Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine

Auria stood in front of him, eyes like limpid pools in a secluded forest glen. Their calmness should've been reassuring, but instead he felt uneasy. Her stillness disturbed him almost as much as the goblet she held out to him. He hesitated a moment, the grave words she'd spoken only moments ago repeating in his head.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish know that your sacrifice shall not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you."

This was it. Anders reached out, accepting the goblet. His fingers brushed hers and for a moment he felt a connection, but then she withdrew and he was left holding the chalice alone as the king took her arm. The cup was colder than he expected, and the dark liquid it held looked black in the dim light of the room. Darkspawn blood. He knew it, but couldn't help repeating the words aloud. Speaking the words seemed to draw him in closer. The darkened surface of the goblet ate the light, like a hole. There was no reflection. Why was that? Shouldn't it reflect something? But there was nothing, not even a muted sheen.

"From this moment forth, Anders," Auria's voice cut into his thoughts, "You are a Grey Warden." Her soft words seemed loud in the quiet room. Even Oghren didn't make a sound. He'd drunk from the goblet first, draining it down to the dregs as if it was nothing more than a new type of alcohol. For a moment, Anders thought that was all it was for the stocky man – he'd even smacked his lips afterward. Then with a clank of armor the dwarf sat heavily onto the ground. He stared in front of him, eyes blank, silent and unseeing.

Anders' gaze flicked from Oghren to Auria to Alistair and then back down at the goblet. Was it his imagination or did the king just smirk at him?

"If I wake up two weeks from now on a ship bound for Rivain in nothing but my smallclothes and a tattoo on my forehead, I'm blaming you," Anders said, raising an eyebrow at Alistair. It wasn't his imagination, the man was smirking.

He lifted the goblet and drank.

...

Blood. It ran through his body, surging like a river set free from a damn, pushing away bits of him as if his mind were only so much flotsam and jetsam. He was unraveling. He screamed, but it was a soundless, formless scream. He had no throat, no shape. Thoughts eddied tantalizingly out of reach, rushing away before he could grasp them. The more he struggled, the more the currents stripped him. They tore away the fragmented pieces of self he clung to, throwing him into sickening, thick darkness. Was he dying? Was this the Fade? He struggled to hold onto his questions, as if he could wrap them around himself like twine and tie his consciousness together.

It was no use; the blood became a roaring black fire, eating through his veins, his body, his very being. There would be nothing left. He was Anders. Anders. He clung to the name, but what was a name? It was only a word. Sounds strung together. The meaning left him and he lost cohesion.

He was the great, amassing darkness.

He was the fetid black decay eating the world.

He was a song.

He was pain.

Flames licked the side of the house. The dog was howling, his brother screaming. Anders struggled in someone's arms. He had to go to him. He had to help. There was something wrong with his brother's leg, it was twisted at a strange angle and it felt wrong. Anders could feel it radiating like heat, and it hurt, it hurt. Was it his pain? Or his brother's? The world seemed to tug at him, pulling him apart.

"Let him."

It was his father's voice, and his tiny five-year old heart soared. But he wasn't five anymore, was he?

"Let him," the voice came again, almost drowned out by another scream. Yes, let him. Let him. He reached out his hands.

"Dirty Orlesians!" the cry came from outside, and a rock tore through the window sending shards of glass like confetti all over the room. His mother's window. She cleaned it every day.

The room hung in stunned silence for a moment as the shouting outside raged on. Then sounds. Sounds Anders had never heard before. A keening high-pitched cry like that of an animal, followed by gasping, convulsive sobs. He wanted to turn, to see, to move, but he was locked within tight arms. The world dislocated. It was a raging fire - a flame that burnt his hands, seared his face. It was a broken song, shearing through him in discordance. It was a windstorm, pulling him into its center.

