They emerge from the depths of the mountain onto a plateau, stonework ruins scattered here and there. On one side of the path is a gazebo, with half of the walls fallen down, and on the other a hot springs. It smells like sulphur. Marian wrinkles her nose and shields her eyes from the sun, checking for cultists, but as far as she can tell, they're alone.
"There appears to be another entrance on the far side," Morrigan says.
Marian squints a bit, but she can't see that far. She'll take Morrigan's word for it, though. "Then let's go."
There's rubble blocking the path in places and even where it's passable, the ground is treacherous, slowing their pace to a maddening, winding crawl.
Something makes Marian look up. At first she takes it for a bird, but no bird is that fast. It wings toward them with terrible speed, growing larger and larger in her vision at an incredible pace. Her breath catches in her throat.
Dragon.
She's never seen one before, not even pictures, but there's no mistaking it. It screams and turns on a dime, its tail whipping around behind it. Her heart leaps in her chest. It's so big, it's magnificent, long and sleek and free. She stares at it, awestruck, until Alistair reaches out and yanks her behind the cover of a huge bit of rubble.
"What are you doing?" he hisses, like he's afraid it'll hear.
Marian laughs, wild and exultant. She flings herself at him. "Did you see that?"
For a minute Alistair looks like he's about to shake her, but instead he sighs, an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth. He slides his arm around her waist, tentatively, like he's not sure he's allowed.
She supposes she was being foolish – a high dragon is fiercely territorial. If it'd seen her, it would have attacked on sight. But something in it called to a part of her, something solemn and secret and crackling with possibility, and she couldn't resist. She closes her eyes, watching the dragon wing across the back of her eyelids, and sighs. "Beautiful," she murmurs.
"You're a crazy person," Alistair says. At least he sounds amused now.
Marian opens her eyes to grin at him, wide and bright. "You're the one who put me in charge, you know," she says, and ducks out of cover. Alistair yelps, reaching out to draw her back, but she neatly dodges his hand and races down the path. She weaves around the rubble until she reaches a clear spot where she can see the entire mountaintop.
The dragon has come to rest on a shelf high above the plateau she's standing in, and even as she watches, it lays down and rests its head on the curve of its legs, like Cú when he's sleepy. A small, suicidal part of her mind is already trying to find a way up to its ledge.
No, she tells herself firmly. Bad Marian.
Oh, but if she could – ! She hasn't used the shapeshifting techniques Morrigan showed her hardly at all. She still only has the robin form. Could it be possible to keep a dragon's soul in her mind? To become that form whenever she likes?
It's impossible to get that close, of course. It would eat her whole.
If only she could logic her desires away that easily.
The dragon hasn't shown any signs of noticing her yet. Perhaps it's used to people passing back and forth beneath it. They might be able to sneak past without rousing it if they keep to the edges of the path and skirt the ledge where it rests.
Maker! No one will ever believe this story; she wouldn't believe it if she weren't here.
Marian turns and waves the rest of them down the path to join her. She feasts her eyes on the dragon while she waits. When will she ever have the chance to see a dragon again?
Morrigan pauses next to her, staring up at the sleeping dragon. "Be cautious," she says, narrowing her eyes. "A dragon such as this is better to avoid than engage."
"I know," Marian says regretfully. "If we're quick and quiet, we should get by."
It goes according to plan, though Marian has to hold Cú by the collar the entire way to keep his growling down. Nothing else jumps out at them, and they make it to the other door unscathed.
There's lava lining the path on this end. There must be more, deep in the mountain. That's presumably where the heat source for the hot springs comes from, and perhaps why the dragon chose to settle here. There can't be many hot spots in these mountains. Why the villagers chose to believe that it's Andraste she'll never understand. Perhaps they've all gone mad, but she hates chalking things up to disordered thinking – it feels like giving up.
The door opens easily, and it's cooler and dark inside. Marian pauses for a moment to let her eyesight return, but Morrigan strides on without her, and Leliana is drifting after her, obviously intrigued and just as obviously torn about it. Marian laughs and waves them on.
