Note/Disclaimer: this is a continuation of sorts to The Last Day, but can be read on its own. Takes place during Awakening.

Oh, look. Dragon Age still belongs to BioWare, and I'm still writing fics for fun and not making a dime.

A crumbling castle. A fearful city. No men or resources to defend it with. A broken-down economic disaster of an arling. Nobles that squabble with each other, smile to my face, and more than likely plot my death behind my back. When it comes to ruling, it's honestly nothing new. Politics, nobility, the delicate balance of power, and the machinations of it all are part of an intricate dance that will draw you in weather you like it or not, no matter who you are or where you're from. Might as well be good at it.

And there are people out there who actively want the burden and responsibility of ruling. Like constantly having hounds at your back is something to be desired. Like power is anything more than a mindset, a simple idea that you have to do what someone tells you to just because they are who they are. Like that's worth betraying everyone you ever knew and everything you ever were. Like there's nothing wrong with becoming a monster chasing something that isn't even there.

I wasn't supposed to rule over anything – I was supposed to waste my life away in Highever, married to a woman I didn't care about, with children I paid no attention to, and generally fulfilling my duties of being the idiot second son of the local teyrn. I wasn't supposed to inherit anything other than what I already had – rank and a title, along with the respect that had taken my family generations to accumulate that I could throw right down the drain. I was a contingency plan, nothing more. I had no illusions about that.

How odd to find that I've actually made something of myself. There's even a woman who's pregnant with my child out there… somewhere. Carefully hidden where I'll never find her, probably.

I sighed as my head hit the wall with a dull thud.

Idiot, I cursed myself. Why did you let her go?

What else was I supposed to do? Forcibly bind her to me? I can only imagine how well that would've worked out. Fact of the matter is, I was scared and desperate, we made a deal, and now I have to live with the consequences of that decision. Morrigan isn't mine to control. She never was.

Still. I can't help but wonder… was it real? Was any of what we had actually real; or just a clever ploy to get what she wanted out of me? I know she told me that wasn't the case, but she could've lied. It wouldn't be the first time. So how am I supposed to know? I knew how it was going to end long before she left. I'd known all along, I just hadn't wanted to admit it. I was more content to lie to myself, to give myself at least the illusion of happiness as the Blight steadily ruined everything else.

I have to know if it was real.

Maybe, one day, I'll find her. I'll see her again. Just long enough to ask. Just long enough to meet the child I abandoned.

The child.

My child.

That's never going to sound normal to me.

It's so disconcerting to think I'm anyone's father.

I pushed myself back from the wall, shaking my head and trying to focus. It doesn't matter anymore. I've got more important things to think about than all the horror and bad decisions I've made over the past year. Rendon Howe left behind a mess and fate would have me be the one to clean it up.

I was a fool to think killing him was where it ended.

Well, well, the man's horribly familiar voice whispered from some dark corner of my mind.Bryce Cousland's little boy; all grown up and still trying to fit into daddy's armour.

A shiver went up my spine at the memory. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to think of something, anything, else.

Immediately, another memory sprang to mind – my father, covered in blood, clutching at a wound lest his guts spill out, unable to even bring himself to look at me as I fought and screamed and hurled abuse and desperately begged him not to do this to me as Duncan physically dragged me out of there.

"Stop it," I hissed to no one in particular. "Stop, stop, stop…"

Don't do this to yourself. Don't think about it. You're the sodding Warden-Commander for Andraste's sake, you can't just break into pieces in the middle of the keep.

Was it only a year ago? It feels like a lifetime. And yet, also like no time at all.

Everything's so distorted and nothing has made sense to me since that night in Highever. Then I was conscripted into the Wardens and Ostagar happened everything was just so insane it was impossible to keep track of any of it. Now the Blight's over so quickly it barely feels like it happened at all. Sometimes I still wake up and expect to roll over and find Morrigan there. I'll go to talk to Alistair or ask Wynne for help with something and I'll wander aimlessly around the keep for several minutes before realising that they're not here. That they haven't been around for weeks. I should have a better grip on reality by now. Instead, life is a dream from which I can't wake up.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm back at the Circle, still in the grip of a sloth demon. Maybe I never got away, and the Blight raged on without me.

I know that's not really true. Objectively, I know that. I just don't feel like I know that.

