Chapter 30 - The Cost of Honour

After the bloodshed and trial that had marked the week prior, it was a great relief to venture through lands as yet untouched by war, the company's swords sleeping easy in their scabbards in the tranquility of the bright autumn morning. The foul presence of the darkspawn was blissfully absent in Sagramor's mind, and if any of Loghain's scouts or bounty hunters were present to recognize the Warden tabard he wore openly, neither Ragnar's senses, Wynne's wards nor Zevran's tracking skills found any trace. Beneath the shroud of the towering canopy, the party made good time travelling north and east along an old forest road wide enough to allow Bodahn's cart passage, their spirits made light by the prospect of fulfilling one of the treaties.

Nowhere was this more evident than with Merrill. It was as if the light of day had burned away the grief haunting her the previous evening, a process helped by the long chat she'd shared with Leliana all through the night, the two storytellers eager to learn from one another. Come morning, she indulged her curiosity about the rest of the strange band in turn, her cheerful questions accompanying their march alongside the sound of branches rustling in the wind and the birds singing amidst the trees. In particular, she seemed quite interested in learning about the magic the party commanded, as well as their knowledge of the Dalish and their forgotten lore. Currently, it was Zevran who held her attention as she walked alongside him, green eyes fixed upon the assassin. "So what do you know about the Dalish, Zevran?"

"Little enough, other than my mother was one, or so I was told."

"Really?" asked the Dalish girl, genuinely excited. "What clan was she from?"

Zevran shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know, my dear. For the most part, all I have of her are the stories told to me by others. From what I understand, she had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving behind her clan for good. And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book."

"Creators!" Merrill gasped in horror. At the head of the little column, Sagramor had to restrain himself from doing the same, the shocking nature of the Antivan's tale only amplified by his matter-of-fact attitude. "That's horrible!"

"Is it?" Zevran asked, seemingly unperturbed. "It seemed normal enough a tale growing up, no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse. I didn't know my mother either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were."

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have pried."

Quick as a flash, Zevran offered her a winning smile. "Attending to the needs of a beautiful woman such as yourself is never a bother, mia bella," he declared, provoking a deep blush from the Dalish girl. "Believe me, if I fell apart every time the subject came up, the Crows would have disposed of me long before."

"They're that ruthless?" Merrill inquired.

"Of course. Training is fierce for new recruits, and those that survive take pride in the achievement. The guild's reputation is everything, and so much of what they do is to ensure nothing undermines that."

"Including turning their initiates into grist for the mill," Sagramor finished. "You've been wanting to escape the Crows for some time then?"

"The thought did come up more than once, I'll admit."

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that," said Merrill. "I haven't seen my own mother in many years, but at least I have some memories of her to cherish. It must have been sad, not having anything to remember her by."

"Well, there was one thing," Zevran admitted. "Though all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother's that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, I knew that much, and beautiful. I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things. Eventually, they were discovered, and I never saw them again."

"Then why did you not seek out one of our sister clans in Antiva? It is the duty of every clan to shelter those who come in from the cities, to teach them what they have forgotten so that we might one day make a home to call our own. Did you never have the opportunity?"

"I did, but at the time, I was rather content to serve amongst the Crows. In truth, I consider myself to be Antivan first and foremost, no matter my blood. No disrespect to you and your people, but I don't really think the Dalish way of life is for me."

"I… I see," Merrill replied, clearly puzzled. "You wish to remain an assassin, then?"

"And why not? I have a talent for it, I enjoy it, and now that I'm free of the Crows, it might be interesting to go into business for myself once all this is done. For now, I go where the Warden does, as I swore to do."

"Well, if you should ever change your mind, I know my clan would be happy to welcome you among us. And I know it's not the same as getting your mother's gloves back, but I'm certain Master Ilen would be happy to make you a replacement, if you'd like."

Again came the Antivan's perfect smile. "Falling in love with me already, are you?"

"That's…" Merrill blushed scarlet, suddenly finding her bare toes to be of great interest. "That's not…"

"Don't tease her, Zevran," Sagramor interjected sternly. "You've made your point. Now check and see how Bodahn and Sandal are holding up."

Chuckling, the assassin worked his way towards the back of the column, and Merrill flashed Sagramor a grateful look. "Sorry about that. Zevran can be overly… amorous sometimes."

"It's fine. And what about you, Sagramor? Did you ever considering joining the Dalish?"

"Every kid in the Alienage thinks about running away to join the Dalish at one point or another, though I think Pol was the only one with the guts to actually do it," confessed Sagramor. "As wonderful as Dalish life might have been in comparison to what I lived through, I couldn't abandon my family. When I finally left the Alienage, I did so as a Warden."

"And you will not break your oaths to your Order. I understand." A flicker of disappointment passed over her alabaster features and was gone again before Sagramor could comment. "Still, knowing you're a Warden makes the Blight seem much less scary than it is." Before Sagramor could respond to the compliment, the sound of beating wings burst overhead, and Merrill gazed up with a delighted smile. "Morrigan's back!"

Cawing, the great black raven swooped over to Sagramor, transforming back into the dark-haired apostate in a burst of eldritch light. "The road ahead is clear, Warden, though our current course will soon take us into a swamp," she declared without preamble, falling in beside him. "Loghain's men seem quite disinclined to venture too far from hearth and home."

"And the Dalish? Any sign of them?"

Morrigan levelled her staff northwards. "A spell of concealment shrouds the woods no more than a league's distance, a mist that plays on the mind, not unlike Flemeth's own sorcery. 'Tis certain that only another mage would be able to find them when so hidden."

"Must be one of the Keeper's spells," Merrill interjected, looking notably downcast at the thought of facing her teacher once more. "Did you happen to see any of my clanmates?"

"A glimpse here or there, but your people know the art of stealth well. I saw enough to know they have scouts ranging beyond the limits of their caravan."

"Then we should find a place to rest and let them come to us," the Dalish girl suggested. "My clan has suffered much since the Blight began, and our hunters are wary of outsiders at the best of times. I don't want to accidently start a panic by approaching the camp unannounced."

"I did spy a clearing close by that might be suitable," added Morrigan.

"Then that's our destination," declared Sagramor. "Lead on, Morrigan. We could probably do with a chance to catch our breath anyway."

As Morrigan took up the lead, Merrill rushed over to her side, hesitant and excited in equal measure. "Could you perhaps teach me how to transform into animals? Ohh, to see the world from up above as a bird would be so wonderful."

"Mayhaps, assuming you'd be willing to trade your own secrets in return."

"Well, I'd have to get permission from the Keeper first, and I'm not sure she'd agree. Still, it's nice to know that power like that exists out there. Did Asha'bellanar teach your sisters the same lore?"

It was a rare thing to see Morrigan taken aback. Indeed, only her disbelief when Flemeth volunteered her to join the Warden's mission matched the shock that manifested in her beautiful features at Merrill's query, the full force of her amber stare bearing down on the Dalish girl. "What did you just say?"

"I- I'm sorry," Merrill stammered. "It's just that all the stories I've heard about Asha'bellanar speak of many daughters, each blessed with the gift of magic. I'd never go behind your back to one of your sisters, I was simply curious if they were all as skilled as you are."

