Loghain hated the rain.
It clouded his vision and interfered with useful sounds that could protect his men in battle. So far, only a few darkspawn stragglers had made their way to the army's location at the other side of the valley, but their screams were almost lost in the wind, their galloping footsteps muffled by moss and thunder. One man had died and Loghain had no intention of sacrificing another.
The tower was ahead to his left; its beacon was its eye, made of stone buttresses that closed together like the fingers of a hand, soaring above the rest of the fortress as a watchful spectator. The Darkspawn must have overrun the tower by now. He knew the beacon would never be lit. If those two neophytes of Duncan's didn't die on the way there, Loghain imagined the girl would at least have the sense to stop while they were ahead. The alternative was nothing but suicide.
"Sir," Ser Cauthrien approached from behind, "Should we not charge? The men in the valley…"
"We must await the signal," Loghain replied firmly. "Without it we cannot be certain that we are not sacrificing the remaining forces against the Darkspawn threat. Have patience."
Cauthrien hesitantly nodded her assent and fell back, rallying the men again to keep them aware and ready.
Loghian preferred not to lie to his first officer – she had been very loyal - but she could not understand his decisions, his sacrifices. What he did was necessary for them all – in time, regardless of what came to light, he knew she and the Landsmeet would recognize that.
Down below, the men's screams had grown significantly fewer in number. Quiet became an eery forbearer of defeat. Loghain reminded himself again not to worry – these darkspawn were not the true threat.
The King had been lost in the foray; that ridiculous golden armor no longer stood out, probably disappearing under a coating of blood. These were the parts of war people forgot; they remembered the heroism and the victory, but the bloodshed was as neatly swept away as the ashes of bodies burned on a pyre. Of course, remarks would be made, certain acts extolled – but the details of what it takes to win a war are never discussed. It would bring down the celebrations of those left behind; making the wine they drank taste of blood. Loghain wondered if Cailan was already dead.
It was at that moment that Loghain heard the shouts and cries of glory, of hope. Heat briefly lit the night as fire erupted in the claws of the buttresses and burned with a strength that almost defied reality, considering the fog and rain. Disbelieving, the general stared at an impossible feat, his certainty blowing away with the wind.
"Sir! Sir!" Cauthrien ran up behind him again, at the ready.
A metallic taste filled Loghain's mouth. Discomfort expanded in his chest, leaving him scarce room to breathe; his vision, normally so clear and exact, blurred. Loghain sought an answer for this feeling and then he realized: it was panic.
As Ser Cauthrien reached him, the Teyrn grabbed her arm. Shocked, she gasped, nose-to-nose with her commander.
"Sound the retreat." The fire burned so brightly, it lit half of his face; the other was cast completely in shadow.
Ser Cauthrien stuttered, "But what about the king, shouldn't we-"
Roughly, Loghain shoved her away from him. "Do as I command."
There was no understanding; only trust. Her hesitation was brief, but it was enough. Loghain refused to look her in the eye, and Cauthrien went to the men, raising her arm to summon their attention.
"MOVE OUT!" She gestured in the direction opposite of the valley and, slowly, the men followed her away. Cauthrien cast one last glance over her shoulder, her expression lost in the dark.
Loghain remained, staring at the flickering light. How they had managed it, he did not know. It mattered little now – the field had been lost, Loghain could not undo what had already been done. But it disturbed him all the same. The fire did not cast light over the battlefield, but it shone on Loghain, sparkling off his silverite armor, now dazzling against the black of the night. From somewhere deep down, Loghain felt a sickening dread begin to grow.
After all, Loghain knew all too well the damage fire lit by a woman could do.
Charlotte and Alistair had collected their things. Flemeth wished to address the issue of how they were going to proceed in their assault upon the Darkspawn. Thus far, their collaboration fared poorly.
"Tis absurd! Why would I be their guide?"
Morrigan was irate, pale face lovely in the sunshine. Her mother smiled in a calculating way that made Charlotte wonder about the difficulty of Morrigan's childhood.
"Because, dear daughter, I wish it. Your magic could aid them, not mention they need your knowledge of the Wilds to escape from here while avoiding the horde."
Morrigan scowled.
Charlotte watched their argument with weary grief. While she understood the necessity of discussing their next steps against the Blight, it seemed to her that these strange women had more to say on the matter than her and Alistair put together in their current state. Realizing how wrong that was, Charlotte straightened and composed herself, shoving her dejection to one side.
Alistair cleared his throat, "With all due respect to you, er… Madam, the presence of an apostate in our midst could draw unwanted attention."
