Chapter 26

Malcolm

"I owe you an apology," Malcolm said as he rode next to his brother while the day faded into twilight. It'd taken two days of travel into the foothills of the Frostbacks for him to man up and offer his apology for trying to turn back when they'd reached the high dragon.

Alistair didn't reply, keeping his concentration somewhere ahead of them.

And now his brother was ignoring him? "So... I'm sorry."

No reply.

He'd spent two whole days agonizing over the apology because of what some spirit of his dead natural father had said to him and here he was, offering the blasted thing to his brother and he was being ignored. Two days of realizing that Alistair had been acting responsibly and was entirely within his rights to order him around and that he was lucky that his brother didn't do that more often, that he should be grateful for the latitude that he did get. But this ignoring thing was fairly petty. And stupid, really. Not anything in keeping with the whole responsible, leader, senior Grey Warden in Ferelden thing. Now he couldn't quite remember why he was going to apologize nor why he'd wanted to in the first place.

Then Alistair said, "Darkspawn."

Malcolm blinked. "What?"

"Ahead. Can't you feel them? A small band of them. Eight or ten, maybe. Scouting party, probably. Had you been talking to me just now? Is that why you didn't sense them?" Alistair gave him a curious look, as if he had suddenly grown wings and claimed he was a griffon returned from the Maker.

"I—"

Then the darkspawn came out of the cover of the trees and attacked the party. Malcolm slid off his horse, sword and shield in hand, and shouted at the darkspawn, "Seriously? Can't you guys just give us a chance to finish our arguments once in a while? Don't you darkspawn have brotherly arguments at all? At all?" He pushed back the nearest genlock with a kick to the chest before slicing through the shoulder of another. "Just once I would like to be able to finish an argument or a conversation. Is it going to have to wait until we end the Blight? Is that it?" Another genlock fell to his blade and he went looking for another, and came up empty.

Two shrieks lay dead in the middle of the trail, along with the genlocks he'd killed and a few assorted hurlocks. Thankfully, this time there had been no emissaries, and therefore no fire or crushing prisons. Well, if they were going to interrupt another argument, at least they hadn't done it by burning him. He kicked the body of the nearest genlock. "You... you smell." He couldn't even think of proper insults anymore. Apparently, he'd run out.

"Tell them how you really feel," Alistair said, walking up next to him. "Really. Don't hold back on my account."

Malcolm scowled at him and used his foot to roll the body towards the shrieks. This far out ahead of the main horde, they'd want to burn what they could to keep the least amount of land blighted as possible. But he wasn't going to put his hands on the darkspawn any more than he had do. Feet worked just fine in piling the bodies. For the most part, anyway. Depended on the number of bodies and how high they wanted the pile.

Alistair joined him in moving darkspawn bodies. "What was it you were saying to me before?"

"I was apologizing. And you were ignoring me." Bodies were piled properly now and he rummaged in his pack for that bottle of whatever potion Riordan had given each of them back in Lothering. They were going to run out soon and he realized they should've asked the other Grey Warden what exactly it was so they could replenish their supply. It kept them from having to ask either of their mages to risk themselves any more than they had to with the taint.

Alistair reached out and stayed Malcolm's hand. "We can't set them on fire yet."

He sighed and put the bottle away. "Are we waiting for a special time? A celebration of Hey We Killed More Darkspawn Aren't We Awesome? Because we haven't had enough of those."

"No. Well, sort of. Do you have any empty vials?"

Oh. Oh. Right, there'd been that whole incident where his brother had agreed with Zevran that the former Antivan Crow could attempt the Joining. And now that they'd killed some more darkspawn, they had fresh darkspawn blood at hand that Zevran had helped obtain, put together with the box they'd gotten from Riordan and having Wynne who know all the magical mage-stuff that had to go with the ceremony, they could have a wonderful Joining.

That could possibly kill one of his friends.