"You heard wrong, girl, I have no sisters. And what idiotic fairy tales the Dalish choose to spout is no business of mine," Morrigan responded curtly, before turning back to Sagramor. "I will guide you in, Warden. Follow me, if it pleases you."

Black wings took flight without waiting for a response. "Creators, I never know the right thing to say," Merrill lamented. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt Morrigan's feelings like that."

"What? All one of them?" Alistair snorted.

"You did nothing wrong, Merrill. Morrigan can be a bit severe sometimes, that's all," Sagramor assured her, his own curiosity piqued. After all, it was not every day that Andrastian and Dalish culture agreed on anything, for every story about the Witches of the Wilds he'd heard of always spoke of Flemeth and her many daughters, not just the one. Was it yet another example of rumour and fable far outstripping reality, or was Flemeth really the progenitor of an entire coven, once upon a time? Another mystery to be unravelled, time permitting.

Ten minutes later, the party was safely within the promised clearing, any sight of them from the road lost behind a wall of towering pines and oaks, with Zevran and Shale standing watch as a further precaution. Leaving Leliana and Merrill to discuss Dalish philosophy, Sagramor made his rounds through the little company, checking on their morale and being encouraged by what he saw. At the back of the clearing, Nimue and Geoffrey stood apart from the rest, whispering forcefully amongst themselves, and at the Warden's approach, they fell silent, looking for all the world like a pair of delinquent pupils caught passing notes by the schoolmaster. "Everything all right, Sagramor?" Geoffrey broke the silence, trying and failing to sound casual, while Nimue attended to her horse's saddle in hopes of appearing productive.

"All is well," Sagramor assured them. "How are you both doing?"

"Fine," Nimue muttered, refusing to meet his gaze. Since learning he'd gained Templar abilities, the elven girl had done everything save for deserting the company entirely to avoid him, and now, a few paces away, Sagramor saw how his childhood friend trembled at his approach, pale fingers clenching nervously at the horse's bridle. Geoffrey saw it too, laying a comforting hand upon her shoulder, and she drew strength from the gesture, finally daring to turn towards the Warden. "We haven't been planning on running away, if that's what you're asking."

"I never imagined you would. Listen, there's no need to be suspicious. I just like to check in on everyone. It's the sort of thing a good leader does, right?"

"I… I guess," Nimue permitted, turning over to her colleague. "Geoffrey, do you mind giving me and Sagramor a minute?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Think we need to clear the air between us. Why don't you go check in on Sandal? I know you've been waiting for a chance to pick his brain."

Lingering for a moment, Geoffrey at last complied, offering the Warden a respectful nod as he went. "He seems very dedicated to you," Sagramor mused aloud, finally daring to voice a question that had been nagging at him. "Are you and he-"

"I should think that's none of your damned business," Nimue snapped, arms folded defensively beneath her breasts. "All you need to know is that Geoffrey is a friend and a good man… and he deserves far better than me. Was there anything else?"

"Is this what it's going to be like? Always walking on thin ice every time the other person is around?"

Sea-blue eyes fixed him with a hard stare, and the words spilled out in a torrent. "You're a Templar, Sagramor. I know you're not actually one, and anyone who treats a blood mage so generously is probably a bad fit for those bastards anyways, but… you chose to learn their powers, the same powers they use to keep mages imprisoned. What in Andraste's name am I supposed to think? You've changed, and I've changed, and there's a Blight going on, and…"

"And you're afraid," Sagramor finished gently. "Nimue, when I asked Alistair to teach me how to use Templar powers, I did so after Uldred nearly killed me, the demon possessing Connor nearly enthralled me, and after facing more than a few darkspawn emissaries. They're a tool to help me stop the Blight, that's all. I would never use them against yourself or Geoffrey. I don't hurt the people I've sworn to lead."

"What about those you haven't?"

Sagramor shrugged. "I'm no mage-hunter. Anyone who tries to kill us can expect to get the same treatment, mage or mundane, but if we come across an apostate that offers no threat to us or our mission, I'm happy to leave them be. The Order is supposed to remain politically neutral anyways. Might as well use that to our advantage when we can."

"That's… that's good to hear."

"Nimue, I'm certain this isn't easy for you, and I have no right to demand your trust. But would it really be so hard to let us try and earn it?" The mage turned away, her objections withering, and Sagramor pressed his argument home. "We're a company, and that means we look out for each other, including you. When you're ready to rely on us, we'll be there. Okay?"

Turning to go, Sagramor was halted by Nimue's tremulous voice. "Sagramor?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. We'd either be dead, or worse, back in the Aeonar if you hadn't stuck your neck out on our account, so… I guess I owe you one."

"Friends don't owe each other anything, Nimue. But if you really want to pay me back, believe me, you'll have plenty of opportunities before this war is done."

"And I won't be found wanting in any of them. I swear it."

"So it's Elgar'nan, Mythal, Sylaise, Falon'Din, Andruil, Dirthamen, June and… Ghilan'nain?" asked Leliana.

"Well done!" Merrill proclaimed in delight, beckoning Sagramor closer. "I have to admit, it's a nice surprise to find a human so interested in learning about Dalish culture. Isn't that wonderful, Sagramor?"

"It is, and so is she," remarked the Warden, receiving an appreciative smile from the Orlesian woman. "Though isn't there a ninth elven god? Or am I simply misremembering?" Merrill's expression immediately darkened. "I don't mean to offend, I had just heard-"

"That's all right. The one you are referring to is Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is kin to the Creators, but not among their number, for he deceived them and sealed them away so they might never come to the aid of the People again," Merrill explained grimly. "He is the Trickster, and every Keeper is sworn to shield the clans from his evil, for he will stop at nothing to destroy us." At the Warden's side, Ragnar whimpered, and Merrill smiled, ruffling the hound's fur. "Good think we have Ragnar here to protect us. The Dread Wolf would never risk playing his tricks when such a brave hound stands ready to take him by the ear."

Ragnar let out a proud howl. "Oh, you would like to hear that story? Wonderful. Long ago-"

Zevran's sharp whistle ended her tale before it could be told, and every eye in the little company turned northwards to watch the assassin approach. A stranger followed close behind, the tread of his booted feet silent, and Sagramor felt his heart leap, the sight of the distinctive markings on the newcomer's face validating his decision to aid Merrill and putting so many of his fears to rest.

For they had found the Dalish at last.

"So this is where you've run off to, Merrill," the Dalish hunter remarked bitterly, green eyes warily observing the strange company. He was a young man, perhaps no more than five years older than himself by Sagramor's reckoning, his blonde hair cut short save for a long braid draped over the left side of his face. As with Merrill, he wore the vallaslin of the Dalish proudly, albeit of a different design, while his flesh bore the tanned complexion of a man who'd spent most of his days out of doors and enduring whatever the elements could throw at him. He was clad in a suit of veridium chainmail, complete with armoured gauntlets and boots, the metal dulled for greater stealth, while he bore the weight of longsword, longbow, quiver and a wide, leaf-patterned shield comfortably, though his right hand never strayed far from the hilt of the blade. Behind him, a dozen more Dalish silently crept out from amongst the trees with arrows nocked, some similarly armed and armoured, others clad in supple-looking leather armour and bearing twin blades at their hips. "Do you have any idea how long we've been forced to wait? Every moment you've been running around has put the entire clan at risk!"

