Chapter 35: Crossroads - Searching for Direction

Raviathan woke stiff and coughing in the hazy pink of dawn just before the sun rose. Moss hung from grey twisted trees, their naked winter limbs making the swamp seem more like a bog, a dead place. Rather than the noisy life swamps normally teemed with, everything here was grey and wet and dismal. The fog that cloaked the damp earth had coated him with a thick layer of mist as well. Between his sweat, the bog mist, and blood, Raviathan felt dirtier than he had ever been in his life. From the air to his armor, all weighed heavy upon him.

After the endless haze, Raviathan wondered if the whole world had been swallowed by this dreary fog. Morrigan had been helpful in scrounging some food, mostly bitter roots or the occasional gamy squirrel, but rations continued to dwindle to worrisome levels. The sun was so weak he couldn’t be sure of the direction they traveled, though according to Alistair and Morrigan they were on the other side of the horde and should reach Lothering by noon. Progress often stalled, however, as they had to backtrack and take circuitous routes to avoid the darkspawn, Morrigan using a grotesque mixture of fermented darkspawn and animal blood to divert the attention of scouts.

Darkspawn stragglers and weather weren’t their only problems. Aside from starving wolves, Morrigan cheerily pointed out the poisonous snakes that hung heavy and sluggish in the tree boughs. They were probably huddled in the ground now until the sun’s meager light touched the outer mist. Raviathan’s first lesson in wilderness survival had been to step on logs and look over instead of just hopping to the other side. The witch had smirked at him for that mistake, but Alistair hadn’t even noticed as Raviathan had hopped in shock and nearly fell over. When they cooked the three foot snake for lunch, the templar had eaten with the ponderous chewing of a cow as he stared at the smoking fire. The meat could have been dog or darkspawn for all the shem cared.

His eyes itched from tiredness. Worse, Raviathan thought he’d never get the decaying smell of swamp out of his nose. Wet garbage that was left on its own and became slimy had that kind of smell, but even that was not as pervasive as the swamp rot stench. The fire made of wet wood smoked most of the night and was only a memory now. Fire or not, the numbness never left Raviathan. He sat up slowly and pulled the bits of moss out of his hair. After a few more coughs, he rubbed his arms and looked about.

Morrigan had turned into a bird, a woodpecker if he guessed the flash of color right, and took to the low branches during her watch. He didn’t see her now, not that spotting a single bird was easy. For all he knew, she could have changed form just to tease them. Her magic fascinated him. His aunt had never told him about shapechangers. Perhaps it was rare enough that she didn’t know of its existence.

Alistair remained rolled up on his side with his back to the fire. Raviathan glared at the still form. He hadn’t wanted to press the man, not when he seemed about ready to burst into tears at any minute, but Raviathan needed answers. Half of what Raviathan said at Flemeth’s hut had been to keep Alistair’s spirits up. There was no way the two of them would be able to do anything on their own, reluctant witch to help them or not.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Raviathan pushed his stiff muscles so he could sit up. A little movement would help warm him, but right now he felt stuck as if he was struggling through mud. He carefully picked his way outside of camp to relieve his bladder. That templar was always watching him, and right now he could use a little privacy. He couldn’t help if Morrigan wanted to spy, but hopefully she was elsewhere. He wished he could do more than just empty his bladder, but the diet of astringent swamp roots and hard tack stuck in his intestines. Dirty, stiff, and obstructed, Raviathan made his miserable way back to camp.

Raviathan rubbed his hands to warm them then pulled his backpack closer so he could review the treaties in more detail as he had most mornings while Alistair slept. His eyes tightened in cold annoyance as the templar pawed at his nose and mumbled in his sleep. Out of any others who could possibly have survived, it had to be that templar. Raviathan sighed in frustration. He had been the one to make sure that templar had survived, too. Only yourself to blame, Rav.

