.oOo.

~ Duncan ~

The scrolls were held shut by a leather band and a pewter gryphon clasp. Eventually, when their numbers had grown, Duncan supposed he should have the records bound into a book. For now, the Ferelden Wardens were so few in number that the bundle of scrolls sufficed. Fewer than Duncan would have liked had been recruited over the past twenty years, especially since they had lost too many investigating the Darkspawn threat in the Wilds, but keeping their numbers low had seemed politically expedient. Many of the nobility still remembered a time when the Grey Wardens were banished from Ferelden, and still more saw them as an Orlesian faction rather than a neutral one. But times were changing, and if they were indeed facing the possibility of a Blight, the Wardens would need to increase their numbers and quickly.

Unfurling the scrolls, he found the most recent one and began writing.

Joined: 8 Molioris 9:30
Aldemund of Denerim, a sailor and master of street lore
Alistair of Redcliffe, an initiate of the Chantry Templars

Called: 8 Molioris 9:30
Gideon, a knight of Redcliffe

It was a horrible euphemism, but it was traditional to list in their records those who died in the Joining as such a manner. He supposed it was yet another measure to keep the workings of the Joining ritual a secret, but even that seemed excessive when the whole document was written in cipher. No outsider eyes would be picking it up for a casual read. Traditions often made little sense, Duncan knew, and it was not his place to change meaningless things which had been done for many ages.

The same names he had just recorded would be sent to Weisshaupt in an official bi-annual correspondence around Midsummer's Day. Whether or not he should send a personal letter to Fiona weighed on him, but it would make more sense to send such a missive along with the report rather than paying to have one piece of parchment shipped a thousand miles to Weisshaupt in the interim. He would be sure to apologize to her for keeping the news.

Summer had come early this year to Ferelden. The time he spent on the road with the recruits had been pretty much the only vestige of spring they had been granted, for the heat arrived not long after they returned to Denerim. A summer foray into the hot, muggy Wilds was not something he envied Riordan and those accompanying him, but it was truly the only time of year that such an undertaking could occur. To attempt such a task in winter would have been suicidal.

Only a handful of Wardens would be remaining in Denerim. Duncan himself planned to put out the word that the Grey Wardens were seeing recruits, and he hoped that at least a few new members would arise from those who answered the call. But this was no substitute for searching on his own, with his own two eyes. Perhaps later this summer, after he had spent time with the newer recruits...

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Yes?"

The door creaked open just wide enough for a head to slip inside the room. Alistair peered through the doorway, looking troubled. "Can I talk to you, Duncan?"

"Of course. Come in, lad." Duncan gestured to the seat in front of his large desk. "Have a seat."

Alistair did as he was bade, saying nothing for an awkward moment. "Is something troubling you?" Duncan asked.

"Why can't I go with Riordan on the scouting mission?" The boy's eyes and tone left no illusion about how he felt about the matter.

"It is not your place to question the decisions of the senior Wardens, Alistair," Duncan crossed his arms, working to keep his face stony even as he felt a pang of sympathy. "I would have thought the Chantry taught you better."

"But this isn't the Chantry, Duncan," Alistair argued. "I'm not a Grey Warden initiate or something like that. I survive the Joining. Doesn't that make me a full Grey Warden?"

"In name, yes. In reality... things are not so simple, Alistair," He relaxed his arms and leaned forward in his chair. "Even if there are no official ranks, you will still be seen as a junior Warden for some time. You will be expected to fulfill more of a support role rather than one who fights on the front lines."

"Oh? Then why is Aldemund going? He's as junior as I am, save the span of about half a minute."

"Aldemund is older and more experienced than you are, and..." Duncan fumbled through his thoughts for something that would not wound the boy's pride too much. "...you must continue your training. As skilled as you are, becoming a Grey Warden does not automatically make you a seasoned warrior."

