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Chapter Text

She lay spread-eagled at the edge of the field. Around her, half-a-dozen hurlocks and genlocks were arrayed like a starburst, all sporting fatal wounds delivered by a massive greatsword. The sword in question hung limply from her hand, as though parting with it even in death was too great a travesty to bear.

A shadow fell over her, then two more, one small and one massive. A fourth joined somewhat reluctantly. “Cauthrien,” Alistair muttered, dislike evident in his voice. “Loghain’s most trusted lackey.”

“Looks like she went down fighting,” Oghren grunted. “Taking on six darkspawn at once is no easy feat.”

“No one ever claimed she was not brave,” the Warden replied. He crouched at Cauthrien’s side, resting a hand on the woman’s arm.

“Brave, yes.” Alistair acknowledged. “Nice, not so much. I met her at Ostagar. She was doubtless at Loghain’s side when he gave the order to retreat, and she did nothing to stop him.”

“What could she have done?” the Warden asked quietly. “He was her superior officer.”

Alistair had no reply, and the group fell into silence. After a long moment, the Warden sat back on his heels. “She lives,” he announced.

His words caused a stir among the companions. “How?” asked Alistair and Oghren together. “What do we do with her now?” Alistair added. Both men stared at Cauthrien with renewed interest. Even Sten, silent and stoic behind them, took a step closer to see better.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” the Warden admitted.

“Kill her,” Sten rumbled. “Give her the death she deserves.”

“He has a point,” Alistair remarked. “She IS our enemy, after all. And she would want to be killed on the battlefield.”

“Pity,” said Oghren, eyeing Cauthrien’s curves. “She’s quite the looker.”

The Warden reached forward, running a hand through Cauthrien’s hair. His expression was calculating. Alistair watched him warily. “You aren’t considering…She’s Loghain’s!”

The Warden shook his head. “She belongs to herself alone. I believe that, with some work, she could become a powerful ally.”

“Unbelievable!” Alistair exclaimed. “You want to bring her back to camp? She’ll murder us all in our beds!”

“I’ll have the dog watch her,” the Warden answered, waving aside Alistair’s protests. “In the meantime, we should get her to Wynne as soon as we can. I’m no healer. Sten?”

The Qunari nodded slowly. “I shall carry the woman.”

Alistair sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” the Warden murmured, standing aside so that Sten could lift Cauthrien into his arms. “So do I.”

Chapter Text

Wynne was beside them the moment they walked into camp. “What happened?” she asked as she directed them over to the infirmary tent.

“Darkspawn,” Oghren spat, by way of explanation.

The Warden nodded. “Took out a whole squadron of Loghain’s soldiers.”

“From the sound of it, they did us a favor then.” Morrigan’s drawling voice was closer than Wynne had expected, and the older mage jumped. “I do have to wonder,” Morrigan continued, glancing pointedly at the unconscious Cauthrien, “What exactly are the advantages of bringing a known enemy into our camp? At best she will be belligerent when she wakes, and we will be forced to fight and kill her. At worst she will escape and give away our position to Loghain’s troops. I see no winning here.”

“I must agree,” Zevran said in his quiet way. “Keeping your enemies close is one thing, but this?” He made a tsk-ing noise.

The Warden ignored all of them, helping Wynne spread out a bedroll in the small tent. “You’ll have enough room?” he asked, as Sten carefully lowered Cauthrien onto the blankets.

Wynne nodded, smiling. “Not all magic requires staves and twirling about. I would have thought you’d know that.”

The Warden reddened slightly, hand unconsciously reaching toward the staff he carried on his back. Wynne laughed softly. “To each their own,” she said, patting his arm. “I’ll take care of our guest and let you know when she’s healthy enough to wake.”

The Warden smiled gratefully and nodded. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Morrigan said in a sing-song voice.

Wynne paid the witch no mind, ducking into the tent and kneeling upon a cushion beside Cauthrien’s prone body. As she closed the tent flap, she saw the Warden beckon his dog over. She hoped he wouldn’t station the dog too close. No matter how many times she bathed the creature, it always smelled of skunk.

