Look Down, Fair Moon

LOOK down, fair moon, and bathe this scene;

Pour softly down night's nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;

On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss'd wide,

Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.

~ Walt Whitman

Elsewhere in camp, army life went on: armor was mended, the hounds were tended, and the men ate and drank and sang songs while trying to forget the impending battle. But here, in the silence of the crumbling temple ruins, Duncan was alone with his thoughts.

He stared out over the vast valley with its steep sides. The angle of the moonlight cast deep shadows that turned the chasm into a river of darkness. He tried to imagine it crawling with darkspawn, and how they were to overcome such a formidable force with the few dozen Wardens Weisshaupt had allowed him. Even with the king's armies backing him up, the odds weren't entirely in his favor.

"Commander Duncan."

Duncan turned at the sound of the voice and smiled gently. "Alistair. Please, just Duncan if you will. I'm reminded all too often of late of my role as a commander. I'd rather be just Duncan whenever I can."

Alistair bobbed his head a bit and probably flushed some. He was the youngest member of the order, and still getting used to his responsibilities. "I've finished the preparations. Would you like me to gather the recruits?"

"In a moment," Duncan said. He pointed over to a chipped stone altar, and Alistair reverently set down a large dragonbone chalice that gleamed in the silver-blue moonlight. He stared at the dark, thick liquid in the chalice. It seemed to absorb the light. Every time he went through this, Duncan recalled his own Joining. Since then, he'd seen many recruits through the solemn ritual. Many of them were in his ranks now, ready to fight the inception of the Fifth Blight.

"Will it be enough?" Alistair asked. His splintmail creaked as he shifted his weight. The young former templar had spent years training in heavy full plate, so getting used to lighter, more flexible armor was quite the task for him. Duncan couldn't help but smile, because Alistair was so eager to serve the order well. He'd not been the fastest or best fighter at the tournament in Denerim six months back; but he'd had the most heart, and besides, Duncan had a promise to make good on. And he made it a point to keep his promises.

"It will have to be," Duncan answered. He shook out his hands and rolled his head back to try and ease some of the tension. The more time passed here at Ostagar, the worse he felt the taint in his own blood. "Orzammar's tearing itself apart from the inside, and the Brecilian Forest is a dark place of late. It's a gift of the Maker that I found the recruits I did," he said, and the realization was nothing short of depressing.

"The king is confident," Alistair said, daring a glance at Duncan.

"He is the king," Duncan said evenly, in a tone that said the conversation was over before it started. Alistair must have known about his relationship to King Cailan, but Duncan did not wish to complicate matters by letting on that he knew about it. And he had known about it longer than either Alistair or Cailan had.

Duncan turned and glanced up at the moon-bright sky once more. The sounds of camp filled the night around him, while somewhere out beyond the camp's limits the darkness and evil that was the darkspawn horde was massing. "Alistair, please go summon the three recruits," he said at last. "For better or worse, it is time for them to Join the Grey Wardens."

Alistair hastened out of the temple ruins. Duncan waited for their return, pacing the smooth stones and making himself breathe deeply to calm his racing heart. As the Warden Commander he knew there were risks, and accepted each outcome with the dignity he'd learned over the years. It never made this moment, when he was alone and waiting, any easier.

He was not always a religious man, but standing here, on the edge of a battle he could not avoid, made him murmur a prayer to the Maker. He'd memorized it ages ago, in a lifetime he only remembered in shadows and fragments as sad and broken as these very ruins. "In the absence of light, shadows thrive," Duncan said to the sky. "Let us be the light," he finished. Let at least one of them survive, he added silently, for he dared not risk anyone overhearing his uncertainties.

That made Duncan smile. So many people around here criticized the king for his bravado; Duncan himself had done a fair share of chastising Cailan, Maric's oldest son, reminding him of the realities of war when Teyrn Loghain's tirades did little good. In the confines of his tent, King Cailan's smile would fade and his eyes would cloud with worry. More and more Duncan came to realize that Cailan's bravado was an act he put on for the morale of his men. And Duncan knew he did the same thing for his Grey Wardens.

Alistair's footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by shuffling and murmurs of the three recruits Duncan had managed to acquire. There had been a time when the Wardens had to make people stand in lines in order to organize the chaos of all the people who wanted to join up. And now… three.

It was to be expected though. Here in Ferelden, the order had only been allowed back into the country two decades ago. Still, only three.

