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Witch's Brew

Palla's nightmares had taken on an entirely new form.

They used to be a morbid replaying of that one fatal night at her family's castle in Highever, a repeating reel of stone walls and licking flames and screams in the blackening, smoke-filled air. Now they morphed, adding a whole 'nother component of madness to them—darkspawn sweeping through the halls, ogres tearing the castle down stone by stone, Wardens being sucked into pits of black nothingness in the ground while she could only watch.

The couple times she did wake before this, feverish and sweating, she could barely even comprehend where she was, so she had no choice but to slip back into the dreams. This time, though…Palla distinctly felt a wet, cooling rag dabbing at her forehead, snapping her consciousness sharply into focus.

She opened her bleary eyes, everything foggy. Still, though, she could easily make out the image of a midnight-haired woman with a heavy golden necklace taking the rag away from her forehead.

Morrigan. For as savage as the woman appeared at first glance, she had surprisingly gentle hands. Palla let her eyes focus, then looked down at herself.

Somehow, this wasn't the first time she'd woken up in just her smallclothes with a blurry head and a relative stranger touching her.

Or the fifth.

She didn't speak for a moment, glancing around her. The wooden walls around her were a warm golden-brown, full of knots and grains, enclosing them in a rather cozy space with an orange fire crackling in the hearth. From the pervasive smells of deathroot and swamp mud, this cabin was in the Korcari Wilds—or so she assumed. For all she knew, that was just Morrigan's choice of perfumes.

"T'would be pointless to inform you that you have woken," Morrigan said, her lupine yellow eyes scanning Palla as the latter sat up and propped herself up on one arm. "You've made a swift recovery. Mother will be pleased."

Mother. Who was Morrigan's mother? Right, Flemeth—the older, gray-haired woman who'd kept talking about fitting Shesi and Ellairia in her stockings.

Shit. Palla suddenly remembered the other Wardens, and her innards leapt into her throat.

"There were others," she said, clutching at the scratchy bed linens with her free hand. "Other Wardens. Have you—"

"Tis the dim-witted one you speak of?" Morrigan said, crossing with nimble steps over to a set of shelves and plucked a vial full of pale green liquid off the highest one. "He is currently pacing a rut outside and working himself into a panic. A most noisy panic."

Palla wouldn't have described him as such, but the description sounded like Alistair. The only other "he" was Corvis, who seemed pretty sharp and not prone to panicking. Unless of course it was Duncan or a male Warden Palla hadn't met before…but she had a sneaking suspicion the one outside was Alistair.

If he had the energy to panic and pace, then he was probably uninjured. She allowed herself the shortest of relieved sighs.

But… "There were more than that," she said.

Morrigan's eyes narrowed as she popped the cork off the vial. "Oh? Are you intending to check the pot of stew for their remains? Perhaps mother and I used them to craft a potion to turn you into a frog?"

Palla snorted. "You got that from Alistair, didn't you?"

"I might have." Morrigan smirked. "Regardless, Warden, we have used none of your former companions in the stew. Check for yourself, if you wish."

"Former?" Palla repeated.

Morrigan didn't answer for a second, instead handing Palla the vial. Assuming it was to drink, Palla held it to her lips and tipped it back. Minty—she'd tasted this before when she'd gotten a little too roughhoused in the training ring back home and her father had given her some elfroot juice to make her feel better.

"I say 'former' only because none are present," Morrigan said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Mother and I were not able to locate the others, though t'was not for lack of trying. Although the more pressing issue was removing you and your dullard companion from the tower."

Palla wanted to throttle herself. Only just before the battle, she'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't let any of her new Warden companions meet some terrible end during the fighting. Now Corvis, Shesi, and Ellie were missing at best. Not good. Not good at all.

She knocked back the last bits of elfroot juice. It was pulpy, like little filaments of roughly ground fibers had sunk to the bottom of the vial. "Do you know the outcome of the battle?"

"I do. Are you certain you wish to hear it?"

What an odd response. Palla set the empty glass vial on a nearby nightstand and sat up a little further, nodding.

Morrigan raised a thin eyebrow. "The bulk of your armies quit the field and the remainder of the soldiers were massacred in the valley. Whatever you hoped to accomplish by lighting the beacon was entirely for naught. The battle was lost to the darkspawn, as was Ostagar."

"…shit," Palla cursed, burying her face in her hands.

So Loghain had yanked away his troops at the last minute, rendering Palla and Alistair's entire fight through the tower useless. King Cailin had been too glory-driven to flee the battle, she was fairly certain; no doubt he'd died out there. Duncan wouldn't have run to save himself either.

