Oh, Grey Warden
For Josie Lange
9:40 Dragon; Warden Headquarters, Montsimmard
Loghain Mac Tir bolted upright from a sound sleep, drenched in sweat. As soon as his eyes blinked open and terror slowly gave way to reassurance, he realized he had made an awful gasping sound in the process. Once his pounding heart slowed, he hoped that no one had heard the racket. It wouldn't have been the first time the sounds of a Warden in the midst of a nightmare had echoed throughout the barracks—but that was typical of the newly joined, not from an seasoned Warden—not unless…
Fragments of the dream fluttered away. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room, the nightmare lost its narrative, leaving one impression in its wake. Something terrible was calling.
It had been ten years since he had had a dream like that. The springs in his bed creaked a complaint as he put on his boots, his reflexes still slow and sluggish. It was just a dream, he assured himself. With his boots finally laced, he hunched over, still feeling the weight of the nightmare. A stray piece of parchment that had escaped the pile nearest his bed caught his attention. Over the past couple of months, he had taken to reading in bed, compiling notes on darkspawn and magisters. The late nights and subject matter were surely the cause of the dreams.
As he made his way downstairs from his quarters, the earliest hints of dawn filtered through the windows. The cook had been up for hours already, and paid him no heed as he poured himself a cup of strong black tea which had been steeped to perfection in the cast iron kettle. Once he had been appointed Senior Warden, black Gwaren tea would be the first thing he'd requisitioned. There was nothing worse than the thin excuse for tea they served in Orlais. With steaming mug in hand, he made his way to the training yard. The new recruits would not be out for hours, but he liked to work out the kinks and creaks that had plagued him as of late.
After a deep gulp of his bold Gwaren tea, he unsheathed his blade, the steel singing as it left its scabbard. He gave the dummy a perfunctory hit, right on top of the skull. To the Orlesian Wardens' irritation, Loghain had placed a nobleman's mask over the dummy's face. As he swung with renewed intention, a song suddenly interrupted his concentration. He scanned the yard with suspicion, expecting to find the cook in her kitchen garden humming an absent-minded tune—but there wasn't a soul outside. And besides, no one would hum something as unearthly as that so early in the morning. He rubbed his ear, as if to jostle the melody from his head and attacked the dummy again.
The dream. The irksome song. It was not often that Loghain found himself wallowing in nostalgia. But the nightmare had reminded him of someone he'd been trying to forget. There was one night that seemed to stand out among all the others …
9:31 Dragon; Outside South Reach, Ferelden
The dreams had woken him then. The fire at camp was nothing but a bed of embers and she was curled up beside it. Her face was pinched in a slumbering scowl, her head lolling from side to side, as she struggled against some unknown terror. Should he wake her? The first time the dreams had come to him she was there, her dark, angular eyes staring back, unvexed.
He crouched beside her, scanning the campsite to ensure no one else was watching. The last thing he wanted was one of her companions to leap to her defence. He reached out hesitantly, considering the gentlest way to wake her without tearing her heart from her chest from fear. He lay a hand on her shoulder, in the same way he used to rouse Anora. The gesture had the complete opposite effect—the nightmare seemed to repel his hand and she writhed against him. He backed off and spoke barely above a whisper.
"Kelyn, you're dreaming." He gave her another nudge. The warmth of her body gave him pause.
Her eyes snapped open, blinking. She recoiled as terror continued its pursuit.
"The dreams again," he muttered matter-of-factly.
She sat up, using the heel of her palms to rub her eyes.
He pulled a dead leaf from the back of her mussed hair. Normally, it was black and sleek and straight, not a strand out of place. She caught his hand, glared back and released him. She crouched in front of the fire, glowering into it.
"We're getting closer," she said, her eyes scanning the clearing, darting between each pool of shadow.
"It's a wonder you were able to get any sleep at all, after what Riordan told us last night."
Before they had left Redcliffe, the hedge witch had approached them both with a proposition, a promise to save them both from the Warden's sacrifice. Kelyn had turned her down flatly, saying that Loghain would have a better chance at finding redemption than she, that a mage would be doomed no matter her choice. He did not believe her. So, he sought out Morrigan's company without Kelyn's knowledge.
