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 Twenty-Five: Truth and Reconciliation - Part Two

“You’re a hard man to find, Warden!” the merchant greeted Sagramor with an enthusiastic boom, arms thrown open wide with a showman’s flare. They’d arrived just as he’d finished a sale, for behind him, Mayor Murdock and a clutch of villagers were busy carrying a dozen long, heavy crates from the back of his horse-drawn wain, yet his attentions remained focused on the approaching Warden and Qunari, white teeth flashing in an ingratiating smile as he brought his hand forward, warm face framed by a pair of long, ginger braids hanging down either side. “Though I must say, it is a great honour to meet you. Loghain’s description doesn’t really do you justice, Master Sagramor.”

Cautiously, Sagramor shook the proffered hand. “You have me at a disadvantage, ser.”

“A thousand pardons, Warden, where are my manners?” the merchant accepted the mild reproof. “Levi Dryden, at your service. Did Duncan ever mention me? Levi of the Coin? Levi the Trader?”

There was a note of expectant, almost desperate hope in the man’s voice, one that Sagramor regretted to disabuse. “Unfortunately, Duncan never mentioned you, ser, but in all fairness, I only knew him for a short time, and the fight against the Blight took priority.”

“Really? He never told you of old Levi? We’d known each other for years,” the merchant muttered disapprovingly. “A shame, but understandable; he was never one to speak of idle things, even old friends, when he had duties to attend to. Still, I can hardly believe he’s gone. These are dark days, Warden.”

“We’ll win through them, merchant, and Duncan will be avenged, I can promise you that. But how did you recognize me? Did one of the villagers tell you who I was?”

“No, I’d heard mention you were in town, but it’s not like someone specifically pointed you out. Truth be told, I knew who you were even before I saw you.” Darting back to his wain, the merchant rummaged about for a few moments, eventually returning with a cheap paper leaflet in his grasp. “These are all over northern Ferelden, or they should be by now.”

Accepting the leaflet, Sagramor’s eyes immediately widened at the sight of the familiar-looking visage that dominated the page, his own features twisted into a hateful caricature no doubt meant to stoke the reader’s hatred and give further emphasis to the WANTED label stenciled in thick black letters above. There was a name given too, a sobriquet designed to deepen that fear and paint him as something inhuman, the Warden recognizing the cultural prejudice rooted in those words even as he spoke them aloud. “’The Grey Wolf of Denerim.’ Interesting name for me.”

“A vile one!” Levi all but spat. “It ain’t right that any of the Order should be tarred with the same brush as those disgusting beasts. What have the Wardens ever done to be compared to wolves, of all things?”

Making a note of the human’s reaction, Sagramor continued examining the wanted poster. Below the portrait, the many crimes Loghain’s regime had levelled against him were spelled out in blocktype, and the elf felt his outrage grow with each additional charge he muttered. “Murder, regicide, espionage, high treason, incitement to rebellion… and a five hundred sovereign reward for death or capture?!” It was an astronomical sum, the kind of coin only the richest of guilds or most powerful of noble houses might expect to see in their lifetimes, and Sagramor glanced back upwards at the merchant, instantly suspicious. “You haven’t show this poster around to anyone else, I hope?”

“Perish the thought, Warden, it wouldn’t do for me to sell you out. It would shame Duncan’s memory, not to mention make all my work in bringing the Wardens back in the first place for nothing. No, Arl Howe has been printing these like mad and ordered them distributed across the kingdom. Even us merchants have to make room for them in our wagons or else our goods’ll be confiscated. You should be careful if you’d heading up north. The Regent’s stopping at nothing to hunt you, and he’s even put out bounties on your friends as well. They’ve got wanted posters for them too, if you’d like to see.”

“We’ll be careful,” the elf declared, making sure not to specify their destination. If this man truly was a spy, then fishing for their plans would be exactly the sort of thing he might try. Still… “You said you brought the Wardens back to Ferelden?”

