Welcome to Kirkwall

Chapter 6: Questions Unanswered and Questions Unasked

They walked in silence for a time, Lyra, offered nothing more, and Fenris guessed by the look on her face that it would be decidedly unwise to press the matter. The path was getting steeper as they approached the mountain, the the tall oaks replaced by smaller trees, the springy turf, by rock and hard-packed earth. Suddenly, when Fenris could stand the silence no longer, Lyra stopped, her head cocked as if listening for something.

"Lyra," he began, but she shushed him into silence. Affronted, he tried to begin again, but her glare silenced him once more.

"Who's there?" she called out. "I am Lyra Mahariel, and I have business with the Keeper." There was no response for a time except for a slight rustling in the bushes ahead and to the left that could have been the wind, but Lyra knew better.

"Mahariel has been gone a long time." The voice seemed to come from all around them. "Before I let you pass, you must prove yourself."

I know that voice, Lyra thought. Of course, she would know almost everyone in the camp, even after five years. Some not as well as others perhaps, but this one she knew well.

"If you are who you say you are," the voice continued, "you will answer my questions." There was a dramatic pause and then, "What was our favourite game as children?"

Yep, it was definitely him. He was older, his voice deeper, more sure of itself, but still him. "Hunt the Shemlen," she said confidently.

"And who was always the shem?" the disembodied voice demanded.

"You were." Another rustling noise, closer this time.

"Very good. And now something more challenging," the voice spoke as if pronouncing sentence. "What is my favourite color?"

"Oh, come off it, Fen-"

"Answer!" The voice cut her off, suddenly angry and demanding.

"Purple."

"Purple?!" he scoffed.

Lyra sighed heavily, as if asked to do a very menial task, for a very demanding master. "The color of the nights sky in the last seconds before the light has faded." It was more a recital than an answer, but it appeared to be the correct one.

A young elf, about Lyra's age stepped out of the brush to their left, an arrow knocked in his ornately carved bow, and though he was not aiming it at the pair, he still seemed cautious. He looked older that Lyra remembered, but then, she supposed she did too. His hair was straw colored, longer than it had been and the braid was gone but the valaslin had not changed. He seemed harder now, his expression a little colder than she had expected. As children they had been wild and carefree, but then she remembered he was First Hunter now. It was up to him and his hunters to keep the clan well fed and protected. The responsibility seemed to be weighing on him.

"Aneth ara. Good to see you, Fenarel," she said smiling. "Still playing your old games? 'You shall not pass!" she said in a mock commanding voice.

His wary demeanour broke and he gave her a wide grin, lowering the bow and slotting the arrow back into the quiver with the others. "Can't be too careful these days," he said as he strode over to them and put an arm around her shoulder. "Good to see you, lethallan." He glanced at Fenris and nodded briefly. Acknowledging his presence, but nothing more. He stood back from her a bit, holding her by the shoulders, looking her over, studying her face and eyes, as if he could read the last five years worth of history written there. "One last question, before I let you pass, however," his expression was serious again. "What were the last words you spoke to me?"

Lyra's expression was equally serious as she answered. "'I'll come back,'" she quoted, solemnly. "'I'll find him and bring him home.'"

Fenarel nodded, but his expression did not change. "And did you keep you're promise?"

Lyra took a minute to answer, studying her childhood friend, hoping for some sign that he would accept her answer, that he would not hate her for it. "No," she said finally.

The hunter nodded again, his face unreadable. "Come on," he said finally, "The Keeper is waiting for you." With that he turned and lead them up the path.

Fenris followed along, lagging slightly. The exchange had been between this young Dalish and Lyra, and he doubted that the encounter would have been any different if he had not been there at all. He felt like an intruder. Like something had happened or had been said that he should not have witnessed. That the two were childhood friends was obvious from the first question this Fenarel had posed, but there was something else there too, something that neither wanted to discuss. The shared loss of the third friend, Tamlen, perhaps. Or was it more than that?

But before he could think on it further, they were in the Dalish camp. He hadn't been back here since the first time Hawke traveled here to return some sort of trinket, when they had first met Merrill, who proved herself to be a blood mage. Hawke had learned then of Fenris' distaste for the Dalish and for Merrill, and if ever he had had to return, Hawke had done so without him. Which suited Fenris just fine. The Dalish houses, if such they could be called, had not moved since his first visit some years ago and it was apparent the clan had no intention of moving on. He supposed it wouldn't matter much to him if they did. He did not concern himself with the Dalish and they, apparently, did not concern themselves with him. Better that way.

