Chapter 14
An Ugly Truth

Alistair stood as unmoving as the rock walls, struggling to find his breath as one of the Wardens unfolded himself from his chair.

"King Alistair," Endrin said from his seat behind his desk. "I apologize. Ours was meant to be a private meeting. I fear the Wardens showed up unexpectedly and I quite forgot our appointment."

"The fault is ours, Endrin," the standing Warden rumbled. His voice was accented, and a crooked, reddened seam was slashed diagonally across his nose and cheek. His black eyes were somber and stern, and quick - they grazed over Alistair with a thoroughness that shook his already fraying nerves. He topped Alistair by a few inches, and the width of his shoulders made him seem even more imposing than his rigid expression. His dark hair was swept back into a short braid at the base of his neck, his hairline receding just a bit. It reminded Alistair of Duncan, but unlike his mentor, this man's face was clean shaven, without even the shadow of a day's growth. In the corner sat a shield of the same make and cut that Duncan had once carried, and on the Warden's back was a scalloped longsword of fine make, its hilt wrapped with dark blue leather and chased with silver wire.

"Alistair Theirin?" the Warden said in clipped tones, and Alistair nodded, his voice stolen away by the unexpected turn of events. The Warden held out his hand to shake. "Pascal Laurent, senior Grey Warden of Perendale, Orlais. My companions -" Here, the other two Wardens rose and stood at easy attention, their hands clasped behind their backs, feet spread shoulder-width apart. One was younger than Pascal, well muscled, a shock of white-blond hair falling over his deeply tanned face. The other was smaller, older, wiry, with closely cropped dark hair. A bow was slung over one shoulder. His brown eyes sparkled with interest, and were nearly as penetrating as the senior Warden's had been.

"Michel Durand, and Girard Lambert," Pascal said, each of the men nodding in turn. Alistair nodded back, his heart rate beginning to resume a more normal pace, though he remained as shocked as ever.

"Gentlemen, I believe we can accommodate your request," Endrin said as Pascal and the other Wardens turned back to the desk. Orzammar's king drew a sheet of vellum from a drawer and began to scribe an order. A moment later he sanded the page with crushed rock dust to dry the ink, then brushed it off and handed it to the senior Warden.

"Take this to the guard at the entrance to the Roads whenever you are ready. You will have no further issue."

"We thank you, Endrin," Pascal said, and folded the vellum to tuck into the pouch at his belt. The Wardens bowed to King Endrin and exited the office, nodding to Alistair as they went. Pascal slowed, giving Alistair a penetrating look. "When your business with King Endrin is concluded, seek me out. I would speak with you, Ser Warden."

Alistair nodded, his voice still conspicuously absent as the older Warden made his exit. The meeting he had so longed for, the meeting that Lyra had dreaded, the meeting that had worried them both and kept them awake at night was suddenly, unexpectedly upon them. He wondered if he should send for Lyra, and supposed it was for the best. As much as he wished to shield her from the unpleasantness that might be coming, she was a Warden; the only other Warden in Ferelden. It was vital that they both be on hand.

He lowered himself into the chair before Endrin's desk and cleared his throat, somehow finding the words necessary to begin his meeting.

.oOo.

Lyra rolled over and reached for Alistair, the back of her hand brushing against soft leather.

"You're dressed already?" she mumbled, and yawned.

"Wake up, sleepy! I want to hear all about what you and Alistair did last night that has you so exhausted!" The high-pitched words were punctuated by a feminine giggle, and Lyra sat up, her hair mussed and sticking out in every direction. Perched in the bed beside her and writing in a journal was Leliana, looking as though she'd been awake for hours.

"Leli," she groaned, sleep muddying her words. "What're y'doing in my room at this hour? Where's Alistair?" She smoothed her hair down, well aware that it was anything but sleek. It had never been this much trouble when it was long - but then, she'd usually braided it before bed to keep the tangling to a minimum.

"Do you even know what the hour is?" Leliana demanded, and Lyra pressed her hands over her eyes. They felt sticky, and she rubbed the sleep from them. Her skin felt tight and hot, and she decided a bath was in order to make her feel fully human again.

"No," Lyra yawned again. "But I know I'm starving..."

Leliana rolled her eyes and gestured to the small table where a covered tray sat waiting. Lyra scrambled out of bed, all thoughts of her sleepy eyes and messy hair forgotten. She groaned in delight as the scent of fried nug and sweetened porridge hit her nose, setting to with a will. There was even tea, though it was lukewarm.