It doesn't matter, anyway. There's a reason I came down here, and it's not to wallow in self-pity.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed open the door that lead to the keep's prison, too tired and stressed to really deal with this right now. Or anything. I'm not equipped to govern anything. I shouldn't even be here. That fact was becoming increasingly obvious as I emerged into the prison itself. And immediately stopped dead the instant I saw who was leaning against the bars, looking bored out of his mind.

No.

No.

Oh, you are kidding me.

The Maker certainly does have a grand sense of humour.

At this point, I don't know why I expect anything less.

"Commander?" I heard someone call hesitantly, after I'd done nothing but stand stock still and silent in the doorway for an inordinate amount of time.

Immediately, my head snapped up and I fought to push everything to the side and pretend like I'm a normal, functioning human being for at least a few minutes.

That's never going to happen.

But I can try, right?

"Leave us," I barked, in no mood to be tolerable, or have anyone witness the inevitable emotional implosion I could feel was coming. "All of you. Now."

There was a brief pause as no one took heed of me. I gritted my teeth and fought to rein in the part of me that wanted to scream at them until they fled from my presence.

I will not be a tyrant.

I will be the better man.

I will not become the monster Rendon Howe did.

Fool, his voice murmured snidely. You already have.

I growled quietly and jerked my head slightly, as one guard tentatively stepped towards me, looking worried.

"Commander-"

"Out," I snarled, with more aggression and authority than I even knew I had.

Two guards exchanged a worried glance with each other before they all filed out of the prison, all of them carefully avoiding my gaze. I didn't move as they did, remaining rooted to the spot and struggling to keep track of the millions of thoughts that buzzed around my mind like angry wasps.

All the things I wanted to do and all the things I knew I should never do.

Why should I care what people think anymore? Whose standards am I trying to live up to? Everyone who ever meant anything to me is gone.

I inhaled deeply.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Focus on breathing.

Slowly, cautiously, I took a couple of steps towards the one single occupied cell. Sensing my approach, the prisoner himself twisted around just enough to see me, before scrambling to his feet and giving me one of the harshest glares I'd ever had the luck to be on the receiving end of.

"Well, if it isn't the great hero, conqueror of the Blight and vanquisher of evil," he began in a mocking tone. "Aren't you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?"

A year ago, I'd have flinched at his tone. I'd have shrunk back like a scared animal, fled to some corner where I felt safe and I'd have spent the next several days quietly asking people what I'd done wrong to possibly anger someone so. Because despite how much I told myself, told everyone, that I didn't care what anyone thought of me, I did. I always had. I couldn't rid myself of that.

Shows how much I've changed since then.

Instead, I folded my arms and stared back at him, unflinchingly. "Drop the act, Nathaniel. Feigned sarcastic surprise isn't a good look on you."

Part of me wanted to ask why he's here, why he came crawling back from the Free Marches. I mean, I could deduce the reason fairly easily just from the fact that he's here, glaring at me like I'm the worst person in the world. But part of me still wanted to ask.

Seems no matter how hard I try to escape my past, it'll always come back to bite me.

For once, I wish I could just be the Warden, and dedicate myself to fighting the Blight and darkspawn forever, and leave the rest of it behind. I wish Eugene Cousland, the cocky noble with overly romanticised dreams of war and glory, would just stay dead. That the part of me that's still him would lay down and accept fate for once.

That's who Nathaniel sees when he looks at me, no doubt. The little boy who'd trail after both him and Fergus whenever I had the strength to, begging them to show me how to fight, even though I was too young and, more often than not, plagued by illness. He'd already been sent off to squire in the Free Marches by the time I finally recovered, so of course that little boy would be all he sees.

That little boy who now stands in front of him, in his family's old estate, having murdered his father.

So, no. I'm not going to pretend I don't know why he's come. But I'm not going to stand here and pretend I regret it, either. Somehow my family getting justice matters more to me than a Howe's precious ego. My lip automatically curled at the thought. A Howe's delicate ego is exactly why everything happened in the first place.

"Somehow, I just thought my father's murderer would be more… ah, impressive," he taunted scathingly, putting extra emphasis on the word murderer.

I didn't move. Didn't make any obvious signs that his words affected me, or that I'd even heard them. My eyes fixated on the floor, and for such a long time, I didn't look up. There was nothing for me to say. There was nothing for me to deny. I did murder his father. I was the reason he was here; his family having fallen so low. These were all facts. Well recorded instances in the past year. Maybe if I wasn't a Grey Warden, if there hadn't been a Blight on, if Howe's betrayal of my family wasn't already well known, I might've paid a higher penance for such a high profile killing than a few days imprisoned in Fort Drakon.

