Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Theron Maheriel stared into the campfire from underneath a blanket that Merrill had insisted on wrapping around his shoulders.

It had been a strange few days, and the bits he could remember were miserable. They should have just killed the humans when they roamed too close to the camp. They should have stayed out of the ruins. They should never have approached the mirror.

A shiver convulsed him, and he held the blanket a little closer. Tamlen was dead, at best, and blighted at worst. He was definitely blighted, although between the Keeper’s magic and the Grey Wardens efforts, he wasn’t immediately at risk of dying. The shivers weren’t related, and were entirely to do with the memories of those ruins. The bereskan, walking corpses and darkspawn had been the things of nightmares - and Theron had once fought a Sylvan.

Merrill squeezed his knee, comfortingly.

“It’ll be okay,” the First whispered, “The Keeper knows what she’s doing.”

She might, but Duncan had seemed sure in the ruins that Theron’s recovery was temporary. He didn’t know how to feel about a shemlen in the camp, even if he was a Grey Warden. Especially, perhaps because he was a Grey Warden. They might have been heroes, but no one really wanted to ever come across one. That might mean a blight was coming.

The door to the Keeper’s aravel opened and she descended, followed by the man. He seemed to tower over her, tall and broad in his platemail. Her face gave away nothing.

“Da’len,” she said, coming over to him, “I’m afraid I have spoken with Duncan at length about the taint and the mirror you and Tamlen found. You will need to join him when he leaves.”

Theron’s first thought was fuck that. His second was what about Tamlen?

He made himself swallow.

“You’re… sending me away? With a shem?”

Keeper Maretheri sighed and reached out a hand, cupping his cheek.

“The Grey Wardens can save your life, da’len. But at a price. It is not safe for you to stay here.”

Theron pulled away from her touch.

“But I -”

He what? Didn’t want to go? That was hardly worth vocalising. The Clan was his life. It was the same for every Dalish - it was nothing special. And if he stayed…

He would die. And back in the ruins, Duncan had suggested the taint could spread, could infect others. If he stayed, he could hurt them. And that was unacceptable.

He pulled a face, eyeing the Grey Warden.

“Do I have a choice?”

“The Wardens may conscript anyone, at any time. I would not like to resort to such methods to ask you to come with me, but if I must, I will.”

Theron sniffed and pushed the blanket off his shoulders.

“Save your conscription.” He muttered. “I’m coming. Let me fetch my bow.”

The sword felt right in Kallian Tabris’ hands as she regarded the Grey Warden. She gripped the hilt, ready to draw again. It didn’t matter than Soris said he’d helped - that this was his sword - he was a fucking shem. Like the bastards who’d killed Nola, who’d raped Shianni - who’d cut down Nelaros just when she’d been starting to like him.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you too.”

Behind him, the strange tattooed elf who hadn’t spoken before the wedding shifted, as if to intervene. Valendrian raised a hand in a gesture of peace.

“Easy, Kallian, I know you’re hurting, but Duncan didn’t do this.”

She went to snarl that it didn’t matter, that nothing fucking mattered, when the gates of the alienage were thrown open and a dozen guards stepped in. And fuck, she was covered in blood and clutching a sword and threatening a shem - could it be any more obvious who they were here to arrest?

They’d hang her, if she was lucky. If she was unlucky, they’d give Vaughan another go, once he’d recovered from being stabbed. If he recovered. If there was any justice in the world, his wounds would rot, blackening his lungs alongside his heart.

But Kallian Tabris wasn’t such a fool as to believe there was a thing like justice in the world, at least not for elves.

“You there!” Called out the guard in front. “Lower the sword, knife-ear. You’re under arrest.”

“On what charges?” Valendrian asked, as if the whole damn alienage didn’t know what had happened.

Kallian was just glad that Shianni was hidden in one of the houses, protected from this. But Soris wasn’t, and he had helped - was in as much danger as she was.

“Don’t bother, Valendrian.” She said, raising her chin defiantly. “I did it. I stabbed your little lordling in the gut and killed his guards for what he tried to do to me. And I would do it again.”

Keep their eyes on her. Soris was already drawing back, slipping further into the crowd. Hopefully no one would speak, to rat him out, because the alienage had lost too much that night already. Three elves dead, one raped, two marriages shattered before they could begin. Surely no one would seek the reward of a few coins at the expense of another life?

