"The Grey Wardens hold a lonely vigil, enduring lives of hardship and sacrifice to protect the world from an evil that can never truly be conquered.

Few would volunteer for this: the suffering, isolation, and promise of a violent death.

But the path of a Warden is also one of valour, and those who give themselves to the cause are rewarded with the knowledge that they have become something more than they were."


Kenna thought it wouldn't hurt so much, it wouldn't cut so deep, that she had prepared herself enough, that her dreams had prepared her enough, but that was a lie.

There was still a hole in her heart, a great gaping wound that used to hold the steady presence her parents, used to hold Oriana's smile and love, and it was weeping blood and pain, anger and grief, as they followed the Wardens and their two recruits, Caitlyn's arm tight around her and her pack hanging off one shoulder.

Cait kept giving these hitched breathes as she was doing her best not to cry, not to break down into tears and loose all the tight control she had over herself, each hitched inhale and shaky exhale made the wound in her heart throb angrily, painfully, and Kenna roughly rubbed at her eyes with the back of her fist.

Bran's back was taunted in the dim light as he walked in front of them, hand wrapped tight around the hilt of family-sword—a sword he would have to give up before he took the chalice and became a Grey Warden—and there was the odd tremble to his shoulders from supressing his own emotions.

That man—Duncan—lead them down the tunnel with only Lileas' mage-lights to see and didn't seem bothered by the massacre they had left behind, the way he had stood calmly before their dying father and blackmailed him to get his precious recruit—just thinking about it almost made her see red.

Arian was just behind him, one arm wrapped around the strong shoulders of Sirena as they followed.

"I can heal that if you wish," Ciarron offered as he twisted next to Bran to look at Cait, the dim light casting his bearded face into shadows.

"I'm fine," Cait declined after a pointed look at Ciarron's hands, still glistening with their father's blood, and Ciarron jerked, rubbing his hands on his robes almost frantically.

"Maker," he breathed in a tone of horror, "I'm so sorry."

"You're compassionate," Kenna spoke up, Bran's shoulder twitched, and her mind more focused on the pain in her chest then what she was saying, "I never could decide if that was a good thing or not."

"Pardon?" Ciarron blinked at her, confusion almost oozing from him.

"It's nothing," Bran insisted in a sharp snap as Caitlyn squeezed her closer like she was trying to mend them together, "just leave it."

Ciarron's shoulders slumped slightly as he faced forward as they continued walking down the long tunnel.

"I'm sorry," he repeated to them softly, heartfelt in his regret for everything that had happened tonight and not just for offering to heal with his hands covered in their father's blood.

"I should be sorry," Kenna said almost numbly, "I didn't try hard enough, I should have, should have told them earlier, should have proved—"

"Kenna!" Bran snapped while Caitlyn almost whispered her name in a pained tone. "That's enough."

"Bran," Cait pleaded, arm tightening almost protectively around her, and Bran's shoulders tightened further before slumping in ashamed defeat.

"I'm sorry," he glanced over his shoulder at Kenna, "but please, stop."

Kenna chewed on her lip and nodded as cool slim fingers briefly wrapped around her wrist and squeezed.

"Thank you," Bran exhaled deeply in some relief.

Kenna kept putting one foot in front of another as she drifted and let images unfold in her minds' eye.

Fergus was safe, he and the forces had made camp and would continue at first light to get to Ostagar with all swiftness—worry and frustration would make him want to get there fast and release as much tension as possible fighting darkspawn.

They didn't have horses so they would be two weeks behind Fergus, when they arrived he wouldn't be there.

He would be leading a scouting mission, so they would be relieved from informing him, from having to tell him that Kenna had failed to save Oriana, to save his wife, that she hadn't known and hadn't tried hard enough to know when she first realised that she couldn't see Oriana's future, and it was—

Shadow's hand landed heavily on her shoulder, he must have squeezed himself through Lileas and Rosina, and he squeezed it tightly, breaking from her downward spiral of thoughts.

"Thank you," Kenna almost croaked, her throat tight, and Shadow kept his hand on her shoulder as they walked, just with the Surana sisters at their back instead of him.

The warmth of his hand seemed to soak through leather, chainmail and her woollen tunic, a silent but constant comfort.


"Were you ever going to tell me?" Rosina asked her quietly, her voice hushed, but it still seemed too loud in the enclosed tunnel, and Lileas winced slightly at the hurt undertone to her sister's voice.