I glanced back up at him, eyebrows raised slightly.

Fine. If that's how he wants to play it.

"And I thought that my father's murderer was a good man," I murmured, staring unwaveringly at his face. "I thought I knew him. I thought he was a friend."

At my words, the memory surfaced once more.

Your parents died on their knees, your brother's corpse rots at Ostagar, and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. And what's left? A fool husk of a son likely to end his days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone. You're the last of nothing. This is pointless. You've lost.

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.

He's dead. He died, weeks ago. We fought and I stabbed him and he died. One more corpse to add to the piles of corpses I've left behind.

And yet he haunts me still.

It would appear that you've made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud.

A shiver went up my spine. Out of everything he said, all the twisted things that came out of his mouth, that's what hurts the most. Just that one simple observation.

Your father would be proud.

I hate it. I hate those words. I hate that he's corrupted even the memory of my father for me. Once upon a time, I'd have been overjoyed to hear someone say that to me. Part of me still wants to feel that way. I want it to be true. I want to believe it.

But he said it.

And now that's all I can think about – the fact that he said it, and I desperately want him to be right.

Bile welled up in my throat at the thought, and I struggled to force it back down.

"Your family was going to sell Ferelden out to the Orlesians," Nathaniel spat back at me, drawing me back into reality.

"And you believed that?"

His lip curled. "I don't know. My father never got to tell me what happened. A Grey Warden stole into his estate and assassinated him."

I let out a shout of bitter laughter. "I stabbed him something like twenty times. Not sure assassination is the right word. Bit too bloody and loud to qualify."

That was low.

In that moment, I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to suffer just half as much as I had. I wanted him to know everything. Right down to every single excruciating detail. I wanted him to live with the knowledge that his father died a traitor and a coward, a miserable little snake, clawing desperately at power and influence he couldn't handle and had done nothing to deserve.

"You bastard!" he screamed furiously, marching to the cell door and beating his fists upon it. "My family lost everything because of you!"

I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. "That's true. Can't imagine what that's like. Losing everything."

For so long, I just watched him, cold and indifferent while he stared right back at me, eyes bulging as he fought to contain his rage. I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to know just how a big a mistake he'd made by coming here, by complaining and somehow expecting me to sympathise. He doesn't know what pain is. He has no damn idea what real suffering feels like.

Howes never do. They scheme and claw at power that doesn't belong to them. That has never changed. Maybe it never will. There are generations of well recorded antagonistic behaviour between our families. My father thought he'd managed to put an end to that. Turns out that was just wishful thinking and nothing about our families will change. Howes don't change. They all go bad sooner or later. I'm not idealistic enough to fool myself into thinking it ends here.

Because it won't.

It never does.

After what felt like a small eternity, Nathaniel managed to compose himself enough to find words once again.

"I came here…" he began haltingly, only for his expression to harden and for his eyes to glance back to mine. "I thought I was going to kill you. To lay a trap for you."

"And look how well that turned out."

He shot me a dangerous look, before his expression turned to one of sorrow. "But then, I realised I just wanted to reclaim some of my family's things. It's all I have left."

"If only your father had managed to refrain from committing treason and mass murder," I sighed wistfully. "And he couldn't even get that right."

You're being unfair, the part of me that likes to pretend it's my father told me sadly. He had nothing to do with what happened.

I let out a quiet, thoroughly irritated sigh and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to focus. Trying to ignore the fact that I could so clearly imagine my father's ghost leaning against the wall with his arms folded and looking quietly disapproving that he may as well have actually been there.

He's not there.

He's not real.

Just a by-product of a vivid imagination and a desperation for things to be different. No more real than the spectres that haunted the temple up in the mountains, and the ashes housed within it.

I don't need him to be here to know what my father would want me to do. He'd want me to let go. To stop blaming people. To let the past be in the past. To accept that they're all dead and gone, to stop pining, and move on with my life.

I tried to move on. I tried to be my own person. I tried so damn hard to do that. It never gets me anywhere.

Well. It got me here. Warden-Commander at nineteen, exchanging barbs with someone I used to know who now freely admits to wanting to kill me. Can't say that's what I expected or even wanted out of life.

Maybe I deserve it.

In any case, I'm tired of waiting around for other people to act.

Wordlessly, I approached the bars, pulling out a dagger as I did so. Nathaniel watched me warily, though he didn't move. Maybe he was too confused at what I was doing. I reached through the bars, dagger in hand, turning the blade towards myself.