"You didn't answer my question," Lyra said between mouthfuls. "Where's Alistair?" Kestrel was absent as well, and Lyra was beginning to suspect it was actually much later than she'd thought. Chances were good that Kestrel had pawed at the door until someone had let him out, then gone to seek his own entertainment.

"Gone to the meeting with Endrin," Leliana said, and hopped off the bed. She retrieved Lyra's brush from her pack and began to detangle her friend's hair, putting it back into a semblance of order.

"Why didn't he wake me?" Lyra asked through a mouthful of porridge, feeling mildly annoyed. So far, this entire idea of partnership wasn't working out as she'd hoped.

"You were dead to the world, ma chère," Leliana said, her nimble fingers picking through a particularly stubborn tangle. "He had no wish to wake you. And he slept late as well."

Lyra grumbled a bit more, and then decided it was probably not worth getting worked up about. All that was happening was some discussion of troops, and possibly the trading of nugs for seeds. She could always get the details later.

In truth, she was very proud of the way her husband was handling things. It seemed that with every day that passed, he became more and more capable. Before he'd become king she would have been slightly afraid to send him off on his own into a meeting of any kind. Now her only concern was that he wouldn't feel that he needed her.

"So, really," Leliana grinned. "Just what was happening at the dinner table last night? Is it what I think? Please tell me it was!"

"Why, so you can write it down?" Lyra quirked an eyebrow, but a smile was playing about the corners of her mouth. "Really, Leli? You really put those scenes into that book you wrote out for us?"

"Did you like them?" Leliana's eyes sparkled as she slid into the chair beside Lyra. "Have you gotten to your wedding night? I was particularly proud of that one!"

"Leli!" Lyra groaned, her cheeks pink.

The door opened then, and Alistair strode in. He looked perturbed, but his eyes softened when he saw her at the table. Lyra's mouth stretched into a welcoming smile, her heart quickening at the sight of him. Maker, but he was handsome. She reached out a hand as he entered the room, and he took it as he made his way over to her.

"Good morning," he said softly, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. "How are you? Did you sleep well?"

"I did. What time is it? How was your meeting with Endrin?" She turned back to her breakfast as Alistair sat in the chair on her other side. He ran a hand over his hair, that disturbed look wrinkling his forehead once again.

"Past eleven. Fine. Mundane. He's sending six pairs of breeders with us, and we'll send him a contingent of Ferelden troops next summer. He's going to start building housing for them so they can enter the Roads in shifts. They'll be fighting alongside the Legion of the Dead, and the aim will be to slowly push the dwarven boundaries back in a more permanent manner. I'm to guarantee one-hundred able fighters for ten years' time, and beyond that, they'll be hirable by Orzammar directly." He raked his hand through his hair again, that distressed expression digging itself deeper. Lyra scraped the last of her porridge from her bowl and pushed herself out of her chair.

"Thanks, Leli. I'll see you later?" she said, and Leliana sat for a moment, unmoving, then startled out of her chair when she realized what Lyra was implying.

"Oh! Yes. Uh, later," she said, and closed the door softly behind her. Lyra went directly to the back of Alistair's chair and heaved him away from the table with a loud scraping of wood against stone. He seemed amused, though puzzled, but once she'd cleared enough space she curled herself into his lap. His face relaxed as she nestled into him, and her arms wound around his neck as his hands found their niches at her back and legs.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look almost ill."

Alistair let go a careful breath, his hand tightening on her waist. "I went to Endrin's office, and... the Wardens are here."

Lyra froze.

"Three of them," Alistair was saying, but Lyra's heart was fluttering as madly as a caged bird seeking freedom. His voice became nothing more than a ringing in her ears as her mind raced with everything they had to answer for, everything the Wardens would wish to know. Her fingers dug into the skin of his shoulders and neck, and it became hard to breathe.

"They want to meet with us. We should both go," he was saying. That baritone she so loved sounded very far away, and she felt herself nod, her muscles stiff and wooden. She made no move to leave the comforting hollow of his lap, and he shifted, a subtle hint for her to get up. Lyra clung to him more tightly, and his arms encircled her once again.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "Lyra, it's fine."

"They can't separate us," she whispered back.

"Of course they can't. Is that what you're afraid of?" Alistair sounded surprised.

"I don't know. Yes?" She pulled back and sighed, her blue eyes troubled. "I'm afraid of a lot of things... but I'm grateful we're married, instead of just together. And I'm grateful for the baby, because it seems to me they have less reason to reassign me elsewhere."

"You're not going anywhere," he promised, his hands tightening on her waist. "I won't allow it."

Lyra rested her forehead against Alistair's. She wanted to believe him, more than anything she wanted to believe him. But there was a terrible sense of foreboding, a feeling that something was bound to go wrong, and it was gnawing a pit into her stomach.

