The Last stands vigil on the mountain, eyes cast ever-westward, waiting for the shadow.

- Warden-Commander Burke, 5:11 Exalted

Belinor glanced up from his spread of folios as the door creaked open, a gust of snowy wind blowing into the room, bringing with it the flaying cold of the northern Hunterhorns. He shivered, tossed another log into the hearth.

"'Tis far too cold for my liking," Morrigan groused, shaking the snow from her cloak. His wife looked exactly as he'd left her: an impatient slip of a woman draped in scraps of cloth, fur, and leather, as if a magpie had cobbled her outfit together from whatever it had found lying around its nest. She looked at him, her yellow eyes catching the firelight, and put her hands on her hips. "Are you going to just sit there, or will you greet your wife? Hello to you too, dear husband."

"Welcome, my beautiful wife, to the Last Fastness," Belinor said, setting his quill in the inkwell and rising from his desk. Absently, he smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in his Grey Warden tunic and unhurriedly walked over. "Or," he continued, and fiddled with the pointed tip of his ear, "as my compatriots like to call it, the 'Vast Daftness', because why would the Wardens build such a sprawling keep in the most inhospitable reaches of the Hunterhorns?"

"'Tis a good question," Morrigan said, and stepped aside as Kieran came into the room, stamping the snow from his boots.

"Father!" Kieran exclaimed, bolting across the room and flinging his arms around him. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. He wore a hooded cloak trimmed in ermine fur, and a matching tunic cut in Orlesian fashion. "I missed you," the boy said. He'd gotten taller since Belinor had last seen him. Humans grew like weeds, and Belinor often found himself amazed at how quickly Kieran threatened to overtake his height. Not that his height, as it was with most elves, had ever been considerable.

"I missed you, too," Belinor said, and kissed the top of his head. "Have you been behaving for your mother?"

Morrigan slunk over, moving with the sinuous grace of a predatory cat, and kissed him. Her lips were frigid, and Belinor told her so. "Of course they're cold, fool," she said, smiling. "'Twas a long trek, and the cold is most unforgiving in this part of the world. I'll be thankful for the lowlands."

"Don't be so quick to say that. Viridis—Tevinter for 'The Green', and what they call the lands west of the Hunterhorns—is far more unforgiving, I assure you. You'll see." Belinor paused, working his mouth in thought. Then, "Remember the Korcari Wilds? Like that, but worse."

Morrigan groaned. "Perhaps we should have stayed in Orlais."

"You don't actually mean that, mother."

"No," Morrigan agreed, ruffling Kieran's hair: black like hers, like Belinor's had been before it had turned silvery-white. "I'm glad of it—us being together again as a family."

"Aw, Morrigan, you really have become a softie." Leliana appeared in the doorway, a pack slung over her shoulder, and grinned at them. She wore a nondescript hauberk of tightly-woven links, and a worn traveling cloak clasped at the shoulder with a nightingale brooch.

"Now here's a face I thought I wouldn't see again," Belinor said, and laughed. They hugged. Well, Leliana hugged him, and he awkwardly patted her on the back. "Like old times. Is Mahariel with you?"

"Of course I am, cousin," Ferengil grunted, stepping in after Leliana, straining under the weight of Leliana's luggage. Knowing Ferengil—and Belinor knew his cousin well—he'd insisted on carrying most of the load in some misguided attempt to impress Leliana, despite the fact the two of them were well past the pageantry of courting.

That he had a cousin was still strange to Belinor. His mother, he knew, had been Dalish, and her clan had run afoul of bandits; he'd been the only survivor of the slaughter: a child found wandering, half-starved and alone, by some templars who'd been operating in the area. Yet, during the Fifth Blight, this Dalish man had materialized out of thin air, claiming they were family. He'd first thought Ferengil had been some kind of swindler, a cast-off from one of the clans who'd turned to crookery, but Ferengil had given him his mother's sylvanwood ring as proof of their kinship, and they'd been close ever since.

Belinor later found out it had been Stroud, Ferengil's mentor, who'd informed Ferengil of his existence and given him the ring. He'd tried asking Ferengil about Stroud and his Joining experience, mostly to compare it to his own with Duncan, but Ferengil always became a little guarded whenever Belinor raised the question, as if the recollection pained him too much to recount it. Even Leliana couldn't ferret out the story, and there were few secrets between the two of them, to the point Belinor was fairly certain they could predict each other's bowel movements with alarming precision.