"'Madam' am I? I saved your life, boy. Show some respect." Flemeth pinched her face with disapproval, leaving Alistair quaking under her fiery glare.
Charlotte quickly intervened. "Begging your pardon, but you never told us your name."
"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me 'Flemeth'; I suppose it will do."
Alistair turned a little green, "Flemeth? By the Maker, you-"
"And we are eternally grateful to you, Flemeth," Charlotte interposed without reservation. "We are in shock," she looked sharply at Alistair, "Not to mention disbelief. We have an army to assemble and the Teyrn… he…" Charlotte trailed off, too horrified to say it aloud.
Alistair seemed fit to burst, "Why would he do such a thing? To gain power? How could he do it… through murder? He is risking civil war. I d-don't understand it!" Shoulders slumped as his passionate declaration ran its course. Duncan's death had cut Alistair deeply; he had been briefly elated to see Charlotte well enough to walk, then fallen back into misery as he commiserated over the news which Morrigan had already shared in the hut.
Flemeth snorted. "You say that as if he would be the first king gain the throne that way. Grow up, boy!"
Morrigan opened her mouth again to complain; seeing Alistair's distress, Charlotte was decided that the conversation needed to take a different turn. "Alistair, what are we going to do exactly?" She looked nervously at Flemeth, not certain she should be discussing this in front of her. "We have no army, no men to fight. It seems unlikely the Teyrn will help us."
Alistair looked more lost than ever. "I don't know. We've lost everything. Duncan…" His voice choked away into nothing; Morrigan snorted disdainfully and sulked. Charlotte felt terrible for Alistair's more personal loss, but felt an urgency to move forward and tried to soothe him with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder while remaining focused on the task at hand.
Flemeth watched them all, her clever eyes missing nothing. Furiously, Alistair blurted. "If Arl Eamon knew what Loghain had done, he wouldn't stand for it! The Landsmeet wouldn't stand for it!"
Puzzled, Charlotte inquired, "The Arl of Redcliffe?"
Alistair nodded, "Yes, do you know him?"
"Well, of course, but I haven't seen him in years. How do you know of the Arl? Do you hail from Redcliffe?"
Alistair fidgeted, "Something like that."
That was perhaps for another time. Changing the subject, Charlotte pointed out one piece of information which could be of use. "If nothing else, Alistair, Eamon was the King's uncle." She narrowed her eyes, thinking of tapestries stained with blood. "He will be most displeased at Loghain's treatment of his family."
Alistair's face cleared, "You're right! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help! We're on Cailan's side!"
Charlotte bit her lip, "Do we know that he will trust our word over the Teyrn's?"
"I'm sure of it!"
Flemeth snorted again, "You are too naïve, young man."
"No! I know him, he… He took me in as a boy. The Arl is a just and respected man. He will hear us fairly."
"And then cut off your heads as traitors as soon as you are done. What a foolish notion!" Morrigan pronounced dismissively.
"Hush, girl. And what could this Arl do for you, Alistair?" Flemeth inquired archly.
"His armies! They're still intact – King Cailan never sent for them. If Arl Eamon hears us and agrees to aid us in the fight against the Darkspawn, he could provide men."
"But surely not enough men – tis a beginning, but not the numbers you truly require." Flemeth looked at Charlotte, expression thoughtful. It was as if she held some unspoken expectation; Charlotte glanced at Alistair, who watched her with similar conviction. Charlotte tried to think.
"Alistair, I hate to pose the question, but I must ask… Do we know for certain that Teyrn Loghain deliberately abandoned the king? How can we be sure?"
"Because I witnessed it with my own eyes." Flemeth intervened before Alistair erupted. "Once the beacon lit the sky, he retreated from your ranks. You may deny it if you wish; you will only impose more suffering upon yourself and upon others."
Charlotte winced.
The likelihood that a noble would turn against another noble of such reputation the likes of which Teyrn Loghain possessed seemed slim to Charlotte, but what other choice did they have? Without the rest of the Grey Wardens, they lacked the necessary aid to combat the Blight and Arl Eamon could help solve that problem. Charlotte suddenly imagined her and Alistair, pitted against the thousands of beasts headed their way, with only their swords alone to protect Ferelden.
Swords.
The cogs in Charlotte's mind began furiously turning; 'Our blade is yours.' The elven scripture at the bottom of the treaty the Dalish had signed over an age ago.
"Alistair, the treaties. What of the treaties?"
Flemeth grinned, lavender eyes glowing. "See, there's a smart lass."
