Two: The Vigil

In the mortal world, a blind root may split a boulder
and the tree may tumble into a ravine, victim
of its own becoming, its own error.
The mortal world becomes, and becomes.
But it becomes decay, it becomes dust,
it grinds down to a slow halt under the weight of its birth—

Mortals, can you hear the wheels of your world halting?
Mortals, do you understand that our fate is yours?

From the Canticle of Demons, stanza 3: of the mortal world

Cullen:

Next to him, Zevran fidgeted.

Cullen very carefully smothered his grin. "If I recall correctly, this was your idea."

"Do not remind me." The elf shot a glance at him. "I was not expecting it to be quite so—public." He was wearing a shirt he'd borrowed from one of the many Drydens living in the fortress, his own best trousers, and a slightly panicked expression in his eyes, if Cullen was reading him right. Still, nothing could change the fact that the elf was every inch as handsome a man as Cullen had ever seen, and he'd swear that one before the lectern if asked.

"Don't worry, I think nerves are traditional," he said, trying to be reassuring. "As is the bride being a bit late." He didn't bother to hide his smile, then, though he was conscious of being under the gaze of every living soul in the fortress. On the bench nearest Cullen and Zevran, Levi Dryden attempted to calm Cerys, who was beginning to fuss. "Besides, Kathil can't really be late. We can't start without her."

The Revered Mother Jacinthe cleared her throat at them from behind the lectern. Jowan stood a little to one side and down a step, roughly analogous to Cullen's own position. "You two, hush. Honestly. Get men up here and suddenly they turn into little boys. Do try to remember this is supposed to be a solemn occasion."

Then Zevran cracked a smile. "Is it, then? I was under the impression—"

But whatever he was about to say was lost forever, because at that moment, Kathil appeared in the doorway of the chapel.

She wore a long, elaborate dress made after the fashion of Denerim's nobility five years ago, deep blue overdress over a light green underdress, silver lacing up the front and embroidery chasing the hem. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and she looked younger than Cullen had seen her in some time.

Kathil took a step forward, and squared her shoulders. She was flanked on either side by an honor guard of Mabari, Lorn on her right and Fiann on her left. She glanced down at Lorn, and said something too low for any of them to hear. In response, Lorn looked up, giving a reassuring wag of his tail.

Everyone sitting on the pews rose, every eye on the mage who made her way down the aisle between the rows. Cullen found himself holding his breath. Once she reached the steps, the Mabari settled down on the bottom step as Kathil took her place beside Zevran. She reached to take his hand, and their fingers intertwined.

And with that, all evidence of nervousness in either of them faded.

The Revered Mother was a woman of perhaps forty summers, with a face open and kind as the spring sun. "So. We're all here to witness a wedding, yes? But first, I think yon boyos may have a thing or two to say about it." She nodded to Jowan, who straightened his shoulders as if he were in the Tower chapel and one of the Sisters had told him to pay attention.

Jowan cleared his throat. "I still remember the day you showed up in the Tower," he said, pitching his voice to carry but truly speaking only to Kathil. She was looking at him, holding very still. "You were soaking wet and spitting like a cat—I think you'd gone over the side of the boat. You ran off and hid the moment that the Templars let go of you, and then we had to turn the place upside down looking for you. I found you wedged into the back of a wardrobe, wrapped in someone's old robes. It's been twenty years, but I remember it clear as day." He gave her half a smile. "Zevran makes you happy, I still know you well enough to see that, and I'm grateful to him for it. You don't need my blessing, but you have it." He turned a bit towards Zevran. "And treat her well, you rogue, or else you're going to have me to deal with."

Zevran chuckled. "Understood."

The Revered Mother looked at Cullen. He took a breath, feeling heat wash over him, and let it out deliberately. He'd debated what to say ever since Kathil had told him that she'd like him to stand up at the wedding, and only last night decided for sure. It had helped to talk through it with Zevran, in front of the fire in the commander's quarters.

"I'm not much for pretty speeches," he said. "The both of you are altogether maddening, I'll have you know, but you are good together. A blind man could see it." Both Zevran and Kathil were watching him closely, and he continued, almost forgetting about everyone else in the room. "Nobody goes through what the two of you have and comes out the other side whole. But I've seen you shoring up each other's weaknesses, and reinforcing each other's strengths. You love each other, and in some ways you two need each other. And we've made a beautiful little girl together. So yes, you have my blessing. And honestly, it's probably about time you made things official."

There was a peculiar little smile on Zevran's handsome face, bending his tattoos in an unfamiliar way. And when Cullen glanced at Kathil, he saw that her eyes were shining suspiciously bright. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He nodded, gave them both a smile that was meant to be encouraging, and stepped back.

Jacinthe grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "These two have secured the blessing of their family to wed, so it will be done." She fixed Zevran and Kathil with a stern look. "This is usually when I'd give a stern lecture, but I think you would just ignore me, so I'm going to skip it. The two of you have some promises to speak to each other, I believe."

Kathil nodded, and briefly bit her lip. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady at first but quickly grew stronger. "You and I have walked a lot of roads together, and we've got a long way to go still. I can't think of anyone I'd rather share those roads with. Zevran, I promise you this: I will keep faith with you, will be there to catch you when you fall, will share all things with you. All that I am, all that I have, in love and in comfort, in pain and in illness, all of these are yours for as long as there is breath in my body. This I swear, before these witnesses."

The two of them were looking into each other's eyes now, and once again Cullen found himself holding his breath.

Zevran cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was smooth, though his Antivan accent was more forceful than usual. "I made you an oath, once. It seems rather appropriate to make that oath once more, yes? I am yours, without reservation. All that I am, all that I have, in all things; in love and comfort, in illness and in pain, as long as my heart beats and there is breath in my body. You are my soul. This I swear, before these witnesses."

