Sunlight peeked through the cracks of Nathaniel's tent, shining directly onto Hale's face. Her eyelids fluttered open. It took a moment for her to remember where she lay, now in the opposite position she and Nathaniel fell asleep in. She curved around his back, clinging snugly to his frame; her arm wrapped around his chest, tangled with his. This is way too comfortable . She thought, unsure how to interpret the pleasantness of whatever it was they were doing. Am I… cuddling with the Lieutenant?
She pried herself from him, paced, careful motions to unweave her arm from under his, pulling away from his torso. With precision, she rose to dress in silence; her deft hands pulled on her clothes, now mostly dried from the night before.
Nathaniel slept through it.
The man always the first to rise in camp, whose honed skills as a scout had repeatedly caught her sneaking, including once from a dead sleep, didn't even rustle as Hale tiptoed from his tent.
Finally, Caoilainn thought, grateful for the approaching dawn. Having tossed and turned through the night, restless, sad, and longing to remedy the situation with Alistair but having no idea how, she admitted defeat. At least for the time being. She stared off into the horizon, steeling herself for the obligations of Warden Commander and preparation for the pending battle.
We can figure this out after.
"Blood of my blood!" She called lovingly, waking any in the camp still sleeping. Her voice rang through the large circle of tents. "My Wardens, it's time to rise. Eat quickly, pack the camp, and we will join the Inquisition march!"
The dutiful Wardens rose, respecting her words. Meals eaten, soldiers bathed, blue and white armor donned, they packed. The Grey Wardens mirrored the pattern of the Inquisition encampment. Waves of tents collapsing, soldiers working together to break down their resting place for the night.
Caoilainn stood at the center of the Wardens as they gathered, having eaten and washed- herself included. Head held high, shoulders wide, her posture communicating her strength, she waited until the crowd settled. Few would notice the downward slope of her eyes, the delay in her smile, or the recurrent absent look she gave, gazing off toward the Ferelden section of the larger encampment.
Nathaniel was of the last of the Wardens to join the circle around the Warden Commander. He ignored the confused looks of those surrounding him. His mind fixated on one thing as his focused gaze milled through the soldiers for Hale. When his eyes landed on hers on the opposite side of the circle, standing relaxed among her Junior Warden peers she grinned and winked. She does not cease to amaze me.
A few whispers of 'Nathaniel fucking Howe' echoed behind him, but none spoke loud enough for him to target the speakers. He ignored them. If anyone had identified the woman calling his name the night prior, they didn't treat the huntress any differently. As usual, most of the other Junior Wardens kept a small distance from her.
"Wardens," Caoilainn called, "we face an enemy that serves pure evil. You have trained well to be Grey Wardens though some longer than others. And now is the time to put what you've learned to use." She paused, smiling at the Wardens that surrounded her. The love she felt for them helped to soothe the lingering pain from the conflict with Alistair last night. Respect stared back, holding posture and listening to her speech. It assured that none had overheard what Alistair yelled.
"There are Grey Wardens among the enemy. They have been enchanted by the Elder One and believe fighting for him will prevent future Blights. These Wardens have undergone a ritual that has brainwashed them, and they believe there is a false Calling, suggesting another Blight. Do not touch these Wardens, or you risk experiencing the false Calling yourself!" She yelled and her voice resonated through the camp. "The ritual has also caused them to bond with Fade demons. We must destroy these demons first so we have a chance to save these Orlesian Grey Wardens."
Voices rustled, and a few boos resounded. Wardens looked to one another with confused skepticism. The few Orlesian Grey Wardens who had joined the Ferelden branch at Skyhold remained silent, shifting on their feet, and glancing at one another. Their uniforms, identical to the Fereldan's', maintained their anonymity.
"Quiet!" Caoilainn's hands clapped together, interrupting the chatter. Her voice rose. "These Wardens survived the same Joining and share the same Taint in their blood as you and I! As Grey Wardens we serve our order first, regardless of our country."
The gossip faded and the army's undivided attention returned to Caoilainn. She lowered her hands, her shoulders squared again as she explained the strategy to recover the Orlesian soldiers.