The guard stepped forwards, and Kallian considered drawing her blade. But if she turned this into a fight, the guards might not stop at her. How often did violence escalate like that?

“Enough,” Duncan said, his voice carrying across the alienage street, “As a Grey Warden, I invoke the Right of Conscription. Guards - I will take the elf away. Her service is pledged to the Wardens, now. You may not touch her.”

Kallian heard the words and wanted to scream. No. If she was going to die for this, she wanted to die spitting in the Denerim Arl’s face for what his son had done, not down in the Deep Roads.

The guards hesitated, and Kallian realised they were going to let her go. She moved her hand, slowly, away from the hilt of the sword and grinned at them. There were too many teeth involved for it to be friendly.

“I hope your prick noble rots from the inside out.” She said, before turning her back and looking at Duncan. “Grey Warden huh? Just give me a target.”

Elissa Cousland put a steadying hand on Rowan’s flank, trying to pull herself together.

The evening had started so well, passing a pleasant few hours with Iona. The young woman had been excellent company - a quick wit and a clever tongue - and now she was dead.

Elissa wondered if she was mourning the woman she’d known for all of a handful of hours to avoid the enormity of the other deaths that night.

Her father lay in her mother’s arms, struggling to breathe from the kind of gut wound you did not recover from. Her father, her sister-in-law, her nephew. Dead or dying, in the swift strike of betrayal, at the hands of Arl Rendon Howe. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. She couldn’t understand.

Except she did, really. There was long standing animosity between the two families, stretching back to the Orlesian rebellion, and in her eyes, Rendon Howe had always been a money-grabbing, ambitious bastard. She didn’t know his wife well, but the few times they’d met she’d always looked pinched, as if under terrible stress. But his father had trusted him as one only could when you’d been to war side-by-side, and his willingness to overlook the man’s flaws had led to this.

No, she told herself firmly. This wasn’t her father’s fault. There was only one person to blame for this, and his men were currently attacking the keep.

Her mother let out a small sob as the Grey Warden knelt before Elissa. At the door to the larder, the two elves he’d brought with him as recruits stood, weapons drawn. Both wielded daggers as if they knew how to use them. She gripped her own shield a little tighter.

“I am sorry,” Duncan said quietly, “I can get you out of here - and out of Howe’s attention.”

Elissa could fill in the gaps of what he didn’t say. There would be a price for her life. A blight was beginning, after all. She eyed the two elves again. They couldn’t have looked more different, for all of their shared ancestry. They eyed each other as much as they eyed the door.

A Warden. It seemed impossible.

“What about mother?”

“I won’t leave him.” Her mother sobbed, still clinging to her father’s corpse. “Leave me the sword. We - I - will hold them off.”

Her father tried to speak, to lift himself up, but the effort was too much. He fell back, groaning, and managed.

“You must - must find Fergus.”

Her brother. Maker, was he still alive? He’d been leading the troops South to King Cailin. Would Howe of ambushed him, made a clean sweep of the Couslands? Elissa clenched her fist at the idea of bringing him the news that Oriana and Oren were dead. But it was her duty to him - to her father. If she lived.

She met Duncan’s eyes and nodded.

“I will come with you.” She said.

Rowan let out a bark, and Elissa scratched at the mabari’s ears.

“ - If I can bring the dog.”

Solona Amell knew she was in trouble, even before Jowan resorted to blood magic.

She’d been so sure she’d known him - that he was a little flaky, a little jealous, but fundamentally a good kid. But it turned out blood mages weren’t obvious monsters after all, just normal people. And now he’d revealed himself and drawn attention onto her as well, when she really didn’t need that.

Lily was crying, but Solona was dry eyed as she watched Knight-Commander Greagoir.

Only the night before, she had passed her Harrowing. Whatever had been the plan for Jowan, the Templars couldn’t make her Tranquil. But there were a hundred other different ways they could punish her, even in a more lenient Circle like this one. Solona was dimly aware that her older brother Daylan was still in Kirkwall, the first Amell child to manifest. Or at least, she thought he was. Daylan had disappeared into that Tower and no one had heard anything ever again. It was only the fact that she’d been transferred to Ferelden, the fourth child to come into their magic, that suggested he was still alive.

The Grey Warden turned to Greagoir.

“I require mages, Knight-Commander, as you well know.” He said, “Allow me to take her.”

