Nike spent most of her hour learning what apostates all across the world had discovered long before: Templars were stubborn, dogged, and utterly unyielding bastards.

She had asked, then argued, then cajoled, then outright pleaded with the guards at the sealed mage camp, but all to no avail. The men in front of her looked hardly more than boys, but they were as patient and infuriatingly immovable as the mountains.

"No one enters," was all they would say to her, despite the numerous and increasingly colorful things she was finding to say to them. Finally, she was forced to give up. Soaked to the skin with rain, cold, and still having been unable to talk to Fergus, she headed to the western cloistered yard to meet with the others.

The yard was reached down a set of broken stone steps, and was offset from the rest of the camp. It was almost eerily quiet after the bustle from the main area, and the few torches set out on the crumbling columns did little to chasing back the shadows.

Duncan and Alistair were already there, standing in front of a battered little table that had been set out. Jory and Daveth had arrived as well, looking hesitant. As Nike came down the last of the steps toward them Duncan pointed.

"I am sorry, Lady Cousland, but the mabari isn't allowed."

Nike thought about saying something cutting but bit it back. Lightly touching Holly's damp head she looked at her.

"Go back and wait for me at the tents," she said. Holly let out a faint woof under her breath, an expression of reluctance and annoyance, but then turned and obeyed. Nike took the last few stairs and drew to a halt at Jory's shoulder.

Now she could see the table behind Duncan and Alistair a bit more closely. Upon it were a large goblet and pitcher of what looked to be half full of a very dark wine- and nothing else.

"At last, we come to the Joining," Duncan said. In the torchlight his eyes were all but lost in dark hollows, every line and crag of his face edged sharply. Beside him, Alistair looked faintly troubled, but clearly making a distinct effort to keep his face neutral.

"From Ages past, from the time of the first Blight, brave men and women have stood up as Wardens and sacrificed their lives in defense of the world against the darkspawn. Tonight, we hope you three will join that number."

"Hope?" Nike heard Jory whisper softly in a bemused tone. If Duncan heard him as well, he gave no indication. He continued.

"To stand against the darkspawn, against the evil that would tear apart our world, a Warden must become a master of many things," he said. "A master of their fear. A master of their heart, and mind. A master of their body and skills. They must master the darkest impulses that literally poison the hearts, souls, and minds of others and in doing so, master their enemy. The first of the Wardens was born when they drank of darkspawn blood and in so doing, mastered the Taint."

Nike's throat seemed to realize what he'd said before her mind got the message. Convulsively it closed briefly, feeling slicked with oily nausea.

"The Wardens drink…darkspawn blood?" she heard Jory exclaim distantly. "But…no, that can't be possible. You're having us on. No one can survive drinking darkspawn blood! It's deadly poison, liquid evil."

"All Wardens, all we here, have done this," Alistair said. His voice sounded strange- serious, dry, and distant. Looking at him Nike knew this was no joke or jest. "All from the beginning have done this."

"This is the source of a Warden's power, what gives them the ability to defeat the darkspawn- and the arch demons," Duncan said.

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the Taint," Alistair said. Now he was trying to sound reassuring, but failing. "Remember in the Wilds? My ability to sense the darkspawn, when they were near? This is what allows that ability, what grants it…and others."

"You're having us on," Jory said again, his face reddening. "You want us to drink…? 'Those who survive'…?"

"Steady yourself man," Daveth said calmly.

"There are words it is traditional to say," Duncan said. "They are few, but they have been said since the beginning. Alistair, if you please."

Alistair's eyes seemed to move briefly to Nike's before they quickly dropped. He lowered his head a bit as if offering a prayer. When he spoke, however, it seemed less a prayer to the Maker and more a prayer to them.

"Join us, brothers and sister. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you."

Nike barely registered the words. Her throat kept wanting to keep convulsing and there were faint clicks as she kept swallowing. Everything seemed faded, distant around her.

She had not wanted this. She had never wanted this. Joining the Wardens seemed like a death sentence; first to her desired life in Highever, and then to her ability to avenge her family and wreak justice upon their murderers and betrayers. She knew as well that if she joined the Wardens it might kill her- but she had assumed that would be in battle with the darkspawn either here at Ostagar or elsewhere at another time. She had never considered, never dreamed, that the very act of becoming a Warden itself would kill her.

In front of her mind's eye, more vivid it seemed than the scene actually around her, she could see once again those beasts dead on the roadside as she and Duncan helped to carry them to be burned. She remembered Duncan's words on how to tell if a man had been Tainted.

Pain. Fever. When a man goes pale and his veins go black…

In that pitcher rested the darkspawn blood they had gathered, of that she had no doubt. They were going to make her drink it, and the most likely result would be her painful and protracted death.

When a man goes pale and his veins go black…

Alistair had stopped speaking. Duncan had turned and picked up the pitcher, pouring a stream into the goblet that rested beside it before lifting it. Some dim part of Nike's brain realized there had to be more in the pitcher than just the small amount of blood they had taken. Duncan had poured little more than a mouthful or two, but the vials they had gathered wouldn't have made half of that.