“Not just me, of course, there were a bunch of us working to get the Order’s exile overturned. After the Orlesians were kicked out and Maric took the throne, a bunch of us long-standing Grey Warden supporters petitioned the King to let the Order return. Lots of people looked on the Wardens as freeloaders and renegades, so not much has changed there, but Maric, Andraste bless him, was a fair-minded ruler who realized how important the Wardens were. He actually went with them on some secret mission with the Warden-Commander Genevieve, and when he returned, he immediately rescinded old King Arland’s decree banishing the Wardens. That’s how I met Duncan, actually; he’d fought alongside Maric, and we became good friends. In fact, you see, he’d promised that together, we’d look into something important for the Wardens, and for me. But poor Duncan’s, well, no more. A tragedy it is, at that. But I know he’d want his work carried on, and his pledge fulfilled.”

“So, what exactly would you have us do? I’ll give you a fair hearing, of course, but I need to know the details before I agree to anything.”

“Well, you see, my family’s been involved with the Order for a long time. My great-great-grandmother, Sophia Dryden, was the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden before King Arland banished the Order back in the Storm Age, and when he did, he even went so far as to declare House Dryden traitors and strip us of our lands and titles.”

“Maker!” swore the elf. “Do you know why he did it? I know a lot of kings wouldn’t need a reason to do something like that, but still…”

“Hard to say, Warden, I’ve never been able to figure that out for certain. After Arland died, there was a civil war, loads worse than the one we’ve got brewing now, and best I can figure, a lot of the records got destroyed or simply lost to history once the country finished picking up the pieces. My family suffered too, but Drydens are tough. We rebuilt, became merchants, and we never lost our pride.”

“So you are not truly merchants, but noblemen turned merchants,” stated Sten, arms folded across his broad chest in obviously disapproval. ”Such things would never be endured under the Qun.”

“We did what we had to do, ser,” Levi answered calmly, unperturbed by the Qunari’s bluntness. “But getting back to Duncan’s promise… you see, my family reveres Sophia Dryden, even back in the day when the Crown was dragging her name through the muck, but we still don’t know the truth about what happened to her. All we know is that she died at the old Grey Warden base at Soldier’s Peak, up in the Coastlands. That’s what Duncan promised, see; he’d find the evidence we need to clear her name and reclaim our family’s honour, and we’d restore the fortress as a base for the Ferelden Wardens to use.”

“Soldier’s Peak…” Sagramor muttered, brows furrowed in thought. Duncan had mentioned it in passing on the road to Ostagar; one of the great Warden chapter-keeps the Order had raised in ages past, the efforts of so many stonemasons and labourers and Wardens now abandoned and shamefully left to rot. “Tell me, what’s kept you from investigating it yourself?”

“Well, no one’s been to Soldier’s Peak since Arland’s days, or at least, none’s that come back. I can pick my way through the tunnels leading up to the fortress; it’s a proper maze, but I’ve spent years mapping it out. But the fortress itself, well… folks say it’s haunted, and it’ll be dangerous for certain.” The plaintive note returned. “Will you think on it, at least?”

Weighing the merchant’s request for a moment, Sagramor at last graced him with a nod. There was much about the man’s story he’d need to confirm with Alistair: any man who claimed an intimate friendship with the fallen Duncan would be known to the young man he’d taken under his wing, and to traverse the lands ruled by Arl Howe with an active bounty on their heads would also demand some serious consideration. Yet there was no point in dismissing Levi’s offer out of hand, especially if both it and his loyalty to the Grey Wardens were genuine. And despite his caution, Sagramor couldn’t help but be intrigued by the notion of reclaiming the Peak, to see a lost fragment of the Order’s glory restored to its proper state, especially given how useful a fortress built to endure a Blight would prove. “I will think on it, Master Dryden. Currently, we have some other, more time-sensitive business to attend to, and I’ll make no promises, but we’ll see what we can do.”

“A thousand blessings upon you, Warden!” said Levi, exuberant even at the ambiguous response. “I won’t keep you from your duties: you’ve a Blight to stop, after all, and I can keep travelling up the northern road until you’ve decided. But when you’re ready to head up to the Peak, send word to my cousin Andrei at the Inn of the Golden Dragon in Amaranthine, and he’ll get in touch with me so we can go up together.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“Undoubtedly. The entire family’s been wanting to find out the truth about Sophia for years now, and not one of us would ever think about denying you shelter or turning you in. I owe you for this, Warden, I really do.”

“Then perhaps you might be able to help us with something,” Sagramor proposed, gesturing towards Sten. “My friend here is looking for a Qunari greatsword, one taken from him after he was wounded by the darkspawn. Do you have anything like that?”

