Notes:
New POV character! Say hello to Eleri, my Lavellan Inquisitor! If you're curious about Eleri and her shenanigans, then you can read Where the River Flows, here on .
And then Alistair and Bron are just repeatedly adorable together (apart from when they're stabbing things).
The Western Approach is hot.
The Western Approach is really bloody hot.
Sweat drips down Eleri's face. She can feel it; fat, salty globules that trickle agonisingly slowly across her forehead, dribble along her nose and then dramatically swan-dive onto the front of her tunic. A large, dark sweat-patch has formed across her chest, a fitting accompaniment to the sweat-patches at her armpits and lower back. Everything feels damp and sticky, a layer of sand clinging persistently to clammy skin.
Eleri has never felt so utterly wretched in all her life.
Trudging through the monotonous beige of the Western Approach, feet blistered and throbbing, eyes burning from the sand being whipped into her eyes by an unrelenting wind, Eleri tries to conjure memories of sweeter sights: the Planasene Forest in the Spring, when the first green and gold leaves unfurl and the fragrance of wildflowers wafts on the breeze; the way the sunset glimmers on the waters of the Waking Sea, making it appear as if the very water is aflame; and the dramatic pinnacles of the Vinmark Moutains, like mighty fortresses carved from the natural stone, foreboding and welcoming all at the same time.
But the Western Approach doesn't have the grandeur of the mountains nor the sparkle of the ocean. The Western Approach only has sand, and rock and sad clumps of dry tundra
Eleri misses the green.
There's a sad, keening whine from beside her and Eleri instinctually reaches out to give her faithful mabari a gentle pat.
"I know, Melly," she coos, though her throat is too rough with sand and grit to sound truly comforting, "it's not much further now."
And, for her sake as much as Melly's, she hopes that she's right. She can see the Tevinter ritual tower in the distance, see the stark claws of stone reaching into the air, but with a flat, featureless landscape stretching before her, it's hard to judge just how much further it is to travel.
It's a grim sight; this distant, stone structure, weathered by the ages and blasted by sand. And yet, still oddly proud, smug even, the thick blocks of grey standing as an anathema to the softly undulating dunes of the natural landscape. She'd been relieved when Hawke had first pointed out the structure, relieved that their three-week journey was finally nearing an end. But that relief had soon ebbed when she'd felt the sheer wrongness that seemed to emanate from the ritual tower. It thrums with an unnatural energy, with an air as caustic and acrid as poison.
Whatever they are to find at the tower, Eleri knows that it will not be good.
Her discomfort only grows as they get nearer, a hungry, gnawing feeling that seethes in the pit of her stomach. She can see the occasional flash of light from the tower and, sometimes, she thinks she can hear something too, something eerie, inhuman almost, drifting in the wind. At first she'd dismissed the noises as just the peculiar sounds of the natural world, the hiss of wind across sand, the whistling of rock tunnels. But it's clear now that the noises are coming from the tower itself. There's a dry fizzling, followed by a hollow bellow. And the screams, of course, quiet and stifled but unmistakably there.
A short distance from the tower, Eleri and her companions meet with Bron and Alistair, sent ahead to scout the route, and their severe expressions do nothing to alleviate Eleri's apprehension.
"It's good to see you," Bron says as she steps forward, nodding at Eleri and the rest of the Inquisition in greeting.
"What can you tell us?" Cassandra asks from Eleri's side, taking this short pause in their journey as an opportunity to rearrange the sword and shield strapped to her back.
"We arrived a few hours ago and observed the tower from that rock formation," Bron explains briskly. "At first there seemed no signs of activity but a group of wardens arrived recently. We have yet to see them leave."
"We've seen lights coming from the tower," Alistair adds, "blood magic, I'd wager."
"You can smell it," Hawke says from behind them, her voice dark and venomous, and Eleri's a little surprised by her tone; Hawke's been laughing and joshing since they'd left Skyhold, the only member of their small band who'd somehow managed to maintain their spirits throughout the long journey, and it's weird to see her so intensely focused. Clad in leather armour and gripping tightly to her staff, she no longer looks like just Varric's drinking buddy, she looks every inch the Champion.
"How do you want to do this?" Hawke asks Eleri as she strides to the front of the group.
"Quickly and without incident?" Eleri suggests hopefully, trying to ignore the line of grim faces now looking at her expectantly.