It was the rock he noticed first. He'd been playing with it outside. It had been part of his fort, and he'd admired it for the swirling grey colors and long sharp edge. The grey was smeared with red now, a viscous, bright crimson. That same crimson was splattered all over the rug. His eyes followed it to where his sister lay, unmoving. Blood was matted into her blonde hair, the curls now streaked with darkening blood. It ran in congealing sticky lines down her face, her neck.

He was dimly aware of outside events: his father leaving, carrying his brother in his arms as he cried; the sizzling as buckets of water pelting the walls, showering over them through the open window; the clanking sound of armored guards quelling the men outside. None of it mattered. This was the center of the storm, the heart of the burning fire, the source of all discordance. She hurt. She shouldn't. It was wrong. His small hands reached out, barely covering the mass of crimson that was his sister's head. He wouldn't let her hurt. He wouldn't.

It wasn't enough. Her eyes glazed over and the storm began to tatter him into pieces. The keening became a wailing that circled around him.

No. It hadn't happened like that.

His mother's beautiful, lilting voice rang out in a prayer to Andraste. Even at this darkest moment it wasn't pleading, nor was it terrified. It was strong and filled with passion.

With life.

A dark, seething mass pounded into the depths of the earth, writhing like maggots in dead flesh. He could see them, feel them, hear them. He was them. They searched. They yearned. They raged. A dragon rose up, great blackened wings spanning his vision, blotting out the fiery chasms below. He fell to his knees.

And looked up into the disfigured face of a man, one eye gone and the other one streaming with tears.

"I didn't do it," he said, but there was nothing and no one to say it to. The thought dissipated into the void.

It was cold.

"Keep this around you," a soft voice said. He could hear the smile in it and he looked up. "I know you hate it, but just until you're better."

He didn't like the blanket. It wasn't like their old ones, soft and silken and woven out of beautiful colors. It was scratchy and brown and smelled faintly of sheep. He knew his mother had made it especially for him, but he still didn't like it or their new house. It was out in the middle of nowhere. No friends, no neighbors. Just a harsh, ever-crashing sea on one side and a tall, forbidding forest on the other. The only thing that made up for it was Nan. When they'd left the city she'd been here, waiting for them.

Their move was indistinct in his mind. Queen Rowan had died. There had been fighting. Then he'd had to sleep in a small space hidden in the floor of a wagon with his mother. It had been dark and hard to breathe.

The room faded into indistinct edges and blurred colors. Only Nan's face was in focus, brilliant and smiling. She was dead. He knew she was dead.

"Why don't we have pointed ears like yours?" he asked. He asked that a lot, but he was never satisfied with the answer. Most of the time she pretended to have his ears clasped in her fists, or told him he'd lost them in his toys and if he cleaned up his belongings, maybe he'd find them. But today she just looked at him, those peculiar green eyes regarding him as if he were as transparent as glass. Shame filled him. She knew. She knew all the petty little things he'd done over the years, the girls he'd lied to, the things he'd stolen, every time he'd been afraid and turned away from what he knew was right, every time he'd given up and welcomed death at the tower.

The world turned to shadow. He could feel them, rancid and decaying and tainting his senses. The song. They were called.

"My ears are hidden within in you, they are in your blood," Nan whispered, and pressed a hand to his forehead. Her touch burned through him and he tried to pull back, but he couldn't. "Anders," she named him. Her voice lilted like his mother's. They weren't inside the house now, but out on the rocky cliffs, the ocean beating like a drum below them. "What was the first lesson I taught you?" she asked.

Anders opened his mouth to answer, but she wasn't there. He was falling, falling down into the ocean. The cold water seared him as he plunged into its dark depths, a thousand icicles piercing his skin. He surged upward, breaking the surface into the daylight.

"Remember," Nan said, but it wasn't her voice any longer. Soft fingers stroked his hair back from his forehead. "Anders." It was Auria's voice. Auria's touch.

"He's alive," he heard another voice say. "He made it."

And then he slept, a deep, dreamless sleep.

.~.~.~.~.

"It's time." Auria could see the saddled horses tromping in the courtyard. With his usual efficiency Doyle already had the men marching, leaving nothing but flattened grass in their wake. Only the honor guard remained behind.