Teyrn Loghain had to have some reason for doing this. Something.

Palla scrubbed her face tiredly, then dropped her hands.

"Alistair will want to know you've woken, I'm certain," Morrigan said. She seemed vastly uncomfortable with Palla's horror-stricken silence, like she didn't know what to do with it—or didn't care. "In the meantime, I will fix something to eat."

Palla didn't think she could talk to Alistair without both of them breaking down into weepy messes at the moment. Knowing he was all right was enough of a relief for her, right now. But her hands were jittery with anger over the outcome of the battle, and she needed something to get out her pent-up nerves.

"Can I help you?" she asked. "I…need something to distract myself, for a minute."

"If you wish." Morrigan shrugged noncommittally and nodded her head towards a cast iron pot hanging over the low fire. "Stir, then."

Clothes, first. It wasn't as if Palla wasn't accustomed to performing tasks half naked, though—but those were thoughts for another time. She rose slowly to her feet, experimentally pressing a hand to her belly where she knew an arrow had gone through. But all that was left was some residual soreness; she'd been healed well. Only a small, rosy pink scar remained over the smooth ivory of her skin.

Why Morrigan and Flemeth had taken her and Alistair in and healed them, Palla didn't know. But she wasn't about to waltz out of the hut without so much as a thank-you. She doubted Morrigan was the type to appreciate firm hugs or sappy praises, so she went for the menial-labor approach instead.

Someone had set out a brown roughspun tunic and grey breeches, so Palla pulled them on, easing them over her worn-out body. Her waist-length red hair was a mess all by itself, tangled and snarled nearly beyond repair, so Palla just wound it up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and crossed over to the cooking fire.

She let herself sink into a sort of mindless rhythm as she grasped the heavy wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. It appeared to be full of broth and half-cooked meat at the moment; she didn't really feel like asking what animal had donated the meat to the mix. Food was food.

Morrigan appeared soundlessly with a clump of garlic cupped in her fine-boned hands, dumping it into the pot, and Palla continued stirring.

She'd always enjoyed the cooking process back home, when she wasn't out in the sparring arena. It was a relaxing sort of thing, watching cooks dice vegetables, wash and peel fruits, rub spices and seasonings all over meats, slather butter and garlic over sliced bread. Once in a blue moon Palla had tried to help out, out of curiosity, but Nan had always chided her for "getting her pretty hands dirty" and sent her off.

"So you didn't see the others among the dead?" Palla asked as Morrigan held a sprig of basil over the pot and plucked off the leaves. "You remember Shesi, don't you? Olive skin. Brunette. Tiny."

"Neither my mother nor I saw her," Morrigan said, dropping another basil leaf in the broth.

The heat from the bubbling stew bathed Palla's face, neck, and arms in warmth, and she relished the feeling. "What about Ellairia? Blonde. Also elven. Would've been about Shesi's size."

"I saw no obvious glimpses of blonde hair," Morrigan said with a sort of placating flatness to her voice.

"And Corvis? He's—"

"Fear not, I remember well what your Antivan companion looks like," Morrigan said, startling Palla. "But enough of the questioning. Had I seen them, I would have informed you thusly."

"You're right," Palla said, reminding herself to shut up. Morrigan had keen eyes and didn't miss much; even through the mayhem of battle, she probably could've spotted the other Wardens' bodies if she'd truly been looking like she'd said. "I'm being a rather annoying guest. My apologies."

Always be a courteous guest, her mother had taught her. Always be a lady. And please refrain from wolfing down your food and kicking your feet up on the table. We Couslands are not ill-bred savages.

Morrigan lifted her brows, but didn't answer. Her silence was enough of an acceptance as she dropped some more herbs into the broth and Palla continued to stir.

"And thank you for healing me," Palla said, when the silence stretched on too long.

It took Morrigan a second or so to answer; she actually looked mildly confused. "T'was my mother who mended your wounds, not I. But…you are welcome."

"May I ask how in the world you two got me and Alistair from the tower?"

"Oh, Mother simply swooped down in dragon form and snatched you both in her talons." The witch peered down into the broth, giving a smallish noise of approval. "That, or she fended off the darkspawn singlehandedly and dragged you both through the camp. Whichever tale suits your fancy, Warden."

"Either is a lot of exertion for an old lady," Palla quipped, scraping the bottom of the pot with the spoon to make sure nothing had gotten stuck there.