Turning her attention to her patient, she began to remove Cauthrien’s armor. The woman wore heavy chainmail made from red steel, a combination carefully chosen for maximum flexibility without compromising the integrity of the armor itself. Long, fresh scratches across the metal attested to her need for protection. Had she worn anything else, she’d probably have lost a limb and died from bleed-out on the battlefield. As it was, she appeared relatively unharmed.

It was as Wynne lifted away the final piece of plate that she saw it: puncture wounds in the shape of sharp teeth along the woman’s shoulder. The darkspawn had managed to penetrate through a join in the armor, and the edges of each wound were blackened as though the flesh had been eaten away at by acid. Wynne hissed in sympathy. The injury looked painful, as well as dangerously infected. Still, it should not have been enough to render a seasoned knight unconscious. Perhaps Cauthrien had been struck over the head as well during the fighting.

Careful not to touch the wound directly, Wynne held her hands over the injury and allowed magic to flow through her veins. Her hands glowed with a pale blue light that illuminated the dim tent. Closing her eyes, Wynne sank into meditation. She had done hundreds of healings over the years, from apprentices with sprained limbs acquired through rough play, to novices with burns from their experiments, to elders of the Circle whose gout and rheumatism threatened to hold them back from completing their life’s work. She had developed her own technique of visualizing the patient’s entire body, first with her mind, then with her magic. The key was to fill the space around the patient with her power, transforming magic into a fine invisible mist of sorts. Wynne focused on forming a dome of contained magic over the sleeping Cauthrien. When she’d finished, she waited.

Cauthrien inhaled. Wynne’s magic, tied to the air, was instantly drawn into the woman’s lungs, sending back images of everything it touched to its mistress. Nudging and cajoling, Wynne urged her magic into Cauthrien’s veins and on from there until it flowed throughout the soldier’s body.

The darkspawn corruption was unlike anything Wynne had ever felt before. It seeped from the wound, poisoning Cauthrien’s blood. To Wynne’s magic, the taint of it felt like an oozing pustule, a slow trickling darkness that seemed impossible to stop. Wynne knew at once that there was no way to be rid of it entirely. Such contamination was impossible to reverse. That said, she could slow its progress, isolate it in a small area so that Cauthrien would be able to function somewhat normally. It was a temporary solution, but perhaps Cauthrien’s physical prowess would help hold off the effects of the corruption. Whether it did or not, Wynne had no other choices available.

She began constructing magical barriers, blockades of white light that stopped the advancing darkness. It was harder than it should have been. For some reason Wynne’s magic was not as biddable as usual, escaping her grasp every second or third time she tried to manipulate it and trying to flow through the vein walls out towards the muscle and bone beyond. She concentrated her attention on the walls barring the corruption from entering the rest of Cauthrien’s body. Through her magic she could hear the woman’s heart beating irregularly – no doubt a result of the darkspawn’s bite. Wynne took a moment to send a quick burst of magic into Cauthrien’s nervous system, deadening her pain receptors. Though unconscious, a person’s body could still register pain, and Wynne preferred not to torment a patient whenever possible. Even if that patient was an enemy combatant.

Wynne finished with the barriers as swiftly as she could and retreated back into her own skin, magic trailing behind. Opening her eyes, she felt a spasm in her neck and winced, massaging the spot. She was not accustomed to nights spent sleeping on the ground and days of travel punctuated by battles. That said, she would not trade the experience for anything in the world. The Circle had been pleasant enough, challenging in its own way, but she’d always wanted an adventure. Now she had one.

Rising, she slipped out of the tent and found the Warden and Alistair standing nearby, talking softly. They broke off as she approached, and the Warden looked at her expectantly. “She’ll live, for the moment,” Wynne confirmed. “However, there is a larger problem to be addressed.”

“Like what to do with her now?” the Warden queried, and Wynne could tell he and Alistair had been discussing just that when she’d approached.

Wynne tilted her head. “That too, but even that is secondary. You see, during that battle a darkspawn managed to, well… bite her.”

“Poor darkspawn,” Alistair commented sourly. “I’d bet Cauthrien is poisonous.”

“She’s just a soldier, following orders,” the Warden said, sounding tired.

“Orders…” Alistair echoed thoughtfully, looking toward Wynne’s tent. “Ostagar. Perhaps she knows why Loghain did it. We should get that out of her when she wakes.”

