Archive of Our Own ^beta

He had been many things to many people.  

Son, nephew, ward, inconvenience, Templar-in-training, inconvenience again, recruit, Grey Warden...and now apparently: Messenger Boy. For the Revered Mother...of a Chantry he no longer served. To speak to a mage who clearly distrusted anyone who had a whiff of Templar about them. So, of course this was going to go well.  

“What her Reverence desires is of no concern to me. I am busy helping the Grey Wardens,” the mage’s eyes gave him another once over, as if not quite believing that the armour he was wearing – the junior Grey Warden armour – was really his. “-by the King’s orders, I might add.”

It was taking everything he had not to be rude.

“Should I have asked her to write a note?”

Ok...maybe not everything he had.

The mage bristled, puffing out his chest and jabbing a finger at him. “Tell her, I will not be harassed in this manner.”

Alistair bit down the grin that was so desperately trying to escape. He held up his hands, feigning innocence. He was really trying not to be rude.  

“Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.”

The older man looked ready to give him a piece of his mind but seemed to notice something just out of Alistair’s line of sight that caused him to bite his tongue. Instead, his eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms and raised an all too familiar judgemental eyebrow.  

“Your glibness does you no credit, nor does your immaturity.”

The Warden had to smother the laugh that bubbled in his chest. He was really trying. Or at least, he had been.

“Here, I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one!”

There was a noise behind him that sounded somewhere between a cough and a snicker. Clearly, this little altercation had gained an audience. Alistair decided it was worth risking a glance in the direction of the snigger. A girl was watching them – which was embarrassing, because there weren’t many girls – sorry, women – his age hanging around the ramparts in Ostagar. She noticed him watching her and quickly looked away, tucking a strand of dark hair behind a pointed ear.

An elf girl – sorry, woman.

The mage, now officially having reached the end of his tether, merely shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his lined face.  

“Enough, I will speak to the woman if I must,” he roughly jutted Alistair aside with his shoulder, “Get out of my way, fool.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, the young warrior sniggered. That had been more fun than he’d planned, though he suspected he would hear from Duncan about it soon enough. With the message now delivered, there was little else to keep him here. Duncan should have been back by now with the latest recruit in tow, an elven mage girl. What was her name again?

The warrior was sure he’d remember it...eventually.

The elf girl was still nearby, and he caught sight of her glancing at him. It was the kind of expression that suggested she might be looking for him, a musing that had Alistair puffing out his chest and smoothing his hair before he walked over. He did want to make a good first impression, initial one aside, and he was too bubbly with excited energy to not take the opportunity to strike up a conversation.  

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

The girl jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning round with a whip of dark hair. She was a whole head shorter than him, so had to take a step back to meet his eye. When their eyes did meet, Alistair was struck with only one word to describe her.

Pretty.

A mixture of loose hair and braids fell about her ears to her shoulders, with a few tresses tickling around the edges of her eyes. They too were a dark shade of brown, mirroring the small smattering of freckles that dusted the crest of her nose – freshly brought out by the spring sunshine. Despite the shadows that circled, her gaze was bright and alert...though there was a distinct air of something in her countenance. Something subdued.  

She was very pretty.

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, useless and limp. The elf tilted her head at him, frowning a little in a way that revealed a dimple by her left eye. They shared a slow blink before she decided to fill the ever-growing awkward silence.

“Sorry, what?”

Maker’s breath, her voice was pretty too.  

It took another moment before Alistair realised the question had been directed at him; the only other person standing in the raised courtyard. Thankfully, he was the master of playing things casually. Pulling an easy smile back on his face, he gestured to the camp around them.

“Oh, nothing. Just trying to find a bright side to all this. But we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you’re another mage?”

The girl frowned a little at his insinuation, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Yes, why?”

Well...the conversation suddenly felt a lot more awkward. And was it hot? It certainly felt hot. The warrior cleared his throat, fending off a wince at his own blunder. “Nothing. It’s just that...yooooou...don’t...look like a mage. Uh...that is...I mean...how...interesting?”

And so came the wince. This had always been a problem for him. There was something about talking to a pretty girl, that he knew was pretty, that made his brain turn into a blithering mess. Well, more of a mess than normal. He was saved from further embarrassment by her laughing, covering her mouth with a hand to stop it from attracting attention. Not that it would, they were standing far enough away from the body of the King’s forces. The elf giggled into her hand, shaking her head. Then, caught his eye again and looked at her feet – giggles ceasing.  

Damn, she was very very pretty.

Then, it dawned on him.

“Wait, I do know who you are!” He all but exclaimed. “You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognised you right away, I apologise.”

She swallowed tightly at the mention of the Circle, glancing at her hands. Then back at him with that same little frown. “What do you mean you should’ve recognised me?”

It was definitely a little hot out here. In the courtyard. In the shade. On this cloudy day. With his new...colleague.

“Oh, well, Duncan sent word ahead. He spoke quite highly of you. Anyway, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alistair, the new Grey Warden. Though I guess you already knew that.”

There was a visible relaxation in her shoulders. Clearly, she had been looking for him then. That was a nice thought. No, now wasn’t the time for him to get distracted.

“As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

She nodded, eyes flicking in the direction of the wooden gate that led to the Kocari swamps. The mage seemed to shake herself before looking back at him and offering her hand. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Alistair. I’m Electre.”

The warrior smiled back at her and took her hand, shaking it firmly. She looked surprised he’d been willing to touch her, but happily shook his back. It was a needlessly long handshake. A drawn-out stretch passed before Alistair finally remembered that he had to let go for it to stop.

“Right. That was the name.”

Electre frowned. Alistair was oblivious to it.

“So, Duncan actually sent me to find you. Something about the Joining?”

Alistair smiled, but Electre didn’t return it. Electing not to take it personally, he did a little bow and sweeping gesture down the stairs. “After you, my lady.”

His grin widened as the corner of her lip twitched.

They walked in companionable silence through the camp, the warrior noting how the mage’s eyes darted in every direction. Taking everything in. It was loud, smelly, and far too crowded, but he had to admit he thrived off the excited hum that flowed like a current through the camp. However, Electre was watching it all like a cat. Ready to dash and hide at a moment’s notice.  

“So, Ellie,” Alistair saw her look at him. “You know, it’s just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?”

Electre shrugged, side-stepping around the mages’ makeshift barracks. She gave a little wave at a white-haired woman, who smiled and returned the gesture. “I have no idea.”

A pause. Her voice took on a coy edge.  

“Why? Do you want more women in the Grey Wardens?”

Alistair’s grin widened, voice taking on a deep, dreamy quality. “Would that be so terrible?”

Electre raised her eyebrow, her mouth pulling into a less-than-pretty line. The warrior was quick to renegade on his words.

“Not that I’m some drooling lecher.”

He ran a hand over his face, hearing her chuckle. However, when he risked looking at her, the eyebrow was still raised. He wasn’t sure his ears or neck could go any redder.  

“Please, stop looking at me like that.”

