I found you in pieces you've been torn apart
A million one reasons to end before you start
—Btsk, MS MR
She thought she had avoided this.
Her one solace since realizing that her recruitment had been an utter failure was that she would pay for it with her life. That certainty had propelled her through the tower with Alistair, freeing her from the ever-present fear she'd felt since arriving at Ostagar only the day before. Knowing that she would die for her mistake had taken the sting out of her guilt.
But she hadn't died, after all. She listened as the Wilds witch told her what she already knew—that Loghain had retreated and left the King and all the other Grey Wardens to die. She felt the walls start to close in around her as she thought about all the lives that were lost—lives that she could have saved if she'd been more focused, if she'd been smarter . . .
Her face crumpled and a mournful sob escaped her. She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them, burying her face in her arms. The Wilds woman broke off her speech and Elissa felt the woman's strange amber eyes burning into her, but she couldn't look up at her. She heard Morrigan's tsk of disgust, and knew that she was making yet another terrible mistake, breaking down like this in front of a woman as seemingly shrewd and cold as Morrigan, but she didn't have the energy left to care.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that she kept surviving when others, more worthy of it, did not. Her mother, who was so good at everything. Her father, who had always been so gentle, so patient. And not to mention Rory . . . sweet, charming, ever faithful Rory, he was dead now too. And all of them had died in her place, to give her a better chance at surviving.
And Duncan, poor, misguided Duncan, he had the delusion that she could help save his beleaguered order. It must have been desperation, she thought, to recruit someone like her when a Blight truly threatened. But he had done it, because he knew there was a threat to the Wardens that was greater than the Blight, and he needed her to fight it.
And she had failed him. She had failed everyone.
Her sobs quieted as she thought back over the last day and a half, and the wide range of emotions she'd careened through, trying to pick apart several mysteries at once. Underneath every emotion terror had lurked. Terror at the thought of losing this oh-so-precious life of hers, she thought now with disdain. Why had she been so concerned anyway?
She was useless as a Grey Warden. Maybe, if she'd had some combat ability, she could have focused more on her observations, rather than her need for survival. She'd been more of a liability than a help. Duncan would have been better off recruiting someone with average intellect and the ability to actually fight. Like the mage, Solona . . .
The thought of the Circle mage only brought more grief, as she realized that the woman was certainly dead, along with the soldier Garrond and of course . . . Prince . . .
With that thought her tears began anew. She wasn't sure how long she sat in that rickety bed, listening to nothing but the sound of her own choking sobs and the occasional exasperated sigh of the witch who watched her. "Why did your mother save us," she asked after a long while, looking up to glare blearily at the raven-haired woman.
Morrigan coolly ignored her distress and gave a mere shrug of one befeathered shoulder. "I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you."
A king.
Elissa blinked at the swamp witch. They had rescued a king, she realized, and the sharp, practical part of her mind snapped awake, quickly running through all the implications of this interesting fact. Her curiosity was like a balm—a reason to box up her grief and stop torturing herself.
Alistair is alive.
She had been too consumed with her own misery to focus on her fellow warden when Morrigan had first mentioned him, she realized now with a pang of guilt. But . . . the man who had dragged her through the tower and saved her life so many times . . . he was alive . . . and he was a king, or as near to one as they were likely going to get.
The realization was like a splash of water to the faceand having something to focus on helped her bury the deep well of sorrow within her. She didn't know if it was fate or chance that placed this opportunity in her lap, but she was not going to waste it.
With a new, difficult goal in mind, Elissa was able to bury her anguish and start thinking. She wiped her face on the blanket and then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her vision swam from moving too fast, but she was determined now, with the first half-formed shreds of a plan taking shape in her head.
"I need to speak to your mother," she said once the room stopped spinning.
The swamp witch cast a curious look at her and then stalked over to a small chest and opened it. "I agree," she said, as she reached into the chest and retrieved what looked to be Elissa's clothing and armor. "'Tis time you speak with Mother and be on your way."
Elissa dressed as quickly as she was able, finding it a bit more difficult than she had anticipated. Her entire torso had been bandaged, but she felt specific aches on her left side and under her right breast. Cursory examination with her hands enabled her to locate where the arrows had pierced her skin.
She recalled with a shudder how the arrows had seemed to sprout from her, and how she hadn't even really felt the first one. The rest, though, had come with searing pain. Just before her vision went black she had looked up to see Alistair staring at her with a look of pure horror. She had thought it would end for him soon, too, and then he wouldn't have to worry about it either.
She shook her head to clear the memory from it, and eased herself into her pants and boots. Pulling the chest piece over her head made her gasp in pain, and she had to go at a snail's pace, but she refused to ask for help from the other woman, and the swamp witch didn't offer it. In fact Morrigan paid her no mind at all, but started gathering various food ingredients noisily around the hut.