“It seems you have found a reason to keep her around after all,” the Warden commented dryly. “Though I thought at this point we’d come to the conclusion that Loghain betrayed the King for power’s sake.”

“But did he plan it in advance? Did she know?” He glared at the tent. “If she did, she’ll wish those darkspawn really had killed her.”

“But they have killed her,” Wynne cut in. “Didn’t you hear what I said? One of the creatures bit her, it—”

There was a loud, warning bark from the dog, and Wynne paused. “We’ll talk later,” she informed the pair. “For now, I must see to Ser Cauthrien’s safety.”

She strode quickly back to the tent, aware that both men were only a pace behind. Bracing herself, she pulled back the tent flap only to meet a pair of wide, accusing brown eyes. Cauthrien was sitting up, her dark hair tangling about her shoulders. Her straight brows snapped together the moment she caught sight of the two wardens, and her mouth twisted in a sneer. “The pretender and the traitor. Lovely.”

“Strong words, coming from a deserter and a coward,” Alistair commented.

Cauthrien inhaled sharply. “Say those words again when I have a sword in my hand, and we will see who is cowardly then.”

“As if I’d be fool enough to give a backstabber a weapon,” Alistair mocked.

Cauthrien opened her mouth to retort, but Wynne interrupted. “Enough,” she said firmly. “This woman requires care. If you must speak to her, do so civilly.” She knelt, offering Cauthrien her hand. “Let me see if the healing is still holding.”

Cauthrien shrank away, looking wary. “I do not require your help, old woman,” she barked.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Remind me why we didn’t let her die in a field with her nasty friends?”

The Warden ignored him. Crouching so that he was at Cauthrien’s level, he looked her in the eyes. “We found you on the battlefield,” he explained. “You were the only survivor. We brought you to camp so that our healer could attend to you.”

“Kind of you,” Cauthrien said mockingly. “It would have been a disappointment to interrogate me in the state I was in, I suppose. You needed to heal me first, just for the sport of it. You disgust me.” She spread her arms wide. “Well? What are you waiting for? Torture me, if that is your intent.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Alistair muttered.

Wynne frowned. “Gentle,” she chided. Her eyes were on Cauthrien’s limbs, which were trembling subtly.

The Warden raised a hand. “Regardless of what you may believe, we mean you no harm. You are free to depart. That is, if you are well enough to do so.”

“What?!” Alistair gaped. “We can’t just—”

The Warden shook his head sharply. “We are not jailors. Ser Cauthrien is not our prisoner.”

“You’re going to… let me go.” Cauthrien eyed him sidelong, clearly waiting for the catch. When none came, she warily rose to her knees, then attempted to stand. Wynne leapt forward and caught her arm just in time as she stumbled. Cauthrien’s skin was cold to the touch, despite the heat of the evening. Ignoring the woman’s feeble protests, Wynne helped lower her down to the bedroll once more.

“That answers that question,” Alistair remarked, and Cauthrien glared at him.

“It will be better in the morning,” Wynne assured the woman. “Let sleep do its work.”

Cauthrien merely glanced at her before returning her sharp gaze to Alistair and the Warden. “You are planning something. I do not believe your intentions are as noble as you claim. No sane person would save an enemy’s life unless they stood to gain. Whatever it is you want, prepare for disappointment.”

The Warden chuckled. “Since every person in this camp has questioned my sanity at least once, I feel comfortable standing by my earlier statement. You are no captive. When you are ready, you may leave. In the meantime,” he glanced at Wynne, “Why not allow our healer to help you get some rest? I promise you will not be accosted while you sleep.”

Cauthrien nodded slowly. Both men retreated, leaving Wynne alone with the injured knight. She waited a moment, but Cauthrien seemed lost in thought. “You must be in a great deal of pain,” Wynne prompted. “Let me help.”

She reached out a hand, palm glowing with blue magic, but Cauthrien shrank away. “No, don’t touch me,” she commanded, in the tone of one who is used to being obeyed. “Please,” she added belatedly.

Wynne watched her uncertainly. There was something strange about the woman, about the way she reacted to any attempts at healing. “Can I get you something, then? A poultice or a potion of some kind?”

