Chapter 37
"It is said that in the midst of the Black Age, when werewolves stalked the lands of Ferelden in numbers that kept every farmholder indoors and a hound on every doorstep, a powerful arl of the Alamarri peoples stood and declared that he would put an end to the threat. His arling stood on the border of the dark forest on the southern border of the Ferelden Valley, and he claimed that the werewolves used the forest to launch their midnight assaults on humanity.
For twenty years, this arl led an army of warriors and hounds deep into the forest. In his hunt for the werewolves, he slew not only every wolf he came upon, but also every member of the Chasind wilder folk. Any one of them, he said, could harbor a demon inside and thus be a werewolf in disguise. For twenty years, the forest rang with screams, and the rivers ran red.
The tales say that an old Chasind woman found her sons all dead at the arl's blades. She pulled one of those very blades from one son's heart and plunged it into her own chest, cursing the arl's name as she did so. Where her blood touched the ground, a mist began to rise. It spread and spread until it was everywhere in the forest. The arl's army became lost, and it is said that they died there. Others say they wander still. The ruins of his arling stand to this day, filled with the ghosts of women waiting eternally for their husbands to return.
The forest of the legend is, of course, the Korcari Wilds. There are as many legends about the great southern forest as there are shadows, or so the saying goes. The Chasind wilder folk have made their home there since mankind first came to these lands, and the wildlands spread as far into the south as anyone has ventured. Beyond the mists are vast tracts of snow, white-capped mountains, and entire fields of ice. It is a land too cold for mankind to survive, yet the Chasind eke out an existence even there, and they tell of horrors beyond the Wilds that the lowland folk could not begin to comprehend.
To most, Ferelden simply ends with the Korcari Wilds: There is nothing beyond. The Wilds is a land of great trees, wet marshes, and dangerous monsters. What more need be said?"
—from Land of the Wilders, by Mother Ailis, Chantry scholar, 9:18 Dragon
Malcolm
When Malcolm was young, so young that Rendon Howe's betrayal of the Couslands was a tiny, dark speck years into the future, his Antivan sister-in-law had told him a tale. Oriana had told him, along with Fergus, Bryce, and Eleanor, many tales, all ones she'd heard in various taverns in Antiva. Not many made it to Fereldan shores, thus many of the stories were new and easily captured the attention of a teenage boy like any adventure story would.
But one story she'd told him was a cautionary tale disguised as an adventure. A great knight—a templar from Redcliffe, as it happened—sought to bring more greatness to himself, and decided that he would hunt down the Witch of the Wilds. The quest took him to many towns and villages, and in each one, townsfolk and villagers and elders gave him warnings about the witch whom he sought. He gave them no credence, for he was a great knight capable of defeating this witch. And so he'd continued onward, through the last Fereldan village, through the Chasind territory, and deep into the Wilds. In the end, the witch and her dark daughter found him, and brought him to a swift, painful end. So much for the knight's greatness. That was where Oriana had always given the warning meant for all: never to ask after the Witch of the Wilds, never to seek out Flemeth and her dark daughter, lest you find them.
It was, Malcolm discovered, a warning to be well-heeded.
When he was a young man, after his sister-in-law and most of the Couslands had been brutally killed by Rendon Howe and his men, and then again after the defeat at Ostagar, he stumbled into the Witch of the Wilds and her dark daughter. He escaped with his life, the life of his brother, and the accompaniment of Flemeth's dark daughter. Then one day her daughter, also called a Witch of the Wilds, departed.
She told him never to follow her.
Never having been the best at things like obedience, it meant that after some time, Malcolm had followed. The cautionary tale that had captivated his younger self forgotten, once again. After some months, as he'd set out to do, he found Morrigan.
Then Flemeth found both of them. It was a masterful stroke of planning on Morrigan's part that granted her escape, and only a whim of Flemeth's mercy that allowed Malcolm to escape unharmed. After that experience, he'd decided he wouldn't seek either Witch of the Wilds out ever again, lest he become another cautionary tale for children, adventurers, or great knights suffering from a fatal bout of narcissism.
The problem was that he couldn't seem to stop stumbling into them.
In the Amell estate, a clatter from downstairs startled both Malcolm and Merrill from their troubled, fearful thoughts.
"I think they're back," said Merrill. "We should go see them." She motioned for him to follow, which he did after gently closing the bedroom door behind him. His family's things were safe here. He was safe here. Leandra and her daughter had created a home not just for themselves, but for friends as well, a warm hearth in the dark chaos of Kirkwall.
The voices grew louder as the two of them walked down the hallway, and Malcolm started to think he was hallucinating a very familiar voice he'd not heard in a long time.
"I meant to tell you," said Merrill as they reached the end of the hall and started down the stairs, "that I finished the eluvian."
"That's great." He couldn't help smiling at the news. Merrill had spent years on the project, and it was a project Líadan had only recently been convinced to support. "Really, that's great."
"And it's working."
"That's—wait, working?" He stopped partway down the stairs to stare at Merrill. "Working, how?"
Her eyes darted about, never making contact with his. "People came through. Three people. I think you know them."
No. It couldn't… there was no way. Merrill had to be pulling his leg to make up for the teasing Líadan hadn't been able to do for weeks. Or maybe Marian had dared her to give him a hard time. Actually, it had probably been Marian's idea all along.
When he neglected to say anything, Merrill stepped around him and continued down the stairs. "I suppose we'll find out."
Malcolm followed her into the dining room, and that was where he realized that Merrill had told the entire, yet vague truth, and that he hadn't been imagining familiar voices.
