A/N: Not sure what I wanted to acomlish with this one; I just needed it out of my head. And the City Elf Origin does say "Conscripted" so there.

(Reviews anyone? No? …ah well.)

XXX

Bile

Good intentions have unintended consequences. Ruminating her actions, past and present, the Warden-Commander comes to a conclusion that it's always some old man who screwes her up.

XXX

No, no, no, no, NO! This was not supposed to go down this way, was not supposed to be happening at all!

Fury was boiling right beneath her scalp, all the worse because there was simply nothing she could do about it. Nothing, save to stand there and listen to Varel say that stupid, stupid, Warden-speech-thingy.

"Join us, brothers and sisters…"

So high and mighty and solemn and important-sounding and full of honour and nobility and sacrifise…. Wynne would have loved it. The Warden-Commander positively hated it.

She glanced at Mhairi and her stomach flared up with rekindled ire. The woman looked so... so… eager, so happy right now. How can you be so damn happy about this? How can you want to die?!

"Join us in the shadows…"

…where we shit 'duty' and piss 'responsibility' while waiting to drop dead on schedule, she finished inwardly, grinding her teeth.

"…where we stand vigilant."

Where we stand vigilant, not you, Varel! You are not the one who's signing up to die! You are only standing there, sputtering nonesense in an oh-so-dignified voice as if that somehow makes this whole damned mess worth it. Why the blight did those stupid Orlesians even teach him this thing? Wasn't this whole Joining business supposed to be, like, big, grand secret or something? For very obvious reasons, too. So why in the name of all the gods, real, fake and otherwise indisposed, did the Orlesian Wardens teach the Senechal of the Vigil Keep, a decidedly not-Warden, how to perform the Joining? The elf had no idea but hated their dead, bloody guts for it all the same.

How he had blindsided her! She darted a glance at the mage. Anthony? Andrew? Andy-something? Maker's farts, she didn't even know the man's name! And if he topples over and chokes on the absolutely worst drink of his life, she'll never find out either. Would it be possible, she pondered, to knock the goblet out of his hands once he takes it and claim it was an accident? No… probably not. She still wanted to try though.

Except Varel would only go back and brew up another batch. Damn!

"Join us as we carry out the duty…"

Duty shit! It's not a duty if it's been forced upon you! How are you obliged to anything if you didn't want any of it in the first place, huh? She stole another glance the mage's way. He did not appear any more happy about this than her. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for you to actually Join - I only tried to get you out of that Templar bitch's reach, is all. Didn't mean to actually conscript you.

Bitter, bitter bile found its way into her throat, tasting like Darkspawn and rotting wedding cake. Maker! She had no idea Varel would know about the Joining - why would she ever think that? With all the Orlesian Wardens dead, she tought it safe to invoke the Right of Conscription to get the mage out of a tight spot. With no one around who'd know better, she could've just let him stick around for a while, get his bearings, hells maybe even help out a bit if he felt like it, and then he could have been on his merry way. And all the better for the ruse, in fact: Chantry has no power over Grey Wardens, and for all anyone would know, he would be a Grey Warden. So, he'd get to walk out of the whole thing free as a bird and on top, no one would be able to drag him back to that trice-damned Tower of his any more either. It was supposed to be a ruse. She never counted on it becoming reality.

She glared at Varel and felt nothing more than the urge to drive a knife through his throat. Curse you old man! Curse you to the Black City and back! Might've been named 'Duncan' for all the difference it would make.

Except now she was a Duncan, she tought, and the tought made the back of her skull growl something sharp. She still remembered that night at Ostagar - if she lived for a thousand years (which, of course, she wouldn't, and now couldn't even if she somehow tried), she would never forget that night. The flickering fire and the look on Duncan's face. How Daveth grasped at his throat as he choked. Jory's blood on the stone. And: "I'm sorry". Her innards blistered. If there was ever a more double-faced statement she heard in her whole damned life?!

She bolted, of course she bolted. Heart pounding and Alistair too stunned to even try and catch her. Running though the camp, blind, terrified, the only objective to get away, the only clear tought in her dumbstricken mind that she does not want to die!

But he caught her. Of course he did. How could an old man run so fast she never learned. He caught her, grabbed her by the arm, twisted it around until it nearly snapped, brought her down on her knees and then put a knife at her throat.

"I don't want to die," she breathed, panted, exhausted from the mad dash-and-stumble through the nighttime camp; and completely, utterly, terrified. "I don't want to die."

But of course, Duncan hadn't cared squat-shit about what she wanted, about what anyone wanted - Only about what he wanted and what his trice-damned Order wanted.

"You can go back to the Joining," he had told her - and Maker, how come he was not even winded right then?! - "and maybe die. Or," he had pressed the knife further against her throat, drawing a tiny little drop of blood, "you can refuse and certainly die. Your choice."

Her choice, she tought both then and now. Choice my butt! It was not a 'choice', Duncan! It was extortion!

She swallowed hard and glared at the Goblet in Varel's hands so hard that had there been any justice in the world it should have shattered.

"…the duty that cannot be foresworn."

Yes. That. She shifted her gaze back to the mage. And maybe it would be more merciful if you did die tonight. 'Cause if you live, you'll be in this for life. And a short one at that. Exactly like your Tower, only far less time on your hands and there is no escaping it. Ever.

Rats and damnation! I'm sorry…

Her eyes wondered to Oghren, slightly swaying and grinning like a madman. Which, she had to admit, was exactly what he was. But for some reason, as much as she resented that stupid girl Mhairi for actually wanting this and downright hated the fact that she had effectively conscripted the mage, thus making herself no better than Duncan whatsoever, she did not feel even a shred of guilt about Oghren.

If asked, she'd readily admit that she adored that crazy dwarf. But that was exactly it: he was crazy. Utterly, unapologetically, wonderfully nuts. And stubborn to the bone. She had no doubts he would survive the Joining, none at all. And yes, it would shorten his life by some years but not even the Joining could be more dangerous to Oghren's well-being than was Oghren himself.

And besides, this was about fighting the Darkspawn. For Oghren, it was not a Warden thing - it was simply a dwarf thing. Or rather, she amended as a small smirk tugged at her lips, it was an Oghren thing. And you don't argue with an Oghren thing.

Her momentary mirth did not last long.

"And should you perish," Varel droned on.

And you will. One way or another, you will

"…know that your sacrifise will not be forgotten."

Yes. It will. And no one will even care. Her nostrils flared as she caught sight of Mhairi's eager, uplifted expression, the words reaching to her like they never did to the elf, and never will.

"And that one day we shall join you," Varel finished in a solemn tone that reeked of seriousness and dingnity.

Oghren grinned.

Mhairi smiled.

The mage shuddered.

And the elf clenched her fists.

Well... Fuck!

XXX

A/N take two: originally concieved in a different way; might do a Varel-ish version to compliment this instalment.