So the Commander thought not-entirely-lethal darkspawn were interesting? Well, after another day of trudging past ripped corpses and gutted caravans, Carver decided that he could care less why the darkspawn were leaving some people alive and instead they should just be glad that they occasionally did.

Their trail was obvious, carved through the bleak landscape in the pitted brown of blood and fire. The Commander didn't seem to think they should make any effort to predict it, or move to help or warn survivors, they just followed the echo of horror. She seemed morbidly pleased whenever they found the next corpse to keep them on the right track. Camp was signalled near a scorched trader party, so they'd be ready to pick up the scent of death in the morning.

Carver put his back to the crippled hulk of a caravan and set to pitching the tents. He imagined each peg was a twisted darkspawn head and the wood shook and splintered as he hammered them. His furious swings felt honest – enough power applied to the right place and it was done. It was clean. Direct. Useful.

'We do need to take those tents with us again, you know.' Bardolf peered over an armful of timber at the pegs. The last two wooden heads were barely visible above the sod. Carver nudged them noncommittally with his toe. Sure enough dwarf lost interest and tossed his load to the floor.

'I brought you stuff for a fire.' he said. Of course he didn't say please or if you'd be so good or even thanks Carver for sweating over the tent that'll stop my hairy arse getting soaked tonight.

'You want me to polish your boots, too?'

The dwarf squinted at him. 'You fancy laying traps instead?' He jangled something metal and terrible at his belt. The trap was teeth on shards on mounted points and, if that wasn't enough, Carver was sure he could see the spark of a mechanism lurking in the jaws. It was the kind of thing that featured in his more elaborate nightmares. He automatically covered his groin.

'No thanks. I like all my fingers.' He eyed the dwarf's left hand. There was a conspicuous absence after the knuckle on his two smallest fingers. The story of how he lost it changed every time he was asked, but the fact remained Bardolf had a mother's instinct with chemicals and traps and even he'd had them turn around and bite him.

'I like mine, too.' Bardolf agreed. 'But these two are my favourites.' He flashed Carver an obscene gesture with the rest of his scarred hand and sauntered off to create a perimeter. That was Grey Warden camaraderie for you: blunt, offensive and often missing limbs.

Carver kicked the wood he'd been brought. It had a sheen of damp – didn't everything in the Anderfels? - but it didn't seem too wet to work with. Black had eaten at the edges where someone had already tried to set it alight. The wood had panels that were planed and crafted, which was strange out here. He wondered where the dwarf had picked it up.

Unless...

Bardolf?' He shouted and the dwarf stopped. 'Tell me you didn't pick this from the -' Carver couldn't finish the sentence. He gestured behind him to the charred trade camp. He didn't want to look.

'Commander said not to waste it.' Bardolf shrugged and moved back to his traps.

So it was that easy, was it? Carver couldn't believe him. Either of them. But still he took the striker from his bag and knelt by the pile. He sifted through the panels, snapping them into a cone as he went, until he found the driest piece. Taking his knife he set to carving slivers for kindling, trying to place his body between the dry shavings and the endless drizzle. As he worked he noticed the chips in the wood; nicks from travelling, the edge of a carved design somebody would have been so proud of, a smooth area where someone's hand had trailed regularly in years of use.

A cart like it used to bring trinkets and foreign sweets to Lothering in the sunnier months. He'd get some coppers for a gingerbread if he'd been good when he was younger – and he was always good if there was a chance for gingerbread. But then he'd grown too old. The first year he'd said no was the hardest. He missed the tongue-gumminess of the sugar, and picking the dried fruit off and sticking it under the table when no-one was looking. But everyone said only babies liked them and Carver definitely wasn't the baby.

Then Garrett had gone and bought four with his own money and eaten the every one in front of him. Slowly. And of course the next day everyone was having them and oh weren't they so wonderful. But Carver refused to join in. He knew they were still for babies.

Bethany had brought him a cinnamon pastry instead and they shared it in the secret spot near the windmill and while he wouldn't say it out loud he'd thought maybe having a sister wasn't so terrible.

