A/N: Sorry for the delay! I've been having examinations this past week, so I didn't get the time to write. Anyway, here it is... chapter 6. Thank you for the reviews and constructive feedback :)

VI: Mantle of a Warden-Commander

In his dream, Logan was falling. Below him came a monstrous shriek as he was engulfed in flames, but he was surprised to feel nothing. Instead of dying, he squinted through half-closed eyes and saw a hand outstretched, as though it was beckoning for him to hold on. Weakly, he stretched out his own and held on to the slender hand of a woman, and felt himself being pulled away from the archdemon below him and out of the Fade.

He cracked open his eyes and sat bolt upright, his heart still racing from the nightmare. He looked down and realized that he had indeed reached out for a real hand, and looked up only to find Morrigan standing beside him, visibly taken aback by his actions.

"Your eyes finally open," she said, slowly pulling away from his loosening grip, and tried to keep a calm tone, "Mother shall be pleased. I have bandaged your wounds and healed whatever I could." She regarded him almost thoughtfully, giving him a once over just in case there was something she missed, and then added as an afterthought, "You are welcome, by the way."

Logan's head began to hurt as he buried his face in his hands, trying to recall what had happened.

"How did I get here?" he asked. The last time he checked, the Korcari Wilds was on the other side of the Ostagar camp, a great distance away from the Tower of Ishal. "What happened…?"

Morrigan looked almost sympathetic as she crossed the room and picked up a new set of clothing for him.

"The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field," Morrigan told him almost reluctantly, as though she did not want him to hear the bad news, "Your king and the rest of his men perished in the battle. However, I cannot say that they did not go down bravely and without a fight."

"They… died?" Logan repeated, his mouth suddenly becoming dry and his heart lurching, "All of them?"

"Yes," Morrigan replied curtly, handing him a pair of cured leather pants and boots along with a dark blue shirt that was sleeveless on the left arm only. The right side of the shirt had a long, black sleeve hanging loosely, and it seemed as though they were made just for a mage. "No one survived, except the four of you. Your friend… he is not taking it well."

Logan held the shirt in his hand, still looking up at Morrigan. "You mean Alistair?" he asked, "He's alive, then?"

Morrigan nodded. "All four of you did," she told him, "Now put those clothes on. They did not come without a price—you owe me the time I have spent on it." Logan looked down at the clothes he was holding again. The more he looked at it, the more it seemed to remind him of Morrigan's own attire. He looked back up at her with a small smile.

Logan got out of the bed and began to dress himself. "That's very thoughtful of you. But where are my old ones?"

"Drenched in blood," Morrigan told him darkly, "Unless you have a penchant for these things, I will not return them. In fact, even if you did want them, I will have you know that I have disposed of them already."

"Thank you," Logan said, his smile stretching even further as he realized they were a perfect fit.

Morrigan, blindsided by his smile, could do no more than to manage a few simple words. "I… you are welcome," she said, almost growing nervous in the presence of an unusually kind man. Alistair hadn't even bothered thanking her when he woke up, and instead began to panic over his unconscious Wardens. The two Hawke siblings had the decency to at least acknowledge her assistance, but she had never come across anyone filled with so much sincerity—especially when it was directed at her.

Logan didn't seem to notice the effect his mannerisms were having on her. "Are they outside?" he asked, blue meeting golden once again. "I need to talk to them."

"Yes," Morrigan asserted, "And mother would like to speak to you as well, Logan. 'Tis your name, is it not?"

"You have a good memory," Logan observed, "And if I have an equally well-trained mind, your name is Morrigan."

The witch almost smiled at him. "Yes, but I insist that you do not dawdle," she said, gesturing him towards the door as she swung it open, "There are far more pressing matters that concern you and my name 'tis not one of them."

Logan stepped out of the old hut and felt Morrigan follow behind him. He approached Alistair first. At the corner of his eye, he noticed Garrett making a sudden movement to approach Logan, but Bethany held him back. He knew why—they had a Blight that was catching up with them, and there would be no time for short-lived reunions.

"Alistair," Logan said quietly, placing his hand on Alistair's shoulder.

The Warden turned around, his eyes widening with an undefined emotion in them—hope? Surprise? Logan could not see—and he let out a soft gasp. "You're alive," he said breathlessly, "I was beginning to think you died back there."

Logan shook his head. "We got lucky," he told Alistair, frowning. Logan knew that he didn't actually know whether it was luck that fell upon them or just a bout of bad luck. Luck, so that they would live to fight another day against the Blight and bad luck, so that they would live to see the light of day with death snapping at their heels every single day. Logan tried telling himself that it was the former, but now that they were alone, he had a hard time trying to do so.

