Chapter 9 - The Joining

It was full dark by the time the recruits made it back to camp. Despite Alistair's misgivings, Arual was grateful to Morrigan for leading them out of the Wilds. The journey back certainly seemed shorter with her as their guide. 

All the while, Arual clutched at the vial of darkspawn blood in her hand. Alistair had made certain each recruit had gathered a vial, as Duncan had instructed, before allowing them to be led to Morrigan's hut.

As guilty and foolish as Arual felt for forcing everyone's hand in the matter, she could not help the joy she felt knowing Fergus was safe.

"What's to say that old witch was telling the truth, eh?" Daveth had grumbled on the way back, obviously ill at ease with Morrigan and the Wilds as a whole.

Arual didn't begrudge him that. He had a point after all. There was no proof that either of the women in the wilds had been telling them the truth. For all Arual could prove, they'd been toying with her. Yet something deep in her gut, some intuition, told her they spoke the truth. Perhaps it was some inherent bond between women, however strange, or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking and willful ignorance.

Either way, Arual chose to believe.

Bran's excited bark greeted them as the recruits returned to the Grey Warden pavilion. Arual giggled and feel to her knees so Bran could rush into her arms, nearly knocking her over as he collided with her chest. She scratched his belly and cooed about what a sweet boy he was and he rolled in the grass and chuffed.

"So, you return from the Wilds," Duncan said, standing over them with crossed arms and a bemused expression. "Have you been successful?"

"We have," Alistair answered shortly. Arual waited for him to tell Duncan about Morrigan and her mother, to throw her under the proverbial carriage for her silliness, but he didn't. When he said nothing, she blinked, confused. Was he covering for her? Or had he simply not thought it a bother after all?

There was no time to ponder, however, as Duncan's face became deadly serious.

"Good," he said. "I've had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

Arual stood, vial of blood still in hand. She held it out to Duncan warily. "Now will you tell us what this ritual is about?" she asked. "What this blood is for?"

To his credit, Duncan had the decency to look ashamed, even sorrowful. "I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are," he said heavily. "Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later."

"Are you…are you saying this ritual can kill us?" she took a step away, mortified.

"As could any darkspawn you might face in battle," he reasoned. "You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive."

"Let's go then," Daveth cut in sharply. "I'm anxious to see this Joining now."

Arual opened her mouth to object, but Duncan beat her to it.

"Then let us begin," he said. "Alistair, take them to the old temple."

The old temple turned out to be a circular area not far from the Grey Warden's camp. There was no ceiling, and so the temple was filled with the chill brume of the south. The only light came from the pregnant silver moon in the sky, and the dozen or so candles that had been balanced in the nooks and crannies of the ruins. A path of smooth stone spiraled toward a central altar upon which sat a great silver chalice, the neck of which had been delicately sculpted into the likeness of a griffon. 

The recruits had been stripped of their armor and instead given ill-fitting white robes fastened with lengths of grey rope. Arual shivered from her bare head to her bare feet in the southern chill. That moment, more than most, made her miss the cheery warm halls of Highever, the glasses of mulled wine, and the thick blankets that were once there.

Now, all of that was gone.

All that lay ahead were...monsters.

"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," said Ser Jory, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Are you blubbering again?" Daveth heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?"

"Maybe it's tradition. Maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

"I only know that my wife is in Redcliffe with a child on the way. If they had warned me…" Ser Jory muttered a curse under his breath. "It just doesn't seem fair."

"Would you have come if they'd warned you?" Deveth asked seriously. "Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?" Ser Jory said acidly.

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if it would end the Blight."

"We don't know that it would!"

"Don't we?" Daveth's voice was suddenly sharp, cold. Like a dagger poised to strike. "The Grey Wardens have saved the world from darkspawn before. I'd say they know better than anyone what it takes. You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife from them?"

Arual bit her lip. 

She had assumed Daveth was simply an insufferable flirt and a pickpocket, but perhaps there was some courage to him after all. His words weighed on her. She had always done her duty as Lady of Highever. She'd been diligent in her lessons, even the ones she hated, and had been willing to go so far as to marry Nathaniel Howe before his family's treachery. Was this not some extension of that duty? Not just to the people of Highever, but all of Ferelden? All of Thedas? The darkspawn were horrific—nightmares made manifest. And yet was that not all the more reason they needed to be stamped out? Was this not a nobler than sitting a throne and managing her husband's estate? Was this not the greater good so many spoke of? Even if the Couslands were gone, even if Fergus was lost to her or could not rebuild their family name, perhaps she could ensure that a Cousland would always be there to fulfill the promise of all nobles: to protect and serve those under their rule. 

Perhaps she could make a difference, if only a small one.

She felt herself growing braver as she pondered the idea, letting the little light of hope fill her with what warmth it could.

