When Idris wakes up, he feels a little better. Free of the temple, the song fades and is tolerable. His gut still hurts, and his throat is sore from vomiting, but he can hear and see. Fenarel and Merrill were kind enough to wipe the mud and dirt off him while he was out, so that he would not shame the clan when he stood before the Keeper and the shemlen.

Little good it does him. The Keeper asks what they found of Tamlen, and Idris must tell her the terrible truth. The words come out curt, short: "Nothing. He's gone."

The Keeper bows her head. Merrill must have mentioned what happened to Idris in the temple, as the discussion turns to his cure. Idris is completely disinterested, and the Keeper enjoins him to speak to Hahren Paivel regarding a service for the dead while she meets with the Grey Warden.

Idris would have done that anyway. While Paivel despairs of his smart mouth, Tamlen was close to the storyteller and often dragged Idris to listen to his tales. Paivel is so often stern with him, but today, the storyteller's voice is quiet and soft, resigned to a grim answer even as he asks the question.

Is he truly lost to us?

Idris came back with a shemlen, instead of his lethallin. What an unfair trade. Tears well up in Idris's eyes for the first time in this whole nightmarish affair. "It's my fault. I failed the clan," he says thickly, and ducks his head to scrub at his unworthy eyes. Such shame, he thinks, such loss for Clan Mahariel.

"You've done nothing of the sort, da'len," Paivel replies. His lined face is sorrowful, his voice tender yet strong. "Do not blame yourself." Idris's shoulders hitch. "It seems the will of the Creators that I sing the dirge for those I held in my arms as babes," the storyteller murmurs, turning away. "I think I know why our immortal ancestors would sleep."

Tamlen deserves to be mourned, and that is why, as Paivel speaks a poem for the dead, Idris permits himself to grieve, tears running down his cheeks. He does not deserve solace; he abandoned his clan-brother for dead, he failed to find even a body to return to the earth, and he should for shame go back into that darkness and never return. Paivel places a comforting, heavy hand on his shoulder and promises that the clan will sing for Tamlen, that they will pray together for Tamlen's safe passage into the arms of the Creators.

It is not enough, but it is all Idris has, and he knows what it would have meant to Tamlen. He nods, taking a deep, steadying breath. The forest air is sweet and clean, and the wind dries his tears. He spends a short time sitting alone beneath a tree, trying to remember Tamlen as he was: vibrant and graceful and deadly, a proud Dalish who cared about the past and future of his people, a strong youth who had already brought his clan much joy, who would have brought yet more, who would have heaped honor and success upon them all. Clever as a fox, loyal as a hound, hawk-eyed, a brilliant archer. Dry and witty, wry and sarcastic, with a reckless streak and a love of stories. A partner in crime, a good clan-mate and friend, a brother in truth.

Idris finds that he is cracking his knuckles over and over as he sits, waiting for the Keeper to be done. Tamlen used to tease him about the habit. Good luck finding a wife who will tolerate that disgusting sound, lethallin. He kneads his knees instead until the Keeper emerges from her aravel, the insufferable shem by her side. His very presence makes Idris's gorge rise, a reminder that the shem was right, that Tamlen had indeed passed someplace Idris could no longer reach. But Idris goes to them as the Keeper has asked.

It is not the Keeper who speaks first; it is the shemlen, a rudeness the Keeper allows to pass without comment. "When I leave, I hope you will join me. You would make an excellent Grey Warden," the shemlen says.

Idris looks at the Keeper, his eyes wide. What an absurd suggestion. He is going nowhere with this outsider. "I can't just leave my clan," he says slowly. You surely would not ask me to just leave my clan, he is pleading of his Keeper.

"And we would not send you away, but there is more at stake," says the Keeper, and she is pleading with him in return. Idris stares at her, shock a taste in his mouth as sharp and foreign as bile. He hears without understanding when the shemlen stranger speaks, not unkindly: the darkspawn taint will kill him; the Grey Wardens will save him.

The words don't mean anything. His mind runs the same track restlessly. Why hadn't the useless shem found Tamlen, then? Idris and Tamlen could have joined together, and been a blight upon the Blight and laughed the whole way through and come safely home and instead, Idris has lost a brother and is consumed by the song that burns inside him, a song that must have strangled Tamlen straightaway, a song the Grey Wardens somehow have the power to shut away, which is an ability that his clan-mate could have bloody used and now this presumptuous shem lays claim to him and the Keeper is going along with this?

