She wakes from a deep, drugging sleep that threatens to pull her back under – in fact, she vaguely remembers waking before and succumbing to the demands of her body, but she's determined not to fall back asleep this time. If nothing else, she has to find a necessary.
There's none of that staple in storybooks of not knowing where she is or what happened. She remembers the ogre, and the fusillade of darkspawn arrows, but she's alive and she smells no darkspawn here. Someone is standing near her.
She opens her eyes.
"Ah," the person says, revealing itself as a woman. "Your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased."
The wilder girl from the day before is standing next to her, smiling down at Marian as if she's just performed a trick on command. Beyond her, there are walls, a fireplace, a few pieces of furniture... she's in a house, she realizes.
She wonders if she's fit for sitting up – she doesn't feel any pain lying at rest, but she knows how swiftly that can change, that tearing pain can accompany the smallest movement if she's not yet healed enough. She twitches herself all over with no pain and calls that good enough, sitting up with only a truly atrocious ache in her shoulder and hip making itself known.
"What happened?" Marian asks. She realizes that she's entirely naked underneath a thin, scratchy blanket and wonders where her clothes are.
"You were injured," Morrigan replies, a more clinical look entering her eyes. "Mother rescued you. Do you not remember?"
"I remember the darkspawn," Marian says slowly; the stench and the terror are still with her. Another thought springs from that one. "Alistair!" she gasps. "Is he – "
"The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, that is Alistair?" Morrigan asks, arching her brows. "Yes, Mother managed to save both of you, though 'twas a close call."
"And the battle?" Marian spots her clothes and packs in a pile on a chest lying at the end of the bed. She slides further down the bed and stretches to reach for her smallclothes, which irritates her shoulder. She winces.
"Allow me," Morrigan says, dropping her smalls into her lap. "But first I must change your bandages."
Marian has no body modesty, thanks to the dormitories, but it's quite unnerving to stretch out naked and let Morrigan change her bandages. She can feel Morrigan's eyes on her – not sexually, but in a cold, assessing way that brings up the small hairs on the back of her neck.
"There, 'tis done," Morrigan says finally, standing.
"Thank you for healing me," Marian says carefully. It does not do to get on the wrong side of a mage, especially when you're as weak as a kitten and she seems as likely to eat you as look at you.
"I – " Morrigan pauses, sounding almost human for a moment. "You are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer."
Marian returns to the question Morrigan neatly avoided. "The battle?"
"The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field," Morrigan says, her eyes softer with an empathy that seems ill-suited. "The darkspawn won your battle."
"What?" She can't believe it – quit the field? Teyrn Loghain, the Hero of River Dane?
Then she remembers how long they'd taken to light the beacon. What if –
That's absurd, she tells herself, shaking off the idea. But it lingers...
"Those he abandoned were massacred to the last man," Morrigan continues. Marian concentrates on pulling her pants over her hips, but her mind reminds her of who she's talking about: the king, Duncan, all the Grey Wardens she had yet to meet, even the kennel-master who loved his mabari so well. All dead. "Your friend... he is not taking it well."
"I can't see a single reason why he should," Marian snaps, stomping her foot into her second boot. "Every Grey Warden in Ferelden was down there."
"And so would you have been, if not for Mother," Morrigan says, reminding Marian of exactly what she owes them. Not that she's likely to forget.
"Then I should thank your mother as well," Marian says, settling the tabard over her head. "Where is she?"
"Outside, with your friend." Morrigan tilts her head, regarding Marian calmly. "She wished to see you when you awoke."
She's not half done dressing, but the important parts are covered and she has no wish to keep the old witch waiting. "I should go, then," she says, standing. She feels steady enough on her feet, thank the Maker, and but for the lingering ache in shoulder and hip she would never have known there was anything wrong with her. "Thank you again," Marian adds.
Morrigan nods. "I will stay, and make something to eat."
Marian shoves the rest of her kit into her packs and slings them over her shoulder before pushing the door open.
"See?" Morrigan's mother says, and she looks over; Morrigan's mother stands with Alistair by the lake, talking to him in soothing tones. "Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."
Alistair turns and his reddened eyes say everything she needs to know about how he's feeling.
"You," he says. His voice is choked with tears and he swallows. "You're alive! I thought you were dead for sure."
Marian spreads her hands so he can get a good look. "No, Morrigan's mother does good work." She smiles at the old woman in heart-felt thanks, and she nods in return.
"Duncan's dead," Alistair says. Marian closes her eyes, remembering the man who saved her in the Tower, who showed her how to curry a horse and grieved the death of his recruit. That is the Duncan she wants to remember. Alistair is still in shock; she can hear it in his voice, the stunned incomprehension that says he does not want to believe what he knows to be true. "They're all dead. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead, too."
