Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Anders sat on a random crate, facing away from them all, feeling strangely serene.  For the moment both he and Justice were at peace, possibly for the first time since they had joined and fled the wardens for this vicious, blood-soaked city that had become both home and torment.  He had placed the explosives carefully; one in the room where Karl had come back to him for just a moment, where he had begged Anders for death, where his blood had covered Anders hands and soaked into his robes; one on the opposite side, where he had helped Hawke destroy a tome of blood magic, emblazoned with the sunburst of the Chantry on its cover; one before the statue of Andraste, where Petrice had sacrificed Seamus Dumar to her obsession with the Qunari, where Elthina had dared to preach peace while allowing Meredith Stannard to abuse and murder innocents in her paranoia.  The only magic involved was the trigger, a spell set to ignite from afar, setting off all three simultaneously and destroying the root of all evil in this Maker-forsaken hellhole.  He ignored the frantic arguments taking place behind him, knowing that it would all come down to one choice, knowing there was only one answer for his betrayal.  That knowledge gave him peace, soon it would be over, his blood would be given to pay for the lives he had taken today, but the die had been cast and the world would change, in one way or the other.  And no matter what happened to him, Hawke would do the right thing, she would defend the mages from Meredith, she would rally Kirkwall behind it’s Champion, and the whole world would change.

He knew it when she moved behind him, so attuned to her after all these years.  There had been few true loves in his life - Karl, Neria, Nate, Reina, Mari - and only Mari was here at the end.

“There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already said to myself.”  He spoke gently, knowing the bloodshed that had been, the bloodshed to come, would weigh on her far less than his betrayal.  “Vengeance took me over.  I couldn’t stop him.  Justice once told me that demons are just spirits perverted by their desires.  I made my friend a demon - and he did this.”  He ignored Sebastian’s demented mutterings, if he could summon the energy to care he would only be sorry that the sanctimonious bastard had not been at his beloved Elthina’s side when the Chantry exploded.  He spoke only to Mari, his love, the one shining light in this corrupted city.  “Kill me now, before there’s nothing left of me.”

“I know you would have changed it if you could.”  He loved her sweet voice, though it was filled with pain.

“But I have proven I cannot.”  He had destroyed his friend, destroyed himself, wrecked body and mind until there was nothing left.  “If I couldn’t control Vengeance now, I never will.  I need to die” For a moment there was fear, fear that she would forgive him, fear that he would have to live with what he had done, with a price he could never repay, but above all fear that he had broken Mari Hawke when nothing else could, not the Blight, not discovering her father was a blood mage, not even losing her family one by one.

“Whatever you do, just do it.”

“You have to pay for what you’ve done.”  Relief.  It is almost at an end.

“I know.  You should have done this long ago.”  Before he could corrupt his friend, before he had ruined everything he touched.  Before Vengeance led him to destroy life with the hands that had been dedicated to saving it.

He felt the knife enter his back, sharp pain cutting through the ache in his heart, warm blood seeping down under the coat he had dyed black, soaking into the thin shirt underneath.  He felt Justice, or Vengeance, released, fading away as he faded himself, barely feeling the ground as he collapsed, not hearing the clicking of her heeled boots as Marian Hawke walked away to fight for the mages before Kirkwall and the world.

Chapter Text

Kirkwall was a grim, grey city, the massive granite walls and palaces of Hightown looming over the huddled slums of Lowtown.  As the Royal Griffon sailed between the hulking statues known as The Twins, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, felt a twist of guilt and shame at the thought of the hundreds of his citizens crammed into this unforgiving place, fleeing ahead of the Blight only to live in squalor.  Tall and golden, Alistair looked every inch the king but right now he wished he was still only a simple Grey Warden, spending his days fighting with sword and shield instead of words.  He was here to discuss repatriating the Fereldan refugees but it would be a slow process, slower no doubt than the rulers of Kirkwall would be happy with.  He noticed Teagan appearing up on deck and sighed, wishing once again it was his wife who would be standing beside him against the supposedly formidable (and possibly psychotic) Knight Commander.  But Rhi had business elsewhere and Eamon was holding the fort in Denerim.  Truthfully, he enjoyed the time he spent with his uncle, at least he wouldn’t completely drown in formality while he was here, but he missed the wife he hadn’t seen for weeks.  He would miss her even more at the infernal balls and teas and meetings that were scheduled for the next two weeks.  Even after six years under her tutelage, Alistair was prone to slip-ups at social events.  Formal meetings, the matters of state, those had become second nature, but he despised the vagaries of The Game and Rhi was a mistress of it, saving him from blunders at these things before he even knew he was going to make them.  Teagan was no replacement for his amazing, duplicitous Queen.

“There’s an undercity too,” said Teagan quietly, just as depressed by the fortress city as Alistair.  “From all accounts that’s where the majority of the refugees live, in the sewers among the scum of gangs and slavers.”

Alistair sighed.  “I wish we could just move them all back.  Send a fleet.  We have one of those, don’t we?  Pick them all up at once and move them back.”

“To where, Alistair?”  His uncle was always the voice of reason, unfortunately.  “Most of them come from lands that are still blighted.  The Queen opened up Amaranthine when she cleared the Blackmarsh, and most of the North is all but back on its feet but from the Hinterlands across to the Brecilian forest still can’t support all these people.  And that’s not counting the ones spread across the rest of the Marches.”

“The rest of the Marcher lords have made more efforts at integration, they spread people out into the countryside.  It’s Kirkwall that holds the majority, and Kirkwall where they live in squalor.  They won’t all want to come back but this is the fifth year we’ve had famine in the south, the country is bankrupt and we haven’t enough people to till what fields there are.  I would have thought the Knight Commander or whoever is running this place would have been glad enough to get rid of them, even in the small numbers we can cope with, but between dock fees and blasted paperwork it’s been impossible.”  Alistair hated formalities, especially ones that made no sense.  The exorbitant fees for the papers Kirkwall required before anyone could do almost anything in the city, meant most of the refugees must be eking out an existence on the edges of legality.  Insisting on those same papers and extra fees for leaving the city that never wanted them in the first place was insanity.  But Kirkwall was Money and Ferelden was bankrupt.  This was a last ditch attempt at diplomacy, at allowing the refugees to return home in a controlled manner.  But while he played his part in Hightown, other options were being negotiated in far less salubrious surroundings, one way or another the monarchs of Ferelden were determined to get their people out of Kirkwall.

------

It was well after midnight when Marian Hawke untangled herself from her lover’s arms and crept out of her bedroom.  After a day spent fighting a high dragon they were both tired but Anders had then spent hours putting them all back together.  Fenris had been the worst, the dragon had thrown him against a cliff and he had fallen twenty feet onto one of the piles of rubble that lay about the Bone Pit and after healing what he could and ordering the elf to bed rest until further notice, it was unlikely Anders would wake until late morning.  He was used to her coming and going at all hours but she would rather not worry him and what she was about to do would absolutely worry him.

It would worry her too, a private meeting in one of the Carta’s hidden lairs, with instructions to ‘come alone’.  She wasn’t a fool, if the note had been signed by anyone else she would have had people waiting in the wings.  But beside the name ‘Magda Cadash’ was a sigil that only one other living person knew.  For whatever reason, Bethany was in Kirkwall and wanted to meet her.

The ‘lair’ turned out to be a well kept house at the upper end of Lowtown, owned by a dwarven artisan.  Edric Saldras crafted beautiful ceramic ornaments that were collected by Kirkwall’s nobility, Hawke had bought her own mother one when they regained the Amell estate.  His wife, Magda, was a sweet woman who couldn't haggle to save her life. Except that apparently she was a Cadash which made her about as high up in the Carta as anyone could be and as sweet and innocent as a deepstalker. It was a dangerous secret for her to know but still Bethany's mark stopped her leaving to get back-up. 

The dwarf who answered the door looked completely unsurprised to be welcoming the Champion of Kirkwall at three in the morning as she showed her through to the parlour. Edric offered her a drink while Magda filled a plate with pastries, welcoming her to their home as if it were a mid-morning courtesy visit. She sat in the proffered armchair and accepted the refreshments without taking her eyes off the three Grey Wardens sitting across the room. 

Beth looked different.  Her hair was short, framing a face that had lost all remaining traces of childhood. Instead of the mail she used to wear, she was dressed in leather armour dyed blue and silver with a pendant at her throat that glistened red. She looked better than she had a few weeks ago, but still thin and tired, with grief heavy in her eyes. She leaned against a tall, dark-haired man Hawke recognised. They had gone into the Deep Roads to rescue him and found Bethany too. Howe, like the traitor lord who murdered the Couslands during the Blight, but she couldn’t remember his first name. She had her suspicions at the time but seeing how close they sat, how Beth leaned into the man, told her everything she needed to know and she gave Howe a look that should do the same for him. Of course, Bethany noticed and rolled her eyes before whispering something in Howe's ear and giggling. 

The third member of the team was the one in charge. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyeing Hawke over a cup that smelt deliciously bitter. Saldras must be making a mint, or his wife was, if they could import Antivan coffee and they must be desperate to earn this woman’s approval. She was of average height and slim and her wine red hair and green eyes that set off a heart-shaped face and bee-stung lips told Hawke exactly who sat before her. After all, Anders had described his Commander often enough. 

"Your Highness," Hawke inclined her head, resisting the urge to kneel before the Hero of Ferelden. "Or do you prefer Commander?" Every Fereldan idolised this woman, Anders practically worshipped her. But sneaking into the city using the Carta when her husband was already here on a diplomatic mission was more than suspicious and Hawke preferred to reserve judgement for the moment. 

"Champion." She nodded and smiled and Hawke was struck by how light and young her voice sounded. "Under these circumstances I would prefer Rhiannon, as I'm not here in any official, or indeed legal, capacity."  The Queen set her cup to the side and glanced fondly at Bethany and her friend. "First and foremost, I wanted to thank you for saving Bethany and Nathaniel. The First Warden overruled me about that mission and I nearly lost one of my oldest friends, and one of my newest." Bethany flushed to hear herself described as a friend of the Hero and Nathaniel squeezed her hand in reassurance.

"No thanks are required, High…Rhiannon." Hawke stumbled a little over the informality. Nathaniel, that was it, Anders had called him Nate and told her they had a thing, once upon a time. But then, Anders had apparently slept his way across Ferelden, once upon a time, so that wasn't a big deal. 

"Not required, maybe, but very gratefully given. Now, it's important no one else knows I'm here. While my darling husband is attempting to reason with Kirkwall's bureaucracy, I'm making arrangements to start smuggling our refugees back to Ferelden. Only a few at a time to begin with, but Magda informs me that your resources would be very valuable in this. Apart from anything else, I'm willing to donate a ship to your friend, Isabela, and fund the Darktown healer." Hawke started a little at that. Did she know the healer was her missing warden? She glanced at Bethany but her sister's face was completely blank. She wouldn't give Anders away but what about Howe, his ex-lover. He knew Anders was here, knew he was living with Hawke, would he report the errant mage to their superior? She pulled her attention back to Rhiannon who was looking at her with a knowing glint in her eyes. 

“An incompetent fool lost something of mine a few years ago.  I believe it made its way into your very competent care.  I appreciate that, more than you know.”  Her face hardened.  “I’d also appreciate it if you made your friend aware that the fool has been dealt with - permanently.”  So the replacement who had forced Anders to give up his cat, set templars on him and made him desperate enough to join with Justice was dead.  Good.  She had intended to track him down once Stannard was dealt with, this saved her the trip.  She pulled her attention back as Rhiannon turned to speak to her hosts.

“I’m very grateful for your assistance in this matter.  Perhaps you could go over the details with Nathaniel while Bethany and I catch up with the Champion about some old friends.  Do you have another room we could go to?  I wouldn’t want to disturb the negotiations with girlish gossip.”  She gave them a charming smile and they both immediately protested uprooting the queen.

“Not at all, your highness,” Magda was firm, tilting her head at her husband in a secret communication.  “We can continue our business with Lord Howe in the study.  Please, rest and help yourself to the pastries.  There is more coffee in the pot, but simply ring the bell if you need anything.”  With very little bustle the three women were left alone.

The change in the Commander was immediate.  She relaxed into the armchair and the smile she gave Bethany was sweet, the smile of a friend, not a queen.  Beth moved immediately to give her sister a tight hug and Hawke noted the firm muscles under the armour.  Her sister had never been soft, not as Circle mages were, but now she was hard, baby fat all gone, forged anew in the Deep Roads and it made Hawke sad that she hadn’t been able to give her sister the life of idle luxury she deserved.  Feeling the change in tension, Bethany drew back and pinched her, drawing a startled yelp from the Champion that made the two wardens giggle.

“Stop that, Mari.  I don't know what you’re moping about this time but just stop it."

"I was just thinking how much I missed you," Hawke grumbled, "But now I can't remember why." 

"Well sit with me and tell me everything I've missed. I want all the details." Bethany's smile became just a little smug. "Especially about Anders." 

Hawke looked over at Rhiannon suspiciously and the woman giggled. 

"Please don't hold back any details on my account," she said, picking at a layered honey pastry Hawke recognised as baklava. "Anders' exploits were legendary, even among the Wardens and we tend to be a very close-knit bunch." Beth twitched at that comment and Rhiannon smirked. "Although I'm more interested in how he ended up being this mysterious Darktown healer. We've been filtering money to him for years, what we could afford to send to Lirene. Not as much as we wanted but Ferelden is bankrupt. But no one ever told us it was Anders, until you saved Nate. Not even Bethany." The last was said with a frown and Bethany wriggled uncomfortably. It was such a familiar movement, Carver had done it as well, that little wriggle when they were taken to task, Hawke could have cried at all the memories it brought back.  But Rhiannon was still talking so she tried to pay attention.

“It turns out my missing mage, who was almost a caricature of a selfish hedonist, is living in a sewer, running a free clinic and saving mages in his spare time.”  Her smile turned almost sad.  “Perhaps the conversations he used to have with Justice made more of an impression than he let on.” Hawke couldn’t help it, she flinched at the mention of Justice and though she tried to hide it, the shrewd rogue noticed.  “He has told you about Justice, I assume?  He was a Spirit who was trapped in the corpse of a warden.  Justice berated Anders for his laziness and his selfishness, I stopped taking them on missions together so I didn’t have to listen to it, but they did become close friends.”  Rhiannon pursed her lips at the blank faces both Hawkes presented her, her mind racing to put together pieces until she slammed her cup on the table and stood to pace the room in frustration.  When she spoke her voice was far less sweet than before.

“Fucking, bastarding… I’ll fucking kill Howe when he gets back in here.  Fucking dickhead archers and brainless fucking mages and…” She turned to face Bethany.  “You knew!  You knew he was possessed and you never told me.  How could you, Bethany?”

“Rhi, I’m sorry.  It... it wasn’t my story to tell.”  Bethany wrung her hands as she shuffled in place, leaning towards her Commander as if she wanted to go to her but staying back and letting the woman vent her ire.  “I don’t think Nate knows, how could he?”

“He might not know, but it was his fucking suggestion for Justice to share a living body.  I should have known when they both disappeared, I assumed Kristoff’s corpse gave out in the fight and he went back to the Fade.  I’ll kill him, I’ll kill both of them.  And then I’ll find a way to get into the Fade so I can kill them both again.”  Hawke was taken aback at the tears pouring down the woman’s face, then again when her sister drew the Commander into her arms, whispering soothing nothings and stroking the red hair. Eventually Rhiannon straightened slightly, looking at Beth as she said,

“I thought he was dead, Beth.  I thought the bastard templars got him and Justice both.  I didn’t protect them like I promised, because I was too busy in Denerim being queen and he didn’t come to me, he came here to live in a sewer.  He ran again and I just thought he was dead instead of trying to find him.”

“Shhh, sweetheart.  You didn’t know.  I should have told you, I’m so sorry.  You did nothing wrong.”  Beth looked up as Howe entered the room, closing it tightly behind him.  “Where are they?”

“In the study,” he said, taking over from Bethany and giving her a soft kiss on her cheek.  “What happened?”

“I don’t really know.  She just, we were talking about Anders and Justice and how they merged and…”

Howe interrupted, “Merged?  Anders and Justice merged?  Fuck.”  He looked down at the woman in his arms who was now glaring up at him although she hadn’t rejected his embrace.

“Merged, Nate.  As in ‘hey Justice, why don’t you try inhabiting a live body’ merged, you fucking arsehole.  So hey, Anders and Justice are an abomination.”  She went from leaning into his hug from battering on his chest.  “And why are they an abomination?  Because I fucked off to Denerim to play Queen and that piece of shit Orlesian set templars on him.”

Hawke had to cut in.  “Hey, HEY!” The three turned to look at her, Rhiannon and Nate blinking as if they had completely forgotten her existence.  She was angry and somehow defensive at their response.  She knew Anders had a history with Howe, knew he had a crush on the Commander, but somehow with them in front of her it all seemed a little personal.  And when Hawke felt defensive, she tended to get aggressive.

“Anders is not an abomination.”  She held up her hand as Howe opened his mouth.  “He’s not, Justice helps him, they help people together.  I’ve seen abominations, Anders isn’t it!  If he became an abomination, I’d kill him.  I promised him.”  The queen pushed the archer away and turned to her, breath still hitching, face twisted with scorn.

“Stupid girl,” she said, ignoring the fact that Hawke was several years older than herself.  “Do you have any idea the stress hosting a spirit has on a body, using that spirit’s powers.  And that’s without knowing how the taint could affect Justice.  Anders is in his thirties, tell me, does he look it?”

She considered the words.  Anders was thin, skinny even, although he looked better since moving in with her, but the lines on his face from a lifetime of living on the run, working himself to the bone, had left him looking at least a decade older.  But according to this woman her selfless healer had been anything but only five years before.

Rhiannon continued, “One of my friends, a mage who travelled with me during the Blight, she had a spirit in her, it… well it kept her alive after she technically died, but at a price.  Sometimes she would just collapse, and her personality changed.  The last time I saw her she was… different.  Faith was starting to consume her…”  She sighed.  “I can’t really explain.  She’s just different.”

Hawke nodded.  She knew what she meant.  She had met Anders almost six years ago and he had changed.  He didn’t even try to hide it, he had straight out told her that it was merging with Justice that did it.  That was why he was trying to separate them, why they’d been fighting a high dragon the day after picking through shit in the sewers.  She tried to explain about Anders’ potion, until she got to the ingredients, when Howe stopped her.

“Sela petrae and drakestone?”  He said, sharing a glance with his Commander.  “I’ve never heard of a potion like that.  But I know I was sent for saltpetre and drakestone for Dworkin when he was trying to make gaatlok .”

“ Gaatlok .”  Hawke’s heart sank.  They never found out who really got their hands on that recipe, but surely Anders… No, he had warned her repeatedly that he was no good for her, that he was dangerous, he had joked about destroying the city for her, what wouldn’t he do for the mages trapped in the Gallows.  He wouldn’t tell her - plausible deniability - he would keep her out of it even when she had begged him to let her in, to let her be part of his mission.  He had dangled the hope of being himself again before her so she would help him and he was going to blow up her city, kill innocent people, start a war, and then...what?  Justice for mages would never be gained peacefully but justice for those innocents caught in his trap?  Only his own life would be enough for Anders.  “He’ll die.”

Rhiannon looked at her in sympathy.  “What’s his target?  The Gallows?”  Hawke shook her head, thinking about the stop they had made at the Chantry, the last ditch attempt to convince Elthina to intervene while Anders, well, she didn’t know what Anders was doing but the odds were he was hiding gaatlok .  She would even lay bets on it being hidden in the room where he had been forced to kill Karl all those years ago.

“The Chantry,” she said.  “There’s been so much turmoil it’s been all but empty for weeks, only the priests some days.”  Sebastian, she would have to keep him beside her, keep him away from the Chantry and Elthina.  This was what the Nightingale had been talking about all along, the danger.

“Can we stop him, Mari?  Can we save them?”  Bethany was distraught; sweet, gentle Bethany who might have been one of those abused mages in the Gallows if she hadn’t come on their treasure hunt, who would have been dead if Anders hadn’t found Stroud and his wardens.  Bethany, who had been spared the scars that marked Anders' back, or the unseen scars on some of the mages she had helped smuggle out of Kirkwall, who had been safe from the Circle only through luck and hard work.  What would she have been in that place?  Quiet and pale, scuttling past the templars, hoping not to be noticed by the likes of Karras or Mettin or Alrik, maybe she would bear the sunburst scar and wander the courtyard unknowing and uncaring that her beautiful soul had been wiped out for being a gift of the Maker by those who were full of hate, envy and fear.  Looking at her baby sister, Hawke made up her mind.

“No.  There’s no way to stop it, I don’t even know where he might have put it except in the Chantry, it’s a big place.  Beth, you don’t know how bad it’s got here.  If it’s not Anders it will be something else.  Meredith sent for the Right of Annulment, Elthina refused but she’s petitioned the Divine herself.  Who knows what she’ll do, if she’ll even wait for the reply, she’s insane.”  She took a deep breath and turned to Rhiannon.  “I won’t let him die.  I want your promise you’ll get him out, no matter what happens.”

Rhiannon nodded.  “My husband has a meeting with Meredith Stannard tomorrow.  You’ll get an invitation to meet him at the Viscount’s Keep, so he can congratulate a citizen of Ferelden for her achievements, of course.  Keep Anders with you today and tomorrow.  Alistair is leaving after the meeting, I’ve done everything I can and we arranged to meet in Highever as if I was never here.  Let me be clear, Hawke, I want my husband out of the city before Anders sets off his explosives.  Do that, and I think I can set everything else up to our advantage.”

There was nothing else Hawke could do, she agreed to distract Anders long enough for King Alistair to leave Kirkwall and the four of them sat down to lay out a plan.

------

Alistair was exhausted after a fortnight of pointless politics, glad that he would be heading home tomorrow after one last fight with the Knight Commander.  Zev had sent word that several mages had fled Kirkwall for Ferelden and Stannard had got wind of it.  His courtesy meeting to say goodbye was going to be yet another headache from the woman he had definitely decided was beyond psychotic and practically drowning in paranoid delusions, not to mention the uncomfortable vibrations he felt in her presence, as if her very body was warping the song of the lyrium she took into something twisted and painful.  The high point of tomorrow would certainly be the moment the Griffon set sail.

He had declined a bath, asking only that a tray be left in his rooms, and he started stripping the moment the door closed behind him.  A quick wash, an even quicker supper and then bed were the whole of his ambitions for the night.  He was down to his breeches when something stopped him, something wasn’t right in his rooms, a sound, or a smell.  He lifted his sword from the belt he had dropped, slowing his movements as he walked through the reception room into his bedroom.

“Why, husband, what a big knife you have?  Are you happy to see me?”  His wife lay on the bed, red hair spread out behind her, naked but for the Warden’s Oath she never took off, partner to his own.  Alistair grinned, placing the sword on a stand before stripping off completely and sauntering over to the bed where he stood, hands on hips, looking down at the vision before him.

“You must be mistaken, my lady.  My wife is safely visiting her brother in Highever, across the sea from here.  I’m afraid  you have the wrong bed.”

Rhiannon laughed and sat up, kneeling on the edge of the bed and running her hands over his chest, still packed with muscle in spite of the hours spent in his study or council room.  “Well, my husband is supposed to be attending a ball held by the De Launcet’s this evening, so I suppose we will just have to amuse ourselves in the absence of our dearest darlings.”  She drew him down into a kiss, then further down, pulling him over her and enjoying the feeling of his skin on hers.

He pulled back to look at her.  “Fortunately, the ball was cancelled, something about a family emergency.  Did you finish your business, Rhi?”

“I did, and then some.  We have a lot to talk about and I need you to send an invitation to someone in the morning.  I’ll tell you all about it.  Later.”

“Later?” he smirked.

“Later.” she said firmly, and pulled him back down into her kiss.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon watched from the shadows as Hawke stabbed Anders, ignoring her discussion with her friends, her argument with the warrior elf, her team heading towards the Gallows to protect the mages from Stannard’s insanity.  Instead she watched the mage slump to the ground, blood soaking into the back of that black coat, trusting to the others to know when it was time to move.  Anders had been one of her closest friends at Vigil’s Keep, he had saved Alistair and risked his own life to do it, and somehow he had ended up in this Maker-forsaken place, bleeding out on the ground while debris from an explosion he set landed across the city.  After what seemed like an eternity, Bethany hissed, “Let’s go!” and the three of them sprinted across the square to the fallen man.

It was simple, Rhi fed him the antidote to the Quiet Death painted on Hawke’s blade, while Beth used her magic to heal him.  The wound was deep, it had to look real to those in the square, but Hawke had skillfully missed any major organs or blood vessels.  Once the wound was knitted, Beth placed a sleep spell on him.  Between trauma and the lingering poison it was unlikely that he would wake before they reached the ship but no one was taking any chances.  Nate bundled him in a large cloak and slung the mage over his shoulder.  It meant he had only a dagger to defend himself but Rhi and Beth would make sure it wasn’t necessary.  Unfortunately, when they finally turned to leave, they realised they were no longer alone.

“Fenris,”  Beth pushed her way forward, lifting her hands to the elf.  “This isn’t what it looks like.  He was a Grey Warden, let us take his body, please.”

The elf took one of her hands in his and nodded.  “I am not here to obstruct you, Bethany.  I am here to help.”

Rhi looked at Nate who simply raised an eyebrow back and attempted to shrug past the dead weight on his shoulder.  Fenris looked over at them.  “Hawke asked me to make sure you made it to the ship.  The streets are chaos and you are a man down.  I know the shortest way to the docks.”

“Hawke asked you?”  He nodded and Rhi pursed her lips.  “So the fight you just had was staged?  Who else knows?”

“The argument freed me to aid you.  It would not surprise anyone for me to refuse to aid the mages, when I return to the Gallows I will have a miraculous change of heart - based entirely on Hawke’s persuasion of course.”  He smiled, sadly, and she wondered if he had once wished to be Hawke’s chosen instead of Anders, but it disappeared and he was all business again.  “Varric will spread the tale of how Hawke was forced to kill her true love, no doubt I will be the villain, or Sebastian, either way the Chantry will believe it, and Isabela has already readied the ship that will take Hawke and any of the others who wish so from Kirkwall.  They are the only two who know, apart from myself.  It would be unwise to tell the others.  But we need to move, time will not stand by while you debate.”

She looked at Bethany, who nodded, and who hadn’t let the elf’s hand go, and said, “Let’s get on then.  I want to be well away from here before the dust settles.”

“I’m not sure the dust from this will settle,” said Nate, shifting Anders once again before they set off after the elf.  “Not anytime soon.”

------

There was little resistance as they travelled through the city, although bodies of templars and the tell-tale ashes of defeated demons and abomination lay everywhere.  The Right of Annulment, the explosion of the Chantry, had terrified mages in the city into extremes.  Bethany had never realised how many apostates there must have been in Kirkwall, all of them isolated, terrified of exposing themselves to another for fear of the Gallows.  How many of them had Anders known?  How many had he tried to help?  The templars were cutting down anyone who got in their way, inflamed to madness by the fears Meredith had exploited, screaming about mage sympathisers and abominations while bodies marked their paths.  Some of the bodies were marked by swords, some by magic.  Some of them were so small.  It was like the Qunari uprising again, running through the streets on Warden business instead of defending the helpless, but this time she was actually rescuing the man who had triggered this.  She felt complicit in every death, responsible for every body.  They had known what would happen and let it, they had allowed Anders to trigger a war that would have no winners, and now they were spiriting him away from justice.  She felt sick to her stomach.  Only duty to her Commander kept her moving, until she saw a familiar figure blocking the way.

The Knight-Captain stood at the top of the steps down to the docks, to go the other way would take time they did not have.  Cullen had seemed an upright man when they first met on the Wounded Coast, rigid in his beliefs but firm in his morality.  But Hawke’s letters had painted the picture of a man more and more consumed by his superior’s madness, turning a blind eye to atrocities, righteous in himself but unwilling to hold others to the path of right, seeing blood mages in every corner.  Privately Bethany had to admit that Kirkwall had more than its share of blood mages, but it was a vicious cycle of abuse and desperation which fueled more abuse.  He hadn’t noticed them yet, but they could not get past him, certainly not with herself and Fenris present.  She stopped Rhiannon with a hand to her shoulder.

“That templar,” she said, nodding in his direction.  “That’s the Knight-Captain.  He’ll recognise Fenris and I, we should go another way and meet you below.  I don’t think he’ll stop you.

Rhiannon looked over at him and her eyes widened, then narrowed.  “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Bethany startled.  “You know him?”

“Yes.”  Rhiannon stood straight, shifting her shoulders as if preparing for battle.  “I’ll deal with him.  You three get Anders to the ship.  As soon as you’re aboard, set sail, no arguments, Nate.  If I’m not on there with you, I’ll meet up with Bela and leave with Hawke.  Give me a minute then go!”

She walked out of the alley purposefully, heading directly for Cullen who was still looking around him and hadn’t noticed her.  When she was close enough she called, “Ser Templar,” and he turned round, distractedly.

“Yes, my lady?  You should head home, the streets are not safe and…” He trailed off as he took in the silver and blue leathers, the familiar face with eyes like agates staring at him.  He froze for a moment, then clattered to his knees, bowing his head.  “Your Majesty, Queen Rhiannon, I didn’t know… I mean, your royal husband… I mean.” 

Rhiannon softened a little, looking at the man kneeling before her, seeing and hearing the boy he had been during the Blight.  She had seen him twice since he had been freed from that cage, once when she returned to the Circle to gain their aid in saving Connor and again when he had been one of the templars assigned to escort Wynne to Denerim on one of her few visits.  He had been transferred shortly after, but she had never known where, or thought to ask.

“Peace, Cullen.” She said, pulling him up from his knees.  “I’m here on Warden business.  My husband and his entourage think I’m in Highever.”  She turned him slightly, as if helping him rebalance as he went from kneeling to standing in heavy plate.  It was enough that she could watch her wardens and their strange associate head down the steps where Cullen could not see.  She looked back up at him with a frown.  “Why are you here?”

“I was stationed here, my Queen.  I asked to be redeployed…”

“And Gregoir thought Kirkwall, the home of Mad Meredith and her obsession with blood mages was a good idea?  I’d kick the man’s ashes if I knew where they were.”  

Cullen looked stricken.  “Gregoir is dead?”

“Andraste’s tits, I’m sorry.  He died a few months ago, peacefully in his sleep.  Messages were sent.”  Impulsively, she took his hand, just as she had after the cage dissolved.  “Cullen, you should never have been here, you’re too good for this place.”  He pulled back his hand and she flinched.

“You don’t know what it is like, your Highness.  With all due respect, it is the Maker’s work we do.  Look at the bodies in the streets if you don’t believe me, look at the crater where the Chantry once was.”

She stiffened, her voice cold as she said, “I have seen the bodies, there are more wounds from swords than magic.  I’ve seen the scarred and sick mages who find their way to Amaranthine, desperate for sanctuary, I’ve even held the hands of girls not old enough to be Harrowed as they birthed babes born of rape, so don’t tell me about the Maker’s work.”  She softened slightly.  “I’ve also seen the discarded templars, used and forgotten, begging for lyrium when they can’t remember their own names.  I’ve seen a sweet, broken young man turned into a tyrant by those who should have helped him heal.”

“But you have seen what they do, the result of mages over throwing the Circle.  I did not just see it, I felt it, I lived it.  I still live it, every day.”

Rhiannon shook her head sadly.  “I spent most of a year traveling Ferelden trying to undo the damage one man did so we could fight a Blight.  That man was not a mage, though he used them, manipulated them as he manipulated kings, queens, lords and the Chantry.  He preyed on the weakness of the Circle, that those imprisoned without cause, those given not a moment's peace or privacy, those forbidden even the simple joys that the lowest peasant might know, can be led to almost anything to be free.  And even then, there were more fought than submitted to Uldred, more who held to what was right even when they were tortured.  You were one of them Cullen, the youngest of the captured and the only survivor, you held out against temptation where others fell and it was horrific.  But you were caged and tortured for a few weeks.  Your charges are imprisoned their entire lives.  Anders,”  he flinched at the name and her voice hardened again, “Anders spent a whole year in solitary, a year, Cullen, because he could not stand being imprisoned for being born.  ‘Foul and corrupt are they, Who have taken His gift, And turned it against His children.’   What does the Chantry do, but turn the gift of magic against the children who bear it, locking them up, teaching them nothing but fear and hatred of themselves and their captors?.”  Time was passing, she had no more time to try to convince him before she would need to find wherever Bela had hidden her ship.  

“Please think, Cullen, truly think about what side you are on in this battle.  You are a good man, be a good man.”  With that she turned and ran down the steps towards the docks, leaving the Knight-Captain behind her with confusion and doubt in his heart.

------

The Champion was triumphant.  Orsino and Meredith were both dead and the horrors of the Gallows were finally ended, but the city was in ruins and Hawke’s heart with it.  Her lover was dead by her hand, at the urging of her closest friend.  She returned to her empty mansion to await the coming days.

Word of the slaughter spread quickly. The Champion’s name became a rallying cry; a reminder that the mighty templars could be defied. She had defended the mages against a brutal injustice and many lived to tell the tale. The circles rose up and set the world on fire. More Templars arrived at Kirkwall to restore order but we vanished into the hills and circumstance eventually forced us all to leave the champions side.  

You still hear the stories of course, with each telling they grow even if at the core remains the truth.

Chapter Text

It was cold and there was constant, rocking movement.  Gulls wailed somewhere above while canvas flapped and dull shouts filtered down.  He was on a ship.  He was sore, and empty, and he couldn’t remember why, but he knew the sounds because he had done this before, sometime, long ago.  He shifted slightly and heard an answering shift in the room, someone else was here, but he wasn’t quite ready to find out who or why and it seemed they were content to let him be for the moment.  He needed it.  He knew he was on a ship, but he wasn’t sure who was on the ship, wasn’t sure who he was, what he was, why he was here?  Inside him was an empty pit where he knew that information should be, along with something( someone ) else, something( someone ) that could answer the questions, but there was nothing( no one ) there and he had no answers.  He shifted more, the aching soreness was becoming sharper, more like pain, centred on his back.  He had no idea how long he had lain, searching inside for something that was missing, but something, some potion or spell, must be wearing off.  He wriggled again and a cool hand touched his forehead lightly and murmured “Sleep” in a strange ( familiar ) gentle voice.  His body relaxed immediately, his mind resisting long enough to whisper ‘Bethany’ before it followed the whispered command and he sank once again into darkness.

When he woke again it was night.  He could tell because the air was cool, the daytime sounds of canvas and shouting muted and the bird’s cries had disappeared.  There was no pain, just the stiffness of lying still for too long and he began to gently flex his muscles, wary of cramp, working his fingers and toes, then wrists and ankles, moving along his limbs gradually.  He knew someone else was in the room, he could hear the occasional shifts of breath and movement, more than one, he knew they watched as he moved, apparently still willing to wait for him to acknowledge them.

Anders .  Was that him? His name?  He felt for the emptiness inside, the pit that lay within his soul.  Justice .  Was that him?  His name?  Neither felt right and another name ( Vengeance ) flitted through his mind and was gone before he could catch it and hold it to himself.  Other names passed through, images appeared and disappeared, a hawk, a wolf, a great tree, a pointed crown, none of them made sense, some of them had emotions attached, friendship, hatred, love.  There was something else missing, he realised, something beyond the oubliette that had swallowed his memories.  Nodes that pulsed with colour, that warmed him with their song, spread throughout his body, now lay silent.  Quiescent. As if empty and waiting to be filled.  Had they ever been empty before?  He remembered blackness, the clank of metal, the soft feel of fur beneath his hand but his mind shied away, unwilling to look deeper into the darkness.  Then, those nodes had been silent and empty then, but what it was, when it was, why it was, these were questions he could not answer.  Movement and thought had exhausted him, this time he slept without compulsion.

Anders opened his eyes and stared at the wooden ceiling.  The sounds and smells told him it was day again, and he was still in a cabin onboard a ship.  The strange lassitude was gone, the aches and pains with it and he was hungry.  He was starving.  And he really needed to pee.  He pushed himself up on his elbows to look around, wondering if there was a pot in the cabin.  He had forgotten the shifting and breathing he had noticed previously so he jumped when he saw the woman watching him and nearly relieved himself in his smalls.

“Oh,”  Bethany exclaimed, “Don’t get up.  I mean, not just yet.  I need to check you over and…”

“Bethany, I really need to…”  he shrugged, helplessly, uncomfortable expressing his needs to the girl before him.  She looked puzzled, then her face cleared and she reached under the bed for the pot and handed it to him.

“I’ll… I’ll wait outside.  Just shout when you’re done.  But don’t get up.”  It was funny, he thought, how her voice went from unsure to commanding so easily.  Sighing with relief as he emptied his bladder, he thought about the bits and pieces he could remember and wondered if Bethany would fill in the gaps for him.  He closed the pot over and was about to shout for her.  He looked around for water to wash his hands but the jug and ewer were on the other side of the cabin and he had promised not to move.  Well, not so much promised, really, more not argued, not really even agreed.  So he decided to cast a quick healing spell on himself before going to get it.  Healers really do make the worst patients, he thought with not a shred of guilt as he reached for his mana, then froze.  There was nothing there, no warming colour, no gentle flow through his body.  He hadn’t even noticed but his power was gone, each nexus dull and silent and utterly, utterly empty.

He must have shouted out, because suddenly Bethany was in the room with him, her hands around his wrists as he pulled at the tangled blankets, catching him as he tried to rise and fell to the ground instead.  He must have been shouting because his throat felt harsh, the taste of blood at the back of it, red flash across his vision on one side as if he had cried hard enough to burst a vessel.  He must have been shouting because Bethany was holding him, whispering to him, telling him everything was fine, everything would be ok, begging him to calm down.  He must have been shouting, but he stopped abruptly, silenced by the door opening and the sight of the last person he ever expected to see again.  Rhiannon Cousland-Theirin, Commander of the Grey, Queen of Ferelden, stood in the doorway, watching him with no expression on her perfect face, then flicked a glance to the side.  He felt Bethany’s cool hand on his head and the whispered “Sleep” before the world disappeared, once again, into darkness.

When he woke again he just lay in the bed, eyes closed, unwilling to move.  He heard angry voices but he didn’t want to listen.  He delved inside himself but still no magic rose to meet him, no vibrancy, no life.  Was this Tranquility, he thought?  Being yourself inside, knowing yourself, but unable to care, unable to show it to the world?  Had his outburst been his last expression?  He remembered now what he had done, what Vengeance had done, that name he hadn’t been able to remember before.  Justice was gone too.  What happened to a spirit when it’s host was made Tranquil?  Did it die?  Did it return to the Fade?  Had either of those happened before the branding, didn’t he remember dying?  Was that what Tranquility felt like, he thought Mari kinder than that but had she branded him for his betrayal instead of killing him as he expected.  As he had silently hoped, his life as justice for those he had murdered, his life for the corruption of the spirit within him.  Did he feel sorry?  Disgust?  Disappointed?  Did he feel anything?  Anders simply lay there, unable to answer any questions, oblivious to the argument going on around him, until a name penetrated his fog.

“...Mari wouldn’t have wanted this.”  Bethany’s voice, so much softer than her sister’s but no less stubborn.

“Then your sister should have managed the situation better, Beth.  What exactly am I supposed to do?”  Reina’s voice still sounded girlish, sweet, better suited to a court lady than a Warden-Commander, even though her tone was hard and angry.  “She was supposed to keep him beside her.  Not let him run off alone for his hare-brained scheme.”

“I doubt it was that simple, Rhi.  Anders is about as easy to herd as his precious cats.”  The sound of Nate’s voice was comforting.  He had always had a knack for soothing Reina, for soothing Anders himself for that matter.  It was easy to just lie back and listen to the familiar voices, sink into the sounds and leave worrying for later.

“I seem to remember you two not leaving your room for several days.” Nate huffed as Reina continued, acerbically. “Anders is easy enough to herd around by his dick.”

“Rhi!”  Bethany sounded shocked, and a little amused, her next words spoken carefully as if suppressing giggles.  “I think Anders and Justice together were a little harder to distract, even for Mari.”

Reina sighed.  “I thought she would sit him down, explain that she knew his plan and supported him.  I thought she would tell him there was a plan to get him out.  Instead she told the dwarf, the pirate and the elf and made everything - dramatic.”  Reina hated drama, he remembered that.  She liked things simple, straightforward, under control.  She had enough drama at court, had lived more than enough of it during the Blight.  She could be as manipulative as an Orlesian bard, had in fact been trained by one, but with her friends such duplicity was abhorrent to her.  He thought about how Varric, Isabela and Fenris knew the plan, whatever the plan had been, but there was nothing where the pain might have been.  Varric was the best choice, Isabela obvious if they were on a ship and Fenris, well the days when they had hated each other were long past but there was mild surprise at the elf helping him.  Of course, he would have been helping Mari, not Anders, which made all the difference.

“And Anders,” Reina’s ire changed to disgust.  “If he could trigger it at any time, why do it then.  You saw them, they were setting up for a fight anyway, why not wait until they were fighting in the Gallows, away from all the civilians.  And why such a huge explosion, except obviously for it being flashy.  You can’t tell me he couldn’t have directed that explosion to only take out the Chantry instead of half the city, or he couldn’t have waited until Mad Meredith and that fool of a First Enchanter were back where they belonged instead of having them fighting their way through what was left.  No, Beth, it was a fuck-up from beginning to end.  The cuffs stay on, at least until I know what we’re dealing with.”

Cuffs?  Anders slid his fingers slightly back towards his wrists.  Cuffs.  He could only just feel the edge of them but he suspected they had runes worked into the leather.  Suppression cuffs, that’s why he remembered being in solitary, he had worn something similar then.  But those cuffs had only blocked his mana, not drained it, they had blunted his emotions too but not taken them away completely.  A skilled runesmith had made these.  But if he wore suppression cuffs, then he was not Tranquil.  A Tranquil had no need for such things.  He shivered slightly at the thought, relief passing through his mind.  Were the cuffs also suppressing Justice?  He still couldn’t feel the spirit, who had been absent at every awakening though he hadn’t been able to quantify the loss.  He thought the answers would come eventually, so allowed himself to slip back into sleep.

------

The argument continued as he slept.  Bethany wanted Anders freed, the cuffs removed and the sedative she had been administering allowed to wear off.  She argued that she had not helped save him to subject him to the very slavery he had fought against.  Rhiannon looked to Nathaniel who said nothing and said it very loudly.  It was clear he agreed with his mate and nothing the queen hadn’t expected.  Nate loved very deeply and even if he had chosen Bethany, and chosen well, in her opinion, he still cared for Anders.  But he was cautious too, he had agreed with her reasoning, that Justice might manifest and destroy the ship, and them with it.  But as bad weather and an unanticipated complication made their journey longer, he leaned more to Beth’s side, worried about the apathy Anders showed when he was awake, and the amount of time he wasn’t.

They had docked at the old smuggling caverns in Amaranthine as planned, intending to wake the mage there then travel to Vigil’s Keep.  Instead there had been a messenger, with a letter from the King, warning them to stay away from the keep.  There were no explanations, the messenger could give no insight, so they resupplied quietly and slipped back to sea on the morning tide.  Soldier’s Peak was their fall back position, another three days journey to a small cove that led into caves below the mountain fortress, the same caves they had been lost in the first time they entered the Peak.  The Dryden’s could be trusted to keep their mouths shut and of the Wardens, only Avernus lived in the castle itself.  The whereabouts of Soldier’s Peak was not on modern maps, Arland had banished all memory of the place along with the Wardens, so it was the safest stronghold they had.  But it was also isolated and there would be no one to assist with Anders if he proved too dangerous.  Rhiannon could only hope that Alistair had the forethought to send a few trusted wardens to the Peak to wait for them.

The day the cove was sighted, Rhiannon instructed Bethany to stop Anders’ sedative completely.  He had spent a little time awake each day, they had no wish for him to be oversedated, or to have to wean him from the addictive potions at the other end.  Bethany had talked to him, or Nathaniel, insignificant chatter, nothing too stimulating.  Rhiannon had kept to her cabin, or the deck for her training, avoiding Anders’ cabin unless she knew he was asleep.  She was angry at the mess he and Hawke had made, the repercussions she knew would spread across Thedas, but that wasn’t why she was avoiding him.  Truthfully, she hated to watch the funny, gregarious man she had known as he was now, numb, empty, and so very skinny.  She knew the cuffs would dull his emotions as well as his magic when she asked Sandal to make them, it was the sight of him that hurt the most.  She remembered the first time they met, the Tevinter robes he had worn that displayed taut arms and a muscled chest, his face narrow and intelligent.  Now his face was haggard, gaunt, he looked at least a decade older than she knew him to be, while his arms were thin, his chest spindly, as if he had wasted away, burned away from the inside by the strain of sharing his body with a spirit.  It hurt to look at him, it made her angry at him, and at Hawke for not taking care of her precious mage, and especially at herself for accepting his death all these years.  It had never occurred to her that Anders might be alive and not come to her for help.  But he hadn’t trusted her enough to come and that hurt.

Now they stood on the beach, four wardens, one in what might as well have been chains, their ships disappearing into the distance.  Anders’ eyes were lucid, his gaze wary as he watched his Commander approach.  He had barely managed broth and water on board so looked even more emaciated than he had in Kirkwall but at least his eyes meeting hers were alert, even if she felt too guilty to hold the gaze.

“Anders,”  Rhiannon’s voice was gentle, almost tentative.  “Do you know where we are?”

He looked around, considering his answer.  “On a beach?  It’s a nice place for an execution, if a bit chilly.”  Rhiannon’s jaw dropped at the word ‘execution’.

“Anders,” Beth and Nate spoke together but Rhiannon raised her hand to silence them.

“Execution?”  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  “You think we set up a rescue, healed you, carried you through Kirkwall and smuggled you to Ferelden on a ship so I could execute you on an empty beach?  Anders…”  She had run out of words.

“Crimes against the state, the wardens, the Chantry, whatever.  I killed a bunch of my brothers, if you want to start there.”  He was almost… cheeky as he said it, the first sign of the Anders she had once known.  “In my defence, they made me give up my cat.”

“You killed foresworn criminals who attacked a fellow warden with no provocation.”  They all jumped at the new voice, turning to see King Alistair emerge from the cave mouth followed by four others.  “You fled instead of reporting to your Commander, because your Commander at the time was an arrogant, Chantry-led fool who was exiled to Weisshaupt and apparently met an unfortunate accident on the way there.”  He flicked a glance at his wife as he said it, unsurprised when she ignored him.  She had never admitted to engineering Caron’s accident, but he wasn’t stupid and he hadn’t pushed because he thoroughly approved.  Instead, Rhiannon was focused on the bundle in his arms, a bundle he now held out to Anders.  “And your cat is right here, healthy and fat from all the mice he’s been hunting since we got here.”

Anders took the pouch Alistair handed him and opened it, jumping slightly as a furry, ginger face peeked out and meowed.  The mage was frozen, all he could do was stare at Ser Pounce-a-lot until the cat wriggled his way out of the pouch and started climbing Anders’ robes.  The pouch hit the ground as the mage lifted his hands to support the climb, wincing at the sharp claws digging into skin although he didn’t make a sound.  Instead he sank to his knees and curled himself around Pounce, hugging him, kissing the furry face, tears running down his cheeks.  Eventually, he looked up at Alistair and smiled.

“I don’t know what to say.”  

The king extended his hand to help the mage to his feet before dragging him into a massive bear hug, almost squishing Pounce who protested by launching himself off Anders with a yowl before heading to Bethany for cuddles and the slice of dry fish she was holding out to him.

“That would be a first,” said Alistair, frowning as he held Anders back to look at him.  “Maker’s Breath, man, you’re skin and bone.  We need to feed you up, you’ll give the grey wardens a bad name.”  Anders burst out laughing, a shaky laugh that turned into more tears that became huge, gulping sobs.  Alistair looked surprised, then slightly panicked, as he pulled Anders back into the hug, eyes frantically signalling Rhiannon to do something, anything to fix the situation.  She shook her head, telling him silently to just let Anders get it out, glad that Alistair was there.  He had always been better at things like this, she was too sharp, too abrupt, Alistair was gentle and sweet and being hugged by him was like being hugged by a giant mabari, comforting and healing.  So he stood, letting Anders cry into his shoulder, stroking his back and telling him everything would be okay, he was with them now, he was home.  When the mage finally relaxed enough to push back, embarrassed by his outburst, he gave him room.  Now it was Rhiannon’s turn.  She moved forward and gave Anders a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek before taking his hands, one at a time, and releasing the suppression cuffs.  The resulting flood of mana, the rainbow that flowed through him as his power returned was overwhelming and he started laughing, filled with joy and wonder, sparks crackling from his fingers, wisp lights appearing all around them, red, yellow, green, purple, blue, floating through the air and exploding into cascades of colour.  After years of hiding, years of being pushed to the limits by Justice’s unforgiving crusades, years of fear and self-loathing and guilt, Anders was finally, truly free and home.

Chapter Text

Soldier’s Peak stood in silent majesty, overlooking barren peaks and empty valleys.  Apart from the comings and goings of the small family of traders who inhabited the lowest floors and outbuildings and the solitary mage in the highest tower, the keep was abandoned, too isolated to be worth maintaining as a permanent base instead Ferelden’s monarch’s used it to meet with certain of their friends away from the eyes of the court and as a fall-back position should the Wardens ever need one.  The Veil had been repaired but was still thin and few were inclined to linger.  But now, for the first time in two hundred years the halls rang with laughter and the strains of music.

In the Great Hall two red-heads played lutes while one of them sang and a young man improvised harmonies to their ballad on a flute.  Food and drink were spread on a long table set beside the fireplace where at one end sat a man and two women playing diamondback and at the other three handsome blonde men sat reminiscing, one of them idly stroking a cat curled sleeping on his knee.

“So, the Knight-Commander draws a ridiculously large sword made of what Hawke informed me is red lyrium, and proceeds to attack everyone in sight, including her own men.  I stayed close to Isabela and we concentrated on the templars who were still supporting her while Hawke and Fenris concentrated on Meredith, along with some of the templars, led by a very handsome man with blonde curls.  Anyway, we are starting to get somewhere when…”

“Wait,” Anders interjected, “Cullen?  Knight-Captain, Mr Templar himself went against Meredith?  He doesn’t even think mages are actually people, why would he suddenly change sides?”

“I do not know if he fought with the mages, or simply with Hawke, but I have to say la loca did not seem a very appealing option, with her eyes gleaming red.  She brought the statues in the Gallows to life, one of them nearly crushed me.  Ah, it was a long and hard-won battle and in the end it was not Hawke who triumphed but la puta tried to channel too much power through her sword and it turned on her.  And now she remains, a statue of red lyrium in the centre of the courtyard for all to see.”

Alistair frowned, “That explains why she felt so - wrong - when we met.  I’ve never heard of red lyrium but it sounds like nasty stuff.”

Anders picked at his plate, savouring the food although his shrunken stomach was more full than he would have allowed a patient in his position.  “It drove Bartrand mad, Justice hated being in that Thaig because the walls were full of it, he said the song was wrong, twisted, corrupted.  I’m not sorry she’s dead, Meredith needed to die for everything she did, but Maker, does anyone deserve that?”

Bethany and Nathaniel sat beside them at the table.  “Does anyone know if she’s actually dead?”  Bethany asked, curiously.  “Maybe she’s still alive in there, watching free mages pass by her every day, knowing she failed.”  Nathaniel groaned and the other men looked slightly sick.

“Cariña, as beautiful as you are, that is too macabre for me.  I think I will excuse myself and celebrate my return to the lovely Ferelden by getting to know its people better.”  Zevran stood and bowed to his friends before heading down towards the group playing diamondback where he asked to be dealt in with a smile at the tall brunette who was dealing.

“Ali, Dora or Ayren?”  Alistair asked, smiling after the assassin as he charmed the three recruits.

“I’m betting all three,” Alistair jumped slightly as arms wrapped around his shoulders and his wife leaned over to get a better view of the elf and his prey.  Rhi gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then slid onto the bench between him and Anders.  “That is one creepy thought, Beth, that psycho still alive and aware in there forever.  I really didn’t need more nightmares, you know.”  Bethany laughed and shrugged, smiling at Nathaniel when he put a plate laden with roasted meat, vegetables and fresh baked bread in front of her, then slapping his hand with an indignant yelp when he stole a slice of lamb and shoved the whole lot in his mouth.

“I don’t know why I love you, Nathaniel Howe, you’re a brute.”

“Surely that’s one of the best things about him,” smirked Anders, “I mean, it doesn’t take two hours to put your packs in your room, does it?”  The others laughed as Bethany slapped Anders’ arm and Nathaniel blushed.  Raised a noble, he was still sometimes uncomfortable with how open his friends were about such things, especially given his history with the blond mage, but the subject quickly changed to other things and he put his arm around his mate and relaxed.

“So what did you say to Cullen, Rhi?”  Bethany asked, “It must have been impressive if it made him switch sides.”

“Wait, you spoke to Cullen?  Did you know him?”  Anders was confused and Rhiannon turned and patted his cheek.

“Hush, you were slung over Nate’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes and Cullen was in the way.  I distracted him by reminding him of some home truths.”

“But how do you know him?”

Alistair leaned in to Rhiannon as she looked uncomfortable and filled in the gaps.  “Cullen and I trained together, more or less.  He started later and he’s a year younger but he was so good he caught up to me in no time.”  He fidgeted in his chair.  “He was a far better student than I was, we would have taken our vows together if I hadn’t gone with Duncan.  I didn’t see him again until Kinloch Hold.”

“Yes, I know he was there, that’s how I knew who he was, he had a crush on my friend, Neria.”  Anders’ voice turned bitter.  “He was probably hiding with Gregoir and his other pets while she was ripped apart by demons.”

Rhiannon put her hand on Anders’ arm, “He wasn’t,” she said, then looked helplessly at her husband again.  Of everything they had been through that year, all the horrors she had witnessed, the Circle of Magi was the one that figured in her nightmares.  The official account of their experience had been heavily sanitised by Leliana but memories of the place still turned her stomach, so much so that when they had been invited to the rebuilt Circle, Alistair had gone alone while Rhiannon pleaded her duties in Amaranthine.

“Cullen was the only templar to survive.”  Alistair said, shortly, frowning at Anders to derail any further questioning, but the mage was frowning back.

“No, that’s not right, that was just a rumour, the lone surviving templar, tormented for weeks by blood mages, blessed by the Maker to stay strong, it’s Chantry propaganda.”  Anders stood and started pacing while his friends watched with concern.  

“I’m telling you, it’s not.”  Rhiannon felt sick when she remembered the condition they had found him in after being tormented by desire demons, broken in body and soul, begging for the deaths of those who had done those things to him.

“But then, why send him to Kirkwall?  He was supposed to go to Ostwick, they sent word to all the Circles, I mean, they didn’t come out and say it, but it was implied, everyone knew.  There were mages studying trauma, one of them specialised in templars.  Sketch smuggled a copy of her notes to me, they were sent to every Circle too, it was good stuff, I’ve used her techniques myself with traumatised mages.”  As much as he despised templars, Anders’ years as a healer had taken over and he was incensed by the injustice done to Cullen.  “Kirkwall’s never had a good reputation, when Stannard was appointed they thought she would be a new broom but things just got worse.  There’s a darkness in the city itself, not even counting blood mages there are more murders, rapes, slavers  and all sorts than any other city in the Free Marches.  Why would anyone do that?”

“A question I would love to pose to the former Knight-Commander, if he weren’t dead.” Alistair had met Cullen while in the city, always at Meredith’s side, and he had been perturbed and angered by the callous way Cullen spoke of the mages, so different from the fervour and determination to protect that he remembered.  “But as it is, unless Cullen himself knows, none of us ever will.  But Ostwick always had a reputation for being rather lax, a bit of a joke, Greagoir probably thought a tighter ship would help.”  It was a poor excuse, an unforgivable cruelty to the man but there was nothing to be done about it now. 

Rhiannon echoed his thoughts. "There's nothing we can do about it, at least he chose the right side eventually." She pinched Anders playfully, "No more talk about Kirkwall, we're celebrating our lost warden returning to us. Tonight is about us." With that she pulled him up as Leliana began a Ferelden jig on her lute, Bethany and Nathaniel joining them along with Zevran and one of the recruits. All four had been chosen and trained by Leliana, they would face The Joining the next day, the survivors would be wardens first and foremost but would also watch out for the warden mages in the aftermath of the Kirkwall rebellion.  But for tonight the world outside was forgotten and they celebrated being together.

------

Sitting in the Warden-Commander’s office the next morning, Anders regretted celebrating quite so much.  A quick healing had banished the worst of his hangover but couldn’t fix the exhaustion of hours of dancing and very little sleep.  Rhiannon, having danced as much and slept as little, looked disgustingly refreshed for their dawn awakening and was smirking at his suffering when Alistair lumbered in, slamming the door and going straight for the kettle beside the fire.  Tea in hand, he sat to the side of her desk and Anders wondered if he was present in his capacity as the Commander’s second or as King.  Whichever it was, Alistair looked how Anders felt, so he hoped Rhiannon would be merciful to them both and make this quick. 

She hadn't changed at all, he thought as he watched her flick through a pile of parchment on her desk. Her deep red hair was pulled into a bun but errant curls framed her perfect face, blown irritably out of veridium eyes by the pouting mouth he had fantasised about kissing so many times. Guilt burned in him at betraying Mari, even in his mind. Marian Hawke had given his life meaning again, she had challenged him and protected him and loved him and he had used her, ruined what was between them, forced her to kill him and here he was, saved by her quick wits and generous heart, lusting after his Commander while her husband sat only feet away. Anders slumped down and hoped once again the meeting would be over quickly. The way Alistair shifted in his seat, he was obviously hoping the same.

Four thick envelopes landed in front of him.  “Read them, pick one.”  He lifted the top envelope and opened it, inside were several sheets, the first with a name at the top of it.

“Wilhem Muller?”  He looked across at her as he opened the others.  They all contained the same thing, a name and a back story.  Rhiannon raised one elegant eyebrow.

“Anders is dead, he died in Kirkwall, executed by their Champion for blowing up the Chantry, murdering the Grand Cleric and most of the priesthood as well as a substantial number of citizens in the ensuing chaos.  Also dead at the Champion’s hand are First Enchanter Orsino for blood magic and incitement to riot and Knight-Commander Meredith for illegal use of the Rite of Tranquillity, illegal use of the Right of Annulment, torture, murder and incitement to riot.”  He was surprised at Orsino, glad about Meredith, worried about Mari, but one look at the Commander’s face told him not to interrupt.  “All four packages describe a male mage of Andersfel ancestry who became a Grey Warden shortly after the Blight.  Give Leliana the ones you don’t want, she’ll provide appropriate clothing and equipment for the one you choose and coach you in the right behaviours.  One of my trusted Wardens will be watching you at all times, you will not use magic without direct permission from one of your superiors except in defense of your or another warden’s life.”  He opened his mouth to protest but the eyebrow shut him down again and a glance at Alistair’s face showed no sympathy from that direction.  “You will not leave Soldier’s Keep and it’s environs except in the company of myself, Alistair or Nathaniel.  Any correspondence must be checked by one of us before being sent and any you receive will also be checked before being given to you.  You will make no attempt to contact any of your associates from Kirkwall including, but not restricted to, Marian Hawke or her friends, the Mage Underground or any of the mages from the Gallows.  You may interact with Bethany Hawke but you may not ask her to share information or pass on messages to any of the above people.  Do you have any questions?”

He just stared at her, jaw slack from shock.  She waited for a moment then nodded.  “You’re dismissed, Warden.  Breakfast will be available in the main hall in around an hour, we will see you there.”  He waited a moment until Rhiannon turned to Alistair and started discussing the guard rotations for the Vigil and then took the envelopes and left, closing the door gently behind him before leaning against it, stunned and set adrift by Rhiannon’s abrupt list of restrictions on his freedom.  The caring concern as he healed, the camaraderie of the day before, all gone in minutes and suddenly he was back in the Circle, constantly watched, completely controlled, everything he had fought against suddenly weighing once more upon him.  He felt sick, sliding down the door until he was sitting on the cold stone floor, the walls of the corridor pressing in against him and he fought down panic, dropping his head between his knees and trying to calm his frantic breathing, leaning forward enough that he didn’t notice the door open behind him until arms reached around him and drew him into a close embrace that he latched onto, neither knowing nor caring who held him.  Eventually his breathing calmed, his heart rate settling and he looked up, surprised to see Alistair leaning into him, his deep voice soothing him while Rhiannon looked on, her face impassive.  She turned and went back into her office, leaving the door open while Alistair helped Anders to his feet and kept his arm around his shoulders until he was back in the seat he had just vacated, while Rhiannon pressed a cup of tea into his hands, the scent of chamomile floating up to him and soothing him.  He sipped it carefully as they sat down before him.

Rhiannon’s voice was cold when she spoke.  “Do you have an issue with my restrictions, Warden?”  Anders looked at her, unsure of his answer.  “In case you’re wondering, they are more lenient than those of your compatriots in Circles at the moment who are restricted to their buildings, some to certain floors, with no communications in or out and templars monitoring every room without fail and taking head counts every half hour with punishments for anyone not accounted for at one count, even if they were simply not noticed and other mages vouch for their presence.  The list of mages made Tranquil in place of their Harrowing has doubled and there are rumours that some have followed Meredith in making Harrowed mages Tranquil.  All because of your actions.  We have already had to deal with petitions from half the Landsmeet asking for all mages to be exiled from Ferelden and we couldn’t land at Amaranthine because rogue Templars were pulling ships apart searching for apostates running from Kirkwall, at least four merchants who had the misfortune to be wearing robes were killed outright."

