A/N: It's been a while and this is overdue, but thanks to all of you who've been following this story. It is both surprising and amazing and I am very grateful. Hope you can all stick around for a bit longer *wink*.

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Chapter 8 – Nobody's Business

The suspense was killing him, but not as much as the thought that this individual, more than anyone else might not survive this event. On the other hand, it was also why he just wanted to get on with it. With the two mabari-like Templars, Sers Bertram and Myfanwy falling over each other with righteous impatience outside, Alistair simply wanted to know so they could just…move on, but Greagoir simply stood silently; wrinkling his nose at the contents of the tankard. It had been…how long? He'd lost track but at the same time, Alistair could not blame the mage. The very secret ingredients that went in to make the Joining juice in the first place originated from the foulest of creatures. Removing them from the darkspawn did not make them any less bearable…or palatable.

Alistair cleared his throat. With the passing of time, his anxiety increased. He stared pointedly at the tankard; Greagoir ignored him, continuing to eyeball the reviled object in his hand. Using his rank as Senior Warden Alistair had managed to exclude the others from standing witness to Greagoir's Joining ceremony, but he was concerned that if they took too long, the Wardens outside might get curious…accidentally stumble into the tent…or just walk in to ask what the Fade was taking so long; even question his authority. It was traditional after all, to have more than one member of the Order at a Joining.

He could hear the Templars pacing from one end of the clearing to the other outside the tent like hungry lions. He'd already made it quite clear how welcome the two of them were at such a time. Which is not at all. Under normal circumstances he'd be quite happy to have any number of people here (excepting the Templars of course). In this instance, he could not risk having too many witnesses about in what might turn out to be a most unusual Joining. Greagoir might react badly or turn into something strange or…Really, when I woke up this morning, I thought I was going to have just another ordinary day of darkspawn killing and paperwork…

As Greagoir continued to simply gaze wordlessly at the tankard it occurred to Alistair…did the old god soul within Greagoir know that he was about to drink Archdemon's blood? Caused him to hesitate? How much of the old god had manifested itself in the young mage? Would it get angry for instance? Turn into a dragon and lay everything to waste? Holy Maker, what if this is the same as cannibalism?

Andraste's smoking spittoon…what if Flemeth or…Maker forbid that W. I. T. C. H turns up? The latter questions in Alistair head warred for terror then fled his consciousness completely, possibly hiding behind some pink wobbly bit with their warm blankies and a comforting teddy bear. He wished he could join them. Then without warning, Greagoir lifted the tankard and swallowed the contents in one swift movement. Alistair sprang forward…freezing mid-lunge like one of those tacky statues of cherubs throwing flowers or arrows (or whatever it was they threw at people), waiting for the inevitable rollback of Greagoir's eyes…the purple mottling of the young man's skin…the choking…and the screaming and then…

…the dying…

A minute went past. Then a few minutes more.

Another five minutes passed before the Senior Warden noticed that Greagoir had not in fact died, but was still very much alive and knocking his chest plate insistently with the tankard, his face and eyes screwed up as though he'd just had to suck all the lemons from an entire orchard.

"If this is a jest," Greagoir spluttered. "Then it's in such bad taste that I can't even begin to find the right kind of words...and definitely not to describe what my mouth feels like right now." His complaint was punctuated by the metallic clang of the tankard butting against plate metal. "No pun intended…I mean, Maker, you could have warned me it was going to taste like the inside of the Infirmary's garderobe after a night of bad Antivan stew, but n…wait…" Greagoir paused thoughtfully. "I take it back. I think I could use my tongue to clean every single chamber pot and gazunder in the Circle Tower and my mouth would not feel as disgusting as it does right now."

The Senior Warden blinked. "Y-you…" Alistair stuttered in a combination of disbelief and relief. "You're a-alive…Still. Even."

Tired of trying to return the now dented tankard, Greagoir held it up with a waggle. "Am I supposed to keep this?" he asked. "A souvenir from a most auspicious moment and all of that?"

"You're…Maker, you're alive!" Finishing his lean forward, Alistair threw his arms about a very bewildered Greagoir, giggling in relief. "You're alive!" Alistair repeated joyfully. "I'm so relieved! I don't know what I would have done if you'd…if you'd…"

Standing stiffly within his godfather's embrace, Greagoir noticed a pair of bright blue eyes peeking through the tent flap at him. From between the curtains of canvas, Denny raised her eyebrows. She gave him a look, then reversed a trifle too carefully; making sure the tent opening did not gape so as to reveal the goings on inside. To give the two men inside privacy…

Oh…wonderful…Greagoir thought sourly. Now she thinks the Senior Warden and I are…oh why do I bother?