.oOo.

Pascal was seated at the writing desk in his room, a quill in his hand as he scribed out the orders for the Wardens who would be returning to Perendale, and then going on to Weisshaupt. All that was left was for the two Ferelden Wardens to show up so he could include their words in his report -

The door opened, and Girard's face made an appearance through the jamb.

"You sent for me, sir?" Girard asked, and Pascal waved him inside.

"Yes, come in. I am expecting Alistair and..." Pascal checked his notes. "Lyra anytime now. I thought perhaps you would wish to be present for the meeting, so they only need go through everything once. You have brought your notes?"

Girard held up a well-loved journal. It was one of many - Pascal had seen the man's personal quarters back in Val Royeaux. His walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were stuffed full of books, many of Girard's own writing. Girard Lambert was the official historian of the Wardens, and as the most recent Blight was history in the making, the elder Warden had petitioned to join them so he might obtain the details firsthand from the ones who had ended it.

"Please, sit," Pascal said, waving the man into a chair. He returned to his writing, and from behind him he could hear Girard making his own preparations. The soft metallic sound of a jar being unscrewed, the slick slide of a knife as a quill was newly cut to a sharp point.

It was only a few more moments until there was a knock at the door, and Pascal called out. "Come."

The door was pushed open, and Alistair Theirin, the senior Warden of Ferelden - and if what Pascal had heard was correct, the man who was also now its king - entered the room. Pascal's eyes shot to the entwined hands, and his gaze lifted to take in the woman whose hand Alistair was holding.

She was tall, and well made. Both of them wore armor that had clearly seen better days, though hers looked to be of finer make than his. Sable hair was pulled back into a simple, neat ponytail, and Pascal approved - no swinging strands to impair vision. Hair should be long enough to pull back, or short enough to stay out of the way - none of this flopping in the eyes that some of the younger recruits seemed to find so appealing.

The woman's chin was held high, her face passive, but there was strength there that Pascal could feel - it radiated from her, as unwavering as sunlight. Her eyes were a fierce, deep blue, intelligent and piercing - she met his gaze boldly, with none of the hesitation he normally sensed from those he was meeting for the first time. He didn't mean to come across as forbidding, but Michel often told him it was simply part of his nature.

"You are Lyra?" he asked by way of greeting, and she let go of Alistair's hand and took a step toward him.

"I am," she said in a confident voice, and held her hand out. Pascal was slightly taken aback by this, having been raised in a culture where women were bold only behind closed doors. He swallowed his surprise, reminding himself that this was no blushing flower - this woman was one of two who had ended the Blight, and he took her hand in his own to shake. Her fingers were strong and calloused, as much as his own.

"Alistair I have heard of," Pascal said, and offered her companion his hand as well. "But though I knew your name, there was little detailing about you. I am pleased to meet you both in person. This is Girard Lambert, historian to the Wardens. He will be joining us for this meeting. Please, will you sit?"

They joined Girard around the small table. The historian shook hands with each of them as well, and then dipped his quill into the inkpot, offering Pascal a nod. He was ready to begin.

"I would know the circumstances of the Blight," Pascal said. "Start at the beginning, and do not leave any details out. I wish to know everything."

There was a small movement of their arms - without doubt, their hands had joined again. The rumors looked to be true; this woman had tied herself to the new king of Ferelden. It was a situation that Weisshaupt was less than pleased with, and something that Pascal had been told to observe. They were willing to let one Warden go, but the decision had been made that if possible, the other should be reassigned. It wasn't that they objected to the relationship, but Wardens did not involve themselves in politics as a rule, and having one Warden on a throne was bad enough. Given Alistair's royal blood and the situation the country found itself in, it was permissible - barely. But as for the woman - she could be put to better use. It wasn't as if they could produce an heir, anyway, and there was little doubt that Alistair would be expected to continue his family line, if at all possible. It would be better for the man to get himself a wife who could provide him children, and better for the Wardens if Lyra could be sent elsewhere.

Alistair began to speak, detailing his recruitment, his Joining, and the brief amount of travel he'd done with Duncan. Then Duncan had dreamed of the Archdemon's awakening. They'd been in Denerim at the time, and a meeting with King Cailan, along with incoming reports of Darkspawn activity near the Korcari Wilds, had inspired the battle at Ostagar. Duncan had left Alistair with the rest of Ferelden's Wardens while he went on his final round of recruitment, while King Cailan used the months to rally his kingdom. They were to meet with Cailan and the rest of Ferelden's troops in the Wilds by the first of Drakonis, and this was when Alistair turned the story over to Lyra.