She softened slightly as she said, "The restrictions are to protect you until we know you will be safe, until your cover story becomes second nature." Then she became stern again. "I mean what I say about Bethany. We ran past the dead and injured, lying in the streets or buried under rubble, men, women and children murdered by your ill-conceived plan and we did it carrying you to safety. If Bethany will speak to you, I would be grateful, if I were you. If she won't I suggest you don't push your luck. And if you mention Kirkwall to her, or the family and friends who we haven't heard anything from, I'll drop you in the Deep Roads without so much as a staff." With that Rhiannon stood and flicked a glance at her husband. They left the room together, leaving Anders to sit and consider her words. He had known he would kill innocents, had known the backlash would make things worse to begin with. He had trusted that the mages would follow his example, that the templars would realise they were not untouchable, but what if it never ended, what if his people became so cowed they would never be free - because of him. He had been willing to pay the price for their freedom, for their justice, blind to how corrupted he had become, oblivious to the horror he was raining down on innocents. While he had been rescued, cared for, offered a new life, he had ended how many more. Nothing he could do would ever be enough to wash him clean of the blood he had spilled, no price could buy him forgiveness. Lost in his guilt, Anders simply sat and stared into the cooling cup before him. 

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks Soldier’s Peak began to empty.  Leliana’s agents all survived their Joining, something she was rather smug about, it had to be said.  Ali and Dora left with Nathaniel and Bethany the following day, heading for Vigil’s Keep and the main cohort of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens while Martin, the young flautist, left a week later with Zevran.  They would travel to the Free Marches to make contact with Stroud and his wardens and to assess the risk to the mage wardens in the wake of the Kirkwall Uprising as it was being called.  Alistair had already returned to Denerim to deal with unrest among his nobles and reports of apostates and rogue templars.  Amaranthine was not the only port to be targeted and the Royal Guard currently supplemented the guard in Denerim while Fergus Cousland had closed Highever to all ships from the Free Marches.  For a country still wrecked by the Blight and Civil War six years previously, the loss of revenue and risk of violence and insurgency was a setback the Crown could not ignore and Rhiannon quickly followed him back to the capital.  As the Peak became emptier, Anders felt more and more like a ghost, wandering aimlessly through empty halls.  He was no longer Anders, no one referred to him by that name, he was trying to stop thinking of himself by that name, Anders had died in Kirkwall, his name alternately cursed or blessed across Southern Thedas, his legacy a crackdown on the Circles and a rising movement for complete freedom from the Chantry and the Templars.  

He had spent hours with Leliana, learning his new life-story not by rote but as if it had really happened, something that was far harder than he had anticipated.  He had to learn to think differently, to move differently, even to speak differently and he had to do it constantly, any lapse punished with isolation from anyone except the Nightingale until she was satisfied. He spent hours looking in a full length mirror, trying to accept the short cropped hair and full beard, the broader chest and softer stomach as he ate as a warden should, his diet chosen by Rhiannon and Leliana to pile on pounds he desperately needed, physical exercise with a bo as well as a staff and training with daggers making sure the extra weight became muscle.  He would never be as broad as Alistair, nor stocky like Nathaniel, but he no longer looked like a starved sewer rat for the first time since leaving the wardens years before.  If truth be told, he looked like his father, a complicated thought wrapped up in pride and fear and love and self-loathing.  He had rejected the name Wilhelm because it was his father’s, too many more complicated thoughts and feelings to confront, instead he settled on Josef.  His mother used to tell him stories of an Anders prince named Josef, who had fought the Blight on a griffon and become one of the first Grey Wardens, he had always liked the name.  The surname, Weber, was fairly common, there were probably scores of Josef Weber’s in the Anderfels, it would raise no eyebrows.

Josef Weber had undergone his Joining in 9:30 in Hossberg.  He had grown up in a small village not far from the city and entered the Circle there at the age of ten.  He had been conscripted after being sentenced to Tranquility for invading a royal function, another reason Anders had chosen him.  He had set out with several compatriots to help reform the Fereldan wardens but had never reached Denerim, all were presumed dead in a darkspawn raid, or drowned in one of the storms that had been particularly bad that year.  His life and disappearance were a matter of record at Weisshaupt, although he had never been there, he had been chosen for having been Anders, a mage and a known warden, and because his body had never been found, nor the bodies of his companions.  When asked how the six year gap would be explained away, Leliana had simply replied, “It won’t.”  Josef had arrived at Vigil’s Keep with his friends.  Those friends died in the initial darkspawn attack or in the final assault and Josef had been sent recruiting; it wasn’t an unusual job, there were a few solitary wardens roaming Thedas looking for likely candidates as Duncan had once done.  Otherwise, Weisshaupt’s assumption that Weber was dead would be presented as a failure of communication due to extenuating circumstances, embarrassing for Rhiannon but far from unusual.  He had been on his way to the Vigil with his recruits when the current unrest made him decide to stop at Soldier’s Peak where Nathaniel and Bethany had been to speak to Avernus.  Of course, the King and Queen had been nowhere near, traveling back from Highever where Queen Rhiannon had welcomed her husband from his diplomatic mission to Kirkwall, relieved that he had left before the shocking events had taken place that could have left Ferelden kingless once again.

The sparse Anders he had learned as a child had now to be built on, until he was fluent in language, tone and accent, especially in slang and curses.  For six weeks he had spoken nothing else, glad that languages had always been one of his strengths.  Even little mannerisms or peculiar emphases his parents had used started coming back to him.  By the time the Nightingale received word to return to the side of the Divine, few in Ferelden would be able to see through him, even had he been allowed to leave the Peak.  Instead he remained, left to his own devices, under no instructions beyond those Rhiannon had given him at that dawn meeting.

Finally, only Anders and Ayren remained.  Ayren was a quiet woman with brown hair and unremarkable features that had allowed her to move freely wherever Leliana had required her.  She had been a ranger once, living in the Dales and making her living hunting and trapping, curing and selling her own hides, living with her ranger husband in a small cottage deep in the Emerald Graves.  He had died and she had ended up working for Leliana but she would never tell Anders the story of either event and he could tell she still grieved for her mate so he never pressed but he did learn the man had been from the Anderfels and so Ayren had learned the language and gave him someone to practice with when Leliana had gone.  She also insisted on him practicing hand to hand combat with her daily, wearing him out and covering him with bruises he had no energy to heal.  It was quiet with only the two of them, but Ayren was soothing company and to his surprise that was exactly what Anders needed.

Of course, they were not the only people in Soldier’s Peak.  The Dryden’s bustled in and out of the lower levels, their seemingly endless clan appearing and disappearing, moving cargo here and there and bringing noise and life with them.  They also managed the Keep although they mainly kept to the lower levels, at least when there were wardens in residence. Then there was the mage, Avernus, living in the tallest tower where he carried out who knew what research. He never left the tower and the wardens had been warned never to enter it unless Rhiannon took them to be introduced.  Soldier’s Peak had a kelsana system, dwarven lifts to take food or laundry or suchlike easily through the massive fortress and those were Avernus’ only contact with his fellow inhabitants and that only at Rhiannon’s insistence, for two centuries he had used the bathing room and small rooftop garden of his tower for all his needs, unable to venture further for fear of the demon possessing Sophia and its minions, the isolation had warped a mind already corrupted and the maleficar did not react well to unannounced visitors.  

For the most part, the two wardens spent their days alone but that did not mean they were lonely.  Training and language practice were not the only things keeping them busy, they shared an interest in herbalism and Ayren was more than happy to increase her knowledge of healing and medicines, in return teaching Anders to brew poisons.  There were no woods to track through but she taught him basic survival skills and he really wished he had learned some of them when escaping from the Circle.  But as time went on and no news came from outside except the gossip and rumours of the traders, Anders grew more and more melancholy, convinced he was being left to rot while his efforts faded into obscurity, wondering why his Commander had bothered to orchestrate his rescue if only to imprison him all over again.  He withdrew more into himself, spending hours in the library, avoiding Ayren when she would let him, learning what he could of survival when she wouldn’t.  Finally, he began to stockpile equipment and plan his escape.  He could not, would not tolerate imprisonment.  He would be free or he would die - for Anders, there were no other options.

------

Rhiannon’s back was straight, her face impassive as Arl Wulff ranted at length, pacing the Hall before the Landsmeet as he demanded the permanent expulsion of all mages from Ferelden.  The petitions and complaints had been pouring in so frequently Alistair had called the Landsmeet to deal with the issues head on, with no intention of acceding to their demands.  Rhiannon had met Wulff frequently over the years, he had been an honourable man, passionate about his people and their wellbeing, and a good friend to her father.  But the destruction of West Hills, the Blight that still made many of its fields barren, had broken him, until she barely recognised the bitter man standing before her, leader of the anti-mage faction at court.  Finally, he wound down and waited for the King’s response.

Alistair stood, calm and confident in his court robes and crown, his voice carrying across the room so all could hear.  “Thank you, Arl Wulff.  We have listened to your concerns and will address them.  There will be no expulsion of mages from Ferelden, they are our subjects as much as anyone and entitled to our protection as such.  We have received word that Divine Justinia has recalled all templars, any who disobey are to be stripped of rank and expelled from the order.  The Seekers of Truth are charged with finding those who have forsaken their vows.  All mages are to return to their Circles, apostates will be dealt with, as they always are, by the templar order and under the command of the Chantry.  The situation in Kirkwall was completely unanticipated, especially by myself or I wouldn’t have been anywhere near the place, but the disorder will settle, there is no need for overreacting.”  The slight titter at his joke faded in the face of Wulff’s reaction to the word ‘overreacting.’

“Does your majesty consider the murder of nine innocents, the assault of many more and the destruction of several caravans of goods a minor concern?  The duty of the crown is to protect the people…”  

Alistair interrupted him, “The attacks were carried out by rogue templars, there was no evidence any mages were involved at all, the templars who were captured have been tried and executed, and posthumously expelled from the templar order.  These attacks were not a minor matter but neither are they a matter for the Landsmeet.”

“Templars who would have been at their posts if they hadn’t been searching for apostates!”  Vaughan Kendells wasn’t truly on Wulff’s side, he was a troublemaker who enjoyed causing trouble for Alistair out of spite for his relegation to one of his minor estates outside Gwaren as punishment for crimes against a number of Denerim’s elves.  Unfortunately, vile as he was, Vaughan was intelligent and had contacts across Thedas thanks to his family’s former status as Arls of Denerim.  “Searching, rather, for one apostate.  I presume you have heard the rumours that the maleficar fled to Ferelden after his destruction of Kirkwall?”  Alistair didn’t flinch.  “Of course, he would return to Ferelden, since he belonged to the Circle here, an escapee during the siege, no doubt it's instigator given recent events.  And then there’s the fact that he murdered the templars who were returning him to the Circle and persuaded the Queen to make him a Grey Warden before disappearing almost immediately after.”  There was an undertone to his words that made it quite clear the means of persuasion Vaughan was talking about and Alistair’s ears were getting red with the temper he struggled to contain when Rhiannon stood and laid her hand on his arm.

“Lord Kendells, you haven’t been listening to tavern gossip again, have you?” she said in her light voice, provoking several sniggers that were quickly stifled.  “You should join us at court more often, the gossip here is far more interesting, and, of course, more current.”  The Arl grimaced at the reminder of his effective banishment and loss of status, glaring at Eamon Guerrin who sat in the seat that he still considered his by right.  The Queen continued, ignoring the occasional outbreaks of giggles or gasps or attempts to interrupt.

“The mage, Anders, was a member of the Ferelden Circle of Magi and as such was never accused of blood magic or consorting with demons.  During the unfortunate occurrence in Kinloch Hold, he was in solitary confinement and, in fact, had been for a year, escaping only by the luck of being ignored by demons who did not know he was there.  The templar’s escorting him at Vigil’s Keep were killed by darkspawn and I personally saw him fight those same darkspawn until the last one was dead, one man against many.  I will remind you that conscription into the grey wardens is not done lightly and that he was conscripted because I deemed him useful, a fact borne out by our defeat of the darkspawn army in Amaranthine.  Your King and I made the decision regardless of his wishes, in fact.  In spite of the immunity that should have conferred as a by-product of his usefulness, he was in fact assaulted and almost killed by templars posing as wardens the following year and, as was his right when there is no Blight, chose to leave Ferelden.  As to rumours that he survives, the Champion of Kirkwall and their new Knight-Commander have both confirmed his execution by Lady Hawke.  I suspect the idea of a hero who would appear out of the shadows would make useful propaganda for the mage underground but I prefer to follow facts, not rumours.  One of our wardens was passing through Kirkwall at the time of the explosion, on a mission for the First Warden.  He reported directly to me that he witnessed the Champion executing a man he confirmed was Warden Anders, that his body was indeed in Kirkwall, lying at the bottom of the Chantry steps which is certainly fitting.  That death has also been reported to Weisshaupt as all warden deaths are.  I wrote the notification myself and sent it with the token each warden receives, which was retrieved by Warden Howe from the mage’s body.”  Nathaniel’s name sent more whispers through the room, his honesty was almost proverbial among the nobility and once upon a time he and Vaughan had been friends, not as close as Nate and Fergus but friends none-the-less.  Rhiannon knew mentioning him by name would gain her credibility and shut Vaughan up, at least for now.  Alistair had covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze, a subtle thank you for dealing with Vaughan.  The last time he had challenged his King, Alistair had called him a vile toad and threatened to exile him to the Korcari Wilds, a political misstep that had taken Rhiannon weeks to fix.

He cleared his throat and inclined his head towards the assembled nobility.  “If no one has anything further to say on this topic, we will adjourn for lunch.  You have all heard the Divine’s decree, no further action on this matter will be taken, the Seekers are dealing with what is, essentially, a Chantry matter.  Civil disturbance will be dealt with by the civil authorities, of course.  The Landsmeet is ended.”  By the looks on some faces he knew that wouldn’t be the end of it, but Divine Justinia superseded secular authority on this matter so officially it was closed.  There would be various meetings and machinations but over the next few days the nobility would drift back to their lands and other concerns and Alistair planned to offer up thanks to Andraste when they did.

Together, the monarchs walked to their private quarters where lunch would be waiting for them.  It was one of the last warm days they could expect so the maid had laid the table out on the balcony and they sat basking in the sunshine, Rhiannon pouring juice for them while Alistair absently nibbled on a slice of bread.  When they were both settled, he spoke.  “How did Kendells get all that information?”  Rhiannon looked up at him.

“Most of it’s public record, Ally, the rest is years old, I’d barely call it information.”

“It was a direct attack on you.  He basically blamed you for Anders blowing up Kirkwall.”  He was brooding, worrying about her and as always it made something inside her melt.  “And implied you had a torrid affair while you were at it.”

“He’s an arse.  He should be grateful he still has lands and a title, after what he did you could have made him a pauper and exiled him.”  Although that would have been difficult since his crimes were, unfortunately, all against elves and supposedly only witnessed by elves.  They may have been working to change things but they weren’t there yet.  “I didn’t touch the innuendo to make it clear that the suggestion was beneath me.  Challenging something he barely hinted at would have been as good as an admission of guilt.”  She leaned back in the chair and eyed him sharply.  “What’s bothering you lately?  And don’t tell me it’s nothing.  Wulff and Vaughan are both short-sighted dickheads but Divine Justinia’s decree is clear, within a few months everything should be back to normal.”

He looked at her, misery painted across his face that took her back to the early days of his reign and suddenly she knew what pained him.

“I thought it was really going to work.”  He muttered it almost defiantly, moving pieces of food around his plate.  “I thought there might be a chance for real change.  Instead everyone’s fighting about how to make everything the same as it has always been.  Nothing ever changes.”  He pushed the plate away and stood.  “I’m not hungry.  I’m going to head to my study, no doubt the piles have been accumulating even faster than normal the last few days, always happens during the Landsmeet.”  Rhiannon stood with him and moved to block the door, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head on his chest.  Her words had crushed him then, she knew they still haunted him.  ‘They won’t let you marry an apostate.’  She might as well have said, ‘They won’t let you marry a mage.’  Any mage.  Unsaid between them, ‘They will take your baby away.’  There would never have been a happy ending for Alistair and Morrigan, not in the world they lived in.  Anders had tried to fight for a different world, a world where a mage could fall in love, could marry, could keep her child and could do it all in the open, living beside everyone else.  Wynne had told Alistair she had a son, had even gone to visit him after the Blight.  Alistair knew he had a child he would never meet, somewhere, raised by the woman he would never stop loving.  The only child he would ever have, a child she could never give him.  She felt the shudder passing through him, emotion restrained once again and wished once again that he would let go, that he would allow himself to feel the pain and allow her to comfort him, but she didn’t resist when he gently moved her away from him and left the room.  Standing in the middle of the floor she whispered a silent promise to Alistair, and to Morrigan, that one day she would find a way to fix it all.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon wrapped herself in shadows as she left the cave system, slipping into the Keep through one of the numerous side doors and using servants passages to move through the fortress without disturbing its inhabitants.  She had already spotted Ayren at the training field, an indeterminate number of Drydens loading and unloading carts in the courtyard and as she passed the library she spotted Anders, sitting with his head in his hands at a desk covered in open books.  She squashed the burst of sympathy and affection she felt along with the urge to go in and comfort him; she would see him later, for now she had another mage to visit.

The tower was unchanged, icy winds blew across the connecting bridge and she noted several of the spring traps had been activated and would need to be reset.  Miriam Dryden knew the path through them for the rare occasions Avernus needed something that could not be transported by kelsana but the wind or the occasional unlucky bird still set a few off between her visits.  She slipped inside the tower and made straight for the door to Avernus’ laboratory, casting  off the shadows as she entered and calling out her greeting.

“Avernus, where are you, you evil old bastard?  You did it!”  He was on the dias pottering with his equipment and looked up with no surprise at her entrance.

“I presume the tests were satisfactory, then.”  It wasn’t a question.  Avernus was brilliant and he knew it, failure was an insult, success inevitable and Rhiannon was more than happy to indulge his unpleasantness for the results he produced.

“A whole field, completely cleared.  Ines very nearly smiled.” Her voice rang across the room.  “All the areas tested have produced the same results, completely cleared of the Blight.  The first areas are already sprouting crops.”

“Hmmm.  Anything grown will have to be tested carefully before anyone tries to eat it.  I presume you intend to have the harvest sent here?  I have a list of requirements.”  He turned to look at her properly, sneering at her enthusiasm.  “Or you could feed them to criminals, to discover if they are still tainted.”

Rhiannon ignored his comment, one she had already considered and discarded.  The Blight could take months to develop in a living body, Avernus would be able to tell if the food were tainted far quicker, not to mention the fact that Alistair would have exploded if he ever found out.  Her husband had a strict moral code and would not have tolerated experiments on other people, not even criminals.  He allowed Avernus’ continued existence only because of Rhiannon’s promise that she was monitoring his ‘ethical’ research, and because she dangled the prospect of clearing the Blight from Southern Ferelden before him.  She threw herself into the leather-bound armchair she had installed in the tower for her visits and started playing with one of her daggers.

“Can this mixture be used to clear the Blight from a living person?” she asked casually.

“Not this one, no.  It has too many poisonous ingredients.  But there was one of the variants that had potential, no use for earth, it cleared the Blight but the soil was completely barren… I’m sure it was in this book…”  He trailed off as he began hunting through his notebooks, not noticing the fleeting pain on Rhiannon’s face.  A potion that could clear the Blight, that might work for living beings, even if it could not reverse sterility, that could be a blessing for them, it could further her plan substantially.  If, of course, Avernus could find it and make it work.  

She settled herself and made her voice carefully light and unconcerned.  “Such a potion would be invaluable, not only in Ferelden but in other countries also.  Importing both to places like the Anderfels would give us a much needed source of revenue.”  She sat forward slightly and brought her leg off the arm of the chair, a movement that Avernus glanced up to acknowledge then dismissed as he continued to rummage through piles of notebooks.  “I wonder if having another mage would be of use to you?  One who knows the mechanics of the human body beyond simply how to take them apart.”

“I have no interest in an apprentice, useless creatures, getting underfoot and expecting to be taught.”  His response was hardly a surprise but neither was it an outright no so she kept pushing for the moment.

“This would be no apprentice.  A fully trained mage, a skilled healer and potion maker.”

“Is he willing to do what needs to be done?”  Avernus’ voice dripped with contempt.  “Healers rarely have the stomach for the more experimental aspects of magic.  Lily-livered bleeding hearts, most of them.”

“He’s an exceptional battlemage and killer, a wanted murderer and he’s a Grey Warden.”  

Avernus looked at her with interest now.  “He may be acceptable.  I will also need test subjects.”  Rhiannon nodded, unconcerned with his demand.  She had already anticipated that and had arrangements in hand.  In fact, her contacts would be here in only a few hours and she had other things to attend to first.  She stood and made her goodbyes, taking the list of equipment and ingredients Avernus needed to produce larger amounts of his Blight potion and promising him the resources he would need for the new project.  Once a sufficient amount of the stable potion was available, she had other herbalists who could make it, freeing him to concentrate on a cure for Blight sickness, but for now it was best to keep him occupied while she arranged the things he would need.

She made no attempt to hide when she left the tower, stopping at each triggered trap to reset it then heading inside the main keep to her office.  People rarely ventured onto this level, she had once been here for four days before bothering to announce her presence to Miriam and Levi.  She lit a fire in the hearth, chilled from the walk across the bridge, and poured a glass from the flask at her hip.  It was her own flask, with her own concoction in it, Antivan brandy and mead from the Cousland hives, warming and sweet.  Alistair’s flask always held the Rivaini spirit, tzuika , in memory of Duncan but over the years he had added a mixture of Antivan brandy and elderflower gin from the stills in Rainesfere, a combination Rhiannon found harsh and acrid, while he found her liquor too sweet.  Idly she wondered what her friends carried in their flasks, imagining that Bethany would have something flowery, perhaps the rose liqueur they made in Tantervale, something that would clash with the birch spirit she knew Nathaniel preferred.  It was a tradition for mated wardens to mix their base drink, most would assume that she and Alistair had done so, only her closest friends knew they never had.  She thought Anders, no Josef , she must get used to it, even in her own head, she thought Josef would prefer citrus, remembering how greedy he had been for the rare oranges that sometimes appeared in Amaranthine’s market from Nevarra, how he had hoarded the strega limoncello they had retrieved from one of the many shipwrecks on the Storm Coast.  She had often thought Nevarra would have been a good place for him, mages were not as restricted there though they did not have the freedoms of Tevinter or Rivain.  But sunshine and citrus and the respect his healing skills deserved were what she would have wanted for him, not a tiny room at the back of a clinic in the sewers of the cesspit that was Kirkwall.  She shifted in her chair and took another swallow, this one direct from her flask.  Angry, she was always angry at him.  She had been angry since he left, angry at him for letting himself be ambushed by those templar bastards, angry at him for not coming to her, angry at him for dying, angry when she discovered he was not dead but hiding out in Kirkwall, angry that he had spoken to Alistair and never went to him for help, angry that he had known Alistair was in Kirkwall but still set up his bomb, angry at having to rescue him and angry that he had never asked to be rescued.  Her anger for Anders never seemed to end and it made her want to weep.

When she had taken Alistair back to Denerim she had been torn, wanting to care for her husband, her best friend, wanting to make sure Anders was well, that he would recover.  He had saved him, had almost killed himself to do it.  But once back at court work had drowned her, both hers and Alistair’s.  Her replacement had already been on his way, sent by Weisshaupt to relieve her of at least one set of duties, her priority had to be her country, at least for now.  By the time she could return to Vigil’s Keep Anders was gone, presumed dead alongside his attackers.  She had sent Caron under armed guard to Weisshaupt, on charges of betraying a fellow warden and interfering in politics by allowing Chantry influence within the Keep, but she had no faith in the justice he would receive so she had asked Zevran to help her with her little problem.  Caron had died with his guard (any resemblance to certain associates of Leliana’s was completely coincidental) and Rhiannon had mourned the loss of her friend, adopting Ser Pounce-a-lot when she found out Anders had been forced to give him up.  She had nursed her anger and her grief for over five years, her guilt at failing one of the few friends she had believed had not chosen to leave her for their own personal cause.  Alistair had not minced his words at her behaviour to Anders that day, her cold demeanor undoing everything the welcome of his friends had done for him the day before.  How could she explain to him, who had been abandoned by his only love but stayed true to her still, the conflicted feelings that morning, she couldn’t even explain them to herself?  Protecting herself with icy detachment was better than the vicious things she had wanted to say, the years of pain she had wanted to pour out on a man who did not deserve it, who had never done her any wrong, who was completely oblivious that in a few short months he had replaced her own lost love in her heart and how she had hated him and herself for that and how it had hurt all over again when she lost him as she had lost Rod.  Rhiannon swallowed again, enjoying the burn travelling down her gullet, ignoring the tears travelling down her cheeks.  She was here to deal with him, she needed to get herself under control first, so she laid her head on the table and allowed herself to weep, silent and alone.

-----

It wasn’t unusual for the bell in the library to ring, Miriam knew Anders spent most of his time there when he wasn’t training with Ayren or moping in his room.  It was the rhythm of the ring that drew his attention, a rhythm he hadn’t heard since he left Vigil’s Keep, a rhythm he had never forgotten, bone deep so he was already moving before he realised what it was - the summons of the Warden-Commander.  Rhiannon was here, waiting for him in her office.  His stomach lurched at the thought of seeing her, facing the icy cold where once there had been warmth, wondering if he was about to be even more restricted.  His escape plan was almost ready, he was only waiting for the thaw to make his move.  He had tried to escape in winter before, it was miserable and pointless and the quickest he had ever been caught; in fact, he had been so cold he was almost glad to see the templars and the warm tower with his warm blankets and various warm bodies to rub up against.  The Peak had been cold, cold enough for him to consider trying to get Ayren into his bed, or possibly Levi’s muscly blacksmith brother, but it would be nothing to trying to get down to the Bannorn, so he was biding his time, enduring the loneliness until he could be free again.

The door was ajar, waiting for him, a fire roaring on the hearth, it’s heat radiating out into the corridor, warm and welcoming.  He could smell food so someone knew the Commander had arrived and the delicious smells reminded him he had missed lunch.  When he walked in Rhiannon wasn’t sitting behind the desk but in an armchair near the fire, a small table holding two bowls of his favourite smoked fish chowder and a plate piled with bread and butter, it was almost like being back in Amaranthine, joining her for a late supper and a friendly game of chess or a chat, when he had called her ‘Reina’ and she had spent hours going through absurdities trying to get him to tell her his real name.  Often Nate had joined them, and Alistair when he was there, but usually it was just the two of them, the most unlikely of friends, the Queen and the apostate.  But those days were long gone and would never return, the best he could hope for was a reprieve from this empty prison.  He hovered in the doorway, not sure if she had seen him enter, until she looked up and said,

“Are you coming in or what?  I don’t want my supper to get cold while you make up your mind.”  He laughed, a short burst that he stifled quickly, the comment had been so familiar, just for a second it felt as if they had never been apart.  But he squashed the laugh because she was staring at him with her ‘Commander’ face on, a bit of light humour appropriate from superior to subordinate, not the affection he had once valued.  He sat in the other chair, noticing it had been positioned so the focus was the fireplace, not Rhiannon herself, and picked up the nearest bowl, looking for the heel of the bread, his favourite part and a handy spoon for the thick, creamy chowder.  Eating it like that reminded him of his mother and his childhood, before everything went to shit for his entire life.  They ate in silence and she poured wine for them both, trying to hide the fact she was slipping liquor from her flask into her glass.  It was one of the things that had brought them together, the first thing she had trusted him with, the truth about her drinking, the help only he could provide.  It hurt that she was trying to hide it again and that he didn’t know how long it had been going on for.  Five years they had been apart, did they even know each other any more?

She handed him the other glass and sat down, twisting so she could watch him as she spoke.  “If you run again, I won’t help you.”  She jerked her head towards the corner where his escape pack lay, open and obviously rifled through.  “I won’t stand in your way, but you will never be welcomed or sheltered by a Ferelden warden, you can sink or swim.  For once, we will turn our backs on you.”  Her voice was bitter, almost as if she was pained, but her words made him angry.

“For once?  You mean making me give up my cat and setting templars on me didn’t count?  Good to know.”  He got up to grab his pack, pushing the contents down so he could close the top.  “I haven’t been sheltered by the wardens for years, I don’t need it now.  Especially when it’s just another word for imprisoned, just like the Circles.”  She didn’t make any move, didn’t lift a hand to stop him, but the sharp laugh she gave out made him pause and stare at her in affront but she didn’t even look at him.

“Five days ago a rapist and a murderer was able to stand up in front of the Landsmeet and imply that the King was an incompetent cuckold who stood by while his Queen helped a maleficarum escape the tower after he had manipulated a coup of blood mages to free him from well deserved confinement.  That the Queen, that I, helped the maleficar escape justice for murdering those templars who were bringing him back to justice, that I lured the Knight-Captain who objected to a warehouse in Amaranthine and killed her, and that I engineered my maleficar lover’s escape when the Chantry found him again and hid him in Kirkwall to undermine the Chantry, warp the Knight-Commander and seduce the Champion then destroy the city to bring down the Circles and turn us all into another Tevinter and then I spirited him away from justice and am hiding him somewhere in Ferelden where I can no doubt continue our torrid affair.  He even managed to imply all that in three simple sentences, it was impressive.  It took me far longer to refute even half of it and no matter what I said his accusations are out there, festering in people’s minds.  So I’m either a blood thrall or a vicious, murderous slut and Alistair is an incompetent fool who can’t even keep his wife in line, never mind a kingdom.”

Anders sat back down.  It was impossible, ridiculous, who would believe such nonsense.  The answer, of course, would be a lot of people.  The further the rumours spread, the more people would believe it, the more unstable the country would become.  Refuting it publicly would prompt ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ responses.  Ignoring it could be taken as an admission of guilt.  Just having associated with him could ruin everything they had worked to build since the Blight.  “You should have let me die.” She finally looked at him, not shocked or surprised, just tilting an eyebrow in that infuriatingly beautiful way she had.

“What difference would that make?”  She stood and walked over to her desk, lifting a pile of papers and holding them out to him.  “Avernus has found a cure for blighted fields.  The food they produce has to be tested still but it’s promising.  I have asked him to do the same for blighted people.  He needs someone who knows how to test things on people without resorting to blood magic or torture, someone who won’t be squeamish if the results aren’t what is expected and someone with the backbone to stand up to him when necessary.  I was hoping you would do it?”  She didn’t say that being able to heal the land and even the blight-sickness would make people forget all sorts of rumours but he knew she would be thinking it.  He took the papers and glanced at them.  “To start with, I’ve received a shipment of blighted sand-worms from the Anderfels.  I can get more when necessary.  I can be here within a couple of days if you need anything but Levi can get most things.  I suggest you make yourself familiar with this work and I’ll introduce you to Avernus in the morning.”  She sat at her desk and started rifling through other things in a way that told him their discussion was at an end so he took his pack and the papers and left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Rhiannon slumped in the chair.  She hadn’t meant to tell him that, hadn’t meant to burden him with more guilt, as usual her temper had got the better of her.  She straightened herself up, pushing the remorse down deep and pulled out the strip of vellum she had been ignoring all afternoon, a strip attached to a raven she recognised instantly.  There were no words on it, only three symbols - a spider’s web, a lion’s head and a snowflake.  For whatever reason, Morrigan had finally come out of hiding and Leliana had found her.

Chapter Text

Reina

The food you sent is blight-free and safe to eat. Avernus requests you send samples from other sites to be sure but the soil Ines provided is also clean and currently growing herbs and an apple tree which show no signs of blight, nor does the earth it was transplanted into. We believe you can safely demonstrate the potion to the landsmeet and I have included the recipe so it can be made in sufficient amounts. 

Our new project is not going so well. We need more sandworms. Avernus may be a mad bastard but he's also a genius so don't give up hope, we've barely begun. 

I'm sorry for the things I said before you left. You've saved my life more times than I can count but I'm stupid when I'm angry, that hasn't changed. I think Pounce misses you, I've had to retrieve him from your office or your chambers at least once a day since you left. But he is always curled up beside me when I sleep and I'll never be able to tell you what having him back means to me. 

This was supposed to be a quick note slipped in with the recipe but I've rambled on. If there is any progress I'll let you know. 

JW

------

Josef

The demonstration went perfectly, Wulff actually cried and he wasn’t the only one to have tears in his eyes.  To have food grown from the cleansed earth to serve was the highlight.  We’re keeping the recipe quiet for the moment, other countries will want it, I don’t think there’s anywhere in Thedas that doesn’t have blighted areas, but as far as I’m concerned, Ferelden comes first.

Tell Pounce I miss him too, and so does Alistair although he insists he doesn’t (he instructs me to say that as King of Ferelden his allegiance is to the Mabari and certainly not to any animal that insists on scratching him at 4th bell to avoid disturbing me - I know this is nonsense since I’ve already caught him feeding scraps to one of the mousers in the stables.)

I told you long ago, don’t be sorry for saying what you feel, not to me, or to Ally or Nate or even Beth, we are your family.  You said nothing I haven’t told myself over the years, my only defence is that it’s fairly easy to find a queen if you need her and rather harder to find a hermit apostate hiding in a sewer.  We will have words about that, but not right now.  Right now I’m too happy at being able to start healing our country.  

Reina

P.S.  More sandworms are on their way.  Make sure Levi sends me the bills for anything else you need.

------

My friend

Our mutual acquaintance is well positioned at court.  She cuts through the Game rather than moving with it and such scandal has very much livened up the court.  The position of Arcane Advisor has rather put the First Enchanter’s nose out of joint, but that is not always a bad thing.

I miss our days of travelling with our friends, if you hear from any of them would you give my regards?  Your thoughtful gifts, Ally’s jokes, Zev’s stories, I even miss Sten’s stalwart presence.  But the one I miss most right now is Wynne and her wisdom.  I often speak to her Perfection about our travelling days and how Wynne reminded me of her so often, if only they could meet.  Do you know if she is still travelling with Shale?

Anyway, I must leave my reminiscing and attend to my work.  I hope to see you soon.

L

-------

Lady Morrigan, Arcane Advisor to the Court of Orlais

We wish to convey our royal congratulations on your position at Her Majesty’s court.  The Empress will be well served by such a loyal servant and one who is not embroiled on either side of the current conflict, Her Majesty was most foresighted to seek such expertise.

While we would never wish to be accused of poaching courtiers, you are always welcome in Denerim.  Much of what we accomplished during the Blight was owing to you, your skill and your friendship, your long absence from our presence has been much regretted though we respect the necessity of it and your heroism had never been truly acknowledged.  To this end a small manor was placed in your name some years ago, it’s title and lands to you and your heirs in perpetuity.  The income is being held in the royal vault but will be forwarded to you at Halamshiral when you wish it.

We remain your most affectionate friends,

Alistair & Rhiannon Theirin

------

Reina

I think the sandworms have developed a symbiosis with the Blight, they die at any attempt we make to eradicate it.  Perhaps creatures from lands more recently blighted would work better.  If a dead blight wolf or bereskarn could be found I think studying the corpse could be helpful also.

Nate and Beth were here a few weeks ago.  Beth brought a letter from Hawke but I haven’t brought myself to read it yet.  I have once again become the coward I was before Justice, hiding and running away, even if now it is only as far as the library.  It is hard not having anyone to talk to, even as a ‘sewer hermit’ I had plenty of company, beyond Justice.  Avernus barely speaks while we work together and I do not like to impose myself on the Drydens, they are not comfortable with a mage even if they don’t know who I am.  Ayren is on her way to her sister in Orlais, as I’m sure you know, Vielle’s confinement comes close and she wishes to be there when the baby comes.  So I speak to Ser Pounce-a-lot a lot and feel sorry for myself, as you can tell.

This letter has turned out to be a lot of complaining. I'm going to read Hawke’s letter, then I’m going to invite myself to dinner with Levi and Miriam and their noisy, delightful family.  I might even finally investigate if the brawny Mikhael wants to follow through on all the flirting he does.  No more pity party for me.

Pounce sends his love but is disgusted with Alistair’s professed love of slobbering hounds and his unfaithful behaviour towards this other cat.

Josef

------

Anders

It’s been almost a year since the last time I saw you.  Beth tells me you’re fine but I wonder sometimes, are you fine, are you even alive?  Your Commander is a hard bitch, but it was the only chance I had of saving you, not just from the Templars, but from yourself.  I wonder if it would have been different if you had confided in me, if we had laid plans together, if you didn’t feel you had to hide from me.  We’ll never know.

I keep in contact with Varric and Aveline but I haven’t been back to Kirkwall in months.  We stayed long enough to help with the rescue efforts, then the recovery, but eventually we drifted away, one by one.  Isabela left first, of course, sailing off into the sunset.  I hear from her occasionally, never from the same port twice.  Fenris was almost captured by a group of slavers hired by a cousin of Danarius who thought he should inherit the scumbag’s wealth and made the mistake of counting Fenris as part of that.  They and their employer were dealt with but he’s gone off on a mission to wipe out every slaver in the Free Marches.  I hear from him less than I do from Bela but I certainly hear OF him a lot more. I know you had your differences, but if your Queen didn’t tell you, he helped with your escape and fought beside us to defend the mages.  I worry about him almost as much as I worry about you, and far more than about Bela who always manages to get herself out of the trouble she gets into.  

Aveline is still Captain of the Guard, although she will be taking some time away from it shortly to welcome the pitter patter of tiny sabatons.  It’s entirely possible Donnic might survive the pregnancy but according to Aveline he is the worst kind of father-to-be, he even tried to convince her to give up the guard on the basis of becoming a mother.  She hasn’t killed him yet but it’s amazing how many graveyard shifts or dock runs he’s suddenly been assigned.  Merrill has become the unofficial Keeper for the Alienage and she finally destroyed that damned mirror.

I don’t know if you’ve read his book (don’t, it’s an embarrassment) but Varric made sure everyone thinks you’re dead.  Unfortunately he also made me notorious and I’ve been hiding out of the way of both mages and templars and just about everyone else.  Sebastian gave me refuge for a while and sent what templars Starkhaven had to help Cullen in Kirkwall (old stick-up-the-arse actually fought against Meredith and has been doing a good job as the new Knight-Commander according to Varric.)  He’s disappeared for a bit, some other adventure he can’t tell me about apparently (Varric,  not Cullen) but you know Varric, he’ll never leave Kirkwall.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to tell you.  This letter hasn’t really gone how I planned it, I just wanted to let you know everyone was safe.  I wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much I miss you, how I wake up in the night and turn to you but you’re not there.  You used me and betrayed me and I still want you to be here, with me.  I wish I could fix all this, I wish I could find you, or you would find me and we would live happily after raising our own brood of little mages and rogues, the way we used to talk about in bed at night.  But sometimes I wish you had died, I wish I had done the job properly and I hate you for all the death and destruction, for how the templars have retaliated against the mages you wanted to save, how you made me part of those deaths.  I turn to you in the night but it’s because I’ve woken from dreams of the injured or the dead we pulled from the rubble, the newborn baby I found hidden under her mother’s body as the woman had tried to shield her from the collapsing building, the knowledge that if we had been there sooner that baby might have survived.

I can’t do this to myself any more so I promised myself I would write this letter, the first and the last.  Beth won’t give you a forwarding address, you won’t hear from me again, as far as I’m concerned I killed you on the steps of the Chantry in Kirkwall.  I love you, all I can do now is mourn you.

Mari

------

My Darling Rhi

I am on my way home.  I feel like you are the only family I’m ever to know and I miss you.  I’ll tell you the whole story when I get home but nothing went as planned, nothing ever does for me.  I planned to land in Denerim and head straight for the palace but I wish we could have some quiet time, just for us.  Will you meet me at Soldier’s Peak?  I have a couple of injuries I’d like And Josef to look at, nothing serious - I promise.  

I love you

Alistair

------

R

Things are coming to a head with the mages and the Seekers of Truth, be wary.  None of us know what will come but something is happening in the White Spire.

I have been tracking the information you asked and it appears the rumours are true, though how and why I do not know.  My little birds keep their eyes and ears open for more.

L

------

Josef

I am coming to Soldier’s Peak with a massive amount of disgusting blight-ridden insects from the Korcari Wilds and the carcasses of two blight-wolves and a bereskarn - the things I do for you!

Alistair will also be there soon, possibly even before me.  Look after him till I get there, something is going on but I don’t know what yet.  

I have a plan I want to talk about with both of you.  Also, I found oranges in the market this morning and send them with this letter, save me one.

R

Chapter Text

Anders stood on the small, stony beach and watched as the boat worked its way in closer to the shore.  He could see the ship farther out, too large to come any closer, the people on it mere dots going about their business, oblivious to the mage watching them.  He had set a fire in one of the caves, blankets warming beside it, food and healing supplies carefully laid out on a table beside a small cot, close enough to the fire for comfort but far enough away to keep the water and the potions cool.  He counted four people in the boat.  Two men were rowing strongly, struggling against the occasional shifts in the current on the way into the cove, directed by a woman in leathers and a ridiculous hat with a long blue feather wilting damply down the side of it as another man leaned against her shoulder.  He had that light red hair that could only be called ginger, curled slightly in the salt spray and carrying down into the light growth of stubble on his jaw.  As the boat came closer, Anders could see that he wasn’t just leaning into the woman, his whole body spoke of pain and exhaustion and he quickly tried to remember if he had added any analgesic potions to the small kit he had brought down to the cave.

Alistair looked like shit.  In fact, as Anders ran forward to help the man out of the dinghy he was so focused on how awful he looked he barely noticed the person handing him out.  One of the king’s arms was in a sling and Anders could clearly see the twist where it wasn’t healing straight and the flinch and slight give as he put an arm around his waist spoke of another injury hidden by his leathers.  He startled slightly when he turned to look at the sailors and realised the woman with the battered face and bandaged wrist was Isabela, changing what he was about to say to a curt, “This way,” before heading to the warm cave.  He knew when Reina told him Alistair wanted him to check something that the damage would be worse than he would have admitted to his wife, but he hadn’t anticipated the hale and hearty warrior being gaunt and dull-featured, barely responding to Anders presence, and he hadn’t expected to see Isabela at all, let alone looking like she had escaped a war zone.  He sat Alistair on one of the benches to grab some potions, handing one to Isabela before he moved back to his fellow warden.

“I need to check you over, Ally.” He said, in a soft tone designed to carry through the unexpected stupor.  He let the magic wash over him, spotting a few minor injuries on top of the broken arm and the half-healed knot of infected, twisted tissue that was starting to stick to his guts and would cause major problems if left alone.  He looked over to Isabela, whose swollen face was already almost back to normal.  Her wrist could wait and nothing else jumped out at him so he moved his attention back to Alistair. The warden didn’t flinch when he prodded his side, trying to decide which wound to fix first.  He gestured to Isabela to come closer before turning back to the man.  “Take this potion.  It’ll stop some of the pain, but we’ll need to break that arm again, and the gut wound is going to hurt.”  Alistair just grunted so he showed ‘Bela where to put her hands to brace him as Anders held the arm in place and directed a fine thread of force magic right along the misshapen break, cracking it open again with one push, working with Isabela to keep him still when Alistair roared and pushed back.  As quickly as he could, he directed healing energy towards the new break, sealing it cleanly as Isabela poured another potion down his throat.  When he settled again Anders pushed him down on the cot so he could work on the gut wound.

By the time he finished, both men were sweating but Alistair at least looked more alert.  Anders knocked back a lyrium potion and sat on the chair beside where his patient lay, trying to get his breath back and wishing he had brought some brandy down with the potions and food.  Isabela, reliable as always, pulled a flask from her tunic and took a swallow before handing it to Anders who gulped a mouthful of liquid fire and ignored Alistair’s gestures in favour of handing it back to Isabela.

“Lotus potions and alcohol do not mix.  None for you, your majesty.”  It probably wouldn’t have made much difference, Alistair had a strong constitution even discounting a grey warden’s metabolism, but there was no way he was taking the chance.  “We can rest here for a bit before we head up to the keep.  Are you joining us, ‘Bela?”  

Isabela grimaced, “I need to head back as soon as the tide changes.  I swear, when I get back to Kirkwall, I’m going to punch Varric then I’m going to sleep for a week?”

“This was Varric’s secret mission Hawke wrote about?”  Bela looked surprised.  “She… sent me a letter.  Through Bethany.  Just to say goodbye.”  Anders sunk a little into the wooden chair.  Her words still hurt, not just the horrors she described but the truth of them, the truth of him.  Somehow, Vengeance had done what neither Justice nor Anders would ever have considered.  Those last months were still a haze, he doubted the memories would ever truly return, but he could imagine everything Mari had written and the things she had been kind enough not to tell.  Though he would never have expected Varric’s mysterious trip would have been in the company of Isabela and Alistair.  “Is Varric with you?  What in the Void were you up to?”  He looked at Alistair.  “Did Reina know about this?”

The man looked at him and finally spoke in a voice that sounded harsh, as if he had not used it much of late.  “We dropped him in Kirkwall and came here.  Apart from the gut wound, everything was from a storm that almost took us out on the way here.  And yes, Rhiannon knows, and even if she didn’t, I’m a grown man and the fucking King, Anders, I don’t need my wife’s permission to do the things that need done.”

Isabela interjected, “I’ve met your wife, sweetheart.  Even I wouldn’t be doing anything that pisica didn’t want me to, not if I wanted to sleep sound for the next twenty years.  I bet the woman holds a grudge.”  Typically, the idea didn’t seem to do anything but light up her eyes with a lascivious glee and Anders was reminded of the rumours that Reina had persuaded Isabela to teach her to duel by getting her into bed, potentially with either Zevran or Leliana, depending on the story.  Looking at the faint longing he could see behind her expression, he wondered if it had been true all along, although neither woman could be persuaded to confirm or deny.  “Varric’s fine, Anders, I’ll give him your regards when I see him.”

“I’m surprised he would want them?”  Her beautiful face smoothed into neutrality at the morose comment.  Just as he thought, Varric of all people would never forgive him, not for the damage done to his beloved city.  He was probably ploughing his not inconsiderable funds into the rebuilding, calling in favours from all over the Free Marches and even as far as Orzammar.  He wouldn’t want to hear that Anders was alive, never mind that he was well, Isabela was only being kind.  He shook himself and stood up.  “If you can’t stay, I’ll run up and bring some supplies back down for you.  We can at least have a decent meal before you need to go.  Ally needs a rest before he heads up all those stairs anyway.”  She nodded and sat on the edge of the bench beside Alistair’s legs, watching as he disappeared, cursing himself for thinking he could have any kind of normal conversation with those who had once been his friends.  

Eventually Isabela had to go, embracing Alistair, then Anders, before climbing into the dinghy and disappearing into the distance.  The two men watched until they couldn’t even pretend to still see her, before they turned to traipse their way up through the cavern system to Soldier’s Peak.  Alistair was slow, his body needing to recover lost reserves in spite of Anders’ healing, and Anders had expended enough magic to be tired himself, so they took their time, finally reaching Alistair’s room as the dinner bell began to ring.  

Alistair groaned. “As soon as I hear that bell, my stomach starts grumbling, it’s trained into me.  Do you think anyone would mind if I just rang for a tray?  I don’t think I could get back down the stairs and there’s no way I’m managing back up.  I feel like Bela’s boat landed on me, several times.”

“Judging by the injuries I healed, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.”  Anders smirked at him.  “I don’t think anyone will object.  I might do the same thing myself.”

“In that case, come in and have a drink.”  Alistair held up his hand before Anders could comment.  “Cider only, although I doubt I have much lotus left in me by now.  We’ll order enough for two and you can tell me how you’re getting on working with Avernus.”

Anders looked at the man beside him.  Alistair still looked gaunt and tired, but he seemed to have a bit more energy and he wanted to know what had caused the gut wound if it hadn’t happened during the storm, so he nodded and Alistair led the way into his room.

All the warden’s rooms were similar, although Alistair’s was slightly larger since he shared it with the Warden-Commander.  The plain stone walls were covered in tapestries to keep the heat in and heavy brocade hung at the windows while the floor was covered in fur rugs, everything coloured in Ferelden red and gold, warmer colours than Grey Warden blue and silver.  Reina hated the cold and it showed in how she had decorated their room, and in the piles of blankets and furs spread across the massive four poster bed.  A sofa and several armchairs clustered around the fireplace, which was laid ready to be lit since the monarchs visited frequently and usually without notice, so Anders directed a thread of heat to the hearth and settled himself in an armchair.  By habit he avoided the two closest to the fire - Reina’s to the left and Alistair’s to the right - but Alistair just put a scribbled note on the shelf of the kelsana and rang the bell for the kitchen staff, then collapsed onto the sofa, kicking his boots off and lying completely along it.  Anders laughed at the sight of his head and feet both almost hanging off the ends before he also kicked off his boots and curled up in his chair.

They chatted about inconsequential things until the tray rattled into sight, plates laden with meat, bread and vegetables beside a pitcher of cider and one of water, while a covered plate hid at the back.  It was a running joke that Alistair could not resist dessert before his dinner so it was hidden from him.  Both men set to with the appetite of grey wardens and little more was said until the plates had been cleared and sent back to the kitchen and they sat with warmed cider in their hands, enjoying each other’s company.  They hadn’t known each other long and it had been years ago, but they had been friends back then and Alistair had always regretted not being able to thank Anders for saving his life.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  Anders was always the first to break a silence, even a comfortable one and Alistair thought about his offer but shook his head.

“I’ll have to tell Rhi the whole story, might as well save it for then.  I don’t want to go over it too many times.  Let’s just say nothing went the way it was supposed to and leave it at that.”  Anders nodded and they sat quietly again until Alistair said, “I never got to thank you, for healing me?  By the time I could, you had disappeared.  So thanks.”

Anders looked at him, smiling slightly.  “You’re welcome.  It was certainly a challenge.”  The smile became edged with smugness.  “Even Wynne couldn’t work out how to do it.”  The smile faded slightly and he fidgeted.  “I’m just sorry it took so long, I had to find a spirit who could help me understand what was happening.”

“Well I’m very glad you did.”  Alistair sipped at his cider and looked thoughtful.  “Although given Rhi’s mood when you went missing, sometimes I wished I was still unconscious.”

“Her mood?”  It wasn’t the first time someone had inferred that Rhiannon had been very upset by his leaving, Nathaniel had made a few comments before he left, including some that were quickly hushed by Bethany’s sharp elbow.  They had been friends, he had missed her and now regretted not going to her, but Alistair’s tone, like Nate’s hinted at something more.

“My wife doesn’t do hurt well.  She does anger very well, however.  Her sparring partners had bruises for months.  Then she gradually got over your death.”  Anders straightened in the chair, opening his mouth to speak but stopped at Alistair’s upraised hand.  “What we thought was your death.  And then Nate reported that you were alive and well and living in Kirkwall.  When I saw you there myself I didn’t know if I wanted to hug you or punch you.”

“I didn’t think you remembered me.”

Alistair glowered.  “I’m not in the habit of forgetting friends, or people who save my life.  But as it happened I was under orders to barely acknowledge you.  You being stuck in the Gallows by that mad bitch would not have furthered my queen’s plan and therefore would not have been good for my continued wellbeing.”  He hesitated slightly before he continued and Anders wondered if he were censoring what he wanted to say.

“Warden Rhiannon is as hard as nails and Queen Rhiannon is as smooth as silk, but my Rhi is a woman who gave up her love to protect him, only to have him killed along with her parents by a traitor, who was forced into the Wardens for them all to die, who built armies and gathered an amazing group around her to defeat the Blight only for them all to leave her when it was done.  I don’t know if you know but Velanna disappeared after you left, then Sigrun went back into the Deep Roads and Oghren fucked everything up with Felsi so she left and took the little one with her and he spends his days drinking himself into oblivion even faster than he already did.”  Alistair looked at the mage with eyes filled with sorrow and not a little anger.  “You didn’t come to her for help, you didn’t even let her know you were alive.  We funded that fucking clinic for five years and never knew it was you we were sending money to.  You intended to blow up Kirkwall then let Hawke kill you and she would never have known it was you until it was all over if it hadn’t been for Nathaniel.”

Anders sank into his chair.  It was nothing he hadn’t heard already, from Nate and Beth, even from Ayren, nothing his brain hadn’t shouted at him since he got here, how he should have gone straight to her, asked for help, instead of running away like the coward he was.  “I used to try not to be a burden on my friends.”  He said, feeling defensive.  “I dragged her into enough trouble, with Rylock and the Chantry.  And you were still sick, you needed her.”  He didn’t say that in spite of the conversation he had overheard that night, he hadn’t wanted to go to Denerim and see them together, to be ignored as an inconvenience and a hazard as he had been so often in the Circle.  The Grey Wardens had been his dream of safety, Rolan and his cronies had shattered that dream, he hadn’t wanted to go somewhere to see yet another thing a mage could never have - family, love.

Alistair sensed the shift in mood and sat upright, forcing a light, easy tone as he said, “I suppose you would never have met Hawke if you came to us.  I could tell, that day, how much you loved each other.  When the four of you walked away, Captain Aveline went back to her office and the dwarf disappeared too, but you two took your time, holding hands, leaning into each other, it was sweet.”

“And I had already betrayed her and made her an accessory to mass murder.”

“Maker’s breath, Anders!”  Alistair stood and started pacing in front of the fire.  “What do you want me to say?”

Anders stood too, putting his goblet on the small sideboard and grabbing his boots.  “There isn’t anything to say, Alistair.  You’re right, I ran away, I let all of you think I was dead.  I used my lover to commit an atrocious act because I was an abomination but because I didn’t look like one no one cut me down the way they should have.  So now I have no friends, no family, I live in an abandoned castle in the middle of nowhere with only a blood mage to talk to and a handful of traders who are scared of me and they don’t even know who I am.  Reina should have let Mari kill me, there’s nothing worth saving.  Now, you’re healed and you need rest, and so do I.  Good night, Your Majesty.”  He started to walk to the door, pulling the boots on one at a time, only to straighten up to find Alistair in front of him, blocking the way out, hands on hips.

“Oh, no,” he said, “You’re not getting away that easy.  We’re having this out, now.”

“Why?”  Anders crossed his arms over his chest, not willing to push past the man but not wanting to sit back down either.

“Because I’ve watched my best friend mope over you for the past five years and now I’m watching you drive yourself into a hole.  You think you can’t be forgiven because you can’t forgive yourself.  You live here until things have settled down enough for a tall, blonde mage to safely walk the streets and you call it a prison.   You’re helping create a cure for the Blight, something that could save so many lives and you say you have nothing worth saving.”  The king sighed, “Yes, you blew up a city, hundreds died and there is no version of events where that is alright, you could have done what you did without all the killing, in fact if you had waited an hour or so, Meredith was going to do it for you anyway.  Also yes, you were an abomination in some way, both you and Justice warped into something that was no longer either of you, but you weren’t one of those lost things that rip into the world through someone, you had control, of a sort.  You pulled your friends into a shitfest that you created.  Did you know every one of them has scars from fighting in the Gallows that day, that your beloved Hawke walks with a limp because she had to kill the true abomination that Orsino became, because of your actions.  You made shit choices and it’s only because you are loved that you are still alive.  You should be grateful for that.  Personally, I’d have probably had your head off before the rubble started to land, and if I’d known what you were up to I’d have done it before you set it off.”

He knew it was true, Alistair’s eyes were stone cold as he watched the mage who slumped before him in despair.  He sat back down in the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.  “I don’t know why they saved me.  I wish they had killed me when they found out what I had planned.  I didn’t even know what I had planned, not really, Vengeance hid everything from me so well, I really thought I was making a potion that would free Justice.  I went to the Chantry to stand where I had killed Karl, to remind myself, when Justice was back in the Fade, that I still had to fight for them, that I couldn’t run away again.  Then, when it happened, all I could do was sit on that stupid crate and hope Mari would kill me.  It was like waking up from a daze but I found myself in a nightmare and one that I made.”  He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed as he asked, “Why didn’t she kill me?”

Alistair didn’t know if he meant Marian or Rhiannon, but he knew the answer was the same for both.  So he knelt beside Anders and looked him straight in the eye as he said, “Because they love you.”  The bitter laugh made Alistair sad, that the man couldn’t believe such a simple truth, so he decided to give him a more complicated one.

“I can’t speak for Marian Hawke, I don’t know her.  But I know my wife, better than anyone in the world.  Rhiannon did everything she had to do to fight the Blight.  She lost her entire family and when I fell apart after Ostagar she did everything and anything to win.  She killed everyone in the circle except the mage she needed to get back out and the templar who had been trapped and tortured and still survived.”

“Cullen,” Anders whispered and Alistair nodded before he continued.

“She spread rumours and disaffection between the dwarves so a kinslayer and a crook could become King, she murdered a forest spirit and it’s followers to get the elves on side, she tortured the man who killed her family for hours before she finally killed him and then she manipulated Anora and Loghain and myself at the Landsmeet to get the result she wanted.  She rescued you as much to annoy Rylock as because it was the right thing to do and she let the Architect live because she thinks he might be useful to her in the future.”  Anders just sat, struggling to take in the things he was hearing, trying to imagine that the Commander was ruthless enough to do all those things at barely nineteen.  “Believe me, if she wanted you dead, you would be.  But while my wife may be a cold, hard bitch who will do anything to get what she wants, and I do mean anything, she’s also sweet and loving and loyal and protective.  Once she knew you were alive it was only a matter of time before she found a way to rescue you and bring you home.”

“And now she hates me.”  He flinched at Alistair’s laugh and looked up in shock.

“You’re not listening.  Rhiannon loves you.  She’s angry and hurt and you did something even she would call a last resort, but you are one of us and that will never change.”  Alistair stood, stretching out his sore side then holding out his hand to Anders who allowed the warrior to pull him to his feet, only to be enveloped in a massive bear hug before being shoved gently in the direction of the door.  “Now, I need to rest.  My darling wife will be here soon enough and I need my strength to deal with her when she does.  Get out of here, you stubborn bastard.”  The men grinned at each other, Anders feeling lighter than he had in years, then he turned and left for his own room and his own thoughts on everything Alistair had told him.

------

Once Anders left the room, Alistair stripped and lay down on the bed, barely noticing the slight breeze from the open window until a figure pulled itself over the sill and sauntered over to the bed.  Rhiannon pulled her hood down and stood over her husband, eyes narrowed as she scrutinised every bit of him, from head to toe while he calmly watched her and waited for the explosion.  Finally she relaxed and sat down on the bed beside him.

“What, no shouting?  No poking at sore bits or demanding an explanation for the lack of letters?”  He looked surprised but pulled her into his arms anyway, shivering at the feel of cold leather against his bare skin.  “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

Rhiannon was uncharacteristically quiet, ignoring his questions and attempt at humour to begin gently stroking his face, snuggling into his embrace as if she could burrow under his skin.  “You didn’t find him?” she whispered.

Alistair tensed.  He wasn’t ready, but after a month of travelling when would he be, who could he tell if not the woman beside him, who had stood with him through everything the Maker had thrown at them since their meeting in the ruins of Ostagar.  For a moment he held her tightly, inhaling the familiar scent, feeling her loving care in the way her arms wrapped around him, her hand no longer stroking his face but instead smoothing his hair as she murmured how much she had missed him.  Finally, he loosened his hold a little.

“We found him.  His life force was being used to power some sort of device to enter the Fade.  I couldn’t save him, we had to destroy the device and there just wasn’t enough of him left.”  Something within him uncoiled as he spoke the words, knowing that his Rhi would never fault him for his failure but feeling it just the same, tears he had buried deep inside welled up and spilled silently from his eyes and she just held him while he wept for the father he could not save, the father he had never had a chance to know.  Eventually he slept, while Rhiannon lay awake, holding him, thinking over the conversation she had listened to between the two men and laying plans.  Finally she allowed herself to close her eyes, still holding her grieving husband, satisfied that she knew her next step.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon sat at the table, finishing her pastry and coffee while she flicked through the pile of correspondence that had been waiting for her at the Peak.  She could hear Alistair moving around in the bathing room and smiled at the comfortable sense of routine, choosing just the right moment to pour more coffee into his cup and set another pastry on his plate as he walked into the room wearing only his breeches and toweling his hair dry.  She watched him surreptitiously, enjoying the flexing muscles of his arms and abdomen as he finished with his hair and threw the towel onto the bed, flinging himself onto the chair with his usual abandon and adding obscene amounts of cream and sugar to his coffee.  There was an off-beat energy to his movements that told her all was not well, as if she didn’t know it already, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it so she just had to be patient.  They sat in peaceful silence, Alistair having his own letters to read, until interrupted by a knock at the door.

She opened the door to Anders standing with his hand half raised as if ready to knock again and smiled at the sight of the healer.  “Josef,” she said, waving him in, determined to remember his new name even if Alistair didn’t generally bother, in the Peak at least.  Alistair kicked a seat out for him and put several cinnamon pastries, his favourite, on Rhiannon’s abandoned plate while she grabbed another cup from the sideboard and started to brew the herbal tisane he preferred.  Stimulants were something Justice had very much approved of, keeping Anders moving night and day, and now even the smell of coffee made him feel slightly sick, preferring soothing teas and tisanes and indulging in sweets he had not been able to afford in Kirkwall.  Never inclined to be idle, his frame was still spare, his bone structure fine and almost two years of eating well and training hard only made him wiry rather than skinny.  Being almost a decade older than Rhiannon herself, he had always carried himself well, but she imagined he had been a gangly youth, all elbows and knees, his height making him clumsy, and she could sometimes see the awkward adolescent in the nervy man.

“I wanted to check on Alistair.  When did you get here, Reina, I didn’t hear the bell?”  He took a sip of tisane and sighed blissfully before helping himself to one of the buns.

“She hid outside the room and climbed through the window when you were gone.” Alistair said, mock growling at his duplicitous wife.  