Except for the echoes and the tiny sounds made by the witnesses, all was silent.

Then the Revered Mother smiled. "Then let it be known that these two are married in the eyes of the Chantry, with the blessing of Andraste and witnessed by their family and friends. Nothing that the Maker has created shall be forgotten, or lost." She raised an eyebrow at Zevran and Kathil. "Now is when you kiss, you know."

And they were, and everyone in the room was on their feet and grinning, Levi Dryden holding Cerys up so she could see. When Kathil and Zevran finally broke the kiss and turned to face the witnesses, they were both wearing wide, delighted grins.

A moment after that, Jowan swept Kathil up in a hug. "Congratulations, little sister," Cullen heard him say. For his own part, he pulled Zevran into a hug, feeling the elf's body tense and then relax against his. Neither of them spoke.

They broke apart, and Kathil and Zevran joined hands once more and went to greet the witnesses, the Drydens and the assorted others who made up the paltry population of Soldier's Peak. There was laughter and congratulations, a bit of good-natured razzing, many slaps on the back and hugs for both of them accompanied by the excited barking of the Mabari. The Drydens had put together as much of a wedding feast as they could manage with Wintersend supplies, and the meal was altogether congenial.

Cullen ended up sitting next to Jowan as the Drydens pulled the newlyweds to their feet and hauled them into the dancing-circle that was forming. Drums and pipes—instruments that any farmholder might have on hand—had been brought out, and some of the more musically inclined of the merchant clan who had made themselves at home in the old fortress were setting up to play.

Zevran was laughing as he was passed from hand to hand, and even Kathil was smiling. Cullen nudged Jowan with his elbow. "Aren't you going to go dance?"

"In a bit," the mage replied. He was watching the goings-on with a contemplative look on his face. "We should have come up here to spend the winter, I think."

"We couldn't have known that Laurens would recall all the Wardens from here," Cullen said. "Maker's Breath, but there's a lot of Drydens, aren't there? I can't keep them all straight."

"Kathil can, but I surely can't either." One of the older children walked past, carrying Cerys and with a pair of little boys trailing behind her skirts. "Maybe I'll try to get reassigned back up here, once the situation in Amaranthine is stabilized."

Cullen gave him a sharp look. "You've been in the tower, haven't you?"

"Maybe. A little." Jowan glanced sidelong at Cullen. "Avernus was on to something, you know. I can't condone his methods, but I can understand them."

He snorted gently. "If you think Kathil is going to trust you out of her sight..."

"I know. Just a fancy, is all. A way to use this gift of mine to help the Wardens. Like as not I'll spend the rest of my life going where Kathil does. Still, it's not a bad life. At least I don't have to pretend not to be a mage."

"Hard, was it?"

"You have no idea. It's like you trying to pretend not to be a ginger." Jowan grinned sharply. "It always shows through. Then again, most things do." His gaze had sought and found Kathil as the music began, watched her and Zevran begin to dance, the two of them moving with practiced grace. "Like that. Do you remember when Sati died, Cullen?"

The question caught him off guard. "A bit. I didn't stand at her Harrowing, if that's what you're asking."

Jowan shook his head, still watching Kathil and Zevran. Fiann padded over, and settled down with a sigh at Cullen's feet. "It wasn't the first time we'd lost someone, but it was the first time it was someone so close to either of us. And she was just gone. Sneaking off to meet Kathil in the chapel one night, and the next morning nobody would admit she ever existed at all. That was the day I decided I was getting out of the Tower, no matter what it took or what magic I had to learn."

"Do you have a point?" asked Cullen.

The mage shrugged. "In the end, it was a stupid tragedy, a waste of a mage who was bidding to be better than Kathil and I put together. But we're here today because a Templar put a sword through Sati's heart six years ago. We all owe her a debt, I think. Kathil has never stopped loving her."

"I know." The music shifted, and the dancers separated and came together. "I don't think she ever stops loving anyone. Not really."

"You might want to remember that, Cullen. Just between you and me." He smiled at Cullen and stood, then strode forward into the crowd of dancers. One of the women—Mikhael Dryden's wife Akiva, Cullen thought—grabbed Jowan's hand and pulled him into the dance.

He sat and watched and fed bits of biscuit to Fiann. The children who had been given charge of Cerys wandered past again; the infant was sound asleep, evidently completely content to be hauled around in a basket. She'd wake soon enough, and Cullen kept a weather eye out for her.

Distracted, he didn't see Kathil approach until she was right in front of him. "Are you going to sit there like a lump all night?" she asked, voice laced with humor. "Come on, Cullen. Dance with me."

I have to stay here, he was about to protest, but the look on her scarred face stopped the words from coming out of his mouth. Instead, he found himself saying, "All right, then."

She hauled him to his feet and led him towards the dancers. And as their feet picked up the enthusiastic beat pounded out on drums that had seen far better days, he gave in to the occasion and let himself remember how to dance, remember Leliana's voice guiding him through the steps of dances far more complicated than this one.

Tomorrow, they would leave for Vigil's Keep, and plunge into the mire of politics and responsibility. Tonight, they could be just a family celebrating a wedding. The cheer on every face, the evident pride in the set of Levi Dryden's shoulders when he looked at Kathil—it was comfort and blessing both.

And when the song ended and the drummers and pipers rose to take a break, he reached out for Kathil's hand. He pulled her into a hug, her deceptively fragile-feeling frame sharp against him. She hugged him back, laughing. "You are beautiful," he murmured to her. "You've done well."

"Not so much the first, but I'm told that today is the one day of my life that everyone is obligated to lie to me on that score. But I think I concur with the second, at least for the moment." He could hear warmth in her voice. "Go dance with Zev. I'm going to go feed Cerys, and then we'll retire and let you all get on with the real party."

