"You have to bear witness and understand why it is so important to stop them. The Joining, the Calling…it's all worthwhile if it holds back the darkspawn. Once you understand what they are." –Sekah, Warden-Recruit from the Hossberg Circle of Magi.

Betrayal still gripped at her heart, inflamed her blood, as she stalked away from the King—a dead-man walking, a man that had no right to her secrets—and his tent with Shadow at her heels and Lileas at her side.

Bran had no right, no right to share Kenna's secrets as he had, and she doubted she would ever forgive him for what he had done—how dare he, how dare he, rumbles through her head, with each painful beat of her heart as betrayal burned her.

She wanted to scream, to shout, to rage, to go to Cait and tell her what he had done, how he had betrayed her, them, but those were the desires of a child and she was a child no longer.

She could no longer afford to be a child, not now with Howe claiming her home with his blood-stained betrayal and the Blight.

So, bitterly and seething, she swallowed the impulses, the seething and hurtful emotions, with all the grimness one would project when willingly ingesting poison, and clenched her jaw tight as she stalked through the encampment.

There were things to do, things she could prepare, before tomorrow's battle and the onslaught of death—she could taste coppery iron on her tongue, smell the rot and the taint, hear the faint death-rattles and battle-cries if she let her mind drift, to the abyss of her own power the lingered still ever-present since her first rather foolhardy dive into its depths.

"Lady Kenna?" Lileas' concerned touch to her elbow made her forcefully loosen the tension in the set of her shoulders and shorten her strides.

Her shoulders rolled, her neck she forcefully relaxed from its ridged line, her steps became less heavy and she consciously shortened the length of them.

"I'll be fine," Kenna told her friend as she rolled her neck, not lying to her at all—Kenna did her best to never lie to those that mattered to her, those that she loved and would fight to protect.

(But she would keep silent, lock words behind her teeth as she moved them into safety and willing walked to what could be her death.

She would walk the mountain path, would step into a place of death, betrayal and the seemingly the end of the world.

She would walk with her head held high, with her back straight and her shoulders set without the security of knowing that she would live, but still content that at least they would be safe even if they didn't forgive her for her selfishness.)

She would be fine, would work through this betrayal, and remember to never share secrets with Bran again unless he once again shared them with his bedmate—would never forget that he wasn't like Cait or Fergus, that he wasn't as good as her parent in all the ways that mattered and would guard her secrets without a qualm as Cait and Fergus would and had.

"Shadow?" she glanced over her shoulder, one of his dark thick brows quirked up in a silent question. "Did Davia provide some 'gifts' for us in your bag?"

Shadow nodded, a faint smile curling his lips, and Kenna smiled in response and relief eased another knot of tension in her back.

Good, that would make things much simpler, she thought as the sound of explosions echoed dimly in her ears—Davia's explosives would certainly make it easier to retreat without too much fear and more lives could be saved by Kenna interfering, Highever lives and perhaps others.

"Let's see what we have to play with," Kenna said grimly.

The tension of responsibility that formed a knot between her shoulders eased when Sirena handed over the recruits to Alistair and Durinn.

Let them deal with the next bit, the first time the poor sods would come face to face with darkspawn and probably shit themselves—or at least the Knight would, from the impression she had gotten from Durinn.

Durinn would keep them focused on the fight and Alistair could give an understanding ear for their disgust filled fear—Durinn would keep a close eye on Arian for her, make sure he survived long enough to test the taste of the chalice on his tongue.

However, that left her at a loose end which was only staved off by Sirena coming across the Thief being sentenced as a Traitor and getting her hands on the key he had kept safe and keeping an eye on the Tranquil that placidly guarded the chest—smart enough to hide his treasure, not smart enough not to get caught, but his loss (in more ways than one) and her gain.

It would several hours before anyone cared to call him away, probably after dark before Sirena could see what the mages had brought and kept under lock and key, and she didn't want to hang around and be clocked as suspicious before then—word of what she had done in Denerim, what she had done to the Arl's son, had preceded her and meant more eyes on her than the other Wardens.

So, that left her with time to kill.

Lips pursed in thought as golden eyes glanced around, and aha, there.

Little Cousland with her shadows heading towards the valley and with a curious-looking box held in the adeptly named Shadow's arm.

Lips curled up slightly as she pushed herself to her feet.

