"How is he?" Alistair's raw voice croaked when Flemeth left the hut. Though less sane than Morrigan, the crone was preferable to the mean little git who had disappeared back into the little hut. He'd take insane over mean most days. The cold of early morning made him shiver, but he didn't mind that. Not now. The constant mist that hovered like a miasma kept the sun from touching the land. The ceaseless dreary dark of the swamp depressed him. As it should be, he thought. All dead. The worst pain of all was Duncan. For the first time he had something of a family, people who cared for him, and that was all gone now. All he had left, his one hope, had been lying near death for days now.

"He'll be well enough. You're awfully concerned for one you've known for such a short time." Her smirk had the mean of a cat watching an interesting insect.

Alistair crouched down by the lake then held his aching head. The last thing he needed now was some cackling witch who'd just as soon turn him into a toad. Most of the time he wished they'd just leave him alone to his pain. He didn't want to be reminded of anything else, least of all witches. "They're all dead. He's the only one left."

"Humph. So he is your guiding light then," she said preoccupied. "Fitting." The witch always put him off. Her moods changed faster than the early spring weather. "He is a hard one to read… as well he should be. I only get bits and pieces, but his path with you is clearer if you choose that road."

"Path?" Alistair asked absently. Greagoir was gone. And Marcus. And Levine. They had teased him, sparred with him, laughed with him. They had teased him for a month, calling him the Chantry Virgin. After finding out how true that statement was, Marcus had made jovial quest to the Red Light District to get their newest brother laid. His words. Alistair had protested as they force marched him through the streets, and he blushed so furiously when the hard eyed, half dressed women called to him that the questing Wardens gave up and decided to spend the night drinking at a tavern instead. He had nursed a pint of beer all night and giggled uncontrollably as they swapped stories and told jokes. All dead.

"Choose that one and he will betray you and yet not betray you, again and again," she said, gazing at nothing. Or maybe it was the shadows of the Fade she watched. She was like a cat that stared at some odd spot in the air as if she could see something that was invisible to everyone else. "Only when you understand what he is will the cycle end. What will happen after that, no one knows yet. Even I will be interested in what becomes of him at that point." She cackled then. "If you live long enough."

It almost didn't matter. He didn't care. Her riddles meant nothing to him, but a little angry part of himself that had caused him trouble as a child looked up. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said," she said, laughing in her own insane way. She spoke in a strangely smooth yet hoarse voice like a woman who had too much drink in her life comforting a child. "He grants the heart's desires. He is doing this for a few others, and now that he is unprotected, more and more will come to tax him. You will be another if you can keep him close enough." She started to laugh again. "He is a double edged sword, that one. Not that you'll understand that, thick as you are."

Let her ramble. Crazy witch. He knelt, leaning against the ruin of a statue to look at the mosquito breeding ground. There was the occasional disturbance of the dark water's surface as an eel came up to nibble something. Eels and mosquito eggs. They were better company than the witches. The lichen and mud covered stone he leaned against had probably once been white. There were ruins scattered all over the swamp. The first time they had travelled through here with Jory and Daveth, also dead, he had wondered what the domed building half buried in a lake had been used for. It was like no architecture he had seen before. Now they were just scattered broken stones, and he couldn't care less about the statue of a headless woman he leaned against.

He glanced to his side to find a stone to skip across the pond only to find Flemeth's leering face inches from him. She looked positively demonic in the low light, the shadows of her craggy face deeper while only her eyes and teeth gleamed. He let out a high shriek, kicking back from the visage. He lay sprawled on the earth feeling his heart hammer away as the witch watched him like a crouched gargoyle. "You are not the first fair outcast princeling to visit me with a dark rebel by your side."

Alistair stared at the weird woman. "You know who I am?"

"Isn't that obvious," she said, almost flirtatiously. "You resemble him quite a bit you know. Not as fair but perhaps a bit wiser." She crawled to him then, looking too much like a giant spider with the face of an old woman. He scooted back with his eyes fixed on hers. Had she changed or was it just the shadows? Prophesies

The leer turned to regret and a deep sorrow he would have never guessed the witch was capable of. "I warned him. His dark rebel would betray him if he kept him close, each time worse than the last." Alistair didn't know what to say to that so he stayed silent. Dark rebel. Did she mean Loghain? Breaking into a chuckle, the witch patted his cheek. "Oh do not worry lad. Sometimes things have a way of turning out like they're supposed to."

