In which the two Wardens defend the Tower of Ishall and are betrayed by Teryn Loghain
Ostagar
The Tower of Ishall loomed above her, indomitable and forbidding in the dark and stormy night. Abigail shivered delicately, soaked to the bone and covered in the black blood of enemies vanquished. Alistair was beside her, panting, and the two guards (she still didn't know their names) were whispering furiously to each other behind her back. If she cared she would have paid attention to their words, but right now she didn't, because she could hear the battle even from here and it was enough to frighten her into a state of calm she'd experienced only once before–in the Harrowing.
Alistair gradually recovered his breath. "Abby?"
She resisted the urge to hit him for using a nickname that no longer had meaning. She gripped a sword in her hand, well aware that she wouldn't be able to use it for anything more than show, and wished for a warm fire. They stood at the foot of the Tower of Ishall, named after the Archon in charge of this old fortress, and Abigail couldn't help but think that the entire thing looked a lot like the home she'd just escaped. . . the Circle Tower.
After her Joining and the subsequent conversations there after, Abigail had been called down to join the King Cailan, tight-lipped Teryn Loghain, Uldred and Wynne (both whom refused to acknowledge her presence), a swarthy-looking man named Ryul, and a muscular man by the name of Hull. While the King was in charge, it was as Alistair said, about him knowing "who held the kettle." Teryn Loghain was the adamant tactician, easily aggravated by King Cailan's searches for glory, and it was to him most of the others looked to. They were all the leaders of their specified posts respectively: the Circle mages (who would play a pivotal role in the rear of the army, protected by soldiers); the footmen with their mabari hounds; and the archers on the high ground.
It was King Cailan's request that Duncan ride with him in the vanguard with the other Wardens, and just when Abigail began to attain a handle on the situation they were given the order to ascend the Tower of Ishall on the other side of the camp as the battle started and light the beacon so Loghain's men could sweep through in a counter-charge at Duncan's signal.
"The King asked us to do it," she muttered later, when it was just the two of them and Duncan alone around the fire. "We prolly should."
"Mmmhmm. Yeah. Fine. But just so you know, if the King asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, that's where I'll draw the line–darkspawn or no."
She'd actually laughed. "I'd like to see that."
He sighed. "For you. . . maybe." Then he added, almost wistfully, "But it'd have to be a pretty dress."
Duncan sighed.
They took off as soon as they'd had a bite to eat. Abigail was ravenous and with, apparently, good reason. Alistair promised to explain the finer aspects of being a Grey Warden later on, but as they ate he said that she better eat his meal, too, just to be on the safe side. She ate enough for two grown men, which surprised her, and she was still hungry!
Duncan and Alistair hugged one last time, exchanging words she couldn't hear, and then Duncan came over and clasped her arm. His eyes were dark, brooding. "Listen to Alistair," he advised her in a voice low enough not to be heard by the others. "He has all of our best interests in heart."
"I understand, ser."
"And do not dwell on what you cannot change–move foreword and have a future instead of a past."
She found she had to look away, a dark pain in her heart. "That is. . . sound advice."
He squeezed her arm just once more–and then he was gone, joining the ranks of soldiers, archers, and mages filing out into their ranks. She watched him go, feeling like a fool, and almost put a hand on Alistair's shoulder to comfort him. She remembered with a jerk that he wasn't Jowan, that nobody could take the place of her best-friend-turned-enemy, and just folded her hands together.
They set off for the Tower of Ishall as the battle started. There was a brief fright as a missile impacted the wall, sheering a crater directly next to her. She was thrown to the ground and would have rolled off of the high wall had she not gripped at the stone and heaved herself up. They'd ran for it, Alistair being faster than herself, and were hit with their first, heart-stopping piece of news. . . two of Loghain's guards ran for them, crying out that the Tower had fallen to the darkspawn somehow, and, their might combined, the four of them took out the darkspawn setting a defensive perimeter. Another Emissary was there, a darkspawn's cheap version of a mage, and Abigail used another dry-ice spell to kill him. Instead of taking his staff, however, she took a Genlock's sword and gripped it in her hand, wishing with all of her might that Irving had seen to it to give her a staff, but no, he'd been too angry. . . they'd both had. . .
