Author's Note

Edited and reposted this chapter because I was unsatisfied with the way it ended and I am a very fickle poster!

Ceostre

The sun teasingly lingered just above the horizon, far gone enough to bring faint shadows. She breathed in the humid air of the smoky-swamp smell and longed for the chill, crisp air with just a hint of saltiness pulled in by whipping winds from the coast of Highever. While she had ventured to several of the closer teyrnirs neighboring the Cousland estate, never before had she ventured this far south, and she resolved to keep her eyes and wits about her. So far, the most she had observed was stifling heat, a repetitive brown dullness, and the faint smell of either unwashed dog or unwashed male.

She awaited for the ritual to start by the sides of the nervous Jory, muttering under his breath about private suspicions and fears, the semi-conscious Daveth, who, by his pre-Joining speech, seemed determined to martyr himself, the ever-patient Duncan, standing with his arms clasped behind his back, her faithful mabari, which in truth had not taken much persuasion to be accepted as a Grey Warden, and lastly her dear brother Fergus, who stood as relaxed and cocky as ever. He had accepted Duncan's offer with good grace, and she bored holes in the back of his head with her searing glare. If she had had her way, Fergus would already be halfway back to Highever by now.

At the very least he would not perish from the darkspawn taint this coming war.

The scent of death was in the air, and soldiers grouped together in quiet groups, praying to the Maker to spare the lives of their loved ones. She was remarkably twitchy compared to her brother, and Andraste knew she had always found a state of tranquility when her blades were splashed in an endless tide of blood, but for some indescribable reason she felt on edge. She strove for a calm countenance and let her cool gaze be drawn to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Alistair had glowed like a small child at a parent's approval when Duncan had let him prepare whatever it was that cemented their ties to the Wardens. He now approached the temple—a laughable word in comparison to the ruined, roofless structure they found themselves in—with a silver chalice in his steady hands. It was the most absurdly large goblet she had ever seen, requiring two hands to hold it. He moved with an unconscious grace, his steps dance-like in his reverent ascent of the crumbling steps. So worshipping was he that he was almost wholly consumed in his duty, and Ceostre was safe to watch him without alerting him to her gaze.

"At last, the Joining may commence," Duncan intoned. "The sacred order of the Grey Wardens was founded upon the first Blight, when humanity stood upon the precipice of annihilation. And so it was that our ancestors bound to us by spilled blood ate of the flesh of darkspawn and mastered the strengths and weaknesses their taint brought." Ceostre blinked; this certainly had not been mentioned in the texts she had spent many years mulling over.

"We're… we're going to drink the blood of those... those creatures?" Jory said incredulously, his face a mask of undisguised horror.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us; as we did before you." Duncan gestured towards the chalice Alistair had set on a small table behind him. Having done his task, Alistair retired towards the stairs, watching them with a casual eye. He was hardly a master of masquerading his inner thoughts and emotions, however, and Ceostre noticed he positioned himself over their one exit. She suddenly sympathized with Jory's nervous murmurings, and wished she had not let Alistair's innocence persuasion her to leave her weapons in the care of an elven servant. "This is the source of our power—and our victories."

"Those who survive the joining can sense the taint within the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon." Alistair said. Having spoken, he blushed under the sudden transfer of attention, and said no more.

"Then let us begin," she said softly, gauging her—and more importantly, Fergus'—chances if things turned out badly. Duncan gave a brisk nod to Alistair.

"Join us, brothers and sisters," Alistair said, solemnly staring at his shoes. He blinked, as if the verses came to him with some difficulty. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish," A flicker of bemusement ran over her at Jory's increasing panic showing on his face. "Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that, one day, we shall join you."

"Daveth," Duncan said. Daveth groaned in response, and Duncan removed the chalice from the table, kneeling beside his prone form. "Step forward. You are called to submit yourself for the greater good." Duncan lifted the cup to his lips, and Daveth swallowed. A long moment passed before he reacted.

Blood ran down his cheeks as he clutched at himself, choking to no end. With much fuss and screaming, he died.

Ceostre stared at him. In another time, she would have been horrified. Now, after she had lost so much? She was merely incandescently angry that Fergus had made it this far without either being made aware darkspawn blood was drank and death was a likely possibility of Joining, and more than a little anxious over the fate of her brother—with, one would notice, complete disregard to her own life, which she viewed as insignificant in the scheme of things.

"Holy Andraste…" Jory said in a ragged tone, backing away.

"Step forward, Jory," Daveth said, briefly leaning down to close Daveth's lids over his soulless eyes.