"So my training was good enough for me to bash and smite Darkspawn, but not good enough to be let out of your sight?" Alistair scowled as he spoke. The boy made Duncan feel older than he was whenever he looked at him, but he could not forget just how very young Alistair truly was.

"Do not be in such a rush for battle, lad, especially against these monsters. A Grey Warden's life is short enough without actively seeking death."

The boy looked puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

Duncan sighed. "I suppose you have a right to know. You would find out from the others in time." He leaned back in his chair, watching Alistair closely. "The Joining allows us to take in the taint of the Darkspawn without quickly becoming corrupted by its influence. But its effects are still with us, every day, every moment, until we die." He knew of one way to cleanse a person of the taint, but it didn't apply to himself or Alistair. Or at least, it did not apply directly, given Alistair's involvement in the events of twenty years past. "It will eventually corrupt us, turning us into inhuman monsters like yet unlike the Darkspawn. The dwarves call such men 'ghouls'. This transformation generally takes at least twenty years, but some are fortunate and make it to almost thirty."

Alistair's face fell. "So, you're saying... I probably won't live past fifty."

"We pay a heavy price to become what we are, Alistair," Duncan said grimly. "Most Grey Wardens travel to the Deep Roads before the transformation is complete. They die willingly, fighting and killing Darkspawn rather than letting the taint consume them fully. If you hear any of the others speaking of their Calling, this is that which they refer to."

"I... yes, Duncan. I understand."

No boy, Duncan thought, you truly don't. But you will in time.

"Blast it all Duncan, then you truly have no reason not to let me fight!" Alistair had found his anger again. It was certainly easier to yell and rage in the face of fear than to meet it head on. "If I'm doomed to die anyway, then what does it matter?"

"It matters because we must not waste resources. And lives are the most important resources we have."

"So why is Aldemund's life less important than mine?"

Duncan sighed. "This again. Alistair, please..."

"No," Alistair said, hitting his fist on Duncan's desk. "You're just like everyone else, treating me differently and trying to protect me just because of my father!"

Duncan narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't matter anymore Alistair. I've told you this."

"That's what you want me to think, and yet your actions speak otherwise."

"This isn't about your father, no matter how much you want to make it be." Duncan rubbed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts, and decided to try a different approach. "Have you been having strange dreams, Alistair?"

Alistair's eyes widened in shock. "Well... yes, some nights. What does that-"

"Those dreams are a part of being a Grey Warden. The Darkspawn are fairly ineffectual by themselves, but as a horde they can communicate by tapping into a bond formed by the taint. Their minds become one, and they are both more dangerous and easier for more powerful Darkspawn to control. When we sleep, our minds as well can tap into that energy, and we can see what they see, feel what they feel."

"Creepy."

"Quite, but sometimes useful as well." Duncan stroked his beard. "These dreams come on strongly soon after one's Joining, so it does not surprise me that you have had them. You will learn to block them out, eventually."

"Is that... well, no, that would be silly. You've been a Grey Warden for, uh, well for awhile now," Alistair looked uncomfortably at Duncan. "Why would you still be having them?"

"When one's Calling is approaching the dreams return."

The room was quiet as Alistair considered Duncan's words. "That's why you didn't want to tell me before. You didn't want us to think you were..."

"I also did not want to discuss the less positive side to being a Grey Warden before the Joining. Especially with Aldemund. He could have easily bolted in the night, and spread our secrets to all that would listen."

"Are... are you okay, Duncan? Is there anything that can be done to help?"

"No, lad, there isn't. But my time here is not wholly done yet. My point in telling you this is that a Grey Warden's duty can go beyond slaying Darkspawn. Someone must give the orders, organize the men, and deal with outsiders. You have a natural charisma that I think would be most helpful to me and my recruiting efforts. Even you must admit that Aldemund is not the face that I would want in a position like that, yes?"

"Well," Alistair relented, "when you put it that way..."

"My work here is far from finished. And my dreams... they tell me that the Darkspawn are close to unearthing an Old God. I should not need to tell one with a Chantry education what that means."