Lyra was approaching the Keeper, and though all eyes were upon her, and a few of the people called out to her, she chose to ignore them. Fenris knew this was probably not a conversation he should be listening in on but, like the others, he was curious. Several of the other elves suddenly found tasks that kept them very busy, but also within earshot of the pair. Fenris sat next to the central fire not far away, in a pretense of warming his hands, and studiously tried to ignore the conversation. Or rather, he studiously tried to look like he was ignoring the conversation.

Keeper Marethari had embraced Lyra before even speaking a single word. Lyra returned it half-heartedly. She wasn't here for reunions. She was here for answers. "You have returned to us at last. Andaran atish'an, da'len," Keeper Marethari said, finally breaking the embrace to stand back and study Lyra, just as Fenarel had. And was that... were there tears in her eyes?

"Andaran atish'an, Keeper," Lyra replied, giving a slight bow. She was suddenly unsure of herself. Had Marethari actually missed her? She knew she had been a troublesome young elf among the clan, and had assumed that was part of the reason she had been sent away. So the Keeper could be rid of the nuisance. Had she been wrong all these years? And the elvhen words, coming so easily to her tongue. She hadn't spoken a word of elvish in years but it seemed so natural, slipping back into old habits.

"You have come home, then, da'len?" Marethari said. Her voice carried a note of hopefulness with it. Or was it sadness?

I could stay here, Lyra thought. Be elvhen again. With my people. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she mentally shook herself. This was not her home. She didn't belong here. That life was over, and it was foolish to think she could ever have it back. "No," she said firmly. "I can not stay." the Keeper was watching her closely now. Her silent expression demanding an explanation. Lyra mustered her resolve. "Too much has changed," she said quickly, "I don't belong here, anymore. I only came back for... I need to know what happened after I left."

Keeper Marethari studied her a long while before answering, like she was deciding on whether to let it go at that, or whether to force the issue. At last she gave a long weary sigh and said "We moved camp shortly after you left with the Grey Warden. The shemlen in the village were angry with us so..."

"You let those shems drive the clan out?" Lyra demanded, her temper getting the best of her as the old hatred resurfaced.

Marethari's expression hardened. "If you will remember, it was you who killed three of their people. They had good reason to be angry."

"And how many of us would those bandits have killed, if I hadn't killed them first? I was protecting the clan."

"They were NOT bandits, da'len. Not every human is as evil as you believe. Surely you know that by now." The two women glared at each other. Lyra, angry and defiant, Marethari, resolute. Lyra had always been headstrong, but more often than not, the Keeper had stared her down, doling out words of reason and judgement upon the young elf. But this time it was Marethari who's eyes softened and she sighed. "You may think you have changed," she said, sorrow etching every word, "but you still wield your hatred like a sword, lashing out at any who would try to help you."

Lyra was taken aback, but she had lost none of her defiance when she spoke. "I did not come here to listen to you're lectures, Keeper."

"No," the older woman sighed again, but there was a harshness to her tone. "I don't suppose you would." It was a moment before the Keeper continued, "We followed the secret paths across the Waking Sea and came to this place before the blight could overtake us. We-"

"What of Merrill, and the mirror?" Lyra interrupted, determined to keep the upper hand.

"When Merrill took the eluvian, I knew nothing of it. We had already settled here before she told me what she had done."

"You didn't try to stop her?" Lyra asked incredulously. She had thought the Keeper knew better, knew how dangerous and evil the thing was.

"It was her choice," the Keeper said simply, as if there was nothing more to be said on the matter. As if turning to blood magic to restore the vilest object in Thedas was simply a matter of course.

Lyra growled in frustration. Did the Keeper not realize what Merrill had done? How... WRONG... that mirror was? "What did you learn from it? The mirror, I mean," she said finally, her anger sitting at a slow boil.

"Nothing," Marethari said. "Any knowledge Merrill might have gained, she never shared it with me."

"And I suppose you didn't bother to ask," Lyra snorted, derisively. "So you know nothing of its purpose? How it was tainted? The connection to the darkspawn?"

"Only what Duncan told us both the day you left."

"The day you sent me away, you mean," Lyra muttered angrily. "So you don't know anything about the eluvian nor did you do anything to stop Merrill from trying to restore it. What of the next person to stumble upon it? Were you just going to leave them to their fate, as you did Tamlen?

