~ Alistair ~

"To seeing the light of tomorrow's day!"

"Fuck that - to seeing the opening of another pair of legs!"

Hearty laughter and a raucous cheer lifted from the Wardens' fire. Alistair's cheeks heated, and he raised his cup with what he hoped was a lecherous grin. The keg of ale was emptied in short order, the mugs returned to individual packs, weapons prepared, armor fastened. All that was needed was their commander, who'd gone to speak once more with the king before the battle began.

Carver returned from his quick errand, his eyes hooded, tension written in the set of his shoulders.

"Doing okay?" Alistair asked, concerned for the boy. He'd just gone to tell his sister of his Joining. Alistair had nearly winced when he'd heard that - she hadn't known of his decision? Maker, what if the lad had died? He'd have been gone without a trace, and his family would never have known what happened to him. Had Carver's choice to join the Wardens really been that rash?

"Fine," Carver said, his voice quick and casual, gaze flicking to Cousland. The noble warrior looked bored, leaning against one of the graveled pillars surrounding their campfire. The sole of one foot rested against the stone, his hands tucked behind his back, head lolling against the rock.

Duncan appeared then with their orders. Alistair waved a come-hither gesture at Cousland, who sighed loudly and pushed off from the granite. It seemed fairly standard - Duncan assigned out the usual companies to their expected places. Men began to break away from the fire, the sound of rough leather boots mingling with the crackling flames. Within moments, the only ones left were Alistair, Duncan and the new junior Wardens.

Duncan drew a deep breath, his dark skin taking on a golden glow in the light of the flames. "King Cailan has requested that the three of you light the beacon in Tower Ishal."

"What?" Alistair was surprised. "But - the battle-"

"Do you always question your betters?" Cousland's chin lifted in silent challenge. He quirked a brow, staring down his cultured nose at Alistair. After a few seconds during which Alistair mostly sputtered, Cousland turned back to Duncan. "Inform his majesty that we will carry out his orders, and without delay."

Duncan dipped his chin, acknowledging Aedan's words, and Alistair very nearly growled. Insufferable, that's what the man was. Mouth snapping shut, he looked away, irritated. He'd hoped to remain by Duncan's side, but now he had to babysit. Wonderful.

Duncan said a few more words about when the beacon should be lit and how urgent their assignment was. Cousland ate it up, swearing they would complete the errand to perfection. Boot licker. Alistair's disgust was growing. Cousland hadn't been nearly so agreeable around him, or even with Duncan. But bring royalty into it and the man was falling all over himself.

"Afterward, can we join the battle?" Carver's fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, cerulean eyes almost begging. The lad had come from Cailan's own regiment. He probably thought he'd be seeing more battle as a Warden, not less, Alistair realized. Poor sod. There'll be more than enough before this is over.

"If things go according to plan, there will be no need," Duncan said. "Loghain's men will be more than a match for the remaining darkspawn, and there will be little left to do. But I will leave it to Alistair's judgement. Do what you think seems best."

Cousland's glance slid sideways, sizing up his competition for leadership. Alistair shifted uncomfortably beneath the scrutinizing glare, feeling rather like an insect beneath glass.

"Go now, and Maker speed your way," Duncan said. Carver and Cousland crossed their arms over their chests, bowing in acknowledgement of their commander. Alistair stepped quickly after him, putting a bit of distance between himself and the others before closing one hand around Duncan's arm. The Warden turned, forehead crinkling as he realized Alistair had followed him away.

"Duncan... I don't like it," Alistair began, shaking his head, his mouth thinning. "Send Aedan and Carver to light the beacon - let me come with you."

"There are men enough, Alistair. The king's orders are given. His concern seems mostly to be for our... newest members," Duncan said, graveled voice firm. The senior Warden's eyes locked with his own, mute command shining from within.

"But - but why must I accompany them?"

"Cailan ordered it. That should be reason enough," Duncan said. "He specifically wanted me to send you with the new recruits to light the beacon."

"Cailan," Alistair snipped. "The royal nincompoop. You know, the only reason people listen to him at all is he's the king."

Duncan said nothing, lips pursing as he waited.

Alistair groaned, his eyes rolling heavenward as his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine... but if Cailan asks me to don a dress and dance the Remigold I'm drawing the line."

Rather than the exasperated sigh he'd expected from his mentor, a trace of a smile touched his lips, and Duncan held out a hand for Alistair to clasp. "Maker watch over you, my boy."