She detailed her own recruitment, giving few details about where she'd come from, saying only that she'd been born to a noble family, and that she was one of the last of her line. Pascal wondered about that, but chose not to interrupt - with luck, Girard would be able to get more details later on. Alistair joined back in when she came to the battle at Ostagar, and Pascal found himself getting caught up in the tale they wove.

It was a full hour before the two of them stopped speaking, and their hands had been enfolded the entire time. There had been small glances, warm smiles, and even laughter when they relived certain moments. Now, they lapsed into silence, and Pascal leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"You struck the final blow," Pascal said. "Yet you live."

Lyra's breath hitched, and he threw her a sharp look. She said nothing, but there was fear behind her eyes, and a sort of desperate challenge.

"Yes," Alistair said. "I... I don't know why."

"He was close to death," Lyra put in. "Our healer nearly died herself, bringing him back."

Pascal sat back, his mind blank. He could think of no reason why the boy had lived. "I am... amazed," he admitted. "Such a thing has never happened before, and yet I know the Archdemon is no more - every Warden in Thedas dreamed of the moment of death, just as we dreamed of the moment of awakening. The soul of the Archdemon is said to destroy the soul of the Grey Warden who unleashes the killing strike. Now I find myself wondering if all that was ever needed was a good healer, one who was willing to use every bit of herself to save the Warden. Do you suppose it's possible, Girard?"

The historian frowned as he considered, the feathery quill brushing his lips. "Anything is possible, sir. Perhaps the souls wage a battle, and the Grey Warden's soul wins out - but absorbing the Taint is what kills them?"

"There is no way of knowing," Pascal mused. "This goes against every bit of history we know - or, what we thought we knew."

Alistair and Lyra were wordless, and Pascal's glance slid over to them again.

"No opinions?" he asked, watching them carefully. Their story had an element of something missing. It was nothing he could put his finger on, and yet...

Alistair swallowed, and Lyra was a marble statue, those blue eyes cold and waiting.

"We are as clueless as you are," she said at last. "I'm simple grateful that my husband lives."

If she thought to shock him, she was to be disappointed. It was a hurdle - no more. "And when were you married?" Pascal asked, leaning back in his chair.

"The sixteenth of Solace," Lyra said, her tone clipped and businesslike.

"My congratulations," Pascal said, his head bowing. "I am frankly a bit surprised that your advisors allowed such a thing, but then you must not have told them of the Wardens' inability to sire children."

"Lyra's pregnant," Alistair interjected, his voice cracking, and Girard's quill slipped in his fingers and smeared a rather fantastic blot across the whole of one page.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Pascal cleared his throat. "...my congratulations," he said at last.

"We thank you," Lyra said. "It was unexpected, but not unwelcome."

"The child is yours?" he asked of Alistair, and the faintest look of fury crossed Lyra's face. He ignored her - it was a valid question.

"I - yes," Alistair said. "She's only been with... um, that is..."

"Alistair is the child's father, Ser Warden. You may be certain of that," Lyra said, the words as frozen as the month of Guardian.

"Can you vouch for this? Is there a mage who will verify your story?"

"I am in the care of a Enchanter by the name of Wynne, who travels with us. She is here in Orzammar, and I am sure she would be happy to converse with you." The woman's ire was coming in loud and clear. She was obviously insulted that he would question her, but Pascal had heard of stranger things in his time.

"I shall wish to speak with her. And you are due in..."

"Drakonis."

Pascal nodded, his dark eyes inscrutable. He drew a breath, then leaned forward again. This changed things. "As of right now, the two of you are the only Wardens in Ferelden."

Both inclined their heads in acknowledgement. Girard was scribbling madly, his hands shaking. He looked more excited than Pascal had ever seen him. And why not, Pascal thought dryly. He's hit the historical jackpot.

"Alistair is the senior of the two of you, but as he has taken the throne, it is not feasible for him to continue with regular Warden duties. My thought was to advise that Lyra become Ferelden's new Warden Commander, but given your... situation, that may not be something you wish to take on."

"No," she agreed. "I am quite content to remain in Denerim at Alistair's side, and with the coming birth of our child I fear I would be an ineffective warleader."

Pascal had expected that answer. It was clear to look at them that they had no wish to be apart, but it was her pregnancy that had altered his decision. Given that there was no political reason to separate them, and given her status as one of Ferelden's nobility, it seemed better to simply keep them together. Pascal was forced to make a decision, and he chose in the only way that seemed to make sense.