And now they stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Tower. There was nothing to it–they had to go, right now, lest Ferelden fall to the darkspawn.
"Let's proceed," she said, her voice oddly muffled in the rain. She was freezing, oh so cold, and she was shivering almost convulsively. Alistair took a deep, bracing breath, nodded, and moved foreword to open the large double-doors. She glimpsed at a large room waiting beyond.
They hurried foreword into the dry and one of the tower guards let out a cry of alarm–her hands were wreathed in red flames. She shushed him, saying she needed to warm up, and he just moved to stand next to Alistair, crossing himself. She felt a flair of irritation and snapped, "I could kill you now, if you want! But if you wish to succeed you must trust me, else you're a liability. Do I make myself clear, ser?"
"Crystal," Alistair said, staring at the man. He gave him a warning look, jumping on his heels a bit to rid himself of some water that had accumulated on his thick leather armor, and Abigail concentrated on warming her ice-cold fingers, still shivering. They waited like that for two minutes, allowing themselves to dry, and then Alistair led them onwards towards a great, circular room. Abigail barely got to admire the view before she tripped over a hidden string in front of her. A sudden fear gripped her chest and she threw up an arcane shield by instinct–just in time. Her world exploded in fire, flames, and grease. Her robes singed at the hem where her shield broke. She floundered away with a cry of shock, slipping and sliding on the grease, and watched her three protectors run to fight the darkspawn stationed along the walls–she hadn't seen them. She felt like an idiot.
After dousing the fire with a spell of ice and darkness, Abigail turned her attention towards the Emissary blocking their way into the rooms beyond. He was crying something in a low, gutteral language, his staff beginning to flame with acid-green tongues of death–
she lashed out with her fist, sending a ball of arcane strength towards the Emissary. It pushed him back and he turned towards her, snarling in his strange language, and her skills were put to the test in ways she'd never dreamed before. They battled against each other, but he had the upper hand–a staff. She didn't.
But she was a gifted member of the Circle of Magi, trained in technique and perseverance. He wasn't.
Just as she thought she was about to win, another wave of darkspawn entered the room from behind him, and they were archers. Yelling in frustration, Abigail hid behind a wall as their missiles sailed through the air and towards her, some so close that she could have reached out to touch the feathers as they slammed by. "Alistair!"
He didn't answer, but there was a lot of fighting going on from the sound of it. Dropped to her knees, she peered out and made a motion with her hands. The Emissary, thinking her dead, dropped lifeless to the ground as her dry-ice charm covered his body.
She was so tired. But she pressed on, knowing and knowing that there were more levels to go, more darkspawn, and her men needed her, and Jowan needed to die, and she needed to find Teresa, and she needed to take a torch to the Circle of Magi.
Focused by this newfound optimism, the rest of the battle ended quite suddenly. The grease-fire she'd unwittingly strode into before was now about to go out, and Alistair and the rest of them were on the other side of the barricades, breathing heavily. "Abby?" Alistair called.
"Here!" she stepped out, her knees shaking. With difficulty, she climbed over the barricade.
Alistair beckoned for her to come closer and showed her to a gash on his inside thigh. She hadn't realized he was holding it, white-faced with pain, until he motioned to it. "This hurts, as in ow," he was saying, but she had already dropped to her knees. The two guards made a defensive posture around them as she worked her magic. She felt drained when she had completed, but oddly satisfied. "Thanks. On we go, then."
It only got harder as they pressed on. They were, after all, four against a tower-full of darkspawn, all ready to kill them. Alistair was a monster with his sword and shield, working well with the other two, and she stayed in the rear, guarding herself and–sometimes–her team against arrows, healing their hurts, and occasionally setting a monster on fire, or freezing them, or slowing them. She'd never used so many spells at one time in her life, and by the time they reached the third level, only one more from the top, she was out of mana.
