Thank you to WellspringCD for putting a lot of effort into helping me get this chapter right. I never get tired of thanking her because she never seems to get tired of beta-reading my stuff :)

Fearghal was woken by the sound of movement. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He vaguely remembered waking earlier, the way the odd light had stabbed his eyes and his head had pounded in agony. Warily, he sat up; his head swam a little and he felt a bit queasy, but he fought the nausea and looked around him. It looked to be shortly after dawn; the sky was turning light in the east. Fearghal frowned in confusion. Where in the Maker's name am I? What am I doing outside? He looked round and caught sight of Castle Cousland; several plumes of black smoke rolled skywards, drifting slightly in the breeze.

In a flash it all came back to him. Howe had betrayed them. Oriana, Oren... dead. He recalled seeing Nan stretched out on the kitchen floor, her head stove in, her hand closed in a death grip on a wooden spoon. With a cry he struggled to his feet, lurching crazily as the world span around him. Hands reached to steady him.

"Take it slowly, Fearghal." That voice again. Fearghal's head whipped round and he fought down the urge to vomit that the sudden movement produced. He struggled to control his rebelling stomach as he glared at the dark man who was all but holding him up on his feet.

"You!" he accused. "You made me leave them. Father, Mother..." Fearghal looked back up at the castle. "Rory," he added, his voice almost a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Fearghal. I did what was necessary." Duncan's eyes were sympathetic, but his voice was unapologetic, for all his words.

"Necessary?" burst out Fearghal. "It was necessary to leave my mother up there to die? It was necessary to haggle with my dying father over your terms for getting me out of there?" His face twisted in a snarl. "Damn you, Duncan! Damn you and your order to the Black City!"

Duncan remained impassive under Fearghal's furious tirade. "We need to get moving. It's not going to take Howe long to realise you've escaped, and when he does, he's going to come looking for you. We need to get to Ostagar."

Fearghal gave Duncan a long look. Fergus will be at Ostagar. The King... "King Cailan is at Ostagar?"

Duncan nodded.

"Fine!" snapped Fearghal, glaring at Duncan. The idea of travelling with this repellent Warden made Fearghal's blood boil. But Ostagar is where I need to go.

~o~O~o~

Duncan was relieved to see Ostagar come into view. The journey from Highever had taken longer than it should as the two men had avoided the main routes, sticking to smaller lanes or going across country. Fearghal was a dour, surly companion. Duncan had hoped that the young man would come to understand his actions, but Fearghal wielded his anger like a shield; rebuffing any attempts at explanation or conversation. Duncan had tried to talk to him about the Grey Wardens, explain their purpose, some of their traditions, but Fearghal made it quite plain that he was only accompanying Duncan because he could see no other choice. Duncan silently thanked the Maker that this painful journey was almost over.

~o~O~o~

King Cailan gestured toward a seat, but Fearghal didn't even notice; he paced up and down inside the opulent tent.

"I appreciate you letting me talk to you privately, your Majesty."

"Please, Fearghal, allow me to extend my sincere condolences on the death of your Father. He was a good man and will be sorely missed." The King watched Fearghal, his eyes troubled. He understood what it was like to grieve for a much-loved father.

"And my mother and my sister-in-law and my nephew and... "

"What?" exclaimed the King, struggling to grasp Fearghal's meaning.

"They are all dead, your Majesty," ground out Fearghal, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitching wildly.

The king stared at Fearghal, his eyes wide with shock.

"Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Castle Cousland," Fearghal spat out, almost choking on the hated Arl's name. "He arrived alone; he said his troops were delayed. Fergus left with our men, as planned. Once they'd gone... well... " Fearghal stopped, struggling to master his feelings. Maker! Why is it so hard to say?

"I... can scarcely believe it! How could he think he would get away with such treachery!"

"If we were all dead, he could tell you anything he liked and there would be none to gainsay him. His men were killing everyone they could find; young and old alike. He obviously intended there to be no witnesses. The women... they were...were..." Fearghal's voice broke.

The king's face hardened as Fearghal related what had happened at Highever.

"As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word," he promised Fearghal.

"Justice?"

"He will hang." The king's voice was cold and furious. He looked at Fearghal and his face softened. "I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this," he declared emphatically.

Fearghal nodded, some of the tension leaving his body.

"No doubt you will wish to see your brother." The king sighed. "Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."

"But he may be in danger!" burst out Fearghal.

"We are all in danger, my friend. Nothing can be done until your brother returns, and that will not be until the battle is over."

"I... understand. If I'm honest, I have been dreading bringing him this news," admitted Fearghal. He had been steeling himself all the way to Ostagar for the terrible task of giving his brother the news of what Howe had done to his family.

