Fanfiction: Old Roads: Pitiless Games Chapter Seven

[aithne]

I finally got off my butt and made a banner!

Chapter Seven discovers that things in the city of Amaranthine are about as dire as one might expect, and goes by Time Casts No Shadow. (And on AO3.) This chapter is SFW, story as a whole is M.

And because I love you folks, I've posted the whole chapter here for your reading convenience.




Title: Old Roads: Pitiless Games
Rating: M (for the sexytimez, and for occasional graphic violence)
PC: Amell
Word Count: ~61k, ~10k this chapter
Spoilers: At this point, it's not so much spoilers as it might not make any sense if you haven't played through Origins/Awakening...
Summary: Amaranthine is destroyed, and Warden Amell travels to Vigil’s Keep to take command. But one either must play the game of politics or be used as a pawn, and like it or not, every last one of Kathil’s demons are about to come home to roost... Amell/Zevran/Cullen, post-Awakening, multiple viewpoints, Part 5 of Old Roads.

Seven: Time Casts No Shadow

---

We sang,
You cannot end!
You are the Golden City Blackened,
you are the pulsing heart of this world.
Without you, the waters will rise
and shred us! We the abandoned eldest children,
who live among the soul-spired canvas
of our world! If you end, so do we!

From the Canticle of Demons, stanza four: of the Black City

---

Kathil:

The jagged, crumbling walls of Amaranthine pressed wearily against the sky.

They passed through the camp that lined both sides of the road into Amaranthine to the accompaniment of stared and spitting rain. The camp seemed to be home to both those who were employed in the restoration of the city as well as those who had nowhere else to go. A small clump of men and women sat beneath a makeshift awning, using brightly colored paints on stretched canvas and arguing amongst themselves.

Kathil did see several banners emblazoned with the familiar red hill and tower of Redcliffe; evidently the men who had escorted Leliana and the King had made it to Amaranthine all right. They came to the gates and paused. It smelled like rot and blasted stone, Kathil noted after a moment. Strange, how that smell so quickly became normal. It was the same at Vigil's Keep, the smell of a place that had been besieged.

A man in a guard uniform greeted them just beyond the gates. "Warden-Commander, yes?" He surveyed the group behind her. "Laurens told me that you were going to visit, sooner or later. My name is Aidan—Constable of Amaranthine." He had a look of ill-concealed anxiety on his face.

As well you might, considering.

She smiled at the man. "Warden-Commander Kathil Amell, at your service. And allow me to present to you his benevolent majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden, as well as the Princess-Consort Rima and Prince Duncan." She swept a showy bow—that had been Leliana's idea, to present Alistair in as grand a manner as she could manage.

Aidan stammered and started as the crowd around Alistair and Rima parted. Duncan was planted on Alistair's hip, looking around with fascination. The constable recovered, eventually, enough to say, "I—ah—you are welcome, sire. We don't have much here, but, ah, you're welcome to it."

Alistair smiled, and for a moment Kathil could see an echo of the Grey Warden she'd met as Ostagar in that genuine and open expression. "We're here to see what help is needed, and to make a plan for the restoration of the city. But before we do that—is there anywhere inside the walls that my people can make camp?"

Aiden blinked. "Yes, but—" He shook his head. "I'll speak to Mother Leanna and see if space can be made in the chantry. There are no buildings within the walls other than the chantry that are sound enough to sleep in, and—well—" He shook his head. "People who try to spend the night in Amaranthine have nightmares, or something like them. Even the hardest men choose to sleep outside the walls. Mother Leanna has the Templars doing something to the chantry to keep the nightmares away, so it's the only place where people can sleep without waking screaming. Or worse."

"Worse?" Kathil asked. "What kind of worse?"

"One of the wall crews found an untouched crate of moonshine in one of the buildings they were pulling down," Aidan said. "They decided to spend the night and have a little party. A few of them passed out drunk. One of them started screaming about demons, and attacked the rest with the hammer he'd been using to demolish walls with. He killed five people and wounded another few before the screams caught our attention and we took him down."

Kathil chewed briefly on the inside of her cheek. Come to think of it, the Veil did feel a little...strange. She'd barely noticed, before. She exchanged a look with Cullen, and said, "The Wardens will stay outside the wall, in the camp, but the King may choose to house himself and his people in the chantry. We can have a look around. The King needs to see the current state of the city, and we may be able to find out if there's something causing the nightmares."

There was movement out of the corner of her eye; she turned and saw Justice stepping forward, one hand extended. "There are demons clustered against the Veil, here. They are hungry."

Alain stared at Justice, mouth falling open. Kathil gritted her teeth and reminded herself that Justice was trying to be helpful, and it wasn't his fault that tact was a human thing that he didn't understand. "I'm sure we can deal with it," she said, keeping her voice calm.

"Deal with it?" Justice turned to her, looking slightly confused. "What is there to deal with? The demons sense what they want very close by, and they will not leave until either their hunger is sated or the Veil thickens enough that they lose track of this place in the mortal world."

"Justice. Just drop it. You're scaring people." Indeed, Aidan had turned pale—though that was probably partially from having looked a bit too closely at Justice, who was looking some the worse for wear these days.

Justice blinked. "But do you not want the mortals here to know the truth?"

No. Not really. "Remember what we spoke about, that sometimes information should be withheld until we have all of the truth, not just part of it? We haven't looked around, there may be something we can do."

He stared at her, those vague lights in his eyes dancing unsettlingly. "Very well," he said after a moment. We will investigate."

I wish I'd brought Sigrun. Or Anders. They had patched up Leliana a bit, but healing her shattered kneecap was going to be a delicate procedure, one they didn't want to attempt while still on the road. Anders had studied with Wynne for years; if there was anyone who even approached her skill, it was him. Because Anders wasn't here, Leliana was still riding in the supply cart, along with the fellow who'd lost a hand.

And Sigrun knew how to manage Justice.

