.

"My name is Teneira Tabris," she said.

"Are you Dalish?" asked Jory.

"No," she said, "I'm from Denerim."

"Ah," Jory said, clearly disappointed, "I've always been so fascinated with the Dalish. Had a cook run away to be with them two years ago.”

"I’m surprised you’re still in good form," Daveth observed.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Jory asked.

"Well, one has to wonder," Daveth said, winking at Jory, "It's just… if she was willing to give up stone walls and indoor plumbing, I'd have to wonder just what was in your food over the time she was in your employ."

Ten laughed behind her hand, though a little surprised. He's human, but he thinks he's with me, doesn't he! I guess, he has more in common with me than some knight… I suppose if there were any elfin lordlings they'd be all up in Jory's ass. Looking around, the assembled forces were about a quarter female, not including the mages, which were evenly split, and only the mages had any elves as members. She was clearly in a minority, and was grateful at least one human was willing to take her part.

"Duncan! Well met, old friend!" a young man's voice exclaimed. Teneira looked up, alarmed to see a familiar face striding towards her. She instinctively dropped her gaze, and then found herself yanked to her knees by a huge hand around her arm. To her left and right, her thoughts raced, not hearing the conversation between the two humans as she tried to place where she had seen that face before. Beside her, Daveth reached into his pocket and tossed a gold sovereign on the ground.

"Maker's breath, that's the king!" she whispered furiously, seeing the same face etched on the coin as was standing before them.

"Damn right that's the king!" Daveth said.

Of course, she knew the king would be there. Just like she knew that he lived not more than five miles away from her flat in Denerim, just like she knew several of the maids that worked in the palace and thus a whole lot of his personal business. The eclectic taste in mistresses, for one, and the related medical issues that would have been reputationally disastrous were he anyone but the king, but even knowing all this the royal family had always seemed more like characters out of a play - a farce, if you asked most Fereldans - than actual flesh and blood folks one might run into somewhere. 

"Oh, come now! Get up! Can't fight darkspawn on your knees!"

She felt herself being borne up just as she'd been borne down by Ser Jory.

"Ah, Ser Jory!" exclaimed King Cailan. Teneira forced herself to look him in the face. She had grown used the images of old King Maric, not old per se, but hardened and scarred and not looking like a beardless teenage boy. Cailan was tall, not nearly as tall as the giant Jory, but over six feet, and possessed of fine features that had clearly never seen battle or anything like it. He was clapping Jory on the shoulders, congratulating him on his wife's pregnancy, and something in the way the edges of his eyes crinkled when he smiled made Ten realize she did know that face, and not from coins. I guess Ioan’s ma wasn’t lying all these years. There is absolutely no way those two aren’t related. Her old friend was several inches shorter than the king - after all, he’d been raised on a standard elvish diet of scraps and spices - and his hair was a little bit darker blond, but… all this time I thought she’d just lifted her skirts for some pretty stable boy and only said it was the king to make it seem less tacky. 

"And what's your name?" he asked, turning his attention to Daveth.

"Daveth, Sire," Daveth said, "I hail from Arnthorn, in the Korcari Wilds." Teneira snickered inwardly at how he was leaving out some very important things that had happened between him leaving Arnthorn and arriving at Ostagar. Being a professional criminal in Denerim, for example, and being rescued from certain execution.

"Ah, my condolences," King Cailin said, "I heard the bad news but a few days ago."

"Aye," Daveth said, "A sad story. But the darkspawn shan't advance any further, no ser, not if I have anything to say about it!"

Kiss-ass, Teneira thought, but then, she couldn't know what she would say when the king's blue gaze fell on her. I suppose ‘Funny story, Sire, I used to commit petty thefts with the kid your dad had with an elfin scullery maid’ isn’t something one says to the king. 

"And you, you look familiar!" he said. He furrowed his brow, staring into her face, then realized who she was, "You're the elf that murdered Bann Vaughan!" he exclaimed. He didn't sound angry. He sounded as though he were meeting a celebrated poet or painter, utterly delighted to be shaking the hand of someone famous. She kept her mouth shut, having absolutely no idea how to respond. “Wait, aren’t you? I'm sorry, it's a little hard to tell you people apart sometimes…"

Got to say something. It’s probably illegal not to answer if the king asks you a question. And there’s really no good answer. If I say no, I’m a liar, if I say yes, I’m not remorseful. She settled on legal technicalities. “I was never convicted.”

Everyone within earshot suddenly fell quiet and stayed that way for an excruciating moment where the only sound was baby frogs in the wetlands beyond. And then, thank the Maker, the king burst out laughing like she had just delivered the punchline of the century. Everyone else around, even Jory, started laughing as well. And they kept doing so until the king calmed down, all stopping at once. Teneira had and heard seen quite a few unnerving things in her life, but there was something incredibly creepy about the whole thing. 

“Pray tell me,” the king said, wiping one eye, “What did Bann Vaughan do to deserve your steel?"

"He raped my cousin," she said, "And had my husband and one of my bridesmaids murdered."

"Oh, that is unpleasant," the king said, looking a bit put out, "Yes, I suppose I'd have done the same. I never did care for Vaughan. The queen said I ought to strip him of title and land many times the last few years. I should be grateful that you've saved me an uncomfortable conversation.”

Ten had been stabbed in the ribs once during an ill-advised scuffle several years before. She’d managed to get herself patched up and had made a full recovery, but she would forever remember the feel of it, not so much pain but an immense, crushing pressure that kept her from taking full breath. She was hoping to never feel that way again, and yet here she was. It would have been one thing to hear the king declare her a traitor, lower than pondscum, and a good thing that she was about to be fodder for darkspawn because of the Crown had had its way, she would currently be rotting in a gibbet hung from the highest wall, which was what she was expected. But to hear that... the folks in charge knew. They knew what was happening, they knew who was doing it, and the only reason they'd never done anything about it was because it would have been a little bit impolite? That he could say it so casually and not even realize that's what he was saying. I'd have taken the knife in the ribs again.

Blessedly, the king did not expect an answer from her to his last pronouncement. “But, that is neither here nor there." He stepped back, taking in all three recruits, "Very well! Best of luck to you three, for your Joining. I imagine we will meet again before the coming battle!" He gave them a small nod, turned, and left. Ten just stood there, mouth slightly open, watching the whole entourage walk away.

“Ten, are you all right?” Daveth asked, “You look like you’re about to cry. Or vomit. Or punch someone.”

She opened her mouth to tell him not to worry and excuse herself so she could scream into her bedroll for ten to fifteen minutes, when Jory barreled between them, poking her in the chest with two thick fingers.

"Quite a display there, wasn't it," he ranted, "Just announcing to the king that you murdered an Arl's son! He's supposed to trust the Grey Wardens, not think they're going to stab him in the back!"

"I’m… truly not in the mood, ser,” Ten said, trying to turn and leave. She felt his hand on her upper arm, yanking her back and turning her around.

"You do not get to turn your back on me.”

“Get your hand off me or you’ll lose the use of it for a week.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that, you’re nothing but a-” he paused, as though remembering that she was not one of his servants, and there might be consequences for insulting her.

“I’m nothing but a what?” she countered, watching his face go red, “C’mon. You know you want to say it.”

He shook his head and turned to walk away.

“If that’s how casually you put your hands on women, I can see why your cook preferred the Dalish to sharing a roof with you!” she called after him, unable to resist.

He went from slightly embarrassed right back to livid. “Do you think just because you’re a girl I won’t demand satisfaction?” Given the size of the blade on his back, Ten was impressed and terrified at the speed with which he drew it and whirled on her.

Whoops. Well, I suppose this is something of a family tradition.

He made a sudden move and Teneira was reminded of exactly how much trouble she was in if she wasn’t able to talk her way out of this one. She reluctantly drew one of her blades, though what exactly a shortsword was going to do about a blade as large as Jory’s she did not know. She cast desperately about, and noticed, to her annoyance, that Daveth had found somewhere a sack of salted nuts and was crunching them noisily while watching the two of them spar and, to her relief, that Duncan had interrupted what looked like a very tense conversation with one of the mages and strode over to keep it all from getting out of hand.

“Sheathe your blades. This is madness!” Duncan exclaimed, thrusting himself between them, “Dueling is forbidden in the Warden code.”

Ten put her shortsword away. Jory sheathed his own blade, a more cumbersome affair, then turned to their commander. “Duncan, when you recruited me you said cutpurses and highwaymen, not traitors!”

Duncan looked from one of them to the other, “Jory, leave your weapons and go sit over there. Teneira, come with me.” Ten obeyed. He took her aside, behind one of the pillars.

“He put his hands on me,” Ten said.

“I did not think I would need to warn you of all people of the dangers of baiting others.”

“I did not bait him, ser, I tried to leave and he put his hands on me.” 

Duncan sighed, his expression softening, “And I will speak to him about that. But you need to cool your temper."

"Me! I'm not the one who..."

He silenced her with a glare, "I lost track of another member of the order, he was supposed to be here when he arrived and the mage I just spoke to doesn't know where he's gone. I have to meet with several of the other commanders and won't have time today, so I need you to find him.”

“You’re asking me to find a man I’ve never laid eyes on. Send Jory if the point is separating us.”

“Jory doesn’t know him either."

"But..."

"Given what just transpired I’m worried about a repeat of that incident.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ser Jory cannot handle being spoken to with impudence…” Duncan’s voice trailed off, likely realizing that he did not owe his recruit an explanation, “The man you are looking for is called Alistair. Early twenties, human, blond, shorter than me but not by much. The mage I was just speaking with said he had gone off to discuss something with one of the clergy, they’re camped over behind the mages.”

“That describes half the men here. Not an uncommon name, either,” Ten protested, not relishing the idea of approaching a dozen strange human men in search of the right one.

“He’ll be wearing a templar’s surcoat.” Strange men many of whom have taken chastity vows. Even better.

“That hardly narrows it down,” she grouse.

Duncan sighed, rubbing his temples. When he spoke again, the angry edge was gone from his voice and if Ten had not known him, she would have found his tone conspiratorial, “He, like you, occasionally does not know when to hold his tongue, I am concerned that he has managed to get himself into some trouble. So maybe start with the gibbets.”

“Ser, is this an order?”

“Yes.”

“Yes Ser.”

She sighed in exasperation, turned, and left, still half fuming. She wandered around aimlessly, for a bit, taking stock of the full of her surroundings. In one corner were the kennels with a makeshift dog run. She didn’t know what she was expecting, maybe for there to be a hunting hound who’d let her scritch behind floppy ears. Of course not, though. This was not a hunt. This was war. A mabari war hound sat curled in the corner of one of the pens, but leapt to his feet and chased her as she walked by the fence, barking excitedly. She flinched, though she knew he likely meant no harm. The Denerim City Guard had had to be cut off from keeping that breed when she was a child after there were one too many instances of an overzealous handler letting one maul or crush - the largest of them were well over two hundred pounds - a suspect to death, but Ten remembered the grim painted hounds being set upon her neighbors and walked away quickly. Past the kennels, she passed gibbet cages whose only occupant was a darkhaired man in his forties, a makeshift infirmary, and a middle-aged woman wearing the orange robes of a reverend mother sitting on what must have once been a fountain, waiting for someone to seek her wisdom.

“Care for the Maker's blessing, little sister?" she asked, her voice cloying and her smile benevolent. She mistook Ten’s hesitance for desire to learn more, calling, "The Maker shows us the way, in every step of our lives."

"Too late, Rev. As you can see, He’s already sent me to my eternal punishment for I am now among the worst of the demons,” she retorted, gesturing broadly at the gaggle of yellow-robed nuns bustling about behind the chaplain. She stayed long enough to see the smile drop from the clergywoman’s face before continuing on her way.

She found herself in the northeastern corner of the camp, which was deserted, but had a good view of the coming night over the cliffs. She had her pipe and a pouch of fine Orlesian tobacco she and Daveth had gone in for in the last town. She packed it, and lit it from one of the many braziers that lit the place. She sat herself on a rock, puffing away. She'd become unused to humans like Jory on the long road from Denerim. It would have been silly to hope that maybe her entire life up to that point had been a fluke and humans really were just like her. 

"You know that stuff will make your teeth yellow," a male voice said. She didn't look up.

"Yeah, well, if you’re so concerned with teeth seems like saying things like that to people you don't know is a bad move," she replied, her eyes on the flagstones, “Especially in a camp full of soldiers.”

"I was trying to get it away from you, if you were wondering," the man said, completely unperturbed by her hostility. He sat down beside her, and she handed him the pipe. He took a long drag and handed it back, "So what happened to you? You look just how I feel."

She looked over at him. Seated, she could not tell how tall he was, but he was certainly human, in his twenties, blond, wearing a templar’s surcoat, and apparently only too happy to talk to strangers. He spoke with an upper class accent which put her on edge instinctively, but didn’t sound unfriendly. Well, it would make things easier. 

"I was just threatened with a sword longer than I am tall," she said.

He raised his eyebrows, “All right, well, you’re making it seem like I’m overreacting to being told off by some nun who still thinks I work for her. It was like a flashback to childhood, though, I swear she was about to rap my knuckles and make me kneel in the corner.”

"What’d you do to get told off?" she asked. 

“I saw this girl tell a bunch of chantry sisters she didn’t need a blessing because she was already being punished by their presence. I laughed a little too hard and apparently, that counts as blasphemy."

"It wasn't that funny," Ten said, wrinkling her nose.

"Well I didn’t see anyone go after you for that, so what else have you said to get a sword drawn on you?”

“I accused a belted knight of molesting his cook.”

There was a moment’s silence before he cracked up. Apparently, stating uncomfortable truths in an utter deadpan was a surefire way to get a laugh out of strange human men.

“So what is your deal, anyway?” she asked, “You’re dressed like a templar, but apparently you find light blasphemy hilarious enough to get your knuckles rapped over it.”

"Oh, I'm not a templar," he said, "Not anymore, anyway. I'm a Grey Warden."

There we go. "Are you now," she said. She felt the old familiar safety in knowing something about another that he did not know about her. However, he still knew a lot more about the Order she’d been roped into. She tested the waters. Men, in general, liked to talk once they had been made to feel good about themselves. She leaned slightly towards him. She looked up at him, pitched her voice a little higher and gentler than she usually did, "So you’re going to save us all from the darkspawn, then? That’s a big job.”

“That is the idea,” he replied. 

“Since you’re the expert, it really a true blight?”

“It’s serious enough they’ve been upping conscription. Apparently three recruits arrived just today. That's always interesting. See which ones croak during the Joining."

"The what?" she asked. She turned her body towards him, wound one lock of hair around her finger, “Is it like a ceremony?” Croak? Nobody said anything about croaking. And I certainly hope he means 'turning into a toad' and not dying.

"Something like that," he said, "Can you keep a secret?"

Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, are you…

"Even if I can’t, I’m just a wee elfin maiden," she pointed out, "I could say the sky is blue and nobody would believe me.”

"They make you drink darkspawn blood," he whispered.

She was unable to keep the expression off her face, “Seriously?” she demanded, her voice regaining its usual tone and octave.

“Oh, you think that’s bad? You should hear what the Chantry… “ his voice trailed off as realization swept over his face, “I have truly stepped in it, haven't I? You're one of the…"

"Yes, I am," she said. She coughed, retching a little. She dumped the contents of her pipe on the ground and stomped the flames out, suddenly not in the mood.

"Oh Maker's breath, I'm an idiot," he said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, "You weren't supposed to know about it beforehand.”

She sighed and shook her head, "Well, unless there's another one of you wandering around camp telling Order secrets to every woman who happens by, you must be Alistair. I've been sent to find you and fetch you back to Duncan. He thought you’d gotten into a fight or been.... detained, so I suppose it could be worse.”

"Oh, you're sneaky," he said, indignant, "You knew exactly who I was from the moment I… all right, let's call it even. I never divulged any secrets, and you never threw yourself shamelessly at me to get me to talk! And you also didn't see me smoking, Duncan hates that."

"Fine. Deal," she conceded. He had risen, and begun making his way towards the Wardens' camp, and she followed at his heels, determined both to get more information out of him and also not fail miserably at the task she had been given.

"You know you're entirely too cunning to be a proper Warden. You know we're supposed to be very serious! And stodgy! You're not nearly stodgy enough." He babbled on like this as they walked, and Ten understood why he was constantly getting told off. But then, he stopped talking, and then stopped walking, so short she nearly walked right into him. He turned and looked down at her, "Say, it just occurred to me, but you're an elf, and you're a girl, so you're not the knight, and you’re not the thief, so you must be…"

"Ahh, here we go," she sighed, "I am, indeed, the murderess.” 

“There’s a ballad about you. The Vengeful Bride of Denerim Town.”

“Yeah, I heard that one on the way out here. It’s actually fairly accurate, evidently the songwriter is a sucker for an underdog story.”

“Or a revenge fantasy. So you chopped up three noblemen with an ax? How come you were scared of a single knight and his sword?”

“Wait’ll you see the size of the knight. And the sword.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “Well it’s not every day you meet a celebrity criminal, I suppose. You've been through it twice and still come out on top."

"If you could call this the top," she sighed, "Though I suppose it beats the gallows. Not sure by how much.”

The Grey Warden camp was grim as it had been when they returned. Jory was still sulking, and Daveth was sitting by himself, drinking out of a bottle of whiskey he'd secured several days before, where a distiller was trying to unload his entire inventory before leaving town ahead of the pillaging that was sure to come. Teneira sat herself beside him and seized the bottle from him, taking a tear-inducing gulp and managing to swallow it without coughing.

"Maker's breath," muttered Alistair, sitting down with them, "You'll drink dwarven whiskey like mother's milk, but the thought of darkspawn blood makes you gag?"

"And who're you?" Daveth asked, sounding like a little boy saying, 'This is my friend and my whiskey and you are not part of the club.'

"Alistair," he said, extending a hand to shake. Daveth did so, warily. He offered him the bottle.

"There's a fellow in the Wardens, camped out down below," Alistair said, taking the bottle and gesturing vaguely at the ravine, "Whom we had drinking three ales an hour, and he lasted all night while the rest of us slept beneath the tables."

"Sounds like a true hero," Teneira said, only a little sarcastically.

"Well, I'm not him," Alistair said, and took a swig. This turned him into a spluttering, red-faced mess in seconds.

"Sure and you're not," Daveth replied, "Was that your first drink, lad?"

Alistair opened his mouth, surely to say something smart, but instead, kept coughing until first Ten and then Daveth whacked him on the back with a closed fist.

"What's gotten into him?" Alistair asked, finally getting ahold of himself and gesturing at Jory with his chin.

“It’s his time of the month," said Ten, "It's quite all right, he'll be back to himself in a few days."

Daveth laughed, but Alistair looked very confused, "What's she mean?" he asked Daveth.

“What do you mean, what does she mean?” Daveth asked.

“What time of what month? Is he a werewolf or something?” Alistair asked, positively baffled, “Actually, he does sort of look like one…”

"You're how old and nobody's taught you about the birds and the…" Daveth began, but was interrupted by Duncan striding over.

"Wardens! Now that you are all here, I must give you your tasks. I would appreciate you being sober for this bit, Teneira and Daveth." Daveth put away the whiskey sheepishly. Teneira could already feel it pulsing through her veins, "Tomorrow morning, you will set forth into the Korcari wilds, with these." He held up three small vials for them to see. "You will slaughter any darkspawn you come across, and you will collect their blood in these, and return them to me. While you are there, you will also seek out a ruin of a Grey Warden fortress built in these parts long ago against the previous blights. While the fortress has crumbled, there should be within the ruin a vault containing ancient treaties signed with various factions throughout Ferelden. While it is my hope that calling these favors due will not be necessary, we must do all that is possible to prepare for the coming blight. Do you understand me?"

"::hic:: Yes, Ser," Teneira said.

"Yes, Ser," mumbled Daveth.

"Yes, Ser!" barked Jory.

"I will leave you to take your rest," Duncan said, "But first…" He stooped, and picked up the bottle from where Daveth had laid it on the ground. He took a great swig, swallowed it down as though it were no rougher than water, and returned the bottle, "Good night." He turned and walked off towards the king's tent, presumably to have an audience.

"Jory," Ten said, feeling sorry for the big man, sitting all alone, "Come over here and drink with us. I'm sorry for what I said earlier."

"I don't trust you," he said, walking over, "Either of you. You're both criminals."

"Most of us are," Alistair said, "Well, I'm not, and apparently you're not, but murder is actually fairly low on the totem pole of heinous crimes where are our ranks are concerned."

"Comforting," Jory muttered, "When Duncan recruited me he talked like it was some great honor, and now I find myself in the company of a couple of lowlifes from the streets of Denerim and some… renegade templar. That's what you are, is it not?"

"In a manner of speaking," Alistair said, "But whether you like it or not, you're stuck with us."

"Come on, no need to make that face," Daveth said. He put his arm around Teneira's shoulders and gave her a squeeze, “Give her a chance! Once you get past the whole ax murderer thing, she’s actually quite nice."

"Daveth, I think you're drunk already," Ten said, but she put her arm around him as well. There was comfort in being physically close to people. She knew that she shouldn't quite trust Daveth yet, but he'd given her no reason not to. Daveth was not Vaughan, and Ostagar was not the Alienage. Alistair wasn't the wisest of men by a long shot, but he was friendly, and did not look down on her as Jory seemed to. 

After some time, just at the point Daveth was telling his own version of the story about the frogs in the canal, even Jory joined them, evidently finding it better to drink with people he didn't like than sit and sulk alone. By the time night had set in in earnest, the four of them all had their arms around each other, swaying back and forth and howling popular drinking songs off-key and loudly. Within an hour after that, the whiskey had fully seized Ten and sent her back to her tent, where she passed out before her head hit her bedroll.

Chapter Text

Teneira awoke before the rest of them, feeling like an idiot at how careless she'd been. Taking stock of herself, she was still fully clothed, her weapons were where she had left them. There was a worn path down the ravine to the river that flowed between the two cliffs that held the ruins. She crept down there to wash, something she hadn't done in much too long. The water of the river was cold, clear, and moved swiftly enough that she was reluctant to go further into the water for fear that the current would sweep her away. Then thought for a moment that perhaps that was a preferable fate. Dismissing that intruder to her mind, she sat down in the shallow water so that it covered her head. She dipped her head underwater and massaged her scalp with her fingernails, trying to scrape some of the grime from her hair.

She surfaced and went to the shore. The sun was up and beginning to warm the rocks by the water. She slipped on her small clothes and stretched out on one. Nobody had come to look for her yet. Lying back, she heard a whimper. She got up and, still barefoot, crept in the direction of the sound. As she drew closer, the whining grew higher, and she saw, all collapsed in a quivering pile, a Mabari warhound. It took all of her nerve to approach. She’d been maybe seven or eight when a protest - labeled by the guard as a ‘riot’ started over a law restricting what foodstuffs could be sold to elves during a famine. There was a moment when one of the creatures had approached her, snarling and slavering. It had been as tall as she was, in her memory. She had been scooped up by one of her older cousins and brought to the safety of his flat before anything could happen, but scars and missing fingers on more than a few of her neighbors told the tales of those who had not been so lucky.  This dog, though, was injured, or sick. She'd heard of dogs who had bitten darkspawn in battle and ingested too much of the blood. They would sicken, and crawl away somewhere to die.

"Are you going to take off one of my arms if I come closer?" she asked the dog. She'd heard that they could understand human speech and obey almost to the word, which made it all the more horrific when the guards set them on civilians. Perhaps another breed would have let instinct take over and kill a person, but Mabaris would never do so, meaning that every time one ripped into a picketer, it was because his master had commanded it.

But this dog didn't seem to have a master. It whined piteously and looked up at her with large brown eyes and rolled onto its back, demonstrating that it was both submitting and female. This latter part was the deciding factor for Ten, having found that even among animals, the womenfolk behaved more rationally. She approached her and was permitted to inspect matted fur with her hands and determine there were no injuries. 

"Well I'm not a healer," she said, "But I know one thing to do when you've eaten something that doesn't agree with you…" She went through the small satchel of poisons she'd collected. Most of them were made from various plants that would make a wound worse if you poked it into someone. However, not a few of them would induce vomiting if swallowed. Deciphering her own chicken scratch to discern one bottle from the other, she found what she was looking for.

"I'm not quite sure how this works," she said. She shook the bottle and pantomimed drinking from it. She uncorked it. Obediently, the Mabari sat up and opened her jaws. She poured in a couple of drops.

In an instant, the dog was on its feet and puking what seemed like gallons of black blood onto the riverbank. She recoiled at the smell, not sure what part of the vile liquid was darkspawn blood and what part was digestive juices. It seemed to take an hour for the poor thing to empty its stomach, but when it was done, it looked like it felt much better. It looked up at her, the corners of its mouth turning up in a dog-smile, and panted happily.

"You’re welcome," she said.

The dog only kept smiling and panting, its tongue lolling from its mouth. It then got down and proceeded to roll around in its own vomit.

"All right, well if you're well enough to do that, you're well enough for me to leave you on your own." She turned and climbed back up the dusty path to the camp. The Mabari followed on her heels, smelling like all of the darkspawn in the Deep Roads had broken wind at once. To her relief, it scampered off to find its master as they got to the camp, and Teneira did the same. She found Duncan by the fire, and the rest of her compatriots still scrambling into their armor.

"You look clean… and remarkably not hung over," Alistair commented as she approached. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked exhausted. She was not sure she trusted him to be at her side, fighting darkspawn. Jory looked like he was in even worse shape, but Daveth looked like he was in top form.

"Elves don't get hangovers," she said, repeating an oft-cited myth. Elves did indeed get hangovers - not as easily as humans, but with worse consequences if the threshold were reached. 

"Your uncanny ability to hold your liquor does not excuse the irresponsibility of getting drunk the night before an important mission," Duncan said.

"If you weren't confident in our ability, why would you be sending us out in this condition?" Teneira asked.

Duncan had no answer for this, but commanded them to leave immediately. The four of them headed to the well-trodden path that led into the Korcari Wilds. Teneira had to keep herself from catching her breath at the beauty of it. It seemed that there had been some Tevinter buildings there, long ago, but the forest had reclaimed them, and now they stood in the swamp as though they had grown there, white stone peaking between curtains of green ivy. The swamp itself wasn't the stinking, festering hole that she had imagined, but just a series of greenish pools, still and reflecting the forests around them.

The stillness was interrupted by a series of guttural war cries. Teneira looked up, drawing her blade instinctively.

Up close, the darkspawn were even uglier than in her nightmares. They looked as though they may once have been humans, elves, and dwarves, but it was as though they had been mutilated beyond recognition. They smelled, too, like walking death, the smell of a corpse riddled with maggots. She had to concentrate on keeping the roll she'd eaten before leaving down as they bore down on them. She drew her blades and fought the way Daveth had taught her. Stick the left one in them, use it to direct their movement while you attack with the right blade. She took a few hits, mostly on her better-armored parts, but still stood as the darkspawn lay in pieces around them. She hadn't had time to be scared when they were living and bearing down upon her, but she felt herself shaking uncontrollably.

"Was that your first battle?" Alistair asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head. When she'd fought those guards and the lordlings at the Arl of Denerim's estate, she'd been angry, and grief-stricken, too much so to feel afraid. The darkspawn hadn't done anything to piss her off. They weren't people, they were beings of utter evil, whose only purpose was to skewer her on their gray iron blades.

"It's all right," Alistair said, "Sit down for a moment. Head between your knees. Deep breaths."

She obeyed and sat down on a rock, holding her head in her hands until her heart wandered back into its place and the blood stopped rushing in her ears.

"All right," she said, "Sorry about that, lads."

"I've seen men thrice your size soil their pants the first time they crossed swords with one of those," Alistair said, "Don't be embarrassed for too long."

"And don't soil your pants," Daveth added.

They made their way further into the wild as the sun rose high in the sky, its light filtered through the green canopy of the wilds. It took a little while for Teneira to stop twitching, but eventually she managed to even out her breathing, and the fear in her heart was replaced with a heightened sense of being. It was as though she could see more clearly, her eyes accurately pick out whether each shadow was darkspawn-shaped.

"Wait," Alistair said as they made their way down an overgrown path by the side of a shallow lake, "Look up there."

Teneira tensed and looked where he was pointing. In the distance, in the crumbling ruin of a Tevinter fortress, a group of them stood. Waiting for them. She strained her eyes to make out their shape, and concluded that the lot of them were just standing around, bullshitting, much like the members of the guard would do during their breaks.

"Those two," Alistair said, indicating two who were not dressed in the crude-looking pig iron armor that the others wore, "They call them Emissaries. They're like mages, drawing their power from the Fade. They'll knock you on your arse as soon as they see you, but they can't take much of a hit. When we approach this group, I want Daveth and Ten to sneak around back and put knives in their backs while Jory and I rush in from the front."

"Sounds dangerous," Jory said, skeptically, "With only two of us drawing the fire."

"Well let's make things easier on ourselves," Teneira said, rummaging in her pack. Sorting through bottles, she found a leather flask that she'd bought in one of the villages along the road from Denerim. The neck of the bottle was shaped so that one could slide her blade, coating it in a thin layer, without damaging the bottle. She did so, and handed it to Jory, "It's a paralytic agent. Even if the first strike doesn't kill they'll be on the ground limp as a pile of manure before they know what hit them, gives you space to kill them properly without dodging their blades."

"Poison," Jory sighed disdainfully, "Hardly honorable is it."

"This isn't a duel, Jory," Daveth admonished him, the customary smile gone from his face, "Ain't nobody going to question your honor whatever tactics you use against these fiends. They're not people like us."

"She's not people like us," Jory said, gesturing to Teneira.

"Well that’s true, I’m not a lumbering idiot whose ancestors only discovered soap in the last ten years and are still discerning its proper use," Teneira retorted.

"Stop it, both of you," Alistair scolded.

Ten resisted the impulse to give them both the finger and walk away, instead following Daveth, creeping silently across the damp grass. To get behind the group of Darkspawn they would have to wade through the water, something she wasn't sure if she could do quietly, but she did her best. The water was still and slimy, and she tried to move quietly through it, hoping she wouldn't slip on something and go under. Drowning under her heavy armor in the fetid water of the Korcari Wilds was not how she'd imagined dying, and damned if she was going to let it happen. She kept her breaths even and steady as they grew closer to the darkspawn.

At that moment, Jory and Alistair began charging across the grass towards the assembled group, and grunts of confusion interrupted the apparent conversation that the demons had been having. The heavy ones picked up their greatswords, and Teneira could have sworn she saw fear in their beady black eyes. She and Daveth snuck up, quiet as could be, and on a silent signal, each plunged their dagger into the neck of a Genlock mage. The mages convulsed and spat black blood. Their deadweight pulled them from the blades, and Ten bore hers up, drawing her left handed knife with a sinister hiss of metal on metal.

It seemed natural, this time, even with swamp slime trickling down the backs of her legs and blood both red and black spattered across her face and torso. Their armor was iron, not steel or leather like the Wardens wore, and while solid, was very heavy, and slowed their movements. Every time one of them lifted his arm to strike a blow, the weak spots were revealed. Armpits, necks, all places Teneira could strike at and withdraw, as fast as a snake.

"You look like you enjoyed that entirely too much," Alistair observed after the carnage had ended, and Teneira was wiping her blades on the grass and returning them to their scabbards on her back. She grinned, a fairly horrific sight as her white teeth cut a slash through her bloodspattered face.

"I suppose there are worse lines of work," she replied.

"There's the spirit," Alistair replied, chuckling, and jogged ahead, reaching the ruin. It looked like it had stood there for many centuries before falling. Judging from the lack of wear on the places where the stone had crumbled, it had fallen fairly recently. Otherwise, the cracks would have been worn smooth by the wind and rain. Teneira stood with Daveth at the outside of the ruin, letting the more experienced Grey Warden root through the fallen rocks.

"Not a very secure place to put important diplomatic documents," Teneira commented. The blood covering her face was beginning to dry and crack. Jory and Daveth were scratching, trying to get it off.

"I'll be sure to take it up with Grey Warden leadership just as soon as we've banished all the Darkspawn back to the Deep Roads, Fereldan is safe again, and pigs go flying across the sky like majestic eagles," Alistair replied irritably. He'd managed to yank most of a wooden chest out of the wreckage of the building, "Ten, you've got disturbingly small hands, do you think you could reach in there and wiggle something loose?"

She sighed and went to his aid. She quickly saw what he was talking about. The chest was caught on something behind the rock it was under. She gingerly reached in. It was mostly rubble. She drew it out by the handful until the chest came loose, and Alistair toppled back under its weight. He stood, redfaced, and set it right on the grass. He rattled the clasp, and tried to open it.

"I knew we'd gotten too lucky, this thing being within reach," Alistair said.

"Don't worry yourself," Daveth said, rubbing his hands together, "I can make short work of that."

"So can I," Jory said, rolling his eyes, "Take a blade to it and be done! I'm yearning to go back to camp and have a bath."

“Things no human man has said before, ever,” Ten muttered.

Daveth knelt in front of the chest, clearly wanting to show off, "Ten, do you have a hair pin or a nail file or something small and metal like women are supposed to carry?"

"That lock's too big for a hair pin," she said, "Here, try this." She handed him the paring knife she'd used to murder all those guards. She had kept it with her, figuring that the tiny blade had served her well, and might well save her life again one day. Daveth inserted it into the locking mechanism.

"This will be highly instructive," he said, "You just have to insert it in there, find the thingy, and wiggle the other thingy, and…. There we go!" The lock clicked open, "Next time, Ten will try."

"That was not instructive at all," Ten said, thoroughly perplexed. He handed her knife back and she slid it into its case on her belt.

Alistair lifted the lid of the chest, and it opened with a dusty groan. The smell that came from the inside was musty and swampy and about as foul as you'd imagine would issue from a chest that had lain moldering in the wilds for the better part of a century. He lit a match, peering into it.

"Well that was a fool's errand," he sighed, "It's empty."

"I didn't want to be the one to say it," Teneira said, "But don't you think it was kind of suspicious that, even though the building collapsed Maker knows how many years ago, the chest was easily accessible? Shouldn't it be buried somewhere in the large part of the ruin?"

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked.

"I mean, if you had a fortress, and you had a bunch of important documents in a chest, where in the fortress would you keep them?"

"Probably in a vault," Alistair said.

"Look at this ruin," Teneira said, "When it stood, it was probably a solid, if small, fortress. You can see what remains of the front entrance there, over there was a tower. We've all seen Tevinter architecture. If it's anything like the other fortresses, the area where we found the chest here would have corresponded with a side entrance. Look, you can see the arch where the doorway was there." She pointed. She watched the men's faces as they tried to reconstruct the fortress in their heads.

"This chest has been moved since the building collapsed," Teneira continued, "It would have been under a ton of rock, probably over there." She pointed to a pile of rubble thirty feet into the ruin, where the building had probably stood several stories at one time. She scrambled up the pile of rock. Sure enough, at the center of the pile was a hole in the rubble. Hmmm… this is odd, she thought. It was as though someone had just carved a tunnel straight down through the crumbled rock, removed the chest, and left the hole there, perfectly round, though it looked as though it ought to have fallen in on itself. The rocks were just standing there, defying all laws of physics, "Someone dug it out by… means I'm not familiar with."

"What are you talking about?" Alistair asked.

"Well if you'd come here and take a look…" she said. He climbed up the ruin, more slowly as his armor weighed him down.

"What in the fade is that…" he muttered, "This isn't any magic I've seen."

"Magic?" Jory shouted, "Did someone say magic?"

"Yes, Jory, someone said magic," Daveth sighed.

"I knew it! They always said there was a wild mage in these wilds!" the knight exclaimed, "And now she's come and…"

"Let me get this straight, Jory," Daveth said as Teneira and Alistair made their way back down the hill of rubble. "You're saying that a witch of the wild came to a Grey Warden ruin, bored a hole in them, removed a chest, took the documents, and then put it right where more rocks would fall on it?"

The four of them stood there, contemplating how utterly ridiculous the situation sounded.

"I think you'd be surprised at what witches of the wild are capable of," a woman's voice said. Teneira looked around for where it came from, the hair on the back of her neck bristling. Movement caught her eye all of a sudden, and she flinched to see a very large – no, giant, the damn thing came up to her waist – spider crawling towards them. Slowly, before their eyes, the spider changed shape, shedding its form for that of a tall, human woman.

"Say Daveth," Alistair said, not taking his eyes off the woman, but elbowing the rogue, "Say Daveth, what exactly was in that whiskey we drank last night?"

"The finest rye from the Southron Hills," Daveth replied, "Teneira, you didn’t put some of those special mushrooms into the whiskey as a prank, did you?”

"Not that time," Teneira said. She narrowed her eyes at the woman. Her companions could apparently not break their gazes, mostly because of how impractically scantily she was clad, rags barely covering her ample bosom, leather breeches clinging to her legs like she'd been poured into them.

"You," the woman said, walking up to Teneira, who found herself very quickly closer to another woman's breasts than she'd been since she was a suckling infant. She looked up at her, meeting her pale gaze, "You aren't a gawking fool like these men. I'll be talking to you from now on. What's your name?"

"Teneira," she said, deciding against a snarky comment about what she should expect were she to expose herself like that. After all, she reasoned, it looked fairly comfortable, and it's not like she was expecting a bunch of men tromping through her wilds.

"Good,  I was afraid I’d have to wrestle that out of you," the witch said, looking down at her with eyes whose color Ten could not quite discern. Brown? Yellow? Green? Something else entirely? "I am Morrigan."

"She's going to eat us," Jory murmured, "I swear to the Maker she is going to eat us."

"Well there's good news, you'll finally know what it's like to satisfy a woman," Daveth quipped.

"I'm married, you twit," Jory retorted.

"Point stands."

"Are you quite done?" Morrigan asked, her voice taking on the tone of an irritated schoolmarm, "I imagine you're wondering what happened to the contents of that chest there."

"Observant, are you," Teneira commented, "Were you watching us with all eight of your beady little eyes from back there?"

Morrigan was silent, staring at her in judgment, "Yes. Well, the answer is that my mother took them. For safekeeping. If you'll follow me to our house, she would be happy to hand them over, I'm sure."

"I'm not going to any witch's house," Daveth said.

"No, you're not," Morrigan said, "You'd just be staring at my backside the whole way there. And I'm not fool enough to let a templar know where I live. Teneira will be coming with. You will be waiting here for her."

"I can't let her go by herself, it's not safe," Alistair protested, "She's my charge, at least for now."

"Well, given everything I know about the world, she's a good deal safer with me than with the three of you," said Morrigan, "After all, the worst I could do to her is turn her into a toad."

"Well that's… that's not fair at all," Alistair protested.

"It's not pleasant, having assumptions made about you, is it," Morrigan said, "Especially when they're not… necessarily… untrue." Her eyes slid to Jory. He turned red in the face, but remained silent.

"It's fine," said Ten, "I'll go."

Behind her back, Ten had slid her little paring knife out of its sheath and was working on silently unstopping a bottle of the paralyzing agent. She followed Morrigan's back down a path, managing to coat the blade without the witch noticing. She replaced the knife where it waiting within easy reach should the woman decide to make any sudden moves… or turn back into a spider.

"I don't know how you do it," Morrigan said.

"Do what?" Teneira asked. They were moving at a good pace, over hills and rocks, through the swamps, into the very heart of the wilds.

"Live among men," Morrigan said, "Disgusting beasts, are they not?"

"Case by case basis," Teneira said, "But, as a group, you are correct. So you live here? Without anyone?"

"Just me and my mother," Morrigan said.

"Must be lonely," Teneira said.

"I suppose it would be, if everyone I met wasn't insufferable," Morrigan said.

"You know, my dad always used to tell me, if wherever you go you smell shit, it's probably on your shoe."

"I don't have a dad," Morrigan said.

They walked along in silence. Teneira grew more relaxed as she became more confident that this woman – shapeshifting witch or not – was probably not going to all of a sudden turn into a spider and sink fangs into her neck. She began to wonder if Morrigan could be convinced to do the spider trick and instead sink fangs into one of her leather vials and let her collect the venom like she did from the Reverend Mother. It would certainly beat trying to dodge an actual giant spider. And she was running out of her paralytic stash...

After about twenty minutes, they came upon a ramshackle old place, looking like it had been cobbled together with dead wood, supported by living trees and a post or two from the Tevinter ruins. An aged crone was standing outside, ostensibly waiting for them.

"So this is what the Grey Wardens have come to," the old woman intoned, her voice low and nasal, "A mere child like this?"

"I'm not a child," Ten said, taking off her helmet.

"Not a child, one of the pointy-eared people of the Dales," the old woman said, "Forgive me, I intended no offense, some of you just look like small humans. What do they call you?"

"None taken," Teneira said. The hag was worn and stooped with age. However tall she had been, she had shrunk considerably, Ten imagined, and was barely taller than she.

"She's called Teneira," Morrigan offered.

"And I am called Flemeth," the old woman said, "You're lucky we happened along when we did." She began rooting around somewhere in the tiny hut, grunting with the effort of bending over, "The winds and rains are not kind to parchment." She handed Ten sheaf of papers, yellowed with age, but sturdy enough. Ten tucked them under one arm.

"Much appreciated," she said.

Flemeth looked at her, "I'm going to be seeing you again, I think. No sense in conversing now, not with the dark ones surrounding us. I see Morrigan had the good sense to leave the… extraneous ones alone."

"Extraneous?" Ten asked, lowering an eyebrow, "You didn't even know who I was five minutes ago."

"Didn't I?"

Ten herself had been called a witch, at least weekly, ever since she'd started her little business. At first she had tried to explain the very large difference between simply knowing and using the properties of various flora and fauna to ones advantage, and actually commanding the magic of the Fade. It was pretty much the same to people who didn't understand either, so she stopped arguing about it eventually. But in reality, the two of them were very different types of witches indeed.

“Well you are correct, I should be going. The sun is going down," said Ten, "And if I'm not back soon those three… gentlemen might come tromping through the swamp to find me and bumble through here. I assume you don’t want that.”

"Strange," said Morrigan, "You said 'gentlemen' but you meant 'idiots.' And you’re right, we don’t need them finding us. We’re well-provisioned already.”

Ten paused for a moment, trying to figure out if she was joking. Then discerned that she was not. I wonder if they eat them in their current form, or turn them into pigs or chickens first. As fascinated as she was to observe the process, she took off, back towards the towering hulk of the ruin. The sun was, as she had observed, beginning to go down, and she did not relish the thought of being alone in the wilds in the dark. She clutched the treaties to her chest and ran, her boots squelching in the mud.

"Oh good, we were about to set off after you," Daveth said as she approached the ruin, "We thought you'd been eaten."

"Don't lie, you were terrified," said Jory.

"Of course I was, but I still would have gone after her."

"Sorry to disappoint," she said. She was panting a bit, her cheeks red from running. She handed the papers to Alistair, who looked them over.

"Sure enough," he said, "Dwarves, elves, mages… all the people we'll have to call on once the horde sweeps over us like a tidal wave."

"You sound hopeful," Jory sighed.

"It's just…" Alistair said, "I'm concerned that Duncan sent us to find these. I'm afraid it means he thinks we'll need them. Soon."

"Let's hope the old man's wrong, then," Teneira said.

The four of them set off back to the south where camp was waiting for them. The sun was a dusky orange orb, sinking among the trees to the west.

"Something I've learned," Alistair said, "Is that the old man is very rarely wrong."

Chapter Text

In the far south, sunsets lasted quite a bit longer than they did where Teneira had grown up, and she was grateful that the twilight lingered just long enough to get back to camp. She could hear the low roar of soldiers carousing below them on the plain, but at their campsite, Duncan's face was sober. He silently took the vials of dark blood, heaved a deep breath, and seemed like he was about to speak to them, but thought better of it.

"This doesn't get easier," he said, as much to himself as to his charges, "No matter how many times I do it. Nothing to be done for it now, though." He looked up, "Alistair, bring the recruits up to the old temple. I need to have a final word with the Circle mages."

"What does he mean by that?" asked Daveth.

Ten looked down, and stayed silent, though she could feel Alistair's eyes on her, wondering if she would squeal. She kept quiet. There was nothing they could do about it now. Even if she and Daveth took off into the wilds, they would not outrun the horde, and even if they managed to do that, there would surely be a price on both of their heads, not only for deserting the Grey Wardens, but for the crimes they had committed before being conscripted. As for Jory… Fuck that guy, she thought. She followed the little band to an alcove in the ruin that must have been a temple at some point, for it was surrounded by fine marble pillars and boasted an altar in the center.

"I think," said Daveth finally, taking in the columns, the altar, the ceremonial fire, "I think there's a chance we're not all going to come through this."

Ten kept her eyes on the ground.

"Ten, look at me," he said.

She forced herself to look up.

"You know something, don't you," he said.

"I'm just as in the dark as you are," she lied.

"But you're canny, you must have figured something out," he protested.

"If you thought about it a little, you'd have figured it out too," Ten lied again, "Why do you think we were sent to collect darkspawn blood?"

"Andraste's shapely arse," cursed Daveth, "You're right."

"Look, we were both looking at a rope necklace this time last month," she said, "Don't you remember, those days in the dungeon? How we were going to the gallows, arm in arm, singing a merry tune? The jig at the end of the rope?"

"What about me?" Jory protested, "I wasn't in any dungeon. I didn't agree to any such thing. I didn't lead a life of crime, I didn't murder any banns. Why am I expected to do the same thing as… the two of you? My wife is in Highever, expecting my son, expecting me back!"

"It's too late," Daveth said, "You've made the bed just as much as either of us did. So lie in it."

"This can't possibly be right! How is it I'm the same as you, now? That's just not how it works. I'm not going to do it. They can't make me go through the same thing as… as an elf."

"Would you give it a rest?" Ten exclaimed, "It's not my fault you've gone through life being told you were better than everyone and made it to the far side of thirty before you learned you're just a plain old everyday prick like the rest of us."

"But I'm not," he protest, "I'm not the same as you."

"You got that right," said Ten, "I'm not a sniveling coward."

It occurred to her suddenly that Alistair was strangely silent during the whole exchange. She hadn't known him long, but the man, generally, did not like the quiet. He filled every silence with something inane and had a glib remark for pretty much everything. To say nothing of him putting himself between his bickering charges on more than one occasion, but now, he was standing, his back to them, letting them at each other, as though he couldn't look any of them in the eye.

"She's right," said Daveth, "I could die tonight, I could die in the coming battle, I could die in the Deep Roads, I could eat an iffy mushroom and die in a ditch. Hell, I could run off tonight and they could hunt me down and hang me."

Duncan arrived then. "I assume you have questions," he said, "So I will explain. During the first blight, the first Grey Wardens learned that by taking the essence of the darkspawn into your body, you become immune to them. The blood that poisons hound and man alike, will have no effect on you, and you will be able to sense any darkspawn around you. Should you survive. You drink the blood, you gain the power to slay the Archdemon himself."

"Should we survive?" Jory said, his fears confirmed, "This is not what I signed up for."

"It's too late for that now," said Daveth.

Duncan, deaf to the knight's protests, set three stone chalices on the ancient altar before them, "Drink."

"Ready?" said Daveth.

"Ready," said Ten.

"It's been an honor, Miss Tabris."

"Likewise."

She took the chalice, which was heavier than she expected, in both hands. She and Daveth clicked their respective cups together cheekily and, breathing in through her mouth so she could not smell it, Ten forced the viscous stuff down her throat.

The pain was instant, and intense, so intense she blacked out and was grateful for having done so. But then she realized… this was not her brain protecting her. This was something else. She was somewhere she had never been before, and got the distinct feeling she was looking through someone else's eyes. The sky was a livid yellow, and below, the horde of darkspawn marched, their steps echoing all around her. Up against the unearthly sky, she saw the dragon from her dreams, rearing up, and roaring.

She awoke with her cheek on the cool flagstone of the temple. She pushed herself up on her elbows, feeling like she ought to have a hangover, but she did not. She felt… different somehow. As if there was a new part of her sending new signals to her, though she did not know quite what they meant. She looked to her left and to her right.

"Maker's breath!" she jumped to her feet. Beside her, just as he'd imagined, Daveth lay, his body curled into itself, his eyes vacant, staring at a sky they could not see. Sorrow twined around the horror in her breast.

"Daveth didn't make it," said Alistair, "I'm sorry. I know you were friends. Sometimes that happens, when you can't take the taint."

She looked around for Jory, and found him, lying on the other side of Daveth and a pool of crimson, "So, uh... did the taint gave him that great hole in his chest?" she asked skeptically.

"He drew on me first," Duncan said, "It is a… regrettable duty."

"You killed him," she said, though not accusatorily. She didn't really feel one way or the other about it, to be entirely honest.

"If we made a habit of allowing those who have joined of their free will to refuse the Joining..." Duncan began, letting his voice trail off as he realized that justifying it in that manner likely made it sound worse.

"Well," Ten said, "I feel bad for his wife, I suppose. But it's just me then, that survived? I'm the only one?"

"It is… regrettable," Duncan said again. She saw something in his face then. A certain hardness that she had suspected was there all along. This was a man who had to take pains to be gentle, not scare the children, and mostly succeeded.

"Well, I think I can see why the order is dwindling," she said, pacing around the two corpses, leaning down to take a look at Daveth's face a little closer. His eyes had filmed over as though he'd already been dead for several hours, though judging by where the sun was it had not been that long. She couldn't think of any substance she knew of that would do that. She reached out and shut them with thumb and forefinger, shuddering as she felt he was still warm, "Have you considered a smaller dosage?" she thought of the years she'd spent inuring herself to various poisons so she could handle them without fear. She'd start with a wee bit, letting the stomach cramps or hives have their way with her for a few days, then taking a little more, until eventually she barely felt their effects, "Maybe if you started small and ramped it up over a few weeks or months, you'd have a better survival rate." She leaned down to examine the starburst of blood vessels under both his eyes, "Do you know how it works?"

"Huh?" Alistair asked, looking down at her in macabre fascination.

"Well, usually when you ingest something that kills you it works in one of a few ways, right? Infection takes a lot longer, this doesn't look like internal bleeding, the posture could indicate damage to the... well that would explain the hallucinations, but..."

"The ritual is what it is," Duncan said shortly, his face set grimly, "It's not just the blood. It's the ceremony."

"And they don't all have a two thirds casualty rate," Alistair said, "It's awful. But it's necessary."

"Far be it from me to question it now," she sighed, "Just… let me build Daveth a proper pyre. He doesn't have any family, and he was one of my only friends I have left in the world. I'd like to send him to the Maker in the right way."

"I'll do you one better," Alistair said, "Let's wrap him up for now, and in the morning, I will go with you, we can go gather the wood and we'll do it right."

"We have a meeting with the king tomorrow evening, see that you're done by then," Duncan admonished, "Though your loyalty is admirable. It will serve you well."

"Thank you," she said, her eyes still on the ground.

The old warrior turned then, and left the two newest Grey Wardens to deal with the dead.

Stashed behind a pillar in the old temple were three simple muslin shrouds, one large, one medium sized, and one small. "You prepared for this didn't you," she said, "You even cut the winding sheets to our respective sizes."

"It's to be expected," said Alistair, "Unfortunately."

"But you really don't know how it works?"

"You drink it, either you die, or it starts eating away at you slowly over the course of a decade or two and eventually you feel drawn underground to..." he let his voice trail off, "You know what? I think we've had enough of that sort of talk tonight."

Ten took the large one and shook it out. She took two ends, Alistair took the others, and they spread it out on the flagstones next to Jory. Squatting, she put a hand under each of Jory's massive shoulders, and with her companion's help, managed to roll him onto the cloth. Together, they wrapped him up, and tied the winding sheet around him at neck, chest, waist, knees, and feet.

"Well Ser Jory," she said, "I'm sorry that happened. I hope you grow some more sense in the next life."

"We'll be sending him back to Highever for his wife to deal with. Poor woman," Alistair sighed.

"Well, I hope he treated her better than he treated his cook."

"I heard what he said to you," Alistair said.

“You’ve heard what he’s been saying to me for the last two days,” she pointed out, not finishing the thought, which was ‘and you didn’t correct him.’ “Though, I suppose nobody really deserves to go like that. Don't haunt me!" she commanded, her hand on the corpse's head.

They moved to the next dead man. Ten shut his eyes with one hand again. They'd popped open since the last time, so they got the shroud over him before they could pop open again. "Well shit, Daveth," she sighed, "Why'd you have to go and leave me alone with these people? Who'm I going to take the piss out of everyone with now?"

"I'm right here," Alistair admonished.

"No offense," she said, "But him and me, we were alike. You know Duncan came and got us out of the dungeons, right?"

"I had heard that."

"So you can imagine neither of us were particularly fond of the law. And you, you were a Templar. That's basically like a guardsman. More than a guardsman. That's like a guardsman and a priest at the same time."

"Oh, I'm not all that bad," he said.

"I didn’t say you were," she sighed, "You've been nothing but decent with me, and trust me, I appreciate it. It's just not the same as having someone who understands you. Like it wasn't bad enough I was the only elf, and the only woman. Now I'm the only criminal, too."

They tied off the body.

"I've got to go bathe," said Ten, "After handling a corpse. It's bad luck not to. You ought to as well, but I'll thank you to stick to a different section of the river."

"Ten, it's the middle of the night and there are a thousand drunk soldiers very close to here. I don't like the odds of a naked woman in the river."

"I can be quiet."

"I don't want to have to spill any more blood," he said.

"Well I'm going whether you say so or not," she said, "You're not my commander anymore. In fact I think we have the same rank."

Down at the river, by the light of a torch she stuck in the sand of the bank, she scrubbed the day from her body as quickly as she could, not wanting to catch the eye of any of the Teyrn's men. She hurriedly dressed, not bothering to dry off, and scurried back to camp, where Alistair was sitting pensively by the fire.

"See? No harm done," she said.

"You're soaking wet," he said, "Sit down, dry yourself off, can't start your first day as a Grey Warden with a cold."

She did as she was bade.

"Say, is there any more of that whiskey?"

"Probably," she said, "We got a pretty good deal. I'm not going through the man's things, though, but I won't stop you."

"You just look like you could use some."

"It’s not a good idea for me to drink tonight," she said. If she drank, she would cry, and if she cried for Daveth, she would cry for everyone she’d lost and all the fucked up things that had happened to her recently. And, well, any display of emotion in front of a human, no matter how friendly they acted, could certainly come back to bite her later. 

"I don’t have a whole lot of friends left either," he said. 

"That is the way of the world," she said, “Please. Talk to me about literally anything else."

"So, I admit, I'm more than a little curious. It's not every day you're asked to share camp with a notorious felon. Who were you before you started chopping up nobles with axes? You certainly seemed to know quite a bit about how victims of various fell poisons look."

"I had an alchemist's stall, in the Alienage in Denerim," she said, "Poultices and tinctures. And… other things. When it served me. The woman I apprenticed with really did equal parts making the stuff and... identifying when someone had taken the wrong thing and knowing what to do about it."

“I suppose that explains all the poisons and the strange comfort you had poking at dead bodies. What’s an alienage?”

Ten looked up at him sharply, “It’s…” she paused. If he didn’t know that that meant he’d never been to a city of any size, “It’s a sequestered neighborhood where only elves live.”

“You get your own neighborhood?”

She laughed mirthlessly, “It’s so they can keep an eye on us. And it’s walled, so there’s a gate, and if they want, they can close it and bar it so none can come or go. That doesn’t happen all that often, but it’s a real pain in the ass when it does."

"Like an open air prison?"

"I guess? But… if I’m being honest, the walls are protection just as much as confinement.”

“Protection from what?”

She paused. Thought about being dishonest and changing the subject. Decided not to, “You people.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Alistair asked, sitting back and crossing his arms defensively.

“Humans, of course,” she said, “There aren’t so many actual elf-specific laws anymore, we're technically allowed to work whatever jobs someone will hire us for and technically we could buy property outside the alienages with the money we get from those jobs we are technically permitted to have, and technically when an elf commits a crime no matter how heinous, he is entitled to a trial."

"You use a lot of big words."

"For an elf?"

"I didn't mean..."

"Don't worry about it. It's not an unfounded stereotype," she sighed, "My father can't really read or write, and he's not unique. But he never had any other children, so he made my education something of a priority. But, yes, I sort of figured out that by using a lot of big words and talking really fast, people think I'm smarter than I am. I speak Orlesian, too. And Antivan. But that was mostly in self-defense..."

He looked at her and shook his head as though he had lost the thread of the conversation, "What does that have to do with the alienages protecting elves?"

"Right!" she exclaimed, "Elves are entitled to trials, but it's rare that any of us make it there. When left to their own devices, the good folk of Denerim tend to take things into their own hands... and ropes. The walls give the guard enough time to disperse the mob before that happens. When the guard wants to keep that from happening.”

“Seriously? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Then again I suppose there weren’t many elves where I grew up. You might be the first one I’ve exchanged more than a few words with.”

“Well as far as I know it’s like that in any city of any size. My…late husband was from Highever, as far as I know he was raised in an alienage there."

"Right. The Vengeful Bride. Were you together long before the wedding?"

"No," she said, "I met him that day, in fact. It was an arrangement. My dad wrote - well, had a friend of his write - a letter to his dad, they determined it was a good match, negotiated a brideprice, he shows up, and there we were, for better or worse, in sickness, health, and hate crime."

"How does that even work?"

"You do what you're told and hope for the best. Just like everything else in life."

"No, I mean," he said, "And I don't mean to pry or anything, but what about, you know… love? Affection? Attraction? All the things that go into most normal marriages."

"See, that there is why so many of you humans are utterly miserable in your marriages," she scoffed, "You people put all that ridiculousness first, just prance down the aisle with the first pretty thing that catches your eye, and then everyone is surprised when he gets bald and she gets fat and they resent their children and they both wonder why they did it in the first place."

"And you think it's better to find out one day, through no fault of your own, that a complete stranger is sudddenly the most important person in your life and you just have to deal with it?"

"Well it's not like you stay strangers. You start as strangers, and if it's not a total disaster, you become friends after that, and then after a few months or years, you fall in love and have a dozen fat babies and die at a hundred holding hands. Or so I'm told. Althogh, it's not like I had the opportunity to find out first hand," she sighed, fiddling with her wedding band. You're going to have to take that off eventually. "And at this point, I don't suppose I ever will. And, with that not at all depressing thought, I am going to go to bed." Without waiting for a response, she crawled into her tent, and was out by the time her head hit her bedroll.

Chapter Text

As promised, the next day, the two newest Wardens hewed what dry wood they could from the wilds, though, Teneira observed, Alistair would not allow her to wield an ax. Well, he didn't say anything, but when he nearly jumped out of his boots when he turned around to see her holding one, she put it down and concentrated on the stacking portion. They built a pyre outside near the gorge, and around sunset, they took a torch to Ten's last friend in camp. She watched the smoke billow up to the summer sky, and hoped that, perhaps, it was all true, that the Maker might call her unlucky son to her side, and that, if it were not all true, the truth was not worse than that.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked.

Humans and talking about their damned feelings all the time. Ah well. When in Minrathas. "I'm sad," she said finally, "And a little angry. Though I suspect we're up against it now and there’s hardly time for that.”

"Well, sad and angry is sort of the default around here, you’re in good company.”

Ten shrugged, but movement up the hill caught her eye. Ducan stood, clearly irritated, beckoning his errant charges back to… Oh right. Just meeting with the king and his favorite advisor. No big deal there. Dad would never believe this one. The two of them made their way back to camp, to where Duncan was awaiting them at a great war table. Or he'd find a way to have a problem with this as well.

"Ah, our newest Grey Warden!" Cailan greeted her, "I suspected you would come through it all right. You've thrice the mettle of any of the others I've seen come through. You know what she did, Loghain?"

He turned to the dark-haired, middle-aged general next to him. Ah, that's Teyrn Loghain then. I thought he'd be older.

"Cooked your breakfast exactly the way you like?" the Teyrn asked. Had his voice not been dripping with scorn, it might have been a funny joke. 

This time, to his credit, the king did not laugh, just made a face. "Don't be silly," he scolded, "This is the Vengeful Bride of Denerim herself! Brought from the dungeons of Fort Drakon to this very camp."

"Well, that is interesting!" Loghain said, turning his dark eyes on her. She kept hers on the ground, feeling distinctly that this was not the sort of human who appreciated when an elf looked him in the face, "Not that I was ever fond of Vaughan. Or his father, for that matter." His voice changed, then, "Look at me, girl!"

Ten snapped to and obeyed. He was, up close, exactly as old as she’d thought he was, he just had been blessed with hair that remained jet black with no trace of gray. His features, though, were worn with years and care, and there was a grayish caste to his face she rarely saw on young folks. His heart isn't as strong as it once was, she thought, hearing her alchemy mistress in her head lecturing her on how one could guess at a person being particularly susceptible to one substance or another by studying medical texts. 

"I had a pageboy about your size," he said, "He was twelve years old. So tell me, oh Vengeful Bride, how, exactly, did you kill three grown men?"

"Well, Ser," said Ten, "They had their pants around their ankles.”

She heard someone behind her - Alistair probably - muffle a guffaw, then immediately quiet down, likely realizing that it actually was not all that funny.

“On account of them having just done unspeakable things to my little cousin,” she continued, “That made it a bit easier, your excellency."

"In more ways than one, I imagine," said Loghain, "And you've made it through the Joining."

"Yes, Ser," she said.

"You, alone, have made it through the Joining."

"I imagine so, Ser. I didn't see what happened to the other two," she said, "But I came out of it, and they were gone."

"Well," said Loghain, "Let's test that mettle again, why don't we. A special mission for you, oh Vengeful Bride. There is a tower, here, on the other side of the gorge." He planted one bluish finger on the map, where she could see the tower they had passed on their way into camp.

"I will ride to rout the darkspawn," said Cailan, "With the rest of the Grey Wardens. And, once we have reached here," he planted his own finger on the map, "You will light the beacon at the top of the tower, which will be the signal for Teyrn Loghain's forces to flank them, and drive them all back to the Deep Roads."

Ten barely heard the end of the sentence, so caught up on the utter idiocy of the first bit. Does he think this is a joke? A fairytale? One of those long Neverran epics that everyone falls asleep in the middle of? She had always had a healthy skepticism of the popular notion that the monarchs were ordained by the Maker for their wisdom, but she was beginning to believe that they actually were ordained by the Maker, but for the opposite.

"Send Alistair with her," Duncan said, "She may be fearsome in her own right, but she is green."

"I'd rather fight in the battle, by your side," Alistair protested quietly.

"Nobody asked you," Loghain thundered, and Ten tried not the flinch.

"Yes Ser," Alistair said, backing off.

"The horde is already amassing," Duncan said, "I imagine you feel it too."

Ten had been wondering what the buzzing in the back of her head was, the tingles down her spine, and she realized that the darkspawn must be gathering in such great numbers that she could not pin down any one individual. Her stomach dropped.

"We have no more than an hour," said Duncan, "We must rally the forces now. And the two of you must get going."

"It will be a glorious day," Cailan declared, "To battle!"

"I don't like this," Alistair said once the king and the teyrn had left, "I thought I was ready for battle."

"That's not why I'm sending you to the tower," said Duncan.

"No, you're sending me to protect her," said Alistair, "Because she's not ready. But I am."

"Don't put this on me," Ten exclaimed, "I don't need a nanny. Duncan, if he wants to run himself through on a spear, don't stop him on my account."

"I am sending you," Duncan raised his voice, "Because you know the field, you've been deeper in my council than any other, and because you've got a tactician's eye. I trust you to signal the armies exactly when it is necessary, not a moment too soon, or too late. If anything, I'm sending her to protect you."

Alistair opened his mouth to protest again, likely to ask how that made any sense, but caught Ten staring at him, arms crossed, waiting for him to say something, and relented. His face went red. "Maker watch over you, Duncan."

"Maker watch over us all."

Ten nodded curtly at the old man, and turned to make for the bridge. She walked briskly, aware that her companion nipped at her heels.

"I didn't mean that," said Alistair, "Well, I did. But I didn't mean I think you need protection. I meant that you don't need it, and so I shouldn't be coming with you."

"Keep building your pyre, lad," said Ten.

"Hey! Don't call me lad. I still outrank you."

"If you did, Duncan would have taken you somewhere I couldn’t hear before correcting you.”

He paused, realizing this was likely true. The sparring match was interrupted with a great explosion, that knocked Ten flat on her back. Picking herself up, her ears ringing, she saw that ahead on the bridge, a burning boulder had landed, taking out several archers.

"They have artillery?" she all but squealed, failing to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

“Of course they have artillery,” Alistair said, as though she were the idiot, “We'd better get a move on before they bring the whole thing down."

And then she ran, leaping over corpses, ducking arrows - and catching one in her shoulder pad - making it to the safety of the other side of the gorge. There was something wrong there, though. There were supposed to be magi there, guarding the base. It was, however, populated only by corpses - darkspawn and mages alike.

"Were you hit?" she asked.

Alistair pulled an arrow from his gauntlet, "No. Bit through two layers of chain, though."

"Same," Ten said, pulling the arrow from her shoulder pad and examining its nasty barb, "Ooh, that would have hurt."

"Hey!" came a cry over the wall which surrounded the tower, "You're Gray Wardens right?"

"Yes," said Ten. Down the stairs came a blue-robed mage of the Circle, absolutely soaked in blood.

"What happened to you?" demanded Alistair.

"They've taken the tower," said the mage, "It's crawling with them. You can't go in there."

They looked at each other. "I think we have to," Ten said, "Unless you want to scale the walls."

"We definitely have to," Alistair said.

"Well, you wanted a battle," she said.

The mage coughed, and Ten saw the red trickling down his chin.

"Sit down, man," she said, "Where were you hit?"

"More like where wasn't I. Little fucker with grapeshot," he chuckled, "Think I'm done for. My own stupid fault, always dozing off when they were teaching healing spells."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Ten, "Open your robe."

"What?"

"I've got coagulants and bandages. Should hold you together until the healers can find you."

Silently, the mage obeyed, and Ten grabbed a bottle of powdered clay that she had added witch hazel and moonshine to. He winced as she she carefully packed each of the small, deep wounds, bandaged them over, and instructed the mage to stay still, play dead if he needed to.

"Thank you," he said, "Maker watch over you."

"You need it more than I," Ten said.

They made it to the base of the tower, Ten silently impressed by the volume of darkspawn corpses in comparison to mage.

"Does that actually work?" Alistair asked, catching up with her at the grand iron doors standing between them and their quarry.

"Of course it does," said Ten, "Most of the time. I'm not a physician, I have no idea how badly he's hurt or how long it will be before the actual medics show up."

"But you knew what to do."

“I know the basics,” she said, “That is not an invitation for you to run headlong in there counting on me to stick parts of you back on. We're going to be heavily outnumbered, so we need a plan."

“I don’t know if this was explained to you, but the flip side of being able to sense darkspawn is that they are able to sense us. If there is a plan to be made I suggest you make it now.”

The great iron doors were, thankfully, not barred, but she heard the slavering and gnashing from above once they entered into a large atrium, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The room itself was circular, all round, and flagstoned, but someone - likely the spawn themselves - had hacked up every bit of furniture and made makeshift barricades. 

"What else do you have in that bag of yours?" Alistair asked, looking down at her skeptically.

"I have," Ten said, "About three bottles of that dwarven whiskey."

"And how's that going to be helpful?"

"We drink until we forget we’re about to die, obviously.”

“What?”

She gestured at the piles of former furniture.

“You just said that they know where we are, so they’re going to be coming for us. They’ll be able to climb the barricades and overwhelm us, but not if…”

“It’s on fire. All right. That’s… moderately clever.”

She took one of the bottles of whiskey out, popped the cork, took a swig, handed it to Alistair, who also took a swig, and then hurled it at the barricade. Then a match, and up it went.

They felt the horde before they heard it, and heard it before they saw them pour down from the staircase at the other end of the room. The darkspawn had only a small opening in the flames to get at them, meaning they could only go one by one, making each fight two against one. If they had been any other types of creature, they would have figured something out, but their dark little minds could think of nothing else but slaughter, and so they took only the most obvious path, piling up behind the wall of flames, all but trampling each other in their bloodlust. Eventually, the ones at the back started smelling like they were being cooked, the heavy black iron of their armor becoming a small, portable oven. The fire burned high for about twenty minutes, but by the time it had, the corpses of darkspawn were piled high in the center of the room.

"Suppose there are any left up there?" Ten asked.

"Just stragglers. Why, you need a break?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said, "Come on, up the stairs we go."

As Alistair had predicted, there were a handful of them, to be sure, but nothing in so large a number that she broke a sweat from anything from the fires down below.

That is, until they came to the top.

"Um, what the fuck is that?" she asked. It was a great being, looking like all the jokes about farm lads and goats came true, except giant. It was probably around twelve feet tall, and proportioned like a very well-muscled man of that height would be. It didn't wear armor, but its skin looked thick and impenetrable. And, most importantly, it was standing between them and the pile of tinder and grease that formed the beacon.

Skull's probably five inches thick. Waiting for it to bleed out will take too long. Fucking musclebound back and front, not going to get to the heart. Soft spot, base of the skull, where the muscles go in at the back of the neck. Or… wait. Neckbones real big. And the gaps between them. Just have to get up its back…

"I… I don't know," Alistair said, "Haven't seen one of those before."

"You were a regular encyclopedia out there in the wilds," she said, "What do you mean you don't know what the giant… goat man thing is?"

"I've never seen anything like it before," he said, "This is probably a bad sign."

"And you've been at this how long?"

"About six months."

"And in all that time, you've never seen one of those?"

"I just told you twice that I haven't," he said, irritated, "They must only show up when the horde's reached a critical mass, which is terrible news for you, me, and everyone down below."

"I need to get up its back.”

“What?!”

"Best way to bring it down is just sever its spine.”

“We can’t just whack it a whole bunch?”

The creature chose that moment to pick up a chunk of rock, likely deposited there by a poorly aimed trebuchet, and hurl it at them. They scattered just in time.

"I'll keep it busy," Alistair said, "Can you climb?"

Ten nodded, "Don't be a hero."

"Don't see as I've got much of a choice now," he said, "Hey! You! Big fucker with the horns!" He planted his feet and positioned his sword in front of him.

Ten went around the side, doing her best to be silent. She didn't see anywhere she could get a purchase as it threw himself at Alistair, picking him up in one fist and throwing him against the wall, roaring in triumph. While it was distracted, she plunged her left hand dagger into the creature's unguarded left kidney, and used the protruding hilt as a step to climb high enough to get one foot on its right shoulder as it bucked and roared, trying to throw her off. She grabbed one horn for purchase, she aimed, and plunged her right hand dagger in the space between its enormous vertebrae. She leapt clear, only managed to narrowly escape being crushed by its great weight as it crumpled and fell.

"Was that bad or did it just look bad?" she asked, watching her companion struggle to his feet as she retrieved her weapon with no small effort.

"Head's in one piece," Alistair replied, "Legs, fine. Arms… pretty sure it dislocated my shoulder. It'll be fine, it's happened before. I'll have it seen to after the battle. Just… smarts a bit."

"Don't be silly," she said, "Take your armor off."

"You can fix that too? Or are you just going around ordering every man in the field to take his shirt off?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You think the elves of Denerim go to the finest physicians in the land? Of course not. Between me and the midwife, we learned to patch up most basic injuries."

"And how many of them wind up worse off than before," muttered Alistair, but began to try to unbuckle his mail one-handed. Ten helped him out, and eased the chain off his shoulder, which was rapidly swelling. She probed at it, and he cursed in pain.

"Oh don't be a baby," she sighed, putting one hand on his back, "Now stay still I'm going to push it back on three. One. Two."

As the "two" left her lips, she pushed. The joint popped back in.

"You said I had until three," Alistair protested. He made a fist with his left hand and uncurled it. He raised his arm, and winced.

"You would have flinched and I've had hurt you worse. It'll be sore for a bit, but you'll have use of it," said Ten, "Now go see how it's going. I don't know shit about battlefields."

They went to one of the windows, where the many torches of the battle spread out below them like orange stars.

"Soon," he said, "Couple of minutes."

"All right," she said.

"That was very clever," he said, adjusting his shoulder, "Did Duncan even know about your… other talents?"

"He doesn't know that half of it," Ten chuckled, "And try not to move it too much, you'll hurt yourself worse."

"You're good in a pinch," he said, "Thank you."

"It's what I do," she said, "Do you want something for the pain?"

"Will it make me loopy?"

"No, but you'll bleed more if you're wounded again," she said, "Up to you."

"I think I can grin and bear it. Wait, there! There's the end of the horde. Go! Now! Light the beacon!"

He didn't have to ask her twice, she seized a burning torch from a sconce on the wall and thrust it into the heart of the pyre. She thought, fleetingly, of Daveth, whose pyre she had lit that very day. How quickly things changed. The flames leapt up, and up, to the very sky above. She returned to the window, where she heard a shrill bugle call. She smiled, imagining that it was signaling Loghain's great army to join the battle. She turned to congratulate Alistair on a job well done, but he was looking down at the field in utter dismay.

"That's the retreat," he said.

"What?"

"The bugle call. That tune. It doesn't mean "charge." That one means "retreat!""

"Could it be the battle's won?" asked Ten, looking down in consternation.

"I don't think so, Ten," said Alistair, "I think something's gone dreadfully wrong."

She should have seen the bolt and gotten away from the window. She should have sensed whatever darkspawn five stories below had loosed it. She should have danced away. But she didn't, and she was bowled over, the wind knocked out of her as it hit her squarely in the chest.

She heard Alistair call her name, and she vaguely felt him catch her as she fell and ease her to the ground, but it was as though he were at the bottom of a well, and she were soaring through the air miles above, "Absolutely unacceptable, recruit, you are not going to die on me now. That's an order."

She tried to take a breath and tell him to piss off and she would die if she damned well pleased, but her lungs were not cooperating, and the world around her grew hazy, and then black as night.

Chapter Text

Later on, Teneira did not recall the dreams of the next several days, but at the time, as she sat in the dim light of the Fade cradling the bodies of first Daveth, and then Nelaros, and finally her mother, she wanted nothing more than to do what souls were supposed to and move to the Beyond, that unknown from whence you did not return. But every time she got up to move, to tell herself that the bodies in her lap were nothing but a demon tormenting her, she heard a distinct "No you don't.”

"This is getting ridiculous!" she howled when, for the fifth or fiftieth time, she was knocked back and not allowed to move on.

"Then wake up, you foolish girl!"

And, then, with a gasp, she did. She was in a cluttered but clean hovel, so poorly set up she could see the sunlight fall in through the gaps between the boards that made up the wall. She was on a bed, small, but comfortable. Her hands went to her breast where the bolt had gone in, but found nothing but smooth, brown skin, not even a scar to memorialize its passage.

"Ah! There you are!"

Her eyes focused on the woman in the corner.

"Morrigan?" she gasped, "What in the…"

"Ah, you remember me. Your wits are still about you. Mother will be pleased," the witch said.

"What exactly does your mother have to do with this?" she asked.

"Well she rescued you, of course," said Morrigan, "And spent the last several days putting you back together."

"Why would she go and do a thing like that?" Ten said, rubbing her sternum uncomfortably, feeling the pressure of the bolt even though it was, apparently, gone, and the damage it had done as well.

"Far be it from me to question her ways," Morrigan said flippantly.

"The others? What happened?"

"The man who was to answer your signal had a change of heart, pulled his troops and left the Wardens to be slaughtered," said Morrigan.

"I don't like the word 'slaughtered.' At least not in this context," she said.

"Every last man and woman," said Morrigan, "Well, except the one who was with you. Not exactly a great intellect, is he…"

"I barely know the man," Ten said, though she had thought similar things several times over the past few days, "Is he here as well?"

"He's only worn a trench in the yard, pacing, while you were taking your time coming back to us."

"Andraste's hangnail," Ten cursed. Her mind had gone several different ways when she had heard the word 'slaughter.' 'Slaughter' meant no more Grey Wardens. Nobody to come looking for her if she took off. But then again, where would she go? She rose from the bed and stretched. She felt fine. In fact… she felt better than fine. Whatever the old witch had done, it was as though every small pain that she felt and learned to ignore was gone. Her knees didn't crack as they did sometimes, the finger she had broken when she was ten or eleven was suddenly straight again. All in all, she was in great shape.

She took stock of the room. Two makeshift beds at her feet, a loft above where she imagined the witches slept. A cookfire and basin. Her armor was piled in the corner, and the skivvies she wore under them had been washed. Instead, she went into her pack, and put on a practical frock she had packed in Denerim. She wasn't fighting darkspawn here, no reason to put on several extra pounds of leather. Conspicuously armed elves, attracted the exact wrong sort of attention from their human counterparts. Having fought both, Teneira figured she would take her chances with the darkspawn. After all, if there were darkspawn around, she and the humans were on the same side. 

"I suppose I should reassure him," she said, finger-combing her hair and tying it back with the bit of leather she always kept around one wrist for that very purpose. She reached for the kerchief that was normally kept in the pocket of every dress, but did not find it. "Ah well, I suppose I'm not in civilization at the moment."

"What ever are you talking about?"

"Well, not that you'd know," she said, "But… it's generally considered polite for women of the working class to keep their hair up and covered. So it doesn't get in the gentleman's food or laundry… or sheets, of course."

"What does 'working class' mean?" asked Morrigan.

Ten looked up at the witch, realizing there were all sorts of things that she likely did not have a point of reference for. "I… don't even know how to explain it," she said, "II guess the short version is… at least in the cities, they divvy up the population. There's the nobles, they don't work - oh, they pretend they do, but they don't - and they're in charge of everything. Then there's the bourgeois landowners, they don't work either, Maker forbid they actually keep their property in good repair. Then the middle class, the ones who own successful businesses or have skilled trades. Then there's… the rest of us. The rabble. The ones who do the scut work and Maker forbid complain about it. It's actually much more complicated than that, but that's the gist of it. But there are different rules for how we behave, and dress. You don't look your betters in the eye, and for women like me, we cover our hair in polite company." Ten left out that by the definitions she had just given, she herself was actually middle class. She did not have the energy to explain the different rules for elves and humans.

"Well you'll find none of that here," said Morrigan, "Polite company I mean. What about the other one, isn't he also working class?"

"I doubt it," said Ten, "He doesn't sound like it.”

“What do you mean, sound like it?” 

Ten looked at Morrigan a long moment, then decided there was neither the time nor much point in explaining, “At the end of the day, he's human, so he'll always rank higher than me. Out there, anyway."

"So you don't trust him," she said.

"Of course not," said Ten, “Strange humans don’t have a great track record where I’m concerned.”

“Is the human part that important? I'm human, my mother is human," Morrigan said, "As far as I know.”

Ten looked at her, cocking her head to wait for Morrigan to put two and two together. She did not, and so Ten continued, “Well, with men of any variety, …you never know what you're dealing with."

"You make them sound like wild animals," Morrigan said.

"Animals at least tend to look dangerous when they are dangerous. With men, you can't tell the ones who are from the ones who aren't until it's too late.”

"You make the world sound terrifying," Morrigan mused, "Perhaps I have been better off, away from it all here."

"I'm frankly a little jealous," Ten said, "Ah well. Off to face another… ugh." She opened the door and squinted as the sunlight hit her eyes.

"Ten!" exclaimed Alistair, who had been standing at the end of the clearing in which the hut stood, looking off over the swamps, "You're still with us." He ran towards her, and she instinctively took a step back.

"Yes," she said, "And in one piece no less."

"The arrows you took… Maker's breath I thought you were done for."

"I only remember one," she said.

"By the time the old woman showed up, you were doing the best impression of pincushion I've ever seen."

"The old woman, you mean Flemeth?"

"Is that her name?"

"I think so," she said, "Why, does that mean something to you?"

"They didn't tell you the tale of Flemeth when you were a girl? The powerful witch who… never mind that now, but… well that makes it all make quite a bit more sense. You were out, I thought you were done for, they were coming back up the stairs. I hacked up as many of them as I could, but I was getting tired, and I was wounded, and… she just walks out of a hole in the world, tells me to pick you up and follow her. Didn't seem right to question her at that point, so I threw you over my shoulder, and we walk back through the hole, and here we are."

"Morrigan said it was a slaughter," said Ten.

"Duncan, the Grey Wardens, even the king," he sighed, "Just… gone."

"Well shit," Ten sighed, "How long have I been out?"

"Three days," he said, "Heard them two arguing, the mother and daughter. The daughter said you were too far gone, the mother insisted it was… how did she put it… 'not time for your thread to be cut.'"

"Well. Here I am," she said, thinking of the dreams that had plagued her. She knew, from what the old healer at Ostagar had told her, that mages could enter the Fade with the proper ceremony, and wondered if it was not a demon, but Flemeth herself that had kept her anchored with the corpses of the past.

"And you don't know how grateful I am for it," said Alistair, "I was going absolutely mad with worry. You see, it's just us two now. We're the only Grey Wardens left."

Something in his tone made her blood run cold. Before, the quest had been simple enough. Duncan points, you go. She trusted the old man, he had had decades of experience. Now, she realized that she alone between the two of them knew anything about anything. If Alistair had been in charge in the tower, he would have rushed in there, hacking about with his sword, and the two of them would have perished before even making it to the beacon. She wasn't sure if he was actually not very bright or just… well, she had heard that the Chantry preferred to keep the brothers of its military wing too ignorant to question orders. In any case, it did not matter. What it meant was that if anything at all was going to happen right, she was going to have to be the one to make it happen. 

"I've been a Grey Warden for all of four days," she protested, as much to herself as to him, "Three of them spent unconscious.”

"You can't back out on me now. Leave me alone with this," he said, unable to keep the pleading edge out of his voice, "You can't just leave me alone."

"Can’t I?" she challenged, "What are you going to do about it? Run me through like you did Ser Jory?"

"I hadn't even thought about that," he said, "Please, don't make me think about that."

His armor is weak in the armpit. If he's going to cut me down, he'll need to raise his arm and expose it. Shit, I’m unarmed. I can probably outrun him over distances but certainly not in a sprint. But his left shoulder is injured, unless Flemeth took care of him too. I'll have to figure that out. Play along until then.

"You won't need to do that," a familiar voice intoned over her flurry of very dark thoughts, "She'll come with you, all right."

"And how would you know?" asked Ten, "I am, after all, a criminal. You never know what I might do." She turned to see the crone striding towards them. There was something different about her. She was still an old woman, of course, but she wasn't holding herself like an old woman. She looked stronger than she had before, as though the wrinkled face and silvered hair were a costume she was wearing over a much younger woman's body.

"You understand duty," said Flemeth, "You always have. And right now, your duty is to end the Blight. And to end the Blight, you're stuck with that one."

Ten sighed, looking at the ground, a little ashamed that she had considered absconding. The witch was right. This was her job now, at least for the foreseeable future. "You're right," she said, "I'm sorry. And I must thank you for whatever you did exactly to pull me back from the brink. It's quite a skill."

"Skill!" the witch laughed, "Yes I suppose those magicks must look quite skillful to one such as you. So you've been repaired. You're in good working condition, which is good, as there is work indeed ahead."

"I imagine so," sighed Ten, "So I know what happened to the king, and I know what happened to the rest of the wardens, what happened to the horde?"

"They are holding still," said Flemeth, "Waiting, as it were. For what, I do not dare to guess. I would suggest you two move out before it changes its mind."

"Move out to where, exactly?" Ten asked, "Do we go to Orlais? Find the Wardens there?"

"No time," Alistair said, relieved that she had conceded, "Even if we made it there before the snow clogs the mountain passes, they'd have to call the forces in from Weisshaupt. By the time that even happened, there's no way we could move an army of that size through the Frostbacks until this time next year. And that will, in all likelihood, be too late. But… we have those treaties. Mages, dwarves, elves. And, if we make it to Redcliffe before Loghain does, I can get the ear of Arl Eamon there. His troops were not at Ostagar. He doesn't have an army like Loghain's, but he has fighting men at his command."

"He'll listen to us?"

"He was Cailan's uncle," said Alistair, "I think he'll listen."

"I see," Ten said. He's talking like he knows the man personally. File that one away for later,"Redcliffe is two week's journey on foot, and I don't suppose any of the horses made it out of that one alive."

“More like a week and a half with a larger party, we can move faster with just the two of us.” Ten stared pensively out at the wilds. That was a strange move on Loghain's part. Almost planned. He knew the king was a fool, I could even see that. He's the father of the queen and they had no children. This was a grab for power. Nobody was supposed to make it out of there alive.

"I'm thinking Loghain is banking on us having been killed with the rest of them," Ten said.

"Clever girl!" Flemeth said, "Indeed, the cry has gone up throughout the land that it was the Grey Wardens who betrayed and murdered the king. There are some pretty bounties on your heads."

"How did you even know that?" asked Ten.

"How did I do any of this?" Flemeth asked.

"As to the healing, that's pretty standard stuff, from what I've heard. As to the rescue, I'm betting that you probably have an eluvian stashed somewhere in there," said Ten, "From what Alistair described."

The old woman paused, "What makes you think that?"

She didn't predict that. All right. The upper hand.

"He said you stepped out of a hole in the world," she said, "I don’t know much about magic, but… that fits the bill according to every legend I have heard."

Flemeth looked at her for a long moment. "You must be very frustrated," she said, "It's dangerous for a woman like you to be clever."

"Dangerous! I only managed to get myself sentenced to hang and then conscripted into an existential fight for the very earth I stand on!" Ten said sarcastically, "But that doesn't answer my question. How do you know what Loghain's up to?"

"There have been broadsides on the road," said Flemeth.

"Well, shit. I suppose a bit longer as a fugitive won't kill me," Ten said, "Until it does."

"So we're not just dodging darkspawn," said Alistair, "We're going to have to deal with anyone who thinks they're being a hero, bringing our heads to sit on pikes."

"Well you can't go out on the road dressed like that then," said Ten, "And I can't be armored up either. In fact, Flemeth, do you have any men's clothing?" she looked down at herself.

"Do I look like I keep men's clothing around?"

"Why would you need… what are you talking about?" Alistair demanded.

"Human men and elfin women do not just travel about on the roads together," she said, "Not two by two, and certainly not armored up. We'll look out of place. Teyrn Loghain knew the two of us were away from the other Wardens.”

“I don’t follow,” Alistair said, squinting at her.

Of course you don’t.

“If anyone was to survive from the Warden faction, he knows it was probably one or both of us. That means any bounties are going to go along with our descriptions. Since, like I said, elfin women and humen men do not travel together alone, it is going to be clear to anyone who sees us who we are and how much they could stand to gain from our deaths. I can’t stop looking like an elf and you can’t stop looking like a human, so it's either we look like two women or two men, and, no offense, but I don't think any of my skirts will fit you."

"Well, this might make it easier," Flemeth said, "Morrigan!"

The younger witch exited the house, "What is it mother?"

"Remember how you've been positively itching to see the world?"

"I suppose I have," she said, suspiciously.

"You're going to accompany these two, at least as far as the next village," said Flemeth, "See some of our little corner of it, at least."

"I'm what? Well, I suppose. As long as she's in charge," Morrigan said, gesturing at Ten.

"Her?" Alistair protested, "She's not in charge."

"I'm not in charge," Ten said. I am in charge. I have to be in charge. At least for now. Until we can find someone who knows… literally anything about anything.

"Don't be foolish, lad," Flemeth said, "You were about to walk out of here all but announcing who you are to the world. You'd do well to listen to this one."

"I'll listen to her, of course I will. But she's not my commanding officer. You don't just get to be a commander your fourth day on the job. And I say, I don't think it's a great idea to have an apostate mage along with us."

"Apostate?"

"You know, a mage that's not with the Circle. She leaves these wilds, whatever creepy wards are keeping this place safe, the templars will be after us for sure."

"Would you rather fight a handful of templars who likely also took great losses at Ostagar?" said Ten, "Or half the damned country? She knows this terrain better than either of us and we can't rely on my half-assed medical skills to keep us alive if I take any more arrows."

"All right, fine, but don't come croaking to me if she turns you into a toad."

"Morrigan, you're coming, and you don't have to talk to him if you don't want."

"Well won't this be an adventure!" Morrigan exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Her tone was sarcastic, but there was real excitement behind her pale eyes.

"You won't have to talk to him… but it's better we look like a regular family displaced by the blight. Farmer, wife, maidservant. Off with the armor, we're traveling in disguise," Ten said.

"What did I say about you not being in charge? And you're really expecting me to run about with nothing but my undershirt between me and all the arrows of the world?" Alistair protested, but she could see he was beginning to come around.

"You can keep your sword by your side," said Ten, "Even normal men carry swords. But Morrigan, you're going to need to cover up a bit, unless you want every man mistaking you for a lady of the night. I have another spare frock in my pack in there. It’s too big for me anyway, and it'll cover you to your knees at least. Not perfect but we'll make it work."

"I don't like this," Alistair said, "I feel naked without the armor."

"You don't like it! I have to go around looking like I'm married to you," Morrigan scoffed.

Ten put one hand up, which back at home usually had the desired effect of making everyone around her shut up. "If we were flying in on griffons with a whole host of wardens at our backs, this wouldn't be necessary," Ten said, "But there are only two of us. If we get murdered by bounty hunters, that's it, the whole country is done, not just us. We have to stay alive, at least until maybe there's help from Orlais. And you said yourself, that's a year or more away."

"She's terribly bossy isn't she," Alistair said to Morrigan.

"Don't talk to me," the witch replied.

And so, half an hour hence, a gentleman farmer and his wife, newly displaced from their land, took to the road, while a serving girl trailed behind them.

Chapter Text

It was three days journey out of the wilds. They were late, for it looked like every village that dotted the landscape had already evacuated. Abandoned packs on the roads from which peasants had fled yielded tents and bedrolls, changes of clothes, a bit of dried meat, and even a lovely ginger donkey mare, whose previous owners had disappeared without cutting her loose from the tree she was tethered to before fleeing or worse. The poor creature had eaten all the vegetation she could get to and was desperate for water. Ten had stroked her nose and cut her loose. After drinking her fill from a nearby brook, the creature had just begun following them, and accepted the saddlebags they found at the next abandoned town. Ten named her, not particularly creatively, Jenny. Morrigan took to switching shapes every so often along the road, whether out of boredom or simply because it was more comfortable to switch between two, four, and eight legs over long distances. As to the other two, each appeared lost in thought, Ten over what a drastic turn her life had just taken, Alistair over… well she didn’t dare guess, but overnights she heard soft weeping through the fabric of his tent on more than one occasion. On the fourth day, they reached the outskirts of a village, nestled between two rivers in a broad valley. It was defensible, the only way into it seeming to be quite a large and ancient bridge over the first of the two rivers. And defended it was, to Ten's dismay, by a particularly rough-looking band standing in the way.

Alistair glanced back at Ten. "Can I have my armor now?" he asked.

"We're in full view of the village," Ten said, looking them over warily, "Let's be a little more clever. They're just desperate fools, not trained fighters.”

"Good morning, good ser," one of the thugs yelled, "Didn't get the word? Lothering's full. Not more refugee rabble. Unless you can pay the toll, of course. For you… five sovereigns."

“I don’t think that’s…” Alistair began.

"Please, uh, Ser," Morrigan interrupted before he could say something stupid, “Surely you would take pity on a poor family. My husband is a simpleton, ever since the donkey kicked him in the face - that's why he looks like that - and my maid is with child and knows not which of thirty-seven lads is the father. We simply must find refuge."

Ten snickered inwardly, taking the joke in stride. The erstwhile tollmen certainly seemed interested in hearing more from the witch. 

"I'm sure we could come up with some… alternative form of payment," said the leader, leering at Morrigan, “But I’d need you to lift that skirt a little higher.” On Morrigan, Ten’s skirt exposed enough thigh to be unusual for women in the countryside. At least her tits aren’t out… The witch didn’t react, though Ten hoped in the back of her mind that she would just take all four of the men back out into the woods at once and promptly turn back into a giant spider. 

“Hey… wait, no…” Alistair began, hand going to the hilt of his sword.

"That is low!" another of them scolded, "That's a married woman with a simple husband. We're not monsters."

"It appears the serving girl certainly knows how to have a good time," a third said. He walked up to Ten and forced her head up with a hand under her chin, "Hm. Not really my type but… give us an hour with her and you can proceed. What do you say?"

“Well that is probably not going to go the way you think it is, but all the same…” Alistair stammered.

Ten floundered inwardly. She had not thought this through. Her skirts were too long to get a good hold of the handle of her knife without giving away the game and the man’s hand was too far from her mouth to bite him. And so she stayed frozen as his other hand moved brazenly to her breast. Concluding her best odds of survival without further molestation was a crippling blow and then run like hell, she braced to bring a knee to his groin. 

Before she could strike, something large and furry flashed before her eyes, and her assailant was on the ground. Ten jumped back, and saw first the docked tail, then the enormous haunches, and ultimately the bloody jaws of a Mabari hound who now had both massive forepaws on the man’s chest. It had something in its jaws, and upon inspecting him, she realized it was most of his windpipe.

Ten froze, instinctively looked down at the ground, not wanting to provoke the creature. She heard retching and then footsteps as the companions of the dead man headed for the hills. She was much more worried about herself at this point, though. Images of the guards' dogs ripping into picketers flashed through her mind but when she ventured a glance back up, the dog was sitting obediently before her, as though waiting for a command. It was the hound from the riverside, the day before the joining, she recognized the spots on her hindquarters. She looked at Ten with large brown eyes, then down at the man whose throat she had just bitten out.

“I’m pretty sure he’s already dead,” Ten said.

The hound whined a little and panted, foamy pink drool rolling off her brown-spotted tongue.

“Oh, you… I mean, go ahead if that’s what you’re into,” Ten said.

Not needing any further encouragement, the hound went for the corpse, taking off one arm at the shoulder and dragging it to the side of the road to have a well-deserved snack. Morrigan watched her go, looking like she was about to say something, but did not and just looked back at the other two, “Well, I supposed that worked out.”

"It was a good joke," Ten said, adjusting her breast back into place, her eyes still nervously on the dog, "But, going forward, let's not impugn each other's chastity in public. It encourages all sorts of… behavior.”

“I suppose that was my fault,” Morrigan acknowledged, “I am… beginning to see what you mean about men being ravening beasts.”

“Excuse me, I…” Alistair started.

“Stood there like an idiot,” Morrigan pronounced, acid dripping from her words.

“She’s the one who said no armor!” he protested, “And I didn’t see you stepping in, you could have turned into a bear or something.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Ten sighed, “If I had a penny for every time some idiot grabbed my tit without asking, we'd have afforded the five sovereigns and then some. So what do we do about the dog?"

"That's rather…horrible, though," Alistair said, but was grateful for the change in subject, "As for the dog, seems like she's yours now. They do that, you know. They pick a person, and that's their person. And that seems to be you."

The dog had, rather frighteningly, managed to strip pretty much anything edible from the dead bandit’s arm and was trotting back to see if she was interested in any more of him. She looked to Ten again before moving in. Ten shrugged. This was enough, evidently, and she delicately removed the other arm, this time separating the upper arm from the lower before taking the upper back to her chosen breakfast table.

"I'm thinking,” Morrigan said, looking down at the armless corpse, “That if they had a penny every time they groped some poor woman coming through here, we might have solved our supply problem.” She squatted in the dirt beside the corpse, careful not to get blood on her borrowed skirt, and began going through the man’s pockets.

"I never thought it would come to this," sighed Alistair, "Robbing the dead."

"You've got a pretty strange idea of what can come to what," said Ten, "Have you never been hungry before?" She stooped beside Morrigan and unbuckled his rough leather armor, revealing two pouches sewn onto the inside. He had a pretty penny on him, all things considered. Then she spied the glint of gold on the fingers discarded by the hound, and, only grimacing a little, picked up the severed forearm to remove the purloined rings.

"Of course I have, it was part of training," Alistair said, "Fasting."

"That’s not hunger,” Ten scoffed, “Hunger is when you don’t know when the next meal is coming, or if it’s coming.”

"No, I suppose I haven't."

"We are about to be surrounded by a whole lot of hungry people," said Ten, "And you,” she pointed at Alistair with the dead man’s hand, “Both of you actually, need to be prepared for what they will be willing to do to fill their bellies. Robbing a few corpses is absolutely nothing." 

“I’ll take that to heart, but could you put that thing down?” Alistair said, looking a little green around the gills.

Morrigan, meanwhile, was counting out what she had found in the dead mans pockets. Coins and small bits of jewelry went into a pile on the road. "Do we want his armor?"

"No," said Ten, "Too much to carry. Coins and jewels. Here, put this on." She said, handing a gold wedding band with the initials "M.H." engraved on it to Alistair, "Pretend you're heartbroken to part with it, maybe whatever fence we can find in this shithole will take pity on you and give you a better price."

"Well surely this belonged to someone..." said Alistair soberly.

"Probably not him," Ten said, making a point to pick up the severed arm again to drive the point home.

"Ten are your ears pierced?" asked Morrigan, holding up a pair of pearl earrings.

"Yes," she said, "But just keep those in your pocket. Imagine what happens in a fight when someone gets ahold of one and pulls."

"Ugh," Morrigan grunted, fingering her own intact earlobes.