"Fenarel, I…" Merrill mumbled, crestfallen.

"And for what? A dead woman? Mahariel was my friend too, Merrill, but she's not worth dying for. Half the clan is convinced you'll bring the darkspawn plague back with you, and I can't say I blame them!"

"Merrill's uninfected," Sagramor insisted, stepping forward before the hunter could berate her further. "If she was, we'd have seen signs of it by now."

Fenarel's head jerked towards Sagramor in shock. "And who are you to determine that?"

Wordlessly, the Warden tapped the front of his tabard. "My… my apologies, Grey Warden," said Fenarel, sounding anything but. "I was not aware you had been caught up in all this."

"This is Sagramor Tabris, and these are his companions," said Merrill, pointing out each in turn. "Sagramor, this is Fenarel, captain of the clan's hunters. Fenarel, they've come to see the Keeper."

"What for?"

"I'm hoping to establish an alliance between us," Sagramor explained. "If we are to defeat the Blight, then we must stand together, and the strength of the Dalish could mean the difference between victory and defeat."

"So you say." Green eyes examined the motley gathering with undisguised wariness. "You travel in strange company, Warden."

"But an honoured one," Sagramor replied, loud enough for the rest of the party to hear. "We seek an audience with the Keeper Marethari. Would you be so kind as to bring us to her? We have much to discuss."

Briefly, Sagramor wondered if Fenarel would deny the request, until finally the Dalish hunter offered a curt nod. "Follow, then, and try and keep up."

Any hopes Sagramor possessed of talking more with Merrill's clanmates as they were guided to the Sabrae camp was swiftly disabused as the Dalish set a brisk pace northward, evidently preferring to escort the strangers from a wary distance rather than march in close order beside them, and the Warden's company quickly fell behind, their horses and Bodahn's cart unable to keep up with the swift elven hunters. The terrain wasn't helping matters either. A hundred paces in, just as Morrigan promised, and the woods devolved into a stinking, cloying mire akin to the Korcari Wilds, ridden with impassable pools of deep, stagnant water and thick mud that forced them to fight free with every step. Where the mire did not rule, the brambles did. Every patch of dry earth that might have offered safe passage was barred by ramparts of foliage so dense they were forced to take their blades to it. In defiance of the day's warmth, a cold mist had fallen over the woods as well, and soon they were engulfed by it, adding yet another obstacle to their march. Only the glimpses of the Dalish hunters ahead served to guide them, and Sagramor inwardly reflected that any hostile force attempting to strike at the Sabrae Clan would soon find themselves hopelessly bogged down and lost.

Which, of course, was entirely the point. "Can you not feel it?" Morrigan proclaimed, an ecstatic light in her eyes. "Old magic has suffused this place, bending the land to its will. No doubt the Dalish are building upon what already exists, but to manipulate the earth so extensively, and over such a wide area…"

"Imagine this power turned against the darkspawn," suggested Sagramor, pleased by the thought. "Their numbers won't matter if they can't bring them to bear because of the terrain."

"That may be the least of what their power can offer."

Sagramor had heard that eager tone from her before, when asking him to steal Flemeth's grimoire from the Circle, and hastily made to temper any similar ambitions. "I'll do everything I can to convince this Keeper Marethari to give you access to her lore, but until then, don't do anything rash. They're to be our allies, after all, and I don't want to compromise that, even for your curiosity."

"Never fear, Warden. I shall behave myself," Morrigan said with a mocking grin.

Then came the whispers from out of the mist. From a league behind them, Sagramor heard Leliana scream in pain and terror, so sharp and clear that his sword was drawn and he was five paces into a desperate charge before he realized the Orlesian woman was right beside him, quite unharmed. One by one, the magic preyed upon the party's fears and desires, and one by one, they halted in their tracks or nearly broke formation chasing phantoms, so alluring was its call. Even Alistair was affected, the strength of his Templar abilities availing him nothing, and only Sagramor's iron grip and Leliana physically throwing herself into his path kept him from vanishing into the mists. "Sorry," he blurted out as he came to his senses, visibly shaken. "I could have sworn I heard Duncan out there…"

Even with the hunters ostensibly guiding them, they might have been lost if not for Merrill. Uttering words of power, the Dalish girl reached out with her magic, and the land began to reshape itself as the Keeper's sorceries responded to her presence. Within moments, a path northward emerged across the morass, as foliage parted and marshland transmuted to ground firm enough to bear the weight of horses and cart. The mist likewise drew back, the hallucinations departing with it, much to the party's relief, and their pace quickened considerably.

Finally, the party arrived before a literal wall of foliage, rising ten feet tall out of the ground and as impassable as any stone fortification, while the path behind them crumbled back into the swamp so that no intruder might follow in their wake. The Dalish hunters fell in around them, bows still at the ready, and Fenarel fixed Sagramor with a distrustful look. "If you betray us in this, Warden, then you will not live to profit from it."

Sagramor bristled at the suggestion. "I meant what I said, ser. We have no desire to harm your clan, and I'm willing to swear an oath on that if it means winning your trust."

Fenarel turned away with a scoff. "Don't mind him," Merrill whispered so that her clanmate could not overhear. "The Keeper made him leader of the hunters only a short while ago, when Mahariel fell sick. It must be hard living up to her role."

It's been hard living up to Duncan's, but you don't see me treating people like that, Sagramor remarked inwardly, biting back his anger lest he do something rash. The wall of foliage melted away, vines and brambles and roots slithering back into the ground, and the Warden's choler vanished just as quickly at the sight of the clearing beyond and what lay within.

Beneath banners marked with a green halla's head upon a shield of white, a dozen aravels, the iconic "landships" of the Dalish, were assembled in a circle, great, ornately fashioned wagons mounted on several pairs of iron-rimmed wheels and boasting sails of beautiful red silk. To the north, past the landships, Sagramor caught a glimpse of the famed halla who pulled them grazing peacefully within an impromptu paddock, the sight of the stag-like creatures stirring the heart, while Merrill and their escorts made brief gestures of obeisance as they passed the wooden statues of the elven gods mounted about the camp. Armed elves were everywhere, and not just the squads of hunters in chainmail or leather patrolling the camp's perimeter. Every weaver, craftsman and even the clan hahren kept blade and bow close at hand, and at the party's approach, a sea of elven faces turned towards them in shock, all but those of the children decorated with vallaslin.

Except for one face that Sagramor had never expected to see again, and with a laugh, the elven Warden broke formation, hand raised in greeting. "Pol! I had no idea you were here!"

"Sagramor?" a tremulous voice sounded from out of the crowd, and an elven man about Sagramor's age stepped forward, green eyes wide with surprise, the skin of his face unmarked with Dalish tattoos. "Mak—I mean, Creators, I didn't expect to ever see you again."

"Me too, old friend."

"You both know each other?" Merrill asked, genuinely curious.

"We grew up in the Denerim Alienage together," Pol said, and Sagramor noticed instantly how he blushed at the presence of the First. "Is my family doing okay?"

"They were the last time I saw them," Sagramor assured him. "We'll catch up later, yeah?"

"I'll have to ask Junar first, but… yeah, that might be nice."