"Creators, you look pensive," Ferengil said, heaving down the packs and breathing a sigh of relief. He wore Dalish armor of sturdy leather and animal skins, and a wolf-pelt cloak fastened by a silver griffin brooch, the only indication of his membership to the Grey Wardens. An ironbark longbow was slung over his back. "You've got that look on your face, cousin. The one you get when you get lost in your head."

"Just surprised to see Leliana, though I suppose I shouldn't be. Wherever you are, she's never far behind."

"Isn't it enough I've suffered at your side, toiling away to find a cure for the Calling while my Orlesian rose wilted in the gloom of Skyhold? Blessed Mythal, allow me some happiness, cousin."

Leliana snorted. "All right, enough of that. We'll be off to your bedchamber soon enough, ma vhenan. No need to butter me up." "

"Would you kindly refrain from talk of bedchambers whilst my son is here?"

"I'm not stupid, mother. I know what she means," Kieran said, aggrieved Morrigan insisted on treating him like some ignorant child. "It's the same thing you and father—"

Morrigan put her hand over Kieran's mouth and said, "Enough of that, little man."

"My duties within the Inquisition have been fulfilled, and now I am back with my love, just as I'd said I would be," Leliana said, hooking her thumbs in a belt of braided leather, to which was scabbarded a dagger, its hilt carved from staghorn—an anniversary gift from his cousin. "I want to help you cure the Calling, Belinor. For you, and for my love." She flashed a smile. "It is not as if I have anything better to do now that Madame de Fer is Divine. Thank the Maker. In hindsight, I would have been a poor choice, even if Justinia would have argued otherwise."

"And being Divine would have put quite the damper on your relationship with Ferengil," Belinor said, and shrugged. "That said, you've had a long journey. I'm sure Ferengil's eager to retire with you to his quarters, so don't let me keep you." He darted a look between his friends and family. "I've also arranged for a gathering in the great hall tonight. It will likely pale in comparison to the parties of Orlais, but this isn't the Winter Palace."

"As if Leliana isn't used to roughing it," Ferengil said, grinning. He slipped a slim arm about Leliana and said, "Have you already forgotten about the Fifth Blight, cousin?"

"Gil has a point. I'm sure it will be wonderful," Leliana said.

"Personally, a sober little feast will be a welcome change to the ostentatious pomp of Orlais," Morrigan said. "I tire of gowns and idle talk with bored, stupid nobles."

"You'll suffer neither here, dear wife," Belinor said, and chuckled. His gaze slid to Leliana, and, barely reining back a smirk, he said, "I can't, however, promise Leliana won't chat your ear off and try to wrestle you into a gown."

"Morrigan is in luck. I've no gowns to coerce her into; I've only brought the essentials. But I will likely chat her ear off, yes."

Gil scoffed. "Oh, yes, 'essentials'. An entire sumpter of essentials. Most of which are shoes, of all things."

"Orlesian women," Belinor said, as that was all the explanation his cousin needed.

"Fereldan," Leliana corrected.

"Yes, right," Belinor said, and nodded. "My apologies, Leliana."

"It's all right. The accent throws everyone off."

Leliana and Gil retired to their quarters, and Kieran ran off to find his friend Owen, the keep's young ostler. Morrigan lingered by the hearth, arms folded over her chest. Belinor kicked away the snow that had accumulated on the door's threshold, closed it with a whine of old hinges.

The flames crackled and sputtered in the hearth, and warmth slowly crept back into his study. "You have questions," he said to Morrigan.

"I have several," she said. "Among them: how are you feeling?" Her face softened, and it still took some getting used to, how the years had mellowed her, worn away her sharp edges. Old Morrigan would have called him a child and told him to suck it up, and sometimes he missed that.

"I don't hear the Calling, if that's what you mean. Not yet." Belinor clasped his hands over the small of his back, pacing slowly. "But I have been having strange dreams." He glanced at one of the tapestries hanging on the wall, and woven on it was a griffon, and upon its back rode a Warden in silver armor, his spear raised for battle. "I didn't want to trouble you with the matter in my letter to Skyhold." He stopped pacing and looked at her. "You had enough on your plate between Solas, Lavellan's mess of an Inquisition, Kieran, Flemeth, and Maker only knows what else."