Fully stocked with others' ill-gotten gains, the trio and their newly-made animal friends made their way into the center of town. It wasn't a large town. The streets weren't even cobbled, just dust from where repeated foot traffic had torn up the turf, year after year. Twenty or thirty houses were all situated on an island in the river, farms beyond on either bank, a rather ostentatious chantry, considering the size of the place and, of course, a public house. The townsfolk were gaunt, dirty, and just desperate-looking as Ten had imagined. A sister stood outside the chantry, dishing out a watery gruel to those as were waiting. Some of the refugees sat, right there on the commons, staring into nothing. From a distance, a woman somewhere was screaming, though from fright or from madness, Ten did not know.

"I'll see about selling the jewelry," Morrigan said, "From the interaction we had earlier I doubt they'd give Ten a fair price."

"You're catching on," said Ten.

"I'll check out the chantry," said Alistair, "See what's going on in the town."

Ten nodded, "I suppose I'll sit down and give everyone the thousand yard stare, try to fit in."

"Stay out of trouble," said Morrigan.

Ten lead Jenny and the dog to an unoccupied spot in the middle of a field. The donkey, suddenly relieved of her saddlebags, threw herself in the grass, rolled around a few times, and then settled, chomping at whatever was beneath her and making contented donkey noises. The dog, meanwhile, curled up next to the donkey, and proceeded to sleep off the feast she'd made of the dead bandits.

Ten sat herself down, her back against the donkey's flank, and took out her bottles, leather flasks and mortar and pestle. The road to Lothering had been brimming with flowering plants, useful for both good and evil purposes, and she set about crushing, chopping, and mixing. The brief return to her old trade was comforting. She'd gotten through a good few bottles, resupplying some of her nastier poisons and a couple that would speed up healing, when a dirty-faced urchin approached her. Poor kid was skin and bones, she couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl, as their hair had been very recently shaved. Lice, probably.

"Miss, are you a healer?" asked the kid.

"No," she said.

"But you’re an herb woman?" the kid looked down at Ten's work, the mortar and pestle, the bottles.

"I suppose I am," she said. No sense in lying about the obvious.

"Please, can you come? My mother's been laboring for two days, the midwife says she'll die if she doesn't deliver soon."

“I don’t know if I can help with that, but I’ll try,” Ten said, “Where's your mother?"

"The midwife's house. Next to the windmill."

"All right, kid," she said, "Stay here for a bit. Pet the donkey. It'll make you feel better. I don't know why, it just will. And here, have some…” she went into one of the saddlebags for some of the dried meat they’d found, “I think it's beef. I hope it's beef. It's food, anyway. You, dog, don't hurt the kid." The kid, grateful for some direction, promptly curled up next to the donkey, their head on her neck, and took a bite out of the dried meat Ten had handed them.

She packed her flasks back up, she had a few that were known to strengthen contractions, a couple of coagulants to prevent a hemorrhage and, perhaps most importantly, a sedative. She followed the child's pointing finger to a house by the great windmill. The mystery of where the screaming woman was was very quickly solved. She knocked more to announce her presence than ask permission to enter, and then walked into a room, overheated by a large fire in the corner.

"Who're you?" a tall, stout, middle-aged woman asked, standing between her and the rest of the room.

"I'm, uh, an herbalist. Little skin-headed kid saw my kit and said there's a woman in labor."

"Ah," said the woman, "Well, I'm Heloise the midwife. This here is… well shit, I don't know her name. Wandered in after darkspawn took down her farm. Hasn't been right ever since."

"Teneira," she said, "Call me Ten. Is it true she's been laboring three days?"

"Her water broke on the road here. Usually that would speed it up," said the midwife, "If I had a healer here I'd have cut her open by now, but…” she took TEn’s elbow in one beefy hand and took her to a corner, “I don't think she'd survive that. I suspect the child is already dead, her best bet is to get it out the old fashioned way. And she’s too weak to stand, so…”

“All right, well, I’ll see what I can do. Did she fight darkspawn?”

"As best she could, with a belly like that," said Heloise, "She survived, after all. Better than we can say for her husband and other kids."

"I know how to sew her up, if it comes to that," said Ten, "But you're right, very risky at this point."

"As far as I can tell," said Heloise, "Were you a midwife as well as an herbalist?"

"Where I'm from, any woman within earshot when it starts attends a birth," said Ten, "I've seen them go pretty much every way they can go."

Heloise sighed, "That's how it ought to be. Her mother should be here, and her sisters and aunties. But she’s got me, and now she’s got you."

Ten had become aware of a familiar tingle in the base of her spine, telling her that there were darkspawn. Close. That can’t be right. The horde wasn’t on its way here, we’d have felt it before now. "Could she have gotten some of the darkspawn blood, like, in her body? Through a cut, or if her mouth was open."

"I suppose she could," said Heloise, "I see you've heard of the ghouls, then."

"The what?"

"Folks as fight darkspawn and come into contact with their blood. You get too much, hair starts falling out, you lose all sense. Eventually you're a ravening beast like they are. But she wasn't, she seems to be in perfect health. Except for now…"

"Well shit," said Ten, "Poor lass. Look, I just make the stuff, you probably know what she needs." She dumped her whole kit onto a table in the corner, "I've got primrose here, raspberry, willow, deathroot - I don't think you want that - elm bark…"

"Your handwriting is shite," said the midwife, picking up a bottle and squinting at the label.

"Nobody pays me to be a scribe," Ten said resentfully, but let her take what she needed. She measured some into a spoon.

"She'll need to sit up to take anything, and she's far too weak. You'll need to support her," Heloise said, "Coax her up, support her shoulders."

Ten went up, "Missus, you need to sit up." She went to put her arm around the woman's shoulders, but all of a sudden her eyes opened, pale blue in the dusty dark of her face.

"Don't touch me, you knife-eared bitch," the laboring woman spat.

"Missus, if you call her that again I am going to walk right out of here and you and your baby are going to die alone," said Heloise, crossing her arms.

"Fine," said the mother, "Let us die. Better than live through what's to come."

"And leave wee Jamie all alone in the world?" Heloise said.

"Kill her too for all I care," the mother growled, and then let out a strangulated sob.

Ten lifted her from the bed and pulled so that her weight was supported by the wall behind her.

"No, stay there," said Heloise.

Ten sighed, and got behind her, supporting her torso with arms under her shoulders.

"Now, Missus, concentrate on your breathing. Listen to the girl's heartbeat, and breathe with it," Heloise said, "OK, there you go. Good lass. You're going to drink this, and then you are going to start pushing like you've never pushed before."

Too chastened to say something else racist, the mother accepted the tinctures, and did as Heloise asked. It took another twenty minutes, but at the end, Ten felt something shift in the woman before her, and as her muscles tensed for a final push, and the midwife gasped. The mother went limp, collapsing against Ten.

"It's all right, miss," she said softly, her mouth against the woman's greasy dark hair, "You've done it. It's all right now." She gingerly put her hand against her cheek, "Hard part's over." She waited for her to tense again, and the afterbirth to splash out onto the bed. That came within twenty minutes, and she finally realized that there was no crying.

Well after that long, we truly can’t be surprised, she thought, Poor woman, even if she is a bigoted piece of…

But then, in the silence of the room, she realized that there was another sound. Not crying. Just… breathing. Shallow, wet, breathing. It wasn't coming from her, nor the mother, nor the midwife. The tingle in the base of her spine rose to a roar.

"I guess we know where the darkspawn blood went," said Heloise, her face dark, "Pack some rags between her legs, she's not out of the woods yet."

"All right, love, I'm going to let you down now. Keep breathing," Ten scrambled out from under the woman's shoulders and laid her gently down flat on the bed. She scurried to the end of the bed, where a stack of boiled rags were waiting. There was blood flowing, not the regular, clotty blood of birth, but something darker and more sinister. Or was it just the light? She went to her kit and got a few coagulants, tipping them over two clean rags, and packed them as tightly as she could. No… it was definitely not human blood flowing from the woman's womb. When she was satisfied that she had staunched the flow, she turned. She was reminded of the vision she had had the night of her joining, the hordes splayed out below her, and she swore she could see their image in the blue-black pulsating afterbirth. She followed the umbilical cord that attached that dark thing to the babe in the midwife's arms.

It was vaguely baby-shaped, but didn't look anything like any baby Ten had ever seen. Its eyes were open, in fact they looked lidless. It was bald, of course, but its limbs were bent. Not broken, just the joints all went the wrong ways. It did not cry, it just sort of… rasped through an open mouth with jagged yellow teeth.

"Are human babies supposed to be born with teeth?" she asked. The halfbreeds she’d seen delivered didn’t really look all that different than elfin babies, usually a little bit bigger, but she had no idea how traits were passed down. Perhaps this was normal…

"No," Heloise said, looking down with trepidation at the bundle in her arms.

"Didn't think so," said Ten. She'd seen babies born before, in the alienage, that had had…. afflictions. It usually happened when the parents were related too closely. Webbed feet or mismatched features. All tragic, but nothing like this at all. Every part of her being was telling her to take her knife and plunge it into its tiny heart. The baby's eyes, black as coal, turned to her, and it was as though it looked right into her soul, "Maker's breath…"

"You should leave now. Right now," Heloise said, shortly, "Walk out of this door and forget what you seen here. And under no circumstances will you tell the Chantry. This woman’s been through enough.”

"Wouldn’t dream of it," said Ten.

"Good lass," said Heloise.

Ten nodded slowly and packed up her things.

"Wait," Heloise said, "Leave the deathroot."

Ten nodded, leaving the poisonous vial, and walked back out into a day that, somehow, was just as bright and sunny as it had been before she descended into that chamber of horrors.

She found the donkey and the dog and their things where she had left them, but the child, whose name, evidently, was Jamie and who was in fact a girl, had run off, and was chasing a few other children around a wheatfield to the south. Poor kid. Better she not know. She did, however, take a page out of the child's book, and curled up with her head on the donkey's neck. Jenny reacted by chewing her hair, and Ten did not have the heart to stop her. The dog, sensing something was wrong, trundled up and parked herself on the other side of Ten, laying her head on her hip.

Maker, you cannot possibly have meant for that to happen, she thought, Even you could not have thought of something so fucked up. Or could you? Are you just a sadistic little shit like all your favorite sons?

Ten had been there, curled up between two smelly beasts and staring out into nothing for maybe an hour, maybe two, when Morrigan found her.

"Ten, you're covered in blood," the witch said. She had several sacks under her arms, one which was definitely flour and two that might have contained vegetables of some sort or another.

Ten shook her head. What could she say, after what she had just seen? "I can't…"

"What happened?"

"It's worse than we thought," said Ten, scrambling to her feet, to the grumbling complaint of the dog who had to get out of her way, "It's… just so much worse. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just set up the tents and I'll try to get this blood off me."

Morrigan and Ten set up camp by the river, confident that even Alistair could not be too stupid to notice where they had gone. And then, Ten went to the river, scrubbing her skin with everything she could think of. Cloth. Rocks. Sand. Nothing could get the feel of the woman's blood off her. Or the memory of that coal-black stare.

Just after sunset, while there was still light in the sky, but it had gone a soft grayish blue, Morrigan approached the bank cautiously. "Ten, you've got to get out of there. It's getting dark."

"I'm not clean yet," Ten replied, taking another handful of silt from the river bottom and scrubbing her arms where the blood of birth had covered her. Her arms were still red, no matter what she did, "The blood won't come off."

The witch drew closer. With a snap of her finger, a bright orb hovered over them, lighting up the little section of the water, "Teniera, that's your own blood," Morrigan observed, "You've scrubbed yourself raw." Without waiting for an answer, she waded right in and hoisted Ten under her shoulders, dragging her out onto the grassy bank. Ten did not fight it, seeing for the first time that she had, indeed, just been making matters worse for how many hours, and suddenly felt the pain of a thousand tiny scratches.

"What did you see?" the witch demanded, handing her her clothes, "What could you have possibly seen that could have you in this state?"

In a hushed tone, while she scrambled back into her clothes, she described in as much detail as she could muster what had occurred in the midwife's house. Morrigan barely reacted, but once Ten was decent, she took both of Ten's arms in her white hands, muttered some words under her breath, and the deep scratches that Ten had unintentionally inflicted upon herself closed, leaving nothing but perfect brown skin behind.

"There, all better. Now, are we feeling a bit saner?"

"I doubt I'll ever be sane again," sighed Ten.

"Well it certainly sounds unpleasant. But fascinating," said Morrigan, finally, "So all the.. taint, just went right to the baby? Changed it? I had no idea that that would happen. It gives a certain… insight into the nature of the Darkspawn."

"It was horrible," she said, "I've attended births before. I've seen babies that weren't… right. This wasn't that."

"What happened to the baby?" asked Morrigan.

"I imagine the midwife did what she had to," said Ten, "Told the mother it was a stillbirth. It's always a hell of a… fuck of a thing when they have to do that. But I've seen that too, this was different."

Morrigan all but dragged her up the bank to camp, where either she or Alistair had coaxed a merry fire from a pile of dry branches and then set her down in front of it, and took up her own perch, a little bit away, as she had every night before hand. With them, but not, all at once.

"What happened to her?" called out.

"Women's business," said Morrigan dismissively, not looking up from where she had squatted to do some fiddly little task or another, "Not your place."

Having learned at this point that he would not get a straight answer out of Morrigan for pretty much anything, he turned to Ten. "What secret could possibly be so important that you keep it from half of the population?"

"She’s right. It’s women’s business," Ten sighed, "You would not feel better for knowing. Say, is there still whiskey in that pack? By my count there should still be two."

"Don't drink them both," Alistair said, locating the bottles and setting one in front of her. She gratefully popped the cork with her teeth and took a long swig. He watched her, face growing concerned as she swallowed, then took another.

"I… saw something today that I just want to forget," she said.

"Keep drinking like that, you'll forget your own name," said Alistair, taking the bottle from her, "That said," he said, taking a swig, "I have a few things I'd rather forget too."

She took the bottle back and drank.

“I… I’m sorry I didn’t do anything about that bandit earlier,” he said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just froze.”

"What?"

"The bandit, earlier today. He touched you. You looked like you were about to vomit."

“That’s not… don’t worry about that," Ten said, taking another swig, hoping he hadn't noticed she was hogging the whiskey, "You are about to get a big old lesson in all sorts of new ways people are just as monstrous as darkspawn." 

"You really think that?" Alistair picked up the bottle, taking a swig. It was a quarter done now.

"Look, I don't really know you," said Ten, "But the way you sort of amble through life, I can't imagine you've seen that much of it."

"My mother died giving birth to me and I was raised in a monastery," Alistair said.

"Aye, all right, you might have me there," she said, "At least I had my dad. And he did his best, whatever his faults." She drank. Put it back in front of him.

"I had a father, allegedly," Alistair started, "Never thought of the man as a "dad." I never knew him. Sure, I knew of him. But it was mostly just a few throwaway kids and the good brothers of the order." He drank. Passed the bottle back to her, "Duncan was the closest thing to a dad I ever had."

"I've heard things about the monasteries, not all of them nice," said Ten, "Funny priests and all that."

"Not saying it doesn't happen, but it actually wasn't all bad."

"Were they kind?"

"Mostly. There was this one, Brother Fillan," Alistair said, "He was this little fellow, barely taller than you, and he just could never keep his hands still. So he took up knitting. He made the kids these soft toys out of yarn and pine needles from the courtyard. Animals, to sleep with. He'd been there since he was a child himself, I think he understood we were all lonely."

"What was yours?"

"A mabari hound," he said, "Barely looked like one, the man was in his eighties and half blind by the time I got there. But he did his best. I called him 'Pigeon' like the messenger birds that lived up in the belfry. Saw me through a few hard nights."

"How old were you when you left?"

"Twelve, I think." he said, "We didn't really….do birthdays. The Templars sort of looked us over, saw how big we were, if we had hair under our arms, determined we were twelve or thirteen or however old they said you needed to be."

"This world eats its young," sighed Ten, frustrated with everything.

"I got out, at least," said Alistair, "Could be worse. Could be hunting apostate mages through the very bowels of the nation."

"I heard that!" Morrigan shouted from her tent, pitched twenty or thirty feet from theirs.

"Present company certainly included," he added.

"And you think it's better that you're stuck with an ax murderer as your only companion in a dwindling order whose mission is the preservation of all that is good?"

"Well all things considered, I think an ax murderer is exactly who I'd like to see me through this one," he said, "How did Daveth put it, the five foot tall woman who took down six fighting men. Seems like he was a bit scared of you."

"Poor Daveth," sighed Ten, taking a belt of whiskey, "Probably laughing at me now, wherever he is."

"To Daveth!" said Alistair, "And Duncan. Maker, I feel lost without him." He drank.

"Me too," said Ten, "To Duncan! Took me from the foot of one gallows to the foot of another, and I suppose I should thank him for that." She drank again.

"I've never had to figure things out on my own before," Alistair said, gazing into the fire, "I was always told what to do. As long as I can remember, every moment of my life was controlled by someone else. And it usually worked out for the best. It's weird, just… having to figure it out on my own."

"That's funny. I've always had to figure things out on my own," said Ten, "If my dad had had his way I'd have married at fifteen and have eight kids by now. I knew that was not for me, at least not then, so I asked around, learned a trade, moved in with my little cousin where he couldn't haunt my footsteps all day long. And it worked out pretty well. Until it didn't."

"Now there's an understatement. You have a murder ballad about you," said Alistair.

"I'll thank you not to sing it," said Ten, twisting the wedding band on her finger, "Might have been my proudest moment, but it was also… I wish I could unsee some of it. Most of it. It's… it's been a really fucked up couple of months for me.” The whiskey had her talking far more candidly than she was used to, “And what's sending me spiraling is that all along the way there have been moments where I made a decision that didn't even seem that important at the time, but in hindsight, those little small choices changed literally everything."

"I've never been in a position to make decisions.," said Alistair, "My life was always going to go in whatever line whoever showed up said it was going to."

"You'll learn," said Ten. Something occurred to her then, "Hey! Dog!"

The hound, who was curled up by the fire, snoring, roused with a grunt and looked at her.

"I'm going to call you Pigeon from now on," she said.

She could have sworn the dog rolled her eyes before she put her head back down and recommenced snoring.

"I really can't tell, are you making fun of me?" Alistair asked.

"Of course not," said Ten, "Dog needs a name. It's a good name for a dog."

"I just cannot tell what to make of you," he said, "No offense."

"None taken, I don't think. There's no rule saying everyone has to like me," she said, "But speaking of being generally unpopular, I think we probably should leave town before someone clocks us. Tomorrow morning if possible. Morrigan's terrible at this."

"What do you mean, clocks us? You talk too fast and use all this slang I don't understand. Half the time I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Realizes who we are, of course," said Ten.

"I didn't realize we were still incognito."

Ten's blood ran cold and she very nearly sobered up. "Oh no, what did you do?"

"It's not my fault, I ran into one of Arl Eamon's knights in the Chantry earlier today," said Alistair, "We've known each other for years. He recognized me. I couldn't deny it."

"We're a week's journey from Redcliffe, what was he even doing there?"

"Apparently the arl and his fighting men were not at Ostagar because he has been bedridden this last month. Nobody knows what's wrong with him. His wife has sent the knights of the land searching for some holy relic she's convinced will heal him. That's certainly harebrained, but I think it makes sense to head to Redcliffe next."

"All right, that's all well and good, but you need to tell me, did either of you utter the words 'Grey Warden' while you were in there? Scratch that. You asked about Ostagar. And you're not wearing the Teyrn's colors, so there's very few options for who you could be. Shit. How many people saw you?"

"I don't think anyone was paying attention," he protested, "There were a couple of templars, some nuns, a handful of the refugees…"

"Shit," said Ten again, corking the whiskey and putting her head in her hands, "So I got my tit grabbed for nothing. All right. All right. We can salvage this, but we can't be in the same place, not here. They're looking for a man and an elf. Right now we're a man and an elf. If I get out of here, you're just a man, and I'm just an elf, and you have much more plausible deniability being at a campsite in a town with fifty refugee campsites than I do."

"Ten, you are three sheets to the wind right now. You cannot just stalk off into the night like that."

She rose, catching herself as the whiskey tried to knock her right back down, "I think you'll find that I can.” Without another word, she stalked off into the night.

Chapter Text

After Teneira had lost sight of their camp over a small rise, she took stock of herself. She was a bit tipsy. But she'd moved her knife from her thigh to her belt after her previous blunder, tying a pilfered apron on over it, and it was poisoned, as it ought to have been, and she still knew how to use it. She walked, straight as she could, through the fields, through the center of town, past the house where she'd witnessed the third worst thing she'd ever seen in her life, and into the pub, the only building with lights still on. The barroom itself was small, and fairly populated, but the crowd didn't seem to be belligerent, at least not yet. It looked fairly standard - wood paneling, bar on one end, tables on the other. She took a seat at the bar. There were three other elves there, and none of them were sweeping the floor. In fact, they weren't even sitting together, each appearing to be better acquainted with the humans at their tables, which was strange to her and she was not sure if she liked it. And so she sat there alone, her eyes down, but her ears open. A lot of worry, everyone just brimming with stress. The road to Redcliffe. The road to Denerim. A ship to Kirkwall. The pass through the Frostbacks and into Orlais. What became of Grandfather? You think they burned the fields? Slaughtered the herd? Is our house still standing? Do we have a home to go back to?

"What'll it be, Miss?" the bartender asked, as though finally seeing her.

"Ale, stronger the better," she said.

"Ah, a barleywine for the wee elfin lassie," he said, "Emptying the stores, we're all evacuating before the month's out."

He turned, went to the kegs, and returned with a pint of red-brown ale.

"Haven't seen you around these parts," he said. Ten looked up at him. He was middle aged, maybe fifty, his hair still black but beard graying. He was being downright friendly. Usually when humans behaved like this to strangers, they wanted something. But, he'd not given her a reason to suspect him of anything yet, and so she played along. 

"Passing through," she said, looking down again, trying to tame her native accent, knowing her speech alone would make her stick out like a sore thumb here, "Our farm got razed by darkspawn not two days back. Only my missus and me, and the master, made it out."

"Dreadful thing," said the bartender, "Sorry to hear that."

She took a sip of her ale. "Oh, that's strong," she said, "Thank you, Ser. How much?"

"Well," said the barkeep, winking, "The lass at the other end of the bar wanted the privilege of buying you a drink."

Ten looked up again. At the other end of the bar, the only other woman in the place, sat a young human lady wearing the robes of a Chantry sister.

"A nun?" she narrowed her eyes.

"That's a lay sister," the bartender corrected her, "Different robes."

"What's the difference?"

"I'm sure there are more, but most relevant here is that lay sisters do not take vows of chastity. You know, they call them nuns because they can't get none. And they call them lay sisters because they can definitely get…"

"Look, I love a good pun as much as the next lass," said Ten, "But I'm hardly…"

"Just take the drink. Worst case scenario you have a nice conversation."

It was too late, for the 'lay sister' had swaggered up and planted her ass in the stool right next to Ten.

"So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" she asked. She had red hair like Shianni's, which probably would have fallen around her chin if down, but it was slicked back with… Ten sniffed discretely… beeswax laced with lavender.

"What are any of us doing here?" Ten countered, "Fleeing the land. Giving it all up. Moving to higher ground. All is lost, after all."

"Is it though," the sister said, "What makes you say that?" Ten heard the barest edge of an Orlesian accent, though she had certainly mastered the local slang.

Interesting. Foreigner in a one-horse town like this. Wonder how that happened.

"Look around," said Ten, "Smell it. The desperation in the air. The very ground beneath our feet will swallow us up and there is nobody to save us."

"Nobody?" The sister leaned towards her, speaking right to her face, "I have it on good authority that at least one Grey Warden made it out of Ostagar alive." Ten froze, the adrenaline kicked in, and she was suddenly sober as a judge. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Good authority, eh?"

"Quite good authority."

Shit. She must have been at the Chantry earlier today. She doesn't seem hostile towards the order, but if she knows, she will tell others. If she hasn't already. She just told me, after all.

"Sure, and one Grey Warden is just going to save us all from the Blight singlehanded," said Ten, "Alas, I fear it's the end of days." She leaned her head forward on one elbow, and fiddled with the one brown curl that always escaped from her kerchief. After all, if men were predictable, women were as well. She looked up at the sister, keeping her eyes half open.

Look drunker than you are. Get her to start kissing you, give it five minutes, then suggest you get out of here and find a haystack, and you can stab her once you get her out behind the pub.

"Oh, but it's not. I've seen it." The sister leaned towards her, their faces now very close. Easier than I thought. Pity, she seems nice.

"Seen it where?" asked Ten.

"In fact, I've seen you."

Me? Not the other one? The cold went up Ten's spine, but she stayed still. All right. No seduction and no stabbing. Don't react. She's just a crazy person.

"And where, exactly, would you have seen me?"

"I had a vision," she replied, "The Maker wants me to help you."

"And who am I, exactly?"

"Why, it's you who will save us all."

"You're lucky I have a soft spot for Orlesians," said Ten, sitting back, "Otherwise we'd be having words."

"It's not me you have to worry about," said the sister, "It's the five men behind you, at four o'clock. They serve Teyrn Loghain, and they've been looking at a scroll, and then at you, for the last five minutes."

"Ugh," sighed Ten, glancing behind her, "Well thanks for the warning, I suppose, Sister…"

"Lelianna," she said, "And don't worry. I told you, the Maker wants me to help you."

"Did the Maker tell you exactly how two unarmed women are going to get out of this one?"

Ten felt a hand on her thigh, and with it, the hilt of a dagger.

"Who said anything about unarmed?" Lelianna leaned forward, putting her mouth right against Ten's ear, "I am going to get up and pretend I am going to the privy. Once I leave, they will approach you. I will be behind them. They will not see me coming."

After more than a month of pretending not to be someone who had spent the past ten or more years elbow deep in some pot of skullduggery or another, Ten could only nod, slighly openmouthed, and turn back to her ale. The sister smiled, slid off the bar stool, and did as she said she would.  Maybe she's crazy. She's probably crazy. But those definitely were soldiers bearing the same colors as she had on the army that had preceded her to Ostagar. Ugh, after all the shit I gave Alistair, it's me they were looking for. Well, he can have a good laugh at me if I manage to get out of this one.

As expected, she felt a presence behind her, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Her hand gripped the dagger under the table, the other fished her knife, dripping with poison, from its sheath beneath her apron. She turned and ducked as a hairy hand reached out to grab her shoulder. He wasn't a large man, maybe five seven, one fifty. He was wearing the Teyrn's sigil, but was not armored, and his only weapon was a halberd, which would be incredibly clumsy in these close quarters. The patrons around her had scattered, some leaving altogether, but a few stayed around the edges, wanting to gawk at the action. A glance behind him revealed four other soldiers, also wearing civilian clothes with the Teyrn's colors over them. One battleaxe, also not ideal for the cramped barroom, a long bow, utterly useless at this distance, poor lad would barely have the room to draw it let alone for the arrow to reach any kind of velocity, and two daggers, which were a bit more worrisome.

"Excuse me, Ser," she said, "I was just leaving." She toddled a bit, tried to look drunker than she was. Though... she was not sober.

"No you don't," he said gruffly, blocking her way, his stance wide so she could not slip around him. She made to duck under his arm, but this time he got a hand on her collar and drew her up so he could see her face more clearly. His breath reeked of whiskey - as she imagined hers did as well - but she could see he was less steady on his feet than she was.

"Ser," she continued, putting a bit of slur in her voice, "I'm a married woman, my husband is... very large and very frightening and..."

"Hey! Leave that girl alone!" one drunken farmer called out, but was not brave enough to intervene himself. It was not enough to get him out of her face, but it did make him loose her collar.

"She's a wanted criminal!" another soldier called to the farmer, "He's making a lawful arrest."

"Wanted!" Ten exclaimed, "For what, being ten minutes late to milk the cows this morning?"

"Don't play with me, girl," he said.

"Oh I have no intention of playing with you," she said, edging back towards the bar, hooking her toe under the lower crossbar on the barstool, "After all, you're clearly a very... very well-trained soldier and I but a... humble milkmaid." She shimmied to her side, the wood of the bar against the middle of her back.

"Humble milkmaid? Then why do you look exactly like this description of a Grey Warden on the lam?"

"You probably think all elves look just alike," she said, "How could I be a Grey Warden? Look at me. I bet the woman you seek is six feet tall with arms like tree trunks."

"Well, it's not like anyone will miss you," he said, "If we're wrong, that's one less knife-eared bitch on the roads. We've orders to bring your head back to the palace. What happens to the rest of you, I don't particularly care."

She kicked then, sending the sharp corner of the bar stool right between the soldier's legs. He doubled over, his halberd clattering to the floor and she stabbed up with the borrowed dagger, sending it right into his throat and protruding from the back of his neck. She looked up to see that Lelianna had planted her own knife between the shoulderblades of one of the two armed with shortswords.

The battleaxe had his attention on Lelianna, trying to find quarter to get a good swing in, the lad with the longbow was fumbling in his quiver, and the other shortblade had turned his attention to Ten, raising his arm to slash down at her neck. She dove for the floor, shoving her little knife into the spot on his calf where the boot leather ended and woolen breeches began. He grunted in pain and adjusted his swing. She scrambled between his legs and stabbed him twice in the back of the knee as he buried his blade in the solid oak of the bar where her throat had been. As he struggled to get it out, she could see the poison begin to do its work, his leg rapidly swelling. She leapt up on his back, getting her arm around his throat and drove her little blade into his chest again and again until he began to stagger, and she pushed off and landed on her feet before he fell.

"Enough!" the barkeep shouted, looking in consternation at the shortsword now buried inches deep in his bar. He produced a crossbow from below and sending a bolt whizzing into the throat of the one who was bearing down on Lelianna with a hunting knife, having given up on getting a full swing of his axe, "Fucking soldiers, always making a mess."

"Mercy! Mercy!" cried the longbow, going green in the face as he saw his final companion fall. He dropped the bow at his feet and cowered, his hands over his head. Ten strode up to him, placed one boot on his chest and forced him to the ground.

"What's your name, kid?" asked Ten. Poor lad was sixteen if a day, all pale skin and acne. This world eats its young.

"Thom, Missus," he squeaked.

"What's your rank, Thom?"

"I'm just a soldier, Missus."

"You report to the Teyrn?"

"Yes Missus."

"All right. It's your lucky day. You get to be the messenger," said Ten, "And nobody can use a dead messenger. So you run along back to Denerim and you tell your commander that the Vengeful Bride has another noble on her list now, and he'll be lucky if an ax is all he gets. Now say it back to me."

He blinked rapidly, and obeyed. 

"Good lad. Now run before I change my mind."

She let him up, and he did as he was bade, leaving his bow where it lay and taking off into the night like all the demons of the Fade were on his heels.

"Sorry about the mess, Ser," she said to the barkeep, retrieving the borrowed dagger from the neck of their commander, wiping it on his tunic, and returning it to Lelianna.

"My grandfather served in the Grey Wardens," the barkeep said, "Last time there was a Blight. I don't believe it for a second, that you lot were behind the massacre. If that's indeed who you are. Though, I have to say, the drawing they showed me was a dreadful close likeness."

"Well I thank you for that," she said, "I've graced more than one wanted poster in my fairly short life."

"Not for skipping out on your tab, I hope."

"Never," said Ten, "Wouldn't dream of it."

"What for then?"

"I think it's best not to get into that."

"None of your victims being humble bartenders, I hope."

"I don't mess with working men, unless they're messing with me."

"I see," said the barkeep, "Well, I always said that a little blood on the floor gives the place character. Don't worry about the corpses. They tend to take care of themselves these days."

"I'm afraid to ask what that means," said Ten, but she relaxed a bit, and turned back to her ale. She felt like she had earned it.

"So, I'm coming with you," Lelianna said, coming up and retaking her own seat.

"Coming with me where?" asked Ten.

"Wherever it is you're going, of course," she said, "You're surely not staying here."

"If the Maker says so, I suppose you'd better. Though, you probably should know I like boys," said Ten, heading that one off at the pass, "Unfortunately. It's a character flaw. Gotten me into far more trouble than it's worth."

"Ah, well, I guess we can't all be perfect," said Lelianna, "Either way, I'm still coming with you."

"Well, I suppose you just put your neck on the line for me. I can't exactly say no to that sort of help these days. Although, you're going to have to deal with a witch with a shit attitude and a former templar who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Although when left to her own devices, the witch does tend to keep her tits out, so there's that."

"Splendid!" Lelianna said, clapping her hands, "I'm sold. Barkeep, another round!"

Come closing time, Ten was grateful for the invitation to spend the night on an actual mattress in an empty cell at the Chantry, where most of the convent who usually resided there had fled, and a place to, once again, scrub the blood from her skin and hair. She insisted on leaving before the sun was entirely up to make sure her own camp was intact. Lelianna packed her meager belongings and came with, though it was clear from the way she squinted in the dawn twilight that she was not feeling her best. They made their way out of the cloister garden, Ten insisting on stopping to gather a few handfuls of herbs that had grown wild in the days since their mistresses had tended them, a little sorry that the garden would soon be trampled underfoot by unspeakable monsters.

"How do you not have a headache?" the good sister groaned, "I feel like my brain is about to escape out of my ears."

Ten chuckled, and rummaged in her things, finding a bottle of a tincture that usually did the trick, and handed it to her. The sister downed it, and Ten watched the relief spread over her face.

"Are you sure you're not a mage?" Lelianna asked.

"It's just plants," said Ten, shrugging, "No doubt certain other good sisters have similar skills and left you with your hangovers for penance."

"That is… actually likely."

They walked the fifteen minutes over the damp grass, seeing the farmers harvesting their wheat prematurely, so they could at least take something with them as they fled. They made it back to camp just as the bottom half of the sun had peeked over the horizon, but not, as Ten had hoped, before her companions had woken. When they arrived, Morrigan was shoveling dirt over their fire, having evidently already packed up the tents. The donkey stood placidly chewing on a new circle of grass, patiently waiting for her bags to be filled with the rest of their equipment. Pigeon rushed up to greet her mistress, nearly bowling her over, and Ten resisted the urge to flinch.

This dog is not the other dogs. This dog is mine. This dog is not going to tear my arm off.

"Calm down, girl," she said, and the dog obeyed, sitting down. Ten rewarded her with a few head pats. It's rather nice, having someone always happy to see me. The Reverend Mother had her charms, but had no ears to scritch behind.

"Ah, I see you've seen fit to grace us with your presence," Morrigan said, looking balefully up from the firepit, "What were you up to all night? Find a handsome farmhand and a haystack?"

"Quite the opposite!" Ten protested, "I found a nun and we spent the night in contemplative prayer in the cloister."

"And brought her back as a souvenir, I see," the witch said, casting a suspicious eye on Lelianna.

"You weren't kidding," murmured Lelianna.

"About the tits or the attitude?"

"Both," the sister responded, and both of them laughed quietly.

"Well you're already thick as thieves, that probably means she's a criminal as well," said Morrigan, "At least she's not male."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news," said Ten, "But you're quite literally a fugitive from the Circle at this point. So let's be careful of where we cast our aspersions."

"An apostate! How cunning!" Lelianna explained, "I actually have quite a few issues with how the Chantry treats mages, you needn't worry about me."

"I wasn't going to," Morrigan said, turning her pale gaze on the sister, "After all, I could turn you to dust and blow you away with a wink and a wish."

"Careful, she might enjoy that…" Ten said, and received a playful punch in the arm from the sister, "Wait…" she looked around, "We have the witch, the donkey, and the dog. Where's the man?" she asked.

"You mean your other hound?" Morrigan asked, "Oh, he's only woken an hour before dawn, realized you were still gone, barged into my tent to see if you were with me, then decided you'd found the wrong end of a sword and it's somehow all his fault. He's gone to find you."

"I'm guessing you didn't say anything to disabuse him of that notion," said Ten.

"Well no, I found the whole thing rather amusing," she said, "And after waking me up so rudely I figure he deserved to worry a little longer. Though, considering you somehow managed to get more blood on that dress, I should be asking if he didn't have a point," said Morrigan, looking with disdain on the garment that Ten had tossed on the ground.

"It's not my blood," said Ten. She went and found her things in one of Jenny's saddlebags. A glance about said nobody she cared about seeing her was looking, and so she took off the bloodstained frock, strapped her customary layer of leather on, and then put another one, stolen from an abandoned laundry line and made for a woman a bit larger than she was, over it. Perhaps her gambit to avoid being known as a Grey Warden had failed, but it was still probably better to not go about being a conspicuously armed elf. It made humans nervous, and nervous humans were dangerous humans. She buckled her sword belt on, but instead of hanging her daggers from it, she took the hatchet that they had used to split wood for campfires, and fastened it on one side,  her paring knife and its poisoned case by its side. With an apron tied in front, she looked as though she were just a camp cook with the tools of her trade. And, having tried both, she found she actually preferred axes.

"Whose blood is it, Teneira?" Morrigan asked sternly.

"Well I didn't ask their names. Except the one I left alive, he's called Thom. Though I don't supposed I'll be seeing him again. Even if he does make it back to Denerim in one piece, there's certainly a noose for him once he's delivered my message."

"The one you..." Morrigan started, "How many did you kill?"

"Only two," said Ten, "Sister Lelianna got one in the back and then the barkeep shot another. Really not a big deal. Anyway, I thought killing men was something you approved of, not sure why you're scolding me."

"I'm not scolding. I'm trying to figure out how I so obviously misjudged you. Maybe it was all the arrows sticking out of you the last time we met," the witch said. The witch's gaze, though, was not on her. She'd seen something behind her. Ten turned, to find Alistair and a very large stranger at his back approaching the camp.

"Why's he got a qunari with him?" asked Ten, finally placing what the being must have been. Qunari missionaries were not strangers to the Alienage, usually sneaking off of ships before the authorities saw them and absconding into the night with whoever they converted. Ten didn't quite trust them, they seemed to know exactly how to play on the peculiar mix of misery and pride that plagued her people to recruit them into all sorts of things. She usually hadn't bothered tangling with them, they were all in all harmless, and though they did like to recruit elves as spies, she was in no position to criticize them for that.

"Probably the same reason you've got a nun with you," said Morrigan, "Strange times, strange bedfellows."

"Maker's breath, how long have you been here?" Alistair demanded, having caught sight of the three women and rushing up, the expression on his face saying that they were all three about to get a piece of his mind whether they deserved it or not.

"About fifteen minutes, why?" asked Ten.

"I've been looking for you for an hour," he said, "Where were you?"

"The Chantry," she said.

"Do not even try to tell me it was for morning prayers."

"It wasn't," she said, "I met a friendly sister at the pub, most of the nuns have evacuated so there was a free bed in the cloister." Lelianna put on a beatific smile, though her hair was an absolute mess and it was quite clear she had not gone to bed at a pious hour.

"I gathered that much," Alistair said, petulantly, "More than one man in this town apparently saw an elfin milkmaid and a nun get into a barroom brawl with five of Teyrn Loghain's fighting men. I thought it was a joke at first "oh a milkmaid and a nun walk into a bar" but they all told the same story, that somehow you cut all of them down, and then sat right back down and kept drinking like nothing happened. Then apparently at closing time, you took off into the night, and I quote, 'scream-laughing like a couple of madwomen' and scurried back to the Chantry."

"We didn't cut all of them down. The bartender shot one with a crossbow and I left one alive to tell the Teyrn to go fuck himself," said Ten. She looked at Lelianna, "And were we really scream-laughing?"

"I rather think "cackling loudly" would be a more accurate description," Lelianna observed.

"Oh, but that's not all. It gets better. So then I go to the Chantry, and they wouldn't let me into the cloister - now the Reverend Mother thinks I'm some sort of creep, by the way - and it seems the only person who saw you leave is a damn Qunari who was gibbeted out back, and he wouldn't say anything until I broke the lock on his cage and promised he could travel with us. And lo and behold, he said you had the nun with you and were headed back this way," Alistair paused, his face pink with anger, then turned his gaze on Lelianna, "And good morning, Sister. I don't blame you for any of that. Knowing this one, it was absolutely, one hundred percent, her fault."

"You weren't kidding about him either," Lelianna mused.

"All in all, it sounds like the moral of the story is that you could have sat here, relaxed, and eaten breakfast and I would have toddled along within the hour," Ten said, "Look at you, all red in the face. You've gotten yourself all worked up over nothing."

"Ten, I thought something awful had happened. You can't just go wandering off into blackest night like that."

Ten could not help but roll her eyes. "I have a father, he's back in Denerim, and I'm not altogether fond of how accurate this impression you're doing of him is. Anyway, who's the Qunari?"

"I am Sten," the Qunari said. He didn't look like the missionaries she had met, all shirtless, musclebound, albino giants with great curling horns like mountain sheep. He was certainly giant, seven feet tall if he was an inch, and he certainly had the white translucent hair she was familiar with, but he was fully clothed and had nary a horn on his head. Maybe he was some kind of halfbreed, though she was not entirely sure whether 'Qunari' referred to race, religion, both, or neither.

"Yeah you're all called that," sighed Ten, "Just once I'd just like one of you to be called Bob or Pete or something."

"You may call me Bob if you feel better about it," said Sten.

"No, that would be rude. Sten will do. So… can I ask exactly what you were doing in a gibbet?" Ten asked.

"I was accused of a crime I did not commit," the Qunari replied.

"Ah well, I guess you're better than I, then," said Ten, and went back to packing, "Apparently, I do all the crimes."

"Wait, you think this is funny?" Alistair protested, "No, I'm not done yelling at you. You can't just…"

"Yes, you are done," said Ten, putting one hand up as she used to to signal 'shut the fuck up' at whatever elf was running his mouth when it wasn't desirable, "You're not my commanding officer."

"I'm not trying to command you. I'm trying to keep you from making stupid, drunken decisions that get you in trouble," he said, "You can't just do whatever you want. We have a mission."

"Those soldiers were looking for me, not you," said Ten, "So even if that had gone badly, which it didn't I might add, you're welcome for not involving you."

"You're just committed to the bit right now, aren't you," he sighed, "Can't you ever just listen?"

"And why exactly should I listen to you?" she demanded, whirling, "If anyone listened to you at any point in the last week, we'd both be fucking dead. So, do you want to get over it, pack our things, and get on the road, or do you want to keep fighting with me over a disaster that only happened in your mind?"

"To be entirely honest, I rather want to fight right now," Alistair said.

"Well this just got interesting," said Morrigan, sucking her teeth, "Two sovereigns on the elf."

"Explain yourself," the Qunari said, his white eyebrows drawing down closely above dark red eyes, "He is larger than she is, and has clearly had more training."

"Depends, are they armed and can she pull any dirty tricks?" asked Lelianna, "In an honest fight, he's got her on wingspan alone. That said, I have seen this woman do things with a barstool that would make grown men weep. So, I have a sovereign on the man winning, but two on the elf dealing an embarrassing injury before she goes down."

"Define embarrassing," Sten said.

"He'll feel the need to lie to the mage who patches him up about how he got it," Lelianna concluded.

"That could cover any number of things," Morrigan protested, "And... chances are I'm the mage in question."

Ten let the three of them continue the discussion of who would do what damage and how, and finished packing her things. Then she took Jenny's reins and lead her back towards the main road, making a little bet with herself on how long it would take for them to realize she'd gone on ahead.

Chapter Text

Along the road to Redcliffe were a distressing number of abandoned wagons and packs, but this time, the brown earth of the Hinterlands was stained red. These wagons were not abandoned because their masters had gotten tired, but because something very sinister indeed had befallen them.

"There should be more bodies," Lelianna observed as Ten relieved an abandoned cart of two additional tents, a larger hatchet than the one she was carrying, and a small sack of potatoes. Feeding the new additions, especially the enormous Qunari, was going to be a problem once they had gotten out of the part of the country where looting was temporarily acceptable.

"My mother said the darkspawn raid the battlefields," Morrigan said, "Feast on the corpses and drag the survivors off for who knows what nefarious purpose."

Ten thought of the woman who had given birth several days before, but kept silent. Some things were too awful to give voice to. She rolled up the tents and was about to put them in Jenny's saddlebags, wondering how much more the poor creature could be expected to carry, and if she should find another beast of burden to share the load.

"Give me that," said Alistair, "Donkey's got enough to carry."

"I just wish one of them would have left at least a bridle intact," she sighed, "Could hitch her up to one of these, solve a lot of problems."

"I don't think it was the refugees that cut them," said Alistair.

Ten sighed, acknowledging he was probably right, and obliged, handing him the bundles, which he strapped to his back as best he could.

"Wait here a bit. Let the others get ahead."

"Why?" she asked.

"I need to tell you something that I'm not sure they need to know," he said.

"Why do I get the feeling this is not good news?" asked Ten, but obliged him, slowing her pace, matching his, until there were a good twenty feet between them and the rest of their ragged little band.

"You're about to find out anyway, we're within two hours of Redcliffe at this point. Look, I wasn't entirely honest with you that night in Lothering," he said, "I didn't lie, I have actually never met my father, and I was raised mostly in the Chantry. But… before that, you see…" he hesitated, his brows knitting together as though he were trying to find the best phrasing.

"Out with it," she said.

"Allegedly, I of course have no first hand knowledge of this, the man who sired me was in fact old king Maric."

"Oh, is that all?" Ten said, making a face. She looked up at his face with renewed interest. She was not always very good at telling which humans were considered to look like other humans. Alistair certainly didn't look nearly as much like Cailan as her old friend Ioan did, but, as Ioan had been, legally and socially, an elf for the first fourteen years of his life, she had never had any aversion to actually looking him in the face when they spoke. 

"It's not exactly my favorite fact about myself. But you're not in the least surprised by this?'"

"Not particularly," said Ten, "Maric wasn't exactly known for keeping it in his breeches."

Ha! Next time I'm in town I'll have to tell Ioan I've been running the roads with his long lost half brother. The old man did get around, apparently...

"Well that's not a thing one says about the king, and how would you know anyway?"

"Do you think servants don't talk?" asked Ten, "You're hardly unique in this respect. Actually, I suppose I grew up with one of your half brothers."

"Wait, what?"

"My old friend, Ioan. Well, Aiandoin, but he shortened when he..." she trailed off, remembering that Ioan living openly as a human was, in fact, illegal, "Nevermind that. In any case, the thing about men with power is they often have trouble keeping their hands off the help, and most of the help in the palace lives.... guess where."

"Well shit, first it's that I even have more siblings, and now it's you used to run the streets with them?"

"Now that I think about it, I really should have seen it," she said, "That face you make when you see something gross is exactly the same the both of you. This is neither here nor there, but next time we're in the capital we can swing by his place and you two can get acquainted figure out all the weird shit you have in common." At some point I'm going to have to explain how Ioan's passing as human and turning tricks at the Pearl, maybe not now, though.

"I… think I'd like that. Going to take awhile to wrap my head around this one."

"So what I can't wrap my head around is how you wound up here," she said, "If your mother was a bann, even a lower-ranking one, you'd almost certainly have been given a title and wouldn't be allowed within ten yards of someone with my record."

"Please leave your ax where it is."

"It's not me you'd have to worry about," she said, "If anyone was to take an ax to you under that hypothetical, it'd be the executioner once Cailan decided it was too risky keeping you around. That... did happen. Twice that I know of. So, you can't have been of noble birth. But you're also not a halfbreed, at least you don't look like one, though I have been wrong about that before. Wait, can you fold the top of your ear down so it covers the rest of it?" She put two fingers behind her own left ear, demonstrating how hers did not bend.

"What?!"

"Nevermind. Silly thought. No elfin family would allow a child to wind up with the Chantry. No matter who fathered them," she said, shaking her head, "So, full human. Not noble."

"Is this fun for you? This guessing game?"

"I've had nothing to occupy my mind for the last week except remembering every horrific event that's happened over the last couple of months and playing 'guess how this poor sod died' every time we happen on a pile of corpses," she said, "So yes, in comparison, guessing who was the victim in this particular instance of a master not keeping his hands off the help is fun for me."

"So, do you not want me to tell you? Just let you spout whatever theories pop up in that dark little mind of yours and tell you when you've got it?"

"Well, you're being uncharacteristically cagey," she said, "Which means this all makes you extremely uncomfortable to talk about. I don't blame you, it can't be a happy story."

"I am, it does, and it's not."

"So your ma wasn't palace staff, and she wasn't a noble, so she must have been staff somewhere provincial, where humans have to do the scut work. Since you connected this to Redcliffe, I'm going to go with that."

"Well that part was easy."

"But that's not all, is it," she said, remembering how familiarly he had spoken about Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, "The Arl of Redcliffe realizes his chambermaid is pregnant, knows she doesn't have a husband, does the math, and realizes it coincided with a visit from the king. Out you come, she goes to the Maker's side, and he, being a provincial bann who doesn't pay enough attention at court, doesn't know that there's half of dozen of you out there already. So now he suddenly has what he thinks is a very valuable asset. And he does everything he can to keep an eye on that asset. Even… raising you himself."

Alistair was silent for a little too long. She looked at him. He had his eyes on the ground. She was right.

"Why'd you have to put it that way?" he asked.

"Well am I wrong?"

"No, but you're making me rethink my entire childhood."

"It's probably high time you did that anyway."

"He was kind to me, though. At the beginning. He said he was my uncle, which he wasn't, I suppose, but that's how he treated me."

"Well I'm sure he wasn't entirely unfeeling," she said, "Even nobility are capable of empathy. Sometimes. When it suits them. But you got packed off to the Chantry at some point, so he did run out eventually."

"He married. When I was… oh I don't know. Eight maybe. I don't even remember her name, the daughter of some minor Orlesian noble. And she just… she did not appreciate having me around. He put his foot down for the first couple of years, but then, out I went."

"So he wasn't candid about who you were," said Ten, "Either way, that's a horrible thing to do to a child that young. I'm sorry."

"Thanks. I think," he said, "I really can't tell when you're being sincere."

"That's fair, neither can I most of the time," she admitted.

"The problem here is," he said, "If you're correct about all that, as of last month, I have become far more valuable to Arl Eamon than I have been, oh, ever."

"Yes," said Ten, "So maybe you should keep that in mind if he's suddenly the kindly avuncular figure you remember from your childhood."

Why had I not thought about this? An empty throne. No obvious heir. Every noble in the land is about to start trotting out their pet bastards. Ugh, I wish I were back in Denerim, would make it easier to have my ears on it. But now I'm stuck here in West Bumfuck, babysitting quite possibly the least qualified candidate for the job. Maker's breath, he is fifteen different diplomatic scandals waiting to happen. Might as well send heralds to Orlais and the Imperium announcing it's time to invade.

But still, this is a rare opportunity. Got to get the other neighborhood bosses together. This is the first time our interests have ever aligned like this. It could be absolutely legendary if we play our cards right. Halfbreed is aiming too high, that will never happen, even if we finagle Ioan into place, there will be questions. But given Maric's reputation, there's someone, a full human someone out there, raised like a regular old everyday…

"I don't like it when you're quiet that long," said Alistair, "It means you're plotting. That's the look you get right before you suggest something utterly insane."

"Something utterly insane that usually works," Ten protested, "Or, at least, fails unspectacularly."

"One day, you are going to have something fail spectacularly, and I am going to be there to point and laugh at you."

"Oh, if I fail that spectacularly, you're probably going down with me," she said.

"Probably, but I'll be laughing at you while I do."

"Well there's a non-zero chance I wind up hanged before the year's out. Dodging it the first go round was pure luck."

"Well I'm not going with you to the gallows."

"Of course not," said Ten, "They don't hang royalty. You'll be beheaded."

She didn't wait for an answer, just skipped ahead to where the witch, the nun, and the Qunari were, hoping that they would leave her to scheme in peace.

She would not have that opportunity. As soon as she got within earshot, Sten had turned and fixed her with his unnerving dark red gaze. "Explain yourself," he commanded gruffly, "These other two attempted to, but I do not understand."

"Explain what about myself, exactly?" Ten asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You are not like them, not exactly."

"Well no," she said, "Of course not exactly."

"Explain how."

"Well, first of all, I'm an elf and they're human," said Ten.

"I do not understand the difference."

"We're from different people," said Ten, "You and me are from different people. You and them are from different people. Me and them are from different people."

"I understand that there are distinctions between humans and elves. I am perplexed because you all look the same to me," said Sten, "Though you are smaller."

"That's just... well," said Ten, "There are elves as tall as them - mostly among the Dalish where we're not kept in a constant state of malnutrition. I'm just cursed to be surrounded by great looming giants because the Maker has seen fit to give me a permanent crick in my neck."

"But how are you a mighty warrior?"

"I'm not a mighty warrior," said Ten.

"Then why do they follow you?"

"I don't really know," said Ten, "You'd have to ask them that. Why are you here, anyway? Heard you traded the very valuable information that I was perfectly fine for a promise to travel with us. You could have just fucked off into the wild. Back to… jolly old Qunariland, wherever that is."

"I am not among my people, and it is… difficult for me to function without a commander. It is not in my nature. I thought from how the man described you that you must be a mighty warrior and therefore a worthy commander. He said that you killed multiple armed men and survived the slaughter at Ostagar."

"I don't think that really qualifies. Although I did do… those things."

"So you are a mighty warrior. I am fascinated. You are very small. And a woman. Yet, they follow you."

"They don't follow me," said Ten, "I've got a quest, so to speak. They're following the quest."

"But it is your quest," said Sten, "To defeat the darkspawn, slay the Archdemon."

"Mine and his," said Ten, jerking her head back to gesture at Alistair who was steadily gaining on them.

"But they follow you and not him. Explain."

"Again, you're really going to have to ask them that," sighed Ten. It's because I'm apparently the only one out here who knows what the world looks like outside a hut in the wilds or a damned cloister.

"You," the Qunari said, turning his eyes on Alistair, who had caught up to them finally, "Why is this one the leader, and not you?"

"She's not the leader."

"Yes she is," Sten said, "I thought for a moment, the other day, that you were going to fight her for her position, but you were a coward and did not. So she is the leader."

"I was going to… what? I wasn't going to fight her. We just had a disagreement. People can do that, you know, it doesn't always have to end with a duel."

"In my land, if I had spoken to my commander the way you spoke to her, that would have been considered a challenge, and you would have had to fight to the death," Sten said, "Thus you have dishonored yourself."

"She's not my commander. We're not in your land, there aren't enough of us to have a hierarchy. And I'm certainly not taking orders from a…"

"Think real hard about how you're going to finish that sentence," Ten interjected.

"New recruit," he concluded.

"This is why we have that rule," Sten said, "Right now, you are bickering like children. You, elf, are allowing him to provoke you to anger rather than putting him in his place. You, man, are trying to assert control that you have not earned. I am beginning to doubt my choice in following you."

"Well maybe we should all follow you then," Ten said.

"That is reasonable," Sten said. He put his cupped hand to his mouth and bellowed, "Soldiers!"

Morrigan and Lelianna, who appeared to be bickering as well, about twenty yards ahead, turned to look at him.

"We are marching to the Deep Roads to confront the Arch Demon," the Qunari declared.

"No we're not," Morrigan said.

"What are you even on about?" Lelianna asked. The two women shrugged, and turned back to the road.

"Well, you tried," said Ten.

"It is not my fault that your people lack discipline. Perhaps you should institute daily beatings."

"Well I know at least one of you who's really chasing one down right now," said Ten.

"Yes, that is what I am trying to say."

"You really don't get subtext do you."

"I don't know what that means."

"I'm making fun of you, Sten. Though you've managed to take most of the fun out of it."

"I see."

They plodded along mostly in silence for the next hour or so. Morrigan and Lelianna seemed to have made peace. About twenty minutes out of town - Ten could see the outline of the great hulking castle on the horizon across an inlet in Lake Calenhad - a young man approached them on the road.

"Are you here to help us?" he asked breathlessly.

"Calm down, man," Ten said, offering him water from a leather flask, which he accepted gratefully, "Who's 'us'?"

"Redcliffe Village," he said, "I'm Tomas, I'm a yeoman with the militia. We've been under attack nightly, and nobody has come to help."

"Well if you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of both a blight and probably a civil war," said Ten.

"A… what and what now?"

"King's dead, the queen's father has made a grab for the throne, and darkspawn are spreading out from the wilds razing farms and villages as they go," she said.

"Well that's not good news," Tomas said, "Seems like there's not a lot of that these days. Who are you, anyway? Never seen an elf armed to the teeth like that."

"Yes, well, it makes you people nervous," she said, "Almost as though you know what you have coming."

"Wait… him there. You!" Tomas said, approaching Alistair, "You're familiar."

"I grew up in Redcliffe," Alistair said.

"Then you'll help, right?"

"Don't suppose we have much of a choice," he said, "What exactly is going on?"

"I don't know exactly. All I know is the castle's been sealed up this past week. And every night, the dead rise and come in ever greater numbers to attack the villagers."

"Well that's… strange. Ten, have you ever heard of that?"

"The dead rising?" Ten said, "Can't say I have. Maybe there's a mage somewhere who got in over his head. Morrigan, you know all about that, what do you think?"

"I've never once been in over my head, thank you very much," the witch said, "But you're right, that sounds like mage nonsense. Though if the village is still standing they're probably just fucking with you."

"Fuck with. More like slaughter," said Tomas.

"Just once I'd like to go the whole day with nobody saying that word," Ten sighed, "All right, I suppose we haven't much of a choice. Lead the way, yeoman."

Chapter Text

The land abruptly dropped off near the end of the road, which split at a great rushing river. The left hand path lead uphill to where a series of bridges connected the mainland to the island where the castle was situated. Two were stone and looked both ancient and sturdy, but the one nearest the mainland was a hack job, a rope-and-board thing that surely wouldn't hold any type of host of warriors. The right hand path lead steeply down to the lake and the village, of which half was built right into the cliffs and the other sprawled out onto wooden docks out into the lake itself. Pretty well defensible, if a nightmare to actually live in.

From the vantage point, Ten could see that makeshift barricades had been cobbled together at every ingress. They set up camp within view of the village, but decidedly outside its boundaries. Morrigan, justifiably nervous about being in civilization within spitting distance of the Circle, which was a few miles up the shore, elected to remain behind and make sure nobody messed with their goods or animals, while the rest of them descended down into the village. Out of the corner of her eye as they left, Ten saw her turn into a wolf, and curl up next to Pigeon.

"Everyone's holed up in the chantry," Tomas said as they stumbled down the right-hand path, past a massive windmill set onto a bluff above the lake where the cliffs and buttes above channeled the wind right to it, and back across the river, "Bann Teagan's in town, I guess Arlessa Isolde managed to get a message to him."

"Isolde! That's that the… lady's name. Well there's some good news. Teagan should know his way around a battlefield," Alistair said, "He's Eamon's younger brother. Bann of Rainsfere."

"See, there, Sten," said Ten, "That's subtext. He said 'lady' but he meant 'bitch.' You see what I'm saying?"

"That is a useless lesson. If this Bann Teagan is a mighty warrior, why is he hiding in the chantry with the children?" Sten asked.

"Not all problems can be solved by hacking about with a sword," Lelianna admonished.

"But this one can."

"Well then," Ten said, "Why don't you go teach those poor sods over there how to do that." She nodded at a group of about ten men who were hacking at practice dummies, "Looks like they barely know which end of a sword to hold."

Sten gave a grunt of approval and strode over to whip the civilians into shape.

The inside of the chantry was Lothering all over again. Dirty, ragged villagers occupied almost every square foot of floor, eerily quiet, even the babies. Barricades had been constructed even there in the sanctuary, and Ten felt the pure stress wafting off everyone in there. The reverend mother of the chantry was standing near the pulpit, talking to who could only be Teagan, given the quality of his clothing. He was younger than Ten had thought he'd be, probably early thirties. Tomas strode up, followed by the strange little band.

"I found these travelers on the road," said Tomas, "A few sword arms."

"Maker's breath," Teagan said, looking up. He walked up to Alistair, put his hands on his shoulders, "When did you get taller than me?"

Probably sometime after your brother tossed him out with the trash, Ten thought.

"It's been awhile," Alistair acknowledged.

"When I learned what happened at Ostagar, I thought the worst," Teagan said, "The official word out of the palace is all of the Grey Wardens perished there after betraying the king. Though I suppose I should know better than to trust the official word out of Teyrn Loghain's mouth. How many of you are there left?"

"Two," said Alistair, "Me and her."

"You," said Teagan, his eyes falling on Ten for the first time. Ah yes, ever the invisible elf. "You're a Grey Warden?"

"Wasn't my idea," said Ten, "But yes."

"Didn't realize they took elves, let alone elf women," he squinted down at her, "Wait, you must the one who..."

"Not this again," Ten sighed in exasperation.

"It may be old news to you, but even the most salacious news out of the capital doesn't get here that quickly. Did you really…"

"Yes," said Ten, "Ax. Deserved it. Would do it again."

"Do I have to worry about you?" he asked, looking at the hatchet hanging from her belt. His tone was joking, but there was an undercurrent of... was that fear? It would make sense. The power in the nobility came from their ability to command others. From the looks of it, there weren't that many folks in Redcliffe left to take orders. If she were to bury that hatchet in his skull, there was not much anyone could do about it. I don't have to be afraid of him. He has to be afraid of me.

"Well that depends," she said, testing a limb, "Do you abuse your power to molest your commonfolk?"

"No!" Teagan exclaimed.

She looked around the Chantry at said commonfolk for confirmation. Nobody had heard her, but the gesture was important. "Then no," she said, relishing in having made him uncomfortable. 

"Well that's good to hear," Teagan said mildly, "And it seems you know quite a bit about prevailing against long odds, so I suppose your presence is appreciated.

"Why don't you tell us exactly what is going on here?"

Teagan sighed, "It started about two weeks ago. Eamon took to his bed, nobody could figure out what was wrong. He's still with us, as far as I know. Then Isolde sent the knights out on her ridiculous quest. It's like whatever is doing this knew the village was not defended."

"As far as you know. So nobody's been in to check?" Alistair asked.

"Well that's the thing. The castle's been sealed up tight as a…" Teagan's eyes fell on Lelianna and he swallowed the comparison he was about to make, "...ship for about a week now. No soldiers on the battlements. The gates are closed. And every night, these… things cross the bridge, fall upon the village. We've lost a third of the villagers and most of the soldiers who remained."

"You're going to have to be more specific than 'things,'" Ten said.

"Walking corpses. Most of them look like they were once soldiers, with their weapons still on them, but some are just… people."

"And they can fight?"

"It's like the muscle memory of a twenty-year veteran is still in them," Teagan said, "It's uncanny."

"Well what else can they do? Can they scale cliffs? Go up stairs?" Alistair asked. Ten could see the gears turning. He'd gotten his teeth in a problem he actually had a chance at solving.

"Stairs yes, cliffs… haven't seen them do that."

"Numbers?"

"More than fifty, less than one hundred."

"And how many fighting men are left?"

"Twenty," said Teagan, "Counting myself. And most of them aren't fighters. They're fisherfolk and farmers who never held a blade before."

"Shit," Alistair said, "How many archers?"

"Six."

"That last bridge across to the castle," said Ten, "It looked like just ropes and boards when we came in."

"It's temporary," said Teagan, "Well, it was supposed to be. An engineer from Val Royeaux was supposed to be in last week to make a plan for something better since the original one was damaged in a storm, but given the unrest he canceled the commission."

"And you say they're coming from the castle, so they have to cross that bridge," said Ten.

"What are you suggesting?" the bann asked.

"Seems simple enough," said Ten, "Wait until the mass of them are on there, burn the bridge. Or cut the ropes if you want to be boring. They go in the lake, problem solved."

"And now the castle is cut off."

"The castle is already cut off. And that bridge is a span of what, twenty feet? Thirty?" Ten said, "The whole thing could be replaced in a day with enough hands. And surely you would rather we have those hands left standing rather than throwing them at a hopeless fight."

"Even if we don't, it's a choke point. If we put archers on the cliffs above the path on the near side of the bridge," Alistair added, "They can pick them off from our side. If you're right and these things can't climb, they can't put up much resistance. Keep the sword arms in the Chantry protecting the civilians."

"They've been known to cross the lake," Teagan said.

"Do they swim or just kind of walk across the bottom?" asked Ten.

"Swim," said Teagan, "It's honestly the most unsettling thing I've ever seen."

"All right," said Ten, "This is a fishing town, I can smell it. They must build and repair boats here as well. There's got to be a supply of tar somewhere."

"Tar?"

"Floats on water, you light it on fire, nobody's swimming across anything," she said.

"You just love lighting things on fire, don't you," Alistair observed.

"Oh, come on. Burning the surface of the lake would be pretty cool," she countered.

"Yeah it would be pretty cool," he admitted.

"Wait, hold on," Teagan said, narrowing his eyes at them, "That would put much of the village at risk."

"The village is its people. You think we should just throw the last twenty able bodied men at their certain death because you want to save a bridge and a few fishing boats?" Ten asked incredulously.

"You're advocating destroying that which we're charged with saving!" Teagan said.

"Bridges and boats and houses can be rebuilt," said Ten, "I know you probably just see the common folk as disposable, but I assure you we are not."

"This is not the time for a class war, Ten," Alistair muttered.

"It's always time for a class war," she said, "Ser, I don't know you, but I don't think you're stupid. So why have you let these people even be in the position they're in? The topography of this land alone should have put you at an advantage. There are cliffs all around - fuck, it's in the name. But no, you've put every able-bodied man - and some of the women, if my little corpse census is correct - in town out on the square with six hours of training and a three foot barricade around them, just waiting to be run through by some undead soldiers because you didn't want to, what, cut your brother's castle off from its lands for a few days?"

Teagan was struck dumb. Clearly nobody had ever spoken to him like this.

"That's the problem with you people," Ten scoffed, "Willing to just throw the rest of us at it with absolutely no regard for the lives lost until you're so helplessly outnumbered that there's an actual existential threat to you."

She turned and stormed out of the Chantry, Lelianna at her heels.

"Did you see his face?" the sister squealed, "You shamed him into next winter. I do so love watching nobles get, what is that charming phrase you Fereldans use? Ah! Knocked down a peg."

"Now that, Lelianna, is a man who hasn't heard the words 'shut the fuck up' nearly enough in his life," Ten grumbled, as they strode out into the town square, "So Sister, do you know your way around a bow?"

"I've been known to dabble," she said.

"We'll need more ranged weaponry up at the cliffs," Ten said, "How about you grab one and test it out?"

"Not a problem," she said. She took a bow from beside another pile of corpses, and went to the makeshift range where the remaining six yeoman were testing theirs out. One of the archers, clearly amused at the sight of a young clergywoman taking up a bow, handed her his quiver. She sent three arrows in swift succession into the very center of the straw target.

"Dabble, huh," Ten said, "You're an absolute crackshot."

"One doesn't like to brag," she said.

"See that? You just got outshot by a nun!" one of the yeomen called to the man whose place she had taken.

"It's not fair, the Maker's probably helping her!" the first protested.

Ten chuckled, and walked out into the larger part of the town square.

"Who's in charge here?" Ten asked a group of four men who'd been standing and talking in tense tones.

"Well apparently it's the qunari now," a middleaged man with a drooping mustache and a harpoon on his back. He gestured to where Sten was putting a dozen swordsmen through their paces, "But until about twenty minutes ago, it was me. Murdock Inman. I'm the mayor of the village, as much of it that's left."

"Ten Tabris," she said, shaking his extended hand, "Look, I don't want to step on any toes here. Well, not yours. But you have to know that this has been an absolute disaster."

"Two of my sisters are on that pyre," said Murdock, "So yes, I am very well aware."

"Sorry to hear that," said Ten, "Look, I have a few ideas. Bann Teagan doesn't like them, but his leadership hasn't exactly done this town any favors from the looks of it."

"I have a few thoughts on the bann myself," Murdock muttered.

"Good man. Now, I'm going to need a vast quantity of tar." She explained her thinking, and the mayor confirmed the path that the unearthly invaders had taken for the previous two nights, and that it would, in fact, not be much of a trick to bring the bridge down. Within the hour, the fishermen were hauling in their boats to save what they could.

"I admit I have no idea how big this lake is," said Ten, "Does it have tides?"

"Barely," one fisherman said, "It's generally quite placid, at least this end of it."

"Good," she said, "My aim here is to get you out of this with minimal casualties. You might lose a few boats."

"Rather lose my boat than my sons," said the fisherman.

"All right, so here's what we're going to do…"

The town shipwright had apparently perished in the first night of fighting, and so she was not there to stop them raiding her workshop.

"We empty the barrels into the bay just before nightfall," Ten said, "I'll be here with some of the swordsmen, and I guess as many of you as can hold a harpoon. There'll be archers up on the cliff there." She pointed, "And we're going to bring down that shitty ass bridge. If any of them survive, we light the lake on fire, and none of them will be coming here. If they do, harpoon time."

"Glad someone with half a brain showed up," said Murdock, "I'm tired of burning people I love."

Satisfied that the fishermen knew their part, Ten climbed the path up to the bridge to the castle. She found Alistair there, examining the bridge.

"How much trouble am I in?" she asked. She walked out onto the bridge and jumped up and down a few times. Damn thing was rickety as hell. She was impressed the sheer weight of a hundred walking corpses hadn't already brought it down.

"Well considering I've already sawn halfway through two of those ropes, quite a lot at the moment," Alistair said.

"Shit," she said, scurrying back to land.

"As for Teagan," he said, once she'd reached solid ground, "I managed to soothe his ego. I don't think he'll try to have you hanged. But you might want to think about easing up on the whole… insulting the aristocracy to their faces bit."

"Oh come on, he deserved it," said Ten, "Anyway, I thought Grey Wardens were above the law."

"If you had not noticed, the Kingdom of Ferelden is not honoring that treaty these days," Alistair said wryly, "But you're right about the first bit. The cliffs alone should have been an advantage, even if the village was outnumbered. If he'd thought for a second, he could have avoided most of the casualties. I think he has some sort of mental block about this place being his brother's and not his, so has this idea that he can't do anything to change it."

"It doesn't belong to his brother," said Ten, "It belongs to the villagers."

"Are you any good with a bow?" he asked, changing the subject to avoid a lecture on the natural rights of the common folk.

"Never held one in my life," Ten replied.

"We're going to have to work on that, I don't like your chances hand to hand with an undead knight."

"I don't have good chances hand to hand with pretty much anyone," she said, "But climbing, jumping, and throwing things have served me well."

"Can you climb up that cliff right there, tell me what you see from the top?" he gestured at the base of a cliff that thrust up to the north of where bridge met the land that would give her a view into the castle across the lake.

"I will need a boost onto that first ledge, but I can take it from there," she said.

At the top of the cliff, Ten could see down into the town on one side and into the castle courtyard on the other. "I've got a clear shot to the portcullis from here!" she shouted, "It'd be like fish in a barrel for a skilled archer, and apparently the good sister has been hiding her talents from us."

"Lelianna, really?"

"Yeah, she just publicly emasculated every yeoman in town. Except the one girl," said Ten, "Put her up here I think we're in pretty good shape."

"Can you see into the courtyard?"

"Yes. Nothing's moving, but there is a…. disturbingly large pile of corpses right in the middle of it. I suspect that's the source of our little problem," She flinched and nearly tumbled back off as a bright light flashed from one of the guard towers, "Someone's signaling with a mirror in the sunlight." She waved her hand over her head. She couldn't see through the arrow slit where the light had come from but there were two more flashes. "Someone's alive in there!"

"Well that's the first good news of the day."

"I guess not all is lost," she said. She clambered back down the cliff and jumped the last six feet.

"We still have to survive the night."

"Sun's getting low," she admitted, "I'm going to go see about lighting the lake on fire."

"That is gonna look so cool."

"Right? Can't believe Teagan's mad about that."

She made her way down the path back to the village, where Sten was now fencing with a burly militiaman and Lelianna was standing behind one of the archers, adjusting her posture with a hand on the small of her back.

"Might be time to head up to the hills," Ten suggested, "Take a look at it in daylight so you don't get confused in the dark."

Lelianna nodded, "Come on let's go." The archers, who had apparently in the intervening hour decided that the sister should be in charge, followed her up the path to the cliffs.

"Miss Tabris, a word," Teagan called to her as she passed the chantry.

Ugh, here we go. She strode up to him, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited for the lecture that was sure to come.

"Let me guess," she said, "You're about to call me an uppity knife-eared bitch and warn me about taking that tone with my betters."

"What? No!" he exclaimed, color rising to his cheeks, "I was going to say that I appreciate the help you are giving us. And you may have had a point with the tactics - well, lack thereof - I had employed. I'm not a military man. The war was over by the time I was old enough to hold a sword. I've never had to command troops in battle."

"Neither have I. I'm just a street rat from Denerim who's used to being outnumbered," she said.

"Yes, I can tell by how you talk," he said, though more like he was giving her a friendly ribbing than actually criticizing her, "Mile a minute, grating accent, overly aggressive…"

"Well you should hear what we say about the provincials," she said dismissively.

"You seem very dedicated to saving as many of them as possible," he said.

"I'm not a monster," she said, "Look, if it's any comfort, I was just on the cliff across from the castle and someone in there had the wherewithal to signal me with a mirror in the sun. Damn near blinded me. Someone's alive in there."

"That is good to know," said Teagan, "I imagine once this is dealt with you're going to go storming in there next."

"That was the plan," said Ten, though she hadn't actually thought about it. It should be the plan, though. If whatever was causing all this was in the castle, that was the next logical step, though she didn't relish the idea of storming a castle with twenty men.

"There's a back way in," said Teagan, "Someone… probably the Avvars, managed to tunnel under the lake, from the bluff with the windmill on it, into the dungeons of the castle. The tunnel's been there ever since. Nobody's really supposed to know about it."

"But you're telling a random elf you just met two hours ago?"

"You're a Grey Warden," he said, "And from the probably sensationalized word out of the capital about you, you know a bit about sneaking around in castles."

"I suppose I do," she said, "But the daylight's waning. I've got to go light a lake on fire."

"It's gonna look pretty cool isn't it," the bann admitted.

"Well, if it doesn't work, when we meet the Maker we can tell Him how we went out in style," she said.

On the end of a wharf, surrounded by the grizzled fisherfolk, Ten stood, her eyes on the castle across the water as the sun slowly sank behind it. They had soaked the wood of the docks in water before pouring a film of tar on the surface of the lake and buckets were at the ready in case they, in fact, lit the whole place up.

A torch in one hand and the other on her ax, she tried to keep her breathing even as the last light finally died away. She stood there, her eyes turned upward and fixed upon the great portcullis in the distance. The moon began to rise, and she caught movement on the horizon. There was a groan that echoed across the silent town and lake, for apparently every other man and beast there was also holding its breath. The gate opened, and with an eerie glow, the host of the dead started across the bridge.

She could hear the zip of the arrows as half a dozen of the ambling corpses fell as they left the castle gates. She held her breath as another volley laid a few more low. Those still ambulatory pushed their fallen compatriots out of the way and made for the bridge. The archers continued firing, the corpses continued to fall, until the bulk of the host made it out of the portcullis and onto the bridge. Come on, she thought there's no way that bridge is going to hold.

As they tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get to the far side and murder those on it, she saw one rope snap, and then the other. Alistair had cut the bridge, top and bottom, only on one corner, leaving the bulk of it intact but now unstable enough to send forty or more of the unsuspecting dead sideways and down a hundred feet into the lake. She watched the sky and a fiery arrow sailed over the lake. She knelt and touched her torch to the surface. The film of tar that the fisherfolk had spread over it went up in an instant, forming a carpet of flame on the lake's still water. She watched as the walking corpses - no longer walking but floating - went up like kindling, floating amid the flames on the water and exploded as the gasses trapped within them ignited.

"Oh that is… foul," Murdock commented.

"It is probably not going to smell great around here for a good while," said Ten.

"I'll take that over the rest of us being slaughtered."

The tar on the lake burned for more than an hour while more corpses poured from the castle and, the ones who did not find the wrong end of an arrow had no choice but to drop into the lake or try to climb, hand over hand, on the bridge, which was now only attached on three sides and swayed dangerously every time another of them got on it. The sequence of zip - splash - pop as they were shot down, hit the water, and then exploded from the methane within became a macabre rhythm, until the flood of them out of the castle became a trickle, and eventually the last one toddled out, and was welcomed with an arrow clean through its head.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"Looks like all of them," said Murdock, "Probably. Let's not get our hopes up."

They took turns keeping watch, harpoons at the ready, and sleeping sitting up with their backs against the walls of various houses until the sun came up over the mountains to east, when all of them tromped back to the town square. The archers had already reassembled -  exhausted, but largely unhurt.

"That was hardly an honorable fight," Sten, who had been positioned outside the chantry door, blocking nearly the whole thing, and brandishing a two-handed sword in case any of the dead made it down the path or out of the lake. To his disappointment, none had.

"Next time we'll send you in solo," said Ten, "Casualties?"

"Only my pride," muttered one of the male yeomen, "Shamed by a nun."

"Two fishing boats," said one of the militiamen, "One of the docks got singed pretty badly, it will probably need to be replaced."

"Even the bridge is salvageable," one of the yeomen said, "Just need to run a new line. Could get it done before nightfall."

Ten looked pointedly at Teagan, but said nothing further, and went to take a nap in the Chantry.

Chapter Text

She awoke at noon to Alistair shaking her gently by the shoulder. "Fuck do you want," she groaned.

"We've got to get up to the castle and deal with whatever this is before nightfall. We're not a hundred percent sure we've actually dealt with the threat to the village, and they are fresh out of tar," he said, "I'm sorry, you're going to have to wake up."

"Why can't you and Teagan just go," she whined, "You know the lay of the land in there and I'm pretty useless in close quarters, you said so yourself."

"Ten, come on," he said.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling over and rising. The prayer mat she'd been sleeping on had done little to shield her from the hardwood floor, and her back was paying the price.

"We'll leave Lelianna and Sten to make sure the village is in good hands if there's another issue with… whatever that was," he said.

"All right," she said. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her back out, "All right. I'm up. Let's go."

She followed him up the path towards the windmill, where Teagan was pacing before it. He was not alone there. He appeared to be arguing with a woman wearing a fine blue gown in the Orlesian style, her hair up in a gilded net. As they drew nearer, she felt Alistair tense beside her.

"That the bitch who evicted you?" Ten asked.

"The very one," he replied.

"Want me to fight her?" Ten asked.

"What?"

"Do you want me to fight her?" she asked more slowly, enunciating her consonants, keeping 'her' from coming out as 'huh,' reminded of Teagan's comment on the grating accents of capital denizens.

"No, I understood you the first time," he said, "That was a 'what' of astonishment."

"Given everything you know about me, are you really surprised I'd start a catfight with a noblewoman?"

"No, more that you'd start a catfight with a noblewoman on my account."

"I have a keenly developed sense of justice," Ten said, and started to call out to the bann, but paused as she saw how the and the arlessa were interacting, "Wait. They haven't seen us yet. Hold a moment, I want to watch.".

"Watch what?"

"Just look at the two of them."

The bann had stopped pacing, and was standing still. The arlessa had both her hands on Teagan's chest and seemed to be begging him for something. He was holding her at arm's length, but their heads were tilted towards each other.

"Now see what happens. Bann Teagan!" Ten shouted and waved, picking up her pace.

The bann and his sister–in-law all but jumped apart, springing up and away like two drops of water tossed into a pan of hot oil.

"Grey Warden!" Teagan shouted, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, "This is the Arlessa Isolde. It seems she's been told by… whatever's up there that I need to return to the castle with her."

"My lady," Ten said, nodding. Isolde, like Teagan, was younger that she had imagined, probably no older than thirty-five. But she looked exhausted, bags under her eyes, her face drawn.

"You are a Grey Warden?" the arlessa asked incredulously. She had a pronounced Orlesian accent, far worse than Lelianna's.

"It was a surprise for me too," said Ten, "What is going on in there?"

"Teagan, what are the Grey Wardens doing here?"

"They defended the village, your village all last night," Teagan said.

"Well I thank you for that, I suppose," she said, "But Teagan, you need to come back with me now. And just you. It's the only way. Most of the staff are dead, and I think Connor has gone mad."

"The only way for what?" asked Ten.

"Would you mind your business, elf?" Isolde snapped.

Ten instinctively grabbed one earlobe to take her earrings out, but remembered she wasn't wearing any.

"Hey, you don't get to talk to her like that," Alistair exclaimed, stepping between them, clearly afraid Ten was going to make good on her previous offer.

"What? You? And what are you doing here?" the arlessa demanded.

"Grey Wardens," Teagan said again, "I apologize for my sister-in-law, Miss Tabris, she is clearly not in good form. Isolde, tell them what you told me."

"The… issues we've been having are due to a mage who infiltrated the castle. He has poisoned my husband! He said he was sent by agents of Teyrn Loghain."

"With what?" Ten asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What kind of poison?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Isolde, "I'm not a physician. How would I know?"

"Well, what happened to him? Stomach cramps? Fatigue? Dizziness? Paralysis?"

"I don't know!" Isolde protested, "He's been bedridden for weeks! And now, there are just… all sorts of creatures, and Connor has gone mad! Teagan, you must come. He respects you. Perhaps you can reason with him."

"Listen," Teagan said, "You two go down through the dungeons on your own. I'll go back with Isolde. We'll probably run into each other on the other end."

"I don't like it," Ten said, looking suspiciously at the arlessa, "Smells like an ambush."

"Still," said Teagan, "I think it would be for the best. Take my signet ring, it'll unlock a trapdoor in the northern quarter of the mill. Probably covered with several years worth of chaff."

Ten took it, pocketed it, and nodded, looking suspiciously at the arlessa and her brother-in-law. "If you say so," she said.

The bann and the arlessa made their way back up the path to where some goodhearted villager had done a halfassed repair to the nearest bridge. Ten watched until they were out of earshot.

"They're having an affair," said Ten, "Or they have in the past. Or they want to. Something's going on."

"That's a hell of an accusation," Alistair responded, wrinkling his nose, "What makes you think that?"

"If I'm upset and being comforted by someone else's husband in a totally platonic and not-at-all inappropriate way, I don't jump out of my skin the moment someone sees me," said Ten.

"That's… oh no that is terribly awkward. You actually have a point."

"And that little display is very interesting in the context of the Arl's mysterious illness. She came right out and said it was poison. Given that she seems to be beside herself with her husband's condition, it's strange that she couldn't describe any symptoms."

"You don't think…"

"I'm just saying we should keep an open mind," said Ten, "Devious wives don't raise the dead, after all. But, and I say this as someone in the industry, the biggest buyers for the bad stuff are women who are… dissatisfied in their marriages."

"And you sold it to them?"

"I can't very well tell someone living in the slums of Denerim they can't have rat poison," she said.

"Once we're in there I'm sure we can satisfy that dark and terrifying space between your ears," said Alistair, "We're not doing any favors standing here speculating.

Ten took the barb stoically and pushed open the doors to the windmill. The thing hadn't been used in months, it seemed, but the dust still hung in the air, and she immediately sneezed four or five times in a row. She went to the north end of it and rummaged on the floor until she found the trapdoor Teagan had described. There was, indeed, a place that would take the seal on the great signet ring, far too large for any of her fingers. She inserted it, heard a click, and felt a mechanism move beneath the floor. Lifting with her knees, she got it open. A ladder descended into the darkness below.

"Didn't plan on seeing another dungeon for years," she sighed to herself, "All right. Get to it, Tabris." She slid through, scrambled down the ladder, and stood there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to dim torchlight. She heard the thump of Alistair climbing down after her, his breath behind her.

"It is, indeed, the dungeons," he confirmed, "If my memory serves me, there are six cells, three on each side. Beyond those there's a store room, then a staircase that'll spit us out near the chapel. Then there are the kennels, servant's quarters, kitchen. That'll get us out into the courtyard."

"I can't see for shit," Ten said, "Can you?"

"Not well," he said, "But I know where things are. Come on."

From far away, they heard someone call out. "Is there someone there?!"

"Definitely came from a cell," Alistair said.

"Who do they even lock up around here?" Ten scoffed, "People who stay up past nine at night?"

"How would I know? I was eight, I didn't exactly serve on the judiciary."

"Who's there?" she called out.

"I'm here. In the cell. There are about six of those animated corpses out there. They'll get the bars out of the stone soon. Please!" It was a man's voice. Young, but not that young. Flat accent from the Bannorn.

Ten grabbed the hatchet by her side in her right hand and the dagger she'd started keeping strapped to her left boot in the other. She felt Alistair's hand on her shoulder.

"Let me run in there like an idiot. Their weapons are old and rusted, saw them on the bridge last night, they won't hold up to chain. Just get behind them while they're distracted and do what you do best."

She readied her weapons while he, indeed, ran in there like an idiot. Four of those… things sprang to life and surrounded him, hacking with swords which, indeed, looked like they'd seen better days.

The adrenaline pumping, she followed. Up close, they were… squishier than she'd anticipated watching them fall into the lake of fire. She stuck her hatchet in one of their skulls with one hand and slice her dagger through the ankle of a second. She then ducked and rolled out of the way as Alistair's longsword swung around and threatened to cut her off at the knees. The other two fell, and they stood there, in the half dark, as two more rose and advanced on them.

She went first, using her low center of gravity to barrel into one of the corpses, which was dreadfully spongy when she finally made contact with it. Getting it to the ground, she took off one arm with her hatchet, and stabbed up with her dagger into its chin and up into whatever was still in its skull. It stopped moving, and she turned to see if any help was needed with the other. It was not, for its severed head had plopped to the floor.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"Not badly," Alistair called, "Wait… oh, that's not good."

"Where were you hit?"

"I don't want to alarm you, but this is bleeding quite a bit," he said.

"Where?"

"My leg. Shit. That's… quite a lot."

She rushed back to him, where indeed, a dark pool was forming on the flagstones of the dungeon.

"You are correct, that is not good," she sighed. She went through her pack, but in the dim light could not discern what was a coagulant and what was a fearsome poison, "Shit. I really have to start color coding these."

"Let me out and I'll fix it," the voice they had heard before said, "I'm a mage."

Ten looked, and for the first time saw the silhouette of a young man wearing the robes of a Circle mage behind the bars of a cell.

"What were you in there for?" she asked suspiciously.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "Free me, or he's going to bleed out and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Fuck," Ten cursed, "Fine." She felt for the wall, then the bars, then the lock on it. Frantically, she found by feel two hairpins she'd made a habit of keeping in her pocket. Daveth's voice echoed in her head. You find the thingy, and wiggle the other thingy. The damn thing clicked, the bars swung open, and the whole room was suddenly bathed in light as the mage applied whatever magic he knew.

"Well," muttered Alistair, sitting up slowly, "That could have gone badly."

"But it didn't, thanks to me," the mysterious mage said, sitting back on his heels, "Please keep that in mind."

"You have a name, convenient mage?" asked Ten.

"Jowan," he said, "Lately of the Ferelden Circle."

"But you're not in the Ferelden Circle," she pointed out, "That's up the coast a bit. What are you doing here?"

"I suppose keeping secrets will do me no good at this point. I am here because Lady Isolde, in her infinite wisdom, hired me to tutor her son Connor."

"Why would she hire a mage for that? And how'd that land you in the dungeon?"

"The child is a mage," he sighed, "She had this harebrained idea that she was going to teach him to hide it and avoid him going off to the Circle and losing everything."

"How old's Connor?"

Alistair thought for a moment, "Probably eleven by now?"

"That's old, isn't it," said Ten, looking to Jowan for confirmation.

"Very," said Jowan, "It's when the magic starts mixing with the puberty and a dangerous situation becomes… explosive."

"And I thought I had an awkward phase," muttered Ten.

"Did the Arl know?" asked Alistair.

"I don't think so," said Jowan, "I was strictly forbidden from telling him."

"But he never, you know, noticed?" asked Ten, "Seems like something you'd notice about your child. I'm pretty sure my dad would have realized I was raising the dead before it became a threat to the whole neighborhood."

"And why didn't you take him to the Circle yourself?" Alistair asked.

"I don't have a great history with the Circle," Jowan sighed.

"Oh, I don't like that, that only means one thing," Alistair said.

"I only dabbled!" said Jowan.

"No, once a blood mage, always a blood mage," Alistair declared, "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"I've only been stuck in here, alone in the dark, for I don't even know how long," said Jowan, "And the good lady of this land had me tortured. I've only just finished putting the bones of my hands back where they were. So yes, I have a good idea of how dangerous you people think it is."

"But she hired you," said Ten, "She went and sought out an apostate mage to try to keep her son from the Circle. She's as guilty as you are. Unless you did something else."

"I… just don't know," he said.

"Jowan, did you have something to do with the Arl's condition?"

"There is a document up there with my signature on it that says I poisoned him," said Jowan, "But I genuinely have no memory of this."

"Seems like someone one would remember," said Ten, "And it occurs to me that if you've been down here, and you were, indeed, the culprit, there has been nobody up there. Usually when you want a poison to mimic a slow decline, you need to keep dosing them."

"Ten, not to impugn your impeccable if terrifying expertise in this field, but he confessed," Alistair pointed out.

"He said he was tortured," said Ten, "And a man being tortured can be made to say pretty much anything you want."

"And how, exactly, do you know that?" Alistair asked, looking at her sideways.

"Trial and error," she said, "Obviously."

"Oh, but I'm the scary one," Jowan scoffed, "Better toss her in the cell before she shows up with hot irons and thumbscrews. And who are you people anyway?"

"I'm a felon and he's a templar," said Ten, "So why don't you think really hard about your next move. How useful are you to us? Can you help the kid? Make the whole dead-rising-every-night thing stop?"

"Well the corpses are likely not really his fault. Not entirely. The thing with young people with magic who haven't learned to control it is they're susceptible to being possessed."

"Ugh. Possession. I hate to say it," Alistair said, taking in the information and thinking about it for a short while, "We're probably going to have to kill the kid."

"All right, well now all three of us have said something terrible," said Ten, "But 'probably' is not 'definitely' so I think it's time to redeem yourself, Master Blood Mage. You are going to clean up the mess you made."

"Ten, he's a blood mage," Alistair protested.

"I know," she said, "In fact I just called him that. But here's the thing, he's just saved your life. He hasn't tried to end either of us, and I'm sure just given the quantity of the stuff you've just lost, he could do it if he damn well wanted to."

"I'm not throwing in with a blood mage," Alistair declared, crossing his arms.

"I'm not suggesting we throw in with a blood mage," said Ten, "But I'm not going to put an ax in his skull when he's done nothing but favors for us."

"I have no interest in either of your lives," said Jowan, "You've been decent. And, I can help the child, or at the very least tell you how to help him."

"So will you come with us?" she asked.

"Wait wait wait," Alistair protested, "This is one of your insane plans, Ten, this actually is the craziest thing you've ever said. Stop it."

"No, I will not be coming with you," said Jowan, "I'm weak. I've been down here for I don't know how long. They tortured me within an inch of my life. They stopped feeding me three days ago. I don't have the energy to fight whatever abominations that child has called up. I just used up the rest of my strength closing up that artery in your leg, Ser, which you're welcome for, by the way. So I'll be waiting right here until I'm satisfied the two of you very frightening strangers have dealt with whatever's up there," He stepped back and into the darkness.

"So are you actually fixed?" Ten asked.

"I'm in fighting shape," sighed Alistair.

"Let's get to it, then."

They stalked through the next room to where a spiral staircase was precisely where Alistair had said it would be.

"Did you really want me to let you bleed out?" Ten asked.

"You didn't know at the time," Alistair said, "But now you do! And you're just letting him walk away!"

"If you can look that man in the eye and shove a sword in his chest after he patched you up, there's not a lot I can do to stop you."

He looked behind him into the darkness, sighed, and turned back to the stairs.

"You've got a strange set of scruples. Did you really torture someone?"

"No, but there was this one time I was having a friendly conversation with a man at a time when he happened to have a series of gruesome accidents with his printing press. He would have confessed to lighting Andraste's pyre himself to make it stop."

"Wait... wait... they weren't accidents, were they."

"Guardsman's report says they were."

"Teneira, what exactly was your job in Denerim?"

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you that I ran a potions shop."

"Well what did you do in your free time?"

"Hack men up with axes, obviously."

She heard him take a breath to say something, then something else, but then wisely decide that the two of them had far worse things to worry about.

Chapter Text

The main floor was eerily silent as they moved up the stairs as quietly as they could. The light was better up here, but the whole place had taken on a grim feeling. It didn't smell wonderful either, not the in-your-face stink of a canal in high summer, but an edge of rot that tickled Ten's brain in a way she decidedly did not enjoy. She paused in the servants' chapel, taking in the very expensive tapestries on the walls.

"I really have to insist we don't light anything on fire here," Alistair said.

"Oh come on," said Ten.

"You want to bring down the Maker's wrath? Go ahead, I'll have no part of it when you get struck by lightning and carried off by packs of righteous wolves."

"I don't think that's in the Chant."

"Do you even know what's in the Chant?" he asked skeptically.

"... got me there," she admitted.

She sighed and turned to move cautiously into a hallway. It appeared to be some sort of common room for the servants, and it was actually rather well-appointed. Rough-hewn but clean tables and chairs, a not uncomfortable looking couch, and a few bookshelves filled with some actually quite salacious literature. Footlockers, belonging to servants probably long dead, lined a large storage shelf that was recessed into the wall at around seven feet, and filled two of the three large alcoves above each of the three doors. She stepped closer to one door and paused as she heard at least seven low growls from the other side. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of dog shit and rotting flesh.

"Assuming that's the kennels," she said, "Do you suppose anyone's been feeding the hounds? Smells like they already took care of the kennelmaster."

"Doubt it," said Alistair, "But hungry dogs don't know the difference between friend, foe, and food."

"They also can't climb," said Ten looking at the empty storage alcove above the door. It could have fit probably six of the footlockers, and so would likely accommodate one man and one elf so long as they folded themselves up.

"If you'd put half as much effort into being a better fighter as you do into figuring out how to avoid a battle, all of this would be much simpler," he pointed out.

"I could be the best trained fighter in the world and it still wouldn't matter the minute I'm in close quarters and something bigger and stronger gets its hands on me," she said, "So forgive me if I try to avoid it as much as possible."

"That's when you usually stick it with something poisonous, no?"

"Sure, and that'd work on a person, or a darkspawn, but I highly doubt it'll work on something animated by magic," she said.

"So you're going to release a pack of starving half-feral war dogs," The words were skeptical, but the tone conveyed that he was coming around to it.

"Well you didn't want me to set anything on fire. Think we can both fit up there?" she asked gesturing at the storage loft.

"Probably."

"All right. You get up there in that alcove, I'll throw the deadbolt, and hope like hell I can get up there before the dogs realize the door's unbarred."

"Are you sure you don't want me to do that?"

"If I'm slower or the dogs are faster than I'm planning on, I'm relying on you to pull me out of there. If you asked me to do the same I'm afraid you'll be disappointed and also chewed to pieces," she said.

"Ah. Yes. Chewed to pieces wasn't on my agenda for the day."

She approached the door to the kennel cautiously. She could hear panting and whining behind it. She flinched as one of them sounded like it had thrown its entire weight against it.

"Fuck," she muttered.

"Come on," Alistair said, "This is your harebrained scheme to get out of a fair fight, don't lose your nerve now." He'd procured a sturdy ladder from the other end of the room and leaned it up against the door to the kennel. He crawled up it and, crouching, situated himself in the alcove.

She sighed, and steeled herself. She reached out, and pulled the deadbolt loose. She had time to get two steps up the ladder and her hands on the ledge above her before the door flew open, knocking the ladder to the floor. Before she could fall, Alistair had caught her under the arms and helped her scramble the rest of the way into the little hiding place, one foot narrowly missing being clamped between the slavering jaws below.

"They get you?"

"Nah," said Ten.

"So what now?" he said, "We're basically treed."

"They're making a lot of noise," she said, tucking both legs under her as the hounds snapped and growled and jumped at her, "If there's anything else between us and the courtyard, it's probably going to come and investigate."

"And if there's not?"

"Then it's your time to shine."

"What?!"

"You're the one who wanted a fair fight."

He looked down at the jumping, growling pack below them, "So, what, we just wait here?"

"Have some patience, man," she scolded, "Would it kill you to just sit with your own thoughts for five minutes?"

"Oh sure, because when you're being snapped at by a bunch of hounds is just the best time for meditation."

"You need to learn to just tune it out," Ten said, "If you pay attention to everything that's out there to kill you, you just go mad… oh wait, shit, here they are."

She thought after the night she'd had she would have been used to the eerie, jerky movements of the animated corpses that began pouring into the room, but they were even more unsettling up close. The hounds, who hadn't eaten in several days at this point smelled a richer and far more pungent meal than the one they had cornered, and turned their attention to the walking dead, barreling into them, ripping and slashing and taking down mouthfuls of half rotten flesh while its original owners were still walking about.

"Oh, that's…" Alistair breathed, "That is disgusting."

"Rather impressive," Ten said as one of the dogs successfully disemboweled one of the corpses and began running around the room, unraveling intestines as it went, "Well, there's a lesson in anatomy I suppose."

"It'd look rather festive if it didn't smell so terrible."

"Holiday decorations in the Tevinter Imperium."

"The very height of fashion."

"I'll let you tell Isolde we redecorated."

"This might actually beat my all time best work," he said.

"What's the previous record?"

"I spent the summer when I was nine catching frogs and kept them in the reserve cistern in the kitchens. Nobody ever used it. Nobody even knew they were there until I opened it up during the grandest party of the year."

"Why does everyone love frog pranks? What did the frogs ever do to you?"

