Cullen convalesced in that tiny and dark room for a week before he was strong enough to venture outside. The head wound, while not outwardly horrific, had made for a longer recovery than anticipated. Elishka was often a visitor to his room, though her visits were brief. Their conversations usually confined to: 'How are you doing' and 'Do you need anything?'

Though she never said anything, she made no effort to conceal his confession had weighed heavy on her. A palpable tension quaked in the room whenever she was present - be it the stiff manner in which she would hand him food and water or the avoidance game she played with her gaze. Whenever he tried to capture her glance, her own would deftly skitter away and find somewhere else in the room to focus. She could easily identify all the splintered planks in the wall by memory.

It really did not surprise her the day they rode into town – a posse of Circle magi and Templars. There was only one reason such a group would travel together; they were on a hunt. What had surprised her, though, were the words that shot out her mouth in the midst of the inevitable standoff that occurred outside Dane's Refuge. They had come for Cullen. The magi wanted justice for their slain compatriots. As for the Templars, she had only heard of two ex-Templars in her life. Addiction to lyrium and the brotherhood of the 'pillow fight' kept Templars firmly in their place, at the feet of the Chantry.

I invoke the Right of Conscription.

The words shot out before she could even recognize saying them. Her own shock mixed with that of the revenge bent audience. She could make anyone a Grey Warden and there was nothing anyone could do to stop her. Not the Chantry, not the First Enchanter, not a murder of Templars, not the King, no one could stop her. Chalk one up in the win column for Elishka. Begrudgingly, the rabid lynch mob left Lothering – the prized pig for their Templar roast unattainable.

Her victory was short-lived, however. She would have to tell Mr. Voices in his head she invoked the Right. She idly wondered how the voices would take such news. In a moment of darkness, she found the light, good humor touching her mouth in smile for the first time in what felt like weeks.


She will make him a Warden.

Anger and perhaps even jealousy flashed hot within Zevran as he heard her invoke her right as a Grey Warden. She would have this ex-Templar, this mage killer in her ranks. He could appreciate the irony of objecting to a killer joining the Wardens. It was a cherry he happily plucked – this tolerance for murderers in her midst. But still, it did not help deaden the sting that she would ask this weak-willed creature to share her fate and bond in blood.

She had confessed the ritual to him one night at camp. She felt he needed to know for he would witness men and women die. Grey Warden mascot and delicious piece of arm candy he was more than content to be. He did not wish to welcome death in a cup when there were much more glorious ways to meet one's end, assassin's death wish or no. There was something to be said about knowing the odds and placing bets accordingly. He wished his death to come from the good (or not so good) fight and not from a single sip of poisonous blood. To die in your sleep, even if it was a demon-ravaged nightmare of a slumber, seemed entirely unseemly to the elf.

Still, a part of him nagged green that she had never asked if he would join her in such a fellowship. Did she not feel he was deserving of such an honor? Did she not wish to risk his life? One of these options was much preferable to the other. Zevran had no answer to a question.

The unknowing began to seep acidic in the pit of his stomach. Just as there were facets of his life she would never be privy to, she had parts of hers he would be denied. Why such things bothered him, he did not know. Secrets were as much a part of his life as the silken touch of a woman or the warm slice of his blade against pliant flesh in death's kiss.

The impenetrable barrier of Warden-hood was the one thing that gave Alistair an advantage over him during their courtship dueling for the mage's attentions. For surely, what else could have kept the woman from resisting his charms for so long? Wardens shared a bond with one another. Now another ex-Templar would have direct conduit to this connection should he survive the Joining.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.


Why Elishka had conscripted Cullen, he would never know. He was both mortified and shocked when Elishka told him she had claimed him for the Wardens to keep the hungry dogs of vengeance at bay. Given the distant way she had been acting since his grand admission, he honestly felt she would be eager to ditch him at the first available opportunity. It would have been for the best. The voices had continued to chant wishes rich with malicious intent whenever she was near him. He was finding it harder and harder to silence their call and ignore their pleas.

When it was explained that the Joining could kill him, Cullen felt a glimmer of relief and hope. Maybe the deed would finish him off. He listened as she told him not all that took part in it survived to tell the tale. Just she survived her own Joining. He prayed the Maker would heed his final prayers and give him the release he sought.

When his time came to take the chalice in his hands and drink deep from within, he eagerly took it and drew the cup to his mouth, drawing in the blood with a quick swallow. At first, nothing came, only the acrid aftertaste of the darkspawn nectar coated his mouth with its promises of death and demonic birth.

The reprieve lasted but seconds. A javelin of torment stabbed vicious deep inside the innards of his gut, flooring him. Pain and sorrow wracked the entirety of his body as he fell, a crumbled mass of contorted limbs and anguish. Deep, guttural, the scream rose and exploded. Visions of cannibalizing mobs feasting on the flesh of innocents, the rape of women and men, and the mass genocide of entire villages rang through his mind as his system absorbed the viscous fluid. It was more horrifying and illuminating than he had imaged even possible. He found himself a man trapped in a living nightmare – the images so vivid he could smell the copper fumes of spilled blood and charred meat deep within his nostrils.

His eyes opened to a new reality. Any naiveté he had previously held about the ways of the world had completely dissipated. He had always known there were evils in the world. There was knowing and then there was knowing. Something about the images burned in his mind made all those previous 'evils' seem less important, less scary.

In a single draw, he grew to understand the motivation behind Elishka's actions at the Circle and all she had done since. She was not evil. There were far more frightening things in Thedas than abominations and mages. Those things, those monsters were the evil that should keep Templars up at night. For the first time in a long time, the voices grew silent and had nothing more to say.