Title: Of Flame and Blade

Characters: Alistair, Hawke, Anders, Amell, and the rest of Kirkwall's merry band.

Summary: The story of Shadows and Feathers by Jaden Anderson, but from the POV of Alistair and eventually Amell, and written by myself, with heavy beta'ing by Jaden Anderson. You could say this is a fanfic of a fanfic. ;-)

A/N: I adore Jaden's story of Marian Hawke - if you have not read Shadows and Feathers, I highly suggest you check it out. I was so enthralled with the idea of Alistair traveling to Kirkwall after the blight and getting recruited into Hawke's band of misfits. Throughout my reading of her work, I kept thinking of the ways Alistair would react to things, or of how situations would look from his side. Once again, that lovable Warden began whispering in my ear, and after I stopped shivering and realized he was serious, I decided to write it.

Since this is an alternate viewpoint of the world that Jaden has created, the stories are meant to compliment one another. I suppose you could read one and not the other, but I do hope you check them both out. Super thanks to Jaden Anderson for letting me play with her characters in her world. :-D Enjoy.

9:30 Dragon Age - Ostagar

~ Alistair ~

Cousland came snarling into camp, fists flexing tight then loosening, fancy armor streaked with a thin film of dust. Duncan strode close behind, an ironic little smile twisting his mouth. From the spot where Alistair sat sharpening his sword, he looked up at just the wrong moment, managing to catch the eye of their newest Grey Warden recruit.

"Eyes to yourself," Cousland snapped at him. Alistair held up his palms in mock apology, scowling at the back of the man's armor as the noble ass ducked into his tent. He'd known Cousland for all of three days and already hated him. What was to like, really? He was the epitome of everything Alistair had come to loathe over the years - a haughty, self-important son-of-a-bitch with a god complex. Growing up in the Chantry, Alistair had suffered through more than his fair share of run-ins with people who thought themselves better, more special, more worthy of respect than he was.

Mostly, he didn't let it bother him. People were idiots. He generally tried to be nice, but on the rare occasion that someone worked his ire up, he tended to respond with humor, rather than letting anger get the best of him. But something about Cousland had rubbed him the wrong way from the very beginning...

With a quick shake of his head, he banished these thoughts. If he hated the jerk, why waste brain power on him?

"Are you ready for the Wilds?" Duncan asked, lowering himself to the seat beside Alistair's.

"Think so," Alistair said, trying to put a bit of cheer into his tone. "Nothing like taking potential recruits out for their first kills, right?"

"You must be back before nightfall," Duncan stated, his voice deepening. "Find what they need and quickly. Following the Joining, we'll send Peter off with any other Wardens that do not survive. I'm afraid there will be more death before the night is out. The pyres can be lit together."

"You don't think they'll all make it?" Alistair said, his voice low as his gaze swept to the fire where Daveth sat dicing with Jory and Carver. The knight shifted in his seat, his impatient sighs loud enough for all to hear. For days he'd been making noise about getting on with it, but they'd been waiting for Duncan to return with his newest recruit. Daveth had come to them by way of Denerim - a pickpocket by trade. Alistair had doubts about that one, though Jory seemed like maybe he'd... He shrugged to himself. There really wasn't any way of knowing. The Joining took just as many as it gave - Alistair only hoped they'd get to keep some.

As for Carver - the lad had shown up only that morning, practically tripping over Duncan's heels, slathering like an eager mabari. Seemed like a good chap, wanting to prove himself. They hadn't had much of a chance to talk, but Alistair found himself hoping the boy would survive, particularly over certain others.

"Maker knows," Duncan said. "With luck, we'll only lose one. Two is far more likely, it's just odds."

Alistair's eyes raked over his mentor's face. So many years of service, years spent watching so many die the moment the chalice rim touched their lips. He couldn't even imagine it. The idea of choosing someone, hand-picking them from a pool of hopefuls, just to watch them drown in the blood.. it made him shiver. He only hoped he never found himself in Duncan's position - there was no appeal to be found in leadership of any kind. Especially after meeting the noble yuppie Cousland.