Lyra knew Marethari had been insensed by the accusation, but she refused to show it. Instead, she seemed like she wanted to calm the younger elf, to comfort her. "Tamlen was gone.," she said softly. "You could not have found him, da'len-"

"Do not call me that!" Lyra raged, conscious of the eyes and ears around them, but she no longer cared who heard her. "I am not your child. You were wrong about me and you were wrong about Tamlen, too. You see, I did find him," she hissed maliciously. A sharp intake of breath followed her words, but she plunged on. "But I was too late. If I'd found him sooner I could have saved him. But instead you decided to send me off to find some cure as a Grey Warden. Who were you to decide that I was more important?" The rage inside her was unstoppable now. She couldn't have stopped her next words even if she had cared to. Not even to spare her old Keeper the pain she knew they would bring. "Tamlen's dead, Keeper. I drove a dagger into his heart." She waited for the anguish she knew the words would bring. "It was a mercy," she said, swallowing hard. She hated herself for saying it. Those were the exact words Alistair had said to her as Tamlen lay dying in her arms, and she had cursed him for it, just as she cursed herself now. Her anger over-rode the pain. Anger at herself, Alistair, the Keeper, the world in general.

"A pity you could not have shown me the same kindness," she snarled and turned away from the Keeper, her last scathing comment echoing in the sudden silence. She strode past the shell-shocked crowd and back down the path from which she had come, a battle of emotions raging inside her. She wanted to run, to scream, or cry. Anything! But icy resolve was flooding her veins and she forced herself to walk calmly and purposefully away from the people whom she had once called family.

This time, no one called out to her. No doubt they were all in shock at her words, but she was beyond caring what the Clan thought of her. She didn't need them any more than they needed her. That had been proven years ago.

Fenris caught up to her just outside the camp. She could tell he was unsure of what, if anything, he could say, but against all reason, he tried anyway. "Do you want to ta-"

"No," she said definitively. "I don't." She walked on, refusing to look at him.

"Lyra." Someone was calling to her. She could hear running footsteps on the trail behind her, and she felt herself tensing for a fight. But in turning around, she saw Fenarel chasing after her. "You're leaving?" He sounded surprised, like he had not heard every word that she had just said even though she knew he had. When she didn't reply, he continued. "When are you coming back? You are coming back, aren't you?"

Lyra was shocked. She hadn't expected anyone to want her back after what had just happened. "No," she said at last. "I don't think the Keeper would like that idea very much."

"And when did you start caring what the Keeper thought?" He was smiling. It was a hesitant smile, as if trying to keep his tone light. Again, she did not answer. "Listen, I... uh... Wanted to give you something." He reached into a pocket and held out a hand-carved flute. "I made it for you a long time ago," he said, almost apologetically. "I wanted to give it to you before but, well..."

Lyra nodded in stunned silence. She had had a flute like this when they were kids. She loved to play for him and Tamlen. But it had smashed on one of their misguided adventures. He made this for her? When? She gingerly reached out a hand and took the instrument carefully, as if it might break at any second. "Ma serannas," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Listen," Fenarel said as she looked at the flute in wonder. "I know you're angry with the Keeper about sending you away," he said as if unsure if he should be telling her this. "But I'm glad she did."

Her eyes snapped into focus, narrowing on Fenarel. "You what?"

He faltered, then started again, not looking at her, but pointing at the flute. "I carried this, all the way from Ferelden, because I knew that as long as you were alive, there was a chance I would see you again." Their eyes met, and she found herself once again, at a loss for words. "I should have given it to you long ago, but..." He sighed, and seemed at a loss himself. "Anyway, I wanted you to have it. I'm glad I got to see you again, lethallan. Dareth shiral." He held her gaze for a moment, then turned, and started back up the trail leading to camp.

Lyra stared after him a long while before wrapping the flute very carefully in a cloth and placing it gently into the small pack she carried. Then they started off again, back down the mountain. She could feel Fenris watching her, a slight smirk on his face. "What?" she said finally, without looking at him.

"It seems to me," he said at last, "that everyone values your life a great deal... Except for you."

"Fenris," she said, giving an exasperated sigh. "Shut up."

