A/N: This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, as there was absolutely no way for me to chop it up in different sequences, and it was imperative that the action flow, and head in the direction I wanted it to. That, and RL's been absolutely insane lately (can't wait 'til June!). In any case, here's the end result. Many thanks to Elyssa Brown for her motivational PMs.
Chapter 7 – Best-Laid Plans
A whimper escaped Melwiliel's lips as she emerged from the depths of a restless sleep, her eyes thick with slumber, barely registering her surroundings. Thicks wooden beams supporting a ceiling finally came into focus, and she realized with a start that she was wearing nothing but her shift underneath thick woolen blankets. Waves of heat emanating from a stone fireplace made the warmth almost uncomfortable. Besides the blaze, a dark haired woman was sitting with her back to Mel, grinding herbs with her mortar and pestle.
The rustle of wool against linen sheets must have given the elf away as the woman straightened from her work, turning to face the mage before crossing to the other side of the room. She studied her intensely with glittering yellow eyes, her gaze sharp and almost predatory. Melwiliel suddenly felt uneasy.
"Ah, your eyes finally open." said the golden-eyed woman. "Mother shall be pleased." With no further information forthcoming, Mel found herself compelled to ask the obvious questions.
"Who...? Where am I? What happened?" She could remember the last moments in the Tower of Ishal clearly. The ogre. Alistair thrown clear across the room like a child's discarded rag doll. And behind the ogre, genlock archers pouring in through the stairway. The last thing she remembered was the piercing agony of arrows entering her stomach as she had rushed to Alistair's side. And then, utter nothingness. Sitting up gingerly in the bed, Melwiliel eagerly awaited the other woman's reply.
"You are in the Wilds, in our home. After you were injured, Mother rescued you and another, managed to save you, though 'twas a close call."
"I suppose I should thank the both you, then. I am called Melwiliel or Mel, by the way."
"And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish", she replied. "Mother asked to see you when you awoke. Perhaps we should find you something to wear, however." It became glaringly apparent that Mel's mage robes had not survived the damage inflicted upon them in Ostagar, and she was relieved to find her spare set in her pack.
"I have so many question, if you please" said the elf as she dressed uncomfortably under the young woman's watchful stare. "Who is the other you spoke of? How did your mother save us? Do you know anything of the outcome of the battle at Ostagar?"
"Questions! Questions!" cried Morrigan. "Well, if you must know, the other is a suspicious, dim-witted man. I would not be in any hurry to meet him, were I you."
Melwiliel had thought it too much to hope that her fellow Grey Warden had survived.
"Regarding your rescue," continued the dark-haired woman, "I wonder at that myself, but Mother tells me nothing; you shall have to ask her yourself. As for the battle, your companion left a few hours ago to scout what is left of the battlefield. I should warn you, however, that the darkspawn appear to have slaughtered the bulk of your army, routing the rest of it."
The grim reality crashed home as Melwiliel realized she was alone in the Wilds, in some strange house. Her eyes searched for her staff and her fingers gratefully closed around it as she shouldered her pack.
"Perhaps... perhaps I should thank your mother, and be on my way."
"Very well." replied Morrigan. "Follow me." The elf's stomach grumbled discontentedly and amusement danced in the glittering golden eyes. "A stew is simmering outside."
"Stepping out in the open, Melwiliel immediately noticed the strong aroma of the stew, and only slightly fainter, the ubiquitous scent of dampness that pervaded the Wilds after a downpour. The sun was setting, low on the horizon to her left, leading her to believe that she had slept through the night and the following day. Not too surprising considering her injuries.
Beside the bubbling pot sat a withered old woman, her thin white hair framing a lean face. But when she looked up, noticing Melwiliel's approach, the mage saw there was nothing frail in that hard, piercing gaze. A family trait, perhaps.
"Awake at last, lass?" breathed the old woman in a croaking voice. "Good! You have much to do."
Shocked at the unexpected bluntness and a bit nervous at being in the presence of an apostate, the young woman cautiously lowered herself to the ground, across the elder woman. She chose her words carefully.
"I understand I have you to thank as well."
"As well?" said Morrigan as she rounded the fire and sat beside her mother. "I am no healer, 'twas all Mother's doing." So not one, but *two* apostates.
"Indeed. Morrigan's talents lie elsewhere." added the old woman, as she filled some bowls with the stew. "Your injuries were severe, but there was nothing the darkspawn did that I could not heal." She handed a bowl to Mel before serving Morrigan.
"I'm very curious about something, if I may... How did you manage to reach us, at the Tower of Ishal?", inquired the elf.