Cauthrien shook her head. “The pain is nothing. And I rarely have trouble sleeping, these days.”

“Then I will leave you be,” Wynne said evenly.

She departed, pausing outside the tent just long enough to leave a spell behind. It was an invisible tripwire of sorts, one that would alert Wynne the moment someone tried to leave the tent. The dog was nice, but even dogs needed sleep. Magic never rested.

Wynne made her way to her own tent, weariness dragging at her bones. Healing was not, by nature, difficult, but the darkspawn corruption had leeched away at her strength. She would need a good night’s rest if she was to be of any help in the morning.

Lying back on her bedroll, she allowed exhaustion to take her.

Chapter Text

The spell woke her just after dawn, when the sky was still deciding whether it wished to be pink or blue. A tug at her core made her moan and crawl out of bed, pushing aside the tent flap. Through the faint mist of morning she saw the Mabari hound nosing its way into the infirmary tent, triggering the alarm spell as it went. Wynne sighed, then rose to her feet with a groan and crossed the short expanse of green. It would hardly improve Ser Cauthrien’s mood to be awoken in the wee hours of the morning by a smelly, overgrown pup.

The dog had already pushed its way into the tent by the time Wynne got there. Through a gap in the tent wall, Wynne could see the hound sniffing at the sleeping Cauthrien, nudging its wedge-shaped head beneath her chin. A second later it had curled up against her, a strange parody of a lady’s lap dog. Through it all, Cauthrien did not move. Wynne frowned thoughtfully. It was strange for a soldier to sleep so deeply. Most of the warriors she knew woke at the slightest sound, attuned to the approach of an enemy. She did not have time to dwell on the matter, though, for she heard footsteps approaching and turned to see the Warden drawing near. He was dressed in simple robes, staff slung over his back, and he smiled when he saw her. “Is our patient awake?”

Wynne shook her head. “Net yet, though that hound of yours is certainly keen to bother her.”

The Warden frowned. “That’s not like him. He’s normally so obedient. Well,” he amended, “to me, at least.”

Wynne chuckled softly. “At least you’re aware of the hound’s failings. But regardless, I’m glad I have the chance to speak to you.”

She explained what she’d meant to explain the previous day: the darkspawn bite, the spreading contamination. “I don’t know how long my magical protection can hold,” she admitted. “I also don’t know how long she’ll live with that taint inside of her.”

She wanted to say something else, about how odd it had felt to heal Cauthrien from within, but she couldn’t quite find the words. The Warden took her silence to mean she’d finished, and sighed. “I believe I have a solution, though Alistair is going to hate it. Perhaps it would be better for me to discuss it with her privately first.”

“You mean to make her a warden?” Wynne asked. “I’m not as senile as I look,” she commented, when he looked at her askance. “I’ve read enough about the Grey Wardens to know that they take on part of a darkspawn’s being. You think it will help?”

He nodded grimly. “I think it’s the only thing that will help. But she has to submit to the joining ritual willingly, and that will be the hardest element.”

“That, and convincing young Alistair to take part,” Wynne reminded him.

“Yes,” the Warden drawled. “Well, no time like the present.”

He slipped past Wynne and into the tent where Cauthrien and the dog lay dozing. Wynne let them be, walking to the still glowing embers of the campfire and adding a few pieces of kindling. There was nowhere in particular they had to go that morning, so she decided that a relaxing cup of tea was in order. She had just finished boiling the water and putting the tea in to steep when she heard a muffled yell from inside the infirmary tent. A moment later the tent flap burst open and Cauthrien strode out, her face livid. “I refuse to hear more,” she exclaimed. “Was this your intention all along, then? To force me into betraying all that I love, all that I stand for? You’re despicable.”

The rest of the camp, which had been slowly stirring, now stood rapt with attention. Even Morrigan drew closer to view the drama unfolding, her eyes alight with mischievous interest. The Warden had followed Cauthrien out of the tent, frowning with concern. “Be careful,” he told her worriedly. “You’re still weakened from the bite.”

“Exactly as you want me to be,” she accused, shaking with rage. “You and the pretender,” she pointed to Alistair, who had just emerged tousle-haired from his tent. “You wish me to join your, your cult of betrayal and lies? Become like one of you?”