"I could stay, just a little bit longer. One more day."

Auria looked down at their clasped hands, Alistair's fingers looked so brown against her pale ones. "The storm will last longer than that. No, it's better if you leave now." She felt him study her face.

"It wasn't your fault," his voice was warm, it could wrap around and hold her if she let it. "It's the risk and burden grey wardens carry, and—"

"And I better get used to it."

"That's not what I was going to say, and you know it."

"Yes, well, I knew she wasn't grey warden material. I should've refused. I could've refused, if I had thought more about her and less about rebuilding the wardens. But that's not my job, is it? It's never been my job to care about the individual, not when there's some greater cause to think about."

"Auria…" Alistair used their intertwined hands to pull her close to him. He had his armor on again and it was cold and hard against her cheek. "You can't blame yourself."

"You don't understand," she looked up at him. Their faces were so close she could count every freckle, she could even see the faint white line of scar where a Hurlock's blade had nearly taken a slice out of him. "I don't blame myself. I don't feel anything. No sorrow or guilt, not even disappointment. And I should, shouldn't I? I used to, before—" she stopped.

Before when? Before the blight, certainly. Before becoming a grey warden? Or further back? Before using blood magic? Before watching the templars whip Anders within an inch of his life?

Her voice came out sharper than she intended, "Rylock has some priest in there with her, giving Mhairi last rights before her funeral pyre and the only thing I feel is annoyance and resignation that rebuilding the wardens will be slow."

"No," he tilted his head down to hers until their foreheads touched. "That's what you tell yourself so you can do what you need to do. It's not what you feel. I know what you feel."

"And that's why it's better if you leave now." She closed her eyes, using a slight bit of magic to pull back the tears that threatened to well, "I've never fought a campaign without you – there won't be anyone here to be my heart, to remind me that I have one. If you stay then I'll want you to stay. Not for a day or a night, but for…" for always, she finished in her mind. She swallowed. "I have to learn to do this without you. It's just better if you go now."

Alistair stared down at her, a faint line creasing between his eyebrows. She knew that look, it was the look he got when he was trying to puzzle something out. Before he could say anything she stood on her toes, capturing his mouth with her own. He faltered for a moment, as if some part of him realized it for the distraction it was, but then his arms were around her and he was kissing her back. Electricity careened through her at the hotness of his mouth, at the velvety smoothness of his tongue twisting around hers. Need blossomed like fire, consuming all thought. The walls Auria held around her collapsed in its heat. She poured all her love into the kiss, melting into him without reservation. This was all there was in the world.

It was too much. Alistair pulled away slowly, looking down at her with a strange expression.

"I will be back," he said firmly.

"I know." The words were whispered. She forced herself to look into his eyes and smile.

"Auria…"

"Everything's fine. They're waiting." Slipping out of his arms she swiftly crossed the Hall, throwing open the doors before Alistair caught her. The guards snapped to attention at the sight of their king.

"Wait," Alistair grasped her arm as they stood on the steps. Wind whipped around them. "Auria." He kissed her. A single, perfect kiss. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She nodded. Smiled. One of the guards led Alistair's horse, Bucket, to them and then stood ready to help him into the saddle. Scenting the storm in the air the animal nickered uneasily, sidestepping until Alistair reached out to calm him with a touch. The beast still glared a baleful eye at her, as if she were responsible for all that was wrong in the world.

"What do you do, pinch him when I'm not looking?" Alistair laughed, reaching for her again. "I'll have you know I never pinched your mabari, not once."

"That's because he'd have taken your arm off," she answered wryly, turning his reach into a hug and then pushing him lightly towards the waiting guard.

The sun broke through the clouds as he swung his leg over Bucket's back, making both horse and rider gleam. She couldn't help admiring the pair, and her heart gave a sharp pang as if one of the horse's hooves had kicked her in the chest. This might be the last time she saw him like this. She almost couldn't take his hand as he leaned down to her.

