Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel Comics, Dragon Age, Stephen King's Doctor Sleep, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, or any of their related characters. Character Warjen Zevonishki or "Zevon" is an homage to my favorite musician, long deceased, no disrespect intended, I included him because King dedicated the novel Doctor Sleep to his memory. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: May contain spoilers for Doctor Sleep, Dragon Age Origins, Origins DLC, Awakening, and Dragon Age II, Dragon Age II DLC, Dragon Age Inquisition as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling. May also contain spoilers for Marvelmovies, series, and/or comics, Harry Potter books, and WB Games' Hogwarts Legacy. Song lyrics included herein were used without permission.

Chapter Sixteen: The Shit Hits the Ceiling

Elilia wanted to lay in the next morning, for she was quite comfortable, snuggled against Loghain's oak barrel chest, but he would not. Put out, she kept her eyes tight shut and the army blankets pulled tight around her while he went about the business of putting on trousers and shirt and gambeson, and then he left to have his squire, a rather annoying young man named Imrek, help him into his plate. Elilia did not know why Imrek, who was a man grown, was still a squire, but she doubted he had the skills necessary to become a knight. Given that he was the squire of Loghain Mac Tir, that seemed odd in the extreme, but a man as big as Loghain certainly required a squire with some size. Perhaps he'd come to his service full-grown. Judging by the way Loghain avoided Imrek at all times when he didn't actively require his services with plate and fittings, she would have thought he would have found someone he liked better. And she couldn't blame him for not liking Imrek. She barely knew him and already she found him an obsequious pipsqueak who paraded his position as the man who helped the Hero of the River Dane in and out of his armor as something that made him greater than other mere mortals.

She tried laying where she was for a bit longer, but the damp early morning was considerably colder without Loghain's body to warm her up, so she reluctantly rose and donned her clothing and armor. She left the tent to see to breakfast.

As soon as she ducked out of the tent, a spherecorder was thrust into her face.

"Teyrna Elilia, are you at all disappointed with your rather… desultory wedding? It certainly can't have been what you were expecting, as the daughter of House Cousland."

A large-headed microphone, with the markings of a noted news broadcasting station on it, was pushed up to her mouth.

"Pardon me," Elilia said, nonplussed. She pushed everything out of her way and exited the tent. She looked around as she stood up. There was a small cadre of reporters surrounding her, from various news agencies, all scrambling to ask her the most ridiculous questions. One of them even had the effrontery to ask her to rate her wedding night.

"Get away from me!" she said, and fled. She had no idea where to go to get away from them, but she had to get away. She had never found herself fodder for the press before. Perhaps she should have expected this, but when there was nothing at the wedding, she thought perhaps she had gotten away scot free.

She wandered, not quite aimlessly, and when she saw the towering figure of her husband she headed in that direction like a bolt from a crossbow. "Where did these bloody journalists come from?" she said, crossly. "Do you have any idea the things they've had the gall to ask me?"

"I can well imagine," he said. "The answer to your question, my dear, is that the wedding drew them. They wouldn't be anywhere near Ostagar if not for that. They wouldn't have known of it, except that there's already some journalists here – war journalists, with enough good sense to keep a respectful distance from us – but they probably gave the wedding a bit of notice, particularly when the Revered Mother started shrieking last night. Their reports drew the Society Reporters in like moths to a candle flame. That kind has no discretion whatsoever."

"Ugh. Does this kind of thing happen often?"

"To me? Not any longer. Will it happen to you as my new Lady Wife? Probably more than you will like."

"Teach me how you taught them to leave you alone."

"No real trick to it, just draw your sword and threaten to thin their numbers a few times does the job."

"Can I do that?"

"Nobody told me off for it."

She followed him in silence as he made the rounds of camp. "Can I ask you something? Something I've wondered since I first saw you fighting, back at Castle Highever."

"Ask."

"Why do you fight with an iron sword? You're Teyrn of Gwaren. I would think you could afford a better grade of weapon. I would think you could probably get any number of weaponsmiths to give you a better grade of weapon just so they can tell people that one of their weapons is being wielded by the Loghain Mac Tir."

"I don't need a better weapon."

"You don't ever find yourself at a disadvantage, swinging peasant's iron?"

"It's served me just fine thus far."

