Death and the Maiden

by Gene Dark

AU story from the Landsmeet to the End Game, including the events of Return to Ostagar, Soldier's Peak and Awakenings. General Loghain and Warden-Commander Tabris campaign against the Blight.

22. Chapter 22: The Seed And The Sower

Dreams are the seedlings of realities.

James Allen

"Might I have a word away from the ears of this meddlesome old woman?"

Rilian frowned at Morrigan's choice of words. Memories poured through her mind like beads on a golden necklace that was slipping through her fingers: Wynne beside her at Ostagar...I love you. You're my daughter... She glared at Morrigan and said pointedly: "There's nothing you can't say in front of Wynne. Wynne has my complete trust."

Morrigan's voice came out a semi-tone higher...but Rilian sensed an odd nervousness behind the querulousness. Morrigan twitched like a cat; she gave the impression of suppressed energy; intense focus. Her scant clothing - light as ghost-rags; strong as steel - fluttered in the snow, wraith-like. How could she be dressed like this, in the snow! But the Witch of the Wilds did not seem cold. She gave off heat, like a banked furnace.

Wynne gave Morrigan a smile sharp as a wasp's sting. "It's alright, Rilian - no doubt this young lady is simply embarrassed to speak of personal matters in front of her elders. I'll go find Jowan: that young man needs careful guidance if he is to be a Warden..."

Unseen by Wynne, Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"What's on your mind?" Rilian asked.

"I would like you to take me with you when you face the Archdemon."

Nothing Morrigan had said could have shaken Rilian so profoundly. She and Morrigan had forged a strange sisterhood - a sisterhood tested by the rumours Alistair had gone to her for comfort after Rilian betrayed him at the Landsmeet - but reforged and remade. Rilian had risked herself and her party to save Morrigan from Flemeth's spiritual annihilation - and in return Morrigan had confided things she'd never said to anyone. About herself: her tentative friendship, her doubts and hopes. Rilian was absurdly touched that Morrigan should make this offer. I have underestimated her - she really is my friend...

Aloud, she said: "I appreciate that. Truly. But I can't take you with me. Loghain and the army rely on you too much. No-one else has your command of offensive spells."

Morrigan preened at the evidence of her indispensability - but only briefly. She then set her jaw in a disturbingly familiar mulish expression and said:

"Nonetheless - I go where I choose. And I choose to go with you."

Rilian drew herself up to her full height - still several inches shorter than the devastatingly beautiful woman - and bristled:

"Last time I checked, I was the Warden-Commander here."

"Tis a matter of survival. Yours. I must go with you."

A chill slithered down Rilian's back. Survival? Did Morrigan know more about what awaited her than she had suspected? What was she saying - that she hoped to save Rilian?

"I assure you I am in no more danger than anyone else." Rilian was a good liar exactly because she half-believed her own stories. For a fleeting moment, she almost convinced herself.

"You may be able to fool your Wardens but not I. I know what happens when the Archdemon is slain. I know a Warden must die. I have come to tell you that this does not need to be. If I come with you I can save you."

Hope thrilled in Rilian's veins: wild and sweet as honey. Her careful defences were blown apart in an instant. Morrigan could save her with magic! She opened her mouth to say yes...and the ghost of Loghain's voice came back to haunt her. She had said she had faith in Dworkin's Blackpowder - right before nearly blowing herself and Nathaniel up...

"Warden: in war having "faith" is not enough. Depend on skill, drill, strength, endurance, tactics: what you know, what's been demonstrated. No matter how tempting an idea, you cannot simply take a gamble in war and hope for the best. Blind trust will not defeat a Blight."

"That sounds…wonderful…" she said slowly.

Morrigan's ochre-gold eyes burned with feral eagerness.

"…but you must tell me how. Tell me everything."

"I doubt you would understand."

Rilian flared. "You and Avernus! What is it with you mages?! I may not be able to blow things up with my mind but that doesn't mean my arms drag on the ground when I walk! Do tell - you won't have to use small words, I promise." She glared at Morrigan.

"Tis not your intelligence I doubt, Warden, merely your ability to make hard choices. You had the chance to save Orzammar - but your delicacy got in the way."

Rilian frowned, not liking where this was going. "So how exactly would saving me from the Archdemon offend my delicate sensibilities? It's Blood Magic, isn't it?"

"Not blood. Life. A Ritual, performed in the dead of night."

Rilian thought of the Dalish nature magic. The food-giver is stronger. The blood-giver is stronger. The Mother is stronger.

"Nothing comes without a price."

"Perhaps - but that price need not be so unbearable - especially when there is much to be gained. The Ritual involves a union between man and woman, Warden and non-Warden. It allows me to conceive a child. That child will bear the taint. At this early stage, the soul of the child can absorb that of the Archdemon - and not perish. Think on it, Warden," and here the luster of those alien eyes was like the devouring gold eyes of a tiger, "A child born with the soul of an Old God."

"Will the child be hurt?"

Rilian thought of First Enchanter Irving - and how he had lied when answering this question about Jowan's fate. He had claimed that being made Tranquil would not hurt Jowan. No pain. But everything he was would be lost.

"Ignoring the fact that at this stage it could barely be called a child - no, it will not be hurt. It will be changed."

"Changed," breathed Rilian, sickened, "You mean annihilated. An empty vessel for another - as your own mother planned to do to you."

She could see the words go through Morrigan like a spear - see her regret confiding in Rilian, regret that she owed her. Morrigan's voice went soft and cold with malice.

"What is this obsession with children, Warden? Is it because you are unable to bear any of your own?"

"It could be," said Rilian, in a hysterical sob of laughter and grief, "It could be that my ability to do my duty comes down to something as banal as that! It's true what they say of us Elves: we're primitives. For it would be a failure of duty. How do you know your golden child won't be tainted again? To take the risk of another Blight starting in less than a generation purely to save my own skin would be the most selfish evil I could commit. All the work - the sacrifices of Garahel and all the others - Sten, Ser Perth - how dare you tempt me into making it all worthless!"

Rilian stared at Morrigan, and felt the hysterical rage and laughter claim her. "Not to mention turning whore-master between my friends! Who would you have wanted me to get: Jowan, Ser Otto? Oghren?" Oghren would probably do it...

A strange light turned Morrigan's eyes from flat discs to pools of gold. "Tis already done. The seed has been planted."

Rilian stared...stared...and understood. Morrigan. Alistair. The rumours. The rumours he had gone to her after the Landsmeet. She felt the ground start to shift from under her; the pain cleaved her in two. She's lying, Rilian thought desperately. But she knew with despairing certainty that - although Morrigan might lie when she chose - she was not lying now.

Rilian staggered and nearly fell. Only the grim determination to show no weakness before this shem woman kept her on her feet.

Morrigan looked - almost vulnerable. "He did it for you. I did it for you. We've gone through so much together. Why must we lose now?"

Rilian stared through her, abstracted. "Dying is not the same as losing," she said distantly, "What we were meant to do, we did. What we were meant to be, we became."

As if the words broke some barrier, the unbearable image flooded in: of Morrigan together with Alistair.

She's seen - touched - where I haven't. He...he gave her a child!

Rilian caught her breath - hardening her mettle in the blaze of rage it lit within her. (Maker! Do all my moral choices have to come down to that!)

"My answer is no," she said, voice grating like steel on stone.

"Do not let your pride condemn you! You refused to listen to my arguments when you destroyed the Anvil - you took the risk that Thedas might fall to the horde for its lack. Is this so different?"

Rilian thought of her own stance, borne of empathy, and Loghain's, born of devotion to duty. They had argued over her decision, but she had been able to hold her head up. Even if her decision had been wrong, she had made it for the best reasons.

But this would be mere cowardice - a desperate grasping for life. Loghain would despise it; I would despise it.

Alistair will too - once he realises what he's done...

An iron curtain came down in Rilian's mind. She could not bear to think of Alistair now.

"You have my answer. And you should ask yourself the question: why are you still allowing the Witch to control you? What could you possibly gain from carrying such a child? Where do you think the taint might go? Do you think your plan to do this was your idea? It's Flemeth, you fool! Her voice, her will, her determination to save her species - hers, not yours - by planting a cuckoo in a human nest. What should matter to you is that you never had a choice. You're a changeling, a property. Worse: your mind is the product of another's thoughts. You're a thing."

Rilian was so eager to hurt she practically salivated as the bitter, scorched, delicious words slipped off her tongue.

Storm-clouds gathered in Morrigan's eyes; within the swirl of compressed energy, Rilian felt the white storm of her magic building, building. She braced for the storm, almost welcomed it. Something in her seemed to rise to meet it - wrestle with it.

"Not mine?" Morrigan hissed. "Are you sure?"

Rilian gaped as the import became clear. She stared at Morrigan: the glittering alien eyes, the perfected face. The face she wants to wear. She had thought Morrigan a human changeling...a Chasind child abducted and raised by the dragon in human form. But, she realised, Morrigan had neither confirmed nor denied this.

She studied her: and saw a faint cast of Alistair in the golden eyes, the strong jaw, the angular lines of the face. Morrigan could be all ages: the cynicism of an old woman - the petulance of a child - the brilliance of a savant...but surely she could not be thirty? Perhaps she could. Her stark, uncompromising wildness, her social inexperience, could make her seem younger than her years. And a child of Flemeth might have a very different lifespan. Just what had transpired between Flemeth and King Maric in that hut - the meeting Loghain had been barred from?

She thought of Morrigan and Alistair together and the disgust threatened to choke her.

"And what shall I do with the brat now?" Morrigan asked with the plaintiveness of a child.

Rilian's awful laughter, high and wild, pealed out into the night. "It's a little late to be worrying about that, don't you think? You chose to do this - you can't complain that you're left holding the baby! I can't imagine why you thought I'd do it."

"Well - I think the Empress' court in Orlais will welcome the last heir to the Theirin bloodline."

Rilian was sickened: Morrigan selling the child for power one way or another. As Flemeth had done to her - as Arl Eamon had done to Alistair. Was history always going to repeat? What chance could such a child have? She would have raised it herself - if she were not doomed.

