Solena

Jory's pacing was going to drive her mad, if Daveth's leering didn't first. Alistair, Maker bless him, stood away from everyone. He stood leaning against a pillar, half in shadow—the picture of calm. Of course, it wasn't him that had to face the ritual to come. In truth, it didn't worry her. But this waiting, this…this nothing while the darkspawn horde marched ever closer to Ostagar was infuriating. Night had fallen, and she could feel something in the air, something so still and quiet that a lump formed at the pit of her stomach that would not go away.

"It has been long enough," Jory declared. "Why have we not heard anything from Duncan? The secrecy of this ritual is entirely suspect." He seemed to be talking to Alistair, but the senior Warden didn't even glance in his direction. He seemed preoccupied with a small pendant in his hands. On it was what looked like a small flask, meant to hold something. But it was empty. He kept rubbing his thumb over the clear face of it. If the others noticed his strange tick, they showed no sign of it.

"Yes, well, try not to wet your trousers before we get started." Daveth jeered.

"I've just never met a foe I could not engage with my blade." Jory retorted.

"Maybe the reason they don't tell us is they don't think we'll do it, you know? If we knew," Daveth suggested.

"That's what worries me," Jory sneered.

"I'd do anything to stop the Blight." Daveth shrugged. "If there's a price, I'll pay it."

"You sound right sure of yourself, considering you've no inkling what it is." Jory shook his head, put his hands on his hips and stopped pacing. He breathed deep. "I've got a family. Back in Redcliffe. A wife, and a child on the way. I can't…"

Alistair glanced up. He didn't speak. He just looked sad. If he thought no one had noticed, he was wrong. Solena moved towards him, but was intercepted by Daveth. She rolled her eyes, and her body mimicked the movement.

"You've been rather quiet, love. How about you, hmm? You got anyone back home I should know about?"

She stared him down with indignation.

"Oh, for the Maker's sake, Daveth, leave her be." Jory insisted.

"Now, now, I'm just making polite conversation, Ser Knight. Come now, any port in the storm, pet? Some nice mage boy waiting for you back at the Tower? Or maybe it was a big, strong templar that slipped between your sheets at night. Is that something you mage girls are into?"

She grimaced, slapped him across the cheek, and he recoiled. The sound echoed against the walls of the ruin. He would be nursing that sting for quite some time.

"Never presume to talk to me again." She brushed past him. She heard the mutterings of Daveth and Jory behind her, but she paid them no mind.

"Sorry about him," Alistair offered. "The slap was impressive, though." He managed a hint of a smile.

"You didn't tell me what you thought," she told him. "Of that witch and her daughter. You didn't mention them to Duncan."

"Oh, them. The girl worries me. The woman's just an old hag who talks too much."

"But why not tell him?"

He shrugged and shook his head gently in thought. "They did us a favor. If the apostate stays in her neck of the woods, I don't see a need to disturb them."

"It's good of you."

"Maybe."

"What's that?" she gestured to the necklace in his palm.

"You'll know soon," was his only answer.

"You do realize this is all rather morbid." It was her attempt to lighten the mood. She wasn't sure it really worked. He only looked at her. She could have kept talking, kept digging a deeper hole. She didn't. She looked back at him, and kept looking even as he looked away.

His features were handsome, she had to admit. Even the shadow that the old ruins cast and the sadness now plainly written on his face couldn't hide that. The old witch was right on that account. He wasn't too handsome, though. Not like Cullen. Cullen, with his damned perfect golden hair and teeth and jaw and chin and cheeks and amber eyes. Cullen was so handsome and chiseled that she hated it—it unsettled her. It made him seem cold, hard and unforgiving. It wouldn't have bothered her so much if she didn't know, all too well, that there was a quiet, dark part of him that gave truth to all that. Alistair's attractiveness wasn't trying to call attention to itself. It was conventional, and comforting. His hair was only a shade darker than hers and his eyes were a deep honey. He was clean-shaven. She liked his face, she decided. She liked it more than most. Even more than she liked Duncan's, who had looked warm, kind and almost holy as he took her hand in his, leading her away from her prison. Yes, she liked Alistair's even more than that.

She placed her hand gently on his bicep. Before he could acknowledge her, Duncan's nearby footfalls reached their ears. He held in his two hands a modest looking chalice that was perhaps made of ivory, and he walked as if each step carried with it the weight of the whole world.

"Finally. We've—" Jory started.

"Alistair, if you will." Duncan took no notice of the man, setting the cup on a stone pedestal.

She felt, faintly, the air released from Alistair's preparatory breath against her neck, and could sense the shakiness in his lungs. He's nervous, she realized, briefly. The discovery made her uneasy.

