The letters Varel hands her are a few weeks late, but then again, so is she. There is one from the new Knight-Commander of the Circle, and Anders scowls when she inquires after him.
"Cullen's the Knight-Commander now? Really?" He scoffs. "That can only mean bad things for the mages. From what I heard, he went loopy after the girl he fancied got killed by a demon when Uldred took over... Therril or Tharrin or some stupid name like that. She was a looker, mind. Bit too quiet for my liking. Anyway, rumour is that he's challenging the king himself over the whole autonomy vote. Wants to keep us all under the thumb of the Chantry forever."
Oghren has a few choice words on the letter from King Bhelen. "He was a right crafty sod, make no mistake. Had two brothers, the eldest was killed under mysterious circumstances. Some say the middle son did it, others say it was all Bhelen's doing. But the middle child got sent into the Deep Roads as punishment. Never came back. Which left Bhelen as the sole heir, although it weren't as easy as that. Soddin' hero of Ferelden had to step in and sort out the bloody mess. Nothin' new there," he adds, chuckling.
She runs a hand through her hair raggedly as she glances over the various correspondences from the nobles of the region, wishing her well in her new command. She had been warned about this, of course, but she was finding it difficult to see through the endearing words to the truth of the matter – they did not care if she was well, they did not wish her the best of luck... they wanted her on their side, to have their best interests protected. It was all for show, and underneath the smiles and the kind words was a power struggle unlike anything she had been involved in before. Varel looks sympathetic as she sighs, slumping at the table where the few survivors dine together.
"Will it get easier?" she asks softly, and he shakes his head. She nods, once, before putting her fork down, her appetite for the heavy stew all but gone. "Jacques would never have stood for this food," she murmurs, smiling slightly. "He is... was always worried about his weight." And now he was dead. They were all dead, or worse, and she did not even want to entertain that particular idea right now.
"I am sorry," Varel offers kindly. "I know you have lost much, and it will be difficult to move forward. But we must."
She nods, running her hands over her face for a moment. "The Joining. I am aware that we need to act soon."
"What do we actually have to do for that?" asks Anders, looking across the table at her.
Mhairi scowls at him. "It's supposed to be a secret," she points out.
The mage shrugs. "Secrets are all well and good, but given how few of us are at this table I don't think they're exactly a helpful idea right now."
"You thinkin' of backing out if it's too scary?" grumbles Oghren, and Anders grins.
"Oh, not at all. Between an uncertain future with you lot and a certain one with Rylock and a noose, I'll always take the mystery."
Varel coughs, though his smile is not so easy to suppress. A thought occurs to him, and he turns to his commander once more. "I was thinking that it would be... prudent... for you to address just one more matter before we attend to that," he says hesitantly, and she looks at him, curiosity piqued.
Nathaniel Howe is not a name she is familiar with. She is barely familiar with his father's name, the man who apparently aided in the almost-total destruction of the Ferelden Grey Wardens during the Blight, but what she does know is not good. His son, however, is very interesting.
"You broke into the Keep for revenge?" she clarifies. "And now you simply wish to take your family's belongings and leave?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" he asks dryly. She considers him – tall, well-toned – he was in good shape and by no means a slouch when it came to fighting. They say it took four Wardens to bring him in. Half-joking, they said he'd make a good recruit. She smiles.
"Stay. Become a Grey Warden." The resulting laugh is sharp and brittle. He shakes his head.
"You Orlesians are clearly unaware of how things work in the real world. Why would I ever consider becoming part of the order that murdered my father?"
"I had nothing to do with that," she reminds him. "You are quick to paint us all with the same brush, yet you wish to be held apart from the actions of your father, who shares your family name."
"It's not the same thing!"
"Is it not?" She tilts her head. "My family is the Grey Wardens. We may all strive towards a common goal, but our actions are not as one, much like the fact that you are a Howe yet you are not the man who tortured innocent people in the royal city."
He folds his arms, eyeing her carefully. "So you want to force me into your precious order? To what end?"
"Ah, non, monsieur. Think of it this way. You wish to show me that the Howe family is not dishonourable. I wish to show you that the Grey Wardens are good. Consider it... a challenge, non? If you win, you may kill me, under certain conditions. I do have a darkspawn problem to attend to first."
"And if you win?"
"You will smile."
He laughs at that, though there is little mirth in it. "Smile? Is that all?"
"Ah, you misunderstand. You will smile. It is not a request, simply a fact." She smiles, a touch of wryness to the twist of her lips. "Will you accept the challenge?"
"You're bonkers, kid." Varel glares at the dwarf, who continues regardless. "No, really, you're outta your tree. He came here to kill you and now you wanna make him a Warden?"
Mhairi winces. "Commander, I... have to agree with Oghren. It seems quite... unusual."
