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 Marvel movies, series, and/or comics, Harry Potter books, and WB Games' Hogwarts Legacy. Song lyrics included herein were used without permission.

Chapter Eighteen: Abomination After Abomination

"Er… Loki?" Zevon said.

"Yes?" Loki said.

"Where are we, and how the helheim did we get here?"

Loki scratched Fen's neck and sat quietly for a moment. Then, "Zip-zip," he said, as if that meant something.

"Zip-zip?" Zevon said.

"Yeah. As to where, we're on the outskirts of Lothering, about two hundred miles north of Ostagar. Papa said I had to get you to take me here, but I didn't particularly care for the method he suggested, so I did it my own way."

"You just… plucked me out of the camp… my tent… our bedrolls… your dogs… my guitar… and thought yourself and everything else here? Without me even knowing it happened?"

"Basically. Zip-zip."

"Zip-zip. Holy flaming shit of Andraste."

"Mag-nificent."

The voice, husky, feminine, laced with a cynical sort of humor, pierced the darkness at the same moment he became aware of a cold draft in his nethers. He broke through to full consciousness abruptly, and clutched the ragged sheet tightly to his chest, ripping it from the hand of the yellow-eyed young woman who held it, peering under it.

"What in Hel do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"You can't fault a girl for curiosity," the dark-haired beauty said, her lips curled in a sardonic little sneer. "There's never been a great Asgardian hero in my room before. I wanted to see if you lived up to legends."

Propped up on one elbow, Loghain regarded this strange incarnation of womankind and wondered exactly how she came to be so bold and so bawdy. She was dressed, if you could call it that, in rags and feathers and a bit of tawdry jewelry, and looked like some kind of Chasind prostitute. Which begged the question, where the helheim was he? Was he, now, somehow, a captive of some tribe of Chasind wilders? Would they cook and eat him, like they were said to do to their captives? This one seemed to know who he was, which was odd, but that didn't really mean a thing. The Chasind lived wild in the deep south because they bowed to no government, not Ferelden and not Asgard. They would not ask for a ransom. And he was currently without so much as his smallclothes, let alone a weapon with which he could fight his way to freedom.

Well, he never was very good at the diplomacy aspect of being a leader of men, but there was a time to dust it off and roll it out. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Ma'am, if you please, might I ask for the return of my clothing?" he said, as cautiously polite as he could manage.

She inclined her head to a small twig rocker near a blazing hearth. "They are there, freshly laundered, on the chair."

It wasn't far to the chair, it was true – the whole house was no more than two strides across, if that, to Loghain, and there was no doubt he could not stand up straight inside it. But the question of how to discretely take those two strides, bent double, and don his clothing while the yellow-eyed tramp watched was rather a tricky one. Of course, apparently she'd already seen everything there was to see, but that didn't mean she had to see it again.

"Your dog and your gear, should you wish to know, are outside, all having been properly cleaned as well," the vamp said. "You're welcome, by the way. Much as you do, if you should hear the truth, they simply take up too much space in so small a hut."

"Grace is all right? That's splendid news. Thank you very much, Miss… er…"

"Morrigan," she said. A brief childhood memory, the old Alamarri campfire stories of the wicked Morrioghanen, daughters of Flemeth, flashed through his mind, but he pushed it away.

"Well, Miss… Morrigan, could you tell me, please, how I came to be here? And where is here?"

"The answer to your latter question is, my mother's hut in the Korcari Wilds, somewhere north of Ostagar, how far exactly I know not for I am not knowledgeable in the whys and hows of miles and maps. As to how you come to be here, you, your smelly hound, and that most unpleasant Chantry witch were all scooped up in my mother's talons, and she bore you hence and healed your wounds."

"Talons?"

Morrigan smiled a thin smile. "Yes. She turned into a dragon and carried you away. Oft have I begged her to teach me the art of shifting to dragon form, but she is obdurate that it is a skill I do not require."

He shook his head briskly, and moved on to the next pressing question in his mind. "Unpleasant Chantry witch? You mean you have the Revered Mother in your clutches, also?"