"Or maybe Alistair will come after me. Poor woman in a girl's body. The only child you'll ever give him is a child of mine."

A shriek of rage rent the night. The crack of Rilian's fist split the chill air like a curse. Morrigan was caught completely off-guard - her features hung slack for a moment. She stumbled - fell - her head hit the hard ground. Rilian's pain - her hate - her jealousy - stretched out cold on the stone. Rilian's hand flew to her mouth; her lips formed a circle of dismay. She knelt down - almost gentle - checked for injuries. What sickening irony - to protect Alistair's baby from the Archdemon, only to lose it now...

But mother and child were unharmed. Even as Rilian watched, the Witch's magic slowed the trickle of blood. Her eyelids fluttered open; her golden-eyed rage pure as poison.

Rilian was in the midst of a growing storm of feelings. Startling. At the same time, she was exhilarated. With each beat of her heart, she realised a transformation was taking place. Her mind worked with awesome clarity. Was it Avernus' potion - or simply the threat of Morrigan's magic?

Images.

Rylock always swings her left arm away from her body before lunging forward with her sword.

Wynne always makes an imperceptible nod before imparting some word of advice.

Morrigan always blinks twice after lying to me. She licks her lips before uttering words meant to hurt.

Why now? What use are these observations?

Strength. Will. Cunning.

Qualities, not sensations. Yet Rilian felt them within herself; thought this must be how the earth felt the stirring of seeds. Rilian, Warden, stood for life. Her enemy was death.

Once again, an image. Loghain. The feral look of him when he surrendered himself to the need to defend Ferelden. She saw him with eyes widened and jaw set. Thick muscles drew smooth, like steel bending. She felt his passion, his terrible fear and joyful exultation, as he fought for his country.

Rilian understood. The silent, dire challenge posed by Flemeth's dark goals broke her through all normal levels of comprehension. At risk were the humans, Dwarves, Elves and Qunari who would fall against the Architect and his species; Flemeth and hers. There could be no compromise. No mercy; no pity.

Rilian knew suffering and struggle; knew the magic that floods the heart of one who escapes maximum peril. This new sensation was different. This was embracing existence in a manner beyond the understanding of those who only fear death and never court it. The stakes soared immeasurably higher than life against life. The victor would decide the fate of a species. It was an overwhelming responsibility. Yet Rilian exulted. Her whole being sang glad, living anticipation.

...Morrigan's face was terrified; haunted. Dark circles smudged the luminous pale skin beneath her eyes.

"I cannot come with you to the Marsh. I do not know if I would be strong enough to resist Flemeth's acquisition."

Rilian put a hand on Morrigan's shoulder in silent token of how much that admission must have cost her...

Morrigan: who met every challenge with cool determination and dark sarcastic wit. Rilian had found their strange friendship unexpectedly liberating. Leliana had taught her music and manners, Ser Otto and Wynne had taught her morals, Rylock and Boann had taught her faith - but it had been Morrigan who taught her to meet pain with gallows humour: an invaluable lesson for any soldier. Just as Rilian had taught her the social skills she had taken for granted: how to eat at a table - for how long to look into another's eyes. It had been a challenge to do this without the fiercely proud woman being aware of it. So hungry for friendship - so afraid of it...

How can this be the same woman? Is it the same woman? Could Flemeth's power have reached even across that distance, displacing my friend's soul and destroying her?

Rilian faced her with the manner of the soldier - braced for a retaliation that never came. She was unexpectedly moved to see Morrigan hold herself back, struggle to control her instinct for primal self-preservation, to meet Rilian's strike with words instead of magic.

Rilian was ashamed. Cyrion had taught her better than to hit. Morrigan - who had been taught nothing of civilisation - had behaved better than she. For no-one else would Morrigan have made the effort - Rilian almost forgave her.

There was a shadow of regret in the lupine eyes. Rilian saw this was not Flemeth. Or at least - that Flemeth's annihilation of her daughter had been psychological, not magical.

I wonder if any of us ever understood what her childhood was like? I know she's almost child-like in her ability to disguise pain with brisk, sarcastic wit. Morrigan could have found some excuse to go with me and I'd be none the wiser. She never lied. Was that honesty...or merely the wish to have me culpable too, as if - by her ability to prove corruption in others - she can be exempt from the moral challenge herself?

"You helped me against my mother - would that I could have helped you. Die, then, if you feel it is worthwhile. Your fate is of your own making, not mine."

She turned - shimmered - became an enormous silver wolf whose rippling coat melded with the aching whiteness of the snow. She gave a keening howl - then loped away, claws making tracks in the powdery landscape. By the time she headed past the western gate, Rilian could no longer see her. She strained her eyes until no effort would gain her another glimpse.

---

Rilian turned away, headed toward her tent, yearning to wrap its shadows around her like a shroud. Somehow - she could not have said why - to have to speak or explain to anyone would have made it quite unbearable. Erratic shadows writhed and shifted as she drew open the tent flap and the candle fluttered. She sank down, cross-legged, by the chest; pale hands trembled as she opened the lock - drew out the blade...

...Alistair pushed past her on her left side, sword held away from her, his greater strength forcing her off-balance. He advanced on Loghain. Her Dalish blade flashed as it leapt from its scabbard. A red gash appeared along Alistair's palm. Gasping, he stared at his hand as if he couldn't quite believe it. He clenched his fist; bright blood dripped onto the floor.

"I said: stand down. It'll be the other hand next time; and I'll cut so that you never draw again."

Trembling, voice near to breaking, Alistair choked out: "I trusted you. I...believed in you. I would have married you, no matter what Eamon said. And for what?"

He turned on his heel and stumbled away...away from the Landsmeet...moving like a man who has something broken in his chest and has no idea what it is...

She took a whetstone and sharpened the diamond-bright blade, looking up at her with eager glinting. Of all the make-ready exercises, it was the one that passed time the best. Circular strokes, one hand carefully holding the hilt, the other the stone. Hypnotic rhythm replaced thought. The tent echoed the thin song of edging steel. Its wordless melody sent cold feet dancing along the edge of her skin.

She held the blade to the light. Silverite gleamed with frenetic abandon - runes blazed along its edge - darkly glimmering as a priceless silver chalice containing poison. She stared into the light - toward the shadows that boiled within - conscious of the irony of being soothed by an act whose sole objective was lethal violence. She held up a piece of wood, sliced at it. The blade cut through effortlessly. She grasped the hilt like a nest of thorns, remembering Adaia...right hand clenched in a fierce and solitary act of defiance...sliced open her left palm. Bright blood dripped onto cloth. She felt all the death inside her - the poison of taint - screaming and cowering away; it knew its enemy.

...The tides of her blood wavered and rippled, called by a will not her own. The swift-winged ship of her mind danced on a roiling ocean. Its sails were tattered; its hull leaking. The Song swelled from the wine-dark sea. She braced against the canted deck; clawed for a hand-hold. The sea rose to embrace her; cover her like a shroud...

...She was following the path of the blade, stretched out flat along the Archdemon's spine, her own blood dripping into the wound. She felt her musculature and skeleton fluidly rearranging themselves. It was wonderful, like discovering a lost immortality. She spread her wings, laughing...

Rilian took the sword, left the tent, to practice. She could feel her fate approaching, rising like a rain-shadow behind her: a waveform with serrated edges that reared like towering wings. The craved emptying of consciousness - the miraculous draining of every ounce of self - so she could lose herself in the vast, redemptive, ruinous dark.

...The wave sped towards her, swift as a shark, its inky depths black as open jaws. She did not flinch; did not flee, though she knew it would annihilate her when it crashed. She raised her sword high: a silver blade etched with bright runes. Against the engulfing dark, it glowed like the first rose of dawn. She realised - in a moment of soaring rapture - I am not afraid...

She hung on the edge of herself - that instant, eternal plummet and soar between waking and sleeping. In another moment Rilian was gone, dissolved into the set of learned manouveres: nothing more than a collection of instincts, freed from memory, from fear, from grief. She practiced as the sun set, the moon turning the sky to a cool silver ocean. Waves of moonlight rippled, turning the snow to a pale timeless sea.

She came back to herself slowly. Her emotions - the pain of betrayal - her fear of dying - were a stormy ocean. But she was the ship - the captain at the helm. Though the waters might be choppy or calm, what mattered was how she navigated them...until at last, hopefully, she would end up on a good shore. The sea's far side...where the sky rolled back and everything turned to silver glass...silver as the chalice she sought - the sangreal - the cure for the taint.

Rilian realised that the person she was had nothing to do with what had been done to her: Alistair's betrayal, the Architect's black and unalterable conviction, Howe's cruelty, Vaughan's sickening lusts. The afterimages came like white birds pecking - like sly water through the cracks of her mind - but they were still only memories. She had been wrong to fear them so - wrong to fear that the black ocean of taint could swallow her. She was not defined by the taint, nor by shameful experience; instead, she was formed by dreams and hopes...by the teachings she had followed like a flickering trail…by the friends who had helped her along the way. She wasn't clay in the hands of others but steel in her own; by her own choices, she could forge the blade that she wanted to be.

This realization did not come through conscious thought but slowly, in the way the tainted land around Ostagar had been cleansed and renewed by the Dalish magic and covered by snow…until come spring, miraculously, the snow would be gone and everywhere would be tiny green leaves.

She practiced sword-forms for hours, weaving steel patterns against the silver snow and sky. While her pulse laboured and a slick of sweat oozed from her forehead, she thought she heard - beyond the comforting noises of camp - the distant call of the Song...too faint to be certain, and too intimate to be ignored.

---

Loghain hunched over his desk - staring at the maps spread like a giant's eye view of Ferelden - at the two missives overlaying them. One he had received before the Landsmeet - from the Wardens at Gherlen's Pass:

…To the Regent of Ferelden.