"I think we can convince the Redcliffe guards to host us," Alistair said. Rima gave him a look; he raised an eyebrow and shrugged. The Princess Consort rolled her eyes, but didn't comment. "As much as my lovely wife would probably like to sleep under a roof, I'm not sure I like the idea of these nightmares."

There was a darkness in the words nightmares that Kathil recognized. She tried to quell the sense of unease that curled deep in her body. There were consequences of what they had been, what they were; one of them was that Alistair's reign was likely to be short.

She shoved the thought away, and turned to the rest to make arrangements and begin their investigation.

But there was nothing to find, it seemed; just the Veil, worn thin by pain and death, and the nape-prickling sense that there was someone—somethings—watching them.

Amaranthine was large, but the burning had been thorough. Only the chantry had escaped serious structural damage, and even it had heavy cloth covering many holes in the roof. The interior of the city hosted ghosts and several crews of workers, but nothing more.

"Think of it this way," Alistair said. "When we rebuild it, we can make sure it's done right." They were standing in what had once been Amaranthine's alienage. The buildings here had been cheaply built, and had burned to the foundations—much like Denerim's alienage had, four years ago. "For instance, we can make sure that the alienage gets the same materials and care as the rest of the city—and decent sewers."

Rima had her hand on her husband's elbow. Kathil could feel Cullen at her shoulder, a silent, reassuring presence. They'd left the children in the Redcliffe camp for the moment. The Princess-Consort had been a silent observer as they walked through the destroyed city.

Now, though, she spoke.

"Perhaps it is time to rethink the need for alienages," she said, looking at what had once been a great tree and now was a tall stump. The vhenadahl had evidently burned from the inside out, hollowing out the great tree and making a small cave amongst the roots. "We've always had them, and we tell ourselves it's for the benefit of the elves, for their protection. But I'm not convinced that's the case."

Kathil felt her mouth fall open. This was a member of the nobility saying this? Lorn paused in his investigation of the vhenadahl to raise his head and cock an ear at Kathil, evidently catching her mood. Fiann busied herself with digging amongst the roots of the dead tree.

Rima was speaking to Alistair, not paying the rest of them any attention. "The war deepened the rifts between the elves and the humans in this country. This might be a step towards fixing that."

Alistair was staring at his wife, brow furrowed. "It also might cause riots. People really don't like change, Rima. And I'd hate to see people get hurt because we didn't make sure the elves have somewhere safe to gather."

"Oh, I'm sure there will be an elven district," Rima said breezily. "If nothing else, we can plan a nice open square with a vhenadahl planted in it. Give that square the same care in construction that the rest of the city will get."

"You want to experiment," Alistair said. He had a look of unease on his face. "I'm not sure—"

"Oh, now you're objecting to doing something that might reassure the elves that they are in fact full Fereldan citizens?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "After Loghain arranged to have them sold into slavery, I think a gesture on our part towards them would be the least we can do."

"Have I ever mentioned that you are dangerous?" He leaned over and kissed Rima on the cheek. "We can talk to the bann of Amaranthine about it when we meet with him."

Kathil exchanged a look with Cullen. Then she whistled to Lorn. "I should get back," she said, to the group at large. "I told Jowan that I'd help him work on Leliana's knee once we got the tents up and everyone settled. We're going to be here for a few days, and the condition of the Veil here is concerning but not urgent."

Alistair gave her a look; she read that twitch of eyebrow to mean, you're really going to let a maleficar attempt magic on Leliana? But he said nothing about it, and she didn't offer anything more. "I think Rima and I will go down to the docks," Alistair said. He gestured at the guards that were hanging back a bit from them. "Make these fellows earn their keep."

They parted ways. Cullen and the two Mabari went with Kathil, the rest with Alistair. They passed under a crumbling arch that had once been one of the alienage gates, and Cullen looked up at the scorched stone. "I'm not so sure that the Princess Consort knows what she might be getting us into," he said. He fingered the hilt of his sword idly. "Wonder if it's got anything to do with how she backed you into a corner about the Prince last summer."

"Mmm. It all seems part of some larger plan she has, doesn't it?" The city around them was silent except for the echoes of their footsteps and the muffled sound of hammers hitting stone. It was wrong, that silence; it seemed almost to whisper to Kathil. "A Circle of Magi under the supervision of the Crown instead of the Chantry. Elimination of the alienages. I wouldn't be surprised if she was the one who pushed Alistair to make a personal appearance in Amaranthine."

"It's good, though, right? Well, maybe not the Circle thing." Cullen's brow furrowed slightly, and Kathil had the abrupt urge to kiss the lines smooth. "But Alistair coming here can't hurt anything, especially if he has the confidence to bring Rima and the Prince with him. And the elves, well..." He shrugged one shoulder, the pauldron of his armor making a faint metallic noise. "Can't hurt that much, can it?"

"I wonder. I didn't hear her say she'd asked any elves what they thought about it, after all." They were almost within sight of the chantry steps. Kathil caught Cullen's hand. He stopped, turned towards her.

They had been sharing a tent on the way here, Cerys cradled between them at night. They would talk in quiet voices late into the night about anything and everything, words that they had both been keeping trapped behind their teeth over the last few months pouring out of them at last.

In the destroyed city where only scorch and silence was left, Kathil kissed her Templar, reminding herself of how far they had come, how far they had yet to go.

---

Alistair:

The docks were the busiest part of Amaranthine, bar the camp that had sprung up just outside the city gates. The piers themselves seemed to have escaped the worst of the damage, though the once-thriving district of warehouses, public houses, and shady bars had been largely destroyed. He counted five ships in the harbor, though only two were in dock at the moment. One of those two was being actively unloaded; wiry men were carrying crates down a plank and stacking them under the watchful eye of what had to be the ship's quartermaster. That ship was flying an Orlesian flag; the crates would contain cloth and wine and such, then.

Rima was looking around, a glint of interest in her eyes. "One of my cousins went to sea, and she mentioned Amaranthine Quay in one of her letters. She was quite impressed at the time, though I imagine she'd find it much diminished now."

