Chapter 6
Wild Witches

A blackened scream shattered the walls of her mind, curdled by tinges of eerie green light. Shadows flickered, sucking the sun from the world, and her chest heaved as she panted for breath. Fear suffused her, a nameless terror that coated the back of her tongue as every bone in her body trembled with the need torun. Yet her limbs wouldn't move; she'd frozen as surely as a rabbit facing down a blight wolf. But this was no wolf that had come for her...

This was a dragon.

Larger than life, its scales slicked with poison, it crouched upon a ruined landscape, the last living thing in a world torn asunder by flame and claw. Its sinuous gaze slithered over her, and there could be no doubt - she was to be its final victim...

Gasping awake, Lyra bolted up, heart stuttering in her chest. Her wild eyes darted around the room as she struggled to remember just where she was.

Packed earthen walls surrounded her, the room's scant light provided by a few steadily-burning candles slowly melting upon a short table. She'd been tucked into bed, though it was a bed unlike any she'd seen. Leather stretched tightly across a wooden frame composed her mattress, made cozy with a sinful cushion of sultry furs. Across the way, a low fire guttered in a stone hearth, and though it was difficult to make out, she could have sworn she spotted a skull among the many bowls, bottles and piles of herbs that littered one table.

The sound of a throat clearing, and Lyra startled again, realizing she was not alone. Her head whipped toward the voice, and she blinked, taking in the beautiful woman who sauntered toward her.

"Ah, you are awake. 'Tis two days since you came here. Mother will be most pleased."

Lyra flushed with embarrassment as she clutched the blanket around her nudity. But for smallclothes, she'd been stripped. Even her breast-band was gone. She peered at the woman, cudgeling her memory. "Morrigan?"

"You remember. Yes, you are in my mother's house. Do you recall how you came to be here?" Morrigan sat upon the bed, and Lyra's instincts urged her to draw her knees in.

"I remember the battle... and I remember killing the ogre... and after that..."

"The darkspawn swarmed the stairs, intending to slaughter anything left alive. Undoubtedly, you would have died in that tower. My mother rescued you, and healed your wounds."

"How?"

"She turned herself into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from the rooftop like dead mice. If you do not believe me, ask her." Seeming bored, Morrigan rose and returned to the fire where a pot of something delicious simmered, wafting a heavenly aroma throughout the tiny hut.

An insistent growl broke the quiet as Lyra's stomach made its wants known. Morrigan's eyes slanted in her direction, an amused quirk lifting one corner of her sultry mouth. Wordlessly, the witch filled a bowl from the cauldron, and Lyra accepted it with gratitude. Such was her hunger that she abandoned all thought of a spoon and simply brought the bowl to her lips. Her fingers served well enough to pull in chunks of meat and vegetables made tender by a rich gravy.

"This is delicious... what is it?" she asked through her mouthful.

"Skunk, carrot and dandelion." The witch's lip curled again, this time in anticipation.

Lyra rolled a piece of meat over her tongue in shock, then her hunger decided that it really didn't taste bad. It was better than starvation, that was certain, so she swallowed her trepidation with the meat and continued to shovel the food in.

"Your friend is outside. You should dress and go to him as soon as you're able. He is acting an utter moron," Morrigan commented.

"My friend. You mean Alistair?" Lyra's heart leapt. He was alive?

"I mean the whiny boy who can't stop blubbering for three minutes about how alone he is in the world."

Forgetting her nudity, Lyra set down the stew bowl and threw back the coverlet, then pulled it over herself again when she realized she had no clue where her clothing was. "Uh-"

An exasperated sigh left Morrigan's lips, and the witch pointed an impatient finger toward a trunk at the foot of the bed. Turning her back, she folded her arms as she waited for Lyra to dress, the set of her shoulders speaking volumes. Clearly, the woman thought her inhibitions ridiculous.

Blushing, Lyra scooted from the bed and dug into the trunk, finding the linen shift she normally wore beneath her armor and pulling it over her head. Not bothering with anything else lest Morrigan start snapping at her, she stepped from the hut, inhaling sharply at the chill morning air.