She doesn't know how to comfort him, or even if he'd let her.
Morrigan's mother snorts. "Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad."
"I didn't mean..." Alistair trails off, at a loss. "But what do we call you? You never told us your name."
"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do." And then Flemeth smiles. I know what you're thinking, that smile says, I know the stories and the tales. Who knows which ones are true and which ones aren't?
I do.
After a moment, Marian asks, "You're Flemeth?"
"The Flemeth from the legends?" Alistair adds. "Daveth – "
"Alistair?" Marian cuts him off mid-sentence. "Perhaps that isn't so important right now." He looks at her, confused and still subdued with grief, and she hopes that he understands her message, about ancient witches and powers and about frogs.
"You are brighter than you look," Flemeth says with a sly smile. "I did wonder."
Marian smiles back, determined to get out of this place with wits and skin and companion intact. "I wanted to thank you for healing me," she says as humble as she can manage. "I remember I was badly hurt."
Flemeth waves her hand, dismissive. "Think nothing of it! We cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we?"
"That would be a bad idea at the moment," Marian agrees. "We are Grey Wardens, and this is a Blight..." ...except Duncan never got around to telling me what Grey Wardens actually do, Marian thinks bitterly. She devoutly hopes Alistair knows more than he's let on so far.
"And it is your duty to unite the lands against the Blight," Flemeth finishes for her, watching them both with stern eyes. They must look a little bit like drowned puppies, Marian realizes; Alistair is what her mother would have charitably called 'out of sorts', and she feels like an ogre's chewtoy. She sighs and begins collecting her loose hair in her hands. Alistair watches her moving hands, but he's not seeing her, not really. She can feel loose sticks and dirt in the curls of her hair and she's disgusted by herself, but she binds it up in a mass and forces herself to forget about it. Baths will have to wait.
"We'll have to do something," Marian says. "But I haven't the faintest idea what."
"We were already fighting the darkspawn!" Alistair exclaims. "Why would Loghain do this?"
"Now that is a good question," Flemeth says, for once serious. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."
Marian remembers yesterday's conversation with Duncan about Loghain's doubts. Could that be the reason for the night's slaughter?
"Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver." Marian looks up again to find Flemeth watching her, eyes sharp and knowing. "Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."
"The archdemon," Alistair says grimly.
"How do we find it?" Marian asks. "And once we've found it, how do we kill it?"
"We'll find it by going through the entire horde," Alistair says darkly. "And no Gray Warden has ever done that without the armies of a half-dozen nations at his back. Not to mention..." He deflates. "I don't know how."
Flemeth cocks one steely eyebrow. "How to kill the archdemon, or how to raise an army? It seems to me those are two different questions, hmm? Have the Wardens no allies these days?"
"I... I don't know." Alistair sighs. "Duncan said that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been called. And Arl Eamon would never stand for this, surely." He straightens when he mentions Eamon, speaks more quickly and lifts his chin.
"You mean Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe?" Marian asks.
"Yes," Alistair says thoughtfully. "He wasn't at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan's uncle. I know him. He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet." He brightens. "Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!"
"Alistair, what happened to the treaties we found for Duncan?" Marian asks.
"Ah," Flemeth says, smiling. "There is a smart lass."
"Of course," Alistair exclaims. "The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid, they're obligated to help us during a Blight!"
"I may be old, but this is beginning to sound like an army to me," Flemeth says, folding her arms.
"So can we do this?" Alistair asks, excitement dwindling into uncertainty. "Go to Redcliffe and these other places and... build an army?"
"I don't know about you, but I'm not going to hang around and let those things destroy Ferelden," Marian says; she cannot help but picture her family caught in the path of the Blight. Her heart aches. "I'll do whatever it takes."
She can hear Duncan, speaking from yesterday: Grey Wardens do what they must. Remember that.
"Ah," Flemeth says with a smile, unfolding her arms. "So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?"
"I am," Marian says, her eyes on Alistair. He looks up and meets her eyes, holding her gaze for only a moment before he looks away, but in that moment she sees the depths of his grief and his anger, and she knows that he is with her. "We are," she corrects herself. "Thank you, Flemeth. I don't know how we can repay you, but – "
Flemeth holds up her hand, interrupting Marian. "No, no," she says. "Thank you. You are the Grey Wardens here, not I." She smiles again. "And before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you..."
