Glancing around to find no one watching them, Raviathan ducked into a narrow alley that led to a small, dead garden hidden well away from the rest of the village. Alistair's brows rose, but he didn't comment. Raviathan nibbled at his lip, but he had to know. "Alistair, how well can templars sense magic?"

"I said I wouldn't turn Morrigan in, if that's what you're worried about."

One worry out of many. "If an apostate is dressed normally, would you be able to tell they're an apostate?"

Alistair shook his head. "No. Main way to tell is if somebody does magic, which is pretty obvious to everyone then." Alistair watched him again, a pensive tightness to his forehead. Reluctantly, he whispered, "I'm not supposed to say more. Secrets of the Order, but… There are higher-ranked templars. The ones who focus on developing ways to defend against mages. Some of them can knock a mage out."

"How?"

Alistair shrugged. "I know the basic theory, but I haven't learned the skill myself. Takes a lot of practice and time to learn. From what I understand, they disrupt a mage's connection to the Fade. A mage will die if they lose too much of their magic. What the templars are able to do isn't enough to kill them, but it takes their magic away for a time."

Raviathan went cold. That's how the templars were able to subdue Solyn.

"Are you alright?"

Raviathan glanced up to see the concern in Alistair's expression. He waved a hand. "Tired from the walking, the taint, and I need some real food."

"I'm ready to eat an ox." Alistair did look pale and drawn. Raviathan had thought that the effects came from grief, but remembering Duncan's appetite, Alistair must be starved after a week of roots and a few bites of squirrel.

"That ability, you said only very experienced templars can use it?"

Alistair nodded.

"Can someone that experienced sense magic?" Though unsure, Raviathan thought he saw a shadow of suspicion cross Alistair's face. "I know you don't like her, but I've given my word to protect her."

"Not as far as I know. If she didn't look like such a witch, she could attend the Chantry Day Mass in Val Royeaux."

"Really?"

Alistair relaxed enough to smile. "You're welcome to wrestle her into a Chantry robe if you'd like and keep her in a convent. They'll never know as long as she keeps her magic to herself. Actually, that's not a bad plan."

"I don't think she'll thank me for that, but good to know." Unless Alistair was lying in order to catch him as well. Raviathan rubbed his forehead. He just wasn't good enough at reading humans to tell if Alistair was lying or not. The man seemed earnest. Was Alistair's neediness because he was alone or to lull the apostates into complacency? "So Morrigan could actually walk into the Chantry with no one the wiser? They don't have wards against magic or some such way to tell?"

"Why would they? Apostates avoid templars like drunks from Mother Henrietta on a temperance march. Morrigan, well, she's going to arouse suspicion. She could claim she's Chasind, but it's best to keep her out of view."

Though modest by Denerim standards, the Lothering Chantry stood above all the other buildings in the town. Years of conditioning and fear did not release their hold so easily, and Raviathan still wasn't sure how much trust he could place in Alistair. "Alistair, since you're familiar with the Chantry, why don't you see what you can find out from them. I'll see what I can do to get some basic equipment and food."

A groan of longing met his words. "Real food? Oh, real food would be nice."

Raviathan's mouth twitched. "We'll see."

With an eye on Alistair, Raviathan made his way to a merchant selling stuffs out of a wagon who stood within view of the Chantry. As Raviathan walked over, the hard faced merchant shooed two hunched refugees away. This didn't bode well.

As expected, the merchant frowned at Raviathan as he approached. "Don't even ask for charity, elf."

At least he wasn't called knife ears. "Do you have food or tents for sale?"

The merchant narrowed his eyes. Though not old, his face carried deep lines around his forehead and mouth. Like many of the refugees, he hadn't shaved in days, the dark stubble giving him more menace. While that might have intimidated many, this man had nothing on the darkspawn. "Tents are ten sovereigns. A bag of carrots or potatoes are a sovereign. Each."

"A sovereign! Were they watered with the tears of virgins?"

"Now don't get smart with me."

"No, I want to know. Did you get a unicorn to vomit rainbows over the garden? Or perhaps you used an ancient dragon's dung shat during the full moon as a fertilizer? Will the carrots let me see through a maiden's clothes?"

