Addendum:Revised 5/3/10. Expect updates, I suppose. I just can't resist. =)

Special thanks to those who've left comments. I always enjoy hearing what others think.

1 – Vagrant

The wind whipped its way through the trees, icy and sharp, stealing away what few leaves remained to the great oaks, maples, and few rare birches of the forest; only the stalwart evergreens stood defiantly against the bone-chilling cold. Aside from the wind howling in the shorter man's ears, the silence of the road was almost deafening; few creatures roamed to disturb the calm, nearly all yet hidden away, in their holes, trees or dens, against the morning's biting chill. His cloak was warm, his hood pulled tight, but the wind was harsh and unforgiving, battering the rough wool against his cheek. In these low hills of Amaranthine, winter had arrived with a vengeance.

Two men walked this road alone today, both bundled tightly against the cold, leading their packhorses steadily along beneath the gray pre-dawn sky. Both were tall, really, but one was especially so, standing half a hand taller than his companion, who appeared decidedly wider. The latter certainly was stockier in truth, but this impression was enhanced by the heavy silverite armor that he wore beneath his hooded cloak. He was the elder of the two, this armored man, by some many years – his face, though never truly handsome, now bore many lines of age, though he bore them well.

His companion was taller, darker, possessed of an imperfect but distinct physical beauty marred by a deep and livid scar across the outer edge of his right eye, extending vertically to the jaw line. The long hilt of a serrated qunari blade extended high over his left shoulder; another long, curved blade of Dalish make rested easily on his left hip, ready to be freed at a moment's notice. He wore no armor, carried no shield; he was a lean man with a wiry sort of strength, an unholy terror on the battlefield with the grace of a dancer, the power and finesse of a jungle cat.

Unlikely companions, perhaps, were these two soldiers. Noble sons of Ferelden both, peerless leaders and unmatched warriors. The elder had spent the many years of his long life in service to his country, risen from farmer to general, from general to one of the greatest heroes Ferelden had ever known. Today, however, Loghain Mac Tir followed a different path – the younger man at his side commanded.

This man was Darius Cousland, a former lord of Highever, though he no longer named himself as such. To his few friends, he was simply Darius – to the people of Ferelden, he was the Warden Commander, slayer of the Archdemon and vanquisher of the Fourth Blight, and both the title and the responsibility set increasingly ill with him.

Unlikely companions, yes, and even more unlikely friends. It was a friendship born first and foremost of mutual respect – any real affection was markedly slow in growing. Unsurprising, considering that these men had spent the better part of the preceding year as bitter enemies, opposing generals in a civil war that had threatened to engulf all of Ferelden. But grow it had, and if they did not love one another, they had, at the least, grown to be easy in each other's company.

For his part, Loghain had come to admire the Warden Commander a great deal, despite the boy's relative youth. Darius was quick-witted, extraordinarily clever and well-spoken, with an infectious smile that made him difficult to dislike, but he was a hard man, much more like Maric than the dead king's bastard child. Unlike Alistair, Darius was no idealist; his leadership was bolstered by a sometimes harsh pragmatism, tempered by his growing knowledge and experience of the world. For that, Loghain respected him. He would have given much for the young Cousland's sobering influence before the disaster at Ostagar. Ironic, really. Loghain would never have imagined that somewhere in that camp walked a young man destined to rise against him, to defeat him in single combat before the eyes of the Landsmeet. What if Darius Cousland had not survived Ostagar, or had shared the fate of his family? Would there be a Ferelden left now to defend?

Perhaps not, he thought.

Almost certainly not, said a stern voice at the back of his mind. He could not disagree, and it shamed him, though not so much as it might have, once. Many things could be said of Loghain Mac Tir, both good and ill, as often true as not, but never that his pride clouded his ability to exercise good sense. He had not believed the Wardens' claims that a Blight had come upon them. He had been wrong. He'd made mistakes. Maker, he'd made enough mistakes in his life to fill ten wagons. Twenty. But he'd done his duty, as he saw it. He always had, and he always would.