It took a lot less time to come down the mountain than it had to climb it, due in part to the easier trail, but Fenris guessed it had more to do with Lyra's attitude. Rather than the nervous hesitancy she had showed on the journey up to the camp, now she was possessed of a determination fuelled, no doubt by the anger that he now knew was constantly there, just below the surface. She could laugh and joke around with Hawke or whoever all she wanted, but Fenris had seen the truth of it, and he knew it was an act. The calm veneer of self-possessed confidence could crumble at any second and she would unleash hell on any who got in the way. He still thought she was a fool, perhaps even more now that he had seen her with her people. He saw a people who had done everything they could to give her home and family, to keep her safe and alive. And all she could do was throw it back in their faces. Rather than be grateful for the life she had been given, she resented it. But at the same time, he thought he was beginning to understand her a little better. 'What would you know of hate?' He had asked her that all but a few hours ago, though it seemed a lot longer. She hadn't answered then, but with everything that had been said, everything he had overheard... She probably knew just as much about hate as he did. 'And how long was it till you stopped hating the Magisters?' Perhaps a hate that deep couldn't be forgotten.

Somewhere along the way the trees had thinned out almost completely, to be replaced by low shrubs struggling for life in the rock and sand. He could hear the sounds of the sea not far off and he suddenly realized that the trail they were on lead to the Wounded Coast, not Kirkwall. He was hesitant to say anything, the look on Lyra's face could freeze stone, but where did she think she was going? Finally he spoke "Kirkwall's to the east," he said cautiously. When she didn't reply, he continued. "This trail will take us to the Wounded Coast." She nodded curtly but said nothing. "What in the name of Andraste herself are we going there for?" he demanded, thoroughly exasperated at her silence.

She spun on him and he could see that the icy rage was even closer to the surface than he imagined. "I'm going to go kill a damn great ogre, because its bloody well there," she seethed, her voice menacing, daring him to defy her. He was almost amused by the way she had to look up at him to challenge him like this. She was so much smaller than he, yet she took no bullshit from anyone. And some part of him admired her for that. A very small part. The rest of him thought it was foolish bravado and it was going to get her killed.

"I didn't ask you got come along, Fenris," she was saying. "If the thought of facing an ogre frightens you," she paused, a taunting sneer on her lips, "then by all means, leave. As you said, Kirkwall's that way." She held out an arm, pointing towards the east.

He scowled at her. He wasn't frightened. He and Hawke had faced ogres before, though they had generally had other companions with them at the time, one of which was usually a mage healer. As much as he hated mages, especially the ones Hawke tended to associate with, he felt slightly exposed by not having one with them now. The thought unnerved him, but he refused to dwell on it. It was perfectly clear that Lyra was intent on killing something, and if it wasn't the ogre, she might well make him her target. "Simply intent on getting yourself killed, aren't you?" he snarled.

Lyra stalked off without waiting for him. He could do as he damn well liked. She was in no mood for his condemnations. He acted so put upon, following her around, but it wasn't like she had asked for his companionship. In fact, she had done everything she could think of to discourage it. But there he was, trailing after her again. She sighed inwardly. Fenris didn't understand her, and he never would. He didn't know what it meant to be a Grey Warden. Hero of Ferelden, what a joke.

She stepped into something that squelched, and looked down in disgust. "Do you people not bury your dead?" she demanded. "That's the fifth corpse I've almost stepped in." She stepped gingerly over the body. "I think I have spleen on my boot," she mumbled, and Fenris smirked in spite of himself.

"They're raiders mostly," he said. "Foiled ambushes, robberies gone bad. No one knows who they were, so no one bothers to bury them when they die. Hawke and I left more than a few corpses to rot out here." She noted the tone of camaraderie as he spoke about Hawke. They weren't friends, that was obvious, but Hawke had earned his trust. No matter how much they hated one another, Fenris respected him. She wondered vaguely how Hawke had managed it. Fenris was kneeling down by the body and had begun digging through the man's tattered clothing.

"What are you doing?" she asked, unable to hide the disgust in her voice.

He looked up at her, as if startled. "Sorry," he said, getting back to his feet. He was tall, she thought. And handsome, in that dark and tortured way of his. Those eyes have seen a lot. He seemed so comfortable around death. How many people has he killed? she wondered. She had a feeling his numbers would rival her own. "Good source of income though," Fenris said, shrugging one shoulder lazily, and bringing her back from her thoughts. "It's how Hawke and I survived our first few years here."

"What? Stealing from the dead?" She was having a hard time believing that the Champion of Kirkwall had started out by looting corpses.

Fenris shrugged again. "Easier than stealing from the living."

"Stealing from the..." She was watching him carefully, and suddenly she realized there was something different about his eyes and he had a mischievous grin on his face. "You're joking," she said incredulously. "You're actually making a joke." She couldn't help but smile as he chuckled softly to himself. She found that she liked the sound. "You'd better stop that," she said, still grinning. "Keep it up and I'll have to change my opinion of you."