Hawke smiles at her indulgently but there's something a little pitying in her eyes as well. Eleri suspects that Hawke is the only person here who understands what it feels like to find yourself suddenly thrust to the centre of events far too complicated for one woman to tackle.
"You take point. Bron and Alistair can flank. I'll guard your backs," Hawke says with a decided nod.
Right, Eleri thinks, I'll take point.
Because of course she has to take point; she's the leader, she's the Inquisitor.
Except she really doesn't want to.
Eleri was her tribe's healer – a damned good healer. She took great pride in her work, in her extensive knowledge of healing herbs, in her steady hands when stitching a wound. When she did take up her bow, it was only ever for hunting. And now she's killed so many people she can barely keep track of the numbers. Now she's the leader of a shemlen religious movement and the whole idea is so preposterous it's almost comical.
Almost comical.
Except there's nothing funny about the looming, snarling arches of the Tevinter ritual tower. Nothing funny about the wailing moans and the snaps of magic she can hear.
Eleri takes a deep, steadying breath before leading her companions across the long, stone bridge that stretches across a deep, narrow gorge and toward the tower. She's gripping her bow in sweat-slicked hands, hoping desperately that there's some easy resolution to be found on the other side of the bridge.
She knows that's unlikely.
But the hope is important to her, no matter how tenuous it may be.
The first thing Eleri notices as she climbs the steps into the tower itself is the blood dripping in rivulets down the steps, long, thin tendrils of crimson criss-crossing the stone like a spider's web.
Near the top of the stairs they come across a pile of bodies, a heaped mound of corpses unceremoniously dumped together. It's a cruel sight, a sorry waste of life that makes Eleri's skin shiver. She can feel her little sliver of hope wheedling away and it takes every shred of determination she can muster to keep on moving.
"Wait… no…" comes a man's voice from up ahead, plaintive and wailing. Whoever this man is, he is afraid, so very afraid.
Eleri quickens her pace.
At the top of the stairs is a flat, square courtyard, surrounded by stone arches and open to the gradually pinkening sky. She sees the wardens first, the distinctive, rich blue of their armour immediately drawing her attention. But then she sees the demons, standing still at the peripheries of the courtyard, waiting, watching, and her stomach drops.
"Warden Commander Clarel's orders were clear," snaps a man standing separate from the wardens. It's clear that he's not one of them; his outfit of pristine white sets him starkly at odds with his surroundings. He stands out so brashly, so harshly, like a bolt of lightening in the forest, scorching everything around him.
Eleri immediately dislikes him.
"This is wrong!" pleads the same terrified warden from before. And as Eleri scours the scene unfolding before her, she can clearly see that the man is right. Whatever is happening here in this ancient place, it is not good.
"Remember your oath!" the pristine man gloats smugly, "in war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death… sacrifice"
At those words another warden steps forward and Eleri thinks she can hear a muffled apology as he stabs a thin, curved blade into the back of his cowering comrade.
There isn't even a scream. Just a wet gurgling noise and then the man has fallen to the floor. His blood doesn't pool beneath him as Eleri would expect, instead it plumes upward into the air, convalescing into a ball until there's a burst of flames and a demon steps out of the nothingness and into the courtyard.
It's unlike anything Eleri has ever seen.
"Good," the pristine man gloats, still oblivious to his recently arrived audience, "now bind it. Just as I showed you."
The warden, his comrade's blood still dripping from his blade, raises his arm and a green light envelopes the whole area. Then there's a flash of red and a sparkling noise like the shattering of glass and when everything has cleared, the warden stands still and stony, eyes red and oddly distant.
What in the fade is going on?
"Inquisitor, what an unexpected pleasure!" shouts the pristine man, pulling her attention away from the wardens. She starts; she hadn't realised he'd spotted them. "Lord Livius Erimond of Verantium, at your service."
He gives a theatrical little bow to accompany his greeting and Eleri can't help but wonder whether he thinks this courtyard of horrors is just some silly show for his entertainment. It's a sickening thought.
"I don't care who you are," she spits back at him, "just tell me what is going on here!"
"Is it not obvious?" he crows, clearly enjoying the attention of his new audience, "I am offering my services to the wardens. They found themselves in need of my… particular set of skills"
"Wardens!" calls Alistair, interrupting Erimond to appeal to his former brothers, "this man is lying to you. He serves an ancient Tevinter magister who wants to unleash a Blight."
