Marian wakes on her own for the first time in over a week. For a moment she thinks about reveling in this unexpected treat and going back to sleep, but she's still in her robes, she hasn't bathed since she left the Tower, and she's afraid to think about how she smells right now.
She sits up and takes down her hair, cursing when her exploring fingers find tangles and grease. She needs a comb. She'll have to go to the quartermaster; she sighs thinking of Daveth, thumbing the Maker's Circle on her chest.
When she looks up, she realizes that someone has been in her tent while she slept; there's a pile of fabric and metal by the opening. She can just reach it with her toe, so she drags it over to where she sits. When she separates it out, she has two Grey Warden uniforms in her hands, a much lighter version of the full armor Alistair and Duncan had been wearing. There's a very brief blue leather brigandine with sleeves, a long fall of scales and blue leather to cover her vitals, gloves, boots... and a buckled leather shirt and pants set.
"Oh," Marian says out loud, a catch in her voice. "Pants." She hugs them for a second, before she remembers how truly dirty she is, and then she drops them before she can contaminate them.
She gathers the uniforms, cramming them into her pack as best she can, and leaves her tent. The camp is busier today, with soldiers heading every which way on errands, quick and quiet and expectant. Marian ducks through the gates and goes straight to the quartermaster; he does have a comb, which she seizes with a sigh of relief. He also has soap.
She cleans him out of potions and commandeers the single extra pack he has left, dumping her finds inside; then she backtracks to find the bathing tents.
When she's finished, clean and dressed and combed, she feels like the perfect picture of a Grey Warden. It's a strange feeling.
She re-packs her things, fitting most everything in one pack, and shrugs it onto her shoulder as she looks for the cooking tent. When she finds it, it's nearly empty, but the cooks oblige her with a bowl of porridge and dried apples; she is so hungry that she goes back again for whatever they have left, which ends up being dried herring and cheese.
Finally satiated, Marian gathers her packs and ducks out of the tent into a bright spring morning, hardly more than half gone. The camp spreads out behind her, filling the tall outcropping that Ostagar sits upon; Marian cannot estimate how many are here based on the tents, but there are so many that it makes her feel a little easier about the coming battle.
She can't find Alistair, but the fourth soldier she stops has seen Duncan near the mage's encampment, and she heads that way. She finds him speaking to one of the ubiquitous Chantry sisters that have flooded the keep, and she waits for him to finish.
"Good morning," he says with a smile, turning to her. "I see that Alistair found you a uniform."
"Two, actually," she says, hefting a pack.
"Good," Duncan says. He checks the fit of her boots and gloves, the wear on the buckles, and points out several places she hadn't noticed where the leather stitching is starting to fray. The uniform has clearly had a prior owner, but that doesn't bother her.
Marian can't help what comes out of her mouth next. "Is it truly a coincidence that Alistair is a templar?"
"It is a coincidence," he says, and though there is nothing in his voice to scold her, she can feel herself flushing in shame. "Alistair was the junior Warden before you, and it was his task to lead you through the Joining. That task is now over, and if you wish to have nothing further to do with him, you may do so as long as it does not interfere with your duties or his."
"I don't..." She hesitates. "I don't dislike him," she says finally, and that is the bare truth, if nothing else. "I am wary of templars after the Circle."
"But Alistair is not truly a templar," Duncan says, mild reprove in his tone. He gestures toward the north, clearly meaning for her to precede him, and Marian mutely obeys, though she doesn't know where she's going. He falls into step beside her. "His past is his own, but I will tell you this: he was no more willing to join the Templar Order than you were to join the Circle."
"He mentioned something about that," she admits. "But..."
"You should ask him his opinion of magic sometime," Duncan says. "You might be surprised."
He says nothing else, no matter how she presses him, until they arrive at the grand table the elves had been working on the day before, now covered with close-printed maps and tiny markers. King Cailan and another man lean over the table, arguing so fiercely that they don't notice Duncan and Marian's arrival for whole minutes.
"The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines, Cailan," the dark-haired man says, rough and impatient.
Better to leave him in Denerim, then, she thinks, recalling the glorified wonder in Cailan's voice. I don't think you could keep him out of this battle with a pack of mabari and a pair of handcuffs.