"We cannot afford to turn away good recruits, even if they are the people who wish us dead," she says tersely. "Monsieur Nathaniel has given me his word that he will see our challenge through." She shoots a glare at Anders, who is stifling his bewildered laughter behind his hand. "And I would ask you all to recognise the seriousness of this ceremony. These moments may be your last." That silences them all. Varel holds up the cup, and for a moment she is transported to her own Joining, Riordan's hands gripping the chalice lightly as he called each of them forward. She had stumbled like a terrified sheep, and he had smiled kindly. Now is not the time for snapped words. The ceremony begins, and her thoughts turn to silent prayers, each saved soul a blessing as both Oghren and Anders fall to the ground, lost in nightmares but alive.
She can recognise the signs of a failed Joining within moments. So when she steps forward suddenly and cuts Mhairi's throat, Varel's protests are silenced with a single look of regret.
"Monsieur Varel. I will not allow suffering in the final moments of Mhairi's life. She deserves honour and peace." With a soft touch, she closes the girl's eyes, murmuring a desperate hope for her safe passage into the beyond. Nathaniel looks sick, but he does not shy away from the task, taking the chalice and drinking deep. He too falls, limbs already wracked in seizure, but she is thankful for his life.
"And now," Varel murmurs in a voice laden with sadness, "we wait, and pray."
She is somewhat pleased to find that the small chapel has been spared from the tainted hand-prints that cover the Keep, and once the new Wardens have awoken, she excuses herself to pray. The air is still, the light from the candles bearing an almost dusky quality as she kneels in front of the visage of the prophet Andraste, and the stone flags underneath her feel rightfully cool as she murmurs memorised canticles in a soft voice. The words flutter from her mouth and hover around her, the closeness of the air suppressing them from reaching the rafters.
"So."
She looks up from her clasped hands. The mage. She tenses, and he notices, smiling gently and holding up his hands.
"Sorry. Just wanted to talk, if that's alright."
She nods, gesturing to the bench. "What is on your mind, Anders?"
"So you released a man who wanted to kill you... and made him a Grey Warden - a decision, by the way, that I still think is brilliant and insane at the same time. And yet every time you see me, the most friendly and lovely guy you could imagine, you look like you're about to die." He sits down on the bench, not too close but not too distant, and his smile fades into a concerned look. "That accident must have been a really bad one," he surmises.
"Oui. My sister... she did not mean it. But I still bear the scars." She gestures at herself. "I am pale all over, non? Not always this way. And my hair... not always white." She smiles sadly. "I love my sister, but I am scared to be in the same room as her. I know she did not mean it, but my heart... it cannot forget the terror."
"What happened?"
"We were in the Alienage, waiting for Papa to get back from work. Just playing. And she was chasing me, I think? It is... fuzzy. Then she was no longer chasing me. It was not my sister anymore."
"A demon?" He leans forward. "A demon possessed your sister?"
"Non, not possessed. It was... fleeting. Like a nightmare, during the day." His eyes flicker in recognition. "I screamed. She fell to the ground. Mama, she took her into the house, then came back for me. I would not go in. I was... ill. Shaking, fighting, screaming. I would not go back into the house for a long time. I had to stay with another family." She sighs. "My sister was taken by the Templars within the hour. But our Circle, I think, it is not so bad as yours. She writes to me every week, she is a very good mage she tells me. Always, she apologises. Always, I tell her she is forgiven."
"I'm sorry." He smiles slightly. "Even though it sounds trite to say, I really am sorry you went through that."
She shakes her head. "Do not be sorry for me, Anders. I may be scared of magic, but I do not judge you for being a mage, non? When I joined the Grey Wardens, my mentor knew of this and partnered me with a mage. Within a few weeks, he was my best friend; I am no longer scared of him. This will be true of you as well. I will not be scared of you. And one day, I will not be so scared at all, I hope."
He considers that for a moment, nodding, before turning slightly. At the door stand the rogue and the dwarf, one rubbing his forehead with a wince and the other merely standing. Beyond them, Varel can be heard barking orders at the few staff remaining. Standing up and moving to the corner of the room, a dimly-lit area with a small table for tributes, the mage rummages in the drawers for a candle, lighting it carefully before putting it in a holder.
"Sorry, Mhairi." He reaches for another one. "What was the name of your friend? The one you mentioned at dinner."
"Jacques." She watches him light another, before speaking again. "Amelie. She was to be married in the spring. And Keenan. Victor. Renard." The names spiral from her mouth until the tears drown them out and Varel's voice takes over, each one given a candle and a hope until Anders crosses the room, tentatively pulling her close as the others take seats and, as one, they sit and watch the thirteen candles burn the names of the lost into the Fade.
Somewhere between the last of the tears and the candles snuffing out, he carries the sleeping elf to her room.