Solona blinked. Senior Enchanter Wynne and a dozen others had left the Circle not days ago, to head to Ostagar in advance of the first wave of skirmishes against the Darkspawn. She liked Wynne.

“You… mean for me to leave the Circle?” She asked.

The Circle had been everything she had known for eleven years, ever since she came into her magic as a terrified nine year old. The idea of being outside was foreign to her. But being inside the Circle had always been a high-wire balancing act, for her. Being out… it was almost too much to hope for.

Duncan nodded and went to speak, when a figure darted out from behind a door and Solona recognised Alim Surana.

“If you’re taking her, take me too.” He said fiercely, chin raised in defiance even before Greagoir had responded. “I passed my harrowing last month, and I want out of here.”

There was a faded purple bruise on the slender elf’s jaw. He’d told Solona that he’d dropped a book off the top shelves of the library stacks, but she suddenly wondered if that was true.

The Knight-Commander practically growled in frustration.

“It does not work like that, Alim.” He began, but Duncan raised a hand to forestall him. Then gently, he cupped Alim’s chin to inspect the bruise.

The elf flinched, but held still. Too still. Like a rabbit before a predator, Solona thought.

“I will take them both, Greagoir.” He said. “I know it defies traditions, but there is only one Circle in Ferelden, and I need more than one mage among the Wardens.”

The Knight-Commander looked less than pleased, but Irving at his side let out a small exhale of breath. He too was eying Alim with concern.

“Go then, Duncan. You have what you came for, and I have a mess to clear-up.”

Duncan let Alim go and the elf shrunk back.

“Do we… have time to say goodbye?” Solona asked, thinking of her fellow apprentices. Of Torrin and Sweeney. And Cullen.

“Best not, child.” Irving said gently. “Return to your rooms and pack your things. Duncan and his other recruits will meet you in the main hall.”

Solona nodded with all the dignity and calm she could muster. She tried not to look at Lily as she walked away.

Beraht was a bastard who deserved to die, even before he’d started talking about Rica that way. No one talked about Rica that way, not even nobles. Or at least, they’d better not in Natia Brosca’s hearing.

She stepped through the back of the shop and glared at the man out front, who rapidly looked away and cringed behind the desk. Clearly, she had a reputation now. That suited her just fine, considering. Jarvia had mentioned that the warrior caste were in shambles over her success in the Proving Grounds, and the idea of those uptight, proud idiots falling over themselves to justify what had happened made her smile. The shopkeeper actively whimpered as she walked by.

It couldn’t be that simple of course. Outside, the Master of the Proving Grounds stood, with several guards, and a tall human in Grey Warden armour.

“Natia Brosca?” The man said.

Natia gave her best cocky grin.

“The one and only - Hero of the Proving Grounds, Scourge of the -”

“Hero?” Cut in the Master of the Proving Grounds, “You make a mockery of our ancestors!”

Natia’s ancestors could go fuck themselves, ideally with a sharp implement. If they’d done a better bloody job, she wouldn’t be scrabbling around in the dust, and her sister wouldn’t be chasing nobles for the hope of a better life. Thank the Stone that she was deemed too ugly for such a life thanks to her scars.

The Grey Warden spoke.

“I came here to confirm the scale of the blight,” he said, “And to honour the newest Aeducan Commander. Yet here I find a deadly fighter among the casteless, who has managed to upturn the proud Warrior Caste. I conscript you, Natia Brosca, into the Grey Wardens.”

Natia stared up at the man. Was he serious? Leave Orzammar? Become a surfacer? It had never really been an option before. Scraping by, day by day, didn’t leave you with much consideration for a better life, and nothing about starving up top had sounded that great to her. But joining the Wardens wouldn’t let her starve. And she’d be spending most of her time below ground, anyway. Just not in fucking Dust Town.

The Provings Master was spluttering indignantly, but even Natia with her limited education knew that when a Grey Warden said shit like that, it stuck. She turned her cocky grin on him.

“Oh? Is this meant to be a punishment? Darkspawn will be even easier to kill than his trained whelps.”

Duncan frowned, and the Provings Master’s splutterings turned his face slightly purple.

“The Deep Roads will be dangerous, Natia.” Duncan said. “But I think you have the aptitude to survive.”

Natia snorted. Yeah. She had the aptitude to survive, alright. Surviving was her main skillset, and it had served her well in her short life.

“Right,” she said, “So. Let’s get on with this yeah? I just killed a Carta boss and his people won’t be happy if I stick around.”