A dragon! This is the best, most maddening day.
As her eyes clear, she notices Alistair watching her with amusement. "What?" she says.
"I was half afraid you were going to try to bring it home with us," he says, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "You have a habit of collecting strays."
Cú grumbles, drawing it out until he ends on a low whine to make clear how personally he's hurt. "Now look what you've done," Marian says, raising her eyebrow. "People who upset my dog get punished, you know."
"You should see the slobber in my pack. I think I've already been punished," Alistair says with a grin.
Leliana is calling them now, her voice growing louder, and on impulse Marian lifts herself onto her toes and kisses Alistair's cheek. "Thanks for saving me from the dragon," she says into his ear. "My hero."
She turns to head into the temple, but not before she notices Alistair's ears burning red. She smiles to herself.
It's warmer inside, and Marian's already sweating. She spares a thought for the idea of fighting in furs in this warmth and winces. Maybe she'll have better luck talking to the villagers here; even better if there aren't any, but their luck's not that good. She turns the corner into a room even more richly carved and decorated than the great hall. Leliana is walking down the aisle toward her, but she stops when Marian appears and gestures behind her, to Morrigan, and the man she speaks to.
Morrigan looks frustrated, too, her shoulders tense and her head back. Marian can just imagine the hauteur with which Morrigan is glaring at the man. She'd better interrupt before Morrigan turns him into a toad.
As she draws closer, the rest of her friends following in her wake like so much flotsam and jetsam, he turns to her and bows his head. Whatever Morrigan said to him hasn't disturbed him, then. In fact, he's almost preternaturally calm. His huge, winged helmet and dark beard obscure most of his face, but his eyes are serene, watching her with a sedate kind of curiosity. "I bid you welcome, pilgrims."
His appearance is nothing out of the ordinary, but his voice – it carries unearthly tones in its harmony, like something is speaking through him. If that's so, he's at peace with it; his manner carries nothing of struggle, or desperation, or rage, all things that Connor hadn't been able to disguise.
He's not attacking. That alone would mark him different.
"Who are you?" Marian asks, totally baffled. "You're not one of them."
"I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes." He studies her. For some reason, Marian has the uneasy feeling that he's seeing straight into her soul, seeing all her secrets and hidden places. "I have waited years for this."
Wait. He's not seriously... "Are you saying it's real?" Marian demands. "The Urn of Sacred Ashes, Andraste's ashes, all of it – it's here?"
"Part of you believed, or you would not have come," the Guardian says, regarding her steadily.
Marian opens her mouth to disagree, but if she's being honest, she can't. He's right. If she truly believed there had been no chance of finding anything up here, she would have fetched Genitivi and left, no matter what he had to say. She would have had no compunctions about putting him over Sten's shoulder like a sack of flour.
But how did he know that? Are her thoughts written all over her face?
She'll ask Leliana later.
If the Urn is here... If the Urn is here and truly contains the ashes of Andraste, and if the ashes truly have the healing power that legend ascribes to them, then Eamon might be saved.
That's a lot of ifs. Even so, it's worth the effort.
Marian glances at the door behind him. That must be the way in, though in to where she couldn't possibly say. She somehow doubts that the Guardian would let her slip around him to open the door, though. It's possible that they need to do something to persuade him to move aside, though she hopes it won't come down to more fighting. She's tired of killing. She snorts at herself; she's grown vain if she thinks that they'll automatically win this fight.
"What now?" Marian asks, searching the Guardian's face for something, some trace of the emotion that must lie beyond that calm exterior. There must be something there that marks him a man, that will set her mind at ease about his intentions.
"It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste," he tells her. "For years beyond counting have I been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea."
Marian is becoming accustomed to the heavy burden of duty that being a Grey Warden demands of her, but something about that is unbearably sad to her. "And what happens to you then?" she asks, but she's not really sure she wants to know the answer.