"Holy shit," he said as he halted just inside the door.
"Eloquent as always," said Morrigan. "I see that you have not changed."
Her composure was remarkable, really. He was almost jealous.
All right, he was jealous.
A small boy around Cáel's age stood next to and slightly behind her. Cianán, obviously. He was smaller than Cáel, though with having an elf for a father, it wasn't a surprise that Cianán would tend toward more lithe than the brawn of his half-brother. And it seemed that for every measure in which Cáel fell short of showing physical traits of the mother who'd birthed him, Cianán more than made up for it. His eyes were the same golden eyes of his mother and grandmother, and his hair as black as the raven's feathers that decorated one shoulder of Morrigan's robe. He also looked very much human. If the boy had the soul of an Old God, he still didn't seem to outwardly show it, not any more or less than he had as an infant. He definitely didn't have an obvious tail, and probably didn't have sharp dragon fangs or breathe fire.
Maybe he should ask him.
Almost as an afterthought, because Nathaniel could disappear like that, Malcolm noticed his fellow Grey Warden standing quietly in a dark corner of the room. Well, nice to see him, too.
"So you do know her?" Marian asked before Malcolm could address the presence of Nathaniel. Morrigan was still a little too startling for him to manage.
Varric chuckled. "Haven't you heard the stories, Hawke? He more than knows her."
Because Varric really needed to be talking about that in front of Morrigan's son. While Malcolm was certain that Morrigan had told Cianán that Zevran was his father and not Malcolm, it was still awkward to have someone in the room bring up the fact that Malcolm could have been his father.
Morrigan, of course, showed none of the awkwardness that Malcolm felt. Instead, she rolled her eyes. "You dress prettily, dwarf, but you are as offensive as Oghren."
"Not a compliment," Malcolm said to Varric, happy enough to change the subject to, well, anything else, really.
Then Varric clearly vanished from Morrigan's mind as she focused once again on Malcolm. Her eyes, Malcolm noticed, had narrowed dangerously, and the cold anger flaring behind them turned his stomach to ice.
She was mad. More specifically, she was mad at him.
That was bad.
Morrigan took him by the arm and jerked him out of the room, practically bullying him down the hall and into the library. "You will tell me what happened," she said as soon as the door had closed, her fingers still painfully digging into his arm.
It wasn't like he didn't already blame himself, even though he damn well knew that he couldn't have changed Líadan's mind, nor could he have really changed his own when he hadn't seen any other viable solution. Nor could he have put his son in danger by insisting Cáel remain in Denerim with him instead of hiding amongst the Dalish with his mother and sister. Their prediction had been correct, after all—the Chantry had wanted him. Even though six years had passed since they'd last tried to capture Cáel, it seemed the interest had not waned, but waited. "Look, I'm—"
She wrenched her hand away and turned as she folded her arms in front of her. Then she stalked in front of the library's cozy fireplace. "I do not wish to hear your platitudes."
He stared at her, feeling as impossibly frustrated as he'd often felt when they'd been together, because he only half understood what she needed and he'd never quite been able to get it right. Not entirely. "You just told me to tell you what happened." He kept his tone as even and flat as possible, because he did know that provoking her right now would be incredibly painful. More than that, they needed to work together. They absolutely could not be enemies, not when people they both loved needed them. Morrigan being here was a boon that anyone could recognize—clever, powerful, and her skills would give them better odds at rescue. And he knew it.
But he really had to remind himself not to even lightly antagonize her, as he once might've tried. A gulf of years stood between them, and lost in that gulf was the understanding they'd shared then. What would've been a mild point used cajole the other away from a brewing confrontation, would now be a solid shove straight into it. "And that's what I was going to do. Not give you platitudes or excuses or whatever else it is you're assuming."
Morrigan threw her judgments at him as she walked, not needing to look at him as they struck. "I left him with you so he would be protected. To be protected and loved as a child requires and you have not protected him. Not only did you not protect him, but you also didn't protect the woman I asked to raise him. You didn't protect his mother. You failed both of them, and you failed me."
An acknowledgement of Líadan's place in Cáel's life coming out so quickly surprised him. Not easily, not with how stiffly Morrigan carried herself, but she'd made it a statement of fact that was clear she did not doubt. "I love them," he said, because while he agreed about his failure with everything else, that was one area in which he hadn't failed.
"You let this happen. That alone gives me sufficient cause to doubt your claim."
"I didn't let it happen. There was no other way. None. Trust me, we tried to come up with one and came up empty."
As she kept throwing stark truths, she didn't bother looking at him to see if they landed just as truly. "Then explain it to me. Explain to me how this grave mistake came to be."
Malcolm wasn't even sure if he'd have felt better or worse if she did make eye contact. What did alarm him was the occasional sudden flare from the flames in the fireplace. "You expect me to explain, just to have you interrupt to yell at me again?"
"I will not interrupt."
She also hadn't said she wouldn't yell, but he didn't mention it. You picked your fights with Morrigan, and that nitpick wasn't an essential hill to die on. "All right." Then Malcolm explained. As Morrigan continued to pace, her fingers gripping her elbows as her arms remained crossed, he explained. He explained who Ava was, because he doubted Morrigan knew. He explained that she had developed magic, while Cáel had not. He explained that Ava wasn't just any ordinary mage, but a Dreamer, and so she could only be properly taught by another Dreamer. Then—
Then Morrigan interrupted him. "A Dreamer?"
"Didn't you say you wouldn't interrupt?" It wasn't like explaining all this was easy, especially not to Morrigan.