"If it eases your mind at all, my love, all of those problems have ultimately resolved themselves. Flemeth is dead, Solas is gone into the ether, and Inquisitor Lavellan is Cassandra Pentaghast's and Divine Victoria's problem now. But come," and Morrigan held out her hand, "tell me about these dreams."

Belinor held her hand and squeezed, comforted by her touch. "Viridis…" He paused for a moment to hunt for the right words, and then said, "Viridis is unnatural, Morrigan."

"And is this supposed to not pique my interest?" she said, her eyes flashing.

"Morrigan," Belinor pleaded, "please don't poke the sleeping dragon." He brushed his thumb across her pale cheekbone, gazing into the golds of her eyes. "I'd already lost you once, and nearly a second time. I don't want to lose you to your curiosity."

Slipping her hand from his, she sighed and drew him into an embrace. "All right, my love," Morrigan said, after a pause. "I will curb my curiosity. 'Twill be difficult, but 'tis a sacrifice I am willing to make for yours and Kieran's sake."

"Whatever awaits us in Viridis, we'll meet it together," Belinor said, and kissed her. "Now," he said, and pulled away, "I have some preparations to make. I'll bring everyone up to speed tomorrow morning, but tonight is a night for food and drink. It's been so long since I've seen Leliana, and I'd like to catch up."

"Like old times," Morrigan said, and laughed softly. "'Tis a shame the others could not be here. In some strange way, I find myself missing our merry little band of misfits. Even Alistair."

"We still have Alistair, Morrigan."

"Not the dog, my love. The King one."

"Speaking of which, you should pay a visit to Alistair. The hound's missed you. He found one of your cloaks and dragged it into his bed, and he's been whining over it ever since."

Morrigan clicked her tongue. "That drooling fool-beast," she said, the trace of a smile on her lips. "Very well, I will pay a visit to the dog. If Kieran hasn't already found him, that is, and taken him somewhere."

Belinor spent the next few hours working out supply logistics, responding to long-neglected correspondences from Ferelden and Weisshaupt, balancing his treasury to ensure the funds were there for their protracted venture into Viridis. By the time he arrived in the great hall, the party was already in raucous swing. Several Grey Wardens were singing a jaunty tavern reel while his cousin, drunk as a dwarf after a Proving, skipped through a jig atop one of the communal tables and sang along with them in his musical Dalish brogue, thumping out a rhythm on the table with his feet as if it were a great drum.

Leliana had brought along her lute and was fingering a tune to match the rollicking tempo of the song, and one of the Grey Wardens accompanied her on a bodhran, another on a flute. The rest whooped and clapped and stomped their feet. Even Morrigan, Belinor observed, was getting taken in by the revelry, clapping and stamping her feet to the rhythm of his cousin's jig, singing along with the others to the verses of songs she knew.

His cousin, between swigs of ale from several proffered tankards, jigged and twirled his way down the table, singing:

In Lothering, there's a maiden young and fair,

Her eyes are the blue of grace, she's got fiery red hair,

A knight comes a-riding, a-riding up to the Chantry's gates,

On a pure white stallion, and he comes and patiently waits

So step it out, my fine sister,

Step it out if you can

Step it out, sister, my fine sister,

Give your love to the courtin' man

I've come to court the sister, Leliana of the flaming hair,

I have gold and I have silver, and piety beyond compare,

She will want for nothing, and to the Maker this I swear

I will give her an arling, and fine servants for her care

So step it out, my fine sister,

Step it out if you can

Step it out, sister, my fine sister,

Give your love to the courtin' man

I don't want your gold and silver, I don't want your servants and land,

I'm in love with a Dalish who has already claimed my hand

Now go away from here, do this I command

I'll not go with you and wear your wedding band

So step it out, my fine sister,

Step it out if you can

Step it out, sister, my fine sister,

Give your love to the courtin' man

"How drunk are Leliana and my cousin?" Belinor asked, sidling up to Morrigan.

"Oghren."

Belinor sucked his teeth.