Holding the goblet between his hands, the old Warden turned to them. "Daveth," he said. "Step forward."

From Nike's side, Daveth took a step, then two. Nike could see the back of his neck. It was red and damp with sweat that ran from his hair, but his hands did not shake as he lifted them and took the goblet from Duncan.

He looked down into it, then spoke. "Should…is there something I should say first?"

"You may if you desire, but it is not required," Duncan told him. "You need only drink."

"Well, I guess then…um…" The goblet lifted to his mouth, then paused a moment. "Um…bottom's up?"

He drained the goblet in one and a half quick swallows. The moment the last drop had passed his lips Alistair took the goblet from him as if afraid he'd drop it, and gave it back to Duncan.

For a long moment, no one and nothing moved. Daveth just stood there, sweat still glistening on his neck. Then he took half a step backward, swayed, and then another half-step. His fingers lifted to his neck and he rubbed at the skin at the hollow of his throat idly, and made a soft and thoughtful 'hrm'.

Then he half turned, as if to speak to both Jory and Nike. Unable to help it, Nike suddenly recoiled back, nearly colliding with Jory. Instinctively the knight grabbed her arm. His fingers were like a vise, his breath panting through his lips like a winded mabari.

Daveth's eyes had gone completely white. His fingers were still idly rubbing at the hollow of his throat. His mouth hung open slightly and Nike could see a discolored tinge over his lips. His face was a pale cold gray.

Then the rubbing on his throat became a gouge as he dug his nails into the skin. For a moment, Nike saw blood so dark it looked black well up around his fingers, but then he was falling, collapsing toward her. She half-caught him and stumbled. The moment she touched him Jory released her arm as if afraid the taint would somehow spring from Daveth to him using Nike as a conduit.

She found herself on one knee, clutching hold of Daveth. His eyes, still ghostly white, were staring sightlessly upward. His mouth still hung open, the scratches from his fingers standing starkly against his white skin.

No breath lifted his chest. He did not feel of fever, he had not writhed in pain, and his veins had not turned black- but it was clear the man was dead.

Nike stared at him, unable to look away. Her fingers felt knotted in his tunic, seized tight beyond her capability of loosening or moving them. Behind her, she could hear Jory sputtering.

"Th-this, this is no joke…no joke…-murder! This is murder! You-…by the Maker you-…"

He seemed unable to form a coherent sentence. By the scuffing sounds of his boots he was backing away.

"Ser Jory-" Alistair sounded both warning and pleading. "Ser Jory, you need to stop-"

"I have a wife!" Jory said. "She's…-Highever. She's in Highever and…-she's got a baby on the way, I…"

"Ser Jory, please. Just listen. I know this is hard but-"

"If I'd known, I never would have-…! This is madness! Lady Cousland…"

His boot scuffs were now moving toward her. Again he gripped her arms. She found her fingers suddenly falling loose of Daveth's tunic as the knight drew her back, pulling her to her feet. The contact seemed to suddenly snap her out of a daze, and more reflexively than anything else she revolted, tearing away from him as if he were one of the darkspawn. She nearly stumbled over poor Daveth, thrusting her hands up toward Jory as if he were attacking her.

"Don't touch me!"

"Lady Cousland, we…we're leaving. We're leaving. I'll have no part in this! This was a lie, all of it. This was murder!"

"Ser Jory- " Alistair had his hands held out in worried supplication toward the knight. "You can't-"

Duncan had apparently refilled the goblet. It was in his hand again, the dark liquid in it clear. His eyes were still wreathed in shadow as he looked at Jory, who reacted as if he were holding a live viper toward him, or a blade. Again backing away, he snatched frantically at the sword riding his hip.

"I won't!" he said, spit flying from his lips. His face was reddened, his eyes wide and darting frantically. "You're madmen, both of you! I won't have any part of this. I am leaving."

"Jory," Duncan said gravelly. "There is no turning back. There are only two paths forward from here. The Wardens, or death."

"No," Jory said. His sword was in his hand now. He kept turning it from Duncan to Alistair and back again. "This is madness, and I won't. I won't!"

Alistair looked resigned and grieved, as if watching someone who had suffered a long and terrible fever take their last breaths. When Duncan held the goblet out this time, it was to Alistair, and he took it silently without a word.

From his belt, Duncan drew a dagger and calmly started toward Jory.

The knight took another step back but Duncan was suddenly there, hand wrapping around Jory's wrist, pushing his sword to the side. The dagger in his hand was to the hilt in Jory's heart before Nike even registered that Duncan had reached him.

The only sound Jory made was a soft, mildly surprised exhalation. As his knees gave out and the sword slipped from his grasp, Duncan caught him and almost reverently lay him down on the stones.

"I am sorry," he said.

He rose to his feet again and started back toward them. Alistair was again trying to look schooled, but the shine in his eyes was giving him away. Nike could see it clearly as she tore her eyes away from Jory and looked from him to Duncan, and then back again.

"Lady Cousland," Duncan said softly in the still darkness as he returned to Alistair's side. Nike looked again at Alistair. He was holding out the goblet to her. The small amount of liquid inside looked as if it could fill a lake.

