"At last did the Maker

From the living world

Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,

With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,

Endless possibilities."

—Canticle of Threnodies 5:6

Chapter 48

Malcolm

"You should be dead," Alistair told Riordan.

The senior Warden coughed and glanced down at his body. "I'm well aware of that fact."

Malcolm's gauntleted hand went to his chest, where he'd slung the ring Morrigan had given him on the same leather thong that held the amulet he'd gotten after his Joining. He'd turned her down the night before, but would she have gone to another? It wasn't like he was the only male Warden they had. Poor Líadan had a plethora of Warden brothers. Him, Riordan, Alistair, Zevran, Oghren... At that thought, an involuntary shudder hit him. Then he looked over at Alistair. "Did you..."

Alistair's eyes opened wide in horror. "No! Maker, no."

Riordan looked from one brother to the other. "What are you talking about? I suspect this has something to do with me being alive when I should not be?"

"Yes," Malcolm replied. "But I doubt right now is the time and place to discuss it. You know, with all these other people around." Then he remembered they had two other Wardens up here with them, ones who'd gone down in pretty bad ways before Riordan had killed the archdemon for good. "Líadan," Malcolm said to Wynne. "Shriek got her from behind. Looked very not good. And Oghren, the dragon got him with one of its tail spikes." After another confused look at the Wardens, Wynne gave him a short nod and rushed off to find Oghren and Líadan.

Alistair and Malcolm leaned over and helped Riordan to his feet. "You look pretty good for someone who just killed an archdemon," said Alistair.

"Which is why I am wondering if the archdemon is dead at all," Riordan replied, walking over to the dragon's head and nudging it with his foot. He grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands, braced himself, and tugged it out. "However, I cannot hear its call any longer and I suspect were it still alive, it wouldn't be quite so silent."

Malcolm looked up at the sky, squinting as the sunlight appeared through thinning clouds. "And the sky is looking less... ominous."

"I was going to mention the fact that all the darkspawn ran away," said Alistair, and then he shrugged. "Maybe what Zevran did killed it and all that movement afterward was just its... death spasms."

Their eyes immediately shifted to the last place they'd seen the Antivan. "Perhaps," Riordan said after a moment, wiping the archdemon's blood from the sword he held. "It's as good as explanation as any for now. And the people will need a body, that much is certain. There has to be a hero, and in the case of a Blight, the hero tends to have to be dead. However, we have much to talk about later in camp." He handed Malcolm his sword back and gave him a level look. "Much to talk about."

Around them, soldiers and warriors were now getting to their feet, casting confused looks in their direction. Apparently everyone was as surprised as they were to find Riordan alive. Trying to make their way to their friends, they fended off questions, saying that Zevran's blows before he cut the dragon's wing must've killed it. It sounded weak to the Grey Wardens, knowing what it really took for the archdemon to die, but they had no other explanation. At least, not one that they were willing to give. Líadan was already on her feet, scowling and complaining about how certain Crow assassins shouldn't be riding dragons and that elves were not meant to fly. Under Wynne's careful work, Oghren got up next, bellowing about being perfectly fine and that the spine that'd ended up in his gut was his to claim and no one else could have it.

Then they left the rooftop and the archdemon's carcass behind them and went to Fort Drakon's yard, searching for the body of their friend. They found it amidst the rubble outside, black leather armor covered in dust and blood, the sword that'd hobbled the archdemon close by. Malcolm ran over to the elf's body and closed his eyes against the sting of tears, forcing them away. This had been his friend's choice. He would respect it. He owed him that much, even though he hard already started to wonder what other choices his friend had made. Then he opened his eyes, and with Líadan's help, moved Zevran's body to flat ground. Alistair handed him the sword and they placed it on top of the elf, hands on the pommel and tip pointed towards his booted feet.

