Elissa patted Carver's shoulder, unaware of his mental blue screen. "You look…familiar. Have you passed through Highever before?" She was sporting the Cousland heraldry on her armour, which gave away her identity.
Carver hesitated. "Maybe once."
"Wait, I see it," Elissa grinned. "Solona looks like she could be your cousin from Rivain."
Hm. "She is."
Everyone spluttered.
"Or Antiva, I'm not sure."
Solona timidly gaped. "Y-You know I'm your cousin, but not where I'm from?"
Carver shrugged. "We're related through our matriarchal parentage. I know admittedly little of Revka Amell and even less of your father, save that they reluctantly shipped you to the Circle before I was born. I recognise our relations by virtue of merely your face and name."
At first sight, he had nearly called the mage recruit "Bethany" before catching himself, and he wasn't easily mistaken as Bethany's born twin. Solona shared Bethany's sweet face and dark hair, as if Bethany's mirror was pointed Carver's direction. The only differences between the two girls was Solona's northern blood darkening her skin to a smooth, milky chocolate, her thick hair being worn back in a long braid, and her electric blue eyes.
She was beautiful like a sheltered flower. Carver was tempted to kick half of the camp out for her safety, just in case, but had to remember that no matter the personality or appearance, every candidate for Warden was capable of taking on a blight and winning.
"I remember now!" Elissa placed her fist on her palm, drawing Carver's attention. "You were running a message at Castle Cousland, yes? Quite the task for someone from the capital. I was just your age when I was squiring under my father. Then I won my first battle against pirates in the Waking Sea."
Carver blinked. "But wouldn't that…?"
"My mother is retired."
"Very well."
The Soldier and the Seawolf was a famous shanty, and Loghain and the king's army had searched the seas for Maric for two years. It was a wonder that with such a horrible first meeting so as to be immortalised in a song, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had not only married but had had two children. Carver was half-surprised they hadn't had more.
"Speak freely, page," Elissa encouraged. "What message have you to deliver?"
Carver wasn't a page, but…ah, well. His inconvenient attention span was curious about the dwarf Faren, yet duties had to come first. "Less a message for the recruits than for their company. Know you a Ser Nigel? Or a Daveth and Ser Jory, for that matter?"
"Daveth?" The dwarf, Faren, perked up. "Yeh, plenty of them Daveths here."
"It's a common name on the surface," Solona shyly informed. "As for a Ser Jory, I admittedly know no such man."
Elissa shrugged.
Carver pinched his nose bridge. "What of a man named Nails?"
The three recruits' faces immediately darkened.
Carver sighed. "May I ask—?"
"That way," they pointed.
"Many thanks."
Carver quickly left and eventually found Nails dancing his brow at an Ash Warrior. The painted scout was starting to glare at Nails from across camp.
"That's right, I'm looking at you."
"Nails."
"I think the man's mabari is playing wingman for me, Ser Carv."
"You're going to lose the one thing you take pride in. Or, two things."
"How was the capital?"
"Ser Cauthrien needs to brief you on a new position."
"Sweet Andraste." Nails immediately turned. "No really, bride of the Maker, Ser Carver. Me in charge of the legion?"
"I'm just as horrified."
"Truly." Nails briskly followed Carver back to the legion's loggia. Nails' casual and professional faces were like night and day. The crowd hastily parted where they walked, persuaded by Nails' dark expression. "Report," he barked.
Carver was quickly tiring of repeating himself, but it proved to be a persistent part of his duties ever since joining the king's army. He gave a brief rundown of the Coastlands' situation.
Nails frowned. "Then the captain is needed back north. What about Little Billy or Princess?"
"You have more mission records of leadership."
"Maker."
Everyone including Nails had already expected him to succeed Cauthrien as captain, but before Carver's arrival to Ostagar, the entertained possibility had been a distant future. Now Nails was going to have his first taste of commanding soldiers who had been in the king's army since Denerim - the officially labelled, "royal legion." Nails would also be doing so with little guidance, as Loghain was currently commanding a dozen legions at once, and Cauthrien was to be occupied in the capital. It was a trial by fire afforded by the blight. Carver didn't envy him.