Idris considers his voice respectably level, given the circumstances. "Will I be able to return to my clan?"

The Keeper is a font of wisdom in trying times, a repository of knowledge in a world that disdains their heritage and history. As befits her role, her voice is always steady. But Marethari is old even for an elf, and her voice sags as she speaks. "We do not know. But we could not watch you suffer." The burning sun is unkind to her face, throwing the creases there into sharp relief. "The Grey Warden offers you a chance to survive."

The shemlen puts his two bits in, but Idris is watching the Keeper, who meets his gaze with a depth of sorrow and compassion that leaves him shaken and shaking. "Is the clan sending me away?" he says in hoarse disbelief. His heart is thumping hard.

She speaks. A great army of darkspawn gathers in the south. He feels the drum of their steps against the earth, the deep, hollow percussion. A new Blight threatens the land. He hears iron and steel scraping out of the sheath, flashing darkly beneath the bloated sun. We cannot outrun this storm.

"It breaks my heart to send you away," the Keeper says, her voice catching. "As it would to watch you die slowly from this sickness. This is your duty, and your salvation."

"This is all I've ever known!" Idris's voice is rising despite himself. The melody is a many-fanged beast that rears its head and lets gape its maw. The sweetest song he has ever heard sighs and whispers in his head. He is helpless in its grip, aches with it, but pushes past that place in his tainted heart where it burns. He shouts: "This is my home!"

The shem mouths something or other. Idris shakes his head, denying the song and shemlen both. But the keeper's worn voice is heavy with unshed tears. "I... cannot express my sadness at sending one of our sons off into such danger, away from the clan that loves him," the Keeper says. Protests are born and die on Idris's lips, unspoken, his breath coming fast. "But if this is what the Creators intend for you, da'len, meet your destiny with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that."

The sun is too hot, yet Idris is cold, gooseflesh prickling down his arms. Freezing sweat drips down his back, a tickle at the base of his spine. The song is a dirge on the march, and his head could split with it if his heart weren't breaking first. He has lost a brother. The whole clan has. Must he lose them, too? And they him? "Please do not cast me away!"

"I am sorry, da'len," Keeper Marethari says, and she looks at the despicable shemlen.

"Very well," the shemlen sighs. "You leave me no choice. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription."

Idris looks frantically from the shemlen to the Keeper. It cannot be.

"And I witness and acknowledge your invocation, Duncan of the Grey Wardens," the Keeper says with heavy finality.

"You cannot make me serve against my will," he whispers through numb lips, and his own voice seems very far away.

The shemlen snaps somewhat impatient in response, and the Keeper reaches out to Idris. Her hands flinch momentarily when they touch his; her hands feel hot as brands, and his must be cold as snow. Regardless, she closes his hands around the ring now in his palm. "I know you'll do your clan proud, da'len."

His hands tighten around the ring when she releases him. "I would like to stay for Tamlen's funeral," he manages. The shemlen agrees.

Idris feels like cattle, lower than a slave.

He stumbles through that moment, and the next moment, and all the moments smear together into one long, painful tumult as the clan mourns not one son gone, but two. Ashalle prays for him and Tamlen both as if Idris is already lost, as if the elf before her is little but walking dead. The cramp starts up in his gut again, and the world wobbles a little. The faces of his clanmates waver, and their prayer, sung loud, flung high, is jarring and dissonant against the song he carried from the ruins. He wants his brother Tamlen at his side. He wants the song in his head to stop.

But Duncan of the Grey Wardens wants a warrior to vanquish darkspawn, and all this nonsense about a cure is just that: so much pablum. The song of destruction will not end until it has consumed everything. Idris unsheathes his blades as he turns his back on the clan that mourns him for dead, and he prays for his swords, that they may kiss endless flesh, drink deep of blood and wreak suffering wheresoever they may fall. Destroyed. Down.

Then everyone will be happy: the Grey Warden who owns his fate, the Keeper who cast him out, the brother whom he let fall into darkness, the clan he has failed, and the damnable, beautiful, ceaseless song.