A reedy swamp opened before her, colorless in the pale light. The small lake rippled with silvery sparkles, and she squinted against the blinding brightness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust before she spotted Alistair seated on a log at a small fire near the water's edge.

He was exhausted; this was plain to see in the set of his shoulders, and Lyra wondered if he'd slept at all. Kestrel was at his side, his hand gently stroking the mabari's head. Her bare feet numbed at the earth's icy caress, and she shivered as she padded over the spongy ground.

Kestrel saw her first, and to her surprise he remained at Alistair's side, whining softly at her. She caught a glimpse of the man's profile - haggard, lined, as though death itself haunted him. Little wonder her dog was worried.

"Alistair," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He startled at her touch, turning around. Pale as a ghost, his breath caught at the sight of her, and he rose, strong arms trapping her in their warm embrace before she could say another word. "You're alive," he whispered.

Lyra blinked, taken aback at his open display, but after a breath she returned his desperate hug, squeezing him gently as he trembled in her arms. Was he... crying?

His hold tightened, and suddenly she was crying, too; in relief that it was over, in happiness that they'd made it through, in wonderment that someone she'd barely known four days should care whether she lived or died. Then the floodgates opened, and her heart began pouring tears onto his shoulder. She cried for Mother, for Father, for Fergus, Oren, Oriana, Rory... the list seemed never ending. Highever, burned... What had she not lost?

There was no telling how long they remained locked in their embrace, finding strength in each other. Eventually, Alistair shifted away, a self-conscious flush darkening his cheeks. Reluctantly, Lyra released him, laughing a bit as she dragged a hand across her tear stained cheeks.

"Oh, um..." Alistair dug in his belt pouch, coming up with a handkerchief and holding it out.

Another watery laugh tumbled from her lips as she took it from him, sniffling. "Are you always this chivalrous?" she murmured.

"Only when I see women crying," he offered, one corner of his mouth turning upward.

She blotted her eyes, then blew her nose. Crying always made her nose run. "I'll launder this for you. I doubt you want it back in its present state."

Alistair gave her an uneasy smile and ran a hand over his hair. "I'm so glad to see you. Morrigan's mother told me you would be alright, but one day passed, and then another, and I was losing hope that you would wake up."

She sniffled again, giving a damp chuckle muffled by the handkerchief. "It takes more than Darkspawn to get rid of me, I'm afraid," she said with a small smile.

"I'm glad." Alistair sat down again near his fire. "Do you want to put on anything more... well, more, before we talk? I need to tell you what happened while you were out."

Lyra considered, then sat beside him on the log near the fire, adjusting her tunic to cover her knees. "It will warm up quickly as the fog burns off. What happened with the battle? Did we get the beacon lit in time?"

Alistair eyed her bare feet, then reached into his pack and brought out a pair of thick, gray woolen socks. He offered them to her, and she quirked a brow. Alistair was concerned... about her feet. When she didn't take them right away, he tossed them in her lap with an expectant look. She giggled, then gave in, unrolling them and sliding them over her ankles. To her delight, his name had been stitched into them.

Satisfied with her concession to common sense, Alistair answered her question. "No. Or, maybe. But Loghain quit the field."

Lyra's heart stopped. "He... why?"

"Maker knows. Duncan... is dead. Cailan is dead. The Grey Wardens are gone."

"Gone? Just like that? Alistair, how can that be?"

"Every Grey Warden in Ferelden was on that field...except for you and me, of course. Without Loghain's troops, it was a rout. They were massacred."

Something hit home. "Duncan is dead? And... King Cailan?"

Alistair nodded. "Yes." He looked as if he might say more, but then his face crumpled, and he folded in on himself as a tight tremor wound through him.

Lyra found she was unsure of what to do. Never before had she seen such emotion in a man. Weeping and carrying on were womanly traits, things she did her best to avoid. But he wasn't whining, as Morrigan had said - Alistair was mourning, just as she was. Everything he'd loved had been lost on that field, and her heart went out to him. Their situations weren't so different.