"I no longer have to worry about how this will end." Kelyn said.
Should this ritual work, he gambled that she'd be more amenable to his insubordination once the dragon was dead. He chose silence and secrecy, a decision which would forever haunt him.
She turned, her severe bangs framing her high cheekbones. "Do you hear it sing in your sleep?" No emotion cracked her hardened expression.
"Every night."
He wanted to reach out, stroke her silken hair, glide a finger over her pout, make some connection besides the dreams and tainted blood. But he did not dare. She was untouchable. Unreachable and utterly desirable. It had been a long time since Loghain had felt the pull of desire and even longer since he had felt hope.
9:40 Dragon; Warden Headquarters, Montsimmard
The research Loghain had gathered had become an impressive pile on his desk. Every afternoon, he retreated to the small closet he called an office and sifted through the documents, scrutinizing each page, hoping to tease out some new detail. He read over Hawke's report on the Warden prison. Rumours of what had happened wafted through Orlais, sounding far too fantastical to believe. But he had been in the presence of an Archdemon. Anything was possible. Warden-Commander Clarel had expressed some interest in Hawke's findings, but when the Chantry fell into chaos, she headed west, cutting off all contact with headquarters. No one spoke of the prison anymore—now everyone whispered of rebellion in the Circles and skirmishes with Templars. Loghain found himself humming as he made notes. That dream. That song.
With a sigh of resignation he propped both elbows on the desk, burying his face in his hands and yawned. When that did not erase the song from his mind, he growled. He got up, stretched then leaned on the window sill, focusing on the facts, trying to push the song to the very back of his mind, trying to avoid its bleak implications.
The Warden prison.
Corypheus.
Hawke's assured declaration that she had killed it.
Loghain had a theory, albeit a terrible one. Could these be the earliest days of a new Blight? It was always so hard to tell. He had not listened the first time.
A knock at the door interrupted his musing. He barked a terse, "Come in!" to find a terrified young Warden who had only survived her Joining a week ago.
"Dispatch for you, ser." She was still a little pale, but otherwise well. The Chantry had picked her up after she was discovered healing the sick and injured at the local alienage. She must have had a friend in the Montsimmard Circle, as it was not often that they sent elven apostates to the Wardens.
Loghain's eyes narrowed. "I thought I'd made it clear that all requisitions were to go directly through the quartermaster. What do I look like, a supply clerk?"
She turned the letter over in her hands, but it slipped from her grasp. It sailed to the floor before she could catch it. Just as Loghain was about to chastise her again, she squeezed her eyes shut, and lost her footing, managing to catch herself on the door jamb. Loghain leaped across the room and straightened the young Warden. The Joining, in his experience, never had such lasting effects. Besides the pounding headache immediately afterward, he recalled feeling fine physically.
"Are you sick?" He took her by the shoulder and looked for sign or symptom in her eyes. With a quick shake to her head, she rubbed a pointed ear.
"They told me about the dreams," her Orlesian accent was thick, something that never failed to annoy, but he kept quiet and allowed her to continue. "But they didn't tell me about the song that would chase my thoughts all day long."
"Has anyone else complained of this?"
"All the recruits, ser. It's all just part of the Joining, isn't it?"
Loghain hid his concern. "You are relieved of your duties for the rest of the day. Go tell Warden Cassard that you've a fever and I've ordered you to your bunk until tomorrow."
"My thanks, ser." She bent down, picked up the letter and handed it to him. "Your dispatch, ser. It's from Kirkwall."
He shut the door with a firm hand once she had left. Things were much worse than he thought.
That evening, the Wardens of rank gathered in the senior mess. There were four in all, not counting himself. They were a strange motley of thieves and mercenaries. There was also Alwyn, a former Templar from the Ostwick Circle, who had been caught fraternizing with the mages one too many times. They had just finished a long and difficult discussion and had arrived at the conclusion that they were all hearing the Calling. Gastenveld from Hunter Fell, slammed shut the tome he had been referencing.