"But… imagine how much easier combat would be if you had veridium… or red steel… or silverite… or dragonbone!"

He stopped walking and turned to look at her. The quirk of his eyebrows was decidedly sardonic. "Do you know how many veridium, red steel, silverite, and dragonbone blades I have taken from the dead hands of my fallen opponents? Fine equipment is no guarantee of success in battle."

"It can be an awfully big help. Your sword isn't even enchanted. Every nobleman carries an enchanted weapon, it's what makes these otherwise rather basic weapons a step up from the force weapons that the rank and file carry."

"I was not a nobleman when I first went to war. Nor was I officially a member of the rank and file. I never truly enlisted in the army, I just kind of got sucked into it."

"And they never gave you a weapon?"

"I already had one."

"And it never occurred to you that you ought to improve on what you started out with as your situation changed?"

"I did. I switched from shortsword to longsword to greatsword over time."

"But all plain peasant's iron."

"'S all I need."

"Your armor and your shield are silverite. Would you use better if you could get hold of it?"

"This armor is a symbol, to me, of the turning of the tide in the Rebellion. The shield was given to me when I assumed the Teyrnir. No, I would not."

"You are a strange man."

"It's a fair cop."

She tried not to fret about the conundrum, to her, of a warrior of such unsurpassed renown who refused to equip himself properly, but her mind churned with it. Then it dawned on her. She didn't know anything of his past, just the many tales of his daring deeds during the Rebellion and subsequent wars, but if he was a child who was "sucked in" to army service without a proper enlistment, then the circumstances must have been rather strange and probably traumatic. She suspected he hadn't had anywhere else to turn at the time, which meant that he had no remaining family. Not altogether uncommon, especially in those days, but with the story that he somehow rescued Odin and Maric from assassins, then most likely he hadn't lost his folks long before or easily. The powerful enchanted weapons carried by the nobility were traditionally bestowed by their fathers. He clearly had no father to give him one. Perhaps that was why he did not seem to want one. And maintaining his allegiance to "peasant's iron"… might be his way of maintaining contact with his roots.

A scout ran up and saluted. "My Lord General! The Wardens are approaching the camp. My group spotted them about two miles out, on the main road."

"Ah. Well done. Go and rest, lad. I'd better tell Cailan. He's been all too eager for this."

He started off toward Cailan's tent. Elilia followed after.

"The Wardens, eh? That's good, I suppose," she said.

"According to Loki, the shit will hit the ceiling once they arrive, so probably not so good, really," Loghain said. "Still, it's been pretty boring, waiting for the Darkspawn to make a proper move, so better to get them here and have done with it. I hope we don't play helheim keeping them alive."

"What do you mean?"

"The Darkspawn are going to target them, apparently using the same senses that Wardens use to track Darkspawn. They want to rid Ferelden of Wardens so they have a clear path to conquer the province for the Archdemon."

Elilia stopped short. "That's… we can't let that happen."

"I am well aware. I do hope Duncan's recruitment efforts have paid off. The more Wardens we have, the better I'll sleep at night."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," Elilia said. "My father always said you didn't like the Grey Wardens."

"I don't, they're an independent military order that pledges allegiance to no one and the first thing they did when Maric allowed them back in Ferelden was to get him embroiled in an Orlesian conspiracy to overthrow or assassinate him, but if they truly have some use during a Blight then we need them. Loki says they are needed in the battle against the Archdemon itself, though he hasn't told me exactly why. I am inclined to believe him. And if we have some properly Fereldan Wardens, I'll trust them better. Although, of course, Duncan went to Orzammar to do his recruiting."

"The Dwarves have long been Ferelden's allies."

"Allies are good, but never put too much faith in an ally, dear heart. Everyone is out for their own well-being in the long run. Case in point: we haven't even gotten offers from other provinces, aside from Orlais, of aid at this time, and everyone in their right mind knows Orlais is just looking to settle in and stay forever."

"It's so hard to believe that a province of Asgard really has evil designs on another province of Asgard," Elilia said. "I don't understand how they think they can get away with that."

"There's two issues with your statement, dear heart: First, Orlais considers itself an 'Empire,' not a province. It is, in truth, a part of Asgard, but they tend to overlook that fact unless you hold a sword to their throats and remind them of it. Second, they got away with it for a good solid eight hundred years, which was long enough for them to get the feeling they could do whatever the helheim they wanted without being told any different."

