21
Malcolm
He opened his eyes to see Morrigan asleep nearby. At least, he assumed she was asleep. One could never be entirely sure with her. His head felt like it wanted to implode and he had bandages on his arms, the skin underneath them itching like mad. What had happened?
Then it came back to him. He'd left camp in a snit and somehow had blundered into a trap one of his own industrious rogues had set. Brilliant Grey Warden he was, almost causing his own death. Too bad Duncan hadn't been around to knock some sense into him again. His hand went to his face, remembering the burning blisters from the night before. The skin he found felt smooth aside from stubble, entirely painless. Not even itchy, unlike his arms, where at this point he wanted to rip the bandages off and scratch his skin raw. Which, he figured, would probably just serve to make Morrigan and Wynne even more annoyed at him.
"You have awakened, I see," Morrigan said.
He turned suddenly, regretting it as he did. No sudden movements. Needed to remember that. "Yes. I seem to recall that you set me on fire."
She narrowed her amber eyes at him. "You set yourself on fire. Wynne and I saved you from your own stupidity. We'd better not have to do that again. I would be most unhappy with you."
He looked away, thinking that he'd made too many people unhappy with him as of late.
Morrigan's hand reached out and grasped his chin, gently turning his head so that he faced her. "You could have died last night. There were other, stronger traps out there that would have killed you outright. Now 'tis not enough for you to believe you should be dead that you must actively seek out death to rectify this error?"
The hurt in her eyes crushed him inside. "That's not what happened."
"No? Then what was it? Pray, tell me, so that I might understand."
Then he realized he didn't have an answer. He didn't know. Had he conveniently forgotten about the traps? Was he so convinced that he'd failed and disappointed the others badly enough that he sought escape in a permanent way?
"You cannot even understand yourself," she answered for him, "much less help me to understand you." Then she kissed him, softly, and briefly touched her forehead to his before withdrawing. "You must begin to live." She let his chin go, but this time he didn't look away. Her hands reached into a bag at her side. "And since you insist on wandering away so much, I have something for you."
He gave her a curious look. "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "I meant I have a gift for you. 'Tis a ring." She held up her hand to ward off his question. "Now, before you get any foolish notions, let me explain. Flemeth once gave me the ring because it allowed her to find me no matter where I went, in case I was ever captured by hunters. I disabled its power as soon as we left the Wilds. Recently, however, I thought to change it. Now, I will be able to find whoever wears it instead." Then she extended the silver ring to him.
He accepted it then held it in his fingers to study the intricate weaving engraved around the silver. "It's a sweet gift. Thank you."
She scowled at his thanks. "'Tis not given out of sentimentality. I believe you are too important to risk. If you wander off again and are captured or injured and do not make a sound, this ring would allow the rest of us to find you quickly. And perhaps I would then allow that fool brother of yours to pound some sense into your fool head."
"So you're giving it to me purely out of practicality?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
This time it was her eyes that darted about the tent, unable to maintain eye contact. "I... I have no desire to see us part company so soon. Not unless we wish to, that is. Do not read more into it than is there. You have supplied me with equipment, certainly this is not so very different, is it?"
He waited until she looked him in the eye again before saying, "Thank you for the gift."
Something warm passed through her eyes, just to be chased out immediately and for them to become guarded again. "You... are welcome. Now, you must get up. We need to break camp and continue heading for Redcliffe. The others are waiting, I am sure." Then she fled the tent, leaving a bewildered young man behind.
He placed the ring on the same leather thong that carried the small vial given to him at his Joining. After he placed it back around his neck, Malcolm got to his feet, every muscle complaining loudly as he did so. His armor was nearby, soot and ash covering parts of it. He inspected further. Was some of it charred? Maker, he needed to discuss with Zevran just what sorts of traps they had out. He put on what he could, leaving the gauntlets off because they wouldn't fit over the bandages, and there was no telling what Wynne or Morrigan would do to him if he took them off. Then he put everything else away in his pack, shouldered it carefully, and ducked out of the tent.