"I'll send word to Warden Commander Clarel immediately. She is likely to have an answer."
"A messenger will take weeks. We should first contact Stroud in Kirkwall—find out if this phenomenon is limited to Montsimmard." Alwyn chewed on a pipe in the corner of his mouth.
It wasn't a bad idea. After a general murmuring of agreement, the meeting dispersed, leaving Loghain to drink his whiskey in peace.
He watched the flames dance in the fireplace. A cinder snapped, sending red sparks whirling into the blackened chimney. Kelyn Amell could do that. In fact, he could always tell when she was lost in thought, as she would rest one hand on her hip and with her other, snap her fingers in a steady beat, creating a shower of sparks as her fingers released.
He was dead tired. The reading and keeping the song at bay had frayed his resolve. He let his mind drift again and waft like the smoke in the fireplace, back to Amaranthine.
9:32 Dragon; Vigil's Keep, Ferelden
Loghain perched against a post nearest the hearth in the main hall and waited. He was not a patient man and wondered what kind of game Kelyn was playing. Time stretched on, agonisingly so, and just when he was about to give up and leave, Varel returned, his hands held diplomatically behind his back.
"Warden Mac Tir. The Commander is on the roof. She was alerted to your arrival. Perhaps she thought someone would send you up?"
He held a hand toward a door at the far end of the hall and gave a complicated set of directions. Loghain wandered through a maze of stairways and corridors. Nothing looked familiar—he had paid Howe the odd visit in the past—but his hopes of recalling the correct route were dashed after taking a few wrong turns. He stumbled upon an out-of-the-way set of stairs that wound its way to the roof.
The wind seemed to cut right through his armor as he stepped into the crisp winter evening. Kelyn stood against a clear moon, her form bathed in silver light, snapping her fingers in thought. He wasn't surprised to find her in robes—she hated wearing armor. The wind caught the ends of the thick brocade and whipped it like flags. Before he could take another step, she spoke.
"You were never light on your feet."
This was the closest he'd get to an invitation.
"Is this a way to treat your guests? Force them to the roof on a winter's night, no less?"
She turned. The corner of her mouth curled into a smug half-grin. But it was not the lovely shape of her lips that had caught him off guard. It was her eye. How had he forgotten? After all, he had been there when she had lost it. A savage scar ran from just above her brow to a spot below her cheekbone. Those striking, angular eyes were now mismatched—one the colour of ink, the other a shade of silver-blue. Despite the horror of the wound, it somehow made her look even more beautiful.
"I leave all the socializing to Mistress Woolsey and Varel. I've got darkspawn to investigate. What brings you to Amaranthine?"
"I've come to bid my regards. I've been stationed abroad."
She furrowed her brow. "Abroad? But I specifically requested that you join us here. I am Commander of the Grey and I command it."
Loghain clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at his feet. "Word came from Weisshaupt."
"Fine." She huffed. "If paperwork is what they want, paperwork is what they'll get. I'll write first thing in the morning."
He looked up to see her defiant stance and sneer of utter displeasure.
"That won't be necessary. I'm afraid this decision is above your station. I've been sent to Montsimmard of all places. The Warden Commander expects me there in a fortnight."
She snickered, then masked it with a cough. "Orlais? You really don't have any friends." And as suddenly as her laughter had started, it stopped. "You'd be in my place were it not for Morrigan."
It was Loghain's turn to laugh. So little had been said after the Archdemon lay dead, he realized. "You fault me for saving your life? I was always taught that one good turn deserves another."
She wrinkled her nose but said nothing. She took a step forward, so close he could reach out and touch her if he dared.
"I'm free of the Circle, but now trapped in this ridiculous fraternity—doomed to wallow in the stench of darkspawn shite until I meet my bitter and tragic end."
He inched even closer and lowered his voice. She did not flinch. He searched her eye for a sign that he had crossed some unspoken line, but saw nothing. "At least you will not suffer the indignity of having to endure the frolic and flap that the Orlesians dare call politics."
Her voice had turned husky, sending Loghain's resolve to the brink. "Of course you'd take darkspawn shite over a soiree in Val Royeaux."
