Neria stared at the box in her hands and didn't move.
Someone had come and lit the torches in the courtyard. Golden light gleamed off the metal bindings on the box. A faint shimmer glittered across it, torchlight reflecting through the crystal of her staff, sheathed across her back, crystal and griffon riding over her shoulder.
"Neria?"
She didn't look up at Cullen. He had offered to stand guard himself. Part of her was comfortable with that; he was trustworthy, would not enter if she told him not to. But part of her wanted him well away from this. From what she was about to do to his friend. From what she might have to do to him.
"He's gone in?" she asked.
"Yes."
She heard the hesitation in him, the concern, but couldn't answer it. Slowly, she said, "Depending on what happens, we may leave the keep immediately to go to a Grey Warden stronghold. We won't come out, if we do. I'll take him through the hole in the castle wall."
"How— You can change him as well?"
She didn't answer that. It hurt to lie to him, but the truth would not be kinder. "See that no one disturbs us until morning."
"Where will you go?"
"I don't know. Weisshaupt, perhaps." If the winds blew his ashes that far.
He shifted, fabric sliding across the plate armor he wore. "Will you be back?"
That was his question, the question he had to struggle to ask her. Hers were harder. Would he want her back, if he knew she had killed Blackwall? Would he want her back if – when – she killed the others he allowed her to take, to test? Never had she been a part of a Joining ritual where someone didn't die. Even at her own Joining. What had been his name? That thief, the pickpocket. The one who had said he'd watch her back in the Wilds if she would watch his.
Darrek? Darreth? She couldn't remember his name. She should be able to remember his name.
The box was so heavy.
"I'll try," she whispered.
He closed the gap between them in a single stride, cupped her jaw in his hand. He was warm. She wanted to lean into him. "That's not good enough," he said. "Promise me."
Now she looked up, knowing her mask was not set, knowing he would see through it. "I told you, Cullen. I don't have anything to give you. You asked for one night. Last night."
"Well, it's not enough. And don't make me out to be some clinging boy. It's not enough for you either."
His expression was thunderous, brow furrowed, line of his jaw set. She wanted to reach for him, surprised herself with how strong the urge was. It was easy to suppress; the desire to hold him, to kiss him, to rest herself against him was followed hard by shame and guilt. She loved Alistair. That had not changed.
So what, then, was this?
"Was he wearing armor?" she asked.
"What? Neria—"
"Armor, Commander. Was the candidate wearing armor?"
"No," he said, annoyed, still frowning at her. He dropped his hand away.
"Good." She drew a breath. "Well."
Before she could change her mind, she walked down the few steps to the sunken doorway and entered the prison.
Thom Rainier waited for her by the one table she had requested be left in the room near the edge of the broken stones. She walked to it, set the box down, and opened it.
"At last we come to the Joining," she said quietly, taking out the chalice and setting it to one side. "The Grey Wardens were formed during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the edge of annihilation."
She lifted the thick velvet padding out, revealing under it another layer of padding and several small vials, some red, some blue, one black. "So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their Taint."
He didn't speak, but drew close, looking over her shoulder. She emptied one larger red vial of blood into the chalice. "This is the source of our power," she said, "and our victory.
"But not all who attempt the Joining survive." A blue vial of lyrium joined the blood. "Those who do are forever changed." She gave the chalice a swirl, then picked up the last vial, the black one.
"Some die?"
"Some," she said. "That is part of why we keep the ritual a secret."
He thought about it while she added one drop of thick sludge to the chalice and swirled it again. It didn't happen often that someone tried to back down, but it had happened. It was her task to kill them if they fled. It was her task to kill him if he fled.
"I'm dead either way," he said finally. "Get on with it."
"There are only a few words we speak at every Joining. They have been spoken since the first." Holding the cup in both hands, she turned to Rainier, met his eyes. "Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.
"And that one day, we shall join you."
Soon, she silently promised Alistair's shade, as she did every time. I'll join you soon. I love you.
Rainier took the cup, looked in it, and looked up at her.
She laced her hands together in front of her and waited.
It took them all differently, she knew, watching as he tipped his head back and swallowed. Some it claimed immediately. Others felt nothing, then it took them abruptly in mid-sentence.
Rainier frowned and shook his head unsteadily. The chalice clattered from his hands. "What—What did you do to me?"
"From this moment forth," she said softly, "you are a Grey Warden."