Human warriors near their height stepped forward, volunteering to help. With great care, the six of them hefted Zevran's body onto their shoulders, Malcolm and Alistair in the front. Leaving the prison behind them, they slowly made their way out the gates of Fort Drakon, becoming a procession as the rest of the warriors from the battle fell into silent step behind them. A crowd waited outside, at first cheering at their appearance, and then falling into an almost worshipful silence when they saw that they carried a body. The crowd parted for them to pass through, and as they walked by, fists went to chests and heads bowed.

Outside the gates, they found the same as had happened in the city: the darkspawn had fled. Bodies were left behind, and already Malcolm could see that men had been put to work gathering the darkspawn and burning them. There would be a different pyre later for the warriors who had died for Ferelden and Thedas. Someone must have run ahead, because they were met by the rest of the vanguard just past the gates, along with a wagon for Zevran's body. They put their burden down and mages moved forward, casting spells on the body. Malcolm shot a quizzical look at Riordan. "Preservation spells," the senior Warden answered. "The body will be interred at Weisshaupt with the other Grey Wardens who slew archdemons."

"Right," said Malcolm, wondering exactly who had killed the archdemon. He supposed Zevran's actions could've caused the death, but it did seem like Riordan's blow had been the final one, what with the light show and all. But he couldn't think of an explanation other than if someone else had taken Morrigan's deal, if had she offered it to another one of the Wardens. Then he realized he couldn't think of a reason why she wouldn't. It could be just the cold, hard fact of wanting a child with the soul of an Old God, or that out of some sentiment, she hadn't wanted him to die. She'd been right about him, after all. As soon as he'd realized he couldn't find Riordan and that one of the non-Wardens might end up taking the final blow, he'd been about to do it himself. Or it could be both reasons. Her reactions last night hadn't seemed ones that someone would have were they not in love. Then again, she'd been planning this outcome from the beginning—getting control of that Old God's soul, somehow. And she didn't need love for that. Just a guy who happened to be a Grey Warden and, out of sentiment, might not take into account what it would mean to have an Old God on the loose in Thedas.

Of all the men available, Malcolm was starting to get a pretty good idea who that person would have been. The puzzled look on Riordan's face after he'd woken up made it fairly clear that the culprit hadn't been him. Just as the same as the horror on Alistair's face after he'd asked him told him the same for his brother. That left Oghren or Zevran. One he could ask, the other he could not. But if Oghren told him no, and he suspected he would, the process of elimination pretty much covered it.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a two hundred pound body of barreling fur launching into him and knocking him to his back in the trampled grass. Malcolm kept himself from laughing as Gunnar tried to slobber all over his face in greeting. After a few minutes, he finally shoved the dog off him and stood up. Fergus and Teagan had appeared, alive and well aside from a few cuts and scratches, and both of them untainted. What Alistair declared were "manly, warrior hugs" were exchanged while they assured everyone that the archdemon was indeed dead. Malcolm figured they were mostly telling the truth—the high dragon that had once been the archdemon was quite dead. As for the soul, however, which was the true problem, he had no idea. Even if the soul had escaped and found its way to Morrigan's recently conceived child, it stood the chance of being untainted, which meant this Blight was over. It was the darkspawn that corrupted, not the Old God. Well, at least the darkspawn taint. He was pretty sure the Chantry claimed that the Old Gods had corrupted the Tevinter magisters' souls in order to make them seek out the Golden City in the first place.

Malcolm's head started to hurt and he shoved the thoughts away to deal with later with the rest of the living Grey Wardens. Alistair was speaking with Eamon and Riordan about what tasks left to them. "We'll have to clear out the city," Alistair said, "and deal with the archdemon's body. How do you even dispose of a tainted high dragon's body?"

"Probably with a lot of fire," Malcolm said, and then noticed Riordan giving him a frantic look and trying to signal something with his hands. Oh, right. Joinings needing archdemon blood. "After we take another look at it, of course. We might want to get some mages to cast a temporary preservation spell on it for now. It's been four hundred years since we've last seen an archdemon, so some study might be a good idea." Riordan gave him a short, appreciative nod. Good, right decision.

"I agree," said Irving, and then he turned and ordered a few mages back into the city with some soldiers to attend to the matter of the archdemon's body.