Morrigan threw back her head and laughed. "I should hate very much for anyone to call that witch 'Revered' anything!" she said. "In any event, she is a mage, so I should think it highly unlikely. 'Tis the white-haired Circle mage to whom I refer."

"Wynne? But… Maker's ass, I was certain Wynne was dead."

"If you think my mother has the power to resurrect the dead, I assure you she did nothing of the sort. The woman was alive – and kicking, most vigorously – when she arrived here. She's been a most argumentative hag ever since."

"That doesn't sound like Wynne," Loghain said, slowly. In his experience, Wynne was a pleasant, polite older woman.

"She doesn't approve of us," Morrigan said, sniffing haughtily. "We are, after all, apostates, and therefore, quite against the rules. When you add in the fact that we are practitioners of the forbidden art of shapeshifting, she's really in quite a state. I told mother to eat her, but for some reason she is content to let her rant and rage, at least for the moment."

"My son is a shapeshifter," Loghain said. "It's not magic, though. It's biotic. And so far, he's only done it the one time."

"And of course biotics are just magic that is considered 'acceptable' because Nords are the most powerful race in Asgard," Morrigan said. "If Nords were more apt to become Fade-connected mages then that, too, would be deemed 'acceptable,' despite the dangers involved."

"Hey, I'm all for freedom. And I bloody hate the Chantry. I have no problem with apostates if they cause no problem for me."

Morrigan's smile grew wider and more genuine, though there remained some level of sarcasm lingering about the edges and dancing in her hawk's eyes. She nodded vigorously. "A sensible man! I like you! I can't imagine what mother meant when she said you were an ill-bred ruffian with no manners whatsoever!"

"Do I… know your mother?" Loghain said.

"She claims that you met, long ago. But it wouldn't be the first time she lied to me. Get dressed, I will put on the stew. Mother wants to speak to you outside."

She bustled around a pony wall to where, he assumed, there was some sort of kitchen setup. By clutching the sheet to himself and ducking and crouching, he was able to slide off the bed and stretch to where his clothes lay on the seat of the chair. He donned them as swiftly as he could and made his way outside, grateful for the ability to stand up straight.

He realized at once that he recognized the sylvan-ringed clearing and the little hut. He hadn't recognized it before because he hadn't previously been allowed indoors. His skin crawled. He should, perhaps, have known.

Wynne stood, looking perfectly healthy, a few paces from the door. She had her arms crossed tightly over her bosom and a baleful look on her face. Grace lay near his armor and weapons, her paws over her snout, as if embarrassed. Sublimely indifferent to it all, the Woman of Many Years, Asha'Bellannar, stood at the crest of a small rise in front of the hut. She looked no older than she had all those many long years ago, when he and Maric and Odin passed this way, on the run from those who wanted to kill his Royal companions. She had taken Maric into the hut, he remembered, and he had never spoken of what passed between them that night. And now, the old woman had a daughter, roughly old enough to have been conceived that night. The thought was… untenable.

But, whatever had happened previously and whatever the old witch's ultimate intentions, she had helped him, and he was leery now of her demon trees. It was best to tread cautiously. Be… diplomatic.

Maric had tried to teach him the wiles of diplomacy. It really hadn't sunk in. Time to summon the dregs of those lessons and do his damnedest to be a proper nobleman, for a change.

He carefully moderated his stride so that he didn't seem too aggressive, and approached the old woman on the rise. He bowed. "Asha'Bellannar," he said. "Many thanks for your kind assistance at the battle, and after. Your daughter implied that the dragon that came to our aid was you?"

She nodded in return, a thin smile playing about her lips. "It was. My, but you have improved your manners since the last time you were at my door, Loghain Mac Tir. Not that you had anywhere to go but up!"

"My… apologies, my lady. I was a child, and bereaved, and scared beyond bearing, and I had a chip on my shoulder that was somewhat larger than my head at the time. That's not an excuse, merely a reason."

