"Warden."

Alistair turned from hammering the stakes of his tent, almost smiling to see Oghren there. Almost. He hadn't smiled much since Redcliff. But for once the dwarf's face was solemn, his eyes flitting round the camp. They were perhaps only a day's march from Denerim, the army making better time than he would have expected.

"Can we walk?"

Alistair straightened. Whatever it was might actually be serious, but he was grateful for the distraction. Together, they followed the perimeter of the advance camp, silent but for the distant shouts of the men in the larger camps beyond. Sten would be among them, Leliana as well.

He had not been able to find her that last night in Redcliff, but he had spotted her talking with Wynne and Teagan on the road. As far as he could tell, she was camping amongst the Dalish, giving him as wide a berth as she could. Morrigan too had disappeared that night, not even bothering to dress before shifting into a dog and bolting from the castle.

It had been a quiet journey, a lonely one.

Oghren was watching him, he realized, but his thoughts were obviously his own. After a time, he coughed, wiping a hand across his mouth. "So… uh… I was thinking."

"Yeah?"

"About this whole Warden thing."

Alistair stopped, blinking down at him. "What about it?"

"Hard soddin' deal you got there. I'll bet you're wishin' they'd told you about that archdemon bit when you signed up, huh?"

"H-How do you know about that?"

For once the dwarf looked almost sheepish. "I… err, I mighta been listening. Back in Redcliff."

"You—" The thought occurred to him suddenly. "Have you told anyone else?"

"Ain't my secret to tell. Might not be a bad idea to tell yer woman, though. They really go for that whole hero thing."

"She-she's not my…"

"Ah. Ain't forgiven you yet?"

"Don't tell me you were listening to—"

Chuckling, he held up a hand. "Nah. But one runs off, one avoids you. 'S obvious enough."

"Great."

"You've got problems I don't envy. But, well…"

"What?"

Oghren shook himself, hand straying to his belt flask before curling indecisive at his side. "That Riordan… what he said at the Landsmeet… well, it just… it just seems to me you Wardens need all the help you can get."

Alistair gaped. "Wait, you—?"

"Wanna be a Warden?" He snorted, smirking as he ran a hand through his beard. "Yeh, yeh I guess I do. I mean, why not?"

"'Why not?'"

"You take poor sods down on their luck, those who've got nothing else. You give 'em a purpose, point 'em at the fight. I can think of worse things to be."

"But you, you…" Alistair trailed off, studying him. "You're sure? I mean, there's nothing else you want to… you know, do?"

Oghren raised his eyes, looking away to the west. After a long moment, he shook his head. "Nah. Nothing more fun than this, anyway."

"Fun. Right." Starting toward Riordan's tent, Alistair kept one eye on the dwarf. "You do know that the Joining can be fatal, right? That you have to drink darkspawn blood? Archdemon blood?"

"Heh. Don't you worry, Warden. Never met a cup I couldn't beat."

They found Riordan struggling to unfurl his bedroll. Well, not struggling exactly. Pinning it down with one knee, he worked the straps between his hand and teeth, sitting back with a triumphant chuckle. Alistair had had plenty of opportunities to ask what he planned to do in the fight, but had always found a reason to hold his tongue.

"Riordan."

The old Warden glanced up at them, coming slowly to his feet. "Alistair. And… I apologize, but I have forgotten your companion's name."

"Oghren." The dwarf wiped his hand against his breeches before offering it to the man. "Ya still got that blood?"

Riordan quirked a brow.

"He… he wants to be a Warden."

"Does he?" He looked to Alistair. "And you have explained the risks? All of them?"

"I… yeah…"

"And you are certain that he is—"

"Way I figure it, you can't exactly afford to be choosy now, can ya? Three chances to kill the thing are better'n two." Oghren snorted. "Three chances to be a soddin' hero."

Alistair sighed. "Please tell me you're not just doing this to impress women."

"Eh? Now that's not a bad idea. Whatsay we get this over with and you and me go down to the camps? The Warrior Caste has got some of the finest and filthiest—"

"No. No I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yerself."