They continue to argue; Cailan pulls rank at one point, which dissuades the other man not at all.
Cailan glances over at them. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"
Duncan bows a little in greeting. "They are, your Majesty."
Cailan nods, and then his eyes light on Marian. "And this is the recruit I met earlier on the road? I understand congratulations are in order."
Taking her cue from Duncan, she bows. "Thank you, your Majesty," she says, aware that she is mouthing platitudes, but this is not the genial boy she met yesterday on the path, and she doesn't know the other man. Prudence is the order of the day.
"Every Grey Warden is needed," Cailan says with an assessing glance. "Now, more than ever."
The dark-haired man snorts, disgusted. "Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality." He gestures to the maps and tokens on the table.
"Fine," Cailan sighs. "Speak your strategy, Loghain." He bends back over the table.
This craggy man is Teryn Loghain, the Hero of River Dale? He looks like he needs a stiff drink and a nap, not necessarily in that order.
Marian lifts her chin in order to better see what they're talking about; after a minute, she gathers that their plan is to split the army in rough halves and use one half as bait, sucking the darkspawn into a prepared position in the valley under the bridge while the other half hammers them from the rear. The mages are positioned on either side of the pass on the slope of the hills to give them sight-lines, and archers and mabari are stationed with the main mass, along with the Grey Wardens.
Each type of unit has a different little flag on the table - there's even a little carved dog for the mabaris, Marian notices and rolls her eyes. Boys and their toys... But it's rather impressive, all the same. She's never seen anything like this, not in all her books, and she cranes her neck to catch some of the smaller details; Duncan glances at her with an amused smile she notices out of the corner of her eye, and she drops back onto her heels, chagrined.
She's always been more curious than the people around her, which the other apprentices called brown-nosing. She calls it taking an interest in life, or staying alive for short.
"Who shall light this beacon?" the king asks, standing away from the table. He rotates his shoulders as if to get rid of stiffness.
"I have a few men stationed there," Loghain answers. "It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital."
"Then we should send our best," Cailan says. He glances over at Duncan and Marian, considering, and then nods. "Send Alistair and the new Grey Warden to make sure it's done."
"Your fascination with legends will be your undoing," Loghain says, turning away from the table in disgust.
"I'm happy to help, your majesty," Marian says, keeping a careful eye on the teryn's back. "But surely Alistair is more useful on the field."
"Your enthusiasm is appreciated," Cailan says with a smile. "No, it's best that you both go."
Loghain snorts. "You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?"
"Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain," Cailan says. "Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from." Marian glances involuntarily at Duncan standing beside her, noticing again the tone to his skin that says he is from somewhere much warmer than Ferelden.
Loghain declares the meeting over and strides off. Marian hopes that he has a bottle of something potent in his tent; it looks like he needs it.
"Alistair should be waiting at my fire," Duncan says, leading her back down the ramps. "I would rather brief you both at once."
She accepts that, but she has so many questions that she they are filling up her mind, bursting to get out. Duncan takes one look at her face and sighs. "What do you wish to know?"
"Everything," Marian says with a laugh. "You'll regret ever asking that question, you know."
"Then perhaps it could wait until after the battle?" Duncan suggests.
Marian bites her lip, but there's one thing she really wants to know the answer to now, while Duncan cannot conveniently forget how Loghain bristles at the very idea that Wardens could supplant his soldiers. "Why does Teryn Loghain hate the Wardens so?"
Duncan pauses mid-step. She looks up and catches his face before he fully turns to her; he is not in this place or time, but somewhere far away, somewhere troubling.
"You could have picked a more awkward question," Duncan says, forcing a smile. "But it would have been difficult." He tilts his head – Marian is beginning to recognize this as something Duncan does while he's thinking, and waits patiently for him to get his words in order.
"Teryn Loghain has heard the stories of the Grey Wardens," he begins carefully. "Stories of our prowess in battle, of our ability to sense the location of darkspawn. He has observed us on the field of battle, and I'm afraid he has found us wanting."
Marian frowns; she's never seen Duncan fight, not in a real battle, but she has no doubt about his lethality, and if Alistair is the example of the rest of the Wardens, they must be a potent fighting force.