As soon as he left it, Leliana gently moved him to the side and started the task of taking down his tent. He began to complain, but she waved him off and told him it was faster for her to do it in his current physical state. Realizing how tired he was just carrying his pack, he reluctantly agreed. He wandered towards the horses and their stacked saddles, squinting toward the horizon to confirm that it was indeed barely first light. Even then, the sun hurt a bit. When he reached the saddles, he found his brother already in the middle of saddling the horses.
Alistair grinned at him. "Good morning, sunshine."
His brother just had to be a morning person. Of all the things for him to take away from his Chantry upbringing, it had to be good cheer in the morning. On seeing that Alistair had already saddled his horse for him, Malcolm said nothing, just slung his pack up onto the horse and secured it before turning back toward the rest of camp. Wait, no, make that the former camp. All the tents were taken down, everyone had packs ready to put on the horses, and even the firepit had been covered with dirt and rocks and somehow, rooted, living grass. Aside from some bent and broken grasses and ferns, no one would know anyone had ever been there. Impressive.
No work for him to be doing, it seemed. With a sigh, he mounted his horse and waited for the others. Wynne caught his eye. "How are you feeling this morning, young man?"
"Tired. Stiff. A bit broken." He cast a look at his bandaged arms. "Itchy."
"Scratch those and I will—"
Malcolm raised his hand. "I know. I know. Scratch them and they'll become horribly, terribly infected and as I moan about in pain you'll just watch me all smug and say I told you so."
She smiled a little. "Something like that. Leave those bandages alone. A lot of work went into healing you last night."
"I know. I'm sorry." He looked away, wondering how often he'd be doing that today. And apologizing, that too. The rest of the morning's greetings were just as awkward. Apparently it would be a rather awkward day.
After they'd been on the road for an hour, Wynne reappeared at his side, admonishing him for not eating breakfast and handing him some food. He started to protest, but found himself silenced at her glare. Sometimes, Wynne reminded him too much of his mother. At times, enough that it hurt at the memory. He wouldn't tell her that, though, because she meant well. Besides, at other times, they were welcome memories. As the hours went by, he felt his energy returning.
Halfway through the day, Malcolm felt a dark pull inside, drawing his attention south to notice the dark cloud of the Blight hanging low in the sky. It was closer now than it had been during the battle at Ostagar. He frowned at it, suppressing a shiver. The darkspawn had moved even further north, then, bringing more of the Blight to Ferelden while Loghain kept insisting the trouble was Orlais. The Blight was right there, spreading its disease through the sky as much as it did the earth and people beneath it. "How could he not see that?" Malcolm asked himself, unable to look away from the roiling black cloud.
"You feel it?" Riordan asked from beside him.
Malcolm wondered just when the man had fallen back to ride next to him. He hadn't even noticed. "Yes," he replied, not bothering to ask how long the other Warden had been there. "It's the taint, isn't it? That's what made me look at first. I'd been focused on the road and suddenly I was looking south to see... that."
"It is only the beginning, I'm afraid."
Malcolm looked sidelong at Riordan. "Grey Wardens are so often filled with such great news. Darkspawn, Blights, archdemons, drink this or die, by the way now you'll have nightmares for the rest of your life, which, also by the way, will be drastically shortened should you manage not to get yourself killed by darkspawn within the next thirty years. But, hey! You'll be able to sense darkspawn, so you're good. Except when they can sense you. Then, not so much." He frowned, tapping his finger thoughtfully on his chin. "I'm sure I missed something. There are so many surprises!"
"Bitter?"
"A little, maybe." Malcolm sighed, keeping his eyes away from the south and looking ahead towards his brother instead. "At least I don't have to be a Grey Warden and become King. There's that, I suppose. I could also be dead, which, come to think of it, would probably be more restful."
"They do tend to say you can sleep when you're dead."