She obliged him, staring ahead as they walked. Alistair noted that she carried herself with great pride, but something sad lurked behind her eyes. Something that had her bowing her gaze whenever a stranger looked at her too closely. He thought to ask her about how Duncan had found her but, from the details of his letter, it was a sensitive subject.  

“So-”

Her voice drew his attention back to her. Not that it had gone too far. She was strangely fascinating.

“-the argument I saw between you and the Enchanter, what was it about?”

“That? Ah, well, the Circle is here at the King’s request, and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position-” He swallowed, the next sentence now feeling more awkward than it normally did. “-I was once a Templar.”

If Electre was surprised, she did not show it. In fact, she did not look at him, giving him leave to continue. Alistair was thankful as most people would choose that moment to ask him in depth questions about his supposed “mage hunting” ...but he supposed Electre knew better about Templars than most. He wondered what her Circle had been like. Whether she’d had many friends, she certainly should have done. If she were a quick study or more like him... “adverse to all education.”  

She seemed more like the former.  

“I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult – sending me as her messenger – and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn’t get the same speech.”

Her lip twitched in a half smile, and he heard her mutter to herself. “Not that surprising.”  

Alistair snorted through his nose, and Electre’s ears darkened as she realised that he’d heard her. The elf rubbed her hands together, her head turning in the direction of the other two recruits. The warrior saw the question play along her lips, but it did not surface as Daveth and Ser Jory waved him over. Completely oblivious to the small elf at his heel.  Duncan stood a little way from them. He did not smile as they approached, but Alistair saw that his eyes softened as they came to a stop in front of him. His mentor looked at Electre, kindness pouring from his hardened physique. The effect was instant, the mage relaxing and finally allowing her neck some rest from looking over her shoulder.  

“You found Alistair, did you? I’ll assume that means you’re ready to begin preparations,” He turned to face his protégé, “Assuming, of course, that you’re quite finished riling up mages, Alistair?”

The ex-Templar grinned when he saw Electre force down another smile. He was now determined to try to break that habit. “What can I say? The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army!”

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” Duncan lowered his voice as Daveth and Ser Jory finally came over. They quickly noticed the woman and began their introductions. “We cannot afford to antagonise anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against us.”  

A guilty ball rolled in Alistair’s stomach. “I apologise, Duncan.”

“Let us leave it at that,” Duncan replied. The crease in his brow softened, signalling that he had forgiven Alistair, before returning as he turned to his new charges. Ready to explain the tasks that awaited them in the Kocari Wilds.

Despite being immediately set upon by wolves, the excursion into the Wilds was going reasonably well. Though Alistair enjoyed the hustle and bustle and nervous energy of the camp, the peace of the Wilds was somewhere he could breathe. It smelt of damp and moss and grass and promise. The recruits seemed more at ease too...more or less. Jory and Daveth were making polite conversation with each other, whilst Electre – once again – was taking everything in. She chatted a little with her fellow recruits but seemed to be keeping her head down.

Alistair didn’t blame her. He hadn’t missed the sceptical looks from the other two men. The ones that had followed when she had single-handedly taken down two grown wolves with naught but a flick of her wrist. The beasts had frozen mid-air, frost and cold surrounding them before their bodies fell rigid to the ground. Alistair hadn’t been as surprised as the others. Duncan had explained in his letter that Electre was a prodigy in Kinloch Hold’s Circle. However, when he’d first imagined the mage Duncan had been describing...the small elven woman, who was now trying to be discreet as she picked a flower and pocketed it, hadn’t been what Alistair had pictured.  

They soon found a few small hordes of darkspawn. Mainly hurlocks that scattered when they charged, but it wasn’t long before they had two out of the three vials of blood they required. Jory became twitchy after the first encounter, glancing over his shoulder at every rustle and crack, and constantly asking Alistair whether they were really safe in the Wilds. He got worse after they found the drowned body of a missionary and desecrated band of soldiers. Daveth, on the other hand, looked a little too at ease slitting the throats of smaller darkspawn. Meanwhile, Electre looked exactly as Alistair had felt the first time he had faced them; absolutely terrified and trying not to show it.  

She was going to make a good Warden. All going well with the Joining later.

Their eyes met as the final body dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. Electre was the first to smile.  

“So, Ellie, did you want to become a Grey Warden?”

They were walking in step with each other, Daveth and Jory just ahead. The elf seemed to ponder over his question before replying.  

“No, I didn’t.” She sighed, then shot him a small smile. “But it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Conscripted, huh? Hmm, Duncan rarely needs to do that, I hear.”

“It’s complicated.”

“If it helps, I too was conscripted.”

“Oh?”  

“Well, I actually wanted to join. I never wanted to be a Templar, and Duncan saw that. He figured my training against mages would work against darkspawn. That was six months ago. Now, here I stand, a proud Grey Warden. The Grand Cleric would never have let it happen if Duncan had never pressed the issue. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that.”

Electre stopped and fidgeted with the staff in her hands. “You speak fondly of Duncan.”

“He was the first person to ever care about what I wanted. He risked a lot of trouble to help me.”

“You’re lucky to have someone like that.”

“What about you? What do you think of him?”

Again, she took her time before answering. “He seems kind, if a little firm. Reminds me a little of the Grand Enchanter.”

He wanted to ask more, but the elf looked sad. Instead, he kept the subject focused on Duncan.  

“I’ll be forever grateful to him. Don’t get me wrong. I believe in the Maker and everything, I just don’t-”

“Want to dedicate your entire life to him?”

She was staring at the path ahead, but caught his eye, nonetheless. Alistair wanted to explain that that was exactly what it had been. That, yes, he had his faith and kept it where and when he could...but he did not want his life to be consumed by it. He wanted to live and breathe adventure, and Duncan had given him the opportunity to do so. Electre seemed to sense that the words felt too big to say, so she turned the subject onto the Grey Wardens. Alistair had been right in his suspicions that she was a naturally curious person. Her questions were intricate and prying, trying to unearth the secrets of the Order before it was time. When the subject of King Cailan rose, the elf pulled a face that made the warrior laugh.  

“Not a fan of his enthusiasm, then?”

“I think he believes that this is all a game. That he’ll play soldier tomorrow and be home in time for dinner. Life doesn’t work that way.”

Alistair chuckled again. “Maker, you sound like the Teyrn.”

A flush bloomed on Electre’s cheeks as she fought down an eyeroll. “He’s a little too focused on Orlais from the sounds of things.”

“He obsessed! Never mind the archdemon that could be lurking around any corner.”

She looked at him curiously upon the mention of the mysterious beast. “You really believe that there’s an archdemon behind all this?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Even if there is, it could be in the Wilds, or underground, or just simply hiding. Just because it hasn’t shown itself doesn’t mean it isn’t out there.”

Electre nodded, whether in agreement or just to appease him – Alistair did not know. He caught her eye and winked. “Just keep an eye open for any dragons.”  

She looked curious. “Noted.”

“You’ll understand. After the Joining. If- When-” Maker, he wanted her to survive the Joining. “You’ll understand.”

