Special thanks to my fabulous beta, Janka.
I: Embers
. . .
Fergus would hate to catch her doing that, but she has to see her brother going off to war. She climbs the stairs leading up to the battlements, then hides in the shadow beside one of the towers, so that Fergus would not see her. She watches her brother marching away, sudden fear seizing her heart.
"Maker watch over us," she whispers into the night.
"Maker watch over us," echoes a male voice behind her.
She turns, surprised.
"Excuse me, I didn't mean to scare you," says Duncan, the Grey Warden.
"You didn't. Just startled me."
"If you'd rather wish me leave..."
"No, it's fine." She recalls her earlier talk with him, and is thankful for the deep shadow that hides her blush. Still, she looks away. "I apologise for... earlier. For that attempt at flirting. I didn't really mean that... I'd never..."
"No need to torment yourself over that, my lady."
"Well, my earlier remark certainly wasn't ladylike..."
"Forgotten," offers Duncan amiably. "You were hoping for some amusement at my expense, weren't you?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," he assures, the most banal phrase in the world, and yet in his mouth it only sounds sincere.
"Will Ser Gilmore join the Wardens?"
"Yes. Even if from what I've heard you might be better suited for that."
"Father said..." The Wardens are a legend, even if somehow forgotten, and it has certain appeal. But when she thinks of what old chronicles mentioned about the horrors of a Blight... "Father said if it's a Blight, he might reconsider."
"I hope he won't have to."
She glances at him. Duncan is looking down, at the road, probably thinking of soldiers going to war. There is something almost sad in the expression on his face, barely visible in the moonlight.
"What's a Blight like?" she asks, with morbid curiosity. "Some chronicles mention it, but more like a myth or legend. I'd like to know."
"No," Duncan replies, fiercely. "No, you wouldn't," he repeats, in a calmer, softer tone. "Believe me, my lady, you wouldn't."
. . .
Leaving Highever smells of smoke and sounds of fire roaring and men dying, and of her mabari hound's howling. Feels wet and sticky, like Father's blood on her fingers, has its colour and smell, the tang of copper or maybe iron.
As she unsheathes the Cousland family sword, stained red, she swears that there will be justice. It will not bring her parents back, nor Fergus' wife or son, but that burning ache in her chest will not cease until it is Howe's blood on that blade.
"I will have his head," she whispers hotly under her breath. Before she is able to repeat it, Duncan is beside her, his grip on her shoulder painful.
"No, you will not," he says sternly. "A Grey Warden has duties more important than vengeance."
"Haven't you seen what he's done?" she asks, voice hollow.
"Even so," Duncan says levelly, and it is too much.
"Mother and Father are dead, and I will have to tell my brother that, and I will have to tell him his wife and son are gone too..." she gasps for breath. "So don't tell me of Grey Warden's duties!"
"Blight will take a far more terrifying toll."
She moves her hand to slap him on the cheek, because how dare he be so calm when she has lost everything. The blow never connects. Duncan is holding her wrist, his hold firm but gentle, and it sobers her enough to actually see the look on his face. His eyes seek hers, and in his gaze she finds sadness and compassion, and similar feelings are etched on his features.
"I don't need... you pity..." she spits through clenched teeth, on the verge of tears.
"I'm offering none," he says gently. "Nothing will bring your parents back, not even revenge. But you can make their death meaningful, by living."
She raises her hand to her mouth, because she is going to burst into sobs any moment now...
"We have to go. Just a little further." Duncan is talking to her as if she was a little child, patiently. "We have to."
She nods, swallowing tears, but there are only a few. Marching helps her not to think, there is only the road, dust, trees...
Even as they settle a tiny camp – just a fire and a makeshift bedroll put together from a worn woollen blanket and Duncan's cloak – that, too, allows her not to think and... A howl cuts through the air. Guilford, her mabari, is sitting at the border of firelight, howling, howling, why cannot he stop howling?!
"Quiet, boy," orders Duncan gently and, surprisingly, the mabari stops.
Guilford moves over to sit beside her, and she puts her arms around him and finally lets the tears flow. First she cries quietly, then begins to sob, and then Guilford is howling again but she lets him, because it is his way of crying, and it makes her feel less alone in sorrow. She keeps crying until she is out of breath and is choking on the sobs, and then she is crying again.
Tears are still trickling down her cheeks when she settles down on the bedroll, curling up, knees almost at her chin, just as she used to curl up when she was frightened or sad as a child. There is a gentle, lingering touch on her shoulder.