Alistair nearly exploded with excitement, "Of course! Grey Wardens can demand the aid of the dwarves, elves, mages – anyone able, during a Blight!"
"I may be old," Flemeth drawled, "But dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl of Redcliffe's army, and who knows what else… That sounds like an army to me."
Alistair appealed to Charlotte, painfully eager. "So, can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and build an army?"
Charlotte wondered at the likelihood of accomplishing such a task. Fergus was still unaccounted for – although, she had to admit, he was most likely dead. With the King lost, he could not help her bring Howe to justice. Tamping down frustrated tears, Charlotte forced herself to face that, with only the two of them left and nothing personal to sustain her, the only reasonable choice was to keep going and seek the triumph of humankind over evil. Or die trying.
Mastodon chose this moment to pad forward; he had kept a respectful distance throughout their discussion, seeming to pay deference to Morrigan's dislike of him, as well as taking a little caution in Flemeth's presence. Now, he barked once as if to second his comrade and sat next to his mistress, tall and proud in his resolution.
Charlotte studied those soulful brown eyes, then nodded. "'Let the blade pass through my flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let mine be the last sacrifice.' Let us go and do this."
"So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?" Flemeth regarded them enigmatically.
Charlotte agreed, "Yes, thank you for your help, Flemeth. We are truly in your debt."
In response, Flemeth smiled, her mood lightening drastically. "Such manners! And always in the last place you look… like stockings! Ahahaha!" She threw back her head, laughing uproariously. Alistair, obviously decided that this woman was quite mad, shifted from foot to foot and looked side-long at Charlotte.
Just as suddenly, Flemeth's smile evaporated; she grew serious. "If you take my daughter with you, consider it repayment for your lives." Softening her voice, Flemeth sealed her negotiaton. "I give you that which I value above all in this world."
An unladylike growl cut through the moment. "Have I no say in this?" Morrigan demanded. "I'm not even ready!"
The older witch narrowed her eyes; although she emitted no tell-tale sparks, her magical energy was palpable to Alistair's Templar-trained senses; he winced uncomfortably and attempted to think around it. "You must be ready. These two must unite all of Ferelden, they need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail."
"Thanks." Alistair droned doubtfully.
"Besides, you have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Go forth and see the world!" Flemeth cackled.
"Of course Morrigan is welcome, but I do not wish to take her against her will." Charlotte inserted with concern. Morrigan was singularly unimpressed by the gesture, crossing her arms haughtily and refusing to meet Charlotte's eyes.
"No!" Alistair agreed, "That would be terrible." His slight overabundance of enthusiasm made Charlotte frown.
Flemeth was as unimpressed as her daughter and flapped a cavalier hand. "She will be fine. A delicate flower she is not – but a foolish girl, well, no one can be certain, hahaha!"
This made Morrigan grow still. After a moment, her posture relaxed slightly and she huffed a response, "I… understand. Allow me to get my things, if you please." She returned to the hut, back stiff, only to emerge shortly thereafter with a small knapsack and unhappy expression. Charlotte could empathize with the feeling, although she was uncertain that Morrigan did not wish to leave her mother as much as she did not wish to go with her and Alistair.
Attempting to be friendly, Charlotte offered a comforting tone. "We are glad of your help, Morrigan. You are most welcome."
Morrigan raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Charlotte thanked Flemeth once more and Morrigan suggested a route to Lothering, the nearest village. In agreement, they departed, Charlotte falling in line between Mastodon and Alistair. Flemeth was still smiling and provided a queenly wave to her daughter, who gritted her teeth in return. "Goodbye Mother." Chin lifted, Morrigan forged ahead, delicate hands wrapped around the straps of her pack. Her stave bounced in a harness attached to it, leaving Charlotte wondering how heavy it might be.
Alistair was still unconvinced and whispered his doubts to Charlotte. "Are you certain we should do this? I mean, she's an apostate! She cannot really be trusted."
Trying not to be irritable, Charlotte replied. "People respond as you expect them to. Whatever quarrel you have with her personally – and I know that you do." She raised her eyebrows. "Morrigan possesses skills beyond our ability. We can use her, so let us not make an enemy by accident." She attempted to mimic an expression that her mother once did when she knew Charlotte was apt to trouble, "…Or on purpose."
Alistair scowled briefly, but then relented. "Very well, but don't say I didn't warn you!"
As they trundled out of the fog and into the lush green arms of the Wilds, Charlotte could feel the old woman staring after her. When she turned at the end of the path one last time to glance back, Flemeth and the hut were gone.