When a mage is out of mana, one of two things can happen–they become so exhausted they cannot move, or they pass out altogether. Having already experianced the latter once, Abigail wasn't eager to do so again. She just sat down for a moment, to the annoyance of the others, and attempted to catch her breath. She caught the look on Alistair's face, how worried he seemed, and got up only after three minutes so they could continue on. She was using the sword she'd taken as a walking stick.
One of the tower guards died on the way there, but she could spare no remorse, not right now. She just forced herself not to look at him, how his ribcage had been smashed by a heavy warhammer, and by doing that she managed to slow an enemy running for Alistair's unprotected midsection, then set two darkspawn in flames.
The drop in her strength was more than she bargained for. Tears mixed with sweat fell down her face, and she was stumbling. Alistair, noticing this, came for her and placed an arm beneath her own. "How's it going?" he asked quietly.
"I'm so sorry. I'm trying. . . I'm trying. . ."
"I know you are," he said seriously, "but you have to try harder, understand? We'll rest at the end."
"Just leave me by a door or something," Abigail muttered, closing her eyes to restore some of her depleted energy. "I'll take those bastards out with my ass on the ground if I have to."
Alistair barked a laugh. "That would be a sight. You could jump up and say 'boo!'"
"'s crossed my mind," she confided.
True to his word, though, at the next sign of confrontation he tucked her away in the doorway and went off to fight, using his shield to block the arrows fired from the archers. She concentrated on strengthening a magical barrier around the other soldier instead, the one who feared her, and the arrows bounced harmlessly off. Each projectile fatigued her more than the last, but she was saving him from quick and painful deaths, so she was happy. . . at least a bit. She was really tired, actually. . .
I need to practice more. I need a staff. I can't go on like this.
She gestured with a hand, lighting a small fire within the robes of the three archers, which cost almost nothing, and she couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh as they ran around, trying to pat themselves out. Even the charred and acrid stench of their burnt flesh didn't stem the hilarity, for she'd smelled worse things in the Circle of Magi before, like Irving's feet.
She giggled. When Alistair asked what was so funny, she couldn't answer. He looked at her for a moment, his light eyes quizzical, and helped her to her feet. She swayed a little bit but otherwise stayed standing. She closed her eyes, a hand on Alistair's shoulder, and opened her mind to the Fade as she never did, allowing some of its energy to restore her own.
Opening yourself to the Fade was another dangerous task. There was no way she was able to travel into the Fade just by opening herself to it–that would require a lot of lyrium–but it did present an oppertunity for other spellcasters to find her aura. She could feel the spellcasters far below, waging war, and wondered which of the sparks belonged to Wynne, then dismissed the idea. Wynne, after all, had a staff, and you couldn't feel any one person's magical aura without a staff.
Only one more flight of stairs to go. . . Abigail nodded her assent and she trailed behind, an arcane shield covering them all as the strode up into the last room, the most important of all–and stopped dead in their tracks.
Feasting on the flesh of the fallen, a large darkspawn, easily thirteen or fifteen feet, with mottled blue skin and dark horns, mirror-like eyes–an ogre.
"Ah, no," Alistair muttered.
It turned towards them, blood, red blood, dripping from its open maw. It surveyed them, eying them up like a hunter would eye a prize turkey, dropped the piece of unidentifiable meat, and roared.
The sound shook the very foundations.
The tower guard screamed in fear, turned around, and fled the battle. Abigail yelled for him to stay, but soon she was occupied by other, more pressing concerns. The ogre bent over, as if bowing, and charged at them like a bull she'd once seen in Bryce's class. She screamed and ducked out of the way, running as far away as possible in the dark, enclosed circular room.
"Bring it down!" Alistair was yelling. The ogre took a swipe at him, which he deflected with his shield twisted at a slight angle, but them its foot lashed out. The shield flew out of his hand and bounced off of the ceiling, landing some few feet away from its owner. It kicked again and Alistair dove underneath it's legs, slashing upwards with his sword as he went.