Daveth was easily Duncan's favorite, though if asked, he would never admit it; he was the Warden Commander, and was supposed to be fair. But Daveth had quite the pair on him. He'd been caught cutting Duncan's purse in Denerim. He probably would have gotten away with it, too, had Duncan not grown up doing the same thing in Val Royeaux. As a career criminal, Daveth was sent to the gallows almost immediately. Duncan conscripted him while they were putting the noose around his neck.

Daveth was also the most at ease here in the camp, and the most relaxed about his new life as a Grey Warden. He seemed excited about it. Even when Duncan warned him that it would be a hard life, filled with sacrifice and maybe an early death, Daveth had given him a smile. "So long's I don't have to worry about my next meal, I'm good," he'd said. "Not like I was living the high life in Denerim, neither." Duncan admired the attitude.

Ser Jory of Redcliffe, he was a little less sure of. He'd fought extremely well in the annual Highever Tourney, and Duncan had sent him, along with Daveth and Alistair, ahead to Ostagar. "I listened to tales of the Grey Wardens and dreamt one day, I, too would ride a griffin into battle against slavering monsters!" he'd said when Duncan formally extended his invitation. Next to him, his pregnant wife had beamed up at her husband with pride.

Duncan should have known then that maybe Jory was not going to be the best choice, but the order needed fighters, and Jory had been an excellent fighter in the ring.

Alistair told him that Jory had asked a lot of questions about the Joining during their trip out into the Wilds to retrieve the ancient treaties and the darkspawn blood that would play a prominent role in tonight's ceremony. "I'm committed to this," Jory was saying as they approached. "And we're almost there. Why can't you tell me what this Joining entails?"

"He probably doesn't want you running off and selling the Wardens' secrets to disreputable news sources in Denerim," Daveth said. He was grinning, as if Joining the Grey Wardens was something he did every day.

"Highever has better sources," said the girl next to them. She had the faintest hint of a smile on her face. "I should know. I was one of them."

Daveth laughed at that, and Jory looked at Alistair, hoping for some back up. Alistair could only shrug. He was still trying to make sense of the fact he was no longer the newest member of Ferelden's order. He also didn't know what to make of Fianna Cousland, but then again, there were few that did.

Fianna had barely uttered a word on the desperate flight from Highever to Ostagar, and if she'd opened up more during their trek into the Wilds, Alistair hadn't thought to mention. Duncan had heard the stories about her; in fact, she'd been caught sneaking back onto the castle grounds when he'd arrived. He had come with an eye on Gilmore, whom Bryce recommended as the best of his up and coming knights. But Fianna was more like Daveth than she was like other nobles; she'd also lost everything, and didn't seem to care if she lived or died right about now.

Duncan also didn't deny the practicality of having recruited her. From the political standpoint, having a Teyrn's daughter in their ranks would give the Wardens the credibility they needed on Ferelden soil.

Just now she was wearing a simple tunic, breeches, and boots. She'd left her daggers in her tent, probably being guarded by her Mabari hound. Daveth and Jory were fully armed: Daveth wore his piecemeal armor with pride. Alistair mentioned that the moment they'd reached Ostagar he'd gone to see the quartermaster to be outfitted with whatever could be spared. Jory still wore his scale mail he'd worn in the Highever tourney.

Alistair glanced at Duncan for assistance, and he sighed, realizing he could no longer delay. The Blight beckoned, and the need for numbers was great. Even three new Wardens would assist them on the front lines.

The moon was too big and bright to be real, and the angles and edges of the ruins stood out in sharp relief against the shadows. "The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," Jory said, glancing around at the ruins. "Why all these damned tests? Haven't I earned my place?"

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth asked him. He nudged Fianna in the ribs and she elbowed him right back. It was nice to see a reaction out of her; Duncan had been worrying. In the last few weeks she hadn't been anything like the fiery spitfire he'd heard about. But Daveth wasn't quite finished with Jory. "Maybe it's just tradition," he said. "Maybe they're trying to annoy you."

"My wife is in Highever with a child on the way. It doesn't seem fair." Jory looked away, his brow creased and his arms crossed over his chest.

"You want to talk about what's fair about Highever?" Fianna asked. She kept her voice even, but her hands were clenched at her sides and her face was pale in the moonlight. Her eyes were little more than dark holes in her head, shadows cast by the moonlight, making her unreadable. "I could write you a book, Ser Knight."