"Which cousin is this?" Alistair asked. "Sia?" Rima's family was large and loud and there were many, many cousins. He did remember that she had said that one particularly daring cousin had signed on with a merchant ship at some point.

"The same." Rima smiled. "Her parents were furious. I remember she wrote that Amaranthine was beautiful, but that the docks were the beating heart of the place. Nothing prettier than a ship in the harbor and the blue-green of the Waking Sea beyond, she said."

"It will be again, once the dock district is rebuilt. We should probably find the dockmaster." He glanced over the crowds of purposefully moving people, looking for someone who seemed to be in charge.

Something snagged the corner of his eye, and he frowned. An elven woman was standing by the plank of the ship being unloaded, one of the very few people who wasn't in motion. She was turned away from them, peering up to the deck. The hood of her cloak was pulled back, revealing dark, braided hair.

She looked—familiar.

He couldn't properly see her face, but something about how she carried herself was bringing to mind—what? Something about one of the estates in Denerim.

The elf waved at someone on the deck, and then stepped back as a human woman descended the plank. The human was older; her hair had probably once been a rich gold. She was dressed in the Orlesian style, in a dress and boots that were simply cut but made of very good material.

This was someone of wealth, then. And she, too, looked vaguely familiar.

She was followed by two men: one who had an energetic grace to him and an appealingly foxy face, and the other just barely out of boyhood, his long limbs making him look half-finished. There was a distinct family resemblance between the latter and the woman; son, Alistair would guess. The elf met the three of them at the base of the plank, and made a shallow curtsy. Then she pulled her hood up and began to lead the travelers to the pile of crates that was steadily growing on the dock.

"Is something wrong?" Rima asked. She followed his gaze, and he heard the ghost of a frown in her voice. "That's odd. That woman looks like an older version of Anora, doesn't she?"

The woman and the men were pulling up their hoods, collecting seabags from the pile. "Anora never had any sisters, and as far as I know her mother is dead," Alistair said. "Maybe a cousin?" He glanced at the flag on the ship's mast. The Orlesian lion was only visible as hint of gold between folds of drooping cloth. Orlais. Anora. Elf.

Erlina.

That was Erlina, Anora's Orlesian maid.

He'd never even thought to wonder what happened to her, after Anora was imprisoned. It looked like she'd found service somewhere. Erlina led the three humans to the end of the quay, and vanished around a bend in the road that led around Amaranthine.

"Do you know them?" Rima slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Maybe I have.

But he shook his head. "The elf is someone I met briefly during the Blight. I haven't seen or thought about her since. I didn't recognize the others. Let's go find that dockmaster and get back, shall we? I think we may be prevailed upon to have dinner with Bann Padraig tonight."

Rima tightened her hand on his arm and smiled, and they went off to find the dockmaster. Still, in the back of his mind he could hear his uncle Eamon saying, she is possibly more than just a maid.

---

Leliana:

"This is going to hurt," Kathil said as she unwrapped the bandages around Leliana's knee. "Maker, but that bruiser did a number on you, didn't he?"

"They don't call those hammers legcrushers because they are made of feathers, yes?" She breathed out as her knee reported fresh agony from the very slight jostling that Kathil was giving it. "And do you mean it is going to hurt more than it already does?"

Leliana was prone on a bedroll, looking up at the canvas of a tent ceiling. She thought, a bit wistfully, of the time she'd spent in Orlais and Tevinter, where there were inns and proper beds. And proper roofs.

"I'm afraid so," Kathil said as she removed the sticks that had been splinting the knee. "By the time we're done it should feel better, though. You're going to have to stay off of it for a while yet, though, and we're likely not going to get everything done in this session."

She nodded, and cast a glance to one side, where Jowan was laying out what looked like bundles of herbs and small vials out on a clean blanket. He'd stayed clean-shaven, she noted. And he had lost some of the perpetual look of a kicked puppy that he'd had in his eyes last summer.

He seemed to have behaved himself while she was gone. And now I am here to keep a close eye on you. Possibly too close for your comfort.

"I thought blood mages do not heal," Leliana said. Perhaps he is only here to be an extra set of hands. That was nearly a comforting thought—surely a blood mage would be well acquainted with the sight of gore, and have hands that would be steady in the face of mangled human insides?

Kathil dashed her hopes with a shake of her head. "It's a different kind of healing than I use. Jowan's good at dealing with scar and tendons and ligaments and such, and moving bits and bobs around. Like your kneecap. But if he tries to work on muscle and skin, it scars badly. I can't deal well with tendon, and it would take me forever and a day to get your kneecap back together, but once everything's in about the right place I should be able to at least start the bone growing back together."

"I'll warn you that my variety of healing doesn't feel like regular mage healing," Jowan said. He was kneeling by her feet, and placed both of his hands on his thighs. "If it makes you feel better, it's going to hurt me about as much as it hurts you."

Leliana frowned, then gritted her teeth as an involuntary movement renewed the agony in her knee. "Why? I never noticed that Wynne was in pain when she healed."

"Blood magic works...how to explain it? It's a magic of affinity. What I'll be doing, more or less, is showing your body what my knee looks like, and suggesting that it needs to be arranged the same as mine. That requires a connection between the two limbs. While I'm working on you, I'll feel everything you do." He picked up a bundle of herbs, set it down again. "Just be glad it was your knee. Knees and hips are easy. Shoulders and elbows, less so. Wrists and ankles, well, you do too much damage to them and there's no magic in the world that will put it back together right. They're just too complicated."

Kathil ran one hand over her hair, face taking on a familiar expression of stubborn calm. "Jowan will take care of the things his magic is good at dealing with, and I'll take care of what I can do. Though I rather wish Anders were here." She plucked a vial from in front of Jowan, and worked the cork out. "Drink this."

"What is it?" Leliana asked as she took the metal vial from the mage's hand.

"Poppy milk, from Par Vollen. I save it for special occasions." She fixed Leliana with a stern look. "Drink it."