"Join us, brothers and sisters." Alistair began—a rehearsed monologue. One he dreaded repeating. But, Solena knew, Daveth and Jory wouldn't have been able to tell. "Join us in the shadows, where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And, that one day, we shall join you."

Daveth and Jory looked confused. A voice in the back of her head told her that she had always known, deep down, what the price must have been. From everything she had ever read in all her books, the reclusive Wardens and their great burden was by far the most grim. Her books didn't speak of a price. Everything recorded on Grey Wardens was vague and ominous. But she knew there must be one. She knew it had nothing to do with gold. Duncan's voice rang in her ears.

"Our order was formed during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was then that the first Grey Warden drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their Taint. And so was the first Joining."

"We're going to drink the blood of those…things?" Jory could scarcely voice his shock. She had spilled the blood that was now in that chalice. Her first. She remembered the power that had surged through her, and the…other feeling as well. The rush. The elation. She had snapped the neck of one of those hideous creatures from yards away and watched the life leave its body. She shuddered, and she remembered the dying man in the Wilds. She had seen that before, once. One of her instructors at the tower was old and feeble and the life was leaving his body after ninety or so long years. She had liked him—he was a stubborn man, stuck in his ways, with a harsh tongue, but he had taught her well, and his quick temper balanced with her cautious demeanor. So she had volunteered to watch over him in his passing. He had no family. She held his hand and pressed a washcloth to his head as he went.

It was not the same.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us. As we did before you." Duncan confirmed. "The Taint is the source of our power, and our victory. Those who survive the joining become immune to its harsher effects."

"Those who survive?" Jory questioned, nervously. He was ignored.

"Daveth, step forward."

Duncan grabbed the chalice in both hands and held it towards Daveth, who looked at the simple thing as if it had transformed before his eyes. After a moment's hesitation he stole the cup from Duncan's hands, squeezed his eyes shut and washed down the liquid.

It did not take long to know. His fingers began to claw desperately at his neck as he gasped for air and collapsed to the floor. From the side, Solena noticed his eyes had rolled back into his head. She would have shuddered, but she did not have enough feeling in her body to do so. Small streams of red came from his nose, and then his eyes, and before long he was dead. Alistair closed his eyes. Duncan hung his head.

"I am sorry, Daveth."

Jory's sword was drawn before Duncan could even pour the next vial. Alistair placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword and maneuvered himself between Solena and the foolish man.

"Stand down, Jory." Duncan's calm demeanor put Jory to shame. She wished that he could see that.

"N-no. You ask too much. Had I known…"

"There is no turning back." Duncan approached him now, slowly, with the cup in hand.

"There is no glory in this!" he insisted, swinging his sword to guard him from both Alistair and the man in front of him.

Duncan had disarmed and gutted the knight in one fell swoop, before he could take another step. Solena watched the blood and innards spill from him and onto the floor and felt little. Alistair's feet were frozen to the spot, staring at the scene. His reaction was harder to gauge.

"I am sorry, Jory."

Time seemed a blur as she processed what must happen in the moments that would follow. Though, she already knew the conclusion she would come to—the one she's not sure she would have come to only but a few weeks prior. Ever since she stepped outside Kinloch Hold and felt the wind through her hair and the earth under her dainty slippered feet, she had made a decision for herself then and now and for the end of time: if it was death or her cage, then death was safer.

Duncan moved closer. She could not hear the words he spoke. Red clouded her vision.

All those years locked up in that glorified prison…she must have gone mad. That must have been it, because every other explanation for her own complacency frightened her. How was it, that when that Templar stood above her, a girl of eight, marring her face with his armored fist, she could only recoil into herself at the shame of her crime and not his? That she would retreat to her small bed and weep for her own sins and not his? How was it that she could let Templars drag mages away—men and women she once broke bread with in the commons—never to be heard from again, and still remain silent? How was it that when Cullen accosted her in the library alone in the dark that…that fucking night, when he had placed his gloved, sharp hands on her and gripped her arms with the intent to hurt her for her rejection, the steely scent of lyrium on his breath as he slowly, quietly drained her, when he had not stopped—not at the tears in her eyes, or the blood on her forearm, or her gentle protests—not until she had looked him in the eyes and begged for him not to do what he had come there to do…how was it that she forgave him? How was it that she let him treat her as a friend, even a year after the worst night of her life? Maker forgive her, she remembered lying in her cold bed one shameful night and thinking of him and his hands that had pierced her skin while she…while she…

She would never beg for anything again.

She grabbed the chalice and drank her fill. She choked on the blood and the world went black.


The dragon's screech left a ringing pain in her ears even as her eyes opened on the physical world. What had felt like a fever dream had come and gone, and she now looked upon a face that grounded her. The fear was gone. She was free.

