#the joining | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bythetitsofmyancestors · 6 months ago

Text

Dragon Age Origins - Blood In.

Warden Cousland trying not to dying after The Joining. He spends the night with Warden Brosca.

The night after the Joining was a difficult one. Rowan’s body felt torn between vicing headaches and piercing anguish in his bowels. It felt like the strange concoction in the chalice had scoured through him like acid, his throat burning and his stomach aching, but the feverishness, the shaking, the light-headedness felt more like he’d been poisoned.

A less rational part of his mind had latched onto the idea that Howe’s men had infiltrated the Wardens or tainted the Joining somehow to finish off the last of the Couslands. If that was the case, Fergus would likely be next, if they hadn’t gotten to him already. His crusade to take back what was rightfully his would be over before it even truly began.

He tried to fight back against the paranoia by remembering that it would not advance the cause of the Grey Wardens to poison their recruits, that they did not participate in politics, that their first and only concern was the Blight, not wealth or status. It reassured him that one of the other recruits had died instantly after drinking from the chalice. The Joining was clearly a painful, potentially deadly process. It did not necessarily mean there had been foul play.

Duncan had assured him and Ana that they had survived, that they were through the worst of it, but that it would not necessarily be more pleasant until the morning. The recruits had been sent to their tent to rest and recover while the Wardens made their preparations for the morning. Soon, the darkspawn would be upon them and it would be time to do battle. Rowan only hoped that their condition had improved before that time came.

He coughed thickly and reached for the bundle of rags they had given him to wipe away the thick, black bile, like tar, oozing from between his lips. He hadn’t given any thought to it when the other Wardens had handed them to him with a vague, ‘You’ll need these.’ They were proving quite useful.

“Rowan?” Ana called across the tent. It sounded like she was making good use of her own bundle of rags. “Are you awake?”

“I doubt that sleep will be forthcoming this evening,” he said.

He was aware that it was well into the night, perhaps even early morning, by now. Even so, the noise of the preparations underfoot in Ostagar had not quieted at all. Sappers built fortifications to ward off a frontal assault; sentries kept tireless watch for darkspawn vanguard forces to the south and deserters creeping away from the battle to the north; smiths made hurried repairs to weapons and armour. The entire ruin was blanketed with the noise of hushed voices, marching feet, raucous laughter from the barracks and the crackle of magic from the mage’s quarter. For the first time in centuries, the crumbling ruins of Ostagar were lit up as brightly as a Feast Day tree.

None of which was keeping him awake, because the unrest he was feeling was internal. While he hesitated to be theatrical, it felt as though the ichor from the chalice was changing him from the inside, and not for the better.

Even feverish and anxious inside his flesh as he was, he didn’t want to step outside. The cool air felt like it would overwhelm his senses. He might pass out. More to the point, he wasn’t sure he could muster the strength to walk the couple of feet to the tent flap before his knees gave out. In that moment of weakness he resolved that he would never feel this way again if he could possibly help it.

“Do you think we’re going to die?” Ana asked.

She didn’t sound afraid, just curious, in that way she had been about so much since her arrival on the surface. Honestly, he admired her capability to plunge into the unknown in the spirit of exploration rather than trepidation. Nature above ground, the Wardens, the politics of Ferelden, the ruins of Ostagar, the Wilds, the witches—all of it seemed to fascinate her. All of it seemed interesting. And then she spoke about those interests with him and he found it settling in a way few things had since Duncan had recruited him for the Grey Wardens in the ruins of his family home.

“Duncan said that we were through the worst of it, and that the chances of us dying were minimal now,” he said, trying to recount the Warden Commander’s words as close to verbatim as he could. “There may still exist a possibility, but it is not likely.”

“It feels like we’re dying,” she said. “I mean, not that I know what dying feels like.”

In the dark of the tent they shared, he felt her hand graze his own. At first, he thought she was looking for the rags. He ran his hand over the groundsheet of their tent, searching for it. Before he could consider offering his own—he wasn’t certain that was hygienic, actually—their hands touched again and her fingers clenched around his. Had she been searching for his hand instead?

He wrapped his hand around hers, allowing her to cling onto him. He had heard tales of drowning men who clung to the ones who tried to rescue them. Often it resulted in them pulling another person to their doom along with them. This might have been similar, given that it felt like they were drowning in their own lungs. Still, there was no risk of one of them harming the other, given that they were both suffering the same malady.

“I am sure the Warden Commander would have assigned us a healer if he believed we were at risk,” he said.

“Not if he thought there wasn’t a way to save us,” Ana pointed out.

He had attempted to be reassuring, but he was forced to concede her point. The Grey Wardens would not waste resources on those who were a lost cause. Medicinal herbs or magic were only effective if a person’s death was not inevitable. In that instance, they would be better used elsewhere.

“That is true. And I doubt that the Warden Commander is a particularly sentimental man.”

“No, actually, I think he is. Now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure that’s how we know we’re going to be alright. If we were going to die, he’d probably be here so that we didn’t die alone.”