"N—no," Jory said, his breaths short and shuddering. Like her, too, Alistair had divested them all of weapons. "I have a wife, a child! H—had I known—"

"There is no turning back," Duncan said, his eyes turning predatory. In a moment she understood exactly why he was the senior most Grey Warden in Ferelden. As he drew his sword, a chilling ring resounding in the air, Ceostre truly pondered if she would be able to fight her way out of this one. She met Fergus' eyes, cool and accepting (if a tad shocked), and knew she would have no support in slaughtering their way out of the army in a suicide attempt. As Duncan easily parried Jory's powerful swipe and shoved his blade deep into his belly, she knew, with a sinking feeling, there truly was no turning back.

"Step forward, Ceostre," Duncan said in the same grave monotone. Their gazes connected, and Ceostre recognized a familiar ease with killing, if with perhaps a bit of reticence. She numbly took a step forward and accepted the goblet from his hands, regarding the dark, viscous liquid inside. She had been unwary, incautious, and unthinking in the joyous glow of Fergus' presence, and had lost that cold, honed edge of clarity that tragedy had brought, else she would have never been caught dead (Ha, ha) in this predicament. As she brang the cup to her lips, Ceostre swore to Andraste she would never be caught oblivious again.

But her vow meant nothing if her foolishness took her life in the next instant.

There was one of those rare moments of silence, the kind where nothing, not winds, nor voice, nor movement stirred, and in reflection Ceostre prayed to the Maker. She had never been overly faithful, and when Howe had shattered her life into jagged edges of blackness she had lost what little she had, but in that instant, she begged the Maker to spare the life of her brother.

And, if he had an extra moment or two, to spare hers in addition.

She poured a cautious amount into her mouth, and blinked in amusement. Other than being the most bitterest, spiciest, most unappetizing horse piss she had ever drank, there was frankly nothing special about it (and by special she meant pain, which other than the stinging of her mouth nothing qualified). She stuffed her cheeks full of blood (it did numb most of her mouth to the sting) and swallowed.

And Maker, wasn't that a great idea.

Her throat was on fire. Her hands immediately shot up to soothe her neck, dropping the chalice. She choked, a black wave of blood rippling down her chin. She couldn't breathe; her eyesight went completely into a fiery white sheen of agony. The darkspawn blood burned a slow, torturous path to her stomach. She staggered and her knees buckled. The stone floor was blissfully frigid against the inferno of her body. For a moment, she struggled for dominance over the pain, and almost succeeded; then the levels of torment escalated to impossible heights. Pain slammed into her forehead, and she clutched at it. Somehow an ear piercing scream forced its way through the conflagration that was her throat.

I'm dead, she thought. I'm dying. Desperate memories tided over her, fading just as quick. She felt a moment's regret for something she knew naught of, and then suffering overwhelmed her.

I'm dead.

—

The wind was growing stronger.

Even as she thought this, dark, sinister clouds drew overhead at an unearthly speed. Her hair whipped back from her face, revealing her jaw clenched in determination and squinted eyes as she struggled against the force of the Maker. She clenched her fists and stood her ground, the grasses about her yielding in a tide of green.

It hungered for her. It wanted to tear herself apart, from clothing to skin until there was naught left but the sad ashes of seared bone. She, alone, stood tall and upright in the field, as though she fancied herself a warrior of legend clad in a mere gauzy shirt and deerskin trousers.

There was a predatory roar, and, having lost the power to hear long before from the screaming of the wind, she bared her teeth in response to the increased pressure against her body.

It blasted her square in the face, and she was hurled several yards backward. Rather than soft vegetation breaking her fall, her backside slammed into cold, hard stone. There was the briefest instant of burning pain before she fell, limp and unable to move, landing ungraciously several feet below on an outcropping of rock.

The malicious-looking clouds and waves of grassland had vanished into all-consuming darkness. Her head dangled over a black abyss, and as the world tilted she began to slide inevitably downwards. Her limbs did not heed her, and she lay there, helpless and yet calm.

Even though devoid of nearly all senses, she felt a presence. It was deep, deep below her, and yet was approaching her rapidly. The presence brought a curious sense of fear to her, and she struggled futilely all the more because of it. A blast of hot humidity replaced the chill settling in her bones, and she turned her eyes downwards.

