Chapter Seven

Duncan

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As every thread of gold is valuable,

So is every moment of time.

~ John Mason

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Duncan could no longer remember how many Joinings he had performed.

They began to run together over the years, different settings and different faces, but too many similarities for him to sort them all out. To his shame, he couldn't remember every face. They floated through his mind against a fog born of regret and deliberate neglect. Should he remember every potential that had knelt before him and lifted the dreaded chalice to their lips, he would have gone mad years before. There were a few, of course, that stood out—men and women who lived long enough to become brothers and sisters and friends. Those were the memories he carried with him, the ones that kept him fighting and recruiting and enabled him, time and again, to prepare for the next Joining.

He remembered the dispassionate eyes of the woman who had stood over him at his own Joining. She had bothered only to learn his name before she handed him the cup. He knew, now, that it had been the same for her…

… Signs of summer were beginning to pierce through the spring nights in Orlais. The air was warm, and the heavy sent of flowers and eucalyptus lingered on the breezes from the fabulous, exotic gardens of Val Royeaux. Duncan glanced at the stone and iron of his cell, picking numbly at the buttered bread the guards had provided, and thought that considering the years of thievery and scavenging that had brought him to this time and place, there was something to be said for not dying with an empty stomach.

In the morning, he would hang for murder.

He was not prepared when Warden Commander Genevieve came to him with her offer. She had no earthly reason to save him. Still, she pressed him to take the chance to redeem himself. But the image of the Warden he had killed thanking him as his life trickled away was forever burned into his young mind. He turned the offer down, thinking it would be better to die now, on his own terms.

She hadn't really been asking.

He had taken one of her Wardens from her, and now he would replace him. It was as simple as that. Duncan was dragged from the warm comfort of his peaceful acceptance and given over against his will, and all too soon he was on his knees before her. She stood over him with the chalice, her voice brittle as dried leaves as she recited the words that he had paid little heed to at the time, but since then had been carved into his heart and soul and defined who he was.

When he woke, she was crouched down beside him, her eyes shuttered against all emotion and her voice flat. "You survived."

He felt the poison, the thick darkness crawling in his veins and he thought that no, no he hadn't…

…He was drawn from the long-buried thoughts by the sound of the gates creaking open, and a whisper of relief flitted through him when he saw the four returning from the Wilds. Though young, Alistair had proven himself to be reliable and resourceful in his short time with the Wardens.

"You returned," he said when they reached his fire. "Were you successful?"

With a satisfied grin, Alistair handed over scrolls and vials of darkspawn blood.

Duncan nodded his approval. "Excellent."

"We should tell him about Morrigan." Duncan was a little surprised to hear the soft voice. Even if Elissa was addressing Alistair rather than him, he was relieved to hear her speak of her own accord. It seemed the boy had managed to gain a measure of trust from Duncan's newest and most introverted of recruits. But then, Duncan had been sure that would be the case, given enough time. Alistair was nearly impossible to dislike, even for a grizzled, hardened man like himself. He sometimes wondered how the templars at the Chantry had managed it so effectively. His seemingly effortless charisma was one of the reasons Duncan had set the junior Warden to watching young Cousland, to try to draw her out of her shell before her grief overcame her utterly and she succumbed to far worse.

Duncan knew full well that she hated him.

He abandoned her parents to die, in her mind; he took advantage of the situation to get what he came for. He didn't begrudge her for the anger she felt, but she was certainly not the first recruit to hate him. Most of them came to him either angry or broken and resigned, though on occasion, he was gifted with one or two who were eager to take up the griffon herald, like Ser Jory.

Like Alistair…

… The templars milled in the field of tournament, nearly blinding those seated in the shade of the stands when the late morning sun reflected off of the shining armor and weapons. Duncan checked a sigh and glanced out of the corner of his eye at Knight-Commander Glavin while the knights hurried to organize themselves. While it was essential that he get a feel for each fighter's style and skill before finding a worthy recruit, a tournament was impractical for his purposes. It took more than skill with a blade to become a Grey Warden. This impersonal display told him nothing of what he truly needed to know.

A lone figure sat alone at the end of the field, unimpressed by the splendor of the demonstration. When he glanced in the direction of the stands, Duncan recognized him immediately. Alistair had grown into manhood since he had last seen him, tall and strongly built, with features that clearly betrayed his noble blood to those who knew where to look. He didn't seem to be participating in the contest, unarmored and left to polish a stack of shields for the templars to use.

Glavin noticed the Warden Commander's interest and sighed loudly. "That's Alistair." And then, before Duncan could comment, he said, "You don't want him."

Duncan frowned. "Why is he not competing?"

"I have hopes this will help him to see how a true templar behaves."

Duncan shook his head. "I came to see the best of you, not the most polite. Let him fight."

Glavin was visibly not happy with the decision, but he did as Duncan commanded, sending a page to tell the young templar to ready himself for combat.

Alistair wasn't the best on the field, but he was far from being the worst. He was young still, and gangly, but his body moved with surety that would sharpen into formidable skill with practice. But beyond that, Alistair had something the others clearly lacked. With every loss he would hop back to his feet, unscathed and grinning. With every win he would offer his hand down to the defeated. When it was refused, he simply shrugged and made a deprecating comment that drew chuckles from the watching crowd.

