NOTE: D'awww, thanks so much to every one of you who took the time to leave a review on the first chapter. And thank you also to all of you who read it, and who added it to your alerts and such! Your feedback means a lot to me. I also need to once again thank Morwen33 and Sushifer for their help and encouragement. X3 (Incidentally, they both have awesome Dragon Age fics-in-progress that you should go check out - "Unbound" by Morwen33 [for which I am doing illustrations], and "Exiles" by Sushifer [my fic-pact-buddy, as it were =D].)

Now, have a slightly longer chapter!

...

She supposes this fellow is all right.

Like all the others, he had squinted at her confusedly as soon as his attention turned to her, but only for a moment. With a twinkle in his eye that reminds her of Fergus like a wrenching stab (where is he? She will have to go look for him soon, now, but once again, nobody wants to let her into the woods), he moves right on and snickers something about Blights and people and generally goes about chattering on like it's nothing, like he knows her—but he doesn't. He doesn't know. She smirks back at him after a moment of thinking on this.

"So," the man, Alistair, goes on, as she's beginning to gather he does, "have you ever actually seen any darkspawn?"

She rolls a shoulder. "No." In their travels, she and Duncan hadn't encountered any, though he'd taken the time to describe them to her. Her fingers twitched and she laid her hand over the pommel of her dagger every time he'd mentioned them, as if doing so would make her better at actually using the thing. Rima kicks her foot against the ground. "Guess I'll have to eventually, though, huh?" She has never fought anything worse than wolves, or bears, and those she can climb trees or run away from. But now, it will be her job to actually do away with the darkspawn. Perhaps she can sit in trees and drop things on them…better than fumbling and missing a swing of the sword.

"Sooner than you or I want to, that's for sure," the corner of Alistair's mouth curls up as his brows dip apologetically. "But, we're Grey Wardens. It's sort of part of the job." And, she figures, accidentally stabbing herself trying to fend one off is probably only half as bad as what had waited for her in Highever, back before-

Well, anyway.

"I look forward to it," she says. There. Manly.

"Uh-huh," he claps his palm into the back of her shoulder, rolling his eyes at her, and then steps forward and indicating with a tilt of his head that they head somewhere away from the location of his confrontation with the mage.

"You sound awfully doubtful," she turns on her toe to round herself off in front of his next step, leaning forward with a practiced piercing stare honed over years of cornering cute little things and pinning them to walls. "Why?"

When a blush creeps over his face, and he stutters a, "I-I just thought...never mind," she is reminded of the kennel-guard, and her gut drops. "Uh," Alistair finally speaks again. "Should we…" He bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits for her to speak, and she shakes her head before stalking off toward the other recruits. The kennel-guard could—he wasn't—he isn't important now. This Alistair fellow is here and she has more important things to focus on—like ducking past anyone who might recognize her. She would punch the next person to call out, "Lady Cousland?" The last thing she needs is Alistair finding that out. She's lucky he hasn't asked her name—maybe it'll last long enough for her to think something up, convince Duncan to back up her story... Who would she be? A farmer's daughter? No, too much of a stretch. A guard? No, not likely; or an ill-trained one, if she was. What could someone like her be? She shakes the thought to deal with it later.

"How d'you like Duncan?" Alistair finally asks, catching up to her after she'd unexpectedly rounded a corner to stop and look over the quartermaster's wares.

"He told my parents as they faced certain death that he'd only save me from Ho—from a sticky situation if they let me join the Wardens," she shoves a few iron rings onto the table, and a stack of pelts she'd accumulated on the way to Ostagar.
Alistair frowns, his shoulders sinking a little. "He did that? Really?"

"Do you think I'm lying?"

"Oh! No, I—I'm sorry. I just didn't expect—"

She casts a gaze over her shoulder. "Don't. It was for the best. He saved me from having to choose."

"So…your parents died? Do you have—any other family?"

"A brother, F—" but maybe he would recognize the name and put the clues together and— "He might be somewhere near here, actually." Oh, if she could find Fergus, even if Alistair recognized him somehow and figured out who she was, it'd be worth the trouble.

"We should look for him, then!"

She glances at his armor—he wouldn't be able to sneak over a wall out into the woods like she could. Best not inform him of her plans. She scoops the silvers and coppers the quartermaster hands her up into her gloves, and turns them over in her palms, staring.

Alistair, apparently, notices. "Something wrong? He didn't cheat you out of any coin or anything like that, did he?"