"I…" Ser Jory tried weakly to protest, but it seemed his mind had fallen to the same conclusions she had. Whether he'd meant it or not, Daveth had inspired both of them—much to Ser Jory's chagrin.

"Maybe you'll die. Maybe we'll all die," Daveth allowed. "If nobody stops the darkspawn, we'll die for sure."

"I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade…"

Before anyone else could speak, two figures approached from the opposite side of the temple.

Alistair and Duncan swept in, each wearing grey cloaks clasped with silver pins in the shape of a griffon. Arual recalled legends of Grey Wardens riding griffons into battle, but she had not realized their symbols meant so much to the order. Perhaps the legends spoke of the order's heraldry, rather than true griffons?

"At last, we come to the Joining," Duncan said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

Arual felt queasy as her worst fear was realized. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, fighting back the bile rising in her throat.

"We're going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?" Ser Jory cried, outraged and disgusted.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you," Duncan said somberly. He understood their disquiet, but also knew there was no going back for the recruits. Not now. Not ever. He lifted the chalice from the altar with both hands in an act of reverence he held it up, the silver catching the moonlight. "This is the source of our power, and our victory."

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair explained. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon."

"Not all who drink the blood will survive and those who do are forever changed," Duncan elaborated. "This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay."

He looked to each recruit in turn, meeting their eyes one at a time. There was a hierarchy to the Grey Wardens, but in this moment Duncan made sure to let each of the three recruits know that he saw them all as equals. A pickpocket. A knight. A high born lady. Each of them deserved a place amongst the once prestigious order. Each of them were worthy of serving the realm and those within it. Arual felt a lump forming in her throat.

When Duncan was satisfied that the recruits understood his meaning, he continued in his low, melodic cadence, "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair?"

Alistair bowed his head and closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was with a solemn but clear voice. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Arual didn't realize Duncan had lowered his head as well until he lifted it and the chalice. 

"Daveth," he spoke with quiet authority, "step forward."

Daveth did so without hesitation. Wordlessly, Duncan held the chalice out to Daveth, and the other man took it in equal silence. Arual felt her breath catch, felt herself crane her neck forward as she watched Daveth consider the contents of the cup.

Daveth set his jaw, brows knit in a stern expression, and tipped the cup to his lips.

His lips were stained black when he handed Duncan the chalice. He scowled, as though having tasted something awful (Arual would have been shocked to discover otherwise), and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a pitch dark stain on the white robes.

Nothing happened.

A moment passed.

And then another.

For a split second, Daveth looked as though he were about to crack a joke, when suddenly he doubled over. A groan that was not entirely human and all too familiar escaped his lips. His features contorted in anguish, lips peeling back from straight yellowed teeth and blackened gums. His eyes rolled into the back of his head until pupil and iris where gone, leaving only the bloodshot sclera.

Black blood erupted from his mouth like vomit, spewing across the ground and tainting the ritual area. Arual backpedaled, screaming. Alistair caught her by the shoulders and held her fast. Whether she liked it or not, the Wardens weren't going to let her get away.

She covered her mouth with trembling hands, wide eyes filling with tears as she watched Daveth retch. His death came with a horrible, agonizing wailing she couldn't stomach. It was too much like the screams back at Highever. The smell of blood was thick in the air.

"I can't!" she sobbed, turning into Alistair's chest the way she used to turn to Ser Gilmore when the knights would tell their ghost stories into the night.

Alistair hesitated, surprised by Arual's reaction. She knew he must be thinking Duncan had made a mistake, that she wouldn't be fit for the Grey Wardens if she couldn't stomach even this. Slowly, as though she were something very delicate, he held her, and it made all the difference.

He let her stay like that, sheltered in his arms with her eyes screwed tight and her hands over her ears, until at last the wailing ceased. Arual stiffened, realizing the silence could only mean one thing: Daveth had perished.

He'd died...horribly. In agony. Just like her family. Just like so many others who had been victim to the Blight, to war, and greed.

"Adraste guide him," she prayed though her tears. 

"Maker's breath!" Ser Jory swore.

"I am sorry, Daveth," Duncan said, sounding truly remorseful. He paused a moment, as though offering a prayer for the dead, then turned.

"Jory, step forward," he said. The Ritual must go on.

"B-But I have a wife!" Ser Jory protested, peddling backwards. "A child! Had I known…"

"There is no turning back," Duncan said. The tone in his voice brokered no argument. Still, Ser Jory stepped away from him, from the chalice.

"No!" he cried. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as the panic surged through his veins. His chest heaved as he panted like a cornered hound. "You ask too much! There…there is no glory in this!"

Duncan's eyes were like gleed stones as he set the chalice down upon the altar. 

"If that is your wish," he said.