"How well has Alistair handled his templar training?"

Glavin barely spared Duncan a glance, caught up in the excitement of the tournament. "He lacks the dignity worthy of a knight of the Chantry."

Duncan allowed his voice to noticeably cool. "I asked how far he has gone in his studies."

Glavin finally turned his way. He scowled, beginning to suspect where this conversation was leading. "He is willful and disobedient, but not unintelligent. He possesses the mental discipline necessary to be adequate in battle, even if he refuses to use it anywhere else." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Unless the Grey Wardens have the need for poor humor and a smart mouth, Commander, I would suggest you turn your interest elsewhere."

In his mind's eye, Duncan could see Arl Eamon shaking a stern finger at him, warning him to leave the boy in the Chantry where he belonged, where he was safe. When he returned to the Chantry that afternoon, he had made up his mind not to recruit the young man.

Alistair was out in the back, stripped to his breeches as he labored beneath the hot sun, chopping wood to add to the already considerable pile.

"How much firewood does the chantry need?" Duncan asked as he approached.

Alistair flashed him a smile, but didn't cease working. "Enough to ensure I'll keep my mouth shut for the rest of the evening, at least."

"You're being reprimanded?"

"Always." He paused, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his face, and regarded Duncan curiously. "Wait… don't I know you from somewhere?"

"I was at the tournament this afternoon."

"Oh, I know that. You're the Grey Warden everyone's talking about. You've got the Chantry in an uproar, which is kind of funny to watch, really. But I swear I've seen you before this."

It took a moment for Duncan to answer, surprised that the young man would remember him at all. "I am often in Redcliffe, seeking recruits." No need to add that he had made it a point to check on the child with each visit in order to make a report when he returned to Denerim.

"That must be it, then." Alistair resumed his chopping. "So who did you steal from the Grand Cleric? Kalvin? Maker, good riddance. If his head got any bigger they'd need to fashion an insert to get his helm on him."

"Actually, I was thinking of taking you." Duncan hadn't intended to say anything of the sort, and wondered where the statement had even come from. While part of him did indeed think that Alistair had the makings of a true Grey Warden, he couldn't be an option.

Alistair was so startled that the axe nearly slipped from his grip. He caught it just in time and stared at the Warden Commander. "I… wait, what? Me? Why would you want me? I didn't even win! Did one of the others put you up to this?"

"I'm not known for my participation in the amusement of bullies," Duncan said seriously. He frowned, wondering just how much grief Alistair had received at the hands of his fellow templars for his mind to automatically jump to the conclusion. "You are the only one I saw today who has the spirit I need in a Grey Warden."

"Really?" Alistair's face broke out into a smile, a source of genuine warmth that Duncan hadn't seen on him since he arrived. A long-neglected part of Duncan's heart softened as he realized just how miserable Alistair was in this place. "You'd make me a Grey Warden?"

"Yes, but I warn you, it is a difficult life I am offering. You can never come back. I won't force the decision on you. There are others who would suffice."

"What I want, what I reallywant, is to be not here. If you can manage that, I'm willing to take everything it comes with." He laughed. "I'll just get my stuff."

A stab of guilt went through Duncan as he watched Alistair run for the barracks to gather his few belongings. He remembered the smiling child in Redcliffe, and he felt like a killer. But all who would remember Alistair from back then were gone or past caring what happened to him. Only Duncan remained, and this was all he had to offer.

The Grand Cleric would not be pleased…

… "We came across a strange woman and her daughter in the deepest part of the forest," Alistair was explaining, and Duncan silently cursed himself for his wandering thoughts, lost in memories like an old man who already has one foot in the grave. He determinedly gave his full attention to the group standing around him.

"They were both very… odd." Alistair finished on an unsure note, his brow furrowed as he tried to describe the strange encounter. "They had the treaties in their possession."

"Were they wilder folk?"

"I don't think so. They may be apostates—mages hiding from the Chantry." Alistair looked concerned by the idea.

Duncan was quick to shake his head at him. "I know you were once a templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours. Your only concern is the Joining."

Alistair accepted the rebuke the same way he did all his other orders, with a simple nod and unwavering obedience. With the memories fresh and sharp in his mind, Duncan wondered if he deserved such loyalty. "We can begin," he said quietly, as a reminder.

Alistair glanced up, startled from his own thoughts, and nodded slowly.

"Are you ready?" Duncan asked the remaining three. The two men looked at each other, unsure, but Elissa only crossed her arms beneath her breasts, her eyes hard and mirroring no sign of fear.

"Let's just get it over with."

He smiled grimly. "Excellent. You will need that courage for what is to come."

"Just how much danger are we in exactly?" Daveth sounded more suspicious than frightened.

Duncan already had an answer prepared, thinking that so little changed from Joining to Joining. "I will not lie. We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to be what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later." He fixed them each with a stern look, determined to get the next words clear. "Once begun, there is no turning back."

At their silent assent, he led them away to the old temple. They were all three silent and subdued, each lost in their individual thoughts. The Warden Commander looked at each of his recruits with a sigh, thinking that he had felt old for longer than he ever expected to be alive.