She left then to wander about the swamps. Good riddance, Alistair thought as he watched her back retreat into the thick twisted woods. How much longer was he going to be stuck with them? He got up, brushing dirt off his butt and legs. When finished, he stayed slumped over. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so miserable. Eels and mosquitoes in a dismal, foggy swamp. And witches. Mean, insane witches. The cold never left him. His hands, feet, and nose were always numb. What would the darkspawn do to… he didn't want to think about what they would do to Duncan's corpse. After seeing what the darkspawn did in the tower to the bodies… no. Their deaths were bad enough, but he wanted to think about that rather than what to do next. The future was a grey nothingness, formless, and he had no idea what to do. Every time he tried, his thoughts all descended into chaos.

There was no love lost between them, but Cailan was still his half brother. They had avoided each other at Ostagar. Alistair had been more than happy to focus on his duties and find solace in the Wardens' company. They were his true brothers. But… Cailan dead. And Loghain! How could that monster do this? That mean old bastard deserved the gallows. He shouldn't even be beheaded as fitted a noble. Give him the death of any common murderer. Murderer. That bastard had murdered hundreds of men and women. Soldiers sworn to service. Wardens. His own king. Duncan. Alistair thought of the brutality of Duncan's death. It must have hurt. How long had it taken? Had he suffered? His body. Duncan deserved better. They all did. Alistair was ready to put Loghain's head on a pike to rot.

"See? Here is your friend now," Flemeth said. Alistair was getting really sick of the witch's habit of appearing and disappearing. "You worry too much, young man."

Alistair turned to the hut's entrance to see the elf come out looking a little pale but otherwise whole enough. He wanted to weep in relief. "Oh thank the Maker you're alive."

As relived as Alistair was, the elf didn't seem to notice and just kept up the distance he had maintained since they met. "Yes," he said, his soft spoken voice even more subdued, so at odds with the depth and command he could use when he wished. The elf looked away, shifting in unease. "Thank you Flemeth. Morrigan told me how you saved us."

"It was no trouble lad." Now she acts all normal, Alistair grumped to himself. Nooo, Rav doesn't get the creepy swamp witch routine. He gets the let's have tea and crumpets version. And if I told him how crazy she is, he wouldn't believe me. "But now that you are well, decisions must be made."

The elf bit his lips, eyes downcast. "All the Grey Wardens are dead?"

"Yes, lad," she said gently. Alistair's jaw set at the unfairness of it. All he got the last few days was mocked or stupid riddles. Not that he wanted their sympathy, but he was the one who knew the Wardens. They were his friends who had been betrayed.

"Then the responsibility falls to us, doesn't it." He looked at Alistair, and Alistair was again impressed with the elf's large eyes that gleamed bright even in the gloom.

There was an otherness about elves that haunted him. When they had been in the Wilds to get darkspawn blood and the treaties, Alistair caught himself staring at the elf. Part of it was that he hadn't seen many elves, and that alone made for interest. The few messengers and servants at Ostagar had fascinated him, and he wanted to get to know them better, but they were so skittish. His few awkward attempts at conversation had only garnered stares and polite requests for the job he wanted them to do. They were so beautiful though. Slight, slender creatures that looked too delicate for the work they did, too fine for the heavy labor they were forced to do. Alistair would have been happy just to be around them, especially when they sang at night. Eyes with jewel bright colors flashed brighter than fire at dawn and twilight.

The elf bit his lips again. "The Blight must be ended."

"The Blight," Alistair spat. That subject snapped him out of his reverie. "Loghain must be brought to justice. It's because of him all the others are gone. Without the Grey Wardens what hope do we have?" Anger rose from the pain. "The King and Grey Wardens had been winning every battle so far. We could have stopped the Blight if he hadn't betrayed us. Now? Any hope we had of defeating the Blight is gone."

"How do we contact the rest of the Grey Wardens?"

Alistair shrugged, falling back into despair. "Cailan," his voice broke. He didn't know his half brother well at all, had only talked to him once as a child and had been ignored in favor of Eamon's sword collection. Even in the camp the two almost never saw each other. Once or twice their eyes met, but nothing was said.

Alistair had seethed seeing Cailan with the rest of the Wardens. He already had their father's love. Watching Cailan ride with the other Wardens had turned his heart as if his golden brother was trying to steal them away as well. Even as a child Alistair was too honest with himself to say Cailan had stolen their father's attention or the privileged life of a prince. What claims could a bastard make? But the Wardens were his, and Cailan had no rights to them, parade around as he might. Alistair had made his emotional tantrum, and Duncan had been calm and understanding. He had made sure Alistair knew the Wardens were his brothers above all others, and that sacrifices had to be made for political support.