"No," she says. She is as poor as an alienage elf now—well—nearly, except the weapons and the armor and the mabari and the fancy family sword she'd grabbed on the way out of the castle, but—

"We should get back to Duncan," he suggests.

"You go ahead," she tells him, counting the coin back out of her hand as the quartermaster whispers something to her and hands her a slip of paper and several poultices. Alistair frowns and leans over her to read the slip, but seems relieved to find it's only a recipe for some kind of dog treat. "There's—something else I need to do, but I'll be right there."

"Oh, no, I can come with you," he smiles apologetically. "I didn't mean to sound impatient, just—"

She tucks the goods into the pockets on the sides of her leather armor. "No, go ahead. I'd rather run this errand…" not with you,she thinks, because then he will most definitely know, and she has half a mind not to bother, but… He fidgets, scratching his head and then raising his eyebrows as he waits for her to complete her thought. "…It's…private business," she finally says. There.

"Oh," he blushes (again! she thinks, and thinks again of the kennel-guard, dropping gut and all). "Sorry. Yeah. Uh. Okay. I'll meet you at…yeah."

Rima wonders briefly what he had concluded private business entails, but nods at him as he turns to leave. When he is far enough away that she can sink into the bustle, she gives another nod to the quartermaster and stalks off. It's not as if this is a big deal, she tells herself, and it doesn't mean anything, really; she's not expecting anything, to be certain, and it makes sense for her to stop by—

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir's tent.

The guard leaves to fetch him after a hard look and some terse words, and she squares her shoulders as he ducks out of the tent, standing, it seems, just as much taller than her as he always has been. His brows knit and he narrows his eyes a little, deciphering her, and she breathes in deeply and puffs her chest as she sees the spark of recognition in his eyes.

"I heard news of what happened to your family," he finally says, and she feels a quiver in her innards when the words sound so much more apologetic and feeling than what she would have expected of him. "For what it's worth, you have my condolences, Lady Cousland."

Her nostrils flare and her shoulders draw up as her fists ball, and Loghain's mouth twitches upward. "I'm a Grey Warden now," she says, "not…"

Immediately his trace of amusement falls. "Grey Wardens," he sneers. Rima's brows rise and her chest deflates as she waits for Loghain to continue. "Cailan continues to insist on seeing them as the glorious heroes those foolish legends have painted them to be. I think," now his own nostrils flare, "that he would volunteer to become one were he not King."

Rima's gaze falls to her feet for a few moments as she gathers her breath. When she looks back up, she spreads her stance and hunches forward slightly, as if bracing herself for an overpowering gust of wind. She exhales. "And what does Anora think? Of the Wardens?"

Loghain's eyes narrow and he tilts his head back to observe her. Her hunched shoulders draw her closer, and she is balanced on the balls of her feet leaning forward as he pulls away, snorting dismissively. "If you'll excuse me, Warden, I have important business to tend to. I have only so much time before the battle and I must use it to advise Cailan against his latest grab for glory—not to answer such—questions."

And like he was never there, he turns and rolls his shoulders and has disappeared back into the tent.

…

"You know, this might be the last afternoon we're alive," Daveth points out, straying nearer to Rima as she steps around a particularly prominent tree root to gather yet another handful of elfroot. She cannot tell if he has been kidding this entire time—after all, when was the last time someonemade advances on her? At the castle, naturally, either they were all noblemen (who, upon meeting her, seemed more often than not to share her disinterest), or they were servants and workers and the like, all of whom were wont to edge around her until she told them what she wanted, because they were…well, but she wasn't at the castle now, and Daveth had no reason to treat her as anything other than someone just as good at sinking into the shadows as he is. For all he knows, she figures, she's another lowly cutpurse like himself.

"Might be," she answers.

"You ain't a virgin or nothing, are you?"

"No."

"But still, it'd be a real shame to go outta the world unhappy. Can't say I can even count how many weeks it's been since I had a lady."

Her hair bristles visibly, prickling in waves up her neck and arms, and she whips around, planting one well-placed and apparently unexpected shove against his chest. She stomps forward as he stumbles back over the tree roots and then squats over him, grabbing him by the dingy amulet he'd picked off of one of the dead bodies they'd come across in the Wilds. "Think you'd be the one doing the taking, huh?" Rima hisses. Her foot slips from beneath her and her knee snaps into the leather between his legs, pressing up into the junction with uncomfortable force as she leans forward and releases the amulet. Daveth's head thuds against a tree root before he can catch himself. "There's a thicket just over there," she tells him, teeth nearly scraping at his nose. "Say the word and I'll show you what I mean." Her knee nudges into the leather covering his smalls. She nips at his nose before pulling her head away, and her lips peel back to reveal a smirk when his cheeks redden.

