Obligatory A/N: Rewrote this several times, in an effort to accurately capture the nuances of the complicated dynamic between Warden Commander and Ferelden King.

I should also point out that this story does require prior knowledge of Origins, to a great extent - retelling the entire tale is not my aim here. I will be going into great depth with much of the plot of Awakening, but only for the sake of character development, and also because "my" Awakening involves several changes to canon.

Thanks once again to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/etc.


And just when I thought this day couldn't possibly get any worse…

Rowan knelt on the cold ground, her impassive expression masking a seething well of frustration. And here I thought I would be free of him…it seems that he's intent upon following me to ensure he inflicts as much discomfort as possible. Why in the Maker's name is he here? Surely if there were a planned visit to the Keep at the time of her departure, someone would have thought to inform her? And yet here he was, and such perfect timing – the aftermath of a disaster on a massive scale, all her Wardens lost, and the mighty King Alistair shows up to…what, gloat?

The methodical clanking of plate armor ceased abruptly, and then Alistair's carefully polite formal tone rang out. "It seems we've arrived too late to be of assistance; my apologies. I wanted to come to provide the Wardens with a formal welcome…I certainly wasn't expecting this!" Rowan rose to meet her former lover's eyes, maintaining a suitably grave expression. "What's the situation?" he asked.

Thankfully, Varel responded before she had the chance, saving her from the daunting task of formulating a reply that wouldn't result in rolled eyes and kingly disappointment. "What Darkspawn remained have fled, Your Majesty. The Grey Wardens who had arrived from Orlais appear to be either dead…or missing."

"Missing?" Alistair echoed. "As in taken by the Darkspawn? Do they even do that?"

Again, Varel (Maker bless that man) replied. "I do not know, your Majesty," he said gravely. "I only know that we cannot account for all the Wardens."

"That is troubling," Alistair replied, sounding sincere enough. But then his eyes traveled to her, and his tone was just slightly mocking when he said, "At least the Hero of Ferelden yet lives; that is something." Try not to look too disappointed, she thought grimly.

"You have quite the task ahead of you," Alistair continued with that same vague hint of sarcasm. "I will offer what aid I can, but it seems you will be largely on your own."

"Hey!" Oghren growled. "What am I, chopped nug-livers? I came to join the Grey Wardens, and from the looks of it, you could use the extra hands! Now where's the giant cup…I'll gargle and spit!"

"You're not allowed to spit," Rowan said automatically, and to her surprise, Alistair's smile at the comment appeared mostly genuine.

"Heh, that's what I always say," Oghren leered. Mhairi made a small sound of disgust, and Rowan had to battle the childish urge to pinch the woman – not for the first time that evening.

"Your Majesty!" The voice came from one of the Templars who had marched in with the soldiers, a wizened, unattractive woman with enormous dirty-brown eyes that bulged unbecomingly from her sallow face. She shuffled up to Alistair's side, and beside Rowan, Anders went taut as a bowstring. Oh, Maker, the poor fool really should've run when he had the chance…

"King Alistair, beware," the woman was saying in a hard, reedy voice, "this man is a dangerous criminal."

Alistair looked around in confusion. "I'm sorry, what…?"

"She means me," the mage said, shuffling forward slightly. Rowan watched him from the corner of her eye, rather impressed with his willingness to own up.

"This is an apostate who we were in the process of bringing back to the Circle to face justice," the woman sneered. By the Maker, is she a bitter little harpy or what?

"Oh please," Anders muttered, "The things you people know about justice would fit into a thimble. I'll just escape again, anyhow."

"Never!" the Templar exclaimed, and Rowan caught a flash of that self-righteous, zealous vigor that had always disturbed her in some of the Templars. These are exactly the kind of people who should never be allowed to take the sacramental vows. "I will see you hanged for what you've done here, murderer!"

Anders' eyes widened almost comically. "Murderer? But those Templars were…" He slumped, suddenly resigned. "Oh, what's the use? You won't believe me anyhow."

Alistair, who had been watching this exchange with one eyebrow raised, shrugged his shoulders. "It seems there isn't much to say," he said. Rowan was already wracking her brain with ways to intervene when he turned a steady gaze on her and added, "Unless you have something to add, Commander?"

There was only one way she could really intervene here, and no more than a split-second in which to weigh her options. Did she know that the mage hadn't killed the Templars? No, but judging from the way that he seemed to be an almost compulsive healer, and utterly unable to leave the wounded alone, even at the risk of his own head, she highly doubted it. And really, did it even matter if he had? You let the man go, and he came back to help. And Maker knows, he is good at what he does. Her eyes traveled to Rylock, who was eying the man with an anticipation approaching greed, and she realized that if she let him be taken, he would very likely not live out the night. "I do, actually," she said firmly. "I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription upon this mage."

"Are you certain?" Alistair asked, eying her critically.

Fighting back a sigh, she nodded. "We need healers," she said simply.