With a sigh Greagoir patted his godfather on the back comfortingly, then grasped the older man's shoulders and gave him a firm push backwards. Wiping his eyes on the back of his gauntlet, Alistair sniffled. "I'll not lie to you," he said in a hushed voice. "I worried about you. Not all who undergo the Joining…survive."

Greagoir's mouth twisted downwards. "I'm not surprised," he said sourly. "This stuff is disgusting. You could use this as rat poison. Maybe with a bit of mint or cinnamon this might taste…no. No, I won't fill you with false hope. Acid would not make this taste any better. Which reminds me; do you have any on hand? I'd like to rinse my mouth out with it. Failing that, a mouth and gullet transplant would be champion."

Still chuckling, Alistair shook his head and finally retrieved the tankard. No fancy carved goblet had been used for this Joining. It had been whatever the Senior Warden could find in the Warden's camp. While Archdemon blood was always kept on hand wherever he went, the official Joining cup generally got left on its fluffy velvet cushion at the Jader headquarters. Of course he could have tried borrowing the nicer goblet from the Ferelden Wardens in Soldiers Peak, but they were a bit possessive of theirs and that Warden Sigrun would have made him pay a non-refundable deposit and signed a contract in his blood before being allowed to take it away.

"Do I even want to ask what was in that?" Greagoir enquired.

"Darkspawn blood," Alistair told him in a quiet voice, because no doubt those Templars were listening in. "And a drop of…um…" he lowered his voice further. "Archdemon B. L. O. O. D."

Greagoir's lips moved; shaping the five letters the Senior Warden had spelled out. Hs eyebrows snapped together. "Wait," he blinked. "That…You gave me…Well technically it's not my, but…You know what?" he said. "I think I am going to be ill after all."

"Try being unconscious instead," Alistair suggested, tossing a cautious look over his shoulder. "Most initiates are after a Joining. It's traditional and right now I don't want to draw more attention to you than you already…what?" Alistair turned, in response to Greagoir's pointing finger. "You…what?"

"Well uh, Denny might have peeked in just now when you were…hugging me."

The Senior Warden frowned. "Damn. The jig is up. Or…maybe…"

Greagoir shrugged. "Well I suppose it's no loss seeing as she already thinks Connor is my…significant other."

"Your…what-er?" The Senior Warden gave the younger man a long look. "We're talking about what now?"

Sinking his head into a hand, Greagoir sighed. "Never mind." Lifting his head and squaring his shoulders, he added. "Well now what?" he asked. "What else do I have to do to become a Grey Warden? Learn a special handshake…eat darkspawn stew while whipping myself with ogre intestines…? Run naked through Denerim while shouting Warden! Warden! Warden! Oi! Oi! Oi!?" He threw up his hands. "After drinking what tasted like the unholy contents of the Archdemon's bowels, I think I can pretty much take anything." Gesturing to himself, he added; "Come on. Do you worst."

Alistair spread his hands wide. "That's it," he told Greagoir simply.

"What? That's 'it'?" Greagoir shook his head in disbelief. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Uh-huh. That's pretty much it, yes," Alistair confirmed. "I say the words, you drink the blood, you choke on it…and like I say, most pass out." Tossing the tankard onto his cot, Alistair folded his arms and; unhooking one hand he used it to stroke his beard thoughtfully, amber gaze scrutinising the younger man very, very carefully. "You didn't…" Pinning the younger man with a sharp gaze, he continued; "No really. No visions? No dizziness…funny turns? Any…" he cleared his throat. "Strange voices appearing suddenly in your head? No grunting, hollering darkspawny noise by any chance?"

The Senior Warden sounded so hopeful for any indication of suffering that Greagoir felt moved to say: "I might be getting a bit of a headache…? Maker knows what this is going to look like coming back out…or is that a touchy subject?"

Alistair ignored the question. Right now, there were more important things to say. The problem however lay in where exactly to start. With a frown, he pointed to the bed. "Lie down," he ordered.