Malcolm scowled. Riordan was as patient as Duncan, it seemed, and could not be driven away with insolent words. Perhaps it was some sort of prerequisite to becoming the Grey Warden version of a commanding officer. But if Riordan continued to ride next to him, it was going to become very difficult to sulk. And he strongly suspected that Riordan was doing that on purpose. He scowled again for good measure, yet felt no better. Before he could say anything else, a change in the landscape caught his eye. Actually, it was a less a change and more of a 'Holy Maker, I've stepped into another world' occasion. The trees surrounding the road on the south side had been verdant, vibrant, and living when they'd passed through a week ago. And now... all the life was gone. The land seemed blasted, either barren or corrupted, the trees cracked, dry and wizened. The earth had died in the south under the shadow of that dark cloud and the corrupted feet of the darkspawn.
In the distance, he saw a windmill, one that he remembered being in Lothering. Or at least one very much like it.
Lothering? He glanced behind them, and then back up front, checking to see the road markers. Unable to find one, he drew to a halt and studied the windmill, checking to see if it was on a hill and if there was a road within sight of it. There was. That town in the distance was Lothering, he was sure of it. That meant they were only a few miles from the crossroads. He had to see it, had to find out if there was anyone left to save. How could they not have shouted at the refugees to leave that town before they took their own leave? Without a word to the others, he kicked his horse to a gallop and made haste for the village. He heard shouts and questions behind him as he rode but didn't stop to answer them. Then Alistair distinctly said something to the others about Lothering, and the rest of the party followed him at a gallop as well. Within minutes he was at the crossroads, the others not far behind. He came to a dead halt once he got close enough to see the town. What was left of the town.
Which, in practical terms, was really nothing.
It was as blasted and corrupted as the rest of the land he'd seen as they'd ridden on the highway. Corpses hung from various places, either makeshift gallows or just any place from which one could hang something. Trees that were not outright felled and broken apart were dry and split, the leaves gone, more dead than any winter's sleep. Malcolm cautiously moved his horse forward, his eyes scanning for movement. There was a murmur nearby, the dark whispers of the taint. He immediately dismounted, grabbed his shield, and turned to face the treeline while he drew his longsword. His muscles tensed, waiting for the darkspawn to show themselves. They were there, lurking.
Then they attacked. A small band of no more than ten darkspawn, comprised of hurlocks and genlocks. They came at him, their wheezing, guttural laughs preceding their blades. He readied himself, shield out front, sword loose in his hand for the proper control. But before the darkspawn got there, he found himself shoved back by Alistair, who stepped in front of him. Malcolm tried to push his way back beside him, but Riordan had moved forward to block him. "Stay back. Don't make me say it twice." There was a steely edge to Riordan's tone that Malcolm hadn't heard before, and he couldn't help but obey, even as he longed to join them.
But they didn't really need him. Not with Leliana and her archery skills and two mages at range, and then Riordan, Alistair, and even Zevran close in with blades. It was over in a matter of minutes and no one was even breathing hard. Annoyed at being forced to sit out, Malcolm sprinted past them and towards the village to look for survivors without first asking if he had permission. If they found any survivors, they could bring them to Redcliffe. They couldn't all be dead, could they? As he got further into the village, the black corruption on the ground became more evident, and the stench of death was overridden by something worse, bad enough that he wished for the other smell to come back. The air seemed permeated, as if it were tainted as well, and he was taking it in with every breath. But it didn't matter, he was immune, at least for the next thirty years or so. As unpleasant as it would be, he could go swimming in a lake of taint and come out no worse off than he already was.
Near the tavern, he thought he could hear voices. Not the pull of darkspawn. He sensed no more of those in the vicinity, at least for the time being. "Wait," he heard from behind him. Malcolm turned around to find that Alistair and Riordan had followed him while everyone else had stayed back on the highway.
"What do you think you're doing?" Riordan asked.
Malcolm gave him a puzzled look. "Searching for survivors. We came through this area last week and it hadn't... it hadn't looked like this. People had still been here, perfectly fine. Someone must have lived through this. We have to help them."
