Thanks to FellowNrd, millelibri (x 2), anon (no, he hasn't forgotten!), JordanMathias, reality deviant, none, borismortys, Mike3207, Genericrandom, lazyguy90, Suilven, The-Demon-of-Soul-Society, spectre4hire, Liso66, Nightbrainzz, Ronin Kenshin and Ygraine33 for all the encouragement and suggestions. I do listen and I do try to respond. I'll apologize here if I left anyone out-it wasn't intentional.
To the best of my recollection, at Ostagar Duncan mentions that the Circle Mages get the collected darkspawn blood ready for the Joining. Or maybe they're making the Joining potion itself, though I might be wrong about that. Short of backtracking in game, I can't check on it and I don't have time to do that at present. Certainly, if you take Awakenings and Varel into consideration, the Grey Wardens seem to be oddly lax about keeping some of their secrets. But then, if a mage is needed to fix the potion, then how do the Awakenings potions get made? It's not Anders doing it, at least not at first.
At any rate, that throwaway line resulted in some of this chapter.
Fergus was in a place that held nothing but rage and desperation and duty. A Cousland always did his duty. One of Bryce's sons was fulfilling that to the utmost on top of Fort Drakon; the other could not fail in his here, not matter the outcome of that first battle.
One of Ferelden's premier warriors, with more than his share of tournament victories, had Howe's men attacked him directly rather than from ambush, they would never have prevailed. But today, good as he was, Fergus knew that he'd stepped outside himself, had become something more, a killing machine. The more darkspawn he hewed down from the back of the horde, the fewer there would be to reach Corin. He refused to believe that it was hopeless.
Couslands also did not lead from behind. Fergus was in the van and in the thick of things, totally unaware of the awe and respect of the men who watched him as he tried single-handedly to slay the entire horde.
BOOM! There was an explosion of light at the top of the tower, and a wave of sound and wind that reached even to where they were, now fighting before the gates of the city. It echoed, in fact, over the entire valley.
And the darkspawn just stopped, all paused for a moment, before they began dropping their weapons and trying to stumble away, to escape.
It's done, he realized. The Archdemon is dead. It's done, and Pup's either alive or not. The desperation left him-there was nothing he could do to help Corin now. The rage cooled, into something less angry, more calculating, but no less dangerous.
"They wanted into the city?" he thundered to his nearest lieutenants and anyone within earshot. "THEN KEEP THEM HERE! AND KILL THEM ALL! NO MERCY!" Any darkspawn that got away today would probably have to be dealt with eventually, tainting more land and people before they died.
A guttural roar answered him, as the Fereldans who had suffered at the hands of these creatures for the last year suddenly realized that they now had the upper hand. The darkspawn frantically trying to pour back out of the gate were met with a bristling wall of steel.
Arrows hissed as Mithra and her people slipped silently through the wooded hills around the verge of the valley. The hunting was more sparse than it would have been closer to the pitched battle, but they were still making a difference.
Mithra had no quarrel with the Warden for sending them away. He knew better than most shems how the Dalish lived and fought. He'd used her and her people intelligently in the one wide-open area of the city, and not a single Dalish had been lost. Then he'd let them go to fight as they thought was best and most effective, rather then keeping them to be hemmed in and trapped in the stone corridors of the keep.
She spared a thought as she hunted for the Dwarvish captain who had stayed behind, the one who claimed that he was dead, as did the others who wore the black armor. Having spoken to him once or twice upon the race up from Redcliffe, she still didn't begin to understand some of the strange beliefs the durgen'len held, but there had been some similarities between the two of them, an odd feeling of kinship. The Legionnaire dwarves tattooed their faces as to show that they were dead spirits of protection that had been given to the Stone, even as the Dalish did to show respect to their gods and call down their protection. Mithra was a First Hunter, charged with the protection of her own people and Kardol and his people were the ones out in the dark, the outlier of defense for Orzammar.
And she knew from talking to him that he felt the same way about the crushing weight of stone that he lived under, the myriad rocks with their veins of sparkling minerals, the cave pools and with their strange, blind creatures, the underground springs with the freshest, rawest water on Thedas, even the lava flows, that she did about her forest home and all of its beauties. Speaking of those things, he'd spoken almost poetically, to the point that she'd actually thought it might be interesting to see his underground kingdom just once, very briefly. But no more than that. To be closed away from the sun and the open air forever would have been the death of her.