"She wakes." Duncan smiled warmly, and glanced upwards of where she lay on the hard, jagged-edged floor. Her brain registered armored footsteps approaching. Duncan lay a hand upon her shoulder, warning her against rising too quickly. "Welcome. I wish I could stay longer to make sure of your good health, but I believe Alistair will see to you. I must meet with the King and his General at once—I believe I am already late. When you feel well enough, I would invite you and Alistair to join. The King has requested an audience with you both."

Alistair's irritated voice spoke from over her shoulder. It was now that she realized he had propped her head up in his lap. "Why would Cailan—"

"It is not my place to question the King's demands. Nor is it yours. I warn you to arrive at the meeting with an open mind, Alistair."

"I…of course."

"I'll take my leave of you."

Duncan left without another word, and without platitude, which Solena appreciated immensely.

She had come to terms very quickly with what had happened with Jory. Understood it, even. The Joining was secret for a reason. She knew why, now. Killing that man…it didn't make her respect Duncan any less.

Her thoughts had kept her so busy since Duncan's footfalls had faded that she hadn't noticed the silence. Alistair took the liberty of breaking it.

"I keep thinking about his family," he started. "You know, the wife and the unborn child. I keep thinking…I keep…I don't know."

She hated this. She didn't want to talk about this. But she couldn't leave it there. She knew if it were her, he'd say something comforting. He didn't even know her, but he'd make her feel better.

"Keep thinking it could be you?" she offered, her head still resting delicately on his lap. Her comment clearly confused him.

"I—no. Maker forbid, I've never had the time for women. Or the…ahem, product thereof." She would bet good coin that if she looked up, she could see the heat on his cheeks. He continued. "I just…I'd hate to know what that feels like. To have something you couldn't bear to lose."

"You don't want anything in your life worth dying for?" She thought only of her freedom.

"I don't want anything in my life I'm scared of dying for. His wife in Redcliffe will live in poverty. His child will be raised without a father. I…I don't know. Maybe it's better. How can you dedicate yourself completely to a cause when you've got something like that back home?"

"Better what? Better that he didn't make it? It's not better. Dead is dead. And if you don't have something to fight for, then that's what you might as well be. Don't you care about anything?" She stood up. He moved half-heartedly to stop her, and failed. She glared back at him.

"I care about killing the blighted darkspawn. I care about saving the bloody country so that people like Jory's family can live out the hard winter in peace, that's what I care about. Does that matter to you at all, or is this whole thing just a convenient alternative to the Circle?"

"Stop it. You don't know what you're talking about. You don't…everything I've been through…"

Alistair was silent. After a moment he pawed at something around his neck, tugged, and threw it to her.

"I know one thing."

It was the pendant. There was blood inside the tiny flask now. It should have shocked her. She should have dropped it and watched it shatter on the ground—that's what any other girl her age would have done. But she didn't feel her age. In that moment, she felt a hundred years old and hollow inside. She ran her thumb over the glass, in quiet reverence. The weight of the small thing grounded her. She had asked, an age ago, what it was for. Alistair told her that she'd know soon. He was right. She knew the price now.

And if she had stayed in her Tower, her safe Tower, none of the books in the world would have answered that question for her.

"You don't have to keep it, if it's too morbid for you. It's just ceremony—blood left over from the chalice. If you—"

"Thank you."

She put it on without a second thought. He stood and observed her, carefully, as if for the first time.

"Mine was…not as bad as yours," he admitted. "Only one of us died. And Duncan didn't have to…"

"I'm sure it was still difficult for you. You don't need to qualify it. I saw your face before, and during. It was like you were back there, all over again."

It wasn't something he couldn't respond to, she knew. But what he heard, it seemed he appreciated.

"Your head alright? I know my Joining gave me one hell of an ear-ringing."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

"Come on. Let's get you some supper and head on over to the war council."

Alistair's hand, though gloved in mail, was warm against her back.


"Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand with the Grey Wardens during this attack."

She and Alistair walked the length of the hall on their way to the meeting, and they could only just make out the King's voice. But the man shone like a beacon from wherever he stood. His entire person was armored in the purest gold—intricate armor engraved top-to-bottom with the skull of a dragon, with roses twisted about its winding horns. His hair was golden, too, and his eyes were a similar amber. He was tall and lean, though he was certainly not the most beautiful man to have walked the earth, as so many young, hopeful girls in the Tower had assured themselves. Solena could see remnants of features that might have once been full and handsome and princely if not kingly, but he was now gaunt and so, so pale…nearly translucent. It was like he were some sort of walking ghost. And he had a tired face. Not more tired, though, than Loghain, his most trusted general. He was only armored in a dull silver metal, and stood beside his King, poring over a map as his black hair fell so as to hide the features of his face. He shook his head and sighed deep—a sound which traveled the length of the hall and was felt in the hearts of each soul present.