Looking between them, Riordan shook his head. "I was able to save some of the darkspawn blood from our last encounter. The ritual should take me only a moment to prepare. I only regret that it must be done with such haste, under such circumstances."

"Do I look like I need a buncha fancy rituals?"

"It's not complicated. There are a few words that must be said." Alistair smirked down at the dwarf. "Serious words. Then you just… well… you drink a little blood, you choke on it, you pass out."

"Heh. Sounds like my kinda party."

The three of them had retired to Alistair's tent for some semblance of privacy. Though he had not heard them since his own Joining, it had been Alistair who recited the words, surprised to find how easily he remembered them. It had stirred then, the vague sense that he had done this before, should have done this before. But Oghren had taken the cup from Riordan, downing it in a single pull. In that moment Alistair had held his breath, but the dwarf only swayed, letting out a resounding belch before toppling backward.

He did not wake, but if the swelling snores were any indication Oghren had made it through alive and largely unchanged. Alistair had left him in Riordan's care, suddenly feeling the need to get away, to find some quiet escape from the words still echoing in his mind. Join us… and yet there had been no one else. He had been alone.

His steps took him beyond the advance camp, following the line of the trees. Already the night hung heavy, the flickering of the cookfires and the talking of the men muted beneath the thickening shadows. All knew that they would reach Denerim tomorrow, that tomorrow it would end.

Alistair found himself passing the first of the remaining aravels, taking some comfort in the quiet whispers of the elves, the archers still at practice. For the Dalish this might well be just another stop on their ever-stretching road, life amongst the caravans largely unchanged despite the coming battle. He did not know how many clans had been called, but Keeper Lanaya had told him that this would be the final camp for those who would not fight, for the armorers and bowyers rushing to make last minute preparations. Still more had been left behind in Redcliff, the children so noticeably absent in the silence. And yet if Alistair tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that they were…

There was laugher, even here. A fire burned near the edge of the trees, sending shifting shadows amongst the elves gathered there. But it was the voice that stopped him, ringing clear above the first shifting twangs of the lute. Leliana shared a smile with the woman at her side, twirling a tuning peg as she gave the strings an experimental pluck. The two remained deep in conversation, until she raised her head.

He had come too close, meeting her eyes across the flames. For a moment it seemed that she might stand, might speak, but her scowl returned, hardening as her eyes narrowed. Maybe Oghren was right, maybe he should tell her, explain what it was that she had seen. Right. Morrigan had just wanted him to impregnate her with some demon... god… baby.

Alistair sighed. Even if she didn't decide he was completely mad it wouldn't be fair, not really. Turning away, he disappeared into the trees.

He did not go far, stopping as he heard the first familiar strains of the song. It was the same that she had played for him in Redcliff, but she sang now in the common tongue, the elves falling silent to listen. Alistair hesitated, feeling himself flush even in the darkness. Creeping to the edge of the wood he sat near as he dared, resting his back against a tree. It was a long moment before he could calm his breath, settle enough to make out the words.

"Voices from the shadows,
Echoes of those lost,
To come and stand beside you,
When the final die is tossed.

But did she bring salvation,
Or a swift and wicked death?
For all the words unspoken,
He could not find the breath.

And so he rose to meet her,
To steal one last embrace.
Laughing for the danger,
He bid them flee that place.

There she stood beside him,
Dead but now returned.
They would draw their blades together,
And feel the world burn."

It was about Zevran, he realized. The idea had been Alistair's own, that vague hope that the woman had helped him, that they had somehow survived the encounter in the alley. But it had been a foolish notion; the assassin was dead.

Leliana continued to play, spinning and stretching the tale, but Alistair was no longer listening. The early verses held him still. He too had followed the dead, never questioning, never wondering where it was that they might lead. And now that he was to "toss the final die?" Leaning back against the tree, he sighed. Stories were only stories. Even Zevran hadn't laughed at the end.

Another song began after the first but the voice was different, the words strange. They said that the elves had a long appreciation for storytelling, their histories passed down from generation to generation. Occasionally he could hear her voice, her laughter, but by the time she began to sing again Alistair's chin had already slumped against his chest, his eyelids growing heavy.