"Wardens do what they must," Daveth said. There was a bite to his voice that made Jory cringe, and Duncan had to hide a smile. Daveth was going to be a great Warden. "Including sacrificing themselves. I would give my life if it means stopping this Blight!"

His hand was on his dagger and his eyes were trained on Jory. Jory's hand went to his blade and hovered over the pommel while his eyes darted between Daveth, Alistair and Duncan.

"Will you both shut up?" Fianna asked. Jory immediately stood down, as if the order of a Teyrn's daughter was as good as law. Daveth, however, waited for Duncan's command.

"Enough," Duncan said in a firm, but gentle tone. "At last we come to the Joining. We were founded during the first Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation." He stared down into the chalice. It was full of liquid, and yet the moonlight did not reflect into it. Here it was. The moment. He took a deep breath. "Thus it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood. And mastered their taint." He turned around to face his recruits.

Alistair stood by calmly, and nodded when Jory and Fianna gaped at him. Only Daveth was stoic and relaxed, though his jaw was clenched with determination.

Jory was the first one to speak. "We're going to… drink the blood. Of those… those things," he said. His lip curled back and his nostrils flared, as if he smelled something foul.

There were always those who were disgusted by the idea. Duncan himself had balked at swallowing the blood of the enemy, mixed with lyrium and other things that remained secret to all but those who had partaken of it. "This is the source of our power. And our victory," he said. "Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint."

"Survive?" Fianna asked. But she seemed far more curious than anything else. She'd lost her family and her home; she wasn't worried, merely curious. Jory, however… he'd backed against a wall, bone-pale in the moonlight.

There were always so many questions. Duncan wanted so badly to pause and answer all the questions, explain all the reasons and the secrecy of the Order. But there was no time; there was never enough time. Instead he raised the Joining Chalice in his hands. It felt warm even through his leather gloves. "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

Alistair stepped forward. He was going a good job of maintaining composure; his hands were only shaking a little bit, and Duncan suppressed a smile. Alistair had spent his evenings rehearsing the words in his tent, and sometimes could be caught murmuring under his breath at the evening meal. The other, older wardens teased him, but Duncan couldn't have been prouder.

Alistair took a deep breath. "Join us, brothers. And sisters," he added quickly with a glance at Fianna. She straightened up. "Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn." He paused and licked his lips, glancing at Duncan, who nodded in encouragement. "And should you… perish," he said, avoiding Jory's glances, "know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

All eyes were on the goblet in Duncan's hands. Daveth, Fianna, and Jory all stood a little straighter. Jory was grinding his teeth, and Fianna bit her lip. Duncan looked them over. "Daveth," he said. "Step forward."

Daveth inhaled sharply and straightened his spine even more. He held his chin higher and stood more proudly than any common Denerim thief had any right to, and he did so because he knew that he was more than that. Duncan's heart swelled with hope for the young man. Daveth reached out with steady hands, built from a lifetime of picking pockets and slicing purses, and took the chalice from Duncan. It gleamed in the moonlight as he tilted it back and, without pausing to consider what he was imbibing, he drank.

He handed the chalice back to Duncan and managed a weak smile. Even for those strong of stomach, the Joining was not pleasant. Duncan held his breath and watched Daveth closely. Daveth took a deep breath, sighed, and relaxed his tense shoulders. Duncan exhaled and let the tension leave him.

He nearly dropped the chalice when Daveth doubled over, one hand at his head while the other clutched his stomach. Alistair started toward Duncan, as if to rescue the Joining Chalice, but Duncan shook his head. His shoulders sagged as he watched Daveth wrestle with the taint coursing through his body. His hopes began to trickle out of him as Daveth groaned and screamed and fell to his knees, nearly tearing out his own hair in his struggles with whatever plagued his head.

Daveth's eyes rolled back in his head, leaving only the empty, sightless whites visible. "Maker's breath," Jory hissed.

"Maker's balls," Fianna murmured, her own eyes wide with shock as her companion's screams turned to gurgles while he choked on his own blood.

Daveth pitched forward, smashing his face against the stone floor of the ruined temple. Blood pooled out under his head. Duncan's grip on the Joining Chalice never faltered: he'd seen this before, but for it to happen to such a promising recruit, with an attitude such as Daveth's; and especially on the cusp of a Blight, nearly broke his heart. "I am sorry, Daveth," he said to the silence. Daveth laid still, the taint having claimed him.