Equally horrible to Kardol would be a death under the open sky, but it was entirely likely that would happen. She'd seen the flood of darkspawn towards the city. He was trapped now. She took a moment to send the oddest prayer of her life to the Creators, that they might encourage the Stone to succor its children come to war on the surface. Mithra had no idea if that would do any good, but it made her feel better.
BOOM! The branches of the trees tossed suddenly, and a rain of autumn leaves came down. Under the trees the light was not a blinding flash. The dappling light of the forest floor just grew brighter for a moment.
"What was that?" one of the hunters behind her muttered. Mithra raised her hand and the party came to a halt, extending all of their senses. The oppressive sense of wrongness that had lain beneath the conscious level of her thoughts since they drew near to the city was lessened suddenly. The breeze rose and it seemed cleaner somehow.
"Creators!" she exclaimed. "I think the Wardens might have slain the Archdemon!"
"The corruption," one of the female hunters noted, "it seems to be weaker now."
"We need to go back towards the city and find out what happened," Mithra said, and gestured them onwards.
They encountered darkspawn twice on their way back towards Denerim. In both instances, the creatures put up no resistance whatsoever, fleeing their approach. Dalish arrows were unerring, however, and none that they met survived.
"This isn't combat any more," Deygan noted after the second encounter. "It's more like target practice. The Archdemon must be dead." They all looked at each other and smiles broke out.
"Creators will it so," Mithra said, and they hurried on.
Anora and Eleanor both had spyglasses of their own by now, but even with those, could truly discern little of what was going on. There was no way to pick out Fergus; he was not fighting under Ferelden's banner and his dragonbone armor was a dull color that blended in to the blacks and browns and blood of the battlefield. And certainly no way at all to discern anything about the crucial battle taking place on the roof.
The clamor of the battlefield came to them only as a dull roar. "Is that Waking Sea over on the right flank?" the Queen asked the teyrna. "I thought I saw Alfstanna's head for a moment." To be able to know anything definite about what was going on would be a comfort.
"Yes, I think those are her colors," Eleanor agreed, training her glass in that direction. "Looks like she might have some Dalish with her as well." The teyrna's voice was absolutely calm, which impressed Anora. She thought of the tiny glow of the new life within her. Eleanor had done that twice successfully (and a couple of times not), and had invested years in loving, teaching and caring for the two sons she risked on the battlefield today. All that time, effort and love, so easily wiped out in a moment by a spear or sword, by arrow or axe.
Women are the true builders of the world, Anora thought. There were few people in Ferelden she respected as much as she respected Eleanor Cousland at present. She had always enjoyed the teyrna's company, but the way Eleanor had responded to the events at Highever had lifted her in Anora's esteem enormously. Having lost everything she held dear, Eleanor had still managed to put her peoples' welfare first, had still managed to inspire and lead them against their oppressors. Bryce Cousland had been offered the crown by the Landsmeet. Had he accepted, Ferelden would have had a magnificent queen in Eleanor.
And who knows, I might still have been tending the gardens at Gwaren…
BOOM! White light exploded from the roof of Fort Drakon. The noise made both women jump. Moments later, the wind from the blast reached them, sending a sudden skirl of leaves dancing. Both spyglasses turned in that direction, but could still see nothing, save for a dissipating shimmer of light.
"Do you think…" Eleanor trailed off hopefully.
"It must have been!" Anora answered. "I can't think of what else that could be. And listen!"
The tenor of the roar from the battlefield was changing from the deep growling roar of mortal conflict to triumphant shouting.
"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me," Eleanor chanted softly, her face composed. But there was fear in her green eyes and Anora thought she could tell what the teyrna was thinking.
The Archdemon is dead. But what of my sons?
The refugee camp was even farther away. It was impossible to see much of anything when the towers of Denerim were small on the horizon, but nonetheless, as the day of the battle wore on, people congregated on the side of the camp nearest Denerim, to stand quietly and wait while the fate of their world was decided. The omnipresent arguments over food, the best places to camp, petty domestic disagreements-these all ceased. Children, sensing the ominous aura that hung over everything, abandoned their usual games and kept close to their parents' sides.
