Author's Note – Yes, another WIP, what of it? I take my plot bunnies as they present themselves these days. Notes at the end as usual.

Hugs as usual to GenjutsuDragon for the beta!


((Kingsway, 9:30; Ostagar))

Something was wrong.

The sun had set, bringing with it a darkness that seemed almost to have weight. Part of it was the smell, Cauthrien knew. Darkspawn killed in the previous three battles had been left on the plain before Ostagar to rot, along with those of their own fallen that they had been unable to recover. The stench had increased steadily, along with the buzzing of flies, until the air was thick with death.

It was a tactic often used in more traditional warfare: show the enemy the cost of attack, force his soldiers to march over the corpses of their fellows, and you robbed them of will and fighting spirit. The enemy they faced now, however, cared nothing for such deterrence. Kill one darkspawn, or a dozen, or a hundred, and the rest would keep coming without missing a step. Killing them all was the only way to stop them.

This was what they planned to do tonight: lure them down onto the plain to the smaller force waiting there, and then attack them from the rear with the bulk of the army. The plan seemed sound enough, but she still found herself beset by a growing sense of unease that had her fighting the urge to pace.

She did not pace, mind you. The commander of Maric's Shield, the right hand of General Loghain Mac Tir could not be seen to pace. He did not pace, standing as still as a stone atop the rise overlooking the plain, with the rest of their forces out of sight below the level of the rise: a human flood, waiting to be unleashed.

She had never seen him pace, or show any other sign of unease, and he did not now, but the Maker knew that she wanted to.

It was more than the increasingly urgent reports from the scouts about the steadily growing size of the darkspawn horde that approached. Loghain was adamant that, since no archdemon had shown itself, this could be no true Blight, but the reports of thousands – thousands – of the creatures moving out of the Korcari wilds were nonetheless unsettling.

It was more than the fact that she and the rest of the Shield were up here, instead of at the King's side. Maric would never have acceded to Loghain's almost casual request, but Cailan had always treated his honor guard as an inconvenience, something to be eluded whenever possible, like a boy ducking away from the watchful eyes of his nanny. And he was a boy, for all that he was almost as old as Cauthrien herself. A boy playing at war, and the Grey Wardens were his newest toys.

She had no fault with the men themselves. They were competent fighters, and had more than proven their abilities against the darkspawn, but their insistence that this was a Blight, without being able to offer anything in the way of proof, was frustrating, to say the least, and the fact that it was they who guarded the King of Ferelden now, instead of the score of men and women who had worked long and hard to earn that privilege and duty, was no small irritant.

But if she was irritated at Cailan for allowing them to be reassigned, she was even more irritated at the one who had made the request for that reassignment, and that, more than anything else, lay at the heart of the unease that made it an act of will for her to stand as motionless as her commander.

She had known him for fifteen years, spent the last six as his second in command, and while he might display no outward signs, she knew that something was not right. She knew why he was so set against allowing the Orlesians to send their chevaliers, and she had to agree: if they admitted such weakness to their former conquerors, they all but invited a second invasion. If not from Orlais, then from some other nation.

The Commander of the Grey, Duncan, had favored caution and greater forces: holding a defensive position and waiting for reinforcement from Redcliffe and Rainesfere, if not the Orlesians. Cailan had blithely rejected the notion and, when Loghain had seemed on the verge of adding his support to Duncan's position, had used the Orlesians to bait the Teyrn into agreeing to the battle. And Loghain … had let him. In matters of military strategy, the Hero of River Dane was leagues beyond the young King of Ferelden, and yet, he had allowed himself to be outmaneuvered, overruled.

And then, he had taken away Maric's Shield, and done so without consulting its commander. Technically, Cauthrien answered only to the King, but Cailan had responded to the suggestion with an almost negligent shrug and nod before turning to add his own enthusiastic voice to the Grey Wardens' talk of battle tactics. She'd little choice then but to follow Loghain, bringing the rest of the Shield with her and leaving the King they were sworn to protect in the care of a scant two dozen men that she'd known less than a fortnight.

None of it made sense.

Since their first meeting, Loghain had always been willing to explain to her the thoughts that lay behind his decisions, but he had refused her queries since leaving the King, his face set in lines as hard as stone, and his grey eyes as cold and distant as the frozen wastes that lay beyond the Wilds.