Rhiannon laughed, “Don’t mind him, Ally is not a morning person.  Besides, he’s worried I want him dead, in spite of the evidence.”

“Evidence?”  Anders raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not dead.”  Rhiannon shrugged.  “Therefore, I do not want him dead.  I do want to hear about these injuries though.”  She shot her husband a hard look.  “Since he won’t tell me himself.”

Anders shuffled in his seat, being in the middle of a potential argument between a married couple was not a comfortable place to be.  “Reina,” he said, soothingly, “You know I won’t tell you anything Ally doesn’t want me too.  I promise you, he’s fine.  He just needs to rest for a couple of days.”

She harrumphed, knowing there was no point in pushing him, Anders had too much respect for his patients to breach their trust in his discretion so she just had to take him at face value.  She picked up the last letter, a scrap of folded parchment smelling of sea spray and her name across the front in scrawled writing.  She opened it with a fond smile, Isabela always left her a note when she had been near, usually something frivolous and risque, nothing serious, a perfect way to finish the pile of letters that continually went from bad to worse, the triumph of being able to clear blighted lands had very quickly given way to more complaints about the rising tensions between the Circles and the Chantry and what the monarchs were doing to fix it all, as if that were possible.  A scurrilous note from Isabela would be exactly what she needed to take her mind off everything, including her unusually quiet husband.  She sipped at her coffee as she read it, then nearly choked on the hot liquid as she burst out laughing.  Anders was up and thumping her on the back while she waved her hands, trying to shoo him away while unable to control the laughter.  Alistair had grabbed his damp towel and was wiping up the coffee she had inadvertently sprayed over the table while looking suspiciously at the note still held tightly in her hand.  Once she started to calm down a little, he grabbed it from her and read it, then sighed and leaned back in his chair, hand over his eyes but the hint of a smile flickering on his mouth, while Anders looked at them both suspiciously.

“Anyone care to fill in the gaps?” he asked, looking between the two of them.

“Of course, Josef,” Rhiannon replied sweetly while Alistair muttered, “Rhi,” in a warning tone.  “Can I ask you something first though, please?  Did my darling husband have a broken arm among his injuries yesterday?”

“Rhi, I don’t think…”  Anders looked at the suddenly flushed Alistair and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, he did.  And Bela had a broken wrist and a black eye.  They sailed through a storm, I assumed no one else was badly hurt or they would have brought them to be healed?”

“Oh, I’m almost positive no one else was badly hurt, were they, darling?”  Rhiannon had the note back out of Alistair’s hand so quickly, neither man actually registered her moving until she was back in her seat and reading it aloud.  “ Sweet Rhia, I have returned your husband safely and in almost one piece.  He will tell you the whole story, but it might not be soon, I know you understand these things.  One word of advice, you must teach the man balance, or patience to get to a bed.  I have no doubt he’ll spin a story for the healer and my men now think the King of Ferelden likes to play very rough but really, landing in a heap because of a slight swell is pitiful although his dedication to finishing what he starts is admirable.  Hopefully I’ll see you both very soon to test your tutelage.  Love, Bela.”

While Rhiannon started cackling and Alistair stopped hiding his smile in the face of his wife’s hilarity, Anders tried to hide his shock.  Alistair and Isabela?  Apart from a partially overheard conversation years ago there had never been any suggestion that the pair before him weren’t utterly devoted to each other, and somehow it was worse that it was Alistair doing the cheating, Alistair who was the epitome of everything honourable and decent, who had supposedly given up the love of his life for his duty to his country.  Rhiannon, of course, missed nothing; she pushed herself from her chair, gave her husband a quick, but passionate, kiss and murmured, “You can tell me all about it later.” in his ear before grabbing Anders’ hand and pulling him out of the chair.

“You can show me what you’ve been working on, I don’t have long to be here, neither does Alistair.  Sweetheart,” she threw back over her shoulder, “Get whatever you need together, we’ll have to leave this afternoon, I’ve covered for you as much as I can but there’s things brewing.”  As she drew the mage out of the room, Alistair started cursing and throwing things back into bags he had hoped to leave empty for at least a week.

The queen said nothing until they reached her office, still holding Anders’ hand, only dropping it to shut the door behind them.  Her lips were pursed and her eyes flashed with annoyance as she turned to him.

“Don’t!” she said.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Anders protested.  “I was just surprised.”

“You were judging,” she replied.  “You have no right to judge Alistair for anything, none at all.”

“I know that, Reina, but I… I never thought…” He sat down in one of the armchairs, struggling to put the feelings in his head into words, afraid to say too much or too little.  To understand how a man he idolised could be unfaithful to the woman he loved, how could he say that, to her, it was impossible.

She sat in the chair opposite, watching him.  Anders could never keep his thoughts from his face, even years of being imprisoned in the Circle or hiding from templars had never taught him to hide his feelings.  It was something she admired, how open he could be, how good and compassionate and how he could still share himself with a world that had done nothing but horrible things to him.  The horrible thing he had done, the one black spot in his life, was nothing compared to the scars on his body or in his mind and she would have happily blown up every Chantry in Thedas if it would have saved him that pain.  It was unfair, unjust, that she was honoured and applauded for her birth and the actions she had taken during the Blight, no matter how dark, while he was despised for his talents and one action had wiped out all the good he had done over the years.  She knew Hawke had abandoned him, she read every letter before it was delivered to him, and she had no sympathy for the woman who had clawed her way into the nobility through violence and playing factions off against each other but turned against this man for one awful mistake, a mistake she was not certain he had even made, at least not in his right mind.  She and Hawke were a pair, vicious, manipulative, amoral, but Rhiannon did not abandon her friends, no matter what.

She realised she had been watching him too long, she should have spoken already.  She forced her voice into gentleness, never able to bear the hurt look he got when she spoke harshly to him, he who could take any torture thrown at him except the anger of those he loved.

“I manipulated Alistair into marrying me, I used his sense of honour and duty against him, forced him to give up everything that meant something to him for the good of this country.  You must know that by now?”  Anders looked at her and shrugged, on some level he had known, there had been rumours that their engagement announcement had seemed as much a shock to Alistair as to anyone else at the Landsmeet, but he had set them aside as just that, rumours.  She continued, “Being a Grey Warden was his life and I took that from him.  He loved an apostate mage, very deeply, and I took that too.”  He didn’t look surprised, so he had been listening to that argument with Wynne, she had suspected as much.  “We present a united front, we have to, more for his safety than anything else, a bastard king without an heir in an unstable and bankrupt country is an easy target for those who think they have a better claim.  I give him legitimacy through my rank and status, so he can be the king Ferelden desperately needs, and that is all he owes me, to be king.”

“I thought you loved each other?”  Anders looked at her as if his whole world had been shaken and she knows it probably has, in spite of his own salacious history, Anders was a romantic, always seeking true love, and Alistair was his hero.

“We do.” she shrugged.  “He’s my best friend, we would never have survived the Blight without him.  He sees things in me I’m not even sure exist, a goodness that I think died with my parents, he’s convinced it’s still there.  And he’s not soft, he’s strong, he does what’s needed, even when it hurts him, I admire that.  And he’s extremely attractive,” she smirked slightly, knowing that Anders, like Zevran, had always been slightly disappointed that Alistair wasn’t more flexible in his sexuality.  Then she became serious again, “But we’re not ‘in love’, we never have been.  And he left here to find his father but ended up having to kill him, or let him die, he hasn’t told me the details yet, so if he found a bit of solace in Isabela’s generous arms, who am I to deny him?  Who are you?”

Anders looked at her, uncertainty written across his face, as if he weren’t sure how he felt.  Then he said something that truly surprised her.  “What about you?  If Alistair gave everything up, didn't you?"

She laughed, softly. "How could I have given up anything? My family were dead, Fergus didn't make it back till after everything was set in stone. I was trained to take Anora's place and I did, if not in the way my parents planned. I have a handsome and kind husband and the power to help my country, what else could I want?"

She knew what he meant, a life, a love of her own, but she didn't want to hear it, so she moved quickly on. "What you did in Kirkwall is changing the world, if mages could win their freedom, could live like everyone else, perhaps one could be queen." Anders leaned back, stunned. "I was to take Anora's place to bear an heir for Cailan, Alistair could put me aside on the same grounds in favour of a woman who has already borne him a son, but only if mages are free. You will not speak a word of this to anyone, especially not Ally, but to meet his son, to acknowledge him, and his mother, Alistair's true love. I would move the heavens themselves to give him that."

“But that might take years,” Anders protested.

“Which is why we need those years,” she said firmly.  “Avernus will continue to work on the Blight cure but I have a different mission for you.  You will find a way to reverse the Joining, to stop the Calling that takes us too quickly, to undo our sterility.  I want to see Alistair die an old man, in his bed surrounded by children and grandchildren.  I want you to live long enough to see mages free, to see a mage queen I hope, for Nate and Bethany to have a throng of troublemakers running all over the Vigil.  You can do that for us, Anders, I know you can.”

Hearing his name from her lips was too much, hearing her hopes and dreams for all of them, Anders surged forward, his knees hitting the floor before her chair as his lips crashed against her, his hands cradling her precious face.  She froze for a second, then leaned into the kiss, passion melting into a soft submission he could not have expected from his queen of fire, lips and tongues moving together slowly, sweetly, his hands still on her soft cheeks and hers on his as they leaned into each other.  How much time passed, neither of them could have said and when they broke apart it was with a sigh and only to look in each other’s eyes.  Nothing was said, neither even attempted to form words, for long minutes they were still, his hands still on her face, her fingertips lightly tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth that twitched a little in a gentle smile.  Eventually she leaned back, taking back her hands, leaving his face feeling bare and over-sensitive, as if her touch was the only thing protecting him.  Her expression was open, softer than he had ever seen it, she looked as she might have before the Blight, when she was no more than a young noblewoman, surrounded by family and friends.  She moved forward, out of her chair and onto her knees, facing Anders, her hands coming up to touch his face once again, stroking his cheek with dagger-callused hands and drawing him closer into another sweet kiss, this one edged with the promise of passion as her hands travelled down his arms, then across his chest, wrapping around him, his hands moving in parallel until they were entwined together, unhurried, enjoying touch and taste and a feeling of complete peace.  Neither noticed the office door opening as Alistair walked in, stopping at the sight of the two kneeling together, oblivious to the outside world.  He smiled as he watched them for a moment, then withdrew, closing the door silently behind him.  Their time in the Peak might be short, but he would not spoil it for them.  He went down to the kitchens, to collect supplies for the trip home and asked Sara, one of the kitchen girls, to send food up to Rhiannon’s office in an hour or so.  Finally he headed up to the library to pass the time, intending to pick up a book he had left half read on his last visit, but instead he found himself staring out of the window and thinking about the last few weeks and everything that had occurred in Antiva.  When he heard the passage of the kelsana, he put away his unopened book and made his way up to eat with the pair before duty separated them once more.

Chapter Text

The day it started, no one noticed.  It was a whisper, a half-remembered hint of a long forgotten song, barely heard and easily ignored.  The faint itch of discomfort disappeared in the trials of a normal day and beside the usual terrors of the night was barely there at all.  The next day was the same, and the next, and the next, whispers barely singing in the back of the mind, a note or two hummed as they went about their work, a sweet tune picked up in passing on the way to smithy or bath-house; by the time it began to be noticed, no one could have said when it began; by the time the worried spoke of it to their friends, it had been singing for days, weeks.  The older wardens were not surprised, not at first, not until more and more came to their Commanders and it became clear.  The Calling had begun - for all Grey Wardens.

The Warden-Commander’s of Ferelden and Orlais called their wardens together, trying to calm the anxious, to boost the fatalistic.  Missives were sent to Weisshaupt, to Ansburg, to any  Warden bases that might still be active, as well as messages to recall the solitary wardens who wandered the continent, content to be alone, looking out for worthy recruits or simply enjoying a freedom few could claim.  Finally it became clear that no warden in Ferelden or Orlais was spared.  The Orlesian Commander, Clarel, called all her people to her side, seeking desperately for an explanation, or a cure, and rumours began to spread of a new advisor to the Grey, one who offered Clarel a way to ensure the wardens would not die out while two old gods remained undiscovered.  But rumours they remained, as Clarel and her people disappeared without a trace, the dissolution of the Circles and the desertion of the Seekers and the Templars making the absence of a relative handful of outcasts and loners unnoticed among the great and powerful of Orlais. 

By contrast, the Ferelden wardens were few, beyond Rhiannon’s close friends and Leliana’s agents; only a handful had undergone the Joining since Bethany had transferred to the Vigil after being saved by Stroud and his men in the Deep Roads.  That handful were now dispersed as messengers while their leaders gathered in Soldier’s Peak to discuss their response to the crisis.  

“We’ve heard nothing from Clarel since she suggested we join forces, it will be weeks before anyone gets to Ansburg and longer still to Weisshaupt.  We need to make plans in the meantime, we can’t sit on our arses waiting to be saved.”  Rhiannon paced the floor of the common room they had chosen to meet in.  It was larger and more comfortable than her office, on a lower floor where the heat from the kitchens and Mikhael’s forge warmed the room even without the fire burning on the massive hearth.  Large sofas and armchairs, overstuffed and covered with furs, sprawled in haphazard fashion around the room while a large oak table sat against the far wall, food and drink laid out and ignored while four pairs of eyes watched their Commander stride back and forth across the room like a caged tiger.  Nathaniel and Bethany sat on one of the couches, holding hands, clinging together hard enough to hide the tremble in Bethany’s fingers, or Nate’s fidgeting as both struggled with an enemy they could not fight.  Anders sat curled up in one of the chairs, tapping long fingers on the arm, brows furrowed as he pondered the song ringing in his head and the work he had done for this event, come far too soon.  Alistair could not sit, instead he stood at the hearth, staring into the flames as if ancient gods would send the answer in their depths.  Finally, he looked around at his wife with eyes full of sorrow and said,

“What plans can we make against this, Rhi?  You know what happens to wardens who fight their Calling, will we hide here until we are no better than ghouls?  The end comes to us all…”

“Not all at once, it doesn’t,” she retorted, harshly.  “Not to Wardens of twenty years and those of two.”  She folded her arms and glared at him, understanding his pain, knowing it was not death, nor duty unfinished that caused the look in his eyes, but the knowledge that now he would never see his Morrigan again, would never lay eyes on the child whose existence had saved her own life.  It hurt him, but it made her angry, she would not allow this to be the end.

“I’m not sure it is the Calling,” Anders said, quietly, flinching slightly as everyone turned to him.

Alistair was first to ask, “What do you mean?”

The mage shuffled slightly in his chair, avoiding eye contact with his friends as he rubbed his temples and tried to think past the never-ending singing in his head.

“The song, the whispers.  Everything I’ve read suggests wardens inducted during a blight or who have prolonged contact with darkspawn have shorter lifespans, we were all inducted within two years of each other, we all have had close contact with darkspawn…”

“Ayren hasn’t, nor Dori, nor Peter, Ali, Martin…”  Anders held up his hand to stop Rhiannon’s litany.

“I know, Reina,” His tone was conciliatory but still firm.  It was hard enough to focus without interruptions.  “I’m trying to say that it might be reasonable for us to start hearing it close together, if not all at once, there’s nothing to say it couldn’t be all at once.  I’m the oldest of us by a fair bit, Beth’s youngest, you and Alistair were inducted during a Blight, if you take the Blight to be from the Archdemon awakening rather than the darkspawn emerging, Nate and I fought the awakened darkspawn with you but Alistair didn’t, there are a thousand combination but they only apply to us here, not to all the rest.”  The others it did apply to were long gone, Velanna and Sigrun, Oghren and Justice, none of them wanted to say it but they all remembered their lost friends, wondered if any still lived, if they heard the song in their heads, or if they were all, indeed, dead in the Deep Roads.

“But this happened before, to me, to Wardens of different ages, different backgrounds, hearing the song in their heads, Called to the prison of an ancient darkspawn, controlled by him.  The song became so loud, I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t stop listening to the whispers, to that thing.  When it overwhelmed me, Justice took control, but even that didn’t work.”  He whispered, ashamed, “We attacked Mari, and the others, Fenris and Varric.  They managed to defeat us, make Justice retreat, break the song’s hold, mostly.  It was horrible.  I managed to keep it together after that, but only barely.  We found the darkspawn and killed it and it just disappeared, the singing, the whispers, just gone.”

Bethany looked stunned, “But, I was there, I didn’t hear anything. You didn’t mention anything like that.”

“Mari didn’t want you worried.  I didn’t hear it myself until we were inside the prison and then we killed it so it seemed pointless to mention it.”  He avoided her eyes.  He had asked them not to mention it, too ashamed and humiliated by how easily he had given in, and his friends had kept his weakness secret for him.

“You said you killed the darkspawn, and it only projected the Calling within a confined area?  So how can this be happening, and so widespread?”  Alistair demanded.

Anders rubbed his temples again and sighed.  “The darkspawn had a name, Corypheus.”  The other four frowned, even the talking darkspawn in Amaranthine had not had proper names, merely appellations like The Architect, The Mother, The Lost, The First.  He went on.  “It...he… insisted he was a magister, a priest of Dumat…”

“One of the Magisters Sidereal.” said Rhiannon, in hushed tones.

“He… it… reminded me of The Architect, the way it felt when he was around, but different.  And The Mother spoke of being cut off from The Song.”

“But it was killed?”  Now Nathaniel spoke, “You saw it killed?”

Anders nodded.  “Not just killed, by the time we were finished it was in bits.  Fenris actually started hacking the corpse into pieces and I had to burn it to ash before he would let us leave.  One of the original evil magisters?  I’m surprised he didn’t take the ashes to scatter a pinch every ten miles or so, just in case.  But in the legends there were seven, one for each of the old gods, the high priests of those gods.  I’ve wondered, sometimes, if the Architect was another.  If there are two, there could be more, possibly another five out there.  And if one, imprisoned and shackled by blood magic, could control an army of dwarves to travel to Kirkwall and to Ansburg to kidnap Mari and Beth, could control Grey Wardens and even a Fade Spirit, what could six of them together do?  The Architect intended to use us to cure the darkspawn of their obsessive search for the Old Gods, what if he found his friends and they did this to draw us all in?”  He slumped back in the chair, exhausted by the possibilities that had kept him awake the last few nights while he waited for his friends to join him.

“There’s a lot of ‘what ifs’ in there, Anders,” Alistair said, and the mage nodded, it was all speculation, no evidence beyond what he had felt inside that prison.

“But it does make sense.” said Rhiannon, slowing her stride long enough to pour Anders a cup of water from one of the jugs.  “At least as much sense as every warden in a defined area suddenly getting their Calling all at once, we don’t even know if anyone outside Orlais and Ferelden are hearing this, if they aren’t it would almost confirm that it wasn’t a real Calling at all.”

“So what do we do?” asked Bethany.  “Do we hunt ancient magisters?  Where would we start?”

Rhiannon shook her head.  “I wouldn’t have a clue.  The dwarves have reclaimed Kal Hirol, and the place we met the Architect was really where the far end of it met an old silverite mine.  It might be worth seeing if anything remains of the Architect’s laboratory, but I don’t expect he would still be there.  There are the Tevinter ruins where we fought the Mother but I’m sure we would have had incursions into Amaranthine if there were darkspawn gathering there still.  Apart from that there’s the prison outside Kirkwall, but it sounds like it was pretty much cleared out, or however many thousands of miles of Deep Roads.  Assuming they would even be in the Deep Roads.  We need a different approach.”

“Have you heard anything from Leliana?” asked Alistair.  Rhiannon shook her head.  

“She has nothing to give us, between the Orlesian civil war and the mages and templars, I don’t want to put any more strain on her.  I wrote to Zev too, but he’s gone to ground again so who knows.  Hunting mythical darkspawn is an impossible dream, at least for now.”

“But you have a plan anyway,” Nate spoke up, watching her carefully, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her.  “I know that look, Pup, it’s the one that got Fergus and me birched or mucking out the stables on too many occasions. Bryce always blamed us for letting you lead us astray.”  Which was true, although the far wiser Eleanor was quick to point out that most of the worst trouble was always Rhiannon’s idea, leading to days of being kept inside with long lessons in how a lady should deport herself.  

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Nate.”  The old nickname warmed her heart, but Rhiannon ignored the urge to hug him in favour of the careless tone she knew drove him wild.  She had to stay focused and crying all over her friends because she missed her parents was not staying focused.  “I don’t know why you make up these dreadful stories.”  She became serious again.  “At my request, Anders has been trying to find a cure for the Calling, a cure for the Joining in fact.  He’s researching a way to reverse what was done to us all.  I think we need to concentrate on that.  If we can’t find the source of this false Calling, maybe we can stop it anyway.”

Nate and Beth just stared at her in shock, but Alistair turned his gaze on Anders, who started fidgeting again under the King’s glare.

“It’s only a start,” he said, defensively, “Barely begun.  Our Blight serum is showing promise, so I’m starting with that as a basis, but there’s a lot of work to do.  And only so many people I can contact for books and so forth.  But there was a rumour that a group of Grey Wardens were cured of the taint a few decades ago.”  He was hesitant to mention it, since the rumours involved Alistair’s father, and he knew from the look on the other man’s face that he was aware of the story.

“Not just rumours,” said Rhiannon, now talking directly to Alistair.  “Leliana confirmed it for me.  The Grand Enchanter Fiona was once a Warden.  There are no details but she left the Wardens and entered the Circle after.”

“The Grand Enchanter who recently wrote asking for sanctuary within Ferelden?”  

She nodded.  “I want to speak to her anyway, but that’s regardless of whether you allow her and her mages to stay.”

He looked at Anders, then Bethany.  “Mages shouldn’t have to run to be free, they shouldn’t be caged because of something they might do.”  He smiled at Beth, especially.  “They shouldn’t have to keep their whole family in hiding just to have that family.”  He turned to Anders.  “Or to be conscripted into the Wardens to escape execution or Tranquility because they want to be free.”  Finally, he turned back to his wife.  “I already offered her a place in Redcliffe, with her people free to move about the Hinterlands.  It’s not ideal but there are still so many places virtually empty out there.  Plus, with this talk of a conclave…”

“You think the conclave will be in Ferelden?”  Anders sounded unsure.  “I assumed Val Royeaux, or somewhere…” He trailed off, not quite wanting to say the word ‘significant’.

“Important,” Rhiannon finished for him.  Val Royeaux is a bad choice, after the fiasco at the White Spire, Cumberland or Kirkwall too associated with either mages or templars.  The Divine will choose somewhere significant, not to the mages or the templars or even the Chantry, if she has any sense, but somewhere that binds them all.  I’d lay odds on it being at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  Even most mages are still Andrastrian, whether they believe in the Chantry or not.  It’s in the centre of southern Thedas but not technically in either Orlais or Ferelden, although an Orlesian claims it as part of his family's lands, granted during the occupation. It’s also a place with the most amazing sense of presence, a very real place of power, Andrastrian power.  We almost had to drag Leliana away or she would still be kneeling before those ashes.  I have no doubt that is where she’ll advise the Divine to hold her Conclave.  If they ever get far enough along to set one up.”  She wasn’t hopeful, even the templars she knew and liked tended to be rigid in their beliefs, indoctrinated from a young age; and the mages had every reason to be wary of a summons from the Divine, even couched as an invitation.  Not to mention those on both sides who would inevitably use the situation for their own ends and to settle old scores.  

“I want to speak to Fiona and see where that leads.”  She hesitated, avoiding Alistair’s eyes.  “I also intend to go to Halamshiral.”  He stiffened, knowing she meant to see Morrigan.  “Then, I suppose it depends what they have to say, what I can find out.”  She looked over at Anders.  “I’ll send anything I find back to you.  Nate, Beth, I need you to head out, go to Kirkwall, Bethy, if you know where your sister is, go to her.  Just try to get away from all this.” She turned back to Alistair and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him as he leaned his head down onto her shoulder.  “You need to stay here, love.  Be King, protect Ferelden.”  She nipped his arm lightly when she heard the muffled protest.  “Yes, you do!  You know you do!  We can’t both go, sweetheart.  I’ll write when I can.  I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Rhiannon stepped back and looked at the four of them and smiled.  “Besides, no doubt I’ll come home covered in glory and with a whole new crew of dubious misfits to tarnish my reputation.”  Her tone broke the tension and they ate and drank, talking about the various miscreants Rhiannon had managed to collect along the way, avoiding more serious topics, until they retired, one at a time, to find some rest before the dawn.

Chapter Text

Alistair walked into the room deep in thought, barely waiting for Rhiannon to close the door behind them before he started stripping off, pouring enough water from the ewer beside the fire to wash perfunctorily before climbing into bed, looking without really watching as his wife did the same. 

In the years since their marriage, he had grown to love his sharp edged lady. She was a skilled fighter, a clever tactician and a consummate politician with no more conscience in her manipulations than she had in sacrificing a pawn in chess. She gave her heart to precious few and sometimes he thought only those few were real to her, real people with real feelings.   He reflected sometimes on the two loves of his life - Morrigan seemed as cold as ice but used it to hide a warm and loving heart, bruised by an uncaring mother, Rhiannon seemed warm and friendly, sweet voiced with a kind smile for nobles and peasants alike, but inside she was as cold as the Void; what they had in common was what they needed from Alistair, to be able to be themselves, to have nothing expected of them, no role to play.  Alistair had realised even before he was dumped in the chantry that no matter how hard he tried, he would never please those around him, so he had stopped trying to be anything but himself, fumbling and gauche as that was, and in him both women had found someone with whom they could be completely themselves, and loved him for it.

He could tell by how rigidly she lay in bed that Rhi was thinking hard, so he drew her in, sliding one arm under her neck and shoulders while folding the other under his own head.  She rarely touched him unless she wanted to have sex, touch was one of her weapons, used carefully, calculated to worm through barriers and she never wanted him to feel that she was using that on him.  Instead, Alistair held her as often as possible, offering her the comfort of his arms, needing nothing in return, content with a comfortable nothing between them that made no demands, required no reciprocation.  She softened slowly against him, relaxing against his skin with a soft sigh.

“You should take them with you,” he said, gently.  He ignored the sudden return of tension in her body and continued.  “You have far to go and you’ll need the help.  I can’t go with you, I know that, but I don’t want you to be alone.”  Truthfully, he didn’t want her to go at all.  Hadn’t she done enough for Ferelden?  For the Grey Wardens?  For the whole of Thedas, really?  But there was no point going down that road, his Rhi would happily take the fate of the world on her shoulders and let it crush her - overcompensation for what she thought was missing in herself.  All he could do was make sure she wasn’t alone as she did it, and as much as he wanted to disappear with her and leave Eamon to pick up the pieces, that wasn’t who he was, so he wanted her to have someone she trusted - someone he trusted.  Nate had known her since they were children together, loved her like a sister, and Bethany had gone from being completely intimidated by the Hero of Ferelden to being a friend second only to Morrigan and Leliana.  Rhi didn’t make female friends easily, she didn’t trust the noblewomen who waited on her and stayed distant from her subordinate grey wardens, respecting but not befriending them. Bethany was the exception. 

She had turned fully into his embrace, his arm wrapping round so he could stroke the long, soft, crimson hair that tumbled down her back, the texture almost indistinguishable from the silk shift she wore, and she mumbled into his chest.  “I’d rather they were safe, away from Ferelden, Orlais, the other wardens.  I want them kept out of this whole thing.”

He chuckled lightly, earning himself a pinch on the inside of his arm.  “Hey!  That was uncalled for.”  He shifted slightly so he could rub where she had nipped, then moved her back in towards him, ignoring the hint of warmth as her body moved against his.  “I want them to be safe too. But no warden is safe right now, not with the Calling in our heads.”  He sighed, wishing the song would quieten so he could think of the right words to use.  Sentiment and emotion would not sway his queen, only cold logic.  “An archer and two mages with complementary talents wouldn’t go amiss, although I’d recommend finding a warrior to escort you too.  You’ll be going to Redcliffe first…” She muttered something about Anders and he huffed in agreement.  “If you’d let me finish - you should ask Anders and Nate to scout the road to Orlais.  Beth can go with them, or go to Redcliffe with you and restock supplies while you talk to Teagan and Fiona.  Nate has contacts all over Orlais as well as the Free Marches, I’ll send messages to Leli and Mor to smooth your way.  You’ll almost certainly end up going to Weisshaupt so unless you learn the language quickly you’ll need Anders - I mean Josef.  He’s spent the last year learning everything he can about the place.  It makes sense, Rhi, you know it does.”

She turned from him and sat up, knees up almost at her chest with her arms curled around them as she looked at him with a mix of misery and love.  “You have it all thought out, don’t you?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied.  “If by ‘all thought out’ you mean making it up as I go so my beautiful wife doesn’t get abducted by bandits before she can save us all for the fourth or fifth time.”  Her eyes creased slightly and he knew he had won.

“Hmph, I have no doubt you would tell everyone the bandits would get sick of me and bring me back before anyone noticed I was gone.”

“No, love.  I already used that one when you ran off to Kirkwall to save Anders.  Damn it!  Josef!  Anyway, I’d tell them one of the Avvar carried you off to make you his bride and we should expect a herd of mountain goats to be delivered within the week.”  She laughed and uncurled herself, leaning back in to give him a light kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Only a herd of goats? I’m worth more than that!”

“Two herds of goats, twenty deer and a high dragon, I won’t accept anything less!”  He said dramatically, as Rhiannon giggled beside him, wriggling as she started to nibble on his sensitive ear, the mood changing as her small hands swept down his chest to rub gently over his nipples, drawing a small groan as she pinched lightly before moving gracefully to straddle his hips, silk slipping against his stirring cock, prompting him to draw her down into a playful kiss.  They both sank into it, soft, gentle movements, tongues barely sliding against each other, fingers lightly grazing skin, hips slowly undulating, desire building, unrushed, unhurried, enjoying sweet touches.  It could be months before they were together again, it could be years; Rhi slid back, kisses falling like summer rain along his body as she moved down, drowning the song in their heads with touch, taking him, half hard, into her mouth and feeling him rise against the slip and glide of her tongue, filling her mouth, his tip dripping hot musk into her throat as he watched her through heavy lidded eyes, his cock disappearing between her red, pouting lips, the length of her body stretched between his legs, her kneeling position curving her back and raising luscious buttocks in the air, exposing her damp slit to the cool air of the room and making her sigh around him, the vibrations singing along him.  The sight of her was too much, her ass in the air, mouth stretched around him, veridium eyes never leaving his, his eyes closed and his head fell back as he came, filling her throat with his seed, feeling her swallow around him again and again, drawing his orgasm out, the song disappearing into the Void as he floated on a wave of love and lust, his darling slipping her body back upwards along his, kissing salt and sour into his mouth alongside her own taste of honey and spice, coaxing him back to earth as she whispered her love into him and he swallowed her words down with the mingled taste.

“Did I kill you, love,” she said, leaning up so she could look down into his eyes.

“You did,” his lips twitched, “You’ve sucked the life from me, you witch.”  The words were wrong as they fell from his lips and pulled at recent memories, still sharp, of a witch dying on his sword and life draining from his father and she felt the tension gathering and pulled him towards her, soothing him with her skin and her mouth singing of love and hope and plans for a future they might never have until tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and gentleness became pain.

Suddenly, he twisted, flipping her onto her back and staring down at her, descending on her mouth with bruising force, feeling her push back, shifting with the mood, letting him pin her arms to the bed while he took her strength, her defiant will, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him into her as he bit down on the curve of neck and shoulder, driving into soft, slick heat until the head of him rammed against the firm flesh at the entrance to her womb, pounding against it, tilting her hips upward with one hand under curved buttocks, fingertips digging deep into muscle, the other still holding both fine-boned wrists above her head, forcing her back to arch, bringing pert breasts within reach of his searching, pulling, sucking, biting mouth, drawing cry after cry from her until she screamed his name, tight heat convulsing against him, drawing everything out of him and this time they were both soaring as the world melted in bliss, as he roared his anger and sorrow and love and fear, filling her with his pain and his hope, shifting as he felt her relax to bring deft fingers against her swollen pearl, slick with their juices, flicking and rubbing as he moved still within her, finally pinching it hard, the shock of pain bringing her to her peak once more with a shrill scream, pulling the last drops of his seed, forcing him up once more, his final orgasm leaving him dry and shaking as he collapsed onto her.

As exhausted as he was, he forced himself to roll over before she could complain of the heavy pressure on her, pulling her back into his arms so they finished where they began, her head on his arm, his hand tangled lightly in her silken hair, hers lying gently on his chest.

“Take them,” he said, pleading with her now.  “I wasn’t alone, I can’t let you be alone either.”

He could feel her smile, muscles shifting against his arm, sleepy warmth in her voice.  “For you, love.  Anything.”  Knowing she would be safe with those they both loved, Alistair followed his wife into dreams.

Chapter Text

The four wardens had left Soldier’s Peak at the beginning of Drakonis, with Spring in full swing as they rode across the Bannorn, avoiding the North Road with it’s frequent traffic in favour of smaller roads and hunting trails. Despite the constant singing in their heads, pushing them on, they rested frequently, knowing the hardships that would come as they entered more desolate lands and the strain it would place on their mounts. 

As they rode along, Josef realised that he had never travelled like this, never ridden through the countryside in the company of friends, never taken time to enjoy the sight of growing fields and woodlands carpeted in wildflowers. Before the wardens he had been too concerned with running, with finding large towns and cities to disappear into, the most successful being the time he spent in the Pearl in Denerim. There had always been the urgency of staying ahead of the Templars and when they inevitably found him the constant stress of smites and kicks had made him oblivious to anything around him but the melancholy of being dragged back to his prison. He had travelled with the Wardens, but only around Amaranthine and much of that time had been spent in the Deep Roads, fighting darkspawn, or traipsing around the boggy pit that was the Blackmarsh. His trips to other circles for the Wardens had been in the company of Templars and too stressful for him to truly enjoy, his fear borne out by an attack that made him flee back to Vigil’s Keep alone, passed off by the templars as a ‘disappearance’ on his part. Even his travels to Sundermount or the Wounded Coast had been for a purpose, short trips filled with violence for the most part, the occasional quiet ride with Hawke as they foraged for healing herbs that Josef could rarely afford to buy. He had never spent day after day travelling through the countryside, their goal far off as they laughed and chatted and worked together to make camp. He had never sat night after night beside a fire, listening to stories of childhood pranks or trivial gossip, laughing freely and enjoying the light touches of loved and trusted friends. He had observed before that the human mind could not stay at a fever pitch for long, the most stressful of situations became normal if it lasted long enough and so, though the song never stopped singing in their heads, though their quest was never far from their minds, there was time to see the world around him, to revel in a freedom he hadn’t known he lacked.

When they reached the north tip of Lake Calenhad the group split. Rhiannon and Bethany took the road south to Redcliffe, while Nathaniel and Josef followed the top curve of the lake, ignoring the looming Tower that, empty and abandoned, stood its silent watch over passing travellers. They would skirt Orzammar, following the main highway along the edge of the Frostbacks into Orlais. The women would take a different path, cutting through one of the high passes and across the Dales. They had agreed to meet in Collinverd, a small village a few miles beyond Halamshiral. While they waited Nate would sift through the information he was collecting along the way so that when Rhiannon and Bethany arrived he would have some idea of what was happening, perhaps even some clue as to where the Orlesians wardens had gone.

For his part, Josef was simply enjoying the ride. The well travelled road saw few bandits and even those would not risk a confrontation with two well armed wardens. It was strange not to be wearing robes, the blue and silver leather armour Nate had brought for him fit like a glove and contained enchantments so fine that Josef suspected Sandal had done the work, which made him wonder if the Feddics had remained in Kirkwall or if they had returned to their native Ferelden to work for the wardens. Probably the latter since the armour was so obviously Wade’s work, as was the beautiful dragonbone staff also etched with runes in Sandal’s familiar style. He had never worn battlemage armour before, the set that had been commissioned for him at Vigil’s Keep had not been finished when he fled for Kirkwall, he had travelled in robes emblazoned with the griffon insignia, for all the protection it had offered him, and in Kirkwall he had found the feather covered coat in a box in Lirene’s shop and paid a dwarf to enchant it with the cheapest runes he could get. Now everything down to his smallclothes was made just for him, to the highest quality and in a strange way it made him feel special, part of something, cared for as he had never been before, not even when he had lived with Mari.

They stopped at the market outside of Orzammar to buy some supplies and Nate threw Josef a full coin pouch. “Get whatever ingredients you need, we’ll have time to make potions while we wait for the women at Collinverd.” The archer grinned, “You’ll need alcohol as well, make sure you pick up some of the good stuff while you’re at it.” Josef grinned back and made his way over to a stall displaying various herbs and other ingredients while Nate wandered off in search of a fletcher. Some of his hunting arrows had been flying off the true and he couldn’t work out why, having only enough skill to make field replacements when necessary.

They had agreed to meet back up at a booth that sold pies and ale and since Josef arrived first, he was buying. By the time Nate appeared the pies were cool enough to eat and Josef was already halfway through one, grease dripping down his fingers as he savoured the spiced minced lamb and crisp pastry after almost two weeks of trail rations and the occasional roasted rabbit. Dwarven ale was something he normally avoided but the tankard in front of him was filled with a smooth golden brew with no musky hint of deep mushroom. Two coins were sitting on the barrel beside three pies and two tankards, one with Alistair’s face staring up, the other with the insignia of Ferelden’s monarchs visible. Nate grabbed one of the pies and bit into it, careful not to spill grease down himself as Josef had.

“Seriously, Josef?” he said, “You’d think you hadn’t eaten in weeks.”

Josef just shrugged. He pointed down at the coins. “I haven’t seen a Ferelden coin in years, when I left they all still had Cailan on them.” He picked up the one with the insignia facing up, a stylised combination of the two monarch’s initials. “Why does this say A and E?” He looked at Nate, who started laughing. He washed the pie down with a draught of ale before answering.

“I didn’t realise you didn’t know, although I should have. She didn’t even tell Alistair until the wedding. He was a bit surprised to be married to Lady Elissa Eleanor Rhiannon Maretha Cousland.” Nate grinned as Josef grimaced at the overly formal name. “Exactly, that’s the face she makes when she hears it trotted out. If you value your balls, don’t call her Elissa. She says it sounds like someone trying to call their pet snake. Annoying her with it was funny until she put snakes in our packs when we went camping. One slipped out while we were riding and sent Fergus’ horse crazy, thankfully the horse was ok but Fergus ended up with a broken leg and Rhi was working in the scullery until it was healed enough for him to ride again.”

“In the scullery?” Josef was surprised. Few nobles seemed to discipline their children at all and certainly not with menial work.

“Eleanor’s idea probably, Bryce would have had her confined to quarters or something equally ineffectual, Eleanor knew exactly how to punish her daughter. She still hates doing dishes, Ally told me she did almost all the cooking the entire time they were on the road, just so someone else would have to wash up. Luckily her old nurse became the castle’s head cook, old Nan could make a banquet out of anything and she taught her well.” Nate looked thoughtful. “I wonder if she knows Nan’s clootie recipe, no one made it like her. Anyway, official documents, laws, coins and the like are all signed Elissa but nothing else.”

“Hmm,” Josef finished off his second pie, grabbing a handkerchief from his pouch to wipe his hands and chin. “I sometimes forget I knew her for such a short time, not even a year.”

Nate looked at him, speculatively. “I think we all forget that, sometimes. You two just seemed so close, from the very beginning. I haven’t seen her so at ease with someone since… well, not for a long time. When you left, she closed back down again.”

Josef grunted. “So I’ve been told. She certainly hasn’t opened back up to me.”

“Did you expect her to? You made yourself an abomination and ran off to the Free Marches instead of going to Denerim and letting her fix everything. Instead she had to get Zev to dispose of Caron while she mourned your death. You’re lucky she didn’t just let the Champion kill you, or do it herself.”

The mage grunted again, his eyes darkening. He gathered up the tankards to take back to the stall and Nate watched him go, silently kicking himself for mentioning Kirkwall. Any reminder of his life as Anders, or Hawke, or the Chantry explosion, sent Josef spiralling into darkness, he would be lucky to get the man to eat or sleep or even talk to him again for a week or more. He had always had dark moods, his mind scarred much as his body had been by repeated abuse. They had been lovers once, but Josef had never really let him in, rejecting his embrace when the nightmares took him, ending it when Caron brought Rolan and his cronies to Vigil’s Keep, when he locked himself in his room for days on end, emerging only when directly ordered. Nate had fallen head over heels for the confident, cocky mage and had genuinely mourned his passing, but he knew they would never have lasted even if Josef had stayed at the Keep. He didn’t know how to deal with the moods and the silences, frustration turning to anger until he wanted to beat sense into his thick skull. No, Nate had never known how to be what Josef needed, even when he had thought himself in love with him. Beth was even tempered, open in her moods and painfully honest at times but they understood each other. He growled and took himself off to get more ale. Fuck Josef and his moods, he had said nothing that wasn’t true, the man would just have to work it out himself.

Josef hadn’t really expected Nate to follow him. He hadn’t wanted him too. Nathaniel always wanted to talk, to thrash things out, he had never appreciated his own need for silence. They had camped just beyond the pass leading to Orzammar but as he crossed the great stone bridge he walked off the path and into the woods, boots crunching on the layer of pine needles as he moved downhill. He could hear the rushing of a waterfall in the distance and he shifted his direction to head towards the sound of water. Eventually the trees thinned into a clearing on the edge of a great river, water pouring out of a crack in the side of the mountain and dropping into a deep gorge. The weak sunlight sparkled through the streaming liquid, breaking into rainbows that shimmered and hypnotised the watching warden. The sound of running water settled him, dancing colours scintillating across the foam where falling water hit the pool deep below. He was close enough to feel the spray on his face, chilling hot cheeks as he found a boulder to perch on.

He had forgotten, for just a little while, he had allowed himself to feel normal. Justice was long gone and he grieved, as he had grieved for Karl in the first few years, but he had felt a little relieved too. In killing Karl he had set him free, saved him from the horrors of living as a mockery of what he had been, and in some ways Mari had done the same for Justice. He had turned his friend into an empty shell of himself and then he had filled that shell with rage and pain, channelling the depths of his hatred of the injustices in the Gallows, in Darktown, in the whole of the rotten, corrupted city, funnelling it all into his friend until all that was left of Justice was the dark core of Vengeance. He had saved Karl after the templars corrupted him and then he had corrupted Justice until only Mari could save him. In his last moments, as Josef lost consciousness, he had thought he felt Justice again, a hint of blue light shining in the darkness, but then it was gone, oblivion overcoming him before he could be sure, before he could know if Justice had found himself once more, at the end.

He had put it all aside these last weeks, joining in the camaraderie as if he deserved to be part of it, as if he wasn’t the murderer of hundreds, as if he wasn’t the reason thousands more were dying all over Thedas. He had travelled through the countryside and drank in its beauty as if he had a right to it, as if he was part of the blessing of nature instead of apart and accursed. What a fool he was.

He had no idea how long he sat there, staring at the sunlight streaming through the trees, bouncing off water droplets and dancing across the roaring foam. As the sun moved it created new patterns, shimmered in different ways, becoming warm and golden before shading towards red. By the time Nathaniel found him the light had almost gone and what there was had become cold and white, no longer dancing but in some ways more beautiful than the lively, happy light of the day. Moonlight only reflected life, it had no life to give itself, peaceful and quiet as the grave as even it began to fade into the darkness.

“Fucking Maker, do you know how long I’ve been looking for you, you bastard?”

He didn’t even blink at the sudden, loud profanities, was so deep inside himself he barely heard them, barely felt the iron grip that appeared on his arm, tight enough that it would leave a bruise later.

“Shit, you’re freezing. Who the fuck decides to hide on top of a fucking mountain.” The tugging broke through slightly, more than just a buzzing annoyance, and he glanced up at the archer glaring down at him then looked back to the water.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, tonelessly. “You should get back before someone steals everything.”

Nathaniel swore, “I’m not leaving you here to mope, Josef, you’ll freeze to death.” He started pulling again until he annoyed Josef enough to shoot a warning flash of lightning into his hand.

“Stop it, Nate.”  

“Shift your skinny arse back to the tent or I’ll shift it for you, Warden!” It wasn’t his friend Nate who spoke, this was the voice of the Warden-Constable, the voice of Nathaniel Howe, Lord of Vigil’s Keep. It was a voice of command and duty and it spoke to something Josef had long forgotten, the sense of being part of something more. He had been alone for so long, even when he was surrounded by people, even while he lived in Mari’s house, slept beside her, plotted to betray her for his cause and her protection. Since the age of 12 he had only known one home and that for less than a year, but that voice still called to him in a way he couldn’t avoid. With a sigh he stood and turned to Nathaniel, then started as he was pulled into a hug so tight he could hardly breathe.

“I thought you had wandered off a cliff or fallen in a gorge or just frozen to death, you bastard. Don’t do that to me again!” Now the warden had gone and it was Nate who was hugging him, whose voice was breaking with emotion. Not the Nate of now, who still resented Josef’s years of silence, who comforted Bethany after the destruction of Kirkwall. The was the Nate who had loved him, who had held him when the nightmares came, had stood beside him raining death and destruction in the Deep Roads, who had tried to protect him from Rolan and who had mourned his death. He melted into the embrace, still familiar after all these years, pressing into hard muscle and strength. There were no barriers against this Nate so he allowed himself to be directed back along the path, away from the water that had drowned out the Archdemon’s song for a while, towards the small camp where a fire crackled, a pot of stew left slightly to the side where it would stay warm but would not burn and a small tent off to the side promised more warmth and rest. By the time they reached the camp Josef had come back to himself enough to feel the chill, and the ache in his bones from sitting in one place for hours. Passively he sat when Nate pushed him down beside the fire, took the bowl of stew in nerveless hands and held it for a while before finally beginning to eat. All the while Nate watched him, his expression a familiar mixture of fear, frustration, anger and love.

“Why do you do this?” He said, quietly. “It was a stupid comment, I didn’t even mean it. Was it really worth punishing me for hours over?”  

Josef looked at him, startled. “Why…” he coughed, his throat chilled and raspy. He took another spoonful of stew then washed it down with a gulp of the cider he had bought earlier to warm them in the mountains. He tried again. “Why would I punish you? You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Reina should have left me in Kirkwall. Mari should have killed me. I still don’t understand why they saved me. I don’t understand why you don’t just leave me here.”

He looked up to see Nate looking at him softly. “You really are a fool, Anders.”

“You shouldn’t call me that.” Josef weakly protested.

The archer ignored him. “They saved you because they love you, idiot. I carried you through a war zone because I love you. Bethany looked away from people she might have been able to help, because she loves you.”

“I’m not worth it, Nate. What have I ever brought anyone but pain?”

The soft gaze hardened. “Ask the mages you freed and sent to Ferelden what you brought? Ask the girls who had their babies in the Vigil and were able to keep them and raise them what you brought? Ask the families in Darktown, or the miners in the Bone Pit, or the slaves you helped free and then healed? Ask the people in Amaranthine who could walk safe because of the blood mages and criminals we cleared out, ask the soldiers you lifted rubble from when the walls of the Vigil came down, or Dworkin’s wife when the midwife couldn’t stop the bleeding and everyone thought she and the babe would die, or Alistair, who would have kept having seizures until there was nothing left of his brain to keep him alive, or Rhiannon, who would have watched her husband die in front of her when even Wynne couldn't save him? Ask Bethany, who could have died in the Deep Roads twice without you to save her?” His voice softened again. “Ask me, Josef. Ask me what you brought me? Someone to talk to when I couldn’t talk to anyone for the anger and guilt in me. Someone to hold me when the nightmares came. Someone to watch my back in the Deep Roads and bring me out safe. You brought me happiness, and joy, and love, and fucking fantastic sex.” Josef couldn’t help the laugh that burst out from him then and Nate grinned back. Then he spoke more gently than before. “You brought me Bethany, you saved the other half of my soul and made my life complete. You have brought far more to the world than pain, love. Kirkwall was the tip of a festering iceberg, the White Spire will be known as the true beginning of the war. Your name might be cursed by many, but it is blessed by those who have known you.” Josef hadn’t noticed Nate moving closer until his arms were wrapped around him and he knelt before him, face to face so he couldn’t hide from the sincerity in his eyes as he leaned in and placed a kiss on cold, chapped lips. For a moment the mage froze, uncertain, before he dropped his bowl and spoon so he could return the embrace and moved forward to deepen the kiss, mouth moving hesitantly against Nate’s, the flick of the rogue’s tongue prompting him to open to him, to allow the soft exploration of his mouth, to massage his tongue against Nate’s as their hands moved along the others arms.

Months before he had kissed Reina and it had been sweet and slow like this, an exploration, a discovery of each other. It had gone no further and had never happened again but he already knew that this would not end the same way. There was too much history, to much feeling, familiar warmth already pooling in his groin as Nate’s kiss became deeper, more demanding, as their hands began to roam further, his tracing the hard chest muscles under the leather jerkin while Nate’s pushed firmly against his spine, running fingers firmly from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine, before moving back up.  

Suddenly Josef pushed away. Nate’s eyes narrowed in on the swollen, red lips that said, “Wait!”

“I don’t want to,” Nate growled.  

“Bethany…”

“Can wait her turn.” Josef barely heard his words, the growling tone sending signals straight to his cock, bypassing his brain completely. Nate hissed in frustration. “She’s fine with it. If it wasn’t for Rhi, she’d have dragged you into her bedroll as soon as we left the Peak.”

“Rhi?”

“Well, I’m not fucking a girl I think of as a sister, am I? So Beth is welcome to keep Rhi warm all she likes while they’re in Redcliffe, or anywhere at all as long as I’m not there. But we’re not leaving her in the cold so the three of us can have fun. Assuming you even want that, Beth says she thinks you think of her as a little kid, maybe even the way I think of Rhi?”

“No,” Josef breathed. “I don’t think of her like that at all.” Before the Deep Roads he had thought of little other than Bethany, another source of guilt. His love for Mari had grown slowly, at least partially out of a shared grief over Bethany. Eventually it had been a true love, while Beth was relegated to a brief crush, a fantasy he would never have pursued of a girl so much younger than him, locked in the same box in his memory as Reina. But where his infatuation with Reina had always been that of a faithful worshipper at the foot of his Goddess, his dreams of Bethany were far more carnal. “Not sisterly at all.” He smiled.

Nate’s returned smile was savage, gleeful, as if he was already imagining the things they would do together and he moved back in, crushing Josef against him, lips moving forcefully while his tongue demanded and entrance that Josef allowed without pause, fire matching fire as sweetness disappeared into passion, the men pushing armour and cloth out of the way, forgetting the chill night in the heat of their bodies as they moved together, exploring once familiar territory, investigating new scars. Josef summoned grease to his hand and pulled Nate to him, one hand around both hard, thick cocks, slickly sliding up and down, flicking his fingers over the tip, mixing their own slick with the grease, becoming more and more frantic until Nate bit down on his shoulder and spurted all over their skin, the mixed pain and pleasure sending Josef over the edge, his own seed erupting like a volcano, mixing with Nate’s as he called his name, as he declared his love over and over again, until they collapsed together and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

When he woke his skin was clean and furs were piled on him while the smell of porridge wafted across the clearing. He pulled himself up to watch Nate crouched over the pot, dropping a handful of dried apples and nuts into it before stirring it again and ladling generous amounts into two bowls. The rest would be let harden for a treat along the trail, keeping for several days. He grabbed his clothes, putting them on quickly under the furs, trying to lose as little heat as possible, then stood and moved over to Nate, taking the bowl and giving a kiss in return, being rewarded with soft eyes and a smirk.

“Sleep well?” Nate started eating his own porridge with his eyes still firmly on Josef’.

“Mmm, yes.” The porridge was delicious and Josef was starving.

“Good. We’re heading into Orlais today, tonight we might even find a town with an inn.” Josef looked up at the wicked smile on Nate’s face and smiled back.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

Horseshoes clattered across the wooden drawbridge, stopping briefly while the smaller of the two riders leaned over to talk to the knight who approached, startling him with a few words and a smile into waving vaguely in towards the main steps, where they dismounted and handed their horses off to the stableboys who appeared as if from nowhere. Both riders threw back their hoods to forestall further challenge, opening cloaks to expose light armour of blue and silver, and walked up the main stairs to the great doors of the keep, nodding to acknowledge the bowing guards and servants.

The Arl was enjoying an hour of peace in the library when the messenger finally found him to tell him of the visitors and he slammed his book shut, cursing the loss of a rare quiet afternoon and instructing the boy to have both visitors and food brought to his study. He stalked along the corridor, irritation turning to concern as he realised this wasn’t a meeting he had forgotten, that there had been no warning of the imminent arrival of two grey wardens, let alone his queen. When he reached the study he rummaged through the pile of papers looking for anything, any word from Rhiannon or Alistair that might have hinted that she was on her way.

“We didn’t send word.” The smooth, light voice penetrated his frantic search for anything that might have come from or mentioned his nephew. “Alistair’s fine, Teagan. He’s not why we’re here.” Teagan looked up at her, noting the dark circles stark against creamy skin, hair hacked short and a riot of crimson curls. Rhiannon smiled at him reassuringly and he relaxed, putting down the pile of papers and moving around the desk to grab his sort-of niece into a close embrace. She leaned into him, then pushed him away again and laughed. “Teagan, enough. I stink of horse and I’m hungry enough to eat bear. Let us get changed and have something to eat and I’ll tell you everything.” She gestured to the other warden and said, “Bethany Hawke, Nate’s mate. She can use Alistair’s room while we’re here. I already ordered tubs drawn on the way here.”

Teagan chuckled at her presumption and bowed to the mage. “Lady Bethany, you are welcome. Is Nathaniel well? Shall we expect him also?”

Bethany smiled at his courtliness and shook her head. “My thanks, my lord Arl.” She curtseyed, graceful despite her armour. “Unfortunately, my mate is on his way to Orlais, we intend to join him once our business here is done.”

Rhiannon clapped Teagan on the shoulder, “Your whiskey is safe for now, Teagan. This is a flying visit only. I need to speak to the Grand Enchanter.”

Teagan frowned. “Grand Enchanter Fiona spends most of her days at the Chantry. I’ll send for her if you like, but she has rooms here and generally returns for dinner.” He wanted to know the reason behind an unsolicited visit to the leader of the rebel mages, but he knew his queen. He would find out only if and when Rhiannon wanted him to know. He had often thought that if Bryce Cousland had to send his children abroad to finish their education, it would have perhaps benefited the nation if he hadn’t sent his daughter to Orlais. She had gone away a spoiled child and returned cold and manipulative, mistress of The Game and as much as that had saved them from the combination of Loghain and the Blight and kept Alistair alive while he learned to be King, it made her a dangerous and unpredictable quantity in a world that seemed to become more complex by the day. Queen, Arlessa and Warden-Commander, Rhiannon was the greatest power in Ferelden and the whole of Thedas knew it, and that much power in the hands of someone that he loved but could never bring himself to trust had made Teagan disquiet since the day the crown had been placed upon her head.

“The Chantry is an interesting place for a rebel mage to spend her days.” She said, cocking her head at him as if she would assess his next words for truth.

“Mother Eglantine is a learned woman, and a supporter of mage rights and the reformation of the circles. I believe they have long conversations and respect each other deeply. However, the Grand Enchanter, I am told, also spends long hours in contemplation and prayer. It cannot be easy to be at the head of the mage rebellion, it is not only the templars who despise and distrust mages. And there have been renegades on both sides causing trouble across the Hinterlands. As much as Fiona has tried to rein them in, no one can seem to find where they are hiding, too many have died trying. The rumours of a conclave exacerbate the tensions rather than relieving them since many on both sides, and those of us stuck in the middle, believe it is an opportunity to wipe out the mages once and for all. If I were she, I too might spend my days praying for my people.”

“As I recall, you spent your days leading your people to survive and your nights fighting.”

He nodded at her stern reminder of how they met. “And yet, I did a fair bit of praying too, Highness.”

At the title, Rhiannon sighed and looked at her fellow warden. “My title - now I am in trouble, Beth.” Bethany only shrugged her shoulders, seemingly amused by their interaction. “Fine, my lord Arl, we will wait to speak to the Lady Enchanter after dinner. Now, I have an appointment with a bath, so unless you’re offering to wash my back for me…” The twinkle of mischief that had drawn him to her in the beginning was back in place and he relaxed, laughing. It was no secret, among family at least, that his monarchs had other interests outside their marriage, but except for a brief unrequited infatuation during the Blight, Teagan had never felt inclined to become one of them, even if he could have betrayed Alistair’s trust in him. Instead, they lightly flirted and Teagan was one of the few nobles Rhiannon truly trusted. As he watched the women leave, he scrawled a quick note to be sent by raven, Whatever she was up to, no doubt his nephew would be glad to know his wife had arrived safely in Redcliffe. From her demeanour, Alistair may not get many more such reassurances before she returned to him.

------

Dinner was served in the family dining room when there was no court or event to require the use of the Great Hall. It was a good sized room but decorated in the overly fussy Orlesian style that Isolde had preferred and Teagan had not cared enough to change since the previous occupants had moved to Denerim. He had changed little in the castle, his own rooms more austere with no wife to add cushions and flowers and suchlike, the rest still covered in Orlesian frippery that he barely noticed any more. The dining room at least had few flounces and frills, the darkness of the wood muting the ridiculously ornate carving on the furniture and the food was served on silver that had belonged to Redcliffe for generations, beautifully simple in the style of the early Storm Age.

Tonight there were only six at dinner. Teagan took his place at the head of the table opposite Rhiannon with Bethany at his left hand and Fiona on his right. Beside the Grand Enchanter sat Ser Perth, invited both as an old friend of the Queen and as Seneschal of Redcliffe, while Bethany had Teagan’s nephew, Connor, as her dinner partner. Connor had come with the rebels to Redcliffe, but he avoided the village as often as possible, keeping to his old rooms or to the library, reluctant to come face to face with those he had wronged as a child, no matter that few in the village blamed him for what had happened during the Blight. One of the first things Rhiannon had done after the Blight was to have rumours spread placing the blame for the boys possession square on the shoulders of Loghain and the blood mage Jowan, with a little left over for the Lady Isolde. With Loghain and Jowan both executed and Isolde all but withdrawn from public life, the gossips had little to add to the story and Connor’s disappearance into the Circle had effectively ended any discontent there might have been. But the boy had never been able to forgive himself, had seriously considered asking to be made Tranquil and since the dissolution of the Circles had tried to avoid conflict at all costs. Under Fiona’s tutelage he had gained confidence but even she avoided the question of whether he would have made it to his Harrowing if war had not come. But as reclusive as he had become, Connor would never pass up a chance to spend time with his ‘cousin’ as Rhiannon insisted he call her, and Teagan was happy to indulge one of the few things that brought his nephew joy.

Dinner passed in small talk and reminiscence, no politics, religion or other divisive topics were allowed at meal times. Bethany chatted lightly with Connor, who was entranced at talking to a woman who had been an apostate her entire life and begged her for stories about her friends in Kirkwall, confessing ‘The Tale of the Champion’ to be his favourite book. He was particularly interested in hearing about Varric himself, for of course the dwarf revealed little about himself in his book while giving entirely too much away about others, at least in the opinion of some of those others. Ser Perth asked about Aveline and Donnic, having known Aveline and her first husband, Wesley, but with a faint blush that made Beth think the handsome knight was also a reader of Varric’s other books. Even Fiona joined in the conversation and the time passed quickly while Bethany made sure to stay away from mention of Anders in the stories she told. When the final plates were cleared and both Ser Perth and Connor had excused themselves to their duties, Teagan stood and bowed.

“Ladies, I bid you goodnight. Rhi, the green sitting room has coffee and brandy set out and a fire laid, if that suits you? I want to get at least a little more work done tonight, since tomorrow is Quarterday and I’ll be in court all day.” Quarterday marked not only the day the rents and taxes were due but the day any Fereldan could present a petition directly to his lord seeking justice. As Arl, Teagan would only receive petitions from those who lived and worked in the castle or in Redcliffe itself, or those who were appealing the decisions of his Banns, but it would still take most of the day.  

Once they left the room, he turned in the direction of his study, while Rhiannon led the other women to a small, comfortable room near her own quarters. Whenever they stayed in Redcliffe, this was the room she and Alistair breakfasted in, the room they met with friends in, the room they adjourned to after dinner when they had the opportunity for quiet time. It was decorated in shades of green - not insipid pastel colours but in forest green and emerald, with gold and russet highlights that gave the room a warm, cosy feeling. Rhiannon sat in her usual chair beside the fire and indicated the one opposite to Fiona while Bethany poured coffee then settled herself on a chair slightly further away from the fire. For a few minutes the other two watched each other in silence, each sizing up the other. Fiona was just as expert in the game as Rhiannon and she knew she had the upper hand. The Queen of Ferelden had not sought her out for a quiet dinner as a stop on her journey, she wanted something from the mage and so she waited, content in the knowledge the younger woman would come to her.

For once, however, Rhiannon was not simply trying to gain the other hand. Something was bothering her about the elven woman, something in her movements or her looks, something she could not put a finger on but that she knew meant something important. She decided to jump right in.

“Were you a Grey Warden?” she asked, bluntly, hoping for a reaction even if she didn’t know what kind.

Fiona frowned, “Yes, I was. How did you…?”

“A friend told me. A friend who has been looking for specific information for me - information I hope you can help with?” Rhiannon looked her directly in the eyes, watching for the slightest flicker of emotion. “The Grey Wardens are hearing their Callings. All of them.”

She needn’t have worried about a reaction, the Grand Enchanter turned pale and gasped. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“All the wardens in Orlais and Ferelden, certainly,” Bethany interjected. “We are still waiting for word from farther afield.”