"The rest of the Wardens are dead," Alistair whispered, "All of them—the senior Wardens… and Duncan."

Duncan.

Duncan was dead.

Logan let out a sigh and buried his face in his hands, feeling lost and frustrated. He suddenly felt the intense desire to just run away, but he knew if he even tried Alistair would be the first to hold him back. Duty over desire, his mother had once told him, which one rings louder in your heart? He had been raised to regard duty as the more important of the two, but the fear that had lodged itself in him would not budge. He felt himself begin to shiver as he dug his nails into his head, anger and anxiety seething through him as Alistair stared off into the distance, seemingly numb to everything after the loss of Duncan.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and gripped him as though offering support, and he reached up to hold the hand of Bethany, a million pressing thoughts rushing through his head all at once. He felt like he was going to faint, throw up and cry all at the same time—they were now lost without a leader along with the rest of the Fereldan Grey Wardens. Could there be a fate worse than this?

"We can't just stay here and mourn," Bethany said quietly, caressing her older cousin's face, "We have to be strong—for Duncan, for all the good men and women that died for us tonight and for Ferelden."

The words left his lips before he could think twice. "But what if we fail?"

"We're not going to," Garrett chipped in suddenly, his hazel brown eyes burning with determination. It almost gave Logan strength again, but he could only look away as he felt hot tears stinging his eyes. He never liked being weak in the presence of others—especially now that he was a Grey Warden, and one of the remaining few at that—even though Garrett and Bethany were the only exceptions.

"How can you be so sure?" Alistair whispered, his shaky voice surely a reflection of Logan's if he chose to speak now. "We're lost without a leader—a man who knows what to do. There are no more Grey Wardens in Ferelden… we're doomed."

Garrett let out a low growl as he turned to Alistair and caught the man by his chainmail and pulled him close. "You've been in this business longer than we have!" voiced Garrett loudly, his grip tightening, "You can't just give up like that and expect the Blight to just go away." He shoved Alistair backwards and into the shallow pond behind him, glaring angrily at the Grey Warden. "What kind of a Grey Warden are you?"

Alistair was glaring back at Garrett when Morrigan's mother decided to cut in after watching the scene. "Enough," she said, her tone firm with finality and a sort of fierceness one would expect from any mother, "This talk is as useless as it is unwise. Talk about ending the Blight than turn on each other."

Logan glanced at the old woman. "Did you and Morrigan save us?" he whispered.

"I saved all of you from the tower," she answered, "and my Morrigan healed your wounds. If that is not saving then I suppose we'll have to end the Blight for the four of you as well!"

Immediately, Logan felt embarrassed. They were supposed to be Grey Wardens—the fighters that were sworn to end the Blight and the battle against the darkspawn—but all he could see were a group of lost survivors, lucky enough to escape death at Ostagar. What would Duncan have said to them, if he was still alive and watching them as Morrigan and her mother had? Logan could almost see the look of disappointment on Duncan's face. Almost. All too quickly, it felt like Logan was already forgetting the man that saved the lives of him and his cousins.

"Thank you," was all Logan could manage.

"You are welcome—and if you four were wondering, my name is Flemeth," she said, like a teacher introducing herself for the first time to her class. "And you would do well to stop your foolishness and focus on the real threat."

"Flemeth?" Alistair's attention was finally diverted from Garrett the moment he heard her name. "You… are a Witch of the Wilds. The Witch of the Wilds."

Flemeth crossed her arms over her chest, looking unimpressed as ever. "And what does that mean to you, boy?" she sneered, "It doesn't matter if I am an old woman or a witch now, does it?"

Alistair gaped at her—clearly surprised to discover the existence of these Witches of the Wilds was not just another myth or legend—as Logan decided to get things moving again; they were wasting too much time. "Can you help us?" he asked, trying not to sound too helpless. "We need…" His voice trailed off as he looked into the horizon, a realization dawning upon him. Against such a large horde of darkspawn, they would need one thing. "We need an army."

"An army?" repeated Bethany, "But who will help us?"

"Have you seen your Grey Warden treaties at all?" Flemeth interjected impatiently, looking at Alistair expectantly. "Do not tell me that you have left them with your now-dead senior Warden…"

"No, no!" Alistair said, his eyes widening in surprise as he began to rummage through his pack and pulled the documents out, "Of course I have them here… yes! These treaties are a list of people we could seek for help! These are the allies of the Grey Wardens, the very people we need to build an army. We just need to contact them and have them give us their word that they will aid us against the darkspawn—why didn't I think of this earlier?"