A shout from Ser Jory drew their attention. The older man was waving from the foot of some stone steps, which seemingly led into a small ruin. They jogged over to join the pair, and Alistair confirmed that the ruin was indeed what they’d been searching for. Large chunks of broken stone and marble littered the ground. Columns were strewn and broken, and there was evidence of an old staircase lying derelict and leading to nowhere. It was very creepy, and Alistair was instantly filled with the sensation that they were being watched.

“I spy with my little eye, something that looks like a chest,” Daveth said with a whistle and a smile. The rogue pointed to a collapsed corner and, sure enough, there sat a sealed chest.  

They made their way towards it, and the sensation grew. Alistair looked around, but there was no one in sight. He watched as Electre stooped and opened the chest, revealing...nothing?

“Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Everyone spun on their heel. A woman was perched on the edge of the broken stairs, watching them with abject curiosity. Her eyes glinted gold, and a wry smile cracked on her beautiful face as her eyes moved across them individually before landing on Electre. The smile widened, and she started to approach.

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

Her attire was...distracting...to say the least. However, as Alistair watched her stop in front of them, he instantly disliked her. She seemed...mean. The woman ignored the men, focusing on Electre.  

“What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?” She folded her arms, waiting for a reply.  

“Neither. This was once a Grey Warden tower,” Alistair replied. The woman looked annoyed that he’d spoken first, but decided to reply anyway.  

“’Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse. I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go,’ I wondered, ‘why are they here?’ And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

She brushed past them, holding Electre’s gaze, and hopped up onto a stone beside the empty chest. Perching on it like a bird with her hands behind her back and head tilted to the side. Alistair looked at his charges.  

“Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others might be nearby.”

The woman chuckled. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

“Yes,” Alistair said as if it was obvious. “Swooping. Is. Bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is,” Daveth said, voice wobbly. “She’ll turn us into toads.”

“Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own? What about you?” She asked, losing the condescension whilst addressing Electre. “Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

He wanted to stop the elf as she stepped forward, but didn’t. The mage squeezed her staff nervously, squaring her shoulders.

“I’m Electre.”

“And you may call me, Morrigan. If you wish.”

“You’re a mage?”

“I am. As are you. Though you’re a timid little thing, why is that?”

“I-”

“Lovely as this is,” Alistair interrupted, unwittingly causing both women to frown at him. “We are here for a reason.”

“Oh, and shall I guess why? Perhaps you are looking for something that is here no longer?”

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

Electre’s nose wrinkled as a laugh silently filled her eyes. Morrigan, however, looked unimpressed. The mocking tone returned to her voice. “How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems. I suggest you return them.”

“I will not. For it was not I who removed them.”

The elf asked the question they were all thinking. “Who did?”

“My mother.”

“Your mother.”

Before he could open his mouth, Electre grabbed his arm. She squeezed it and muttered. “Please. Don’t antagonise her.”

Morrigan smirked; it really riled him up. “Oh, I do like you.”

The warrior couldn’t resist throwing out another jab.  

“Careful. First, it’s ‘I like you,’ then ZAPP! – frog time.”  

Neither woman graced him with a response.

Morrigan's mother was equally as unpleasant as her daughter. She was annoyingly cryptic, and there was a coldness to her that made even Morrigan look uncomfortable. Like her daughter, the older woman took great fascination in Electre.  

Asking questions.

Assessing her.  

Judging her with the air of someone who possesses more knowledge than everyone else in the room. To her credit, Electre took it all in her stride. Alistair reckoned that was because she was a little in awe of the witches. From his time with the Templars, he’d quickly grasped the restrictive nature of Circles on mages...so, Ellie wouldn’t be the first to want for the freedom these wild ones had.  

The old woman spouted on about the extreme nature of the Blight. She asked them to warn the other Wardens, to tell them to be cautious.  

Alistair just thought they were two mad women. He also thought that they were cruel for teasing Electre the way they were, but they seemed intent on ignoring him whenever he spoke, so he could do little to dissuade them.  

Still, Morrigan's mother diligently returned the treaties to them, meaning they could finally leave the Wilds and return to Duncan.  

The hard bit finally behind them.  

“What are you doing?”

Alistair tried and failed to hide his grin as Electre jumped.  

After returning from the Wilds and delivering what they’d retrieved to Duncan, the group had split off. The Grey Warden leader needed time to prepare the final pieces for their Joining, and Alistair had once again been sent as messenger boy to retrieve them now that Duncan was ready. He’d found Ser Jory and Daveth relatively easily. They had not strayed too far and had been sharing jovial conversation with several of the King’s men. The warrior had managed to convince both recruits against drinking any more ale, under the warning that Duncan would not be best impressed if they underwent their Joining entirely drunk.  

Electre, however, had been a little harder to find. And it wasn’t until he heard the unfamiliar sound of her talking quickly that he spotted the elf standing with the Fog Warriors. The mage was more animated than he’d seen all day, eyes bright as she spoke to a man who was presumably the kennel master for the Mabari hounds. Alistair walked over, but Electre was oblivious, and he was able to pick up snippets of her giving the man strict instructions on how to apply some kind of salve. His momentary confusion was eased as her hand jutted out – nearly striking him in the process – and her finger indicated a large, russet-coloured dog within the pen. A grim-looking gash covered his snout and neck, already covered with a muzzle and crusted poultice. Though looking quite sorry for himself, the dog’s docked tail and back end still wobbled happily as he gazed at the elf.  

It was then that he decided to speak, and not because there was a little flare of something in his gut because of the smile Electre flashed back at the dog.  

The mage whirled round, cheeks going pink as she realised she’d been caught. Thankfully, she was saved from talking by the kennel master, who clapped her heavily on the shoulder, so much that she wobbled, and grinned at Alistair.  

“This fine young lady has just saved me the horror of killing one of our best dogs. Went out into the Wilds, she did, and found just what I needed for the old boy.”

“Did she now?” Alistair asked, failing miserably to hide the smile in his voice as Electre looked everywhere but at him or the dog. Her embarrassed blushed darkened and she decided to focus her attention on the loose frays of her belt. She was still wearing the mage robes she’d arrived in, the hem of her skirt now almost completely black with blood and dirt. “Well, she is a Grey Warden after all. Heroics and good deeds are kind of her thing.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, jaw a little loose. There was a softness to it that made his stomach feel fluttery, and the warrior didn’t quite hear the rest of what the kennel master said. Alistair was sure he made some kind of noise as the Fog Warrior departed from the conversation, but he couldn’t be sure. Electre’s eyes broke from his, and she watched the man off before turning back to him.

“You didn’t have to say that,” she said, “I’m not a Grey Warden yet, and all I did was pick a flower for a dog.”

The beast in question snuffled the straw behind them, then yawned. Alistair watched the dark eyes soften as the elf tentatively poked her hand through the wooden fence and scratched the dog’s ears. The warrior rested his elbows and back against the wood, tilting his head curiously.  

“Have you ever had a dog?”

Electre glanced at him, raising an eyebrow that reminded him of what a silly question that had been. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Right. Yep. Mage in the Circle.”