“Hang on a second,” Alistair interjected. “What’s this about joining us?”

The Warden sighed. “Ser Cauthrien has been contaminated by the darkspawn,” he explained tiredly. “Joining the Grey Wardens may be her only chance. The corruption will spread otherwise.”

“And what if it does?” Cauthrien demanded. “What business is that of yours?”

“You seem not to understand,” the Warden began, but Cauthrien shook her head.

“I understand perfectly. You think this, this darkness, will kill me.” She smiled bitterly. “It is welcome to try. Somehow I doubt it will get there first.”

Pieces fell into place, and the mill-wheel within Wynne’s mind began to turn. “Sweet Andraste, full of grace,” she breathed.

Though her words had not been loud, everyone turned to look at her. Wynne, however, only had eyes for Cauthrien. “I understand,” she murmured. “That strange feeling in your veins. The cold, the shaking. Even the sleep, so much deeper than a soldier…”

“Wynne—” the Warden began.

Wynne ignored him, stepping forward. “You aren’t afraid that the darkspawn taint will kill you. It means nothing to you because…” her words dropped to a low murmur. “Because you’re already dying.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in the camp. Cauthrien herself was frozen in place. “We are all dying,” she said at last. “Some of us are simply moving faster than others towards our end.”

“How long have you known?” Wynne asked gently.

“A year,” was Cauthrien’s even reply. She seemed to have lost all will to fight now that her secret had been revealed.

“Does Loghain know?”

The question came from Alistair, and Wynne shot him a quelling look, but Cauthrien did not appear offended. On the contrary, her face assumed a wistful expression. “He does. I collapsed, once, when I was with Anora. She ran to him for help.”

“And he let you lead?” Sten rumbled, disapprovingly.

This, at last, sparked some of Cauthrien’s ire. She glowered at him, chin tilted up proudly. “He told me I was free to lead the Army of Gwaren until the moment I took my last breath. He—” she closed her eyes. “He was a great man.” Opening them again, she glared at their assembled company. “Until you came along,” she accused. “You’ve destroyed him.”

Alistair looked as though he were about to say something they’d all regret, but Wynne flapped a hand at him to be quiet. “Surely you sought out a healer,” she said to Cauthrien.

The woman’s expression was pitying. “Of course I did,” she said slowly, as if Wynne were a bit senile. “I have seen healers from as close as Denerim and as far as Tevinter. My Lord even brought in a healer from Orlais to see me.” She sighed. “You have no idea what it cost him to do that. He loathes all Orlesians, but losing me meant more to him than his pride. Still, the healer could do nothing. This disease eats away at me, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

“But that’s not true,” Wynne interrupted. Now that she was wise to the presence of an illness, it was simple for her to recall the way her magic had reacted to Cauthrien’s body. “I know what it is you have, I’ve studied it.”

Cauthrien’s brows snapped together. “Impossible. The condition is rare, rare enough that even the best healers could not work with it.”

“It is uncommon, I’ll grant you, but it is part of a larger family of diseases,” Wynne explained. “It starts within the bone, yes? And then affects the blood?”

Cauthrien eyed her uncertainly. “How do you know that?”

“I spent five years researching this type of illness,” Wynne explained. “I have felt the disease’s effects dozens of times through my magic. Had I not been so distracted by the darkspawn corruption, I would have known at once what was wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Cauthrien accused. “Don’t pretend you can fix this.”

For answer, Wynne extended a hand. “Let me show you,” she begged. “Just a hint. I promise it won’t make anything worse.”

Hesitantly, Cauthrien took Wynne’s outstretched hand. Wynne closed her eyes and allowed a spark of her magic to flow into Cauthrien’s fingertips. Now that she was aware of it, the disease felt like a sheen of oil contaminating all of Cauthrien’s body. To truly heal would take far too much time, and Cauthrien would be unlikely to feel immediate effects. So instead Wynne sent a wash of her power through Cauthrien, targeting the spots where she could feel the most hurt. It was difficult to do; Cauthrien’s entire nervous system was alive with pain, and Wynne could only focus on so many places at once. Making a swift decision, she directed her magic to flow along Cauthrien’s spine. She’d only been at it a few seconds when she felt a tug on her hand. Opening her eyes, she saw that Cauthrien had fallen to the ground, kneeling before her. “Ser Cauthrien,” Wynne exclaimed, dropping to her own knees with no regard for her long robes.