"Uh," he squirms a little, and she lifts her knee from between his legs—slowly.

Alistair coughs, markedly averting his gaze from the two of them. "So, uh, anyway, I think we're actually pretty close to where the documents are supposed to be…"

Rima flashes a wider smirk at Daveth and pulls herself to her feet, huffing a satisfied puff of air through flared nostrils. "Lead the way," she says to Alistair, but the man waits for her to take step in front of him. Jory rolls his eyes at Daveth as they follow.

"Here!" Alistair dashes forward. "Look! …Oh. They're…it's…" his face falls. "…Empty."

"Great," Daveth mutters, rubbing at the tip of his nose. "Now what?"

"I don't—" Jory begins to speak, but is distracted as Rima abruptly shifts her gaze from him to a figure strolling down a path from the side.

"Well, well. What have we here?" the figure asks, and slips from the shadows. As she continues to speak, Rima moves her weight from foot to foot, rolling her shoulders. Where had she come from? After so many years of keeping sharp ears for Fergus' footfalls in the woods, how had she not heard these steps? The woman is stunning—beautiful. Her eyes slide from Daveth to Jory to Alistair to Rima, buttery-gold and knowing. Rima is drawn into them and held there, imagining herself nestled into this wise Wilds-woman's exposed curves; she is expelled when the woman addresses her directly. "What say you? Hm? Scavenger, or intruder?"

She is not an intruder. Maybe they are—the others—but she isn't. "Visitor," Rima mutters. Why isn't Atlas here? He should be here. "We came to find this tower because the Wardens owned it."

"We had documents here," Alistair adds.

"Well, 'tis clearly a tower no longer," the woman says. "See how the Wilds have consumed its desiccated corpse." She paces past them, eyes fixed on a distant point. "I have been observing you visitors, thinking I might decipher what you were doing here. And thisis why you came? Simply to disturb that which has been untouched for so long?"

"Careful. Don't answer her," Alistair mutters to Rima as she opens her mouth to speak. "She may be Chasind, and if she is, there are morenearby." Rima is about to snap that if there are more she would have heard—but—this woman caught them by surprise, so perhaps not.

"Oh! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!" the woman's eyes narrow in amusement. And now, as Alistair mumbles something back, Rima is looking—because—if there are others—she could—live here—oh, but she is a Warden, but—maybe—later. Yes, later. She will come back and find the Chasind and see if they're so bad as everyone says.

"She's a witch of the Wilds, she is!" Daveth insists. A—yes, she supposes she's heard this tale before, but—this woman is far too beautiful—

"You there," the woman's gaze is piercing into her. She shifts her weight again, straightens her back. "Women do not frighten like little boys." The corners of Rima's mouth lift for a moment before she realizes that this woman did not squint at her for one moment. She wonders if this one can somehow smell her, smell her like she can move without making sound. "I watched you back there," her eyes dart to the tree roots Daveth had stumbled over, and she smirks. "You seem sensible enough. So: Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

No use lying: This woman can probably read her mind, too. "Rima," she says, and from behind her Alistair seems to choke on something. Before he can speak, however, she hurries on: "A pleasure to meet you."

"Manners!" the woman exclaims. "Even here in the Wilds! You may call me Morrigan."

"Morrigan," Rima repeats, nodding.

"So I would suppose that you came here seeking something in that chest?" she motions to the empty, wrecked thing over which Alistair had expressed such dismay. "Something," Morrigan adds after a moment, "that is here no longer?"

Alistair huffs, crossing his arms. "You stole them, didn't you?" Morrigan's eyes glimmer.

…

As they follow Morrigan back to her mother's, Rima deflects curious gazes from Alistair by walking beside the so-called witch, whom Alistair seems to be managing with some success to ignore while still following.

"Have you seen a man around here?" Rima asks.

"Several," the woman responds dryly, and rolls her eyes back to the others. "But I suppose you intend to ask after someone specific? I am, after all, little more than a tool for gathering information for others."

Her brows tuck down. "My brother." She rattles off everything she can think to say about him, down to, "And he screams like a girl when he's startled."

Morrigan chuckles. "And has he a name?"

"Fergus." Alistair bursts into a conspicuous coughing fit.