Duncan smiles at the look on her face. "We hold our own on the battlefield," he admits. "But any legend may fall far short of the reality, as he himself could attest."
Marian opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it again, feeling conflicted. She's heard just as many tales of River Dale as she has of the Wardens, and they were considerably more patriotic, but the man she met just looks tired. Her books all say...
But that's her problem, isn't it? This is the real world, and not everything is as cut-and-dried as it is in her books.
Duncan takes her elbow and steers her gently toward his fire. "What are you going to do about it?" Marian asks.
"What we must," he says, glancing down at her. "Remember that: Grey Wardens always do what they must. Whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn. Loghain is not the only one with doubts, but one man's opinion makes no difference – no matter who that man may be." He releases her elbow when they reach the edge of his campsite, and the chance to speak privately is lost. She has so many questions – she always does, but she stamps them down with the ease of long practice.
"Marian knows this already," Duncan says to Alistair, waiting patiently by the fire. "You and she will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit when we signal you from the field."
Alistair frowns. "What? I won't be in the battle?"
"It is the king's personal request," Duncan says gently. "If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to charge."
"So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch," Alistair says in disbelief. "Just in case, right?"
"Even if it does need a Grey Warden, we don't both need to go," Marian argues again. Duncan has influence with Cailan, that much she can see for herself. If he would at least condone letting Alistair join the rest of the Wardens... "The king needs every soldier. Alistair should fight with the rest of you."
Sidelining Alistair is truly a waste of a good fighter, but she also needs to get away from him. She likes him, she supposes, but... Her lingering fear of him is quite irrational and she knows it. That doesn't make it go away.
Alistair turns to look at her, but she carefully keeps her eyes on Duncan. After a moment he looks away again.
Duncan raises his eyebrow at her, and she keeps her face blank and gormless. He shakes his head. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there." There is no arguing with him this time. The juxtaposition between the Warden-Commander and the gentle man who showed her how to curry horses is fascinating when it's not terrifying. "We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn... whether it's exciting or not."
Alistair is apparently a braver man than she is, because he says, "I get it, I get it. Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line."
"Why would he ever do that?" Marian asks, both unwillingly fascinated and not entirely sure she wants to know.
"I happen to be quite fetching in a dress," he says, glancing at her.
She bites her lip, not daring to say a single thing for fear of laughing. From the look on Duncan's face, if she does he will break something, which might include their heads.
"The Tower of Ishal," Duncan says, with exaggerated patience, "lies on the other side of the gorge. Marian, we passed the entrance on the way in." She nods, sobering. "We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for."
Marian steals a look at Alistair; he doesn't look like this is a surprise to him. At least somebody knows what they're doing. "I'm ready," she says.
"As am I," Alistair says.
"Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own." Duncan looks at each of them, his dark eyes grave. "Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title."
Marian nods. She intends to be.
"Duncan..." Alistair says, his voice dropping. "May the Maker watch over you."
"May He watch over us all," Duncan agrees.
On the heels of his words, a giant, startling boom echoes over the fortress. "What was that?" Marian gasps, rubbing one ear.
Duncan and Alistair exchange glances that Marian can't read. "Artillery," Alistair says.
Duncan nods to each of them and slips away. Marian shakes her head in confusion. "I thought the darkspawn were mindless," she says. "How did they build artillery?"
"Come on," he says, heading toward the bridge. Something tiny pings off of Alistair's armor, and then another; Marian looks up only to see grey, looming clouds have taken over the sky, and it is beginning to rain. She groans.
She follows Alistair to the shelter of the ruined tower at the near end of the bridge. "The darkspawn are mindless," he says, pressing close to her so she can hear him over the noise. "The archdemon isn't."
That is a horrible thought she is happy not to examine too closely right now.
Something explodes on the other side – she hopes against hope that the tower in flames is not their destination, but finds that unlikely.
"We have to get to the Tower!" Alistair says, speaking louder now over the rain and the melee. There's a flood of soldiers pressing against their backs, slipping around them to take up positions on the bridge. Some are already dead; she can see bodies at the other end, proof of the artillery's accuracy. She presses against Alistair; after a moment he takes her meaning, and they push their way to the edge of the bridge.