"We don't have much more time before night falls," Alistair said to the people gathered around them. In addition to Eamon, Irving, Fergus, and Teagan, the other commanders had slowly walked over to their position to give their reports and findings. "We'll need to gather the non-darkspawn bodies as quickly as we can and have another pyre. We also need to ascertain just how many survivors there are in the city and how many injured civilians there are. We must be certain any vestiges of the Blight are removed from the city as soon as possible." Alistair turned toward the commanders now arrayed before him. "Though I figure that tonight our armies will need rest?"

"Yes, your Majesty," said Garvan, the human Redcliffe commander who'd been with them at Honnleath. The other commanders nodded their own assent.

"I can have some of my archers patrolling and searching the city for you tonight," said Ailís, the Dalish commander, another Honnleath veteran. "They didn't see as much of the battle as the cavalry and foot soldiers did. Elves also have much better night vision. My warriors can mark down places where bodies are located and mark any houses that will have to be emptied or razed."

"Thank you, Commander," Alistair said. "But please have them work in shifts and allow them back at the camp at some point. Somehow I have a feeling there will be people wanting to celebrate the end of the Blight despite the losses we've taken."

"Aye," said the dwarven commander. "I know my men will be. It isn't often that an archdemon gets what's coming to it."

"True enough." Alistair glanced back at the wagon where Zevran's body lay.

The dwarven commander noticed. "I see that it was another elf that took the archdemon down," he said. "Last one was Garahel, as I recall. Little blighters are tougher than they look." The dwarf grinned over at Ailís.

"I'll take that as a compliment, dwarf," she said, rolling her eyes. "Now, I must take my leave and attend to my men and their new assignments." She gave a short bow and strode off, the carved wood of her bow glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, her two aides already trotting at her side and listening to her orders.

As Alistair relayed more orders, squires brought their horses to them without any of them having asked. Malcolm figured Eamon or someone must've told them. Already, the soldiers of the army who hadn't been given any other duties had headed back to their waiting camp for rest or whatever else they would do after a momentous battle like had happened today. Celebration like after Honnleath, he knew, though he couldn't really imagine celebrating himself. His friend had died, a friend who might have betrayed them all if it could be viewed as that. If he'd even done it, though he couldn't imagine he hadn't, not with how everything had turned out. The group of them rode back to the camp beside Zevran's cart, serving as an honor guard of sorts. Even if he'd taken Morrigan's deal, his actions had either killed the archdemon outright or had made it so Riordan could finish it off. In the end, he was a hero. As they rode, Fergus and Teagan told them about the battle that'd taken place outside the city, while others talked of what'd happened inside the city while the Wardens had fought the archdemon. Malcolm half-listened, uneasy at hearing how many times others had nearly died, including his brother Fergus. At hearing of Gunnar's own heroics at taking down an Alpha hurlock that'd been bent on killing Fergus, Malcolm grinned down at the wardog running at his horse's side. The dog gave him a canine grin of his own, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

By the time they got back to the camp, the first stars had started to appear in the sky, the clouds of the Blight having disappeared entirely—yet another sign that the archdemon was indeed dead. Passing by the various fires around the camp, they heard soldiers and warriors already telling and re-telling the fantastic story of the elf who leapt onto the archdemon's back and struck it dead from the sky. Malcolm wondered what the soldiers and archers who'd been up on the rooftop with them would say, but it sounded like they agreed that it'd been Zevran who'd killed the dragon in the end. It didn't hurt that the Grey Wardens had agreed with the assumption when asked. Riordan told them to clean up and meet him later at the fire they had for their small camp in the center of the encampment. "While I now believe the archdemon to be dead, we still have much to discuss," he said.