The king smiled ruefully at Fearghal. "Thank the Maker that Duncan was at Highever and able to help you escape."

Fearghal's face darkened with fury, making the astonished king step back warily. "May the Maker damn him to the Black City. When I refused to leave my parents and join his Order, he invoked something he called 'The Right of Conscription' and forced me away from the Castle, against my will."

Fearghal didn't fail to notice that the king looked disturbed by this information. "I beg you, your Majesty, overturn this Conscription. Let me fight here amongst your men, then go with you to Highever when this battle is done."

"I'm sorry, Fearghal, but I must let the Conscription stand." The King really did sound sorry; however there was no mistaking his resolve.

Fearghal felt sick. "But... but... " he protested weakly.

"Duncan believes we are facing a Blight and if he is right, then we will need every Grey Warden in Ferelden and possibly beyond."

"But you don't think we're facing a Blight, Your Majesty," pointed out Fearghal desperately, recalling the king's brief conversation with Duncan.

Cailan pulled a face. "I can't afford to take that chance. I don't legally have the right to challenge the Warden's Right of Conscription. In other circumstances I'd ask Duncan to reconsider, as a personal favour to a friend." He smiled, obviously trying to cheer Fearghal. "The Grey Wardens are an old and esteemed Order. You should consider it an honour."

Fearghal snorted in disgust. "One of my fellow recruits is a Denerim pickpocket, practically conscripted from the gallows. Where is the honour in that, Your Majesty?" His voice rose and he was dangerously close to losing his temper.

"And the other recruit is, apparently, a knight from Redcliffe," Cailan informed him coldly. "I do not have the authority to overturn Duncan's decision to conscript you. I suggest you learn to accept it, ser."

Fearghal flushed, aware he had overstepped his bounds with the normally good-natured King. He bowed stiffly.

"Thank you for sparing the time to see me, Your Majesty," he ground out between clenched teeth. Before the King could reply, Fearghal had turned and stormed out of the tent.

~o~O~o~

When Fearghal had requested a private audience with the king, Duncan had given him some brief instructions, then headed towards his small encampment with Bane, Fearghal's mabari. He was not a little relieved to be out of Fearghal's company at last. Duncan wasn't intimidated by him, but he was wearing. Duncan suspected he knew what the audience would be about but refrained from saying anything. The younger Lord Cousland would learn the harsh realities of his situation soon enough. He glanced down at the hound, which whined and regarded him with reproachful eyes. 'Don't you start,' he thought testily. He looked up and saw Fearghal leave the king's tent

Fearghal mooched around the camp moodily. He wandered up a ramp and found himself in an Infirmary. He backed away from the sick, raving men and bumped into a cage.

"Oi! Mind yerself," came an indignant voice.

Fearghal turned to look at the prisoner, caged in only his small clothes. Intrigued, Fearghal talked to him for a little while; if nothing else, the man was a distraction. The prisoner explained that he was accused of desertion although, in actual fact, he'd been attempting a robbery. Fearghal thought it was a meaningless distinction, the man still deserved to be punished for his crime. The man's stomach rumbled loudly.

The prisoner caught Fearghal's startled look. "I don't suppose you 'ave a bit of kindness in you, ser? I 'aven't 'ad a morsel to eat since they locked me up. I'm famished."

"How long have you been in there?" asked Fearghal.

"Three days," the man told him miserably.

Fearghal was appalled. They'd rarely held prisoners at Castle Cousland, but the few they'd had had always been fed and had their basic needs tended too. Fearghal took pity on him. "I'll be right back," he told the prisoner.

Fearghal headed over to the infirmary and managed to scrounge up some food. There was a pan of soup warming for those men who were well enough to take some nourishment. Initially, the irritated woman had tried to send him away, telling him to go to the mess tent if he was hungry; however when Fearghal had pointed to the prisoner and explained that the man was starving, she had softened slightly and thrust a bowl of soup and a stale heel of bread at him. Fearghal returned to the cage and passed the food through the bars.

"Hey! You there! What do you think you're doing?" demanded the guard.

Fearghal drew himself up to his full height and assumed his most haughty manner.

"I'm feeding the prisoner. As far as I know, we don't starve prisoners to death in Ferelden." He stared at the guard, almost daring him to argue.

The guard took in his manner and the quality of his armour and backed down grumbling.

It was slightly alarming how quickly the man stuffed the food down his gullet. Sated, for now at least, he'd smiled gratefully and slipped Fearghal a small key.