Pink touched the merchant's cheeks. He drew himself up, leaning forward to push his bulk at Raviathan. "Do you not see the people here? There are those who are willing to pay, and if you can't, then off with you."

"Pay, yes, but this is robbery."

"The templars are right there. Keep giving me trouble, and I'll have you taken out of the town and beaten." The merchant raised his voice when there was a shout from the Chantry courtyard.

Raviathan snorted, hoping his unease at the threat didn't show. "They can barely keep the town from panic, and you think they'll protect a profiteer? It would solve a lot of these people's problems if they overran your cart."

"I said get away, you nasty little knife ears."

Oh, that did it. "You think that little display intimidates me? Just last week I battled a creature with feet bigger than your whole body."

The merchant half turned away as if dismissing him, but Raviathan saw the bunch of muscles that betrayed his next move. When the shem's fist struck out, Raviathan caught his wrist and twisted with the shem's movement. With a backwards kick at the unbalanced shem's leg, Raviathan tossed the man to the ground, a knee on his chest and dagger pressed against this throat. He leaned down, increasing the pressure of the flat of the blade. "Understand this, you vulture. I don't mind your making a profit, but you will not abuse people in need. And next time you want to punch some knife ear, remember that we aren't all helpless. Are we clear?"

The shem swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing above the dagger. "Yeah."

For a second, Raviathan considered the risk he had taken. Elves would have gone through the verbal battle without getting physical, but time and again, he had to remember to adapt to a human set of rules. In many ways he was just as bad as Morrigan. The sullen set to the merchant's mouth left a lingering concern in Raviathan. The human would seek to have the 'nasty little knife ears' who had attacked him beaten, but what Raviathan had said before was true. The templars did not have the time to care about every incident.

Apologize and try to mend this fence? No. This human would only see weakness. Best to be civil but keep his convictions. Raviathan stood and offered a hand to help the shem up. The shem glared at his hand, but he took it.

"Three tents, three bedrolls, canteens, a skillet if you have one, a few glass canning jars, a bag of carrots and potatoes, and salt."

Raviathan watched as the merchant put together the order. The cast iron skillet the merchant pulled out would be heavy, but with its high sides, it could double as a pot. It was good quality, already seasoned, and Raviathan considered the desperation of the person who had parted with it. Skillets like that stayed in a family for generations. "No jars. Twelve sovereigns for this."

"Eight and twenty silver." The shouts of someone near the Chantry grew louder.

"Nine and… I'll throw in a bag of apples and half a bag of onions." At Raviathan's look, the merchant added, "Some garlic and a half pound of dried venison."

"Deal." The price was high, but given the state of the town, no longer unreasonable.

Raviathan left intending to drop the purchases off with Morrigan and hoped they could finally speak in private. Another apostate to talk to after all these years had him giddy.

At a hand on his elbow, Raviathan turned to find an older priestess. The bones of her face stood out, her skin wizened, but she did not look unkind. Still, Raviathan froze, a knot twisting in his stomach.

"Thank you."

Raviathan almost didn't catch her words when the shouting from the Chantry grew heated. He blinked in surprise. "For?"

"That man. He has been a plague upon these people, the way he charges for goods he bought at a fourth of the price only a week ago."

"Oh. It was nothing."

She made the sign of the blessing for him. Raviathan tried not to shift though his discomfort made him want to hurry away.

"He brings the darkness!"

When Raviathan glanced over at the shout and through the gate of the stone wall of the Chantry, he saw Alistair backing away. Maker, what now? "Excuse me."

Rushing over, he watched as Alistair raised his shield as a huge Chasind stepped forward, a wicked war axe at the ready.

"From the shadows they come! Devour the mists, the roots, turn the world against itself!

"Stop!" Raviathan tossed his purchases by Alistair. Unburdened, he pushed at the wildling, the full weight of his body barely succeeding in getting the wildling's attention.

"Elfkin, the darkness sickens you as well. Plague, you bring."

"Stop this madness!"

"Madness?" The wildling's eyes flared wide in rage. His skin had the same deep earth coloring of the kennel master, and Raviathan wondered if they were related. "The black of under claimed my tribe. Witness borne as my bloodkin screamed and were swallowed by the black of under. All gone, elfkin." He grabbed Raviathan's arm, his squeeze strong enough to bruise. "How am I know myself?"