"A Blight," Alistair muttered darkly. "Holy Maker..."

"If I simply wished a glorious death in battle, I could find one. But my duties are not that straightforward."

"Whatever you need me to do, Duncan, just say the word."

"Right now I want you to return to the training yard."

"Yes, Duncan," Alistair said, rising from his seat and bowing in salute.

"Oh, and Alistair?" Duncan called as the boy headed toward the door. "Kindly do not spread what we spoke of here to the other men. I do not want to cause a panic by creating rumors."

"Of course, Duncan. As you say."

Duncan sighed as his study door clicked shut. He hated lying to the boy, but had he truly lied? It was more as if a pleasant veneer had been placed over a less attractive truth. King Cailan had summoned Duncan to a private audience at the palace not long after Alistair's recruitment. The Revered Mother had been correct that Cailan wished for Alistair to stay in the ranks of the Chantry. He was none too pleased with his bastard-brother becoming a Grey Warden. As it turned out, King Cailan was not of a mind to remove Alistair from the line of succession just yet even if it was a tenuous claim at best. It was the will of the king that Alistair remain out of harm's way, at least for the time being. The King would have only been vexed if he had explained how in so many ways a Grey Warden would make a terrible royal heir, so he refrained from sharing such details. To keep the peace, Duncan had agreed to the king's wishes. He would keep the boy close and as safe as he could from harm.

Duncan hated politics and intrigue, but he understood the reasoning behind such things. It was not so different from surviving on the streets as a penniless urchin. Say the right words, be in the right place at the right time, set the right traps. Slitting purses and stealing food however were much more straightforward in nature, and less deadly at the end of the day.

.oOo.

For about the next month or so, Duncan had his hands full sorting through the volunteers that flooded the Grey Warden's Denerim headquarters. Many thought his decisions arbitrary, scoffing as he turned away large burly warriors for wiry dagger wielders on one occasion, and then turning around and accepting a knight who could heft a blade nearly as tall as himself.

But Duncan knew that a Grey Warden was more than some muscle and a bit of sharpened metal. It was also why he knew that he would need to head out on a recruiting mission soon, for oftentimes the best and the brightest could only be found in the most unlikely places. Elves and other common folk often proved to be too intimidated by societal pressures to show up at martial affairs. And then there was the discomfort the higher echelons of society exhibited by shuffling in their seats when peasants start wielding arms openly.

It was an unpleasantly hot day in early Justinian when Duncan received a message from Teyrn Cousland of Highever. It seemed the Teyrn had taken it upon himself to call a tournament "for the Honor of the Grey Wardens" two months hence. Duncan rubbed his forehead in frustration. These events tended to bring him recruits that more often than not died in the Joining, and were most often a waste of time for all involved. But to offend one of the highest ranking nobles in all of Ferelden would hurt their cause greatly. He would just have to make sure to stop in Amaranthine, and perhaps some extra stops at smaller farm holds along the North Road, in order to offset the bother of keeping the peace.

Duncan folded the parchment and placed it within his desk drawer before heading down to the training yard. Quietly, he found one of the shaded benches along the wall and sat down. Two of the new voluntary recruits were sparring, and Duncan feigned interest in the proceedings. His thoughts lingered on this proposed tournament in Highever, and how best to politely word his response to the teyrn. It was then that he remembered the stories he heard about Teyrn Cousland's youngest from the times when King Cailan invited him to the palace for various feasts and celebrations. A fierce fighter, they said in public, but in whispers they spoke of her more bawdy tendencies. She had dallied with enough noble's sons that her exploits seemed to be common knowledge, and people wondered how the teyrn and teyrna would find her a suitable match. If the girl, or perhaps woman by this point, was as good of a fighter as the tales said, recruiting her could offer the Couslands a way to preserve their honor. A delicate matter for certain, but perhaps one that Duncan could use to his advantage. Though he supposed the tales of the girl's prowess with a blade could well be exaggerated, as could the stories of her other exploits. Good recruits were hard to find however, and he knew he would consider the matter further the closer he got to Highever.