"Therefore, I shall be remaining in Ferelden, and will take up the duties as the new Warden Commander. Alistair, is there a Grey Warden compound in Denerim?"

"Uh... no?" Alistair said, sounding as certain as he looked, which was to say not remotely. Pascal frowned, then his face resumed its stern, passive position.

"Send a message," Pascal said, his chair scraping against the stone floor as he raised himself up from the table. "I shall be in Denerim in one month's time, and shall require accommodations for myself and nine Wardens shall require a home base. I will leave it to you where that will be."

"Uh-" Alistair said, and looked to Lyra, a frantic expression in his wide eyes.

"We will be able to accommodate you without problem, Pascal," Lyra said smoothly. "You may be in the palace for a few months while we build what you require, but there is ample training ground, and perhaps we can help with recruiting. Ten Wardens, twelve if you count the two of us, is hardly enough, I am sure you'll agree."

"Indeed," Pascal said, his eyes sliding between the two Wardens seated before him - no, between Ferelden's monarchs. Alistair looked like frightened rabbit, but it was a look Pascal had seen on many newly recruited faces. Lyra, on the other hand, seemed to be daring him to challenge her word. Everything was very civil, her speech couldn't be more polite, and yet Pascal had the feeling that if the conversation had not gone as this young woman wanted, she would have done her political best to maneuver him into a corner. Her blue eyes met his, tempered steel clashing with black diamond, and neither found an inch of give within the other.

He was beginning to like this young woman.

"I am certain you have questions of your own," Pascal said. "Girard will be able to tell you anything you might wish to know. If you will excuse me, I have a contingent who is headed into the Roads this afternoon, and I must see them off." He bowed, and strode from the room, his mind full of the interview he'd just completed. Girard would have a copy of their story ready for him later, which he would send back with the Wardens to Weisshaupt. A copy of their story would go into Girard's personal files as well, which Pascal thought were likely more complete than anything the Wardens had compiled.

That young woman... Pascal shook his head. A shame she was recruited during the Blight. If she had more time left, she'd have made a fantastic Warden Commander. His thoughts continued to follow this vein as he strode toward the elevator, headed for the Roads. His Wardens were waiting.

.oOo.

The door clicked shut, and Lyra slumped. Now that Pascal had left the room, the energy seemed to drain out of her, and her eyes closed as she drew a deep, trembling breath.

"He's not as hard as he seems," Girard offered, and Lyra straightened sharply. She'd forgotten the historian.

"He seems a worthy leader," she said carefully, and Girard nodded.

"He has been a Warden for twelve years, or thereabouts. He joined up after his wife and son died from a plague. I've never married, myself. I am too married to my books." Girard's weatherworn face cracked in a friendly smile, and Lyra found her mouth curving upward in response. Alistair's fingers gripped hers tightly, and she sighed, his comforting presence doing much to unwind the knots in her stomach.

"Girard, there is much we'd like to know," Alistair said. In the wake of Pascal's steely presence, he found his tongue operational once again. He hadn't been so nervous since... well, months, at least. Possibly even years. He'd grown used to using humor to cover his discomfort, but something about the senior Warden's personality had effectively stilled his normally glib tongue. Thank the Maker for his capable wife, who had kept them from looking like complete idiots.

Well, she'd kept herself from looking like a complete idiot. Alistair was fairly certain Pascal thought him to be a twit.

"Ask," Girard said simply, setting down his quill.

Alistair hesitated, his gaze darting across the table to Lyra. She searched her whirling thoughts, trying to determine which question they should ask historian first.

"The Darkspawn," she said after another moment. "Are they intelligent?"

Girard's cheeks puffed out as he released a heavy breath. "It depends on what you mean by intelligent."

"We found them stealing books from a chantry. And Riordan said something about generals," Alistair put in. "I have drawings of what they did to my brother - they crucified him. No stupid animal could have done it."

"Your brother...ah, yes. King Cailan," Girard stated. "I imagine they would have taken great pleasure in that."

"Are they intelligent?" Lyra asked again, her voice hard. She was through with chasing words in circles, and she leaned forward, her eyes deadly serious.

"Yes. Some of them." Girard said without hesitation. "Generals... yes, that might be the best term for them. We are not certain why some of them are smarter than others. There is much we do not know, but then, there is also much we do know. I take it you did not receive much in the way of a Warden's education?"

"No. Duncan was killed at Ostagar - along with every other Warden in Ferelden, other than Alistair - the day following my Joining. There was no chance for him to tell me anything."

"And everyone seemed to think I'd just learn things as I went," Alistair interjected. "Duncan used to laugh when I asked him about things - like the appetite."