She wasn’t sure whose face she enjoyed more, at that.

The Darkspawn were to be expected, but Duran Aeducan really didn’t want to step in any more spider guts.

He’d found shoes, at least - as much as worn leather boots robbed from a corpse could be counted as shoes. By the Stone, had it really been necessary to strip him of his clothes before throwing him in the Deep Roads to die? Surely it would have been crueller to give him armour, to lengthen his life expectancy until he was so hungry and thirsty that Darkspawn flesh started to look appetising.

He pushed that thought away and limped, feet rubbed raw from the poor fitting boots, around the corner. There - ahead, a passageway to the tunnels back to the proper Deep Roads. The Wardens better be where Gorim said they would be.

Gorim. Now there was a dwarf that deserved better. Duran couldn’t really fault his current predicament - he’d been the idiot who’d mouthed off to Bhelen, who’d trusted his brother when he should have known better - but Gorim had just been a sweet, loyal fool.

Duran stumbled out, into the dwarven built roads and spotted the Wardens. Thank the Stone. It would be a waste of his talents to die in a place like this, simply for lack of resources and back-up. With the Wardens, he could still do something to support his people. Even if it wasn’t how he’d wanted it to go.

“Ah, Commander Aeducan,” Duncan said, turning to look at him, “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Not Commander any more,” Duran said with a shrug, hefting his war hammer. “Or Aeducan, I suppose. Tell me, Warden - is there space in your party of recruits for one more?”

The Warden had been staying in the Palace, the strange gaggle of recruits he had in tow down in the servants quarters. Duran had heard rumour that the Dust Town casteless that had made a mockery of the Provings was among them.

Several strange faces stared back at him, including three elves and two mages. A dwarven woman with the tattoos of the casteless eyed him with distaste, which probably suggested the rumour was right.

“Ah, politics is it? Orzammar is a brutal place. I would welcome you, Duran, regardless of the circumstances - we are the Wardens, and we take all.”

“So I see.” Duran said, wondering exactly how far Duncan had travelled to pick up such a variety of people. “Well then. Here I am - what are your orders?”

As he joined the Warden, Duran took a moment to hope that his dalliance with Mardy, a few days before, didn’t result in a child. She’d seemed sweet, and neither her, nor any baby, would thrive with Bhelen around, even if the baby would be technically casteless.

Duncan watched the two dwarves stare up at the sky as they camped just outside Orzammar. It was a long way to Ostagar, and they had many days ahead of them.

He’d gone out seeking Warden recruits, but he’d never had more than two or three at a time before. Somehow, this time, he had seven - and seven very different, very diverse people.

Theron Maheriel, who’d been with him longest, sat close to the fire, his pale skin seemingly losing colour with every passing day. He needed to complete the Joining, and fast. Duncan had done what he could to slow the taint, but it would burst through eventually. The elf was aloof, and withdrawn, but Duncan could hardly blame him of that.

Kallian had been waspish and aggressive, but seemed to be softening a little as she realised that Wardens were not the enemy. She’d even used Duncan’s name once or twice, rather than just referring to him as shem. No such luck for Elissa though - those two glared daggers at each other almost as much as the two dwarves did. At least Elissa had a level head on her shoulders and her mabari for company. Duncan had been worried about what the massacre of her family might do, but the woman was holding herself together with a will of iron.

By contrast, Alim Surana seemed to be holding himself together by the skin of his teeth. Whatever he’d seen or done in the Circle, it had left more than bruises on his face. Duncan had been around mages enough to know to watch him, but in the weeks they’d travelled together, the twitchy elf had done nothing worse than stare off into nothing when left on his own. It probably wasn’t going to lead to possession, but Duncan quietly thought the elf’s chances of surviving the Joining were not high. There did seem to be some correlation between fortitude and survival.

Solona Amell was a better mage prospect, he thought. He’d thought her wide-eyed, at first, but she was surprisingly composed and practical. And she loved Elissa’s mabari almost as much as Elissa seemed to. The elves kept far away from it, but that was almost bonding in itself.

It was a little too soon to see how the dwarves would do, and in many ways they had the most adjusting to do. Especially Duran Aeducan, who’d gone from royalty to exile and still had to wrap his head around the concept of the sky. Still, Natia hadn’t put a dagger in him yet, which was positive. Duncan thought that in a few days, when she was capable of looking anywhere that wasn’t up, eyes wide and mouth agape, she’d get on well with Kallian. She’d left a sister behind, hadn’t she? Rica? Perhaps she’d adopt the elf.