In the end Alistair was glad he had an anonymous life. What Cailan had, he didn't want. He was glad he wasn't influenced by their indiscreet father or spoiled by privilege as Cailan so obviously was. He didn't like attention either. Just let him be one of the fellows, a soldier and one of the brothers, and he was happy. The one time he had to lead a group of Wardens on an exercise to test his ability, the most senior Warden had to take over before they were even halfway through. Alistair had become flustered, one mistake leading to another, and he had lost his head entirely. His Warden brothers had laughed it off afterwards, but Duncan only shrugged saying it was inconsequential, that he would gain confidence in time.

"Cailan sent for reinforcements from Orlais," Alistair continued, still feeling hopeless. Whatever he felt for his half brother, Cailan hadn't deserved that betrayal. He had supported the Grey Wardens, as Duncan would have reminded him. "But Loghain hates the Orlesians. I expect he's turned them back from the border." Anger rose again. "That bastard has crippled us! I don't get it. Why would he do such a thing? The Blight will now roll unchecked across Ferelden. Whatever his faults, he's always been a patriot. Why would he allow this kind of damage to his own country?"

Flemeth scoffed. "Do you think he is the first man to betray his king or seek power? I thought you thick lad but not so naïve."

Alistair rounded on the witch as tears started flooding out again. "But they're all dead! For no reason. It's senseless. Completely senseless. He gains nothing. And I've… I've lost everything."

The witch remained unimpressed by the tantrum. "So what do you intend to do?"

He was no good at this. Where do you even start with something like that? "Expose his crimes? Arl Eamon was Cailan's uncle. He would never stand for something like this." He looked at the elf with a forlorn sort of hopefulness. "Maybe we can go to him?"

The elf bit his lips again, putting his head down to consider. He shook his head, and Alistair felt the little thread of hope start to slip away. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? Eamon is an honorable man. I know him. He can call a Landsmeet, reveal Loghain's crimes. And he was Cailan's uncle."

The elf didn't look at him as he spoke in a low, measured voice. "Loghain was an honorable man and practically raised Cailan as a son," he said, and Alistair got the feeling he was being accused of something though he was damned if he knew what. "But it isn't just that. Loghain is a teyrn and Cailan's most trusted adviser and the Hero of Ferelden. You said it yourself that he's considered a patriot. Even you can't understand his motives because he doesn't have anything to gain by destabilizing the nation in a time of crisis. What evidence would we be able to give to counter his influence or word? We didn't see the battle ground or his reason to quit the field, and I doubt Flemeth would want to act as a witness." The witch cackled. The elf eyed her, but Alistair couldn't read his expression. Damn if what he said didn't make sense though. "Even if she did it for the fun of it, the lords won't take her seriously. Even if the arl wanted to help us, he would most likely be dismissed as grieving for the loss of his nephew and grasping at straws. Besides, Loghain isn't the priority. The Blight is."

"The Blight?" Alistair nearly choked. "We're supposed to end the Blight? Just the two of us? How? We've no army."

The bright eyes, shimmering like moonlight on crystalline water, studied the swamp. "We have those treaties."

"Now there's a smart lad," Flemeth said.

"No," Alistair groaned. "They're probably locked away in a chest surrounded by an army of darkspawn. Or… they're with…" he couldn't finish. Just the thought of what those monsters would do to Duncan's… it was too hideous. He couldn't even think it.

"Um…" the elf said, taking off his pack to pull out a steel cylinder. "Actually, Duncan left these with me."

"See?" said the crone. "Not all is lost. These treaties compel the Dalish elves, dwarves of Orzammar, and the mages of Kinlock Hold to give aid during a Blight. You have armies at your disposal."

"It would be a start," the elf said, watching Alistair carefully. There was something so strange about those large eyes and how they flashed. Brilliant turquoise, too bright for the gloom of the swamp. Other than Tamriel, who liked to be left alone, Alistair had never been up close to an elf for so long. Candlelight would make even Tamriel's dark eyes flash like a cat's.

Shaking his head, Alistair tried again to get his thoughts in working order. With exhaustion or mourning dulling him, Alistair had a harder time forming thoughts. It was like the river of his thoughts froze, the water becoming sluggish under a white stillness. He must look a right idiot to the elf. He wanted to hold onto his anger at Loghain, but the elf was offering him a path forward.

Had this been what the witch talked about when she said if he chose this path? A path that would end the Blight? Betray me and not betray me until I understand what he is. He's an elf. That's obvious enough. So… I don't understand what elves are? That's ridiculous. Well… maybe that's ridiculous. This elf had Duncan's favor, a thought that sent a stab of dull pain into Alistair's chest, but then that also meant Duncan had trusted him with the treaties. Take away one thing but then give another? Did that mean that elves were naturally treacherous? That seemed even more ridiculous. Stupid half riddles. The witch was mad to be sure, so why was he still even thinking about this?

