Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only
Words From The Author: I don't usually go backward in this story, but in order to cover the Joining I had to go back one day from the previous chapter, though after this installment it'll be forward motion. Except for flashbacks of course.
Pretty much I think most of you will be unsurprised by the Joining Ritual, though the order and dialogue are not in kind with the game, but I did try to make it a more serious affair than Awakenings would make you believe, and the way the characters react is changed from what you originally saw. Seneschal Varel also isn't present. The expansion game had a nice little bio written up about him that explained why the Grey Warden's would let a non-Warden perform the Joining Ritual, but I'm just not buying that (I think it was done more for game and time convenience), though he does know about it. Sorry 'bout that Bioware. There's a Warden Commander present and HE performs the Joining. With that said, the words in italics are the canon words of the Joining, I didn't create them. Instead of having Gerod actually speak them in the writing, I have them written as more of a memory or floating sense while the Joining is going on, though of course Gerod would be speaking them out loud, I just didn't write his dialogue in such a way. I wanted them to have a more cerebral feel and I guess we'll see if that worked well for you or not, I know 'I' enjoyed it, but that doesn't really mean everyone else will.
Word of the day: Dogsboy, really old term for servant. More in today with calling someone your 'gopher' Random 'ancient' words like that really float my boat, and I think they help give the story a better dark age -to- renaissance feel, but I figure I better explain them, since they aren't so well known anymore. :p
This is the first chapter in which the king and queen aren't physically present, though their presence is felt in other ways. However, I felt Gerod Caron deserved a chapter of his own, and since some of you like him, I'm hoping those that might not can still enjoy this chapter.
Bon seigneur = Good lord (as an exclamation)
Special Note: For those of you that have been missing Morgreth Urthemiel I have a special treat for you from our own Jaffa Snakes, who I have to thank profusely for her continued gifts of art and the time she spent only out of the goodness of her heart. In my profile, listed under extras you will find the links to both a collection of concept sketches of Morgreth and another for a complete, full color work of Gwyneth and Morgreth, exquisitely done. In addition she has a lovely watercolor piece of just Gwyneth on her favorite balcony. Please be sure to check them out, and if you are so willing, to leave comments on her Deviant Art page, she certainly deserves them.
Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!
Chapter Thirty Six:
Commander of the Grey
June 7'th, 9:31, Dragon Age
She was but one more pin prick of light amongst the king's caravan, her face no more clear than others for the distance between Gerod Caron and Gwyneth Theirin, but the distance meant little. She had turned, and she had looked, that's what mattered. One last long gaze between them before the Warden Commander could bear it no longer and left the battlements, heart beating wildly beneath his ribs. For her, all of it . . . and it was madness.
Laying awake those nights with only his guilt to keep him company, a constant driving nail into the hard bone of his skull, that he had failed his men, that they depended on him and he'd allowed himself to fall prey to a hurlock's axe when he knew he was better than such a paltry move. In those long, too quiet hours, Gwyneth had stared at him from her portrait. "You are more than you think." Those painted eyes said, bright silver in the dimness of his inn room at Jader. "You are a good man, and when you see me, I will not look upon you with disappointment." Whispered imagined words before Gerod had ever heard the queen's voice. He'd drank her in, re-reading old letters sent between them, where he tried to glean who she was from the friendly if impersonal correspondences. "His Majesty and I thank you for your kind regards on our marriage, and the both of us look forward to greeting you. Too long has Ferelden gone without a Warden Commander." Those words had not been imagined, written in a scrolling script that suggested a delicate hand. "We could not be more pleased to accept your request for the position, and I personally shall be quite gladdened to see someone take up Vigil's Keep with honor in mind. Long and empty are the days since that fortress has seen such a thing."
'I personally . . .' And after that, they had gotten more so, though not in any degree that anyone should find inappropriate. Gerod was cautious to do the same, even as he felt something long forgotten in him smile at her words, at the hint of kinship they represented as the professional bits of the letters that followed those first few, were strewn with shared pieces of the woman's life. Gwyneth would write some lines about the Couslands, about her regard for nobility such as she was, and how it gave her a great sense of stability to have the new commander be a man of both blue blood and educated heritage. They were subtle, the written touches of the woman's soul, careful not to be bared more than any brief glimpse of the naked shoulder of a woman, teasing in some long hallway, but they were there and before he'd even seen her, Gerod felt himself responding, if only in the silence of his own mind.