There was a little huff from the mage, something that possibly could have passed as a small laugh. “There was a cat in the tower, but it mainly stuck to the upper floors. I don’t think it was a fan of the novices. Or the children.”

She paused. The Mabari snuffled her hand.  

“I always wanted a dog. In all the books I read, the hero often had a hound charging into battle with them. They’re a lot more slobbery in real life.”  

The elf pulled a face as she wiped the dog drool on her hip.  

“You should try sleeping with them.”

Electre’s mouth opened. Then closed. Her nose wrinkled as confusion warped into mild horror, and it only then dawned on Alistair how what he said might be perceived. His eyes widened, and he waved a hand in her face.  

“No. No, no. I didn’t mean like that! Maker’s breath,” he ran a hand over the back of his neck. It was warm, increasingly so. “I meant in kennels. Sleeping. Sleeping in kennels. The dogs were also there. But there was no...”  

He cleared his throat.

“No.”

Again. Alistair’s own nose wrinkled at the disturbing thought.

“No!”

Electre opened her mouth again, but Alistair held up a hand. The warmth had moved from his neck to his cheeks.  

After some more embarrassed stuttering, Alistair managed to coax Electre away from the dogs and back over to where Duncan had set up for the Joining. The older man had the same sombre expression on his face that he’d worn at Alistair’s Joining. At the time, the warrior had thought it was mere exasperation at the number of boisterous lads and cutthroats he had recruited... But now, on the other side of it, Alistair knew it was poorly masked anxiety at the hope – the sickening hope – that at least one of them would survive what came next. Duncan saw Alistair watching him and nodded, indicating that he go get the vile concoction of darkspawn blood mixed with what the young man could only hope was wine.  

His mouth hadn’t forgotten the taste of it.  

As he grabbed the necessary few items, he watched as Duncan spoke to Electre. A reassuring hand on her shoulder. A gentle nod as she recounted something to him. Alistair could also see Ser Jory and Daveth bickering, the latter pointing a finger and sneering at the bulkier man. It had been like this at his Joining. There was always one who was afraid. Another with too much bravado.  

...he would never admit which one he’d been.  

He caught the tail end of their heated discussion as he returned, goblet tucked behind his back.  

“Including sacrificing us?”

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it meant ending the Blight.”  

Duncan and Electre stopped talking, and the elf turned to the two men. “Arguing won’t help what’s already been decided.”

Ser Jory gawped at her like a fish. He looked down as a hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, gripping it as if it would ground him. Would shake the fear from him.  

“It’s just...I’ve never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade...”

He looked ready to say more, but Duncan held up a hand to stop him. Clearly, he was done with idle talk, the moment now upon them all where the next steps of their fates would be decided.  

“The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the edge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Ser Jory visibly paled. “We’re...going to drink the blood of those...those creatures?”

Duncan did not look at him. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you. This is the source of our power...and our victory.”

Alistair watched as the knight’s hands visibly shook. Surprisingly, neither Daveth nor Electre seemed too stunned by the revelation of what it took to make a Grey Warden. Perhaps, they had already figured it out. He met Ser Jory’s eye, watching as his gaze darted around.  

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon.”

“Those that survive?”

The mage’s voice was small but unwavering. Her dark eyes watched Alistair, searching for some kind of truth he could not find. There was something in her own gaze in turn, a resignation and acceptance that her own possible death was being dangled right in front of her.  

“Not all who drink the blood will survive,” Duncan surmised, “and those that do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay. We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first.”

He turned to his protégé. “Alistair, if you would?”

Alistair nodded, bowing his head and gazing down at the muddy red liquid in the goblet.

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you.”

When he looked up, dark eyes met his. He held her gaze for as long as he could, only breaking it when Duncan gestured for him to pass over the goblet. Alistair handed it over, swallowing the lump that had filled his throat. Duncan turned to the recruits.  

“Daveth, step forward.”

The thief did so, proudly taking the goblet with both hands and releasing a wobbly breath through his nose. His eyes were wide with excitement. With pride. Then, he took his mouthful of the taint. For a moment, nothing happened – and Alistair was about to release the breath he’d been holding – but then, the man bent double and shrieked. His eyes rolled back so only white remained, and his body contorted as the blood rejected him.  

“Maker’s breath.”

Daveth fell forward onto his knees, clutching at his throat as one final pained gurgle emitted itself...and then silence.  

Duncan swallowed loudly.

“I am sorry.” He turned. “Step forward, Jory.”

The knight started backing away, eyes wild like a caged animal. He searched for an exit, any exit, and drew his sword when he found none. “But...I have a wife. A child! Had I known...”

His back hit a pillar, knocking the breath from him as Duncan took a step closer. “There is no turning back.”

Ser Jory held his blade to his heart as if it would shield him. “No! You ask too much! There is no gory in this!”

Alistair turned his head to the mage as Duncan placed the goblet down and drew his dagger. Her eyes were wide, her shoulders trembling, but she did not run or raise her hand to them. She gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth, as Duncan buried his blade deep in the knight’s belly. Blood poured from him onto the stone, soaking it as his wide-eyed corpse fell to the ground and peered at them.  

“I am sorry,” Duncan whispered, wiping the blood off his blade before sheathing it. He looked at them both. “But the Joining is not yet complete.”

Electre didn’t move. She stared at the lifeless forms of what had once been men, then back at Duncan. Alistair swallowed again, the lump heavier now, and waited. His eyes widened as the mage met Duncan halfway, accepting the goblet from him and taking a long, slow drink.

“You are called to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good. From this moment on, you are a Grey Warden.”

Nothing happened, then Electre was clutching her head in an attempt to shake away some kind of pain. She gripped the goblet, refusing to let it go, refusing to fall. She released a small, pained whimper, and Alistair had to hold himself from trying to comfort her. Her eyes rolled, the pain building, and she groaned as both hands flew to the sides of her head. The goblet clattered to the ground, blood mixing with Ser Jory’s...then, she collapsed.  

The warrior was first by her side, fingers finding her pulse. Slow, rhythmic, alive. Alistair turned to Duncan, who was standing over them, and nodded. Duncan let out a long breath and nodded in return.  

“It is finished.”

Alistair let Duncan kneel beside him and scoop the small elf from the stone. The older Warden carried her over to the table and rested her carefully. There was blood on her face and in her hair, but she slept soundly enough that they were able to tidy the ritual site around her. Once they were finished, they heard her coming to.  

“Welcome,” Duncan said as she blearily opened her eyes.

“Two more deaths,” Alistair said as Electre immediately searched the spot where Daveth’s body had been, “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was...horrible. I’m glad you made it through.”

He offered her his waterskin as Duncan helped her to a sitting position. Electre took it from him, their fingers grazing, and drank like she had been parched her whole life. Alistair remembered that too. The unquenchable thirst that had filled him when he’d awoken as a new Warden. She squeezed every last drop from the skin, then accepted the second offered by Duncan.  

“How do you feel?”

“You killed Ser Jory.” She choked out the words around the mouthful of water she was trying to swallow. Alistair noted that she’d stopped shaking. A trickle of water ran down her chin, but she didn’t notice.  