"You have some self-awareness now. That is good," she said, nodding. "You will require it. I admit, I considered letting you die. As I told you long ago, the fate of Ferelden is not truly my concern. The usurper Meghren would have furthered my plans back then as easily as your Prince Maric did, it was just a matter of who fate chanced to place in my path. But you… you went and made yourself a Warden. You made yourself one of the foremost defenders against the Blight. And the Blight… that is most assuredly a concern of mine. I realized it would be in my best interests to keep you alive."

"Well, I… thank you for that. And for the lives of my companions, as well." He was afraid of what she would ask in exchange, but duty compelled him to add, "If there is anything I may do in return for you?"

"I ask merely that you continue your campaign against the Blight. And… take my daughter with you when you leave this place."

"Erm… why would you want me to do that?"

"The Darkspawn have the run of the Wilds. Is it not enough that I wish her to be taken to safety? Besides, her magic will be useful in delivering you to Lothering. I should hate to rescue you only to have you drop dead on my doorstep!" She laughed like a harridan.

"Does Lady Morrigan know she is being evicted?" he asked.

"Not yet, but it will not take her long to get ready. Nowhere near as long as it will take you to don that dreadful armor of yours. You really should look into some better equipment, you know. What you have could easily have gotten you killed."

"Will you inform her yourself, or shall I break the news?"

"I will tell her. I daresay there will be a battle, even though she has been wanting to leave now for some time."

She started off. Halfway to the hut she turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot. When I rescued you, I also rescued a rather lovely lockbox that looked to me rather important. It's a heavy thing, but I don't think it's at all full. If you pick the lock, you may find the contents… illuminating."

A lovely lockbox? Cailan had quite a lovely lockbox in his tent, next to his little desk. It was a sturdy little thing, carved of Brecilian Ironwood by Dalish craftsman, and how Cailan had ever come by it was a question Loghain would like answered. He would have expected the camp runners would have packed it up on the carts with the rest of Cailan's things first of anything, but perhaps somehow it had been… overlooked? It was fairly large, that box, but even though he'd given the order to pack up before battle was even engaged, perhaps the elves and other camp followers had felt a bit… panicked?

He knew he had to calm Wynne down before they left, or try to, at least, so he went to talk to her before doing anything else.

"Wynne, I'm so glad to see you're well. I thought, when I saw you fall, that you were beyond all aid."

Her baleful expression leavened slightly. "My thanks, Your Grace. I am… quite well, actually. And I am most gratified to see you well, also."

"Would you be so kind as to help me with my armor?" he said. "I cannot fasten all the fittings myself, and it would be quite a pain to carry all the way to Lothering, as well as leave me critically unprepared for any Darkspawn attack along the way."

"Certainly, Your Grace."

They walked over to the side of the hut where his armor lay, gleaming silver in the filtered sunlight of the little clearing. It made him a bit nervous to draw nearer to the circle of twisted sylvans, but he wouldn't alarm Wynne by saying anything. He would hope that they only attacked when their mistress prompted them to do so, and that Asha'Bellannar, or whoever she really was, wouldn't sick them on him this time. Wynne had been rude to her, apparently, and hadn't met their fury, so perhaps it was safe enough.

He donned his armor, which was a complicated process because Wynne had no idea how the fastenings worked and he had no ladder for her to use, so he had to squat down, which wasn't easy to do in plate armor. But they finally got it sorted, after a fashion at least, and he put his sword and shield in harness on his back. Grace panted up at him, happy to see him well and properly attired. He reached down and scratched her ears. Then he turned his attention to the lockbox.

It was the Ironwood lockbox he remembered from Cailan's tent, ornately carved with Dalish-style swoops and swirls. He rather wished he could take it with them, but it was much too large and awkward to carry for two hundred miles. He took a set of picks from his belt pouch and set to work on the lock. Despite always carrying picks on his person, he hadn't actually picked a lock since he was very young indeed, but he found that the skill wasn't terribly difficult to remember. A few minutes, and he had the box open.

A gleaming red steel sword was in the box, the blade engraved from hilt to tip with ancient Asgardian runes he didn't even know how to read. It was Maric's sword, the longsword he used when he switched from greatsword to a sword and shield combination. Why had Cailan brought it with him to Ostagar?