"Oh, the frogs were fine. Most of them made it out. But you could hear the fine ladies squealing all the way down the docks."

"Glad I'm not the only former juvenile delinquent in the room," Ten chuckled.

"Well, Isolde did have her footman beat the absolute tar out of me afterwards. Probably my first concussion…"

"Whoa whoa whoa," she protested, "You're also catching up to me in the 'randomly saying something incredibly dark like it's normal' department."

"What, your dad never hit you?"

"Not to the point of knocking me out," she said, "Maybe a swat upside the head here and there, but he's more the lecture-and-grave-disappointment type."

"And that's why you grew up to be an ax murderer and I grew up to be… holed up in a storage loft with an ax murderer."

"Wait… what in the fuck is that?" she asked. The trickle of corpses had stopped, but at the end of them was a… thing. It looked like nothing so much as if a bonfire had sprouted legs and started moving. Something about it set her spine tingling and chilled her blood where it ran.

"That would be a demon," Alistair declared, clearly happy to know something that she did not.

"A demon? Those are real?!" Ten reacted, her voice rising several octaves from pure existential dread.

"Of course they are. And you didn't have to make that noise right in my ear."

"Well I'd jump down and do it again several feet away except apparently there's a fucking demon there! I thought they were just a metaphor! Something the sisters made up to scare us!"

"So this whole time you're defending the blood mage, you didn't know that they tend to attract literal actual demons?"

"Well fuck," she said, "No, but… fuck. I have to rethink some of my life choices."

"Well if it helps, the dogs seem to have this one under control," he pointed out.

"Of all the strange things I've seen, this might be the strangest," she said, "Never seen dogs take apart a sentient fire… thing… damn. So they can be killed? Like, you hit them and they go down?"

"Generally, yes. They actually can't take much of a hit, you mostly have to worry about them getting in your head. I've seen a new templar turn and walk right off of a cliff when instructed to," said Alistair, "But that one, the walking bonfire, isn't that sort. It'll just get in your face, the worst it can do is scare the shit out of you and singe your eyebrows off."

"How long do we give it before we conclude it's safe to go down?"

"Not too long, I hope, my legs are going numb. And I think I'm deaf in my left ear now, thanks for that."

"You're welcome. Well I don't see anything else coming out of… whatever is down there," said Ten. The dogs had ceased their snarling and were happily munching on what they had already killed.

"What.... what happened here?"

They looked down to see that Jowan had arrived to the unsettling sight and smell of various body parts strewn around the room. The hounds who were still awake - for some had curled up in the gory mess to sleep it off - looked up at him, but did not react. The mage put a hand over his mouth and gagged, but managed to keep whatever he'd taken in down, though Ten imagined that had not been much if the jailer had stopped coming three days before.

"The dogs got loose," said Ten.

"Did you… let the dogs loose?" the mage asked.

"Maybe," said Ten, "See anything else out there?"

"I'm not looking while you hide in the ceiling," Jowan said.

"Fine," she relented, and jumped to the floor, hand on her hatchet

The three of them stepped gingerly over the sleeping hounds and piles of corpses, moved out through the kitchens, and into the courtyard - where the corpses Ten had seen from the cliff across the inlet were no longer lying in wait. It did appear as though every nasty creature in the place had been attracted to the fight outside the kennels and subsequently perished.

Well, except for one. Lady Isolde was sitting with her head in her hands on the long staircase up to the castle's main entrance. Ten strode up right up to her.

"You made it!" Isolde exclaimed as she saw Ten approaching. She ran up to her, expecting… Ten didn't know. A squishy hug? A comforting pat on the back? In any case, it certainly wasn't the palm of Ten's hand - the left one with the ring on it - across her face hard enough to make a sound that echoed around the courtyard and mountains above.

"Tell me, my lady," Ten said, finally taller than someone as the noblewoman fell back on her ass on the flagstones, more shocked than hurt. "What part of this was planned and what part of it was you being an idiot?"

"How dare you!?" Isolde spat, "I see the Grey Wardens have made you forget your place!" She scrambled to her feet, "I will have you whipped for that, elf!"

"By whom?"

"Guards!" Isolde shouted. Her voice echoed through the empty space. Nobody came. "Guards!" she shouted again. Nothing. Isolde looked around. Indeed, everyone who had been on her payroll looked to have been killed, resurrected, and killed again. Isolde looked over to the two men who had accompanied Ten, both hanging back in the doorway, watching the proceedings with fascination and fear. 

"Don't look at them," said Ten, "You're talking to me now. Where's Teagan? You take advantage of whatever misplaced affections he has for you to get him up here and feed him to the demons?"

She ducked as the arlessa lost her temper and took a swing at her, missed by a mile, and tripped over her skirts, tumbling facefirst onto the flagstones. Ten dragged her up by the back of her collar and got right in her face, speaking lowly.

"And what happened to your husband? What, you couldn't take the old man yourself?" Ten whispered, "Had to have him poisoned?"

The accusation enraged the arlessa enough to struggle free of her grasp, ripping the back of her dress in the process, turn, and catch Ten across her left cheek with four long and unnecessarily sharp nails. Ten's eyes watered, but she made another grab, got ahold of the arlessa's long ashblonde braid, fallen free of its gilded net, and jerked her head back so hard Isolde made a noise that was between a grunt and a sob, and Ten was able to get her forearm across her throat, and forcibly turn her face to look at the men in the doorway.

"Now you can look. You see, I found your pet blood mage," she said, right in her ear, "I didn't even have to torture him to get him to spill your secrets. So again I ask you, what was planned, and what was stupidity?"

To her astonishment, the arlessa's face crumpled, and she started sobbing.

Maker's breath, this is probably how she gets out of everything.

"I just wanted to help my son," Isolde keened, "Surely you must understand. He's only a little boy!"

Any pity Ten had for her flew away like a flock of pigeons before an unruly toddler. She shoved her, loosing her collars, but gave her a final smack upside the head for good measure and then backed off, satisfied the arlessa wasn't going to try anything else. She assessed the scratches on her own face with the back of her hand. They stung, and they were bleeding, but she'd certainly had worse from better.

"If the Circle is too restrictive, you surely have the means to send your son abroad," said Ten, "What was the point of trying to have him hide?"

"Abroad? Where his family name that means nothing? That is worse," she said. 

"Worse than this?" Ten demanded incredulously, gesturing broadly at the courtyard around them. The rusty stain where the pile of corpses had been. The silent battlements with no guards left to defend them, "You expected him to go through his entire life pretending to be something he's not, just so he could keep his title?!"

"I've created a monster," Isolde admitted through her tears, "Jowan!" she wailed, "I'm sorry. Just tell me how to fix it!"

"I could…" started Jowan, hesitantly approaching the women, but keeping enough distance that he could escape if the claws came out again, "I could enter the Fade and attempt to get him away from whatever demon has him in his clutches. It's just… I would need a sacrifice."

"No, no, absolutely not," Alistair protested, grabbing the mage by his shoulder harder than was necessary, "We are not fixing blood magic with more blood magic. I'm sorry, Isolde, but you know what happens to possessed mages."

"You would say that. I won't let that happen. Not my Connor. He's still in there. He comes through sometimes! You can kill me, do whatever you need," Isolde said, looking at Jowan, "I'm responsible for this."

Ten sensed movement out of the corner of her eye, and saw that Teagan had exited the main hall who knows how long before, and chosen that moment to approach the group, passing wary eyes over the strange group, particularly the two women, both of whom were bleeding.

"What... happened?" he asked Alistair.

"Teagan!" exclaimed Isolde, extricating herself from the conversation and appealing to her brother-in-law for help. He stepped back before she could reach him, and she settled for holding her bloody nose and looking generally pathetic.

"How much of that did you see?" asked Ten, finding her kerchief in one pocket and dabbing at the fresh gouges on her face. How much trouble am I in this time?

"Enough," said Teagan, "Isolde, would you like to tell me why I just spent fifteen minutes telling the filthiest jokes I've ever heard to your eleven year old son with absolutely no control over what came out of my mouth?"

"It doesn't matter," Isolde insisted, "This… elf attacked me!" She swiped one finger under her nose and held up her hand as though it were some grand bit of evidence.

"She misjudged a punch and fell her face on the ground," Alistair said.

Isolde muttered a fairly dirty word in Orlesian, which didn't really have a direct translation but Ten understood to mean someone who did unspeakable things to barnfowl.

"Where is Connor now, if he's not messing with your head?" asked Ten.

"A very loud sound from the courtyard scared him. He legged it back up to the tower, I think he's hiding out," said Teagan. He looked nervously upward, to the tower that Ten estimated she had seen the mirror's flash the previous evening. Was it the kid that was trying to get my attention? Did they shut him up in there?

"Jowan, let's just say, and this is only a hypothetical, there was an apostate mage who may or may not be nearby," Ten said, "If I knew of such a mage, and if she were willing and able to come here unmolested by the clergy or the lord of this land, could she do it without the whole …human sacrifice… thing?"

"Oh, so all the while giving me all sorts of shit about it, you've had an apostate in your pocket?" Jowan scowled.

"Well she's not a blood mage… that I know of," said Ten, "Probably thinks she's above that."

"If she's not she'd need a vast quantity of lyrium," said Jowan, "Which the Circle keeps under lock and key."

"Circle's not far, " Alistair observed, visibly relieved, "And they did sign a treaty…"

"Well I'm not about to start dipping my toes in human sacrifice now," Ten said, "If there's another way."

"I'm not sure how long we can hold him off," Teagan said, concerned, "Please don't tarry. Murdock can take you across, he's got a swift boat that can handle the surf further out on the lake. He should be able to get you there by sunset."

Though the villagers appeared to have repaired the bridge, Ten still kept both hands on it as they crossed back over to the village and jumped inwardly every time it swayed. As soon as they had hit solid ground, Alistair started cracking up, small chuckles at first, but finally doubled over, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" Ten asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The look on her face!" he wheezed.

"It wasn't that funny," she said mildly, "And may I remind you we're off to get our hands on one of the most heavily controlled substances in the country to save your play-cousin from demon possession. Serious business all around."

"I know, I know, but come on, let me have this," he said, "I've never seen someone slap the actual soul out of someone else's body before."

"Not even a nun?" she said, starting to giggle a little, his laughter infectious.

"And she tried to swing at you too! And then just… whoops! On the ground!" this set him off again and she paused to let him recover his breath.

"You're welcome, I guess?" she said, but her giggles had became chuckles, which hurt her face. She went into her pack and dabbed some ointment on it to dull the pain and slow the bleeding, "Could have warned me she keeps her nails sharpened into fucking talons. Guess I won't be getting by on my looks anytime soon."

"And she still hasn't seen what we did outside of the kennels!"

"You mean what the dogs she didn't bother to feed did. And it's the servants' quarters, I doubt she cares."

"She will when nobody comes to clean it up for her."

"Fair enough," said Ten, "Come on, we should at least tell the others where we're going. And maybe try to get ahold of yourself, you keep up that hyena impression, they'll probably think you're possessed too."

Chapter Text

It was midafternoon when they made it back into the town center, where Ten was immediately nearly bowled over by Pigeon, who apparently had been looking for her all night, evidently distressed that the scent trail went cold under the windmill and she could not for the life of her figure out how. The hound stood on her hind legs, one great forepaw on each of Ten's shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and whined right in her face. Don't you ever do that to me again, each breath seemed to say. Ten flinched from the smell - apparently Pigeon had taken a page out of the Redcliff hounds' book when it came to corpse removal, but petted her anyway.

"Down girl. I'm fine," said Ten.

The dog harrumphed and loosed her mistress, but stayed right by her feet, not close enough to trip her, but enough to put several feet between her and everyone she approached. As such, she didn't manage to tell Sten and Lelianna about the next move without accidentally informing half of the village, who were milling about, repairing buildings that had been damaged in the fighting, fishing corpses out of the lake and burning them, and seeing what they could salvage.

"We that's awful," breathed Lelianna, "Poor child. I can't imagine the persecution, just for being who he is. So you will go to the Circle?"

"Don't have much of a choice," said Alistair, "And we were probably going to wind up there anyway."

"This is a waste of time," Sten declared.

"Well move on, then," said Ten, "Nothing is stopping you from pissing off back to... wherever the hell you're from."

"I prefer to stay and complain," the Qunari stated.

"See this is why nobody likes you people," grumbled Ten.

"Nobody likes yours either," he pointed out.

"You got me there," sighed Ten, "You'll come with me won't you?" she appealed to the hound. The dog pushed her massive head against Ten's thigh. "Don't knock me over while you're at it."

"Someone better tell Morrigan," said Alistair, "I'm sure heading to the Circle itself is the last thing she wants to do."

"I will let her know," said Lelianna, "I'll go have a chat with her, but I promised the Reverend Mother I would help with relief efforts here."

"Or you're just hoping that archer you had your hands all over the other day is incredibly grateful for the help," Ten muttered.

"You know, Teneira, there is a saying, in my homeland," said Lelianna airily, "Occupe-toi de tes fesses." With this, she flounced off up the hill in the direction of camp.

"T’inquiète, je les occupe bien, mes fesses!" Ten shouted after her. She was rewarded with a goodnatured middle finger in the air. Ten watched her go, a little perplexed. She'd never been a chantrygoing woman and as such had not had too much contact with women of the cloth, but it seemed to her that casually vulgarity of that sort was frowned upon within their ranks. Then again, she did not know exactly the role of a lay sister, beyond apparently not being bound by vows of chastity. Perhaps they were expected to be just as profane as their congregation.

"Well aren't you cultured," Murdock, who was walking by with an armload of boards to replace the singed dock, "Forgive me for overhearing, but I always knew there was something wrong with that kid. They kept him shut up in that tower day in and day out. None of us have lain eyes on him since he was a little thing."

"He's been in there the whole time?" exclaimed Ten. She remembered again standing on the cliff the previous day - had it really only been a day? - and seeing the mirror flash from one of the towers. The mayor set his boards down at the end of the wharf and returned.

"Got to be a bit of a legend," said Murdock, "They say you could see him walk the battlements in the moonlight."

"Well that's one way to keep your child from being found by the Circle," Ten sighed, "Poor kid never had a chance. Anyway, Murdock, you're just the man we were looking for. Heard you can get us over to the Circle of Magi."

Murdock's face darkened, "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Need," Alistair corrected, "We need to get to the Circle. There's no time to walk around to the ferry, it's a day's journey alone. Please."

"I'm not in a position to refuse either of you anything," he sighed, "But I don't like it. Whole place feels creepy."

"Creepier than facing rotting, walking corpses, night after night?" Alistair countered.

"No, not creepier than that," sighed Murdock, "Very well. My boat's anchored off in the inlet there. We'll have to have someone row us out, my dinghy got burnt to shit."

Two of the fishermen, still grateful for the assist, rowed Ten, Alistair, the dog, and a handful of sailors out to where Murdock's 'boat,' a rather large vessel considering it was bound to the lake, but much smaller than the oceangoing ships Ten was used to seeing docked.

"Just tell me where I can have a nap," said Ten as she clambered aboard the ketch Jeannie Carter. Murdock and two deckhands who were probably related to him immediately started getting ready to get underway. "I get the feeling it's going to be another long night."

One of the deckhands gestured at a pile of sailcloth on the port side, "Just don't be surprised if you get tripped over."

"We need to restock some of the supplies we lost anyway, dock at the ferry and see what what's-his-face at the Spoiled Princess has in the way of nails and tar," Murdock said, "How long do you plan to be there?"

"Hopefully less than an hour," Alistair said.

"It won't be," said Ten, "It's going to be another disaster. I know it. Two weeks, three total catastrophes that it's somehow our lot to fix." It felt a little off to her, being surrounded by all indicators that she was at sea, the bobbing of the little ketch, the screams of seagulls, without the salt smell she had grown used to growing up along the tidal part of the Drakon River. But she curled up on the pile of sailcloth, Pigeon curled up next to her, and she drifted off as the ketch got underway.

She awoke with a start to a sharp bark followed quickly by a low growl. The sun was low in the sky, and the boat was docked. She rubbed her eyes, and was immediately reminded of the gashes down one side of her face. Her hound was standing over her, one set of paws on each side of her legs, baring her teeth at Alistair, who was backing away slowly. Pigeon gave another fierce, warning bark.

"Girl, would you fucking relax!" she shouted. The dog immediately pricked her ears up, her tail started going, and she let her mistress up, stepping squarely in her solar plexus as she moved to get off of her.

"I was just trying to wake you up!" exclaimed Alistair, who had backed all the way up to the bulwark on the starboard side and could go no further.

"Well you succeeded in that," Ten grunted, slowly getting her wind back. She didn't think her back could hurt any more than when she had awoken in the Chantry that afternoon, but she was wrong on that count, and she groaned as she scrambled to her feet and stretched out her spine.

"Got to get one of those for my daughter," Murdock said, "Wouldn't have to worry about any of the lads messing with her."

"I wasn't-" protested Alistair.

"I know," Ten said, "I know. But you can't tell the difference, can you baby girl?" She squatted and grabbed the hound by both jowls, making her smile.

"That thing just tried to take my hand off and you're baby-talking to it like it's not a two hundred pound predator," grumbled Alistair.

"She's my two hundred pound predator," said Ten, "Isn't that right, girl? Oh, you're a smelly girl. Who's a smelly girl?"

Pigeon's tail went absolutely insane and she licked Ten right in the face where her cheek was shredded. She cursed under her breath, and stood up both to get out of the tongue-range of the dog and to take stock of their surroundings. They had anchored at the dock in the back of the island upon which the Circle, a primitive tower looming darkly above them, stood. This dock was clearly for the delivery of supplies, where the ferry which went between the island and the small settlement on the western shore of the lake would dock in shallower waters. Pigeon went for land first, ignoring the gangway and instead diving and splashing into the water, paddling her way to the steep bank. She got onto shore and immediately shook herself off, spraying the very confused templar who had just walked up with a lantern with the very questionable water of the lake.

"Sorry!" called Ten, making her way down the gangway and up the dock to shore.

"What are you doing here?" he called. Highever accent. Lower middle class. Mid twenties, "The Circle's locked down. Turn around and go back where you came from."

"Grey Wardens. Urgent business," she said, striding up the hill like she owned the place and getting a hand on Pigeon's collar, "Sorry about the dog. You're going to have to let us in, though."

The templar looked down at her, utterly confused, for a moment.

"Ohhh I get it, this is a prank!" the templar finally said, "Someone put you up to this! Was it Arnaud DuBroy? He always liked the elf girls."

It took Ten a moment to put the very strange sentence he'd just uttered into working order, "No, I need to speak to the Knight-Commander, so you need to let me in."

The templar chuckled and shook his head, "Let me guess, you were going to get let into the tower and let a dozen chickens loose? This is all very funny, normally I'd be laughing my arse off, but this is shite timing, so you'll need to head right back to Highever and tell Arnie that I - tell Arnie that Kent Gedrith said 'ha ha, piss off, I still shagged your sister.'"

"I will… not be doing any of that," said Ten. She glanced behind her nervously to where Alistair was taking his time getting off the boat, "You really do need to let us in. It's a matter of the Blight."

"Listen, darlin', I won't lie, it's cute, the whole done up in armor thing, but this is actually serious business," said Kent, "The Circle's locked down. There's some very scary things going on in there."

"Like what?" Ten asked.

"Nothing you need to worry about, love," he said, "Though your dedication to the bit is admirable."

She sighed. I really hate doing this. She threw up her hands. "All right, you got me. There are fourteen greased piglets on the boat. But now I'm fascinated. You can't tell me a little bit about what's going on in there?" She approached him, put a hand on his arm, "Arnaud told me about how hard you templars work. And nobody really appreciates the so very important things you do since it's all so… secret."

"Well, sweetheart," he said conspiratorially, "If you must know, there was a blood mage rebellion. Apparently a faction of them has been plotting for months to take it over and force us out. The whole tower's locked down, not a one's been in or out in days."

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, "That sounds horribly dangerous. Are you sure you'll be safe?"

"Oh, it is. But don't you worry about it. We have got it absolutely, one hundred percent, under control."

A fiery explosion chose that moment to blow out a window on the topmost floor of the tower, causing a rain of stained glass shards and half melted lead, most of which fell harmlessly into the water.

"Under control, huh," said Ten, brushing a bit of glass from her hair.

"What was that!?" Alistair shouted from the near end of the dock where he had finally decided to get on about it.

"Blood mage rebellion!" Ten shouted.

"Why isn't he letting us in?"

"He thinks I'm playing a prank!" she replied.

"Did you tell him you were a Grey Warden?" he asked.

"Yup. Doesn't believe me!"

"Did you threaten him?"

"Not yet!"

"Oh, Andraste's left tit, you actually are a Grey Warden, aren't you," Kent swore.

"Oh, so you believe it when a man says it. But yes, we come in all shapes and sizes," said Ten, "So there's a blood mage rebellion that you do not have under control in any way shape or form. How long has the tower been locked down?"

"Couple of days," said Kent, "Come on. You'd better speak with Knight-Commander Gregoir. He's in charge. Allegedly."

"I suppose this isn't going to take less than an hour," Alistair sighed, catching up to them.

"Well we were probably not sailing anywhere until daybreak anyway," said Ten, "If Murdock doesn't have the good sense to turn around and head like hell back to Redcliffe."

"No, he's docking over by the inn on the far shore," Alistair said, "Said he and his men are getting drunk and sleeping in a real bed for once, and not to expect him until the sun's high in the sky."

"Are you going to be alright?" asked Ten, "You haven't slept in about thirty-six hours at this point."

"I got a few winks while you were out as well," he said, "Don't worry about me. This I was actually trained for."

She set her mouth in a grim line and followed Kent Gedrith into the tower.

The atrium at the base of the tower looked like not many improvements had been done since the thing was constructed, Maker knew how long before. The mere size of the place dwarfed both the furniture, and the armed men within. The mood of the room was downright dour as well. Templars, at least two of them sore wounded, stood around aimlessly, staring vacantly into the air, but still somehow on a knife's edge of stress. Ten cased about, and noticed a grayhaired templar - the first she had ever seen who had made it to the far side of forty - was sitting at an oaken desk, furiously scribbling on a scroll.

"Who in the bloody fuck just walked into my tower?" he roared without looking up.

"I've got a couple of Grey Wardens here!" called Kent, "They've got paperwork. Says we're obligated by treaty to provide them support in the coming Blight."

"The only paperwork I'm interested in is the word from the capital telling us we're finally allowed to exterminate these bloody magi!" the elder templar declared, "We've no men to spare for the Blight or anything else, and the mages are all going to be dead before a fortnight's out. Tell them to fuck right off."

"Uh, he says fuck right off," said Kent.

"You fuck right off!" Ten countered indignantly. She held up her hand. Alistair shoved the parchment of the treaty with the mages into it, and she strode up to Knight-Commander Gregoir - whom she assumed the elder templar was - and banged it down on the desk, right in front of his face, "Read it, old man, or do you need me to translate it into one-syllable words for you?"

"Did you not hear me, wench?" he growled, rising and bearing down on her, his blue eyes blazing under heavy, iron-gray, brows, "We have nobody to spare."

"I do not give a single shit," spat Ten, getting up in his face, "You are obligated under the law of the land to help us. So figure it out."

"If you were a man, I would beat you so badly you'd never walk right again."

"If you were a man, you might succeed."

"You know what?" Gregoir said, chuckling, "Fine. If you're such a brave little thing, you go in there, rout the blood mages, save whom you will. But if orders from the capital come before you return, I will gladly let you and your impertinence perish in the tower along with all of the abominations therein." He turned to two templars standing at attention in front of a heavy barred door which ostensibly led into the rest of the tower, "Unbar the door, we shall leave this pain in my arse on the other side to find her end in whatever way she is inclined. Don't come back unless First Enchanter Irving is holding your hand and begging for forgiveness!"

Ten found herself, all of a sudden, airborne, as the knight-commander took hold of the back of the collar of her leather armor and lifted her up with one arm like a hay bale he was about to throw into a wagon. He strode across the room with her, ignoring the protests of both Alistair and Pigeon, and tossed her unceremoniously onto the other side of the door. She fell in a heap, and heard the door slam shut behind her, leaving her in the pitch black

"Maker's breath, Ten, are you alright?" Alistair asked, genuinely concerned. She felt his hand on her shoulder and heard the heavy panting of the hound close by, and knew that the both of them had followed her in before the door closed.

She started laughing, stifling it at first, but finding that completely futile, burst out in fullblown cackles. She got herself under control in a couple of moments, and said, "I don't know how I expected that to go."

Alistair started chuckling, "To be fair, it does work… maybe a third of the time."

"You didn't have to come with," she said, "That was my fuck-up. Happy to face the consequences all by my lonesome."

"Well I sort of did, being as this is the only way we're going to solve… any of it. But if we get through this, I'm never letting you live that one down," he said.

"What, getting picked up with one hand by some sixty-something codger and lobbed ten feet in the air like a sack of potatoes?" she giggled. She'd landed sprawled on her front, but her forearms had taken most of it, and her head was, aside from the gashes in her cheek, intact.

"If Sten learns that's possible he'll start just chucking you out of the way whenever you do something he doesn't like. As hilarious as that would be, I'd rather we didn't have to stop to fish you out of a river every time he's displeased."

For some reason this struck Ten as uproariously funny.

"What is that riot!?" a familiar voice called out of the darkness beyond. There was a soft glow as lamps were lit along the walls. In the light, Ten could see that they were in an enormous vestibule, and they were not alone.

"Don't mind her, she's stark raving!" Alistair called.

"You don't have to shout, I'm right here," said the voice. A lamp lit closer to them, and Ten could see it was held by the elderly mage she had met at Ostagar, standing over them, looking down at her like an unimpressed schoolmarm.

"Oh, it's you!" Ten exclaimed, her laughter dying in the air.

"You were the girl at Ostagar!" the mage said, recognition dawning on her face. She extended one gnarled hand to help her up. Ten took it, and rose, "I'm afraid I don't remember your name."

"It's Teneira," she said, "I don't think I ever got yours."

"Wynne," the mage said, "And it looks like you've seen better days." She put her head down a moment, and with a wish and a flash, the scrapes on Ten's arms and the gouges in her cheek had closed, "What are you doing in here? I thought all the Grey Wardens perished!"

"You're mostly right," said Ten, "And I suppose we're here to save the day, as best we can."

"I should hope so," Wynne said, "They've trapped us in here. It's only a matter of time before they gas us, or burn us up."

Five small children had silently appeared, staring wide eyed at the strangers, each clinging to a handful of Wynne's skirts with one chubby hand. The eldest was maybe seven, the youngest was less than four years old, a little girl with her hair still baby-fine curls and her thumb in her mouth. Ten was struck with a sort of sympathy for Isolde, seeing these babies taken from their parents, shut up for the Maker knew how long. No wonder she didn't want her boy in here.

"Can I pet the dog?" asked one of the kids in the middle, an elf of indeterminate gender, probably five or six.

"Sure, kid," said Ten, "Pigeon, behave. No mauling the children."

Pigeon, who had no intention of mauling the children, was quite pleased at the attention. She sat on her haunches and put her head back as the child scritched her behind the ears..

"I had a dog before," said the kid, "Her name was Lucy." Ten's heart broke a bit. The kid sounded like her dad, who'd grown up in the northern part of the Free Marches, pronouncing the name 'Lew-cee' and dragging it almost out into three syllables.

"This one's called Pigeon," said Ten.

"Good Pigeon. Good boy," said the kid, stroking the soft fur of Pigeon's ears.

"Pigeon's a girl," said Ten, "Not that I think she'd be offended."

"They don't let us have dogs in here," the kid said, "Nanna Wynne, can I have a puppy after this is over? If I'm very brave?"

"Oh, I don't know, dearheart," said Wynne, "Why don't you all pet the dog, and the grown-ups and I will have a talk."

Pigeon was suddenly in the very best mood a dog could be in, surrounded by adoring small people. She preened and held her head high.

Ten and Alistair followed Wynne behind a partial wall, probably there for support rather than to subdivide the room, where two other mages, grown men in their twenties or thirties, were seated crosslegged on the flagstones amongst piles of books, playing a very tense game of cards.

"It seems the cavalry has arrived," Wynne announced. Both mages looked up and took them in, skeptically.

"Not much of a cavalry, is it," said one, a blond human who sounded like he was from Denerim commented, dismissively.

"Well it's the best we're going to do," the elderly mage said, setting her jaw, "I think it's time to storm the rest of the tower."

"You're a braver man than me," said the other mage, an elf with dark hair falling over his ears..

"It's that or wait for the Templars to slaughter the lot of us!" the old woman cried, "We can't just sit here and wait for our doom."

"Oh, I assure you we can," the human said.

"Then you," Wynne said, clearly already knowing that arguing with that one would be futile, "Walk in there and meet our fate."

The elf looked up with sorrow in his dark eyes, "Ma, you're twice the mage either of us are. We'll stay here with the babies. You go out in your blaze of glory. Someone needs to be here to hold them at the end. So they're not alone."

Wynne nodded perfunctorily, "Very well. Come on, Teneira, and you… whatever your name is. If we fall beyond that door there, at least we didn't die on our knees."

Chapter Text

Ten felt a bit bad, taking the dog away from the kids, but having been recently reminded quite starkly of her physical inadequacies as a warrior, she felt much better having the enormous hound by her side as they burst through whatever magical barrier Wynne had been holding up between them and the rest of the tower.

"So what, exactly, is going on here?" asked Ten, "I heard word of a blood mage rebellion, which I have recently learned is a bad thing."

Wynne sighed, "They're not wrong. Per se. Just young and reckless. You young people see injustice where the rest of us have resigned ourselves to it, which is admirable, but you have no idea what to do about it."

"Oh I have a few ideas," Ten said.

"See, that there, that's what I'm talking about," said Wynne, "You've probably marched off to get yourself killed on more than one occasion for truth, justice, and liberty, and it's only pure luck that it hasn't happened yet."

Ten, knowing that the mage had a point, shut her mouth.

"Wait, wait, wait," Alistair protested, "Why did they think they could save the world with that?"

"It's the one thing the templars have absolutely no defense against," said Wynne, "To say nothing of more conventional mages. It was an act of desperation, for some of them. Probably megalomania for others."

"But… but it's blood magic. Only the worst thing. It's dangerous!"

The mage fixed him with a sharp brown gaze, "Nobody said it wasn't. What is your deal, lad?"

"He's a recovering templar," said Ten, "Don't worry, he's not going to gas anyone. Right, Alistair?"

"Of course not, Missus. I'm sorry for alarming you," said Alistair, "You have more to worry about from the dog in that department."

Pigeon made a noise that sounded a lot like "Hey!" and went to go piss in the corner.

"Ohhh, I remember you. Impertinent little thing," Wynne declared derisively. She turned to Ten, "He was here all of three weeks. Thought he was dreadfully funny, stealing all the templars' skivvies, hiding them in the Chamber of Harrowing up top. They all went commando for months, complaining the whole time, until the next mage was ready for the trial."

"How old were you for that one?" Ten asked.

Alistair shifted uncomfortably, "Twenty-two."

Ten stifled a giggle, trying at first to make it sound like a cough, and then a sneeze, and failed at both.

"You were not called upon to heal the chafing," Wynne admonished.

"So, what, was the plan just to have the whole tower overrun with demons and that would somehow accomplish…. what?" Alistair asked, changing the subject.

"I'm sure some thought that they could unleash the very worst the Fade has to offer and escape in the process. Others likely thought that they could use this ill-gotten power to take over, wrest control of the tower from the templars, and become a dominant faction in their own right," Wynne said, "A handful have already absconded in the chaos. The blood mage faction recruited whom they could, exterminated whom they couldn't. Some of the journeymen went to the archives on the third floor to see if there was any ancient magic that could help, while we we escaped with the wee one. You might know one of them, a journeyman mage named Niall, about your age, who had also fought at Ostagar. Did you ever run across him?"

"I don't remember any mages…. Wait, did he come out of the battle with about two dozen holes in his chest?" asked Ten.

"Why, yes," Wynne said, "I found him in the morning, he wasn't in great shape, but he hadn't bled out. He did say a Grey Warden medic had stopped the bleeding, bandaged him up. Was that you?"

"Yeah, that was me," said Ten, "Where is he now?"

"I haven't seen him. We split up when we realized there was no way to protect the children if we didn't hole up somewhere, and I was the only one with the wherewithal to construct that barrier," said Wynne. It struck Ten at that moment that Wynne had a good twenty years on any of the other mages she'd seen. Maybe they tend to die young as well.

"You know, it strikes me that it is awfully quiet in here," Alistair observed, "I see empty dormitories."

"Well, if you were a templar, then you know how demons operate," said Wynne, "I wouldn't doubt that more than a few of my companions are in thrall as we speak. Templars as well."

"So do we know where exactly the issue is coming from?" asked Ten.

"Knowing mage logic," said Wynne, "Probably the very top."

"Where the window blew out," Ten said, "Great. Fiery explosions. Who needs eyebrows, anyway."

"Fiery explosions means there's still someone up there to fight," said Wynne.

"Well then," said Alistair, "Guess we're running up another tower to our certain doom."

"I'll try not to put on that pincushion costume again," sighed Ten.

"Yeah, I doubt a witch of the wilds is going to do her little dea ex machina trick twice."

"You good with stairs, Wynne?" asked Ten.

"I can't tell if that was genuine concern or mockery," the mage said.

"The former," said Ten.

Wynne narrowed her eyes, and rushed ahead of them, taking the stairs two at a time as spryly as a girl half her age. "Do try to keep up." She proceeded to run ahead of them the entire way up, occasionally stopping to taunt them. It was all eerily silent, and no corpses were strewn about, though they didn't stop to inspect whatever rooms lay beyond the stairwell. As they reached the third floor, there was no cabal of maleficars waiting for them. Only a large, bare atrium with high ceilings and statues all around and… the mage from the Tower of Ishaal, sprawled out on the ground, breathing, but only barely.

"There's nothing I can do for him," said Wynne, who had rushed to his side and examined his face, "He's in thrall."

"To what?" asked Ten, "I don't see any of those creepy fire things around. What, exactly…"

Aren't you tired?

It sounded like the voice in her head she heard, not infrequently, that she was usually pretty sure was just her own mind cranking overtime. But this time, it probably… definitely… wasn't.

After all you have sacrificed, what has it gotten you?

She looked around. Nothing, but saw that Wynne and Alistair had started casting about. Evidently their own inner monologues had turned on them as well.

You have abandoned those who love you.

"It's a demon," said Wynne, "Don't listen to it!"

Wouldn't it be nicer if you could just… go back?

"If you fall asleep we're done for!" the elder mage cried, but her voice was going ragged around the edges with fatigue.

Aren't you tired?

Ten awoke with a start, sitting straight up. Gasping, she got ahold of her breath and heart rate.

"What is it, love, you have a nightmare?"

She looked over to see Nelaros beside her, as he always was, having commandeered more than half of the bed she had once slept in alone. He was propped up on one elbow, looking at her with concern in his eyes. The terror from the very dark and very vivid dreams she'd had had not quite left her breast. Must have been something I ate.

"Worst I ever had. How long have you been staring at me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What, I thought that was one of the privileges of matrimony," he protested, "You get to watch the most beautiful woman in the world snore, drool, and talk in her sleep."

"Someone really should have warned me about that," grumbled Ten, "What time is it?" The light coming in the windows of her apartment was always a little dimmed from the buildings surrounding it.

"Almost seven. Didn't want to wake you, you had such trouble drifting off last night."

"I'm used to being tired."

"I know, that's not a good thing," Nelaros said, "You're not in this alone anymore, you can be gentler to yourself." He leaned over and kissed her forehead, and got up, turning his back to her to get dressed.

"I've never been good at that," said Ten. She rose and went to put on her own clothes. Her favorite dress with the flowers and matching kerchief, all in a creamy blue. Shianni always said it didn't match her skin tone, but she liked it anyway. She started on the laces at her bodice, pulling them tight enough to show a little cleavage to the customers who were inclined to spend more when they saw such a thing, but not enough to give them the wrong idea.

What is today? What do I have to do? Do I have any meetings? Was I plotting something? Or is it just a tend-the-shop sort of day?

"I admit I'm a bit jumbled," said Ten, "Did I tell you what I was doing today? Like anything important?"

"Nothing you mentioned to me," he said.

"And what are you up to?"

"Well," he said, a bit of bravado in his voice, "I, your humblest goldsmith, have gotten an order from the Arl himself! Looks like his wife likes the ring I made for one of her chambermaids and wants one just like it. I quoted his valet an absolutely ludicrous price because I thought he was joking, and he agreed! Just like that! If this keeps up, we can set up on our own before the year's out."

"I like living with Shianni," Ten protested, "Someone's got to keep an eye on her, after all."

"Shianni is well past grown," Nelaros said, chuckling, "I think she'd be glad to be rid of us. Anyway, you're the matriarch of the family, aren't you supposed to be finding her a husband of her own?"

"Let's you get your commission first. I don't trust these shem not to promise you one thing, deliver half of it, and then pretend they never made the first offer. It's what they do."

"Ever the cynic," he he said, putting his arms around her from behind and sneaking a peek down her half-trussed bodice, "We can't raise a dozen fat babies in this hole."

"First things first," she said, but couldn't help but smile a little.

"Oh come on, they'll be so cute!" he exclaimed, releasing her and spinning her around by her shoulders, "Of course they'll all look like me. They can have your curls though. Think of it, little babies on their little chubby legs running around with little bouncing curls. Don't tell me that wouldn't be just the most adorable thing."

"Sure, they're cute for a few years, then they'll be running the streets like I used to."

"Ah, so that's why your dad is fully gray and not yet fifty."

"The things I put that poor man through."

"Well it'll be payback for him, then. Can you button me up, love? I spent all yesterday with them one off and couldn't figure out why your uncle kept laughing at me."

"Me being here is not an excuse to forget all the things you learned when you were a toddler, love," she chided.

"I know, but I like it when you do it."

She sighed, chuckling. It was probably going to become incredibly annoying if he kept it up, but it had, after all, only been about a month and a half, and they were getting along so well she didn't want to spoil it by putting her foot down yet. She took hold of his shirt and, aligning the buttons at his throat, began fastening them, one by one.

She wasn't quite sure what happened then. There was a shift in the light, the air. She looked at her hands, on his shirt, and they were covered with blood. And the blood was his, flowing from a gaping wound in his chest. She jumped back, uttering a little shriek, covering her mouth.

"What is it?" he asked.

She looked again and the blood was gone. Her hands, clamped tightly over her own mouth, were clean.

"Nothing," she said, "Something just reminded me of that nightmare."

"Well no worries on that account, I think I can figure it out."

"No," she said, "Let me."

She buttoned his shirt, her hands shaking, to be sure that whatever had just happened was just her maybe going a little bit off the deep end.

"There, all better," she said, running a hand through his hair.

"All right then, love, best get to it. You know where I'll be if you miss me, back before sunset." He gave her a peck on the mouth, and walked out of the door.

She went to the rat trap in the corner and found it full, of course. If there was one thing Denerim - and particularly the Alienage - never ran short of, it was rats. The Reverend Mother was going to have a fine breakfast. She dropped the tiny corpses unceremoniously in her cage, made a kissing noise at the black snake, and went to gather her things for work.

She went to the closet by the door where she kept the stock for her stall in a wheeled crate with a handle. She grabbed it and wheeled the awkward burden along the uneven streets to her stall. She put out the sample bottles that Shianni, who had always had better handwriting, had labeled. Where is Shianni, anyway?

And she stood there, nodding good morning to neighbors, waving to the Sergeant of the Guard, Enerys Welfeth, with whom she was fairly friendly, who always stopped by for a smoke and a chat. Something felt off, something in the light, like the sun was sitting too low in the sky for early summer. The wind was coming stiffly off the river with its smell of salt and rot, but the clouds were not moving. She checked a few times. They just sort of hung there like the sky was only a painting. It's nothing. You're just out of sorts. You haven't been sleeping. Maybe you're already with child! How long has it been since you last bled?

She was contemplating closing up for ten minutes and going to grab something to eat at the baker's when, from somewhere, a strange human man walked up to her stall. She immediately averted her eyes, and steeled herself for something unpleasant.

"How can I help you?" she asked, eyes on the ground.

"Ten. You need to wake up."

"Do you need something to keep you awake?" she asked, not entirely understanding the statement, "I have a tincture that'll keep you up all night and the full day after. Tends to give you a headache, though." She reached for the appropriate bottle and put it on the counter, "Ten silver." How does this shem know my name? Must be by reputation. Though this isn't exactly the most complicated brew, he could get this anywhere.

"No, I don't need anything. You do. You need to wake up."

"Ser, I don't understand what you're saying." She glanced furtively over to Enerys, who was standing outside the sentry box, entirely unperturbed. It wasn't exactly illegal for a human to wander into the Alienage. Most of the elf-run businesses had human suppliers, after all. Ten herself did business with a handful of human-run establishments, but random humans who sought her out were usually women who didn't want it getting out what they were buying. Abortifacients, mostly. Strange human men who were not hauling crates of something or another were inherently suspicious and worthy of a guardsman's eye on them. She tried to signal to Seargent Welfeth, who continued ignoring her. 

Wasn't there another sergeant? Or two? Did she really replace Kitheril Canty? Of course she did. She's standing there now. Doing nothing. Useless fucking copper she is...

"Look, I know you don't recognize me, apparently you won't even look me in the face, but I know you. You're Teneira Tabris of the Denerim Alienage. Right now, you're passed out, a demon causing all of this, and you need to snap out of it."

"It's Kirianis," she said, "If you knew me, you would know that Tabris was my maiden name, which I no longer use, not even professionally."

"Well… this is just way sadder than I was prepared for. I am so sorry, but it's not. You're still Teneira Tabris. And if you don't pull yourself together, you're going to be stuck here for good and you'll just waste away. Just think for a moment. How did you get here?"

What did I do yesterday? Why didn't I know what was happening this morning?

She started packing up her bottles to close and get something to eat, but her hands were shaking. "Look, Ser, there are fine alchemists in the Market District, I'd be glad to give you a referral, but you are going to have to leave. I can't help you."

Why isn't everyone noticing this? Nobody's saying anything. Someone should at least have eyes on him, they always do when one of them comes here. Where's Soris? Where's Uncle Cedrin with his blacksmith's hammer? And where the hell is Shianni?

"Teneira, you know I'm telling the truth," the human said, stepping closer. She flinched.

"Please, Ser. Leave me alone. I'm closing up. There's nothing for you here."

"Ten, you can't…"

"Leave me alone!" She left her things and bolted, gathering her skirts in one hand and sprinting up the street to her uncle's forge. She slammed the heavy roughhewn door behind her and bolted it.

Nelaros, who had set up in one corner, crouched before the fire with tongs and crucible in hand, looked up at her in surprise. He left his work there and rose, looking at her. To her horror, she could see that the bloom of red she had hallucinated on his shirt was back. She covered her mouth again. It didn't appear to bother him in the slightest. "What is it?" he asked, "You look frightened! What happened?"

She closed her eyes. Counted to three. She opened them again. Nothing changed. I can't unsee it now that I've seen it. The stranger was right. Something is wrong.

"Ten, are you all right?" he asked, but blood trickled from his lips with every word. He rushed up to her, taking her in his arms, spattering blood over her blue dress.

"Love, I'm afraid this isn't real," she said, stepping back and taking his face in her hands.

"No, this is real. You're my wife. You can't… you can't just say things like that," he demanded, gripping her shoulders so tight it almost hurt.

He asked me to tell his father he didn't die on his knees.

"I think you're dead, Nelaros."

"Ten, don't do this to me," he said. The flow of blood from his chest became a spray, completely soaking her clothes, "Don't do this to me again."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know it was my fault. And I'm so sorry."

He looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes miserable. Then he nodded, kissed her forehead again. She reached down and, where only a stain had been before, felt the hilt of a sword, cold and unyielding. She gripped it and pulled it loose. He collapsed on the ground, his body crumbling into ashes before her eyes. She dropped the blade on the ground, let her face crumple, the anguish reaching up from her throat, and she sat with her back to the door, her head between her knees.

She didn't know how long she sat there, it seemed time had stopped, but eventually she looked up, and the forge, the street outside, the wall outside that, her blue dress, were gone. She was wearing padded leather armor under a frock she didn't recognize. The sun was still too low in the sky, the clouds still did not move, but the ground below her was soft and spongy, rising into stark canyon walls around her. It was familiar though. She was back where she'd been… when?

And then she remembered the Battle at Ostagar.

And then she remembered exactly what had happened to Nelaros, so soon after the wedding that she had never gone by his name.

And then she remembered Lothering, and Redcliffe, and … so the nightmare was real all along.

Chapter Text

The last time she'd been in the Fade, close to death, she wasn't sure what of the things she saw was her mind and what was… something else. This time, she reasoned, the several hours she'd spent in what likely would have been a normal morning at home, had nothing all gone so terribly sideways, was some combination. She wondered if it was, in fact, only a few hours. Or a few seconds, or a few days…

"You're the girl from Ostagar!" the voice behind her sounded muted and flat.

She turned and rose. The people in her earlier… dream? Hallucination? Had seemed real, but the man who had been standing behind her looked distorted, like she was looking at him through a flawed lens. Ten nodded. "Are you real?"

"I think so."

"Your name's Niall, right?" she said.

"Yes," he said.

"So how do we get you out of here? Actually, how do we get me out of here too?"

"Something… shifted," he said, "I think I can move on."

"Move on? You mean wake up, right?"

He turned his head to look left and right, and his movements seemed out of sync and blurred together, like she was seeing two entirely different images of him out of each eye, "I don't think so. I think it's been too long for me. The… thing you just killed. It was feeding on me… I don't know how long. There isn't enough of me left."

"Don't be ridiculous, I patched you up before, I can patch you up again," she said.

"You patched me up before so I could be here, now," he said, "You gave me an extra month or so, to face this foe. I lived this long for that purpose."

"Niall," she said, "No, none of us know how to face this foe. We're not done yet, there's still… they're still out there."

"Yes," he said, "But I found in the archives how to end it. Look on my body. Give the scroll in my left pocket to Wynne. She will know what to do with it."

"What do you mean?"

"The… resistance. I spent days in the archives. Drove myself near blindness trying to find it. But I did, there is an ancient magic, so archaic I don't even understand how it works. It should dispel whatever… nasty things Uldred has raised. Wynne will know, though. I've tarried here so long, I think I'd like to… be somewhere else."

"You can't leave me with this," protested Ten, "I don't even know what an Uldred is."

"Wynne will know."

"And how do you know she's not stuck here too?" asked Ten.

"Because I saw her. She woke up," Niall said, "You're the last one to be trapped here with me. It seems your desire was stronger than the others, easier for the demons to prey on."

"That's the first time I've been accused of being weak-minded," Ten observed, "But if a demon thinks it, I suppose it's true."

"In here, we can… sense. I think. Or I can. The guilt you carry must have smelled delicious."

"I've done more to be guilty about than most," Ten sighed.

"Well I hope you have many years to come to terms with that. But for now, I've played my part, however small," Niall said, "I barely remember my mother. But she told me that I would do something great. Perhaps this is it. I think I'd like to go see my mother now."

"I hope you do."

"You know, I never did get your name," he said.

"It's -"

"It doesn't matter. You have shown up for me when it mattered, and for that I will call you friend. So farewell, I hope the road ahead of you is less difficult."

"Goodbye," said Ten, "And I wish the same for you."

He smiled faintly, and turned his back, "It's time for you to wake up."

And so she did, sitting straight up and gasping for air. She managed to startle both Wynne and Alistair, who had been standing over her enough to make them jump back, but not the dog, who promptly went from whining to panting. She, of course, took Ten's rising as an invitation to start slobbering all over her face, which of course caused Ten to gag and stumble to her feet.

"Did she eat another corpse while I was out?" asked Ten.

"I think that's just how she smells now," said Alistair.

"I blame you people, whoever had her before me clearly didn't teach her not to lick people in the face," Ten sighed, "That's a thing only humans allow." She looked around. The dimly lit atrium looked much as it had before, high ceilings, pillars of ancient stone, an absolute mess of books and scrolls littered about the floor. She half remembered something. "Niall's gone isn't he?" she asked, her eyes falling on the mage who, until very recently, had been sleeping.

"I'm afraid so," Wynne said, "Poor lad."

"He said there was something in his left pocket," Ten said, "And that you would know what it is."

With great effort considering her earlier display of agility, Wynne stooped and rummaged in Niall's robes. She pulled out a scroll, smaller than the standard sizes that Ten had seen scattered about the tower, and squinted at it in the half light. Her brows knitted together and she tried to decipher some meaning from what was written thereon. To Ten's astonishment, looking over Wynne's shoulder, she recognized the script as Ancient Elvish. She could not read every word herself, but a few popped out at her.

"So…. what is it?" asked Alistair, clearly mystified by the whole thing.

"I'm not… I'm not entirely sure. From what I can gather it's some sort of ritual that robs blood magic of its particular… edge," said Wynne.

"How old is that scroll?" asked Ten, casting back to the last time that Elvish was the language of magic.

"The scroll itself is not that old. Maybe forty years," said Wynne, "But it's been copied, look, you can see that whoever wrote this was just copying the shapes of the letters, they didn't know the script or the language. Probably copies were made by generations upon generations of poor Tranquil scribes."

Ten shuddered, remembering hearing tales of mages who'd gotten too powerful, or just pissed off the wrong templar, and were robbed of their magic - and most of what made them people at the same time. "But do you know the language?" asked Ten.

"No," said Wynne. " It's not exactly a language that sees much use these days."

"Niall said, in there, that you'd know how to use it. So how do you use it?"

"Well you're supposed to read it," said Wynne, "Obviously."

Ten sighed, "Give me that. I don't know most of the words, but I know what sounds the letters make." She sounded it out slowly, remembering the two years worth of lessons an ex-Dalish neighbor had offered to the Alienage kids - before he got fed up with how things were in the city and took off again, along with the tailor's wife. It was not a long bit of writing, maybe the equivalent of two to three sentences. On about her third go round, substituting one vowel for another when she wasn't sure which of the hash marks meant which sound, felt a shift in the energy of the room after she had pronounced the last syllable.

"I think that was it," said Wynne, sensing the same effect.

"Wait, did I just do magic?" Ten said, a bit delighted with it.

"In its most basic form," said Wynne.

"So if a mage said what I just said, would it actually… do something?"

"Probably," said Wynne.

"All right. All right," said Ten, her mind racing. The floor was strewn with scrolls, both empty and used. She picked up a blank one, "You don't suppose there's a quill and ink anywhere around here?"

"I should hope so, this is the floor with all the libraries," said Wynne. She got up and disappeared around a corner. She returned promptly with the requested items. Ten sprawled out on the flagstones and started transliterating the runes into the Tevinter script that the rest of the regional languages were written in, where you could sound out a word even if you didn't know what it meant.

"Wait, is that an a or an e?" asked Wynne, "Your handwriting is terrible."

"Yeah, well it's not like we got the finest formal education where I'm from," Ten muttered, "That's an e." She got through it, putting punctuation and accent marks where she thought they ought to be and trying to be very clear about what letter was what to the point that the end of the whole thing wound up in large, childish block print that made her cringe to look at. She blew on the ink to dry it, and handed it to the elder mage, "Try it."

Wynne squinted at the scroll, and read out the sounds as best she could. This time the shift in the energy was more perceptible, and there was almost an audible sigh from the air around them.

"Ha!" Ten exclaimed, clapping her hands, "Everyone thank my dad for forcing me to go to Elvish lessons! Wynne, I thought the magi studied all about this sort of stuff!"

"There were mages within these walls who speak and read it fluently," said Wynne, "Alas I am not among them."

"What do you suppose that was?" Alistair asked, clearly nervous that something, anything had happened that he did not fully understand.

"Ma, what the hell happened?" called a female voice from the other end of the room.

Wynne looked up sharply, "Athmina!" she exclaimed. Ten followed her gaze to see a middle aged human woman in the Circle's blue robe wandering in from one of the four entrances to the atrium where they sat, "Where were you?"

"Lindrel's here too," said Athmina, putting her hand behind her and pulling a similarly disoriented elfin man into the room, "And Giulia. We were in the Tevinter library over there!"

"It must have disrupted all of it!" Wynne exclaimed, as several more mages made their way into the room, all looking a bit dazed.

"What's the last thing you remember?" asked Ten.

"Who're you?" the elf ostensibly called Lindrel asked.

"Don't even worry about that," said Ten.

"We were looking through the tomes, seeing if we could find anything to disrupt blood magic," the one named Athmina said, "Niall and Rowena were in the Elvish library on the other side. We were discussing what was to be done about Uldred and them lot. I think Giulia was talking about storming the chamber above and just hoping for the best, and all of a sudden… Lindrel here collapsed, then Giulia, and then I guess I fell asleep as well."

"Uldred again," said Ten, "What's an Uldred?"

"Of course it was him," Wynne sighed in irritation, "Pompous little shite-for-brains."

"I've never heard you curse before!" exclaimed one of the other mages, a young human woman whose jet-black hair was coming loose from the braids she'd had it in.

"Ah yes, I suppose sweet old grannies don't swear," said Wynne, "Sorry Giulia."

"Nah, mine did all the time," Athmina said.

"Well… fuck," Wynne said again, "All right. Lindrel, can you read this?" She gestured for Ten to give him the original scroll. Ten handed it over.

"I'm from Crestwood," said Lindrel, looking at the scroll, completely mystified, "I don't even know what this is."

"Well she knew how to read it, and she's not even a mage!" Wynne said, gesturing at Ten.

Lindrel looked at Ten suspiciously, "What, are you Dalish or something? Thought you folks were supposed to have sweet face tattoos."

Ten resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Provincials. Ugh.

"Oh no," she said, mimicking the singsong intonation and clipped consonants that every Dalishman she'd met spoke with, "First, you must hunt a whole pack of wolves stark naked armed with nothing but a yew-wood spear. And then you must climb the highest mountain and offer their livers as a sacrifice to Brother Sky and Sister North Wind and if the omens are right, only then may you have sweet face tattoos."

Lindrel narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if she was joking. The other mages looked at each other, genuinely curious.

"I'm fucking with you," she said.

"Here," said Wynne, "She wrote it out in the common script for me. All of you, fetch a blank scroll and something to write with. We're all going up there, and we're all going to have it. And then we're going to keep it, and nothing like this will ever happen again."

"Ah shit, what happened to Niall?" one of the mages, a woman who might have been halfbred, but probably more human than elf, asked. She walked up hesitantly and knelt beside Niall's body, "Last I saw him he had grabbed a scroll and started taking off to the staircase… he was staggering but, I had no idea he'd…"

"He made it most of the way before it caught him," said Wynne, "I'm sorry Rowena, I know you were friends."

"Well shit," Rowena sighed, "I guess I knew we weren't all going to come out of this one, but… damn."

"Who's upstairs?" asked Wynne, "I've been trying to count the corpses but…"

"Sylda," said Athmina, "And Uldred, obviously. Anders. Irving probably."

"Wynne, are the babies safe?" asked Rowena, having turned from Niall's body.

"Yes," said Wynne, "They're at the base of the tower. But I'm afraid…"

"Oh I don't like that," Lindrel said.

"They've sent for authorization from the capital," said Wynne, "The Rite of Annulment."

"They're going to gas us?!" Giulia shrieked. The mages began to panic, involuntary spells of all colors forming in the air.

"Not if we put a stop to this!" Ten shouted shrilly before all hell could break loose, "Gregoir assured me that if we return with First Enchanter Irving, he will unseal the tower."

"Who are you, anyway? Besides definitely not Dalish?" asked Lindrel, a cloud of snow dissipating before him as he got control of himself.

"Grey Warden," said Ten.

"Oh sure you are," groused Rowena, "And I'm the Empress of Orlais." A bolt of lightning shot harmlessly into the ceiling as she relaxed.

"She is," said Wynne, "I saw her at Ostagar."

"Then why didn't she die?" asked Athmina, blowing out the flames that had begun to spring from the tips of her fingers.

"Same reason I didn't," said Wynne, all business, "She's just too stubborn. Now do as I say, and copy it down. Practice it a few times. Whatever it is, it disrupts blood magic."

As the twelve or so mages set to making copies of the… whatever it was, sounding it out as they went and accidentally loosing the power of the ritual three or four times. About ten minutes later, once Lindrel finally got it right, Ten heard the clang of steel boots on stone as a lone templar stumbled into the room. Ten felt a surge of pity - he was tall, but gangly, his armor clearly meant for a man with much broader shoulders, and looked like he hadn't yet seen his twentieth birthday.

"What in Andraste's name is going on in here?" he demanded. The mages looked up disinterestedly and went back to their work. They evidently knew him, and felt comfortable completely ignoring his presence.

"Don't worry about it," called Rowena, licking the end of her quill to get the ink going again.

"No, you don't get to just ignore me!" the templar protested, "What are you doing?!"

"Not your bloody concern, Cullen," Lindrel said, the irritation in his voice more than an edge.

"You have to listen to me!" the templar, who was apparently called Cullen, announced, "I am charged with the safety of this tower!"

"You're a third-year squire who can't even grow a proper beard," Athmina declared, "Relax, we've got this under control." She blew on the ink on her scroll and recited the words thereon.

This time, the whole tower lurched as though a very brief earthquake had hit.

"You're practicing unauthorized rituals!" Cullen cried, stumbling over his feet.

"Lad, come here," Ten said, rising and beckoning him over.

Grateful to see someone who was certainly not a mage, the templar walked over, wary of the floor shifting again.

"And who exactly are you?" he asked.

"Never mind that for now," said Ten, "Do you know why none of them are listening to you?"

"Because there's only one of me, they know I'm new, and if they really wanted to, they could end me," said Cullen.

"Do you really think that the only way to get people to listen to you is by scaring them?" asked Ten.

Cullen started to speak, but shut his mouth.

"Is that how you've always been treated?" she asked, "Expected to just listen to the loudest voice in the room?"

She could see from the expression on his face that he had never really thought about it before.

"Well that's too bad," said Ten, "But I assure you there is more than one way to make your voice heard, and this one isn't working for you. And it's not making you any friends."

"They're not supposed to be my friends," said Cullen, "They're supposed to listen to me."

"Well," said Ten, "That's your first mistake. Those two things just aren't mutually exclusive. If people only listen to you because they fear you, the minute they don't fear you anymore, they stop listening. They turn their backs, they treat you like a mosquito in their ears. Like they're doing now. Now, if they trust you… even like you, that's a much better situation all around. But right now you're making yourself incredibly unpopular, and you look weak."

"I'm not weak!" protested Cullen, "I'm the only one here who didn't fall to that demon. Oh, I heard its voice, but I stayed strong!"

"That's admirable," said Ten, "I'm sure you have your qualities. But you can't just walk into every room swinging your sword around and expecting everyone to just hop to because they're supposed to."

"Who even are you? And why are you doing the talking?"

"There's no stopping her once she's on her soapbox," said Alistair.

Cullen paused, "And who are you? How did you get here? I thought the tower was sealed."

"It is," Alistair said, "Gregoir… made an exception."

"Ha! She made him lose his shit and he threw her like a ragdoll didn't he!" exclaimed Cullen, clearly more comfortable talking to another man, "He does that sometimes. Mostly to the younger lads. Old man's got a hell of an arm."

Ten chuckled, "Does he now."

"Oh yeah, if he's being a stick in the mud about leave, all you need to do is goad him until he sees red and he'll chuck you out for the night, bang! You're on leave."

"There we go!" exclaimed Ten, "You do understand the difference between authority and power."

"Point taken," Cullen acknowledged, "But you still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

"Grey Wardens," said Alistair, "We were here to call our treaty due, get a little help with one of the apparently several existential threats to the nation, and wandered into this mess."

"Sure, and I'm Divine Justinia," Cullen said skeptically, crossing his arms.

"With all due respect, Your Eminence," said Ten, "We've managed to get this thing far more under control than you and all your compatriots have in nearly a week, so how about you relax?"

"Yeah, where exactly were you this whole time?" asked Alistair.

"One of those damned blood mages imprisoned me at the base of the stairs leading to the topmost floor," Cullen insisted, "But something just… happened, this barrier came down, and then I came in here to every journeyman in the place playing scribe on the floor, chanting utter gibberish."

"Was that racist?" Ten asked Alistair.

"I don't think so," Alistair said.

"I dunno, it felt racist," she said, "He called Ancient Elvish gibberish."

"All right, I can see that," he acknowledged, "Cullen, don't insult the Elvish language. It's rude."

"To be fair it is a bit… gibberishy," said Ten, "I'll allow it. Anyway, what were you doing at the base of the stairs to the tower? All the other templars in here had the good sense to die or be captured on the lower floors."

"They stuck me up here in the libraries," Cullen said, "So I saw it all. And I resisted the demons, too! All the mages fell, one by one! I was ready to storm up there, slaughter all of those that were infected with this… blood magic plague, but one of them, I don't know how - threw up some kind of prison around me."

"Just one day, I ask," Ten sighed, "One day without someone saying 'slaughter.' And you don't just get to kill everyone you're afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of them!"

"Yes you are. That's why you're in here trying to bully the ones who are, at least for the moment, on your side and even managed to free you. The only thing you would have accomplished, charging to the top of the tower, is getting yourself killed, because that's what foolish young men do. Ask Alistair."

"Hey, I'm not the one who got chucked ten feet in the air copping an attitude with the knight-commander," Alistair pointed out.

"Wait, I know that name. Weren't you here before? A few years ago? Aren't you the one who lasted about three weeks because you hid everyone's knickers in the Chamber of Harrowing?" asked Cullen, lowering an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, it was a little bit funny," said Alistair.

"Anyway, having the sense of humor of an eight year old gives you an absolutely unfair edge against darkspawn," said Ten.

"And tightly wound young templars who take themselves far too seriously," Alistair added.

"Children!" Wynne shouted, "This is the best we're going to do. It's time for that blaze of glory. No doubt with all the practice runs, something's shaken loose up there."

"Hopefully nothing key to this tower's structural integrity," said Athmina, looking about nervously.

Ten felt, made sure her hatchet and dagger were where they left them. She whistled through her teeth for the hound, who had been sniffing about in piles of old books. And she started for where she thought the stairs must be.

"So, are all of us going?" asked Cullen hesitantly, but following her.

"Are you going start indiscriminately offing mages?" asked Alistair, falling in behind him.

"No," said Cullen, "No I'm not."

"Oh thank the Maker," Alistair said, "Last time I charged the top of a tower with only this one for backup I got thrown against the wall by a giant man goat thing. Not looking to repeat the experience."

"For the record, I did kill the giant man goat thing," Ten pointed out.

"Yes, and then promptly took half a dozen arrows and had to be carried out of there. Like I said, not looking to repeat the experience."

"I'd been on the job for less than a day!"

"And it's been like two weeks at this point, you're not that quick a study."

"Fine," said Ten, "If there are any giant man goat things, I volunteer to get thrown against the wall this time."

"Well from how you took the fall at the bottom floor I rather think you're better equipped for it. You bounced."

"Now you're just rubbing it in," said Ten. It took all of her strength to lift the enormous bar that was holding shut the door at the top of the stairs. Taking a breath, she flung it open.

Chapter Text

There was, in fact, not a single man goat thing beyond the door at the top of the tower. Instead, near each of the six massive pillars holding up the ceiling, a mage was seated, backs to the pillars, each looking haggard and drawn. In the center of the room, in the middle of an enormous rune inscribed on the floor Ten imagined was of his own creation, sat a middle-aged man in mage's robes, his head bald and his dark eyebrows drawn down closely over closed eyes. The rune itself Ten did not recognize, but imagined must be Tevinter in origin. But most distressingly, the corpses of four templars and four mages, were arranged around him, their heads facing the cardinal and ordinal directions.

"There," said Wynne, pointing, "That's Uldred."

"Yeah, I gathered that. Thanks," said Ten, "You think his parents knew what he'd grow up to be when they named him?"

"Oh, probably," said Wynne, "Rumor has it they were first cousins."

"Close the door behind you," Uldred in the center commanded, opening his eyes slowly and languidly. His voice was high for a man of his years, and raspy. The mages from the archives filed silently in behind their three protectors, and, obligingly, shut the door behind them.

"Maker's breath, you're not supposed to do what he tells you!" Ten shouted.

"I thank you, intruder, for bringing me all that is mine," Uldred said, "It will be that much easier to bind them, now that they're all in one place."

"Alistair, did we just really, really fuck up?" Ten asked.

"We?" Alistair protested, "This was your idea. In fact, I'm going to make sure they bury me just so I can have an epitaph that reads, 'this was absolutely, one hundred percent, the fault of Teneira Tabris of Denerim, please find her and burn her house down.'"

"You two really have absolutely no idea what you're doing, do you," Cullen sighed.

"Nary a one," said Ten, "And I'm surprised you just figured that out."

"It's all right!" called Giulia, who had been the one to shut the door, "I'm just used to listening to the masters. Just habit. I'm not demon-possessed. I promise."

"For now," Uldred said, "You'll see, I can offer you - all of your - yes, even you pathetic beings devoid of a true connection to the Fade - power beyond your wildest reckoning."

"You tried that before," Rowena declared, "We told you no once, we'll say it again." She started reciting. Uldred did not react. He did not know of this spell.

The room lurched, two of the mages imprisoned against the pillars began to rise.

"Hey!" Ten shouted, getting Uldred's attention back on her, "Tell me about this power beyond wildest reckoning."

She had caught movement out of the corner of her eye. One of the mages who'd been released from his magical bindings was moving slowly, trying to avoid Uldred noticing him.

"You could have whatever you want," said Uldred, "You don't have to say who you are. You would do well with a… companion in that vessel."

"A companion!" said Ten, "What if I don't like her?"

"What do you mean?"

"What the demon makes me dress like a harlot or something?" Ten said, keeping the newly released mage in her sight and trying to delay Uldred realizing what was happening behind his back, "That would be so embarrassing! Or what if she likes waking up at the crack of dawn to go swimming? Or doesn't like wine? It would really put a damper on my style."

Uldred was thoroughly perplexed. He had not anticipated such an utterly stupid set of questions.

The mage who had been moving slowly in the periphery of Ten's vision started sprinting, and finally drew Uldred's attention. However, to Ten's dismay, he did not make a move against him. Instead, he bolted for the window that had been broken out earlier in the evening and took a flying leap, the eventual splash in the lake announcing that he had, indeed, cleared anything that would kill him outright.

"Fucking coward," Ten muttered.

Uldred chuckled, realizing that she was messing with him, and snapped his fingers. Out of the ceiling, a bolt of lighting shot down, and Ten felt the hair on her arms stand up straight in the instant before it struck her, and all of the muscles in her body seized at once. She could have sworn her heart stopped for several seconds - that's certainly how it felt. But it did start up again, eventually. She didn't know how long she spent on her knees, gasping, but eventually she got ahold of herself and rose doggedly to her feet.

"Offer goes for everyone in this room," Uldred said, "Including you, impertinent little…"

Uldred, muttered something under his breath. The dead templars rose as though lifted by some unseen force by the tops of their heads. She heard Cullen gag beside her.

As though it weren't bad enough for the corpses to have been animated, it was as though each of them burst open. Like there was another sort of creature entirely inhabiting and animating their bodies. A spray of bone and blood issued from each of their heads as a gelatinous, melted-looking thing emerged from each of the corpses. When they stretched out to their full height, they were probably seven or eight feet tall, but, all in all, looked extremely top heavy, well developed shoulders tapering down to legs as slim as reeds.

"What has he done…" Cullen murmured.

"How did he… non-mages don't become abominations," Alistair said, "This is… oh no… this is new."

Ten hefted her ax.

"Well they don't look very sturdy," said Ten, "Go for the ankles." She advanced slowly, low to the ground, fixated on their spindly legs. She ducked and rolled out of the way as one made a grab for her, getting her hatchet into the back of what would have been a calf. The thing toppled, as she had sliced right through it. Pigeon, a reluctant heroine, took that as the signal to charge, bowling two of them over and ripping one's throat out.

The first mage made it to the end of the recitation, and the room rattled. Uldred flinched. The mages who had been seated by the pillars began to rise, slowly.

Uldred cast about, panicked. He uttered something under his breath, and began to change. It was as though he burst out of his own body, swelling before their eyes, his arms, legs, and chest bulging, his face contorting, until he had reached his final form. It had horns, to be sure, but this creature's arms were grossly disproportionate to the rest of it.

"You have got to be kidding me," Ten grumbled.

"Well, it doesn't look just like the other one," Alistair said.

"Yeah, this one's worse!" she exclaimed, "Cullen, fancy getting thrown against a wall?"

"Absolutely not."

"Fuck. Fine," Ten said. She braced herself, planted her feet, kept herself low to the ground. She moved out into the center of the room. Now if I can get out of this one, I will have bragging rights forever. Scales front and back. Not so much in the back. Achilles tendons. It's going to try to scoop me up. It's not very agile. The arms are long but the fingers are narrow.

"Wait, no!" called Alistair, "Andraste's left tit, I didn't think you were actually going to do it!"

If she'd had a hand free, she would have lifted a middle finger in the air, but she did not, and so she ignored him, moved in and, at the last moment, dodged to the left as it made a grab for her. She turned and buried her hatched in its ankle. It howled and collapsed down on one knee. She leapt clear, and then advanced again while it tried to see why its leg would not hold it anymore. She tried to pull the same move she had at Ostagar, sending her dagger into its lower back and stepping up on it to get to his neck, but as she got one foot on the hilt, its great right hand closed around her, squeezing until she felt several ribs break. She stopped struggling, tried to figure out how to keep breathing when each breath was an agony. She could taste blood in the back of her throat and the sound of her pulse in her ears drowned out almost everything else in the room. She could see, vaguely, that it was holding her high in the air, and she was prone, her head directly over its. She could see the outline of Cullen and Alistair moving towards it in her peripheral vision. Well, may as well give them the best chance at it. She spat, and an arc of blood splattered into its both its beady eyes. It dropped her to bring its hands to its eyes. She hit the ground on hands and knees, managing to roll to the periphery of the room, where she she stayed, one arm around herself, trying to get a full breath, but knowing something was dreadfully wrong in there.

"Tell me one of you idiots killed it," she gasped. She coughed again, spitting up more blood.

"Both of us idiots," Cullen called.

Wynne was at her side in a flash, laying two wrinkled hands on her back. She felt the ribs move back where they were supposed to be, and accepted the help back onto her feet. She coughed the rest of the blood - and there was a rather disturbing amount of it - out of her repaired lungs, and took stock of the room. The giant man goat thing was gone, and only Uldred's broken body lay on the floor.

"It's over," Wynne said. She was joined at Ten's side by another elder mage, this one a man in his sixties with a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard.

"That was very brave, child," he said.

"I was dared," said Ten, wiping the blood from her chin, "First Enchanter Irving, yes?"

"That's me," he said, "We'd better get down before Gregoir makes good on his threat. I didn't live this long to be gassed to death in my own home."

"Casualties?" Ten asked. She swiped at her eyes and saw that, indeed, she appeared to be the only one hurt.

"Just you," said Wynne.

"And… well I don't know," called Athmina, who was standing by the broken window, looking out into the dawn twilight, "I don't see a body."

"No, Anders hit the water, I heard it," said Lindrel.

"There's no way he survived that fall," said Athmina, "Some poor fisherman will scoop him out of the lake in a week or so."

"Never liked him anyway," commented Giulia.

The lot of them made their way down the stairs, through the maze of rooms, and back to the base of the tower. On their way they passed a dozen or more dazed templars and mages, not quite understanding what had happened or how long they'd been out of it.

They reached the bottom, and Ten strode up to the heavy door through which she had been thrown earlier in the night, and kicked it thrice with the steel toe of her boot. The sound startled awake the five children, who had been sleeping in a heap in the corner, and their guardians, who had slumped against two pillars.

"Is it over?" the darkhaired elf asked.

"It's over," Wynne assured him.

"What demon has woken me up?!" Gregoir's voice roared from the other side of the door.

"Open this door at once!" Irving shouted.

There was a pause.

"How do I know it's you and not a demon with your voice?" the knight-commander demanded.

"Your middle name is Aloïs," Irving called, "And you hate it."

The sound of the heavy iron deadbolt clattering open echoed from behind the door, and it swung open with a heavy groan.

Ten fully expected to be met with the wrath of the knight commander, but was entirely astonished to see the elder templar's face more worried than angry, and he strode forward and seized up Irving in a bear hug that lifted the First Enchanter clean off the floor. He held him there, long enough for the mages to start looking uncomfortably at each other.

"I'm all right," Irving protested, "Put me down."

"So it is done?" Gregoir asked, obliging, but keeping both hands on either of the smaller man's shoulders.

"It is," said Irving, "And my clever charges managed to find a ritual, deep in the library, that should protect us against further… incursions from the dark side of the Fade."

"And you," Gregoir said, turning to Ten, "I suppose I owe you an apology."

"To be fair, I was being extremely obnoxious," said Ten.

"That… wasn't my fault, was it?" he gestured vaguely at her. She looked down, and saw that she was covered in her own blood from what she had coughed up after the giant man goat thing had sent several shards of rib into her lungs. Wynne had fixed the damage, but the aftermath was gruesome indeed.

"No Ser," she said, "Came by this one honestly."

"I'm a man of my word, so you've earned the support of the Circle," said Gregoir, "Though it looks like my own ranks are looking a little slim. The mages will join you with my blessing. Are we square?"

"Not yet. I need enough mages to get into the Fade, at Redcliffe Castle, as soon as they can make it there. How many would be required for that?"

"What's the purpose?" asked Irving.

"Kid's got a demon," said Ten, "We're trying to avoid having to… you know. How many are needed?"

"That is something we can handle. I think four of us would do," said Irving.

"There's not room on the boat for that many," said Ten, "Can you travel the long way around?"

"I'll escort them," volunteered Cullen, "I need to… I need to get out of here. For awhile."

"And where, exactly, were you when all of this happened?" Gregoir asked, narrowing his eyes at the young templar.

"With all due respect, Knight Commander," Cullen said, his voice quiet, but strong, "The rest of your men were held in thrall or outright killed. The only reason I survived is that I resisted the blood mages, as hard as they tried to get in my head."

"It's true," Alistair said, "He's a stubborn one."

"Wait… I recognize you," said Gregoir, "Before, I was too fixated on putting that one in her place, but I've definitely seen you before."

"Me? I have no idea what you're talking about. I just have one of those faces," he said.

"Oh, wait," said Gregoir, "You're the knicker nabber. Freak you are. Well you're in good company if you're taking orders from her."

Ten attempted to hold back a laugh but only managed to snort horribly.

"I am not taking orders from her," Alistair protested.

"And I suppose the two of you will slay the archdemon by dropping ice cubes down the back of its neck and pelting it with handfuls of manure."

"Wait," said Ten, "Before we get out of your hair, I have one more favor to call due."

"And what is that, oh mighty Grey Warden?"

"Get those kids some dogs. Not giant evil dogs like mine. Little nice dogs. It's bad enough being away from everyone you know. Not letting them have dogs is just cruel."

To her surprise, Gregoir didn't react negatively. "It would make the place less grim."

"Great," said Ten, "Now we're square."

"Good," he said, "Because I never want to lay eyes on either of you two clowns again."

"Oh trust me, the feeling is mutual," said Ten, "Farewell, Aloïs."

"Get the fuck out of my tower."

Ten obeyed, pushing open the doors and walking out into the sunrise.

"So I'm coming with you," said Wynne, who had followed them out, putting her hand on Ten's shoulder.

"Are you now?" asked Ten, "Surely the little ones can't get by without their nanna."

"Oh they can," said Wynne, "What this has reminded me of is… how set in my ways I had become. Every day is a story I've read a thousand times before. I used to be sent on all sorts of missions, you know. Watching you improvise, put together the puzzle with pieces you didn't really understand… I miss that."

"Well you're obviously welcome," said Alistair, "Are you all right sleeping in a tent, though?"

"And keeping company with an apostate? A Qunari? A radical nun?" Ten added.

"Wouldn't be the strangest set I've ever belonged to," said Wynne, "And please, I was sleeping on the ground before either of you were twinkles in your parents' eyes. Strangely, I miss that as well."

"You're about to have a lot of it," said Ten, "But far be it from me to make your decisions for you."

"Splendid!" Wynne exclaimed, "I'll speak with Irving and accompany the delegation to Redcliff. I take it I can meet you there?"

"Absolutely," said Ten, "And thank you."

Ten turned in time to see the old woman cut a caper of delight, clicking her heels in the air, as she went back in to seek leave. She smiled in spite of herself, and walked to the supply dock, crouching and scooping up the waters of the lake to rinse the dried blood from her face and neck.

"That water is disgusting," said Alistair, "You're going to get an infection."

"I grew up swimming in the Drakon River right by the harbor," said Ten, "I'm pretty sure I'm immune to anything Lake Calenhad has to offer." Pigeon decided to interpret this loosely, and jumped in to have a swim. She climbed slowly back up the bank. She knew that she would live, but she couldn't shake the feeling of her ribs cracking, of not being able to draw breath.

"So that was really sad, Ten," he said.

"What, the baby mages with no puppies?" asked Ten. She seated herself back on the bank and faced the rising sun, willing it to rise a little faster and ease the chill in her bones that had not left since she felt her body break in a demon's fist. Miraculously, a large flask of whiskey she'd lifted from a refugee cart, her pipe, and a small pouch of tobacco were intact. She took a long swallow, feeling she'd earned it. She packed and lit the pipe. Offered it to Alistair, who demurred.

"No," he finally said, "In the Fade."

"I didn't see you in the Fade," she said, "It was just a demon."

"Well I saw you," he said.

She could see, on the far shore of the lake, the ketch Jeannie Carter docked. In the distance, she saw men scurrying around the deck. It wouldn't be too long until Murdock and his men returned to collect them.

"What did you see?" she asked cautiously. Secrets I'd rather keep, I imagine.

"You were standing at a stall in some town square somewhere. Trying to sell me a potion that'd keep me up. You looked different. You were different."

"Oh shit, that was you?" she asked, "Thought it was my own mind trying to get me away from the demon. Well this is embarrassing."

"Well you shouldn't be embarrassed," Alistair said, "It was just very... sad."

"What, now you've caught a glimpse of my secret sorrows and now you pity the poor widow?" she asked, only a little sarcastically.

"Oh I don't know. I knew, intellectually so to speak, what had happened to you. I knew you were the girl from the murder ballad, the bride who sought revenge, and all that. But it was just a story, I'd never actually thought about what it all meant for you. What you'd lost."

"Did you just now come to the realization that other people have feelings?" she asked.

"Well, no, but you're just so... I didn't think you would... it was just really sad, all right?" he said, shaking his head.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do here," she said, "But the only reason I've kept my wits about me is that I put that hurt in with all other hurts, bottled them up, and am hoping I simply pass away before I have to face them. All this talk is the opposite of that." She drained the flask in one go to drive home her point.

"That's probably not healthy."

"What's it going to do, kill me before my time?"

"Fair."

"Anyway, what about you, what weakness did the demon find in you?" she asked, genuinely curious, "Or is it... not for polite company. If that's the case please keep it to yourself."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," he said.

"It's not my mind I'm worried about," she countered.

"Well you needn't worry about mine either," he said, "It was about my sister, if you must know."

"You probably have about a dozen sisters," said Ten, "And now I really hope this is not going where I initially feared."

"It's not. Stop it. I have this one sister," he said, "On my mother's side. I know of her, but I've never met her. It put me with some imagination of her. Actually, it's rather thanks to you that I realized I was being duped."

"How could I have possibly helped with that?"

"Well all I really know about her is that she was sent to her father's family in Denerim shortly after I was born. Meaning she grew up there. And in the Fade, the demon impersonating her sounded… wrong. Sometime between her putting the kettle on and taking a pie out of the oven, I realized something was missing. She's working class, she's from Denerim, so by rights she should have a horrible, obnoxious accent like yours, and here she was talking like a Chantry scholar."

"Well, you should hear what we say about you lot," Ten chuckled, "But you're welcome, I guess."

"It's actually rather growing on me," he said, "Say 'squirrel.'"

"Why?"

"Because the way you pronounce it is hilarious."

"No."

"Come on."

"Fuck off."

"Please?"

"Fine," she said. She whistled through her teeth. Pigeon came up on the bank, waiting for a command. Only too late did Alistair realize what she was doing, as she shouted, "Squirrel!"

Chapter Text

"Long night, huh," Murdock said after, mooring the Jeannie Carter to the dock, getting a look at the Grey Wardens, one of whom still had a good amount of dried blood down her front and the other who was covered in muddy pawprints.

"You have no idea," said Ten.

"Well Gregoir said we're not welcome back here, so you're off the hook," Alistair said, "And you're right, it's very creepy."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Murdock said.

"Oh I bet Irving would let us in," said Ten.

"He probably would," Alistair admitted, "Say, do you think the two of them are…"

"Absolutely," said Ten, "Probably for decades."

"Aw, that's kind of sweet actually."

There was a jolt and a shudder as the ketch moved away from the dock. Ten went to go make herself as unobtrusive as possible, going to sit in the bow. Alistair followed her there, as did the dog.

"You look like shit," she said, turning to him, "You should really try to get some sleep. I'm amazed the demon didn't get you out of sheer exhaustion."

"You're not going to sic the dog on me and call it a prank?"

"Nah, not this time," she said, "Go on. I'll give you a kick in the ribs if anything happens."

She sat herself by the bowsprit and set to scheming. The staff is mostly dead. The castle will be deserted. Everyone will be preoccupied with the kid. Perfect time to ransack the place. Find out the truth about what happened to Eamon. Read every correspondence, go through every drawer. Lelianna will help me. She understands discretion and the importance of secrets. Going to have to keep Alistair off my back, he doesn't need to know the extent of my prying. She glanced back. He's out cold. Three hour journey. Two nights in a row with no sleep. Maybe just… don't wake him up.

Ten arrived on shore midmorning. Sten, evidently, had had some success with the militia, as when she arrived, around twenty of the fighting men had formed a formidable shield wall and were advancing as one, up and down the main drag. "Well shit, I guess Redcliffe doesn't have much to fear anymore," she said.

"They are still amateurs," Sten said, crossing his arms, "I would need years to make them into something worthy of song."

"You've got a day," she said.

"You have been injured," he said, looking her over, "You are covered in blood. From its smell, it is your own. Explain."

"That is… so very creepy," said Ten, "But if you must know, a kindly mage put me back together after a demon stabbed me in the lungs with four of my own ribs."

"Where is the other one?" asked the Qunari.

"He's still on the boat, asleep," said Ten, "He had a rough night."

"You left him there on purpose," said Sten, "Explain."

"He was getting on my nerves," said Ten, "I needed a break from the 'oh look at me, I'm so jovial and guileless, please please please everyone like me' routine."

"That is understandable. Very well. You may go about your business, but we really ought to move on and attend to the task at hand."

"I promise, there will be plenty of darkspawn to run your sword through in the very near future. Have you seen Lelianna around? The medium sized one with the red hair," said Ten.

"She snuck out of the top window of that house over there at dawn," said Sten, pointing to one of the ramshackle cottages on the docks, "And went to the Chantry, though whatever she was doing there I'm not sure your Maker would forgive."

"Lovely," said Ten. She took her leave of the Qunari and walked through the door of the Chantry, where she found Lelianna, on her knees, her hands clasped piously before her.

"Now what could you have gotten up to last night that you would need this level of obeisance to forgive?" asked Ten.

"Ten!" Lelianna exclaimed, "You're back! And you're…. Covered in blood. As per usual. Interesting night?"

"I don't even know if it's worth it to explain," Ten sighed, but gave a brief rundown as they walked up the steep hill to camp.

They found the witch there, sunning herself on a rock by the river, her nose in a large tome. At first, Ten thought it was some powerful old grimoire and Morrigan was about to raise an army of undead wolves, but upon closer inspection, it was a mystery novel, probably lifted from one wagon or another.

"Don't even think about talking to me," Morrigan said, as Ten's shadow fell over her, "I'm about to find out who fathered Lady Eldegaard's baby."

"It was the dashing elfin bard," said Ten, "That one came out like five years ago."

"Mean!" Morrigan sighed, and put the book down. She fixed Ten with her pale gaze, and wrinkled her nose, "You look terrible, what happened to you?"

"The Circle's just as shit as you imagine it to be," sighed Ten, "How good are you at being small creatures?"

"How small are we talking?" asked Morrigan.

"Like a rat. Ferret might do. Or a spider, but not that weird huge gross spider. Like a little tiny cute spider."

"So you can squish me?"

"No," said Ten, "So we can get into that castle and get every secret those pretentious bastards have written down."

"What's the point of that?" asked Morrigan.

"You never know when you need someone else's secrets," said Ten, "But of course you wouldn't understand, you'd need to understand shame to understand blackmail."

"The more I speak with you, the more I feel civilization was a mistake," Morrigan said.

"You may not be wrong about that," sighed Ten, "But that's what we're dealing with at this point. Also I lied about the book. Haven't actually read that one."

"Then how did you know there was a dashing elfin bard?"

"There's always a dashing elfin bard," said Ten, "It's a bit of a cliche. Fine, stay here, finish your book. Just keep the dog out of my hair, I'm trying to move around a little more quietly than she'll allow."

"Deal," said the witch, suspiciously.

Pigeon had, apparently, decided that Morrigan was an all right sort. It was probably all the time she as a wolf, they had some kind of understanding, having smelled each others' behinds and all that. And so, she obligingly listened when Ten told her to stay. Ten took off her bloodsoaked leathers and took a flying leap into one of the pools in the river trying to get the rest of it off, leaving the armor on a sunwarmed rock, hoping that the sun would bake out some of the smell. As she was changing into one of her frocks, satisfied she would not be encountering anything trying to kill her with a blade for the time being, a horse drawn cart bearing Irving, Wynne, Rowena, and Lindrel, with Cullen sitting backwards on backboard with his legs dangling in the air, passed by their camp. She didn't flag them down, being in such a state of undress, but kept in mind that they would beat her there. And so, dried off and smelling a little less like death, she and Lelianna made their way across the ramshackle bridge and into the castle.

To Ten's dismay, Lady Isolde was waiting for them in the courtyard.

"Oh, is that the salope who took off half of your face yesterday?" asked Lelianna.

"That's her," said Ten.

The arlesssa, however, did not seem in a mood to fight. Instead, she rushed up to them, relief visible on her face. "Thank the Maker you're here! There is an unholy mess in the servant's quarters! You can start there."

Lelianna and Ten looked at each other.

"What, are you not the new serving girls?"

"No," said Ten, "Are you serious right now?"

"Oh, it's you," the arlessa sighed, an expression of contempt flickering over her features before they fell into resignation, "I did not recognize you without the…" she waved her hand in front of her vaguely.

"Look, we clearly got off on the wrong foot before," said Ten, "At the end of the day I just moved heavens and earth to help your son, without you needing to bleed out for it."

"Yes, I suppose you did," Isolde said, "The mages are inside. They said they were expecting you. Come on."

"You know I bet they'd help you with those two black eyes if you asked nicely," Lelianna said, giggling behind her hand.

Isolde paused. Ten braced herself for an insult, or to avoid another swipe of the claws. But, Isolde only shook herself off, and kept going.

In the main hall of the castle, the four mages were talking in hushed tones with Teagan. As they drew closer, Ten saw that there were, indeed, five mages, for Jowan was there, though he was stooped over, as Wynne had him firmly by the ear.

"The servant's quarters are through the other door!" Teagan shouted.

"No," said Isolde, "It's the Grey Warden. The small ill-mannered one."

"Oh!" Teagan exclaimed, "I'm sorry Miss Tabris. I didn't recognize you. Where's Alistair?"

"Taking a nap," said Ten. On a boat. Twenty yards off shore. Where he can't try and tell me what to do. "It's been a rough forty-eight hours."

"I can only imagine," the bann said, "These fine mages informed us of your heroics in the tower."

"I'm sure they exaggerated," said Ten, "So you're going to just… go into the Fade, find whatever evil entity has its claws in the kid's mind, and… kill it?"

"You make it sound so crass," Lindrel protested.

"But that is, generally, how it's done," said Irving.

"How long does this take?" asked Ten.

"It's not predictable," said Irving, "It could be an hour, it could be a day."

"I want to be there when he wakes up," Isolde said.

"As do I," said Teagan.

"Well, there's no sense in delaying it further," Wynne said.

"Could you possibly let go of my ear, Ma?" Jowan asked.

"And have you abscond again? Absolutely not," Wynne said, "You are going to sit there quietly, watch us do our work, and think long and hard on what you've done."

"His chamber is at the top of the southwest tower," said Isolde.

"More stairs," groaned Irving.

"It was a sad necessity," the arlessa said, "It's a… small room. Perhaps the Grey Warden and her… associate may wish to wait here? Out of the way?"

"Not a problem, my lady," said Ten, smiling benignly, "We are most patient."

They waited for the footsteps to echo away at the end of the hall.

"Pretty sure the private wing is that way," said Ten, "I feel bad for the kid, kept in the tower like that, but it sure makes it convenient to toss the rest of the place."

"Whatever do you want their secrets for?" asked Lelianna, "Do you suspect something?"

"I suspect a few things," said Ten, "But generally, it's better to know things than not know things, don't you think?"

"I suppose it is!" Lelianna exclaimed.

"So I have two theories that I'm looking into," said Ten as they made their way through the empty corridors.

"There's something going on between the bann and his sister-in-law isn't there," said Lelianna, "How she looked at him. It was… untoward."

"Oh good, I'm not going crazy," said Ten, "The arl and arlessa will likely each have a private suite. Obviously I'm more interested in the arlessa's for this specific purpose, but one can never know too much."

It took them the better part of two hours, poking into all sorts of crevices - guest rooms, bathing rooms, what was likely Connor's childhood nursery before it had all gone so horribly sideways. At the end of a windy little corridor was a grand room, with large south-facing windows, clearly designed to be large enough for the arl to meet with ten or more advisors, subjects, or knights. It was terribly dusty, of course, most of the staff having died demon-related deaths in the past several weeks, but Ten imagined enough time would pass before its master had returned that anything they displaced would be covered again.

Along the east wall stood a desk entirely too large for any normal human to require, piled high with dusty books and scrolls, though it looked as though most of them were blank and likely there for show.

Lelianna began feeling the walls for secret compartments and poking around in the several large bookshelves, while Ten sat herself at the grand desk and, lighting a candle, went through the account book laid out thereon. Regular things. Taxes in every month. Tribute paid to the capital. Orders out, supplies in. Stipends to lesser banns in the area, and a few in Orlais. Nothing out of order.

However, in a drawer on the right hand side that was locked, though not very securely, was a smaller ledger, which contained accounts of a more personal nature. She saw regular gifts to the Chantry in town, two convents and a monastery further out in the Hinterlands, stipends paid to the widows of knights in his service. "Wait, this one's strange," she said, "Come here."

Lelianna left off tapping at the wall to look over her shoulder.

"Tell me what's strange about these two," Ten said. She realized when the sentence was halfway out that this was exactly what she did to Shianni whenever they were looking into something. Made her identify for herself why Ten had taken notice of it. She felt a pang for her cousin, and hoped she was getting on all right.

"Well that one has no title," Lelianna said, "Just a name."

"You would have no way of knowing this," said Ten, "But this address is in the shittiest part of Denerim. Well, aside from my neighborhood. It's not a lot of money either. Everyone else is getting hundreds, and she's getting about twenty sovereigns a month."

"That is strange," said Lelianna, "Why would a provincial arl be paying some woman in the slums of Denerim barely enough to cover rent?"

"Well I can think of several, none of them nice," said Ten.

"And you accuse me of having my mind in the gutter," Lelianna chided her.

"She hasn't gotten it this month," said Ten, "That means it was kept from the Arlessa, look, you can see in the main ledger that Isolde has kept up with everything else."

"So she's probably not terribly pleased," said Lelianna.

"Maybe she'd be willing to cough something up." She took down her name and address. "Goldanna MacCathaíl, what could you have to tell us…"

"And the other," said Lelianna, "Every other gift to the Chantry has the name of the order who runs it. But this is just for one Fra Genitivi. Also an address in Denerim."

"A solitary monk," mused Ten, "You don't see that every day. He probably knows a few things as well." She wrote down the name and address. "At least he doesn't live in the slums."

"A solitary monastic is usually a scholar," said Lelianna.

"Or a lunatic who decides to follow around a member of an exiled order because she had a vision," Ten pointed out.

"Or that."

She shut the account books, started going through the rest of the desk drawers. There was the regular correspondence. Friends from adolescence. Negotiations with various banns in his territory.

"There is a distressing lack of dirt here," Lelianna said, rifling through another drawer.

"He must keep all the darkest secrets in his estate in Denerim. Away from the wife. Away from servants whose families he's known for generations," said Ten.

"Don't tell me we need to break in there as well," said Lelianna.

"Of course not. I know some of his staff," Ten said.

"How?"

"Well, there's one chambermaid who is my mother cousin's brother-in-law's sister, and then his butler is my.... father's brother's wife's cousin." Ten counted each degree of separation out on one finger, not convinced she had it correct. 

"I cannot tell if you are joking."

"I am not going to say that all stereotypes about elves are true, but... well, the line is that we at least know of every other elf from our hometown and three things about them," said Ten, "But, that is neither her nor there. Suffice it to say anything we need to know about what he keeps in the capital can be purchased fair and square."

Lelianna paused and looked at Ten pointedly. "I'm getting the feeling there's quite a bit about you that you haven't told us," said Lelianna.

"What, that I'm friendly with my neighbors? Hardly a state secret," said Ten.

"You seem to know an awful lot about obtaining state secrets," said Lelianna, "For a sweet elfin maiden who owned a potions shop."

"A girl needs hobbies," said Ten, mildly, "Come on, I'm guessing that through there is their bedchamber, the arlessa's suite is probably beyond that."

They tiptoed through the grand bedchamber, where the comatose form of the arl was, as Ten imagined he would be, motionless in a bed large enough that the most estranged of spouses could share it without risk of accidentally touching each other. He was in rough shape, taking shallow breaths every few seconds, his beard grown out long and grizzled and his cheeks sunken in. But his eyes darted back and forth frantically beneath closed eyelids in a way that was altogether unnerving.

As predicted, a door on the eastern side of the bedchamber opened into a dressing room. Ten gave into temptation and ran her hand along the dozens of silk gowns that hung from a bar that ran the length of the north wall, but then caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror. Maker's breath I look like shit, she thought, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the fading scars from mess the mirror's owner had made of her face, the burst blood vessels in both eyes that she hadn't even noticed but imagined had something to do with being squeezed within an inch of her life the previous night.

"Are we stealing jewelry as well?" asked Lelianna, who had been drawn to the rack of gleaming earrings that stood on a dresser on the opposite end of the room.

"What, so we can parade around the roads of the absolute armpit of the nation wearing gold, just screaming 'please rob me'?" Ten asked, "Eh, why not."

But Lelianna had moved on to the small bottles of perfume on the other end of the dresser, opening bottles and sniffing them. Ten started going through drawers. Stockings. Corsets. Underthings. Nothing of interest.

"Wait," said Lelianna, "I don't think this one is perfume." She held it up a small crystal vial to the light and tipped it this way and that, "It's too viscous. And it doesn't smell like anything."

Ten appeared at her side, examining the bottle, "The vial itself is Tevinter, they don't cut them like that here. As for what's in it…" She opened it, took a whiff. Lelianna was right. It didn't smell like anything. She held it up to the light. Tipped it this way and that. Lelianna was right, it was thick, moving slowly in the crystal of the vial. There was an iridescent sheen on it.

"Well," said Ten, "I suppose there's only one way to find out." She tipped the tiniest drop onto her littlest finger and touched her tongue to it. Flavorless. Nobody would have noticed.

The vertigo began immediately. She gasped. She put the bottle down on the dresser and grabbed at the wall. Lelianna got an arm under her and guided her over to a fainting couch in the opposite corner while the room wheeled around her. It was like nothing she had ever tested on herself, or built a tolerance to. She gripped the back of the sofa for dear life while Lelianna paced frantically, at an utter loss for what to do.

"What do I do?" Lelianna demanded, "Who do I fetch? Who is here?"

"No," said Ten, shutting her eyes. It did nothing to stop the feeling of pitching, dropping. She felt her eyes involuntarily dart this way and that behind her lids. "Don't fetch the mages. They're occupied. There should be a tincture in my bag, says 'elfroot' on it, it should help."

"I can barely read these!" Lelianna protested in a panic.

"It's red!" Ten exclaimed. She felt a leather flask being shoved into her hand. She popped the cork and took a sip. The vertigo calmed somewhat, but didn't leave her entirely, "I think I can ride this one out. Close up the bottle and put it somewhere safe. Then just… go through everything else."

"Ten, you can't just ride it out, your face has gone gray."

"It didn't kill the Arl after half a bottle and I'm half his age," she said, "It just feels terrible right now. I barely had a drop."

"What if you… threw up?"

"I didn't swallow it. It got in just through my tongue. Fucking Tevinters, of course they'd have something absolutely nasty that you can't just fix with charcoal and a good retch. Just keep searching."

"What am I looking for?"

"Anything, any clue what that was or where it came from. What's in the next room?"

She heard the clicking of a lock next to her as Lelianna got the door open with much greater ease than Ten had. "It's an office. Pretty small. She has ledgers too."

