For valiasedai, for the DA:O Ficathon. The prompt: Your favourite origin (any gender/race/class) that's at least partially from Duncan's point of view. 3 for Duncan.

They hadn't made the boats any larger in the last twenty years, not that Duncan was surprised. Nor more stable, although the Templar rowing was doing his best. No doubt the rationale was that mages would be less likely to escape across the lake if they had to do it in these tiny, rickety craft.

The lake was cold and still on this windless winter day, the only ripples coming from the oars skimming its surface. Duncan thought about the first time he'd been here, shivering and miserable in a tiny rickety boat, wrapped in a fur cloak to keep the wind from blowing right through him. Maric's cloak.

The Templar glanced back at him; was that awe in his face? Elsewhere in Thedas the Grey Wardens were feared and respected, but here in Ferelden they had been gone so long that they'd turned into legend – or, too often, stories to frighten children with.

"Is it true, ser?" the Templar said. He sounded nervous; the boy couldn't be a day over eighteen, no older than Duncan when he first came here.

"Is what true, lad? And I'm no ser. Call me Duncan." What had the boy heard? That Grey Wardens were griffon-riding heroes, ruthless killers, monsters who drank darkspawn blood? Duncan sighed. Whatever he's heard, it's probably true.

"That there's a Blight on." The Templar tried to keep his voice steady as he rowed, but didn't succeed. "Some of my brothers were just sent down to Ostagar. Darkspawn, they said. And now you're here, and they say the Wardens only come when there's – pardon me, ser, I mean Duncan, but no one's been able to tell us anything –"

"Right now," Duncan said, "you know what we know. There are darkspawn in the south, and the King plans to meet them head-on at Ostagar. Otherwise... well, that is why I am here. I must take counsel with the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander."

His ferryman was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice shook. "If it is a Blight," he said, "what will become of us all?"

"Row the boat, lad," Duncan said, not unkindly. He sat back, wrapping himself in his thick wool cloak. After all these years you'd think he'd be used to it, but the Fereldan winter wind could still slice him right to the bone.

Irving was delighted to see him, but Duncan couldn't help but notice that his old friend looked... old. And tired. Mages aged strangely; some would still be spry at a hundred, some wore out young, as if the magic ate them from the inside out. Irving had always been serene, but now he had a little of that candle-at-both-ends look. And Greagoir – he certainly didn't have as much grey in his hair when Duncan was last at the Tower, a few short years ago. He wondered how he looked to them.

As glad as they were to see Duncan, the polite explanations of why the Tower couldn't spare a soul began right away. As usual. No one was pleased when the Wardens came through looking for recruits; more often than not, they left with someone indispensible.

"We sent twelve mages to Ostagar," Irving said wearily. "Twelve. That's unprecedented at one time. Do you know how hard I had to press the Revered Mother to let the Chantry allow that many to travel at once? Even with Greagoir's support, it wasn't easy. They wouldn't let another go."

"I had to send two dozen Templars to guard them," Greagoir said irritably. "Which is to say, we're stretched very thin right now and you're not taking another one of my men."

"Times are hard," Duncan said mildly. "We all must make sacrifices. And if this is a Blight – "

"It can't be a Blight. There hasn't been a Blight for over four hundred – "

"We're well overdue, then. As I was saying, gentlemen, if this is a Blight, Wardens will be needed to fight it. And end it. And do you know how many Grey Wardens there are in Ferelden right now? Two."

"That's all well and good," Greagoir said, "but can't ordinary warriors stand against an Archdemon just as well?"

"No," Duncan said shortly. "Irving, you know why."

The First Enchanter frowned. "I do," he said. "I've read Remille's notes on the Taint, what was left of them. Duncan, do you really think this is a.... Well. In any case, I'll draw up a short list. But first: you'll want to rest after your journey, and then there's lake trout for dinner." There was a knock on the door. "Perfect timing! Come in, please."

The door opened; a young mage, by the looks of her just recently out of apprenticehood, stood there blinking nervously. "Um, First Enchanter?" she said. "It's Cordelia Amell? I just did my Harrowing? You said to come see you when I woke up –"

Spend enough time recruiting Wardens and eventually you just know one when you see one. So much for the short list, Duncan thought. Out loud he said, "When you're done speaking with the First Enchanter, would you be kind enough to escort me to the guest quarters?"