He stifled a yawn and took another swig of his drink before offering the bottle out to Elissa on his right. She took it, sniffed, and then passed it on to Solona who took far too much in one mouthful and spluttered. The bottle made its way down the line.

Seven recruits, all with promise. Duncan hoped at least half would survive the Joining.

Chapter Text

Maheriel watched King Cailin stride away, eyebrows raised.

“Was it me,” he said quietly, “Or was he an idiot?”

Cousland elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.

“That,” she hissed, “Is your King you’re talking about!”

“Not my bloody King,” Maheriel responded. “Leaders should be wise, capable -”

Rowan growled, and Maheriel shut up, eyeing the dog suspiciously. Elissa put a hand on the mabari’s head.

“She won’t attack, Theron.” She said. “She’s better trained than that.”

“Right,” Theron said, shifting his weight a little bit. “It’s not as if hounds aren’t trained to attack elves at all, is it?”

The pretty shemlen noble woman paused, frowning.

“I - is that -”

And Creators, she was so sheltered, how could she possibly not know? Maheriel glanced around to see if Tabris was nearby, but both her and the dwarven woman who was equally keen on daggers and mayhem had already slipped away. He should probably draw Cousland’s attention to that - she was good at keeping them in line.

But Elissa was still looking at him like she’d learned something horrible about her people and Maheriel sighed heavily.

“It’s not common,” he said, “But if we stray too close to shem lands, it does happen. Some clans raise their own dogs, for protection.”

Her face clouded, and Maheriel figured it was time to change the topic.

“Look,” he said, “You seem alright. I’ll try to be less flinchy around the bloody dog, hmm, if you keep standing between me and the danger. Now - I’m pretty sure I saw Tabris and Brosca head that way, so you might want to stop them from doing… whatever it is they’re going to do.”

Cousland looked in the direction Maheriel pointed, frowning, and he took the opportunity to slip away, in the other direction.

There really were a lot of people at Ostagar, he thought. More even than the last meeting of Clans that he could barely remember. And most of them were shemlen. He spotted an elf running between tents, and another in what appeared to be the style of robes the two Circle Mages wore. He didn’t spot any dwarves, at all.

A hand shot out and grabbed the back of his collar, and he heard the insult before he heard the rest of the angry shemlen’s words.

“Where’s my sword, knife-ear?”

He pulled away, yanking himself free and turned to face the irate looking knight in platemail. The man blinked, dumbly, at his face. Oh, he realised, of course. City elves didn’t have vallaslin.

“Call me that again, shem, and I’ll make my next quiver out of your skin.”

“Fuck me, what’s a bloody Dalish doing here?” The man growled. “Next the damn Avvar will show up, yelling about the sky.”

And, well, as much as Theron was a reluctant recruit - and as much as he would really rather not be the only dalish in the whole damn camp, he had enough sense to explain. A little. Through gritted teeth.

“I’m with the Grey Wardens.” He said. “And no, I don’t think any of my companions are Avvar. A couple of dwarves and a couple of mages, but no mountain barbarians.”

“Right, well. The Wardens huh?” The man cleared his throat, awkwardly, and Maheriel wondered if he could make the man squirm if he laid on the whole Warden situation a bit thickly. “My ah, apologies. I sent a - elf - for my sword, and he’s taking too long to return.”

“And I’m sure,” Maheriel drawled, “That I am the spitting image of this flat-ear.”

He turned and stalked away, before he felt the need to hit something. There, in the distance - archery ranges. At least he could practice a little before he was needed. Duncan had tasked Cousland and Amell with finding this Alistair fellow. He just needed to be at Duncan’s tent in a couple of hours.

He was half-way to the archery butts when he spotted an elf carrying a longsword, and Creators they looked nothing alike.

From his raised position by the archery range, he could see most of his companions. Amell and Surana had popped up by the Kennels, and the human mage was seemingly chatting to the Kennelmaster whilst Surana tried to hide behind her skirts. Maheriel let his eyes track to what had made the elf so cautious, and spotted more people in robes. Duncan had mentioned the Circle had a presence here. As he watched, Brosca and Tabris popped up and ushered Surana away, towards the tents of Cailin and Loghain. He wasn’t entirely sure it was a good thing those two were keeping an eye out for Surana. It smelt like trouble.