“Once he knew the secrets of our Order, there was no turning back.”

Duncan’s voice was matter-of-fact. There was no sadness in it or regret. He had done what was necessary to get the recruits this far; what had befallen them during the Joining was beyond his scope of control. Still, Alistair knew there was a place in Duncan’s heart for every person who had fallen victim to the ritual. A space where they could be privately mourned by at least one person who knew them, for however short a time.  

Electre nodded, running a hand through her hair and grimacing as she caught the dried, scabby blood that had drenched it. She looked pointedly at Alistair, and his cheeks flushed like they had when he’d often received a reprimanding from the clerics at the Chantry.  

“You never mentioned nightmares.”

“Well, I didn’t want to put you off,” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That, and many other things, can be explained to you both in the months to come.”

The elf glanced between them, only now remembering that it hadn’t really been long for Alistair either. The warrior gave her a weak smile in return, trying not to focus too hard on how strangely soft she looked – bleary-eyed and blood-covered. She blinked away her disorientation, rubbing some of the blood off her hands on her entirely ruined robes.

“Before I forget,” Alistair started, pulling out the small phial of blood he’d collected and threaded on a leather string. “There’s one final part to the Joining. We take some of the darkspawn blood and put it in a pendant to remind us of those who didn’t make it this far.”

He offered it to her, but she stepped back from it. Something crossed her gaze, fearful and suspicious, but she quickly caught herself and shook the expression away. Alistair could not stop the frown from forming as she hesitantly took the offered gift and weighed it in her palm. Dark eyes assessing and judging it.

“Thank you.”

Almost reluctantly, Electre lifted the pendant over her head, covering it with a hand as it rested on her chest. Duncan placed another comforting hand on her shoulder, an unspoken conversation happening between them that left Alistair feeling a little bitter for being on the outside. The older Warden gave the mage a reassuring squeeze.

“Take some time. When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

Electre nodded mutely, tracking Duncan as he vanished down the stairs. She then looked back at Alistair, who was doing his best not to feel awkward, before promptly running off to a corner to throw up. He by her side in an instant, stroking her back as watery, red bile left her stomach. Alistair felt her shudder as he rubbed soothing circles against the sweat-soaked fabric of her robes and decided to try easing her with some conversation.  

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t work for getting rid of the taint. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

A withering look was thrown over her shoulder at him, and all he could do was awkwardly clear his throat. The warrior lifted his hand, letting the mage straighten and wipe her mouth.  

“It gets better, I promise,” he said, hoping she understood that he meant it.  

She sniffled. Her eyes were watery, and Alistair wondered if she was only just now starting to feel the weight of everything that had happened today. Electre seemed determined not to cry, so he thought better of trying to comfort her further. He noticed her pulling down the cuffs of her sleeves.

“I’ll uh...let me just...find you some clean clothes.”

As he turned, he missed her surprised blink.

Electre hadn’t spoken much after Alistair had returned with a clean set of clothes and light armour. The warrior had figured that it was unlikely she’d ever worn a set like it before, so had offered to help her, but she’d quickly shaken him away. She’d managed perfectly fine on her own, reappearing from a tent redressed and the blood now washed from her long hair. Alistair wanted to compliment the plait she had styled it into, but stalled when she had looked at him earnestly and thanked him. He’d devolved into a stuttering mess, losing his opportunity as she’d gone looking for Duncan.  

He was thankful she hadn’t asked why Alistair had not been called to join in the war meeting. If pressed, he would have struggled to concoct a reason that sounded normal...and admitting the truth was completely out of the question. The truth being that if he so much as stood within ten feet of King Cailan it would be impossible for him to hide the fact that they shared the same blood.  

Duncan had warned him about their similarity, but Alistair did not quite fully believe it until he’d caught a glimpse of his half-brother when they’d first arrived at Ostagar. Cailan, unlike him, was fair and lightly coloured...and yet, Alistair could not deny that it felt eerily like looking into a long-haired mirror. Since then, he had done his best to avoid the King and anyone closely associated with him. He’d already had a run-in with the Teyrn, and Alistair had seen that annoyingly familiar glimpse of recognition in the man’s cold eyes.  

No, better to save Electre the trouble of knowing.  

Better to simply say nothing at all.  

Like always.

The war council did not last as long as Alistair expected. He’d been tending the fire Duncan had lit hours ago when his mentor and newest Warden returned. A smile teased his lips as he saw how Electre looked seconds away from falling asleep on her feet. He watched her suppress several yawns as Duncan recounted a summary of the meeting. However, his amusement quickly died as he learnt of his role in the upcoming battle.

“What? I’m not going to be in the battle?”

Duncan sighed. “This is the King’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

“So, he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” He was doing a poor job at hiding the bitterness in his voice. A small part of him suspected there was more to it than that. An even smaller part niggled that it was to do with the blood in his veins – the untainted portion of it, anyhow.  

“We can’t exactly ignore a royal request,” Electre said, “He’s the King.”

“He’s a royal pain in the royal backside,” Alistair muttered, only grinning when he heard the elf snigger. Her tiredness seemed to have loosened her composure. She hadn’t immediately hidden the way her mouth had lifted at his rebuttal.  

Unimpressed by his outburst, Duncan continued to elaborate on their role in the coming events. He explained how they would reach the tower and what to do in the event they were signaled. It was then that the mage failed to hide her exhaustion and let out a loud yawn for both men to hear. Duncan smiled warmly.

“Go. Get some rest. There are still a few hours before the battle is to begin.”

Electre looked ready to argue.

“I will wake you when it is time.”

“Thank you, Duncan.”

“Sleep well, Ellie.”

Their eyes held each other.

“You too, Alistair.”

The elf crossed the short distance of the camp and vanished through a tent. Alistair turned back to Duncan as the older man cleared his throat. When his mentor raised an eyebrow, suggesting a question Alistair couldn’t place, he felt a blush creep up his neck. Duncan sniffed at his reaction, amused with it, and then began rummaging in his pocket for something.  

“I have one final assignment for you, Alistair.”

The warrior’s ear perked up at the sentence. Duncan found what he’d been looking for, producing a small amulet from his hip-bag and presenting it to Alistair. The latter frowned at it. It looked similar to the darkspawn pendants all Grey Wardens had, but instead of leather rope and cheap pewter, this was a finely crafted silver chain. Each link looked expertly made, so small that Alistair could not see where they joined. The pendant itself was a rich, red-coloured glass – the stone set in a textured dragon with an emerald eye. Duncan placed the necklace into Alistair’s hand, and the red within the gem moved like liquid.  

Alistair held it up to his eye.

It was liquid.

Blood.

“What is this?”

He already knew what it was.

“Electre’s phylactery. The Grand Enchanter surrendered it to me after her conscription. She believes it has gone to Denerim. Normally, we would have sent it to Weisshaupt, but given the circumstances...”