"Don't you often insist that you aren't a halfwit? I am seeking clarification, and I would appreciate it if you would give it to me."
Malcolm heard that to be I will do awful, painful things to you if you do not clarify. So he clarified. "Fine. Yes, she's a Dreamer. Keeper Emrys and his apprentice, Feynriel, the one I told you about, they're helping to guard her in the Fade until they can teach her to do it herself. Apparently, it's a little different for Dreamers."
She stopped her pacing to look at him once again. "They are not guarding her."
He stared at her. "What? How would you even know that?"
"I have only just figured it out. Your information was the last tiny piece I needed to complete the puzzle my son presented me."
"I can understand each word you're saying, but I'm not following when you string them together. And don't give me that look or that line about me being a dullard, not when I'm missing way more than just a single puzzle piece."
Morrigan inclined her head slightly, acknowledging his request. Then she said, "My son is a Dreamer."
Honestly, he felt like laughing, but not the good kind of laugh. "Of course he is. Flemeth's a Dreamer, too, isn't she?"
One of Morrigan's fingers tapped lightly on her arm. "Flemeth is… Flemeth."
"All right, I'll give you that one. She does defy proper explanation. But what make you say that Emrys and Feynriel aren't—wait, has Cianán seen her? In the Fade?" If he had, he'd know if she was all right. Maybe they'd even talked. Maybe he could help Líadan.
"Yes, though he does not know who she is, nor have they been able to talk. All he has been able to ascertain is that she requires help. When this Emrys and Feynriel were no longer able to aid her in the Fade, Cianán volunteered of his own accord. The demons do not dare cross him. I gather you know why."
"Because he has the soul of an Old God." He hadn't meant to sound morose when he said it, but being told that Cianán couldn't actually speak with Ava meant the hopes he'd just built up were knocked down just as fast.
"Precisely. Which means he is able to render a unique kind of aid." On speaking about her son, Morrigan's face took on a tiny bit of openness, which he wouldn't have recognized if they hadn't become so close during the Blight. Her eyes narrowed slightly less, her shoulders relaxed the smallest bit, leaving her just short of hostile instead of entirely hostile.
This was one of those moments when she was vulnerable, and Malcolm gave his curiosity reign. "Does the different soul thing affect him in other ways? From the brief moment I got to see him—you know, before you dragged me off to castigate me, which I'd thought I'd never experience again, by the way—he seemed like a normal kid."
"Aside from the power of his magic, which is remarkable, and the demons' inability to fight him, no. There have been no other signs."
Malcolm refrained from mentioning or asking about tails or scales and the ability to breathe fire, mostly because Morrigan had the ability to conjure fire and would not hesitate to use it on him. "Well, thank him for me, for helping Ava."
Her eyebrow rose imperiously. "You are perfectly capable of thanking him yourself."
Exasperating. She was exasperating beyond levels that he remembered, though it was possible that he'd tempered those memories over time. "Then I will."
"Now, tell me the rest," she said, and then resumed her pacing.
He knew why she paced—because it made it easier for her to hear deeply troubling things. She had a connection to Líadan, and an obvious one to Cáel, and she named them weaknesses. This was a way for her to shore them up, not looking at him as he delivered news that hurt to hear. It hurt him to say it. Yet, after he cast another wary look in Morrigan's direction, he did tell her the rest. He told her as much as he could, because he didn't know precisely what had happened after Líadan had left Denerim. He could make guesses, and rather good ones because he knew his wife quite well, but he wouldn't know for certain until Líadan told him herself.
"Maybe she traveled to Amaranthine and left from there," he said, trying to make it sound less awful. "Maybe she went overland the whole way, but I doubt it. Really, what it comes down to is that I had no idea of where and how she would travel, aside from knowing where she was ultimately headed, which was her grandfather's clan. But anything about after she left Denerim, I don't know, except that they were gone."
On his last words, Morrigan spun to face him, her arms uncrossing only for her hands to form fists at her sides.
Malcolm silently thanked the Maker that Morrigan did not have her stave with her.
She started out quietly, which was a terrible sign, because she was scarier when she didn't yell, and because her voice dropped in volume when she threatened people. "You allowed them to leave," she said slowly, as if examining each word as it came out. "You let them go. You made no attempt to follow, bowing to the pressures of the Chantry as you did, instead of allowing that emotion you speak so highly of to guide you."
"I didn't let—" He let the protest fall away, realizing she was right. He'd been the one to tell her, over and over, how love was strength and not weakness, and yet he'd not gone with his heart and followed his family. No, he'd followed reason and stayed behind and she was right. Except she wasn't. It'd been exactly that thing that drove him and Líadan to decide what they had. "I did. I did let them go. Why? Because of that emotion I speak so highly of. Because I love them. Because I love them, I did what I had to, to keep them safe. Just like I let you go. Like you let Cáel go."
Morrigan narrowed her eyes further, and Malcolm felt the prickles along the back of his neck that signaled her drawing on the Fade.
And now he'd really pissed her off. But he still believed it a fair comparison.
She didn't.
"I did not just let him go. If you believe that is what I felt, if that is what I did and how I did it, then you never understood me at all. I did what I had to do, because it was what needed to be done—"
"That's what I'm saying."
Her magic began to crackle lightly as she allowed it to increase.
Malcolm wondered if he'd have to smite her. Or if he'd even dare to. Probably not, because she would eventually recover from the smite and do bad things to him. Unless she was actively trying to kill him with her magic, he'd leave it well enough alone. It was for the best.
