The First Morning

He did not sleep very well. There had been too much on his mind to grant him a peaceful rest. Nightmares also got hold of him again. Those dreams were a constant companion for a warden. Most of them learned to block them out after some time but they were always looming in the shadows, waiting to surface again.

Ioran did not acknowledge it at first but the closer they got to Vigil's Keep, the worse the nightmares became. It was a warning that there was something amiss. A warning he ignored. He thought it was because of the strenuous journey and because they traveled through a country that had recently seen a Blight. The scars the Darkspawn Horde had left were still evident and barely healed.

He should have been more vigilant. If he had recognized the dreams for what they were maybe he could have prevented the worst of the attack.

Don't be stupid. The other wardens must have had the same nightmares and it didn't help them to do anything about the ambush, either.

Ioran knew there was no use in blaming himself for something he had no chance of knowing about beforehand but it did not help with the guilt he felt anyway. To distract himself, he retrieved the diaries from his backpack King Alistair had given him at West Hill. Sleep wouldn't come to him anymore that night so why not do something useful and study them until he had to get back to duty?

The diaries contained a detailed report about the Blight from the Hero of Ferelden himself, the king had said. Every Commander of the Grey had to keep a journal but since there had been only two wardens left in all of Ferelden after the massacre at Ostagar, Jaden Cousland decided he would hold up the tradition instead.

Ioran hoped to find something - anything - in those books that could help him with the problem at hand. Had the hero's group encountered talking Darkspawn before? Did they know where these creatures came from? Had there been any clue as to what that mysterious mission could be the Darkspawn on the roof had talked about?

To his great disappointment, there was no mentioning whatsoever of talking Darkspawn or anything even vaguely related. Cousland had been quite thorough in his descriptions. There were quite some details about the horde and the archdemon Ioran did not know about but unfortunately none of it had anything to do with the current situation at the Keep so far.

Maybe there would be more information in one of the other journals. There were three of them and Ioran only made it through the first one when the sun finally rose in the east and his stomach began to growl its need for breakfast. He would not give up hope yet. It also might be a good idea to let someone else have a look at the books as well. Maybe he missed something which was entirely possible considering that there was so much content to read through and that he was operating on a lack of sleep.

With a sigh, Ioran closed the stained leather cover and stretched his aching back before he stood from his desk.

Time to get dressed.

His eyes came to rest on the armor he carelessly discarded in a corner of the room last night. The metal looked blind and neglected. Dried blood covered almost every piece of it. His hand unwittingly went to his still tender shoulder when he spotted the hole in the plate where the Darkspawn's blade went through. The memory still sent a shiver down his spine and he turned away from the grizzly sight. The armor was worthless until it was cleaned and repaired - or at least that was what he tried to tell himself.

If he was honest, Ioran simply did not feel comfortable putting that damn junk of metal back on. He never felt completely at home in it anyway. It had belonged to another warden before it came into his possession and never really fit properly. The order always had to rely on the findings they occasionally made in the Deep Roads or the good graces of kings and queens to finance their warriors and equipment. There simply was no coin for custom made armor. He tried to improve it as best he could but there always was that last bit of resentment, the knowledge that it was not his and that one of his brothers probably had died wearing it.

Another sigh left him as he trudged over to the mud-covered trunk some thoughtful servant had placed at the foot of his bed. He knelt down and ran his hand over the familiar crest on the lid before he wiped at least some of the dust and dirt off. It made him glad that their belongings could have been saved. It was all they had left from their lives back in Orlais and their family.

The lid creaked softly when he opened it and revealed a mess of rumpled clothes, toiletries, books and other stuff. It seemed their luggage did not take the attack too well after all. But he should be grateful for small blessings. At least nothing was pilfered and most of his things looked still intact.

Ioran dug to the bottom of the chest until his fingers brushed over sturdy leather. The feel of it brought a smile to his face and he pulled the piece out. It was a part of his old practice armor, the style and making similar to the one Aislyn wore. The matching sets had been gifts for them.

Adele insisted they both needed suitable protection when they decided to jump at the other's throat like mad mabaris as she had put it whenever they held a training session. Her description of their fights was not too far from the truth, he admitted, especially when they had had one of their various arguments before. On more than one occasion Aislyn and he decided to solve their differences in the cage.