Any anger that Malcolm thought had flickered in the senior Warden's eyes disappeared into a well of sadness. "There won't be any survivors, lad."
Malcolm pointed angrily at the tavern's door. "I can hear them in there."
As if summoned, the door to Dane's Refuge opened and three heads peeked out. The two men and one woman seemed rather haggard, eyes wide with shock and fear, but alive. Malcolm looked triumphantly from the survivors to Alistair and Riordan, only to find that Alistair had a crossbow out, bolt loaded, finger on the trigger. Riordan had carried over two more, one in each hand. Malcolm jumped in front of them. "What are you doing?"
Alistair grimaced and said nothing. Riordan extended the crossbow in his right hand to Malcolm. "They are tainted. You can feel it in them. If we let them go, they will go berserk and kill others and taint everything they touch, spreading the Blight as much as the darkspawn," he said firmly, yet quietly. "When darkspawn sack a town, there are never any survivors."
Speechless and disbelieving, Malcolm looked to the tavern door and back to the Grey Wardens. "But..."
"They are already dead." Riordan's voice was just as firm as before, but as hard as his words were, there was compassion behind them.
Malcolm barely heard it. He glanced over at Alistair to see if he was sane. His brother still stood with the crossbow at the ready, his face pale, yet determined. So Alistair believed it too. Malcolm looked to the tavern again, placing his hopes for survivors aside and allowing himself to sense the taint if it were present.
It was. It crawled everywhere, over everything, in everything. He could feel it in the bodies of the people who peeked out of the doorway of Dane's Refuge. Maker help him, Riordan was right. They hadn't survived. Instead, they'd been cursed with a horrible, irreversible disease with the gradual taint. They would become ghouls.
Were they allowed to live.
Knowing his own face had become pale, he wordlessly accepted the crossbow from Riordan. As if those inside the tavern sensed their coming doom, they ran out the door and toward the wrecked Chantry building. Tears starting to film over his eyes, Malcolm fired his crossbow as the other two Wardens did, each of them taking one down with a clean shot. A quick death, better than they could have hoped for had they allowed the tainted to live. Malcolm wanted to drop the crossbow, but they had to search the rest of the village now. Without any further conversation, the three of them performed a methodical sweep of the area.
They broke through every door and searched every intact building, Malcolm holding his breath to listen for any sounds, not wanting to hear any people, and dreading that he would. All the hope from earlier had vanished. They got to the Chantry last, its walls partially collapsed and the roof entirely gone. The doors had been busted through and hung wide open, one of them banging against the remnants of the building's masonry with each gust of wind. Crossbows were put away and bladed weapons drawn. They crept forward silently, and then the door hit the stone wall with a bang and Malcolm's heart nearly stopped.
Inside, they found bodies upon bodies, some hacked and torn apart, others looking as if their owners could just get up and walk away if their hearts had still been beating. Blood was everywhere, accompanied by a great deal of darkspawn ichor. Nearest the doors, Malcolm barely recognized the body of Ser Bryant, the templar who'd done his best to help them when they'd visited months ago. His head was missing.
They found it moments later as they moved deeper into the Chantry. The darkspawn had placed it on the altar, lining it up with several other heads, among them the Revered Mother's. On seeing their dead, grinning countenances, Malcolm gagged, barely stopping himself from throwing up. Shame swept through him, that he was affected this badly.
"It's normal to feel that way," Riordan said, his voice gentle for the first time since they'd entered Lothering.
Alistair said nothing, except his face had gone from a deathly pale to a sickly shade of green.
Malcolm couldn't stop looking at the severed heads, desperately wanting to look away, but even when he closed his eyes, they were there. "I don't think we'll find anyone here."
Alistair reached out, turned him so he was facing away from the darkspawn's little display, and propelled him toward the door.
"Burn it," Riordan said once they were outside.
Malcolm turned to him in askance. "What?"