"We will depend on our mages to hold these Wardens while the rest of us slay the demons. Once the demons are gone, we will again depend on our mages to guide these Wardens from the corruption of the enemy. Our archers will defend them while providing support to those of us on the line."
Caoilainn smiled at the nods she received from her soldiers, pleased with their agreement and compliance with the designed strategy.
"Wardens, remember: we serve the Inquisition. Saving the Orlesian Wardens is another resource to defeat the enemy at large." She gazed around her, brimming with pride despite the deep sadness. "I trust you with my life. You have not let me down."
Her eyes met with Nathaniel, her First Lieutenant, the most reliable and consistent of her army. Held longer than a gaze among acquaintances, they lingered, speaking a wordless conversation of apology, understanding, and reassurance through neutral expressions.
Nathaniel bowed his head and saluted her with his fist to his chest. "To the Commander of the Grey, Mother of Griffons," he said; his low, scratchy voice loud enough to sound through the group.
The Warden next to him mimicked the action. In succession, each Warden crossed their arm over their chest, bowing to her and holding the pose. The wave of salutes carried through the circle. Each Warden stood showing their respect until she noticed tears burning her eyes. She rubbed them away with her thumb and index finger, inhaled, and saluted back to them.
The Wardens completed breaking their camp, leaving most of their belongings, only taking their weapons and any necessities in their packs. They assumed their spot amongst the greater force, assembling with the Inquisition army. Inquisition banners raised, the march resumed. But now they moved faster, and with determination. The flowing collection of soldiers walked with heads held high, chests puffed with pride, ready to overwhelm Corypheus' army.
Commander Rutherford informed them the enemies would meet well outside the Temple while Alanna and her party stayed behind, waiting for the battle to begin.
Ruins appeared within the forest. Old water lines on pieces of crumbled stone architecture and broken down bridges hinted at the relic of a river that once was, reduced to a running stream gargling along the pebbled path the Inquisition took. Cautious, but vigilant, the Inquisition Commander climbed a section of an old bridge, peering down to monitor the march's progress.
By late in the morning they reached the outer edges of the Arbor Wilds and broke the march to make a row of supply camps. Siege weapons were positioned, and ballistas equipped as the troops readied to enter the ravine. Open land with few trees preceded the jungle before them. It was bright and humid. Sweaty soldiers took breaks between their tasks to drink from their waterskins and pour water down their necks, welcoming it to drip down their backs beneath their armor.
The sounds of an oncoming enemy militia, grunts and yells of men preparing for battle, could be discerned within the jungle. From where they stood, the soldiers observed the exotic wilderness that awaited. What had been tall trees of the Emerald Graves leaning to share sunlight amongst layers of green had transformed to colorful, misshaped timber with roots twisted and tangled around the rocks and soil on which they grew. Mushrooms of various tones emerged from the trunks between roots. Vines hung from the limbs, and ferns erupted from any free space. The path of pebbles they followed continued into the ravine and the increased humidity confirmed the larger river.
Having discussed the most strategic position for the Grey Wardens to take with Commander Rutherford, Caoilainn and her Wardens marched beyond the stationed army's other allies. She walked at the back of her troops and Nathaniel at the front. As she passed the Ferelden segment, she walked directly in front of Alistair atop his horse at the head of the Ferelden Royal Army. Dark circles evident under his eyes combined with his frown aged him and he weight on Caoilainn's chest grew heavier, now joined by a sharp sting as he ignored her. She marched onward, lifting her chin and straightening her posture as she followed the procession of Wardens.
The Wardens quieted and the air grew cooler as they entered the woods on the elevated land. Steps silent, they hiked, stepping over bulging tree roots, fallen trunks, and drooping tree limbs. Their pace maintained, steady, slow so as not to alert the enemy ahead in the ravine below them. From where the position above, the bright colors and strange shapes of exotic plants in the chasm looked more fitting for something seen underwater than above ground.
The Inquisition army and allies paced into the valley. With shade so strong and foliage so excessive, the woods seemed cavernous. They maneuvered through twists and turns, narrowing the march to file through tight necks of the path. Breaks in the shade, gaping holes in the tree canopy permitted the sunlight to blare down.