Yet, the crackling grew louder. "You have made it sound as if it was easy for me, as if that decision and its validity did not plague me up until I stepped through the eluvian. As if the need to return for him vanished once I reached Arlathan." Her eyes met his, letting him see that betrayal and hurt fueled her anger more than anger alone. "It was not easy, and as much as I did not want to admit it, there were moments when I wanted to return for him. There were moments of weakness, when—"
"And you don't think I haven't wanted to chase after them?" Witnessing Morrigan lose the rigid control she held on her emotions and how precisely she expressed them sapped his own will to remain calm, to work things out without resorting to shouting. But he'd raised his voice to match hers because he wanted to get his point across, and he couldn't think of how else to do it, not anymore. Not when the pervasive, suffocating fear of losing Líadan and Cáel and Ava, losing them as the people he'd known for whatever the Gallows would make them, surfaced and took the hold he'd denied it for weeks. "That I didn't want to drop the pretense and find them? That I didn't wonder where they were? If they were all right? If I'd ever see them again? That I didn't think again and again that we'd made a horrible mistake? That I didn't want to go with them so that Líadan and I could protect them together?"
His words made no impression on her, as if she didn't believe he felt any of those things, and if she didn't believe him, maybe she'd never understood him, either. "Yet you did not go with them. You did not go after them. You did not find them until the danger from which you swore to protect them had already taken them."
"Because I wanted them to be safe, and that was the only way. They had to be safe." It was what he'd told himself time and time again since they'd left, and he'd never quite believed it, and the argument sounded impossibly weak when spoken aloud, even to his own ears.
"They are not safe, if you have yet to notice. They've fallen into the hands of the very danger from which you sought to keep them."
The fear squeezed his chest, its grip as strong as a dragon's jaws. "I know. I—"
A knock on the door caused both of them to flinch as it plucked at the tension strung between them.
"What?" asked Malcolm. He sounded angry, and he was angry, but it wasn't like whoever it was on the other side of the door deserved that anger. He wasn't even sure who did deserve it. Himself, maybe. Knight-Commander Meredith, possibly. Probably.
He should've followed them.
Bodahn stuck his head in the room after opening the door. "Lady Amell wished for me to tell you that dinner is ready and she would enjoy your presence at the table."
"We will be there shortly," said Morrigan.
Bodahn ducked his head once, and then disappeared.
When the door had closed, Morrigan pointed at Malcolm, magic snapping at her fingertip. "This conversation is not over. You and I will continue this later."
"I look forward to it. Really." Because he didn't. At all.
After a final glare, she left the room before he did. He waited a few moments to collect himself, and then ventured out.
Dinner was awkward, and Malcolm was fairly certain Lady Amell did not enjoy their presence as much as she'd anticipated. It was clear from everyone else's subdued interactions that his and Morrigan's argument had been overheard. While Malcolm knew he looked visibly upset, Morrigan looked like, well, Morrigan, unless you knew her really well. And Wynne's own dark glares sent Morrigan's way did not help matters. He couldn't figure out why Wynne would dislike Morrigan that much, and then he remembered that she'd not gotten closure over the matter of Morrigan leaving them before the end of the Blight. Nearly eight years removed from the situation, and Wynne's wrath hadn't died down in the least. Morrigan pretended to ignore it, which only made it worse.
It wasn't all bad, however, for Cianán turned out to be far more chatty than Malcolm had assumed, talking about some of the same things and with the same level youthful enthusiasm that Cáel or Ava would have. Then there was the moment that he smiled, brightening the room with its charm, and Malcolm recognized something in the boy that was Zevran. Morrigan smiled, yes, though rarely, and she never smiled like that.
As soon as the meal was over, Morrigan disappeared, and her son with her.
The rest of the group dispersed, most returning to their homes, others to their rooms. To Malcolm's surprise, Nathaniel didn't go with Morrigan, but remained behind. While Malcolm didn't know what kept Nathaniel in the dining room, he did know what'd kept him there. His room had too many reminders for him to deal with, not so fresh from being rightly castigated by Morrigan. And it wasn't like he could go pass the time with his other friends, either here or the Hanged Man, not when his blowout with Morrigan had made everyone else so uncomfortable. And it was especially not like he could do anything of use, such as rescuing his family, because it wasn't a one-man operation, except for possibly the Maker.
So, he'd stayed in the dining room and had considered finishing off the half loaf of bread still on the table. To his surprise, Nathaniel did the same—staying, as well as eyeing the bread.
Then Nathaniel said, "I wanted to let you know that I've been searching for Anders, but I haven't found him. He's disappeared like a spirit would to the Fade."
Malcolm frowned. Wardens tracking Wardens tended to be far easier than anyone else trying to find a Warden. Add in that Nathaniel was an exceptional tracker, and him not finding Anders was more than worrisome. "You can't sense the darkspawn taint in him?"
"No. Might as well be gone for the nothing I've felt."
"Damn." There went the ability to quickly find a route into and out of the Gallows. When Nathaniel failed to strike up further conversation, Malcolm said, "Hildur's been blaming me for your disappearance for years."
Nathaniel's quirked eyebrow revealed that he had not realized. "I apologize. The decision was mine, not yours, and you couldn't have stopped me had you tried."
"Feel free to tell Hildur."
"If I see her, I will. But the darkspawn present a threat to Morrigan and Cianán, now that they've returned to Thedas." On mentioning the Wardens, Nathaniel gave up on pretense and took the bread. "A Warden needs to make sure he is never tainted, as much as Morrigan would like for me to return to the Wardens and leave her be."
"Morrigan's getting tired of you, is she?" Malcolm asked as the other Warden tore at the bread.
