Chapter 3 – The Quiet Rest

The searing heat from the camp fire prickled Melwiliel's back as she wept into her blankets in a failed attempt to muffle the sobs that wracked her. She had some pride, after all, and wanted to salvage what little dignity remained. Although the limited privacy of their camp by the Imperial Highway made it more than likely that Duncan had heard her tears, perhaps he would be enough of a gentleman not to remark on them.

Leaving the Tower, the only home she could remember clearly, was just too much to bear. Not to mention that, as it turned out, she had been a complete and utter fool: how could she have not noticed anything out of the ordinary? And yet, these were the facts: Jowan had had a liaison with one of the Chantry's initiates, *and* he was a blood mage. Mel stifled another hiccup, as she pondered which was worse: that Jowan was a blood mage, or that he had lied to her. She honestly didn't know.

And now she was to become a Grey Warden herself. Despite the First Enchanter's assurances that she was one of the most promising young mages he had seen in years, she remained doubtful. Her talents were in the school of Creation, she knew next to nothing of offensive spells! She could barely conjure up a lightning bolt, after all! How, in the Maker's name, was she going to repel hordes of darkspawn? With a rejuvenation spell? She remained at a loss as to why Duncan had invoked the Right of Conscription, but of course, that had not been her choice to make.

As the sobs started to subside, the elf contemplated what *would* have been her choice. A life in the Tower, spending her days in research and perhaps one day, teaching, and her evenings in the Circle's libraries. There were so many books that had not yet been read: the ones apprentices were denied, for starters. And mayhap she would've been given an apprentice to teach a few years from now. She believed she would've liked teaching...

And of course, there was Jowan. She had genuinely hoped that his own Harrowing would come soon, that they would've celebrated their successes together. So much for *that* hope. Mel idly wondered where he was now: she offered a fervent prayer to the Maker, that Jowan would be safe, and warm, and fed. However... he was an apostate now, and it wouldn't be long until the templars found him, phylactery or no phylactery. *That* thought triggered another sobbing bout. Truly, as a Circle mage, this wasn't very dignified.

A few feet away, a branch snapped. Hastily wiping red-rimmed eyes, smoothing out matted hair, she sat up in the tangled mess of her blankets. It was Duncan, and he wasn't returning empty-handed, but with a small hare in his hands. She hadn't even noticed he was gone: thank the Maker!

"I thought you might be hungry. It's been a long day since we left the Tower this morning, and one gets quickly tired of those rations, believe me."

At a loss for words, she simply nodded. Without a more forthcoming answer, Duncan sat on the other side of the fire and starting skinning the animal.

"You've never left the Tower, have you?" When the Grey Warden didn't look up, she knew she would have to speak. Melwiliel didn't trust her voice not to crack, but...

"Not since I was brought there. I was five, maybe six." There! And barely any croaking at all! "But I was born in the alienage at Highever. Have you ever been there, ser?"

The dark haired man chuckled. "Please, please, just Duncan." He paused as he deftly gutted the hare. "My father hailed from Highever. I spent most of my youth in the Free Marches and then with the Grey Wardens in Orlais. I've few memories of it, but it's nice enough, with the Waking Sea nearby..."

"We didn't have the sea at the alienage."

"Ah." Duncan still would not look at her as he placed the hare over the fire, so the elven mage asked the one question that plagued her.

"Why me?"

*That* certainly got his attention, his dark eyes boring into her as he gazed from across the camp fire. Undaunted, she ploughed on.

"I mean, there are so many mages more competent than I. As you saw when we set up camp, I can barely light a *candle*, let alone set ablaze a pile of wood! What makes you think that *I* can stand against darkspawn?" It was infuriating to see the man remain unmoved: Melwiliel was about to vent more of her frustration when a reply finally came.

"Grey Wardens bear a sacred burden; we protect the lands of Thedas. But now, a Blight is upon us, and we must not falter. There are few Wardens in Ferelden, at this time, and all are needed. Do not think that you will fight alone, though. Besides," he adds with a small but warm smile, "you should be confident, as Irving is, that your abilities will grow in time."

One word, however, had chilled the young girl to the bone. "A... Blight... You said that in the First Enchanter's study... I've read about it, but... are you certain?"

All at once, he became quite grave. "Aye... I am."

*****

Each and every single muscle in her body ached. The mage felt as if someone had beaten her with a stick from head to toe. A very large stick. Apprentices at the Circle of Magi weren't exactly accustomed to long marches in the countryside. Yesterday's trek was only beginning to smart, so she cringed at the thought of how she would feel when the second day's muscle cramps would flare up. At the pace Duncan was setting, she feared she would perish before they even got to Ostagar. Once more, she wished she was back in the Tower's libraries, never mind the cold and the drafts.

"How do you stand it? All this walking, and sleeping outdoors, and the rations..."

The Grey Warden looked up from the pit he was digging for the camp fire, and gave a deep, throaty chuckle.

"After so many years, I barely give it a second thought, but we don't usually travel so much. Much of our time is spent in the Denerim compound. But of course... these are strange and delicate times."

Melwiliel nodded solemnly. After a brief pause, she decided to resume her questioning.

"What are they like? The other Grey Wardens?... Are they anything like you?"

This time, Duncan really, truly laughed, a loud, resonant laugh, and the mage vaguely wondered is she should be offended. Many of her questions seemed to amuse the older man, but she could detect no malice in him.

"And what would that mean, 'anything like me'?"

Slightly hesitant but still extremely curious, Melwiliel pursued her inquiries.

"Well, are there any mages? Are there any elves, like Garahel?" Garahel, the elven Grey Warden who had ended the Third Blight had always been an object of fascination to her, and she was always eager to meet more of her kind. That was a hope doomed to disappointment, it seemed.

"Unfortunately, neither, at this time. As I said yesterday, our numbers are few in Ferelden, and our members are not as numerous or as varied as I would hope. I do intend to rectify that, though." He smiled as he finished building the small pyramid of dry twigs and small logs. "Would you like to give it another try?"

Confused, Melwiliel gave a start before grasping that he intended *her* to light tonight's fire. The elf frowned, her brows furrowing together as she shoved all other thoughts aside in an attempt to concentrate. Her vision blurred as her eyes went out of focus, and she recited the appropriate incantation.

Nothing happened.

Sighing, she smothered the shreds of annoyance snapping at her, and posed herself to try again. This time, the twigs glowed a dim red before flames leapt up to lick the slender logs, and the elf sighed again, this time in relief, and perhaps a bit of triumph.

"Irving was right", Duncan simply said.

This was a moment she would've liked to share with Jowan, not a man she barely knew, if at all. Once more, Melwiliel wondered where her friend was. She missed him.