It was always a good idea to keep a close eye on tentative allies—especially when they were one step away from outright slaughtering one's Commander.

Perhaps especially when they were one step away from slaughtering one's Commander, she amended in her mind.

She padded after them on light feet, keeping a good distance away and hoping that neither the Shadow nor Mage clocked her and ratted her out—and hoping, even if they did, that she had amused the young Noble enough that she wouldn't attempt to chase her off before her curiosity was sated.

Starting a brawl between the Grey Wardens and one of Ferelden's eldest bloodlines the night before another large battle probably wasn't a good thing for morale, Sirena mused to herself with an amused quirk of her lips as she nodded her greetings to those that weren't put off by her reputation.

"Teyrna Cousland?"

It was Rosina's touch to her elbow that reminded Caitlyn that she was now acting the role of Teyrna—making herself a target in the process and allowing Fergus some freedom when he eventually made his way back to Highever—and she, a touch belatedly, turned towards the inquiring voice and away from the Captain currently leading Highever's army in the place of Fergus.

"Yes?" Caitlyn smiled slightly, trying not to wince at the way the smile pulled at her skin and tugged at the healing gash that marred her face in new and somewhat painful ways.

Tried not to acknowledge how it also marred the beauty she had crafted and honed as a weapon and shield, tried not to acknowledge that it was her own stubborn pride and distrust that had stopped her from allowing Ciarron to heal it and lessen the scarring.

A woman stood almost awkward in her uncertainty, around Cait's own age and with dark locks cut almost boyishly short and framing her pale angular face.

Blue eyes, sky blue eyes that were remarkably familiar, looked at her for a moment before they belatedly dropping in a more respectable position considering their different social status—not something Cait was completely used to, she supposed Highever was rather lax in that regard.

"How can I help you?" Caitlyn prompted as the woman shifted, the pommels of her twin daggers winking in the light.

"It's about your sister," the woman began after a moment of clear indecision.

The Captain, Devon Madoc, shifted behind her, protective of the younger Cousland in a way most soldiers and such were from the years that Kenna spent on the training grounds with them and training beside Fergus—Fergus had always doted on Kenna in a way that he hadn't done with either Bran or Cait herself, perhaps it was the added years between them or the way that Kenna would toddle after him when she finally found her feet and would follow him everywhere the moment Nan turned her back on the youngest Cousland.

Fergus had instilled his own love and protectiveness of Kenna into his men without really noticing, something that Cait had always been comforted by. Even if neither Fergus nor herself could be there, Kenna had a wealth of protectors that cared for her.

"What about Kenna?" Caitlyn felt her back straighten and her shoulders stiffen as a sharp tone filled her voice and made the question come out in a snap.

Whatever qualms the soldier had about meeting Caitlyn's gaze went away, she straightened her spine in response to Caitlyn's movements and stared at her head-on with almost blazing blue eyes with only a brief and considering flicker towards Captain Madoc.

"She stopped me and my brother, and had some…odd words of advice for us," the soldier paused for a long moment as Rosina pressed against Cait's shoulder, a shift of Rosina's hand towards a weapon no doubt. "She also happened to be aware of our younger sister."

It was that bit, Caitlyn thought, that had upset them and was the cause behind this visit. It was clear in the mild accusing tone the last sentence had been spoken in more than anything.

Caitlyn took another look at the other woman, tall and lean with muscles from both hard work and weapons-training.

Personal armour especially tailored for her frame and a somewhat higher degree of the average soldier—armour that she brought herself instead of being fitted like the rest of the soldiers that had signed up with the Royal Army.

Yet apart from that, Caitlyn couldn't pinpoint anything about her that made her stand out—apart from her familiar eyes—or marked her as someone important.

"What's your name?" Caitlyn asked curiously—whoever this woman was, Kenna had deemed her important, had stopped her to offer advice for a reason, and Cait didn't know why.

"Mairin Hawke," the woman informed her, a hint of a frown on her face and nonplussed about the change in Cait's demeanour and questioning.

"Well then, Hawke," Caitlyn said after a moment, "if I was you, I would keep in mind whatever my sister saw fit to tell you—she gave you and your brother that advice for a reason and it may end up saving your life one day."

"And her knowledge about my family?" Hawke asked in a tone just short of demanding, a protective fire flaring in her gaze—a familiar fire. "Am I just meant to shrug off her knowledge?"