"What in the void is keeping us here?" A crass voice dragged Alistair's thoughts back to the present. He tore his gaze from Duncan to find Aedan striding over to the fire, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "You claim that we need to go into the Wilds - shouldn't we do that then, before the darkspawn arrive?" The fingers constricted, thrumming over the silvered handle of his blade, his opaque eyes pinched and cold.

"Duncan and I were just talking about that," Alistair said easily, rising to his feet and sliding the sword into the scabbard on his back. "I take it you're ready then?"

"Are you always such an idiot, or am I just lucky?" Aedan's dark ire was marvelous to behold. He stalked away, leaving Alistair to toss a dirty look at his back.

"I see you've made a new friend," Duncan joked in a dry tone. "Have patience. He did, after all, just lose his entire family."

"You're breaking my heart. No, really. There's a tear in my eye..." Alistair lifted a hand to his face, choking back a dramatic sob. "Any minute I'll... cry..."

Duncan shot him a sidelong look, unimpressed with his levity. "Get going, Warden."

Alistair whistled at the trio by the fire. "Grab your weapons, ladies! Let's go!"

A few minutes later they were striding past the gate guard, who'd unlocked the doorway in the crude fence to admit them to the Korcari Wilds. With the brush beneath his feet, Alistair spun his senses out like a spider web, scouring the thick folds of the woods for nearby darkspawn. There, not a mile away, a small contingent plucked at his invisible threads. Scouts, most likely. As for the main body of the horde... they weren't anywhere near their proximity - a relief, yet perturbing that he could still feel the dark, throbbing mass. It was at least ten miles off. For tonight they were safe, or as safe as they could be in the Wilds, but tomorrow... that was a different story entirely.

"Follow me," Cousland said, his voice deep and commanding. Ser Jory scuttled after him - he would, Alistair thought, somewhat disgusted. Highever's elite - probably thrilled to lick the head ass's boots. He glanced at Daveth, who quirked a brow at Carver, jerking his chin after their two gently-born companions.

"After you," Daveth said with a mock bow, a frilly twist of his hand turning the already silly motion foppish.

Carver grinned. It brought light to his youthful face - Alistair wondered just how old the lad was. Ebony hair, as dark as a raven's wing, shone in the bands of sunlight that managed to break through the thick forest canopy. Eyes as bright as the sky scoped the group, his mouth tugging into a full-blown laugh. He looked as if he couldn't be more than eighteen, though he was solidly built, and certainly seemed like he meant business with a sword.

"Why thank you, good ser," Carver snickered. "Hold on, I think I my noble ass needs wiping."

"No! A handful of leaves, perhaps?"

"Alright, enough," Alistair said, but he couldn't quite hide the appreciation in his eyes. "Let's go kill something."

The task went well enough and Alistair made use of the time to analyze the myriad of fighters Duncan had found for their ranks. Ser Jory appeared to enjoy the sound of his own voice, complaining about everything, from the swamplands to the ambiguous Joining awaiting them. As often as Jory groused, Cousland snarked, his true colors revealing themselves quite quickly - a self-serving bastard with no thought to anyone but himself. The only light Alistair found was in Daveth and Carver. The two appeared well suited to one another, developing a fighting technique that served each other well. When Alistair mentioned it, Carver simply fed him a sad grin and claimed his sister's fighting style was almost identical to the rogue's. The young man was the embodiment of power and strength; Alistair felt a bit superfluous, watching the way Carver handled a hurlock. It wasn't to say that Jory and Cousland weren't decent fighters - they were, though the knight was a bit stiff and clearly self-conscious to be battling alongside his city's elite. Alistair shook his head - that attitude simply wouldn't do. Grey Wardens did not hold titles for that reason, they were meant to rely on one another. If Jory - and Aedan, for that matter - didn't learn that lesson, it would be the worse for all of them.

Alistair knelt beside one of the slain hurlocks, a small phial gripped in his fingers. He pressed it against the mottled neck, catching the slow dribble of thick ichor before it stopped completely. He nudged it a bit deeper, hoping to encourage the flow as the viscous fluid was slowing to a drip before he'd gathered enough. Once full, he stoppered it, stowing it in his pouch before wiping his fingers with a handkerchief.

The others watched this operation, fascinated. Ser Jory looked almost ill, Cousland incredulous, and Daveth seemed not to care one way or another as he cleaned his nails with the tip of his dagger.