The very personification of malevolence and death itself rose before her on mighty wings of dark flesh. Despite her courage, despite her legend, despite everything, she felt humbly terrified. The demon let out a bestial, fiery roar, and she felt the last of her weight slip from the stone. She fell towards its open maw, her lifeless body graceful in its paralyzation, and let the last of her breath slip from her lips as its blade-like teeth closed itself about her.

Alistair

"Hold him down," he growled at Fergus. He adored puppies and animals as was their due, but after the mabari had bitten his hand and succeeded in dragging Ceostre's lifeless body out of the tent they had put her in, he felt ready to dig a grave for the hound.

"Andraste, you're sure she is alright?" Fergus asked for the third time. Alistair ignored him and pounced at the dog. Surprisingly nimble for all his bulk, the dog all but slipped through his grasp like water and came to a halt at Ceostre lying supine on the floor. He circled about her, sitting down and fixing a glare at him, complete with a menacing growl.

"So help me, you cursed mabari, if you don't come over here right now and drink this darkspawn blood, I will skin you, turn you into a cushion, and ship you off to the nearest Orlesian merchant boat." The mabari cocked his broad head at him.

"The people of Orlais are more into dyed silk and colorful textiles," Fergus remarked. "If you wished to sell the hide of a mabari, I would suggest Antiva." Alistair switched his burning glower to him, at which Fergus merely met his scowl peaceably.

Duncan had since long before gone to bury Daveth and Jory, and had charged him with the increasingly difficult duty of cornering the dog and shoving the chalice down his throat. He approached the dog with his hands spread in a friendly gesture, and tried a different tactic.

"Come on, you little puppy you, I have a nice snack for you!" He said in a feminine, cooing voice, doing his best to imitate Ceostre (and failing). The mabari regarded him funnily, a confused whine escaping his powerful jaw. He scooted closer, gesturing for the mabari to come to him.

"Wittle bitty puppy, who's a good boy? You are! Yes, you are!" The dog gave an ecstatic bark and bounded close.

"Are you sure she's alright?" Fergus said. "She has been like this for some time." Fergus' voice startled the dog, and Alistair ran off every expletive he knew in one, long sentence as the mabari turned around and ran back to his vigil at his mistress' corpse. Unconscious body, he corrected himself. He was starting to doubt Duncan's word that she would live.

"The taint manifests itself differently depending on the person." He said after completing his damnation aimed at the dog. Fergus sighed.

"Give me that," he said, snatching the chalice. Alistair gaped at him with wide eyes as Fergus patted his lap and sat down, the mabari coming close to investigate. In a few moments the dog was on the ground, his eyes turning a shade of creamy white as a drop of blood rolled down his jaw. Alistair shook his head in wonder and helped Fergus up.

They walked over to his sister. Already the color was returning to her ghostly pale face, and Alistair pointed it out. He leaned down and lifted her lids. Her blue, blue irises and pupils had returned from their complete whiteness, staring soullessly up at him, and as he opened his mouth to speak she her eyelids suddently fluttered, her eyes focusing on his face.

He whipped his hand back, feeling awkward, but apparently it wasn't fast enough for her liking. Before he knew it, he was flat on his back, feeling like both his sternum and his groin were broken. Why, Maker why hadn't he wore the plate rather than the light chainmail?

The starry sky was suddenly blocked by her concerned and yet haunted eyes. He thought that she was going to apologize and perhaps offer to pull him up once the pain abated, but then she was embraced in a crushing hug by her brother.

Somewhere above him the classic "I don't know what I would have done without you" brother-sister conversation was exchanged. After a considerable time he was able to get up without feeling like he was dying, and he blinked away the tears in his eyes. Ceostre glanced at him from under the protection of her brother's arm, and she opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

"Remind me to never surprise you," he said. She colored prettily, and he decided the darkspawn blood had addled her wits, making her less… cold, less guarded—mayhap she was merely dazed?

Or maybe it had addled his.

Or maybe it was just the lack of feminine company, or the agonizing throb in a place he would prefer not to mention. He shook his head as if to rid his jumbled and most certainly unwelcome thoughts and cleared his throat.

"I… sorry." She said, doing the same. He dismissed her stumbling apology with a wave of his hand and summoned a cheery air.

"Well, then, we best be off planning war with the King and his generals. Wouldn't want his favorite Grey Wardens to be absent, would we?" He said. Ceostre nodded, gesturing at the limp form of her dog. Before she could ask anything, he beckoned for them to follow.