Marian waits, but that seems to be the end of the conversation, despite Flemeth's words; Flemeth turns to watch the sun tracking gently across the sky. Marian exchanges a puzzled glance with Alistair, but for lack of anything better to do she retreats to Alistair's side and puts on her belt and gloves.
She runs a weather eye over Alistair, who is slouching again and staring out over the small lake lining Flemeth's hut. He looks uninjured, and she finds it not out of the realm of imagination that he heals faster than she does, so she puts her concerns for him aside and draws her staff, occupying herself with a minute examination of its grain for possible new cracks and flaws that will affect her spells.
Soon Morrigan strides out of the hut, a practiced curve to her lips. "The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve... or none?"
"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl," Flemeth says, studying her.
"Such a shame..." Morrigan murmurs.
"And you will be joining them."
"What?" Frankly, Marian likes Morrigan the better for the undignified yelp that word comes out as, but she's feeling some of the same dismayed shock and is in no mood for laughing.
Flemeth cackles. "You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!"
"Um," Marian says intelligently, then rallies. "Thank you for the offer, but if Morrigan doesn't wish to join us..."
"Her magic will be useful," Flemeth remarks, and Marian instantly thinks of fifty questions she wants answers to immediately. She can feel them written on her face, and without looking she knows that Flemeth is smirking. It's in her voice. "Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde."
"It's up to you, Morrigan," Marian says weakly. Damn her stupid face –
"Mother... this is not how I wanted this," Morrigan protests. "I am not even ready – "
Alistair leans into her, speaking low into Marian's ear while Flemeth speaks seriously to her daughter. "Won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate," he points out.
"If we don't stop this, soon they'll have much more to worry about than one apostate," Marian points out, trying to listen to the other conversation as well as Alistair. It will give her the most terrific headache later, but it's usually possible...
"You must be ready. Alone, these two must unite – "
Alistair speaks again, unexpectedly, and she loses the thread of the other conversation. "Point taken," he says, grudging. "But you're telling her she sticks out like a sore thumb." She makes a face at him, and thankfully he quiets.
" – out you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I." Marian swiftly reconnects the sentences and is satisfied that she hasn't missed anything.
"I... understand," Morrigan says, defeated.
"And you," Flemeth says, looking at Marian and Alistair. "Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed."
"Yes," Marian agrees. Beside her, Alistair nods.
Morrigan glances at Marian, then at Alistair, and heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Allow me to get my things, if you please," she says, grudging every word.
She disappears into the hut before they can say anything one way or the other, returning quickly with packs strapped to her back.
Perhaps she just doesn't have much, Marian thinks dubiously, running an eye over the packs. Is that a distillation flask? Maybe she packs quickly...
Morrigan hesitates and then comes to a stop before Marian. "I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far and you will find much you need there." She smiles, and this one she must have learned from Flemeth; it has the same sharp edges and deliberate alien nature. "Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours."
Marian raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a fate worse than death."
Flemeth cackles. "You will regret saying that!"
"Dear, sweet mother," Morrigan says, poison in every word. "You are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly I shall remember this moment."
"Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards."
Alistair frowns. "Do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?"
"Do you have a better idea?" Marian asks. "We need all the help we can get."
"I guess you're right," Alistair says, reconsidering the idea. "The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them."
"I am so pleased to have your approval," Morrigan says acidly.
Marian groans. "Can we just go?"
They can, as it turns out; there are no more surprise additions to their party and Morrigan directs them to the north.
As soon as they leave, Alistair lapses into silence, only broken if she asks him a direct question; there's very little she needs to ask him at the moment, and she doesn't want to prod him while he's so clearly upset. She leaves him alone. Unfortunately, Morrigan is relentlessly bored by the scenery and the walking and the lack of darkspawn and prods him with inane questions until he snaps at her.
After that, Marian walks between them.
She turns the tables on Morrigan, asking her so many questions about her magic and her mother and what spells she knows and even the distillation equipment that hangs from her pack that Morrigan falls into an irritated silence. They walk that way until nightfall, where Morrigan leads them to a hollow between two hills, then stalks off to hunt for dinner.
Marian surveys their equipment with dismay. Their unplanned departure from Ostagar played merry games with their supplies – between her and Alistair, they have one bedroll, a pillow made from stuffing her shifts inside each other, and a tiny pot she normally uses for tea. Luckily for their dinners, Morrigan is better prepared, but they're going to be stretched thin between here and the village.
She's prepared to fight for first watch, but Alistair gives in without a fight, lying down on the bedroll and staring at the small fire she built while waiting for Morrigan to return. Morrigan takes second watch, and Marian curls up on a slightly softer patch of dirt near the fire. She hasn't slept on the ground in years, but she's so tired that she drops right off.