Alistair's eyes followed Duncan as the warrior strode away toward the battlefield. His stomach was doing flips over the upcoming battle - though not for himself. His assignment was all too easy - run up a thousand steps and light a fire. He supposed it only made sense to keep the newest Wardens out of it - They don't know any of the formations, any of the drills, Alistair thought as he kicked at a tuft of grass. They'd be fodder. But Andraste's flaming sword, how many Wardens does it take to throw a torch in a tinder pile?

Cousland had sauntered off to the armorer as soon as Duncan made his exit, claiming he needed to have some bit of his chainmail seen to before they left. For all his insistence that they would complete the task without delay, he seemed to have no problem making them wait while a bent buckle was straightened. They were, for all intents and purposes, stuck until the ass decided they were ready to go. Though if he took much longer, Alistair planned on dragging him bodily away from the armorer's tent. Sounds of battle were already beginning in the valley below, and he was starting to get anxious.

A bit of gleam on the ground snagged Alistair's eye as he kicked at the turf. He knelt, finding the source of his interest - a rough white stone, with pink veined lines running through it. It glittered somewhat in the light, and he turned it, admiring the unique opalescence. For no other reason than that it was beautiful, he tucked it into his pouch. Silly impulse, perhaps, but he liked naturally beautiful things. They were rare, special - worth saving in a world filled with ugliness and hatred. Carver looked on in silence, seeming to find nothing odd about Alistair taking a rock with him into battle.

"So... um." Carver shuffled over to him. "Cousland seems... um..."

"Like a git?"

"Oh, thank the Maker," Carver laughed. "I can't stand the son-of-a-bitch."

"You and me both," Alistair grinned. It faded a moment later as he thought of Daveth and Jory. It could have been worse, he supposed - Carver might not have shown up, and then the only survivor would have been Cousland. Horrible thought. "So, um, your fighting style - you worked with your sister to develop it?" Alistair asked, searching for some topic of conversation that didn't revolve around Cousland. If he could help it, he wanted to think about the man as little as possible.

"Marian and I trained together," Carver agreed. "She's a right genius with a bow, and no slouch with her daggers either."

"Must have been nice, having a sister who'd work with you like that... Was it just the two of you, or..." Alistair found himself hungry for this simple information. Carver had grown up in the way he'd always wished to - with a family, siblings, parents. Peter had understood his fascination with what might be considered a normal childhood, and been more than generous with his stories of home.

"Oh, no, we have another sister - my twin actually. Bethany's her name. She isn't a fighter though, she's a-" Carver cut himself off, a flash of apprehension brightening those blue eyes for a moment before his face stilled once more. "-a brat," he finished. "She never wanted to learn weaponry."

"It's a touch more rare for women," Alistair said, wondering at the lad's hesitation. "Two sisters, huh? What was that like?"

Carver snorted. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

They spent a few more minutes in idle conversation - Carver told him of his family in Lothering, and Alistair confessed to his history as a templar-in-training. The same flash of apprehension skittered over Carver's face when this was mentioned, though it was gone again so quickly that Alistair wondered if he'd imagined it.

The night sky roiled with grays, oranges and purples, a frigid, angry wind whipping stray leaves and bits of bracken across the ground. The smell of sleet was thick, and Alistair shivered. Hopefully movement would warm him up. He was on the brink of bawling Cousland out for taking so long when the man finally appeared, buckle intact, his armor gleaming. Maker's sake, had the ass gotten it polished? He marched past them, barely sparing a backward glance as he called.

"Did you need a gilded invitation? Let us be off! The Tower won't wait."

"Maker, I think I really hate him," Alistair muttered, earning a smirk from Carver.

The bridge across the canyon was busy, trafficked with archers lined up along the edge of the waist-high wall. Behind the stone ramparts, the bow-wielders took aim, drew back and fired, loosing their shafts into the murky black of the field below. Alistair tracked one such bolt as it was lost in the darkness - the horde was a writhing mass, individuals indistinguishable. He wondered - in his golden armor, would Cailan stand out like a beacon? Could he find Duncan, a shining bit of white in the sea of -

"My sister's likely here somewhere," Carver murmured. "She'd be with the - Maker, help me! LOOK OUT! MARIAN!"