Giving Pol's hand a shake, Sagramor moved on. A growing crowd of Dalish had gathered, whispering anxiously amongst themselves and at the sight of Sten, Shale or the humans, more than one parent hurriedly bundled their wailing child away, offering the newcomers a filthy look as they went. Others still muttered about the tabards Sagramor and Alistair proudly wore, or levelled hostile stares at Merrill, and the first stirrings of unease began to settle in the Warden's heart. After everything their clan had been through of late, it was foolish of him to expect a wholehearted welcome, and he doubted they often extended their hospitality to strangers in any event. Even so, instinct told him that something was amiss, his anxieties mirrored in Merrill's own worried looks.

The crowd parted, making way for an older woman in green robes, her white hair drawn into a ponytail, while a long, bladed staff hung at her back. At once, the clan bowed down, Fenarel's hunters included, yet she did not seem to register their homage, green eyes fixed upon the trembling Merrill. "So, you return to us, da'len," she said with a voice like dry tinder, every aged line etched deeper by disappointment. "Was it worth it, to leave your kin and clan afraid you had run away to your death?"

"Keeper, I-"

"Your foolishness has put us all in danger. We have been forced to linger so close to this human city, waiting for your return, and with each day spent, the threat of discovery and attack has only grown. Did you even consider such things before you ran off, chasing after a woman who was already dead?"

Small fists screwed up tight at her sides, and Merrill met the Keeper's gaze, eyes brimming with defiant tears. "Her name is Mahariel, and I was still able to ease her pain, even if I couldn't save her. Don't pretend she wasn't worth fighting for! She didn't stop being one of us just because she carried the Blight!"

"I grieve for her as well, da'len, but that does not excuse your actions," the Keeper remarked coldly, finally turning her attentions to Sagramor. "I bid you welcome, Grey Warden. I am Marethari, Keeper of the Sabrae Clan. I hope my First did not cause you too much trouble."

"Quite the contrary, honoured Keeper," Sagramor expressed, offering her a respectful bow. "It was a privilege to travel and fight alongside her."

"I see, Warden…"

"Sagramor Tabris, late of the Denerim Alienage," said the Warden, introducing his companions in turn. "While it was an honour to stand beside your First in her time of need, it is the threat of the darkspawn that has brought us here. May we speak in private? There are urgent matters we must discuss."

Marethari raised a hand in welcome, silencing the anxious murmurs running throughout the assembled Dalish. "Very well then, Grey Warden, I offer you the hospitality of the Sabrae Clan. The southern end of this glade should offer enough space for your company's camp. I will send a runner to bring you to my aravel… once I have settled matters with my apprentice."

"That is more than acceptable, honoured Keeper," Sagramor replied, taking her request in stride, even as Merrill gave a small whimper. A few minutes' downtime was a small price to pay to see one of the treaties fulfilled, and there was no sense offending her with a demand for haste. Likewise, he doubted the Sabrae Clan was eager to bivouac cheek-by-jowl with people they barely knew, even Wardens, at least until he'd earned their respect. "We will not abuse your trust, I swear it."

Nodding, Marethari beckoned towards Merrill, and the Dalish girl complied, though not before offering Sagramor a look of gratitude as she departed. "Man, I'd hate to be her right about now," Alistair muttered. "Do you think Marethari knows about, you know-"

"Probably, but that's no business of ours," answered the elf, trying to avoid betraying his sympathies for the beautiful maleficar, and failing rather miserably. Maker's breath, you're a witless fool for a pretty face… "Let's get comfortable. Wynne, when Alistair and I go speak to the Keeper, you'll be in charge. These people are to be our allies, everyone, so mind your manners. I don't want the treaty to fall through because of some petty grievance." Merrill did well in helping us get this far. Now to make it count…

In all his years of listening to Elder Valendrian's teachings, or pestering Alarith the shopkeeper to tell him about how the Dalish saved him one more time, or reading the scant knowledge of the Dalish contained in his treasured books, Sagramor never dreamed he would ever step foot into one of their fabled aravels. He had been recruited by Duncan for a purpose, not a pleasure cruise, yet he allowed himself a moment to indulge in his awe all the same as he made his way down the ladder, lips silently offering thanks once more to his fallen mentor for giving him such an opportunity. Marethari's landship appeared grown rather than assembled, the timbers that comprised it moulded into sweeping organic curves that had never known the touch of axe, awl or hammer, such that Sagramor and Alistair seemed to descend into the belly of an immense wooden beast. Beneath the glow of magical crystals hung from the ceiling, Sagramor took in a series of great cabinets erected along the far wall, one containing tomes of lore bound in leather, a second filled with sacks of what he assumed were alchemical ingredients and healing herbs, a third with clay bottles individually partitioned by wooden slats and cushioned by dried grasses to protect them from damage. At the rear of the landship, before wide openings that served as windows, a dozen great ravens perched silently on branches growing out of the hull, and Sagramor couldn't help but shiver as their unearthly blue eyes tracked their arrival with an almost-sentient intelligence, their presence a welcome distraction from Fenarel's constant scrutiny. "Are you certain you do not want me to stay, Keeper?"

"We will be quite safe in the company of the Wardens, lethallin," Marethari assured the hunter. "Please make certain we are not disturbed."

"Ma nuvenin, Keeper," Fenarel conceded, offering Sagramor a final warning glare before departing.

"Join us, please," Marethari urged the pair, gesturing towards the brightly coloured rugs draped across from her. Merrill was present as well, the Keeper's apprentice looking rather chastened as she poured their guests tea, her alabaster features betraying the traces of freshly shed tears. Accepting the cup, Sagramor offered her a reassuring wink, and was rewarded with a gentle smile from the girl and a cold frown from the older woman. "I had not expected you to bring one of your companions, Warden Sagramor."

"Alistair is a brother of the Order and a very good friend, honoured Keeper," Sagramor insisted, ignoring the double-take Alistair offered at the praise. "Whatever trust you have in me should be offered to him as well."

"And the others that follow you? Are they Wardens as well?"

"No, but they are valued allies all the same."

"I see," said the Keeper, leaving her tea untouched. "So what is it you wish from us, Grey Warden?"

With the utmost reverence, Sagramor removed the Dalish treaty from the pouch at his belt and laid it before the Keeper, Merrill gasping in awe at the ancient document. "A Blight is upon us, and our world faces annihilation unless we stand together. In past Blights, the strength of the Dalish has often meant the difference between victory and defeat, and we need that strength now more than ever if Ferelden is to be saved. I have come to ask for your aid, honoured Keeper. For the sake of all who live, will you join our fight against the darkspawn?

Marethari's expression betrayed nothing as she took up the treaty, and the unease Sagramor felt upon arriving at the Sabrae camp coiled about his guts, introducing unwelcome anxiety in what should have been a moment of triumph. At last, the Keeper returned the precious document, and with it, her answer. "Your treaty is valid, Grey Warden, and your cause is just.

"But the Sabrae Clan cannot aid you."

Sagramor felt his world rock beneath him, if the Keeper's aravel had suddenly begun moving of its own accord, and any protest he could offer went unspoken as his voice refused to obey. Beside him, Alistair and Merrill likewise remained in utter shock, and it was the former Templar who gathered his wits first, unable to hide his umbrage. "I beg your pardon?"