"I'm sorry." True sorrow tightened Raviathan's chest. He and the wildlings had this in common then. If the Denerim alienage had been massacred, Raviathan doubted he would be able to maintain his sanity. He laid a hand on the wildling's arm. "I've lost dear ones too. I know this pain."

A sob escaped the wildling. He knelt on one knee, and for the first time, Raviathan noticed there were a score of frightened refugees and a templar watching them. The wildling's mercurial emotions startled Raviathan as well, but he didn't have the same fear all the others displayed. "My wife. Her return to earth will be to a poisoned land. A sacrilege her soul to suffer. The fire god's old women will not cleanse her passage."

Understanding dawned on Raviathan. The priestesses here would not give him the ceremony he desired so his dead wife's soul would pass and not remain stuck, forever haunting the swamp. Interesting how he did not follow Chantry beliefs but still recognized them as holy. Dull anger rose in him. Those selfish women. Would it have cost them so much to listen to this man and set his mind at ease? He took hold of the wildling's hand. "Come with me. I can help your wife."

Like and overgrown child, the large wildling let himself be led by the hand. Raviathan sat him down outside the Chantry wall where few people loitered. "Stay here. I'll go inside and get a pouch of the sacred ashes. My companion is a, well, he's like a priest. We'll purify you with ashes and he'll say the words to make sure your wife is at peace. You will wait?"

"Elfkin. I have not words for this kindness."

"Just… stay here." Not only was the Chasind's speech like a fascinating riddle, Raviathan had so rarely been treated with respect by humans, he couldn't help but like the wildlings.

He found Alistair where he had left him, this time picking up the last of the equipment Raviathan had bought. "Can we get some ashes from the Chantry?"

"I… suppose." Alistair blinked at him. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk to that man. He kept yelling all this weird stuff about under darkness and was coming at me with that axe."

If I had an axe, templar… "I just talked to him. Do you know a chant to say at a funeral?"

"Funeral? Whose?"

"The wildling's wife."

"What, is he going after her with the axe now?"

"No, she was killed by darkspawn." Maker. Did this idiot think Raviathan would leave a woman to be slaughtered? "He just wants something so that he knows her soul will be at peace."

"Ohhh," Alistair said as comprehension smoothed his brow. "I… maybe? There's the… no, that's the lament for the wayward. Um, let's see. There's that one with trials of the soul… no. Er, well, I suppose I could ask."

"You never memorized a verse to say for the fallen?" Was this a display of arrogance that templars would never fall in battle and have to consecrate their own, callousness for the mages they killed to deny them rights, or just more of this idiot's ineptitude?

"Have you ever seen a full, unedited version of the Chant? It's bigger than my shield and weighs a stone if a pebble. That's a lot of verses to memorize. The one for how to dispose of a defiled goat is no picnic, let me tell you. Apparently that was a problem back in the day, that, um, with the goats. Not that I wanted to know the details of that sort of, um, business, but a few of the other novices were quite keen to learn. Master Tretchenbalm said that even the obscure verses had merit and that he used this one when…"

Raviathan eyed him, his mouth slightly parted as the templar prattled on.

When Alistair opened his mouth to continue, the elf held up his hand. Of all the humans to be stuck with. What kind of templar was this? After weeks of silence, this is what comes out of his mouth?

Off-footed, Raviathan turned and went into the Chantry. He heard Alistair pick up their equipment, a muttered curse following the thud as he dropped something, before hastening to follow. Not until he was inside did he remember he had avoided Chantries his whole life. Of course that shem, that ridiculous shem, would make him forget.

Had Raviathan not walked through the ruins of Ostagar, the Chantry would have been the most impressive building he had ever seen. Thick wooden timbers smoothed by decades of use stood with stone and freshly white washed plaster. In the dim light, echoes of reverent voices carried through the main chamber, the sound filling the space without overpowering the hushed calm, so at odds with the chaos outside the walls. Despite the panic of refugees or hurried footsteps of priestesses, the large chamber emanated peace. Though he was loath to admit it, Raviathan understood why humans would be attracted to such spaces.