Leliana obeyed.

The mixture left a bitter, metallic taste in Leliana's mouth that even a cup of water couldn't wash away. A little bit later, she felt herself drift a little. She could still feel the pain from her knee, and the fear that no matter what these two mages were going to do it wouldn't be enough to restore the entire function of the joint, but they were remote things. Bearable.

Then Kathil and Jowan started to work, and the poppy milk was not nearly enough to keep the pain at bay.

The worst was that she could feel things moving, things that were not meant to move; she could feel motion all the way down to her ankle and up into her hips, and though that was not the painful part, it was unnatural. And disgusting. Somehow, her whole body was sending out panicked signals that something very very wrong was happening and she should make it stop right now.

Searching frantically for a distraction, she focused on Kathil and Jowan's voices. They were talking to each other in single words and in half-sentences, as if the magic they were doing together provided most of the communication they required. Leliana didn't understand much of it, but there was a rhythm to their words that reminded her of music. Then things blurred a bit more—the poppy taking more effect, perhaps, or perhaps the pain making her lightheaded.

She realized she could hear the mages' power, as if it were music. Jowan's power thrummed low, beating rhythmically like a drumbeat or a heartbeat. Kathil's power was a cold harmony against it, around it; there was something precise and still as midwinter about it. She listened to the music of their power and thought there was some meaning there to the way the echoes of it meshed together, as if rhythm and harmony were leaning on one another.

She listened, and she listened, and the pain in her knee lessened. She did not know when she stopped being awake and began to dream.

When she opened her eyes, the light in the tent was different—golden lamplight, rather than daylight from an open flap. Her knee hurt still, but it was more of a sharp ache instead of the urgent feeling of something being horribly awry with the limb.

"How are you feeling?" came Kathil's voice from somewhere by her feet.

Leliana struggled to sit up, and it seemed that the mage just appeared next to her head, putting something soft behind her back to support her. "Better. I do not feel as if my leg is about to fall off."

"Good." The lamplight cast the scar on Kathil's face in sharp relief, as if the furrow gathered shadow into itself. "We weren't able to get it all the way fixed, but at least now it should heal correctly. You still have to stay off your feet for a while, and we'll do at least one more session together to see if we can't hurry things along a bit. When we did much the same thing to Zevran, he was off his feet entirely for two weeks and mostly off of it for three more after that. It still hurts him, on cold mornings, but he seems to have mostly recovered."

"Wait. What happened to Zevran? And when?"

"Would-be toughs, just outside Lothering, and a stroke of bad luck. Much like yours, really, only with him it was a bad cut to the back of the ankle." She smiled a little. "I have to say that you're a much easier patient than he is. I thought I was going to have to tie him down for a bit."

"I think he might have enjoyed that, yes?" Leliana smiled back, and realized that her face felt oddly sore. She'd been grimacing almost constant for the last day and a half. "So. Is there a meal to be had, perhaps? And where is Murena?"

"I'll bring you something—the Redcliffe folk aren't bad cooks. Last time I saw Murena, she was organizing a bunch of children to go on a frog hunt. Something about the legs being good to eat." She ran a hand over her hair. "She's...not what I would have expected."

"I needed an apprentice, and I think Murena will be very good, one day." Very, very good; she was easily intelligent and charismatic enough to be a sundowner, if that was where her interests lay. "Once I convince her that here in Ferelden, one does not look at other people so, she will be easier company for all of us. Do not let yourself think that just because she doesn't not speak Fereldan well, she is ignorant. She understands much, much more than she speaks."

"Mmm. I imagine. I'd ask you where you came by her, but I don't think you'd tell me." The corners of Kathil's eyes crinkled. "I'll send her in, if I see her." She leaned over and pressed her lips to Leliana's hair.

Leliana leaned into her friend, and Kathil put her arms around Leliana's shoulders. There they stayed for a contemplative measure, Leliana's aching knee singing counterpoint to the comfort that the two of them took from one another.

Then Kathil rose and left, leaving Leliana alone to contemplate the music of power.

---

Cullen:

Even after all of this time spent around Kathil, he never knew when to wake her from nightmares.

It was a cold night, and they were sleeping with Cerys between them for warmth. The chill damp seeped in everywhere, and beneath the blanket one of Kathil's cold feet sought Cullen's shin. The dogs were asleep on either side of them. Fiann was on her back, and snoring. Kathil had been worn out from healing Leliana and the vigil she'd sat afterwards, waiting for the bard to wake up, and she'd fallen asleep quickly.

But now she was making small, gasping noises, and her hands were clutching at the blanket.

That was all. No screaming, no whimpering, but it was as good as a shout to Cullen. He waited for a few heartbeats to see if she would settle, but then Cerys stirred and began to whimper, curling towards Cullen. He shifted to pull the infant close and with his free hand touched Kathil gently on the shoulder. "Kathil," he said, in a hushed tone. "Wake up. It's just a dream."

I hope.

With a final gasp she came awake, awareness suffusing her body. He could only barely see her in the flickering light that leaked in through the tent-flap from the torches that marked the entrance. She didn't speak, only lay still and breathed. One hand stole over to touch Cerys's sleeping form.

"Are you all right?" Cullen asked, finally.

She didn't answer for a moment. He'd have thought she'd fallen asleep if he couldn't see the glint of light on her open eyes. "I dreamed about Sati," she said. Her voice was low, sleep-roughened. "Only it wasn't her."

"The demon." He kept his hand on her shoulder.

"Yes." The breath went out of her in a slow, distant sigh. "She wants something. Somethings. There's something waiting for us in the Blackmarsh. She didn't say what."

"What else?"

Cerys began to make little whimpering noises. Kathil sat up, lifted up her shirt—it wasn't precisely prudent to sleep naked in an armed camp—and put the infant to her breast. "She wants me to send someone to keep an eye on things one of the states in the Free Marches. There are things happening up there that she thinks may reveal clues to where her Maker-forgotten daughter has gotten to. And, well." She brought her chin down, looked down at Cerys. "There are a few old places she wants me to investigate. Some of them are too far away right now—the Korcari Wilds, some places in the Frostbacks—but one is evidently right below Vigil's Keep. Evidently there's an Alamarri settlement in the basement."