Duncan’s voice trailed. Alistair looked up at him, seeing that the older Warden’s mouth had set itself in a grim line. He covered Alistair’s hand with his own, curling the young man’s fingers over the cold piece of jewellery. Now that he knew what it was, Alistair felt the pulse of the blood through his fingers. His Templar training called out in kind, blood aching for the lyrium it never got to try. Feeling the raw magical energy flow from the glass phial to into his hand and back again.  Duncan squeezed both tightly.  

“I give you this, so you can protect it. That if you somehow lose each other on the field tomorrow, you will be able to find each other again.”

His words were heavy with meaning. A senseless part of Alistair wanted to argue, to make a joke that this wasn’t the purpose of such items...But wasn’t it?

“Promise me that you’ll look after each other. No matter what happens.”

Why did this feel like a goodbye somehow?

“I promise, Duncan.”

Alistair bolted upright. His throat felt dry, and his ears were ringing so loudly that he could distinguish the screams in them. His eyes burned; the image of the ogres and darkspawn charging burned into his retina. The panic he’d shared with those at the top of the tower. His chest ached from where he’d been shot, and a hand flew to assess his wounds, finding...nothing?

Smooth, tanned skin ran under his fingers. Unblemished and whole.

But...he’d been shot? He’d felt it; the moment the arrow pierced his flesh and tore through it with barbed edges. The way it had knocked the air from his lungs like a punch to the gut. The surprise he’d felt when no scream came from his throat. He had felt warm blood – his blood – trickle from the wounds and run down his skin until it soaked into his undershirt. He remembered the heat of the fire, the way it had prickled sweat on his brow. The clawing hands of grenlocks on his armour. The ungodly roar that had filled the sky.

“I see you have decided to rejoin us in the land of the waking?”

He jerked, reaching blindly for a sword that wasn’t there as his eyes cleared, shaking off their sleepy haze. The room revealed itself to be the stuffy living space of a small hut. The air was hot and stuffy as the fire in the heart burned furiously, the stew in the pot atop it bubbling with the same rigour. Alistair took a deep breath, feeling the sweat roll down his bare back, and inhaled the scent of mixed herbs. As he looked up, he caught sight of the bundles drying in the hut’s mud-walled rafters. Elfroot, Embrium, and Prophet’s Laurel, and several others he did not remember the names for.  

A twinkly laugh drew his attention. The Chasind woman...Morrigan, yes that was her name, was standing by a closed door. She held a bowl and a bloodied cloth and failed to hide her smug grin as the warrior searched around him for his weapon to defend himself.  

“If you are looking for your possessions, you will not find them at your bedside. Mother always says armour inhibits healing.”

“How did I get here?” He suddenly felt the need to cover up his exposed skin as Morrigan continued to scrutinise him closely. “And where are my clothes?”

“So many questions,” the witch teased, clearly not about to answer him. “And unlike Mother, I have no time to answer them. Your friend still requires my attention.”

Friend?

“Ellie! She’s alright?”  

Memories flashed between blinks of the elf standing over him as he bled out. Arrows puncturing her body repeatedly, but the mage refusing to fall. Until everything had gone black.  

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. Her golden eyes were asking several obscured questions and turning over half-answers in quiet reply. Once again, she did not answer him, instead turning for the door behind her.  

“Mother is waiting for you outside.”

Then, she vanished, leaving Alistair alone with more questions than he’d awoken with. He stared after her a moment, wondering if it was worth chasing her and trying to interrogate her some more. But he wasn’t exactly armed...and Morrigan was a self-proclaimed Witch of the Wilds. Shaking himself from his musings, Alistair slid of the table he’d found himself on and started searching for his clothes. He found them neatly folded in a far corner and blinked as he saw how they’d been cleaned and mended. Almost like new. His sword had been polished too and looked sharper than it had been the previous morning, when his had had been shaking nervously as he’d gripped the whetstone before the battle. Within the bundle was Electre’s phylactery. It felt weirdly heavy in his palm, pulsing gently as he slipped it over his head.  

As he dressed, he thought about his next steps.

Firstly, he needed to find out what had happened during the fight. He realised that if he tried to think about it too hard, his head ached, and his chest tightened. Then, he would need to debrief Electre if or when she woke – assuming Morrigan hadn’t been lying – and they would then have to find Duncan and any surviving Wardens to regroup. It sounded easy enough, but as Alistair tightened his belt and sheathed his sword, a swirling, roiling coil of anxiety panged and rolled. Who was he to take charge? He had barely been a Warden six months. Wouldn’t the better option be to hold the current position and wait for Duncan to find them? He was, after all, the better tracker.  

He toiled with both options as he opened the door to the hut and stepped outside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness and, as he blinked away the sun, they widened at the large plumes of smoke rising from the direction of Ostagar.  

“Still alive, I see. The girl is somewhat competent after all. Most fortuitous.”

Alistair spun on his heel to find the familiar shape of the old woman he’d met the day before. Morrigan’s mother grinned as she watched his hand drift to the hilt of his sword, chuckling to herself with her raspy voice.  

“Is that any way to thank the one who plucked you from the battlefield?”

“What happened?” Alistair asked, choosing to ignore the obvious question of how a small, frail-looking old lady could have possibly saved his life. Witch matters were best left unprodded where possible.  

“Isn’t it obvious, boy? You were betrayed, and your forces failed. The darkspawn overpowered them and all perished. I only have two hands, and thus only two souls could I save.”

He swallowed, his throat constricted and tight. “...what do you mean, they all perished? They can’t all have perished? Some of them must have unperished! You can’t know that they all-”

He couldn’t say the word.  

Died.

Everyone died. Everyone he knew. All the friends he had made before the battle. The Wardens who had taken him in as one of their own. Had helped him turn his skills to their cause.  

Dead.

Every single one of them.

Duncan.

No. Duncan couldn’t be dead. He was tougher than that. Better than that. No darkspawn could beat the likes of Duncan. Surely...Yet, even as Alistair tried to wrangle himself into believing it, he knew it was a lie. He could smell the fires and burnt flesh from here. If he tried, he was sure he would have been able to hear those last few wails of agony from those who had been abandoned to their fate. That he’d abandoned.

Was Duncan out there with them? Just another body amongst the ever-growing mound of burning corpses.  

“No...”

His voice was quiet, and Morrigan’s mother either did not hear him or chose to ignore him as she continued her unfeeling speech. “I believe the King was on the front lines. A waste of such a young life, but that was his fate.”

Cailan. Cailan was dead.

Maker, that made him the heir to the throne.

Alistair dashed towards the swamp bank and vomited. Over the sound of his retching, he could hear the old woman tutting at him. He didn’t turn to her, squeezing his eyes shut as hot tears tried forcing their way out.  

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

“And yet it did. As it was always meant to.”

“Don’t say it like that,” he snapped, wheeling around on his knee to glare up at the witch. “Don’t say it like their lives meant nothing!”

The old woman almost looked impressed by his outburst.  

Almost.

Alistair didn’t hear much else of what she said. It felt like he was underwater, just without the actual drowning. His mind raced to fight off reality, jumping from conclusion to conclusion to excuse what he knew was true. Duncan and all the Wardens of Ferelden were dead. Cailan too. He was the last one standing. The last Grey Warden and heir to the throne of the entire nation.  