Erimond clutches his chest with feigned offence, face contorted into the mockery of innocence. "That's a very serious accusation. Let's see what the wardens think." He takes a moment to adjust the golden fastening at the front of his leather doublet then raises his arm imperiously.
"Wardens!" he bellows, "hands up!"
The wardens obediently raise their hands.
"Hands down!" he orders again.
The wardens lower their hands.
Well that's bloody unsettling, Eleri thinks, shifting her weight nervously between her feet.
She can see Alistair bristle from the corner of her eye. He might claim to be an ex-Warden but he's clearly outraged by this obscene puppetry.
"Corypheus has enslaved them," Alistair seethes, pushing the words between clenched teeth.
"They did this to themselves!" Erimond protests, "The Calling had the wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help. And since it was my master that put that Calling into their heads – we in the Venatori were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy and – together – we came up with a plan: raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake."
"Of course, the demon army – I was wondering when that would show up," Eleri says, trying to project an easy confidence she does not feel.
"You knew about it?" Erimond asks with genuine shock, and Eleri feels a small thrill of pleasure at having unnerved him, even if just a little.
"Well it doesn't matter if you know about it," he continues once he's regained his composure, "there's nothing you can do to stop it. Sadly for the wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect; they're now my master's slaves. This here is only the beginning. Once the rest of the wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas." He raises his outstretched arms as he speaks, practically cackling with glee.
"This makes no sense!" Alistair cries, although Eleri's not sure whether he's talking to anyone in particular or just shouting in frustration, "why would the Wardens want a demon army?"
"Demons need to food, no rest, no healing," Erimond replies, "once bound, they will never retreat, never question orders. They are the perfect army to fight through the deep roads – or across Orlais now that they are bound to my master."
"And what do you get out of all this?" Eleri asks, confused as to what this preening, posing man could possibly get out of the total destruction of Thedas.
"While the Elder One rules from the Golden City, we, the Venatori, will be his Kings here in the world."
"You're a fool!" Eleri shouts, her previous confusion and trepidation now draining away to be replaced with a searing, surging rage, "you will be the Kings of nothing! The empty leaders of a barren, lifeless world. Now release the wardens from their binding and let's end this madness!"
He laughs in response and Eleri is annoyed that he appears so amused by her demand.
But then Erimond reaches toward her and she doesn't have time to be offended because there is an explosion of pain in Eleri's left hand which sends her buckling to the floor. She thinks she can hear Cassandra call out her name and there's the distinctive pressure of a hand on her shoulder, but it all seems blurry, oddly indistinct as Eleri cradles her ailing hand and wishes for the pain to stop.
"The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, in the event that you were foolish enough to interfere," Erimond sneers, "the mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass through the Veil? You stole that from my Master and he's very displeased. When I bring him your head, his gratitude will be-"
"Oh shut up!" Eleri shouts as she rises from her knees, voice loud and thunderous and wholly alien to her ears. She is fed up of his smug, preening voice. She is fed up of all of these proud, patronising shems talking down at her. Why does everyone keep talking at her like she's a child?
Straightening her back and holding her head up triumphantly, she lifts her hand as it crackles with energy. She may not fully understand the nature of the Anchor embedded into her hand but the one thing she has managed to learn is how to manipulate its power to her advantage. Channeling all her rage and fear and frustration, she unleashes a wave of power across the courtyard.
Erimond cries out in surprise as the energy pulse hits him square in the chest followed by a pained cry as he is sent arching through the air. He lands with a dull thump against the sandy stone and he looks visibly shaken when he pulls himself up, a line of blood trickling from his nose and one arm hanging limply from his side. Eleri finds it oddly cathartic to see the smears of blood and sand across his formerly pristine outfit.
"Kill them!" Erimond shouts to the Wardens and their demons, voice cracking with desperation, before quickly turning and limping toward the back of the courtyard and a second, smaller staircase that Eleri hadn't noticed before.
She immediately makes to follow him, raising her bow and aiming an arrow at his knee to hinder his escape. But before she can take her shot, a snarling demon appears in her path, snapping his jaw at an impossible, inhuman angle. She ducks to avoid it, cursing under her breath as she sees Erimond slip away from the corner of her eyes. But there's no time to worry about Erimond now; there's a demon looming dauntingly above her and although she instinctually raises her bow before her, she's not sure what an arrow is supposed to accomplish when faced with a writhing, glowing mass of fire and anger.
