The party stole back to the kitchens and dumped Arl Eamon on a table. The castle servants frantically cleared it of their tools and vegetables as they watched the party's arrival in astonishment. Teagan and Isolde collapsed at another table and hungrily ate the warm food pushed in front of them. While Teagan had been hiding, Isolde had been splitting her meals with her brother-in-law, resulting in a ravenous state for the weeks they had been confined to her room.

With three nobles of import in one room, the invading party found themselves forced to split up. With Perth and the other knights injured, they recognised the efficiency of leaving them with protecting the kitchens, while the warden's party went out to secure Connor. The party thus quickly moved for the main hall where the presence of undead was the thickest.

"What goes there!" the possessed Connor cried out in the midst of battle. "What is it, Mother? I can't see!"

Carver could sense that the stack had overflowed out, and still they were being overwhelmed three to one. Short as Connor was, the party had to swing their blades warily lest they cut down the young lord of Redcliffe. The circumstances were far from ideal.

"Is it…a man?" Connor questioned from somewhere nearby. "Nothing like Father! This one isn't limp and pathetic. I hate it!"

"Warden Alistair!" Carver barked. "How do you commit a holy smite?"

To Alistair's credit, he skipped past asking why in the middle of battle. "Reinforce the immutability of reality!" He grunted against a blow to his shield. "Tap into the world, not the Fade!"

"What, like the power of physics!?" Carver retorted.

Alistair groaned, obviously condensing years of study into a single moment in battle. "When you drop an apple, it will hit the ground. That's the world order!" He bashed an enemy. "When you catch the apple as it falls, it won't hit the ground, but you're still within bounds of the world order! You're just behaving under a different law!"

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," Carver muttered. Arthur C. Clarke coming in clutch. In which case, magic in Thedas violated the world's rules of physics, while Templar abilities didn't, because Thedas was weird.

Carver's sword glowed white.

Alistair noticed from his peripheral. "Great! Now with me!"

Carver gritted his teeth, imagining himself as a hand interfering with known reality. He mentally condensed the world smaller and smaller, into a moon, a mountain, then finally, an apple — and caught it.

Something tugged him by the naval, and suddenly, together, Alistair and Carver unleashed a white fire that swallowed the entire main hall.

The possessed Connor and all of the undead were thrown to the ground, and before the fire could vanish, Elissa and the rest quickly cut down the undead. Alistair moved ahead to pick up a dazed Connor, while Carver stepped forward to help and instead found the room tilting.

"Ugh—"

Carver caught himself with his sword stabbed to the ground, undoubtedly damaging its tip. A warrior's cardinal sin. He couldn't muster the strength to care. All of the energy that had collected in his core had suddenly flushed out of him, leaving him buzzing with hyper-awareness and physical vulnerability. In the corner of his eye, a certain raven flopped down on the ground near Dog, too strong-willed to leave its feathery form despite the sudden spiritual damage.

Sorry, Morrigan. If the woman wanted to follow the wardens around as instructed by her mother, she would have to do so as part of the party and resign herself to human interaction. The mage wasn't going to be able to leave the Blight without a few friends.

Alistair approached Carver with a confused boy in his arms and his helmet hooked to his belt. "You picked that up remarkably fast."

Carver panted, sheathing his sword. "Had a good teacher."

"Ha!" Alistair looked down and gestured to Carver. "This kid is several years older than you, yet look where he is now. With your bravery, I don't doubt you'll soon be a great man yourself!"

Connor looked at Carver with bright eyes. "Are you a knight, ser?"

Carver removed his helmet to gently nod. "That I am."

Connor grabbed a clasp of Alistair's armour in comfort. "I don't know what's happening. I don't remember how I got here, or where Mother is. I blink my eyes, and I'm somewhere else."

"Don't worry your little head over it," Alistair assured. "You're a child; your only job is to be a child. Just focus on the present for me, and we'll take you to your mother."

Carver took to the front while the rest of the party grouped around Alistair, just in case. As Carver passed Elissa, he noticed her longingly watching Alistair soothe Connor. Carver respectfully turned away.