"I-It is," Ser Jory stammered.

For a moment, it seemed like Duncan would allow Ser Jory to leave, but then from the folds of his grey cloak he drew a simple dagger. Ser Jory, a trained knight, saw the blade coming, but Duncan was the faster. Even as Ser Jory tried to dodge away, Duncan sunk his blade deep into the larger man's abdomen. Ser Jory's body folded around Duncan's, a look of shock and betrayal on his simple features.

Arual was grateful for the tears that blurred her vision, though there was no hiding the crimson blood that soaked through Ser Jory's white robes, smearing him in blood.

A torrent escaped as Duncan withdrew his dagger, and the ritual space seemed to devour it hungrily—blood seeping quickly into the grass. 

Duncan lowered Ser Jory's body to the ground, and ran a hand over his eyes to close them. In another world, he might have been asleep but for the trail of blood that slowly leaked from his dead lips.

Arual heard herself whimper inaudibly.

Silently, Duncan turned and set the bloodied dagger in the altar beside the chalice.

The message was clear.

One of these two fates awaited Arual in the next moment. A certain death or an uncertain future. 

It was time to choose.

Shakily, Arual stepped away from Alistair. She clenched her hands at her sides. She ground her teeth into one another until her jaw ached. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. She was afraid. She'd be a fool not to be. But if she was going to perish, it would be on her terms. No one else's.

She nodded to Duncan, too afraid to speak.

He nodded and took up the chalice. "Step forward, Arual," he said, damning her as he had damned the others.

She did as he bade. He held out the chalice. Arual accepted it with white-knuckled hands, and nearly dropped it. It was much heavier than she'd been expecting. It bore the weight of every Grey Warden that had come before, of ever life that had been sacrificed to the greater good.

Arual's mouth ran dry.

She licked her lips, and brought the chalice to her lips.

The concoction of blood, lyrium, and herbs tasted like rotten meat. It was thick on her tongue, so much so that she almost gagged and spit up the mouthful she'd been brave enough to take in. She sputtered, her body rejecting the blood. Refusing to submit to Duncan's dagger, she screwed shut her eyes and forced herself to swallow the foul thing. The viscous, tar-like substance fought her every inch, but Arual did not relent. At last, she managed to swallow. She coughed as she choked on dregs.

And then it was done.

A pregnant moment stretched between the three remaining people in the ritual space. Distantly, Arual could hear a piercing, shrill ring. The sound became louder, as though growing closer at a rapid pace, until it filled both ears. The ringing brought with it a wave of pain that crushed her skull beneath it. Pressure built up inside her head, as though her body were trying to fight against the implosion with an explosion of it's own.

She cried out, reeling backwards as she clapped her hands over both ears. But the sound would not be ignored. It forced it's way through the cracks in her fingers to penetrate her very being.

She should have been deafened long ago, but something evil kept her hearing well intact while simultaneously tearing it to shreds.

Her chest tightened as though it had been lashed with thick iron bands trying to squeeze the life out of her.

Breathe, she commanded her body, but it did not listen.

Breathe, she commanded again, the iron bands around her chest alighting with fire as her lungs ached for air.

Breathe! she willed herself, and at last forced the life-giving air into her body.

With a gasp, everything turned white. 

Through the pale arose a figure. 

It was a creature she had only ever seen in books. A dragon.

In place of scales seemed to be the scraps of flesh from other creatures—a patchwork of ill-fitting, discolored skin held together by offal and gore. Here and there the false body could not hold, and the flesh sloughed off to reveal a skeletal frame that had been twisted and made...wrong. 

Arual knew she stood before the Archdemon itself in all of it's horrid glory.

And then the thing roared. Not with the sound of a beast, but with the very sounds of hell. 

Thousands upon thousands of screams layered atop one another erupted from the Archdemon's mouth. They were shill and loud—louder even than the ringing had been—and filled with unimaginable anguish.

There was a terrible musical quality to them, each scream a discordant note in an unholy chorus. Higher and higher they rose, reaching for a crescendo that would never come. 

In those screams, Arual perceived the end of the world.

"No!" she screamed in defiance, in terror, in childish rebellion. The scene before her became black, and she was cast into blissful nothingness.

Alistair's body moved forward before he realized he was moving to catch Arual. His mind had not yet perceived she was falling before his body was already reacting.

He caught her before she could hit the ground, her head lolling back, long brown hair like a waterfall of chocolate.

"Is she...?" Duncan prompted, the Warden-Commander too tired to finish his sentence. 

As gently as he could, Alistair set the unconscious woman down on the ground. She released a little groan, as though even this pained her. Her face was pinched in fear, but her chest rose and fell with her ragged breath.

"She's alive," Alistair breathed a sigh of relief.

"Rest then, Arual Cousland," Duncan said. "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."