Morrigan actually chuckled. "Never underestimate Mother's frail, haggard appearance. 'Tis one of her greatest weapons."

Palla was just considering that when the hut's front door burst open with a bang.

"And so begins the ruckus," Morrigan said in an irritated tone, passing a hand over her forehead.

It was Alistair, his brown eyes fixed on Palla; she had just a second to greet him with a relieved smile before he'd closed the distance between them and swept her up into a tight, desperate hug that lifted her off her feet.

She was barely able to keep a hold on the spoon, let alone hold it over the pot so none of the broth would drip onto the floor. But she wrapped her free arm tight around Alistair's neck, breathing in the scents of leather and steel and skin.

"Maker's breath, you're alive," Alistair breathed, setting her back on her feet. As his pulled his arms away, his hands skimmed her waist, lingering there for just a breath longer than Palla was expecting. "I was so worried."

"Don't you worry about me," Palla insisted. "I've had rougher tumbles in bed."

Alistair went a little red in the face, said "have you now?", and averted his eyes to the cooking pot with what looked like a nervous but intrigued smile.

Morrigan watched the exchange with what looked like disinterest, then crossed her arms and peered over at the door as it swung open.

In strode Flemeth, a completely unassuming-looking older woman with shoulder-cropped grey hair and a dirtied, roughspun dress; if Palla was stupid, she might've underestimated her. But that seemed to be precisely what Flemeth was aiming for—underestimation. A false sense of security.

Likely she and Morrigan wanted something in exchange for rescuing her and Alistair, and healing them to boot. Palla just wondered what that might be.

"The stew is ready, mother," Morrigan said in a deceptively bored voice.

"What are you waiting for, girl?" Flemeth chided. "These are our guests! Be a good hostess and serve them. We're trying to recover them, after all, not starve them to death."

Morrigan glared daggers, but obeyed, plucking a stack of wooden bowls off a shelf and setting them near the cooking pot. She ladled stew into each one, handing the first to Palla and the second—grudgingly, it seemed—to Alistair. She served her mother and then herself last, as any good hostess did; Flemeth must've drummed some manners into her, no matter how much the younger wildwoman resisted.

Alistair looked depressed as he ate, each spoonful punctuated by a melancholy sigh and wide, frightened eyes.

"I can't believe it," he finally said. "I just can't believe it. How could Loghain do this? Maker… Leaving King Cailin and…and Duncan…" He choked up at the last name, falling silent.

The overwhelming urge to rush over and smooth his hair and press his head to her chest flooded through Palla, but she suppressed it; goodness knew her mothering hadn't done anyone any good recently.

"It's just us," he continued, voice breathy. "Can you believe that? All those Wardens at Ostagar, and we're the only ones left. Shesi's gone. Ellie's gone. Even Corvis is gone, and I'd been certain he'd destroy half of Ostagar with his pyromania alone. And without Duncan to lead us—where do we go? What do we do? I've never been any good at leading. Ever. I don't know what to do without Duncan. I—"

"Surely this incessant moaning is getting you nowhere," Morrigan said. "Unless your aim was to split my ears open."

Palla paid the comment no heed. "Let's think, Alistair. We've got a horde of darkspawn coming north, and we could be the only ones left to stop it. Is there anyone we can go to for an alliance?"

"Of course!" He suddenly perked up, looking like he'd nearly forgotten to swallow the last bite. "The treaties! Dwarves and elves are obligated to help us during a Blight. As are the mages, I believe. And Arl Eamon of Redcliffe—I know him. He'll help us. His soldiers hadn't yet reached Ostagar."

"It sounds to me that you might just get that army, boy," Flemeth said, crossing her bony arms over her chest.

Palla's attention was suddenly fixed on Flemeth, one thing on her mind. "I'm certain you didn't heal us on a whim," she said, scuffing her bare foot on the rough wooden floor of the hut. "And I wanted to tell you that we are exceedingly grateful for your saving our lives, and we will try our hardest to pay any price you ask of us."

"We will?" Alistair asked.

"Such a lady," Flemeth crooned. "Your dear mother would have been proud of you." She didn't seem to notice Palla's surprised intake of breath, or wistful look. "The world needs you, Grey Wardens. Even a little old lady hiding in the Korcari Wilds needs you. If I may ask anything of you, let it be that you do not fail."

"There's nothing else we can do, is there?" Alistair said, looking at Palla. "We can't let the Blight swallow Ferelden whole."

"We will do it," Palla said. For King Cailin. For Duncan. For Shesi, for Ellie, for Corvis. For her dear parents, lost to Howe's betrayal.