"Oh, he'll be fine," he said over his shoulder, feeling a certain malicious pleasure at leaving the dog behind. If the damned beast died, he would be glad to be rid of it. If he lived—Andraste, please let the mabari die—he could take his chances in camp trying to find his woozy owner. He smirked and strode to where Duncan had told him to bring them when they were ready, and left the Couslands to follow at their own pace.

Cousland

It came as a great shock to find herself able to inhale and move. Color and sound and—and feeling all rushed at her, and she had acted in instinct. Her mind struggled to comprehend the abundance of living while her impulsive body lashed out. A faint touch on her eyelids, a sensed presence to her distant right, and suddenly there were stinging abrasions on her knuckles. She had lay there, gasping for air as though she had truly been devoid of it for an aeon of death, the blood surging through her once paralyzed limbs.

As she relearned how to breathe, how to blink and speak and walk, her body moved mechanically. She gazed upon the man in pain before her as though she was a newborn babe, and in a sense she was. To her changed eyes he was the first thing she had seen, and so had set the standard of beauty, even as he groaned and rolled about clutching at himself in the throes of agony. She regarded him curiously as would a child, and considered poking at him. Before she could act on the idea, she was held in a crushing embrace.

She gazed up at a face she knew well; rippling mahogany hair down to his jaw, lively, warm hazel eyes, and a genuine smile. Her struggling mind offered a name with the face; Fergus. Her brother. There were things about him that did not quite match with her memories of adolescence and early adulthood at his side; he had unshaven stubble about his mouth, and creases of anxiousness she had not remembered about his eyes and forehead. She hugged him back, and let herself be enveloped in a comfort familiar in an alien world. For a moment, nothing was said.

"Ceostre…" Fergus' eyes were liquid ebony. She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow with an arrogance coming back to her.

"You were the one who bloody insisted on being a Warden," she reminded him. He touched his forehead with hers as though it was a gesture of shame, but his low chuckle rendered the act irrelevant. She wondered why she had persisted through all of these years in making him a practical man, and sighed, the speech of scorn she had worked up lost in the simple happiness to be alive.

From behind her, Alistair had risen from his fetal position and had uttered some witty remark. She wracked her brain for a humorous response that would have him lobster red and tripping over his feet, but came up blank. Instead she apologized.

It was not the apology itself that annoyed her—apologies could be noble in their own right—but the fact that she blushed. She groaned aloud as he took his leave and buried her face in Fergus' chest, which heaved with laughter.

"Father's eloquent daughter tongue-tied with a peasant boy." Fergus shook his head in mock dismay.

"He is not a peasant," she protested. "Or at least, I don't think he is. And he most certainly isn't a boy." Fergus opened his mouth to tease her further, and she shot him a warning glance.

"Do you feel tired?" he said instead. She pondered it for a moment, before shaking her head.

"No, not tired, just…" She shrugged helplessly. He nodded understanding.

"Well," she gestured casually at the dog, striving to hide her deep concern. "Is… he going to be alright?" Fergus glanced at her as he bent to inspect her mabari.

"Attached with the slobbering beast, are you?" Fergus jested. Save for his obviously faked voice, he sounded exactly like one of those nobles who snubbed the bond between a mabari and its imprinted owner. She rolled her eyes and shoved at him.

"Yes, yes, he's going to be fine," Fergus said, eyeing her with a sigh. "I suspect you're going to order me to carry him, aren't you?"

"Precisely."

Between them, they managed to lug him after the distant form of Alistair. Despite the considerable bulk of her deadweight dog, it would have been easy enough to do on her own if not for the dormant taint sapping their strengths. On the way, they came by the elven servant in possession of their arms and thanked her for keeping them, arming themselves once more. By the time they reached the king and his advisors, she was indeed fatigued. She cursed her weakness, praying that it was only temporary and that she would recover before rushing into battle.

They came before King Cailan with a mercifully small group of advisors. Upon seeing them, the king raised an eyebrow and dismissed what few he had save for Alistair, Duncan, and the famous Hero of the River Dane.

She let go of her dog with a grateful gasp and managed to bow at the king. She felt Fergus do the same.

"Your highness," she murmured. "Warden Commander Duncan," She bowed again. "Teryn Loghain Mac Tir," She inclined her head as was fitting to address a peer of similar rank, and smiled privately when Alistair visibly bristled at having failed to been addressed. "How fares Gwaren?"

"Well," he said after a moment, his voice gravelly and forbidding. She raised an eyebrow and barely suppressed a surprised laugh at his short and rather rude sentence.

"And Highever?" King Cailan asked after it became apparent that Loghain wasn't going to follow courteous protocol. She winced, and berated herself for having provided the perfect opportunity for the question to arise.