Elilia shook her head. "Why did it take Odin so long to get involved?" she said.

"Two reasons. First; for a time, Orlais allowed Ferelden a kind of provisional independence. They left most of our nobles and our High King intact. Second, and this is the important reason; Ferelden… just isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things."

He started off to the King's tent again, and she fell into step behind him, deeply disturbed. She didn't like the idea that her beloved homeland was considered unimportant, but she supposed it was. Most places in Asgard saw Ferelden as a savage province, populated by uncivilized barbarians. Having it overpowered by grand and glittering Orlais might be seen by many as an improvement, the cruel and murderous policies of the Orlesians and their Thalmor partners notwithstanding. Probably they were lucky that Odin had come down in favor of High Queen Moira's Rebellion at all. Her assassination, and his own close call that night, had cooled his desire to lead from the vanguard, but he hadn't completely pulled his support, and he'd apparently seen something of the prize he'd found in the young peasant who saved his life.

The cheerful guard outside Cailan's tent informed them that the King had already gone to greet the Wardens' arrival.

"Are we going after him?" Elilia asked. Loghain snorted.

"Cailan can sniff Duncan and his new recruits like an eager puppy if he wishes, but I don't think we need do as well, do you? No, I need to talk to my security detail, ask them how an assassin managed to slip past them last night."

He turned toward the main army camp and headed off that direction. As they drew near, they heard the sound of music and voices raised in not-altogether-harmonious song.

"Old Stew-Bone was a war horse,

And I wish he were mine.

He never drank water,

He always drank wine.

"His bridle was silver,

His shoes, they were gold,

And the worth of his saddle

Has never been told.

"Oh, the fairgrounds were crowded,

And Stew-Bone was there,

But the betting was heavy

On the bay and the mare.

"And a-way up yonder,

Ahead of the throng,

Came a-prancin' and a-dancin'

My noble Stew-Bone.

"I bet on the gray mare,

I bet on the bay.

If I'da bet on ol' Stew-Bone,

I'd be a free man today.

"Oh, the hoot owl, she hollered,

And the turtledove moaned.

I'm a poor boy in trouble,

I'm a long way from home.

"Old Stew-Bone was a war horse,

And I wish he were mine.

He never drank water,

He always drank wine."

"Is this a song about your horse?" Elilia said. Loghain grunted. "Was that a yes or a no?"

"A yes and a no. Stew-Bone has never been at any fairgrounds tourney for idlers to bet on. I don't joust or any fool thing like that. But people say it's meant to be my horse."

"Who's the musician? Zevon?"

"Doesn't sound like a guitar. Sounds more like a lute. I don't think he brought a lute with him."

They drew closer to the crowd of singing soldiers gathered around their campfire, and in the middle of them, strumming a small lute, they saw Loki. Loghain crossed his arms over his chest and stood quietly until the song was done.

"Pup," he said. "Where exactly did you get the lute? You didn't bring it with you to Denerim, as far as I was aware. You didn't make Cauthrien detour to Gwaren to pick it up, did you?"

"Of course not, Papa," Loki said. He put the lute aside and it promptly vanished.

Loghain shook his head. "I should never be surprised. Was it a creation of your mind or did you somehow teleport it here from Gwaren and back again?"

"Um… actually… I'm not sure. The latter, I think."

"Good to know that even you don't know how you do these things," Loki said. "Say, Pup, have any insights for me about how that assassin got past my security last night? I was just on my way to question them about it."

"Talk to Sergeant Darrow. He was posted to watch that general vicinity last night."

"Darrow? He's one of my best men. You're not telling me that he's turned coat?"

Loki shook his head. "No, Papa. He acted under orders he didn't like but thought he had no choice but to obey. You'll understand when you talk to him. He's a bit… hungover, this morning, but he should be lucid."

"How do you know Sergeant Darrow?" Loghain asked. "I thought the men were just… a mass of background noise to you."

"Sergeant Darrow was very kind to me on the march down from Denerim," Loki said. "Most of the men of Maric's Shield were. They knew me as your son, and I guess you could say they sort of… adopted me… as a kind of unofficial mascot. They called me 'the Little General Junior.'" He grimaced as he said it.