"Is that... really what we need?" Carver breathed.

"Yup," Alistair said, straightening. "Two more of them, in fact. One for each of you."

"Wouldn't it be easier to get one big bottle, instead of four small ones?" Daveth's eyes flicked upward, his chin still lowered as he eyed the senior member of their party.

"Portion control," Alistair said. "Each of these holds just the right amount. We wouldn't want to poison you."

"Poison us? Does that mean - we're going to-" Carver gasped the words, eyes bugging.

Damn! Alistair's mind raced. He managed a slow, feral grin, stepping past Carver and clapping him on the back. "You'll find out, my friend." Attempting nonchalance, he sauntered ahead, praying that they'd follow.

Damn damn damn damn damn! Idiot!

No one questioned him the next time the bottles came out, though Ser Jory did turn a delicate shade of green.

"Come on," Cousland called. "There's some kind of structure ahead - could be the old Warden outpost."

"I'm tired," Daveth whined. "I wanna go home." He and Carver smirked, two little boys pleased with each other's company. Cousland reached out and cuffed Daveth upside the head as Ser Jory's chin whipped over to focus on them. His brown eyes narrowed in suspicion, but then he turned away, perhaps not wishing to make a scene.

"Knock it off," Cousland growled, marching ahead again.

"Awfully cold," Jory muttered, chafing his hands together. "We shouldn't be out here after the sun goes down."

"For a knight, you're cowardly." Carver's cocky challenge was met with a furious stare. "What's there to be afraid of? Everything worth screaming at died on our blades back there. Grow some balls, man!" When Jory huffed an impatient sigh and turned away again, he grinned over at Alistair. "My sister's got a bigger pair than him, I swear."

"Maybe so, but how're her tits?" Daveth sniggered.

"Go suck your mother," Carver shot back, glowering.

"Rein it in, boys," Alistair sighed, jogging ahead to catch up with Cousland. After a few hours of putting up with their amateur pranks he was about out of patience with their two youngest recruits. He offered Jory an apologetic shrug as he passed. "Young asses," he muttered. He could remember acting much the same when he was their age, but he was now approaching the time when a man started to think about other things - a home, a family, a future. Not that it's likely for me, not now... Not for a Warden. Not for me in particular.

He caught up with Cousland just as the man passed through the stone pillars.

"Yes! There - look!" Alistair pointed, and without delay Aedan marched to the chest and flipped the lid back.

"Awfully... broken, isn't it?" Daveth commented as the others wandered up. Indeed, the trunk had been all but obliterated, warped by weather, time, animals - who knew. It sagged against itself, a pile of wood seeming more likely to fall over than stand up, much less hold or protect something.

Cousland pawed through the chest, clearing out handfuls of leaves and dirt from the splintered boards. "Documents? Isn't that what the old man wanted us to find?" He stood, his pinched eyes swinging around to spear Alistair. He brushed his hands against his thighs, dust and bits of leaf mold loosening from his fingers. "Waste of fucking time." He curved over and spat into the brush, a look of sheer disgust darkening his face.

"They're not there?" Alistair took a step toward the chest himself, his movement halted by a sultry voice.

"Well now, whatever do we have here? Some scavengers you are - those bones have long since been picked clean. Perhaps you are intruders, then, come to these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine. But what is it you search for in that rotted box, I wonder."

Atop a slight ramp, a woman swayed toward them - a woman, alone here in the Wilds - and what a woman she was. Paler than moonlight, with hair as black as the midnight sky, and eyes as yellow as... wait. Eyes - yellow? Alistair's gaze darted to Cousland. The man was inspecting this new arrival with shrewd interest. Daveth squeaked like a strangled mouse, and Alistair heard Carver's armor shifting, then the ringing of metal as his sword left its sheath. The woman seemed to chuckle to herself, her confident smirk sending a shiver down Alistair's spine. Suddenly, she didn't look quite as beautiful as she had a moment before.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?" Her slim white hands clasped slender hips, a graceful brow arching as she surveyed their motley group. Alistair felt his cheeks burning as her... purple... shirt thingy... if it could be called that, because honestly, it was more nothing than it was shirt - shifted with her arms, revealing a swath of creamy torso between a pair of - Stop it! He dropped his eyes to the bare earth, now convinced she was a demon sent to torment them; five men about to be lost forever in the Korcari Wilds. Wait, aren't there stories like that? He shuddered at the thought.