Aeducan appeared, watching him.

“Going to shoot that bow at all, elf?”

Maheriel rolled his eyes. Duran Aeducan talked down to him, not because of any bullshit about him being an elf, but because he talked down to everyone. It was difficult to get him to even acknowledge Brosca’s place in the party with more than a sneer. He clearly hadn't adjusted entirely to no longer being in line for the dwarven throne, however much he protested otherwise.

He drew the bowstring, focused and let fly, the arrow sinking into the target with ease. Aeducan grunted and nodded. The only things he seemed to approve of was martial prowess and the Wardens.

“Good enough, your highness?”

Duran scowled, but let it slide. He looked down, over the camp.

“This Loghain. You know much about him?”

“Shemlen hero,” Maheriel said with a shrug, “They love him around here. Not so much in Orlais.”

He only knew that much because he’d heard Elissa Cousland discussing battle tactics with Duncan the night before, and she’d raised an example of the man’s strategies. Something about a river, and the rebellion.

“Right,” Duran said, shaking his head a little, “Wrong person to ask, I suppose.”

Maheriel watched, bemused, as Duran strode off towards the man’s tent. Curious, he followed a little behind, skirting the edge of Cailin’s tent to find where Brosca, Surana and Tabris were sitting, also curious.

“Oh, Dalish!” Tabris said, grinning. “Come to join us watching Aeducan fail to get a meeting with Loghain?”

Surana was picking at the skin on his hands, but Brosca was watching with fascination as Duran faced the guard in front of Loghain’s tent, seemingly in hot debate with the man.

“Why does he care?” He asked, glancing down at Natia.

“Dunno,” Natia said with a shrug, “Probably wants to talk to him about Orzammar or some shit. He’s not quite wrapped his thick skull around being casteless.”

“We could pin him down and tattoo his face.” Tabris suggested, and Surana flinched.

“Please don’t,” he said, eyes on Duran, “I think he knows how to use that warhammer.”

The guard seemed to give in, and stuck his head into the tent. Brosca cursed.

“By the Stone, he’s done it.”

Indeed, a tall human man with dark hair in full plate mail was stepping out of the tent. Maheriel turned away, not entirely interested in the Ferelden Hero on principle. The other three though were staring transfixed.

“Do you reckon he used his snobby voice?” Tabris asked. “Or is he more charming than we give him credit for?”

Brosca shrugged.

“Dunno, didn’t exactly see much of him before. Although… my sister was in with his brother, if you know what I mean.”

Maheriel blinked.

“No,” he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Noble-chaser,” Natia said with a shrug, “She wanted an Aeducan baby to get raised up the Caste system. Had just started seeing Bhelen, when it all went down. I don’t think Duran’s realised the connection, yet.”

“Wait,” Tabris said, turning to Brosca, “Your sister’s the Prince’s mistress?”

“Yup,” Brosca said with a grin, “And not just any Prince - the Prince that got Duran there exiled from Orzammar.”

Surana shook his head.

“You sound a little too happy about that.”

“Means she picked the right Aeducan to fuck.” Natia said. “The smart one - the one that will survive.”

Maheriel figured he’d heard enough. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood dwarven society, but the idea that women tried to get in bed with nobles to improve their own standing was madness.

“Come on,” he said, “We should try to find this Alistair fellow.”

Somehow, the group came back together - mostly shepherded by Cousland and Maheriel. In the ruins, a dusty-blonde tall man was getting sneered at by a Circle Mage. Surana ducked behind Maheriel as the Mage strolled by, which didn’t really work considering they were roughly the same build.

“Do we reckon that’s Alistair?” Brosca hissed.

It was. He turned to look at them all.

“Wow, there’s a lot of you,” he said, "Which is good, right? More Wardens during a Blight can only be a good thing.”

“Why were you arguing with the Circle Mage?” Maheriel asked, frowning.

“Ah, well, before I was a Grey Warden I was a Templar and - are you alright?”

That last was aimed at Surana, who’d made a choked-off sound followed by a convulsion, hands gripping at Maheriel’s forearm. Alistair took in his robes and his face fell. He raised his hands, hurriedly, as Tabris and Brosca physically put themselves between him and Surana.

“- Twitchy doesn’t like Templars." Tabris growled.

“Twitchy doesn’t like his nickname either,” Surana managed, his voice a little shaky.

