Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Nine: Flotsam and Jetsam

Ten days earlier…

Beneath the storm, the port city of Highever raged impotently at the fate that had befallen it. The lashing rain had doused the fires lit in the invaders’ wake, and now the city’s population huddled out in the elements, weeping as the enemy soldiers plundered their homes and killed any who resisted. Outside the city walls, the slaughtered defenders were stripped of their weapons, armour and tabards, the latter to be condemned to the bonfires of the victors, before their corpses were tossed into the nearest ditch and left for the rats. Even the city’s rulers were to suffer the same fate, and the troops on disposal duty had been forced to cut through the frantic mobs seeking to recover the bodies of eight-year-old Oren and his mother Oriana, of the elegant Lady Eleanor, of the valiant Lady Jessica, and of the noble Teryn Bryce Cousland himself. In the space of an evening, one of Ferelden’s most respected and long-standing noble lines had been utterly eradicated, and atop every tower in the city, the banners depicting the twin spears of Highever were ripped down to make way for the snarling bear of Amaranthine.

As far as Thomas Howe was concerned, it was all a welcome sight. Flanked by his bodyguards, the young nobleman watched with approval as squads of Amaranthine spearmen went from house to house, dragging out their occupants and flushing out any survivors from Highever’s garrison. His father’s command was clear; no man who bore the city’s heraldry would be permitted to live, even if they surrendered. These men were traitors, after all, and they had served traitors in turn. Thomas was not a particularly bloodthirsty man, but he was an obedient one, and the thought of the sedition the Couslands were brewing here turned his stomach. His father had won a great victory here, and he would not see it spoiled by allowing any dissidents to escape and plot their mischief further.

It was not a conclusion that the common folk of Highever would accept, having been humiliated by the invaders and suffering from the loss of their liege lord and kinfolk. Even now, Thomas saw how resentful the crowds were. An endless sea of men, women and children were staring towards him with genuine hate, their anger at the Amaranthine men visible past the tears, and a frown marred his handsome patrician features. True, taking advantage of the Couslands’ hospitality and launching an attack on those who had sheltered them was rather dishonourable, but so was betraying Ferelden, after all. His father had played on his friendship with Bryce Cousland before striking, ensuring that Amaranthine’s forces were well-positioned to take Highever unaware and with fewer losses. We’ve freed these people from the clutches of traitors, and all they do is hate us, he mused, puzzled by their reaction. He supposed it was just another of those ill-conceived enthusiasms that often struck the simple minds of the common folk. Once his father’s rule over Highever had stabilized, he was certain they would be treated as the liberators they were.

Stepping through the shattered front gates of Castle Highever, Thomas made his way into the throne room, quickly wiping some stray mud off his maroon cloak. He was ever a fastidious man, and paused before a cracked mirror to ensure his small black beard was in good order, before approaching the man seated upon the oaken throne of the Couslands. “Father, the city is secured.”

Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and now, by right of conquest, Teryn of Highever, ignored his son’s report, his attention centered on the glass of red wine he had taken from the castle’s cellars, breathing deep of its rich aroma. He was a thin, sallow-faced man, with a strong, prominent nose and narrow lips given more to sneers than smiles, though tonight he seemed animated with a barely-contained glee. Six hours ago, he had feasted with Bryce Cousland, toasting to their eternal friendship. Now, his territories had been doubled in one fell swoop, the traitors dragged from their beds and given their just reward. The older man stayed silent as his son continued, draining his goblet in one triumphant pull. “As you ordered, all the city’s gates have been garrisoned by our men, and our outriders patrolling the countryside report that no one has managed to escape the cordon. The harbour has also been secured, and any ships attempting to leave have been seized by our own fleet.”