"You'd think someone would have mentioned it," Cullen said.

She was sitting tailor-fashion, holding Cerys. "You'd think someone would have mentioned any number of things, wouldn't you? Like the fact that there may be something resident in the basement of the Vigil that is neither of the mortal world or the Fade. It may be related to the Unwilling, somehow. We'll see when we go down there."

"Or maybe we'll manage to release an eldritch horror into the world," he pointed out.

"Wouldn't be the first time." She brushed her hand over Cerys' head, then shifted the baby to her other breast. "I did get out of her that the thinning of the Veil here is temporary. It'll heal itself, given time. The burning of the city didn't scar it enough for it to become an old road permanently."

"Good," he said, and was surprised at the vehemence with which the word came out.

They were quiet then, for a little. Cerys made contented suckling noises; Fiann snored. Lorn woke and lifted his head. Evidently satisfied that there was nothing amiss, he put his head back down. Kathil changed Cerys and made a nest of blankets for her by Lorn, than laid the infant down and curled with her back towards Cullen. He curved his body around hers.

She was still strung tight. "You all right?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

One of Kathil's hands sought his in the darkness. "I miss Zev," she said. "And I'm worried about him."

All at once, the strangeness of the situation struck him—curled in a tent with this mage, their daughter, how quickly they'd fallen back into these small intimacies of sharing space. How he knew that she was going to steal all the blankets, leaving him to wake cold and damp at dawn.

"I miss him, too," he said, and kissed her hair just behind her ear. Strange, but not so strange. "He'll be all right. Go to sleep."

She closed her hand around his, and pulled it up. He felt her lips graze his knuckles. She murmured something too quiet for him to hear, even close as he was to her, and then breathed out.

They lay like that for a time, the background noise of a sleeping camp all around them. A long way away, an owl cried in the darkness.

---

Alistair:

High on the walk that led around the walls of Amaranthine, Alistair peered down into the city street below him. A group of men and women dressed in sturdy clothing were gathered near the remnants of what had once been an inn; a scorched sign leaning against a fence depicted a rampant lion with a crown hovering over its head. Among the workers was a familiar dark head. Jowan's mage robes were as out of place in the destroyed city as a pine among oaks.

A little way off, a Amaranthine Templar stood with crossed arms, watching.

At Alistair's feet, Duncan was exploring the smooth stone with his hands. He got up and began to wobble down the walkway, one hand on the wall. Alistair let him go—he couldn't easily get out of Alistair's sight, and even if did there was a silent guard at the end of the walkway, watching.

Below him, he could feel the Veil tear. Alistair looked over the wall just in time to see an earthen projectile materialize in front of Jowan's hands and go flying into the ruins. The projectile smashed into a support, and the remnants of the second floor groaned and shuddered.

There was a soft step and a feeling of pressure behind him, and Alistair turned. Kathil was there, holding Cerys, Lorn beside her. She came to the wall beside him, peered down. "Ah. That's where Jowan got to." She gave him a sidelong glance. "I think he's trying to both make himself useful and avoid you and Leliana."

"He seems to have gotten wiser, at least." Duncan was coming back down the walkway towards them, murmuring a steady stream of unintelligible gabble. Alistair stepped over to him and scooped him up, settling the boy on his hip. Not discomfited in the least, the Prince looked at Kathil with a calm, considering look on his face.

Kathil, for her part, gave Alistair a crooked smile. "He has, I suppose. As have we all." The Veil tore again and another earthen projectile crashed into the inn. The whole structure shuddered. "Eamon knows, doesn't he? That Jowan was conscripted."

"He does, and before you ask, he had a rather monumental fit of rage over it. Though, for some reason, he seems to blame Teagan."

Kathil shifted Cerys in her arms, holding her so she could see. The baby caught sight of Duncan and was immediately entranced. She stuck most of her fist into her mouth, staring at Duncan. "Considering that Teagan was the one whose watch Jowan escaped on, I'm not surprised." Kathil turned a bit, setting one hip against the wall. She was wearing not armor but a rather plain tunic and skirt, her hair braided back. She might have passed for some farmer's wife, if you ignored the swordbelt and the scars on her face and hands—or the Mabari who was lying behind her, ears twitching. "You seem to be taking his presence calmly enough."

"I've had a few years to get used to things happening that I don't really like," he told her, looking over the wall again. Another projectile, and this time the inn gave a groan and began to collapse, to the approving shouts of the gathered workers. "Including maleficar Grey Wardens who have such a...problematic history."

She wrinkled her nose. "We all have problematic histories, Alistair. I was not precisely a model citizen of the Tower. Cullen is a Templar who couldn't manage to keep his vows. Justice is rather dead, Anders is very bad at dealing with people trying to keep him places he doesn't want to be, Oghren is...well, he's Oghren. Sigrun has a death wish. Nathaniel is a Howe, and there are ways that he reminds me of his father."

"What ways?" he asked. Duncan wriggled, and Alistair let the boy down. He immediately toddled over to Lorn, reaching out his hand as Emris had taught him to greet Yvonnel.

Below them, people started to venture into the ruins of the inn, beginning to haul out pieces and sort them into some nearby carts. Jowan was among them, Alistair noted with some surprise, digging in with both hands.

"Ever wonder why Rendon Howe was the way he was?" Kathil asked. "Nobody's ever been able to tell me. But the man obviously thought he had been ill done by, and there was a sort of...grasping-ness to him, I suppose. In his own mind, he was obviously doing the best thing for his family. I'm not sure if what was best for Ferelden really entered into it like it did with Loghain." She shook her head. "Nathaniel evidently worshipped his father, and he was the eldest—and it was Nathaniel that Rendon sent to the Free Marches. I wonder if, somewhere under the person he had become, Rendon somehow recognized himself in his son."