"Arl Rendon Howe's men came upon our estate in the midst of the night, after I had left with most of our forces to join here." Fergus said. She wished he hadn't; the memories of the fire and the screams came rushing back to her. She averted her gaze as her heart thudded painfully.

"A coward's act," Cailan hissed, surprisingly venomous. Despite his youth and arrogance, the king had a heart for righteousness. He calmed, his gaze becoming sympathetic. "I am sorry for your losses. Did no one survive?"

"My sister only," Fergus said. His voice had gone extremely tight, and she knew he would talk no more of loss and pain.

"We wondered why the bulk of the Arl's men had yet to show. I will have what few that are here put to questioning. You have my consolations, and a most solemn oath that I will see justice done." Ceostre nodded thanks.

"You would do well to return to an asylum away from the front, Lady." Loghain's tone was acerbic, and her thin patience snapped.

"Is it your concern for the future of Highever that you speak so? Or is it of lesser motives that you insult my abilities?" she said, her tone contrastingly sweet.

"'Tis merely that this is no place for a woman, no matter how deeply set she is in her folly. You should not be here." He glared openly at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Politics were all well and good, save that he had no talent for subterfuge, and that this hurling of blunt accusations both bored and angered her.

"Pray tell where I should be," she said, laughing openly. "Should I leave my kinsman and fellow Fereldans to fight a lone battle here while I mind the grave of my youth?" She could see Cailan was clearly flabbergasted. At his side, Duncan looked mildly surprised, a wondering expression on his face as though he was torn between interrupting or not. She hoped he didn't; she took the reminder that she was not without enemies, albeit for absurdly unknown reasons, even in the southernmost part of Ferelden to heart.

"You should not be here," he repeated.

"Do elaborate," Fergus said, joining the fray. Loghain remained tight-lipped and looking like he would like to drive a dagger between their shoulder-blades the instant they turned their gaze.

"Please!" King Cailan sputtered, with a reddened state of color that rivaled Alistair's. She sighed internally. One could tell much about a person by the way they allowed their thoughts and emotions to read. She had never before had such a personal meeting with the regent, and she did not think it meant well that he was ill-versed in the arts of court intrigue. Her suspicions roused in a spray of deadly silver tendrils, all of them pointed at Loghain. He was a close friend of Maric, tragically deceased at sea and father of Cailain, and had been all but appointed protector of the youthful heir. That he had allowed his lord Cailan to grow softer than that of stone-harsh politicking standards spoke wonders about him…

"Loghain! Show some proof that there's a human heart in there!" Cailan said, giving a nervous laugh. She smiled politely.

"Might I remind you two who you are in the presence of?" Duncan addressed her brother and her. "It would be appreciated if you would take Alistair's humble presence and learn from it." She fought a roll of her eyes and kept her smile pleasant, neither giving offense nor agreeing with him. Alistair beamed from under his embarrassment, while Loghain glared at any who dared to meet his stormy gaze. Cailan cleared his throat.

"I apologize, Lady Cousland. If we may," he said, gesturing at the map of Ostagar's close surrounds. "We did not know how long you would take to recover, and it is to our greatest pleasure that you and your brother came about unharmed." Loghain's sour look was proof enough of that lie. She wondered what she had did to earn his enmity, and mentally cracked her knuckles in grim glee at the thought of crushing whatever nefarious plot he had against her. "As it is, our battle plans are all but concluded. Would you and your brother care to give us your opinions?" She inclined her head, and together they moved close, peering at the deerskin map.

"We'll have a line of mabari followed by fifty score men outside the walls. Once they draw within bowshot, the archers will move forward and rain death from a volley of fire. The hounds will be sent in to break their initial charge and scatter their ranks. At this point we will send the men past the archers. The fighting will be fierce, but we will beat them. General Loghain has his troops positioned to the sides of the darkspawn horde. At your signal, the lighting of the flame atop the tower of Ishal, he will flank them, and trap them between the anvil and the hammer." Cailan gave a beatific smile. "A brilliant plan, courtesy of Teryn Loghain."

She and Fergus glanced at each other at the same time.

"Will you, sister?" Fergus murmured. She nodded and squared her shoulders.

"On inspecting Ostagar, I found the walls, while strong, to be enclosing a very small space. It is impossible to put all of the troops inside its supposed safety." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of where the gates lay. "The gates are of primitive hardened wood, rather than that of iron. You have chosen a very bad place to withstand a siege, your highness, and it appears your plan consists of waiting on the darkspawn's leisure to attack rather than to assume the offensive. I must also assume that as far from civilization, we are not well enough stocked to hold them off for long." She paced slowly about the table with the map, her steps slow and predatory.