He snapped a new piece of wood and it brought back the snapping sails of the windmill. He and the other farm help used to bask in the sun on the rare hot days, and let the revolving arms slip cool shadows over their skin. On the best days they would have beers – tepid and bitter and the right kind of challenge to young tastebuds. Arms heavy from lugging bales, or feed, or idiot friends, they would lie out of sight of parents and little sisters and idiot brothers and he would feel full of the ache of a hard days' work and the knowledge that one day he would go somewhere better and be something better.

And that one day he'd go back a hero and everything – the arsehole bosses, the flirts and his borther's groupies, and all the eyes of the houses – would know what he'd done.

It was all burned now. Oh, the buildings would be back up, there'd be a new windmill and barn and a pub – the first thing anyone ever rebuilt was the pub. But Lothering – the real Lothering – would be ashes underneath it all.

Just like father.

It was stupid to think about it. He patted the smooth wood farewell and fell back on his heels. Slipping out a piece of char cloth – happy to find it was the one thing in the sodding place that was still dry – he used the striker to light it. Within seconds he had a flame. He dropped it in the wreckage and it jumped greedily to his slivers of kindling. Bright yellow licks grew and sputtered in the splinters against the rain. But the big slats wouldn't take hold. His flame withered and still the wood refused to light. He looked at the sore, blackened edges, where the darkspawn fire had tried to creep in.

It was clear it wasn't going to light and, sure enough, the flame flickered and failed. The wood had held strong against all of them. He felt very proud of it. While knew the Commander would be irritated if it wasn't done he couldn't bring himself to lift the striker from his pocket. He held it tight in his palm and stared at the stubborn, damp wood.

A wink of flame appeared in the heart of it. It shivered and swelled to a bright sphere that gobbled at the slants of his pyre until every slat was gripped in the hiss of smoky flame.

Riona lowered her hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself. She did that too often; appeared out of nowhere to interrupt a latest adventure in failure.

'You're welcome.' She said. He hated when people did that. No-one was ever owed thanks. Especially not for swanning in and waving a hand.

'You could've done that in the first place.' He said.

'You didn't ask me.' She smiled. 'Besides, I like watching you do it.'

Didn't they all? Like to watch normal people muddle on in their normal way, then swooping in at the last minute to show off how easy it was with magic. They forgot that some people were only a Templar motion away from taking it all away and then who'd be useless? He stretched himself out and nudged the Fade. He felt like giving it a tug, just as a reminder of what he could do. But it was cold. And he didn't fancy explaining to the Commander why they had no fire and a neutered, angry mage.

He settled for scorn. It wasn't nearly as satisfying but it kept his arse intact. 'Is that how you get your kicks?'

'I get them where I can.' She replied breezily.'You should try it. It might loosen whatever it is that's blocking your bowels.'

'My bowels are just fine, thanks.'

Oh. Bugger. Not his finest comeback. He could feel his treacherous ears heating. It was time to change the subject; as far from bowels as possible. 'I've just got a bit of respect for where we are. Have you ever lost everything you've ever known?'

'Yes. The Nessum Circle was my home.'

Oh she had to have a good answer, didn't she? It was just typical. Couldn't any Grey Wardens skip the traumatic backstory, write letters home to to a trauma-free family, and get packets of socks and sweets? (Maker, did he need new socks.) And of course Riona had to come from the bloodiest wreckage of the mage crisis. Everyone had heard how the blood mages rebelled and ripped the place apart to the surprise of absolutely no-one except the people whose job it was to guard them. They said it was so bad you had to swim through the blood – which to be fair to the blood mages, they didn't seem shy about advertising. The Commander, who coated herself in mystery like proper women used perfume, refused to say anything about it. Even Bardolf had only said he had picked her up sometime after the whole place crumbled. So Maker knew what that meant.

Well, sure, she was homeless, too, but then escaping a Circle was hardly the same, was it? Especially not if there were scars under those long sleeves. 'At least you could stay in Orlais. The Blight chases people right out of their countries.'

He waited for the comment about how that was Ferelden's fortune, but instead she shrugged and said 'I'm not Orlesian.'

'You're from Nessum.'

'Nessum is contested. Orlais and Neverra always fighting over it. Until the rebellion, I suppose. Now they fight to say they have nothing to do with these horrible mages.'