Nathaniel laughed to himself. "In a way."
He had no idea how to take that statement. As Nathaniel passed the leftover bread to him, Malcolm studied him in an attempt to divine what sort of relationship, or non-relationship, had formed between Morrigan and Nathaniel in Arlathan. After all, Nathaniel had been the only one of them to befriend Velanna, as much as Velanna could've been befriended. He'd tolerated her better than even any of Velanna's fellow Dalish, Líadan included. And just like before with Velanna, Malcolm wasn't sure if he wanted to ask Nathaniel for clarification. Maybe he'd ask Morrigan, once they managed to stop disagreeing on… he wasn't even sure what they were disagreeing about, at this point. Love of some sort, probably. In one way or another, they'd always disagreed about that, and he was beginning to think they always would.
When Malcolm didn't ask another question, Nathaniel told him he'd be welcome at the Hanged Man, and then left for the Lowtown establishment himself. Malcolm turned him down. He still believed it'd be too awkward. Plus, too many of their friends were the types to ask a lot of prying questions. All of them, possibly, with Sebastian being the only exception.
And he really didn't want to spend time with only Sebastian, not right now. He was too much a shiny prince, and he'd try to comfort him with the Chant or prayer or both or some convoluted story and Malcolm really didn't want to hear it. Not that he begrudged his friend for help he'd offer, but it tended to be the sort of help that made Malcolm want to punch Sebastian in the face.
He decided retiring to his room for the night to be the best idea.
On his way to his room, he overheard an intense argument going on in the garden outside—right, the other that'd been brewing at dinner. Wynne and Morrigan weren't holding back any less than he and Morrigan had, and sticking around to listen to it play out really didn't seem to be in his best interest. It'd hurt enough arguing with Morrigan himself.
His family's belongings laid out on the bed immediately drew his gaze, and the words of Morrigan's rebuke echoed in his head. The condemnation hurt all the more because he believed her to be right. He agreed. In trying to protect them from danger, they had ended up running into the arms of that very danger. He'd failed them. Each item he moved from the bed to the desk told him so, even the doe-eyed halla's look turning baleful. At first, the actions had reminded him of the time when he and Alistair had been left to go through their dead mother's belongings. Before long, Malcolm realized this time it was far worse.
It was amazing, really, the speed at which Morrigan was able to send him tumbling back to the barely twenty-year-old man who'd shared a relationship with her during the Blight. He'd wallowed back then, and Morrigan speaking each one of his self-recriminations out loud dragged him into the same mindset.
He couldn't afford that. His family couldn't afford that sort of luxury. Yet he wouldn't be able to clear his mind enough to focus until he and Morrigan finished the caustic exchange they'd begun earlier in the library. The specter of their unresolved argument prevented him from sleeping well, if at all. Most of his night was spent waking from a shallow, unfulfilling sleep. The one time he did manage to stay asleep for a significant amount of time, the Fade took him to a field he'd dreamed about before, where he saw people fleeing a falling city from where he stood in a meadow. Unlike before, no raven or crow waited on the rock that jutted out of the middle of the field. Yet, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dragon take flight.
Why couldn't Flemeth just pay a man a normal visit?
Before he could ask, he woke up again.
He certainly wouldn't be getting back to sleep after that, so he got up. And since he was in the middle of an argument with Morrigan, he couldn't ask her about the dream or her mother, either. Grumbling to himself, he threw on clothes, left his armor, and headed for the distraction of the library. On the way there, he couldn't quite be distracted from the dream, because he couldn't figure out if Flemeth's presence was a solace or a threat. Though he'd continued to believe she was a danger all her own, every time she'd appeared in his life, it'd resulted in some sort of protection, either for him or people he loved. She'd rescued him and Alistair from the Tower of Ishal, she'd healed him of his scar at Drake's Fall. Then she'd let him go live his life, bidding him well, of all things. She'd intervened in some fashion with fate, making it possible for Ava to be conceived—though her asking them first would've been nice. Later, she'd aided in a battle in the Fade that not only allowed Ava to be delivered safely, but also ensured that Líadan lived through the birthing process without a demon forcibly possessing her.
It had been years since he'd noticed Flemeth's presence, or if she'd been around, he hadn't recognized it. And now here she was.
Yet he still wasn't certain if it meant his protection or his end. For all the unarguable good she had done, Flemeth still carried that dangerous potential of lethality. Her very being held a threat, and woe betide anyone who crossed her and incited her anger.
Maybe that was why he'd kept being afraid of her—why even Morrigan was also still afraid of her—because one never knew what exactly would ignite Flemeth's fury. Nor did they want to discover it, especially inadvertently.
She was around, that much he understood. And as much as her presence could be a threat, she could also be the thing that saved them.
Wynne was in the library. Knitting, of all things. He assumed Leandra had given her the supplies, or maybe Orana. Maybe even Shale. "Are you so far behind on knitting projects that you have to sacrifice sleep to finish them?" he asked quietly, because startling people this early in the morning—sod it, it was still night, who was he kidding—was incredibly rude.
"No. It merely gives me something to do. As I've grown older, I've found that sleep eludes me more often than not."
He studied her for a moment, taking in the extra lines in her skin that had formed over the years, how some of her knuckles had gone knobby, and recalled how she didn't move as fast as she used to, even during battles. Her skill with her magic had not faded, however, and neither had the sharpness of the mind behind her eyes. "You're not that old," he said when she looked up.