She extended a tentative hand, intending on patting his back, but it occurred to her how ridiculous this gesture would be. He wasn't a child, and in his armor he'd barely feel it anyway.

Kestrel nudged his head beneath Alistair's hand, then swiped a rough tongue over the man's fingers. The dog looked to Lyra next, a pleading whine mirroring the request in his eyes. Help him, she could almost hear him say. Throwing Kestrel a desperate look, she held up her hands in helpless question. The mabari glared at her, then bumped Alistair's hand again, giving her the clue she needed.

Wetting her lips nervously, she reached out and took his hand, the soothing slide of warm flesh easing the tight knot in her chest. Alistair didn't look up, just gripped her fingers as if his life depended on it. After a long moment the tension bled from his shoulders, leaving him loose and tired. Another few heartbeats, and he opened his eyes, meeting her concerned look with a nod and a swallow.

Lyra hadn't realized how comforting human contact could be, and she almost regretted it when Alistair eased her hand from his own with the ghost of a smile. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't lose control like that. It's just that... he was... like a father to me." The words seemed difficult, and Alistair took another moment before continuing. "I can't believe he's gone. I should have been there; I should have taken the blow."

Lyra shook her head, unable to answer, but certain that it was much, much better that Alistair hadn't died with his brothers.

"I don't know what to do, or where to go from here. Somehow, we've got to stop the Archdemon, or all of Thedas will be destroyed." Alistair raked an agitated hand through his hair, standing it on end. "There's so much... we should notify Arl Eamon of Cailan's death, or Loghain will likely tell any story he likes." His voice cracked with strain.

That triggered a memory, and Lyra spoke up. "Loghain... he was very insistent at the war council. Quite vocal about what a fool Cailan was to trust the Grey Wardens. Do you think we could have won the battle if Loghain hadn't left?"

"From Morrigan's account, I'd say it's likely. Quitting the field, though - it was a death sentence." Alistair's forehead crinkled. "You think Loghain had this planned?"

"I don't know. There's too little information right now. But it's worth investigating."

"Why would he do that?" Alistair seemed flabbergasted, rubbing his temple as the implications of what Lyra suggested washed over him.

"Power. Same reason anyone does anything," Lyra growled. "He's in a pretty position now, if that was his intention."

Alistair shook his head. "But the Blight... it doesn't matter who sits on the throne. If the Archdemon isn't stopped there won't be a throne of Ferelden to fight over. That should be our first concern." He took a deep breath, looking hopeful. "Any suggestions?"

"For stopping the Blight?" Alistair nodded in answer, and Lyra thought. "We can't do it alone, right?"

The man snorted. "Not a chance."

"Then we need help. Who can we call on? Do the Grey Wardens have friends? Allies?"

A wry look flitted over Alistair's face, but then his eyes opened wide. "Of course! The Grey Warden Treaties! Centuries ago, the dwarves, elves and mages signed treaties with the Grey Wardens, promising to aid them in the case of a Blight. We can go to them and demand aid. Lyra, we aren't alone after all!" He stood, scooped her into an embrace and spun her around, laughing.

Lyra gasped with surprise, throwing her arms around his neck as they whirled, but a moment later she was laughing with him, enjoying his exuberance. It seemed that when Alistair felt something, he feltit... apparently, there was no halfway with him.

"Warden, you're brilliant." He set her down with a happy sigh. "We can go to Arl Eamon, as well... I'm sure he'll aid us. His armies were delayed; he wasn't at Ostagar. In fact, maybe we should go see him first..." Alistair let the words trail away, seeming unsure. His shoulders lifted, and he dropped down again, picking up a stick to poke at the fire. "I actually don't really know what we should do first. That's one reason I was so relieved to see you just now."

A smile tickled Lyra's mouth as she sat beside him. "Were you relieved? Oh, I didn't know." She gave him a sidelong grin and tugged her tunic over her exposed knees again, glad for the heavy socks he'd given her.