Fiona looked between the two women. “Then you…?” They nodded. “And King Alistair?” Rhiannon nodded again. The mage looked as if she would be sick and Rhiannon was quick to try to reassure her.

“”We’re not sure this is a true Calling.” She had already decided not to mention Josef, not even in passing. “It doesn’t sound like the Archdemon’s song I remember.” She took a deep breath before giving Fiona the story she had already decided on. “I met a darkspawn who could talk, not only that, he was intelligent. It was years ago, just after the Blight. He was trying to cure the darkspawn of their obsession with finding the Old Gods. His name was…”

“The Architect.” Fiona whispered.

Rhiannon frowned again. “Yes. He was using Grey Warden blood in his experiments. There were also rumours from Kirkwall of another talking darkspawn, this one called Corypheus, imprisoned by the Grey Wardens and released and then killed by the Champion of Kirkwall. My second, Nathaniel, was rescued in the Deep Roads near there by the Champion and a Warden.”

“Anders, I presume.” Fiona smiled gently, as if she had caught Rhiannon out, which suited her just fine.

“Yes,” she said sourly, as if at Anders and at Fiona’s perceptiveness. “Before he became a murdering terrorist, he was one of mine. He told Nate that the darkspawn had controlled him, controlled other wardens, and had reminded him of the Architect. He also projected a song not unlike that of the Calling. I presume if there are two such darkspawn, there may well be more.” She avoided any mention of ancient magisters. It was more important to keep everything simple. “How do you know about The Architect?”

“I met him, almost thirty years ago now” Fiona answered. “In fact, he is the reason I am no longer a Warden.”

“So he cured you?” Bethany leaned forward, intent on the woman’s answers.

“He did, in a way, but it was not intentional. He created amulets that sped up the process of the blight in our bodies, they were supposed to hide us from the darkspawn, given to us by the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle, his minion. I was the youngest, besides Duncan, the others succumbed, I was cured.”

Rhiannon interrupted, “Duncan wasn’t cured, he recruited Alistair and I.”

Fiona nodded. “He carried an artefact that stopped the amulet working. It did not progress the blight, but nor was he cured. I travelled to Weisshaupt to undertake the Joining again, but it did not work. And so I ended up in the Circle.” She paused to look at both young women, hanging on her word, The Game forgotten as they were caught up in the story and the hope of redemption. “The amulets were kept at Weisshaupt. I do not know where the Architect went.”

“To the Deep Roads under Amaranthine, apparently, but he isn’t there now.” That was part of what Nathaniel had been doing when he ended up under Kirkwall, investigating red lyrium for the First Warden and looking for the Architect for Rhiannon. “We were already working on a cure for blighted land, and I had hopes that the research would translate into a cure for blighted people, including Grey Wardens.”

“I do not think the First Warden would look favourably on such an endeavour.” said Fiona.

Rhiannon grinned. “I don’t think he looks favourably on much to do with me.” Her one interview with the man had been a fiasco of him demanding to know why she was not dead while she pleaded ignorance until he finally sent her back to Ferelden in disgust. Fiona smiled back, hesitantly. “But at least I know Weisshaupt is definitely going to be a stop on my journey.” Her smile disappeared as she said, thoughtfully, “I wish I knew how long we had, if it is a true Calling or even if it isn’t. I have an invisible deadline and I don’t even know if I’ll last long enough, or if…” She trailed off, the words sticking in her throat as Bethany moved to put her arms around her.

“Alistair will be fine, Rhi. We all will.”

Rhiannon lifted her head just in time to see that strange, almost sick look pass once again over Fiona’s face. It had happened the last time she had mentioned Alistair too. She looked puzzled. “Have you met King Alistair, Grand Enchanter?” She knew full well she hadn’t, else he would have mentioned it. 

Fiona shifted in her chair. “I knew his father.” 

Rhiannon did some calculations in her head. “Thirty years ago Maric disappeared for months, there were all sorts of rumours. When he vanished again a lot of people thought he would reappear, because he had done it before. At least until word of the shipwreck came. I wasn’t born the first time, but I remember my parents talking about it just before Cailan’s coronation.”

Fiona nodded. “We were heading into the Ortan Thaig, the King had been there before so my commander asked him for maps, directions, anything that might help. He was grieving, struggling with the pressures on him, he insisted on coming with us.”

Rhiannon curled her lip at the thought of the Ortan Thaig. “Eugh, spiders.” She didn’t remember much of Maric but from the stories that was exactly the sort of thing he would have done. Queen Rowan had died not long before and he had been headstrong and impulsive, traits both his sons shared. Fiona looked sad, she had lost all of her companions but Duncan, lost even that which made her a warden, no wonder she mourned events from so long ago. But watching her, it occurred to Rhiannon that the woman’s sadness was something else and that something was nipping at the back of her mind, trying to get her attention. She whispered to Bethany, who made her apologies and left to retire for the night. Then, solely on instinct, she said, “Of course, it turns out Maric didn’t die after all, he was captured. Alistair spent months hunting him down in Antiva, only last year.” Fiona’s face was a picture of polite interest, too polite, Rhiannon thought, but one of her ears twitched, just a flick, barely noticeable, “His life force had been drained to fuel a misguided attempt to enter the Fade, in freeing him, Alistair had to let him die. I hoped that Alistair would find his father, would have something of the life he should have had, instead of the one he did, but it wasn’t to be. Instead he brought home his ashes.” She didn’t hide the anger or resentment she had felt on behalf of her husband, that there was always something in the way of his happiness, and she suspected part of that anger belonged to the woman in front of her, whose eyes had shone with tears she was trying to hold back, whose ears twitched slightly as if they were the only vent for her emotion. “Of course, his mother died in childbirth, it wasn’t her fault he grew up unloved and alone, she couldn’t have chosen to abandon her son to those who would make him sleep with dogs and send him to the Chantry when he was only ten. Thank goodness Duncan saved him from becoming a Templar, I suppose the Blight is better than ending up lyrium addled, or dying in some ridiculous skirmish in the middle of this Maker-cursed war.” She kept her voice and eyes unfocused, as if only thinking aloud, then sharpened them both. “My apologies, Grand Enchanter. You don’t want to hear about old wrongs done to someone you don’t even know. My emotions get the better of me sometimes.” She stood, smoothing out her gown and made an abrupt curtsey to the mage. “I am tired, Lady Fiona. Please excuse me, we have a long journey ahead. I should retire.”

Fiona stood and curtsied back, raising her head to look directly at the queen. “Of course, your highness.” She hesitated, then continued. “For all the misfortune of his youth, I think your King very fortunate in his wife, and in his friends.” She looked as if she would have said more, but stopped herself, simply wishing Rhiannon a good night before sitting back down before the fire, sipping her coffee and staring into the flames as Rhiannon slipped away to her room. When the door closed behind her, Fiona closed her eyes and felt the tears run down her cheeks.

Chapter Text

Halamshiral was no great city like Val Royeaux, instead it was a sprawling palace complex squatting in the middle of a network of villages and towns, a spider sitting in the middle of the web that fed it, while the web itself grew bedraggled. Situated at the edge of the Dales it was stately and beautiful and overlooked the devastation of the Exalted Marches. Rhiannon had been there before, when her father had been the ambassador to Orlais he had journeyed where the court did, and where he went, Eleanor and Rhiannon had followed. While Castle Cousland had been left to the stewardship of Fergus and Mother Mallol, Rhiannon had spent four years at the court of Orlais, as her brother had at the Antivan court a few years before. Unlike Fergus, Rhiannon had found no spouse there, but she had put the time to other uses, learning everything she could of the Great Game and making contacts from across Thedas. Bryce Cousland had made Ferelden respected in Orlais, ensured that there would be no attempts to annexe it again, and for all that work he had been murdered, Highever given to the bastard Howe, the Cousland name dragged through the mud until Rhiannon dealt with the traitors responsible. Now, passing the palace she had once roamed freely, she remembered the dances, the meetings, the gardens and the assignations, but above all she remembered her parents.

They were not entering the Winter Palace, it would be impossible for her to meet with the Empress’ Arcane Advisor without a thousand rumours and insinuations and she had no intention of the Orlesian court knowing of her presence. Instead they skirted the grounds, heading for a small town about five miles further on, small enough to have little attraction for the nobility but large enough that travellers were a frequent sight. There were three inns in the town and the Grey Wardens stopped at the one closest to the river docks, comfortable and welcoming with good food and an innkeeper who was friendly but not nosy, and who received a healthy stipend from Clarel each year to provide hospitality for any Wardens passing through. The inn didn’t cater to the nobility, there were no suites or private dining rooms, the sheets were cotton and the food was plain, but Rhiannon liked the quiet atmosphere and thought she might bring Alistair here sometime in the future.

She missed him. She hadn’t spent so long without him since they first met and now weeks had passed without seeing him or talking to him and who knew how long this quest would take or if she would ever see the end of it? Perhaps the Calling would take them all before she could return to him? The past ten years had seen one constant in her life and now he was miles away while she sought a way for him to put her aside forever.

The journey from Redcliffe to Collinverd had been uneventful, the weather warm and the roads well travelled. Cutting across the Emerald Graves instead of following the main highway around the edges had saved them days of travel and they rode through the wooden gates, waved on by two bored looking guards, almost a week earlier than planned. Collinverd was a typical Orlesian town, barely big enough to be called such. Rough hewn stone buildings lined a single thoroughfare while the rest of the town sprawled haphazardly outwards. At the centre of the town the street opened into a market square that today lay empty but for a small vegetable stall in the north-east corner. Directly across the square sat the Chantry, it’s spire visible for miles around, it’s doors opened wide. Instead of templars, soldiers in the Valmont livery stood around the building while a young girl in plain clothing swept the steps clean of dust. Most of the chantries they passed had soldiers in local livery guarding them, the only templars they had seen were a pair who had tried to ambush them two days out of Redcliffe, haggard and rough looking with rust spotting the familiar breastplate, skirts torn away to avoid catching on bushes. These were hunters - mage-hating fanatics who had abandoned their order to become vigilantes and criminals and the two women treated them as such, leaving their bodies for the scavengers and giving their armour to a village blacksmith to freely make what the villagers needed, melted down into pots and tools so it could never again be used to protect such scum.

The inn they were looking for was a few streets past the chantry, the tavern in front mostly quiet at this time of day as they headed round the side to a modest courtyard with stables. Rhiannon nodded to the stablehand who took Archer’s reins from her while another took Bethany’s Iris and the packhorse she had named Meredith, joking that it was the perfect name for the irascible animal. They would pay for stabling with their room, if Nate and Josef hadn’t already, but Bethany slipped the boys a few extra coins for themselves. They looked clean and well-fed, probably sons of the innkeeper, but a coin or two never went amiss and stablehands were a reliable source of gossip, should they need it. As expected, the taproom was all but empty, only a couple of solitary drunkards and a balding, middle-aged man wearing an apron and hammering a bung into an oak barrel behind the spotless bar. He looked up as they entered, took in the blue and silver armour they had put on before riding into Collinverd, and turned back to finish his job before addressing them, a move that had Rhiannon nodding in approval. A man who finished his job rather than fawning on customers the second they entered was one she could respect. The two women chose a table near the fire and waited for him to come over.

“I suppose it was too much to hope they would be just sitting here waiting for us?” Bethany muttered. They had pushed hard for the last day or so and her muscles were feeling it. The promise of a hot bath and clean clothes was as attractive as the thought of seeing Nathaniel after almost a month apart and wandering the town trying to find the errant men was not appealing in the slightest.

Rhiannon smiled at her. “No need to wait on them. I need to look about anyway. We’ll take a room, you can have the first bath and sleep and we’ll sort it out once we’re all here. They’ll turn up eventually. Unfortunately, I can’t get rid of them, troublemakers that they are.” Beth arched her brow and Rhiannon waved a hand. “Fine, I don’t try to get rid of them. But one day I’ll get tired of the insubordination and make them live in the Vigil and peel potatoes for the rest of their lives.”

She looked up as the innkeeper walked over to them, pleased to see him carrying two goblets and a jug of what turned out to be pear cider. “Forgive my presumption, ladies,” he said, “Your friends have been here for several days and mentioned you would be joining them. I have a room set aside, next to the others and it is early for lunch but I can have some bread and cheese brought up if you wish?”

Rhiannon kept her smile sweet and polite, pleased with the lack of grovelling in his tone. Orlesians were often stilted in speaking Trade, she found, but there was nothing patronising about him either and the inn seemed well maintained, clean and respectable. Obviously, Clarel’s patronage was well given here. “Merci,” she answered, tasting the cider and finding it sweet and refreshing. “Je m'appelle Rhia et mon amie est Beth. Savez-vous où sont allés nos amis ce matin?” The man looked pleased to be addressed in his native tongue and she inwardly grimaced as she imagined how he might have responded to Nathaniel’s poor Orlesian and abominable accent. Josef was good at languages but he had never found a need to learn Orlesian so the little Nate could remember from childhood lessons was all they had to carry them through until Rhiannon arrived.

“Ah, mesdames, la nourriture sera apportée immédiatement. Votre ami blond, l'Ander, est parti il y a une heure à la recherche d'une librairie. L'autre est toujours dans sa chambre.” Bethany looked perplexed at the flurry of Orlesian so Rhiannon translated.

“Josef is off looking for books, no surprise there, and Nate is still in their room. And he’ll have food brought right over.” She looked back at the man to ask, “Pouvez-vous organiser un bain dans notre chambre, s'il vous plaît? Nous voyageons depuis un certain temps.” At his nod she spoke again to Bethany. “He’ll have a bath drawn while we eat. You can soak and I’ll go hunting our bookworm. If he actually finds a bookshop we might not see him back here for hours.” She quickly got the directions the man had given Josef, and his name, Marcel, and by the time they had eaten the fresh bread and soft cheese brought by a girl named Olette, who could only be Marcel’s daughter they were so alike, they were assured that the bath was drawn and Beth was lead upstairs by Olette while Rhiannon left to find her errant mage.

Given the sprawling and disorganised layout of the town, it was harder than she anticipated to find her way around, finally stopping for directions when she landed in the square before the chantry for the third time. The soldiers would probably have known their way about but they looked at her with suspicion when she appeared yet again, so she made her way to the vegetable stall, looking over the wares and grabbing a small punnet of cherries she saw hiding behind a pile of beets. “Combien?” she asked, then handed over ten coppers before adding a small silver coin in return for the far clearer directions the young woman gave. She found the small shop just in time to see a tall blond man turn the corner ahead and cursed under her breath before shouting, “Josef!” The man started, then turned, waiting with a slightly guilty look as she walked towards him. She pushed down the urge to hug him tightly and instead grabbed the canvas bag he carried and looked inside.  

“Reina,” he protested, trying to grab the bag back while she pulled one of the books from it. She let go of the bag when she saw the title. The Tale of the Champion. Josef checked the other books were ok then closed the bag, avoiding looking at her as he muttered, “I’ll pay you back. I made enough potions to sell some through the apothecary here.”

She just looked at him for a moment, before grabbing him into the hug she had resisted a few minutes earlier. “I missed you,” she said, ignoring the comment about paying her back for the moment. “I’m not used to a quiet travelling companion, I kept waiting for the inappropriate comments every time we met someone along the way.” She took his arm firmly, tucking the book under her other arm, and said, “It took me nearly an hour to find my way here, you’re in charge of getting us back to the inn, where hopefully Beth is finished her bath so I can get mine.”

Josef grinned hesitantly down at her. “Do you think she made it to the bath?”

“She’d better.” Rhiannon grumbled, sourly. “If she’s canoodling with that troublemaker then I’m taking the bath and she can wait her turn.”

They walked arm in arm back to the inn, enjoying the peaceful silence. Rhiannon was disgusted to find it less than fifteen minutes walk and ignored the taproom to head straight up the stairs and into the room she would nominally share with Bethany. As he followed her in, Josef stopped and blushed, shutting the door behind him quickly so no one passing would see Nate and Beth both lying in the large tub before the fire, Beth almost asleep against Nate’s chest as he gently played with her long, black hair. They both looked up as Rhiannon entered, one languidly, the other tensing slightly, as she said. “Well she made it to the bath, at least. I hope you know you’re emptying and refilling that tub, Howe. I’m not getting in it with your filth and who knows what in there.”

“Pity we can’t persuade you to join us now, there’s room.” Beth said, laughing slightly as Nate tensed more and Rhia let out a grunt of disgust before dropping a kiss on Bethany’s forehead.

“If it was just you I’d be tempted, sweetness. Besides, I think you could do with a nap. Get that ruffian to put you to bed before he draws a fresh one for me. I’m going to catch up with Josef next door.” She took a leather folder from one of her saddlebags before leading Josef back out and waiting till he opened the door next to them.

The room beyond was neat, everything arranged with Josef familiar precision, the shutters thrown open to let fresh air in, the only sign of Nathaniel’s habitually untidy presence a rag and some leather polish lying discarded on the small table beside one of his greaves. Josef huffed as he moved the greave back to its mate, then lifted the polish and rag, slipping it into a bag that sat under the table. Rhiannon looked on with amusement, sitting on the edge of the large bed that was made with more precision than some of the palace maids could manage. Josef looked up at her and grinned, then emptied his canvas bag of half a dozen books, most of them by Varric Tethras. Those were stacked neatly on the bedside table before he finally sat on a sturdy chair and talked to her.

“I meant what I said, I will pay you back.”  

“I have no idea why you think you have to?” She said, frankly. “Didn’t Nathaniel give you money? I meant to share it out before we left but I forgot.”

Josef stared down at his hands in his lap. “Yes, of course he did. But I need to earn my own money, Reina, not live off yours. I know we’re all Grey Wardens and all, I’m not complaining, in fact, I’m bloody grateful, but I need to be useful. I’m not a charity case.” He looked up as she laughed, surprised and then slightly annoyed at her flippant response.

“Oh, take that look off your face, you idiot.” She laughed again at the glare he was throwing at her now. “The money is yours, twit.” She couldn’t help laughing at his indignant spluttering, remembering his stubborn independence and pride so well. “When we heard you were alive I reinstated your stipend, and backdated it. You have years of it accumulating in the warden’s vault in Denerim. Not to mention the fact that you are on duty as a warden, on a quest for the wardens. You persist in thinking of me as the queen, but I’m not here as queen. Technically I’ve abandoned my throne and my husband to disappear into the wilderness, Alistair will disavow any knowledge of where we are or what we are doing. Yes, money has been sent to Morrigan to bring to us, but it isn’t Ferelden money, it’s Warden money and some of it is yours.” She put out a hand to cover his and drew him to sit beside her on the bed, wrapping her free arm around him and leaning her head onto his shoulder. “You are ours, sweetheart. You are ours, and we are yours. Always and forever, from the moment of the Joining, until the darkness finds us. I am not a queen, you are not a healer, Nathaniel is not a lord, nor is Bethany an apostate. We are wardens, and we belong to each other.” She looked up at him through auburn lashes and asked, “How are you so good?” He looked back down at her, startled. “You and Alistair - how are you both so… good?”

He laughed. “Good? Alistair, yes, but Reina, I’m a mass murderer, I destroyed a city. How can you say I’m good?”

She shook her head, no longer surprised that he couldn't see what she did. “Both of you,” she said, firmly, “My lost boys; neglected, abandoned, abused and still so very good.” She placed a finger over his mouth before he could protest again. “Even after everything, you tried, you wrote letters, wrote your manifesto, shouted to the rooftops. You lived in a sewer to heal the ones the Chantry were happy to leave to die. You blew up a Chantry, people died, but you feel guilty about that every day, even though it was almost 3 years ago, and believe me, most of those deaths were not your doing. You didn’t see Kirkwall, the templars killed more civilians than mages, they were out of control.”

“You said I should have waited. That is was flashy, and a fuck up from beginning to end.” She hissed in frustration at the reminder of her harsh words on the ship from Kirkwall when she didn’t know if he would live or die.

“I should have known you would hear that. Of course, you’re ignoring the part where Hawke, Nate, Beth and I all knew exactly what you were planning and let you go ahead with it. As did your friends, Varric, Isabela and Fenris, since they help us get you out. That blood is on our hands too, not just yours, but you hoard blame and guilt like a dragon hoards coin. Do you think for a second that I would have felt guilty if I set those charges? Do you think it would have bothered me for one moment, never mind three years later?” She pushed away from him so she could look him in the eye, determined to make him hear what she was saying. “You don’t see it, but I do. Nate and Beth and Alistair and Leliana and Zevran and all of our friends see it. You matter, Josef.”

He shifted, moving away from her and she knew he would try to deny what she had said, so she backed off slightly, shifting the topic from him to let him relax a little.

“Alistair’s the same,” she said thoughtfully. “He forgave Eamon and Isolde, he killed Loghain cleanly even though he was responsible for the deaths of the only family Alistair had known. I would have let the blood mage drain Isolde dry instead of going all the way to the Circle but Alistair saved her life, in spite of her cruelty to him, and she didn’t even thank him, not once. I would have put Loghain through the Joining and watched him choke to death, or taken him out to face the Archdemon. Void, if I’d fought that duel I’d probably have cut him to pieces slowly, one for every man who died at Ostagar or in a civil war he started while the Blight ravaged the land. And I wouldn’t have felt a thing. No remorse, no guilt, just satisfaction at making my point. How can two men who have been through hell all their lives be so good while a spoiled noblewoman can’t even be bothered to try?”

Josef turned to her indignantly. “How can you say that? You saved Ferelden, not just from the Blight but from the war, from famine, you married a man you don’t love to give the kingdom a king they desperately need. You take in outcasts and apostates and make the world safer for us, no matter the cost.”

“Did you know I almost got Alistair tortured and executed?” she asked. Josef sat back slightly and crossed his arms and she knew what kind of story he was expecting, one where she made a simple mistake that got them captured, the official story of what happened at Fort Drakon.

“I think that was Loghain, wasn’t it?” His sardonic attitude wouldn’t last, she knew.

“Oh, absolutely. We went into the Arl of Denerim’s estate, killed Rendon Howe and his men, rescued Queen Anora only to be caught by Ser Cauthrien who just happened to be told of Howe’s death in time to get a squad of guards together and make her way over just as we were heading for the front door, in spite have come in through the back. She magnanimously ignored the very slightly disguised Anora, a woman she grew up with, and her equally well-known handmaiden, and sent them on their merry way with the rest of the blood-soaked invaders because her sworn Lord and idol had only specified the Wardens. Then they knocked us unconscious and we woke just in time for Leliana and Morrigan to save us before anything nasty could occur. Does that sound familiar?”

“Well, not when you say it like that,” he muttered, realising the immense holes in the story he had heard.

“No? Leliana and Zevran spent a long time making sure that was exactly what everyone knows happened. It was all very civilised and honourable. So civilised that when she died in the Battle of Denerim, Alistair posthumously awarded her the Silver Sword for her loyalty to Ferelden. What definitely didn’t happen, of course, is that about six hours after Alistair and the others had taken Anora to Eamon’s estate, he came back to persuade me to stop playing with Howe and let the man die. Cauthrien and her men didn’t catch us sneaking out the way we came in and held us there until she did a sweep and found what was left of Howe. And we definitely weren’t dragged to Fort Drakon where I didn’t persuade the guards to take turns fucking me to keep them away from Alistair long enough for me to work out a way out of the impenetrable fortress.” Josef had grown progressively paler as her tone became more sarcastic and she brushed him off as he tried to lean in to offer comfort she didn’t need.

“You’re missing the point, love.” She said it gently. “I would do it again. I would take my time torturing Howe, the man I called Uncle Ren, who bounced me on his knee and brought me sweets and was devastated when we said Nate and I couldn’t marry because we were like siblings. We had a relationship, he was my father’s closest friend, and even at the end, even after what I put him through, he insisted he truly believed it was my family that were the traitors. Like Loghain, like Cauthrien, he only saw the Orlesian threat. He was a despicable person, he deserved death as much as Loghain and Cauthrien, he became twisted and evil after his wife’s death and what he thought was his best friend's betrayal, but Alistair would have given him a clean death. You would have given him a clean death. I don’t even care that I didn’t. He suffered and everyone knew what would happen to those who hurt the ones I loved. He was a satisfying object lesson. The guards in Fort Drakon. Every one that touched me died and when they cleared the bodies out, each of them had an appendage shoved down their throats. They weren’t just men you see, there were women too. Some of them had a weapon instead of a finger or a cock, daggers mostly, hilt first. They were also an object lesson. Nothing more than that - just an example to make sure others played nice. I don’t have nightmares about it, who has time with all the darkspawn that haunt my dreams? I didn’t cry in anyone’s arms. Why would I? I know that’s not normal but it doesn’t bother me. So believe me when I say that you are a good man, because you would never do the things I have done. I am drenched in blood and they call me queen and hero and I don’t care about my titles or my crimes. You are so pure and filled with guilt because you had to learn the simple truth that peaceful solutions can only be found if both sides have power. If one side has all the power and is determined to keep it, the only way to change is to fight. To save slaves, the slavers must die, to save the abused, the abusers must have their power removed from them and when that power is built into a whole society then that society needs to be rebuilt, in fire and blood if that’s what it takes.”

“No!” His cry was intense, straight from his gut. “I was wrong, Vengeance was wrong. Change by force is no change, the harder the push, the harder the resistance, that’s why so many mages turn to demons and blood magic, it’s how templars become like Meredith and Alrik. Fear and fire and blood escalate and now we’re in the middle of a war and everyone suffers. A forest fire causes devastation, but under the ashes the same trees grow again, as strong as before. But the flow of the river can change the forest forever. We should have been water, wearing away the rock of the chantry, changing minds by our example, not this!” He had grabbed her shoulders, his hands holding her firmly but gently, unable to hurt, even in his fervour. “What you’ve done since the Blight, Avernus’ research, supporting mages, those things mean something. Your reign might have begun in fear but your people love you because you heal the land, because you bring life, not because you punished those who hurt you. You say you don’t feel anything, any pain or remorse, but it doesn’t stop you loving your people faithfully, it doesn’t stop you protecting the family you made when your own was taken. You were fire, back then, but for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been water, wearing away at damaged Ferelden, bringing life and hope in barren places.” His hands left her shoulders as he pulled her closer into his embrace and leaned into her until their foreheads touched. “You are a good woman, Rhiannon, you are everything.”

She leaned into him in turn and whispered, “Then believe me when I say you are a good man.” They sat together, holding to each other, until Nathaniel knocked to say the bath was ready for Rhiannon and then they separated, going about their business with a new understanding between them and peace in their hearts, at least for now.

Chapter Text

The herbalist, Gisel, lived a few doors down from the bookshop, window boxes of herbs the only sign of her trade at the front while at the back of the house an outbuilding stood with bunches hung from the ceiling to dry while a still boiled away in the corner and rows of salves and potions lined shelves that filled three walls. As she let Rhiannon into an evidently rarely used parlour, Gisel apologised for the prevailing smell of boiling rashvine nettle, used to combat an outbreak of the summer cough among the children of the village. Rhiannon smiled demurely and reassured her, accepting the offer of tea while she waited, hoping it wasn’t tainted too strongly by the astringent medicine. When it came, the tray held a pot and two cups and a plate of the delicate bredele biscuits Rhiannon had loved when she lived at court. There was also a small pile of letters that she worked her way through, half-listening to the sounds of Gisel pottering in her workshop, waiting for the bell to ring again. There were three from contacts along their planned travel route, confirming arrangements made, one warning of bandits between Caimen Brea and Nessum, the last significant towns before Weisshaupt. She had considered going through Perenvale, or even crossing into Tevinter to Val Dorma but both routes would add weeks, possibly months to a journey that already promised to be too long for her vulnerable country. There had been no response from the wardens she sent to Weisshaupt, though it had been long enough for something to have got through, and there were whisperings of unrest in Tevinter, a rift within the Magisterium itself. She needed to get to Weisshaupt and find out what in the Void was going on. If necessary she would abandon the quest for a cure, so perturbed was she about what she heard and even more what she didn’t hear. The last was from Leliana, the Conclave had been called, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes as she had anticipated, invitations sent to the rulers of Thedas to send observers, the leaders of both mages and templars invited, not ordered, to join the Divine in a search for peace. She laid the parchment down and leaned back, taking a sip of the bitter tea as she reflected. Monarchs were not invited to Divine Conclaves, only a single representative, but she was tempted. Speaking directly to Leliana might be more useful than this endless trek across the continent, there was time to go back, to make it to Haven in time for the Conclave, to represent her kingdom and help end the war that was tearing it apart. But the ongoing song in her head, the one that sang strong day and night and drove her to distraction, it called to her. She was a Grey Warden, first and foremost, Commander of the Grey, wife of a warden and sworn defender of those under her command. She would see this through and leave Ferelden to Alistair and the Conclave to whoever he appointed.

Her musings were interrupted by the doorbell, followed shortly by Gisel ushering the newcomer into the parlour before retreating once again to her workshop. The two women watched each other across the room, warily sizing the other up, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Rhiannon was sure she would never have recognised Morrigan if she passed her in the street. The long hair was as shining black as ever, but instead of the rough, twisted bun she remembered it was carefully coiffed, a braided coronet wrapped around her head while the strands that had forever escaped to fall across her lovely face were nowhere to be seen. She wore a rust coloured linen day dress and makeup muted her striking features, changing the bright gold of her eyes to a dark honey that reminded the warden of Alistair. The dress hid far more than her robes once had but her figure seemed more rounded, her hips wider, only enough to add to her lush beauty and accentuate her slender limbs but it marked the passage of time far more than Rhiannon’s narrow, muscled shape. As she looked at her, Rhiannon realised she had forgotten how truly beautiful Morrigan was and couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face as she stood and moved across the room, holding her hands out to the other woman. For a moment she thought Morrigan would reject the gesture, but then the witch’s hands came up to clasp hers and with another breath they were hugging each other tightly and Rhiannon had to blink back the tears that pricked at her eyes, looking up to see the taller woman doing the same. For another few moments they stood, each savouring the contact with her long-missed friend, before Rhiannon drew Morrigan towards the sofa and the pot of tea.

“Part of me thought you wouldn’t come.” She poured a cup for Morrigan and handed it to her before topping up her own lukewarm drink.

“I certainly considered it,” Morrigan replied, in her slightly old-fashioned and formal speech, learned from her centuries old mother and never quite lost. “I admit to being… apprehensive regarding this meeting. Your formal letters and such were more than I had anticipated, particularly…” She trailed off uncomfortably and Rhiannon filled in the gap.

“You deserved as many accolades as any of us, Morrigan. The title and land were no more than your due.”

“Did any of the others receive as much? I suspect it was more to do with the child than with myself.” At the mention of her child, Rhiannon couldn’t help flicking her eyes at the door, as if expecting the boy to wander through it, although presumably if he was there he would have entered with his mother. Morrigan, of course, noticed. “I did not bring him. He has lessons and I did not think it wise.”

Rhiannon nodded. “I agree,” she said. “Honestly, I didn’t expect it anyway. You haven’t wished us to know him all this time and I wouldn’t want to meet him until his father had.”

“You think Alistair entitled to it?” Morrigan bristled and Rhiannon was reminded of the argument the last time they met, screaming imprecations at each other before Morrigan had disappeared through the mirror to who knew where her infant son had lain.

“No,” she replied, dully, reluctant to ruin their reunion over past disagreements. “You made it clear what your conditions were, we have respected them. Alistair has never tried to find you or the boy. And no, the land has nothing to do with the boy. We couldn’t exactly tell the nobles we were handing it over to the King’s illegitimate child, conceived in a blood ritual that saved our lives. But Leliana, Wynne and Zevran all have their own small manor and income, held in trust by the crown. Sten, or Arishok as he is now, declined the honour, Oghren is a warden and Shale has no need of land or money, but we were never going to give you less than the rest. I only wish we could have given you more.”

Morrigan sneered in that familiar way that told Rhiannon she was trying to push her emotions down deep. “What more could you have given, your Majesty?” The title was a mockery. “I have no need of riches, I have enough power for a hundred lifetimes and I would not have stayed to be surrounded by sycophants and cronies to look down on me as the King’s mistress and mother of his bastard. I would not have submitted myself to the Circle or the Chantry, nor submitted my child to such.”

Rhiannon huffed through her nose, a habit her mother had called unattractive but one that always appeared when she was on the verge of losing her temper. “If I could, I would have made sure Alistair stayed with you. I would never have suggested you stay at court. Andraste’s tits, I don’t want to be at court half the time and I was born to it.”

“And yet you made him King, and yourself Queen, gathering titles like windfall apples.”

“Because Ferelden needed him, because the nobles would only accept him through me!” She huffed again, trying to force herself off this circular argument, the one that had led to their screaming match in the Dragonbone Wastes. “I’m not doing this again, Mor. I’m not sorry for doing what I had to do, any more than you are. You could have stayed, you could have brought the child for visits, telling any story about his father you wanted, you could have done anything you liked. Alistair is a good king, Ferelden prospers because of him, mages are safer in our country because of him and none of this is anything to do with why I’m here.” She shoved the long held sense of betrayal deep down, knowing that her anger had never been on Alistair’s behalf, that she had always resented the fact the Morrigan had left her, had kept her child and her life from her. It was the same anger she had felt at Rod, the same she still held over Josef’s head, the anger at being left behind by people who would rather struggle and suffer than accept what she could offer them. So she forced the feelings away and let what she had to say pour out so fast Morrigan would have no chance to interrupt. 

“I’m here because I need your help. The wardens are hearing the Calling. All of us, including Alistair. I’m trying to find a cure, I was trying before this happened but there’s no time. I need your knowledge, anything that might give me a clue. I need you to sift through what I already know and make sense of it for me.”

Morrigan’s pale skin had turned grey, but her voice was level. “The Calling? All of you? That seems unlikely.”

“Exactly. We have some ideas on the subject but the crux of it is that I won’t take the chance that it isn’t real. I want a cure and I plan to find one.” She quickly told Morrigan about the Blight research, her hope for a cure and the realisation that every warden in southern Thedas was hearing the Calling at once. She told her about her meeting with Fiona and her journey to Weisshaupt to retrieve the amulets. At then end, Morrigan leaned back in the chair and watched her solemnly.

“And no one from Weisshaupt has replied to your messages?”

“No one. Even if these amulets weren’t there, that would be reason enough to go. Weisshaupt has never held a firm grip over the outposts, but in such circumstances their silence is suspicious. They were certainly quick enough when I didn’t die killing the Archdemon.” She might have disliked the First Warden but she didn’t believe he would ignore this.

Morrigan hummed thoughtfully and Rhiannon let her muse, leaving the room to ask Gisel for fresh tea and chat briefly about the potions Josef had for sale, some of which were beyond Gisel’s skill to make. When she carried the tray back to the parlour, Morrigan was standing beside the window, looking out into the quiet street that led down to the river docks.

“Did Alistair ever tell you of the night my son was conceived?” Rhiannon shook her head, then muttered a low ‘No’ when she realised Morrigan could not see her. “The ritual involved taking a small amount of our blood and mixing it into a potion. In some ways ‘twas similar to the Joining potion but its purpose was twofold; to bypass the sterility caused by the taint and to protect me from becoming tainted myself. A male who was not long past his Joining was required because even the potion would be unlikely to work in one whose body had completely adjusted. ‘Tis possible that this potion could be of use to your alchemist in his search for a cure.” She bowed her head. “I will admit, I considered whether to give you the recipe when we met, to see if it would allow you to bear an heir for the kingdom. In truth, part of me wanted you to have a Theirin child so you could become regent and I could take my Alistair back.”

“I would have done it, Mor. Why didn’t you?”

“Oh, many reasons. Because I selfishly wanted Alistair’s only child to be mine, because I did not want you to have another hold over him, because I could not guarantee it would work and did not wish to give you false hope. But mainly I think it was because I knew that even with the potion the child would be tainted, that I would be condemning it to the Blight, even if it were to survive to term. Kieran is pure, because the taint within him was destroyed with the Archdemon, but there would be no Archdemon to kill to cleanse another child.” She turned from the window to look at Rhiannon. “I will write down the ingredients for the potion for you to give to your alchemist. It will be delivered along with the money I was asked to pass along. But other than that, I have no aid to offer. I have concerns enough of my own in Orlais and I doubt that will improve, Conclave or no Conclave.”

“I’m thankful for any help you can give, Mor. Even if you had nothing to offer, I’d be happy just to see you again.” The two women returned to their seats to talk of everything and nothing, chatting and catching up on their lives, comparing the follies of nobles at court and the little news they had of former friends and companions. Rhiannon told Morrigan of Flemeth’s regeneration on Sundermount, something that did not surprise her at all, and about her rescue of Josef, which did and also earned her a scolding for being reckless which was so familiar it was hard to remember that almost ten years had passed since Morrigan’s frequent lectures on risking herself for others. Finally, after the teapot and biscuit plate had been refilled at least twice more, the women had to part ways once again. Morrigan did not want to leave Kieran in the care of the nursemaid for too long and even with wings a five mile journey would take some time. Rhiannon smiled at that, inwardly berating herself for assuming the woman had brought a carriage or even a horse. It was hard to separate once again, not knowing if or when they might see each other again, the jealousy of one and the resentment of the other faded somewhat and leaving the warm affection that had carried them through the Blight together. With a final hug and thanks to Gisel for her hospitality, the women parted ways, Morrigan for the road south to Halamshiral while Rhiannon walked back to the inn. Part of her had hoped that her friend would join her quest, as absurd as that was when she had a nine year old to care for, while another part was glad she was doing so well, a decade of worrying relieved by an afternoon that had been far too short.

She took the long way back to the inn, stopping by the docks to arrange passage to Val Chevin on the far side of the river and working her way back up to the busy marketplace to buy last minute supplies. Her last stop was to the farrier to pay for reshoeing their horses and to collect Meredith’s harness which had needed retooled after beginning to rub her shoulder, making her foul disposition worse than ever. Eventually she had no more reason to avoid returning, hoping fervently that whatever her friends had been so excited about this morning was done and over by now and cursing warden stamina. Wardens weren’t shy, monogamy was rare and with no chance of pregnancy or disease they tended to be free among themselves. But she had no wish to see Nathaniel involved, it would be as uncomfortable as the time she had walked in on Fergus and Oriana in the study. So she was relieved to walk into the inn and see the three of them sitting at a table eating a hearty stew while Josef and Beth argued over the heel of the bread.

“You know bread has two ends?” she asked, waving to Olette knowing the girl would bring another bowl, before stealing a sip from Nate’s tankard, savouring the gentle pear flavour on her tongue. Marcel brewed his own ale and cider and while Rhiannon couldn’t stand the taste of ale, his cider was delicious.

Nate grabbed his tankard back with a mock growl. “Don’t get them started, I already asked for more bread.”

“But since Josef is already on his second bowl of stew and has had four slice of bread already, then he should give me the other heel.” Beth sounded smug at her logic and Rhiannon sighed at their childishness.

“I don’t understand the attraction, myself.” She grumbled it under her breath as Olette brought her own portion and a basket piled with more bread and a large pat of butter.

“That’s because you and Nathaniel grew up with silver spoons and china plates.” Josef replied, voice muffled by a mouthful of stew that drew a disgusted look from the other three so he swallowed quickly. “Slices of bread aren’t nearly as good as the heel for lifting your dinner.”

“Especially if your mother grew up with silver spoons and couldn’t slice bread straight for shit,” Beth added, “The heel was the only bit that didn’t have anything liquid pouring right off all over your clothes.” Her eyes darkened for a moment. “Carver always managed to get it first. Mari and I always had to help Mother put everything out so he was always first to sit down. If we complained, Mother said it was only fair since Carver worked the farm with Father all day.” They were all quiet, as they always were when Beth mentioned her dead twin. The pain of her parent’s deaths were nothing compared to that loss and they all respected that. Beth sat staring into space for a moment, then gave herself a shake and quickly lifted the bit of bread Josef had surreptitiously been trying to reach for.

“Dead brother, remember?” she mocked him with a grin.

“Hmph. Playing the dead relative card, unfair.” he replied, leaning back with a grin, his hands wide to show his capitulation. “Underhand women, I never seem to meet any other kind.”

Rhiannon listened to their banter, enjoying the well flavoured stew but waving Olette away when she offered a second helping, her stomach still full of the luscious biscuits Gisel had provided. It was nice to see them so relaxed and at ease with each other. Their journey so far had been civilised and relatively easy but she had no illusions that it would remain so and no idea what they would encounter at Weisshaupt. So for tonight she relaxed and enjoyed the company of her friends.

Chapter Text

Leliana slipped out of the Divine’s quarters before the corridors could fill with people, leaving Justinia to the three sisters who would help her into the formal robes she would wear for the opening ceremony.  They had gone over every angle they could think of, checked the guard rotas and the schedules, the paths each party would take through the temple to keep them separate until they entered the Chamber of the Ashes.  Briefly, she smiled, imagining if the Gauntlet still existed, how many would make it through to stand naked before the sacred altar.  But the Guardian had disappeared with the Ashes, the high dragon long since dead, and both high and low temples housed priestesses and priests to maintain the two.  The meat of the talks would take place in the lower temple which had enough rooms to hold everyone who would attend, including observers from the kingdoms of Thedas.  But today everyone would assemble in the Great Hall where Andraste’s Ashes once sat, where Leliana herself had once kneeled, naked as a newborn babe, and prayed before the earthly remains of the Bride of the Maker, where she had promised that once the Blight was ended she would devote the rest of her days to the Chantry.  And so she had, and did, and would, until her death.

Today her duties would take her away from the Temple entirely.  Cassandra would arrive at Haven soon and they would have plans to make.  Even if the Conclave led to peace between the factions, it would take time for the word to spread, there would be resistance, and Justinia had planned their next moves.  The writ that would re-establish the Inquisition sat in the bag she carried over her shoulder.  While the Divine led the Conclave, her Right and Left Hands would prepare for what would come after.

She took note of everyone she passed, from servants taking trays back and forth to the rooms of nobles, to scribes carrying their equipment to set up in the Chamber, to a giggling threesome wearing the badge of Ostwick and whispering about where they might find someone among the Kirkwall party.  They would be disappointed, she thought, since the Kirkwall representatives would arrive with Cassandra today, delayed by bad weather on the Storm Coast.  Unfortunately, the Champion of Kirkwall would not be among them, but Cass was bringing one of her friends to bear testimony before the Divine, along with a man she thought would be worthy of commanding the armies the Inquisition would require.

Varric Tethras was an author and a spymaster, not as good as her, but if he could be persuaded to assist them after the Conclave he had access to dwarven contacts that she lacked.  In the absence of the Champion herself, Tethras could be a valuable ally, although from what she had heard, Cassandra had hardly managed to ingratiate herself with the man.  The Commander was a different matter.

Cullen Rutherford had been a templar student with Alistair, one of the few the king spoke of with affection.  Leliana had been part of the group that entered the Tower and fought Uldred and she remembered the skeleton of a man they had rescued, barely a man at that, no older than Rhiannon or Alistair themselves, who only seemed to be kept alive by burning hatred and a desire for vengeance upon Uldred and all mages.  She had not met him during her visit to Kirkwall, preferring to avoid the Templars altogether, but had heard of his reputation as Meredith’s second.  The Inquisition would seek to bring peace and order and would stand for both mage and templar.  It’s purpose was not to restore the abuses that had led to the rebellion in the first place.  She trusted Cassandra’s judgement, but if Cullen was not the right man for the job it would soon be apparent and they had found no one else who might be suitable.

As she walked out of the temple and started down the hill towards Haven, she noticed a handful of men and women in blue and silver, even the Grey Wardens had sent witnesses.  The issue of the Warden mages had reared its head many times over the Ages, but the recent infiltration of templars into the order and their harassment of mages had not been confined to Amaranthine, and the First Warden had made it clear to the Divine that such interference would not be brooked.  It also reminded Leliana that there would have been someone suitable for Cullen’s role, or even more so as Inquisitor, if that person hadn’t suddenly disappeared into thin air without a word.

She had received two letters from Rhi since she left Denerim, one to arrange a meeting with Morrigan, one to request the use of certain agents in northern Orlais and Nevarra.  Then she had found out through one of those agents that the Queen herself had been in Val Chevin with associates that sounded very much like Nate, Bethany and Anders, and had left to travel north.  No further word had come.  Her people in Nessum had expected the group’s arrival but they had never appeared.  So, while she was trapped here in Haven, one of her closest friends had simply vanished.  Every agent not working towards establishing the Inquisition was on the lookout for her, but as yet there had been nothing at all.

When she reached Haven, Leliana made straight for the Chantry.  The half-empty, isolated place so resistant of strangers had changed dramatically, it was now a bustling little village.  The innkeeper, Flissa, had been a contact in Denerim, willing to move so Leliana would have an ear in the village in the months before the Conclave and she had been welcomed quickly by the residents, both Flissa and her sister, Naomi, becoming favourites particularly of the single men who gathered in a futile attempt to catch the attention of either woman.  Flissa had been unhappily married and would never risk such again, while Naomi could flirt with the best but had no interest in men and was subtly courting the daughter of Harritt, the smith.  As she passed the tavern she heard quiet laughter inside and the strains of the minstrel, Maryden, singing Andraste’s Mabari .  Later in the day the laughter would be louder, more raucous, and the songs bawdier, but for now the tavern, like the village, was quiet.  Leliana slipped inside the Chantry, heading straight for one of the side altars to light a candle and pray Rhiannon and her friends were safe, before heading to the small room she intended for herself, Josephine and Cassandra.  She put her bag on the floor beneath one of the beds and lay down on top of it, reaching for the copy of the Chant lying on the table and opening it, intending to read until Cassandra arrived.

In your heart shall burn

An unquenchable flame

All-consuming, and never satisfied.

From the Fade I crafted you,

And to the Fade you shall return

Each night in dreams

That you may always remember me.

As she read the words, the sky through the tiny window lit up with green fire and the earth roared as if the very mountain had exploded.  The Chantry shook around her, quakes ripping through the faultline under the massive mountain range, as she jumped from the bed, running to the secret door that had once led directly to the temple, the reason she had chosen this room.  The door opened and Leliana stood, staring up towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where flames hundreds of feet high consumed the men and women who had gathered, where boulders, rocks and ash spread out from a growing cloud, landing for miles around, crushing anyone in the way.  She did not feel the impact as she fell to her knees at the knowledge that Divine Justinia, her dear friend Dorothea, was at the centre of those flames, not knowing the horror could be any more intense until she looked further up into the sky, to the gaping hole in the heavens themselves, where, somewhere behind the flickering green light, she could just make out the towers of a city as black as night. The holy temple burned under a breach into the Fade itself.

------

The quakes hit Halamshiral an hour or so later, knocking over statues and shaking tiles from the roof and plaster from the ceilings.  Morrigan clutched her skirts up and sprinted from her hidden office, only to run into a guard in the hall outside the library.

“ Madame ,” the man stuttered, breathlessly.  “ Sa Majesté exige votre présence, immédiatement.”

She shoved him out of the way.  “Move, fool.  Tell Her Majesty I will attend her when I have found my son.” He watched, helplessly, as she continued on, heedless of the screaming nobles and terrified servants all around as she focused on getting to Kieran as quickly as she could, kicking off the ridiculous Orlesian shoes she wore to please Celene.  The entire world had just shifted, the Veil warping and rippling around them, she must ensure Kieran was safe.

She found him on his knees on the floor of his bedroom, cradling his head in his hands and rocking back and forward and muttering unintelligibly, and Morrigan’s heart broke for her son.  Whatever catastrophe had occurred, every mage in Thedas must be reeling right now, those even slightly sensitive to magic would be on edge, unsettled without even knowing why.  How much worse must it be for her beautiful, special son, with the soul of a God inside him?  She slammed the door shut behind her and threw herself down on the floor beside him, pulling her son into her arms where he rested his head against her shoulder and whimpered.

“Make it stop, Mother.  Please, make it stop.  I don’t like all the voices, tell them to be still.”  Morrigan had never heard such pain in Kieran’s voice, not when he had nightmares, or when he had been delirious with autumn fever, or when he had fallen from the top branches of a mighty oak and broken his arm in three places.  She had no idea what was going on, let alone how to stop it, but she promised herself and her son, then and there, that she would find whoever had caused this and make them pay for the crying, shaking boy in her arms.

“Shhh, darling.  I am here.  The voices are just jealous dreams, do not let them worry you.  They shall never harm you while I am here.”  She started to sing, a soothing lullaby taught to her by one of the Chasind women in the village where she had birthed Kieran.  She had been driven home to the Wilds by fear and loneliness, had stood in front of the hut she grew up in and saw it empty, smaller than it had seemed when it had been her whole world.  She had gone to the Chasind and they had cared for her, the women had guided her through the hours of blood and pain that almost broke her, so ignorant of childbirth was she, and they had taught her how to nurse and care for a child.  She had stayed with them for the first four years of Kieran’s life, had trusted them to care for him when she had to venture out into the world and she had been sad to leave.  But her son was not destined for a tiny village in the middle of nowhere and she had a responsibility to him.  So they packed their few belongings and left for Orlais and every night she sang the same Chasind lullaby to soothe him to sleep.

As he heard it now, Kieran began to relax, conditioned by routine and his mothers arms and it was simplicity itself to ease him into a magical sleep that would protect him, at least for now, from the demons whispering in his ears.  Morrigan was confident she had trained him well, but he was only a boy and she had no idea what was happening.  So she set extra wards around him as she placed him on his bed and covered him with the blanket she had made during her pregnancy, the blanket he never slept without.  She warded the door and locked it, although it was unlikely anyone would think to disturb the child, then turned sharply and made her way to the Royal Apartments.  Whatever this was, she would need Celene’s resources to put a stop to it.

------

Between the Calling singing in his head, the days of earthquakes and the ravens that seemed to come in flocks from the West, Alistair had not slept in days.   The Grand Cleric of Ferelden had herself been lost in the tragedy, along with eight of the most senior clerics and templars in the country, but more than that, Eamon, Arl of Denerim was dead with them.  Even as an abandoned youth, even while hating him, Alistair had thought of the man as his uncle, had appreciated the little kindnesses shown to an unwanted bastard.  He had begged Rhiannon to save Eamon for those kindnesses as much as for his support against Loghain and the Blight.  He had relied on his support while he learned to be King, had enjoyed the quiet evenings sitting together chatting and sipping brandy when both their wives were occupied elsewhere.  Now he was gone, dead in an explosion that had sundered the Veil itself, and all the nobles of Ferelden could do was bicker and jockey for his position while the world fell apart around them.

Alistair stood, glad that Bann Eagen had finally ceased his rambling, the point of which completely escaped the exhausted King.  Going over old ground was pointless, so he ignored the thinly veiled accusations against the rebel mages that had been levelled all morning and drew out a parchment clearly marked with a sunburst and eye seal.

“My lords and ladies, on the authority of the late Divine, Justinia V, a new Inquisition has been declared.”  The rumble of whispers that had started when he pulled out the proclamation became a sea of shouting that Alistair simply ignored until it subsided again.  The nobles had learned long since that Alistair would not respond to such shouting (at least once Rhiannon had taught him better) so they quickly quieted, waiting to see what would come next.

“The Inquisition has been called on a writ from the Divine, by the authority of her Right and Left Hands, to bring order and peace to the kingdoms of Thedas.  They seek to close the Breach in the sky and to find the person or persons responsible for the murder of so many, including our Beloved Divine.  Any who wish to join them will be welcome.  Any who seek their aid will be heard.”

He rolled up the parchment and looked out over the court.  “The Left Hand confirms that a survivor from the Temple, a woman some are calling the Herald of Andraste, can indeed close these Fade rifts.  I have given her leave to send scouts out looking for signs of these rifts so the Herald can close them.”  He paused then spoke sarcastically.  “If anyone would rather have their lands overrun by demons, feel free to impede them.  Anyone who would rather we didn’t all get ripped to pieces, I expect you to let your people know to give the Inquisition safe passage as an arm of the Chantry.”

“What of the news that the Chantry has deemed the Inquisition heretical?” asked a tall, severe looking woman with iron grey hair.

“Can the Inquisition be heretical, Althea?” asked Alistair in return.  “It was founded by the Divine, even if she died before it could be proclaimed.  The Chantry are running around like chickens with their heads cut off while the Hands of the Divine are carrying out the will of Her Holiness.  Regardless, they have the Herald of Andraste, who seems to be our only hope of closing the great big hole in the sky.”

“But where are the templars?  They should be dealing with the mages treachery.”  

He couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew the voice and sighed.  “If you can find them, Wulff, feel free to ask them.  Court is dismissed.”

As he left the throne room he tucked the parchment back into his mantle and headed for his study. Only the usual suspects were at court for now, most were on their own lands, overseeing the harvest and he would need to send out an official declaration of support for the Inquisition.  He walked through the door, heading straight for the bell to ring for his lunch tray, then to the decanter to pour the glass of wine he rewarded himself with for not murdering any of his court today, before finally sitting at the desk and opening the first letter on the pile.

Alistair

My little birds have lost sight of our friend.  I have no news and with all the chaos I do not know if I will get more.  The Breach is stable but we are determined to find a way to close it completely and I must focus all my resources on that, though I wish it were not so.  I know you will help all you can, and I promise we will not pose any threat to the land of Ferelden.  I have sent similar promises to the Empress Celene and have reached out to a mutual friend in Orlais for any information she may possess but have heard nothing as yet and I do not hold out much hope, given her silence in the past.

I promise if I hear anything, you will be the first to know.  For now, I must return to my duties.  You have no doubt heard of the Herald of Andraste, handed out of the Fade by Andraste herself with the power to close the rifts.  I will not presume to say whether the rumours of Andraste’s appearance are true, the Lady has no memory of her ordeal, but it is true that Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, a mage of Ostwick, can close the Fade rifts.  She travels to the Crossroads to meet with a representative of the Chantry as we speak, in company of Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine.  I hope you can ease the way for her, although we have heard that the fighting has renewed in the Hinterlands since the explosion. 

Please be careful, my friend.  There is more at play here than we know.

Leliana

Alistair leaned back in his chair and considered the letter.  It was too direct for Leliana and he didn’t know if that was a sign of her worry or something more sinister.  He ignored the comments about Morrigan and Rhiannon, persuading himself that the leaden feeling in his stomach was simply the usual post-Court indigestion, and considered the second part of the letter.  Cassandra Pentaghast had a fearsome reputation and was one of the infamous Seekers of Truth.  While it was true she had left the Seekers when they broke with the Chantry and took the Templars with them, he wasn’t sure she was the best person to have charge of a mage from the isolated and purportedly lax Ostwick Circle.  Not to mention the appointment of Cullen Rutherford as Commander of the Inquisition armies, a man he would no longer trust within a hundred miles of a mage, and the woman was being ‘escorted’ to meet a member of the Chantry, at a place conveniently close to Redcliffe, where the majority of the rebel mages currently resided.  It was worrying to contemplate when he had given Fiona assurances of safety for her people.  Did the last sentence, ‘There is more at play here than we know’ refer only to those behind the Breach, or was Leliana trying to warn him about her own people.  Whatever the answer, he would officially pull out ‘sweet, dumb Alistair’ for any official dealings with them until he knew what was really going on.

That decided, his mind dragged him back to the first paragraph and the two women it mentioned.  “Damn it, Rhi,” he muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair then immediately trying to push the locks back into place.  “Where the Void are you?  What are you doing?”  She could already be on her way back, abandoning her dream of a Cure for the reality of the Breach in the sky.  A letter could already be winging its way to him to make ready for the return of his Queen.  But he doubted it.  The Cure had become an obsession for Rhiannon, something she fixated on as she sat in her dark bedroom drinking the brandy she thought he didn’t know about.  The Calling, false or true, had made her brooding worse and she didn’t know how often he had carried her to her bed in a drunken stupor without knowing why his wife was killing herself or having any idea how to help her.  Planning her quest had given her a new lease on life and the last bottle she had hidden before going to Soldier’s Peak had still been half full.  Somehow, he didn’t think she would turn away from it, even if the whole Veil dropped around her ears.  But if he even knew where she was, it would help set his heart at ease.

Thinking about Rhiannon led him to thinking about Morrigan.  They had intended to meet, Rhiannon had hoped Morrigan would know something useful to her.  Thinking of Morrigan didn’t hurt now, not as it had when she first left, when he spent months wondering if she really carried his child, if the child had lived, if Morrigan had lived.  It was like the faint ache in his shoulder when the wind blew, a reminder of a wound that had lost the pain of the wound itself.  Apparently, though, Leliana did not feel the same.  She and Morrigan had been close, towards the end.  They had talked together, sung together, Leli never returned from a supply run without a pastry for the witch while Morrigan had bought the most ridiculous shoes he had ever seen from that merchant on the way to Orzammar and had given them to Leli, resulting in a shriek he had been sure would make him deaf for a week.  They had both liked pretty things and those tiny flowers and when she realised that Morrigan had left without so much as a goodbye, Leliana had been inconsolable for weeks.  Over the years the red headed bard had become harder, colder, throwing herself ruthlessly into the role of spymaster and distancing herself from her friends.  He had watched it with sadness, knowing it was part of how she reconciled herself to the life she had chosen.  But he couldn’t help but remember the two laughing girls, braiding each others hair or cooing over some piece of jewelry, and wonder if it hadn’t started when Morrigan walked away without a backward glance.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Teagan Guerrin barging into the room.  His uncle should have been nowhere near Denerim, he should have been in Redcliffe.  His undignified yelp disappeared under the volume of Teagan’s bellow.

“Alistair!”

The King stood, holding out his hand for the Arl to take, then dropping it when Teagan ignored it in favour of putting his hands on Alistair’s desk as he leaned over it.

“What is going on, Teagan?  Even you can’t just…”

“Silence, boy.” He bellowed again and Alistair narrowed his eyes and drew himself up straight, fully intending to berate the man for his disrespect, uncle or no, until he continued.  “That witch has let Tevinter magisters take over Redcliffe.”

He sat again, stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening as Teagan explained how the Grand Enchanter had submitted to a Magister almost as soon as the Conclave was destroyed, how he and his minions had infiltrated Redcliffe and Teagan had barely managed to make it out before he became inconvenient.  It seemed impossible, an insanely desperate act that surely Fiona must have known would bring only trouble.  When he could finally start processing thought again, Alistair and Teagan planned their journey to take back Redcliffe. 

Chapter Text

The quakes lasted for three days, coming and going without warning, rock and dirt tumbling about them as they cowered in ruined archways. They tried to stay alert in tunnels that showed recent signs of darkspawn incursion but it seemed even the monsters themselves hid from the groaning of the earth. They moved cautiously when the tremors subsided, slowed by injury and uncertainty as they tried to make their way through the Deep Roads that led to Kal Sharok and on to Weisshaupt.

The journey from Val Chevin to Hunters Fell had been uneventful, the fertile fields of Ghislain and the balmy weather of Northern Orlais making it a pleasant ride though there were no Imperial hostels as there would have been along the Highway. In Hunters Fell they had been glad to find an inn that sold hearty food and had a clean bath house, staying for two nights to give Nathaniel and Bethany enough time to buy the supplies they would need for the trek across to Weisshaupt. Rhiannon and Josef pored over maps and laid their plans to move around the area where Leliana’s agent had warned of bandits and Josef brewed more healing potions while he had the opportunity. As a result, they were well rested and amply supplied when they rode out of Hunters Fell.

They were riding through a gully when the ambush came, the buzzing of loose fletching making Archer shy as Rhiannon jerked his reins, calling out to her companions. She jumped from the saddle, cursing the decision to send all her warriors away as messengers, drawing her daggers as she wrapped herself in shadows and looked for their attackers. Josef and Nathaniel fell back, keeping to their mounts and Rhiannon felt the slight tingling as a barrier was cast over her, but Bethany jumped down from Iris, producing the piercing whistle that ensured the warden’s riderless horses would fall back as far as they were able. She pulled her staff from her back, shifting it in her hands to quarterstaff hold and beginning to move it to build momentum. They had fought like this many times before, on the training field or before the camp fire in the evening, Bethany’s skill was a common way for apostates to hide the nature of their staves and her father had taught her well. As the first men began to emerge from behind the rocks or twists in the path that had hidden them from sight, Bethany began to lash out with staff and magic, killing two within seconds while Rhiannon fought against a berserker with a maul, vanishing and appearing crouched behind him in perfect position to slash a dagger across his hamstrings before moving onto the next assailant, satisfied that the brute would be down until one of them could finish the job. Behind the women, Nathaniel and Josef had fanned out, lightning flashing across the battleground while arrows fell like rain. Rhiannon hid behind a boulder long enough to catch her breath and tried to count their foe but even as they dropped, more sprang up to take their place, seemingly from nowhere. Arms and legs burning, she merged into the shadows again and worked her way down the field, careful to give Bethany plenty of room, her aim the far end of the gully and the numbers of the enemy still to face. They were slowing, lightning flashes had longer gaps between them, the swirl of ice and crackle of fire more often replaced by the thwack of wood against metal and she had lost track of Nate’s arrows altogether. Numerous nicks and cuts dripped blood, sapping her energy and a shield bash sent numbing vibrations through her arm, almost causing her to drop her dagger from a nerveless hand. A wave of rejuvenating energy washed over her, putting strength in her limbs and feeling back in her hands but she had no time to acknowledge Josef’ familiar touch as she pushed on through the ever growing numbers. Her mind raced as she tried to take in details that might give meaning to the encounter but even with mind and body revitalised nothing made sense but that their intention was to wipe them out completely, their shouts of ‘Kill the Wardens’ coming from all sides.