They found Cauthrien quickly and received their new posts from her. Cauthrien handed Nails a heavy stack of papers and pulled Carver aside.
"Take this." She handed him a longsword bearing the crest of the king's army.
Carver purposefully misunderstood. "To whom?"
"Yourself," Cauthrien stated flatly. "Stop parading your unmarked armour around; we're not a militia, and you're not a harmless little boy. I need you proper."
"Then I'd be too efficient."
"Do I hear cheek, Ser Carver?"
"Help the quartermaster, report at the end of the day," Carver listed off his new duties, and saluted. "Copy."
Carver replaced the forgettable sword slung over his back with the marked sword Cauthrien had given him, and eventually found his target stringing requisition orders together while sitting on a chest. Carver looked down at him.
"Quartermaster?" he prodded, like he had to ask.
The bearded man glanced up at Carver's unmarked armour, unable to see the marked pommel of Carver's sword from where he sat. "…I'm busy."
"Then we both are. Ser Carver of Maric's Shield. I've been assigned to you."
"Sweet Andraste," the man stumbled to his feet, "I asked that lady captain for help, not - Maric's Shield! You lot are the elite of the army, aren't you?"
"You're addressing the needs of fifteen-thousand soldiers, healers, and staff," Carver reasoned. "Ser Cauthrien recognises the importance of your work, so she sent me to expedite the process. Not to worry - I have experience with requisitions and running messages. Should you require rare items, I can gather them as well." The soldiers guarding the fence were all members of the royal legion, so they'd let Carver slip out if asked. "Just don't ask me to fetch something native to the deeper bogs of the Korcari Wilds."
The quartermaster gaped at the news, and blinked at the tail-end of them. "What, are witches of the wild real?"
Carver grimaced. "I'd simply rather not tempt fate."
His suppressed anxiety would have liked it if Flemeth was merely a batty old apostate, and not host to a vindictive elven immortal with a deeper understanding of magic than anyone currently alive. Carver had no desire to have his strange existence explained soon - or worse, to have said immortal elf seeing him and his knowledge as a threat, and killing him.
"Fair enough." The quartermaster nodded. "The Ash Warriors need a pound of deathroot, and the Revered Mother needs needles - at least a dozen of them. The rest of the orders can be handed off to an elf. Actually, if you see a red-haired one, send her back here. She should be done with the chainmail by now."
"Servant."
"Sorry?"
"Elf is an identity. Servant is a job description."
"I guess."
Carver sighed. Some people wouldn't understand without a more roundabout approach. "At least one of the Grey Wardens here is an elf. It is in the army's best interests that we avoid careless comments, so mind your tongue."
"Oh! I…I understand now, ser. Thank you."
Carver inwardly grimaced, but merely nodded and left to scour the camp for deathroot. Someone else had been a "minority" in their past life, and they found standing on either side of racism predictably unpleasant. Experiencing a brush of it in Thedas stirred a sense of righteousness in them that they struggled to contain, intimately aware that there was a time for action and inaction where the latter was smarter more often than not.
Being "smart" in Thedas was just one of many hurdles that someone else had to face while trying to live in a foreign world. They swallowed the indignance down. Emotionally distancing themselves helped. No, it was sometimes necessary, if they wanted to be calm.
Maybe the Carver that others knew was awkward, or aloof, or cold.
Someone else didn't know.
Regardless, Carver fulfilled the more dangerous requisition orders and intimidated insignificant requests away from the quartermaster until sundown, when the army started gearing up for the coming battle. Carver had snooped around the Tower of Ishal at one point under the guise of fulfilling a requisition order, but couldn't determine where the darkspawn were likely to dig through, so he had tossed a few comments to Cauthrien and Nails. One of Nails' first orders to the army was thus to add a few Maric's Shield members to the Tower's security. Cauthrien also decided she wouldn't head north until after the battle started, just to momentarily gauge Nails' performance under pressure, so Carver entertained the hope that the battle wouldn't end with a slaughter.
He had unsteady hope.
After all, one common person alone couldn't easily prevent a massacre.