Silence. Licking his lips nervously, Thomas spoke once more. “The civilian population is restless, but they have not offered much resistance. Some of the local guildmasters have submitted formal complaints, as well as the leader of the city Alienage…” The Arl began to tremble, like he was having some sort of seizure, but Thomas did not dare to withhold the slightest detail. “I fear our disposal of the traitors has agitated them, and--”

He did not get any further. Sides shaking, Rendon Howe began to laugh, a mad, arrogant noise that echoed off the bloodstained walls and rafters of the castle. “Highever is mine,” he spoke, relishing each word. “Highever is mine, and the Couslands are no more. I’ve done it! They’re all dead! The Antivan whore and her little spawn, Bryce and his stupid wife and that mannish slut he called a daughter, all dead like the vermin they are!” he cackled, turning a maddened eye towards his son. “After all the years of remaining in Bryce’s shadow, after the centuries of our family forever licking Cousland boots, I’ve achieved what my forefathers could not, and after all that, do you honestly think I’m going to let a bunch of jumped-up peasants and knife-eared scum stand in my way, boy? Do you?”

Meekly, Thomas shook his head. “Of course not. You’re not an idiot like your brother, are you?” Rendon remarked snidely. “Highever is mine. All those who deny this are traitors, and deserving of a traitor’s death. You understand?”

“Of course, father, I will see to it.” A single question remained to disturb him, and despite his misgivings, he could not help but ask it. “Father, I know the Couslands were traitors, and deserved the fate we gave them. But what about the King? Will he seek to punish us for acting without his sanction?”

His father gave a vicious smile, the sight of it sending tremors of fear down Thomas’ spine. “Oh, the King will not contest it. Of that, you can be assured…”

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He moved amongst the shadows as if he was born to them, slipping through their endless ranks without a second glance, peering back anxiously for any sign of it. The song was clearer now, and he had to force himself not to follow the enticing melody. It had a new tone now, triumphant and vainglorious, basking in the pride of its victory, and he could feel its confidence. It had nothing left to fear now.

Ahead of him, the ground was sodden by blood and bodies, dead hands reaching out from the boggy field, dead eyes staring at him in torment, dead lips pleading for aid. Thousands of them, left in this horrific state by the shadows, jealous of the few that yet lived. He shrank away from the vile sight, and immediately the shadows began to take notice of him, bearing jagged fangs with a cruel laugh.

He felt it again, and turned to see the beast hunched over its conquest, great claws curled possessively about its bloody prize. The laughter that had assailed him echoed from the monster’s throat with an earthquake’s rumble, and beneath the dark span of its massive wings, Ostagar burned…

With a shuddering gasp, Sagramor came awake. Bright eyes glanced about in bewilderment, and to his shock, he was no longer within the Tower of Ishal. Instead, he found himself in the bed of a small peasant’s hut, the hearth blazing bright and the coarse woolen blankets causing his naked skin to itch. His greatsword lay propped up against the bedside table, and the elf quickly retrieved the blade, clutching the blankets tight to preserve his modesty. How in the world did I get here? And where is here, anyways? It had seemed like only a moment ago that the darkspawn quarrels were piercing his body…

Gingerly, his pale hands stroked the skin about his torso. To his astonishment, there was nothing; no scarring, no residual bruising, no sign of the bolts’ passage. In fact, all of his injuries had vanished. Even the leftover scarring on his right shoulder from his rescue mission in Denerim had disappeared, and for all intents and purposes, he had gone from death’s doorstep to being in perfect health. Before he could ruminate on this further, the door to the hut opened, and a pair of familiar golden eyes stared mischievously at him. “Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.”

“Morrigan? What’s going on? What happened?”

“You were injured, and Mother rescued you,” the dark-haired girl responded. “Do you not remember?”

“I remember Loghain abandoning the King, and being shot by the darkspawn…” Sagramor’s words trailed off, and he fixed the sorceress with a confused gaze. “You said your mother rescued us?”

“Indeed, Mother managed to save you and your friend, though ‘twas a close call. What is important is that you both live and are safe, for the moment. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend… he is not taking it well.”

“Maker’s breath,” gasped Sagramor, the news hitting him harder than any darkspawn arrow. Logically, he knew all these things, for he had seen the disaster that Ostagar had become first-hand, but hearing it from another seemed to only validate what he had witnessed, that it was not all some bizarre nightmare brought on by blood-loss and shock. In an instant, his thoughts turned to Hawke, and the King, and everyone else that had been left on that muddy field. “Do you know if there were any survivors from the host in the gorge? Did anyone else make it out?”