Levi rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Unfortunately not, Warden. I’m not in the habit of selling salvaged weapons, not with my brother Mikhael forging the best arms and armour in Ferelden, and I definitely don’t have anything like that in stock. Mind you, I did stumble across a bunch of dead Qunari about two weeks back, near the shore of Lake Calenhad, though if there was anything there, Faren probably got to it first.”

“Faren?” Sten made the unfamiliar name a curse. “Who is that?”

“Another merchant, ser Qunari, bit of a weaselly fellow. He normally travels along the passes leading to Orzammar, though for whatever reason, he came further south this year. When I first got to the battle site, he’d already packed up, left without so much as saying hello. Can’t say for certain he has what you’re looking for, but it may be worth checking out.”

“It may indeed. Our thanks, Master Levi,” said Sagramor, shaking the human’s hand. “When the time comes to fulfill Duncan’s promise, we’ll let you know.”

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As he did every time he stepped into the gilded halls of the Denerim Chantry, Rendon Howe restrained himself from spitting at the cloying aura of self-righteousness, thick as the clouds of incense lingering throughout the grand edifice, taking great care not to betray his disgust at the filthy peasant masses surrounding him. The main hall was packed tight with all manner of folk; widows and orphans grieving the losses at Ostagar, desperate petitioners pleading to the Maker for salvation from the darkspawn threat, even some foolish souls engaged in a service of remembrance for that idiot Cailan. Beggars too littered the halls, and instantly took notice of the nobleman’s presence, crowding desperately around him, hands extended for alms. One of the indigents, bolder than the rest, dared reach out to Loghain’s right hand, but Howe’s bodyguards, six strong knights handpicked for their ruthlessness and dedication to their lord, closed ranks and bullied the beggar back with their shields, the brutality of their reprisal motivating the rest to look elsewhere for charity.

Howe detested going to the Chantry. Indeed, as a rule, he resented leaving his newly-acquired palace, emerging only when the demands of his duty could not be passed off to an underling, and even then, ensuring he travelled in unmarked coaches and under heavy guard. It was more than just a matter of security for the cagey nobleman, but of pleasure; after so many years enduring the discomforts of Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine, the majesty of the Arl of Denerim’s estate was a welcome boon, and one he sought to enjoy to the fullest. Nor was he one of the mewling sheep who pleaded for the Maker’s grace to improve their lot, he preferred to rely upon his own cunning rather than the patronage of a distant god, to seize upon profitable opportunities as they arose. It was for the sake of such an opportunity that he’d deigned to attend the Chantry’s services over the past several weeks, sowing the seeds that, for the sake of his own ambition, he hoped to reap today. And then I can let my messengers bear the burden of coming here, he promised himself, letting that happy thought carry him through the ranks of the diseased and the helpless on the way to the rearmost chapels. Templars, faces hidden beneath full helms, stared down the Arl and his escort for one tense moment, before a sharp female voice from within bade them step aside. Opening the door to the chapel, Howe cautiously examined the room before ordering his guards to remain without, stepping in and greeting its sole occupant with a respectful bow. “Your Reverence, it is wonderful to see you again.”

“It is always an honour to meet with the Arl of Denerim,” came the woman’s reply, as devoid of warmth and empathy as the Frostbacks in midwinter, and stern as a taskmaster at the whip. Howe had met the Revered Mother Hale on several occasions beforehand, either in private audiences like today or in the general Chantry services he’d made a point of attending these past few weeks, and it had not taken him long to discover the fanatic’s heart that beat within her. She’d been a foundling, adopted by the Chantry as the merest infant, and forty years of service to the faith had made a woman who actively resented all those who did not share it, grey eyes like chips of flint set into the stony lines of her face, thin mouth perpetually downturn. In that time, she’d gained a reputation as one of Denerim’s more conservative clerics, forever railing from the pulpit about the treachery of mages, the corruption of non-humans, the degradation of public morality, and of the need to combat such things without hesitation or mercy. In short, she was a true believer, utterly rooted in the convictions of her dogma, but he’d dealt with true believers before. “Your lordship has been a frequent petitioner to the Chantry as of late. It is good to see there are still men of faith within the Landsmeet.”