"Read every bit of correspondence in there," said Ten. She tried to breathe, her heart rate going a mile a minute as she felt the room dip and swerve like she was in a rowboat on a stormy sea.

"What am I looking for?"

"Well this was rather the big one," said Ten, "I'm fairly sure we now know that the poor blood mage isn't guilty of anything but being a massive idiot, unless there's a reason he would have been in her dressing room. Actually, that's it. Find him on her payroll."

"What's his name again?"

"Jowan. I don't know his last name, but it's not a common first name so it'll probably be…"

"Found him," said Lelianna, "Maker's breath, he was underpaid for the amount of trouble he's in now."

"Poor idiot," said Ten.

"All right," said Lelianna, "You look better. Is it passing?"

"Wish it would be faster," said Ten, "But yes, it's not as bad as it was."

She closed her eyes again and heard Lelianna rifle through papers for how long she could not tell. "Mostly gossip. Letters from family. They… really don't like Arl Eamon. This letter uses fifteen different euphemisms for 'old lecher.'"

"Strange since many of them seem to be surviving on his charity," said Ten.

"It's not charity," said Lelianna, darkly, "They paid for it. Well… Isolde paid for it."

Ten sighed, "Don't tell me I need to feel sorry for her."

"Teneira, you saw him. You have seen her. How old do you think she was when she was sent to a foreign country, all alone, to marry a much older man?"

Ten paused. She had attributed the wizened condition Arl Eamon was in to the poison, but then thought about it again. Eamon had had the title and control of the arldom when Alistair was born, meaning he was well past grown at that point. That would put him in his late forties at least. Probably much older. And Isolde couldn't have been far past thirty. She certainly didn't look it.

"Why is it that every time I want to really and truly hate someone, it winds up just being another sad story?" grumbled Ten.

"Wait…. there's a compartment below this drawer," Lelianna announced, "I can feel it."

"Can you get it open?"

"She's going to know someone was in here no matter what, yes? May as well drive the point home."

Ten sighed as she heard a crack of wood splintering.

"There's another letter in here," said Lelianna. Ten heard the papers rustling, "Oh… this is bad.".

"What is it?" asked Ten, opening one eye.

"Does the coat of arms on this seal look familiar?" asked Lelianna.

"The world is spinning for me right now, Lelianna, just tell me," she said.

"It was on those men who accosted you in Lothering."

"Well, I suppose she was telling a partial truth, then. Read it to me."

"Esteemed Arlessa of Redcliffe, Keeper of the Five Holds, Lady of the Western Reach, Patroness of... this takes up half the page."

"Please get to it."

"'I hope this missive finds you and your son in good health, the Maker smile upon your house...' patati patata... 'You have my assurance that the boy Connor will remain unmolested by lay and ecclesiastical authorities, and will be granted an exception to the law of the land where it concerns mages holding title. You will receive a document with my daughter's royal seal on it upon news that Eamon has perished after a long and slow decline - not uncommon for a man of his years - but assured with a regular dose of the concoction herein.' And it is signed, though I do not know the man's signature."

"What's the date on that letter?"

"More than a month ago."

"Before Ostagar," said Ten, "This is a long game. Probably hatched as soon as Maric was gone. This is… just so much worse than I thought it could be."

"Why would she keep such a thing? She is Orlesian! We know to burn dangerous letters."

"Probably as a contingency. If things go sideways for Teyrn Loghain, she can parlay it into a longterm stay in Fort Drakon rather than a trip to the axman's block."

"It makes sense for her, she wants her son to keep his title and lands. Her husband is her only thing keeping her from probable exile back home," said Lelianna.

"And he's got a good fifteen years on her, if not more, from the looks of him. She was always going to be widowed eventually," said Ten, "I suspect she really does not want to have to return to her family. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Chevalière Rosaïda d'Ismarién? What about Écuyer Moinet de Fidoresse?"

"Never," said Lelianna, "Most likely inconsequential members of the petite noblesse."

"Exactly," she said, "Those two were getting stipends from the Arl. And a few other Orlesian names with those titles. I'm guessing in-laws."

"So she has nothing to return to," said Lelianna, "And without her son inheriting the title, her position is not assured beyond the death of her husband."

"It would also explain why she hangs on to Teagan so," said Ten, "A contingency. She will almost certainly outlive Eamon, without Connor a viable heir, her next best bet at keeping her social station is to latch on to the brother."

"So what do we do with this?"

"I don't know," said Ten, "There are… other considerations here. What I can't get my head around is why, if she was behind all of this, she has sent the knights off to find a relic which she believes will miraculously cure her husband?"

"Unless she doesn't believe that Andraste's ashes exist," said Lelianna, "And it was all a… how do you say it… chase of the wild goose."

Ten's jaw dropped a little, "Oh that is diabolical," she breathed, "Get rid of the knights. Fewer folks looking over her shoulder. Cast the lands into chaos. Sow panic among the common folk. And in all of it she looks like a victim."

"Well, is she not? A little bit? She has been put in an impossible position. Choosing between her son and her husband like that."

Ten started to say something mean about the woman, but paused. Tried to put herself in the arlessa's shoes. If she could forget everything she knew about the reality of Connor's condition now, if she truly believed there was a possibility of keeping it under wraps, allowing him to live a somewhat normal life... if it was a choice between the child she'd carried and some old man her father had sent her to wed, Ten could not say definitively that she would not have made the same choice. But, she was not in the arlessa's shoes. She was in her own. And she had her own aims.

"Tell me, Sister, do you believe that the relic is real?"

"I do," said Lelianna, "And it is said that it possesses miraculous properties. I must admit, I am personally quite fascinated at the prospect. Are you feeling better?"

"Not really. So you believe in the ashes, do you believe they possess powers of healing?"

"I am not sure about that," she said, "But it is certainly possible, I have seen stranger things. Teneira, are you feeling better? Can you rise from that couch? Fight?"

"I might need a few minutes on that count."

"I am sorry to have to tell you this, but we do not have a few minutes," said Lelianna.

Ten forced one eye open to see that, somewhere in the shifting stones of the walls, a familiar figure was standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth.

Chapter Text

"Well this is certainly awkward," said Lelianna.

"I knew you were nothing more than common thieves," Isolde hissed, but didn't make a move to either of them. Of course. There's nobody to fight this battle for her. She has nobody. If Bann Teagan saw this he would probably strangle her himself… unless there's far more to him than I thought.

"Bit of an Antivan standoff, isn't it," said Ten, closing her eye again, "Do you have any idea what this poison feels like, Arlessa? To answer my own question, it's horrible."

"Ah," Isolde sighed, a sharp, perfunctory sound, realizing what exactly the two common thieves had found in her boudoir.

"What was it? Dizzy spells in the early days?" Ten asked, "Then enough to knock him out? Then enough to keep him out? Then enough to finally end it all, Arlessa?"

"Foolish woman," Isolde sighed, "I may as well just wait, it will kill you eventually."

"I don't think it will," said Ten, "After all, I had the tiniest drop, and your husband is in the other room, still breathing - if barely - after half the bottle. You have no guards, no retainers, your knights are scattered throughout the land hunting down a myth. Do you think Teagan will continue to defend you as he does once he finds this out?"

"It was for my boy," Isolde said, an imploring edge to her voice.

"Your boy, who's currently fighting for his life against forces neither you nor I fully understand because you were too stubborn to send him away?" Ten countered.

"He will come through," said Isolde, "The mages have assured me of that."

"And at the end, he will be sent to the Circle, where he will only be Connor, he will never be Arl of Redcliffe. You will have no grandchildren - at least not legitimate ones - and you will live here until the old man dies, and then, what will become of you? A convent, if you're lucky."

"This life was not my choice," said Isolde. Ten felt pressure on the end of the couch and realized that the noblewoman had sat down heavily by her feet.

"Was Eamon cruel to you?" asked Lelianna.

Isolde was quiet for a long moment, "No," she finally said, "Not in the way you hear of some husbands being cruel to their wives. He just… it is like I am not a person. Those gowns, that jewelry… It is like being a poupée that little girls play with. You dress them up, you show them off, make all the other children jealous, then you put them away on the shelf where they gather dust until you wish to show them off again. Connor was the only good thing to come of it. The only good thing I've ever had. When he is gone, I will have no reason to... I only ask that you wait until I have said farewell to him, and you will not need to bother having me executed."

"Hold on," said Ten, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Who said anything about execution?"

"That is what happens to women who poison their husbands, is it not?" said Isolde.

"It certainly does, if they're caught," said Ten.

"But you have caught me," said Isolde, "That was your whole point, no?"

"We aren't law enforcement," said Ten, "I'm actually rather the opposite. I have no great feelings about Eamon as a person, my interest in seeing him live is purely political. And you have not killed him yet." She tried opening her eyes. Her vision was much clearer now, though not entirely returned to normal.

"What are you proposing?" asked Isolde, looking at her suspiciously.

"Let's think about this practically," said Ten, "We three, as of right now, are the only people in the land who know what you did. I have no interest in that being known outside this room. Lelianna, do you care?"

"Not if the greater good is to be served another way," Lelianna said. She had pulled up an overstuffed chair and was seated across from them, dagger in hand, ostensibly prepared for if the arlessa decided to try anything.

"You see, Arlessa, the story your blood mage told while your men were going after him with hot irons and thumbscrews was much simpler and more compelling. Regardless of whether Jowan was involved in Arl Eamon's condition, he, being a blood mage, has already signed his own death warrant. He has only two choices - the noose or the lam," said Ten, "You, however, could walk out of this with your hands looking clean as a spring morning."

"How?" asked Isolde, genuinely interested.

"Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am very good at keeping my mouth shut when I want to," said Ten, "So tell me, my lady, do I feel like keeping my mouth shut?"

"You… you would do that?" asked Isolde.

Ten sat up. The world lurched around her, but her feet found the floor without too much trouble. It was running through her system, thank the Maker. She turned to Isolde, leaning forward on her knees, "I am, above all things, a pragmatic woman. Your execution would not serve anyone. You were asked to choose between your son and your husband, and you made a choice I think many mothers would have made in your shoes. But, now that saving your son from the Circle is not an option, I don't think you have it out for Eamon. In fact, it's now in your interest that he live."

Isolde said nothing, but looked at Ten with a new interest. 

"Now, just in case, Lelianna and I are keeping this letter and this poison," Ten continued, "And should we be asked to keep them private, I do expect that you will be a very good friend to us going forward."

Isolde looked at her for a long time. She started to speak twice, but thought better of it. Finally, she said, "I would not have expected this from one of you Fereldans. You are usually such a brash people. Devoid of... finesse."

"I see you have never bothered to get acquainted with many of your staff, if that's what you believe," said Ten, "It must have made it easier to watch them die."

"And I am receiving my comeuppance on that count," Isolde declared, "The fact that you are sitting in my dressing room, sullying my fine furniture, and holding my life in your dirty little hands is an insult from which my soul will likely never recover. And yet, here we are."

"So tell me, my lady," Ten said, emphasizing the last two words, drawing them out, "Was Teagan in on it?"

"Why would you think such a thing?" Isolde asked.

"If Connor is sent away, and Eamon dies, who stands to gain the most?" asked Ten.

"You underestimate him," said Isolde, "The man is loyal to his brother, to a fault. He would probably kill me himself if he found out. Which I trust he will not?"

"Would he now," Lelianna said, a wry smile creeping over the edges of her mouth.

"You know the two of you are not exactly subtle," said Ten.

"Ha! Is that what you believe!" Isolde exclaimed, "Don't get me wrong. If I gave him an opportunity to betray Eamon in that manner I imagine he probably would. But no, it is much more useful to keep him on the line. Keep people speculating."

"So you could pin it on him if you had to," said Ten, "Have the people gossip. The old man dies, the dashing younger brother inherits everything, including the lovely foreign wife. It is a good story. But no, we're not going to do that. He's not clever enough to be dangerous. The blood mage is a much better patsy. Though the one thing I absolutely insist upon is that we at least give Jowan the option of the lam, rather than the noose."

"He's still a blood mage," said Isolde, "As you pointed out."

"And I'm not law enforcement," said Ten, "As I also pointed out."

"I see how keeping me alive and in your debt serves you," said Isolde, "What does keeping him alive do?"

"I feel sorry for him," said Ten, "He's a foolish young man who got in over his head."

"Foolish young men cause most of the problems in the world," said Isolde, "Look at poor King Cailin."

"Foolish young men cause problems when cynical old men pull their strings," Ten corrected.

"Better they be pulled by cynical women?" Lelianna asked.

"Well of course," said Ten, "It is the natural order of things."

"I have no great feelings one way or the other about Jowan," said Isolde.

"You had him tortured so he would confess to a crime you committed," said Ten, "I must give credit where credit is due - it was a brilliant move. Brutal, but brilliant. But... I feel you at least owe him his freedom."

"I'm sure we could arrange a distraction. The mages are occupied," said Lelianna, "There is a single templar here, and he looks like he would lose a fight with a bumblebee. If you can get those two to the main hall, I can get the mage out before anyone notices."

"Whatever could you be suggesting?" Isolde asked.

"Well, Arlessa," said Lelianna, "You came out on the worse end of the last round. How would you like a rematch?"

To her surprise, Isolde giggled when she realized what Lelianna meant. "They'll probably stand around for fifteen minutes trying to figure out if they should break us up."

"And it is, after all, best that everyone thinks the two of you can't stand each other," Lelianna said, "So let us go find some glassware you don't care about. We're going to have to make a dreadful racket to summon them down from the tower."

Ten found herself in a very strange position, where she was putting on a show, in cahoots with someone she did not like, to manipulate people she generally did like, all for the benefit of someone she genuinely did not feel one way or another about. Then again, the show was the two of them approximating beating the tar out of each other and making a mess of the one she didn't like's house, so she felt a bit better about it. She did, however, appreciate the subtle look of delight on the arlessa's face as she smashed a plate against the wall behind her own head. Ten had found an enormous pewter serving platter from the kitchens, which made a terrific clatter when she dropped it on the floor. She stood to the side as the arlessa, now grinning gleefully, flung an entire tea set her way.

Footsteps echoes in the hallway. Ten made eye contact with Lelianna, who was in the corner of the hall, ready to go around to the staircase to the southwest tower. Evidently, Isolde had been stewing on the beating Ten had dished out the previous day, and intended to take this bout far more seriously than she was. While Ten was nodding to Lelianna, sending her out, Isolde got the drop on her, and, rushing up with a speed Ten did not know she possessed, knocked her back to the floor. Ten, who had only just recovered from the dose of the teyrn's poison she'd given herself, failed to catch herself and heard her head crack on the floor before she felt it, saw stars dance before her. The arlessa knelt and seized her by the shoulders, dragging her head up, and dropping it on the floor again.

"If you kill me, it is absolutely going public," Ten hissed in her ear.

"I'm not going to kill you," Isolde replied, her voice borderline maniacal, "But it has to look real."

A door from the main hall banged open.

"What in the…" Cullen's voice rang out.

"Again?!" It was Teagan, by the sound of it right behind the young templar.

"Head injuries are fucking risky you rank cunt," Ten growled. She grabbed the mostly intact teapot from the ground beside her head and cracked it against Isolde's cheekbone.

"Ooh!"

"Oh that's not… do we stop them?"

"Shut up and play along, gutter trash," Isolde snarled, taking the hit like a champion, and getting down, putting her hands around Ten's throat as blood was running down her face and into Ten's. She pressed down, not hard enough to be dangerous, but certainly hard enough to be uncomfortable, and no amount of wriggling would get her to back off.

"She's going to kill her if she keeps that up! Can't you… stop them?"

"No, no, I want to see this."

Ten shut her eyes to keep the flowing blood out of them. Her hands scrabbled for more broken crockery, but the teapot had shattered and there was no way to use it without risking actual damage, though if this went on, she might not have a choice. She grabbed a shard about six inches long and brought it to the arlessa's throat.

"I will put this in your jugular if you don't ease the fuck off," she said in a hard whisper, "And your legacy will be what I say it is."

And then, blessedly, the hands were gone from her throat, but not because Isolde had taken the threat seriously, but because Teagan had seized her around the waist and was physically dragging her away. Ten rolled over, took stock of herself. The vertigo - perhaps from the poison, perhaps from cracking her head on the floor - was back, and she stayed there on hands and knees a moment, waiting for it to pass. When she rose, she saw that Teagan had wrestled Isolde to the other end of the room, and poor Cullen was standing between Ten and the other two, a look of utter bafflement on his face.

"Maker's breath, what happened here?!" he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'll live," said Ten, reaching back and brushing bits of broken porcelain out of her hair.

"Forgive me, Miss Tabris," said Teagan, getting his other arm around Isolde, who was making a great show of struggling to get out of his grasp, "I didn't think she would leave her son's side to pick another fight with a woman who trounced her so thoroughly the last time. Did you say something to her?"

"Why do you think I started it?" asked Ten, "That one is a sadistic bloodthirsty bitch with no guards to do her bidding. She's completely taken leave of her senses!"

"That one is nothing but a filthy streetwalker with delusions of grandeur who thinks she's above her station," Isolde said.

"I'm almost impressed she got you on the ground," Cullen said.

"Bitch has fifty pounds on me," Ten said. And if I'd actually put any effort into that she'd be dead.

"Fifty!" Isolde exclaimed, "Please, Teagan, that deserves at least a little smack with my shoe."

"Well you don't have the drop on me this time, Arlessa, let's go!" Ten shouted, striding forward, and was thankful for the reflexes of the young templar who seized her by both elbows and dragged her back. She made a show of struggling, but did not try too hard.

"What has gotten into you?" Teagan exclaimed.

"She has forgotten her place," Isolde snarled, "And I will remind her of it!"

Lelianna chose that moment to arrive, "Maker's breath, what is going on here?"

"I honestly have no idea," Cullen said, "We heard a commotion, thought the boy had managed to loose more demons or raise the dead or something, we ran down to see what it was and the two of them were just wailing on each other."

"Teneira, remember we spoke about keeping our tempers and allowing the Maker's grace into our hearts?" Lelianna said, walking up to Teneira, her voice gentle, but stern.

"Yeah I'm working on it, Sister," said Ten, shaking Cullen's hands off of her.

"It is the only way to escape," said Lelianna, raising her voice, "Escape the clutches of our lowest nature, that is. And I assure you, such… escapes… are successful. Very successful. With prayer and self-reflection, escape is successful."

Ten let out a sigh of relief. Isolde had, apparently, also gotten the message, and stopped struggling. Teagan released her, but kept one hand on her shoulder.

"You are correct, Sister," said the Arlessa, "I feel the peace of Andraste in me now. I am sorry, Miss Tabris."

"It's all right," grumbled Ten, "Come on, Arlessa, let's get a bandage on your face before Connor wakes up, I've got some herbs that will keep it from scarring."

"And then we must go to the chapel and pray that such impulses do not come over us again," Isolde agreed, "Come, the physician kept an office off of the kitchens, you should get the blood out of your hair before it matts."

"Wait, that's it?" Teagan asked, skeptically, "Just like that, you're… friends now?"

"The Maker has blessed me with His wisdom," Ten said, "The violence has gone from within my heart for approximately the next forty-eight hours, at which point I plan to be far, far away from here."

"I will accompany them to assure that no further altercations take place," Lelianna offered.

"I'd better go back and keep an eye on the mages," Cullen said, eager to be very far away from whatever had just taken place, which clearly had left him deeply uncomfortable.

They let the door to the small office off of the kitchen click shut before speaking.

"So we are even?" asked Isolde, "Nothing that you have… discovered this day will be spoken of again?"

"For now," said Ten. She dumped her potions satchel out on a table, "Though I don't know how I feel about the first two blows there. That felt vindictive."

"And smashing a teapot against my face was, what?" Isolde asked. She sat at the table and let Ten take a wet cloth and then a paste of clay and herbs to the long scratch along the side of her face which was beginning to go purple.

"Vindictive," said Ten, "Like sees like, after all."

"Do you believe there is any saving my husband?" she asked.

"Well the poison ran through me in an hour," said Ten, "Isn't it possible it will do the same for him after a few days or weeks, now that he won't be getting any further doses?"

"I don't know," Isolde said after a moment's thought.

"Do you truly believe in the healing power of Andraste's ashes?" asked Lelianna.

"I should rather think you are the expert on that, Sister, not I," the arlessa said.

"It's just that they have come up several times in conversations surrounding this land," said Lelianna.

"It was a bit of an obsession, for my husband," said Isolde, "And I won't lie, I found it fascinating. The old man was feeling his age, and thought he might get his name in the history books if he sponsored an expedition. He had brought on a scholar, Frère Genitivi, he was given residence here for some months, and then returned to his studies in Denerim."

"He is still on payroll," said Lelianna.

"I did not know that," said Isolde.

"Ironic, if that is the very thing that saves him," said Lelianna.

"Sister, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" asked Ten.

"Wouldn't you like to be in the history books? I mean, as something other than a spree killer who went on to try to end a blight but ended up failing because she couldn't keep her mouth shut and got herself and everyone around her killed?" Lelianna asked, "Which is undoubtedly what is going to happen considering the sheer volume of punishment you've subjected yourself to this week alone."

"I have been feeling my own mortality," said Ten, "All right. I'm in."

"Do you really just get to do whatever it is you want?" asked Isolde. There was a new light in her hazel eyes as she watched the two women plotting their next move.

"More or less," said Ten, "The dirty secret is, so do you. More or less. You've just never tried before."

"You just spent a large part of the day making it very clear that I'm to do as you say," the arlessa said.

"My only real hard and fast rule is don't kill your husband. And, let's be honest, that's not even that hard and fast depending on whether it appears he or Teagan will be more cooperative," Ten said, "That leaves a whole world of things you can try. Learn to sail. Get really into  horses. I have no idea, I've been flat broke my whole life, I'm sure there's all sorts of things you can get access to."

"But you will have requests for me."

"I will. But I'll keep them reasonable."

"Define reasonable."

"Well for now, you need to go up and be there for your boy. As for me, I think I deserve the key to your wine cellar."

Chapter Text

By sunset, Ten and Lelianna were on their third bottle, had raided the larder for snacks, and were sitting back to back on the great throne in the Arl's audience chamber - entirely pretentious for the lord of such an unimportant land, Ten thought privately - each of them with their legs sprawled over one gilded arm, bare feet in the air. The third bottle was a fine Nevarran red and which they had poured it out into gaudy silver goblets probably intended for great state dinners, not two common wastrels with no greater desire than to get drunk and forget how much everything hurt. Lelianna's hair had fallen around her ears and Ten was a bit too tipsy to care about the fact that there was a bruise the size of her fist risen on the back of her skull. We probably look insane, thought Ten, but then again, who could blame us?

"So tell me, Teneira, is this something you have dreamed about?" Lelianna asked.

"What, defiling a noble's castle, drinking their wine, eating their cheese?" asked Ten, "Well, never before have I been in a castle that it wouldn't be the job of a friend of mine to clean, so no, I've never desired to make a mess in one. But it is satisfying. What about you? You seem to have a healthy skepticism of authority."

"The only authority I recognize is that of the Maker," said Lelianna.

"And do you think Divine what's-her-face would approve of this?" asked Ten, "Seems to me the Chantry just strides arm in arm with the nobility to crush the rest of us underfoot."

"I didn't say anything about the Chantry," Lelianna corrected her, "I said the Maker."

"And the Maker has ordained that you are permitted to behave like this?"

"I am how He made me," said Lelianna chuckling, "Appreciative of good wine and good company - and too often deprived of both."

"That is the condition of the laboring class," said Ten.

"Is this a protest of sorts for you?" Lelianna asked, "You remind me of a postulant who came to an abbey I stayed at for some time. She used that term a lot."

"And she took the veil?"

"Well, she would have, but the law tracked her down and hanged her in the public square, so..."

"For what?"

"I do not remember the accusation. Probably no worse than what you did. That is what happens to people who wish to see the world remade if they are not careful."

"Remade may be a reach."

"So you have thought about it."

"Of course I have," said Ten, "I'd probably start with razing every building like this to the ground and having the owners beheaded in the public square."

"You say things like that," said Lelianna, "But I do not think it is the truth. If you had wanted the lady of the house dead, you could have made that happen and walked away smelling like a rose several times. If you wanted the Arl dead, he is lying helpless this very moment and there are pillows aplenty. If you wanted the child dead… I don't think you would want the child dead."

"I don't have the energy for dreaming up a better system," said Ten, "Only the vitriol to imagine this one up in flames. So I am working with what I have."

"And you would feel a little bit of sympathy for them," said Lelianna.

"Likely," said Ten.

"I do find that a little bit strange," said Lelianna, "They are of the class of people who were only too happy to let you hang."

"You know, it's funny. Every time I meet a new noble, they don't seem surprised that I did what I did back in Denerim. It's always some version of 'Bann Vaughan had it coming.' But they all knew him, by reputation if nothing else. They knew what he was like, and he was never punished, never restrained. They were perfectly happy letting him rampage through the female citizenry, watching in some degree of disapproval, but none of them ever did anything about it. They don't care that I did it, they don't care that I got away with it, but none of them ever spoke for me while I rotted in the dungeon. Nobody ever said 'well, he had it coming' then, not when I was facing the gallows."

"Well now that you have your hand around this nation's throat, and none of them know it yet, perhaps you ought to start thinking about who has what coming."

"I have no such thing," said Ten.

"In a land without a king, without an heir apparent, you are standing between the people and certain destruction," said Lelianna, "I believe that would translate into you having quite a lot of say in what comes out of the ashes."

"It is a nice idea," Ten sighed, "But the havoc I would have to wreck on the aristocracy to bring a change like I'd want... I don't know if I have the stomach for it."

She felt the good sister tense as footsteps echoed through the foyer outside.

"Do you forget that we have carte blanche from the lady of the house?" asked Ten.

"Those aren't lady's footsteps," said Lelianna.

"So it's one of the other two imbeciles," sighed Ten, "Who cares?"

Ten was suddenly pitched backwards as Lelianna got up from where they had been leaning on each other. She struck her head on the other arm of the throne, cursed, and felt her skirts fall around her waist. She heard her get up and go to the door, heard the creak as it opened, pulled her skirts back where they belonged and made a bet with herself as to which of them had shown up to scold them this time.

"Oh, it's you," Lelianna said relaxing, "Where have you been all day?"

"Someone left me on a boat."

"Great," Ten muttered to herself, having lost the bet on both accounts, but didn't bother getting up. She put her feet on the back of the throne, grabbed her goblet, and took a swig far larger and more hasty than the quality of wine deserved. If I'm going to get a lecture, I might as well be upside-down and drunk for it.

"Well, come on in, the both of you, we are having the saddest party this side of the mountains," said Lelianna, "The mages are still with the boy." She pulled the door the rest of the way open.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair cross the enormous room in a handful of strides and stand over her, arms crossed. "Do you want to tell me, Teneira, why it is I woke up alone on a ketch anchored thirty yards off shore with no way back until this one-" he jerked his thumb back to point at where Cullen had hesitantly entered the room, - "showed up in a rowboat?" She could tell he was toning it down in front of the others. If the tone of his voice weren't lying, had they been alone, he would be hauling her to her feet and shaking her by the shoulders.

"Because if the jolt of the anchor and all the sailors yelling at each other to bring the yards down didn't wake you up, I wasn't about to try," Ten said, rolling her eyes.

"What was he doing in a rowboat?" Lelianna asked.

"It seems our resident blood mage absconded at some point," Cullen said.

"How?" Ten asked. She tried to act like it was a real question, but an army of grenache grapes had her by the head. Whatever, so what, what's he going to do about it anyway?

"The only way he possibly could have gotten out was to go out a window," the templar said, "There just wasn't time, and we didn't pass him on the staircase. So I figured he must have gone into the lake, but… I have absolutely no idea how to steer a rowboat."

"Out a window, eh?" Ten said, surreptitiously looking at Lelianna. The good sister shrugged innocently, "Well, that's two mages taking a flying leap in twenty-four hours, Cullen, whatever you're doing to them in that tower, it can't be very nice."

"Why do you have pawprints all over you?" asked Lelianna, looking Alistair over.

"There was a squirrel," said Alistair, "I happened to be between it and the dog and, well…"

"Definitely a real squirrel," said Ten, "It was gray and had a fluffy tail."

"How on earth do you manage to turn 'squirrel' into one syllable?" Cullen asked.

"It's a single syllable word!" Ten protested, "Fucking provincials…"

"Well, you didn't miss much," Lelianna said.

"Yes I did," Alistair insisted, "Cullen said Ten got into another fight with the arlessa. I cannot believe I didn't get to see it."

"I've honestly never seen anything so terrifying in my life, and I fight demons professionally," Cullen said, his cheeks going red, "The blond got the brunette on the ground and it was just chaos… skirts and hair going every which way, calling each other names that would make a bandit blush..."

"Ah, so you also have confusing feelings about watching two women grapple," Lelianna said, "There is something so primal about it. All in each others' faces, the heavy breathing, bodies pressed against…"

"You're making it weird," said Ten.

"Yeah. Ew. Stop," Alistair concurred.

"Where'd the wine come from?" asked Cullen, hastily changing the subject and looking over at the laundry basket that the nun and the criminal had commandeered to carry their well-earned rewards.

"I won it in that fight!" said Ten, "Go on, have some. I've probably already drank my father's yearly salary."

"Why is it that whenever you run off without me, you wind up in an absolutely ridiculous fight and drunk?" asked Alistair.

"Whenever I run off with you, I wind up in a ridiculous fight and not drunk," Ten pointed out, "On balance, I prefer this. After all, the worst thing that happened to me is that this wine and that cheese don't technically go together."

"And how would you, of all people, know that?" asked Lelianna.

"I used to play cards with the assistant to the court sommelier," said Ten.

"I don't even know what that means," Cullen admitted.

"Friend of mine. Ennaias Sharhani. He worked at the palace, knew everything there was to know about wine." She paused. She hadn't thought of Ennaias in months and the memory struck a pain right in her solar plexus and she said the next thing that came to mind without thinking, "Then he was accused of getting a lady's maid pregnant and six masked men came for him one night last winter and hung him from a tree." 

The humans in the room looked at each other awkwardly. Two of them had the sense not to say anything.

"Accused, are you sure he didn't do it?" asked Alistair, "Surely if six men got it into their heads…"

"His husband was the one to find the body," said Ten, "So yes, I'm pretty sure he didn't do it. And additionally, go fuck yourself." She thought about throwing her cup at him. Refrained. Drank it down instead. Shuddered at the memory of the hysterical sobs cutting through the silence of a winter's morning. The silhouette of Pol's broad shoulders, carrying Ennaias like a baby back through the gates.

"Sorry," Alistair muttered, averting his eyes.

"Listen, I'm sure you mean well most of the time, but the sooner you get it through your head what a fucked up world it is we're trying to save, the better," Ten said, gesticulating with her empty cup, which Lelianna silently refilled, "I know you think that the people in charge have our best interests at heart, justice always gains the day, and that litter of kittens really did go live on a nice farm on the Bannorn, but I assure you they don't, it doesn't, and they got drowned."

"Ah, so you come by the whole bloody revolution thing honestly," Lelianna said, her eyes lighting up, "I am sorry that happened to your friend. There is much injustice in the world. Were the culprits ever caught?"

"Only the ringleader," Ten said.

"And what became of him?" Lelianna asked, eyes wide.

"He had an unfortunate accident at his tannery. Terrible way to go. Apparently, he drowned in a barrel of fermented piss."

"Divine punishment, then," Lelianna concluded.

"Maker's breath, if it's not a class war, it's a race riot," Alistair grumbled. He turned to Cullen, "She does this sometimes. Quite a lot actually."

"Why, Alistair, are you afraid you might come out on the wrong end of it?" asked Ten.

"No! No, I'm not saying you're even wrong, but just… don't we have enough to worry about?"

"Look around you," said Ten, gesturing again and managing to spill a small arc of wine over the flagstones, "Everything is burning down. The king is dead, the land is about a year from being utterly overrun by darkspawn, the lords are at each other's throats, the mages are summoning whatever nasty little beasties to best the templars and the Chantry and the Crown are probably still looking for excuses to exterminate the lot of them. It's only a matter of time before the peasants get restless as well. We all know who bears the heaviest burden of war."

"It's not political for us," Alistair protested, "We're Grey Wardens. We're here for the darkspawn bit. That's it."

"Yes, it's fucking political. Everything is political," Ten countered, "If it weren't for politics, the king and the rest of the Wardens would still be alive. One or the other of them might have even coaxed the Archdemon out at Ostagar and none of this would be happening. And where there's politics and war, the inequalities among the peoples of this land come into pretty stark relief."

"But that's not for us," Alistair said, "The aspiring revolutionary routine may have made sense for you two months ago, but you have other things to worry about."

"I suppose I do," said Ten, "For now. But this conflict will end. And I'm not so sure you and I are going to be on the same side for the next one."

"You know, you'd be a much more convincing voice for the people if you weren't slurring every third word," Alistair said.

"Oh, I don't know, there's something about getting lectured on affairs of state by a drunk elf sitting upside down on a throne," Lelianna said, "I feel like I'm watching some bizarre theater performance."

"I'm only upside down because you left me here to let in Ser Killjoy and his little brother," Ten groused.

"Oh, I'm the killjoy? You were just saying that the kittens don't actually get to live on a nice farm in the Bannorn," Alistair countered, "I don't know if I'll ever be the same."

"Well, I have my own ideas about how the world should be remade," said Lelianna, sitting back down on the other arm of the throne, "I come from an ecclesiastical standpoint, of course, but the spirit is the same."

"Oh, so there's no time for a peasant's rebellion but it is time for an inquisition," said Ten.

"Times will change," said Lelianna, "Come on there, Brother Templar, you know all the greasy bits of the Chantry, surely you see what I'm getting at."

"I honestly hadn't thought about it," said Cullen, taking a hesitant sip of wine, deciding he liked it, and taking another.

"See, that's the problem!" Lelianna exclaimed, a new light in her eyes, "You never thought. You should try it, I'm sure you're better at it than you know."

"Oh, now who's the radical…" Ten chuckled.

"You know, they always told me that girls only thought about dresses and jewels," said Alistair, "Nobody warned me you were all secretly plotting to take over the world."

"I have two older sisters," said Cullen, "Hate to break it to you, mate, but these two are absolutely par for the course."

The four of them started as the great door to the southwest tower creaked open.

"Well, at least the young folk are having a grand old time," said Teagan from the doorway. He looked genuinely amused by this, as only a man who never had to clean up his own messes - or those of his guests - could. He walked into the room, followed by Wynne.

"Certainly are," said Ten, "Your sister-in-law felt bad about the whole busting my head against the flagstones thing and let us have the run of the wine cellar."

"Well, that and being grateful for saving her child from demonic possession which certainly would have otherwise led to his ritualistic killing," said Lelianna, "Which I assume, since you are here, we will not need to do?"

"Connor is out of the woods. He's with his mother, for now," said Wynne, "First Enchanter Irving has conceded that the Circle is in no shape for any new faces, especially a young adolescent, so he will remain here until the war is over."

Ten looked around. She couldn't put her finger on any one thing that had changed, but it was as though the energy of the place had shifted from foreboding to friendly. Well, as friendly as a symbol of everything she truly hated could be. Though she had to admit, despite her declaration to the contrary while talking politics with Lelianna, she'd been almost impressed with how reasonable most of the nobility she'd encountered in the past several weeks had been. Then again, she was, for the first time, in a position where they were forced to respect her.

"So Connor's back among the living," said Ten.

"Yes," said Teagan, "He doesn't seem to remember most of it. I'm not sure what we're going to do when he asks where everyone went…"

"You're going to have to tell him," said Cullen.

"That he's responsible for the deaths of almost everyone he's ever met?" Teagan asked, the color draining from his face.

"He has to understand why he needs to go to the Circle," Cullen said, "Otherwise one of these days he'll be taking a flying leap into the lake thinking he can come home, and I don't want to pull another child's body out of the water."

Teagan looked at Wynne, his face stricken.

"He's right," said Wynne, "Connor has to understand the enormity of what he did. Otherwise, he'll never accept what must happen. I promise, if I come through at the end of this, I will stop by, and I will take him there myself."

Teagan nodded slowly, putting away the knowledge for later, "So where will you go now?" he asked, turning his attention to the two women on the throne.

"Are you telling us to get the hell out?" Ten asked.

"What? No!" said Teagan, "You've been a friend to this family. A very strange friend who can't seem to stop fighting with the lady of the house, but a friend all the same."

"If you must know," said Ten, "Lady Isolde and I have made amends. She won't be a bridesmaid at my next wedding or anything, but I assure you there will be no more scuffles between the two of us. And she did tell me where I could find more information on a monk who may know more of the location of the relic she believes has miraculous healing properties."

"Is that so," said Teagan, "And she believes it will save my brother?"

"Given what he's been through, it may be the only thing," said Ten. And if he begins to recover on his own? Well I suppose we can chalk it up to the blood mage. "So it's off home, I suppose. Just what I really wanted, another three weeks of just… walking."

"Sten is going to lose his shit," said Alistair.

"Language!" Wynne scolded.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, Sister," said Ten, "We picked up a friend at the Circle. This is Wynne. She will eventually get used to all the swearing."

"Speaking of which, would one of you like to tell me why, when I came out of my trance, young Jowan was gone?" Wynne asked, crossing her arms.

"Me? I wasn't even here," Alistair protested, "Ten, what did you do?"

"Me? How is babysitting the blood mage my job? Cullen, what did you do?"

"I was down here, physically restraining you before you accidentally killed another aristocrat," Cullen protested, "It's not my fault mages are all lunatics who just really want to drown!"

"So I'm not sure how much you heard," said Alistair, "We're bound for Denerim and it's a long road. Or, so I've heard. Are you up for it?"

"I'm not made of glass," said Wynne, "I'm a good deal stronger than I look. But are you sure that is the best idea? For Teneira, in particular?"

"Well I suppose hoping my backstory had not made it this far west was too much to ask for," said Ten, "Ah well. I don't know that we have a choice. There's no stability in the land without Arl Eamon making it out of this one, and we don't have a chance against the horde without a consensus among the peerage. As much as it personally galls me to say so."

"Well," said Wynne, "I haven't been on the open road in a good ten years, it'll do me some good I think."

"I think going twenty-four hours without something with very large teeth trying to kill us would do us all some good," said Ten, "And more than a few hours' sleep at a time would be lovely."

Chapter Text

It was odd, Ten thought, how a long journey seemed much shorter once you knew the road. And this time she did, though the burned farmsteads and piles of corpses that had served as landmarks on their way out seemed to have been dismantled - or devoured - and instead the ragged little band found themselves traveling through an almost pristine countryside, the dogged crops of corn and wheat the only sign that there had ever been people living there. There probably aren't even enough peasants left to rebel, thought Ten on their second day of travel. Going to be a lean few winters.

Most eerily, though, was that all the wildlife that she had come to expect on the journey west, was either gone, or being deathly silent - more so as they came within a dozen miles of Ostagar. The days dawned bright as they always had, appropriate for late summer, but did not carry with them the cacophony of birdsong. No chatter of squirrels, no snapping of branches under the hooves of deer or wild goats, no honking of geese flying overhead.

It was their fourth evening on the road when the landscape was beginning to soften from the razor peaks and broad valleys of the Hinterlands into the vast rolling moors of the Bannorn. She had, finally, noticed a handful of small birds in the trees as they roamed further and further from the site of that first great battle. Unlike her journey from East to West when Ten, Duncan, and Daveth had kept pace with the vast host of Teyrn Loghain's army for protection, the six of them made good time - but were, certainly, less protected. Though, she wondered, if something had happened on the road out here, would any among that army have even intervened?

They had made camp along the road before the sun set, and Ten was sitting in front of the fire putting a patch onto one of her frocks when Alistair finally broke the moody silence that had hung between them since leaving Redcliff.

"We need to talk," he said softly, sitting beside her.

"Maker's breath," Ten sighed, startled into poking herself with the sewing needle, "What now?"

"I've been kind of an ass to you," he said, "And I'm sorry."

"Whoa," Ten said, sticking her finger in her mouth, for once tasting blood in a non-worrying quantity, "What brought this on?"

"It wasn't fair of me to yell at you in front of everyone."

"Twice," she said, "You've done that twice."

"I know," he said, "But I realized sometime after two days of you not speaking to me that you just spent three days straight putting yourself on the line to save people that, despite myself, I care a great deal about. Even I was… I was about to kill Connor. And I'm glad you put a stop to it."

She nodded. "All right," she said, "Apology accepted."

"This is where you're supposed to say, 'I wasn't not speaking to you, I was really just thinking about this brilliant idea I had and here I'll tell you all about it.'"

"All right, I have this brilliant idea," she said, "It's that we all mind our respective business, sit quietly, don't draw attention to ourselves, and actually get a decent night's sleep."

Before he could respond, likely with something obnoxious, someone called her name from the edge of camp.

"Teneira!"

She closed her eyes and sighed in exasperation. A fifth day of peace was, apparently, too much to ask for. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes and stood up to see what the fuss was about, leaving her sewing in a heap. It was Wynne, who was walking up to the fire, her arm around a dirty young woman that Ten did not recognize. Pigeon, who had been snoozing by the fire, leapt up and began growling.

"Hush, dog!" Wynne scolded.

"Relax, girl," Ten said, grabbing the hound by the collar. Pigeon sat at her feet and lowered the volume of the growls, but not the intensity.

"This poor dear was wandering the road up ahead in the dark," Wynne said.

"What's your name?" asked Ten, looking over her suspiciously. She was dressed like what city folks thought peasants dressed like, her hair braided up and back and under a kerchief, but there was something just… off about it. Ten realized that while she  sounded like she was crying, there were no tear tracks in the dust on her cheeks. And while her face was dirty, her hair was clean and groomed. It was past sunset, if this were a woman who had been up since dawn herding goats and milking cows, it would be all over the place. And the dress she wore was in pristine condition, and cut quite low. Running her eyes down her, she could see the flow of her skirts interrupted above her right knee. She's armed.

"I need your help," the girl sobbed, striding right past Ten and putting both hands on Alistair's forearms, looking up at him pitifully, "Bandits attacked my wagon, up there, a quarter mile up. Please, my mum and dad, my wee brothers…"

"Well, that's awful," Alistair said, "It'll be all right. Ten, we'll go... check it out, won't we?"

Use your brain for once, man, she thought, but said, "Of course. We are fine upstanding citizens of Ferelden, after all. Miss, how did you escape, but not your dad?"

"Daddy sent me running at the first sign of trouble," she said, "For fear the highwaymen would rob me of my virtue." She caught her lower lip in her teeth after the last pronouncement, and it took all of Ten's willpower not to let out a snort of laughter.

"Well that settles it," Ten said, "Can't have anyone's virtue compromised. Not at a time like this. I just need to... uh... get my gear. It's over there by the edge of camp. Don't go without me."

"There were four of them. Great brutes. But I'm sure you'll be able to help," the girl said, turning back to Alistair.

Ten went around to the tents. Morrigan was lounging, lying on her stomach and reading more tales of ribaldry by a light of her own invention. Ten had not really put together how exactly magic worked. Morrigan, while owning a staff of twisting juniper wood, only used it about half the time. Now, for example, she had managed to set aglow one end of a green twig and stuck the other end in her mouth. Wynne, on the other hand, perhaps due to the nature of her gifts, perhaps due to preference, always channeled whatever power she used through the end of an ironwood staff standing nearly as tall as she did.

"Not now," Morrigan hissed, her voice a bit garbled by the light-twig between her teeth. She transferred it from her mouth to one hand and looked up from the page reproachfully. In the unnatural light, her eyes glowed like an animal's, and Ten wondered if her gift for changing form would allow her to give herself only the parts of beasts as she needed them. "Lady Oslington and the Comtesse de Carrignac just confessed their love for one another," said Morrigan, "I think they're about to do unspeakable things in graphic detail for the next twelve pages or so."

"Twelve pages!" Ten exclaimed, chuckling, "Ugh, why couldn't I like women?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" asked Morrigan. She rolled over and regarded Ten skeptically.

"Most of the men I've been with, two paragraphs would be pushing it."

To her surprise, this actually got a bark of laughter out of the witch, "All right, what's going on?"

"I'm not quite sure, but it's fishy," said Ten, "Some lady wandered into camp, desperate for help with 'bandits' who attacked her wagon. She's laying it on real thick."

"Haven't seen bandits since that sorry lot outside of Lothering," said Morrigan, "If they stayed here, they wound up on the wrong end of darkspawn spears, same as everyone else."

"Exactly," said Ten, "It's definitely a trap, though by what or whom I have no idea. She says there are four men, so I imagine there's at least eight."

"Lucky us," said Morrigan, "So what's your brilliant plan?"

"Ambush the ambushers," said Ten, "She's only seen me, Wynne, and Alistair, so they're not expecting a three hundred pound Qunari, a sniper in a habit, and whatever ghastly beast you're feeling turning into today to drop on them from the hills above."

"Sounds like a job for a giant spider," said Morrigan.

"I mean the scare factor alone…" said Ten, shuddering.

"Try not to piss yourself," the witch said, "I'll fetch the other two, you'd better get back there before our pet idiot gets led off into a den of thieves by the front of his breeches."

"I need you to find some better reading material before you start thinking life in civilization is just one big roll in the hay. But... thank you," Ten said, "I'll see you."

"No you won't," said Morrigan, "You won't hear me either." 

She went back to her own tent, strapped her leathers on, didn't bother putting her largest frock over them this time, there was hardly a point pretending to be anything other than what she was. The skirts would make her clumsy and keep her from getting at the poisoned knife she kept on her thigh, the sleeves would get caught on things. She hung her largest hatchet from her belt, strapped her dagger over her right shoulder, and strode back to the fire where the girl was making pleading eyes first at Alistair, then at Wynne, in turn.

"Right," she said, "Show us the way, Miss…"

"Eldegaard," said the girl, confirming everything that Ten had suspected. She sprang up with an odd grace. She was muscular but lithe, not a physique girl who carried around bales of hay and buckets of water all day would have.

I see Morrigan is not the only one who enjoys the novels of Devera Swayne, thought Ten, remembering where she had heard that name before.

Following a stranger into the dark went against every instinct in Ten's body, but Wynne whispered a few words, and a dim glow issued from the end of the ironwood staff she carried, just enough to light the road. Ten fell in behind her, and sensed that Alistair had followed her. Miss Eldegaard walked ahead of them, swinging her hips far more than was necessary with each step, and moved at a pace faster than Wynne, several decades her senior and exhausted from a full ten hours on the road that day, was prepared to keep. The road itself did not descend in front of them, but the land did spring up, as the road had been cut or worn crosswise through a small ridge. Ten glanced nervously at the wooded hills above, knowing they likely hid something nasty, and put a warning hand on Alistair's elbow.

"What is it?" he asked.

"They're going to go for you first," said Ten, softly, "You're the only one of us that looks like a threat. Just keep your eyes open."

"I always do," he said, "Why are you suddenly concerned now?"

"Because the threat is likely larger than we think and may not be coming from where you think it is."

"What are you on about now, Tabris?" he asked in exasperation, "Always so damn cryptic."

"The girl," she said, "Did she keep touching you when she talked to you?"

"Yes…."

"Keep talking about how brave or important you must be?"

"That too."

Ten sighed, "Who else have you seen act like that?"

"...you," he said, after thinking for a moment.

"And what was I really after when I was doing all that?"

"Trying to get some man to do something he wasn't supposed to… all right, fair enough, I'm an idiot."

"You said it, not me," said Ten.

"Nothing in my life had prepared me for how damned devious women are."

"Well if we lot could take you lot in a fight, it would not be necessary, but, we are as Maker has seen fit," Ten said, "In any case, our damsel in distress is most certainly armed. Hunting knife on her right thigh. Who knows what's in her boot or under her tits."

"Under her… I beg your pardon?"

"I won't explain the physics to you, but it's a convenient place to store small weaponry if you're adequately endowed. Alas, the Maker has not so blessed me. Anyway, Morrigan's taking the others around through the tree line."

"You just went about three different places just then and I don't understand any of them."

"You know what, don't even worry about it," she said, "Just… careful. And keep Wynne out of the thick of it."

"Out of the thick of what?" Wynne called from up ahead. She turned around, and Ten beckoned her over, "Surely you don't think four poor desperate fools turned to highway robbery are going to be a challenge!"

"It's a trap," whispered Ten, "That girl isn't who she says she is. Now I don't know who she actually is but… just keep your wits about you."

"My dear, I'm sure your skeptical nature has served you well where you're from, but times such as these, we could all do with extending a little kindness," Wynne chided her.

As though I needed a lesson in that, Ten thought, but didn't want to get into it with the old woman. The glimmer of a campfire further on up the road told her that they were almost at their destination, whatever that would bring.

"It wouldn't kill you to be a little… softer," Wynne said.

"With all respect due, Missus," said Ten, "It probably would."

She stopped short as she heard the rustling of leaves. At first she thought it was an animal moving through the underbrush. It was almost comforting, as she had not seen anything larger than a sparrow for days. But then it became louder, more aggressive, and she looked back to see a great tree by the side of the road, around ten yards behind them where the ridge through which the road was cut rose up abruptly by fifteen feet or more. It was swaying more than it should have in the still night air. With a crack, the trunk split, and the most convenient way back to their own camp was cut off.

"I'm guessing that tree did not just fall on its own," Wynne said.

A bolt hit the ground about a dozen feet ahead of them.

"And that wasn't a gift from the fairies," Ten sighed. She cast up and about. The speed that thing had been going at, the crossbowman was certainly above them on the ridge somewhere. Wynne extinguished the light on her staff to keep them from being an easy target, but it did leave them in the dark with nothing but the dim glow of the campfire about ten yards ahead and around a bend in the gorge they were walking through to indicate where trouble might be.

"Little excited there, are you."

The voice came from the top of the cliff, almost directly above them. The three of them froze. The voice was male, the language fluent, but with a stiff Antivan accent.

"This doesn't usually happen to me," a second voice came. Also male. Smoker. Foreign, maybe Antivan, maybe Nevarran, but definitely spent a long time in Denerim in the intervening, "I'm sorry, I-"

There was a great sigh, followed closely by a gurgle, and Ten all but jumped out of her skin as a corpse landed with a thud and a splash on the road ahead of them. The three of them stood very still, hoping against hope that they had not been noticed.

"I apologize for the inelegance of my compañero," the Antivan voice announced, "He always did lack… self-control. But now I know where you are, you know where we are, and despite the shortcomings of poor Thiago there, I think we are in the superior position. So, what say we bargain?" Ten craned her neck upwards, searched for figures amid the darkened trees.

"Young man," called Wynne, "We carry nothing of value!"

"Ah, but I think you do. We are not here for your purses. We seek Teneira Tabris of the Denerim Alienage," the Antivan voice announced, "Don't bother lying, we know she is there. Send her up the road, alone, into the firelight, and the rest of you may walk away unharmed."

"So, do I get to say I told you so?" Ten whispered.

"Don't be childish," Wynne said, "What do we do?"

"The others are coming," said Ten, "They shouldn't be too long."

"So keep the man talking!" Wynne exclaimed, "I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

"And if they fill her with arrows the minute she steps into the light?" Alistair countered, "Also, why is everyone so obsessed with you? I've got a price on my head as well."

"I'm fairly sure they think you're already dead."

"They'd think you were dead as well if you didn't go around picking fights and sending threats," Alistair said, "You know what she did, Wynne? She makes us travel three days in disguise, then the very night we find civilization, she gets into a bar fight with five soldiers, kills four of them, and sends the last one to go taunt the man who sent them out in the first place."

"I am not here to arbitrate your squabbles, young man," said Wynne wearily.

"There's a chance they'd prefer me alive," said Ten, "The good folk of Denerim have been looking forward to seeing me hanged drawn and quartered for more than a month now."

"Anything is better than cowering here," said Wynne, "I've spent enough time cowering."

"What the fuck do you want with me?" Ten called.

"You have managed to make an impression on a certain Teyrn who would be king," the Antivan called from the top of the cliff, "I believe you sent him a message, some weeks back, and he has sent me to deliver the reply."

"Ah, so little Thom made it back to Denerim in one piece," Ten called back.

"He sends his regards from the dungeon."

"What will you do with me if I hand myself over? Why shouldn't I try to make it cost you?"

"If you come quietly I will grant you a quick death," he said, "On my honor. I have been instructed to try to bring you in alive, but... I don't believe anybody deserves what is planned for you if I do."

There was a small shriek from behind him, on the other side from the great tree that now blocked the road. A rustle above. Whoever had screamed was on their way up the hill, and not bothering to be stealthy. There was some hushed conversation before the Antivan raised in voice in anger, "What the hell do you want, Dionis, you know I hate being addressed by my surname!"

"No, boss, there was…" the voice lowered to a mumble and Ten could not make out the rest of the sentence.

"You're coming to me because you were scared by a fucking spider?! I don't know why I bother with you cowards…. How big could it have possibly been?"

"Well, there's our witch," said Ten, smiling brightly, "Meaning the nun and the three hundred pound Qunari must at least be on their way, though likely moving a bit slower and more noisily."

"Noisily," said Wynne, "That's not good news for them."

"It'll be fine," said Ten, "I'll just give those cutrate mercenaries something else to point their arrows at."

"How is it every time I turn around you're trying a new and different way to run off and get yourself killed?" Alistair asked, grabbing her arm before she could waltz off to do something stupid.

"Have any of them killed me yet?" she countered.

"Last one came far closer than I'm comfortable with," he insisted.

"Good thing we're not here for your comfort," she said, shaking his arm loose, "I'll keep them distracted as long as I can."

Chapter Text

"I have a condition!" Ten called before she could lose her nerve, "You grant me three days to write some letters. Put my affairs in order."

"That can be arranged."

"Three days! I am going to walk up to the fire. Don't shoot. I trust nobody else up there has the same problem as… Thiago."

She stepped over the corpse and saw that she left bloody footprints in the dust of the road as she approached the circle of light. She took a deep breath and moved hesitantly forward until she stood beside the flickering fire. She made a great show of disarming, putting her hatchet and dagger on the ground. She waited there, hand on the knife at her thigh, her ears pricked for the creak of a bowstring being drawn.

She heard more hushed conversation from the top of the ridge. She saw the trees sway a bit, and someone walked down what must have been a very steep path cut right into the rock of the cliff's face, and descend in the circle of light. As he grew closer, Ten could see he was slightly built, though quite a bit taller than she, and…

"He sent an elf?" Ten exclaimed, "Hate to break it to you, cousin, but killing me is not going to make you very popular in the capital."

"And what exactly would I do with the favor of the dregs of such an unimportant land?" he asked, and she put a face to the voice. He approached her suspiciously, dark eyes narrowed. Stopped right in front of her, examining her. His face looked, not unlike her own, as though someone had checked all the boxes for 'how to tell if this person is an elf.' He looked, in fact, like he was trying to approximate the popular concept of how the Dalish dressed and carried themselves, long hair tied back, markings on his face that she was not sure were tattooed or painted. But his armor and the blades on his back were certainly crafted by someone who had access to dwarven metallurgy. They stood there at detente for a moment. She stayed tense, expecting his hand to go to one of the blades on his back, but he made no moves in that direction.

"So the man who would be king sends a foreign assassin," she said, trying to bait him into conversation again, "Did you outbid every outfit in Ferelden?"

The assassin gave a short, dry, laugh, "He did not explain his reasoning to me. I was told to go. I went."

"So nobody told you," she sighed, "He went to you because none of the hired blades in Denerim would dare touch me." This was not entirely true. The man who had both of his three-fingered hands on the strings of every hitman in town, the elusive Don Cangrejo, was a moderately personal friend of hers. One who owed her his life, once or twice over. This meant that the true professionals would refuse the job, but there would always be a few bottom-of-the-barrel types glad to take whatever coin fell their way. This man, however, was certainly a professional.

"Ah yes. A beloved folk hero," said the assassin, "Or so they say."

She gave a perfunctory laugh. Thought about coming out with the whole truth. Decided against it. "So, what are we looking at here? Dagger in the heart? Drowning? Hanging? Would you like to strangle me with your bare hands so you can watch the light leave my eyes for the very last time?"

"Such a pity," he sighed, "They said you were something to look at, but the stories don't do you justice." He put a hand up, put it on the side of her neck. She expected him to go for her throat, at which point she was counting on making a show of going faint so he would have to support her weight, and get her hand on her ax once she'd been dropped to the ground. He did not though, just ran one finger along her jawline, cool and rough and dry. She cringed inwardly.

"I'll thank you not to dishonor my corpse," she said, but could not resist, "So what are they saying about me?"

"That you cut down three lords for the indignities visited upon your family and the murder of your husband," he said, "And then the Grey Wardens snatched you from the dungeons, to the consternation of much of polite society and the muted celebration of everyone else. Then, of course… all the unpleasantness that followed. I must confess, I have had an idea of you in my head, and it… it does not compare to the real thing."

"You believe I cut down three banns and their fighting men, and yet you are standing here before me, alone," she said.

"Oh, I am not alone," he said, "There are enough arrows aimed at you now to…"

There was a cacophony from the ridge above. The archers had loosed their arrows, but they were not aimed at what this strange elf thought they were. Several cracks issued as arrows found tree trunks. One flew into the sky, barely visible in the darkness beyond the firelight.

"What have those fools done?" he fumed, turning, mercifully dropping his hand from her neck.

The woods above them suddenly exploded in motion as three men were flung clear off of the cliff and landed, with three rather satisfying crunches, at the base of it. Three more followed, but they were moving of their own volition, making all sorts of high pitched frightened man noises, at first trying to scramble down the cliff, and then just letting themselves fall, as a very familiar and very large spider emerged from the treeline, followed closely by a very familiar and very large dog, and, after several seconds, a very familiar and very large Qunari.

There was a zip followed by a cry as an arrow buried itself in the back of one who had gotten up and tried to run. Ten heard the crack of ironwood on stone, followed by a rumble deep within the earth, and the rock of the cliff face began to crack and crumble. The spider scrambled up into a tree, the dog and Qunari leapt back, and a shelf of rock two feet thick slid down and landed, burying the men who had fallen.

The assassin watched on in horror, his back to her. This was a bad move on his part, as it gave her easy access to hilts of the shortblades strapped to his back, both of which she seized. When he registered what she was doing, he dipped, hoping to shake her off, but she held on doggedly, getting a leg around his waist, and, finally wrestling one blade free of its scabbard, working her arm around his neck and putting it to his throat, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. 

"So, what do you think?" she whispered in his ear, hooking her chin over his shoulder from behind, "Dagger in the heart? Drowning? Hanging?"

"Wait!" he exclaimed, breathing hard through his nose, seeing the blade at his throat, feeling where it had nicked him, "Wait. I yield…just…"

"On your knees. Hands out to your sides." She got off his back but took his other blade before backing off.

He obeyed. She took the blade from his throat and backed up, and he dropped to his knees in the dust by the fire. She stooped, gathered her own weaponry, lest he get any ideas. He kept his eyes on the ground like she were a wild animal who would be baited into aggression if he looked in her the face.

"Say your piece," she said, "Why shouldn't I just put one of these through your throat?"

"Surely you must be a reasonable woman," he said, not looking up. His words had begun to run together, his accent becoming more pronounced, "One does not make the sorts of friends who bring down cliff faces and shoot in the dark like that by being a fool."

"Get to the point."

"Despite appearances, I am generally quite good at what I do," he said, "Had Thiago not given away our position, you would not even have known what hit you. I realize how ridiculous this must sound but… I beg your protection."

"My what?!"

"Your protection."

"From what?"

"You are familiar with the Antivan Crows?"

Ten's face darkened. She was, in fact, familiar with the Antivan Crows. A slightly cultish assassin's guild from their neighbor two doors to the north, she had encountered their operatives on more than one occasion. And quietly gotten rid of them. Rumor had it that they had been sent after a rival guild and wound up buried somewhere in Don Cangrejo's sprawling estate, though Ten could not speak to what happened after she and her cousins handed them over. Then again, perhaps that was just a grim legend serving as warnings for those who would disrupt business as usual in Denerim.

"I know that they take themselves far too seriously," she said, "And that failure to deliver on a contract is a death sentence."

"Ah, so you know that even if I were to kill you right now, or even bring you in alive as was initially requested," he said, "Six of us have perished. To my masters, this is a failure."

"Probably not wise what you did to poor Thiago then," said Ten, "How much of a margin of error do they allow?"

"Oh I've had it out for Thiago for years. I don't know an exact number, but sole survivors don't usually live very long after they return."

"All right," she said, "Do you have a name?"

"Zevran," he said, "Arrainai."

"Who are your people?" she asked, wrinkling her brow, "That's a Dalish surname, or an approximation of one."

"You are most observant," he said, "Those… were my people."

"Then why does that tattoo on your face look like it was done by a teenager with a sewing needle?"

"I was not raised among them."

"That's what you get for seeking ink you didn't earn," she said, "So, in the space of fifteen minutes, you have made yourself a pariah in your home country, and now both your masters and the man who held the contract on me will certainly be after your head. We have established why you seek my protection. You have not told me why I want yours."

"I am a man of many talents," he said, looking up at her finally, hope in his eyes.

"They all say that," she said, yawning.

"I can carry your things."

"I have a donkey."

"I am very good at getting stains out of leather."

"I suppose that's useful but not on its own."

""How about I stay here on my knees, you come a little closer, and let me convince you."

It took Ten a minute to figure out what he was getting at, but when she did she was grateful for the dim firelight likely disguising the blood that rushed to her face, "I'm standing here trying to decide whether I'm going to kill you and you decide it's a great time to proposition me?"

"It was worth a try," he replied, "Be honest, when is the last time you had a man?"

"The last time I wanted one!" she exclaimed indignantly, "I should take your hand just for being gross."

"Oh, but I can do such things with these hands…"

"Lies lies and more lies," a familiar voice came from behind. Ten turned to see that a familiar, yet still disturbingly large spider had descended over the cliffside and was sidling up to them. Midstride, the hindmost of the spider's legs lengthened and the torso stretched, and all in a few seconds, Morrigan was standing there in all her half-naked glory, pointing one long finger right in Ten's face, "You told me that the things in dirty novels never happened, and yet here you are, having a discussion right out of one with a man who just tried to kill you. I should write Devera Swayne, give her an idea for her next book."

"Did I just see what I thought I just saw?" Zevran asked.

"What, an unnaturally large spider turn into a moderately attractive woman with her tits half out? It surprised me too the first time, but I'm almost used to it," said Ten.

"What a strange and wonderful country," he said.

"What is a 'dirty novel'?" Sten had made it down the steep path and joined them by the fire.

"Do you even know what a normal novel is?" Morrigan asked the Qunari.

"I do not. It sounds frivolous."

"Well a dirty one is about three times more frivolous than that," said Ten.

"Wait, wait!" Lelianna's voice called, "I'm missing something interesting, I know it!" She was struggling in her long robes to descend the path, which had been completely disrupted by the cliff face falling. Sten made a noise that was half grunt and half scoff, strode over, and lifted her down, setting her safely on the road. She nodded at him and scurried up to the rest of them, "What did I miss?"

"Ten's about to let an assassin go because made a pass at her," said Morrigan.

"That's… that is not at all what's going on," Ten protested.

"What are you girls giggling about?" Wynne had finally made it from where she had, evidently, brought down the cliffside. She was limping, clearly the effort had drained her.

"They're slandering my good name," said Ten, "As for me, I'm deciding what to do with this." She gestured with the dagger at Zevran, who looked like he was beginning to regret his desire to live.

"Do, ah, any of the rest of you ladies have questions for me?" he asked uncomfortably.

"Oh get up, you look ridiculous," said Wynne, "She's not going to kill you. She acts all scary and grim, but she's a soft touch. And you know those things are permanent!" she gestured at the poorly-executed tattoo that graced his left cheekbone.

Thoroughly humbled, the assassin rose slowly.

"How did you wind up a Crow, anyway?" asked Ten.

"They bought me," said Zev, "At the slave market. I was a child."

"Ugh," Ten sighed. She knew, vaguely, that her father's immediate family had been slaved. She was not entirely sure of the story - Cyrion had been tightlipped about his origins as he was about many things she then learned too late in life. What she knew first hand was that he had grown up a refugee in the Free Marches, without parents, with only his elder brother for guidance, and at some point when she was growing up, she had put two and two together and determined what that likely meant.

"I see that your people and my people may have crossed paths before," he said, nodding slowly.

"That in no way makes us the same," she said, "You're among free folk now. Better learn to act like it."

He sighed, audibly relieved, "I promise you will not regret it."

"I'm already regretting it," she said, "All right, let's look through the corpses. How many of them were Crows?"

"A few," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Were any of them elves?"

"Dionis was a halfbreed…." Zevran said, "What are you getting at?"

"Which one is Dionis?"

He pointed at one of the men that had been felled by the rubble.

"Sten, could you bring that corpse over here please?" Ten asked.

"That is a strange request. Explain."

"It's better if at least one of the parties that wants that man dead believes he already is," said Ten.

"And what does the corpse have to do with that?" asked the Qunari.

"What do you think, Sten?" asked Ten.

"You wish to part of it to Teyrn Loghain," said Sten, realization dawning on his stern features, "Passing it off as though you have killed the leader of the band as well, so he believes all of the assassins he sent for you have perished."

"You're smarter than I give you credit for sometimes," Ten said.

"Whom do you think will deliver it?" asked the Qunari.

"Not me!" exclaimed Lelianna.

"Absolutely not," Morrigan declared.

"You could not possibly expect me to," Wynne announced.

"All right, Sten, we are going to do a thought experiment," Ten declared, "Look around you. Who is missing?"

"The man," said Sten.

"Yes," said Ten, "Also he has a name."

"Alistair," said Sten.

"Well done," said Ten, "What do you think he is doing?"

"Running off into the dark to capture any who have fled," Sten declared.

"Again, well done. Zevran, tell us, is there anyone else missing?"

Zevran sighed, "Marda has not returned. As well as the boy we hired to cut the tree but he fled as soon as it was down, he is likely long gone."

"I'm going to assume Marda is the hussy who descended on our camp," said Ten, "If she fled, Alistair has likely pursued her, but not slain her. He doesn't have the stones for it. Or the wits, if I'm being honest. And the only landmark in this forsaken landscape is the fire which we are standing around right now. And so… Sten, bring me that corpse."

The Qunari nodded and went to the pile of rubble, tossing large rocks aside until he found the appointed body, slinging it over one shoulder and carrying it back, tossing it at Ten's feet. She crouched, examined its hand. The left one was beyond redemption, most of it having been crushed by the rocks to the point it barely resembled what it was. "Wynne, I must say, your work is effective, if disturbing."

"It takes quite a bit out of me," said Wynne, "I am glad it meets your approval, young lady."

Lelianna fetched a flask out from somewhere in her robes and offered it to the elder mage, who took it, and drank gratefully, hardly flinching as the raw distilled rye hit the back of her throat.

Ten, meanwhile, had crouched beside the corpse, taking its right hand in hers.

"Zevran, come here," she ordered.

The assassin obeyed.

"Show me your right hand," she said.

He obliged. She compared the two. It was not an exact match, but she knew that men, especially nobles, did not look at elves the way they looked at each other. And after the two to three day journey to the capital, any differences could be attributed to rot.

"How good a look did Teyrn Loghain get at you?" she asked Zevran, remembering how the Teyrn, in their brief meeting, had ordered her to look him in the face.

"I have no idea," he said, "I know better than to look humans in the eye."

"Fair enough," she said, "I'm assuming he wasn't examining you closely."

"I don't believe he was."

"Very well," she said. She set the corpse's hand down on the dust of the road, unhooked her ax from her belt, and, aiming briefly, separated it from the rest of the body. None of the others made a noise, but she felt Lelianna all but jumping out of her skin. Dionis had been dead long enough that the stump did not spurt as it would have had he been living when relieved of his hand, but the dust of the road went slowly red around him. She picked the hand up and cast about.

"Maker's breath, where is that idiot?" she wondered aloud.

"It is strange that he has not found us," Sten said.

"You don't suppose the girl got the drop on him?" Morrigan mused.

"You know, sound carries rather well out here. Additionally, piss off, Tabris."

Ten looked to see that, as anticipated, Alistair had found them. He was walking backwards down the hill from the north because, as Ten had also hoped, he had the girl who had called herself Eldegaard around the neck. He turned her handily, got both of her hands in one of his, and, hand on her neck, frogmarched her down the path. This time, there were actual tear tracks in the dirt on her face.

"Zev!" she exclaimed as they drew close, "Please, help me! This thug put his hands on me! Please! You must…"

Ten was watching the elf's face closely. It was a series of hard lines at this point.

"I cannot help you, Marda," he said.

"What did I miss?" Alistair asked, narrowing his eyes, eying the strange little band that had, somehow, just become stranger, "Ten, why are you holding a severed hand?"

"Don't worry about that," she said, "You, your name is Marda, yes?"

"Yes," the girl said.

"If he lets you loose, are you going to take off again?" Ten asked.

"No. I promise. Please!"

"I'm not as nice as he is," Ten warned, "If you run I can put this ax in your head from thirty paces." This was, of course, a lie. She hadn't tried throwing it yet.

"I won't," said Marda.

She nodded at Alistair, who loosed the girl's wrists and gave her a shove.

"Thank you! I knew you would be reasonable!" the girl sighed in relief.

"Oh, the woman standing there holding a severed hand is the reasonable one," Alistair scoffed.

"I'm not one of these assassins!" Marda sobbed, throwing herself on the ground at Ten's feet, "I never… I never intended it to be like this!"

"Have some dignity, woman," said Ten, disgust dripping from her voice. Marda rose timidly, swiping a sleeve across her face.

"I didn't mean for it to be like this," she said, "It was him…" she raised her arm, pointing at Zev, "He… he seduced me! Convinced me to help him. He's a rake and a cad and… I didn't mean for this to happen."

"What did you think was going to happen?" asked Ten.

"I thought they were highwaymen," said Marda, "You know, like in the stories. All daring and romantic and… I thought they would rob you of a few trinkets and let you go."

"See, that's why we don't take the dirty novels too seriously," Ten said to Morrigan, "Gives you all sorts of dumb ideas about the world."

"Noted," Morrigan said, her eyebrows drawn together, in complete consternation that anyone could be so stupid.

"Since you're so fond of the stories," said Ten, turning her attention back to Marda, "I have a quest for you. Up the road about a week and a half, you will find the capital, but you knew that already. You will go to the guardbox just inside the western gate, and you will say that you have a delivery for the palace, that there is a message from the Grey Wardens. The guard will know what that means. Then, you will give him this."

She put the severed hand in Marda's living one. The girl shrieked and jumped back, dropping Dionis's hand on the ground.

"Or I suppose I could kill you," Ten shrugged.

"Can't you give me a… box or something to carry it in?" she asked, looking down at the hand, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Zevran, where's your actual camp?"

"Quarter mile back that way."

"Do you think there's something we could use?"

"Probably. Not like those men will be needing their things again."

"Very well," said Ten, "I suppose we haven't done enough tromping about in the dark for one night yet."

The Crows' camp was an absolute wreck compared to their own. Too many men, thought Ten, They really aren't capable of basic life tasks, are they. Wynne, exhausted from her stunt with the cliffside, had been escorted back to their own camp by Lelianna and Morrigan, who transformed into a sleek black wolf for the journey, and so Ten, Sten, and Alistair stood and watched while Zevran and Marda rummage through tents and packs for what they might wish to take with them.

"So let me get this straight," Alistair said, rubbing his temples with both hands, "You have decided that it would just be a grand idea to let a trained assassin, one who was charged with killing you where you stand, not only to live, but to… what, just, hang out?"

"If you want him dead, do it yourself," said Ten, "He's unarmed. He's right there. Go ahead, run him through. Here, do it with one of his own blades if you'd like." She presented one of the short swords she'd taken off Zevran to Alistair, hilt first.

"That's not… that's not it," Alistair sighed, "That's not the point."

"So what is the point? You think I should have killed him, you have the opportunity to kill him, I am not going to stop you. I'm not even trying to dissuade you. Go to it."

"It just looks an awful lot like you're..."

"Like I'm what?"

"Well, I mean... you might be losing at your own game."

"Oh, I see. You're projecting," she said, "You let pretty girls get away with some devious nonsense, so you think I'm thinking with my nethers, too."

"Well, you know what they say about widows." 

Ten thought about not dignifying the barb with a response, but it had been a long day and she was quite sick of everyone's nonsense, "If you had a last name, I'd address you by it when I tell you go fuck yourself. But those are only for kids who were wanted."

The silence that followed almost had her regretting saying anything. 

"Did I deserve that?" Alistair finally asked.

"No," Ten admitted, "That was actually a really shitty thing to say and I'm a little pissed off at myself right now."

"Well I wasn't that much better."

"I have a lot more experience in the gutter than you do. Please don't pull me down there again."

"Would you two please give it a rest?" Sten asked coldly, "You have been at each other's throats more often than not. It is truly exhausting listening to you."

"I still don't know why you're here," Ten said.

"I am beginning to wonder the same thing myself," the Qunari said.

Ten sighed, shook her head, and decided perhaps she ought to see whether there was something she would like to lift from the possessions of the dead.

About an hour hence, a farm girl newly emboldened with an hatchet of her very own, and carrying with her in an old leather satchel the severed hand of an assassin wrapped in liquor-soaked rags, set off for the capital. An assassin, newly freed from one master and eager to serve another - who was at least better-looking, if no wiser, set off behind two bickering Grey Wardens and a very irritated Qunari to sleep off what had been, altogether, a very strange night, beside another fire.

Chapter Text

Several days later, outside the main western gate of Denerim, Ten gathered her people around for a brief lecture on city etiquette. "Wynne, Lelianna, Zevran,I am going to go ahead and assume you know how to act," said Ten, "But the rest of you. Walk fast. If you see something you think is strange, you glance, you move on, and you keep your reaction to yourself. Don't gawk at the buildings, don't talk to anyone trying to sell you something, don't make eye contact with beggars. And I cannot stress this enough - do not step in the puddles."

"It hasn't rained in days," said Morrigan.

"They're not water," said Ten.

"I don't think I like it here."

"I am going to see some… associates," said Ten, "I left in a hurry. Lot of unfinished business. Lelianna, you're good chasing down our solitary monk?"

"I'm taking the assassin," she said, "He does a solid break and enter."

"That I do," chuckled Zev, "In more ways than one."

"Young man, do you ever stop?" asked Wynne dryly.

"Only when requested," replied Zevran, "And that is a rare occasion indeed."

"Please, take him anywhere I don't have to listen to the constant innuendo," said Ten, "Everyone else?"

A chorus of annoyed agreement came from the rest of them, each convinced they knew exactly what they were getting into. Except Alistair, who shook his head, "You are not running off by yourself in this city. The rest of us nobody knows, but you? You've gone out of your way to make yourself downright notorious. The guard will be on you like flies on a corpse. Especially after your last stunt."

"Lovely analogy," said Ten, "I'll drop you by my dad's place, the two of you can drink a pot of tea and commiserate on what a pain in the ass I am to have around. I can't stop you, you're grown, but if you insist on following me around, you are going to learn quite a few things you can't unlearn, and I don't know if you've the stomach for it."

"No fair trying to lose me in a blind alleyway," he said, "Or are you planning to have some of your cousins rob me?"

"Rob you of what?" she chuckled, "Have you not noticed we're flat broke? All right, come on, you can live vicariously through someone who actually has friends. First, of course, I need to stop at home. Make sure my cousins haven't burned it down," she said, "Come on, eyes straight ahead, if you gawk at the man in the dress over there I will push you into the river. There's a bridge further up, through that alley there."

"Why can't we take that one?" he asked, pointing at the large, well-crafted bridge of white stone at the south central end of the district.

"We're… not really supposed to use that one," said Ten, "Unwritten rule. Someone will have something to say."

"You… what do you mean you?"

"Elves, of course," she said.

"They have special bridges you can't use?"

"Again, it's unwritten," she said, "I can't explain it, it's not us that set it up that way. Have a chat with your own people and let me know if they tell you why."

"Well, that's not fair, I didn't..."

"Didn't say you did," she said, "But the rules are what they are. Come on, try not to knock down any old ladies."

She bustled through the crowded markets, down the alley, past the warehouse where Soris worked, then across the rickety wooden bridge that spat them out by the gate of the Alienage.

The gate was closed.

"They can't possibly still be locked down," Ten muttered. She reached up and pulled the bell outside the sentry box beside the gate, feeling the blood rush to her face as she remembered that last time she'd been in that sentry box.

After a few minutes, Guardsman Maycomb's face appeared in the window of the sentry box. His eyes went wide with recognition and he hurried out the door and out into the street by the river. "So you've slipped through the Maker's fingers once again, Arlessa," he said, his tone jovial.

"Just like I always slipped through the guards'," she said, "What's going on here? Why's it locked down? Still me?"

"Not directly," the aged guardsman sighed, "After the Grey Wardens came to snatch you up, Arl Urien completely lost his mind. Started trying to agitate the population to purge the Alienage. He couldn't punish you, so he wanted to punish your family….relax. Nothing too terrible happened. He just locked it down, and it probably would have passed, but… some genius decided to shoot him down in the middle of a speech in the square outside his estate."

"Someone, who's someone?" asked Ten, "Elves aren't allowed weapons, we all know that."

"Yes, well, we all know how effective that rule is," Kennit said, glancing at the hatchet by her side.

"They just decided it was one of us," said Ten.

"It was the most convenient explanation."

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"Well, Teyrn Loghain has decided he's in charge. He brought in some inbred from Amaranthine to take over the arldom, I'm not sure if it's meant to be temporary. Either way, it's been chaos."

"Anyone I care about die?" asked Ten.

"No," he said, "Actually, there's been relatively little... unrest. Lieutenant Villais brought on several more guardsmen, kept the mobs out. The new arl thinks it's to protect the city from the elves, but…"

"Lieutenant!" exclaimed Ten.

"What, you think he wouldn't have gotten a fat promotion, bringing the Vengeful Bride to justice?"

"I suppose that tracks," she said, "Is he around?"

"He's taken the evening shift, no doubt you'll find him here after sunset," said Kennit, "He'll probably be quite happy to see you. He hasn't been the same since the news came out of Ostagar."

"Really," she said, trying not to visibly squirm.

"And, in all honesty," said Kennit, sighing and running his hand through his iron-gray curls, "I'm quite happy to see you as well."

"So I suppose I don't have to worry about you alerting your compatriots that I'm in town," she said, "Not even for a fat promotion?"

"Lass, I am sixty-two years old," he said, "All I want is to sleep in the guardbox until I can't anymore, then collect my pension and waltz off to my pyre."

"Well, thanks for that, I guess," she said.

"Anyway, your cousins would burn my house down," he said, chuckling, "And… well, I've spent more of my life in this sentry box than anywhere I've actually lived. I watched you grow up. My job is peace, and bringing you in now would certainly not bring any peace."

"I suppose getting in there is too much to ask for," sighed Ten.

"That is a bridge I dare not cross," said Kennit, "I'll let your dad and your uncle know you came by. Neither of them truly believed you'd died out there, it'll be nice to bring someone some good news for a change."

"Thanks, Kennit," she said.

"Be careful out there, Arlessa."

"I will."

Ten turned and walked out of sight of the sentry box before she heaved a great sigh.

"What was that about?" asked Alistair, "Why'd he call you 'arlessa'?"

"Nickname," Ten semi-lied, "I was always acting high and mighty, after all. Well, I suppose tea with my dad is out."

"Did I hear that right? Someone assassinated Arl Urien?"

"Yes. It does make sense that it would be one of us," she said.

"It makes more sense that Loghain saw an opening to bring in someone loyal to him and blame it on the least popular folks in town," Alistair said.

"You know," she said, looking at him in surprise, "About one out of ten things out of your mouth is actually pretty smart. You should try to up that ratio."

She had made herself a list of things she intended to do while in town and cross referenced it with the neighborhood she was in. The Alienage was situated on the low ground near the mouth of the river, where it would flood before any other area of the city. To the west, up river, were the terracotta roofs and small balconies of the Antivan quarter, to the south along the coast was the steep and treacherous hill where the second-most-ragged slums stood.

"All right, while I was at Redcliffe I took the liberty of going through some of the arl's things. You know, just in case there was something we needed to know that they were not going to tell us."

She had not divulged the dirtiest of secrets, she wasn't sure how he'd handle the fact that she'd let Isolde go after only two beatdowns, knowing that she was behind her husband's condition. She didn't feel the need to justify herself for that. But Alistair was, after all, nosy as all get out and got personally offended when he was not let in on every tiny detail of every tiny plan. So, she figured she would give him a small secret and hope he was satisfied.

"You rifled through his desk?" Alistair asked.

"Yes, I rifled through his desk. We have no idea when or if he's waking up. It's where we found Fra Genotivi's address here, where I sent Zev and Lelianna to visit. There was another Denerim address in there though, I want to drop by and see what is going on with that."

"What else did you find?"

"He's got some woman on payroll," she said, "It was strange, everyone else was either castle staff or someone with a title. Except for Fra Genotivi, and this one other name." She squinted at her own handwriting. "She's in the slums up there." She pointed to the great cliff to the south, where dilapidated buildings were built all the way up to the rim.

"She have a name?"

"Goldanna MacCathaíl," said Ten, "Why, does that mean something to you?" She looked up and Alistair had visibly blanched, "That looks like a yes and also like that 'yes' has scared the absolute shit out of you."

"Well, remember after we got on about that business at the mage's tower, and you asked me where the demon in the Fade put me, and I told you about that one half sister?"

"Really!" Ten exclaimed, "So why do you suppose Eamon's paying her twenty sovereign a month?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Alistair, "Maybe he felt bad about… all that unpleasantness."

"What do you know about her?"

"She's got about ten years on me. Married twice. Five kids."

"Suppose she's blond like you?" asked Ten, the gears turning in her head. Slums. Five kids. Second husband. Always desperate for money.

"I wouldn't know," he said, "Probably."

"I don't know if you want to be along for this bit," said Ten.

"Why wouldn't I? She's the only family I have, I'd been meaning to look her up before. You're not leaving me out of this one."

"Ah, well… I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I think I know her," she said, "It didn't occur to me at first, but I've put two and two together, and I'm pretty sure she used to be a regular customer of mine, when I had my alchemist's stall. I just… don't want you to be disappointed."

"Why would I be disappointed?"

"I don't think you're going to be welcomed with squishy hugs," said Ten, "She's had a hard life. Hell, I did nothing but help her out and she had a few unkind words for me."

"Why would she have gone to an elfin alchemist? From what you said humans avoid the Alienage."

"I was… discreet. If she'd gone to the ones in her neighborhood her husband would have figured it out," said Ten, "And I have a soft spot for women in her position."

"Why would her husband care if she needed medicine? Or was she trying to poison him?"

"Alistair… how do I put this. Most women don't have five kids because they wanted five kids," she said, "Some do I suppose. My aunt Lydeia sure seemed to pop them out. But I digress...in any case, one of the sorts of brews I sold would help a woman not to have any more. Mine were consistently effective and didn't carry too many side effects, and I would keep my mouth shut about it which I realize now I am definitely not doing a good job of, so I am just going to leave it at that." 

"I don't follow."

She sighed, "You really don't need to. Look, just... the thing about people who've lived hard lives is that they don't always have the energy for kindness."

"You had a hard life."

"Yes, and we all know what you think of me," she said, "Imagine how mean I'd be if I had five brats I don't want and a husband who thinks a romantic evening is blackening my eyes."

"I really hope you're wrong about who she is."

"Oh, Alistair," she sighed, "Even if I'm wrong, nobody who lives on that hill has had it easy."

"All the same. Family. I know you take it for granted, you only complain about your dad every time he comes up, but I've never had that. There's kind of this hole where they ought to be, you know? I'd just like to fill it in with something, even if it's... not the nicest something."

"I know," said Ten, "I know. Come on, it's a steep climb, no sense in wasting the daylight."

"Say, is that supposed to be you?" he asked, pausing as they reached the base of the long, winding road that lead up to the hill.

She looked to see where the cliff face, perpetually covered in graffiti, boasted an enormous painting, a cartoon silhouette of a woman wearing a bridal veil and carrying an ax in one hand.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I suppose it is."

The roads wound a spiral around the hill, and they climbed up and up, circling the sheer cliffsides. Now, this was curious, on another cliffside, this one facing the harbor, someone had painted another bride.

Stencils, she thought, I wonder what it means…

They emerged off of the winding street into full sunlight at the top of the hill. It was mostly derelict apartment buildings, some with the roofs all but caved in. Ten consulted the address she had written down, and looked around. In the middle of a block they found what they were looking for. She had only gotten a couple of sideways glances on their way up the hill. There was nobody who hated elves quite like a poor human, she had learned, and she was grateful that she was armed to the teeth for this particular journey.

"Just a minute, hang on!" a woman's raspy voice cried out. The door was wrenched open and a haggard looking woman in her thirties stood behind it. She saw Ten first, staring as though trying to place where she knew the strange elf from, then realized. She spoke through a hand over her mouth, rendering her speech a bit garbled, "Better come in before someone starts throwing rocks at you."

Ten stepped gingerly into the house, the smell of old laundry and stale food smacking her right in the face. 

"Kids, get out, dinner's in two hours."

"Is that the elf that comes to take us away if we're bad?" the eldest of the bunch, a redheaded nine-year-old of indeterminate gender with two front teeth missing.

"Yes," said Ten, "So you'd better mind your ma and do as she says or I'll bake you in a pie."

The house was… something. Five kids, Ten reminded herself, can't expect it to be clean. Not like you grew up in splendor. Didn't grow up in squalor, either, though. Even Lydeia kept her kids clean, at least.

"You need something for the… uh… wildlife?" Ten asked, glad for the boots on her feet as a swarm of cockroaches dove for cover ahead of her footsteps.

Goldanna shooed the last of her children out of the door. Ten counted them. She was still at five, the youngest old enough to run after her siblings, thank the Maker. She bustled back over to a basin where some dishes smelled like they'd been soaking for far too long and kept talking, her back to her guests.

"It's a losing battle," she said, "So what are you doing here, Ten the Alchemist? I thought they hanged you. I lit a candle in the Chantry for you."

"For me? You've called me a smug knife-eared cunt on no fewer than three occasions."

"Well I thought for the longest time you were all self-satisfied, not taking my money all those times, just glad to see a human worse off than you. Then I heard what you did to the Arl's lecherous son and realized you were just a decent sort. How'd you get out of it?"

"Well, that's sort of why I'm here. I was recruited by the Grey Wardens. So I'm sort of above the law now."

"What could that have to do with me? The only battles I have are the knockdown dragouts with the idiot sot I married, and every time I lose, I have another baby."

"Well..." Ten paused. She looked at Alistair, who was being absolutely no help considering this had been entirely his idea, "You're from Redcliffe originally, right?"

At this, Goldanna turned. When she went to dry her hands on her apron, Ten could see they were shaking. Her mouth uncovered, Ten could see where her lips, top and bottom, were split, swollen, and bruised, "What the fuck do you know about Redcliffe?"

"Well, what I was getting at is that the Grey Wardens put me in contact with this gentleman here. Who is, I have it on good authority, your long lost half brother."

Goldanna looked at Alistair sharply as though seeing him for the first time, "You?"

"Hi."

Ten watched her expression change. Guarded, then miserable, and then incandescent with rage. She put her hand back over her mouth instinctively, then let it drop again. She turned to Ten, "You brought him here?"

"I... did not realize it would upset you," Ten said cautiously.

"You didn't? Really? You, of all people? You should know exactly how it is. I heard the stories, about what they did to your little sister. How you found her afterwards and it made you so angry you killed three men. You think I want to see the spit and image of the man who did that to my mother?"

"It's not his fault, though..." Ten started cautiously.

"Now imagine you were eleven years old. And it's not a lord. It's the fucking king. And you don't have an ax. And all you can do is watch her fade away while her belly grows rounder and she stops smiling and then one day she's gone. And then they ship you off to some city you've never been to and some uncle you've never met and that's just your life now..." she put her hand back over her mouth. Looked up at Alistair, "I was happy when they told me you died.  I should have fucking known that was a lie as well. Twenty sovereign a month not to ask questions. It was all a gambit, one of those ridiculous games you fucking nobles play to grab more power. And then you show up just as the payments stop. Is this some sort of joke?"

"I didn't make that happen," Alistair protested, "I didn't…"

"What, you thought I was going to be just thrilled that you live? To remind me that nothing's gone right in my life since I was eleven years old?" she countered, "That it was marry the first and second idiots who asked for my hand or be put in the same position our ma was?"

"I thought…"

"You thought wrong. Get the fuck out of my kitchen."

"It's not his fault," Ten said.

"Then you can get the fuck out of my kitchen too. Don't you kill lordlings, Ten the Alchemist? Don't you have an ax with his name on it?"

"Hey, give it a rest," Ten said, "I've always been square with you. I have never once had an unkind word for you. Half the time I didn't even take your coin. You owe me several favors at this point, so fucking stop."

This seemed to work. Chastened, she actually stopped.

Alistair looked like he'd been slapped. "Where does your husband work?" he said finally, "I want to have a word with him."

"Warehouse at the edge of the cliff there, but right now he'll be getting drunk at the Goshawk Pub at the end of the block," Ten said, "Redheaded son of a bitch named Driscoll."

"How did you know that?" Goldanna asked,

"I know he works at that warehouse because my cousin Morran works there and complained about a fellow named Driscoll who was always drunk on the job," she said, "I know your husband is named Driscoll because you only complained about him beating on you every time you came to my stall, which you did on no fewer than seven occasions. I know he's a redhead because it's just numerically improbable you'd have five ginger kids with anything else. I know he's at the Goshawk because Morran said that's where all the lads would go at this hour. Except him and the other elf because the bartender's a racist prick. And I know he's a son of a bitch because… well that part's obvious."

"Goshawk," Alistair said, "Ten, do not even think of leaving without me, I'll be back." He got up, and walked out.

"What's he going to do?" Goldanna asked.

"I honestly have no idea," Ten said, "Look, the monthly stipend stopped because Arl Eamon's been sick and for reasons you must understand, his wife was not appraised of the payments. I don't have twenty sovereign on me, but I'll see what..."

"Like I'd take charity from a…"

"Think really carefully about finishing that sentence."

"What, are you going to beat on me too?"

"Give it a fucking rest," Ten said, "Tell me, when have I ever been anything other than decent with you? You could be here with eight brats and another on the way by now. I could have said, at any point in the last five years, fuck off, I don't serve your kind, you don't have the money. But I didn't."

Goldanna was quiet a long moment. "You're right. And that made me angry, thought you were taking the piss."

"You were just another girl in a bad place," said Ten, "And there but for the grace of the Maker would I have been."

"Put yourself in my shoes," said Goldanna, "My childhood wasn't perfect, my mother scrubbed floors, I mended clothes, but it was a life. It was comfortable. Better than my kids have it. And then, one day, she comes back... not all there. Stopped talking for a week or so. Wouldn't look me in the eye anymore. Would sleep through the housekeeper pounding on our quarters. I didn't put two and two together for years, not until..." her voice trailed off and she put her hand over her mouth again. 

Silently, Ten fished for a flask in her pack. Found one. Gave it a sniff to determine it was liquor and handed it over. Goldanna took a swig. Passed it back. Ten did too. 

"I... probably should have figured out it was like that," Ten sighed, "I'm sorry."

"I know it's not the lad's fault," she said, "But think about it. Your little sister-"

"She's my cousin."

"Same difference. Let's say she has a kid a few months from now, looks a little too much like that bann. He shows up in your kitchen in twenty years. Do you give him a squishy hug? Let him call you aunty?"

"I... have absolutely no idea," Ten said, "I mean, he'd still be hers, right?" 

"I see nothing of my mother in that man," Goldanna said, setting her mouth in a hard line.

Ten's thoughts went to her cousin. If she had a baby with... it would only be one quarter elf. It probably would look quite a lot like... Shianni's too smart to let that happen. She knows where those potions are kept. It can't happen. Her dark musings were interrupted by a crash from outside. Not exactly close, but not far either. A glance out the window told both women that the Goshawk Public House, at the end of the block, had shattered out into the road. And the thing that shattered it - a cowering, glass-covered mess of a man - was in the middle of it. I really hope that's the right redhead.

"I'm going to guess my husband didn't throw himself through the window of the bar," Goldanna observed.

"I don't suppose he did." So much for getting out of this neighborhood in one piece.

The two women exited the house, Ten's hand on her hatchet. By the time they reached the inn, a redfaced Alistair had walked out the door and was looming over the shrinking Driscoll.

"What have we learned?" he asked.

"I'll k-keep my hands off your sister," Driscoll blubbered, holding his arms over his head to ward off the blows that were surely coming, "I'll never raise a finger to her again. I swear!"

"And what's going to happen if you do?"

"You're going to r-rip my arm off and b-beat me to death with it."

"That's right, though I think I specified 'from the socket.'" Alistair said, satisfied. He saw the women standing there, reached down and picked the man up by the back of his collar, turned him, and dragged him up to the two women so he was about two feet from them, "And now what do we say."

"I'm sorry, l-light of my life," he said.

"What else?"

"N-no more pints. I'll hand my wages - all of them! All of my wages! - to you straightaway ev- every week."

"Good man. And now what are you going to do?"

"G-go back to work and stop d-drinking."

"Well done. A prize for the star pupil."

He threw him to the ground in front of his gobsmacked wife. Grateful to be released, Driscoll did a little half-bow, half-cringe, wiping the blood from his forehead, and then turned and limped down the street to his workplace.

"Well now there's two of us that can't drink at the Goshawk," said Alistair, cracking his knuckles, all of which were split and bleeding.

"Might be time to get out of this neighborhood," Ten said, nervously watching the rest of the patrons file out into the street, disappointed the brawl was over, "Before the torches and pitchforks come out."

"They'll calm down in a few days," Goldanna said, "Look, if you really want, come and see me when this is all over. We can figure it out. And I'm sorry for what I said. If that's worth anything."

"I… don't think so," Alistair said, "I wish you the best, I truly do, but my presence has clearly disturbed you, and I try not to go where I'm not wanted."

Goldanna nodded slowly, and turned to go back into her house.

"No, really though," Ten said, as the bartender, an enormous man with a bald pate and forearms the size of ham hocks followed his patrons out and surveyed the damage, one hand on his head and the other on the base of a very large crossbow, "We should get out of this neighborhood."

"Yes, I'll find somewhere else to get drunk," Alistair said, "Thanks for trying to prepare me for that but it was…"

"We really need to get out of here," said Ten, tugging on his sleeve, "Come on!"

She led the way, dodging into an alley, hopping fences and cutting through courtyards until they got to the unpopular, steep, and very rickety stairs that led down into the Antivan quarter below. She slid down the uneven banister when she could, took the stairs two at a time when she couldn't, and at the base of the stairs, doubled back into the shadow of the cliff.

"So, are you going to give me a lecture about how it's not appropriate to beat strangers in the street?" Alistair asked her when he finally caught up to her.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Ten said, looking warily up the staircase above them, "That was about the most socially acceptable thing you've managed in weeks."

"Are you... actually being nice to me? This is weird."

"What can I say? I'm a fool for a well-deserved beatdown. Come on, let's go find somewhere we're not about to get a bolt through the eye and I'll put a bandage on those knuckles. And we'll get you that drink."

Chapter Text

The streets of the Antivan quarter were, blessedly, laid out in something like a grid, stretching along the river, and so making it from the shadow of the slums on the hill to the orderly streets to the west was not a difficult task. The name of the neighborhood was not, as was often believed, due to the large number of expatriates, but rather the fact that it was rebuilt by an architect of that persuasion after a fire had laid it low sometime during the Orlesian occupation. The expatriates had found it later.

"I am... really not sure I follow the logic here. Is this a friend's house or something?" Alistair asked as they approached a three-story house with dark shades on all the windows.

"You could say that," said Ten, "I have friends who work here."

"Like, as maids?"

"Sort of. Don't... worry about that now. I'm just checking in on someone."

"You're being evasive."

"It's a brothel," said Ten. She really should have anticipated the deep blush and look of consternation, but she rolled her eyes anyway, "Oh, grow up. I'm just looking to chat with a friend of mine who works here. If he's here, he can come talk on the street. If he's not, we will leave. And if you're too holy to stand within six feet of the building you can wait in the alley over there."

Without waiting for a response, Ten knocked on the door of the Pearl, that house of ill repute in the heart of the quarter, which, much like Ten herself, had always had aspirations above its station which would likely never be truly realized. After all, actual high class escorts did not work from brothels, but from the apartments and salons purchased for them by their noble and bourgeois clientele. However, with delusions of grandeur came discretion. From the outside, one would not know what one was looking at, except for that the wrought iron railings which adorned each of the small balconies on the second and third floors featured a subtle pattern mimicking the contours of certain unmentionable parts of the anatomy. A window in the door slid open and a bouncer stuck his bald head out.

"Arlessa!" he exclaimed, "You're not dead!"

"Despite my best efforts. How's things, Dima?"

She'd known Dima Syasko for six or seven years and had watched him go from the moderately handsome young man that worked the rooms in the back to the balding neckless creature who now worked the door… and doled out the bribes.

"Well, I certainly can't complain. War's good for business, after all. Lot of lonely lads."