Cauthrien looked up at her, eyes full of a painful hope. “You’re so much more powerful than any of them, even the mage from Tevinter,” she murmured.

Wynne smiled. “Age has its benefits.” She rested a hand on Cauthrien’s shoulder. “I must admit, I have never treated a case this advanced. But I believe it can be done. I would like to try.”

Cauthrien looked down. “I have heard those words so many times. I thought I was finished believing them. But your magic…”

“I have more than magic, dear,” Wynne assured her. “I have the dogged determination of an old woman who hates to be wrong about anything.”

This remark caused Cauthrien’s lips to twitch. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she nodded. “What must I do?”

Wynne rose as well and tilted her head toward the infirmary tent. “Wait there for me and make yourself comfortable. It may take some time to gather supplies.”

Cauthrien bowed her head and walked slowly back to the tent. The others watched her go, then turned to Wynne. “What in the name of the Maker and his Prophet did you do to her?” demanded Alistair.

“A more interesting question might be ‘How did you know she was ill?’” the Warden commented.

“When I healed her,” Wynne answered. “There was something fighting against my magic, or rather, something drawing my magic elsewhere. Healing magic goes where it is most needed, attracted like a magnet. I should have known at once something was wrong, but the darkspawn’s bite distracted me from the greater problem.” She frowned thoughtfully. “She is in a very late stage of illness. How she’s managed to keep fighting all this time I’ll never know, but if the healing does take, then she will be an extraordinary ally”

“If she doesn’t betray us all one dark night,” Alistair quipped.

“First things first,” the Warden said steadily. “What supplies are needed to perform the healing?”

“Lyrium,” Wynne answered at once. “As much of it as we have. And…”

She trailed off and the Warden raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”

Wynne glanced away. “What we need most is power. Raw magic, to help burn away the illness from inside her bones. Skilled though I am in healing, I am no grand enchanter, and yesterday sapped a good deal of my energy. And even if I were at my freshest, all the skill and lyrium in the world may not be enough to drive out a disease this advanced.”

“I’ll give you everything I can,” the Warden replied. “I’ve never been much of a healer, but if you tell me what to do—”

“It will be enough,” Wynne assured him with more confidence than she felt. Glancing over, she saw that Morrigan had returned to her encampment and was seated nonchalantly by her fire. “It will have to be enough,” Wynne concluded.

Together, she and the Warden rummaged through their supplies, collecting as much lyrium as they could find. When they’d finished, eight bottles of the stuff stood in a line at the entrance to the infirmary tent. “No time like the present,” Wynne said grimly. She strode purposefully over to the tent and slipped inside.

Chapter Text

Cauthrien was kneeling on the bedroll, her head bowed as though in prayer. She looked up as Wynne entered, and the mage could see the worry in the depths of her dark eyes. “What should I do now?” Cauthrien asked nervously.

Wynne smiled in her most gentle manner. “Your part in this is easy enough,” she assured the knight. “Lie down, and I’ll help you sleep. When you wake, this will all be over.”

Cauthrien looked down. “Promise me something,” she said in a half-whisper. “Promise that if it doesn’t work, if you can’t manage it…promise you won’t let me wake.”

Kneeling at the bedside, Wynne reached out and took the young woman’s hand. “I promise,” she murmured.

Cauthrien swallowed, then lay back on the bedroll, her head resting upon the thin pillow. Wynne rested two fingers on her forehead, and the woman went limp at once, sleep overtaking her. Gesturing to the Warden to sit beside her, she took him by the hand. “When I go into her body, your mind may come with me. Stay focused, and let your power run through me. You understand?”