He fell to his knees, landing heavy and graceless. His eyes opened, silver-white from corner to corner, wide, seeing horrors she could not see but had seen. His body jerked, spasmed, drew taut, threatened to snap. He howled in agony, hands curled into claws that dug into his scalp.
He collapsed.
Neria waited, then bent to retrieve the chalice and set it on the table, ignoring the clatter it made as her hands shook.
Drawing one long, slow breath, she crouched beside him and reached a hand out to touch his throat.
A pulse fluttered under her fingertips.
Neria dropped to the stone and buried her face in her hands.
When he finally woke, they spent time in the prison just talking. There was so much he needed to know and very little of it was what he wanted to know. The pain would pass. He would be hungry. He would be able to sense the darkspawn. He was now immune from the Taint carried in darkspawn blood, having his own share of it.
And he would have nightmares.
That caught his attention. "A woman. A thing. Huge. Lots of tits on 'er. Darkspawn feeding people to her. And… Gah, even thinking about it makes me sick."
Neria pursed her lips. That was not good news. "They're called Broodmothers. And if one reached you, if you touched her mind, she's close."
"Can't you sense her?"
Neria cocked her head and listened to silence. "No," she said finally. "But the Joining is a singular moment. During my Joining, I saw the archdemon though I could never sense her when I was awake, not until we were quite close. I did dream of her again, though."
"You mean I'm going to have that thing in my head every night, watching her… breed?"
"No," she assured him. "But some nights, perhaps. It's probably best if we seek her out and kill her. We'll begin looking soon. And we'll need more darkspawn blood for the Joining, for other candidates."
"We'll be hunting darkspawn then?"
"Yes," she nodded. "Your first hunt as one of us. It will be different."
His shoulders straightened. "I'm ready, Warden."
She linked her arm through his and walked him toward the door, chalice box tucked under her arm. "You must call me Neria now, Thom," she said. "You are a Warden as well."
They exited the prison. Cullen, standing guard at the top of the small flight of stairs, turned when the door opened. The relief he felt was plain. "You stayed," he said.
Thom turned his head to look at her. She glanced at him. For a moment, she saw realization and sympathy in his eyes and she smiled a little at him, sad and resigned. He understood, now, the secrecy. Why she'd needed a guard. Why she might have had to leave or at least appear to. He knew, as only another Warden could.
"Think I'll go get some sleep," he said gruffly.
"Sleep well, Warden Rainier," she said, letting him slip free from her arm. "In the morning, there will be much to learn and do."
"Good night… Neria."
He walked off across the courtyard toward the distant stables, back straight, head high.
"You've given him back his pride," Cullen murmured.
"It seemed a fair exchange," she said. "I got a brother out of it."
Silence grew between them, twisted uncomfortably in the air. She knew what he was waiting for, and couldn't tell him yes. Couldn't bear to tell him no.
"Neria," he said finally, quietly.
She didn't look up. "I should be near Thom tonight," she said, eyes on the grass. "His dreams will not be restful, and he will not wake peacefully."
"If you don't want to be with me, tell me that. Don't put me off with an excuse that you want to be near a battle-hardened soldier in case he has bad dreams."
But she couldn't tell him that. Instead, she turned her head farther away from him, deliberately summoned Alistair's face to mind. She had heard people say they had trouble remembering a loved one's face or voice after the passage of years or even months. Not so with her. She could recall with perfect clarity his smiles, the way they lit his face and eyes. Or his moments of solemn sorrow when he spoke of Duncan. Or his fierce concentration when he fought, shaking blood out of his eyes and looking back to make sure she was unharmed.
The fear when he told her he loved her, so certain she could not love him back. The hesitant uncertainty after their first kiss. His first kiss.
"Neria?"
"One night," she told him. "Do not ask for more."
"You also gave me the morning."
And with those words, it was Cullen's lips she remembered, the gleam of sweat on the hard lines and muscles of his chest. The smile on his face when she had awoken in his arms. She snatched in a breath and took a step past him. "Then take what you have," she said, harsher than she intended.
He caught her arm, gentle but firm. "And this afternoon, in the garden?"
She retreated to anger next, snapping at him. "What do you want of me, Cullen?"
"Honesty, for a start!"
"I have been honest with you. I have told you I have nothing to give you. I am a Grey Warden. That is all I am, all I can ever be. This fantasy you have created of me, let it go. It's nothing but the foolish dream of a love-struck boy."