When the enemy came in sight, warriors on both sides beat their swords to their shields. The beating echoed off the walls of the gully, combined with clanks of armor, and boots upon earth and stone reverberated around them. Growls and barking from Corypheus' soldiers increased in volume and in the background water flowed; a river ran just beyond them, finally in sight. There was a waterfall nearby.
The collection of enemy forces now visible in the distance, stood like dogs snarling, waiting to be released from some invisible cage. Venatori, armored, helms blocking their faces and Red Templars in various stages of deformity- red lyrium spikes protruding from their hunchbacked bodies- held no particular order ahead. Furthest from the Inquisition, at the opposite end of the sea of enemies, stood a line of giants. Behemoth Red Templars who seemed to have completed their transformation. Finally, Orlesian Grey Warden mages held a line in front of the giants, guarded by their Fade demons.
"Halt!" Cullen yelled. The Inquisition stopped, leaving a significant gap between them and the enemy.
Time ticked by. Each soldier sweating from the heat, undertunics drenched. Hearts pounded, breath heavy, waiting for the call from their Commander to engage.
"Kill them!" A yell from Corypheus' side broke the silence. The sound ricocheted through the ravine, wider here than in other parts of the path to the Temple. The Venatori and Red Templar forces bolted toward the Inquisition.
"Charge!" Commander Rutherford hollered, and the Inquisition soldiers ran forth to meet their foes.
Walls met. Full force, fighters clashing against each other. The impact knocked soldiers from both sides onto their backs; the clank of weapons impaling and colliding clapped like thunder.
Alistair stood amongst it from his horse, his soldiers spreading out into the mess of fighting beyond him. Swings into the approaching enemies lopped off heads of Venatori. Blood spewed as bodies fell to the ground.
In the chaos weapons crashed; fighters ducked and blocked swings from the enemies, responding with their own perries. Shields bucked against bodies in effort to knock Corypheus' soldiers down by force. Archers from behind shot streams of arrows overhead into the enemy lines. Each time another volley of arrows loosed, the battlefield grew darker. Ballistas released spears into the enemy field. The panging noise of their shots made as if timed every few minutes.
Rogues slunk in shadows, assaulting Red Templars with stabs to the back, bringing the enemies to their knees. Blood ran thick, dampening the ground with pools and decorating the pebbled path with splashes of red. Bodies on the ground from both sides littered the walkway, tripping fighters from both sides on the crowded battlefield. Water tracked from the river mixed with blood caused the earth to cake on their legs. Kicked up as soldiers turned, pirouetting to dodge and strike back. The Orlesian Wardens remained planted before the behemoth Red Templars.
Watching, monitoring, picking off enemies who came too close, Alistair followed his responsibility as a king- not submerging himself too far within the mayhem. The Orlesian army on the side of the Inquisition, adorned with elaborate masks with identical faces formed a wall ahead, uniting their movements to pummel anyone who tried to break it. It gave him a moment to find Caoilainn.
Alistair spotted her and her army on the wall of the ravine, observing, planning. He had but a moment to study her before the wall of Orlesian soldiers before him broke, allowing enemies to flow in. Landing with a thud when his horse was knocked to the ground, he quickly rose and assumed a familiar position. His shield in one hand and his sword in the other, he let out a war cry. Enemies rushed to him and he swung, knocking them down, one after another. Some took more strikes to overpower than others. Blocking hits, and pushing back enemies, he continued this process. Mixtures of foes, armored Venatori and deformed Red Templars continued their attacks, assaulting with sword and shield. Alistair moved fast, bashing with his shield and stabbing enemies that were knocked to the ground. Never wasting a motion, he swung from one enemy to backswing into another. Some charged at him only to be taken down by passing Highever or Orlesian fighters.
The giants joined the commotion. Their red, stone-like bodies requiring the strength of more forces to destroy. They targeted members of the Inquisition force as some of the enemy retreated toward the river, having realized they were on the defense, outnumbered and overpowered by the Inquisition. The corrupted Grey Wardens, so few, followed the retreat, their demons right behind them. It was the perfect time. The Orlesian Wardens had gathered in a containable group. Caoilainn signaled to Philippa from the ravine wall to hold them. The Ferelden mage Wardens joined their strength, freezing the corrupted enemy from moving as the warriors reached them. Dual blade wielders, sword and shield, and some carrying two-handed weapons pursued, slipping into the ravine after the giants had passed.