The old woman's lips curled slightly in a knowing smile as she inhaled the aroma which rose from the bowl. "Hmm... Let's just say that Morrigan and I are far from defenseless." No doubt about it now: these women had to be the infamous Witches of the Wilds. Melwiliel carefully set her bowl of stew before her, gathering her jet-black hair in its customary ponytail. As she took a little longer than usual, she studied the two women through her eyelashes. Once they had tasted their own stew, Mel picked up the bowl. It never hurt to be overly careful, even though it wouldn't have made much sense to heal her wound only to poison her meal house later.
As they ate in silence, the sun sank even lower, bathing the hut and its surroundings in an orange glow. Mel kept her questions in check as her mind raced. Had the battle gone as badly as Morrigan had said? If so, had Ostagar fallen? How would she rejoin the other Wardens? What would she tell the others, that she had failed in the first task that had been given to her, and worse yet, that she had been unable to prevent the fall of her fellow Warden? Melwiliel's throat tightened as she summoned up all these uncertainties into a single question: what now? If she was perfectly honest with herself, the elf had to admit that she didn't have a clue.
Now, more than ever, she missed the Tower. And she missed Jowan. In a rueful chuckle which drew pointed glances from Morrigan and her mother, the mage admitted that she would have been somewhat comforted by the familiar sight of a *templar*, of all things!
Melwiliel knew from experience that healing demanded as much from the healer as it did from the patient, and, sure enough, she was absolutely ravenous. As she helped herself to a fourth bowl of stew, a dark silhouette detached itself from a knoll. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun's last rays, Melwiliel could not make out who the figure was, but Morrigan's eyes were sharper.
"Ah, marvelous. Seems your friend is back from his little scouting trip." she muttered in a clipped, sarcastic tone.
Eager to rejoin the Ferelden soldier, the elven mage scrambled to her feet, and met the man loping down the small hill. As Melwiliel plunged into the shadow it cast, she was startled to come face to face with a man who was no common foot soldier.
"Alistair!"
"Oh, how sweet, you remembered my name."
While the surprise of seeing her fellow Warden alive and well was slowly sinking in, that didn't keep her from spluttering incoherently.
"But... you... I mean... the ogre! Didn't you?... I thought..." Mel managed to compose herself with a deep, shuddering breath. "That ogre had just tossed you aside... I was certain you were dead."
"He did bruise a few ribs and knocked me out cold, but you were a lot worse." He glanced warily at Morrigan and her mother, as he took Melwiliel by the arm and dragged her further away from the cookfire. "Listen, we need to talk." he told her in a hushed, almost conspiratorial voice. "Things are looking pretty grim right now."
"Say what you will, I'm just glad we're still alive!"
"Well, you won't be for long. Glad, I mean." His dark scowl and serious tone left her disquieted; this certainly sounded ominous. Alistair drew a hand across his face, looking ragged and despondent. "They're dead." he said simply, with a frightening finality. "They're *all* dead. Cailan, Duncan, the Wardens... All of them. We're the only ones left."
They stood there as time seemed to draw out like a blade, neither one daring to speak. The enormity of the situation threatened to drive the mage hysterical, and she fought the shock wave with what little calm she could muster and asked a single question.
"Are you certain?"
A short, solemn nod was his only answer as he looked at her somewhat expectantly.
"So... what do we do now, Alistair?"
"Me? You're asking me? Maker's breath, how am I supposed to know?"
"Well, you had better think of something, and right quick!" she hissed back, spurts of panic bubbling through the calm facade. "I have been a Grey Warden for a grand total of one day, *one* days! And I was asleep most of that time!" The fierce whisper was now closer to a shriek, and once more, Melwiliel struggled to composer herself. "What is expected of me?"
The former templar appeared exhausted and a great deal older as he sighed, running his fingers through his short hair.
"I'm not exactly sure... We could try to rejoin Teyrn Loghain's forces; they seem to have withdrawn, as far as I could tell. We could also head for Redcliffe, I have..." he hesitated. "...friends there. We could get a message to the Wardens in Orlais from there. Don't forget I was only a Warden for six months," he added, suddenly apologetic. "All I know is that this is a Blight, and..."
"So we kill the Archdemon, then?", she interrupted.
Alistair rolled his eyes. "Of course, now why didn't I think of that?", he scoffed, the barbed words practically dripping with sarcasm as he crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. "We'll just stomp off to Orzammar then, knock on the great big doors, ask the dwarves for directions, and go slay the Archdemon in its lair in the Deep Roads after wading through hordes of darkspawn."
Something he said tickled dimly at her memory, and Melwiliel stared at him with wide eyes and a dawning comprehension.
"What did you just say?"
"Huh? About the Deep Roads and hordes of darkspawn?" He frowned.
"No, no, no, no, no... *Before* that!"
"We could ask the dwarves for dir–"
"Yes, that's it!" the mage cried as she pummeled his chest furiously with her small, ineffective fists, surprising herself with the unexpected outburst. "Oh Alistair, please tell me you still have the treaties!"