There's nothing to do but run for it; even if they do see a projectile coming, there's nowhere to hide, and no time to get there. They make it to the other side with only one near miss, and only then does Marian unfold from the half-crouch she'd been running in. Her back twinges.
"Come on!" Alistair shouts, still running. She swears and takes off after him, her staff bumping into her back with every step she takes. At least she can run – she says a paean of thanksgiving for blessed, blessed pants –
Alistair skids to a halt in front of an obviously panicked soldier, one of a pair standing at the end of one of the ubiquitous ramps. "You... you're Grey Wardens, aren't you?! The tower... it's been taken!"
Once they calm the soldier down, he tells them that the darkspawn have flooded the tower all the way to the top, spilling out of the doors as they speak, and he has only just managed to get away with his partner. Alistair and Marian exchange grim looks.
"We have to go in," Marian says, running the pads of her fingers over the potions at her belt in a quick count. "We don't have a choice. But the men on the bridge could use some reinforcement."
The soldier glances at his partner, then shakes his head. "Begging your pardon, miss – " He grimaces. "Excuse me, Warden – but I'm thinking you'll need all the help you can get." He unlimbers his shield and a large mace and turns to head back into the tower courtyard. His partner pulls out a crossbow and follows.
Marian raises an eyebrow at Alistair, who only shrugs before drawing his sword and shield and following. She takes a deep breath and follows suit.
She had been prepared to find fewer darkspawn than the soldiers reported, but if anything there were more. There are small packs surrounding one or two soldiers each scattered around the yard; most times the soldiers are dead before she and her team can rescue them, but they save one or two and she sends them back to the bridge or the hospital tents, whichever is appropriate. They take down another Alpha just before the doors, and after that grueling fight Marian is forced to ask for a small pause to recuperate. Alistair acquiesces without argument, but he watches her narrowly until her breathing steadies. It does nothing for her nerves.
The moment she feels less like a jelly inside, she stands and they walk into the Tower.
The interior is jarringly familiar; parts of Kinloch Tower look like this, a great circular room surrounded by smaller rooms on the outside walls. It's never been infested by darkspawn, though. That's a new twist.
They drive through into the great room, where Marian has her first experience with traps. After she picks herself up off the floor, and checks that all her teeth are where they belong, and makes sure that nobody is actually on fire, and pushes through the slick grease spell blocking the entrance, she is angry. She fries the archers while the men take on a magic user and then stalks on through the small rooms, killing darkspawn right and left, until she finds a staircase leading up to the next floor.
"Anyone know how many floors there are?" she tosses over her shoulder while striding up the stairs.
The men have been trailing her at a very respectful distance; she can practically hear them exchanging glances. The crossbowman loses the silent war not to attract her attention. "Four, I think, Warden," he says.
Alistair follows her up the stairs to cover her as she opens the door, but the first room is empty. "What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde?" he asks.
"They're the answer to your prayers," she says, keeping a wary eye out. "You were the one complaining about missing all the fighting, weren't you?"
Alistair laughs. "I do seem to recall something like that... I guess there is a silver lining here, if you think about it."
Marian can't help laughing as the last of her pique drains away. "Well?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Would you prefer to lead, oh fearless warrior?"
"Better me than a squishy mage," he says with a grin, bringing his shield up as he slips in front of her. "We have to hurry," he reminds her, suddenly sober. "Teryn Loghain is waiting for the signal."
"I know," she replies and takes one deep breath to settle herself. "Go."
They sweep the second floor, meeting only one sticky spot that they clear with some interestingly placed ballistae; the third floor has a similar knot of darkspawn tormenting four caged mabari, and when she lets them out of their cages, they rip the darkspawn apart with very little help from the Wardens.
She's letting Alistair precede her now that she's got her temper back; she's not ready for what she sees over his shoulder when he opens the door to the fourth floor. It's one large, round chamber, like the Harrowing chamber, and on the opposite side is the biggest creature she's ever seen, a darkspawn of grossly exaggerated proportions with giant, razor-sharp horns.
Marian inhales, a silent gasp, and grabs Alistair's arm. "What is that," she hisses in his ear, but even her lowest voice is too loud in the bare room.