"You'll do fine here, Commander," he smiled down at her, "You always do."

She couldn't answer. This was her last chance. She could say something, right now. Tell him not to… but she couldn't. Let him be happy, she thought, at least for a little while longer.

He touched her face, pressing his palm to her cheek. They stayed there, a tableau. He on horseback reaching down, her on tiptoe leaning up. It would make a pretty picture if you didn't look close enough, she thought. Too close, like she was, and you could see the shadows passing over Alistair's face. She knew her own face remained the same, her eyes like sorrowful hard stones. But Alistair's… The longer their pose held, the sadder his face grew. Her name was on his lips, repeating, until it was just a breath, a whisper, a hope. "Auria."

And finally she could say something, just one word. She covered his hand with hers, holding it to her cheek. "Don't."

"Don't what?" his brows drew together in confusion and a sick, nauseous feeling bloomed in her stomach.

"Marry." The word came out little more than a whisper, and the wind whipped it away as soon as it left her lips. Still, he heard.

"They're just treaty meetings," his hand dropped from her cheek and she took an inadvertent step forward.

"Don't ."

"I'm not – that's so far into the future why worry…" his words trailed off as Auria shook her head. "That's not what you mean."

Alistair tried to get down off the horse, but she blocked him. "They're ready, you have to leave now."

"We have to talk about this." His voice was breaking.

"There's nothing to talk about." Like stone, she thought. I am the stone. The ice. She let the cold fill her. "No talking. Just think about it."

"Auria, I…'

"You have to go."

His horse turned around and nearly bit her, snapping the air where her arm had been. Alistair restrained the beast, sidling Bucket closer to the steps where she now stood.

"I love you." He reached a hand out and she took it, pressing her lips to his palm.

"I love you, too." She smiled, a real smile. Alistair grinned back at her and for a moment her heart soared. Then she smacked the rump of his horse, sending Bucket bounding out in front of the other horses. Alistair turned back toward her but she waved him on. The word goodbye was too final, too absolute. She could see the hesitation on his face and then he nodded, waving back to her. The horse was only too happy to leave her behind.

Auria turned and marched up the steps without waiting to see if he looked back. She felt as numb as the frosty wind made her hands. Sometimes love isn't enough, she told herself, wishing the numbness would spread to the ache in her throat.

Before she could pull the door open a soldier ran up to her, his breath coming out in plumes of white.

"Commander," he nodded once. "About the prisoner—"

"What prisoner?" Auria turned toward him, fighting the urge to look out through the gate.

"The man—We locked him up three nights ago. With the storm coming – well." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "There's only so much wood and we didn't know…"

"You didn't know if he should be kept warm, or be allowed to freeze to death, saving us the trouble of sentencing?"

"Uh… yes?"

"He was caught before the darkspawn attack? What was his crime?"

"Yes, Commander, three nights ago. We caught him thieving, sneaking around like a dirty rogue. It took four of your fellow wardens to take him down."

"Four grey wardens?" She felt a tickle of surprise. Had the Orlesian wardens been lax, or was the man just that good?

The solider nodded, almost apologetically.

"Take me to him."

.~.~.~.~.

Anders groaned, holding his head. Had he been drinking with Oghren again? When would he learn his lesson?

The dwarf was mid-song, in what Anders surmised was the worst rendition of a drinking tune imaginable. The fiery-haired man punctuated each verse with a loud belch. The reek of sour alcohol nearly made him gag. Why, why did he keep waking up this way?

"Oghren," he muttered. "Could you please stop torturing me? I'm rather fond of my ears, and I think they're about to curl up and die." Like the rest of me, he added silently.

"Heh, I wondered when you'd wake up. Are all mages such pansies, or is it just you?"

"I really couldn't say. The circle didn't give me opportunity to do much testing. What was it you poured down my throat this time? And would you please refrain from plying me with alcohol in the future? You're not my type, no matter how drunk you get me."