For once, he did not dream. Strange then, the feel of it against him, of something shifting cross his hips, pressing him down. Alistair woke with a start, his scream lost beneath her lips, the warm fingers working at the laces of his breeches.

Struggling back against the tree, Alistair freed himself with a gasp. "L-Leliana?"

She straddled him where he sat, pausing to look down at him with a strange and distant scowl. Bending quick, she covered his mouth again with hers, taking his lower lip hard between her teeth.

"Ow! Hey–ow!" He caught her by the shoulders, holding her above him.

She did not speak, merely remained looking down at him. If she was angry or afraid or worried, he could not tell. But still her fingers played across his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach as her eyes grew wide and watering.

"Hey, don't. I—"

Again she leaned low, unmindful of the tears, hands now working at her own laces, slipping the tunic up and over her head.

"Oh, right. You want to—"

But her lips found his, the kiss long and deep and… strange. There was a new urgency to her touch, her nails biting as they tugged free his belt and pushed his breeches over his hips. Whether he gasped for the pain or the feel of her he could not tell, but she did not hesitate, shifting aside the leathers of her skirt as she lowered herself against him.

Maker—! He should tell her… he should… ask… Even when they… It had never been like… Maker's breath!

Alistair's fingers knotted in the grass as he shifted with her, rising to meet her. Her head had fallen against his shoulder, her hair tickling cross his cheek. Breathing deep of that familiar warmth, he let his eyes fall closed.

At first he thought that she was speaking, the whispers distant and half-formed. But opening his eyes, there were only her thickening whimpers, his own deep gasp. No, not now. Why did he have to be crazy now? Burying his face against her chest, Alistair pushed the feeling away, tried not to hear the stirring of the trees.

He rose above her, rolling to pin her beneath him. Leaning back, he looked down at her, seeing again those glazed and distant eyes, the death that he had imagined again and again and again. But her nails dug hard against his flesh, pressing her to him, the cry welling deep in his chest as his back buckled. Light broke behind his eyes as he screamed, the pain tempered in the moment's abandon, a shuddering echo of things to come.

She fell silent as he collapsed beside her, burying his face in the cool and prickling grass. One arm snaked round to pull her close but already the exhaustion was taking him, her stiffness going unnoticed as he curled himself around her.

Alistair woke on his back, staring up at the leaves shifting in the early breeze. Dawn was breaking through the canopy, the sun's first rays glinting on the beaded dew collecting above him. The web was fine, thin, each drop sliding slowly, inexorably toward its center. It was almost a beautiful thing, whatever spider had created it long gone.

He sat with a start. Leliana…but she was gone, only the faintest impression remaining in the grass beside him. Had it been a dream? Running his hands across the grass, across the fresh scratches on his chest, he winced.

Slowly, stiffly, he rebuckled his belt, grateful at least that no one had found the King of Ferelden lying in the woods with his pants around his ankles. Alistair paused at that. Today. Today would bring an end to it. He rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing for the roughness of the beard. By the color of the sky he would have some time before they were ready to march.

Glancing up he spotted another web, larger than the first. Maker, he hated spiders. Had he seen them last night, he might have picked another clearing.

Rather than make for camp, he moved deeper into the woods. They had chosen this location for a reason and if he remembered correctly… He came upon the stream soon enough, wide but almost still, silent but for the slow and rippling current. Kneeling on the bank, he stared down at his reflection.

He did not think on last night, nor on the first night that they had spent beside just such a stream. He did not think on friends lost or enemies felled or familiar faces that he had never met. He did not think on the armies gathered, the walls besieged, the duty that awaited him. All these thoughts he pushed from his mind, reaching into his belt pouches to retrieve a long-forgotten razor. The motions were silent, methodical, the hair falling to send spreading rings across the water's surface.

Blinking down at himself, Alistair smiled. It was a face he had not thought to see again.

Preparations were already underway when he returned to the advance camp. Tents had been rolled, arms and armor checked. Someone had seen to his gear, waiting packed and ready just where he had left it. He should complain at that, shouldn't he? He hadn't asked anyone to… But Alistair's eyes strayed ahead, looking to the sun breaking over a nearby hill.