So far the Orlesian Wardens could be counted out, though it was only conjecture at this point if they had been turned away. There had to be some way to contact the other Wardens. Maybe the Orlesian Wardens couldn’t help directly if Loghain blocked the passes, but a small party of three might find passage to Orlais. Morrigan could with her magic. They could warn the Wardens of what was happening, gather forces from other countries. If nothing else, they had the experience Raviathan was sorely lacking. If not Orlais, then Nevarra and the Free Marches weren’t too far away.

Otherwise, they held the treaties for the Dalish, the Circle Mages, and the dwarves of Orzammar. Duncan had said the treaties were a formality, but with the Grey Wardens gone the papers took on new urgency. Strange how a few simple sheets of parchment held such power. With these in his hands, armies would form. Men and women would be pledged to service. They would leave their homes behind, their children. It seemed too grand to Raviathan to be real, like the shock of meeting Cailan. Kings were too high up, a force to be heard about but unseen by common people like him. They lived in another world apart from his little alienage, the world as he had known it for most of his life.

Though old and official, Raviathan didn’t believe in their magic, and it did seem like a type magic to him. Raviathan’s fingers tingled from the lyrium etching that kept the parchment intact despite the wear of weather or time. The insignias remained clear, unfaded in their detail. How could these little pieces of paper, even with the faint magical aura from the protective wards, be so powerful as to compel another’s action? How was one little piece of paper supposed to form an army? In all likelihood he would show this scrap of parchment to a door guard and be shooed away if not laughed at. Even if they did believe him, how was a little slip of paper supposed to compel so many? How was one little elf supposed to end a Blight?

Raviathan traced the first treaty in his hands, the one for the Dalish. As he ran his fingertips over the silver and green insignia, he felt a little thrill from that simple touch. A stylized mask made of various forest leaves held the symbol of his kin. This was as close as he ever got to them. In the alienage they were more like myth to the point that even their existence was debated. His wild kin. They kept the old ways, the ways of his people, they way elves always should be. All the horrible things that happened to his family and kin did not happen to the Dalish. They didn’t have humans invading at a whim to kidnap or rape them. They didn’t have to deal with squalor or random death like the alienage elves did. They had no humans pulling their ears until they bled. Despite his misgivings concerning the treaties, it would be worth it just to see the Dalish.

Unlike the Dalish, Raviathan did not look forward to the Circle of Magi. With Duncan and the rest of the Wardens gone, he was another apostate, Grey Warden or no. That wasn’t a chance he was ready to take. Maybe he could have Alistair go to the Circle. It would be a lot more fitting for a templar to go, and it should be just a formality. Raviathan and Morrigan could wait well away from the templars.

Orzammar was far to the north and nestled at the edge of the Frostbacks. The pass that led there would probably be covered in snow until late spring. Raviathan had seen a few dwarves in Denerim, but they were a rare lot, and he could never afford their fine armor and weapons so paid little attention to them.

Then there was this Arl Eamon. Raviathan’s brows creased as he considered that. It was in the nature of nobles to be treacherous and all shems to be cruel. Shems had very different notions of honor, so much so it should be a different word they used. Besides, to the shems he was another knife ear. If they did go to Redcliffe, it would have to be Alistair again who talked to them. Alistair vouched for the man, for what little that was worth, but the Arl was under no obligation to give them aid.

According to Duncan, the governing powers were obligated to help Grey Wardens during a Blight, but aside from Duncan’s word what proof was there? Especially now when there were no other Wardens to corroborate that the Blight was real. What proof did he have that this was a Blight or that he was even a Warden for that matter? Nightmares weren’t proof. As a mage, he understood the power of dreams and the Fade, but he also knew that many did not. Beyond that, what evidence was there? Without evidence, what hope did they have for compelling Eamon or any of the nobles? The best proof he had was the darkspawn horde which would now move unchecked, but if the others thought the coming army was just a large raid, they would probably fight to protect their own holdings and not unite as a large enough force.