Show no fear. Raviathan tried to keep his breaths long and slow or the sudden rush of blood would turn into trembling hands and voice. Don't let them see you panic. Give nothing away.

Templars in full armor gathered in the center aisle. Show no fear. If he turned and left now, that would bring suspicion. Raviathan's mind raced with desperate plans if escape was necessary. If he could get out the doors, the chaos of the refugees might help, but he would have to be quick. Plans rose and fell in his mind like frightened birds scattering from the toll of a bell. Fear quickened Raviathan's heart until it hammered in his chest, audible as a drum through his racing blood. Maker help me, if Alistair decides to turn me in now, I'm done. There would be no escape, not from these odds.

When a templar's gaze fixed on him and Alistair, Raviathan was sure his heart would stop. His hands started to shake with the need to run. They do know. Alistair, that traitorous fiend, they know! Why didn't I let him die?

The templar strode to them. Raviathan stood, frozen, watching the templar move with the same fascinated horror as he had watched the ogre. He could already see the templar's sword pull free, the sword of mercy as the faithful would say. There was no way to warn Morrigan. She would be killed too, all because of this bastard.

"You were the ones who killed the bandits."

Raviathan blinked. Hand on hilt and ready to bolt, he needed a minute to make sense of the templar's statement. Alistair looked at him, expecting him to respond, but when Raviathan stayed quiet, he stammered, "Uh, yes. I… well, it was rather quick."

The templar laughed. "Indeed. Once I saw they had returned, I was crossing the field to deal with them. Again." He shook his head in regret. "They've been tormenting the refugees, stripping them of already stretched resources. As if the Blight wasn't enough for these people to deal with."

He motioned them forward to the other templars. The man in charge was darker than Raviathan, possibly of Rivaini ancestry.

"These are the men I was telling you about, the ones who took out the bandits."

The leader smiled at them. "Then we owe you a debt."

This was all too weird for Raviathan. The aftereffects of adrenaline made his legs jittery and hands shake. Though nauseous, he wasn't going to lose the scant bit of breakfast roots here. Raviathan hoped his shakiness wouldn't show. Alistair glanced at him nervously. To tell the templars the elf was an apostate or because Raviathan wasn't acting as he should?

"Thank you," Raviathan said. Maker's ass, he couldn't tell what was normal anymore. The lead templar hadn't been addressing him, looking more to Alistair, but Alistair wasn't taking an initiative.

With a small grin, the lead templar crossed his arms and bowed. "I am Ser Bryant, and I believe our thanks are to you."

This isn't real. A templar bowing to him? Holy Maker, if only he could tell his mother about this. Solyn would have cursed him for a fool for getting himself in this situation, but his mother would have laughed for weeks. Thinking of his mother gave him courage.

"We don't have much to compensate you as all our efforts are being put to evacuating the town, but we can..."

Raviathan raised his hand in protest. "No, that's fine. I know you must be busy, but if we could ask a few questions?"

The other templars had moved on to their duties while the three of them spoke. The bann and all his men were gone, joined to Loghain's army. All that was left to keep the peace and organize an evacuation were the few templars and priestesses. With such thin resources, Morrigan would be safe enough.

"You are not typical refugees," Bryant said.

"We served at Ostagar." At Bryant's disbelief that an elf was in the army, Raviathan elaborated in a whisper, "Alistair and I are the only two Grey Wardens left."

Bryant's lips parted as he searched their faces for the truth. "Loghain has blamed the Grey Wardens for the king's death."

"We wouldn't…"

"What the teyrn said cannot be the truth, not of the Grey Wardens." Bryant took in a deep breath as he pondered. "The Hero of River Dane. I do not understand this. He would never put Ferelden at risk, but his reputation against the Order of the Grey? This is most strange." Lips pursed, he gave them a worried look. "There is a warrant out for the capture or death of any Grey Wardens who may have survived."

Raviathan and Alistair exchanged a worried glance. "You will say nothing?"

"No. Not with all that is happening. What the teyrn will gain from this, only he knows, but the darkspawn are most immediate. Tell me, is this a raid or a true Blight?"

"A Blight, I'm afraid. There is no doubt of that."