Cullen bent his head forward, pressing his lips against her hair. Then he let Kathil go, saw the smile on her face, undimmed by the twist at the scarred corner. She turned and plunged into the crowd as the players started banging experimentally on the drums and discussed what they were to play next.

He did dance with Zevran, ignoring the knowing smiles on the faces of the older Drydens. After that set was done, Kathil and Zevran were swept up in the crowd and escorted to the door of their room, to the accompaniment of cheers and teasing. Kathil was carrying Cerys; she was still too young to spend a night away from her mother.

The bedroom door was closed behind the newlyweds, and the party adjourned to the kitchen of the fortress, where casks of brandy and ale waited to be tapped. Cullen meant to have a drink and then make an excuse and retire. But whenever he tried to leave, one or another of the assembled witnesses would press another drink into his hand. At first, it seemed a bit impolite to refuse. Then it seemed like a very good idea indeed to accept the drinks as they were given to him. He'd never actually been drunk before, he realized, a bit belatedly.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. He remembered seeing Jowan tossing a spark of lightning from hand to hand, showing off for the crowd of girls who'd gathered around him. And he remembered Mikhael roaring with laughter as he and a bunch of inebriated Drydens attempted to play hammer-in-the-hole with exceedingly limited success. Sometime in there, he staggered down an endless corridor with arms over the shoulders of two Drydens, all three of them singing. And sometime, Levi Dryden was slurring at him all about how Kathil had believed him when he'd brought her this unlikely story about his Warden ancestress and how grateful he was.

He didn't quite properly remember much, after that.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a cold, hard surface, and there was something prodding his ribs. He cursed as the world spun around him, and closed his eyes again. The poking paused, then continued. "Go away," he attempted to growl. It came out a bit weakly.

"Just how much did you drink last night?" a familiar voice said.

Maker's Breath. Jowan. Sounding cheerful. "Go away and let me die in peace," he managed, realizing his head was pounding and his belly was roiling.

The poky thing—the toe of Jowan's boot—nudged him again. "Can't. Kathil sent me to find you. We're meant to be leaving as soon as we've had breakfast." Cullen heard the mage sigh. "Oh, fine, here."

There was a hand placed briefly on Cullen's forehead, and a tingling coolness swept through his body, taking the headache and all of the other aches that Cullen hadn't yet gotten around to cataloguing. When he opened his eyes once more, the room had stopped spinning. "What in Thedas—"

"Rejuvenation spell. Good for what ails you, whether it be battle fatigue or hangover." The mage was frowning down at him. "My version only puts it off, mind you, but it'll last long enough for you to take a bath. And find some pants."

"Pants?" Come to think of it, there was something of a draft across his legs... "Pants. Oh."

"I will have you know that I can't be held responsible for whatever it was you got up to, or the fact that evidently Templars can't hold their liquor. I'll let Kathil know that you'll be a bit."

Jowan was smirking.

Cullen sat up, realizing that he was in the kitchen still, his pants were nowhere in evidence (though his smallclothes were on, thank Andraste for small favors), and he had evidently been doused in beer sometime earlier. Jowan took himself out of the kitchen and Cullen soon followed, heading towards the bathing facilities.

It had been worth it, he thought. Despite the fact that he could feel the hangover waiting to return, despite the fact that he wasn't sure what precisely he'd done last night or who he'd done it with. He wasn't likely to repeat it, but...yes. Completely worth it.

Bring it on, Vigil's Keep. I'm ready.

Kathil:

The outer ward of Vigil's Keep smelled like battle: smoke, blood, darkspawn, and death.

Once, the ruins within the ward might have been little houses for those who worked in the fortress, those of lower status. Now, the outer ward was a makeshift marketplace and refugee camp. Tents were laid out in neat semi-circles by the walls, merchants and farmers hawked their wares from wagons and blankets along the central path toward the inner gatehouse and the keep.

Kathil had seen more than enough hollow-eyed children and families for one lifetime, but still she glanced into the faces of all of those she passed. Looking for what, she never knew. She assumed she would know it when she saw it. She wore Cerys in the sling they had made for her, a warm weight effortlessly balanced. A month of carrying her along spring roads had given her more than enough practice to be able to do most things with an infant in a sling—including spellcasting, if need be.

The walls were covered in scaffolding, and dwarves were directing what appeared to be efforts to rebuild them. "Someone came after this place with siege equipment," Jowan said, surveying the still-unrepaired cracks in the walls. "Or lots of mages. Comforting."

"It's a lot different than when I was here last," Cullen said. "Feels different, too." Fiann glanced up at him, and whuffed quietly. Then she went back to sniffing the ground, her tail flailing.

They had heard so many different rumors on the way north. It seemed that the one about the darkspawn having been somehow organized had been the truth.

They had not been challenged at the outer gatehouse, since they were not obviously darkspawn. As they passed through the crowds and climbed the steps to the inner gatehouse, though, a man called a challenge to them. "Inner ward's off-limits unless you have business there, neighbors. Sorry."

"We have business," Kathil said. They drew even with the splintmail-armored guard. "Grey Wardens."

The guard looked them over with a gimlet eye. "Think I believe you, too. Only Wardens and nobles wear armor like that. And—Ser Cullen! Is that you?"

"Aye and indeed." Cullen grinned. "Been, what, a bit over a year? How's your wife, Haelfren?"

"Still throwing me out on my ear every fortnight or so," the guard said, a bit mournfully. "I deserve it, too. Go on up, all of you. I'm sure Ser Laurens will be happy to see you. The Wardens are short-handed just about now." He waved them through the gatehouse and into the upper ward of the Vigil.

"Main keep's this way," Cullen said. To Kathil's eyes, he seemed oddly at home here. It was the first time that he'd ever been somewhere that the rest of them hadn't at least visited first. It was not the first time she'd ever thought about the fact that even Jowan had traveled more than Cullen ever had, but seeing the extra measure of pride he took in being able to lead them unerringly across the inner ward and to the keep proper brought back those thoughts, and then some.