Not twenty feet from where they stood, a small form sent arrow after arrow from her bow, drawing with the ease of expert marksmanship. At Carver's bellow, her head snapped toward them, and Alistair's breath caught as he realized it was the girl he'd caught Peter talking with - this was Carver's sister? The most vivid pair of blue eyes he'd ever seen - aside from her brother's, of course - gazed back at them. Why hadn't he realized she was related to Carver? The eyes were unforgettable; he should have known. He found himself mesmerized - he slowed, his gaze raking the short black locks, raven-tips just barely peeking from beneath a cowled hood. Her face, though shadowed, was exquisite - the family resemblance was immediately obvious. She was smaller than her brother, feminine, her movements graceful as a young doe. Plump pink lips parted as she breathed, showing the edge of straight, white teeth. Rosy cheeks, softer than a flower - or, at least, so he imagined-

Something hurtled past him, a silver flash, and Marian's sapphire eyes widened in dismay as she turned to see the boulder hurtling toward the bridge - aimed for the spot where she stood. Alistair's heart leapt to his throat as he realized she had just seconds to live.

"No-" he cried, echoing Carver, whose face had gone slack with fear. Neither of them noticed Cousland's mad sprint until the man tumbled into her, spinning them both end over end from the missile's path.

An explosion of rubble and debris cascaded around Marian and Cousland, the impact enough to deafen the two Wardens who rocked back, throwing up their hands to shield themselves from shrapnel. Coughing, they straightened, waiting with baited breath for the dust to settle. Had they cleared in time? Was it possible Aedan had snatched her from death's icy threat?

Movement, and a choked sob slipped from Carver's lips as the forms of his sister and their fellow grew visible through the silty atmosphere.

Cousland left Marian's side almost as soon as they could see, and came running toward them, annoyance plastered over his handsome face. "Don't just stand there - let's move!" he shouted, and without another word he took off across the bridge once more. Alistair paused, his eyes darting toward the maiden who was struggling to her feet. She seemed unhurt, so with a certain amount of reluctance he chased after Cousland and Carver, wishing they could take a moment to make certain she was fine.

"Your sister's a real pain in the ass, Carver," Cousland snapped. "This is the second time I've tangled with her today - she was spying on a royal strategy meeting earlier."

"Marian wouldn't do that!" Carver retorted. "What in the void would give you that idea?"

"The fact that she was perched on a wall, right above Cailan's head? Why else would someone choose that spot?"

"She likes to climb," Carver muttered. "She was probably looking for something."

"And what was your problem?" Cousland glared back at Alistair. "You were closest to her. Didn't you see the damned rock?"

Alistair swallowed. No, he hadn't... he'd been too caught up in her eyes. As much as it galled him, he had reason to be grateful to the ornery son-of-a-bitch. Whatever else Cousland might be, he was fast - especially for a warrior. Had he not moved when he did, Marian Hawke would be nothing but a smear over the grimy stones.

He threw a last glance over his shoulder, seeking one last look at her before he never saw her again. Like the stone he'd slipped into his pouch, Marian Hawke was a bit of beauty in an awful world - a wild rose surrounded by death and darkness. He'd keep the memory of her face as a treasure, something bright to think of as he tried to avoid the blightmares that plagued all Grey Wardens as they slept. Her small form was prone, huddled in the dust, but her head had turned in their direction, the rich blue eyes focused on their fleeing figures... on me? No, most likely she was watching her brother... but Alistair's heart picked up at the anguish in those eyes. How he wished he could gather her up, murmur soft words of comfort, shield her from the evils of the world...

A stone turned beneath his foot, nearly spilling him to the ground. Cousland barked at him, and Alistair shook himself, focusing on their task. Time enough to remember her face later on.

It isn't as if I'll see her again...

It wasn't likely that any of them would see her again.

Alistair opened his eyes to the sight of packed straw and wattle. Smoke filled his nostrils, and every sense he possessed twanged into high alert. Blood singing with the feel of magic, he bolted upright, then yelped when he discovered himself to be naked, covered only by a thin blanket. His fingers snatched at the fabric, curling it upward around his chest.

"Maker's ass-"

He was cut off by the sound of a throaty chuckle, and ice chased through his veins. The witch!

She sashayed toward him, yellow eyes highly amused at his discomfort. "Is the templar somewhat defenseless at the moment? Oh, how my heart weeps for you-"

"Morrigan," he gasped. "Where's my armor? My sword? My shield? Where's Carver and Aedan?"

"Calm yourself," she drawled, unimpressed with his demands. "Your friends are just there-" she gestured vaguely, and Alistair saw the others stretched out on nearby pallets. Both were sleeping, faces peaceful, untouched by the worry he felt.

"What - why-"

"Healing is easier when we can see all of your wounds," she shrugged. "Don't assume we had any desire to view you in all your... glory." She dragged her lips over the word, a teasing glint reflecting as she reveled in his embarrassment.

Blood rushed to Alistair's cheeks... We? Andraste's ass, that meant Morrigan's mother had seen him as well. Inwardly, he groaned. He'd yet to meet the woman, but from what Cousland had said she sounded positively... witchy.