"I don't know," Lileas admitted honestly as she reached up to play with the foci crystal and kept her gaze fixed on the board expanse of Shadow's back.

Lileas didn't know if she would have told Rosina, didn't know how she could just tell her if she had been able to decided too before she exposed her magic in front of everyone.

Lileas had never actually told anyone that she was a mage, had never had too:

Kenna had informed her, Giles had figured it out, Asaaranda's mother had been a mage and they knew what a foci-necklace looked like, and Shadow seemed to have a sixth-sense when it came to mages as he just seemed to take one look at her and know.

The Little Birds had probably spied on her to find out about her private lessons with Mirwen, and just never said a word—they knew how to keep a secret and they were all loyal to Kenna.

"Did you not trust me?" Rosina asked after a sharp inhale, "did you think I would turn you in? Did you think I would tell someone?"

"You would have told Lady Caitlyn," Lileas replied without any doubt, and the golden head of said lady twitched as if she was tempted to look behind her.

Because if the shoe was on the other foot?

Lileas knew she would have told Kenna, and no doubt the fiery-haired noble would have done the same thing for Rosina as she did for Lileas if only because of Lileas.

Because Lileas was hers, and Lileas loved her sister, and Kenna would want her to be happy and helping her sister, keeping her from the Tower, that would make Lileas happy and that would be enough of a reason for Kenna.

"Not if I thought it would put you in danger," Rosina grabbed her arm and forced her to look at her as they stopped, "you are the most important person in my life, I would have never put you at risk."

"But you knowing would have put you at risk," Lileas retorted, remembering the guilt and fear she felt as Kenna looked for a teacher, the knowledge that even her noble birth wouldn't protect her if someone figured it out, "if I was found out, if they knew that you knew and said nothing, you would have been punished. It was bad enough with Lady Kenna knowing and actively helping me hide it, I couldn't risk anything happening to you either."

"Lileas," Rosina softened, "I'm your big sister," the silent addition of 'your mother' was still heard between them and it was true in every way that mattered because what was a mother than a woman that looked after you, raised you, feed you, nursed you when you were sick and comforted you? Everything that Rosina had done despite only being six-years older than her. "I'm meant to protect you."

"And I'm your little sister," Lileas squeezed Rosina's hand, "with Lady Kenna as an example, can you really blame me for trying my hardest to protect you too?"

Rosina snorted softly in response, amused and perhaps slightly understanding Lileas' point, and they silently decided to catch up with the group.

Things had been aired, but it had still caused a rift between them, hurt feelings lingered.

But now wasn't the time to get into it, to try and settle it, not when they could still taste the blood in the air, and they hadn't yet reached the end of the tunnel, hadn't yet reached the promise of safety—imagined or real, it didn't really matter as long as it was away from here, from the blood and memories.

So, they just linked their hands, exchanging unspoken apologises and understanding with squeezes, as they continued to walk away from their home of the last nine-years and the ghosts that would now haunt the halls.


It was almost noon before Bran Cousland and Duncan both agreed to stop in the forest surrounding Highever and far from any beaten roads—something they were hopeful would mean the riders that Howe would no doubt send after them wouldn't find them while they took an hour or two of rest.

Sirena had sat herself down after almost dropping Arian flat on the dirt, the Dalish grunting and sending her a glare as shifted his aching body into a sitting position against one of the trees that circled the small clearing, and Sirena tended to her blades while keeping a discreet eye on the Couslands.

Ciarron had hesitated after setting the wards around their little 'camp', glancing to where the Cousland party was stripping off layers and shrugging off armour to check for wounds, looking like he was about to step forward and offer his healing before Lileas Surana stepped forward with the crystal around her neck glowing softly as she drew glittering runes in the air with one slim finger as she added her own wards to their side of the camp—the silent 'keep away and out' heard loud and clear by all of the Wardens and recruits.

(Sirena didn't try to figure out the hot rush and mix of feelings that Lileas and Rosina Surana invoked in her.

Alienage elves like her that were accepted by human nobles, who sat beside them and ate the same food, while Sirena had to steal to make sure that none of her family starved, when her family was hurt by human nobles, treated as lesser.

It is a childish envy mostly, and she didn't have time for that.)