They were stopped at the gate by a lanky woman who looked at them all with no small measure of anxiety. "Er...Wardens? Yes? You're new."

"Private Nadine," Cullen said. "We've met, but it was a while back. I'm Warden Cullen."

"Oh! I remember you now. You grew your hair out." She squinted at Cullen, then the rest of them. "It's Lieutenant now. The rest of you are Wardens, too?"

Cullen smiled, and there was a chuckle lurking somewhere in his voice. "I present to you the Grey Warden Jowan, Zevran Aranai, and Warden Kathil Amell. Also known as the Hero of Ferelden."

"The Hero of..." The private blinked, swallowed. "Oh. I'll, ah, just go tell them you're here—" She whirled and sprinted up the steps.

"She's nearsighted, and she can hardly talk without stammering, but she has a backhand on her that you wouldn't believe," Cullen said. "Hall's up the steps here and through the big doors."

Kathil took a deep breath, trying to quell the nervous clench of her gut. She glanced down at Cerys, who was awake but quiet. "Jowan—"

He came forward and lifted the infant from her sling. Of the four of them, he was the only one who could truly fight one-handed if need be. They were uncertain of their welcome, and though Kathil didn't want to fight her own people, it might come down to that.

They transferred the sling and settled Cerys once more. "Here," Jowan said to the baby, adjusting the sling. "You'll want to see this, I think."

"You have a strange idea of what a baby wants to see," Kathil told him, but she had to smile. "Let's go."

The stairway was long, but Nadine had left the great doors slightly ajar behind her. Beyond the doors was a long hall, a fire burning in a circular hearth at the center. At the far end was a pair of steps that led up to a low dais, and at on it—

Laurens.

They paced the length of the hallway, passing pillars behind which shadows lingered. There were others filing into the room. She ignored them for the moment, focusing on Warden-General Laurens. Her first thought was, he looks like hell.

The Warden-General had aged a decade in the year since she'd last seen him, back in Seahold just after his then-commander had skewered her. He'd cropped his hair short, and his gold moustache was streaked with white. More than that, though, it was the look on his face. She'd seen the same look on Alistair's face, after the Archdemon. She'd seen it on the rare occasions she looked in a mirror.

It was the look of someone who'd looked into the face of things mortals weren't meant to understand, and come back from the experience changed—and not for the better.

He did not look at all pleased to see them. They stopped about fifteen feet from him. "You finally arrive," Laurens said. "Though I am surprised to see you simply walk in, as if you have every right to be here."

"I am a Warden." She gave him a thin smile. "And this is a fortress of the Grey. So I am here."

"Warden Kathil." His voice was heavy with disdain. "I probably ought to bring you up on charges of desertion, you know."

Oh, no you do not. "We have danced this measure before, Laurens, and it didn't work then either. What have I supposedly done this time?"

"Amaranthine and the Vigil were attacked," he said. "By intelligent darkspawn. Speaking darkspawn. I am only one of my countrymen to have survived. I sent messengers, but all they told me was that you had disappeared. Again."

She looked at him, stunned mute for a moment. All of the Orlesian Wardens were dead. Young Jehan, generous Piers, even treacherous Anthoine. "I didn't know," she finally managed. "I had reason to be gone. I would not have done you much good, to be honest." She recovered her balance, took a breath, and pressed on. "So. You won. And in typical Warden fashion, that victory came at a price."

"I will not defend my decisions to you," he said. "Not to you, or to anyone. I have done what was necessary, and in my place, you likely would have done the same thing. So, mage. Why are you here?"

He knew. He had to know, standing there, seeing her in her armor and flanked by her companions. He just needed her to say it. Far be it from me to disappoint you. "I am here to take command of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden," she said. "However necessary your decisions might have been, Laurens, they have lost us ground with the people here."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I have been recalled to Montsimmard. The leadership of the Grey is yours...if you think you can hold it. You have proven yourself unreliable. The Ferelden Wardens who stood against the Mother are likely to hold it against you."

Next to her, Zevran tensed. She was aware of movement behind Laurens, and shifted her attention to it.

There was a human male, tall and dark and vaguely familiar. A dwarf woman with a brand and the tattoos of the Legion of the Dead. An elven woman with a scowl on her face. A gaunt human with a gaze that burned into her soul. And—

Oh little sodding hells.

Oghren.

"Little late to the party, Warden," Oghren said, and there was old pain in his voice.

She bit her tongue, willing herself not to say the first ten things that came to mind, most of them things like they made you a Warden, Oghren, are you sodding joking with me?

"I told you, I had reason," she said, at last. She gestured at Jowan, who stepped over to her. "Allow me to present my daughter, Cerys. Born just about a month ago. We've been on the road here ever since." She returned her gaze to Laurens, willing herself still and cold. "I would have not been much use in a fight, eight months along. And there were...other considerations."

Such as the Chantry, and their views on mages having children.

"So I see. I will let you speak with the Wardens. Let Seneschal Varel know when you've settled on who is going to lead." There was nothing of mercy in his softly accented voice. "I leave for Montsimmard in three days."

He stepped off of the dais and left, walking steadily out the door. She looked at the other Wardens. They looked back. Silence reigned.

Then the little dwarf woman raised an eyebrow. "So what makes you think you can walk in here and take over, just like that? What makes you any better than the rest of us, huh?"

Oghren grinned. "Bet we could take 'em. Watch out for the fancypants elf, he's a slippery one."

The human had been evaluating them, thoughtfully. "They're two mages to our one. I think. Is that a sword she's wearing?"