"That one..." Morrigan flicked a glance at Carver. "He intrigues me. He cannot be much more than a boy... he has an innocence."

"Planning on making him your next meal?" Baiting a witch of the Wilds was probably one of the stupider things Alistair could do, but something about Morrigan brought this side out of him. She huffed at him, then stalked from the hut, saying something about how his things were in the trunk by the door. Once the door closed behind her, he threw back the blanket and hurried to dress, wanting out of the rude dwelling as soon as possible. Apostates from the Korcari Wilds... what next?

Next, one of them came with them.

After a... colorful bit of dialogue with Flemeth, Cousland had been convinced to accept the sexy witch into their group. Alistair was certain it was the worst idea anyone had come up with since he'd let Duncan talk him into staying off the battlefield. Perhaps if he'd been there, things would have been different. Deep down, he knew if being at Duncan's side would have meant certain death for him as well - his mentor had saved his life by sending him with Cousland and Carver. His eyes still smarted, the lump in his throat hard to breathe past.

The battle lost, the Wardens dead, Cailan abandoned on the field, Duncan left to his blood-soaked fate... and I am now Ferelden's senior Warden. In the middle of a Maker-be-damned blight. Could this possibly get worse?

Alistair shook himself, getting a grip on his emotions. Perhaps later, when Cousland wasn't quite so around, he could indulge in the despair he felt over Duncan's death. In the terror that filled him when he thought of taking on a position of leadership. In the anger that boiled his blood when he remembered hearing that Loghain had quit the field.

And they call me a bastard, Alistair thought, rage tamping back the sadness for a hot moment. If it was his last action as a Warden, he'd see Loghain dead. This I swear, Duncan, he vowed. I won't let you down.

The moon was on the rise when they approached the edge of the woods. Carver was stumbling, and even Cousland seemed to flag, their long day and the fatigue of speed-healing catching up with them.

"Let's find a spot to camp," the man ordered. "We'll rest before going on-"

"Darkspawn!" Alistair cried, feeling the familiar wave of sensation flutter his stomach. Why hadn't he sensed them earlier? There were... a lot... and they were... seconds away... He shot a frantic glance at Morrigan. "I thought you said you could get us around the horde!"

"This isn't the horde, dolt," Morrigan snarled back, her staff spinning into her hands. "Less than thirty - the horde is miles from here!"

"Oh good, because we can handle thirty," Alistair griped. "I hope youcan use that staff!"

Carver paled, but he gripped his sword in capable hands, automatically backing toward Alistair. Cousland did something similar, the three of them clumping into a triangle of defense. Morrigan took up a position nearby, the thickness of the magic she drew sparking Alistair's blood. Seconds later the clearing filled with howling darkspawn, slavering as they rushed forward. Alistair attempted to count, but there were so many-

A percussion of arrows thrummed from the trees above, quicker than Alistair would have thought possible. The bolts slid through throats, chests, pierced tough hide and dripped welling ichor. Barely a minute passed before the last of them fell with a sharp thunk, the arrow embedded between the wild eyes of a genlock. Between their blades, Morrigan's magic and their unseen savior, thirty darkspawn had been nothing.

Alistair panted, his heart racing, the sword dipping in his trembling hand. He pulled a rag from his pouch and cleaned the darkspawn blood from his blade before sheathing it, nodding approval at Carver, who did the same. Cousland, however, walked to a tree and peered into the leaves.

"You can come down now," he said, and Alistair snapped his gaze upward, breath catching when Marian Hawke curled down out of the branches!

One arm was clutched to her side, but even thus hindered, her movements were feather-light, and easy - with one hand, she made tree-climbing look like a walk in the park. Cousland seemed vastly amused by her refusal to meet his gaze, and gave a half chuckle as she landed on the ground, boots muffled by the thick moss that grew around the tree's base.

"Why is it I always find you in the strangest places?"

"Carver," she called, ignoring Cousland. Her voice was breathy, relieved - and Carver rushed to her, the two of them gripping each other in a tight hug before she forced him back, her gaze raking his lanky frame. A moment later her eyes lidded, and she trembled as Carver's arms surrounded her once more.

"I was so worried," she murmured, the words barely audible. "You're safe."

"I am," he nodded. "Thanks to Morrigan and her mother. Otherwise..."

She shook her head, whispering something too softly for Alistair to make out. Her words mattered little to him at the moment... seeing her again was doing strange things to his heart.