And now, the torches came into view: not dozens, not hundreds, but thousands. An ocean of fire, advancing as relentlessly as the tide, and Cauthrien felt the first stirring of real fear. Not for herself, for it was a soldier's duty to fight and die, but for the King and the other souls who would meet this tide first.

And still, Loghain did not move.

"Maker's blood, ser!" She turned her head to meet the gaze of Tremayne, her own second. He and the rest of the Shield stood in tight formation at the head of the army, and in each of their faces, she saw a mirror of her own rising fear and urgency. "I've never seen so many darkspawn together before!"

"We should be with the King," Cailleach, the only other woman in the Shield, muttered, brown eyes flashing in rebellion.

"We were given an order, and we follow it," Cauthrien reminded her, then added, "but when the signal comes, we get to the King and stay with him until the battle is done." All eyes turned with hers to the Tower of Ishal, watching hungrily for a signal fire that had not yet been lit.

"On my command," she told them quietly, looking from one to the next, seeing nothing but grim determination and trust in their eyes as each nodded in assent. They had worked, lived and fought side by side for six years under her command, and she had long since proven her fitness for the position in their eyes. They had followed her without question into battle after battle; they would follow her into this battle, and to whatever outcome awaited them all.

She stepped forward, stopping just behind Loghain's right shoulder and watching as the sea of torches resolved into recognizable forms: the squat, burly genlocks; the taller, lankier hurlocks; and scattered among them, the massive bulk of the ogres, with the gaunt, shadowy shrieks flowing between their larger comrades like dark water. Not charging forward blindly: walking in a controlled advance that, while admittedly not as organized as a trained military unit, was nonetheless far more disciplined than she had ever thought them capable of, and all the more unsettling for it.

Her eyes turned to the forces massed outside the walls of Ostagar, easily picking out Cailan's golden armor in the torchlight. She felt a spark of anger that the Wardens would let him expose himself so, but she knew that he would have done the same had Maric's Shield been guarding him. He had never been one to stay in the background.

She did not hear the command, but the sky was suddenly thick with arrows, arching upward from the lines of the defenders and falling in a deadly rain upon the advancing darkspawn. Many fell, but those behind stepped over the dead and dying as though they did not exist, advancing inexorably, their numbers seeming scarcely reduced.

Twice more, the rain of arrows rose and fell. Then the mabari warhounds were released, baying savagely as they raced across the rapidly narrowing space between the two armies and attacked the darkspawn without hesitation… and died.

Torches were tossed aside, and rusty, nicked blades swept from tattered sheaths as the darkspawn horde broke into a lumbering run. A shout, audible even at this distance, rose up from the lines of the defenders, and suddenly, the humans were charging forth to meet their foes.

Cauthrien's mouth was dry, her heart pounding as she fought the urge to pull the Summer Sword from its scabbard and join the fray. Never before had she stood and watched while a battle of any size was joined. Nor, so far as she knew, had Loghain Mac Tir; she risked a glance at him, wondering how he could remain so still, and froze. She had never before seen the expression that he wore now: anger, grief, a terrible determination, and something that she could not name, something cold and frightening that made her look away.

The two sides came together in a clash of steel that was almost immediately echoed by the first screams of dying men. A low moan rose from the ranks behind her; they could not see, but they could hear, and they knew that the battle had been joined without them.

Cauthrien could see, and what she saw stole her breath. Perhaps five hundred had remained before Ostagar with the King, including the Grey Wardens. Loghain commanded another two thousand, but the darkspawn horde stretched across the hills as far as her eyes could see, those who died replaced almost before they had fallen. Their weapons might be poorly made and maintained, but they could still kill with them. The forces below were almost laughably outnumbered, and would be, even after the two thousand at her back entered the fight. Five to one? Ten to one? More? Did it matter?

They were all going to die tonight.

So be it. Her eyes scanned the chaos of the fight below, slipping dispassionately past the fallen until she picked out the gleam of gold amidst steel and blood. Cailan, surrounded by Grey Wardens, was hacking his way through the darkspawn, wielding his two-handed sword like an extension of himself. Her gaze dropped to the terrain, picking the route she would take to fight her way to his side.