"I do not know," the Guardian says impassively. "I do not question."
As a philosophical statement, it's not really suited to someone of Marian's temperament. "I have a few," Marian says, uncertain of the limits of his patience, but he gestures for her to go ahead.
He tells her that the villagers are descendants of the people who followed Havard to these mountains. They spent centuries here, living their lives, protecting the Temple, until one of Kolgrim's ancestors fancied himself a new prophet. He spread the word of Andraste's rebirth through the village; those who did not convert were quickly killed.
The Guardian seems to think that he's one of Andraste's Disciples, that he's been here for all these centuries watching the world go by. He thinks he knew Andraste, speaks of her with careful, distant reverence that's almost convincing. Nevertheless, Marian memorizes every word of it – for surely Genitivi will want to hear everything, every single detail, whether Marian believes it or not.
But if the man's cracked, then the Urn is probably still a just a legend. Damn.
Still, it hurts no one to check. "May we pass, then?" Marian asks.
The Guardian examines her once again. "You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy," he says.
"And how may we do that?"
"The Gauntlet will decide your worthiness. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not... " He shrugs, the implication obvious. His calm, still expression seems faintly ominous now, striking a false note in the overall impression of calm serenity he exudes.
Marian takes a deep breath. She's a little scared, as she always is when walking into the unknown. Her luck has been poor lately, but something – perhaps a foolishly optimistic streak – keeps her trying over and over again. "Very well," she says. She glances back at her friends; Leliana smiles, Alistair nods, and Morrigan scowls, each according to their nature. Cú has taken up his accustomed post at her side. She turns back to the Guardian and nods. "We're ready."
"Before you go, there is something I must ask." He looks at her again, that penetrating look that reads all of the secrets written on her heart, all of the fears and hopes and dreams she hides in her soul. She's being weighed, though for what she doesn't know. "I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past – your suffering, and the suffering of others."
Too much suffering, most of it driven by the greed of men who should know better. Marian can claim her fair share of responsibility, though; her nightmares can attest to that.
"Jowan was discovered by the templars. You were helping him." There's an unaccustomed note of censure to the Guardian's voice now, something reflected in his eyes as he watches her. "Tell me, do you think you failed Jowan?"
"How do you know that?" Marian asks warily, cursing herself for the catch in her voice.
"Your path is laid out before me and plain to see – in the lines of your face and the scars on your heart."
It's no answer at all. Damn him. What right has he to her secrets? She has every intention of telling the Guardian where he can shove his questions, but then she looks at him again. He's not judging her anymore, if he ever truly was. He's really and truly interested in her answer. Something about the sincerity of his demeanor disarms her anger, and when it does, she's left with only the heartsick sea of guilt and anger and confusion and even love that she feels when she thinks about Jowan.
"Do you believe you failed Jowan?" The Guardian asks again, gentle, implacable.
"Of course I did!" Marian bursts out. She presses her hand to her face, taking a deep breath to control the stinging behind her eyes. She cannot start crying now. She'll never forgive herself if she does. "There must have been something I could have done," she says, almost to herself. "I should have noticed. I should have seen."
She knew that Jowan was weak, not in power but in personality. He had the kind of mind that looks for an escape route instead of a solution. She should have known he'd look for a shortcut. She could have done something, made him listen – she's the only one who could have.
Her eyes are damp.
She drops her hand and glares at the Guardian. "Is that what you wanted to hear? That I regret everything?"
"Thank you," the Guardian says with calm, infuriating courtesy. "That is all I wished to know."
Marian is tempted to set Morrigan on him.
Alistair touches her shoulder, though she can hardly feel him through five layers of clothing and armor. She wishes suddenly that they were a million miles away, just the two of them, somewhere where she could catch his hand and take off his glove to feel his touch. Instead she turns her head to look over her shoulder, trapping his hand between shoulder and cheek. The edges of his fingerplates dig into her skin, but she doesn't care. She needs the comfort. "You are too hard on yourself," Alistair says quietly. "No one's perfect."