You have murdered the Empress's finest chevaliers at the border - the very reinforcements sent to aid you. In addition, you have tortured and imprisoned Warden-Commander Riordan. Neither the nation of Orlais nor the Order of the Grey will see these acts go unpunished. Due to your arrogance your land is already ravaged by the Blight. Now Ferelden will suffer for your crimes as well.

Guillaume Caron,

Acting Warden-Commander of Montsimmard...

Loghain found it strange that the Order had sent only one Warden - and sent him straight to Arl Howe. Or rather - not so strange, considering how much Orlais stood to gain by using the Wardens as allies against Ferelden.

The other missive was from Orlais itself - from no less than the Divine, Beatrix III. Riordan had received this at Redcliffe and carried it with him.

...We have our differences, Loghain Mac Tir, but nothing that two practical people cannot overcome. I am advised by those sworn to destroy you: Grand Cleric Jocasta, Knight Divine Gerard Caron and a true daughter of the Chantry, the Empress. Weakness demands I concur. Unless you counter their arguments with an offer of your own - make restitution for allying with Blood Mages and Tevinter slavers. The Chantry must be one. It cannot be without its Ferelden arm. Do not force me to choose against you...

It was clear the Divine - an elderly woman in her eightieth decade - was being pressured by her inner circle of close advisors - Grand Cleric Jocasta. Knight Divine Gerard Caron - and by the Empress herself. He snorted. And they try to claim the Chantry is above politics... None of that was unexpected. What troubled him was the accuracy of her information.

How could the Divine know - so quickly - of Uldred and that damned Tevinter, Caladrius? Of how he had snatched Jowan from Chantry "justice"? He had watched the ports and passes so closely, no Templar or cleric could have slipped through. Rylock would not have betrayed him like this. Her priority was the abomination that had happened to Revered Mother Boann - she would stop at nothing to see her friend at peace and the Architect and all its works destroyed. He did not trust the new Grand Cleric of Ferelden - Mother Leanna - as far as he could throw her, but she would not have had the opportunity.

A bard could. A bard working from Denerim, travelling as a refugee. So many are taking ship from Denerim to the Free Marches...one more would not even be noticed...

Loghain's instincts - his sense of his opponents - had rarely failed him. Celene doesn't want to invade. Why go to the trouble of invading a Blighted country when she can remove one man - knowing that without its General she can win most of the Banns by necessity, ideals, or greed. Of course, if I don't give myself up the Chantry will have the perfect pretext for an Exalted March - which she, as a "true daughter", would have to support...

General Thiebaut Caron. Warden-Commander Guillaume Caron. Knight Divine Gerard Caron. I've had enough of that family to last a lifetime...

He squinted over the maps - seeing the march of men, the battlefield divisions - pure and clear and precise as chess. The reality was far messier. His vision blurred; he absently wiped a sheen of sweat from the bone-hard gauntness of his brow. He had never felt quite well since his sickness at Ostagar. The Warden's blood - was it a cure, or just a delay of the inevitable? How many years do I have anyway? It's possible Celene is bargaining for a dead man walking.

He faced Cauthrien, sitting opposite him. Dark smudges, bold and harsh, stood out along her pale face. Firelight emphasised her features: the broad, strong sweep of long cheekbones. Slightly knitted brows lent power to the smallest change of expression. Her gaze - sharp as a hawk's and full of shadows - studied his face with an intensity he found disturbing.

"Go and see Wynne," she demanded, "We need you. You need rest. You're no good to us sick."

Faces wavered in Loghain's mental vision. Maric and Cailan looked at him, tilting their heads questioningly, faces filled with almost identical looks of uncomprehending anguish...

He saw again, as if reliving it, that doomed War Council: golden Cailan with his talk of Wardens and Orlesian reinforcements; his own curt dismissal: We must attend to reality...

"Please," Cauthrien said, "At least tell me what you're working on."

Loghain stirred slowly, like a man waking. He handed her the letters. He spoke very deliberately. "Reality. I'm working on reality. I'll rest when I believe I've earned it. You say: no good to us sick. It's an open question whether I can be good to us at all."

Dark eyes seemed to retreat into shadow as she scanned the letters. She scoffed.

"Do you really think you're the reason they're invading now? They've been planning this for decades!"

"Undoubtedly. But if I'd allowed the "reinforcements" through, they'd have spent their own forces fighting the darkspawn, and we wouldn't have lost men at Ostagar, or in the Civil war that followed. We could have pushed them out, as we did once before. Now - we have neither the infrastructure nor the manpower to do so."

"You couldn't have known it was a Blight."

"Excuses don't alter facts. Besides: I should have known. Maric warned me a Blight was coming to Ferelden. I didn't believe him."

He saw Cauthrien's eyes widen at the revelation - and then in sudden fear. "That may be true," she acknowledged - and he could sense the blunt soldier's awareness of fairness and accountability warring against her loyalty, her determination to concede no weakness in him, "But you can't give yourself up - that will solve nothing; change nothing. Fereldens do not bow to Orlesian threats!"

Loghain spoke into the fire, consigning the words. "Riordan tells me Teyrn Fergus Cousland leads an army of Chasind, marching with the Bastard Prince. Channon Cousland is here, with the remnants of the Highever force. As is Nathaniel Howe. The North could dissolve into Civil War. Bann Sighard wants to kill me - you know why. The Chantry: after my dealings with Uldred, with Jowan, with Tevinter slavers...I am a wanted man. We cannot have the Chantry declare an Exalted March on Ferelden. Need I remind you we have an army of Templars already within our borders. Rylock and Knight Commander Greagoir would not - but Grand Cleric Leanna can easily replace them."

He raised his eyes; met those of the woman he had raised and trained: no less family to him than Anora.

"What if my punishment could persuade Sighard and Cousland to ally with Howe and Anora in a common cause? If Rylock can persuade the Divine to declare an Exalted March against the darkspawn - if Riordan can rally the Wardens - we have a fighting chance. My own mistakes must not become a stumbling block. If my death, exile or Joining can prevent it - I must do so."

Cauthrien leaned forward, jaw jutting. "Without you, the Bannorn will fall to Celene's blandishments and you know it! Was not the credo of the rebellion: sooner dead than changed?"

Loghain sounded like he choked. "Damn. Thank you. You did it again, didn't you. Made me answer the question I refused to ask myself."

Could he possibly follow the Warden's vision: her words that had burrowed into his brain, moved and saddened him...

...Should I care that my descendants will have rounded ears and heavy bones? No more than Loghain should care whether his great-grandchildren speak Orlesian. The best part of us: the history, the honest purpose, the honour, goes on...

No. He could not. He could not face a future in which his daughter might not have all that he had given her: heir to a heritage of proud Ferelden freeholders, beholden to none.

"There's a quote: "Victory has a thousand fathers; defeat's an orphan." After you've won tomorrow's battle for us, the people who want to use you will crawl out of the woodwork. They're cowards, Loghain. The ones who want to use others for personal gain."

There was so much more he wanted to tell her. How in her presence he always felt good about his cause. There was purpose, not just hatred. He didn't understand how she got inside his mind, wove his dreaming into different cloth. He studied her, intent, wishing he could ask.

Cauthrien smiled nervously under the scrutiny. "We all expect too much of you, put too many demands on you. Even me."

"That's not true. Look at what we've done here. We have the armies of the Bannorn working as a team. Other people tell me what I have to do. You help me do it. We make a good team."

Cauthrien reddened at the unaccustomed praise. At the last, he turned his head, pretending the words had no other significance.

"I need to think." He strode from the tent, toward the glimmer of white at the edge of the western gate.

Her saw the Warden practising sword-forms - her whip-thin, spring-steel body lithe and graceful; deadly movement transmuting gawkiness to radiance. He saw moonlight flash off a silver blade - gleaming as the Warden swung it through the wilds arcs of her practice: eyes measuring the distance of enemies who only existed in her head. Blue runes flared to life like the crackle of lyrium...

...Maric turned from the crenellated wall from where he'd been staring out to sea. Water polished to the sheen of jade carried the ship waiting to take him north. Sails curled under a lazy breeze; waves were silver ribbons that came from nowhere, glittered and disappeared.

"Do you know what I see? I see a path leading to freedom. I see a road, horizon to horizon, endless, that should carry trade in all directions."

Loghain held his silence; was waiting when Maric cut his eyes sheepishly in his direction: "You don't see that, do you?"

"Absolutely not!"

They chuckled then, appreciating each other; relishing the differences between them, enjoying the similarities. Maric drew his blade in one smooth motion and tossed it to Loghain. The pale arc winked like a jay in the pearly dawn. Loghain caught it with the precision of long practice.

"Take care of my kingdom for me."...

Loghain swirled with a mixture of reactions. It was, of course, satisfying to be proven right in one's initial assessment of someone; but another part of him - the part that had fought beside the Warden, taught her strategy, seen her throw Cailan's last letter on the pyre to protect Anora's feelings - knew a cold stab of disappointment. And the very sight of this armour-gilded wisp of a gutter rat clutching a blade forged for Dwarven Kings and wielded by Ferelden's rulers was distastefully out of place. "So," he said in disgust, "You scavenged Maric's Blade from the field at Ostagar - and hid it to keep to yourself…"

It never occurred to the Warden to explain - or back down. Caught behaving like all the worst stereotypes of Elves - venal, greedy, obsessed with acquisition and the wish to be better than they were - she attacked, masking embarrassment with sarcasm. "It isn't Maric's Blade - it's Cailan's. What makes you think he'd want you to wield it?" She bore down on the words in a small-minded swipe. "Cailan's Blade should go to his widow, not you. But Anora will carry it to show people - or hang it in the Landsmeet Chamber to be gawked at by the Banns. It should stay in hands that appreciate it - and can wield it."

Loghain's hand unconsciously dropped to the hilt of his plain Ferelden sword. Then wield it now...

He saw the face of a gutter-rat ready to defend some worthless back alley street from rivals - that indomitable quality of will that would see the body it drove broken apart rather than yield - the sheer bloody minded urge not to let a shem take anything from her ever again. He entertained thoughts of giving her the fight she wanted. But it was madness to duel on the eve of battle.