Abigail could feel the power building up in her chest, like a cork about to burst with overpressure, and she directed it with a sweep of her hands. An inferno, bigger than she'd ever cast, exploded dead-center and right on target. Flames of blue and red mixed with the darkened skin of the ogre, who roared in pain. She half-expected it to keel over and fall out of the window, or as least die, but somehow, inexplicably, it was still standing, roaring in pain and outrage–
Alistair, his leather armor burning in places, climbed the ogre's back with a display of footwork she would have never been able to accomplish, using his sword as some type of pick to pull himself upward. He jammed it into the side of its neck, severing arteries and tendons. He was suddenly thrown off as the ogre reared up in pain, roaring to the world, and Abigail was accosted by a sudden inspiration. She called on her powers one last time and used another dry-ice spell to freeze the inside of its mouth.
It screamed and screamed in unbearable agony, the sword stuck in its neck, its mouth burning from cold-induced pain. It was dying, and it knew it, and as all cornered animals it was more dangerous for it. She couldn't understand why it wouldn't go down, why it couldn't, and she hit it again and again and again with fire spells, slowing spells, ice charms, whatever came to her mind. Alistair was laying on the ground still, his leg twisted at an awkward angle below him, and she was beginning to despair when, finally, the ogre let out a final, gurgling cough and fell to the ground with such a force that the floor beneath it cracked and tremored.
Abigail ran for Alistair, kneeling beside him. He shook his head, panting, and pointed to the fireplace built into the side of the room. "We've, ung, surely missed the signal by now. Light it!"
And she did. It lit quite suddenly, blazing like the biggest wall-torch she'd ever seen. She leaned back, squinting, amazed by the flames, when Alistair cried out in pain again. "My sword," he grunted. She obeyed, crouching next to the ogre to remove the weapon from its thick, stout neck. Its eyes stared up at the ceiling, unseeing. It disturbed her for some strange reason, and she handed the weapon to Alistair. She collapsed next to him, exhausted. "We did good," he muttered, panting. "Can you. . .?"
She was already shaking her head. "Only scrapes. Bruises. So sorry. . . Wynne will know. I'll make her attend to you first."
He laughed painfully, then clutched his ribs. She feared some of them were broken. "So. . . you were Conscripted like me, eh?"
She held a finger up and turned around, picking up something wrong in the air. She stood there, watching the door, every muscle tense and alert, ready to kill some sodding idiots.
She was aware of a few things at once: as the darkspawn appeared in the doorway they'd just vacated, Alistair muttered something about not being able to do the Remigold with a broken leg; a shadow seemed to fly across the sky; it has stopped raining; and she was wet, unbelievably wet and tired and she wasn't to go to sleep.
She had no chance against so many darkspawn. She threw up a barrier around herself and Alistair too late. She felt something pierce her shin, piercing all the way through the bone, and another arrow, partially deflected by her spell, buried itself deep into her shoulder.
She hit the ground, yowling in pain. Darkness closed in and she lashed out with all of her might. The darkness highlighted itself in blazing blue for one sharp second, and then she was cut of from the world. Something gripped her around her stomach, lifting her from the stone, and she wondered if she had died.
She opened her eyes once more and what she thought was the last time, her breath echoing loudly in her ears, and saw nothing but the moon.
The moon, the moon, she thought sadly. I would have gone to you, too.
She closed her eyes.
Korcari Wilds (daybreak, 12 hours after Loghain betrayed the King)
The funny old woman, Flemeth, was pacing the perimeter of her hut, muttering things in a language forgotten by men of this Age. As Alistair watched, dipping his feet in the small pond outside of their rescuer's home, he thought he could see a shimmering in the air, as if a heat haze had been cast over the home. Flemeth, the Flemeth of legend, was reinforcing the magical barriers around her home. She seemed awfully grim about it, too, and that was how Alistair knew how serious the situation was, how much trouble they were in. She kept muttering on and on about using roundabout ways to channel the magic, ordering Morrigan about with a sharpness that surprised even her daughter.
Alistair watched all of this and wasn't even angry. He was. . . he was. . . he had no name for the emotion coursing through his veins right now. His mind was filled with thoughts, memories of times long passed, stuck in the past as he reviewed everything his brain was remembering for him. He didn't even bother to wipe the tears off of his face–Flemeth had already seen him sob when he woke up, fully healed under her prodigeous ministrations, as she told him the thing that had turned his world upside-down.