"I agree," Leliana says. "You could not have known what would happen. You did what you thought was best."
Morrigan snorts. "Is there any religion that does not thrive upon guilt like a glutton at his lunch? No? I thought not."
Explaining her emotions to Morrigan, of all people, sounds like a recipe for madness.
He has his price, Marian thinks, lifting her cheek. To her regret, Alistair's hand drops away when she frees him. Why hasn't he let them pass?
"And what of those that follow you?" The Guardian turns slowly, implacably, to Alistair. Oh, Marian has a bad feeling about this. "Alistair, knight and Warden... you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don't you, if you should have died, and not him?"
Marian bristles in Alistair's defense like an offended cat. "How dare you – "
"Marian." Alistair touches her shoulder again, moving forward to stand with Marian instead of behind her. She subsides, though she's not happy about it.
Alistair sighs. "I... yes. If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I'd just had the chance, maybe... " He trails off, imagining some distant, perfect world where Duncan singlehandedly stops the Blight before it starts.
Marian can't bear the wistful regret on his face, or the idea that he wishes he'd died in Duncan's place. She goes up on her toes and whispers, "My life would be much poorer if I'd never met you."
He looks at her, startled out of his daydreams. It takes him a moment, but she can see the moment it clicks for him, when he smiles at her with that stupid, fond look in his eyes. She can hear Morrigan scoffing behind her, and Leliana's probably got hearts in her eyes, but it's worth it to see Alistair fully present, not in the past or wishing for things that can never be.
"And you..." The Guardian says, looking at Leliana behind them. His voice has gone shockingly cold, nearly accusing Leliana – of what? Marian turns so that she can see them both, and Morrigan too. What does he have against Leliana? "Why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?"
Oh Maker. It required only this. Who is he to judge Leliana's faith?
Baffled, increasingly angry, Leliana is clearly hurt by the accusation. "I never said that! I—"
"In Orlais, you were someone," the Guardian says, interrupting like she hadn't said a word. "In Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear. When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative."
"You're saying I made it up, for... for the attention?" Leliana shakes her head, her face white with fury and righteous indignance. "I did not! I know what I believe!"
The Guardian examines her for a long moment while Marian holds her breath. She doesn't know what the consequences of offending him might be, but something tells her they're not good. Yet all he does is incline his head a fraction and turn to Morrigan in turn.
"And you, Morrigan," he says, the traces of emotion gone from his voice like they never were. "Flemeth's daughter. What – "
"Begone, spirit," Morrigan says, cutting him off with an angry wave. "I will not play your games."
The Guardian doesn't seem upset, though; he only nods again, as if that was an acceptable response. "I will respect your wishes," he says.
I wish I'd known that was an option, Marian thinks, still angry about the invasion of her mind's privacy and that of her friends.
Marian thinks the whole affair might be done with, but then the Guardian turns to her mabari, treating him exactly the same as he had the humans. "And lastly, Cú who was also Linden," he says. "Your former companion died on the fields of Ostagar, and you were not at his side. Did you fail in the duty every mabari owes their companion?"
Cú whines a little, deep in his throat. The sound hurts her; she drops down on one knee and hugs Cú around the neck. "You didn't," she whispers to him. "You couldn't have. You're the best mabari anyone could ask for."
"Thank you," the Guardian says. He's still remote, calm and cold, but now that he's harrowed each of them he seems somehow compassionate. It's too little and too late, as far as she's concerned. He steps aside from the door. "The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek."
Cú licks Marian's face before she gets up, her hand tight in his fur, and leads them through the door without a glance at the Guardian.
The chamber beyond is again huge and ornamented with statues and carvings and floor details that overwhelm the eye. There's too much of it, though. It's all starting to blend into the background for her, and that's a shame, because it's all beautiful.
