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Asha'bellanar

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Fenris was barely out the door of the hut before Alistair had him scooped up in a hug.

"You're alive," Alistair said, in a very small whisper. "They wouldn't let me in to see you. I thought you were dead for sure."

Fenris blinked one eye shut and tilted his head away. He was unused to this sort of attention and, by the time he thought to return the hug, the dog had growled and Alistair seemed to come to his senses. He released Fenris with a sudden jolt of his hands and an embarrassed glance to the side.

"See?" Flemeth said. "You worry too much, young man."

Instead of facing him, Alistair ducked down to look the mabari in the eye. "I suppose if anything had changed you would have let us know, right boy? Howled to the moon."

The dog barked in the affirmative.

"That's it," Alistair agreed, and reached out to let the dog sniff his hand.

Fenris assessed that, if anyone here was going to start providing useful information, it would be the witch's mother. "You saved us," he said succinctly.

"That I did," Flemeth said airily.

"Why?"

"Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we?" she snorted. "Someone has to deal with all these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight." She tilted her head expectantly. "Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

Fenris hesitated. "I am… hardly much of a Warden," he finally decided. "I was a new recruit, barely initiated into the Order before all of this happened. I know next to nothing of Ferelden, or how to go about uniting its forces against a Blight."

Flemeth tapped a long fingernail against her chin. She scrutinised him, head to toe.

"Feh!" she snorted. "You drank from their goblet, didn't you? You'll do."

"I just- don't understand it!" Alistair interrupted in a terse and choppy voice, still directed at the dog. "We were fighting the darkspawn. We were winning. The king had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?"

Fenris was given the impression that Alistair was not fully present, and had repeated some variation of this ad nauseam over the past- however long he'd been out here for.

Flemeth waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmanoeuvre. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."

"The archdemon," Alistair muttered darkly.

"What is the significance of this archdemon?" Fenris asked. "Our commanding officer was targeting it when his unit was… overwhelmed."

Alistair made a little wheezing sound. Fenris curled his lip and glanced anxiously over to him.

Flemeth looked ponderously at the sky. "It is said that, long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface. An archdemon is an Old God awakened and tainted by darkspawn."

Fenris heard the important part of this, which was that Tevinter and its Magisters were to blame. How very typical.

Flemeth gave a hefty shrug. "Well, believe that or not, no Blight has ended without its archdemon falling. And no archdemon has fallen without a Grey Warden."

"Then we should contact the rest of them," Fenris ventured.

Alistair sighed and pressed himself to his feet, apparently finally ready to join the conversation in full. "Calian already summoned them," he said. "They'll come if they can. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them." Alistair hung his head. "We must assume they won't arrive in time."

Nobody had anything to say to this for a moment, and then Alistair seemed to overflow with nervous energy. "I just don't understand why he'd do this!"

Flemeth snorted something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Grow up."

"Arl Eamon would never stand for this if he knew about it!" Alistair insisted. "The Landsmeet would never stand for it! There would be civil war!"

"Because the best time for nobles to fight and seize power amongst themselves is when the people under them are distracted with being massacred by the roving undead," Fenris said pithily.

"Tell that to Loghain!" Alistair snapped irritably, before paling at his own outburst. He appeared to wither on the spot.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "Touché," he allowed. He spoke softer now, more encouragingly. "You believe this Arl Eamon would believe our word over that of the Teryn?"

"I know him. He's a good man," Alistair said, with an oddly wistful hope in the back of his throat. "Of course! Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar! He still has all his men! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!"

Fenris did not know of any human noble who would take the word of a dark-skinned elf, and a human so feeble he followed behind such, over that of a respected general. But Alistair looked so earnest… There was no point in questioning this further at this time.

"Do we have any other allies to call upon?" Fenris said.

"The treaties!" Alistair appeared to be having a breakthrough. "Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They're obligated to help during a Blight!"

"I may be old," Flemeth interjected, "but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else… This sounds like an army to me."

The dog was starting to press its face eagerly into the back of Fenris's hand, demanding pets. And it appeared everything was more or less decided when Morrigan appeared from out the hut.

"The stew is bubbling, Mother Dearest." Morrigan's words were dripping with false sweetness. "Shall we have three guests for the eve or none?"

Fenris felt himself bristle at the mere sound of her voice.

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," Flemeth said. "And you will be joining them."

This produced a rather sharp noise of protest from Morrigan, and several prodding bits of laughter from Flemeth.

Fenris should have known the other shoe would drop. This had probably been the plan all along. How did you tell a mage of hereto unforeseen powers, one that had saved your life no less, that you'd rather not babysit her bratty daughter?

"I've no wish to appear ungrateful. But if the witch would rather not join us, it is no trouble for us to make our own way," Fenris tried.

"Pardon me," Flemeth placed a ratty wrinkled hand against the rattier bust of her dress. "I had the impression you two needed assistance, whatever the form."

"Have I no say in this?" Morrigan protested.

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth…" Alistair began.

"We don't want her," Fenris cut him off.

"Let her guide you out of the Wilds," Flemeth commanded. "If you truly do not desire her help after that, simply tell her so."

It was a trap, but one that Fenris was hardly in a position to avoid. Not when he'd tried tact and directness both, and the mages seemed mutually uninclined to take no for an answer. It made no sense to fight them both here, when he might need fight only one later.

Morrigan went to pack her bag, and returned to speak with a great deal of affected deference.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she smiled. "I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far from here… Or if you prefer," she hedged, "I shall simply be your silent guide."

Fenris wanted to say something else, anything else. But Morrigan was all of her mother's danger with none of the artful levity. Flemeth made a game of how far she could go and how close she could dance to your pains without causing permanent offence, and she played it well. Morrigan ramrodded straight into them, and acted confused when you snarled.

And she knew too much and Fenris didn't trust her. So he said the only thing there was to say.

"We should move on."

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