'I will not look upon you with disappointment.' But she had, the previous evening, angry and hurt by his refusal, feeling that he mocked her request in some way. That gaze, so filled with an acceptance of him when he saw her for the first time, and a wondering curiosity, had suddenly become disenchanted. Gerod had lain awake as he had many nights, but last night it was Gwyneth herself that haunted him, her eyes asking why he had let her down, and he couldn't stand it.
So, here they were, the commander having stolen away a man's fate to conscript him against his will. It had been done before in the order, Gerod had seen it firsthand, and he understood the need, just as he understand the secrecy, but this time had felt different, dirty somehow. When the Order of the Grey was founded those ages ago, they had taken only those deemed worthy, the so called 'best of the best.' Anymore it seemed that both those willing and those able but unwilling were permitted to join. Desperate times call for desperate measures, wise men often said. Though Gerod doubted the First Warden would agree with his recruitment of a prisoner who would rather be hanged and an apostate mage who was recruited to save his hide from templars. Considering, however, Gerod's opinion of that man, such a thing was more a problematic issue than a moral one. His conscience weighed on him far less to anger a hierarchy from Weisshaupt that would rather rest on their laurels, and it weighed upon him far more that he was taking the wrong path to building up the new order of Ferelden that had been so decimated, but pessimism wouldn't serve him well.
More than that, Gerod had earned the king's ire, a man that he respected, even as he fought not to think inappropriately about the man's wife. King Alistair was deserving of at least that much . . . but the queen . . . she wasn't disappointed anymore. She'd gone along with his well meaning lie, even if she was surprised, and the young woman had certainly looked it. Was it worth it? Gerod had lost his noble standing to fight over a woman he didn't love, and the Wardens had given him something much greater to believe in than his own ego, would he truly sully that for another woman? He already had his answer as he made for the great hall of Vigil's Keep.
Long limbs pressed back into the wall, the Orlesian's face covered with his hands as he forced his breath to still and his mind to calm. 'This isn't me, I'm not this man that is driven by obsession with a woman, any woman. You need to find control and be the Warden Commander your recruits require.' Gerod told himself, over and over, until he began to find his way back to the sane, strong willed Warden that Commander Le Mercier had seen in him.
It was dark inside the hall, large fire bowls casting off orange light in the dim space. The only windows were slits in the tapered ceiling far above their heads. How these Fereldans could stand to make such dreary architecture, he would never know. He felt like he was inside a great yawning cave, the dampness on the walls near the same. It was nothing like the chiefly white marble masonry of Ser Caron's family manor in St. Talon, but trying to compare the two was a lesson in futility and led him only to melancholia and the childish feeling that some would call homesickness. He had his lot in life, this was it, and that was all. There was nothing to gain in wishing for things to have changed, and there was purpose and honor in being a Grey Warden, and more so in being a Warden Commander. It was to those honorable titles that Gerod forced himself into a better mood.
The Crown had sent him a vial of archdemon blood, and Commander Caron had to salute the king for being quick minded enough to save some of it. Gerod had never seen an archdemon up close, or nary even from afar, but he was certain a man had to have a strong stomach to collect the blood of a dead one. All that wretched flesh up close would surely be enough to make a lesser man gag, and even if His Majesty wasn't happy with the new commander, Gerod still respected him in turn. More so for the fact that it saved him having to perform the arduous rite to enchant the blood of some hurlock's corpse. Since Anders was the only mage at Vigil's Keep, that would have taken some slick maneuvering to explain the rite without giving away the details of the Joining Ritual.
For a rogue mage on the run, Anders seemed to retain some stock in orders, though Gerod was fair certain that might have been only because they did not come from the lips of templar hounds on the hunt. He'd collected Ser Mhairi and Master Oghren, true to the direction the Warden commander had given him, but it was clear that the blonde apostate would be no one's dogsboy. The mage looked up, flicking back a strand of scraggly hair that had come loose from its tie to irritate his face. A grin that could be described as nothing short of perverse, had been directed towards the blushing and put off Ser Mhairi, but his look sobered as he saw the commander. Even without knowing what becoming a Grey Warden truly entailed, Anders appeared to be under the humbling effects of undergoing a ritual that he had an inkling wouldn't be fun and games.