"Try to get some sleep," Duncan murmurs. "No more harm will befall you today."
. . .
"Sleep," Duncan suggests, in a low voice, as she is lying awake on a makeshift bedroll.
"I can't." It is all very easy to say 'Sleep', but the forest at night is a strange place to her. Every shadow is moving, and all the time something is rustling and hooting and making other noises she cannot really categorise, and it is all too unsettling for her to fall asleep.
"You slept yesterday," he remarks.
"Out of exhaustion," she replies quietly. Yesterday, she cried herself to sleep. Today, there are no more tears to shed – she feels them, ready somewhere under her eyelids, waiting for the moment she will either have to tell Fergus of everything or hear about his death. But now her eyes are dry and her head hurts, but her eyes flutter open with every new noise, because it can be a wolf or darkspawn or Howe's men. "How is it possible to sleep with all the noise?" she asks, trying to disguise fear as irritation.
Duncan pretends he falls for her trick. "That's an owl," he says, when something high in the trees hoots. "And that's a hedgehog," he adds, when something rustles in a nearby bush. "And that's a wolf, but it's far and nothing to worry about."
"And the darkspawn?"
"We don't have to worry about darkspawn here."
"And..." she wants to ask what if Howe's men are after them, but her throat constricts and no words come through.
"They won't find us here. Besides, your mabari would find them first." Duncan reaches out to pat Guilford on the head, and the mabari barks happily. "There, boy." He scratches the obviously contended mabari behind the ears. "Now go keep your lady warm, mhm?"
"Guilford!" she calls softly.
The mabari rushes to her and curls up beside her, warm like fireplace stones.
Duncan looks at her and the mabari at her side, and his face softens. "Sleep. We'll stand watch." Guilford turns towards his voice, and Duncan adds: "Won't we, boy?"
She falls into an uneasy slumber, last things she hears a barely audible, undistinguishable melody, even, lulling her to sleep.
. . .
By the time they find a small cave, they are drenched. There is a pile of dry wood inside, an old fire striker and some tinder. And what looks like two old, woollen blankets.
"We have more such places across Ferelden," Duncan explains, noticing her puzzled look. "Or used to, at least."
He tends to lighting a fire.
"We have to dry off and keep warm." And then he gets up and proceeds to take off his armour, casually, like he must have done countless times while on the road.
But she was brought up in a castle, and while she is no stranger to wielding a weapon, she has always had a separate room and is used to privacy. She looks away, knowing she is supposed to shed her armour and wrap herself in the blanket to dry, but right now she feels too uncomfortable about it. Her logical side yells at her to grow up and get to action already, because the least she needs is getting ill, but...
"Ah. I'm sorry," Duncan says, noticing her discomfort. He turns away, his back to her, allowing her as much privacy as possible under the circumstances.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, furious at herself. As Duncan grabs the hem of his tunic to take it off, she turns away, too. "I know I'll have to get used to this."
"You don't have to start right now," he says patiently.
She quickly gets out of the tunic and looks around for the blanket, and finally glances above her shoulder hesitantly. Duncan is standing with his back to her, already wrapped in the wool, another blanket in his outstretched hand.
"Thank you," she mumbles, taking the blanket and quickly covering herself. "I'm decent," she mutters, not really knowing what to do or say. It is all strange to her.
They sit by the fire and eat in silence: dry bread and smoked meat. Guildford whines quietly, and she is already offering the mabari a slice of meat when Duncan stops her.
"That's for your lady," he says to the mabari. "Go hunt, boy."
Guilford does not seem happy with that, but since the rain has already stopped, he trots out of the cave and into the night.
They sit beside the fire, without talking, just watching the flames and sipping water. She rubs her hands, but they do not want to warm up, and despite the woollen blanket she shivers with cold.
Duncan notices. He rearranges his blanket a bit, then moves his hand, motioning her to sit beside him. When she reluctantly does so, he puts an arm around her, covering her with a part of his blanket. She is trying very hard not to think that beneath the blankets they are almost naked, and how uncomfortable this makes her, because he only does this out of kindness.
As she warms up slowly, her eyelids slid close, and her head lolls onto his shoulder.
"Duncan?" she mutters.
"Yes?"
"Yesterday, when I was falling asleep... I think I heard... a song?"
"Ah, that." He gives a quiet laugh. "Yes. Though, with my lack of skill, 'a song' might be an overstatement."
"What was it?"
"It's from old times. When there were more Wardens, more Keeps, when we even had songs to keep up our spirits during the nights spend by fire."