Thankfully for Arian, Ciarron quickly moved over to him and did the magic-healing trick that Arian's Keeper had showed him.

Colour flooded slowly back into Arian's cheeks as he leaned back against one of the trees and let out a relieved groan, eyelids fluttering close as tension seeped out of his body.

Duncan was setting-up a campfire, utterly calm in face of being near hostile allies—and barely allies at that—in a way that almost always made the short hair on the nape of her neck stand up.

It implied confidence, a confidence that if they attacked then he could take care of himself, it was a confidence that she didn't want to see if it was just bravado or real.

Sirena kept an eye on the Couslands party—it looked like she was the only one that would, who could see the less then pleasant feelings that looking at Duncan invoked in them and she was used to seeing the worst in people, used to watching them and picking them apart.

Rosina Surana—elder sister to the mage, Lileas, fought with twin daggers, favoured leading with her right hand, quiet and subtle—was carefully cleaning the paste of Caitlyn Cousland's face, fresh blood bubbling up as the golden-haired Cousland kept as still as possible.

The Lady Caitlyn kept her bright blue eyes closed—younger sister to the recruit, Bran, and older sister to Kenna, preferred to keep her distance when she fought, sharp and controlled—and didn't let her mouth fall into a grimace under her handmaiden's gentle touch.

Neither of them would break the fragile peace between the two groups.

The Lady wasn't a fighter despite her skill with the bow, her real weapons were words and political power, not something she had in spades now her family's castle had been taken over and she was forced to run, and Rosina would follow her Lady's lead more than anything, Sirena figured.

If Duncan survived the Blight—and that was a rather big IF considering Duncan had confided to Alistair that he believed he was starting to hear the Calling within Sirena's hearing—and Highever was back under Cousland control, then Sirena could see her doing something, dealing a cold revenge for the treatment of her father in his final moments.

Sirena's gaze flickered over to Bran, the recruit—elder brother, dual-wielder, sword and dagger, block, parry, stab, protective—had stripped down to his trousers and was furiously cleaning his blades and armour clean of blood.

As long as his sisters' safety were guaranteed, he would do nothing against Duncan and would go through the Joining without complaint.

He was protective of both his younger sisters, had given up his life—given up his ship and crew, his freedom—to become a Warden in their place without a second of hesitation, hadn't even let Duncan try to pick his little sisters.

Sirena admired that, understood that, as she had done the same for her cousin.

She had stood alone to face justice, claimed full responsibility, to safe Soris from the noose.

It was also the best decision.

Bran was the eldest of the three of them, he had actual experience in fighting and was skilled at it.

Caitlyn wasn't a fighter, and Kenna was inexperienced due to her young age.

Bran was the only one that made sense to become the recruit—though Sirena wasn't sure if Duncan had actually chosen which Cousland he wanted as a recruit, she just knew that he had wanted one of the Cousland children as a Warden for some reason that Sirena didn't know and wasn't certain she wanted to know.

Which left, Sirena's gaze shifted and lingered on the youngest Cousland, the only real threat in the party.

Like her elder brother, Kenna Cousland had stripped down to just a shift and her trousers as she sat and ran her rough hands over the dark leather coat—another dual-wielder, two short swords, two daggers in her boots, parry, redirect, stab, slice, fierce—and had her mute Shadow pulling up her shift to prod at the bruises blossoming against her ribs—tall, capable with several weapons, strong, loyal—who had also stripped down to his trousers, showing off deep olive scarred skin over hard muscles—whips scars across his back, multiple and old, scarring around his wrist, an ex-slave that had sworn himself to the youngest Cousland despite being several years older.

Lileas Surana—mage, fought with a glaive first before her magic, powerful, loyal, protective—settled down beside her Lady and was carefully unpacking bandages and such from her pack with steady slim hands.

If someone was going to break the peace and attempt to attack them—Duncan, really—it would be Kenna Cousland and with those two right behind her and ready to defend.

Sirena had seen the seething hatred that had appeared in her gaze when she looked at Duncan in the pantry, she had felt such seething hatred in the past and she had killed the object of her hatred so she wouldn't be surprised if Kenna would do—or at least attempt to do—the same.

But only if her sister didn't restrain her, dampen her rage and hatred. Something that was very possible.

"I could help," Ciarron almost fidgeted as he stood on the invisible boundary-line between the two sides, sky-blue eyes lingering on Caitlyn's face and gazing on the bruises blooming across pale skin—a stark contrast to the rest of Kenna's sun-kissed golden skin. "I'm a healer."