"Mmm. I'll take the big human," the Legionnaire said. "Velanna, you're on the Mabari. Nate, you get dark and scruffy with the baby, there, just try not to hurt the kid. Justice, you can go against the little mage."

The human with the burning gaze hadn't taken his attention off of Kathil. "She is not what she seems," he said in a voice that grated around the edges. "I have only seen her like a few times before. I am not sure—"

"Why do I have to take any of them?" the elven woman said. "You can tell they're not worth the fight. Why bother?"

Kathil exchanged uneasy glances with her companions. Then she shrugged. "I'll take the angry elf lady and the boy with the big bow," she said in a voice pitched to carry. "Lorn and Fiann, distract the Legionnaire. Cullen, you get the...tall fellow, there. Jowan, you're backup firepower. Zev, please take Oghren off my hands."

"Must I? He smells even more like a brewery than usual." Zevran sniffed the air. "And a privy into the bargain."

Oghren growled. "I do not."

There was a moment when the two groups looked at each other, and the line between jest and altercation was very thin indeed.

But then Oghren laughed, and Kathil broke into a grin and strode forward, her hands away from her weapons. A moment later, Oghren was lifting her off of her feet in a rough, armor-plated hug. "It's good to see you, you bastard," she said.

"Thought you were dead," Oghren said as he set her back down. "Sure you're not? We have some pretty lively corpses around."

"Not since last I checked, at least. So. Introduce me? Looks like Laurens has been busy."

"You can say that again," he muttered into his beard. "The cute one with all the knives is Sigrun. The Dalish lady is Velanna." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Just between you and me, she's really cranky." The elven mage sniffed, but didn't reply. "Tall and kinda dead over there calls himself Justice. And the fellow with the bow over there is Nathaniel Howe."

Wait. "Nathaniel Howe? As in—"

"Rendon Howe's eldest son," the archer said. He fixed her with a distinctly unfriendly look. "And you are the Warden who killed my father."

Andraste's little apples. No wonder he looked familiar. She had to admit that the formidable Howe nose looked better on him than it had on his father. "I'm sure you have some things to say, Nathaniel, but they should wait for later. The Mabari are Lorn and Fiann. This is Warden Cullen and Warden Jowan, and this is Zevran. My husband."

And didn't that sound strange.

Oghren was gaping. "You married him? Alistair said that you two were making the nug with two backs, but he didn't say anything about you actually—"

"Oghren."

"—marrying the poor sod. Seriously, I'm not sure who I feel sorrier for—"

"Oghren."

"—you, or him for not seein'—"

"OGHREN!"

The dwarf blinked. "What?"

She took a breath, and quelled the urge to strangle Oghren with her bare hands. It was a dismaying familiar feeling. "Save the commentary on my personal life for later. Business now."

"Hunh." He eyed her, not impressed. "So. You wanna take over, eh?"

"I have a personal invitation from the First Warden to do so." Granted, it was four years old and she wasn't sure what she'd done with the actual letter, but still. "And I have the support of the Crown behind me. Can any of you say the same?"

She swept her gaze across the other Wardens. She knew Oghren; he was happiest when someone else was in charge. The strange man with the burning gaze didn't strike her as the leader type. The Dalish mage didn't seem like she'd ever be bothered to attempt to lead, though she might wander off on her own. That left the Legionnaire who'd spoken up before, and the Howe.

"Don't look at him," Sigrun said cheerfully. "I'm pretty sure he's not allowed to take command, since the Warden-Commander position comes with the title of Arl of Amaranthine, and supposedly everyone would be mad if he got that." She grinned. "And I'm a walking dead woman."

"Aren't we all," Cullen muttered. "Walking dead, not women," he hastily amended at a look from Jowan.

That didn't concern Kathil as much as the first part of Sigrun's statement. "What do you mean, the command comes with a title?"

Sigrun shrugged. "It just does. Some kind of experiment the First Warden's running. Don't ask me."

Nathaniel gave Sigrun an unreadable look. "What she means is that because the Arldom has been given to the Grey, whoever runs the Wardens here also has to be Arl." He grimaced. "She's right that nobody apparently wants a Howe in charge, any more. That has been made more than clear over the last few months."

"But—that can't be right. We don't hold titles."

The archer smiled faintly. "Wardens give up any titles they hold when they take the Joining, but there's nothing forbidding them from being given new titles after they join up. Besides. The King was the one who suggested it."

Kathil tried not to gape at him. "I don't suppose anyone's pointed out exactly what a terrible idea that is."

"Laurens didn't think it was."

"Laurens is—" Orlesian, she was about to say, but then she looked at their faces and saw loyalty to the Warden-General there. These people did not care that he was a foreigner. What they cared about was that he had, to all evidence, been a competent leader. Even if that leadership won them no love from the people of Ferelden. "—no longer going to be leading, no matter what," she finished, a bit lamely. "So. Who was going to become Warden-Commander in his place?"

The new Wardens looked at each other. "We were getting around to deciding," Sigrun said. "I mean, nobody actually really wants the job. We all saw what it did to Laurens. And the only one of us with command experience is Nathaniel. Though, really, the armed mobs are sort of fun." Her small face split in a wide smile.

Kathil took a long breath. "So. Let me get this straight. You're about to be commanderless. Nobody really wants to step up and take it up. And you're giving the person who does want to take it on a hard time about it?"

"You weren't here," Oghren said, scowling. "You have no idea what happened." There was something brutal in his voice, a harsh reminder of the man he'd been when they'd first met.

"No. I don't. Because I've been in the back end of nowhere all winter, staying out of reach of the Chantry, not to mention dealing with a demon infestation at the Tower." She spread her hands, sending off a silent prayer to whoever was listening that these people listen to her. "Yes, I have a habit of disappearing. But I will remind you that I stayed where I was needed during the Blight, despite the smart coin being on rabbiting off to Orlais and raising the Wardens there. And right now, we have to try to repair some of the damage that this fight has caused. People are scared. We fought the Blight and we won, but there are some who are wondering if the cure isn't worse than the disease."