The remaining two recruits stood to Duncan's right, and he could sense their apprehension as easily as he sensed nearby darkspawn. They were right to fear; becoming a Grey Warden always demanded one's life as the price to be paid, and sometimes that price was paid immediately.

He didn't look up from the blood-filled chalice. "Step forward, Jory."

"But… I have a wife. A child on the way! If I had known…" Jory babbled, his hand going for his greatsword. A metallic zing sliced through the quiet and he held his weapon out before him with shaking hands.

Duncan turned to face him. "There is no turning back," he said, stepping over Daveth's body and ignoring the pang of regret he felt. He approached, and Jory backed himself into a wall, brandishing his sword.

"No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!"

Duncan closed his eyes for one moment. In death, sacrifice, he thought. He pushed his regrets for Daveth away. Pushed away his regrets for Jory's young wife and unborn child. A Warden was a person, but they were also a promise that was always kept. He held out the chalice in one hand and Alistair stepped forward to take it. Alistair's eyes were wide, and he set the goblet on a stone altar before he dropped it from nerves.

Duncan hated when the taint killed a recruit; but he hated it more when he had to come to this moment. Thank the Maker that it happened so rarely, but when it did it hurt worse than any darkspawn blade ever could. He drew his dagger from its sheath at his side. Jory's eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen, but he stood his ground with his much larger weapon. Fianna gasped in horror, but remained rooted to the spot: out of fear, or determination, he couldn't tell.

The ghastly phantom moon bore down upon them. The ruin was flooded with light. The blood was nearly black under Duncan's feet. He advanced upon Jory; his dagger was nearly weightless in his hand. He made himself meet Jory's eyes. Jory swung his sword, and Duncan deflected it with his own blade. He flung his dagger arm wide, and Jory, surprised, lost control of his sword and left himself wide open.

He gasped and gave a strangled sort of cry as Duncan's blade pierced his abdomen. Duncan put his other hand on Jory's shoulder and leaned in so his face was close to the knight's. "I am sorry," he said and closed his eyes. He drove his dagger in and upward, slicing into Jory's most vital innards; then he twisted. He made himself look and watch the life leave Jory's eyes before stepping back, drawing his blade out.

Jory's blood was very red as it spread out over his hauberk, and it splattered the front of Duncan's breastplate as he withdrew his dagger. It dripped into a small pool at his feet as Jory slumped over on his side and lay there, unmoving, his unblinking eyes staring forever at the moonlit ruins.

Duncan closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. He hated the necessities that his role as Warden Commander sometimes required. He figured that by the time he went for his Calling, it wouldn't matter because he would only be an empty shell of a man; all of his humanity would have been drained by moments like these.

He sheathed his dagger after a cursory wipe against his tabard. He looked up, grim and determined, and looked at Fianna Cousland. "The Joining is not yet complete," he said, reaching for the Joining Chalice. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good."

Fianna's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. He handed her the chalice. She stared Duncan in the eye, nodded once in understanding, and drank.

"From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden," he said.

Fianna stared at him, her face twisted with disgust at what she'd just drank. Then, like Daveth, she staggered and clutched at her head. Duncan felt his heart jolt. Please, Maker, not three deaths. They needed more Wardens. They couldn't fight this with just the couple dozen they had in Ferelden at this point in time. Ancient tradition forbade Duncan from interceding, and he was forced to stand as if rooted through the stone floor as Fianna fell back and writhed, unblinking, glazed eyes staring up at the moon and her mouth wide open in a silent scream.

Suddenly she went limp; her eyes rolled back in her head and closed.

Alistair looked at Duncan, who nodded. He hardly dared to hope, but allowed Alistair to check Fianna for signs of life. "She's breathing. And I feel a pulse. It's slight, but it's there," Alistair said in a shaky voice.

Duncan knelt at Fianna's side and took off his glove. He felt her forehead. She was burning with fever, but her heartbeat grew stronger each moment, and her breathing became more even. "She lives," he said. "It is finished. Welcome, Fianna Cousland."

Alistair sighed. "Only one died in my joining," he said, as if Duncan could have forgotten. "I'm glad at least one made it through this time." Duncan only nodded, so Alistair called for assistance and had Fianna carried back to the medical tents for observation. He left Duncan once again standing alone in the moonlight. The Joining Chalice lay on the stones. The last drops of darkspawn blood stained the ground between the corpses of Daveth and Jory.

In peace, vigilance; in war, victory.

In death, sacrifice.