He took a step towards her. "Would that be so bad?" But she had already turned away from him, and hadn't heard.

There was movement down a side trail off to their left and all thought had turned to the ogre. It couldn't be far now, it was right around here that she had seen it from the tree. She wanted it dead. Not just because she wanted to kill something, it was simply ingrained into her as a Grey Warden. You did the things that needed to be done so that no one else had to die in the trying. Thing was, she wasn't sensing the ogre. Those were people down there, trying very hard not to be noticed. She could hear voices, not calling out to one another but talking in hushed whispers.

She glanced at Fenris. He had sensed something too but had not yet figured out what it was. She motioned for him to stay on the main trail while she went to see what was going on, but he shook his head vigorously. She had known he wouldn't be held back, she simply hoped he would be smart enough to stay put while she assessed the situation. No such luck, it seemed. They crept forward, using the large boulders edging the path for cover.

She peeked through the tall grass at the edge of an outcropping of stone, and took in the scene in an instant. If this was supposed to be an ambush, it was a very poor one. Or perhaps they had simply stumbled upon it too soon. There were at least thirty well armed men who seemed to be taking orders from a tall fellow in robes who was hanging back, as if reluctant to be seen at all. He was wearing something around his neck, what was it...

She pulled back hurriedly, sensing that Fenris was about to follow her gaze, and pulled him back down behind the boulders. "Ambush," she whispered, doing her best to make sure her voice did not carry. "Thirty in the open. Probably more already in hiding. Thought I saw a couple of Voorhees' men that I tangled with last night." She was thinking hard and fast, trying to make sense of what she had seen and trying to figure out how to handle it. She sighed, there was nothing for it. "You stay here in case they get around us," she said finally. " I'll go for the main force."

"Are you mad? You're going to attack them? Thirty to one odds sound good to you?"

"You have a better idea?" she hissed furiously.

"We could just leave, you know. They aren't in position yet. We could slip by them and they would never even know you were here."

She huffed in exasperation. "They'll just come after me again. Better to have it done." She made as if to rise and Fenris grabbed her arm, giving her a look that was almost pleading. She knew he wasn't scared for himself any more than she would be, but he was scared for her. It was a strange feeling. She had been at odds with everyone, even him, for so long, that in that moment she hesitated. Finally she grinned at him, wild and impetuous as ever. "Where's the fun in running away?" She pulled away from him and got to her feet, walking calmly into the open.

"Looking for someone?" she said brightly to the group in general. Everyone in the clearing jumped in surprise, all but the mage, who had mysteriously disappeared. A few of the quicker ones were unsheathing swords and readying crossbows, and she found herself regretting the lack of her former companions from Ferelden. If Zevran, Morrigan and Ogren had been with her, the majority of them would have been dead before the rest even realized what was happening. How many times had they face down a mob like this and been victorious? As it was, all she had for back-up was Fenris, and hope to the gods he wouldn't do anything stupid. But now was not the time for regrets. Even though the mercenaries had not been prepared, a few were already moving towards her and she heard someone call out. "That's the little bitch from last night. Keep an eye out for that damn dog."

She grinned maliciously and called back, "Don't worry. I can kill you all by myself." And with that she charged. She felt something tug at her shoulder but she ignored it, leaping at the nearest attacker, slipping her blade beneath his shoulder guard, disabling his sword arm, before bringing her second dagger across the mans throat. She whirled in time to block a downward swing from a second attacker but her right arm seemed sluggish and the man recovered quickly, using his shield to knock her back, further into the thick of mercenaries.

After that it was impossible to tell what was going on. She fought by instinct, sensing the blows coming more than seeing them, slashing and stabbing with a speed that defied possibility. She heard Fenris somewhere off to her left, roaring defiance, and heard the clang and screech of the heavy greatsword as it connected with metal, then tore through it. He could say what he liked,she thought. He was enjoying this. She was working her way toward the back of the group, trying to find the man in the robes. She knew he was a mage and would be staying back from the fighting, avoiding close combat, but she hadn't seen any flares of magic, as of yet, and she wondered what he was waiting for.