She watched all of them think this over. Something about the man they called Justice was unsettling. She tried to ignore him, for the moment; except for Oghren, she knew none of these people, and even Oghren she didn't know as well as she ought.

It was the Dalish mage who spoke, finally. "I have heard these things you say. Let them talk, I say. They will come to find that we are necessary."

"Maybe," said Nathaniel. "And maybe not. The Order was banished from Ferelden for a good long time. It's not a stretch to think that it might be again. We might not like it much, but people do know the Hero of Ferelden." The measuring look he gave her told her that he was finding the reality of the legend lacking. "We have a few days to think it over."

Sigrun elbowed him. "You just want to get back to breakfast. Come on, there's probably enough for you lot too." She grabbed the archer's sleeve and began to haul him toward the doors at the back of the hall. The rest of them shrugged, and followed.

Kathil dropped one hand to Lorn's back as he padded along next to her. It hadn't gone quite as expected, but it had gone vastly better than it might have.

It's probably the best I can ask for, really.

Zevran:

He could wish that Leliana were here.

Already, the battle lines were being drawn with the Wardens; not a physical battle, no, but a battle for the loyalties of those who had been in the Vigil for long months already, who already had a leader and did not consider themselves truly in need of a new one. Zevran might be able to tell how to send a blade into each of their hearts (the archer from up close, the cheerful dwarf from a distance, and best to drop something very large and heavy on whatever the thing wearing a man's skin was, just to be sure) but he had no idea how to win those hearts instead of stop them. That was a bardic art, after all, the battlefield the soul and the weapons words.

I knew this wasn't going to be easy, she'd told him when they were briefly alone together, earlier that afternoon. They have no reason to trust me, and even less to want me to lead them. But— and she had grimaced, digging her fingers into her temples— being Warden-Commander is the one position I can think of that will allow me to start making changes that need to be made.

And there were other things, that were not said; that after all this time, Kathil was not one to take orders easily or well, and that his Warden craved a place to belong to, that belonged to her. A home, as it were. The Circle Tower had been that for a time, but no longer. Denerim and the palace were prettily painted traps. Orzammar was altogether too much stone, despite the novelty of being the tallest people in the place.

And there was no use fighting the fact that his Warden was a child of Ferelden deep in her bones. She might leave, but she would always return.

She and Cullen and Jowan had gone into conference with the rest of the Wardens, and taken the dogs with them. Zevran was taking this opportunity to walk the keep with Cerys in his arms, getting the lay of the land. The babe seemed content to be held, looking around her with an unfocused gaze. This place was old, a shout of defiance sculpted in stone. He rather admired its audacity, really.

He shifted Cerys in his arms, and the infant arched and stretched, kicking out her legs in her wrapping of blanket. A good baby, he thought, though admittedly his experience was limited. Surely, though, she did not cry as much as it had been rumored that babies did. So far, she was good-natured, except when she was hungry. (And could he blame her? They had all known their share of hunger in the last month, and she was the only one who did not know why.) She was fragile and sturdy all at once, a strange miracle, a delicious contradiction.

(And he was a bit silly, he thought, but he had never expected to have a child, and he had never expected to fall in love so irrevocably with that child, and this was all very new to them all.)

"And these are arrow-loops," he said, nodding to the slitted windows they were passing. "Archers and crossbowmen will stand here and here, to fire down on invaders from a protected position." Cerys waved one fist and made a chuckling noise. "That is right, it is far more difficult to fire through the arrow-loop from the outside, though it is possible for a master archer. Nearly impossible for even the most skilled crossbowman, though."

They passed through a long hallway; weak spring sunlight filtered in through the windows on the protected side. "If I am not mistaken, this is the wing that the Grey Wardens have claimed for their administration—ah, yes, that shield proves it." He studied the shield hung on the wall briefly; it had the Warden griffin on it, and a neat hole punched through the center from a crossbow bolt. "Such a pleasant reminder of death, no?"

Through an open door just beyond the shield came a shuffling noise, as of papers being folded and stowed. Pausing by the doorframe, Zevran listened, breathing in. A considering noise, a cleared throat. The scent of a fine oil used on armor, sweaty padding airing out, and a spice used often in Orlais as cologne for both men and women.

It was child's play, really, especially given that he knew that there was only one Grey Warden in the keep who was not ensconced in a dining room with his fellows. He stepped past the doorframe to see Laurens behind a desk, sorting through what appeared to be letters. The Warden-General glanced up, then sighed. "I suppose you want something."

"I? Merely taking this little one for a constitutional." He gave Laurens a bladed smile. and stepped into the room. "I must admit to some curiosity, no? Your return to Montsimmard seems fortuitously timed."

"I suppose it might be considered that." Laurens leaned back in his chair. "Though questioning it seems like it might be a bit foolish. Were I to have an opinion on such things, that is."

"Ah, but sometimes one must be a bit foolish. So tell me. Do you truly have orders recalling you to Orlais?"

The Warden-General's gaze was unwavering. "In a manner of speaking. After all, I do give the orders around here." He nodded at the chair across from the table. "You might as well sit."

Zevran did so. Cerys grabbed his shirt in one damp fist and pulled it towards her mouth. "I, too, am in a land strange to me, surrounded by those not my countrymen," he said, freeing the cloth from the infant's damp maw automatically. This did not discourage her from trying again, of course. "I believe I understand."

Laurens glanced at Cerys. "I have a family, in Montsimmard," he said. "Had. My wife was not pleased when I wrote her and told her I had to stay, and refused to join me here.. I believe she likened Ferelden to a wet, muddy prison filled with barbarians. I have to say that the only thing she had wrong was the prison bit. I would like to see if I can reconcile with them And with the rest of those I came with dead, this country and this command have become somewhat...empty."