Agnetha moved among them, stopping from time to time to lead a group in prayer, speaking words of encouragement. As she did so, her thoughts turned to the young, burdened Prince whom she had twice blessed.
"The Senior Warden says that for the Blight to end, the Archdemon must be killed by a Warden, and that when the Warden kills the Archdemon, their souls will collide and both souls will be destroyed. I don't mind dying to stop the Blight. I really don't. And neither do the other Wardens. We all understand that it has to be done and that it is a worthy sacrifice. But the idea of my soul being destroyed, of never coming to the Maker-that is extremely troubling to me."
Agnetha had never met the other three Wardens, though she thought that she might have seen one of them-the tall, burly, handsome noble with the golden-brown hair at the funeral had seemed to be particularly close to the Prince. But she sent a silent prayer to the Maker for them as well and hoped that she'd been right when she'd told Corin that his soul would not be destroyed.
Surely that is not a price the Maker would require to end the Blight! Surely the willingness to make the sacrifice should be enough!
Had she erred in advising Corin so? Certainly it had seemed to hearten him, to bring him comfort. Was that a bad thing, even if it were not true? She had not lied intentionally, she'd spoken to him from her heart. But now she was all too aware of how little she actually knew, how unworldly she was, unfit to be the confidant to a prince. The Revered Mother had certainly emphasized that in her discussion after the second blessing, though she had also admitted she thought that Agnetha had done perfectly well.
"Royals often have a cleric they feel a special relationship with, Agnetha, and choose to cultivate that by making the cleric their private confessor. I know that you did not put yourself forward in either of your encounters with the Prince. I am not accusing you of seeking to gain influence, but he does seem to be quite taken with you and it is not an impossibility that he might request you for such a position later. Things of course are too unsettled now, but I must ask you to consider honestly if you would be suited to advise a king, should he request you. You know nothing of politics, and while our counsel is primarily spiritual, could you truly comprehend the nature of the pressures he would be experiencing, given that you grew up in a small, rural chantry? Do you know enough to advise him wisely, should he ask you for more secular counsel?"
Agnetha had readily agreed that she did not, and the Revered Mother had seemed quite satisfied and even pleased.
"You were thrown in over your head, child, not once, but twice and you seem to have performed admirably. I do not wish you to think that I am chastising you. Quite the contrary. I just wished to bring to your attention things, which I, because of greater years and experience, am aware of. I've spoken to the Grand Cleric about you. We'll have to see if we can't get you some additional training and guidance-you appear to have great promise."
That had never come to pass, given the chaos of recent events. Agnetha suspected she wasn't quite so much in the Revered Mother's good graces now, given her desertion. But there were certain things which she knew to be right, certain actions she knew the Lady would wish her to take, and she would do them, no matter the opposition. Even if that opposition came from her superiors in the Chantry.
What had been a mighty booming sound closer to Denerim registered more as a distant clap of thunder here, but the bright explosion of light could be plainly seen and set off murmuring and exclamations in the watching crowd that were half-fearful, half-hopeful. Several small children started crying. Agnetha moved to the front of the crowd, eyes intent upon that light, oblivious to the questions as she passed.
"Sister, what is it?" "Sister Agnetha, was that the Archdemon?" "Do the darkspawn have some sort of weapon that does that, or is that our men?"
Please, dearest Lady, she prayed silently once again, please watch over the Wardens as they do their duty, and if one of them must die, please see him or her safe to the Maker's side!
Suddenly there was a Voice in her mind, a Voice she'd never heard before, but had been listening for all her life, as she had gone about her duties in the gardens and sanctuary of the chantry in West Reach, as she had prayed in the depths of the night both there and in Denerim. A woman's voice, warm and beautiful, that thrilled her down to the depths of her soul.
Sing, My meadowlark! Give praise to the Maker, for Ferelden has been delivered this day! The Blight is ended!
For a moment, she was unable to move, basking in the warmth and love of the Presence. Then it withdrew and she became aware of the world around her once more. Agnetha turned to face the refugees, raising her hands for silence.
"Praise be to the Maker and his Bride, for we have been delivered this day!" she cried, her face glowing. "The Archdemon is dead!"