“A few stragglers, perhaps, but I would not put much stock in their continued survival with the darkspawn in pursuit,” Morrigan opined. “As for the Wardens and your king, they are all dead. Your friend has veered between denial and grief since Mother told him.”

“You mean Alistair. Has he been injured?”

“So that is the suspicious, dim-witted one’s name. Interesting,” the girl mused, brow wrinkled in thought. “He is as you are; the darkspawn did nothing to you that Mother’s magic could not heal, though I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish.”

Electing to let that comment slide, Sagramor posed his final question for the moment. “Are we safe here? Have the darkspawn discovered this place?”

“We should be fine. Mother’s magic is powerful enough to keep us hidden, though once you leave this place, things will become much more uncertain. She waits for you by the fire with your friend, and would speak to both of you before you depart.”

“Then I’d be get ready,” said the elf, spying his clothes drying by the fireplace. “Morrigan, would you mind, uhh, giving me some privacy?”

Morrigan gave a delighted little chuckle. “There is no need to conceal yourself on my account, Warden, I have seen men before… and elves.”

Blushing like a beetroot at the implication, Sagramor dressed hurriedly, trying his damnedest to ignore the feeling of those curious golden eyes on him. His armour had been severely damaged over the course of the battle, with numerous chainmail links ripped, battered or simply destroyed in the furious fighting, enough to leave gaping rents where a well-aimed sword could punch through with ease. His Warden tabard had been repaired and cleaned, however, and Sagramor hung it over his chest in a vain attempt to disguise the breaches in his armour. His cloak, too, had been repaired, and he bundled himself within the precious garment against the damp chill of the Wilds. “I regret that we could not restore your armour, Warden; neither Mother nor I have the skill for such things.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make do,” the elf replied, tightening his swordbelt. His leather pouch had survived, still heavy with coin, and Sagramor was relieved to discover the treaties had remained untouched as well. There was no sign of his pack; it had been in the baggage train when the battle had begun, and its contents had likely been pillaged, burnt or scattered across the landscape by the victorious darkspawn. “How exactly did your mother save us, anyways? I mean no disrespect, but I doubt she could have fought through all of those darkspawn on her own.”

“Indeed, ‘twould be foolish. She transformed into a great bird, and plucked you both from atop the tower, one in each talon.” Sagramor gave her an incredulous look. “If you do not believe me, ask Mother. She will tell you as much.”

“Fair enough,” Sagramor muttered, scrubbing his face in a nearby washbasin. “Thank you for all your help, Morrigan.”

The girl froze with indecision, and yet again, Sagramor could only wonder at how one could find compliments and praise to be foreign concepts. “I did very little,” Morrigan replied, brushing his words aside. “I am no healer. You owe your survival to Mother’s efforts, not mine.”

“Nevertheless, knowing what has befallen Ferelden is important if we are to move forward, and you have given Alistair and me your hospitality, for which we are very grateful. If there’s anything we can do to repay you, you need but ask.”  

“You should not be so quick to make such promises,” the girl answered, a surprising hint of venom in her voice. And then it was gone, vanishing behind a disinterested mask, as if Sagramor was some strange new beast that had failed to live up to amuse her. “Now, you should speak to Mother; ‘tis a long journey ahead of you, and ‘twould be wise of you to begin as soon as possible. I shall stay here, and make something to eat.”

So dismissed, Sagramor exited the small hut, his mind already turning to other matters. If he and Alistair truly were the only survivors of the battle, then Ferelden had suffered a calamity rivalling the Orlesian conquest. Now they had no king to rally behind, no army with which to protect the people... and no Wardens left to hold back the tide.

Except for us, Sagramor reminded himself, swallowing nervously. If Duncan and the rest of the Wardens are dead, we’re all that’s left. In the space of an evening, he and Alistair had gone from the least of their Order to its sole remnant, left to face the Blight alone. Perhaps even worse was Loghain’s betrayal; the elf doubted anyone had anticipated Ferelden’s greatest general turning against them, and if he discovered they’d survived, he would likely move to silence them so as to remove any witnesses to his perfidy. No more could they depend on Cailan’s enthusiasm and Duncan’s wisdom; if the kingdom was to be saved, it would have to be through their efforts. If the rest of the world had gone mad in the face of the Blight, then they had no chance but to stand as the last sane men…

And since when have long odds and desperate circumstances kept me from doing the right thing? the elf asked himself, casting away despair. True, the circumstances were against them, but considering the sheer devastation a Blight would inflict upon the world, even the slightest chance of stopping it was better than none. He had sworn at the beginning of this journey never to be found wanting, and he could not break that oath or any other. Now, let’s see what we can do to set things right.