Shouting some encouragement to one and a bit of advice to the other, Duncan turned his attention back to the center of the yard. There would need to be another Joining to test the mettle of the six recruits Duncan had chosen to keep around, and soon. The sooner the ceremony, the sooner the less fortunate would cease being a strain on Grey Warden's resources.

.oOo.

It was a strangely temperate day in early August when the typical background din of the Grey Warden compound was broken by the sound of hoof beats. The Orlesian Warden wasted no time in hunting down Duncan to share his findings.

"Duncan," Riordan said brusquely as he entered the Fereldan Commander's study. "I bring grave news."

"Sit down Riordan," Duncan replied. "What have you and your men found?"

"The Darkspawn appear to be gathering deep in the Korcari Wilds. Thousands of them. We were not able to detect the presence of an Archdemon, but numbers of their size cannot be ignored, Blight or no."

Duncan leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, absorbing all which Riordan had just shared. "Grim news indeed."

"We must appeal to the King, and muster whatever forces we can. Your numbers are far too few here to defend against that which we saw."

"Obviously," Duncan replied, silently cursing himself for not recruiting more Wardens sooner than this. "I shall request an audience with the king. May the Maker's hand let it come sooner than later."

"You are friendly with King Cailan, yes?"

"It's a much more... simple relationship than that, Riordan. The King is a young man, brought up on tales of glory and adventure, several of which involved his father. When he learned that I was one of the Grey Wardens that traveled with King Maric to the Deep Roads... well, let's just say that the king sees me more as a hero from a tale than a warrior."

"Hopefully that will work to our advantage, then," Riordan said with a slight smirk.

"No doubt you wish to return to Orlais and spread the word to the other Wardens."

"I would prefer it, but I will accompany you to see the king, if you think my words will help sway him." Riordan replied.

"It certainly would be preferable to have first-hand information, but I do not wish to keep you for long. Let us see how quickly King Cailan is willing to grant us an audience. I will draft him a letter this afternoon and have it delivered to the palace immediately."

A response from the palace arrived early the next morning, in the form of King Cailan and his royal entourage presenting themselves on the threshold of the Grey Warden's keep. Duncan heard the fanfare from the dining hall long before one of the gate guards came to fetch him.

"Commander," the winded guard managed to gasp out. "The King himself is here to see you!"

"Is that what that racket was?" Alistair asked with a slight grin. "I had thought a circus had arrived in town."

Duncan shot him a glare. "You and your tongue will mind themselves, Alistair. I will deal with the king."

Alistair snorted. "By all means. I wasn't in the mood to be looked down upon this morning anyway."

Duncan sighed to himself as he followed the guard out into the courtyard, where the king and approximately a dozen armored guards glittered in the morning sunlight. The crowd parted so that Cailan could approach and greet the Warden Commander, his golden armor almost painfully bright. Behind him, in distinctly less shiny armor, walked Teyrn Loghain, the General of Ferelden's forces and adviser to the king.

"Ho, Duncan! I came as soon as I was able. Please know that the might of Ferelden is at your beck and call." Calian's face seemed to beam brightly enough as to rival his armor. Teyrn Loghain sighed audibly, but said nothing.

"We have much to discuss, Your Majesty," Duncan said soberly. "Perhaps we should retire to my study?"

"As you wish."

"Your men are welcome to join the rest of us in the dining hall." Duncan turned to the guard. "See that the cook provides for them. Also, find Riordan and send him to my study." Most of the guards and pages that lived in the compound were not Grey Wardens, but either hired from the local populace or provided by the king. The soldier nodded, saluted, and headed off. "If you would follow me, Your Majesty?"

At least the king's enthusiasm boded well for getting the troops they would need. Whether or not such youthful exuberance would help them on the field of battle... that, Duncan was not so sure about.

.oOo.