"Maybe I would have agreed with you, had you said so years ago, but I believe I've gone far beyond my allotted time. I had once believed the reason to be to help you and Alistair through the Blight, but then I kept living afterward. For all the spirit has done in sustaining my life, my body is yet one of a mortal human. Much as any of us wouldn't like to admit to our bodies breaking down as we approach the limits of our lives, there is only so much evidence you can ignore."
"Is this the part where you lie motionless in a bed with coverlets up to your chin, waiting for death to claim you? Wait, are you knitting those coverlets right now?"
Wynne stood and swatted him on the arm before she began to pack up her things. "I will do no such thing, and you know that. I'm not the sort of person who leaves things unfinished, young man. I'll see your family freed from the Gallows." She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder and then turned to him again. The lightheartedness had gone from her eyes, and now they revealed her worry and her determination. "I promise."
Really not liking the terribly serious turn their conversation had taken, he tried another, one that might carry some humor within it. "I heard you and Morrigan arguing last night," he said, his eyes flicking over to the window, where the garden lay below. "Didn't feel any magic, though. I assume there wasn't an actual fight?"
"No. We… came to an accord."
Well, she still sounded very serious. Time to fix that. "A pact of nonaggression, like what we have with the Qunari?"
Wynne half-smiled. "Something of the sort."
"Oh, I get it. You aren't going to tell me." Maker, she did this so often. Half the time, it really was to his benefit. The other half, not so much.
She raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want to know?"
"No." He was surprised to realize it, much less say so. "Best left between you and her. Picking it apart might undo it."
"Suffice to say, she and I will be able to fight on the same side, when the time comes."
"That's… good."
She gave his arm a fond squeeze. "We both have friends we want to see freed. It's enough to look past faults."
Seriously, sod the seriousness, however much truth was within it. "Faults of hers, I take it, and none of your own?"
Wynne laughed. "Sometimes, I think you know me too well, dear boy."
"Oh, back to 'boy' again. That means you're back to Wynne-bag, you realize."
"Then I will take my leave before it reaches that point. Try to get some rest. You'll need it in the days ahead."
She'd left the room by the time he'd tried to tell her to do the same.
What Malcolm most liked and most hated about the Amell estate was that it had a remarkable view of the Gallows far below. Though shadowed in the blue light before dawn, its profile was unmistakable. He alternated between studying the Gallows and looking hopefully at the mouth of the harbor. Maybe today would be when Fereldan or Warden ships arrived, providing a ready answer to the question of getting successfully in and out of the Gallows. But he couldn't let his hopes get too high. While Leliana had promised she'd send word, and he wanted to believe her, he'd be stupid to think he could put all his trust in her, if any.
He still watched, waiting.
What he hadn't also accounted for in the Amell estate was how some of its residents were incredibly early risers. Sebastian nearly scared him out of his boots, and Leandra's appearance right after was only marginally less startling.
"I am not surprised to find you here," said Sebastian.
"I was definitely surprised to see you, you ass. Walk normally, for Maker's sake, and not that sneaking around bit."
"I was not sneaking around. I merely walked quietly, having taken into consideration the time of day."
"Right, well, if you do that to me again, my heart will leap right out of my chest, and we'll both have to hope Fenris will agree to putting it back in there."
The corner of Sebastian's mouth quirked up in a smile. "I'm certain that if we asked nicely, he would oblige."
"In case you were wondering, that did nothing to make me feel better about you not sneaking up on me again."
"Likely because it wasn't intended to."
Malcolm sighed and returned his gaze to the window. "You've been hanging around Marian for too long."
"Aye. And you've been looking at the Gallows for quite some time. You're feeling guilty, are you not?"
"What, my staring out the window at the Gallows wasn't a dead giveaway? I thought the Prince of Starkhaven would be smarter than that." He put just enough bite into his reply to let Sebastian know that he'd like for him to go away and leave him alone. Sebastian was nice, he really was, but the perfect prince thing really tended to make him feel worse, not better.
Sebastian ignored the unspoken request. "Despite what you may believe, guilt isn't a punishment," he said as he looked out the same window as Malcolm. "It's a reminder of the things you haven't set right."
"The reminder is the punishment. Thanks for reminding me."
To Malcolm's surprise, Sebastian wasn't discouraged. "I do not think the Maker would will for your family to be taken from you twice. Remember this: the deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises."
He said nothing in return, preferring the half-hearted hope that rose within him as he looked out at the harbor to his brother-in-law quoting the Chant to him. Considering who had imprisoned his family, it seemed an unfortunate method of trying to—Malcolm wasn't even sure what Sebastian was trying to accomplish at this point. It couldn't be to make him feel better, could it? No.
"The Chant?" he heard Leandra say as she strode up the short flight of stairs. "Sebastian, truly. The Chant might make you feel better, but it won't do the same for him. The reason his family is locked up is because of the Chantry. Lines of the Chant or prayers offered to the Maker are the last things that would give anyone in his situation comfort." Leandra stepped between them and gave Sebastian a pat on the arm. "Leave this to someone far more experienced in these matters."
As Sebastian nodded and then walked away, Malcolm gave Leandra a questioning look. "As I recall, neither one of your daughters ended up in Chantry custody."
"No, they didn't," said Leandra. "But their father was, so I do know some of what you're going through. And however clumsily Sebastian might have said it, it doesn't take the truth out of it. Despite what Morrigan may have… inflicted on you, what's happened isn't your fault. Nor is it Líadan's fault, either. The true fault lies with a Knight-Commander who has stepped far beyond her bounds, and the Chantry policies that enable her."
"That seems a remarkable thing to say for someone who attends Chantry services as often as you do."