The senior Warden's eyes had kept their sadness, but the hard edge had returned. "It must be burned or the taint will spread." He produced three small bottles of a potion and handed one each to Malcolm and Alistair. "Pour this on anything flammable and it will start to burn immediately. Move quickly. We must leave here before more darkspawn arrive."
With the remains of the small crossroads village burning behind them, the three Wardens returned to the rest of the party in silence. None of them said anything as they got back into their saddles and resumed their ride to Redcliffe. No one asked them what had happened in the village, and they volunteered nothing. Malcolm watched the the column of smoke rise to join the dark cloud until he could see it no more, wishing it was merely a proper funeral pyre instead of an entire Ferelden town. When he could no longer see the smoke, he watched his hands as they held the reins to the horse, the same hands who had killed innocent people fleeing from him because they knew he was going to kill them. The fact that the taint was already killing them slowly from the inside made him feel no better. When he'd seen the fear and shock on their faces, their realization of betrayal from the very people who were specifically supposed to protect them from the Blight, he'd hated himself in that moment. And he wasn't much a fan of himself right now, or in any moment, really. He wanted to throw the crossbow away and never touch it again, but it would be a waste of a weapon and pretty damn stupid.
They hadn't saved a single soul, yet that's what they were supposed to be doing. That was supposed to be the reason for the very existence of the Grey Wardens—to defend mankind from the Blight. But ghouls weren't a part of mankind. The problem was, those people hadn't looked like ghouls yet. The thoughts plagued him in the camp that night and plagued his dreams when he tried to sleep. Maker, their eyes. Those people hadn't turned yet and they had killed them.
The next day passed quickly and quietly as they pushed their horses as much as they dared to make Redcliffe by nightfall. Already, the castle had put itself back together, reminding Malcolm of the castle he'd grown up in. Certainly ridding themselves of the infestation of the undead had done a lot to liven up the place. Bann Teagan welcomed them, grateful for the news Riordan brought from his time spent in Denerim. After dinner, Teagan let them know they had full run of the castle and were welcome to help themselves to anything they needed. They would stay for one day, allowing the horses to rest after they'd pushed them so hard. Even though Malcolm knew they needed the rest, both people and horses, he felt antsy to move on. To be doing something instead of idling. He needed to get his mind off Lothering, but there weren't any pleasant topics to be had. The Blight sort of did that to everything.
He'd wandered to Eamon's study, wondering if he could find a book to read, when Riordan and Alistair found him. The three of them hadn't spoken much since Lothering, all of them needing time to decompress from that tense situation, even as they still continued to press forward.
"Malcolm, we need to speak about what happened at Lothering," Riordan said in a tone so solemn that it made Malcolm's heart leap up in fear. He knew that tone. It was the you're in trouble tone.
Alistair, uncharacteristically quiet, sat in one of the chairs off to the side. Malcolm and Riordan took two other chairs, and they all left Eamon's chair alone. Malcolm's hands had gone dry, his fingertips numb as they traced the edge of the book he held in his hands. Now he would be scolded about how he'd objected to them killing the almost-ghouls.
Riordan leveled a serious look at him. "You nearly got yourself killed."
"I... what?"
His confusion must've shown very clearly on his face, because Alistair spoke up, saying, "This isn't about what happened with the people who were tainted. That's something you learn along the way, something that every Grey Warden has to go through, and something that every Grey Warden objects to when they first encounter it. If you didn't, you wouldn't be any more human than the darkspawn."
Riordan nodded at Alistair before returning his piercing gaze to Malcolm. "This is about your riding off into that village alone, without support, to where you knew a number of darkspawn would be. You are a good fighter, but even at full strength, I do not think you could take on ten darkspawn alone. And yet when we rode up behind you, that was exactly what you were prepared to do."