"Prepare!" she called out, heard blades being unsheathed behind her as unit commanders took up the call, sent it sweeping through the ranks. Loghain's head snapped around, his eyes flashing in an anger that she did not understand. She turned to the Tower of Ishal, thinking that perhaps it was the delay of the signal that was the cause of his ire, felt her heart leap as bright flame burst from the tower's peak, blazing golden against the night sky.

"Sound –" She had already begun to turn, her mouth open to relay the command to charge, when his words brought her up short, "the retreat."

"What?" She spun back, disbelieving, sure she had misheard him, but he remained motionless, his sword sheathed at his side. "Ser, we can't –"

His hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake, closing around her arm in a grip that was painful even through the armor, and in his eyes, there was only that cold strangeness and an implacable resolve. The clash of wills was brief, the outcome all but preordained. In fifteen years, Cauthrien had never disobeyed an order from Loghain Mac Tir.

Until now.

She wrenched her arm free and stepped away from him. "King Cailan will die if we do not aid him!" she shouted angrily, her mind spinning with the implications of the order he had given.

"Cailan signed his own death warrant when he chose to stand with those charlatans," Loghain shot back with his usual disregard for the title inherited by King Maric's son. "He chose glory -" his snarl made the word an epithet, "over his duty to Ferelden! I will not sacrifice the rest of our forces in a doomed battle that leaves this kingdom without a defense against the darkspawn! We will withdraw from this Maker-forsaken wilderness and meet the enemy at a place of our choosing!"

She stared at him. He was right; his words made sense, but - "We are sworn to defend the King!" she protested, a sweeping gesture encompassing the rest of the Shield.

"And he dismissed us!" Thorne had been the most vocally bitter about that dismissal. "Let the Grey Wardens that he thinks so highly of protect him!"

"Do you abandon your oath so lightly?" Cailleach demanded, spinning on him.

"His dismissal released us from our oath," Thorne countered. "I'll save my loyalty for a King who appreciates it!" He was not alone in his sentiment, Cauthrien realized. Many of the men who had been ready to follow her moments earlier had been given an alternative to certain death and seemed inclined to take it, though only Thorne would meet her gaze, his eyes blazing defiance.

"I ordered a retreat!" Loghain raged, and for a moment, she thought he would draw his sword and attack her. She held her ground, lifted her chin, and met his furious gaze.

"I will not," she told the man who had been more of a father to her than the man who had sired her. She could feel her heart breaking beneath the baffled fury, but she could not surrender to that now. Everything he had taught her: duty, honor, loyalty... all of it funneled to this moment when he asked her to throw it away.

The darkspawn had nothing to do with the hammering of her heart in her chest as she pulled her eyes away from his and looked past him. "I choose to honor my oath of fealty to the King of Ferelden," she called out, her voice tightly controlled, "though it may cost me my life. Those who choose to do the same, follow me!"

She turned away, not bothering to see how many would make that choice. Regardless of number, it would not be enough, though perhaps they could buy time to cover the King's retreat, assuming they could convince him -

"Any who leave now are traitors to Ferelden!" Loghain's voice rang out behind her, as cold and hard as the ice of the Frozen Sea. "If I ever see any of you again, you will be tried and hung!"

Cauthrien gritted her teeth, swallowed back the lump that tried to rise in her throat and blinked away the sting of tears. So be it. She unsheathed the Summer Sword and held it high. "To the King!" she roared.

"To the King!" A scattering of voices echoed her as she broke into a run, fully expecting an arrow to cut her charge short. Instead, over the pounding of her feet on the turf and the thunder of her pulse in her ears, she heard Loghain ordering the withdrawal of those who had remained.

She ignored it, racing down the incline toward the knot of defenders, her eyes locked on the golden armor of the King, her peripheral vision tracking the relentless charge of the darkspawn horde.

They weren't going to make it.

She pushed herself harder, calling on years of training in stamina and speed, but better than a hundred yards still separated her from her goal when the vanguard of the darkspawn attack swarmed onto the plain before the ancient redoubt. A genlock challenged her with crude sword upraised; she cut it down without breaking stride, then another … and another, the Summer Sword a scythe reaping a deadly harvest.