“I’ve had something of a spiritual awakening in recent days, Your Reverence,” Howe proclaimed, grateful he’d practiced such pious drivel beforehand. A pouch of gold, the latest of several he’d offered up to the Chantry in the past few weeks, was placed upon the altar, clawed fingers emerging from the sleeves of Hale’s robes to snatch it away. “I can’t help but believe the Maker sent you to guide me onto the path, for your words have inspired me to restore that faith and shape my devotions to Him.”

A flicker of pride, quickly stifled, crossed the elder cleric’s features. “Perhaps if this country had been faithful to begin with, it would not face this crisis at all,” she declared stiffly, iron gaze settling upon him. “Ostagar was the Maker’s punishment upon this land, Arl Howe, His means by which to chastise us for our licentiousness, our lack of devotion, our toleration of the mages and nonhuman scum that infest the gutters and corrupt our souls. Only once we have cleansed this kingdom of sin and left it white as snow will we know victory. The Maker will not accept anything less from His children.”

Inwardly, Howe’s temper flared at the implied criticism, but patience won out over pride… if just barely. He’d spent too much time and gold arranging things to see it all fall apart now, and bridling the excesses of his tongue, changed tack according. “Indeed, I came here today in hopes of furthering that mission, Your Reverence. The loss of the Grand Cleric, and now of the Revered Mother Nwylle, must weigh heavily on you.”

“My faith in the Maker sustains me through all trials. And as for Nwylle, she will hardly be missed,” Hale remarked acidly. “Why have you come here?”

“The business of state, Your Reverence. Tell me, has the Chantry determined who is to serve as the next Grand Cleric of Ferelden? The Regent is eager to know who the Divine’s choice might be, so we might better stand together against the evils that beset us.”

“She has not. Indeed, we have received no communication from Val Royeaux since the border was sealed.” Grey eyes fixed on the nobleman in a suspicious glare. “I would hope your troops would not dare hinder the Maker’s servants for a mere temporal concern.”

“I assure you, we would never even dream of doing so,” Howe replied, the practiced lie flowing smoothly from his lips. A party of priests and their Templar escorts carrying the Divine’s orders to the Chantry in Ferelden had indeed crossed into Ferelden territory a little over two weeks past, their ship passing through the blockades around Highever unhindered, only to “tragically” succumb to attack by raiders further east past the port of Amaranthine. The ship itself had been burned to the waterline and the corpses pitched overboard, but not before his agents learned how the Revered Mother Nwylle had been selected as Ferelden’s new Grand Cleric, a heart failure induced by the subtle poisons Ganz laced into her food tidying up that loose end. Nwylle would not have served: she was too humble, too reasonable, too adverse to the dirty business of politics to fit the role Howe intended. But for Hale, to sin in the Maker’s name was no sin at all, even the dirtiest deed made clean when committed by His chosen messengers, and that self-righteousness would make her a useful instrument if properly directed. “Perhaps, Your Reverence, if the Grand Cathedral will not stir itself to offer consul and direction to the Chantry in Ferelden, then the Maker’s servants here must look to themselves for a guiding hand.”

“What exactly are you suggesting, my lord?”

“It simply seems to me that until the Grand Cathedral comes to a decision, someone must speak with the voice of Andraste for this land, and out of all the many clerics in the Chantry’s service, you are by far the most capable of doing so. You alone have the strength to do what is necessary, and the Regent would prefer it if you took the Grand Cleric’s seat.”

Narrow lips tightened. “To speak of such things, for a kingdom to dictate the affairs of the Chantry… some might consider it blasphemy.”

“Some might,” Howe acknowledged, maintaining a casual air. He was treading on very dangerous ground now, the slightest misstep jeopardizing all he had worked for, and failure here would spoil any value the unforgiving priest might offer them. Not to mention incur Loghain’s anger. “But I merely suggest that in times of great adversity, the best amongst us rise to meet these challenges, even if they must have power thrust upon them. Loghain recognizes this. After all, who would think that a mere farmboy would become the greatest general this land has seen since Hafter himself? Surely your leaders would not object to a display of initiative by a valued member of their order, especially if it preserves Ferelden in these dark times? Better that a strong voice rises to offer masses guiding leadership than permit them to wallow in hopelessness and anarchy. Act as a Grand Cleric might, and the Regent is more than happy to treat you as such.”

“And what would the Regent want in return for such sanction?”