"Then there is but one more thing I can give you, Grey Wardens," Flemeth said. She turned to Morrigan, who regarded them all with suspicious eyes the color of pure Antivan gold. "Our guests are leaving shortly, dear. And you will be joining them."

Morrigan's exclamation of surprise and outrage was damn near a screech.

Shesi had one thought in her mind, one driving force behind every weary step she took: survive.

It had been a solid day since her escape from Ostagar. Since then the deep slice in her thigh had swelled and reddened around the edges, burning and raw and bloody like someone had spilled acid all over it. If she was any judge, it had gotten infected, despite her best efforts to tear bits of fabric off her armor and stopper the wound.

Palla would have wanted her to go on, wouldn't she? Corvis would have, and Ellie and Alistair. Tamlen's spirit, wherever it wandered, was no doubt urging her forward.

Hoping for any of their survivals had worn her down to the point of rather pathetic despair, so she'd stopped. They were dead. Darkspawn were on her tail. She'd have to accept that and push on, keep going.

Right now she headed at a limping jog along a narrow deerpath through the wilderness, wincing every time a fern or deathroot bloom brushed her thigh. The sky above was a dreary sort of iron grey, dusky, barely tinged with the dark blue of coming midnight. Every plant cast odd shadows on the ground ahead, every willow and sycamore making odd creaking noises as their thin trunks shifted in the dark dirt.

She trusted her own eyesight. It had never failed her before.

The landscape here was shifting, the dank moisture of swamps and peat drying out and fading into short yellowed grass and scattered sycamores and oaks. Shesi knew she was close to the edge of the Korcari Wilds when the odor of mud wasn't nearly as strong.

A scuffing startled her, and she whipped her head to the side, freezing; but it was just a bogfisher. Creepy creature, with its wrinkled, stocky body, leathery steel-grey hide, and snout built for nosing around in the swamp mud, but it was harmless and completely uninterested in her.

She needed to wash her leg—and peel off the leather—but the waters here looked dirty. Not the best thing for rinsing out an infected gouge. Boiling the water would've cleaned it, but she wasn't a mage and had no means to start a fire.

Her former clan had always relied on Keeper Marethari and Merrill to start fires, freeze things, heal, do everything the hunters could not. Without them…Shesi was really starting to miss a mage's presence.

There were voices up ahead.

Shesi slowed her pace, brushing her fingers against the rough bark of a sycamore and honing in on the noises. It sounded like two voices, a man and a woman; she crept a little closer and noted that the voices grew louder and didn't seem to be moving away, at least not at a fast clip.

"How far do you think we are?" said the woman's voice.

"I don't bloody know," the man's voice snapped back. "You think I brought along a fucking compass and map of every shrub on this path?"

"Language."

"Stuff it, sister. I'm in no mood to care."

Siblings, then. The voices sounded familiar. She crept ever closer, making out shapes in the dark—a woman's shape sitting cross-legged, a larger man's shape trying to start a fire by furiously rubbing two sticks together, a pile of armor pieces topped by a shield. The skin of both people was almost luminescent in its pale porcelain color, and if Shesi squinted her eyes, she realized the two of them had hair as black as pine pitch.

She put the voices and the features together, everything falling into place in her head.

River and Carver Hawke had escaped Ostagar.

Shesi limped closer, her heart pounding. No matter how she tried to remind herself that a Dalish hunter should not crawl over to a pair of humans like a wounded puppy, she couldn't stop herself; maybe her Dalish blood didn't matter, and maybe the humans did.

"Who's there?" River called into the darkness when Shesi purposely stepped on a twig and snapped it under her bare foot.

"It's not funny this time, Riv," Carver snapped grumpily.

"This time I'm not joking around," River insisted. "I heard a branch snap, and I can see someone standing…" the woman-shape rose to her feet, "…right there."

Shesi limped forward, her cut leg barely holding her weight; she leaned heavily on the trunk of a sycamore and stretched a hand out in greeting, muttering a faint "hello." Her voice sounded much raspier than she'd have liked.

"I remember you!" River took a step forward, and Carver jumped to his feet, all irritability erased from his features. "You're one of the Wardens! The one who promised to duel me after the battle. Looks like that won't be a possibility—oh, your thigh. That's a nasty wound…come here."

There wasn't a single elf in her former clan who would've limped even closer and exposed a potentially life-threatening, infected wound to a human. There wasn't a single elf in her clan who would've done what she did.

Shesi careened forward and threw herself into River's arms.