"Which is your preference?" Cousland asked, his imperious voice gone as sultry as her own. Alistair gaped at the man - he'd heard of people mourning in different ways, but - really?

The woman laughed. "You have spirit. And you seem at least moderately intelligent. Tell me your name."

"Don't," Daveth shuddered. "Next thing you know, she'll turn us all into toads!"

"I was not speaking to you, little man," the woman snapped, those eyes flashing with gold light. "Or you," she added when Carver opened his mouth. It snapped shut again before her gaze rounded on Ser Jory, whose mouth remained firmly locked as the ochre stare bypassed Alistair completely to settle on Cousland once again.

"You may call me Aedan," he offered in a careful voice, a charismatic smile widening his mouth.

"And you may call me Morrigan." She smiled back, clearly approving of Cousland. Alistair shifted in dismay as a chilled mist seeped over the ground, turning the land hazy and indistinct. The distinct feel of magic tingled through the air, singing in his veins.

"She's a witch!" Daveth trembled, his voice low and frantic. "She'll put us all in the pot, she will!"

"Well if the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Jory snapped, and Carver hooted at the fright on Daveth's face. Personally, Alistair was agreeing with Daveth more and more as the seconds ticked by. If she was an apostate... he gathered his energy, preparing a smite in case anything went awry. Instantly, Morrigan's head whipped in his direction, pinning him with a glance as her lips pursed. If Alistair had needed any further proof that she was an illegal mage, he'd just gotten it.

"What is it you are seeking, exactly?" she purred, her eyes finally leaving his to drift back to Cousland.

"Something that was likely never here to begin with," Cousland said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Old treaties, or some such."

A knowing glint lit within her flaxen eyes as she analyzed the remains of the chest, her fingers drumming against her hips. Alistair watched her movements, wondering just what thoughts were filling that mind of hers.

"Wait-" his mind leapt ahead. The woman's gaze danced to him as his mouth gaped. "You stole them, didn't you! You're some kind of - sneaky - witch-thief!"

"Eloquent and intelligent. My my, are all of you as clever as this one?" She rolled her eyes, impatience thick as cream. "Twas not I who removed them."

"Then who did?"

Alistair's shoulders rounded with relief when she turned her disturbing wolfish stare to Aedan, following the sound of his deep voice. It was a good question as far as questions went. Alistair followed her gaze, watching with interest as Cousland's brows darted skyward, a silent challenge issued for her to answer his query.

"Ask me... nicely," she lilted, sensual fingers playing over the alabaster column of her neck and collarbone. Alistair caught the exasperated flare of Cousland's nostrils, but the haughty nobleman regained his control after only a moment. A subtle power play was being enacted here - something Alistair could recognize, though he'd get eaten alive were he to try such a thing himself.

"My lady Morrigan, tell us, please. If you did not remove the treaties, then what happened to them?" Cousland was all manners, a polite mask prettying his typically granite expression.

"Civility, and charm. I like you." Morrigan's wolfish face stretched into a slow, carnal smile.

"Oh, sure, she likes you now. But one wrong word, and zap - frog time," Alistair muttered. Cousland ignored him, though Morrigan scowled in his direction.

"Twas my mother who took them, in fact," she answered, her hips shifting as she lazed a bit closer. "I have been watching your progress for some time. Curious steps you take, disturbing places that none have dared venture for decades. Why might that be... Aedan?"

"Don't answer her," Alistair said in an undertone. "She looks Chasind. There could be others nearby."

"Oho! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" Morrigan's arms lifted, ridicule painted as wide as the kohl around her eyes.

"Yes... swooping is... bad," Alistair said, then mentally cursed himself. Really? Really, genius? Swooping is bad. Dunghead.

Aedan seemed to agree with his mental assessment, for his mouth twisted in disgust before he turned back to Morrigan. "Disregard my companions, my lady. Take me to your mother, so I may thank her for keeping the treaties safe for us."