"I expect they meant well enough by it," he said, though he took some amusement at Loki's chagrin at their patronizing.

"I daresay. Doesn't make it any better, though."

"Any word from the Darkspawn?"

"They're quite happy the Wardens are back, Papa. They'll probably attack soon. Tonight, I think. Try to take us while we're asleep."

"Then we most certainly won't be. I'll draw together a War Council this evening. Do you mind coming to it?"

"Not at all, Papa."

"Loki, I want to ask you something, something I'm pretty sure you know the answer to and haven't told me for some damned reason. Why are the Wardens necessary in the fight against the Archdemon, specifically?" Loghain said, fixing the boy with a forbidding look.

The boy closed his eyes and sighed. "I don't… want to tell you, Papa."

"Why ever not?"

"Because when you know, most likely you'll run out and join the Grey Wardens. Grey Wardens die, Papa. They die in the Joining, they die when they kill the Archdemon, they just die in general because they're infected by the Blight!"

"All right. Grey Wardens die. Now, knowing that, why on Mundus would I want to join them?" Loghain said.

Loki grimaced, a baleful and ugly expression on his little face. "Because, Papa, Grey Wardens drink not only Darkspawn blood, but Archdemon blood. Dragon blood. It makes them stronger than they ever were before, greater warriors than they could ever hope to be without it. It gives them special powers against the Darkspawn, allows them to sense them, and each other, and be more effective in killing them, and… and it means that when they kill the Archdemon, it stays dead."

"What do you mean, it 'stays dead?'" Loghain asked.

"That's why Grey Wardens were invented. When an ordinary warrior kills the Archdemon, it's soul is drawn to the nearest tainted creature, and for a time it commands the Darkspawn in the guise of that anonymous creature, but after awhile, years perhaps, the dragon rises again. And again. And again. And the Blight will never end."

The men were quite discomfited to hear this, though whether it was the idea of a never-ending Blight that bothered them, or the fact that the Wardens practiced something that sounded suspiciously like Blood Magic, was hard to say. Or maybe they were upset because they knew that their general would most likely go out and join the Grey Wardens after hearing this news.

"So… only… a Grey Warden… can kill the Archdemon?" Loghain said. He sounded shocked. "It literally cannot be killed by anyone else?"

"Right, but Papa, the Warden that kills the Archdemon dies. It's soul is drawn into that Warden, and they both die."

"The important part, Pup, is that the Archdemon dies," Loghain said. "When the Archdemon dies, the Blight ends, the Darkspawn go back to the Deep Roads."

"That's not all that's important to me," Loki said. "Don't do it, Papa. Please."

"It will be all right, Pup."

Loki blew out a loud, irritated breath and stood up. "Yeah. Right. Fine." He made his way, not running but moving swiftly, through the men and away.

"You're… not going to join the Wardens, right?" Elilia said. "That would be insane. You'd lose your title, your army commission… everything."

"But I'd gain the ability to end this Blight," Loghain said, still looking in the direction his son had gone and not at his new wife.

"Other people have that ability. You have to let them do it."

He glanced at her, then away again. "I would not make another perform any duty that I would not myself perform."

"This is a duty you are not able to perform," Elilia said. "Are you expected to be a deity, able to solve every problem?"

"Don't worry about it." He started walking, away from her, toward where the men of Maric's Shield were bivouacked. Elilia stood where she was and looked after him, well aware of what he planned, and unable to say or do anything to stop him.

Loghain tracked down Sergeant Darrow. The man was indeed at least slightly hungover, and after talking to him Loghain understood perfectly why the man chose to overindulge. He did his best to come to proper attention and snap a smart salute at the approach of his General, but he looked quite sickly. Loghain took pity on him and told him to be at ease.

"Sergeant, I'm wondering if you can tell me how that assassin got past you last night. I'm told you were watching that quadrant. You've never been what I would call sloppy; I would have expected a man in a tree would catch your attention."

"Aye, Your Grace. I daresay if I had been watching that quadrant, he would have done. But I wasn't."

"Then who was?"

"It was meant to be me, Ser. It ought to have been me. But King Cailan came to me before the ceremony and demanded I stand down. He wanted to put his own man in my place, he said. I told him I was acting under your orders and he said hang it, Ser. He said his orders superseded yours. And he said if I didn't obey him, he'd have my head, Ser. Arguing with me is why he was late to the ceremony."