Malcolm walked with Alistair to the mess tent, reminded of Honnleath once again. Except this time they passed the spot where they'd left Zevran's body, a new honor guard in place, one warrior each from the humans, elves, and dwarves. Already, it had become an impromptu memorial, with flowers and candles, and someone had even gotten a small wooden altar and set it up nearby. The body had been attended to and it was now free of the blood and soot and dust that had covered it. The black leather armor dully reflected the candlelight near it, the flicker of the same light playing on his tattooed cheeks, now peaceful in repose. A line had formed and people processed by, dropping more flowers—where had they even found them?—or notes or other various things. All of them seemed to be whispering thanks of some kind. Malcolm wanted to wake him up and yell at him for jumping on a dragon, ask him just what he'd done the night before, and thank him, too, for the sacrifice he'd made by leaping on the dragon. Mostly, he just wanted his friend back. To these people who crowded around the cart, Zevran was a savior. To him, he was a friend and he already missed him.

When they finally arrived at the tent, mouths watering as the scent of fresh, hot food hit their noses, they were confronted with the reality of just what they'd accomplished that day. The soldiers who saw them immediately rose to their feet with cheering and clapping, stopping the two young men in their tracks. Malcolm felt a blush race to his cheeks and a sidelong glance at his brother told him Alistair felt the same. He'd never encountered this level of enthusiasm from any troops and had no idea what to do to calm them down. Shouts of 'long live the king,' 'long live the Grey Wardens,' and even, to Malcolm's shock, 'long live the prince' flooded the tent. Before long, the shouts rallied to include the entire camp, huzzahs from all the different fires and tents around them.

"I just want to eat," Alistair told Malcolm.

"Me, too," he replied, wondering just how they could manage to do so in all this.

Alistair, as if remembering something Eamon or someone else must've told him, raised his hand and asked for silence. His eyebrows raced towards his hairline when the crowd in front of them did just that, followed by the crowd that had somehow built up behind them. They waited quietly now, all eyes on Alistair and his brother, as if they expected something from them.

"You might want to say something," Malcolm told his brother.

Alistair blinked at the idea, apparently drawing a blank about what to say. Malcolm didn't envy him—he had no idea, either. Finally, Alistair said, "Today, we defeated the archdemon and the Blight. Today, we saved Ferelden. Today, we saved Thedas. Celebrate your victory, for you have earned it!"

Another roar of approval sounded throughout the camp.

"Now attend to your meal," Alistair said once it had quieted down, "because if you don't, I won't be able to attend to mine, and I'm starving."

Laughter rumbled through the crowd and the warriors went back to whatever they were doing before the two Wardens had arrived. Space was made for Malcolm and Alistair to retrieve food, and instead of staying with the others and creating more of a disturbance, they fled back to their small camp. "That was insane," Alistair said as soon as they were within the light of their fire.

"It will only get worse, I think," Malcolm said, happily tearing into his hunk of fresh bread.

"It's true," said Oghren from his seat on one of the logs they'd rolled near the fire as had been their group's custom for the past year. "I've seen it myself in Orzammar. The dwarves love King Endrin, always have. Wherever they go, they cheer his arse. I see the same in the eyes of these surface warriors, too. Ancestors take them, I've even seen the dwarves look at you with the same thoughts! Loving a surfacer king, never would've thought I'd see the day."

"Thanks, Oghren," Alistair said. "I think."

"Ha! You shouldn't thank me. It'll drive you nuts within a week, I guarantee it." Then he pointed at Malcolm. "And you! They feel the same. You're in for it just as much. Be glad you aren't king, that's the only thing that'll save you from the worst of it."

"I've ever grateful that I'm not king," Malcolm replied. "And forever I will be, too. I've heard it's a horrid job that no sane person wants."

Oghren nodded. "I knew you were right in the head." He held out a flask. "Ale?"

"Not if it's from your personal stash, no. I'd like to keep my food in my stomach if it's all the same to you."

"Eh, your loss. Only the finest ale you'll find topside." The dwarf took a slug from the silvery flask.

Malcolm studied him for a moment, and then asked, "Last night, you... Morrigan didn't approach you about anything, did you?"