Warden archers shot arrows into the gaggle of demons that charged toward the Ferelden Wardens. Occasionally enemies from the battle in the ravine made their way up the embankment toward the archers. With enough notice they isolated their shots, focusing on the one target to bring him down with little effort. Hale stood beside Nathaniel, her back to him with each shot.
Caoilainn fought alongside the Grey Wardens, putting in the same effort as her soldiers to efficiently destroy these demons. Arrows whirred by her head, landing in demons as she fought them. A glowing, orange rage demon slid toward her. The heat it emitted exaggerated by the humid afternoon. She thrust her sword into the monster, withdrawing only to follow with a stab of her dagger. The demon dissolved into the earth.
The Wardens took down a majority of the demons in a few minutes. Those that remained were of a higher power. Terror demons that flittered in and out of reality required more precision from the warriors. Tree-like and wispy, they disappeared and reappeared, confusing the Wardens. She signaled for them to spread out in groups, covering more space for this particular enemy. With patience and persistence, and a multitude of pelts from their blades, the demons faded.
Caoilainn looked up to Nathaniel and nodded to confirm their completion. With that as a cue, Nathaniel glanced to Philippa, who met his gaze. The other mages stood chanting their spell to hold the Orlesian Wardens.
She grinned, nodding her head and calling to the other mages. "It's time!"
A select number of mages formed a smaller circled, taking small daggers from their belts. Each of them slit their palms, allowing blood to ooze sufficiently before pressing their palms to the mage on each side. As a circle, hands pressed, palms bleeding to the ground beneath them, they chanted. Nathaniel's eyes darted to the corrupted Grey Wardens standing near Caoilainn, concerned at first, distrustful of this dark magic. But the Wardens awoke, shifting, looking around with furrowed brows as if they were unaware of their location.
Caoilainn approached them with caution, but called, "I've no time to explain! Come with me, brethren!"
Hot, sweating, breathless, her tunic beneath her tabard clung to her body. She hiked back up from the gully to the Warden position on the Wall. The Orlesian mages joined the other Wardens not practicing blood magic and added their strength to fight the enemies remaining in the valley. The enemy's slow retreat from the still plentiful Inquisition army continued; Inquisition forces and allies followed suit.
The battle below continued. Warden blood mages held their circle while the other Orlesian and Ferelden Grey Wardens sent spells into the valley. Archers continued their shots, directly supporting the Inquisition. Her warriors continued to rest, rehydrating, preparing to enter the larger battle
Caoilainn caught her breath and checked on the other warriors for wounds during their brief visit into the battlefield. She had acquired a few minor burns from the rage demon, but the pain was minimal. She ignored it to check on the status of the Inquisition, and more importantly Alistair.
It took a moment to find him, separated from his army, shield lost. He punched enemies, turned and stabbed at others. Swings back and slashes kept the growing number of enemies around him at bay. But he was surrounded, fighting back a circle of red Templars with one sword.
"The mages won't last!" Nathaniel called to Caoilainn, interrupting her as she surveyed Alistair. She looked to the mages for his reference.
The blood mages grew weak, periodic spells from the other mages to boost their mana were not enough. Their magic sputtered. The eyes of some of the Orlesian Wardens glazed and their staffs pointed to Caoilainn's soldiers. Caoilainn froze, uncertain of the effects.
Dividing attention between shooting into the battle and following the concern in Caoilainn's eyes, Nathaniel spotted the shift in the Orlesian Wardens' consciousness. It lasted a moment before they regained themselves and returned to the task at hand, shooting into the ravine. There was a sigh of relief from the Ferelden Wardens and they resumed their tasks.
Caoilainn looked back to Alistair. The battlefield had become sparse. Many of the Inquisition retreated to care for wounds. The rest spread out through the valley, fighting their targeted enemies and following those who retreated toward the river. The circle around Alistair was closing in on him. You always were a magnet for enemies.
"Commander!" A cry resounded from behind her.