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Sagramor shivered as he stepped outside into the thick fog that had engulfed the clearing, the day’s weak light barely breaking through. Beyond the confines of the clearing, the Wilds remained deathly still and calm, the effects of the darkspawn rampage lost in the enshrouding mists. Then again, the entire horde could have been lurking within the trees and they’d never know it, so thick was the fog. The elf could not sense them out in the Wilds, but he was uncertain if this proved their absence, or if the effects of the Joining had not made themselves fully known within him yet. Alistair was sitting by the fire looking utterly miserable, a thousand-yard stare on his face, while his own armour had been battered beyond repair during last night’s fighting. Sitting on a nearby stump, Morrigan’s mother was working with her distaff and spindle, a small mountain of woolen thread gathering at her feet. “See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden,” she remarked, not even deigning to glance at the elf. “You worry too much, young man.”
 
Alistair turned at the sound of the elf’s approach, hastily wiping away stray tears to conceal his grief. “You… you’re alive,” he said, throat rasping. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“It was a close thing, I’ll admit,” replied Sagramor. “How badly were you injured?”

“Badly, but I’m fine now. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Duncan, the rest of the Wardens, even the King, they’re all gone, and if it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower.”

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad,” the old woman said dryly, setting the distaff aside. “Especially not after I have gone to such great lengths to bring you both here, safe and sound. Are there no thanks for an old woman, hmm?”

“I—I didn’t mean,” sputtered Alistair, trying to compose himself. “What do we call you then? You’ve never told us your name.”

“Names are pretty but useless, and mine are like wasps endlessly swarming about me. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, I suppose that will do.”

Flemeth. It was a name that had echoed throughout the ages, always as a harbinger of disaster and dark magic, its presence associated with some of the darkest times in Ferelden’s history. Sagramor knew many stories where such a figure appeared; a vengeful widow who brought down the ruling Bann Conobar of Highever, or a grieving shaman of the Chasind who sacrificed her life in order to destroy an Alamarri host, and yet more besides. The tales differed in many of the details, but all spoke of not merely another apostate hiding from the Chantry’s watchful eye, but a true abomination, one whose body was inhabited by a demon from the Fade after bartering away her soul for its power. She was exceptionally powerful, capricious… and something less than human. Unconsciously, Sagramor stepped back a pace. “Flemeth, from the legends?” asked Alistair, evidently coming to the same conclusion. “Daveth was right. You’re a Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth snapped back. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you well, has it not?”

“Does that include concealing us from the darkspawn?” Sagramor inquired, drawing her gaze. If this was the ancient and powerful witch of legend as he believed, then such a feat would be no challenge for her. “I’d have thought that they would have overrun this place by now.”

“True enough. The largest part of the horde has moved on, we are safe enough for now. Old Flemeth knows a thing or two about hiding,” the sorceress proclaimed proudly, her mood suddenly darkening. “The longer you are here, the less that it true, however. These things will notice you eventually, and not even my power can conceal you once that happens.”

“So whatever we plan on doing,” said Sagramor, “we should get to it soon.”

“We need to bring Loghain to justice!” insisted Alistair, face reddening. “Why would he betray us like that?”

“Now, that is an interesting question,” Flemeth remarked. “Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he sees the chaos of a Blight as an opportunity to advance his own agenda? Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre? Or perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

Alistair gave a grim nod. “The Archdemon.”

“If this Archdemon is the one directing the darkspawn, then maybe hunting it down is our next step,” the elf suggested.