His legs carried him forward without thought, eyes widening as he reached its crest. The smoke hung in a thick haze, the walls of Denerim just visible away to the northeast. Around them they swarmed, thick as moving shadow, the horde stretching endless. And they would reach it by midday.

Looking to the figure sitting beside him, Alistair chuckled. "I thought you might show up."

The mabari cocked an ear, its gaze fixed on the city ahead. The growl rumbled deep in its chest, a greeting of sorts… and a warning.

"Right. I know."

"You mighta warned me." Oghren came puffing up the hill behind them, stopping dead at the sight of the mabari. "Soddin'—!"

The dog glanced at the dwarf, lips drawing back in a perfunctory snarl before it turned away again.

"He's okay."

"You sure about that?"

Alistair did have to admit that it looked larger than the last time and better fed… though he didn't really want to think about that. Still its fur was spiked and matted, thick with… well, probably whatever it had eaten. He turned back to Oghren. "Warned you about what? You're the one who was so eager to be a Warden."

"But – Stone! – the dreams!"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."

He snorted. "That… dragon. That's what we have to kill?"

Squinting away into the distance, Alistair nodded. He could see no sign of the archdemon, not from here. But Riordan was right, he could sense… something.

"Heh. At least we might not have to worry about the dreams much longer, eh?"

"There's always that."

The sun had not yet reached its peak when they called a halt on the road. It snaked down across the hills ahead, giving them one final vantage before plunging into the rear of the horde. They had not yet been noticed, though they were close enough now that the ash on the air stung Alistair's eyes.

"They have breached the walls." Sten moved to stand beside him.

Riordan was at his other side. "It could not be helped. But we have made impressive time."

"So… what now?"

Riordan turned to Alistair with something of a smile. Glancing past him, he nodded to the men gathered behind them. "Now I believe it is time to remind them why they fight."

"'Why they—?' Wait. Another speech?"

"You might as well get used to it." Wynne pushed her way through the crowd. "But do make it quick, some of us have places to be."

"Need a nap, do you? You know, if you want to sit this one out I do have some more socks that need darning."

The old mage sniffed. "Alistair Theirin, you will address your men or so help me I will—"

"Right. Okay, I'm going." He smirked, eyes lighting on an abandoned scaffold just beside the road. Once they might have hung bandits here, but it was empty now, long unused. He looked to Riordan and Oghren. "Should we maybe… since we're all Grey Wardens…?"

Riordan smiled. "I believe this falls to you, my friend."

Mounting the old and sagging stairs, Alistair looked out across the crowd. Their armies… his armies… so many of them... But would it be enough?

Beneath their eyes he stood exposed, alone. "This—" Looking to the empty place beside him, he hesitated. "I—" Alistair swallowed hard.

He spotted her then, moving through the crowd. Stopping beside Wynne, Leliana offered him a timid smile. He could see the others now, Sten and Shale and Oghren, Bann Teagan and Keeper Lanaya and First Enchanter Irving. There were still more faces that he recognized, nameless companions who had somehow found their way here, today, with him. When at last he raised his head, Alistair's voice rang clear.

"Before you stands the might of the darkspawn horde. Gaze upon them now, but fear them not." Stretching out an arm, he looked to the city walls. "Fear is behind us. I once said that I did not ask for this, that I did not ask to lead you, to face this threat. But no one ever asks for this. Though we cannot choose what we face, we can still choose how we face it. That's what has brought us here today."

"We are those who have chosen to fight, to stand together. We are ancient enemies and old friends; we have forged through disease and demons and death itself to stand here, now, in this place. Despite what we have lost, despite all that might have been, we are here. Look to those around you, brothers and strangers. Know that you are not alone."

Drawing his sword, he moved slowly down the stairs, swinging Duncan's shield from his shoulder. The weapons of dead men and yet they too had found their way to this final charge. Looking out across the city, Alistair raised them both. "Today we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan! Today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember their sacrifice! Today we stand together!"