At first, she did not move. She couldn't move. Her mind was filled with a blankness so complete it was like the void between stars. Thought wasn't possible, let alone motion.

Then Duncan spoke again, a slightly more warning tone in his voice.

"Lady Cousland."

Daveth had been a thief. A cutpurse. When he looked at a blonde stranger he had been able to recognize her beauty but not her lack of interest. He'd had his faults, but Nike was sure he had been a good man. He had tried; not because his family had been murdered and he wanted vengeance for it. He'd tried because he wanted to stop the Blight and protect something greater than himself. He had failed, but he had tried.

Jory had been a knight, trained for valiancy and honor, sworn to justice and the Light. But he was a coward. His vows were empty, his decorations meaningless. In the end, his own skin was worth more to him than his word, his honor, or anyone else. He hadn't even tried.

Now, it was her turn to choose. Nike's family had been betrayed and murdered. She'd been conscripted into this position- something she had never wanted and never asked for. Everything she'd known, everything she'd loved and hoped for, had been systematically stripped away from her more and more and now she felt flayed right down to the bone.

Had her father known about this? She didn't think he could have. She had never heard of such a thing, not even in the wildest tales she'd heard about the Wardens. Jory certainly hadn't known of this, and Daveth hadn't seemed to either.

In that cup was death.

Refusing that cup was death.

One might mean something. One would certainly mean nothing.

She was furious. She was terrified. She wanted to curl up like a child and cry- sob until her mother came in and comforted her as she had when Nike was a child. She couldn't do this. She couldn't move.

One final time, Duncan spoke. His voice this time had no note of warning but part of her imagined that, buried deep in the neutrality, there was sadness.

"Nike."

In that cup was death. Refusing the cup was death. It was only in that cup, however, that there was any hope of life.

It was only in that cup that there was any certainty of meaning.

She lifted her hands and took the goblet from Alistair. The silver felt like ice against her palms as she held it and looked down into the black liquid inside.

It was neither hot, nor was it cold. As she tipped the cup against her lips she swallowed more out of reflex and anticipation than need. It was as if the goblet was filled with heavy air, only the barest hint of substance flowing through her mouth and down her throat.

She had been expecting the taste of purification, rotten and rancid and cloying. Not this. Not…nothing.

Why do you believe evil should be rancid? someone asked. There was no goblet in her hands, no cloistered yard around her. Duncan and Alistair were gone. Light was gone. She could not see or even hear who spoke to her, but she could understand them all the same. She could sense them, a motion drawing near and around her, through and within her.

Evil is a slow silent thing, soft and stealthy, unobtrusive. It sneaks and then settles in the dark and gently grows until it is all that remains. If evil was bitter, it would be spat out.

"Who are you?"

Silence. Nothingness. She could still feel it…whatever it was…creeping through her, dancing in and out of her body and mind as if made of vapor. It was tightening somehow, coiling upon the very essence of her being. It did not hurt. If anything, the sensation was almost pleasant. Her mind started to drift a little. She started to feel secure, to feel safe.

Nothing bad was happening. This was all right.

But no, this wasn't how it should be. This wasn't supposed to be 'all right,' was it?

A Warden must become a master of many things.

"Duncan said that. He said…"

A master of their fear.

"Yes, a master of fear…"

They must master the darkest impulses that literally poison the hearts, souls, and minds of others and in doing so, master their enemy.

"Master the enemy. Master…"

If evil was bitter, it would be spat out.

No. No, this wasn't 'all right'. This wasn't supposed to be this way. This wasn't supposed to be comfortable. To master something one didn't just lay back and accept it. To master something one had to conquer it, overcome it, become more powerful than it was. This wasn't supposed to be easy. This was supposed to be…

This was supposed to be a fight.

That calming, pleasant coiling sensation had nearly consumed her now. Abruptly, almost frantically, she revolted against it. She had no sensation of hands to tear against it, but tear against it she did. She had no body she was aware of to struggle and fight with but she struggled and fought just the same.

The moment she did, the pain came.

It seemed to burn through her, freezing her with fire, searing her with ice. It tore and bit and slashed and mauled, boiling her with agony. She knew without knowing how, that it was her fighting that was causing the pain. If she just stopped fighting the pain would vanish.

If she just stopped fighting…

She fought harder, and harder still, until there was nothing but the pain, nothing but the tearing. She didn't know who she was. Identity, memory, thought, hope, all of it had vanished. All that existed was the pain.

All that existed was the fight.

When she opened her eyes she found herself lying tucked in a bedroll, weak and clammy as if she'd suffered a great fever. Nearby, soft brown eyes peered at her with worried relief, and a rough tongue suddenly washed her cheek. Wearily, she tried to brush the mabari away.

"Holly…"

Someone broke into a sob. Turning her head, Nike saw Tahja close at hand, a damp rag wrung between her fists and her head lowered as she cried in relief. Beside her crouched Alistair, and he gently put a hand on the Tahja's shoulder as he smiled wearily down at Nike.

"Welcome back," he said softly. "Warden."