She could see them clearly now: Cailan and the Grey Wardens at the forefront of the battle, besting each individual darkspawn easily in combat, but always with two more ready to fill the space left behind. She saw Duncan turn, the relief on his face as he saw her shifting to consternation as his gaze shifted past her to those who followed her: the barest fraction of what he had surely been expecting. His lips moved, but she was still too far away to hear him.

Then they both saw the troll.

The behemoth thundered across the ground, trampling some of its smaller kindred in its dreadful eagerness to reach its target: Cailan, golden armor glinting in the light of the bonfires as he took down one opponent after another, his face alight with enthusiasm. His martial skill was undeniable, but he was unaware of the troll bearing down behind him until it was too late. It snatched him up in a massive hand, barely seeming to notice the frantic flailing of his sword as he tried to strike at it. One violent shake and the blade tumbled from nerveless fingers. Another and his head snapped violently on his neck, then lolled like a rag doll.

Cauthrien screamed a wordless denial, but when the troll hurled Cailan away, his body landed in a heap of impossible angles that removed any possibility of hope. Vengeance was all that remained, but Duncan was closer, and he charged with a shout, evading a crushing blow and leaping onto the monster, digging his blades into flesh to climb up the behemoth, black blood gouting with every savage foot of the ascent until both daggers plunged into the throat and the troll toppled backward with a gurgling roar.

It was an audaciously bold attack, even if it had been done for a dead man, and Cauthrien wondered dimly what Loghain would have thought, had he witnessed it, if it would have altered his contempt for the order. But there was no time for contemplation as she was faced with a hurlock wielding wickedly hooked daggers. She sidestepped and spun, opening up the distance that was her biggest advantage, then brought the Summer Sword around in a powerful arc that separated head from body as smoothly as a hot knife cutting through butter. She didn't pause to watch it fall, pivoting away to engage two genlocks in a dance of death, feeling a blade skate off of her vambrace as she blocked the other, fetid breath hot in her face when one of them closed, trying to pin the greatsword between them. She released the hilt with her right hand, snatching the grip of the mace that hung at that hip. The leather lanyard snapped easily, and she brought the head of the mace smashing down onto the genlock's skull twice in rapid succession. As it crumpled to the ground, she dropped the mace and stepped back, adding her right hand back to the Summer Sword's hilt in an overhand sweep that struck the remaining genlock at the juncture of neck and shoulder, cleaving deep into the torso.

She kept backing, sliding the blade free rather than trying to wrench it loose of the wreckage of flesh and bone and looking around, trying to pick out friendlies. Cailan was dead, and while Cauthrien would have given up her life to save his without hesitation, dying for a lost cause was senseless. If those remaining could pull into a defensive formation, they might be able to withdraw -

Maker's blood …

Besides Cailleach and Tremayne, barely half of Maric's Shield looked to have followed her, along with perhaps a dozen others. Of those, the majority of the army regulars were already dead, with the rest, including the members of the Shield, fighting for their lives against odds of three to one or worse.

"Form up on me!" she roared, but it was soon apparent that even those who heard her call were unable to heed it. She saw Duncan cut down by a hurlock alpha wielding a wicked-looking battleaxe, saw Tremayne run through with a spear and Cailleach overwhelmed by three genlocks. Saw others cut down trying to reach her.

She kept fighting, the Summer Sword a seamless extension of her body and will, thoughts of escape turned to a grim determination to take as many with her as she could before she died. She had defeated every other member of Maric's Shield to take her place as its commander, and darkspawn corpses soon littered the ground about her, yet more kept coming. It was simply a matter of time.

She stepped back to avoid a hurlock as it fell with black blood gushing from its throat, felt her foot slip on something hard and slick, then tumbled backward. Her head struck a rock, and even with the protection of her helmet, the impact was enough to make her vision go black, her last thought regret that she would not die on her feet.


Cauthrien was unsure how long she was unconscious, but when she opened her eyes, the first thing that she saw was the beacon fire atop the Tower of Ishal, blazing in a merry mockery of the aid it had been intended to summon. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sight and let her other senses take stock: the sounds of combat were distant, indicating that the fighting had moved past her. Nearby, the silence was deafening: none of the groans from the wounded that were the normal aftermath of battle. No calls of carrion birds. Even the flies had stopped buzzing. The air was thick with the stench of blood, spilled entrails, and the coppery, corrupt stink of the darkspawn.