The wind suddenly began to pick up, cutting an angry swath across the road like a frigid blade. His armor was icy cold on his skin, even through the thick sweat-dampened wool beneath it, but he did not regret his decision to wear it. Even with the Blight ended, Amaranthine was dangerous country, plagued by bands of darkspawn and bandits beyond count. He considered it a small miracle that they had not yet been accosted, though he supposed that even bandits and darkspawn would hesitate to brave this sort of weather. Even when the sun's rays finally reached them, they would provide little warmth. He could picture his own appearance, black hair soaked with the sweat of exertion in spite of the cold, silverite armor gleaming beneath a lined and chapped face, turned beet red by the frigid morning wind. Assuredly, he looked ridiculous. But ridiculous was better than dead. If the whelp wanted to wander about in these hazardous parts without a shred of even cured leather to defend him, that was his business.

I decide to walk about like that, and I'm dead in an hour, he mused, a touch irritably. He had never possessed the equal of the young Warden Commander's agility or almost preternatural evasiveness, even in his prime, and he envied it. Loghain knew himself to be something of a blunt instrument in battle. A very effective one, to be sure, but blunt and ungainly nonetheless. He was a practiced and careful swordsman, efficient and without flourish, whereas the younger man was a maelstrom of whirling blades and severed enemy appendages, courting death as he dealt it in droves. Battle was a fine art to Darius Cousland; to Loghain, it was merely a vocation.

The packhorse whinnied uncomfortably in the harsh wind, and he soothed her mechanically, patting her mane with a gauntleted hand. The taller man at his side was silent, staring straight ahead woodenly. The Warden Commander's eyes had become haunted and distant of late – he ate little and slept less. Perhaps the weight of his new responsibilities set heavily with him, but Loghain did not think it so. No, the young Warden's eyes were haunted not by fear or doubt, but by loss. A raven-haired sorceress filled his thoughts.

Loghain's ears pricked up sharply at the sound of approaching feet. Someone – or something – was approaching, swiftly, through the trees to the right. He quickly unlimbered his sword and shield, preparing for conflict.

"It's just Will," said Darius' deep, measured voice.

Loghain relaxed, sheathing his blade at the sight of the mabari darting out of the trees. The dog ran happy circles around his master, settling into a plodding walk at his side. The cold seemed to bother the hound not at all.

"Didn't find any darkspawn, I suppose," Loghain deadpanned, breathing laboriously. The dog yipped sharply in acknowledgement.

"We must be getting close to the keep," said Darius.

"To be so lucky," said Loghain dryly. His bones seemed to creak with every step. Perhaps he was getting soft in his age, but a fire would be blessedly welcome.

"How long do you expect to stay?"

"Long enough to get warm, at any rate," he replied. Truly, he had no idea. Anora had tasked him with bolstering the Wardens' ranks, and he supposed the most expedient way to do that would be to operate independently of the Warden Commander, as they remained the only two Wardens in all of Ferelden, what with Riordan dead and Alistair somewhere in Orlais. Maric's son had been unable to accept him as a brother, a sentiment that Loghain understood to a certain extent, if he, like Darius, considered it something of a childish one. No one wanted to see Ferelden safe more than Loghain Mac Tir, and if that meant joining the Wardens, so be it. He was willing to admit he had been mistaken about Darius Cousland, but he had never acted out of anything beyond the desire to keep his country safe, whether from Orlais or darkspawn either one.

Though he would never have admitted it, the Joining had been oddly liberating for him. His path in the wake of Ostagar had been a terribly harsh one that had made him few friends. It was somewhat comforting to have a clear path before him again, to not find himself fraught with guilt and indecision at every turn.

Following the orders of Bryce Cousland's youngest son, not to mention those of my own daughter, he thought with a tinge of amusement. Anora, now Queen of Ferelden in truth. Wonders never ceased.

"I wonder if the Queen anticipated the state of lawlessness that we'd find here," Darius remarked.

"I doubt you'd find the rest of Ferelden far removed from this state of affairs," said Loghain, and that was true enough. Soldiers were in short supply everywhere, unsurprisingly. Ferelden had lost many of her sons this past year.

Cailan among them.

The younger Warden nodded and shrugged. "I know. Still, I don't relish the idea of policing a lawless arling with only a handful of soldiers and half-trained militiamen. Farmers will be beating down the doors from the moment we arrive."

True and true, Loghain agreed voicelessly. He knew from experience that this sort of situation was a farmer's worst nightmare. Without soldiers to defend them, whatever crops they'd managed to harvest would be ripe for the plucking for anyone bold enough to take them. Not to mention many of them have their families to consider.

"More men will come," Loghain replied, more confidently than he felt. "Give it time. Your reputation precedes you, after all."

"So they say."