"Cailan. Ordered you away from your post. Personally."

"Aye, Your Grace," Darrow said, with a grim look.

"Can I count on you to testify to that, if I need you to do so, Sergeant?"

Darrow hesitated, but not long. "If I am alive to do so, Ser, yes you can."

As evidence, it wasn't bad, but he could wish for better. Darrow was known to be loyal to him, the nobility might well say that he had his own man give testimony that Cailan had aided in his attempted assassination in order to seize the throne for himself. As if he wanted it. If Cailan were to fall from power, the next in line was Bryce Cousland and his get, not Loghain Mac Tir.

And then it dawned on him that he was now married to a Cousland heiress. That, too, might be seen as a grab for the power of the throne if he brought a shoddy case against Cailan. He would have to tread very carefully.

And he would have to keep assassins away from Darrow. His life was in danger now just as much as his own. More so, probably. He held dangerous information, and it would be very easy for him to die in battle, perhaps not even at the hands of Darkspawn.

"Report to Commander Cauthrien, Darrow," he said. "Stick close to her for the time being, until I can set up security for you. They won't get to you under my watch."

"Appreciated, My Lord." Darrow saluted and headed off toward the Commander's tent. Loghain headed off to set up his security. After that was done, he returned to his tent to scribble down some preliminary plans for the coming battle. He didn't know what to expect, exactly, but in some ways he did. They'd gone up against these creatures several times, and they weren't all that impressive, really. They had some grasp of tactics, probably solely because they had the Archdemon behind them, but otherwise they seemed almost inept. Dangerous? Yes, but mostly because of the sickness they carried. They'd lost more men to that than to their blades thus far.

Of course, that might change if the Archdemon had only had them feinting at their lines without the Wardens here.

He made what plans he could and then ducked out of the tent. As he exited, he ran down someone standing near it.

"Pardon me, I didn't see you," he said. "I had my head down."

"Ancestor's asses, I didn't know you Surfacers came so blasted big!"

The voice was female, the words suggested she was Dwarven. He stood up and looked down at the tiny, stout figure on the ground at his feet. She lay back on her hands, staring up at him gape-mouthed. She was rather pretty, he supposed, if Dwarves could ever be said to be pretty, with relatively delicate features by the standards of her people, and strawberry hair just a shade or two blonder than outright red. There was a heavy black tattoo over one of her dark brown eyes. Elilia also had a tattoo, a pair of black swoops over her left eye and down on her right cheek. Facial tattoos on women were uncommon in the nobility but common enough in the rest of Ferelden, so he didn't think much of this one at first.

"Did I hurt you?" he said.

"Er… no, Salroka, I ain't hurt," she said, and climbed to her feet. "My mind is blown like a glitterdust bomb, that's all. Didn't know people got that big."

"I'm just a Nord. Giants get bigger, but most of them don't wear much in the way of clothing."

"Really? Wow, there's a thought."

"What were you doing skulking outside my tent?" he asked.

"I wasn't skulking!" she protested. "Well, maybe I was. It's a big tent, I thought maybe it belonged to someone important. Now I guess I know why it's so damned big, but are you important? You're wearing awfully fancy armor, but it don't look like it fits quite right."

"It's been refitted several times, in one direction and the other. Not really a good thing to do to armor, especially enchanted stuff. In any event, I'm Teyrn of Gwaren, and General of these armies."

"Nifty. Nice to meetcha. I'm Laz Brosca."

"Nice to meet you, Laz Brosca," he said, chuckling. "I take it you're one of Duncan's Warden recruits?"

"Yeah, I am."

"I hope he brought back more than just you."

"There's a few more, but I'm the best of the bunch."

He laughed outright. "I don't doubt that a bit. You know, I've never met a dwarf who wasn't entirely too hung up on titles. My old friend Maric went to Orzammar once, and when he came back he told me that there were dwarves there called 'Casteless' who had to wear special tattoos to mark them as social outcasts. Was that your fate?"

She bridled. "Yeah, I was a Duster. You want to make somethin' of it?"

"Not I. I hope you make something of it, however. I like it when the common man rubs a little shit in the High and Mighty's faces."