There are ghosts here. Each represents a part of Andraste's life, from her mother, Brona, to Hessarian and Vasilia as her executioners. Each has a riddle that must be solved before they may pass; Marian is so grateful that Morrigan decided that she would come, because somewhere between the dragon's majesty and the Guardian who'd dragged her grief out of its hiding place, Marian isn't fully up to this task. Between the four of them, they answer most of the riddles correctly, and they pass through the next door in short order.
The doors to the next chamber are double doors, and Marian pulls one side open to allow them to pass through. It's dark in the next room, and she and Morrigan spark their small lights –
The door swings shut behind her. Suddenly she's alone in this small, dark chamber, with only her tiny light to keep her company.
Marian spins and yanks on the handle with all her strength, but it's closed as stubbornly as if it were a wall only pretending to be a door. "Cú! Alistair!" She can't hear anything, even the echoes of her own shouting, like she's been yanked from the real world and muffled in cotton wool. She swears, slapping the door in frustration, and slowly turns back around.
Jowan grins at her. "Had fun with the riddle game?"
Oh, she's not in the mood for more games. "You're not real," she says, taking down her staff. "You won't catch me that way, demon."
Jowan laughs. "I didn't think I'd fool you." His amusement fades as he watches her, weighing her up in the same way the Guardian had. She doesn't like it any better coming from this doppelgänger. If nothing else, it brings back memories she'd rather forget. "No, this isn't who you need, is it?"
Between one blink and the next, the specter in front of her turns into her father, just as she remembers him. Before she knows it, Marian finds herself with her back against the door. "Stay away from me," she orders, though the shakiness of her voice undermines what little authority she can muster.
"I don't want to hurt you, darling girl," it says, and in fact takes a step backward, as though that will reassure her that it means no harm. "I'm only here to talk."
Marian laughs bitterly. "Sure, and I believe you. Demons are known for telling the truth, after all."
"I am no demon, Marian," it says. "I don't really know what I am. I am your father – I'm Jowan – I'm you – all these things are true. But you need to hear this in your father's voice for it to have meaning."
She can't listen to it, no matter how much she wants to. It's hard, though. She remembers this, the way he'd sit her down and make her listen, whether it was to a lecture, a scolding, or her next lesson. It was always kind, always gentle, but he expected her attention and knew how to keep it. This isn't fair.
Oh, what's fair? None of this is fair.
It sighs deeply, sounding pained. "Is there nothing I can say that will persuade you that I mean you no harm?"
In spite of everything, she feels guilty. She'd always hated disappointing her father, and even though this isn't he, some of the feeling remains. "You're not my father," Marian says slowly. "And I can't think of any reason you must look like him except to hurt me."
Though how he'd taken on her father's appearance will interest her for a long time – the shapeshifting Morrigan taught her is strictly reserved for animals, whose souls aren't of a complexity to tax the space in her mind reserved for such things. Demons must do it differently.
"It's only a message," he says, spreading his hands as though helpless. "You'll pass through unmolested, I swear."
Marian bites her cheek, thinking about it for a long time, but she can't stand here forever. She needs to get out of here, and she doesn't care which direction she goes. "Fine," she says shortly. "Give me your message."
Somehow he's there in front of her, without having taken a step. He takes her shoulders when she would have pressed herself backward as if she were trying to melt through the door. "Marian," he says, his dark eyes compassionate. "You carry a weight of guilt that will crush you if you don't let it go. Me, Jowan, Lissette, even the Wardens at Ostagar whom you never met – you think you could have saved us all if you'd done things differently, or been better, faster, stronger." He shakes his head. "You can't save everyone. You'll only get yourself killed if you try. Acknowledge your guilt and then let it pass. It's time, and past time." He lets her go then, and steps backward into the darkness. "I love you, Marian, and I'm proud of you," he says, and though he's just a voice now, she swears her father's smiling. "Don't forget."
The room lights up, candles flaring on each wall. There's no one there. She's alone.
And since she's alone, she allows herself the tears.