The crowd seemed to clear, and she saw a couple of mercenaries quitting the battle entirely and trying to make a run for it. She sneered at their cowardice and felt a momentary elation. The feeling was short lived however as she realized that thirty men would never run from two attackers, no matter how skilled they were. She sensed the beast behind her even before she heard the throaty roar. It was a sound she had heard many times before as the word Ogre! flashed across her mind. She turned just as the beast caught her with one of its horns and threw her into the air. She landed heavily, knocking the air from her lungs. She rolled quickly to the side, narrowly avoiding the beasts maddened charge, and tried to get to her feet. Her side was gored deeply but had not yet begun to hurt and she guessed the adrenaline would keep the pain at bay for a little while. A small mercy but she could feel the numbness spreading up and down her left side. She needed to take advantage of it while she could. Fenris was slashing at the beasts legs. The ogre towered over him, almost three times as tall, its yellowed teeth bared as it roared, spraying him with spittle. It swung its massive arms down at the elf in an attempt to grab him and crush him to death in its gargantuan fists. Fenris's cat-like reflexes saved him as he sprang to the side, avoiding the beasts razor sharp claws. She wondered how he could move so easily while still gripping the two-handed sword without taking off his own head.

But now was not the time for such musings. One of the beasts fists landed a glancing blow as Fenris zigged where he should have zagged and he was thrown to the ground. The ogre was preparing another charge and Lyra took advantage of the momentary distraction. She sprang onto the creatures back before it had gathered its strength, plunging her daggers deep into its back as she climbed for its head. The beast reared back, roaring in rage and pain, and she almost lost her grip as it spun around, trying to find the source of its pain. She regained her purchase and continued to climb the mountainous beast. Finally, she plunged one dagger down deep into the creatures shoulder, swung herself up as it roared again and dug the blade of the other dagger into the beasts throat. She let go of the dagger buried in its shoulder and grabbed the other end of the blade, pulling back hard, forcing the blade through its neck, nearly beheading the creature. Then the ogre was falling backwards and she had to leap to the ground before she was crushed beneath its weight. The ground shuddered as it fell and finally lay still, Lyra's daggers buried in its flesh.

Lyra was panting heavily, blood pouring from the wound in her side, and for the first time she noticed the bolt in her shoulder. Crossbow must have got lucky, she thought lazily. I thought that had been him. The battle haze was fading and the pain was starting to set in. Fenris had picked himself up and was rushing towards her. The mercenaries seemed to have scattered and none seemed eager to return. "Small mercies," she muttered. She was suddenly feeling very weak and seemed to be having trouble keeping upright. She sat down heavily beside the body of the ogre. Gods, that thing stinks, she thought absently.

"Lyra! Are you all right?" Fenris had reached her and was kneeling down beside her. He reached for the wound in her side, supposedly to try to staunch the bleeding but she pulled back from him violently.

"Don't touch that," she snapped, fully aware once more.

He was slightly taken aback, but continued reaching for her. "Lyra, it's all right. I've got to stop the bleeding."

"Get away," she snarled again. "It's a tainted wound, you idiot. Just give me some bandages." Fenris scowled at her but did as he was asked and she pressed the cloth to her side hard, groaning loudly as she did so. "No one knows how much it takes for the corruption to spread," she said through gritted teeth. "Some people need to actually be bitten by a darkspawn. For others, a single drop of blood can do them in." She glared at him, silently asking how much he was willing to risk on the bet that he would be one of the former. Then she grimaced again as she renewed pressure on the wound and wrapped a strip of cloth around her to hold the already blood-soaked bandage in place.

"But then, you're-"

"Haven't you been listening?" she growled at him. "I was tainted years ago. The corruption is already inside me." She saw the look of confusion on his face and thought she understood. "The Grey Wardens... It's not a cure. Not really," she sighed. " Becoming a Grey Warden doesn't remove the taint from your blood. It just lets you live with it a while longer. Eventually, everyone gives in to the taint."

Fenris had gotten to his feet and was standing over her, scowling. She didn't need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking, he had stated it often enough. He thought she had attacked the mob in the hopes of being killed. At thirty to one odds, she couldn't exactly blame him. She breathed a sigh that sounded more like a growl and said, "Is it so hard to understand that I would rather die in a manner of my own choosing, than be taken by the taint?"

Fenris said nothing to this, he simply held out his hand to her. "Can you stand? There's a healer in Darktown who knows about those kinds of wounds," he said, nodding toward the bandages. "I suppose you're too stubborn to let me deal with your shoulder in the meantime."

She grinned at him almost sleepily and put her hand in his. "Why, Fenris. Are you trying to save my life?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he growled. "It's a long way to Kirkwall." He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her uninjured arm around his shoulders, allowing her to lean on him for support. "Maybe you'll get lucky and bleed out on the way."

"One can always hope," she said grinning, and wondering idly if she was about to become yet another corpse littering the Wounded Coast.