"We're fine," Bran looked up from beneath his fringe of dark hair, his hand sliding a cloth sharply across his sword.

"But—" Ciarron's gaze lingered on Caitlyn's face.

"A scar won't bother me," Caitlyn informed him as she opened her eyes while Rosina carefully coated the wound with another layer that red paste, the untouched part of her mouth ticking up in a false smile.

Lie, Sirena noted as she peered closely at her daggers, twisting it in the light to make sure all the blood had been cleaned off, while Ciarron frowned lightly, unconvinced but not quite willing to push it.

"It's bruises," Kenna shrugged lightly as she turned her attention to her swords when Ciarron turned to her almost hopefully, "slap some paste on them, wrap the ribs just in case, and I'm fine."

"You're concern is appreciated, but unnecessary," Lileas added almost politely as she began to rub a pale paste into Kenna's probably aching ribs, the noble just letting a hiss escape as she kept still.

"You're in pain—"

"Our parents are dead," Bran pushed himself to his feet and glared at the mage making him take a step back, "our sister-in-law is dead, our home is in the hands of a traitor and murderer, of course we're in pain!"

He advanced, standing close, maybe just a foot away from Ciarron as he glared, his face twisted with grief and rage.

"Bran," Caitlyn exhaled deeply, sounding pained, "please, don't."

Bran stopped, still glaring, chest heaving with emotion before he slumped into himself, like the wind had been taken out of his sails and turned back to his discarded armour and weapon with a grunt that could be an apology.

Ciarron inhaled shakily, Sirena winced slightly, almost sympathetic on his behalf—he was almost too soft for his own good, Sirena remembered thinking when Duncan first invoked the right on the stunned and emotionally hurt mage that didn't even attempt to defend himself, sky-blue gaze directed to where his once-friend had been.

"I'm sorry," the mage said after a moment as he retreated back to Arian.

The Dalish had wanted with keen eyes and only held out a piece of jerky as Ciarron almost flopped next to him.

The human mage grimaced slightly in distaste, but still took the jerky and chomped at it.

Arian, satisfied that his comfort had been taken, shoved his own jerky in his mouth and chewed sharply and forcefully as he relaxed against the tree.

"Well," Sirena leaned back after she sheathed her dagger, "this is going to be pleasant trip back to Ostagar—I can already feel the warm fuzzy feelings in my chest."

"Sirena," Duncan sighed as he leaned back on his heels while Kenna snorted, amused despite herself.

"What?" Sirena flashed the noble girl a fierce grin, a wild bare of her teeth. "Can't you see we're bonding? We're going to be best friends by the end of this."

"As long as my brother remains in one piece, I suppose you wouldn't be too bad, Warden," Kenna bared her teeth back, wild and fierce, and Sirena's type of person—it was a shame that neither of them trusted the other, that they were straddling on a line between wary allies and enemies because of Duncan's cold-hearted and foolishly considered actions against the noble's dying father.

"You're not bad yourself, Noble," Sirena informed her making Duncan sigh deeply once again—truly, Sirena had made it an artform to get Duncan to let out that resigned and almost pained sigh though she was normally playing off Alistair's quips.

"Gods," Arian swallowed his jerky and groaned as he leaned his head back against the bark, eyes closed and a resigned look on his face, "take me now, I will not put up with another one."

"You're going to live," Kenna informed him as Shadow and Lileas took it in turns to wrap the bandages firmly around her chest, "you're too damn stubborn to die."

Arian flicked open one dark eye and peered at Kenna almost searchingly as Sirena's brows raised without her permission.

Because her tone? Her tone was too knowing, too certain, when Sirena was half-convinced she would wake up one day to see him still and cool to the touch because of the corruption in his veins or his mind gone, and she would have to take him down like the darkspawn bastards that infected him.

"Kenna," Caitlyn sighed, a silent warning in her tone, while Bran's shoulders went tight as he hunched more firmly over his gear.

Kenna's jaw clenched, but she remained silent as she rolled her shift back down and then turned to look over Shadow, one had reaching up and cupping the tattoo on his neck as she prodded against his chest in a mimic of what he had done earlier while Lileas finally stripped off her coat and began to clean the blade of her glaive—it seemed she had come out of the battle unharmed—magic armour? Possible, something that didn't need constant focus, or her foci would have been glowing long before, something to ponder and wonder, maybe ask when feelings were so raw.