He'd woken up in a soft cot below another bed. Abigail's sleeping face, frowning even in bewitched sleep, loomed above his own. Her hair was tickling his face. His leg had been fully healed and every bruise, scrape, and sore muscle from his previous fight in the Tower of Ishall was gone. He was back to normal–or, hopefully.
He'd dressed, for he was naked except for his undergarmets, after confirming that Abigail, too, was healed of all of her injuries. He'd watched her get struck down, after all, possibly killed, and that was no light thing, not at all. He'd seen some men survive penetrating brain injury, the lucky guys, and he was glad that she, at least, seemed to share in their good fortune.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. The smell of swamps, trees, mountain air, and the humidity he wasn't accustomed to. He knew exactly where he was, perhaps ever since he woke, so he wondered, even now, why he was so surprised when he opened the door to find Morrigan and her mother talking in an undertone on the small grassy knoll at the left of the house. Morrigan took one look at him, arrogant and prideful, and said, "Good, you're up. Sit down, you'll be here a while yet."
"What happened?" he demanded.
Morrigan tsked. "I asked you to sit down, smart one–please do not force me to help you sit." A spark of electricity danced between her fingers, and Alistair decided it would be most prudent to sit. Morrigan sighed in relief. "Should I leave this to you, mother, or shall I break it to him?"
Her mother came over, still dressed in that high-necked smock. She looked exhausted, but that didn't diminish her straight-backed posture one bit. "Settle down, girl," she snapped, drawing nearer. "You, Grey Warden–what is your name?"
"Alistair," he answered.
"Names are fickle things," she continued, "but for the sake of conversation you may call me Flemeth. I rescued you from the top of that tower and ferried you here. All night I've labored on your hurts and wounds and all night I have protected you both from the darkspawn. I am tired and I am surly, so if you value your current appendages then I suggest you listen, and you listen closely."
He nodded, trepidation beginning to rise in his chest. "The battle–"
"Do not interrupt," said she, growling. "Your Teryn Loghain called off his warriors as you lit the beacon–I heard it from his lips and watched as his army marched away, leaving King Cailan and his Grey Warden entourage to the hands of the darkspawn. I don't know his reasons. But everybody from your precious army is dead, and you would be, too, if I hadn't sighted your predicament as I flew. Your King is dead, your leader is dead, and every single Grey Warden in Ferelden is dead–except for you."
Alistair stared at her, unblinking, and wondered if she'd cast a spell the froze his insides. He felt slow to comprehend. "W-what?"
"Oh, wonderful," Morrigan muttered. "We obviously rescued the smart ones."
"They all can't be dead," Alistair cried, rising to his feet. "Duncan and Cailan–"
"I flew over the battlefield this morning, at daybreak," Morrigan said. "I looked for survivors, and found none. Those on the battlefield. . ." She deferred to her mother with a tilt of her head.
"There are no survivors," said Flemeth, but Alistair didn't hear them. He was far away, stuck in his own denial. He heard Morrigan laugh and a bowl of hot soup was set in front of him. It was only when Flemeth threatened to take what he didn't eat and force it down his throat that he did so, eating without tasting, because he knew she would and could. His mind had automatically made the connection, of course. Flemeth was the Witch of the Wilds, not Morrigan, and she'd been alive for so long. . . how many Ages? He didn't even care now.
About an hour later Morrigan disappeared back into the hut and Alistair was left staring at Flemeth, not really seeing her, tears running down his face. He knew, of course, that she was right. He knew, and he hated himself for it. . .
Just before the battle had started, Duncan, in all aspects his father, handed him the treaties he had recovered. "Keep them safe," he said, "because we may have need of them in the future."
And all of the Grey Wardens were dead. Duncan was dead. Jaing was dead. Everybody, everybody he'd ever lived with, trained with–all dead.
He wiped his cheek with the heel up his hand, his lip trembling, and he wished that he could stop remembering, wished he could do something to stop this, to stop this horrible, horrible feeling in his gut.