"Hm," Morrigan pointedly ignores him. "I have seen no such man. Perhaps he is one of the dead ones strewn about," she suggests, motioning to them. "They have been making such a racket. There seem to be simply too many darkspawn about for them to make it in and out alive."

Rima's gut turns.

"Fear not," Morrigan continues, seeing her wince. "We are under my mother's protection at present. They will not attack you—for now."

"That's not it—" she begins, but at Morrigan's doubtful—confused?—stare, she falters. Where is Atlas? Why didn't he come along? When she cannot think of a way to explain to this woman why she needs to find her brother, safe and alive, and is stuck pinned under her stare, Rima quickly finds several urgent questions to ask Alistair about the documents. She falls into step beside him and continues there even after she has asked everything she can dream up, pacing silently at his side and occasionally checking his expression with a tilt of her head over a defensively shrugged shoulder.

"Are you…?" Alistair finally asks when he happens to catch her looking.

"Not now."

"Okay."

…

As soon as they reach the main camp at Ostagar again, Alistair is nervous - nervous to witness this Joining, in circumstances that feel so much direr than they had at his own, and nervous about getting to know the recruits more but not too much in case he gets too fond of them, and nervous about the battle everyone is guessing will happen tomorrow. They hand Duncan the blood and the documents and tell him the story of Morrigan and her mother, and he gives Alistair and the recruits strict instructions for where and when the Joining will take place. As Jory parts with timid steps toward the armory, Daveth strides toward somewhere with a grin - probably to speak to some poor woman, Alistair thinks; probably some poor woman who's not Rima and who won't smack him into a wall or whatever like Rima did.

Rima, Rima - when she'd spoken her name to that nasty witch-woman (thank goodness, he thinks, that they finally got rid of her after that far-too-long walk back to camp on which she'd been forced by her mother to accompany them), he'd recalled some passing mentions, here and there, of Teyrn Cousland's daughter, who had the same name and if she had the same brother she had to be the same person, right? The templars-in-training were as gossipy as a pack of women sometimes, and he'd heard chatter about most anyone in the nobility—this girl, this woman, this Rima, was no exception. (What was it he'd heard about her? He couldn't remember now - it's not like he'd ever really cared about any of it.) He'd always assumed, though, that someone called Lady Cousland would be…prettier. But he isn't sure—maybe are were others with her name, and her high-born accent and fancy armor are coincidence. Maybe the sword she lugs about with the Cousland crest is merely a mark that she'd lived in Highever. Or stole things from high places. But then, she'd mentioned Fergus, who he'd most certainly heard Eamon mention several times—maybe even glimpsed, once or twice—before being sent off to become a Templar. But why hadn't she said…? Ah, but he hadn't even asked her name. Well done, Alistair, he thinks to himself. You always were great with the ladies. Not awkward at all. Maybe she'd withheld the information just to get back at him. Or maybe—well, no, her case was nothing like his.

Alistair waits for her to stalk off too, because he needs to talk with Duncan, about - about important things, of course, like the Joining and the battle and the recruits and... But Rima remains in place, spreading her stance and crossing her arms, staring down her nose at him as well as someone he figures can't be much taller than the average elf can stare down at him. "You, ah, need to talk to Duncan? Or something?" he asks, stepping around Duncan's fire to stand beside her.

"Yes," she says. "Alone."

Duncan himself raises one eyebrow. "Oh? What about?"

If she had even intended to answer, she doesn't get the chance. Alistair nearly jumps out of his skin as King Cailan sweeps in front of their small cluster. "Wardens!" He turns to Rima, winking. "And Warden-to-be." Still looking at her, he continues, "How was your journey into the Wilds, Lad-"

"Rima!" she barks.

"Yes...sorry. Rima. How was your journey?"

"Fine!" she answers entirely too forcefully, her body expanding to look larger - elbows out, shoulders squared, stance widened - as if she could intimidate him.

Alistair forgets the shaking of his knees and roiling in his stomach that usually accompanies Cailan's presence when he notices Rima's hackles raised, and a growl, a real growl vibrating from her throat. What in the Maker's name could... But nobody else seems to notice, and he sees her eyes flick to him. He takes a few swift steps back-there. At least this way she won't be able to look at him and Cailan at the same time. That could be...disastrous. She narrows her eyes at him but rolls her attention back toward the other two when Duncan asks, "What brings you here, Your Majesty?"