Alistair grinned back. "So I got a little enthusiastic. But..." his tone turned serious. "I couldn't stand the thought of being alone. With this. This... task, that's been set before us. Like I said, I have no idea what to do first, where to go, who to talk to, if they'll take me seriously..." One hand found the back of his neck, his turmoil plain to see. "It's just... I've never had much responsibility, not like this. Aren't you scared of it?"

Lyra was surprised. "No... I mean, not really, I suppose. But I always knew I would have to lead in one capacity or another. Being my father's daughter meantresponsibility. Whether I became the teyrn after him, or was given command of his armies - or even, heaven forbid, got married to some fool who expected me to run his household and prepare banquets…." She gave a short laugh. "Not that that ever felt very likely to me."

Alistair crossed his arms and leaned them on his knees, keen interest lighting his eyes. "You didn't want to get married?"

"Marriage... Um. That's a loaded question," she laughed.

"You don't have to answer," he hastened to reply. "I just... think it's interesting. I thought women liked getting married."

"Most women do, so I've heard... well, I guess there's no harm in an honest answer. I don't suppose I have to be as diplomatic with you as I had to be in Highever." She shifted her weight slightly. "Being a teyrn's daughter meant I had no lack of suitors. All were rich, came from good families, and you could say they were handsome. But... they were all so dull!" she chuckled. "It drove my mother to distraction, my lack of interest. She was eager for me to marry and provide her with more grandchildren, carry on the Cousland name and all that." Her eyes clouded a little at this statement, then cleared. "My parents married for love, and it was the most wonderful thing. Being a noble... you see more than enough intrigue. There are constant scandals. A teyrna who finds her husband in another's bed, or an arl who discovers his wife has been tumbling the groom. All seek to increase their holdings, move themselves closer to the king's influence. It's like... this incredibly convoluted dance that I had no interest in learning the steps to."

"Sounds dreadful," Alistair commented. "But then, I can't dance."

Mirth turned up the corners of her mouth. "I can't, either. Not really... well, I sort of can, I guess. I'm not the best, though." Picking up a small twig in her fingers, she twirled it slowly as she talked. "Arranged marriage is simply a part of it. But my parents were very, very kind... my brother married for love, unbelievably - though he had to go to Antiva to do it," she laughed. "I had always hoped to do the same-"

"Go to Antiva?" Alistair piped up with a grin.

"Marry for love, genius," she teased. "As I was saying... As much as my mother pushed, my father was firm about it. I would be allowed to make my own decision. But seeing the type of people I was surrounded with... well. It didn't seem likely. Especially with my enjoyment of combat and knife work. Once a man saw my ability, he typically ran in the other direction. Either that, or he wasn't highly ranked enough to actually marry me." The memory of Rory Gilmore twisted her heart. "But here I am, educating you on the many charms of growing up noble when we have much more important things to discuss." She stood, smoothing the tunic down behind her as she brushed stray bits of bark from the linen. "I'll dress and we can make plans."

.oOo.

Alistair watched Lyra walk back toward the hut, his mind full of the conversation they'd just had. Interesting, to discover that even the noble set had problems. He'd often thought on the responsibilities that came with leadership, and it appealed not at all. Even now, in this small capacity, he struggled. Losing Duncan's competence was the worst thing that could have happened. Lyra was green as a baker's apple, and as for himself... bad things happened when he led. Bad things.

He tossed a twig into the fire, reaching over to ruffle Kestrel's ears. The mabari yawned, then got up, trotting back toward the hut and pawing at the door. It opened a moment later, and Alistair caught a glimpse of Lyra's shadow. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he recalled her lithe form appearing behind him, wrapped in nothing but a knee-length tunic the color of new wheat. Maker, didn't the woman know it was cold outside? What had inspired her to wear so little?

She'd looked damned adorable in his socks, though.

Staring into the fire, he considered all she'd told him. Not wanting to get married for politics, wanting to find love. It was something he was familiar with, as well - though any choice at all had been denied to him. There was no opportunity even to meeta potential mate while growing up in the Chantry, and Grey Wardens didn't usually make lasting commitments.