The party reunited the Guerrin family to overwhelming gratitude. Apparently amnesiac, Connor seemed to have a stronger grasp on reality while he was near his parents, somehow subconsciously suppressing the demon. The formerly possessed soldiers in the top floor began wandering downstairs to witness the servants restoring the castle to its former glory, and the soldiers began clearing out the undead bodies to help. Teagan directed everyone's movements as the temporary arl of Redcliffe while Isolde watched over Connor, making sure he wouldn't slip back into the demon. The warden's party caught a moment to regroup and breathe in the meantime.

"I don't want to clear a room anytime soon," Elissa grumbled. "Let's head to the Brecilian Forest next."

Wynne piped up. "I had a student once in my irresponsible years who had presumably fallen under a Templar's blade. However, he had always spoken of fleeing to the Dalish, and I wonder if he might be with them in the forest."

"I know what you're going to say," Elissa commented, "but you're paler than usual, Wynne, and I know you exhausted yourself last night. I suggest the party splits up for this one, let a few of us recover in Redcliffe while we can."

"Then you're joining Wynne," Alistair determined. "Last night, you weren't able to equip your shield in time for the horde that greeted us. I'm surprised you're still using your arm."

Elissa delicately shifted in place. "It's just a fracture."

Wynne gestured for her to remove her gauntlets. "Let me see. Hm…whatever it was when you first looked at it, your arm is now definitely broken. I can relieve the pain and mend your muscles, but the bone itself must heal naturally."

"Squishies are so weak," Shale remarked.

Carver frowned at the situation, unsettled. "You should stay in Redcliffe with Wynne," he sighed. "Coordinate with Soldier's Peak to have them send over Avernus, and with Kinloch Hold for the concentrated lyrium. In fact, here's a list of the warden recruits whose phylacteries haven't been destroyed yet. Senior Enchanter, I'm sure you'll be able to make use of it."

Wynne accepted the slip of paper with glittering eyes. "You assume correctly, young man."

"We can't leave our injured behind without protection," Alistair continued, straightening.

Sten pushed him back down where he was sitting. "You are the only other Grey Warden on this mission."

"But—!"

"I'll stay." Heads whipped Shale's direction, and she huffed. "There are too many pigeons in this place. I will remedy this."

Alistair gave a stilted laugh, paling. "Redcliffe is enormous, how exactly will you—?"

"It's decided then," Elissa quickly cut off. "Alistair, take the others to the Brecilian Forest and show the ancient treaties to the Dalish. I know not the true nature of their 'ailment,' but they should respect their ancestors' oaths. Hopefully you will return soon."

"Me too," Alistair admitted with a sigh. "Let's pray the Dalish share their ancestors' concern of the Blight."

"Turn back."

The party halted, thrown off. The Dalish archers that were positioned between them and the Dalish camp lowered their bows.

"We recognise the Grey Wardens," an archer shared, "and that is the only reason why we haven't shot you down on sight. Leave before such respect expires."

"We're in the middle of the Fifth Blight," Alistair spluttered. "Our victory or loss in this war will affect you, too!"

"Clan Siona suffers its own troubles," came the reply. "We have no room for outsiders at this time. I doubt you shemlen would understand."

"We have ancient treaties signed by your people," Alistair pressed.

"Then show us."

"They're ancient! The paper will crumble if I wave them around!"

The archers grudgingly relented and allowed the party to meet their Keeper, who glanced once at the treaties and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I thought you had come for the woman," Zathrian confessed. "After all this time, I feared she had no one who cared to look for her."

Alistair's brows furrowed. "The woman?"

Zathrian gestured, and the suspicious elves crowding around the party reluctantly stepped away to reveal their healing cots. Dozens of elves lied around moaning with horrific lacerations across their bodies, and among them was a white-haired woman so motionless that she seemed dead at first. When Alistair curiously stepped over to her, she caught sight of him and started panicking.

"No! No more! I can see the sky, I can see the sky!"

Alistair rapidly backpedalled with confused shock as the woman held herself and struggled to breathe.

Leliana surged forward to tenderly calm the woman and wipe at her brow with a kerchief. The Chantry sister murmured soothingly despite the woman's violent movements, until finally the patient stopped chanting and only shook with sobs, barely responsive to Leliana's prompting. At the very least, the woman wasn't flinching at Leliana's gentle hands.

Alistair shuffled aside to the Keeper. "By her armour, she's a Grey Warden."