"Don't flatter yourself, magic-boy, this was all your doing. You're telling me you don't remember?" Anders could hear genuine surprise in Oghren's voice. "A big goblet? A fancy 'we are brothers' speech? Your eyes rolling back in your head?"

The joining. He'd survived the joining. Anders mentally checked himself. He felt bruised and nauseous, but not much worse for wear. "What happened?"

"I just told you."

"No, after the joining."

"You drank, your eyes rolled back into your skull and you fell on the floor twitching for about five minutes. They said you'd live, and I, out of the goodness of my heart, came back here to watch you lay in a drunken stupor. Lightweight. You should be thanking me."

"Thank you for making my nose hairs singe. Better?"

"Yeah, that's more like it."

"Auria sent you to watch me, didn't she?"

Oghren huffed. "Maybe. But I still did it."

Anders pulled himself into a sitting position. His head seemed to be clearing. "What happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," the dwarf growled, taking a swig from the flask he was holding. "Commander said to get you to the kitchen for meat and that vinegar you call red wine when you finally woke up."

At the mention of food Anders' stomach growled, all nausea gone.

"Well, lead on. An order is an order."

…

The cook nearly cracked a smile at him when they entered the kitchen, though she glared at Oghren. For some reason this made him unreasonably happy, and he gave the dwarf a smug look as she set a much larger helping of spiced stew down in front of him. His chunk of meat was decidedly larger, and the dwarf scowled.

"Glad to see you made it," she gruffed. "Sorry about the girl."

Anders' smugness vanished. "The girl?"

"Mhairi didn't make it." Oghren didn't look up, saying the words to his plate.

A lump rose in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He had to force his bite of meat down, nearly choking. Didn't make it. It was only this morning that he'd spoken with her, teasing her into a blush. And yesterday – she'd fought with a broken arm, her swing never wavering. She'd been brave and strong, and had been willing to accept him as a brother even though it was obvious she had no love for apostates. Now she was dead, and he couldn't even remember it happening. Maybe if he hadn't passed out he could've saved her. Maybe if he'd been stronger…

A dragon filled his mind, wings spreading over his vision. It pinned him like a butterfly to a board as its head turned his way. The putrescent smell of decay washed over him.

A tankard pressed into his hand. Anders drank, the warmth of wine spread pleasantly through his limbs, pushing back the cold sickness that threatened to unman him. The vision faded. Darkspawn ran in his veins now. The idea dragged him at him, and he stared at the pulse in his wrist. Tainted.

"If I'd gone to Amaranthine first, without stopping in that tavern none of this would be happening," he murmured into the mug, more to himself than anyone else. That wouldn't have stopped Mhairi from being dead, a part of his mind added. And you wouldn't know that Auria was alive. "Better that I didn't."

The dwarf let out a disbelieving huff of air. "Better that you didn't what? Let me tell you, being a warden is the only worthwhile thing in this world. And if you weren't one, the templars would've hanged you by now. Yeah, much better than this. Sodding humans."

Anders swallowed down the last of his wine and filled the tankard again. "I could've found my phylactery," he said, his words slurring slightly. "It's why I came back. She was going to tell me where they moved it."

"More eating, less talking," the cook shushed him, taking his mug and setting it on the table. "These aren't your private quarters."

"I trust you. You gave me an apple. And honey."

"Honey?" Oghren sat up. "There's honey?"

"No," the large woman said sharply, her broad shoulders towering over them. "No honey. And it's not me you have to worry about." Her eyes flashed to the doorway.

Anders looked. "There's no one there." He sighed, reaching for his mug again. "I'll never find Namaya now. Not that it matters."

The cook harrumphed disapprovingly, turning back to the fire. "Always with the "ifs" and "buts". And they never listen. Not even my own girl. Talk when they should be silent. Keep their mouth shut when they should be talking. Don't mind me. Old cook doesn't know anything but how to bake bread."

"There's no honey? What about mead? Is there mead?"