She turned her head from side to side, moved her arms and legs cautiously, checking for injuries, finding only bruises. She opened her eyes, rolled over and pushed herself to her hands and knees. The Summer Sword lay on the ground beside her; she retrieved it as she stood, looking about warily. She stood alone in a sea of dead bodies: human and darkspawn. To the east, the tide of battle had pushed into the fortress of Ostagar itself: shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons coming to her ears on the night air, and the glow of flames announcing that anything not of metal and stone was being put to the countless torches.

Her gaze turned back up the rise that she had descended; Loghain and those who had followed him were even now withdrawing to the north. No darkspawn lay in that direction; she could go, but where? She knew Loghain Mac Tir well enough to know that he would keep his word. If she died here, at least she would die fighting.

She began to pick her way over the fallen dead, heading in the direction of the sounds of battle, but found herself drawn to the gleam of Cailan's armor in the rising flames. She crouched beside his crumpled body, rolling it onto its back. Blue eyes turned sightlessly skyward, the easy smile gone slack, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. Guilt caught her chest in a grip of iron. For the second time, she had failed a king that she was sworn to protect. When Maric had left on his last voyage, she had been recovering from a respiratory illness that had sent her to bed for the first time in her career. It was a state visit to a friendly nation, but his ship had never arrived in Antiva City. Logically, there was nothing that she could have done to prevent a ship from sinking in a storm, and no one had blamed her, but the loss had still cut deep. And this -

Tears tried to rise, and she clenched her teeth, holding them back. He had been a foolish, vain man-child, but he had been Ferelden's King, and the last of Calenhad's bloodline. Her life should have been given before even a drop of his blood had spilled.

"They will pay," she vowed to him, arranging his arms on his chest and placing the hilt of his sword in his hands. It was no pyre, but perhaps someone would come after the darkspawn had finished their rampage and returned to the lightless caverns of the Deep Roads, provide the rites that a fallen monarch was due. Surely Loghain would do that much?

Accepting that she would never know, Cauthrien stood and again moved toward the sounds of battle.

"Help!" A woman's voice brought her around, sword at the ready. "Help us!"

From the cover afforded by a stand of the scrubby, stunted trees that were all that seemed to grow in the Korcari Wilds, two figures staggered: one tall and strongly built, but leaning heavily on the other, who was much shorter and slighter. There seemed to be no darkspawn near, so she moved to meet them, dropping her sword and sprinting the last few steps to catch the larger of the pair as he pitched forward.

"Carver!" the other cried out in the voice that Cauthrien had heard as she eased the man to the ground.

"I'm fine," he grunted, but his teeth were clenched and a sheen of sweat covered his pale face. "Don' need help."

"Your leg is broken, so bloody oaf!" the young woman scolded him. A quick glance told Cauthrien that 'broken' was an understatement. The left leg was bent at an awkward angle below the knee, and she could see the gleam of bone amidst the blood. Damned lucky he hadn't cut an artery.

"It needs a splint," Cauthrien told them, "but you've got to get clear of here first. If any of the darkspawn see you, they'll be all over you."

"I can't carry him alone," the woman – girl, really – said. Her face was pale and grave beneath the smear of dark blood, but she was younger than Cauthrien had first thought, and while the man was a strapping fellow, he looked even younger … no more than eighteen, surely. Their shared dark hair and hazel eyes suggested familial ties.

"You're Hawke," Cauthrien said suddenly; the haggard girl before her bore little resemblance to the cocky, grinning scout who had slipped in and out of the Wilds like a shadow, bringing reports of darkspawn movements and flirting playfully with anyone she encountered. Small wonder she hadn't recognized her sooner.

"Rhianne Hawke," she confirmed with a ghost of a smile. "This is my brother, Carver."

"Not that anyone ever remembers I'm a Hawke," Carver grumbled, peering up at her. "You're Ser Cauthrien," he said suddenly. "You protect the King. Is he -"

"Dead," Cauthrien confirmed flatly, "along with the Grey Wardens." The two who'd lit the beacon – the Cousland son and the one named Alistair – had they survived? If they had, it would not be for long; the Tower of Ishal looked to be in the midst of the darkspawn horde.