~ Alistair ~

Not long after the King's soldiers started filing into the dining hall, Alistair took his breakfast dishes and placed them on the table from which the cook would collect them later. He knew rationally that no one would recognize him, but the thought made him uncomfortable nonetheless. Slipping out one of the side entrances, Alistair made his way to his room, avoiding any passageway that would bring him close to the main courtyard or to Duncan's study.

Technically, he was supposed to be heading to the yard for his morning training session, but now that His Radiant Majesty was here, he knew the session would be canceled. Even if it wasn't, he didn't intend on attending and being accused of seeking Cailan's attention. The Wardens weren't nearly as judgmental as the Templar initiates had been, but it was best to be on the safe side. If he didn't interact with anyone, no one could accuse him of doing anything untoward in the King's presence.

The room he had been given was small, but certainly more spacious than the monastery cells provided to full Templars. It contained a bed, a small dresser, a table and a chair, and even a window high up along the outer wall to let in light. The dresser came with a small mirror and washbasin for shaving, which Alistair made sure to make use of every morning. It was as he was shaving that he decided how he was going to spend his morning. Ever since it was clear that he would be staying in Denerim away from his former peers, Alistair promised himself that he would finally do some investigating into what had happened to his mother. The Chantry kept fairly detailed records of births, deaths, and marriages, and copies of all local chantry archives were sent to Denerim's North Abbey on a yearly basis. Records from Redcliffe would certainly be there, but tracking down one specific record within could be a difficult task. He wasn't even sure just what he hoped to find, but there had to be something there that would help clarify all the rumors he heard as a child.

Removing his standard Grey Warden issue spintmail from the armor stand next to his bed, Alistair dressed himself before heading out to the streets of Denerim. Not that things were truly unsafe, of course, but it never hurt to be careful. He strapped a small pouch containing what little he could afford to spend at his waist. It would not do to show up at the Chantry and ask for their assistance while neglecting to leave at least a small tithe. He had heard too many of the Sisters complaining over the years about people not in dire straits asking for Chantry services and not leaving a "proper" tithe. He was certain that he was still a topic of gossip in Chantry circles, even all these months later, and there was no need to add more vitriol to the tales.

Cautiously, Alistair headed back out into the hallway. He approached the main courtyard carefully, trying to put on airs of someone not-nervous and who had every right to be there. Which he did, he supposed. His luck held, for Cailan had not yet returned from his meeting with Duncan. Some of the royal guards stood at various levels of attention around the yard, two of which flanked the compound's entrance along with the typical pair of hired guards kept there by the Wardens.

The guard on the left nodded as he passed by. "Alistair," he said in simple greeting. The royal guardsman standing next to the Warden's guard raised an eyebrow at Alistair's name, but said nothing.

"Reginold," Alistair said, returning the greeting. "I'll be back later, since it seems that everything's gone to the Black City in a hand basket this morning."

Reginold chuckled. "Aye, that it has."

"If anyone asks for me, tell them I went to the Market District and plan to be back sometime this afternoon. Hopefully Duncan's esteemed company will have moved on to its next shiny distraction by then."

Reginold smiled, nodding smartly in reply. Cailan's guardsman squinted his eyes in disdain, but still did not speak. Alistair wondered just what would spread from that particular conversation, but he didn't much care. So long as it was clear he was avoiding Cailan and not seeking out his favor, he couldn't care less what was gossip resulted.

The day promised to be hot, though the breeze that played through the streets from off the Amaranthine Ocean did help mitigate things a little. Alistair made his way through the city, eventually crossing the Drakon River and heading into the heart of Denerim's Market District. It was impossible to make it through the market without doing at least a little dream-shopping, for between the stalls selling fabrics, perfumes, and crockery there were ones selling weapons and armor. Alistair wondered if the sculptor that Arl Eamon used to frequent was still in business, the one from whom he purchased the gifts he gave to Alistair when he was young.