He arched an eyebrow. "Do you think Montclair would have thought the same thing?"

The other man scoffed. "No. Montclair was a Warden, and nothing but a Warden. He made this command his. I have merely been attempting to fill boots far too large for me, and the effort is tiring. Perhaps your mage will have better luck."

"And perhaps she will. She is a Fereldan, after all." He gave Laurens a half-smile. "You bear little ill-will towards me, it seems."

"Montclair was a good Commander, and a good Warden, but he had quirks." Laurens shook his head. "You have to understand, he was a man who kept his darkness close, and quiet. He loved his sister more than anything, and he was pious enough to be unable to blame the Templars for not stopping the mage who killed her. He was...unreasonable about magic in any form." He looked down at the letters scattered on his desk. "I fear that his attitude was infectious. Eventually, events forced me to see that we truly cannot turn down qualified help—the last few months have been interesting, in many more ways than one. But, no." He rested his gaze on Zevran. "Montclair chose his own death. He would probably regret that he did not manage to take Kathil with him, but I'm sure that he would have been happy to know how close he came."

"I am sure," Zevran said. They sat in silence for a moment. He found it difficult to bear much of a grudge against this man; he had been in a bad corner, and he had done the best he could. He was no Montclair, for good or for ill.

He rose from the chair; Cerys had fallen abruptly asleep, as she was wont to do, and she did not waken when he moved. "I will leave you to it, then," he said.

"Before you go—" Laurens straightened. He appeared to be considering the wisdom of his next words, but then his jaw firmed. "We've had some news from Tevinter. Evidently, things are...unsettled. Even more than usual. We received a letter attempting to recall one of the Orlesian Wardens to his birthplace in Minrathous. Of course, Anthoine was four months dead by the time it arrived. And you did not hear that from me." He took a long breath. "Tell Kathil to come see me when she has a moment. There are things she needs to know."

Tevinter is a quiet fox in the long grass, Leliana had said. He wondered if she had survived the winter, if she would be joining them, or if they would be forever ignorant of her fate.

"I understand," he said, and took himself and the infant out of the office. Perhaps the Wardens would be out of conference now, and he could convince one or more of them to spar. There was a certain familiar unease taking root in his soul once more. It was a reminder that sanctuaries all too easily became traps, if one were unprepared.

"Then we will simply have to prepare, will we not?" he said to his sleeping daughter, who had one fist curled in his shirt. Her brow was furrowed in her sleep.

He touched his free hand to her head, her wispy hair tickling his palm, and walked on through the chill stone of the Vigil.

Jowan:

He wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to get nominated as the leader of this little expedition, but he strongly suspected that Sigrun had had quite a bit to do with it.

"Are you sure there's a farm out here?" he asked. They were passing down a narrow track that wound between low hills. Except for the old cart ruts in the road, there was no sign that people lived anywhere nearby.

"Well, I suppose it's possible that I marked it down on the wrong place on my map," Sigrun said. There was a mischievous look on her face, easy enough to see even through the tattoos. "The surface is sort of confusing, after all. All this open space."

But there was a hard glint under her humor. Jowan silently evaluated the number of knives that the dwarf wore, that she had evidently been the only survivor of a band of the fiercest fighters the dwarves had, and the fact that most of the other Wardens deferred to her. "I'm sure your map is right." Because, really, did he really want to get himself on Sigrun's bad side?

Behind them trailed Cullen and Fiann, Nathaniel, and Justice. The explanation for why a dead Warden with a Fade spirit inhabiting his body was allowed to continue to run around as if he were a living person hadn't really satisfied any of them, but their presence here was tolerated at best, so for the moment Kathil had told them to just work with him as they could. He rarely spoke, but continued to watch Kathil with that unsettling gaze.

And then she'd sent them off to see if they could find any trace of the mages and Templars who had departed for Amaranthine in the fall, and had never arrived.

It was a fool's errand. The errant Circle folk had probably run into trouble too big for them to handle, and their bodies were rotting in some forsaken forest, or in the bellies of the local darkspawn. Still. It was the first time that Kathil had trusted him out of her sight for any length of time since the summer.

Perhaps they were beginning to get somewhere, after all.

Though, she had sent Cullen with them. Quite possibly to keep an eye on him, though he would probably be useful if they managed to find those they were seeking.

They kept walking. Fiann loped off into the underbrush and came back with things, mostly sticks and old bones. They ignored her; this was something that the Mabari just did, as far as Jowan could tell.

At least they ignored her until the gangly not-quite-puppy came back with something altogether different.

"What—oh. Fiann." Jowan came to a stop and turned to see that Cullen was looking at something that Fiann had just dropped in front of him. "Well. Good pup."

The Mabari bounced, wagging frantically. I am!

What she had brought back was an object instantly recognizable to anyone who had ever spent any time in the Tower. An acolyte's staff. Half of one, anyway.

Cullen bent to pick up the broken staff. "Hacked partway through, broken the rest," he said. "Probably saved the life of whoever was holding it. Temporarily, at least."

"Friend of yours?" Sigrun asked.

Cullen shook his head. "The Tranquil make these more or less identical. Impossible to say who it belonged to. Unless Jowan has any ideas."

"I think it means we're getting close," he said. "Can Fiann show us where she got it?"

She could, and she did. There had obviously been a battle here, and recently. "We're almost to the farmhold," Sigrun said. She squinted up at the sky. "Good thing, because it's getting dark. And you surfacers don't seem to like fighting in the dark."

"It looks like both sides retreated, rather than one side really winning," Nathaniel added. "One or both sides may still be out here."

It was a good point. They hurried on, and reached the rough gate that marked the edge of the farmhold as twilight gathered, turning the world to blues and purples. "Someone's living here," Cullen said, and pointed at the stone wall. "That's been repaired recently."

