The torches on the wall offer dim, flickering light that casts long shadows. It makes the main hall of Vigil's Keep feel both larger and smaller at the same time. Rhyanon stands in front of the assorted group of new recruits. She studies each of them in turn, keeping a serious expression on her face. She works hard not to let any nervousness show. But her uncertainty betrays her when her gaze sweeps across Anders, standing there, completely calm. He trusts her. And she's never done this before, but she knows he shouldn't.
She glances over her shoulder at Seneschal Varel, who waits with the heavy metal chalice that holds the mixture of lyrium and darkspawn blood so essential to this ritual. She gives him a nod, beckoning him forward. He only takes a few steps. Despite the size of the room, he doesn't need more than that, not when they are all clustered together. Rhyanon licks her lips. Anders is still staring at her. She'd told him that this could be his way out of the templars' clutches, but she hadn't had it in her to tell him the deeper truth – that it could kill him. She hadn't told him the truth about being a Grey Warden, about everything it takes from you. What else do they have left to lose?
She can't stand the thought of losing him. She wants to take the offer back. She turns away from him, instead, to approach Mhairi. Oghren and the handful of other Wardens remaining after the attack stand behind the female soldier. The dwarf offers what is perhaps supposed to be a reassuring grunt.
"Step forward," Rhyanon says calmly. She takes the chalice from Varel and offers it to this newest recruit. Mhairi takes it with two hands, boldly. She takes a long drink.
A few long seconds pass.
A premonition of dread fills Rhyanon's consciousness, starting in the pit of her stomach and blossoming outward.
Mhairi falls to the stone floor, seizing, convulsing. Bloody spittle flecks her lips. And then, she goes still. Still and lifeless. Eyes still open. The chalice spills out from her outstretched hand. Rhyanon snatches it up.
She looks to the other recruits, who stand watching, shocked into silence.
Rhyanon swallows hard. "There is a price to becoming a Warden," she whispers. At her Joining, there had been other words, something about the Maker's decree that some pay the price earlier than others. But those words seem unnecessary, even callous. So she doesn't say them.
She waits, for the others to argue, even to run. But no one does. One of the young men from Amaranthine simply steps forward and reaches toward the chalice. Rhyanon raises an eyebrow, but she hands it to him. He drinks, and she catches him before he falls as deep sleep claims him. But he is alive. She breathes a little easier.
Soon, Anders is the only one left. She meets his eyes, gives him the cup. He grins, and winks at her. "Bottoms up." She smiles a little too, though fear twists itself into knots in her belly. He drinks deeply. Somehow he stays awake long enough to hand the chalice back to her – he always was a stubborn son of a bitch. She sets him down gently onto the floor.
Rhyanon sits down next to him, keeping a silent vigil over not only him, but all of the recruits who will wake up as full Wardens.
The sun is starting to shine through the windows at the far end of the room, but no one besides Rhyanon is stirring yet, when a loud commotion catches her attention. She runs out of the main hall toward the entrance to the Keep, where Seneschal Varel is trying to calm a woman in templar armor. She looks like she's just going to run right over him.
Rhyanon clears her throat and steps forward. "What do you want?" She surprises herself with how calm she is, even as the woman sneers at her. Rhyanon recognizes the templar from Kinloch Hold, though she knows little about her. She looks furious enough now, though.
The templar hasn't even opened her mouth to answer before Queen Anora squeezes her way past Rhyanon and stands next to the Seneschal, looking Rylock straight in the eye.
"You'd better answer her," the Queen suggests, softly but firmly.
"I'm tracking down a fugitive."
"And what makes you think you'll find that fugitive here."
"Don't insult my intelligence."
Varel flinches at the way the templar speaks to Queen Anora, but the Queen herself does not seem too bothered.
"I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement," she says, though Rhyanon is not sure of that at all. "Seneschal, would you mind if we borrowed your office for a few moments? I think it's best if we have a civil conversation rather than yelling in the hallway."