He nodded solemnly and she turned her attention to Cauthrien. As before, she sank into meditation, casting a dome of magic over the knight’s sleeping form. A moment later she was inside Cauthrien’s body, travelling swiftly from the woman’s lungs into her veins. There she paused, considering. Often, when she’d treated versions of this ailment, there was a single place that the disease stemmed from: a particular bone, or other such culprit she could pinpoint. Cauthrien’s disease, however, had managed to spread evenly throughout her whole body. Where it had begun no longer mattered. The question, therefore, was whether to treat one part of her body at a time, or whether to spread the magic out and try to treat Cauthrien’s entire body at once. In the end Wynne chose to compromise. She would drive the disease out of Cauthrien’s blood first, then focus on the individual bones from there. Sinking deeper into meditation, she began.

The disease fought her. It had had years to become part of Cauthrien’s being, and it did not appreciate Wynne’s attempts to remove it from its victim. She was grateful for the steady trickle of power the Warden provided her as she battled her way through waves of the illness. When at last the disease was purged from the woman’s blood, Wynne allowed herself to come back to her mortal body.

She was soaked in sweat. Someone had draped a blanket around her shoulders to keep her warm. Empty lyrium bottles lay scattered around her, and she counted them nervously. Five gone out of eight, and she still had so much farther to go. Beside her, the Warden was looking at her worriedly. She tried to smile, but it ended up as more of a wince. “That’s the blood finished,” she announced. “Now, to the bones.”

“Wynne, you’re exhausted,” the Warden murmured. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”

Wynne’s jaw clenched. “I promised this girl I’d heal her, and I will,” she said stubbornly. “Do you have enough power to keep going?”

“For now,” the Warden assured her.

“Good.” Taking a deep breath, Wynne returned to her meditation, ignoring the headache that had begun to pulse behind her eyes.

The extremities came first. She concentrated her attention on the bones within the woman’s hands. They were brittle, the joints inflamed. She strengthened each carpal and metacarpal, burning away all traces of the disease. Up through the arms she travelled, sending lancets of power through the marrow. Buoyed by her success, she moved to Cauthrien’s feet and legs. She had just reached the woman’s hips when she felt her power falter. The stream of power from the Warden faded and she was left alone. “No…” she murmured, feeling the disease close in around her. She fought it with all her strength, but she might as well have been battling a dragon with a lady’s fan. She felt her connection with Cauthrien’s body slipping as her magic flickered and died.

Fingers interlaced with hers. A surge of power, unlike any she’d ever felt, roared through her body. The illness surrounding her magical self scattered, then turned to ash. “You know,” said Morrigan’s crisp voice inside Wynne’s mind. “You could have just asked.”

Far away, Wynne felt herself smile. The addition of Morrigan’s magic was more than enough. Together they shot up Cauthrien’s spine, vines of power wrapping around each of the woman’s ribs and suffocating the disease within. Faster than Wynne would ever have believed possible, the illness was gone, defeated by the power of all three mages combined. Exhausted but satisfied, Wynne allowed her mind to return to the present.

The first thing she noticed was the darkness. A small candle was all that illuminated the tent, and she could hear the chirping of crickets outside. She took a breath and nearly choked; her muscles had tensed and stiffened around her chest. She felt a firm arm reach out to steady her. “Careful, old woman,” Morrigan chided.

Wynne looked over at her. The Witch of the Wilds was as artfully mussed as ever, but she appeared no worse for wear. “You have a gift, my dear,” Wynne told her hoarsely. “Not many take so quickly to healing.”

Morrigan flapped her hand, waving the compliment aside. “Power is power. You were mostly done anyhow.”

“I’m surprised you decided to help,” the Warden remarked. He, at least, showed signs of having performed a great magical working. His hair was sweat-soaked, his skin bloodless.

Morrigan shrugged. “T’was mere curiosity on my part. Mother never bothered with this sort of healing. I was rarely ill, and unless I’d broken bones, she made me heal on my own, naturally, as a punishment for my carelessness.”

Wynne felt the now-familiar rush of annoyance at yet more evidence of Flemeth’s maltreatment of her daughter. While Morrigan was more than capable of taking care of herself, Wynne couldn’t help but feel that a little kindness on Flemeth’s part might well have protected the apostate from some of the hurt that so clearly still festered in the girl’s heart. She set aside the feeling for now, turning her attention to the still-sleeping Cauthrien. “Let’s see the full effect of our work,” she murmured, reaching out and allowing the slightest hint of magic to awaken Cauthrien’s senses.

