Marian decides that a nap is in order; it's only midday, but they've been traveling, there's Alistair's exciting news and the situation in Redcliffe, and later they're going to be fighting all the night through. She sets up the tent she's sharing with Leliana and lies down. At first, her mind is too busy to rest, but the sun is warming her tent, heating it until she starts to feel languid and slow...

She has only one thing left to do.

He's waiting for her at the end of the docks, thumbs tucked into his belt. The setting sun gilds his hair. She is not ready.

He turns, for he must have heard her, and smiles. Hello, my love, he says.

Well-met, she says quietly. When he holds out his hand, she takes it.

Are you ready?

I don't know. I think I won't know until I'm there.

He stills, turning more squarely toward her. There is no room for doubt, he says, gripping her hand tightly. If you're not ready, you should wait until next year.

Next year I'll be too old, she argues.

He falls silent, for she is right and even he cannot argue with the calendar. You must be ready, then, he says. Be sure.

She lies.

They climb the hill, walking along the edge of the river that drains into the lake below. The grade is too steep in places, forcing her to grip the grass in order to pull herself along.

Once they reach the top, they find the rest of the village waiting, her family and friends and neighbors silent, solemn statues who part only to let her pass. The little elf boy is waiting for her, huge, uncertain eyes watching her every step. Poor lamb, she thinks, but even that is far, far away.

Someone comes up behind her and traps her arms in case she tries to run. But she is ready, she is she is, and she will not run.

They slit the elf-boy's throat and spill his blood on the ground; here, where so many have gone before. She can feel the Veil fluttering. Something is coming.

Put it in me, she says.

The demon comes.

Marian wakes with a strangled scream on her lips. The Veil is so thin here – how could she have been so abysmally and appallingly stupid as to sleep unguarded where the Veil is so thin? Dreaming of the past is the least that could have happened – She gasps for air, covering her face in her hands, and checks and checks and checks for parts of her mind that are not her own.

She crawls out of her tent later, still shaken, and Morrigan takes one look at her face and sniffs. "I did wonder," Morrigan says. Then she hands Marian a bowl of something hot and fishy. "You should be more careful."

It's starting to grow dark. Murdock mentioned that the horde comes at nightfall, and she wonders why that might be, if it's been set in motion by a creature that prefers darkness or perhaps it's a type of magic negated by the sun. She eats quickly, without tasting what she's putting in her mouth. Her appetite has been out of control since the Joining; Marian puts that on her mental list to ask Alistair at some point. No one is in camp except for herself and Morrigan, and she asks where the rest went.

"I believe they said something about checking over the defenses," Morrigan says, examining her face, her golden eyes narrowed. "You must know this is folly. You know your enemy, this man Loghain. Take the fight to him and leave this place to its own devices."

Marian frowns. "But they're dying."

Morrigan looks away, casually indifferent. "Then they must discover some strength within themselves to resist."

Marian puts the bowl down. She'll have to scrape it out before someone can clean it; she wonders where one goes to do that, if they use the lake here for cleaning as well as fishing.

"Morrigan," she says slowly, searching for the words. "I understand if compassion is an argument that doesn't hold much weight with you."

She's lying. She doesn't understand at all – these are people, people who need their help. But she knows enough now not to say that within Morrigan's hearing.

Morrigan laughs, and Marian expects it to be some kind of cruel, cutting barb, but it's not. It's quite a nice laugh, actually. "Hardly."

"But it's not Loghain we're fighting, not really," Marian says slowly, looking for the right words. "It's the Blight, and the archdemon. And for that we need Arl Eamon, his soldiers, and his word at the Landsmeet."

Morrigan sighs. "Peace, Warden. I have no interest in arguing the point with you."

Marian cocks an eyebrow. "I have a name, you know."

"Indeed, I do know." Morrigan regards her coolly, but something about her eyes gives her away – she's enjoying this, as if it were a game. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, there is," Marian says, quickly, before Morrigan can turn away. "Back in Lothering, you turned into a bird." She knows her voice gives her away, the wonder and excitement she feels at the idea of it, but she doesn't care. If it's a skill, she has to learn it. If it's a trait, she'll do nearly anything to gain it. And if she must play Morrigan's games, she will.

"Ah." There's a wealth of emotion resting on just one word: understanding, that ever-present amusement, perhaps even a touch of empathy. "I am a shapeshifter, 'tis true."

When Morrigan doesn't seem inclined to say anything else, Marian prompts her, as she knows she is expected to. "How did you become a shapeshifter?"