Oghren tucked the flask away into his beard, his bushy eyebrows raising. "Is this about Riordan living? Since he hasn't been glaring at either of you, I assumed you let him take the final blow. I'd wondered if you would, you know, both of you. You're too noble for your own good at times. Won't even let the older men do what they're supposed to do. Youngsters getting in the way and all."

"What's this about Morrigan?" Líadan asked from beside Oghren, her first time actively participating in any conversation with them since before the battle with the archdemon.

"I am quite curious myself," came Riordan's voice as he appeared near the fire, food in hand and a questioning look on his face. Malcolm sighed and shifted uncomfortably as Riordan sat across from him and his questioning gaze pierced him from the opposite side of the fire. The senior Warden set his plate on his knees and gestured around them. "Right now it's only Wardens, so it's as good a time as any to explain to me what you think might have happened to keep me from dying. All of us know that I should have died when I made that blow. It was the final blow, I have no doubt about that. And yet, here I am."

After taking a deep breath, Malcolm told them of the deal Morrigan had presented to them. He explained his reasoning for refusing it and postulated that Morrigan might have gone elsewhere to get what she wanted.

"Zevran," Líadan said. "You think it was Zevran."

"Yes."

The Dalish nodded slowly. "I do, too. He..." she paused for a moment, her eyes going a bit fuzzy. "He talked to me about a lot of things." She sighed and pulled out one of her daggers, twirling it nervously in her fingers, her version of fidgeting. "When I'd found out he'd been an assassin, I'd wanted to know why he'd become a Grey Warden because I didn't think he was the type, so to speak. But, he explained what your sister-in-law had been to him, what your entire family had been to him. And that led to him talking to me about how he grew up, and how he hadn't done anything that really meant something until he'd become a Grey Warden. After that meeting, when the rest of us found out that whoever killed the archdemon would die, we talked about how slim the odds were that any of us would even get to the archdemon, much less it being Riordan who'd be able to deliver the final blow. He said that if it came to it, he would make sure that you guys lived, because you had much more to live for than he did. So if Morrigan went to him with her deal, I'm sure he'd take it to make sure that no one died." The elf scowled and kicked a rock near her feet. "Of course, he had to go and die himself by jumping on the archdemon's back."

"He almost did that in the Deep Roads," Alistair said, and then looked at Malcolm. "Remember? You had to hold him back."

"I remember." He should've seen it coming, this feat with the archdemon. Zevran had given plenty of warning if he'd really paid attention. "I guess he got what he wanted."

"While the archdemon is dead, there's still the untainted soul of an Old God loose on Thedas," Riordan said. "Wherever Morrigan is, anyway. I have a fear that the darkspawn will chase after her, if the Old God calls as they do in the Deep Roads."

"I thought the same," said Malcolm, "which is why I refused. I thought that instead of digging, the darkspawn would remain above ground and search for the Old God that way." Then a thought struck him. "However, if the Old Gods only call to the darkspawn because they're trapped in their underground prisons, would this Old God actually call to them? In a way, I suppose it's free, so it doesn't need anything to dig it out."

"There is much research to be done," Riordan said. "And I'm afraid the Grey Wardens will have to search for Morrigan because, as far as we know, she is both a danger and is in danger." He stood up. "But the Blight is over, that much is true, and the danger is not so pressing as it once was. Get some rest, all of you. There is still much to be done in the coming days."

And there was. The morning brought the reality of cleaning up the city, funeral pyres for the humans, burials for the Dalish, and readying the fallen dwarves to be returned to the stone. Clearing and reconstruction efforts were started within the city to get it habitable again as soon as possible. Luckily, the darkspawn had concentrated their efforts on eliminating the maddening Grey Wardens as they fought to reach the archdemon. That type of battle had left a corridor of destruction rather than havoc around the entire city. They were able to cordon off the damaged areas and the rest of the city was habitable by midweek as a result.