"More so your cousin than Leliana, who has, somehow, developed a supernatural tolerance to ale. That said, 'tis quite a catchy song."

"It is," he agreed, tapping his foot to the melody. "Where's Kieran?"

"I caught Owen and him sampling the ale," Morrigan said, like a magistrate expostulating a charge. "So I took Kieran by his ear and to his room. Owen retreated to the stables to escape my ire—and to sleep off his little misadventure."

"Don't be too tough on Owen," Belinor said. "He's been through a lot."

"That hardly gives him the right to feed alcohol to our son."

"Kieran's at that exploratory age, Morrigan."

"He will be old enough to drink when I say he can."

"The more you tell someone they shouldn't do something, the more inclined they'll be to do it. Look at me and the Circle. Look at us. Look at Gil and Leliana. He grew up among the Dalish and had his head stuffed with that shemlen nonsense, yet here he is, professing his love in song for his shemlen wife. Still, I agree: Kieran is too young for ale."

Morrigan shot him a smirk. "Does that mean you concede the argument, my love?"

"I bow to your magnificence, dearest."

Now Leliana joined his cousin on the table, and they jigged and sang together:

Edmund Finn lived on Hard Luck Street,

An unlucky man, mighty sweet

He'd cracked his skull on a laborer's hod

And tumbled lamely to the street

'Gander there,' said an urchin, and to Edmund Finn he went to greet

And, unconscious, Edmund Finn could nary spare a bleat

So the urchin stole his money, and the boots off his feet!

Whack a-fally-da, now dance with your partner

Rut the floor, your padders shake

Edmund Finn's a man who's never known a lucky break

Whack a-fally-da, da-fally-a

The party roared on, and neither his cousin nor Leliana showed any signs of tiring, leaving Belinor to wonder if things would ever settle down again. Morrigan joined him outside. The air was chill, and snow wheeled down around them, piling into drifts along the walls of the courtyard. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen; the night was still and silent, felt like a deep breath before a plunge.

"It's too quiet," Belinor said, his breath steaming in the air. He huddled in his cloak and stared up at the ramparts, watching the sentries patrolling the battlements, their hauberks glistering in the light of the braziers. "If you don't count the party, anyway," he added, smiling wryly.

"I cannot recall ever seeing Leliana so energetic," Morrigan said, mirroring his smile. "'Tis the first time she has ever truly been free of someone else's machinations. Even the Chantry struggles to hold her in its claws. She is truly free, I think, for the first time in her life. I am pleased for her."

Belinor nodded. "First Marjolaine, then the Chantry, then Divine Justinia and Inquisitor Lavellan. She's her own master now. I can see why she'd want to dance on tables and sing silly Fereldan tavern songs."

"Indeed. She came to Last Fastness of her own volition, and not at the behest of another. To her, 'tis worthy of celebration."

"I would have never asked Leliana to come here," Belinor said. "But I'm glad she did. Gil greatly missed her, just as I missed you."

"Oh, do not start with those honeyed words of yours, Belinor, lest you want me to vomit," Morrigan teased, and tipped her head on one side, peering at him. Her eyes bore a subtle shine to them in the dark, like the eyes of some nocturnal creature. "But fret not," she continued, "I am here. The Inquisition needed me no longer, and I no longer need it. And I had long been weary of the Empress's Court. There is nowhere but your side that I am needed at present, and I am glad of it."

Belinor couldn't help but smile. "Leliana's right," he said. "You are a softie."

Morrigan gave him a lighthearted shove, then slunk her way into his cloak, cozying herself in the crook of his arm. "If I am soft, 'tis entirely yours and Kieran's doing."

"Aw, did I interrupt you two?" Leliana appeared, her hair mussed, an expression of pure elation on her face. "I can go away, if you'd both like. I merely came outside for some fresh air."

"Stay, go. I care not," Morrigan said dismissively.

"Then I shall stay," Leliana said, beaming. "Oh, tonight has been such a joy! Thank you for throwing this party, old friend. It's been too long since I've entertained as a bard."

"You looked like you were having a lot of fun," Belinor agreed. "Is Gil still going at it?"