"It has been a year since your Joining, is that right?" Girard asked, and Alistair nodded. "Your appetite has begun to drop off, I would wager. You've left the larval stage, and have begun the final process of becoming an adult."

"The - wait, the larval stage?" Alistair sputtered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Are you aware of how Darkspawn breed?" Girard asked. Lyra's eyes were wide, her lips parted in shock.

"What does that have to do with us?" she asked faintly.

Girard pursed his lips. It was almost criminal, the fact that neither of them knew these things.

"I imagine that you, at least, are hungry," he said to Lyra, and she nodded. "I will send for a meal, and we may continue our talk."

.oOo.

The four of them hurried across the bridge leading to the Proving Ground. It was late afternoon, and Lyra and Alistair had spent the last five hours holed up with Girard, by turns fascinated and horrified at the things they had learned.

According to Girard, Alistair would soon be able to sense other Wardens. It was a skill that came at about the one-year mark, at the time when their ravenous appetites began to drop off. He'd told them that when a Grey Warden was made, they entered what was thought of as the "larval" stage. Ravenous appetite was the main hallmark, followed by the ability to sense Darkspawn at about one month of age. From what the Wardens had observed, this followed the timeline of the newly birthed Darkspawn themselves. The young Darkspawn ate everything around them - including each other. But at the one-month mark they seemed to gain awareness of the group mind, and while they still ate like fiends, it was no longer as aimless and destructive. Lyra had not cared to ask how the Wardens knew all of this. All she could imagine was an unlucky Warden trapped in the Deep Roads, taking notes.

There were more stages to a Grey Warden's life, as well. Sensing became more powerful and reached further, and some Wardens had even found they could speak from mind-to-mind, though this was rare. Toward the end, appetite dropped off completely. As the Warden approached their Calling, they would find food completely unnecessary, and even revolting, taking nourishment instead from the Taint.

There had been much more discussed, but then as the hour grew late, Girard offered them a few of his books to supplement everything he hadn't told them, or that they hadn't thought to ask. The books were currently sitting on their bed, waiting to be pored over at a later hour. For now, King Endrin had arranged a Proving in celebration of the king and queen's visit. It was the last thing Lyra wanted to be doing right now, but it would be an offense not to show up to an event planned specifically for them.

The great doors were opened, and an aid showed them to the royal box, where Endrin, Trian, Vesta and Bhelen were waiting for them. Pascal was there as well, though there was no sign of Michel or Girard.

Alistair drew Lyra's hand up to his lips, and she smiled at him, her eyes locking with his for an all-too brief moment. She would have given almost anything to be back in their room with those books, but...

Duty calls, she thought, and turned her eyes to the Proving ring.

.oOo.

Leliana leapt to her feet, a raucous cheer spilling from her lips. The rest of the audience was on their feet as well, the stadium echoing with their approval as the dwarven warrior bowed.

"This is so exciting, don't you think?" Leliana bubbled. She simply adored a public spectacle. This was almost as wonderful as when her friends had been the ones in the ring, though Wynne had wrung her hands through the entire match. Leliana had never doubted them, and they'd won through with no trouble. Except for Zevran's concussion, but Wynne had fixed him up with ease.

Lyra seemed distracted, and Leliana smoothed her skirts as she sat down on the bench beside her friend.

"Cheer up," she whispered. "The dwarves make beating each other senseless fun, no?" She giggled, and was gratified to see an amused smile cross her friend's face.

In the ring below, the match began anew. This warrior was doing excellently, and Leliana heard Trian and Behlen murmuring to each other - something about a bet. Trian held out a closed fist, and Behlen bumped it with his own closed fist before the two of them turned to the ring again.

"Everd is one of the best," King Endrin was saying to Alistair. "The only one who can match him, I'd say, would be Piotin Aeducan. Though not everyone shares my view, isn't that right, Behlen?" His eyes twinkled, and Behlen grinned at his brother.

"We'll just see in the upcoming round, right Trian?"

"There's a reason I call Piotin 'the horns of my army', brother," Trian said, a fierce smile on his face. "I'll have your gold yet."

"We shall see, brother," Behlen chuckled. "We shall see."

The warrior Everd raised his hand in acknowledgement of the cheers, and then raised his axe.

"A talented fighter," Pascal commented. "Worthy of the Wardens."

"Indeed," Endrin agreed. "Though I would be loath to let Everd go from the ranks of our armies. He is a fine warrior."

"I would not ask it -" Pascal began, but then there was a sudden shout from the ring below.

Leliana rose in her seat, her gaze seeking the source of the tumult. An unarmored dwarf was stumbling into the ring, and there were gasps from all around.