"So . . . commander." The title came off kilter to lips that so very rarely granted anyone deference. "You've had us standing in here awhile, and our unconscious 'friend' over there might be coming to pretty soon." A hand waved in the bound Nathaniel Howe's direction. "Any chance we could get the festivities going before I reach my next birthday?"
"Have some respect!" Ser Mhairi scolded, folding long arms across her chest, the sound of rustling fabric and chainmail lending a backdrop to the scowl she sent her fellow recruit. Dark blue eyes quirked at her next thought. "How old are you anyway, ser mage? I can't really tell."
"How old do you want me to be, sweetheart?" He smiled, revealing a set of mostly straight teeth, and winked as the object of his flirtations only glared at him.
"Master Anders, this is a serious matter you are all undertaking . . . where is Master Oghren?" Gerod turned about, his speech interrupted by a missing recruit.
Anders nodded his head to the left. "Over there by the ale casks the guards brought in. He passed out drunk about an hour ago I think. At least he finally stopped snoring."
"He's drunk? Bon seigneur, and none of you thought to wake him up? This is absurd!" Gerod waved his hands about in agitation, unaware of Mhairi trying to hold back a giggle at how utterly Orlesian a gesture it was. "One of you go rouse him please, we've waited long enough."
The only woman amongst them was the first to volunteer, offering her apology that she did not do so earlier, and Gerod felt that her recommendation from the Crown was well made. He hoped she would make it through, because a dutiful Grey Warden would be of great service in the early days of rebuilding the order. His other three recruits might not prove themselves so worthy, but he'd take what he could get. A commander without any soldiers was a poor one indeed.
Oghren weaved on booted feet, his thick beard swaying in time as if the dwarf was on the bow of some great ship set upon the waves of an uneasy sea. Nathaniel Howe glared from over his gag, tied up to one of the many plain columns in the great hall, eyes spewing a silent hatred and cold resignation. Anders moved from one foot to other with far more purpose than the drunk dwarf beside him, mages fingers twitching at the lack of activity, being used to a near constant state of motion that seemed to belong to refugees. Ser Mhairi couldn't decide if she wanted to smile or present a professional face, stiff and apathetic, but her excitement was bleeding out in those dark blue eyes and her lips tugged in a few snuck sideways grins.
Above them all, standing on the short dais, Gerod Caron looked at his mixed bag of four and prayed to the Maker that all of them would get through the ritual. Only the damp silence of the hall answered him, the rest of that dark space emptied of guards, the seneschal and any others that might witness this. It was a private ritual and would remain so. Tradition was important to the new Warden Commander and he maintained it, even if he was the only Warden in Amaranthine . . . though that was soon to change, hopefully.
It wasn't the same atmosphere that presided over his own Joining, but that heavy feeling of imminent danger yet hovered in the air between himself and his mismatched collection of recruits. Gerod hadn't intended on performing the ritual for a few more days, but with Nathaniel Howe having been conscripted he'd reconsidered, and though he didn't like the rushed feeling, perhaps it was better to get it over with. It was not, however, anything he undertook lightly. He hadn't told the recruits the potential price for undergoing the Joining, he wouldn't betray the secrecy of the order and the security of the ritual itself, but the queen was right about something. It was permanent and changed a person forever, and so it was with a bowed head and great levity that the Orlesian commander began.
The large fire bowls that dominated the room created a pallid sweat on his brow, the humidity of the room pressing on him as his eyes were closed, heavily accented voice solemn and low. His hands held the chalice with reverence, the sense of change hovering about him as thick ozone before a lightning storm, and the silence seemed to swallow all present with that impression.
As the old words flowed from his learned tongue, Gerod gave the chalice to each in turn. Pulling down Nathaniel's gag, he waited to see if he'd have to make good on his threat to pour the blood down his throat, or if the once noble lord would acquiesce. Gerod could barely hide his surprise when the bound man only nodded. The wayward noble turned vagabond wouldn't compound his lost honor with his actions anymore than he deemed necessary it seemed, and Nathaniel gave no voiced contempt, only a desire to have it over with written in dimmed irises.
'Since the first, these words have been spoken at the ceremony . . .'