Orlais didn't want to swoop in and claim land? That sounded like some betrayal of Orlesian code, like being caught without the right amount of frills on your shoes. She caught his expression. 'I know what you're thinking – but would you want a Circle revolt in your borders? The Divine would wet her knickers.'

He couldn't argue with that. 'Well, you sound Orlesian.' He hadn't meant it as an insult, but he'd take points where he could get them. She barely flinched. It was infuriating: it was as if nothing he said mattered to her.

'To a proper Orlesian I sound like a clogged drain.'

'The Commander said that?'

'No, not the Commander. As long as you know 'yes ma'am' I don't think she gives a damn if you're high Orlesian or a gravel-spitting Marcher. No offence.' She said, in the way that definitely meant offence.

'None taken. I'm Fereldan.'

'Oh! Then I'm surprised you can listen to me at all without driving your sword through me in a patriotic fury.'

'I'm astonished, myself.' he muttered.

Her smile withered. She snapped up and started busying herself in their bags, tearing out the stiff bread and readying the water. He could barely hear her goading him over the clanging of the cans. 'Such restraint. We should give you a medal.'

He wouldn't rise to it this time. As she clattered she described how big his medal would be – ginormous, and in the shape of a head – and how lofty and grand (she used a lot of words ending in -escent that he was sure she was making up). But he wouldn't care. He didn't want to be this person – this kid – who got annoyed and cross and couldn't let things be, He hadn't been this person for long enough and he didn't like the feel of him back in his skin. There was something about her that brought it out, that makes him feel like an oafish child who needed anger to prove something. Well, he wouldn't do it. Not even when she began listing his titles, which in a thousand years you'd never fit on a single medal. Dog Lord – like he'd never heard that before. Even if she could get creative with the swear words it was nothing that would surprise an army man. He just wouldn't rise to it.

'Most High Crybaby and wielder of the grouchy sceptre -'

'Look! You don't get it. Being serious is normal. We're not on a picnic.'

'We're not?' It was hard for her to find the right sarcastic tone through a tough mouthful.

'No. We're - ' and this was where he was stumped. What the hell were they doing? Why should anyone be serious about a pointless mission? Maybe being a lunatic witch was entirely reasonable. He dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his eyes until the sparks began to bloom. 'We're looking for answers, apparently. What answers can we possibly find out here?'

'How green a corpse goes?'

'That's not funny.' Corpses flashed into his head. Gaping jaws, terrified eyes and maggots writhing meatily. Ordinary people turned to food.

She at least looked ashamed. 'No. Maybe not.' she said, quietly. 'But you have to try to lighten things somehow. Or else you'd be...' she struggled for the word and ended up just waving at him. Great. So being him was the 'or else'. He was always the 'or else.'

He huffed and she leaned in to him. 'What else can we do?'

Carver didn't need her pity. He stood and barked down at her. 'We can stop following and chase ahead. Or go to the Deep Roads and stop them before they get here. We could do anything except waiting and watching and going oh isn't it so interesting?' She looked a little alarmed, but maybe it was about time she understood what it meant to be out here. That this wasn't a jolly outing like one of Garrett's adventures. 'We're Grey Wardens – or at least I am – and that means protecting people and leading the charge and -'

Now she was blinking at him oddly. 'Are you even listening? Do you even care...' Oh. Now he understood. 'Is the Commander behind me?'

'Yes.' The voice that answered was stern and far too close to his ear. For a woman carved from rock she could slip about like the wind.

'You could have warned me.' He muttered.

'There wasn't a good moment. You were quite intense.'

'Whenever you are finished.' The Commander's voice was quiet, but irresistible, like hunger or a knife to the groin. 'I came thinking to rescue children in danger of being gobbled by darkspawn. Instead I find two of my squad engaged in a screeching contest. Would you care to share your problem, Carver?'

It's nothing, Commander.' He stood as straight and as far away from the Commander as one motion would allow. There was nothing he could do about his bright red ears and angry hair.

Riona jumped in. 'Carver's just got a huge stick up his -'

'Your problem, petit, is that you allow your mouth to collect every idle thought. Whereas Carver, I am surprised a man so keen to share his thoughts with every living creature within twenty miles now doesn't have anything to say.'