"Oghren," Anders interrupted, staring again at the pulse in his wrist. "You don't feel it?"

The dwarf was silent. "Yeah, I feel it," he finally said. "And you know what it tells me? That we can kill them." He let out a loud belch. "Besides, it won't feel so strange tomorrow, Warden said so. And as far as I can tell, the dreams don't get bad until later."

"The dreams? What dreams?"

"Oh, there's dreams." He lowered his voice as the cook left for the pantry. "Commander had 'em bad. But that was a blight." He squinted his eyes at the mage, "How'd you get honey if there's none? Did you eat the last of it, because that's not fair. You surfacers, taking your wheat and grains and bees all for granted."

"Oghren, the dreams?"

"They're dreams. It comes along with being able to know where the bastards are. They all think in this big mess, see, and now we listen in. You hear them. So you get dreams." He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing it.

"What else, what other changes?"

"Did you hear the one about the nug and the farmer? This surfacer was digging, see, and he dug so far down that…"

"What else changes?" Anders asked again, grabbing the flask from the dwarf's hand.

"I wouldn't do that," he growled, his face turning as red as his beard.

Anders handed back the drink, giving him a direct look.

"What changes? My death. I'll die with honor now, in battle like a warrior should. May the stone take me." He slogged back the rest of his whiskey. "We'll all die heroes. Like men. Even if you don't want to, you sparkly-assed mage. Sooner or later you'll come to the deep roads." He hiccupped. "But you ask me, the best side effect—No women trying to tie you down and nag at you for not being the man they want. No more saddling you with children. And then taking…" he stopped, pulling out a new flask. "Not that it matters for you, hey?" Oghren elbowed him in the side. "What do they do, neuter all you mages at birth? That why you all wear dresses?"

"What?" Anders asked faintly, trying to unscramble the dwarf's words so they made sense.

"I told you boys these aren't your private chambers," the cook said, carrying a massive bucket of flour into the kitchen. "You want to talk about neutering and dresses, you go to your own rooms."

"Uhh…" Oghren glanced guiltily at the large woman. Like a smith, Anders couldn't help thinking again. "We weren't talking warden business. Just… you know, women. Worse than brontos in heat. Either trying to wring whiskey from a stone, or throwing the stone at you and leaving you for another woman."

"I don't care what you were doing. Since you don't know when to keep your own council, you can either eat or leave my kitchen."

"Yes'm." The dwarf took a bite of meat. "You know, you kind of remind me of my mother."

Anders silently spooned the stew into his mouth. The dish had grown cold, but it still warmed him. He wondered what sort of meat it was, venison? Would they waste venison on them? They were grey wardens now, so maybe.

It made sense that grey wardens would travel to the deep roads – not that he liked the idea, but that was where the darkspawn came from, right? But he didn't want to die there, buried beneath all that rock. The thought sent a snaking current of panic through him. Like being shoved back into that hole, deep in the Kinloch Hold. No fresh air, no light, nothing but dirt and rock and bugs. He pushed the images away with a shudder.

What did Oghren mean, neutered? Another one of his jokes? He glanced at the dwarf, who was now lifting the stew to his mouth and drinking it down with stomach-churning slurping sounds. Or were they not allowed to be married? Big change there, no one wanted mages to marry either. But something the phrasing nagged at him.

He stood up. "Where is the Commander?"

"I'd guess she's somewhere inside the Keep. Or maybe outside," Oghren belched the last word.

"I'll keep this for you," the cook said, with what Anders was coming to realize was her smile.

"Remember what I said, mage," the dwarf called after him.

"Which time?" he called back, moving quickly down the hallway. There was no reply, and Anders laughed as entered the next room. He turned just in time to run into a suit of armor. He didn't remember that being there, why did someone…

The suit of armor turned, lifting the helmet from its head.

"So, you lived. Pity."

Damn, Anders thought, sinking to his knees as he felt the mana drain from him. Why did he always have to run into her at the most inopportune times?