"So do it," I snarled, pressing the dagger's hilt into his hands, the tip of the blade never wavering from my sternum.

He just stared at me like I was completely insane.

Maybe I was.

I couldn't tell anymore.

Everyone I cared about is gone – there's no point in being afraid to die. Not anymore. I'm a Grey Warden, I don't get that luxury. I've already survived what should have been my final day. Twice, even.

I didn't make it out Highever alive. Not really. The person I used to be – the young noble, the pampered, idiot Cousland boy – died that night, along with his family. There's nothing left of that identity. Me, here, this; it's nothing. Just remnants of a life long since lost. I don't exist anymore, not really. Eugene Cousland died the moment he underwent the Joining. All I am, all I've ever been, is fragments. Shattered pieces of someone who died a long time ago.

He wants to kill me?

He's too damn late.

"Your father had his men try to kill me while I slept," I told him bitterly, still clasping his hands around the dagger, unable to stop the memories from flooding into the forefront of my mind now. "He had my sister-in-law and my nephew, a six-year-old boy, butchered. He slaughtered everyone who remained in the castle. He called my father friend, even as he stabbed him in the back. That's who you're avenging, Nathaniel. That's your precious family legacy."

He didn't move.

For so long, neither of us did.

I don't know what I expected. I don't know what I thought would happen. I don't know how or why I thought he'd believe a single word I said. But he didn't move. So maybe part of him does.

Or maybe he's just too much a damn coward to actually go through with what he said.

I pulled away from the bars, letting the dagger fall from his limp hands and clatter uselessly on the floor. All that posturing, and he can't even back it up. I don't know why I expected anything else.

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. It was just too sad.

"Oh Maker," I said with a sigh, wiping away imaginary tears of laughter while still chuckling to myself. "I can't deal with this. I can't get past how pathetic you are."

He glared up at me, angry and confused. "You-"

"What have you actually done, Nathaniel? Came back to Ferelden – too late to save your father, too late to do anything helpful. Had a good whine because nothing was the way you remembered. Attempted a break in. Got caught in what used to be your own family's estate, like a complete rank amateur. Now look at you – locked up in a cell like a common criminal and all you can do in response is complain how life isn't fair and you deserve more."

Unbidden, Rendon Howe's last words surfaced, echoing endlessly throughout my mind.

Maker spit on you, he'd rasped as he coughed and gasped and choked on his own blood. I… deserved… more.

"Turns out, life isn't fair, and nobody owes you shit," I told him scathingly. "Kill me if you like; it won't bring your father back."

He let out a harsh growl at that. "Whatever my father did shouldn't harm my whole family! Do you realise the Howes are pariahs now? Those of us left?"

You're kidding me.

Tell me he's kidding.

After everything that's happened, everything his father did to my family – to my parents, to my brother, to me – he's still sitting there, blaming me? What does he want from me? An apology?

"Innocent blood runs through Highever in rivers," I had to stop myself from outright screaming at him, shaking with anger now. "And you want me to feel sorry for you?"

There was a moment where he pulled back a step or two like I'd burned him with my question. And in that single moment, something about him, his anger, his frustration, I don't know, seemed to melt away.

"The way I see it…" he began quietly, "the darkspawn are a menace. If it weren't for the Blight, maybe my father wouldn't have… done what he did."

"So you're pinning it on the Blight, is that it?" I laughed. "Can't ever speak ill of the old man, can you?"

Why am I surprised? He never has. That won't change.

"I'm not going to argue with you," I snarled, turning back towards the door. "Stay there and rot, for all I care."

And I slammed the door behind me.

For a moment, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, chest heaving as I struggled to breathe – always sucking down air and never quite feeling like I was getting enough. Memories flooded into my mind now; memories of happier, simpler times. Memories of exchanging a mildly disgusted look with Delilah when our fathers brought up the idea of matching us together right in front of us. Memories of Nathaniel and Fergus sparring in the training yard as I watched from the sidelines, seething with envy. Memories of hurling a book at Thomas' head when he looked around the library for two seconds and before loudly proclaiming that anyone who stayed there for any real amount of time was wasting their life and must have literally nothing better to do. Memories of the few times I'd been able to come here, to Amaranthine, with the rest of my family.