When she turned around, she witnessed the Orlesians returning to their corrupted states. Her blood mages had collectively fainted and the enemy Wardens now shot spells at her troop. She lunged toward them but stopped hard mid-step. Time slowed as she debated destroying these corrupted Wardens, apparently brainwashed beyond saving, or rushing to save Alistair.
"We have to kill them!" She yelled, pointing to the Orlesians as she cried out. The warriors rose and charged at the corrupted mages. The archers turned their arrows to the corrupted Orlesian enemies. The Ferelden Wardens outnumbered the Orlesian, but the mages were powerful. "Lieutenant Howe!" she called. "You're acting Commander!"
"Where are you going?" He asked before loosing an arrow.
"I trust you!" It was the only reply she offered before she headed into the ravine.
She ran at full speed, all fatigue she felt from her previous battle vanished as she raced into the valley. With all the force of her sprint, she sunk a backstab into a Red Templar encircling Alistair, who had fallen and now struggled to rise. The misshapen Templar turned around, and she quickly stabbed his belly before he could swing his sword. He fell to the ground where she stabbed once more for good measure.
"Keep them back!" Nathaniel called to the Wardens. The enemy mages found it advantageous to spread around them. Spells cast from staves in all directions, arrows loosened at the scattered enemy, and warriors spread out from the center to attack the foes. Hale and Nathaniel found themselves back to back, making efficient circles and reaching more enemies than if they stayed stationary.
Until an attack spell hit Hale, knocking the wind out of her. She collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath. The impact resonated through her body and burned her chest. Nathaniel made a swift turn on his heels, targeted and shot the mage that hit Hale, and then knelt down to her.
"Are you okay?" Nathaniel asked, concerned lines drawn across his face.
Hale coughed, struggling for breath as she looked to him. She nodded, deepening her inhales before spouting a volley of swear words.
"Sodding sons of bitches, mother fucking wankers!"
Then she released what Nathaniel could only assume was some gypsy Elven war cry. A long, loud tongue roll and an upward inflection; a sound similar to the one she made when she drummed. She rose to her feet, nocked and shot arrow after arrow. The shots found their targets.
They fought as a team, just like old times. Quickly returning to their familiar pattern once Alistair rose and collected weapons. He knocked men back with a shield he picked off a fallen ally and Caoilainn caught them off guard. Slitting throats, stabbing wherever she found a good place for her blades while Alistair engaged with the next target. The enemies fell and Alistair and Caoilainn had a moment to breathe.
"Why are you here?!" He yelled through the chaos. His voice muffled through his helm.
"I thought I'd save you- Alistair, son of Maric- from dying in Orlais!" She replied, her tone matching the level of his.
Alistair did not reply, but resumed fighting another onslaught of enemies. They honed in on him, as they always did, and he fought back with diligence, blocking shots with his shield, pushing back and following through with slashes. Caoilainn disappeared and for a moment; he assumed she went back to the Wardens. But then an oncoming Venatori charged from his side fell to the ground after Caoilainn lunged through his back with her long sword. Alistair saw her sword protrude through the Venatori's chest before she retracted it and the body dropped, leaving them facing each other. She smiled. I love it when she does that.
Glancing back to the Wardens on the embankment, Caoilainn observed the ongoing battle. The corrupted mages were falling. Her faith in her army had not been for naught. Moisture on her brow collected. What she assumed to be sweat proved to be blood, her own, from a wound she received on her forehead.
She did not have time to consider the source before a unique Red Templar erupted from the crowd of the enemy toward the King. As if Alistair had offended the monster, it charged with malicious intent. Its arms red and pointed, disproportionate to the rest of its body; it ran faster than its peers. Alistair, preoccupied with the handful of enemies already attacking him, did not see the monstrosity coming from behind. He won't have time, Caoilainn thought.
Time slowed again. The sounds of the battle disappeared as her ears filled with the beat of her thumping heart; her feet carried her without her effort.
Alistair knocked an enemy back with the hilt of his sword, swung and hit another before sweeping the one left near him away with his shield. He thrust the sword into the body that lie on the ground. Turning on his feet to face whatever was coming at him, he witnessed Caoilainn stepping in front of him to assault the grotesque Red Templar.
"No!" Alistair bellowed from behind Caoilainn.