Maheriel raised his voice, keeping his gaze on Alistair, whilst trying to prise Surana’s fingers from his arm.

“Go on, Grey Warden.” He said, emphasising Alistair’s current affiliation, over the one buried in his past. “You were saying?”

Alistair blinked several times, and then managed to plaster on a smile.

“It doesn’t matter. Needless to say, your friend isn’t the only Circle Mage who doesn’t appreciate my presence. Sorry about that. But as the most junior member of the Wardens, I must accompany you all as we start preparing for the Joining Ritual.”

Maheriel sighed.

“The… Joining Ritual?”

Alistair had taken the lot of them to Duncan’s campfire, where there had been two other recruits waiting. The task set for them seemed fairly straightforward - to retrieve darkspawn blood in preparation for the Joining Ritual.

Solona Amell listened, and wondered if it was anything like being Harrowed. Probably less demons, she figured.

“We could just wait a few hours,” Aeducan said with a shrug, “They’ll be crawling around here soon enough.”

“Could have brought some from Orzammar,” Brosca said. “There are enough of them.”

“We must finish the Joining before the battle begins.” Duncan said, patiently, “And the blood must be relatively fresh. Alistair will join you in this task.”

Amell eyed the former-Templar, suspiciously. He seemed nice enough, but Surana would be a problem. She couldn’t remember him being quite so… nervous, before. But that first night, on the shores of Lake Calenhad, she’d heard him cry out in his sleep and figured that some things happened in the Circle that shouldn’t be talked about. Or at least, not until Surana was ready.

She knew she’d been lucky, in the Circle - a combination of privilege and smarts. Kids from noble families tended to get a little more respect, especially if their families held power, out in the world. The Amells weren’t Ferelden, but her mother had written often enough that the title lingered over her like a protective shield. And because of those letters, she knew that of all her siblings, only she and Alicia in Dairsmuid were permitted to write back - even if her yearly letter had to be approved before sending.

Then there was where her talents lay - deeply buried, and cautiously developed, all those years. You didn’t get by in a Circle outside of Nevarra with Necromancy as your primary skill set without suspicion. And so Solona had worked very, very hard to attune the spells of Spirit that were not so closely watched. And she had worked very, very hard to not draw the wrong kind of attention. Until Jowan's idiocy.

It would be good, she thought, to fight alongside the Wardens. They probably wouldn’t start screaming when she turned corpses into grenades and hexed their enemies. And she could stop pretending to care about anti-magic fields. It wasn’t as if she had to pretend to be happy in the Circle, anymore.

Although she probably shouldn’t explode darkspawn corpses. The blight, and all.

She made herself nod.

“Is there anything else?”

There was - in the form of some ancient Warden treaties. Tabris piped up.

“Treaties? If they were so important, why were they left to rot in the Wilds?”

Cousland tried, subtly, to stand on the elf’s toe, and Tabris danced back, glaring.

“The Wilds have surged in recent years, and for a long while, there were no Wardens in Ferelden.” Duncan explained.

“No Wardens?” Brosca asked. “What happened?”

“They pissed off a King or something,” Tabris said, shrugging. “So watch yourself, around Cailin, or they’ll send you to Orlais.”

“King Cailin,” Amell corrected, automatically, before sighing, “And there’s nothing wrong with Orlais, Kallian.”

“Well,” Alistair announced, loudly enough to be heard over everyone, “Shall we get going? Blood to source, treaties to find…”

“I want to see if I can find a white flower that grows in the marshes.” Solona said. “For the Kennelmaster.”

Elissa nodded. She’d been there, watching, when Solana had muzzled the wounded mabari, had overheard the conversation. She reached, almost absently, to scratch at Rowan’s ears.

The Kennelmaster had suggested that if the mabari survived, they could try and see if he would imprint on Amell. And as someone who’d always wanted a pet, she was hopeful about it in a way that seemed childish. How many years had she gone without asking for anything, without hoping for more? She wanted that mabari, now.

They’d taken about a hundred paces into the Wilds when the wolves attacked.

It was chaos. Cousland and Aeducan charged forwards, alongside Alistair and the Knight from Highever - Jory, Amell thought. Maheriel and Surana both backed up, going for bows and staffs. And as far as Solona could tell, Tabris and Brosca just disappeared, slipping around the flanks and disappearing into the brush.