At the end of the first week, ships appeared in Denerim's harbor bearing fifty Orlesian Grey Wardens. When they strode into the throne room at the Royal Palace, a black-haired man looking to be of an age with Riordan stood at the head of them, his face as bewildered as the rest of his men and women. Summoned by a runner, Alistair, Malcolm, and Riordan met them there. The black-haired man's stark green eyes lit in surprise at seeing Riordan and greeted him enthusiastically. Riordan introduced him as Lucien, the Warden Commander of Orlais and introduced Malcolm and Alistair as first Grey Wardens, and then the current royal family of Ferelden, as it were.

"We've noticed a surprising lack of darkspawn lurking about in your city, your Majesty," Lucien said. "The last message we received told of a horde hundreds of thousands strong bearing down on this capital."

"You're a bit late," Alistair replied, nodding in greeting. "The final battle was days ago."

"Yes, you totally missed out on the Blight," said Malcolm.

Lucien cast a knowing look at Riordan. "I take it he is the one you and Duncan spoke of in your letters, then," he said, his deep voice tinged with humor.

Malcolm refrained from rolling his eyes. This man scared him no more than Eamon did, which was to say, he didn't scare him at all. The meetings following were long as they explained all that had happened since Ostagar, the last battle with the archdemon, and Morrigan's offer. The Orlesian Wardens agreed that the Blight was over, and shared in their fears about what it meant to have an untainted Old God on the surface. They also agreed that Zevran deserved credit for the final killing blow to the archdemon and the elf's body was sent to Weisshaupt. An honor guard of Wardens, along with a messenger asking Weisshaupt's thoughts on the matter of Morrigan, accompanied it. Malcolm had wanted to go himself, both to accompany his friend on his final journey and wanting to grab at the chance to meet his natural mother, but duty compelled to stay in Ferelden for the time being. Lucien appointed Riordan as Warden Commander of Ferelden and returned to Val Royeaux after a few days, leaving twenty Wardens behind until Ferelden could up its own numbers.

After Alistair's coronation a few days later, Malcolm started to get antsy. His role in the administration was still up in the air. Alistair wanted him around as an advisor and figured the kingdom would need the prince of Ferelden around as much as the king. Eamon agreed with Alistair, to Malcolm's dismay. Though, he wasn't sure where he wanted to be. His was a Grey Warden still, that much was true. Riordan hadn't told him outright that he was supposed to remain with the Wardens, but he'd been busy with the post-Blight efforts in directing sorties to wipe out the remaining war parties of darkspawn. Riordan had explained that this post-Blight time was called the Thaw, and had no idea why it was called that. If Malcolm actively remained with the Wardens, Weisshaupt would probably come back with orders to find Morrigan and he would probably be someone assigned to the task. Part of him wanted the task, wanted to confront Morrigan about what she'd done. If it had been out of love or some misguided lust for power. The other part of him wanted nothing to do with her at all. It hurt too much.

Restlessness took over his actions, making him speak out of turn often while at court and in meetings. It drove him to the practice yard to spar with the straw dummies and willing combatants whenever he could find them, sent him wandering about the palace at all hours, up on the parapets at night or pacing the hallways during the day. His constant movement finally got to Eamon during a meeting and the arl had snapped, "What has gotten into you? You haven't stopped moving in days."

Malcolm stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

Eamon pointed at Malcolm's fidgeting hands. "That. You can hardly hold still. And your ability to keep your comments to yourself is worse now than it ever was during the Blight, and that's saying something."

"He needs to go to Highever," Alistair said suddenly. "Fergus has been acting the same way, I noticed it earlier. Even though Rendon Howe is dead, there's no telling if his people remain at Highever Castle. I've still got a good part of the troops from the Bannorn at my disposal. Let's take a division of cavalry up to the coast and make sure your family's castle is firmly in Cousland hands. I know Cailan promised to do the same before Ostagar and I intend on following through with his promise." Alistair stood up. "The Palace is getting stuffy anyway. I could deal with some fresh air. And no arguing with me, Eamon. It needs to be done or he'll drive you crazy and you know it."