"She came from the ground," Zathrian shared, "so gaunt and filthy that we had at first mistaken her for a darkspawn. She hadn't cared for our hostility and merely sealed the earth behind her before promptly fainting."

Carver gestured. "Is there a risk of darkspawn surfacing from where she came?"

To Zathrian's right, his First scoffed. "Even mindless evil wouldn't try." At their stares, she elaborated, "The hole she came from is still spilling lava."

Carver choked. What manner of fireball could have reduced a hole in the earth into a volcano?

"We have healed her the best we could," the First, Lanaya, continued. "However, I suspect she was already spent even before she had destroyed the tunnel she had dug to the surface. Her mana reserves are dangerously low, and we're already rationing our lyrium between our healers."

"Sickness alone doesn't beset your warriors," Zevran sharply noted. "Those are focused slashes on their bodies."

"Claw marks," Sten confirmed, "unfitting for a bear."

"Evil is not restricted to the underground," Carver commented. "You are long-lived, Keeper Zathrian. I can see it in your eyes. Whatever spell sustains you is also poisoning your surroundings, as is the nature of curses."

Lanaya and not a few elves reacted hotly. "Watch your tongue, shemlen! Our Keeper is a remnant of the ancient days when the People lived long. Do not mislabel our blessings as witchcraft!"

"I speak only of what I see," Carver stated, "or those are not the claw marks of a werewolf."

Heads turned for the healing cots at the unexpected remark.

Zevran hummed. "After all our time on the road with our dear Leliana, even I have picked up patterns in urban myths. Werewolves do not come naturally."

"They are mindless beasts," Zathrian dismissed, turning to Carver. "You have a nose for magic, I will give you that, shemlen. However, do not seek a connection where there is none. I am a mage, which is why you sense magic from me. If the forest is poisoned, it is from man's atrocities committed against the Dalish who have lived here before."

The elves around them nodded, and Carver backed off.

Alistair, however, stepped in. "If we end the threat of werewolves, your clan must be able to assist us wardens."

"We already have," Zathrian rejected, pointing to the white-haired woman afar. "Should you clear the forest of werewolves, we will extend the same gratitude you will show us for rescuing one of your own."

"This is a waste of time," Sten scoffed. "I have heard great tales of the Grey Wardens and their strength — and none of the Dalish. We should just take the saarebas warden and leave these elves to their stubborness. The Wardens should be able to handle the archdemon on their own."

Zathrian straightened. "The Dalish are plenty strong," he refuted. "You will need us, Warden!"

"Then it's settled," Alistair quickly caught on. "We'll kick the werewolves out of your forest."

An archer twitched. "What!? We must kill them! Nir din'an sahlin!"

"No," Lanaya corrected, "nir halam sahlin. Kill one werewolf and have only death, or find a cure to their curse and secure our lives. We must not just kill them, but end their kind."

"It will be done," Carver concluded before the Dalish could take back their words. "Allow us to re-equip ourselves for the forest, then we shall depart for where the werewolves reside."

The party busily prepared themselves for the quest while Clan Siona provided minimum resources required, with much hassle. With Elissa stayed Dog and Morrigan, who apparently chose to accompany the female warden. This left Leliana and the four boys to investigate what they needed. Zathrian freely shared his biassed understanding of Witherfang, and how the wolf's heart might be used to create a cure. However, Lanaya required intense negotiating before she handed over the clan's map of the forest.

The clan craftsman, Varathorn, had to also be bribed with extra coins before he opened his station up to trade with them, given that dwarven merchants valued the Ferelden sovereign with Orzammar's shift in currency. Carver tiredly dumped the few coins he had to purchase a pair of Dalish gloves and finally shoved them Zevran's way without a word.

"I'm flattered you'd court me with a gift, Carver—" the assassin began, when he abruptly realised the treasure he had been handed. "These gloves…."

Carver dropped on a tree stump away from the clan's storytelling circle. Their campfire cast a warm glow and emotion on everything, even in the daytime. "Antivan smithing is good and all, but your gloves can only handle so much. I thought these would be better for you."

Zevran joined him on a nearby log as the clan's storyteller launched into a ballad about the Exalted March of the Dales. "My gloves are metal."

"But you like leather," Carver recalled. "Can't stop looking at it among Bodahn's wares. You even sometimes smell it."

"Hey!"