Rowan frowned. Not for the first time since they had met, he found that Ana had an entirely different perspective on the people around them than he did. She thought Duncan kind and sentimental where Rowan saw a pragmatist. She saw Cailan as a passionate and noble king while Rowan regarded him as an airheaded buffoon. And she believed Alistair to be capable and confident despite glaring evidence to the contrary.

“Neither of us would die alone,” he pointed out, clasping her hand a little tighter so that she would understand.

He had not anticipated camaraderie like this from the Grey Wardens. To him, they had been a means to an end, forces he could leverage to take back what was rightfully his. Once he had taken back Highever, it was doubtful he would even remain in contact with the Wardens after, assuming that a swift end could be brought to the Blight.

Instead, he had met Ana, and now he began to wonder if he could so easily sever ties with the Wardens. She was isolated from her home and her people, so perhaps she was simply suffering from her loneliness, but she had been kinder to him than people in his family’s service, his fellow nobles, even members of his own family on occasion.

It occurred to him that he could make a place for her at Highever, if she cared for it. She would be comfortable at his family home once it was rebuilt, but then he was assuming that she would also leave the Wardens after they had taken her in.

It was a strange thing to be considering with a relative stranger, but perhaps that was just the effect of lying side-by-side with her, hands clasped, in the grip of a terrible affliction. In that instant, it felt as though they were the only thing anchoring each other to life.

“You feel cold,” he told her, rolling onto his side so that he could clasp her hand in both of his.

Her fingers were frigid, like she had brought the ice of the Frostbacks with her down into the Hinterlands. Now that he had a closer grip on her, he felt her shivering. In the half-light of the flickering torches beyond the taut fabric of the tent, he could see it now that he looked.

“I f-feel pretty cold, but at least I’m n-not d-dying,” she stammered, and he could hear her teeth clacking on every word.

“Even if you are not in any immediate danger, you might still become hypothermic. You are not used to the temperature on the surface, and so your body is likely more susceptible to the cold.”

He thought about how to remedy the issue. He could summon the other Grey Wardens and demand more furs, but he didn’t think he could move very far from his current position or muster a loud enough shout to alert them in the middle of their preparations. While he was concerned about the possibility of his temperature plummeting and becoming hypothermic himself, at that moment he was sweating profusely and felt as though he had swallowed a hot coal. Ana clearly needed his furs more than he did.

He shrugged off the thick blankets and went to adjust them over the top of her. As he leaned over her, she clung to the front of his tunic and wouldn’t let go. She pulled her face against his chest and wouldn’t be convinced to release him, even after he lay the furs down on top of her.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice muffled from her proximity to his chest. “You’re just really warm.”

“It is quite alright, my dear,” he insisted, without trying to pull away.

They lay like that for quite some time, both covered by a double layer of furs, both tightly embracing in the close darkness of the tent. He would have considered himself too hot to be so swaddled, but the coldness of Ana’s body seemed to be keeping his temperature balanced, if not comfortable.

“You’re hotter than a forge door,” she mumbled, tucking her hands between them in an effort to warm up her extremities too.

She practically curled herself into a ball against his torso, tucking her knees up and pressing her hands as close to his body as she could. They tangled in his tunic and he stifled a grunt as he felt the frigid skin of her hands pressing against his bare stomach. Given how cold she still felt, he couldn’t begrudge her the additional heat.

“I suspect that is a matter of perspective,” he said, “thought I suspect I am still feverish.”

“Am I too cold for you?”

“On the contrary. I think it is helpful to my condition. This may be advantageous to us both.”

He lay close to her until her shivering stopped. They had shared a tent each night on their journey south to Ostagar, but they had never shared this proximity before. Some nights, he retired early while she sat up sharing stories of past glories of the Grey Wardens with those they journeyed with. On others, she slept peacefully on her bedroll while he tended to his correspondence, preparing his petitions to the other noble families and landowners of Ferelden, which he had given over to the postmaster in Lothering to be delivered while he tended to business in Ostagar. He had become used to her company in a passive way, and even in the way she made light conversation with him during the journey.

He did not know what was stranger about the current circumstances—that they were being unexpectedly intimate or that he found he did not mind especially.

“Do you think we’ll make good Grey Wardens?” she asked.

This was not the first time she had asked him such a question. She seemed apprehensive about the idea of not being sufficient for the role, though Rowan’s understanding was that Grey Wardens were accepting of all who could be useful to them. Whatever an individual’s skill, they would find a way to utilise them in ending the Blight.

He knew enough about Ana to know that she had won the dwarven Proving for the right to become a Grey Warden, regardless of what her kind had ruled when they’d learned she was casteless. She might not have had formal training or access to the finest of weapons, but she clearly had mettle enough to place her among the strongest of dwarves.