Her blades were in position to wail at the disfigured foe, unlike anything she had fought before. But the Red Templar was quick. Like a shadow, he moved away from her blades and returned, stabbing his pointed arm through her. She felt it, stinging as it broke through her armor. It was deeper than any of the cuts she had taken so far in this battle. The arm piercing her chest made her gasp, shocked at the overwhelming pain, amplified as the Red Templar withdrew.
Nathaniel looked into the gully, the Ferelden Grey Wardens having slain all the corrupted Orlesians. His eyes landed on Caoilainn, standing with a strange looking monster's arm through her chest. "… Caoilainn…" he muttered to himself. Then he called to the Wardens. "Get to the ravine! This fight's not over."
Another wave of the Ferelden Army joined the battlefield having been healed and sent out as reinforcement. The combat raged around, Grey Wardens, Orlesian Army, Ferelden and Highever, many of whom pursued Corypheus army further into the ravine. Waning numbers of Red Templar and Venatori fought back.
Caoilainn screamed, a blood curdling roar that echoed through the ravine. Her face reflective of the rage she felt. She dropped a blade and took the hilt of her long dagger with both hands and drove it into the center of the chest of the enemy before her.
The enemy sank to the ground as her Grey Wardens came down to aid the battlefield. She took a moment, touching the blood that seeped from the wound. Her brows wrinkled, confusion combined with surprise and a general uncertainty with her predicament. She looked to Alistair with question.
He caught her as she fell and knelt to the ground.
"I'll get you a healer," Alistair offered. His expression unreadable, covered by his helm. She detected worry in his voice.
"No," Caoilainn rushed to reply before he set her down. Her words quivered with pain. "I'm so sorry… For everything. Don't leave me."
Alistair supported her body and removed his helmet. "Never again, my love." He gave a weak smile, tears welling. "Who would catch you when you fall on the battlefield?" The smile faded; he lifted his head and made an urgent yell to no one in particular. "I need a healer!" The war continued around them, sounds of metal on metal, grunts and groans of combat drowned out his voice.
"My King," she mumbled, her hand lifted to touch his face. Alistair leaned closer, and she hissed with pain as her body shifted.
"Oh no," Alistair shook his head. "No, no, no. Don't do that, my Queen. You will be fine. Just fine. All you need is a healer." He called out again. "I said I need a healer!"
Caoilainn lay prostrated in Alistair's arms in the center of the battlefield. Blood dripped down her face as she took short breaths in vain. The open wound stung, throbbing as blood oozed. Other smaller cuts clotted, tender and swollen, burns inflamed. She shivered from the cold that spread through her.
In a breath, images flashed in her mind:
Corridors in Castle Cousland.
Games of hide and seek with other kids.
Chasing Fergus with his own toy sword.
Nathaniel.
Rebelling as a teen, taking up arms, practicing in the field with the Highever men….
Oren dead; her father dying. The look on her mother's face when she left her.
Alistair.
His smile. Bad jokes. The rose.
The first night they made love.
Overwhelming love .
Pain, bruises, injuries gathered fighting enemies to defeat the Blight.
Her friends, like family when she had none.
Slaying the Archdemon.
Her wedding day.
The curves and texture of Alistair's hands.
Perfection.
Becoming Commander of the Grey.
Mother of Griffons.
Her Wardens, her children.
Then it was over. In the blink of an eye, everything of importance- everything that mattered, come and gone.
Alistair held tighter, copious tears streaming down his face mixing with sweat and dirt. He cried out for help again before staring down at Caoilainn. His brows furrowed, desperate. Hopeless. Head shaking, lips pursed, face red and contorted, he rocked her limp frame. Alistair's large, calloused, careful hand cradled her head, stroking her cool cheek with his thumb.
The final stages of the battle raged around them.
"No... no." His lips formed the words, "I love you." She couldn't hear him. But Alistair lived- holding her as she bled out on the battlefield. Reinforcements had arrived. Her mission was successful.
"Find a cure," Caoilainn mumbled, too weak to move. Her eyelids blinked slowly; pale, parched lips cracked as they moved. "I love you." She gasped, choking.
Darkness swallowed her. A last look, a final breath and Alistair knew. She was gone.