Morrigan's lips curled with amusement, her head tilting as she regarded the warrior before her. It was not a question that she bring him before her mother, but rather a demand - something she found she liked. "Follow me then, if it pleases you." Morrigan turned and crested the hill. Alistair scurried after them and was stopped by Aedan's outstretched hand against his chest.

"Stay here," he ordered. "No need for you to continue to make a mess of things."

"A mess of-" Alistair sputtered, but Cousland gave him a small shove and followed Morrigan from the ruins, indifferent to the shock on his companions' faces.

Aggravation swept over him, leaching outward from the hot coal lumped in the center of his belly. Alistair turned back to the others, struggling to find the calm that normally came so easily to him. "We wait five minutes," he said tightly. "Then we're leaving."

"You can't just leave him," Jory protested. "Aedan Cousland is-"

"A first rate ass," Alistair cut him off, eyes flashing. "And if he's turned into a frog it'll be only because he never met anyone else who could do it sooner!"

Ser Jory looked as if he might protest, but then Daveth began sniggering again and he shut up.

The seconds dragged. Alistair tried counting in his head, determined to hold true to his five-minute mark, but small noises in the underbrush kept drawing his attention. He continually lost track, finding himself repeating the same ten numbers over and over again. Carver and Daveth shuffled their feet, kicking small stones about the clearing, while Ser Jory tucked his hands deep into his armpits. Poor blighter - his nose was looking rather red.

When Morrigan came stalking over the hill, Alistair balked at her furious expression. He'd met darkspawn more pleasant than the look that twisted her face. Cousland came behind her, carried by his own legs, unfortunately, and not those of a frog. A pity. Unlike the witch, he possessed an air of studied neutrality - not a single clue visible to explain the woman's ire. Heedless of Cousland, or the others, her long legs flashed through the slit of her uncivilized skirt as she turned and continued the way they'd come. Aedan was quick to follow her, and the others fell in without a word.

Alistair hurried to gain the spot at his side. "Did you get them?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, emotionless.

"Excellent," Alistair said, wondering just what was making Morrigan move so fast. Her stiff-legged walk was practically a run, though she didn't seem scared - angry, for certain, but not a bit afraid. "Um... is she leading us out?"

"With luck," Aedan said coolly, not deigning to spare a glance in Alistair's direction.

He digested this, wondering if perhaps he should find out how likely their chances of horrible magical death were. "Something happen I should know about?"

"Fuck off, templar."

Okay then. Alistair dropped back to walk beside the others.

"Five to one he made a pass at her," Daveth whispered, though if the twitch of Morrigan's shoulders meant anything, it was that she'd heard.

"You're on," Carver muttered back.

"Wait, what?" Alistair asked, his eyebrows shooting skyward. "You think he - really?"

"Look at her," Daveth said, lifting his chin at Morrigan's rapidly retreating figure. "I've seen that walk before. That is the walk of a woman propositioned - I've done it enough times to know. Carver, your money's as good as lost."

The woman stalking ahead of them huffed, the sound carrying on the breeze. Alistair felt her magic drift across the land and before his eyes, she phased into a wolf, those voided eyes peering back once over her shoulder to ensure they didn't go running off into the Wilds. The men jerked to a stop, all but Cousland sharing a startled glance.

She returned to her path, her pace even quicker now that she was on four legs.

An apostate, Alistair thought with a sigh. Marvelous, really.

Alistair raked a hand through his hair, stealing a quick glance back to where Duncan stood, preparing the Joining chalice. The only information Alistair had gleaned about the ritual was that it took lyrium, and darkspawn blood, and that it was quite difficult to prepare. As a junior member of the order he wasn't privy to such secrets - or to many secrets at all. Frustrating at times, but a relief usually. Alistair found things worked best when he didn't have to be responsible for too much.

"What's taking so long?" Ser Jory complained. "Why all this secrecy? Why the testing? Haven't I earned my place?"