The face he'd seen from a distance and known to be beautiful was far more than that - now that he could see her up close, he wondered how he'd ever halted at the thought beautiful.

Her nose was long and straight, her cheeks softly curved, perfectly formed to fit a man's palm. Thick lashes framed her vibrant eyes, a gorgeous contrast to the azure sparkle. Her cheeks were still rosy, but up close he could see just how creamy her skin was, moon-kissed by the softly banding light drowsing through the trees.

Alistair swallowed.

Carver's eyes narrowed then, his fingers rising to touch a spot on her shoulder, and for the first time Alistair tore his eyes from her face to see that she was hurt. Badly, if the spreading stain was any indication. She'd fought - with a wound? She clasped her brother's hand, moving it from her injured shoulder, protesting in a voice soft and musical.

Carver growled at her, swatting her hand away and beginning to remove the overtunic. Cousland stepped forward to help, and Alistair nearly choked when the two of them yanked the tunic to her waist, exposing her skin, her stomach, her... Eyes flashing wide, he jerked his head away, focusing on the leafy carpet.

"Shades, she's wearing smallclothes. Go and help, nitwit," Morrigan hissed. "Hold her shoulders."

His mouth dry as sawdust, Alistair scurried to stand behind Marian, fumbling his gloves off and throwing them to the ground. After a moment of hesitation, he clasped the ivory shoulders, his heart speeding to feel the silken softness of her skin beneath his callouses.

"There's still a portion of the tip lodged within," Cousland murmured, his voice surprisingly sympathetic - shocking, that the ass would have it in him. His eyes darted to Alistair's, and the two of them nodded, grim with the knowledge of what was coming next. It would have to come out.

Carver clutched her hand as the three of them guided her down to the ground, Marian's eyes slipping shut as they settled on the forest floor. She was no stranger to battle - Alistair could tell, she, too, knew what was about to happen. She inhaled, all stoicism as the air left her lungs in a preparatory breath.

"Alistair, hold her arms. Carver, I'll need your dagger," Cousland mused.

With somewhat less hesitation this time, Alistair slid his arms through hers, effectively holding her from jerking and making the wound worse. When one of her hands curled around his arm in response, the beat of his heart grew so strident it echoed in his ears. Ebony hair brushed his chin as her head swiveled... she was just so close. Her scent - beneath the blood and sweat, there was something different about her. Something... female. Sweet, earthy. Vacillating waves of hot and cold washed over him, but the flush of heat ended when Cousland dug the blade into her chest.

Marian gasped, the low cry slipping between lips that clearly had no desire to give one up. Alistair's eyes shut, beads of sweat breaking out on his own forehead as he listened to her harsh breathing, to the scrape of metal against metal as Cousland's dagger just missed the arrowhead. Faint nausea rose in his stomach as another sob sounded, and he nearly cried out himself at the pain he knew she must be feeling. Carver yelped just then, and Alistair realized she was squeezing his hand with enough pressure to turn his fingers purple.

She bore up well enough, braver than most of the soldiers Alistair had seen take similar treatment. Cousland was not the most gentle chirurgeon he'd ever witnessed, though he seemed to be working for speed rather than delicacy. A few seconds more, and the notched tip of an arrowhead dropped into Marian's lap.

"Bandages," Cousland muttered, and Morrigan appeared behind him with a torn section of blanket from someone's pack. With his luck, it was from Alistair's own - not that he cared, not if it would help her. Blood streamed from the aggravated wound, and Marian sagged against him, her soft form nestled into his chest.

He drew his arms away, then dared to wrap them about her, lifting her slightly to allow Morrigan and Cousland to bandage her properly. Carver, meanwhile, spread blankets, and Alistair found he didn't really mind holding her while things were prepared. All too soon, he laid her in the soft nest her brother had made, saddened by the loss of her warmth.

"That's that," Cousland said brusquely. "So. Who's hungry?"

"Starved," Carver said, eager. "I think I could eat a moose right now."

"Morrigan-" Cousland began.

"If you wish food, I suggest you hunt it and cook it," the witch snapped back. "I did not come with you to clean your clothing and prepare your meals."

"You don't have to cook," Carver said hastily. "I can manage it, I think."

"Really," Morrigan said, calculating interest lighting her eyes. "Interesting."

Alistair ignored them. His stomach was growling as well, but food was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He continued to kneel at Marian's side, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. If he had to, he would watch all night to ensure she continued breathing.

A/N: Thanks to Jaden Anderson for all her help with her characters, for beta'ing, and also for just bein' awesome!

Thanks so much for reading! Please do leave a review and let me know what you think. :-D