There was a shrill cry behind her, followed by a hoarse ‘Beth!’ shouted from two throats but Rhiannon didn’t dare let herself be distracted, concentrating on killing or disabling as many as she could, hoping Josef had enough mana left to heal whatever had caused the scream, or if not, that Bethany’s death would be quick and merciful. She was almost to the other side of the pass when the long, low call of a horn came and her heart dropped. They could not stand against the enemies besetting them now, if more came they would be completely overrun and the foe had shown no sign of interest in taking prisoners. Her jaw clenched, Rhiannon sent a prayer and a promise to Andraste and the Maker, whoever these bastards were, she would take as many of them as she could to the Void with her. She pushed away the thought of Alistair waiting in vain for her to come home, her tired body forcing out more swings and thrusts and parries. She barely felt the arrow that pierced her leg as a shadow took shape over her shoulder and a dagger slipped beneath her ribs and into her kidney. With the last strength remaining she spun and took the head off the hooded figure behind her before she fell to the ground, hearing once again the call of the horn before everything went black.

------

The first thing she felt was warmth, waves of gentle heat flowing through her body, washing away the last vestiges of aches and pains barely remembered. The familiar sense of Josef’s magic made her feel safe and helped clear her mind. Two of them, at least, were still alive and when she focused on the voices murmuring somewhere off to the left she thought she could hear Nathaniel. But try as she might she could hear no clue about Bethany’s fate. She opened her eyes to the welcome sight of Josef smiling down at her while his hands floated a few inches above the hole in her side. She smiled back, searching his face for any sign of the grief or strain that would be present if Beth was dead, so glad at its lack that she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down into a fierce, passionate kiss.

For a few short moments he reciprocated, mouth gliding over hers, opening to allow her tongue to flick in and caress his, the hand he had put out of stop him falling on top of her becoming tangled in her hair as he took control and directed their movements, but all too quickly he seemed to remember where they were, pulling away to drop a sweet and irritatingly avuncular kiss on her forehead and saying, “You’re fine, Reina. Everyone is fine, we’re all here.” He straightened out of her line of sight and she decided to pay attention to where ‘here’ actually was.

They were in the Deep Roads, the characteristic dwarven architecture reaching up to a vaulted ceiling high above. This area was not overcome with the Blight, the walls held only faint smears of black and the distinctive smell was faint; better yet as she pushed her senses outwards she could feel no darkspawn nearby. What she did feel was the presence of a large group of Grey Wardens.

There were about twenty of them, and they appeared to be in a warden outpost, cots and trunks and a deep fire pit giving an impression of semi-permanence. There were humans, elves and even two dwarves and a fairly even mix of male and female, bringing to mind the memory of Alistair commenting on the lack of female wardens and making her smile. A few were watching her, some warily, some returning the faint smile, while others bustled about engaged in various chores. The smell of stew reminded her she was famished, the usual result of intensive healing, and she realised when Josef handed her a waterskin that her mouth was as dry as a bone. As she sat up to drink, she saw Nate and Beth making their way over from the firepit. Rhiannon looked Beth over carefully but there was no sign of whatever had caused her to scream, no obvious damage to her armour or her self and the wave of relief made her dizzy enough to shove the waterskin back at Josef and clutch the edge of the cot before pushing herself up and into Bethany’s arms, pulling the other woman into a kiss deeper than the one she had shared with Josef, hands roaming up her arms and into her hair then back down to gently hold her jaw, fingers lightly rubbing the curve up to her delicate ears and back down; the touch, the scent, the taste of her a reassurance that the beautiful mage was real and alive. Bethany clutched back at her, needing that same reassurance, the same promise that Rhiannon was alive and whole, tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she returned the kiss feverishly, the pair lost in each other until a sarcastic comment pierced their bubble.

“Typical, carry the brat all the way here and she’s too busy shoving her tongue down my mate’s throat to say as much as a ‘Thank you’.” Rhiannon broke away from Bethany’s embrace to grab Nate into a bear hug and bury her face into her chest. They stood like that for a minute before Nate gently disentangled her, saying, “Hey, Pup, it’s ok. You’re fine, we’re fine.” Almost the same words, but somehow it meant more from Nate than from Josef, a lifetime of trust and care immediately settling something in her. Rhiannon took a deep breath and a step back so she could see all three of them.

“Beth, I heard you scream, I thought…” She was stopped by the chuckles from the two men and the blush spreading across Bethany’s face.

“I tripped,” she muttered, and all Rhiannon could do was stare in disbelief as the two fools beside them continued to giggle. Bethany’s blush grew brighter and spread down her neck, disappearing under her armour as she cleared her throat and said again, “I tripped. My footing was wrong and my staff too low and I caught my ankle and…” As she trailed off, Rhiannon began to grin.

“You tripped over your own staff, in the middle of a battle?” It was funny because they had survived, in fact it was bloody hilarious, the image of the graceful Bethany tripping over her own feet, Rhiannon couldn’t help but join the men in their quiet laughter, at least until an unfamiliar man came up to the group and frowned at them.

“Good job she did trip,” he said, with the heavy accent that betrayed him as a Nevarran, if the dark hair, pale skin and sharp bone structure didn’t already give it away. “One of their damn shadows appeared behind her as she fell, she’d have died from his blades if she’d been standing. As it was, Kern downed him before she could stand back up.” He gestured to a blond man who looked almost a stereotype of an Ander and carried a longbow slung across his back. Then he held out his hand to Rhiannon. “Warden-Commander Cousland, I am Oskar Mazur, Warden-Lieutenant out of Perendale.”  

Rhiannon allowed him to firmly shake her hand, slightly bemused by his forthright approach and the use of her maiden name. Of course, among the Grey Wardens there was no such thing as marriage; families, birthrights and all such were abandoned in complete submission to the Order, but it was years since anyone had referred to her as anything other than Theirin and the name brought back the uncertainty of the early days in Amaranthine, when she had clutched at straws and tried to pretend she wasn’t just making everything up as she went along. Inwardly amused at the feeling, she pushed it down deep, showing no hesitation in shaking his hand back just as firmly and acknowledging his introduction with a slight bow.

“Warden Mazur, I thank you for your well-timed arrival. When I heard the horns I was sure we were done for.”  

He nodded as he released her hand. “You would have been. We’ve been chasing these Venatori bastards for weeks and no matter how many we kill, more keep appearing, like rats. Even four such impressive fighters are no match for fifty, and of course they have their own blasted mages. Fucking ‘Vints.” He spat on the ground.

“‘Vints? Venatori?” She asked. “Why are a group of Tevinters roaming Nevarra attacking Grey Wardens, and calling themselves ‘Hunters’?” She barely recognised the word, Ancient Tevene was a language she had only lightly touched on and only because the scrolls they had unearthed in Haven had been written in it and she had asked Sister Justine for permission to see them before they were sent to the Divine Archives in Val Royeaux.

“There are pockets of the bastards all over, most of them heading east…”

“Towards Ferelden?” she interrupted.

“Seems to be the Dales, mostly. Old elven ruins and such. The civil war probably helps them hide what they’re doing from the fucking Orlesians.”

She relaxed slightly, not bothering to feel guilty at wishing the invaders on the Orlesians. As long as they did not threaten her country, Celene was welcome to them. “So why are you involved? Nevarra and Orlais police their own.” Her tone was harsh, she had spent too much time and effort keeping the Wardens strictly out of Ferelden’s politics to have sympathy for interference in other countries.

Mazur snorted. “Says the Warden-Queen.” He held up his hands at her glare and Nathaniel’s sharp ‘hey’. “Apologies, Commander. We are involved because not all of the ‘Vints went east. There’s an army of them besieging Weisshaupt, conjuring demons, herding the darkspawn into the tunnels below the fortress trying to find a way in. They barely got a message out, with two of your own no less, a boy barely Joined and a civilian, an Antivan elf with tattoos. They’re spreading the word to wipe these bastards out, heading to Cumberland last I heard and then on to the Marches, since the boy told us there’s no wardens left in Ferelden and no one knows where Clarel’s hiding her lot.”

It was good to hear Martin and Zevran had not only made it through but apparently made it back out, but the news the Weisshaupt was under attack from these mysterious Venatori was worrying to say the least. No wonder there had been no response to the messages. “How long has the siege been going on?” she asked.

“Almost three months now, but there’s been something going on with Weisshaupt for longer than that. They have never been communicative but about five years ago we stopped hearing from them entirely.” She wondered at how talkative the man was, but if he was the ranking warden here and Weisshaupt was such a problem it was probably a relief to have a Commander to report to, so she waved him to follow her towards the fire and the smell of stew, her companions falling in behind her as they collected steaming bowls of what she tried to convince herself was not deepstalker before the five of them sat on the stone floor and she nodded for the Lieutenant to continue.

He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “There was a missive, from the First Warden, sent almost six months ago now. No warden to come to Weisshaupt. No warden to get involved with the Divine’s Conclave - not that we intended to - and lastly, to wipe out any Venatori we come across. We hadn’t even heard of them. Then your boys tell me they’re camped out on top of Weisshaupt itself. There have also been rumours that a dragon has been seen flying above the fortress, but we haven’t been able to track that one down.” He shrugged and she smiled in sympathy at the vagaries of gossip while her mind raced at the implications of what she had heard. The dragon she dismissed out of hand, she had killed two high dragons with only a few people fighting, a fortress of Grey Wardens would have no trouble dealing with one, and there were no great dragons left. But Weisshaupt was under siege from above and below the ground, it seemed, and yet Weisshaupt was where she had to go. Josef, Nathaniel and Bethany had all told her the Calling had eased as they moved away from Orlais, proving once and for all that it was false, a manipulation by one such as the darkspawn Josef had helped kill in Kirkwall. It had been a relief to watch the strain fade as the song faded from their minds, to see them relax as it disappeared completely only a few miles over the border. It was almost a comfort to her to know that the singing that still echoed in her head day and night was the real thing and not a phantasm or a trick. If they failed in their mission, the other three still had time. They could live and love. She had letters hidden in her bags that they could deliver for her themselves. She had no intention of going quietly, but if her time had come there was still hope that Josef could find a cure, still time for Alistair to have the happy ever after she was desperate to give him. In the meantime, there were darkspawn to fight, if she hoped to get through to Weisshaupt to find these amulets of Fiona’s.

She stood, holding the bowl to return it to the cook fire where it would be scoured with sand, clean water being too precious to use for washing dishes down here. She looked down at Mazur as she put the full force of command behind her words. “You will continue the mission the First Warden has given you. But I need a guide, someone who knows the roads to Weisshaupt from here. I assume you have someone suitable?”

“No warden is to go to Weisshaupt, Commander,” he blustered. “That was very clear and confirmed by your own men.”

“And yet, to Weisshaupt I will go. I have a mission of my own and what I seek may well be in that fortress. If you wish, the guide may return once we are close enough to make our own way but I will not waste time fighting through an army and it’s outliers if I can get closer through the Roads. If the First Warden complains you may say I overruled, bullied and harassed you. Of course that will be because it will be true, unless you do what I want now.”

“You will anyway,” Nate grumbled from the other side of the fire. “Only two men have ever faced her down and neither is here.”

“If you think Alistair is one, you must have lost your mind,” quipped Josef, smirking.

“Hah,” Nate scoffed. “Alistair never faced down a woman in his life, especially not that one. Fergus and Zevran, obviously.”

“Zevran?” It was Bethany’s turn to join in now and Rhiannon watched with amusement as they ignored both her and Mazur in favour of their mockery. It would distract the Lieutenant, she knew, and make it easier to get her own way, which Rhiannon was very much in favour of, as often as possible. The mage continued, “When has Zev ever refused her anything?”

“He refused to let her help him with the Crows who turned up in Amaranthine,” said Nate.

“He screamed blue murder at her for hours when we got back from Kal Hirol,” added Josef, grinning at the memory of Zevran’s face when they returned to the Vigil, dirty, half starved and bringing Sigrun with them. Alistair had charged Zev with protecting his Queen and she had disappeared for three weeks with not a word. After that she had allowed him to follow her, even to join their missions to hunt down the Architect and the Mother, although he had never asked to undertake The Joining and she would never have allowed it.

“He tied her to her bed and took the key to her chamber with him when she tried to follow him in his hunt for the nobles who were plotting against her.” Nathaniel’s eyes danced as he looked over at her.

“He never tied me to the bed.” Rhiannon laughed. “He locked both doors and the windows and broke the locks so it took two days to get them open. By which time he was back and a number of my nobles were found, dead from what appeared to be a darkspawn attack. And you’re wrong about Alistair, he’s far more assertive behind closed doors.” Her three reprobates groaned at her suggestive tone and she turned back to Mazur. “Oskar,” she said, smiling whimsically down at him. “I need a guide. I am ordering you, as Commander of the Grey, to assign one of your people to me. I will do my best to make sure they come back to you in one piece.”  

He frowned back at her then abruptly stood. “Fuck this,” he said, then looked around him speculatively. His eyes landed on two warriors sitting talking together and he shouted, “Karis, Lars, report.” 

As they walked across the camp, Rhiannon assessed them. Both were dwarves, one male, one female. The male was broad and stocky, with bright red hair that reminded her of Oghren although he was significantly cleaner and his beard was shaped and trimmed. Another reminder of the drunkard was the massive double-headed axe he carried slung across his back. The female was lithe and pretty, her blonde hair braided and coiled around her head, glinting like the sun as she moved past the fire. She had been sharpening a blade when Mazur called them and she carried it loosely in her hand, a falcata with a razor sharp edge, its hilt twin to the one she could see peeking out from her hip. An axeman and a dual wielder who used swords rather than the heavy daggers she carried, either would be a valuable addition to their group. So she plastered a welcoming smile on her face and bowed slightly to them.

Mazur looked them both over. “You’ll be leading the Commander and her people to Weisshaupt.”  

Rhiannon frowned at him. “One guide is sufficient, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t deprive you of fighters at such a time.”

He grunted in response. “Two’s better when you travel the Deep Roads. Besides, these two are a pain in the ass if you split them up, but they grew up in Kal Sharok and spent the first ten years or so after their Joining in Weisshaupt.” He nodded at the woman, saying, “Karis is an expert in traps, sniffing them out, disarming them, laying them.” His gaze shifted to the man. “Lars has the clearest sense of the ‘spawn I’ve ever heard of, can feel them coming for miles. Plus, he likes to blow things up if he can’t chop them up and he makes a decent deepstalker stew. Not as good as Erik over there but you won’t starve.” He looked directly at Rhiannon now, as if daring her to contradict him. “They’ll get you to Weisshaupt. If they can’t then it can’t be done. And I want them back in one piece when you’re finished with them.” He turned his attention back to the dwarves. “Get your packs, bed down beside these four, get to know them.” Finally, he turned back to Rhiannon. “Commander, a word, if you don’t mind.” She nodded and followed him over to an empty corner of the camp. She could easily see her friends and they could see her, but no one could hear what they said.

“You haven’t told them it hasn’t gone away, have you?” She glared up at the man who only grimaced at her. “I’ve seen it often enough to know the signs. It’ll call the ‘spawn to you quicker, make you more distracted. If I send the Twins with you, there’s more chance you’ll get where you’re going. I don’t know what you’re looking for when you get there, but be careful it doesn’t eat up what time you have left. You don’t want them to see what happens if you put it off, and you don’t want to run out of time to say goodbye.”

Her instinct was to tell him to mind his business but she knew he was only telling the truth, so she smiled and thanked him for his concern and went to join her friends and get to know their new companions.

They left the next morning and Rhiannon never saw Oskar Mazur again, though she heard he eventually became Commander of Nevarra. Only a day later, the earthquakes started.

Chapter Text

The journey to Kal Sharok was uneventful, by Grey Warden standards at least. There were encounters with darkspawn, deepstalkers and giant spiders, the usual inhabitants of the Deep Roads, and Rhiannon was glad for the addition of the two warriors. Lars was a solid axeman, laying about himself with sure, confined strokes, while Karis and Rhiannon darted about him, focusing on the flanks, and the other three rained down death from above. There were minor injuries but nothing more than any of them had received in the past and they walked into the dwarven city fatigued but encouraged by their swift progress.

Like Orzammar, Kal Sharok was built in levels around the Commons marketplace and the Proving Grounds, but where each level in the eastern city was rigidly segregated, here the castes mingled freely, though the lower levels were still the haunts of the poorest while the nobility lived in the heights of the Diamond Quarter. In Orzammar Grey Wardens were expected to report to the Shaperate, as Queen she and her companions would be fêted and surrounded by pomp and circumstance but instead the twins took them directly to a moderately prosperous house where their mother greeted the wardens as friends of her children, showing them to comfortable rooms where they could refresh themselves before dinner.

"I didn't notice any casteless in the Commons," remarked Nathaniel as they tucked into a delicious meal of roasted nug and greens that had no doubt been traded from the surface.

"There are no casteless in the city," Lars said. "At the end of the First Blight those that survived were adopted into their chosen castes as a reward for their service. Criminals are banished to the Deep Roads, men and women fed potions to make them sterile. Some of the treasure hunters we met would have been Banished."

"Sterility potions are notoriously unreliable, far more so than contraceptives.” Josef pointed out, obviously fascinated by the concept.

“Not if they’re made with spider venom.” replied Karis. “But the guards do a sweep of the nearest thaigs once a year. Any woman with child is brought back and incarcerated ‘til she births, any child found is brought to the Shaperate to be adopted.”

“And the women who give birth?” asked Bethany.

“Sent back to the Roads.” Lars said, his face grim and his tone final. “No child bears the shame of his parents. But the Banished are owed nothing. It’s not a punishment given lightly.”

The conversation moved on to the journey to Weisshaupt, which would take about two weeks, as long as the darkspawn remained infrequent and there hadn’t been too much damage from the quakes. The gossipmongers in the Commons had nothing to say about the cause of the earthquakes as yet, but word of the siege of Weisshaupt had spread. The fortress still stood, but it was said that more Venatori appeared every day and it would only be a matter of time before the Warden stronghold fell. There was speculation everywhere about what the ‘Vints were up to, but nothing Rhiannon hadn’t heard before and nothing that would change her mind about their destination. The Commander had requested permission to access the Memories in her search for anything related to a cure. She also looked for maps of the Deep Roads under Weisshaupt, but the few that remained were ancient and at least some of the Roads they showed were completely blocked, according to the twins. She had no reason to doubt them, or Mazur for choosing them, but it would have been nice to have the added security. The longer she strayed from her home, husband and duties, the more Rhiannon felt her certainty slipping through her fingers, as if she were grasping at false hope while her country was at war. She consoled herself with the thought that Ferelden was in far safer hands than hers and with more frequent sips from her flask. She had topped it up before they left, then again in Val Chevin with Orlesian brandy, since Antivan was in short supply. Now it contained the dregs of her own mix and the brandy, topped up with some rotgut she had bought in the Commons one evening. She was careful, never taking enough to be noticeable, aware that Josef, at least, monitored every sip. But she was always cold, especially at night in her lonely bed, and a few sips warmed her body and dulled the endless song in her head long enough to ease her into sleep, a few more helped her wake in the morning to face another day of endless, fruitless searching.

It only took a few days to realise that Kal Sharok contained nothing useful for their quest, so they rose early one morning, made their farewells to their hostess and made for the entrance to the Deep Roads. Maker willing, they would only be five days to Weisshaupt and what answers might lie hidden within its walls. The group had barely crossed the Commons when Bethany stopped and turned to a pair of dwarves standing by a weaponry stall.

“What did you say?” she asked. They looked at her suspiciously, one obviously the stall vendor, the other bearing a facial tattoo with certain additions Rhiannon knew meant a member of the Carta. Bethany spoke again, more insistently. “You mentioned Ferelden. What were you saying?”

Neither looked inclined to reply, until Karis stepped forward, fingers subtly flicking into a Carta recognition signal. At the sight of her the tattooed dwarf relaxed and the vendor grunted and moved to speak to a customer at the far end of the stall.

“Karis, Lars,” he nodded to the twins, “Didn’t know you were back.”

“Flying visit,” Lars said, looking completely at ease in spite of the glare sent his way. “Warden business, you know how it is. I’m sure Ma would be happy to see you, Kairo, why don’t you drop in, give her your regards.”

“Lars,” Karis growled, “Behave.” She turned to Kairo. “We’re just passing through, heading back into the Deep Roads right now, actually. But this lot are from Ferelden, so if there’s news from there, we’d like to hear it.” She pulled a few gold coins from her pouch. “Got to be worth the price of an ale or two?”

Kairo looked at the gold she held out then grabbed it, shoving it into a belt pouch before eyeing up the rest of them as if wondering if there might be more where that came from. Evidently the sight of six Grey Wardens didn’t inspire him to further extortion because he just hissed between his teeth and looked over to Bethany.

“You heard of the Divine Conclave? The one between the mages and templars?” They nodded and he looked even more sour. “Well someone took it out. Big style. Blew the top off that mountain and opened a massive rip in the sky with demons pouring out.” Rhiannon felt the blood drain from her face, saw Beth lean against Nate while Josef’s knuckles were white on his staff. “Took out some of our top people too, bigwigs there to keep an eye on the players in the lyrium game. Those earthquakes a few weeks ago, that was it.”

“Maker,” Rhiannon whispered, feeling as if her legs would give out under her. “Did no one survive?” Demons pouring from the sky, the Divine… Leliana! Josef caught her as she began to fall, holding her up and holding her flask to her lips, helping her gulp down the fiery brew.

Kairo looked at them with sympathy. “Aye, that’s how we all feel. The whole world’s in mourning right now. There was talk of a survivor. Some mage the rumours say was handed out of the Fade by your Andraste. Whatever the truth, the Breach is still there, but it’s not growing any more, and there’s rumours of smaller rips all over Ferelden and Orlais. Mostly for a few leagues around where that temple used to be but appearing further out every day. Word is to stay away for now, ‘til the powers that be see what way the Stone is turning. If you’ve sense, you’ll do the same.” He looked them over once more before turning to Karis as if to say something. He hesitated, shook his head and wandered off in the direction of the tavern.

“What do we do?” whispered Bethany, clinging to Nathaniel as they both looked to their Commander for directions. Rhiannon felt the weight of their stares, knew Josef was also looking to her, although his arms stayed tight around her, his chin resting gently on her head. Somehow, they had both ended up kneeling on the ground, though she had no recollection of how they got there. The song seemed louder than ever in her head and her flask was almost empty, what she hadn’t knocked back had dribbled out the side as it lay on the ground beside her.

“Lars, Karis?” Josef spoke from somewhere above her. “Can we head back to your mother’s house?” They must have responded, although she didn’t hear them, but suddenly she was being hoisted into strong arms and carried like a baby to the house they had left less than an hour earlier. She barely knew it when Josef laid her gently on a couch, her mind still frozen in disbelief. The Conclave was gone, the Divine was gone. Fiona, a woman she had barely met but suspected was far more than just a stranger; the representatives Alistair had sent to observe the Conclave; Leliana. There was no hope that her friend had not been at the Divine’s side, no hope that she might have survived, that the rumoured mage might really be a redheaded rogue. And demons all over Ferelden. They were only just beginning to recover properly after the Blight, this was the first year the Crown had not had to beg yet more loans from the Free Marches, the first year more taxes had gone into rebuilding than interest repayments. All gone under another ravening horde, this one more horrific than the war or even the darkspawn. Her mind threw up scenes from the Circle Tower, body parts strewn about, evil beyond belief carried out in room after room. It had been so far beyond her ability to cope with that even now she knew the worst images were still hiding, waiting for her nightmares. Panic rose up, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst and her chest felt like rocks were crushing her, leaving her unable to breathe. She barely tasted the potion Josef held to her mouth, gulping it down automatically, feeling the burn cut through the gnawing hole in her heart for a moment before disappearing. Somewhere above her conversations were happening but darkness was calling and she followed it down into oblivion.

------

"Fuck!" Josef suddenly pulled Rhiannon up into a sitting position. “Beth, I need a purge.” He had assumed she was asleep, stress and the mild sedative potion working on her overwhelmed body, but he’d casually delved her anyway, a habit when giving any sedative, even to someone with a warden’s constitution. But for some reason her heart rate and breathing had slowed and her blood pressure was dropping. A quick scan gave him the answer, the alcohol level in her blood was far higher than the couple of gulps he had given her would cause. “Nate, I need warmed blankets and something to make her throw up. Give me that fucking flask.”

Bethany was already pulsing magic into Rhiannon’s unconscious body, trying to clear the poisonous mix of alcohol and sedative while Josef focused on keeping her heart and lungs moving. He took a sip of what was left in the woman’s flask and spat it back out. “That’s not her usual combo.”

“She added Orlesian brandy, there wasn’t any Antivan in Val Chevin.” Bethany said, keeping her voice and movements under control, well trained in keeping calm while healing, no matter the patient or the situation.

“That’s not all that’s in there,” Josef said, darkly. “She’s been topping up. And judging by the state of her blood, she’s been doing it for a while." He started stimulating her hindbrain, trying to persuade it to keep her breathing on its own so he could concentrate on the heartbeat that was faltering, the electrical activity too weak and irregular. He was glad when Nate ran back in carrying about twenty blankets and a jug that he thrust at the mage.

"Salt water," he said. "First thing that came to hand." 

Josef shook his head. "I can't make her sick now, her heart won't take it."

"What in the Void is going on?" Nate's frustration was clear but he kept working, wrapping blankets around both Josef and Rhiannon then putting the jug to the side.

"There's a shitload of alcohol in her blood." Beth replied. "The potion tipped her over and her body can't cope." She looked over at Josef. "There's a lot of damage, not just from the liquor, it's making it hard to cleanse her. I think it's the taint."

Josef looked down at the woman in his arms and jumped to his own conclusions. "Fuck! Did she ever come straight out and say the Calling was gone?"

The other two wardens looked at him with horror as Josef cursed Rhiannon for hiding from him, not just that the drinking was worse than he realised, but that she was still hearing that song inside her head. He couldn't think of any other reason for things to escalate so much. He shook his head and put it aside. Causes could be dealt with later, when she survived and was well enough to be screamed at.

"Beth, I need you to take over maintaining her heart and lungs, keep the air going to her brain." Once he was certain his fellow mage had both rhythms under control he switched his focus to the rest of her body. Bethany was a good healer, but she didn't have his knowledge or experience. For the first time he cursed his separation from Justice, feeling his mana depleting and waved to Nathaniel for the lyrium potions in his pack. Swallowing the bitter draught he focused on repairing the organs that would do most of the filtering for him, healing the scarred liver and boosting the struggling kidneys. He pushed energy into her adrenal glands, forcing them to give out infrequent jolts of their chemicals to help Beth with Reina's heart and blood pressure then shifted his attention to her pancreas, triggering hormones that would break down her reserves to feed the revitalised organs. Slowly he felt the poisons start to shift, felt her body coming back into some kind of equilibrium.

"It's working," whispered Beth. "Her heart's getting stronger."

Josef downed another lyrium potion, shoving one at Bethany as he did so. "Don't let go, not yet. Nate…" He trailed off as he realised the archer was no longer in the room.

"He's gone to get food and drinks for us." Bethany said and Josef smiled gratefully at her. That was what he was going to ask but apparently he'd been anticipated. Bethany continued, "I asked him to bring water for Rhi and to ask Mistress Balkis for broth.”

“She won’t be able to take them, not until she’s stable, but it was a good thought.” He hesitated, trying to assess Rhiannon’s immediate needs against the exhaustion in his bones and echoed on Bethany’s face. The immediate need was to keep her heart and lungs going, she needed time for her body to clear the toxins. He squeezed a little more out of the adrenal glands and slipped in to support Bethany before gently pushing her power out of Rhiannon’s body. When she tried to protest he told her, “I need you to rest. I can keep this going for a few more hours. You sleep and then you can take over so I can sleep.” He looked down at his unresponsive patient. “We’re not going anywhere until she can travel.” As Bethany left, shutting the door gently behind her, he whispered in Rhiannon’s ear, “Once you’re awake, we will be talking about this, love. I won’t lose you again. Not to the Calling and certainly not to the fucking flask.” He had had enough. Alistair be damned, he loved the woman in his arms and he would make her his, if she would have him. They would find a cure at Weisshaupt and then they would be free to choose their path and politics and nobles and inconvenient marriages and wars and even demons could all go fuck themselves. Reina would know that he was hers, body and soul, forever.

------

He carried her up to the bed and laid her in it, using a constant trickle of magic to encourage her body to heal itself, triggering negative feedback loops when they faltered, trying to break down some of the Blighted cells where he could. How effective it would be, he had no idea, there were no visual signs of Blight, there had been no apparent diminution of her faculties; they could have only weeks left or still have years. She had survived the one thing that was supposed to be unsurvivable, killing an archdemon, perhaps that was why the taint was already taking over? He managed to force down some food and a mug of small ale, wishing desperately for water or even cider instead, before settling into a meditative state that would let him continue healing Rhiannon while giving him some rest also.

When Bethany appeared some four hours later, he was almost out of mana, the last lyrium potion in the room long gone and he could barely keep awake. He sat on a chair bent over the bed, with his head resting on his forearms beside the still sleeping queen. He hadn’t heard the door open but when Bethany touched him lightly on the shoulder he came to with a jerk, looking up at her through stinging, sandy eyes and noting the damp hair, clean clothes and the refreshed look on her face with something that might have been jealousy, if he could have summoned the energy. He felt Bethany’s magic slip in beside his and gently, if not quite smoothly, take over. It was a technique only used often by healers, to merge and release ones magic, used for long cases like this one. Few other mages ever learned it and Bethany was still new to it, so the transition was jarring enough to make him a bit more awake. He managed to stagger to the room next door where he splashed water on his face then collapsed onto the bed, barely staying awake long enough to kick his boots off.

He woke exactly four hours later. He had always been able to tell himself when to wake, no matter how exhausted he was. Not for the first time, he cursed the ability, wishing he could have slept just a little longer, but instead he dragged himself off the bed, stripped and washed with the remaining water in the ewer and threw on a clean tunic and leggings. His legs still felt like jelly and his stomach was starting to growl, too used to regular meals since leaving Kirkwall, even with the travelling they had done lately. He made it through to Rhiannon’s room and thought that he could have cried when he saw the tray of food sitting waiting for him. Bethany smiled as he shoved a handful of roast nug in his mouth. 

“Take your time,” she said. "She's pretty stable and actually sleeping now." Sure enough, Rhiannon's breathing was even, her colour a soft rose instead of waxy grey. Relieved, he started chewing a bit more slowly as he sat beside Bethany. She took his hand and squeezed it, leaning her head on his shoulder in exhaustion. 

"Has she woken yet?" He asked quietly.

"Not yet. She seems to start waking and it knocks everything off again so I decided to keep her under for now." She sounded unsure and he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"That's exactly the right thing to do." Bethany relaxed against him as he confirmed her instincts and he eased his magic in beside hers, letting some flow into her before he gently pushed her from the link.

"You didn't have to do that." Sometimes he forgot she was a Hawke, her soft-spoken ways so different from her sister, but the look she levelled at him was pure Mari, the mixture of exasperation and over-protectiveness that could easily tip into anger. "Save your energy for yourself, and her." She tipped her head at Rhiannon before loading a plate with food and dumping it beside him. "You need it more than I do." With that she flounced out of the room, still taking care not to slam the door and Josef grinned. Marian would have slammed it but Bethany would never disturb a patient. The grin faded as he looked back at Rhiannon, absently checking the flow between them before piling more meat on a slice of the bread and butter Bethany had loaded onto the plate. As Beth said, Rhiannon was stable, but not ready to wake up yet, and it only took a small trickle of magic to keep things steady while her body did the work itself. While he waited he ate and tried to plan what he would say when she woke up.

He and Bethany swapped places regularly over the next day or so, with Nathaniel bringing them food and drink and waiting with warm arms for whichever of them needed help to sleep. Thankfully, Rhiannon woke briefly in the small hours of the morning. She was awake long enough for Bethany to coax her into drinking some broth before she fell asleep again. The pattern continued every few hours, a brief waking followed by another sleep, but each time she was a little more awake, a little more coherent, and the two healers were happy with her progress, which was enough to satisfy Nathaniel and their hostess.

Karis and Lars had spent the time trying to find any more information about the hole in the sky and the demons pouring into Thedas through it, but there was little else to hear. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had exploded, a mage was apparently the only survivor and, rather than being held as the obvious suspect, was being lauded as a religious icon heading a new Inquisition which the Chantry would use to put the mages and the templars back in their places. It was very little more than they had already known and was surrounded by huge amounts of gossip and speculation. Through Kairo, who turned out to be the twins father as well as a crook and a gambler, they acquired a supply of high quality lyrium potions, more than enough to get them to Weisshaupt. All they needed was their leader to be well enough to fight through the Deep Roads with them.

On the second morning after her accidental overdose Rhiannon could sit up and eat a bowl of porridge rather than having broth poured down her throat. Josef, Nathaniel and Bethany sat around her, Beth cross legged on the bed beside her while the men sat in chairs pulled as close as they could get. They ate in silence, content to simply be near each other, until Rhiannon pushed her empty plate away and looked up at them.

“We need to go back,” she said. The other three looked at her, completely unsurprised by her statement and the lack of resistance somehow left her on the wrong foot. “I mean, we can’t just ignore this. Ferelden needs us.” Still there was no argument, no real response and the arguments she had tried to work on during her waking moments just vanished from her head as she was faced by nothing but silence.

Finally, Josef spoke. “If we travel directly across Orlais, we can be at Redcliffe in about six weeks.”

Nathaniel added, “We don’t need to stop near Halamshiral and heading back the way we probably won’t need much by way of supplies, especially if we follow the Highway.”

“Mmm, real beds with clean sheets, yes please,” said Bethany, thinking of the inns along the highway.

“We can’t really stay in inns and taverns, sweet.” Nathaniel pointed out gently. “When Rhi turns, we’ll need to kill her. It’s hard to dispose of a body when the Imperial Guard do spot checks. But if we go cross country there will be plenty of places to dig a grave.”

Bethany nodded, calmly, while Rhiannon gaped at them. Josef stood to collect the bowls and place them on the sideboard, bringing over the jug to fill each glass with water before leaning over to adjust Rhiannon’s pillows behind her, dropping an absent kiss on her cheek as he did so.

“Maybe Rhiannon would prefer just to go into the Deep Roads from here? Why would she come back with us now?” He looked directly at the stunned woman and asked, “Did you want us to take anything back to Alistair, love? A token, or a message?”

Finally the Commander found her voice. “You three are the most passive-aggressive bastards I’ve ever met. What the fuck?”

“Well there doesn’t seem to be much point in you heading back with us if we’re going to wake up one morning with you trying to eat our faces.” Nathaniel said while Bethany interjected, “And not in the good way.” Nate groaned, looking slightly uncomfortable as he always did when Beth or Josef were flirting with Rhi. He didn’t quite want to give them a shovel talk, especially since he didn’t want a beating from his Commander, but part of him would never forget the skinny kid running along behind him and Fergus, begging them to teach her how to ride and shoot and fight. The thought of that eager child becoming what Adria had, of having to kill his little sister as she turned into a ghoul before his eyes, was something that had given him nightmares since he realised that Rhiannon’s life expectancy would be far less than his, but the reality of it was overwhelming. Only their shared decision on how to approach her was keeping him together right now, when Beth had broken the news he had cried for the first time since his mother had died, cradled in his mate’s arms like a baby.

Rhiannon glared at them. “How did you know?” She didn’t ask what they knew, there was no point.

“The taint was interfering with us healing you.” Josef explained. “And we wouldn’t have needed to heal you if your blood wasn’t saturated with alcohol.” He didn’t miss the way her hands were trembling on the coverlet and that was another issue they would need to deal with before they could go anywhere because they had stripped every bit of alcohol out of her system and there would be consequences to that. He filed it away for further thought and took one of the shaking hands in his, stroking it lightly as he said, “You should have told us, Reina.”

She sunk into the bed, her face impassive. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. We should have been able to get to Weisshaupt with time to spare. You’re right, I can’t go back to Ferelden, I might not make it. You have to go. I’ll give you a letter for Alistair.” His heart clenched at her hopeless tone and he opened his mouth to say something reassuring, something loving, but Bethany got there first.

“Fuck that!” All three of them jumped, looking at the quiet mage.

“Beth…” Nate warned, giving Rhiannon a worried glance.

“Don’t ‘Beth’ me, Nathaniel Howe.” She looked over at Rhiannon. “We’re continuing on to Weisshaupt, where we will find a cure.” Then she gave a grim smile. “And if you try to eat our faces on the way, we’ll give you a quick, clean death and carry on until we do have a cure.” Rhiannon began to protest but stopped when Bethany raised her hand. “What can we do about rifts in the Veil? I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She looked over at Josef who shook his head. The tears in the Blackmarsh had been superficial, not enough to let actual demons through, and they had only closed them by being drawn into the Fade itself. “I didn’t think so. And if Josef doesn’t know, I doubt you do, Rhi?” She waited for Rhiannon to shake her head then continued.

“This false Calling is something the First Warden needs to know about. Weisshaupt is under siege. You are hearing your real Calling and the only thing that might help is at Weisshaupt.” She softened slightly. “Let someone else save the world, Rhi. Save yourself this time.”

Rhiannon gave a sardonic chuckle, “I saved myself last time, remember.”

“No you didn’t,” Bethany replied. “You sold yourself into a life of slavery to your kingdom, to the Wardens, a life of nothing but other people’s needs. If you had saved yourself then you wouldn’t be having a race to see whether the Blight or the alcohol kills you first.” Rhiannon flushed at the accusations, but couldn’t deny them and Bethany leaned forward to grab the hand Josef wasn’t holding. “We love you, sweetness, so much. But, by Andraste, if you pull this bullshit on us again, I’ll kill you myself. We’re going to Weisshaupt, the four of us, if I have to tie you in a blanket and drag you behind me all the way.”

Rhiannon just stared, open-mouthed, at her, before lunging forward to pull the woman into a kiss. The two men looked on helpless, then at each other and Nate murmured, “I guess that’s sorted, then.”

Chapter Text

The battle raged below. Waves of genlocks and hurlocks, led by multiple alphas, threw themselves against the blue and silver mass, while ogres stayed behind the lines, hurling great stones that crushed wardens and darkspawn alike. Rhiannon scanned the rear lines, looking for those directing the battle. To see ogres maintaining a position, archers targeting over the front lines to reach Weisshaupt’s defenders behind, spoke of an organisation she had only seen in the self-aware darkspawn who had belonged to The Architect. She had spotted at least seven emissaries, spread across the attacking army, each taking a specific part of the battle, calling down fire and lightning and ice, like the ogres they were unconcerned with the nature of the bodies lying scattered about, as many of their own in pieces as their enemy. Finally, she saw him, a grotesquely tall darkspawn directing the battle, half shadowed by the overhang they crouched upon, accompanied by two human mages in Tevinter robes, the tips of their staves glowing with the ambient magic flowing through the massive underground canyon.

The trip had been too quiet. They had travelled through abandoned thaigs and deserted roads for days, on edge as faint echoes brought back whisperings of the battle somewhere up ahead. Only a mile beyond the last marker for Weisshaupt the road had opened up into a series of chasms that reminded Rhiannon of the Dead Trenches in the roads beyond Orzammar, lava winding its way far below, beading their brows with sweat, noise muffled and diverted by the deep channels and towering walls, the ceiling barely seen in the distance above them. The noise had been so confused they had come out almost on top of the battle before realising what it was, only luck bringing them to a high ledge looking down on chaos that made the Battle of Denerim seem insignificant.

As she watched, Rhiannon began to notice patterns of movement, oddities in the fighting. It seemed the leader of the darkspawn was not The Architect, as she had first thought, but something of a height and shape with him, one of the other Magisters Sidereal, if such still existed. It was draped in robes of Tevinter style, not the rags The Architect had once worn and her belief that this was not he was confirmed when she spotted the familiar figure far across the battlefield, standing beside a warrior wearing blue and silver. The Wardens themselves were interspersed with darkspawn who fought beside them, a hurlock emissary sending fireball after fireball at the closest ogre while a dwarven rogue flickered in and out around it, holding off any who sought to interfere, until the ogre went down, the smell of tainted flesh burning wafting directly across where the small band crouched out of sight. They were almost directly above the other Magister, they would need to make a move before it or the Venatori mages sensed the presence of her own mages, but there was no clear way through the attacking lines, and six wardens would be no match for the hundreds of darkspawn on the field. She signalled her group and they withdrew smoothly, keeping their silence until the sounds of fighting were once again a distorted, indeterminate noise behind them.

Josef rubbed the sweat from his face, looking around at his companions as they did the same. “Fuck. How do we get through that?” Rhiannon sat on the ground and started pulling out roughly scrawled maps she had copied in the Shaperate in Kal Shirok. Karis and Lars silently set up a perimeter while Bethany set wards, Josef joining her after a minute or so. Nathaniel sat beside Rhiannon and looked at the crumpled pieces of parchment.

“Lars,” Rhiannon ordered the dwarf over and as his boots appeared beside the map she was scrutinising, she pointed to a section of it that appeared to be just beyond where they had come upon the conflict. “Is there a way from here to there?”

He crouched beside her, frowning at the page as he mentally tracked the nearby paths. He pointed to a side passage about half a mile back the way they had come. “This leads to one of the main roads heading further north, about a mile or so along there should be a connecting tunnel heading this way. If it doesn’t bring us out at the other side, it’ll come out closer to Weisshaupt eventually. Probably add on half a day or so.”

Rhiannon tilted her head to look at her companions. “Lars, you’re point, get us there, as close to the fighters as you can but if we miss them, so be it. Karis and Josef, rearguard. Nate, Beth, we’re going to be keeping an eye on the side tunnels. Anything coming our way, we wipe it out.” She stood, shoving the maps carelessly into her pack, the rest shifting their positions as directed and they moved out, hoping for a way around the battlefield.

The side passage did indeed connect with one of the main roads and the next branch was where they expected it. The wardens moved silently along the narrow corridor as it twisted and turned, the echoes carrying the sounds of fighting from all directions, disorienting them and making it impossible to know if they had managed to avoid the conflict or not. There were no branches from this tunnel anyway, they would have to stay the road they were on or risk going back and losing yet more time. As a result there was nowhere to go when they turned a corner to be faced with a group of about twenty darkspawn. For a heartbeat the two sides just stared at each other, then a hurlock let out a war cry that almost knocked Lars down and the fight began.

Rhiannon hated battles. The noise was overwhelming, crashing metal that hurt ears trained to hear muffled footsteps, movement everywhere around, distracting her focus, making it impossible to keep track of her companions. Most of the ‘spawn were already wounded, no doubt running away from the Weisshaupt wardens, but there were enough of them to make it a challenging fight. All Rhiannon could do was concentrate on taking down one monster, then the next, then the next, trying to listen for any of her people shouting for help. She had no talent for overseeing these things, she couldn’t read the shifting nature of a battlefield the way Alistair could. She was a bard and a duelist, trained for the Game or for small scale engagements. During the Blight she had concentrated on hitting the flanks, taking out the rearguard and archers, relying on Alistair’s shouted instructions to support her allies when necessary; in Amaranthine, Justice or Oghren had done the same. None of those with her were really trained for that and they were less coordinated as a result. Luckily the close quarters meant the only real tactic was to keep pushing forward. She stopped when there were no more darkspawn in front of her, her muscles screaming, blood dripping from four or five shallow cuts, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

There was no time for more as a second wave appeared around another corner, far enough away that she could grab her barely used bow and take out a few of them before they got too close. More arrows flew past from Nate’s longbow, the farther reach noticeable as one punched through the throat of an emissary hiding at the back. The warriors held back, waiting for the enemy to close, while Rhiannon felt healing, rejuvenation and barrier spells flow over her, the mages husbanding their power for defence this time, their mana slower to refill. The darkspawn rushed forward, not hesitating even in the face of the storm of arrows the archers sent their way. This group had none of their own, apart from the solitary emissary Nate had killed they appeared to be grunts, their danger not in skill but in numbers. Behind them Rhiannon caught glimpses of blue and silver, the reason for their continued push, an attempt to overwhelm the smaller group and escape the wardens harrying their heels. Suddenly a wave of almost familiar magic passed over them, while a voice in the distance called, “To the side, Wardens!” Beneath them the ground shook, loose rocks falling from the ceiling above, some landing directly on top of the ‘spawn, crushing them. Rhiannon and her companions followed their orders and hugged the sides of the tunnel, crouched to keep themselves small. None bore shields but they all tucked their heads under armoured arms, leaving enough of a gap to see the enemy, ready to fight even through an earthquake if needed. It seemed the quake was the last straw, though, as the few remaining grunts simply ran past them, desperate to escape. It should have been over, but a genlock carrying a pike stumbled over fallen rocks and landed on its knees right beside Bethany. For one frozen second they stared at each other in panic, then the genlock shoved his pike at the mage as arrows and at least two fireballs hit him. He fell, a smoking husk already forgotten as Rhiannon tried to take in the image before her.

Bethany sat on the ground, looking in confusion at the length of wood emerging from her body, seemingly ignorant of the blood dripping from her mouth, except to cough up more every so often. Josef was already there, pouring magic into her while Karis did the same with healing potions. Nathaniel stood over them, jaw rippling with tension as he scanned the tunnel for another attack, training keeping him at his post while the others did their work. Lars and Rhiannon had both thrown their remaining potions to Karis, her brother mirroring Nathaniel's vigilance over than while Rhiannon turned to deal with the arriving wardens.

An elven woman in battlemage armour stomped past, heading directly for Josef and Bethany and Rhiannon was surprised to recognise Velanna, missing since the Mother's attack on Vigil's Keep. That explained the familiar touch to the magic, though she hadn't felt it for years. She turned back to the rest of the wardens. They were a mixed bunch, as wardens often were, and the clear leader was a woman with the warm colouring of Tevinter who wore the arms of a warden-lieutenant. She was watching Rhiannon warily, noting the blades at her side as well as the insignia of a warden-commander. Rhiannon spared a glance back to where Velanna had dropped to her knees beside Josef and was passing him a blue vial before facing the lieutenant and raising her fist to her chest.

"My thanks for your timely rescue," she said, formally, ignoring the fact that it was their presence that had driven the darkspawn into their tunnel. She would need all the goodwill she could garner to achieve her goals.

The woman mirrored her gesture, nodding her head slightly before speaking with a smooth, warm accent that confirmed her Tevinter origins. "Commander Cousland," she said, ignoring Rhiannon's faint grimace at being recognised. "We were not expecting anyone in this direction." She looked over at the group around Bethany, a furious glint quickly hidden when she identified Lars and Karis. 

“I need to speak to the First Warden, with some urgency.”

“Since you have those two with you,” the lieutenant said with distaste, nodding towards the twins, “Then you know the First Warden has declared Weisshaupt off limits.” She waved her hand at the carnage around them. “You see why.”

Rhiannon could hear Velanna’s footsteps behind her. The elf could be as light footed as any of her kin when she wished it but in a temper she made as much noise as she could, if only to annoy people.

“The Commander will be coming with us.” Her sharp tones hadn’t changed, the contempt with which she spoke to the other warden bringing back memories of her verbal jousting with Josef or Nathaniel, before she learned to be civil. “Her companions also, the mage would not survive the return to Kal Sharok.” As she moved past, she flashed Rhiannon a look that said she was not sure Bethany would survive to reach Weisshaupt, close as they were. Pushing down the sick feeling of guilt and worry, Rhiannon watched as the two women before her began arguing in fluent Tevene, the lieutenant assuming the Ferelden would not know the language, the elf presumably not remembering or not caring that Rhiannon did.

“Lord Vogel was clear...”

“Situations change, Lieutenant. The Architect will want to see her.” Rhiannon hid her reaction to mention of the Architect, glad she had already identified him. It appeared Velanna had tied herself to the sentient darkspawn, no doubt to be close to Seranni. Judging by the Lieutenant’s attitude as they continued to argue, Velanna was of a higher rank and the name of the First Warden was brought out to try to bolster her faltering position. Finally, Velanna hissed, “They come to Weisshaupt, Gabriella. The Augur told us, the Black Flame is coming. Well, here she is and I will present her to The Lady whether you like it or not.” The lieutenant, Gabriella, slumped slightly, then turned to call orders to her wardens, instructing them to prepare a litter for Bethany. Velanna turned to Rhiannon and raised her fist to her chest. “No questions, Commander. We need to move while the Appraiser is trying to gather his troops again. I doubt even Josef can do more for the girl right now anyway.”

It took only minutes for the group to be ready to leave. Rhiannon walked beside Bethany’s stretcher, holding Nathaniel’s hand as she watched the ghostly white face more than the tunnels ahead. The road branched a few hundred feet ahead, the right heading for the battlefield, which had finally fallen silent but for the groaning of the wounded, the left taking them entirely past it and directly to Weisshaupt. Rhiannon cursed their luck. Only another fifteen minutes and they might have avoided the skirmish entirely. Even walking at the pace of the litter bearers they reached the vast underground gates to Weisshaupt Fortress in less than an hour. Velanna spoke quietly to one of the guards, who went into the guardhouse and emerged moments later followed by a young man who tucked a piece of parchment into a satchel and took off at a run. They continued on into the lower reaches of the castle, coming to a massive dwarven lift that proceeded to raise them into the towering darkness, stopping at the entrance to an empty corridor, well lit with torches. Disembarking, they were led along numerous corridors, all on the same level, until Velanna opened a nondescript door and they all poured into a massive room.

The room was large enough to hold all of them comfortably, fifteen people, two of whom were carrying a stretcher. Velanna waved those two through a door that opened into a luxurious bedroom decorated in autumn colours, warm russets and browns and golds. One of their compatriots pulled back the covers on the bed and they carefully shifted Bethany onto it, then brought the covers up, ignoring the blood and filth sticking to her that would have to be boiled off the sheets, if it came off at all. Josef and Nathaniel were beside her almost instantly and Rhiannon wanted to go to them, to check on Bethany, but logically there was nothing she could do, so instead she turned to Velanna.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The other wardens filed out of the room until only Velanna and Gabriella remained. Lars was investigating a sideboard on which food and drink had been laid out, while Karis had disappeared into one of the other rooms, muttering about a bath. Finally, they were all but alone and her mind was clear enough to start asking questions.

She began with the Lieutenant, deliberately speaking in Tevene and watching the woman squirm. “Lieutenant Gabriella. Be assured I will make it very clear to Lord Vogel that you objected vigorously to our intrusion and were overruled. Any consequences will be on my head. You are dismissed.” She watched her leave before turning her attention back to Velanna.

“One man died and another was crippled, trying to shift the rubble that supposedly crushed you.” Rhiannon had never particularly cared that the elf had left. Velanna had always been clear that her motives were her own and although they had developed a mutual respect, they were never friends. “You could have waited until the battle was done before doing your disappearing act.”

The other woman raised one elegant eyebrow briefly. “I had barely enough mana left to get me through the ground away from that wall. I passed out as soon as I reached a safe space. When I woke, I was in one of the Architects laboratories, Seranni and Utha having found me and carried me there. I decided that my duty to your wardens was done, so I moved on, to find a new duty elsewhere.”

She didn’t miss the use of the term ‘your’ wardens. “So you became another of his experiments did you?” Honestly, she was curious. The elf seemed no different than she had almost ten years ago, but then Utha had been with the Architect more than twenty and Seranni had never been a warden.

Velanna laughed derisively. “Hardly. That way lay nothing but dead ends, even the Architect admitted he could go no further. No, we found a different purpose, Rhiannon, one that is not so far away from yours, I think. Anyway, I have business to attend to for the moment, and people to inform of your presence. Check on your own, Commander Cousland. Rest and eat. There are busy days ahead.” With that she turned and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her and though Rhiannon listened, there was no snick of a lock following.

Wearily she sighed and half collapsed into a nearby chair. Food and drink would be welcome, as would a bath, though all she really wanted right now was to know Beth would be alright and to sleep for a week. She dragged herself back up and through to the bedroom, standing back from the bed and focusing on Josef instead of Nathaniel or Beth herself.

“How is she?” She asked, quietly.

Josef looked up. He was almost as wan as Beth had been and his face was lined by the strain of healing. “Terya, one of the stretcher bearers, said she would bring more potions, there’s not much else I can do right now. I’ve managed to heal most of the internal organs and damaged muscle.” He avoided looking at Nate. “I had to remove her womb, and part of her bowel that was too damaged. Luckily you can basically stick the two ends together and if it’s healed neatly it’ll work as normal.”

“But...?” His eyes were flickering about in nervous sidelong glances, from Beth to Nate, then to Rhiannon, then back to Bethany. She needed to know the full picture. “Josef!” 

“The head was lodged in her spine. It came out cleanly enough, thank the Maker, but I don’t know how much damage was done. It was low down, it may have missed the cord completely. Once the swelling goes down...I need to wait... to see...” He trailed off, looking miserably over to Nathaniel, who sat by the bed, stroking Bethany’s limp hand.

“You mean, she might be paralysed.” Nate’s deep voice was calm and he held out his hand to Josef, pulling the man into a stooped embrace. “She would be dead if it weren’t for you - and Velanna. I’ll take alive over anything else any day.”

Josef looked down at the unconscious woman and whispered, “But will Bethany see it that way?”

Rhiannon moved across and nipped him. “Stop that. You did your best. Beth’s strong, she’ll cope with whatever comes. She’s one of us, no matter what.” Another nip at his side and then she burrowed her way under his arm, sandwiching the mage between them as she grabbed Nathaniel’s arms and squeezed the three of them together. Knowing Bethany would live was all she needed for now, the adrenaline disappearing as if someone had pulled the plug from a bath. She settled herself on the bed, curling carefully into Bethany’s sleeping form, barely aware of Josef lean form settling behind her while Nathaniel moved to the other side of the bed to lie beside his mate. There was more than enough room for the four of them in the bed and they dropped into sleep, gently arranged around their wounded mage.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon dragged herself from the bed and stumbled to the garderobe, barely making it before emptying her stomach.  Between the battle yesterday and worry over Bethany, she hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours so it was little more than bile, making the blackened blood more obvious than usual.  She glared at it as she wiped her mouth, spitting another small clot before sluicing it down with the water left for that purpose.  The song was getting louder and she had a feeling she didn’t have long before the corruption started to affect her outsides as it was evidently affecting her insides.  Staggering back into the room she made for the jug and ewer sitting on the sideboard, taking a sip of the clean water before having a perfunctory wash and throwing on the plain tunic and leggings sitting on the nearby chair.  She lifted a comb and pulled it through the tangled curls, breaking off two tines before giving up and dumping the comb back down with a curse.  She looked back at the crumpled, dirt-stained bedding, seriously considering just falling back into it, but the need to check on Bethany was too strong so she ventured out of the bedroom, squinting in the bright sunlight that poured in as she opened the door.

  The suite was luxurious: a central parlour and dining room that opened into a small, walled garden; four sumptuous bedrooms, two on each side, with their own water closets.  Between each pair of bedrooms was a shared bathing room with a large deep tub hewn into the rock, heat travelling up from beneath even the Deep Roads to warm the water that circulated constantly, old funnelled out into the gardens to make way for the new that bubbled up from warm springs under the mountain.  Rhiannon promised herself a long, hot bath as soon as she had checked on her fallen Warden, more than willing to tolerate the faintly sulphurous smell to be truly clean for the first time since leaving Kal Sharok.  Fruits and pastries were laid out on the dining table with pitchers of water and milk but she ignored her rumbling stomach and parched throat and made straight for the only closed door.  

The room looked just as she had left it, only Nathaniel’s damp hair showed that he had moved from his mate’s side long enough to bathe before laying back down beside her while Josef slumped in a chair at the other side of the bed.  Both men were sound asleep so Rhiannon kept quiet as she moved over to get a good look at Bethany.

The purple circles under her closed eyes were like bruises against the white skin, her cropped black hair sticking out at odd angles as if she had been moved around in the bed, probably while Josef was healing her wounds.  Full pink lips were bloodless and her breath was shallow and rapid.  Rhiannon desperately wanted to touch her, to wrap her arms around her friend and tell her it would be okay, to brush the hair that was never so unkempt, but she was too afraid of disturbing the sleeping woman, of inadvertently doing her harm.  Illness and disability were terrifying to Rhiannon, she had never truly known either, had grown up listening to the soldiers telling stories of maimed comrades with more sorrow than stories of the dead.  The thought that Bethany might die in this bed, wasting away without waking, was horrific; the idea of her being confined to it for life even more so - it made her feel sick.  For one awful moment she thought that it might have been better if Bethany had died in the Deep Roads, struck down in battle, a fitting end for a Grey Warden.  The next moment she was disgusted with herself for thinking that way.  So she stood beside the bed, her body almost vibrating with the pull both towards Bethany and away from the pain and confusion.

“She won’t wake,” a voice said softly behind her.  She looked over her shoulder to see Josef watching, his eyes knowing but kind.  He sat up in the chair and stretched his arms above his head before starting to rub his neck.  “Damn chair.  Anyway, I’m keeping her asleep, letting her body rest and heal.  You won’t wake her if you hold her hand.  Or hurt her.”  

Rhiannon looked at him doubtfully.  “If she’s in an enchanted sleep, she won’t even know I’m here.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t touch her, Reina.”  He stood and stretched again then headed to the door hiding the garderobe before tossing over his shoulder, “It might make you feel better.”

Instead Rhiannon sat in the chair Josef had vacated and simply watched.  For now, that would have to be enough.

------

A few hours later Rhiannon had bathed and changed again, this time into a simple dress of pale green linen, and was walking in the small garden.  Nathaniel had woken and was sitting with Bethany while Josef had finally eaten, bathed and was now sleeping in one of the other rooms.  He had given no further insight into Bethany’s condition, only time would tell and Rhiannon felt like screaming at the universe.  Time was something she did not have, something none of them might have, with tears in the Veil and Thedas under siege.  Reaching Weisshaupt, taking the amulets, returning home so Avernus and Josef could find a cure, this was all she had thought about for months now, since the conversation with Fiona in Redcliffe.  But the First Warden had refused to answer the messages she sent with every servant she saw, the healers sent in his stead were helpful but none were anywhere near as powerful as Josef and she could not imagine leaving here alone but neither could she deprive Bethany of either her healer or her mate when they still did not know if she would live. She felt utterly useless.  Josef’s request for assistance with Bethany’s bodily needs, which Rhiannon had somehow thought would cease until she could get herself to the privy or the bathing room, was met with a hasty retreat and frantic summoning of servants to aid the two men while the Queen hid in the garden, staring at flowers and trying not to think about what was happening only feet away.

As she reached the farthest wall of the garden she heard light steps behind her, not Josef, nor Nathaniel, perhaps one of the servants to tell her the unpleasant tasks were complete and it was safe to return inside.  Instead she turned and found Velanna behind her, watching with the intense stare Rhiannon had never forgotten, thin arms crossed over her chest.

“Velanna,” Rhiannon nodded her head in greeting.

“Commander,” the elf replied, barely inclining her head in return.

“Have you come with an answer from the First Warden?  Or, preferably, to escort me to him?”

Velanna simply stood for a moment, watching the woman who had once been her Commander, who had given her the opportunity for revenge for the deaths of her people, who had stood by her against her own clan, before her eyes softened and she said, “Yes and no.”  She paused and Rhiannon waited, letting the silence draw out as Velanna gave her a measuring stare.  “I am here to escort you, and the Primus will be there, but you have an audience with someone greater.”

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose.  “Someone greater than the First Warden? Someone here?  Who?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.  Lord Vogel will be there also, and a few others.  The Primus wanted to see Anders too, but I persuaded him that the girl needed him more.  For now.”  With that ominous comment Velanna turned and walked away down the path, not looking back to see if Rhiannon followed.  It was almost tempting to hang back, to see when the woman noticed and to make the point that she was not a dog to be summoned when it suited.  But curiosity won out and Rhiannon moved quickly to keep up.  They walked along empty corridors, up flight after flight of stairs and Rhiannon saw no one, not even servants, as they passed.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.  Velanna looked over at her as if surprised by the question.  “I haven’t seen a soul since we left the suite.  Where are they all?”

“On the walls, or down below.  All but the servants allocated to your needs.  Weisshaupt is under siege, remember?”

“I could hardly forget,” Rhiannon replied, bitterly, Bethany’s pale face seared in her mind.

“If you had followed Albrecht’s orders you wouldn’t be here and your friend would be safe.”  

Rhiannon snorted at Velanna’s acerbic tone.  “Fuck you.” Velanna sneered at the insult and strode off, making Rhiannon pick up her pace or risk losing her guide in the rabbit warren.  Eventually they entered an area with wider corridors, where the occasional person could be seen, Warden’s tending their weapons or servants carrying trays and bundles here and there, finally stopping in front of a pair of large iron doors.  She recognised the doors, they led to the Great Hall, where once she had stood and looked the First Warden in the eye as she repeatedly lied about why she was alive.

A lone guard opened one of the doors and the two women walked through.  Rhiannon looked around, interested to see if anything had changed in the decade since she had first been in the hall and she stopped abruptly as she took in details.

The First Warden stood beside one of four massive fireplaces, his face utterly expressionless, with the tall, warped figure of the Architect close beside him, while a few Wardens were dotted about, including the Tevinter, Gabriella.  They had all stopped talking to watch her entrance and she was very aware of the empty space at her back.  Ten years ago Rhiannon had stood in this room before the massive throne carved out of the mountain itself; now, at the end of the room where the throne had once sat, was an expansive dip in the floor, currently filled by a large, golden dragon.

Rhiannon had fought drakes and high dragons and even an Archdemon, but none had matched the size of this one as she lay curled and watched the approaching Wardens with faceted eyes as golden as her skin.  Then Rhiannon blinked as the dragon began to glow, brighter and brighter, until nothing could be seen through the light before it winked out completely, leaving Rhiannon staring at a woman standing in the dragon’s place.