"Would you tell me? Of Grey Wardens," she specifies.
"If you wish."
They sit like that for some time, keeping each other warm, Duncan telling one story after another in a level voice. It feels like a place on the verge of Fade, or rather would, if Fade was calm and peaceful.
"There are more stories, but they're all similar," Duncan says, after finishing yet another tale. "All blood and darkness." He pauses. "But also hope. To remind us we can fight off the darkness."
"At terrible cost."
"I pay willingly," Duncan says, his voice holding nothing but honesty within. "Someone has to pay," he adds quietly.
. . .
Duncan points at the makeshift bedroll, scrambled together from his old cloak and worn blanket, with Guilford as a warm, furry pillow.
"Sleep," he says, a concerned order.
She shakes her head. "It's your turn."
"Don't be..." Ridiculous? Childish? Whatever he meant to say is lost as she interrupts him.
"I can manage." She offers a tiny smile. "That's an owl," she says, when something high in the trees hoots. "And that's a hedgehog," she adds, when something rustles in a nearby bush. "And that's a wolf, but it's far and nothing to worry about. Besides, if it was, Guilford would take care of it first."
Duncan watches her for a moment, stoic as ever, just by the time it takes him to react she can guess he is mildly surprised. "Very well. Wake me for my watch." And then he smiles, just barely, the smile strangely soft against his features. "Now, boy, go." He shoos Guilford away, then lies down. He falls asleep quickly – no stranger to life on the road.
She watches him, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he breathes, the suddenly troubled expression on his face, the frown between his eyebrows. She looks around for the darkspawn momentarily, but the notices Guildford is lying down at her feet calmly, basking in the warmth from the fire, and it calms her down.
Nightmares, then. She wonders what do Grey Wardens dream of. Or is it like in the stories: darkness and blood. She remembers there is hope, but it is difficult to notice sometimes.
When her watch ends, she moves and kneels beside Duncan. The frown is still clouding his face, and, very gently, she reaches out to touch his temple. It lasts but a fleeting moment, and then she puts a hand on his shoulder, more firmly, and shakes gently.
"Wake up, Duncan."
He is awake in no time, and it is her turn to settle down on the bedroll as he sits on the log by the fire.
She cannot sleep, again. Remembering Father's last words.
"Duncan?" she ask quietly.
He turns towards her, his profile stark again the firelight. "Yes?"
"Back in... Highever..." she begins. "If Father had said no... You would have helped me nonetheless?" she asks, knowing the words are true as she speaks them. She has not given him enough credit so far, blinded by her loss. But that was not his fault. She looks up at him, expectantly.
"Yes," Duncan says quietly. "But remember, it is your decision, not your father's."
"He gave you his word."
"He gave me his consent. It's up to you."
"I agreed."
Duncan stays quiet for some time. He sighs and then finally speaks. "I came to Highever to find a Grey Warden recruit, yes. But you were in no condition to promise anything. Think it over. You'll give me the answer when we reach Ostagar."
"Yes," she says decisively. The path is clear before her.
"Excuse me?"
"Your answer, Duncan, is yes. You told me yourself I can make... Highever... mean something."
"I never meant..."
"I know," she interrupts gently. "And it's still yes."
. . .
"You said there is hope," she says suddenly.
They are sitting beside the fire, Duncan on a log, she on the ground next to him, Guilford dozing off at her feet.
"There's always hope."
"In the fact we can fight back?" she asks.
"No." Duncan shakes his head. "Well, that too, but that's not what I meant." He falls silent again.
She does not feel like baiting him into talk. She settles more comfortably, stretching out on the blanket, leaning her head against the log.
"You'll give your life away so that other girls can live safely with their families," Duncan says finally, his voice quiet. "Just as I gave mine so that someone else might be a husband and a father."
She looks up at him, startled.
"Surprised?" Duncan smiles slightly. "I'm a Grey Warden, yes, but I used to dream sometimes."
"What about now?"
"I'm a Grey Warden."
"It's not an answer, Duncan."
His hand in resting on the log, and as she shifts, her hair brush against his fingers, but he seems oblivious to that.
"It is."
She can deal with things like this, small-talk turned serious talk, and serious matters disguised as half-serious remarks. She is a noble, she has been doing this all her life.
"You've probably made some woman very unhappy when you became a Warden," she says, feeling the corners of her lips tugging up in what is the closest imitation of a smile she has managed since leaving Highever. This is no attempt on flirting, merely an observation: Duncan is an honourable, honest man.