"And sent him away so he wouldn't become even more like him?

"Even so." In Kathil's arms, Cerys wriggled and fussed. "Oh, little one, what is it now? You're fed, you're—" she bent down a bit and sniffed— "dry, and isn't being up here on the wall sufficiently entertaining?"

The infant arched her back, her face wrinkling up. She was reaching vaguely towards where Lorn lay beside them with a long-suffering look on his canine face. Duncan was gnawing on one of the Mabari's ears. "Oh, fine," Kathil said, and stooped to set Cerys between Lorn's front feet. "You and the dogs, honestly. Duncan, no biting the warhound."

Cerys reached up, hands waving vaguely at the underside of Lorn's chin. Duncan left off his gnawing, though that had less to do with Kathil's words than it had with the sudden appearance of a baby near him. He chortled and wiggled around to where he could look at Cerys.

"So, ah..." How did one approach this subject? "You married Zevran. So you and Cullen..."

She quirked the corner of her mouth, the scar deepening. "It's a very long story. If you're asking about the particulars of our domestic arrangements, they're none of your business. But they're both fathers to Cerys. The more family she has, the better. We never know what the morrow will bring, and, well..." She gestured at herself. "Grey Warden. You know."

He did, and he knew the chest-crushing panic that came at the thought of not being there to see his son grow into a man, as his own father had not. "I know. I got the box you sent, by the by. I have to admit to being a bit curious as to what's in it."

"Ah. That." She glanced at her daughter, and Alistair didn't think she realized that her expression was for once entirely transparent. Love mingled with ferocity in the set of her jaw. "Cerys' inheritance. Letters, documents, proof of various favors her mother is owed." She glanced at him. "I won't have her used as a pawn in someone else's power struggles, Alistair. You may want to let your lady wife know."

He gave her a calm look. "Says the woman who claims that the Chantry has no sovereignty in Vigil's Keep."

"Well, it doesn't. Not as long as I hold command there. Besides, the Chantry and I have some longstanding disagreements." She glanced down at her daughter again. Good-natured shouts floated up from below them.

Alistair bit back a chuckle. "So I've noticed. I hope you realize just how much trouble you're going to cause."

Kathil cocked an eyebrow. "You're the one who told me I should take up the command. Without telling me that you also expected me to become arlessa."

"And as I recall, you're the one who put me on the throne, pretty much single-handedly." He leaned over the wall again, watching four people haul a scorched beam out of the wreckage. "Thought it was only fair of me to return the favor."

"And you wanted to set a precedent. Just in case." She blew a breath out. "You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are, Alistair."

He glanced over at Duncan, who had uncovered one of Cerys' feet from the blanket that was wrapped around her and was patting it. The baby had managed to get Lorn's lower lip clenched in her chubby hand, and studiously pulling it to and fro. The Mabari was sitting very still indeed. "Probably," Alistair said affably. "Was it so wrong of me to want to have an example of a mage holding power and the world not ending? The Chantry and the Landsmeet aside, I think a little experimentation is in order."

"Yes, well. You weren't exactly expecting me to show up to Vigil's Keep with a baby in tow, were you?" There was a rumble below them as men began to haul one of the loaded carts away. The smell of smoke was lodged in the back on Alistair's throat. He'd never been to Amaranthine, before it burned. Even in the ruin, he could see places where it must have been magnificent—the shadowed sketch of a building, the remnants of a window made of colored glass. Kathil was looking out over the city, as well, her eyes focused on something far away. "We found the mark of the Chantry Seekers on a paper that the bandit leader had on him, Alistair."

Shock was like a bucket of cold water over his head. "We don't have any active Seekers in Ferelden," he said. "We're too much of a backwater for them to bother with."

"Maybe we still are, and those bandits were hired by someone else. Might have been a coincidence." Her tone said, but it's not likely. "If it is a Seeker, this has been in the works for some time. Longer than the month I've been in Amaranthine. Possibly for years."

The weight of everything he was responsible to and for was heavy on his shoulders, just now. "I can't go against the Chantry. Not in public. Not even for the Wardens." He'd never been aware of just how influential the Chantry was in affairs of state until he'd become King and the priests were suddenly everywhere—the Grand Cleric inviting herself in for a private audience with him, elaborately-robed women with earnest faces doing good works everywhere and all of them with a kind word about Alistair to anyone who might have questioned his rule.

The country was not precisely run by the Chantry. There were days, though, that it seemed like their hands were in every kitchen and every armory, and Alistair risked crossing the Chantry at his peril.

"I'm not expecting you to. Just—ask the Grand Cleric. Find out what she knows about any Seeker activity in Ferelden. She may not tell you, but if she tells anyone it'll be you." She stepped away from the wall, and stooped next to Lorn; the warhound shoved his head affectionately against her knee. A flock of swallows darted over the ruins of the city, calling shrilly to one another as they swooped and wove among the ruins. "I would like to be wrong about this."

"I hope you are." Duncan had clambered to his feet and went toddling purposefully off down the walkway. Alistair reached for words, only to have them slip away from him. She wasn't telling him everything, not nearly. Long gone were the days when they would share a cup of water at night by the fire, when she'd been a constant presence on his sword side during battles.

Even back then, he suspected, she hadn't been telling him everything, not by half.

"I saw Erlina," he heard himself blurt. "With a woman who looked like an older version of Anora."

He saw her start and blink. "That's not a name I've heard in some time. Anora's still locked up?"

"Safe as houses, I'm told." Duncan fell and began to wail, and Alistair stepped over to pick up his small son. "No harm done, little man. I never even thought about what might have happened to Anora's maid."

There was a thoughtful look on Kathil's face. "Tell Leliana," she said. "I have a feeling she may know a bit more about Erlina than she's ever mentioned."

"Just because they're both Orlesian—"

"Because Leliana looked at Erlina like she recognized her, when we went to rescue Anora and got ourselves thrown in prison for our trouble." She stooped to pick up Cerys, rescuing Lorn from further exploration by curious little fingers. "Just tell her. If nothing else, Leliana may yet have some contacts she can ask about her. I don't have anything, but I am not a bard."