Carver caught a glimpse of the war council meeting on the eve of battle. Nails wanted to know when the meeting looked ready to end, so that he could ready the royal legion to move ahead of time. Carver arrived at the fenced edge of the war council in time to see all of the army's commanders standing around a table that had been moved outside for the occasion, along with Loghain and Cailan.
It was a crowd of impressive armour. Theron, Elissa, Solona, and Faren were also present, behind Duncan and near the king, but they didn't seem to be addressed much. They shifted uncomfortably at Cailan and Loghain's frank exchanges while the commanders around them didn't so much as blink at their leaders' conduct. Carver inwardly sighed at what he could pick up.
"…Too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines…"
"…Wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, then…"
"…Fool notion…"
"…You will remember who is king!"
Neither Cailan nor Loghain were wrong, but they had different goals. Their language was accordingly…tense.
"…Light the signal…"
"…Wise to rely on these Wardens so much…?"
"…Enough conspiracy theories…"
Duncan's voice, then Loghain's.
"…No sign of dragons in the wilds…"
Cailan's easy tone, then Duncan's resigned one. Uldred's aside, quickly sniped by the Revered Mother. The war council quickly devolved into an argument from multiple angles.
"Enough!" Loghain's voice cut through the din. "This plan will suffice…."
Cailan's improved mood, scattering the tension like magic. A focused, if boring, tone captured the meeting.
Carver slipped away to return to Nails.
"Great. Everyone to their positions!" Nails' voice rang out in the loggia, and the royal legion moved out in formation. Nails glanced back at Cauthrien's approving nod, then turned to Carver. "You're in the back with the mages."
Carver jolted. "Nails— permission to speak freely, ser?"
"Denied."
No way. Carver had to walk with the king - he had to protect him. Carver looked at Cauthrien. "This is because I'm the youngest one here, is it?"
"There aren't enough Templars to protect all the mages," Nails commanded Carver's attention back to him. "Carver. You can't undermine me like this."
Carver knew that. He knew that going around Nails would diminish the legion's respect for the acting captain before even entering the battlefield. Carver hung his head.
Nails' posture loosened with wordless sympathy. "Dismissed."
Carver half-heartedly saluted and left.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and the first drop of rain fell.
The king's army went into position and followed its leaders' guidance.
It was a good plan.
The signal was lit on time.
Carver knew so, when he and the Templars surged forward with the pincer attack to protect the mages, just in time to watch a blast of lightning cut through their buddies next to them.
Darkspawn rushed into the army's gaps like water, and thunder clapped above as another spray of lightning stitched the air between ground and sky. Carver couldn't compute the number of casualties created in that instant as he lost sight of half the army. An arc of lightning must have also found the oil barrels deep in camp, because the southern ruins behind everyone suddenly burst in flames. A Templar frantically smote a mage casting fire on accident. Carver pushed between them before they could further act, and in his inattention received a blow from an ogre's swing that tossed him into a herd of soldiers like a bowling ball.
Armour dug into Carver's soft joints, and lightning flashed behind his eyes. He struggled to find his feet and soon learned that the soldiers with him were likewise stumbling, disoriented and weighed down by thirty pounds of leather and chainmail, if not armour. He saw a soldier free his head of his helmet and gasp for air, before a darkspawn's sword cut clean through his neck. The headless body slumped back into the human rat's nest Carver was part of and rained blood on all passersby and the ground in front of it. Another ogre's swing tossed up a flurry of Ash Warriors and mabari, and when Carver freed himself of the mob, he regripped his longsword with one hand and swung it at the ogre's back, only to cut a darkspawn beyond his periphery instead.
He didn't remove his helmet.
He stood up, stepped over a dead body only to accidentally crush its hand, and kept swinging.
Darkspawn flooded in from all directions and crawled over both allies and enemies like ants, so that the three feet between the edge of Carver's sword and the ogre's hide seemed to take forever to close. Wherever Carver stepped, he couldn't find even footing, and every inch back found the battlefield one limb taller with the dead piling up. Carver turned to cut down a darkspawn throwing itself at him, then a hurlock tearing someone's arm off, then a bare foot the size of Carver's torso kicking back at him.