Then again, even he had said that it should be left up to anyone if they wanted to try to become a Grey Warden or not. That didn't mean he had to like it. Which was good, because he didn't. At all. He glared down at the pile of darkspawn bodies. "I really, really hate you darkspawn. As in, you're starting to approach the level of hatred I have for Arl Howe, and I used to think that was entirely unapproachable." Then he looked over at Alistair. "I don't have any. I'll get one from Wynne or Morrigan."

But he didn't have to go far because Wynne was already joining them near the bodies and handed Alistair the empty vial he'd been looking for. He quickly filled it with the darkspawn blood, and then barely after his brother had removed his hands from the vicinity of the bodies, Malcolm lit them on fire. "Take that," he muttered then turned to Alistair. "You talk to Zevran. I'll go find us a campsite."

"I will accompany you," Wynne said, and fell into step next to him. He glanced at her in surprise, but said nothing. Gunnar trotted behind them as they walked into the woods. The shadows had grown longer during the battle and it was nearly full dark. Wynne moved her staff slightly and the end of it glowed, lighting the trees around them.

For a bit, they said nothing. Malcolm was content to say nothing because he didn't want to go off about his brother again, unless it was to Alistair's face. Then again, if he did, they'd run into more darkspawn, he was sure of it. If he really thought about it, he had no right to be mad at him. He'd agreed with the decision about Zevran at first and he'd only disagreed when it became a reality. Alistair needed him to believe in him so that he could believe in... blast it. That was a lot of believing Maric had been talking about. He'd gotten lost in how many there had been. But he'd grasped the concept. He had to be there for his brother, as both bastard prince and Grey Warden.

"What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?" Wynne asked suddenly.

Now Malcolm knew what other people felt like when he burst out with his random questions. He kept forgetting that people weren't privy to his thoughts, and while the question might sound like a logical progression from his thoughts, to others, they were just random. And sudden. As for the question itself, he wasn't sure. "I don't know what it means to me. But it does makes me feel a lot of things: angry, determined, dutiful, more angry, purposeful, useful, and some more angry. It means a lot to Alistair, though. To him, it's an honor. It always has been and it always will be. For me, though..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes, I'm not sure that it means anything, except that I'm supposed to fight darkspawn and stop the Blight."

He could hear the rushing of a stream while Wynne remained quiet before finally replying, "Yes, I heard you say as much when we were at the top of the mountain, eyeing a high dragon. But there's more to it than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight. As a Grey Warden, you're a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are. You serve them by protecting them."

He snagged a low-lying branch from a nearby tree, shaking snow to the ground. "Which is why I kill darkspawn and stop the Blight. And why I shouldn't take unnecessary risks because then there wouldn't be enough Grey Wardens to stand between the rest of mankind and the darkspawn. Riordan gave me that lecture already and he was amazingly serious about it. What is this about? Is it about me wanting to turn back when we got to the high dragon? Because that was about stopping the Blight. We could've been killed up there, and then there would be no Grey Wardens to stop the Blight here in Ferelden. The entire country would have been lost unless Riordan managed to come back from the Deep Roads and do it himself. The man's got some serious skills, but I don't think anyone, even him, could do it alone."

Wynne stopped in the small clearing that they'd reached and studied him. "And yet you reject the idea of allowing another person to become a Grey Warden? An action that would increase the number of Grey Wardens in Ferelden and up the chances of at least one of you eventually getting to the archdemon in order to kill it?"

He stared at her as he absently played with the small branch he'd torn off the tree. "Or it could kill him outright. You know as well as I do that the Joining is often fatal. Two people died at mine."

She met his stare unflinchingly. "The Blight requires sacrifices from all of us. You and Alistair are proof that they aren't made in vain. Zevran could be another example. Every time we fight the darkspawn, he puts himself in as much risk as you and Alistair. Leliana, Morrigan, and I, we all stay away from the thick of things, using our ranged abilities to our advantage. It keeps us safe, for the most part. Zevran does not. He's in the melee with you and Alistair and he has no immunity to the taint. Would you rather he become infected by the taint? Would you like to be the one to kill him out of mercy before he becomes a ghoul?"