“Wish it was that easy, Sagramor. The Archdemon’s probably still in the Deep Roads, hidden and guarded by a thousand darkspawn. I doubt we could find it down there. And even if we dealt with the darkspawn guarding it, it used to be an Old God of Tevinter before the taint got to it. In our current condition, we wouldn’t stand a chance,” Alistair admittedly ruefully. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”

Flemeth tut-tutted at this admission. “It has always been the duty of the Grey Wardens to unite the lands of Thedas against the Blight, or has that changed when I wasn’t looking?”

“The land is hardly united now, thanks to Loghain’s treachery,” Alistair snapped harshly. “If Arl Eamon knew the truth, he would never stand for it. The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There’d be civil war!”

“Do you think this Arl Eamon would be able to help us, Alistair?” Sagramor asked, recalling the name from his first meeting with the King.

“Why, yes, I’m sure he will. He wasn’t at Ostagar, so he has still has all his men. I know him; he’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet and very popular with the people.”

Part of Sagramor instinctively distrusted the idea of begging a human noble for help. Such men had done little to aid his people in the past, and even the best of them were seemingly indifferent to their plight. He buried those resentments before they could fester; with circumstances as dire as they were, even the aid of the noble class was better than being slaughtered by the darkspawn, and if nothing else, Eamon apparently had Alistair’s trust. Then again, so did Loghain. “Are you certain this man can be relied upon?”

“I’m sure of it, believe me. He was Cailan’s uncle, and he’d never even dream of siding with the man who betrayed him like that. We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!” The former templar’s sudden burst of enthusiasm faded as the great flaw in his plan revealed itself. “He might be able to help us bring down Loghain, but I don’t know if Redcliffe’s forces are strong enough to stop the Blight alone.”

“But we won’t be alone, Alistair,” said the elf, bringing out the treaties they had fought so hard to recover. “If these are still valid, then we have a chance to assemble a new army against the darkspawn.”

“Of course!” Alistair shouted, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. “Grey Wardens can demand aid from any number of factions in the event of a Blight. Who exactly do we have treaties for?”

Quickly, Sagramor unbound the scrolls and glanced over their contents, before sealing them back up and returning them to their place of safety. “It looks like we have guarantees in writing from the Circle of Magi, the King of Orzammar, and a whole bunch of Dalish clans. I’m not an expert on these things, but that seems like a solid list of allies. And if we’re lucky, we might get some reinforcements from Orlais; Duncan mentioned the Orlesian Wardens would come to help.”

“I may be old,” Flemeth observed, “but mages, dwarves, elves, this Arl Eamon and who knows what else… this sounds like an army to me.”

“So, can we do this?” Alistair asked, his voice betraying the uncertainty he grappled with. “Go to Redcliffe and all these other places and build an army?”

“Ostagar was a tragedy, Alistair, but we’re not beaten yet. We swore an oath, we have swords in our hands, and though they might not appreciate it, the people of Ferelden will need us to protect them. All very good reasons to proceed, as far as I’m concerned,” declared Sagramor, lips turned up into a cruel smile. “Isn’t this what Grey Wardens do, anyways? Besides, if this journey leads to gutting Loghain like a fish, so much the better.”

“So you are set then?” asked Flemeth. “Ready to be Grey Wardens, at last?”

“We are indeed,” Sagramor responded, content with their current plan. It would be difficult, that much was certain, but it was better than simply lamenting their fate in the mire of the Wilds and waiting for their foe to discover them. If there was anything they could do to protect Ferelden from the Blight, then they owed it to its people and themselves to do it. Who knew? Maybe they might even save the kingdom after all… “Thank you again for your assistance, Flemeth.”

“No, no, you are the Grey Wardens here, not I,” the old woman answered, glancing towards the door of the hut. “Now, before you go, there is but one more thing I can offer you.”

As if on cue, the door opened with the creak of rusted hinges, and Morrigan emerged, walking towards them with a haughty strut. “The stew is bubbling, Mother dear, shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?” she asked, her tone making it clear which number she’d prefer.

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl,” Flemeth answered, matter-of-factly, “and you will be joining them.”

“Such a sha--” Morrigan paused, her golden eyes widening as her mother’s words sank in. “What?”

“You heard me, girl. The last time I checked, you had ears!” cackled the old woman, a smug smile appearing at the sight of her daughter’s flustered expression.