The woman was tall, taller even than Sten, but where Qunari were broad she was slender.  Hair like dawn sunlight cascaded down her back and her skin had a burnished glow to it, a gauzy burnt orange dress in Tevinter style draping her form and accenting lush curves, reaching down to brush the floor and when she stepped forward Rhiannon noticed absently that her feet were bare.  She stopped only a few feet away and Rhiannon realised that the woman’s eyes were also gold, not Morrigan’s bright yellow, or the honey gold of Alistair’s eyes, but pure, metallic gold, unbroken, neither pupil nor sclera visible, though from the intensity of her stare, Rhiannon did not think she was blind.  For long moments the two women stood and stared at each other, then, oddly, the unnamed woman began to glow again, not blinding this time but pulsating gently.  When the pulse faded she stood almost eye to eye with Rhiannon and her eyes, still gold, now more resembled those of an elf than the dragon.  The similarity did not end there for now they were close enough Rhiannon could see the delicate taper to the ears though they were less angled than most elves.

Velanna inclined her head to the woman, showing more respect than Rhiannon had seen her give anyone.  “My lady, may I present Rhiannon Cousland-Theirin, Warden-Commander and Queen of Ferelden.  Queen Rhiannon, Divine Razikale, Goddess of Tevinter.”  “Ancient Tevinter!” she heard hissed in the background and Velanna glared at Gabriella before moving over to join her.  

Rhiannon was speechless.  Only years of living at court stopped her from running, screaming from the room.  In front of her, Blighted or not, stood an Archdemon, standing in the Great Hall of Weisshaupt.  It took all her willpower to curtsey to the woman, who barely seemed to notice.  She simply examined her closely, before opening her mouth to speak.

“The corruption is taking you over.  Soon you will be one with those below.”  Her voice was low and rich and created odd echoes, as if a chime was struck with every word.  It was beautiful and soothing but the content of her words struck Rhiannon like a punch in the gut. A harsh comment sat on her tongue but instinct and training made her swallow it and simply incline her head.

The First Warden stepped forward and cleared his throat, distracting the women.  Albrecht Vogel was a short, stocky man with the strong features and pale blonde hair of his native Anderfels.  His face was one that gained appeal with age, charismatic rather than handsome, and his broad, archer’s shoulders and narrow waist gave him an oddly triangular shape.  Vogel was well respected, but under his command Weisshaupt had become more remote from the rest of the Warden outposts than ever and Rhiannon had wondered what the man had to hide.  Now she suspected the answer was standing in front of her.

“Now do you understand why you should have followed my commands and stayed away from Weisshaupt?"

Rhiannon glanced over his shoulder to The Architect and said clearly, “I see you managed not to set off a Blight this time.  Well done.”  Then she drew her attention back to Razikale, ignoring the First Warden.  Something about the man rubbed her up the wrong way and she wasn’t in the mood to pander to his ego.  Instead she curtseyed deeply to the Goddess before her.  “I am honoured to meet you, Divine One. and pleased the meeting does not take place on a battlefield.”

Razikale looked puzzled for a moment, then her head turned to look behind her as if a noise had caught her attention.  It seemed it had, for through a door at the back of the hall came a man taller even than The Architect, dressed in the robes of a Warden mage and moving slowly, a hitch in his step as if his right leg were shorter than the left.  As he came into the light Rhiannon fought to restrain a gasp.  His face was twisted, the right side looked burned and blackened, the eye missing in its socket, and the unmistakable sign of Blight had withered the exposed arm.  The other side was unmarked, the face of a young, handsome man, his remaining eye was clear and black as night and stubble covered his head, stopping where it met burned, scarred skin.  He came closer but barely seemed to notice that anyone else was in the room, his eye focused on Razikale and a gentle smile on well-formed, sensual lips.  Rhiannon’s mouth went dry at the beauty of his left side, such a stark contrast to the ruin of the right, and did not notice he had already begun to speak.

“ Nire bihotza, nire erregina. Lanean ari da. Laster berriro neure burua bihurtuko naiz.  Maitea. ”   With the last word he drew close and opened his arms, drawing Razikale into them and placing a chaste kiss on her mouth before he knelt, arms sliding gently down her sides, until his head rested just below her heart.

Razikale laid her hands on his shoulders and bent down to kiss his forehead in benediction.  “ Laztana, ederra zara zure itxura guztietan baina garai batean zurea zen aintzara berreskuratzen ikusiko nizuke. ”  

He stood and stepped back, turning to face Rhiannon and offering her a bow.  “You are the one they call the Warden-Queen, yes?”  His voice was faintly accented, different from The Architect yet similar, and as alien as the language he had spoken.  Certainly it was nothing like Ancient Tevene, even without much of a grasp of it, the cadences were all wrong and she recognised nothing that might have become a root word in any Thedosian language.  Without thinking she blurted out,

“Where are you from?”  There were groans behind her and she felt incredibly gauche, something she had not felt since she was about thirteen, but the handsome man smiled kindly at her, seemingly unoffended by her bluntness.

“My home was Oihaneko Uhartea, you know it as Par Vollen.   My people lived there before the Kossith came.  I am Kemen, the Augur of Mysteries, High Priest of Beloved Razikale.”

Rhiannon couldn’t hide the shiver that went through her at the title of another of the Magisters Sidereal, although it had been obvious as soon as he entered the room that he could be nothing else.  She glanced over at the Architect then back at Kemen.  “There was another,” she said, slowly.  “In the Deep Roads, there was another of you.  And my friend fought and killed another, he called himself Corypheus.  How have you all survived so long?”

Kemen frowned, “The Conductor is not dead, Warden-Queen.  He lives and sows chaos in his wake.  I do not know what he hopes to achieve, but the Breach in the sky is his work.”

Rhiannon blinked.  “That’s... not right.  Josef said he was dead.  Dismembered and burnt to ashes.  He was there...” Kemen was nodding as she trailed off, feeling confused.

“If one tainted creature was nearby, the Conductor would be reborn.  We are difficult to kill.”  He said it sadly, with regret rather than pride, as if his long life had wearied him.  “The one below was Istvan, the Appraiser, High Priest of Andoral.  He leads those who besiege this fortress. Besides Kyros there is only one other left, Xura, the Guardian of Night." She assumed Kyros was the Architect and by 'Guardian' the Augur referred to the Watchman of Night, priest of Lucasan, the final Archdemon. So the Forgewright and the Madman were dead.  

“But...”  She got no further before the First Warden’s voice interrupted.

"I think that’s enough information for now, Lord Kemen.” Vogel raised his hand as if to stop the Augur speaking.  “The Commander was brought here because Divine Razikale wished to assess her suitability, not to be told things that do not concern here.

Razikale had been watching them quietly, a slight smile on her face for her priest, and now she turned to the First Warden and frowned.  “The Warden-Queen is indeed the Dark Flame, Primus.  She will need to know all if she is to fulfill her destiny.  The secrecy of your order has failed this world for too long, it is time to travel a new path.”  She turned to the Augur, then the Architect and nodded.  “Teach her what you know.  When she is ready, bring her to me.”  So saying she turned her back, walking once more towards the immense dip in the hall and glowing as she walked until finally the golden dragon lay once more in her bed and closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

All knew the Golden Heart of dreams' kingdom

Shone like a star, forever out of reach.

It had always amused Kemen that the Sanctum of Dumat, God of Silence, rang day and night with the hum of sunlight bouncing off the crystal-covered walls.  Razikale’s temple was a quiet, peaceful place, it’s priests dedicated to studying the mysteries of the universe, it’s supplicant’s few and most often scholars.  By contrast, the faithful flocked to the hall’s of Dumat to hear the words of the High Priest, Corypheus, and to pay homage to their beloved dead.  This late in the evening there were only a few people left in the temple and no one seemed to notice as he walked among them, his hood drawn up to hide his mask.  Few ever saw the face of a High Priest once their vows were taken and though he could have walked through the temple with none the wiser as to his identity, the meeting he was here to attend required a certain formality.

Corypheus’ First met him at the door to the Inner Sanctum, leading him through the more private parts of the temple before leaving him at the entrance to the High Priest’s private quarters.  Apart from his body slave, only personal guests were allowed into these rooms.  Beyond the door was a small vestibule where the robe and mask of the High Priest hung and there were already three others beside it; by the colours and the elaborate masks, the High Priests of Andoral, Lusacan and Toth were already here.  The Architect and the Madman would be late, they were always late.  Kyros would be caught up in whatever he was tinkering with these days and Andros was, well, he was Andros and took his title far too literally in Kemen’s opinion.  He hung his mask and robe beside the others and headed for the parlour.  They had been meeting like this for months now, all seven High Priests coming together in response to a threat that still remained almost completely unknown.

When he walked in the room the debating had already begun.  Sethius sat in his usual chair, sipping wine while Istvan and Lucas hovered over piles of notes, arguing over location and logistics.  Xura was whispering something in Sethius’ ear which made him smirk at the other two and whisper back.  When he noticed Kemen’s entrance, the Conductor waved Xura back and stood, unfolding to his full six and a half feet.  The man was used to using his height to intimidate others and it amused Kemen that Sethius always seemed irritated that they stood eye to eye; for a Tevinter he was exceptionally tall, while Kemen was only slightly taller than average for a Skal.  Still, he shook the man’s hand genially and accepted the proffered wine, nodding his greetings to Xura before turning to the two men still arguing at the table.

“Kemen, what do you think?”  Istvan was short and round, with heavy features and the red nose of someone who spent too much time in his cups.  But he was also shrewd and as the Appraiser of slavery had contacts across the Imperium, particularly in Emerius, an Eastern city whose ruler had evidently sent the letter he was thrusting under Kemen’s nose.  Lucas, a man of average height, average colour and average intelligence, stood back and crossed his arms, displeasure clear on his face as Kemen skimmed the letter.  He looked back up at the two of them.

“We need to send more lyrium and more slaves.  At least they followed the plans we sent, it sounds like the city itself is all but complete.”  Three generations it had taken to build a city to their specific designs, countless slaves sacrificed above and below ground for their aims.  Soon everything would be ready, but the Seven wondered if it would be enough, or if their single goal for the last century and more would be too little, too late.

“Twenty more magisters lost, Kemen, twenty!”  Lucas was angry, because he was afraid, a fear Kemen very much understood.  “Twenty lost and still no progress.”

“The Veil is thinning, Lucas.”  Sethius spoke the words as if weary of repeating himself, which he very much was.  Emerius was an experiment, an unpalatable one at that, but Sethius was confident it would succeed.  “The Golden City grows ever darker and only a handful of Somniari have been born in the last fifty years.  Will we allow magic to depart from our world completely?”

“The City has been changing for 2000 years, Sethius.”  Lucas retorted.  “Even the Gods do not know if it is a natural change.  Perhaps there is no way to stop this.  We have lost twenty Somniari to abominations, not to mention the hundreds of slaves and whatever lyrium they used.  Emerius grows fat on the slave trade, let it be that and no more, turning it into fuel to enter the city is a fool’s errand.”

“The plans are sound, Lucas.  Urthemiel himself believes this will work.”  Kemen jumped.  Kyros had entered quietly, Andros a step behind, and the Architect smiled that infuriatingly patronising smile as he bowed to his fellows.

“Zazikale also,”  Andros grinned at Lucas’ discomfited grimace at his God’s name.  The God of Chaos often had his own agenda, but in this the Gods were unanimous.  Since Fen’Harel raised the Veil and condemned his own people to mortality, the Golden City had changed.  Unnoticeable at first, as soon as Dumat became aware of the sickness in the City he began to seek out those who would hear his call.  All seven Gods, bound in slumber, only able to touch the world with their minds, began to search for an answer and for agents who could reverse the sickness in the city.  It had taken centuries, an undertaking handed down from High Priest to High Priest, a never-ending manipulation of their entire society for one goal - to enter the City, to seek out the sickness there and to destroy it.  The unpalatable task of damaging the Veil, of creating the perfect place to cross over, was almost at an end.  Soon, they would begin the task their Gods had set them, two millennia ago.

Kemen understood the fears Lucas bore, he understood Istvan’s reluctance to admit the time would be soon.  They were small men with small minds.  Sethius, Xura and Kyros dreamed of the fame and power to be bestowed upon them, certain that no sickness caused by elven magic could stand against the might of Tevinter, while he thought that only Andros was as fervent as he in wishing the return of the Gods, the cleansing of the City and the restoration of magic.  Andros believed the elves would become as they once were and Kemen was unsure of this, modern elves were pitiful things, most needing their Tevinter overlords to protect and guide them, saving them from barbarism.  The implications of the return of Arlathan could destroy Tevinter.  No, those days were gone, the ancient elves with them.  What Kemen wished was the cleansing of the Fade and to stand in the glory of his Goddess, no more.

“We make plans, my friends,” Sethius intoned.  “It is time to travel to Emerius and serve our Gods.”

Chapter Text

For the next four days nothing happened; there was no summons to the throne room, no change in Bethany’s condition, no news from the outside world.  Every day the song was a little louder, the blood she vomited a little darker.  It didn’t matter, the choking taste of metal and rot that tainted everything she ate or drank, the noise that caused her to forget where she was or what she was doing, stopping her mid-conversation or driving her to amble aimlessly in the walled garden.  Training exercises didn’t help, not after the second morning when she tripped and landed on her face in the grass, then just lay there listening to the beautifully discordant music until Nate found her and carried her inside to wipe the grass stains from her face and clothes.  After that there was always another warden wherever she was, sometimes Nate, sometimes Anders, often Karis or Lars.  Karis would sit with her sometimes, telling her about Kal Sharok, or about her time at Weisshaupt, including the night the twins and Albrecht Vogel, before his heady rise to Primus, sneaked into the kitchens and were found in the morning lying on the floor in a stupor of wine and ale and surrounded by the crumbs of several pies baked for the arrival of King Johann, father of the current King Wilhelm, the next day.  All three were flogged and, when their wounds healed, sent into the Deep Roads for a six month long patrol.  The stories broke through Rhiannon’s fugue, making her laugh or groan or chat animatedly about her own life and how she could imagine Alistair right beside them, getting into scrapes, especially if food were involved.  Karis was intelligent and funny, serious when the situation warranted but with an enthusiasm that sometimes reminded Rhiannon of the dwarf girl, Dagna, who had begged to study at the Circle of Magi, then presumably disappeared with the others when the Circles disbanded.

Lost in thoughts of the redheaded dwarven woman who had given up caste and home in her search for knowledge, Rhiannon didn’t notice Karis stand and walk over to the tall, blond figure standing in the open doorway.  The difference in their heights might have been comical, if the look they shared had not been so serious.

“What’s happening?”  Karis asked quietly, wishing for the thousandth time for some miracle.

Josef looked down at the earnest dwarf woman, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.  He liked the Twins.  Lars was quiet, but not sullen, and his sense of the darkspawn was uncanny.  Karis was a talker but even while she chattered she had an eye for traps or pitfalls that even Rhiannon hadn’t noticed.  They had been a serendipitous addition to the group and their concern for both Bethany and Rhiannon was genuine.  He tipped his head in the direction of Bethany’s room, “She’s awake.  Nate’s with her just now.”  

Karis threw her arms around the exhausted healer and he leaned into the hug gratefully.  He pulled away to look out at where Rhiannon still sat, oblivious to the conversation behind her and Karis followed his gaze.  “You need to let her say goodbye, Josef,” she said, gently.  “You need to let her go, before she can’t get Below herself.”  He hung his head, shaking it slightly in denial at the truth in her words and her voice became hard.  “She’s still here for you.  For Bethany and Nate.  She needs to know it will be okay, she needs to know she can let you go and you will be okay.  She should have gone weeks ago, we should have left her below to go out fighting.”  He lifted his head as if to argue and she pinched his side to silence him.  “Do you want to wait until there’s nothing left of her?  Until she turns on you, or Nate, or Bethany?”  The anger in her voice changed to sadness as she said, “I know you wanted a miracle, Josef.  But you won’t find it here.  Weisshaupt has been searching for a cure for the past nine hundred years.  The answer isn’t here and she doesn’t have any time left.”  She let her arms drop and turned to walk back into the garden while Josef stared silently after her.

He had never told Rhiannon how he felt, it never seemed to be the right time.  Now there might be no time at all.  She looked so small, sitting on the bench in a light blue shift with stains on the knee where egg had dripped at breakfast, her crimson hair lank and dull and held off her face with a loose scarf.  The vibrant, firecracker who had stopped a Blight at nineteen; the young Queen who had stood between the world and the only friend who had never turned his back on her; the Grey Warden who had run through the streets of a warring city to save a worthless apostate;  the woman who had left her husband and her country to face who knew what for the chance at a future for them all.  That woman numbly sat with uncombed hair and a dirty dress while he stood and watched and did nothing at all.  He had never told her how he felt and now it was too late.

He turned to go back to Bethany, unwilling to leave her for too long the first time he had allowed her to wake since her injury, and nearly jumped out his skin to see Lars beside him, scowling at him.  “Follow me,” the surly dwarf grunted, turning to the door that led to the rest of the fortress.

“But I...”  Josef waved vaguely towards the bedroom but Lars shook his head and then jerked it towards the door.

“Move it, pretty boy.  The other two will hold the fort for now.”  Josef shrugged and followed Lars out the door.

They walked along endless corridors and up what seemed like hundreds of stairs until they emerged onto the forward battlements.  Josef shrank back a bit at the sight of the First Warden and Velanna standing with the Architect while Grey Wardens were stationed all along the walls, looking down on the besieging army.  Lars just looked at him with contempt before stomping over to the group.

“Lars,”  Vogel smiled at his Warden, while Velanna stopped talking to The Architect long enough to nod at him then went back to her conversation.

“Albrecht,” Lars smiled back, “Finally doing something about the rabble, are you?”

“Not me, my friend.”  The First Warden looked over his shoulder, towards the upper levels of the keep.  “It’s time we showed these Venatori exactly what they are up against.”

Above the keep proper were the caves where Griffons had once lived, sunning themselves on perches.  From one of them a great, golden dragon appeared, unfurling her wings and roaring her anger across the battlefield before them.  Josef’s heart jumped into his throat as she thrust off from the ledge and soared over them, he couldn’t stop himself ducking as the enormous shadow passed over them, glad to see he wasn’t the only one as he straightened back up.  He moved to stand beside Velanna and watched as the Venatori army raised barriers and shields, only for them to buckle in the face of the white-hot fire that swept from side-to-side, covering the front lines and leaving only ash behind.  The rear lines watched in horror as the forward guard simply disappeared into nothing.  Then the first soldiers began to turn and run, heading for the dubious safety of the foothills.  Perhaps some of them made it, Josef couldn’t see as the wind shifted and buffeted ash across the battlements, ash that only seconds before had been living people.  Josef felt sick feeling it settle over him but he refused to move.  Lars had brought him here for a reason and it wasn’t to watch Vogel’s Archdemon incinerate an army.

Eventually the dragon wheeled and flew back to the walls, shimmering into a tall, elven woman as she touched down near where they stood.  Wardens across the walls and the courtyard below burst out cheering and waving as Vogel bowed before Razikale.

“Divine One, we offer our most grateful thanks.”  He said, but Razikale barely nodded her acknowledgement, walking past him with her eyes on Josef.  He couldn’t move, caught in that golden gaze, staring at the beautiful woman who had ended the siege of Weisshaupt in one fell swoop.  She held out her hand and he reached to take it, his body moving before his mind had quite caught up.  Her skin was smooth and cool and strong, as she grasped his and pulled him closer, examining every feature before her eyes slid behind him.

“ Hau da, maitea. ” Her voice was crystalline, but the one that came from behind him was a mellifluous baritone.

“ Orduan, nire anaia da. ”

He turned to look at the man behind him.  The Augur, Kemen.  The man towered over him, half his face burned beyond recognition, the other more beautiful than any he had seen.  Reina’s description had not missed a thing.  He felt as if the ability to speak had completely vanished as he stood between two figures out of legend.  Everyone else was forgotten, they might have been alone in the universe, time moving around them, outside them, until The Augur stepped forward and slapped Josef on the back, a move so oddly familiar it yanked Josef back to reality, suddenly aware of the stares aimed at the trio.

“I apologise,” said Razikale.  “I have slept forever and woken to find only one of my children remains, to feel the presence of another - it was not something I ever expected to find.”

“I...” Josef struggled, his mind trying to grasp her meaning, but she put one silken finger to his mouth then leaned in to place her lips to his forehead, stretching up slightly to do so.

“You are one of mine.  I claim you, from now until the worlds come undone.”

She stepped back and The Augur took her place, enveloping Josef in a bearhug that threatened to crack his ribs.  “It’s been centuries since I had a brother.  Welcome, welcome.”  His voice was pure emotion, choked with feeling before he too kissed Josef’s forehead and stepped back.

Still trying to find words, he looked over at The Architect and Velanna, both of whom watched with vague interest, and Vogel who looked as though Josef was a very interesting sort of bug.  The First Warden stepped forward and took Josef’s numb hand, shaking it.

“Josef Weber,” he said, raising an eyebrow.  “Also known as Anders, also known as Friedrich Hummel.”  Josef stiffened again, expecting to be hauled off to the cells any moment then stupefied when Vogel laughed.  “Josef would have loved you, Anders.  He escaped Tranquillity by becoming a Warden then I sent him to Ferelden before the Grand Cleric could demand he was sent into Below, permanently.  He probably wouldn’t have blown up a Chantry, but who knows?”  Vogel looked around and then waved the group towards the door.  “Let’s go discuss this inside, please.”

That brought Josef back down to earth and he raised his hand.  “Wait.  I need... I mean, I came here for Reina... I mean, Rhiannon.”  He stopped and drew a breath, then turned to Razikale, falling to his knees before her.  “Divine One, I beg you.  Cleanse the taint from her, save her?  Please?”

Razikale frowned, and looked to Vogel, who looked abashed.  “The Queen of Ferelden is hearing her Calling, Divine One.  She doesn’t have long before she must descend.”

Razikale tilted her head, quizzically.  “I understand, she is changing.  I told her as much before.  She hears the song and should seek out her new self.”  She turned to Josef and looked surprised to see the tears in his eyes.  “Why do you cry, Beloved?”

The Augur interrupted, “I have learned more while you slept, Beloved.  The Wardens do not become like the Suntsituak .  They descend to do battle and die with honour, or they become Arimarik Gabea .”

“The Dark Flame cannot become Arimarik Gabea ,”  Razikale said, anger painted across her perfect face.  “She must fulfill the destiny before her.”  With that the Goddess strode past, brushing Vogel out of her way and leaving all to follow in her wake.

They followed her down, never faltering or unsure, as if she could sense where Rhiannon waited passively.  With her longer legs even Josef couldn’t keep up, almost running just to keep her in sight while the others trailed behind.  The door to the suite lay open, Razikale nowhere in sight, but Josef caught a hint of light blue behind the bushes out in the garden and made for Reina.  She sat where he had left her, blue dress still stained with egg, hair still loosely covered.  He froze, no idea whether he was here to protect Reina or... well, he just had no idea.  Part of him wanted to trust Razikale, still felt the touch of her lips against his skin, part of him had devised the completely irrational idea that she would somehow turn his Reina into a darkspawn, a repulsive hurlock, or worse, a broodmother, churning out more and more of the ‘spawn in pursuit of some destiny only the Goddess could see.  A tiny part hoped against hope that Razikale had come to cure Reina, that she could provide the cure for them all, could save the Wardens from their grisly fate.  Even if she only saved Reina, he thought, even if the rest withered and died before their time, the final promise of the Joining, he would give everything he was to this creature if she would just save his love.

Reina stared at the golden woman before her, her face showing nothing of curiosity or worry or fear as Razikale reached out to touch her on the forehead, exactly where she had kissed Josef.  There was nothing to see, no blinding light, no miraculous transformation, but Josef felt the fade shift and waver around them.  Then it was gone and Reina stared at Razikale with clarity and the beginnings of suspicion.  He didn’t feel the crack as his legs gave out under him and his knees hit the ground.  The women turned to look at him and he felt as if his heart might explode, all he could do was stay there, tears pouring silently down his cheeks, watching his Queen restored to him.

Chapter Text

At first it was like waking from a dream.  A blur of gold became large, golden eyes with black slits for pupils, surrounded by a face of unearthly beauty.  Her forehead burned where the ethereal elven woman still touched her lightly and she could hear birds singing in the tree above, while a breeze rustled the leaves around them.  How long had it been since she had heard birdsong?  It felt like forever.  Beside the heat that remained even as the woman moved her finger, she felt chilled.  Her stomach cramped with emptiness, a sharp pain lancing through her that only years of training allowed her to keep from her face.

The next few hours gained nothing in clarity.  She was fussed over by Anders, who insisted she eat and rest after a quick check to be sure the taint was gone.  He couldn’t stay, he told her, he had left Bethany for too long.  In her silent room she wondered why Bethany could not be left alone, trying to understand the vague disquiet that came when she thought of the other woman.  They had reached Weisshaupt and she was cured of the Blight, the Calling gone from her brain, her body free of the foulness.  Somehow she had expected to feel better, more herself, but reality was hard-edged, a knife that dug into her guts and twisted while she tried to remember why Anders looked so different and why Alistair was not beside her.

She knew she needed to relieve herself, but looking around the room made her dizzy, everything doubling and tripling with every head movement.  Finally she closed her eyes and crawled from the bed, waiting until she was on solid ground before trying to get her bearings.  A door in the wall, slightly ajar, looked promising.  She pushed herself up, trying to stand but her legs would not take orders and she fell to her knees, hands trying to brace against the floor but failing, her face hitting the flagstones chin first, pain shattering through her jaw followed by another jolt of pain in the centre of her body, stabbing through to her back in unrelenting torture.  She tried to scream, tears running down her cheeks as she felt her bladder give way under the strain, desperate for the agony to stop, if only for a moment, but only enough air remained in her lungs to force out a strangled groan.  Overwhelmed by sensation, Rhiannon passed out on the floor.

Nathaniel found her unconscious, soiled and soaked dress almost dry while a puddle of green bile lay beside her open mouth.  His shouts drew Josef and Velanna, while Bethany shrilly demanded to know what was happening beyond her view.  Josef sent him back to his mate, warning him to tell her nothing of Reina’s condition, while the mage lifted his Queen from the floor and gently laid her on the bed.  Velanna was drawn and pale but she helped Josef strip the Commander down and wash her, cleaning her skin and changing the sheets before slipping a light shift over her nakedness.  He frowned at her hot, clammy skin.  It wasn’t only the temperature that worried him, there was a yellow tinge that had not been there only hours before and her belly was swollen in a grotesque mockery of pregnancy.  At his request, Velanna brought his kit and then ran off to find the senior healer and the First Warden.  Silently she vowed to beg Razikale herself to come and undo whatever was happening to the woman who had helped return Seranni to her.

She returned with the head healer, Hector, in tow, muttering to Josef that Lars had gone to find Albrecht in the hopes that Razikale or at least one of the Magisters would be nearby.  The words caught in her throat as she watched a straw coloured fluid, stained lightly pink, draining into a bucket from a metal tube that protruded from Rhiannon’s swollen belly.  Hector joined his magic to Josef’s, bolstering the failing liver while Josef frantically tried to flush toxins away from the brain, reaching out into the Fade to call for help, praying to an absent Maker for one with the knowledge of the spirit who had saved Alistair’s life almost a decade ago.  A gentle touch suffused him, endless Compassion flowing into him, giving him strength, his magic building patterns of proteins to lay down in damaged areas, others to bulk the blood and slow the neverending flow of fluid into her abdomen, all without conscious thought or understanding, easing away at the end so he could see rose-tinted cheeks and a flat stomach, so he could feel a strong, steady heartbeat through his fingertips and he sank into the chair behind him without stopping to think how it had got there, wrung out and empty.  Three times in as many weeks he had fought beyond strength, beyond hope, to save someone he loved.  Three times he had looked upon them, unsure whether his magic was enough, or whether the woman before him would slip away in her sleep, beyond his help or any others.  Tears of fear and pain and exhaustion ran down his cheeks and he dashed them away angrily.  Bethany had brought nothing on herself, she would live but he had no idea if she would ever walk again, it was unlikely she would be able to ride or fight again, or even stand for long periods.  But Bethany had been doing her duty.  The darkspawn would be the death of all of them, even if the Calling could be cured; it was their duty, the life they had unwittingly chosen when they drank from the poisoned chalice.

But Reina had handed him that chalice.  She had offered him sanctuary but given just another prison even if it hadn’t felt like a prison until she returned to Denerim and left him behind.  She had cursed Nate also, willing to sacrifice the brother of her heart to her cold duty rather than let him go on his way.  She had been cured of the taint that had almost taken her and he knew that soon he would be grateful for that, soon he would be thanking the Maker for her life.  But for now he was angry.  Angry that once again he had spent himself saving her from the ravages of her addiction, mending organs she had wilfully damaged herself.  He was angry because the taint that had been killing her, turning her into something unrecognisable, had also been keeping her alive for what must have been years.  The damage had been so severe, he had seen nothing like it, even in the asylums in Kirkwall where he had offered his services and it made him angry, at her, at Alistair, at himself.  Yet still he sat and watched over her, begging her to live and hating her for almost dying.

He turned when the door opened, surprised to see the Augur, Kemen, as he stooped slightly to pass through the frame.  Corypheus and the Architect had both looked like darkspawn, as had the Appraiser in the brief glance he caught in the Deep Roads.  But Kemen looked human, no sign of blight on his skin, the burned side stretched in a way Josef had known meant it had happened as a child.  He felt comfortable with the man, although that feeling itself set him on edge as he remembered the conversation on the walls above.  Part of him recognised the Magister as a kindred soul, a brother, but the rest reminded him that this man had slaughtered thousands and turned the Golden City black.  He and his fellows had brought the Blight into the world and condemned mages to centuries of imprisonment and abuse.  So he didn’t speak to the man, he watched as he walked towards the bed and he readied what remained of his mana as the Magister took Reina’s hand, then released it as the familiar glow of healing surrounded her.  Finally, Kemen stood and beckoned Josef to follow him from the room.  He quickly checked his patient over, delving his magic into her to discover her body was healed and renewed, even the scars that littered her skin were gone.  She was sleeping peacefully so he laid a kiss on her smooth forehead and made his way to the sitting room.

“Wine?”  Kemen stood by the decanter, pouring a light pink liquid into a glass before offering it to Josef.

“That’s...” he choked and cleared his throat, noting the setting sun through the now closed garden doors.  “Sorry, I lost track of time.”  He took the glass and held it up to the light.  “What is this?”

Kemen chuckled, “It’s wine.”

“Did someone mix red and white?” Josef asked, doubtfully.  He sniffed the liquid which had a very pleasant fruity smell, then sipped it carefully.  It was sweet and light and as fruity as the scent had promised.  He greedily drank the whole glass down.

Obviously amused by his reaction, Kemen shook his head then took the glass to fill it again.  “You people have no idea what good wine is, the white taste like vinegar and the reds could strip pitch from a roof.  The Imperium is almost as bad, but they do still make some drinkable versions.  This is called arrosa .  It’s a simple wine but it seems the Blight destroyed many of the best vine types and the knowledge of it was lost.  Strange, but it happens.  I believe this is the first batch made in almost one thousand years.”

Josef smiled and nodded his thanks as he took the glass back and sipped again.  “You know, if you felt like giving up the whole evil Magister thing you could make a fortune as a vintner.”  Then he stiffened and wondered if he had gone too far as Kemen sighed.  At a gesture, the two men moved towards the dining table, where they ate in silence, Kemen picking at a chicken leg while Josef stuffed himself on meats and vegetables and soft, white bread with fresh butter.  They chattered about food and wines, keeping the conversation light while they ate and when Josef leaned back, his belly engorged with food, Kemen nodded to the sofa and stood to refill the drinks.  They settled near the fire, Josef on the sofa, Kemen in a chair, and the atmosphere between them turned serious.

“Your Queen almost died.”  It was a statement, but questions lay underneath and it was Josef’s turn to sigh.

“She grew up at the Royal Court in Orlais, daughter of the Ferelden Ambassador.  Orlesian nobles are more spoiled than most and their adolescents spend their time partying and playing at being bards.  Reina did both.  Then she went home to Ferelden and fell in love and he wasn’t noble enough for her family.  She never said but I think the man was threatened.  So she went back to the parties, drinking, fucking, using stimulants her maid procured to get her out of bed or to keep the party going.  Her father found out and the maid was flogged and dismissed but it didn’t change her, she just got more sneaky.  Then she woke one night to find her home under attack.  The man she still loved was killed, along with her family, including her seven year old nephew.  She fled, became a Grey Warden, raised an army, stopped a civil war, killed an Archdemon and became Queen and wife out of duty.  The drugs didn’t work on a Warden and we can drink a shitload more than anyone else so no one noticed.”

“Except you?” Kemen asked but Josef shook his head.

“After the siege on Amaranthine and the Keep I found her passed out.  She had vomited so much it tore her stomach lining.  Once I’d healed her she told me about it but no, until then I had never noticed, never dreamed of it.  Drunkards are filthy wretches haunting taverns and alleys, not beautiful Queens who save the world.  We worked on it, weaning her down.  Then the King was injured and she had to return to Denerim and I ended up in Kirkwall...”

“And she never stopped?”

Josef felt choked with guilt.  “She thought I was dead.  I let her think I was dead, rather than face her after killing other Wardens and making myself an abomination.  I didn’t think she would grieve, but she did.  No one else noticed the drinking, not even her husband.  She’s a master of hiding her true self.”

“When the taint was removed, the damage it had been holding back took over.”  Josef nodded, he had already suspected that.  “I have healed what remained.  Tomorrow I would like to see the other woman, I may be able to assist there also.”

“You’re a healer?”  The mage was surprised when the magister laughed at him.

“Of course.  I could not be who I am otherwise, could I?”

“I don’t understand.”

Kemen sobered and looked at Josef kindly.  “Of course you don’t.  I hid from your world for many generations, not truly knowing what I was.  When I awakened I tried to understand but there were so many changes, so many untruths.  Your priests and kings have turned us into villains and murderers until I could not recognise us in your stories except by name.”

“Tell me the truth then?”  Josef stared at the man.  “Tell me why mages across Thedas have suffered for centuries for your actions, why we are imprisoned and tortured and treated as less than human, if you are not the monsters we believe you to be.  I met the Architect before, remember?  He wanted to use our blood to create talking, thinking darkspawn.  He set off the Fifth Blight and his own God died.  And Corypheus, he was imprisoned with blood magic for Ages and as soon as he was set free he attacked us, screaming about Dumat and the power of the Golden City.  So explain this to me, please?”

Kemen looked at him sadly then nodded.  “I cannot speak for us all, or for the things we have done since we entered the City.  But I can tell you my story.”  He sat back in the chair, staring into the fire as long fingers tapped against his glass.

“To you, the Tevinter Imperium was a single entity, spread across most of the world, with only the barbarians of Ferelden fighting them.  But the truth is, the Imperium was held together by its laws and its governance, but most people retained their own national identities.  What you call empires now, Tevinter and Orlais, own little land beyond their own, but the Imperium spread across the world and brought civilisation wherever it went, but left infrastructures, local government, religions alone.

“When I was nine my mother tried to escape my father.  He locked her and me and my baby brother in the house and set fire to it.  Magic I did not know I had manifested as ice, but by the time the fire was doused my mama and little Argo were dead.  I only survived because a priestess of Razikale was in the village and could heal the burns.  My father was burned at the stake, the punishment intended to fit the crime, and the priestess claimed me for the Goddess.  When I first set foot in her temple and heard her voice, I was lost.  My entire life became service to Razikale.

“Eventually I became an Acolyte and was initiated into the Mysteries.  Each God has their own province and only one overlapped, one known only to the First Acolyte and High Priest of each Temple.  Since Fen’Harel raised the Veil, the Golden City had begun to dim.  In each generation less Somniari were born, those who were became more at risk from demons than other mages or soporati.  Three hundred years before I was born the Gods realised that the City was not only growing dim, but blackness had begun to encroach on it.  They brought their priests together to search for answers but found none.  Eventually it was decided that the only way to discover the truth and destroy whatever blighted the City was to go there ourselves.  So we withdrew from day to day life, became remote from our people and left the Magisterium to rule alone, though the High Priests retained their seats it became a mere courtesy.  Instead we spent generations building a city that would be a gateway, weakening the Veil year after year, laying down sigils in the paths the people walked day after day, night after night.”

“Kirkwall,” Josef breathed.

Kemen nodded.  “We called it Emerius, after the family who supposedly founded it.  The Appraiser was given oversight and it became the greatest slaving city in the Empire, all for the purpose of thinning the Veil further.  Finally the time came and we travelled to Emerius, every High Priest and First Acolyte of every temple in the Imperium, every Somniari.  We opened the Veil and entered the City.  What happened then, I do not remember.  My last memory is walking through gates of gold spotted with black rot, then I awakened in the Deep Roads, far from home and not knowing myself.  But it seems that not only could we not restore the Golden City, we did indeed bring the Blight back across the Veil with us, in that, at least, your church is right.”

“You drowned Kirkwall in the blood of thousands of slaves to rip the Veil, but you say the Golden City was already turning black?”  Josef knew he sounded skeptical but Kemen simply nodded.

“We had hoped lyrium would be enough, but it wasn’t.  Dumat allowed the knowledge of blood magic to be spread more widely because it would make up the difference.  The slaves we used were condemned to death, prisoners, criminals, the dregs of society.  The slave markets paid for the building of the city but only the condemned were sacrificed to open the Veil.”  He shrugged, “Even if they hadn’t been, the cost was worth it, to have a chance of cleansing the Golden City and setting the Gods free.”

Josef decided to ignore the issue of slaves, for now.  But it was one they would come back to; the Augur might call him brother, Razikale may have claimed that he was one of hers, but he would never be a party to slavery and blood magic.  For now, he understood better why Kirkwall had warped him and Justice so, and the probable reason for his explosion being so much larger than he had planned, taking out half of hightown instead of only the Chantry as he had planned.  The Chantry had been built at the apex of the city, the place where all the sigils met, no doubt the site where the man before him had walked into the Fade.  

“So the Blight was already in the City when you got there?”

“Yes.  I don’t know if we knew we would take it back with us, I have no idea how we ended up back on Thedas, let alone in the Deep Roads.  We were scattered.  Occasionally we would encounter another, we recognised each other but not why.  I never met Sethius... Corypheus, he may not have known any others survived.”

Josef nodded again, then stood.  “I need to go back to my patients.”  

“I’ll see the other Warden tomorrow, Razikale needs me.”  Josef realised with a start that he had heard the summons in his head, because he had heard it too, almost.  Not a voice exactly, but a hint of sound, a bell ringing in the distance, almost too far away to be more than an echo of itself, but he heard it.  He watched the Augur leave, unsettled by the sensation.  Mood grim, he swallowed down the dregs of wine in his glass and banked the fire then he checked in on Bethany and Nathaniel, both sound asleep in their bed, Bethany’s completely natural for the first time since her injury.  He tidied around them, careful not to disturb the exhausted pair as he filled the water jug and left clean glasses beside it.  Moving back into the sitting room, he covered the remaining food and checked the locks on the doors.  Finally he couldn’t put it off any longer and walked through to Reina’s room.  She lay there, looking younger than when they had first met, her face relaxed, curls spread across her pillow, one arm thrown out towards the door as if she reached for him in her sleep.  As he stood looking at her, just looking, he felt overcome by the wish that it really was him she was reaching for.  He could imagine himself lying down beside her, feeling her wrap herself around him entwined in sleep as Beth and Nate were entwined across the way.  Instead he filled the water jug and tidied the room, then made for his own lonely bed, hoping for dreamless sleep and the strength to face what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

“You are oversimplifying a complex issue.”

“No, you’re trying to justify something that is unjustifiable.”

“You have no appreciation for context or culture.”

“People are not things!  They’re not possessions, they can’t belong to someone like a... a... shoe or a goat!”

“A goat is a living thing but it can be a possession.  Slaves are not possessions like a shoe, but a goat is not a terrible comparison.  They are cared for, fed, housed, in return they provide a service...”

“And when they are no longer useful for that service they go to the slaughterhouse, I suppose.”

Rhiannon heard Kemen sigh in frustration.  Josef had agreed to learn from him but the Augur was also learning, mainly that Josef would argue forever and a day when he was passionate about a subject.  She was sitting in a reading chair in the library with a couple of stacks between her and the other two but sound carried in the quiet room.  She wasn’t even sure if they knew she was there, that she listened in on most of their conversations, trying to work out what was going on in Weisshaupt.  The Wardens here were all but under Razikale’s spell, possibly literally.  The warrens beneath the fortress had been cleared of darkspawn, the Venatori had disappeared above and below, but there was no sign of Vogel sending for the rest to return to their headquarters.  To the best of her knowledge he hadn’t even sent messengers to let anyone know the siege had lifted.  The Architect had left, Velanna in tow, the day the Deep Roads were declared safe again and she hadn’t been able to find out where they had gone.  The only person Velanna had interacted with was the Tevinter Warden, Gabriella, who had disappeared with them.  There had been mutterings, Karis kept her up to date on the gossip.  Many believed she had only been cured because she was the Queen of Ferelden, especially since Vogel refused to let anyone else approach Razikale after hearing about Rhiannon’s collapse.  Even with Kemen’s healing it had been days before she could get out of bed and now, almost a month later, she had so little energy she could barely make it to the library.  Her body had been completely cleansed of all the alcohol and most of the damage it had caused but now the world was all sharp edges and harsh noise, missing the haze she had lived in for years, the one caused first by grief, then by brandy and finally by the Calling, and that wasn’t the worst of it all.

“We can discuss systems of ethics another day.”  It seemed to be as much a trait of the Augur as the Architect, brushing past things that made him uncomfortable.  Rhiannon wondered if it was the power and position that did it.  Many nobles were the same way, herself sometimes included.  It was the easiest thing to do in a situation with no easy answers, especially when no one would challenge you.  Alistair was like Josef in that way, he often argued over things she had been raised to take for granted, opening her eyes to the plight of ordinary people in the same way Josef had for the mages, refusing to accept the status quo.  “You are supposed to be learning how to refine your Spirit Healing.  You are powerful, but you need more precision in dealing with spirits.  The Chosen interact with spirits in many ways and the ignorance of your background will have to be remedied.”

She could barely hear the muttered response but could imagine the sullen look on Josef’s face.  It was strange, she thought, picking up another book and flicking through the pages, even in her own mind she didn’t call him Anders any more.  He was so different from the irreverent mage standing over smouldering darkspawn, or from the solemn, heart-broken man sitting waiting for the end of his life.  His voice had changed with Justice, Nate had told her that, but even when the spirit left it hadn’t quite returned to what she remembered.  If what she remembered was even accurate.  A decade made a lot of changes in a person, something she was reminded of every morning these days.

She kept one ear on their conversations but as usual there was nothing that hinted at Razikale’s plans.  Kemen was handsome, smooth and practically oozed kindness and trustworthiness; it was almost easy to overlook the fact that he rarely said anything directly, his words more slippery than an Orlesian’s, and that his Goddess seemed to have taken over the Grey Warden order with a wave of her perfect hand.  Finally, the two mages finished their lesson and she heard Josef’s familiar tread coming closer.

Josef came round the corner of the stack and stopped, surprised to see her sitting with piles of books before her and a wad of parchment covered with neatly written notes.  He came close enough to flick through the pages, raising his eyes at the subject of her research, then pulled a chair close and sat, resting his hand lightly on top of hers.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”  His face was completely neutral, hand barely touching hers to allow her to move it away at any time.  Her skin tingled under his, lightning that travelled to her heart.  She squashed the urge to pull him to her and shifted her hand from under his, shuffling the books to hide her confusion.

“I’ve been listening to your lessons, trying to find out what is going on here.  I don’t like it, Josef.  Vogel is keeping Weisshaupt isolated and he seems to have completely forgotten about the false Calling and Clarel’s people vanishing.  Instead he spends all his time with Razikale and Kemen.  There’s been no word about this hole into the Fade and he shut me down when I broached sending agents to find out what is happening.”  She spoke bitterly, “He informed me that since I am no longer a Warden he has stripped me of my rank.  I am merely a visiting dignitary recuperating from an illness and he would appreciate me behaving as such.”

Josef leaned back, tapping his fingers on the desk.    “We could talk about that.  Or we could talk about someone who is terrified of sickness sitting at a table stacked with healer manuals.”  He lifted one of the books from the top of a pile and flicked through the pages.  “The Articella .  Not bad.  We had a copy in Kinloch Hold, I drew cats in the margins.”  He smirked at her and picked up the next book.  “Ugh, the Regimen Sanitatis .  Utter nonsense.  Honestly, the amount it goes on about whether mutton or pork is better for a sick person... Well, never mind.  Suffice to say, you have a better source of information than any of these old tomes, but I’ve barely seen you for weeks.”

Rhiannon could feel the hot flush in her cheeks and cursed her complexion, looking down at her fidgeting hands, afraid to look into Josef’s kind eyes and see all the ways she had let him down since their very first meeting.  But gentle fingers reached out to lift her chin, soft amber met cold green and her heart broke a little.  She twitched slightly and he let go, sitting back and laying his hands on the table where she could see them.  He knew when to push and when to wait and she appreciated that as she gathered her thoughts, trying to decide what to say.

“Did you know the Archdemon landed on me when I killed it?”  Josef nodded, knowing he was finally getting somewhere.  “Shattered my arm, it took Wynne weeks to heal it completely.  I got some deepstalker venom in my eye down in the Deep Roads too, probably more than once, now I think of it.  The left one, usually, since I used my bow a lot then.  And of course you healed the ribs The Mother shoved through my lungs with her tentacles.”  He nods again, healing those ribs was a feat in itself, never mind the battle they had barely survived.  Rhiannon huffed in frustration, hating to share her weaknesses, even to the man beside her.

“I wake up in the mornings and everything hurts, my joints, my bones, the arm’s the worst, especially as we’re heading towards the wet season.  I try to train and I feel like I can’t catch my breath.  And I have no peripheral vision on my left side, none.  The taint didn’t just give me stamina, it compensated for years of fighting damage.”  She finally looked directly at Josef, her voice too steady, her eyes too calm and he felt fear at what might come next.

“Josef, could Alistair’s seizures come back if he was cured?”

It was like a punch in the gut.  Had the taint interfered with his healing?  With Wynne’s?  He could have sworn there was virtually no scarring left on her lung and yet he didn’t doubt for a second that she spoke the truth.  Could the healing he had done on Alistair be incomplete?  Would the cure strike him down as surely as the Calling?  Even the thought made him feel sick.  He answered the only way he could.

“I don’t know, Reina.”

She nodded, as if he had given exactly the answer she expected, then she continued, in an almost conversational tone.  “I think the worst bit is the silence.  For more than ten years I’ve never really been alone, I’ve had Warden’s near me wherever I’ve been.  Now I’m in a fortress of them and I can’t feel a thing.  There could be darkspawn creeping up behind me and I would never know.”  She shivered.  “I hate it.”

He hadn’t even considered that aspect of the cure.  For so long he had been alone, it was nice to feel the others around him, to know they were there, but for most of his existence as a Warden he had been nowhere near them.  But since undergoing the Joining Rhiannon had rarely been away from other Wardens, first Alistair, then himself and Nate, Velanna, Sigrun, even the disgusting Oghren.  She had an adjutant in Denerim, Avienna, a soldier who had Joined not long before Anders left Amaranthine and who accompanied her on official journeys she made as Queen.  He couldn’t imagine how she felt with the constant presence gone from her mind.  Briefly he wondered if it would change her relationship with Alistair before he squashed the tiny shaft of jealousy that prompted the thought.  Unfortunately it made way for the realisation that it was not only Alistair who was at risk from this ‘cure’.

“Bethany...” He trailed off, but Rhiannon only nodded sympathetically.

“We need to know more about my cure, if it was just a one off, if there is another way?  I’m certainly not bringing Alistair here and Beth is out of bounds.”  Josef opened his mouth and Rhiannon shot him a look that made him close it again.  “You’re not volunteering either.”

“You could ask the source directly?”  They both jumped.  Razikale still hadn’t found any shoes, apparently, slipping round the corner and standing watching them with a faint smile on her face.  Rhiannon looked at her, face smooth, emotion hidden, and leaned back in the chair.

“I wasn’t aware that was an option.  Albrecht didn’t seem to think so.”  

Razikale ignored the implied question and sat on the stone floor, crossing her legs and apparently content to look up at the two humans for a moment before addressing Josef.  “My own,” she said warmly, “You are driving my Kemen mad with your incessant arguments.”

“I don’t intend to stop.” Josef replied, stiffly.  Razikale laughed, a sound so light it was almost a giggle.

“I don’t intend you to stop, my Josef.  Nire maitea has forgotten how to be challenged, how to truly stretch his mind.  Your arguments will help him remember. Nire hautatua must always question what they know.  But your arguments intrigue me.  I slept for so long, even those who swore to seek us out rarely joined their minds with ours.  Gar Iluna , you are not a child of mine, but I would learn from you also, if you would allow?  We will share our knowledge and find answers together.”  The Goddess looked at them both expectantly and for a moment an image of Oren asking for a bedtime story flashed through Rhiannon’s mind, a memory from so long ago it barely seemed real.  Strange as it seemed, she believed the woman to be sincere and looking at Josef, he did too, both of them nodding to Razikale’s evident delight.

Hesitantly, Rhiannon started.  “Will I always feel like this?  Is there any way to cure other Grey Wardens without bringing them here?  Could... could other injuries come back if they were cured?”

Razikale pursed her lips, her expression thoughtful, as if she could see through the vague words to the meaning at their heart.  After a moment she nodded slightly.  “Your mind is empty of the song, all of it, the part that means others like you are near is as silent as the Becoming.  You will adjust, as you adjusted to their song when you first were Joined.  As to the physical pain, the darkness gives as well as takes.  Your body knows what it has been through.”  She paused and looked slightly confused.  “But this is not why you ask.  You ask for your heartmates, the ones you brought with you and the one left behind.  That one you will not bring near me for fear, you will not let him be cured for fear but you will not let him be, all for your fear.  Your fear smothers you, and him, and the others who share your soul.”  Rhiannon wanted to sink into the ground at her words.  They might be phrased cryptically but their meaning was as plain as day and Josef just sat silently beside her, listening to it all.  Razikale reached out her hand and laid it on the Queen’s knee.  “I do not know the answer to your question yet, but I will.”  She pushed herself up from the floor and brushed dust from her sheer tunic.  “For now, someone comes.  Not one of the Wardens, though she walks in the midst of them.  She walks in pain and rage that will only become worse before they heal.  We should meet her and bear witness to her words.”  With that she turned towards the main doors and Josef and Rhiannon followed helplessly.  Rhiannon expected to head towards the hall but Razikale led them out of the keep and into the courtyard, just as the great gates opened and a weary column of Wardens rode into Weisshaupt.

She didn’t recognise any of the Wardens and none of them threw so much as a glance their way.  There were about twenty of them, all dusty, most injured in some way, with dirty bandages peeking out from under tabards.  There was some kind of bustle towards the back of the crowd and as they approached she heard a deep baritone shout for aid and a man, no an elf, with a shock of white hair and silvery vallaslin staggered forward carrying a barely conscious woman with pale skin and jet black hair.  She stopped as she recognised the face, the jaw more square, the mouth less full, but the cheekbones and the shape of the closed eyes, so like her sister.  She had seen the elf before also, though only briefly and without thought she turned to Josef, who had frozen a few paces back and was staring in horror at the sight of Fenris with Marian Hawke in his arms.

The First Warden had arrived, demanding to know what was happening, why Wardens had ignored his orders to stay away from Weisshaupt, but Razikale moved beside him and laid a gentle hand on his arm, whispering in his ear until he grudgingly nodded and sent word to the Seneschal to make ready additional rooms.  Another murmured conversation and he looked sourly over at Rhiannon.  Josef was already beside Fenris, helping him lower Hawke to the floor, his hands already glowing as he sought out injury or illness.  Vogel raised his voice to say, “The Champion of Kirkwall and her - companion - can stay in the guest suite with the Queen of Ferelden until we get to the bottom of this.”  Then he turned and walked away, growling at one of the groom’s boys about stabling the horses as he passed.  Rhiannon looked back at where Josef bowed over Hawke, soft light suffusing them both, her piercing blue eyes staring right up into his as Fenris looked on with that strange, sharp look she remembered and wondered again if it was jealousy.  Andraste’s tits, she thought.  How in the Void was she going to explain this to Bethany.

Chapter Text

Rhiannon watched Josef as he bent over Marian Hawke, a healing glow surrounding her that turned faintly silver before Josef helped her up and started leading her towards the interior of the keep, waving to the surly elf to follow them.  The Champion must be fine, she decided, the silvery wave of rejuvenation energy enough to get her on her feet.  Looking around at the ever increasing number of newly arrived Wardens, a startlingly high proportion of mages among them, she wondered how Hawke had ended up travelling to Weisshaupt in their company.  They were generally unkempt, some wounded, and her skin crawled at the look of despair in too many pairs of eyes.  Wherever these people had come from, whatever they had seen, they had no sense of homecoming within these walls.  There was no sign of Razikale and Rhiannon wasn’t sure if she had followed Josef and the Champion or if the Goddess had simply made herself scarce with so many unfamiliar faces around.  She had all but decided to follow suit when the entire courtyard was silenced by a roar of pure rage.

The First Warden stood at the bottom of the stairs into the Keep, his face pale as he crumpled a piece of parchment in his fist.  He grabbed the nearest of the new wardens by the throat, shoving the parchment at her, clearly demanding answers of the warrior before him.  Vogel’s nails dug into bare skin, red beginning to drip down the side of her neck and Rhiannon could only stand, frozen in shock, as the warrior hung her head and muttered agreement to whatever she was asked.  The First roared again and flung the woman aside as if the weapons and armour she wore weighed nothing, ignoring the crash as she hit a wall and slid to the ground, eyes rolling back in her head and blood smearing in a trail to where she now lay, crumpled in a heap.  Not one warden moved forward to help her.  Those belonging to Weisshaupt were stunned by Vogel’s violence to their sister and the newcomers simply stood, head bowed, neither resisting nor surprised.  The yard was silent as everyone waited for the First Warden to explain.

“This parchment...” Vogel’s voice was harsh with anger and disgust, “This is an edict from Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan.”  There hadn’t been an Inquisitor in over 800 years, but Rhiannon recognised the name, the mage from Ostwick who had survived the explosion at the Divine Conclave and could seal rifts.  Anger briefly surged that such a person could think to order the Grey Wardens, until Vogel continued and the anger was directed elsewhere.  “This edict banishes the Order of the Grey from Orlais until the rise of another Blight.  The grounds are absurd, abhorrent, and yet apparently they are true, confirmed by one of your own and the faces of every Orlesian before me.  The Grey Wardens, consorting with an ancient darkspawn we have held prisoner since the First Blight, infiltrated the Conclave and sacrificed Divine Justinia to open the Breach.  They conspired with this darkspawn and his Venatori to create an army of demons, mages murdering their brethren and enslaving themselves to this Corypheus.”  He paused and looked at the Wardens before him, as if giving them a chance to refute the story and deny the charges, but not one of them moved.  “Wardens of Weisshaupt, take the traitors into custody.  They will be jailed tonight with no food or water.  Tomorrow, all non-mages are to be cast into the Deep Roads without armour or weapons, food or water.  Before that they will watch the mages burn!”

With that he turned on his heels and strode up the steps, not waiting to see if his orders would be obeyed.  For a moment nothing happened, those below seemed barely able to breathe, then those bearing the symbol of Weisshaupt began to disarm the Orlesians.  There was no resistance, no argument with their fate, although many of the mages looked as if they might be sick or faint they handed over their staves.  They would be dosed with magebane until their sentence was carried out, the rest given soldier’s bane until they disappeared into the Deep Roads.  Their crimes were unthinkable, unforgivable.  The Inquisitor must have known she was sending every man and woman here to their deaths.  For herself, Rhiannon did not much care about that, they were traitors and murderers, their lives forfeit from the moment they had lifted a hand against the Divine and their fellows.  Public denouncement and execution were entirely appropriate in such circumstances.  Instead she turned and made for the small archway Josef had led their guests through.  Evidently Hawke had been involved in these events and she wanted news on her husband and her kingdom.

------

Mari was dehydrated, exhausted and suffering from mild sunstroke.  Nothing rest and fluids wouldn’t fix, so Josef cast a light rejuvenation spell and led her and Fenris to the suite they were apparently to share.  He didn’t speak beyond, “This way,” and “Just down here,” until they were all sitting in the lounge area, cool drinks in hand, and he could take in the fact that they were right there in front of him.  The silence was utterly uncomfortable, Josef and Marian staring at each other while Fenris looked from one to the other and fidgeted uncomfortably.  It was the fidgeting that caught Josef’s attention, the constant shuffling of a ring round and round on the elf’s finger.  A plain band of silver, or possibly platinum.  Fenris didn’t even appear to realise he was playing with it, or notice when Josef cast a suspicious glance at Marian’s own fingers, currently ring-less but she had lost weight, perhaps a ring was too loose to wear.  A nauseating mix of jealousy and resentment passed over his face at the thought of Mari and Fenris together, feelings he had no right to and squelched firmly but not quickly enough.  Marian glanced at him in surprise, then over at Fenris, before flashing back to Josef with disgust and resentment clear in her expression and her voice.

“We’re not together, Anders.”  She said it firmly and Fenris looked up, startled at first before nodding with understanding.  The elf stood and asked where the latrine was then left the two of them alone.  Josef wanted to speak but there were too many things pressing on him, too many questions, so he sat mute until Mari exhaled with exasperation and said, “Fenris evidently spent the last few years of our time in Kirkwall wooing Orana.  He smuggled her out of Kirkwall and they got married in Starkhaven.  They have a cottage in the middle of Nevarra that he supposedly lives in between wiping out slavers.  As far as I can work out, he goes home for a couple of months, knocks her up and leaves again.  They have three little ones already and another on the way.”

Josef was gobsmacked.  Fenris and Orana?  He couldn’t imagine it, the quiet mouse of a housekeeper and the vicious warrior whose tongue was as sharp as his sword.  And yet, it did make some sense.  Fenris had rescued Orana from Hadriana, had encouraged her to learn to read.  While Josef had fought to keep Mari alive in the weeks after the duel with the Arishok, Fenris had virtually disappeared except for the supplies of food and potions that appeared every few days.  When he had asked Orana about it she had blushed and said that ‘Messere Fenris’ was dropping things in for Mistress Hawke.  Mari could see where his thoughts went and nodded.  “Yep.  He wasn’t just dropping off supplies in the kitchen to avoid seeing you, he was actually consorting with my housekeeper.”  She sounded amused, as well she might since the pair had been so subtle in their courtship even the other people living in the house hadn’t known of it.

“You should be grateful to my wife, mage.”  Fenris’ voice hadn’t changed, Josef noted.  Even when they hated each other, the mage would sometimes goad the elf only to hear more of that voice that sent shivers down his spine.  “If she had not cared for you so much, I might have been less inclined to aid Hawke in your escape from justice.”

Josef turned to look at him, surprised by the hint of amusement in his green eyes.  The warrior’s hair was shaved at the sides but the rest was long, tied up in a topknot, but otherwise he looked the same as when he had last seen him, four years ago.  “Orana cared for me?” he asked, surprised that the women had thought of him at all, except as another mouth to feed.

Fenris glared at him, as if the query was an insult to his wife.  “You helped free her as much as any of us.  You prepared her father’s body and lit the pyre.  You were the one who first suggested she learn to read, neither Hawke nor I had thought of it.  Orana is well aware of all she owed you.”  The emphasis on the past tense was heavy and Josef expected a warning to keep away, not that he would have gone looking for a solitary farmhouse in the farmlands of Nevarra, so he almost choked on his water when Fenris smiled at him.  “When Hawke told me of your insanity, I refused to help.  But it seems my Orana was listening.  I had never heard her speak so passionately as she defended you.  She told me that no matter what Danarius and Hadriana had been, you were not them, the South was not Tevinter, and that if a slave destroyed the entire Magisterium I would be cheering them on even as others sought to punish all slaves more than they already did.  She shamed me with the truth and I had no choice but to aid you, not for your cause, or your sake, but for my Orana, who wished someone would stand for the slaves of Tevinter as you did for the mages of Kirkwall.”

Josef was gobsmacked.  It was the longest speech Fenris had ever made to him without ranting about the dangers of magic.  Then he smiled back and nodded, “Thank Orana for me, then.  She was always a sweet girl, it must have taken a lot for her to say such things to you.”  Fenris looked rueful and shook his head while Hawke cackled, drawing their attention back to her.

“Orana may be a sweet little mouse, but she’s got this one well under the thumb.  And those elflings of theirs are hellions, three girls who look like butter wouldn’t melt but run rings around their father and everyone else who happens by while minding their mother like she was the Divine herself.”  Mari frowned, as if the mention of the Divine brought back why they were here in the first place.  “Anyway, my horse came up lame about five miles from their farm and I told the rest to carry on and I’d catch up.  Fenris fixed her and then refused to let me travel alone.”

“There were rumours of a besieging army encamped around Weisshaupt, Hawke, what else should I have done.”  Now Fenris sounded more like his old, grumpy self.

“Yes well, no army, see.  So...”

Josef interrupted.  “Actually, there was an army.  A bunch of ‘Vint’s calling themselves Venatori above ground and an army of darkspawn below.  A few weeks earlier and you would have met them.  And, well, there’s something else I have to tell you, about Bethany.”

Fenris had been looking smugly over at Hawke, but at the mention of Bethany they both turned to him.  Mari’s heart was in her eyes as she asked, “Beth?  What’s happened to Bethany?”

“An injury that is now healing well and doesn’t need further discussion,” the woman herself spoke from the door of her bedroom, looking sourly and with bleary eyes at her sister.  Beth moved slowly, still recuperating from the wound that had almost killed her.  She walked over to Mari and sat beside her, taking her hand in comfort even as her voice held firm.  “I was stabbed by a genlock.  Josef fixed me, I’m recovering.  End of story.  And it isn’t exactly an original one for a Grey Warden.  On the other hand, the Champion of Kirkwall arriving at Weisshaupt is original.  What’s going on?”