"That's - wait, that's Everd? Then who's wearing his armor?" Vesta gasped, and a low, angry murmur sounded from all around the stadium.

Endrin's face was a mask of disbelief, and Leliana's breath caught in her throat as the armored, masked warrior - the one who was presumed to be Everd - removed his helmet. A crown of auburn hair shimmered in the low torchlight, a crown of hair that was gathered into rounded braids at the base of the dwarf's neck. There was a distinct lack of beard on the rounded face.

"A woman!" Vesta breathed, and Trian's face darkened in a thunderous scowl.

"A casteless," he growled, and rose from his seat. Trian and Endrin hurried from the box, and the rest of them crowded against the railing, eager for a look at the dwarven woman below.

Even from this distance, Leliana could make out the darkened pattern on the dwarf's right cheek, a series of lines and boxes that signified her to be scum, worthless in the eyes of the Ancestors, one who would weaken the stone and had no place in society. For scum, she was pretty enough, the torchlight making her hair gleam with golden highlights. She offered no resistance as the guards hauled her from the ring, keeping her eyes cast downward.

Pascal suddenly dashed from the box as well, and Alistair and Lyra looked at each other for a moment before they ran after him. Leliana was left in the box with Wynne and the two remaining royal siblings.

Behlen sucked in a sudden breath. "Ancestors take me, that's Rica's kid sister!"

"You're shitting me," Vesta said, and leaned further over the railing. "Your paramour?" The two of them looked again at the ring, and then Vesta leaned back with a sight. "She'll be killed, you know that. What in stone's name was she doing in the Proving?"

"Sodding..." Behlen muttered. "Vesta, something's gotta be done. The casteless don't deserve this. You saw her. Larkin's a better warrior than anyone down there. She'd have won!"

"I saw it," Vesta's voice was guarded, but Behlen became more insistent.

"Help me, sister. Trian doesn't have to -"

His words were cut off with a hiss and a quick, cutting hand motion from his sister, and Vesta's eyes flew to Leliana and Wynne. The mage was studiously ignoring them, keeping her eyes trained on the ring below, and Leliana snapped her gaze elsewhere, her heart picking up. She was really getting bad at this!

"We'll discuss it later," Vesta said softly, her words easily picked up by Leliana's sharp ears. The bard filed them away, saving them to tell Lyra and Alistair later, when they were alone.

.oOo.

Lyra drew her boots from her feet, wondering if she could talk Alistair into rubbing them for her. They were a bit swollen, and she yanked her socks off with a happy sigh. Reddened lines and indentations were pressed into her aching flesh, the cool air delightful to her overheated toes.

The dwarf Larkin was currently in the custody of Pascal and the other Wardens, having been recruited into the order out from under Endrin's - and Trian's - royal noses. Apparently, Pascal had known that the penalty for a casteless in the Proving was death, and he'd been unwilling to let such a fine talent go wasted. Alistair had added his royal sanction to it, and Endrin agreed, though Trian had looked angry enough to spit. The Wardens who would be coming to Denerim now numbered eleven.

With great reluctance, she began the process that was involved with removing her armor. It wasn't that she didn't want to take it off - just that she didn't want to do anything. Even her fingers were tired, and after a few moments of struggle Alistair came to help her, having already climbed out of his own armor. Her eyes drifted closed as his deft fingers worked the buckles and snaps, and piece by piece, he freed her from the plate and chain. They had chosen not to wear their fancy armor, because in that room, they weren't royalty - only simple Wardens. Lyra had not wanted them to seem imperious, or as if they had not been touched by everything they'd gone through. The nicks, chips and scrapes their old armor displayed told their own story.

"You look exhausted," Alistair murmured.

"Can we have dinner brought to the room?" Lyra said as he slipped his arms around her waist. She rested her cheek against his, enjoying the simple pleasure being near to him always brought. Taking a deep breath, she savored his scent; it was so unique. Likely he didn't really even have a smell, but to her, the scent of his skin was always a heady thing. He'd told her once that she had a scent as well, but she couldn't imagine what it might be.

"I'll arrange for it," he whispered, the lightness of his breath tickling her ear. She pressed a lengthy kiss against his cheek, the comfort she derived from doing so calming some anxiety that lingered.

They were here, together, and all obstacles had at last been hurdled. The Archdemon was dead, the Blight ended, and Alistair was alive. They were married, the rulers of Ferelden, and against all odds had a child on the way - an heir who would see the Theirin line continued. The Wardens had been told everything - well, mostly everything. And there had been no problem, no issue. Girard had answered many of their questions, and anything else they sought could likely be found between the covers of his journals, which sat waiting on the bed.