Rylock and Rhyanon both glance at each other, but they follow Anora quietly.
The quiet doesn't last long. "Anders is a criminal!" Rylock yells, as soon as the door is closed. Her gaze slides to Rhyanon. "They both are!"
"Mind your place," Anora snaps.
"The Chantry has jurisdiction here."
"The Chantry did precious little to stop the Blight, Templar."
Rhyanon raises an eyebrow and leans back against the bookshelf lining the wall. It feels shockingly familiar to hear people arguing about her like she's not even there, but unlike her time in the Circle, she doesn't feel helpless. She watches Anora and Rylock bicker back and forth, and bides her time. After several minutes, she begins to wonder if they've forgotten about her completely. Then, Rylock stares directly at her. So much for that faint hope.
"The Grey Wardens hold the Right of Conscription throughout Ferelden," Rhyanon points out, meeting the templar's eyes.
"That doesn't mean-"
"It means exactly what Warden Amell believes it does," Anora interrupts. "She acted in good faith."
"I didn't think you'd agree with me," Rhyanon says, still slightly surprised. By now she should know that she cannot easily predict Anora's actions.
"I have no quarrel with the Grey Wardens," the Queen answers primly.
"You quarrel with the Church?" Rylock spits.
"Leave off. That's an order."
"You have no right -"
"I am the Queen of Ferelden. This is not a fight you can win."
The templar glares at the reigning monarch, then storms out of the room. The door slams shut loudly behind her.
"You didn't have to do that," Rhyanon points out softly.
"No. I didn't."
"So why did you?"
"Despite what you believe, Commander Amell, I do not hate you."
She'd said something similar the other night, while deep in her cups. Rhyanon still isn't sure how she should feel about it.
"I believe you, actually. I believe that you use me."
A smile crosses Anora's lips. "Good. Perhaps the Circle did teach you a few useful things about politics, after all. I always did see you as honest. Too much so, for much of the Blight."
"I suppose I didn't see any gain in lying." That wasn't entirely true, though. She'd lied about a lot of things. Kept a lot of things hidden. Some of them, Anora even knows about.
"We both want the same thing, you know."
"You said that before. The safety and security of the people of Ferelden."
"I have given Amaranthine to you. Was I wrong to do so?"
Rhyanon shakes her head. "No. You weren't wrong."
Queen Anora and her entourage have barely left Vigil's Keep before Rhyanon turns to the small band of Grey Wardens – now including Anders – that have gathered around her in the main hall. "We're going to Amaranthine," she announces.
"Why?" Oghren grunts. Off her look, he adds, "It just seems there's more than enough work to be done here, if we want it."
He's got a point. Rhyanon sighs. "We're going to Amaranthine because it's important for all of us to see what we're protecting. It's not about the Keep. This fortress is just the tool we're using."
After a moment, the dwarf nods. He seems to understand.
Only one of their number – Gavin, the young soldier – actually hails from the city of Amaranthine, so Rhyanon lets him lead the group.
She lets her horse hang back a little, so that she is riding next to Anders. Her fellow mage looks much more uncomfortable on his animal than she feels on hers, but that's not surprising: the Circle hadn't found horsemanship a practical subject of study, and when the Blight began, she hadn't known how to ride well either. They're moving at a leisurely walk, nothing to stress over.
"How long do you think we'll be in the city?" Anders asks.
"Perhaps two days," Rhyanon muses. "Certainly no more than three. Why?"
"No reason," Anders answers. A little too quickly. Rhyanon lets it slide.
Once they enter the city, she sees a side of her friend she hasn't ever seen before, one she's imagined. The one who might take her with him when he ran away from the Circle, to show her the wide world he'd found out there. He seems younger. Happier. And she watches him with wonder, trying to see the world the way he sees it. It seems like a miracle to her, that he can just be in a place like this, and not see a threat, or despair over all of the problems that it isn't possible to fix.
They leave their horses in a stable just inside the gates of the city, a place that Gavin swears will attempt to cheat them, but that their Warden insignia buys a fair price from.