"He is, and I did not have the heart to stop him. Nor could I, I think. He loves to dance and sing." Leliana paused thoughtfully, then said, "When the Calling is cured, I think he and I will do some minstreling in Orlais. That sounds like it would be fun. I miss that life. I do not, however, miss The Game."

"What about your nug-breeding business?" Belinor asked.

"Oh, I have people to watch the little ones while I'm away."

"To be honest, I am surprised you've not popped out a child or two by now, Leliana," Morrigan said. "You seem the mothering type, if your handling of nugs is any indication. Ironic 'twas me who became the mother, is it not?"

Leliana pulled a face that suggested Morrigan had punched her in the gut, then insulted her dead mother, Schmooples, and Lady Cecilie in the same breath. "It isn't as if I have not thought about children. I very much have. But my life has been so unstable until now, and Gil… he gets very strange whenever I broach the subject."

"It's because he's Dalish," Belinor said. He'd never understood Dalish pride, and their obsession with Arlathan and things lost. His cousin's people called his sort flat-ears. To Belinor, his pointy ears were merely a physical characteristic, like a mole, not a deed to land or an entitlement to some long-dead culture. "He still hasn't let go of that part of him. Despite his clan tossing him out on his ass and insisting he's dead to all who ask of him, Gil still maintains the foolish hope he'll one day be welcomed back by the Keeper with open arms. He skirts the issue of children with you, Leliana, because any children born from your union would be humans. Shemlen. One can't rebuild Arlathan without elves, yes?"

Leliana looked, understandably, puzzled. "But he is married to me, and I am human."

"Another reason his Keeper or clan would never welcome him back," Belinor said plainly. "Personally, I don't give a steaming cowpat about the elves or the Dalish. I want you both to be happy."

Leliana looked pensive for a moment, staring into her tankard of ale. Then she looked at him and asked, "Do you think he will ever change his mind, Belinor?"

"I think he could once he lets go of that part of him," Belinor said, and shrugged. "You're a persuasive woman. I'm sure you can make him understand that the Maker wants His children to be fruitful and multiply." He paused for a moment, then said, "Though I would suggest foregoing the Maker and instead invoking Mythal in your plea to him for children. The Dalish don't care for the Chantry, as you well know."

"Are you suggesting that I coerce him under the pretense of religion?"

"Coercion is such a strong word. Persuasion sounds so much nicer."

"I will not. I want Gil to want children with me, not give me them because he feels obligated or forced."

"You asked for some direction, and my love provided it," Morrigan said, peering out from his cloak. "If you insist on making things harder than they need be, 'tis your own fault, Leliana. 'Tis your own fault, too, for choosing a Dalish as your partner and expecting him to so easily relinquish his traditions."

"At the very least, you both have given me something to ponder," Leliana said, and sipped her ale as if she'd just remembered it was there. Then her expression became odd, as if she'd whiffed something foul in her drink.

"What is the matter—"

Morrigan didn't get the chance to finish her sentence as the three of them fell to the ground, and into blackness.

Belinor recovered first, opening his eyes to carnage: bodies, and pieces of bodies, were strewn all over the courtyard. Corpses roamed: jigsaw meat creatures held together by a matrix of dark magic. He watched as a walking corpse careened into one of the mousers, scooping up the yowling creature and eviscerating it. It continued mangling the dead cat, twisting it up and then hurling it to the pavestones with such meteoric force that the thing splattered. And then the creature wandered away as if nothing had happened, silent, stumbling through the shadows like a drunkard made entirely of lefts.

Morrigan raised her head, staring in horror. "Kieran," she said, and scrambled to her feet.

Belinor seized Morrigan by the arm and pulled her back. "You're no good to him if you're dead," he hissed.

Leliana climbed to her feet, and froze. She blanched, eyes shot wide, and said, "Andraste's mercy… Gil. Oh, no. Gil!"

"Your loved ones are safe," came a man's voice from behind them. It was a voice like cold, dark water. He was tall, and wore a tattered, much-patched cloak, leaning on a gnarled staff of burnt oak. His black hair, silvering at the temples, was long, and several fetishes and trinkets were woven into his dark beard. Eyes like small black beetles glittered under his heavy eyebrows, and his face, though weathered by the years, was a conundrum: the man could have been both forty and eighty, father and grandfather.