He remained at attention. The Commander had always been informal – impatient, but informal – but he'd been suckered by that attitude before. Superiors who liked to chum around with the men, relaxing their mouths and the rules, until something dropped that they didn't like and authority slammed back down like a cudgel.

'I'd like to hear it, Carver. At a reasonable volume. I think you were at "leading the charge"...'

Bardolf was grinning behind the Commander. He nodded and mouthed 'go for it'. Carver swallowed. 'Commander, I don't understand. We have been chasing down the same group of darkspawn for weeks. We shouldn't just be tracing their steps when we could be moving ahead. Why aren't we trying to stop them?'

'Because that is not our mission.'

As if he hadn't had enough of the cryptic bullshit. 'It's the mission of the Grey Wardens. Commander - are we being punished?'

She might think he didn't know but rumours spread like the taint. Even if she was as warm and exciting in the flesh as a wardrobe he still tingled a little at the presence of the famous Leonie Caron, Commander of the Grey, but everyone knew she'd pissed off the highest of the highest. That kind of thing poisoned by association. And if she hadn't done something terrible, or at least terribly stupid, there was no way the she'd be dragging around a tiny knot of not-quite Grey Wardens so far from the Deep Roads.

'We are not searching for darkspawn, we are searching for answers.' She snapped a hand. 'Take a seat.'

Bardolf elbowed in with Riona and pulled himself a mug and handful of bread. The Commander rolled the flap of a pack open to give her a dry place to sit. It was Carver's pack, which left him crunched on his haunches.

The Commander rested her shield against her knees and addressed them all. 'I told you: it is a puzzle. We are far from the Deep Roads. There is no Blight. Yet there are darkspawn attacking villages, people, taking paths above ground. Why do they take these routes? Why do they move on, when more people remain to kill, more communities to massacre? They act with purpose.'

Riona chipped in. 'The darkspawn don't have purpose?'

'Wanton killing and destruction isn't really a purpose. It's more of a hobby.'

'That is enough, Bardolf. During a Blight, the darkspawn respond to an archdemon. It guides them to the surface, directs their movements in an attempt to conquer our lands.'

'Are we sure this isn't a Blight? Asked Riona. eyes big and shining in the dim light. Not for the first time Carver bristled that a non-Grey Warden should hear so much. The rest of them had earned their place and they had the terrible knowledge branded in their souls. Why did she get to sit at a campfire and listen to secrets like they were nothing, when if she wanted to she could just walk away.

'It's not a Blight. We Grey Wardens would know.' She looked cowed but he shouldn't have to feel bad for telling the truth. He turmed to the Commander. 'Do you think something is guiding them?'

'We fear there may be. It is not unknown for something else to influence darkspawn.'

She sounded grave, which was appropriate. Cold fingers of memory reach up for him, of plunging down deep rock throats and GWs stringy with taint and whispers. A half voice in the back of his head, calling. His brother's abomination snapping and his own nerves fraying from the infernal wheedling. 'Corypheus' The name tumbled from his lips, unbidden.

'Bless you.' Said Bardolf.

'No,' he explained. 'Corypheus was a – a thing. A demon, or a magister, or something. It had power through the taint. It influenced wardens, and other things, even though it was asleep. And then it woke up, talking about Dumat and the Old Gods.' Riona and Bardolf were looking at him in surprise. The Commander was waiting for him to finish. 'But we killed him.' he hurried. 'My brother and I; we killed him.'

'Wow.' Breathed Riona.

'Yeah boy.' Bardolf whistled. 'Though I can't help thinking you could have milked that story a little more. Maybe throw in a few more adjectives next time.'

It wasn't how he'd wanted to share it. He'd planned to bring it up when they were sharing war stories. He wouldn't brag, but just slip it casually and properly wow them all. Riona's eyes would shine with admiration. Bardolf would tease him and they'd have to settle it with a wrestle and some kicking but when it was finished he'd finally stop calling him boy.

But he'd caught the Commander's eye and she didn't look surprised. When did she? Of course she'd know. The Commander wasn't impressed by even the most outlandish tales. She respected facts. And getting to the point.

But if she appreciated him wasting his best story for her she didn't show it. She just said 'It is not the only story like it. I encountered a talking darkspawn in Amaranthine. He claimed to be enlightened. He aimed to give reason to the darkspawn. Who is to know how successful he was?'