He withdrew the sword almost reverently. It reflected the light in bright glints along its length. It was too small in his hand, too small by far, but he would take it with him to Lothering. He could not bear to leave it here. He had no way to carry it other than to simply carry it, which meant he would be forced to use it if they were attacked along the way, which they surely would be, but he would make do.

Still, it was probably not the for the sword's sake that the witch rescued the lockbox. He set it aside for the moment and returned to the depths to see what remained. Oilskin packets, by the look. Letters, official ones. Some from nobles of Ferelden, others from… Maker's ass.

Several of the oilskin packets had the seal of the so-called Empress of Orlais, Celene Valmont the First.

Jackpot.

He stuffed the packets down the neck of his armor. As a Warden, he had no particular jurisdiction any longer over such matters. He would take the letters to Bryce and Elilia, if he made it to them alive, and let them sort it out. Hopefully, this was evidence damning enough, with Darrow's testimony, to get Cailan out of the way. He realized he didn't want the young King to be executed, even after the clumsy assassination attempt in the midst of the battle. Sentiment? He wouldn't have thought himself capable of it, at least not to that extent. But whatever the cause, it was out of his hands now.

Morrigan appeared, looking ruffled but resigned. She had a small pack on her back, small enough that he guessed it was either enchanted or absolutely useless.

"I am at your disposal," she said, with a sigh of despondence.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said, and stood up. He took in the two mages with one hard look. "I want to make Lothering as quickly as possible. My little boy is there, and I'm sore worried about him, and too, there are certain matters of state that won't keep. I intend to march, and march hard. Can you keep up?"

"I have spells of rejuvenation that will serve to keep me on the move as long and as swiftly as necessary, Your Grace," Wynne said. "I am more concerned about our lack of supplies. Can we go so far without tents or food, or clean water?"

"Food can be done without, or found on the way. Clean water there is plenty of, between here and there, assuming the Darkspawn haven't fouled it already. Tents… well, tents are nice, but I don't really imagine we'll be getting much sleep 'til we get to Lothering anyway."

"Hold," Morrigan said. "May I make a small request, before we go?"

"You can ask. I don't promise to give in," Loghain said.

"May I bring my pet with me? You have yours, I would like mine. I think you will find him rather useful."

Loghain sighed. "If your pet can keep up, you're welcome to bring him along. Provided he is, indeed, useful."

"Excellent. Redcap! To me!" she called, holding her hands to her mouth. A few moments later, the door of the hut burst open and a small yellow… person?… burst out, wearing bits of fur and bone and antler and, yes, a bright red "cap" of some sort of cloth and metal and bone combination. Loghain had never seen such a thing in his life. This was a pet? It looked like some sort of malformed Dwarf.

"What on Mundus is that thing?" he said.

"Redcap is a Riekling," Morrigan said, "native to Morrowind. How Mother came by him I have no clue, but he is quite a handy little servant. And he's useful in a scrap, particularly if you first feed him something sweet. Gives him a bit of a rush."

"Am I to understand that Redcap is your slave?" Loghain said, glaring.

"Of course not. A slave is a proper person forced to serve you. A Riekling is no proper person. They barely register on the scale of sentience."

"Help. Me," Redcap said then, though whether he meant that as an entreaty or an explanation was impossible to say from his tone.

"He speaks Common, he doesn't seem to have particularly low intelligence," Loghain said.

"There are animals that can mimic languages easily enough. It doesn't mean they really understand them," Morrigan said, shaking her head sadly. "I daresay he's only about as smart as your dog."

He drew himself up tall and towered over her. "I consider my dog pretty gods-damned smart."