"The mabari are our best fighters. They are incapable of the fear that paralyzes your ranks. Did it occur to you that within moments of biting a darkspawn, they will have either perished from the taint or have undertaken the transitive state of the Joining?" She glanced at Duncan, hoping she had not revealed anything that had been unknown to the king and his bastard of a general. Other than still looking surprised and a bit proud, too, he showed no signs of discomfort, and she continued before the shocked silence was overcome by angry protesting.

"Let the darkspawn crush themselves with their own weight upon pikes placed within the crevices of a row of shields. Archers are not much good for aught but a siege, your highness. Placing them upon the walls will provide greater damage to the darkspawn before they collide with our men, but once they mingle the archers will become useless." She turned about and continued her measured pacing.

"I would have them on towers as well as on the wall, so that they might find better opportunity in range and selective killing of their leaders and catapult engineers. Tell me, my king, how many darkspawn do we face?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Loghain. "Do you honestly thing what you command will be able to encircle their horde? Your line will be spread shockingly thin if you even could succeed in trapping them. If you would wish to be far enough to disengage from combat until the signal, cavalry would be preferred to running the distance once the fire is lit, and the Maker knows it has always been Highever that has had better horsemanship."

"Your arrogance is ill-fitting," Loghain snapped, his face livid and furious. She smiled, knowing she did not boast without reason. She saw a flicker of fear in his angered eyes, and she turned about in her endless repetition of slow, easy walking, her smile widening.

"Having witnessed this terrible plotting and hearing its answer to its multiple, abhorrent problems, I would suggest you find better generals than that of Loghain."

"I—I…" Cailan stammered. His face was exactly the same degree of astonishment as Alistair, and she wondered at the similarities in their faces.

"The others agreed with my plan," Loghain growled. His face was turning an uncomely shade of purple, and he trembled with uncontained rage.

"Bribery, Loghain?" Ceostre inquired. She let her smile be seen this time, save it was a frigid, deadly thing devoid of joy. "No, I suspect that the good men amongst the king's confidants would not like to see this turn into a massacre. Blackmail, more likely."

That was enough for him. He lunged at her, hostility escaping in a snarl, and she stepped out of his reach, shifting into a dancer's crouch. She flexed her hands and jerked her head at Fergus, who managed to draw the King and Alistair back. Duncan stood impassive, still making neither move nor word to intervene. Loghain drew his sword and lunged at her again.

She drew no steel in her graceful defense, crossing her arms above her head. Loghain's sword bounced off her gleaming vambraces hard enough to bruise her and benumb her fingers, and she winced as she spun out of the way of his frenzied blows. The taint had weakened her considerably, but she was still faster than him, who stumbled like a drunken oaf. She was as untouchable as the breath of wind, gliding and ghosting about his blundering rage. She stole upon him as he spun around in a futile attempt to keep up with her, his sword's deadly ring always an instant too far from her.

Soft and swift as a teasing lover's kiss, she slipped past his guard. His head was already turning, seeking her blood, but once more he was too lake. Her boot came up, slamming into the back of his hand and rendering his fingers nerveless. The sword tumbled from his hand, and she slammed her elbow into the nape of his neck. He fell.

"By all that is holy—" Cailan swore. A glint of steel caught her eye as she stood over Loghain's fallen form, and she ducked in time to avoid her head being decapitated. Strands of mahogany hair floated about her as she jumped over another blow. She cursed and glanced up, coming face to face with a few of Loghain's apparently very loyal guard.

"Maker's breath, disengage!" Cailan shouted. She waited warily for the next attack, Fergus running towards her. He was only a step away, but in that moment Loghain stirred from beneath her.

He won very badly.

In terms of a noble duel, the victor was to accept the loser's with grace, as was the loser to accept defeat. Loghain either knew of naught, or didn't care. She suspected it was the latter.

His armored fist slammed into the backs of her knees, and she toppled before him. In a flash he gripped her arm, twisting it behind her back and grinding her face into the stone floor. She felt the cold edge of a blade at the back of her neck, and took a shocked breath of dirt and dust.

There was shouting above her. Her ears rang. She felt as though time had stopped, the pressure ever so slowly increasing on her neck.

For the third time since coming to the god-forsaken fort of Ostagar, she lost consciousness.