"Why's the door barred? It's broad daylight," she said.

"Lot of lonely lads," said Dima, "Got to keep them under control. So what are you doing here? We paid our cut to the Don this month, you're surely not collecting for him. You're never looking for company, so what, just somewhere to have a drink in secret?"

"I'm actually looking for the King, is he working today?"

"He is," Dima the bouncer said, "Well, he was. But he's on an out call. Has been thrice a week for the last two months, fancy lad he is. No knowing when or if he'll be back, though."

"An out call!" Ten exclaimed, "Well hasn't he moved up in the world. Who is it?"

"I wouldn't know," said Dima, his eyes sparkling. He had always so loved gossip, "The appointments have been booked by a third party."

"So a servant," said Ten, "Elf?"

"Yes, but not one of yours. Foreign I think."

"So it's someone who can afford foreign help! That sounds like someone important... it's someone important, isn't it."

"I genuinely have no idea."

"Well, is Paragon Paddles there?"

"They work overnights."

"What about Lumberjack Jill?"

"She's with a client."

"Cavalry Kate?"

"Retired last month. Look, Arlessa, I don't doubt you'll beat that information out of someone," said Dima, "But it ain't going to be me, and it ain't happening on my watch. So unless you have business in bottle or bed, I'm not letting you within swinging distance."

"I wasn't going to beat anyone!" Ten protested, "And your drinks are too expensive anyway."

"Well, you know where we are if you change your mind. Take care and get the fuck out of here before you scare off good coin."

"Good talk, Dima, I'll see you around."

"What just happened?" asked Alistair, running to catch up with her as she left the door and took off down another alley.

"I told you. I was looking for someone," said Ten, "He wasn't there, and neither were any of his friends who might know where he is. "

"Exactly how many... persons of ill repute do you associate with?"

"You're running through my sympathies rather quickly. Honest work is honest work, I don't want to hear anything more about it."

"Honest work," Alistair scoffed.

Ten stopped. Look up at him, "What they do is far kinder than what we do."

"I didn't think there was much morally ambiguous about killing monsters, but I'll bite. What's your theory on this one, Tabris?"

"How many monsters have we killed since we left Redcliffe?"

"Well, none, but..."

"And how many people?"

"But they were..."

"Poor everyday idiots just like us with a bit less luck. I'm not saying it's not necessary sometimes, but all in all one act is usally less harmful than the other."

"Fine, point taken."

"So I am going to make good on the promise of the first aid and drink but if you're going to be spending time here among the hoi polloi you're going to need to think for a second or two before you let certain things out your mouth."

Without waiting for confirmation, she took off again. North. East. Up a staircase. Down a hill. Down an alley that ran behind a chapel in a part of the Antivan Quarter that was perpetually in the shadow of the slums. There sat a ramshackle inn built haphazardly into the cliffs above. The name on the sign changed every few years, and, on paper, so did the owners, but the same elf had worked the bar for twenty years, the name of that elf was Natharian Lin, and he had lived two doors down from Ten her entire childhood. She pushed open the door cautiously. The same fifteen or twenty drunks who seemingly had also been occupying the same tables for twenty years, their hair growing gray and the table growing decrepit, lolled about as she pushed the door open. The elf behind the bar was polishing the same, eternally filthy plank of wood, and looked up with the same worldweary gray eyes as the door creaked open.

"Well, if it isn't the Arlessa herself," Natharian said, looking up and squinting in the sunlight that streamed from the open door, "I see you haven't gotten yourself killed."

"Not for lack of trying," Ten said, sidling up, "Good to see you too, Nath. How's shit?"

"Shit," he said, "They locked us down. No elves on the streets without a human escort. Since there's no human owners here, they send a fucking guard for me, it's absolutely humiliating." He blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to readjust, "Wait, is that Ioan Vanalis with you?" Without waiting for an answer, Nath leapt over the bar with an agility Ten did not know he possessed. Pushing up his sleeves, he stepped up to Alistair, "You're actually showing your face here after last time, you halfbred, halfwit little shitass? Unless you're about to apologize and kiss my boot, you can fuck right off."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Alistair said, backing up and glancing nervously at Ten, but Ten's eyes were on the bartender, who had suddenly seen his life flash before his eyes.

"Teneira, please tell me he's doing a stupid accent to get out of trouble and I didn't just call a strange human that to his face," Nath said.

"I have some bad news for you," Ten said, "What'd Ioan do, anyway?"

"Accused me of watering down his drink and then threw it in my face."

"Did you water down his drink?" asked Ten.

"I water down everyone's drinks!" Nath protested.

Three of the barflies in the corner all looked up in unison.

"Not yours. You scumbags drink nothing but whiskey straight anyway," Nath sighed.

The one sitting closest to the bar, a grizzled-looking dwarven sailor with his gray hair in braids down his back lifted one middle finger in the air, and then went back to the quiet and likely quite profane conversation the three of them had been in beforehand.

"Look, sorry about that, friend, you bear a passing resemblance to my cousin's idiot stepson who likes to come in here and act the fool. Also the only human-looking person I've seen this one associate with, understandable mistake, really," Nath said with an air of practical contrition, "First one's on the house if you forget that happened." He took the long way around and ducked under the side of the bar rather than jump back over. 

"I don't understand what just happened," Alistair said.

"Then no harm no foul," Nath said. He reached under the bar and produced an unopened bottle of mediocre whiskey from the marches, "This will help you forget."

"I don't think it's actually illegal to tell a human to fuck off," said Ten, seating herself at the bar, taking the proffered bottle and twisting out the cork, "At least I hope not. Anyway, this young man is a colleague of mine, so neither of us are in good favor with the law these days."

"Colleague, huh," Nath said, narrowing his eyes, "So is it true you lot betrayed the king?"

"No!" exclaimed Alistair. 

"Like I'd give a shit if you did," Nath chuckled, "It'd probably be Ten's fault anyway."

"Most disasters are," Alistair acknowledged. Deciding that he was no longer in danger, he sat to Ten's right and accepted the tumbler Nath slid across the bar. He gave himself a healthy pour of the red whiskey and took it down like it was no rougher than water.

"Whoa," Nath said, "Easy there, kid, that's about one step up from paint thinner."

"And you're the one serving it. He's having day, so let's be nice,” Ten admonished.

"I don't do 'nice,'" Nath said, narrowing his eyes."

"What about minding your business then?" Ten asked.

"That I do do," said Nath. He turned, went back to his chair at the other end of the bar, and opened his book.

Ten took another tumbler and poured herself a dram, more to be companionable than anything else and watched as Alistair took down another. 

"Well you're certainly throwing them back," she asked, "Not that I blame you, I guess. As a learned specialist in the field of pretty fucking awful things, that was pretty fucking awful."

"Talk to me about literally anything else," he said, downing another dram, "Please."

"The man I went to that brothel to see," said Ten, "The one who's on an out call."

"What about him?"

"Well, remember how I told you a few weeks back how one of my best childhood friends I'm fairly sure is your half brother?"

"Yes?"

"Also the one that Nath here just mistook you for. And, well… he works over at the Pearl."

"What, as a bartender? Bouncer?"

She took in a sharp breath and thought of how to phrase it. Settling on the most eloquent thing she could think of, she said, "No."

She watched the realization dawn over Alistair's face, and then the whole thing collapse into disgust. "Oh, thank you, Teneira, that's just what I wanted to hear."

"Listen, I am trying very hard to be patient with you," she said, "You may have some idea of your place in the world, and at one point it may have been correct, but right now you're just as much of a criminal as I am. You have a lot more in common with thieves and whores than anyone in the palace. So you're going to have to lose that chantry brat attitude before it gets you in trouble."

"I'm not a chantry br-… oh Maker's shite-ass breath, I suppose I am," he sighed, "It's just that everything out here is so… it's arse over tit. The king is supposed to be virtuous and wise, the clergy are supposed to have all the answers…"

"A family doesn't get a throne because they're virtuous. They get it because they killed everyone else or just beat them into submission. Then they sit up there and say "The Maker put me here" and the rest of us are supposed to believe it. I'm not saying it was a nice thing to learn or you don't deserve to lose your shit over it a little bit, but it should not be surprising."

"When I was told about my… parentage. I don't know, I suppose I imagined an illicit love affair. Doomed romance. All that." He was rubbing his eyes as he said this, and finally wilted and put his head in his hands, "I probably sound like Morrigan and her ridiculous books, don't I."

Feeling the need, all of a sudden, Ten poured herself a dram of whiskey and took it down without tasting it. "Part of you had to know that wasn't the case."

"I could barely believe you called him a lecher. Shit. It's all… topsy fucking turvy. Nothing makes sense."

"It starts making sense again once you realize how much of what you've been taught is bullshit."

"But this is new for me. You're already used to it."

"Used to what? Trying like hell to manage the emotional stability of people I barely know? Can't say I am."

"No, just... when it's demons or darkspawn it's simple. But, people being people is just another endless parade of horror," he said, "Why are we saving this world, anyway?"

"I ask myself the same thing daily. Doubt anyone I care about would be worse off if we just let the darkspawn burn it all down."

"You say things like that, but I don't think you mean it."

"Right, deep down I'm just a soft rabbity creature who craves nothing more than sweets and being pet on the head."

"No, no... but I'm on to you," Alistair declared, pointing a finger at her, "You're not... nice, you're definitely not nice. You're prickly as a hedgehog with a pinecone up its arse, but you also… you're… always trying to fix things. Like you'll be calling someone every name in the book all the while you're saving his dog from a well with one hand and greasing the stairs in his greatest enemy's house with the other."

"Careful, people are going to start thinking you actually respect me."

"You think I don't respect you?" He took the fourth - fifth? - drink down like an absolute champion, and Ten looked at him nervously. She wasn't sure if the heavy drinking had been something he'd done before he'd lost most of the friends he had in the world, or after. Or even - she had to admit - if it wasn't at least partially her fault.

"Well every time I make a call, a necessary call, one you're not prepared to make, you argue with me about it. And it's not even like you ever have a better plan!"

"Why do you think I'm not prepared to make those calls?"

"Because you're a...." she let her voice trail off.

"Go ahead. Say whatever it is you're going to say. I hope it's offensive."

"It's not your fault nobody ever told you how the world works. I am sorry that it seems to be falling to me, you probably deserve a gentler tutor. But, this is what we have to work with and when you pick fights with me over every single fucking thing...." 

"I'm not trying to fight you. I'm trying to keep you alive. You just have some kind of death wish, I swear. And the worst part - the worst part is, everyone else thinks it's a grand lark. Like 'Oh isn't that hilarious, the little elf girl is walking up to the dragon and giving it the finger!' Even Wynne, and she has the most sense of all of us. And then you make me out to be some sort of idiot for just asking you to be a little more careful."

"Fuck's sake," she muttered, "Or you could just trust me to know what I'm doing."

"But you don't. You make a good show of it, but you are blundering through this, same as I am. And I have to wonder if you don't do what you do because deep down, you’re hoping maybe one of the bandits or walking dead or giant man goat things will just do you in and the weight will finally be off your shoulders. Keep it up and one day your luck is going to run out and I just… I cannot carry another comrade to the pyre.”

"Why do you sound so resentful?"

"Because I am resentful. You go around doing the most maniacal, unhinged things, and it always seems to work. I always just wind up making everything worse. There's a reason nobody ever wanted me around. Why every person I learn to rely on gets rid of me or just… dies. And there. That look on your face. You feel sorry for me. You, of all people, feel sorry for me. Because despite everything, everyone just loves you. You're one of the most notorious murderers in the nation and everyone's your best bloody friend. My own sister lit a candle in the Chantry for you when she thought you were going to be executed. Oh, she hates me. She never even met me, but she hates me, but you?"

Well, there's nothing I can really say to that, is there. So she shook her head, went into her pack to find the rags she kept around for this purpose. She poured herself another dram used it to wet the rag. 

"What are you doing?"

"Give me your hand," she said. 

He looked at her suspiciously, but obeyed, then winced and cursed as she cleaned out the wounds on his knuckles as gently as she could, and bandaged them, "That'll do you until Wynne can take a look. I'm surprised you haven't learned how to throw a punch without hurting yourself."

"I... got a little carried away."

She chuckled a little, "I'd probably be singing another tune if that barkeep had caught up to us, but that was incredibly satisfying to watch."

"You think so?"

She laughed a little louder and took his left hand in hers. She could not tell where the blood was coming from, but it did not seem to be bothering him.

"I uh... hate to interrupt… whatever this is, but Ten, I need a favor," Nath said, sidling back down to the end of the bar where they were sitting.

"What now, Nath?" she asked, not looking up, for she had located the wound. Alistair had managed to get a tiny shard of glass embedded between his middle and forefinger. She had no idea why he didn't seem to feel it, but managed to get it out without too much damage, and fortunately Alistair knew better than to make any sudden moves while she dug around for it.  

"I've got about five minutes before whatever guard shows up to make sure I don't burn anything down on my ten minute walk home," said Nath, "I need to get my things in the back and Missus Bantree is late for her shift. Could you watch the bar while I pack up?"

"And let me loose near the till, Nath?"

"Worst you'll do is lift a coin or two, the rest of these lowlifes will drink me out of house and home."

"Fine," she said, "But whole thing's on the house." She gestured at the bottle with her chin, for both her hands were occupied wrapping Alistair's injured one.

"Deal. But don't give your friend any more whiskey, he's about two drams away from breaking down crying and telling everyone in here how pointless his life is, I know the look."

"I'm right here," Alistair said, inspecting his hand. 

"And are you about two more of those from breaking down crying and telling everyone how pointless your life is?"

"I genuinely had not thought about it, but I suppose it's a possibility."

"Well keep drinking and see if I'm right, then," the bartender said, raising his eyebrows, "Ten, come watch the bar."

"All right. Just for you," Ten said.

"If the guard shows up before I'm back, just ply him with free ale, it works most of the time."

"I do love a dirty copper," said Ten,

Nath raised one eyebrow, "Yes, I heard that rumor." He must have seen the look of bafflement and shock on Ten's face, for he grinned cheekily as he put his towel down on the bar, ducked under, and disappeared into the back. Ten sighed, wondering if he was referring to what she feared he was referring to and, if so, how anyone had found out, then resolved to pretend it didn't happen. She got a leg up on her stool and slid over the bar. Looking at the shelves, Nath was not light on that mediocre corn whiskey, and she felt a little less grateful for the gift of the bottle. 

"So, are you cutting me off?" asked Alistair, leaning forward on the bar.

"That one's been tending bar for twenty years. I trust his judgment and I hate it when men cry, so I'm not taking the risk." To drive her point home, she took the bottle and put it under the bar where it belonged.

"What do you think the odds are that whatever guard shows up knows who you are?"

"Not sure, but the ones who recognize me won't turn me in," said Ten.

"And why is that?"

"Well, you heard the old man guarding the gatehouse."

"Sure, but that's a single neighborhood copper who's known you from birth. I refuse to believe that every single one of them would risk their pension just because they have some affection for you."

"Well, believe what you like. If I'm wrong, you've never met me before."

"And then what?"

"I rot in Fort Drakon and you can be in charge."

"And I get to explain that to four people who are irritated with me most of the time," he muttered, then leaned on the bar, "Why does absolutely everyone here know you? And defer to you? Who are you actually?"

"I'm a sweet elfin maiden who runs a potions shop," she said, dunking a couple of empty beer glasses in the basin of soapy water that was there for that purpose, then in the rinse bucket beside, though she acknowledged that it likely did not leave them anything an elf would call 'clean.' Then she settled for wiping them down, but found that the stack of towels was similarly unhygienic, "This will all go much more smoothly if you pretend you don't know me at all for the next twenty minutes or so."

"I don't think I do," he said, "Know you at all. Not really."

"Sure and let's keep it that way," she said, "Now, mouth shut. Ears open. Please."

Chapter Text

Ten threw the barman's towel over her own shoulder. It smelled like several species of mold. Ugh, it probably leaves the place dirtier than if he just let it lie. She drew pints for the handful of barflies and a few other patrons who wandered in at the end of their shifts. Most of them probably didn't even realize it was a different elf behind the bar. In fact, not even the absolute last guardsman Ten expected to see noticed her at first, walking in like he owned the place and bellying up to the bar. What is a lieutenant doing escorting an ill tempered barkeep ten minutes down the road? This was beneath him when he was a sergeant. What on earth is going on in this city?

She turned her back quickly to fetch a glass from the shelf behind her, "What can I do for you, guardsman?" she called.

"It's Lieutenant. And you're not Nath. I'm here to get Natharian Lin back to the Alienage before curfew. He hasn't absconded, has he?"

"He'll be back in a moment," she said, turning.

Anton Villais, who was in the process of sitting in a stool, was startled enough to miss it entirely, knocking it to the ground in his effort not to fall on his ass in front of the whole tavern. A few of the patrons looked up, but turned quickly back to their drinks, not wanting to draw the eyes of the law to them. "Arlessa… Teneira… Miss Tabris," Villais stammered, "You're…"

"Despite His best efforts, the Maker has yet to get His hands on me," said Ten, "How are you, Lieutenant?" She leaned down on the bar, putting her chin in her hand.

"Well fucking gobsmacked to begin with," he said, shaking his head, "I lit a candle in the Chantry for you after the news came out of Ostagar. What are you doing here?"

"I decided slaying darkspawn was just too messy. I'm going to try my hand at bartending," she said, "You're not gonna drag me home before curfew, are you?"

"Teneira, if word got out you're still alive and I... you know there's a king's ransom on your head, right?"

"Bring me in again, they'll make you captain," Ten said.

Anton looked to his left and right, determining the only one who had half a chance of hearing him was Alistair, who was doing a very good job of acting catatonically drunk, staring silently into an empty glass. Anton leaned in even closer, "If I turn you in again, how do you think that'll look?"

"Like you're a fine, upstanding officer of the law."

"Ten… I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," she said, "Take Nath home, forget I was here."

"Forget who was where?" 

She chuckled, "We did always understand each other so well, Lieutenant." She leaned closer over on the bar, speaking softly, "Kennit Maycomb said my people are getting blamed for the assassination of the Arl. Do you know who did it?"

"I see a few brushes with death have not changed your nature," Anton sighed. He looked around again, "We can't talk about this here, but my shift ends at midnight." On the bar, the tips of his fingers found hers. She knew she ought to put a stop to it, but....

"Lieutenant!" Nath's voice came from the stairs.

Ten turned quickly and pretended to be rearranging the pint glasses on the shelf while Anton snapped up straight and put his arms by his sides.

"My apologies for my tardiness. Missus Bantree is late for her shift. And I see you know our Teneira," He paused, narrowing his eyes at them, "I trust not better than you ought to."

"Watch yourself, Lin," Anton said gruffly, standing, "There's a reason I've come for you myself."

"Yes, it's because those new coppers you brought on are lushes and the last time you sent one of them we wound up carousing until the wee hours of the morning."

"Just be grateful you're able to keep your job after the last stunt you pulled," said Anton, "You're a little old for graffiti, after all, and it's not exactly a critical function you serve. Come on. I passed Missus Bantree on the way in, she'll be here any moment."

As if on cue, the door banged open, and Edwina Bantree, a stout, matronly human somewhere in late middle age walked in. "Everyone untwist your knickers, I have arrived!" she declared. She had a stiff Highever accent and a habit of talking just that little bit too loud, no doubt her own hearing not being what it once was, "I was waylaid by the most curious sight of my life."

Anton sighed, "What was it?"

"Not four blocks from here, a nun climbed out a third story window and took off across the rooftops!" she said.

"Are you sure you haven't been hitting the bottle yourself, Missus Bantree?" asked Nath.

"I swear on my grandson's head," Edwina declared.

"Well, if I see any nuns on rooftops I'll be sure to alert the proper precinct. Come on, let's go, Lin," Anton said.

"I'm coming," Nath said, "Ten, get out from behind the bar before Bantree paddles you."

Not needing to be told twice, and knowing the evening barkeep's penchant for corporally punishing unruly drunks, Ten ducked under and retook her previous seat. 

"Why, is that Miss Teneira?" Edwina said. Slowly, she crouched to duck under the bar and waddled to her post, "Sure and I thought you were dead. Lit a candle in the Chantry for you I did. First one's on the house if you're drinking, dearie."

"Won't say no to that," Ten said, "I'll see you around, Nath."

"Don't burn the place down."

Missus Bantree turned, discovering that the keg she had intended to draw from was near kicked, and sighed. With a grunt, she lifted its replacement on to the shelf with more strength than Ten would have thought still resided in her arms.

"You just did the thing," Alistair said, perking up as soon as the door had shut behind the barkeep and the guardsman.

"What thing?"

"The thing you said Teagan and Isolde did. You and that guardsman both jumped out of your skins the minute the barman came back. Like he was about to catch you at something you oughtn't be doing."

"Well fuck me for saying you ought to be more observant," Ten sighed, "But, this is where I tell you to mind your business."

"Nope, no, you do not have that privilege. Why'd he all but throw himself into your arms as soon as he saw you?"

"If you saw that you heard that he thought I died at Ostagar."

"And you're a notorious felon, why would that have been a problem for him?"

"You'll have to ask him that," she said, shrugging, and changed the subject, "So if what Missus Bantree said is true, maybe we ought to check and make sure Lelianna hasn't gotten herself detained."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Alistair said, "After all, can't you just sidle up to that lieutenant, bat your eyes and get them out? Show a little leg for good measure?"

"Is this making you feel better?" she asked.

"Actually yes."

"Fine. You get one more. After that I will say something so vile you rethink waking up tomorrow."

"Well now I'm on the spot. I'll never be able to come up with a good one. I'll think of an absolute zinger at three in the morning."

"Remind me not to be around when you do."

"Oh I doubt you will, you won't even be halfway through the barracks by then."

Ten burst out laughing, "All right. That was actually pretty good. But now you're done."

The door flung again. It was evidently loose on its hingers. In the light of the streetlamp, a redfaced Lelianna bustled in, Zevran on her heels and likewise out of breath.

"I told you!" Edwina exclaimed, "Nobody ever believes me. Sister, did you or did you not run across three blocks worth of rooftops?"

Lelianna froze. She blinked twice.

"Of course she didn't. In those robes? Don't be ridiculous," Teneira said, "Anyway, the good sister is a friend of mine." She turned to Lelianna,  "Of all the bars, funny you should find your way to this one."

"It looked discreet," Lelianna said, hitching up her robe and sitting beside Ten.

"You two are terrible burglars," said Ten, low enough that Edwina could not hear.

"Already with the slander," Zev said, seating himself on the other side of Alistair.

"Oh, Teneira, you've fallen in with ruffians already!" Edwina said in mock consternation, "Whatever shall we do with you?"

"I'm afraid I'm incorrigible," said Ten, and turned to Zevran, "So, what did we find when we were not very loudly and publicly breaking into a flat?"

"Well the good news is we know where our scholar went," said Zev.

"And the bad news?"

"It's in the most infernal part of the Frostbacks," said Lelianna, "Meaning we're going to have to make good time if we're going to be in and out before the snow comes."

"And that's only if there's nothing nasty waiting for us when we get there," Alistair added.

"Why do you smell like a distillery?" asked Zev, making a face, "The rest of us do the hard part and here you are, sitting here sucking down whiskey like a…"

"Let him be, he's had a day," Ten said, "And… why do you have blood on you?"

"Well…" Lelianna said, "You know as well or better than I do that there is never no bloodshed."

"Who did you kill?" Ten sighed.

"There… was an assistant," said Zev, "But I'm fairly sure he was an impostor."

"So you killed him," Ten said.

"Are you not the same woman who cut off my friend's hand and sent it to a noble you don't like?" Zev asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, but that was on the road, this is the city! This is a society! There are rules!" Ten exclaimed. She got up, slapping her hands on the bar, "Ugh. I didn't want to have to do this. But I can salvage this. I just need to go have a chat with someone before the local color gets wind of this."

"Whatever does that mean?" asked Lelianna.

"This neighborhood is not my turf," said Ten, "And I just vicariously dropped a body in it. If we want to continue to enjoy free movement in this city, I have to go… parlay with the appropriate authorities. You three, sit here as long as you'd like, but I would appreciate it if you did not go anywhere else except back to camp."

"Why Teneira," Zev said, "All this talk of turf and parlay - I have suspected there is more to you than one would first think and you are not doing a very good job of… disabusing me of this notion."

"Right?" Alistair said, "The minute she walked through the gates she started talking like a bad mystery novel. Flirting with guardsmen too, it is quite unnerving."

"Oh Teneira, no need to go to bed with a guardsman on our account," Lelianna said.

"That's cute, that you think 'authorities' means the law," said Ten.

"She's doing it again," Zev said, "Come on, cough it up, manita, what great secret are you harboring? You really must put me out of my misery here."

"If you truly believe that," said Ten, "Then all three of you ought to be a bit nicer to me before I have my goons come and take a finger from each of you! But in all honesty, please don't get into any more trouble. Missus Bantree, make sure they behave."

"Oh I will," Edwina assured her, taking the broad hickory paddle she kept hanging behind the bar and slapping it once on her meaty thigh for emphasis, "It was good to see you, dearie. I promise to keep your little friends safe."

It was not that long after sunset, but even in high summer, the twilight in the north did not linger as it did down in the Wilds. The lamplighters had come around, thankfully, as Ten bustled through the Antivan quarter, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her. Down a hill. Up a hill. Left. Right. Up another hill. Then to the gate of a vast estate built up against the wall that separated the really fine quarter behind them, where most of the provincial aristocracy kept their estates, from the grande bourgeoisie on the near side. The house itself was not even visible from the street, but she knew the wall and the gate. She reached up and pulled the bell.

It took a few moments, but the gate swung open.

"Ten!" exclaimed the footman who had answered it, "I heard you were in town."

"Hello to you too, Tirin. I just got in this morning," said Ten, "How'd you hear already?"

"Oh, you know how rumors fly," he said, "Glad to see you haven't found the wrong end of a noose."

"Not for lack of trying," she said, "Is your boss at home?"

"He is indeed, up on the veranda there."

Ten strained her eyes in the half light to see that, indeed, the slight, mustachioed master of the house was sitting on his porch, smoking a luminous hookah. He raised one gloved hand in greeting and beckoned. She waved back.

Tirin Iovanis, a lifelong denizen of the alienage who must have taken up staying in his boss's servant's quarters during the lockdown, lead her through the courtyard, which never failed to impress her no matter how many times she walked under the quiet green canopy of grapevines, to the veranda, which was constructed to resemble a cloister. It was an odd sanctuary in the middle of the lights and loud music of the quarter, situated up enough of a hill that she could see over the wall to the rooftops splayed out below.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Arlessa?" asked the master of the house. His legal name was Gonzalo Reis, but in most business dealings, he went by the moniker of Don Cangrejo, much like Teneira was referred to as the Arlessa. In the lamplight, his face looked gaunter than it did normally. He was wearing gloves with the last two fingers of each hand stuffed to make it appear as though he was not missing the ring and little finger of each - a defect which had given him his moniker, his bare hands resembling the claws of a crab. She found it strange that he kept up with this vanity in his own home, but far be it from her to judge. He rose and pulled up another chair for her, which she accepted, along with one of the hookah's auxiliary hoses. She breathed in a scented smoke and felt something inside her relax for the first time in weeks.

"I've come with an apology, padrino," she said, "Two of my people have made a bit of a mess in your district. I didn't realize that that was what they were going to do, and you ought to hear it from me first." 

Don Cangrejo's face darkened, "What sort of mess are you talking about?"

"It was supposed to be an informational excursion," she said, "But it turned violent, or so I hear. There will be a body in one of the flats in this district. Here's the address." She handed over the scrap she'd written Fra Genitivi's address on, "Whether you decide to find it first or the guard does matters little to me, but I felt it was good manners to let you have that decision, in case some of your people need to conjure an alibi."

He looked at the address, "Does it have to do with the nun who was cavorting across my rooftops earlier today?"

"Ah, so you heard about that," she said, "Well, yes. The same."

"You are going to have to explain to me how you have come to be keeping company with a burgling nun… and a Crow, if the young man with her did not deceive my eyes."

"He's not a Crow anymore," said Ten.

"How did you come by one of those?"

"The current occupant of the palace put a hit out on me," she said, "Flattering that he would call in the heavy artillery like that, but I have plenty of experience with the Crows. I got the drop on them, and he came pleading to me to spare him. I basically own him now."

"I thought you elves were against that."

"It's a figure of speech, Gonzalo," she said, shaking her head, "And don't tell me you did not know something about the hit."

"I... did," he said, "A servingman came here, asking for an introduction to someone who might take you out on the road. You will be pleased to know I refused. Evidently, I have inadvertently invited that repugnant order into my city. And all for your benefit!"

"And for that I am grateful," said Ten, "Though, be honest with me, do you truly believe any of your regulars would have made an attempt on me?"

"No I suppose they would not have," he said.

"And where, if you remember, did the last Crows who came after you wind up?"

"Drugged and chained to the bottom of a dock at low tide," he admitted.

"And, as I recall, I invited you to come sit by the river with me so we could watch them come out of their stupor just in time to realize that the water was rising. You brought a lovely tempranillo. I thought it was a pleasant evening." At this, the old man chuckled, and rose. Behind him was a shelf containing several bottles of his own vintage, including the tempranillo in question. He located it, uncorked it - something Ten admired his ability to do given his missing fingers - and poured out two glasses. They clicked their rims together and both drank. It was just as lovely, dank and earthy, as Ten remembered it being.

"You know I always had a certain affection for you, mijita. Do you need me to get rid of the body?"

"No," she said, "Unless you're afraid of the blowback on your own people. I'm something of a ghost right now."

"Nobody believed you had perished out there. Not truly. But tell me, what happened in that flat?"

"It concerns a monk who had let that flat a few blocks over. He had some research that an associate of mine needed to get his hands on," she said, "I, of course, thought it would be a simple burglary, go in the window, leave with the notes. But there was someone waiting for them."

"Was it that building with the green shutters? There has been some strange business going on in there. Men dressed as priestesses. At first I thought it was some kind of… niche erotic hobby, but then the chanting started."

"The chanting!"

"Yes. I sent Tanzi over there one night to see what was going on. She came back saying it was some kind of… parody of the actual Chant. Like it had some of the features, but it was different, and it was being recited by a man. Now, I am not overly religious myself, but something about that rubbed me the wrong way. A man. Reciting the Chant. I was honestly surprised the Maker did not strike them down where they stood. So, all this to say, Arlessa, are you sure your monk is, in fact, a monk?"

"Fairly sure," said Ten, "He was on the payroll of a provincial noble that I have an interest in. I don't think he could have fooled the entire household."

"And what interest would you have in a provincial noble?"

"Nothing that affects us, not just yet," she said, "But I did want you to hear it from me."

"And, in doing so, remind me that despite your erstwhile absence from town, you are very much alive, and very much able to defend your own territory, yes?"

"Oh that too," she said, smiling.

"And you came to me because you knew I would pass it on to the others."

"We always did understand each other so well."

They were quiet a moment, sipping wine, watching fireflies dance among the grape arbors in the courtyard before them.

"So tell me, Arlessa," Don Cangrejo finally said, "What do you think of the state of things?"

"It has never much mattered to us who was on the throne, no?" Ten said. She was aware of the irony of the statement. While she had lived her whole life in Denerim, Don Cangrejo had been there longer, having been exiled from his native Antiva as a younger man. Now in his seventies, he had watched and tasted and felt the pulse of the city for far longer than she had. 

"No," he said, "Orlesian, Fereldan, king, governor, viceroy… it has never mattered to us. And yet…"

"And yet what?"

"I do not like this Teyrn Loghain," he said, "Nor do I trust his motives. I did not when he was advisor to the king, I did not when he was a common warlord agitating against the occupation, and now that he has poured himself into this little void of power, even less so."

"At least before he kept his fingers out of the city," Ten agreed, "What's your problem with him?"

"What sort of man declares himself regent for a grown woman? And where is the queen in all this?"

"I didn't realize that she had been so conspicuously absent."

"They say she has shut herself up in a tower to mourn her beloved husband."

Neither could keep a straight face for long, both breaking down into snickers. Ten had the largest line to palace gossip, but she shared her information freely when it was not valuable. Queen Anora was a clever woman, according to all who served her. Clever enough to avoid the various venereal diseases her husband made it his business to collect. Word from the royal bedchamber was that the two of them had not spent the night together in over a year and, when forced to be in the same room, barely spoke.

"They would not let me in to see my cousins," Teneira said, "Do you believe this is true?"

"Well that is a problem," he said, "Normally we would all know what is going on in the palace because your people would tell you and you would pass it on… for a reasonable price. But with this lockdown in your territory, those who work at the palace, stay at the palace, and when they come home, your cousin has called them… curiously tightlipped. Do you think he is holding out on me?"

"Soris? Absolutely not," said Ten, "His favorite thing is being of use, and he admires you greatly. If he knew something, and you asked, he would cough it up. But what do you know about the local government that's perpetuating this lockdown?"

"Well, I do not believe for one second that your people were behind Arl Urien's assassination, if that is what you're asking," said Don Cangrejo, "As odious as he was, his death seems… convenient. If indeed, the queens' father is making a grab for power and needing something to reward his friends."

"Is that what you would have done?" asked Ten, mildly.

"I don't need to play those games to reward my friends."

"You don't, do you." Ten sipped her wine and took a drag from the hookah. Don Cangrejo refilled her cup, "What about the new arl, what do you think of him?"

"I do not have an impression of him yet. He only just arrived from the provinces last week."

"Amaranthine is hardly provincial," said Ten.

"I am from Ciudad Antiva. To me, this whole country is provincial," he said, "Denerim has its charms, but mostly because so much of its population is from elsewhere. Now there is a question, do you elves consider yourselves Fereldan?"

"That depends on the elf," said Ten, "After all, almost all of us have one parent from elsewhere, and about half the time that 'elsewhere' is abroad. The whole scheme of making sure the next generation isn't inbred to hell results in quite a mix."

"But you, you are Fereldan?"

"My father is Tevinter via the Free Marches," she said, "My mother's father was from Rivain. My mother's mother was I think two generations from Dalish, so I suppose one could say that she was Fereldan, but not in the way most of the folk of this land think of it. I suppose I am Fereldan in that I was born here and have never lived anywhere else, but that is the extent of it."

"If Ferelden were to find itself at war with Orlais again," he said, "Which side would you be on?"

"Whichever has a knife at my throat at any given moment. What about you?"

"I don't care for politics in Orlais," he said, "They are far too guarded for my taste. So I suppose I would support the native regime."

"Speaking of Orlais, I have an appointment at midnight in the Orlesian quarter that I hope will prove enlightening," she said, "At least as to the fate of Arl Urien. If I learn anything of import, I will pass it on."

"An appointment at midnight in the Orlesian quarter," said the Don, cracking a smile, "Whoever could you be seeing there?"

"You have not earned that information, padrino," Ten chuckled, shaking her head.

"So it's private."

"I didn't say that."

"Well, far be it from me to intrude on the personal life of a young lady who has seen as much tragedy as you have. But that is clear on the other side of town, so you probably ought to start walking. Would you like a bottle for the road?"

"I wouldn't want to put you out."

"You? Put me out? Never. Please." He reached behind him and fetched another bottle from the rack, handing it to her grandly.

"I appreciate your hospitality, as always."

"And I appreciate you stopping by, Arlessa. I hope the next time we meet a few more things will be clear, and we may act accordingly. A throne so empty is, after all, an opportunity few of us will live to see a second time."

"And again, I see we understand each other very well. Goodbye, Gonzalo, I will let you know when I'm in town again."

"May the Maker smile upon you, Teneira. And not in a cheeky way."

Chapter Text

Her duty having been done to her counterpart - it was, after all, considered the height of bad manners to just drop a body in someone else's territory and not let them know - she left Don Cangrejo's sprawling estate and made her way north. It was late enough that nobody would check her crossing the good bridge back into the market district, and so she did so and headed northwest, up to the cobblestoned streets and whitewashed buildings of the Orlesian Quarter. The energy of the town had changed in a way she had not noticed during the daytime, but now that night had descended, it was as though the cacophony of drunks, streetwalkers, and general riffraff had been muted like under a blanket of snow. It still smelled just as bad, she thought, avoiding a very suspicious puddle as she made her way to the house where she'd spent her last night in Denerim. Now that she was not half catatonic, she saw it was part of a tidy little block, where townhouses and two larger apartment buildings faced onto an interior courtyard. She counted down from the end of the block, and knocked on the appropriate door.

Anton did not say anything as he opened it, and merely stood aside to let her enter, then looked up and down the empty street to assure himself nobody saw. He closed the door behind her and closed one, then two deadbolts, and then threw his arms about her, tucking his chin over the top of her head. He still smelled of woodsmoke, though it was now high summer and nobody was lighting fires unless they could absolutely not avoid it. She let herself relax, but only a little.

"You have no idea what you've done," he said softly.

"I know exactly what I've done," she replied. 

He held her at arm's length, looking into her face. "Teneira, they said it was a massacre," he said, backing up, taking her by the shoulders, "And then, that it was your faction that betrayed the king, caused all the carnage."

"You'd think if we'd been the ones to cause all the carnage, we wouldn't have been wiped out nearly to a man," Ten replied.

"Really. So it's just you?"

"Sort of," she replied.

"Well that's not going to do us any good, is it," he said, "Even if it were a True Blight, what's one woman going to do about it?"

"Do you expect me not to try?"

"I don't know why I expected that you'd learned when to cut your losses in the last month or so," he sighed, running hands down her arms.

"What do you think I should do instead?"

"Let's leave. While there are still ships leaving the harbor, we can get out before it gets too bad."

"Still on that, are we," she sighed, shaking her head, "You... didn't see them." She shuddered, remembering the cold iron of their armor, their livid faces far too close to her own. Indeed, it had been almost a month since she'd seen hide or hair of them herself, and was beginning to wonder if the whole thing had, indeed, been a dark fever dream. But no, if they had not been there, any number of people would still be alive, villages standing, and she back where she belonged and not running the roads trying like hell to stop them. "They're far away now, on the other side of the country, but they're smart enough to know how to bring down a nation. How to stab it in its heart. And if Ferelden falls, they'll be that much stronger when they pop up to take down the next nation and the next. There is nowhere we can go, not long-term."

"I don't think I've ever seen you this frightened before," he said.

"You haven't," she said, "I'm not scared of drawing and quartering, but I am… I am fucking terrified of what will happen if that army makes it here."

"So what does this have to do with the assassination of the Arl of Denerim?"

"It's to do with succession, what's going on in the palace now. The nobles are all at each other's throats, there's no meaningful leadership. The queen's shut herself away. And, well, I strongly suspect that what happened at Ostagar was latest blow in a coup he's been quietly staging for years," Ten said.

"The queens father. You're talking about Loghain Mac Tir?"

"Yes."

"He's assigned some members of his personal guard to investigate the assassination. They took it right out of our hands."

"So it could have been an inside job."

"Why does it matter?"

She sighed. "The more time these ridiculous nobles spend making plays against each other, trying to fight their way to the top of the midden heap we call a country, the less time they are preparing for the absolute shitshow that is coming."

"So I'm guessing the word about it not being a true Blight is also bullshit."

"Just keep your eyes open," she said, "The palace is lying. I don't know why. Just… don't take anything they say without a grain of salt."

"I never did," he said, "But, Ten... put yourself in my boots right now, Ten. The ghost of a woman I walked to her execution shows up and starts telling me the world's about to end. How am I supposed to feel about this?"

"However you want," she said, irritated, "I'm not here to spare your feelings, Lieutenant."

"No, you're here to get more information, like you always want from me. And I am, as I always have been, the fool eternally hopeful that you might grace me with a kiss before rushing off to the next very important thing you must do."

"That has nothing to do with this," she said, looking up at him imploringly, "That was always… separate."

"Maybe to you it was," he said. He loosed her and turned away. Then sighed and turned back, "Were you planning to spend the night?"

"I don't have to," she said, "Do you want me to leave?"

He looked at her a long moment. Seeing him now, he looked like had not had a full night's sleep since she'd last seen him, his green eyes weighed down with dark circles, his already prominent cheekbones sharper. "No," he sighed, "Don't go. I had… I had spent far longer hoping this would happen than I'll admit to you."

"I'm sorry. There was no way to send word, not with..."

"I know. And if there were I know I would not have been on the top of your list of folks to reassure, nor should I have been. That's not on you. But Teneira, I... pestered the heralds every morning for news of the battle. And then the body counts came in. I grieved, Ten. I full on lost my shit, couldn't get out of bed for a week and I couldn't tell anyone why. Now, I just have no idea what to…"

"Would it be easier if you still thought me dead?" she asked.

He was quiet for too long. "Yes. But that's not how this city works. If I hadn't run into you at the Paloma, if you weren't here now, I would have heard a rumor, Kennit or someone would have told me, and then I would have been left to drive myself mad again."

"Well I do have to leave again," she said, "In the morning. First thing, before anyone realizes I'm here."

"I know," he said, "But promise me that one day, if we both make it through this, there can be a time when you have nothing to worry about except me."

Well that's a tall fucking order. Who the hell does he think he is?

"What I can promise is that," she said, "For the next six to eight hours, I will worry about nothing but you."

"No crimes?"

Who the hell does he think I am?

"Six to eight hours. No crimes," she said. She ran her hand along his face.

"No plotting?"

"Absolutely none."

"No demanding information from me? No asking me to plant anything anywhere? No spying? No…"

She rolled her eyes and kissed him the way she had in her kitchen all those months before, and instead of being thrilling, it was comforting. His was the first familiar touch she had felt since she'd been cast out of her hometown. Actually, come to think of it, Anton was the first person to touch her in months who was not also actively trying to kill her. The last time she'd shared a bed with him she had been exhausted and convinced the next morning would be her last. This time, there was time. There was no wild urge to consume all she could while she still drew breath. And so she did what she wanted, pushing him back into his bed and stripping off her frock to go and join him. As promised, there were no crimes or plotting or darkspawn or nagging companions or price on her head, just skin and heartbeats and soft laughter. And then there was sleep.

She awoke later than she intended to, her head in the crook of his shoulder, to a horrific racket from upstairs. She couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but a woman was pounding on the door to the flat on the second story and shouting - in what language she could not tell.

"What the…" she said, sitting up, pulling the sheets over her breasts, just in case she had mistaken where the noise was coming from.

"Oh no," Anton sighed, "I can't believe I forgot…"

"Forgot what?" Ten asked.

"I'm so sorry, Ten, you're going to have to go out the window."

"Excuse the fuck out of me?"

"Into the courtyard out back. It's the first floor, you'll be fine. Just… Andraste's left tit I cannot believe… I'm an idiot. Teneira, I forgive you for literally everything you have ever done that even slightly hurt my feelings, but you need to go."

"What, did you get a wife in the last two months?" she asked.

"No! I'm not the one who goes around getting married all over the place, that's you!" he said.

"Then what on earth is…"

Footsteps thundered down the stairs outside and stopped in front of Anton's door. A fist banged on the door with all the force of the guard seeking to execute a search warrant. "Anton!" a woman's voice came shrilly from the other side, "I expected this of your good-for-nothing brother, not you!"

"That would be my mother," he said, "My older brother lives upstairs, and we are both late."

"To what?" Ten asked. She hurried into her clothes, haphazardly lacing herself up.

"It's Saturday. It's when Maman brings all of her bastards home and makes us eat breakfast together and tell each other about our lives. Just… trust me you don't want her finding you here. She... has a few prejudices she's not managed to lose."

Ten looked at him in disbelief, "So she can jump into bed with an elf and have an entire son about it, but when you do it…"

"I didn't say it made sense!" he protested, "Look, I just... you said you needed to be off quickly. That will not be happening if she corners you."

There was another series of raps at the door. "Anton! Anton! Did I hear a girl in there!?"

"Andraste's left tit, how old are you?" she demanded.

"Far too old for this," he said, "I'm so sorry. Trust me I am far more embarrassed than you are at the moment."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to get beat with a shoe on my account," she relented and headed for the window. It really wasn't too far a drop, and there was a convenient tree right outside it that she could swing down from. She threw her pack out before her. He gave her a boost to the window sill and kissed her hard, first on the forehead, then on the mouth.

"Don't even think about getting yourself killed out there," he said.

"I'll do my best." She slithered through the open window and, grabbing a tree limb for purchase, got to the ground as he shut the window behind her. 

She bent down to retrieve her things, and cursed. Of all the ridiculous things…

"Psst!"

She looked around, hefting the strap of her pack onto one shoulder.

"Up here!"

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. On a higher branch of the tree she had just climbed down, straddling a branch outside the second story window, was a familiar Antivan elf. His blond hair was tousled, coming out from where he usually tied it back. He was not in a great position, on a sturdy branch, but one which did not offer many hand holds.

"Zev, what the fuck are you doing up there?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same thing! Come on, give me a hand."

She shinnied up the trunk, pulling herself to a branch below him and offered her hand for balance as he got in towards the trunk. She jumped back to the ground, and then he scurried down after her like a squirrel. When his boots hit the cobblestone, he looked around, getting his bearings. There was, fortunately, another exit from the courtyard which looked to deposit them on the parallel street. 

The shouting from the first floor flat had reached a volume usually reserved for commanding troops. "Do not lie to me, ungrateful boy! I know what I heard! You think you are a big man now, cavorting with some guidoune like a common criminal! I know she must have left this way!"

The volume was made worse when the window creaked open and the head and shoulders that could have belonged only to Madame Villais poked out. She was younger than Ten would have thought, probably in her mid forties, and her face was done up as though she expected to attend a gala event, not a breakfast with her haphazardly conceived sons.

"You, there, elves in the courtyard! Surely you must have seen what méchanteries my boys have been up to!"

"We are but humble gardeners, Madame!" Zev called, "We were only watering the…" he looked down. The courtyard was, aside from the tree, entirely paved with flagstones.

"Anton! Airon! Why are the elves in the courtyard lying to me? Have you paid them off?!"

Ten turned her head away from the window quickly, grabbed Zev by the elbow, and took off through the alley between the buildings on the opposite side, and out onto a main drag where shopkeepers had begun to set their wares out for the day.

"Hey!" a guard called from the end of the street, "What are you two doing here without an escort?!"

Shit. Lockdown. 

"We are not from the Alienage.  And we were just leaving. To… uh, return to our master."

"Yes. He is very important and very scary, and it will cause a dreadful diplomatic scandal if you delay us," Zev added.

"No, I don't believe that for a second," he said, advancing slowly towards them, "It's posted everywhere, no elves are to leave the Alienage without a guard, so you can come with me quietly or I can drag you both of you filthy knife-ears to the city jail and you can explain it to the magistrate."

"I'm not even from here!" Zev protested, but Ten had a hand on him again and sprinted the opposite direction. She cut down another alleyway, into another courtyard, up a spiral staircase and onto the balcony of a very alarmed citizen who had been taking his morning smoke.

"Sorry," she said, "Can we cut through your flat?"

"I…" the man said, "I guess?"

"Thanks! Maker smile upon you!" she called as she charged through his back door, through an absolutely filthy bachelor's pad, and out to the front balcony where she leapt the railing and landed, bending her knees as the hard cobblestones punished the soles of her feet.

"Gate's that way!" she said, and took off in that direction, dodging stalls and hawkers' wheelbarrows, nearly bowling over a group of nuns on their way from morning prayers, and finally getting out through the city gates and the safety and anonymity of the rabble camped outside.

"So what were you doing there?" she asked, stopping to catch her breath. The last thing she needed was getting questioned by the rest of them as to why she was redfaced and panting first thing in the morning.

"Same thing you were, I imagine," said Zev, grinning, "I suppose, considering where we found ourselves, I was actually on top of you all night and did not even realize it."

"And what were you doing there?"

"A gentleman does not tell."

"Your pants are undone."

"I could say the same of your bodice. And you did not let me finish. A gentleman does not tell. I, however, will give you all the sordid details. You were not the only one I was on top of all night. I made the acquaintance of a most talented gentleman of the night while I was here securing the contract several weeks ago. I will have you know I am impressive enough that he slipped me his address before I left in the morning, in case I ever got back to town. And, well, I'm sick of sleeping on the ground, so I obliged him. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I suppose it's a little surprising," Ten said.

"That I sometimes sleep with men?"

"No, that's not surprising at all. I just pegged you as a bottom."

"Not yet, you haven't, but if that's what you're into, I am versatile," Zevran corrected.

Ten rolled her eyes, waving her middle finger in a slow arc, and changed the subject. "The other thing that surprises me is that the brother upstairs is a… professional," said that one away for later. How one brother winds up a hooker and the other a copper must be quite an interesting story. I wonder if the mother knows, but then… why would she care if they had overnight guests? Or is it the elf thing… probably the elf thing.

"Why, what does the downstairs brother do?"

"He's a guardsman," Ten said, "Very strange combination, that."

"And here I thought Alistair was slandering your good name yesterday," Zev chuckled, "I did not think this is what you meant all the times you've said 'fuck the law,' manita. Why would you do that?"

"Why not?"

He stared at her a moment, then shrugged, "Well, I didn't know you had it in you, you little doxy!"

"Oh please," she sighed in irritation, "Just because I don't want to fuck you doesn't mean I don't want to fuck anyone."

"Oh, but admit it Teneira, the jury is still out on that first bit isn't it."

"After last night it seems that's out."

"You Fereldans are so uptight."

"What, it's 'uptight' to think it's bad manners to bed your lover's brother's lover? No, I think that's standard across the nations."

They were interrupted by a voice from behind them. It was familiar, but Ten could not, at first, place it.

"I can't decide if I really, really want to know how this conversation started, or if knowing would make me want to stab myself in both ears."

Chapter Text

Ten whirled, but there was nobody behind them that could have said that. She looked to her left and right, and up to see if, again, someone was shouting at her from a tree, though the odds of that happening twice in one morning were likely quite low. Nothing. Then she looked down and saw a fairly large, but otherwise standard-looking rat, sitting on its hindquarters. It chittered at her. Then it stretched out its front paws, and began to shift and lengthen out, until Morrigan was standing there, her arms crossed and a smirk on her face.

"How long have you been listening to us?" asked Ten.

"I've been following since you jumped off that balcony," said Morrigan.

"Have you just been running around as a rat since we got here?" asked Ten, genuinely curious.

"They outnumber humans, dwarves, and elves combined, so it seemed like the most logical way to see the city like a native," she said.

"I guess I can't argue with that."

"What I am having trouble with," Morrigan continued, "Is that you keep telling me that the dirty books aren't real, that nothing like that ever happens, and yet here you are, running all over town with your bodice undone."

"We can still see less of my tits than we can of yours, and you seem to consider that fully clothed," Ten countered.

"Wait…" Morrigan said, looking from one of them to the other, her eyes narrow, "The two of you didn't…."

"No!" Ten exclaimed, "Don't be gross."

"I will endeavor not to take that personally," Zev said, "And if you must know, the night was quite standard. It was the morning that was absolutely terrifying."

Having caught her breath and slowed her heartrate, Ten took off in the direction of camp, fiddling with the laces on her bodice, trying to get them re-done without inadvertently exposing herself to everyone else outside the gates. The witch, however, did not show any signs of minding her business.

"So, tell me if I've got this right," Morrigan said, walking between the two elves and looking from one to the other, her pale eyes narrow, "Ten, you run off and spend the night with a young man in his home, all the while not realizing that Zevran has also run off to spend the night with a young man in his home, neither of you realizing that they are both brothers and neighbors. And then what?"

"Their mother showed up," Ten said.

Morrigan blanched, no doubt thinking of what would have happened had her own mother, that creature of unknown origin and vast cosmic power, had caught her at something similar. "How… old were these brothers? If their mother is still spry enough to have you sprinting through the streets, leaping from balconies…"

"To be fair, I really should have remembered what notorious mama's boys Orlesians are," Zevran acknowledged, shaking his head.

"We were not running from her at that point," said Ten, "Technically, elves are not currently supposed to be walking the streets unless accompanied by their human boss or a guardsmen, so by the time you found us we were running from the law."

"Well, I suppose that's rather second nature for you, isn't it," Morrigan pronounced derisively.

"Except when it's not..." Zevran added slyly.

"Ah, I see our elfin contingent has seen fit to grace us with their presence," Lelianna, who was shoveling dirt over the remnants of last night's fire, called as she saw the three of them come up the road, "And what have the two of you been up to? All night, I might add."

"Secret elf shit," said Ten.

"Secret elf shit that has the both of you running through the streets halfway undressed?" the nun asked, skeptically.

"We have many customs that those such as you may find bizarre," Ten replied dryly, "Anyway, like you're one to judge. I remember what you did in Redcliffe. The archer with the very well-developed back muscles."

"Oh, so all three of you are little sluts," Morrigan announced.

"Really!" Lelianna chuckled, "Him I'm not surprised at, but you, Teneira? Wait… the two of you didn't…"

"I have standards," Ten protested.

"So why is it you're both showing up at the same time and in the same state of dishevelment? I refuse to believe that is a coincidence," Lelianna said.

"Well, yes and no," said Zev, "I genuinely believe that having a preference for elves runs in certain human families. And since all the others are confined to the Alienage at the moment, we were the only two little sluts available."

"It's the mother's fault," said Ten, "She has a taste for us and won't admit it."

"Really, so why did it bother her so much?"

"Shockingly, you can be attracted to someone and have absolutely no respect for them whatsoever. In fact," said Ten, looking around conspiratorially, "Downstairs brother's father was an elf."

"Ahhh," Zev said, "She has probably been trying to keep that one under wraps for his whole life. He must pass well."

"I swear most of these shem have no idea what to look for," she said.

"You clocked him right away, didn't you."

"I did," she said.

"Did you blackmail him into doing unspeakably demeaning things?" asked Zev.

"Of course not. He did those on his own," she protested, "Why would you accuse me of such a thing?"

"Oh I don't know, you seem like someone who would take another's dangerous secret and use it to your utmost advantage."

"Only when I have to."

"Wait, go back. That exists?" asked Morrigan, "People who are both human and elfin?"

"Of course it is," Ten said, "You don't just put two sets of people alongside each other for generations and expect no mixing."

"What about with dwarves?"

"It's less common. Dwarves are a few steps up from elves on the social ladder, so it's actually illegal assault their women. And they're insular, so they usually don't marry out." She could count on one hand the number of dwarves she knew who had married out. And, come to think of it, none of those couples had any natural children together.

"What about qunari?" Morrigan asked, looking over at where Sten was packing his things.

"That I have never seen," Ten said, "From what I understand, they have some... unique cultural notions about the proper way to procreate, it's all very scripted. So I imagine they make sure there's no strange combinations."

"But humans and elves..."

"Well we've just demonstrated how it can happen. At least I did. I admit I have never heard of an elfin man getting a child with a human man," said Ten.

"Not for lack of trying, of course," Zev said.

"And the Chant teaches us all things are possible with faith," Ten added, "Right, Sister?"

"I… don't think that's in the Chant," Lelianna said.

"But to answer your question," said Zev, "Yes, it is actually fairly common. More common than most of you think. Many people who are thought of as elves have at least one human grandparent. Some have three."

"So a person with three human grandparents can still look like an elf?" said Morrigan.

"That's really down to the individual," Ten said, "Many folks who are thought of as elves in cities would look human to the Dalish. There's no real hard and fast rule. It makes things dicey. But then there are some who actually do look just like you, and some who just look like me. You'd never even know. Most of us here have at least one human in the woodpile. They are just not at all good at keeping their hands off us."

"In Orlais," offered Lelianna, "It is not even controversial. Many nobles keep elves as companions!"

Zev and Ten turned their heads to her in unison, incredulous that she would say something like that out loud.

"You do see how that's worse, right?" Ten asked slowly.

Lelianna shrank, "I… but they live lives of luxury. Wear the finest clothes. Eat the finest foods. They are considered pleasing to look at... it's a compliment!"

"I'm going to walk away before I hit you and bring the wrath of the Maker down upon myself," said Ten.

"Me too, though I do not fear the Maker," said Zev, "I would hate to damage that pretty face, Sister, but… that was horrifically offensive."

"I don't understand!" the nun protested.

"We're not dogs. We're not just grateful to be allowed indoors and permitted to eat table scraps. A well-kept pet is still a pet," Ten said.

"I'm sorry," said Lelianna, "I didn't realize that was such a bad thing to say. After all, both of you just…"

Ten sighed, rubbing her temples, "Look, if Zev or I want to jump into bed with one of… you people, because we want to, because it's fun, whatever… that's one thing. It's entirely another to be kept in a cage. Have no choice whose hands go on us."

"I do not say no often," said Zevran, his face darkening, "But when I do, I really prefer that it is respected."

"I need a bath," said Ten, "I mean, I did before, but… now I feel extra filthy."

"I saw the state of that river," Zev breathed, "Are you sure that won't make it worse?"

"Well better we smell like a nation's worth of farm runoff than one and a half shem," said Ten. She walked through camp and north to where the Drakon River fell in a series of pools before flowing under the grate in the wall. There were ten or twenty refugees washing their clothes in one pool, but two up was unoccupied, and could have been dirtier, all things considered.

"True," said Zev, following her, "And they do smell different than us, don't they."

"Right? I don't know what it is. It's not… bad, it's just… you can definitely tell the difference."

Ten was actually quite impressed how much cleaner the river was to the west of the city. Not exactly a pristine mountain spring, but it would do, and she had, in the few days of peace they experienced on the road, had time to cobble together something resembling soap from ashes and cooking grease - with a hefty dose of honeysuckle to hide the animal fat smell. Scrubbed of anything she did not wish to discuss further with her companions and fully clothed, she got back to camp and started packing up her things. Sometime during the previous day or night, it appeared that someone - Wynne probably - had both gotten into her soap and her pets, as Pigeon, for once, did not smell of carrion and Jenny's red coat shone in the morning sunlight.

"Wish we could have stayed longer?" Wynne asked sympathetically, catching Ten staring up at the walls.

"What I wish has very little to do with anything," she said, "Why, what did you get up to?"

"An old apprentice of mine runs a shop in the district. I caught up with him."

"Wait…" Ten said, "The man who runs that magic trinkets store? Five eight, fiftyish, kind of balding?"

Wynne nodded, "The same."

"But he's… oh Wynne," she sighed, "That must have been difficult."

"It took me years to stop seeing the Tranquil as personal failures," she said, "But there is peace in it. And I hear you have quite a few friends in town."

"I am… well-connected, as those of my stature go," said Ten, "We at the bottom of the social ladder do have our own networks, of course."

Sten's shadow fell upon them before either saw him, "We are wasting time."

"I'm not holding us up," said Ten, "Say, what did you do while we were here?"

"I went to the theater," said Sten.

"You what?" Wynne exclaimed.

"I seek to understand your culture. And so, I went to the theater. I have heard that play-acting is a way in which your people tell their epic tales."

"I am almost afraid to ask… what epic tale did you see?" asked Ten.

"The Adventures of Bodric the Bear," said Sten, "It was a stirring saga of an anthropomorphic cub, whom I believe to represent the indomitable spirit of victory, who sought to defeat a demon of winter which I believe to be a metaphor for the cold that dwells within all of our souls. I found it both emotionally satisfying, and enlightening."

"Sten, tell me something," said Ten, "Were there… actors? On a stage?"

"There were but two actors, but they made cunning use of miniature props, each playing multiple parts," said Sten.

"And, the rest of the audience, were they, maybe… very small?" asked Wynne.

"All of you are very small," said Sten, "Tell me, do you know where I might purchase a copy of this epic poem? I wish to present it to the Arishok."

"I will certainly let you know if I come across one," said Ten, "Now, what exactly is holding us up?"

"Well…" Wynne said, glancing over at Alistair's tent.

"Of course," sighed Ten.

"He stumbled in at around midnight, said something about how everyone hates him, went to be sick in the bushes over there, and then… well… I haven't had the heart to wake him."

"I was waiting for permission from you before dispensing the requisite beating," said Sten.

"That won't be necessary, though I appreciate the offer," Ten closed her eyes and sighed again, "If Duncan had told me at the start that I would be fighting more battles with his favorite apprentice's psychological demons than the damn darkspawn I'd have let them hang me."

"You do do most of that to yourself, you realize," said Wynne, "Are you the eldest sister in your family, by chance?"

"Sort of," said Ten, "Only child, but lots of cousins."

"But you are the oldest girl."

"Yes," she said, "And I don't have time to unpack all that, we are wasting daylight at this point. And summer, if Lelianna's geographical knowledge is to be trusted." She went through her things, and was grateful for her continuously keeping up with her ad hoc pharmacy. Then she found a rock, squared off, and hurled it where she could see the shape of a back against the canvas of the tent.

"Whoever did that, you have about five seconds to run," Alistair's muffled voice came from inside, followed quickly by the rest of him. "Oh… it is midmorning already," he said, squinting at the sky. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot and his face a shade of gray Ten was not used to.

"I'm going to have a word with Missus Bantree about respecting other bartenders' cutoffs," said Ten, "You look like shit."

"Good morning to you too," he said, "Do you remember how I got here?"

"Nope," said Ten.

"But weren't we drinking?"

"You were drinking."

"Are you angry at me? That's probably a silly question. You just threw a rock at me and told me I look like shit. Did I say something to you I shouldn't have?"

"A few things" she said, "But we don't have time to unpack all that either, so we will take down your tent and gather your things because you really need to go wash yourself and change your clothes before I can in good conscience ask anyone to walk too close to you."

"Oh no. What did I say?"

"I don't want to get into it. You can apologize by… not smelling like you do right now. And drink this, it'll help the headache." She tossed a flask at him, which he fumbled for a moment before catching, then squinted at before drinking, and took off to the riverside.

"What did he say?" asked Wynne conspiratorially as they got to work on the tent.

Ten chuckled, "I ran into an… old flame who happens to be on the force, Alistair somehow spun that into me hiking my skirts up for anyone in a uniform. Took a few jabs at that. It didn't feel like the usual banter. It got a little nasty, frankly."

"Hm. Sounds like he's jealous," said Wynne.

"We definitely do not have time to unpack any of that, in fact, let's burn that whole trunk."

"But really Teneira, you? And a guardsman?" exclaimed Wynne.

"Don't you start too," said Ten.

"But you're a… well I suppose the heart wants what it wants," said Wynne, "And I imagine it was quite a risk for the young man in question. He must have cared for you a great deal."

Ten shook her head briskly as though she could shake loose the memory of a shuddering, mid-coital declaration of love that she knew better than to take seriously. "It hardly matters now. It's not like I can marry again.  It wouldn't be fair. I've got... maybe another decade or two of running around the ass end of the nation chasing hellacious monsters and then slowly falling to bits in the bowels of the earth."

"And if the stories are correct, Alistair is going to be the only one going through the same things. Maybe consider being a little bit nicer to him."

"Maybe he should consider minding his business and shutting the fuck up on occasion," said Ten, irritated.

"Now who's being nasty," Wynne observed.

"Thanks for washing the dog, Wynne," said Ten, "I know you mean well, but this conversation is over."

About an hour hence, all of their things packed, they set off down the high road.

"We should take the north road," Sten said, "I heard in town that there is fighting in… what is the name for the moorlands to the sound and west of here?"

"The Bannorn," said Ten, "And you're right. We don't need to get caught up in fighting if we can avoid it."

"Or bagpipes," Alistair said, "The Bannorn armies like to play bagpipes when they march. It is truly fearsome. And annoying."

"Well at least we can hear them a long while off," said Ten, "We can take the road to Highever, cut south along the west shores of Lake Calenhad. Should keep us clear of both darkspawn and bagpipes. I've… been meaning to stop by Highever anyway."

"I have business in Highever as well," Alistair said, "Shouldn't take too long. I second this motion."

"What business do you have in Highever?" asked Lelianna, "I've heard all they have there is fish and fog."

"Personal," said Ten.

"Same," said Alistair.

They looked at each other suspiciously, each trying to figure out what the other's business was.

"It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours," said Ten, "But either way it's a good week's journey. No sense in losing the light."

Chapter Text

The journey to the port town of Highever, a rare harbor along the tempestuous coast, was indeed several days. The villages they passed through along the Coastlands were, however, largely untouched by either the skirmishes that were apparently raging through the Bannorn or the destruction being slowly wrought in the Hinterlands. Except, of course, for the refugees. They heard in one coastal village that Lothering had fallen, and Ten, usually never tending towards religion or sentimentality, stopped in quickly at a village Chantry to light a candle each for Heloise the Midwife, the little girl Jamie, and that kindly bartender.

They reached Highever on the eighth day. Its walls, to Ten's near astonishment, were higher than those of Denerim, and, from which she could gather, there was but one gate open at a time, and it was, apparently, tightly guarded. The refugees outside the gates told Ten why. Something about it irked her, though she really ought to have been used to the idea that the law could control the movement of the population. Still, she got into the elf's line, which was actually shorter than the other, though manned by only one guard, and kept her eyes down.

They filed in, one by one.

"State your name and business."

"Nettie Kirianis," she said, keeping her eyes down, "Visiting family."

"Listen, darlin', I know it's rough out there but it doesn't matter if you've family here, we're under strict orders not to take in any more refugees. All the ships leaving port for the next week are booked up and I doubt they're taking..." he paused. Ten ventured a glance up. He was young, early twenties, unshaven and tousle-hired, and to his credit he did actually look a little sympathetic.

"So what would my business have to be for you to let me in?" Ten asked.

"Honestly, love, you've got to be working for a human boss and he needs to have put you on a list."

"I'm not even planning to spend the night, Ser. I just need to visit my father-in-law. Briefly. I'll leave before sunset."

The guard looked at the line behind her. There was a family consisting of a mother and three young kids behind her and she was very obviously alone. "You're visiting your in-laws without your husband?"

"Well, he's dead."

"So you're single?"

Seriously? Of all the…

"Wait a second," she said, looking up and taking a longer look at him, "Is your name Arnie?"

"Arnaud DuBroy," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"I've actually got a message for you from…. Ged something. Friend of yours. Templar at the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad."

"Kent Gedrith?"

"Yes, that's the one!"

The guard's demeanor completely shifted and he laughed out loud. "You know Kent the Cunt?"

"Well not by that nickname, but in passing," said Ten, "Either way, he wanted me to remind you that he, and I quote, shagged your sister."

"I don't know why he thinks that's a jab at me. He's the one who took a vow of chastity right afterwards and I remind her of that at the dinner table at every holiday," he said, chuckling. The paused, "How long are you visiting your late husband's family?"

"Not long. I'll be out before sunset."

"Well, I can hear you're not from the countryside. You're from the east coast, aren't you."

"Yeah," she said, "Denerim."

"So you're obviously not a refugee. And, forgive my forwardness, love, but I am partial to a Denerim accent. Feels so... gritty. Any chance you'd want to get a drink in a few hours when my shift is over?" 

"If I say yes, will you let me in?"

"Well I couldn't very well get a drink with you if you weren't in the city, could I. Go on, Nettie. Welcome to Highever. Alienage is all the way downhill, out on that spit of land, half on stilts. Hard to miss."

"Thanks."

She put her head back down and walked through the gates. The streets were cleaner than Denerim, but only because the whole place seemed damp, like it was constantly in a state of being washed by the thick fog that came off the sea - or the wild surf she could see breaking a mile or two down the hill it was built on. She sat herself on the low wall that kept the river in check and watched as human family after human family were turned away. It took about half an hour for Alistair to make it through, during which time she plotted both what to say to poor Nelaros's family.

"How'd you get in so fast? They were interrogating everyone!" Alistair protested after locating her.

"I told the guard manning the gate I'd have a beer with him at the end of his shift."

"What is it with you and guardsmen?"

"They get a kick out of extracting favors from the women whose lives they can mess with the most, I suppose," said Ten.

"Are you going to go?"

"Fuck no."

"Why can't guardsmen ever flirt with me…"

"Did you try?" she asked.

"I don't think I was his type."

"Well, I can let them know you're interested. I could even sneak into the locker room and write your name and what you're willing to do on the wall if you'd like."

"Aw, you'd do that for me?"

"You don't deserve me."

"I probably do though," said Alistair, "Though I'm not sure which of my many sins merited you as punishment."

"Hate to say it, but it was probably the underwear prank. The Maker frowns on such things, after all. So, are you going to tell me what your business here is?"

"You're going to mock me relentlessly."

"I promise I won't."

"Well, Duncan was from here," said Alistair, looking over the town sprawled out along the coast. The harbor was only peaceful because it was situated between two peninsulas, one on the east built up with what looked like a military fort, and the other, larger, western peninsula, encircling the bay as though the land were putting its arm around it, housed the Alienage, "I just sort of want to look at what he looked at. Walk the roads he walked. Not for too long. I've just been such an absolute mess, I think it might clear my head. Why, what about you?"

"The man I was married to for all of six hours," said Ten, turning the ring on her finger, "He wanted me to convey his last words to his father. I'd been meaning to write, but I highly doubt the post is reliable considering what's going on. So, I'm going to go tell him in person."

"You were there when he died?"

"Yeah," she said, "Not exactly my favorite memory."

"Oh, Ten, that's rough. Do you want me to come? I don't know, moral support, or... something."

"What, so I can be the out of town elf bringing shem into the Alienage? You'll scare them. I do appreciate the offer, though. I know what I'd have to say to me if my son got sent off to his wedding and wound up dead that same night, not really looking forward to the names I'm about to get called."

"Surely they know it's not your fault."

"All they know is they sent their boy off and the day he gets there he winds up with sword in him," she sighed, "I'd blame me."

"Are you going to cry?"

"Probably. Are you?"

"Probably. So no taking the piss, right?"

"Fair."

"Back here in three hours?"

"Deal."

They nodded at each other, and went off in their separate directions. DuBroy wasn't kidding. The Alienage was not at all hard to miss, its wall going from a cliff on one edge of town, across the isthmus of a peninsula, and right into the rough seas. From the high ground where she was situated, Ten could see that it was, thankfully, open. She headed downhill, willing one foot in front of the other. She wasn't really sure what kind of welcome she'd get, but… she was here and she owed them this much.

Nobody questioned her as she walked through the gate and out onto the road - more of a jetty really - which took her between crashing waves on both sides at out onto the peninsula where almost every square foot, except for the village square with the great vehnedahl - this one a windblown and gnarled old sea pine, in the center, was built up and, as stated, the houses extended into the ocean on stilts.

"Who're you?" asked an old woman who was seated on a bench near the tree.

"I'm looking for Master Kirianis. The goldsmith," said Ten.

The old woman narrowed her eyes, "Where are you from, lass? Who are your people?"

She took a breath, and recited her home and people, her four great grandfathers and their homelands, as she had been taught. "Denerim. Tabris of Minrathas. Akliedes of Minrathas. Catañó of Llotheryn. Aluráni of the Dales."

"Are you related to Danal Aluráni?"

"I had a great uncle by that name," she said.

"Good man," the old woman said, "Good day to you."

"And to you."

She followed where the old woman had pointed and found herself on a jetty which went out onto the part of the water shielded from the surf by the peninsula itself and the cliff on the other end. There was only one dwelling there, and so she held her breath, and knocked.

The door was answered by a teenager, spit and image of her late husband and whom Ten imagined must be his younger brother.

"Can I help you?"

"I… uh… I'm Teneira Tabris," she said, bracing herself.

The lad's eyes went wide, and he opened the door all the way, "Well come in, it's chilly out there."

She walked into the house shyly.

"I'm Hierin," he said, "I am... well, I was your brother-in-law. What are you doing here?"

"I was in the area," said Ten, "I thought I should stop in. Pay my respects and all that."

"And what could bring an herbalist from Denerim to Highever in the middle of civil war?"

"I see a few things may have been left out," said Ten, "Are your parents home?"

"Have a seat," said Hierin, "I'll get them."

She sat herself gingerly at the roughhewn kitchen table, running her hands over the wood worn smooth by years if not decades of use. Above the mantle in the front room was a family portrait, which must have been painted when the boy Hierin was quite young. The parents sat solemnly, while their two older children - Nelaros, in his late teens, a girl who, in the picture, was probably fourteen or fifteen stood behind them, and Hierin, nine or ten, stood by their sides.

Something bad happened to the sister. What was it he said?

She recalled that day, tried to replay the one and only conversation she'd had with the man she'd come to pay respects to.

My younger sister was taken advantage of by the man who owned the shop she swept.

She looked at the portrait again. The young girl's solemn gaze.

She drank a jug of rat poison.

Ten flinched at the memory and looked away from the painting, her eyes wandering over the rest of the room. The blankets on the sofa threadbare but with careful seams where they had been mended, over and over again. And if the deal had gone the other way? If it'd been me go to Highever? Would I be living here now? Not that I'd ever have agreed to that.

She stood as Hierin ushered a graying couple into the room. Following after them, which confused Ten a bit, was the girl from the portrait, now closer to twenty.

"I can't believe you came here," said the wife. Ten could not figure out at first whether it was a 'I can't believe you traveled this far' or 'how dare you show your face here?!' but, as the woman rushed to her and gathered her into a warm and bosomy hug, she concluded it was the former. "Suaila Kirianis. Call me Sue."

"I'm Liórel," said the man, and shook her hand, "Lio. This is our daughter, Eilanni."

"It's lovely to meet you all, though I wish the circumstances were better," said Ten, "Do… did you have another daughter?" 

They all looked at each other. "No," said Sue, "Why would you think that?"

Ten nodded, looking at Eilanni. She looked healthy, her pale cheeks flushed, probably from the heat of the forge, all in all she was the most sturdy thing Ten had seen in this dim and slippery town. Well I suppose he just said she drank it. He didn't say she died. It was heavily implied, though…

"I'm sorry, I must have mistaken something he told me," she said.

Sue nodded, and fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of her apron to dab at her eyes.

"What… exactly did my father tell you?" she asked.

"That our Nelaros was murdered. By the guard," said Lio, "It was a brief letter."

"Did he tell you the circumstances under which he was murdered by the guard?" asked Ten.

"No he did not."

"Well," said Ten, "You… might want to sit down."

They sat at the table and Ten recounted the whole, well most, of the sordid tale. The kidnapping. The attempted rescue. She left out the last bit about the chopping, letting it be a tale about the heroism of a lad losing his life to save the bride he had only just met, standing up to injustice with nothing but guts and a borrowed sword.

"Were you there when he passed?" asked Sue, "He wasn't alone, was he?"

"I was with him. Liórel… he asked me to tell you something. He said 'tell my father I didn't die on my knees.'"

Liórel grunted. Swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, "I… see he was finally a man. At the end."

What a strange thing to say.

"So what happened then?" asked Hierin, "How did you escape?"

"Well…" said Ten, and begrudgingly went into the rest of it.

"So, if my brother hadn't been killed, we very well might have no Grey Wardens to protect us from the Blight," said Eilanni, smiling faintly.

"How do you figure that?"

"If he'd lived," she said, "You wouldn't have killed anyone, you'd never have wound up in the dungeons, and whoever was with the Grey Wardens that night might have perished."

"I suppose they might have," said Ten, "I won't lie, I was a little afraid you would hate me for what happened."

"You?" Sue said, "Of course not. After all, you did such a kindness, agreeing to marry him in the first place."

"A kindness?" Ten asked, looking at them skeptically, "What do you mean? I was already an old maid. My father told me Nelaros was doing me a favor."

"Your father didn't tell you?" Sue exclaimed.

"Tell me what?"

"Mum, there's no reason to..." Eilanni started.

"No," Lio said, "She deserves to know." He looked at Ten, "Our Nelaros wasn't right in the head. I suppose your union did not last long enough for you to discover that."

My father was eager to be rid of me as well, if you must know.

"Well, my father can't read or write very well," said Teneira, "Most of his correspondence was transcribed by our town elder. Maybe some things were lost in that process." Wait, shit, did he say something like that? Did I just tune that part out? Maybe he did and it went in one ear and out the other.

"It wasn't her dad," said Lio, "Or the elder. I didn't tell him. So he couldn't have told her."

"Lio!" exclaimed Sue.

"I tried honesty with the first six girls, see where that got us," Lio declared, "Do you think it felt good, telling strangers from all over this nation that our son, my boy, lost his damn wits?"

Ten froze, the ice traveling up her spine and pinning her where she sat.

"Stop it, Lio," Sue said, the tears falling from her eyes.

"It doesn't matter now. It'll probably make her feel better, knowing the life she avoided," Lio said, looking at Ten coldly.

She held her tongue. What a way to speak of the dead, she thought.

"He was a good boy, growing up. But as he got older, he just… he never really became a man like one would expect," said Lio, "There was a weakness to him."

Ten stayed quiet, but something in his tone turned her stomach.

"He was plenty strong," Hierin said quietly, "He killed those guards. Like she said."

"So I was right all along. Once there was a woman in his life, he knew how to act," Lio countered, "While he was here he didn't even manage to kill himself properly."

Oh shit. What did I just walk into…

"Stop it," Sue commanded, putting her hands over her ears, "What is wrong with you? He's gone. He's gone. There's no point to this."

Oh Maker's breath. It wasn't his sister. The sister's fine. 

"I feel like my presence is stirring up some things that ought to stay put," said Ten, "I'm sorry."

"No, dear," said Sue, "It's not your fault."

"You still have a life to live, lass," said Lio, "There's no sense spending it mourning a man you barely knew. That's our lot, as that was the son the Maker saw fit to give us."

"I did not know him," said Ten, rising, her temper flaring, "But he gave his life saving mine, and for that I will mourn however the fuck I see fit." She rose from the table, and turned to Sue, "I wish you well." Then back to Lio, "Be kinder to your other children." She rose, turned, and walked out the door. As she let her hand leave it, she felt it being held open and, turning, saw the boy Hierin and the girl Eilanni had followed her out.

"I'm sorry about that," Eilanni said, "You were trying to do the right thing. My father's been having a hard time. I think he feels guilty and doesn't know what to do with that."

"Elfin men and their pent-up..." Ten began grumbling, then shook her head, "Tell me something, Eilanni. Did you work at a shem-owned shop when you were younger?"

"No, of course not," said Eilanni, "I don't know how things are in Denerim, but it's really not safe for young elfin girls to work outside of the Alienage here. Nelaros and Hierin got sent out for work when they were thirteen, like most of the boys."

"But Nelaros learned your father's trade."

"In the evenings. It's not like an apprentice goldsmith adds that much value to the business," she said, "I gut fish six days a week. I'm no good until Dad retires or dies or I go somewhere else and have my own forge."

"So Nelaros worked outside the Alienage."

"Yes, he would sweep and stock shelves at a general store up the hill there. Not for long, maybe two years, then he quit and went to work hauling crates on the docks for a third of the pay. Why are you asking me this?"

"General curiosity," said Ten, closing her eyes against the stark realization and nausea that it brought bubbling up. Of course that's not a thing a man tells his new bride. Of course he makes a story to make it acceptable, probably to himself as much as me. He didn't even know me, he had no reason to trust me not to be cruel, "Where's the shop?"

"I'll take you there," Hierin said quickly before Eilanni could ask any more questions, "The roads are winding in this part of town, it's easy to get lost."

They locked eyes for a moment, and she saw that he knew what she was thinking.

"Why would you need to go there?" Eilanni asked.

"I think he had some unfinished business I'd like to attend to," Ten said shortly, "It was good to meet you, Eilanni. I hope you have better luck than your older brother. I'm sorry."

"I'm just glad he wasn't alone at the end."

Ten nodded curtly, and turned to follow Hierin into the fog.

"Nelaros told you, didn't he," Hierin said as soon as they were out of earshot of the house at the end of the jetty.

"No," said Ten, "Well, he told me something, I've just put the rest together myself."

"He never told Mum. Or Eilanni. He only told me because the man came asking if I wanted the job, a couple of years ago. Nelaros answered the door and something just came over him. Lost his shit on the man, got in his face, told him never to set foot in the Alienage again. Then he barred the door and broke down crying. I asked what the fuck was wrong with him and he... well he told me. There's not many ways to convince a thirteen year old boy not to take an easy part-time job paying five sovereign a week, but… that did it. Then he went to talk to Dad."

"What'd your dad say?"

"I have some ideas, but all I know is Nelaros came home that night beaten within an inch of his life."

I went after him with a knife one night in a dark alley.

"And uh... he tried to off himself, a few days after that. I found him. He'd drank something. I don't know what, but he couldn't keep it down. He recovered eventually. That's when Dad put his foot down and said he was damned if the crazy little shite was going to be his problem anymore. I guess that's where your dad came in eventually."

Ten shook her head, too disturbed to laugh even ironically, "What's the shopkeeper's name?"

"Standwright. I don't know his first name."

"All right. I'm going to have a word with Master Standwright." 

"You don't think it's shameful? You're not glad he died so you wouldn't have to be married to him?"

Ten stopped short and turned, looking the lad in the eye so he would know she was serious, "Who told you it was shameful?"

"Well to hear my dad say it, Nelaros 'let that shem treat him like a damn woman then tried to die like one.'"

"Your dad," she pronounced, "Is a fucking prick. And a bully. If your ma wasn't such a sweetheart I'd be throwing him in the bay right now."

"Most dads are like that," Hierin mumbled.

"Some are. But... look, kid, if you know as much about the world as I did at your age, you already know what happened to your brother happens to a lot of us. We don't all go off the deep end."

"Nelaros was... I don't want to say he was weak. I know it happens, but..."

"You don't think your dad being a total asshole about it had something to do with that?"

Hierin paused, considering her words. Then nodded, "I see what you're saying." His face grew troubled, then anguished, "I was... I was mean to him too."

"You were thirteen. We all did things we wish we could take back at that age," Ten said, forcing her voice to be gentler, "And you're helping me now."

"Helping you with what, exactly? What are you going to do when we get there?"

"Like I said. I am going to have a nice little chat with the shopkeeper," said Ten, "What happens after that is entirely up to him."

Chapter Text

She followed Hierin up the steep cobblestoned street. It was hard to do, since the fog lay so thick and impenetrable she kept losing him in it. But eventually they came to higher ground, where a nondescript shop bore a picture of a spool of thread and corked bottle. Hierin nodded, "In there."

"I don't know if you want to be along for this," she said.

Hierin looked at the door, then back at her. "I think I do."

"I need to you to do what I say without question. And... you will not be able to unsee the things you will see in there. I will not be held responsible for any nightmares you have going forward."

"If it'll make Nelaros stop haunting my dreams, I'll take it."

Ten nodded. The kid was at least fifteen. That was plenty old.

On the outside of the store hung a sign reading 'Open.' She turned it around to where it read 'Closed' on the other side. Then she opened the door. Above the door, a little bell affixed to the hinges tinkled. She nodded at the man behind the counter, who was in his late forties. Darkhaired, with a patchy beard that was beginning to go gray around the edges. He waved. The index and middle fingers of his right hand only went as far as the first knuckle. 

I meant to kill him, but he was faster than I was. Took off a couple of his fingers, though

She wandered through the shelves, seeing if there was anyone else in the shop, until she found what she was looking for. She checked the label. It had some long dwarven name that she couldn't make heads or tails of, but as far as she could tell, it was some sort of byproduct from the mining and distilling of lyrium. The dwarves, happy to extract any and all coin from any and all sources, had a monopoly on it, and here it was sold as rat poison. She had never had a use for it. After all, she prided herself on keeping her concoctions of death plausibly deniable, and there was no pretending that convulsions, foaming at the mouth, and violent hemorrhage were an apoplectic fit or sudden bout of pneumonia. All in all, a very messy way to go. She picked up a jug. Looked to the front. There was one other patron in the place, and she was making her purchases. She watched as the housewife bustled out of the door, the bells tinkling as she went.

"Bar the door," she told Hierin.

While he did so, she took her paring knife from its case and coated it with a paralytic, her back to the till.

"Lad, what are you doing?" the shopkeeper shouted, "Don't touch that."

Ten walked swiftly to the front, where he had cornered Hierin against the door. She strode up behind the shopkeeper and planted her little blade squarely in the middle of his back twice before he turned around and backhanded her across the jaw with his good hand. She took it, turned the other cheek. He looked at her, astonished, and raised his hand to strike her again, but the poison began to take effect, and his knees began to buckle.

"Prop him up against the counter," said Ten.

Hierin caught him as he collapsed and dragged him to the counter, setting him down with his back to it. The man was struggling to breathe, but the dose wouldn't kill him. If she just left him there the sense would return to his limbs after about twenty minutes.

"Is your name Standwright?" she asked.

"What is this? Are you robbing me?" asked the shopkeeper.

"Master Standwright, do you know what happens to someone who drinks rat poison?" Ten asked, crossing her arms and staring coldly down at him.

"What are you talking about? Are you mad, woman?! Just take what's in the till, I don't…"

She kicked him in the ribs with the steel toe of her boot. Not hard enough to break anything, just hard enough to hurt. "Do you know what happens when someone drinks this?" she asked again, holding the jug up.

"I imagine they die," he said, trying to catch his breath, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Sometimes they die. But first," said Ten, "They seize. They foam at the mouth. Their gut twists and churns. Then blood starts coming out both ends. Then they die. Does that sound pleasant?"

The shopkeeper stared at her blankly. She raised her foot to kick him again.

"No! No. It does not sound pleasant."

She squatted, got right in his face. "Try to think on how odious your touch must be, if a man chooses that death over living with the memory of it."

Realization dawned on him. He turned his head to speak right to her. His breath smelled of fish. She tried not to flinch. "Lass, I don't know who you are, or who told you what, but that's not women's business."

"Really," she said, backing off, mostly to avoid the smell, "Because according to most, the wellbeing of children is very much women's business."

"They're not children," he protested, "They're young men. You wouldn't understand."

"Hierin, it occurs to me he still has eight fingers," said Ten. She offered him her hatchet, handle first. Hierin, looking a little green, shook his head, "Ah well, suit yourself." She hung the hatchet back on her belt.

The shopkeeper looked up at Hierin upon hearing his name, realizing who he was. "Lad I don't know who this woman is or what you told her, but you're not a criminal. Go get the guard, I'll tell them you weren't involved."

Ten expected the kid to at least hesitate, but he just shook his head again. She couldn't tell whether he really did want to see the man punished or he was now more afraid of her than the law, but she would take it either way. Standwright turned back to her, "Just take what's in the till. I won't breathe a word to the guard."

"Well, you're right about that," said Ten, "You won't breathe a word to anyone. Because you are going to drink this. And you're going to thank me for it." She knelt and took the cork out of the jug, leaving it within grasping distance of his good hand.

"You're fucking crazy."

"I sure am. So do you want to take your chances with me, or drink down the jug, and at least you'll know exactly what you're in for?"

"Who even are you?"

Ten chuckled. She started whistling the tune to the Vengeful Bride of Denerim Town. She did a little dance step. Twirled. Then, in a single fluid motion, she took her hatchet from her belt, and sliced off his left ear. He howled. Piss started pooling under him, creeping out across the floorboards, the blood dripping from the side of his head joining it in a truly abhorrent mix. Hierin stepped back to avoid the spreading puddle, his blue eyes like saucers. Well, he did ask to be here.

"I could do this all day," she said, "Overnight if I really exert myself. Say, do you carry pliers here?"

"Fucking crazy knife-eared bitch," the shopkeeper panted.

"Hierin! Find me a pair of pliers, will you?"

He took off down an aisle, probably glad to be away from the macabre spectacle.

"So, here's a point of science. One of most distinctive differences between humans and elves," said Ten, pacing before him like she imagined lecturers did at the great universities, "You know, besides these." She picked up his severed ear and waved it in front of the shopkeeper's eyes for emphasis. "Is that adult humans have thirty-two teeth while elves only have twenty-eight. Did you know that?"

The shopkeeper made a mewling noise.

"I asked you a fucking question!" she bellowed. "Oh," she said, her voice softening, "I'm sorry." She leaned down, held the bloody ear in front of her, and repeated softly into it, "Did you know that?"

"No! No, I did not know that."

"So once Hierin has gotten the pliers," she said, "You are going to have thirty-two chances to change your mind. After that, I'm taking your tongue, and then you're probably going to have some trouble swallowing. So you'll have no choice but to watch me take bits off you for the next several hours, because I am going to save your eyes for last."

"What size do you want?" asked Hierin. He held a selection of three sets of pliers. Ten leaned down. She held one after the other up next to the shopkeeper's mouth.

"These will do." She selected the medium sized pair. Tested them, clicking the jaws against each other. "Thank you, Hierin," she said, "Now, did you see a hammer and nails back there anywhere?"

"Yes," he said.

"Can you bring a large hammer and some of those big iron nails they use to hold the docks together?"

"Sure can," said Hierin, "Can I ask why?"

"Well, I didn't think Master Standwright was going to be this obstinate, and the poison I put on that knife isn't going to last as long as I'd like. Obviously we can't have him running, so I think the most cost-effective solution would be nailing his feet to the floor. He's got big feet. And you know what they say about big feet."

"I... don't," Hierin said.

"They need big fucking nails to keep them from leaving the ground," Ten said, smiling sweetly at Standwright. She tucked her skirts up so they wouldn't get any bodily fluids on them, squatted, and started undoing the laces on his right shoe.

"Maker's fucking breath, give me the damn poison," the shopkeeper said, his voice hoarse with resignation.

"Aw," said Ten, "I was looking forward to that. But, a deal is a deal. You've probably already felt the sense returning to your hands. Don't get excited, now, your legs will take a bit longer. But once you can move your hands, I expect you to drink it down like a sailor on shore leave."

His good hand reached out. Grasped for the jug. He got his hand around it, two fingers through the handle and brought it to his lips.

"Go on! Shall we sing a drinking song? Ohhhh the pub on the crossroad has whiskey and beer… ah, guess you can't really sing with me now. Theeerrree is brandy and cognac that's fragrant but dear! Oh, look at you! You must have been the life of the party in your youth! " She paused for a moment, watched him chugging the poison. He was guzzling it down, choking a little, the pale blue liquid trickling from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his beard. 

He had gotten most of it down when the convulsions started. The jug, only about an eighth full at this point, fell on the floor and broke, the slightly blue liquid mixing with the piss and blood on the floor. His eyes rolled back. Foam dripped from his mouth. He would sit there, seizing every so often, until it ended him. Ten was not sure she would have time to watch the whole thing. 

"Teneira," said Hierin. She looked at him. He gestured with his chin at the door to the shop's back room. A kid, elfin, maybe twelve or thirteen, was standing there, staring at the scene through hollow dark eyes. He wore an apron that was far too large for him.

"Are you going to call law in?" asked Ten, "I won't hurt you. I promise. Just give me five minutes' head start."

The kid shook his head slowly, "Is he dead?" he asked, his voice a raspy monotone just starting to drop.

"Not yet," Ten offered, "He's feeling everything. He'll feel anything you do to him too." She backed up.

The kid nodded again and walked up to the shopkeeper, a slow smile spreading across his face. He nudged the man's head with his foot. Then he squared back and kicked him in the face. The shopkeeper fell to the side, still seizing, and the kid stomped on him, again and again and again until there wasn't much left to the man's features. Then he started gasping, then sobbing, and backed away.

"Hey," said Ten gently, hesitantly putting an arm around his narrow shoulders. He was taller than she was, but he leaned down and pushed his head against her chest like a small child seeking comfort from his mother. Any guilt Ten might have felt about what she'd just done dissolved. She put her other arm around him, "It's all right," she murmured, "It's all right. It's done. It's over. He's gone. You're all right."

Hierin, meanwhile, was examining the till, an iron lockbox. He tried a couple of the keys hanging behind the counter, and finding that none of them fit, took a hammer to it, smashing it open. He started counting coins, then gave up and picked the whole thing up, pouring a small river of gold and silver into a leather sack he'd lifted from one of the shelves. He approached Ten and the boy tentatively, and offered the bag. The kid removed his face from Ten's shoulder, and took it shyly.

"Should see you through until you find something else," Hierin said.

The kid swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and nodded.

"It wasn't you," said Ten, "You get that, right? It wasn't you. It was him. He's the one who did something wrong. Not you."

He nodded again.

"Now you're going to have to keep your wits about you for a bit," she said, "Are those your only shoes?"

He looked down and nodded.

"Take them off," she said, "Right here. You can't be tracking pieces of the man's face mess all over town."

The kid stepped out of his shoes and backed away from the infernal puddle. Ten tied the laces together and examined the soles. It wasn't all that bad, "Rinse them before you put them on again. Say you stepped in horse shit or something. You're going to go out the back door. Walk around the block twice. Try both doors. Make sure someone sees you trying to get in. Then you find the guardsman on the beat and tell him you went for a walk on your break, came back, and the doors were locked. That way, you're cooperating with the guard, and I have plenty of time to leave town."

The kid nodded. He hung up his apron. He opened the back door slowly, looked to the left and right, and walked out into the alley. Ten went and barred the back door too.

"It'll look better if it's locked from the inside," she said, "Think you can squeeze out that window?"

"Probably," said Hierin, "Nobody goes down this alley anyway."

They wriggled out the half open window of the back room, one after the other and went around the back of the building and took stock, Ten wiping the blood from her hands with a rag and tossing it on a midden heap in the middle of the alley that looked and smelled like it belonged to a butcher's shop.

"Well," said Ten, dusting her hands off, "I think our work here is done. What are you looking at?"

"You just killed a man."

"No I didn't. He killed himself. You saw it."

"But you..."

"Would you prefer leaving him alive? Leaving that kid at his mercy to put food on the table?"

"No! But..."

"But what? What was going to happen? You think some enlightened guardsman was going to investigate and bring him to justice? You think the law gives two shits what happens to little boys if they happen to be elves?"

Hierin nodded grimly, "I know, I know. Just... gross."

"It's not pretty," Ten sighed, "None of it is pretty. If you really feel that bad you can give them my description and tell them exactly what you saw. I'm skipping town anyway." She was suddenly very glad she had given Arnaud DuBroy a fake name, though giving her late husband's surname would lead them right to the house in the Alienage and then right to her. But, she never planned on coming back to Highever again and it would maybe take a little bit of time for them to realize that Teneira Tabris and Nettie Kirianis were one in the same. 

"That's not what I meant," Hierin said, "He deserved it. I don't feel sorry for him. You just looked like you were enjoying it."

"Oh I was," Ten said, "I'm probably not of sound mind myself. My dad left a few things out of the letters too."

"Someone did that to you, didn't they."

"It happens to all of us," Ten said, dismissively, "In one way or another. There is not a single elf in Thedas who hasn't had his dignity taken by some shem who then got away with it. We can't make them stop. The only thing we can do is take whatever opportunity we can to call them to account."

"What was on that knife that made him collapse?" asked Hierin. She could see the gears turning behind his eyes.

She rummaged in her pack, took out a flask, "Spider venom mostly. Any species larger than your palm will do, but it takes a lot longer to collect enough when it's not one of those monstrosities that live in the caves down in the Hinterlands. The real trick is prying out the sacs without getting it everywhere."

"You collect it yourself?" he asked.

"Not usually," she said, "I do now, but before I just bought it on the markets, they sell it to physicians to keep people still if they need to cut on them. Most medical shops will have it. Here, take this flask, I can always gather more."

"Thanks," he said, pushing the leather flask into his pocket.

"Never go alone," she said, "Surely you have friends. Cousins. Hell that kid'll be grown in a couple of years and surely have an ax to grind."

He nodded, "Probably."

"Meanwhile, learn a trade more practical than goldsmithing. I'm obviously partial to alchemy and herbalism, but I'm a woman, so I'm never going to be able to swing as hard as my cousins."

"You cut his ear off without even breaking a sweat."

"I can't take credit for how sharp the ax was, I have a... friend who likes sharpening blades a little bit too much. He was also sitting still. Because I paralyzed him. He would have been able to overpower me easily if I hadn't. He overpowered your brother, and he was a grown man. We're just not as big as they are. At least here, where we don't get fed properly. Unless you can find a great hulking Dalishman to do your dirty work, you're going to have to be smart about it. Go talk to a physician if there's one in town, get your hands on a diagram. The body has all sorts of weak spots, if you know where to look."

Hierin nodded.

"But, listen carefully, the real strength, even more than practical knowledge, is remembering who we are. They have spent generations trying to make us forget that, make us think we're lucky to be nursing their babies and washing their dishes, chopping wood and carrying parcels. But we came before them. They have never existed without us. And we will be here after them. Every so often, they need to be reminded of that."

The boy was nodding slowly with every sentence. There was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"And here," she said, twisting the wedding ring off her finger, "You should have this."

"You've been wearing that this whole time?" Hierin asked, turning the gold band in his hands.

"Yes," she said, "I didn't really know why. It felt right. But... now it feels like it's time to take it off."

The boy nodded. He slipped the ring on the littlest finger of his right hand. "You know, Nelaros would have found that whole thing absolutely hysterical. Fucking crazy, the both of you."

"The saddest part is that I think we actually were a pretty good match," said Ten.

Outside of the alley, two fishwives walked up to the general store, saw the 'Closed' sign, and clucked their disapproval before moving on.

"We might want to get out of here," Ten said, "Guards are generally pretty dumb, but the mess the kid made of his face will clue them in that it wasn't a regular suicide."

"Come on," said Hierin, "There's a staircase on the east side that basically never gets patrolled."

Chapter Text

Through the alley, up a slippery staircase in the shadow of the cliffs to the east, through a bustling fishmarket, Ten found herself back where she had started, looking at the stone bridge over the river. She embraced Hierin, who was shivering and probably not with the chill, and sent him on his way home. He'd put his brother's ring on the littlest finger of his right hand, and she had a feeling that there it would stay. 