Daveth simply shrugged, returning to picking the darkspawn flesh out from under his nails, seemingly uninterested in the knight's moaning. Jory continued to harp, saying something now about his home and family. Carver clapped an apprehensive hand over the back of his neck, apparently nervous now. The lad had been cocksure and full of confidence that morning - eager and excited to have been chosen for the Order. Alistair, himself, had felt much the same way when chosen; it'd been his ticket out of a life prostrating to the Chantry. It made him wonder why the boy was so eager? Young, good looking, hale and hearty - there seemed little in the way of his past to bring him to the Order. The Wardens weren't picky when it came to their ranks so long as the recruits showed talent. Some joined to evade the law, as it was for Daveth, others to escape dire situations. A few were idealists, joining for the glory of being called a Grey Warden, for the supposed adventure and honor that came with being a part of the revered Order. What remained to be determined was which category Carver fell into.

Alistair's eyes widened when Ser Jory's words finally sank in. The man spoke of a wife in Highever, a child on the way. With a twisted mouth, Alistair tipped his head back against the stone wall.Damn it, he thought, that isn't fair. The best that Jory could hope for now was to survive the Joining, help bring an end to the blight, and be stationed somewhere near Highever so he could see his child grow up. Grey Wardens had no families - they were warriors of the world, forever cursed to battle the putrid darkspawn. Had no one told him this?

Thoughts of the Chantry and how they'd intended to keep him from ever having a family of his own intruded once again, and a bitter laugh welled up from his throat. He ignored Aedan's curious glance when the ironic sound came out - he couldn't care less what Cousland thought of him right now. With luck, the prick would be dead in ten minutes. Cruel, Alistair, he thought, sighing.Would you really wish that death on anyone? So he's an ass. Deal with it.

At least the noble son-of-a-bitch had been graced with a family, even if they were gone now. The Revered Mother had been quite determined to keep Alistair from ever marrying, and especially from - Maker forbid - procreating. He'd been watched closer than any of the other templar trainees. While most had managed at one point or another to sneak off to The Pearl to sample Sanga's wares, Alistair had never been able to join them. He'd even been whipped on one occasion, after being caught with a group of other youngsters. As an example, he could remember the Revered Mother's voice. None of the others had been whipped.

Oh well. It wasn't something that necessarily appealed, in any case - spending his first night with a woman in a public bed, and paying her afterward for the effort... no. No, thank you. But being twenty and a virgin was more than a touch frustrating at times. Wry humor and quick wit had saved him from major embarrassment on more than one occasion, though mostly he just tried to avoid the subject.

Not as if I have time for that sort of thing anyway, Alistair mused as Ser Jory continued to complain. Cousland growled under his breath, growing less patient by the moment. Daveth flicked a bit of ick from the tip of his dagger in the nobleman's direction, grinning when Aedan's eyes flashed in anger. If Duncan hadn't appeared at that very moment, who knew what might have happened next.

"Now we come to the joining," Duncan said, soft and serious, the hard soles of his boots crunching as he strode over the graveled earth. He set his supplies on a table set against the wall, the nearby fire burnishing his armor as he turned back to speak to the recruits. Alistair straightened, one hand raking through his hair as his heart took off in a wild gallop. Mind racing, he worked a bit of saliva over his tongue, attempting to swallow and moisten his suddenly dry mouth. The words of the Joining... how did it begin? Silly to be nervous over simply saying a few words - it wasn't as if he didn't know these men, or as if there were a thousand of them - just five - and they were all looking at him -

"Alistair, if you would?"

Now, he thought, but the first words escaped him. It was... no, that wasn't it. Images of his own Joining swirled in his head; the two other men who'd stood with him, Riordan and Duncan looking on with hushed expectancy and hope in their eyes. He took a breath, distracted by his memories, hoping the words would be there, and... damn! He had the last bit - we shall join you. Easy. But - oh, right!

"Join us, brothers and sisters," he began, his head lowering in a show of respect. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us, as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn." It was coming easily now, his many whispered practices paying off. "And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day... we shall join you."

His palms ceased their sweating as the last word left his lips, a wash of relief spreading through him. He'd done it - without missing a word. How would it have looked, if he'd forgotten it? Cousland already thought him a moron; no need to augment it unnecessarily. Duncan nodded at him, then turned back to the recruits.

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good. From this moment forward... you are now Grey Wardens. Carver, step forth."