Darius adjusted his hood and returned to his brooding. Loghain watched him for a moment, but didn't break the silence.

It was a heavy burden he carried, especially for one so young. Ironically, it was only now, with the threat ended and his path as Warden Commander laid out neatly before him, that Darius Cousland looked truly lost. The young Warden kept his emotions close, as a rule, but the more time that passed since the Blight's end, the more wooden and mechanical his movements became, the more distant and pained was his countenance. He would do his duty – of this Loghain had no doubt, as the young man was certainly as strong and capable as ever – but he was no longer the man who had so inspired his friends and followers. Something inside him was broken, and he wandered, neither sure of nor content with the path he traveled. The sight of him plodding methodically along, huddled against the cold and plagued by dark and lonely thoughts, touched Loghain with a momentary pang of sadness.

He'll get over it. He has to.

Truth be told, Loghain knew next to nothing of his Commander's thoughts. Likely, no one did. That was Darius' way – he had been friendly enough, once, but he had always spoken relatively little and confided even less. The few who could have called him "friend" were scattered now, to the four winds and beyond. His family, loved ones, the familiar faces of his youth – all dead, murdered before his eyes, the work of the man who had once been Loghain's right hand.

Loghain sighed and shook his head. Thoughts of Howe always brought bitterness and anger. Of all the errors he'd made, increasing the power and influence of Rendon Howe was the one he regretted most. Howe had been a monster, blind with ambition, and his death had been justice.

As mine would have been, he reflected. Blinded as I was by fear and hate.

Amaranthine had been Howe's arling, now given to the Grey Wardens, with Howe's estate, Vigil's Keep, to serve as their base of operations. A small measure of justice for the horror that the Warden Commander had endured at the hands of Howe's men. Small comfort, likely. No comfort at all to Loghain Mac Tir, who had not only been complicit in most of Howe's schemes, but had allowed himself to be influenced by him.

No sense dwelling on the past, he thought, somewhat bitterly, but it was difficult not to. Both of them were consumed with brooding and dwelling, more often than not. It was amazing how little peace the Blight's end had brought to either of them. It was difficult for him to look back without harboring regrets, or without wondering what could have been. As for Darius, Loghain knew little of the specifics, but he could make a reasonable guess. The young man had been very much in love; they'd all seen it. And he could have sworn that the girl returned the sentiment.

About as much as any of us can ever truly know about women, I suppose.

"I can see smoke," said Darius suddenly.

Loghain looked up. A column of smoke, likely from a chimney or forge, billowed upward into the sky. Less than a mile away, around the next bend. Yes, a fire would indeed be welcome.

"Long day ahead, I imagine," Loghain offered.

"Undoubtedly," came the measured reply.

They plodded on unenthusiastically, the silence unbroken save the sounds of their footfalls and the assorted rumblings and grumblings of the pack animals. The Warden Commander stared straight ahead, shoulders slightly hunched, saying not a word.

Hang in there, kid. It gets better with time.

"You are not asleep so soon, are you?"

He opened his eyes. Her face was very close, her body pressed seductively against him. She wore nothing but that smile, her curious, private smile that almost never surfaced outside the privacy of his tent.

"No, I'm not asleep," he replied, and the words felt strange leaving his mouth. Why should they? It was an inexplicable feeling and one that he forgot in moments.

"Good," she said briskly. "Because I am bored, and I wish for you to amuse me."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, leaving her nearly breathless. She giggled.

"Oh, you are quite full of yourself, are you not?"

"What, are you not amused?"

She laughed again. "I suppose. For now. But you must try harder next time, lest I grow tired of you."

He yawned. "Men grow tired, afterwards. But I suppose you always kick them out before that becomes apparent."

"Or kill them, if they displease me greatly," she added mischievously.

"Charming as ever," he replied wryly.

"Tell me something I do not know," was her airily-delivered reply.

He smiled at her. "Have I ever?"

She smiled back, her secret smile. This time, it seemed a little sad. "Oh, Darius, my love… You were wrong."

"Wrong?"

She leaned in close to his ear, her breasts pressed snugly and provocatively against the skin of his chest. He felt her lips lightly caress the lobe of his ear as she whispered, "You are asleep.

"'Tis only a dream…"

He snapped awake, feeling anxious and momentarily disoriented. He was in a large bedchamber, comfortably furnished in the coastal Fereldan style. The embers of a dying fire smoldered in the large, ornate fireplace on the other side of the room. Recognition was swift in its coming – he was in Vigil's Keep, and he was alone.