Bryant shook his head, his forehead lined with distress. "Maker's breath. Grim days lay ahead." Straightening, he signaled for an approaching templar to wait until their conversation was finished. "I cannot help you. Not openly when there are rumors of treason."

"Not openly," Raviathan trailed. Was he really talking with a templar? It was like having tea with a reasonable demon. Soon swans would be black and the sun rise from the west.

A half smile tugged at Bryant's mouth. "Indeed."

Raviathan gave him a nod, and when he left with a few extra coins and provisions, had the feeling as if everything he knew about the world was turned upside down.

~o~O~o~

"Morrigan? I have to talk to Alistair. Would you mind making dinner?" After the Chantry, settling the Chasind, and setting up their camp, the evening dark stole the last rays of sun. While the swamp mists had sucked the warmth from their bones, clear nights like this brought cold so sharp it felt as if the very air could shatter like glass.

She blew out a breath, which made her bangs flutter. "I suppose."

Her form glowed in the firelight, one of many fires burning to counter the twilight gloom. Other refugees huddled close together for what little protection that gave them against thieves and bandits. A false security, but one of desperate people.

They walked along the edge of the Imperial Highway, the wall looming like a white cliff to their right. Alistair stumbled in the darkness and would have walked into the river had Raviathan not stopped him. Were all humans this blind at night?

"What did you want to talk about?"

Raviathan knelt by the river to wash his hands. The water felt like recent ice melt though the season was too early for that. How he wished to be clean, clean of the filth of travel, clean of the taint. "I'm a Grey Warden now. I want to know what Duncan couldn't tell me before and didn't have a chance to afterwards."

When Raviathan glanced up at Alistair's silence, he realized he had said the wrong thing. Pain, naked as the moon, cut deep into Alistair's face.

Anger flared in Raviathan. Now that they on their own, he and Alistair were like lost children. In his better moments he knew he was being unfair to Alistair, who was overcome with the loss of his comrades, but he needed the more experienced Warden to at least give him some clue about the rest of the Order. Raviathan knew he couldn't do this task laid at his feet. Not even in childhood fantasies would he be able to stop an archdemon or the Blight. He needed this man for information, some sort of guidance, and all the shem could do was weep.

"Alistair."

"I… I'm fine. I will be. I'm sorry."

Raviathan's jaw clenched as he took as slow breath and released it. "What can you tell me about the rest of the Order?"

"Not much. I'm not even sure where their bases are. Only Weisshaupt, but that's in the Anderfels." Hopelessly far away then.

"Not the Wardens of Orlais, the Free Marches, or Nevarra? None of them?"

"Um… Orlais has the most Wardens outside of the Anderfels. Most of them are mounted, so they're the most mobile, but that's about it. I met a few, one at my Joining. But I don't know where their bases are or how to contact them."

"What about the darkspawn?"

"What about them?"

"Where do they come from? Are there more than the kinds we saw? What do you know about their magic? Do you know how they communicate?"

Alistair found his way to a rock to sit on. He clasped his hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. "Well, there's the Chantry version about the darkspawn, that it was the Tevinters' hubris that brought them."

As Alistair continued, Raviathan's dismay grew. How had this man learned so little? Raviathan would have been pestering Duncan at every free moment for information. Alistair's knowledge was even more limited than Raviathan's little history. The templar didn't know about the theories behind the Tevinters' transgression, nothing more than darkspawn come from the tunnels under the earth.

"Some of the older Wardens can understand the darkspawn a bit," Alistair continued. "The taint grows stronger over time, so the darkspawn become clearer."

"What about the taint? It gives us immunity, but there's more."

"Yes." Alistair hung his head for a moment before straightening. "You're new to it, but you'll feel the darkspawn soon enough. And they can sense you as well. You see, the longer you live, the more the taint grows."

A lump of dread churned in Raviathan's stomach at his words.

"There's no getting rid of it. Eventually, the taint will consume… everything."

"What does that mean?" He already knew, though. As soon as he swallowed the sin of the world, he had known.

"Wardens don't retire. We don't grow old. It's different for everyone, maybe fifteen years, maybe twenty, but there comes a time when the taint will take us over."