"Weird!" she said, clearly taken aback. "What kind of noble are you, thinkin' like that?"

"One who started out not all that different from Casteless. Good day to you, Warden Brosca. And good luck."

"Join us, brothers and sisters, join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant, and know that if you fall, one day, we shall join you," Alistair intoned, holding out the Joining Chalice. It was the first time he'd ever said those ancient words, the first Joining he'd officiated (more or less; Duncan was right by his shoulder, and the other Senior Wardens were in a circle around the whole proceeding) and it made him nervous, but he felt proud too. "Daveth, step forward."

The Denerim thief stepped forward and took the cup. He was scared, but he showed real courage as he drank down the putrid potion. Unfortunately, courage alone was not enough. His eyes turned white, he gasped, coughed, spasmed, and fell to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Daveth," Duncan said, and he did, indeed, sound sorry.

"Ser Jory, step forward," Alistair said. He felt miserable now, his first official Joining as a proper Warden was off to a bad start. But it happened. Men died in the Joining. There was nothing you could do about it.

Ser Jory, however, did not step forward. He backed away and drew his sword. "No. No, I have a wife, and a baby on the way. No one told me it would be like this."

Duncan pulled his own blade and slowly advanced. "It is too late to change your mind," he said.

"No! No, I'll not throw my life away like this!" Ser Jory said, clearly panicking.

"I'm sorry, Jory," Duncan said, and stabbed the man in the gut. Jory died with a groan of surprise. The remaining recruits were spooked. So was Alistair, to be honest. His first official Joining was off to a terrible start.

"The Joining is not complete," Duncan said, leaving Ser Jory's body on the ground and returning to Alistair's side. "Continue."

Alistair swallowed hard. "Laz Brosca, step forward. You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good."

Laz looked at the other recruits, some of whom looked ready to bolt, and some of whom looked like they'd like to see her try and run. She squared her relatively broad little shoulders and stepped forward.

"Gimme that cup, Al," she said, reaching up to him.

"My name," he said, handing it to her, "is Alistair."

"I'll call you cutie-patootie, Sugar Britches," she said, and waggled her eyebrows over the rim of the chalice at him. Then she downed her sip and handed the cup back. A moment of pain, and then the lights went out. The rest of the recruits seemed to take heart from her survival and her courageous example, and they had no further trouble.

Or at least they thought they had no further trouble, until they were done and waiting for the successful Warden recruits to awaken. That was when an interloper strode into their midst from the shadows where he'd spied upon the entire Joining.

The Wardens all drew their weapons, but Duncan gestured them to lower them. He did not, however, have them put them away.

"Teyrn Loghain," he said, cautiously. "We are in the midst of a Joining Ceremony. The Wardens insist on privacy for such things."

"Don't get your knickers in a knot, Duncan," Loghain said. "Have you got any of that stuff left in the cup?"

"Why do you ask?" Duncan said.

"Because I want to join."

A collective gasp at this. Duncan eyed the Teyrn suspiciously. "You are aware, Your Grace, that joining the Wardens would mean giving up your -"

"My title, my commission, et cetera et cetera, yeah yeah. I get all that. The point is it will make me better able to deal with this Blight."

"It… would, but I wouldn't think that would be your primary concern."

"Then that shows how little you know me. Now I'm not promising I'll blindly follow every order you give me from now on, but I do promise I'll make myself as useful as possible 'til the Blight takes me."

Several of the Senior Wardens came close to Duncan to confer. "He would make a damn fine Warden, if he lives," Gregor, the Anders, said.

"But can we survive the political calamity of taking Asgard's greatest general away from her?" the elven Warden Temmarian said. "We've only been allowed back in Ferelden for the last fifteen hundred years, you know."

"It would be disastrous if the Teyrn were to cease leading the troops of Ferelden into battle, Grey Warden or no," Duncan said, shaking his head. "Much as I may dislike the man I have to respect the fact that he's the only reason Ferelden stands a chance against the Archdemon, especially if the other provinces will send no aid, and no Wardens."

"But if the Teyrn were to, unfortunately, die in the Joining…" Gregor said, "King Cailan wouldn't hesitate to allow the Orlesian Wardens to fulfill their offer and obligation to assist."