"Not judging," Carver placated. "It's just an observation. No one visibly expresses fascination with material things like you do, then only talks about assassinations and gorgeous people. Despite your pride as an Antivan Crow, you don't seem to care much for yourself."

"Possessions don't equate to self-care," Zevran snorted. "One of the greatest pleasures in life is expertly stealing someone's life without getting caught, or lying with stimulating company."

Carver hummed. "Do you feel the same way when you look at those gloves?"

Zevran's fingers stilled around the Dalish gear in his hands.

Carver gazed ahead to the fire. "I can't speak to what makes you happy, Zevran. I just thought of you when I saw the gloves. Don't think too much into it."

More elves gathered around the campfire to share in the oral tale. A few children piped up to add to the history lesson.

"I don't understand much of what they're saying," Zevran murmured, watching. "My mother came from a clan before having me in Antiva. She imparted none of her culture with me, never spoke in Dalish to me when we were in front of others, and in a small shack, we were always with company. In the end when she passed away, all I had of her and her past life was a pair of leather gloves."

Carver didn't look away from the fire. "You were a child when she passed."

"That's how the Crows prefer it," Zevran confirmed. "If you survive training, you'll be a Crow by age thirteen. You can then make your house a lot of money for forty years before your body starts ageing."

"You were a child when you were sold," Carver reiterated. "You weren't with your mother when she died. You weren't even allowed possessions when you joined the Crows, but you held on to her gloves because you wanted to remember her. That's why they're special to you."

"I'm proud of being a Crow," Zevran hotly corrected. "I'm one of the best. I'm also not overly fond of my mother or her 'people.' I saw them before, back near Antiva, and I know they're not the likes of my childhood fantasies. The past doesn't have me beholden to it." His head dipped, gaze falling to the gloves in his hands. "If there is a third great pleasure in life, it's just a shapeless thing that cannot be grasped by one's hands, like the smell of leather."

The ballad came to a close, and the elves that were gathered around the fire launched into a discussion about the Dales. Past the shifting bodies, Alistair could be spotted awkwardly answering racially-heavy historical questions with the children. The warden must have been pulled in while asking the storyteller about Witherfang.

"All I've been talking about is myself," Zevran realised, turning his gaze. "What about you, Carver, what makes you happy?"

Carver straightened, making to leave. "I don't need anything."

"That won't stop me from getting you something," Zevran warned with a quirk of his lips. "The Crows aren't big on disposable income, but I have skilled hands. I might make you a gift. Or, ah, kill you a gift."

"I'm good."

"You know my other talents." Zevran wiggled his brows.

"I'm good."

Carver quickly fled to the other side of camp and bumped into a Dalish hunter. The elf apologised, though the accident was Carver's fault.

"You're distracted," Carver noted, dismissing his apologies. "Are you injured?"

The hunter shook his head. "No no, I'm not skilled enough to partake in scouting against the werewolves. I can't even hunt enough for two people," he mumbled.

Carver paused at the irony. "Love troubles?"

The hunter met eyes with Carver, and a wordless connection sparked between them.

"Her name is Gheyna," the hunter bemoaned. "She won't become bondmates with me unless I hone my archery. She's thinking about our future children."

Carver walked with the hunter through camp. "If she's already thinking that far, that means she's willing to wait for you."

"I don't want to keep her waiting forever," the hunter pointed out. "No matter how much I work on myself, I can't seem to be able to provide for more than one person. She's better off with a more skilled hunter."

Carver looked ahead to a female archer periodically glancing their way. "Would you be happy with that?"

The hunter hung his head. "It's not about me, but her."

Carver brought them to a stop and patted the hunter on the back, like a hypocrite. "I don't think you can speak for Gheyna. Why don't you two talk it out instead?"

The hunter lifted his gaze to see the archer staring at him in shock. Apparently, the female elf hadn't realised how deeply her companion had been meditating on her words.

"Oh, Cammen, that hadn't been my intention…!"

"No, Gheyna, if I were more reliable…!"

Carver stepped away as the two lovers reconnected. He had bought herbs from Varathorn, and wished to grind together a salve before the party set out for the thicket. By the time Carver finished topping off five small jars, Alistair and Sten had finished gathering information and tending to their heavy gear. Zevran quickly followed with polished knives, two shortswords, and his hands clad in leather gloves.