“I believe that you are fully capable of being the best of Grey Wardens if you set your mind to it. Though I am not entirely sure that goodness is the ultimate goal of the organisation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stopping the Blight is their foremost concern. That is why they do not involve themselves in politics or the personal issues of rulers. I believe that was the importance of the treaties Duncan asked us to find. They are old contracts of promised aid that enable the Wardens to forego the usual diplomatic channels. They will be vital if this Blight proves difficult to contain. But the ends justify the means. If it can help to bring an early conclusion to the Blight and vanquish the darkspawn, it is worth the cost.”

“But the Grey Wardens are heroes.”

“Indeed. But there is a great deal more to being heroic than fairy tales would have us believe.”

Rowan’s father had been a hero of Ferelden, a close friend of the king, a brave warrior who had helped to expel the occupying Orlesian forces and restore the rightful ruler. But Rowan knew enough about politics to know that in the modern era, with old tensions waning, anti-Orlesian sentiment was on the decline in the court, which risked bringing the old heroes into disfavour.

More to the point, the Orlesians themselves had branded Maric and his band of followers as traitors and insurgents. One person’s hero was another person’s criminal. History had taught them that lesson time and again.

The Grey Wardens were the prime example. Warden Commander Sophia Dryden had attempted a coup that would have made her queen of Ferelden. History remembered her as a treasonous failure who had brought the Grey Wardens into disrepute in Ferelden for centuries. If she had succeeded, she might have been known as the hero who freed the country from the tyranny of the then-king, the woman who’d given rise to the first nation under Grey Warden rule. Perhaps Ferelden would never have been occupied by Orlais. Perhaps the Blight would already be over.

“One person’s hero is another’s villain or criminal or traitor,” Rowan pointed out, wondering if Ana could understand the perspective, particularly as it applied to the Grey Wardens.

“Darkspawn don’t count,” she insisted, a smile playing across her lips.

Her mouth was stained black from the coughing she had been doing. It had worn into the lines of her chapped lips and would probably take a few days to fully disappear. He imagined he looked much the same, so it was pleasant that he did not have to concern himself with his appearance while they lay together.

“Thank you for what you said,” she muttered, “about me being the best Grey Warden. I think you’ll be a really good Grey Warden too.”

He hesitated at that, glad that the tent was dark and she could not see his expression. In truth, his position within the Wardens mattered only insofar as it met his other aims. To rise in the ranks would profit him if it gave him command of a force he could use against Howe to retake his family’s lands. He hadn’t given much thought to what it meant to be a true Grey Warden. Not the way that Ana apparently had.

It was strange to think that a dwarven commoner—less than a commoner, if what he understood about the casteless was true—would aspire to be more worthy of the mantle of Grey Warden than him. In a way, she shamed him. This should have been an honour he desired above all others, a position of nobility and self-sacrifice. Instead, he found himself thinking only of how it would benefit him in the coming days.

He would need to reflect on his feelings towards the Grey Wardens and his role within the in the coming days. Assuming, of course, that they survived the battle to come. It was all well and good celebrating surviving the Joining, but Ostagar still held many dangers for them.

“I still can’t believe Daveth and Jory are dead,” she whispered, and he could see the faint glimmer of tears upon her cheek in the half-light.

He had not formed much of an attachment with the other warden recruits. Not the way Ana had. She had seemed almost fond of them by the time they had departed the Wilds and fallen in for the Joining. She had already been spinning tales about what they would all do once they were ‘real’ Grey Wardens. Their untimely deaths during the ceremony must have come as an unpleasant setback to her.

He wondered how she would have reacted if he had also not survived, if she had been the only recruit to become a fully fledged Grey Warden. She would have been alone this night. Would she have wept for him too? It seemed strange to think that anyone might have such strong feelings for him, particularly when they met such a short time ago.

“It was regrettable, but it is the cost of what must be done to become a Grey Warden. Whatever the Joining has done to us, harrowing as it might have been, Duncan has said that it will give us the edge we need to fight the darkspawn. As I said before, the ends justify the means.”

He also remembered Alistair saying that Grey Wardens had the ability to sense darkspawn nearby. Assuming that Alistair was a reliable source for information—he would not necessarily make that assumption—this was perhaps an ability that became unlocked by the Joining ritual itself. He wondered what other abilities they might find themselves with if they survived long enough.

“Either way, I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“As am I, Ana. But I might suggest that you try to get some sleep this night. Tomorrow will no doubt also be taxing for us both.”

She nodded and curled her head into the crook of his arm, resting her cheek upon his shoulder. She didn’t seem to care that her face was resting on his sweat-slick tunic rather than a pillow. Of course, just about everything was wet with sweat at this point, it would be a miracle if they did not freeze in their sleep.

But they seemed to equalise each other. That alone might protect them from the elements that night. In the morning, they would don their Grey Warden armour ready for the coming battle.

It did not take Ana long to fall asleep after that. She curled close to his chest and he lay quietly with his arms around her, pleased that she had stopped shivering. She twitched in her sleep, perhaps in the grip of a dream or nightmare about the day they had endured, or the days that were coming, or perhaps even about the circumstances that had chased her from her home.

They had both suffered much misfortune and lost much of what they once were, but whatever else was happening to them, they were no longer alone.

2 notes · View notes