Alistair shakes her awake and they get back on the road; the second day goes the same as the first, saving a quick encounter with three darkspawn. Alistair takes first watch that night, and Marian takes second.
When Marian sleeps, she looks for ways to get a good vantage point on the Black City. It's something to do at nights, and she's always been curious, so why not? She would never go in, of course, she's not stupid, but what harm could looking do?
Tonight she's building wings, painstakingly forming them from pieces of the ground. She looks down to dig up another chunk, and when she looks back up, her piece of the Fade is gone.
She is the dragon. She is the horde, and the song, and the ceaseless, maddening yearning; she is the defiant flame, and she is the directive. She challenges the silent watcher, screaming for the sky that has always been denied her, and she is the watcher and the challenge; she is not the sky, but the sky will be hers, the sky and the earth and the water and above all she will be free –
When the dream releases her Marian rolls over and vomits. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," she whispers shakily when she can speak again. "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow – Blessed are they... Maker – " Her thumb traces endless circles on her chest as she prays. She cannot get the taste out of her mouth, because it's not in her mouth but in her mind.
"Marian?" Alistair kneels beside her, reaching out for her shoulder, but he thinks better of it and lets his hand drop. "Bad dreams, huh."
She sits back on her heels. "Maker, you can say that again," she says with a shaky laugh. "It felt – I don't know, it felt real for a minute there."
Alistair grimaces. "Well, it is real. Sort of."
"What?" Marian demands.
"You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was: hearing them. The archdemon, it talks to the horde, for lack of a better word, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."
"The dragon?" Marian asks. "That was the archdemon?"
Alistair nods. "I don't know if it's really a dragon, but it sure looks like one. But yes, that's the archdemon."
"I saw it after my Joining," Marian says, looking away. "It was calling..."
"Yeah," Alistair says with a grimace. "I had that one too. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't."
"I'll be pestering you for advice, then," Marian says lightly, hoping she doesn't sound as scared as she feels. She doesn't dare ask Alistair what his archdemon dreams are like – what if hers are different? She was the archdemon, and the horde, and the taint...
"You're welcome to it," Alistair says with a small smile. "Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too."
"Thank you," Marian says, smiling back. "I mean it. I thought I was going mad."
Alistair laughs. "That's what I'm here for: to deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners." He sits back on his heels, then stands. "Anyhow, you're up now, right? Let's pull up camp and get a move on."
They wake Morrigan and move north.
Two days later, they are close to the village on a long stretch of unused road. Marian hears something approaching and she stops, halting the other two in their tracks.
There's a long curve in the road ahead of them, blocking her view, and she peers through the trees lining the road...
Something rockets around the curve, heading straight for her; it's long and low, close to the road, and obviously not human or darkspawn. Marian cocks her head – is that... She kneels down as it bounds up to her, and she was right. It's a mabari. It even looks familiar.
It barks at her happily, then turns around, facing bit of road it came from, and growls, its ears flat against its head.
"Weapons out," Marian says, her eyes on the road. She pulls down her staff and brings it around and that's all the time she has before a pack of darkspawn round the corner and stop dead at the sight of her. There's an Alpha and seven other darkspawn in the pack, but Morrigan proves to be as good as her mother claimed and the mabari does its fair share, ripping out hamstrings and crushing throats if the darkspawn are unlucky enough to fall. The darkspawn are soon slaughtered and their bodies burned, and only then does Marian turn back to the mabari.
It barks at her companionably, sitting back on its haunches to pant at her. "I think this is that mabari from Ostagar," she says to Alistair.
"He was probably out there looking for you," Alistair says. "He's chosen you. Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting."
"Huh," Marian says. She kneels in front of the mabari, smoothing her hands over his head and down his flanks to check for injuries. "Well, boy? Are you mine now?"
He barks at her, and she gets a face full of mabari breath. She groans. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He pants happily and she rolls her eyes.
"Does this mean we're going to have this mangy beast following us about now?" Morrigan says, disdain crystallizing on every word. "Wonderful."
"Aww," Alistair says. "He's not mangy."
"What about it, boy?" Marian asks the mabari. "Are you coming with us?" She stands and takes a few steps toward the curve in the road, and the mabari rises and trots along at her side. "I guess I'd better come up with a name for you, unless you have an opinion about that as well?"
Thankfully for her sanity, the mabari doesn't answer.
"I think I'll call you Cú," she says.
Morrigan sighs loudly. "If you are quite finished fawning over that mongrel, perhaps we could proceed while the sun is still shining?"
"To Lothering, then," Marian says, and starts walking.