It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
The sky was dark, a blackness extending outwards, imprinted only by the shadows of mountains in the distance and the fractured network of bare tree branches stretching above the worn road. The sounds of Lake Celestine, the rasping ebb and flow of waves, could be heard just beyond the line of trees to the left. The caravan—made up of a half dozen templars, two mages and a single horse-drawn wagon—traveled by guttering torchlight around the lake, towards the Circle of Magi at Montsimmard.
High-pitched screams sounded in the distance, and the people of the caravan fell still. The horse began to panic, its fierce jostling threatened to tip the cart sideways. One of the templars cut the poor animal free, but before anyone could go after it, a low grumble reverberated through the ground. Castiel stumbled, and a sick unease settled in his gut.
Without much other warning, the templar at the front of the line was tackled by a hulking shadow; his gurgles could barely be heard under the crunch of his armor folding like paper. The other templars jumped into action, and when Castiel tried to grab his staff from pile of goods piled inside the wagon, the templar nearest to him kicked at the back of his knees, toppling him over. Manacles clicked around his hands, trapping him against the spoke of one of the wagon wheels. Castiel's throat worked to speak, but the sight of shadows emerging from the forest dried up his well of words. Darkspawn rushed the caravan. But the Blight was over, wasn't it? There shouldn't be darkspawn this far west. They're supposed all be back underground. The roads were supposed to be safe. The objections circled Castiel's head, as if the facts would make the monsters before him disappear.
Shrieks seemed to claw their way out of the earth, and long, racking arms tore at the beleaguered templars. A dozen or so hurlocks and genlocks surrounded the remaining five templars, and when Castiel looked for his fellow mage, all he could see was her body, prone near the front of the caravan. Blood arched from a nearby cluster of action, and painted Castiel's face and the front of his robes in a muddy red. He gagged, and cringed as the monsters moved closer. He pulled at his manacles until the metal cut into his wrist, but by the time a shriek came straight for him, his attempts toward escape had come to nothing.
The first blow landed across his shoulder, and he threw a kick at the creature with enough force to make it flinch, but not by much. The feeling of fire and storms radiated out from his wound, and he knew he wouldn't have the strength to lash out again. The shriek raised its other scythe-like hand to gut him, but then a flaming arrow pierced through its head. It fell backwards, like a wooden lump.
And then other shadows charged the line of darkspawn, armored men and women emblazoned with crests of griffons. Grey Wardens. Castiel's head went woozy with blood loss and relief. He blinked, and realized the world had gone quiet. No more darkspawn. No more templars.
"Help," Castiel uttered, and his knees buckled.
"Oi, we've got a live one!" one of the Wardens shouted.
Castiel slumped to the ground when the manacles were cut away. Someone rolled him onto his back, and they hissed at the sight of his wound. "Maker's breath." Castiel couldn't see his shoulder, and he didn't want to. He tried to keep breathing past the boiled air in his lungs.
"Captain! Can you come look at this?" another voice shouted. There was some rustling about, and the sound of soft-soled boots approached.
A blurry face floated into Castiel's line of vision. A woman with dark skin, and a small gash at her temple. A kind face, with intelligent eyes. "Hello, my name is Martha. I'm a Grey Warden. We're here to help. What's your name?"
He couldn't remember for a long moment, but then said, "Castiel."
"Castiel. Please stay still as possible, I'm going to try and get a better look at your shoulder and try to stop the bleeding," she said, and her calm demeanor somehow dulled the panic that began to rise up in him. But then there was pressure and pain, and the fires picked up again, and in the distant corner of her mind he realized both that Martha spoke in the common tongue, not Orlesian, and that the shouts he now heard were from his own throat.
"Castiel," Martha was saying when he settled back into himself. Her face was grave, and he just wanted her to make the pain go away. "I'm sorry, but I think you've contracted the taint."
He didn't respond, but met her gaze.
"You know what this means," she said.
He felt like he didn't have the strength to nod. "I'm going to die."
Martha took a deep breath and then replied, "Or you could undergo the Joining, and become a Grey Warden. It could give you more time."
Castiel's head began to throb, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, waiting for waves of pain to pass. "I—" he started speaking through clenched teeth.
"You still have time," she assured him. "We'll take you back to our stronghold near Montsimmard. You can make your decision there."
Castiel let himself go after that pronouncement, and his mind fell into unconsciousness.