Raviathan’s musings stopped when a beetle crawled over his boot. He flicked the thing off but didn’t have the energy to smirk when it landed on Alistair. Disgruntled, Raviathan rose and stretched, trying to get some blood to move through frozen limbs. Should he wake Alistair up to start moving? The human struggled as much as he did. Another day in this swamp, and Raviathan would be sick.

At times Raviathan resented the templar like an ugly burn that kept scraping on his awareness. Between the two of them, Alistair was the one who had potential answers, about the Wardens, about Loghain, the one he needed to be able to talk to. With the templar weeping at any mention of the Wardens, Raviathan didn’t dare bring up Duncan again. Though Raviathan knew it wasn’t fair to be so angry with the man, his frustration kept gnawing away his patience. If there was any hope to get a handle on what happened, he needed to understand Loghain.

He twisted, popping his joints, but when Alistair didn’t wake, Raviathan returned to the embers and his thoughts.

The general’s motives were a mystery. He fought with Cailan, which demonstrated clear concern with the young king’s abilities. Loghain wasn’t a flatterer, which Raviathan had initially respected in the general; however, Loghain had handled the Cailan all wrong. Instead of putting down his ideas of glory which would only bring out the king’s stubbornness, all he had to do was coax him.

Cailan was the type who responded eagerly to having his ego stroked as long as it wasn’t obvious. It would have been easy to keep Cailan out of the battle. Just give him another fable about how his tactical ability, oh so wise beyond his years, true genius and bound to be put in the histories for ages to come, and the man would have sought that as his glory instead. Tell him to stand as a golden paragon on the rampart well away from the battle to give the men courage, a beacon of inspiration to reinvigorate their flagging hearts, and Cailan would have eaten it up.

Surely the great Hero of River Dane wouldn’t kill Cailan, the king’s army, or the Wardens because of his son-in-law’s indiscretions? Would he? Loghain maybe many things, but spiteful when the lives of soldiers were at stake or the clear threat of darkspawn threatening his beloved land was anathema to all the general stood for.

Just like the last week of ruminating, all thoughts of Loghain lead to the same questions.

Raviathan ran his thumb over his lips as he considered Duncan’s part in the manipulation of Cailan. There had been the precarious acceptance of the Wardens in Fereldan after their exile, but given Cailan’s enthusiasm to be among the Wardens, Duncan’s concerns couldn’t have been because he was worried about another exile.

The Warden-Commander coaxed the king in order to get the troops he needed to fight the darkspawn, true. Duncan had been hesitant to talk about the king or his role in Fereldan politics. There seemed to be regret behind the hesitancy, but maybe Raviathan was reading too much into it. Still, the thought niggled at him. Whatever it takes to end the Blight. Wardens do what they must. What exactly was Duncan’s part in this?

Oh, what did he know? What Raviathan had seen in his years in the alienage was the way their community could be divided, and when they were divided, less was done. Valendrian continued to persuade them to unite, but there was always something; exhaustion, despondency, Elva, that would keep the elves from having a clear voice or clear intentions. He couldn’t compare the politics of the alienage to the wider politics of the nobles.

If his time with Duncan had told him anything, it was that humans had even less unity as a people. The strength of humans lay in their moderately larger size, their cruelness, and their capacity to breed extraordinary amounts of more humans. Inconsistency best described humans. Raviathan closed his eyes and thought about his mentor, how Duncan’s large body had given him warmth as he adjusted to the world outside his alienage. Why couldn’t more humans be like him?

The nature of human lords, however, was even more capricious. Though not cruel, Cailan had been a glory hound and eager for a chance to make a name for himself in history. As if being king wasn’t enough. All that power, and he had access to the best tutors, libraries Raviathan could only dream about, but there was no wisdom. Raviathan had heard many times from his fellow elves that humans always wanted more. That adage hadn’t been true with Duncan, but Cailan and the rest of the human lords and generals fit the statement too well.

