With his back to the tangled knot of tree roots, Alistair rested elbows on knees and hung his head. Despite the sweat beading furiously across his forehead, he felt cold inside. After one last futile attempt to clear his vision with the heel of his hand, Alistair took a ragged, steadying breath. It had been impossible to understand what Duncan and the other wardens were trying to convey when they described the horror of the Darkspawn. It wasn't merely their appearance, or the viciousness of their savagery; in his experience a wild animal could fit such a description. It was the taint which terrified him. Where they had slain the group of darkspawn, all plant life died immediately; as the blood trickled away, the black tarry river created similar devastation in it's wake. The burning across his skin, damp rattling in his lungs, and the buzzing between his ears that felt strangely enraging...Alistair recognized them all as side effects of his brief contact with the darkspawn. An enemy that could kill without striking a blow, lay waste to the land without initiating an assault, and always with that twisted leer upon their faces; Alistair could conceive of little more terrifying.

The moment each recruit had filled his vial, Duncan began issuing stern, sharp orders for the bodies to be hurriedly piled together. Alistair imagined the smell couldn't be any more nauseating, but as the flames licked higher at the mound of dead creatures he'd worked hard to stifle the gagging. Staring back up the slope toward the clearing, Alistair could even now make out dancing orange tendrils through the trees, filtered by putrid smoke.

This day, he realized, would define him as a man; it would define them all. He allowed his eyes to dart momentarily to Gil, seated a good distance away near the ditch he'd been knocked into. The man had rallied to fight, but the unpredictable, manic fury of his attacks were more self-preservation than skilled battle. The terror had clearly overwhelmed him, Alistair suspected past the point of ever recovering.

Duncan stood slowly, a shadowy silhouette against the distant firelight, signaling that it was time to head back to camp. As he unfolded his frame to stand, Alistair regretted having rested in the first place. All of his muscles felt inches too short, strained from over-exertion; his wounds and bruises from the tourney cried out in protest with each movement. Whatever sleep he managed that night, Alistair decided it would be the most deserved of his life.

On their way back, the moon came out; several days yet from being full, it still provided adequate illumination. Alistair noticed that everyone, himself included was doing a wonderful job of looking at Gil in the dim light while pretending they weren't; their thoughts were easy enough to read. Duncan had said they were brothers, with every man at his companion's back; now, no one in their party trusted Gil to fill that role. Alistair offered a quick prayer that, whatever fortitude Gil lacked, it would be granted him in the Joining.

The camp was uncomfortably quiet to Alistair as they entered, and drawing closer to Duncan's tent with the weary band, he realized he was about to face the first major event of his life without Thera beside him. Whether he perished during the ritual or awoke in his tent the next morning, ultimately he was alone. For the first time since his lonely night in the stables, Alistair felt the threat of real tears. Only the compelling sound of Duncan's voice abated his sorrow. "Alistair, hand me your vial."

Reaching inside the cool, smooth leather of his pouch Alistair had to will shaking fingers to grasp at the long, narrow bottle. Duncan's palm was outstretched and ready, saving Alistair the embarrassment of betraying nerves with the tremor of his own hand.

"This blood, combined with lyrium and a single drop of blood from an archdemon will grant you each the gifts of a Grey Warden."

With revulsion, Alistair observed Duncan prepare the potentially deadly concoction. So, this was the reason for all the secrecy, the reason there was no turning back was the ritual began. If anyone discovered the source of a warden's strength, a shortage of recruits would be the least of the order's problems. Steeling himself, Alistair tried to stand a little straighter and ignore the thundering pulse in his ears.

"I will teach each of you the words that have been said at every joining since the Wardens first came into existence."

Moving from the table near the tent flap, Duncan held aloft an ornately carved chalice and turned to face them. Alistair's mind raced, evaluating all he would lose and gain in the act of a single drink. Duncan held the dull pewter cup before him, voice resonant as he recited the creed.

"Join us, brothers and sisters; join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsaken, and should you perish know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day… we shall join you."

Alistair could only stare for a long moment, transfixed by the chalice until he felt it was beckoning, whispering for him to take it up.

Without allowing time to change his mind, he grabbed the stem and tipped the cup to his lips. The smell was akin sulfur and rotting flesh, the liquid a bitter slime that coated his tongue. All the muscles of his neck worked with effort to swallow and instinct to resist; the mixture was barely forced into his throat when a seizing took hold of his limbs, violently wracking his body. Alistair found his lungs could neither expand nor contract; the burning in his veins caused him to begin screaming, and only the swell of oblivion yawning up from beneath his feet at last quieted his cries.