Maker, what was he going to tell Ellie?

“Ellie! Is she alright?”

Morrigan's mother raised a curious eyebrow, her eyes flitting to something behind his shoulder. “You worry too much, young man. See, there is your fellow Grey Warden.”

The warrior turned, following her gaze. And there was Electre stepping out of the hut whilst adjusting a bracer on her arm. She looked up, dark eyes meeting his, and Alistair saw how her shoulders slumped in relief. He imagined his did the same, both sharing the identical thought that they weren’t alone. There was still someone else. Alistair didn’t feel his feet move, but soon he was sweeping the mage into a tight embrace. She tensed in his arms, only relaxing when he muttered against her hair.

“You’re alive!”

Her arms moved tentatively, hands touching his as she eased him off her. Her smile was soft and gentle, her eyes sad. How much of the truth did she know? He held her at arm's length, not quite yet willing to drop his hand off her shoulder. Not fully convinced she was real. Electre let him touch her, seeing that it was helping ground him in some way.  

“I am. Thanks to Morrigan and her mother.” Her eyes searched his. “I’m glad you’re alive, Alistair.”

“This doesn’t seem real. If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower.”

Electre flinched at the memory, and he squeezed her shoulder. A throat cleared behind them, and they turned to find said mother watching them with an unimpressed expression. The old woman crossed her arms.  

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad.”

“I didn’t mean...” His hand slipped from his shoulder, floundering uselessly at his side. “But what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

“Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind fold call me Flemeth, I suppose it will do.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “The Flemeth? From the legends? Daveth was right. You are the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

Daveth felt like so long ago now.

Flemeth raised a brow. “And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not? Your elf is also gifted. If she were to live out here, would that make her a witch too?”

Heat flooded his face. Alistair could see that Electre’s face had also reddened. Thankfully, the mage was able to find her voice before he did – lest he say something embarrassing.  

“Thank you for saving us, Flemeth. But why did you? And why us?”

The question drew Alistair back. Yes, why them? He did not know about Electre, but there had been better and more experienced people on that battlefield than him. People of importance like Cailan. People of worth like Duncan. People who deserved to live more than he did. More than a royal bastard who deserved no claim to anything or anyone.  

“Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn.”

Electre and Alistair shared a look and stepped closer together. How could they possibly deal with the darkspawn? They were two very green Wardens who had only barely managed to survive their first fight through no merit of their own. Hell, Alistair had only survived because he’d been defended by the elf next to him, who’d stood over his broken body until her own had crumpled.

He really needed to thank her for that.  

The warrior jumped as he felt her hand slip into his. It wasn’t the hand of a fighter, or someone who had lived an outside kind of life, like he had. It was cold and soft, the skin smooth against the calluses on his hand. Her nails were long, and her thumbnail scratched gently against his as she drew small soothing circles. Electre opened her mouth, but Flemeth spoke first.

“Hasn’t it always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight? Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“Of course it hasn’t!” Electre started, “It’s just-”

“We were fighting the darkspawn! The King -” The King who was dead. His half-brother, who was dead. Should he feel sad about that? Should he be mourning him more than Duncan? “-had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?”

No answer seemed to justify that question.  

“Now that is a good question. Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre? Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat?”

“The archdemon.”

Electre’s hand squeezed his again. He felt her skin tremble, matching the waver in her voice. “But Alistair is the real Warden, not me.”

He gripped hers back. “Don’t say that, Ellie. All the Wardens in Ferelden are gone, except for us. I’ve lost everyone-” Under normal circumstances, he would’ve been embarrassed by the way his voice cracked. “For the love of the Maker, please, don’t back out on me now.”

“Alistair, I didn’t mean- I just- I've never done anything...I’m just a mage, Alistair. I don’t-”

“Duncan was like a father to me. I won’t let his- his death be in vain. But I can’t do anything on my own.”

“But what can we do?” Her voice was quiet but desperate. “I don’t even know where we’d even find an archdemon, let alone kill one.”

She dropped Alistair’s hand to run hers through her hair. As her fingers dropped to her neck, Alistair nearly felt the ghost of a smile as she distressed the ponytail she’d tied and caused rogue flyaways to catch the wind. However, the mention of the archdemon brought to light the impossibility of their situation.

“By ourselves? No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the army of a half dozen nations at his back. Not to mention...I also don’t know how-”

“How to kill the archdemon?” Flemeth said, interrupting them and reminding them, once again, that she stood between them. “Or how to raise an army? It seems to me those are two different questions, hmm?”

She looked pointedly at Alistair.

“Have the Wardens no allies these days?”

“I- I- I don’t...know. Duncan said that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called, and Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely?” A thought occurred to him. “I suppose, Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar. He’ll still have all his men, and he was Cailan’s uncle.”

He omitted the urge to announce his own relation to the Arl of Redcliffe.  

“I know him,” he continued as he saw Electre’s brow furrow. “He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. Of course!”

She jumped at his sudden enthusiasm.

“We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!”

Electre seemed to think about what he said. Then, her own eyes widened and brightened, and she started rummaging around in the pack she’d brought from the hut with her. Finding what she was looking for, the mage pulled out a recognisable bundle. She handed Alistair the treaties.

“There are treaties here for Orzammar, and a Dalish tribe in the Brecillian forest, and...” She swallowed. “The Kinloch Circle.”

“There’s a clever lass. And, I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else. This sounds like an army to me.”

Maker, was it wrong of him to hope that out there, there was someone else who could deal with all this? Someone like Arl Eamon, who could take this problem off his hands – find some way of resolving the issue of the Wardens and the...the throne. He really needed something to hope for.  

“So, you think...We can really do this? Go to Redcliffe, and all these other places, and build an army?”

Something warm bloomed in his chest as Electre smiled at him. It wasn’t big or confident, but it illuminated her face. Then, he noticed it – a fresh scar on the right side of her face. Alistair couldn’t tell how she might have gotten it, only that it hadn’t been there when they’d first met. The guilty knot returned and twisted again as she spoke through the smile.

“Why not? We are Grey Wardens after all. It’s our duty to stand against the Blight.”

“So, you are set then, ready to be Grey Wardens?”  

“As we’ll ever be,” Electre said, accepting the treaties back from the witch and placing them carefully back into her bag.

A strange look crossed Flemeth’s face. It was something between melancholic and mischievous...and a little sinister. Alistair frowned as she walked off towards the hut, muttering to herself – and them – as she did. The mage caught his eye, shrugging her shoulders as the witch vanished into her home. When she returned with Morrigan, Alistair felt a weird sensation of dread. Morrigan looked at them both, centring a scowl on the warrior, and a smile on her fellow mage. She then gave her mother a shrewd look.

“The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?”

Flemeth smirked. “The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame- What?”

“What?”

“What?”

Flemeth chuckled. If she had any feeling about her daughter’s abject horror, she did not react or reveal anything. Alistair was almost amazed by the sheer complacency in her expression. It was completely unfeeling.  