He didn't know what to say. It felt like it had when Morrigan had asked him to explain how he wasn't actively seeking out death and he'd not come up with a single answer. He hadn't wanted to die. At least, he didn't think he did. Not consciously. Yet looking back, his actions in the past few days were pretty damning. As damning as when he'd attempted to give up all stealth in getting out of his castle that night in Highever in order to try and kill Rendon Howe. And here were two more people yanking him back to living when he was obviously so bound and determined to be dead.
"Grey Wardens take risks," Riordan continued once it became apparent that Malcolm had no answer, "and they risk death every day. But they are always calculated risks so that minimal life is lost, civilian, military, and Grey Warden. We sacrifice only what needs to be and no more. You seem determined to put yourself at as much risk as possible and that cannot continue. There are two Grey Wardens currently stationed in Ferelden—you and Alistair. The Wardens cannot afford for those numbers to be halved due to unnecessary losses. You losing your life, as it stands, falls under the category of very unnecessary." He sighed. "Were this not a Blight, and had we a full complement of Wardens, I would just have you kept in the compound until whatever is going on inside your head could be sorted out. But we do not have that luxury, Malcolm."
He still didn't know what to say. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock and die. Which, come to think of it, would just prove Riordan's and Alistair's point. Maker, could he be more of a screw up? Riordan's expression was firm and serious, but Malcolm could see and hear a kindness to it. And for some reason, that made Malcolm feel worse. It would be better if the senior Warden were angry, livid. Something other than whatever this was, the same ability Duncan had possessed, where you only felt like a huge disappointment for letting them down.
"I told you the truth before. Duncan would have been proud of you and Alistair for what you have accomplished so far and what you have strategized to do. But how you have acted in the past few days would have disappointed him. He saved your life once. Every time you put yourself in unnecessary peril, you reject his help even now, months later. He is dead, Malcolm, and he cannot save your life again. I know you were an involuntary conscript and I know a lot was left unfinished between you and Duncan regarding that when he died at Ostagar. Part of you believes that you wanted to and should be a Grey Warden. Yet another part of you is still angry, your own words to me the other day before Lothering proved that."
"But I'm not angry," Malcolm tried to protest, finally finding something to say.
"Take a moment and think on the words you spoke and how you spoke them. Both the other day on the road before Lothering, and even just after you'd gotten me out of Fort Drakon and we stood waiting with Zevran. I have been a Grey Warden a long time. As a Senior Warden, I have recruited my fair share of reluctant Wardens. I know an angry young man when I see one. You have turned that anger inwards, and it festers, and you throw yourself at whatever dangers you find so that you can rid yourself of it. You are a danger to yourself, and you will start to become a danger to others when you are supposed to protect them. From now on, you must stay with at least one other person unless you are asleep. I don't care who it is, but it cannot be just your dog, because he'll let you do practically anything."
Malcolm could barely bring himself to nod in acknowledgement of the order.
Riordan leaned forward with great intensity. "Let me state this plainly. I am not Duncan, but the same as him, I will not let you kill yourself. Too many people have died and will have to die in this civil war and in this Blight. Your life has been saved and I will not let it be wasted."
"Neither will I," Alistair said quietly from his seat.
Riordan sat back. "For another week, until we finish investigating Ostagar, there will be three of us. Feel free to say to me what you wanted to say to Duncan during that time. It might help. Besides, it's been quite some time since I've been yelled at, so I'm due." He stood up. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go check the stores to see what I can find for myself since Teyrn Loghain decided to keep all of my belongings. And I am sure Zevran would eventually like to have his daggers back. Good night, Wardens."
Malcolm didn't watch Riordan leave the room, as his eyes remained focused on the floor. He did notice that Alistair was still there. "I take it you're staying?"
"Are you asleep?" Alistair asked.
"I wish I was?" He framed it as a question as if that would make the answer better.
"Then I'm staying. No more running directly into a horde of darkspawn for you. Not without me by your side, anyway." Alistair gave him a rueful smile.
Malcolm didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
What he really wanted to do was wake up and have everything back to the way it was. But of all the impossible things he wished for, that one was the most impossible. Something that even hope didn't stand a chance of changing.