"True, but would they leave when the battle was won?" Duncan said.

"Commander! Wardens don't play politics!" Gregor chided.

"They aren't meant to, but the ten thousand Chevaliers they intend to bring along with them have no such compunctions."

"Do you think the Orlesian Wardens are part of a conspiracy?" Temmarian said.

"I hesitate to say," Duncan said, "but I do greatly wonder why no one answered my calls for assistance other than the Wardens of Montsimmard."

"Wait," Gregor said. "Do you think the First Warden is behind this?"

Duncan shook his head. "It need not be so. The other provinces may simply be looking to the welfare of their own demesnes. After all, the Deep Roads run throughout all of Asgard, though they are closest to the surface in Thedas. Ferelden is greatly looked-down upon in other areas, they may think it worth the sacrifice of this province to keep their own healthy and safe. The Archdemon may well take the horde anywhere. That it has chosen to attack Ferelden now is no indicator that it will remain here for the duration of the Blight."

"I bet Loghain Mac Tir would go to the defense of their provinces if they were the ones attacked."

"More than likely. But he is a great hero, and people expect him to help them without any return."

"Let him Join, Duncan," Gregor said. "I bet he'll survive, and we'll have ourselves a Warden of legend. We can give him the latitude to keep running the army. The First Warden is bloody King of the Anderfels in all but name. Seems to me the fabled 'Grey Warden non-interference' is just that. A fable."

Alistair was not part of this hushed conversation. He stood off to the side, swinging his arms, feeling superfluous and awkward, which was actually fairly normal. It was a little surreal, really, Loghain Mac Tir wanting to join the Wardens, but as far as he was concerned, Alistair couldn't blame him. The Wardens were the best thing that ever happened to him. Of course, Loghain Mac Tir had a lot of things going for him that Alistair simply… did not. And some things that he really did not want. He didn't know what the full ramifications of Loghain Mac Tir joining the Wardens would be, other than the fact that the man couldn't be Teyrn anymore, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing to him. He knew he wouldn't want to be Teyrn. Maybe Loghain didn't, either.

Finally, the Senior Wardens broke off their discussion. Duncan looked at the Teyrn and gestured for Alistair to get the Joining Chalice. "There is… enough left, Your Grace, though we typically have recruits gather their own Darkspawn blood prior to the Joining."

"I think you can trust that I've spilled Darkspawn blood previously, Duncan," Loghain said.

Duncan quirked a thin smile. "I suppose I can. Say the words, Alistair."

"Again?" Alistair said.

"The Teyrn may not have heard them the first time. It is important."

Alistair mustered his memory and spoke the words of the ritual. "Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us, and know that if you fall, one day we shall join you.

"Teyrn Loghain, step forward, and submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good."

Loghain took the chalice in one hand, raised it in salute, and said, "Skol." Then he tipped it back and swallowed the remaining contents in a gulp. He handed the cup back and stood silent for a moment. "Hmm… maybe that wasn't eno -"

His eyes went white, he gasped and gagged, and Duncan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Your Grace," he said.

Loghain coughed a few more times and his eyes cleared. "Gah, that stuff do kick, don't it? Still, not the worst drink I've ever taken, which shames me no end."

Gregor's bushy black beard split in a wide white grin of teeth. "That's what I'm talking about!" he said. "Didn't even knock 'im off 'is feet!"

"Do me a big favor, won't you?" Loghain said. "Don't tell Cailan I'm a Warden now. He'll probably insist on joining you himself, and while from some standpoints that might be a good idea, I really can't let that happen right now. I've just thrown the province into enough turmoil by my own Joining. Although probably most of the turmoil will be celebration that that jumped-up peasant is finally gone."

"You do, of course, intend to remain in command of the armies, correct?" Duncan said.

"I don't know if I have a choice. Once people find out, things might get a bit iffy. But if they'll let me, I'll try. Otherwise, well… I have good men. Hopefully they can counteract Cailan's stupidity."

"King Cailan is… young," Duncan said. "He will learn."

"King Cailan set an assassin after me at my wedding last night," Loghain said. "King Cailan will be lucky to get much older. Now, Commander, if you'll excuse me, I have a War Council to prepare. I will see you there when your recruits come 'round, yes?" And he stalked off into the evening, leaving them stunned.