"Then wield it against the Archdemon," he said curtly, "It deserves nothing less."

"Oh, it shall slay the Archdemon," she assured him. And then, amber eyes bleak in her pale, pinched face, encircled by a ring of shadow, added: "Maybe you'll be able to scavenge it back."

Loghain realised she knew her own fate - had known for some time. His decision to keep the knowledge from her - because Ferelden could not afford for her to hesitate; because it was kinder to let her wink out as suddenly as a falling star, rather than worry her way to misery - was wasted. He ought to have seen that when she joked with Riordan, told him she would "say my piece while I can", or when she had promised not to die "before her time" and it went through him in a ripple of annoyance that this graceless little guttersnipe was speaking the truth – and meeting her duty unflinchingly. He admired it - in a way he had not her deeds in battle, her status as the "Hero of Redcliffe". He had seen bravery before, in the most unlikely places: the lowest troops of the rebel army, his Night Elves, had pulled Maric out of an Orlesian trap and died almost to a man. Mere Dragon-slaying was no braver than lightly armoured servants-turned-soldiers taking on armoured, mounted chevaliers - it took more than that to impress him.

"My first mission with the rebels was that of the sacrificial lamb," he told her, not quite sure where he was going with this - not sure, frankly, that he wanted to continue, "It was Queen Rowan who changed the rules and saved the most expendable troops in the army. But there will be no rescue for you. As Arl Rendorn Guerrin did, I must put Ferelden first." He recalled their conversation before Ostagar - her words to him: bearing the weight of the dead… And he saw her among his pale battalions. Faceless men wavered in his mental vision. For a moment, he thought they beckoned. He blinked away the image.

"Oh - I had an offer of rescue from a very unlikely source," she said, young face twisting. Then, coolly, "But I judged the use of Morrigan's ancient magic to be - a tactical error."

"So you see: no matter how important you think you are, you didn't cause this mess." The Warden tossed his own words about the Anvil back at him with a playful smile. "I am not one of your dead; I choose to do this."

It was pride talking – but it was also an odd kindness, removing one more burden from the weight of his dead. And cocky certainty: she had not even consulted him over her judgment of what constituted a "tactical error"! Her decisions were different to his: a younger, other self, forged in the flame of an idealism he had never possessed, but she stood alone on the bleak summit of leadership, and did not try to dodge any part of it. Part of him felt a little outraged to be left out of the loop after so many years of shouldering the hard choices, but here was a woman who would never do what Maric - even Rowan - had done: she would never run to him to make the decisions she could not. She made them. As Gareth Mac Tir had done, courting certain death to buy them time.

…that's exactly what you will do. Your word, Loghain…

The Warden had earned the same respect. It felt odd to be standing here, thinking that, but there it was. He was aware of the hand that held the sword: it looked small, next to his own, the Elven bones delicate as a hawk's; it was hard, sinewy, its fingers clenched around the hilt in a fierce and solitary act of will. She looked deeply at, and through him, including him in her solitude. She looked sharp as an arrow, and full of light. She stood - caught between life and death as between morning and night – but she kept hold of the sword, tossed it with an insolent flourish in the air and then back into her own scabbard, smiled crookedly and said:

"I am the Captain of my ship."

---

After the argument over Maric's Sword, Loghain would have preferred to avoid the Warden for the rest of the evening. Of course it was impossible. Tonight was the eve of battle: Loghain was all over Ostagar, checking and re-checking their defences. He had ordered the stockades built up and the abatis improved upon. Sacks of Dworkin's black powder adorned both these and the portable barriers Loghain's infantry took with them. The crews would light them and then withdraw - fortunately, Dworkin had improved upon his "four-second delay". The Tower nearest the Western Gate was now the Templar head-quarters - his own was in the Tower near Ishal. The Old Temple was a healing house: the Warden had put away her research and the area was stocked with bandages, healing potions, lyrium - and vials and vials of Warden blood. Rilian, Ser Otto, Oghren, Alim, Aveline, Carver and Rowland had all volunteered theirs. Wynne would make the same mixture she had used on him and Rylock to cure the tainted soldiers.

Light spilled out from the Chapel, gilding the gently falling snow with a golden sheen. Many soldiers were inside: Sister Leliana was performing a service. As the Warden was also making preparations, Loghain kept on running into her. The sight of the armour-gilded peacock strutting about with her battlefield pickings was extremely irritating. And clearly he wasn't the only one who entertained notions of using said blade to tan her backside. Eamon, Cousland and Howe were all looking jaundiced. Each wished to own such a powerful symbol, to mark their own ambitions for Ferelden's throne.

The strategist in Loghain knew the blade should have gone to Anora. The part of him that remembered Maric tossing the sword to him before making his doomed voyage yearned to wield it himself. It was a part of his friend unsullied by his own mistakes, or Loghain's - as bright and hopeful as the day Maric first found it, idealism blazing in his young face.

But the Warden glared so fiercely at any noble who showed too keen an interest - amber eyes glinting like those of a half-starved cat - that they were constrained.

Loghain relieved his feelings by heading over to the archery range. Though the sun had set, the light of a hundred torches melded to light the courtyard as brightly as day. It was pleasant to exist in this bubble of light, with the howling darkness kept at bay. Too bad the peace would not last.

The Warden had had the same idea. An archery competition had sprung up between the Dalish and his own Night Elves. The Warden had swapped her ill-gotten blade for a shortbow - apparently deciding that Dworkin's sighted crossbow gave her an unfair advantage. Her mabari stood by her side, his encouraging howls urging her on. Two second's observation showed him that the Warden's technique had not improved since their practice in the Brecilian forest. As she huffed and swore, her fierce young cousin - clearly in her element - detailed her flaws with great relish:

"No!" she cried in exaggerated anguish, covering her eyes with her hands, "Release the string smoothly, Ril. Don't pluck it like your lute. Let the bow lie in your hand. You don't have to crush it. You're shifting your feet like a swordsman - stand steady."

The Warden raised the shortbow - pulled back the draw-string - then loosed an arrow to its target: a borrowed Bannorn shield with a bull's-eye crudely painted on top. She groaned even as it left the bow. It arced up toward the heavens - confirming her nickname of "Cloudkiller" - and thudded into the ground exactly half-way to the target. Her mabari whined softly.

"Shit!"

"Oh dear, oh dear," said her cousin, "I haven't seen anything like that since...well, I can't remember. You're still plucking the string when you should just be letting go. You're also opening your mouth when you shoot and dropping your elbow before you loose."

"Alright, alright," the Warden mumbled defensively, "I've just got a few lazy habits, that's all."

Her cousin drew in a breath through her teeth as melodramatically as possible, pursed her lips judiciously, and pronounced, "I'm not sure it's as simple as "a few" lazy habits. Your tent looks like a market stall crossed with a garbage heap. Just an exterior mark of the state of your soul." The young woman raised her own bow. With a steady, fluid motion - as relaxed as a branch stirring in the breeze - she drew back, sighted down the shaft and let her fingers slip off the string.

The arrow winged in and struck the target dead-centre - to the whoops and applause of the watching Elves. As she could not have been practicing longer a than month, Loghain was impressed.

"There!" the young woman said with wicked glee, "Perfect. An outward sign of inward grace."

The Warden took after her - only to find herself in Loghain's sights as he stepped from the shadows, his own bow raised. An expression of startlement crossed her face - quickly melting into a look of mournful solemnity that did not quite conceal an underlying smirk.

"Don't shoot. I'll come quietly."

"Warden." The vinegar in Loghain's voice turned the words into an insult. He was aware of her cousin and the dark-braided young Dalish warrior, Cale, edging closer and bristling like ruffled cats. He contrived to face their bows with the unconcern of an iron golem. "I am - surprised to see you bothering with such a humble weapon. Surely you haven't grown tired of flaunting your prize already? Or has the collective disapproval of the Banns daunted you?"

In answer she drew Maric's Blade from its scabbard, spun it through a series of flourishes and sheathed it reverently, preening with the satisfaction of the cat who has got the cream.

"For the sake of a weapon such as this I will endure it," she said in a martyred tone. A brilliant cocky smile ruined the effect. "Besides - when did most of them ever approve of the Arl-Assassin-Of-The-Alienage; the Demon-Dockworker-Of-Denerim?"

A ripple of reluctant amusement warred with Loghain's ire.

"I take it you've still got the arse with me too?"

After his years with the Night Elves, Loghain was familiar with the Alienage slang. He thought he caught a slightly plaintive note beneath the defiant east-Denerim accent - as though she cared more for his opinion than she was letting on.

"Warden: you are a venal, greedy little magpie. What do you think?"

The taut muscles of her Docker's shoulders slumped a little; the mobile, expressive face fell. But she refused to let the side down.

"Where I come from," she informed him, with stately dignity, "That'd be a compliment." She turned away, rejoining the Dalish, spring-steel stride not quite as bouncy as before. "Oh well. I'll miss our talks..."

"Don't drivel, Warden. Time's wasting. I need to speak with you. We'll open a bottle of whisky and you can tell me what it feels like being a venal, greedy little magpie. I also need to discuss your plan to take the Wardens and Legion to the Deep Roads while the B...while Warden Alistair and I command the double-envelopment on the surface."

The Warden turned and straightened up. She tried to stop the pleasure showing on her face but did not quite succeed.

"Before we close the lid on the subject and bury it, I want to tell you this: I don't like what you did. That's my piece said. Have you anything to add to it?"

"No."

"Very well. I'll forgive you your sword as you forgave me Rendon Howe." He proffered his hand and she shook it, her supple, sinewy strength surprising him. "You'll find a bottle of Highever's finest at the back of the map case in my tent."

---

Loghain and the Warden sat opposite each other in Loghain's tent: a space far smaller and plainer than the Warden's monstrosity, and shadowed. Candle flames wavered in the candelabras. Greasy coils of smoke swirled to the top of the tent, hanging in a noisome cloud. A rising wind moved the ceiling. Trapped smoke throbbed and boiled. It caught the candlelight in its depths, sometimes bright, sometimes dark. It had an aura of sentience.