"And what is this but a wounded child lashing out?" he demanded, giving her a shake. "Why? Tell me why."
"Because I have said no, Cullen!" She ripped her arm free of him, spinning away and back to face him again. "You have no claim on me, no right to my reasons, my thoughts. If I choose not to give them to you, that is my choice as well."
He didn't chase her, did not reach for her again. He stood where she had left him, one foot on the flattened grass of the courtyard, one foot a step down toward the prison. Torchlight and moonlight painted him in metaled shades, gold and silver and palest copper. His brows were drawn down, furrows between eyes turned amber in the flickering glow of the torches. Though his hair was platinum and bronze, the shadows of whiskers on his cheeks were darker, richer, promising softness over the line of his cheekbones, the chiseled strength of his jaw.
Her anger fell away in tatters.
"Actually, Neria," he said quieter, "the one thing you never said to me was 'no'."
He walked off toward a staircase on the wall, the opposite direction from the stables.
She turned her back and walked to the stables, toward the duty that could not be forsworn.
Though it was not late, most of the keep's inhabitants were asleep or tending to their duties. The barn, by contrast, was brightly lit and full of people. Confused, she stepped closer, saw lanterns burning, heard a cask being broached, laughter and curses mingled. She saw a hanging banner someone had made out of old sacks, the Warden symbol painted haphazardly on it, and the words "Warden Beardface" added in semi-literate slaps of paint.
A celebration. His friends had waited to throw him a party.
For a moment, it was all she could see: Thom dead, contorted on the floor of the prison, burning to ash and gone so no one would know. His friends waiting, growing weary as the hours passed, one by one trailing away or falling asleep in the stables to wait for someone who was never coming back, who never could.
Unconsciously her hand fisted in the black cloth armor over her heart.
She could not be here.
Pivoting on her heel, she turned back to the keep. She would stay in her rooms, and check on Thom in the pre-dawn. Perhaps with enough drink in him, he would sleep soundly.
"Neria?"
She closed her eyes. Too late.
Poised and calm, she turned back and offered a smile. "Leliana," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Oh, but you're not! You must come and celebrate with us. It's your party, too."
She shook her head. "Thank you, but no. The Joining is terribly draining. I should sleep."
"But where is Cull—" Leliana glanced around. "Oh," she said quietly, walking to Neria. "Did you quarrel?"
Neria's eyebrows quirked upward. Amused, she said, "Did we quarrel? No, we didn't quarrel."
"You know what I mean."
Neria hesitated, then shook her head. "Just came to an understanding," she said. "He belongs here. I belong to the Wardens. Anything else is impossible, and he is not a man for shallow relationships."
"And you are not a woman for them, either. Do not forget, I was there to see you and Alistair."
Her breath caught. It was all too close to the surface, too sharp. "Good night, Leliana."
"Wait, please."
She shouldn't. She did.
Leliana stepped in front of her, mercifully didn't hold her or hug her. "You have both been too long alone."
"Be reasonable, Leli," she said lightly. "You haven't seen me in over a decade. I could've had a hundred lovers in that time."
"But no loves. Or this one would not cut so deeply. You loved Alistair when you were a girl, and he was a sweet boy who loved you with all his heart. But now perhaps the woman deserves to be loved by a man."
"This from the bard, loved by many but never one," Neria said.
"Oh no, do not try to play at words with me. I have loved and been loved, and am content with my life. This is not about me. This is about you and Cullen. You are drawn to each other. It is a crime against the Maker to turn your back on that."
Neria looked unwillingly at the office tower. Candlelight still flickered in the windows. "And I'd suppose you know," she murmured.
Leliana chuckled. "Of course. I am the Divine, after all."
Finally, she shook her head. "Better a small heartbreak now than a larger one later."
"Better happiness for a short time than a loneliness for a lifetime," countered Leliana.
"You suggested I not play at words with you, and so I shall not. Good night, Leliana."
"Oh!" sighed the Divine, all but stomping one dainty foot. "You are so stubborn!"
"I'm a Grey Warden," she said. "They are synonymous."
Leliana took one step closer, all but brushing against her. "Go to him," she insisted. "If you waste this, you are a fool."
Neria leaned her forehead against Leliana's. She rested there a moment, felt her hands stroke her arms.
Then she pulled away and walked into the keep.
When she got to her room, it wasn't empty.