She hates this bit.
This moment at the start of battle when the heart starts to pump and instinct takes over and she has to choose to fight or else die. And she tries to stop the quivering in her hands as she grips tightly to the nock of her arrow, tries to tell herself that this is no different from all those times she hunted dear for her clan. Except this is different. Because the wardens have human faces, drained of emotion but human nonetheless, and the demons slip and wail like nothing ever encountered before she left her clan. And while there's an odd serenity to the hunt, there's a chaos to the battlefield that is unlike anything else.
But then Cassandra surges before her, pushing Eleri to the back of the group where her ranged attacks will prove more useful. And she can feel the invigorating power of Dorian's magic and hear the comforting clatter of Varric's crossbow and as much as she hates the fighting, at least she doesn't have to do this alone.
No, at least she doesn't have to do this alone.
Bron lurches to the left, sidestepping around the Warden's fireball and wheeling around to his back. His head cranes to follow her, watching her move rather than minding his flank, and when Alistair steps forward with his long-sword poised, it's too late for the Warden to block the attack. The Warden's mage-armour offers little protection and Alistair's sword slides cleanly into his side with a slick slurping noise.
There's an agonising second of stillness before the Warden starts to fall and Alistair is glad that Erimond's ritual has already taken the light from the Warden's eyes because it makes it a little easier to hold the man's stare as the life slips away from him.
A little easier.
Because it still isn't easy – cutting down his former brothers, watching them fall before his blade. He tries to tell himself that it's Erimond who truly killed them; he killed them the moment his ritual bound them to the demons and diminished their souls.
No, it isn't easy.
But then another Warden staggers toward Bron, his dagger-ended staff held aloft menacingly, and Alistair hasn't got the time to think about the unfortunate fate of the Wardens because all that matters now is that someone wants to kill his Bron and he's not going to let them.
He dashes forward to intercept the Warden's attack and catches the Warden's staff with his blade. He jerks his arm back, jabs his elbow into the Warden's nose, and when the Warden doubles forward in pain, Alistair smashes the pommel of his sword into the base of his skull. There's a sickening crack of bone against metal then a sharp clunk as the Warden's body slams onto the blood-slicked floor of the courtyard.
When he looks up, Bron gives him a small nod. Thank you.
He moves again, the battlefield too crowded with threats for even a moment's respite, and Bron falls quickly into step at his back. They work in tandem as they circle around the courtyard, Alistair cutting swathes through the demons with broad strokes of his long-sword while Bron jabs and nicks with her rapier. They're unexpectedly graceful together, twisting and reeling, hacking and slashing in seamless rhythm despite their drastically different fighting styles.
They've been practicing together for weeks now, first at Skyhold and then every day as they'd travelled to the Western Approach. And while their sparring sessions had started as simply a way to pass the time between meetings with the Inquisitor, they'd soon become an indispensable way of letting off steam, of keeping busy while waiting for the next step toward finding the Wardens. And, if he's completely honest with himself, he just likes sparring with Bron; she makes him sharper, makes him faster.
The fight is brutal but quick; even with their demon familiars, the Wardens are no match for the Inquisitor and her allies. They're a practised team, fighting with confidence, with conviction, their individual skills perfectly balanced to compliment each other. It's the kind of unity that only comes after months of living and travelling and fighting together, the kind of unity that Alistair had once known during his time with Elissa in the Blight and hadn't experienced since.
He's missed that, being part of a team, fighting with the absolute faith in your companions, the unquestionable certainty that these people will stay by your side until the battle is won. He has a little of that feeling back again now, ever since he met Bron. That sense of belonging, that sense of camaraderie, of knowing that someone will always be watching your back. If he can somehow find a place with the Inquisition (and he's still not sure whether he is a permanent addition to their cause or whether he's expected to leave once he's no longer useful), then perhaps he can share in their fellowship.
With the fighting done, an odd silence descends, an eerie quiet that hangs heavily over the courtyard like a shroud. It doesn't feel like a victory, though their opponents are dead and the Inquisitor and her companions seem relatively unscathed.