They were both watching him, the elf with the same guarded expression he had for everyone who was not Duncan. Alistair wondered if he had been staring at the elf. Of course he was. How long had he been staring? No wonder the witch called him thick. "So… can we do this? Stop the Blight?"

Raviathan rubbed his forehead. "I doubt it'll be as easy as that, but it's a start." He looked over at Flemeth, and Alistair was struck by the fact that the elf and witch had a more companionable relationship than he did with the elf. The whole thing was just bloody unfair. "Flemeth, you've done so much for us already. I hate to ask, but we need some rations and help getting north."

"That I may be able to help you with," she said, smiling her crone's smile at the hut.

Morrigan came out then as if on cue. "The stew is ready mother. Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none," she asked showing a clear preference for the latter.

"They must be on their way," Flemeth replied. Alistair was partially relieved to be leaving the witches and discomforted at the prospect of spending the coming evening in the wilds. Not only were there still darkspawn about, though they were all at a distance, the swamp was cold and dangerous. "And you'll be going with them."

Alistair's stomach sank.

"Such a shame," Morrigan said smiling coldly at Alistair, then turned to her mother sharply as the words penetrated. "What!?"

Alistair would have smirked had he not felt the same.

The crone started to cackle, her toothy grin showing old teeth with black gums. "You heard me. At least you still have ears."

No, no, no. Not good. So not good. And Morrigan was clearly affronted at being cast out too. "But mother, I'm not ready. I don't even know…"

"Quiet," the crone said with the sharpness of a splitting branch. "You've been itching to get out of this swamp for years. Here's your chance."

No wonder even Morrigan took orders from the crone. There was a threat underlying the old witch's words that Alistair felt to his bones, and for all her cracked up half riddles, there was power there too. When he first met her, Alistair was ready to laugh. This was the dreaded witch that had Daveth in such a fit? Raviathan had been polite and respectful from the onset. The elf had garnered a reputation for being belligerent in the one day he was at Ostagar, but had he sensed something more in the old witch than Alistair had?

Maybe if Alistair tried some tact, like the elf had, he could get them out of taking the young witch. "Um. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she's an apostate. That's… fine, in the wilds. But once we're in a city, won't she add to our problems?"

Flemeth's eyes narrowed at him, and she crossed her arms. "If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, maybe I should have left you on that tower."

Oh, he was no good at this. "Point taken," he said as if the words had to be dragged from his mouth.

What he didn't expect was Raviathan's hard look. For the first time since he left the hut, Raviathan was looking at him directly and had shifted so he was between him and Morrigan. It was subtle, but Alistair caught Flemeth's look of approval at the elf. "Alistair is a templar," Raviathan said, and again, Alistair felt like he was being accused, but the old witch simply cackled, her dark eyes fixed on him. Everything about that witch was wrong. "Will you turn her in?"

It was almost a dare the way the elf said it. "N-no," Alistair said flummoxed. "I didn't intend that at all. I… I wasn't even a templar really. Just, there will be other templars. And… it's not exactly like she blends in."

Morrigan snorted, and Alistair gave her a dark look. You know it too, witch. "Now, Morrigan," Flemeth soothed, "go pack. You've not much time." The young witch's pretty plump mouth pouted, but she went back to the hut without further comment. "And you, Grey Warden," she said addressing Raviathan. "I give you that which is most precious to me. If any harm should come to her…"

"I understand," Raviathan said solemnly. "As long as she remains with us, I will do all that I can to protect her."

A shadow passed over the witch's face, but the reason for it Alistair couldn't guess. She stood in shock as if the elf had slapped her. Wasn't that what she wanted? Her daughter's protection? All at once, the crone started to laugh, laugh from her belly, her head thrown back in glee. "W-well! Can't say I wasn't warned!"

At least this time the elf looked uneasy. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood by the lake watching whatever elves watched, the hazy sun or eels, Alistair couldn't say. Maybe elves could glimpse into the Fade for all he knew. It would explain why their eyes had that odd shine to them. Should he say something? Alistair thought about what he might talk to the elf about, but then it just didn't seem to matter.

Did Duncan's final moments hurt? If only he could have been there to protect Duncan, maybe then the warrior could have gotten away. Duncan would know what to do now. If only he had been there instead of that fool's errand in the tower. It made no difference whether they lit the signal fire or not. Damn Loghain! If he could, he'd strangle the traitor with his own bare hands. So many good men dead.

With a numb half awareness, Alistair realized the elf and witch were talking. And leaving. I will avenge you, Duncan. I swear it. If I ever get the chance, Loghain will pay for what he did.