"Clearly the dim-witted one," Morrigan said coolly, "I thought Grey Wardens were much more… professional."

Alistair muttered something incoherent under his breath as he began to read them.

"These treaties… they're not expired, are they?" Garrett asked, walking over to Alistair and reading them. "Dwarves of Orzammar, the Dalish elves and…" His eyes widened as he read out the last group of allies. "…the mages of the Circle of Ferelden."

Logan glanced at Bethany, who had a hopeful smile on her face as she took his hand. "We have allies," she said, relief washing over her, "We can still do this, Logan." Logan looked down at her and felt his lips stretching involuntarily into a small smile. Yes, he thought, they still had hope after all.

"Don't mind me," Flemeth cut in, "But dwarves, elves and mages… that sounds like an army to me."

Alistair was clearly beginning to get excited as he stowed them away in his pack again. "And of course!" he exclaimed, "We could contact arl Eamon in Redcliffe—his soldiers were supposed to be in Ostagar. He could help us if we asked!"

"Do you know this arl Eamon?" Logan questioned.

"Personally, yes," Alistair admitted, "He raised me when I was a child. I'm sure I could still easily seek an audience with him…"

"Then it's settled," Garrett said, "We go find this arl of yours and then the other allies. Personally, I'd prefer it if we went to the Circle right after and get that nasty reunion over and done with—"

"So you are set, then? Ready to become Grey Wardens and defeat the Blight?" asked Flemeth, her eyes fixated on Logan. She could see it—his fear had dissipated and been replaced with renewed courage. He will be the one, she thought.

Logan looked to his cousins and Alistair, all of whom looked particularly energized with the reemergence of their confidence. He, too, began to feel their demeanor rub off on him as he turned back to Flemeth.

"We're ready," he told her, "Ready as we'll ever be."

"Good, then you must be on your way immediately," Flemeth insisted, "But I have only one request before you leave—take Morrigan with you. I have a feeling she will be of some use yet." She indicated her beautiful daughter standing at the entrance of their hut, who had not been listening to their rambling attentively until now.

Morrigan looked scandalized. "Mother, what is the meaning of this?" she exclaimed, her expression filled with rage and shock. "You would send your own daughter away on a straight journey to death?"

"Didn't you always tell me that you wanted to leave and see the world for yourself?" Flemeth asked, looking at her daughter with a knowing smile, "A world that was different from these wilds, that is."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts, girl," concluded Flemeth, "Besides, they need your help—if they agree, of course." The old witch looked to Logan as though he was suddenly the leader, and he shuffled his feet nervously.

"Don't worry," Logan said, "We'd love to have her along and… and she won't come to harm with us." He glanced at Morrigan, as though seeking approval, who merely rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her chest, as though in defiance. Logan averted his gaze with as much of a casual air as he could manage and suppressed a smile, suddenly enthralled by her beauty.

"Then it is done," Flemeth announced, and turned back to her daughter, "Morrigan, do try to be nice."

The younger witch sighed with a little melodrama as propriety allowed. "Fine, I will go and pack my things," she drawled, each word carefully laced with an equal amount of bitterness. She went back into the hut and emerged minutes later with her pack, and walked up to Logan. He couldn't help but admire her even from afar and forced himself to look nonchalant as she stood beside him. "So, would you prefer me to add on in your future discussions or would you prefer me to be your silent guide?"

Logan let out a laugh. "No, I'd prefer you speak your mind," he told her, earning a brief smile from her and a very, very shocked Alistair.

"Wait, are you sure you want her along?" Alistair asked, pulling Logan aside. "She doesn't look like she can be trusted."

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair," Logan persuaded him, "We're as short on numbers as it is."

"Fine," Alistair gave in, "But don't come to me for help when she turns you into a toad." Logan smirked and patted Alistair encouragingly on the shoulder as he returned to the main group.

"Well, come on—what are all of you waiting for?" Logan chirped, the wattage of his smile increasing dramatically as hope and confidence coursed through his veins, "We have an army to build, a Blight to defeat and an archdemon to kill!"

Garrett smirked. "Yeah, but one last thing," he said, glancing sheepishly at Bethany before returning his attention to Logan, "Dibs on the archdemon's head."

"Oh, you wouldn't want that," Alistair countered, grinning. "Trust me. It's way smellier than all the blood from that ogre."