"The... the treaties?" he stammered, eyes widening. Maybe Morrigan was right, maybe he *was* dim-witted.
"The ancient treaties signed after the First Blight, the treaties we found in the ruins of that old Warden archive, the treaties you brought back to Duncan, the treaties he told you to stow away!" Melwiliel cried out in frustration. "Tell me you still have them!"
There was about a minute or two of dumbstruck stupor in which he blinked at her owlishly, but once that was over, Alistair lung his pack to the ground, dropped into a crouch beside it, and started rummaging through it. Melwiliel watched him anxiously, hugging herself, not blushing once at the sight of the smallclothes, and her breath caught once Alistair brandished triumphantly the aged parchment. Once more, time seemed to come to a haltering stop as they stood, heads bowed, staring mutely at the precious treaties. It was Alistair who breached the revered silence.
"Well, we have the treaties... All we need to do is..."
"We?" Melwiliel interrupted. "We? How am I supposed to recruit armies of dwarves, elves and men? I'm a healer, not a... not a..."
"Not a what?" he asked somewhat harshly, and she threw her arms in the air, a blend of frustration, panic and hopelessness tinging her thoughts.
"I don't know!" Melwiliel cried, green eyes narrowing and burning fiercely. "Not a diplomat, not a leader, and certainly not a commander of armies!"
"But you *are* a Grey Warden." he reminded her angrily before his fierce expression softened, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. "Besides... If Duncan deemed you worthy of becoming one of us, then so do I, and I *can't* do this alone."
In the end, the mage couldn't resist his pleading gaze, realizing he didn't relish this massive task anymore than she did, and she nodded. As she let out a shaky breath, she saw Alistair could barely conceal how relieved he was.
"Thank you." he added softly, raising his gaze and taking in the growing shadows with increasing trepidation in his eyes. "Listen... We'd best get moving soon. I'm no scout, and the darkspawn are bound to pick up my trail, even though I avoided them as best I could."
"I'll get my pack and staff."
With the sun gone and the only light coming from the cookfire and the hut's small windows, the hard stares Morrigan and her mother gave them as they approached were even more forbidding.
"Have you found what you were looking for, young man?" the old woman asked with an unpleasant cackle.
"Maybe..." answered Alistair in a guarded tone. "We thank you for all your help, but we really should be on our way."
"At this hour?" She sounded almost amused as she shot a sidelong glance at Morrigan.
"Absolutely."
"It seems to me that would be the very best way for Fereldan's last remaining Grey Wardens to get hopelessly lost in the Wilds, now wouldn't it?" If she had been amused before, the old woman's tone was now anything but light, and in a chilling flash of lucidity, Mel wondered how she knew so much.
"We mean no disrespect, and we are truly grateful for all your help, but the darkspawn will not be satisfied with Ostagar." he replied, shaking his head.
"Fleeing, then, are we?" She almost seemed to be taunting them.
"Not... really." said Alistair, his tone guarded. "Perhaps you should consider leaving yourselves,..." He threw a fleeting, sidelong glance at Melwiliel. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name."
This time, Morrigan's mother threw her head back, laughing heartily, before answering him. "Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."
Flemeth. When Mel heard that name, a name straight out of legends and folktales, small alarms bells started tolling shrilly in her mind, and her insides twisted with anxiety. It was all too fortuitous: the miraculous rescue, the magical powers, the knowledge of herbs, the uncanny foresight...
"We need to go. *Now*." she nearly hissed in a fierce whisper at Alistair. It was all she could do to hide her relief when he didn't argue, a small, almost imperceptible nod the sole sign he had even heard her.
"Thank you for everything, Flemeth, Morrigan," he nodded to each in turn. "Truly, we've delayed long enough." As the two Wardens shouldered their gear, the witches stood and shared a long, searching look, before turning back to Alistair and Melwiliel.
"Take Morrigan with you, young Wardens." offered Flemeth. "She knows the Wilds better than either of you, and her magic will help you get past the horde." The young woman said nothing, her gaze proud and steady. Melwiliel was uncertain as how to proceed: on one hand, she did not wish angering or insulting Flemeth, and they *did* need to get out of the Wilds swiftly, but on the other hand, she did not relish traveling with an apostate. But their situation was precarious at best, and Mel was forced to admit to herself that they needed help.
"Very well, lead us out of these woods, then."
Alistair seemed about to protest, but said nothing before nodding in ascent. Morrigan shouldered her own pack which had been stowed nearby; the young elf found it odd that she had been ready to leave on such short notice, but decided it would have been unwise to comment on it.
Finally, the three of them were ready to depart, and they made their way northwards. Behind them, the cookfire was now little more than smoldering embers, and before too long, the small hut and its lone remaining occupant were swallowed by the darkness.