"Come on!" Anders insists, taking her hand. He drags her into the market. The place is a riot of color and loud voices and a mix of languages and races. Amaranthine has an alienage, but it's smaller and less restrictive than the one Rhyanon remembers from her time in Denerim. Elves here mingle with the human shoppers and sellers, and although the Guard observes them with a critical eye, they seem able to partake in the business of the city readily enough.
There are so many possible things to see – and buy – that Rhyanon hardly knows where to look first. "Come on," Anders says, pulling on Rhyanon's arm. She slows, as she realizes where he's taking her.
"Are these... toys?"
Anders shrugs. "I kind of like them."
Spread out over the table of a slightly larger stall are dozens and dozens of figurines, ranging from the size of Rhyanon's thumb to the height of her hand. They are carved from wood or metal. Some are painted, in intricate detail, while others have been left plain. Some of them even have tiny gears or springs, to make them move. She picks up a tiny toy soldier, and closes it into her fist. When Anders smiles warmly, she exchanges a coin for the small souvenir, and tucks it into her pocket.
"I used to love places like this... before," Anders says carefully.
Rhyanon nods. "I remember." He'd brought her things, little gifts, like this one. He'd kept trinkets and treasures just like the toy soldiers, physical records of his successful escapes, hidden under his mattress in Kinloch Hold. She'd looked after them when he couldn't.
They slow down a bit, now, walking through the market without purpose. Rhyanon keeps her ears open, listening for the gossip of the city. She wants to hear what they think about the Wardens, who have made this place their base. The Blight had hit Ferelden hard, yet this far from the major stronghold of Denerim, the people's view may be different. There are the expected rumors about the recent darkspawn attacks, yet mixed with that is also other conversation – about illnesses and weather and impending weddings or the birth of children. It's the kind of normalcy that she has little basis to compare to. It reminds her, in small snatches, of the childhood she'd had in Kirkwall, which she only remembers fragments of now.
Anders seems to have a similar reaction. He has more memories of his childhood than she does, but he's kept most of them to himself. She doesn't begrudge him that right, although she treasures the few stories he had shared, in those nights in the Circle when neither of them had been able to sleep.
Anders stops at another tiny stall and trades a few coins for a bag of candy that he immediately hands to Rhyanon. She pours out a handful of the sweets and gives them back to him. As they both suck on the spun sugar, she picks her way toward a clothing stall. Unlike the armor booths she'd mostly paid attention to during the Blight, the choices on offer here are meant only to look nice, not to protect anything.
"My lady," the proprietor announces, waving her in. "Can I interest you in a dress? This one will look beautiful, I assure you."
Rhyanon looks down at her worn and comfortable breeches and tunic, and shrugs. She wonders if the man recognizes her. If there's even anything yet to recognize about the new Arlessa of Amaranthine.
She can feel Anders' eyes on her, and she suddenly remembers who she is, and where she comes from. That person that wears dresses is someone else; the little girl who grew up in a noble's house in Kirkwall.
When she leaves the dressmaker's stall without buying anything, Anders looks slightly disappointed. "What?" Rhyanon asks.
He shrugs. "I just thought you'd look nice, that's all." She stares at him for several heartbeats, waiting for the smirk that would give away his teasing, or a possible lewd comment about the sight of her in a dress. But there's none of that. He really means it.
"I have dresses," she points out. He's never seen her wear one, but they're there. It came with the package, after the Blight. When she became as much politician as warrior.
"You deserve to have something nice."
In answer, Rhyanon reaches into her pocket and pulls out the toy soldier, placing it into Anders' waiting hand. "I've got that."
He nods, handing it back to her after studying it for a minute. "Keep it safe," he tells her. She nods.
She lets Anders take the lead as they meander their way through the city, though she's paying enough attention to be fully aware that they are quickly leaving the more populated center of Amaranthine behind. The market gives way to warehouses and docks; the kind of neighborhood where the rougher and poorer citizens live.