"What?" Greagoir scowled. "But you just…"

"Just do it," Alistair said, using his Senior Warden voice again. "Denny may have seen you being…held up by me. If you lie down and look…" He sighed at Greagoir's stubbornly-set chin and continuing vertical state. "The alternative is that I knock you out myself," Alistair warned him. "If you look ill, we might have a better chance the others will believe you went through an ordinary initiation and won't question anything that happened here."

"Except Denny…"

"Even Warden Denny," Alistair stated confidently.

Greagoir clamped his mouth shut against any further retorts. He supposed arguing about it wasn't going to help any and so did as he was told, carefully shifting the empty tankard to the ground beside him. Knitting his fingers together, he settled his hands across his stomach, staring up at the underside of the tent.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Look…pale or something." Alistair sighed. "No. That won't do. That looks more annoyed or…constipated."

"Must be something I drank that disagreed with me," Greagoir snorted sourly.

Alistair waggled a finger at him. "That's the spirit!" Continuing to waggle his finger, the Senior Warden began backing towards the tent flaps. Be right back…he mouthed before stepping through the opening. Greagoir could hear the clapping of hands and his godfather telling someone outside to 'shove off'…possibly the Templars, or the other Wardens or…Settling his head back he clucked his tongue, the lingering aftertaste of the Joining potion still turning his stomach. I could really go for one of Kester's humbugs about now…A moment later, the Senior Warden walked back in.

Hunkering down beside the bed, Senior Warden Alistair gave him one last, close look.

"Alright," he began. "Seeing as we didn't get a chance to do this while the Templar Twins were attempting to turn you Tranquil…"

Greagoir bolted upright. "They were going to turn me Tranquil?" he asked, wide-eyed.

Alistair waved a dismissive hand. "Dead, Tranquil. It's all the same-"

"Is not! The Tranquil get a uniform."

At a stern look from his godfather, Greagoir lay back down.

"Alright…" Alistair started again. "Before I was so rudely interrupted…I need to hear what the Fade you're doing in the Korcari Wilds…no, wait. Start from the beginning." Lowering himself properly to the ground, the Senior Warden clasped his hands about his knees. "The sooner I get your story straight, the sooner I can sort this out in my head and the sooner…" He took a deep breath. "The sooner I can fill you in on what's going on around here."

Greagoir turned his head, frowning. "Why?' he asked. "What do you mean?"

Extending a hand, the Senior Warden thumped the side of the cot. "Just tell me," he ordered. "Unless you want to wager that what I'm about to tell you is going to be far more unpleasant than what I think you're going to tell me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Greagoir scowled.

In turn, the Senior Warden's expression turned even more grim. "Oh, but I am."

-oo-

Aidan Cousland narrowed his eyes at the dwarven guardsman. Arms crossed, he peered down his nose, regarding the dwarf in a way that suggested he could stand here all evening if need be. The guard, clearly used to encounters such as these, returned the human's gaze emotionlessly, not impressed in the least by the man's claim that he was a relation of the Ferelden King. He'd arrived with no retinue, just a single, grey-haired soldier. Nor had there been advance notice that one of the royal princes was expected for a visit. The human could wait out here indefinitely for all he cared until he could prove that he was who he said he was.

Orzammar was closed.

"Hungry, my lord?"

A large hunk of bread swam into Cousland's view. It was attached to a stubbornly serene Captain Tremayne. "I recommend the cheese. Redcliffe blue; a particularly nice vintage I'm told."

Cousland gave his Guard Captain a look. "You expect me to eat at a time like this?"

"I've also procured this rather fine ale…" Ser Ryan held up a stamped waterskin. "It's somewhat heavy on the grain, but the highland barley does give it a nice, rounded finish."

"Ah…a connoisseur eh?" the dwarven guardsman nodded approvingly. "You been hanging round those mages, soldier?"

To Cousland's boggling disbelief, Ser Ryan grinned and nodded. "I am familiar with the First Enchanter's brews," he informed the guardsman in the same, friendly tone of voice. "He makes – arguably – the finest red lichen ale in Ferelden outside Orzammar."

"That he does…that he does," the guardsman nodded again, bestowing an appreciative grin on the taller human.

