"Duncan."
The man turned, rubbing a hand over his bushy chin, his dark eyes kind and smiling even if his mouth wasn't. He had been told over an hour ago by an elven servant that the young man was pacing outside his tent. He was still pacing now, in a much tighter circle, the leather skin stretched over his shield beginning to crack and show the Chantry sigil beneath.
"What is it, Alistair," the older Grey Warden asked with a sigh.
He was tired. It showed in the lines on his face and the dark patches beneath his eyes; yet he did not have time to rest with a battle looming so close over everyone's heads. Almost everyone, he amended as he caught sight of the young Dalish hunter.
Her smile was wide, perhaps the the first real smile he'd seen from the girl. He'd had Alistair watching her - her curiosity caused problems at times - but she'd been happily occupied at the kennels with the many mabari. The dogs were soon attached, almost begging for her attention. The kennelmaster didn't mind either. He left her with a short list and disappeared to the cook tent; he hadn't been able to sit down for a meal since the last clash with darkspawn. The elf, to everyone's surprise, had been running around the small pens since.
"Why?"
Duncan shook himself. He'd all but forgotten Alistair was there. "Why what?"
"I know we're low in numbers and that we need all the recruits we can get but why her, Duncan? Why did you have to bring her?"
"Are you asking because she's an elf or because she's a woman?"
"A young woman, Duncan. How old is she? How long will she live after tonight? This will destroy her! The Joining, the darkspawn, the archdemon, the nightmares, the killing. She's not right for this. She's too young and too happy - too innocent. Why would you take that away from her?"
"She's dying."
Alistair stopped. He had expected a story of Conscription - an aggressive Dalish that needed saving for proving all the stories of the nomadic elves were true. Or perhaps Duncan had some unknown plan where the best archer in Fereldan would slay the Old God and end the Blight while everyone else waited in safety at a distance. But death? Alistair rubbed his temples and then his hair, his brow in a deep V as he frowned.
"She stumbled onto an old Tevinter artifact in the Brecilian," he continued. They both turned to watch her - on her back with two dogs licking her face in delight as she laughed. "It tainted her somehow. That she recovered at all speaks of immeasurable willpower and strength, beyond what she thinks of herself. She would have died or become a ghoul that slayed her own clan had I left her. This - the Grey Wardens - is her only chance at life. She'll not break as easily as you think, Alistair."
"Does she know that she could still die?"
"We all die eventually."
"Yes, but …" He sighed. "May the Maker have mercy."
Duncan nodded and walked away - there still was much to prepare. Alistair leaned against one of the seemingly randomly placed pillars in the courtyard, crossed his arms, and watched the red braid flit behind the Dalish elf as the dogs chased and snapped playfully.