We were all just kids back then. Politics, family rivalries, the subtle machinations that come with having even a modicum of power; none of us cared a fig for it. Not back then. When it was all so innocent. Back in the days when I'd look at Rendon Howe and I'd see a respected authority figure who was something like an uncle to me rather than a vicious, traitorous bastard who stabbed my father in the back.

I made my way down the hall, my hand trailing over the stonework. It's all so familiar, in that cruellest of ways.

I didn't want to be Warden-Commander. I didn't want to take over Amaranthine. I didn't want any of this to happen. I wanted to disappear, to vanish where no one would ever find me. I still do. I want to find Morrigan. I want to know my child. I want to be more than just a story to them. I want to make sure there's at least one good thing I've added to this world, rather than a rampaging, snarling monstrosity that I never should have agreed to conceiving.

I don't want to do this.

I don't want to be here.

Fergus did say Highever will always be home, but I can't go back there. Not after- …no. I can't. I can't confront those ghosts. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But those ghosts just won't leave me alone.

Nathaniel is not his father, my father's voice told me gently, from the same dark corner of my mind that keeps dredging up memories best left forgotten. He doesn't deserve to pay for sins that were never his.

I gritted my teeth angrily. Are we just going to ignore the part where he admitted to plotting to assassinate me? How am I supposed to leave something that behind?

…and I suppose Zevran just, what, offered a cup of tea when we met? You remember Zevran? Antivan elf? One of your closest friends? Hired to assassinate you? Your first interaction was literally him trying to assassinate you?

It was the Blight. I needed help. I was desperate.

You still are, came the reply. And you're letting someone who could help die for no reason.

I could almost see him now – standing there, glancing over me, looking sad. Looking at me and the man I've ultimately become and blaming himself for it. Because he never wanted me to be here. He never wanted me to go to war – to be cold and ruthless and pragmatic and all the other things I've had to be because of the civil war and the Blight.

Your father would be proud.

Would he, though? Would he be proud to see me here, like this, after everything I've been through, everything I've done? This isn't what he wanted for me. Before he died, before I fled Highever, he wouldn't even look at me. Maybe that's because he knew. Maybe he knew what being a Warden would ultimately do to me.

Where I've been… what I've done… there's no coming back from that. I'm never going to be the person I used to be. I can never go back. A year ago, I'd never even considered the possibility of actually killing a man; now I've murdered so many people I've long since lost count. Sometimes I feel like I've left more carnage in my wake than the Blight I was fighting to stop. I've become everything I've never wanted to be, all for stopping the Blight.

Which makes me a successful Grey Warden. Just at the cost of my humanity.

I'm falling into an abyss with nothing to pull me back. And my father knew it.

You are not Rendon Howe, I could imagine him telling me. You do have a choice. You don't have to become the monster he did. You don't have to condemn an innocent man for a crime that was not his.

Be the better man.

I want to.

Maker, I want to forgive and forget so badly, but I can't. I can't. Every time I even think about it, I just see what I've always seen – Highever a burning wreck as people ran screaming through the streets, my father bleeding out on the ground, my mother's tears as she begged me to escape without her, Gilmore's quiet acceptance of his fate as he told me to leave, Nan dead and bloodied on the kitchen floor, Oriana's lifeless corpse tossed carelessly aside as she was cut down for trying desperately to protect her son… Oren, a six-year-old boy, discarded in a pool of his own blood.

Those memories will never leave me. I'll never be free of them. Maybe the man responsible is dead, but what did that change, in the end? All I've really done is run out of people to blame. I still have all this anger and frustration, and nothing and no one to vent it on.

No one ever said forgiveness would be so damn hard.

I groaned loudly, and made my way over to the nearest guard I could see.

"Get me Seneschal Varel," I said sharply, before realising how harsh that sounded. "Please."

The guard nodded curtly and rushed off to find Varel, not bothering to ask any questions.

I'm going to hate myself for this later.

I haven't even made a decision yet and already I know how much I'm going to regret it. At this point, it's just a matter of what I'll regret more. Right now, I honestly don't know the answer.

"Commander," Varel called as he approached, led by the guard, who quickly skirted off back to his normal duties now that my request had been fulfilled.

I jerked my head back in the direction of the prison, before turning around and heading that way myself, as Varel quickly fell into step next to me.

"Nathaniel Howe," I stated flatly when I decided I owed him some kind of explanation, "is locked in the prison."

Varel glanced at me warily, but didn't slow.

"Did you know about this?" I asked, trying extremely hard to keep my tone low and civil.

"I knew we had a prisoner," he answered curtly. "Not the finer points of his identity."