"What are we doing here, Anders?" He tries to look innocent, but she can read him too well. She knows him too well. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. "You've been acting cagey ever since you found out we were coming to Amaranthine. What's going on?"
Anders doesn't answer right away. Instead, he steers her toward a narrow building that, according to the sign suspended from its roofbeams, houses a tavern. When the two of them are sitting at a table tucked into the corner, nursing drinks, he takes a deep breath, and begins to answer her question at long last. He has regained the slightly paranoid demeanor Rhyanon recognizes from the times when he feared he might be caught by templars. Does this have to do with them? Rhyanon finds herself holding her breath, waiting for Anders to talk.
"I have a... friend," he says, and he holds up a hand to forestall the question that Rhyanon has already begun to ask. She nods, and lets him continue. "She tells me that my phylactery is here. In Amaranthine."
"And you believe her?" Rhyanon's brow is already furrowed. She doesn't know a lot about what the Chantry does with those little vials of blood – no mage does. But why would it be here? What sense does that make?
Anders shrugs, but there's no disguising the hope he feels. Rhyanon knows what his phylactery means to him: there is freedom contained in that vial, beyond even that she can offer as a Warden. There's a small part of her that's even jealous, a little. If she could find hers, cut that last tie between her and the Chantry... she'd do it too, in a heartbeat. Wouldn't she?
"You want my help," she realizes. There was a time when he wouldn't even have had to ask, but apparently he now feels that he needs to. Maybe because she's not just Rhyanon anymore. She's the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. The Hero of the Blight. The Arlessa. She's become something so much bigger than she feels like she can handle. But this, this one thing she can do. And she would do it even if it wasn't Anders asking.
She tells him so, and he grins, exhaling with relief. "Thank you, Rhyanon."
"It's the least I can do. I mean, I kind of owe you, don't I?"
"Why?" he frowns. "Oh. You mean the Warden thing? Rhyanon, that doesn't matter. I'm fine. I don't feel any different."
It's a lie and they both know it, but maybe there is some kernel of truth to it. Alistair had said something about rumors that the Joining affected mages differently. Rhyanon suspects it has something to do with how close they are to the Fade, how much practice they have already had when it comes to wrestling with demons.
The address Anders had been given isn't far from the tavern where they sit. They agree to go after dark, when they are less likely to be observed. Rhyanon has planned enough battles and incursions during the Blight to feel the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. Anders is trying to project confidence, but its obvious that he's out of his depth. There is so very much that can go wrong.
And predictably, the very first thing that can go wrong, does. The warehouse is guarded, patrolled by a full squad of templars. Rhyanon looks to Anders, wondering if he's thought this through, if he's willing to kill to get what he wants. He looks determined, and Rhyanon thinks back yet again to the templar corpses that had surrounded him when she'd first stumbled across him at Vigil's Keep. He'd sworn he hadn't killed them, but does that make him innocent? Does that change what he might do, here and now?
And what about her? She's killed plenty, but it's different, somehow, with him watching. So far, she can still pretend that she's the little girl he remembers.
"Maybe we can distract them somehow," she murmurs. Anders shakes his head.
"They'll feel us coming."
Rhyanon has only a middling idea of how templar abilities work – even after all the time she'd spent with Alistair, she'd only learned a little bit. But she knows enough to know that Anders is right.
"We'll have to surprise them, then, as much as we can. Go in fast and hard."
"I can do it."
"We'll do it. You take the two on the left, I'll take the two on the right."
"There's probably more inside."
"Then we'll worry about them when we get inside."
Anders nods his agreement.