Having taken no offense, Leandra smiled. "There is good that the Chantry does, and there is much to be said about how our mages are better treated under their watch than if the Qunari controlled them, or if they were thrown into the dangerous, sanctioned, and rampant use of blood magic in Tevinter. When you get to the heart of what the Chantry teaches, I agree with it. What I've never agreed with is how Andraste's mortal followers carried out their dedication to the Chant."
"Is the Grand Cleric aware of your feelings about the Chantry?"
Leandra's smile became positively mischievous. "Who do you think I speak with when debating the finer points of Chantry theology? It certainly wouldn't be Sebastian, Maker bless him."
A short laugh burst out of Malcolm before he realized it was there. But the amusement didn't last long, not when he saw the Gallows lit golden by the rising sun and remembered who was in there. "I appreciate what you're trying to do," he said to Leandra. "I really do. But nothing you or anyone else says or does will take that guilt away or make me feel better until I've gotten my family out of the Gallows."
"It took the help of a templar for my Malcolm to escape the Gallows, and you haven't that sort of aid at your disposal. What you ask is no small thing."
Now he felt like an ass for shrugging off Leandra's attempts to help, which meant it was time to change the subject. "Well, I'm sure breakfast wouldn't hurt. Especially if there's pie. Also cheese."
Since Warden or Fereldan ships hadn't fortuitously sailed into the harbor that morning, Malcolm and the others stood around the appropriated table in the dining room later in the day. And, once again, they struggled to find a solution they would have even the slightest hope of accomplishing with their numbers. They fell abominably short of anything workable, despite the map and floor plans Marian and Sebastian had been able to cobble together. It didn't help that Morrigan spent the meeting being hostile, which had Malcolm responding with his own hostility.
Varric tried, Malcolm gave him that. He even mostly succeeded in getting some productivity out of them. "Hey, Princeling," said Varric, "you any good at bullshitting?"
"As it happens… no. Not at all." Malcolm crossed his arms as he glanced at Varric. "Why?"
"It isn't much, but I figured that if we can rustle up Blondie, that gives us at least three Wardens. You could try to talk Meredith into letting them out before more Wardens get here. Maybe she'll listen to reason."
"And here I thought you might be clever, dwarf," said Morrigan. "If this Knight-Commander was able to listen to reason, she would have done so by now, perhaps by not abducting a Grey Warden."
"She has a point, Varric," said Marian.
"Tracking down Anders is still a good idea," said Malcolm, after he finished glaring in Morrigan's direction. Maker forbid if she even tried to be civil.
"I tried to find him and have yet to," said Nathaniel. "He's proven remarkably difficult to track."
"I've got people on the lookout for him," said Marian.
Malcolm looked up from the map. "What kind of people?"
She shrugged. "The normal sort of folk you'd find in Darktown. Refugees, Coterie, the down and the desperate, those types. They really like getting paid, and I really would like to see Anders, and they won't see the good coin unless they actually get me to Anders. I think they'll see him eventually."
"Wardens are still the best option we've got," said Malcolm. "Varric, do you have a safe, quick way of getting a message to Ferelden?"
He pursed his lips. "I can get you safe or I can get you quick, but not both. Now, if you're wondering about getting a message to Ferelden, I already sent one to your brother. I'm assuming that once he gets it, he'll tell the Wardens."
Malcolm brightened. Varric had proven far more trustworthy and reliable than Leliana, which meant ships full of Wardens or Fereldan soldiers or both could be or even already were on their way. "He would, probably with a lot of yelling, but that'd be expected, really. And once the shouting was over with, Hildur would gather up a bunch of Wardens and head this way." He believed the Landsmeet would be angry enough to send Fereldans, but it'd take longer for a Fereldan army to muster than it would Wardens.
"By 'bunch,' how many do you mean?" asked Marian.
Malcolm shrugged. "Couple hundred, maybe? It'd depend on how many Wardens are on maneuvers, how many are well, how many are ready and able to travel, how many ships available and all that, but probably a couple hundred. Hildur's quite serious about people not messing around with her Wardens."
"So we're back to that plan." Marian tossed the stick of graphite Malcolm had given her onto the table. "The slow one."
Nathaniel flashed her an irritated look. "The plan requires patience, but it does seem the best at hand. It's the only one sure to succeed, if what Malcolm says is true."
Malcolm knew they wouldn't question his assessment of Hildur's response if they'd heard Hildur talk about her Wardens even once. Nathaniel should know better, the ass. "It's true. As long as she gets said message, she'll come knocking, a blade in each hand."
"Could be any day now," said Varric. "Been a while since I sent it."
Sebastian frowned at Marian before he picked up the graphite and handed it to Malcolm. "Is the wait bearable to you?"
He tapped the stick on the paper, not caring about the marks he left. "Much as I'd like to, we can't just go storming in there. That'd only get us lots of people dying, and not many rescued. Since we've got a plan and strategy, albeit slow—"
"As balls," said Isabela. "Slow as balls."
"Right," said Malcolm, "slow as balls. Even so, it's the best chance we've got at getting everyone out alive. We'll only get the one shot, I think, which means we have to do it right." Though if he believed for an instant that he could run into the Gallows and succeed in getting his family back, he'd drop everything and go right then. But Emrys was right—doing that would only get him killed and do nothing at all to help his family.
Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "You show a remarkable amount of restraint, considering who is imprisoned."
It wasn't a friendly observation. "I grew up," said Malcolm. "People do that, including me."
Morrigan said nothing, because of course she didn't.