A wound split the foot's sole before Carver realised he had cut the ogre.
A body then abruptly shoved into him from the side, and he and a darkspawn blinked at each other while a knight beyond them leapt up through the smoke and rain and drove a sword into the ogre's chest. Carver stumbled back in time to witness the dead ogre tip over and crush the darkspawn with its back, one inch short of flattening Carver. He reflexively blocked an incoming swing and turned to face another darkspawn, while a second horde swept over the ogre's body and hit Carver, the knight, and what he could see of the army around him. Carver didn't have time to survey or even watch his back.
He fought with his life on the line behind every swing.
He fought, and fought.
And fought.
He was distantly aware of a world beyond his sword, but couldn't afford to think about it. Trees fell, comrades fell, and darkspawn flooded in. A rain of stone crashed over the battlefield, and Carver instinctively turned over his shoulder for a split second as he stumbled with the knock of a brick, catching sight of smoke, fire, and - with a flash of lightning - the outline of a leathery wing.
Thunder slammed into Carver, knocking him to the ground.
He hastily got to his feet knowing he'd die quickly on his back, and shook the rain out of his eyes in his helmet. That was not mere thunder. Ostagar's fortress was being torn apart.
The archdemon was wreaking havoc.
Carver intercepted a blade for his heart and kept swinging, fighting, breathing.
He fought for one hour.
Two.
He didn't know anything else, until finally, it all faded away as he collapsed.
The thunder had a melody.
It wanted to go home.
Someone else breathed in––
Carver awoke to the living picking themselves up from the dead. Around him, warriors bloody and bawling like newborn babes surfaced from the unblinking mounds of soldiers, darkspawn, and ogres that had replaced the landscape. Fire burned in patches where broken tents and splintered trees lay, casting an eerie orange glow on the faceless armoured figures that stumbled past Carver, weeping or speechless.
Carver crawled out of a tangle of bodies and tugged his elbow free of someone's grip. Rigor mortis. Dead, for at least three hours. Carver felt like weeping, himself.
The battle's survivors were streaming into the camp ruins. Rain and ash had muddied the earth so that the easiest surface to tread was the fallen stone carcass of the Tower of Ishal, which paved a path from Ostagar's valley to the remains of Duncan's fire. The rest of the tower was mixed with the rubble of the fortress's walls it had crashed against, and no bodies sprouted out from there. Everyone within the archdemon's vicinity had most assuredly perished.
A Chantry lay brother, bless his heart, was calling out to the injured so that he might treat them the best he could, even as a novice healer. Some people were meant for crises.
Broken soldiers pooled around the brother, everyone bloody and not a few trembling. Carver navigated around a handful of soldiers that had shrugged out of their armour to assist the brother, and spied a golden glint beyond broken stone arches. A closer look revealed familiar faces gathered around the war table, the meeting space now a frenzied collection of heraldries on armour.
"Where are the Wardens?"
"Someone stop the bleeding!"
"Wait - don't touch it!"
Carver cut through the panic to wordlessly grab a soldier's wrist before they could make contact with Cailan's tainted blood. Indeed, the unconscious king possessed a pallor Carver had seen only once before, on Theron.
A ripple of soldiers stepped back from Cailan's body on the table while Loghain's gauntlets allowed him the protection to continue treating Cailan's obvious wounds. A few soldiers had caught on and were assisting the teyrn with their gauntlets on, but commanders vibrating with distant horror at recent events were frantically pacing in the background.
"What shall we do? The king is dead!"
"Silence, my lords," Loghain barked. "Your loose tongues bring us no help. Warden-Commander?"
Duncan was kneeled across from him, cleaning Cailan's wounds in similar fashion. The warden's hair was loose from its ponytail and his armour was battered and beyond repair, but he was blessedly whole and coherent. "My condolences," Duncan said.
The commanders in the back surged forward. "A Warden? You must have a cure!"
Loghain's lips were curled ahead of them. "Do not toy with me now, Warden-Commander!"