No lack of suitors... he thought, recalling her words. No, he didn't imagine she did. Though she'd spoken as if it was only her station the men had been interested in, he had a feeling she didn't really see herself for what she was. Of course, he might have been a bit biased. His memories of how they'd met in Redcliffe as children and the quick friendship they'd rekindled had him warming to her, perhaps too quickly. The dancing flames drew his vision, aiding his wandering mind and bringing him back to the way she'd looked as she sat beside him.

Dark hair, bound into those braids at the back of her neck. A bit severe, in his opinion. Just how long was her hair, if it could create those spiraling rounds? A long, shapely neck, kissed by the leather cord her Warden's Oath dangled from. Her plain tunic did little to hide the contours of her body - she was lean, with just enough swell of hip and curve of thigh to leave no doubt of her femininity. Thin, though. Not a speck of fat on her; just smooth muscles and, yes, scars. It spoke of hours of training, drops of sweat shed in fierce competition with many, many others; probably most of them men. Thinking about it, he realized that Duncan had spoken truly - she was indeed a magnificent fighter. The way she'd slain the ogre... he wondered just how she'd made that leap. It was nothing short of amazing. Her legs were long and slender, yet well-muscled. They would have to be, he thought to himself.

Blue eyes, dark as the ocean... silly, unnecessary thought. Tanned face, cheeks ruddy with cold, though from wrist to ankle her skin shone lily-white. Alistair chuckled, recalling the noblewomen he'd observed in Denerim who covered every bit of exposed skin with gloves and veils and wide-brimmed hats. Not so for Lyra Cousland. Her mother likely had fits over it, he grinned to himself. A wide nose, but not overwhelmingly so... just enough to give her face a sort of character. Red lips, curving into a natural upward crescent, and she seemed to have a small overbite, her top lip a bit fuller than the bottom one. A tiny mole - more like a lone freckle - on her chin, halfway between her neck and mouth, on the left side. A whitened scar on her jawline. All in all, a pleasing face, and certainly one that would have caught the eye of many a young man, with or without her rank.

Shaking his head, he picked up the stick and prodded the fire a bit more. Whatever he might think of her, she was out of his league, and pursuing her would be nothing more than a waste of time. For both of them.

She deserves a prince, he thought. A real one.

.oOo.

Shortly after she'd dressed and having stolen another few bites of stew from the pot, Lyra went back outside to find Alistair speaking with Morrigan's mother. The old woman was... disorienting, to say the least. She seemed harmless at first glance - a small woman with straggly grey hair, dressed in a worn frock of sun-faded beige. Barefoot, too; her toes coated in filth, fingers stained with herbs and spotted with time. But her eyes... her eyes glowed, shimmering with unspent power. It was unnerving. Her aged voice snaked around them, slithery as a hissing serpent, and Lyra couldn't help quivering as she listened. By turns mocking, curious, and threatening, Morrigan's mother was a force Lyra had no desire to take on.

"Here she is now," the elder said with a sly grin. "Come, you need not be afraid. I mean you no harm... if I did, I would have just left you at the top of that tower. Come closer, dear," the old woman beckoned.

Forcing down her trepidation, Lyra stepped forward, dragging her unwilling feet as close as she dared. The old woman chuckled, a thin, reedy sound.

Behind her, Morrigan rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms. "Mother, these are not your playthings, and they need to be on their way."

"Yes, actually, we do need to go," Alistair agreed. "So we'll just gather our things, and-"

"Not so fast, young man. There's the little matter of my payment - for your rescue, healing, and board. We have yet to discuss terms."

Alistair and Lyra exchanged a glance. "Terms? Of payment?" Alistair's voice skipped up an octave, and then he slanted toward Lyra. "Have you got any money?"

The old woman cackled. "What would I do with gold, young man? Surely, both of you are not such fools, or I fear for the future of Ferelden." Her piercing eyes speared Lyra once more, and Lyra could have sworn that they glimmered golden. "Your future stretches out before you... I am eager to see what you do with it," she murmured cryptically. "But for now, my terms are thus. You will take Morrigan with you."

"I- what?" Morrigan sputtered. It was sort of funny to see her thus - the smooth talking witch didn't seem like one who flustered easily.