Brother Genitivi and Mother Boann, who were also in the crowd, looked at each other with raised eyebrows. There was absolute certainty in Agnetha's voice, the sort of certainty it was unthinkable to question. The refugees believed it, and began to cheer. Agnetha raised her chin and opened her mouth and her lovely voice lifted in a paen to the Maker. Her eyes were alight and she was smiling as she sang, but there were tears on her cheeks.
Wounded coming up from the battlefield could tell Anora and Eleanor little at first, other than that the darkspawn were fleeing, totally routed. About an hour after the explosion, Fergus finally sent a runner up.
"Your Majesty, Teyrna," the young soldier said, bowing deeply. "The Teyrn sends his regards and says to tell you that the Archdemon is dead and that the darkspawn are in retreat. He is currently sending squads through Denerim and about the outskirts to kill as many as possible."
"Is the Teyrn well?" Eleanor promptly asked. The man smiled.
"Very well, my lady. He said you'd ask."
"And what of the Prince and the other Wardens?" Anora inquired.
"The Prince himself slew the Archdemon," the runner said, shaking his head in wonder. "'Tis said that it was marvelous to watch. He was wounded in the explosion afterwards, but has had some healing. They're bringing him back now." Anora and Eleanor both looked at each other and smiled in relief. "The Teyrn has told off men to see him safely back." The soldier turned to look back towards the gates and gestured. "There, you can see them now."
The two women looked to where he was pointing and could see a large group of people moving towards them across the valley. Eleanor looked at Anora, elation on her fine-boned face.
"I'll go tell Wynne he's coming."
The golem was carrying Corin, and laid him down in the space before the healer's tent. Anora and Eleanor immediately started to go to him, only to be stopped by a bark from Alistair.
"NO, Your Majesty, my lady! Not unless you want to be ghouls! He's covered with Taint! The rest of you, give us some space as well!" Curious onlookers and those who had escorted Corin gave back a few paces, daunted by this new, forceful Alistair.
The golden armor was smeared and dappled with blackish blood, though Corin's face was clean enough, those ridiculous black lashes fanning over his cheeks. Alistair did not stand on ceremony. He and Cauthrien, both about as filthy as Corin, immediately began stripping the Prince of his armor, taking the pieces over to a clear spot of ground well away from the infirmary tents. His clothing followed, save for his smalls and Starfang was placed there as well. Alistair, spying the silk ribbon which still bound his left hand, examined it, then threw Anora an apologetic look.
"Sorry, Your Majesty, but there's Archdemon blood on this," drew his dagger and cut it off, adding it to the pile along with Corin's shirt.
Wynne was waiting with a bottle of herbal concoction the mages were using to wash wounds and hopefully kill the Taint.
"Wynne, get a primal on that stuff as soon as you can, if there is anybody with any juice left. The whole pile needs to be fired. Don't worry about the armor, we can re-strap it again-burn everything else to ash."
"Certainly, Alistair." The old enchanter was wearing a pair of thin leather gloves, and she immediately knelt and began sponging Corin with the liquid, her brow furrowed as she studied him.
"What do you think?" the acting Warden-Commander asked anxiously.
"That someone did an awful lot of healing to keep him here. Skull, ribs, pelvis, a couple of vertebrae cracked and I suspect quite a bit of internal damage. I can still sense the fractures, but they've healed more than I would have thought possible. Was all of this potions?"
"Potions and Morrigan. She was really on her game."
Wynne's eyebrows rose. "Apparently. Has he been conscious at all?"
"No, not yet. Groaned a bit once, that was about it."
She finished the sponge bath with quick efficiency and gestured to a couple of assistants. "Get a stretcher and let's get his Royal Highness inside and warmed up." The men hurried to comply, lifting Corin with gentle respect and laying him on the stretcher. The crowd, seeing that the show was over, began to disperse, muttering things like, "Maker keep you, Your Highness." Wynne was about to follow Corin into the tent when Alistair spoke again.
"Wynne. I need something else from you."
She turned back, her wrinkled face puzzled, but also gently compassionate. "I can't give you any guarantees yet, Alistair. I don't know enough about what is going on with Corin. But I think he's just in some sort of shock and will most likely wake up eventually."
"That's not what I need. I need every clean, empty potion bottle you can give me. And I need you. Now. Grey Warden business."
Her grey eyebrows arched in surprise, but she nodded. "I'll have someone see what can be found for you in the supply tent. And find someone to look after Corin. I'm at your disposal, of course. By the way, where's Surana? She didn't…" her voice trailed off.