The Warden's right hand rested on the head of the mabari, now curled at her feet. Her left absently stroked the thin scar across her cheekbone - legacy of the assault in Howe's dungeon. Loghain winced inwardly. No matter how composed her outward appearance, touching the scar was an incontrovertible proof of tension.

"Kardol tells me the tunnels beneath Ishal are certain to go on to the Deep Roads. They intersect at Ortan Thaig. While you and A - Warden Alistair trap the horde at Ostagar, I will take my Wardens here and the Legion and eliminate the Architect and all his works. My Wardens - led by my second, Ser Otto - will then return to you...carrying - I hope - details of the creature's research. This, combined with Avernus' mixture, could be the breakthrough we need. The Legion and I will go on to Ortan Thaig - and the Dead trenches..."

"Your allocation of your Wardens is not sound, Warden. Oh - you are right in sending Riordan to Gherlen's Pass. The Orlesian fools don't seem to realise the Dead Trenches lie beneath the Dales. Had we not stopped the horde here, the Archdemon would have followed the largest mass of darkspawn to Denerim. Now..." Loghain felt his face crease into a feral grin.

The Warden glared at him. "The Archdemon laying waste to Orlais would be no less a tragedy!" she flared - but Loghain went on as if she had not spoken.

"So - it is in the Orlesian Wardens' interests to enter the Trenches from the Dales, refuse this political alliance with the bitch, Celene, and aid you. In any case, the snows make it impossible for the chevaliers to cross the Pass till spring. Anora will prepare the defences along the Northern coastline. Voldrik's siege weapons will prove invaluable."

Loghain glanced up - caught the Warden's increased tension - she knew what he was going to say.

"But even if Riordan manages to convince Caron - they will not reach the Trenches at the same time as you. Sending all your Wardens back - ensuring you are the only Warden to face the Archdemon - that is not wise."

The Warden said, softly, "We only need one Warden to kill an Archdemon. What matters is that Ser Otto and the rest survive to work on the Cure."

She spoke of it in the way she spoke of the Ashes - a sacred search, a trust.

"The seed has been planted. My Wardens are the new beginning. They will complete my work - share the Cure without fear or favour, without national or political motives."

The words carried an edge. The Warden knew as well as he that attempting to spread a cure using the magic developed by Remille and the Tevinter slavers to spread their plagues was a dangerous proposition that could easily be perverted.

"Someone always demands to be the most equal. Can you be sure your scientific movement won't be usurped?"

"Yes, I can." The Warden's granite certainty filled the tent. "All of us - the Wardens at Ostagar - swore a blood oath. We will be what Wardens should be. We live as Wardens, free, or we die as Wardens, free forever. Simple, no?"

"Terrifying. If I'd known, I'd have forbidden any such oath. It's too dangerous." He leaned forward - put one hand on her wrist.

The Wardens red brows lifted like warning flags. "You'd forbid me?"

She had given up even her quest for Elven rights to be unbiased - she knew he could not have done the same. If finding the Cure gave him leverage over Orlais - worse, if the Tevinter magic could be perverted to a biological weapon...

...There is nothing I would not do for my homeland...

He had meant it. The Warden knew it. She had taken steps to ensure that, while Loghain could create his own Wardens to defend Ferelden, he could not get his hands on her research. Ser Otto had the protection of Rylock and the Chantry. He also - unlike any other Warden Rilian could have chosen - had their trust. They would not interfere.

Loghain removed his hand from her wrist, sank back. He studied her, a slight rueful smile quirking his lips. "Stepped right into that, didn't I? Very well - I'd have argued against it."

The Warden smiled - magnanimous in victory.

Loghain turned his attention to another matter. "Warden - it is you who should command Redcliffe's forces and Alistair who should enter the Dead Trenches."

The Warden reacted like a cat stepping on a burr.

"You just want to remove the threat to your daughter's throne! Politics does not make wise military choices."

"Neither does emotion. Your desire to protect Alistair is..."

The Warden opened her mouth - then clamped it shut. She turned away, breathing with slow, structured poise. He knew by the way she held herself that she was fighting her own fury. Finally, she turned back to him.

"It's probably best if we don't question each other's judgement over something so personal," she said tightly, "Alistair is not going to the Trenches. I am. End of story."

"I damn well will question a poor tactical decision, Warden! You ignore the fact that it is you the army will follow to the Fade, not Alistair."

The Warden managed a thin, humourless smile. "You are thinking of the boy you met at the Landsmeet. Since then, Alistair has won the loyalty of his men by courage and deeds. He has grown into a leader of armies - no less than his father. Riordan told me so. And I know I am the person with the best chance against Urthemiel - because unlike Alistair I live by Duncan's credo: by whatever means necessary."

To himself, Loghain admitted there was no one else he'd rather trust. He wondered at his own curious reluctance to concede - to let her go off into the long night. Even if Riordan's men caught up with them, it would be no reprieve - a mission that far into darkspawn territory was a one-way ticket.

As the steel is forged by the blacksmith's anvil, he watched the planes of her face shift, morph, and harden into new alignments, taking on the blank implacability of Dragonbone. He had seen that fanatical singularity before - though he could not have said where, or when. The Warden - had grown into the title. He squashed the same absurd mixture of pride and satisfaction and loss he had known when Maric stood before the statue of Andraste, blade dripping the lifeblood of the traitor Banns.

"You may be right," he admitted heavily, "You make logical decisions for emotional ends - but that's a minor flaw, I suppose."

"We don't even want to start on flaws, my General! Life's too short for me to explain your failings to you!"

The old teasing light was back in the Warden's eyes: a resonance, a crackle and spark, a smile on the face of danger. But behind it - like black reefs beneath the swirl of a frenetic sea - lay the shadow of death.

"Loghain: you and Ravenous look after each other, okay?" Her voice was so soft it seemed to float above the candlelight. As if in understanding, the mabari gave a thin, worried whine.

"I had a mabari once," Loghain said quietly, swimming in old memories, "Her name was Adalla. My mother called her a gift from the Maker - and she was, she really was. I'll take good care of him, Warden."

They resumed drinking in a determined silence - but there was a third presence at the table now. And behind the lustre of the amber eyes, Loghain saw something that made his heart ache. At last - in a baffled need to articulate something, the Warden blurted:

"I'm afraid, Loghain."

The admission took them both by surprise.

"Of what are you afraid, Warden?" Loghain asked quietly. He knew it would not be of death itself - knew from the manner of her conscription and her words to him: I did my duty to the Alienage. It's how it survives. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.

"Oh - I don't doubt I'll go to the Maker's side," she explained - with all the certainty of her Orthodox Alienage upbringing. There was an irony. The ones the world would consider blessed by the Maker - the wealthy nobles, the powerful - were the ones who found it fashionable to style themselves free-thinkers. It was always the poorest communities who cleaved the strongest to divine justice - precisely because they could expect none on Thedas. The lyrium of the masses? Or saving faith? Sheer pragmatism told Loghain the farmer that a seed had to have a sower - thirty years of war told him the Maker had long abandoned the field. Knowing the essential nature of mankind, he had seen that they deserved it.

He knew without needing to be told that the Warden had already let all other considerations go - the friends, the future she would never know, the children she would never have. Let go like leaves in winter - like seeds on the wind - until nothing remained but duty. This - this final hesitation - was her last remaining regret.

"I'm afraid of dying beneath tonnes of rock, unremembered. That's not how I thought it would be." There was a soft gloss of indignation in the low alto voice - the plaintive regret of a cheated child. Her amber eyes went slightly out of focus, head tilted up and a little leftward. "It should have been...on high ground...where everyone could see. Where the dragon and I could fly. I've always loved the tale of King Maric's duel with the usurper atop Fort Drakon. How fitting it would have been," she went on, eyes sparkling, warming to the idea, "to die atop the very symbol of Elven oppression - to soar down upon a hang-glider upon the dragon's back - in front of the whole city."

"No doubt it would have made a better story," Loghain agreed dryly, "One the citizens of Denerim would tell and retell - after they had finished clearing the blackened rubble and burying their dead."

Hadn't he had a similar talk with Maric, once? Loghain had wanted to dispatch Meghren from behind and be on their way to the palace in the time it took them to call out the terms of the duel. But Maric had wanted the grand display. This single-combat, he's-all-mine notion is a load of horse dung...

A slow flush heated the Warden's face. "Of course you're right," she admitted sheepishly, "Maker, that sounded stupid."

"It's only stupidity when lives are sacrificed to feed romantic notions," Loghain said gruffly, "Your own decisions protected Denerim. The allies you recruited - your refusal to play Eamon's political games - ensured that untouched, untainted city will be your monument. I will not forget."

The Warden looked at him gravely - an alert kind of surprise - that slowly melted to a smile of startling radiance.

"You're good at this, aren't you?" she teased him.

"Oh, shut up," Loghain groused - while the warmth of half-forgotten memory flickered through his mind. Images of Maric - all gawky enthusiasm, self-centredness, charm and ebullience burned the back of his throat. Until now, Maric had been the only person who could drive him to such extremes of fury and amusement - the only person who treated him with such aggressive familiarity. The years that had followed - the deepening of that friendship - had brightened Loghain's world like paint-splashes on grey steel. It seemed - oddly unjust that he and the Warden would not be allowed the same time. Then he snorted: since when had Ferelden cared for justice? Ferelden demanded sacrifice - and there was nothing he would not do, nothing he would not give. He remembered how Celia had hated such a rival - Ferelden the bitch mistress who drained him dry then discarded him to his wife's bed. Hated fiercely - yet dared not challenge.

"Well - it's time for the Eve-of-Battle celebration, I think," she said determinedly, rising to her feet. "And I expect to see you there. If I have to show myself to our adoring public," she tried for a reluctant tone that did not fool him for a moment, "I don't see why you should get out of it!"

