#the joining

“We only speak a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first." the commander's voice is low now, somber. "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 will join you."

He clears his throat, as he takes the last few steps down to meet the recruits. He stops first at the man just to Davrin's left, "Gaspar Choquet, from this day forward you are a Grey Warden."

Choquet takes the golden chalice in one hand, wearing a somber expression when he lifts the chalice back to the Commander Grisbaum with grace, "Santé."

His hand is steady as he lifts the chalice to his lips. The Commander's grim expression doesn't shift as Choquet drinks deeply. Davrin watches the man face for any discomfort, but if the concoction tastes even half as bad as the dwarven ale they had in the deep roads, it doesn't show on his face.

It's not even a moment before the chalice is back in the Commander's hands. Choquet is just turning—likely to offer Davrin his usual self-satisfied grin—when he seizes.

His whole body goes rigid, color draining out of his face. The former chevalier—who has not once emitted a single complaint—starts screaming. His hands come up to clutch at his head, panic bright and stark in his eyes. Davrin reaches for him on instinct, catching him by the arm and half-collapsing with him to the ground.

The man's fingers close around the front of Davrin's tunic, fingernails scraping his chest. It looks like he might say something—but then his eyes roll back, the whites of his eyes showing starkly against his dark lashes. And then his screams are choked off, because his throat was spent or because he could no longer breathe, Davrin isn't sure.

Choquet's hand goes limp, sliding from the front of Davrin's tunic.

He looks around frantically—only to find that no one else has moved.

The rest of the Wardens remain still, though more of them have curved around the back, blocking off their only exit, like they might try to flee. The briefest glance he casts over his shoulder at Mal says that he isn't the only one who noticed.

"Step forward, Davrin."

The Warden-commander watches on with a somber expression, the chalice still held between long, gnarled fingers.

Understanding thunders painfully through his veins.

They don't let just anyone join. Don't risk just anyone's lives. They forced them to train, to wait. Pulled men out of prisons and out of the gallows because they were already dead. Davrin dares a glance down the line. Julian's eyes have gone wide, but he doesn't move. None of them do. He's too young for this kind of risk—the wardens must have known that, it's why they made him wait. But it seems they could only deny him for so long.

Just as Davrin supposes they could not deny him. The Warden who brought him to Weisshaupt was wary enough, suggested he reconsider. Maybe Davrin should have heeded that warning. He didn't need the Wardens.

He was no longer starving—between the arrows in his quiver and the coin he made hunting monsters, he did alright. He was rarely without food and any night spend without a roof over his head was of his own choosing. It wasn't a bad life, but Davrin was so tired.

Tired of being on his own. Tired of moving from place to place, carrying all his things in a single rucksack. Tired of searching for meaning and finding none.

Davrin fought darkness. Slaying monsters and saving people, that was worthwhile—but the Wardens did it better. And they did it together.

That was worth every risk.

So Davrin gets to his feet, lowering the other man to the ground with as much care as he can manage.

I don’t think they’ll ever confirm what exactly it is, or what its precise source is, and I’m not all that worried about that.

I had the idea that it’s more or less what it is shown — a kind of virus, that spreads both through infection and mimetically through things like the radio transmission.