"I think you have," said Merrill. "You were so young when I met you the first time, when your brother smashed the eluvian. Impatient, impulsive, and your temper—"
"Merrill." Malcolm rubbed at his temples. Morrigan's antagonism and Merrill being Merrill had gotten to him enough to spark a headache. "Not helping."
"Oh." Merrill's shoulders drooped, as if his words had deflated her, which they probably had. Then she perked right back up, because she had a resiliency that went unmatched by any other mortal. "Would it help to see it? I mean, there are guards on both sides now, but maybe seeing it finished and working will help while we wait. Plus the walking to the Alienage. Maybe we'll run into some thieves? Killing them has always helped Marian."
"Merrill," said Marian.
Merrill opened her eyes impossibly wide, the picture of innocence, even though both Malcolm and Marian knew it was an incredibly good act. "What? It's what you said. And I've seen you! You get all gleeful. It's wonderful, really. Well, aside from the killing. Probably not wonderful for the thieves."
"How about we just bring him down to the Hanged Man for a drink?" asked Varric. "Less killing, less blood, that sort of thing."
Getting outside seemed the best thing to do rather than remain cooped up in the Amell estate, probably sulking as Morrigan avoided him even though she was the one who said their fight wasn't over, and then Sebastian would probably try to help again, and, well. He took Varric and the others up on the offer.
Despite Varric and Isabela keeping up a conversation as they walked down the thousand steps of Kirkwall, Malcolm largely ignored them, his attention too much on the view of the Gallows and not the people talking beside and behind him. Maybe he could go look for Anders after they went to the Hanged Man, though he'd have to convince others to go with him. Marian might, and probably Isabela. He stayed deep in thought as they made their way through the Lowtown market, including when Isabela picked off a would-be pickpocket. Malcolm was briefly tempted by the smell of meat pies, but before he had the chance to consider if they were safe or not, he was knocked down.
Not just down, but carried sideways in the air until he landed and skidded along the ground on his back. He pushed hard with his arms, hands shoved into the attacking dog's fur as he tried to heave it off him. The dog was relentless, and as they slowly slid to a stop against an alley wall, he couldn't keep the huge dog's face away from his. But as the dog—mabari, he noted—shoved its face through his arms and began to lick his face instead of biting his face off, he realized it wasn't an attack at all. It was aggressive friendliness often meted out by Líadan's mabari.
"Revas!" he shouted, followed by throwing his arms around the mabari's neck and burying his face in her brindled fur. "Thank the Maker you're alive. Really." And he meant it.
"You bleeding mutt!" shouted a man running into the market. "Look what you've done!"
"I think it's all right, Gamlen," Merrill said to the man as he drew to a halt when he saw her, Varric, and Isabela. "They know each other."
"I suppose that dog had to belong to someone," said Gamlen.
"She's my wife's mabari," Malcolm said as took a rag out of his pocket to wipe off the dog drool. Happy as he was to see Revas, the drool was rapidly becoming irksome. Also gross.
"And?" asked Gamlen.
"And somewhat important, considering Princeling's status in Ferelden," said Varric.
"He's a prince!" said Merrill. "That makes Revas nobility, doesn't it?"
Gamlen sighed. "Only in Ferelden." He followed it with a muttered, "Bloody dog lords, the lot of them."
"That we are," said Malcolm.
Before Gamlen could manage to form an appropriate reply to Malcolm, he was distracted by having finally taken note of Isabela's glare.
Out of all of them, she seemed the most irritated, and when Gamlen looked her way, her glare only hardened. "You could have said something to Hawke."
"Lirene swore me to secrecy! Said she thought she recognized the poor thing and didn't want whoever started the job of trying to kill her to finish it. Thought it was the templars, but wasn't sure. Said that once it was safe for me to tell, I could tell. She hasn't told me it was safe!" Gamlen waved an angry hand at the mabari. "So there's the bloody mutt, all properly healed up. Close to death, she was. She's lucky Lirene was sharp enough to drag her off before anything else happened, and that Charade knows what she's doing when it comes to healing poultices and potions and things. A wonder, that girl is."
Revas gave him an appreciative bark.
He waved dog off again. "Yeah, well, don't thank me too much. I'm a Kirkwaller, not a bloody Fereldan. I still don't like dogs, and that includes you." Then he turned and headed back to his home in Lowtown, grumbling about dogs and Fereldans and dog lords and how was he supposed to know and no one bloody tells him anything and he'd only been trying to help and sod them all, for all he cared.
"Out of curiosity," said Malcolm, "who was that?"
"Hawke's uncle," said Varric. "You didn't notice the resemblance?"
"Marian's—really?"
"Gamlen Amell, scion of the Amell family of Kirkwall, living in a Lowtown hovel while he's been invited more than once to live in the Hightown estate."
"He's nicer than he seems," said Merrill. Then she furrowed her brow. "Well, I think he has to be, since he helped with Revas."
"Better secret keeper than I would've thought," Varric said with a nod. "I never knew he had that dog, not this whole time. I'll be damned."
Merrill smiled as Revas broke away from Malcolm to trot a happy circle around the elf. "This is wonderful," she said, giving the mabari a good scratch on the back when the dog stopped and leaned against her. "I never thought… I mean, I'd hoped, but I hadn't really thought—"
"We know what you mean, Daisy," said Varric.
Revas returned to Malcolm, who still hadn't picked himself up off the ground. Not that he particularly cared, even in the middle of Lowtown, with passersby shooting him curious looks. They'd found Líadan's mabari, alive. That had to count for something, and he had no intention of letting that feeling of hope go. Not when he could put his arms around the great big dog and draw his life from before that much closer.