Mari looked confused, “Josef?  Where was Anders?  Why didn’t he heal you?  Is that why you’re still hobbling about?”

Josef wanted to speak but his throat felt as if it had closed over and the other three just looked at him, Beth with sympathy and the others in question.  Finally, he cleared his throat and muttered, “It’s my name.  Josef.  They made me choose a name and I chose it.”

“Josef?” Mari asked contemplatively.  “Like ‘The Prince who Rode a Griffon’?”  He nodded.  It was the story his mother had told him as a child.  The one he would have told his children, his grandchildren, before he accepted the futility of such dreams for the likes of him.  “But that’s not your name?”

“It is my name,” he says, defensively.  “I chose it.  It isn’t a joke, or a convenient label for a child no one bothered to get to know.  It wasn’t chosen by a man who disowned me or my jailers.  It’s my name.”

Fenris nodded and said, “It is a good name.  Josef.  Making a name your own is a strength.”  

Josef looked surprised, but he supposed Fenris had taken a name not his own and made it a sign of his freedom.  It hadn’t occurred to Josef that he was doing the same.  Suddenly he grinned at the elf and muttered, “Thanks,” before turning back to Marian and Bethany.  “Beth’s right, Mari.  What are you doing here with a bunch of raggedy Wardens?”

“You travelled here with Wardens?” Beth asked.  “What Wardens?  Were they from the Free Marches?  Did they get Rhi’s messages after all?  How did you end up with them?”

“They’re Orlesian Wardens and they’ve all been sentenced to die tomorrow.”  They all jumped, none of them had heard Rhiannon and Nathaniel enter.  “For causing the Breach, murdering the Divine and using blood magic to summon a demon army bound to Corypheus.”  Rhiannon’s tone was mildly curious but Nathaniel looked sick behind her.  “I’m more interested in why the Champion of Kirkwall is with them and what is going on in my kingdom?”

Marian glared at the Queen then cast a glance round at the shocked Wardens.  Evidently even Fenris had not known the whole story, though he showed no surprise at the name Corypheus.  Mari spoke directly to Rhiannon.  “It looks like the Hero of Ferelden hasn’t actually fallen into the Void, after all.  Just hiding out here hoping the end of the world wouldn’t get this far, were you?  Leliana will be disappointed.”

Rhiannon gasped.  “Leliana?  She’s still alive?”

Marian’s face softened slightly as she inclined her head towards the other woman.  “She was in Haven when the explosion happened.”  Her voice hardened again.  “She was waiting for the Right Hand to arrive with a friend of mine she had kidnapped.  You see, when they couldn’t find you, they went looking for me.  The Seeker interrogated Varric then dragged him across the continent and almost got him blown up.  If it hadn’t been for the weather along the Storm Coast, he’d have been right in the middle of that explosion.”  

Rhiannon shrugged, relieved that Leliana had not died with the Divine at the Conclave, but Bethany looked annoyed.  “We didn’t know about it until weeks after, Mari.  And Rhi was sick, we would never have made it back.”  She subsided into muttering when Rhiannon waved her hand.

“We were on Warden business, Mistress Hawke,” she said.  “That is all you need to know.  And had I been at the Conclave, in spite of the fact ruling monarchs are not invited, I would have died with the rest, so I see no need to regret being otherwise engaged.”  She sighed slightly and moved to pour herself some wine, moving her hand to the jug of fruit juice at the last moment, before speaking to Hawke once more.  “I cannot change the past.  But I would appreciate if you would tell us what has happened and how fares my country, and my husband?”

Marian looked mollified and took a sip of water before clearing her throat.  “Well, the first I knew about it, I suppose, was when I got a letter telling me Varric had been abducted by a Seeker who was looking for me.  I was in Starkhaven, so by the time I got to Kirkwall they were probably already halfway across Ferelden.  I took a ship to Gwaren and hit Ferelden just in time for all the rumours of the Breach appearing.”  She suddenly looked exhausted, deep lines around her eyes and mouth belying her 35 years.  “I thought Varric was dead.  I just hung around Ferelden, travelled to Amaranthine to see if I could get any word of Anders... sorry, Josef, heard the Inquisition was formed and the King had banished the rebel mages from the country, so I went to Denerim to get better gossip from my contacts there.  I’d only just heard that the Breach had been closed when I got a letter from Varric telling me he had joined the Inquisition and Corypheus was not only not dead but behind everything, so I should get my backside to some hidden castle in the Frostbacks.  On the way I crossed paths with Stroud and heard about what was going on with you lot, so I had something to offer the Inquisitor and hopefully keep me out of a prison cell.  Anyway, she’s a bitch, but she does good work, Varric’s still there and I’m out here, dragging Fenris along with me.”  Marian paused, obviously hesitant, then opened her mouth to continue but Rhiannon held up her hand to stop her.

“I’m guessing this will be a long story, Messere,” she said.  “I’m going to order food, you and Fenris please rest a little before it comes.  Plus I think there are a couple of other people who should hear this, if you are amenable?”

Marian nodded, clearly relieved to have a break and while she and Fenris disappeared to their rooms, Rhiannon directed the others to order food and drinks then left in search of Razikale and Kemen.

Chapter Text

Hawke tensed when Rhiannon walked back into the room, closely followed by Kemen and Razikale. Thankfully, the Tevinter pair were both dressed in tabard and leggings of blue and silver and Razikale had modified her appearance to mostly resemble a normal elf. A light touch of Josef’s hand on Hawke’s arm was enough to mollify her and she relaxed a little and began to speak. The Breach was only the beginning of it, the tip of a vast, rotten iceberg made of red lyrium, corrupted templars, Venatori infiltrating every place of power in Southern Thedas, even her own palace. Rhiannon couldn’t stop the gasped plea for reassurance when she heard of the attack on Alistair, unsafe even in their home. The attack on Celene was almost an afterthought, Hawke had not been there and no one in this audience much cared what happened to the Orlesian Empress, but Josef swallowed convulsively, as if trying not to be sick at hearing of the bodies mined for red lyrium, and tears streaked Bethany’s cheeks when Hawke told them of the fate of too many of the Tranquil, forgotten by both sides of the mage-templar war. The worst was Adamant, Grey Warden mages killing their brethren, bound to demons and to Corypheus. Rhiannon could tell Hawke was downplaying the battle, her hands clenching against the edge of her chair as she spoke quickly, lightly of battling past Wardens and demons and a corrupted dragon only to end up stuck in the Fade facing the Nightmare.

“Everyone else was out, just the Inquisitor and Stroud and me. Then the fucking thing started waking up. We needed Trevelyan out, stupid bitch should have been the first one through instead of sending the others. What’s the point in it all if she dies before Coryphy-tits does? Stroud distracted the thing, I pushed her through the rift, and the bastard demon got in one last hit before the rift closed. Broke my leg, knocked Trevelyan out. She was barely awake when I left, the Inquisition was falling apart without her, but someone needed to carry that fucking edict here and the Wardens weren’t in any state to make it themselves, most of them couldn’t point north if you tied them to a compass after all that. So here I am and it turns out Weisshaupt AND the fucking Hero of Ferelden are sitting about waiting for the end of the world to just go away.”  

She glared at Rhiannon, resentfully, until Bethany fearfully asked, “What about Jean-Marc?” Jean-Marc Stroud had been Bethany’s first Commander, had saved her life by giving her the chance to go through the Joining and guided her through the transition. Her transfer had been due to the lack of mage-wardens in Ferelden and they had kept in touch when their duties allowed. Hawke didn’t answer but her face said everything and Bethany leaned into Nathaniel’s shoulder, weeping quietly.

Rhiannon ignored the dig and looked over at Razikale, “Could this dragon be an Archdemon? Could they have found Lusacan?” Razikale looked perturbed but shook her head. “So what is it?”

Kemen answered for her, “Lusacan still sleeps, Sethius may have blighted an ordinary high dragon. If he has the idol we created, he could easily have done it.”

Fenris had been silent and stoic throughout but now he spoke up. “And how would you know this? What idol do you speak of?” The elf was suspicious, and far too intelligent, so Rhiannon decided it was better to come clean.

“I think it would be best to introduce yourselves now, I think,” she said to Kemen and Razikale. The Goddess nodded to her priest, who bowed to the former slave.

“I am Kemen, Augur of Mysteries, High Priest of the Goddess Razikale, in whose Divine Presence we bask.” Fenris reached for his sword but Josef held his hand out and Rhiannon was surprised to see the warrior nod and release his weapon, although he remained tense, moving closer to Hawke as if to protect her. Kemen continued, “We mean you no harm, warrior. If you listen, I will explain what I can?” After a pause, Kemen began to speak.

“The oldest of our legends told us that when Fen’Harel raised the Veil, it destroyed the world as it was. Magic all but disappeared from the physical world where once they had been inseparable. The elves realised that more of their children were being born without that innate ability and that they were dying younger and younger, losing more of their civilisation with each generation. They fought among themselves and when humans came to Thedas all that remained were remnants who sought to either ally with or enslave the newcomers. Eventually, the balance shifted, the humans too numerous, the elves too divided, and the Imperium was born. By then less than one elven birth in twenty was a magic user, one in fifty of the humans. Of those, the Dreamers were the most powerful because of their close link with the world Beyond the Veil. Our Gods reached out to those Dreamers, the ones who could hear them in their sleep. Trapped beneath the earth, they sought to warn those who remained of a great danger. The Veil had damaged both parts of the world it sundered. Places that had been made of stone and magic had crumbled and the fabric of reality itself had warped. Where our world became more solid, more physical, more mundane, the Fade became more and more unstable and the Golden City began to darken.”

“Wait,” interjected Hawke. “I thought the Golden City turned black when you lot invaded it and corrupted it?”

Razikale shook her head, taking over the story. “We felt the corruption in the City long before, it was why we sought those who could hear us, to warn them. The elvhen ignored us, lost in the decay of their own life force, and the dwarves could not hear us, but eventually some of the humans listened. The elves had few places made only of rock or spirit, as with the rest of the world, the two were mixed with ease. None of the physical cities survived the destruction of Elvhenan, Arlathan was the last; in a similar way there are ruins all over the Fade and only one remains intact. The Golden City was a holy place, the Temple of Creation. It survived because it was intentionally created separate, able to be seen from anywhere in existence, approached only in spirit by those who bathed in Creation’s light. To feel it fall to the darkness was...” she stopped, unable to continue, the horror of that endless hideous emptiness defiling the city overwhelming her.

Kemen took his Goddess’ hand and stroked it lightly then continued in a more clinical tone. “The problem was taken to the Magisterium by the High Priests of the time, all powerful Dreamers. There was resistance and debate, but the decline of magic was undeniable, though the Blight was not yet visible. Some of the Magisters formed a society dedicated to finding and freeing our Gods, believing that only when the Gods were free would the City be cleansed. They named themselves Venatori and you have encountered their degenerate descendents, warped from their true purpose. The High Priests took another path. Since the Gods themselves did not know where they were, the priests communed with them and learned from them in their dreams. Then some of the Neromenian Dreamers announced they had found a way to split the Veil. Their leader, Thalsian, claimed to have been told how by Dumat, but I do not know if that is true, since Dumat did not tell his own Chosen. Research was undertaken into this new discovery, the possibility that we could destroy the Veil and return the balance. But there were too many limitations, the Veil was too strong. Eventually our only option was to attempt a breach large enough to send our most powerful Dreamers and hope they could restore the city themselves. To this end, we built Emerius.”

“On the back and blood of slaves,” Fenris growled, but Kemen merely nodded.

“Yes. Lyrium itself was not sufficient, nor were Thalsian’s blood rituals. We could not find the origin of the Veil, it was too well hidden. So we chose to build a city at the very edge of the Empire. The designs alone took years, an amalgamation of runes and sigils to focus and enhance power. Thousands of slaves were sent there, those who would otherwise have been condemned to death were shipped to Emerius. Every Dreamer we could find was taught to sink every drop of blood spilled into the stones of the city, from grazed knuckles to the inevitable deaths. Lyrium was stockpiled and sent to Emerius, poured into the ground in vast amounts, the Imperium was almost made bankrupt while the Heidrun Thaig became the more powerful at that time. It took almost two hundred years to complete Emerius and countless slaves and Dreamers died there, but in the end we succeeded. I had been the Augur of Mysteries almost ten years when we split the Veil and entered the Fade. We had prepared for generations for this, and it was nothing but a disaster.”

Kemen hung his head wearily and sipped his wine. Then he took a deep breath and continued. “Even in our dreams the City looked darker, but still golden. Our ritual took us to the very centre of the City, to the place our Gods called the Throne of Creation.”

“According to Trevelyan, Corypheus said he had seen the seat of the Gods and it was empty.” It wasn’t quite a question, but Kemen inclined his head as Hawke spoke.

“The City is a City because it was named so. The Throne looked different to each of us. Sethius saw it as a literal throne. For Andros it was an endlessly burning flame. I saw a great fountain, tall and ornate. But the water that poured from it was oily and foul, it’s spray coating everything nearby and I knew, though I could not see them, that every fountain in the City spewed the same foulness. The City was already corrupted beyond what we had imagined, it seemed impossible that our efforts could undo even a fraction of it, but we tried. We poured all our power, all the power sent to us by our acolytes, by the lyrium and the blood they poured in equal measure, every last bit we drew in and manipulated, holding a single form in our minds and creating it from the Blight itself. I do not know what happened at the last, we awoke at the bottom of a crater, each of us holding a warped shard of lyrium that had turned as red as the blood shed for our failure, acolytes, priests and slaves dead in piles around us, completely drained of life. We did the only thing we could think of, we entered an ancient thaig, recently re-discovered during the building of Emerius. There we used what remained of our magic to bind the red lyrium shards into an idol and warded it as best we could. Lucas, The Forgewright of Fire, volunteered to remain behind. He... created... creatures of fire and rock and trapped spirits in them to protect the idol. We never saw him again. We destroyed every entrance to that Thaig, entombing him with his creations, and the idol. For the rest of us, we were crushed, barely able to keep our hearts beating. We were all of us lyrium shocked, confused, our minds filled with a song that pushed all thought away. We lost each other in the dark and I do not know if it was months or years before I saw the sun again. When I first met another human, they ran in fear and when I saw my reflection in a stream I understood for I had been Blighted and misshapen. Even the voice of my Goddess was drowned out by the music in my head and I forgot who and what I was. It has taken centuries to gain it back, to leave behind the song and remember myself.”

His audience were mute, so many things they had been taught or taken for granted swept away, their whole existence on shifting sands. Fenris looked furious, habit leading uncertainty to be subsumed by hatred. Hawke and Nathaniel and Rhiannon herself were inscrutable, blank faces giving nothing away though Rhiannon knew inside she felt despair, that centuries of work and the most powerful mages in Thedas, the largest sacrifice ever known, had failed so miserably. How could there ever be any end to the Blight, if this was the truth? Strangely, Josef and Bethany both looked compassionately at the obviously distressed Magister, but seemed not at all perturbed by his story. Rhiannon sipped her water and wished again for wine, just one glass to settle her nerves, while she tried to make sense of everything she had heard.

She heard Fenris muttering to Hawke, “Do you believe this? Do you truly think the Magisters entered the City to cleanse it, Hawke? He lies, all his kind do is lie.”

“I don’t know...” 

Hawke began to reply but Josef broke in, his voice cutting as he said,

“His kind, Fenris? Would that be magisters? Or just any mage?”

“Keep out of this, Anders,” the elf replied, “You know nothing about it.”

“It’s Josef!” He corrected Fenris through gritted teeth. “All my life I’ve been told I’m cursed because of the hubris of those Magisters. My kind have been locked up and abused and tortured and told every day that we destroyed the Golden City. The Chantry lied, just to keep us locked away.”

Fenris scowled at him, contemptuously. “You heard what they did, mage. Rivers of blood fueled their failure. I should have known you would not mind the death of innocents in mindless pursuit of glory.”

“Don’t make this about me, elf...”

“Anders!” Hawke tried to interject.

“It’s JOSEF!” The mage roared at them both. Bethany flinched, leaning into Nathaniel as Josef stood, looming over both Hawke and Fenris. “My name is not Anders, it was never Anders. That was just a label they gave me because they couldn’t be bothered finding out my name. Because I was just another mage.” He stood straight, arms crossed over his chest, looking directly at Fenris. “I thought you at least might understand, but no, I still don’t deserve a name. I’m still just a mage.”

“You all need to stop this nonsense, now!” A sharp voice pierced the air, no one had noticed Velanna enter the room, the Tevinter, Gabriella, right behind her. “We need to get you all out of here. Start packing.”

With one look at Velanna’s face, Bethany was moving, Nathaniel close behind her. They disappeared into their room, only for Beth to appear with two of the packs and head for the bedrooms on the other side. All Wardens knew how to move fast when they needed to and they were in no doubt they needed to move fast now.

Gabriella was still at the door, leaning against it trying to hear into the corridor, while Velanna went directly to Razikale. “You must come away, now, Divine One. Albrecht and the Architect have a plan to bind you. They are working with someone who calls himself an agent of the Inquisition and they have promised you to him, I do not know why.”

Hawke shot up out of her seat. “The Inquisition, that’s impossible. Trevelyan wouldn’t...”

Velanna silenced her with a glare. “Wouldn’t she? I know only what I have heard.” She turned back to Razikale. “The Inquisitor has plans for an archdemon of her own. There are fifty darkspawn under the fortress, waiting for the Wardens Albrecht has offered them. The Architect will use their blood to bind you to Albrecht and he will deliver you to Skyhold. Albrecht believes he is close to finding Lusacan and the Inquisitor has offered him far more for both archdemons. He believes he will end the Blight forever and Trevelyan will be indebted to him for giving her the power to defeat Corypheus.”

Hawke’s face was mutinous, but Bethany came back into the room, handed her sister a pack and pushed her in the direction of the door. “Leave now, argue later, Mari,” she said as she handed another pack to Josef.  

“We need a way out,” Rhiannon directed herself to the Tevinter woman, who still had her ear pressed to the door. “We can’t just saunter out the front gate and if the Deep Roads are crawling with darkspawn...”

“Shh,” Gabriella waved a hand to quiet her, then pointed towards the garden. Velanna was already leading Razikale and Kemen out the double doors and the rest moved to follow them. Suddenly Gabriella bolted across the room, grabbing Rhiannon’s arm and dragging her away. Seconds later someone started hammering on the outer door and a muffled voice shouted for them to open up. Rhiannon stopped in her tracks, in the distance she could see tangled ivy pulled back by Velanna’s magic, revealing a gate that was red with rust, long forgotten. The elven mage gestured impatiently and Kemen and Fenris together began to pull it open far enough for them to slip through.

She slipped her arm from Gabriella’s grasp and shoved her after the others. “Go,” she hissed. “I’ll stall them.” Before the Warden could say another word, she was halfway to the door, calling calmly to the intruders. With a quick glance at the Queen, Gabriella ran for the garden and Rhiannon prayed that they would all escape before someone knocked the door down completely. She risked one more look behind, relieved to see the ivy creep back into place as if it had never moved, then turned, straightened her back and opened the door.

Her heart sank when she saw Karis and Lars standing before her, grim-faced. The Twins knew their routines, their capabilities. They would never believe that Bethany was still napping at this hour, or that Josef was still examining Hawke. She could claim that Nathaniel was at the range, but that did not explain the absence of Fenris. Her mind raced as she smiled at them and reminded herself that they were friends and friendship could be very useful.

“Karis, Lars,” she kept her voice low, as if to avoid anyone else hearing her speak. “Are you looking for me? I’m heading to the library.” She started to move towards them, as if about to head past, assuming they would follow, but Lars held a hand up to stop her.

“Queen Rhiannon, the First Warden wishes to see you. All of you.” He emphasised the all and Rhiannon was pretty sure he knew Razikale and Kemen had been here, if not Velanna and Gabriella. Rhiannon blushed, thankful she could do it on demand.

“Come on,” she said, hushing her voice further and leaning towards them, a conspiratorial smile on her lips. “Beth’s gone off to find Nate and Josef is, well, getting reacquainted with Hawke and Fenris.” Karis relaxed somewhat, her eyes flicking to the room she knew was Josef’s, but Lars was harder to impress.

“Nathaniel left the archery range almost an hour ago, he was seen heading back here.”

Rhiannon rolled her eyes at him, “Oh, please. Beth doesn’t want to hear it if those three get carried away, she’ll have diverted him along the way.”

“The First Warden insisted...”

Rhiannon raised her hand. “Stop right there, Lars. Vogel stripped me of my rank, I’m not a Warden any more, after all. He can’t insist on anything.”

“Rhi, Beth, Nate and Josef are still Wardens, you know that,” Karis was trying to avoid a scene, she could tell, edging away from the door slightly.

“Well I already told you, Beth and Nate are not here and Josef is otherwise occupied.” She added an edge to her voice that made both dwarves flinch just a little bit. “I may not be a Warden now, but I’m still the Queen of Ferelden and while I am here, this suite is Ferelden territory. Now, we will go and see what Vogel want’s now, but I’ve had it. I’ll be leaving in the morning, and I’ll be taking my Warden’s with me. And since Alistair is still a Warden and King, he has jurisdiction over the Ferelden Wardens and by extension, so do I. We were only waiting for Beth to be well enough to travel anyway.” She was already pushing forward, walking past them with feigned indignation, moving and speaking too quickly for them to derail her until they were simply following in her wake as she complained about the Primus, marching deliberately towards the Great Hall.

She barely paused while the guards opened the massive double doors and announced her presence, sweeping into the room, her momentum taking her right up to the throne that had appeared back in the centre of the hall. Albrecht must have had it moved as soon as Hawke and the Orlesian Wardens arrived and she quickly suppressed a derisive smirk at the effort he thought a display of power required. She would never have allowed anything so pathetically obvious. 

She nodded perfunctorily and said, “What do you want, Albrecht?” She had never called him by his name before, but he had cast her out of the Wardens and now she outranked him. Besides, if she could make him angry at her, it would take him longer to realise that the others were gone.

Vogel ignored her and looked at the Twins. “I told you to bring them all.”

“I said no,” Rhiannon couldn’t let him take control of the conversation, she had to keep him wrong-footed, to give the others time.

“You do not give orders here, Commander.” His lip curled as he looked down at her with contempt and she imagined flicking a dagger right into his weaselly little eye.

“The correct term is, Your Majesty.” She sneered right back at him. “I’m not a Commander any more, remember. You stripped me of that before you even knew if I would survive the transition.”

“And those who were under your command are no longer yours,” he retorted. “I ordered Grey Wardens here, I expect them here.”

“I already told Lars, Beth and Nate are off somewhere and Josef is currently welcoming his lovers after a long separation. All of whom are Wardens of Ferelden and therefore under the command of the highest ranking warden of that country. As Queen, I speak in the King’s absence and since the King is the ranking Warden in the country, I say they will not be disturbed.”

“How did you survive, Rhiannon?” The aggressive change in direction startled her, made her feel off balance. Why come back to that?

“The change? Stubbornness no doubt.” She shrugged, trying to stay calm.

“When a Warden kills an Archdemon, both die. How did you survive?” He was angry and she could hear the shifting of feet behind her, an uncomfortable rustle as the watching Wardens no doubt wondered what was happening.

“I told you then and I’m telling you now, Albrecht, I didn’t do anything.” Technically true. She hadn’t done anything, Alistair and Morrigan had, but she’d go to the Void before she told the snake on the throne anything about that time.

Something flashed in Vogel’s eyes as he looked behind her, something that looked like triumph, but she had no time to turn around before a familiar, rasping voice spoke. “I know the truth, Warden-Queen. Urthemiel lives and you will tell me where he is, and where your precious friends have taken Divine Razikale. You will tell me everything.”

The world went dark, just as she hit the floor.

Chapter Text

There was a small lake in the middle of the triangle formed by Perendale, Trevis and Hunter Fell. The lake gave rise to a river and the land fed by the lake and the river was broken up into small farms and freeholdings, marked by stone walls or hedgerows or streams that broke off from their parent to meander across the land. Olive groves and vineyards and trees heavy with citrus or figs were interspersed with fields for crops or grazing and at the centre of each was the farmhouse, outbuildings holding mainly goats or pigs, chickens pecking at the yard while mousers lazed in the sun and dogs barked at passing travellers. 

The house Fenris led them to was some miles south of that lake and no different from the rest, neatly thatched and well-maintained. Chickens scattered as they rode up to the barn and a couple of goats stared at the group as they dismounted and attended to their tired horses. It was early but already warm and they were grateful for the buckets of cool water and harsh soap to scrub off sweat and horse hair. Fenris led them across the yard towards the house, only to be almost knocked over by a tiny elven girl coming out the door carrying a pail of grain. Fenris caught both pail and girl before they fell to the ground and swung the child into his arms while she laughed and cried, “Papa, Papa,” with glee. With a bright smile, Fenris hugged his daughter and put her down, handing her the pail then watching with pride as she clucked to draw the chickens before scattering the grain across the yard. The only person not watching the child fondly was Josef. Wrapped up in heartache and anger, not even the sight of the little elf ordering the fowl around and chivvying the rooster away when he tried to steal from the smaller hens, making the others grin at her officiousness, could draw his notice.

By the time they realised Rhiannon was not with them, Weisshaupt had been miles behind. Bands of Wardens had been searching for them and they barely made it to a hidden gully before night fell. Nathaniel’s decision as the senior warden was to press on and protect the others. The First Warden would not be stupid enough to harm the Queen of Ferelden, he reasoned, and as the only people who knew she was still in Weisshaupt they had to remain free to reach Alistair. When Josef bitterly accused him of running away and deserting his Commander the men had almost come to blows, only Bethany managing to talk them down while the others looked on. They were disappointed in him, disgusted with his selfishness, Josef felt it in every look since Bethany’s shield diverted the lightning bolt he had aimed at Nathaniel, even if it hadn’t been powerful, even if he had only meant it to hurt, not to wound or kill. That night he slept against a rock, facing the way they had come and as soon as the sky lightened he had begun to walk. Let the others protect Razikale, let them run to Alistair. No one would miss him, no one would care if he returned to Weisshaupt. If his Reina was a prisoner, let him free her, or be a prisoner with her, anything but leave her alone with the depraved monster who sought to bind the Gods themselves.

No one knew what happened next. The sun was barely up, the others beginning to stir, when Josef walked back into the camp at Razikale’s side, one sullen and silent for the rest of their journey, the other sad and always by his side. Kemen watched over them both, but said nothing, and no one else dared mention Rhiannon’s name, for the look of misery and hatred Josef gave them in return.

At the Nevarran border, Velanna and Gabriella turned east, intending to cross over into Tevinter where the three countries met. The rest carried on, only stopping long enough to buy horses in Perendale. Fenris offered them shelter and a place to plan so they made for the remote farm and Josef let his horse follow them, taking his body wherever they wanted while his head and heart were still in Weisshaupt. He ate the food and drink Razikale handed him and slept in a tent beside the Goddess and her priest. The only other person he interacted with was Bethany and only long enough to monitor her healing and relieve the strain that riding put on her weakened muscles. Everyone else he ignored, not rebuffing any overtures but behaving as if they simply did not exist, until they left him to himself and he sank deeper into the darkness.

“Messere Anders,” was the first thing to catch his attention in weeks. He raised his head to berate whoever was speaking until he realised it was Orana standing before him, offering him a bowl of porridge full of nuts and dried fruit with a swirl of honey on the top. Even at his worst, he wouldn’t shout at Orana. When they first rescued her from Hadriana, the woman had flinched at any raised voice. He and Hawke often argued but they tempered their arguments when Orana was around, afraid of finding her hiding in the pantry in tears again. Instead he gave her a weak smile and took the bowl, barely aware of Fenris asking Orana to call him Josef. He almost told the elf not to correct her. He had ignored the frequent lapses from Velanna or Mari or Fenris himself. But to hear sweet, gentle Orana say that name, to be Anders again, Anders the murderer, Anders the terrorist, Anders the abomination. Perhaps to be Anders again would be justice for leaving Reina in Weisshaupt? Instead, he said nothing, sitting down at the table to eat.

Orana had always been pretty, even when gaunt from slavery. Now her face had the familiar roundness of pregnancy and she was beautiful. The flaxen hair she had kept tightly tied up was loosely braided and covered with a kerchief of blue and yellow and a simple dress and apron did nothing to hide the swelling stomach underneath. He estimated her to be around six months gone, surprised that he could even think of such things, and without thinking he reached out with his power to make sure mother and babe were well. Orana gasped slightly as the warmth of healing magic flowed through her, the blue glow making Fenris tense beside her, though he did not say a word. Josef smiled again and cleared his throat to speak for the first time since the fight with Nathaniel.

“You look well, Orana.” It was an effort, but one he would make for her. Orana opened her mouth to reply but a wail from a cot beside the fire interrupted her, quickly followed by a second cry from the same place.

The next few minutes were filled with Fenris and Orana trying to quiet the twin toddlers who had been napping, blissfully unaware that their father had returned with guests. Bethany and Hawke and, surprisingly, Kemen, cooed over the children while Nate looked uncomfortable. Josef simply watched, part of him amazed at the sight of a smiling Fenris with a toddler in his arms and the little girl from the yard now clambering over him while Orana nursed the other child, the whole scene so domestic and so far removed from the Fenris he had known in Kirkwall that it felt like a different world. Two people who were once slaves, now free and living in peace, their children safe from living their parents lives. Instead of the bitter, vicious man and the frightened, mousy girl he saw a couple who were relaxed, happy, and very much in love with each other and their children. He saw now that Hawke’s casual description of their marriage had been an understatement, though whether that was due to Fenris’ need for privacy or her own insecurities, Josef did not know. Whatever it was, the more he watched them together the more he hated the sight of it, of Fenris sitting with a smile on his face, cradling a dozing child and listening to the other chattering away about the trials and tribulations of her chickens. It shamed him, but he hated the freedom the elf had found, the peace in his eyes. He hated that he had worked for years to get that same freedom for mages, had ripped himself apart, body and soul, to allow his kind to sit at their own fire, surrounded by their own family, without fear. Fenris had fought against that, had believed that all mages should suffer for the sins of the corrupt and vicious and now he enjoyed the very life he wanted to deny others, the life the world wanted neither of them to possess. Josef would never have that, he had given up on dreams of family and freedom for himself years ago, beyond occasional wistful conversations with Hawke. He was a renegade Grey Warden, an abomination, a barren, blighted creature. His dreams for himself had ended long before he merged with Justice. They ended when he was told the truth of the Grey Wardens. But this - this belonged to every slave, every mage, every hurting, lonely soul the Chantry - either Chantry - told no.

He stood and walked out, brushing off Razikale’s outstretched hand and muttering about the privy. The air was hot and heavy, humidity higher so close to the river. He had no idea what he was doing and somehow he ended up back in the stable, petting his horse as he offered her an apple from the barrel of windfalls in the corner, waiting to be turned into cider. Apples were not a common crop in Nevarra, they fared better in the cooler southern climes, but he remembered Fenris had developed almost an obsession with them in Kirkwall and he wasn’t surprised to see them here.

His mind was calmer in the quiet stable. It was almost four years since he had been with more than a handful of people and longer since he had been around children. He sat on a haybale and closed his eyes, only to open them again as one of the barn cats wound herself around his legs, purring loudly. She was beautiful, as all cats are beautiful, looking up at him with yellow eyes then bouncing onto his knee and kneading it before turning a few times and settling down to sleep. So he sat, still petting the purring cat, head tilted back against the stall door. He felt like he was floating, detached and unreal, only tethered to the world by the solid lump vibrating on his knee. A scuff of footsteps threatened to drag him back down and the smell of leather and armour polish that had once been so familiar told him the master of the house had followed him out. He didn’t bother opening his eyes as the stalls were opened and closed again in turn, the rustle of hay being scattered and the sloshing of water into troughs seeming so mundane he began to drift off. Only when the footsteps stopped in front of him before moving back towards the door did he stir himself to ask the question that had burned in him for the past four years.

“Why did you do it?”

The footsteps paused and Fenris said, “Why do you think?”

Josef opened his eyes and huffed, shifting enough to get a claw in the leg from the cat. “Ouch, you little monster.” He set her down on the ground then looked back up at the elf and said, “I counted on you to protect the mages. You would do that much for Hawke, at least. But I still don’t understand why you helped with the rest?”

Fenris moved to another bale and sat, watching Josef. “Perhaps I thought death would be too easy, that living with your guilt would be... justice.”

“Ha ha ha,” Josef replied, dully.

Fenris stared at him and for a moment Josef was reminded of the younger man, the one who glared and brooded his way through life, who tried to fight everything, including his own heart, with a sword as big as himself. Then his shoulders relaxed and he smiled slightly and any jealousy Josef had felt was swept away in the pure belief that it was right that Fenris had this life, that he deserved it far more than Josef ever had. Then he spoke and some of the goodwill vanished again just as quickly as it had come.

“When Hawke first told me, I was not inclined to help. I told her that for all she had done for me, I would not interfere, but that she could ask no more.”

“What made you change your mind?” asked Josef.

“Hawke spoke to us in the Hanged Man, Varric, Isabela and I. Of course, Varric and Isabela agreed immediately. One loves chaos and the other could almost taste the profits from his book. Hawke gave him permission to publish it, if he helped. And wrote the ending she wanted. I left, and went straight to Hawke’s mansion to ask Orana to marry me. I told her everything and begged her to leave Kirkwall. I promised I would keep her safe, that she would never again fear mages and the destruction they bring.”

“And?”

“She refused.”

Josef jerked upright, shocked. “She refused?”

“She told me she loved me, but that she would not run from Kirkwall. And that, come what may, I would never forgive her if she let me leave all of you in danger. That it would sour our love and our life together. She is a wise woman. Then she gave me a speech you would have been proud of, telling me all the ways you helped her, how you taught her to read as Hawke had taught me, how you had been teaching her herbalism and healing and midwifery. She told me of the mages you both smuggled through the house, especially the young ones, and how kind you were to them. Orana told me of a man I had not been able to see through my hatred, but it was her final point that made up my mind. She told me that if I stood in the centre of Minrathous and destroyed the Magisterium, you would stand beside me, no matter our differences. It shamed me to know it was true. I returned to Hawke and told her I would assist in her plan. ”

Josef was silent. It was true, but he would never have believed he would hear Fenris admit it, or that mousy little Orana, who had lived with blood mages but still vomited the first time she saw an open sore, would have been the one to open his eyes. They sat together for long minutes, both lost in thought, before Fenris stood.

“Food is waiting inside.”

Josef took the offered hand and pulled himself up, brushing off the hay before following Fenris back to the house and the family inside.

Chapter Text

They waited. Josef chafed at the delay, every day a little more, until Hawke got so sick of his complaints she sent him to Perendale for supplies. Nate was sent with him, having managed to annoy just about everyone, including his endlessly patient mate. Where Josef worried about Rhiannon almost constantly, Nathaniel was struggling to deal with what was happening to Bethany.

The healing in Weisshaupt had been slow, Josef and Kemen working together to rebuild torn muscle and organs. Her womb, left kidney and spleen had all been damaged beyond repair and part of her liver had been removed with them. But the spinal damage had been the worst, the swelling only just settling and movement beginning to return when they had fled. Hours of hiding, days on a horse and the constant shifting extremes of temperature between day and night this far north had taken a toll and even constant healing from the other mages could only do so much. By the time they reached the farm she had already lost most of the feeling in her extremities and the day after her legs gave out as she walked to the privy. Nathaniel had found her sobbing, leggings soaked in urine, numb fingers scabbling for purchase on the hard ground. He had carried her to the small bathhouse and gently cleaned her up before wrapping her in a blanket to carry back to bed. Then he grabbed Josef and Kemen and dragged them into the room, only to be told that the swelling in her spine and the constant movement since they fled Weisshaupt, had caused permanent damage to her nerves. It was possible, Josef thought, to stop it progressing, and he had managed to give her back the feeling in her hands, but for her legs only time would tell. He warned them both that she would never fight again, that only a miracle would see her able to walk. She would be doubly incontinent and bedsores were a massive risk, given how easily they could get infected and her lack of a spleen. Bethany accepted it all quietly and stoically, as she had accepted Carver’s death, her Joining, even her mother’s murder, but Nathaniel raged and shouted and, when Josef told them few with such injuries lived longer than a year or two, he broke the mage’s jaw with his fist.

Nathaniel hadn’t apologised and Josef didn’t expect it, but he also hadn’t complained when Hawke suggested the two of them go for the things they would need. All that Josef could do for Bethany had been done and between Hawke and Orana she would be well cared for, but there were potions and salves that would protect her skin and her muscle tone and the best place to get the ingredients was a large town. They camped in silence, spoke only when needful during the day and Nathaniel laid his bedroll down on the opposite side of the fire from Josef, turning away in the night as his shoulders shook and silent tears spilled down his cheeks. Fenris had given them enough money they could afford two rooms in one of the shabbier inns in Perendale and Nate asked for a tray to be brought up while Josef sat in the taproom and drank. He staggered up the stairs well after midnight and paused outside Nathaniel’s room, hand raised to push the door open and offer the man anything he wanted just to speak to him again, to beg him not to let them both suffer the pain and guilt alone. Then his hand fell and he went to his own room and crashed out on the bed, fully dressed.

They split up the next day. Josef heading for a herbalist the innkeeper recommended, while Nathaniel gathered more mundane supplies. No matter what Bethany’s condition was, their Commander, the Queen of Ferelden was still a captive of the Grey Wardens and the Primus intended to bind the Old Gods in some way no one understood. When they returned to the farm, Josef, Fenris and Hawke would set out for Ferelden, to warn King Alistair and gather the army, while Kemen and Razikale took shelter in Soldier’s Peak. Until they knew what Vogel wanted with Razikale, they all thought it better to keep her far, far away from him and in the meantime Kemen intended to work with Avernus on a cure for the Calling that avoided the consequences Rhiannon faced.  

It took three days to gather everything, one of the salves required dragonthorn that had been steeped in spring water for a full day and the herbalist had none on hand. Josef had offered to get the ingredients himself, an overnight stay in the open air seeming far more appealing than another night of being ignored by Nathaniel and so he found himself once again staring at the play of moonlight on water, only this time no one came to find him and he wondered if there was any reason to go back. He could have the remedies delivered to Nathaniel, Hawke and Fenris could tell Alistair who would no doubt save the day and his lady love. Josef could go on ahead. Morrigan was at Skyhold, according to Hawke, and a mage from Tevinter she described as a genius and even Fenris admitted had a reputation as a good man - as far as Tevinter mages went. He could seek answers from them and then meet Razikale and Kemen at Soldier’s Peak and continue his work on the Cure. The Calling might have been false this time, but it still hung over their heads. Rhiannon had been cured but at a price they could not all pay. Bethany would die, for certain, and Josef had no idea whether Alistair’s seizures or indeed the hole in his own heart would not see them follow suit. As dawn rose, he was decided. Let the heroes go and be heroes, the Maker knew that had never been him. He stood and brushed dirt and dew from his armour, filling several vials with fresh spring water before heading back to the town. He had collected the dragonthorn already so he dropped a sprig in each vial, not wishing a minute to go to waste. By the time he made it back to the herbalist, then visited a leatherworks to check on some items he had ordered, the sun was once again setting and he trudged the streets towards the inn.

This time, Josef knocked on Nathaniel’s door, barely catching the muffled grunt as he opened it and walked into the pokey room. Nate lay face down on the bed while packs full and tied for the saddle were piled haphazardly in the corner. Josef stood for a moment, staring down at the man who had been his lover, who could not bear to even look at him now, and dropped his own packs before moving close enough to sit on the narrow bed. He sat in silence with his hand laid gently on Nate’s back, not moving or caressing, just touching enough to let the man know he was there. When there was no response he left a note on the table, lifted his bags and went on his way.

------

The peaks of the Frostbacks existed in an eternal winter, snow and ice and treacherous winds that rarely felt more than the weakest sunlight; and yet, the garden in Skyhold was a warm and fragrant sanctuary that held a touch of summer in its grasp. The King of Ferelden stepped out into the shady cloister and stopped, struck first by the heat and then by the sense of peace the garden held. A gentle-faced Mother stood talking with a group of younger women, no doubt Sisters or supplicants. A delicate looking elf was digging in pots of soil, a basket beside her rapidly filling with herbs. In a gazebo across the garden the Commander of the Inquisition was just getting up from a chess board, leaning over the board to give a handsome Tevinter mage an affectionate kiss, before walking quickly over.

“Your Majesty. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” The King looked for some remnants of the boy he had known in the face of the man, sad that weathered skin and deep lines of pain had wiped out his youthful fervour. At least, until the Commander looked over at the mage in the gazebo and smiled. In that smile was all the worshipful adoration the young Templar had pledged to Andraste and his stern duty. Alistair decided he far preferred to see it directed at a real person.

“We made better time than expected getting to Haven,” he replied. “Teagan and I ditched most of my guard there and came ahead.”

“How is your uncle?” Cullen asked.

“Grumpy.” He might have intended to say more, but another pair had entered the garden. A tall, beautiful woman with raven hair sat down on a bench with a young boy, nine or ten at the most. It was true, then. Of course, the fact Rhiannon lived had been proof for a decade, but somehow it hadn’t ever been real, not until he saw them both sitting in that impossible garden. He barely heard Cullen make his excuses and leave as he stared at them. The boy was reading from a book, pausing every so often to make a comment to his mother, while Morrigan sat with her arm around him, listening avidly to every word and answering very seriously. He had dreamed of this, once upon a time. He had imagined Morrigan returning to him, bringing the child they had made in equal amounts of love and fear and desperation. He would abdicate the throne to Rhiannon and name Fergus’ children as his heirs and they would live together in the country, far away from the Blight or the Crown or anything else that could separate them. It was a dream that had faded over the years, yet now, watching them both, it came back in a wave so fierce he could almost believe it was real. Then they were joined by another and his illusion was shattered.

Leliana had come from the other direction, walking down a set of stairs he hadn’t noticed to begin with. At her call, the pair looked up, the boy jumping up to run and give her a hug before dragging the spymaster over to sit with them. Before she sat, Leliana leaned down to kiss Morrigan on the cheek. The kiss was quick and chaste, but it held all the affection he had seen between the Commander and his mage only a few minutes ago. The two women sat, the boy between them, as he chattered away about his book, sharing fond smiles over his head. Alistair’s heart sank to see them, before he shook his head and cursed himself for a fool.  

“They always look so peaceful together,” Alistair startled at the soft voice beside him, turning to see the Inquisitor, Evelyn Trevelyan, as she watched the trio. He had already decided the Inquisition had more than their fair share of beautiful, powerful women but the Inquisitor stood out even beside Morrigan, Leliana and Lady Montilyet. Her colouring reminded him of Isabela, but darker. Her face was perfection, her figure perfectly balanced to her height while her long, black hair was elaborately braided and twisted in a style he knew would be appearing at court soon, if it hadn’t already. There was a sadness about her and he knew through Leliana that her Templar love had been retrieved from the Fade and then died in an attempt to cure a vicious red lyrium poison. Corypheus was dead, Samson with him, and both Ferelden and Orlais had mage/templar pairs out looking for red lyrium and destroying every shard they found. But the woman who made it all possible stood with the grief of ages in her eyes and he cursed himself for mooning over a childish infatuation he should have put aside years ago.

“They were close,” he admitted. “The three of them, Rhi, Leli and Morrigan. They spent hours talking. Leliana would brush their hair and style it into completely ridiculous Orlesian fashions that Morrigan would immediately pull out. Leliana and Rhiannon would talk about shoes and dresses and try to persuade Morrigan to go shopping with them. Leliana wanted to dress her in violet silk, or something like that. I remember Morrigan found these ridiculous blue shoes in a traders cart, stuffed under weapons and armour. Leliana wore the damn things every chance she got. And Leli would bring Morrigan sweets and pastries. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she has a very sweet tooth. Anything with apples and cream was her favourite. Leliana preferred fancy Orlesian cakes and Rhi loves anything with chocolate - not that there was any of that about, not during the Blight. But Leliana never came back from a town or village without a pastry for Morrigan.”

“It’s strange,” said Evelyn, tilting her head as she watched them both. “At Halamshiral, Leliana warned me against her. Said she was not to be trusted.”

Alistair flushed slightly. “After the archdemon was killed, Morrigan left. It was... complicated. Only Rhi and I knew why. Maybe we should have told her, but it was...”

“Complicated?” Evelyn smiled at him. “They appear to have worked it out anyway.” The smile disappeared too quickly and Alistair felt awkward, as if he should offer comfort to the obviously grieving Inquisitor, but not knowing how. Instead he looked back over to Leliana and Morrigan only to realise that Leliana was staring directly at him and Morrigan was standing beside the gazebo, arms crossed, watching him defiantly.  

“I would go to her, Your Majesty,” Evelyn said with a hint of humour, “I don’t think you would suit life as a toad.” Alistair grinned down at her, a smile that turned to a grimace as he took a deep breath and walked towards his first love.

Maker, she was beautiful. Motherhood had softened some of the harsh angles of her face while her body was still slim but rounder. Even when he thought he hated her he had looked on her with lust, dreaming about her until he woke sticky and torn between pleasure and shame. The shame had long since passed, Rhi and Bela had seen to that, but his body still stirred at the memory of the pleasure and he flushed slightly, diverting his thoughts in an attempt to avoid making a fool of himself. Instead he looked over at the boy, now showing Leliana his book with all seriousness.

“That's him? I thought he’d look, I don’t know, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath.” 

Morrigan looked at him as if he was a complete moron. “He is a normal boy, Alistair.” The tone was withering, but somehow softer than he remembered, almost fond.  

“Uh huh, and what does he know of... how he was made?”

The eye roll, he remembered that as he flushed bright red. But instead of the cutting remark he expected, she hesitated. “He knows his father was a good man. I... I thought you deserved that much.”

“He's changed you.”

“Don't be absurd.” Alistair almost laughed at the defensiveness. Still the same Morrigan, desperate to appear untouchable, unfeeling, unwilling to let the rest of the world see the warmth within. He glanced over at Leliana and she smiled back, encouragingly.  

“Can I meet him?” He asked hesitantly. It was the only thing Morrigan had asked, to never try to contact her or their child. He had respected it, even if he knew Rhiannon hadn’t, but the business of his kingdom brought him to Skyhold, where they were, and he couldn’t leave without asking. If she said no, he would respect it, he would be grateful for the sight of the boy and the knowledge that Morrigan was indeed a far better parent than either of them had known themselves, but he had to ask. She looked lost for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure how to reply, but a movement from the side answered for her. The boy was approaching, directed over by Leliana, it seemed, who was watching them while taking a sealed parchment from a messenger. Mind made up for her, Morrigan nodded and beckoned the child to her.

“Kieran,” she said. “Come and meet my friend, Alistair.” That hurt, just a little, but as he looked down at his son the hurt disappeared into wonder. Dark hair like his mother but he had Alistair’s eyes. It was a fleeting thought that disappeared as Kieran wrinkled his nose at his father.

“Your eyes are right there, why would I have them?”

Alistair gaped and Morrigan squashed a smile before saying, “Kieran,” in a warning tone that still had that edge of warmth. She looked slyly over at Alistair as she continued, “Alistair, this is my son, Kieran.” He held out his hand and the boy shook it briefly before moving closer to his mother, still staring at Alistair. He looked as if he was about to say something else when Leliana interrupted them.

“Alistair, something has occurred, the Inquisitor requests your presence in the War Room.” Her face was serious and Alistair tensed, wondering what had happened to change the smiling woman in the garden to the Inquisition Spymaster so quickly. As they walked quickly away, he cast another glance over his shoulder at Morrigan and their son, the possibility that had never been, before turning back as King of Ferelden, with all that entailed.

-------

Rhiannon was bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. The first week she had been dragged before Vogel at all hours of the day and night to answer the same, single question. Every time, day or night, she answered the same. She had not done anything to survive killing Urthemiel. She knew he could break her. She was only a weak human now, no superhuman strength or stamina, no dulled nerves. Barely thirty years old and she was a decrepit wreck. She wouldn’t have been able to withstand torture, not for long. But Vogel showed no interest in torturing her and after that first week he seemed to forget about her completely. Food and drink appeared by kelsana, fresh clothes and linens too so she sent the dirty ones the same way. There were no guards outside her door, no lock on it, on day twelve she had wandered all the way to the main courtyard and no one had batted an eye. But the portcullis was down, the massive lead-lined gates shut tight and the Deep Roads, even if they weren’t guarded day and night, were a death sentence to her now. She had the freedom of Weisshaupt, but that was all the freedom she would have until the Primus showed his hand.

Every Warden who had come with Hawke was dead in the Roads and she could only hope the binding ritual had failed, that Razikale had been far enough away before it was carried out, even with the power of so many deaths to fuel it. The Architect had apparently vanished again and Vogel would rather ignore her than either gloat or vent, but the lack of activity felt neither complacent nor defeated. Weisshaupt and its inhabitants were waiting for something, or someone, and in the meantime the captive Queen was forgotten.

Weeks turned into months. Loss became anger became despair became apathy. In the beginning she began every day with hours of stretches, calisthenics, shadow sparring, anything to keep her body active. In the afternoons she poured over books in the library, still searching for a cure that would be safe for those she loved but now she also searched for maps and building plans, for a way out of the fortress. But as the months passed she spent less time exercising her body and mind and more sitting in the garden sitting at nothing, then lying longer and longer in bed. By the fourth month she was barely eating or drinking, moving long enough to relieve herself or have a cursory wash, no longer interested in anything but the never-ending blank her life had become. Then the dreams began.

She couldn’t pinpoint when they started. Was it before or after the water started tasting funny? Was she dreaming when she lay in bed and listened to voices float over her, or when she wandered empty halls in a silent fortress? She thought once she heard Karis, felt gentle hands move each limb and the trickle of warm water against her skin; but then she was alone again, staring at the patterns of the ceiling and willing their loops and swirls to open up so she could see the sky again.

There was one dream, she was sure it was a dream, it wasn’t a memory, or not one of hers. She sat in the shade of a great tree, soft, springy, mossy grass beneath her and sunlight dappled on the ground through gaps in the leaves. The world smelled green and alive, birds sang and insects buzzed and just ahead of her stood a massive wolf. There was no fear, she felt no urge to move, or fight, or run. She simply sat and looked at the wolf and he looked back at her. Then clouds filled the sky and the day darkened and though she had never looked away there was no wolf, only endless exhaustion. So she closed her eyes and leaned back against the tree and slept.

She dragged herself out of bed long enough to relieve herself and rub down hands and face with cold water, swallowing what was left in the ewer down, not caring enough to leave the room for food before lying back down on sweat wrinkled bedding. If Vogel had ordered her water switched for wine she might happily have drunk herself to death. Five months had passed, five months of nothing. The same room, the same bed, the same endless sky, the same smothering silence. Only dreams offered anything different so she closed her eyes and waited for them to come. As her life became faded and empty, her dreams came to life. Sometimes she walked in ancient forests, following paths no human ever trod. Other times she was at Halamshiral, or the palace in Denerim, or in Castle Cousland. She followed Fergus and Nathaniel, she sat at a fire with Duncan and Daveth and Jory, all long dead and in the shadows she sometimes fancied she saw not faces but skulls grinning back at her. She danced in Val Royeaux with handsome young men and stood over the piled bodies of dwarves and darkspawn. Sometimes she thought she was searching for something, but it never came.

The best dreams were of home. A child’s home, full of laughter and hugs. A woman’s home, thin canvas and a bedroll but surrounded by trust. A Queen’s home, rich and warm and safely held in strong arms against a broad chest. Her mother’s voice sang to a fevered child, Nan’s voice scolded her as the scrabble of claws and muffled giggles gave too much away, Oren’s voice as he asked for just one more story, Morrigan as she offered a dubious lifeline with equal parts love and fear, Zevran as he called out in passion, Alistair as he bantered with Isabela, Anders as he read snippets of The Champion’s Tale in a mix of humour and disgust. The voices mixed until she knew who spoke but could not make out their words, lost in ringing bells and the smell of cookies and herbs and memories of pain and love and trust and distrust until she woke and lost it all.

Karis sat in a chair beside the bed, looking at her solemnly. Unable to summon the energy for hostility, Rhiannon simply looked back. “You look like shit, salroka.”  

Rhiannon winced at the dwarven term. “You’re not my friend,” she said.

“Am I not?” the woman asked, shifting slightly, a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “You’d be a damn sight more filthy and even more skinny if I hadn’t been looking after you. Sounds like a friend to me.”

Rhiannon forced herself up onto her elbows. “You... I thought I heard your voice, but it was only for a minute.”

Karis frowned. “You’ve been unconscious for weeks, Rhia... Your Majesty.” She said the names hesitantly, then her tone strengthened as she made a decision. “Rhia, tell me what you remember?”  

Almost a question, almost an order, but underlaid with fear that made Rhiannon take notice. She stretched slightly, noting the linen gown in place of the tunic and leggings she remembered, frowning at the jutting ankles and bony feet emerging from them before noticing the skin stretched tight across hands and wrists, paper thin and wasted. Trying to sit up drained all her energy and Karis supported her and plumped pillows and brought a woven blanket to cover the skeletal feet she couldn’t stop staring at.

“I remember Vogel harassing me for a week, then forgetting about me. I tried to keep occupied but days and weeks and months of just... nothing... I think I slept, a lot. I dreamed, it seemed so vivid but now it’s all... gone.” Rhiannon laid back down, sinking into pillows that were clean and soft and smelled of herbs. She tried to force her brain to think through the hazy uncertainty only to be stopped in her tracks by a low growl emanating from her stomach. She stared down at herself, surprised by the sudden, overwhelming hunger. For an instant she felt as if she had just woken up after taking the Joining, memory overtaken by terror until she realised she could not sense Karis sitting at her side. Whatever starvation her body cried out against, she was no Warden. Not again. Not ever.

“It’s been five weeks, Rhia. We came for you on the eighth day and you were asleep. We couldn’t wake you. Albrecht was panicking, no matter what you think of him, he’s not a bad man. He had no intention of harming you. He sent for a healer, an elven mage, tallest elf I’ve seen and bald as an egg too. He made you glow a bit then gave me herbs. Herbs for your bath, herbs for your bedding and clothes, herbs for your tea. Told me to keep using them til you woke up, which I didn’t think was going to happen but it did. Sometimes it seemed like they were what was keeping you under, I nearly tossed them away. But he was right, you’re finally awake and I’m so relieved, salroka.” This time Rhiannon didn’t object to the word, just sighed and looked at the woman beside her.

“Five weeks?” She looked down at herself. “How did this happen in five weeks?” There were other questions, probably. Eventually she might even think of them. For now all she could think was that five weeks was barely long enough for the others to be out of Nevarra. The endless months of her dreams stretched out before her to be relived and hunger mixed with gut-churning fear that she would never leave this place. Suddenly, her stomach lurched into her throat and she started to retch, dry-heaving over herself until tears poured down her cheeks to soak into the blanket below.

When she could regain her bearings, Karis was rubbing her back and murmuring soothing words. Her free hand held a glass of water that Rhiannon took gratefully, even if she then sipped it cautiously.

“It didn’t matter how much tea or broth or anything else I poured into you,” said Karis, her hand sitting lightly on Rhiannon’s shoulder now as she took the water back. “It was like it wasn’t even getting into you. Like you were burning through it as soon as it touched your lips. I don’t think you should try getting up for a while, we’ll need to feed you back up.” Her hand fell away as she stood but Rhiannon grabbed it. She couldn’t leave her alone again. “It’s okay,” Karis soothed. “I’ll be right back.” She moved across to the door and left it wide open as she headed into the larger room. Karis scribbled a note then moved out of Rhiannon’s sight but she could hear the rumble of the kelsana and then Karis was back, a beaker full of broth in her hands, fragrant steam carrying hints of beef and pepper and rosemary and Rhiannon’s mouth was watering. With a little help she drank it down, trying to take her time though part of her wanted to gulp it down greedily, feeling as if nothing had tasted so good in her life. When it was done, she leaned back again and looked at Karis. Some of the fog had lifted and questions were coming to her fast and furious.

“Since the broth was already here, I presume the note was to bring someone here?” Karis nodded. “The First Warden?” Another nod. “Then I’ll wait for Vogel to show his pudgy face.” Rhiannon turned her face away from the dwarf and closed her eyes. “Thank you for looking after me, but I don’t think I want to talk to you right now.” The betrayal hurt. The Twins had led them through the Deep Roads, given them a place to stay in Kal Sharok. Lars had spoken to the father he despised to get them information. Karis had helped nurse her through her illness, once the magical work was done. But they had chosen Vogel, both of them, and she couldn’t blame them, remembering the campfire stories of the three hellions terrorising Weisshaupt, but she did it anyway. Karis respected her wishes and sat in silence, but sit she did, until the door opened to admit the First Warden into her room.

Vogel looked pale and ill and Rhiannon hoped it was at least partially fear of retribution for everything he had done to her. He said nothing, just stood appraising her, as if she were a crumbling nag being passed off as a thoroughbred by a dishonest merchant.

“You’re awake.” He said.

“You’re a dead man.” She replied.

For a moment his eyes showed interest, then shadowed again as he said, “You’re in no position to make threats, Your Majesty. I doubt you could stand upright, let alone best me.”

“I already did,” she said it smugly, determined to needle him if she could. “You lost your pet Goddess, a whole troop of Grey Warden’s were slaughtered for blood magic for nothing, and my friends are currently on their way to inform the King of Ferelden that I have been imprisoned here. I very much doubt Celene will refuse him passage through Orlais with the army he’ll bring. Markus certainly won’t, unlike Celene, he actually likes me.”

Vogel’s lips twisted in something approximating a smirk, if the smirker was also about to be sick. “I believe that can be avoided.”

“Doubt it.”

Vogel huffed, irritated. “If you would listen...”

“Nope.”

“Maker!” The epithet was almost launched from his mouth rather than spoken. “Would you just listen, woman.”

Rhiannon looked at him, holding eye contact long enough for him to start to shift, then looked away with feigned indifference. “No.” She wanted to know what he was up to, but it could wait until she was better, stronger. Until Alistair was already on his way. She would eat and train and she would only agree to listen to him when she was well enough to run or fight if it turned sour. The sense of victory when she heard him huff again as he walked away, the terse murmurs to Karis that were obviously instructions and finally the slam of the outer door behind him, that was bliss. The day would come when she shoved a dagger through his rotten heart, but for today his retreat was all the victory she would get, so she relished it. She fell asleep imagining the Ferelden army, her husband at its head, sweeping over Weisshaupt like the sirocco wind, ending Vogel and his cronies even as it returned her Alistair to her. The thought of Vogel swinging aimlessly at the vagaries of every breath of air, eyes and bloated tongue gone to the carrion crows, eased her into her first natural sleep in weeks, while an apprehensive dwarf watched over her and contemplated the mess her Commander had made.

Chapter Text

Every day she ran around the inner wall of the Keep.  The first time she made it halfway before staggering to the wall to vomit up her meagre breakfast, her legs shaking under her.  The next day she got a whole ten steps further, the third - less than a quarter of the way round.  But every day she ran, one of the Twins always beside her, half blind with shortened breath and bones that screamed against such treatment.  Every day the First Warden stood on the battlements and watched.

The Queen of Ferelden was on her third lap when the door behind him opened and closed, the slight shuffle of bare feet causing him to turn to look at the elf who was both an unhelpful ally and a tenuous threat.  Solas ignored Albrecht and moved closer to the edge, watching the woman running below.

“She is tenacious,” he said, muttering as if to himself, though he glanced at Albrecht out the side of his eyes.  “She must have been a wonder to see, ten years ago.”

“She is a wonder now,” was Albrecht’s rejoinder.  “You almost killed her and less than a month later she is running miles in a day.  Rhiannon Cousland’s abilities have never been in question.”

“It was difficult to extract the information.  I was not sure she even had it, the witch might have hidden everything from her.  If we are to have any hope of succeeding, we need the lead she has given us.”

“You spent months in the same castle as Flemeth’s daughter.  You couldn’t have got it from her?”  Albrecht turned to see Solas’ mouth twist with distaste.

“Morrigan shields her dreams, she is almost as strong as I, one of the strongest mages I have met in these degenerate times.  And I did not know what to ask, not until the Inquisitor told me of Mythal and I met her myself.”  Solas paused, thoughtfully.  “I wonder if she knows I have freed her from Mythal’s grasp.  Perhaps she would have given me the formula out of gratitude.”  He looked back down to the Queen, now standing talking to some of the wardens, Karis at her side today.  “My people will retrieve the formula from the blood mage.  You must find likely candidates for the Joining, all your males are too old.”

“And then you’ll end the Blights, as was our agreement,” Albrecht was suspicious of the elven mage’s motives, but he had made a promise.

Solas huffed as if disappointed.  “Yes, yes.  The Grey Wardens short-sighted obsession will be no more.  Believe me when I tell you I can offer far more than a half-mad darkspawn or an army of demons.  So many attempts, all complete disasters.  But yes, I will end the Blight.”

“Our ‘short-sighted obsession’ is to prevent the end of the world.”  Albrecht retorted.  “There is no threat in Thedas as great as the Blight.”

Solas waved his hand dismissively.  “World’s end all the time.  Another always rises to take its place.  Believe me when I say that good intentions lead to the worst outcomes.  But the Blight is a barrier to my plans, so it must go.”  He turned towards the door.  “I will speak to the Queen today.  Her compliance will be necessary to our success.”

“Why?”  As much as the woman irritated him, what Solas wanted was more than Albrecht thought she could bear, more than what the warden who ended a Blight deserved.