“That is a kind offer, my lady,” Sagramor affirmed, stepping up to ease matters, “but I cannot force your daughter to join us if she doesn’t wish it.”

“Set aside your gallantry for a moment, Warden,” argued Flemeth, “and understand the value of what I offer. Morrigan’s magic will be useful to you; even better, she knows the Wilds intimately, and can get you past the horde.”

“Have I no say in this?” Morrigan demanded indignantly.

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years, girl, here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, here is repayment for saving your lives.”

Taking a moment to consider Flemeth’s offer, Sagramor looked over at Morrigan, the dark-haired girl visibly fuming at being made party of such an offer without her prior knowledge. He had no desire to take on an unwilling ally; it would do them no good to demand the aid of one who resented the notion of giving it, and as an apostate mage, Morrigan would be the target of any number of reprisals from the Chantry. Then again, Flemeth’s offer of aid was the only one they had at the moment, and the only one they were likely to get until the treaties were invoked. Everyone they thought they could depend upon was either dead, traitors or merely theoretical allies. At this juncture, they could not afford to turn aside any who could be of assistance. Sagramor’s parents had raised him to be kind, compassionate and honourable, but they also taught him the importance of seizing opportunities, and seeing the value in things and people that others might miss. The choice was clear. “Very well then. Morrigan, we would be honoured to have you fight alongside us, should you wish to do so.”

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Alistair spoke, choosing his next words carefully, “but won’t this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate, and we have an uphill battle as it is without provoking the Chantry.”

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

“Point taken,” sighed the former templar.

Morrigan would not be so easily deterred, however. “Mother… this is not how I wanted this, I’m not even ready!”

“You must be ready,” Flemeth stated bluntly, lifting up her daughter’s chin. “Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fall, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

That last argument seemed to convince her, and at last, Morrigan relented. “I—I understand.”

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

“We understand, my lady,” Sagramor replied for both of them, bowing. “Upon my honour, we will not allow her to come to harm with us.”

“Very well,” Morrigan declared stiffly, reasserting her imperious poise. “Allow me to gather my things then, if you please.” Without waiting for a response, she stalked back into the hut, though not before throwing her mother one last venomous glare.

Beside the elf, Flemeth gave a delighted chuckle. “Oh, I imagine I will pay for that somehow, just you wait.”

“Is she going to be alright if we have to order her into battle?” asked Sagramor, more than a little concerned.

“She will follow your commands well enough, so long as they do not condemn her to a pointless death,” Flemeth assured him. “Of course, do something she disapproves of and you’ll know it!”

“Charming,” remarked Alistair, giving Sagramor a disbelieving glance.  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“We need allies, Alistair,” the elf reminded him. “If Morrigan is willing to help us, I’m not inclined to turn her away. I understand what you meant about the Chantry, but the Wardens have recruited mages into the Order before, right?”

“Except that we’re not actually recruiting her as a Warden,” the former templar responded. “Still, you’ve got a point; the Order’s taken allies where it could find them. As for the Chantry, well, I suppose we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I don’t mean to distrust her, Sagramor, and I apologize if it seems like I’m being ungrateful. I guess that after seven years of being constantly told that mages are dangerous and need to be watched, I’ve internalized far more of it than I’d like.”

“I understand. After nineteen years of being bullied by humans, particularly nobles, I get a little edgy around such men too. Let’s just try and stay diplomatic, shall we? We’ve got plenty of problems to deal with without creating new ones between us.”

“Consider me chastised,” Alistair joked, smiling for the first time since Duncan’s death. “As long as she pulls her weight, I don’t think we’ll have any problems.”

“I’m so pleased to have your approval,” interjected Morrigan as she approached, heavy pack in hand, sarcasm dripping from her every word. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination, ‘tis not far and you will find much you need there. Or, if you prefer, I will simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

“No, you are to be an equal member of our company, Morrigan,” Sagramor reassured her. “I’d prefer it if you spoke your mind.”

Flemeth laughed uproariously at the notion. “Oh, you will regret saying that!”

“Dear, sweet mother, how kind you are to cast me out like this,” the younger woman shot back. “Oh, I shall remember this moment fondly.”