It wasn't until she was done dressing that she noticed how clean she felt—she hadn't bathed in nearly a week, she realized with a flush of shame. Her grief had drowned out such hygienic concerns. But someone, Morrigan probably, had bathed her. Even her hair had been attended to, she noticed as she rubbed a hand over it to find it had been neatly braided. Not washed, but brushed well.
She started toward the door but looked back over her shoulder when her hand met the doorknob. "Thank you, Morrigan," she said. "For treating my injuries and for . . . well, thank you."
Morrigan looked up from where she had started chopping an onion, giving Elissa a skeptical look before nodding her head. "You are . . . welcome. Though in truth, Mother did most of the work. I am no healer."
With that, she went back to her task, leaving Elissa free to study her. She cocked her head to the side and examined the swamp girl, musing over what the her upbringing must have been like—raised away from society, having only her mother to guide her thinking, unfamiliar with the most common social customs—
She shook her head to stop herself. Morrigan presented a fascinating mystery of a person, but she was largely irrelevant to Elissa's immediate needs, and besides—she and Alistair were going to escape this place and probably never see the witch again. It didn't make sense to waste time trying to figure her out.
She had to squint when she left the darkness of the hut, though the sunlight was dimmed by the overcast sky. It looked to be late morning, she guessed by the sun's position. Alistair stood at the edge of the swamp water with his back to her, looking out at the wilds.
"See?" Morrigan's mother stood at a little distance from Alistair. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."
At the old woman's words Alistair whirled to look at her.
She quickly walked up to him, determined to figure out just how dire their current predicament was. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him they needed to get somewhere safe, that they needed to plan, but then she looked up and saw his red-rimmed eyes and saw the misery etched into his handsome face. She found herself unable to say anything at all.
He raised a hand and reached out as if he wanted to touch her, but then let it fall slowly, looking at her with wide eyes. "You!" He spoke in a whisper. "You're alive. I thought you were dead for sure."
I should be. The thought sprung up, unbidden, and she almost said it aloud before stopping herself with a glance at the old woman. She was watching the two of them through narrowed eyes.
"Duncan's dead," Alistair went on, voice cracked in grief. "The Grey Wardens, even my—even the king . . . They're all dead."
It was harder than she would have expected to see Alistair's sorrow. Here, finally, was someone who could understand what she herself had just gone through, so very recently. "I know," she said quietly. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears at his words, but she kept it together, looking down at the ground at their feet.
Alistair spoke pleadingly. "Elissa, I am so sorry. I should have listened to you. You were right." Her heart started beating wildly in alarm at his words. She understood how he must feel, more than anyone else ever could, but she most emphatically did not want to talk about the fact that they knew about the betrayal ahead of time in front of Morrigan's mother. She spared a glance at the old woman and found her watching them now with a look that was far too eager and curious. She had to stop him from talking before he revealed too much.
Alistair went on, oblivious of the look she was shooting him. "If we had just warned Duncan—"
She did the only thing she could think to do. She stepped right up to him, leaving but an inch between their bodies. He fell silent, looking down at her in confusion before she slid one arm up around his neck and the other around his waist and hugged him into a tight embrace. She tried to pull his neck down to get his ear closer to her mouth so she could whisper in it, but he was so bloody tall, and she was so damn short . . .
He was like a rock. Elissa realized that he had frozen at her touch, apparently shocked by her sudden ambush. It must be awkward for him, what with his lack of experience around girls—
She almost gave up, and was about to pull away when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her so tightly to him she could hardly breathe.
It was her turn to be stunned—the intensity of his reaction making her feel guiltier at first, but then she unexpectedly found herself melding into his embrace and holding him tighter, squeezing her eyes shut and fighting back her own tears.
"This doesn't seem real . . ." His breath felt hot on her ear, and the rasp in his throat rumbled across her cheek. "If it weren't for Morrigan's mother . . ."
"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad."
They both startled at the old woman's words, and Alistair made to pull away. Elissa remembered her intention and grabbed his neck again, stopping him and forcing his head down to her so she could hiss into his ear, "Don't tell her anything about the conspiracy or who you are."
He didn't let go of her right away, even after she removed her hand and leaned back to look up at him. He stood there with his arms around her, looking down at her uncertainly before finally releasing her with a frown and stepping back, a blush just beginning to creep up his cheeks.
Elissa swallowed a guilty lump in her throat.
"I didn't mean . . ." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to recover. "But what do we call you? You never told us your name."
"Names are pretty but useless things," the old woman said, sauntering closer to them. "The Chasind call me—" At that she stopped herself and turned to Elissa, fixing eyes of dark amber on her. A sly smile formed on her lips. "But no . . . I wouldn't take the pleasure away from you. Why don't you go ahead and tell him my name, oh Girl Who Knows Everything?"