"You will find no aid for your campaign here, Grey Wardens. My clan is already committed to another road, and I cannot turn away for any reason, not even the oaths our ancestors once swore. We make for the Free Marches."

"The Free Marches?" Sagramor finally managed to croak. They're running away, the thought struck him like a hammer blow, and with great effort, he forced his choler back in check. "With respect, honoured Keeper, the fight's here, not on the other side of the Waking Sea. What could possibly send you all the way over there?"

Marethari had the bare decency to look uneasy. "I have… an appointment to keep. More than that, I cannot say."

"Well, can it wait?" demanded Alistair. "I'm sorry, but there's no polite way to say this: you're breaking your oath to the Grey Wardens, one upheld by every other clan for centuries. We'd never ask this of you if it wasn't important."

"My companion speaks truly. Keeper, believe me when I say that the Blight isn't something you can run and hide from. Eventually, you must stand and fight, and we'll only win that fight if we work together. Is there… is there something we can do to help you? Something to make your journey to the Free Marches unnecessary?"

"Keeper, please," Merrill whispered, utterly heartbroken.

"Be silent, Merrill!"

"I will not!" she snapped back. "Sagramor is right; we have to stay and fight this evil, or there will be no hope for our people. Our ancestors promised to help the Wardens, and they were right to do so. We can't break our word like this!"

Marethari shook her head. "So you would see more of our people share Mahariel's fate?"

"I would see the darkspawn stopped before they hurt anyone else. And I know Mahariel would feel the same way."

"Honoured Keeper, I know what I am asking of you is difficult," said Sagramor, straining to keep the desperation from his voice. "Believe me, I live with the knowledge that every battle I fight helps to save a kingdom that has brutalized and mistreated our people for centuries. But the darkspawn don't care about racial injustice any more than they care about which god we worship, or lines drawn on a map, or who owned what land and when, or the shape of our ears. You may not think Ferelden is worth fighting for, but the future is, and if we allow ourselves to be divided by old grievances, there will be no future for anyone. Don't turn your back on us. Please."

The Keeper would not meet his eyes. "All things end, Grey Warden," she answered, shame radiating from her like ashes smouldering in the hearth. "When my task in the Free Marches is complete, then I swear we shall return to aid you. Now…" With a flick of her wrist, the ladder unfolded from the landship's roof. "We must prepare for our journey to the coast."

A thousand arguments rehearsed themselves in Sagramor's mind, a thousand exhortations that she stand and fight against the encroaching darkness… and from the grim expression Marethari wore and the abrupt nature of her dismissal, none of them would find fertile ground here. It was all a waste, the black thought lingered, carrying him out of the Keeper's aravel, deaf to Merrill's continued protests towards the Keeper.

It was all nothing but a waste…

Leliana had the first watch that evening, yet as his own shift crept closer, Sagramor prowled about the autumn dark with Ragnar trotting close behind, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, the bitterness that prowled about his soul like a caged wolf denying any prospect of sleep. At the other end of the clearing, the aravels of the Sabrae Clan lay dark, any sentries the Dalish might have posted mere whispers on the gentle night winds, while the space between them likewise lay undisturbed. All about him, the world lay at peace, the threat of the Blight made distant trivia in the tranquil stillness, and a growing part of him longed to shatter that stillness, to rouse their hosts from their slumber and, Maker willing, their selfish apathy. How can they be so stupid?!

The Sabrae Clan had no interest in helping them whatsoever. Were it simply a case of its people choosing to place their trust in the decisions of a beloved leader, that might be something he could respect, however much he didn't like it. But it was just the tip of the iceberg, for Marethari's offer of hospitality extended to letting them set up their own campsite in the same forest grove and nothing more. Attempts to share information about the road ahead and learn from one another bore no fruit, as they seemed to consider any outside wisdom inherently condescending. Opportunities for trade likewise withered on the vine, Bodahn's mere presence drawing their contempt. Shortly after the two Wardens returned from Marethari's aravel, Morrigan ventured over to inquire about learning the spells of the Keepers, returning several minutes later no wiser and more ill-tempered. And if Sagramor had hoped his past friendship with Pol would be the key to setting things right, once more he was left disappointed, as the former Alienage elf had strenuously evaded every attempt to speak with him. For the Sabrae Clan, the presence of the Warden's party was an inconvenience to be borne until they could break camp, and if any besides Merrill felt shame over Marethari breaking that oath, they kept silent about it. There would be no gloves for Zevran, no spells for Morrigan, no warriors to aid Ferelden.

And no guarantee that the next Dalish clan they came across would act any differently.

A woman's gentle touch upon his upper arm jolted him from his musings, and blue eyes held him fast. "You must be frustrated," declared Leliana, gently guiding him over to the fallen log where she'd been taking her watch.

"You can say that," the Warden admitted, blushing. Without conscious thought, he'd made his way to her in his woolgathering, her kindness and beauty lighting the way even through his blackest thoughts, and gratefully, he took a seat beside her, glancing out into the surrounding darkness. "All quiet?"

"Thankfully. I do not believe we have anything to fear this night. They might have refused to aid us, but I cannot imagine the Dalish would stand by and do nothing if we were attacked either."

Sagramor offered a non-committal grunt. A nightfall earlier, and he never would have conceived otherwise, but though he trusted the beautiful redhead from the bottom of his heart, oathbreakers had a habit of making liars of them all. The Sabrae Clan would offer them no harm, at least not directly, though if he awoke to discover they'd slipped away like thieves in the night, he would not be surprised. "This is a setback, nothing more," he said, the words sounding hollow and false in his own ears. Beside him, Leliana yawned, and Sagramor silently cursed himself for only now noticing the dark circles around her eyes. "Merrill really kept you up last night, huh?"

"One sleepless night isn't much to complain about, especially with what she's been through," Leliana demurred, blinking back fatigue. "I would not wish to become a burden to you and the rest of the party."

"You never have, and you never will be," the elf stated emphatically. "You've earned my trust a thousand times over by now, but even the best of us need a chance to rest. Get some sleep. I'll take the rest of your watch."

"Are you quite sure?"

"It's no problem. I'm far too tense to sleep, and I need to consider our next move anyways. Ragnar and I will be fine here. Anything happens, we'll wake you."

His point proven by a second weary yawn, Leliana acceded. "As you wish, then. Pleasant dreams, my friend."

"You too. Sleep well."

Smiling, Leliana strode off towards his tent, and Sagramor stared out towards the Dalish camp, resisting the temptation to observe her lithe figure as she departed. Yes, every moment she elected to spend with him was a gift to be cherished, but she deserved far better than to be left exhausted simply because he desired to spend more time with her. After everything she had done for their quest already, in both word and deed, giving her a night to recuperate was the very least he could do.

And he had not lied when he said he needed to think things through. I should have been able to convince Marethari, Sagramor lamented, taking a sip from his waterskin as if to wash away the bitter taste of defeat. He could not have saved Lothering; Loghain's betrayal had seen to that and remaining to defend it from the darkspawn horde would have pointlessly squandered the lives of his companions. Likewise, the undead attacks upon Redcliffe and Uldred's rebellion in Kinloch Hold were crises they'd stumbled upon days after they'd started. He could not have stopped them from happening in the first place, but at the very least, he could take comfort in knowing he'd helped set things right. This was different. To be a Warden was to inspire others to take up arms against the Blight, and the knowledge he'd failed in his oath-sworn duty, even with the weight of the treaty backing him, made him sick to his stomach. He'd failed here, just as he'd failed Shianni, and with a shudder of barely contained rage, Sagramor hurled his waterskin away into the space between the two camps.