"'Tis a skill of Flemeth's, taught over many years in the Wilds." Morrigan smiles, her eyes fixed on the far-distant shore, where forest still reigns. "The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding."

"Will you tell me some of the tales later?" Marian asks. Morrigan hesitates, but then she nods, a gracious queen. Marian smiles at her, hope and anticipation in equal parts. "But what I really wanted to ask you was: please, will you teach me?"

Morrigan considers her for a long, long moment and then shrugs. "You possess the necessary aptitudes. I see no reason why I should not."

The laugh that rips its way out of her throat could be called a cackle by the unkind. "Thank you!" she says, delighted beyond reason, and before she can think better of it she darts forward and hugs Morrigan for all she's worth. She lets go and rises to her feet before Morrigan can say anything – though by the stunned expression on her face, Marian has succeeded in stealing her voice for a moment – and just before she turns away, she's sure that she sees a slight curve to Morrigan's mouth that wasn't there before.

But she's probably imagining things.

When the others return, Marian has already changed back into her Warden uniform. She has Alistair's armor waiting for him.

"I thought we were being discreet," Alistair says reproachfully, but he's already digging in the pack for his things. Marian hides a smile.

"I don't think anyone here is feeling up to turning us in for the reward money," Marian points out. "And I don't think Bann Teagan would be too happy with them if they did."

"You make excellent arguments," Alistair admits. He looks up at her from the packs with his hands full. "Give me a hand?"

She knows that he can take his armor off by himself – that's what he normally does, in fact – but the point is probably speed and efficiency. The sun is almost touching the horizon. Four hands make short work of his borrowed armor, stripping him down to his gambeson and padded breeches; Alistair allows himself one long stretch, reaching hard for the sky, before he starts strapping into his Warden uniform.

Marian helps him fasten the buckles under his arms and along his sides, but she leaves the rest to him and he's soon finished. He stomps his feet hard into his boots, slings his shield on his arm, and nods to her.

"Feel better?" Marian asks, a little amused.

"Maker, you've no idea," Alistair says with a grin.

She grins back. "Me, too."

Marian checks on the others; Cú needs only a touch-up on his kaddis, and Leliana and Morrigan are well enough, but when she reaches Sten, she notices him grimacing as he picks at the collar of his splintmail.

"You're not used to this kind of armor, are you?" Marian asks.

"I am not," Sten admits. "It is poor quality. I expect nothing better from humans."

Marian does her best not to roll her eyes, but it's tough. "What would you normally wear, then?"

Sten spares her a look. "Nothing you could find in this land."

"You'd be surprised," Leliana chimes in from behind Sten. "You can find nearly anything in Denerim, and I've heard marvelous things about Orzammar's markets."

"And you need something better than that," Marian says, eyeing the splintmail.

Sten sighs. "A paint for the face and chest called vitaar. Leather pants and reinforced boots. These things were stripped from me by your priestesses."

She can see that she's going to have to pin him down later on the specifics, but she lets it go for now, nods, and moves on.

They're as ready as they're ever going to be. She reports to Murdock, who sends them up the cliff path to reinforce Ser Perth and his knights at the undead's point of entry.

And then they wait, and wait, and wait. The sun creeps down toward the horizon, but so slowly – is it always this slow? Marian squints at it, counting the seconds.

"When do they come?" she asks Ser Perth.

"At nightfall," is his singularly unhelpful answer. "When the sun dips below the horizon."

They have near twenty minutes more to wait, Marian estimates with a mental groan. She has never been particularly patient.

The battle tension inside her ratchets up as the minutes pass like treacle until her guts are tight as a spring. The worst part is that she's the only one who seems to be having any problems: the knights are praying, and her own little group is waiting oh-so-patiently. Alistair and Leliana are talking in low tones – and Leliana's laughing. It's so unfair.

Marian seems to be the most inexperienced of her companions in battle. It makes her feel safer, but it's not good for her ego.

Finally, finally, the sun disappears to his rest beneath the earth and the sky begins to grow fully dark.

"There!" One of the knights cries, pointing at the bridge that leads from the high road to Castle Redcliffe. A green miasmic fog tumbles down the length of it, heading for the road at impressive speed.

"They are hidden in the smoke," Ser Perth says grimly, bringing up his shield, his sword bare in his hand. "Be ready. They will be here soon."

Her staff already in her hand, Marian checks her defensive spells one more time and puts them out of her mind. She and Morrigan are staying back while the melee fighters move forward to man the barricades. Marian mourns the opportunity to use her area spells, but she's learned her lesson there.