"As you'll make some man very unhappy after your Joining," Duncan replies, his look warm. "Some say Wardens are wed to Ferelden and its safety. Well, they certainly say that of me."
"What it's like? Being a Grey Warden?"
His gaze turns solemn, measuring, as he is guessing what she is asking about. Finally, he speaks. "There are nightmares."
"Like those stories you've been telling me?"
"Worse during a Blight, or so I was told."
"So it's a Blight we'll be facing?"
"I honestly don't know."
Silence, again. Talking comes in turns either deceitfully easy or surprisingly difficult to them.
She closes her eyes, then begins humming a melody Nan taught her once. She always liked it, as a child, used to always sing it in the evening by the fireplace, with Mother and Father and Fergus. It echoed legends. It reminds her, painfully, of home and childhood and...
Tears flow down her cheeks, but she lets them. Tomorrow, at Ostagar, the past will end. Tomorrow, she will cease to be a Cousland...
Duncan's palm touches her head, stroking her hair softly, comforting.
"This melody has been hummed across Ferelden households since Grey Wardens were founded," he murmurs gently. "This is our hope."
. . .
Ostagar is... overwhelming. The ruined fortress is still remarkable, the mountains magnificent. And while there is nothing menacing in the forest or distant snowy peaks, the ruins themselves are imposing. It chills her, in the same way Duncan stories of Grey Warden's have – but that was during the night, in the forest where everything moved and shivered and made noise, and now it is broad daylight and there is a whole army assembled, and it still feels more frightening.
She catches Duncan looking at her. For a moment it seems he will speak, maybe say "You are afraid" or something else along the lines, but he remains silent.
The silence is strained, not the comfortable companionship they shared in the wilds. Something was left on the borders of Ostagar.
In the night, there is a fire at their part of the camp, and Duncan is sitting beside it, and all the noises around are well known to her, and maybe that is why it feels different. Maybe that is why they scarcely talk, because there is no need to explain that "That's a squirrel" and "That's a hedgehog" and "That's a wolf but it's far enough not to worry about it".
She strokes Guilford's furry head, wondering why in this camp full of people she feels more lonely than on the way, when it was just her and Duncan.
Guilford barks, happy with the attention he is getting.
"Hush, boy," she reproaches quietly, and when the mabari whines, she feels a similar whine resounding somewhere in her. A Grey Warden walks a lonely path.
Firewood cracks in the flames, and she watches. Soon, it will turn to embers, and the into ashes. Her life turned to ashes, everyone she holds dear dead, except for Fergus, but the thought she will have to tell him pains her even more. Besides, Fergus too might already be dead.
She moves closer to the fire, taking a dying ember into her hand.
"You'll get burned," Duncan says quietly, but does not stop her.
"I already have," she says, thinking of her family, her brother, her home, and that something she shared with Duncan on the way – warm like an ember and equally short-lived.
Duncan sighs. He gets up and takes the ember from her palm, then throws it back into the fire.
"You'll need you hands ready to hold a sword." His fingers move along her hand gently, searching for any damage.
"I'm fine, Duncan."
"No, you're not," he contradicts. He lets go of her hand. "But you will be."
They fall quiet, sitting and watching the fire. Around there are muffled noises of a war camp getting ready for a night's rest.
"Remember one thing," says Duncan softly. "No Grey Warden is ever alone."
"Yes. Yes," she repeats slowly, understanding that maybe he is right. Grey Wardens. Brothers in arms. She looks up at Duncan, to find him watching her. Their eyes meets. It is all there ever will be, stories by the fireside and a shared glance once and again. But she can trust him to be there. Maybe that is what matters the most.
For the first time, she wonders what does Duncan mean to her, but the only answer she can come up with is: he is there. The only remotely familiar face in a crowd of strangers. But then what is it for him? He kept his word, got her out of the Highever castle safely. His part of the bargain is done.
"Duncan?" she whispers, torn between uncertainty if she should ask it, and the burning need to learn the answer immediately. "Why...?" the question is gone the very moment she starts asking, and what is left of it is a single baffled word.
"There's a saying you become responsible for the life you saved. Or maybe it's one of the Chants, I never know."
"You don't have to feel responsible," she corrects evenly. The words taste bitter on her tongue.
Duncan puts a hand on her shoulder briefly, a gesture that is nothing inappropriate between a soon-to-be-Warden and the Warden Commander.
"No," he says softly. "I don't have to."