Grace barked her absolute agreement with that sentiment. She knew that the Short Man was a person. He smelled like a person. Not like any person she'd ever smelled before, but it was still a very Person smell. They all of them smelled fairly similar to one another, with unique but relatively minor differences based on individuality, race, and hygiene. A Mabari was an excellent scent hound – not the best of all doggy noses in Asgard, but right up there – and Grace could never be mistaken. She also knew that Redcap was a worthy sort of Person, a lot more so than the Fade-smelling person who claimed to own him. That was another thing she couldn't be mistaken about. Mabari had excellent instincts when it came to who was and was not worthy. They had been specially bred and experimented upon long ages ago, before the creation of the Asgardian Empire, by Tevinter Magisters, and had defected en masse for the Fereldan barbarians the Magisters sought to dominate. They knew true value when they encountered it. It wasn't power they looked for in a master, it was personality.

Grace doubted that any Mabari would ever imprint to the Short Man, especially if he remained in close contact with the Fade Witch. But he was still worthy.

Loghain and Morrigan continued to have words about the status of the little Riekling. Finally, Loghain simply squatted down and looked the little man in the eyes.

"Redcap, do you want to come with us? We may encounter some danger along the way," he said. "Darkspawn, probably daemons, too."

"Me. Come. Me. Help," Redcap said.

"You don't have to, you know. You could stay here. Or leave on your own, go wherever you want." Morrigan made a move to speak at this, but he raised his hand and silenced her.

"Me. Come. Me. Help," Redcap repeated.

"All right. If you're sure. Let's be off, then." He stood up and made his way to the path leading out of the ring of trees. The old witch, or whatever sort of abomination she was, did not appear as they left, which was rather a blessing.

Sunstone, a glowing type of magicite formed when energy is drawn from sunlight-absorbing Dark Crystals into Shadestones, is a common source of portable light in Asgard, although not universally the cheapest as it was only found on two continents, not including Thedas. Putting a piece of Sunstone into a small bowl of reflective metal and covering it with glass amplified the glow tremendously, and many adventurers the world over used small Clip-Lights made of such, attached to whatever armor they wore, to travel at night, if they dared to do so. The light was not strong enough to keep even the weakest Daemons at bay, but at least you could see them coming. Many armies in the wealthier parts of Asgard used such lights as well, although the Fereldan army could not afford such a luxury. The Fereldan templars could, however, and they had Clip-Lights in addition to heavy metal tubes containing lights that could be held in the hand, and brought down sharply on the head of a sleepy apostate caught by surprise in a late-night attack. Despite the visual restrictions of their bucket helmets, templars liked to see well, and be well defended at the same time.

When the heavy light burst into their tent, neither Loki nor Zevon were much surprised. Loki probably had the templar pegged before he left the Lothering Chantry, and even Zevon had felt him coming from a bit of a distance, though he'd been asleep. He most certainly was not asleep now.

"What's all this, then?" the templar said, shining his light around. "Who are you lot? What are you doing in Lothering?"

"I am Lord Warrjen Fitz Mac Tir, of Gwaren, and this is Lord Loki Mac Tir, of same," Zevon said, quite calmly. "We await the army's arrival from Ostagar. His Grace Teyrn Loghain wanted Lord Loki safely away from the battle in the south."

"So he sends him camping in Lothering?" the templar said with an audible sneer. "Tell me another one. I like a good joke."

"Well, what do you think we're doing here?" Zevon said, a bit defensively. He didn't mean to, but templars did have that effect on people. Especially people who had magic-like abilties.

"I think you're a couple of apostates, on the run from Chantry law."

"Oh, for Andraste's sake…"

Loki crawled out from under the covers then, and sat up. He looked into the templar's eyes, then, or at least at the slit in the templar's helmet where his eyes should be. His eyes were very still and his regard was very steady. Very intense. Those thousand starpoints of light in his swirling pupils almost seemed to dance.

"There are no apostates here," he said, and his voice sounded deeper, older somehow. "You made a mistake."

The templar seemed transfixed by Loki's steady gaze. He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, and then said, in a dazed sort of way, "Right. Sorry 'bout that. Have a nice rest of your evenin'." And then he vanished and the tent flap closed on the softly rising sun.

"Loki… what did you do to him?" Zevon said, not certain he wanted to know.

"Something I really would rather not have done," Loki said, and he sounded very young again, younger than ever even. "He won't bother us again, and hopefully none of the other templars will, either. There are really an awful lot of templars in this town. Don't know why, it's really very small."