Whimpering at his master's distress, Ragnar placed his head upon the elf's knee, soft brown eyes casting up towards him, and the tide of anger receded to leave only shame in its wake. "I'm sorry, boy," Sagramor whispered, stroking the hound's fur and breathing deeply to bring his humours back into balance. It would be easy to blame it all upon fatigue, but fatigue implied weakness, and with so many lives riding on his choices, he could not afford to be weak. No, it was disappointment that stoked the heat of his anger, the awful realization that for all he'd heard of the wisdom and nobility of the Dalish, they were just as capable as any human of ignoring the obvious truth of the Blight's approach. Never, in all his darkest nightmares, had he conceived that the Dalish could break their oath, or that the treaty they'd taken such care to safeguard would prove useless. He'd always hoped his fellow elves would be better, no matter their origin, and to discover otherwise was a bitter draught indeed. I should have considered that possibility. If I had, maybe I'd have found a way to convince her…

"Creators, who left this out here?"

Such was his despondency that Sagramor failed to register the soft, musical voice emerging out of the darkness, and only at Ragnar's nudge did he look up to see Merrill approaching, holding out his waterskin. "Did you drop this, Sagramor? I don't think it belongs to one of my clan, and I haven't misplaced mine for once," said the Dalish girl, free hand immediately moving to her waist to make sure it wasn't betraying her.

Too ashamed to elaborate, Sagramor accepted it back with a mumble of gratitude. "Do you mind if I join you?" asked the Dalish girl. "I was hoping we could talk a bit before the clan departed."

"I'd be honoured, but would the Keeper mind you seeing me like this?"

Great green eyes blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well…" the Warden shifted uncomfortably upon the log, uncomfortably aware of how his heart quickened in her presence. "I know with many humans, having a young man and woman left alone together at night might cause a scandal. I'm not sure how it is with the Dalish, and after all you've done for us, I'd hate to cause you any trouble."

"Why would they consider it scandalous?" Merrill asked guilelessly, taking a seat beside him. "Do humans not like to talk to each other?"

"They do. It's just that some people worry that talking will lead to something more."

"Lead to- ohh!" A deep blush spread over her alabaster features. "Well, the way the clan looks at me these days, speaking with you can hardly make things worse. They might even approve if we did… dirty things, if only to bring fresh blood into the clan. Not that I want to become your lover, of course." A moment passed, and Merrill turned away in embarrassment, hands flying to her mouth. "Creators, that's not what I meant! I mean, you are very handsome, and I'm sure your bloodline is strong and… Mythal'enaste, it gets stuffy at night sometimes, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed," Sagramor remarked dryly, unable to keep himself from smiling. "You are beautiful, Merrill, and were circumstances different, I would be happy to court you." Her blush deepening yet further, the Warden continued, eager to clear the air between them. "But that is not to be. First off, my duty to the Order must take priority with a Blight raging. I cannot break that oath, nor am I the sort to bed a woman and then move on. Second, my heart belongs to another. I can't expect her to feel the same way, but I… I can't ignore the way I feel about her either."

"She sounds very wonderful."

"You're right, she is." There was more he longed to say, of blue eyes so deep and beautiful he'd willingly drown in them forever, of scarlet hair lovely as fine Orlesian silk, of generous, pouty lips he yearned to feel against his own, of a cunning mind whose counsel he could not do without and a kind heart that inspired him to be a hero worthy of her… Instead, he let discretion rule his tongue, keenly aware of how he'd embarrassed himself of late. "Last, Mahariel was special to you, wasn't she?"

Green eyes blossomed with fresh tears. "Yes. Yes, she was."

Sagramor extended a hand, and Merrill took it, sobs dying as he gave her a comforting squeeze. "Then you deserve the chance to grieve without distraction. I didn't know her, but from what little I saw, she seemed like a great person."

"She was. I keep telling myself that tears won't bring her back, but every time I think about her, I just can't seem to stop."

"There is no shame in grief. I lost my mother a few years ago, and while that's a different kind of love, I know what you're going through. You're a good person, Merrill. You deserve better than to waste your days in regret."

"Even though I'm a blood mage?"

The question was calmly asked, but pointedly, and just as the night before, Sagramor could offer nothing but the truth. "Yes, even then. You stood up for us, Merrill, even when it would have been easier to keep silent or support the Keeper. I'm still not comfortable with that kind of magic, and I never will be, but you've earned my trust all the same."

Sighing, Merrill cuffed away her tears. "Thank you so much. Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Do you hate us? The Dalish, I mean." Sensing his confusion, Merrill hastily explained. "I just hear all this talk from my clanmates about how the city folk knowingly turned their backs on our true heritage, and that they've been raised to hate us for worshipping our own gods instead of the human one. I don't think it's true, judging from you and Pol. Then again, I suppose we haven't done a good job of earning your loyalty."

"What, you think I'm going to condemn you for being 'too elfy'? I'm not a moron," Sagramor scoffed. "Merrill, the instant I start condemning an entire group for the actions of a few, whether it's the Dalish or humans or even nobles, I am lost, and not even the Maker could bring me back then. I save my contempt for Marethari; she's the Keeper, she made the decision to break oath, so she can bear the responsibility. I'll never hate the Dalish, Merrill. Upon my honour, I swear it."

Sighing in relief, Merrill rose from her seat, hands wringing nervously as she paced about. "Thank you. I knew it, I just had to make absolutely certain before…"

"Before what?"

Merrill took a deep breath. "Every First and Keeper of the Dalish swears an oath that they will never bring harm to our people or betray the Dalish to an outsider. I'm going to break that promise. I wouldn't do so normally, but-"

"It's fine, Merrill," Sagramor assured her. "You don't need to break that promise, not for my sake."

"There is every need," Merrill insisted, and in her voice echoed the strength and pride of an ancient culture, unbowed and unbroken despite all it had endured over the ages, her eyes made hard by a will of steel. "You helped me end Mahariel's suffering, even when the clan turned its back on her. I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay. Besides, your cause is a worthy one, and it doesn't seem fair that you should face such dangers only to leave us empty-handed. There is another clan that might be able to help you."

"Go on," Sagramor expressed, instantly rapt.

"They are the Oberon Clan. Their leader, Zathrian, is said to be one of the wisest and most powerful of the Keepers." Merrill's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've even heard he has regained the immortality of our ancestors!"

"The immortality of…" Sagramor fumbled for his words.

"Oh, right, I don't suppose I got around to telling you about that," apologized the Dalish girl, assuming the air of a teacher instructing a prized pupil. "Long ago, the Creators blessed our ancestors with the gift of immortality, so that we might endure for as long as our world would. It is only after Arlathan fell to the Tevinter Imperium and the Dread Wolf sealed away the gods that we began to age and sicken as the humans do."

"So how did he manage it, then?"