And then time seems to change, the way it only does in a fight. Everything both speeds up and slows down at the same time, making it easier somehow for Rhyanon to evaluate her movements and choices. She focuses on one of the templars, standing directly in front of her, and she lets loose all of the mana she has held contained in preparation for this moment. It releases from her fingers in streams of fire that coalesce into a ball. And then she throws that ball outward, letting it crash against the chestplate of the templar's armor. The force of the blow sends him careening into the warehouse wall, hard enough to send splinters of wood flying outward. He lands awkwardly, and by the time he does, Rhyanon has drawn her sword and imbued it with yet more magical power. She slices it against his neckguard, and gets in one more cut before he draws his own sword. He's good, skilled enough to parry and block with almost laughable ease. But Rhyanon is not primarily a sword fighter, and while he's distracted by physical weapons, she turns to the weapon she is truly skilled with: primal magic. He realizes too late his mistake, and he tries to compensate for it by smiting her, but he apparently cannot summon enough concentration to make it work properly. In any case, Rhyanon retains control of her mana, and she overpowers the templar with fire and force. His body falls before she can question what she's done – or how good it makes her feel.
Anyway, there isn't time to slow down – this guard's partner does get off a mana drain, sending the searing pain of absence rippling through Rhyanon's body. She focuses on the sword in her hand, clings to it. She raises it slowly – but quickly enough – to block the second templar's incoming strike. Her head is still ringing, but she knows how to fight for her life. The templar leers at her from beneath his helmet, sending a shiver down her spine. The swordfight continues, fast and furious. This battle is a lot less one-sided than the first one, and Rhyanon actually feels afraid. It's a familiar sensation, one she's felt as recently as the day before, when she stood toe to toe with darkspawn. The trick isn't not feeling fear, but simply knowing how to use it; how to draw on it for strength. She holds her sword in a two-handed grip and charges forward, hoping the templar won't expect such outright aggression from a mage. People underestimate her more often then they should, because of her age, her gender, her looks. True to her expectation, this templar does as well. Her bullrush is enough to push him against the wall, and the hidden dagger in her left hand stabs through the gap in his armor plates at the gut, finishing him off.
She stands there, breathing heavily for a second or two, before turning to check on Anders. Another templar body lays there at his feet, and he is still fighting the last of them. He casts spells of ice and lightning, well enough that Rhyanon doesn't expect he needs the help. But she offers it all the same. Between the two of them, the templar doesn't stand any more of a chance than his fellows did.
In the quiet aftermath, Rhyanon and Anders both look at each other a little differently.
"Come on," Rhyanon finally says. "Before we lose whatever chance we've bought here."
She pushes open the door of the warehouse, which has nearly been knocked off its hinges in the fight. The room beyond is dark enough that she has to squint to see, at least until she calls a wisp into being, a feeble ball of light that takes more effort than it should to create, in the aftermath of the templar's earlier smite. The white-blue glow of the wisp's illumination highlights a room that looks like it hasn't been used in years. Thick layers of dust cover every available surface, and crates in various stages of disrepair litter the crowded floor. "This is a Chantry cache?" Rhyanon asks, disbelieving.
Anders, standing behind her, shakes his head sadly. "No. This is a trap."
"And you've fallen right into it, Anders. I'd hoped you'd know better."
"Rylock." He sounds almost tired. And he walks toward her almost as though she's the one casting the spell. Rhyanon reaches out to grab his arm, locking her fingers around his wrist, stopping him. He looks at her with a frown of pure confusion.
"I remember you," Rylock says, looking over Rhyanon with something like wonder. "You've grown up."
She had been there, in the Keep with Queen Anora, but Rhyanon knows that isn't what she means.
"You don't get to have him," she snarls.
"And you don't get to decide that."
Anders pulls his arm out of Rhyanon's grip. "Rylock, leave her alone," he pleads. "This is between you and me."
"You brought her here."
Anders shrugs.
"I'm not leaving," Rhyanon growls. She holds out a hand, showing off the sparks of firelight that flicker between her fingers.
"Just let us go," Anders insists, forceful words coming out from behind gritted teeth. "Nobody else has to die here."
"How can I let you go? You're a murderer, Anders. Both of you are."
"You still have my phylactery. It was here, all along."
Rylock pulls the vial out from beneath her shirt, where it hangs from a leather cord. "You're right about that part, at least."