Howe offered an idle shrug. “Merely that you work with us to protect Ferelden from all her enemies. With crown and Chantry united in their efforts, there is no limit to what we might accomplish. And when the crisis has passed and this land stands secure once more, I have no doubt the Grand Cathedral will reward you for all you have done. Who better to serve as the official Grand Cleric of Ferelden than the woman who shepherded its people through a darkspawn invasion? Who better, perhaps, to sit upon the Sunburst Throne itself?”

To her credit, Hale tried to disguise it, but for a man as base and cunning as Rendon Howe, the glimmer of avarice that flickered in the zealot’s eyes might as well have been a shrieking proclamation to the heavens. I have her. “I mean no disrespect towards Her Perfection, of course, but I have heard it said of late that her health has taken a turn for the worse.” That was an understatement: the Divine Beatrix III was a senile old woman, barely able to control her bladder much less an institution as powerful as the Chantry. Already, the Grand Cathedral had become a hive of intrigue as rival clerics jockeyed for position and favour, anticipating the moment when she finally died and a new Divine would be elected, the sanctified nature of the position offering no immunity from the intrigues of politics, least of all in that pit of vipers that called itself the Orlesian Empire. Any cleric with the slightest hint of ambition was counting down the days until the Sunburst Throne stood empty, and for all her zealous piety, Hale was clearly one of them, the tantalizing promise of supreme religious power undermining her sense of caution right before his eyes. “Forgive me a moment’s lack of faith, but I fear for the future of Mother Chantry when the Divine passes on, with all the evils present in our world. The Chantry needs someone who can make it strong again and inspire the faithful just as you did for me,” Howe remarked flatteringly. “The voice of Andraste must be one of resolve and courage, and we will do all we can to ensure you become that voice in the days to come.”

“You speak wisely, my lord. It is relief to know that the Regent is taking his responsibilities towards the faith seriously.” Stiffly, the Revered Mother offered Howe a nod of acceptance. “The people of Ferelden are weak, impious, forever succumbing to their vices and permitting these evils to take root in their lands and in their souls. A strong hand is needed to guide them and bring them towards the Maker’s light, and if the Crown is willing to aid me in doing so, then I may indulge you in kind.”

“Thank you… Your Grace,” said Howe, the use of a Grand Cleric’s honorific drawing a slight, vain smile from the priestess. He doubted the Grand Cathedral would ever see Hale walk through its doors, let alone take up the Divine’s seat, but as long as she believed that her path to the Sunburst Throne could be cleared in any way by Loghain, she was theirs, and now any dissenters to the Regent’s rule would face not just ruthless punishment but spiritual condemnation. There were other ways to crush dissent and ensure order than simply force of arms. The efforts of the Revered Mother Bronach had done much to keep the Usurper’s reign afloat, and now, Loghain had his own pet cleric to call upon. Until we no longer need her… “As a matter of fact, should you be seeking inspiration for your next sermon, there is a topic near and dear to my heart that I would be most honoured to hear you speak on.”

“And what would that be, my lord?”

“Elves, Your Grace.” A smile with too many teeth shadowed the chapel’s light. “I want you to preach about elves…”

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

His armour retrieved and a lead on his sword obtained, Sten withdrew back up to the castle noticeably more content than when he’d emerged, even going so far as to let that gratitude for the Warden’s efforts emerge past the aegis of his stoic demeanour. Sagramor took that as a positive sign. Fate, circumstance and the Blight had thrown their motley little band together, but to forge them into a true brotherhood would require dedication on his part, and if even Sten, perpetually reserved and scornful of all things non-Qunari, was starting to warm up to him, then such efforts had not been in vain.

That duty attended to, Sagramor stepped towards the cool comfort of the chantry, casually working his way around the gaggle of laughing children playing before the great doors, the portal still left scarred and battered from where the revenant had laid into it. Pausing inside to make a brief obeisance at the main altar, he made for the northern side-chapel, Leliana’s voice luring him onward like the sirens spoken of by sailors making port at Denerim’s great harbour. Though a doom at her hands would be grand indeed, the Warden jested to himself, a sudden, vain urge compelling him to wipe any last traces of red dust from his new-forged armour or his trademark cloak lest he shame himself in front of the beautiful Orlesian. In the tranquil stillness, he could not help but inadvertently eavesdrop on the whispered words emanating from the northern side-chapel, fervent prayers for the people of Lothering, the success of their quest… and for his own safety.