"The ingredients for the Wardens' Joining were lost in the battle," Duncan calmly replied. "There is no cure for the taint. You have my sympathies."
"Keep them," someone suddenly chirped in the chaos. Heads turned - and stilled at the sight of vallaslin and long ears. Theron stood straight, drenched in sweat and blood and tense with determination. He had all the historical reasons to curse the human race, but he spoke with offered confidence. "There is a temporary cure for the human king, Duncan," Theron continued to the Warden-Commander. "The same that bought me time to find you. Carver knows it."
The war council was plunged into silence as a multitude of eyes eventually found Carver.
Sweet Andraste.
"Ser Carver," Loghain curtly identified.
Carver hesitantly stepped forward, wondering what in Maker's name he was doing there. Just moments ago, he had been in a battlefield, breathing rainwater and drawing blood. "T-Teyrn…my lords…the warden speaks truly but…misguidedly. He refers to the old Alamarri Mabari Madness tonic."
"It worked for me," Theron pointed out.
"Aye," Carver reluctantly agreed, "but that is credited to the magical history running through you, as you are of elven…blood…."
"…And King Cailan is of dragon's blood." Realisation dawned on everyone with Duncan's remark. The Warden-Commander whipped his stern gaze Theron's way. "Theron, locate the ingredients for the tonic and bring them here right away."
"Take a squad with you," Loghain commanded, and a litter of soldiers immediately pivoted to follow Theron out of the council. The commander turned to a group of Ash Warriors nearby. "I know not the details of this tonic - gather whatever tools you must and prepare to treat the king. Spread the news to any surviving Ash Warriors you find. What resources the king's army has are at your disposal." The painted warriors solemnly nodded and dispersed, and Loghain faced Duncan. "Where would one find the ingredients for this Joining you speak of?"
Duncan exhaled. "The process is a centuries'-long secret—"
Loghain growled. "If your young warden hadn't had the intimate understanding of this tonic Cailan needs, I would have banished you this instant."
"But," Duncan continued, "the Wardens recognise the necessity of Ferelden's royal line. The issue lies in the Joining's key ingredient of archdemon blood."
The remaining soldiers jerked at the news, and not a few enraged shouts rose at mention of the archdemon.
A commander, Arl Urien, frantically raised his voice over the din. "It matters not! The archdemon flies where our eyes cannot see and our current forces cannot reach!"
"Us wardens can sense the taint," Duncan shared. "However, so long as darkspawn populate the surface, telling them from the archdemon will prove a nigh impossible task. Teyrn Loghain, we need an army."
Loghain spluttered. "What forces remaining here must hold the line against the southern horde! We are not so foolish as to mistake the retreat of those creatures as their defeat - and as you say, darkspawn can surface from anywhere across the kingdom now that the archdemon roams unchecked. Ferelden has no spare army to throw in such a massive search!"
"Ancient Warden treaties demand cooperation from all peoples with the Wardens." Duncan jerked his chin to the side. "Find Alistair."
A warden by Duncan's shoulder silently nodded and disappeared into the moving crowd of armour.
"Ser Carver," Loghain summoned. "How much of the tonic does the king need to buy him how much time?"
Carver obediently moved to the teyrn's side and kneeled, his movements mechanical. He knew why the darkspawn had "retreated." After all, the only survivors of the valley were male.
He compartmentalised. He had no use for the ability to shudder.
"One bottle carried Warden Theron through the ten days it took to travel to Ostagar," Carver reported, "but I cannot speak for its effectiveness over a longer period. Noting the tonic's effect on mabari, and Theron's reaction to it, I would suggest feeding King Cailan a bottle of the tonic every one-fifteenth of a year, minimum. That is about…every twenty-four days. If I may, Teyrn, I believe our Ash Warriors have a better hand at determining appropriate dosages for His Majesty than I do."
The warden from earlier returned in that moment with Alistair propped up between him and Elissa. Alistair's hair was matted with blood, and Elissa had a bruised jaw, but they were both alive.
"Duncan?" Alistair called out.
"Alistair," Duncan exhaled in relief, stealing a moment to take in the sight of his ward. "Do you have the treaties?"