“Well, as I always say; if you want something done right, do it yourself… or hear about it for the next decade or so!”

“Could you tell us more about this village, Morrigan?” Sagramor requested.

“’Tis called Lothering, located about a week’s journey from here; I have been there once in my wanderings. ‘Tis a place of little importance, just a stop along your Imperial Highway where traders purchase their goods from the local farmers and craftsmen. Still, we should be able to obtain enough supplies there to last us until the next leg of our journey.”

“Lothering,” murmured the elf, recalling the name from his conversations with Hawke. “Does this village have any defenses?”

“Capable of turning back the darkspawn horde? No,” answered Morrigan. “They possess a palisade that might discourage wandering bandits, but little else. Once the horde reaches them, they will not last long.”

“All the more reason to get there quickly then,” Alistair urged him. “The way our luck’s been running, I don’t feel confident assuming they know what happened at Ostagar. We have to warn them about the horde’s advance, not to mention Loghain’s treachery.”

“So a hard march then,” Sagramor acknowledged, double-checking to ensure they were ready for the journey, feeling a pang of regret that he might never see Hawke again. The human had gone out of her way to aid him at Ostagar, and while he might not have been able to save her, he could at least warn her family about the encroaching danger. It was the very least he could do, and he hoped that if nothing else, the warrior’s death had been a quick one. Her survival was regrettably unlikely. “Well, if we’re all ready, then let’s move out. We have a great deal of ground to cover, all of it potentially hostile. Flemeth, I must thank you again for your assistance.”

“Farewell, mother,” said Morrigan, gesturing dismissively towards their home. “Do not forget about the stew on the fire, I would hate to return to a burned-down hut.”

“Bah! It is far more likely you will return to see this hut and the rest of the Wilds swallowed up by the Blight!” hissed the old woman.

“I… All I meant was--” the dark-haired girl stammered guiltily, but the crone would have none of it.

“Yes, I know. Do try to have fun, dear. Now, you should all be on your way.”

“Would you like us to escort you out of here then?” asked Sagramor.

Flemeth shook her head in disdain. “Considering what the world has done to me in the past, I have been more than generous to it as it is. I shall remain, Warden. You need not worry on my account, and time is against you already. Thedas will not save itself, correct?”

“More’s the pity,” Sagramor remarked dryly. Yet, they were committed. The elf’s sense of compassion could not stand the thought of so many dying undefended, and his pride would accept nothing less than his best efforts in defending them. He had always dreamed of becoming a hero, and while the circumstances were far from ideal, he could not back down now. And isn’t this what heroes have always done? Stand against impossible odds? “Then let’s get started. Morrigan, lead the way. Alistair, take the rearguard and keep an eye out for the darkspawn. Time to save the world.”

*******************************

Several leagues north of Ostagar, Carver Hawke’s youthful reserves of strength finally gave out. Groaning, the young man collapsed onto a bed of pine needles, his legs refusing to heed the howls of the darkspawn at his heels and carry him away once more. For the past few hours, he had done nothing but run, dredging up every last bit of his stamina and his knowledge of the surrounding terrain to widen the distance between himself and his nightmarish pursuers, but now, he had nothing left to give. Hands trembling with exhaustion, he dragged himself up upon his greatsword, his every breath betraying how utterly worn down he was. Even the act of taunting the trio of approaching monsters seemed too much, so Carver merely readied himself to die as best as he could, lamenting how this long-awaited opportunity to prove his valour would be his last.

Third Company was gone. As they were one of the first units from the main army to escape the massacre, Captain Varel had tried to rally the broken army to them, trying to bring as many scattered units and men together as possible in order to preserve something of a fighting formation. Riders had been sent to track down Loghain’s forces and bring them over in support, but if Varel’s messengers did manage to find the missing teryn, they did so too late. Already exhausted from the savagery of the fighting at Ostagar and faced with fresh darkspawn reserves, Third Company broke in spite of their best efforts. Marian had stood at his side, like she always did, and when there had been no hope of holding the enemy back, told her brother to run. That had been hours ago, and he had yet to see his sister since. He’d yet to see anyone. For all he knew, he was the last survivor of Cailan’s army... for the next few minutes, at any rate.