"You've wanted to get out of the wilds for years. Now's your chance. Besides which, they need you, Morrigan. Theirs is an impossible task, and without you, they will surely fail."

Lyra wondered at this. Did they truly seem so incompetent... or was their work truly so encompassing?

Alistair spoke up. "Not that I want to seem ungrateful... but I don't know if it's a good idea for us to have an apostate along with us. We'll be traveling through a lot of towns, and the Templars could easily discover her."

"Not if you don't turn her in." Morrigan's mother seemed entertained as she turned to the young Warden. "She knows how to blend in. I have taught her well."

Pursing his lips, Alistair shot a glance at the scantily clad witch. One perfect black eyebrow arched as she met his gaze, challenging him to speak. Neither seemed to like what they saw. The young beauty had draped her torso in wine-colored fabric which left little to the imagination - her neckline dipped to the waist, displaying a flat stomach and flawless white skin. Kohl smudged her tawny eyes, as if their unnatural color wasn't enough to brand them into your memory. Black feathers shimmering with blues and greens adorned one shoulder, but Lyra couldn't identify the bird they might have come from. Slender arms led to slender wrists, wound with cuffs of black leather and jade and amber beads. Two ornate silver rings adorned her right hand; one bearing a large jade stone, and one made of silver wire and more amber beads. Her perfect breasts offered teasing glimpses from beneath the thin material of her blouse; a series of leather thongs the only stays keeping the fabric on her body. A black leather skirt made of strips of various kinds of hides, stitched together and covered with buckles, and sturdy black boots completed her ensemble. Strapped to her back was a gnarled gray staff, for fighting or magic, Lyra could not say... but she rather suspected it was the latter.

"Can you cook?" Alistair broke their silent stare-off tactlessly. Lyra nearly kicked him.

"I... can cook, yes." Morrigan's heated eyes turned to frost. "I also have extensive knowledge of poultices and... poisons."

"That's alright, you don't have to cook," Lyra put in hastily.

Alistair groaned. "You missed your chance. Now it'll be nothing but charred rabbit from here on out," he muttered.

"I'll handle the food," she whispered in return.

"Morrigan, gather your things," the hag commanded. Huffing, the young witch turned and stalked into the hut, slamming the rickety door behind her. A somewhat strained moment followed, and Alistair kicked at the small tufts of grass beneath his feet. Morrigan's mother slitted her eyes at him, and Lyra grasped for something to say.

"I don't think I thanked you for healing me... in fact, I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name...?" she asked gingerly.

That frightening gaze pinned her once more. "Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind people call me Flemeth... it will do."

That got Alistair's attention. "Flemeth? The Flemeth? But-"

"But I'm supposed to be hundreds of years old, and command a coven of witches who sacrifice virgins beneath a waning moon?" Enjoyment flickered over Flemeth's face. "Or perhaps you've heard the other legends? No matter, young man. I am as I appear... how you seeme is something else entirely." The witch's eyes gleamed, and Lyra was reminded of a spider descending upon a hapless fly who'd had the misfortune of buzzing into her web.

The sound of the door drew everyone's attention, and Morrigan appeared from the hut, a small pack on her shoulders. "Farewell, Mother... do not neglect the fire. I would hate to return and find nothing but a charred ruin." Disdain dripped from her words. Hearing a young woman bid farewell to her only parent in such a manner felt wrong, and sent an apprehensive chill over Lyra's skin.

The old woman pursed her lips. "More likely you will find that everything, including me, has been swallowed up by the Blight. Even I am not proof against the Archdemon." Flemeth's voice was hard, and Morrigan's eyes widened.

"I... I only meant..." she stammered.

"I know what you meant, girl. Be on your way. Farewell, Grey Wardens... may you succeed in the task set before you, lest all of Ferelden perish." With that reassuring reminder, Flemeth ducked back into the hut, and Lyra let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. She turned to Morrigan, who seemed to have put away her unease and returned to her cold mask of uncaring.

"So..." Lyra began with what she hoped was a bright smile. "Which way out of the wilds?"