Wolves weren’t darkspawn. Concentrating, Solona laid down a necromantic curse on the wolf about to be run through by Alistair, in the middle of the howling pack.

The wolf died, Amell flared her magic, and the creature’s body tore apart, wounding the three wolves surrounding it. She had to suppress a smile when Cousland swore, violently.

She didn’t do it again - focusing instead on draining the life from one of the still-standing creatures. Next to her, Surana pulled a fist of stone from nowhere and slammed it into one of the wolves.

The final creatures stopped struggling, and the Knight from Highever turned, two-handed blade still in his hands.

“Blood mage!”

Amell sighed. She should have known.

“Necromancy,” she said, “Not Blood magic.”

By her side, Surana nodded, a little wild-eyed.

“Not Blood Magic,” he agreed, “I could sense the Fade manipulations. It’s an interesting branch of Spirit Magic that -”

“- that scared the absolute pants off us.” Tabris said, materialising from a brush. She hadn’t even had time to launch an attack, by the looks of it. “Maybe a bit of warning, next time?”

Solona nodded.

“I’m going to guess I should hold off on reviving corpses to fight on our behalf?”

“You can do that?” Aeducan asked, cleaning blood off his warhammer. “By the Stone, that's…”

“- Awesome.” Brosca supplied. “Mages are cool. Why can’t dwarves be mages?”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Surana said, sounding pained.

Alistair cleared his throat, clearly both a little strained by Amell’s magic, and the near-constant effort of herding the group along.

“Come on,” he said, “There are Darkspawn nearby. Wardens can sense them - so we shouldn’t be taken by surprise.”

Well, that was comforting.

Somehow, they managed to not only source enough blood for each of them, but they found a whole bunch of the white flowers the Kennelmaster wanted, a dead missionary, a demon, and in a long-ruined tower, they found an empty chest and a dark-haired apostate.

“Well, well, what do we have here? Vultures, perhaps - or scavengers? Or merely an intruder?”

Amell blinked, turning, but Maheriel had seemingly spotted her long before the others, and already had an arrow nocked, if not the string drawn. Her yellow-eyes danced in amusement at him as Aeducan straightened from the chest, clearly affronted.

“Neither, human. I am a Grey Warden recruit, and this was a Grey Warden Tower. If one of us is an intruder here, it is you.”

A bubble of voices broke out around Solona - from Alistair warning that she might be Chasind, to Davreth being more concerned that she was a Witch of the Wilds. But the dark haired woman looked across them all and settled back on Maheriel.

“You there, handsome lad with the bow. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilised.”

Maheriel blinked, startled. He was the only one with a bow. Amell giggled, which was possibly a little rude of her. He just looked so surprised.

When he spoke though, he greeted her in elvish.

“Andaran atish’an. I am Theron Maheriel, of the Dalish. The dwarf spoke true - we are Grey Warden recruits, and we were tasked with finding the treaties left here.”

The woman smiled slightly, as if she had understood his greeting.

“So formal,” she said, “You may call me Morrigan. The treaties you seek are no longer here.”

“Did you steal them?” Brosca asked. “I would. They’re probably valuable.”

Aeducan muttered something dwarven under his breath and got an evil look for his trouble. Cousland scratched at Rowan’s ears, trying to settle the mabari a little. Morrigan eyed them all, before looking at Brosca.

“I did not steal them. My mother did. Come - I will take you to her.”

Tabris nudged Maheriel as he passed.

“You’ve pulled, Dalish. Pity she’s a shem.”

Further into the Wilds, they came across a small hut and an old woman, who turned out to be Morrigan’s mother. They shared the same yellowish eyes.

She had, it was revealed, taken in the Treaties when the chest had started to decay. Amell cleared her throat.

“In that case - the Wardens will be grateful. Thank you.”

The old woman laughed.

“Polite, aren’t you? Less suspicious than some of your friends.”

Indeed, Alistair, Davreth and Tabris were all frowning. Surana seemed to be very interested in the staff strapped to Morrigan’s back, but couldn’t work up the courage to look at her directly. It made him look shifty. Amell put on a warm smile - the kind she’d worn around the Templars.

“I find being polite gets you relatively far.”

That seemed to amuse the old woman more, and her daughter too. But they handed the treaties over to Amell, so it clearly worked. She thanked them before turning to the others in the group.

“So - shall we go? I’d like to get to the Kennelmaster before it’s too late.”