"I'm glad my current circumstances have brought you great amusement."
Her eyes, both this time, narrowed and she placed a cold hand on his cheek. She leaned in and brushed her lips ever so lightly on his. That wasn't enough for Loghain. He returned with a ferociousness that he could no longer deny. He found her tongue, and tangled it with his, deepening and exploring, pulling her in closer, until he sensed her trembling.
She pulled away. Her cheeks were flushed and she appeared even wilder than usual. She took a step back. "My apologies. I shouldn't have…"
He did not understand. He leaned in again, reaching out to cup her cheek, but she eluded his grasp.
"We shouldn't, Loghain." Her voice had turned small and a stray tear escaped. She turned away and dashed into the keep.
9:40 Dragon; Warden Headquarters, Montsimmard
"Either you fall in line or you will be charged with insubordination!" Warden Commander Clarel's face had pinked with rage, although it had little effect upon Loghain.
"Sacrificing Grey Wardens? With Tevinter blood magic? Have you gone mad?"
The tension in Warden Headquarters could be cut with a knife. Anger started to boil in Loghain's belly, but he kept it in check. Surely he was not alone in this? He expected blind obedience amongst Clarel's inner circle, but was deeply disappointed with his brothers and sisters in Montsimmard.
"Sacrifice is part of a Warden's duty, Loghain. This one is no different."
"I beg to differ. A sacrifice while killing an Archdemon is one thing. But Wardens killing other Wardens—that's not sacrifice! That's murder!" He saw Gastenveld and Alwyn shift uncomfortably, their mouths pinched in cowardly silence.
Commander Clarel scowled and pointed an accusatory finger. "You will not question a direct order, Loghain. Is that what you wish? Mutiny? To weaken the Order when the world needs us the most? You will go to Adamant and you will—"
"I will do no such thing," he seethed. He kept his voice low, like a growl. His hand had found the head of his pommel. "If this is where the Order must go, then I will not. I resign—effective immediately."
Clarel laughed. "Being a Warden is not something you can suddenly quit!" She turned to the other Wardens. "Arrest him! He shall be our first offering at Adamant!"
Every Warden in the room encircled him with weapons drawn. Loghain raised his hands in surrender. Betrayal had become his only companion. Clarel was wrong—he just had to find a better way of proving it. Attacking the Commander would not win him any allies. Alwyn grabbed him roughly, pulling both arms behind his back and removed his weapons. With a gruff push, he forced Loghain into a small root cellar nearest the kitchens. There was no jail at Warden Headquarters; Loghain had been their first arrest.
Darkness engulfed him once the wooden doors slammed overhead. He cursed a few choice words—directed specifically at Clarel, and settled onto a sack of potatoes as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Despite his conscription, ten years with the Order had meant something. Perhaps he wasn't the only one to see corruption in the higher ranks, just the one foolish enough to open his mouth. He imagined Clarel's lackeys ransacking his office and confiscating his months of painstaking research. Luckily, he had hidden Hawke's recent letter that detailed her encounter with Corypheus and of the destructive effects of red lyrium. Clarel didn't need another weapon. But that did not allay his worries; unrest in the Chantry now paired with the madness amongst the Wardens meant all of southern Thedas was weak. He knew as well as any that there was always someone—or something—willing to exploit chaos. And now that the Wardens were hearing the Calling, the bigger picture couldn't have been darker.
He had not realized that he had fallen asleep until the unrelenting song merged with his nightmares.
Hours passed and the rattling of a chain roused Loghain from an uneasy sleep.
There was a sharp whisper in the dark and a crack of moonlight streaming on top of him.
"Loghain. Better start running. You know as well as I that no one sleeps deeply here."
"Alwyn?" He climbed up the ladder to the darkened yard and patted the former templar on the back. "I owe you one, brother."
"Whole world's gone mad." He handed Loghain his sword and shield. "Go. Find out about that blasted song. And I pray to the Maker that there is someone out there who cares about us Wardens."
It wasn't that Loghain was at a loss for words, he had too much to say. Instead, he looked Alwyn square in the eye, nodded, then ran into the night.