Punching him in the solar plexus would have hurt less, added to the fact that she sounded remarkably like Duncan. "How..."

"I know what Grey Wardens must do when they find people who have been tainted. It is another of the sacrifices they make. A responsibility they take up because the rest of us cannot make that decision and carry it out. I'll ask again. Would you like to be the one—"

He threw the branch away and it tumbled through the underbrush. "No! I never did. I never want to again. Maker, you're unrelenting, you know that?" She'd practically torn him open and flayed him with guilt.

Her eyes were sad and they held no triumph at his admission. "The darkspawn and the Blight even more so. You must see this and be able to do whatever must be done. Your friend may die today, a week from now, or thirty years from now. But how he lives, how anyone lives, is what matters. He is choosing to become a Grey Warden, and as he has all the other skills needed to be one, it is within his rights to choose."

Malcolm sighed and looked away, towards the darkness beyond the light from the mage's staff. The world seemed so dark lately that he wondered if there would be light again after the Blight. If they could even stop it. "I just want people to stop dying."

"That is what we all want. But that can't come at the cost of keeping people from living."

He looked toward her again. There was no animosity in her grey eyes. Sadness, some hope, wisdom, all things he'd noticed in Duncan's and Riordan's eyes, in his mother's and father's eyes as well. "I understand. But I still don't have to like it. And I still maintain that it would be easier if I had a griffon."

She pat him on the arm and laughed. "No one has asked you to like it, young man. Just to accept it. Even without a griffon. Now we must get back. This clearing is big enough for our tents and firepit and the others are waiting."

As the others finished setting up camp, Malcolm took his pack and his dog and went searching for the stream he'd heard earlier. The mud and grime and darkspawn blood and drake blood and whatever else was on him and his armor was finally getting to him enough where the cold be damned, he'd bathe. He found the stream, meltwater from one of the many glaciers in the high Frostbacks. It ran beautifully clear, reflecting the moonlit sky above. There was a safe enough pool that looked like he could submerge his whole body quickly into it. He shucked off his armor and clothing and jumped in.

And would have screamed if said scream hadn't frozen in his throat.

A clear, beautiful, incredibly cold stream. His skin had gone immediately numb and suddenly he didn't care about being clean. He scraped at his skin, gave up quickly, and jumped out, wondering if he'd ever feel any parts of his body again, and wrapped his thick cloak around him. What kind of stupid idea had that been? He glared at Gunnar accusingly. "You should have stopped me."

Gunnar cocked his head to the side, letting him know that if his master wanted to do something so stupid as to jump into a mountain stream, then he could find out for himself how stupid it was. And when he barked, it sounded an awful lot like he was laughing.

He dried off painfully, his skin prickling as the numbness wore off. Then he dressed as fast as possible and went straight back to the camp, wanting to jump into the fire. The irony of that wasn't lost on him, either.

"What happened to you?" Leliana asked as soon as she saw him.

"The water was really cold," he mumbled into the folds of his cloak, tightly wrapped around him still, even though he'd gotten all his clothing and armor back on.

"What was that?"

He glared at her, knowing she'd heard exactly what he'd said and that she only wanted everyone else to hear it, too. "I said, the water was cold."

Her cheery laughter merely confirmed his suspicion. He glared at her again and sat by the fire. Gunnar kindly plopped next to him and added his own considerable body heat. While he'd been gone, not only had camp been set up, but Wynne and Alistair had finished the necessary preparations for Zevran's Joining. Alistair let him know that they were going to do it as soon as possible, and then informed him it would be right now and he had to be involved since there were only two Wardens, and it took two Wardens to administer it. Malcolm was fairly certain there really only needed to be one, but he wasn't going to object to centuries-old tradition.