Duncan sighed gustily and put his head down on Alistair's shoulder. "I will," Alistair said, shifting his grip on his small son.

"And on that note—" Kathil peered over the wall. "I don't like the look of that Templar, but there's not much I can do about him. I have some things to take care of—we're meeting with Padraig this afternoon, yes? Armed with Mistress Woolsey's codicils."

"Sharper than swords, those are," he said. "Sundown at the bann's manor, what's left of it."

She smiled at him, and took her leave. Alistair listened to the sound of her boots and Lorn's claws ticking on the stone, retreating. "Back to it, I suppose," he told Duncan, who murmured in response. The boy's body was relaxing in his arms, and his head was heavy on Alistair's shoulder. "And I think someone needs a nap, little man."

These moments were so few, when he could be for a few minutes not a king or a Warden but just a father. He was determined that Duncan would never wonder whether his father loved him.

He carried his sleepy son down the stairs, trying to memorize this moment.

---

Jowan:

It was unexpectedly good to get his hands dirty.

He'd picked up work like the demolition he was helping with in the years after he'd escaped the Tower, but he hadn't realized how much of a taste he'd developed for it. It was good to look at something physical, something real, and be able to say I did that. He'd overheard one of the crews talking about the inn, trying to plan how to bring the rest of it down without anyone getting crushed in the process.

He'd volunteered to help, and though it had taken some fast talking to keep the crew from running away when he suggested he could use magic to help knock down the rickety structure, they had evidently decided that he must be all right, since he was a Warden, and invited him to help.

He'd pitched in after the knocking-down was done out of habit, if nothing else. It was useful, and it kept him out of the way of anyone who might not want to run into him. (He still remembered Leliana's look when she'd realized that Jowan would be helping with her knee. It had run from doubt to disgust before vanishing like all expressions did on the bard's well-schooled face.)

All afternoon, he'd worked with the crew, ignoring the watchful Templar who stood on the Chantry steps. Now it was coming on sunset and they were clearing out of the city before night fell and brought with it a further thinning of the Veil. He'd gotten used it how the city felt, during the afternoon. It was as if the city itself were a half-healed wound.

He passed through the gates and headed for the makeshift bathing facilities that had been set up to one side of the large camp just outside the city. A couple of bits purchased him the use of a tub of water, some soap, and a rough cloth to use as a towel, with a curtain for a modicum of privacy. He stripped out of his robes—he should have worn shirt and trousers, but hadn't thought of it—heated the water a bit with a murmured word, and stepped into the washtub. It wasn't even big enough to sit down in, but Jowan made do.

After scrubbing himself down, he got out, dried off, and looked at his robes in distaste. Think I'll just borrow this towel and head back to my tent, I can air these overnight and beat them in the morning. He pulled on his shoes and wrapped the towel around his waist. People wandered around the camp in less, and it wasn't a very long walk back to his tent. He pulled back the curtain, intending to head straight back.

"Warden?"

On the other side of the curtain stood a woman with a worried expression on her face, holding a baby.. After a moment, he realized that, yes, the woman was taking to him. "Er. Yes? I am."

The woman's shoulders sagged in relief. "Oh, good. I've been trying to speak with one of you the whole day, but it's been impossible. I was hoping—do you have any news of my brother? He promised to write, or visit, and he hasn't done either yet. Is he all right? Does he live?"

Jowan blinked. "I, ah...who's your brother? Is he a Warden?"

The woman frowned. "You mean he never mentioned me? My name is Delilah—Nathaniel Howe is my brother."

Same grey eyes, similar noses; he could see the resemblance, though Delilah Howe was prettier than he'd have thought anyone related to Nathaniel would be. "Nathaniel! Right. He's fine, he's currently journeying to Rainesfere with another Warden. They're expected back in a few weeks." He shifted, a bit uncomfortably; the sun had almost gone down, and a cold wind was coming up and raising goosebumps all over his bare skin. "I can tell him I saw you."

"Would you also tell him that my—my husband..." She broke off, her face contorting. "I'm sorry. Albert was injured when the darkspawn attacked. He lost his leg, and he's still very ill. Please, when you see him, could you ask him to come see us? I so wanted him to meet Albert, and he hasn't yet met Idris yet." She glanced down at the baby she held.

(It was still strange, to see babies. The first infant he ever recalled seeing was after he fled the Tower, in Redcliffe. He was twenty-two years old.)

He sucked in a breath. "I'll let him know when I see him. Are you staying in the camp, here?"

She shifted, looking uncomfortable. "We're staying at the chantry for the moment, the sisters are looking after Albert. I should go. I don't like to venture into the city after dark." Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and hurried away, hunched slightly as if having the urge to curl around her child.

He watched her go, then picked up his robes and headed for his tent. From the gathering dim came a wolf whistle. Jowan reflexively looked around to see who was being whistled at, but didn't see anyone. He shrugged and moved on.

It wasn't until later that he realized that whoever the whistler had been, there was a possibility it had been aimed at him.

A little while later, he was settled in by the fire with a wooden bowl of stew—a bit thin, but excellent even so. A couple of strapping Redcliffe lads carried Leliana out of her tent and settled her in a nest of blankets and grain sacks near the fire. The bard took the attention in stride.

Leliana's apprentice appeared out of the gloom, carrying a pair of instruments—a set of pipes in one hand, a small drum in the other. A small crowd of children trailed behind the girl, all of them less than six years old. There wasn't more than three or four of them, but they were all gigglesome and friendly, climbing into laps and yanking on beards. One, an older boy, poked the fire they were sitting around with a stick.

Jowan didn't see Kathil or Cullen or any of the royal family; not even any of the Mabari. Justice passed by, but the Fade spirit didn't stop to warm himself at the fire. The body the spirit inhabited was starting to tatter around the edges; Jowan wasn't sure how much longer it would last, and Justice refused to answer any questions about what might happen when it decayed any more.