Raviathan sat on the ground as tried to absorb the news. Twenty years? He would die at thirty eight? Maybe less? His life was already half over. "What happens then?" His voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if someone else was manipulating his vocal cords.

"We go mad. Start hearing the darkspawn all the time, develop mold patches. Before that happens, the nightmares come. That's when we know it's time. We go to Orzammar then, to the Deep Roads, one last battle against the darkspawn before we die. The dwarves respect us for it." A quiet sob hitched Alistair's voice. "Dun… Duncan told me that he started having the nightmares."

So that was what plagued Duncan those last days. Raviathan had known about the nightmares, but not their cause. This validated his own hypothesis after he had taken the Joining, except he didn't understand how his presence helped Duncan. Elves had a stronger connection to the Fade and were therefore more susceptible to demons disturbing their dreams. In defense, elves kept tight families so they could protect and shelter each other in the Fade. But if Duncan's nightmares were caused by the taint… did the taint still have to follow the same rules in the Fade? If only Raviathan knew another Warden who was also a mage instead of this half-wit.

"What else does the taint do?"

Alistair took a shuddering breath. "It makes us stronger." Raviathan nodded. He felt that much already. "It also makes it impossible for us to have children."

Though the templar prattled on, Raviathan didn't hear. Impossible to have children? No. That's… not what he heard. Was it? No. Raviathan's heart skipped a beat, a painful squeezing in his chest as if someone punched him. No. He could almost feel the fissure ripping apart his heart, the crack opening wider as his dream shattered.

For three years, he had thought of his child. Ever since Fenella needed the tea to end her pregnancy. That had been necessary, but he had lain awake hundreds of nights since wondering about the child he could have had. An impossibility then. They would have been cast out to the streets if any learned the two of them had been together, let alone conceived a child. She would have lost everything, any chance of a match, and would have likely end up a whore. His future would have been the same. He had seen enough shadows of his future at The Huntsman to know.

But it was his child, his little one that clung to his dreams. All those hopes with Ness, but they were gone now too. A beautiful wife and child, a family. Completeness. The whole of his heart made real. All of that had died when Vaughan strode into the alienage, that stupid, fucking tyrant who ended Raviathan's future with all the thought of a thief breaking a stained glass window.

Not that Raviathan could have a wife as a Grey Warden, not that he would want to beget an illegitimate child who wouldn't have the protection of a family. No… but, but the hope. Maybe one day… just, maybe he could leave the Wardens and find someone, or raise his child on his own. Feel the weight of his baby in his arms, know that soft baby smell of his own child, hear the little coos as she learned words. He wanted to hear her laugh. If only…

Not this. The taint took his life, his future, took him away from his family, his love, dumped him in this middle of this disaster with no idea of what to do. This too? Did the taint have to take everything from him? The crack in Raviathan's heart split into a web of fragments. The one thing he had left to wish for, gone.

Raviathan's fist landed against his thigh. Alistair, who had long since fell silent, jerked up. Before he could speak, Raviathan growled. "That's all you know?" He shot to his feet. "That's it? My appetite will grow? I could tell that from watching Duncan. Dear Maker, this is all you have learned? How long have you been a Warden? I've been a Warden for a few weeks, but I knew more about darkspawn than you before I had my Joining. Didn't you have even the remotest sense of curiosity? Or are you just too stupid to remember anything?"

"Now wait a minute…" Alistair stood, but there was no threat to his posture.

"Shut up! You idiot! All you've done so far is weep and moan. Maker damn me, I need a real Warden, and all I have is you, and what good are you? You don't know how to contact the others, send messages, or even where they are. We're lost here, and you're as useful as a sundial in a cave."

Heart beating faster, Raviathan started to pace. "So fucking useless. You're a templar, but can't tell me anything about darkspawn magic. You're a Warden, who can't tell me about Wardens. Bloody Maker's ass, you can't even recite a basic Chant without asking for help. What in the Maker's name have you been doing with your life? All you can tell me is that I'm going to die in twenty years? Andraste's tits, it would be a miracle if we lived that long!"

Without thought, he pushed Alistair. Alistair stumbled back, arms flailing, then dropped gracelessly back on the rock. Landing awkwardly, he almost fell but caught himself with a fumbled grab. When he looked back up, his flat shem eyes were wide. Would the templar start blubbering again? It was the one thing he was good at.