Eleri's allies start to gather round her and Alistair watches with interest as they talk quietly amongst themselves. Eleri fusses over her friends, tutting disapprovingly as she prods at open wounds, while Cassandra speaks in even, solemn tones. Then Varric tells a joke, though Alistair is too far away to hear the punch line, and the small group breaks out in cautious laughter. It's a heartening scene, comrades-in-arms lending their support to each other in whatever way they know how, and he can't help but feel a little envious.
He jumps a little when Bron places a tentative hand on his arm; he'd been too lost in his thoughts, too distracted by the Inquisitor and her friends to notice Bron's approach.
"Are you all right?" she asks, brows furrowed with concern and a displeased frown on her lips.
"Yes, I'm fine – this," he gestures to the bodies strewn across the courtyard as he speaks, "is difficult for me."
"I can understand that," she says, tightening her grip on his arm in what he suspects is meant to be a comforting gesture.
She's standing so close to him he can see the beads of sweat hanging from the messy halo of hair around her head, can feel her ragged breath in the space between them. There's a blood smear across her cheek and he tries to swipe it off with the pad of his thumb. Instead he smears it across her face, a wide slash of red mingling with the dirt and sand that clings to her skin.
Alistair frowns and Bron chuckles and it's such a precious thing, this little moment of friendship after a punishing battle. He doesn't want it to end, doesn't want to turn away from Bron's soft smile and face the world of problems that awaits them.
But they can't stay like that forever, standing together amidst the death and the blood, and Bron gives Alistair's arm one last squeeze before turning away from him and making her way across the courtyard to where Eleri and her companions have assembled.
He follows her, throwing a small wave at Hawke as he sees her approach, stepping gingerly across the scattered corpses and abandoned weapons.
"So… that went well," Hawke drawls sarcastically when they've all grouped around Eleri.
"It's worse than I imagined," Alistair says, "I knew to expect blood magic but – this – the Warden mages enslaved to Corypheus."
"If this is the fate of the mages, what of the Warden warriors?" asks Bron with genuine curiosity and everyone stills, eyes downcast.
It had been obvious to Alistair as soon as they'd witnessed the ritual, the warden slain by his brother and the swirling vortex of blood that brought forth the demon. The Warden mages will serve Corypheus and the Warden warriors will pay the price in blood.
Bron's face suddenly falls as realisation dawns on her.
"Ah - of course," she says, and Alistair can tell from the little bob of her head that she's embarrassed that she hadn't figured it out sooner (and it's funny that, despite her vocal cynicism, Bron is far more idealistic than she will ever admit).
"So what now?" Eleri asks with understandable frustration. They'd trekked a long way to reach the ritual tower, a difficult and grueling journey, and while they now have some more answers, well, it isn't exactly the satisfying conclusion that they'd been expecting following nearly a month of travel. A resolution to this catastrophe with the wardens still seems so far away.
"I may know where the wardens are," Alistair pipes up. "There's an abandoned Warden fortress to the north-east: Adamant. It makes sense that this ritual tower would have been chosen for its proximity to the fortress"
"That's a good idea," Eleri says with a nod, "or at least the best one we have right now."
"Alistair and I can scout ahead to Adamant," says Bron, "and confirm that the wardens are there. We can meet you back at Skyhold and report our findings."
"Good," says Cassandra, noting the group's nods of agreement, "it is agreed. We will reconvene at Skyhold."
There are a few more moments of discussion before they part ways, a debate on the best route back to Skyhold, on whether or not the Inquisitor should see to any tasks while en route back to the Frostbacks. And when Eleri is satisfied that everyone is well provisioned, she gives a few parting words – "stay safe" – before leading her companions back toward home, her faithful mabari padding behind her.
I like her, Alistair thinks as he watches her small form tramp across the sand. She's kind, empathetic – good with people and competent on the battlefield. Of course she seems overwhelmed, a Dalish healer thrust unceremoniously into a position of immense responsibility, but she handles it with surprising good humour (if not exactly ease). She's eager to take advice, keen to listen to as many differing suggestions as possible, but she refuses to be bullied.
He can understand why they made her the Inquisitor (even if it's clear that she can't).
And, perhaps oddly, he doesn't want to let her down, doesn't want to let any of them down. The Inquisition sought him out so that he could help them find the Wardens – and he's determined to do just that.
"Adamant is this way," he calls to Bron as he gestures across the horizon.