Carver noted Zevran's weapons, and handed out his salves to the party. "Leliana's done with the patient?"

Alistair accepted his jar with pleasant surprise. "Ah, yeah. I figured if we're heading into a living forest to hunt down a magic wolf, we'll need our resident assassin properly armed with his things."

Zevran chuckled. "I'm touched by your trust."

"Please don't say it like that," Alistair begged.

Leliana stood up among the healing cots, catching the party's eye. They walked over as she beckoned and lowered her voice.

"The warden's name is Solona," she shared, glancing back. "I think I will remain here while the party hunts down werewolves. Solona is…broken in ways I can't describe. I can only impart to her the same words that Mother Dorothea gave me when I was at my lowest. Her will is admirable, however – she wants to hunt down darkspawn even now. Oh, is this for me?"

Leliana received Carver's salve. His hands were minutely trembling.

Four pairs of eyes turned his way.

"Solona…" he breathed thinly. "My cousin was born dark-haired." He promptly pivoted for Solona's bedside. The party spoke up behind him, but Leliana helpfully silenced them and gave Carver his space.

Solona noticed Carver approach and stand next to her cot. She tiredly stared at him, likely willing him away.

Carver's lips thinned as he gazed down at her. "This…is cruel of me, I know. But I have questions."

Solona exhaled sharply, rage reenergizing her. "You expect me to answer?" She rose in her cot, sitting up with unexpected strength. "No one came looking for me. You can't possibly comprehend anything I would have to say. Not a word!"

"…About broodmothers?" Carver said.

Solona stiffened with wide eyes.

Carver lowered himself on a nearby tree stump. "I agree. Nothing I can imagine can compare to what you've experienced. However, I am…responsible, and exceedingly greedy. That's why, despite my better judgement, I must ask…." He held his shaking hands together, forcing them still. When he spoke again, his voice barely left him. "…How many are still down there?"

His eyes kept straying to Solona's hair turned white with stress. He couldn't maintain eye contact with her.

Solona stared at him, boyishly-faced and slumped in his suit of armour.

"…None."

Carver flinched. "I'm sorry."

"Oddly enough, I believe you," Solona murmured, tears sprouting in the corners of her eyes. "Everyone down there with me, they had — we had all realised that we needed to work together to get out of there. Some of us volunteered to become the next broodmother, or the next blood experiment for this…sapient…darkspawn, so that the rest of us could keep hatching a plan. The oldest among us began offering to be eaten by our turned comrades, to buy us young ones time. They had families to return to, they had already spent their full lives fighting — why them? It's not fair!"

Carver offered his kerchief, and Solona used it to wipe her face.

She hiccuped with broken sobs. "N-Near the end, there weren't a lot of us left. I began to think we would never be able to escape. Did you know? The strongest poison in the world is hope." She bit her lip to swallow a sea of grief. "But the others persisted, told me they'd be right behind me when it was time to run. They gave me their weapons, their clothes, their encouragement, and stayed back to stall the darkspawn. They fought with nothing but their fists."

Carver turned away as she blew her nose, and his eyes fell on a golden sword propped against her cot. The blood froze in Carver's veins.

Solona sniffled. "The original wielder had been the first one to think of escape. She saw her vision through by fighting to the end and giving me her sword."

Carver swallowed thickly. "Sounds like her."

"You knew Ser Cauthrien?" Solona straightened.

Carver nodded. "She was the one who knighted me and swore me into Maric's Shield."

A heavy silence fell between them.

"You must be Ser Carver," Solona finally decided. "You were the one who discovered the blight and reported it to the king."

Carver denied it under her brittle, bright gaze. "I merely compiled a report."

"She also said you were humble." Solona's lips quirked.

She moved, surprising Carver when she lifted the sword from the side of her cot and cradled it in her arms.

"As a mage, I can't make full use of this more than I can a staff." Solona looked at Carver. "As surely as you started this war…will you end it?"

Bright blue eyes met gazes, one electric and one steel.

Carver rose from his tree stump and knelt. "On my life, and those we have lost."

Solona extended Summer Sword to him firmly. "And those we have yet to save."

;

A/N:

Is Carver attracted to Zevran? Yes. He's attracted to all the males in this game, lmao

I'm confused on how to address wardens, both the organisation and the people. What even is proper capitalization (and lower casing)? orz