“Because she is the Dark Flame.  The prophecy is unclear, the words translated from language to language across seven centuries, but I believe she is the key to ending the Blight.  And having the Queen of Ferelden on our side will be valuable in itself.”  

“You still haven’t told me what it means.  What is this Dark Flame prophecy?”  For a moment he thought Solas would not answer, as Razikale had refused to answer before she could speak to the woman more herself.  But the elf looked thoughtful, then nodded.

“ The Dark Flame rises from the ashes of Beauty.  Red blood will run blue and the Mother of Night will bring golden dawn. ”

------

Rhiannon soaked in the bath, reflecting angrily on how her lungs seemed determined to stay weak, no matter how much she ran and trained.  Her daggers were all but useless, her blind left side leaving her too vulnerable for close fighting, and the last time she drew a bow was long before this interminably futile journey.  More than two years and nothing to show for it but failure and misery.  Lars had returned from Kal Sharok only days ago with the news that the Breach in the sky was sealed, its originator destroyed, but there would be work for her in Ferelden, a duty she had deserted, a husband she had abandoned, all for nothing.  Bethany could be dead, they might all be dead.  Vogel might have caught them in the first days and she would be none the wiser, there had certainly been no sign of a rescue party for her, not even a letter from Ferelden demanding the return of its Queen.  They might all be dead and she might as well be too, for there would be no rescue if no one living knew where she was but those who kept her there.

She shook her head in frustration with herself.  She could run from the dark thoughts but as soon as she was at rest, alone, they returned.  So she climbed out the bath, wrapping linen around her, and wandered through to the lounge to see if Karis was still there.

The dwarf was nowhere to be seen, so she went into her bedroom to dry off and dress.  She had burned most of the dresses in a temper, and her leggings hung off her skinny frame, so she threw a tunic over her head and left it at that, reflecting that it was no worse than what Isabela managed to wear while prancing about on a ship.  Pulling the brush through her hair, while carefully avoiding looking in the mirror, she heard the door to the suite opening and called out, “Just a minute.”  After one last tug she threw the brush down and made her way back to the lounge, expecting Karis with lunch.  Instead a tall, elven man stood, gazing out into the garden before turning to look at her.  Something about him was familiar and she racked her brains to remember until he spoke.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.  It is good to meet you again.”

“The Emerald Graves.  We met you travelling through the Graves.”  He had been a wanderer, an elf but not Dalish, an apostate but not shy of the fact.  He had reminded her of Flemeth a little, with an almost outdated turn of phrase and a supreme inner confidence bordering on superiority.  It had both attracted and repelled her and though Bethany had enjoyed speaking with him, Rhiannon had been glad when they parted ways in the morning.

“Indeed, I am pleased you remember me.  I do not believe we introduced ourselves last time, I am Solas.  Of course, I know who you are, Rhiannon Theirin, Queen of Ferelden.”  He bowed slightly, almost the bow of equals and though she usually cared little for such things outside of the Court, it set her on edge.  So Rhiannon curtseyed in the Orlesian way and smiled graciously.

“Well met, Serrah.  But you have wandered far from the Dirthavaren.”  With a languid sweep of her hand she indicated the couch, lowering herself delicately into a chair while desperately wishing she had more on than a tunic that barely reached mid-thigh.  

“I have indeed.  I travelled with the Inquisition for a time and when that time was done I turned again to the roads.”  He sat as if in his own parlour, too much at ease, but it was far too obvious a trap for Rhiannon.  If he thought to play The Game then he would have to work harder than that to best her.  The sound of the door opening a second time distracted her for a moment, until she heard Karis swear at it and saw her tromp into the room carrying a laden tray and looking sour.

“Nug-humping door, it always catches right on my elbow.”  She stopped when she saw Solas sitting across from a half-dressed Rhiannon, raising her eyebrows at the queen before nodding to the elf.  “Plenty for three, Master Solas.  Come to check on her Ladyship then?”

Rhiannon hid her surprise.  “You know Solas?”

“‘Course I do.  I told you about him, the elven healer who gave me the herbs and things.”  She turned back to Solas.  “I thought you had left, ‘til I saw you on the battlements with Lord Vogel today.”  

Solas’ mouth lifted in what might almost have been called a smile.  Almost.  “Yes, I have had other concerns, in Tevinter most recently.  But I felt it best to make sure Her Majesty was fully recovered before heading south again.”  He turned his attention to Rhiannon who was trying to conceal her disgust at the endless varieties of broth her friend insisted on bringing her.

“I assure you I’m recovering well.  Perhaps as a physician you could tell Karis that I can eat more than porridge and broth.”  The dwarf in question grunted and handed Solas a platter of bread and cheese that made Rhiannon almost groan with longing.

“I apologise,” said Solas, spreading a soft ewe’s cheese on a slice of bread.  “The herbs we were using can make you violently sick, even on a light diet.  Not to mention the malnutrition caused by your prolonged coma.  But since you no longer need them and you are gaining back some of your strength and stamina, it is a good time to reintroduce heavier foods.  I would avoid red meat for now, but there is nothing to stop you having some of this bread and cheese.”  So saying, he held out the slice to her, smiling in an irritatingly paternal way while Karis muttered that he could have told them sooner.  As Rhiannon took a careful bite and had to suppress a very unqueenly moan at the taste, Karis cut more bread and cheese and piled it on a plate for Rhiannon, adding segments of orange before handing it over and taking the broth to the table where they both knew it would lie and grow cold.

“My thanks, Master Solas.”  Said Rhiannon, hastily swallowing the mouthful.  

Solas gave that little nod again.  “It is nothing.  I should have been clearer in my instructions and you will need the food if you still intend to complete your quest.”

Chewing gave her an excuse to wait, to see if he would continue to speak about her ‘quest’, while Karis perked up her head with a “Won’t that have to wait a while?  She’s not hale yet.”

“I’m not going to be hale, darling.” Karis persisted in believing that everything would end well.  It had caused arguments with her brother, shouting across the room at each other while Rhiannon wished they would both just let it go.  “I need to find a solution for Beth, for Alistair, for all the other Wardens if they want it.”

“Do you believe the Wardens want it?” Solas asked.  His tone was just too casual, a tiny hair more than it should have been.  “The Wardens I have met generally believe any sacrifice is justified in their war against the Blight.  Extremists rarely look for other solutions.”

“The Grey Wardens sacrifice much to keep others safe,”  Karis spoke sharply and Rhiannon thought she didn’t like the elf any more than Rhiannon herself.  

The Queen raised her hand.  She had heard all the excuses against the Wardens before, some had weight but at the end of the day they were made in ignorance, and arguing was pointless.  The only way to refute them would be to give away secrets.  “The Grey Wardens do what they must, so others can be protected and do not soil their own hands.  The Wardens will always be needed, for most it will be a death sentence.  But, if those approaching their Calling could instead turn to other things?  If those whose only hope for survival was to become a Warden, instead could be cured?  What would that be worth?  If you were with the Inquisition you may have seen the Champion of Kirkwall?  Her sister became a Warden to save her life.  What if there had been another option for her?”

Solas inclined his head.  “Your arguments are compelling, for individual circumstances.  However, Wardens are too inclined to believe the ends justifies the means in any situation.  Corypheus persuaded them to murder their warriors and bind their mages to demon, enslaving spirits.”

Rhiannon nodded.  “We heard.  Your Inquisitor banished them here and Vogel executed them all.  However, in fact, only the Orlesians wardens were affected and not all of them.  The Calling did not extend outside of Orlais and Ferelden and my people were instructed to take any Wardens they found north with them.  The last word I had, in Hunter Fell, was that less than half of the Orlesian wardens even received Clarel’s summons.”  She paused and sneered, “Trust Orlesians to be dramatic .”

That was something all three could apparently agree on, judging by the matching disgust on Solas and Karis’ faces.  “True,” said Solas.

“However, the Inquisition had no right to banish the Wardens from Orlais.  Only Celene has that power.  The stories I have heard tell me that your Inquisitor has overstepped her bounds on too many occasions.  That will cause problems, if it hasn’t already.”

“The Inquisition is no longer my concern.”  The elf leaned back, finally coming round to whatever he had been edging towards.  

“And what is your concern, Master Solas?”  Rhiannon took another slice of bread and spread it thickly with cheese, letting silence push at him.  When Solas glanced towards Karis, she deliberately offered her friend a handful of berries.  She had no intention of being left alone with this man, not until she could be confident in defending herself again.  His head tilted as he considered her answer before he spoke.

“I believe my interests match with yours, in some ways.  I came to offer my assistance and to request aid from you.”  He paused, then took her silence for permission to continue. There was no hesitation in his manner, this was a rehearsed speech and she would need to be quick-witted to determine the motives behind it.  He had an excellent poker face, she would give him that.  “The Breach in the Veil has shown that it is vulnerable.  Even with the Breach closed there are rifts still open across southern Thedas.  Red lyrium has also spread, its progress speeded by the Venatori and the Red Templars.  And, of course, we know that red lyrium is Blighted.”

“Blighted?”  

“Indeed.  A dwarven smith proved it beyond doubt.”

Rhiannon sat back, her eyes narrowed.  “If lyrium can be Blighted then it is alive, why would this not already be known?  And how could the lyrium mines under Kal Hirol and Bownammar not be Blighted?  They were swarming with darkspawn.”

“Questions I have asked, myself.  I believe at least part of the answer lies in the idol that started it all.  I have been searching for it but it has proven very difficult to track down.”  His posture changed by a tiny fraction but it was enough to tell Rhiannon that he had reached the part that might involve her.  “The Veil is vulnerable, and red lyrium proliferates faster than the Blight alone.  At present it does not seem to cause the Blight in people and animals, but it destroys them just as surely.  If the Black City is also Blighted in truth, then both worlds need to be cleansed.  Any further damage to the Veil runs the risk of corruption so total, nothing could survive it.”

Rhiannon was suddenly tired of Solas and his pompous manner.  She decided to poke him rather than wait for him to condescend to explain.  “From what I hear through Kal Sharok, the Inquisition are working to clear the red lyrium wherever it appears.  And the Inquisitor can shut holes in the Veil.  So why are you here and not working with them?  Especially with such a low opinion of Grey Wardens?”

His face was too blank, she had hit a nerve.  His tone was still steady, though, as he replied, “The Inquisition have done an admirable job, and will continue to do so, I have no doubt.  The Inquisitor is a formidable woman and her associates just as impressive.  But she is fixated on this world.  Someone must concern themselves with the Fade.  In our travels, we activated part of a web of devices which bolster the Veil in weak areas.  Any more the Inquisition find will also be awakened.  But they are not a solution.  The only answer is to cleanse the Black City and make it Golden once more.”

Rhiannon murmured, “You don’t think small, do you Master Solas.”  Sitting back she tried to absorb what he had told her.  The thinning of the Veil in certain places had caused her many problems over the years.  Should it fall completely, the damage would be beyond anything she could imagine.  The whole world turned into Kinloch Hold, demons and abominations and corruption across the whole of Thedas.  Her worst nightmares come to life.  It had been thwarted by the Inquisition, but that did not mean it would not happen again.  She looked at Solas sharply.  “You are aware that the Magisters Sidereal already tried to cleanse the City and failed miserably?”

Solas nodded.  “I wanted to speak to the Augur.  The Architect is half mad and Corypheus was more than half.  I met the Appraiser of Slaves and interrogated him; he was useless, a venal coward, but he told me that of them all The Augur had retained most of what he had been.  I believe the deaths of their Gods exacerbated the damage in their minds, Corypheus was also quite mad.  The Augur and The Watchman, if she still lives, would have been my best bet for information.  Unfortunately, the First Warden allowed his charges to escape before I had the opportunity to speak to either of them.”

“Were you the one he was to bind Razikale too?” she asked, quietly.  

Solas shook his head, vehemently.  “No!  Binding any creature is abhorrent, especially spirits.  Mortal beings will seek to free themselves, eventually, a spirit would not know how.  I believe the Old Gods are powerful spirits, trapped in corporeal form.  It is possible that they are the key to cleansing the City, certainly they are the only ones who might have the knowledge.”

“They didn’t know a thousand years ago,” she said.  “That’s why the Magisters were sent in the first place.  From what Kemen told me, they knew they had returned with the corruption and they bound it within the idol you spoke of, placing wards around it.  The Valdasine dwarves destroyed all memory of the Thaig in order to protect it.  Kemen believed they carried the corruption anyway, hence the darkspawn, but that they sealed the worst of it away in that Thaig.”

“Only for it to be discovered by treasure hunters,” Karis grunted.  

With a nod of acknowledgement, Solas stood and began to pace.  “The wards had withered, or been destroyed, but it was chance that brought the idol to light.  In any case, it must be found.”

“And you want us to find it?” Rhiannon surmised.

Solas sat back down and looked at her soberly.  “No,” he said.  “I can and will find the idol.  What I ask of you is far worse, but I believe you are the only one who can do it.”

“What is it, then?”  She could not give up her quest, not for Solas, not for anyone.  Impossible battles only she could win (not that she had ever won a battle alone, contrary to Leli’s ballads) were in the past.  Now she was almost 30, with joints that ached and a blind left side making her feel more like 60.  He could satisfy her curiosity and she would agree.  It would at least let her escape from Weisshaupt.  After that, he was on his own.  She was no longer a Warden, no longer sworn to defend Thedas against the Blight.  Vogel had made that very clear when he stripped her of her rank.  She knew it every moment she existed in this prison filled with wardens, unable to sense any of those who had been her brothers and sisters.  Any warden could do more than she, now, and once she was out of Vogel’s clutches she would make that very clear.  There was no other conceivable option, until Solas spoke again.

“Your blood mage discovered the cure you seek.”

Avernus.  That crazy old bastard had done it.  Rhiannon gasped, “How do you know?”  Hope beyond hope, but could she trust it?

“Several of my people infiltrated your stronghold in search of something I needed.  They brought me copies of everything they retrieved.  The cure was among the notes.”

Her stomach churned but her voice was flat.  “You attacked my keep?”

Solas shrugged.  “Infiltrated.  There were only two deaths, the blood mage and another, they did not know who.”

“How did you get the information so quickly,” Karis interjected.  “You told Abrecht this morning you were waiting for news.

Rhiannon turned to her friend as betrayal sunk into her, making her skin feel tight and hot, two sizes too small for her body.  “You knew about this?”

Karis looked at her sympathetically.  “I keep telling you, salroka, Albrecht’s not a bad guy.  Stupid yes, especially when it comes to you.  Master Solas says he can destroy the Blight, he’s going to listen, but not without proof and promises.”

Putting her head in her hands, Rhiannon gave herself a moment to indulge the image of slaughtering every warden in Weisshaupt.  They were playing with fire and she understood , she did, but Solas had his own agenda and Vogel had given him access to secrets no one should have.  All she wanted was to go home and instead she was being held hostage for the benefit of an insane plan to cleanse the Blight from the Black City.

“I believe it can be done.” Solas said.  “I believe you can do it.”

“I am not a Warden, not any more,” she replied.  “I am being kept from my family, my friends, from my duty to my kingdom, for some crackpot scheme.  You will explain yourself, fully, or you will have no cooperation from me.  I will do everything I can to sabotage you, every step of the way.”

Solas paused, as if wondering how much he should tell, then nodded.  “Very well.  I have access to a network of eluvians.  My people brought me the notes through an eluvian in the archives of this fortress.  The deaths at Soldier’s Peak were not intentional and I am sorry if they bring you grief.”  She waved away the concern, Avernus had evidently served his purpose and would not be missed and since the other person was most likely Miriam then compensation would be paid to the Dryden’s.  Solas nodded again.  “The notes themselves were left, your associates will have the cure.  What I needed was the potion required to preserve the soul of an Old God.”

Karis gasped and inwardly Rhiannon was surprised but she knew better than to show it.  The look Solas shot her made it clear he was not fooled, whoever he was, he was at least as skilled in the Game as she, maybe more so.  But being direct had been more fruitful with him than playing word games so she decided to continue.  “You want to repeat the ritual that saved me.  Since you already have the formula, the one I dreamed about while I was kept comatose and vulnerable by your herbs, I presume, you need me for something else.  I’m not a Warden so I can’t kill an Archdemon and Razikale isn’t Blighted so she wouldn’t be your target.  Which means you want to find Lusacan, corrupt him, kill him and use me to bear a child carrying his soul.  Does that sound about right?”

Karis was spluttering as Solas stared at her for a moment, then laughed.  “You are as intelligent as your reputation tells, Your Majesty.”

Rhiannon waved her hand, “Rhiannon.  You are too sure the Veil will fall, Solas.  That tells me you have inside information, or that you are the one who plans to bring it down.  I wonder how much of a coincidence it was that you happened to be near the Conclave when it exploded?”

“That was you?”  Karis asked.  “Why?”

Solas shrugged, “It was not me, it was Corypheus and the Venatori.  But, I might admit that I gave them the means to do so.”

“Intentionally?”  Rhiannon raised an eyebrow.

Solas replied, wryly, “No.  The Veil should have fallen and Corypheus and his lackeys should have been destroyed.  There was enough raw power in that place, even without the gathered mages and Templars, to do the ritual.  The focus I... prompted... them to find would have destroyed the Veil and those involved, but I did not forsee Corypheus’ ability to move his soul into another body, nor that the ritual would be interrupted by the Inquisitor.”

“Would those at the Conclave have survived?”  She looked at him intently.

“No.”  No guilt, no hesitation.

“What will happen if the Veil falls?”

“Thedas will be as it once was.  My people will regain their immortality, no longer bereft of their senses and gifts, no longer enslaved by humans.”

“And the rest of us?”

“Some will live, mages and those most Fade sensitive will no doubt become more powerful.  Most will die, I would imagine.  It will be an adjustment for the elves, to regain what they have lost.  The material and the ethereal will be one, as it was always meant to be.  I have no doubt there will be war.  And of course, many will die simply because they cannot adapt, or by falling prey to demons.  Change does not come easily.  The Veil was a mistake, an error in judgement.  It was intended to protect the elves, instead it ruined them.”

Rhiannon looked at him sympathetically.  “Solas means Pride.  Are you a pride demon?  No.  But you are not the simple apostate you try to appear.  You are invested in this as if it is immediate, imperative. But the downfall of the elves took place over centuries.”  She paused.  “ Fen'Harel was clever. He could walk among both clans of gods without fear, and both believed he was one of them. He went to each side, and told them the other had forged a terrible weapon, a blade that would end the war. He told the Creators it was forged in the heavens, and the Forgotten Ones, that it was hidden in the abyss. And when the gods went seeking it, he sealed them both in their realms forever. Now he alone is left in the world. ”

Solas smiled.  “You know the Dalish legends I see.  In fact, after raising the Veil I slept.  I believed the People would prosper, flourish, without the chains of the Evanuris holding them back.”  The smile faded.  “I was wrong.  The People deserve justice.”

It was Rhiannon’s turn to smile.  “I have a friend who would be very interested in that debate.  Several, in fact.”

“You are being very forthcoming, Master Solas.”  Karis was clearly displeased with the conversation they were having.

“I have seen the Queen’s dreams, my friend.  Those who attempt to manipulate her have never fared well, but those who can present a compelling case?  They often find a stalwart ally.”

Karis turned to Rhiannon, visibly agitated and distressed.  “You can’t seriously be considering this?  Thousands, maybe millions will die, demons everywhere.  You can’t even talk about the Circle Tower, you still have nightmares about it, but you’ll inflict such horrors on the rest of Thedas?  What are you thinking, Rhia?”

“Solas, if I kill you, will it stop your plan?”

“Even if you could kill me, I do not work alone.  It might put off the inevitable for a few generations.  You and those you know would be long dead.  If you could kill me.”  The condescending tone tempted her to try but Rhiannon knew it was pointless.  Even as a Warden she would never have been able to defeat a god.  Killing Urthemiel had been more to do with the comrades at her side, the armies they had gathered and the bloody big ballistae on top of Fort Drakon and even then they had been so close to losing.  Herself and Karis against Fen’Harel, he probably wouldn’t even work up a sweat,  He wasn’t wrong, either.  Tears in the Veil happened on occasion, there were places it was very thin indeed.  It had already come perilously close to falling once and at least working with him she could be prepared, mitigate the damage where she could.

“Karis,” she said, gently.  “We can’t kill him, so fighting would be pointless, especially since there’s no guarantee the other Wardens wouldn't be on his side.  He believes we can destroy the Blight completely.  What would we give for that?  No more fighting, no more Calling, no more throwing ourselves at the endless waves, knowing it is worse than futile?”

“What about those who will die?”  They were talking to each other, Solas all but forgotten.

“ In Death, Sacrifice .”

“Our deaths, our sacrifice .  Not theirs.  We are already dead, as soon as the Joining chalice is put to our lips.  Join us in the shadows .  It’s our purpose, Rhia.  Not theirs.  Millions of deaths and for what?  A new world?  Elves in control and everyone else dead?  Demons wandering the land?  Is this new world going to be any better than the old, or will it just be more of the same but with more magic, more demons?  And I know, the ones you love are the most likely to survive, but what about the rest of us?  What about our loved ones?”

Solas interjected, “The dwarves are unlikely to be affected much, indeed it is possible that the darkspawn can also be wiped out or at least fought back to reclaim the Deep Roads.”

Karis growled at him, “Keep out of this.  You’re just as bad as Corypheus.  Worse, since you said his mind was twisted by corruption, what’s your excuse?”  She turned back to Rhiannon.  “He’s just like the rest, the magisters, the Chantry, that Meredith.  All the people you and yours spent the past decade fighting, that’s him.  They don’t care, they don’t learn.  They just want power and to the Void with the rest of us.”

That stung Solas, Rhiannon could tell.  He believed in what he was doing, damn the cost.  Just like Loghain, just like Meredith.  Why could villains never just be villains?  Why couldn’t the worst of them just be evil?  It was so much easier to deal with sadistic monsters like Howe, or just monsters like the darkspawn, than with people whose insanity sat on a foundation of logic and true belief.  He wasn’t wrong, the elves had lost much and suffered more.  Modern Thedas was built on their blood, both in Tevinter and the south.  Twice she had been trapped in the Fade and twice she had seen not only horrors but miracles, Justice had been a miracle, Faith had not only saved Wynne but the love and reverence in the old woman’s tone when she spoke of her spirit, of her care since childhood.  Compassion had saved Alistair, all the spirits Anders had spoken of, the ones who came when he called, they were so pure and brought so much to the mages they connected with.  But Justice and Faith had both changed their hosts, connection with the physical world, or with humanity’s vagaries, changing the spirits too.  Anders believed Justice had become a demon, Vengeance, but Rhiannon knew better than most that the line between Justice and Vengeance was always blurred, that many people did not even know there was a difference, not really.  Faith had been less complicated, merged with Wynne she became more focused, even duplicitous, but that was an aspect of Faith in all its guises, to change those around it, to change beliefs according to the strongest will. 

But... Kinloch Hold.  Karis wasn’t wrong.  What had happened there was worse than seeing the broodmother in Bownammar, worse than Howe’s dungeon, worse than seeing what a horse of darkspawn had done to Amaranthine, or Denerim.  What if a village was taken over by hunger demons, or an army facing despair and fear demons?  She had seen what she desperately hoped was the worst the world had to offer.  Could she help bring those horrors to others?  

“Leave.”  She spoke to both Solas and Karis.  The implications were overwhelming, she needed time.  Both opened their mouths to protest and she all but screamed at them.  “Get out!”  Collecting herself, she turned to Karis, then Solas.  “I need time, I need to think.  Please leave.  Now.”  The last was an order, Solas gave his twisted grin in recognition and left the room.  

Karis hugged her tight but she couldn’t summon the energy to respond, so she just stood there until the dwarf stepped back.  “I’m here, salroka .  When you need me, I’m here.  All you have to do is call.”  She dropped her arms and just looked at Rhiannon, as if she had something else to say.  Instead she stretched up to kiss Rhiannon’s cheek and followed Solas out.  Rhiannon stood.  Frozen.  

Chapter Text

Caves pocked the cliffs along the Storm Coast above beaches of stone and gravel, blending into each other until they became an indistinguishable grey mass and it felt like the great ship made no progress as it sailed past, it’s Captain the only one who knew exactly which of the seemingly endless coves held their destination.  After long days of unchanging views the anchor was weighed and a longboat put out to shore, four setting out and two returning, the two left on the beach watching as the ship sailed out of sight around the cliff’s head, heading for Denerim and the court of the King.  Those left behind looked up at the mountains towering above, hiding their destination from view.

Kemen looked doubtful.  “I hope Nathaniel gave us accurate directions,” he said, looking at the crude map he held.  “These caves could go on for miles.”

Razikale smiled gently and stretched, her golden eyes almost glowing in the fading light.  “ Bakea, maitea .  The map is unnecessary.  There are people above, massed in one place and high above them is one of our own.  I felt his presence as we came closer, I can find him.”  With that she vanished and Kemen grumbled and began setting a fire, chilled by the sea spray and aware that Razikale could be some time when she recognised one of her children.  They had spent so much time together since her awakening, he understood her in ways he never had as her Augur and still so much was a mystery.  He snorted at the thought, well aware of the irony of his position.  But that was the essence of his Goddess - mystery.  Her children were those who sought to understand the mysteries of the universe, not for gain or power, but for the purity of knowledge itself.  His brothers and sisters had used their knowledge as they saw fit, wisdom was neither good nor evil, morality lay within the heart of each person, but they all had the same trait, the endless, insatiable need to know .  Nathaniel and Bethany had told him of the Grey Warden who lived in a tower and wrought wonders and horrors and Kemen had hoped to have another brother.  Razikale’s disappearance was confirmation and Kemen was eager to meet the one called Avernus.

Razikale felt Kemen’s curiosity and excitement from far below as she manifested in the massive open tower room.  Machines and instruments and tables piled with notes filled the space, a defunct eluvian sat against the far wall and up on a mezzanine was a laboratory area that spanned the entire breadth of the room.  It was there she saw her child, Avernus, a cadaverous old man whose bald head made protruding ears even more noticeable.  He had not so much as turned at her entrance yet she felt a binding spell settle around her shoulders, one that would have rendered her helpless had she been spirit or demon and would have almost killed a mortal.  The ancient mage made some notations on a parchment beside him and finally turned to look at his visitor.

“Huh,” he grunted.  “Who are you?”  Razikale said nothing, happy to let him come to his own conclusions.  He was one of her children but that did not make him worthy to be aukeratua .  Like Josef, he would have to prove himself.  He muttered as he approached, circling her slowly, keeping just out of reach in spite of the binding.  “Not a spirit, or a demon.  The spell sits lightly, doubt it would stop you moving if you wanted to.  Not an elf, much as you look like one.  Nobody ever had such eyes or that skin.  Taller than an elf too.”  He continued muttering as he walked around her.  He stopped before her and took a tiny knife from his belt, cutting his forearm only enough for a few drops to float towards her as he sealed the wound.  The blood touched her forehead and hissed, evaporating as if it had landed in a fire and she felt a faint tingle run through her as his blood sought to tell him what she was.  She allowed it, this once.  Blood magic was useful, in its place, but there were far more efficient ways.  He was stronger than most of the mages she had encountered, his power enhanced by blood and by the taint in his veins.  The Chantry’s systematic culling of mages had weakened their potential hugely while their dogma discouraged most from questioning and seeking out knowledge.  It was disappointing.  But this one had potential so she waited while he absorbed what knowledge he could gain from his magic then looked her straight in the eye and asked, “What are you?”

She smiled.  “I am the endless searching.  You would know me as Razikale.”  Avernus paled, but to his credit he neither flinched nor drew back.  She moved away, leaving the binding to fall behind her like a discarded cloak, the spell melting back into the Fade before it touched the ground.  “My Augur sits in the cove below, send someone for him.”  The nearest table had books piled in jumbled heaps, scattered parchment covered in cramped handwriting.  Razikale touched the letters, tracing them with a finger, letting the meaning flow out of the words she could not read and into her mind, the intention of them coming to her as images of pain and torment and driving ambition.  She moved on to a corner where sketches of the inside of the mortal body covered the walls.  No doubt there was some way to identify between the bodies, some appeared shorter, some more slender, but essentially all were the same and she learned nothing that had not been known for millennia.  It was disappointing, but not surprising, for eons some had sought to wipe out discovery, others to protect it.  In every generation there were things to be relearned and discovered anew.  She was vaguely aware of a trundling sound and a glance behind her showed a small lift descending to wherever the others in the castle might be.  Nathaniel and Bethany had briefed her extensively on Soldier’s Peak and she had no doubt her Beloved would be brought to her soon.

Razikale ascended the stairs to the laboratory where liquids bubbled in alembics and the remains of two different animals lay in pieces.  This was different.  One corpse bore signs of the corruption and she bent over it, keen to see the changes the Blight caused.  There had been no Blight while she had been free and though she had felt the perversion of the Golden City, she had been trapped below the earth, unable to learn except through the increasingly rare contact with the Dreamers.  There were changes in muscle mass, bone density, changes in the cellular structure, even in the bacteria that fed on the rotting flesh.  A crack in one femur should have been a death sentence, but the muscle had warped around the break, binding it and shoring up the weakness, while blighted marrow oozed into the crack.  No healer would be able to tell the damage left behind, to all intents and purposes the bone looked to be healed; but still, if the creature had not been Blighted then the damage would still have been there and too long left to be corrected.  It was a fascinating insight into the problems the Warden-Queen had faced and her refusal to risk Bethany or her husband-king was more than justified.  She looked to Avernus, who had followed her onto the platform.  “Do you know how this damage might be corrected?” she asked, pointing to the broken leg.

He peered into the wound.  “Hmm, had a healer here who might have known, not my field, fixing bodies.  The Blight cure I created for the fields purified them at the same time, food grown from it is as safe as any other.  But bodies are more complicated.”  He straightened.  “If he ever returns, Josef might be able to work on it.  Remove the Blight and the weakness just stays, like a tear in the Veil, it’ll always be ready to tear again.”  He straightened and looked at her.  “But for now I’d like to know why the ancient God of Mystery is standing in a hidden castle, looking over my work, instead of sleeping under the ground while darkspawn search for her?”

She approved of his direct manner.  “The Grey Wardens found me first and woke me.  I am here because the Architect planned to bind me in servitude to him.”

“An answer that raises more questions than it answers,” Avernus replied, sourly.  “How did they find you?  How did they wake you?  Is the Architect truly a Magister Sidereal then and could he have bound you?  You allowed blood magic to delve you, can I take a sample of your blood?”  There was no hesitation in his manner, the questions were clinical, emotionless.  Avernus sought knowledge in everything, but it did not bring him joy and she felt sorry for him.

Before she could answer there was a knock at the door and a middle-aged woman with coiled brown hair led Kemen into the room.  She looked surprised to see Razikale standing with Avernus but pressed her lips together and left with the briefest of bows.  As Kemen strode to the platform, Razikale noticed Avernus draw forward, eyes fixed on the Magister before him.  Kemen, of course, ignored him.  Instead he walked straight to his Goddess and bent to place a kiss on her cheek.  Then he looked around the room before looking down at Razikale with a grin and saying, ‘With all this to investigate, I am glad you remembered me.”

Razikale lifted her hand to his cheek, “I could never forget you, Beloved.”  Kemen turned to Avernus, looking him up and down, no doubt feeling the spark that burned within them both, before holding his hand out.  

“Kemen, Augur of Mysteries,” he said.

“Avernus, Grey Warden,” the man replied.  Razikale watched as they sized each other up.  Kemen had taken to Josef instantly and although it made no difference to her whether her children liked each other, Kemen had a talent for judging who would be worth her personal time.  Watching them interact, Avernus explaining some of his work, she thought this one might be worthy.  Leaving them to it, she investigated the rest of the room then made her way down through the levels, moving unerringly to the room imprinted by Josef.  Years away had not dimmed the sense of his presence, not from her.  She felt him as she passed an office that vibrated with fear and lust and heartbreak and adoration, as she walked through the library that resonated with the joy of discovery, to a bedroom permeated with a world of emotion and the desperate reaching that had called to her the moment he set foot in Weisshaupt.  Tired from the long journey, Razikale lay down on his bed, soothed by the presence of her children.

-----

Pain woke her.  Pain radiating from far above, calling to her.  Without thinking, Razikale disappeared, manifesting in the midst of chaos.  The eluvian had activated and she arrived just in time to see an elf disappear through it, covered in blood and clutching a sheaf of notes to her chest.  Another stood before the glowing mirror, surrounded by shades, dual blades flickering as he bought time for the other to escape.  With a flick of Razikale’s hand, the elf began to burn and the eluvian shattered, raining shards of glass on the screaming rogue.  She banished the shades with another flick, focused on the bodies lying on the mezzanine.  

Lightning crackled across the laboratory fixtures and a heavy gas filled the air, corrosive and stinking of magebane.  Avernus lay collapsed over the table, chest rasping as the gas sank into his lungs, burning the tissue.  He looked up at her and smirked, exposed skin blackened and blistered, peeling away as he grated out, “Fools.  Believed magebane would stop a bloodmage.”  He coughed, spitting a bloody clot onto the floor beside her foot.  

Razikale glanced at him with vague sadness.  To meet a child and lose him so quickly, his knowledge and potential gone in a flash.  It was unfortunate but the poison had corrupted his brain and the blight made it unlikely she could fully heal him.  The notes he had made over two centuries would be a valuable addition as she rebuilt her temple, the man himself would no longer contribute and so she left him to his fate.  A greater imperative pulled on her soul.

Kemen lay against the wall, eyes dull and jaw slack.  She could still feel the burning pain that had woken her, his body ravaged inside and out, destroyed in the instant the bomb exploded against his chest.  Razikale knelt beside him, grief swelling in the tears that travelled down her face.  Her hand came to her cheek to wipe them, staring in wonder at the glistening beads.  Spirits did not cry, nor did dragons, but this body converted emotion into physical response and even as she wished to study it, her overwhelming loss would not allow it.  Her Augur was special, every one of them and their deaths hurt her as nothing else in the world could.  She felt his spirit linger, waiting and she drew it into herself.  A thousand years of life, of pain and hope, love and despair.  Everything he had been, everything he was; ragged, burnt, orphaned child; fierce, proud warrior; relentless scholar; the bright light of his passion that convinced her to send him to the Black City.  Razikale absorbed everything her Beloved had been, took his spirit into her soul, then stood and walked away from the empty shell.  For a thousand years he had been the tether to her sanity, even when he had not known her.  She would know who had severed his life in such a way, revisiting childhood pain and fear on her Blessed.  Without another glance at the ruined room, Razikale vanished.

Chapter Text

It was clear that though the parts of Skyhold seen by the flocking masses were fully built and sumptuously decorated, there was still work to be done in other areas.  After Josephine’s beautiful and cosy office, the rubble-strewn corridor was a surprise.  A huge hole in the wall let in an icy wind, a reminder of the snow-topped mountain range around them and Alistair couldn’t help but shiver.  Halfway along Leliana put a hand on his arm and he stopped, waiting to find out more about the mysterious summons from the Inquisitor.

The Spymaster looked equal parts uneasy and concerned.  It wasn’t a combination Alistair was used to seeing on his friend’s face and he braced himself for news of disaster.  Perhaps the quakes on the Storm Coast were getting worse, or Bann Jansen had made good on his threats to take back Caer Bronach by force?  Ferelden was unstable, a decade of hard work by himself and his Queen all but undone by Corypheus and his thrice-damned Venatori.  He still hadn’t managed to replace Eamon, almost two years after the explosion, Teagan had refused and he trusted no one else enough to give them such power.  When Rhi returned... When she returned, they would work on it together, but for the moment Alistair was alone and felt utterly inadequate to the task of holding his kingdom together, let alone beginning to rebuild.  So when Leliana quietly said, “Josef is here.  Alone.” Alistair’s brain froze and for one wild moment he felt as if his spirit had flown from his body and was looking down on a man about to drop to his knees and sob like a babe.  He crashed back to himself to find Leliana, her face full of sorrow and fear, grasping his shoulders as if her slim form could bear his weight and keep him standing.  She knew, he realised.  She knew what it meant that Josef, of all people, had come to the Inquisition.  Alone.  

Almost automatically, Alistair put his arms around Leliana, pulling her into his embrace, then drawing up the false sense of strength a decade on the throne had taught him, that Rhiannon had taught him, to pull back from his friend.  If he was alone then he would need every trick, every subtle manoeuvre he had resisted learning.  Without his queen he could no longer afford the heartfelt honesty and openness he had refused to abandon.  With no wife to dirty her hands in his name, Alistair had to play the Game and by the Maker he would master it.  In her name.

He was still half-dazed, detached, when he walked along the ruined corridor and strode into the War Room without knocking, Leliana trailing behind him.  He could feel the confusion pouring off her, even if he refused to look at her face, concentrating instead on the people waiting.

Cullen stood before the fireplace, arms crossed, frowning at the disturbance.  Every inch the stalwart Commander, only the twitch of his fingers gave away his surprise at the entrance.  Beside him stood the Tevinter, Cullen’s mage.  The carefree fop oozing defiant sexuality was nowhere in evidence, instead the man looked on intently, gravity in the eyes that missed nothing, while across the table Teagan glared at him, a living reminder of his ignominious ejection from Castle Redcliffe.  Inquisitor Trevelyan had turned to the door at his entrance, jaw clenched as tights as the fists at her side.  She had a reputation for temper and he felt a sliver of contempt at the sight of emotion his queen would never show before an enemy.  Let the Orlesians commend her for playing their Game, his wife would wipe the floor with her.  Would have.  The thought was sharp, a knife in his gut, cutting through the fog in his brain.  The Inquisition was not his enemy, they had saved Ferelden, saved the world.  He was here to remind them of their boundaries, but as an ally, not an antagonist.  He was angry and he was avoiding the sight that would ruin that anger and turn it to grief.  Dredging up that false courage once again, he let his eyes fall on Josef.

The warden stood before the table, hands gripping the edge, his head hanging and his eyes closed.  Alistair could see why neither Varric nor Cullen recognised Anders in the weary, travel grimed man.  His hair was almost brown with dirt, cropped close to his head as if it had been shaved with a knife and was growing in ragged.  His shoulders were broader than they had ever been, months of wearing real armour sculpting muscles that had been more for show in the Tevinter robes Alistair remembered, then had wasted to nothing with malnutrition and self-neglect.  His mail was dented, links broken through in parts and the leather underneath scored while a deep scar split his face, too close to the eye for Alistair’s liking and a long patch on his leggings suggested a similar scar lay almost the length of Josef’s thigh.  Whatever had happened to him, the last two years had not been kind and now the mage was here, alone and refusing to look up at his king.

Alistair dragged his gaze from Josef to acknowledge the Inquisitor as she began to speak.  

“This Warden has broken exile to come to the Inquisition, your Majesty.  He begged to be admitted to Skyhold, telling my guards he had urgent knowledge of the Venatori, but now he refuses to speak to anyone but yourself.”  The refusal galled her, he could see. Josef’s moods switched with no warning and the man had never had any tact.  No doubt he had been brought here to try to intimidate him by the presence of the Inquisitor herself, as well as her advisors.  She couldn’t know that intimidation only made the man more stubborn.

Alistair nodded, “The appropriate choice, once he knew his commanding officer was here.”

Evelyn let her breath out with a hiss.  “The Venatori are the purview of the Inquisition.”

“And the Grey Wardens are not, Inquisitor.”  It was one of the many complaints he had against their organisation.  “I am Warden-Commander of Ferelden.  You may have ejected the Wardens from Orlais, but Warden Weber belongs to me.  I will take his report and then we can discuss the situation.”  He looked away, an obvious dismissal that made the Inquisitor clench her fists until Leliana laid a gentle hand on her arm and whispered in her ear.  

“Very well, Warden-Commander.  Send a messenger when you are done here.”  Evelyn swept from the room, her advisors following though Cullen frowned at the Wardens as he passed them.  Teagan looked them over, seemingly about to say something, before he also sighed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Josef had not moved from his place at the table, not even raised his head during the conversation or acknowledged Alistair’s presence.  At first glance it looked as if the man was lost in aimless thought, but as Alistair moved closer he recognised the tension in the man, the intensity of the gaze as he stared at a point on the great map that covered the table.  As the King put a hand on the man’s shoulder he pulled in a breath and said in a voice filled with hate and despair, “Weisshaupt.”

“Weisshaupt?”  The mage might have no spirit to erupt in his rage but he was dangerous enough without it, especially in a castle of people who would likely bay for his blood if they knew who he was.  Alistair had no wish for the whole of the Inquisition to descend because And-Josef (damn it, why hadn’t he worked harder to get used to the name) had incinerated the War Room.  

At his voice Josef raised his head, hollowed eyes looking at the King.  His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for some time and he had to clear his throat several times before he could continue.  “She’s in Weisshaupt.  We left her.  No, she left us, we didn’t even realise she wasn’t with us until we were too far away.”  He stumbled his way through the story, bouncing about in time and place until Alistair’s head spun and he clutched for a chair to sit before he fell.  It seemed completely unbelievable, but most of his life had been the stuff of bard’s songs and trouble followed Rhia like a lover.

Eventually the confused tale ended and the mage stood, silent, watching for a reaction.  Did he genuinely think Alistair would blame him for any of it?  Did he believe he would be clapped in irons or exiled for losing the Queen of Ferelden?  Did he truly know Alistair so little after all this time?  The King stood, his legs now firm under him, and pulled the shattered mage into an embrace, tucking his head into the crook of his neck, ignoring the stench of the dirt and sweat of travel to comfort the other man, waiting while tension slowly melted into submission, waiting while Josef’s shoulders convulsed and his shirt grew wet with silent tears, waiting until Josef lifted his head and gently pulled back.  Letting his arms fall away, Alistair leaned his forehead against Josef’s and whispered, “We will get her back.”

Alistair chose not to send a message to the Inquisitor.  Instead he led Josef to his spacious apartment and ordered a bath, food and clean clothes for the man.  As the mage sank into water hot enough to turn his skin bright red, Alistair rifled through his bags, looking for a specific soap.  When he found it he threw it to Josef and made for the desk.  The First Warden had declared war on Ferelden and Ferelden would answer.

“It smells like her.”

Alistair looked over at Josef.  “It’s hers. I thought you might like it.”

Josef raised his eyebrows.  “I do.” He began to lather up the soap, spreading it through his hair and massaging it into his head.  “It’s just a bit odd for a man to give another man his wife’s soap.  Although if you want to snuggle later I wouldn’t be opposed.”  He grinned as Alistair rolled his eyes.

“I’ll pass, thanks.  You like lemon, it has lemon.”

Josef breathed in the scent.  “Hmm, and lavender and frankincense.  Nice.”  He lay back in the water to soak, letting the scents soothe the knots in his stomach.  It was strange, he thought.  Seeing Alistair, telling him everything.  He had been so terrified of the man’s reaction, of having to admit how miserably he had failed.  But Alistair had taken it all in and comforted him.  For the first time in weeks he was clean and warm and it felt like a weight had been lifted, like Alistair had taken the burden onto his own broad shoulders.  Slowly, Josef sank down, submerging completely, letting the water fill his ears and nose, holding his breath as he lay suspended in silence. He burned mana to fill his lungs, staying under longer than most could until he finally surfaced, gasping slightly.  Alistair had stopped writing and was staring at him with a faint frown creasing his forehead.  The frown deepened slightly and then he went back to his writing, sealing each letter then moving it into a pile to be sent immediately.  Joseph dragged himself out of the bath, towelling off roughly before climbing into the clothes that had appeared while he floated.  A knock at the door heralded the food and a surprise visitor.  The dark-haired, dark-skinned mage from the War Room stood at the door, carrying a tray laden down with food and drink, breezing in and laying it on the table before settling himself on a brocaded chaise.  Josef just stood beside the open door while Alistair laid down his pen and looked pointedly over at the man who simply lounged there, looking completely at ease in spite of the atmosphere in the room.

“Do close the door,” his accent reminded Josef of Fenris and he realised that this was the Tevinter who had become one of the Inquisitor’s  closest friends.  “There’s a dreadful draft out there.”

“Be welcome, messere,” said Alistair, a hint of irritation in his voice.  “Please make yourself at home.”

“I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he said, grey eyes sparkling with mischief as he took in the bath in the corner and Josef’s haphazardly dried hair.

Josef closed the door behind him, gathering his mana in response to the rising anger in Alistair’s posture.  The King himself had stood and crossed his arms, glaring down at the utterly unimpressed mage.

“I would not presume to wonder what passes for manners in Tevinter, Altus.  In the rest of Thedas, you do not just walk into a monarch’s rooms and make insinuations.”  

The Altus nodded, sitting straighter, suddenly serious.  “My apologies, your Majesty.”  He drew a letter out of his pouch and handed it over then turned to Josef and said, “And to you, Warden.  Dorian Pavus, at your service.”  

“Where did you get this?”  Alistair waved the paper at Dorian and then at Josef, who took it and began to read.

Dorian

There is more to the Venatori than we all thought.  They have infested our Order beyond the atrocity in Orlais.  We barely escaped.  The Old One is safe, for now.  We are with my cousin.  Of those who left with us, one may be of interest to you.  If you come across a Warden mage named Josef, render him all assistance. I enclose a token for you to present to him, V believes he will accept it.

Be safe, cousin.

Josef looked up to see Dorian holding out a polished greenstone, swirls and loops carved around it.

“You recognise it, I presume?”

Josef  took it, feeling along the carvings, turning it in his hands.  “I found it in Kal’Hirol.  It was almost lost amongst the coin and gems, it was so little and pretty.  I slipped it in my pouch and forgot about it.  I found it a few days later and gave it to Velanna, she liked pretty things.”

Dorian whispered, “It’s true then.  You are the apostate who destroyed Kirkwall’s Chantry.  Anders.”

Josef flinched at the sound of his former name, prompting Alistair to move beside him, co-incidentally placing himself between the Tevinter and the door.  The King’s voice was heavy with threat when he spoke.  “Josef Weber is a Ferelden Grey Warden.  Anders is dead.”

As if Alistair had broken some sort of spell, Dorian looked away from Josef and lounged back again.  “Of course, Your Majesty. As it happens, I am leaving Skyhold soon.  It’s time and past it for me to return to Tevinter.  When you arrived, Messere Weber, you asked to speak to myself and the Lady Morrigan.  If you still wish to do so, I will be at your disposal at any time in the next week.”  He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes, and looked back to Josef with something like sympathy in his eyes.  “Neither of them will hear it from me, Josef.  But Cullen is not the man you knew and he could offer help.  And Evelyn is a great admirer.  You do not need to fear them.”  With that he took his leave, slipping from the room with a flippant remark neither of the men heard. 

Josef stood for a few minutes more, lost in thought, thumb still swiping over the surface of the stone.  Finally, he looked up at Alistair.  “What should we do?”

Alistair huffed and walked to the decanter on the sideboard.  “We drink.  And then we work it out.  I have some ideas.”

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the Inquisition outpost the silence between Alistair and Morrigan was as frozen as the mountains around them. The camp lieutenant came out to meet them and Morrigan brusquely requested a bath, a tray and absolutely no interruptions before grabbing the saddle-bags containing her research and stalking off to her assigned room.  There were missives waiting for Alistair and Teagan and they graciously accepted the use of the lieutenant's office to go through them while Dorian, Cullen and Josef were left to their own devices.

"I can see this is going to be a very comfortable trip." Dorian grumbled as they were shown to the guest rooms. The outpost had been established as a stopping off point for the many merchants and nobles who travelled to Skyhold. There were barracks and standard quarters for most who passed through and larger, elegantly furnished rooms in the main building for visitors of rank. The men could feel the wards around Morrigan’s room and Josef winced at the jagged edge to them. Anyone who disturbed the witch was likely to get a nasty shock, quite literally. Dorian and Cullen were used to her foibles and just shrugged at his raised eyebrow. They parted ways to investigate their rooms then met again in the guest lounge at the end of the hallway.

Like the bedrooms, the lounge was elegantly decorated, Josephine's impeccable taste evident in the attention to detail and the subtle hints of Inquisition heraldry.  Another reminder of the Ambassador sat on the table, a basket containing Dorian's favourite wine, a box of Antivan chocolates, a variety of citrus fruits and a selection of cheeses, crackers and relish.  Josef immediately grabbed a grapefruit and cut it into sections while Dorian investigated the chocolates, looking specifically for the cocoa covered truffles.  Cullen watched them both and chuckled before helping himself to the more savoury offerings and the trio ate mostly in silence, only making suggestions for the best combinations of food and drink.

Dorian liked Josef.  The man kept to himself, of course, the first couple of weeks spent hiding away in the Arcane Library with Morrigan and Dorian.  Once he was sure neither Varric nor Cullen would recognise him, especially the latter since he was supposed to be dead, he had started to spend more time around the castle, investigating the mage tower and spending several hours speaking to Helisma about her findings on darkspawn.  Although he still avoided most of the Inner Circle, he had spent time in Cullen’s company when the Commander decided to drop in on Dorian’s research to remind him to eat.  Cullen insisted it was payback for Dorian’s incessant mothering during the worst of his withdrawals but Josef could see the love between them.  How long it would last now Dorian was headed back to Tevinter, only the Maker knew, but for now they made the most of what time they had.

Alistair was the first to join them, weary eyes lighting up at the array of cheeses before loading a plate high with everything in sight.  He sat in one of the armchairs, plate settled precariously on his knee, and dug in without a word.  The others kept the conversation light, mainly arguing over variations in chess.

“I assure you, my friend,” drawled Dorian, shooting a malicious glance at a smirking Cullen before turning back to Josef, “I do not cheat.  Everyone in Tevinter knows that a piece takes on the attributes of its captive for a turn.  And moving a pawn before every play is a well known variation in Minrathous.”  He lounged back and scooped another spoonful of pomegranate into his mouth.  In spite of being magically preserved it didn’t taste quite as it would at home, but then that might be the point, a reminder of the things he had loved and missed to cut through the depression of having to leave his found family behind and return to the cutthroat, sniping world where he supposedly belonged.

Cullen snorted, “No magister would go anywhere without his slave, of course.”

Dorian waved the comment away, “Yes, yes, Amatus .  Everyone is a magister and we all drag slaves everywhere.  No doubt we steal the powers of vanquished enemies by blood magic too.”  He winked at Josef.  “Thank goodness you’re so very handsome and strapping, your retorts are just dreadfully boring.  I almost wish we had brought Madame de Fer for some true insults.”  He pulled Cullen close enough to give him a quick peck of a kiss, then pushed him away again just as quickly while Josef snorted a laugh.

Cullen ignored the flush on his pale cheeks and looked over to Josef.  “Are there any rule variations in the Anderfels, Josef?  Or does Tevinter hold the monopoly on cheating?”

Josef hesitated for a moment.  Leliana had never discussed chess variations with him, neither would have thought it a likely topic of conversation since Anders had never played standard chess either.  But he racked his brains to think of an answer before remembering a particular argument between Sigrun and Nathaniel, long ago.

“I’m afraid I never learned to play chess,” he said, exaggerating his accent just a little.  “But at Vigil’s Keep some of the Warden’s played.  Nathaniel, Nathaniel Howe, the Warden Constable, tried to introduce something called the Starkhaven rules, where you took more turns every time, one, then two, then three and so on.  And Sigrun used to play by the Legion rules - she was originally one of the Legion of the Dead before she became a Warden.” He paused, thinking about lovely Sigrun who had rejoined the Legion once everyone else had abandoned the Vigil, everyone except Nate and Oghren.  Sigrun who was probably dead at the hands of darkspawn.  Probably dead.  Hopefully dead.  He shuddered, pushing away thoughts of broodmothers and beautiful, joyful Sigrun.  The others were watching him with some concern so he gave a weak smile and continued.  “Anyway, in the Legion you have to play any available move, all at once, no turns.  It’s like an actual battle, in a way.  Except that it was being played by exceptionally drunk Grey Wardens and almost turned into a real battle when Sigrun flanked Nathaniel’s cleric and took out half his pieces in one fell swoop.”  He laughed, remembering Nate towering over a completely unrepentant Sigrun who couldn’t stop laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks.  “Nate insisted she cheated.  He always was a poor loser.”  Somehow, talking about Nate like this, about the past, didn’t hurt as much as he anticipated.  He had had plenty of time to mourn their relationship on the road, and he had, but now it felt like a piece of the past.  Like his grief for Karl, softened and somehow sweet with memories, but far behind him.  He looked over at Cullen and Dorian who were patiently waiting and gave himself a shake.  “Anyway, I wouldn’t have known if she was or not but they never played Legion rules again.”

Alistair decided he had stuffed his face enough and cleared his throat.  “Zevran used to try to get Rhia to play by Antivan rules, but I’m pretty sure that was just strip chess.  Strangely enough, Antivan rules of any game seem to involve getting naked, according to Zev.”  The four of them were laughing and Dorian started regaling Alistair and Josef with the story of Cullen’s attempt to best an Antivan at Wicked Grace.  Then it was Alistair’s turn to tell the tale of how he met Isabela in The Pearl in Denerim and how she offered to teach Rhiannon, Leliana and Zevran how to duel, a private lesson on her ship, of course.

“Morrigan was livid,” he said.  “While they spent two days enjoying themselves we were jumped by a group of Rendon Howe’s lackey’s weeding out Warden supporters and then ambushed by various gangs and almost died taking out a nest of blood mages.  Me, Mor, Sten and Wynne, with Nemaine, Rhia’s mabari.  None of us could spot a trap for shit and the lair of those blood mages was full of them.  Almost fried me in my armour at least half a dozen times and thank the Maker Wynne was there when a Qunari merc shattered Mor’s leg with his maul.  We barely made it back to camp alive, to find three very relaxed rogues.  I honestly thought Morrigan was going to turn them into toads.”

“If I knew how, I most certainly would have.”  The men turned to the door to see Morrigan standing just inside, arms crossed with a slight smile on her face.  She walked across to the table and lifted a handful of grapes.  “‘Twas infuriating, watching the three of them and their inane grins while I was drained of mana and you and Sten still sported injuries Wynne had no strength left to heal.  They were always a troublesome combination, taking all three to a brothel was a fool’s errand in the first place.”

Alistair and Josef laughed while Cullen looked uncomfortable at the thought of his colleague and his Queen cavorting with an assassin and a pirate.  Not to mention a rather different type of discomfort at the images of said cavorting that flashed into his brain.  He pushed them aside, although he caught a look from Dorian that suggested there would be a discussion about his flushing later.  Dorian might not be interested in women, but he enjoyed hearing about Cullen’s fantasies, usually listening intently while he occupied his mouth elsewhere.  The thought of sharing such sordid thoughts while Dorian sucked his cock hardened his burgeoning erection and he forced himself to think of other things, willing his recalcitrant body to behave, at least until he could drag Dorian away to relieve the tension.  Finally he managed to focus enough to realise that Morrigan was in a much better mood than earlier, and to hear the reason for it.

“...longest recession involved a secretion from certain parasites living in Blighted areas.”

“I remember,” said Dorian, leaning forward.  “It took thousands of the creatures to make a few doses.  Alexius almost bankrupted himself trying to acquire more.  We had such high hopes, but it only held things back a few months at best.”

Morrigan looked almost sympathetic at the pain in his voice.  “Indeed.  Small doses, spaced far apart, would not destroy the Blight.  But I believe that a combination of Avernus’ potion with a very concentrated tincture given repeatedly over a few days, could eliminate the Blight completely.”

Dorian leaned back again, shaking his head.  “No good, I’m afraid.  Even small doses induced fever, chills, rash and convulsions.  After the third time a Healer had to drag him back from the brink of death, Alexius stopped all investigation into it.”  He paused, then spoke again, grief heavy on his voice.  “It was why we argued, the reason I walked away from him, and Felix.  He was willing to risk killing his son to save him.  I told him he was wasting the time he had left with his obsession with a cure.  If I had known he was on the right track...”  He trailed off and Cullen took his hand, squeezing it in empathy with his loss, still so raw over a year after Felix’s death.

“‘Tis unlikely Alexius would have found the solution,” Morrigan said, surprisingly gentle, “It took Avernus decades of blood magic and torturing his fellow Wardens to create his potion and I believe it may be the only thing powerful enough to stabilise and concentrate the tincture enough.  Even so, a powerful Healer would be required to counteract any side effects, it would be impossible to avoid them completely.  And there is no guarantee it would work, even so.”

“But there is a chance?” Alistair’s eagerness was clear.  “How long would it take to make the tincture?  Where would we get the parasites you need?  Can we...”

Morrigan raised her hand against his questions and answered him sharply,  “Enough Alistair.  I do not know the answer to any of your questions and you are still a drooling puppy at the mere hint of a half-formed thought.  Is it not enough that we have the possibility of a solution?  Perhaps you think I should simply wave a magic wand and all your problems will disappear, as if in a children’s story.”

Alistair frowned, “I know it won’t be that easy, Morrigan.  If it’s such a ‘half-formed thought’ what was the point in announcing it like that?  And it won’t be any easier if we don’t address the issue of how to do it, will it?  I thought you were all about more action, less talk, or has that changed too?”  The venom in his voice at the end took the other men by surprise and Cullen stood to leave them to yet another brewing argument when Josef spoke up.

“I can handle the healing, Morrigan, and I know exactly where to get the parasites, in whatever quantities you need.  In fact, Avernus and I were breeding them when we discovered they were resistant to the Blight, there are literally tanks of them at Soldier’s Peak.”  The mage stood and rolled his shoulders.  “Perhaps you could show Dorian and I your notes, Morrigan?  We might have some insight from our other research.”

Somewhat mollified, Morrigan nodded and led the other two out.  Cullen settled back into his chair and looked across at Alistair.  “What is going on with you two?” he asked.  “I was under the impression you were at least fond of each other, fond enough to have a child together at that.”  He waved when Alistair looked at him sharply.  “Leliana informed me who the father was when Morrigan and Kieran came to Skyhold.  She thought the more people looking out for his safety the better, and I am in charge of the defence of Skyhold, after all.  But apart from the two of us, only Evelyn knows, not even Dorian is aware that the King of Ferelden’s illegitimate son lives with the Inquisition.”

Alistair growled at the word 'illegitimate' and Cullen wondered, not for the first time, why a man like Alistair would have abandoned his lover and their child. Queen Anora could have kept the throne, all Thedas knew she had been the real ruler during Cailan's reign. The Maker knows there were enough rumours about the convenience of his marriage to a Cousland to bolster his throne, not to mention that King and Queen rarely seemed to be in Denerim at the same time. Certainly not for long enough to produce an heir, at any rate. After a look at his friend, he decided to keep his mouth shut and felt slightly guilty for thinking of such gossip at all. Instead he grabbed his plate and filled it again, relaxing as Alistair did the same 

"It's complicated," the King muttered. 

"Relationships often are," replied Cullen, keeping his tone neutral. 

"Morrigan left us after the Battle of Denerim. She made us promise not to look for her and the child. It's..." He sighed, "Sometimes I wonder if she only wanted me to get him, if everything between us was just in my imagination.  She hurt Rhia too, walking away like that.  It’s unworthy of me, I know, but seeing her so settled at Skyhold, seeing Kieran,”  he flushed slightly and mumbled, “seeing her with Leliana...”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, “You have a problem with Morrigan and Leliana?”

“No!” Alistair almost shouted it, then flushed more.  “Or yes?  I didn’t think so.  When I saw them in the garden, they looked so sweet together.  With Kieran.  I just thought...” He took a deep breath.  “Part of me thought that it should have been me, standing there with her.  If I had stayed a Warden, refused the crown, maybe we could have been together?”  The King stood and laughed, derisively, pacing back and forth in front of the fire.  “A stupid dream.  Morrigan didn’t want me.  She didn’t even stay long enough to see if we made it safely off that roof.  By the time Rhia woke and asked for her, Mor was long gone.  She hunted her down a year or so later, wouldn’t tell me what happened, of course, but since then she’s been obsessed.”

“Obsessed?” Cullen asked gently.

“Liberating the Circle, curing the Blight, supporting the mage underground and then the rebellion.  All for some fairy tale of Mor and I being together, one way or another.  For Ferelden to accept a mage as Queen, or for us to have a child so I can abdicate and go and live in the Wilds as a happy family and leave her with all the headaches and politics and machinations.  I don’t know what she would think of all this.  And that just reminds me that if all this doesn’t work I might never get the chance to find out.”  Alistair sat down, sadness ageing him, “It probably all boils down to that.  I miss my wife.  The world has moved on since the Blight and we, we never really did.  Especially not Rhia.  She’s been fighting the same battle since she was seventeen and I’ve been right there beside her.  Stuck in the damn Blight together, still looking for the same damn things, still searching for the fairy tale ending that will make everything happy ever after.”

Cullen leaned forward, placing a sympathetic hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “I know a bit about being stuck fighting the same war for most of a decade.  Part of me never left Kinloch Hold.  Part of me never will.”

“How did you move on?” Alistair asked, his voice heavy with pain.

Cullen hesitated.  “I thought I had, joining the Inquisition, stopping the lyrium.  But looking back, it took a lot of hard work with Evelyn and Dorian - from them really.  They made me truly look at the things I had done, the things I had said.  They opened my eyes to the world around me.”

Alistair smiled sadly, “Then I’m glad you have them, my friend.”  He rose and started towards the door, just as it opened and Dorian walked back in.  With a nod to the mage, he left and made his way towards his bedroom, hoping to get some real rest before their journey, smiling as he heard the loving murmurs of the two men talking behind him.  Passing Morrigan’s room he smiled again at the wooden door, unable to hear a thing through wards that felt like lightning flickering across his skin.  Morrigan, Josef, Dorian - three of the most powerful mages he had ever met.  If they couldn’t free him from his death sentence then no one could and he knew no one would work harder than those three to do so.  He had no idea what would happen after but for once in his life it would be his story to write.

His hand was on the handle of his door when the screaming started..