Caitlyn almost felt a kinship to this woman who obviously loved her siblings dearly and was so protective of them.

However, Hawke's problem was involving Kenna and Kenna was hers, she would always come first.

"Yes," Caitlyn informed the other woman simply, bluntly. "It's always safe to assume that my sister knows a lot more than she should—especially about those she deems important."

"I'm not feeling that flattered about being deemed important, Teyrna Cousland," Hawke retorted flatly, and Cait smiled back with truly little mirth.

"You shouldn't be," Cait informed her almost gently in a quiet warning. "From my understanding, those that are deemed important rarely have a peaceful quiet life—take my sister's advice and prepare yourself for years of hardship in your future."

Hawke studied her intently for a moment, blue eyes searching for something.

Caitlyn stared calmly back, hiding nothing, as Rosina shifted minutely beside her, moving away and her hand falling from the hilt of one of her daggers as the tension lessened somewhat between the two women.

"You're not lying," Hawke stated more than asked, lips pursed as if she hoped it wasn't that case.

"No, and neither is my sister," Caitlyn confirmed evenly.

"Well, shit," Hawke turned away slightly as she ran a hand roughly through her hair, a resigned and frustrated look appearing on her face as though she already had some inkling to what Cait had suggested and didn't want it to be confirmed. "Shit, shit, shit."

"You have my sympathies," Caitlyn offered after a moment of awkward and frustrated-filled silence between them, and Hawke smiled grimly as she turned back.

"Thanks, I guess," Hawke rolled her neck till she was gazing up at the sky—twilight was starting to take over the blue. "Right, I won't bother you anymore and I will keep in mind what Lady Cousland said," Hawke sent her a wry glance with a quirk of her mouth. "I hope you won't be offended when I say I honestly hope that I don't see you or your sister again?"

"No, I'm not offended," Cait almost laughed, honestly she felt the same—things were going to hard enough without whatever troublesome future Hawke was going to find herself mixed up in. "I'm sure things were a lot simpler before my sister offered her advice."

"Yes, yes they were," Hawke sighed before bowing. "Thanks for your help, Teyrna Cousland."

"Good luck in the coming times, Hawke," Caitlyn offered in return with a nod of her head.

"I'll need it," Hawke muttered as she walked away, throwing an arm absently around the younger man loitering just out of hearing distance that shared her dark hair and sky-blue eyes but was even taller than her and more muscular.

"Should we keep an eye on her, Teyrna?" Caption Madoc asked in an undertone.

"Perhaps," Cait considered it for a moment before shaking her head firmly. "No, best keep our full focus on making sure we get out of this alive."

Sirena didn't even wince as Daveth's body hit the stone floor with an almost meaty slap though Durinn had to grab hold of Ciarron's wrist to stop him moving forward when the dark-haired thief began to choke on the taint.

She had known Daveth from Denerim; both of them had been thieves though Daveth focused on pickpocketing and Sirena worked with Slim and breaking-and-entering style thievery.

He had been a flirty bastard from the moment he could grow a reasonable beard, had been on his last warning when Daveth targeted Duncan.

Becoming a Grey Warden stopped him from losing a hand and thus his livelihood, it must have been an easy choice to make.

He would have made a good Warden, Sirena had privately thought, if only his body took to the taint instead of rejecting it.

"I'm sorry, Daveth," Duncan intoned with some true regret before he turned to Ser Jory.

Durinn had called him a coward, honour and glory hound, and Sirena wasn't surprised by the Knight backing away, his sword ringing free from the scabbard.

"Coward," Durinn muttered in disgust as the Knight began to stammer as Alistair's face turned to stone.

Sirena could almost see the blonde human close his eyes and ears of the reality of what Duncan was doing without doing Jory the discourteous of turning away from his final moments.

"Dun—" Ciarron was cut off by Brannon's strong hand wrapping around his arm.

Sky blue eyes turned and locked onto the side of Bran's hard face, his lips had thinned, and Bran shook his head as Duncan placed the chalice down and pulled his own sword.

"Don't," Bran told the mage in an undertone, and Ciarron swallowed thickly, turning away as Duncan batted away Jory's swing with ease before burying his sword into the Knight's stomach and up—piercing his lung, maybe hitting his heart, a quick death.

A choked wheeze of disbelief, dark eyes went wide, as the Knight slid down to the stone floor—dead before he landed.