Ser Ryan gestured a bread roll towards the high – and firmly fastened - Orzammar gates. "I take it the Festival has ended. We were hoping to be here in time for the Winners' Tastings…" At this Ser Ryan threw a regretful yet wistful look at the closed doors. "Alas, we appear to have arrived too late." Returning his attention to the guardsman he added, "But perhaps if we're lucky, we can catch them at Kinloch Hold." When Ser Ryan turned towards Cousland, he found a tug on his tunic.

"Eh…well the mages are still here…" the guardsman told them both confidentially. Looking first right, then left and satisfied he was unlikely to be overheard, he leaned closer. "I like you." He thumbed at Cousland with a twist of his mouth. "Him, I'm not so sure about, but you're alright."

Ser Ryan bowed, saluting the guardsman with a flourish of the bread roll he still held. "I am honoured."

"Tell you what, Soldier," the guardsman winked while Cousland glared at his Captain. "I can't let you in, but I can send a message to the mages for you."

"Most likely they'll be staying at the Orzammar Circle," Ser Ryan smiled.

"Ah, that they would be," the guardsman nodded. "That they would be. I'll have a runner send a note up to the Enchanter."

"Oh, would you?" Ser Ryan touched his chest with the bread roll in another, grateful salute. "I would be obliged to you!"

A moment later, the guardsman turned, walking swiftly to the gates of Orzammar. As he busied himself with some kind of device by the gates, Ser Ryan lifted the bread roll and nibbled at it idly. Without turning, he commented: "Your mouth is agape, my lord. Your tongue will freeze in this inclement weather if exposed too long."

A clicking noise could be heard as Aidan Cousland closed his mouth with a snap. "Since when did you become so wily, eh?"

"When I accepted your offer of employment, my lord…" Ser Ryan replied without a moment's hesitation.

"Cheeky bastard," Cousland snorted. Lifting his eyes to the sky, he frowned. "We're going to have to seek some kind of accommodation soon." Looking behind him, he noted the thick crowd. Even with Orzammar closed, for whatever reason, there were still plenty of folk about, though the stall owners and merchants had begun to pack up their wares. Across the busy square and cross roads, lamps and braziers were being lit and a steady stream of chilly-cheeked patrons had begun to queue at the entrance to the inn located at the footsteps of the gates. Cousland knew of one other possible place where they could attempt to purchase a bed for the night, but if the closer accommodation was any indication, they were unlikely to find anything available.

"Or find a place to pitch a tent," he added. "Either way, we can't stay out here."

"Ale my lord?"

Cousland batted away the waterskin. "You're very single-minded," he complained at his Captain. "Do you know that?"

Ser Ryan nodded calmly. "Yes, thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment, you block-headed…grey-haired…mage-thief," Cousland pouted. "And hand over that ale while you're at it. Honestly, why offer a man a drink if you don't hand the damned thing over?"

Grinning, Ser Ryan returned the skin of ale to his Lord. He too had already visited the idea of finding accommodation in Orzammar Village and had regretfully come to the same conclusion his employer had. He was in the process of considering possible camping sites in the area when a creak and a boom sounded near the gates and a red-haired squeal came sprinting across the stone, hurling herself at him. Stumbling backward, Ser Ryan was at first puzzled by the attack, until he realised who the bundle of red hair and brocaded leather apron was.

Laughing, Ser Ryan first returned the enthusiastic hug, then gently placed the small person on the steps.

"Enchanter Dagna," he smiled warmly. "It is good to see you. You are looking well."

"And you're looking…" Dagna cocked her head to the side. "Ancestors, you look even more like quartz than granite every time I see you!" Bouncing on her heels, she stuck her tongue out at Aidan Cousland, though she tempered the gesture with an eye-crinkling smile. Turning back to Ser Ryan, she thumped on his breastplate. "So, tell me. How is Alyce? Is she here with you? She's been promising to visit for months, but every time I ask, she's always too damned busy, busy, busy. I'm beginning to think it's personal. We've just built a new lyrium plant. I know she was interested in the new amalgam extraction we've developed for…Your eyes are glazing over, Captain!" she laughed suddenly. "Have the two of you been travelling long?"

"Yes!" Cousland interjected; to be ignored by the diminutive dwarf.

"Well, I can't take you inside," Dagna admitted, thumbing over her shoulder, "but…Well come with me. At least the two of you can stay somewhere warm for the night…or for however long you intend to be here," she suggested in a rush.

"Why is Orzammar closed by the way?" Cousland enquired, shortening his footsteps to keep up with the dwarf.