They walked to a smaller clearing where, in theory, Leliana and Morrigan wouldn't hear what was going on, but they could if they tried to hear. There was only so much they could do, though. Alistair carried the chalice containing the prepared darkspawn blood and whatever else had to be added to it. Zevran had yet to crack a joke. In fact, Malcolm had never seen his Antivan friend this solemn. He realized that Zevran really was taking this very seriously. He meant it. He wanted to be a Grey Warden out of a lot more than repaying a debt. It was something deeper for him, something with meaning.

Who was he to argue with that?

Once they reached the clearing, Alistair turned to Zevran and said the words Duncan had said to Malcolm and the other recruits months ago. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint. This is the source of our power and our victory. Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon. We only say a few words prior to the Joining." Alistair looked over at Malcolm.

He nodded and was surprised to find that he remembered every word Alistair had said back when all of the other Grey Wardens, back when Duncan, had been alive. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you."

Alistair held out the chalice. "Zevran, step forward. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint. For the greater good."

The elf accepted the chalice, lifted it, and drank.

"From this moment forth," said Alistair, "you are a Grey Warden."

Then there was the moment where they waited. The instant between Zevran giving the chalice back and waiting for the taint to hit his bloodstream.

It hit.

The elf's hands went to his throat, his eyes opened wide and white and unseeing, and he stumbled. Malcolm instinctively went to step forward, but Alistair removed a hand from the chalice and placed it on his shoulder. It was firm, but it was kind. A reminder that there was another Grey Warden brother who was witness to this suffering, and who understood.

A thud and Zevran was on the ground.

Wynne stepped out from the trees where she'd waited and checked on the elf. "He lives," she said, unable to keep the smile of relief from her face.

Both Alistair and Malcolm shared that smile.

The box had also contained the cleaning materials and extra pendants. They quickly cleaned the chalice and constructed Zevran's pendant as Wynne attempted to position Zevran's unconscious body into a more comfortable position. They waited, standing vigil for an hour, until the elf began to stir.

He sat up slowly. "What, no orgy? And such grim faces? Ha! I must be alive, then, because the Fade would not be so cruel to me after my death, of that I am certain."

Wynne rolled her eyes while Malcolm and Alistair laughed, more out of sheer relief than amusement. They quietly returned to camp. Morrigan and Leliana waited there, eating some sort of stew one of them had prepared. Zevran ate two bowls of it before crawling into his tent to sleep, claiming exhaustion. Remembering the time after his own Joining, Malcolm understood.

Finding nothing else exciting for himself to do, Malcolm grabbed the encrypted papers from his pack to have another go at them. He sat just outside his tent, carefully tilting the letter in front of him so he could read the words by the fire's light.

Duncan,

Since you ask, no, there is still no sign of the taint in me, and despite all the poking and prodding the Warden mages here have done, they still cannot figure out why. Since they haven't discovered the reason, the First Warden decided that I shall remain here, as ever, indefinitely. I agree, it would be nice to escape the Anderfels if only for a visit to anywhere else but here. Even in cold Ferelden. By the way, I've heard you still haven't as many Ferelden Wardens as you'd like. Have you lost your charm, then, and having problems with recruitment? If only you had griffons. It would make the job so much easier.

It is good to hear that my sons fare well with their foster families. I am not surprised that Alistair, even being only nine years old, has taken an interest in bearing arms as a knight. It seems that he is his father's son. Though I do fear what this new wife of Eamon's will do with him. She is Orlesian—and you know as well as I do how Orlesian nobles can be. If there is a single rumor in Redcliffe about Alistair being Eamon's bastard then Isolde will find a way to make Alistair disappear. She wouldn't kill him, but she will send him away somehow. It saddens me that there is nothing I can do, and nothing you or Maric can do, either.

As for Malcolm, I wish I could have seen the uproar he must have caused in Bryce's castle when he tracked mud everywhere trying to escape the wrath of a little girl with a mud-spattered dress. From the stories Maric told me about his childhood, Malcolm is just as mischievous as he had been. I was certainly not anything like that as a child. At least we will not have to worry about him being sent away—Bryce and Eleanor are wonderful, and unlike that Orlesian wife of Eamon's, they will never think of casting Malcolm away.