9:40 Dragon; City of Amaranthine, Ferelden
A fortnight later, he arrived at the Crown and Lion. He was nursing an ale, trying not to watch the door, but he was anxious. He thought his return to Ferelden might soothe his frayed nerves, but the chaos in the Chantry knew no borders. Folk were on edge and wary of strangers. Everyone eyed him with suspicion.
"So it is you." Nathaniel Howe took a seat next to him. The message Loghain had sent to Vigil's Keep had been responded to with comparable urgency. "Finally let you out of Orlais have they?"
There was no time for small talk. Loghain quickly filled him in on the situation with Clarel and the Orlesian Wardens. He did not know Nathaniel well, but Kelyn seemed to trust him.
"No one has been answering our letters, the Fereldan Wardens have been reporting the same thing. Is this truly the Calling? But every single Warden? What does that mean?"
Loghain had no conclusive answers. "Have you heard from Clarel?"
Nathaniel nodded. "She ordered that we all meet at Haven for the Conclave. What does rebellion in the Circle have to do with the Grey Wardens?"
"I wish I had an answer to that." He tapped his fingers on the table, deciding how best to ask the question that had been gnawing at him since his arrival in Ferelden. "What about Kelyn?"
"Is she involved?" Nathaniel leaned lower, his expression turning from confusion to concern.
"I don't know. But Clarel is particularly interested in Warden mages. I imagine one with Kelyn's reputation would be of great interest to her."
Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "She was in Rivain, last I heard."
Loghain's fist landed on the table. "Hiring a ship would take weeks. I don't have that kind of time."
A smile quirked in the corner of Nathaniel's mouth. "Do you remember that red-headed Chantry sister? She served with you during the Blight."
"Leliana? Of course." He was recently reminded of her in one of Hawke's letters.
Nathaniel rose from the table, finishing his ale in the process. "Then come to Vigil's Keep. There is something I wish to show you."
OOOoooOOO
The keep had undergone considerable repairs and refurbishment in the ten years since he had last visited. As he followed Nathaniel to the roof, Kelyn's memory shadowed him, mingling with the dreaded song that had intensified the moment he had stepped on Fereldan soil. The moment he stepped into the chill autumn air, a discordant chorus of birds—crows to be specific—interrupted his musing. A young Warden was tending the cages. She reached in and allowed one of the birds to perch on her forearm. After stroking its head, she released it to the sky. The bird quorked and flapped and soared across the valley.
"Sister Nightingale and I go way back. She sent these to me." Nathaniel said.
"You dragged me from a perfectly good ale to admire your bird collection, Howe?"
Nathaniel pointed to a sign over one of the cages that said Llomerynn. "Amell will get your message in four days. Three if the wind is in our favor."
Loghain had never heard of such nonsense. "So I whisper in its ear and it crows the message in code?"
Nathaniel handed him a tiny scroll of paper. "Write your message on this. I'll explain the system later."
His message was simple and concise—the scroll didn't allow for any explanation or flourish.
Meet me in Ostwick – LMT
OOOoooOOO
When Loghain disembarked the Queen Anora, he met a mage bidding good-bye to her family.
"Make sure you write when you get to Haven, Evelyn."
The woman rolled her eyes. "I won't forget, mother."
Loghain wound his way through the town, stopping at the first inn he came across. After a hearty meal and a decent night's sleep he'd start off in search of her. Good thing Ostwick was a backwater Marcher town and not as sprawling as Denerim or Val Royeaux. The Broken Horn was small, homey, and busy, considering the time of year. He spied a lone hooded-figured who occupied a table in the darkest corner. Perhaps he'd be staying in tonight.
"Mind if I join you?" Loghain asked.
Long, boney fingers pulled back the hood, revealing thick black hair gathered on her shoulder. Her disfigured eye was obscured by shadow. She quirked a crooked grin, holding her hand in invitation toward the empty chair.
"By all means."
A thousand things raced through his mind. He wanted to warn her. He wanted to kiss her. He leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
"The world is going mad. Let's just enjoy the ale first." Kelyn said.
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