Alistair shook his head. "She's fine. Well not fine, exactly, she way over-extended herself and is a bit off her head from too much lyrium. I left her with Irving and the other mages. I figured they'd know best what to do."
Wynne nodded, seeming to be genuinely relieved, which spoke well of her, since she obviously returned Surana's dislike. "You did just as you ought. They'll be able to sort her out, unless she really took too much, in which case…"
Alistair felt a pang of grief at the thought, that the intrepid little enchanter might die after all she'd accomplished. Wynne, seeing his face, temporized.
"It doesn't happen often, Alistair, and primals are usually pretty resistant since they throw so much right back out. She'll more than likely be all right. She just won't be throwing any more magic than lights a candle for the next bit and maybe not even that. It will hurt too much." She sighed and rolled her shoulders wearily. "Let me see what I can find for you in the way of bottles. What about the rest of them?" She gestured towards the rest of the party, and Alistair turned to his companions.
"Everything off and in the fire pile, like we did with Corin, down to the smalls and go wash up. Shale, you're caked. You need to stand still and let some of the mages go over you with Burning Hands. I know it will smart, but please, don't squish them."
The golem's brows drew down. "I can't say that I'm much pleased at the prospect, but it is true, I don't sparkle at all at present. Very well, then."
Zevran Arainai chuckled. "Here we are, songbird, the two of us getting publicly naked at once and I'm too damned tired to care. Fate is cruel." Leliana giggled, but Sten shot the assassin a glare.
"Do you never think of anything but fornication?" the Qunari growled. Zevran seemed to give the question a moment's serious consideration before shaking his head.
"No, not really."
Pooka looked towards the tent wherein Corin had vanished and whined plaintively. Alistair laid a hand on his collar.
"Sorry, Pook, you can't go in there just now. Not until you're clean."
"What are we going to do about him?" Leliana asked. "You can't do Burning Hands on Pooka."
"I know. Pook will just have to be washed with that herbal stuff, really, really thoroughly. I'll do it myself when I come back. Until then, you're with me and Cauthrien, Pook. And no licking yourself!" The mabari made one of his grumbling sighs, then flopped onto the ground to await further orders.
Wynne's assistants were able to find two chests full of potion bottles in varying sizes and Alistair took an oxcart to carry them in, as well as some of the herbal concoction. He'd seen how Cauthrien was limping and Wynne was obviously exhausted. He acquired some blankets and food as well, thinking that they might just want to camp on the roof for the night, rather than try to make it back across the valley yet again.
"Why don't you bed down in the back, Wynne?" he suggested as they prepared to start out. "Get some rest. I'll need you to be able to cast when we get where we're going."
"I take it this is not a fight?" the old enchanter asked.
"No. We're collecting something and we need you to preserve it."
"Collecting…Oh, I see. Of course. Thank you, I think I will get a nap." Alistair made all of the blankets into a reasonably well-padded nest for Wynne, who drew the last one over herself and immediately fell into slumber. Pooka hopped up on the seat with Alistair and Cauthrien, looking abut watchfully as they progressed slowly across the valley.
The sun had long set, and the moon was well risen in the now-clear sky, lighting their way quite nicely. Tendrils of fog were rising over the field. Alistair couldn't hear any signs of combat. It was uncanny, how quickly the huge number of darkspawn had just melted away. Scattered across the valley in random places were campfires, where the squads pursuing the darkspawn had stopped for the night and made camp.
"We need to talk," Cauthrien said in a low voice after they'd been traveling for about half an hour.
Alistair threw a glance over his shoulder at the sleeping mage and shook his head.
"I know. But now is not the time."
"Are you all right with her knowing about this, by the way?"
"Better Wynne than anyone else. She reveres Grey Wardens. And besides, I think she might already know about it. Duncan had the Circle mages making the Joining potion at Ostagar."
Cauthrien frowned. "Really? That doesn't make any sense at all! How can you keep one of the biggest secrets of the Order if you're letting random Circle mages make your Joining potions? Shouldn't you have your own mages doing it?"