"No one knows. Perhaps the Creators are coming back, or his magic helped him find a way. Oh, what I wouldn't give to spend even a few minutes learning what he has to teach!" she proclaimed with a wistful sigh. "From what I understand, he holds great sway with many of the other Keepers. Marethari speaks highly of him. And even if he cannot convince them to aid you, it is said that the Oberon Clan is a powerful one. Their strength alone could make a difference."

"And where will we find them?"

"It is said they camp frequently along the western edges of the Brecilian Forest, at least from what the Keeper has mentioned." She must have seen the flicker of disappointment cross his gaunt features, for she hastily tried to elaborate. "If I knew exactly where they were, I'd tell you, but I simply can't be certain. Every ten years, we Dalish all gather for an Arlathvhen, but beyond that, each clan is free to wander where it wills. I know it's not much…"

"I appreciate it, Merrill, thank you," Sagramor assured her. In truth, there were far too many qualifications for his liking, and half-remembered rumours about a clan forever on the move seemed far too ephemeral upon which to place their hopes. Still, in that regard, it was no different than the promise of Andraste's Sacred Ashes or even the Warden treaties themselves, frail threads to guide them from the darkness of a Blight, something to believe in even as the world burned around them. He had no doubts about Merrill's sincerity either. Telling him even this much likely constituted a breach of her oath, so she had no reason to hold anything back. "We were already planning on looking for the Dalish in the Brecilian, so it's good to know about who exactly we might find. I'm grateful for everything you've told me, and I swear, I will never use this knowledge to harm the Dalish in any way."

"Oh, good! I knew you could put it to good use!" Merrill expressed, hugely relieved. "So, where are you going next?"

"Denerim," said Sagramor, briefly explaining their quest for the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. "I just hope it doesn't end up being a waste of time. Strictly speaking, hunting down ancient relics isn't within the Order's remit."

"You'll succeed, I'm certain of it." The Dalish girl cocked her head quizzically. "This… Redcliffe place, it is important?"

"It's the most powerful fortress in western Ferelden, and the people who live there are worthy allies. I'm still not convinced the Urn can be fond, but for their sake, I'm willing to try."

"Have they… have they ever mistreated you because you're an elf?" Merrill asked.

Sagramor shook his head. "It's hard to hate someone for being different after they've defeated an army of undead to save your skin. I can't pretend that every single citizen of Redcliffe treats our people equally, but by and large, they've been extremely helpful. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," Merrill demurred. "Thank you for everything, Sagramor. I know this has been disappointing for you, but I'm still glad we met."

"As am I." Odd as it might be saying so to a blood mage, it was the truth, and both duty and compassion demanded he pose one last question. "Are you going to be okay here with your clan? There's a place for you with us, and we could certainly use the help." Maker, Alistair's going to kill me…

"It's a very kind offer," said Merrill, visibly tempted, before finally shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Sagramor, I can't. My clanmates and I don't always agree, but they're still my family, and with a Blight raging, they will need my help more than ever… even if they'll never admit it. Besides, someone has to hold the Keeper to her promise." She turned away from him, ashamed. "Guess we Dalish can't stop letting you down, huh?"

"You have nothing to apologize for, Merrill," Sagramor reassured her, disappointed though not surprised. Whatever disagreements she was having with her clanmates, leaving them entirely was a massive step, especially for someone she'd only just met. "You're not the first person I've asked who put her family first. Just be careful, all right? Our people have lost too much as it is. We can't afford to lose you."

"I… I'll try not to disappoint you," Merrill stammered. "I should get back before the Keeper notices I'm missing. Still, let me know if there's anything else I can do."

The memory of an old promise, eagerly given, drew Sagramor's gaze over towards Leliana's tent. "As a matter of fact… do you know anything about flowers?"

At the nudge of great paws, Sagramor came awake, the sound of voices raised in anger beyond the canvas walls proof enough that Ragnar had done well in rousing him. Pausing only to offer the warhound some grateful pets, Sagramor dressed, buckled on his cloak and greatsword, and was racing towards the disturbance, armour left behind in his haste. A dozen paces past his tent, Alistair greeted him with a rueful smile. "Sorry for not getting to you sooner, Sagramor, I was just about to wake you."

"Don't worry about it," Sagramor demurred, heart dropping at the sight of Keeper Marethari and a dozen Dalish hunters staring down his gathered companions. Behind them, the rest of the Sabrae Clan was trickling in to witness the drama, the mutterings of discontent rippling through their growing number setting Sagramor's teeth on edge. "Now what's all this about?"

At his Keeper's right hand, Fenarel greeted the question with a sneer. "Don't act like you don't know, Warden. Now which one of your minions did it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Sabrae Clan believes that one of us trespassed in their camp last night," Wynne explained, her glacial calm a welcome counterbalance to the growing anger radiating from the Dalish. "Apparently, a series of messenger birds were released without Keeper Marethari's permission."

"You mean those ravens I saw in your aravel?" asked Sagramor, receiving a tight nod from Marethari in answer. "Did anyone get a glimpse of the culprit?"

"No, we saw nothing," Fenarel admitted through gritted teeth, his anger at this supposed dereliction projected against the Warden's company. "What about this golden-eyed witch of yours? She had to gall to try and take our lore for her own. Who knows what else she's capable of?"

Morrigan offered a smile with far too many teeth for comfort. "You dare accuse me of such a thing? It seems you possess some measure of courage after all. Still, you are wrong in this. I have far better things to do with my time than skulk about your camp like a thief in the night. And I did not try and take knowledge of the Keeper arts, I offered to trade for it, lore for lore."

"So you say."

"Morrigan is innocent," Sagramor insisted calmly but firmly. "If you have evidence proving otherwise, then show me, and I will hold her accountable. But she has earned my trust, just like all my companions have. None of them would go behind my back to violate your hospitality, I swear it."

Fenarel scoffed again, even as the Keeper remained silent. "Should have figured the flat-ear would side with the humans. Typical."

Zevran's blades whispered free of their scabbards, while the tip of Nimue's black walnut staff burned white-hot in sympathetic anger. Sagramor's patience, already worn down by Marethari's refusal to honour the treaty, gave way completely, and before he could stop himself, he was face to face to Fenarel. At his side, Ragnar mirrored his master's anger, several hundred pounds of lethal warhound ready to pounce, fangs bared in a vicious snarl. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me, Warden," Fenarel spat, any pretense of civility or respect discarded. "Did your mother never teach you right from wrong, so that you would side with your own kind?"

"Let me tell you what my mother taught me," Sagramor answered, tense as a bowstring at full draw at mention of his mother. "I learned that I must always choose to be a good man, no matter what the world throws at me. I learned to always protect the things and people that truly matter, whatever the cost, instead of running away into the woods and turning my back upon the innocent. My mother was a good woman, ser. She never let the world's darkness warp her into something she was not. She never lost hope or answered hatred with hatred. Even in death, she remained true, and scum like you are not fit to speak of her!"

Blanching, Fenarel stumbled backwards, and Sagramor advanced with a lupine smile, anger blinding him to the half-dozen Dalish arrows levelled at him. Only when a gloved hand fell upon his right shoulder and anxious blue eyes pierced the veil of his rage did Sagramor come to his senses, and with great effort, he forced himself to calm, offering Leliana a grateful nod at her intervention. "I do not answer to oathbreakers and cowards, but for diplomacy's sake, Keeper, I will indulge you this once. My companions did not intrude upon your camp, and I will face any ten of your so-called warriors on the field of honour to prove their innocence."