Elissa narrowed her eyes at the old woman. She'd started calling Elissa that the first time they'd met. Normally that kind of nickname would have pleased her, but she didn't like the mocking tone the old woman used.
Still, she was never one to back down from a challenge. She looked her up and down, mentally reviewing all she knew about the mysterious woman and her daughter. It wasn't much. They were apostates living in the Korcari Wilds. The mother was certainly powerful to have not only rescued them, but to have healed her wounds as well.
It wasn't much, but it didn't matter. The only truly important clue was that the woman expected Elissa to guess her name at all and that meant it could be only one.
"So . . . you expect us to believe you're Flemeth?" She cocked an eyebrow at the old woman.
"Flemeth" threw her head back and cackled delightedly, but Alistair looked shocked. "The Flemeth from the legends?" he said, looking with wide eyes from Elissa back to the old woman. He let out a breath. "Daveth was right—you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"
"And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"
Elissa and Alistair shared another look. Right. Whether she were truly Flemeth or not, she was certainly powerful. "Why did you save us? And what do you want in return?"
Flemeth snorted. "Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"
Elissa peered at the old woman searchingly, trying to detect if the witch was telling the truth. She didn't seem to know who Alistair really was, given the way she ignored him and addressed Elissa. She almost breathed a sigh of relief but then Flemeth gave another little hum of laughter.
"Trust me, young Cousland. It's your tainted blood that I'm interested in, not your blue blood." Flemeth's gaze flickered for a second to Alistair before resettling on Elissa, a challenge implicit in their depths.
Elissa inhaled sharply. So Flemeth did know who they were after all. Her mind raced, trying to think of what clues she might've given in the short interactions she'd had with the Witch of the Wilds so far.
She supposed that the old woman might've recognized the crest of her shield but . . . Alistair bore it, so she should have thought Alistair was the Cousland, not her. Her mouth went dry, and she was scared at the places her mind traveled. Was Flemeth a blood mage? Or worse?
Alistair, for his part, was oblivious to the little showdown between Flemeth and Elissa. "But we were fighting the darkspawn!" he sputtered out. "If Loghain hadn't retreated, we would have won!" He slashed his hand downward in an angry gesture and Elissa was astonished at the raw intensity of his rage. "I don't care what he thought. I still don't understand how he could do this," he said, looking pointedly at her.
She shot him a warning glare in return, but Flemeth didn't seem to notice. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature." The old witch's voice had gone soft. "Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."
"The Archdemon." Alistair said, and Elissa felt her skin grow cold. She didn't like to think about the hideous creature from her nightmare. It had frightened her to her core, and a part of her had been relieved that dying in the tower meant not having to deal with a monster as deeply terrifying as the Archdemon.
But, she hadn't had the good sense to die, so she was stuck facing it after all, it seemed.
Still, in spite of the odds being stacked incalculably against her, having a problem to work through did wonders for her mental state. "This archdemon. How do we kill it?" she turned to Alistair and asked, determination making her voice sound confident, strong.
Alistair's eyes opened wide. "By ourselves? No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the army of a half-dozen nations at his back." He looked chagrined. "Not to mention, I don't know how." He shrugged at the look she gave him. "I've only been a Warden for six months."
Elissa took a deep breath. Maker, we are ill-suited for this...
Flemeth chuckled again. "How to kill the archdemon or how to raise an army? It seems to me, those are two different questions, hmm? Have the Wardens no allies these days?"
She returned her focus to Flemeth again. The old woman certainly seemed sincere in her desire to end the Blight. She had actually been nothing but helpful to them, in spite of her odd speeches and weird intuitions. She might be an apostate mage, or worse (she might even really be Flemeth, for all Elissa knew) but she'd rescued them from the tower, and she had preserved the Grey Warden treaties—.
"The treaties!" she blurted out, inspiration making her shout.
Alistair's head snapped up to look at her, and for the first time since she emerged from the hut, she saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "The treaties," he repeated softly, and then a grin started to spread across his face. "Of course! The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They're obligated to help us during a Blight!"
His grin was actually infectious and Elissa felt its answer spread across her own face in response. "And don't forget, Arl Eamon still has his troops in reserve!" he said, and Elissa's grin grew even wider. She was just about to mention that herself. "Cailan was his nephew. If he knew what Loghain did, he would never stand for it. The Landsmeet would never stand for it. There would be civil war!"
Elissa's eyes grew wide, wondering if he realized what civil war would actually mean for him. She got the feeling he didn't and she wasn't about to bring it up at the moment.
He went on, sounding more hopeful by the second. "I know him. He's a good man, respected at the Landsmeet."
"You know Arl Eamon?" But of course, the Arl must be—
"Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!" Elissa blinked up in surprise at Alistair's outburst. That was . . . a fantastic idea. She knew the Arl. He was loyal to Cailan and politically savvy. Plus, if her hunch about him was right, he would know what to do with Alistair.