"It's the biggest town and the only Chantry for a lot of miles, Kiddo," Zevon said. "These templars patrol a wide area. Wider than they should technically have to, since Gwaren should, by rights, have a Chantry, but for some reason it doesn't."

Loki snorted. "That has nothing to do with my father, although it worked out perfectly for him. Without a Chantry in Gwaren, he was able to make a lot of good changes for the people living there, especially the elves. And they have the Garden of the Gods, at the Keep, if they want to worship, with altars to pretty much any deity Papa could think to put there. Including Andraste, though she's just a prophet, and not a deity at all."

"Well, I think templars are less concerned with the idea of people not worshiping than with the idea that there might be undiscovered mages hiding in these little out of the way places."

"Putting people away in prison for an accident of birth is ridiculous."

"I agree. They don't do it in High Rock, but most everybody there has magic. If it was more prevalent, it wouldn't be so stigmatized."

"If more Nords had it, it wouldn't be stigmatized at all. We're the idiots making the rules."

"Harsh, but I don't say I disagree."

"I wonder what my Papa would have said or done…" Loki said, "… if Knight-Commander Tavish had proved that I was a mage? He likes magic when it's useful to him, but it makes him pretty nervous, too. I don't know how he'd feel about me being a mage."

"He's a good father. I'm sure he'd love you the same no matter what," Zevon said.

"I wish I was as sure of that."

"Hey, he's fine with all the freaky, magic-like stuff you can do now, right? I bet he would barely feel the difference."

"He's quite happy to point out that there's a difference when he's asked about it."

"Well, he doesn't want people like that witchy old Revered Mother to take you away to the Circle."

"I hope that's all it is."

"Why are you so upset anyway? You're not a mage. You proved it. The question is moot."

"It's just not a happy thought, that's all. Come on, we may as well get up. She'll be here soon."

"She? She who?"

"Teyrna Elilia. She took a velocycle."

"Big Lady. I got ya. I suppose she'll be tired after fighting all night. And she'll take up pretty much all of the tent."

"At least it's not raining. For the moment."

"Thank goodness for small miracles."

They did remarkably well, making good time once they reached the Imperial Highway, and met little resistance, which was passing strange to be sure, but welcome. Even Daemons did not bother them over much, despite the fact they had none of the powerful portable camp lights that the army had used to illuminate Ostagar. What few they did encounter were small and easily dispatched, either by Loghain with his sword, Grace with her teeth, Wynne and Morrigan with their magic, or little Redcap with his throwing spears. He seemed to have an almost endless supply of them, as he was capable of crafting them swiftly and easily from just a few cast off scraps of wood and stone. They were surprisingly deadly despite their clumsy, rough-hewn appearance.

They were approximately fifty miles from Lothering when they encountered the largest band of Darkspawn they'd seen since the battle. It wasn't especially big, but it was noteworthy as it was more than they'd seen altogether since they left the witch's hut. They seemed to be engaged in battle with someone or something, but that something was on the far side of the melee from where they stood, so they could not tell what the 'spawn were fighting. It didn't matter, Darkspawn needed killing. Loghain charged them, swinging Maric's too-small sword and raising his voice in a powerful battlecry.

A wide swath of Darkspawn went tumbling, and the field cleared enough for him to see, over the heads of a few Genlocks, a tall, pale, dark-haired man in a dress – robes? - on the far side of the field, apparently fighting to protect some cowering refugees. The man raised a staff, and a swirl of ice fell upon the Darkspawn and several of them froze solid. Many more in a wide area were significantly hindered by frost.

Grace savaged a Genlock while Loghain cut down monster after monster, as best he could with the awkward blade, and made his way through to the mage. Between all of them, they had the Darkspawn defeated in a matter of no time.

"Well done, lad," Loghain said to the mage, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his sword hand. "You held them off well."

"Thank you for helping me," the mage said, rather cautiously. He had what Loghain considered a rather accidentally whiny voice. Still, it probably wasn't the young man's fault. He was a mage, probably an apostate, so being treated badly was probably all to which he was accustomed. If he was at all inclined to it, whining was probably pretty natural to him.