The sight of it banishes all sense of calm or caution from Anders. He lunges at Rylock, slamming the templar into one of the larger crates and causing her to cry out. He holds her there, with bruising force. Rhyanon lets go of the fire spell she'd been holding. She aims not at Rylock, but at the wooden crate behind her, which erupts instantly into flames. They burn and lick at the templar, roasting her in her armor, until Anders lets go of her and she runs enough to put safe distance between herself and the fire.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" she snarls.
"This isn't a game!" Anders yells back. "I am never going back! Don't you get that?!"
Rhyanon stands there, watching the two of them scream at one another, aware that she is witnessing the surface level of some relationship she had never suspected and will never understand.
"Go ahead then," Rylock says. "Just kill me."
She stands there, making no move to defend herself. Rhyanon glances uncertainly at Anders.
"What makes you think I want to kill you?" Anders snaps. "The Chantry isn't worth dying for. I
know you know that."
"I can't let you go." She keeps repeating that. So they are at an impasse, all of them watching each other, holding their breaths.
Time drags slowly. Rhyanon feels the mana building up inside of her. She looks to Anders, for permission. He says nothing, and Rhyanon refuses to wait any longer. She casts another spell, lightning this time. Rylock screams in agony. She still doesn't fight. It's unnerving.
"Rhyanon, stop!" Anders yells, after an eternity has passed.
She looks down, at the templar on the ground near her feet. Rylock isn't dead, but bloody spittle bubbles up from her lips and her breath comes in ragged gasps. Rhyanon yanks Anders' phylactery from around the templar's neck. "Come on," she says. "Let's go."
But Anders lingers, seemingly frozen. Rhyanon grabs his arm, but he shakes her off, hard enough that she actually stumbles.
She starts making her way out the door of the little room, but something stops her before she goes through it. She turns back, shocked to see Anders standing there with the templar's sword in his hand. There is some emotion in his eyes that Rhyanon can't quite understand, not the anger she'd expect to see, but something closer to sorrow, or regret.
As Rhyanon watches, Anders drags the sword across Rylock's throat. The templar's blood spills out onto the dusty ground.
"They're going to come after us now. You know that, don't you?" Anders tracks Rhyanon's every subtle motion as they sit in the small study in front of a warm, crackling fire. The comforting atmosphere of the room seems like an unfair contrast to the weight of everything they've done and need to discuss. Amaranthine seems a world away; the ride back to Vigil's Keep had been long and mostly silent.
"I already told you," Rhyanon insists. "Being a Warden-"
"Won't keep us safe. You can't believe that."
"I want to," she whispers softly. It has kept her safe so far, she tells herself. She clings to that knowledge, scrabbling for whatever hope she can find.
"They'll find a way to come after us. The Chantry always does."
"And we can't keep killing them forever." Anders sounds so much more certain in his assertion than she feels in hers. A low headache builds behind her skull. "When did we become killers?" she adds, more softly.
Anders shrugs. "You know what they did to me, Rhyanon."
She nods. "The Wardens pretty much only have use for killers. I wish... I wish that didn't have to be what you are."
"You're still trying to protect me? After all this time?"
"Maybe I'm just trying to get it right for once. I haven't been doing a very good job."
"You've been doing okay." He stands up, coming over to her so that he can gently massage the tension out of her shoulders. "Rhyanon, no one expects you to be perfect. No one ever has."
She starts to nod, and then his lips brush against her jaw, until he's guiding her lips toward him with a free hand, and then he's kissing her. She wants to protest, but she can't quite summon up the effort it would take. It feels too good, feeling safe in his arms. And then the guilt hits her, like a punch to the gut, like a drowning wave. "Anders. I can't."
"Why?" he asks, and he sounds just as hurt and wounded as she feels.
"I just... can't."
For a moment, it almost seems as though he'll let it go, but then he shakes his head. "There was someone else, wasn't there?"
Rhyanon nods, sitting down again, in the too-soft armchair across from the fire. "His name was Alistair."