Just a dream.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. The Vigil was silent; outside, the night sky was blanketed by the unbroken darkness of the new moon. Judging by the state of the fire, he'd been asleep for perhaps a couple of hours. Morning would be a long time coming, yet.

He sighed heavily and lay back. The bed was very comfortable. This room had belonged to Thomas Howe, so he understood. The master bedroom had been offered to him, an offer that he had brusquely refused. He had no wish to sleep in a room once inhabited by Rendon Howe.

His side was hurting him again. Likely, the pain had awakened him. He still carried a grisly wound, a nasty gash across his stomach that Wynne had been unable to heal completely, a wound he'd taken in the battle for Denerim. The hurlock who'd done the deed had been incinerated, by the very woman who now haunted his dreams.

Only a dream…

It was another sort of pain, a terrible emotional void, that had simply become a part of him since she'd left him, as if it sought to replace her in his life. He distanced himself from it as best he could, but it always remained, like a prowler lurking just out of sight. There was no dealing with it. She was gone, out of his life forever.

He couldn't afford to brood; he was the ranking Grey Warden in all of Ferelden, the Commander of the Grey. The entire arling of Amaranthine was now his responsibility. His mind should be full of trade figures, visions of soldiers and farmers, not useless and fleeting images of a woman and an unborn child.

Responsibility be damned, he thought bitterly. I did not ask for this.

He hadn't, that was true. But he would do his duty. Really, what was the alternative? Going on a blind, fruitless search for someone who did not want to be found, by him least of all? In his mind, he heard her voice:

"I promise you, here and now: You will regret it in the end."

The thick dressing on his wound had grown dark brown with blood. Mechanically, he set about the task of changing it, making slow work of unwinding the heavy gauze from about his torso. It was painful busywork, but at least it occupied his mind. He seemed to be perpetually tired, since Denerim. He wondered absently when he'd last had a good night's rest.

You're being foolish. She did warn you.

Just let it go.

Maybe he could, with time. Perhaps, with time, he could forget her, the lovely golden-eyed witch who'd stolen his heart and left him broken. There was certainly enough before him as Warden Commander to occupy his mind. Right now, however, in this strange bed, alone, it seemed a very remote possibility. She had warned him, but either he hadn't believed or hadn't realized the depth of his entanglement. Useless speculation, now. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard her lovely, melodic laughter.

The last bit of cloth came away from the wound unwillingly, revealing a livid, angry red gash. As he allowed the wound to breathe a bit in the chill air of the keep, his hands drifted automatically to the cord around his neck. On this cord hung a ring, a twisted, unadorned loop of rosewood. It was a strange thing; the wood's grain seemed to shift periodically, taking on abstract shapes of trees, plants, and forest creatures. A gift, it had been; a trinket, touched by her magic. Keeping it this way was perhaps ill-advised; "foolish sentimentality," as she might say. But Darius would no more part with it than with his head. Its magic never worked for him, ungifted as he was, but once, only once, he had experienced a strange sensation while handling the ring, turning it over and over in his calloused fingers. A wave of anguish and regret seemed to pass through him, emotions that were not his own, and he imagined, for an impossibly brief moment, that he could see the world through her eyes. The sensation had passed as quickly as it had come, but it had been vivid and real.

The ring now rested heavily in his palm, just a small nondescript circle of rosewood. All he had left of her.

Just forget it, damn you. This is pointless. She's gone.

He finished cleaning his wound and carefully applied a fresh wrapping. When he'd finished, the whole mess throbbed and pulsed beneath the cloth. It was always leaking or oozing something… Maybe the blade had been poisoned – that was an unpleasant thought. If it didn't improve soon, he'd have to find a doctor.

Add it to the agenda, he thought wearily.

The bed was indeed soft and comfortable, and he lay back, closing his eyes. He did not expect to fall asleep, but he at least needed to relax. There would be much to do, come morning.

Author's notes: Composed whimsically, the product of a morbid mood. More of a prompt than an actual story, I think. Don't know if I'll continue this or not… If I do, it will probably focus much more on the past than the present I've established, and I might even go back and reformat the entire thing.

I didn't like Awakening much and would prefer to go my own way post-Origins – Awakening just didn't feel the same, to me, but the main thing is that I just love Morrigan and want to see more of her. I can't be the only one. Love it or hate it, I'd love to hear from you.