"About how far do we have to go to get to the hold-house?" Jowan asked Sigrun.

She wrinkled her nose. "Farther than any of us are going to like. Going to be full dark by the time we get there. Not that it bothers me, and I think that Justice can see in the dark. You three might have more problems."

Jowan tried not to sigh, and mostly succeeded. He glanced at Justice, all six feet and change of him, drawn features indistinct in the gloom except for the faint light in his eyes. "Let's just keep moving. Make some noise. If this is a bunch of mages and Templars, we don't want to look like we're sneaking up on them."

Sigrun grinned. "All right."

And then she proceeded to break into song.

Not just any song, though. Drinking songs. Dirty drinking songs.

It started out mild, with a version of "Widow Trice" that Jowan had never heard before. Then she went through twelve verses of "The Shaper's Knickers", fourteen verses of "A Nug's Enough For Me", and some genuinely inspired bits of "While M'Wife Were Sleeping".

And then the songs turned from dirty to filthy.

Jowan kept on waiting for Sigrun's lungs to give out, or her voice, or something. It didn't happen. The spring night was swift to arrive, and they were making their way by starlight. True to her word, Sigrun didn't seem to be bothered at all.

In fact, she seemed to be increasingly unbothered as they walked on. "Come on," she told Cullen. "You know 'Captain Wedderburn', don't you? That's a surfacer song."

"Is that the one with all the silly riddles?" asked the Templar.

"The ones that make no sense? 'Rounder than a ring, higher than the trees, deeper than the sea'? You know it, sing it with me." The dwarf took a deep breath. "The nobleman's fair daughter came down the narrow lane, and met with Captain Wedderburn, the keeper of the gate..."

Grateful that this one was at least merely a bit risque and not actually dirty (Sigrun's rendition of something called "Shave 'em Dry" had been positively epic), Jowan joined in, then Nathaniel. After a moment, so did Justice. He had a nice voice for someone months dead.

He barely noticed that Cullen did not join them, and the darkness hid any trouble on the Templar's face.

And so they arrived in the farmhold's main yard, singing roll me over next to the wall.

A slight figure stepped out from the doorway of the main house, a larger shadow at her shoulder. "So just who are you noisy folk?" a familiar voice called. "Our first actual visitors, and they're stinking drunk."

Jowan pulled up, and held up a hand to stop the rest. "Petra? Is that you?"

"Maker's Breath. Jowan? You are kidding me!" He heard her mutter, and above their heads a magelight flared into being, shedding brilliant while light over the yard. The person behind Petra was Guaire, one of the Templars who had gone with the mages to Amaranthine. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask the same of you." He grinned, unexpectedly glad to have found at least some survivors. "It's Warden Jowan now, actually."

"Warden? You found Kathil, then. And the rest of you?" She squinted at Cullen. "You look familiar."

But it was Guaire who spoke. "Cullen? Andraste's arse, man, is that actually you?"

"It is." Cullen was grinning, and the two men strode toward each other and met in a bone-crushing hug. Belatedly, Jowan remembered that Cullen and Guaire had been friends at the Tower. There were more people coming out of the house and the barn. Jowan saw Keilli and Kinnon—mages, both of them—and there were Bran and Marcus, two of the Templars he was familiar with. There were two more men, tall and broad enough to be Templars, though Jowan didn't recognize them.

And then a well-built man with a familiar squint stepped out of the wellhouse, shielding his eyes with one hand—

Oh, sod me.

Fiann, seeing the latest arrival, went nearly mad with joy, bounding over to him. The pine-mage, the pine mage, and he has hands now!

"Hey, pup, I remember you!" Anders dropped to one knee while Jowan attempted to remember if Kathil had ever taught him how to do the stepping-through-walls thing she did. Then the blond mage glanced up, and his hand stopped in mid-ear-ruffle.

"What," he said in a voice that could have frozen lava, "are you doing here?"

Jowan swallowed. "I, uh. Warden. Looking for you—well, for Petra and the rest. Looks like I found you, too."

Anders had gotten to his feet, and the air was starting to take on a decidedly dangerous feel. Jowan fumbled for words, and didn't find them. A shadow stepped between the two of them—Cullen, looking stern as he'd ever seen him. "Enough, you two. Leave it for the moment." And it was completely ridiculous to be grateful for the Templar's intervention, but he was.

There were only a few people in Ferelden that he'd genuinely dreaded running into eventually. Anders was one of them. He'd known that Kathil had given Anders some help in freeing himself, but he'd assumed that the mage would run north, take ship, and never be seen again.

As they went into the big, run-down farmhouse, he could feel his fellow mage shooting glances at him that made the frigid air feel positively balmy by comparison. He'd told himself that Anders wasn't one to carry a grudge, that maybe he even understood what Jowan had done to escape the Tower—in general, and to Anders in specific.

It looked like he'd been entirely wrong.

Kathil's voice rang in his memory. You are a Warden. I expect you to sodding well act like one.

"Harder than it looks, sometimes," he muttered as the door of the house swung shut behind him, and all eyes in the room turned to him.

He swallowed, and forced himself to straighten his shoulders. He was going to get through this like an adult, even if it killed him.

Even if, from the dark look in Anders' eyes, it very well might.

.

.

Author's note: Anders disapproves (-20)!

You have only yourselves to blame if you Google "Shave 'em Dry" while at work. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I almost didn't write the wedding scene, believe it or not. I originally intended to leave it out, but as I got close to the end of this chapter I realized that no, it really needed to go in, and it needed to be from Cullen's POV. I was dragging my heels on it because we don't ever actually see an in-game example of a wedding, as far as I know, and weddings are complicated and fraught little pieces of worldbuilding. I finally threw up my hands and went with it.