Interesting, Sirena couldn't help but think.

But then again, the Couslands had turned out to be very interesting—for human nobles anyway.

"We should rest as much as possible," Duncan said as he shifted to be more comfortable and not actually lighting the fire he had built, probably saving it for just before they leave—get a hottish meal in them before they continued to 'run' for their lives. "Take the chance to sleep now, I will keep watch."

Shadow nudged Kenna's shoulders and raised his brows, she nodded slightly as she turned to her siblings, ignoring Duncan completely with only a clenched jaw to show her feelings towards the older man.

"Shadow will keep watch," she told them making Bran and Caitlyn nod in understanding, a hint of relief relaxing the tense line of Bran's shoulders and softening Caitlyn's face.

"Thank you, Shadow," Caitlyn smiled at him as Rosina began setting up the bedrolls with Lileas and Kenna shrugged on her midnight-blue tunic back on, folding her vests and jacket.

Shadow bowed his head slightly to the noble woman after he tugged his tunic back on before settling himself down against one of the trees, laying his sword partly unsheathed across his legs.

"Kenna," Caitlyn called as she moved over to the row of three bedrolls as the Surana laid out the last two for themselves.

Bran slid in the bedroll closest to the Warden camp, laying on his back with one arm tucked under his head and the other folded over his stomach, while Caitlyn took the bedroll nearer to the trees and lay on her side, so her back was towards the trees and leaving Kenna with the middle bedroll.

Sirena watched in interest as she crawled in it, pulling the covering over herself as Caitlyn reached out and pulled her close, Kenna tucking her fiery-hair under Caitlyn's chin as one hand gripped the back of Caitlyn's tunic tightly while Caitlyn's hand cupped the back of her head.

It was like a child seeking comfort from its' mother, not a sister seeking comfort from a sister.

Arian didn't even move, just closed his eyes and drifted off in a way that Sirena figured was unique to the Dalish, the ability to sleep anywhere while Ciarron rolled out his bedroll between sneaking concerned glances over at the Cousland party—his soft-heart would get him in more trouble one day, Sirena figured.

Sirena decided to finish looking over her weapons before she napped, not surprised to feel the pale eyes watching her—Shadow's 'watch' was more focused on the Wardens then any men of Howe's stumbling upon them after all.


There was something very wrong, Thomas knew as he rode through Highever with the last of the soldiers; all ready to march off to Ostagar and fight the darkspawn beside the King—he didn't know, she realised with relief, he hadn't been part of the plan.

There was a hush to the city; there was no calls from the market, no laughter of children playing, just a chilly and damning silence that settled heavily on Thomas' chest with dread.

Wane faces watched them pass from windows and doorways, the people were silent as they watched with hard eyes and thinned lips.

There was a seething rage in those hard eyes, a burning hatred as they watched Thomas and 'his' men ride towards the Castle, but none of them said a word.

Thomas' hands clenched around the reins, something cold slithered down his spine as he forced himself to look forward and not at the people that were watching him as if they wished they could kill him with the force of their glares and emotions.

Had Giles put them up to this because of his declaration that he would elope with Kenna? Thomas thought to himself, if so, then the spy-master had gone too far.

It wasn't until he got to the Castle that Thomas realised why they were staring at him, why the whole city seemed to covered in a hush cloud of mourning.

He almost fell off his horse, the beast neighing as it side-stepped away, and landed on his hands and knees on the ground just in time for everything he had eaten recently to splatter against the stone under him.

He coughed, his back shaking, tears brimming and sliding down his face as bile joined the mess.

There was a restless stirring from the men he was meant to be leading, but he didn't care, couldn't care.

"Thomas," his father's voice snapped beside him when he was just dry-heaving, shuddering and still hunched over the mess. "Get up."

He pushed himself up to his knees with shaky arms and stared up his father, at his hard face, and wouldn't let him gaze wander, wouldn't let it wander to the walls because if he did, if he looked, he would have to search for a head of fiery-locks and he didn't want to deal with the reality, didn't want the chance to find it, find her hanging there, dead at his father's hands.

"What have you done?" Thomas demanded hoarsely, horror clear in his tone as tears continued to slide down his face.