There was a moment of wordless synchrony where Alistair minutely inclined his head, and Elissa slipped folded papers out of his pouch at the same time. Whatever horror the two had experienced, it had been together, and it showed.
"Very good," Duncan praised. "Alistair, Elissa, I must ask you to gather the peoples of Ferelden into an army and search for the archdemon. Do not slay it without first contacting me."
Alistair's jaw dropped. "Army–– Not slay— You want us to leave you? Now, of all times?"
"This is not up for debate," Duncan shut him down. "The king is tainted, and the most grievous of his wounds can only be treated by those immune to the taint. Additionally, the king's army has suffered losses where us wardens' ability to sense darkspawn is needed now more than ever. I have no other wardens to spare."
"Send Richu, or Tarimel - or any other experienced warden!" Alistair spluttered. "Why, Grigor is even straight from the Anderfels!"
"A number of ours have perished, and the rest will help me and the king's army hold the front line," Duncan determined.
"––No," Carver brusquely cut in. "Warden-Commander, you are functional but not uninjured. Your broken leg demands you remain behind the front line with the king, and no closer."
Duncan leaned a portion of his weight off his left side where he knelt. "…The wound is in my ankle, and not my leg. No matter, your knight is sharp, Teyrn Loghain. I will command the Wardens from the king's side as I treat His Majesty."
"Attach one warden to each legion of the king's army," Loghain ordered. "Better yet, two if possible - one to sense for the legion, another to run messages. We need to maintain tight communication with the forces we have left, and we can't afford to lose our runners easily. Ser Cauthrien, accompany the two wardens out of Ostagar—" He suddenly faltered, self-aware. "Arl Urien," he called.
The arl moved to Loghain's side as Carver rapidly blinked. Ser Cauthrien? It couldn't be that she was…the captain was….
"Teyrn Loghain?" Urien answered.
"Return north and demand peace between your family and the Couslands," Loghain ordered with a rough voice, then cleared his throat. "Ferelden can not afford to be fractured while the darkspawn declare war. Organise an army out of the remaining Kendells, Cousland, and Guerrin legions - table your differences if you must - and for the love of the Maker, control your son."
"Understood." Urien saluted, but remained. "However, Teyrn Loghain, I am obligated to pray you consider reaching out to your queen daughter regarding the continued management of Ferelden. With the king incapacitated, and two armies required to tide the darkspawn influence in Ferelden, one must be concerned about the common folk's reception of a meritless noble grasping the kingdom's remaining reins."
"My daughter," Loghain curtly replied, "is plenty capable of ruling a kingdom on her own, and I'll not have you breathe life into rumours not worth hearing. I most certainly won't suffer you offering yourself up as the merited noble, as it were."
"Between a lack of childbirth or the successful command of soldiers, the people of Ferelden have only one place to invest their respect—"
"Choose your next words carefully, arl—!"
"Fool of a soldier, I am not offering myself!" Urien burst. "I say this as a born Ferelden: the people would feel more at ease knowing you were with the queen to lead us through these troubling times. The king's army ultimately needs the Wardens' leadership above anyone else's, and the remaining noble houses would readily unite before a threat to the kingdom. We must thus consider the vacancy in the capital's power: what Ferelden's leadership should be like moving forward, and what it will look like when the war is over."
"The king is not dying," Loghain tersely denied.
"At least consider it," Urien pressed. "You and Arl Eamon are the king's uncles, but Arl Eamon doesn't presently grasp these recent events like anyone who experienced them. You have also ruled as regent in the king's stead before."
"Maric was mourning his wife's passing," Loghain dismissed. "I know not why I'm still listening to this. Take a squad of your remaining legion here and travel north with haste. Dismissed."
Urien sighed but saluted. "As you say." He left.
Loghain turned to Alistair and Elissa, and the two of them flinched under his thunderous gaze. "…Wardens. You shall travel with the Kendells legion as far as Lothering, and to the capital if necessary."
Alistair was still blindsided, so Elissa worked up her voice. "N-No, Lothering is adequate. We must chase after the mages who fled the battle, likely for the Circle Tower." Or the Orlesian border for protection, if they understood the weight of desertion.