She thought she was ready, but nothing could have prepared her for the first sight of their enemy. 'Undead' is such an imprecise word – she'd been imagining corpses, Marian realizes. Instead, they're skeletons, identical in every respect, as if formed from the same pattern. They pour forth from the high road in a flood – there are so many of them –

Marian realizes that she's wasted precious seconds of battle time being shocked; indeed, Morrigan is already hard at work. Furious with herself for her inattention, she scolds herself fiercely, picks one of the skeletons at random, and sets it on fire.

The flood of undead reaches the barricades and the men there drive them back with shields, with blades, and Leliana dances between them, separating arms from shoulders and ribs from spines. The skeletons only go down – she refuses to say they die, because that would imply that they're alive in the first place and that is not happening – the skeletons are only vanquished by decapitation or by fire.

Marian sets to work with a grim will with electricity here, frost there, and fire everywhere; every so often one of her allies needs healing, or someone becomes overwhelmed and she sends Cú racing to their aid.

She thought they would come in groups, or clumps, but it is a true flood and the flood doesn't stop. She is near to scraping the bottom of the barrel when the first of the undead breaks through the makeshift barricade. It staggers as one of the knights takes a chunk out of its leg, but then it is truly through and clumping along toward her, faster than it has any right to move.

Her breath catches in her throat and she discovers the tiniest inner reserve powered by sheer terror. She backs away, step by step, firing spells as fast as she can scrape the will together, but it's not enough, it reaches out and it's going to touch her –

Cú races up behind the thing and rips its other leg off, which does not kill it but at least it's down on the ground, pulling itself toward her with its arms; Marian can fry it into paste in her own time.

She takes a second to breathe when it's truly down and done and then looks up; but the things have not stopped coming in the meantime, and more have taken advantage of her inattention and the new hole on the left flank. Sten is surrounded by the undead and he's struggling; his greatsword does an incredible amount of damage, but even he cannot swing as quickly as he needs to to keep them off of him. Marian directs Cú around the edge of the crowd pressing in on him and sets fire to one, but then more are coming at her and Morrigan is being forced backward one step at a time by a persistent pair -

It's a true melee now, and the only bright spot she can see is that the flood coming down the path has trickled down to one or two every few seconds. How did she think that the six of them could make a difference? They're going to get slaughtered.

Unless...

Marian takes a quick inventory of her companions – mercifully, none of them are down, but one or two of the knights are on the ground. She takes two careful steps to her right and spins flame from her hand and staff in an ever-widening cone; then she does it again, and again, until she's breathless and there is nothing left to fight.

She clings to her staff, breathing hard, and forces herself to look up and check the battlefield; she will not make that mistake again. Only a thousand others. Sten decapitates two skeletons with one heavy stroke, and then they're the only ones left standing. The fog the skeletons brought starts to dissipate a bit in the breeze off the lake, but it's only after the others start to put their various weapons away that Marian lets herself relax.

Morrigan has a nasty gash on her upper arm that is bleeding quite rapidly, but otherwise her party seems to have gotten off rather lightly. She directs a weak, wavering heal at Morrigan's arm; then she starts to check on the knights on the ground, but Ser Perth waves her off. He kneels by each body in a short prayer, and all the while Marian stares at the dead knights on the ground until Alistair takes her elbow and shakes her. When she looks up, he says, "We're not done yet!" and points.

There's a man running up the village path; Marian can see the village center from here, and it's swamped in the same green fog.

"The monsters are attacking from the lake! We need help!" the man says, panting.

Marian closes her eyes and prays for strength, for luck, for fortitude. Then she opens her eyes and sets off down the path at a run.

There are more defenders down in the village square, which is good; they're mostly militia and inexperienced villagers, which is bad. Teagan fights well, and Murdock looks like an old hand, but the rest – well, she'll have to keep an eye on them and be ready with the healing.

She wishes fleetingly for a whole bucket of lyrium potion, but she only had four and she gave two to Morrigan, who looks nearly as wrecked as she does.

Alistair yells, shockingly loud, and throws himself into the fray, followed closely by Sten and Leliana; Cú circles around the flank and drives the skeletons into their waiting swords. They've got a good rhythm and Marian decides it's better to pick off enemies around the edges rather than interrupt.

Down here, the pattern is different; this time they come in the clumps she'd expected, eight or ten at a time. They pass through the barricades easily, and once Marian notices it she starts to fume – what is the point of a barricade that's undefended? The barricades ring the Chantry doors, where the villagers huddle for shelter against the undead, and if they were properly defended, she thinks this fight would go very differently.