"I thought I might check with your recruits about how thick the darkspawn are running in the Wilds, but it seems I was too late to catch you all at once." Cailan's eyes focus on Alistair and Rima. "But the two of you should be able to tell me: how was it?"

"Not good," Alistair finally answers when it seems to him Rima isn't planning on speaking any time soon. He watches her shift her weight subtly and frequently, like a predator, and he cannot decide if it is more like a cat jumping on a bird or a hawk preparing to dive into a fire. He takes a deep breath and continues. "There were...well, more than I thought there would be. We couldn't avoid them, that's for sure. And some of them were powerful."

"But you came through," Cailan smiles, stepping close enough to clap Alistair on the back. Alistair yelps in a panic because now she's looking, now she sees us side by side and she'll know and- "And I will do the same alongside the Wardens tomorrow!" He tilts his head to look past Alistair at Rima. "Becoming a Grey Warden is certainly an honor, L-Rima. I'm sure your family would be proud of you, if..."

And Alistair just knows something bad is going to happen when Rima takes one deadly silent step forward, so he whips around to face her and grabs her by the shoulders before she can do...whatever it is that she wants to do to Cailan. To the King. The sound of Duncan's armored boots clacking closer draws his attention toward the other man, and he sees Duncan motion that he should let go. Duncan gives Rima one pat on the shoulder before Cailan amends, "My apologies; that was...insensitive. I swear to you that as soon as this battle is over, we'll see to it that Howe is dealt with. The Couslands are far too important to Ferelden to be forgotten."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Duncan clears his throat, "it would be best that we make going over the details of the coming battle our priority for now."

"Of course. And I am sure Loghain will agree," he rolls his eyes.

"The recruits will become Grey Wardens officially tonight. Tomorrow, let us talk through our strategies and finalize them. We should have additional information about the activity of the darkspawn by midday."

Cailan nods, and while he and Duncan exchange a few more words, Alistair's eyes flit back to Rima. With any luck, he can ask her about-

But she is gone.

…

Alistair tries to ignore the way his fingers twitch as he recites the words for the Joining ritual. It is his first since his own and, and—maybe it's much, much worse knowing what's coming. He hopes Jory lives—he seems nice enough. And Daveth—Daveth makes him a little edgy, but he is good at what he does, and the vicious way he tears into things with those daggers makes Alistair glad never to have met something like him on the streets. Rima—she is—neither nice nor particularly capable with her dagger and sword, but Duncan must have recruited her for some reason. Maybe it is the way she knows exactly how to make her feet fall so that they don't make any noise, or the way that she seems to be able to disappear if he looks away for just a moment. Or maybe it's—oh—maybe that's why. If she really is Rima Cousland, maybe Duncan has plans for her, something political, something...

But it's a bit late to ask now, in the middle of the Joining, and he will have to wait to ask after—if she lives, he thinks, and hopes none of them notice him wincing as Duncan turns to them with the chalice.

His heart sinks as Jory backs away, and he cannot look while Duncan closes in on him. Daveth seems to have frozen in place, hand half stretched out toward the other man, and his eyes dart to Alistair's. Alistair nods once, twisting his neck to further avert his eyes from the scene. Rima's fists are balled but her eyes are pinned helplessly to Duncan's back. Her mabari's stubby tail sinks down and he shrinks behind his owner. Alistair sees Rima mouth something as she shrinks back as well, her shoulders collapsing forward. The mabari's beady eyes turn to Daveth with Duncan's attention, and a whine presses itself from the dog's heavy body.

Alistair is almost afraid that the other two will turn and flee—but Daveth seems to be stuck to the stone, and from what Alistair has seen he's tough as dragonskin anyway, for all his slipperiness, and Rima seems no different.

So Daveth takes the chalice, and collapses, and Rima mutters his name as Duncan apologizes. This isn't any good at all, he thinks, and now has to physically turn his body to avoid the sight of his two fallen comrades. When presented with the blood, Rima pats her mabari once on the head and grabs the chalice, gulping it down and bracing herself as if she can keep from crumbling to the ground if she just tries—and that's it, that's all, no words, and the only sound is a hissing through her clenched teeth when her knees buckle and gurgling as she rolls onto her side.

"She'll make it," Duncan says, pressing fingers to her neck and face. He scratches the mabari's ear. "Alistair, would you watch over her and tell her I'd like to see her when she awakens? Right now, I need to speak with the mages about their battle plans for tomorrow."

"Of course," Alistair breathes. Even he is not sure if the stale air finally leaving his lungs brings him relief or bitterness.