She headed to her own tent to change. Her last words floated back to him:

"If this is to be my last night on Thedas, I'll make it one to remember."

---

Loghain made his final inspection of the battlements. He spoke to each of the men - and in response they stood a little taller, their eyes more confident. All his defences were operational. He was particularly pleased with what the Dwarven engineers had come up with in a matter of weeks. The team, led by Dworkin's brother Voldrik, had felled the surrounding trees to build what they called a trebuchet. It was positioned behind the outer wall, its range sufficient to devastate the valley below. Two large mats, thickly woven from branches and saplings, shielded it. Several yards apart, suspended from thick rope, the mats were free to swing under impact. The only part of the war machine visible was the sling arm at the vertical.

Upon the walls themselves were smaller catapults. Loghain walked around them, running his hand along the wood. He turned a questioning gaze to Voldrik.

"Let me show you what we can do," the Dwarf - more sedate than his flamboyant younger brother - said. His gruff tone did not conceal his quiet pride. He gestured to the valley below. The cloudless night and almost-full moon turned the snow into a silver mirror, silhouetting firs that stood out starkly, like black sentinels. "Imagine that solitary tree is an ogre. It's about the catapult's range, I believe. I may be off by a bit, but not by much. Anyhow, watch what happens." He gestured. His grinning, eager crew stepped forward. Everyone else stepped back.

The Dwarves loaded a heavy dart in a sliding trough on the centre beam of the device. While they cranked a windlass, Voldrik pointed out features of the weapon. "The dart rides in that trough in the centre, of course. See how there are three sections to the crosspiece here in front? Now watch how those cords in the two outer sections of the crosspiece frame are tightened by the windlass. The stuff dripping out of the cords is oil: we soak the rope with it. Every few shots we re-oil. The tension squeezes it dry."

The leader of the catapult crew looked to Voldrik expectantly. He nodded. With a small mallet, the Dwarf tapped the upper section of the trigger, causing it to pivot and release the taut cord. The sliding trough leaped down the centrepost track, slamming to a stop. The catapult shivered like some gaunt, furious insect. The thick shafted dart whistled across the intervening space, literally a blur. It struck the tree. The snow atop it leapt into the air, cascaded to the ground. Moments later the sound of the impact reached the wall.

Loghain heard the Warden say, "That noise. Like a butcher's cleaver." No one else spoke. Loghain broke the silence, "How often can you hit a target that small? That's a known distance, and a stationary target."

"Ogres aren't particularly fast. Anything moving we'll hit after two ranging shots at most. We'll destroy any ogre before it can throw more than once."

Loghain grunted approval, adding thoughtfully, "If only we could stabilise them aboard ship. The Orlesian navy would come in for a nasty surprise. One of those darts would open a terrible hole in a hull, sweep away a dozen sailors, weaken a mast so it breaks. This weapon would make our ships the same as heavy cavalry, only seaborne."

Voldrik smiled. "If we survive the darkspawn, you'll have it."

Except for the always-sombre Rylock, the group inspecting the defensive preparations dressed as if for a Winterfest fair. No fair required polished chain mail, however, and weapons - however brightly shining - were never particularly festive. Still, there was colour aplenty. The Warden, as usual, set the pace. She was wearing green suede trousers, bloused above the soft dove-grey boots he had seen before - so pale they almost matched the snow. Her cousin had rescued the red cloak - torn in the fight with the Hurlock General: now it was trimmed and re-stitched as a tunic, so that the emblem of a golden ship was emblazoned across the front. It was cut full, but tucked at the waist, where a wide belt separated it from the trousers. The buckle was polished copper, chased with a stylized mabari's head. The folds formed puffed sleeves that billowed outward like bright sails - or dragon wings. It was a strange costume - no one but the Warden could have worn it successfully - and yet she looked like the incarnation of the roses Celia had loved: prickly, delicate, impractical, studded with sly little thorns of wit. That angular face, delicate and fierce as a hawk's, seemed wholly improbable: the jade earrings and coloured hair-ribbons called to mind a peacock's crest. Her fingers were bedecked with heavy jewelled rings that spelled the words: Grey Wardens. A massive gold bracelet glinted on her wrist; a heavy pendant hung from her neck. Over the entire ensemble, she wore a black leather cloak, its collar turned up. It looked like the illegitimate get of a bat and an Antivan assassin. It was emblazoned on the back with a red appliquéd fox's visage. Two amber discs were the eyes. She wore her red hair - earrings, ribbons and all - tucked inside a rakishly tilted hat. Loghain snorted. The snow wasn't so heavy a person needed a wide-brimmed monstrosity like that. Especially one with a red plume on top.

Wynne had also managed to introduce some variety into her sedate mage's robes. More dignified than the always-flamboyant Warden, her garments seemed to symbolize the spring struggling to break through winter' s cleansing. The sleeves of her woollen outer robe were a buttery yellow, the inset panels of the lower half a rich purple. Her heavy cloak matched the latter. Looking at her - letting his mind's eye stray to memory for a moment of brief indulgence - Loghain almost smiled to remember how closely her outfit matched the crocuses and daffodils that had dotted his family's farmhold.

Together, the group filed downwards, to the courtyard where all the soldiers not on watch assembled. It was a multi-coloured riot of Dalish beads and feathers, Ferelden steel - roughly practical armour glimmering in the snow like fish-scales; weapons bristling like the thorny scrub - the purple sashes of Templars and the coloured robes of the Elven Keepers. The white towers of Ostagar glimmered like Maric's blade under the darkening sky. Amber light spilled from the Chantry tower, gilding the surrounding snow with a golden sheen. The rusty red light of a hundred campfires and the brighter orange of torches formed a cornucopia of colour. Loghain was surprised to see Wynne move to stand next to Rylock - Jowan with Ser Otto. These strange pairings seemed to be more than mages and their keepers. Both pairs looked like two sides of the same coin.

The Orlesian bard was no more - in her place stood a Chantry Sister. Leliana was wearing Chantry robes, overlaid by a voluminous dark cloak. Bright green and violet trim enlivened the sleeves and lower hem. The hood, thrown back, carried identical decoration. Leliana spoke the traditional sermon before a battle:

"We stand here in this hour, good folk of Ferelden, and we contemplate the death that may await. Death is no failure, my friends. Should it find you, you will not have failed your country... you will have served your Maker. Die in this battle and when you stand before the Maker in the land beyond the Fade, He shall not find you wanting. Go not into death gladly, but with the knowledge that evil has been held at bay by your spilled blood. And if you go to stand before the Maker, go with our blessing. You shall not be forgotten. My friends, let us bow our heads and remember those who have fallen and those who have yet to fall."

Rylock and Ser Otto were smiling, completely at peace. Loghain saw Cale Mahariel roll his eyes. Leliana finished in a less orthodox fashion than most:

"And now - some music and dancing!"

The Warden insisted on playing that Maker-damned instrument she had concocted: its high, twangy wailing causing dismay to everyone over the age of twenty. Ravenous added his own howls to the gleeful cacophony. Her fellow Wardens - Alim and the little duster, Sigrun - were cheering wildly. Then she handed it to Alim - who managed to at least get a tune out of it, though it sounded like nothing on Thedas. She gave it to him as a gift. Loghain had thought that would be the worst of it - but no, the Warden stepped forward - with Alim, Sigrun, her fierce red-haired cousin Shianni, the fey little Keeper apprentice Merrill, the ill-gotten assassin Zevran, and Cale - Loghain's nearest rival among the archers - forming a backing band. Merrill played a delicate wooden flute - Zevran an Antivan tambourine, Alim the Warden's invention, Cale a strange, hollow tube, and Sigrun a drum borrowed from the Dalish. The Warden regaled them with a song she had written herself:

...Some people have to learn

Some people wait their turn

Some people have to fight

Some people give their lives

I'm going to cure the taint

Using my research

After Weisshaupt and Montsimmard

Left us in the lurch

If they say I can't do it

I don't give a P

Wardens: saving the world

Since 890 T.E.

I remember when they told me

An Elf couldn't be famous

Now my dreaming and reality

Are simultaneous

I worked my way to the top

If they put me on a pedestal,

They can take me off

Most of my family are doing good

Better than I hope

I'm from Denerim

Where they hang us knife-ears by a rope

She sang the chorus but spoke the words - in a rapid staccato firing Loghain found obnoxious to his ears. All the while she strutted like a bantam - flaunting Maric's blade in the face of the Banns, tossing the salute used by Elven rebels against their overlords, punching the air as she whipped the Elves and Dusters in her audience up into a frenzy of cheers. Loghain glowered.

I'm always pushing myself to the limit

Making sure I stay ahead

You made me who I am

From the words you said

I saw my mother beaten down

By Denerim's guards

They sure didn't know

How to treat a bard

The world is a peach

Us Elves are the pit

That Ferelden's Banns

Spew out with their spit

Us Elves are the pit

Of the succulent peach

The Banns will bite into

And shatter their teeth

I fell off

Back on my feet now

Heading to the sky

Can't even see down

Okay, no-one wants to help

I guess we're on our own

We'll build our foundations

From the stones they throw

In a country at war

True colours show

Change is life

Everybody grows

Some people have to learn

Some people wait their turn

Some people - but not me

I'm Redcliffe's Champion...

At the last - the grand finale - she suddenly threw up her hands, containing tiny sparks. Loghain glanced at Rylock - sure she must object to this blatant use of magic - but to his surprise he found the Templar gazing at the Warden with resigned disapproval. Loghain understood she must have warned her beforehand - and understood when he smelt the curious stench - a hot fog of burning powder - that this wasn't magic at all.

Suddenly the entire area was alive with pyrotechnics fired from all directions. The audience gasped - shrieked - cheered. Colours of red, green, blue, violet and gold soared into the sky. Loghain looked about him - and found Dworkin, folding his arms across his chest triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear. The dwarf saw his look and shouted:

"I thought I'd finally gotten it right! Never trust a man who tells you he likes being surrounded by horse shit. Gotta be something devious about the rascal!"