Bron is fiddling with her pack, rearranging its contents to make space for the extra provisions that Eleri and her companions had given her for the onward journey to Adamant, but she looks up long enough to see where he's pointing and nod in understanding.
When she's ready, she swings her pack onto her back and hurries over to Alistair where he waits at the bottom of the steps to the ritual tower. He's glad to leave, glad to put the horrors he witnessed there behind him. But the smell is strong, the sharp touch of magic and the coppery tang of blood, and Alistair is afraid the smell will linger in his nostrils long after the tower is out of sight.
They walk across the sand in silence, though Alistair can tell from Bron's expression that she's deeply engrossed in some sort of internal conversation. Her brows are moving, lips contorting with silent words, and it would be funny if she didn't seem so haunted by whatever words were racing through her head.
He waits. If she wants to talk, she will.
"What a mess," she finally mutters, "I don't understand how the Wardens could be so bloody stupid."
It's not what he was expecting, this sudden, angry outburst. Something about Bron's tone riles him and he can feel his body stiffening defensively. "Erimond lied to the wardens," he says, though he's not sure it's a particularly convincing excuse, "they were trying to prevent future Blights."
"With blood magic and human sacrifice?" she scoffs in response.
"Bron, they made a mistake," he snaps, unexpectedly irritated by her criticism of the Order, "but they thought it was necessary."
"Of course they thought it was necessary. People who do terrible things always think that," Bron snaps back, clearly unwilling to relent in her censure. "No one thinks they are the villain in their own story. Everyone has excuses they tell themselves to justify bad decisions – and it never matters. In the end, it's just you and your actions."
"It's easy for you to judge," he roars suddenly, stopping in his tracks to turn on her, "you're not a Warden. You can't understand what it's like. You don't know the burdens that the Order carries. You don't know!"
She looks startled for a moment then oddly thoughtful, eyes narrowed. He thought he was getting used to this, to Bron's analytical stare, but he can't help but feel strangely exposed. He'd expected her to shout back, rising to defend herself – he hadn't expected this silent, focused scrutiny.
"Why are you so angry with me? What is this really about?" she finally asks.
Her questions take him by surprise. Isn't it obvious why he's angry? He's angry because he's a Warden and it hurts him to see his former comrades used in such a way. He's angry because Bron is criticising the Order despite knowing nothing about it. He's angry because, well…
"It's not about anything. It's about you – about you condemning people you can't possibly understand," he replies, voice still sharp even if he's not shouting anymore.
"No – that's not it. There's something else; something is bothering you."
"There's not."
"Tell me, Alistair," she insists, "we don't keep secrets from each other."
"Bron, just – just drop it."
"Alistair!"
"It could have been me!" he finally admits, voice loud and raw and so painfully vulnerable that Bron's stern expression immediately drops into something softer.
"What?" she asks, shaking her head in disbelief.
"It could have been me at that ritual tower, Bron, it could have been me!" he says, "what if I was one those Wardens tricked by the Venatori? I could be enslaved by Corypheus!"
She shakes her head more vigorously now. "You think you would have had anything to do with this? With blood magic? With demons? You would have spoken out! You would have fought tirelessly to stop this madness."
"You don't know that," he says, suddenly very tired. His eyes are drooped, his shoulders bent, and he just feels so… small.
"I do, Alistair," she insists, leaning forward so that she can look up into his downcast face, "I know you, Alistair. And I know that you would have put a stop to this. Or at least tried damn hard."
And he's not sure whether Bron will ever stop surprising him but there's something about Bron's surety in the strength of his character that leaves him speechless. It's odd to find someone with such unshakeable faith in him.
Odd but… nice. Really nice.
A small smile starts to tug at his lips, and when Bron sees the tension and the uncertainty leave his face she starts to smile too.
"Now are you with me?" she asks, "in the here and now? Because we have a job to do and I can't have you distracted by thoughts of what could have been in a different life."
"I am," he replies, "I'm with you."
"Then let's go find those Wardens," she says, "because we are going to put an end to all of this."
And then she surprises him once more by taking his hand, gripping it tightly, firmly in her own, and leading him forward across the sands. And even through the cold, hard metal of his armoured gauntlet, he can feel her warmth, can feel her strength. He gives her hand a squeeze and eagerly falls in step beside her.