Alistair spent more time than he intended examining the wares of an old, grizzled dwarf who was hawking various bits of weaponry and suits of armor he had crafted. He told himself that it was because he admired the craftsmanship of the items, but the fact that the smith employed his oddly compelling daughter to work the counter probably had something to do with it as well. His ears seemed to burn every time she looked at him, and Alistair felt something akin to relief when he finally was able to tear himself away from the man's stall. By the Maker, he shouldn't be thinking such thoughts about anyone, let alone a dwarf he didn't know, let alone one who's father was standing right there. He bumped roughly into someone as he turned away, muttered an apology, and decided the best thing to do would be to head to the chantry straight away.

As Alistair approached the Chantry, a chill went down his spine. The sound of the Chanter stationed outside, the sight of the Templars guarding the doors, and as he got even closer the scent of incense and dried roses... all these things threatened to overwhelm him with memories. Ever since Duncan had rescued him from the ranks of the Templar initiates, Alistair had avoided the Chantry like the plague. He only hoped he could find what he was looking for and leave quickly.

One of the Templars flanking the main doors clearly recognized Alistair. "Well, look at that. Come crawling back, have you? The Wardens didn't want you after all? I could have told them that." That voice. Alistair felt his luck run out like the last bit of sand in an hourglass. Sodding Maker, it was Ricard, his once-nemesis from the Redcliffe Chantry. It had been several years now since Ricard had been sent away and stationed in Denerim, but his hatred of Alistair still seemed to burn strong.

"And I thank you too, ser, for the warm reception." Alistair said, grimacing. It was amazing how time and distance made Ricard seem somehow smaller, more petty and far, far less imposing.

"What do you want, bastard? Come to conscript more inept initiates? Please, take them, we've got plenty! They'd be far more serviceable as Darkspawn food."

"My business is my business," Alistair told him. "The Chantry is no longer open to all who seek its wisdom? Does the Revered Mother know? I bet she'd have a thing or two to say about that."

"He's right, Ricard," the other Templar said. "So long as he's not here to cause trouble, why he's here is none of our business."

Ricard grumbled. "Get out of my sight, bastard, before I forget my manners."

"You can't forget something you've never known," Alistair said under his breath as he pushed his way through the heavy oaken doors. He heard Ricard turn with a snarl, but the other Templar said something harsh and Ricard didn't follow.

The serene humming undercurrent of noise in the main chantry hall enveloped Alistair as the outer door closed. Rarely was such a room truly quiet, for there were always Sisters, Templars, and various townsfolk about. Forcing the unpleasantness of his encounter with Ricard out of his mind, Alistair took a seat on one of the benches beneath the main altar. One of the sisters who were circulating around the nave would acknowledge him soon enough.

It was so very odd, sitting in the middle of a chantry as a visitor and not as a resident. He knew that Arl Eamon had made him attend Chantry services at times during his youth, but all of his more recent memories were tied to his Templar training. It was then that he realized that he hadn't said an honest to goodness prayer since he had left to join the Grey Wardens. He didn't feel guilty about this, but after ten years of forced daily prayer time, it certainly felt strange. Closing his eyes, Alistair fell back into the comfort of familiarity.

So. I suppose it's been awhile, Maker. Sorry about that, but the Grey Wardens are more into the whole Darkspawn thing rather than the holy flagellation thing. I'm sure you understand, they say the Darkspawn were your idea in the first place. I know I was never one of your more devoted followers, and you must have known that too, given that I all but stopped communicating with you as soon as I was no longer living under your roof. I do want to say thank you for allowing me to leave the Chantry. No hard feelings, I hope. You know me better than I know myself, or so the sisters always said, so you had to have known that there are better Representatives of your Divine Will running around Thedas. I also should thank you for sending Duncan to me. Without him... well, I really don't want to think about that. Know that I am grateful however, and I hope I can do more good in this world as a Grey Warden that I ever could have as a Templar. So let it be.

When he opened his eyes, he found that one of the sisters had come to stand next to where he was sitting. "You seemed so deep in thought, I didn't want to disturb you. Is there something I can do for you, my son?"