After all these changes and only Duncan to cling to, Raviathan felt homesickness like a lead weight in his stomach. Soris’ nervousness, his father’s patience, Shianni’s bright smile, sleeping with his wife’s softness in his arms, it all ached deep to his bones. His life seemed less real without them. Too many changes, this thrust into a surreal whirlwind of violence and loss.

Discomfort tied him to the reality of the present, the anchor he needed to keep from feeling washed away. The grit in his misfit armor that chafed his skin or the headache from the dreary ever-present fog tied him to the Maker’s world. The alienage, as far away as it was now, held solid in his mind like a little glowing gem. That memory reminded him who he was and what he fought for. Misery made the rest real.

With a start Raviathan realized that Alistair was watching him. Raviathan shook himself and rolled the treaties back into their case before standing to warm up his muscles. He had let himself get too lost in thought. They weren’t exactly safe, and that had been careless. Why was that mage hunter watching him anyway? Raviathan rolled his neck and shoulders hearing a few loud pops. Did the templar suspect anything? He might just be biding his time until they reach Lothering. Of all the Wardens to be stuck with, it would be his luck to have to deal with that damnable templar. He wanted the other Wardens of Orlais if for no other reason than to get some distance from the mage hunter. He wasn’t sure if Alistair would actually turn him in, but he wouldn’t take any chances if he could help it.

Sound didn’t carry well in the fog coated swamp. Morrigan was smart enough to make her presence known instead of bursting into camp as they were on edge. “Ah,” she said. “I see you are both awake. It is perhaps time to move on then.”

Raviathan slung on his backpack, bow, and healer’s bag. The swords and knives were already on. He rubbed his forehead as he waited for Alistair who was just as slow at rising as he had been. Raviathan spoke in a low voice to Morrigan as they started taking slow steps out of the camp clearing. “I hate this fog. It’s like a miasma that invades my mind and makes everything unreal. I keep wanting to rub the sleep out of my eyes.”

Morrigan shrugged, but her voice was pleasant. She could be surprisingly good at answering questions when the mood struck her. Conversations could be tricky though. Raviathan wasn’t quite sure what would set off a biting remark just yet, but he was getting a feel for the witch. He had never been around someone who had been so isolated before. “I suppose I am used to it. The fog hides many things and can be a welcoming veil when one is in danger. The Chasind use it quite effectively when they war with each other.”

“Did you often meet with the Chasind?”

“Almost never. My mother did on occasion have some interest in the men, but… I do not care to talk about it.”

There was something in the witch’s tone that made Raviathan consider her upbringing more. Flemeth hadn’t struck him as matronly, and he wondered at the pain the woman unintentionally let show. She wasn’t in the habit of hiding her emotions, but then growing up in the Wilds she wouldn’t have had much cause.

Behind them Alistair crashed through the brush to make up the distance though they had kept their pace slow for him. Raviathan winced. He didn’t have to be so loud. As much as he might want to, it wasn’t like they were going to leave him behind in the swamp. Raviathan really wanted to talk to a fellow apostate without that damn templar hanging around. “Okay. Do you mind continuing your lessons on flora and fauna?”

That was greeted with a small laugh. “You are a most eager student. I am surprised.”

“It’s useful.” Raviathan had already taken a number of the Wilds flowers that had helped the mabari at Ostagar. If it helped the dog then maybe it had some benefit that the Wardens could use as well. They were pressed in a compartment for later study and their seeds labeled in a vial.

“But you already have much knowledge on these subjects.”

“Plants maybe. I’ve lived in a city all my life so the rest is very new. A fortnight ago I had never seen a living wolf before.”

Morrigan stared at him in shock before shaking her head in wonder. “I could not imagine such a life. I find cities strange and confining.”

“You’ve only been to Lothering before though?”

She nodded, moving a low branch out of her way. Raviathan stepped through before she let the branch go, which snapped back to hit Alistair in the neck.

“Hey!”