"Do 'General Maferath'," one of the guards said to Leliana. "Please?"

The bard smiled. There were still lines between her eyebrows and at the corners of her mouth that told Jowan that her knee was still bothering her, but she seemed to be bearing up well. "Very well, since you ask so nicely, but I expect you all to help, yes?"

The guard laughed and agreed, and Leliana picked up the little drum that Murena had brought. She didn't raise her hand to it right away, though, just adjusted so she was sitting a bit more upright. She drew a breath, and began to sing.

"Well, General Maferath gained the day

Walk him along, John, carry him along

Well General Maferath gained the day—"

She motioned around the fire, and the rest of them joined in with the last line of the verse. "Carry him to his burying ground!"

They did the chorus together, and then fell silent. Leliana motioned at the guard who had asked for the song in the first place, and the man grinned and sang, "We'll dig his grave with a silver spade—"

"Walk him along, John, carry him along—"

The next was another guard: "A shroud of the finest silk will be made—"

"Carry him to his burying ground!"

Leliana gave soft thumps on the drum as the chorus was joined. It was a slow, nearly funereal beat. "Tell me whe're ya, Stormy—walk him along, John, carry him along—"

They continued like that for another verse, and then at the beginning of the next one, Leliana motioned at Jowan. He made a credible attempt at the line, "We'll lower him down on a golden chain—"

"Walk him along, John, carry him along—"

There was a stir at the edge of the circle, and Cullen sang the next line: "And on every inch we'll carve his name!" Jowan twisted his neck and saw that Cullen and Kathil and the dogs had arrived; they settled in during the next chorus.

'General Maferath' had a lot of verses, just about as many verses as was necessary to allow everyone who wanted a chance to sing a line to get one. They seemed to be winding down when Jowan saw Leliana catch the eye of someone approaching the fire, and motioned to them.

Alistair's tenor rang out. "General Maferath, he's long dead and gone—"

"Walk him along, John, carry him along—"

Then another voice—Rima's sweet, light voice, steel beneath the velvet. "Yes, General Maferath's long dead and gone!"

There was a brief cheer at the words, as was traditional, and then they finished the verse. Leliana sang the last chorus alone, letting her voice rise to the sky and the distant stars. Alistair and Rima had settled in at the fire by this point. "You know, if you just listened to the words, you'd never know that was a satirical song," Alistair said to Leliana.

Leliana shifted where she sat, reaching for the pipes. "It was written, it's said, in Maferath's camp just after he betrayed Andraste. Here was the general, still alive, and his troops were all singing about what a very splendid funeral they were going to give him. I am sure it must have been unnerving."

"I think I should remember that," Kathil said. "It would be a good demoralizing tactic." Cullen, next to her, rolled his eyes. "What? You have to find good ideas where you can."

Jowan rose, and looked at Kathil. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

She nodded, handed Cerys to Cullen, and rose. They stepped into the shadow of one of the large tents—not privacy, but as best as they could do without leaving the camp entirely. "You look like you have bad news," Kathil said to him.

"Maybe." He chewed briefly on the inside of his cheek. He could hear a pipe starting up—Leliana playing once more. "I was stopped on my way back to the camp by Nathaniel's sister Delilah."

Kathil blinked. "He mentioned a sister, but—she's here? What did she want?"

"Wanted to know if Nathaniel's alive and well. Evidently, he hasn't been to visit since the city burned, and hasn't written."

"There hasn't exactly been anything like reliable messenger service between the Vigil and Amaranthine." She scratched her chin.

"She said her husband lost his leg during the battle, and he's still very ill."

She breathed out. "Ah." They were both silent for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the voice of the pipes, and beyond them the sounds of several hundred people settling in for the evening. "Where are they? Did she say?"

"In the chantry. I think the sisters are running a makeshift infirmary."

"Which would explain why there's not one out here." She glanced over her shoulder, back towards the fire. "You know, it would probably be extraordinarily foolish for us to walk into the chantry, especially given what happened and the road, and that Mother Leanna was the one who sent that troop of Templars to try to convince me to give up Cerys. They don't dare try anything openly with Alistair around—my friendship with him is well-known—but actually walking into the chantry might be tempting fate, as it were."

He eyed her. "You sound like there's an and yet in there somewhere."

There was a smile lingering around the corners of her mouth. "Do you really think I could face Nathaniel if I didn't at least make an effort to help his family if they need it?"

"I was afraid of that," he said. "You know, it's been since I escaped since I've been in a chantry proper—and even then, it was just the Tower chapel. I suppose every streak has to end sometime."

"You don't have to come along with me," she said, frowning. "If fact, it's probably better that you don't."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want to make a point, right? And if the point is that Grey Wardens go where they want, when they want, and how they want, I don't see any better way than the two of us marching into the lair of the Templars."

Kathil just looked at him for a moment, and then her narrow face split in a smile. "Well, then. Tomorrow, we'll go face down some sisters."

It was a tenuous sort of peace between them, but it had the echoes of the friendship that had once existed. Where once they had planned to play pranks on the Templars, and schemed to get out of the Tower for the brief moments that they could, the games they played now had higher stakes and far less pity.

But there was something burning within him as they made their way back to the fire. It was a feeling of warmth, spreading through his chest.

It took him some time to recognize it as a sense of pride. In himself, in the Wardens, in Kathil.

Tomorrow, then.

---

Author's Note:

This is one of those chapters where I just had to stop writing, because we were getting close to 10k words and that's just a huge chunk of text. But we're making progress.

"General Maferath" is based on a traditional song called "General Taylor" (Great Big Sea does a good version.). The lyrics are pretty close to what I've put in here, and in fact that version of the lyrics were composed before the eponymous general (aka US President Zachary Taylor) died. Whether it was written to unnerve him or not, history doesn't record, but I imagine it's creepy to be walking through your camp and have people singing a happy ditty about how awesome your funeral is going to be.