The knight stirred slowly, then opened her eyes and blinked. Turning her head, her gaze met Wynne’s, and the old mage could read the painful hope in the woman’s expression. She smiled comfortingly. “All gone,” she soothed.

Cauthrien tried to speak, swallowed, then tried again. “You’re sure?” she croaked.

“What would be the point in lying?” Morrigan remarked tartly.

Ignoring her, Wynne took Cauthrien’s hand. “The illness was widespread, and it took all three of us combined to drive it out of your body, but it is done.”

Cauthrien squeezed Wynne’s hand, then released it, wiggling her fingers and twisting her wrist in a circular motion. “The pain,” she murmured. “It’s gone. Except for…”

Her hand moved towards her shoulder, and Wynne grimaced. “The Darkspawn’s bite,” she finished.

The Warden shifted weight slightly. “That will not heal itself,” he informed Cauthrien gravely. “As I told you before, there is only one cure for the taint.”

Cauthrien looked away, her teeth gritted. Wynne rested a light hand on her shoulder. “You have a chance to live,” she reminded the knight.

“But at what cost?” Cauthrien whispered. “My honor…to betray my Lord—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Morrigan tossed her head impatiently. “Enough of this nonsense,” she told the astonished listeners. “If your Lord is as noble as you claim, then he would want you to live. If he is the sort of man who would demand your death, then he does not deserve your respect, nor your obedience. Take the Warden’s offer and have done with it!”

Wynne bit her lip to hide a smile, then glanced at Cauthrien. The knight still appeared uncertain. “If I were to accept,” she said slowly, her eyes on the Warden, “Would I be required…would I…”

The Warden shook his head. “The Grey Wardens are sworn to fight the Darkspawn threat,” he told her gently. “Apart from that, our decisions are our own. You would not be forced to take up arms against those you love. We would never ask it of you.”

Cauthrien stared at him searchingly, then exhaled, shoulders drooping. “They will despise me for my betrayal. All of them,” she told the three watchers. “But it is what must be done.” She smiled sadly, looking over at Wynne. “I never thought I’d have a chance to live past the first snows,” she admitted. “Now that I’m well, I can’t bear to let this life go.”

Wynne patted her arm. “It would be a waste of a healing, I’ll tell you that much,” she commented.

The Warden stood, crouching slightly so as not to hit his head on the top of the tent. “I’ll prepare the joining ritual with Alistair,” he told Cauthrien. “It won’t take long to get ready. Bear in mind that it is dangerous. Not all survive.”

Cauthrien’s eyes were steely. “I do not shy away from death, Warden,” she informed him. “Your ritual does not frighten me.”

The Warden bowed his head. “When you are ready, meet us at the fire and we will proceed from there.”

Chapter Text

Wynne stood by the fire, watching dawn approach and doing her best to ignore the exhaustion gnawing at her bones. The Warden, Alistair, and Cauthrien had been gone nearly an hour, their ritual taking them away from the safety of camp and off into the deep woods. Wynne prayed to the Maker that Cauthrien was strong enough to survive whatever the joining entailed. She wished they could have waited for the woman to recover some strength, but the threat of infection from the darkspawn bite was too great. Time was of the essence.

The sky had lightened to a pale blue-white when the mabari began to bark. Instinctively, Wynne reached for her staff, but she stopped when she saw people emerging slowly from the woods. Two male figures were supporting a woman between them. Heart in her throat, Wynne rushed forward. To her immense relief, Cauthrien was alive and conscious. The young knight smiled weakly at Wynne’s approach. “Not nearly as bad as they make it out to be,” she said, her glib tone belied by the redness of her eyes and the tension in her muscles.

Shaking her head, Wynne led the now-trio of Grey Wardens back to the fire. Cauthrien was safe, or as safe as a tainted warrior sworn to eliminate the darkest evil could ever really be. Though Wynne was certain that the defection would continue to haunt the knight, it was also clear that a part of Cauthrien had come to terms with her new life. This was where she belonged: one of a dozen rag-tag fighters trying their best to save the world. Now that she was healed, there was no telling how many foes she could bring down. Anyone who could stave off death through sheer willpower was a force to be reckoned with. Cauthrien would be a Grey Warden of legend, and Wynne, for one, was glad to have her on their side.