Marian… His relationship with his sister had always been a contentious one, and he resented being forced to leave her there on the field of battle, but he loved her all the same, and a sudden anger came over him at the thought of her left to suffer at the hands of the darkspawn. That anger gave him strength enough to parry the first blow, arms screaming with exertion as his dull steel clashed against the hurlock’s black metal blade. Up came the darkspawn’s shield, its leather face clotted with gore, slamming Carver to the ground, and his sword slipped from his weary hands. Desperately, he scrabbled for the blade, anticipating the kiss of the darkspawn’s sword into his back, ripping out chunks of the soft loam in his haste to die with a sword in his hands, as a man should. He was no longer the baby of the family, as much as Marian tried to deny it, and since he could not prove himself under her shadow, at least he could die defying these monsters to his last breath.

And then the hurlock gave a small moan, a pitiful and unlikely sound to come from a creature that monstrous, and fell forward, the black-fletched arrow lodged in the back of its skull. The remaining two darkspawn turned, howling in fury at the newcomer emerging from behind an ancient pine tree, and through eyes left drained by lack of sleep, Carver saw his rescuer.

It was Marian, tired, battered and with dried blood caking her now ruined tabard, but very much alive.  A captured longbow was gripped firmly in her hands, likely seizing during the chaos of the rout. Red lips turned up in a furious snarl, and the young woman’s second arrow took a genlock through the eye, flinging it backwards into the undergrowth. The final darkspawn, a bare-torsoed hurlock scarred and branded across the length of its body, leapt towards the interloper, fists clenched about a pair of serrated war axes. Marian’s next shot took the beast right in the chest, but the monster was hardly slowed. Cursing, she took up her greatsword and leapt back to avoid the sweep of its axes, but her reflexes had been slowed after the night’s fighting and the day’s frantic escape, and she grunted in pain as the darkspawn’s attack gouged her breastplate.

Without thinking, Carver charged the hurlock, blade sinking into its back leg. The creature turned to face this new threat, and its blank eyes were still on Carver when Marian took off its head with a single slash. “Carver!” she shouted, shoving the darkspawn corpse away, sword abandoned as she embraced her brother. “Are you alright? Have you been wounded?”

“I’m fine, sister,” Carver protested, his own relief evident. True, he and his sister had their issues, but for that one glorious moment, all was forgotten as he inwardly reveled at her survival. “Seriously, you don’t need to hug me that tightly.”

“Sorry,” Marian responded, releasing his brother. “Are you fit enough to travel? There’s probably more darkspawn on their way, and the more distance we put between us and them, the better our chances.”

“What about the rest of the Company? Anyone else make it out?”

“If they did, they’re scattered all over the landscape,” Marian remarked grimly, sheathing her blade. Carver had never seen his sister this tired and beaten-down before, and if he was nearing the point of exhaustion, she had long since passed it. It was sheer force of will and determination that was keeping her standing, and any stray thought of confessing his own weariness died on the tip of his tongue. “The army’s well and truly broken now.”

“There has to be someone!” snapped Carver. “The darkspawn couldn’t have killed everyone. There must be some surviving units we could make contact with, or somewhere we could rally-”

“We were betrayed, Carver.” Marian said it so matter-of-factly that Carver could only gape at her, astonished that she could speak of treason in such a dull tone. A glint of anger entered her blue eyes, and the venom began to pour, tempered by the nightmares she had witnessed and unrestrained at long last. “Loghain betrayed us, brother. That son-of-a-bitch pissed his armour, turned his forces about and left us all to die.”

“Maker’s breath…” Carver whispered, sitting down on a fallen log in shock. Loghain, a traitor? The very notion of it was impossible. He was the standard of heroism to which most soldiers of Ferelden aspired, and King Maric had considered him his greatest friend. It was ludicrous. Unthinkable.

And looking into his sister’s eyes, Carver knew it was absolutely true. “What do we do know?”

“We go home, brother. We get Bethany and Mother, and we do what we can to keep them safe.” Her voice became cold as the winds of winter, and Carver shivered, recognizing the single-minded determination he both respected and envied her for. “And neither men nor beasts nor darkspawn will bar our way!”