"It's for the chest that the tranquil fella keeps his stuff in. Just wait until he's asleep and 'elp yerself," he told a slightly shocked Fearghal.

Fearghal accepted the key reluctantly, telling himself that it would be dishonourable to steal from the Tranquil. Then again, the Grey Wardens recruit thieves. Overcome with bitterness, Fearghal moved away and headed towards King Cailan's encampment.

~o~O~o~

Alistair suppressed a groan as the disgruntled mage made plain his displeasure at being summoned by the Grand Cleric. He waited patiently for the man to wear himself out. I'm only the messenger. The old bat knew this would get his goat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man striding purposefully up the ramp. Hello, who's that? I wonder if it's Duncan's new recruit? He eyed the newcomer curiously. He was slightly taller than Alistair but just as heavily built. Dark brown, almost shoulder length hair, braided at the front to stop it falling into his face, a small neatly-trimmed beard. The stranger wore similar armour to Alistair's own but, even from this distance, he could tell that it was very good quality; slightly worn but in good repair and well-cared for. The man's face was set in a hard expression, he looked almost as furious as the mage. Not the new recruit then. What have I done to annoy him?

Growing bored at listening to the mage, Alistair made what he thought was a particularly witty, quip. The mage looked like he was about to explode, then snarled at Alistair and stomped away, rudely shoving the waiting stranger out of his way. The man stiffened in fury, glaring after the mage.

"Isn't it wonderful how the Blight brings people together?" offered Alistair light-heartedly.

The man swung back towards him, his face softened in surprise. His skin was fair, pale against the dark brown, almost black, hair that framed his face; a smattering of darker freckles covered his cheeks and brow. His eyes were dark blue, fringed with surprisingly long lashes. The hawk-like nose was slightly twisted and off-centre; badly set after a break. His lips looked plump and full between the bristles of his moustache and the neatly trimmed beard. Alistair felt his heart lurch in his chest. He stifled down feelings that he'd been wrestling with since Duncan had rescued him from the Chantry. Andraste's flaming sword! He's a man, Alistair. Don't even think about it.

The man's face hardened, the eyes turning cold. "Are you Alistair?"

Alistair was startled by the change that had come over the man. He'd seen a glimpse of a softer nature which was transformed in the blink of an eye into something distinctly more menacing. Alistair felt a moment of panic. Maybe the man had guessed what Alistair had been feeling when he'd looked at him. He swallowed nervously, nodding.

"I'm Fearghal. Duncan said I should seek you out."

"You're Fearghal? The new recruit?" Alistair couldn't hide his surprise.

Fearghal nodded stiffly.

"Yes, I'm Alistair. It's good to meet you." Alistair smiled warmly, stretching out his arm in greeting. He quickly regretted it when Fearghal regarded it suspiciously and just stood there. Alistair flushed, feeling foolish.

"Er... yes, well," he stammered, letting his arm drop when it became clear that the other man wasn't going to return the gesture. "We'd better get back to Duncan. If you have any questions, feel free to ask."

Fearghal snorted and strode back down the ramp. Alistair watched him for a moment, then followed. What is wrong with the man? There was something very off about Fearghal, Alistair decided. Jory and Daveth had both been full of questions, both about the Order and trying to find out more about the Joining ritual. Jory had been puffed up with pride at having been invited to join the Grey Wardens; Daveth had been mostly relieved at having escaped the long arm of the law, but enthusiastic nonetheless.

Alistair tried to remember what little Duncan had written about his trip to Highever. He'd gone to test a knight there, but Alistair would have sworn that the man's name had been different, although he couldn't remember for the life of him what it had been. This man certainly carried himself like a knight; he was obviously comfortable in his armour and carried its weight easily; his sword and shield were worn casually. Alistair peered at the device on the shield Fearghal bore. Was that Highever's device? Duncan had finally sent word of his imminent return last night, but the short note had only mentioned that Fearghal was a conscript, not a volunteer. Alistair was tempted to ask but knew he couldn't. It was an unwritten rule of the Grey Wardens; never ask a man about his past.

Alistair's unease deepened when they reached Duncan. Duncan greeted Fearghal courteously, receiving only a grunt in return. Alistair looked at Duncan in confusion only to receive a warning look and an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Duncan sent Alistair to round up Daveth and Jory and by the time he returned Fearghal was ignoring Duncan completely and crouched down fondling the head of a huge mabari. Duncan made introductions, which Fearghal barely acknowledged, and then proceeded to detail their mission in the Korcari Wilds.

"Any questions?" Duncan looked round.

Fearghal stood. "Fill the vials with darkspawn blood, collect the treaties," he summed up abruptly. He snapped his fingers at the dog who leaped to his feet eagerly.