The form in the moonlight was easily recognized, if only by the wide sweep of horns. She gestured, lighting the fire and the torches in one flex of will and magic. Purely, she acknowledged to herself, for show. Qunari were never easy around open displays of magic.
"Shanedan, Qunari," she said, walking to her bed and setting her staff in the weapon's rack nearby.
"Tal-Vashoth these days," he said, paying no more mind to the fire lit than he had to it unlit.
That, she hadn't heard. So the Inquisitor did not have a Qunari lover after all. She really had to send that letter to Arishok. Her slender fingers undid the leather buckles and straps that held the black armor over her shift.
She didn't speak to him. He had come to her, so he had something to say. She would wait until he said it, answer him, and he would leave. She understood Qunari as a people. They were comforting to her.
Wordless, he walked over to her and helped her with the buckles at her shoulders that she could never quite reach. She could wriggle out of the armor without undoing them, but this made it easier.
"Tevinter robe," he noted as she slid out of it.
That, too, required no answer.
He chuckled. "Yeah, you spent years in Par Vollen, didn't you?"
"You don't talk like one of them," she said.
"Neither do you."
"I wasn't born there."
"If I stand here long enough, are you going to get naked? Because you look kinda bony for my tastes, but I never turn down a free show."
Neria eyed him and deliberately removed her shift. Qunari were not, as a rule, body shy. He was trying to shock her, to nudge her off-balance. But the shift did need airing out, preferably washing though her small pack allowed her little in the way of a change of clothes. She set it over a chair near the fire.
"Woman, you really are skin and bones. Except for the tits. Those are nice."
She continued to ignore him, settling down on the bed to undo the snug braid and strip out the silver and blue leather she wound into it.
He sighed. "Fine. You need to stick close to Cullen."
"No, I don't."
"You do if you want to stay in Skyhold."
That got her attention. She lifted her eyes to the mercenary, the Tal-Vashoth. For all his lascivious comments, he was looking her in the face, serious, arms folded.
Large.
"The Inquisitor has said I may stay."
"And the Inquisitor does what she wants with the Inquisition. But when it comes to Evelyn, I make the decisions."
"Kas-berasala," she murmured.
"Heard about that, huh? Good that you know what it means. That way I don't have to explain it to you."
He said 'explain it to you'. He meant 'beat you within an inch of your life'. He had Leliana's way with inflection and emphasis. "Ben-Hassrath, were you?"
"At one point. Been a lot of things."
"I'm not leaving Skyhold until I've done what I came to do," she said. "Feel free to attempt an explanation at any point."
"Now that Blackwall's a Warden, you can go."
"He isn't the only candidate. Just the first."
"We can send the others to you."
"I would need to examine them first."
"Blackwall can do it."
"Thom," she corrected absently. He was right, though. She could leave. There was nothing that said the candidates had to have their Joining at Skyhold. In fact, it would be better if they didn't. At Amaranthine, everyone knew not to enter the chamber set aside for the ritual. No one questioned disappearances of candidates. The Vigil was nearly empty; it would be good to be there again, for a time.
It was a perfect solution.
So why didn't she take it?
"You've got no reason to be here anymore, Warden. So get out. Or stay where Cullen can keep an eye on you. Those are your only two options."
Her fingers combed slowly through her hair, freeing it to fall in dark, soft waves around her. "Tal-Vashoth," she murmured. "I have heard you. I have heard your wishes. Now hear me."
She stood, clothed only in firelight and her own hair, and looked up at him. "I am a Warden. The First Warden has given me a task. I will complete that task, and when it is done, I will depart.
"But if you try to hinder me. Stop me. Even so much as fail to move fast enough out of my way. Then, Tal-Vashoth, I will kill you. I will bring fire down on this stronghold to melt the stone and crack the mountain. I will layer this ground so deep in the bones of your dead that even the Maker will look away in horror.
"And I won't even need to step outside of this room to do it."
He walked toward her, one step, then another. "That's why you're leaving," he said, seemingly untouched by her threat.
"Because I'm a mage?"
"No. Because you're an insane one."
She blinked first. "What?"
"Told Evelyn, then I told Cullen. You snapped somewhere along the line, and I'm not allowed to kill you before you start dancing in our blood, but I can get rid of you. You either stick close to the one guy I think might make you hesitate before turning him into a pile of body parts, or you get out of my fucking castle. Your choice, Bas Saarebas. Pick soon."
He left.
Pale and shaking, Neria stood by the bed and stared at the fire she had made.