Still unsure of his standing with the Grey Wardens, Malcolm stopped by the Warden compound before he, Fergus, and Alistair left the next day. He found Riordan in what had been Duncan's office, glaring at a pile of papers before him. When Malcolm stepped through the doorway, the glare disappeared and Riordan smiled and motioned for him to sit. "I never wanted this job," the commander said. "It was bad enough being Jader's Senior Warden. And now I find that Duncan had not been kidding about the mountains of paperwork. If you're wondering about what Weisshaupt has decided, we've still not heard from them. I suspect it will be some time. They might even send a few Wardens of their own for an inquiry. One never knows with that group. Have you decided what you're going to do, by the way?"

"What?" Malcolm looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Decided whether you're going to stay at court and help your brother with the throne the Grey Wardens ordered the two of you to secure, or to remain active with the Wardens? Honestly, I'd like you to remain with us and be my second. As far as Ferelden has come, they still won't like having a man with an Orlesian accent, though I was born in Highever, as the Warden Commander. You as my second would do much to allay those problems. That, and you'd be good at it. Were you older, you'd be Warden Commander instead of me." His eyes took on a tinge of sadness. "I'm afraid that my Calling will be soon, perhaps within a year, if that. The nightmares from the Blight have yet to subside, though the archdemon has gone from them. Were you to remain with the Wardens as my second, you would be inheriting my job. I'd prefer that, actually, and so would Ferelden."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "That's your sales pitch? Really? Knowing how much I wouldn't want the job, you tell me that's exactly my fate it I stay with the Wardens?"

Riordan shrugged. "I figured being honesty would be better."

"I was a conscript."

"So was my predecessor." At Malcolm's disbelieving look, Riordan grinned. "You don't have to decide today. I heard that Alistair is planning on trip to Highever with you and Fergus and a lot of backup. Were you dropping by to ask me permission?"

Malcolm shifted, still surprised about the job offer. "I think so."

"Go. With the Wardens I have from Orlais and the troops Alistair has given me, I've more than enough people to attend to the matters of the Thaw while you're away. You'll be better for it once you've seen your home, anyway. Just let me know what you've decided once you get back."

Malcolm made his farewell and retreated from the office, his head buzzing with the pros and cons of accepting the appointment. Eamon remained behind at court while Alistair traveled with Fergus and Malcolm to the coast. The northern parts of Ferelden had mostly avoided their lands being Blighted, and as spring was upon them, freeholders were out working their fields. The large contingent of soldiers gained curious looks and a few hesitant waves. Once the people recognized either Alistair, Malcolm, or took note of the King of Ferelden's royal banners, the greetings became more enthusiastic. Overenthusiastic, Alistair said, with Malcolm heartily agreeing. When they saw the Highever banner, however, the greetings became cheers within the boundaries of the teyrnir.

It was early morning when they crested the first hill that offered them a view of Highever Castle. Remnants of the dawn's fog clung to its grey stone walls, shafts of sunlight still nudging the vestiges of the clouds away. Malcolm stared at the sight, the building, the home he hadn't seen in well over a year. Trepidation pounded in his chest at he looked, searching for signs of life, signs of anything within those walls. He tried to force it away, yet hope clung to his thoughts, even though his memories of home held a burning castle in the depths of night, the screams of the dying within, including his mother and father.

"I think I see a banner flying," Fergus said quietly from beside him.

Malcolm squinted at the tops of the towers and saw the same thing.

Fergus and Malcolm urged their horses forward, trying to get close enough to make out what heraldry the banners carried, to know if home would welcome them with open arms or would be filled with antagonistic strangers. After a few minutes, they drew within a distance to see. At the same time, both of them saw that two different types of banners flew. One was Highever. The other was Cousland. Without needing to exchange words, the two brothers kicked their horses into a gallop, heading straight for the castle's gates, Gunnar racing ahead of them. If he closed his eyes, Malcolm could see the memory of his parents, his sister-in-law, and his nephew waiting there to greet them. As if they were with him, he felt their pride in him and Fergus and the work they had done. Howe had seen justice. Loghain had been stopped. A Theirin had rightfully been put on the throne of Calenhad. The Grey Wardens were restored. The Blight was over.

And now, they were home.