Well, Ten, that's that. That's why you wore it this long. Part of you knew there was something more to do. And now, it's done.

Aside from the trickle of refugees she imagined where still moving slowly through the gate, the square where the river ran was remarkably empty. The chantry, a grey stone building with a belltower that seemed to grow out of the cliffs themselves was to the west, estates of the petite bourgeoisie to the east. And yet, nobody seemed to be around to stop her from sitting on the bench on the crest of the bridge, watching the water rush hurriedly downhill to join the raging surf. And so she did, and once she did, it was as though the fog descended even lower. She could not see the clocktower, and so she was not sure how long it was until the time she had agreed to meet Alistair back there, but since he was not pacing, raging that she had missed their appointment, she felt confident that she had managed to both argue with her in-laws and dispatch her late husband's last enemy within the proscribed three hours.

Sitting there, looking over the bits of rooftops that protruded above the fog, the found her pipe, and her tobacco, though she had a little bit of trouble lighting it in the damp air. Finally succeeding, she took a puff, and blew a cloud of smoke. She felt an absence, as though there had been a ghost perched on her shoulders for months, and it had finally loosed her and scampered off. She let the tears fall silently, made no move to wipe them.

Nelaros probably would have told me the truth. Eventually. When he trusted me. And he would have trusted me. I would have earned that. We would have come here together. And he could have disposed of the filth himself. She wondered what sort of marriage it would have been, given what she'd learned. Probably not the sort the demon had shown her in the Fade, if the man had been saddled with the kind of pain his family described. 

"You know, that stuff will make your teeth yellow."

She sighed. Well, I suppose some things are still predictable.

"Yeah I know. I've been cutting back," she said. She moved over, made room for Alistair on the bench. He sat beside her. She offered him the pipe, which he refused.

"Hard day?" he asked.

"How can you tell?" she asked rhetorically, using the thumb and forefinger of her left hand to wipe the tears from beneath her eyes.

"Did you get into a fight? It looks like someone punched you in the face."

She put her hand up to her mouth, realizing her lip was split and swollen where the shopkeeper had backhanded her, the pain something she had not even registered until that moment. She chuckled ruefully, a strangled noise through tears and phlegm. "You should see the other guy." 

"I know better than to ask questions. Wait… you took your ring off."

"I did," she said, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes, then looking at the pale band of skin on her otherwise brown finger, "Gave it to his little brother. It was time."

"Did his parents hate you like you thought?"

"I think his parents hated him," said Ten, "His dad anyway. Not a very nice man. But it was all just sad. Nothing to be done for it now. I have done my duty and I have no ties to it anymore. I was married. Now I'm not."

"That sound you just heard was guardsmen the country over praising the Maker that their prayers were answered," Alistair said.

"You're really not letting that one go, are you," she chuckled.

"Not until you tell me who busted your mouth," he said, "Wait… his dad didn't hit you, did he? Which house is his? I'll have a word with him."

"I've seen what you've done to your own in-laws, I hate to think what you'd do to mine."

"Just a friendly conversation! I won't throw him through any windows, I promise."

"That's not what happened," she said, thinking of the most diplomatic way to phrase the events of the previous hours, "I learned that my late husband had some unfinished business. I finished it. It's done. I can leave. Shall we?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a young woman wearing a guards' surcoat sprint up the hill from the lower markets where the shop in question was. And so it begins.

"Oh, no, you can't just leave me with that. Unfinished business that has you showing up with a split lip crying your eyes out? You do not get to be all elfy and mysterious about this one."

"I was crying for the vast unfairness of the world," she said, "And you are currently in better spirits than I've seen you in weeks, whatever catharsis you sought has clearly done you some good. I'm not going to spoil that by telling you the story, because I assure you, you will not feel good for having heard it." There was movement by the gates.

"But will you feel better for having told it?" he asked. Three guardsmen left their posts at the gates and gathered in front of them, standing in a circle.

"Perhaps," she said, keeping her eye on the group of guards, "But not here. Let me rephrase what I said earlier. I have finished the business I inherited, and I should leave. Leave town, that is. Most expediently. So, again, shall we?" She watched the three guardsmen follow the woman back down the hill.

"Ah. Just can't go too long between crimes, can we," Alistair said, rising. Two more guardsmen exited a door set right into the wall.

"Say it a little louder, why don't you," she said. She stood up, stretching her back out and taking one last look at the Alienage, half hidden in the fog. She hoped Hierin had taken her words to heart. That the shop boy had gone to the comfort of his mother. And that Lio had been swallowed by the waves.

"Teneira, would you like to tell me why a severed ear just fell out of your pocket?"

She turned and saw the shopkeeper's ear was lying on the bench, where it must have fallen when she rose. I was fumbling with too many things, it must have wound up in my pocket. Gross. She picked it up and chucked it in the river. "Whoops," she said, "Silly me."

"Now you definitely have to tell me what happened."

"Which I will do!" she said, gathering her skirts to mid calf and half-running towards the gates, "Once we've left the guards'… earshot."

"You'll be banished to the very worst part of the Fade for that joke alone!" Alistair called, chasing after her.

"I'll see you there!" she called back.

Trying to run while appearing not to be running, while also having her vision limited by the infernal fog which hovered just low enough to disrupt even Ten's vision was more difficult than she had imagined it would be. It really shouldn't have been a surprise to her when she ran into something. The surprise, however, was what that something was - rather, who it was.

"Well, if it isn't Dirty Denerim herself," Arnaud DuBroy exclaimed, taking her by both arms to keep her from falling.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry, guardsman, I was just…"

"Sure and you're not used to the fog. It takes some time."

Shit. How do I get out of this one? They can't have figured it out already. He's barely cold. Unless one of those boys sold me down the river. If Hierin did it I deserve it, he did such a good job acting like he was on board. And the shop boy didn't know my name. But he could give a description and apparently around here I have a pretty noticeable accent. Shit. Can't really just strike a guardsman down in the middle of the street. 

"Well, I'm glad I ran into you. Or, rather, that you ran into me. I'm going to have to take a rain check on that drink. There's been a grisly murder and my sergeant's called all hands on deck."

"A murder!" she exclaimed, putting a hand over her mouth to indicate astonishment and also to hide the bruising, which he had not yet noticed, "Oh no, what a terrible thing!"

In her peripheral vision she saw Alistair, who had been on her heels, turn right back around again and pretend to be a stranger examining the bulletin board outside the Chantry yard.

"Do me a favor," DuBroy said.

Oh no.

"Say 'terrible' again."

"Terrible?"

"I love that accent," he sighed ruefully, "I would listen to you read a shopping list. Unfortunately, duty calls."

"Whatever happened?"

"A shopkeeper was just found beaten half to shit in the lower markets."

Well that was fast. "Who?" she asked.

"I didn't know him personally," said Arnaud, "I know we're a smaller town than Denerim, but we don't all know each other. Are you… into that sort of thing?"

"I love a good whodunnit," said Ten, "The mystery of it, the clever copper that figures it out..."

"Well, don't tell anyone I said this, but just from what I've heard in the last half hour, it's a juicy one," said DuBroy conspiratorially. 

"Juicy!" she exclaimed, "Well, you wouldn't leave me hanging, would you?" 

She could have sword she heard Alistair stifle a groan from where he was standing ten feet away.

"From what I gather, the shop boy was on his break, came back and it was locked up tight from the inside, so he told the man on the beat, she got our sergeant, then he broke down the door and found the shopkeeper dead on the floor in a puddle of his own piss, blood, and Maker knows what else. One of the ladies from that precinct just came up the hill to send for the rest of us."

"How did they know it's a murder? If he was alone in a locked room," Ten said.

"See, you'd think so," DuBroy said, leaning closer, "But he'd been beaten. And there was a broken jug of poison next to him."

"Could it have been a robbery gone wrong?"

"It could have, but here's the most interesting bit. This victim has come up a few times. His name was Nick Standwright and there had been some reports that he liked little boys in an untoward way. My lieutenant has been agitating to investigate him for years, but the captain decided none of the complaining witnesses were credible."

Ten's encouraging smile froze on her face, but she said, "Oh goodness, what a terrible thing."

"Fuck, I love how you say 'terrible.' And I hate that I have to be off, but… tell me you'll come to town again. I promise you'll have all the dirty secrets."

"Oh I do love a dirty secret," she said, "Good luck solving that mystery!"

She extricated herself from his grasp before he could get any ideas and headed back towards the gates. Unmanned now, refugees were pouring in. Used to crowds, she navigated gracefully amidst the raging current of humanity, until she was beyond the gates and a dozen yards uphill, where the fog was not so bad. She could even see far enough up the road to the east to discern Sten's enormous form, pacing back and forth in front of the campfire, no doubt wringing his hands in consternation that he'd taken up with the Grey Wardens only for there to be little to no darkspawn at all. It was a good ten minutes before Alistair caught up, red in the face, clearly unprepared to handle the sheer number of people he'd had to move through.

"So, did you hear all that?" she asked.

"That some creep got what was coming? Yes. Also it's disturbing how easily you go from hardened criminal to damsel in distress."

"Well then, glad we got that out of the way," she said, "Come on, let's get a move on, I can see the steam coming off Sten's head from here."

"Wait, no! You promised you'd tell me what happened!"

"I thought you said you heard everything! Come on, put two and two together," she said.

"My mind is not nearly as dark and terrifying as yours, I'm sorry, you're going to have to spell this one out."

She sighed. Rummaged in her pack. She'd managed to keep herself in liquor - used both for medicinal and recreational purposes - through a combination of minor theft and skillful bargaining all along the road. She found her latest prize, a bottle of unaged distillation she'd intended to reserve for disinfecting, but needs must. She took a swallow and flinched in spite of herself. Sat herself on a rock on the hillside.

"So, Alistair," she said, "Let's go through this one line by line and I'll show you how to figure shit out for your damn self."

"Did you kill that man?!"

"No," she said, "He killed himself." 

"Was that his ear in your pocket?"

"It was."

"I cannot believe I am asking this question seriously but why, Teneira, did you cut off a deviant's ear?"

"Losing an ear over what he's done is getting off easy in my book."

"How'd you know what he'd done? Have you been here before?"'

"Never made it further than the Bannorn until earlier this year."

"Did you just go knocking on doors, saying 'hullo, I'm a renowned murderer, do you know of anyone who just has far too many ears?'" He paused. "I meant that to be a joke but now that I say it I could see you doing just that."

She sighed. Rook another swig. The more she drank the easier it went down, "My husband worked at that shop when he was kid."

"You're right. I don't feel better knowing that."

"And all I can think is when they took me and my cousin and my friends is that he saw it happening again and that's why he came after us and got himself killed." Her words ran together at the end of the sentence. Anything to absolve yourself of the blame, Tabris. 

"But the man's dead, yes?"

"As a fucking doornail," she said, taking another swig of moonshine.

"But you didn't kill him."

"I had a chat with him. Then he killed himself."

"He beat himself to death?"

"Well, I let his current shop boy have a go at him with his boot after he'd drunk the poison. Seemed only fair," Her voice broke with the last sentence, the bile rose in her throat again and she felt tears leak from the corners of her eyes again, "He was... he was maybe twelve. That age where you think you're grown but you're still afraid of the fucking dark and... "

Silently, Alistair went through his things and handed her a handkerchief that was clean by road standards. She scraped it over her face.

"That's why everyone in Denerim knows you, isn't it. Why everyone seems to like you. You've been doing stuff like that for ages, haven't you."

"Someone's got to," she said.

"But it wasn't just elves, was it. The humans knew you too."

"You met your sister. There's humans as miserable as we are."

"And… and you said that thing in Redcliffe, when we found that blood mage. About how you knew that a man being tortured would say whatever you wanted him to say," Alistair said, "And then you said you had a chat with a printer who... was he also a..."

"Yeah," Ten said, "That one liked girls."

"So what was the torture for if not extracting a confession?"

"To set an example," she said, "Send the message that you mess with elfin kids, you run the risk of winding up with parts missing. You heard the copper. They knew. They didn't do shit. Nobody protected that kid. Nobody protected my husband. He'd been carrying that burden for half his life. It drove him mad if his family's to be believed. And nobody ever fucking did anything."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair sit heavily on the ground beside her and reach for the flask. She handed it to him. He took a sip, which he instantly regretted, coughing.

"Maker's breath that's foul," he said, "But you did."

"I did what?"

"You did something. You took care of him," he said, "He won't go near any little elf boys anymore."

"I just wish I'd been there ten years ago," she sighed, "Fuck, I wish the woman I am today had been there for the girl I was ten years ago."

She put her head in her hands, but caught his eyes on her. Never looking humans in the face for too long really was a difficult habit to break. But now, she met his gaze and held it. She noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were an odd color for a human of his complexion, so dark that she could not make out where the irises ended and the pupils began. Set amid lashes so blond they were almost white and a face that went pink in the sun, they looked out of place. Odd. Shem have remarked that I really ought to have black hair and eyes, given how dark I am. He's the opposite.

He broke their gaze first. "I am going to regret saying this with every fiber of my being," Alistair sighed, looking back out into the fog, "But let me have a go at the next one."

"Really! You! Little Ser Chantry Brat himself wants a tour of the dark side!"

"Is it the dark side, though?"

"Did you have some sort of revelation while I was busy?"

"It's just so much worse out here," he said, "Everything was simple until Ostagar. Someone who knows more than you points at some demon or blood mage or darkspawn, you hit it with a pointy stick. But now…"

"People are complicated," she said.

"So complicated! Nothing prepared me for this. And so it got me thinking."

"Oh no, can't have that, the Maker frowns upon thinking."

"And… I have questions. You see, here's the thing. I was all of fifteen, maybe, and they had me running through the innards of this nation, chasing down blood mages. There were so many of them. But, Ten, the thing is that they can't all have been blood mages. There just aren't that many mages, period. And then, I thought about how many of them were, I don't even know how to say it. People who had radical ideas about the Chant or the nature of Andraste, or were a little too curious about the Qun or were a little too familiar with the Old Gods. But all they did was point and say 'blood mage' and we just… we went. Spirited them away, locked them up, never to be seen again."

"Really!" Ten exclaimed, "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised at that, but still. And you really had no idea until now?"

"I genuinely didn't," Alistair said, "And now, there are people, regular people, all over this nation who are now convinced you and I are the worst sort of traitors. And we're not! But if things were different and I were still with the Templar Order, and word came from the capital that the Grey Wardens had turned on the king? I would have believed it. If you had turned up in that chantry in Lothering, I'd have hauled you in myself."

"I feel like I'm witnessing you have the same realization all of us had as children in real time."

"Who's us?"

"Elves. Working class folks in general. Even middle class commoners to a degree. The rules weren't meant to protect us. The people who made them didn't do it for our benefit. They're designed so they can keep us under their boots and have us thanking them for it and answering everything with 'yes my liege.' And that applies to you too. Even the sorts of people who make the rules are restricted by them, to some degree. Even if they tend to benefit more."

"Oh, right, because I've benefited so much from..." Alistair started, then realized what he sounded like and stopped, "I really believed it, though. I truly thought all those... all those things I did were the result of some divine message conveyed by whatever clergywoman had ordained it. And so many of them..." he trailed off.

"So many of them what?"

He shook his head briefly, indicating he had no intention of continuing. 

"There's a reason they start you so young," said Ten.

"Well, Tabris, I concede. You win."

"I win?"

"When this part's over and in five years or so when you're on the barricades hollering for equality and justice, you will not find me among those coming to tear it down. No matter who orders me to do what."

"Ha!" she exclaimed, slapping her hands on her thighs and rising, "I'm going to tell all my friends I radicalized a son of a damn king! I'll be an absolute legend."

She offered her hand, and he took it and rose, nearly pulling her over in the process.

"Don't call me that. I'm nobody's son."

"No, you're not doing that today," she declared, "It's my day to be sad. You can have tomorrow. We can't both be moping at the same time, the archdemon will sense it and then we're all fucked."

They set off on the road towards camp.

"Fair enough. You know, it's funny. Given everything that's happened, this is the first time I've seen you cry," he said.

"Well don't spread it around, I have a certain reputation to uphold," she said, "Are my eyes all bloodshot?"

"Extremely," he said.

"Do me a favor will you?"

"I'm afraid to ask what it is."

"Hit me. Right there," she said, pointing to her left cheekbone, "If I've got a shiner nobody will notice I've been crying and it'll just look like whoever split my lip tried to even out both sides." 

"Ten, I am not going to hit you."

"Come on, part of you has wanted to punch me in the face for weeks."

"And not a small part, but I'm still not going to."

"See, this is why you have no friends."

"Baiting me is not going to work. I will punch you in the face if and when I think it's called for and not a moment before. Personally I think it's rather refreshing that you're acting for once like you don't have a fist-sized snowball where your heart's supposed to be." 

"Oh, so I can do things that could land me a rope necklace to save my friends and family but it doesn't count unless I cry about it too?"

"If that's the only way you express affection I can see why you and your dad don't get along."

"At least I have one."

"Whoa, Tabris, I thought you said you weren't going to..."

"Come on, that deserved a black eye and then some!"

"No!"

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Haven really wasn't much of a village, all things considered. Ten was hoping at least for a public house or something, somewhere to sit indoors and take the chill out of her bones. Instead, set directly into the mountainside, were just a handful of buildings, half wooden, half the black rock of the mountain. It would have been charming, she supposed, were it not all so forbiddingly silent. Though it was barely autumn, it seemed winter had already set in in earnest this high in the mountains, and the silence was not helped by the six inches of snow on the ground, already crusted over as though it had been sitting there, melting by day, freezing by night, for weeks.

Sten had arisen that morning a new qunari, evidently needing only an overnight to adjust to the altitude. The rest of them, though, stayed irritable and felt exhausted, despite having had a full night's rest. Something about it changed the taste of the air, the smell of the trees, the sound of the snow crunching and twigs snapping. Ten felt as though she were moving through a dream.

"If this is a holy site, I wonder that it's not just that people feel like they're in a trance because their lungs aren't used to it," Ten observed, "I've heard that among some of the Avvar, those funny mushrooms we all tried as kids are considered to be holy because they give you visions. Maybe it was the same way for ancient people who made it this high."

"What do you mean we all tried as kids?" asked Lelianna.

"You didn't?" Ten asked, perplexed.

"So we've established that your childhood was short on socks, long on hallucinogens," remarked Alistair, "That actually explains quite a lot."

"Better than being short on familial affection, long on concussions," said Ten.

"Dear Holy Andraste," Zev prayed, clasping his hands and turning his eyes skyward, "I will repent all of my ways, join the brotherhood and take vows of chastity and silence if you will find it in your heart to make these two stop arguing for a solid hour."

"You hear that?" Ten said, "We lay off each other for an hour and he'll shut his mouth and keep his pants on! I think I can do that."

"Deal. A true miracle. Maker be praised," Alistair intoned.

"So did our Fra Genitivi state exactly where in this village he was headed?" asked Wynne, hurriedly changing the subject.

"No… just that there was an ancient temple which also served as a tunnel through one of the peaks," said Lelianna. She looked upwards, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun on the snow, "And unless there are two of them, it's there!"

"That path is… near vertical," said Wynne. She bent down and rubbed her knee. Ten instinctively went through her pack, found, at the very bottom, gathering lint, an arthritis salve that she had made just to use up the rest of some herbs she'd gathered before they rotted. She handed it to the mage, who looked at her skeptically.

"Fine, don't use it if you don't want," said Ten, "But if magic could have fixed it it'd be fixed."

Wynne went over to sit on a rock and hike up her robes, and the rest of them looked discretely away.

"I did not prepare for this cold," said Sten.

"Remember Bodric the Bear!" Ten admonished, "The cold cannot defeat you if there is warmth in your heart."

The qunari nodded, "You speak wisdom. If the climb were easy, everyone would come to take their share of the relic we seek," Sten said, still gazing upward, "I do not put much stock in your articles of faith, they are…. impractical. However, a challenge is a challenge."

"We should search the buildings," said Ten, "If my friend back in Denerim is telling the truth - and he has only lied to me when it is in my interest - there is something strange going on here. He said that Genitivi's flat had been visited by men who wore the robes of priestesses, and recited some version of the Chant."

"What friend?" asked Zevran skeptically.

"The one whose ass I had to kiss after you murdered someone on his turf," Ten said, "Which you are welcome for, by the way. Anyway, he sent his majordomo to inspect some weeks ago, and well, that is what she reported."

"So a cult," said Lelianna.

"What you call a cult, others hold as dear to their hearts as your Andraste," Morrigan admonished, "There were many gods in this land before your Maker, and many prophets before your Andraste. You would all do well to remember that."

"But they were false!" Lelianna exclaimed, "The Maker is real. He has spoken to me."

"I don't doubt that something has spoken to you," said Morrigan, "But how are you so certain that it is the Maker?"

Lelianna's mouth opened and shut several times like a fish out of water.

"This is a waste of time," said Sten, irritably, "Let us search for your monk. If he lives, he may not for much longer, given how long this journey has taken."

"Good point," said Ten, "Theological battles for after we find out what has become of Fra Genotivi."

"And questions about who on earth you could know who would consider that flat his territory," Zevran said, "Come on, manita, you must tell me at some point. I am dying of curiosity."

"Then die," said Ten, "The four of you - Sten, Morrigan, Zev, Lelianna - knock on those cottage doors. Wynne, Alistair, come with me, that building looks semi-public. A store or a pub or something. It smells wrong."

"The dog certainly thinks so," said Wynne, who had treated her knee and, looking much steadier on her feet, returned to the group. She pointed to where Pigeon was running in circles in front of the door in question.

"Yes, that's why we are going there. Can't have the dog mauling anything and I'm the only one with a good record of calling her off," said Ten. She told the dog to sit, and pushed the door open.

A fall of dust baptized their entry. It had not been touched for several days. Ten began coughing, Wynne immediately afterwards, and Pigeon wriggled under their legs. The dog took off in search of the scent, though the wares on the shelf were weeks if not months old. And they made no sense. Most shops would have the basics, tools, cloth, maybe some preserved food, but this one was stocked with just absolute nonsense. Jars half full of dead bugs. Shoelaces, but no two the same. Books in every language with no discernable theme.

Pigeon was sniffing around at the base of the wall, following the scent of something along it.

"I hope it's mice," Wynne said, looking nervously at the dog.

The hound followed the wall all the way around to a door that likely lead to a back room. She started rooting, trying to get her nose under the door. That failing, she sat back and issued a highpitched yip. Ten obliged her and opened the door.

"It's not mice," she said as the smell hit her full in the face and she wheeled back, hand over mouth and nose, "Andraste's shapely ass, there's three… four… three and a half corpses in here."

"What kind?" asked Wynne, "And which half?"

"Intact ones are grown men. Shit, Alistair, one of them is wearing Eamon's sigil."

"Well that solves one mystery," Alistair sighed grimly. Holding his hand over his nose he came up behind her, "Oh no… that's Ser Gaetan. Poor sod. Guess he got too close."

"How can you tell?" asked Ten, "Not much of a face left on him."

"He was left handed," he said, pointing at where the knight's swordless scabbard was still buckled on his right hip.

"What about the others?" asked Wynne, who had made it clear she was not going anywhere near that chamber of horrors.

"There's a monk," said Ten, "Probably Genitivi's assistant. Zev said the man they killed in Denerim was likely an impostor."

"But no Genitivi?" asked Wynne.

"I don't think so," said Ten, "This one is too young, the other isn't tonsured, and the one missing the top half has a butterfly tattooed on its lower back."

"You'd be surprised what some of the brothers get up to in their free time," Alistair said.

Ten went through her pack. There was a flask of pure mint oil somewhere in there. Finding it, she swiped a fingerful under her nose, tied a kerchief over that, and walked into the back room turned crypt to search the bodies. The monk had nothing but prayer beads in his robes. The knight had been relieved of his sword. The third corpse looked like it had belonged to a scribe, the ink stain between its index and middle fingers still visible though the fingers themselves were bloated, and also yielded nothing. The half corpse looked like it had been….

"This one's been eaten," said Ten, "Very large teeth marks. Would have to be the size of my wrist. Punched clean through the lower ribs."

"What could just bite someone in half like that?" Wynne mused.

"We're all thinking it, right?" Alistair said.

"So our friend from last night is a maneater. But why would anyone take half a corpse from a dragon and put it back here?"

"It seems this whole place is intended to be as offputting as possible," said Alistair, "Air's barely breathable, snow well before the equinox, half eaten corpses just there for anyone to find them."

"It's certainly an aesthetic," said Ten, "But if I stay here I'm going to vomit."

They filed back out into the center of town, except for Pigeon, who, to Wynne's consternation, could not resist a good roll in some entrails.

"There's nobody home," Morrigan announced, "And there's movement in the chantry. Didn't want to throw the doors open mid-service without you. There's something… off about this place."

"When a witch of the wilds starts saying something's off…" Ten mused.

"I turned into a sparrow and took a peek in. The whole village is in there, if the number of houses are a metric. But only the elderly men, women, and children," said Morrigan, "No men between the ages of fifteen and sixty."

"That's… strange," Ten said, "What were they doing in there?"

"Reciting the Chant as far as I could tell," Morrigan said, "Not that I'd recognize it."

"I'm guessing the burning sensation whenever you get too near a holy building might dissuade one from learning it," Alistair said.

"Well," said Ten, "For those of us who've long dreamed of bursting in during services and making a mess, this is an opportunity."

"Oh… no she's going to hang upside down from the altar and lecture us about the evils of organized religion while drinking from the sacramental chalice," Lelianna said, "Everyone bring cotton for their ears?"

Sten, impatient, was already halfway up the hill, and the rest hurried to catch up with him. He threw the great doors open. At first glance, the congregation was not all that abnormal. Upon closer inspection, though... In the place of the Reverend Mother at the altar, there was an elderly man. Ten knew, intellectually, that the Tevinter Chantry had male clergy, but she had never seen one. While she did not consider herself a particularly spiritual person and had always had a healthy skepticism of the both Chantry as an institution and the scripture as a piece of literature, some things were just ingrained into her. This just looked wrong, deeply wrong. Who would want to learn about the divine from a man?

The congregation, in unison, rose and turned to face the intruders. They all wore completely blank expressions and, as Morrigan had said, were all either children or of advanced age. Silently, each walked from the pews, and filed out of the door, completely ignoring the strange group outside the doors.

"Reverend… Father?" Ten said. The words tasted foreign in her mouth, "Is this a Tevinter chantry?"

"No," the cleric said, "Come in, children."

"Oh, I don't like this," Lelianna said, "This is sacrilege."

"The Maker hasn't struck them down yet," said Ten, "So let's reserve judgment. People believe in all sorts of ridiculous things."

"Are you cold?" the priest asked.

"Very," said Ten. She walked slowly around the side rather than down the center aisle, "Are you… clergy?"

"Come, child," he said, "It is warmer by the altar."

"Who are you?"

"I am Father Eirik. Please, don't be shy. You are simply lost… are you not?"

"Well, I seem to have wandered into a different version of reality, so I suppose you could say that," Ten said.

"You… girl what is wrong with your ears?!"

"My ears? Have you never seen an elf before?" she asked.

"I have not..."

"Look, there's another one there." She jerked her head back to gesture at Zevran.

"You are not from the valley," Eirik said, his eyes narrowing.

"No," she said.

"So you did not wander into Haven by mistake. You come with purpose," he said, "Will they never cease!?"

"I didn't realize we were not welcome," said Ten, "Look, have you seen an older gentleman, would probably be wearing robes, have a funny haircut with the crown of his head shorn, come through here?"

The kindly mask slipped from the old man's face. "Outsiders," he said, "Again and again, you people brave the cold, the altitude, all to come corrupt what is ours. Why can you not just leave us alone?!"

"I genuinely do not care that you let men be priests," said Ten, "Or recite the Chant differently. It is less than nothing to me. I am just looking for the man I described. I can see from the expression on your face that you've seen him. Point us to where he is and we will be out of your hair. I really don't have it in me to beat up an old man today."

"If we let you leave, you will bring others. They will not be as tolerant as you claim. I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot let you leave this village." He drew from somewhere inside his robes a sacrificial dagger with a sinister-looking wavy blade.

Ten sighed heavily. He raised his weapon. She lashed out with her right foot and delivered a kick to his gnarled hand. The dagger clattered on the floor. She dove for it and got her hand on it before he could stoop to find it.

"Listen, uncle," she said, "Just walk out of here. Go to someone's house. We will treat this building as we would treat our own place of worship. You hear me?!" she shouted to her companions, "No. Looting."

She turned back to Eirik, "So you just go on about your day. There are seven of us - eight if you count that gore-covered beast over there - and we are much better at this than you are."

"The men of the mountain will take care of you, if not the Holy Mother herself!" Eirik spat, but, acknowledging that this was the best way this was going to end for him, limped down the aisle, clutching his right wrist.

Shit I must have broken it. Senile old idiot forgets he isn't what he once was. Though I suppose that day will come for all of us, if we're lucky. Which I'm not. I guess I don't have to worry about breaking a hip…

"The wall to the right of the altar is false," Lelianna announced. said, "There's a room behind there, you can see from the outside of the building." 

After some banging on walls and fiddling with various things attached to them, the lot of them managed to find the correct combination and, with a shudder, the false wall slid back to reveal a library behind it. And in that library lay another old man, dead or asleep, Ten could not tell.

"He's alive," Wynne said, after examining him, "Looks like they broke his ankle and then gave him something to knock him out."

"Torture?" asked Lelianna.

"Perhaps, or perhaps he's just grown fragile," said the mage, "Never mind, though, shouldn't be much of a trick to…" she laid her hands on him, and they glowed green briefly.

The old man stirred, and then sat straight up with a start, "What in the… what is going on?"

"Fra Genitivi?" asked Ten, kneeling beside him.

"Yes," he said. He looked around the room, and decided Alistair must be the proper one to address, "Why is that elf talking to me?"

Really. Elderly, beaten, and trapped in a back room in a chantry at the ends of the earth, still has the energy to be a bigot. I must have some of what he drinks.

"For reasons I do not fully understand, she is in charge," Alistair said, "So why don't you try that again?"

Ha! Small victories.

The monk sighed, closed his eyes. "I apologize. Miss, what is your name?"

"Much better," said Ten, "I'm Ten Tabris, and for reasons I do not fully understand, we are here to assist with your research."

"Oh!" Genitivi exclaimed. He rose slowly. Tested his leg, "Excellent, I have been at loose ends without my assistant. What do you know of my work? Nevermind. Whatever you have heard it is no doubt either incorrect or incomplete."

Ten would regret her announcement, as the scholarly monk took it as an invitation to launch into an explanation of his research as long and dry as a desert road, all the while pacing around the room on his newly mended leg. She got about half of it. Something something, holy martyr, something something, bearing the ashes to the mountains, something something, pre-chantry Andrastean writings.

"So the… sect that practices here," said Ten, "It's not Tevinter?"

"Not strictly. Why do you ask?" Genitivi.

"Male clergy," she said.

"You're actually quite astute!" Genitivi said.

"The Tevinter chantry has male clergy?" Alistair exclaimed, "I didn't even know that…"

"Yeah, well, everything I know about them has been learned against my will, so don't be too impressed," said Ten.

"Ah. Yes. Most unpleasant," Genitivi said, "But the connection is valid. Before the Southern Chantry was established, there was some controversy about ordaining both genders. The schism came later, though. What they were doing out there is the only living example I've seen of one of the oldest traditions of Andrastean worship. Say, since you got in… did you have to kill their cleric? This whole mess started because I tried to get him to explain it to me."

"He lives," said Ten, "Though I'm not sure he'd be thrilled to sit down for an interview."

"Perhaps you could help me persuade him!" Genitivi exclaimed.

"Perhaps I could," said Ten, "But in the meantime, it would be really nice to get at that temple."

"Do you fancy a climb?" Genitivi asked, "It's a steep path."

"I have never fancied anything less, but, like most other things in life, I'm going to do it anyway."

Chapter Text

The path was, fortunately, less vertical than it had appeared from the plateau on which the village was set, but not by much. It was, though, not terribly long. The door itself was set directly into the rock of the mountain, flanked by ornate columns on both sides, as tall as ten men and as wide as four. Evidently Genitivi had been captive in this frozen hellscape for long enough that the lack of air didn't bother him at all, and he set about assembling various ancient-looking symbols to make them open. He clapped his hands like a little toddler when they groaned open, icicles - small enough not to be dangers but large enough to be annoying - falling on them.

"More snow, less air," Ten grumbled, stomping on the ground and trying to get some feeling back in her toes. Every step she took felt like she was wearing lead shoes and her lungs cried out in protest while her heart thumped far too hard for the effort she was expending.

"You still have enough breath to complain. You will survive," Lelianna observed. She, like Genitivi, was too entranced by what was on the other side of the door for her mood to be soured by the whining.

The door did not open onto a temple, at least not the sort that Ten was familiar with. Though, she had to admit, she had never been a connoisseur of such things. She'd seen drawings of some of the grand cathedrals - the flying buttresses and stained glass of the Orlesian style, the domes and minarets of the Tevinter Imperium, and the comparatively austere style of her native Ferelden. This resembled all of them, a little bit, as though some great army of stonecarvers had taken hammer and chisel to a natural cavern the size of one of those great cathedrals, carving statues and columns and apses right out of the black rock of the mountain. Stalagmites became martyrs, stalactites became vaulted ceilings, natural caverns became small chapels with statues of the venerated within. Ten wandered in slowly, letting her heart relax from the climb. Further in, she could see a great crack in the ceiling through which the clear blue of the sky was visible, which lit the place, at least by day. She stood below it for a moment, grazing upwards, rather enjoying the sensation of the snow drifting lazily in to frost her eyelashes.

A shadow fell over the whole cavern and, looking up, Ten caught a glimpse of silvered scales as her friend from the other night flew overhead, with no great urgency. She followed instinctively, climbing one, and then another staircase, her curiosity making her forget that, perhaps, walking alone through an abandoned temple where she was fairly sure all the menfolk of the village were waiting to take care of the infidels was not the wisest idea.

At the top of the fourth flight of stairs, rather than a door, there was another great crack in the mountain that opened directly onto an alpine glen. It was significantly warmer, and she could see that a few cracks in the ground hissed with steam. It smelled almost sweet, and after a few breaths, her lungs and heart relaxed, and she felt light, almost euphoric. As she continued, the steam fissures gave way to open chasms with molten magma at the bottom. It was not a mountain glen at all. It was the crater of a volcano, dozing for so long that great trees had grown around the rim.

"Who goes there?!"

She turned. Behind her, fifteen human men had closed ranks between her and the 'temple', all armed, and not with the torches and pitchforks she would have imagined in such a remote place. There was something off about each and every one of them, they looked jittery and nervous.

You really ought to be scared right now…

Whatever, they're not important.

She kept walking the path, between more fissures, seeing the dragon perched atop the craggy rim on the far side. She paused.

Now you really, really ought to be scared.

"Who walks in the valley of the Holy Mother?!" the leader of the men cried from behind her.

She turned, "Just a wee elfin maiden!" she called, "Nevermind me, I'm just taking in the laundry."

"This is not a place for pilgrims from the lowlands!" their leader called again.

"And yet, here I am," she said.

She heard the cold hiss of blades being drawn.

They are not important.

She felt wind on her face as the great dragon took off, circling the crater as she had the adjacent peak the night before. From where she had taken off, Ten could see that its perch had been a shelf, carved by some tool-wielding hand - human elf or dwarf, she could not tell - into the black rock of the rim. She turned to look at the men, three of whom had drawn steel.

"I don't want to fight with you," she said.

The men scattered as the shadow of the dragon grew larger and closer, and it landed with a great thump, between Ten and the men of the mountain. Up close, it was not a graceful creature at all. It lowered its head to the ground and cocked it to one side, examining her with an eyeball nearly as tall as Ten herself.

"Well, hello there," Ten said, chuckling.

You should be terrified right now. What is wrong with you?

The chuckles turned into laughter.

Nah, why bother being afraid?

"Are you going to eat me?" she asked, "There's not a bloody lot I could do to stop you at this point, love."

Probably would have by now if she was planning to.

"So, do you know what all this nonsense is about? Are these inbred idiots friends of yours?"

The dragon raised its head to look back at said inbred idiots. Something in the dragon's movement reminded her of the Reverend Mother.

A reptile's a reptile I suppose.

"Well, darlin', I'd offer you a rat, but I think we're clean out. Probably not worth it for you anyway. But those ones over there probably taste better than I do. What's their deal, anyway? I mean, I'd probably be all right with being worshiped too, but why only the men? That's weird, right? I mean, it's all weird I suppose. Makes about as much sense to worship you as some faceless creator god."

The dragon rose and turned, but kept its great spiked tail still, which was good news for Ten because if she'd let it move with the rest of it the unfortunate elf would have been knocked right into one of the fissures. Ten backed up, and took another look at the shelf on the rim from which the dragon had come. Now that she looked, it was actually quite accessible. There were also steps carved into the face of the rim, winding around and around until they reached it. She made a break for them, the sweet air of the crater giving her strength she had not felt since they had begun their ascent into the mountains.

"Why's she not eating her?" one of the men asked his superior, "The Holy Mother is supposed to dispose of all infidels!"

"Must not be hungry," the raspy voice of the leader called out, "She fed on the last one."

"Wait.. Kolgrim, what's she doing?!"

"She's not supposed to…"

The metal-on-metal roar issued from the dragon's throat. Looking back, Ten saw the men scatter further as the dragon charged at them. Ten made it to the base of the stairs and began taking them two and at time, up and up and up. Twice she fell on her face as the dragon kept roaring, making the rocks around her vibrate, but she kept on about it, and eventually made it to the shelf carved into the crater's rim. It didn't have the look of any chantry architecture Ten had seen or read about. It felt older. More primitive.

They do tend to bend the narrative to fit features of the natural world, don't they. Turn the old gods into prophets. Rewrite ancient myths to be about the characters of the Chant. Why wouldn't they have found something vaguely resembling a funerary urn and somehow turn that into being about their favorite martyr?

As promised, there was an urn set back into what looked to be an altar, also carved from the black rock of the mountain. It was far larger than any funerary urn or ossuary that Ten had ever seen.

Maybe Andraste was twelve feet tall.

On her tiptoes, she peeked inside. It was full of… something. Definitely a powder, but it certainly didn't look like the ashes gathered from a pyre. No chunks of bone in it, either. She stuck a finger into it. It was granular and slightly sticky.

Taste it.

No! Ew!

Come on.

No!

You're going to feed it to that old man, may as well check it out.

Giving in to the intrusive thoughts, she licked her pinky, stuck it in the powder, and touched it to her tongue. Whatever it was, it was like the opposite of the Tevinter poison that had laid Arl Eamon low to begin with. She felt a rush of blood to her brain, her senses heightening, the world suddenly much brighter and more vibrant than it had been before.

Well shit. Holy ashes or not, this will certainly wake a person up. She grabbed an empty leather flask from her pack and hurriedly scooped some of the substance into it. Recorking it, she looked down where she had come from. Blood streaked across the snow, and she saw that the great white dragon had decided that she had had enough of at least one of her erstwhile devotees. The others were prostrate on the ground, probably uttering desperate prayers to their fickle god.

Well that's not going to work. Ah well, not my landship, not my halla.

She went down the way she had come, descending back into the sweet-smelling air of the crater. The dragon swung her head around to look at her again, and a piece of intestine flew from her jaws, hitting Ten right in the face.

"Manners!" Ten exclaimed, wiping her face, finding it slippery.

She walked past the dragon's great talons, and back into the cavern turned temple, where it looked like all of her companions were arguing, huddled in a circle.

"There's a dragon out there," she announced, her voice echoing around the walls.

Six heads swiveled in her direction.

"I got the ashes," she said. She started down the stairs, "Well, I got something out of a really big urn, I didn't see anything else there that fit the description. Not sure exactly what it is, but it'd wake the dead."

Alistair met her halfway, seized her by the shoulders, "We've been looking for you for ages! And… how are you covered in blood again? Andra…probably shouldn't take her name in vain here. Where on earth are you bleeding from?!" He grabbed her kerchief, which was sticking out of one of her pockets, and started mopping at her face, a little more roughly than was necessary.

Ten couldn't help herself. She backed away, started giggling, then chuckling, then laughing like a madwoman. Blood began spattering over the snow and stone of the stairs. Wait… am I bleeding? She swiped her hand over her face, and she was, indeed, bleeding from her nose. I did eat shit on those stairs twice… She spat on a snowdrift on the side of the staircase on which she stood and an arc of crimson marred the pure white.

"Child… are you on something?" Wynne hustled up the stairs and stepped between them. She put a cool dry palm on each of Ten's cheeks, mumbled something, and Ten, for a moment, felt more alert than she could remember. But then the feeling of drowning in the thin mountain air returned. It was too much work to laugh then.

"Ohhh that was weird," said Ten. She wiped at her face, and saw red. She looked around again, "What was I just on about?"

"The ashes!" Lelianna cried insistently, "You said you had the ashes!"

She held up the leather flask, "Well, I've got something." What the fuck just happened to… she glanced out into the glen. The men of the mountain had scattered and the dragon had taken off to Maker knew where. From far off, Ten could see clouds of steam coming from the ground. I was breathing that in, wasn't I. I would have probably been gassed to death if I'd stayed there. Shit. No wonder so few returned from seeking this relic.

Genitivi, evidently just registering the commotion, left his carvings and approached her with trepidation as she descended back down into the main cavern.

"Where were you? What did you see?"

"Apparently accidentally breathing in all sorts of shit out there in the crater," said Ten. She shook her head back and forth rapidly, trying to jostle some more sense into herself, "There's something there, to be sure, but… honestly it doesn't look like even the most ancient of Southern Chantry architecture."

"What do you mean by something, girl?"

"Well, come here, hopefully you can see it without getting a lungful of whatever crap the mountain's spewing out," said Ten. She led the monk up the stairs so they were standing at the mouth of the cavern, but far enough away from where the clouds were coming up from the ground that she wasn't afraid of a repeat of the previous nonsense, "Look up there, at the height of the rim. Someone's made a little…. Manmade ledge there. And on it there is an altar, and on the altar is an urn, maybe three feet high and it's filled with this…" She handed him the flask. He uncorked it. Looked inside. Took a whiff.

"It's not what's left on a pyre after cremations," she said, "I mean, assuming your people and mine burn the same, and I don't see why they wouldn't."

"Well…" Genitivi said, "She was the most holy. The Maker works in strange ways. And it was so long ago…"

"Brother, was there an ancient holy site here? Pre-Andraste?" she asked.

"Yes," Genitivi said, "But that's not unusual. More primitive civilizations misinterpreted features put on this earth by the Maker as evidence of their own gods."

"So I think… and I don't know if the dragon has anything to do with this," said Ten, "But… there's some kind of strange air coming from the steam fissures out there that apparently had me traipsing up to a dragon, patting it on the head, then faceplanting on some ancient stairs and not even realizing I'd busted my own nose. That likely would have led any primitive person to think he was experiencing communion with a god. Any modern person without a lick of sense too."

"But what of the guardians?" Genitivi demanded, "Did you not run a gauntlet of tests of your purity?"

"I… walked right past a maneating dragon, had a little chat with it, then ran up some stairs and scooped a powder of unknown origin into this flask," she said, "Would you like to try?"

"It's not supposed to be a metaphor! The texts were clear!"

"I don't know what to tell you, Brother," Ten said, "This is the location, there is a valley with all sorts of gasses being pumped into the air, a dragon, and a whole ass cult worshiping it. And what looks like a very large funerary urn set right into the side of the mountain."

"We should slay the dragon," Sten said.

"No!" Ten exclaimed, "Leave her alone!"

"We cannot safely study the area if…" Genitivi said.

"No no no no no. Let's game this out," said Ten, "Say we managed to slay the dragon - and honestly I have no faith that the lot of you aren't going to breathe some of that air and just descend into madness like I just did. Then armies of pilgrims and Chantry researchers show up, year after year. And what do you think they find? That all of your theories are debunked, Brother, that's what they find. If the dragon stays, you're still right. You're still the pre-eminent scholar on this. The Urn of Sacred Ashes remains the provenance of the Southern Chantry, evidence that your doctrine is correct, not the Tevinters'. You're right, the Dalish and Avvars and Northern Chantry are wrong, the Maker is King and all is right with the world."

"So it's not real," Lelianna said, her face entirely put out.

"It's not… not real," said Ten, "There is an urn, high in the mountains, it contains… something."

"And what does that mean for Eamon?" asked Alistair.

It means he's either on the mend already or he's just utterly fucked.

"Just because the writings of one particular ancient tradition didn't get it one hundred percent correct doesn't mean it doesn't work. Wynne, do you know how magic works?"

"Well," said Wynne, "You draw upon the power of the Fade and…"

"But how do you do that?"

"I… just do."

"But I can't do that. Even if I try."

"No…"

"So how do you do it?" asked Ten, "How would you explain it to me if you were trying to get me to do what you do."

"I can't," said Wynne, "You don't have the… sense for it. I can't explain it to you unless you have it."

"And nobody knows why some humans and elves have it and others don't, right? Mages very rarely have children, but somehow there are still mages, generation after generation, and they're always about fifteen percent of the population, right?'

"Five," said Wynne.

"Five's how many the Chantry finds, you know full well apostates outnumber Circle Mages two to one," said Ten.

"I…did not know that," said Wynne.

"How do you think every cult and band of ruffians happens to have a mage or two with them?" Ten asked.

"I genuinely had not thought about it."

"But the point stands, nobody knows how it works. But it does work. We've all seen it work. We've watched this woman bring down a cliffside, we've watched Morrigan over there turn into a damn spider before our eyes. It definitely works. So there's an urn high in the mountains full of something and several reputable legends say it's some kind of panacea. Maybe the Chantry says it's the ashes of Andraste, I'm sure there's some Avvar explanation for it as well, my own people probably have their own version. Just because nobody truly knows where it came from or what it is, doesn't mean it won't work."

"So we're just going to, what, take it on faith?" asked Lelianna.

"No offense, sister," said Ten, "But isn't that the whole point? If you people could prove, once and for all, that Chantry doctrine was the end all be all truth, there wouldn't be any other traditions, would there."

"I know," said Lelianna, "I suppose I had simply hoped that…"

"That there would be proof?" asked Ten.

"Well, yes. So that all peoples of all lands could be united under the Maker," she said, "Put an end to schisms and sectarian violence."

Something about what she said, though her voice was small and innocent, chilled Ten's blood more than the frigid mountain air. When they had spoken in Redcliffe, her talk of inquisition had seemed more of a populist statement, the idea that the Chantry could be remade to better serve the people. This sounded more sinister, less that the Chantry should serve all people, but that all people should serve the Chantry.

And what I said to Genitivi was wrong. Fortunately he's more of an academic that he is a true servant of the Chantry, or he would realize that. Truth is, if we let pilgrims up here, the story of this place is going to be whatever the Chantry says. There are more of them and they are better funded than anyone else. They will remake this cavern and that valley in the image of what Genitivi thought it would be. No other interpretations will be permitted, no shamans, no witch doctors. Better it belong to nobody at all than the Chantry.

"Well there's not," said Ten, "You're welcome to go out there and look for yourself, but don't blame me if you absolutely lose your head and wind up in a dragon's stomach. I'm not going to help. I am getting down off this damned mountain, I do not care who comes with me."

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the foothills, autumn was making its presence known even in the lower altitudes, turning leaves to red and gold, and chilling the air. They walked right past the place that Ten and Alistair had seen the archdemon fall at the foot of the mountain, the dent its had made in the snow having melted and crusted over several times, and its enormous footprints leading to a very creepy hole in the ground that not even Sten thought it was a good idea to explore. The weather was more clement as they made their way down into the Hinterlands, though every so often a gust would come down from the mountains to remind them all of what was coming.

"How confident are you that this is going to rouse the arl?" asked Wynne quietly as they made their way down the now-familiar road to Redcliffe.

"In all honesty? I think that it's entirely up to him," said Ten.

"And why do you think that?"

"Why some random powder that some lunatic plunked at the rim on a dormant volcano fetched by an elfin miscreant out of her damn mind on volcanic gasses isn't going to cure a man whose condition is entirely unknown to us?" asked Ten, "Really, Wynne, and I thought you were a scholar."

"So why did we do all that?"

"I genuinely thought we were going to find something different," said Ten, "I should have known better. It seems every time someone starts looking for the Maker, all they find is trouble. Hell, if the legends about the origin of the darkspawn are true, quite a lot of trouble."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Mostly with myself," she said, "You'd think in my line of work I'd have learned by now what is divine intervention and what's being drugged."

"Well, it's not as though you'd have been exposed to that before," said Wynne.

"I suppose not," she said.

Morrigan, still wary of the proximity to the Circle, elected to remain outside the village again. Sten went to go speak with Murdock and check on the status of a militia he yet thought of as his own. Lelianna begged off again, saying something cryptic about Chantry business, but Ten watched as instead of heading to the Chantry she made a beeline for a house on the docks. Zev and Wynne went off to the village inn, Zev in search of a new venereal disease, and Wynne in search of a proper bed.

"You can do the honors," said Ten, handing the flask with the 'ashes' to Alistair, and seating herself by the river.

"You're not coming?"

"Statistically speaking I'm just going to get into another knockdown dragout with the lady of the house," she said, "And I think we've both had quite enough of that."

"So? Come on, it's not fair I missed seeing the last one. You owe me."

"You got the blow-by-blow from Cullen."

"But it's not the same as a ringside seat. But... in all seriousness," he said, "I don't know what conversation is going to happen in there, but I don't read people like you do. And I…"

"What?"

"Don't make me say it."

"Oh I'm going to make you say it," she said.

"I trust your judgment and I want your take on whatever happens," he admitted.

"Say the first part again."

"I trust your judgment," he sighed.

"Louder. I want it echoing through the hills."

"Can I just give it to you in writing?"

"Fine," she said, "But I want a seal on it."

"It'll be gilded. I promise."

"All right, I'll come. Let me take my earrings out. Man, I just stole these…"

They took off down the now-familiar road to the castle.

"Do you think it will work?" Alistair asked, "I thought you said it wasn't real."

"It's not not real. There was an urn, full of ashes or something vaguely resembling them, in a location specified in all of Genitivi's research," said Ten, "I don't see why the rest of it wouldn't be real. That's the thing about legends, most of them have a little bit of truth in them. A hundred years from now they're going to talk about us - if only as the two bumbling losers who damned the whole nation - and they'll still probably say I was human."

"What if it's poison?"

"It's not."

"How do you know?"

"I tried it."

She snickered and went ahead of him down the path as the predictable look of consternation came over his features, and he shook his head.

"You know you're crazy, right?" he called after her, hurrying to catch up.

"Do I ever," she said, "Come on, let's see if it works."

The bridge they had destroyed in the defense of the village had been completely replaced with a proper stone number, though a sturdier rope bridge was left intact beside it. There were actually guards on the towers now. Not as full a complement as the castle that size ought to command, but they were there. As they passed over the final span, Alistair raised his shield, which was emblazoned with the proper sigil, and the great portcullis was raised.

In the courtyard, rather than soldiers running drills, Ten was astonished to see were about a dozen children running about and shrieking with laughter. There was one adult, who was of medium height with short blond hair, wearing the sort of trousers and tunic that most noble men would wear. Ten was fairly sure it was a woman under there, but wasn't entirely sure. She was blindfolded, a scarf covering most of her face, and was lumbering around, lunging at the children in a game of blindman's buff.

"My lady!" one of the guards called from the top of the tower. Ten turned, thinking he was addressing her and just hadn't gotten a good look at her, but then she realized that he was addressing the one other grown person in the courtyard. "You have visitors!"

The adult tugged the blindfold off of her eyes, and shook her head briefly, getting her bearings. Ten's jaw dropped to the floor, recognizing Lady Isolde, her previously long hair cropped close, wearing men's clothes, and… looking well-rested and happy. Her eyes fell on them, and she grinned, hopping up and down and waving.

"Did you give her a head injury the last time you fought?" Alistair murmured to Ten.

"I didn't think I did," said Ten, "Though now I'm wondering if I might have knocked something loose."

The children gave a collective groan of disappointment.

"I am sorry, mes enfants, I have business to attend to!" Isolde announced, "Please, continue without me, I shall return." She handed the blindfold to the closest child to her, an elf maybe nine or ten years old, "And you, Danalis, you are it!"

She jogged up to the portcullis, where both Grey Wardens stood stock still and completely gobsmacked. She approached Ten first, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks - not the air-kisses that most Orlesians she had met performed, but genuinely.

"Teneira, ma belle, you have returned!"

"I have. It is… good to see you, my lady, and in such high spirits," Ten said, hesitantly.

"And it is good to see you as well, dear boy," Isolde said, reaching up and patting Alistair on the cheek. He flinched, but held his composure, "Is it good news?"

"It… is," said Alistair.

"Ah, so you have proven yourselves pure of heart! I knew you would," Isolde said.

"Did you…" Ten said, "What's with… all of this?"

"Well, it is like you said to me. I decided I was going to start doing whatever I want," she said, "The rules do not matter. I followed the rules and see where it got me, so I am trying something else. What do you think?"

"It… suits you, my lady," said Ten.

"Also do you have any idea how difficult it is to get into those gowns without a lady's maid?" she turned and shouted, "Connor! Come here and say hello!"

As one of the boys ran across the courtyard, Ten realized she had never actually lain eyes on the lad who had caused so much turmoil before. He was tall for his age, but not overly so, and still had full, babyish cheeks and long eyelashes. He ducked under his mother's arm and looked up at the Grey Wardens with bright eyes.

"Are you the ones who saved me?" he asked.

"Yes they are," said Isolde, "All right, run along." She released the boy and planted a kiss on the top of his head. Connor rolled his eyes.

Does he know that one day he will remember that embarrassing kiss and long for another? No, probably not. And there's no explaining it to him, is there. Fuck, I hope Dad's all right.

"Come, let's go inside. Eamon's condition is much improved, now that that infernal blood mage was not around to keep dosing him," said Isolde, "And we may hope that the relic you bear may help him even further."

Alistair and Ten glanced nervously at each other, but followed the arlessa into the grand entrance. Inside, the staid portraits of old nobility had been replaced with framed canvases that looked as though they had been painted by children in bright colors. Two of the three suits of armor in the front hall were wearing silken hats with feathers in them.

"You… redecorated," said Ten.

"I did! Thank you for noticing!" Isolde exclaimed, "Those old dusty portraits, they were so depressing. So I asked the children to make me some new paintings. These are much more cheerful, no?"

"Who exactly are those children?" asked Ten.

"Mostly refugees from Lothering, Arnthorn, and their surroundings," Isolde said, "Some orphans, some with their parents. They began pouring in a week or so after you left. It is… unfortunate, the reason we had the room, both in the village and the castle, but it is lucky that we had it."

"Is there a girl named Jamie among them?" asked Ten, her heart dropping.

Isolde, who was bustling through the hallways ahead of them paused, and turned, "Yes!" she said, "Jamesin Tullcott. She arrived here with her mother, I gave the mother work in the kitchens, the family lodging in the servants' quarters. She was out there in the courtyard, dark curls, you did not recognize her?"

"Her head was shaved last time I saw her," said Ten, taking stock of the kids in her memory, "Is her mother alive?"

"Yes! Her name is… it's a dreadful Fereldan name, Deontha or Diamhna or something… I certainly just butchered the pronunciation, whatever it is. I call her Dita," said Isolde, "Sad story. The darkspawn razed their farm, only Dita and Jamie survived. And to add insult to injury, Dita lost the child she carried not a few days later.

"Believe it or not I was around for that last bit," sighed Ten, "It's good to know she recovered. She was in fairly rough shape when I saw her."

"Really! I didn't know you were a midwife," Isolde asked, cocking her head.

"I'm an herbalist by trade, it's not the same skillset, but I'm useful," said Ten, "The kid saw me messing about with plants as I do and sent me to assist the midwife. Was she there with the refugees? Can't remember her name - middle aged, big woman, Orlesian name?"

"Oh, my new physician? Heloise Boncoeur?" Isolde said, "She... told me some of what took place. She actually mentioned the elfin herbalist who had helped her, I did not put... how do you say it... the two and the two together."

Alistair looked down at Ten in alarm. "Is that what had you all out of sorts in Lothering?"

"Delivering a dead baby doesn't exactly do wonders for ones emotional wellbeing."

Forget what you seen, Heloise's voice echoed in her mind, and Ten resolved to not speak another word on the topic.

"So that's what you meant by 'women's business.'"

"That's almost always what I mean by 'women's business.' Do you feel better knowing it?"

"No," he said.

"So stop asking," she said.

They followed Isolde through the castle, before so forbidding, but now seeming vibrant. Some of the portraits remained, but had been augmented with moustaches on the ladies, vibrant eye makeup and lip color on the men. It occurred to Ten as they went by that they were hung far to high for any of the children to have done it.

"Now!" said Isolde as they reached the door to the private suite, "We see shall what, if anything, the ashes of the Prophetess do. Do you mind waiting out here?"

"Not at all," Ten said.

The two of them sat themselves awkwardly at the Arl's meeting table. The office had gotten a cleaning since she and Lelianna had crept through the previous month. That was not a surprise, clearly the misfortune of the surrounding villages had been a boon for staffing Redcliffe Castle.

"Well it's a vast improvement from when I lived here," sighed Alistair, a little wistfully.

"Better late than never, yes?" Ten said.

"I suppose," he said, "I hate to think of the beating I would have gotten for doing half what those kids got up to."

"I can smack her upside the head again, try to put whatever's out of place back," Ten offered.

"No," he said, "It's all right. Good, even. It's just…"

"I know the feeling. Like, where was this version of you when I needed it?"

"Exactly!"

"You know," said Ten, "And don't take this as a lecture on forgiveness, you are free to hold whatever grudges you want to, but… I doubt Lady Isolde was yet twenty when she did all that. I don't think she's all that much older than we are."

"I did have that thought. Now that she doesn't tower over me. She does look... well, younger than Eamon certainly."

"So perhaps I did inflict some permanent brain damage, but it could also just be that she's figured herself out."

"Oh, that's not… ugh, has Eamon been the villain this whole time?"

"There's no such thing as a villain. People are complicated."

"I'm pretty sure there are a few villains out there," Alistair said, "That shopkeeper in Highever. He was a villain."

"Perhaps," said Ten, "He was a monster and needed to be stopped, and certainly got what was coming to him, but... who knows what happened to him to make him that way."

"Are you about to tell me Teyrn Loghain's mother never loved him properly and that's why he is the way he is?"

"Nah he's just a prick."

"Good, I was worried for a minute there."

"What, you think I'm not ruthless enough?! Andraste's left tit, what does a girl have to do…"

The door to the bedchamber banged open. Arl Eamon had received a haircut and trim of the beard since Ten had tiptoed through past his comatose form. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but made his way into the room with only a little help from a silver-headed cane. He paused, narrowing his eyes at them. He must have been an enormous man in his youth, but he looked somewhat diminished, stooped over. His voice when he spoke, though, was that of a commander. A man used to being listened to and not questioned. And one who, apparently, did not believe in saying 'hello.'

"Alistair, stop fraternizing with the help. Girl, get up and get us something to drink, will you? This is an important meeting and whatever my wife just gave me has my throat bone-dry."

Behind him, Ten saw Isolde's eyes go wide. Teagan was with them too, laughing behind his hand, clearly wanting to see how this one played out. Ten, making a spur-of-the-moment decision to have a little bit of fun, rose, dropped a curtsy, and said, "Yes, your excellency, right away." Someone - the actual maid, probably - had set out a pitcher of water and pewter glasses on a tray on a sideboard near the door. She turned her back and fetched it, taking her time.

"What street did you scrape her off of?" Eamon asked his wife, "Are we really that hard up for staff?"

"Well, yes we are, but…" Isolde stammered.

"Maybe you can train her as a proper lady's maid, provided she can lose that accent, and then you can stop wearing those ridiculous trousers," he said. He looked up at Ten as she placed the tray on the meeting table, "And girl, a word of warning, you're barking up the wrong tree with my ward there. I'll make you a deal, though, if you get my wife back to looking like a proper lady again, I'll give you a heads-up when someone with actual money comes through, and you can try your charms there."

"Eamon, that is not at all appropriate," Isolde started, her face going pink.

"What happened to you? This time last year you'd have beaten her with a shoe for even daring to sit at that table. I fall ill and everything falls to shambles," the arl grumbled. He looked around the table, then turned to his brother, "I thought you said there were two Grey Wardens here. Where's the other one?"

"Well that's a good question. Where on earth did he get to?" Teagan, who had evidently found the previous exchange entirely too amusing, asked, "Check under the table, maybe. Or behind the curtains!"

"It's her," said Isolde, gesturing at Ten, clearly not delighting in her husband's confusion nearly as much as Teagan was.

"Don't be ridiculous, dear," said Eamon, "Alistair, where's the other Grey Warden?"

"It's her," Alistair said.

"Is this one of your pranks?" Eamon asked, "You're decidedly too old for them now."

"No Ser," Alistair said, "She is, in fact, my colleague and you probably ought to apologize to her."

Eamon looked back at his brother, "They're having a laugh, right?"

Teagan shook his head.

"I'm out of it awhile everyone gets delusions of grandeur, I see," Eamon sighed, "All right, I'll play this game. Sit down, girl."

"Yes, your excellency," she said, this time her tone mocking, sat herself back down and crossed her arms over her chest.

Eamon positioned himself in the grandest chair at the head of the table, laying his cane across his lap, "So, the version I got was darkspawn are spilling out of the wounds of the earth, the Teyrn of Gwaren has decided that this would be a good time to stage a coup, the lands are in chaos, and the throne is void of royal behinds. Do I have that all right?"

"That's the long and short of it," said Alistair.

"Well, it seems like the first order of business is to get the peers of the realm together and get rid of Teyrn Loghain. I won't lie, I'm looking forward to that bit. Arrogant prick," Eamon said, "As to who will replace him, Anora is obviously out, she is his daughter and who knows where her loyalties lie. We have no legitimate heirs from the Theirin family, and so… we must look to the illegitimate."

Ten narrowed her eyes. She was planning to keep her mouth shut for as long as possible.

"Me? No. No. Absolutely not," Alistair said, "That is the craziest thing I've taken in all day and I just walked by suits of armor wearing ladies' hats. Ser, you are an accomplished statesman and you were the last king's uncle. Surely there is another way."

"I would look like an opportunist. Teagan would be seen as a play on my part. Not a good choice. So, Alistair, the once unthinkable has come to pass, and it is time for you to step up and do your duty."

All those years married to an Orlesian and the man still can't keep his cards close to his chest.

"No. No! I… I can't," Alistair said, unable to keep the panic out of his voice, "No. This is insane."

"Your Excellency," said Ten, leaning forward on the table, pitching her voice low, trying to remember to pronounce her 'r's. "With all respect due, this is a terrible idea."

"Look at me when you talk, girl," Eamon barked. He clearly was not expecting her to take part in this little exchange, "And explain yourself. He's the son of King Maric. He has a claim by blood."

"I'm right here," Alistair protested.

"So does half the court, if gossip is to be trusted," asked Ten, forcing herself to meet the arl's eyes, which were a watery blue, as though the color had been leached out of them by age and illness, "You're opening the door to a war of succession."

"What in your great elfin wisdom do you think will happen?"

Ten paused. He was not expecting her to answer. She leaned forward, "Every backwater arl and bann of no renown, maybe even some ambitious member of the grand bourgeoisie is going to show up saying their nephew or stepdaughter or housekeeper's son is one with an equal or greater claim than Alistair's. There will be pretenders from every house and city. It will be chaos."

"The peers of the realm, the ones who knew the old king will take one look at him and know who he is," said Eamon.

"I'm right here," Alistair said again, more insistently.

"I know of at least one other man for whom that would also be true," Ten said, "And where there are two, there are likely three."

"This nation has been tearing itself apart for years, with the exception of my lands.," said Eamon, "The only army larger than mine is Teyrn Loghain's, which is at the moment being slowly eaten away by those savages on the Bannorn. By the end of this Blight, my army will dwarf those of any rivals. I do not care if there is a war of succession, because I am assured that my faction - our faction - will win it."

Ten felt the ice creep up her spine. Well, you don't get to be the head of the third or fourth most powerful family in the land by being a pushover. Still, this is cold even by nobles' standards. I don't doubt if he puts Alistair on the throne he's going to pull the strings just like Loghain did to Cailan - and would have no qualms about staging a hunting accident if he doesn't cooperate.

"I can't listen to this. I have to… go be somewhere else," Alistair announced and, without anything further, got up from the table and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Ten and Eamon watched the door close, looked at each other, and decided that, yes, the conversation could absolutely continue in his absence.

"Ask the people your gentle wife has so kindly assisted," Ten said, "Ask those who watched their families slaughtered and homes burned if they would like another decade of war."

"Would you have me ask the common folk of this land permission to use the privy as well?" Eamon countered.

Ten bristled, but held her tongue.

"Eamon, she has a point," Teagan interjected, "This is going to look like a grab for power on your part just as much as it would if you suggested I take the throne. It will lead to further conflict."

"You're listening to this elf? I'm amazed you can even understand a word she says, she's like a stock maid character out of play," Eamon demanded.

"She's a Grey Warden," said Teagan, "She saved your village. She saved your son. She saved your life. She is owed consideration."

"She is," echoed Isolde, "It was she who insisted that Connor could be cured rather than put to the sword. She moved heavens and earth to save our boy."

Eamon turned back to Ten, the expression on his face not really softer, but more interested, "Very well. What would you have us do?"

"I don't know yet," said Ten, "I haven't been in the capital in over a month and my last stay was short, and so have not had my admittedly pointy ears to the ground in months. But, with a little time and some reconnaissance, I will either find a better plan or be satisfied that yours is the best we're going to do."

The arl looked at her for a long moment, trying to decide whether her audacity was merited, or simply audacity. Isolde leaned forward and whispered something in her husband's ear.

"Very well. I'll indulge this little charade. It costs me little. Go to Denerim," said Eamon, "Learn what you can. I will write a letter to my butler at my city estate, you may stay there while you investigate."

"Step up in the world for a drudge from the Alienage," Ten chuckled, "I appreciate your consideration. Now, I fear I must excuse myself, it appears my primary quest has become making sure the man you want to put on the throne is not currently drinking himself into a stupor and acting the fool in public, which is what he did the last time something upset him this much."

"I… haven't laid eyes on the boy in years. I suppose I do not know what kind of man he is," said Eamon, "Though, I admit that little display does give me pause. Is he all right in the head?"

"He's not mad, if that's what you're asking," said Ten, "But... he has only recently been pushed out into a world he wasn't prepared for when he was far too old to adapt quickly."

"What happened last time?" the arl asked hesitantly.

"He tracked down his half sister. You know, the one whose rent you've been paying for twenty plus years?" Ten said. Isolde turned to her husband, her expression quizzical and furious at the same time, "I'm sorry, my lady, did you not know about that?"

Eamon, for the first time, looked surprised.

"Missus MacCathaíl is not terribly amused that the payments stopped, and had quite a few things to say, your excellency," Ten continued, "Things which have left me with a few burning questions."

The Arl shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his left hand fiddling with the head of his cane. I do so love it when they squirm.

"Alistair's mother didn't actually die in childbirth, did she?"

Eamon blanched and, all of a sudden, looked a lot more like he had the first time Ten had laid eyes on him. Isolde and Teagan both looked at him in alarm.

"If it was that simple, you wouldn't have lied to the daughter about the baby dying too," she continued, "And it makes perfect sense. If what you want is a pawn, a bargaining chip, maybe a wrench you can throw in the Crown's gears when you choose to, it's a lot cleaner if there's nobody left alive to contradict your story."

The arl sat there, silent and dumbfounded while Ten rose from the table and went to leave.

"You don't have to answer," she said, "Just remember who your friends are." 

"Girl," he said, finally, as she had her hand on the door, "Have you ever considered a career in politics?"

"Was that a job offer, your excellency?" Ten said, laughing, "Alas, I am otherwise occupied for the foreseeable. Though perhaps you should check my references. Ask your noble friends what they know about Teneira Tabris."

She made brief eye contact with Teagan, who was still smirking, and walked out, letting the door slam behind her.

Chapter Text

It was dusk by the time Ten made it to the village inn, where she was fairly sure she would find her errant companion. It was, like most of the village, set against a cliff. Half, which she imagined was the original building, was built on solid ground, and the rest of it was a sight to behold - evidently some genius or likely several had decided it would be a brilliant idea to continue building up and out, up and out, until an entire half of the structure extended out over the cliff. It was, thankfully, braced by haphazardly placed oaken posts that Ten suspected were repurposed masts. Still, the path to the door was steeper than she would have liked, and she wondered how many unsuspecting drunks had managed to injure themselves by losing their balance and toppling back down it.

When she made it up the path, and then up the stairs, and over to the main door which hung precariously over the river below, she found to her chagrin that it was mostly people she knew drinking there. Zevran and Lelianna were seated at the bar, staring into a bottle of red wine sat between them as though they could charm it into being of better quality. Wynne was, to Ten's amusement and shock, seated at a table with a man probably twenty years her junior who seemed to be trying very hard to impress her. In fact, the only people she did not know were a group of fairly rough-looking mercenary types who looked to be passing through. And, as she had predicted, Alistair was sitting on a bench in a dark corner with a bottle of whiskey and a glass, staring into absolutely nothing.

Well, at least he bothered with the glass.

"The solution to the problem at hand is almost certainly not at the bottom of that bottle," she said, seating herself beside him on the bench.

"Not in the mood, Tabris," he said, "You can drink with me and listen to me rant or you can piss off."

"Fine," she said, "Remember I hold my liquor better than you, though."

She went to the bar to get a glass and sidled in beside Lelianna.

"What happened?" asked Ten, "I thought you were going to call on whats-her-face."

"Alas, her husband is home," sighed Lelianna, "It appears she is wed to one of the knights of land, he had been in search of the Ashes much as we were. It was a most awkward conversation, if you must know."

"Oh I must," said Ten.

"Well he sat me down in their living room and asked me all sorts of questions about what we had found in the mountains," she said, "As though there were nothing untoward about me attempting to call upon his wife."

"Well that's probably good news," said Ten, "Otherwise you'd be fighting a duel in the village square and I truly do not want to be your second for that. Sten might."

"I suppose," sighed Lelianna, "She really could have told me she was married."

"Ooh, that is bad form," Zevran remarked, "Would it have stopped you?"

"Absolutely not," Lelianna chuckled.

"You are the worst nun I've ever met," said Ten.

"Lay sister," Lelianna corrected her.

"Still, I can't imagine the Maker smiles on adultery."

Lelianna made a dismissive gesture. "The Chant can say whatever you want it to say." She took a sip of her wine and cringed.

"Why would you order a bottle of wine in a place like this?" asked Ten, shaking her head.

"I heard that!" the barkeep, a portly man with sideburns for the ages, called from the opposite corner of the bar.

"Do you like domestic wine?" asked Ten.

"No, it's swill," he replied, "But it's hard getting imports outside the port cities, especially in the middle of a war, so your friends should be grateful they have it."

Ten reached into her pack and handed Lelianna a bottle where the barkeep could not see.

"I still have the key to the castle's cellars," she said, "Paid it a visit on my way out. There's more back at camp."

"You are a valuable friend," said Zev, "Tell me it is at least Antivan."

"Do not listen to him, we all know Orlais has the best vineyards," Lelianna corrected.

"I think it's Nevarran?" Ten said, "I didn't look at the label. But tell me something, in exchange for this gift. Dour McDrunkface over there, how long has he been here and has he done anything stupid?"

Both looked over at Alistair, who had barely moved.

"I did not even see him come in," Lelianna said, knitting her brows.

"Ugh. One day you will need to explain to me why you are so committed to that man's wellbeing," Zev grunted, rolling his eyes.

"Because the Maker has decided that in one fell swoop He would take away any chance I ever had at having actual children, and then at the same time hand me a twenty-something toddler with a drinking problem," Ten said, "Such is my lot in life."

"If you played the martyr any better you would be dust in an urn on that mountain top," Zevran scoffed, "If he wants to drink himself to death, let him."

"After the archdemon is slain and the land is at peace he will be free to do so," said Ten, "But in the meantime, do you feel like picking up a broadsword and taking hits that'd knock me halfway to the Anderfells?"

"I… do not."

"So don't be a bitch," said Ten, "It's bad for the skin."

"Well we both know that's not true," Zev said, "After all, you and I are so very pretty."

Tired of waiting for the barkeep to finish his conversation with the regular at the end, Ten reached over and snagged a glass herself, and went back to try to mitigate whatever damage the unfortunate bastard was doing to himself. She poured her own glass full - the more she took, the less he'd have - and sat herself down again. She took a shallow sip, then a deeper one.

"Do you know what it's like, having people talking about you, arguing about you, like you're not even there?" Alistair asked morosely.

"Yes, I do. And I don't like it either," she said, "I'm sorry, but me just saying 'listen to him' wasn't going to do anything. All Eamon was ever going to hear was a boy whining about not wanting to do his chores. We'll find another way."

"No offense, Teneira, but this is a little bigger than even your scheming," he said.

"And what would you know about my ability to scheme?" Ten asked.

"I think your heart's in the right place, but I don't think even the canniest of elves has any idea what to do with the aristocracy."

"Fine," she said, "If you're resigned to your fate, I wish you well with it. I will sort out the Blight on my own. Good luck." So much for getting him out of this one with his head attached to his shoulders.

She drained her glass and set it on the table, rising to rejoin the much more personable duet at the bar. As she turned, he grabbed her by the wrist, a little harder than necessary.

"Wait," Alistair said, "Tell me what you'd do."

"Me? The thing you find when you hit the bottom of the barrel and keep digging?" she asked, "You're right, what could I know about it? Now let me loose, or I'll make a scene so embarrassing you won't ever show your face in this tavern again."

He dropped her wrist like a hot potato. "That's not what I meant, Ten. I'm sorry. Just… sit down."

"Say it," she said.

"I trust your judgment."

She sat back down, "What do you know about the institution of the Landsmeet?"

"It's when they get all the noble families in one room and make them vote," said Alistair, "Any member of the peerage can call one, I assume that's what Eamon means to do. As far as I can tell it's really that simple."

"Great how they understand democracy when it's only their own who get a voice," sighed Ten, "But I digress. There are, what, fifty noble families?"

"Probably more."

"But they all own estates in Denerim, right?"

"Some rent," Alistair said, "Or are just perpetual guests of others."

"All right, so step one, figure out who all of them are," said Ten.

"And do what?"

"Whatever will make them turn on Loghain," said Ten, now squarely in her element.

"But once Loghain is gone, who's in charge?"

"I don't know yet," said Ten, "I have this pipe dream of finding one of your errant siblings that was just raised and educated like a plain old commoner and who will keep that upbringing in mind to the throne. What I think Eamon is not banking on is that there are almost certainly plenty of others already playing the same game. We can't really be married to a single strategy, at least no until we know the board better. After you so dramatically left the room, I convinced Eamon to give us the run of his city estate to start getting the lay of the land."

"You what?"

"What I just said, do try to keep up. Unless you feel like sleeping in a damned snowdrift all winter, it's the best we're going to do and a damn sight better than we've been doing. There's no point in trying to travel once the snow sets in anyway, especially not to Orzammar. And so, while we are there, most of the lords whose castles are difficult to travel to and from in the winter will also be there. We will sweep up all the dirt we can find."

"Dirt? What do you mean?"

"Blackmail, of course. It's not my favorite method, but it is quite effective. I have access to some lines in some estates, of course, but I think we're going to have to go with the heavy artillery and go talk to the professionals."

"Professionals?"

"Whores," said Ten, "Come on, don't be crass. I'm friends with a few, of course you knew that already, but some of them don't trust me, so it's going to cost and I'm a little worried we might be outbid unless we secure some source of funding..."

"All right. I am officially too drunk for this," he said, "I'm sure whatever you just said was brilliant, but you're talking incredibly fast and you have this gleam in your eye I don't entirely trust. So let's get one thing out of the way. Who actually are you? And don't tell me you're a sweet elfin maiden with an alchemist stall, we all know that's bullshit."

"You got me, I am not actually a maiden, me being a widow of five and twenty, not that that's any of your business, creep," she said.

"You know full well that's not what I meant. Come on, Tabris, out with it."

She paused. Took another drink. Thought of the best way to phrase it.

"You made an observation, the last time we were sitting here much in the same circumstances, you punishing your liver for the sins of your family, me trying to get you to stop, that everyone, and I quote, 'just loves me,'" she said, "That's not really how I'd put it, but you weren't entirely wrong. It's less love, more... connections. I've done favors for a good many people, they may or may not love me, but they are generally well-disposed towards me and may even like to return one or two."

"Connections? You? I'm sorry, Ten, but I don't think your intimate friendship with every scullery maid and stable lad in Denerim is going to do much."

"Don't you?" Ten asked, raising her eyebrows, "Who do you think has absolutely unfettered access to every room of power in this land?"

"I don't follow."

"Do you think Eamon has ever been alone in the royal council rooms?"

"No, why would he?" asked Alistair, clearly not seeing where she was going with this.

"Exactly," said Ten, "But Aislinda Tabris, who happens to be married to my cousin Morran, does. She cleans it twice a week. Has the key, even. See, she got the job because her mother is blind, and she's used to picking things up, cleaning, and putting them right exactly back where she found it. And she's done it, without fail, for the last five years. Nothing, of course, is to stop her from reading everything she touches, though I'm fairly sure the housekeeper thinks she's illiterate. Do you think he's ever been in Teyrn Loghain's bedchamber?"

"If he were I'm sure it was none of my business. What exactly are you getting at?"

"Drystan - well, his mother named him Deranthias but he decided it sounded too foreign - Kovalis, whose wife sells fish from the stall next to mine, does. He's his valet. When he's in town, anyway. Has been for ten years or so."

"So you..." Alistair looked at her with a new interest, "I never even thought about that."

"We know you better than you know yourselves," Ten declared, "And that's just the domestics. Sure, various banns might think they control whatever gets produced in their little parcels of nowhere, but everything rolls through Denerim eventually and none of the work is actually done by the ones who own the land. The whole city is a web of interests, all you have to do is tug on the right strands. My people just control some of the information, but I'm in contact with those who have a stranglehold on commerce, diplomacy, industry… you get the picture, yes?"

"And you're going to deploy all of this?"

"Well don't let it go to your head," said Ten, "This is in my interest as well. This is going to be absolutely legendary. Whoever winds up on that throne is going to be so beholden to those who put them there that not a single policy against us will be made for generations."

"You think I'd hurt your people?" said Alistair.

"Do you want out of this, or not?" Ten asked.

"I mean, I do, I'm just…"

"Then stop making it about you," she said, "There's a greater good to be accomplished here."

"But it is a little bit about me, isn't it," he said, "Be honest. You think I'd do a shit job, don't you."

"That's not what I said."

"But you think it. I know it."

"Why do you care?" she asked, "Right now, our interests are aligned. You don't want to be king. I don't want the nation to fall to shambles even more than it already has."

"Ouch."

Ten rolled her eyes and poured herself another dram, "It's not an insult."

"Sure sounded like one."

"Politics is filthy business and you're pure as the driven fucking snow," she scoffed, "The aristocracy would eat you alive and the diplomats would come along and carry off whatever's left."

"So what if they did? What do you care? I'm a means to an end for you just as much as anyone else."

"Fuck's sake," she muttered, "You're just committed to the bit right now. I told you, I'm on your side this time."

"Sure," he said sullenly, "This time. Until the Blight's done and you can walk away, go back to the life you were supposed to have."

"I took the fall for every elf in that castle, there's no order of conscription that's going to save my hide long term," said Ten, "Maybe they can't execute me via legal means, but if you think what I did is just going to be let go..."

"What do you mean every elf in that castle?" Alistair asked, "I thought you were supposed to be the wee girl who killed all those fighting men by herself."

She sighed. No sense in hiding this bit, there was precious little else that could be done either way. "It wasn't just my husband that came to try his hand at my rescue. My cousin Soris was with him. He killed some of those guards. There was a serving girl, too, she helped us sneak up to the private wing. And then when we found my cousin Shianni, she got Vaughan to the ground first. Took his eyes. I cut him up. But she took him down."

"So you lied when they caught you. Knowing what they were going to do to you?" said Alistair.

"They didn't catch me, I turned myself in," she corrected.

"You what?!"

"You heard me. I gave myself up. We all know how it works. I give them a spectacle, let them string my guts above the grand gate, stick my head on a pike on the bridge, whatever sick shit those people spend their lives dreaming of, and in exchange, they leave my family alone. If your sainted Duncan hadn't shown up it'd be business as usual back home, but here I am, they're locked down, and Maker knows what is going on in there."

"But you'd be dead."

"And probably a lot better off than I am right now."

"Well now I feel like a total ass," Alistair sighed, "May as well tell me to get some real problems."

"That's not my point," said Ten, "You clearly still don't trust me entirely. I don't blame you for that, I wouldn't trust me either. But I need you to understand the lengths I will go to to keep my people safe."

"And I'm one of your people now?"

"There was a whole ritual about this," she said, "Two men died over it. You were there, remember?"

"I suppose so," Alistair admitted.

"Duncan didn't pluck me from the dungeons for my strength. He witnessed firsthand what a complete lunatic I am once I have my mind on something," said Ten, "Look, don't tell anyone I said this, but I can't imagine abandoning you to the tender mercies of court and all the rivals therein any more than I could leaving my little cousin on the floor in that castle."

"You were right. I really don't deserve you," Alistair said, his voice rueful.

"Yes you do. I am divine punishment for having a juvenile sense of humor."

"I didn't mean it like that," he said. He took down the rest of his glass, "Would you look at me, for once? I think sometimes you miss half of what I mean to say because you're staring at the ground while you hear it."

She sighed. Turned her head, met his eyes. They really were very dark, especially ringed by pale lashes as they were. He's younger than he looks, isn't he. The lines around his eyes were bestowed, not earned. All these burdens and absolutely no idea how to handle them.

"Why is this important to you?" she asked, gesturing from her own face to his.

"It bothers me that you don't," he said, "Makes me feel like you're scared of me, like I did something wrong. And I know it's not me, just people who look like me, but that's somehow worse."

"What do you want to hear? That you're one of the good ones?"

"Well… yes. I think so."

"Jury's still out on that one, but we'll see."

"All right, you can stop, it's kind of creeping me out."

"Oh thank the Maker, that was getting incredibly awkward," Ten sighed, turning her eyes back to the table and laughing. He slung one arm around her shoulder and tugged her against him for a moment in a weird sort of half-hug, "Oh… that's new," Ten commented, "I... think I should go. And you should stop drinking."

"Aww no, come on, we were just getting to the good part. What about the grand conspiracy?" he protested as she got up to leave.

"Say it louder, why don't you," Ten sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Did someone say grand conspiracy?" Lelianna said, turning from her bar stool, the grin on her face a bit more than cheeky, "You can't possibly be scheming without me, Teneira, I will be quite hurt."

"Fine," sighed Ten, sitting back down, "Pull up a chair, I suppose you've been as deep in my counsel as any…"

"You are not leaving me out of this," Zev exclaimed, following the good sister over. He pulled one of the chairs out from the table, turned it around, and sat, leaning on the back of it, "So, has she finally loosed her tongue about whatever great secret she has been hiding?"

All three others were silent for a moment.

"What?" Zev looked around the table.

"Usually such a turn of phrase is followed by a filthy joke," Lelianna observed.

"We were just giving you the floor so you could say something salacious about me," Ten said.

"Ah, you're right," Zevran sighed, "Alas I have let the opportunity slip through my fingers. Unlike that time when…"

"When what?" Lelianna asked.

"I have nothing, I really thought one of you would stop me," Zev said, putting his hands up, "So, what is it, manita? International woman of mystery? Mafia princess? Courtesan to the rich and well-connected?"

"Nothing of the sort. I just... fix things," she said.

"What sorts of things?"

"All sorts of things," she said, "Say a copper I don't like gets assigned to my quarter? He gets reassigned and his commanding officer doesn't get exposed for his affair with the captain's wife. Someone tries extorting elf-run businesses? He has a convenient bout of apoplexy. Crooked contractor has an accident, loses a foot and gains a newfound respect for laborers. Of course I've only tried all this on nobility a few times, but the principle stands. Sometimes I fix things for other people, powerful people, and now they're my friends."

"Well we all knew it was something like that," said Lelianna, "She did not learn the fine art of blackmail from the Grey Wardens, after all."

"Oh, so you already have people in your pocket and haven't bothered to tell me," Alistair exclaimed, "Whom, exactly, have you blackmailed?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be nearly as effective, would it," Ten said, crossing her arms.

"No, you have to tell him," Lelianna said, "Conspiracies only work if everyone involved trusts every other and if he knows you're holding out on something so minor, he won't."

"And how would you know that?!" Ten asked, raising her eyebrows.

"A well-run abbey makes the Imperial Court look like a little girl's tea party," Lelianna said.

"If you say so," Ten said, though the fishy smell she was getting off of Lelianna's words did not dissipate. She turned to Alistair, "The Arlessa of Redcliffe's change of heart may have been more than age or a head injury."

"What did you get on her?" asked Alistair, "Is she actually having an affair with Teagan?"

"No, well. Maybe. But that's not it. Do you remember the other thing we discussed around that same time?"

"Oh no," Alistair groaned, "She didn't."

"She did," said Ten.

"And you just let her get away with it?"

"Would you rather she be dead, or doing whatever I say?" asked Ten, "Whispering in Eamon's ear. Diverting funds to our coffers. If she truly wanted him dead he'd have expired while we were off chasing legends."

"And you took that risk!" Alistair exclaimed. He made to pound the table, but stopped himself. Shook his fist out. Took another drink, "You didn't even tell me. You just decided what to do, all on your own. Teneira the Genius says it, it must be so! You should be queen with that attitude."

I probably should.

"Well we wouldn't be worried about this would we," said Ten."

"Ugh, I don't know what to do with this information," Alistair sighed.

"Nothing," said Lelianna, "You will do nothing. You will let the old man go to his pyre believing he has a happy marriage with his former child bride. I have the evidence secreted away where nobody, not even Ten, will find it, and if you run in there leveling such an accusation with no proof, they will treat you like the ranting madman you are."

"It also gives us leverage against the palace," Ten said gently, "We have evidence that it was Teyrn Loghain that set it into motion. He offered to write a dispensation for Connor. Allow him to inherit, not have him locked up in that tower until the end of his days. You saw those little kids, all alone with nobody but…" she looked over at Wynne, who was now leaning over the table, appearing to be very interested in what her young - well, younger - companion had to say.

"Stop making me feel sorry for her," Alistair grumbled, "So what, did you use this blackmail to get her to start acting like an overgrown child?"

"We had a little chat after the last match," said Ten, "She seemed a bit jealous that the good sister and I get to do what we want, and I may have said to her that she could really do what she wants as well. I suppose she took that very seriously. And so long as 'whatever she wants' is playing schoolyard games with refugee children and defacing noble portraits, who am I to judge?"

"I am far more curious about the rest of it," Zevran said, "How did you conjure an apoplectic fit?"

"Poison, of course," she said.

"What poison does that?"

"Quite a few actually. Aconite would do in a pinch but it has a distinctive bitter flavor, hard to sneak it into food or drink without being caught. There's also a particular type of salt that collects in the sea caves up along the Storm Coast, but that's far too expensive for everyday use," said Ten, "My favorite is one secreted by these enormous salamanders that live in swamps outside Amaranthine, though."

"How enormous are we talking?" asked Lelianna, morbidly fascinated.

"Think of the biggest housecat you've ever seen," Ten said.

"Ugh!" Lelianna exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, you think that's gross?" Ten continued, grinning, "When they're good and scared, they cover themselves in this mucus that just sort of oozes out of their skin, poisons anything that tries to eat them."

"I am so very much going to regret asking this," Alistair sighed, "How do you collect it?"

"You grab one of them from above with both hands, they'll think they've been snatched by a hawk. You need a friend for this, my cousin would hold a bucket for me and, I'd grab one, give it a shake and it would just like… roll off it in these great slimy sheets."

Lelianna gagged.

"And then what?" asked Alistair, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in a combination of annoyance and disgust.

"It really only works on someone who's already not in top condition, but if you get the dosage right, it has an effect that looks a lot like his heart just… stopped. Like happens to old men sometimes," said Ten.

"And how do you get an old man to drink… that?" asked Zev, the tone of his voice conveying that he already knew he would not enjoy the information that was to come, but he could not keep himself from asking.

"It doesn't really taste like anything, the issue is the texture. Oatmeal's the easiest," said Ten, "It's already a bit slimy. That's how I did it. Though, I did sell some to a lady of the night one time who had just been written into the will of one of her longtime clients, and legend has it that she put it on her…" Ten paused, gestured at her own lap, "...and then he, well, you know…. and…"

"Give me that, I need to erase the memory of the last ten seconds," Zevran demanded, grabbing Ten's whiskey and taking a belt of it. Ten cackled gleefully, proud that she had managed to induce such consternation even in the most licentious of her companions.

"I didn't understand that, but if it was vulgar enough that Zevran is disgusted, I think I'll keep it that way," Alistair announced.

The good sister, however, was intrigued. "That is diabolical," said Lelianna, "And impressive. It didn't hurt the lady, putting it there?"

"Apparently not," said Ten, "You have to swallow it. Last I saw her she was sitting pretty in the apartment bought with the inheritance, and that was not two years ago."

"Speaking of tongues doing things they ought not to, what made you loose yours, Teneira?" asked Lelianna, "You have been cagey for months."

"I didn't need help before," she said, leaning over the table, "But now I do. See, I have a mind to pull one of the greatest stunts that has ever been pulled. A grand bit of intrigue. A gambit for the ages."

"And how can we assist with that?" asked Lelianna.

"You understand the importance of secrets," said Ten, "And you have absolutely no scruples, despite your constant paeans to the Maker - don't look at me like that, you know I'm right. And you, Zevran, are willing to stoop to depths very few are comfortable with."

"So why's he here?" asked Zev, nodding at Alistair, "What's he good for?"

"Well, while we are saving the country, it might have the side effect of saving Alistair's sorry behind as well," said Ten, "I hope that doesn't dissuade you."

"Fine," Zev said, reluctantly.

"What exactly is your problem with me?" asked Alistair, "I've never once had an unkind word for you."

"Quite frankly, I wish you would," said Zev, "The whole wide-eyed guileless ingenu routine is just so boring. And you're so desperate for everyone's approval, it's pathetic."

What followed was as awkward a silence as Ten had ever experienced.

"All right, then. It seems I do have a few unkind words for you," said Alistair, finally, "Mate, you put on a good show but it's clear to everyone around you that you are deeply insecure. I get the sense you don't actually like going around propositioning anything with two legs, but it's the only way to keep a that hope alive that for fifteen minutes or so, you can pretend that someone actually likes you. When that fails you just decide to say the most repulsive thing that comes to mind so you can take some messed up satisfaction in having made everyone else's day that much worse because doing that lets you feel like you're in control for a few minutes. Honestly, if you hadn't spent the last month going out of your way to be such a raging prick to me, I'd probably pity you."

Zevran was silent for a moment. Ten held her breath, wondering if she was going to have to try to break up a full on brawl and, if so, how. But then Zevran burst out in a full-on fit of cackles, to the point that he had to push his chair out from the table, doubled over with laughter. Ten looked nervously between the two, sipping her whiskey twice until the fit subsided.

"I really thought there was going to be at least one slur in there," said Zev, recovering himself, swiping the back of one wrist over his eyes, "I am impressed. Not so wide-eyed after all, I see. Very well, I'm in."

"Does anyone else have any grievances to air?" asked Ten, "I feel like we'd best get it out of the way now."

"Ten, you're an arrogant, self-righteous, know-it-all and you're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are," Alistair declared.

"Anyone else?" Ten asked.

"You have about four or five personalities, two of them are tolerable," Zev added.

"Lelianna?"

"Sometimes I wonder why the Chantry teaches that the Maker has abandoned us, and then I listen to you rant for five minutes and I begin to think they have a point," Lelianna said, "I would do the same in His shoes."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Ten, before anyone else could impugn her further, "And despite all of that, all three of you are sitting here, wanting in on my brilliant plan. So, here's what we do…"

Chapter Text

They took the south road this time, if only for a little variety, passing through the same Hinterlands landscape, this time glowing with autumn's brilliance, through the burnt out hulks of houses, many of which had collapsed with the weight of the vines that had grown over them. They passed through the little canyon where Zevran had ambushed them, Ten making sure to point out where the rubble still covered bodies beneath that little cliff, lest he forget how soundly he had been bested there, but a few weeks before. In the fortnight it took to reach Denerim, the weather had decidedly turned, still warm by day, but the nights had them shivering and Ten reluctantly began accepting the pungent company of Pigeon in her tent to stave off the worst of it. They encountered but one fearsome whining of bagpipes far off in the hills of the Bannorn, and were able to avoid it with only a few hours delay.

They reached Denerim after nightfall on the fifteenth day, the sleep guard on duty waving them through with a show of a letter with Arl Eamon's seal on it. Ten had never been in this estate - it was, after all, usually empty, Eamon rarely coming to court. As promised, the guard at the gate let them in with a similar flash of the invitation, and his butler, Gwylan - well, it had been Engalian, but, like many elves in service he had adopted a more human-sounding names for the comfort of his employers - he had been serving at the estate since he was a lad and barely remembered the name he was raised with - Eilvaris, came to the door in his pajamas. Gwylan, a sour-faced elf in his mid fifties, was a first cousin to Lydeia, Ten's aunt by marriage. According to everything Ten knew about him, he had never married nor kept a home in the Alienage, preferring to make his home where he worked and only visiting on holidays, meaning the comings and goings of the elves of town did not concern him, nor did lockdowns. Ten didn't blame him for that, after all, unlike many backwater nobles who preferred the city, the master of the house was rarely there, and so he would have the run of the place, though she wished he were more forthcoming with information when requested. He closed it behind them and stood at the top of the stairs, his arms crossed.

"Teneira Tabris, this has got to be the most ridiculous joke you've ever played," he announced. She caught herself before rolling her eyes. Gwylan had spent the last decades trying to lose the working-class accent, and while he mostly had succeeded, Ten found the mismatch between features and voice to be grating.

"Good to see you too, Gwylan," she said, "I assure you it is not a joke."

"Well the master of the house sent a pigeon with a message saying to let his bastard ward and some uppity knife-eared trollop he was traveling with stay for as long as they pleased," he said, "I should have known who the knife-eared trollop was. Nobody ever managed to be quite as uppity as you. Which begs the question - which one of you lot is the bastard ward?"

Alistair raised his hand tentatively.

"So who the hell are the rest of you? Actually, you know what, I don't care. Just, come in before someone spots you and it ruins the master's reputation. We've had rooms made up in the non-state guest wing."

Ten hated to think of how well-appointed the state guest wing was, given what was made available to them in the second best one, up two flights of a grand staircase with windows overlooking the Chantry yard below and the markets beyond on one end and the Drakon River on the other. The rooms were not large, but there were plenty of them, and they had actual feather mattresses, fireplaces, and washbasins next to the fireplaces, great cisterns providing moderately warm water for that purpose at all times of day or night. There was also a common room with quite a large fireplace, bookshelves - which contain, to Morrigan's delight - several raunchy book series that she had not yet read.

"Don't destroy the place," Gwylan said dismissively, "The chambermaids have banked the fires for the night, they'll be up in the morning to restart them, so if any of you people prefer to sleep in the nude, this is not the place for it."

"Why are you looking at me?" Zev asked, crossing his arms.

"I know your type," Gwylan said, "Breakfast is at seven, we won't bring it up to you, you'll have to go down to the kitchens. And that down there just now is the last time you'll be coming in the main entrance. It's the side or back doors from now on, I wouldn't want to raise a scandal at a time like this."

"Why are you looking at me?" Ten asked.

"Did you not just butcher the arl's son in cold blood three months ago?" Gwylan asked.

"It wasn't in cold blood…" Ten said, "And surely you heard what happened."

"Yes," said Gwylan, "I don't care whose fault it was, it was still a scandal. I shudder to think of poor Missus Pughsbury at the arl's estate. She has been at the Chantry every morning at dawn, praying for forgiveness for whatever she has done to bring such shame on her household. We cannot have that here. The Orlesian bride was bad enough, now there's a mage child raising the dead and a troupe of filthy ne'er do wells with their boots on my clean floors."

"Well, I suppose I'm sorry you actually have to work for once," Ten said, "We'll endeavor to be quiet and out of your hair." What's left of it, anyway.

"You certainly will. It is far past my contractual bedtime. The Arl will be hearing of this. Coming and going like thieves in the night..."

"Well perhaps you ought to get to bed then, Gwylan, can't have you this cranky for our entire stay," Ten said.

The butler closed his eyes, took a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. "I live to serve. I live to serve." He murmured to himself as he turned and left the suite.

"Explain," Sten said, as the door to the wing clicked closed, "What are we to do in a place like this?"

"Does it snow in your homeland?" asked Ten.

"Rarely."

"So do you understand how it might be dangerous to be out on the road for the winter?"

"It is not yet winter."