Duncan! Duncan.
He sobbed quietly, hiding his face from view with one hand as he dried his cheeks with the other. Flemeth said nothing, but Morrigan appeared once more, smirking as she took his bowl, and turned to Flemeth. "Abigail is stirring, mother. I'll feed her, and we'll join you shortly."
"Feed her out here," Flemeth snapped. "We can't afford to waste time."
"Of course."
The door closed behind her and Alistair dried his eyes for what he hoped was the last time, washing his face in the water before an odd thought struck him–Flemeth and Morrigan actually bathed in that water. He abruptly took his feet out and stood up, desperate to be moving. The door behind him opened and he turned around, the water gone from his eyes. Abigail stoodin the doorwar, moving easier than she had at the tower of Ishall. She was clothed in her yellow Circle robes, though they no longer looked yellow–they were stained from dust, dirt, and sweat. Blood stains and tears here and there made her look like something much different–much more like a fabled Witch of the Wilds than the mage he knew she was.
"See?" Flemeth asked, gesturing to her. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man. . ."
"You," he said, enunciating his words carefully. His voice sounded bitter and hollow, even to his own ears. "You're alive. I thought we were both dead for sure."
"Yeah, well. . ." Abigail waved her hand in a display of bravado. "I have stuff to do before I die–like killing an even one-thousand darkspawn."
"Duncan's. . . dead. The Grey Wardens. . . the King. They're all dead." He shook his head, not allowing the tears to fall. "This doesn't even seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead, too, atop that Tower. . ."
"Do not talk about me as if I'm not present, lad," Flemeth said crossly.
"He didn't mean it," Abigail said. She sounded hoarse, too, like she was getting used to talking again. "But, what do we call you? You never told us your name."
"Names are pretty, but useless," said she. "The Chasind folk call me Flemeth, and that will have to do."
Alistair noted she didn't warn Abigail about her surly mood. "Daveth was right," Alistair said quietly, glancing at Abigail. "She's a Witch of the Wilds."
"And what does that mean?" she asked lightly. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"
Abigail glanced from the two of them, incomprehension on her face. Alistair was suddenly struck that she wouldn't know, she couldn't know what Flemeth was, because they would not tell that story at the Circle, would they? "We can't be safe here," she said finally, frowning. "Were are all of the darkspawn? Why haven't they found us yet?"
"The large part of the Horde has moved on," said Flemeth. "We are safe here, for the moment, shielded by their collective mind. Old Flemeth here knows a thing or two about hiding, though the longer you are here, the less that is true. These things will notice you. . . eventually."
"Then our paths are cut out for us," said Abigail. "We stop the Blight. . . er, somehow."
"We need to bring Loghain to justice!" Alistair thundered. "Why would he do this?"
"Now that is a good question," Flemeth said darkly. "Men's hearts hold more Taint than any darkspawn creature. Of that, I am certain. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the greater threat."
"The Archdemon."
"Can you aid us against the Blight, Flemeth?" Abigail asked politely.
She snorted. "Me? Bah, I am just an old woman you lives in the Wilds. I know nothing of Blights or darkspawn."
"Well, whatever Loghain's insanity," Alistair declared through gritted teeth, "he must think the darkspawn and the Blight are a minor threat. We must warn everyone that this isn't the case."
"And then who would believe you?" she countered. "Unless you think yourself wily enough to convince this fool, this Loghain, of his mistake."
You're absolutely no help at all, you old hag. "He just betrayed his own King," Alistair stated loudly. "If Arl Eamon knew what happened at Ostagar he'd be the first to call for his execution!"
"Arl Eamon," Abigail breathed, her eyes widening. "In Redcliffe?"
"Uh, yeah. . . I suppose." He was suddenly disconcerted. "Why? Have you been there before?"
"I might–I might have a friend who can help us," she said in a rush, a wild gleam in her eye. "Just–just trust me. My aunt and uncle live there, too, and my dad's a big lawyer, apparently, in the noble court–listen, if we can convince them and Eamon, would it work?"