"Then if you didn't do it, then who?" a voice cried out from amongst the crowd, echoed a moment later by a dozen others.

"I did."

Two words, so softly spoken, cut through the tumult like a knife, and as one, the entire assembly turned to see Merrill approach, the butt of her staff rapping upon the earth. "Merrill?" asked Sagramor.

"I sent the messenger ravens to seek out our sister clans here in Ferelden, those with the courage and honour to stand alongside the Grey Wardens," the Dalish girl continued, as if Sagramor had not spoken. "They will know of the threat facing this land, and of the heroes fighting it. When Sagramor and his friends next find a Dalish clan, our people will not be found wanting again."

For the first time since confronting the Warden's party, Marethari spoke. "Why? Why do this without my leave, da'len?"

Merrill slammed her staff down a second time, like a gavel of a magistrate passing judgment, lightning dancing at the tip. "Because we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit, not to fear or hatred or bitterness or despair. Are we so afraid that we dare not risk doing the right thing?" she demanded. "Have we become so selfish that speaking a few words of the old tongue justifies turning our backs on the world? Sagramor and his friends played no part in what I did, Keeper; the choice was mine alone and I will accept any punishment you see fit. But I could not stand by and do nothing while our world burns at the touch of the darkspawn!"

"There was no need for such subterfuge!" insisted Marethari. "I would have sent them out in due time."

"Would you?"

Marethari's mien darkened like a thundercloud, though she did not challenge the accusation, and in the bitter silence that followed, Merrill crossed over to the Warden's party and threw her arms around Sagramor. "I hope this will help, even a little bit," she whispered.

"It will," Sagramor answered truthfully, blushing at her pleasurable closeness. The notion that a Dalish clan might seek them out at Redcliffe on the strength of her message alone was the second slim hope she'd offered, and as before, he embraced it without hesitation. "Are you going to be all right here?" he asked, conscious of the venomous glares her clanmates were sending her way.

"Merrill, come here!" Marethari's outraged cry interjected before Merrill could answer, though whether her anger came from her apprentice's deception or from seeing her embracing the Warden, Sagramor could not be certain. "It is time you and your company were on your way, Grey Warden. You have a duty, apparently."

"Kicking us out so soon?" Shale asked, even more sarcastically than usual. "And here I was, hoping to enjoy more of its hospitality."

Smiling ruefully, Merrill leaned over and kissed Sagramor on the cheek. "May the Creators watch over you and your companions, my friend, and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent."

"And you," said Sagramor, trying to ignore the unexpected pang at her parting. A final glance over the sullen ranks of the Sabrae Clan told him they would find no more aid here, not even from Pol, shrinking away from his gaze. Too much of what his mother had cautioned against, he saw in them; of strength squandered by an unwillingness to use it for something greater than themselves, of lives driven by bitterness instead of hope, and save for the blood mage returning to her teacher's side, he could not stand to be among them a second more. "Pack up, everyone, we're moving out," he instructed the party, before offering Marethari a stiff bow. "You're right, honoured Keeper, we do have a duty."

And unlike some, I have no intention of abandoning it…

More than one human scholar had remarked that no force on Thedas could outmarch a clan of the Dalish when pressed, and the Sabrae Clan seemed intent on proving that boast true, eager to leave the sorrows of Ferelden behind. By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the night's campsite was a memory leagues distant, the Warden's party largely dismissed as likewise irrelevant, and all throughout their caravan, Marethari sensed a new optimism spreading as her sorcery parted the trees before them, the prospect of never again falling prey to the Blight raising the spirits of the entire tribe. Yet standing on the upper deck of her aravel, the Keeper's own thoughts remained bitter, not even the focus needed to maintain her spellwork driving the worries from her mind.

Chief among them was her apprentice, mewed up inside her aravel under strict orders to remain until further notice. Creators, where did I go wrong with her? Marethari lamented inwardly. It was bad enough Merrill had fallen into blood magic, but siding with outsiders over her own clan, even if they were Wardens? A Keeper must stay true to herself, and not be so easily swayed by such outside influences. No matter what Merrill said, Marethari doubted she ever would have gone behind her back like she did without the instigation of this Sagramor, and the thought of her apprentice being taken advantage of sent a pulse of purest anger through her heart.

"Keeper?" Fenarel's voice sounded at the edges of her hearing, and Marethari blinked, turning to face the hunter captain, who immediately dropped his gaze in deference. "Are you all right?"

"Of course, lethallin," she insisted, concealing her dismay. Such was her distraction that her sorceries had failed mid-incantation, both the woods before her and the rest of the caravan behind left unmoving as a result. Dozens of faces peered from every motionless aravel, anxious at the sudden and unexpected delay, and she forced herself to offer a reassuring smile. A Keeper must never lose control, for how can she govern her clan if she cannot govern herself? "We will be on our way again shortly. Please, calm the others for me."

Nodding, Fenarel went about it, and Marethari smiled at his eagerness. It had been a hard road for them all, but perhaps none moreso than him, who'd been forced to step into the shoes once filled by dear friends so tragically lost. He would lead the clan's hunters to glory in time.

Even if he was far too eager to embrace her dishonour.

Not for the first time, Marethari cursed the day she'd accepted the witch's offer of aid. For years, the spectre of the bargain she'd made had hung over her, unseen by all, made even more troubling by the realization that she would be called upon to repay that debt at the one time she could not afford to do so. Never in her darkest moments, however, did she ever imagine it would be during a Blight.

Or that she would have to sacrifice her clan's honour in the process.

Sighing, Marethari tried to focus, the magic answering her call and sending the trees ahead parting like waves before a ship's prow. Regrets were pointless, for she'd made her choice and would live with the consequences as they came. After all, in the end, the anger of Wardens and Firsts, however justified, was but temporary.

But the wrath of Asha'bellanar was eternal…

A/N: Finally, at long last, I am done with this white whale of a chapter, and not a moment too soon. I'm still not 100% happy with this chapter, and I doubt I ever will be; in particular, the portrayal of Fenarel and Marethari veers a bit too close to the sort of strawman characterization I've often railed against in these comments for comfort, though I hope I was able to provide at least some measure of moral ambiguity here. Overall, this little divergence with the Merrill arc was a bit of an experiment, and one I'm not entirely content with, mostly due to the massive schedule slip this story has experienced while doing it. I wanted not only to give Sagramaor a chance to interact with one of my favourite characters in the entire franchise, but also give him a defeat, to make sure not everything goes his way, and provide an additional spur for his actions moving forward. What little we know about the Sabrae Clan is that they didn't fight against the Blight, so that provided an interesting opportunity for some conflict I felt worth exploring. Again, you have my apologies for the long delay, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter all the same. Let me know your thoughts, and what I can do to improve.

Regardless, now that this is finally done with, I can at last get things moving again, and hopefully better the pacing on the story moving forward. This was a very talky installment, but expect Chapter 31 to have some greater action, as well as some major steps taken in some of the character relationships that I think you'll enjoy. Thank you for your continued support!