Gerod held the chalice to Nathaniel's parched lips, knowing there was no refreshment to be found in that particular drink. Three sets of eyes watched the pair, anxious in all ways for their own turn, and pressed with their own morbid curiosity. Nathaniel tilted his head back, closing his eyelids as his mouth touched the metal rim and he swallowed the blood, pausing at the horrid taste, but to his credit he didn't choke on it. Gerod expected the white eyes, but the others did not as they made noises of surprise and someone the sound of revulsion. Nathaniel's limbs went taut where they were yet bound to the column, neck gone equally columnar as he began to shake before slumping back against the support at his back, unconscious but alive.
Anders stumbled over his words of surprise, even as his posture remained rigid, legs kept stiff by his shock.
Gerod quieted the mage with a gaze so sharp and unyielding that even an apostate wouldn't be likely to challenge it. A pang of guilt hit him, but he reminded himself that there was a reason the chance of fatality was kept secret, and since Nathaniel had survived it yet remained so. The words of the Joining suggested only fatality in the line of duty, to those that were unknowing. He swallowed that guilt and handed the chalice to the wary mage standing before him.
Anders eyed the dark, foul smelling ichor within, wincing as he brought the chalice to his lips.
'Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.'
He thought of that damned Kinloch Hold, a spike of a tower in the middle of a cold and unfeeling lake. The dark waters there lapped against the stones in his memory, as the dark blood of an archdemon ran down his throat. It burned like his first time setting mage-fire without knowing how to protect himself from it and it nearly brought him to his knees right there. Anders thought it might kill him, but he'd rather die than go back to the Circle, and it was that silent oath that he kept as he felt the blood working through his innards. Such a sharp pain as he'd never known made him shriek with it before his legs did give out and the ground came up to meet him in a swift and sudden abyss of unconsciousness.
Gerod smiled. He had his healer. The commander turned to Oghren who was anxiously shifting his weight on the balls of steel booted feet.
Oghren reached for the chalice, almost offended that it seemed so small. He'd had ale mugs twice the size and downed them like a paragon of drinking, and the dwarf seemed to think he'd heard a song about that in Tapster's Tavern at one time.
'Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn.'
He looked over at the unconscious man on the floor next to him, snorting something about a 'pansy in a skirt' before downing the blood. A twitch and a belch, and at first it seemed that was the only reaction he'd have, surprising the remaining Ser Mhairi and their commander in turn, but then his body fell into the same convulsions that had taken Nathaniel and he collapsed onto the ground like a sack of potatoes.
The two humans looked to each other, and Mhairi would've bowed at the honor, but Gerod held out a hand, shaking his head. There was no fealty here, save to the blood that sealed one's fate.
Her questioning gaze as it fell on the dwarf was met with a reassuring smile. Three recruits there had been, three Wardens there now would be, and at last the Joining had come to the young knight. In that moment she seemed nervous, as unsure fingers clasped the offered chalice, looking at the dark liquid within as if Mhairi might glean some vision of her future from it.
There were not many female Grey Wardens, but the former Knight of Denerim would gladly join that minority, and her sudden nerves did little to remove the feeling of privilege that pulsed in her veins.
'And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.'
She thought of her honor, of the confidence King Alistair had in her, of the encouragement she'd received from Queen Gwyneth. Mhairi admired them both, and it bolstered her resolve as she smiled into the chalice when it touched her lips. The horridly tangy and bitter taste burned all the way down her throat, and she winced, but kept drinking until the last little bit of it was gone.
Mhairi waited, her heartbeat seeming to slow as the blood did its work, and at first she felt nothing, but then a sharp stabbing pain rooted itself firmly in her skull and she shrieked, going down to her knees. The chalice fell from her hands to clatter on the hard floor, what little blood there was left, dripping out onto the stone. She screamed out her pain, lost to the indignity of her tears as the young woman curled in on herself as the pain spread out and attacked her body. Mhairi was barely aware of the commander having fallen to his knees to help her, apologizing and saying words she couldn't understand in her delirium.
Hands went to that pale throat, clutching at it as the agony stole her breath away and made her choke. She gasped, fingers moving to Ser Caron as she held onto his tunic as if it could save her, crying as the commander tried to soothe her. 'Something is wrong! This isn't suppose to happen!' Even as Mhairi thought it, she felt her life ebbing away from her, the darkness closing in until Gerod Caron's stricken face was the last thing she saw, before the blackness swallowed him and all was emptiness.