He laughed at the memory. It had not really been a cage, that small yard in the back of their home, but they used to call it that because it had been completely surrounded by buildings on three sides and a high and solid fence on the forth. There had been no way in or out except for the barred door that led into the house. Those had been good times, Ioran thought a little wistfully as he strapped the leathern chest piece on.

The familiar weight was consoling, much more than his metal armor ever had been. It instilled a confidence in him he badly needed. It might not be the proper attire for a Commander of the Grey but he didn't really care as long as it served its purpose and made him feel comfortable.

His stomach growled again, strongly reminding him that he did not have a proper meal since they left West Hill. Food on the road had been scanty for they preferred to travel as light as possible. For the last few days they had to do with dried meat and some fruit they found on the way.

Ioran grabbed his sword from its place by the door and left his room in search for the kitchens. He did not come far, though. He had only rounded the corner of the corridor when someone called for him. To his dismay, it turned out to be Varel. Ioran had hoped to avoid the man at least until after a decent breakfast even though he already suspected that he would cross his way sooner. The seneschal took his duties very seriously and would certainly not sleep in when the whole fortress was in a state of emergency.

"Good to see that you are already up, Commander," Varel greeted him. He gave a short bow of his grey head while his eyes disapprovingly regarded Ioran's choice of clothing. "If you don't mind, I would like to discuss a few things with you."

Of course he did mind but unfortunately that was nothing he could tell the man to his face. Their relationship was already strained since that argument last night and he did not intend to inflict even more damage as of yet.

If he liked it or not, he needed Varel. The seneschal was the only one who knew how to deal with the politics of the Arling and he had been around long enough to know the Keep and its inhabitants in and out. The king also mentioned that Varel had some unique insight into Grey Warden affairs; a fact Ioran regarded with a certain amount of discomfort now that he came to know the man.

"I was about to get some breakfast. You can come along and we talk on the way," he grudgingly agreed.

It did not take him long to regret his decision. Varel suddenly held a stack of papers Ioran did not know where it came from and began rattling down the day's schedule. He tried to be attentive while the man briefed him on various issues he felt Ioran needed to know or that required his attention. By the time they reached the first floor, Ioran knew that one: two merchants from Denerim escaped the attack and intended to set up shop at the Keep for the time being; two: Weisshaupt's delegate wanted to see him to discuss financial matters in the afternoon and that three: a formal reception was planned with the Banns of the Arling the following evening.

The list went on and on, of course, but at some point, Ioran just stopped listening. None of this stuff was important right now. It only served to increase his anger about the seneschal's obvious mistrust in him since the man took the reprimand he had been given quite literally.

"Oh, and there is a thief in the barrack cells we caught a few days ago when he tried to plunder the private chambers of the former Arl," Varel just said and Ioran snapped back to attention. All this nonsense about merchants and Banns and delegates almost made him overhear that bit of information.

"A thief?"

"Indeed. When we interrogated him he demanded to speak to the Commander of the Grey. Actually, he was quite persistent about it."

"Do we know who he is?" he inquired, his interest sparked.

"He did not want to give us his name, said he would only talk to you. It took four wardens to take him down. Quite an impressive feat."

Ioran had to agree with the seneschal. This guy had to have exceptional skills if he had been able to outmaneuver four wardens.

He found himself on the way out, every thought of breakfast forgotten, before Varel was able to torture him with more useless information, curious about the thief.

"I will take care of that immediately. When I'm done I want to see guardsman Arik, the one who had been on the roof with us last night. I need to go over a few things with him. Oh, and the same goes for the healer, Anders. Also, inform this delegate from Weisshaupt that I will meet with her as soon as possible but there are more important things that need my attention right now. I can't promise anything."

"But…"

"I appreciate your help, seneschal, and I do know that these things are important but not just yet," Ioran interrupted, a little impatient but not quite caring about it. "If the Keep falls about our ears there will be not much else we need to discuss afterwards. I need to take care of the basics before I can immerse myself in logistics or diplomacy or anything else for that matter."

Varel politely inclined his head. He seemed to be of a different mind but did not contradict which was a blessing as far as Ioran was concerned.

"Of course, Commander," he answered instead.

Satisfied that there would be no argument about his decision, he turned from the seneschal to make his way to the dungeons. For some reason he got the impression that this was going to be a long day.