"What happened?" Carver's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "General Loghain was supposed to come in behind the darkspawn with the reserves."

"He ordered a retreat," Cauthrien replied simply, pushing down the sorrow, anger, and betrayal as it tried to rise anew. Not yet. "I and a few others refused to leave … for all the good it did." She glanced around them at the sea of dead bodies. Would those who had departed have made a difference, or would their corpses have been added to the slaughter? She knew the answer, knew that Loghain's order had been strategically sound, but -

"That coward!" Carver raged, trying to sit up, then falling back with a groan, the remaining color draining from his face. "Dammit!" He struck the ground with a fist.

"Genlock alpha with a mace," Hawke told her grimly. "I need to get him back home to Lothering; our mother and sister are there. Can you help us?"

Lothering. Three days march to the north for a sound body, but easily twice that long with one of the group as maimed as this. Hawke was right: she'd never manage it on her own, even if they stripped her brother out of his splint armor. And that break … exposed to this filthy environment and the blood of countless darkspawn, it was all but guaranteed that it would become septic. Or worse. If he was tainted, there would be nothing to do but give him mercy before he became a mindless ghoul that would attack anything he saw.

Moments earlier, Cauthrien had been prepared to go to her death, but she couldn't leave this pair to the fate that would surely befall them if they did not get clear of Ostagar. She had failed Cailan, failed those who had followed her; dying wouldn't make it right, but perhaps helping these two would be a start.

"We'll move faster if you're on a litter," she told them.

"I can walk!" Carver protested.

"You'll be dead in a day if you try," Cauthrien warned him. "That break is as bad as any I've seen."

"Stop being so damned stubborn," Rhianne chided him.

"You're one to talk," he retorted. "I told you to run."

"You'd be dead if I had," she countered, patting the daggers sheathed at each hip. "Or is that what's got you so surly, little brother? Me saving your ass again?"

"Could we perhaps continue this once we're away from here?" Cauthrien suggested as Carver was opening his mouth to reply. Their sniping had the feel of long habit, but while it might serve to distract them from the direness of their predicament, right now it could also draw unwelcome attention.

The broke off, though neither looked particularly chastened. It didn't take long for Cauthrien to find what she needed; apart from picking up weapons here and there, the darkspawn hadn't bothered to loot the dead. Two ten-foot spears provided the arms of the litter; padded gambesons stripped from the dead were lashed into place with scavenged leather straps and lengths of rope, and two sturdy scabbards, the weapons that they had held long gone, provided enough of a splint to keep the broken limb stable during transport. Most of the defenders had left all but weapons and armor in their camps within Ostagar when they went out to the battle, but Cauthrien found a handful of intact waterskins and searches of packs and pouches turned up travel rations and first aid kits that had not been contaminated by darkspawn blood.

Getting Carver onto the litter was an ordeal that left him drenched in sweat and grunting oaths behind clenched teeth. Getting the litter off of the battlefield was no easier; Cauthrien lifted the front, bearing most of the weight, while Hawke lifted the rear over each corpse to keep from jolting him any more than necessary. With every step, Cauthrien kept her ears tuned to the rear, expecting the sounds of pursuit, hearing none. The pounding of her heart did not start to ease until they were over the rise and out of immediate sight, but even then she knew that they were nowhere near being far enough away.

Once they had reached more level ground, they paused long enough to rig rope harnesses that allowed Cauthrien and Hawke to pull together from the front. That done, they pushed northward until the smoke rising from Ostagar was lost on the horizon, then further still until neither of them could walk any more.


A.N. - For those of you who haven't noticed, I'm quite fond of Ser Cauthrien as a character, and I've been nudging around the idea of plugging her into DA2 for a while now. Was debating how to kick it off and realized that "The Centre Cannot Hold", the first chapter of what was intended to be a look at Loghain's descent into madness from the perspective of his second, title inspired by Yeats' "The Second Coming", would work perfectly. The only change was her choice, which suggested the title, inspired by another poem, Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken". Lazy? Perhaps, but it fit, and since I apparently never got around to reposting it, I'm doubting that too many people remember the original anyway.