"And don't forget the treaties," Alistair said, patting his pockets. "We have those–the elves, the mages, the dwarves."
"Sounds like an army to me," Flemeth said casually.
"An army for the Blight," Abigail said, nodding smartly. "If they'll honor their word, though. . . and I haven't talked to any of my family since I was taken from them. If I walk up to them and tell them my life story since I was six, it wouldn't exactly endear me to any of them, would it?" She frowned.
"What's so bad about your life story?" Alistair pressed. "Why were you Conscripted? Maybe that could help, I don't know, something."
She surveyed him with a curious expression, one that held none of the fear, anger, or hurt he'd seen earlier. She had a goal, a firm plan in mind, and she refused to be deflected by those petty emotions. "Let's just say that friend I mentioned in Redcliffe is an apostate. I kind of helped her escape Kinloch Hold when I was younger. Look, she's my best friend and she was a great mage–and she's got a staff, which I obviously lack. We'll need her for any fighting we'll be doing. I'll give my ring to the nearest blacksmith, have them forge a copy, and give it to her so she can pass unnoticed by the Templars."
"Wait, you helped somebody escape from the Circle?" Alistair asked, appalled. "That's what they were on about?"
She gave a bark of laughter. "Perhaps I'll tell you the full story one day–if we survive. But right now we need a starting point, and Redcliffe is close by. . . well, I think, anyway. If we can get past the darkspawn, we can pass through the accompanying villages, get us some new clothes and supplies, then get us a nice little army. It would be what Duncan would want, wouldn't it?"
Oh, she was manipulative. Morrigan cast her an appreciative eye. "It sounds like a good idea," Alistair said, frowning.
"I can hear a 'but' a mile away. . ."
"But how can we get through the darkspawn when we can't leave this area?"
"So you are all set to be Grey Wardens, then?" Flemeth asked shrewdly. "You are ready?"
"Yes," said Abigail, inclining her head. "Thank you for all of your help, Flemeth."
"No, no," she chortled. "Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer."
Morrigan cleared her throat. "The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the morn. . . or none?"
"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," said Flemeth. "And you will be joining them."
"Such a shame–wait, what?"
"You heard me, girl. The last time I checked, you had ear, mmhmm." She chuckled.
Noooooooooooooo. . .
Abigail must have been thinking along the same way as he was. "Thank you for your offer," she said, "but if she doesn't wish to join us. . ."
"Nonsense," she said. "Her magic will be useful. Even better: she knows the Wilds and how to get past the Horde."
"Have I no say in this?" Morrigan asked.
"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years," Flemeth scolded. "Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives."
"Very well. . ." Abigail said uneasily.
Alistair had to say something. "Not to, erm, look a gift horse in the mouth, but wouldn't this just add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."
"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower."
"Point. . . taken."
"Mother," Morrigan spoke up, "This is not how I wanted this. I'm not even ready–"
"You must be ready," said Flemeth. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. Without you, they shall fail and all shall perish under the Blight–even I."
"I. . . understand. . ."
"And you, Wardens?" Flemeth asked, rounding on them. "Do you understand? I give you what I value among all in this world."
"I understand," Abigail promised.
Morrigan sighed, dejected. "Allow me to at least get my things, if you please," she muttered, turning away. Alistair and Abigail exchanged a quick look, then glanced away.
She didn't take too long and returned from her home carrying a large, reinforced bag that smelled strongly of tree sap. "I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she said uncertainly. "If I may make a suggestion, I say our first destination is a village just North of the Wilds. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide."
"No, I prefer you speak your mind," Abigail said, smiling a bit.
Flemeth laughed. "You'll regret that soon enough."
"Take care, mother dear. I do not wish to return and the house be burned down."
"Bah! If you fail, not only will my house burn, but all of Ferelden will be swarmed in the Taint!" Flemeth snapped.
Morrigan shrunk back, obviously intimidated. "I–I only meant was–"
Flemeth smiled. "I know," she said gently. "Do try to have fun, dear."
Fun. Oh great, the evil Witch of the Wilds was telling her lovely daughter to have fun. Wonderful. . .