Redcliffe . . . everything came back to Redcliffe. She shook her head, mentally shelving the nagging idea for the moment. She would save it for later, when the guilt and desperation came back and she would need another mystery to distract herself.
"I may be old," the old woman said, interrupting her thoughts. "But dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else . . . this sounds like an army to me."
"So can we do this?" Alistair asked, looking down at her in an expression that was both fearful and hopeful. "Go to Redcliffe and these other places and . . . build an army?"
"Yes," she said, in all confidence, before the pragmatist in her piped up. "I mean, we have to try. But truthfully it's still very likely we're all going to die." She gave Alistair a small shrug with one shoulder.
His eyes grew wide and his lips twitched like he wanted to smile. "Duly noted."
"So you are set then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?"
Elissa turned back to the old woman, giving her one last hard look. Suddenly she remembered that she hadn't yet thanked the woman. It was a superstitious notion she had and she knewit was completely irrational. But, in all the folk tales and legends she had heard, ungrateful guests were the characters who fared the most poorly. "Thank you, Flemeth. For all that you've done for us," she said.
"No, no," the old woman scoffed, waving a hand at her. "Thank you! You are the Grey Warden here, not I. Now. . . . Before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you."
"The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests of the eve, or none?" Morrigan appeared at her mother's side, drifting her yellow-eyed gaze indifferently from her to Alistair, before settling back on her mother.
"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them."
Morrigan didn't seem to hear her at first. She turned back to the Wardens with a sneer. "Such a shame—" she started to say in a sing-song voice, before her hearing caught up with her. "What?" she turned back to her mother with a confused scowl.
Elissa watched the mother and daughter duo carefully. Morrigan seemed genuinely surprised and distressed at the idea, but Elissa couldn't help wondering if this was what Flemeth had wanted all along . . .
"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!" The old woman laughed uproariously.
Alistair stirred next to her. "Really," he said, attempting a diplomatic tone. "That's not necessary." He looked to Elissa with a pleading expression.
She pursed her lips and looked back at the two mages again, uncertainly. She wasn't sure she wanted to travel with Morrigan either—she hadn't exactly made the best first or second impression with the Wilds woman, having been curt on their first encounter, and a blubbering mess during their second. But, they had a nearly impossible task before them. And a mage . . . that could prove the difference between their survival and their deaths.
Flemeth didn't wait for her to weigh in. "Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde."
"Have I no say in this?" Morrigan's brow knit together in a look torn between sadness and anger. In spite of her doubts about the woman, Elissa felt some sympathy for her. Perhaps having been swept along by the tide of fate for the last week had given her a new perspective, but she could understand wanting to have a say in your own future.
"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives."
Elissa's eyebrows shot up, surprised to hear the Witch of the Wilds refer to her "gift" as repayment. "Was this your idea all along?"
The older witch's eyes went cold and hard. "Pardon me," she said in a tone of ice. "But I had the impression that you two needed assistance, whatever the form."
Elissa averted her gaze, but Alistair seemed oblivious to the rebuke. "Not to . . . look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problems?" he said, looking at Morrigan doubtfully. "Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."
Flemeth's patience was at an end with them, it appeared. She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. "If you do not want help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower."
Alistair had the grace to look repentant. "Point taken."
Morrigan spoke in a low voice. "Mother . . . this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready—"
"You must be ready," Flemeth told her daughter firmly, both her tone and expression dredging up memories of a similar speech Elissa had heard from her own mother, not more than a week ago. "Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I."
Morrigan shed no tears that Elissa saw. Her brow still knit together in a frown, but she nodded solemnly at her mother. "I . . . understand."
"And you, Wardens? Do you understand?" She turned to stare at them both once again, her eyes lit by a fire within. "I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed."
Alistair and Elissa both nodded their understanding, and waited for Morrigan to gather her things. She emerged and informed them of a village to the north that would make a good first stopping point, and after a few words with Flemeth, Morrigan strode confidently into the Wilds, not sparing a look back for her mother.
Elissa couldn't help looking back herself, however, and when she did, she gasped aloud. In the old woman's place stood a much taller, more vibrant looking woman, with shockingly white hair that looked to be molded into four large horns atop her head. The horns seemed to drip with blood. The woman's clothing was elaborate, feathered and jeweled and flowing in the wind like tendrils of smoke.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Alistair looking at her in concern. "What's wrong?"
She started to point to the mysterious woman, but when she turned back, she was gone, and Flemeth the old woman stood there again.
"Elissa?"
The memory of what she had seen fluttered away from her like dust in the breeze, and she shook her head, confused at why she had even stopped. She offered Alistair a reassuring, if somewhat confused smile and turned to follow the swamp witch, wondering if she would ever see the old woman again as they made their way back into the Wilds once more.