Alistair paused in his process to spare a glance to the mage Warden when he came to speak the next name on the list, a second unspoken offer for her to present the chalice in his stead, one turned down prior to the beginning of this ceremony. Mona shook her head again, hardly possessing the same sentimentality that her comrades did when it came to people from her past. Save for picking up lessons from mistakes, there had never been any point in dwelling on events that had already occurred. "Ser Maddock," said Alistair clearly, loudly, and the seasoned templar seemed to be relieved to finally get his turn over with so he could move on to the next battle.
If there was anyone that Mona expected to see come through this, it was that relentless old codger. She was not so asinine as either of her juniors to hedge bets with sovereigns and silvers, but it had become instinct to calculate odds and risks based on prior experience and knowledge. Her head swam not with thoughts of regret, but of action and progression. To be clear, what she expected to happen did not align with her hopes -- it was foolish to wish for something based on personal preference and desire; the world did not operate based on faith and good will, but probability and statistics. If everything she hoped would happen could come true, anyone who had ever set foot in this room, those before her now and the ghosts of those from ceremonies past, would have left this chamber alive and well. The Grey Wardens would not be an infantry unit, but an entire army. The darkspawn would never dare to set foot in Ferelden again. The Deep Roads would be scoured clean and restored to their former glory. There would never be another Blight, another war, another life lost to misery and corruption.
But she had learned long ago not to rely upon expectations and hopes. Mona could attempt to predict the future, but she was no witch, no seer, no prophet. The only visions in her dreams were those of fallen corpses and ashen skies and blackened cities and blazing fields and marching swarms of evil; of an archdemon, terrible and beautiful, craning its neck miles above her to eventually bring its massive jaw down and consume her entirely, both body and soul merged with the darkness of the Taint. Anything, then, she would give anything, to see that this would never be reality. While one would never be able to call them friends, she knew Maddock shared her goals; she expected him to join her as an ally in fighting back the darkspawn.
For several long minutes after taking his drink, Maddock hadn't proved her wrong. His knees were locked in place, his hands relaxed at his side as he closed his eyes, setting himself up to internalize any of the suffering that was to come. Mona had no doubts that he could maintain this state; his strength of will and determination had been forged by decades of hunting maleficarum and purging demons. No sound escaped his throat or lips, only the slightest twitch of his mouth indicated that he was experiencing anything, at all. And then he broke, eyes bulging out as he bent over and wrapped his hands around the top of the pedestal so hard that it looked like the stone surface would crumble in his grip; his breath was hard, but steady, almost grunting as he clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut again. Slowly, he began to relax, arching back so that he was standing straight again. He looked up then, not quite at her, but somewhere beyond. Steely determination remained in his expression nevertheless, and the grizzled warrior began to stalk off to the side.