All was right with the world.

Lyra squeezed her husband once more, then shuffled over to the bed as Alistair slipped from the room to see about their evening meal. Drawing the covers over her body, she settled herself back into her pillows, eyes falling shut.

What seemed like moments later, Alistair was seating himself on the bed with her, a heaping plate in his hands.

"Already?" she mumbled, a yawn stretching her lips. There was a sudden depression of weight beside her, and her warhound rested his giant head in her lap. She chuckled and sat up to hug him, dropping a kiss on his nose before shoving him down off the bed. Kestrel whuffed at her and shook himself, then padded to the fireplace and stretched out before the flickering flames.

"You were dozing," he said, his cheeks dimpling a bit as he reached over to stroke her cheek. "Hungry?"

"Mmm," she said, and took the plate. Alistair reached for the book as she ate, one eyebrow quirking in question, and she nodded - she was eager to see what secrets it held. She continued to scoop her dinner into her mouth as he browsed the pages, reading this paragraph or that passage aloud.

An hour later they were curled into the covers together, Lyra settled into the crook of Alistair's arm, both of them reading from the same book.

"Interesting," Lyra mused. "It takes Darkspawn blood, lyrium, and a drop of blood from an Archdemon to make Grey Wardens."

"If only we'd known," Alistair commented. "Collecting that damned snake's blood wasn't something I thought to do after it was dead. And since they only come around every few hundred years... I hope their supply hasn't run out."

Lyra turned a few more pages, settling on a likely looking topic - one she knew very little about.

"Look here," she said, her finger tracing the neatly written words.

"The Calling is a ritual created by the first Grey Wardens to prevent future members from watching themselves ultimately succumb to the Darkspawn taint. Surviving the Joining does not confer to Grey Wardens a true immunity from "blight sickness", but rather merely delays its onset.

The Calling begins with nightmares or voices from the Old Gods, the same "call" the Darkspawn hear to search for the Old Gods. Although it is commonly believed that it takes a Warden about thirty years after their Joining to hear it, the gap varies depending on their willpower and the level of their interaction with the Darkspawn. As such, Grey Wardens who Join during a Blight are likely to have shorter lifespans - typically ending between three and five years. Otherwise, it is commonly between ten to thirty years before the Wardens hear the Calling."

"Ten to thirty years?" Lyra asked, but Alistair's eyes had gone wide and fearful. "You said thirty, I thought?"

"I thought it was thirty," Alistair whispered. "I thought... it's what they told me."

"Well, it says depending on willpower, and the level of interaction with Darkspawn. Really, we only interacted with them for a few months - it can't affect us that much. Better work on your willpower," Lyra joked, but his eyes remained wide, and his breath was coming in harsh gasps. "What is it? Alistair?" she asked, a cold sheath of fear beginning to enfold her heart.

His mouth worked in silence for a moment, and then his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He dropped the book and crushed her to him, his arms trembling and vise-like in their grip.

"Alistair, you're really scaring me," she said as one of his hands came up to thread itself through her hair. Soundless sobs began to shake his body, and she struggled to free herself from his grasp, shoving him away. His hands clung to her upper arms, the look on his face sending chills racing through her, and for some reason one of her hands drifted to the small rounding on her torso.

"Alistair," she said, her voice hard and demanding. "You tell me right now what has got you so afraid. All I saw was that we have between ten and thirty years- "

"Three to five," he choked out, his voice hopeless and stunned. His breath was hitching and stuttering. "It says three to five... if you Joined during a Blight."

"What?" she gasped, and scrabbled for the book. Alistair lost all ability to move, and her hands began to shake as she struggled to hold the book. She flipped through the pages, nearly tearing them in her hurry to find the place they'd stopped at. Her mind began to race - is that what it had said? She'd been skimming, not really paying attention -

"As such, Grey Wardens who Join during a Blight are likely to have shorter lifespans - typically ending between three and five years."

The words jumped out at her, seeming almost to catch fire as her awareness lighted upon them. Her gaze flew from the page to land on her husband's face. His eyes locked with hers, deep, pain-filled lines creasing his forehead, and trembling hands came up to cradle her cheeks.

"Lyra..." he cracked, "Lyra..." It seemed it was all he could say.

Her hands came up to clasp his, still held against her jawline, and she snatched at the air, desperate to fill her lungs. From somewhere far away, she could hear herself taking vocal, strangled breaths, but there wasn't enough, there wasn't... enough...

His fingers tightened as he leaned his forehead to touch hers, and Lyra felt her heart begin to break as Alistair cried.