Thank you for keeping watch on them, my friend, even though you must be busy with your duties as the Warden Commander's second.

Fiona

Weisshaupt Fortress

Another one. He wished he had copies of the letters Duncan had sent in reply to Fiona's, even if he could only read them once, and then have to get rid of them. They filled in many of the gaps, let him get to know who Fiona and Maric really were. And Duncan, in a way. Grey Warden things were there to learn as well—such as learning that Weisshaupt will make you stay there if anything odd happens to you and they can't explain it, that you can rid your body of the taint but they didn't know how, and there was one Warden who would never go through the Calling. Ironic how it would be his and Alistair's mother, still alive and healthy, but they would never be able to meet her. Yet she had been interested in their lives and, judging from how recently the letters ran, still was.

Somehow Duncan had kept tabs on him as he'd grown, enough so that he was able to send anecdotes in letters to Fiona. Had he been at the castle when Delilah Howe had chased him everywhere? Or had Bryce just relayed the story to him? If Duncan had ever been around, he couldn't remember him. As far as he knew, the first time he'd met the man had been when his father had introduced him the night before Highever fell.

Of course, that was still less weird than how he'd met his natural father only once and not really, because he'd been a spirit in a temple guarding the Urn of Sacred Ashes.

And he still couldn't believe it had been real. The entire experience, actually standing before the Ashes, actually knowing that some of those Ashes were still with them, sitting in Alistair's pack magically protected by a spell of Wynne's, seemed completely unreal. Malcolm tapped his finger on the paper, fighting the duty he had to burn it. Then he sighed, looked about to see if anyone was watching him closely, and tossed the letter in the fire. He knew he'd promised Wynne that he would burn them all, and he would. But he felt compelled to read them first, even though that act alone put everything at risk. What he really wished, though, was to be able to tell Alistair. If his brother ever found out that he knew and hadn't told him, he might never forgive him. It had to be done, though. Like so many other things about this Blight and this war, it had to be done.

A wet nose nudged at his hand and he looked over to find Gunnar tilting his head at him, a wet stick in his mouth. The hound dropped it in his lap, drool and all.

Malcolm frowned at him. "You don't seriously want to play fetch, do you? You're a wardog. You kill darkspawn as easily as you breathe. Foes tremble on hearing your mighty howl. Bandits wet their smallclothes and flee on seeing your bared teeth."

Gunnar barked and spun in a circle.

"Well, we can't. It's night, we're in camp, and you know that Zevran has traps everywhere. We wouldn't want a repeat incident of when I caught on fire, would we?"

The dog whined.

"That's what I thought." He pushed the stick off his lap and onto the ground. "How about you go bother Morrigan? She likes you, you know, even though she complains that she doesn't. You should go slobber all over those potions she's got out. Or steal all the herbs in her pack. Just don't eat them, some might be bad for you."

Another bark, and then Gunnar stole a glance towards Morrigan's campsite, which appeared empty.

"'Tis not nice, telling your dog to interfere with my belongings," Morrigan said from behind him.

He turned to face her, a smile tugging at his lips. "'Tis not nice sneaking up on people, either," he teased.

"I wish to speak with you." Her tone was serious, not responding to his teasing at all, which was unlike her.

The forming smile melted away. "Is something wrong?"

The witch reached down, grasped his forearms, and pulled him to his feet. "Not here. Follow me."

Though trepidation made his heart begin to hammer in his chest, he followed her to her campsite and beyond. "What about the traps?"

"Lest you forget, I go with Zevran when he sets them. We are in no danger so long as you stay with me."

He wondered if there was a double meaning in that, but he didn't ask. This deep into the forest, the snow was light on the ground, the trees having caught most of it. It crunched underneath Malcolm's feet, yet somehow Morrigan's footsteps were entirely silent. Not for the first time, he thought had she not been a mage, she'd make a really good rogue. Either that or she used magic to maintain her silent steps. As the distance from the fires increased, his night vision improved, aided by the full moon's light lacing through the finally stopped walking when they reached the stream from earlier. "What's going on?" he asked her, his breath appearing white in the frigid air.