Raviathan glared at him, his teeth bared as he ground out the words. "The horde marches north. The archdemon is at our heels. Loghain is on the hunt for us. If we aren't killed by the horde, who can sense us through the taint, we'll have every bounty hunter after us, every noble who wants to curry favor, every starving villager ready to turn us over for a few coppers to be tortured and hanged. We'll be lucky to survive another month. You think I give a damn about twenty years?"

Why had Duncan recruited this moron? Raviathan wanted to pour his rage out at the sniveling shem before him. Fists clenched, the fury tore inside him like a firestorm. Everything he had ripped away. Forsaken by the Maker. His kin beaten, raped, and abused, treated like mongrels. His wife gone to marry another. Disgust rose in Raviathan at his betrayal of Nesiara to mingle in the chaotic storm warring inside him. In that moment, he felt every long mile from his home, everything that held comfort. No hope for children. Left alone to be hunted. Alone.

Alistair stared at him, his hurt and shock plain. Raviathan whipped around, his footsteps taking him away at a near run. He couldn't stand to see Alistair anymore. Halfway to the town square, the loss that had fueled his anger came to the surface. Every last thing had been taken from him. The pain beneath the rage stabbed through his heart like a spike made of ice, leaving him so weak he was ready to fall to his knees. Maker, did you have to take everything from me?

A whine caught his attention. Raviathan glanced down to see Venger trotting with him. That broke the last of his temper. He knelt and hugged his dog. "All I've got is you, pup."

Venger thumped his head against Raviathan's chest. With the anger gone, a hollowness opened in Raviathan's chest as he felt the pangs of mourning. There truly was no returning to his life before Vaughan, before the Wardens, before he had taken in the sin of the world. Ever since his Joining he had known that, but his mind was slow in recognizing all the implications that his Joining entailed.

Raviathan sat with Venger, for how long he could not tell. How many nights had he thought about his child? Gone. Those dreams all gone. For the rest of his short life, the taint would constantly assault him until he died a violent death. Raviathan felt like he was finally giving up the last hopes he had any future happiness. His past dreams seemed so small now. Humble, but precious. His own family, a wife to share his days with, his child's laughter in the evening when he came home. Gone.

He stood, his movements slow to match his heavy heart. His Ness was alive and healthy. His father as well. That was all the peace he was allowed now.

Leaving his darker thoughts aside, Raviathan considered what to do next. He wasn't going back to their makeshift camp any time soon. At home, he would never be allowed out at night like this. All elves, unless escorted by a human, were round up by the guards for breaking curfew. However, with the refugees, Raviathan suspected few if any would care about him.

As he wandered towards the town square, a woman with dark hair caught his eye. Two men in travel worn clothing kept after her. When one grabbed her hand, she spun to back away, fear clear in her eyes. "Please." Her voice came out as a trembling whimper. "Leave me be."

"Do you need help, miss?" Raviathan let his voice boom. His cousins told him more than once that, when he wanted to, his voice sounded like a seven foot giant with the muscles of a bull.

All three turned at the sound, the two men peering in the shadows for the source. Venger walked forward, a growl rumbling as the dog stared down the two men.

"No harm meant," one called. None of them lingered.

Once gone, Raviathan stepped out of the shadows and patted Venger's head. The dog lost all threat as a wide, panting grin broke. "Are you all right?"

"That was you? I thought… maybe one of the templars."

"Just me."

"I… thank you." After her initial wide-eyed shock, she kept her eyes averted.

Among elves, that often meant shame of some sort, that a person was either unwilling to acknowledge you or that they were not worthy of meeting the gaze of another elf. She was shaking though, which made Raviathan reconsider. "It's dangerous with all the refugees. Would you like an escort home?"

A nervous nod and then a shy smile that quickly disappeared answered him. "I… I'm Allison."

"Rav." She seemed nice enough, so her averted gaze was not from shame. "Do I make you nervous?"

"I-I'm sorry. All strangers do."

"No, don't be sorry. With all that's been going on, you have a right to be cautious." He chatted her up as they walked, working hard to overcome her shyness. He earned more fleeting smiles as they approached her farmstead. Hoping he had gained enough of her trust, he made an offer.