"You... don't recognize me then?"

The Sister grinned. "Should I?"

"I guess I just presumed that the Grand Cleric would have posted my picture far and wide, under the heading 'Smite On Sight'." Alistair smiled. "Never mind that, then. What I was really hoping to do was take a look through your archives. Birth records, specifically."

"Well, I can certainly help you with that. My name is Sister Katerina. Please, come this way..." The sister lead Alistair out one of the side exits, down a long hallway, and finally into a room full of dusty tomes. "Here is where we keep the records of the populace. Do you know where the person you are looking for was born?"

"Redcliffe Castle, to a serving maid named Arayanna. Or maybe it was Ariana. Something like that."

"What year?"

"9:11 Dragon. Sometime in August." Alistair watched as the sister positioned a ladder near one of the bookshelves and climbed up to one of the higher shelves...

Maker's Breath, Alistair, he chided himself mentally. First a dwarf girl and now a Chantry sister? What is wrong with you today? He quickly turned his attention to a most interesting oil lamp sitting on a nearby table.

"Ah, here we are, Redcliffe Chantry records, 9:11 Dragon." She carefully climbed back down the ladder, Alistair averting his eyes until she was soundly back on the ground. "August, you said?" Placing the book on a nearby table, she flipped through the pages until she came to what she was looking for. "Hmmm... I'm not finding any records in August that include the name Ariana, or anything close to that name. Are you certain that's the right month?"

Alistair felt confused. "That's when the arl always gifted me with a present... sometime in late August."

"Give me a moment, and let me check some of the other months around it?"

Alistair nodded, unsure as to how to proceed. He was certain he would find something, but now he was embarrassed for getting his facts wrong and guilty for potentially wasting the sister's time.

Several minutes passed, Sister Katerina flipping through the bound pages and skimming their contents. "Ah hah! Here's a reference to an Ariana, but it's in Bloomingtide, not August..." She cleared her throat and began reading from the page. "5 Molioris. Ariana, kitchen girl in the arl of Redcliffe's household, gave birth to an unnamed son. Neither Mother nor Child survived the birthing process. Father unknown or unwilling to lay claim. Next of Kin: a daughter of 15 years, Goldanna."

Alistair felt numb. None of this was making any sense. "But... I swear that was the correct name. I mean, I suppose I could have been hearing wrong all those years..."

Sister Katerina looked at him oddly. "Not what you were expecting to find?"

"I certainly wasn't expecting to find myself listed as dead, that's for certain."

"Wait... you believe that you are the unnamed child referred to in this entry?" She looked concerned. "I suppose it's possible... the records are simply too large to be 100% accurate... but they are normally not so out of line."

"Well I certainly don't feel very dead, that's for sure! Ah well. At least I know now that she died, I had always heard different rumors growing up. Everything from her being thrown out by the arl to her running off and joining an Antivan circus. Okay, maybe not the last part..." Alistair wondered why Arl Eamon had always been so circumspect the few times he'd asked about his mother, if the story was indeed so straightforward.

The sister simply nodded. She seemed very concerned about such a blatant inaccuracy in their records, but that was hardly Alistair's concern. After all, it was very much in his favor that he be alive instead of dead... which reminded him of the last bit of the entry.

"Sister, the entry mentioned a next of kin, yes? A daughter named Goldanna?"

"Why yes, it did... say, let me check something for you." Sister Katerina moved the ladder to another section of the records room, but fortunately did not need to climb as high this time. "That name sounds familiar, especially in the context of Redcliffe. One of the first wedding ceremonies I was involved in after being sworn to sisterhood was for a Goldanna of Redcliffe. She was rather... vocal about it, actually, lamenting that she had written to someone she'd known there about the wedding, but never heard back." Her voice caught awkwardly in her throat as she spoke, and she turned to flipping through the new book to focus her thoughts again. "Ah yes! '9:13, 18 Solace. William, son of Andrew of Denerim, married to Goldanna of Redcliffe.' I remember her as well for her many children, but it would take all day to find their birth records..."