She adjusted her cloak so that it wrapped around her better, shutting out the cold. "I was curious about what you were reading, for one. Your face became very grave the more you read, and then you burned it as you have a few other documents recently. I simply..." she trailed off then, her eyes darting toward the trees around them, as if she were afraid to speak the rest of her sentence.

"Simply what?" he repeated.

Morrigan looked up at him, her amber eyes reflecting the moonlight. "I simply wished to know about your well-being. 'Tis not easy for me to admit that. I feel foolish even doing so. And yet, I find that I must know. You have changed since you and Alistair returned from Ostagar, after Riordan departed. It has not escaped my notice that you no longer seek out your death. I have been most relieved to see it. Yet I fear its return, and when I see you as grave as you were, I find myself overly concerned."

He looked up at the clear night sky for a moment, his eyes dancing from star to star. Alistair's question from long ago came back to him. "I need to know if you trust Morrigan... anything she says might not be true, no matter how much you think it might be." He trusted her. Did he? Or did he merely want to trust her and had mistaken that want for trust to be trust? His eyes came down from the sky and he studied her again. Then he noticed how open her face was, vulnerable as only he had seen before. This was why she had brought him so far away from the camp. This was a side of her she wanted no one else to see, because she viewed it as a weakness. "They were letters," he said quietly. "Correspondence from my natural mother to Duncan. They were friends. She... she is a Grey Warden."

Her lips pulled into a small frown. "'Tis not so bad, that she was a Grey Warden. Why must you burn them after you read them? I know it pains you. It is written plainly on your face."

He studied the ground. "She's also a mage."

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. "Your mother? A mage? I never would have suspected such a thing. Take it as no insult, but your knowledge of the arcane is rather lacking."

"And here I thought you'd comment on the fact that her other son is a former templar who still possesses the abilities of one."

"We are not speaking of your fool brother. He is clueless about your mother, is he not? That is why you burn the letters? Your Bannorn would not be happy about your mother being a mage?"

"And Orlesian," he added. "And an elf."

Morrigan's laughter burst out, ringing from tree to tree. He reveled in the sound, even though it was at his expense. "My, that would be rather damning, wouldn't it?" Then her laughter stopped and she became solemn again. "And you speak as if she were still alive."

He picked at the edge of his sleeve. "She is. The Wardens keep her at Weisshaupt Fortress because she is the first and only Warden to ever find herself cured of the taint and they cannot figure out why. But because of the situation with the throne, and having to overthrow Loghain so that we can get more Wardens into Ferelden to combat the Blight, and therefore putting Alistair on the throne, we can never see her. Nor can Alistair ever know." His eyes flicked back to where their camp was. "He would want to see her and that would end up with him getting killed. But it hurts to keep it from him. I know he isn't your favorite person, but he is my brother." He sighed. "I really should just burn every letter the moment I find it. Yet I can't bring myself to do so, I keep reading them before I burn them, instead. My own curiosity puts everything at risk."

Her hand moved out from under the cloak to touch his. "If you wish, I complete that task for you."

"Some people would call you a heartless bitch for that," he said.

She started to move her hand away. "Would you?"

He tightened his hold, keeping her from withdrawing. "No. I'm not some people. I understand what's behind your offer. You are offering to do something for me that is too painful for me to do. I would appreciate that, I think. For you to do that for me, before any of those letters ends up in Alistair's hands, or anyone else's. Thank you."

"You are welcome."

"What else made you bring me out here where others could not hear? I know it wasn't just to talk about my mother."

She gave him a small smile. "It was also to talk about mine."