The girl, as Duncan had expected, used the opportunity to quiz him thoroughly about the Grey Wardens. He answered her questions to the best of her ability, conscious of the wide-eyed stares of the passers-by, from little apprentices to fully armored Templars; visitors were rare in the Tower, and Grey Wardens were rare everywhere. Duncan didn't begrudge them the wild speculation that was sure to go on for weeks. There was little enough to do around here.

The Amell girl certainly did seem eager to get out. Irving had implied, introducing them, that she was one of the best among the newest crop of novices; he probably thought this meant that Duncan would realize how necessary she was in the Tower and leave her alone.

Instead, he'd unwittingly been making a case for her recruitment. The Grey Wardens recruited the best. The best what, it didn't always matter. Ser Jory, a gallant knight of Highever, waited at Ostagar for his Joining with Daveth, a Denerim cutpurse; which was more talented, Duncan couldn't say, but if he had to he'd put his money on Daveth (if he didn't run off with it first). The rogue reminded Duncan of a certain boy from the streets of Orlais who had slipped through these same dimly-lighted halls twenty years ago, looking for something interesting to steal.

All served with honor in the Grey Wardens, from thugs and thieves to knights and princes – speaking of which, Alistair would probably like this girl. She was almost painfully earnest, and it wouldn't hurt that her face was pretty enough to make his hapless young lieutenant stammer and drop things. Hopefully he'd refrain from doing so in the middle of battle.

They'd reached the guest quarters; the girl bowed and hurried off to her brand-new duties. Duncan suspected – well, hoped – that despite her obvious nerves, there was a core of strength in there somewhere, or else her career in the Grey Wardens would be short even if she survived the Joining. Sighing, he made to open the heavy oak door of his room –

It swung open without a touch, as if by – well, definitely by magic.

"It's about time you got here," a voice drawled. "I was starting to get cold."

She was lying languidly on the bed, stark naked. He was as well-traveled as anyone in Thedas, had known chevalieres and pirate queens and courtesans and Antivans, and it was still a delightful shock to see her there. Her tousled brown hair was long and sleek now, with threads of grey, but the playful look in those brown doe eyes hadn't changed. She smiled and patted the bed next to her.

"Vivian," he said. "You never were one for small talk, were you?"

"Oh, shut up and get over here," she said.

Her mouth still tasted like strawberries.

"You grew the beard back," Vivian said admiringly, tracing Duncan's jawline lightly with a finger. "I always liked you with the beard."

They were lying tangled together on the vast four-poster. Duncan still remembered with affection the narrow bunk in the apprentices' dormitory that day they'd first met, but he had to say this was a significant improvement. He had indeed been clean-shaven the last time they'd seen each other, on his last visit to the Tower, and it was a mistake he would never repeat. "It's good to see you, too."

It was. Vivian had grown from a bold and pretty apprentice to a smart, striking Senior Enchanter over the years, all without ever picking up a scrap of decorum or modesty. "I see the prowess of the Grey Wardens only increases with time."

He laughed. "I've always meant to ask you – where did you get that idea about the 'prowess of the Grey Wardens'?"

"I made it up." She nibbled his ear; he shivered. "You were just such an adorable, cocky young rogue. I figured a little flattery might help me get you into bed."

"And what a cramped and narrow bed it was, too. We were lucky everyone else was in the audience chamber listening to Remille drone on." He kissed her, long and deep; she wriggled against him, delighted.

"And then," she said when they came up for air, "your Commander Genevieve came rushing in, looking for you. I'll never forget the look on her face –"

There was an urgent, loud knock at the door.

"Oh, no," Vivian groaned. "Not again."

There was no pause for permission to enter; the door flew open. Behind it was Irving – of course, it had to be Irving – and Greagoir, with several Templars. The Knight-Commander averted his eyes from Duncan and Vivian, and the poor scandalized Templars were turning bright red, but Irving didn't seem fazed in the least. A side effect of living your whole life in a cramped Tower with no privacy, perhaps.

"Vivian," said Irving, "I'm sorry, but I'll have to borrow Duncan for a bit. Duncan, something worrying has come up, and we could use your help, especially since your potential recruit is involved. Meet us outside the basement as soon as you can. And arm yourself."

"And for Andraste's sake," Greagoir muttered as he closed the door behind him, "wear pants."