Dagna grimaced. Tossing a look towards the guardsman, she offered a friendly wave as the trio walked past, gesturing not towards the Orzammar entrance, but at a long set of carved stone steps leading away from the entrance of the great dwarven city. It wasn't until the three had crossed a few landings that Dagna spoke again, casting a cautionary look downwards. The base of the stairs wound in a circular-ish pattern upwards, their way lit by oil torches perched in the trees. They were by now high up enough to be well out of both view and listening range of the Orzammar guards.

"Sorry for the silence," Dagna began quietly. "But Orzammar being closed off is sort of a touchy subject at the moment."

"Why?" Cousland asked. "I've not heard anything…"

Dagna's eyebrows lifted. "That's because we're trying to keep this quiet. It's a bit…" she sighed. "Well to be honest, it's a bit like during the Blight."

"Blight?" Ser Ryan asked, "How so?"

"It's…King Bhelen…" Dagna sighed softly. "He's sort of…well he's sort of…dead," she added in a near whisper. "And Orzammar is once again in the middle of another civil war…Seeing as now we have even fewer actual candidates for the throne than after King Endrin returned to the stone."

"Well that's…" Cousland pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully. "…Inconvenient."

Dagna made a noise of disgust. "You're telling me. Not that the Deshyrs or the Assembly have any actual say in the running of the Orzammar Circle. As long as whoever ends up in charge continues to leave us alone well…Independence is a nice thing, but it's also transitory when it comes to dwarves. Our heads might be made out of stone, and change comes at the speed of continental drift but when there's power to be had, we grab it faster than a Deepstalker in heat."

"An interesting simile," Cousland commented wryly.

Dagna threw her hands into the air. "Ah, dwarves…" she spat. "Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em."

Ser Ryan positioned himself beside Dagna, looking down into her serious, freckled face. "And the First Enchanter?" he asked. "Is he still here?"

Dagna paused. "Yes," she replied. "Why?"

The Cousland Guard Captain and Lord Aidan exchanged a look of mutual here goes…"I need to find out where he sent Alyce," he said, trying to keep the worry from his voice and failing. Dagna's eyebrows drew downwards.

"Is…there a problem?" she asked cautiously.

"I hope to the Maker not," Ser Ryan replied. "But I do need to speak to her urgently."

Dagna grinned. She wiggled her eyebrows. "Aw…old fogey love…that's so adorable." Turning serious once more, she patted Ser Ryan on the arm, much as she would an elderly person, with the promise of some hearty gruel and custard later. "Is she alright then? Can't imagine anyone who tangles with the Senior Enchanter would escape with their faculties intact or all their limbs still attached. Well, not in the places where you'd expect a limb to be attached anyhoo." Peering up at Ser Ryan, her brow furrowed. The grey-haired Captain wore a mask of affable calm most times, except of course, when it came to his irascible mage-wife. Then a person could see more grey hairs sprout from the man's head. In this instance he appeared to be foregoing the grey and heading straight to the white.

"As I said before, I didn't get to see her before she left but I know Alyce can look after herself…" Dagna told him quietly. "Torrin was sure she'd be alright. You don't need to worry."

"Well it's not…" Ser Ryan began, when the Dagna's words sunk in. "Why should I not be worried about Alyce?" he demanded.

Looking guilty, Dagna began to back away. "Be…cause…she hasn't been sent into the Deep Roads?" she said, not quite able to stop flinching in time.

"She what?" It was Aidan Cousland who spoke. Grasping Dagna's shoulders quite firmly, he leant down with a glare. "There are darkspawn in the Deep Roads!" he rasped. "Is the First Enchanter insane?"

Reaching up, Dagna knocked the young lord's hands away and stepped firmly out of reach. Pursing her lips, she returned Cousland's glare. "Firstly, the First Enchanter would not place such an important member of his Circle in harm's way," she told both men sternly. "Secondly…" She exhaled a heavy breath. "Secondly…" she lowered her voice. "The darkspawn appear to be…leaving the Deep Roads."

"What!" Cousland barked again.

With an exasperated sigh, Dagna waved her hand. "Just follow me you two. It's none of your business quite frankly, but if you must know, it should come from the First Enchanter, not me." Having said her piece, Dagna turned and continued up the stone staircase. "Well…" she threw an unreadable look over her shoulder at Ser Ryan. "Mostly not your business…"

-oo-