Hours later, Logan met the archdemon in his dreams again. He knew it was the archdemon this time because Alistair had told him about the beast before they fell asleep, and began to feel the familiar, creeping sensation of fear that washed over him as the mighty dragon shrieked monstrously at him. He felt the sudden urge to turn around and run, but his legs wouldn't budge. He looked up at the archdemon as it spread its jaws wide open, about to engulf him in flames when—

"Logan!" Alistair's voice seemed distant and ethereal at first, but after the second or third time calling out his name, Logan finally managed to wake up as the yelling got louder. He forced open his eyes and sat bolt upright and realized that he had fallen asleep under the stars and out in the open. It was no wonder Alistair could wake him up—he distinctly remembered the man offering to keep watch at camp on the first shift after they set up their tents and the fire.

Right now, his face was etched with worry, indicating that Logan might have been thrashing about too enthusiastically during his nightmare. He shuddered as he thought about the image of the archdemon again and reached for some water as Alistair sat down next to him, visibly relieved.

"Nightmare?" asked Alistair, smiling faintly at Logan.

"The archdemon, actually," Logan said, downing the water as though his throat had been parched for days when in fact he was trying to concentrate on something else other than the fearsome dragon that haunted his dreams. "Is this normal?"

"Quite," Alistair smiled kindly at him when Logan shot him a look of disbelief, "It's the darkspawn blood, you see. As Grey Wardens, we can not only sense the Blight but… see the archdemon. It's a darkspawn thing."

Logan sighed. "I should've figured," he said moodily, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore. "You could've at least warned me."

"I'm just waiting for Garrett to wake up screaming," Alistair said sheepishly, "I remember my first dream… and my wet pants."

Logan laughed and hugged his knees, suddenly feeling very comfortable in front of the warm fire despite the terrible terrain that they were camping upon and the thin blanket he had slept on.

"I'm pretty sure that would've stopped after the third time," Logan mused out loud.

"Fifth, actually," Alistair admitted unashamedly, "But I'm pretty sure the First Warden had it the worst. No one else was there to wake him up… poor sod."

"The First Warden?" repeated Logan curiously. "Is he still alive?"

"Oh, yes, but not the original First Warden," Alistair stated. "I remember meeting him a few years back when he visited—all the way from the Anderfels, mind you—and introduced himself as Landon or something like that. He's old, but not that old."

"That's not very vague at all," Logan responded sarcastically, to which Alistair laughed heartily.

"I have a habit of doing that," he said unabashedly. "Just a warning."

"I'll take note of that," Logan smirked at Alistair, who merely shrugged and stood up to return to his post at the edge of the camp. He stood up too, and held Alistair back. "No, I'll keep watch—I can't sleep, anyway. You can go to bed if you want."

Alistair smiled sadly at Logan. "I can't close my eyes without seeing Duncan's face in my head."

The familiar, stabbing pain returned almost immediately. Logan shuffled his feet and kicked at the dirt, unwilling to be a part of this conversation. It was too much to bear and too emotional for him to talk about—for now. But Alistair had already begun to reminisce, and he, too, began to remember Duncan.

"I understand," Logan said quietly. The two Wardens stood vigilant in the moonlight, both remembering their fallen leader and benefactor, in companionable silence.

"I think he wanted you to take his place," Alistair suddenly said, "If we survived and the other Wardens on the battlefield with him didn't. It was a crazy prediction on his part, but it came true, didn't it? I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at you—he trusted you and believed in you."

Logan shook his head. "You've been a Warden longer than I have—"

"That doesn't mean—"

"And you probably have more experience in this than I do—"

"But—"

"What if there are other Wardens that survived? Then I wouldn't have to be—"

"I know," Alistair interrupted and held up his hand to stop Logan from speaking even more, "But if you were to give me a choice between leading the Wardens and cheese, I'll have you know that I'm sticking with cheese until the very end. Leadership and responsibility—for others more than myself—that's just not for me. And the surviving Wardens? We'll just have to see if we're that lucky, Logan."

"That's a lot of confidence right there." Logan couldn't help but look skeptical as Alistair shrugged nonchalantly.

"Whatever you say," Alistair chuckled, "Not that I'm trying to scare you or anything, but I think you're more of a leader than I am to all of us—and to Morrigan, if she allows herself to be commanded by someone else other than herself or Flemeth."

Logan groaned. Alistair's words would surely only prepare him partially for the next morning and the rest of the days to come until this Blight was ended, and he only hoped that, by a miracle, they would meet an older Warden somewhere along their travels across Ferelden and have him take on the mantle of a leader. Logan was no veteran of war—he was just a mage, forced to become a Grey Warden to escape death and now, forced to become a leader to save his own land.

He wondered how Duncan felt when he was put in charge of the Fereldan Wardens. Logan managed to take comfort in believing that Duncan, too, had been just as deathly afraid of being a leader.