"But if we were to venture either to Orzammar or try to track down the nearest band of Dalish, winter would come on before we had the opportunity to get back. We are best served by conserving our strength and resources, and taking care of some business while we are here."

"Bodric the Bear did not fear the winter," Sten grumbled. He was kicking up a fuss, to be sure, but he had already put his things in the largest of the rooms, the only one that boasted a bed large enough that he could comfortably fit himself on it. He'd also kicked his boots off. Ten, to whom it had never occurred before that there might be other physiological differences between qunari and the rest of them, tried very hard not to stare at his bare feet, which boasted long, pale toes, each with an extra joint compared to her own.

"And when I grow a great brown shaggy coat, neither will I," said Ten, "We have business in town that will take us through the first thaw."

"What sort of business?"

"I have a prank to play," Ten said, dismissively.

"And the darkspawn?"

"They don't travel well in the cold," Alistair offered, "They're from underground, they are the most dangerous when the weather is warm. They will likely retreat back to the Deep Roads until they can safely amass again."

"There is no sin in rest, my friend," Wynne said gently.

"Very well," Sten said, "A mighty warrior must take his rest as well.

"Wise man," said Wynne, "Now go on, to bed with you. The rest of you too. We have been walking ten to twelve hours per day for two weeks. Lie yourselves down."

Most of them obeyed. In fact, all of them but Ten and Wynne herself. Ten went to the common room with a sedative of her own making, a bottle of whiskey and a glass, feeling entirely too on edge to get any rest herself. Wynne followed her there, evidently wanting a word.

"I heard what you were plotting in Redcliffe," the mage said. She sat herself on one end of a grand divan before the fireplace, patting the seat next to her like Ten would have done for Pigeon.

"I suspected you might have," Ten sighed, "Would you like some of this?"

"Yes," said Wynne. Obligingly, Ten located another glass - they were kept on a shelf near one of the grand bookcases - and set it in front of the mage. She poured them each a dram.

"So, are you about to lecture me on getting involved in affairs of state?" Ten asked, taking a sip from hers.

"I am not," the mage said, "I merely… I misjudged you before."

"What did you judge me as?"

"A reckless lass," Wynne admitted, sipping from her own glass, "Throwing yourself at that demon ten times your size. Provoking Ser Gregoir into throwing you in with us."

"I am that," said Ten.

"But I thought first that you must have done it because you do not value your own life. But now I see that you are more calculated."

"What do you mean by that?" Ten asked.

"You have a way of setting your goal, and you move the people around you into whatever position would achieve that goal," said Wynne, "And then make them think it was their idea. All the bluster, the impudence, the spitting in the face of authority, it's a game you play, a show you put on. I just wonder how much of what we know about you is genuine."

"Would you like to hear about what I do behind closed doors?"

"I don't know," said Wynne, "Would I? I have heard that occasionally you disappear with someone else, and they walk out singing your tune as though they composed it themselves."

"Who have you heard that from?" asked Ten, cocking her head to the side.

"Everyone," said Wynne.

"I'm persuasive," said Ten.

"Or you know too much," said the mage.

"There's no such thing as knowing too much," said Ten.

"It can be dangerous," Wynne said, "I just think sometimes you don't see that that's what you're doing. It comes so naturally to you. Just be careful that you actually are acting for the greater good."

"What do you think is greater good here?" asked Ten, "Genuinely."

Wynne knit gray eyebrows and sighed, "I have been so far outside the experience of the everyday people of this land I doubt I could tell you. One of the effects of living as long as I have is that you begin to see all sides of many things."

Ten bristled. "I'm going to say this gently, because I do not think you speak with malice, but what exactly is the upside of relegating my people to the margins of society? No offense, Wynne, but at least there's a rational reason for sequestering mages. I'm not saying I agree with all or even most of the Chantry's practices, but the rationale is there. What is the reason for the status of elves? You said yourself you have had elfin apprentices. There were multiple elfin journeymen in that tower. Are they stupider, less capable, more prone to violence than your human ones?"

"No," said Wynne, "But the chaos that such a sea change would cause could be disastrous."

Ten took a sip of the whiskey. This was a rye, dwarven-style distillation that she had found buried beneath a hollowed out shack on the edges of the Bannorn, likely an abandoned smuggling hub. She let it burn her tongue for a moment before swallowing, and asked, "Disastrous for whom?"

"Disorder can be bad for everyone."

Ten sat back, regarding the elder mage skeptically. "Tell me something, Wynne. If we had not shown up when we did, and the authorization for the Rite of Annulment had come from Denerim, would you have done nothing? Would you have held those children close to you and just let the end come for all of you?"

Wynne looked at her in alarm, as though she had not thought about it. But she must have.

"Would you?" asked Ten, "Would you just… sit there? Let you and all those closest to you suffocate or burn? Or watch an army of templars put everyone you know to the sword and do nothing?"

"No," said Wynne, "I suppose I would have tried to escape."

"Now, let's pretend there's no escape," said Ten, "Pretend that every other place you go, you are going to run into the same problem. What would you do to defend them? Those kids who call you Nanna? Would you kill a templar? If it was him, or those children, and it was the only way. Don't act like it's out of the realm of possibility."

"That is an impossible question," said Wynne, "I suppose I would have to kill the templar. I have no idea what I'd do after that."

"So you understand the position I'm in," said Ten, "Impossible. I am being asked to put my life on the line to save this country and in doing so the very people whose boots have been on my throat since I was born. You cannot expect me to not at least try to use this opportunity to improve my peoples' lot."

"And you intend to do that by wheeling, dealing, blackmail, and extortion?"

"Better than pillaging, looting, and burning. What do you think the legitimate powers of this nation do? It's already going to be a hell of a winter, what with half the crops in the nation having been burned by darkspawn or marauding moordwellers," said Ten, "The longer the instability lasts, the worse it is for those of us who are not supported by the deep coffers of the Chantry."

"Tell me something," said Wynne, "Did you have something to do with Jowan's escape?"

"What would you do with that information?"

"I'm not in a position to do anything," Wynne said, "I simply wish to know."

"What would I have done? I was being pinned to the ground by a half-crazed noblewoman," Ten said, taking a sip of her whiskey.

"Yes, and if Cullen and Teagan are to be believed, it was that kerfuffle that led them to leave him alone in the tower."

"So you believe that I conspired with a woman with whom I have fairly longstanding enmity in order to, what, save the life of a mage I've exchanged all of twenty words with?"

"I suppose it's a little silly when you say it like that."

"And tell me something, Wynne," said Ten, "Who was the man you were sitting with in the tavern? Little young for you, yes?"

Wynne chuckled, "You should see the men my age. Most are dead, and the others ought to be."

"I suppose that is one benefit of not living to see fifty," Ten said, "Not having to look around at men my age and realize they're all bald and paunchy."

"Oh… I forgot. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," she said, "Every minute I had since being thrown into the dungeons is borrowed, and I intend to use all of them to their fullest."

"And this is doing that?"

"Exchanging barbs with an accomplished senior mage while drinking pilfered whiskey while sitting pretty in a manor house I don't have to clean?" Ten said, "Sure is."

"I'll drink to that," Wynne chuckled.

"Now," said Ten, "Unless you would like to be in on the very worst part of the wheeling, dealing, blackmail and extortion, you ought to leave me to my devices."

"And what's the worst part?"

"Making lists," said Ten. For emphasis, she pulled out a blank notepad she'd pulled out of the husk of a tax collector's office and a charcoal pencil.

"You're right, I don't want to be around for that," Wynne said, "Thank you for the drink."

"Anytime," said Ten. She waved as the mage left to go to bed, and started scribbling. She knew maids in several of the great houses, though she was not sure who was still employed there, especially since the lockdown. Something to ask whoever came around to sweep and stoke the fire in the morning, she supposed. She probably would not have access to any of the higher ups, the ones who could truly pull the strings of the minor nobles who answered to them but still had votes in the assembly. But she could figure out which ones were favored advisors. And as for the rest, the rest would be up to the commoners.

Then, as to contenders. She still had not managed to make contact with her old friend Ioan. She had a tiny pipe dream that perhaps he could keep his mother's identity under wraps long enough to be crowned. But, even if that miracle were accomplished, there was the problem of his marriage to a dwarven exile whose gender was a mystery to all but the most well-paying of their clients. Though, rumor had it that Han themself was the disinherited scion of a powerful family in Orzammar. There had certainly been some outlandish consorts in history, but this might be a bridge too far. Also the whole… prostitute thing. Much like the elf thing, it really shouldn't have mattered, but it certainly would. However, the last time she had seen Ioan, he had complained to her that his reputation had lead to several of his half-siblings seeking him out, and that they were all either dreadful bores or ambitious morons with aspirations that had gotten at least one of them executed. Step one would have to be pinning him down. She didn't like the idea of calling on him unannounced. His life and livelihood depended on keeping his origins under wraps, something she had always respected, and having elves just show up on one's doorstep did tend to raise questions among the neighbors. Although if she had to… she could just show up with another one of his half-siblings in tow, under the guise of wanting to make that introduction.

Teneira, she admonished herself, that would be low-down, even for you.

But it would work, wouldn't it…

And it wouldn't be manipulative if you just got Alistair on board with it…

And he would go with it, wouldn't he. Poor man's desperate to belong somewhere…

She shook her head at herself, took another dram of whiskey and turned her attention back to the peers of the realm.

Chapter Text

Ten woke up to the clanking of metal on stone and a wave of smoke. She started, forgetting where she was. Several sheets of paper drifted to the floor as she rose. The sour taste of stale whiskey plagued the back of her throat. Flashes of the previous night came back, and she realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa, the charcoal pencil still in her hand and several sheets of her work on top of her. She heard a soft chuckle, and saw that a chambermaid, poker in hand, was relighting the fire in the large hearth at the end of the room.

"Never thought I'd see you like this, Teneira Tabris," she said.

"What, hungover and covered in my own scribblings?"

"Well no, that's not a surprise at all, it's more that you're on the divan in the guest wing of a fine house and not in a gutter somewhere."

"And a good morning to you too, Missus Lin," Ten replied. Avrenis Lin was married to some in-law of Ten's mother, and so the two of them were not so closely tied that they would consider themselves family, but closely enough that it would have been weird for Ten or Shianni to hypothetically marry her son. This was moot, of course, as her oldest son was about twelve. Originally from the Marches and never quite having lost the accent, she'd been working in service her whole adulthood, and at the Arl of Redcliffe's estate for more than a decade.

"Gwylan said you were here," Avrenis said, setting her basket of firewood down. Out of habit, Ten got up and grabbed the broom, sweeping yesterday's ash into a dustpan and emptying it into the bucket Avrenis had been carrying with her for that purpose, "I thought he was joking at first. But, here you are, and looking not a whit different than on your wedding day."

"It wasn't all that long ago," Ten pointed out.

"Well I see you're not too fine a lady to sweep the hearth. That's good on you," she said.

"Some habits are hard to break," Ten acknowledged, "How have you been?"

"It's been a difficult few months, I won't lie," the chambermaid replied, "I haven't been home in ages, it feels like. Too much trouble to get an escort to the Alienage and back, what with the master never being here. Most houses have a human butler or at least housekeeper. Not here, though. All elves."

"Oh, Reni, that's hard," said Ten, knowing her youngest children were still quite young, "The little ones? They're all right with their dad?"

"They draw pictures they send to me," said Avrenis, "One of the scullery maids - Litha Novianis, do you know her? - fancies herself an acrobat, she has a way of sneaking across the rooftops. Takes our letters, brings theirs back, once every fortnight or so."

"Mallie Lee's flat," chuckled Ten, referring to the top floor tenant of a building in the Antivan quarter from whose roof one could climb right over the top of the Alienage wall and onto the roof of the building on the other side, "I thought we all knew that trick."

"Yes, and if you fear not the law nor for the integrity of your knees, it's a perfectly fine thing to do," Avrenis said, "Wait until you hit forty, they won't be the same."

"Not planning on it," said Ten, "And I'm sorry for my part in that."

"Well, we always heard from the girls who worked at the Arl Urien's estate. If half of it's true, he had coming what you gave him and then some," Avrenis said, "We were always so grateful our master's never here. He's decent, but some of his friends certainly are not. I haven't gotten my ass grabbed since I was your age and that brother of his was staying."

"Teagan! Really!" exclaimed Ten, "He doesn't seem the type."

"Well he's not anymore, he had to be about fourteen. Fancied himself grown, staying all by himself in the big city. One of the other noble lads probably put him up to it," said Avrenis, "Anyway, the housekeeper locked him in a closet and left him there for two days. Set him straight, I think." She crouched by the fireplace and coaxed the ashes back into a blaze, slowly feeding the dried sticks of maple in. "So, Ten, what exactly are you doing here and why is there charcoal all over your face?"

"I'm here on… well it's not strictly Grey Warden business, but it's related," said Ten, "We've been roped into trying to settle the matter of succession."

"Ah," Avrenis said, "That's what this is about. How did you find yourself tangled up in this one?"

"This one was not my fault, I assure you. What do you know about it?"

"I don't know what you think I would about it," Avrenis said, standing, "Just that according to Fara Avlian who sweeps floors at the palace, the queen's father has take up residence in the royal wing and started acting like he owns the place."

"Where is the queen in all this?" 

"Wouldn't know," said Avrenis, "Her help has gotten... tightlipped. Apparently her lady's maid begun staying in whatever chambers the girls are cleaning, looks over their shoulder, hushes them the minute they talk."

"Is she human?" asked Ten, "The lady's maid?"

"No, she's an elf, but not one of ours. She's foreign. Orlesian, I think," said Avrenis, "It would make sense. She thinks she's too good to associate with the rest of the staff, even the humans. And they all know she'd squeal to her mistress if anyone dared try to get anything out of her."

"What about Loghain himself?" asked Ten. They had reached the smaller common area at the end of the hall, this one only large enough to fit two chairs and an enormous fireplace. It was chilly, mostly because it had a door to a small balcony that looked out over the river on one side and bunch of warehouses on the other. Ten put the firewood down and grabbed the broom while Avrenis crouched and started scooping ashes into the pail.

"I did see Drystan the other day," Avrenis said, "But he's been keeping his own council. I think he's afraid that if he lets anything slip it'll be an excuse to keep the Alienage locked up tight for even longer, and he's losing his mind, not being able to see Yereni and his kids."

"What about the Arl of Denerim?" asked Ten, dumping the contents of the dustpan into the pail, "I heard they brought someone in earlier."

"Arl Howe of Amaranthine," said Avrenis, "Unpleasant fellow, but according to the kitchen girls, not one for getting handsy with the staff at least. Apparently he eats exactly ten sardines on toast for breakfast, though, stinks the place up."

"Ugh," Ten groaned, "How'd he get the job?"

"Buggered if I know," Avrenis said, feeding wood into the fire, "Must be sympathetic to the man who would be king. Or perhaps he has something on him. You can never tell with their kind. Which room is yours?"

"That one," Ten pointed to the one with the door open that she didn't manage to actually make it to.

"Good, I'll light your fire first, and then I really must suggest you have a bath and let me send those clothes for laundering. Did you get a dog?"

"Yes," said Ten hesitantly, "She's out in the stables with my donkey. How did you know?"

"You smell like it," Avrenis chuckled, "Was she sleeping in your tent?"

"It's cold!" Ten protested.

"Taking on bad habits from the shem, I see. Letting the dogs sleep with you, what would your father think?"

"The dog in the tent would be the least of his worries."

"We are a clean people," Avrenis admonished, "We would rather be cold than filthy."

"Unfortunately, I am usually both," said Ten.

"Sure," said Avrenis. She rose, the fingers of flame working over the firewood, "But for the moment, you don't have to be either. Just enjoy it. It's nice that one of us gets to sleep in the good beds for once."

"Thanks Reni," said Ten. Back in her room, she let the older woman help her out of her frock.

"You've been wearing that underneath this whole time?" Avrenis gasped, seeing the bloodstained leather armor that Ten had on underneath.

"The finest Tevinter cotton doesn't block arrows," said Ten by way of an explanation.

"Ugh, looks uncomfortable. Can't believe you fell asleep like that."

"It is. And well, I suppose I can thank the whiskey and my own poor judgment for that," Ten said, unbuckling the vambraces from her arms, "Hopefully I'll manage to stay out of a fight for at least a bit while I'm here. I tell you, it gets tiresome."

"I'll right, I'll let you be, I suppose I'll be seeing quite a bit of you."

"Yes, I suppose so," Ten said, "And if you go to the market, try and pick me up some gossip, will you? I'm paying. Good coin this time. I've come up in the world. Also, you don't suppose Arlessa Isolde's lady's maid has left a bit of her wardrobe here?"

"Margie?" Avrenis asked, "I'm sure she has, what do you need that for?"

"I'm trying to be inconspicuous while I'm here," said Ten, "Being as I'm really not supposed to be... alive. And, well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I doubt Margie survived the absolute nonsense that's been going on in Redcliffe. She won't miss anything."

"Ah, poor woman," sighed Avrenis, "I feel for her family, but she was… well you know how lady's maids are."

"I have no idea how lady's maids are," said Ten, "But I am certain they don't wear anything like what I've got, and it's my best bet for getting into the places I need to get into."

"Anything that lifts this lockdown quicker."

"That's the first aim," said Ten. She waited for the door to click shut before pumping the washing basin full, and set about removing several days of road grime and dog smell.

After making herself somewhat clean, Ten slept away the rest of the hangover. There was no sense in hurrying, after all. She dared not go anywhere on her own after what had happened the last time she was in town, at least not in broad daylight. And, well,  most of what she wanted to discover would only take place well after sunset. By the time she awoke for the second time, everyone but Morrigan had already gotten out of bed and eaten, and were back in the common room, playing a very tense game of cards.

"Look who's decided to grace us with her presence!" Lelianna exclaimed, not entirely sarcastically.

"I was up with the chambermaids," Ten said dismissively, "Took a nap after stoking the fire, for which you are quite welcome."

"Sure you were. I don't want to hear a damned thing out of you about my drinking ever again," Alistair added, gesturing to the half-empty bottle of whiskey that Ten had left on the floor by the sofa she'd passed out on.

"I think better when I'm tipsy," Ten protested, "Anyway, Wynne helped me with that."

"Don't drag me into this," Wynne said. She was staring at her hand, her gray brows drawn down tightly over her eyes, "What is it the children say? Read 'em and weep." She laid her hand down.

"This is so unfair," Zev protested, laying down his hand face down, "You have clearly enchanted your cards."

"So, what is your brilliant plan for today?" asked Lelianna, folding her hand and crossing her arms, "And don't say you don't know yet."

Gwylan chose that moment to burst in the door without a knock or how do you do. His face was in its customary scowl and Ten could see the steam practically rising from where his hairline was, year by year, losing ground to his forehead. "I have a message from Redcliffe," he said, "The lady of the house, in her infinite wisdom, has allocated you a budget and that should you need further funding, you will tell me, and I will tell her. Teneira?"

"Yes?"

He strode up to her and unceremoniously thrust a purse into her hand.

"Please convey my thanks to Lady Isolde."

"I am a loyal servant," Gwylan said through gritted teeth, and stormed out the door.

"What's his problem?" asked Lelianna.

"It's a... ," said Ten, trying to think of how to put it, "Some of the elves who work the grand houses get a sort of complex about those of us who ply their trade within the walls of the Alienage. Like we're supposed to bow and scrape to them just like they bow and scrape to the sh- to the humans."

"Or he's afraid it came out of his midwinter bonus," Alistair said.

"Has nobody noticed that my hand is stronger than the mage's?" asked Sten from his seat at the head of the table, where he had laid his hands down face up, "This is a silly game, and yet I have bested you all."

"Ugh, no!" exclaimed Alistair, seeing the hand in question, "I folded two deals ago, I would have won!"

"See, that's your problem, young man," Wynne observed, "You're so convinced you're about to lose you can't even see when you're winning."

"Probably true of more things than cards," he sighed.

"No time to unpack all that now," said Ten, "I do have our first moves. Wynne, you must know who employs mages in their houses, yes? Do you think you could arrange for a few social calls on old apprentices?"

"I… suppose I could," said Wynne, "But whatever could they know?"

"They'll know all the embarrassing ailments," said Ten, "You know. Orlesian pox and the like."

"Antivan pox," Lelianna corrected.

"Fereldan pox," Zevran insisted.

"Whatever makes your bits rot off and you get it from jumping into bed with anything that moves," said Ten, "This will help them remember." She set a stack of coins down in front of Wynne.

"What is my mission?" asked Sten.

"There's an alley down by the Docks, east of here, on north of the river, where mercenaries ply their trade. Go there, hang out, look dangerous. Don't try to talk to anyone, I feel like you're shit at subterfuge, but let them talk to you. Go on a few jobs with them if you feel like it. About one in ten of those are going to be at the command of someone in the proper class."

"Do I get coin?" asked Sten.

"No, you'll be making it. You don't have to share."

"I am not interested in currency."

"Then you can take it and see as many puppet shows as would please you," said Ten, "Has anyone seen Morrigan?"

"Right here," a voice came from the corner of the room. Ten looked over, then down, then up, and down again as what she had at first taken for a dust bunny that Avrenis and her colleagues had missed, but was, in fact, an enormous cockroach, grew slowly more enormous.

"Oh my," Wynne exclaimed mildly, putting one hand over her mouth, as the insect swelled, and wings stretched out from its glossy carapace. The wings became hands and the carapace grew a spine, and eventually, there was the witch of the wilds in all her glory.

"There was a hole in the wall I wished to explore," Morrigan said, waving her hand airily as though turning into a cockroach and scuttling around in the walls of a fine house was something anyone would do given the ability.

"What did you find?" Lelianna asked, grimacing.

"Dirt," said Morrigan.

"Well thankfully nobody found you with their shoe," Wynne said.

"If one of us had crushed your head while you were like that, do you suppose you would have lived for nine days?" asked Alistair.

"Try it and see how long you keep yours," the witch countered.

"Can you be a bird of some sort?" Ten said, "You became a sparrow in Haven. Plenty of sparrows here, you'd fit right in."

"For what purpose?" asked Morrigan.

"Spying of course," said Ten, "The place where most of the noble estates are, except this one apparently. It's a neighborhood they call the Terrace and it's gated. It's due south of here on a plateau around Fort Drakon."

"What would I be looking for, were I to indulge this request?" asked Morrigan.

"Dirt," said Ten, "You know those books you like so much? The ones where all the lords and ladies are screwing around with each other and backstabbing and all that?"

"The ones you keep telling me bear no resemblance to real life?"

"Well not your life, or mine," said Ten, "But remember, these are lazy, hedonistic people with nothing to do but plot against each other and jump into bed with someone new and different every week. Especially the minor lords with nothing to their names but a drafty manor house in a village of twelve turnip herders. They'll certainly be up to no good."

"So what do you need to know?" asked Morrigan.

"Anything that can ruin a reputation. Who's carrying on with his valet, who's secretly bald, whose children were secretly sired by the stable lad… you know, dirt." She spotted what she was looking for under the couch, and picked up the slightly crumpled lists she had spent the evening making, cringing as she saw how her handwriting went from bad to horrendous as she'd gotten further into the bottle, "Here, these are all the minor banns of the Coastlands and Hills. Start with them."

"Is this in Elvish or something?" asked Morrigan, taking the sheets and squinting at them, "Or did you use a code, this isn't any script I've ever seen."

"Don't be an ass," Ten sighed.

"What about the rest of us?" asked Lelianna, whose leg was jiggling in nervous anticipation.

"You two," said Ten, gesturing at Zev and Alistair, who were still at the card table. She set down a stack of coins in front of them, "Go over to the Gnawed Noble tonight, it's a den of iniquity at the bottom of the district, against the river. All the aristocratic fools take their ale there. You'll just look like some landed sot and his manservant. Buy drinks for anyone who looks vaguely important and pretend you're really interested in what they're saying."

"Anyone in particular?" asked Alistair.

"No, but definitely keep a mental list. You can write it down when you get back," said Ten, "Lelianna, can you put on something a bit less nunly? I need you to be my mistress."

"Why Teneira, I thought you'd never ask," Lelianna giggled, fanning herself with her hand of cards.

"It's a surprise for me too," said Ten.

"What do you have in mind for us?" she asked.

"We're going to a whorehouse," Ten said. 

"That is not fair at all!" exclaimed Zev, "Why can't I come with you?"

"They already know your face there," Ten said, "I doubt anyone is going to want to talk to you."

"And they'll talk to you?" he countered, "Everyone seems to know you."

"By reputation, not necessarily by appearance," Ten said, "Just come back and write down what you see, let's all plan to meet back here tomorrow morning this time."

"Why Teneira, do you have somewhere else you'll be spending the night?" asked Zev, raising his eyebrows.

"I told you. I have to talk to some whores," said Ten, "And they don't call them ladies of the midafternoon, do they."

Chapter Text

The first step was not, as Ten had anticipated, avoiding being harassed by the guard while on their way there, but the series of locks that came between her and the private wing of the castle where Isolde's wardrobe lay. The aim was to find something to make Lelianna look like someone who might plausibly have a lady's maid accompany her to whatever unsavory business a lady might have at a place like the Pearl. Ten managed to shimmy into the simple shift and secure her hair under a silk bonnet. She also got a taste of exactly how obnoxious a noblewoman's routine must be as the two of them struggled, but managed to get the sister out of her robes and into petticoats, kirtle, and gown. No wonder Isolde switched to trousers. Between the two of them, the got, fastening dozens of tiny buttons and readjusting ribbons and all sorts of ornaments, hopefully disguising the fact that Lelianna was a bit shorter and thinner than the Arlessa of Redcliffe. Though, the end result, with her short hair disguised under a lace veil, Lelianna looked… passable. Looking at herself in the flawless and likely quite expensive mirror, Lelianna sighed and made a face.

"I hope we are not in for a fight," she said, "I am useless in this get up."

"No fights," said Ten, "I promise." She was grateful that the flowing sleeves of the cotton shift left her plenty of room to maneuver and the full skirts disguised the arsenal strapped to her thighs.

The get-up was, apparently, convincing enough that not a single guard said a single thing as they made their way south into the Antivan quarter, and to the conspicuously inconspicuous house they called the Pearl. Ten knocked on the door, the slot opened, and there was, much like the last time, Dima Syasko waiting to take their coin.

"Still breathing I see, Arlessa," he exclaimed, "Why are you dressed like that?"

"I've come up in the world," Ten said, fiddling with the strings of her bonnet uncomfortably, "My friend and I were hoping to have a drink. And I was hoping to speak with some of the staff." She stepped aside, revealing Lelianna, who was scratching at her hairline where the lace must have been terribly itchy.

"Well there's a first," said Dima, chuckling, "Your friend looks like she can afford it."

The slot slid closed, there was a clunk as the bolt was thrown, and the door swung open and Ten was awash in a wave of cheap perfume and sweat.

Ten had only actually entered the bawdy house twice. Once to tend to Miral Sharhani, a fairly well known elfin courtesan, who had locked herself in one of the bedrooms and refused to come out until Ten came and personally assured her that the john who was beating her had been taken care of. Taken care of, of course, meant that he'd been handed over to a couple of Don Cangrejo's goons for a once-over. The previous time was when Soris's employer had invited him to his stag party and Teneira had gone along as his guest, dressed as a man, of course, for shits and giggles, and learned far more than she'd ever wanted to know about the ways men talked to each other when they thought women could not hear. Other than that, she preferred to pass her messages to whatever friends she had within through the door, or wait for them at the end of their shifts. Now, though, feeling bold, she bellied up, planted her ass in a barstool. Lelianna, with some difficulty, did the same, and purchased a moderately priced bottle of moderately mediocre white wine, which neither found too offensive.

It being a work day in a district where mostly respectable people lived and did their weekday drinking at home, the bar did not fill up. A handful of Tevinter sailors came in, wanting services for the evening, and were walked by a dwarf and human, neither of whom Ten recognized, to the rooms in the back where the creatures of the night plied their trade. A rowdy group of guardsmen were next, but they just wanted to get drunk and ogle the scantily clad barmaids, and thankfully, left the two women alone to gossip.

Right in the middle of a very tense story about a riot that had happened three years before, the two of them were approached by a very handsome stranger. He waited politely for the story to be over - something Ten was not used to men doing. Usually when a man approached a group of women at a bar, he would burst in on the conversation like they ought to be grateful for his attention. She could see from the corner of her eye that he was dark-complexioned, human, and dressed as the popular idea of what an Orlesian gentleman might wear, breeches tight and loose-fitting ruffled blouse, halfway undone to suggest that he had just tumbled out of bed and gotten hurriedly half-dressed, though his hair, dark and wavy and falling to his shoulders, was too perfectly curated for it to be true. She watched him in her peripheral vision as she finished the story and answered a couple of questions Lelianna asked.

When there was a pause in the conversation, then he cut in.

"May I ask what two beautiful ladies such as yourselves are doing drinking alone 'ere tonight?" he asked, thrusting himself between them, "And if I may 'ave a seat wis' you?" His teeth were very white, his accent Orlesian and far more pronounced than Lelianna's. Almost exaggerated.

"Bonsoir, sieur," Lelianna replied, "Always good to meet a countryman. What part of Orlais are you from?"

The stranger was taken aback for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. "A little village at ze foot of ze montagne, near Emprise du Lion, you 'ave never been zere, I assure you, ma belle," he replied. He didn't wait to be invited, but pulled up a chair between them and seated himself at it, "I 'ope you beautiful ladies are 'aving a wonderful time at ze Pearl tonight, yes?" It was strange, though as between them, Lelianna certainly looked like she had the coin to be at such a place, he certainly seemed to be speaking to Ten.

"I am," Lelianna said, "But this wine, it moves right through me. I will visit the privy. Would you like to come, Teneira?"

"I don't have to go," Teneira replied. There was something very familiar about this young man. She could not quite place him, but she thought if she kept him talking it might come to her.

"I will be back soon, then," Lelianna replied, raising her eyebrows to add, if you need rescuing.

The stranger's eyes followed Lelianna's backside outside the door towards the privies.

"All right, here it is," the stranger said as soon as the sister had gone, grabbing Ten's wrist. His voice had changed all of a sudden, his accent gone and his speech taking on the familiar cadence of a working class Denerim stiff, "You're going to very obviously negotiate a price to take me to one of the back rooms. We're going to lock the door. And then I'm going to tell you something you really need to know."

"Who exactly do you think I am?"

"We all know who you are, Arlessa," he said.

"Am I supposed to know who you are?"

"In 'ere, I am an exotic Orlesian 'ooker by ze name of Jacques leCoq, and I 'ave most reasonable hourly rates, though the ladies at least prefer to have me ze 'ole night."

"The gentlemen are in and out in fifteen minutes eh?" Ten muttered, "Look, if it's really not something you can discuss even here," she looked around at the nearly empty barroom, "You'll have to wait until my friend comes back, for obvious reasons it makes more sense for the mistress to carry the purse than the servant."

"No," he said, shaking his head decisively, looking at the table of guardsmen in the corner, "Only you. I have no idea who she is."

"Well I have about four sovereign on me and most of it is in change, so..."

"Four sovereigns it is," he said, magnanimously. She made a show of handing him the money so anybody at the bar would see what was going on, and he led her to the back rooms, just in time for Lelianna to return, her eyes wide and one hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Whatever it was this Jacques leCoq had to tell her, she was sure she would be passing on despite any assurances otherwise, but if this was what he required to feel safe enough to just come out with whatever sordid information of which he was in possession, this was what it required.

In the back, in a room ostentatiously decorated with a canopied bed and fainting couch in front of a roaring fire, Teneira shut the door and threw the deadbolt, then turned her back to the door so she could unbar it and run if she had to, and faced Jacques.

"Look, you can have your money back, it's just a show," he said, the Denerim accent coming back in full force, "You want a drink? On the house, I've had a good week."

Without her assent, he uncorked a bottle of Antivan red from the fine oaken bar in the corner and filled two gaudy silver goblets. She saw, as he went to recork the bottle, that his hands were shaking. He downed half a glass in one go, and gestured for her to sit down on a fine fainting couch. Noting what sort of establishment in was, she wondered at how clean it looked. No doubt it must have seen things that would rattle even her.

"All right, now that I've bought your time, you're going to tell me your real name and what the fuck it is you want," she said, crossing her arms, refusing the drink, and staying with her back to the door, "If you know who I am, you know all the ways I can make life very difficult for you. So this better be good."

"Airon," he said without protest, "Airon Villais."

"Ah," she breathed shortly. She walked over. Took the drink. Looked at the couch.

"Don't worry, we put towels down."

"I'll take your word for it," she sat, "So I can guess at how you know who I am, but that does not answer what it is you want and why it's so secret that it can only be divulged behind locked doors in a house of ill repute." She took a sip of the wine. It was Antivan, deep and dank, a far sight better than the Fereldan swill kept behind the bar.

"You know my brother. Anton," he said, finishing his glass and pouring himself another.

Ten sighed. How does everyone know about... "Yes I know Anton," she said.

"Well there's a relief, because he sure knows you," Airon said, "Well, he's been missing a couple of weeks now."

"Missing how?" Ten asked. How does a lieutenant with the City Guard 'go missing' and how on earth could I be of more service in that respect than his colleagues?

"He lives downstairs from me. I didn't see him for about a week. At first I thought he was just working extra shifts, but when he missed breakfast at Maman's for the second time and didn't answer the door when she was all but beating it down, I used my key to his flat, and it hadn't been touched in days."

"Well, he's a guardsman, right? Isn't that sort of their purview?"

"They said they had no record of him."

Ten's goblet paused halfway to her mouth, "He was a lieutenant. Promoted not two months ago. He's been on the force for years. What do you mean, no record?"

"I mean, it's like he never existed to them," Airon responded, "Nobody at the barracks knew who he was. His name wasn't on the patrol schedule or any of the books."

"Well what about the men on his squad?" Ten asked, "Did you talk to them?"

"Oh I did, I tracked down that old timer."

"Kennit Maycomb?" Teneira asked.

"Aye, that's him," he said, "He was over at the Paloma, three sheets to the wind in the middle of the afternoon. Seems that he was strongly encouraged to retire not long ago. I suppose he plans to drink his pension until it kills him. He told me I needed to stop asking questions if I valued my hide."

"That doesn't sound like Kennit," Ten mused, "He's old, but he's not a monster. He'd have told you if he knew."

"He wasn't being cruel. That man was terrified," said Airon, finishing his wine, and pouring another glass.

"What about the other two men on the squad?  Did you speak with them?"

"See, Colm also retired," Airon replied, "And immediately took off to Hossberg to live with a niece or something. Left half of his things behind, according to his landlord. Stillpass got a transfer to the queen's personal guard. I tracked him down, and he was also packing up his flat, said he had no idea what I was talking about."

"Packing up to go where?"

"Well his salary just doubled, so I assume somewhere nicer than the shithole he used to live in."

"What about the other ones? Maycomb said he hired some more coppers after I got the boot."

"Transferred to the Arl of Denerim's estate. It seems someone slaughtered half of his personal guard recently, so there were openings. But the point is, every man assigned to the Alienage left the force abruptly at the same time."

"And that's where you think I come in," Ten said, "Look, I have my ways of getting in and out of there, but... why would everyone else get promotion or a pension and the head of the squad disappear?

"You're supposed to be very clever," Airon said, a little cattily.

"Someone figured out the whole..." Ten said, pulling her own earlobe for emphasis.

"Or someone told on him."

"Airon, I have been out running through the ass end of the nation for the last month, you cannot possibly think I outed him," Ten said, though she put one hand on the handle of the knife at her waist just in case she was wrong on that count.

"No," Airon said, "No I don't think you did that. But I do think someone found out. The thing is, I can wrap my head around drumming him out of the barracks, disavowing any knowledge of him, I get that. I warned him that might happen back when he joined up, but he was a kid, he didn't believe me," Airon said, "But when that happens the disgraced guard gets to turn in his uniform and leave the city."

"And what would you be doing if I hadn't wandered into your particular house of ill repute?"

"Everyone wanders through the Pearl eventually," he said, "And given everything Anton said about you, you wouldn't stay away from Denerim too long."

"You think I can figure out what's going on?"

"You're a ghost in this town," said Airon, "You can do whatever the fuck you want."

"And you think I want to find your brother," Ten said.

"I think you do," said Airon.

"Really," said Ten, "And why's that?"

"He's my favorite, and I'm his. We… don't have secrets from each other," said Airon.

"I see," said Ten, "What about from your mother?" Shit, how many of my secrets does this whore know?

Airon raised his eyebrows, "And what would you know about her?"

"I know a friend of mine and I both had to beat a hasty retreat from your respective flats the last time we were in town," said Ten, "And I've had enough of catfighting with uptight Orlesian bitches to last the year, so I'd really prefer this stay between us."

"Ah, that was you then," said Airon, "So you know… what's his name. Antivan elf. Blond."

"I'll be sure to tell Zevran you hold him in such high esteem," said Ten, chuckling.

"He's pretty when he's not talking," said Airon.

"That's most men," Ten said, "But suffice it to say I would prefer to leave the rest of your family out of it. They may not appreciate me getting involved. And I trust that what you know about me, you have not passed on, yes?"

"Nothing leaves these walls," said Airon, "Why, are you embarrassed of him or something?"

"It was never precisely a good look for me. Worse for Anton, in fact. I'm honestly surprised he told you."

"Teneira, I'm a whore. There's not much he could do that's more embarrassing than my day-to-day. And, well, between you and me, he had to tell someone. He was going out of his mind, after the news came in from Ostagar."

I full on lost my shit, couldn't get out of bed for a week and I couldn't tell anyone why.

"I see," Ten said.

"Look, nobody'd expect you to carry a torch for Anton, not after everything you've been through. But he's a good man, in spite of himself," Airon's voice cracked then, and Teneira felt a surge of pity for the burden he must be carrying, having to spend night after night putting on an outrageous accent and be charming and bring people joy, all the while he wanted to jump out of his own ribcage with worry, "Whatever they've done, whatever he's done, he doesn't deserve to just disappear. He's not nothing. If he's dead, I want a proper pyre for him. If he's alive, I want to know where he is. I don't care if he's classed an elf and has to live out his days confined to the Alienage, but I want to see him."

"You're right," said Ten, "I will see what I can do."

Airon relaxed visibly. Finished his wine, "Well, here's your money. I mean, unless you wanted to..."

"You and I both know that would be way too weird, even for times like these," she said, "Though I might have some other work for you, if you're interested."

"You want me to spy, don't you," he said, crossing his arms, "Sorry, love, I would prefer that my reputation remain exactly what it is, and given our earlier conversation, I doubt you could come up with the coin to convince me otherwise."

"So you want me to play detective for you and you won't do a teensy bit of espionage for me?" Ten said, crossing her own arms.

"Here I was thinking you had a modicum of affection for the man and you're bargaining like a Rivaini trader."

"I'm not bargaining," said Ten, "I simply wanted to ask you a question. As an honored professional of this esteemed establishment whose time I have purchased, however steep the discount."

"Fine," said Airon.

"Someone's been booking regular appointments with my old friend Ioan Vanalis, known professionally as the King," said Ten, "Do you know who?"

"I don't," said Airon, "But Will o the Whips probably does. They're with Bann Uthric now though, and he usually books overnights so you might want to come by in a couple of days."

"Will o the Whips?"

"You know, Ioan's… spouse? Han Harrowmont?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Ten, "Last time I saw them they were going by Paragon Paddles."

"The dwarf angle got less popular I guess," said Airon, "But I'll let them know you came by."

"Bann Uthric, where's he from?" asked Ten.

"Somewhere outside Highever," said Airon, "Can't remember how the town styles itself."

"Does he have a last name?"

"Hargothen."

"And he likes getting his ass beat by androgynous dwarven prostitutes?"

"Ass, back, knees… what's your interest in this?"

"I'm writing a racy novel," said Ten, "And I appreciate the favor, Monsieur LeCoq. I will leave you to your regular clientele."

"Tell your friend to stop by," said Airon, "I've had a good week. He can have a discount."

"I'll leave out that you forgot his name," said Ten.

She made her way back out into the barroom, which had gotten far more populated in the half hour or so she'd been talking with Airon. Lelianna was back at the bar, halfway through a second bottle of wine and wholly entranced by the courtesan known popularly as Lumberjack Jill, so called for her immense height and well-muscled arms. She had Lelianna's chin in one hand and the good sister looked utterly starstruck. Jill saw Ten first, recognized her, and winked slightly. Ugh. Even I know better than to come between the lumberjack and her prey.

"Madame," Ten said quietly, clearing her throat.

Lelianna turned, "Oh! Yes. Um. What do you need?"

"I wonder if I might return to the estate?" she asked, her eyes on the ground.

Lelianna turned her eyes to the working girl, "How are you at lacing up a corset?"

"I am very accomplished at getting fine ladies both in and out of their finery," the working girl responded.

Ten tried not to roll her eyes. She thought about saying something, but knew that Jill tended to give hefty discounts to the rare female client and also that she did not necessarily want Lelianna along for the next part. The fewer folks who knew about it, the better.

"Yes, yes, of course," Lelianna said absently, "You're dismissed."

"Thank you Madame," Ten said.

"Look at you," the courtesan purred, leaning in towards Lelianna again, "So good to your staff. What a… generous lady you are."

Ten dropped a performative little half curtsy and hurried out the door. She planned to head to the Paloma, that dingy bar that Nath tended by day, hoping that she might find Kennit Maycomb there. It was pitch black out by now, and in the dim light of the streetlamps, with the bonnet covering her ears, she hoped she would not be so conspicuously elfin as to attract the attention of whatever guards were patrolling. Not that most of them came down to this end of town, of course.

"Have a good time with our Jacques, Arlessa?" Dima asked, opening the door for her as she bustled towards the exit.

"Sure did, Dima," she said.

"You really ought to be careful out there," he said, "I ain't going to tell you what to do, but there's still a lot of lonely lads, and you are technically not supposed to be on the street alone, let alone after curfew."

"I know," said Ten, "But needs must. Wish me luck."

Chapter Text

As a precaution, she hiked up her skirt and took out her small knife, which was coated in the same paralytic she'd used on Nick Standwright in Highever. Holding it in her fist, concealed beneath her cloak, she set out, heading east towards the cliffs, trying to stay out of the dim puddles of light cast by the street lamps. It was too chilly for most to be out at that hour. The usual eyes on the street, the drunks, the whores, the men who grilled meat of dubious origin over open fires for the drunks and the whores, were all absent. Maybe the new Arl issued a crackdown on meat vendors. Not that rat on a skewer was ever my cup of tea, but… at least there were always witnesses.

She heard the group of young men before she saw them crest the bridge over the river. They were completely shitcanned, the lot of them, yowling a popular drinking song. There were four… five of them. In the moonlight, their dress marked them as members of the ruling class. The fear crept slowly up her spine, and she retreated into the shadows of an alley, hoping they would pass without seeing her. She was not used to walking alone at night. There was, after all, a reason she had always been cautioned against it. All the bravado that her positions - both in the city and the Grey Wardens - did not change the fact that she was an elfin woman, alone at night on a deserted street, and there was absolutely nobody there who would intervene on her behalf. She thought for a moment to go back to the Pearl and enlist the help of Dima in the front and whoever was bouncing in the back to keep her safe. But no, that was almost certainly where these lordlings were heading, and she didn't want to risk encountering them before they reached it.

The caterwauling grew closer. She gripped her knife. They had to pass the alley to get to the Pearl. She held her breath.

Up the street, a window creaked open. "Shut the fuck up, hijueputas!" an angry Antivan voice rang out.

"Do you know who my father is?!" one of them shouted back.

"Yeah, who do you think you're talking to, foreigner?" Another one of the lordlings growled. Highever accent. Very young. In the lamplight, Ten saw him start back and hurl something - a mostly empty bottle of brandy - at the window. There was a crash of glass and a series of fairly disgusting curses from inside the window. Ten was not sure of the direct translation, but it definitely involved goats and a lack of lubrication. She took the distraction, and, still keeping to the shadows, went on her way towards the east and the comparative safety of the unruly tangle of streets and alleys underneath the cliffs.

"I will call the guard!" the Antivan voice finally shouted, "You cannot get away with this!"

"Fuck the guard!" shouted one lordling.

"Yeah, fuck the guard!" the others chorused.

Well at least we agree on that much. But shit. Shit! How did I get myself into this one? Should have made Lelianna come with me. Not that she'd be safe in this situation either. All right. All right, Ten, they haven't noticed you. Keep moving.

She glanced back. They were still arguing under that window. She turned and concentrated on getting out of there as quickly as she could, without drawing attention to herself. From where she was, she could see the staircase that led up between buildings to where she intended to go. The roads and alleys beyond were not the orderly grid of this part of the neighborhood, but a rabbit's warren of poorly-lit streets and alleys and stairs to nowhere just as likely to lead an unsuspecting out-of-towner around in circles as to his destination. She could surely lose them there. She concentrated on the road ahead of her, walking as quickly as she could without appearing to be running.

Hope died in her breast as running footsteps came up behind her and a large hand fell on her shoulder. She froze, her mouth going dry and sweat erupting from her face and neck.

Maybe I can talk myself out of this one.

"Well well well, what have we here?!" The owner of the hand turned her around handily, and she was face to face with the mother-of-pearl buttons on a very nice, and very large shirt. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of stale brandy invaded her nostrils. Such fine clothes to be so filthy. She dared not look up.

"Ser," Ten said to the buttons on his shirt, "I'm just trying to get home. Please, take your hand off me."

Oh damn it all. Wasn't planning on killing anyone tonight. Or being killed.

"Home from where? Only place open at this hour in this neighborhood is the whorehouse."

She was silent. The hand moved from her shoulder to her head, grabbing a fistful of the silken bonnet and some of the hair beneath. It forced her head back and she was looking up into the face of a very young man, maybe twenty but probably younger, dark hair still curling childishly around his ears, his cheek and chin as smooth as her own, still with a bit of baby fat around the edges. But the look in his eye and the sneer on his mouth indicated that he very much believed himself to be a man.

All right, Tabris, how're you getting out of this one?

"Don't you want to clock some overtime?" he asked, tightening his fist around her hair.

"Ser, you are really going to want to let me be on my way," she said, "I promise no good is going to come of this."

"Hey look, lads!" one of the others shouted from beyond where Ten's vision was blocked by her captor, "Ser Kit's on the hunt!"

"Ha! Little thing she is. He'll kill her."

"Ah, give her some credit. Ever see a mouse eating an ear of corn?"

Fortunately there appeared to be a voice of reason among them. "Kristhen… come on, that's not what we're here for. Let her go. You're scaring the piss out of her for no reason."

"Why?" the big lad demanded, turning, "She's an elf and she's out after curfew without an escort. What did she think was going to happen?!"

Nothing truly changes, does it. Left, right, front, and up were out. Back would probably just let him get a better grip on her. But down… he would not expect down. She paused for a moment to play it out in her head, and then, suddenly dropped to the ground, letting him have the bonnet and some of her hair, and stabbed right through the fine leather of his far-too-fancy shoe. He was too surprised to react quickly, looking down in confusion, wondering what on earth just happened. She took the opening, and bolted.

"Bitch stuck me!" the big lad, evidently a knight by the name of Kristhen, finally announced. He lunged after her, a cloud of her severed curls drifting down in the lamplight as he opened his hand. But, between the liquor and the venom working its way through his bloodstream, he missed, tripped, and faceplanted on the cobblestones.

Ten, in the meantime, had hitched up her skirts and taken off to the east, taking stairs two at a time, not daring to look behind her until she'd made it out of the comparatively well lit avenue they had been on. Up the stairs, in the part of town where the streets made no sense, she ducked into an alley between two shops and peeked out hesitantly. Thankfully, only one of them had bothered trying to pursue her, and it wasn't her assailant. He was standing at the base of the stairs, his back to her, clearly trying to decide which way she'd gone. The others were all standing around the inert form of Ser Kit, trying to decide what in the hell had happened to make him collapse in a puddle of his own piss on the street. She moved forward, ducking under a wagon that some peddler had parked at the mouth of the alleyway to keep a better eye on them. She retreated when she saw the form of the one who had gone after her take the stairs. He was walking quickly, though not running. He was also far steadier on his feet than his companion, which was a bad sign for her. But, she heard the slapping of laces against the ground. One of his shoes was untied. And he was alone. She switched her poisoned paring knife for a hunting knife she'd acquired on the road. She rose halfway and poised to strike. It was much darker in this part of town, and he almost certainly did not know there was an alley here.

When she saw the silhouette of the boot hit the cobbles before her, she lunged. She got her hands around the stray laces and yanked as hard as she could. He tumbled over, face first, breaking his fall with both fists like a man used to fighting, but before he could rise, she had sprung out and gotten a knee in the middle of his back and her blade at the side of his neck. She leaned down close.

"Quiet," she hissed into his ear, "Not a fucking noise. You so much as hiccup, you will bleed out before your friends even start looking for you."

She felt him relax beneath her, spread both palms out on the cobblestones in a show of submission.

"Good lad. Now, if you lay still and give me your name and title, and those of the rest of those little shits, you can walk out of here in one piece."

"Ten! It's me!" he hissed, turning his head to the side, "Would you get off me?!"

"Alistair?!" she exclaimed incredulously, a very strange mix of relief and annoyance chasing the fear out of her, "I hope you have really damned good explanation for that." She put a little bit of pressure on the knife just to emphasize that if she could if she wanted to. Then relented, and rose, extending a hand to help him to his feet, "Also you should tie your boots. That was way too easy."

"Ten, I am so sorry," he said. He sounded sincere, at least, "I had no idea that would happen. Are you all right?" 

"All in all I think you were just in more danger than I ever was," she said, reassuring, "But I told you to buy them drinks and let them talk, not go on a fucking rampage with them. What did you think was going to happen? Please tell me I'm the first girl they tried it on with tonight."

"I didn't even realize what was happening until I saw you running," he said.

"And what if it wasn't me? If it was just some random woman trying to get home, what then? Were you just going to watch? Take at turn?!"

He flinched like she'd slapped him, "No. Of course not. You just beat me to the punch. And what exactly did you think was going to happen?! You told me to go blend in, get them to trust me, get them to talk. And I did! And it was disgusting, thank you very much."

"Exactly! They're disgusting. And that's who's in charge of the whole country. Men like that. I'm definitely not the first mouse Ser Kit has caught."

"You were probably the first mouse that turned out to be a scorpion in disguise," Alistair pointed out, "Doubt he'll try that again."

"One can hope," Ten sighed, relenting, "But you're right, it was my idea. Where are they from anyway?"

"The big one's a knight of Highever, no surprises there, guess they're all six and a half foot brutes. Scrawny little shite's an heir to some one-horse town in the foothills. There's a second son from the Bannorn and a knight of…. Something else. Don't remember which was which."

"Did they at least let anything interesting slip?"

"Well, if it were up to me, about two thirds of the things out of their mouths would be damning enough to lose all of them their spurs, but they just seemed to think all of it was normal. Expected. And I don't know what was real and what was just swagger."

"Did they say anything about anyone else?"

"Well we were there in the first place because they were saying that we ought to go to the Pearl and catch one Bann Uthric leaving. Apparently whatever he gets up to in there is embarrassing. He's the nephew of the Teyrn of Highever, deep in his council apparently."

"Uthric Hargothen?" asked Ten.

"Yes, why?"

"Well I know what he's up to. Apparently he likes getting beaten up by androgynous dwarven hookers. Good to know he's important," said Ten, "Actually… you might have some interest in this."

"Me? What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, I'm telling you that the androgynous dwarven hooker in question is married to that long-lost half brother of yours I keep teasing but can never track down," said Ten, "I've a mind to do it this time. They both certainly know secrets."

"Whoa…do I at least win the weirdest in-law contest?"

"Obviously," said Ten, "What do you want, a medal?"

"I'd settle for beating the absolute tar out of all of them," he said, glancing back to make sure they weren't being followed, "In public. Preferably with their mothers watching."

"I just made the ringleader piss himself in front of his friends, that wasn't enough?" said Ten. 

"No, I want to do it. I want to see the look on their stupid smug faces," Alistair said, "Ten, your hands are shaking. Are you actually all right?"

"Of course not," she sighed, putting her knife away and clasping one hand with the other to make it stop, "But that's not the first time that's happened, actually the second in less than six months, believe it or not, and I'm sure it won't be the last. They travel in packs, you know. With impunity."

"Wait, where's Lelianna? Wasn't she supposed to be keeping that from happening?"

Ten snorted, "You think two ladies walking alone at night would be that much safer than one? Well, maybe. But either way, she got all cuntstruck over a working girl. I could have waited, but there's someone I'm looking for and it's getting late."

"Did it never occur to you to say 'no'? 'Not now'? 'Control yourself?'"

"It did," she sighed, "But I feel bad about shit like that. She's not like us. She's out here of her own accord, it doesn't seem fair to try to tell her she can't take what comfort she can get. Anyway, all of that is just so not my business. I just need to get to the Paloma before it gets too late."

"Wait, that's that place where your friend tends bar, right? I don't think I can show my face there again."

"Well I'm going back there, whether you come with me or not is entirely up to you."

"Come on, if you think I'm going to let you walk these streets alone after that..."

"I took care of it!" exclaimed Ten, "The only thing your presence achieved is getting a knife to your throat, which I am genuinely sorry about, by the way."

"I would have done the same in your shoes, I won't hold it against you. But tell me, what's so important at that dive?"

"A friend of mine has gone missing," she said, "And I have a lead on someone who may have information on where he's gotten to and has been known to frequent the place."

"What friend? How could you even tell? The Alienage is still locked down."

"Well I think it's connected to that. The head of the guardsmen charged with policing it has gone missing."

"The one you were all cozy with the last time we were in town?"

Ten rolled her eyes, "Not the point."

"Looks like it's a little bit like the point. Do you think they figured out he was on the take?"

"Half the force is on the take."

"Not in the same way, if they were I'd be surprised you had time to run your shop."

"You know, you are incredibly cocky for a man whose throat I was about to cut," Ten pointed out, "And, look, this means I have no idea who's in charge of making sure everyone I've ever loved lives rather than dies. And, speaking of elves I don't see, what the fuck did you do with Zev?"

"He'd had enough of them after about an hour, insulted all of their mothers, threw a drink in one of their faces and headed for Maker knows where," said Alistair, seeing that he had yanked a little too hard on a raw nerve there and accepting the change of subject, "He is not a skilled actor."

"What did they say to him?"

"I don't want to repeat it. It was hard enough convincing them they didn't need to follow him and beat him to death in the middle of the street, we don't need you rushing back there to avenge his honor," said Alistair.

They had, in the intervening, reached Natharian Lin's bar - currently going by the Paloma - the only clue it was there were the guttering candles in the window. Ten pushed the door open, let it swing in and hit the wall with a crash. Nath really needs to have that repaired, she thought. Inside was much jollier and cozier than Ten remembered, peat fires and their earthy smoke lit in fireplaces at both ends of the bar room. The drunks seemed to be in better moods too. A fiddler in the corner was playing something haunting, and a handful of patrons were doing something resembling dancing.

"Teneira!" exclaimed Missus Bantree from behind the bar, her ruddy face lighting up, "We were just talking about you!"

"Who's we?"

"Why your charming young friend here, of course!" she said.

At the bar, Zev's head popped up from where it had been contemplating a glass of clear Elvish moonshine.

"Oh, of course it's the both of you," he sighed, registering Alistair's presence. He turned to the bartender, "Our Teneira cannot so much as take a piss without this one wondering where she's going and trying to follow her."

"Zevran, I'm sorry about earlier," said Alistair, "I couldn't do anything without ruining the whole ruse."

"I know," Zevran said mildly, "I suppose you had something to do with them not chasing me down and making me… what is the phrase… bite the curb, yes?"

"It took a bottle of the most expensive brandy they had in the place," Alistair sighed.

"Well I suppose I will thank you for that then," Zevran sighed, "I should not have lost my temper."

"You, lad," said Edwina, pointing her large hickory paddle at Alistair, "You're not touching a drop of whiskey. Small ale only. We are not having a repeat of the last time you were here."

"What'd you do?" asked Ten.

"I evidently blacked out sometime before you left," he said, the color rising to his cheeks, "Don't remember a thing."

"Well see that that doesn't happen again," Edwina said, hanging her paddle back up but putting both hands on her hips.

"Missus Bantree," said Ten, shaking her head as though it would rid her of the second hand embarrassment, "Is Guardsman Maycomb here?"

"Has been for the last few days, the poor dear," said Edwina, "Over there in the corner by the door."

Ten looked to where Edwina was pointing and, indeed, Kennit was slumped against the wall, his eyes half open.

Shit, I hope he can talk somewhat coherently.

She sidled over and sat herself across from him. He started mid-snore, and Ten realized that he was not completely obliterated and was merely taking a standard old-man nap.  One eye opened fully, then the other. He sat up straight and looked around, "What, no! I don't need to go to bed, Maisie, I'm perfectly fine. Just resting my eyes."

"I'm not Maisie," said Ten.

"Oh!" he said, looking around and getting his bearings, "It's you! What can I do for you, Arlessa?"

"What are you doing here?" she asked, "Shouldn't you be at home by the fire? Cat in your lap?"

"I'm not dead yet, girl," he said, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in town for a bit. But I need to know what happened," she asked, "I heard there was quite the shakeup in your squad."

"Shakeup! You mean they cleared us all out. Transfers for the young ones, retirement for me and the other fossil."

"I heard Machias left town," said Ten.

"He did. He doesn't have any family here, and him being a widower," said Kennit, yawning and stretching, "I suppose I don't blame him. You know, I never thought I'd miss that ill-tempered old cunt. That's the thing about getting on in years, lass, they don't tell you that one day you'll look around and the only people left you've known your whole life are the ones you never really liked and when they're gone, you'll long for the days when you were fighting like cats and dogs."

"So Machias retired. Where's Jochrim Stillpass?"

"He was offered a position in the queen's personal guard," said Kennit.

"He still live in the flat over by the docks?" asked Ten, testing his willingness to tell her the truth.

"No," said Kennit, "With the higher wage he moved up in the world, he's got a cottage outside the walls now. Seems his wife wanted a garden."

"Not a great time to move outside the walls, is it," Ten mused, "But Berthilde was always a girl who knew how to get what she wanted. What about Lieutenant Villais?"

Kennit began shaking his head vigorously, "Don't ask about him."

"Why not?"

"Just don't, if you value your hide. Asking too many questions is what got him where he's at now, and I don't think you want that."

"What in our long history leads you to believe I value my hide?" asked Ten.

"Well you might not, but I sure do value mine," said Kennit, "I didn't live as long as I have to wind up strung up from a tree."

"He got lynched?!" Ten exclaimed, her voice going shrill and her heart leaping into her mouth. That is probably what would happen if he were caught. Don't be surprised now, Ten, he's not the first lad you've lost that way. Not even the first this year…

"No, no," said Kennit, "Nothing so vulgar. He's alive, as far as I know, but that is all I will say."

"Where? Did he have to leave town?"

"That is all I will say."

"Who's patrolling the Alienage then?" asked Ten.

"Private security," Kennit said, "I don't know where the order came from, but someone decided that the four of us were too sympathetic to the people we were supposed to be policing and brought in some foreign outfit to take over security in the quarter. Tevinter, I think."

"They brought in Tevinter mercenaries to police elves?!" Ten said, incredulously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

"Making a point with it, I don't doubt," said Kennit, "After all, the elves did manage to wipe out the whole Urien clan."

"Allegedly," Ten sighed, "I'm still not convinced that was us. What a mess, though."

"You're telling me. I told Knight-Captain Berengier it was a bad idea. Privately I think he agreed with me, but he said the order came from far, far above his head. He couldn't do anything about it."

Shit. That's beyond the top. 

"Kennit, when's the last time you saw my dad?" she asked. 

"Listen, lass, there was never an elf so good at putting his head down and getting on about it as your dad," Kennit said, patting the back of her hand reassuringly, "Worry about that hot-tempered cousin of yours."

"Which one?"

"All of them," said Kennit, "It's bad business all around."

"Shit," sighed Ten, "All right. I won't implicate you any further. But you should take up a different hobby, don't you think? Have you considered model ships?"

"Both my daughters have said the same thing daily, I don't need it from you too," Kennit groused, "Let an old man drink in peace."

Chapter Text

Alas for poor old Kennit Maycomb, there would, in fact, be no peace. Not a breath after he got his sentence out, the door banged open again. This time, Ten was grateful for the looseness of the hinges, as it announced the arrival of four young noble wastrels before they laid eyes on her and gave her time to dive under a table in the corner by the door where they walked right past her. The dose she had given Ser Kit evidently had worn off, quicker than usual, but given his size it probably hadn't fully taken him out in the first place. The din of the bar fell silent. The fiddler's tune screeched to a halt. Fifteen or so drunken heads turned towards the door.

"We are looking for the owner of this!" announced one of the young lords, holding up the bonnet Teneira had been wearing before it was so unceremoniously pulled from her head, "She is an elf. Small of stature, swarthy of complexion." His eyes roamed the room in front of him. Most of the patrons were men, and all but Zevran were humans or dwarves. Ten shrank back in the corner.

"Lads, this isn't the place for you," Missus Bantree said, putting her hands on her hips.

"We know she went this way, and this is the only place open in the quarter. And she should not be hard to miss. For, as we all know, elves are supposed to be confined to their alienage at this hour," he stared daggers at Zevran with this pronouncement, and Zev stared boldly back, not breaking eye contact as he took another sip of moonshine. The young lord continued, "She has assaulted Ser Kristhen Whitcroft of Highever, and with the guard woefully understaffed in this city, we will bring her to justice."

"Or maybe she went home, just like you ought to," Missus Bantree said, "Look at you boys, you can hardly keep your feet. What would your mothers think?"

"Do you have any idea who I am?!" demanded one of them.

"Not a one. Perhaps you ought to tell us," suggested Missus Bantree, "Come on, loudly, so's everyone can hear!"

Thanks, Edwina!

"I," the lad said, puffing out his chest, which wasn't all that much to look at. He was downright scrawny, probably because of how young he was, but perhaps he was simply ill-favored, "Am Bann Ranulf of Mordham. This is Bann Gladwin of Tallrey and Ser Hugh of Amaranthine. As you can see, the penalty for striking one of us will be dire indeed."

"Oh! My mistake, your lordships!" Missus Bantree exclaimed, dropping a low, clumsy curtsy, "It's not every day we get such gentlemen of quality in a humble inn such as this!" 

Bann Ranulf looked at her with relief on his face. Evidently the art of sarcasm was not taught wherever he had gotten his education. 

"Ohhh! So you're fancy lads, I see!" cried a voice from the opposite corner of the place from where Ten was sitting, near the fireplace on the far wall from the door. She looked over to see a dwarven sailors who'd been clogging in time to the fiddler had spoken up, and was walking up to them, "Well, your worship, that pretty little bonnet belongs to me! I am quite dainty, I can see how you may have mistaken me for a wee elfin lassie," He took the bonnet from the young lord, and put it on his own head, tying the strings all the way under his beard. He made kissing noises at the group.

"Oh I don't know about that, Kovald," called his dance partner, swaggering up, "But are you sure that's not one of mine? Blue was always my color."

"Well now that you say it, Potchek, perhaps you ought to try it on!"

"Best to be sure," the second dwarf said, swaggering to the front of the bar. Kovald untied the strings from under his chin and handed it to his companion, who tied it on upside down so his own russet beard was in the crown of it and the strings were tied above his head, "Suits me, don't you think?"

"The fairest maiden I ever did see," Kovald said, adjusting the bow on top of his friend's head.

"So, what was it you said about bringing the girl to justice?" Potchek asked, turning to the noblemen, one hand on the belaying pin hanging from his belt.

"I will have this whole bar arrested," Bann Ranulf fumed, "This is not funny!"

"Oh, come on, it's a little bit funny." Ten looked over sharply to see that Alistair had risen from his barstool and stepped between his erstwhile drinking buddies and the dwarves.

"You!" exclaimed Ser Kit - whose full name was, apparently, Kristhen Whitcroft, a thing Ten took note of, "What are you doing here?"

"Well he's found his manservant I see," said Ser Hugh, pointing at Zev, "I've a mind to haul him in too. Wasting good brandy like that. And my mother was a saint!"

"Really, Ser, I thought you were chasing her down, but here you are slumming it with these lowlifes? Surely you saw where she went," Bann Gladwin insisted, incredulously.

"Who? That girl who was minding her own business before your great oaf of a friend decided to grab her?" Alistair countered, "Threaten her? Manhandle her in the middle of the street before she ran for her life?!"

"Knew it!" Kovald declared.

"Pigs!" cried a middle aged woman in a housekeeper's uniform from a table by the fireplace, gripping a half empty bottle of wine by its neck, clearly ready to use it as a club.

"She stabbed me!" Ser Kit protested, "What exactly do you think you stand to gain, going to the mat for some knife-eared slut? I'm not sure I'm clear on exactly who you are, but surely you're above this rabble…"

"Oh, after all that, you don't even know who I am?" Alistair asked, "Not at all?"

"Not a single idea," said Ser Kit, stepping up and glaring down at him in a manner that had likely intimidated many a foe before.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember your name," said Bann Gladwin.

"Nope," said Bann Ranulf, and Ser Hugh shook his head as well.

"So none of you know who I am?"

"As far as we're concerned, you are Ser Nobody of Nowhere," Ser Kit sneered.

"Good, then you can put that in your report to the guard."

Ten flinched as Alistair hauled off and hit Ser Kit square under his chin. She heard the big lad's teeth clack into each other, and put her hand over her mouth as he staggered back into two of his companions, taking them all down with him with his sheer size. That was all it took for the rest of the bar to erupt into motion, decades of resentment bubbling over, all of them wanting a go at the haughty quartet. Even if the fiddler, a thickset human in early middle age, wrapped her kerchief around her hand to protect her fingers, and went at them. Ten had to grab Kennit's arm and force him back into his seat so he couldn't throw himself into the fray with all the gusto of a man who had forgotten his age and the fact that he had a pension to worry about. She watched in morbid fascination, wondering that they all weren't doing more damage to each other than the men at the bottom of the pile. It lasted all of about ten glorious and chaotic minutes before Missus Bantree smacked her paddle on the bar.

"That's enough!" she exclaimed, "Can't have a murder in here. Not on my watch. The owner'd have my head."

The melee dissipated as quickly as it had formed. The patrons - humans, dwarves, and the singular elf, slowly disentangled themselves and backed away. All but Alistair, who had a knee on Ser Kit's chest and was still pounding one bloody fist repeatedly into his face. Zevran got ahold of his collar and pulled him away.

"Calm down, man. If you kill him it will be trouble for all of us," Zev said.

"Fine," Alistair huffed. He rose and delivered Ser Kit an unceremonious kick in the ribs before retaking his seat at the bar.

"You four," Missus Bantree said, striking her paddle on the bar again, ducking under it, and standing over them, hands on her hips, "You are not welcome here."

"I can see that," Bann Ranulf said, pulling himself to his feet and spitting out a tooth, "You're all in trouble now. I could have this quarter razed to the ground."

"Does anywhere know where Mordham is?" Missus Bantree asked.

Suggestions rolled in from every corner.

"Five miles up your arsehole!" 

"South of West Bumblefuck and North of Ass Nowheresville!"

"In the shadow of Mount I Don't Give a Shit!"

"Now, lads, I think it's best you just get out of here. But you'll be leaving your breeches," announced Missus Bantree.

"What?!" Bann Gladwin exclaimed.

"You heard me. House rules. You put your hands on a woman as hasn't asked you to, it's walk out with your arse out," she said.

"But we didn't! It was him!" protested Ser Hugh, pointing at Ser Kit with his non-broken arm, "And… and it was freezing out there!"

"You didn't stop him either, did you," Edwina said, "Come on, give them here, I'll add them to my collection."

"I could really do that all night, if you prefer," Alistair said, though from the looks of him he could no such thing. His left eye rapidly swelling, he was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and from how he was holding his right hand he'd probably broken a finger or two.

"I certainly could," said Zev. He had come out more or less unscathed, as he tended to. Come to think of it, Ten had never seen him so much as break a nail, though he clearly had no qualms about joining whatever melee was before him.

"This is an outrage," Bann Ranulf grumbled, but he shimmied out of his breeches and handed them to the bartender, "My father will hear of this!"

"So he can beat you too, you little pissant?" asked Edwina, "Come on, hand 'em over."

"No! This is…" protested Ser Kit, who had managed to stumble to his feet. His words were garbled and Ten suspected his jaw was broken.

"Shut the fuck up, Kit," Bann Gladwin exclaimed, thrusting his pants into Edwina's meaty hand. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you weren't such a fucking creep. Take the shame, and let's get out of here."

"Yeah, you heard him, take the shame!" called Potchek, who was still wearing Ten's bonnet upside down over his beard and holding a cold glass of beer to his swollen cheekbone.

Slowly, but with gaining speed and volume, a chant of "Take the shame! Take the shame!" started up among the patrons.

Reluctantly, Ser Hugh and Ser Kit shed their respective breeches.

"Oof!" exclaimed Missus Bantree, "Looks like someone had a wee accident in these ones! Do you need help finding the privy, lad?" The barroom roared with laughter.

"You're all nothing but common thugs!" Ser Hugh shouted, as though it were the insult of the century and stepped out into the street, making an undignified noise as the cold wind hit him. Ten looked after them, her mouth in a grim line.

"What are you so sourfaced about?" asked Kennit, "Thought watching a few upper class twats get their asses handed to them was right up your alley."

"It is, it's just... a little frightening how easily that happened."

"The lad who started it, he was with you when you came by the sentry box last month. Friend of yours?"

"Colleague," said Ten.

"I've never broken my own hand on another man's face for a colleague," Kennit said mildly.

"If he hadn't, someone else would have. This city's always been a lake behind a weak dam, but I feel like we're close to the day where that one raindrop falls and unleashes the river," Ten said.

"You've got a point there," said Kennit, "But most of us have seen it coming a long way off and our boats are ready."

"I hope you're right," said Ten, "I should go see to my…colleagues. Good talk, Kennit."

"As always, Arlessa."

She saw him settle back down for another old man nap as she rose and rejoined her companions at the bar, sliding between Zev and Alistair. "Missus Bantree," she said, "Everybody's drinks on me for the rest of the night, yeah?" She slid some coins across the bar.

"I'm going to have to cut most of them off, after that little display," Missus Bantree, "Not that they're wrong. Did it really happen like your friend said?"

"What, you think I was lying?" Alistair demanded, gesturing generally at his own face.

"Sometimes young men look for excuses to make their actions righteous when what they really want is to blow off some steam," said Edwina.

"He wasn't," Ten interjected, "Big one thought he'd bend me over in an alley, got more than he bargained for."

"They truly never learn, do they," sighed Edwina, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, he got a handful of my hair but that was the extent of the damage."

"You know full well that's not what I meant."

"Nothing a few drams of moonshine won't solve," Ten said bitterly, and Edwina ducked down to fetch her a clay jug and a glass. Ten uncorked the jug and went to pour herself a drink, but when she went to lift it, her hands were still shaking too badly for her to do so without spilling. She sighed and set it back down. Probably for the best.

"Worry not, manita," Zev said, taking over for her, and topping his own glass off as well, "Your mind will be wiped clean of all that unpleasantness."

"We should give those little shitasses time to get themselves home. I've definitely won fights with pantsless men before but I'm not looking to repeat the experience."

"Now that is a story I have to hear," said Zev enthusiastically, then promptly cringed, as he realized what the story likely entailed, "I am sorry, that was indelicate of me."

"Let me see your hand," said Ten, turning to Alistair. Once again, he'd hurt himself getting a little too carried away with rearranging a deserving man's face, but this time she'd probably need to stitch him up. Though, given how unsteady her own hands were at the moment, she'd have to give that time as well, "Andraste's shapely ass," she sighed, taking his hand in both of her own and prodding gently, "Did nobody ever tell you? Open palm on the hard bits, closed fist on the soft bits."

"Knees and elbows everywhere else," Zev concluded, examining his own pristine hands, "It was a valiant effort, truly, but it is a different game entirely than when you are armed."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy," Alistair sighed.

"Are you sober?" asked Ten.

"As a judge."

"Like, a real judge, or that sot of a magistrate that decides who gets let out of the city lockup based on a roll of the dice? If it's the former, I truly have no idea how you kept wailing on the man as long as you did, you've broken two fingers and the bone on the side here… this should hurt like a bitch."

"Oh I assure you, it does," he said, "So if you can't fix it, can you please stop messing with it?"

"Sorry," said Ten, and let him go.

"I just… truly did not like the shape of his face," said Alistair. He had some odd gaps in his speech, as though he would lose his train of thought midway through a very short sentence. He didn't sound drunk, though.

"Don't care much for your own either, apparently," sighed Ten. She gingerly reached up to examine his eye socket, make sure nothing was broken in there either, "Well there's some good news, it's just a run of the mill shiner. How's your vision?"

He closed his right eye, "Well peripheral on the left's out."

"That's just the swelling. You'll mostly mend on your own, though you should ask Wynne to set your fingers," she said, "And… you truly did not need to do that, don't you think it was overkill?"

"No," he said, "I do not. I'm... standing by this one, Tabris."

"I'm a terrible influence, aren't I," she sighed.

"Say 'terrible' again."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Oh… that's a problem," he said, shaking his head and blinking, "I'm fairly sure you're not supposed to have... four middle fingers."

"Ahhh shit. All right, let's get you some actual medical help. Zev?"

"I'm taking the moonshine," said Zevran, "But very well, wouldn't want to find out what this one sounds like with even more brain damage…"

Between the three of them, they managed to make it through the winding streets beneath the cliffs back north and through the side entrance to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate, mercifully unmolested by guard or the various drunkards that had left the inns of the market district. Closing time in the more genteel parts of town was much earlier than among the rabble. The trio likely looked like another young nobleman had gotten more than he'd bargained for and was being carried home by the help. They had some trouble with the stairs, but managed to get up in one piece. Ten went to find Wynne while Zev had far too much fun keeping Alistair awake every time he started to drift off.

She rapped on the mage's door, "Wynne! I'm sorry, I know it's late, but it's a bit of an emergency…"

She heard movement behind the door, and she opened it. It took her a moment for her to realize what she was looking at. Well I've heard things about what happens to you when you get on in age, I thought it was just whiskers on your chin! If ever grow back hair like that I'll… oh. Oh no. Oh… She gasped quietly and closed the door again, as quietly as she could.

"I'll be out in a moment!" Wynne called from inside.

Ten walked back out into the common room and sat herself on the couch at Alistair's feet. "Zev, you need to give me that moonshine, now."

"What happened, manita?"

"Wynne's got a man in there. An… age-appropriate man," she said, "Moonshine please. Come on. Hurry it up."

"She what?!" Zev exclaimed, and obliged, putting the clay jug in front of her.

"Given what's transpired tonight I did not imagine I would feel even more violated," Ten said. Not bothering with a glass, she took a long swig straight from the jug.

"Well, you did… open her door," Alistair pointed out. His speech had gotten slower and begun to slur.

"I did," Ten said, "But you sound like you're actually in some danger, so I'm going to call that taking one for the team." She took another swig of the moonshine and shook her head quickly.

Wynne, by this time, had gotten a robe on and sashayed into the room. Her hair was out of its customary severe bun and hung down in silver curtains around her face, which was pinker than usual.

"Well, isn't this a mess," she sighed, putting her hands on her hips, "Young man, however did this happen?"

"You should... see the other guy…" Alistair said, struggling to sit up.

"Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm just… stupid."

"Well there's some refreshing self-awareness," Zev muttered.

Wynne shut her eyes and sighed, "All right. But I really must request you all keep your injuries to normal business hours going forward. I'm not a young woman. I need my rest." 

Chapter Text

Ten awoke the next morning to Avrenis Lin stoking her fire, after having placed a stack of clean clothes and, to her astonishment, unstained leathers that looked suspiciously like hers on a chair in the corner of the room. She rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow.

"So I heard you had quite the adventure the other night," Avrenis said

"Where'd you hear that from?" asked Ten.

"You know Ginny Darvey who keeps house at one of the rental estates on the Terrace?" Avrenis said, "We've been friends for years. It's her day off today, and so she nipped by the Paloma last night for a tipple. She said there was quite the kerfuffle there on account of a handful of young lords trying to have their way with a wee elfin maiden, and pretty much everyone at the inn taking exception to it. She stopped by in the morning on her way home, apparently it was such a hilarious story she simply needed to tell someone."

"Why do you think that was me?"

"Oh please, Teneira," said Avrenis, "What other wee elfin maiden would dare to go out on her own late at night in the middle of this kind of unrest? You know very well most of us have more sense than that."

"Fine, well, then I've given you some delicious gossip to sink your fangs into. You have anything for me?"

"Aside from walking in on the mage you travel with trying to shoo a man out of her room an hour past dawn?"

"Which one? Nevermind, I know which one," said Ten.

"There are two?"

"The… ah… senior mage is Wynne. Then there's Morrigan, you know, dark hair, five ten, tits?"

"I'm sure I don't know who you're talking about," said Avrenis, furrowing her brow.

"I see," Ten said, "Do me a favor, if you see an unusually large cockroach, don't stomp it."

"We don't have cockroaches here. It's not the Alienage."

"Sure you don't," said Ten, "But what talk from the markets?"

"Nothing glaring, but the rumor is there's not a few houses trying to curry favor with Teyrn Loghain, hoping to marry one of their sons to Queen Anora," said Avrenis, "But that can't be a surprise."

"And Cailin barely cold! What a scandal," Ten said, mimicking Gwylan, "Do you have a sense of what the queen thinks of this?"

"Not a one," said Avrenis, "You see, she's gone from the palace."

"She's what?"

"Gone," said Avrenis, "Her and her lady's maid. The chambermaids said they went yesterday morning to make up her rooms, and the beds had not been slept in, and half of her gowns were gone from her boudoir."

"Do they know where?" asked Ten.

"No, but get this," Reni said, her eyes sparkling, "What they packed for her made no sense. Nothing appropriate for small council meetings, nothing for audiences in the privy chamber. They packed four riding outfits, as though that's a thing she would do at this time of year."

"So she didn't go anywhere of her own accord. She was moved," Ten concluded.

"By someone who has no idea what is appropriate for a queen to wear," the maid said.

"Or doesn't understand why it's important."

"Either way, almost certainly a man," Reni said.

"I have a lead on one of her personal guard. I know a few things about him and I think I can get him to talk. Do you think you could track him down?"

"I might," Avrenis said.

"Excellent," said Ten, "His name's Jochrim Stillpass. His friends call him Jock. Twenty-eight. Married, two kids. He would have just started recently. The issue is that he doesn't live in Denerim anymore, and I'm not sure what hamlet he moved to, which is also a thing I would also love to find out if you could."

"I will ask the little birds in the market square," said Avrenis, smiling. Ten pressed a sovereign into her palm. The housemaid brought it to her mouth, bit it, and raised her eyebrows, impressed, "I might  also might suggest you come with me down to the kitchens. The staff'll be eating breakfast now, and you may hear more from them."

"Gwylan too?"

"Psht. No, he eats in his apartment. Fancy lad," Avrenis said.

"Thanks Reni," said Ten. She helped Avrenis with the fire in the anteroom, washed the soot from her hands, and went with her down the servants' stairs, all four stories to where the kitchens were situated in the back. She had had to go through there to get in and out the side entrance, so she knew generally where they were, though they had been deserted the last couple of times. This time, approaching, she heard the clatter of dishes and conversation and opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle anyone. That did not keep the din from quieting quite suddenly when she did. There were only about six staff members there - standard, given that the estate was barely occupied these days - and they were sat around a roughhewn table.

"Good morning," Ten said.

"And who are you?" demanded the cook, who was standing at the head, clearly playing pater familia in the absence of a butler or housekeeper. Much like the rest of the staff, he was elfin. He had an accent from somewhere up the coast around Amaranthine. Folks from the middle and west of the country swore they could not tell the difference between Denerim and Amaranthine but each city swore the other one sounded more obnoxious.

"This is Teneira Tabris," Avrenis announced, "She is a guest in this house, I invited her."

"Breakfast for the big folk of the house is in an hour," said the cook.

"Sure and it is," said Ten, "But wouldn't you get sick of speaking with nobody but shem day in and day out?"

"So you're an elf when it suits you, I see."

"He's not from here, is he?" 

"Nope," said the scullery maids, a pale, wiry thing with very blond hair, but very dark eyebrows and eyes, "Have a seat, Arlessa."

"Are you Litha?" asked Ten, obligingly.

"That's me," she said, "That's Emril, he's a footman, and Thenlil, he's a groom - yes they are twins, no they do not find the rhyming names amusing, Thenlil's the one with the scar across his eyebrow - the other footman's Sioran, you know Avrenis upstairs, Aefriel works the kitchens with me, and this moody son of a bitch here is Nereidis. Don't mind him, he's in a shit mood because he's always hungover."

"That's her husband," Avrenis whispered to Ten.

"Here," said Ten, chucking a flask at Nereidis, "Helps the headache, unfortunately I don't have anything that can cure being an asshole."

Litha started laughing raucously as Nereidis caught it, and to her surprise, laughed as well as he took a swig, "All right, I see none of it's gone to your head. My apologies."

"Now," said Litha, who had gotten ahold of herself. She was clearly the top dog downstairs, despite being only a scullery maid, "Look what I've got." She reached under the table and put a stack of letters on the table.

"Did you go to the Alienage last night?" asked Ten.

"Sure and I did," said Litha, "Every fortnight like clockwork."

"What'd you see in there?"

"Fat load of dark," said Litha, "I don't stay to look around, after all. Especially with the new 'guardsmen' they've employed. Ridiculous."

"Who collects the letters for you?" asked Ten.

"They all get dropped by my mother's house," said Litha, "She leaves them on the doorstep, I try to get in and out as quickly as possible. Forgive me, Arlessa, but I'm not as quick with a knife as you are and I'm not interested in trouble with the guard."

"No explanation needed," said Ten, "You're doing a service."

"I am. And I'd do it a lot quicker if you'd stop asking so many questions," Litha said, "This pile here's for the palace." She set aside a stack tied with a bit of twine. The stable lad called Emril took it, "Here's for the Teyrn of Highever's estate." Another stack, which Thenlil took. "And these are for the lesser houses, you can give them to Iana at Bann Argant's estate, she'll pass them down. Now, for here… this is yours, Avrenis, here's for you, Aefriel, this one's for Emril. And then…" she sighed heavily, "The cries into the void." She set a small stack of letters down.

"The what now?" asked Ten.

"Some are addressed to people we don't know," said Thenlil, "Others are just for someone, anyone, begging for help we can't give."

"We stopped opening them some time ago. It got too depressing," Aefriel said.

"May I?" asked Ten.

"I was hoping you'd ask," said Avrenis.

Ten nodded and took the stack of ten or so letters. The top one was not addressed. Written on it in a handwriting that Ten would have usually ascribed to a young child written "FIND MY DOTTER" in all capitals. She realized with a pang it was either a parent who had learned their letters too late in life to ever be good at them, like her own father, or written by a young sibling on the parent's behalf. She sighed and shook her head, putting them away for later.

"See what I mean?" Aefriel said.

"Yeah," sighed Ten, "I suppose I haven't taken enough emotional gut-punches recently, I'll see what I can do."

She let the group descend into gossip and accepted the bowl of salted rice porridge they offered her, scooping steamed eggs into it, dried fish over that, and a mix of vinegar and hot peppers over that. After nothing but bland, oily human food for months, the sour and spice of her own people's cuisine was something she did not even realize she missed. Of course, she imagined, her companions would remind her that the salt, vinegar, capsicum were only there to mask the fact that half the time the ingredients her people had access to were spoiled, and it really was better to eat sound food. But what did they know of hunger? Anyway, their people had invented sardines preserved in oil, a hundred times more offensive than the little dried anchovies, and thus had no room for criticism.

She helped Litha and Aefriel with the dishes, excusing herself to go back upstairs before any of her companions could catch her in the kitchens and ask why she was doing that. There was no real explaining it to them, was there, that there was a hominess in simple labor, in scalding your hands and watching the filth rinse down the drain. Even Zevran certainly would have looked down on the people who kept him fed.

She sat herself down at the table in the common room. The light was better than in the bedroom she was occupying. Until she learned more about what was going on at the palace - or out of it if Reni was to be believed - there were no moves to be made there. Ten didn't have it in her to do another night at the Pearl, though there was almost certainly more to be learned there. She didn't dare go to the other neighborhood bosses while her territory was under lockdown - even Don Cangrejo wouldn't be so foolish as to offer help with nobody to back her up except the servants who resided in their places of work. And so, while she didn't exactly like the idea of heading over the rooftops home by herself, she wasn't sure she had too much of a choice. But there was no doing that until the sun had gone down. And so, comfortably full, she sat herself at the table in the common room and opened one of the cries to the void. The first one. In the same childish hand was scrawled.

EDARIN EVANTINE

ALIENAGE

MY GIRL MITHLANI 7

GONE 5 DAYS

Oof, Ten sighed. Usually if a child that young went missing from the Alienage it meant she'd taken an ill-fated swim in the river, usually by accident. She'd lost a cousin to the unpredictable current of the Drakon River, and once herself had been pushed under by the roaring waters, not able to free herself from it until she was well into harbor. Probably got goaded into a swim by an older sibling or cousin who's too scared to say what happened. Poor kid.

She opened the next one. This one was addressed to…

"Maylin Rasphander?!" Ten exclaimed out loud, "What the…"

She considered for a moment delivering it to her old nemesis's widow at the house on the river with blue shutters, but curiosity got the better of her and she tore it open a little too eagerly.

My love,

Ten squealed. I wish Eddin were alive to read this. A letter from his wife's elfin lover.

I know full well this letter will likely not reach you, but I have to do something to quiet my nerves, if only for a moment. There are no stories or fables that are at all instructive on this nor a comfort at all. I knew as well as you did that our liaison was dangerous at the best of times, though I confess on hearing of E's fate, I hoped for a moment that it all might turn out for the better. The memory of this hope makes me feel foolish, as I lie here, more alone than I ever have been.

I've counted the months. I wouldn't blame you if you had done what you did the last time. But I can't help but see you in my mind's eye carrying our secret proudly. The more that things fall apart, the more I think on how silly the rules truly are, and can only hope we all three make it through to a time when the world has changed for the better.

I am casting this letter out into the world, an arrow at the sky, hoping against hope it finds its aim.

Yours always,

Red

Ten's folded the letter again and erupted into cackles. Was that why he hated us? Did he know he was wearing the horns? She resolved she would make sure the letter found its home, if only to make sure nothing nefarious happened to the sender, or the recipient…. But mostly to the sender. Foolish man, she thought, Thinks he's listening to his heart when it's his nethers talking, hopefully the world ends before he finds a noose around his neck.

She went to the next letter in the stack. She felt her blood run cold.

To the Grey Wardens.

She opened it.

Ten, I don't know where you are, or if you've even survived to this point, but if there's any kind of help you can get us in here, please, just call in whatever favors you can. Soris tried getting word to Don Cangrejo and the Captain, but it's been crickets - either they've abandoned us, or, more likely, the messages were intercepted. Ten, It's all gone to shit. They got rid of the guards, and they're saying they need to quarantine us. That means no back and forth, even with an escort. I don't know what they're planning, but it can't be good. These new guards, they're foreign. They keep talking about a plague, but nobody I know has gotten sick, but people have started disappearing. There's a man, he says he's a doctor, but I don't think he is one, he keeps taking people into the warehouse for treatment, but they never come back out and they weren't even sick. I hope this finds you, wherever you are, before they take me too.

Shianni

P.S. NO I WAS NOT DRUNK WHEN I WROTE THIS, THIS IS SERIOUS

Ten read it once. Twice. Tried to figure out any way it could possibly be a joke. Shianni did love a prank, and had been known to take them too far, but this... this did not feel like one.

Her hands trembling, she opened the rest of the letters. Nothing as juicy as the letter to Maylin Rasphander, but the rest were in line with the first. Wondering where missing loved ones were. It wasn't a bad assumption that a missing elf might have snuck out of the Alienage during lockdown and been unable to get back in. She didn't know any of the names off the top of her head, but it was a lot of people. Everything lined up too well

No time to track down the rest of the squad. It has to be tonight.

"You are distressed."

Ten looked up to see Sten standing over her, one hand on his sword.

"How long have you been there?"

"You made several unearthly noises, I thought some sort of foul creature had invaded the rooms."

"Yeah, well…" said Ten, "No, just me."

"I was not entirely incorrect, I see."

"I think you're beginning to grasp the local brand of humor."

"Am I, though?"

She chuckled ruefully and shook her head.

"It's elf shit," she said, "I don't have the energy to explain."

"Your people are currently being kept sequestered, except when they may be of use to humans as domestics or laborers. This is unusual - whereas before your people were certainly miserable and kept under the boot of the dominant class, they were free to move about. You fear that there is something nefarious afoot, and you are considering absconding to investigate it on your own."

Ten narrowed her eyes at him.

"You instructed me to be more observant," he said.

"You're a quick study," she said, "What do you think I should do?"

"You are asking me for advice?"

"I am," she said, "You are clearly from a culture that values loyalty to one's people. You have spent as much time or more outside of your culture as I have outside mine. What would you do if you received a frantic message from a… do you even have families?"

"We don't call them that," he said.

"What would you do if you received a message from a member of your... whatever, telling you that something awful is happening and that you need to help them?"

"That would depend on what you told me to do," said Sten.

"I would tell you to go."

"Even if it meant I would not return for some months, or ever?"

"Yes," she said.

"Then, so too must you go," said Sten, "Though I do not know how wise it is for you to go alone."

"I don't want you or the others implicated," she said, "We've been up to some risky business, sure, but I fear this is beyond the pale, so far as the law is concerned, and certainly not in line with our current goals."

"The laws here do not make sense. But I understand. I did not care for that gibbet cage."

"So, cover for me with the others, will you?"

Sten thought for a moment, and then a light came into his eyes. "I will tell the others you have gone to the theater."

Chapter Text

As dusk approached, she put on her leathers, which were so clean she could barely believe they were even her own. It was chilly out, but she didn't dare put anything on over them besides a cloak, wanting to stay maneuverable. Once it was dark enough she was fairly sure that her presence on the rooftops would not be glaringly obvious to anyone on the street, she took off to the corner of the slums where there stood an apartment building whose roof backed on to the wall around the Alienage. The latch on the entrance to the building had been broken for decades - likely by design - and she quickly ascended four stories, and rapped on the door of the one flat at the top.

"Who is it?" the woman inside called.

"Ten the Alchemist," she called.

The woman, a middle aged weaver by the name of Mallie Lee, opened up and hurried her inside, "What are you doing back here, lass?"

"I need to get into the Alienage, I've heard it's bad news."

"They say it's a plague," Mallie said, "Oh, I know, that's probably another lie from the palace. Seems that's all we get these days. Come on, you know the routine."

Ten followed Mallie into her flat, through her living room, and into the back bedroom where there was a hatch to the roof on the ceiling. Mallie pulled it open, for Ten would have had to jump for it. Ten went to the corner of the room where a ladder was kept.

"Thanks Mallie," said Ten. She handed Mallie a sovereign.

"Toll's five coppers," said Mallie, "Where'd you even get this much money?"

"I've come up in the world," said Ten, "Consider it a down payment. Passage for me and anyone else who needs it until lockdown's over."

"Anytime," said Mallie, "And tell your cousin she does a better job with that arthritis salve than you did."

"Hey!" Ten exclaimed, feigning indignance.

She scrambled up the ladder and pulled herself onto the roof of the building. The wall lay to her left, and with the trees still in full leaf, though said leaves were certainly browner than before, there was no line of vision to the sentry box below. Still, she crept along as quietly as she always had. The wall rose only a few feet above the roof, and she scrambled over it, landing on the rooftop of her own building. In the alley between her own building and the one next door grew a stubborn pin oak that allowed passage from the third story to the ground. She jumped to the sturdiest branch within reason, gritting her teeth as it swayed under her weight, then got in to the trunk and shinnied down the four stories, finally lowering herself to the street. She rounded the building to the back, where her little garden had been covered over for the winter, and in the back door to the ground floor flat that had been hers. The back door was unlocked as it usually was, though the usually dim hallway to the back bedroom and door was pitch black. As she made it into the glow of the kitchen, she could see that Shianni was seated at the kitchen table in front of a bottle and a glass.

"What are you doing here?" She leapt to her feet, to the great offense of the black cat who had been in her lap, and embraced Ten.

"I got your message, believe it or not," said Ten, "Wait, who's this?"

"Oh, that's Don Furrnando," said Shianni, gesturing at the cat, who had retreated to the corner along with two calico companions. 

"I leave town and you replace me with these?" Ten asked, gesturing at the trio. 

"They keep the rats under control," Shianni said, dismissively, "I couldn't find another snake."

"So you got three cats."

"That's a normal number of cats! There, that's the Comtesse DeMieu and Hairball MacAsshole," Shianni said, gesturing at the calicos. 

Ten sighed, not wanting to pick a fight over the quantity of felines. Shianni was grown now and technically it was her flat. Ten had absolutely no leg to stand on as she had for the four or five years when she was definitely the adult and Shianni definitely the child. Though… looking at the tumbleweeds of fur, black, white, gray, and ginger, that lined the baseboards, she wondered if it wasn't something she really ought to address at some point. Odd, she thought, usually my dad would be by to scold her about cleaning. Maybe he thinks it's not his place now that I'm not living here. She, instead, went to pick a fight about the other subject that the two of them were constantly at odds over.

"How much of that have you had?" she asked, pointing at the glass bottle. It was unmarked. She'd definitely gotten it off Faean the distiller for cheap, the dregs that he couldn't sell to the bars outside the Alienage.

"I just sat down," said Shianni.

"Well put it away," said Ten, "I need your help and you need to be sober. When did you write that letter?"

"It's been six days," said Shianni, "Whole thing started about a month ago. When they showed up."

"Who's 'they,' Shianni?" asked Ten.

"Strange folks," she said, "Foreign. It started with a couple, then more showed up. At first we all thought they were just doing a census, they would just come by peoples' doors and ask them questions - how many people live there, how many children, what their relations to each other were. Then a little later they said there was some kind of disease spreading, started taking people in for treatment, said they needed to quarantine the sick ones. They took over that warehouse by the river, they're calling it a clinic. And then the guards just sort of… stopped coming."

"How many have they taken?" asked Ten.

"I'm not entirely sure. More than a dozen. Less than twenty I think," she said,.

"Anyone we know? What about my dad? What about Soris?"

Shianni looked at her, "Why do you think I'm drinking?"

"Because you have a problem with the bottle, we've known that for years," said Ten.

"Oh fuck off," Shianni scoffed, "Not like you're a good Chantry mouse."

"I assure you I'm sober. Who is it that's running this clinic? Not the Chantry?"

"They had a doctor in. Had a strange accent. Tevinter I think."

"Yeah. I heard they brought in private security," Ten said.

"Well that explains that," said Shianni, "The guards all sort of stopped coming one day. Well…. Except for one."

"Really," said Ten.

"It's the part I couldn't put in the letter. Remember Lieutenant Villais? Nevermind, I know you do."

"What about him?"

"They shut him in here with us when the rest of the guard disappeared."

"So he's here? In the Alienage?"

"Let me get to that. They didn't just shut him in, someone - well, actually probably a group - had beaten the shit out of him and threw him over the wall."

"Do you know who?"

"Not specifically," said Shianni, "But I have an idea. The billy clubs leave a pretty distinct bruising pattern. You know that as well as I. And... I'm guessing from the fact that they carved the word 'halfbreed' into his chest with a straight razor that that had something to do with it.

Ten sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. Well, at least he didn't get lynched.

"We patched him up, I let him stay here while he recovered," said Shianni, "I figured you wouldn't mind him sleeping in your bed."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on, Ten, everyone saw you two sneaking off all spring. It was a great joke."

I guess I'm really not as sneaky as I think I am.

"Maker's breath Shianni, this is serious," Ten sighed.

"Ten, did you know this whole time that his father was an elf?"

Ten nodded.

"I never really got a good look at him before, but now that I know it was sort of obvious."

"Was it?"

"Well it was to that funny 'doctor' at the 'clinic.' He barged last week, dragged him up right out of bed and brought him there."

"When did they take my dad?" asked Ten.

"I don't know. It registered probably two days ago that he hadn't been to check on me in awhile."

"Anything else weird?"

"There's a strange caravel docked at the river," said Shianni, "They said that it was to transport the medics and supplies."

"And nobody's doing anything about it?" Ten demanded.

"Soris tried," said Shianni, "And I haven't seen him in four days."

"All right," said Ten, "Well, we're going to check it out ourselves. Or I am. You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"I was about to steel my nerves to do that very thing," said Shianni, glancing at the bottle of moonshine on the table.

"No," said Ten, "You're staying sober. And we're going in stealth."

"You think that's necessary? You're armed to the teeth. Far better than anyone I've seen go in or out of that building."

"I suppose you've a point there. Here, you take my boot dagger. And my throwing knives. And I think I have…"

"Actually," said Shianni. She reached under the table and pulled out a familiar ax. It had had some sharpening, and a new, shorter handle with a leather loop at the end. Bannkiller was burned into the wood of the throat, "It's yours. Soris had it fixed up for you if you ever came back. I'll trade it for that hatchet."