"Duncan didn't have any Warden mages in the Fereldan Wardens and apparently they'd not sent him any from any place else," Alistair admitted, then with a sigh, added, "I have to agree with you on that one, Cauthrien. Don't tell Corin, but I'm beginning to think that a lot of what the Grey Wardens do doesn't make any sense." Including some of the stuff Duncan did…
Ever afterwards, that night was graven on Alistair's memory as something almost as horrible as the day's battle, for he was beyond bone weary when he'd begun, but knew that there was no choice but to complete the gruesome task. It might have even been left too late as it was, the magical virtue in the Archdemon's blood fading shortly after its death.
Which is the First Warden's own damned fault for not sending any Wardens in here to help us! I guess he figured that there would be no way we'd succeed, that he could just let Ferelden be Blighted to death and kill the Archdemon someplace more convenient, with a whole company of Wardens and Warden mages to bleed it dry. But now no one is here but Cauthrien and myself, and Wynne. I certainly hope he's got enough of Andoral's blood on hand to last another four hundred years, if this is spoiled! What a colossal idiot! He may very well have single-handedly killed his own Order!
Cauthrien had a good hand with oxen, having grown up on a farm with them. Slow as they were, they were bound to be more placid than horses would have been about going up the corpse-choked road into the city. Alistair found himself dozing as he sat, and jerked upright guiltily. Cauthrien looked over at him and smiled.
"It's all right, so long as we're not both napping at once. Tell you what-you let me take a nap right now while we're out in the valley, then I'll let you nap when we're in the city, since I'm better at handling these big boys."
It was a very sensible solution to the problem. He took up the goad and let Cauthrien settle against him. She was asleep and softly snoring in moments, as any experienced soldier would be.
He got his own respite in when they reached the city, though the little nap made him crave full-fledged slumber that much more. When he awoke, they were at the gates of Drakon. Blinking blearily, he looked about in puzzlement.
"How did you get the oxen up the steps?"
"There are back ways up to the palace. Delivery routes and such. I know this city," Cauthrien said, wincing as she got down from the cart. "But we're on foot from here on out. You go wake Wynne up and I'll see to the oxen."
It took some serious shaking, more than he would have liked, to wake Wynne, and she looked even blearier than he did when he succeeded, looking about in mild confusion for a moment before she oriented herself.
"You're going to have to carry the chests up by hand, aren't you?" she asked Alistair.
"Afraid so. We're going to be here a while," he responded. "And you have to make both those trips with us, because we don't want to leave anyone alone."
Wynne looked about the still, moonlit city, eerily silent after the tumult of the day. "That's not a problem," she said with a hint of her usual briskness. "I definitely think I prefer two trips with you to the alternative."
Getting those chests of bottles across the valley, through the city and up to the roof was Alistair's ride to Redcliffe, he decided in the end. It was laborious and endlessly, torturously wearisome. Once they were in Drakon there were half a dozen times when he wanted to simply stop and slump down against one of the walls and sleep, the darkness within the fortress not helping matters, but the thought that they might miss out on saving the Archdemon's blood drove him on. The relief he felt when they finally had all of the bottles out on the roof and Wynne surveyed the Archdemon and said the blood was still fresh enough to have virtue was overwhelming. And short-lived, when she added that they needed to get moving to draw what they could before dawn.
"Sun-change sometimes alters the magical properties of things. It was killed right before sunset and that doesn't seem to have affected matters, but I don't think we want to take a chance now, do we?"
Both Wardens agreed that that was certainly the case and stifling groans, took up bottles, and began to look for likely places to bleed the dead monster.
They finished just before dawn. Alistair and Cauthrien would fill the bottles, then wipe them down. Wynne would spell each one individually without touching it, then the Wardens would put the bottles away in the chests.
As the eastern sky grew pink, they wearily surveyed their handiwork.
"Think upon it," Wynne said reverently. "This is centuries, generations of Grey Wardens here." Which rather definitively answered the question about whether she knew exactly what the blood was for. She probably was the person who'd prepared the potion at Ostagar, in which case Duncan had trusted her and Alistair had certainly made the right choice to include her.
Looking upon the preserved blood, Alistair felt anything but reverent, his mood darkened by exhaustion, his earlier reflections upon political stupidity and not knowing his best friend's fate. "I know just what Corin would think of this," he told Cauthrien in a mutter that reached her ears alone. When his fellow Warden gave him a quizzical look, he smiled grimly. "Leverage."