In the distance, lightning slashed the sky, cutting the darkness with a blinding brilliance. Gaze darting wildly, the young man with the vivid eyes moved one foot forward, trembling hands reaching for the silvered chalice as thunder rumbled in the distance, menacing as a bad dream. Fingers locked white around the shining bowl, nostrils flaring as he brought it to his lips. Alistair found himself holding his breath, a slight wince lifting his shoulders, his face crinkling as he waited for the moment of truth. He'd witnessed no other Joinings since his own, but the nightmare of what had happened to the one who'd died was with him still.

Carver's eyes slipped shut as he drank. In a rush, Alistair remembered it all - the hot tang of the blood, his templar senses flaring at the magic inherent in the lyrium imbued draught. Nails bit deep into his palms as he squeezed fists tight shut, watching the lad closely for the signs of...

Carver shuddered, then the broad shoulders relaxed as his eyes rolled back. Duncan rescued the chalice just as he folded in on himself, saved from a tumble onto the stones by Alistair.

"He will survive," Duncan said, dusky orbs gleaming with quiet triumph. He turned back to the table as Alistair stretched Carver out on the ground, relief tingling over his skin. He wished there was something to pillow the poor lad's head with. Why hadn't they thought to bring bedrolls, or something? Come to think of it, when he'd woken gagging from his own Joining he'd been on the ground as well - had no one any foresight? If they all passed out, why not be prepared?

"Daveth, step forth."

Buoyed by Carver's success, the rogue took the chalice without hesitation. Throwing a quick grin at Alistair, he put the shining bowl to his lips, tipping it upward to slide its thick contents over his tongue - his last action as a free man. We move from one prison to another, Alistair thought, watching Daveth drink the deadly brew.

His adam's apple bobbing beneath the cup, Daveth swallowed once, twice, three times. The chalice lowered, finding Duncan's hands again as the rogue cleared his throat, disgusted with the malodorous feel of darkspawn blood in his mouth. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders back, and Alistair moved in to catch him as well -

Daveth shook his head, one hand lifting to press his temple, bewilderment filling his eyes.

No... Horror-struck, Alistair looked on as Daveth staggered, his hands clasped against his knees in an effort to steady a trembling body. Head dropping, he buckled, knees slamming against the rock as he hugged his midsection, shaking and ill. Alistair swallowed as Daveth's nails raked over the leather breastplate armoring his stomach and chest, digging deeply enough to leave marks in the sturdy material. Beads of sweat rolled from the dying man's forehead, the veins of his neck blue and strained as he paled, whiter than marble. A scream of anguish clawed from his throat, rising a panicked octave as his eyes rolled back into his head, the tiny red veins vanishing, his smooth stare blank and frightening.

"Maker's breath!" Jory gasped, both he and Cousland backing up a pace. Daveth crawled toward them, corded arms collapsing beneath his quivering frame before he pushed himself up once more, a stifled moan falling from his lips. Pure agony carved his cheeks, his mouth opening as another soundless wail left his throat. Alistair took a hesitant step forward, wondering if he should end the man's pain with a merciful slice to the throat. Duncan halted him with a muted gesture, distant thunder rumbling once more over the horizon as Daveth collapsed. He twitched, then finally was still.

No one moved, all eyes glued to the chalk-white corpse sprawled on the ground. Duncan was the first to break the reverie, turning back to the table for a moment. When he faced them again, the chalice was in his hands, more threatening than any weapon.

"Jory, step forth."

Pure terror drained Jory's face of color, his mouth working soundlessly as he backed into the stone wall.

"There is no turning back..." Duncan took a step forward, his voice hypnotic as he crooned the words to the frantic man. Jory fumbled for his sword, sturdy armor scraping against the wall as he slid sideways, attempting escape from the man who commanded him to drink his own death. The blade came free with a rasping of metal - Alistair's heart dropped from his chest when Duncan set the chalice on the table again, intense sadness in his eyes.

"No... you ask too much," Jory babbled, cracking with strain. "If - if I'd but known - I have a wife - a child -" Madness showing the rims of white, pinched eyes, he lunged, swinging at Duncan. Alistair's breath caught as his mentor dodged the blow, movements rogue-quick, belying his stoic, well-spoken demeanor. Seemingly from nowhere, a wicked blade appeared in Duncan's hand, curving edge mirroring the moonlight as he drove it up through Jory's gut. A sickening splash of scarlet laved over Duncan's wrist, the knight folding in on himself. Pain and confusion filled his eyes as he fell, struggling to draw breath through the blood that bubbled into his throat.