"All yours," said Ten, grinning, unhooking a hatchet she had pilfered from an abandoned woodshed and sliding it across the table. She took hold of Bannkiller. Whoever had made the handle knew what they were doing. It was well balanced, and the loop was just long enough to give her an inch or two of extra swing without sacrificing control, "This feels… right."

"Looks right too," said Shianni, "Have you seen the graffiti?"

"The bride with the ax painted all over the place? That was you?"

"My idea, but Morran drew it and your dad made the stencils. I don't think he knew what we were going to do with them… we handed a dozen out around the Alienage and some of the other neighborhoods. They paint it on walls when someone's getting too big for their britches. We figured if you didn't make it out at least you could live on as a folk hero."

"Well, here I am," Ten said, "And it sounds like it's time for some heroics."

The streets were strangely deserted as they made their way to the warehouse by the canal. Ten heard the familiar creak as a hundred shutters cracked and two hundred eyes watched the two women scurry through the streets. The heavy oaken door was locked but, having learned a thing or two since Daveth tried to teach her that day in the Korcari Wilds, Ten took two pins out of her hair and made short work of it.

"They teach you that in the Grey Wardens?" Shianni asked skeptically.

"I've learned things you would not believe," said Ten. She eased the door open. It opened into the warehouse's office, where there was a man sleeping with his head on a large desk. The room was lit by an oil lamp that had burned down. She put her finger to her lips and crept up behind him, sliding her hunting knife from her boot. She put it to his throat and leaned down.

"Boo!" she said in his ear.

He woke with a start, but she seized him by the hair and held him still, "Gonna want to stay quiet there, love," she said, "There's a blade at your throat and the nice lady over there has a throwing knife with your name on it. Which is what, by the way?"

"Who the fuck are you?" he whispered, having the good sense not to make a scene.

"I'm the Vengeful Bride," she said, "And you people apparently never learn not to fuck with mine. So let's start again. What is your name?"

"Seranus Vos," he said, "I'm just a clerk. I promise. I didn't… I'm not who you want."

"All right, Seranus Vos," said Ten, "What sort of operation is this, that needs a clerk?"

"It's a clinic."

She put a little pressure on the blade. "Fine. Fine," he gasped, "Let me go, and I'll unlock that drawer, and you can see for yourself. I have absolutely no intention of dying for any of this."

Ten let him up, but kept her dagger poised to strike.

As promised, he unlocked one of his desk drawers and set a ledger on top of it.

"It's all there," he said, "Can I go?"

Ten squinted in the dim torchlight. It was a ship's manifest, for a boat scheduled to leave the Port of Denerim five days hence, bound for the Imperium. Her blood ran cold. Slavery was still legal in the Imperium, after all. Her eyes went to the cargo.

Tirin Iovanas, 45, elf
Soris Tabris, 23, elf
Nadera Eventine, 32, elf
Cyrion Tabris, 47, elf
Kapollos Lin, 30, elf
Yereni Kovalis, 37, halfbreed
Anton Villais, 26, halfbreed - mark
Mithlani Eventine, 7, elf
Enlir Kalaides, 42, halfbreed
Seldanna Aierkos, 34, elf
Sionnan Aierkos, 28, elf
Eionwin Sharhani, 16, elf

There was space for fifty more entries.

Ten looked bitterly up at Vos.

"I showed you," he said, "I helped you! I just do the books! And look, it was your king that ordered it. Look, his seal is right there."

"Ferelden has no king," said Ten. She leafed through the pages, and indeed, on the docking permits, there was the seal of Loghain MacTir.

"The man in charge, then," said Vos, "'I promise. It wasn't my idea. I just do what the boss says."

"I don't care if you clap the irons on yourself or just clean their pisspots," Ten spat, "You are a fucking slaver. Do you know what happens to slavers?"

"I'm not a slaver! I just… I just keep the books."

"Books of people," she shouted, not caring for stealth anymore, "Shianni, take his hands. Good luck keeping any books without them, you fucking pissant."

"Ten… what?" Shianni squeaked.

"You heard me," she said, "I spent two hours sharpening that hatchet this afternoon. Use it. Take his fucking hands."

"Wait wait!" Vos protested, "You take my hands off, I will bleed out. It'll take hours. Give me a clean death and I'll show you where they're held."

"Sounds like a good bargain to me," Shianni said, looking a little sick.

"You Tevinters were always a wily bunch," said Ten, narrowing her eyes, "But all right, Master Clerk, show me how the sausage is made and I'll make it so quick your head won't know where the rest of you has gone."

He first unlocked a door into an anteroom. There were three cages, two empty, and one housing a little girl who was curled up asleep on a dirty mat on the floor, clutching a stuffed halla to her chest.

"You have the keys for that?" Ten asked.

"No," Vos said.

"Keep a knife on him, Shianni," Ten said. She went up and fiddled with her hairpins in the lock until it clicked open. She knelt by the girl's side and passed a gentle hand over her shoulder.

"Mama?" Large dark eyes opened, blinked in the dim light.

"No love, it's only Ten the Alchemist," said Ten, "Are you Mithlani Eventine?"

"Yeah," the kid said, sitting up and running a dirty sleeve under her nose. There were tear tracks in the dirt on her face that had dried, then been flooded over, then dried again.

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know. The man in the robes said I was sick and I had to go see the doctor. But then…it's been dark for so long. Where am I?"

"You're still in the Alienage," said Ten, "In the warehouse near the river. You know, the big one with the white shutters. Do you know the one I'm talking about?"

"Yes," she said.

"If you go out the door, do you know how to get home?"

"Yes," said the girl, "Where's my mama?"

"We'll find her next," said Ten, "But I need you to go out that door and run straight home to your dad. Shut and bar the door. Don't open it until morning. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good lass," said Ten. She helped the girl to her feet. She looked like they hadn't fed her once in the days she'd been in that cage. A little unsteady, but gaining confidence, she made for the door, one hand on the stuffed halla, and scurried out into the night.

"I think I can find the rest of them on my own," said Ten. She walked up to Vos, raised her ax, and sliced his head in half right down his nose before he could even realize what was happening.

"Ten!" Shianni exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth.

"A little girl, Shianni," said Ten, "He kept a little girl in a cage. He was going to sell her away from her dad, her family. Probably wouldn't even have kept her and her mother together. A little girl who still sleeps with a stuffed halla." The tears had started, furiously running down her cheeks.

"I know," said Shianni, who had begun crying herself, though over sympathy for little Mithlani or horror at what her cousin had just done to a clerk probably only making a few silver an hour, Ten was not sure.

"Don't chicken out on me now, Shianni," said Ten, "You have the nerve for it, I know you do. I saw you shove a torch in Vaughan's face. My dad is somewhere in here. And Soris. And other peoples' dads and brothers and cousins and mas and…"

"I know," said Shianni again, "But you've changed, Ten."

"No I haven't," Ten said, "I've just gotten more like myself."

Shianni looked down, "You're scaring me," she said quietly.

"Then go get drunk at home alone and I'll do it myself, like I always fucking have," Ten snapped. She regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth. Shianni put her head down. Ten sighed, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that." 

Shianni paused. Sighed heavily, "No," she said, "You're right. I can't keep falling to pieces every time something bad happens. I just... before this summer I have never gone more than a day without seeing you. I have spent more time with you than anyone, even my ma. And you always knew what to do."

"I usually made it up," Ten said.

"So when I say asking me to cut off a man's hands is beyond the fucking pale and stop acting like a psychopath, do you believe me?" 

Ten chuckled, and relented, "Fine. I will not ask you to do that again. Now come on, let's put an end to this."

Ten furiously swiped at her eyes, succeeding at removing the tears but, in doing so, painting her face with the blood of the unfortunate clerk, and moved further into the building.

Chapter Text

The next room was a file room that the operation had converted into a makeshift guard barracks where six Tevinter soldiers were fast asleep on hastily assembled cots. They hadn't even bothered to station one by the door. It was truly amazing how much the humans relied on the elves just lying down and taking it. Then again, the more Ten saw of the world, the more she realized how many of her people truly did just lie down and take it. Can I blame them? Look what standing up got me… what it got Nelaros…

Moving as quietly as possible, Ten demonstrated to Shianni how to slice straight down so the vocal cords would be severed before the jugular. Shianni nodded, for some reason not having any sort of issue with this. Evidently, it was just hacking off body parts that gave her pause. The two women slid their blades silently into one throat after another, making nary a sound, alerting nobody to their presence. Ten paused only once, seeing that the woman in the cot was an elf. She wondered for a moment if she was actually a slave herself and thus not here of her own accord. Then concluded that if she were trusted with arms and had not taken the opportunity to run she was probably beyond saving. And so she cut her throat like the others. By the time they were done, the blood pooled on the floor, inches deep.

"I liked these boots," Shianni grumbled.

"I'll buy you some new ones," said Ten. They moved further in went further in, down a long hallway and into the main storeroom closest to the dock. She felt her stomach drop. Lit dimly by the moon, which had risen sometime between when she had entered Mallie Lee's flat and now, the place was lined with cages like the one they'd found the girl Mithlani in. She saw her dad first, and Soris. Yereni Kovalis, a fisherwoman, was in one at the far end of the room. Her husband has been Loghain's valet for years. Some fucking nerve. She did not, however, see any of the others.

She went to Soris first, knowing he was likely the best equipped for a fight. He was awake sitting in the corner of the cage, his knees at his chest. "This is the worst cell I've ever gotten you out of," she said, "And that's saying something."

"Ten!" he exclaimed as he saw her.

"I leave for a few months and everything goes to shit, I see," she chuckled, opening the lock. She pressed the handle of her other hatchet into his hand, "How many of them are there?"

"Six guards," said Soris.

"Well the guards are dead," Shianni offered. 

"Ah, that explains the blood dripping from your feet," Soris said, "There's a ship docked out there. I think that's where they took the others. It has a full crew as far as I can tell, but most of them left sometime yesterday and haven't come back."

Ten thought of the Tevinter sailors she had seen at the Pearl and silently thanked the girls and boy in the back for keeping them busy that long. 

"What about that funny little man who said he was a doctor?" Shianni asked.

"He stays on the ship," Soris said, "But Shianni, I think he's a magister."

"Fuck," Ten cursed. As much as she did not have great feelings about Fereldan and the rest of the southern nations keeping their mages sequestered, she knew somewhat that the plight of her people in the Imperium was largely in part due to the unregulated magic that the mages there were permitted to wield. Whoever was behind this probably packing much more of a punch even than UIdred, "I was hoping to get out of here in one piece. Oh well."

"Uncle Cyrion!" Soris shouted.

"What is it lad?" her fathers voice came from the other end of the room.

"Your favorite daughter's here to save us."

"Teneira?"

She followed his voice to where her dad was standing, gripping the bars of his own cage. Her hands shook as she opened the lock, the door swung open, and she was in her father's arms. Though she couldn't be sure, given the moonlight, she thought that the patches of his hair that had been gray had gone white, and the dark patches had gone gray. He'd certainly lost weight since the last time he'd held her.

"My girl," he said into her hair, "My girl. You've come."

"Of course I have, Dad," she said, "Are you hurt?"

"No," he said, "They were gentle with us, as long as we didn't fight."

And of course you didn't fight, did you, old man, she thought. But, instead, she said, "Well that's good news then. Where are the others?"

"There's a boat docked out there on the river," he said, "At least there was before. I haven't seen anything to indicate it's gone."

"Good," she said, "Looks like I nipped this one in the bud."

He nodded, "Do you have any weapons?"

She rolled her eyes. He really could not resist no matter how dire the circumstances. "No, Dad, I fought my way in here with a rolling pin."

"No, I mean for me and the others."

"You, Dad? Haven't seen you wield anything more sinister than a bowsaw."

"That would do," he said, "I've… had about enough of this, my girl. I fear you and your mother may have been right all along. They won't stop unless we make them stop."

She nodded, "Back in the hall, door to the right, Shianni and I just took care of the guards. Their gear should be in there. Grab what you can. Don't mind the blood."

He sighed, "All right."

"And come right back," she said.

"I will."

Ten moved on to the next occupied cage, housing Yereni Kovalis. She opened the lock with more ease, and the door swung open.

"Do you want to help us free the poor sods on the boat?" asked Ten, "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"Let me at them," the fishwife growled, "I will tear them limb from limb with my bare hands if I have to."

"You won't have to," said Ten, seeing her father return, laden with all sorts of nasty weaponry, "Take your pick."

Armed to the teeth, the five of them crept out onto the dock, up the gangway, and onto the ship. It was a large vessel, and Ten realized it would command a large crew. Let's hope Soris was right about how many of them are carousing on shore now. There was a watchman on deck, his lantern held high on a pole, who tried raised the alarm and run at them, but was cut down by an arrow through the eye. Ten looked behind her for where it had come from, and she was gobsmacked to see Cyrion lowering a longbow nearly as tall as he was.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" Ten asked, totally baffled.

Cyrion scoffed, "I had a life before you were born, believe it or not. Though I'm glad to see my eyes have not failed me in my dotage."

"Well shit, I'll have to make sure we both live through the night, I'm not going to my pyre not knowing that story," said Ten.

"They're belowdecks!" Soris called. He had yanked a hatch open and descended into the smelly darkness of the ship's hold. Ten followed, and Shianni, while Cyrion and Yereni stood by the gangplank with her harpoon. Neither weapon would be of any use in the close quarters of the hold, after all.

They found three sailors asleep in their hammocks. The rest of the crew quarters were empty.

"Do we kill them?" Shianni asked, "They're just sailors."

"Sailors on a slave ship," Soris said, "They could have taken any job and they chose this one. Better us than pirates."

"Yeah," Shianni conceded, and thrust a knife up into one of their necks through the sailcloth hammock. Ten put her ax in the head of another. The third put up a fight, but Soris swung the hatchet, taking off several fingers, and then his head.

They found the rest of their unfortunate neighbors in the hold, by the bow. They were shackled together by wrists and ankles, and there was barely room for them to lie flat. Ten took her ax to the wooden crossbar the chains were fastened to, and pulled it loose.

"What's going on?"

Ten recognized the voice. It belonged to Tirin Iovanas, Don Cangrejo's longtime footman. I wonder what the Don will do when he finds out about this… She shuddered to think of it. Legend had it that the Crows she periodically gifted him in chains had wound up buried alive, nourishing the grape vines in his courtyard.

"We're getting you out," she called.

"Is that Ten Tabris?" called out another voice, "It's me, Nadera! They have me and my cousins! "

"Good, you're all right," Ten called, pulling the chain from where it was looped through all of their shackles, gently, so as not to injure them, "We found Mithlani. She's run home to Edarin."

"They took Mithlani? But she's only a little girl!"

"She's safe now," Shianni called, "Who else is in there?" 

"They've got Enlir and the Aierkos sisters. Eionwin Sharhani's here too," Tirin called.

"Ten," a familiar voice said, "It's me, Anton. I'm here."

"Not for long," Ten called encouragingly as her stomach flip-flopped, "I just got the end of the chain. Can you walk?"

"Yes," Tirin called, "Irons are still on my wrists and ankles but I can walk."

"Come towards my voice!"

Soris stationed himself by the ladder to the deck, and Shianni between them and so they ushered the erstwhile prisoners up to the deck above. Ten scrambled up the ladder last and saw that they had missed at least two sailors and… the bald motherfucker wearing mage robes. Shianni quickly moved the newly freed behind the open door to the hatch as energy crackled between the magister's fingers, and for the first time, fear wound its way around the anger and outrage in Ten's heart.

"So you're the little elfin maiden who's caused all this trouble," he intoned, pales eyes falling on her. He spoke as though he were addressing a great audience in an amphitheater, not a haphazard band of miscreants who'd just murdered his crew and stolen his cargo. He paced slowly, "The lone Grey Warden. The Champion of Redcliffe." In the moonlight, Ten could barely make out his features, which her mind turned into something monstrous.

"You forget the Vengeful Bride," said Ten.

"Ah, yes, that too," the magister said, "You should hear how the king rants about you. Borderline obsession, I'd say. It can't be healthy."

"Ferelden has no king," said Ten.

"You know full well who I'm speaking of," the magister said, "The man's taken leave of his senses, if you ask me, though I suppose you didn't."

"No, keep talking," said Ten, "So Teyrn Loghain called me the lone Grey Warden?"

"Several times," said the magister, "To hear him talk he has been chasing you over hill and dale for months now."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Anton had scrambled over the bulwark on the starboard side and was climbing sideways towards the bow. He's trying to get behind him. All right. She resolved to keep the magister talking until Anton could complete whatever it was he was up to, "Tell me more about the state of his mind."

"Well, insane though he may be, he was right that this would draw you out of whatever hole you've been hiding in," said the magister, "Though, to my own chagrin, I believed him when he said we would sail from this land before you realized what happened."

"This whole thing was just to bait me into making a move?" Ten exclaimed.

"Like I said, taken leave of his senses. But who was I to refuse such a bargain?"

"And what was the bargain, exactly?"

"I get fifty elves to sell back in Minrathas, including your father, uncle, and all of your cousins, for coppers on the sovereign, he culls and intimidates a population that has been a thorn in his side for months, and he baits you into putting yourself within his grasp."

"So where are his men to arrest me, if that's what I've done?" Ten asked.

"He was evidently under the impression that you were clear on the other side of the country and would only return upon hearing the news," said the magister, "But, lucky for you, his miscalculation is a boon to you, for I have made a fatal error in trusting that mans' estimation of the timeline and may well have bitten off more than I can chew. I imagine you've already slaughtered my people."

"I do love a slaughter," sait Ten, "Are you really so short of downtrodden souls in the Imperium that you come nipping at the heels of us free folk?"

"I made a bargain with your king. No more and no less," the magister said, "I'll never understand why you people are so obsessed with 'freedom.' You'd rather work your fingers to the bone for silvers a day, living at the ends of the earth in an unimportant province that's pretending to be a nation. And you have to pay rent on top of it!"

"Ferelden has no king," Ten repeated.

"Well, it will soon, and if you hate him even a fraction of how much he hates you," the magister said, "I imagine you might want to prevent that."

"I might," Ten acknowledged.

"So I have a proposition for you," he said, "You see, I have no interest in whatever squabbles you the savages of this nation have with each other. I am in possession of several documents that would confirm the… bargain that the man who would be king has made with me. Surely the peers of the land could not look away were this to become public. You let this ship leave port, with me on it, in one piece, and you shall have them."

Ten was silent for a long moment. "I've considered your offer," Ten said, "And I have a counterproposal. You give me the documents, and your right hand to send to Teyrn Loghain as a present. The rest of you walks away, fucks off back to the Imperium and never comes to my city again."

"What did I say about amputations?" Shianni hissed

"It's only a hand," called Ten, ignoring her cousin, "In exchange for your life. I'm sure whatever blood mages you pal around with back home could grow you a new one."

"I'm not a foolish man," the mage said, "I know I'm hopelessly outnumbered. But I will take as many of you down with me as I can."

"Well, then, I suppose it'll have to be your head," Ten called. She started walking towards him, slowly and menacingly, hand on her ax. She felt her hair stand up as he channeled electricity into her, her heart skipped a beat, then another, her muscles seized, and she fell to the deck, struggling to breathe.

Her father loosed an arrow. A wall of ice went up between them and it fell uselessly to the deck. Ten rose, finally, racked with pain, but in control of her limbs once again, and continued her slow advance. Behind the mage, she saw Anton clamber back over the bulwark and advance slowly towards the mage.

He tried fire then. She kept advancing. A blast of arctic air. She kept her breathing slow, did not cry out, and kept moving. The mage threw his head back, chanting another spell. This one would probably be it for her, if he loosed it.

He did not. Anton threw the heavy iron chains that had bound him in the hold of that ship around the magister's neck, and pulled. The spell died in the air as the air was cut off from his mouth. Ten dropped to her knees, hand on her chest, gasping and wheezing, not sure what damage he'd already done. Cyrion rushed up to her, put his arm about her shoulder, and helped her to rise.

"Can I kill him? Or do you want to play with him first?" Anton shouted.

"Wasn't me in the hold of that ship," Ten said, "Do whatever you damn well please. Better rip his tongue out first, though."

"Not worth it," Anton sighed. He gave a great tug on the chain, and the sound of neckbones cracking echoed through the night.

"Is everyone in one piece?" called Soris. One of his sleeves had been burned away, and the arm beneath was raw and red, but seemed functional.

"Everyone that matters," Nadera confirmed.

"Take everything that was on him," said Ten, shifting into action, "Clean out the captain's cabin. Any paperwork, I don't care what language it's in or if it looks important, take it. And give me that chain, Anton. Yereni, do you know when the tide goes out?"

"Little past midnight," called the fisherwoman, "It'll turn in about an hour."

"If we unmoor this ship and give it a shove will it drift out into the harbor on its own?"

"Probably," Yereni replied, "Why?"

"I need to put some bait in the water. Nadera, can you see the harbor from the palace?"

"Yes," Nadera, who had, at one point, scrubbed the royal privies, said, "On a clear night. It's a new moon, though."

"Then we'll have to make it a bit more visible. Let's get to searching, don't have all that long."

A little after midnight, the citizens of Denerim - well, those who were still awake and thus likely up to no good - were treated to an unusual sight. A ship with all of its sails ablaze came drifting down the river and out into the port. It was clearly unmanned, for it moved lazily, this way and that, and the harbormistress, furious at being awoken in the middle of the night, scrambled all the hands she could find to make sure it didn't drift right into the other ships anchored in the bay and set them alight as well.

When a gang of twelve longshoremen finally rowed out and made it to the deck of the burning ship with buckets and axes, they all paused, openmouthed.

"Well if that's not the most fucked up thing..." one said, a dusty fellow by the name of Erenric Ballish commented.

In the flickering light of the burning sails, they could see seven corpses hung in chains, dangling from the topmast, swinging lazily about with the motion of the ship, their blood dripping an intricate spiral pattern onto the deck. To the bowsprit was lashed an eighth, this one headless, but wearing the colorful robes of a magister of the Tevinter Imperium, which fluttered in the wind.

"Who do you suppose they pissed off?" asked dockworker.

"I don't know," Erenric said, "But I hope I never manage to cross them. Come on, let's get this fire out."

Chapter Text

Ten awoke the next morning in her childhood bed, her arms around a soft toy now only vaguely shaped like a wolf. She chuckled and rose, groaning. You'd think I'd be used to waking up with everything hurting by now. She saw, when she went to wash, that the lightning that he magister had hit her with had manifested in a long, fractal scar, starting on the right side of her neck and branching out down her side, across her right breast and down her torso, and all the way down the outside of her left leg. I wonder if that's permanent. She dressed, finding some of her clothes in the bureau against the wall. Being in armor so long the day before had left her chafed. Her dresses were a little small on her around the shoulders and arms, several months of hard exercise and more food than she had been used to having filled her out somewhat, but it still beat trying to strap her leathers back on skin rubbed raw by armor and magical lightning.

She went out into the kitchen, where her father was dishing out a stiff porridge, this one looking to be made of millet or maybe sorghum, but either way was fragrant with garlic.

"Ah, you're awake!" he exclaimed, "Sit down. How are you feeling?"

"Like I ran into a Tevinter magister and let him unload four or five spells into me," sighed Ten. She sat down at the table, wincing.

"Tell me that's not how you fight all of your battles," he said, setting a bowl and mug in front of her.

"It's not, usually there's a three-hundred-pound Qunari to do it for me," she said.

"Good," he said.

"So how about you tell me how in the hell you got so good with a longbow?" asked Ten, "The king's yeomen take years of training even to be able to draw reliably."

"Things were different where I grew up," said Cyrion, "We were allowed weapons. Encouraged to have them, even. Things weren't as… contentious as they are here."

"Then why'd you come here?" asked Ten.

Cyrion sat at the table across from his daughter and gazed into his mug of tea. "I've left a few things out," he said, "These long years. I suppose I thought I was protecting you. That if you didn't know, it wouldn't hurt you. But, the long and short of it is, I was… never technically freed."

Ten looked up sharply, her spoon halfway to her mouth.

"I was the property of one Ambrosius Kerularios. He's probably dead by now, but I'm sure I've been inherited. He owned both my mother and my father, after all. Though I have no memory of them. They bought freedom for Cedrin, and he left the Imperium with me on his back. I couldn’t have been more than three.”

"How'd he manage that?" asked Ten.

"I was very small," Cyrion said, "They didn't keep track of the babies like they did the grown elves, so many of us died before turning ten, after all. Everyone just figured I'd been freed as well, and off we went to the Marches. Cedrin learned the farrier's trade, and I… well I suppose I ran the streets like you used to. And one day, the fletcher's boy showed up with an old test bow his father had replaced. We took turns shooting at bottles in an alleyway. Nobody told me it was supposed to be hard. So I just did it. I was good enough at it. He just gave me the bow. I still have it, in fact. Had to hide it from the guards, of course."

"So you just… became an absolute crackshot, shooting at bottles in a back alley?"

"I don't know how else to put it," he said.

"Is that why you came to Ferelden? Were the Marches too close? Were they looking for you?"

"Not me specifically, I don't think, but a few of the escapees in the alienage started disappearing, and Cedrin thought it might be wise to move on. Ferelden was newly independent. It had a barely functioning government and no treaties that would require them to send me back, and far enough away that the slave-hunters would not bother looking," said Cyrion, "So when it came time for Cedrin to marry, your aunt Lydeia was an appealing match. He came here, and I came with him."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen," he said, "I'll never forget, stepping off of the boat, right where we were last night. I found a bit of poetry in the idea of being sent back where I came from from the very pier where I arrived thirty-five years before."

Ten put a bit of pickled turnip in her porridge and took a bite, savoring the brine mingling with the garlic and millet.

"I was not always as you know me," he said, "If you and I had been teenagers at the same time, we probably would have been friends. Having children changes you.” He looked down at his bowl. “Cedrin always… well, he would go on and on about how much he loved being a father. How every new baby was the best day of his life. How I would never know a love so overwhelming until I had a child.”

“He certainly had plenty of them,” Ten remarked. Then paused and wondered if, had her mother lived, she would have been the eldest of a similar brood. 

“Teneira, the first time I held you, the only thing I could feel was fear.”

“Was it because I was a girl?”

“I’m sure that was part of it. Protecting little elfin girls is an impossible task. You said it yourself.”

Ten thought about her harsh words the morning of her wedding and regretted them, but let the old man continue.

“I thought that if I could find you a nice husband, then you would have children. And you would hold them, and you would learn the same fear I felt. That I still feel. And you would learn caution, and stop running around putting yourself in the line of fire, and that you could keep yourself safe in a way I never could.” He shook his head and laughed ruefully, “But instead all I’ve done is get the poor lad killed and not be able to show my face in Highever.”

Ten chuckled, "I actually went there, about a month and a half ago. Pay my respects."

"Did you," Cyrion said, looking at her oddly.

"Of course I did. Let’s just say that Master Kirianis left a few things out about his boy much like you left a few things out about me," said Ten, "Strangely I think they rather made us well-suited for each other. Not that it really matters now, but you weren't entirely wrong."

“There's a first," he said, "Did you just admit I might have been right about something?"

"They say," Ten said, "That when you're seventeen, your father is the biggest idiot you've ever met. But when you're twenty-one, you're amazed at how much he's learned in four years. I suppose I'm a late bloomer."

Cyrion sighed, ran his hand through his hair, which was, in the broad light of day, markedly grayer than the last time she had seen him. "I had never actually seen you in action before last night. The way you command a room. How people listen to you instinctively. That's a quality I've never had."

"There's another first," Ten said, "Did you just say I did a good job with something?'

"I really wish it hadn't left you with burns over half your body, but… yes."

"They'll heal. I think. Either way, I'll take it."

"So tell me," he said, "Now that we are decidedly just two grown people who respect one another, talking about grown people things… I'm not going to judge you, but what happened with the guardsman?"

"Anton?" Ten sighed, "I hate to disappoint you for the thousandth time in my life, but I had no good reason for that. I suppose it was a final act of rebellion after I resigned myself to marriage."

"He's a halfbreed," said Cyrion, accusingly, "With a human mother. Who denied his heritage."

"Some of the most upstanding folk in this neighborhood are halfbreeds."

"It's different," said Cyrion, "A halfbreed born of an elf woman, she didn't have any choice in the matter. But when an elfin man chooses to betray his kind…"

"Dad, it's a lot more complicated than that, and you know it. There are plenty of reasons not to trust Anton Villais, but please, move on from this one. You sound like one of them."

Cyrion sighed, "Very well, let me rephrase that. He, knowing full well who he was, chose to become a lawman. Chose to… involve himself with a well-connected and dare I say well-loved member of the community."

"We had a business relationship," said Ten, "Just like I had with Sergeant Canty before him."

"Yes, until his  heart just happened to stop," Cyrion said, "You weren't involved with him, were you?"

"Ew, of course not," said Ten.

"See what I mean? You could have had a perfectly functioning working relationship with Villais. But that wasn't enough for him, was it. And I have to wonder why."

"He couldn't just have thought I was cute?" Ten asked.

"Oh, Teneira. Of course, I think you are the most beautiful girl in all the land, but if all he wanted was an elfin sweetheart, there are plenty of other girls in this neighborhood…"

"Well damn, Dad, tell me how you really feel," Ten said, chuckling, but he had a point.

"...who aren't likely to kill a man in his sleep the minute he does something they don't like," he concluded, "I'm just saying. Why you? Don't you think that's strange?"

She looked at him. I have not given the old man enough credit. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it is. But we both just watched him break a magister's neck with his own chains. I think that buys him some benefit of the doubt."

“I also doubt he thought he'd be clocked. He never learned to be careful," said Cyrion, "What do you think we should do with him?"

"I don't think he has many choices at this point," said Ten, "He stays here, one of us. Or he leaves the city. The country, if he’s wise.”

"I don't like his chances here with us," Cyrion said, "Not everyone's as open-minded as you are."

"I suppose I could make an honest man of him. Everyone here knows not to mess with what's mine," she said. She caught her father's eye, the dismay on his face. He knows the rules. You get to choose your second spouse. He can't say shit. She let the joke go on for another moment just so he could get good and uncomfortable, and only then started laughing. "The look on your face!"

"Oh, thank the Maker," he sighed, "I can never tell when you're joking. You may be my spit and image, but you got your mother's deadpan."

"You know I'm going to have to leave for a bit as well," she said, "You're not going to believe this, but somehow I've gotten tangled up in the matter of succession. It's absolutely ridiculous. You would not believe some of the things people who've never been hungry care about."

"I think I would," said Cyrion, "And it's probably not terribly wise for you to stay too long anyway. Perhaps the powers that be wouldn’t dare risk the plot becoming public, but they have to know you were involved. And there are no Grey Wardens left to save you from the gallows this time."

"Well, there's one, but he'd probably let me get all the way to the scaffold just so he could have a laugh.”

"I don't think I approve of the company you're keeping," said Cyrion.

"I certainly don't approve of the company I'm keeping," Ten said, "Except for the circle mage. She's all right. You'd like her. As for the rest of them..."

"So you have a three hundred pound Qunari, a circle mage, a Grey Warden with a terrible sense of humor…"

"A radical nun, a witch of the wild, and an Antivan assassin with a stupid haircut," said Ten.

"Are you pulling my leg right now?"

"I wish I were," said Ten.

"One day, when this is done, we can have them all over for tea," he said, "But in the meantime, you've got to go deliver that guardsman to his family. I think you should also, perhaps, have a conversation with him about exactly what happened to bring him to this point. I'll bet you anything it's not a simple story."

She nodded.

"Villais was at Cedrin's earlier with the others from the ship, getting those manacles removed," he said, "He might still be there."

"All right," she said, "I'll see you on the other side of this one. Don't burn the place down."

"Oh my girl, I'm not who you have to worry about."

She packed her things, embraced her father, and walked out into the bright sunlight. She took off for her uncle's forge, but was intercepted by both of her cousins coming down the ramp from her war room above her dad's woodworking shop.

"Oh, there you are," Shianni said, "We were just coming to get you. Villais wants to see you. We put him in the war room."

"You left him in the war room with all my secrets?"

"Well, he knows about the whole Tevinter elf-selling plot already, that's most of the paperwork we have in there. Everything else is locked up at home," said Shianni, "In a chest, where the cats can't piss on it, don't worry."

"He was being real cryptic," Soris observed, "He won't talk to anyone but you."

Ten sighed, shook her head, and walked up the ramp to where she had schemed every scheme.

He was sitting at her table. In the light of day, he was in terrible shape. He'd lost maybe twenty pounds, and he was already of slight frame. Worst of all, someone - probably the Tevinters - had branded him on both cheeks. The burns were a livid red with sparks of blue magic embedded deep within them. She hadn't seen them in the dark of night and didn't know what the rune meant, but casting back to the ship's manifest, she imagined it had something to do with not letting him get away with pretending to be human anymore.

"Maker's breath Anton, what did they do to you?" she said, sitting down next to him.

"Who, the guards, or the Tevinters?"

"Start from the beginning," she said. She dumped her satchel of potions out on the table and started mixing, letting him get his thoughts together.

"The Tevinters started poking around a month ago," said Anton, finally, "I was asked to escort them in.”

“By whom?”

“Well that’s just it. It didn’t come from Lieutenant Langerre, or Knight-Captain Berengier. It was someone from the palace. I didn’t catch her name, but she was a lady knight. Short. I think she works for the queen.”

“Did this lady knight say why?”

“Of course not. I thought it was just academic at first, but they started… making lists. Talking to people. Being a little too interested. I made the mistake of asking too many questions, I guess. One night, I was walking home, and someone threw a blanket over me and maybe three or four of them kicked the shit out of me, knocked me out cold. Next thing I know I'm waking up at your flat, everything hurts, and there's no way out of the quarter. Your friend patched me up, I guess."

"She's my cousin."

"Is anyone here not your cousin?" he asked bitterly.

"There are probably people here who are your cousins," Ten pointed out.

"But be honest with me, Teneira," he unbuttoned his shirt. Just as Shianni said, there were halfway healed scars that spelled out 'halfbreed' across his chest. "Did your people do this?"

"Absolutely not!" Ten exclaimed, "Shianni said it was on you when they threw you over the wall."

He looked at her suspiciously, but nodded, and buttoned his shirt halfway back up, losing energy in the middle of the task so the very tops of the swollen red letters could still be seen. "I suppose I should be grateful for her. She was decent."

"She's a halfbreed herself, you know," Ten said. She wondered if Shianni even knew that. 

"Really."

"Well, given they come out looking human as you, it shouldn't be surprising they come out looking as elfin as her," Ten said.

"Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Well, anyway, the Tevinters came for me next. I thought it was a joke at first. But no, they were... they put me in a fucking cage. That magister kept poking at me, measuring my head with calipers, trying to bend my ears. He asked about my family, how old I was. I lied, said I was sixteen. That probably did me in. He knew I knew what he was getting at, that I knew I wasn't going to grow a beard no matter how long they kept me in there and that they were going to check for it," he ran a shaky hand over his smooth cheek and jawline, "Once they'd decided I guess it pissed them off," he gestured to the livid burns on each cheek, "Then they gave me these," he said, gesturing to the livid burns on each cheek, "I could have hidden these scars," he said, putting his hand on his chest, "But these…I've got some hard choices ahead of me."

"Does it hurt?"

"Take a poker from the fire and drive it into your own face, tell me if it fucking hurts," he said bitterly.

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news," she said, satisfied with the paste she'd created, "But this is going to sting. It'll make the scars less pronounced, though. Unless you're into them."

"Wouldn't be the worst you've hurt me," he said as she dipped her little finger into the paste and started applying it to the burns. He flinched, but didn't make a sound. She bandaged them, and gave him a draught for the pain, which he swallowed down.

"Really, Anton," she said, finally, "Don't be dramatic."

He took the admonishment with a little bit of chagrin.

"I suppose there's still no getting you to jump a ship with me," he said softly.

"So, I'm curious about that," said Ten, "Why is it still all about running away with you? If anything, this is the first time there could be anything between us that wasn't somewhat illegal or at least highly frowned upon. You are now, publicly, unavoidably, as much of an elf as about ten to fifteen percent of the folks here. I'm neither married nor betrothed to another, the price on my head is purely political, and even if it weren't, it's no longer your job to haul me in. It's almost like it's you who needs to run away from something. And I can't help but think that perhaps whatever it is, has been there all along."

He stared at her silently for a long moment. One or twice, he opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, and then finally heaved a great sigh. "Well, I suppose there's no sense in playing this game any longer. I'm about done with it. With all of it."

"Please. Enlighten me."

"I joined the guard in the first place, got myself assigned to the Alienage," Anton said, "Because my mother told me to."

"And who, exactly, is your mother? Besides the overbearing shrew who was rattling your windows the last time we spoke?"

"She is certainly that. Her name is Albertine Villais, but she is known in certain circles - your circles in fact - as Madame Hirondelle."

Ten concentrated on not reacting, though she felt like her heart had splashed down into her guts. The legend herself. The deposed queen of the courtesans of Val Royeaux, exiled to the provinces these last twenty years. The iron hand in the velvet glove with one finger in every pot in the city. Well, I suppose that answers the question of how one brother becomes a hooker and the other a copper. No doubt all her boys go exactly where she tells them to.

"Were you sent to spy on me?" asked Ten.

“Spying is such a…”

“Do not even try that Orlesian bullshit with me. Why? She has never involved herself in my territory, nor I in hers. I've never even met the woman, unless you count that time in your courtyard…"

"It's her way," said Anton, "She prefers to play games. I’m just a pawn."

"As am I, apparently," said Ten.

"Not at all. You're a much more valuable piece than I am," he said, "According to her."

"And yet I was captured," said Ten, "On your watch, no less."

"Well that's the thing about queens," said Anton, "Sometimes they get captured, but a queen is the one piece on the board that can come back. You push a pawn all the way to the far end of the board, voila. The queen has returned, but the pawn is no more. And so you have, and so I am."

"Well, queen or not, I admit I feel a little bit foolish right now," said Ten, "Did your mother tell you to seduce me as well?"

He looked away.

"Of course she did. It's the only thing she knows how to do," Ten said, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. Andraste's left tit, how could I have been such an idiot?

"It… it was her idea. I did go in with the intention, but… believe me, Ten, the minute I saw you standing at your stall in that dress with the flowers on it, your hair up in that blue kerchief. I have never wanted anything in my life before or since as much as I wanted you."

She sighed, "Sure, you say that now. But you were, in fact, spying on me."

"I was. I was. And it broke my heart. I knew it could never be, not here, not with you being who you are, my mother being who she is. But we could have left, Teneira."

"Left and gone where? There's no country in Thedas where it's socially acceptable for a human man to have an elfin woman as anything more than a bit on the side. A housekeeper with benefits, maybe," she said, "And I am nobody's concubine."

"Oh, but you were prepared to keep me as just that, weren't you. You're the one who married someone else."

“Did you expect me live out my days as a spinster so we could keep having five minutes up against a wall three times a week? You chose to live a life in the shadows. I didn't."

“That’s not what I…

“So you wanted me to sit around while my hair went gray on the off chance that one day you would change your mind and decide that you really wanted to live openly as an elf after all. Well guess what, Anton. Now you have to. I hope you're prepared for it."

He sat back in his chair and looked miserable for a short moment, then resigned. “You’re right,” he said, “Maman never would have allowed that. She’d rather kill me herself. But doesn’t change how I… Ten, I grieved for you. Twice. Twice I lit a candle in the Chantry, did my penance for the part I played in it, only to have you pop right out of the street again. I haven't been the same, Ten. Don't think I'll ever be. And now…" he gestured at the bandaged burns, "My life as I knew it is over. Because I put myself on the line for the people you love."

"Your life as you knew it was premised on a lie," she said, "And the people I love should by rights be the people you love too. But you think you're better than us, all because you happened to look more like your ma than your dad."

"It's a lie you'd have told if you could have gotten away with it."

"That's just not true. I have always been proud of who I am," she said, "And, pawn, rook, cleric, or queen, I do not appreciate being a piece in your mother's games. Or yours."

"Of course you don't, you prefer playing the game yourself," he said, "Imagine what it's like to actually be one of the pawns. My mother on the one hand, you on the other, each of you plucking at me, asking for things, threatening things. Getting far away from you both may be the best thing that's ever happened to me. Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you wanted me. Maybe you even thought you loved me for a moment or two. But really, at the end of the day, I was your eyes in the guardhouse, someone to whisper your needs to and to jump whenever you asked, another tool on the Arlessa's belt."

"What I wanted?" she exclaimed, "All I have ever wanted is..."

"The safety of your people. I know," he said, "I know. You only say it three fucking times a day. Because your cause is just so fucking noble, it justifies treating people however you want.”

“Did you or did you not just confess to having done all of this because you can't say no to your mother? You're not actually a pawn, Anton. You're a person. You could have said no her. Hell, you could have said no to me! Any number of times! You are just as devious and mercenary as I am." Worse, even. I at least went into it honestly.”

“Did you? Because the more I learn about you, the more I see that you are just… barely a person at all. You're just one with the cause. And don't get me wrong, I loved you, Ten. If it were just between me and your husband, I could have lived with that. I never expected to be more than half of anything to anyone. But you. You are just not capable of loving a person, not even halfway. Not me, not him, nobody. You can't love anything but the fight."

Ten felt like she'd been slapped. Shame, then hurt, and then anger. 

"You didn't give a fuck about me,” he continued, “You never have. I was a pretty distraction from your one true love. Your people. And I am not one of your people."

"Well, I suppose you're not, if that's how you feel. And what, exactly, have you told your mother about me? I know very well what you spilled to your whore brother."

"Leave Airon out of this. He's probably the only pure soul involved here. And I never told my mother anything that could have hurt you," he said, "She didn't want to hurt you."

"I imagine you didn't want to hurt me either," said Ten, "But here we are."

He looked at her, "I don’t believe you."

"I could have gotten everything I needed out of you and more without so much as holding your hand or batting my eyelashes. The knowledge of your parentage alone had you in my pocket," she said, "And I never used it against you. Don’t let this go to your head because it means less than nothing now, but part of what has kept me going was the thought of a day when I was no longer a slave to a quest I didn’t ask for. And maybe, I don’t know how, but maybe we could have…” she didn’t finish the sentence. She looked away, at the portrait of her mother on the wall, embarrassed to have almost admitted something like that in front of her.

But Anton knew what she was about to say. He closed his eyes and sighed, realizing she had a point, "There was never going to be a way. It was all too fucked up to begin with. And that’s not your fault.”

"Well. Let's get you back to the bosom of your mother. If she is who you say she is, she'll manage to smuggle you anywhere you need to go without too much trouble. Another bit of cargo to ship overseas."

"Ten," he said, taking her hand, "Don't get me wrong. You are an admirable woman. And I do admire you. But loving you has cost me far too much."

"I never asked you to do that," she said, snatching it back, “There’s no sense in dragging this out any further. Can you climb? Nothing crazy, two ladders and a swing over the wall."

"I think I can do that," he said. She helped him to his feet, and headed for the door.

"Now we'll be even," she said, "I get to march you through the streets of Denerim looking an absolute fright."

"I suppose it's fitting," he said, "After all, you did finally give me that poultice."

Chapter Text

Under a bright sun that belied how cold it was, Ten made her way to the Orlesian quarter. This time, she was half bearing the unfortunate guardsman's weight, though he was little more than skin and bones at this point.

"It's that one," he said, "Red door. Stained glass above it."

Ten looked up at what was, though cramped between a printer's shop and a tavern, quite a large estate. Four stories, and each floor boasted pristine glass windows with fine brocade curtains.

A boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, answered her knock. He wasn't wearing a servant's clothes. He was lighter in coloring than either Anton or Airon, but as he squinted into the sunlight, the line that worked its way between his brows was the same on all three of them.

"Yes?" he said, his eyes falling on Ten, and she braced herself for being told to fuck off, "How may I help you, Miss?"

"Is this Albertine Villais' home?" she asked, surprised and impressed that he was actually being very polite.

The boy nodded, and then saw for the first time who was standing next to her and let loose a cry. "Anton!" he exclaimed, and rushed to him.

"It's all right Alban," Anton said gruffly, though he put his arms around the boy and ran a gentle hand over his hair, "Go fetch Maman, please."

"We thought the worst," the boy exclaimed, not letting him go, the telltale creak in his voice saying he was about to burst into tears, "Oh, thank the Maker!"

"I'm all right," he said again.

Madame Villais did not require fetching, she had heard the commotion and rushed to the door. Ten had a vague memory of her from seeing her stick her head out of his window all those weeks before, but she was still impressed with her appearance. She was quite possibly the most beautiful creature she had ever laid eyes on. Somehow, even in her own home, in the middle of the day, she was done up like she was about to attend the finest ball in town, her dark hair piled atop her head, her face painted tastefully, and her dress laced up to about halfway up her ample bosom.

"Both of you come in off the street this instant."

She ushered them in, and as Ten passed her, she got a noseful of very expensive perfume.

"What did they do to you, my boy?" she asked, seizing her son by his shoulders, taking in the blackened eyes, the livid burns, "My poor child."

Ten kept her eyes on the ground.

"I'm all right, Maman," said Anton, "I'll heal. But I... I have to leave town. Have Airon pack up my flat, I don't dare go there."

"Why?! What has happened?"

He shook his head, eyes downcast, "On m'a démasqué."

The silence was deafening for but a moment, the dismay on Madame Villais' face shifting into grim resolve. "Alban, call on Clothilde, tell her to come here and patch your brother up," said Madame Villais, voice clipped and businesslike. For the first time, she turned dark eyes to Ten, "I will give you a moment alone. Come speak with me in my parlor, through those glass doors there." She swept into the next room, and went beyond sight of the foyer. Ten heard footsteps going away, and then a sordid avalanche of Orlesian profanity, muffled, perhaps by a pillow over the face, but increasing in volume, intensity, and vulgarity until it stopped with a solitary putain. It was followed by the sound of a bottle being uncorked, at which point both Villais boys visibly relaxed, and Alban took off to go locate Clothilde, whoever she was.

"I don't suppose we'll be seeing each other again," Anton said, looking at Ten, finally, "I'm sorry for my part in all this. It wasn't my intention to hurt you."

Ten paused, considered her words. "I know I have no right to be as angry as I am," she said, finally, "You haven't done anything I wouldn't."

"I hope you'll remember me fondly."

"That's a bit of a tall order at the moment, but I might get there one day," said Ten.

He nodded, acknowledging that she likely deserved to feel that way. Still, he stooped, kissed her on the forehead, and disappeared up the stairs. Ten paused for a moment, letting the wave of hurt break over her and abate. Teneira, you fucking idiot. You dupe. You stupid fucking slut. She turned and went through the glass doors into the parlor, where the chessmistress herself was stood in the corner, pretending to examine one of the many bookshelves that lined the walls.

"Well, Madame," said Ten, "I've returned him to you. A little worse for wear, and I am sorry for that. And so I will take my leave."

"You will do no such thing, Arlessa," Madame Villais said, "You will sit over there on the divan, and you and I are going to drink a glass of wine, and have a long overdue conversation."

"It's a little early in the day for wine, isn't it?"

"It is never too early for wine," she said.

Ugh. Orlesians.

Sat on the very soft divan, sipping a fine cabernet, Ten found herself gawking at all the things. Little ornaments. Paintings on the walls. Madame Villais sat regally across a gilded coffee table in an armchair that would have put the thrones of lesser nations to shame. She sipped her wine daintily, and was fanning herself with a red silk folding fan.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, "What on earth ever happened? My poor child…"

"Well, it's like he said. The mask came off. The jig was up. I don't know how, I assure you it was not me, but the guards learned his precise... heritage," Ten said, "They beat him and shut him up in the Alienage. And then…" She went into her pack and grabbed the paperwork. The accusation she was about to make was too grave not to have anything to back it up, "He stumbled in in the middle of some unsavory business that goes all the way to the top."

"What do you mean by 'the top'?" Madame Villais asked.

"The palace." Ten said, "I don't know if the queen is involved. I suspect she is not, if she were it would be her seal signature. But, I'm sure you're aware that her father has taken it upon himself to seize whatever power he can."

"Ah yes. The 'regent,'" she said, "We are not terribly fond of him."

"He is not terribly fond of you either," said Ten, "Or me. Frankly, given his reputation I'm surprised elves still rank below Orlesians to him." She laid the manifest down on a low table that looked like it had wandered in from the château of someone powerful and rich, "You want to know who messed up your boy's pretty face? Right there." She tapped one signature. She couldn't read the first name, but the surname was Caladrius. She imagined that was the magister who'd sent so much lightning through her.

She watched Madame Villais' eyes dart over the documents authorizing the docking, customs forms, and finally, the manifest, "Why is his name under 'cargo'? Why are all these names..." Her painted mouth dropped halfway open and stayed that way, and when she met Ten's eyes, her hands her trembling, "They did not."

"They did," Ten said, "My dad's on that list. And one of my cousins."

"Yes. Soris. The charming young man with the russet hair," Madame Villais said absently, her eyes going back to the list.

"Yes," said Ten, narrowing her eyes, wondering what Anton had let slip about her family.

"What became of the ship?"

"I lit it on fire and pushed it out into the harbor."

Madame Villais made a generic noise of approval, "If what I hear is true, its crew was dangling from the topmasts, I imagine you did that as well."

"I did."

"What about this Caladrius?"

"You didn't hear about the corpse on the bowsprit?"

"The... headless corpse on the bowsprit."

Ten glanced down at her pack, which she had put on the floor at her feet. "Would you, perhaps, like to make a delivery? To the palace?" she asked. 

"Of what?"

She reached down and grabbed a linen wrapped bundle from the top of her pack. It was heavier than she remembered it. She put it on the fine coffee table, "I'll let you guess what it is from its dimensions. I was going to ask a friend to deliver it, but it seems you are as upset as I am about this. And so, if you would like to do the honors...."

Madame Villais let loose a squawk of laughter and snapped her fan shut, "You are everything he said you were and more!" She turned in her chair and called to somewhere in the back of the house, "Audin!!"

"What do you need, Maman?" there was a shuffle in a back room and a young man in his late teens arrived at the door. He had jet black hair cropped close to his head and gazed at the two women over a regal hawk's beak of a nose.

"Please take that package there. Don't look inside. Then wrap it further, use some of that silk I keep upstairs." She looked down at the package thoughtfully, "And... clip a black rose from the greenhouse and pin it on top. Then bring it to Elphège Brisson of the Palace Guard, it is his day off and he owes me a favor."

"Yes Maman," the boy said. He snapped to, picked up the package carefully, and went presumably to do his mother's bidding.

As soon as he had left, Albertine sighed and looked at Ten with new eyes. Evidently hauling out a severed head and putting it on her coffee table had formed some sort of endearment, "I told Anton to leave well enough alone. No good comes from trying to be the hero. Especially with his… well, you know." She fingered one of her own ears, "But he was determined to figure out what was going on. I imagine he one too many questions. Set off one to many alarm bells among the guard."

"I'm afraid his time in the guard is at an end," said Ten.

"I wish it had never begun," she said, putting one thumb in her mouth as though she were about to bite at the nail, but corrected herself, and went back to fanning, "The guard would have been one thing, but getting him sent to the Alienage... I should have known better."

"You probably should have," asked Ten, "What do you think I would have done to him if I had found out he was yours before he told me himself?"

"Was seducing him and turning him into a double agent not enough for you?"

"Is that what you think happened?"

"I am sure he got you into bed, you... you got him out of his damned mind." She snarled this last bit. Paused. Composed herself, "He stopped belonging to me long ago, he was fully your creature by the time they were going to haul you to the gallows. He thought he was being terribly subtle, too, giving me inconsequential bits and pieces, but I knew. I imagine this whole mess happened because he thought you would have wanted him to look into the Tevinters. By that time he wanted nothing more than to please you."

"I did not ask him to do that," Ten said.

"You didn't have to," Madame Villais said, "I suppose I cannot blame you. I would have done the same in your shoes, if you had sent one of yours into my territory."

"Oh, you think I knew!" Ten exclaimed, realizing what was going on, "Oh no, Madame. I had no idea until about three hours ago. This time yesterday the very idea that you would do such a thing would have been absurd. It seems you think about me far more than I think about you."

"So why would you..."

"Have an affair with an officer of the guard who could do all sorts of things to make my life easier?!" Ten asked, "Please, Madame, you of all people should understand that!"

Madame Villais shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was not used to being wrong.

"So I admit I am at a disadvantage here," Ten continued, "While you and I have not known each other personally, I have never considered you an enemy. Why would you do that?"

"Enemy!" Madame Villais exclaimed, snapping her fan shut, "Absurd! I have never been your enemy, ma petite. En fait, I see now that you and I have very much in common, and we may help each other in ways even you might not have predicted. I simply wished to know about the Alienage. After all, your little mice scurry into every fine house in this city, bringing you secrets I could only dream of."

"You send your girls into the beds of half the ruling class. Why are you concerned with those who make those beds?" Ten asked, "It seems to me that you and I have equal access what goes on behind closed doors."

"My people make their living by being looked at, paid attention to," Albertine said, "Yours make theirs by being invisible. These are two separate lines of information."

"You could have sent a message. I would have met with you, we could have come to a bargain."

"How very Fereldan of you."

"Yes, well, despite the furnishings here, that is where we are. You have lived here nearly as long as I have, you should be used to it by now."

Madame Villais stared at her for a long moment before speaking, "At the end of the day, you have brought my favorite son back to me," she said, "And we have discovered a mutual hatred for this pretender to the throne. For that, you deserve my utmost respect and gratitude...and don't look at me like that, all parents have their favorites."

"I'm an only child," she said, "And I'm still not my father's favorite, so there's that."

"Anton's father was the only man I've ever truly loved," she sighed, "Poor man. I don't blame him for taking off for the Dales. I'm a dangerous woman to know."

"That makes two of us."

"Exactement!" Albertine declared, "So you understand that sometimes, in our efforts to secure the best outcome, those closest to us get hurt!"

Nelaros's dying face came before her. Shianni's smile, now and forevermore a little broken. Her father's show of bravery when he came to visit her while she sat condemned. At least Anton had survived both of the dangerous women in his life. So far, anyway.

"Better than you know," Ten said.

"And I will apologize for my little game," she said, "You are right. We are in Ferelden. I should have come to you directly. And so, from now on, that is what I shall do. Though it pains my very soul."

"Well it appears you have plenty more sons where he came from, if you truly feel the need to play that game."

Madame Villais' face darkened, then a practiced smile spread across her features, "Ah! A joke, I see, Arlessa."

Well, there is the good madame's pain point. Why, I wonder. Is it the elf thing? It might be the elf thing. Or that she thinks I can turn the rest of their heads like I did Anton's. Completely unintentionally, too... "Of course, Madame," Ten said, her own smile more genuine though perhaps a bit more self-satisfied, "If you need to speak, for now, you can find me at the estate of the Arl of Redcliffe."

"Ah, dear Eamon! How is he doing? I had heard he was poorly."

"He has made a full recovery," Ten said, "Thanks be to the Maker."

"Well, I won't ask you how you did it, but good on you for securing a noble patron. They can be such difficult fish to catch when one does not know what one is doing. Though, you appear to be a natural."

"I would not go so far," said Ten, a little uncomfortable at the good madame's implications, "Now, as to the little problem of Teyrn Loghain. I am going to call a Commoner's Council. Given what he has done to your favorite son, can I count on your voice in support of… nipping this little problem in the bud?"

"Why, what do you suggest?"

"I have heard that there is to be a Landsmeet. The day has not been set, but it will be before the winter is out and the banns return to their lands," said Ten, "There are, perhaps, fifty noble families in this nation, nearly all of whom keep residences here." She saw a smile spread slowly over Madame Hirondelle's painted mouth as she saw what Ten was getting at. She continued, "At the last census, there were more than a hundred thousand plain old citizens of Denerim - and that doesn't count the hamlets outside the walls. If we count them, and the foreigners here who have not registered, that's maybe a quarter million torches and pitchforks, all within walking distance of those residences."

"And whom do you suggest take the throne instead?"

"Well that is something I have not quite figured out yet," Ten said, "Do you have an opinion?"

"There's a legion of royal bastards, of course," said Madame Hirondelle, "But the legionary nature is precisely the problem, no?"

"I keep hearing that, and yet I have not tracked any down," Ten lied.

"Oh please, just throw a rock, you'll hit one. I have one myself."

"You what?" Ten took a mental inventory. It certainly wasn't Anton, and she doubted it was Airon. Audin was far too dark. It could be Alban. I'll have to get a better look at him. Or are there more? I wonder how she ever had the time to ply her trade...

"Please," Madame Villais scoffed, "Surely you have heard the legends of Madame Hirondelle. I served the Court at Val Royeaux for years, you think I would not do the same here? His name Aurélien, he is between Anton and Audin."

"And where is Aurélien?"

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know. He is safely overseas, and that is all I will say."

"You would not want it for him?"

"Absolutely not," Madame Villais declared, "Never. I will die first. It's a disgusting job surrounded by disgusting people. Let it go to the noble pigs who invented it, they like nothing more than rolling around in their own shit."

Fair enough, I suppose. Though, the throne going to the child of an Orlesian hooker would be a such a grand joke on pretty much everyone in the country.

"Well I suppose nobody could blame you for that," said Ten, "If that's out, I wonder if our best bet may be the queen, once she is found."

"What do you mean, 'once she is found'?"

"A crumb for you, from my little mice," said Ten, "As of yesterday morning, the queen is no longer in the palace, with no notice and no explanation."

"Winter is far too close for her to have removed to the countryside."

"And someone would have seen a caravan of that size leaving the cite. So we can surmise she remains in Denerim. Just… elsewhere."

"Why would she have done such a thing?"

"I'm not entirely sure that it was her idea, I have a theory, though."

"And what is that?" Madame Villais asked, leaning closer, her fan over her nose and mouth.

"Someone important thinks she's dangerous," said Ten, "And if she is dangerous to the powers that be, she could prove a useful ally."

"Well, she is a woman, and so already head and shoulders above most of the others. And, whatever I think of her father now, I never knew him... personally."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I know you have met a few whores in your time. You likely think that what I do and what they do is the same thing. But the thing about operating as a courtesan… the clientele is much, much more vulgar. A sailor might go to a brothel for a tumble he can't get elsewhere, but the ladies and gentlemen of the court - the ones who can afford my company - do so for things they would not dare indulge in with someone who might talk. And so, I can tell you that the higher the rank, the more power, the worse the character behind closed doors. I have seen things even your little servants would never dream of. But Teyrn Loghain, whatever his faults, did not occupy himself with courtesans. And, well, when you have done this as long as I have, that tends to speak well of a man. Not well enough to want him on the throne, of course. But enough that I would prefer a daughter raised by him than any son of the royal line."

Ten considered the perspective. She thought of poor Goldanna, with her unwanted brood a few miles away, and what havoc had been wrecked on her life because men with too much power and too little character simply did what they wanted. Well, any of those caught up in that disaster. Then she thought of how much of her own life had been shaped by men who had never laid eyes on her, and did not know that what they saw as an inconsequential dalliance or a bit of fun would have dire consequences for those not of their class. Madame Villais had a point about the Mac Tirs. They were not born to power. They had had to work for it, and perhaps that meant they understood what it meant. 

"You may be right," Ten acknowledged, "But, I admit one thing, I have heard so much about you, but I don't know how much of it is true. So... now that you and I have looked each other in the eye, would you grant me some small gratification?"

"What would you like to know?"

"How exactly did the queen of the Val Royeaux courtesans wind up in Denerim of all places?"

Madame Villais laughed out loud. "I pissed off the wrong viscomte," she said, waving her hand in the air as though she couldn't even remember what scandal she had caused that she had had to flee the country, "Or rather… I pissed on the wrong viscomte. And it wasn't the wrong one, he had paid a good amount of money for it, but didn't bother to tell his daughters to leave the wing for the night. He committed suicide for the shame, poor man. And after that, my discretion was impugned, nobody would take me into their confidences - or their bedchambers - anymore. In Denerim, I am exotic. And the sum I make from my investments back home goes much further here."

"I regret everything I have done in my life that has led up to me asking that question," said Ten, "But I suppose I brought it on myself. Now, I believe we have come to some sort of… alliance is such an indelicate word…"

"Our interests are aligned," said Madame Hirondelle, "Tell me what more your little mice learn of the queen, and I will await the call for the Commoner's Council."

"I will do so," Ten said, rising, "And…"

"What is it?"

"I was too angry to say it before, but tell Anton I'm sorry for my part in all of this. All three of us did things we shouldn't have, and he is the one paying the highest price."

She nodded, "I will. But do not worry for him. He will likely come out of this with far fewer scars than you will."

Chapter Text

Gallantly, Albertine instructed another one of her boys, Alain, this one looking to be the twin of or at least have the same father as Audin, escort Ten back to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate. How does she have so damn many of them? Ten thought, Has she ever not been pregnant in the past thirty years? Or… was that her gimmick, one of the peculiarities that the nobility and grande bourgeoisie would pay extra for … oh Maker's breath that is unsavory…

"Arlessa," Alain said, nodding at her as they reached the alley with the side door, "I... thank you. For finding Anton."

"It's all right," she muttered uncomfortably, "And uh… good luck."

The kid chuckled and shook his head, "I certainly need it." He gave a perfunctory bow, and headed off back home, or to whatever mess his mother intended to send him into next.

Painfully, Ten mounted the stairs. The burns did not bother her overmuch simply walking, but something about the motion of climbing stairs stretched them awfully. It took her far longer than it usually did to get back to the guest wing, and by the time she did she felt as though the lightning had been striking her, again and again, the entire time. She limped into the common room and collapsed on the sofa, ignoring the stares of her companions who, in the intervening had apparently decided they rather liked cards. All except for Morrigan, who had dove face first into a stash of bodice-rippers she had not yet read and was perched on the back of an armchair, reading intently as various men, women, and others did all sorts of things to each other. Wynne, too, seemed to have found some reading material, but had fallen asleep with the book in her lap.

"And where have you been all night?" asked Lelianna brightly, raising her eyebrows at Ten, "I hope you are having difficulty walking for a pleasant reason."

Ten rolled her eyes and pulled her skirt up over her knee, displaying the burn scars, which spread out over her calf, pale pink against her skin.

"I'm guessing you didn't actually go to the theater," Morrigan said, narrowing her eyes, "Unless they're employing mages in the wings now and they have dreadful aim."

"Oh, Teneira," said Wynne, who had awoken mid-snore and was doing her best to pretend that she had not, in fact, been sleeping, "How did you get those? Did a mage do that?"

"Sure did," said Ten.

"Not one of ours, surely!"

"Nope," declared Ten, a little smug, "You see, my friends, I, your humblest ax murderess, managed to really piss off a magister of the Tevinter Imperium."

"Tevinters! What were they doing here?" asked Lelianna.

Ten set the paperwork she'd taken from the ship down on the arm of the couch. The Tevinters, ever a businesslike people, had every form in triplicate, each separately signed and sealed. One copy was back in her chest of secrets in the Alienage and the third was tucked in her bodice for safekeeping. She imagined that, somewhere in the palace or Teyrn Loghain's estate, were three more identical copies, though she wasn't sure she had the energy to have those stolen as well.

Lelianna, who was seated closest to her, picked them up. Ten watched her face darken as he gathered what it meant, "What is this, Ten? Is that your father's name?"

"My dad. My cousin. My neighbors. A little girl who still sleeps with a stuffed halla," her voice broke with that last one, "Our friend in the palace was going to empty the Alienage, sell the inhabitants, pocket the profits."

At this pronouncement, Zevran laid down his own cards and rose, his face dark with rage. "Give me those." Lelianna handed them over and he read them.

"The Teyrn did this?" he asked, looking up at Ten. She nodded.

"Did the ship make it out of the harbor?" Zev asked, rising from the table, seizing Ten by both shoulders urgently, "Do we need to track it down? I have some favors I can call in…"

"Not necessary," Ten said, "Also this burn goes all the way up, so if you could let my shoulder go, that would be fantastic, it stings a bit..."

"Oh!" Zev exclaimed, loosing her, "Wait…" he looked down at her leg and followed the scars in the path they must have taken to get to her neck, "All the way up?"

"Don't make it weird," she admonished, "In any case, the ship did make it to harbor, in a manner of speaking. But it will go no further."

"So the word on the street about a flaming ship drifting downriver at midnight…" Morrigan said.

"Where did you hear the word on the street?" asked Ten.

"You'd be amazed what the good folk of this cesspit will say in front of a harmless squirrel. But a flaming ship! You just love the drama, don't you," said Morrigan, "At least I only read about it."

Zevran relaxed, "As much as I enjoy a seabound adventure, I fear it would have taken us far too long and perhaps provoked a war. So you caught them in the act?"

She nodded again. "Me and my cousin," she said, "They'd wound down for the night by the time we got there. We killed most of them in their sleep. Released the captives."

"What happened to the slaver? This… Caladrius?" Zevran asked, reading from the manifest.

"I strapped his body to the bowsprit," said Ten, "Sent his head to the palace."

"You what?!" Wynne exclaimed, "Young lady, are you... quite all right in the head?"

"Oh, do not worry," Zevran said, "Back home I know many people who prefer to communicate via severed limbs. It's just a... what is the word. A quirk! Like preferring milk in your tea or laughing when you're nervous." 

"Keep going with this, Teyrn Loghain's going to put together the most confusing cadaver this side of the mountains," Lelianna, "Crow hand, Tevinter head… you'll need to collect a diverse array of body parts to complete it."

"Depending whom he sends next, that might not be too heavy a lift. And he will, let me warn you all now. He seems to think this is personal," said Ten, "Apparently the whole scheme, while certainly lining his war coffers, was intended to draw me out. He didn't plan on me showing up in the middle of it."

"So he didn't know you were in town," observed Morrigan.

"He does now," said Ten, "But fortunately, he thinks it's just me. Nobody knows who any of you are. So the heat's off everyone but my sorry ass. As such, I will be lying low for a bit, at least until I can do stairs like a normal person."

"Do you think he will threaten them again?" asked Sten, "You won the day this time, but this will only teach him that it works."

"I really… really fucking hope not," said Ten, "But… that leads me to a very large favor I wanted to ask of you. You can say no."

"What is it?"

"I want you to go to the Alienage," she said, "After dark, and soon, no more than three days, the leaves are already falling and if you wait, it will be very obvious a man of your size is sneaking in. I'll write a note to take with you, so you don't scare them. I want you to stay there, to do for my people what you did for the militia in Redcliffe. I'm not going to be around to solve their problems forever. They need to know how to fight on their own. Most of them are fairly good at hand to hand, but we were never allowed weapons, so they'll have no idea what to do with them."

"You are trusting me with the safety of your people," said Sten, raising his eyebrows.

"I am," said Ten, "You know what it is to be separated from yours."

"I am… strangely honored," said Sten.

"My uncle, Cedrin, is a blacksmith. He obviously doesn't know how to make swords, but he's a clever man and he'll figure it out. My father, Cyrion, is a woodworker. A shield isn't a complicated thing to make, so he'll have to figure that out as well," said Ten, "I'll have to arrange for materials to be smuggled in from the river, but I've done things like that before. Mail comes in and out every fortnight from a woman named Endania's house, if it's urgent, you find my cousin Soris, or my cousin Shianni, they know I'm here and will find me. And… no preaching the Qun, if you don't mind."

"I am not a missionary," said Sten, "I will go tomorrow."

"Thank you," said Ten.

"It will give me purpose," the qunari said, nodding, "And now, all three of you, pay up."

"I'm out," said Zev, gesturing to where his cards lay facedown on the table, "I'm glad you'll be away, I cannot financially sustain losing every hand, and there is precious little else to do around here."

"Ten," Alistair, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for far too long, started, "I don't mean to overstep here, but don't you…"

"Of fucking course it's you with a problem," exclaimed Ten, throwing her hands up, "What is it this time? Was I too hard on the poor defenseless slavetraders?!"

"No! Stop. Absolutely not," Lelianna interjected, slamming her cards on the table, "You two will go down the hall and shut the door if you are going to quarrel, we are all sick of listening to it."

"And leave your weapons here," Wynne added.

Acknowledging that they had a point and that the conversation was almost certainly going to end in shouting, Ten obligingly unbuckled her sword belt with Bannkiller hooked onto it and laid it on an end table. The then took off the strap on her upper thigh, the three knives there, and then her boots, placing the dagger she kept in each of them with the sword belt and the boots under the couch.

"Andraste's right tit, are you always armed like that?" asked Zevran.

"Oh, wait, missing one," said Ten. She turned and pulled a tiny vial of poisoned needles from where it stayed tucked within her bodice. She put them on the pile. "Oh! Yes. Of course." She pulled up her left sleeve and unbuckled the strap where three throwing knives were held against her left bicep. Then she reached under her kerchief and took out a delicate glass vial nestled in her hair. She had purchased it along the road for the purpose of studying and mimicking it. The alchemist who'd sold it to her said that the trick was trapping whatever noxious gas she could within and then throwing it so it would break on impact and release it into the air. She put that carefully on the pile as well.

"Do you just walk around like that all day?" asked Lelianna.

"It is a wise choice for her," Sten said, nodding approvingly, "She must play to her strengths. One of them is that she appears to be harmless."

"Until she sticks herself accidentally," Wynne clucked, shaking her head.

"Oh, I'm immune to most of this," she said, gesturing at the small arsenal on the end table, "But none of you are, so don't touch anything. And especially do not knock over that vial. I will not be held responsible for what happens if you do."

She went out the door to the suite. Outside was a fairly long hallway, with the main stairs at the end, and the servant's stairs branching out to the left. Alistair followed her out, though from his posture, he was regretting having said anything.

"So enlighten me, what is it this time?" she asked as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, "What did you want me to do, wait until we've got all our ducks in a row and just hope that the next regime doesn't pull something worse? And in the meantime, oh well, guess my family's enslaved abroad?"

"That's not what I was going to say," he said, "It was the right thing to do. But it shouldn't have been on your shoulders alone. You can't just keep running off and getting into trouble. You're rather important right now."

"It wasn't Warden business. It was highly illegal. I could not in good conscience ask any of you to come. Do you think you'd fare any better than I would if they decided to detain you? And… look at the state of you! Can you even hold a sword right now?"

"Me?" Alistair exclaimed indignantly, though he put his right hand, which was splinted and bandaged, behind his back, "Look at the state of you. Half of you is one big lightning burn because you decided to go head to head with a magister with no backup."

"I had backup," she said, "And, excuse me, but I had a rather compelling reason to go head to head with the magister. You decided to break your own hand on the face of a man with eight inches and eighty pounds on you, start a fucking barroom brawl in a working class dive in a city where class relations are already hanging by a thread, and for what?!"

"For what?! What do you mean, for what? That man put his hands on you! He was going to-"

"But he didn't. I took care of it. Just like I did the time before that and the time before that and the time before that. But you... you just had to go do what every single one of you people does who fancies himself all for peace love and fucking understanding. You come in, you play the big damned hero, get up there and show off how fucking magnanimous you are, taking up for the poor oppressed elves, but at the end of the day if people like you could be trusted to keep people like me safe from other people like you, we would not have this problem."

"Oh, that it is just so bloody unfair. We're not talking about hypothetical humans and elves - Teneira, would you please look at me - we are talking about you and me, as individual people. I am not at fault for every horrible thing every human in Thedas has ever done."

She forced herself to him in the eye, yet again. He looked almost worse than he had two nights before, the bruises around his left eye going green around the edges and a broken blood vessel she hadn't even noticed having spread out and covered half of it in red. She shook her head and lowered her voice, "I know you really want this to be about you, but it isn't."

"No, it's about you, and the fact that you just cannot handle not being in control of all things, all the damn time. The very thought makes your eye twitch, I can see it starting to go now."

"My eye is twitching because I have just had a really long and fucked up night and arguing with you is the last thing I want to be doing right now."

There was a noise of a throat clearing behind them. Ten turned to see the butler, Gwylan, standing awkwardly on the top step.

"Master Eilvaris, what can I do for you?" she asked, casually tucking her hair behind her ear. He approached them slowly, something in his hand. The expression on his face was… uncharacteristically gentle.

"Well, I've come up with a message that was left for you, Miss Tabris. But while I'm here, I... I heard the news out of the Alienage this morning, and I…" he paused, "Whatever I think of your methods, I recognize that sometimes the depravity of the powerful necessitates... such things."

"You're… welcome? I think?" Ten said, confused.

"He's closer kin to you, I know," Gwylan said, "But I would have grieved Soris's loss."

"Wait, are you two related?" asked Alistair, "Are all of you related?"

"Her uncle is married to my first cousin," said Gwylan, "So no, she and I are not related, but eight... seven first cousins of hers are also second cousins of mine. And the youngest is even more of a delinquent than she is." His cultivated accent slipped on the last bit, to which Ten laughed inwardly.

"He comes by it honestly," said Ten.

"He comes by it because for whatever misguided reason, he looks up to you," said Gwylan, "Though I cannot truly blame you for this one."

"He's grown, Gwylan, at this point it's on him," Ten said.

Gwylan nodded sharply, and it became clear that this was all she was going to get from him. He shoved a letter into her hands, turned, and stalked off towards the stairs. He's just committed to being disgruntled, isn't he.

"Wait, who brought the letter?" she called after him.

"I don't know all the couriers of the city personally," Gwylan said, his hand pausing on the banister at the top of the stairs.

"But surely he announced himself!" Ten insisted.

"He did not. According to the footman who took it, he was wearing a cowl, looked extremely uncomfortable, shoved it at him, and left," the butler said, "I can tell you no more. And stop eating breakfast with the staff, you're disruptive."

Ten shrugged, and opened it to familiar handwriting that had an involuntary grin spreading over her face, and she very nearly forgot that she was supposed to be angry.

TT - heard you were looking for me. Come by next Wednesday, I'm off the next day. Bring moonshine, the only place that sells it is the Paloma and I'm still banned. Come in the back door. AFTER. DARK. Can't be seen with ax murderers in broad daylight. - IV

P.S. I know for a fact you snickered at 'back door.' Grow up.

P.P.S. Just kidding. Never grow up.

"What is it?" asked Alistair, clearly grateful something had interrupted the previous argument.

Ten handed it to him.

"I don't get it," he said, having scanned the page, "Who is this from?"

"Remember that half-brother of yours that I've been trying to track down? That is the closest thing we're going to get to an engraved invitation," she declared triumphantly.

"Oh…." said Alistair, "This is the…"

"Yeah him," said Ten, "You should come along. I used to beat him up when we were small and he's still scared of me. I can make him be nice to you."

Alistair looked at her, confused, "Why are you being nice to me?"

"Because I'm pretty sure most of the reason you're such a prick to me half the time is that at the end of the day you don't have a lot of friends left and so when I'm off doing something else you're afraid I won't come back and then you'll have even less. So the more people you care about that aren't me, the less annoying you'll be."

"You know, sometimes you don't have to be completely candid when someone asks you a question like that."

"Oh so you do want me to lie to you. Look, would you like to come, or not?" 

"I suppose nothing can be half as traumatizing as the last one I met."

"Well, not in the same way," said Ten, "Though... I suggest you spend a good deal of one on one time with Zevran in the next several days. That might give you an inkling of the sorts of conversations that go on at that dinner table."

"I see. But could you explain what's so funny about the back door?"

"No."

"Why not? Is it an elf thing?"

"Nope. Just... no. Not my place."

"Ten! Come on!"

She shook her head and left him in the hallway to return to the guest wing. The letter from Ioan had reminded her of something… not particularly important, but intriguing to her personally all the same.

"Why are all of you being so quiet?" she asked, seeing all of her companions quickly look down as soon as she came in, "I thought you didn't want to hear the arguments anymore."

"We were waiting for the sound of one of you being pushed down the stairs," Sten said.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you on that account," she announced, "Morrigan, I need to speak with you."

"Me!" Morrigan exclaimed, "I hope it's salacious."

"So very," Ten said, "Come on."

In Ten's room, she found the letter to Maylin Rasphander. She handed it to the witch, and let her read it. Morrigan, deprived of context, read it, and looked up at Ten, "It's certainly cryptic. I can gather that the writer is a man, and that the recipient is a woman, and that that woman is with child. Or was."

"Very good!" Ten exclaimed, "This is a little personal to me, see, the woman is the widow of a man who wrote the little comedy that has led to me being where I am now. He is - was - a racist son of a bitch. Could not stand elves. And this letter, clearly from his wife's lover, came from the Alienage."

"Ohhhh," Morrigan said, her tone indicating that she was, in fact, intrigued, "Do you know who wrote it?"

"I don't know anyone with the nickname 'red' but I'd imagine it has something to do with the color of his hair," said Ten, "But that describes about fifteen percent of the population in these parts. As far as I can tell, Maylin is twenty-seven but even if we narrow it down to men between the ages of twenty and forty, it'd be impossible for me to figure out who it is on that information alone."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Well deliver the letter, first of all," said Ten, "Seems like facilitating an illicit romance would be right up your alley, no?"

"I do enjoy such a thing," said Morrigan, "Not being involved in one, of course… eugh. But watching it play out in real time does tickle my fancy."

"Excellent," Ten said, "Bring it to her however you see fit. And by my calculations, she should be about six months at this point, if she didn't… end the pregnancy. So she'll be showing. I'd like to know if she's still with child."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fucking nosy," said Ten, "And, well, human women who get halfbreeds sometimes get rid of them after the fact, if they come out looking too elfin. And there's always the risk that she sets a lynch mob on the man rather than live with the shame. I'm trying to avoid either of those outcomes."

"For a child that's not taken its first breath? A man you're not sure who he is?"

"I just don't like it when people die for stupid reasons," said Ten.

"Did you not just kill several men and women you've never met, in their sleep?"

"I did do that..."

"And hung their bodies upside down from the mast of a ship."

"Well yes, but..."

"And tied another man's body to the bowsprit, without his head, which you have just had sent to the palace."

"What was I supposed to do? Let them get away so they could do the same to some unsuspecting Dalish clans?"

"Of course not, I just think you drawing a bright line at infanticide after all that is a little strange."

"I'm not sure what a baby could have done to warrant getting thrown down a well."

"Except if it came out with some defect," said Morrigan, "You told me that once, outside Lothering, remember? You said it's a fuck of a thing but sometimes necessary."

"Being a halfbreed isn't a defect!" Ten protested.

"Not to you, maybe," said Morrigan, "Why, have you got one cooking in there?" She poked Ten's abdomen, managing to plant her finger right at a spot that was both ticklish and burned.

"No! Stop making it weird!" Ten exclaimed.

"Or... wait, how does it work? Is the child of a halfbreed and an elf still a halfbreed?" Morrigan mused, stroking her chin.

"Do you want in on the juicy story, or not? Because if you do, there will be no further womb-related inquiries."

"Fine. Fine! I want in," the witch sighed, "I'll deliver your little message. But I don't want to hear a damned thing out of you about my choice of reading material ever again."

"Deal," said Ten.

With an eerie whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and a slight greenish glow, Morrigan's head sank into her shoulders, and her shoulders into her torso, and within seconds a raven with the witch's pale eyes stood on on the floor before Ten. Ten held out the letter, and Morrigan took it in her beak. Ten walked across the room and opened the window. The raven flew to the windowsill, wiggled its tail at Ten, and took off.

Chapter Text

Ten did not, as Gwylan requested, stop eating breakfast with the staff. After all, the word on the street would certainly reach them eventually and it certainly would have been chaos had Ten not been there to assure them that their own families had come to no harm. They were similarly relieved to learn that they would be under the protection of one of the Arishok's own best warriors until such time as a friendlier regime had taken their seat in the palace. Morrigan, in the meantime, had decided she rather liked learning peoples' embarrassing secrets. In the week or so that followed Ten's little adventure in the Alienage, she confirmed that Maylin Rasphander was, indeed, approximately six months pregnant, brought a list of banns in hock to various loan sharks, two of whom Ten knew personally, and told a tale of an underground gambling den in a sub basement under the estate of the Bann of Skreith, probably run by Madam Hirondelle or at least one of her boys. But Ten, true to her word, laid low, tending her wounds both physical and otherwise.

The plot might have looked beyond the pale to a casual observer, but it was only truly so in its audacity and scale. From where Ten sat, that which had always looked like random mass violence was, in fact, just another pattern of behavior used to keep them quiet and meek, like her father had so recently been. All in all, given the lack of casualties, it had been a boon for her people. Confirmation to the quieter among them that simply keeping one's head down and following the rules did not, in fact, result in being left alone. The little mice scurried, the rumors flew, and Ten imagined that somewhere, several miles away, one pretender to the throne was pacing and fuming.

As for Villais... Ten really wasn't sure what to make of it. It had been a nice idea. Slay the archdemon, sail off to wherever with both middle fingers in the air, and then, what? Have a normal life with a man? Until when? At some point she'd stalk off into the night to meet her doom in the Deep Roads, leaving him, and whatever babies they'd managed to make… no, no, that wouldn't have been fair at all, even to a two-faced, lying, son of a… well, then what am I, after all?

Five days later, the burn scars had faded to a silvery white which you could barely see unless you were looking for it. In her spare time - which was copious - she managed to figure out how to recreate the explosive vial she'd purchased on the road. This was only after quite a bit of trial and error, of course, though only once did they all have to evacuate the wing. She moved her work to one of the cellars instead, and only managed to make herself sick once before finally perfecting it.

"I will never understand why you are so averse to rest," Wynne scolded, the last time she was called upon to close up the dozens of tiny cuts where the glass had burst too close to its mistress.

Stitched up, cleaned up, and heavily armed, Ten all but dragged Alistair, who was apparently getting cold feet, out of the estate on the appointed evening. She didn't blame him really. After all, if a barely literate laundress could dash his world to pieces in the space of ten minutes, fearing a prolific gentleman of the evening was only natural. But, of course, when Ten threatened to simply walk alone down to the docks after dark…

She hadn’t been by Ioan’s place in about year at this point. She recognized the building, but could not for the life of her remember if it was on the second or third floor. She climbed some stairs up to the second floor of flats, all of which opened onto a balcony which ran the length of the building. Knocked at the door and really hoped that it was the correct one.

It was, as Ten saw when the beardless, darkhaired dwarf known as Han flung the door open, ready to tell whoever was out there that they weren't buying what she was selling. Instead, the dwarf's dark eyes went wide and glimmered in the half light as they took in Ten. "Look at you, ya little criminal!" Han exclaimed, throwing their arms around her upper thighs and lifting her clean off her feet.

"Not on the balcony, Han!" Ten protested, looking fearfully at the drop behind her.

"Yes on the balcony!" Han insisted, twirled her around, and set her down, "Wait, who's this?" Their eyes narrowed at Alistair, but then widened again. "Darling!" they yelled into the open door of the flat, their voice a brassy tenor, "I think your little friend found another one!"

"My love, I'm not dressed! Give me ten minutes." Ioan's voice echoed from further back in the flat.

"I reminded you twice that she was coming tonight, it's not my fault you can't tell time!"

"I still have shem stink on me."

"Come on in," Han said, going in the door and beckoning them, "Did you eat yet?"

"It's fine, don't…"

"All right, let me see what we have," Han bustled over to the pantry, "Ioan, did you eat all that bread?"

"Light of my life!" Ioan's voice called again, "Please. Let me bathe."

"Fucking elves, always bathing," Han muttered, "No offense, Ten."

"You don't have to feed us," said Ten.

"You're right," Alistair said, "They really are always bathing. Could be frost on the ground and this one's rushing to the river."

"Excuse me for coming from a culture that values hygiene," Ten said.

"And excuse me for coming from one where you feed your damn guests," said Han. They waltzed over from the pantry and set down a plate of dark dwarven bread, sliced meats of indeterminate origin and a fairly decent looking cucumber, cut into slices. Pints of ale drawn from an enormous keg in the corner of the room followed, "So, you got a name, strange person who looks a bit like my husband?"

"Alistair," he said. The worry had gone out of his face.

"I know better than to ask a surname," Han said.

"So you're Han, right?" 

"To my friends," Han said, "Otherwise it's Will o the Whips, formerly Paragon Paddles, but since you and I will certainly not be knowing each other professionally, Han will do."

Ten snickered behind her hand, watching the look on her companion's face go from confusion, to realization, to redfaced embarrassment.

"He a chantry brat or something?" Han asked, eyebrows raised at Ten.

"Or something," said Ten.

"He knows what we do for a living, right?"

"We discussed it," said Ten, "He was a bit surprised at first, but he's over that. Right, Alistair?"

"So you are both…"

"Creatures of the night," Han said dramatically, grinning, "Well, Ioan mostly works afternoons. That's when his clientele tend to stop by."

"And ah, I am so going to regret asking this, but who are his clientele?" asked Alistair.

"People who want to fuck the king, of course," Han said, "It's gotten a little weird, since the man perished, but business is actually through the roof."

"That's…"

"Extremely creepy," said Han, "Don't I know it. But, coin is coin is coin."

"Yes, I heard our Ioan was at an out call last time I was in town," said Ten, "Don't suppose you know who."

"You and I both know you don't last long in this business when you don't know when to keep your mouth shut," Han said, "I don't even know who he was seeing."

"If you were that good at keeping your mouth shut I wouldn't already know half of what I know," said Ten.

"Well that thing with Arl Urien liking a wee finger up his bum was a gift," said Han, "May he rest in peace."

Alistair choked on his ale. Ten pounded him on the back, "You're going to have to get very comfortable with quite a few things in the next half hour or so."

"Why am I sober for this?" Alistair said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"We can fix that," said Ten, "I brought a wee prezzie."

She set the enormous jug of moonshine she'd secured from Missus Bantree under the table a couple of nights before on the dinner table.

"Ugh," Han said, looking at what passed for a label, a skull stamped into the clay of the judge, "I still can't believe you people drink that stuff."

"It's amazing what you learn to make when half the grains you get are already spoiled," Ten said.

"But that's what I mean!" Han said, "Whiskey is supposed to be rich and luscious, this just tastes like hardship. Every time Ioan drinks it he just winds up singing sad songs and crying."

"Glad to see he hasn't forgotten his roots," Ten said approvingly.

"All right, you lot," Ioan said, appearing in the doorway, dressed, with his hair still wet and slicked back against the nape of his neck, "What on earth was so imp-” He froze, his eyes falling on Alistair, “Maker’s breath, not again." 

"Well… that's a strange new feeling," Alistair observed.

Ioan stared for a moment more, and then nodded. "All right," he sighed, "Get up, I'm going to give you the most awkward hug of your life, and then we are going to sit down and drink most of that moonshine and we’re each going to learn some strange new ways in which our respective childhoods were even more fucked than we already thought they were.”

"You haven't been nursing a secret hatred of me for twenty plus years, have you?"

"Friend, I didn't even know you existed until about ten minutes ago. Come on, bring it in."

Side by side, one would never have mistaken one for the other, but they sort of gave the same impression at first glance. Han shook their head silently and went to the cupboard for glasses.

"Ten, a little help here?" Han asked. They pointed to the top shelf, "I don't know why he keeps putting them up here."

"It's spite," said Ten, "I can't reach them either."

"Keep your knees straight," Han said, and for the second time in twenty minutes, Ten was lifted in the air, high enough to reach the tallest shelf. Neither of the men at the table offered to help, of course, though, who could really blame them? She fetched down four tumblers, brought them to the table, and Han filled them.

"So, let me guess, your ma always hated you and you didn't learn why for years?" said Ioan.

"I... wouldn't know," Alistair said, "The story is she died in childbirth, I eventually wound up with the Cowled Brothers of... I can't remember for the life of me which martyr they followed, I think I've tried to block most of that time out." 

"Must have been a mindfuck," said Ioan, "Hell of a thing. I'm sorry. Though, I have to admit, sometimes I think if my ma had just brought me over to the Chantry, things would have gone a lot smoother for me. The whole… being raised as an elf when you don’t actually look like an elf thing makes things complicated.

"I was going to ask about that,” Alistair asked, "You don't look like an elf at all."

"I suspect my ma may be a halfbreed herself," said Ioan, "Or at least have some human in the woodpile however far back. Some of us have the fortune of coming out one way or the other.”

“But you’re human now.”

“On paper,” Ioan said, “Our Teneira here stole a stack of Chantry forms when we were fourteen. We picked a small town on a map and now I am an orphan with two human parents from some ass end of nowhere village south of Crestwood.” 

"You forged Chantry papers?" Alistair said, looking at Ten in amusement.

"If you're not willing to commit a misdemeanor or two for your friends, you're not a friend at all," Teneira declared.

"A woman of principles," Ioan declared, "If I had to spend another year under that roof I would have thrown myself off it. So, Alistair, what exactly is your deal? You're definitely not from Denerim, not with that ridiculous accent. You sound like a fucking lordling, how'd that happen?"

"I'm from Redcliffe," Alistair said, "I guess… well, the Arl of Redcliffe decided I was good to keep around after his chambermaid got knocked up, spent a few years as his ward, then he decided I wasn't as valuable as he thought I was, and off to the Chantry."

Ten was surprised, hearing him repeat her version of the story rather than his own.

"Oh I feel that one in my soul," Han said, laughing ruefully.

“Han’s supposed to be some big mucky-muck back in Orzammar, but fell victim to a usurping uncle,” Ioan said by way of explanation.

“Allegedly,” Ten added. Han threw the heel of the loaf of bread at her. Ten grabbed it out of the air with one hand and took a bite, giving Han the finger with the other.

"My uncle tried to give me to the Legion of the Dead to get me out of the way after my ma died. I ran, of course,” Han said, “But suffice it to say I know how those people think and as much as the Chantry seems to be a bastion of deviance and cruelty, it beats that.”

“I maintain that Han should have stayed for the ceremonial funeral and gotten the sweet face tattoos," Ioan said.

"Ugh. No. Not for me," Han said, shaking their head, "It's taken some getting used to but I rather like the sun. Still not sure how I feel about snow. Snow feels vindictive.”

"You know, I never thought I'd thank the Maker for my elfin ma, but I suppose I am grateful I never had to worry about being some pawn in a noble's game of… I'd say chess but I don't think most of them have mastered tic tac toe," Ioan observed, "Must be worse now, huh."

"I suppose," Alistair said, looking into his drink.

"I wasn't going to ask this, because I've learned to take for granted that our Teneira just tends to walk into every room and immediately make friends with the strangest person in there, but how do the two of you know each other, anyway?" Ioan asked, "Is she smuggling you out of the country before the succession shitstorm really hits?"

"Oh, nobody told you what happened after I narrowly avoided the hangman," said Ten.

"We heard you spent your wedding night butchering a handful of lords - good on you for that - then somehow beat the charge and skipped town," Han said.

"I didn't beat the charge," Ten said, "I was conscripted before they could haul me before a magistrate."

"There's only one group that conscripts elves or criminals, let alone both," said Ioan, "Why'd nobody tell me you were a Grey Warden? And you too?"

Alistair nodded.

"Well shit, the two of you have my sympathy," Han said, drinking down the moonshine they claimed to despise in one go, "I've seen not a few of yours pass through Orzammar on their way out. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but hanging might have been a kindness. The taint sort of has you falling to pieces for months before the end. At least the Legion keeps its wits and pretty faces when they go to face them."

"To pieces?" Ten asked, "Do I want to know?"

"I don't think you do," Han said, "But… that means, you must have survived Ostagar!"

"Guilty of that as well," said Ten.

"Well," Ioan said, shaking his head, "Not that I have any great feelings about our late brother, but… did you really…"

"No!" Alistair exclaimed, "No. Loghain sounded the retreat when they were supposed to charge. It was a coup. They took down the king and most of our people as well."

"Ah, of course, more lies out of the palace," Han said, "I knew there was something fishy with the official line. I know how these people think, and it ain't pretty." They finished their mug to punctuate the point, then went to go draw another from the keg in the corner, but discovered it was kicked, and so lifted it bodily and went off to the pantry to replace it.

"Ioan, when your wi-…” he stopped, shaking his head, “Husband?" his voice trailed off, realizing he had started the sentence but did not know how to finish it. Ten refrained from banging her head against the table, as much in frustration with herself as anyone else. She had been so caught up in trying to make sure Alistair was prepared to be polite and friendly to a couple of hookers that she had forgotten to cover the 'Han is just Han' talk. She should have realized that folks like Han were probably few and far between out in the countryside. 

"Common quandary, but the answer is a trade secret," the dwarf in question announced, reappearing from the pantry with a full keg balanced on one broad shoulder, “The only people besides my dear husband who get to know what's in my breeches are those that can afford it."

"And nobody can afford it," Ioan and Ten recited in unison. They clicked their tumblers together and drank.

"When Han answered the door," Alistair corrected himself, "Han said 'there's another one.' Exactly how many of us have come by here?"

"You're the fourth or fifth," said Ioan, "I'm pretty sure at least one was an impostor, or at least had been lied to. The other three were rather standoffish, so I'm glad you're not a total prick. Thought when I heard how you talk you were about to try to drag me into some ridiculous nobleman's ploy."

"That's what happened to the last one," said Han, "He had no idea who Ioan's ma was, of course. I guess his ma was some lesser bann from the Coastlands who'd put it in his head that he should try to unseat King Cailin. I had to chase him out with a club when he started trying to foment a coup in the living room. He found his way to the executioner's block a couple of years ago."

"I suppose that's about to start happening with some frequency," Ioan said, "I have been wondering if it wouldn't be better to skip town myself. We all know what happens to anyone with any claim to a throne, no matter how shaky, when it finally gets filled." He made a gesture, mimicking an ax falling with the side of his hand.

"I hadn't even thought about that," Alistair said.

"Beats the Deep Roads," Han said.

"Who's the one who's still alive?" asked Ten, "Still in town?"

"Bann Bitch of Bumfuck?" Ioan asked, "Probably. What was her actual name, Han?"

"Tanekke something. I think her mother was a Nevarran Diplomat. She had a lot to say about me polluting the bloodline," Han said.

"Ew," Ten said, "All right, she's out. Look, I'm not saying this isn't a social call, but there's business as well."

"There always is with you," Ioan sighed, rolling his eyes, "What is it this time?"

"We need influence in the peerage," said Ten, "You want to leave town? I can finance it. Don't ask how. But I need dirt. That out call, who is it?"

"Money's not a problem currently," Ioan said, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

"Well, what do you want?" asked Ten.

"See that's the thing, Teneira. What I want is to have a pleasant evening getting drunk with an old friend," said Ioan, "Do you think you can handle that? Just… have a few laughs? Relax for once in your damn life?"

Ten sighed and took down the rest of her moonshine, "Fine. Just remember I can drink all of you under the table."

In her heart, Ten was a degenerate from the Alienage, and drinking and carousing was in her bones just as much as salted fish and inherent suspicion of authority. Ioan and Alistair alternatively exchanged sob stories and cracked each other up, Han and Ten exchanged witticisms and gossip. But, as the night wore on, as Han had predicted, by midnight, halfway through the jug, Ioan stood up from the table, went to the corner of the room, and, facing the corner, started singing. He had a high, clear tenor, and knew exactly where to place a warbling grace note to shatter the heart of the listener.

"Oh no," Ten sighed, "Sorry Han, he's dirge-singing drunk, he's going to be a wreck tomorrow."

"What… what is going on?" asked Alistair.

"It's sad song time," said Han, "When the critical mass of alcohol… just… go with it. There's no stopping him now."

I am a stranger in this land
Among strangers have I been
I am ready to return home
To be lain down therein

"Why's he facing the wall?" Alistair whispered.

"It's tradition," Ten replied, "Genuinely no idea where that one came from."

The singing of mournful songs was standard at any house where more than one elf was drinking. It was simply expected, and as Ten was reminded by Ioan's hand waving out behind him, it was considered polite to offer support in the form of a hand held and waved in time with the music. She humored him, as she always did. As was also common, only the first and last verses would be translated, with the interim three or thirty ones in Elvish. Fortunately this did not have so many, though Ten imagined that the lyrics she knew had simply been put to a much older air. In the version Ioan sang, the narrator, a dying city elfr, was asking his family to take him to be buried rather than burned, calling out the names of various of his kin to take part in various parts of it. Ten knew the general story, some of the words jumped out at her,

Do not give me to the fire
And make me ashes on the air
But bury me in the green wood
I will not be a stranger there

Ten felt the lyrics to the song she had heard probably a hundred times in her gut in a way she hadn't ever before. She had always been at home, among her people when she had heard it sung before. Over these past few months, though… she had not ever known what it was to be an elf among humans, and not even able to head home at the end of the day and be somewhere where everyone looked like her, shared some sort of history. But now she saw Ioan in a new light. Just by whatever spin of the wheel had had him come out looking like he did, he had never truly fit in with the rest of them. He had always desperately tried, going at the Elvish lessons with a gusto that none of the fullbloods in the classes matched, participating with everything he had in the mundane rituals of life that others found quaint and irrelevant - singing into an empty corner being one of the less bizarre of these. But, he had faced rejection at every juncture, and by the time he'd been a teenager, he'd resolved to just leave, find somewhere he was wanted. He was always a stranger, always among strangers, never at home even where he was born. Meeting Han, Ten imagined, another stranger cast out of their home, must have been a relief.

As the last notes ended, he let go of her hand, and they turned back to the table.

"Well, that's out of my system," Ioan said, smiling brightly and refilling his glass.

Han sniffed and swiped a hand across their eyes, "I hate that part. He does this every time she's here."