"No, no, that's not necessary; you've already done more than I'd hoped for..." Alistair paled as he processed all the Sister had told him. "By Andraste's Grace, I have a sister! And you say she has children?"

"At least four or five of them, if memory serves... though I do believe the last two were born after her husband's mysterious disappearance... but that is neither here nor there." She smiled at him. "I understand she runs the laundry right off of the main market square, if you wanted to go introduce yourself."

"No!" Alistair replied, flustered. "I mean, yes, I want to, but I can't just, you know, show up there. Can I?"

"Well, it's up to you what you want to do. I'm just glad I could help you find her." The Sister was still grinning at him.

"And I do appreciate the help," Alistair replied. "Here, allow me to provide something to the Chantry in return for your assistance." He reached for the pouch at his belt, hoping what he brought would be a sufficient tithe. It was then that he realized his purse seemed distinctly less weighty than it had when he left the Grey Warden compound.

"What in the name of... my wallet's empty!" Alistair panicked a bit, both for worry as to where his money had gone as well as embarrassment for suddenly being in the awkward position of not being able to tithe properly. "I swear, Sister, I would have never asked for your help and shown up empty handed... Maker, the Sisters at Redcliffe will string me up by my toes if they ever find out..."

"Oh no, don't fret about it... you know, I don't believe I ever got your name. And I really should have it, so I can amend these records."

"Oh, sorry. My name is Alistair. Alistair of the, uh, of the Grey Wardens." He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, his nervousness threatening to overtake him.

"Ahhh... now I think I see why you wondered why I would recognize you. You're the Templar initiate who that Grey Warden stole out from under the Grand Cleric's nose, aren't you?"

"Which is why I know better than to show up without a proper tithe when asking for the Chantry's time."

"Please, Alistair, do not worry so." She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in so Alistair could hear her. "It is but a small repayment for the amusement you brought us all watching the Grand Cleric explode like an angry fishwife." She giggled, covering her mouth as she did so. "Andraste forgive us, but we laughed about that for weeks afterward!"

"Alright, if you say so." He shuffled on his feet, still uncomfortable with the idea. "Bloody thieves! May the Maker strike them down, or at least let them get caught next time."

Sister Katerina escorted Alistair to the main door of the chantry where they exchanged polite good-byes. The Templar guard outside had thankfully been changed since he entered, allowing him to pass through the doors without issue.

A sister. Well, a half-sister in truth, for it would be next to impossible for them to share the same father. But did that really matter? All this time, Alistair had been under the impression that he was alone in the world with no family to speak of, save the royal kind which wanted nothing to do with him. It was almost too unreal to contemplate.

Should he go and introduce himself? What would he say? What would she say? She thought him dead, and for whatever reason had not remained in Redcliffe after their mother died. Her home couldn't be that far, if she was indeed the Goldanna that the sister knew of.

No. Not today. He needed to be getting back to the Warden compound, for if the King had left he would be expected to be there for afternoon drills. And besides, he wasn't quite ready to meet this long-lost sister of his as of yet. It was just too much for one day. He would be staying with the Grey Wardens in Denerim, right? There would be other days that he could slip away and go visit her, maybe even come more prepared with a gift or something. Maker be praised, nieces and nephews! Maybe he could get something for all of them as well.

Alistair hurried through the streets of the Market District before he could change his mind. Another day, he promised himself. There was plenty of time, no need to hurry.

Or at least, there had been time before the King had shown up and turned the Grey Warden compound into a frenzied bustle of activity. Alistair looked around, wondering what changed since he had been gone.

"'Ey, Alistair! Get your sorry ass over here and get to work!" Gregor, a huge and burly Grey Warden, called out to him as he entered the courtyard. "The King and Duncan have decided; we head to Ostagar before the week is out."

.oOo.