"You're not one of mine," Belinor said, and drew his sword, for he'd left his staff in his study. "Is this your doing, Avvar? Answer me."

"Is that any way to thank the man who saved your life?" the man asked, and sighed like a disappointed father. "My name is Sedullos, Warden-Commander Surana, and I am not Avvar." He gestured, a burst of magic radiating from his fingertips. "Lower your weapon," he commanded.

Belinor lowered his sword, astonished. "How did you—"

"Quite easily," Sedullos replied. Then, "Your hound and the Dalish are with your son near the west gate. My magic protects them from the bloodwalkers, as it protects you." Sedullos looked at Morrigan, and smiled. His smile was a strange thing: hollow, as if he'd learned how to smile from a technical manuscript. "Witch of the Wilds. I'm sorry to hear of Flemeth's passing." He didn't sound sorry at all. His gaze shifted to Leliana, seemingly weighing her, and then he said, "I wonder what Marjolaine would think of you now, Sister Nightingale. Would she be proud? Hard to say."

Leliana said nothing, but there was a question in her eyes.

"How do you know us?" Belinor asked.

Sedullos chuckled. "Who doesn't know you? But come, now is not the time for questions." The man gestured in the direction of the west gate. "The bloodwalkers will not trouble us while I'm here. You have nothing to fear."

"Tell us who did this," Morrigan demanded, narrowing her eyes.

Sedullos tutted. "Hasty as Flemeth was, witch. It was Owen who blooded the Fastness. Your son tried to stop him."

"What?" Belinor said.

"You should be more mindful of who you allow into the Fastness, Warden-Commander," Sedullos said, hobbling ahead of the group. The four of them walked through the bloodwalkers as if they were little more than a passing breeze. "Owen was a maleficar. Your son, however, was suspicious of him. Owen tried to poison Kieran, but you've a smart lad. Kieran pretended to drink the ale, and would have likely stopped Owen in time had his mother not dragged him off to his room. By the time Kieran reached the gate, it was too late. The ritual was done."

Morrigan opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked ashamed.

"Hasty, just like Flemeth, and always thinking you know better than others, just like Flemeth," Sedullos said.

"Do not compare me to mother."

"I thought you would take such comparisons as a compliment, witch," Sedullos said.

"What ritual? Why here?" Leliana asked.

"A blood ritual to dispel the magical wards protecting the Fastness, of course," Sedullos scoffed, as if Leliana had just asked him the world's stupidest question. "This is the only gateway between Viridis and the Tirashan, and to Orlais and beyond. What happened here was a blood sacrifice, Sister Nightingale. An appeasement to powers beyond your ken."

What they found at the west gate would forever be burned into Belinor's memory: Owen's curly head stared serenely from the point of a spike, his sticky entrails trellised around the stone in a way that was deliberate, as if Owen had taken the time to arrange his intestines in a way that was pleasing to the eye of whatever evil thing he'd sought to appease with his ritual. His headless corpse kneeled on the ground at the foot of the spike in a gruesome mockery of prayer, slit from sternum to groin, his rigid fingers wrapped around the hilt of a ritual knife. The ragged stump of his neck suggested that he'd decapitated himself, and that it had been a difficult and messy process.

Strange runes were carved into the ostler's flesh; at first, Belinor thought the runes were Elvish, but Sedullos told him it wasn't Elvish at all, that it was a far older language, one that had long been forgotten by Thedas. Even Morrigan couldn't read it when they'd asked her to try, and she'd drunk from the Well of Sorrows.

"Except it clearly wasn't forgotten," Belinor said. "Did a demon teach him this magic?"

"Perhaps," Sedullos said, and stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. "It's safe. Out with you both!"

Kieran, Alistair, and Gil crawled out from underneath an upturned cart, and a heap of dead horses and mabari. Kieran immediately bolted into his and Morrigan's arms, and Gil into Leliana's. Alistair whined and shook, his ears flattened against the curve of his broad skull, and Morrigan consoled the mabari with pets, and scratches behind his ears and under his chin.

"My home isn't far from the Fastness," Sedullos said, his sharp eyes regarding the group with such intensity that it was almost palpable, like hot irons on skin. "About a day's walk. I'll take you all there. There is much yet to do, and much yet to discuss."