“Am in a cave surrounded by echoes? You heard me, children. The last time I looked, you all had ears. Haha.”

Morrigan blustered. “Have I no say in this!”

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance,” Flemeth then turned towards the dumbfounded Wardens. “As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

“Not that we aren’t grateful,” Alistair found himself starting, “but I’m getting the impression that-”

“Do not try and speak for me when your opinion is clearly unwanted,” Morrigan snapped before stalking away.

For some reason, this didn’t stop Alistair from talking.  

“Again, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but won’t this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

“Alistair,” Electre chided.

“If you do not wish help from us, illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower?”

“Point taken.”

Morrigan rushed back over, an accusing finger pointed at her mother. “This is not how I wanted this. I’m not even ready!”

“You must be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight...even I.”

The mother and daughter shared a long look, something unspoken passing between them. Alistair risked glancing at Electre. He was grateful she looked equally perplexed. A sneaky part of him saw the moment that Morrigan resigned herself to her fate. It annoyed him that she didn’t fight more. He really didn’t want to have to negotiate the logistics of bringing an apostate with them as they travelled.  

“I understand.”

Flemeth smiled, seemingly glad that she didn’t have to put on more of a fight with her daughter. It would have been an exhausting display.  

“And you Wardens, do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this, because you must succeed.”

Alistair watched as the old woman looked between Electre and her daughter. There was something in her eyes that hinted that she wasn’t necessarily talking about Morrigan as a person. There was no love in the golden eyes that mother and daughter shared. No sentimentality or warmth as they looked at each other. Only resignation staring into mirth. Obedience and command. For the briefest of seconds, it reminded Alistair of the loneliness of his childhood. Then Morrigan made a face at him, and the moment passed.

“Well, allow me to get my things, if you please.”

Electre made a face at Flemeth, one that the older woman found highly amusing. This irked Alistair, but he didn’t say anything lest he incur the witch’s wrath. The elf pushed past them both, chasing after the young woman.

“Morrigan, wait!”

He watched as she caught up to Morrigan. She started talking animatedly, Alistair guessed she was apologising for the inconvenience that was her mother and likely giving Morrigan the option of ignoring Flemeth’s orders. Morrigan looked surprised, softening a little, saying something in reply that made Electre smile again.

Seeing it was almost enough to make Alistair forget the deep ache in his chest.

“Alistair.”

He jumped.  

They were in camp...or something that at least vaguely resembled a camp. Though in the distance, he saw the glow of a small fire and Morrigan silhouetted in its flames with her perfect set up. As he looked around, he saw two lopsided attempts at tents. Their packs had been ungracefully dumped in a messy pile a little too close to the edge of the camp than was comfortable. The only successful thing was the fire, and yet in it was a pot that was dangerously smoking and spitting bubbles of blackened food into the flames.

A wet nose stuck itself into his cheek.

Ah, yes.

The dog.  

The Mabari had appeared less than an hour into their journey from Flemeth’s hut. They’d been set upon by a small group of darkspawn. Alistair had been flying through the fight in a trance and only noticed that Electre had been knocked to the ground when the large beast had jumped over her and torn off the face of the attacking hurlock. Much to Morrigan’s dismay, Electre had decided to keep the dog...which she had affectionately named...nothing, because she confessed that – in her dreams of owning a dog – she had never once thought to name it.  

The earthy-coloured dog licked Alistair’s face, and he was suddenly back before the fire with a very tired Electre standing above him. He glanced between the dog’s black eyes to Electre’s. There was a dark shadow over her face. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days.

“Ellie, have you never set up a tent before?”

She cringed at the bluntness of his statement, causing Alistair to wince in return. In his head, there had been a nicer way of saying it, but he was too tired and too numb to recall it. Electre sighed, slumping next to him. The dog lay down next to her, plopping his head on her lap and puffing out a large breath. Alistair was envious of the ease on its face.

“No, but if it helps, Morrigan started the fire and the food.”

Alistair glanced at the suspicious bubbling pot, which made Electre snigger.

“I don’t think it’s poisoned, just burnt.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve never cooked either.”

“It’s alright,” he rummaged around in his pack, finding some cured goat meat. He handed a piece to Electre, huffing in amusement as she eyed it sceptically. “We’ll just avoid the witch’s cooking tonight.”

The elf muttered something about him being nice, but blushed when he caught her eye.

“She’s part of the team.”

“Reluctantly.”

Electre rolled her eyes. She then looked at him for a long moment, placing one of those soft hands on his arm and squeezing it.

“I’m sorry about Duncan, Alistair.”

“Don’t,” his voice cracked, “Please, you don’t have to do that. I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

“I just thought you might want to talk. You said he was like a father to you.”

“I...should have handled it better. Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not with so much riding on us. Not with the Blight and...and everything. I’m sorry.”

Another squeeze. “You don’t have to apologise.”

When he looked up, he found her watching him. She was exceptionally pretty in the firelight. Its warmth made her skin glow as light danced in the dark parts of her eyes. His eyes drifted to the fresh scar on her cheek, wincing at it before returning to her gaze. The warrior wondered if it still hurt, if she was just being polite and not telling him.

“I’d...like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of. I suppose he did. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I were with him...in the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

“Alistair, if you had been there, you would have died. And that wouldn’t have made Duncan happy.”

“No, I suppose not,” he found a smile in the recesses of his hurt heart, and Electre returned it, “Maybe I’ll go to Highever, put something up in his honour. I don’t know.”

“I can go with you...If you wanted?”

“Yeah?”

A question burned inside him, and he couldn’t stop it.

“Have you ever lost someone close to you?”

Electre sat quietly, and the warrior swore he could see the cogs of her brain whirring. They hadn’t really had the chance to get to know each other, beyond the few basic personal questions. Suddenly, Alistair was aware that this was the first deep step into knowing her...and she hadn’t asked him for it.  

“Sorry, I shouldn’t ha-”

“I was four when the Templars took me to the Circle. I was there for ten years before I got a letter from my old alienage. There had been a plague breakout, and both my parents died,” she didn’t look sad as she spoke, but hugged her knees closer to her chest, “I could barely remember what they looked like. I still don’t. All I remember is that my mother was beautiful...at least I hope she was.”

Alistair studied her, eyes lingering on her face, then looked at the fire. He scooted closer to her, placing a hand on hers.

“I’m sure she was.” The elf’s eyes flickered from the fire to him and back again. Then, she smiled and let him take her hand. “Thank you, Ellie. Really, it was good talking about it.”

“Happy to help.”

“Now, go get some sleep.”

“I would, but every time I close my eyes, there’s a massive dragon.”

“Ah...yes...that might be the – uh – archdemon. It talks to the horde, and we hear it through the taint in our blood. That’s how we know this is really a Blight. You’ll be able to block them out...eventually.”

Electre shook her head with a half smile.  

“Well, thank you for the advance warning.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners. Now, seriously, off to bed with you. I’ll take the next watch.

“They’re certainly more preferable to silence.” She stood, the dog rising with her and yawning in sync with his new mistress. “Good night, Alistair.”

“Night, Ellie.”