It turns. It sees them, and it roars, spraying spittle in every direction, and Marian's grip on Alistair's arm tightens.
"Ogre," Alistair says shortly. He steps into the room, forcing Marian to let go or attach herself to him like a limpet; she lets go, to save her dignity, and slowly follows him in.
Ogre... She flips through the books in her mind, trying desperately to remember anything about them; weaknesses would be preferred, but anything would help. Unfortunately, she's not coming up with anything, and perhaps it's the terror fogging her mind, but she's not surprised. She's not been prepared for anything she's been through since she left the Circle; why should this be any different?
The crossbowman hangs back with her while Alistair and the other man – and how horrible is it that she hasn't even asked them their names? she thinks in a moment of madness – drive forward as the ogre comes pounding across the room. It swings one massive hand and sends Alistair flying and while she is wishing furiously for more hands or more soldiers or a blasted ballista, she spares one quick look to make sure Alistair is breathing. Then there is nothing but the fight, and pulling magic as hard and as fast as she can; sometimes her winter spell catches the ogre just right and it freezes in place, giving them a few seconds of breathing room. Otherwise there's only causing as much damage as quickly as they can manage, a task which goes much easier when Alistair levers himself back onto his feet, groaning. She breaks her stream of damaging spells to heal him as quickly as she can and then it's back to flame, lightning, and arcane bolts.
The ogre catches the soldier with the mace in his giant fist; ignoring the rest of them for the moment, it examines the man with tiny, beaded eyes. Then it sneers and rips the soldier's head clean off with its other hand. It drops the pieces on the floor and turns back to Alistair.
Marian cannot look away from the man in pieces on the floor. She is so fresh from her Joining that she can still taste the foulness on her tongue, and Jory and Daveth died horrible deaths in front of her eyes, but what has happened to the soldier is much worse than that, than even the monster in the room with her.
Her hand tightens on her staff. If they don't kill the ogre, the same thing will happen to the rest of them, and the men on the battlefield below will all die. Everything is depending on them. She tears her gaze from the doomed soldier with sheer will and looks up.
She is just in time to catch Alistair leaping through the air and planting his sword six inches into the ogre's face. He rips it free with a snarl and the ogre screams, a desperate sound in the dead air, and Alistair drives his sword in again and again until the ogre goes limp and begins to fall backward. Alistair rides out the ogre's crash-landing and disengages when it's prone, leaping backward off the ogre with a curiously cat-like movement.
Marian's jaw drops. If she hadn't just seen it, she would never have believed it.
Alistair bends right over at the waist, panting, with his hands on his knees. After a long moment, he looks sideways at her. "The beacon," he says urgently. "We've surely missed the signal – "
Marian shakes her head, trying to clear her mind. Too much has happened in too short of a period and her brain is foggy. "The beacon," she repeats. "Of course."
It's easily done, at least by a mage; there's an ordinary fireplace across from the door, wood already laid. She spins flame from her hands, and the kindling goes up immediately.
Alistair straightens up, heaving a long sigh. "Well, all's well that ends not catastrophically," he says, wincing. His eyes land on the headless soldier on the floor, and he sighs again. "Poor sod," he says softly. "Maker take him."
Marian looks over at the crossbowman, for the first time noticing his white beard and tired eyes. He smiles at her a little, and she tries to smile back, but it doesn't feel like she succeeded, and it feels wrong anyhow. Her eyes go back to the man on the floor, and then she turns her head so she doesn't have to look at him anymore.
She wonders how they'll know when the battle is over, and what they should do while they wait. It's just possible that they might be able to do something from –
The door slams against the wall behind her and she spins, her hand clenching on her staff; the crossbowman brings up his bow, but it is too late. A darkspawn arrow takes him in the eye, and she feels the impact of two more slam into her shoulder and ribcage. She cries out in pain; she can just see a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye that she knows is Alistair, but then he swears –
She cannot stay on her feet. She is light-headed, and something is wrong with her eyes – Another arrow slams into her stomach, and she does not cry out so much as she loses all her breath to the impact. She clings to her staff as she sinks to her knees. There is something wrong with her eyes...
The world goes away.