The war council nearly blew another gasket - at the news for some, reminder for others - but Duncan cut in calmly. "Go on and ready yourselves for departure. Maker be with you."
"And you, Duncan," the two wardens solemnly replied. Alistair's lips twisted with emotion like he wanted to say more, but he didn't resist Elissa leading him away, limping.
The warden that had found Alistair now returned to being Duncan's silent shadow, while Loghain gave out instructions for a watch guard, an organised search for survivors, and a clearing out of the battlefield so that the army could ready themselves for another assault.
Carver moved to leave Loghain's side, but the teyrn shot him a look that commanded he stay for a personal word. Carver reluctantly settled behind Loghain with restrained nervousness and checked himself for wounds while he waited. When there was a lull in soldiers frantically seeking clarification and instructions, Loghain suddenly lowered his voice and trained his eyes on Cailan's wounds he was treating.
"Ser Carver," Loghain murmured.
A radius of people would still be able to hear their exchange, but Carver leaned in anyway. "Teyrn?"
"What know you of the Grey Warden and the young Cousland?"
Alistair and Elissa? Carver paused, choosing his words carefully. Loghain wasn't asking about their résumé - he wanted to know if they could be trusted. Even after suffering one of the fiercest waves of darkspawn to be seen in this blight, Loghain was still conscious of possible Orlesian threats, and so far as Carver understood it, the teyrn didn't have any trusted sources accessible. At least half of them were dead, because Ser Cauthrien had chosen to guide Nails like the good commanding officer she was, and Carver had…
Carver had insisted that Maric's Shield secure the tower….
No. Focus.
"The Grey Wardens' devotion to seeking and destroying archdemons is unquestioned and unmatched," Carver replied. "I know little of Warden Alistair, but as an established member of the order, I expect him to be an example of such devotion. As for Warden Elissa…." Maker. The Hero's personality could fall anywhere between lawful and chaotic, and Carver couldn't even be sure if anyone was the fated Hero-to-be, if there would still be one. He swallowed thickly. "She is as skilled as can be expected of a Cousland. To put it plainly, Teyrn, I trust her to build the army and find the archdemon as commanded."
And no more. He couldn't know for sure if such tasks would be accomplished without, for example, slaughtering all mages in the Circle, or spreading the curse of lycanthropy.
Yeah.
Carver sighed deeply. He straightened up when he realised that Loghain's eyes had turned to him and sharpened into a piercing quality.
There was a moment where Carver wasn't sure Loghain would say anything. Then, the teyrn looked back at the unconscious king.
"Are you injured?" Loghain asked.
Carver blinked. "No, Teyrn. Merely bruised." And wet and cold, but who wasn't.
"Good," Loghain said. "You shall accompany the wardens on their mission."
Huh. "Huh?"
"See that they do not betray the people of Ferelden. Send a report through a runner every full moon."
"Of…which moon?"
"The first moon," Loghain remarked flatly. In other words, the planet's closest satellite, and fastest. The Moon circled Thedas every month, while Satin circled Thedas every year.
Carver hesitated. "If I may ask, Teyrn; did Ser Nigel survive yesterday's battle?"
"Him and the rest of the royal legion," Loghain shared. "…Ser Carver, my command was not a request. Prepare to leave with the wardens."
"I…copy."
Maker watch over them all.
;
A/N: Yes, Thedas's second moon is named Satin. That is not a misspelling. Thedas's holiday Satinalia is apparently based off of the Roman holiday Saturnalia. Who knew?
Also, Carver is inwardly freaking out, as one can imagine. In a way, it's only fair with what he puts people through. However on the other hand, he is currently traumatised, and for plenty of reasons, some of which will be revealed in later chapters. This is called "Someone Else," and we're only starting to grow more aware of the kind of person they had been before arriving in Thedas.
Meanwhile, the Hawkes are still largely ignorant of the activities of their youngest, fufu.
:D
Edit: I've adjusted the original army size from one million to fifteen-thousand, per advice from SB. If there are other numeric errors, please let me know!