~o~O~o~

"What are you doing?" The way Allison plucked at the chicken, it would be in ruins. "Here, let me." Raviathan shooed her away as he took over.

"But, you wanted a meal as well as a wash."

"Indeed, and I'm going to get one. Take a seat." He flashed a quick grin at her. "I like cooking."

"Oh?" She looked at him in surprise as if she had never heard of a man who could cook.

"Sure. You take all these different things, each with their own qualities, smells and tastes, all unique, and blend them so each supports the other. Chicken tastes only so good. As does parsley," he said, combining the parsley with the sautéed mushrooms and grated hard cheese. "But mix them together and they're more than the sum of their parts. It's almost like magic when you take something ordinary then transform it into this other thing that can make people happy." He added salt and pepper then stuffed the mix into the deboned chicken. Into the oven it went with a pot of fall vegetables. "Don't you feel that way about cooking?"

She looked down with a trace of embarrassment. "I always thought of it as a chore. Something a wife does for her husband or daughter for the family."

"That's no way to cook. If you think of it as a chore, it'll taste like a chore. You have to cook with love."

A shy smile lifted the corners of Allison's mouth. "With love?"

"Of course. In one hour, you'll be convinced." She sat at the table to watch him as he took over her kitchen. He asked a few questions, "Where's your flour? Where's your sugar? Do you have any cinnamon or nutmeg?" as he continued with the efficient grace of a grandmother.

As he worked, Allison's thoughts drifted to her family, and the few moments of peace they shared. Though she was taken aback by his invasion of her kitchen, especially when he grabbed a jar of peaches to make a dessert, the savory scents soon warmed her little house, reminding her of the rare moments that came close to happiness.

Her parents never yelled, and she had rarely been switched as a child, a much different fate than her rambunctious older brother who had a knack for trouble, but there was a coldness to her parents that made her shrink away as a child. She couldn't remember one kind word her parents said to each other or her, no pats on the head or shoulder for good work. Displeasure lurked, quiet and brooding, and she remembered more often than not forcing down her meals with her stomach in knots from the tension. Failing to clean her plate only made things worse.

Tired of the indifference, her brother had married a fiery woman and moved out at a young age thereby giving up his birthright of farmland. The two fought constantly, which sometimes turned violent when she hit him. On occasion he struck back. When that happened, her sister-in-law would carry her head in angry pride, inviting anyone to comment on the bruise. It was a badge of her suffering that she would use against her husband or any of the townsfolk who would talk.

Allison wasn't sure which was worse, the cold house or the violent one. They both made her feel small and helpless. Though she would never admit the shameful thought out loud, it was a relief when her parents died. Loneliness permeated the house, but it wasn't as oppressive as violence or indifference. Occasionally, she took care of her nieces and nephew when her brother and sister-in-law got too bad. The children's company, though too hectic after a day, alleviated her solitude.

There were only a few elves in Lothering, and they tended to stay on the other side of the Imperial Highway where the slow moving river carried the town's waste. They rarely ventured to this side, usually to barter with merchants but left soon after. Allison had only seen them on occasion. If possible, they were shyer than she, but they were beautiful, if strange. Slender and graceful, they kept their strange eyes downcast whenever they were in the market.

Years ago, a young elven girl near Allison's age, both of them years from their first blood, had talked with her while her parents traded the family's stock of cabbage and root vegetables. Allison would never forget her large eyes that were the bright green of new grass or pretty pale skin that was almost translucent and baby fine. They had even played a game of stones until Allison's mother had come out of the house and casually slapped her hard enough to knock her to the ground for playing with a filthy elf. The other girl cowed then ran away, and Allison had never seen her since.

Now that her parents were gone, she felt slightly empowered by her defiance in letting an elf in her house. It was her house. Her brother would yell at her if he found out, but so what. He had given up on this house years ago. This elf was the prettiest she had ever seen, his angular features offset by a sensual mouth and skin like lacquered wood. Besides, he had been kind. All he had asked in return for his effort was some food, a chance to clean up, and a spot on the floor for the night. With the exception of the food, it had cost her nothing for a night's security.

She wondered at the sad expression he wore when he glanced back at her.