"Leave the hound here," instructed Duncan.

Fearghal glared at him, then motioned the dog to stay. Alistair, Jory and Daveth all stared in astonishment when he grinned insolentlyat Duncan, telling the dog, "If I don't come back, take his throat out." The hound barked once happily, then fixed Duncan with a baleful eye. Ignoring them all, Fearghal strode towards the gate.

Fearghal was through the gate before the others managed to catch up. Alistair watched, almost amused. Both Jory and Daveth looked ill at ease and out of their element but Fearghal seemed completely unconcerned. Alistair would have been amused, except that he suspected that Fearghal just didn't actually give a damn; that could cause trouble for the rest of them.

The first trouble they ran into was a pack of wolves. Fearghal hefted his shield and drew his sword, Jory drew the huge two-handed sword he carried and Daveth hung back, drawing his short bow. It didn't take them long to see off the wolves. They were half-starved and sickly, which was probably why they'd been driven to attack humans in the first place.

Alistair hung back for a moment, curious to see how the other three fought together. He was particularly interested to see how Fearghal fought, given that he too seemed to favour a shield and long sword. Alistair recognised the familiar forms that he himself had practiced for years, until they had become second nature. Fearghal's style was very different though. He was graceful, his movements efficient yet there was a raw power about the way he wielded the shield. Alistair thought of himself as a defensive fighter but there was nothing defensive about Fearghal. He fought an aggression that was foreign to Alistair. Fearghal threw his shield around with the same ease as his sword; and to the same deadly effect Alistair noted, as he watched Fearghal swing his shield so that the upper edge caught the last wolf in the throat with so much force it knocked it flying off its feet. As it lay there struggling to breathe, Fearghal drove the point of his sword through the wrecked throat.

About a mile further on they came across a party of scouts that had been slaughtered. One of the men moaned feebly. Alistair was surprised when Fearghal crouched down beside him. Alistair could sense the taint in the man quite apart from the fever in the man's eyes, which told its own story. Feeling dispirited, he started to reach into his pack for bandages; the least he could do was patch the poor bugger up enough for him to make it back to the camp. Fearghal's sudden movement and the flash of his dagger across the wounded man's throat had the others crying out in shocked alarm.

Before he even thought about what he was doing, Alistair had grabbed hold of the front of Fearghal's armour and hauled him to his feet.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you insane?" he yelled furiously.

Fearghal looked at him, his eyes cold. "He was already dead." he said calmly.

Alistair felt his anger give way to disgust. He pushed Fearghal away, sneering, "Remind me never to get injured anywhere near you."

The fury that seemed to lurk ever near the surface showed briefly in Fearghal's face. "Have you seen those poor bastards in the Infirmary? Raving and screaming and not a damn thing any healer can do for them?" he demanded, his voice rising.

He looked round them all, daring any one of them to contradict him. As abruptly as it had appeared, his anger vanished again, his eyes went cold. "I'd hope that at least one of you would have the balls to do the same for me, in the same circumstances."

Fearghal laughed harshly at their shocked expressions. "There are worse things than dying." His face twisted. "Sometimes, surviving is one of them," he added bitterly.

As Fearghal pushed past him, Alistair shrugged in response to the quizzical looks from Jory and Daveth. They hurried after Fearghal who was waiting for them further down the faint path they'd been following. It wasn't long before they encountered their first group of darkspawn. Alistair felt the familiar tingle, the tugging in his blood. He shouted a warning to the others and ran forward grabbing his sword and shield. After a moment's hesitation, Fearghal followed suit and followed. A moment more and Jory was pulling the great sword from his back while Daveth fumbled for an arrow with trembling fingers.

Fearghal, Alistair and Jory ran forward to engage them, while Daveth hung back firing arrows rapidly from his bow. Alistair flinched as an arrow whistled past his ear. Not one of Daveth's. He risked a glance upwards and could see several genlocks on a small rise ahead of them. Before he could say anything, Fearghal rushed forward with a yell.

"Daveth! Shoot the fucking archers!" he bawled as he slammed into the first genlock, sending it flying into the one behind.

Alistair dug around in his pack for the empty vials Duncan had given him and crouched down at the side of the nearest darkspawn corpse and proceeded to fill one. As he moved around the corpses he kept half an eye on the others. Daveth was grinning cockily, relieved that their first encounter with the darkspawn had gone so well; Jory looked relieved but anxious, looking around him nervously; Fearghal looked... Alistair wasn't sure if there was a word for it. Exultant? Satisfied? Hungry... hungry for more killing. It made Alistair uneasy.