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. When it did, Loghain's elation drove away all annoyance, all thoughts of failure.

Dworkin might just have saved them from the darkspawn.

More: Loghain realized what this would mean for Orlesian castles - for massed ranks of chevaliers waiting to descend. He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. Celene might try to swallow Ferelden, but they would - as the Warden had put it - shatter her teeth.

Loghain startled everyone - including the Warden - by bursting out with a loud roar of approval. Bryland and Ceorlic - not understanding the significance of the discovery - were looking at him, scandalized. The Warden grinned and bowed with an exaggerated flourish.

The atmosphere was calmed when the Warden's Orlesian mentor took over. Sister Leliana's voice held an elegance and refinement that the Warden's could not match. She sang and played more traditionally - a very different sort of song:

My young love said to me

My mother won't mind

And my father won't slight you

For your lack of kind

And he leaned close beside me

And this he did say

It will not be long love

Till our wedding day

He leaned close beside me

and he moved through the fair

And fondly I watched him

Move here and move there

Then he made his way homeward

Just one star awake

As the swan in the evening

Moves over the lake

I dreamed it last night

My dead love came in

So softly he came

His feet made no din

And he leaned close beside me

And this he did say

It will not be long love

Till our wedding day

Loghain saw the Warden's face was wet with tears. She was absently fingering the plain steel band - etched with a filigree tracing of winged vines - she had worn ever since he had known her. Ser Otto embraced her; she rested her head on his shoulder, swallowing the tears. By the time the Dalish had set up a slow drumbeat - flat, visceral, compelling - she was smiling again. Her companions clustered round her.

The dancing began.

The Warden danced first with Ser Otto: a slow, stately number. Their friendship warmed the movements: at once formal and joyous. Alim danced with Tia - not, Loghain thought, that such intimate moves could really be called "dancing". He was not surprised when they soon disappeared into a tent. The red-bearded dwarf was shaking a limb with the little Duster, Sigrun. The Antivan assassin was dancing with a succession of willing victims: before disappearing with a bevy of admirers of all races and both genders. Cale was dancing with the Warden's cousin. Jowan was dragged to his feet by Merrill - the nervous young man looked like he couldn't believe his luck. Ravenous watched the gathering with indulgent eyes, as if thinking: Two-leggers!

Loghain was just trying to sidle away - suddenly having an urgent need to study his maps - when the Warden caught hold of his arm and pressed a drink into his hand.

"Oh no you don't!"

In another mood, the gesture would have seemed wholly intrusive. Whisky, sadness, the Warden's heart-wrenching resemblances - the charm of Maric, the courage of Gareth, the determination of Rowan, the glory-hunting of Cailan, the greed of Katriel - undid him. He allowed her to lead him back to the courtyard - and danced with Cauthrien to the wild cheers of the men.

There were howls of approval from the Warden's companions when he partnered Wynne next. Flesh-memories of that night of grass and darkness prickled under his skin. Her lyrium-blue eyes were hooded, enigmatic; as full of secret's as a cat's.

"You surprise me, Loghain Mac Tir," the mage laughed, "I would never have suspected you could dance!"

Loghain would never tell her the source of his knowledge - but the memories were warm and rich as the yellow campfires of the rebellion - as the ripe wheat fields of a grim, hard youth that now showed to him as golden. They filled him as he unbent to dance with the Warden...lost in a distance of memories, seeing not her but Rowan: her muscular body pressed against his - Maric's grasp as they danced arm-in-arm as only comrades-in-arms could.

Then she awkwardly stumbled and he unthinkingly put out a hand to catch her as he would have steadied Rowan. The difference in height between the human warrior woman and the Elven street rat meant that his grab for Rowan's shoulder reached over her head, and she knocked against his chest. Staggering, practically embracing the young woman, he leapt back as if she had burned him. Someone guffawed. The slapstick moment turned an experience and values that to him were sacred into crude comedy. The image of Rowan melted away: he saw before him a red-haired imposter.

Loghain did not find Elven women remotely attractive. Oh, they were beautiful - in the way a flower or a graceful feline could be beautiful - but they had none of the strength and earthiness he considered womanly. He saw again the pair of slanted green eyes - a creature small and lithe and shy; a creature cunning, feral, sly - that had ended those dances. The degrading way Maric had carried on had inculcated a lifelong distaste for Elven-human pairings: he looked at the scrawny Warden with feathered plume and frivolous braids and thought - what's wrong with this picture...

And he saw himself reflected no more charitably in the Warden's eyes. Embarrassment had already morphed into something darker: the rawness of memories too harsh to be shared. He knew how she had been conscripted, and realised she had been reliving the Alienage wedding dance that should have been. He saw himself in her eyes: overpoweringly large, the crude physicality of human men like a smell of sweat, the naked threat in their assumption of their "rights" with Elven women. It did not matter that Loghain had never forced himself on a woman and never would: he and Rendon Howe had been - as she had put it - "the chevaliers of the Alienage".

Sacred memories had played in her eyes, too, like light on water, now disturbed by a thrown stone. Her eyes said: what's wrong with this picture?

But their shared experiences and shared losses spoke together without them knowing. They looked at each other and made a silent pact to carry on the dance for the benefit of their soldiers, who were cheering wildly, morale raised sky-high. Their eyes met: Loghain looking downward at her for the first time; the Warden gazing upward - in a shared moment of humour at the realization they had very little idea how to do this. The rhythm of Maric's Waltz would not work with the Warden: she did not know the steps, and was too light to counterbalance him. She smiled - daring once more - and began the steps to a dance Loghain was shocked to find he recognized. The half-slapstick, half-meaningful harvest dance Ferelden's farmers performed: all innuendo and lightness. The Elves - who also valued life, family and traditions - knew it too.

First cautiously: her hands forgiving, making allowances for Loghain's un-Elven height and broad build, always a little off where an Elven man would have met her...Loghain making the same adjustment. Then playfully: the Warden snatched her hand away - a maiden caught in indiscretion - and Loghain followed like the traditional Ferelden bull (the soldiers howled with laughter; the Banns and Shianni wore identical expressions of pinched disapproval). Then joyfully: with the realization that the height-weight difference gave them more scope for dramatic flourishes than dancing with their own kind did.

The Warden's approaching fate exerted a kind of gravity, like dark chains weighting her to the earth. In answer Loghain lifted her high - a bird alighted upon the branches of an old, gnarled oak - wings spread and eager head raised. It was a defiance of gravity of the most beautifully direct kind: the closest thing to flight that he could give her. The Warden raised her arms like a flaming cross, trusting him completely as she had trusted him during the campaign. Like a cut rose, blooming and dying all at once, she held nothing back: no strength or hope or life reserved for growth, for roots, for children...all those options ended, truncated, surgically excised the moment she drank of the Joining cup. And, like the sheared-off cutting, she bloomed all the more spectacularly, the faint bitterness of taint beneath the scented skin only adding to the wild, outrageous beauty.

At last he lowered her and she alighted gracefully upon the snow - more balanced and sure of herself than she could have been on her own. There were hints of almost every emotion on her flushed, radiant face: buds of sensitivity and delicacy and passion. Her amber eyes, encircled by a ring of shadow, were uplifted; their dancing lights half-hidden by lustrous darkness.

When he finally let go, her gaze clung for a moment, suddenly uncertain. One corner of her mouth quirked upward in the nascence of a sheepish smile. She stumbled - awkward as Maric - and made a rather gawky curtsey, looking like an injured heron. He made her a formal bow - to the delighted screams of the watching crowd.

The Warden seemed reluctant to meet his eyes again. The shared mood clung for a moment, then she quietly turned and headed away. It was clear she would not dance again this night.

He took her final glance with him. The Warden had always been beautiful, but there had been a certain insolent quality in it: a hard-edged curl of the mouth, a greedy glint in the eyes, a crassness of expression that showed her Alienage background beneath the songs and dreams - as though the shadow of a woman like Katriel hovered over her but had not yet settled. The closeness of impending death - the honour and sacrifice of a soldier - had touched and refined that face, bringing out delicate modellings and purity of outline never before seen; doing what life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have done.

Loghain, watching as she made her way under the light of a single brilliant star, saw the face the Maker had meant the Warden to have, and remembered it so always.

---

Riordan returned to the armies of Redcliffe just after sundown, and spent long hours telling Alistair more truths than he could bear; more than he had ever asked to know. Of the fates of Duncan and Mother Boann…of Rilian's research…of her intention to go off into the long night without Morrigan to save her. He gave Rilian's last letter into Alistair's hands.

Once, the horror that had happened to Duncan would have deepened Alistair's hatred of Loghain into something tangible as taint. Now, knowing what he did of Cailan's and Eamon's roles in the tragedy, he merely felt numb. Bitterly, he told himself he deserved Loghain. They were both traitors.

Morrigan's Ritual - battling with Loghain rather than the darkspawn - how would Duncan have reacted to those goals?

Would a true Warden need to ask himself the question?

Alistair realized all was silence around him. Only the laughing flutter of the campfire and the heavy whisper of Riordan's leather armour as he rose and left them - heading towards Gherlen's Pass and a reckoning with the Orlesian Wardens - made sound.

Alistair got up - shuffled to the makeshift stables where the horses were tethered. The comforting sights and sounds and smells brought back his childhood.

If saving Rilian had been his only motive for the Ritual, he might still have some self-respect left.

…"You're drunk," Morrigan sighed disapprovingly, as she found him in his softly-lit tent.

"Leave me alone."

She knelt in front of him, strange yellow tiger's eyes on a level with his. Alistair was thinking of Rilian's incomprehensible betrayal at the Landsmeet - and of Riordan's truth.

He thrust a glass of brandy into Morrigan's hand.

The torchlight got too bright for him, after a while. Morrigan's face seemed to be made from cut glass. He couldn't stop flinching at the brilliance of her skin and teeth.

Morrigan pressed close to him and whispered, "You know that I can save her, Alistair, don't you?"