She saw Anders' head snap in her direction at the same time the Templar erupted in fury. "What? Never!" Oh, Maker's breath, have some dignity, you silly git, she thought, feeling somehow instantly gratified in her decision. I wouldn't entrust the Archdemon himself to your grimy fingers.

Alistair, Maker bless him, didn't appear any more fond of the pretentious Templar than she was…and she knew that no matter how he might feel towards her, he would never interfere in her duties. Bitter he might be, but he wasn't that far gone. "The Grey Wardens do still retain the Right of Conscription, Ser," he said in a hard, cold voice that just oozed with an undertone of 'know your place, underling,' and for once, she was happy to hear it. "I will allow it."

The Templar muttered something about "your majesty's wishes" and stalked off, radiating fury and frustration, and Alistair shot her a pointed I hope you know what you're doing look. A quick glance in Anders' direction found him staring at the retreating Templar with a look of stupefied wonderment in his eyes and a small smirk on his lips. At least I made somebody's day, Rowan thought wryly.

"Well then," Alistair continued on, "if you have everything under control, I will need to take my leave." He bowed to the Seneschal and the rest, and then turned his attention to Rowan. "Warden Commander, if I might have a word, before I go…?" Rowan took a deep breath and nodded, steeling herself as she followed him to a relatively private corner of the yard.

"How in the Maker's name did they manage to sneak up on you?" Alistair exclaimed as soon as they were alone.

Rowan bristled immediately at the poorly-veiled accusation there. "I would very much like to know that myself, Your Majesty," she sneered. "The Keep was already infiltrated when we arrived; we were hard-pressed to save what we did."

The grim set of his mouth relaxed, and he had the good graces to look a bit sheepish. "I see," he said, the bitter edge in his tone noticeably quieter now. "Have you been able to question anyone?"

Heaven forbid you should apologize, she thought as she shook her head emphatically. "You heard the Seneschal, did you not? The Orlesian Wardens are all either dead or taken. And the few soldiers that have not been wounded have been rather busy caring for those who were, and flushing the remaining Darkspawn from the Keep." She gazed out over the darkened yard, where small clusters of soldiers still gathered, caring for the injured or hauling bodies away. "We rescued the Seneschal from their leader mere minutes before your arrival; I have not had time to discuss it with him."

"Their leader?" His voice was incredulous.

"Yes, their leader," she shot back, wanting nothing more than to slap him for this infuriating interrogation when she could be helping, could be setting things in order… You made your choice, Alistair. You abandoned this order when we needed you the most. None of this is your concern. Biting her tongue, she tried to rein in the anger. He was the king, after all, and the dangers this new information presented to his subjects did make it a relevant concern for him. Be reasonable, Rowan; this won't be the last time you deal with him, and it'll never get any easier if you fly off the handle every time. "This is…unprecedented, at least to my knowledge," she explained in a more diplomatic tone. "Their leader was a Darkspawn – a hurlock, it appeared – and fully sentient. His speech was rough, but fully intelligible, and he was quite powerful."

His interest was piqued, now; the last of the accusatory glare left him as he pondered the concept, for which she was grateful. "An emissary? Could it be that they've simply developed the ability to communicate with others?"

"No, he had no magic; I've never heard of an emissary who did not. The Warden records indicate that they believe the magic to make their communication possible, so unless they're wrong, this is something different."

Alistair ran a hand through his hair absently, the familiar gesture evoking a brief pang in her. How did it ever come to this? "I could leave a few of my men here with you, if you think it would help," he offered. "I'm afraid I can't remain, myself; there have been…troubles…in the Bannorn that I must deal with personally. I can swing by here on my way back, but…" The words trailed off, and he stood there looking young and frustrated, torn between the duty of a King, and the need to be a Grey Warden.

It was really incredible, Rowan thought, how very easily his naïve frustration could wring pity from her, even now, even so close on the heels of anger. "No, we'll make do with what we have; the King needs his guard," she said levelly, and rejection flashed briefly in his eyes. In truth, it did pain her, reminding him of his title and responsibilities, consciously causing him pain to make a point...but it had to be done. And knowing what had to be done, making decisions based on necessity and logic rather than sentiment, was the basis of the chasm between them, after all.

At any rate, she could ill-afford to have to worry about the King's safety amidst this mess, just so that he could nostalgically play at Warden business – even if it would have done him good. Still, she uttered the next words quietly, almost apologetically, a thin but well-meant effort to remind him of better times. "I'm used to working against dire odds with very few men at my disposal, remember?"

It was the wrong tactic. The King's face hardened, and that coldness, that baleful light that she had never expected to see in his eyes, descended once more. "Yes, I remember, Commander," he said flatly. She wondered whether it was the unwanted memory of what he had lost, or the reminder that she had faced an Archdemon with his sworn enemy – rather than himself – at her side, that rekindled the anger in him. Perhaps both. Either way, the extremely brief peace between them had ended.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, his guards falling into tight formation around him as they headed for the gates. Sighing heavily, she went to find her Warden recruits and her seneschal, and get this impossible show on the road.