There are only a few left in this group, which means two or three defenders can go after a single skeleton and this way, they're quickly handled. More will come any second now, if the pattern holds, and there's no time for anything but a quick glance, a silent prayer, a heal spell if anyone needs it, and then someone yells and the world narrows back to fire, and magic, and the sounds of the sword.

Marian is thoroughly jealous of their swords, if she's to be perfectly honest. She loves her magic. It's a part of her she wouldn't give up even if she could. It fascinates her endlessly, but –

But she cannot use it the way Leliana uses her daggers, or Sten his sword: endlessly, relentlessly, like the tide washing away the beach. She could try, it's true. She could use all her power and dig for more, crack open her connection to the Fade and allow it to suffuse her, to stream out through her like a river.

And then she would die. Well, the demons would probably come first, but she would die all the same. Her body exists with magic, but it's a delicate balance: not enough and she'll be demon food before she can blink; too much, and it would suffuse her cells and hyper-charge them and then she would explode.

She finishes off the one she's fighting and looks around for her next target. Then Alistair takes a bad hit to the head that knocks him off his feet. She swears and sends Cú racing to the rescue; Sten stands over him, greatsword clearing a space around them until Alistair digs his shield into the ground to lever himself back to his feet. Marian flings a heal in his direction and watches for a moment to make sure he stays up.

Unfortunately, her moment of inattention costs her. Something comes around her like a band of steel and she screams in shock and anger – she can't move her arms at all, and she'd used the last of her magic healing Alistair –

She can't bear the thought of one of those things touching her, what it might leave on her, what if there's a demon in it? She pulls and pulls and pulls on her connection to the Fade, but Marian knows it'll take at least ten more seconds until she's recovered enough to cast anything, and even then she has nothing that she can cast that'll destroy it and leave her standing.

We can kill it, if we are together. We can kill them all.

"Marian!"

Alistair's shout is the best thing she's heard all day – "Get it off," she says, almost begging, shoving hard at the presence in her mind. "Get it off!"

Marian feels a blow like a giant's fist echo through her and she hears something fall to the ground. The skull rolls away from her down the slope, but the bones around her chest are locked in place.

"Hold on," Alistair says from behind her, voice taut with worry. His arms come around her over the skeleton's, and he pries them open with a shout of explosive effort. Marian scrambles away, her eyes wide, and stares at Alistair, panting for breath. It's just reaction, at first, but then a skeleton tries to swing for Alistair's head and Marian uses the last of her magic to freeze it in place before it can connect. Alistair spins and slams his shield into it, shattering it into pieces, and just like that everything is quiet.

The sky is so light. Marian turns around, looking east, and yes, the sun has just risen. They're alive.

Alistair sheaths his sword and slings his shield. "Are you all right?" he asks her, approaching her like he would a startled horse.

"I'm fine," she answers quickly, a tight smile on her face. She knows she's not fooling him, but it's not the time. He nods and moves to check on the villagers. Marian calls her mabari first, and something in her eases when Cú bounds up to her, no worse for wear. He stands by her as she heals Morrigan again – her hasty heal up on the cliff has come undone – and tends to Leliana, who took a stab wound in the shoulderblade.

Of course, Sten is fine.

She cannot say the same for Murdock, though, or Loghain's spy, who died up on the cliff with the knights. Several of the militia have also fallen. They help lay the bodies in a line on the far side of the great clearing; the Chantry will build a great pyre later for the defenders of Redcliffe.

Teagan approaches them as the sun rises more fully over the horizon, painting the village beautiful again despite the bloodstains.

"Dawn arrives, and we have survived the night," he says with a weary smile. "We are victorious, thanks to you."

"I only wish we'd saved more," Marian says, unable to stop her eyes from flickering over to the neat line of wrapped bodies.

"None of us would be here if it weren't for you and your friends," Teagan says, taking her hand. "The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour."

Over Teagan's shoulder, Marian watches the Revered Mother praying over the bodies. The sisters surround her, one swinging a censer, others carrying wood and oil for the pyre.

"Warden?" Teagan asks, in the tone of someone who's had to repeat themselves more than once. She is intimately familiar with that tone.

Marian becomes aware that she's been staring into the space over his shoulder for longer than is socially acceptable. "I beg your pardon," she says hastily.

"It's no matter," Teagan says with another smile. "You must be weary." I was trying not to think about it, but now that you've mentioned it... "We've struck a blow," he says. "Maker willing, we can use it to reach my brother. We've no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there."