Carver was impressed. Most of the Marcher wardens had heard about his encounter with Corypheus. And it wasn't just because he'd tried to spread it around; new things had legs of their own and scuttled about making themselves known wherever they could. And he'd heard rumours about similar stories, but not that the Commander was involved. And she was one of the most famous Wardens. The excitement at working with the Commander Caron pinched and he leaned in. 'How did you kill him?'

'He must have been very powerful.' Riona's voice was quiet.

'He was. But I let him live.' And that was it. Just blank statement; no trace of shame or defiance.

'Let it live?' His shout punctured the cool twilight quiet. He remembered Corypheus - the oily voice, the infernal whispering, the insistent pressure to save him and the unshakeable certainty that it had to die. 'Did you have an attack of insanity?'

The blank plane of Leonie's face buckled and she frowned with disapproval. It was a dangerous expression designed to remind him who was Warden Commander but he was remembering that she was the disgraced Warden Commander and he was starting to understand why. 'I mean: did you have an attack of insanity, Commander?' He said, clinging to defiance.

She did not shout, or thrust his face in the dirt, but he knew he would pay for that later. It was darkly silent for a moment before she sighed. 'War makes strange allies. And we have been at war with the darkspawn for a long time.' She laid a hand on her shield, meticulously clean, but dulled from years of use, and stared at the sky beyond his head. No-one made a sound.

'Nevertheless, there is concern. These patterns, this unusual behaviour, it could be the work of the Architect. It may be something else. But it is imperative that we unearth its meaning.

'This knowledge is closely guarded. I tell you now because it is becoming increasingly apparent to me that there is something happening here.' She fixed Carver with sincere dark eyes. 'This mission is vital; we must unearth whatever force is behind it. And while we find out, I suggested to my superiors that it could be useful to have an experienced enlightened darkspawn killer in our ranks. No matter who his brother might be.'

She argued for him? That was a surprise. He felt the squirmings of an apology in the swell of pride. 'So it's not just a punishment, then?' That was close enough.

She blinked slowly. 'Not just a punishment, no. Although I understand there are several latrine duties for you, should you prefer?'

'No Commander. I think I can be useful here.'

Thatis a development I will await with anticipation.'

'So, if this is so important, should we be doing something different?' Riona looked pale. He thought not treating everything like a cosmic joke might be a start. And maybe avoiding making everyone else feel stupid for taking things seriously.

'Your orders remain the same; listen for information, identify the trail, and eliminate darkspawn where we find them. Although perhaps a little more solemnity and less whining would serve us all well.'

'We're Grey Wardens, not So-Grey-We're-Irretrievably-Depressing Wardens, Commander.'

'I suppose it is positive to see you are unchanged by these revelations, Bardolf.'

'I aim to be your rock, Commander.'

Carver couldn't detect any movement in her flat face, but Bardolf saw something that made him smile widely and clap his hands. 'I'm going to scrounge myself some more dinner to take to my roll.' He announced, cheerily. If the dwarf got any more crumbs in their tent Carver was going to sweep them very carefully into his socks. Although that plan depended a little on the dwarf ever risking clean ones. 'Thank you for the lovely bedtime stories. I'm looking forward to a restful night of sleepwalking magisters and chatting darkspawn.'

'You can look forward to my knee in your back.' Carver promised, pushing his sore joints out of the mud. He would beat Bardolf into their tent. He wasn't going to get the bad side of the tent tonight.

The Commander stopped him with a solid hand. 'Perhaps later, Carver. For now you're taking watch.'

'What? We haven't needed a watch in weeks.' Between Riona's wards, Bardolf's traps and the Commander sleeping with her sword in unhealthy proximity there hadn't been much call for some idiot to lose half his sleep.

'I think, given the location, it is the only sane thing to do.'

Of course. His punishment for telling the truth. As he rescued his spare cloak and dry socks before Bardolf could fart all over them he reflected that at least it was immediate. He hated waiting in suspense. He remembered Captain Hillary at Ostagar. He wielded the suggestion of punishment like an exquisite torture device. The anticipation was so acute and painful it was with tearful relief that soldiers finally fell to hard labour.