No amount of drunkenness was sufficient, it seemed, even though all breathable air now filtered through Antivan brandy. He stared at her hand in his: alabaster skin, a fine tracing of blue veins, pale, hard nails. She leaned closer. The warmth and spices of the brandy on her breath mingled with her scent of damp earth and rain and steel.

All Alistair's thoughts gathered, formed into their inevitable shape. He felt it as the end of a breath he had been exhaling since the result of the Landsmeet. Now was the moment of non-time between the end of this breath and the beginning of the next. Here, in the privacy of his tent, Morrigan was nothing more than a shadow to him. Not a person at all. It was pure space, unoccupied, waiting for his decision.

"Saving Rilian is not an excuse," he whispered.

"There's never an excuse for betrayal."

It came to him, then, what he was doing - and why. He saw Rilian's amber eyes, watching him. To embrace Morrigan at all there had to be some violently willed blindness. So he blinded the image of Rilian and kissed her, hungrily.

At first, as if simply to shatter his expectations, she seemed dull to it; there was no onslaught. They kissed, sometimes with bumped teeth or wrongly angled heads, for some time. Then broke apart.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered, "Do you love Rilian - or hate her?"

His voice in the dark to her. She sat astride him, the Chasind rags, the beads and feathers, tumbled about her as when she shifted forms.

"Flemeth taught me never to ask questions."

She had gone slowly, he realized, because she wanted him sober. She wanted him aware of what he was doing. She wanted maximum culpability for them both. All of it was a punishment for something - for what, he did not know. For letting herself love Rilian?

"Is this for power?" he asked her, though her reasons meant nothing to him, though it was just his mouth making noise.

"Of course. Of course it is. Shut up."

Then the clarity of consciousness as they moved through the dance of betrayal; the creation of some alien child and its unknown future. The thrill of her long, sinuous body rising above him like a snake. The bliss of her weight on him. Long periods of silence, protracted kissing. Staring at each other in the dark.

Then it was over. Her silence; his own somnambulistic dressing.

"And now?" he whispered. His voice was raw as if he had been weeping.

"Now you will travel to Redcliffe and I will await her arrival from Denerim. We will not see each other again; and you must not follow. Ever."

"And after the battle?" Alistair asked softly, "Where will you go?"

Morrigan's laughter rocked through the twilight. Alistair winced at the sound. There was departure in it, a resigned melancholy that made him think of endless roads, of campfires abandoned and gone cold.

Uncaring of her nakedness, her moon-pale body glistening in the soft candlelight, Morrigan moved to the tent flap. Shadows and light played about her form: Alistair saw hard planes, softness, hollow and swell; hair like black fire and eyes like candleflames, with darkness at their centres. Her body rippled and shifted, undulating as her spirit tore itself from its mortal frame. Her hawk form soared upward with a harsh, ascending cry. Wings stiff, she banked, stooped. Pumping once, she increased speed. The last Alistair saw of her, she was dropping down on some unsuspecting prey. Awed, he felt her arrogant pity for all trapped, earthbound creatures. A moment later, she became just a tiny speck against the glowing violet sky…

Quickly, like a man ripping off a bandage fast, to get the pain over with, Alistair opened Rilian's letter. It was written in haste: her big, bold scrawl summoning her very spirit:

…Alistair, of all the decisions I have made, the one at the Landsmeet was the hardest. The choice to face Urthemiel is easy by comparison. I was a dead woman the day Duncan conscripted me: fated to rot in Fort Drakon until my execution. What adventures we have known since, and what wonders I have seen! I know that I am going to the Maker's side - I also know that death can only separate us once. When your Calling comes, I shall see you again. I can see you very clearly: coming down the path to Cyrion's house. I ignore the tutting of Aunt Elva and rush to meet you. You take me in your arms; I blend my body to the hammering beat of your heart. Feel myself lifted and cherished.

Loved…

The fires dotted around camp were cold and dead by the time Alistair slumped over on his side, upon the straw. Fretful, the horses whinnied and shuffled, unable to rest while the unaccustomed sounds came from their human master. They had never heard him cry.

When he slept at last, Dauntless sighed relief. The horse nuzzled him, seeking contact. It was the only way the animal knew to reassure them both.

---

Morrigan pounded through the wet powdery whiteness of the snow, its feathery flakes cold and sweet on fur and tongue. Though she was already far from camp, her head was still filled with the human odours: the bodies of many different people, their hair, their sweat…the pungent tang of horse manure…smoked boar cooking over a fire…the noisome hot crackle of black powder…leather and woodsmoke. She smelled the snow, cold spruce needles, river ice, and open, moving water, and she caught a whiff - a delicious, tickling whiff - of a nearby hare. Where was it?

Running as a wolf was very easy. Morrigan leapt over snow and ice and scrub as easily as if she were flying. The scent of the hare filled her mouth with saliva. On a high bank overlooking the Frostback River, she stopped. She smelled the stale odour of the human scouts who had passed this way recently: sour and threatening. Morrigan marked the place with a scat and looked at it with quiet satisfaction. I am here, the scat said, let those who pass this way know it and take care.

Softly, Morrigan began to sing. Starting high, her perfect note grew loud, lasted long, and finally fell: a great stirring cry that sent a shock of pleasure though her. With all her heart, and all the breath in her lungs, she joyously threw her voice out into the night, rising and falling. Shivering with delight, she sang louder than ever, sending her voice through the width of the sky, up to the almost-moon, out to the far corners of the valley where her echoes rang!

The joy of singing cleared her mind completely of her human thoughts: the loss of her Elven packsister now only a background ache. In fact, when the song was over, she felt so pleased with herself she gave a yip of excitement and wagged her tail, running and bounding in playful circles.

But as she began to lope along the river, following it to the ice-covered mountains, she stopped in her tracks. Her fur prickled along her shoulderblades and her eyes stretched wide. Far away, she heard the voices of other wolves, also singing. Their calls could only mean they had heard her, and wanted her to hear them. She held her breath, listening. A deep male voice - a low female voice - several younger males and females. A youngster. The singers were many and strong. Their song was a warning.

All Morrigan's forms - the wolf, the hawk, the cat, the human - had one thing in common: they were alone. No pack sheltered her. The halfbreed offspring of a union between dragon and man, she was forever a stranger in a strange land. Except - now her belly felt the first stirrings of life. A child who would never have the power she had sought but who, nonetheless, carried her blood, her heritage, her magic. Had her Elven sister been right: had she gained more than she had lost?

Well, the strong pack was in the south-east, nestled within the marshgrasses near the place she had once called home. Her hackles up, Morrigan headed south-west. There, on a frozen grass tussock, she carefully placed marks of urine, nosed the marks, and marked again. It looked as though four had marked here: something those other wolves might think about if they ever came this far!

With that Morrigan turned her mind to hunting. The trail of the hare was long gone, so she ran loping towards the foothills of the Frostbacks. The myriad scents washed through her, helping her pick her way in the moonlight. Low to the earth among the small, sparse shrubs, she sniffed questioningly. The silver moon shone on white snow. She ran on.

By dawn she found herself on the western shore of a frozen lake. Far out on the wide stretch of snowy ice, between the pink moon setting in the west and the red light gathering in the east, she smelled something new - and strong.

A carrion flavour - heavy and rotten. Darkspawn! Many darkspawn. Morrigan whined softly, flattened herself in the scrub. The human part of her understood the significance. Darkspawn heading northward, towards the fortress, would come upon her human allies unexpectedly - ruin the trap that had been set! The human armies would be attacked on both sides. She stopped, ears cocked, considering. She could become a hawk and warn them.

But what difference would it make? The only one among them she cared about was her Elven sister - and Rilian had already doomed herself. Whether Morrigan returned or not would make no difference. What loyalty did she hold for the others? Words like "duty" - "service" - "patriotism" were artificial constructs designed to lull the weak into serving the strong. Memories of the days travelling Ferelden, fighting alongside her strange companions, rose like golden bubbles: beautiful, ephemeral. They were popped by pragmatism. Love and friendship had conspired to break her, make her weak; she threw them off like unwanted chains. Love had no meaning. Survival had meaning. Power had meaning. So Flemeth had taught her, not out of affection but in the manner of an older self to a younger self. Morrigan would do what was needed, by whatever means necessary. Not for the world, but for herself and her seed.

Song inspirations were:

Rilian And Alistair: Eminem ft Rihanna - Love The Way You Lie

Morrigan and Rilian: Madonna - Love Tried To Welcome Me

Morrigan the Wolf: Florence and the Machine - Howl

The Night's Celebrations: Chipmunk ft Chris Brown - Champion

The Last Dance: Fairport Convention - She Moved Through The Fair

Rilian's song during the night's celebrations is Champion, by Chipmunk ft Chris Brown (with some alterations by me, Melanie Rawn and Arsinoe!) - I can so see her strutting her stuff to this, flaunting Maric's blade in the face of the Banns... : ) Leliana's is She Moved Through The Fair (I like Sandy Denny's version).

The moment where Loghain dances with Rilian owes everything to icey cold's wonderful Interlude X: Maric's Waltz, from Trovommi Amor. Maric teaching Loghain to dance will forever be canon for me now :)

I have always found the Dark Ritual to be one of the most near-the-knuckle elements of DAO. Morrigan's explanation that the child at this early stage does not have a soul to clash with the Archdemon's carries echoes of RL debates over abortion and designer babies. Morrigan seems to be going with self-awareness as the key - therefore I don't think she'd have a problem with conceiving the child the day Alistair left the Landsmeet (the dark rumours in Chapter Ten) and waiting till now to make the offer. The child would still be in its first trimester. With her Alienage culture and orthodox Andrastean beliefs, I don't think Ril could see the Ritual as anything other than evil. She might be tempted to save her own life (who wouldn't be!) but her beliefs and her rage over Alistair and Morrigan's betrayal would give her the strength to resist. Morrigan will take her untainted child to Orlais, where the Empress will be only too happy to groom a child of Maric's bloodline as heir to Ferelden.