"I am sorry..." he graveled, sounding truly regretful as Jory's eyes dimmed, settling into a macabre stare that focused on nothing. "But the Joining is not yet complete."

Alistair's stomach churned at the calm, unruffled quality in Duncan's voice. From his tone, one would think he hadn't just sliced a man open for daring to question Grey Warden law - and after telling the victim nothing of what would be asked of him. But then, what else could his mentor have done?

This was bad... really, really bad. Two dead - one from the Joining, one because of his own stupidity. Why hadn't Jory just drunk the blasted thing? At least he might've had a chance... Alistair found himself shuddering, repressed fear coating his tongue in a bitter tonic. Everything was so damned secretive, no one knew anything of what went on at ceremonies like these. Would people join up, if they did?

Somehow, he doubted it.

The chalice shone from Duncan's fingers, inviting their last recruit to spin the wheel of his fate.

"Aedan, step forth."

Cousland swallowed, having the grace to look disturbed over what he'd just seen. A deep breath tugged his shoulders upward, then he strode toward Duncan, snatching the chalice in one hand. The potion was thrown back in one quick gulp, as if it were nothing more than the last swallow of wine before the tab was paid. The cup shoved back into Duncan's fingers as Cousland sucked at the air, trembling, awaiting the worst.

After a moment the taut muscles loosened, then the man spiraled to the ground in a clumsy heap. Alistair arrived a hairsbreadth too late to catch him, but did manage to keep him from cracking his head against the shale.

Duncan's head drooped, the breath rushing from his lungs as he set the chalice back on the table. Tired eyes pressed shut, his fingers lingering against the cold metal of the cup. "Come, I'll help you move him."

"I can do it," Alistair said quickly. Duncan was finally allowing himself a bit of time to be human, and he wanted to give him some space to breathe. I dunno how he manages, Alistair thought as he dragged Cousland over to Carver's unmoving form. I haven't got that kind of mettle.

Duncan's voice droned above the crackling flames, his eulogy for Jory, Daveth and Peter grave and gentle. Alistair stood with his brothers, the smell of roasting flesh turning his stomach. Despite the almost perpetual hunger that had plagued him since his Joining, he was certain his appetite would be more than curtailed til morning. Cleansing fire was traditional - it released the soul from the body, sent it speeding to the Maker's side. But the odor, though better than that of rotting corpses, always left him nauseated.

He was saddened over the deaths of Jory and Daveth - they all were. Recruits were rare, with only a few being chosen each year, and even after a few decades the Ferelden Order was small - still too small, really. But Alistair's grief over these two was more detached, less personal - they would have strengthened the Order had they survived, and it was a shame that they hadn't.

But Peter's death... a lump grew in his throat as he remembered the man. Peter had been the other recruit who'd survived the Joining alongside Alistair. It had made them comrades of a sort, cohorts on equal footing in a brand new world of unknowns. They'd traveled together, trained together, joked and laughed, confided in each other. All Wardens were brothers - the Joining bound them together more closely than flesh. But Peter had quickly become his best friend.

A hand clapped Alistair's shoulders as he swallowed, struggling against his grief, not wanting to appear weak. He must have looked as if he was about to cry, for the hand's owner spoke softly in his ear. "No shame there, boy," the wizened voice reassured him. "None'll think the less of ye, should ye let 'em tears come. Good men, they were. I'd like ta think some'un'd weep for me when I leave this world, murderer and criminal though I am."

Drawing a deep breath, Alistair lowered his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, using the action to quickly sweep any betraying wetness from his lashes. The men around him were his family - the only one he'd ever had, the only one he would ever have. Peter was gone, but only a few hours ago he'd gained two new brothers. Who could tell - perhaps even Cousland would prove companionable, though he suspected Carver likely to be more so.

Even in the privacy of his mind he fought to be cheerful, generating these uplifting thoughts in an attempt to quash the loneliness that hovered like a vulture, watching for him to fall, waiting to consume him bite by ravenous bite.

Don't forget to review and let me know what you think so far! Reviews make me type faster. ;-) Hoping to update this once a week.