Indeed, the people he had rescued, a man, woman, and two children, all dressed in rough clothes marking them as poor peasants or at least less wealthy freeholders, gave him and the women wary looks and scrambled away as quickly as they could get their feet back under them. The woman even went so far as to fork the sign of the evil eye at them as she left.

"Don't let it bother you, lad. Some people don't know a good thing when they see it," Loghain said. "Are you headed to Lothering?"

"Maker, no!" the young man said. "Do you know how many templars station in Lothering? I'm taking a big risk just coming this close."

"You're an apostate."

"… Yes, Ser."

"Seems to me those robes of yours bear the Circle insignia."

"That's because he is a Circle mage," Wynne said, almost snarling it. "Jowan. What evils have you been up to since you escaped the Tower?"

"I've been trying to undo my evils, Senior Enchanter," he said. The young man drew himself up as tall as possible and held his shoulders back. "What she says is true. I escaped from the Circle Tower. I… I used blood magic to do it."

"Blood magic. You're a maleficar."

"It was just the one time," the young man said. "But yes, I am. And that's a terrible thing, I know. I'm trying to help people, as best as I can, to make up for the bad that I've done."

"Hmph. Seems to me, young man, you could do that better, and without any fear of templars whatsoever, if you were a Grey Warden."

Wynne was predictably shocked. "You would give this foul maleficar the honor of the Joining?" she said.

"I don't believe the Joining is the honor you think it is, Wynne," Loghain said. "In any event, the Grey Wardens profess to take literally anyone, under any circumstances, be they Nord, Elf, Dwarf, Mage, or Mundane, even if they be a maleficar. And he could prove quite useful to the order. Magic seems to be quite useful against the Darkspawn. We could use all of it we can gather."

"I would… like a chance to serve people, and the Blight is an evil that threatens all the world…" Jowan said, seemingly deep in thought. "And you say as a Grey Warden I would be free of the Circle? No one could… could make me Tranquil?"

"No one could do anything at all to you," Loghain said. "Interfering with a Warden is strictly against Asgardian law, and not just during a Blight, though of course it goes triple during a Blight. But, there is distinct risk involved. Wardens die in the Joining. I don't know the ratio, but I saw one out of about six die in my own Joining, and one tried to flee and was killed. They don't let you change your mind once you sign up. Then, too, it's a greatly shortened lifespan. You are willingly infecting yourself with the Blight sickness. You survive because you are resistant. That's what we need."

Jowan was taken aback. "Would I be able to spread Blight sickness?"

Loghain shook his head. "If you could, they wouldn't let Wardens anywhere near regular folks. But you'll be immune to the Blight from then to the end of your… drastically shortened days."

"How drastic are we talking, exactly?" Jowan asked.

"I honestly don't know. I haven't been a Warden very long, and they do like their secrets. I think that's rather foolish of them, myself, but maybe if people knew the truth it would be worse than the lies."

Wynne was looking at him with horror. "You… Your Grace… You're a Warden? And you knew this about the Wardens? And you joined them anyway?"

"They are the only ones who can defeat the Blight, Wynne. If I am to be an effective warrior in this battle, I need the proper tools to fight it."

Now Jowan was looking at him in horror. "'Your Grace?' Are you… are you… Teyrn Loghain?"

"No, I'm a random twelve-foot Nord with a yellow wyvern on my shield. Actually, I'm not Teyrn Loghain. Now that I'm a Warden I possess no title, although that's not meant to be commonly known at this time due to… certain elements who are attempting nefarious actions, in the province."

"You… you gave up so much… put so much at risk… to defend Asgard," Jowan said, dark eyes wide. "With all the ill I've done, I can do no less. I will join the Wardens, though it cost me my life."

"Good man," Loghain said, and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to set him staggering. "Let's go. I'm quite eager to see my son again, and hear what the situation is with the army. I daresay the Wardens won't mind that I've taken it upon myself to do some recruiting."