"You risk too much, Cailan. The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

"Well, if that's the case, perhaps we should have pursued the help of the Orlesian forces with greater fervor."

"How fortunate that Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand his empire over to those who enslaved us for a century. Our numbers are limited, yes, but I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves. Your uncle, had the Maker only granted us more time, sent word that Redcliffe forces should arrive within the week."

"I suspect Eamon only wants in on the glory." The King laughed to himself. "That aside, seeking Orlesian aid was not a fool notion—and you will remember who is King. But with or without them, we've won thirteen battles against these monsters, and this one shall be no different."

"This is no simple skirmish, Cailan. The cost will be great. If what Duncan reports holds true, the darkspawn are to arrive en masse. I fear their numbers will be greater than we expect."

Alistair led her to a spot around the room where they would be mostly out of sight. Other than the King and Loghain, Duncan stood at the table, along with some of Kinloch Hold's high ranking mages, which she recognized. The most prominent among them was Uldred—a small, bald man with dark angular brows and a crooked nose. She had known him from afar. He was a great leader and instructor back at the Tower and well-liked among the younger, Libertarian mages. Jowan had spoken of him highly and often. Next to him was an older white-haired woman she recognized as Mother Hanna, dressed in her fine Chantry robes—gold and red adorned them and the Chantry's insignia, a burning sun, was prominent on the shawl she wore. She looked peeved.

The King tore his gaze away from Loghain. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, Your Majesty."

The King caught her eye, and clearly recognized her in an instant from the brief introduction they had had on her way into the camp. His face turned from exhaustion to childlike joy in the blink of an eye. If he took notice of Alistair, he did not show it.

"Loghain, this would be the recruit I met on the road. A Mistress Solena, come to the Wardens from Ferelden's Circle. Duncan has spoken rather highly of her."

At her mention, she moved forward to the table. Alistair must have thought this too bold, as he grabbed gently at her wrist as she moved. He would not stop her. If the King wished to speak to her, he could do so directly or not at all.

"Charmed." It did not escape her that this was nothing more than a rehearsed pleasantry for the general, but she did not pay it much mind. He eyed her only briefly, and with immense disinterest. The more she looked at him the more she recognized him as an ugly man. His eyebrows curved into a permanent glare, and his angry eyes were the color of the steel of his armor and sword. He had more of a pointed beak than a nose and, below that, fat, dry lips. The deep purple hues in the creases under his eyes were the only colors on an otherwise milky grey face.

"I understand congratulations are in order. Every great Warden is needed now more than ever. You should be honored to join their ranks." The King's smile was proud and hopeful, all for a woman he did not know. Solena would have doubted his sincerity if not for the knowledge that she was but a fly in his peripheral vision. Feeding her niceties gained him nothing.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." She bowed her head and dipped slightly, as she had once read she was expected to.

"You should know, all of you, that I expect to win the night." The King spoke as if addressing a nation, not a small congregation of seven or so. "I hope for a war like in the tales: A King riding among the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted army!"

Loghain grimaced.

"Your fascination with glory and legends will one day be our undoing, Cailan. Tonight, we must attend to reality. This horde could be at our doorstep as we stand here, fantasizing," he spit.

"Fine, speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines, and then—"

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from the flank. The field behind the tower should provide enough cover for us to remain hidden."

"I remember. Which brings me to the reason I called your charges, Duncan: the Tower of Ishal. I need a small team of men to light it, when the time comes."

Alistair moved for the first time in a long while beside her. It was a quick jolt—as if he were suddenly wide awake. Loghain began to protest first.

"I have a few men stationed there. They will suffice. It is not a large task, and Grey Wardens are not errand-boys, as I'm sure Duncan well knows."

"But it is vital, yes?" The King argued. "So we must send our best. What Alistair can do with a sword is nothing to scoff at."

"While that may be—"

"It is done, Loghain."

"Your Majesty, If I may…" Duncan began. The King gave him a curt nod. "You must consider the possibility of an Archdemon appearing."

The room was silent, save for the hustle and bustle of the camp outside. Loghain seemed most pensive. He spoke first.

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds."

"True. Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" The King asked, raising an eyebrow.

Duncan's face flashed disappointment, and then quickly reverted to its regularly poised state.

"I…yes, Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty," Uldred's adenoidal voice requested. "The tower and its beacon are wholly unnecessary. The Circle of Magi—"

"We will not trust any more lives to your spells, mage," Mother Hanna interjected. "Save them for the darkspawn."

"Enough," Loghain boomed. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon."


A/N:

I am rachelamberish on tumblr.

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