"Someone had to have known. No one bothered to point it out?"

"Not to me, Commander."

There was a silence.

An excruciatingly long silence that seemed to last for an eternity, even though it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

"What would you do?" I asked quietly, pausing at the prison door. "In my position?"

For what felt like an eternity, Varel simply watched me, carefully considering his answer to my question.

"It isn't my place to say, Commander," he said plainly. "You know the man far better than I do."

I shook my head and sighed. "I thought I did. But then, I thought I knew his father, too. I'm not about to make the same mistake my father did."

A mistake I'm sure my father would make time and again, because he always believed in people. In redemption. In forgiveness. In mercy. In doing the right thing by everyone, no matter the cost to yourself. He always had to be the self-sacrificing hero. And he had to instil those values into me and Fergus as well. If he knew about even half of what I've done…

He knew. He knew, back then, on the last day, what kind of a life I was being forced into. There was nothing left of himself to sacrifice, so instead he sacrificed me. My life. My humanity. My choices. My free will. He couldn't look at me as I fought and argued and screamed because he couldn't bear to be reminded of that choice.

Nathaniel is not his father.

It's only now I realise that I'm not mine, either.

"Back again?" Nathaniel bit icily in my direction as I pushed open the door and entered the prison once again. "That was quick."

I glanced questioningly at Varel, like I somehow thought he'd make a decision for me. He just stared back patiently, unmoving as he waited for orders. That's what this is now. I'm actually in charge. I can't hide behind someone else and let them do everything for me. I'm the one people rely on. I'm the one who has to make the decisions and live with the consequences.

I didn't want to rule. Not Highever, and certainly not Amaranthine. By all rights, the man locked in the cell in front of me should've taken over the arling in his father's place. If things had been different, he would have. Eventually. He'd been so close to ending up as my brother-in-law.

Now, I just want him to suffer even half as much as I have.

I want him to know what I was put through.

"I'm invoking the Right of Conscription."

The instant the words were out of my mouth, I was back in Highever for a moment, kneeling next to my dying father and begging him not to give up on everything as Duncan stood over me.

I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and recruit you into the Grey Wardens, despite your objection.

Nathaniel's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You what?"

I stared him down. Just as Duncan had done to me when I'd protested my own conscription. I had to wonder if it felt half as satisfying for him back then as it did for me, right now. I wonder if Nathaniel feels half the rage and anguish I felt back when I was in his place; backed into a corner, with joining the Wardens the only way out. Having the element of choice ripped away. I want him to know what that feels like.

He let out an incomprehensible growl, until he finally managed to find words once again.

"No. No! Hang me, first!"

"Did I say I was giving you a choice?" I snapped back at him. "What part of right of conscription did you fail to understand?"

"You like having Grey Wardens who want you dead?"

"I'll risk it," I told him sweetly, my tone telling him in no uncertain terms that I didn't consider him enough of a threat to pose any real danger to me or my wellbeing. If I can survive the attack on Highever, Ostagar, darkspawn, demons, abominations, cultists, Antivan Crows, witches that turn into high dragons – I'm never getting over that – an Archdemon, and Maker only knows what else, I'm more than capable of surviving whatever poorly thought out assassination attempt of Nathaniel Howe's.

His lip curled. "I don't know if this is a vote of confidence or a punishment."

We both remained where we were, angrily staring each other down, daring the other to blink. It was a tense standoff that didn't end until Varel awkwardly cleared his throat.

"An… interesting decision, Commander," he told me haltingly, before pulling out a set of keys and hastily unlocking Nathaniel's cell door. "Come with me, ser. Let's see if you survive the Joining."

There was a moment as nobody moved. Nathaniel glared at me and I glared back and Varel just glanced between us questioningly every so often. Finally, I moved, just enough to give Varel a curt nod. He let out a loud sigh and went on ahead as Nathaniel hung back, staring at me with renewed hatred and loathing.

"Are you insane?" he demanded venomously.

I smiled grimly. "You want to do right by your family and redeem your honour? This is where you start."

"You're enjoying this."

"Don't doubt it," I replied brightly, gesturing towards the door.

He shot me one final glare before exiting, with me trailing behind him. Varel stood in the hall, waiting patiently for us, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel. Obviously, he didn't trust him not to run. I had no such worries. Nathaniel won't run. He's too damn proud.

"Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Nathaniel Howe," I told him cheerfully, clapping him on the back and walking away.