As everyone ducked into their canvas he wrapped his cloak around him and crouched by the fire. The last birds of the day shrieked across an indigo stained sky. There weren't any clouds to keep the chill out, but still there was drizzle. It fought to a stalemate with the fire as he huddled closer - the heat steaming the water from his hair only to plonk it straight back onto his ears again in cold flecks.

He closed his eyes and let his blood do the scouting. There was nothing except the dim recognition of three Grey Wardens wriggling in tents.

The soft suck of footsteps on mud made that two Grey Wardens wriggling and one not-really-anything stepping out of her tent. Her solo tent, he added, bitterly. The Commander didn't have to share so neither did Riona. By virtue of breasts alone. If he has his own tent he wouldn't need to leave it in such a hurry in the stale, stinky morning. Although if he had breasts he'd probably never leave it at all.

Riona sat beside him. It might have been his imagination, but she was regarding him differently. She was smiling again, for one.

'I thought you might like some company.'

He'd been better without it. He wasn't good at this. Talking to girls was always Garrett's forte. It was something about not ever wanting more than talking made it easy for him to risk the talking. It was stupid that he couldn't talk to Riona, though. She was a fellow Grey Warden. An irritating Grey Warden.

But she wasn't that, was she? Not yet. And as she sat quietly with the firelight picking out her fingers as they knotted her wisping hair she was much less irritating, too.

She caught him looking and leapt into conversation. 'So it's true then? You're the Kirkwall Champion's brother?'

And they were right back to irritating. 'I like to think that he's my brother.'

'Wow.' she exhaled, fluffing her fringe with an impressed blast of air. 'To think I'm close to the Hero of the Revolution. Who liberated the first circle.'

'I was there.' he snapped. It wasn't very heroic. It was mostly panic and lunacy. And walking statues.'

'Walking statues?'

'It's not as good as it sounds. Imagine a huge bronze fist hurtling into your face. Repeatedly.'

She took her time imagining. It didn't dampen her excitement. She must have imagined it romantically; all dashing heroics and bravery instead of pain and pissing terror. Perhaps that wasn't so bad. He wanted to see it play in her head.

'You must be very worried about him.' she said, finally.

'No.' Sorry mother. He sent her a little prayer of apology, and hoped the fact that she could always see the lie of it somehow made it all right. That wasn't enough for Riona, though, who looked at him like he as morally absent as a Crow, or one of the slugs who looted battlefields.

He prickled with discomfort. 'My brother has luck, and I don't. So I'm sure he's fine.' Of course he was fine. Garrett was always fine. He had to be fine.

The fire hissed like a crowd turning. The column of smoke twisted a grey banner against the black. [For a moment they were silent together in the dark vacuum of early night.

'But still, to have been there. Making history. Making the future for all mages.'

Mages. Mages. Hasn't it always been about mages. 'And ruining my own.'

'They couldn't have been that cross. The Grey Wardens. If they let you come with the Commander.'

'I should have been reporting for sortie to the Deep Roads and I stopped off to tip the Chantry onto its head and turn my brother into a wanted criminal.'

'Anything sounds bad if you say it like that.'

'I put my sword through the ruler of a city. I'm surprised they didn't disown me, and let me become a Templar pincushion.'

'At least you were doing somethng with your days off.' She laughed hopefully, but he stayed silent.

She sighed, and patted a hand on his thigh. 'Well, you're with us now. So that's good.' Her palm was unusually hot through the close fabric of his trousers.

'Fantastic.' He didn't have the energy to be completely sarcastic. Something about her endless optimism was draining. And the hand on his thigh was distracting. And then it was gone and the air darted in to mark the ghost of a print in a cold, tingling emptiness.

She looked sad in the firelight, and red all across her cheeks. She didn't look at him but said, 'It must be hard for you though, not knowing how he is. With so many people out to get him.'

People really didn't know anything. He scoffed and rubbed the cold patch on his leg. 'My brother loves nothing more that the attention. He's screwed up cities from here to Ferelden.' And he'd be fine. Garrett was always fine. He had to be fine. 'He's the mage's glowing and ever-loving saviour and the Chantry's most wanted renegade. I'm sure he's loving every minute of it.'