He was blind; Alistair was certain of it the moment he opened his eyes. His back was pressed flat against something, but the ground where he's fallen in Duncan's tent. The feeling was softer, like a bedroll. Busy sounds reached his ears from all around; the ring of a smithing hammer, murmured conversation, but all his aching eyes could discern was a muted, indistinct glow.

Then, a bird sailed overhead, and he realized sheepishly it was only the glow of sunlight through the tan canvas of his tent. Slowly, he raised his back off of the blankets, and sat up. A moment passed, then another; he waited for agony, any signs of what he could recall from the ritual. Aside from the weary throbbing around his eyes, Alistair felt no pain; in fact, he felt rather the opposite. His muscles cried out to be tested, flexed; his frame felt somehow overall...bigger, hardly mortal at all. A thunderous, hollow growling from his stomach was a pointed reminder to the contrary; Alistair decided he still needed food, and lots of it.

With one short, sharp push he was through the tent flap and on his feet, shading his face with one hand against the daylight. Duncan's voice from behind was unexpected, but Alistair found himself prepared, as though he'd already known the man was there. Part of the Joining, he realized; it was what Duncan meant when he said the Darkspawn presence could be felt.

Duncan stood before him, arms crossed loosely over his chest; Alistair wished the man's eyes were easier to read. "Alistair. How do you feel?"

Holding up an arm, Alistair rotated it a little, examining for any changes; with a quick flex, he nodded. "None the worse for wear, considering I'm one part evil-taint."

Seeming satisfied, Duncan nodded briefly. "That is good; your training will need to begin immediately, and every lost moment is a detriment to both you and your fellow wardens."

Relaxing, Duncan stepped in closer and Alistair felt something in the weight of the hand resting on his shoulder. "I am especially grateful that you survived the Joining, Alistair. You have the makings of a great warden, the kind our order has not seen since before our exile from Ferelden."

He was speechless, Alistair realized. Duncan's words robbed him even of his ability to think of a clever quip. "Thank you, Duncan. I will do my best not to disappoint you." Reminded of the others, he scanned the busy camp. "What of the others? How did they fare through the night?"

"As well as can be expected from those with so little preparation."

Mole-like, Klev poked out his head from the tent beside them, and groaned. Bending down a little, Alistair offered a hand, leveraging the slighter man to his feet. "So that's that; we're wardens?" His narrowed eyes wavered uncertainly between Alistair and Duncan. Alistair couldn't help himself; "That's right; somehow, we fooled them. Now we're in; no taking it back."

Duncan straightened. "I want you both to appreciate what you've undertaken here; becoming a warden is one matter. Surviving the Joining is its own feat."

There was something in the way he spoke; Alistair wondered if Duncan were making a greater point. "Did we? Survive, I mean. All of us."

For his part, Duncan looked truly sorrowful. "Gil, I'm afraid, did not."

Kicking sharply with the leather tow of his boot, Klev kicked up a small torrent of dust. "Course not. He was a coward; couldn't face any of it, from the very start."

"Before you pass judgment so harshly, let me remind you that many do not survive the joining. Even the stoutest of warriors has succumbed from initial exposure to the taint."

Grief settled heavily in Alistair's heart; Gil's last day of life had been filled with terror, self-doubt and probably a good measure of shame. Even so, he'd come to the Warden's by choice. "Gil made the effort to become a Grey Warden, with the same chances and shortcomings as the any of us. Failing hardly seems a reason not to respect him; I think we should feel grateful he made the sacrifice."

He could see, surprisingly, that Klev was taking the words into consideration; Duncan nodded his approval. "Well put, Alistair. Many are not so willing to take the risk. Both of you, join me in my tent when you have eaten. I will gather the others, and we can begin preparations for the next part of your training."

Watching Duncan retreat across the camp, Alistair wondered how the man did it. Duncan's selflessly devotion to their order was more than just admirable. The man struggled to rebuild the wardens and their name with minimal support, thin resources and questionable recruits; to his infinite credit, the man was succeeding. But at what cost, pondered Alistair as he trudged toward the mess tent. Duncan had to ask people to make sacrifices every day that required people to give up their lives, to die. Whether claimed by the Joining or the taint of the blight, a warden's fate was set in stone. Shuddering, Alistair counted his blessing twice that such decisions didn't rest on his shoulders. He was no great leader; despite Duncan's affirmation, he wasn't even certain he'd be a good warden. Taking a moment to observe the camp as he waited for food, Alistair felt none of that mattered; he was finally free and finally, it seemed, somewhere he belonged.