The quiet in the great hall was nearly absolute, but for the crackling of the fire bowls, and Gerod's own grieving. "I am sorry, my dear girl. More sorry than you can known, you would've made a fine Warden." He collected the chalice, setting it on the edge of the dais behind him before he was kneeling next to Mhairi's body, stroking a finger along the woman's cooling cheek as if he was a father tucking a daughter in for bed. He closed her unseeing eyes in respect, before falling back on his heels to wipe a palm across his face.
Three Wardens and one dead recruit. To sum up the Joining in such a way felt cold and detached, and Gerod knew that as Commander of the Ferelden Grey, he shouldn't be so emotional, but he couldn't keep himself from caring anymore than he could keep his heart from beating. Recruits would always have a chance of losing their lives, and Gerod would always care.
'And that one day we shall join you.'
It would be yet some time before the new Wardens awoke, and Gerod had sent them to seperate rooms, with orders given to the soldiers to fetch him immediately when they roused. The archdemon's blood had made the effect more potent than had enchanted hurlock blood or the like been used as a replacement. It was expected that it'd take longer for them to come out of it.
There would be questions, and undoubtedly the most uncomfortable would be why there were only three of them. Though Gerod fancied Nathaniel Howe would have more concerns than just that, his room locked to prevent his escape and an increased watch kept on him. It couldn't continue that way, the willfull title-less noble would have to understand what he was, and the bounds of honor that kept him. Already a headache was bulding behind the commander's eyes at the thought of that conversation, and the many more he suspected would be necessary.
He stood out in the courtyard, a large fire still going as the cleanup effort for Vigil's Keep continued on, so much darkspawn filth yet to remove. The firelight caught in his blue irises as the tall Orlesian seemed more like a sentinal than a man, for all his movement, watching the ululating flames with a face as apathetic as stone, even if what he was really feeling was far from apathy. A curled parchment was in his hand, its content hidden from any passersby.
A letter would have to be sent to the king and queen at Rainesfere, and hopefully Seneschal Varel was well versed enough about his position and the country to know the quickest way to get a correspondence to the Bannorn. Gerod wasn't sure what the reception of such a letter would be. King Alistair had not been very thrilled at their last meeting, and while the queen was happier, the fact of Nathaniel Howe's survival and Ser Mhairi's death were both matters of which he couldn't guess at the woman's reaction.
The queen had seemed sincere in her wish to give Nathaniel the same chance she'd had, such as it was, even if taking away his choice for anything else was a clear punishment. There hadn't been an open desire to see the man dead, but Gerod didn't think it would hurt the royal consort's feelings, with her obvious dislike of the man. Neither did he know how Her Majesty would feel about the passing of a young woman who she had seemed to favor when they met again in the courtyard the evening past.
It was not a letter he looked forward to writing, and for more reasons than just those that sat at the forefront of his mind. As if the fire could cleanse him as well, Gerod stepped closer, parchment in hand.
He tilted his head to look back at the main keep behind him, where the first of his new Wardens were waiting in a sleep brought on by their Joining. Where his future waited. Too long had he allowed himself to be drawn into matters that were not Warden concerns, matters of which could complicate Gerod's life in ways that would take away from his duties . . . and duty was everything of which a man could take pride in when he breathed his last. Duty had saved him from himself, and he owed the Grey Wardens of Montsimmard everything, and he owed Ferelden the best commander they could get to save them from the darkspawn that remained. Tomorrow Mhairi's body would burn on a funeral pyre and the future of the Ferelden Grey would begin. There was no room in his mind or his heart for anything else, certainly no complications.
The parchment was unfurled one last time, Gwyneth's painted eyes looking up at him as if questioning this new decision. Orange firelight lit the planes of that face that had so haunted the Warden commander, and he could have no more of it.
'You make me wish things were different, Gwyneth de'Highever, I cannot wish for such things.'
He closed his eyes and tossed the portrait into the fire, watching the flames burn away the queen's facade and turning it into ash. When Gerod opened them again, there was nothing left of the once prized image and he turned his back to the flames, heading towards the keep and the duties of the Commander of the Grey that awaited him.