"Oh?" Morrigan so rarely mentioned her mother than he often found himself forgetting Flemeth entirely. Which was surprising, considering the legend behind Flemeth's entire existence. But Morrigan's relationship with her mother was a strange one, stranger than Malcolm had ever seen. There was a bond between mother and daughter, certainly. Did they share the same blood? There was no telling. He couldn't imagine Flemeth carrying a child and giving birth, not under any circumstance. Had she kidnapped Morrigan from a Chasind family? But then that wouldn't explain Morrigan's exceptional skills and power as a mage, closer to Flemeth's power than any other mage, he figured. And Wynne had commented more than once about her awe at Morrigan's abilities.

"I have been studying her grimoire," Morrigan said. "'Tis... not what I expected. I had hoped for a collection of her spells, a map of the power she commands. But it was not it. One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me. In the grimoire, in great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries."

Both his eyebrows lifted in surprise that the secret would be there so plainly. His discomfort came out with his dry sense of humor. "Let me guess. She drinks blood? Eats children?"

Morrigan's lips twitched in want to smile. Good, she wasn't mad. "That is closer to the truth than you might think. Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many Witches of the Wilds throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not. And now I know. They are all Flemeth. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter. And when the time is right, she takes her daughter's body for her own."

On hearing her words, that Flemeth would one day appear to steal Morrigan's body, his fingers went numb, and not from the cold. Yet if what Morrigan said was true, it made no sense that Flemeth would send Morrigan away, especially if Morrigan could discover the fate that awaited her at her own mother's hands. "Why would she risk sending you with me?"

Morrigan shrugged. "Perhaps 'tis as she said: the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else. Or perhaps she believes that this journey will make me more powerful. According to the tome, if the host is already powerful and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to settle in."

And then Morrigan would be gone. A chill appeared within him, a writhing fear that Morrigan would be forever absent from his life. A connection entirely severed, leaving only the tattered remains of torn feelings. Lost love, if he could call it that. Perhaps he could. "What do you intend to do about it?" Morrigan had to have a plan. She always did. It was her way. And it was that way of hers that made others suspicious of her, yet for him, it gave him some of his confidence in her.

Morrigan reached up and cupped his face with both of her hands, tilting his it so that he could only look directly into her eyes. Her frantic, fearful eyes that imagined the fate she would suffer were Flemeth able to complete her plans. "There is only one possible response to this. Flemeth must die."

He agreed. It surprised him, that he would agree so readily to aiding in matricide, but he couldn't see another way around it. Flemeth was... Flemeth. Old. Wise. Certainly a maleficar and an abomination, if the stories Morrigan and Leliana had told him over the nights were true. Reasoning with her or trying to strike a deal with her would be the same as making a deal with a demon. The demon always won out, no matter how good the deal might look to the person who bargained. "I'll help you," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, relief allowing some of tightness to recede from her face. "Then what needs to be done is for you to go back to her hut in the Wilds. Without me. If I am present when she is slain, I cannot be certain that she will not be able to possess my body right then. So I must remain at the camp. Confront her and slay her quickly. I doubt she will truly be dead, even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her power... if that is even possible. The thing I must have is her true grimoire. With it, I can defend against her power in the future."

"So you can be protected."

"Yes." Her answer was reluctant, as if pulled from her by an unholy torture and unbearable to admit. He understood why. Her belief in herself and her power was what carried her. The confidence she had in herself, the encasing aura of her magic and ability to deal with whatever came her way. But this? This had not been anything she'd ever fathomed.

Malcolm reached up and took her face in his own hands. "You know, I never really saw you as someone who needed protecting. The wild girl who stole mirrors from unsuspecting noblewomen, pulling tricks on Chasind so she would not be discovered, deceiving templars so they could not imprison you, changing into a wolf so you could run through the forest and fields freely. Powerful. If anything, others needed protection from you. But Flemeth... she is something entirely different. I am not powerful like you, but I will do what I can against her. For you, I will become a templar."

That made her smile. "You would be the first templar I've ever known who was not a fool." Her eyes glanced down at his mouth. "I am grateful for that. And you."

Then she kissed him, and he was lost.