Before Sagramor could come to grips with that fact, her prayers abruptly ceased, and a familiar, beautiful face emerged from behind the bookshelves partitioning the chapel from the rest of the chantry, her inviting smile fixing him in his tracks. “Good day, Grey Warden. All is well?”

“All is well. Am I interrupting your devotions? I can give you some privacy, if you’d like.”

“Not at all. Would you care to join me? We haven’t had a chance to talk lately.”

“I’d be honoured,” the elf replied, gratefully taking a seat beside her and taking the opportunity to marvel at her beauty. Owain’s doubts about the quality of his leatherwork were unfounded, and Sagramor had to force himself not to shamefully gawk at the lovely redhead in her new armour, the old, battered set replaced with a suit of supple, high-quality black leather, leaving her left arm bare to the shoulder and reinforced with scale mail at her torso even as it highlighted her more feminine attributes. Above her breasts, red cloth was held in place by a series of red cords crisscrossing her athletic figure, bearing one of Andraste’s holy symbols upon the field, while as before, her skirt was comprised of a series of reinforced, segmented leather strips, offer both mobility and protection while still permitting tantalizing glimpses of her perfect thighs. “New armour working out for you?”

“Yes, Owain brought in some leatherworkers to help, and they did a wonderful job,” Leliana expressed, casting blue eyes over his own half-plate, long booted legs tucked beneath her. “And I must say, your armour looks rather dashing on you.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” muttered the elf, blushing scarlet as her hair. “No doubt I’ll be testing it out before long.”

“The Maker has smiled on us so far, my friend. We do His bidding by seeking out the Urn, how could He turn His back on such a quest, especially after all we have done so far?”

“Perhaps. I just wish He could have saved Lothering. How are you holding up, by the way? I can’t imagine this is easy for you.”

Sighing, Leliana turned back to the votive image of Andraste she’d taken such strength from before the undead attack, the ceramic eyes of the Maker’s mortal bride seemingly staring back at her, serene and endlessly patient. “It isn’t, but… we all knew that Lothering could not be saved, Sagramor. Ostagar’s fall had seen to that.”

“True, but there’s a difference between acknowledging that and actually having it happen. If there was anything more we could have done…”

“I know you would have done so. Think of all you have done since we departed the village: protecting Redcliffe in its darkest hour, standing with the Circle despite the terrible risks in doing so, saving me from Sloth’s minions... That anyone from Lothering survived is due in no small part to you, and you have done so much in the time since.  I do not blame you for what happened there, Sagramor, you’ve no reason to feel guilty about anything. I will miss Lothering and those we lost, but there are still so many more communities that we can save, and we will. I will be fine, but thank you for checking.” She offered him a wry smile. “And I am certain the Hawkes would have survived Lothering’s fall. Marian is a very driven woman, and she’s always possessed the strength to see her family safe through any trial.”

Sagramor nodded. “I got that impression from her as well. Shame she decided against joining us.”
A wistful sigh escaped the redhead’s full lips. “It is, but she has her own path to tread. They will go with my prayers, no matter where that road takes them, but I made a choice too, Sagramor. I do not regret it, and I never will.”

“Thank you. That means more to me than I can express,” exclaimed the elf. “And if you ever need someone to talk to…”

“I shall seek out no one else,” Leliana remarked teasingly. “Thank you for trusting in me, Sagramor. I know it must have seemed strange, having someone like me want to join you--”

“Who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?” the elf jested, provoking a musical laugh from the Orlesian woman, blue eyes radiating delight at the compliment. “You’ve earned your place here, Leliana. I’ll admit, I had my doubts when you first offered to join us, but I was wrong to do so. You’ve more than earned your place here, and saved my life more than once in the bargain. This is your world too. It would have been wrong of me to deny you the chance to fight for it, and… and I cannot not see myself doing this without your skill and counsel to call upon.”

“You would have found a way. You always do,” Leliana remarked proudly. Their gaze held for a moment, then she turned away, the light of the midsummer sun that streamed through the closest stained-glass window disguising her faint blush as it danced over her beautiful features. “Shall we head back to the castle? Bann Teagan’s promised something special for the parting feast.”

“And it would be rude to keep our host waiting,” quipped the elf, rising and following her lead back out into the sunlight. A final moment of peace before they departed, for Ferelden needed its champions more than ever…