Sirena glanced at her 'charge', Arian.

The Dalish elf hadn't once flinched—not when Daveth began choking, bleeding from eyes, mouth, and ears, and not when Duncan pulled his sword—and kept his gaze on the chalice.

Not surprising, Sirena reflected, as the chalice contained the only 'cure' and way to save his life.

The Dalish clans were the ultimate survivors after all, and Sirena respected that part of them greatly.

Duncan once again picked up the chalice and turned to them, holding it like an offering to the Maker.

"Which one of you will take this final step first?" Duncan asked them, still so calm, his deep voice soft in the dark of night and in the light of the moon.

Once again, Sirena wasn't surprised that Arian stepped forward with a fierce expression and a trembling hand.

For once, she felt herself holding her breath as he took a big sip from the chalice and braced herself to move forward.

A gasp tore from his lips as hazel eyes rolled and his hands went lax, Duncan holding the chalice firm, as he fell and Sirena was ready, holding him and lowering him carefully.

"Welcome, Arian," Duncan intoned solemnly, and yet with a hint of relief before he turned to Ciarron as Sirena brushed stray strands of dark hair from Arian's face almost absently—and with the level of softness she only ever used with family before.

"This isn't as much like the Harrowing as you led me to believe," Ciarron commented in an almost mutter as he reached out with steady olive-toned hands—the hands of a Healer. "Bottoms up, huh?"

A weak smile curled at his lips, peaking out through his beard before he took a sip—perhaps smaller than Arian's large gulp—and he coughed with a grimace before sky blue orbs rolled back and he fell back into Durinn's waiting arms.

The dwarven warrior didn't even grunt at the weight—the bastard, Sirena thought with a fondly wry twist of her lips—and lowered the mage easily despite the height difference between the two.

"Welcome, Ciarron," Duncan once again intoned before finally turning to Bran.

Bran didn't flinch under Duncan's dark gaze, meeting it firmly with a glare that made his dark blue eyes blaze.

"My sisters, they'll be safe no matter what?" Bran asked as he refrained from reaching out for the chalice yet.

"You have my word," Duncan vowed solemnly, and Sirena wondered how much his word truly meant in the long run—something she didn't doubt ran through Bran's mind as he hesitated.

But in the end, Bran's word was his bond, and he had already sworn to become a Grey Warden.

"Fortune favours the bold," Bran muttered, his words lingering in the silence as he took the chalice and sipped the tainted liquid.

His grimace was deep as the Commander took the chalice back and his eyes—like the others, she thought with a hint of relief—rolled back as Alistair caught him and lowered him down.

"Welcome, Brannon," Duncan intoned as he turned away from them and other Wardens moved into this area of the ruin—the area that the Wardens had taken as their own for the sole purpose of the Joining—and began to remove all sign that Daveth and Ser Jory had been there and had died amongst them.

"Two more deaths," Alistair sighed deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck and straightened from beside Bran, taking a step away and yet keeping his back to the activity of the other Wardens. "During our Joining, there was only one."

"There may have been only one if the Knight kept his nerve," Durinn almost grunted out with a dismissive tone before his sapphire eyes turned to Sirena. "What are you doing, Sirena?"

"Look," she held up Arian's arm—she had pushed back his sleeves and was pleased he wasn't wearing his bracers—and turning it so both of her Warden-brothers could see the dark veins under milky-tea coloured skin. "They are already going."

There was almost a feeling of pride mixed with her relief as she watched lessen and fade under their gazes.

"I thought he'd keel over dead before the Joining," she mused—she had thought that during the journey, thought that as she waited for the others to return from the Wilds, and was more than pleased that she was wrong. "I guess he truly is a survivor."

Her dark thumb rubbed at the thin skin of the inside of his wrist, and absent curl of her lips as she watched all sign of corruption leave him, and she couldn't help but think back to earlier.

"If I were you," Kenna Cousland had told her softly, eyes dark in the twilight. "I would keep those you care for close, maybe all of you will survive what's coming."

Arian, and Durinn definitely, she thought to herself, not so worried about Alistair.

He was the favourite, Duncan would make sure he was given a safe role and the King would probably do the same with Bran which left Ciarron.

Soft and kind Ciarron, a Healer more than a fighter, and still her charge.

She'd watch over the human if he were placed with them or she would have to content herself with hoping that Bran or Alistair could keep him alive if not.